Harry Potter and the Fifth Element

Bexis

Rating: R
Genres: Romance, Action & Adventure
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 6
Published: 19/05/2006
Last Updated: 31/10/2012
Status: completed

Harry's summer and sixth year. Examines H/Hr in context of his unwanted wealth and fame, and her need for independence, requiring them to save one another's lives. H struggles for magical control over a mysterious fifth element, receives an inheritance and finds OC summer romance. Hr knows everything and nothing. The brain encounter changes R. D is dispossessed and vengeful. CC is not what she seems. Featuring H/Hr affinity, Auror training, poor parenting, goblins, kidnapping, death, a crash, a fire, an explosion, bribery, funerals, testimony, battles, tarot, pensieves, secret engagement, Stonehenge, a succubus, love potion, triads, and Druidism. The war against Voldemort spreads to the Continent and becomes a liberation struggle.

Chapters

1. Council Of War

2. Boxing And Karate

3. An Unexpected Emergency

4. Meeting With Dumbledore

5. Back To The Ministry

6. Training

7. So Close Yet So Far

8. Testimony

9. The Great Escape

10. Truth And Consequences

11. Return Strikes

12. Squaring Accounts

13. Out On The Town

14. Ashrak

15. The Prince And The King

16. Anticipation

17. The Road To Hell

18. Good Intentions

19. Dreams And Memories

20. Secrets Told And Untold

21. Cover Stories

22. Sixteen Candles

23. Darkness Descends

24. Requiem

25. Departures And Arrivals

26. From Reims To Ruin

27. The Other

28. Trial By Fire

29. Purgatory

30. Searching

31. Trials And Errors

32. Goodbye Gryffindor

33. Lost And Found

34. Found And Lost

35. Ground Zero

36. Destroyer Of Worlds

37. The Boy Who Lived?

38. The Mountaintop

39. Uncomfortably Numb

40. Staying Alive

41. Being A Hero

42. Now Or Never

43. Coming Together

44. Second Thoughts

45. The Parent And The Pensieve

46. A Modest Proposal

47. Slugs And Beetles

48. All Time Best

49. Deception And Duelling

50. Rather More Than Twenty Questions

51. Padfoot's Legacy

52. Hogsmeade Helter Skelter

53. Two Notes In Harmony

54. Black, White, Silver and Gold

55. Lightspeed Times Itself

56. Order Of Merlin

57. The Masked Ball

58. Accusations

59. Quidditch Is Not A Cure All

60. All That's Golden Does Not Glitter

61. Uneasy Calm

62. Horrible Crosses

63. Setting Up

64. On Holiday

65. Visitations

66. Happy Christmas

67. Not Chinese New Year

68. The Battle Of Stonehenge

69. What Price Victory?

70. Escape Proves Impossible

71. Going Back

72. A Storm Brewing

73. Just An Elf

74. Ceremonies

75. The St. Valentine's Day Mess

76. French Toast

77. The Politics Of Basilisks

78. Unjust Desserts

79. Fire And Ice

80. When Friends Fall Out

81. International Relations

82. The Beauxbatons Ball

83. Karma Is A Witch, And A Wizard

84. For Her

85. The Revenge Of Bellatrix Lestrange

86. Jagged Edges

87. Casualties Of War

88. Interlude In Paradise

1. Council Of War

HARRY POTTER AND THE FIFTH ELEMENT

This is a story I've been working on for quite some time (several years) in another forum. Some of you may even be familiar with it. It was begun well before HBP, but I am updating it to conform to as many of the developments of HBP as I can stomach. I will be gradually uploading the existing chapters and then continuing on.

Some of you will undoubtedly find this story slow moving and boring. To each his or her own. It is H/Hr, although it goes through many twists and turns before it gets to that point.

The chapters in this story tend to be on the long (10,000+ words). My policy is to retain a 12-chapter cushion between the last published chapter and where I am writing new material, so there will always be a lot more written than is posted. There is a fair amount of overlap with the real world, and for the most part I research things to make sure that they are accurate.

This story is written primarily for my own daughter, and as long as she wants me to do it, I'll keep writing it.

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

Chapter 1 - Council Of War

Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock Wizengamot) was viewed by many in the wizarding world as the greatest wizard of his time. He was known to be the only wizard whom Lord Voldemort, the most powerful Dark wizard of the last century, actually feared.

At the moment, however, Headmaster Dumbledore was feeling neither very great nor particularly feared. Rather, he was feeling frustrated, inept and outmanœuvred as he conversed in hushed tones with one of his most trusted operatives, the werewolf Remus Lupin. They had both just arrived, somewhat ahead of schedule, for the first meeting of the Order of the Phoenix to be called after the end of the Hogwarts term. Indeed, the students had departed on the Hogwarts Express only that morning.

“Are you sure Remus, both accounts?” asked Headmaster Dumbledore, his brow furrowing with regret.

“Yes, absolutely positive. The Riddle and the Malfoy accounts - all of them - were emptied yesterday … the last of the lot only thirty minutes before Gringotts received the Ministry's sequestration and seizure notice. I've had confirmation of this information from the usual Order sources, both within Gringotts and in the Ministry,” recounted Lupin in a growling undertone, his yellowish eyes flashing faintly red, slightly betraying wolfish anger.

“It is a true shame we couldn't move fast enough, after recent events,” Dumbledore commiserated, his expression becoming increasingly careworn.

“Stop being so bloody noble. We moved plenty fast. The blame lies squarely with those bespectacled twits in the Department of Wizland Revenue - Fudge's drones. Fast in the Ministry is timed with a calendar. They just couldn't move quickly enough or secretly enough to avoid tipping off Voldemort's spies. Or worse, they might well have been spies themselves,” muttered Lupin with a heavy sigh.

He sank back into one of the numerous softbacked swivel chairs arranged along the large semicircular table facing Headmaster Dumbledore. Angrily, Lupin wadded up and heaved a piece of parchment at the bin along the wall. He missed badly, but the bin dutifully waddled after the stray projectile and gobbled it up.

“That is enough for now, Remus, I shall hear the whole story soon enough when you give your report to the assembled Order. I trust you had no difficulty locating our new meeting place,” said Dumbledore as he unwrapped another lemon drop. “Care for one?”

Dumbledore offered a plate of the sweets to the scowling Lupin, but he was not tempted and waved them off with a frustrated gesture.

“No problems finding the place,” Lupin affirmed a bit less angrily, “but I had a nasty run in with Peeves. Seems he coated the main staircase to the seventh floor with several centimetres of Stinksap. There wasn't any good way around it, so I had to slog through the Weasley memorial bog and come up via the back postern. But besides that diversion, it was just as in your instructions, `seventh floor opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy being clubbed by trolls in tutus.' I forgot how many times you said I had to walk back and forth, but it was no bother. I concentrated on having this meeting and after a bit of woolgathering, there was the door…. Never noticed it before.”

“Excellent,” congratulated the Headmaster, but his smile did not reach his eyes.

“Because of Peeves, don't count on everyone being on time, though.” Lupin paused, “if I may Albus, what is this place and why are we meeting here rather than at Grimmauld Place?”

“The answer to your second question will have to await the meeting,” Dumbledore remarked as he reached for an ornate container the size of a snuffbox on the left-hand side of the podium on his desk. As for your first question, this place is known as the Room of Requirement, and at this time the Order is sorely in need of a new meeting place. This room takes on the form of whatever the person entering needs most at the time.”

Dumbledore lazily tossed a handful of the powder into the nearby fireplace, which held a substantial blaze despite it being the middle of June.

“Argus Filch,” Dumbledore called. A few seconds later there was some scraping and the grizzled head of the Hogwarts caretaker gingerly appeared in the fireplace, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “It seems that Peeves has decided to redecorate the seventh floor staircase with Stinksap,” instructed Dumbledore, “I have an extremely important meeting here very shortly, and I need you to restore the stairway to a pristine condition as quickly as possible.” Filch nodded and quickly left, grumbling something about poltergeists and red-hot pokers.

Lupin considered the scene he had just witnessed and pursed his lips. “I thought Filch was non-magical,” remarked Lupin matter-of-factly. “I didn't know that it was possible to summon Squibs through the fireplace like that.”

“Anything is possible. Squibs can be summoned, they just cannot use the floo network to summon others,” replied Dumbledore knowingly.

“Really,” said Lupin, tilting his head slightly. “I learn something new every time I talk to you, Albus.”

“Actually,” smiled Dumbledore enigmatically, “I never attempted to summon a Squib by floo before. I had no idea whether that was going to work. But the store of knowledge is increased only by trying new things. Or then, again, perhaps it was just the Room….”

“This room is indeed remarkable, though,” continued Remus. “I never knew this place existed when I taught here, and I don't think that the rest of the staff did either,” continued Remus.

“Hogwarts Castle hides many secrets, Remus,” reminded Dumbledore as he made for his desk. “I have been here more decades than I want to think about, and I had only encountered this room once before this year. Until recently I thought it was simply an exceptionally well-concealed loo. Credit for discovering the true nature of this room goes to our staff of house-elves. Dobby revealed the Room of Requirement to Mister Potter last Term when he was looking for clandestine training facilities for the group he so provocatively named `Dumbledore's Army.'”

Dumbledore chuckled, but their conversation was interrupted as the door flew open and the one-legged Mad-Eye Moody stumped into the room, wand drawn and his magical blue eye whizzing about unpredictably in its socket. “Merlin's beard, Albus, what is this place?” exclaimed Moody. “I won't want to be going back to that dump in London after seeing this.”

“So you approve, Alastor,” rejoined Dumbledore. “You never really liked the `Grim Old Place' very much anyway, as I recall.”

“Can't say that I did,” growled Moody. “I never thought that security was up to snuff. There were all those portraits of Dark wizards to overhear us, that maniac house-elf, and the meeting room was too close to the living quarters of non-members of the Order - especially those untrustworthy Weasley twins with their Extendable Ears and who knows what else up their sleeves.”

“I have taken care that last problem,” remarked Dumbledore, his eyes twinkling for the first time in the conversation.

Moody's smile distorted his already hideously scarred face. “Good riddance….”

“I have offered them full membership of the Order,” announced Dumbledore.

“Merlin help us all,” Moody replied, his mouth more agape than usual. His face bore a look of stunned disbelief.

Lupin moved to calm the situation. “Well, the next time you see Harry, you can thank him for where we are now. He was the one who discovered this place,” Lupin cut across, seeking a distraction. Providentially, the distraction came from behind.

The door opened again and members of the Order who also served on the Hogwarts staff entered: Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Hogwarts Headmistress and long-time Professor of Transfiguration; Rubeus Hagrid, who taught Care of Magical Creatures as well as serving as the Hogwarts groundskeeper; and the dark-haired and sallow-faced Potions Master, Severus Snape. Hagrid, a half-giant, sat down and was pleased to find that his chair expanded to fit his massive girth, three times that of an ordinary man. Even though magically fortified, however, the chair groaned in complaint.

“Well, well, Headmaster, it didn't take you long to take over Potter's little hideaway, did it?” commented Snape, half amused and half disgusted at the thought of the Order following in the footsteps of his least-favorite pupil. “Please excuse me for a moment while I decontaminate my shoes. The next time I encounter Peeves, he'll wish he'd never heard of Stinksap.”

The room started to fill up as more members of the Order arrived, many of them sharing Professor Shape's opinion of Hogwarts' resident poltergeist. From the Ministry of Magic came the odd couple - two (off-duty at the moment) Aurors. In strode the stolid, Jamaican-born senior Auror, Kingsley Shackebolt, his well-tailored cloth-of-gold robes and a single gold earring accentuating his distinctive deep brown and totally bald scalp. He was accompanied by (don't call me Nymphadora) Tonks, a much younger Auror whose unadorned black robes were overwhelmed by her many and varied hairdos, currently a lime-green Mohawk.

Close behind the two ministry Dark wizard catchers, came three flame-haired wizards, plainly related to one another. Arthur and Molly Weasley had remained firmly behind Dumbledore even though Arthur's prospects at the Ministry suffered greatly for his loyalty during the many months of the Minister's self-denial - a denial that had abruptly come to an end the week before. Some things were just more important than careers. They had been members of the Order since finding out that Voldemort had nearly killed their daughter Ginny more than three years ago.

Among her many other responsibilities as resident mother hen of the Order, Molly Weasley had supervised the gargantuan, and now unnecessary, task of restoring the Order's formerly secret headquarters at 12 Grimmauld Place to some semblance of habitability. The Weasleys' eldest son, Bill, had only recently left his dream job at Gringotts - curse breaking in a variety of exotic overseas locales - for a desk job at the wizarding bank's head office. He was now fully available to assist the Order, and (not incidentally) to pursue the love of his life, the stunning French witch Fleur Delacour.

Although not directly relevant to tonight's agenda, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shouldered another important responsibility that was never far from the minds of the members of the Order. The youngest of their six sons, Ron, was Harry Potter's oldest and in many ways best friend at Hogwarts. Although it was not yet public knowledge, Ron and his sister Ginny were two of the five students who had accompanied Harry on the recent midnight trip to the Department of Mysteries.

That seemingly foolhardy escapade had not ended in richly deserved disaster. Instead, it had brought about the capture of eleven of Lord Voldemort's best Death Eaters and had prompted Voldemort himself to come to the Ministry of Magic. After his appearance at the heart of wizard government, the Dark Lord's return could no longer be denied or concealed. Thus the chain of events that six Hogwarts students had instigated changed the course of wizard history.

Other members of the Order quickly filed in:

Elphias Doge stalked in, uncomfortable as usual. He had retired several years previous after a long stint as editor of the Daily Prophet, the newspaper with the largest circulation in the wizarding community of the United Kingdom. Unfortunately, his successor, Barnabas Cuffe, was more interested in knowing “who” rather than “what, where, why, when, and how.” As a consequence, the Prophet now also followed the most malleable editorial policy of any wizarding periodical. This had vexed the Order no end for some two years, but once again, change was in the offing.

Doge was unsuccessfully trying not to listen to Dedalus Diggle, an eccentric gentleman farmer from Kent, prattle on about irrelevant matters such as baling hay and converting bulls to steers. Diggle had been friendly with Albus Dumbledore for years, and he viewed the change in venue from Grimmauld Place to Hogwarts with glee. He could now combine meetings of the Order with his business dealings. Diggle supplied Hogwarts with a variety of agricultural products, including enough cattle and pig carcasses to feed the Castle's more than one hundred thestrals.

Close behind was Mrs. Emmeline Vance, an upstanding widow with a lengthy pure-blood lineage. The only “society page” Slytherin in the Order, she had been 100% anti-Voldemort for more than a quarter century. Her defining moment had been the Dark Lord's killing of her brother Archibald and torturing her sister-in-law Gretel with the Cruciatus Curse until Gretel had committed suicide by jumping off Blackfriars Bridge into the freezing Thames.

A number of other witches and wizards filed in and took their seats, including the Weasley Twins - Fred and George. They had each collected a large jar of Stinksap for use in creating some new, nefarious novelty to sell in their new and quite successful joke shop, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes.

As usual, the last to arrive was a shifty, ginger-haired man who practically stumbled into the room. He looked more disheveled than usual and thoroughly disconcerted. “Bloody 'Ell,” he grumbled to nobody in particular, “'Ogwarts has plenty o' cutlery. Ya wouldn' think that that confounded 'ouse-elf woulda been so `tached t' a few pieces….”

The rest were giving him quite a wide berth as he wandered about the room.

“Just a `cause I 'elped meself t' `em wasn' any reason t' use that spinnin' spell on me.”

He flopped into the large chair at the head of the table - where Dumbledore was supposed to sit. The chair shuddered, as if it were being violated in some fashion.

“'E … I think it was a 'e anyway … coulda just asked fer their return. But no, 'e 'ad to whirl me `round so fast that the knives `n forks jess a flew outta me pockets - `long with everythink else that was in `em. Crickey, I coulda `ad classified stuff in there.”

Several other Order members rose to escort Mundungus Fletcher to his seat so the meeting could commence.

“I never did get everythink back. As I was leavin', I coulda sworn that those thievin' suits o' armour `ad nicked me cigars an' was smokin' `em.”

“Move along, Dung,” Mad-Eye Moody muttered to the wayward wizard. “The only way yeh'd come across confidential information would be if it were stolen….” Mad-Eye applied a firm grip to Fletcher's shoulder. As a long-time Auror, he thought the spell, if that were what it was (he wasn't familiar with elfin magic), had been quite an appropriate response to Fletcher's transgression.

Mundungus waved to the assemblage. “Sorry I'm late, but twas five full minutes after that afore I could even stand up. Then I was sick all over me shoes, and `ad t' clean meself up an' all….”

“That will be enough, Mundungus,” sighed Dumbledore.

“Since when do ya `llow yer 'ouse-elves t' `ttack wizards, 'Eadmaster?” finished the disheveled wizard.

“Well Mundungus,” retorted Dumbledore, you will find that at Hogwarts we have a number of free house-elves. One benefit of their freedom is that they are willing, and able, to defend Hogwarts and its contents against anyone perceived to be a threat - including anyone of a mind to make off with the silver.”

“Well, maybe we should go back t' Grimmauld,” Fletcher retorted, still looking thoroughly disgruntled.

“I have been meaning to talk to you about that as well,” Dumbledore mentioned knowingly. “I am not sure that leaving you in charge of the house after we moved out was a wise choice.”

“Are ya 'cusing me o' suffink?” Fletcher responded hotly. Catching himself unsteadily, a culpable look came into his eye, and he added, “Wait a minute … Don' answer that.”

“Honestly, Mundungus, what am I to do with you?” Dumbledore shook his head knowingly.

“Do'n know guv'ner,” Mundungus replied. “I suppose I could go 'ome t' Coventry an' let ya stew in yer own juices.” It was a meaningless threat, and both of them knew it. Home had such pleasant memories for Mundungus Fletcher.

All the chairs in the room were full now, each one magically adjusting itself to the preferences of its occupant. Dumbledore's, for example, became a squashy purple armchair, whilst Hagrid's chair, despairing of supporting his weight in its current form, spontaneously Transfigured itself into a stout wooden bench.

Arthur Weasley sat in something resembling a Muggle recliner, except that it had a confusing array of buttons, switches and other control devices set in each of the armrests. He played with them idly, until the discomfited chair let out a screeching noise and turfed its occupant properly.

“Arthur, stop playing Captain Kook - or whatever that Muggle's name was,” his wife chided him.

Mr. Weasley was just scrambling back into his seat when it was time to begin. Dumbledore tapped his wand on the side of his chair. Green sparks flew out of the end. With a wave of his other hand, the lights in the room dimmed briefly. He stood up to speak.

“Let us begin,” he began, “with a moment of silence for one who is no longer among us. Sirius Black died as he lived, battling the forces of evil with courage and determination. He knew the risks and he not only accepted them, he embraced them. Even though he could have been sent back to Azkaban - or worse - by any Auror at the Ministry, when Sirius learned that Death Eaters had lured Mister Potter away and had invaded the Ministry itself, he refused the easy path when his godson's life was in danger. He was a true warrior, and he will be truly missed.”

“Hear, hear,” murmured everyone in the sound of Dumbledore's voice. Only Professor Snape, who had detested Sirius throughout his life, remained pointedly silent. Never betraying what he thought, Snape wore an inscrutable look on his face that the others all recognised. The look persisted as the room fell absolutely silent.

After a minute or so had passed, Dumbledore cleared his throat and recommenced speaking. “We have a rather full agenda for this evening, so we should get under way. The first order of business is a message from the Minister of Magic, which I received this morning.” With that Dumbledore flicked his wand and a small canister resembling a medicine bottle appeared in the space at the center of the semicircular table.

“Arthur, will you do the honors?” the Headmaster asked.

Mr. Weasley turned a lever on his chair, which dimmed the lamps further. “I received this by special owl this morning from Minister Fudge, with a note that I so inform the Order. That surprised me, but with what happened, I suppose it shouldn't have been that much of a shock. Without further ado….”

Pointing his wand at the bottle, he intoned, “Apparicio verbatim.”

With a soft popping noise, the stopper jumped out, executed a smart pirouette, and landed upside-down on the table. A translucent, slightly glowing, cloud of smoke emerged, which quickly resolved itself into the image of Cornelius Fudge, the stout, florid faced Minister of Magic. The image seemed ill at ease, tugging at his fancy ceremonial robes and shuffling his feet perceptibly, before the spectral Fudge cocked his head slightly to one side and began reading from what was obviously a prepared text, although the parchment itself was not visible.

Assembled members of the Order of the Phoenix, I am delighted to be able to address you. I would have liked to appear in person, but after discussing the matter with Headmaster Dumbledore, we thought it best … for security reasons … that I convey my greetings in this fashion….

“Righ',” murmured Hagrid to Professor McGonagall, who was seated to his left, staring down her spectacles at the ghostly figure of Fudge, her lips very thin. “Scared, more like it. Afraid o' the reception 'e'd get, after imposing tha' bloody Umbridge on us th' past year. I'd be chuffed ta get shot o' `em both.”

“Hagrid, language,” whispered McGonagall, an expression of mock disgust on her face. “I daresay that Peeves could have prepared a proper welcome for the Minister…. With something considerably worse than Stinksap….”

“Ahem.” Dumbledore cleared his throat softly, and they fell silent.

…I assure you that I, and the Ministry, have seen the error of our ways. I have placed the entire Auror corps on war footing, and I am placing myself, as well as the entire resources of the Ministry, at the disposal of Headmaster Dumbledore. We are all in this together now, and just as I.… Just as I was so stubbornly wrong this past year, you will see that I will be even more stubbornly right from this day forward.

I have ordered a full, albeit confidential, inquiry into the events of the night of June 11-12. To ensure the impartiality and thoroughness of that inquiry, I have asked that it be conducted by retired members of the Auror Corps, and I am pleased to announce that Alastor Moody has agreed to head the board of inquiry.

I have rescinded all of the educational decrees concerning the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry that were passed over the past year. I have asked Headmaster Dumbledore to draft the language of a wizarding statute to ensure that the academic freedom of this institution that we all prize above all others is never again compromised.

I have forthwith removed the Dementors from their position as the sole guards at Azkaban. Unfortunately, most of them have already left to join He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Those few who professed loyalty to our cause are now being supplemented in their work with members of the Auror Corps. I still hope that their … er … unique talents will be useful. By the Ministry's best estimates, however, He Who Must Not Be Named now has the services of approximately 500 Dementors. I have therefore authorised the emergency training of the wizarding population as a whole in the performance of the Patronus Charm. Instructions are being sent by mail and posted prominently….

“Pshaw…. A sticky plaster for a cancer,” Lupin grumped. “You can't teach the Patronus Charm by Kwikspell mail order.”

…As a temporary measure, members of the Auror Corps, assisted by a goodly number of security trolls, are guarding the remaining prisoners in Azkaban. In addition, Azkaban is in lockdown until further notice, and the prisoners are subject to a variety of physical and magical restraints. However, I do not view this as the highest and best use of our Aurors. Whilst nothing is final just yet, I hope to be making alternative, more permanent arrangements in the near future.

I have also authorised a formal opening to the giants, with Headmaster Dumbledore to choose an appropriate emissary or emissaries. Upon emergency consultation with both the Wizarding Council of Great Britain and the Muggle Prime Minister, I am authorising the emissary to offer the creation of several giant reserves. These will be located in the wilder regions of Wales and Scotland, to be inhabited by such giants who agree to enter into an alliance with us. I have also countermanded the Werewolf Registration and Identification Act of 1994, and I am considering additional steps to give werewolves incentives to join our side, rather than flock to He Who Must Not Be Named, as they did during the last war. I will be having further discussions with Headmaster Dumbledore and others regarding terms that might be offered to other races of magical creatures with near-human intelligence.

In the present crisis, cooperation with foreign wizards is essential, so I have decided to appoint Arthur Weasley to fill the vacant post of head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. I am investing him with extensive powers to negotiate alliances with other wizarding communities around the world. I desire additional initiatives towards the international wizarding community, and I have therefore asked both the Department of Magical Games and Sports, and through Headmaster Dumbledore, the Hogwarts School, to conceive and carry out such initiatives after presenting them for my approval.

I regret the … er … adverse publicity … suffered over the past year by Headmaster Dumbledore and various others perceived to be allied with him. I assure you that not only will that cease, but that positive steps will be taken - both inside the Ministry and without - to erase and reverse such an unfortunate series of events.

Finally, I have authorised the reopening of the case of Sirius Black.

It is my sincerest hope that we can now close the book on the disputes of the recent past and advance together, under my leadership and that of Headmaster Dumbledore, in our shared fight against the forces of evil that now shadow our land. Thank you, and good evening.

With that, the ghostly Fudge dissolved back into smoke and the smoke reentered the bottle, making a soft sucking sound. A flick of Dumbledore's wand caused the stopper to fly back into the bottle and the bottle to fly directly into Dumbledore's outstretched hand. “This,” Dumbledore chuckled, “is going straight to Madame Pince. I want it preserved for posterity in the Hogwarts library. Eventually, this could be as important as the Wizarding Equality Treaty of 1836 or the Anglo-French Magical Concordat of 1939.”

For a surprisingly long moment, none of the other members of the Order said a word. They stared at Dumbledore. They stared at each other. Their jaws had dropped, and their eyes had the slightly glazed look of people struggling whether to believe what they had just seen.

Finally, Professor McGonagall spoke, and she gave voice to the sentiments of the others. “Well Albus, that was certainly some about turn. I doubt that even Viktor Krum could execute a 180° reversal of course as quickly. Would you care to enlighten us as to how it came about? Surely there was more to it than just your persuasive powers.”

“Yes, I shall, Minerva,” said the Headmaster, his eyes twinkling with delight and just a little naughtiness as he considered what he was going to say. “The first report of the evening will be mine, concerning the state of relations between the Order and the Ministry. But first, I would like to offer my congratulations to Arthur. This promotion is as much delayed as it is deserved. I am thoroughly delighted, and I am sure that you will acquit yourself admirably in this important position.”

Dumbledore then made a circular motion with his wand, and thin crystal goblets containing a pale liquid appeared in front of everyone. “A toast, to Arthur Weasley and to international cooperation in the fight against Voldemort - and three cheers!”

“Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray! Hip hip hooray!” The assembled Order cheered for Mr. Weasley, who grinned in a thoroughly embarrassed fashion. Molly Weasley kissed him squarely on the lips, and he turned, if possible, even more pink in the face than he had been before.

“Château Blackwalls,” remarked Dumbledore in passing. “The finest wizard champagne in all Britain - although my friends at Beauxbatons would doubtless tell me that, not only is the very word misused, but such praise is akin to being known as the most sane member of the American opposition. Drink up, because it has been charmed so that the effects wear off in five minutes.”

Frivolity reigned for that brief period.

“Rubeus, please put Arthur down…. Back to business,” Dumbledore announced a few minutes later. The celebratory atmosphere was immediately replaced by rapt attention. “After the events of a week ago, with only the minimum decent interval to allow for the disposition of prisoners and physical repairs to the Ministry offices, I began a series of secret meetings with Cornelius and senior members of the Ministry. He is not an evil wizard at heart, just overly attached to his post and to the maintenance of a `peace and prosperity' status quo that he errantly believed was the most effective platform for his remaining in office.”

“His love for the office he holds was the key. I told him in no uncertain terms that his denial of what he had seen with his own eyes must cease at once, or I would publicly demand a vote of no confidence. I made clear that I did not wish to do this, because I viewed this as a time for unity, not division. But if Cornelius did not publicly announce Voldemort's presence at the Ministry itself, I would. In this regard, I received most timely support from Rufus Scrimgeour, the Chief Auror, who threatened to resign noisily if the announcement were not made posthaste. It seems that over a dozen of his Aurors had personally witnessed at least the conclusion of my little duel with Voldemort, and had seen his return with their own eyes.”

“At that point, Cornelius realised that his only hope to retain power was to become a war minister. Otherwise he would go the route of Neville Chamberlain, and he did not desire that. Hence the statement that appeared in last Sunday's Prophet. Since then I have been engaged in daily, sometimes almost hourly, discussions with the Ministry regarding war footing and cooperation between the Ministry and the Order.”

“To answer a question that I am sure is on all of your minds, we will not be going back to 12 Grimmauld Place. I believe, and I know that Alastor shares this belief, that the security of that location has been compromised. It was always an issue, given the attitude of most of the prior owners, but when it became clear that the resident house-elf, Kreacher, was in communication with Narcissa Malfoy, I knew it was only a matter of time before that location was subjected to surveillance, or worse, attacked….”

“That blasted elf,” Moody exploded. “Sirius was right, we should've been done with it long ago. When this meeting is over, I'm going back there straight away, and I'll personally strangle it, burn its body, and use the ashes for potion ingredients.”

Dumbledore seemed impatient. “There is no use, Alastor. Kreacher is dead. He committed suicide Sunday night.”

“Good riddance,” replied Moody humourlessly. “At least that puts paid ta somethin'. Why'd it wait so long?”

“The house-elf code, Alastor,” Dumbledore went on. “Any elf that in any way contributes to the death of his or her master is obligated to commit suicide through self decapitation. I doubt Kreacher had any idea why Narcissa Malfoy asked him to do what he did. When he found out that Mister Potter had gone to the Ministry after speaking to him, and that Sirius had died in the ensuing effort to rescue Mister Potter and his friends, Kreacher promptly performed the elfin spell that separated his own head from his body. He left a note with the request that his head be mounted with those of his ancestors, a request which I have honoured. In a roundabout, but nevertheless unmistakable way, Kreacher became another of Voldemort's victims.”

Moody and Hagrid snorted, as Dumbledore went on with his report.

“Moreover, in addition to the security concerns, with Sirius' passing, the ownership of 12 Grimmauld Place has become less than clear, and it is possible that the new owner might not be well disposed towards the Order.”

“Albus, how is that? Who is this `new owner'?” asked Mrs. Vance.

“As matters now stand, and this is by no means set in stone, Draco Malfoy,” Dumbledore revealed.

There was a collective uptake of breath. This news was neither expected nor welcome to almost everyone in the room. Snape cast the Headmaster an inquisitive, sidelong glance.

“I emphasize that this situation is hardly settled, but to say any more would be trenching on the subject of Tonks' report, so I ask that you simply wait for more details later on tonight.”

“Now as I was saying, as a result of 12 Grimmauld Place becoming a poor lookout, I asked the Ministry for the use of an appropriate safe house to serve as the headquarters of the Order. I am pleased to announce that the Ministry has agreed to this request, although we are still conferring about the optimal location for our headquarters. I am looking for something in a much better state of repair, with portraits that are considerably more considerate, and in a more pleasant neighbourhood. I am sure that we shall sort out the details within the next few weeks. In the meantime, until the students return, we shall be meeting here. I hope that is agreeable to everyone.”

“Just as long as you remember to keep sending the school carriages to the Apparition point, Albus,” remarked Molly Weasley. “With the anti-Apparition wards around Hogwarts, it's quite a slog otherwise, and I'm not getting any younger.”

“Do not worry, Molly,” assured Dumbledore. “Hagrid is a member, and he will not allow the rest of you to be inconvenienced.”

“Now, as for other arrangements with the Ministry. It is agreed that the Order may recruit and induct into our ranks any Auror or other Ministry personnel at our sole discretion, subject only to notification of the appropriate head of department. We have agreed, however, that the Order will henceforth not give any assignment to any Ministry-affiliated member of the Order that affects his or her employment functions without the prior consent of the affected department head. I concur that this restriction is necessary to maintain the internal discipline of the Ministry. Any disputes will be resolved between Cornelius and myself. We shall have the Ministry's full cooperation with respect to any initiatives that the Order wishes to undertake against Voldemort, his Death Eaters, and anyone else allied with him.”

“Internal discipline of the Ministry?” commented Moody. “Now that's a bleeding joke. That place is awash in political backstabbing, insubordination, and sucking up. I couldn't take it anymore. That's why I retired.”

“Far from it being my place to disagree, Alastor,” said Dumbledore. “But certain procedures are necessary for this arrangement to work. Remember, we were at each others' throats not long ago.”

“Inquiries and trials. As you heard from Cornelius, there will be a full inquiry regarding the Death Eater incursion into the Department of Mysteries, and Alastor will head that effort. I can assure you that the Death Eaters did not compromise the Department's most confidential work. A full inventory is being conducted of the Hall of Prophecy.”

“Others of you may be called upon to assist the Ministry's inquiry, and I encourage you to cooperate to your utmost. Remember, we are all on the same side now. The captured prisoners are being held at Azkaban under special guard, are being interrogated with Veritaserum, and are having their statements taken. Pensieve interrogation is a possibility if we receive any cooperation.

“In the case of escaped prisoners, it was suggested that there be no trial and that they be summarily kissed by Dementors who remain loyal to us. I have vetoed that idea. After what happened to Sirius, I am unalterably opposed to imposing punishment without a trial. So there will be trials occurring during the coming months. Some of you may be asked to testify or to prepare witnesses to testify. As you know, several important witnesses are under age, and thus require special consideration. Trials will employ a new procedure that I am working out with the Wizengamot. We will be using something a bit closer to the Muggle jury concept. However, as I will undoubtedly be a witness, I will not be presiding as Chief Warlock. Amelia Bones will serve as investigating magistrate.”

“There will be a number of initiatives towards communities of other sentient magical creatures….”

Dumbledore paused, as there was a tapping and scraping sound at the window. A large great horned owl was seeking entry. “Alohomora.” The leaded glass window swung inward at the mullion under the force of the owl. It flew directly to Lupin, upsetting the now empty champagne flute in front of him. The owl bore the distinctive crest of the Ministry of Magic. Frowning, Lupin untied the parchment from the owl's outstretched leg, and flipped it open as the owl departed. Almost at once what little colour there was drained from Lupin's face. He slowly refolded the parchment and slipped it into one of the folders in the expandable file at his feet.

“Anything amiss, Remus?” questioned Dumbledore, his face growing grave.

“Yes, but it can wait for my report.”

“Very well. There will be a number of initiatives towards communities of other sentient magical creatures. Rubeus will be detailing a new approach that we will be making to the giants. Bill will be reporting on the status of ongoing negotiations with the goblins. As for me, I am pleased to be able to inform you that I believe we are very close to restoring a modus vivendi with the centaurs. I must thank Hagrid for providing the impetus for this. It seems that after having Hagrid's half-brother Grawp running amok in the Forbidden Forest for a week, the centaurs are more than willing to come to any reasonable agreement that will result in his removal. Under this arrangement, Grawp will be accompanying Hagrid on a new mission to the giants. I have also agreed that we shall not question Firenze about anything having to do with centaur society. In return, they have agreed to defer indefinitely his sentence of death, although Firenze will never be welcome in the Forbidden Forest and must stay clear. I expect to be reentering the forest myself in the next couple of days to sign the usual blood oath with Magorian to this effect.”

“I am also pleased to report - particularly to you Remus - that much headway has been made in restoring the civil liberties of the werewolf population, and thus giving them reasons to choose our side instead of Voldemort's. Cornelius mentioned that he had countermanded the Umbridge Act. I am also negotiating regarding the full panoply of lycanthropic grievances: legal disabilities, improved conditions in Ministry full-moon holding cells, broad availability of Wolfsbane potion at subsidised prices, and an all-out wizard medical research programme to find a cure for Acquired Werewolf Syndrome. Some of this AWS research will probably occur here at Hogwarts.”

“International initiatives. This will now be Arthur's primary responsibility, and I am sure he will be quite active in this area. I can inform you that Ludo Bagman, head of Magical Sports, has also enthusiastically embraced the idea, so I believe there will be a number of Quidditch-based programs with an international flavour taking place this year. Ludo has already organised an EU-wide international Quidditch camp for under-aged wizards to be held later this summer in Denmark. I have informed him that, with adequate security measures in place, I will be pleased for Hogwarts students to participate, except for Harry Potter. Ludo is also embarking upon a series of international visits to meet with his counterparts around the world, with an eye to arranging such matters. He leaves for the Orient momentarily. I wish him well in these endeavours.”

“Finally, I mentioned that Mister Potter will not be participating in the Quidditch camp this summer - despite the fact that he is far and away the best seeker at Hogwarts….”

At this Professor McGonagall flashed a knowing smile. Snape scowled.

Dumbledore continued. “…All of you know that the boy is mentioned in a prophecy concerning Lord Voldemort. However, none of you are aware of precisely what the prophecy states. That is intentional. Please do not ask and do not investigate. This is a matter of paramount importance to the entire wizarding community. Fortunately, the only existing copy of this prophecy outside my control was destroyed during last week's events. Long ago, I made sure that the written notes made at the time of its utterance went missing from the Ministry's files.”

“The public version of this prophecy, which we now understand is all that Voldemort knows, has Mister Potter as the only wizard who can bring about Voldemort's downfall. I wish to leave it at that. That is our story, so please stick to it. Going forward, any information about the prophecy will be provided strictly on a need-to-know basis.”

“As a result of his part in the prophecy, and his role in last week's events, Mister Potter will be facing a very busy summer. He will be testifying for at least two, and maybe more, Ministry inquiries. In addition there are a number of Aurors and Unspeakables who are very anxious to speak to him about how he was able to gain access to the Ministry - and, I daresay, about his future career choices….”

Professor McGonagall smiled even more broadly.

“…Since he will be a frequent visitor to the Ministry anyway, I have arranged for Mister Potter to have intensive self-defence training under Kingsley's auspices. I anticipate that this training will resemble the Auror's course, but the details are up to Kingsley.”

“I myself shall be assuming responsibility for Mister Potter's Occulumency training….” Dumbledore cast a stern glance at Professor Snape. Snape's unreadable expression returned. “…Recent events have only emphasized the critical nature of this effort.”

“Despite all of Mister Potter's magical commitments, due to the need to maintain his personal security it will be necessary for him to remain with his Muggle relatives, the Dursleys, as much as possible over the summer. Thus I must regretfully refuse Arthur's and Molly's request that he spend the summer with them. We will be working with Arabella Figg to maintain the usual watch on the Dursley residence while Mister Potter is present.”

“This past term, I attempted to deal with the boy's unique status by providing him with as little information as possible. I have now concluded that this policy was a disaster. My belief has been informed by comments that I received during my end-of-term interviews with him and all five other student participants in the events at the Ministry - particularly by the … emphatic … opinions expressed by Miss Hermione Granger. I shall therefore be changing my own course, both this summer and hereafter, and I shall be providing him with all the information he requests, unless it is too highly confidential to be disclosed to anyone. As we speak, I am having a device of Miss Granger's invention prepared for Mister Potter, through which he and I shall be able to communicate remotely, yet securely, on a nearly instantaneous basis. I expect it to be ready momentarily, and one of you will be delivering it.”

“That concludes my report. Now, for what I gather is some bad news, I turn the floor over to Remus Lupin.” With that Dumbledore said no more and sat back down in his squashy chair.

Lupin stood up and without formality began his report, which concerned Death Eater finances. “As you know, we've tried for years - literally - to get the Ministry to seize several Gringotts accounts associated with Tom Riddle, otherwise known as Lord Voldemort. Our sources tell us that these accounts, the four we knew of, anyway, totaled approximately 30 million Galleons, which at the established exchange rate of £5.25 to the Galleon, works out to slightly more than £150 million in Muggle money. Some, of course, was already in Muggle money.”

“Two days ago we finally obtained Ministry approval, and a seizure and sequestration order issued. At the same time we obtained a similar order authorising the seizure of the even more substantial accounts of Lucius Malfoy, who as you know was one of the eleven Death Eaters recently arrested in connexion with the events at the Ministry. There were two affected Malfoy accounts, one in the senior Malfoy's name alone and a trust account for the benefit of his son. These accounts held about 55 million Galleons. A third, smaller, account solely in the name of Narcissa Malfoy was not subject to seizure, because she is not implicated and because the account consisted solely of funds from her dowry.”

“Unfortunately, the Death Eaters were more nimble than the ponderous procedures of the Ministry. By the time that the orders were served upon Gringotts, all of these accounts had been emptied. The sequestration yielded a grand total of thirteen Galleons, seven Sickles, and five Knuts, meaning that, with court costs and filing fees, the Ministry lost money on the transactions.”

Lupin went on to describe what was known of what he called the “Death Eater flight capital.” A solicitor, Hieronymus Sinmore, who had been handling Malfoy legal matters for many years, had in all instances executed the withdrawals. Whether it was actually Sinmore was questionable, since the withdrawals had occurred at five widely separated Gringotts branches, both in Great Britain and on the Continent, within a few hours of each other, and the last had happened only thirty minutes before the Ministry orders were served on Gringotts.

“We suspect Polyjuice potion,” Lupin continued. “The goblins swear that all keys and vault access codes were in order. Sadly, in all likelihood, the truth will never be known. The owl I received some minutes ago from the Ministry was an announcement of Mister Sinmore's death. He was executed, by Avada Kedavra, at his Central London offices. As we speak, the Dark Mark hovers in the sky overhead.”

There was muttering among members of the Order. Someone asked what the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee was going to do about the incident.

“At the moment, the Ministry is tearing its hair out trying to devise a response to this attack. The Dark Mark was so placed as to be plainly visible to hundreds of thousands of Muggles. Its appearance was even the lead story on the BBC. Fortunately, Murdoch-controlled media outlets are already blaming Arab terrorists, and in the end the Ministry will probably find it easier to go along with this Muggle-invented cover story than to devise one of its own.”

The last portion of Lupin's report addressed where the Death Eater money had gone. The goblins at Gringotts had been more than happy to turn a blind eye to the transactions, and not only because of the 10% conversion fee they charge. Lupin voiced the widely held suspicion that “failure of the sequestration puts pressure on the Ministry side in ongoing negotiations for goblin support in the war.”

“The path the Riddle/Malfoy funds took after that was circuitous. They had entered the Muggle banking system through a Luxembourg institution previously known for its role in financing Muggle arms transactions. From there the money had been wired to Bermuda, where it passed through several dummy accounts. It then found its way to the Channel Islands, where it disappeared in a maze of numbered accounts, most of which were believed to be associated with trade in illegal drugs.”

“Obviously, this rapid, coordinated movement of Death Eater funds had been plotted out in minute detail long in advance.” Lupin reported that Muggle law enforcement contacts, familiar with such transactions, speculated that somewhere along the way the money would be converted to what the Muggles called “bearer paper,” anonymous certificates that represented cash to be paid to whomever walked into a bank with it. From there, they were certain that the funds would make their way into one of the financial havens for flight capital - Liechtenstein, Saudi Arabia, mainland China, South Africa or, less likely of late, Switzerland.

As Lupin concluded his generally downbeat report, Headmaster Dumbledore asked, “so that means that Voldemort now has unrestricted access to the equivalent of half a billion Muggle pounds?”

“If he doesn't now, he soon will have,” replied Lupin. “This means he can buy whatever and whomever he needs.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore shrugged dejectedly. “This unfortunate, but not altogether unexpected, turn of events only underscores the urgency of making sure that Voldemort does not get his hands upon still more funds. If he does, the Ministry could well find itself outspent and outgunned. Tonks, may we hear your report.”

Tonks, who had been listening raptly to the prior report, rose. As the conclave had progressed, her green mohawk had gradually changed colour and shape, so that it now resembled a bubble-gum pink bun - still thought by some to be wildly out of place for the giving of such a serious report. “The Ministry is going to allow us the opportunity to clear Sirius' name - and I think we'll be able to accomplish this.”

There was a spontaneous outburst of applause, joined in by everyone except Professor Snape, whose silence was noteworthy.

“Still miffed 'bout losin' tha' Order o' Merlin two years ago, I'd reckon,” whispered Hagrid to Professor McGonagall, who glared at Snape.

“Most importantly, we've located Sirius' wand, which had been stolen from the Ministry evidence room shortly before he was to be tried. The loss of this key evidence allowed Barty Crouch to cancel the proceeding and hand Sirius over to the Dementors without trial. At the time it was thought to be a backfired Death Eater attempt to set Sirius free for lack of evidence. More recently discovered evidence, however, strongly suggests that the theft of Sirius' wand was a ploy to induce Crouch to do exactly what he did.”

“Stop holding us in suspense,” a growling Moody cut across, “either get on with telling everyone what this `recent evidence' is, or I'm gonna.”

“Enough!” spat Tonks, plainly upset that she would not be able to build the suspense any longer. She was still not used to so many people paying her so much attention.

“All right, all right,” she continued. Tonks had become somewhat flustered, as she had just overturned a flagon of water on the corner of the podium. The liquid ran down the beveled surface, soaking her notes and dripping onto her shoes. It was not the way she had hoped to start her first essay into public speaking. So Tonks did what she did best - nothing fancy, just the facts.

“Sirius' wand was recovered by Ministry Aurors searching the Malfoy estate in Wiltshire after the Ministry seized it last night,” Tonks began. “We believe Lucius Malfoy either carried out, or at least ordered, the theft of Sirius' wand to ensure that it would never be subjected to examination with Priori Incantatem.”

“Sirius' wand is distinctive. It has a rare and very powerful core, the heartsting of a Great Gallician redwing. That species of dragon was the most powerfully magical in all Europe, but so dangerous to humans that it was hunted to extinction over three hundred years ago. You can imagine how rare such wand cores must be.”

“But after months of searching, the Ministry located a brother wand in Krakow. Unfortunately, those were the days of the Muggle Cold War. It took considerable high level negotiations to bring a wand of that power to the UK. The Ministry thought its discovery was a close-kept secret, but obviously it came to Malfoy's attention. The only real question remaining is whether Malfoy was acting on Voldemort' orders, or of his own accord when he organised the theft.”

“Don't be daft, Tonks,” blurted Dedalus Diggle, “Malfoy is, and always has been, 100% Deater. Of course he was under orders from Voldemort. Sirius would have exposed Pettigrew had there been a trial.”

“I wouldn't be so sure,” Kingsley Shacklebolt cut across in his booming bass voice. “Malfoy is, first and foremost, 100% a Malfoy.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Diggle, raising his eyebrows.

“If you'd just let Tonks finish, you'd find out,” Shacklebolt shot back.

“If Sirius Black had been acquitted, it could have cost Lucius Malfoy - or more specifically, his son Draco - a great deal of money,” smiled Tonks, finally letting the cat out of the bag.

That was unexpected news. Tonks had everyone's undivided attention now - especially Remus Lupin's. “Sirius's father, Orion Black, was a pure-blood bigot, but neither did he tolerate criminals or Death Eaters. He despised Death Eaters for following the half-blooded Tom Riddle, even though he approved of many of Voldemort's ideas. I don't know the details, but Orion had some sort of run in with Riddle at a Hogwarts alumni function shortly after Riddle graduated. Old Orrie never did get rid of that facial tic he received courtesy of Riddle's hex. You could see it in the portraits at 12 Grimmauld Place - if you could stop him from screwing up his face long enough to look.”

“He was also very disappointed with how his sons and heirs turned out. Voldemort killed his youngest son, Regulus Black, when Regulus tried to renege after becoming a Death Eater. The precise circumstances remain unclear. His death left Sirius, as the sole direct male heir, and we know how that story turned out. Orrie's oldest niece, Bellatrix, took up with that notorious Death Eater Rodolphus Lestrange. They were both in and out of prison for years, originally on a variety of mostly minor charges - Muggle baiting, blackmail, that sort of thing. The next-born niece, Andromeda Black, is my mother. She was disowned because she married a Muggle-born wizard. I'm the result, because that wizard is my dad.”

There was some murmuring in the audience. Not everyone had known Tonks' heritage.

Tonks plowed on. “That left the third and final niece, Narcissa. She married Lucius Malfoy, whom everyone of course knew was a Death Eater. Malfoy compounded Orrie's anger by demanding the then-largest wizard dowry in British history for marrying her. Malfoy got it too, after Narcissa threatened to elope.”

“So shortly after Pettigrew put Sirius in the frame, Orion Black gives up on all of that generation as a bad job. Instead, he writes out a new will in a fit of pique, leaving the entire estate of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black to I believe it was.… Want to get this exactly right.…” Tonks fumbled briefly with some parchments before finding what she wanted. “Dessicatus,” she whispered, instantly drying the document.

Tonks read slowly and carefully. “`My first male heir who survives to majority without becoming either a criminal or a Death Eater.' Less than two weeks later, Orrie suffers a massive stroke that eventually kills him, so that's the phrase on which the Black inheritance turns.”

“The only male heir who fits that description, then and now, is Narcissa's son Draco. We don't believe he's a Death Eater, at least not yet. However, if Sirius is cleared, then the Black estate passes to him and to his heirs - or heir, as is more correctly the case. That heir, with insignificant exceptions, is Harry Potter.”

“I know, I witnessed Sirius' will,” said Lupin in a low monotone, which earned him a sympathetic look from the prior speaker.

“So to make an unnecessarily long and complex story short,” summarised Snape in a calculating sort of way. “If Black is adjudged innocent, the estate goes to Potter. If he's not, it goes to Draco Malfoy.” He scowled and groaned slightly, contemplating those options. “What a classic Hobson's Choice. Either all that money goes on a fast track to the Dark Lord, or else it will be devoted to making Potter feel even more insufferably special.”

“Life is like that, Severus,” Dumbledore spoke in a soothing voice. “Consider it making a virtue of necessity, if you must. The Order's utmost priority is to prevent Voldemort from obtaining still more resources. I can inform the Order that I have once again made arrangements with the Polish owner of the brother wand, who is an old comrade in arms of mine from the struggle against Grindelwald. I should have the brother wand in my possession not later than tomorrow.”

“Perhaps there's another alternative,” Snape offered. “Maybe we can have those oafs at the Ministry sequester the Black Estate and declare it forfeit. Surely they can outwit a dead man.”

Dumbledore stroked his beard, thought a bit, and then spoke. “That isn't an option, Severus. The will's existence is hardly a secret. Indeed, it has been in litigation for more than two years.”

“Assuming that we perform Priori Incantatem, and it proves that Sirius did not perform the curse that killed all those Muggles. Then what? What other evidence do we have or need to support Sirius' innocence?” asked Bill Weasley.

“I know that Lily Potter kept a record, in code, of the Secret Keeper arrangements in her diary,” said Lupin. “All her remaining papers are at Hogwarts, where they must remain until Harry decides what to do with them after he comes of age next year. I helped prepare the invisible ink using the Ecrita Umbra potion. I am sure that Snape knows a counterpotion that can restore its visibility.”

“Elementary,” responded Snape flippantly. “There are, in fact, five other invisible ink potions that are less subject to either tampering or reversal than Ecrita Umbra. I'm frankly surprised that Lily Potter, who took a N.E.W.T. in potions with honours, let you handle this rather than do it herself.”

Miffed, Lupin shot back, “She had her hands full with little Harry, and she was once again pregn….”

“That's quite enough,” interrupted Dumbledore. “This meeting will be long enough without anyone's fond reminisces. Please continue, Tonks.”

The speaker looked at Lupin inscrutably before responding to Bill's question. “We have Pensieve evidence that Pettigrew still lives - memories that can neither be forged nor altered. We will be using a secure Ministry Pensieve to acquire memories from Remus, Harry, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, of Pettigrew's reappearance two years ago in the Shrieking Shack.”

“That is all well and good,” observed Dumbledore, “but Sirius' exculpation is going to stand or fall on the wand evidence, since memories all carry the source's perspective. There are many on the Wizengamot who unfortunately will discount the testimony of a werewolf. The mutual disdain between the Malfoys and the Weasleys is notorious. Finally, the other two are interested parties or possibly so, and she is Muggle-born. However, we also can harvest the memories of the entire Order rescue squad, who saw Sirius in his final combat last week. Even the memories of some of the Death Eaters will corroborate this, if we can obtain them.”

“That gives me an excellent idea,” commented Shacklebolt. “I wish I had thought of this before. We can interrogate all of the captured Deaters - particularly Lucius Malfoy - under Veritaserum for their views on whether Sirius Black was a Death Eater!”

“Brilliant!” exclaimed Professor McGonagall. “That could well cinch the case.”

Dumbledore then commented, “Well, if there is nothing more about Sirius' case, perhaps we could move on to.…”

“Just a couple more things,” Molly Weasley broke in. “How much money is at stake here, and does Harry know about this?”

“More money than in the Riddle and Malfoy accounts combined,” responded Lupin. “The Blacks are, or I should now say were, one of the richest and most celebrated wizarding houses. Their lineage extends back over a thousand years. There are Blacks in the family trees of all four Hogwarts Founders. Hundreds of years ago, there was even Black blood in British royalty. The Black family profited greatly by being on the winning side in the War of the Roses, so acquiring their great country estate.”

“Later, they were heavily involved in the creation of the British merchant marine and in the colonial trade. However, they managed to alienate both sides during the ensuing struggle over Protestantism in England, and as a result largely withdrew from Muggle affairs - not entirely of their own volition. Over the last hundred years, the Blacks have made most of their money in wizard banking and finance. As for what Harry knows….”

At this mention of Harry's name, Dumbledore cut across Lupin, “I have not yet had the occasion to discuss any matters of inheritance with Mister Potter,” the Headmaster confessed. “Not the Black fortune and not even the residue of his grandfather's estate, which is due him when he attains majority next year. Since he will have to testify concerning Sirius, just how much he should know, and when, is a delicate balance. I intend to have this conversation with Harry within the month, though, since it is time that he knows.”

“Now Kingsley, if you please, what can you tell us about cooperation with the Auror Corps?”

Kingsley Shacklebolt stood and reported that, with one or two exceptions, the 375-wizard Auror Corps was ready, willing, and able to join the fight against Voldemort.

“Indeed,” he recounted, “just the other day Ivor Dawlish, whom I had assumed was Fudge's man in the Corps, showed me a most remarkable file. Surprisingly, he was helping us in his own way. The file contained all sorts of tips and other information concerning suspected Order activity within the Auror Corps.”

Even Dumbledore was surprised by this news, and looked it. Seeing the Headmaster's incredulous look, Shacklebolt stopped. “Go on,” bade the old man. “I find this quite fascinating. Apparently Fudge never knew the true colours of one of his most trusted associates.”

“Ivor told me that during what he called Fudge's `reign of error,' he kept the entire dossier hidden under a stack of interagency reports about cauldron bottoms. Nobody would ever think to look for anything there, amongst so much doss. Thus nothing was ever acted upon, including several tips concerning myself.”

There were some nervous laughs. Apparently their adversaries had known, or suspected, more than the Order thought.

Shacklebolt's report also revealed that Auror recruitment was to be stepped up, and funding increased. The Order was now free to make use of the Aurors' supplies of specialised combat gear. Finally, Kingsley himself had volunteered to supervise Harry Potter's intensive training over the summer months. This training would consist of the usual Auror's course, minus purely occupational matters such as law enforcement, arrest procedure, evidence gathering, and the like.

Alone among those in the room, Dumbledore knew the truth. Harry was fated to destroy Voldemort, not bring him to justice. The Headmaster had helped organise the curriculum for the upcoming training.

There followed reports on progress in negotiations with other sentient magical creatures. Hagrid chuckled as he explained how close a call the Order's recent dealings with the centaurs had been.

“Twas like somebody already said, makin' a virtue o' necessity,” he admitted. “One week o' Grawpy runnin' loose was drivin' everything in the Forest `round the twist. Ol' Aragog, 'e told me that iffn I didn' do somethin' righ' away, 'e was going to lead `is entire brood strai' up ta 'Ogwarts Castle an' demand refugee status. Iffn the centaurs `adn't o' cracked when they did, I don' know wha' woulda 'appened.”

Hagrid also recounted how he and Madame Maxime of Beauxbatons would be making another trip to the giants to present the Ministry's new proposal. Grawp, who had learned the basics of English, would serve as a translator. Dumbledore had performed a difficult charm to duplicate some of his Pensieve memories of the recent events at the Ministry. This allowed Hagrid to take a visual record of Dumbledore's recent duel with Voldemort to prove to the giant Gurg - whoever it might be by the time he got there - that Dumbledore remained the stronger wizard.

Most giants were illiterate, and they understood brute force better than anything else. Hagrid thought that seeing would be believing - that the giants would be impressed with the way that Dumbledore forced Voldemort to Disapparate from the Ministry.

Bill Weasley explained the status of negotiations with the goblins.

“Well, these talks have reached a tricky and delicate phase. Remus said earlier that he thought goblin annoyance with the Ministry's posture probably played a significant role in the successful disappearance of the Riddle and Malfoy funds. I agree. The goblins play for keeps - always. In such ways they demonstrate the value of an alliance.”

“As you undoubtedly know, the Ministry had flatly refused the goblins' demand for complete legal equality with wizards. The goblin Impatok … er, king … Ragnok, remains interested in a deal, if for no other reason than he has Gringotts to worry about. Goblin control there is subject to a 75% vote of the wizard shares controlling the bank. Such a vote would turn them out.”

“But there's a carrot as well as a stick…. The Ministry is dangling a very lucrative contract under which goblins would replace Dementors as the primary prison guards at Azkaban. Such an arrangement would provide employment, at good wages, for hundreds of goblins.”

“Our peerless leader has had further sweetened the pot. Dumbledore has offered, in the event of a victory over Voldemort, to use all of the political capital that such a victory would create to press the cause of equality between goblins and wizards.”

Everyone looked at the Headmaster, who smiled enigmatically.

“In conclusion, I believe that both sides desire an alliance and that the outline of a deal is in place. I expect there will be further news to report in a matter of a few weeks.”

Arthur Weasley chimed in. “There's another favorable sign that Bill didn't mention. One of the seemingly intractable irritants in wizard/goblin relations has unexpectedly disappeared. My colleague Ludo Bagman finally made good on the longstanding gambling debts he owed to the goblins. Some of these debts date back years, to the 1994 Quidditch World Cup as well as the recent Triwizard Tournament. Bagman's high position in the Ministry has been a symbol to the goblins that wizards could not be trusted. To everyone's relief, that symbol is no more.”

Minerva McGonagall reported - with what passed for glee, given her reserved demeanor - on the fate of Dolores Umbridge.

“All the Ministry educational decrees of the past Term been rescinded. More than that, I am intent upon undoing every action that that horrible woman ever took whilst at Hogwarts. I'm quite pleased to report that I'm well on my way to that goal.”

There was even deeper satisfaction in her voice when she revealed, “Moreover, there is an increasing possibility that Umbridge herself will be the target of a Ministry inquiry. It seems that, in packing up Umbridge's office after her hasty departure, one of our house-elves came across a very unusual quill….”

Finally, Mundungus Fletcher was asked if he had anything to report. “The word on th' street,” he wheezed, “is tha' th' Dark Lord's goin' t' be payin' major moola - bu' t'ain't nobody seen none o' it yet. I's quiet ri' now, almos' too quiet. Th' Dark Lord's lickin' some wounds ri' abou' now. No way 'e 'spected t' lose all those Deaters t' a few students in th' Ministry. I's all out `n th' open now, an' tha' calls fer a change in `is plans.”

* * * *

As the meeting was breaking up, Arthur Weasley asked for a word with the Headmaster. “Albus,” he half whispered, “about the Quidditch summer camp. Ludo told me this morning that if Ron wanted the Keeper's spot, he could arrange it. Ron positively has Quidditch on his brain right now. He finally overcame his fear of playing in front of people in the last match of the year, and did splendidly.”

“I know. I was there,” Dumbledore responded. “He kept the Cup where it belonged.”

“I haven't told anyone about the offer yet, except Molly,” Arthur continued, obviously wanting something. “I'd really like him to go. I love Harry like a son, but he almost suffocates Ron at times. Ron needs to achieve something on his own, and I'm hoping this is it. I think that, not only was Ron was stellar during that last match, but he can only get better with more experience. What do you think?”

“I had hoped,” said Dumbledore cautiously, “that your son would be available to participate in Mister Potter's training over the summer. If I know Mister Potter, he would want to share that experience with his two closest friends. But you are correct, your son does need to shine on his own. That is the real reason, Arthur, is it not? You and Molly are not upset, are you, about the danger that seems to follow Mister Potter, and all too often involves his friends?”

“It scares me to death,” interjected Molly, “but I couldn't bear to separate Ron and Harry. They need each other, and Hermione and Ginny too. Together, they are so much more than they would be apart. But I do want Ron to go to camp this summer. It will be so much more exciting for him than just sitting around waiting for something to happen, like last summer. He's had his share of disappointments.”

“Very well,” decided Dumbledore. “Send him to Quidditch camp with my blessing.”

The Weasleys followed the others out of the door, headed for a school carriage, a quick Apparition, and a proper reunion with Ron at the Burrow, their now considerably less ramshackle home. The Headmaster and his deputy were the last to leave the Room of Requirement. As they did, the Headmaster spoke, “Minerva, you will be contacting the students whom Dolores disciplined last year won't you?”

“Of course, Albus,” she conformed. “Nobody, least of all her, will get away with sacking you and inspecting me.”

“Oh, and Minerva, be prepared to see a lot of Mister Potter and his friends. Voldemort knows now how well they complement each other. They are all targets now,” the Headmaster shook his head. “This year may prove even more difficult than the last.”

* * * *

Author's notes: After the debacle at Grimmauld place, no sane Order would want to continue having it as its headquarters. Thus temporary housing at Hogwarts over the summer holiday

While it sometimes seems like they should be, I don't believe the Weasleys are long-time Order members

Updated with the name of the Prophet's editor

Diggle's agricultural knowledge will figure at one point

The Blackfriars Bridge exists, and has had some famous jumpers

Dung's heritage will eventually be his undoing. His thievery has been updated

Never betraying what he thinks - from Can You See the Real Me by the Who

Eventually an initiative of the Department of Games and Sports plays a critical role

Unfortunate series of events - reference to competing literature

The sucking sound is courtesy of Ross Perot

The origins of both of the mentioned treaties will be revealed

The French insist that only products of the Champagne region be called “Champagne”

Sane member of the American opposition - and this was back in 1996. The crazies have only gotten crazier

Updated to reflect the known structure of the Auror Corps

Neville Chamberlain was the appeasement prime minister prior to WWII

I don't think that a society that treats house-elves as they are treated in canon would tolerate an elf bringing about the death of his/her master. Hence the ultimate penalty

The Malfoy rivalry will lead to a number of serious consequences, but not particularly as in HBP

The inventory of the Hall of Prophecy will uncover something unexpected

Pensieve interrogation - one thing in HPB that's never explained is why there are no memories of Voldemort taken from the captured Death Eaters

I will do in Amelia Bones, since she is not central, but in a different way

En banc means as a whole

Umbridge Act - restricting werewolf civil rights

Acquired Werewolf Syndrome, a similar anagram to AIDS; research seeks a cure, or at least permanent remission

Bagman's presence in the Far East has both good and bad consequences

All of the places named are centers of loose finance. This is an accurate description of bearer paper, sometimes called bearer bonds

The mysteries of the whereabouts of both Sirius' and Voldemort's wands during their absences will be explained

Deater is Auror/Order slang for Death Eater

Interesting facts about Lily Potter

The British merchant marine was not created for a particularly honorable purpose

There was more sympathy for the Order among the Aurors than Dumbledore realized

The 75% vote - and thus 25% veto - becomes important

Nobody asks the critical question concerning Ludo Bagman

- 42 -

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C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch1 council of war.doc 07/21/03

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2. Boxing And Karate

Wherein Harry broods about his life on the car ride home, reaches a truce with his relatives, gets angry and almost harms Hedwig, exchanges mutual apologies with Dudley, writes a demand letter to Dumbledore, becomes friendly with Dudley, corresponds with Ron, gets his own clothes, begins working out at Dudley's gym, meets a mysterious karate teacher, begins to learn wandless, silent magic, and learns a little about his cousin.

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

Chapter 2 - Boxing and Karate

At the same time that the Order of the Phoenix was assembling at Hogwarts Castle, Harry Potter, the subject of so much of the Order's planning and concern, found himself in a rather less comfortable situation. He was crammed in the back of his Uncle Vernon's black Mercedes, with the cage containing his pet snowy owl, Hedwig, perched awkwardly on his knees. Beside him sprawled Harry's massive cousin Dudley, who was, as usual, taking up far more than his fair share of the back seat.

Nobody was saying very much, which was fine with Harry. If he slouched backwards in the seat, he could see his own green eyes, lightning bolt scar, and unruly black hair staring back at him in the rear mirror. If he sat up straight, he could see Uncle Vernon's beady eyes, beefy face and bristling salt-and-pepper mustache. Ordinarily, choosing between those options would have wrecked Harry's posture for a week, but at this moment, he was not sure which face he found more distasteful.

His Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had always treated Harry as if he were something particularly disgusting they had found growing in some dank corner of a lavatory. Aunt Petunia was Harry's deceased mother Lily's sister, and a Muggle through and through. From what Harry had learnt about his mother over the years, and what was obvious about his aunt, Lily had been everything Petunia was not - pretty, intelligent, and most of all magical. As a result, Harry was certain that his Aunt's view of his mother, and thus of him, was strongly coloured by a deep-seated inferiority complex.

But at the moment, Harry found himself to be almost as disgusting and inferior as his relatives. He was brooding again. Every adult he had ever cared about had died - and he now knew they had died because of him. More to the point, his mother, father, and godfather had all met sudden, violent deaths because of some cockamamie prophecy that he, Harry, might be the one wizard who could do away with Lord Voldemort (formerly Tom Riddle). Voldemort was only the most powerful Dark wizard that anyone living could remember.

`Me?' he thought. `What makes me so sodding special? Why am I always the survivor?'

The so-called seer who had revealed this prophecy was a ditzy old bat. Harry knew this for certain because Sybill Trelawney had been his Divination professor for almost three mind numbing years - until (he grinned ever so slightly) she had been unceremoniously sacked last March. Sacked in the middle of the term, no less.

Trelawney had wrongly predicted his death so many times since he had come to Hogwarts, that he had lost count. Who was to say that this prophecy was any more accurate? Why did everybody, especially Dumbledore, think that it was? Why did everybody have to treat him so differently from anyone else? Harry gripped Hedwig's cage rather more tightly than necessary.

Still, Harry had to admit that there did seem to be something to all of this “savior Harry” business. After all, he had survived Voldemort's Killing Curse - when he was only one year old. Nobody had ever done that before. After Voldemort had murdered Harry's father, and then his mother, with Avada kedavra, the Dark wizard had turned the same curse on Harry. At that moment, he should have died.

But he had not. The deadly curse had rebounded, or something like that (nobody had ever been able to tell him exactly what had happened), and destroyed Voldemort's corporeal form. Harry was left with the scar in the middle of his forehead, with haunting memories of blinding green light, and with his name famous throughout the wizarding world as “The Boy Who Lived.”

Ugh.

Still, he had ended up in far better shape than Voldemort. The self-anointed “Dark Lord” (or what remained of him) had been left with no body at all, no ability to do magic, indeed, no abilities at all except the power to possess the bodies of other beings.

But possess other beings Voldemort did.

On his eleventh birthday, Harry discovered to his great shock and indescribable pleasure that he was a wizard and had been accepted into Hogwarts, far and away the most distinguished magical school in the British Isles. That experience soon turned Dark, as he encountered Voldemort near the end of his first year - inside Hogwarts itself. Voldemort had taken possession of the school's Defence Against the Dark Arts professor in an attempt to return to human form using an Elixir of Life made from a pilfered Philosopher's Stone. Poor Professor Quirrell had been killed in the resulting confrontation. Harry could well have been killed as well. However, he had escaped that fate with the timely help of his friends and by grace of the even more timely arrival of Headmaster Dumbledore.

In Harry's second year, Voldemort - or at least some kind of animated memory of him - had possessed his best friend Ron's little sister, Ginny (then in her first year), through an enchanted diary. Again Harry had almost died, but in the end he had managed to destroy not only the memory of Voldemort that had been in that diary, but also a deadly 50-foot Basilisk. For all Harry knew, the body of the Basilisk was still lying where it fell, in the Chamber of Secrets, far beneath Hogwarts Castle.

Voldemort's memory had been draining Ginny's life away, but after Harry had driven a Basilisk fang dripping with venom through the diary, Ginny's life essence had flowed back to her. She too had lived, apparently with no lasting injury or other knock-on effects - aside from having difficulty dealing with the strong emotions that she felt for Harry.

`Well, at least one thing resolved itself during the just passed term,' Harry mused. `She's finally over me, and a much better friend as a result.'

Voldemort had not been in evidence during Harry's third year, but in fourth year, it got even worse - other people started dying. Cedric Diggory, perhaps the finest wizard produced by Hufflepuff House in decades, was murdered in cold blood on Voldemort's order. Harry cringed at his unintentional culpability in that death as well. It had been his suggestion, his not-so-bright idea, for them both to tie for top honors in the Triwizard tournament by simultaneously grabbing the trophy cup that signified victory. The cup turned out to be a disguised Portkey, which straightaway took them both to Voldemort.

Harry had cheated death once again, duelling Voldemort to a draw and escaping back to Hogwarts because some Death Eater had apparently made a Portkey programming mistake. Cedric had not been so lucky, and Harry had returned to Hogwarts with Cedric's corpse in tow. Harry still had nightmares about it. He knew he had made a bad decision, and because of that decision someone else had died.

But the just concluded term topped everything. Because his instructor had been obnoxious, Harry had skived off the Occlumency lessons that Dumbledore had told him in no uncertain terms were of critical importance. Harry had thus allowed Voldemort to infiltrate his very mind. Voldemort planted a false vision of Harry's beloved godfather, Sirius Black, being tortured in the Ministry of Magic.

Despite being warned, Harry had taken Voldemort's bait, hook, line, and sinker. With four equally foolhardy friends - and a fifth who came anyway after her warnings were ignored - he had heedlessly invaded the Ministry in search of Sirius. They had walked straight into a trap sprung by a dozen Death Eaters commanded by the powerfully evil Lucius Malfoy. Their spur-of-the-moment mission barely escaped disaster. The six of them had survived only because an Order of the Phoenix rescue squad had saved them.

Tears came to Harry's eyes as he thought of how Sirius had insisted on accompanying the rescuers despite Dumbledore's better judgment. Sirius had been killed in the ensuing combat - blasted through the veil of death by his own cousin, Death Eater Bellatrix Lestrange. Voldemort himself had shown up to reinforce his minions, just as Dumbledore had come to buttress the forces of the Order. Dumbledore had been the better wizard that night. Only Voldemort and one Death Eater had escaped, but that one had been Sirius' killer.

During the struggle, Voldemort had briefly possessed Harry himself. Here, surely, was the genesis of many nightmares to come. Still, Voldemort had not maintained the possession. Dumbledore believed that this had represented Harry's strength, but his was not the only interpretation. Voldemort had just been trying to get someone to kill Harry. When nobody did, the Dark wizard probably had gotten frustrated and left.

`Who will I get killed next?' Harry wondered. Would it be his best friend Ron Weasley? Ron had all of Harry's reckless bravery, but was not as lucky. Poor Ron had sacrificed himself for Harry repeatedly. In the ultimate for-keeps chess match at the end of first year, Ron had been knocked unconscious for his troubles. He had almost been crushed by a rockfall in their second year. He had landed in the infirmary again, this time with a horribly broken leg, at the end of third year. Harry had rescued Ron from drowning in fourth year. In the just-past incident at the Ministry, Ron had suffered some sort of encounter with a magical brain. That had once again incapacitated him - leaving Ron with lasting scars, bizarre hallucinations and possible personality changes.

What about his other best friend Hermione Granger, who was probably cleverest person - witch or Muggle - Harry had ever met? She had solved the riddle of the potions in first year, and discovered what had been petrifying students in second year. The following year, Hermione had brought about Sirius' escape from Ministry custody by manipulating time itself. That escape had permitted Harry to enjoy a quasi-parental, if clandestine, relationship with Sirius for two years. Without this girl's abilities, Sirius would have lost his soul to a Dementor's Kiss, and he would have been thought of as an escaped murderer who richly deserved that fate.

Hermione had once again proved her mettle the preceding week. She had warned Harry beforehand that the vision he had experienced was probably a trap, but he had not listened. If only he had, Harry thought bitterly, Voldemort's fake vision would not have fooled him, and the rescue that precipitated Sirius' death would have been quite necessary.

Harry had never felt so alone. He was lonelier even than before he learnt he was magical, when the spiders in the cupboard under the stairs had been his best friends. From the beginning, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia never tired of telling him that he was not wanted in their home. Now, what began as a matter of their inconvenience had become tinged with fear. Last summer his relatives had learnt that Harry was not the only possible target. Merely because he was around, the Dursleys - and particularly that spoilt brat Dudley, who had just dripped ice cream on Harry's pant leg - could also be targets. Right then and there, his aunt and uncle would have kicked Harry out in a trice, but Dumbledore had somehow stopped them.

Dumbledore. All last year the Headmaster had ignored Harry and kept him ignorant both of what was happening in the struggle against Voldemort and of his unique place in that struggle. Harry had been reduced to nicking newspapers from dustbins and sneaking a listen to news broadcasts through open windows. And now, dammit, it was happening all over again.

At the price of losing Sirius and almost being killed himself, Harry had finally squeezed two pieces of critical information out of Dumbledore at the end of last term. First, Harry had to stay with the Dursleys to maintain the potency of a charm of sorts that protected him (and them) from harm at Voldemort's hands. Harry shuddered involuntarily.

Second, Harry had learnt that it was his singular fate either to kill Voldemort or be killed by him in some sort of wizarding Armageddon. He shuddered even more at that prospect. He just was not a killer. There was no way he could be ready anytime soon for such a confrontation with a wizard who had honed his Dark skills for decades. Harry concluded that he was as likely to die as he was to graduate from Hogwarts.

Harry was jarred from his morose musings as the tyres on the Mercedes (Uncle Vernon would only drive a “posh” car, since he judged others by the kind of cars they drove) bumped into a driveway. They had left the A-road, but rather than Privet Drive, Harry saw them pulling into a petrol station.

`Q8,' Harry thought, `what an unusual name. And to think that Uncle Vernon complains about odd wizard names.' But then his uncle complained about just about everything - especially everything connected with him.

Watching Uncle Vernon struggle with the petrol pump, a slight grin crossed Harry's face. Harry thought about how fascinated the Muggle-loving Arthur Weasley would have been with this procedure.

Harry then saw Uncle Vernon motioning to him to get out of the car. So that was it; Uncle Vernon was using the petrol stop as an opportunity to talk to him alone. Nervously, he opened the door and stepped into his uncle's presence.

Vernon hissed, “Petunia and I have had a talk with the head of that freak school of yours, that Bumblemore….”

“That's Dumbledore,” corrected Harry.

“Whatever,” Uncle Vernon continued. “He explained to us that as long as you stay with us at least part of the summer, something in your blood relationship to Petunia will protect all of us from that maniac Voldomart.”

“That's Voldemort,” corrected Harry again. “You make him sound like a supermarket. Did you know that most wizards can't even bear to speak his name?”

Uncle Vernon winced, more from the word “wizard” than from the name of the most feared Dark wizard in over a century, but he carried on. “I've therefore agreed to let you stay for as long as it takes for this … magic … (he had to force himself to say that word) to be effective. But that's not all. I've also agreed to no more interference in your … magical … lifestyle. So my attempts to stamp out your freakiness are at an end. But the same goes for you. Your side of this bargain is to respect the way we live our lives as well.”

“How so?” asked Harry, genuinely perplexed. He thought he had always been more than accommodating to his relatives' extreme and unremitting Muggleness.

“That means no more rubbing your condition in our faces,” growled Uncle Vernon. “Your freaky friends can come and visit you here, but they have to look and act normal. I don't want any more embarrassing questions from the neighbours, like I had the last two times some of your kind turned up. No more blowing up my living room, or assaulting my guests - and especially I don't want anybody doing anything to Dudley. He's finally started making something out of himself that I can be truly proud of, and I don't want your lot ruining that. So, don't bother us and we won't bother you, got it?”

“Fair enough,” responded Harry somewhat blankly. He was undecided whether he should be pleased or upset. He was facing a summer's worth of hostile indifference from the Dursleys, but that was probably an improvement on past summers. At least there would be no more bars on his windows.

“And one more thing….” Uncle Vernon said before suddenly cursing loudly. He had allowed the tank to overflow, and his suit trousers now reeked of petrol. “One more thing…. Since we've stopped trying to force you to be like us, you no longer have to do any household chores - no more cooking or cleaning. But seeing as how you don't have any money, if you'd like to earn a few quid, we'll pay you a fiver a day to do jobs around the house. Or you can get the going pay for casual labour on the loading dock at Grunnings, if you'd rather. It's up to you.”

Harry thought that Uncle Vernon's offer of paid work had something to recommend it - at least until something better came along. Whilst Harry had plenty of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, he was completely without Muggle money. He was determined to get some of his own Muggle clothes. He was sick of dressing in Cousin Dudley's oversized hand-me-downs. He also wanted to be as active as possible. Being active meant he would be thinking about things other than his grief and his guilt over what had just happened in the Ministry.

“D'you still want to watch our news and read our papers?” Uncle Vernon asked, his face clouding.

“Yes, do you think I could?” Harry answered, his mood lightening slightly.

“Well, that confirms that Dumbledore and I agree on at least one thing,” continued Uncle Vernon, ignoring Harry's question.

“What's that?” replied Harry, frowning again.

Uncle Vernon paused and delivered the punch line. “After last year, neither of us trusts you farther than we can throw you. He's still not telling you anything.”

Harry winced, as this insult struck very close to home. After all, it certainly seemed like Dumbledore was abandoning him again over the summer. Seething, Harry shot back, “What did I do to you last year? I told you the bloody truth. I chanced expulsion from Hogwarts to save your son's life!”

“Don't give me that rubbish,” shouted Uncle Vernon, his voice rising along with Harry's. “You thought nothing of sending the lot of us halfway to the coast on a wild goose chase for some nonexistent All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn Competition so you could run away whilst we were gone. No lies, my foot. Why should we trust you about anything after that? That story was as fake as a nine-bob note. I suppose you've told your own headmaster the same sorts of cock and bull stories, and that's why he doesn't trust you either”

Harry spluttered in almost incoherent rage, “I didn't, that was….” He stopped short. He was stuck. There was no way he could tell Uncle Vernon what had really happened the night he left without exposing himself to some very nasty questions about the Order. Besides, Uncle Vernon had another point. Harry had indeed told more than his share of lies to the Hogwarts staff, Dumbledore included. Unable to find a suitable response, Harry flopped back into the Mercedes in sullen silence.

They rolled down the last B-roads and pulled into the spotless driveway of number four Privet Drive. Harry took no notice of the precisely edged front garden and the new, healthy beds of yellowish begonias and bluish agapanthus that complimented the immaculate house. Without saying another word, Harry unloaded his trunk and Hedwig's cage and headed to his room - the smallest of three bedrooms on the second storey. Not taking very much care to keep his trunk from leaving marks on the Dursleys' spotless walls and polished stairs, Harry made his way to his room as quickly as he could manage.

In a blazing temper- at his relatives for barely tolerating him, at Dumbledore for keeping so many secrets from him, at himself for Sirius' death, and at his fate to kill or be killed by Voldemort - Harry noisily started unpacking his things. He sat down next to his trunk, swearing under his breath, and began tossing his clothes in the general direction of the beat up chest of drawers on the opposite wall, hardly caring if anything he was hurling actually fell into the open drawers

“You really could use a better way of blowing off steam….”

Harry whirled around and saw the bulky figure of his Cousin Dudley standing somewhat nervously in the doorway.

“What do you want?” spat Harry furiously.

“A word, if I could,” replied Dudley, not a trace of malice in his voice.

“Go ahead then, talk,” said Harry, barely looking at his cousin, as he threw his dress robes in the general direction of the wardrobe.

“Mum…. She told me what you did that night last year.… The bit with the Dementors,” said Dudley, somewhat at a loss for words.

“Right,” replied Harry flatly, “and now you're here to beat me senseless because you're certain that I put them up to it, I suppose.” Harry threw his trainers into the closet, hard. One of them struck the edge of the closet door, bounced back, and glanced off of Hedwig's cage, upsetting it. Since Hedwig was still in the cage, there followed a loud screeching sound, and the frantic beating of wings against bars. Harry scrambled to his feet, slipped on a loose sock, and stumbled, banging his knee on the metal bar across the foot of his bed. His knee throbbing, he threw himself towards Hedwig's cage. He only got one hand around it, though, and it swung crazily as he picked it up.

“Don't worry Hedwig, I'll get you out of there,” he assured the frantic owl, in what he hoped was a soothing voice. The gambit failed. As Harry fumbled with the lock on the cage, unable to use magic to open it without risking another expulsion letter for a Muggle Vicinage violation, Hedwig bit one of his fingers.

“Owww!!” Harry howled, so enraged that he could no longer see or think straight. Over the last minute, one pratfall after another had added physical pain in several parts of his body to his already painful thoughts. He snapped.

“AARRGHH!!”

He picked up the cage again, ready to hurl it through the nearby window.

“Harry, stop it. Don't be daft.” Dudley yelled, as he restrained the much smaller boy. Dudley put a powerful arm under each of Harry's shoulders from behind, easily lifting the comparatively slight wizard completely off the ground and pinning him against his massive chest.

“You'll kill it, and then you'll feel dreadful when you've finally calmed down,” Dudley grunted as Harry struggled, flailing the air with his legs and one free arm. Something seemed to be glowing. Then Dudley felt his arms and chest go numb, as if a powerful current were passing through them. Even though he was quite strong - interscholastic boxing champ at his own school, Smeltings, for two years running - Dudley had to release Harry.

Harry slid limply to the floor, with Dudley's words resonating in his head. His anger fled as quickly as it came, and he gently set down Hedwig's cage. All he felt now was ashamed. Dudley was right. He had almost killed, or at least seriously injured, his precious snowy owl in a fit of uncontrolled rage. Dudley looked at him, eyes wide.

“Blimey, what did you just do to me?” his cousin asked.

“I don't know, what did I do to you?” Harry mumbled emotionlessly.

“I haven't felt anything like that since I stuck a key in a power plug when I was five,” Dudley gasped. “I couldn't hold onto you any longer.”

“I've no idea,” Harry croaked with bewilderment. “I was out of control. I wasn't even thinking about doing magic. My wand's still in my trunk….” Harry paused, “but I think I did something similar last year when Uncle Vernon tried to choke me a couple of hours before the Dementor attack.”

Reeling, both at what he had done and what he had almost done, Harry sat on the floor running his hands through his unruly black hair. He was oblivious to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia thundering up the stairs. They were fearful that Harry was doing something terrible to their son.

“Thanks,” choked out Harry, his throat feeling as if it were full of ashes. In the doorway, his uncle's and aunt's eyes grew wide. Uncle Vernon lowered the andirons he had been meaning to pummel “that freak boy” with.

Harry had never voluntarily thanked Dudley for anything.

Their jaws dropped further when Dudley spoke with a similar tone. “That's what I came in here to tell you.” Harry looked up at his cousin blankly as he continued. “Thank you for saving my life, Harry. You could have been killed, or worse expelled, but you fought those horrible Dementor things rather than leave me to them - and I haven't done a thing, ever, to deserve something like that from you.”

Harry was flabbergasted, and his aunt and uncle were stunned. Dudley never thanked anybody for anything unless he was getting some sort of gift, and then Dudley's insincerity was usually obvious. But then it was true, in a way, that Harry had given his cousin a most precious gift - the gift of his life.

There was utter, and awkward, silence. Even Hedwig stopped screeching. Realising that he eventually had to say something, Harry slowly pulled himself to his feet. “Umm… That's okay, Dudley.” Harry tentatively held out his hand. Dudley grasped it and they shook hands for the first time in their lives. In his first year at Hogwarts, an encounter with a mountain troll had permanently transformed Harry's relationship with a certain bushy haired girl. Now an encounter with two Dementors seemed to have wrought a similar change in Harry's relationship with his burly cousin and to a lesser extent with his aunt and uncle as well.

Satisfied that their presence was not necessary to protect Dudley, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia left. Harry sighed and told Dudley, “It's already 10:00, and I still have to unpack and all. I need to get some sleep. It's been a very long day for me.”

Dudley replied haltingly, “umm, I go running every morning at 5:00 a.m. to keep fit, and then I go to my gym and train for several hours. You could come along with me tomorrow if you'd like. There are plenty of things at the gym that you can hit, punch, and kick without having to worry about the consequences.”

“Mmm, yes, that sounds good,” yawned Harry. “I could use to hit something right about now.” Dudley left. Harry rummaged through the wreckage of his trunk until he found an unopened box of owl nuts. He knelt next to Hedwig's cage and, paying extraordinarily close attention this time, undid the lock.

“I'm so, so sorry, girl,” Harry whimpered. “Have as many treats as you like.” I'll never do anything like that again, I promise. I really mean that.” He put the open box of owl nuts in the cage, leaving the door open. He also opened the bedroom window. “I'm going to leave it open all summer,” Harry vowed. “The Dursleys can't tell me not to any more.”

He resolved then and there to write to Headmaster Dumbledore. Seizing quill and parchment, Harry started scribbling about those things he thought he wanted in return for going through with the Herculean task assigned to him by the prophecy.

Dear Headmaster Dumbledore,

Now that I am back home, I am increasingly worried that I am going to be treated like a mushroom again - kept in the dark and fed manure. I got so angry over this today that I almost killed my owl Hedwig. If I had done that to her, I can only imagine what I might have done to myself next. I might have saved Voldemort the trouble.

This has to stop. I am ready to carry through with my part of the you-know-what, but you have to start treating me like a partner and stop treating me like a little boy. That little boy has grown up. You should know that after the Ministry. Here is what I want:

1. I want current information. I need to know how the war is going and what my part in it has to be. If I have not earned your trust by now, tell me, and I will do something else with my life.

1. I want you to get Sirius cleared of the crimes he did not commit. He died for us, so this is the least we can do for him.

2. I need to be able to write Ron and Hermione, and for them not to be forced to hide things from me like last summer. Anything extra that you have planned for me over the holiday, I want them to be with me.

3. I want my broom back, and my right to play Quidditch for Gryffindor.

Please reply promptly. I am sure that I will go mad here if you treat me like you did last year. I am not going to stand for it this time.

Harry

Satisfied with his ultimatum - and actually taking perverse pride in his rudeness towards the Headmaster - Harry carefully folded the parchment and turned to Hedwig. Hedwig fluffed out her feathers, and eyed him suspiciously.

Harry almost choked over the size of the lump in his throat. “I'm sorry Hedwig. I really am. We still need each other, we do. Right now you're my only link to the world where I belong.”

She looked at Harry with her amber eyes, studied him a bit, and hooted. Tentatively, Hedwig extended her leg and allowed him to affix the letter. Harry stroked the owl for about ten minutes, until all her pearly feathers were just so. He carried her to the open window. And she gave him an affectionate nip before disappearing into the night. At least that had gone right.

Harry then went to bed, exhausted by the day's events. He lay awake on his pillow staring at the light patterns on the ceiling. Alone and miserable, he contemplated whether it all was worth it. Maybe if he ended it all, that would save the rest from being targets. Taking his own life would not be so hard after all. The curse was only two words, and he now knew he had the power to perform an unforgivable…. All he had lacked was the will.

It was a useless exercise because Harry knew he would never go through with it. It was not the Gryffindor way. Sirius, like those before him, had died so he could live. Hermione had nearly died. He could never demean such sacrifice by throwing his life away. Exhaustion finally claimed him, and Harry finally fell into a somewhat troubled sleep dreaming about how his body count had almost reached five.

* * * *

Harry's troubled dreams ended as he awoke early the next morning to the sound of Dudley's rapping. “Are you going to go running with me or not?” rasped Dudley impatiently.

“Oh, all right, give me ten, okay?” responded Harry in a groggy voice. Harry threw on a nondescript pair of shorts and a Weird Sisters T-shirt that Ginny had given him. He laced up his trainers, and cursed under his breath when he had to retie them after the knot got caught in the threads of his deteriorating socks. Finally, and threw some water on his face and ran a comb across his head - to no apparent effect. Then he then went downstairs to face his unknown future as someone whom Cousin Dudley actually tolerated.

“Now,” said Dudley as they got outside, “you need to do a little stretching, like this.” Dudley demonstrated the exercise. “Otherwise, you're liable to pull a muscle. Blimey, don't you have any better shoes and socks? You're definitely going to raise a fine crop of blisters.”

“This is all I've got. It'll have to do. After all, I don't get many Muggle presents,” spat Harry, somewhat embarrassed. He was beginning to understand how Ron felt about being poor.

“What's Muggle?” asked Dudley matter-of-factly.

“Wizard name for non-magical people like you, Uncle Vernon, and Aunt Petunia,” answered Harry in a similar tone of voice.

“Oh,” said Dudley, “just so it's not an insult. What are the Weird Sisters?”

“A band…. A wizard band,” explained Harry.

“When I go running alone, I usually take along my Walkman,” grunted Dudley, “I have a bunch of music you could listen to.”

“I don't have a Walkman, and I wouldn't know how to use one if I did,” said Harry.

Dudley changed the subject back to running. “Anyway my normal run is along Magnolia Crescent, to the park. There are loads of paths in there, I have this circuit that I do, it's about six kilometres all told…. I try to run it twice….”

When they returned a couple of hours later, Harry was panting hard, a stitch in his side and blisters on his feet. He was amazed at the change in Dudley over the past year. Whilst his cousin could still give a baby killer whale a go in size, he was no longer a shapeless blob. Harry was in pretty good form from Quidditch, but larger boy now had the stamina to run him into the ground anytime he wanted. Harry's competitive instincts were aroused, and he resolved that he would go running every morning and that sometime before the end of the summer he would beat Dudley.

“Take a shower, and be ready in 45 minutes. We'll take off for the gym then,” yelled Dudley at Harry's retreating figure climbing the stairs.

Gasping, and sweating, Harry stumbled into his room - only to be smacked on the forehead by a brown ball of fuzz that was twittering and hooting wildly. “Oww, what the…. Oh, hi Pig, got something from Ron?”

Harry chased down Ron's diminutive and hyperactive owl Pigwidgeon, and with some difficulty removed the parchment attached to the squirming owl's leg. He let the small bird drink from Hedwig's water tray, which was okay because Hedwig had yet to return from her delivery to the Headmaster. Otherwise, Hedwig would never have tolerated Pig near her cage. Hedwig thought that Pig lacked sufficient sense of owl dignity.

Dignity or no, Pig would surely zoom away if Harry let him. Thus, Harry shut Pig in Hedwig's cage, in case he wanted to respond to Ron immediately.

Hey Harry:

Double big news here! First, my Dad got a big promotion. He is now head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation - Barty Crouch's old job. We are absolutely over the moon. This job pays a lot more. Bet Percy is so jealous, the big suck up. I doubt this would have happened without the six of us (although the papers only name you) making Voldemort show himself at the Ministry.

Second, you probably already know about this, but Dad says that Bagman wants me - you heard right, ME - as Keeper on the Hogwarts picked Quidditch team that's going to Elsinore (somewhere in Denmark) for six weeks this summer. There's going to be a North & West Europe regional interscholastic Quidditch camp! Nobody has told me who else is on the team yet, but you have to be tapped for Seeker if there is any justice in the world. Everybody knows how much better you are than anyone at school.

Think about how outstanding it will be, the both of us doing nothing but playing Quidditch for six weeks. If the Muggles give you any trouble, let me know. Fred, George, and I will come over and break you out again. They have product ideas ready for testing on your cousin. Their business is just smashing. They now have their premises in Diagon Alley, and they claim that a Hogsmeade store will be opening soon. They really want you to come for the Hogsmeade grand opening. Even Mum seems to be okay with that now.

I never had a chance to tell you, but I had a meeting with Dumbledore just before going home (I think he saw all the rest of us) and I gave him an earful about keeping you in the dark about things.

Have you seen what the Daily Prophet has been saying about you since Fudge admitted Voldemort was back? You are totally golden now - a real star. Somebody even called you “The Chosen One” this morning.

See you soon.

Ron

Harry frowned. This was the first he had heard of any Quidditch camp. Surely Ron was right. He really was light-years ahead of anyone at Hogwarts as a Seeker. His being the “youngest in 100 years” was not for nothing. Still, as far as he knew, he remained technically banned from playing Quidditch by order of that horrible Dolores Umbridge woman who had briefly seized control of Hogwarts last year. Harry was confident that the ban would be lifted, but just to be sure everything was all right, he decided to write back to Ron straight away - as soon as he took his shower.

Out of the shower in less than five minutes, Harry again put quill to parchment and scratched out quickly:

Dear Ron:

Congratulations, first on your Dad's promotion, also on making the Hogwarts team. Honestly, your letter is the first I have heard of any international Quidditch camp this summer. Can you check with your Dad and make sure that I will be on the team? I am a little worried because I might still be on the banned list.

I cancelled my subscription to the Daily Prophet last year. I have no idea what they write about me, and frankly I could not care less. I am past letting whatever gets published, good or bad, affect me anymore.

Hope to see you very soon for some all out Quidditch!

Harry

Harry threw on some clean clothes - cut off jeans and a bright orange Chudley Cannons T-shirt from Ron. Then he scowled slightly, remembering that he only had that single pair of now sweaty and smelly trainers, and using magic to clean them was forbidden. Dudley was right. He would need new clothes if he engaged in this kind of exercise much longer. “Worry about it later,” he thought, as he pounded down the stairs.

Dudley turned around to face Harry as he came downstairs - and gawked. He managed to choke out, “er … Harry, you can't wear that.”

Why not,” Harry shot back. “I don't have much else.”

“That shirt, it's got pictures of chaps on brooms,” said Dudley.

“So what?” growled Harry.

“They're moving,” responded Dudley, intrigued in spite of himself.

“Oh, right,” muttered Harry, taken aback. “But I don't know how many more Muggle T-shirts I have.”

Harry bounded back up the Dursleys' beige carpeted steps, taking them two at a time. Rummaging through both his drawers and the dregs of his trunk, Harry found a not-too-smelly T-shirt with the logo of the upcoming Olympics in Atlanta. He did not remember having the shirt, nor did he know where Atlanta was. He headed back downstairs, and found his cousin waiting impatiently by the side door.

“Let's go. We're already late,” Dudley said.

They walked for about five minutes to a bus stop. In another five minutes, they were on the bus towards London. After about fifteen minutes more, they disembarked in a distinctly seedier part of town. Dudley decided Harry needed some more clothes right away and took him to an odd shop with an all black décor that was lit primarily by ultraviolet lights. Although a little put off at first by Dudley's stereotyped view about the type of clothing shops that might cater to wizards, Harry found that the store actually had quite a passable selection.

He picked out two black and two blue pairs of jeans, two of them sporting designs made from fake silver studs. He also chose several T-shirts - black, with a pretty good Norwegian Ridgeback likeness in florescent colours; sky blue, decorated with what looked like ancient runes; red, with an intricate Celtic design; and a second black, emblazoned with a wrap-around design of the constellations of the northern hemisphere.

Dudley soon got bored, and told Harry he would be out front trying to reduce the local rodent population. He pulled from his pocket what had to be the biggest slingshot Harry had ever seen. Harry considered telling Dudley to watch out for any rats with silver paws, but thought better of it when he considered the questions that might follow.

Harry had chosen all his clothes under the watchful eye of a pretty shop assistant, but when it came time to pay, Harry went pink. He was embarrassed to tell her that he had no money and needed to get Dudley. When his cousin was ready to pay (“this is repayment for all the birthday gifts I didn't get you”), the girl ducked behind the curtain and an older man came out to the cash register.

It was odd. Harry could have sworn he saw the familiar upward flick of the older man's eyes. The man put all of the clothes in a bag and handed it to Harry, but refused to take Dudley's money, just shaking his head. He tore the sales receipt off the register and threw it in a nearby bin. Dudley hardly needed to be told twice not to look a gift horse in the mouth and turned to leave. Harry glanced at the bin, and in the dim light he saw what looked like the masthead of the Daily Prophet in amongst the wadded up bits of paper, fish and chips leavings, and used polystyrene cups. Harry quickly followed Dudley out the door.

His cousin remarked how strangely the proprietor had acted, but Harry let it pass, purposely limiting himself to monosyllabic grunts. He preferred that Dudley not know that the shopkeeper was probably magical - and had just cut “the great Harry Potter” a break. Because Dudley's funds remained undepleted, the two of them were able to visit a sports shop where Harry selected several pairs of athletic shorts, some socks and a new pair of trainers. The sales assistants in that shop were only too happy to take Dudley's money.

Laden with Harry's new clothes, they walked the remaining couple of blocks to a nondescript three-storey brick building notable mostly for its large skeletal-looking external fire escape. The fire escape was painted bright green, leaving the impression that large insects were clinging all over the front of the building. A large sign reading “Gator's Gym” hung out front, with a smaller one “Tae Kwon Do Studio” underneath. All the ground floor windows, and the doors, were covered in heavy steel mesh to deter burglars and vandals.

Dudley bounded up the front steps and through the double doors in front, which were not locked. He took the steps to the first floor two at a time, so eager was he to get started. Harry followed as best he could, as he was carrying two large bags of clothes. The whole building smelt strongly of sweat and cleaning fluid - the latter undoubtedly used in an unsuccessful attempt to reduce the smell of the former. Dudley stashed Harry's clothes in his locker, took him back down the steps, and gave him the thirty-second tour.

“This is the weight room,” he said, pointing through a door at a collection not only of the sort of barbells Harry expected, but a variety of large machines with various weights, pulleys, cables and benches pointing out at seemingly random angles. Men pushing against weights with their arms or legs occupied several of the benches. They produced the constant clanks of metal striking metal, interspersed with their own grunts. More than anything else, it reminded Harry of a torture chamber. It lacked only the sets of chains and manacles that hung from the ceiling in the office of Hogwarts' caretaker, Argus Filch.

“That's the heavy bag room over there, and this is the speed and free-standing bag room over here. If you feel like exercising your legs you can practice kickboxing either with the free standers if there's nobody else about, or with the mats hung on the wall there in the back. I'll show you how to use the bags in a minute, but most of the time I'm going to be in the ring itself,” Dudley stated proudly, pointing at the spotlit canvas boxing ring at the middle of the biggest room in the gym. “I'm one of the stars here, you know. I have a sparring partner showing up in about half an hour. Let's see if I can scare up a set of gloves small enough to fit you.”

Harry frowned briefly at Dudley's remark about his being small, but looking around the place, he was constrained to agree. Without knowing any better he might have thought that Dudley had fallen in with a bunch of trolls in training. Even though he was forbidden to perform magic out of school, Harry wished he had his wand with him, although once he got into his workout clothes there would be no place to keep it. The only normal-sized person Harry saw in the place was an Asian fellow dressed in a dragon-patterned robe. Harry reckoned he was the karate teacher.

Dudley found some gloves, fitted Harry, and nodded. Then he had Harry hold out both hands in front of him and punched the ends of Harry's gloves rather harder than Harry thought necessary. “What,” Harry exclaimed as he staggered backwards.

“They'll do,” Dudley remarked, with a grin. “That was just a tap.”

“Oi, Big D,” remarked a new arrival, looking as trollish as the rest. “'Oo's the featherweight?”

“Oh, he's just my cousin,” Dudley drawled, considering each word. “He goes to St. Brutus' School for Criminally Insane Boys, but now that it's summer, I'm trying to keep him out of trouble over the holiday. He may be small, but I warn you he's tough. Got some very unusual moves, that one.” Dudley winked at Harry.

Dudley gave Harry a five-minute demonstration of how to work the heavy bag. Then he watched as Harry slugged away for several minutes more, giving occasional pointers. He demonstrated how to use a speed bag, with both hands and then with each hand separately. Harry tried and discovered to his pleasure that he was considerably better at this than with the heavy bag. On the speed bag, he was better able to bring to bear his coordination acquired from playing Quidditch. Dudley showed him how to hit the stand alone without being struck by the bag's recoil, and for a lark showed Harry a couple of kickboxing moves as well.

Finally Dudley instructed Harry on that scary looking universal gym equipment: how it worked, how to increase and decrease the weights, and how Harry could adjust the pads to fit his less than gigantic stature. Dudley also explained the various single-circuit stations, describing how which one provided a workout for what muscle group. In what seemed like almost no time to Harry, a half an hour passed and a loud whistle pierced the air.

“Gotta go,” panted Dudley. “That's my sparring partner. Just make yourself comfortable for the next few hours and work out however you want. There's plenty of power drinks in the fridge in the corner. Don't let yourself dehydrate. It's going to be another scorcher today. If you feel light-headed at all, get one of the drinks pronto. And don't be scared. Nobody's going to take the mickey out of you. I put the word out that you're with me - and that you're a nasty piece of work.”

Uncle Vernon had been right about one thing. Dudley certainly took pride in his status in this gym.

The exercise made Harry feel wonderful. Physical activity had always cleared his mind, and now he could work himself to his heart's content. The heavy bag tired him out, so he had to lay off that after a few minutes. He did find great pleasure in imagining the faces of his various enemies on the stand-alone bag. It hardly seemed plausible to punch out Voldemort, but Harry had no trouble calling up mental images of Bellatrix Lestrange, Sirius' murderer; Professor Umbridge, who banned him from playing Quidditch last term; and best of all Draco Malfoy, his worst enemy among Hogwarts students, and Lucius' son.

The image of Malfoy was the most lasting and lifelike, probably because Harry already had considerable experience in punching him. A fistfight with Malfoy had been the immediate cause of Harry's being banned from playing Quidditch during the prior term. Even if he had never touched Malfoy, however, Harry was convinced that Umbridge would have cooked up some other excuse to throw him off the Gryffindor team.

An hour and a half later, after various workouts and numerous power drinks, a sweaty and exhausted Harry was looking for the loo. There were very few people about in this, the hottest part of the afternoon (the gym lacked air conditioning), and those that were looked fully occupied. The only person who seemed at loose ends at the moment - that karate teacher - had been sitting in a metal folding chair watching him for the last several minutes. Harry supposed that the teacher must not have very many students. Come to think of it, this neighbourhood probably was not home to many people who would be inclined to take karate. It was definitely a part of town partial to fisticuffs.

Harry carefully unlaced and removed his gloves in order to make sure he could retie them. Then he addressed the man, and was surprised when he received a full bow in response. Harry had no idea of the proper way to respond, so in return he ended up making a motion that must have looked part way between a bow and a stagger. It was a bit much, he thought, for directions to the loo. Nevertheless he obtained the urgently needed information.

He was washing his hands when the door creaked open. Harry thought nothing of it, since it was a public loo, until he heard, “Hahli Potta?” pronounced in a questioning, but distinctly Chinese tone of voice. Harry whirled about and went into a catlike crouch, half expecting to be facing the business end of a wand.

There was no such thing.

The karate instructor simply stood in front of him placidly, with both hands out to show that he was unarmed. “Hahli Potta,” he said again, this time as a statement rather than a question.

“Wh, wh, who are you,” stammered Harry, his heart still in his throat and his face flushing warm from the adrenaline rush.

“Ohda of Phoenix,” was the simple reply. The man pulled up the sleeve of his robe and flashed Harry a peek at an amulet on his upper arm that the boy supposed was issued by the Order.

There followed a poignant pause whilst Harry digested this unexpected information. “So I'm still being followed,” he stated flatly.

“Yes and no, Hahli,” came the response. “You are being followed, but that is not why I am here. Since the Dementor attack, I have been watching your cousin when he is not at school. Your presence here is not work, but pleasure for me. Please follow.”

“Wait a minute,” Harry demanded. “If you're with the Order, then you'll understand why I need to do this. Tell me something only an Order member would know.”

“Excellent, Hahli,” came the reply. “How about … recently, you smashed a number of Chairman Dumbadoh's possessions. Only you and he were present, so I know of it only because he spoke of it.”

Harry was embarrassed to recall that incident and even more embarrassed to realise that Dumbledore had mentioned it to others. Nonetheless, it did establish the man's bona fides. “All right, I'll go with you.”

They made their way from the loo into the small rabbit warren of rooms on the ground floor that served as the karate school's premises. “Why is that - who exactly are you, and are you a wizard?” Harry asked questions in jumbled, staccato fashion. Each answer he received seemed to generate about ten new questions.

“I am Kung Meng-tse, but you may address me as Lao Kung. Yes, I am what is considered a wizard in this country. In China I would be considered more of a sorcerer, as I am a teacher rather than a doer. I am pleased because I would be most honored if Hahli Potta, hero of the raid on the Unspeakables, would permit me to show him Chinese defence techniques. Chairman Dumbadoh approves, but only if you first came to me. And now that has happened.” They reached a rather sparsely furnished workout room.

“So…. What can you show me, Lao Kung?” inquired Harry, his voice brightening. Maybe he would get some extra training over the summer after all.

“You have great power,” said the karate wizard, “but you lack focus and concentration. If you gain these attributes, you will be able to do this….”

Following the older man's eyes, Harry noticed Lao Kung eyeing a stack of six bricks in a holder about a foot away from the wall. Harry did not notice the similar stack of bricks against the opposite wall. “Hai!” the karate master screamed, and with a motion so fast Harry could scarcely follow it, he brought the side of his right hand down upon the bricks. Simultaneously, a jet of blue light flashed from his left hand. The bricks struck by his right hand cracked in half and fell to the floor. The bricks struck by the spell from his left hand were pulverised, and the air was soon thick with fine pink powder.

As Harry started to cough, Lao Kung used the Cleansing Charm (“Scourgify”) to clear the air. “Interested?” he asked.

“You bet!” Harry enthused. “What did you just do?”

“My right hand was kung fu - somewhat inaccurately called karate - no magic at all, simply martial arts. The particular aspect of Kung fu was the intensive application of the force of my hand on a specific spot on the top brick. Brick is brittle, and the concentrated force exceeded the strength of the material, causing it to break. At exactly the same time, my left hand was cupped, and I directed a wandless, silent Reductor Curse on an identical stack of bricks, reducing them to powder. Hahli, you already have the force inside you to do such things. What you need is concentration.”

“You can do spells silently, like Dumbledore?” Harry asked.

“I can, and so can you,” Lao Kung replied.

“When can I start, Lao Kung?”

“As far as learning concentration techniques, right now. First, sit like this.” Lao Kung sank gracefully into a lotus position.

Harry winced. “I don't know if I can do that. I think I feel pain just looking at you sitting like that.”

“The thing you must always do is try, Hahli,” smiled Lao Kung.

“OK, here goes nothing,” Harry sighed. He sank awkwardly, and after some intense wriggling managed to get himself into a pretty fair imitation of Lao Kung's lotus. Lao Kung adjusted a knee here and a foot there, and soon Harry was in an acceptable position - although he had no idea whether he would be able to get out of it by himself, or whether he would have any feeling left in his feet when he did.

“You were working very hard with the Muggle equipment Hahli,” spoke Lao Kung in a low monotone. “You cannot work as hard as that without clearing your mind temporarily of everything except your attack upon the equipment. I'd like you to try the same thing now. Close your eyes and concentrate, just as you were concentrating then, but this time think only about concentrating.

“Does it matter what I was concentrating on?” asked Harry. He was a little embarrassed to tell Lao Kung that he had previously been focussed entirely on beating a mental image of Draco Malfoy to a pulp.

“No, the subject matter is of no concern until later. It is the art of concentration with which you must start. Once you learn to concentrate, then we can worry about subject matter. Next, I want you to find a word or short phrase that means something special to you, and that has calming sound when repeated. Can you do that?” asked Lao Kung.

“Yeah, I suppose,” said Harry, rather perplexed. He thought for a while about repetitive phrases with pleasing patterns, before settling upon a spell that Hermione had taught him his first year - the Opening Spell, Alohamora. “Yes, I'm ready now,” Harry said.

Whilst repeating “Alohamora” over and over again to himself, Harry closed his eyes hard and concentrated on how his arms, body and mind had felt as he imagined doing physical harm to Draco Malfoy. To tell the truth, Harry now felt a bit thick and rather silly.

“I sense anger, and some hesitation,” spoke Lao Kung. “That is all right, keep your eyes closed and concentrate. For a first time, you are doing well. Now stop.”

Harry relaxed and opened his eyes. With the relaxation, a feeling of warmth and calm spread slowly up from his legs.

“Now again.”

Harry repeated the process of concentration, repetition, and relaxation several times.

“We will do it one more time now, then I think you will have had enough for your introductory session. But first, a question, are you right handed?”

“Yes, my right hand is my wand hand,” answered Harry.

“This time Hahli, I will do something a little different. I want to see how you react. You will feel a tingle in your right hand whilst you are concentrating. Do not open your eyes. Continue your repetitions, but after you feel the tingle, I want you to try to shift the focus of your concentration gradually from your mind towards your right hand. Say nothing, just refocus your concentration.”

Harry concentrated. He felt a tingle as if his right hand was being exposed to a gentle sprinkle of rain. Keeping his eyes closed, Harry tried to concentrate hard on that feeling, moving the focus of his senses towards his hand.

“Now think about heat - concentrate on your right hand being very hot” - whispered Lao Kung in his ear. “Do not interrupt anything else.”

Harry did as he was told. He concentrated so hard he imagined his face must be bright purple. His effort was rewarded with success. In less than a minute, he smelled the pungent aroma of cedar smoke. His eyes flew open, and he quickly withdrew his right hand. Lao Kung had sprinkled it with sawdust, and the sawdust had started to smolder.

“Very good, Hahli,” smiled Lao Kung. “You cannot doubt now that you have talent for this. You have smelled the results with your own nose. That is all for today. Do you wish to continue?”

“Abso-bloody-lutely,” replied Harry enthusiastically.

“In that case,” instructed Lao Kung, “I want you to use these concentration techniques during your workout as well. No longer try to box, in the sense of having an opponent, but rather try to cleanse your mind. When you work the bags and the stand alone apparatus, try not to think of anything except the sound of your mantra and the rhythm of your body in action. See if you can synchronise the two. Work yourself as hard as you can, but try to think of nothing but you, your rhythm, and the object you are aiming for. Can you do that?”

“I will try my best,” pledged Harry.

Harry worked out a little more with the speed bag and stand alone, trying to concentrate solely on his target. But only a short time later, Dudley came looking for Harry - finished for the day.

“You ready to quit?” mumbled Dudley, toweling off. “Hop in the shower and let's go.”

A few minutes later, they were headed home. Harry was tired, and his hands were full with his clothes, but he was as happy as he had ever been whilst staying with the Dursleys. Suddenly, Dudley put out his arm and signaled him to stop and be quiet.

“Look there,” Dudley said in a hoarse whisper, “crows perched on that wire.”

Harry looked up. “Actually ravens, I think.”

“Whatever,” Dudley replied distractedly, pulling the big Black Widow slingshot out of his jeans. “Let's see if I can plink one.” Dudley picked up a broken piece of brick and fired. He missed, but not by much, and three large black birds took flight raucously. “Missed again, but one day I'll get one.”

After that bit of casual vandalism, they headed back home. On the bus, Harry learnt about Dudley's original exposure to boxing.

“I've been wondering,” he began tentatively, “how you got involved in something like boxing in the first place. You never seemed to have the … the ….”

“Discipline?” Dudley interrupted.

Harry thought for a second, “Yeah, discipline, I guess.”

“You do what you have to do,” Dudley shrugged it off. “I've had a bit of an `anger management' problem,” he made air quotes with his fingers, “for, like, forever.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Harry snarked, remembering all the beatings his cousin had given him.

“I know, sorry about all that,” Dudley casually apologised. “I mean I even kicked in my first telly when the Beeb cancelled Doctor Who.”

Harry shrugged uncomprehendingly, since the Dursleys never allowed him to watch television. “You did break loads of stuff, Dudders.”

“Too right,” Dudley agreed. “Anyway by last year, It wasn't by choice at all. I was a bit of a hooligan at Smeltings. And more than a bit of a bully - just like I was to you, actually. I got more than my share of detentions and the like for fighting, and I was threatened with expulsion.”

“Your dad would skin you alive,” Harry observed.

“No shite,” Dudley agreed. “The choice I was offered was between boxing and expulsion. They said I needed an `alternative outlet for anger' or some psychological mumbo-jumbo like that. I didn't like it at first, but damn if I didn't show some talent at something for the first time in my life.”

“That's like me and Quidditch,” Harry observed, finally feeling some empathy for his cousin.

“What?” Dudley replied.

Harry looked around to make sure nobody was listening in. In a lower voice he explained, “Quidditch, that's a sport played on brooms - like the pictures on my shirt. “Flying and playing Quidditch were the first things I ever discovered I could do better than just about everyone else.”

“Sounds about right then,” Dudley replied agreeably. “Anyway, I started to work at it and won some bouts. A few months after those Dementor thingies attacked, I even stopped hanging out with Piers and Gordon. I'd known them for years, but they never changed. I sussed out they were layabouts who weren't likely to help me accomplish anything.”

“What are you shooting for?” Harry asked. He was right chuffed that he would never have to deal with those nasty Muggles again.

“I reckon I might have a chance to be the English heavyweight champ in a few years if I keep at it,” speculated Dudley. “Probably not more than that, though, because then I'd have to go up against all those big n****rs from America.”

Harry reacted to the casual racial slur like a slap in the face, although in retrospect he should have known there was little cause for surprise in Dudley's language. The population of Little Whinging was very white and quite right wing - not BNP, but only for reasons of class, not disagreement.

Still, that kind of prejudice made Harry very uncomfortable. He had seen quite the same thing in the attitudes of many pureblood wizards. “Dudley,” Harry warned archly, “we're getting along better than we ever have before, but if you want that to continue, please keep thoughts like that to yourself. You should know that I've shared my dorm room with a black chap for five years now, the captain of my Quidditch team last term was black, and last year I had a Chinese girlfriend…. For a little while, anyway.”

“Oh … right,” said Dudley blankly. “If you say so. I don't really mean anything by it anyway.” Then he stopped short, finally comprehending what he had just heard. “You…? You had a girlfriend?”

“Well, sort of,” said Harry, “I got a kiss and half of a date.”

“Well I got two dates, but no kisses,” laughed Dudley. For the rest of the bus ride back to Little Whinging they played “Can You Top This” about the inscrutable ways of the female gender.

Upon arrival at number 4 Privet Drive, Harry was exhausted, but a good sized meal, cooked by Aunt Petunia, woke him up. He had what passed for a pleasant conversation with Uncle Vernon about gardening that needed doing, since Dudley took Sundays afternoons off from training.

Harry did not like feeling indebted to Dudley, and meant to pay him back even though Dudley treated the clothes he bought for Harry as a gift. Uncle Vernon agreed to pay Harry five quid for mowing and edging the gardens (front and back) and another three for cleaning out junk from the garage. That night, Harry slept very well. There was nothing like physical exhaustion to keep his mind from wandering back to his grief.

Life at Privet Drive was turning out surprisingly well.

* * * *

Author's Notes: I deliberately describe Ginny as “apparently” escaping with no lasting injury.

Query whether programming the Triwizard Cup to be a two-way Portkey, rather than a single-use version was a mistake. I can see no benefit to Voldemort to the Portkey working a second time to return the user to Hogwarts, unless Voldemort had been planning some sort of immediate attack on the school had everything gone as he had planned at the end of GoF.

Harry's recall of the end of OotP is the first inkling of Hermione now being in a different category from Harry's other friends.

An inkling of the problems Ron will face in the upcoming year.

Q8 is a European gasoline seller; it intentionally sounds like Kuwait, which owns it.

An A-road is a major thorofare in Britain, one step down from a motorway, or dual carriage road - like a U.S. highway (as opposed to an interstate) in America.

A fiver is a five pound note.

Agapanthus is added, as it is mentioned in HBP.

I believe that, by the way Brits calculate, the second storey is the equivalent of the third floor in the U.S.

Fled as quickly as it came, from an obscure Uriah Heep song called Magician's Birthday.

When Harry's emotional, and there's a glow or a spark, look out.

Killed, or worse, expelled - conscious parallelism.

The mushroom analogy is a common one here in SE Pennsylvania, near where a lot of mushrooms are grown.

Ran a comb across his head - from the Beatles Day in Life.

The Chosen One bit is another concession to HBP, something I can live with, since that's one of the few things I anticipated correctly.

I couldn't help mentioning my old home town of Atlanta.

The large machines are what were called Universal Gyms when I played sports thirty years ago in high school. They seem still to be in use, but I don't know what the Brits might call them.

The boxing descriptions are as accurate as I can make it, having never had anything personally to do with the sport.

The Chinese accent - JKR frequently employs accents, most notably with Fleur and Hagrid. Nothing insulting is meant by it. For Lao Kung (Lao means “old” in Chinese and is a respectful form of address), I am only doing accents for proper names, most notably Harry.

Lao Kung is a mix of two of the names of two China's greatest ancient philosophers, Kung Fu-tzu (“Confucius”) and Meng-tse (“Mencius”).

LK uses “Chairman Dumbledore” - a play on Chairman Mao.

I don't know what color the reductor curse is, so I chose blue.

I've added reference to silent spells, since this was important in NBP. Harry will learn this skill over the summer.

Concentration, repetition, and relaxation is a description of common meditation technique, which is what Harry is being taught.

The ravens are not what they seem.

Beeb = BBC; Dr. Who was cancelled in 1989; the TV Dudley kick due to cancellation of his favourite show was present in July, 1991, so it could be a veiled Dr. Who reference.

On top of everything else, the Dursleys are racists - no real surprise.

The BNP/National Front is a small, right wing party in Britain, mostly known for xenophobia

- 39 -

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3. An Unexpected Emergency

Wherein Harry becomes friendlier with Dudley, exchanges letters, considers career choices, worries about O.W.L.s, learns about the Internet, has an unexpected magical visitor, obtains an exemption from restrictions on underage magic, communicates with Dumbledore, receives a letter through Muggle post that threatens the end of a friendship, briefly panics, studies Hong Kong, and talks to Lao Kung.

Of particular interest on this site, in this chapter Harry first has to contemplate what Hermione means to him, and what it would mean if he somehow lost her.

In this chapter Hermione's parents have a quite rational reaction to learning what just happened to her at the end of Book Five. Being a parent, I know that my reaction to my own daughter being in anything remotely resembling the OOP situation would be to get her out of there as fast as I could. I'm surprised there aren't more fics addressing this topic - probably because parents don't write most of them.

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

Chapter 3 - An Unexpected Emergency

As the five o'clock alarm sounded on schedule the next morning, Harry briefly pondered very nasty hexes that could be placed on a magical alarm clock. Still, he thought, “no pain, no gain,” and forced himself to go running with Dudley again. This time he did borrow a Walkman and a few CDs from his cousin. When they returned a couple of hours later, after their ten-kilometre run, Harry was in a surprisingly good mood - at least compared to how miserable he had felt at that same point the day before.

Harry and Dudley had resumed their chat about less-than-successful romantic encounters with girls over the past year.

“Well, I've got one real kiss to my credit,” Harry revealed - although declining to mention that he had not initiated it. “With that Chinese girl I mentioned … her name is Cho. It was under the mistletoe just before last Christmas. She's really pretty, and popular, and she's a year ahead of me … in the house known best for being clever.”

“And this was with your ex-girlfriend,” responded Dudley, emphasizing the “ex.”

“She is,” Harry had to admit.

“Did you dump her, or did she dump you?” Dudley wondered, very interested in whether things worked any differently amongst wizards and witches.

“She dumped me,” Harry confessed with a forced chuckle. “Quite publicly, too - and on ruddy Valentine's Day no less. The problem was one of my best friends was … is … also a girl, and Cho was jealous of that. I suppose she thought I was cheating, but I wasn't.” Harry did not think to question if it would have been better, at least for him, if he had.

“Getting dumped on Valentine's day…. That's pretty cold,” Dudley observed with a frown.

“That was our first and last date,” Harry admitted with a grimace. “It was a disaster. She mostly wanted to talk about a former boyfriend, a bloke named Diggory. Trouble was he died…. Actually got killed, more like it…. By that Voldemort maniac who's after me. Poor Cedric was only there by accident, and Voldemort snuffed him straightaway so he could deal with me. I got away though….” Harry stopped his rambling story once he saw Dudley gawking at him with undisguised amazement.

“Killed? Right in front of you?” Dudley commented with a suddenly serious look on his face. “I used to think that maybe it would be fun being you … what with being able to do all that hocus-pocus and all. But the more I find out how your kind lives, it sounds less and less fun….”

Harry's cousin had just gotten the smallest picture of how un-normal Harry's life truly was.

“Well, it's more me than my kind, but the bottom line is I can't help it,” Harry replied, making an effort to remain calm. “That's my life.”

“How'd you manage to get dumped on Valentine's Day?” Dudley asked, returning to the original topic. “I can't believe it was intended.”

“It was probably my own fault…. I let Hermione - that's the friend - schedule a meeting that conflicted with part of the date. Cho wasn't happy because she thought that meant I wanted to be with Hermione rather than her…. Actually it was just a bloody interview with a reporter.”

“You broke off a date to meet with a reporter?” Dudley went on, perplexed. “Didn't you want to be with your girlfriend?”

“Well, Hermione wanted me to do that, and I wasn't exactly having fun on the date anyway…,” Harry responded slowly. “It just wasn't interesting enough.”

“And the alternative was?” Dudley asked, still not believing that anyone would break off a perfectly good date with a perfectly good girlfriend for that reason.

“Actually, yes,” Harry told him, getting his back up a little. “Just about anything Hermione decides to do is interesting….”

“Isn't that your real answer, then?” was Dudley's only half rhetorical question. Harry had no ready reply, so he said nothing.

Sure enough, Dudley filled the silence. “Well, what happened to me wasn't nearly as dramatic. We were at the cinema. This girl, Ellen was her name, she hung out at the gym some of the time. She let me take her out, but I never got as far as you. I tried to put my arm around her in the dark, but I missed….”

Harry relished the opportunity to critique his cousin's technique for once. “How could you miss trying to do that?”

“It was dark,” Dudley protested. “I stretched my arm across the top of her chair, down the far side, and what do you know - I slipped my hand right into her soda. That startled me, and I knocked the soda over. It kinda landed right in her lap. She never let me touch her again after that….”

The telephone rang, and Dudley had to make ready to leave. He and some friends were going across town to watch a couple of amateur fighters that might eventually become his opponents.

Harry spent a rather dull, if relatively remunerative, afternoon and early evening doing odd jobs around the house. He mowed the front and back gardens, thinking about how Arthur Weasley would have loved to have a close encounter with a Muggle lawnmower - even though this one had a defective dead man's switch and was difficult to stop once it got going. He edged the front lawn (running the edger over his foot on several occasions, but fortunately only doing damage to his old trainers). He removed rubbish from the garage, all the while wondering how Dudley had acquired so many stuffed animals, and decapitated all of them. He was just finishing up when he heard Aunt Petunia let out a yelp from the kitchen.

Harry hurried in after her and found Ron's owl Pigwidgeon hurtling about the room bouncing off various cupboards and walls. If Pig had weighed more than a few ounces, he might have been a menace, but as it was he was merely a fluttering annoyance. Even a direct strike couldn't overturn a Aunt Petunia's canteen of cutlery. Taking advantage of his Seeker's instincts, Harry instantly swiped at Pig and grabbed him in mid-flight.

“Potter, will you kindly confine your owl encounters to your own room?” his aunt hissed in frustration. “Leave your own windows open if you must. All that freak stuff of yours probably wouldn't mind some rain anyway.”

Harry agreed automatically, without thinking about what his aunt was saying (as an underage wizard, he could not perform the Impervius charm out of school). He just wanted to read Ron's post in the privacy of his own room. Even though Harry had been home less than two days, he already missed being surrounded by magical goings on at Hogwarts - certainly his relatives had never before given him any reason not to miss Hogwarts.

Removing the letter from Pig, he opened his bedroom window and tossed out the diminutive owl. Harry looked briefly at the dappled clouds that were moving in from the east. The sunset would be pretty this evening…. Unfortunately, the letter did not have much in it to lift his already testy mood:

Dear Harry:

Don't know how to say this really, but it turns out you're not on the picked all-Hogwarts Quidditch team. Dad says that you were ineligible because you had been banned, and now it is too late to change anything. I have to believe that Dumbledore could fix this if he really wanted to, though. Maybe he thinks being abroad is too dangerous, but you can do loads more stuff than the rest of us, so that really makes no sense either. I think you should talk to him yourself.

The Hogwarts Seeker is Cho Chang, if you can believe that. Ginny is the reserve. I think that made her lifetime. I have no idea who any of the rest of my teammates are, but I hardly care because Malfoy is not on the team.

Ron

Harry glowered, wadded up his friend's letter, and hurled it at the trash bin. “Damn Dumbledore,” he muttered. “How can I not be on the Hogwarts team? Cho is nothing but eye candy next to me. Every time I've played her, I've caught the Snitch. And lately she seems to spend more time training in Chinese magic than for Quidditch.”

He was ready to fire off another angry missive to the Headmaster, when it occurred to him that he had no way to send it. Hedwig had yet to return from delivering his first post, and Harry had heedlessly tossed Pig. Before he had to spend any time on it, however, this problem resolved itself. Hedwig soared through his window only moments later.

“Speak of the devil,” Harry smirked, earning an owl-eyed glare.

She bore what looked like a response. “Let's see what you've got there, girl,” Harry said more respectfully of the Hedwig's feelings as he deftly removed Dumbledore's reply from her extended leg. “The old man always uses sealing wax doesn't he?” remarked Harry as he prised the obsolescent, but nevertheless effective, seal off of the letter.

Mr. Potter:

I have received your letter, and I quite agree with most of your points. I hope, for Hedwig's sake, that my response is satisfactory. I intend to keep you as fully informed as possible this summer. Miss Granger and the others made this same point to me, in abundance, and she suggested a solution, which I hope to make available to you very soon. Just have a bit of patience.

I assure you that clearing Sirius' name is a high priority item - of greater urgency than even you desire. I need to discuss this matter, and others, with you personally. Please be at Arabella Figg's house this Thursday at 7 p.m. BST, and I will tell you more face to face.

The matter of additional training is something else I wish to discuss Thursday. Again, I will endeavor to meet your stated demand to the greatest extent possible.

Your broom will be returned to you, and you will be eligible to play Quidditch when you return to Hogwarts. You may be aware by now of an international Quidditch camp taking place this summer. While your exclusion from the Hogwarts team was initially an oversight, the need to renew your protection, as well as the urgency of the other matters, are such that I have declined to correct that error.

I will see you soon. Please stay calm until then.

Albus P.W.B Dumbledore

Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock Wizengamot

Over the past couple of years, Harry had had enough contact with Dumbledore that he fully expected his meetings with the Headmaster to leave him every bit as perplexed as when he arrived (if not more so). This was the first time, however, that Dumbledore had so thoroughly befuddled him by letter. Most of Dumbledore's post seemed like good news, but since it was the Headmaster, there were always caveats attached and questions to be posed.

What was Hermione's solution to the communication issue, and how had she even known about the problem? Would he have to learn some complicated N.E.W.T.-level spell to use whatever it was that she had devised?

How could clearing Sirius' name possibly be more urgent to anybody else than to him? Sirius was his godfather, and given where Sirius had spent twelve years of his life, it was unlikely that Sirius had any other relatives who gave a damn about him.

So, he was going to get extra training. This was a relief, with that nasty prophecy hanging over him - dumped on him, Harry thought sardonically, almost immediately after he had lost the closest thing to a father that he had ever known. That was the old one-two….

Back to training. Would he be working with Lao Kung, or was there something or somebody else? If Dumbledore were really serious about training, and his letter sounded serious, how much time would he have to spend, and where?

And what did Dumbledore mean by that line about meeting Harry's “stated demand” only as much “as possible”? Harry realised that he had left himself at considerable disadvantage because he had dashed the previous letter off so quickly, he could not remember exactly what he had asked for.

When and how would he get his broom back? And the kicker - why was it that Dumbledore, for all his power, could not (or would not) craft a solution that could accommodate not only his mother's blood magic but also land him on the Hogwarts Quidditch team?

Thinking about these and similar questions thoroughly distracted Harry for the remainder of the evening. At dinner he almost missed his chair when he sat down, and he poured catsup into his glass of milk. When he left the table, he forgot to remove his napkin, and walked around with an impromptu apron hanging in front of him for five minutes. He started to load the dishes into the dryer rather than the dishwasher.

Finally Harry gave up and went upstairs to his room - intent upon doing homework - but even that was unsatisfactory. Too late he recalled that, until O.W.L. test results were in, there was no assigned summer homework because there were no assigned classes. The O.W.L.s determined what classes sixth-year Hogwarts students took. Very likely the O.W.L.s would determine what kind of future he would have.

Remembering his O.W.L.s brought Harry back to reality with stomach-lurching suddenness. To the extent he had ever given thought to having a career after Hogwarts (other than as a corpse or a ghost), it was as an Auror. But Dark wizard catchers were the elite - the James Bonds of the wizarding world - and the academic requirements were stiff. He knew he had failed History of Magic because he had fallen asleep during the exam. He would be lucky if he had even answered even a third of the test questions. He probably failed Divination and Astronomy as well. He needed an Outstanding in Potions to have the slightest chance at being an Auror - and Professor Snape never tired of telling Harry that he was a hopeless buffoon at brewing potions.

Well, there was always professional Quidditch, or failing that, maybe he could train security trolls.

But all those gloomy prospects were at least a couple years away. He feared a much more immediate consequence of coming a cropper on his O.W.L.s - the splitting up of the Trio. There was no way that Hermione was going to get anything less than spectacular marks. Doing poorly meant losing much of his contact with the person he relied upon the most.

It was harder to say about Ron, but Harry knew that if his own results were not up to scratch, he would no longer have very many of the same classes as at least one (and maybe both) of his best friends. If he ended up in different classes from his friends, Harry worried, how long would they remain his friends … instead of each other's friends?

Harry frowned at that thought He could hardly blame them, he noted ruefully. It was especially dangerous to be his friend in the first place. His circumstances were not exactly made for the faint hearted.

Harry was tired yet restless. Broken shards of thoughts, most of them unpleasant, floated through his mind. Gradually he became aware of a soft tapping noise. His first glance was out the window, but it was already open and no owls were seeking entry into his room. Listening more intently, Harry could tell that the sound he heard originated from inside the house. Once he stepped into the hall, it was obvious that the noise was coming from Dudley's room. Harry went to the doorway. The door was open and Dudley was hunched over his computer, typing away as the images on the screen in front of him changed constantly.

“'Lo Dudley, what's that?” asked Harry tepidly.

“Internet,” replied Dudley.

“What's that?” repeated Harry.

“I said, the Internet,” said Dudley, more sharply this time.

“Sorry. I don't know what you're talking about,” replied Harry.

“You don't know what the Internet is?” asked Dudley querulously. “Don't they teach you anything normal at that magician school of yours?”

“I'm a wizard, not a magician. We don't have any computers at Hogwarts, there's too much magic around for computers and lots of other electrical stuff to work properly. We don't have any electricity at all. We use magic instead,” explained Harry.

“Wow, that's stranger than I ever imagined,” said Dudley.

`Stranger than you bloody well could imagine,' Harry thought, but what he said was, “You actually take the time to imagine what MY school is like?” He was rather shocked that Dudley would even bother thinking about him or his school.

“Occasionally,” said Dudley. “It sure must be weird to be you. Anyway, come here, I'll show you some things about the Internet. You can find out about practically anything you can think of on the Internet. Look at this.”

Harry gasped as some very explicit pornography appeared on the screen. “You mean people actually do things like that?”

“I wish I could,” sighed Dudley.

“But there's loads of other stuff too,” his cousin hastily added. He explained to Harry how a search engine worked, how to navigate from link to link, and what URLs meant. He showed him his favorite boxing websites, and they did random searches concerning dissecting owl pellets, lyrics to rock and roll songs, and lurid claims concerning the American president.

Harry was a quick study and soon began gaining proficiency at using a Muggle computer. He could sense - almost feel - the power humming through the machine. Ron would be impressed. Hermione, he was certain, would not be. She, like Harry, had grown up in a Muggle home, but he was sure that her parents had not kept her ignorant of things such as computers. Nobody kept her ignorant of anything for long.

After almost an hour of mostly aimlessly surfing the `Net, Harry began feeling drowsy. However, he knew from his extensive prior experience with nightmares that he did not want to go to sleep in his current state if he could possibly avoid it. After some indecisiveness, he decided to see if Lao Kung's concentration exercises might be of some use in calming his thoughts. He did several repetitions, and then nodded off. Something worked right because Harry did not have any memorable nightmares that night.

Harry was getting into somewhat of a routine. He went for another run with Dudley the next morning, and they were going to go to the gym around noon for another afternoon of their respective (but very different) workouts. Drying his hair after finishing his post-run shower, he was frankly rather bored. Muggle mirrors never made rude comments about ones appearance, and nobody else was about.

Harry began absent-mindedly watching some Muggle across the street mow his lawn with a riding mower. He had never seen a riding mower before, as they were rare in England. He watched in a desultory fashion until the scene degenerated into something that could have come from straight from the pages of “The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle.” The man, staring at something outside of Harry's field of vision, stopped watching where he was going, and ran the lawnmower headlong into a tree. The man fell off, but the driverless mower bounced off the tree and kept going, rolling through the next lawn, and then the next. But the man barely even got to his feet, he was so busy staring….

Just then the doorbell rang. Uncle Vernon, who was downstairs finishing a crumpet before heading off to his job as an executive at Grunnings (a leading manufacturer of various kinds of drills), grumbled, “I'll get it.”

Harry heard a high pitched yelp that hardly sounded like Uncle Vernon at all, followed quickly by a sound that could have come from no one else.

“You!” roared Uncle Vernon.

“Yeah, me,” retorted the unmistakable voice of Alastor Moody. “Yeh were expectin' Snow White and the Seven bloody Dwarves?” Needless to say, without further ado Harry headed downstairs. There in the foyer stood the aged Auror with his horribly mutilated face and wooden leg.

Moody was dressed in Muggle clothes - military combat fatigues. On his head was an oversized bowler hat jammed halfway over his face in a not-altogether-successful attempt to conceal his face. Peeking out beneath was brilliantly blue magical eye that could swivel 360° and see through the back of Moody's own skull if necessary. He also wore bright green calf-high snakeskin boots. From one hand hung a large, very full-looking pink carrier-bag with the words “Victoria's Secret” prominently emblazoned on both sides. It was Moody's nature that he ordinarily appeared annoyed, but right now he looked considerably more annoyed than usual.

“I was expecting that Bumblemore person to keep his end of the bargain and not send around people who look like freaks to check on the boy,” roared Uncle Vernon to both Harry and Moody.

Harry could not help thinking that, for once, there was something to his uncle's complaint.

“Oh, Vernon, what are the neighbours going to say,” pleaded Aunt Petunia, whose expression could not have been more distasteful if she had just discovered that she had trodden on particularly ripe dog droppings. “For heaven's sake, keep your voice down and don't attract still more attention to him.”

The phone rang, and for a brief instant Harry thought that they were on the verge of finding out first hand exactly what the neighbours were going to say.

But unfortunately, particularly for BT, the nearest telephone was on a small end table just behind Moody - and Alastor Moody was not in the least bit familiar with Muggle telephones. BANG! Reacting instinctively, Moody shot a strong Reductor curse behind him, aiming successfully at the source of the noise, but also grazing his own buttock in the process. The telephone, the end table underneath it, and a generous portion of the nearby wall and floor disintegrated into a cloud of dust and a hail of debris.

At this turn of events, Harry's aunt and uncle started screaming. A burst pipe in the cellar was squirting a steady spray of water. Dudley, who had been lurking in the kitchen trying to avoid all contact with Moody, now came running forward to in a rather foolhardy attempt to protect his parents. He promptly took a header on the wet, debris-covered floor and fell three quarters of the way into the cellar before Moody ever had a chance to jinx him.

Vernon bellowed at Harry: “YOU WILL TELL THAT PROFESSOR OF YOURS TO SEND SOMEONE WHO CAN ACT NORMALLY TO CHECK ON YOU!!”

Moody's magical eye was whizzing around wildly as he tried to comprehend the Muggle chaos around him. He was crouched in a dueling position, his wand at the ready. His bowler hat lay forgotten in the hallway, slowly filling with water. Harry could see drops of blood beginning to emerge from the nasty looking gash in Moody's left buttock.

Afraid that the old man might hurl more curses that would only make matters worse, Harry waved at him frantically to get his attention and then motioned for him to come upstairs as quickly as possible. Once he got Moody moving in the right direction, Harry bolted in the direction of his room, the familiar thumping gait of Moody's artificial leg telling Harry that Moody was somewhere behind him.

“Slow down, boy, I can't move all that well with this bag of goodies,” panted Moody. At first Harry thought that Moody had worked up a surprising sweat, but then he noticed that the ex-Auror was again wearing his hat - and had thoroughly doused himself in the process.

Moody gingerly set the bag down on Harry's bed. Then he threw down his bowler hat in disgust. “Cursed spawn of Hades!” swore Moody, feeling for the gash in his buttock. “Now people are goin' ta think I wasn't practicin' elementary wand safety.”

In Harry's opinion, blasting a telephone and everything around it to bits was not exactly very safe either, but he kept these thoughts to himself. “What's in the bag?” Harry inquired with undisguised interest.

“Just a MARE package for yeh,” replied Moody, his battered face breaking into a ghastly approximation of a smile.

Harry blinked uncomprehendingly. “A what?”

“Supposed ta be a joke, Potter,” Moody growled, yeh don't know the Magical Association for Relief Everywhere, I figure….”

“But why do I need relief?” Harry continued at a loss.

“A bloody joke, I told yeh,” Moody's irritated voice rose. “Actually, there are presents from Dumbledore, with my compliments.” He pointed his wand into the bag and made the motion Harry associated with the ending of a spell. Almost instantly, a familiar handle protruded from the bag.

“My Firebolt!” exclaimed Harry, instantly grabbing his world-class racing broom. Harry had not seen his Firebolt since breaking into Professor Umbridge's office, and touching off the series of events that ultimately led him and his friends to the Ministry. Much earlier, Professor Umbridge had seized Harry's broom - when she banned him from playing Quidditch - all because Harry had severely thrashed Umbridge's favorite student, the insufferable Slytherin Draco Malfoy. Harry cradled his Firebolt to his chest with a dreamy expression on his face, until he remembered Dumbledore's letter. Harry went from dreamy to downcast in an instant. “Thanks a lot,” he told Moody, “but it's not going to be of much use to me this summer, since Dumbledore isn't going to let me play on the Hogwarts team.”

“Harry, yeh've got bigger fish ta fry this summer than a kids' Quidditch camp,” growled Moody.

“Like what?” asked Harry suspiciously - but nevertheless hopeful that at last he was going to get some answers to some of his nagging questions.

Fortunately, hope springs eternal. “That's fer Dumbledore ta tell yeh,” said Moody, with an expression suggesting that he was thoroughly enjoying keeping Harry in suspense. “All I'll say is that it looks like yeh'll be startin' on yer career as an Auror exceptionally early.”

“I wish,” sighed Harry, “but I had to meet tough marking requirements in my O.W.L.s first, and I'm afraid I didn't.”

“Looks like yeh'll be startin' on yer career as an Auror exceptionally early,” repeated Moody, his face displaying his perverse enjoyment as Harry's suspense grew ever more pronounced.

“That brings me ta my next item of business,” continued Moody, pulling out a sheet of parchment with an official looking seal at the bottom. “Sign here.” Not so much as bothering with his wand this time, Moody conjured up a quill with the wave of his free hand.

“What's this all about?” asked Harry, now even more suspicious than before.

“Official paperwork,” replied Moody. “It's yer certification that, in exchange fer an exemption from the Decree fer the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, yeh won't misuse yer magical abilities over the summer in violation of general wizard law. Do yeh understand what that means?”

Harry's jaw dropped. “You mean I'm no longer going to be prohibited from performing magic outside of school?”

“Exactly,” said Moody, flashing his twisted grin. “If I were a perfessor, that would be five points ta Gryffindor.”

Harry signed his name straight away. As he drew back the quill after finishing his signature, the document glowed slightly blue. Moody did not make any move, so neither did Harry. The blue light quickly concentrated itself, consolidated, and shrank into a bright point of light, which then flew straight into the boy's chest. The light then dissipated after Harry himself glowed slightly blue for a brief moment.

“What was that?” Harry asked Moody.

“Yeh just entered inta a bindin' magical contract,” replied Moody. “Yer first of many, no doubt. Everything of legal significance, from a business deal ta a marriage, is sealed with light in our world. That's how magical obligations show themselves ta the persons bein' obligated.”

Harry recalled his encounter with the Goblet of Fire during his fourth year. “So when the Goblet of Fire drew out our names for the Triwizard Tournament, the flames sealed the deal…”

“I suppose that's right,” muttered Moody, “but remember I wasn't there….”

“Oh, right,” gasped Harry, remembering how Moody had been captured by a Death Eater, Bartemius Crouch, Jr., and kept stunned in a trunk for almost all of that school year. The only reason that the Death Eater had bothered keeping Moody alive was to cut off bits of his hair to make Polyjuice Potion. Polyjuice Potion was a powerful tool of concealment, and it had allowed Crouch to masquerade as Moody, teach Defence Against the Dark Arts for almost an entire year, and ultimately send Harry to Voldemort - the triggering event that led to Cedric's death and ultimately to Voldemort's return.

Harry really did not want to think about that again. Breaking from his reverie, he declared, “Anyway, just wait until I tell my relatives.” He grinned evilly in anticipation.

“Remember what yeh just signed,” cautioned Moody. “I don't want yeh givin' in ta temptation and Transfiguring `em inta dung beetles or anything. If that happened, yeh'd be prosecuted as an adult. Next item….”

Harry broke in. “The next item has to be that we sort out the mess downstairs. My relatives are furious, and they have a right to be. You blew up their telephone and a good portion of the hall.”

“Aye, that I did,” admitted Moody, looking rather self-conscious. Harry trotted back downstairs to where his aunt and uncle had just finished extracting Dudley from the yawning hole in the floor. There was water everywhere, with bits of plaster and splinters of floorboard strewn about. The Dursleys' ordinarily immaculate hardwood floors were ruined. The three of them looked at him furiously.

Uncle Vernon was the first to speak after Harry returned. Unsurprisingly, he was still beside himself. “I've had just about enough of you and your freaky friends….”

Harry cut him off. Motioning to the three of them with his wand, he pointed towards the kitchen. “Just move out of the way and I'll mend everything.”

“But you can't….”

“I can now,” said Harry. “Just you watch.” He pointed his wand at the hole in the floor. “Reparo.” The bits of floorboard and pipe started moving about and reconstructing themselves. “Dessicatus.” Harry's Drought Charm vanished the water. After a couple of more Reparos, the hole in the wall was gone and the end table had reassembled itself. Harry turned to his relatives, who were staring at him wide-eyed from the relative safety of the kitchen. “Can you come in here, please? I'd like to tidy you up as well.”

His uncle and aunt hesitated, but Dudley stepped forward. “All right,” he said. “I'll trust you - but not him.”

Harry followed his cousin's eyes to the foot of the stairs, where Moody was now standing. He was eyeing Harry with obvious approval.

“Carry on,” said Moody, chuckling. “It looks like yeh've got this well under control.”

Harry pointed his wand at Dudley, who winced but stood his ground. “Scourgify.” Almost instantly, all of the muck, water and assorted filth that had been covering Dudley from head to toe disappeared. After seeing that their son was completely unharmed, his aunt and uncle reluctantly allowed Harry to do the same to them as well - or at least they failed to object when he did so. After that, he performed the same charms on areas of the hall and kitchen floors where the Dursleys had tracked, or dripped, dirt. Finally, Harry turned to his relatives.

“I'm not so sure that I can mend the phone like I did all the non-electrical stuff. I've been told that magic has bad effects on at least some electronics. Do you have another one like it?” he asked.

“Y-y-yes,” Aunt Petunia stammered. Plainly all the magic that Harry was able to do had come as quite a shock to her. “In the master bedroom, but it's pastel blue rather than pink like the one down here was.”

Harry looked questioningly towards Moody, who nodded. He quickly made his way upstairs to his relatives' bedroom (where he was normally not allowed) and located the telephone. He carefully removed the jack from the wall socket and carefully examined the telephone. When he had obtained a full mental picture of its circuitry, he aimed his wand - “Duplicus.” A white mist briefly covered the phone and then disappeared. Where there had once been one telephone, there were now two identical ones. Harry connected one back into the socket in the bedroom and carried the other downstairs, where he placed it on the end table and hooked it up. Picking up the receiver, Harry heard a dial tone. Success. Whatever problems magic could cause to Muggle devices, his had not caused them here.

Harry turned to Moody. “I'm not sure of the spell to use that would turn it pink.”

“Easy,” said Moody. “Just think of the colour yeh want and say encolouro, with a bit of a twist ta the right and a spiral.”

“Thanks,” said Harry. “I get it confused with Engorgio…. Encolouro,” he said, and performed the proper wand movement. The phone turned hot pink.

“Is that the colour you want?” Harry asked his aunt, whilst keeping his wand trained on the phone.

“No, that's too bright,” replied his aunt, whose pale hands were on her even paler cheeks whilst she stared in disbelief.

Harry twisted his wand slightly, and the phone became more of a pastel pink. “Just say when.”

“Th … there,” said his aunt haltingly. “Just like new … except the cord is supposed to be white, not pink.”

“Oops,” grinned Harry. “I knew that. Should have disconnected the cord before doing that spell.” Harry removed the cord from both the phone and the wall socket and performed the colour-changing spell again. `I must remember to tell this to Ron,' Harry thought, recalling an incident when he had just met his best friend. `In case he ever wants to try turning something yellow again.'

Harry then turned and addressed his relatives. “See, magic can be dead useful. Now can you please leave Mr. Moody and me alone whilst we finish what we have to do?” Not waiting for an audible answer from his thunderstruck relatives, Harry and Moody turned and went back up the stairs to his room.

“Nice boots,” remarked Harry, his eyes resting on the most garish aspect of Moody's rather unconventional outfit.

“Basilisk skin,” Moody replied. “Virtually indestructible by magic or anything else…. Anyway, next item: Dumbledore wants yeh ta read the first eight chapters of this book by next Monday,” instructed Moody, pulling out a large, thoroughly Muggle book entitled “Electricity: Principles and Applications.”

“Why does Dumbledore want me to learn about Muggle electricity?” Harry was thoroughly confused now.

“Yeh can ask him yerself this Thursday,” replied Moody enigmatically. “It's his assignment, not mine. I wouldn't read it myself, but there's a theory that our ability ta perform magic works similarly ta the electrical impulses that drive the ordinary Muggle nervous system - `cept we're blessed with charmed quarks or something like that. Dumbledore's a believer in that theory.”

“Well I was wishing only last night that I had school assignments to read, and now I do,” grinned Harry.

“Be careful what yeh wish fer, yeh just might get it, Harry,” grunted Moody, with a wink. “And now fer the pièce de résistance….” Moody pulled out a flat piece of what looked like electronic equipment. It was about three centimetres thick, by 30 centimetres wide, by a little less than half a metre tall. He placed it on Harry's desk. It had an electrical cord and plug hanging from it, which Moody picked up and examined quizzically.

“Let me,” said Harry, ducking under his desk to find a wall socket. Even though he could barely see anything in the shadows, Harry inserted the cable plug on the first try. “What does this thing do?”

“According ta Headmaster Dumbledore, this remarkable device will provide yeh and him with direct, and almost instantaneous, two-way communication,” said Moody, frowning slightly. “If it works, yeh'll be able ta contact Dumbledore faster than me.”

“What do you mean, `if it works?'” questioned Harry.

“I mean that this thing is a combination of Muggle and wizard technology that's never been tried before, as far as I know,” said Moody. “There are a lot of wizards, me among `em, who are uncomfortable mixin' the two.”

Harry smiled as he had a flash of insight. “This is Hermione's idea, isn't it?”

“That's right,” Moody confirmed.

“Show me then,” demanded Harry. How is it supposed to work?”

“Dumbledore left these written instructions,” said Moody. “Yeh're probably as good as myself at followin' `em, particularly the Muggle portions. Me, I learn mostly by doin' rather than by readin'.”

The instructions were not all that difficult (at least for the Muggle-raised Harry). The innovative Muggle aspect of the device was a security feature - a state-of-the-art identification scanner that recorded the blood vessel pattern in the retina of Harry's right eye and was then locked so that this identifying information could not be altered. The scanner was what plugged into the wall socket beneath his desk.

The scanner was connected to a writing surface and had an accompanying charmed quill. The writing area was surrounded by what looked like a rectangle made of thick wire, about as tall as the quill and with dimensions of a letter-sized piece of parchment.

“Pick up the quill,” Moody instructed, without explication.

Curious, Harry did. Another flash of bluish light passed from the quill, to Harry, and then back again. He looked at Moody quizzically.

“If yer thinking what I think yer thinking, yer right,” Moody replied to Harry's eyes. “It's a variant of the same spell used ta seal contracts - sort of a recognition contract if yeh will. Quite common in this sort of thing…. The quill now recognises yeh, and yeh only.”

“What do I do next?” Harry asked, with growing enthusiasm.

“The next part's new - an experimental charm that Dumbledore created at the Granger girl's suggestion. The words are “Emparcho Dumbledorus,” and the wand movement is thus….” Moody made a motion with his wand that quite resembled writing the letter “D” with a quill, and repeated it a couple of times until Harry could duplicate it.

“This charm will cause any regular piece of paper ta be Transfigured inta charmed parchment,” Moody explained. “This device will not operate with anything other than properly charmed parchment. There's a very precise sequence that yeh have ta follow. First, insert the parchment like this….” Moody removed the wire rectangle and laid the parchment flat on the surface. It expanded automatically to fill the entire space.

“Now, yeh can write ta Dumbledore anything yeh want, but yeh have ta use the charmed quill. Otherwise it shuts down. Ta start any letter yeh have to begin with `Dear Headmaster Dumbledore' at the top. Once yeh're done, yeh replace the rectangle. Yeh can't write any more after doin' that. Then yeh put yer right eye where the Muggle scanner can see it. If the eye scan isn't recognised, yer letter will immediately go blank, like it was erased, and a few seconds later it will vanish. Yeh have ta wait an hour before yeh can try again. So make sure ta use yer right eye. Assuming the eye scan is successful,” at this Moody eyed the Muggle scanner skeptically, “yer letter will glow white, disappear, but this time with the text still visible ta yeh. It`ll reappear essentially instantly in a similar device that Dumbledore's keepin' in his office.”

“Can I try it?” Harry asked hopefully.

“In a bit yeh can, but let me finish my spiel … don't want ta ferget anything.” Moody looked over the instructions. “Yeah, this thing also comes with a handy green light, up here. When it's lit that means yeh've got something from Dumbledore. Also, because yeh're in constant danger, there's a few more security features. Yeh know he's usin' Inferi now….”

Harry blanched. Hermione had told him a little about these disgusting zombies whilst they were revising for Defence Against the Dark Arts last spring. “No, as a matter of fact I didn't,” he answered truthfully, but curtly. “Just what I needed to make my day.”

Best yeh know the truth, I always say,” Moody replied evenly. “Anyway, if fer any reason yeh're bein' pressured ta send something yeh don't want ta just use yer left eye. That will disable the thing. If yeh're in even worse trouble than that - and yeh need to get the Hell out - all yeh need ta do is misspell `Dumbledore' as `Dumbeldore.' Do that, and not only is the thing disabled, but it's got a built-in Portkey in it. It's set for Hagrid's hut on the Hogwarts grounds, so yeh'll end up in a secure location.”

Moody paused, and Harry repeated his earlier request, “Can I try it out, now?”

Harry could see Moody's magical eye whizzing one last time over the instructions, and then over the device as well. “Yeh, go ahead,” he grunted. He gave Harry the instructions. Harry read them over thoroughly. He did not recognise the handwriting.

Harry tested the communicator with a one-sentence message to Dumbledore, “Dear Headmaster Dumbledore: Can I let Ron borrow my broom for the Quidditch camp?” After less than a minute, the green light came on and a reply appeared in Dumbledore's looping script, “Dear Harry: Yes, of course. That is most generous of you.”

Moody then collected the instructions. “Have yeh memorised `em, Potter?” he asked.

“I think so,” responded Harry.

“Well, give `em another good look, because yeh won't be keepin' `em,” replied Moody. “This is highly classified information. Yeh're going ta have more direct access ta Dumbledore than most members of the Order, includin' me.”

After one final intense session studying the instructions, Harry handed them to Moody. The ex-Auror gave his wand a flick, and the piece of parchment burst into furious flame. It was entirely consumed in little more than the blink of an eye.

Harry was impressed, “What spell was that?” he asked appreciatively. “Doesn't behave like “Incendio.”

“That's because it isn't,” Moody replied. “The spoken spell is `Enflagrate.' It produces a much more intense fire. Yeh see it left very little in the way of ashes.”

Harry waited for whatever might come next. Moody stood for a moment in somewhat awkward silence.

“Well, it's time for me ta go,” he said finally, offering a handshake to Harry, which the boy immediately took. “Remember ta be at Arabella Figg's at seven this Thursday evening.”

With a loud crack, Moody disapparated - but not for long. Almost instantaneously, there was a second crack and Moody reappeared, holding the side of his head with his hand.

“Bloody anti-Apparition wards,” Moody muttered. Harry showed him downstairs and, brushing past his relatives, out the back door. The two wizards crossed the wards, which caused Harry a tingling sensation when passing through. Harry escorted Moody to a place where he could Apparate in private and without obstruction. None of his relatives made the slightest move to intervene. None of them wanted anything to do with the combat scarred - and utterly unpredictable - Auror.

Buoyed by Moody's visit, Harry came back in the house, intent on accompanying Dudley to the gym once again, if his cousin had not left already, that is. Then and there, his furious relatives confronted Harry. Even Uncle Vernon was still present, although that meant he was late for work, something Harry had never known to happen before.

“Well?” growled Uncle Vernon.

“Well, what?” replied Harry, innocently.

“Is he … you know … that one-legged menace, gone?” Uncle Vernon growled once more.

“Yes.” said Harry, trying to maintain a low-key stance.

“Thank God! YOU WILL TELL THAT HEADMASTER OF YOURS THAT … THAT … MOODY … IS NEVER TO SET FOOT ON OUR PROPERTY AGAIN!!” Uncle Vernon was positively screaming now, his face turning a blotchy shade of purple. “NOT ONLY IS HE A MENACE, BUT HE COULD NOT LOOK NORMAL OR ACT NORMALLY IF HE TRIED!!”

“He'll come if I need him,” retorted Harry, who was trying with less than total success to avoid getting angry himself. He could not deny that Uncle Vernon did have a valid point. “Besides you should know by now that magical damage like he caused is easily reparable.”

“I DON'T CARE. THIS IS OUR PROPERTY AND ….!!”

“Now hush Vernon, calm down,” Aunt Petunia cut in. Harry was more than a little surprised. Whilst his aunt often undertook to defuse his volatile uncle, she had never done so where he was concerned.

Addressing Harry, she chided, “Now Harry, we are being stretched to the limits of our tolerance by these repeated visits by … by your kind. I think that the least you could do is to ensure that your visitors know how to look minimally normal.”

“You're right actually,” admitted Harry, looking down at shoes. As much as Harry had enjoyed Moody's visit, Harry had could not deny that old Auror was as out of place on Privet Drive as a werewolf at a kennel club. “I now have a way to communicate quickly with Headmaster Dumbledore, and I'll write to him and ask that he send someone who at least looks like a Mug … er, like a normal person. That reminds me. There are now magical things in my room that you shouldn't bother because I don't know what they might do if anybody other than me touches them.” Harry grinned slightly at the thought.

Uncle Vernon looked at Harry oddly. “Do I understand that you are now allowed to perform magic tricks all the time … here … in my house?”

“Yes,” replied Harry, eyeing his uncle warily. “But I signed a contract not to abuse those powers around Mug … er, normal people, so you needn't worry that I'm going to turn you into fruit bats or anything like that.”

“Actually, I'm more interested in finding out what you can do to earn your keep, after fifteen years of being a burden upon us,” Uncle Vernon said with his eyes gleaming. “For example, could you put a spell on my car so that it would never run out of petrol?”

Harry felt somewhat alarmed now. Nobody had bothered to explain to him what he could or could not do in terms of helpful, non-destructive magic. What if the Dursleys wanted him to ensure that they would win the EuroMillions? “I really don't know,” said Harry truthfully. “There may well be such a spell, but I don't know it. That would probably be a matter for Advanced Muggle Studies, which I haven't had…. And I know it's against Wizard Law to enchant anything that is regularly used by Mug … err, non-magic people,” Harry hastily added.

“Well, what are you allowed to do?” spat Uncle Vernon, looking disappointed. “What good is your magic under ordinary situations?”

“I'm not sure, I can tidy things up, as you saw, but I know I can't do lasting enchantments, or do any magic that would be observed by people other than you three. That would be a Muggle Vicinage violation. I can't conjure things out of thin air very well…. But I suppose I could use magic to do some of the chores around the house that Aunt Petunia ordinarily does, like cleaning and cooking, if that's what you want,” said Harry hopefully. “But you'd have to bear with me. I've never done this sort of thing for real - that is, outside of a classroom setting - before.”

Dudley finally spoke. “Look, Dad, you have to go to work and I have to go to the gym. Could we continue this tonight?”

Uncle Vernon looked at his wristwatch and gasped at how late he was. “Too right,” he said, “we'll continue this later. In the meantime, boy, you need to give serious thought to what you can do to contribute around here, given all the impositions you and your kind are creating.”

Harry relievedly looked at Dudley. He dashed off a note to Headmaster Dumbledore not to send Moody around again, but rather somebody who knew how to look and dress like a Muggle. Very shortly, the two boys were on their way to Gator's Gym.

Harry had another exhausting but rewarding workout at the gym, alternating between physical training that resembled boxing and his mental concentration training with Lao Kung. Lao Kung was pleased to learn that Harry would soon be meeting with Dumbledore.

“Hahli, can I ask a small favor of you, then?” the elderly wizard requested.

“Sure,” Harry agreed, happy to be of help.

“Would you please ask Chairman Dumbadoh to contact me regarding matters concerning my homeland?” Lao Kung asked.

“OK,” Harry replied. “Nothing wrong, I hope.”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” answered the older man enigmatically. “But in any event, it involves matters with which you need not concern yourself.”

That was the end of that. Lao Kung put Harry to work.

After some fifteen minutes of repeating “Alohomora,” Harry was able to concentrate sufficiently well that he could generate both heat and cold (enough to chill a small glass of water) with his right hand. Additionally, Lao Kung thought (although Harry could not tell), that Harry had actually produced a little heat with his left hand - enough to singe the sawdust, if not to produce any observable smoke.

When he returned to Privet Drive with Dudley, Harry was met at the door by Aunt Petunia and greeted as coldly as if he were in a flashback to the previous year.

“You've received a letter in the post,” his Aunt said through very thin lips. “Our post.”

“Is that so?” he responded weakly, at a loss over who could possibly be writing to him by Muggle means. Dudley, observing his mother's temper, quietly made his way upstairs and out of sight.

“The postman was interested - again,” said Aunt Petunia. Harry did not need any reminding as to what “again” meant. The last time he had received any correspondence from one of “his kind” through the Muggle post, Molly Weasley had covered almost the entire envelope with stamps, to the great amusement of the postman.

“He said that he had never seen `these stamps'” - Aunt Petunia jabbed her bony finger at an envelope on the kitchen table - “used on any letter. The postman said those stamps had been demonetised over thirty years ago, and that he should have charged me postage due. He didn't though, considering the amount of postage that was affixed…. He seemed to think that some of the stamps might be quite valuable, and asked me who would be so daft as to use them on an ordinary letter.”

“Who is it from, then,” asked Harry, who had not followed half of his aunt's droning discussion of postal matters.

“There's no return address,” Aunt Petunia huffed. “It says `Personal and Confidential' on the front, so I didn't dare open it. Lord knows what might have happened. I didn't want to be jinxed or anything else that your kind might do to anyone who might be snooping in private post.”

Harry picked up the letter and studied it. It looked ordinary enough. There were a number of small bi-coloured stamps, some with the profile of a bald man, and some with the profile of a woman, neither of whom Harry recognised. The letter appeared nowhere as unusual as the letter Molly Weasley had sent over a year earlier. The handwriting looked something like Hermione's, except far less neat. The letter was postmarked from Heathrow Airport station in London. Still at a loss, Harry ripped open the envelope (careful not to damage the stamps, if they were in fact valuable), and began to read….

After only a couple of sentences, he could not carry on. The impact hit Harry as solidly as if Dudley had landed his best uppercut to Harry's solar plexus. All of a sudden he felt as if all the air had gone out of the room.

As he struggled to maintain his composure, he began to feel a little light-headed. Conscious that he was having trouble breathing, he stopped reading and grasped the edge of the table for support. If he heard his aunt asking what was wrong, it failed to register. He brought the letter back up to eye level and reread the opening lines again, half hoping that they would prove to be figment of his imagination and would disappear upon a second reading. Of course, that did not happen.

Harry panicked; that is the only way to describe it. Abruptly, he bolted for the staircase and, taking the stairs two at a time, ran for the privacy of his room. Gasping for breath, he slammed the door shut, and sealed it with “Colloportus.”

Throwing himself down on his bed, he lay there, his mind utterly blank - or utterly overwhelmed, the effect being the same - for several minutes. He was oblivious to the sounds of his aunt and cousin, joined shortly by his uncle, pounding at the magically locked door. Finally, when Hedwig screeched loudly at the increasing noise, Harry snapped out of his paralysis and yelled, “GO AWAY!! It's nothing that concerns you anyway. I'll be out when I'm ready to come out.” His mind still reeling, he began to read the letter, carefully this time.

It was indeed from Hermione.

From the Desk of Hermione J. Granger

33 Cadogan Place

London, Knightsbridge SW3

0207 418 6957

Dear Harry:

Please help me. You're my only hope. By the time you read this I will be in Hong Kong with my parents on a supposed two-week vacation. They don't want to let me go back to Hogwarts, Harry. They especially don't want me ever to see you again. I can't contact anyone in the wizarding world, and the only Muggle address I know for a wizard is yours. HELP!!

I stupidly left one of the Daily Prophets lying about, and my parents read it. It had one of those endless stories the Prophet has been running lately, about you being “The Chosen One,” how brave all of us were in the Ministry, and how narrowly we escaped death at the hands of the Death Eaters. My parents guessed that I was one of the “five students” who accompanied you, Harry, and they started asking questions.

I couldn't lie to them, so I told them what I know. They learned that I had been a moment from death by the Killing Curse when you tackled that Death Eater. They found out I was cursed unconscious and bedridden for almost a week. Then they started asking about other close scrapes we have been through together. I ended up telling them about things that I had kept secret from them before, like the Philosopher's Stone, the Basilisk, the Dementors, and saving Sirius and Buckbeak. They still think Sirius is a dangerous escaped murderer!

They started questioning the wisdom of our friendship, Harry, and I am afraid I got a little short with them. We had a big row, and now they have taken my wand and they say I cannot go back to Hogwarts. They think that if I go back, you will get me killed somehow. I shall not obey them. I cannot. If I have to, I shall run away from home and hide out in Sirius' cave for a few months until I turn seventeen and can legally make my own decisions.

I am a witch, Harry!! I belong in your world, our world, and I cannot bear the thought of never seeing Hogwarts again. Help me. Please. Tell Dumbledore. Oh, I wish I had been less obnoxious to him the last time we spoke. Tell anyone and everyone who you think might be able to change my parents' minds.

Hermione

Harry's immediate decision was that he could not - and would not - let this happen to Hermione.

More than anyone he had ever met, even Sirius (whom Harry had known only two years), Hermione had always been there when he had needed her help, and her guidance. She was the cleverest, and most sensible, person he knew (at least other than Dumbledore and possibly Professor McGonagall). If the prophecy condemned him to kill Voldemort, or to be killed by him, without Hermione's help Harry felt he was as good as dead.

Harry also felt responsible. Once again it was his sole fault. Hermione's parents were keeping her away from Hogwarts because they thought that knowing him was hazardous to Hermione's health. Worst of all, Harry knew that Hermione's parents were right. Dead right. Harry was death. First he meant death to his parents. Then he meant death to his godfather. And now, in all likelihood, he meant death to his friends.

So Harry sat on his bed, a thousand thoughts rocketing through his brain, all colliding with each other. Frustrated, he ran his hands through his unruly hair and tried to decide whether or not his initial instinct was the correct one. Maybe, for once, he should corral his “saving people thing.”

Would it be better (for her anyway) never to see Hermione again? At least that way she would be safe and alive. But the same was also true for Ron - and now for Ginny, Neville, Luna - anybody who got caught up in the singular destiny that awaited him. Why should it be Hermione who had to run away? Why not him instead?

His mind continued to spin with conflicting thoughts. At one moment he was inches from his open window, Firebolt in hand, ready to flee into the night to who knows where. But Harry did not go. Flight was not the way of Gryffindors.

In the final analysis, what pulled him back were the affirmations that his friends made on the night of the rescue mission to the Ministry. Harry had given all of them the option - indeed he had demanded it of some - of leaving him to his fate and returning to Hogwarts safely. None of them had done so, least of all Hermione.

She had insisted on accompanying him to whatever his fate might be, even though from the beginning she had been the most vociferous of all in pointing out the absurdity of his plans. `She knew,' Harry thought, but that had not stopped her from willingly following him into what she predicted would be a dangerous trap.

Snapping out of it, Harry decided that, since Hermione had never abandoned him, he would be damned if he would abandon her. He seized the enchanted quill and wrote a note to Headmaster Dumbledore:

Dear Headmaster Dumbledore:

I need your help with a very important problem. Forget about my previous letter. The things I demanded in it were silly, and by comparison they mean nothing.

I need you to make sure that Hermione Granger returns to Hogwarts. Her parents have discovered that she was at the Ministry with me, and also know about several other times that I nearly got her killed. They have taken her wand and have forbidden her to come back to Hogwarts. They have ordered her never to see me again, but she wrote to me anyway.

She and her parents are in a place called Hong Kong, and will be there for at least two weeks. They may have left England forever, for all I know.

Hermione is a great witch. She is a far better witch than I am a wizard. She has begged me to get your help in returning. She says that she will run away from home before giving up magic, and if she does, I am going to help her any way I can. There is no way that I can successfully complete you-know-what without her.

Harry

As soon as he had finished his plea to Dumbledore, and activated the device, Harry penned out a second, shorter letter to Ron:

Dear Ron:

I just found out that Hermione's parents have forbidden her from coming back to Hogwarts. They think she is in too much danger being friends with me. They are probably right, but still I will not let them do to her something she does not want. They have taken her to a place called Hong Kong, which I think is a long way from here. I have already written to Dumbledore. Can you talk to your father and see if he has any international connexions at the Ministry that could be useful in rescuing Hermione?

Let me know what you find out. I will be making my own preparations.

Harry

PS: You will find my Firebolt with this letter. You can use it during the Quidditch camp. It is of no use to me until I return to Hogwarts.

As soon as Harry had watched Hedwig vanish from sight carrying his letter and his broom to Ron, he unsealed the doorway and went to face his relatives. He hoped for their help as well.

He was sorely disappointed.

Since the Dursleys were altogether more interested in what magic Harry could perform for them, it was all he could do to keep from getting into a shouting match. Their main point of reference was what the Dementors had almost done to Dudley. Thus, Harry's aunt and uncle both vociferously agreed with Hermione's parents.

“…So I need to do something - I'm not sure what yet - to get her back.”

“You'll do nothing of the sort,” Uncle Vernon commanded. “They're absolutely right about those death beaters and dementoids. I'll never forget what almost happened to Dudley.”

“But this is different,” Harry argued futilely. “She is a witch. She knows magic. They can't stop her….”

“Oh yes they can,” Aunt Petunia contradicted. “You, we couldn't stop - as much as we tried. We're not your parents. We don't have that claim to you. They're her parents. It's their decision how to bring her up.”

“It's her decision too,” Harry insisted. “It's much more important than I could ever tell you.”

“Bloody Hell it is,” Uncle Vernon loudly disagreed. “Nothing is more important than parental rights. If I thought for one second that Dudley….”

To avoid an all-out row Harry broke off the useless conversation and retreated to his room.

A few minutes later, the door clicked open and Dudley tentatively stuck his head in. “Come in,” Harry grunted. “What do you want?”

Dudley took a more conciliatory stance. “I'm not sure what I can do, but I want you to know that I agree with you.”

Harry was verging on despondency. “That and a threepenny bit might get me a cuppa,” he sighed.

Dudley ignored the comment. “Perhaps … but in my book, if you've got someone who's that good enough of a friend … to risk dying for you, and all … more than once … that's somebody who's too bloody good a friend to lose without putting up a fight. You know, that may be the only way that I do envy you.”

Harry just sat slumped over for a long moment after that. Then he stiffened his shoulders. Another several seconds passed. Harry looked up, and saw his cousin eyeing him in return. “Come to think of it, there is one thing that you might be able to do….”

“Okay, so what do you want?” Dudley asked.

“I need to use your computer - a lot.” Harry replied.

“Why?” asked Dudley, now puzzled

“I need to find out everything that I can about this Hong Kong,” Harry replied grimly. “And I need to do it now.”

“It's yours,” said Dudley. “I'll sleep on the davenport tonight.”

“You've turned out to be a better friend than I deserve, Dudley,” said Harry.

“Don't tell that to me,” Dudley responded as he left to gather his things. “I wish I had a friend like that - a real good friend.”

Harry got no sleep that night. The wee hours passed in what felt like an electronically induced daze. Both Dudley's computer and his printer got a workout. Harry learned where Hong Kong was, how it was governed (ironically by Great Britain, but only another year). He learned what airlines flew to Hong Kong, when, and at what price. He learned about hotels, tourist attractions, and shipping. He learned about the currency, the colony's relationship with the People's Republic of China, and whatever he could find about the apparently flourishing criminal element (Harry did not know what kind of help he might need if he essentially had to kidnap Hermione from her parents). He printed out a lengthy overview of the Hong Kong economy that he was too tired to read online. Harry also printed out a primer on the Cantonese Chinese dialect that was spoken by most Hong Kong residents, even though he did not have the slightest idea how to go about learning a foreign language.

Harry knew very little about Hermione's parents except that they were dentists, but this information proved quite useful enough. Harry discovered that the Commonwealth Dental Association's annual conference was currently taking place in Hong Kong, at a hotel called the Kowloon Shangri-La. Since Harry rather suspected that Hermione's parents had decided to mix business with pleasure, that would be as good a place to start as any.

Harry thus searched the UK for dentists by the name of Granger. There were only two - a distinguished orthodontic surgeon by the name of Edwin O. Granger, who was chairman of something called the NHS Dental Formulary Board; and a rather prolific research dentist named Eva LaFayette-Granger, who had quite a few scientific publications to her name. Both were apparently from London. At 3:30 a.m., Harry gave a silent whoop and pumped his fist in the air when he discovered that Dr. LaFayette-Granger was a featured speaker at the CDA conference.

When Dudley poked his head in at five o'clock the next morning, Harry was still glued tenaciously to the computer screen, this time pursuing a mostly fruitless search for information about magical aspects of Hong Kong. The Internet being a Muggle invention, it was notably deficient in any accurate discussion of real magical communities - although there was more than enough bogus magical information to be found.

Dudley stopped in only to get his running clothes. He was surprised that Harry not only wanted to go for a run, but also wanted to go to the gym, despite his total lack of sleep.

Harry glanced at the charmed quill as he left. Headmaster Dumbledore had not yet responded.

The run helped revive Harry after he had been staring at a computer screen all night long - but that was secondary. The real reason Harry wanted to go with Dudley was to see if Lao Kung knew anything about Hong Kong - particularly magical Hong Kong.

“Lao Kung, before we begin, I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about China and Hong Kong.” Harry started.

“Of course, Hahli,” smiled Lao Kung enigmatically. “I will be happy to tell you everything I know.”

“Are there wizards in China, and more specifically in Hong Kong?” asked Harry.

“There are many,” answered Lao Kung. “China has more people than all of Europe and North America combined. We have a long and proud magical tradition. So I have no reason to believe that we Chinese are any less magical, on average, than westerners.”

“Are there many Dark wizards in China and Hong Kong?” continued Harry.

“That is a difficult question to answer,” sighed Lao Kung, “and this is the reason why. Magic was encouraged under the Emperors, but the republican regime that came to power after the 1911 revolution was influenced by western rationalism, so it barely tolerated wizardry. The communists who achieved power in 1949 were extreme Marxist materialists, so they banned all magic and persecuted wizards, particularly whilst Mao Tse-dong was alive. But even today all forms of magic are illegal. Because of the prohibitions and persecutions, almost all Chinese wizards must practice Dark Magic to some degree. It is hard to say where light magic ends and Dark Magic begins in China because all magic is illegal.”

Lao Kung went on, “Hong Kong, unlike the Peoples' Republic, has quite little governmental regulation of anything. Thus it has become a haven for Chinese wizards of all stripes - and unfortunately for Dark wizards as well, because they can operate more freely. Many Dark Chinese wizards have infiltrated the Hong Kong underworld, the triads. So, regrettably, the answer to your question is that there are very many Dark Chinese wizards, and that such wizards are particularly active in Hong Kong.”

“However,” continued Lao Kung, “there is now some reason for hope. The People's Republic is now reconsidering its position on magic, probably in anticipation of taking control of Hong Kong in July, 1997 after the last of the Unequal Treaties expires. There is much talk in official circles of China joining the International Confederation of Wizards and adopting many of the magical standards of the West. Most Chinese wizards favor anything that will end the persecution and prohibitions, but many of the darkest Chinese wizards, who profit from the current state of affairs, are violently opposed.”

Harry did not know whether to be excited or apprehensive about what he learned. He frowned as he digested what Lao Kung had told him. If there was magic in Hong Kong, maybe he had acted too hastily in giving up his broom to Ron. “Do Chinese wizards use brooms for travel?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” replied Lao Kung, “although mostly the younger, more westernised elements. Traditional Chinese methods of magical travel, however, favored magic carpets of the sort the British Ministry has prohibited, or else magical chariots and smaller breeds of dragons.”

Lao Kung then changed the subject - but only slightly. “Now Hahli,” he said, “I must pass along a message of my own. Shortly before you arrived this morning I received an urgent message from Chairman Dumbadoh. He told me that, if you were to ask me questions about China or Hong Kong, I was to tell you not to do anything rash and to let him handle the problem. In particular, he said to tell you that under no circumstances are you either to attempt to go to Hong Kong or try to remove your friend from her own parents' custody. Dumbadoh says that this situation is not unknown and that there are established procedures to terminate parental custody of Muggle-born students, particularly gifted ones, in extreme cases. But if you act on your own, you would be taking illegal action. The effects on yourself, the person you wish to rescue, and on the ability of Hog-wa-tze to recruit Muggle-born students would be disastrous.”

“I can tell - both by your questions and by the emotions that I sense in you,” Lao Kung said gravely, “that you have precisely such a course in mind. Please do not do this Hahli. Chairman Dumbadoh assures me that he will solve this problem. Anything you do that is unauthorised would only make it worse.”

Harry heaved a great sigh. He knew, deep inside, that Dumbledore and Lao Kung were absolutely correct - at least up to a point. This was far too delicate a situation for him to resolve. There were some things that Harry's reckless bravery and brilliant improvisation just could not fix, and that were best left to grown-ups.

He had just lost Sirius because he had acted rashly.

Harry felt that could not afford to lose Hermione as well. It was … complicated. Just the prospect left him weak in the knees. That was something that was truly too horrible for him to contemplate.

Dumbledore and Lao Kung were right. Interference in matters that were properly between Hermione and her parents was exactly what could bring about the worst possible result. Harry therefore set aside his half-formed plans to tap his Gringotts account, convert his funds to Muggle money, and set off on a solo rescue mission to the ends of the earth.

`But only for the time being,' he thought. `If nothing has changed by a week before term starts, come hell or high water, I'm going to rescue Hermione,' Harry silently vowed to himself.

“I will do as you and Dumbledore wish,” Harry grudgingly agreed, “but only if I see positive results by the end of the summer holidays.”

* * * *

Author's notes: have clarified that Harry has a magical alarm clock. With all the magic that it suffers through, it had to be

A dead man's switch automatically shuts off without positive pressure; a now routine safety device

Cho's study of Chinese magic is not what it seems

Harry will learn many things from Dudley's computer, some of which will be very disturbing

The stranger than you could imagine line paraphrases a famous cosmology quite by Sir Arthur Eddington

BT = British Telecom

Hope springs eternal is a line from Alexander Pope

I've universalized the binding contract from GoF

Basilisk skin will figure again

This Muggle book will eventually be of significance to our favorite compulsive reader

Charmed quarks are a real feature of subatomic physics. The way I use them is physically impossible, but it opens up a scientific twist to the plot line

In light of HBP, I've added a reference to Inferi

Also in light of HBP, Moody's magic is now wordless

MARE is the magic equivalent of CARE

Enflagrate will come up again

EuroMillions is the biggest EU lottery. It's slightly AU here, since it didn't exist in 1996

Lao Kung's request is deliberately obscure

These are real stamps. The bald man is King Edward VII and the woman Queen Victoria

Heathrow is a major London airport

Knightsbridge is a posh neighborhood in London. There is a Cadogan Place there. The postal code is accurate, and the telephone number plausible

I've always supported the “old Hermione” theory. That is one of the few places where I correctly anticipated HBP

Hazardous to health is a play on the American cigarette warning label

It didn't end up close to the quote, but Dudley talking about how good a friend Harry has in Hermione recalls the lyric from “In Need” (Grand Funk Railroad) - “If you got somebody that you can trust to the very end .… If you do, I want to be like you, `cause you sure got a real good friend”

All of the details about Hong Kong are accurate - from the unequal treaty that created it to the 1997 reversion to China

There is a Commonwealth Dental Association

The Shangri-La is one of the ritziest hotels in Hong Kong

The Edwin O. comes from Edwin O. Wilson, the biologist. Eva is associated with R.W. Emerson, who wrote a poem entitled “Hermione.” Mrs. Granger's middle name, Lafayette, is because of that name's association with “Hermione” which was the name of the ship that brought the Marquis de Lafayette to America

The formulary board will eventually become important

The description of recent Chinese history is accurate

The attitude here towards the International Confederation is patterned over China's joinder of the WTO

- 47 -

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4. Meeting With Dumbledore

Wherein Harry corresponds with Dumbledore, Mr. Weasley and Cho Chang, sees Lao Kung, has a Voldemort-induced dream; Apparates for the first time, meets with Dumbledore and McGonagall; receives his OWL results; learns what is being done to rescue Hermione; is informed (somewhat) of his inheritance; arranges to be trained; chooses a legal guardian, learns about the situation with the goblins, receives a business proposition, and sets Dumbledore's beard on fire.

With this chapter most of the overall plot lines for this fic become apparent, although the nature of the Fifth Element itself remains to be revealed. I appreciate the kind words of my reviewers.

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

Chapter 4 - Meeting With Dumbledore

Lao Kung viewed Harry's training session as a valuable test of how well Harry could concentrate despite being distracted by disturbing events. The results were mixed. It took the boy considerably more time to achieve the necessary level of concentration. Once he succeeded, however, Harry was able to duplicate his prior efforts at wandless magic, although he did not show any significant improvement.

Harry spent most of the trip home from the gym explaining to Dudley what he knew about Hermione's situation and her present predicament in Hong Kong. His cousin was stunned by his matter-of-fact discussion of the wide assortment of dangerous activities that he undertook on a seemingly routine basis. “By anyone else's standards, you shouldn't be here anymore,” was all Dudley could say.

Upon arriving home, Harry was relieved to find the green indicator shining on his communicator. Dumbledore had replied to his letter. He had also received owls from Arthur Weasley (in response to Harry's note to Ron) and, oddly, from Cho Chang. After relieving the fidgety birds of their messages and more or less cleaning up (thankfully, with magic) where the birds had relieved themselves during their wait, he read his correspondence in the order of its importance to him. Dumbledore's letter was similar to the warnings Harry had received from Lao Kung:

Mr. Potter:

Your valuable news regarding the recent adverse change in Miss Granger's situation confirms the wisdom of our being in constant communication. Your letter was the first indication I had received that this problem existed. I view it as a matter of utmost gravity.

As Hogwarts Headmaster, this is precisely the type of situation with which I am expected to deal. Let me handle this Mister Potter, please. I give you my solemn pledge that Miss Granger will be returning to Hogwarts as usual this September. I shall redeem this pledge to you - and to Miss Granger herself - even if I must personally Obliviate the memories of the two Drs. Granger . I remain hopeful, however, that they will listen to reason and that no such extreme measures will be necessary.

I shall be arranging a personal visit to the Grangers as soon as I possibly can, I expect while they are still in Hong Kong. My sources have investigated, and there is no reason to believe that the Grangers intend to be overseas any longer than their planned two-week holiday.

I know it is hard for you, but I must insist that you do nothing to alter Miss Granger's situation by yourself. Any unilateral action by you would be both illegal and harmful to the result we both seek to achieve. You are welcome to ask more detailed questions when we meet on Thursday.

As a result of your news, and certain other developments, we have more to discuss on Thursday than I had originally anticipated. Thus, I shall be available to meet with you at any time after 5:00 p.m. BDT, at our prearranged location.

Albus P.W.B Dumbledore

Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock Wizengamot

Harry hastily replied to Dumbledore that, no, he would not do anything rash and would leave Hermione's situation in his hands. The rest was left unspoken. He did not mention his solemn vow to himself to reconsider his options if the situation were not resolved satisfactorily by late August. He turned to Mr. Weasley's letter:

Dear Harry:

Thank you for the timely information. I have alerted the Ministry, and we will do everything in our power to ensure that Hermione returns to school. I am taking a personal interest in a solution to this problem, as I consider both you and her as part of our family. Some time ago I had a lengthy conversation with Hermione's parents, and I have told Headmaster Dumbledore all that I learned.

By pleasant coincidence, Ludo Bagman and his entourage are currently in Hong Kong. I spoke to Minister Fudge's personal representative on the tour, my son Percy, and he has offered to help re-establish contact with the Grangers. Percy fully appreciates the delicacy of the situation, and is going to try to arrange a meeting between them and Headmaster Dumbledore as soon as he can.

As a personal note, I want to thank you for involving me, because it has resulted in what I hope will be the beginning of a family reconciliation with Percy.

Ron asks me to convey his heart-felt thanks for the use of your broom. He has purchased a broom servicing kit from his own funds, and he assures me that he will take excellent care of it.

Regards,

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation

Harry kicked himself for not remembering also to send along his broom servicing kit to Ron, since the kit was not doing anyone any good lying in the bottom of his trunk. Lastly, he turned to the unexpected missive from Cho:

Dear Harry:

I was astonished to learn today that I have been selected Seeker for the Hogwarts picked Quidditch team that will travel to Denmark this summer. I don't deserve the position. By all rights it should be yours.

I hope you don't think less of me for going. I continue to think very highly of you. I had no idea what you were going through at the end of the term. Your rescue mission to the Ministry was incredibly brave, and knowing that Hogwarts students are capable of defeating Death Eaters just sends shivers up my spine. You've made me feel so much better about our chances against You Know Who.

Do you think that we might still be able to [here, the parchment bore the telltale sign of several erasures] make up and try again, even after my rude and selfish behavior on our date? Let me know how you feel about things.

Love,

Cho

Harry sighed at the irony of it all. Had he received this letter from Cho last year, or even six months ago, he would have been dizzy with euphoria. Now, instead of feeling confunded, he hardly felt anything at all.

As an orphan with the Dursleys, Harry had known precious little love growing up. It had always been very difficult for him to expose himself emotionally to anyone else. Infatuated with Cho, he had done just that - and she had loudly and publicly humiliated him. This experience left him with little faith in her sincerity. He had already heard references to the kind of publicity he had been receiving, and suspected that the Daily Prophet's change of heart and Cho's missive might be connected. Harry could do without women seeking him out for his fame.

Harry wrote a polite but noncommittal reply to Cho:

Dear Cho:

Thank you for your letter. I have no problem with your representing Hogwarts this summer. Just bring home the camp Quidditch Cup to Hogwarts.

Otherwise, I'm not sure what to say because I'm not sure how I feel. So much has happened, and is happening, that I doubt that I should be in a relationship with anyone. As I'm sure you know, anyone with me is at risk of being killed by Voldemort.

Harry

Harry earned his keep that evening, magically cleaning the entire downstairs. All things considered, it was hardly a bad way to contribute to the household. It only took about fifteen minutes until everything was spotless. Aunt Petunia was openly appreciative of his efforts, a rarity that encouraged Harry to do a thorough job. Even better, his relatives were no longer forcing him to clean his own room.

Uncle Vernon more or less ignored everyone. Thus Harry was unable to tell him that he had not been able to find any spell for creating petrol. His uncle closeted himself in his home office with what looked like Grunnings business. He appeared unhappy, which was usual, and said nothing about it to anyone, which was also usual.

After a brief discussion, Aunt Petunia agreed that Harry would stick to cleaning, and possibly cooking. Years of menial labour for the Dursleys had made him into quite passable cook using Muggle means, but his aunt was unsure how much to trust his culinary magic. Even Harry admitted that he did not know how to cook very well with magic. If he so desired, he would be allowed to practice - on himself - in the morning by cooking his own breakfast.

After all his chores were done, Harry went to his room with every intention of getting a good start with Dumbledore's unusual summer reading assignment. He completed the first chapter about Muggle electricity smartly, but midway through the second, he began to nod off while learning about how electrons in an electrical current moved through a conducting substance. All these electrons seemed to be battering his brain, which was hardly surprising since Harry had been up for over 36 hours in a row. Before he knew it, he was face down on the open book.

It was a pleasant dream for once. He was walking hand-in-hand with Hermione through the streets of Hong Kong. It was a leisurely, sunlit walk through parks and busy streets lined with the sleek new skyscrapers he had seen in pictures on the Internet. Hermione was chatting enthusiastically about how much she had learned about both the Magical and Muggle aspects of the colony.

The conversation seemed to be going on forever, which quite suited Harry. Now they were in a field. Someone was walking towards them. It was a pretty Chinese girl.… It was Cho Chang. She was not smiling. Suddenly she was accusing Harry of ruining her life. He only had eyes for Hermione, she screamed, and he had led her on for no good reason. She was going hysterical about Cedric - accusing both Harry and Hermione. Cho started screaming something incoherent about her own parents. Suddenly she attempted to attack Hermione. Cho had very long fingernails.

Harry and Hermione fled, running away across the open field, which stretched to the horizon. Cho was chasing them. She was turning into a dragon. She became gigantic and began to breathe fire. The green grass in the field was being singed, turning first yellow and then more and more reddish. Cho was moving faster, starting to spread dragon wings and fly.

Then all at once Harry was far above the dragon-Cho on his Firebolt. Cho was about to catch and kill Hermione. Harry had his wand out. He shouted “Stupefy.” A jet of red light emerged from his wand, but it was like no spell jet he had ever seen, much less created. It was much thicker than an ordinary spell, far brighter, and instead of streaking from his wand, it roiled from it as though it were shunting the very air aside. The spell hit the dragon-Cho squarely from above and its force slammed her into the reddened ground. Hermione had disappeared. Black blood was pouring from dragon-Cho's still and seemingly flattened body.

Things started spinning around. The dragon blood was flowing in black rivulets on the reddish background, forming Chinese-language symbols that Harry could not comprehend. The entire scene was dissolving….

The dream began rearranging itself in a way that resembled the dragon pattern that Lao Kung wore on his vermilion robes - but nonetheless it was different. The patterns were different. Lao Kung did not have these symbols on his robes. The body of the dragon tore itself apart and divided into many dragons, all on symbolically adorned vermilion robes.

Harry's scar erupted in pain for the first time since the events at the Ministry. From amidst the dragon robes stepped Lord Voldemort, red eyes gleaming and wand poised. From what little Harry could make out in the dim light, Voldemort appeared to be accompanied by only one of his Death Eaters, someone large, possibly Goyle. Voldemort shrieked “Crucio,” and Harry's scar burned even worse. For the first time Harry noticed two prone figures on the darkened floor - Voldemort's victims for the evening.

A dragon-robed wizard stepped forward from the shadows, said something unintelligible, and a similar beam of light hit the other prone figure. After what seemed like an eternity, Voldemort and the other wizard both stopped - but just to trade places. They each renewed the Cruciatus curse on the opposite heaving body.

Again they stopped. Then Voldemort and the dragon-robed wizard both removed their robes and exchanged them. They bowed to each other, said something that Harry could not hear. They turned back to the two prone figures. Harry screamed. He knew what was going to happen. His scar boiled over. He heard the words “Avada kedavra” and saw the deadly green glow. There was a tremendous crash….

Dudley had come careening into Harry's darkened room, yelling Harry's name at the top of his lungs. He tripped over Harry's trunk and fell heavily onto Harry's bed, elbowing him hard in the midsection. Harry vomited, and for a moment started choking. “Geroff,” he sputtered, gasping for breath. Dudley, covered in the remains of this evening's dinner, rolled off the bed and onto the floor.

“Harry, are you all right,” Dudley gasped. “You were screaming. I thought you might need help.”

“Nightmare,” panted Harry, adding, “but you're not completely wrong,” before paying attention to whom he was speaking. He decided that both he and the Dursleys were better off the less he revealed about the significance of his dreams. Suddenly his eyes were dazzled by light. Dudley had found the switch that lit the lamps in Harry's room. His aunt and uncle appeared in the doorway, looking at once frightened and disgusted. Uncle Vernon brandished one of his company's samples - a half-metre-long masonry drill bit - in his right hand.

“My God, Harry, your scar, it's bleeding,” Dudley blurted out.

Harry touched his forehead and pulled back a bloodied hand. “It was a really bad one, then,” he muttered.

Then Harry raised his voice almost to a yell, “Look, all of you, I know you're wondering what happened. Don't ask. There's almost nothing about me that could land you in serious danger faster than for me to tell you about this. It's a purely magical thing that I have to sort out on my own. Now, if you would just leave me alone.…”

No doubt terrified of the magical consequences, the elder Dursleys made themselves scarce. “But Dudley,” Harry said, lowering his voice “make sure I get up with you. I really need the exercise.” He winked at Dudley. Dudley returned the wink, knowing that what Harry really needed was to talk to Lao Kung.

Harry looked around. Both he and Dudley were reeking messes, and the air in the room was foul. “I better tidy this up first,” he said, reaching for his wand. Some Scourgifies for himself, Dudley, and his room made quick work of the mess, and a Purify charm (along with the sash thrown wide open) took care of the fetid air.

After his cousin also left, Harry thought to himself, `I have to write to Dumbledore straight away.' He threw a quick glance at the alarm clock, which read 3:13. “Then I need to try to get a little more sleep,” he groaned.

Harry bandaged his scar. Then he drank a large glass of water to cleanse his mouth, which smelled and tasted like a band of mountain trolls had used it for a toilet. That done, he seized the charmed quill, activated the communicator, and wrote a three-page letter to Headmaster Dumbledore detailing everything he could remember about his nightmare - especially the parts concerning Voldemort. He debated whether to tell Dumbledore the part of the dream involving Hermione, since he considered that more personal. He finally decided to mention her role generally in the hope that it would increase the urgency of doing something about her situation.

Rather than go directly to bed, Harry decided to try Lao Kung's concentration techniques. He folded himself into the lotus position and began his chant.

It was in this position - but sound asleep - that Dudley found him a couple of hours later when he came to collect him for their early morning run. After seeing him thus contorted, Dudley made extra sure that Harry completed the entire stretching routine before they started running.

Harry's talk with Lao Kung was less enlightening than he had hoped. Lao Kung listened intently to everything Harry told him about the dream, even taking notes - in Chinese script. Other that repeat several times that his dream was a “serious” matter, the Sefu made no attempt to interpret any of the images Harry described. Harry was well enough acquainted with Lao Kung by now to know that, if the Sefu did not offer an opinion on something like this, it would be fruitless to ask him for one.

Harry did not tell Lao Kung that his “friend” in the dream was a girl, although Harry was not altogether sure why he felt embarrassed about it. The Sefu never intimated whether he had learned this fact from any other source. Lao Kung told Harry that, except for his immediate concern for the safety of his friend in Hong Kong, the matters he was describing were of concern to the Order, not to Harry.

Lao Kung was much more obviously pleased that, after his nightmare, Harry had resorted to practicing the Chinese concentration techniques he was learning. He was especially delighted that Harry had fallen asleep - apparently dreamlessly - after doing so. Harry had a good workout, both with Lao Kung (his speed of concentration increased to under ten minutes) and in the main portion of the gym, particularly with the speed bag. Even Dudley complimented him on his form.

Harry was very edgy that night, both because of the previous night's nightmare and because he knew he would be meeting face-to-face with Dumbledore the next day. He read a couple more chapters about Muggle electricity. Taking no chances, Harry performed concentration exercises for about half an hour before bed.

With the meeting with Dumbledore looming, Harry felt like he was sleepwalking through most of Thursday. While running with Dudley, Harry forgot to bring any of his cousin's Muggle CDs to listen to. Too embarrassed to admit the error, he ran with a silent Walkman attached to his headphones. While at the gym, Harry completely failed either to heat up or cool down the sawdust. Instead, and to Harry inexplicably, he wandlessly transfigured the sawdust into small ball bearings. They went rolling across the floor, and when Harry tried to retrieve them, he trod on them, fell over spectacularly on his backside, and received only bruises for his troubles. Five o'clock could not come fast enough.

Finally, the witching (or wizarding) hour arrived. Feeling like a nervous first-year, Harry made his way over to Arabella Figg's, one door down across the street at No. 7 Privet Drive. Unexpectedly, the beaming Headmaster greeted Harry at the door. “Mister Potter, we have so much to talk about,” said Dumbledore. “Come with me and we shall get started.”

Harry was briefly confused when Dumbledore made no move to sit down, but instead offered him his arm. When Harry hesitated, the Headmaster explained, “We shall not be speaking here, but rather at Hogwarts, where I have made preparations. Grab on to my arm and I shall Apparate you.”

“But … but, I haven't passed my Apparition test. I can't even take it for another year.”

“That is not an issue with Side-Along Apparition,” Dumbledore smiled as he spoke. “No time like the present for you to begin acquainting yourself with the skill.”

Uncertain what would happen, but curious nonetheless, Harry clutched the crook of the Headmaster's arm.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said reassuringly. “We are off.”

It suddenly felt like Dumbledore's arm was being wrenched from his grasp, so Harry began bringing his other arm around. It never got there.

Everything abruptly went black, and Harry felt squeezed on all sides. He could hardly breathe. The closest thing to this he had ever experienced was when the crowd at the Quidditch World Cup had backed up on the stairs - far too many people in far too little space. But this pressure was worse. His chest and face felt compressed, with his eardrums and eyes hurt more than when he was at the bottom of the lake during the Triwizard Tournament's second task. To make matters worse, the pressure was adversely affecting his bladder, making him feel doubly uncomfortable.

Just as everything was beginning to become unbearable - he felt his arms and legs suddenly become infinite, as if his entire body were extruded through a very long, thin pipe of some sort. Gasping for breath, his eyes stung as he forced them open. It was as if a switch had been turned back on. He was at Hogsmeade station, and there was a Thestral-drawn carriage waiting to take the both of them to Hogwarts Castle.

Harry had Apparated - albeit with help - for the first time in his life.

“How are you feeling?” Dumbledore asked, regarding him sympathetically. “Those sensations can come as a bit of a shock for the uninitiated.”

“I'll live,” wheezed Harry, shaking his head in a futile attempt to get the ringing in his ears to stop. “That's definitely going to be an acquired taste. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather fly….”

“Your hand feels quite clammy,” Dumbledore remarked. Harry self-consciously pulled his hand back, but swayed vertiginously on his feet. “How about trying some of this?” the Headmaster continued.

Dumbledore produced a healthy-sized chunk of magically chilled Honeydukes chocolate from an inner pocket. Harry accepted the proffered treat and began gnawing at it greedily. The old man was right again. It did make him feel better.

Harry's chocolate consumption continued throughout the ride to the Castle. He was nonplussed when, instead of making for his office, Dumbledore began striding rapidly away in the opposite direction. As he hurried to keep up with the Headmaster's brisk pace, he realised that they were making for the Room of Requirement.

Sure enough, they soon arrived at the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy being pummelled by tutu-clad trolls, and shortly they entered a cozy room containing several squashy armchairs surrounding a small table amply supplied with sandwiches and pumpkin juice. “Remember this,” Dumbledore said in a conspiratorial tone of voice. “The `Room of Requirement' is whatever you need most at the time.” Harry thought he saw the slightest hint of a wink behind the Headmaster's half moon glasses.

Harry had almost no time to consider Dumbledore's remark, because in one of the squashy armchairs sat the head of Gryffindor House, Professor (and Deputy Headmistress) Minerva McGonagall. She had a most unusual (for her) expression on her face - she was smiling broadly. As Harry entered, she stood up and extended her hand. “Congratulations Potter, you have made me very proud, the Headmaster has informed me of your marks….” When this news was received with a blank expression, Professor McGonagall rounded on Dumbledore. “Albus, you mean to tell me that you haven't told the boy yet?”

All of a sudden it dawned on Harry that this meeting was even more important than he thought - he was going to learn the results of his O.W.L.s. His throat momentarily went dry, but then he comprehended what his Head of House had said. He had obviously done very well. Harry let out an audible sigh of relief as Dumbledore explained to McGonagall….

“…You see, Minerva, I decided to wait until you were present.”

“How kind of you,” McGonagall replied, a touch of sarcasm seeping into her voice.

“Really,” the Headmaster protested genially, “I thought that you would want to be here when Mr. Potter learned the news. Also, I would rather that you first complete the other business that you have him before we turn to more pleasant topics.”

With a nod of her head, Professor McGonagall turned to Harry. “Potter,” she said, her face growing characteristically grave once more, “there is going to be a Ministry inquiry into the conduct of Professor Umbridge….”

Her lips became very thin as she said the name.

…“in the various capacities she held at Hogwarts during the past term. While tidying up her office after her hasty departure, one of the house-elves found a quill - a most unusual quill - and brought it to me. You can imagine my surprise and horror when I tried to use it….”

“And found out that it not only wrote in your own blood, but cut whatever you wrote into the skin on the back of your hand,” interrupted Harry.

“Then you know,” said Professor McGonagall sadly. “I thought that you might, as she gave you more detentions than any other student at the school. I am in the process of contacting every student whom she disciplined to see how widespread this practice was. That quill was enchanted with a Bloodletting curse. It is a totally unacceptable, and illegal, form of punishment. I would like you to be a witness at the inquiry, and if it would not be too painful, to demonstrate how that hideous quill works.”

“I … Will ... Be ... Delighted,” said Harry in a very deliberate voice. “You have no idea how horrible it was having that thing cut me hundreds of times in detention after detention. But Umbridge is much worse than merely some torture quills. She was the one who set the Dementors on me and my Muggle cousin last summer.”

Minerva McGonagall was not often rendered speechless, but at this statement her jaw dropped, and she looked like a very straight-laced trout as her mouth silently opened and closed. Finally she said, “How do you know that, Potter?”

“She admitted it - not only to me but in front of Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Neville and Luna, not to mention a pack of slimy Slytherins - just after she caught me using her office Floo the afternoon before we went to the Ministry. Give any of us Veritaserum, or take the memory of it from our minds with a Pensieve, either way will confirm what she said. Or better yet give her the Veritaserum, the bloody bitch!” said Harry getting more angry with every word.

“Potter, watch your language,” snapped Professor McGonagall. “You will eventually be giving testimony about this under oath, I daresay before the entire Wizengamot. It will behove you to keep your temper, and to retain your wits about you, when you testify, and it is not too early to start getting in that habit. I hope you understand the seriousness of this charge. If we prove it, Professor Umbridge will not only lose her position in the Ministry but will be facing a lengthy stay in Azkaban.”

Silence fell, and both of them looked to Headmaster Dumbledore, who was twiddling his thumbs and looking up at the ceiling. “I am the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, so I did not hear a word of this,” Dumbledore said softly. “But Mr. Potter, Minerva is absolutely right. You need to learn to control your temper. It is part of becoming a man. Now, on to more pleasant matters, I expect.”

Headmaster Dumbledore reached into a pocket of his purple robes, and produced a sealed envelope bearing Harry's name and the Hogwarts coat of arms. As he gave it to Harry, Dumbledore spoke, “Your O.W.L. results. I was obtaining Miss Granger's results early, so I could have them available for my meeting with her parents next Monday. I decided that I might as well get yours, since I was also meeting with you - and at the moment you have neither parents nor guardian to receive your marks.”

Even though Headmaster Dumbledore had just imparted very important news, Harry was hardly listening. His mind was focussed totally on the contents of the envelope. He opened it, reached in and pulled out a Report Card - but it was utterly unlike any Report he had ever received from his Muggle primary school. This Report was a riot of colours and even flashing lights:

Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry

1996 O.W.L. Report Card

Student: Harry James Potter

Subject

Theoretical

Practical

Overall

Numeric

Weighting

Transfiguration

O

O

O

102

2

Potions

O

O-

O

94

2

Charms

O

O

O

97

2

Defence Against Dark Arts

O+ flash

O+ flash

O+ flash

127

2

Herbology

A

E

E-

83

2

Divination

___

___

P

66

1

Astronomy

A

Inc.*

Inc.*

77*

1*

Care of Magical Creatures

___

___

O+

108

1

History of Magic

___

___

D

31

1

Total

1288*

14*

GPA

92.0*

O.W.L.s Passed: 12*

O.W.L.s Failed 2*

Total O.W.L.s 10*

*Astronomy practical O.W.L. ruled “incomplete” due to external interference; make-up scheduled for Autumn 1996

You are _4th___ of 40 in your class.

You are _16th__ of 302 in the Western and Northern European Region.

Harry openly gawked. He had no conception of half of what was in the Report, but what he did recognise exceeded his wildest dreams. He had achieved nine “Outstanding” OWLs - including Outstanding scores in all four of the classes that made up the core Auror course of study. He smiled weakly at Professor McGonagall. “This means you were right, doesn't it. I'm going to be able to become an Auror.”

McGonagall was smiling again. “Don't get too presumptuous, Potter. You're still a long way from becoming an Auror - but, yes, your marks mean that you have the opportunity to become an Auror, if that is indeed what you want. But there is considerably more to your marks than that.”

“More than being able to pursue my dream career?” blurted Harry. “How so?”

“Mr. Potter,” Headmaster Dumbledore said, “assuming that you wish to pursue any career at all - which I shall get to later - these marks make it more likely than Minerva is letting on that you are true Auror material. Let me explain your Report to you piece by piece.”

“First, all your marks are colour coded. The `Outstandings' are in purple. You have received nine Os, including a perfect eight for eight in what are considered the four most important subjects in the magical curriculum.”

“Second, four of your marks - your practical, theoretical, and all around Defence Against the Dark Arts and Care of Magical Creatures are graded not just as `O' but as `O+'. That signifies that you received the highest marks in that subject of anyone in your year at Hogwarts - the best score in the entire school. If it were not for Miss Granger, I would be telling you that one student has not received that many O+ scores at Hogwarts in fifteen years.”

“Third, all of your Defence Against the Dark Arts scores are not just O+, they are flashing. The flashing scores signify that all of your Defence scores were not only the best score of the year at Hogwarts, but were the best marks of the year in the entire Western and Northern European Region. This region includes not only the United Kingdom, but also Scandinavia, Ireland, France, Benelux, and Germany. In fact, there is more … your overall score of 127 is the highest ever recorded for the Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.s since the Region went to the present grading system almost 80 years ago. It is quite rare for one student to receive so many flashing O+ scores, although again you have the misfortune of being in the same year as Miss Granger.”

“I will never, ever think of that as a misfortune,” interrupted Harry fervently.

“Quite right,” Dumbledore replied slowly, giving him an appraising glance. “Fourth, you received a total of ten O.W.L.s, with an excellent possibility of eleven, since you have an incomplete in Practical Astronomy due to the unfortunate events that disrupted that examination. That puts you in the running for Head Boy. Although marks are not the sole consideration, you do have the highest overall average of any boy in your year.”

“Fifth, you rank fourth of forty in your Hogwarts class, which puts you in the top ten percent of the student body. Your total numerical average of 92.0 exceeds the `Outstanding' level. That means that you qualify for the Wizard Honour Society, Alpha Mu Omega.”

“Finally, Mr. Potter,” said Dumbledore, “what on earth happened in History of Magic?”

Dumbledore's final question brought Harry back to reality. “It was my last exam,” Harry said glumly. “The Astronomy practical had been the night before, and I had very little sleep. I was exhausted - beyond exhausted. I fell asleep during the exam. That's when I had the nightmare about the Death Eaters taking S…. Sirius.” Harry wavered, almost on the edge of tears, as he recalled his deceased godfather. “After that I couldn't concentrate on the test at all, so I just turned it in and left.”

“I see,” said the Headmaster, much more softly. “It was just … not even knowing of the latest Goblin War being decided by their inability to make protective shields…? If you had even received the lowest possible passing score, your overall average would have increased by almost three full points, placing you second in your class - and I cannot recall Gryffindor ever standing 1-2 before…. But no matter, this leads me to one of the other subjects I needed to discuss with you, your dreams.” Dumbledore made brief eye contact with McGonagall, who made to excuse herself.

“Well, Potter,” she said. “The rest of this conversation does not concern any house matter, and I need to get to cracking on the information you have provided about Professor Umbridge. Good luck.”

When Professor McGonagall had left, Dumbledore continued. “Mr. Potter, as regards your dreams - actually it is more accurate to call them visions. You now know about your mental connection with Voldemort, and how that brings them about. You also know how this connection allows Voldemort to use you … to use you not only against yourself but also against the Order and against everything we are trying to preserve. It is therefore a matter of the gravest possible security, for your own safety and for that of the rest of us, that you master Occlumency. As I said before, it was my mistake to pair you with Professor Snape for such a mentally intimate exercise. Therefore, I am going to instruct you myself during the summer. We shall meet every Wednesday evening, at 7 p.m., and Sunday afternoon, at 3 p.m., for at least an hour, and longer if I feel it is useful. Except that I cannot meet this Sunday….”

“Why not,” exclaimed Harry. “I want to get started straight away. You do know that I had another nightm … vision just last night don't you? I wrote you a full report, just as you asked.”

“I am indeed aware,” Dumbledore said in his most soothing voice. “You acted quite responsibly, and the information you provided was very valuable. Even if you had not written, however, I would have been informed that something was wrong.”

“What could be more important…?” Harry started. He changed course in mid-thought. “How would you have known?”

“Harry, you are under constant watch, as you must appreciate. Your aunt is under instructions to report any incident involving your scar immediately to Mrs. Figg, and your house is under 24-hour guard. All this is because of the prophecy…. Even though Voldemort does not know all of it, he knows enough to understand that in the larger scheme of things no one, not even I, is a greater threat to him than you. You are the only one … quite probably the only person in the world … who is capable of making a final end to him. Because of that you could be attacked at any time. So you are being guarded, in a number of ways. It is best that you not even know all of them.”

Dumbledore reached behind him, and Harry noticed a large flat object hidden in a plain brown wrapper. “That is why I want to give you this. Please hang it on the wall of your room at Number 4 Privet Drive, and when the term starts in the fall, hang it in your dormitory room. I assume that you can guess what it is.”

“It's a portrait, right? One of the prior headmasters.”

“That would be five points for Gryffindor, Mister Potter - if you were in class,” chuckled Dumbledore. “Exactly right, it is a portrait of one of my predecessors.”

“Just so long as it is not that Phineas whatshisname.” Harry said.

“Certainly not,” replied Dumbledore. “I want the portrait to remain in one piece, otherwise it would not be useful. As for Occlumency, until I can start myself, I want you to continue your training with Sefu Kung. He is….”

“Lao Kung is teaching me Occlumency? When?” asked Harry.

“It is my understanding,” said Dumbledore, “that he began training you last Saturday. I certainly authorised him to begin at once. Am I mistaken?”

“I did meet him on Saturday. He told me he was in the Order and mentioned your name, but he never told me he was training me in Occlumency. He told me he was teaching me concentration techniques that would help me perform wandless magic like him. Why have you been hiding this from me?” asked Harry, now glaring at the Headmaster.

“Dear me,” responded Dumbledore, plainly startled. “Until just now I was unaware that Sefu Kung had not told you that he was teaching you meditation. That art is a form of Occlumency widely practiced in the Orient, but less so here. Sefu Kung was originally at the gymnasium to provide protection to your cousin, but when I learned you were going there as well, I authorised him to train you - and he enthusiastically agreed. I daresay that he misunderstood my instructions, however. He must have thought, when I described your abortive lessons with Professor Snape, that you would resist if he told you it was Occlumency training. Please, Mister Potter, when you next see Sefu Kung, tell him that he is authorised to chat with you about anything having to do with Occlumency that he or you wish to discuss. I shall also contact him, but you may see him first.”

Dumbledore continued. “Anyway, for your other question. I cannot meet with you this Sunday because I am traveling to Hong Kong on Monday. I have a number of things to attend to, including meeting with Miss Granger and her parents. What you saw in your vision makes other aspects of my journey more complicated and difficult, and I need to prepare….”

“Can you please explain to me the significance of my dre … my vision?” Harry interrupted. “I described it to Lao Kung but either he didn't know what it meant - or more likely he wasn't talking.”

“Nor shall I, Mister Potter. As I said before, there are some things that I still cannot tell you, but at least I shall tell you what those are when you ask. What you saw in your vision is of great concern to the Order, but of little concern to you. I shall say only this. I shall ensure the safety of the Grangers while they are in Hong Kong, because it is possible that they could be attacked or held hostage. Beyond that, you need only know what probably is already obvious to you. Voldemort suffered a significant defeat at the Ministry - for which he blames you as much as me. He lost eleven Death Eaters, including some of his best and most strategically placed. He knows that many of his other servants will be unmasked by the interrogation of these eleven and will have to go into hiding, where they will be of much less use to him. His organisation has thus been damaged and will be damaged further. Voldemort needs reinforcements, and the Orient is one such source. More than that, you need not know.”

Harry felt that maybe Dumbledore was giving him too much credit, since he had not figured this out at all. For such insights, he usually depended on Hermione. In any event, he appreciated being given reasons, for once, why he was not being told something. “Hermione,” he said, “you can tell me everything about her.”

“Certainly, said the Headmaster. “After your message, I contacted Remus Lupin, who was in Hong Kong on Order business. He almost immediately located the Grangers at their hotel.…”

“The Shangri-la,” interrupted Harry.

“Very good, Mister Potter. I do not know how you found that out, but that would merit 25 points for Gryffindor. I did not judge Remus, however, to be the best representative to make the initial contact, so he merely kept track of their movements. I shortly received word from Arthur Weasley, whom you likewise had contacted. He told me that his son Percival was also in Hong Kong with the Sports Department mission. Even though he has been misguided in the past, Percival is quite accomplished at the diplomatic arts when he desires to be. I contacted him, and to my great delight and relief, he was willing, even anxious, to help.”

“By the way, Percival wishes to convey to you his deepest apologies and regrets. It seems he wrote a letter to his brother that advised him to break off your friendship and to have nothing further to do with you. From subsequent events, it is clear that the advice was ignored, so I do not know if you knew….”

“Yeah, I knew,” spat Harry. “The boot-licking prat sent Ron a long letter calling me a menace and telling Ron that he shouldn't be my friend if he valued his future. Ron burned that letter straight away.”

“In any event,” said Dumbledore, lowering his voice, “Percival very much regrets that now.”

“More like he regrets that he backed the wrong horse,” replied Harry.

“Regardless of his reasons,” continued Dumbledore, “you owe him a chance to redeem himself. We all do. Without Percival's very persuasive efforts, my upcoming meeting with the Grangers could not have been arranged, and bringing about Miss Granger's return to Hogwarts would be both much more difficult and time consuming.”

“So what are you planning to tell Hermione's parents?” asked Harry.

“I shall show them her Report and explain to them that their daughter's grades place her first in not just Britain but in all of Western Europe. While your scores are impressive, even extraordinary - Miss Granger's are virtually unprecedented. On her merits, her career path in the wizarding world is essentially unlimited, Muggle-born or no. Her parents cannot lightly throw away their daughter's future. Nor would confining her to the Muggle world make her any safer. If anything, Miss Granger would be at more risk without magical means of protection. Like it or not, what is done is done. Voldemort is well aware of your friend's exploits and of her potential. He attacks Muggles at will, so she would be safer in Hogwarts than anywhere else. I shall offer protection to the entire Granger family. I shall offer special self-defence training to Miss Granger, ideally with you, this summer.”

“Only if my persuasive powers fail shall I resort to more forceful means. But I shall do that if necessary. I have the approval of both Minister Fudge and the head of the Department of Magical Education, Demetrius Tarbert, to perform any spell I deem necessary to bring about Miss Granger's return.”

“Thank you,” said Harry. “That will be an excellent presentation to the Grangers. You've obviously been practising. If it gets Hermione back, I'll owe you plenty.”

“Hardly,” replied Dumbledore. “Miss Granger's demonstrated potential is such that these steps would have been taken even if the two of you had never met.”

“But if the two of us had never met,” replied Harry with a haunted look coming over his face, “none of this would have been necessary because Hermione's life would never have been placed in danger. This is all my fault.”

“Mister Potter, listen to me carefully,” spoke Dumbledore. “This. Is. Not. Your. Fault. None of this - not even the prophecy - is your fault. Responsibility for every loss you have suffered lies solely with Voldemort, who has been trying to destroy you virtually from your birth. You must understand and believe this. If you fall into self-loathing it will become a serious weakness, and Voldemort will prey on that as he preys on every human weakness.”

“Voldemort has no use for love, whereas you thirst for it almost above all else. Your capacity for love is stronger than his capacity for hate. That is why you have escaped him at every encounter, and that is why I believe in my heart that you will accomplish the singular task that the prophecy has imposed upon you. If you blame yourself for Voldemort's infliction of death and injury upon those you care for, Voldemort will seek to drive you mad with guilt. It will only increase his incentive to attack those for whom you have feelings. Every time you punish yourself for what Voldemort has done, you strengthen him and weaken yourself. Remember that.”

“I'll try,” mumbled Harry, “but it's hard when you have been through what I have.”

“I know,” said Dumbledore sympathetically.

“No you don't,” said Harry, not wanting sympathy. “How could you possibly….”

Dumbledore gave a great sigh. “I know, because Grindelwald killed my wife and daughter before my eyes,” he replied, his face a mask.

Harry was speechless for some time. “I'm so very sorry….”

“Please do not be, Mister Potter,” said Dumbledore. “What is done is done. Ultimately it gave me a determination to destroy him that before, I had lacked. And you must do the same with Voldemort.”

Thinking of his parents and his Godfather - and of his living friends as well - Harry went silent for over a minute. Finally he said “I will, but I don't think I can do it alone.”

“You most assuredly will not have to,” said Dumbledore. There are many prepared to help you, and to die for you if necessary. That brings me to another of the important matters I must discuss with you - your training. As I am sure you are aware, your adventure in the Department of Mysteries has attracted a great deal of attention. Among those whose attention is now focused on you are quite a few Aurors and Unspeakables. First of all, they wish to interview - no, `debrief' is a better word - you concerning how you were able to get into what is supposed to be the most secure portion of a secure building. But beyond that there is both curiosity and admiration at how you, with only five other students to help you, held off a dozen of Voldemort's most feared Death Eaters for over an hour after being lured into a trap.”

“I have had a conversation of sorts with two of the high-ranking Aurors - the Head Auror, Mr. Scrimgeour, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, whom you know. They fully agree with me that you should immediately receive as much training in advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts as you can handle. Voldemort could attack at any time. Therefore, beginning on Monday, I have arranged for you to begin a four-day-a-week intensive training schedule during which you will receive the Auror Candidate School course on offensive and defensive magic and survival skills. Assuming you agree….”

“I agree,” interjected Harry grimly, “and what's more, I can't wait to get started. But didn't you mention Hermione training with me?”

“I did - and if she and her parents agree, she will participate upon her return from Hong Kong,” said Dumbledore. “As I said, you do not have to do this alone. You will report each Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, and Friday to Mrs. Figg's house at 7:00 a.m. Kingsley, or someone else you know, will be present to escort you to the Auror Candidate School training facility, which is adjacent to the Ministry of Magic building. You should exchange identifying questions - information that only the two of you would know about each other. For example, Kingsley's role in … er … intervening with Miss Edgecombe last term. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” answered Harry, “but why can't we do it at Grimmauld Place? I'm not very keen on returning to the Ministry. My memories of that place aren't exactly happy ones.”

“There are two reasons,” Dumbledore explained. “First and foremost, Grimmauld Place is no longer safe. I fear that its security was compromised when Kreacher went to Narcissa Malfoy. Obviously, that house is no longer serving as the headquarters of the Order, and it will probably remain abandoned at least until its ownership is sorted out following Sirius' death. Second, 12 Grimmauld Place is nowhere near large enough, nor in all likelihood is it of sound enough construction to accommodate the kind of training that I have arranged you to receive. I have negotiated permission for you to use the actual trainee situation room at the Auror Candidate School, since the next Auror class does not commence training until autumn.”

Harry had another question, one concerning his free time. “What about the other days?”

“I am sure that you will have homework assignments as well,” said Dumbledore. “I encourage you to continue seeing Sefu Kung on Wednesdays and Saturdays - although I shall try to arrange for any official Ministry business involving you to occur on Wednesdays. As we have discussed, I shall be providing you Occlumency training on Wednesday evenings and Sunday afternoons. Before too long you will find yourself with precious little free time. Speaking of which, have you been reading the material I asked you to cover in preparation for our Occlumency session?”

“Yes,” Harry said, and I'm more than halfway done with the eight chapters on Muggle electricity.”

“Excellent,” smiled Dumbledore. “But it is not just Muggle electricity. Wizards have it too. It just behaves somewhat differently. Further, the fact that you have survived the Killing Curse suggests that your electrical content may behave more differently - and quite a bit more singularly - than most.”

Harry was skeptical, but he let the matter pass, wondering what else Dumbledore had to discuss. The entire meeting had been one bombshell after another.

“Now I need to discuss the matter of your inheritance, something that you may find disturbing.”

“This is about Sirius, isn't it,” anticipated Harry. He sighed in contemplation of the inevitable.

“Unfortunately it is,” commiserated Dumbledore, “but there is much more to it than you know, or could even suspect. Sirius left a will. Minerva and I witnessed it. He left almost all of his worldly possessions to you. For starters, that means that you inherit Sirius' motorcycle and Sirius' personal effects, most of which remain at Grimmauld Place.”

“Ugh,” muttered Harry, screwing up his face in an unintentional impersonation of Narcissa Malfoy's dung-under-the-nose expression. “Does that mean that I become Kreacher's master?”

“It would, Harry, except that Kreacher is dead,” replied Dumbledore.

“Serves that nasty little bugger right,” snapped Harry, “after the way he lied to me and caused Sirius' death.”

“You are closer to the truth than you know, Mr. Potter,” said Dumbledore sadly. “Kreacher took his own life once he found out that his actions led to Sirius' death. He had no choice, as house-elves are obligated to commit suicide if they cause their masters to die.”

“That's just as well….” Harry said distractedly. “I'm not at all sure that I could ever bear to own a house-elf, or anything that can talk and think. It would be like owning Dobby. That just doesn't feel right to me.”

“Ah, yes,” said Dumbledore, drawing a deep breath before diving in, “that is precisely the point I need to discuss with you, for it is likely that you will find yourself in exactly that position.”

“What?” asked Harry blankly. Here comes another bombshell, he thought.

“Sirius was the last of the Blacks,” Dumbledore continued. “If his name is cleared, he inherits the entire Black fortune, and through Sirius' will that fortune - which is considerable - would in turn belong to you.”

Kaboom. Harry buried his face in his hands and ran his fingers through his already disheveled hair. “I just can't stop being special, can I? DAMMIT, WHY DO THINGS ALWAYS HAVE TO HAPPEN TO ME?!? FOR ONCE CAN'T I JUST BE NORMAL?!?”

“Have another sandwich, if you please, the Headmaster offered. “I think you know by now that you are anything but ordinary - and you always will be. Anyway, I owe you more of an explanation. Sirius' father, Orion Black, was not pleased that his own children turned out to be Death Eaters or criminals - not only his own children, but his niece Bellatrix as well. Nor did he approve of the marriages of his other two nieces. Andromeda was disowned for besmirching the Black pureblood tradition by marrying someone Muggle born.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Harry. “Tonks' dad.”

“Right again,” replied Dumbledore. “For someone whom I tried to keep ignorant most of last year, you have certainly been able to learn quite a bit. Not only was I wrong-headed, I was an abject failure as well. Now where was I…? Oh yes. Nor did the senior Black approve of Narcissa Black's marriage to Lucius Malfoy, whom Mr. Black viewed as irredeemably greedy.”

“Anyway, when Sirius was sent to Azkaban, Orion Black wrote out a new will that left his estate to the first of his male heirs who was not convicted of being a criminal or a Death Eater. He died shortly thereafter, never knowing there was the slightest possibility that Sirius was innocent. But if Sirius is cleared….”

“I see now,” said Harry becoming agitated once again. “If Sirius is cleared, then he isn't a convicted criminal or a Death Eater. He inherits from this Orion person, and then I inherit from him. Well, sod all that! I don't want to profit from Sirius' death. You have no idea what Sirius means to me! None of you do! He's hardly cold, and now you want to put a bloody sterling sign on his body! That's what the effort to clear Sirius' name is all about, isn't it? Wretched money! Otherwise, would you even bother?”

“Now Mr. Potter, you know that is unfair,” rebuked Dumbledore. “Many of us - granted not all - loved Sirius for who and what he was, just like you have. We would be seeking to clear him even if he did not have a Knut to his name, because of our regard for him. However, the monetary aspect is also important because we do not want there to be any chance for Voldemort to have access to any more money than he already has, given the number of Death Eaters among Sirius' relatives.”

There was a moment's pause. “I'm sorry,” muttered Harry reluctantly. “You're right, that wasn't fair. But it is just so horribly frustrating. I feel like I've had too much happen to me already.”

“You have indeed,” agreed Dumbledore, “but that die was cast when Voldemort marked you. Getting back to your original observation, however, there are a number of house-elves in the Black estate, and if Sirius is cleared you will own them.”

Harry's face turned a pasty shade midway between green and grey, but he said nothing.

Dumbledore continued, “there is also the matter of your inheritance from your parents. You have already seen your inheritance from your father in Gringotts, but your paternal grandfather, Abraham Potter, had reservations about your father's marriage to a Muggle-born witch. In order to ensure that Lily never obtained sole control over his fortune, he placed most of his property in devices called generation-skipping trusts. There are three of these trusts, and they have been managed by Gringotts since they were created. Among other things they include two of the 23 wizard shares in Gringotts itself.”

“However, once the generation has been skipped, the trusts dissolve and the assets belong to the trust beneficiary immediately upon the beneficiary's attaining majority. That beneficiary is you, and you attain majority in little over a year, on your seventeenth birthday….”

“If Voldemort doesn't kill me first,” said Harry mordantly.

“In that case you need not worry about the paperwork,” said Dumbledore evenly. “However, since there is a significant possibility that you will be alive on your seventeenth birthday, you need to give some thought to the fact that you will be a multimillionaire before you have graduated from this school. While I have no doubt that you can become an Auror, as I mentioned earlier, you will be able to live in complete comfort even if you never work a day in your life.”

Kaboom. “As always, you're right,” said Harry, in a tone that showed that he was singularly unimpressed by the prospect of so much gold. “What do you think I should do?”

“There are two things you need to do. First, you need a new guardian. I am not trying in the slightest to displace Sirius from your mind or your heart, but you need someone you trust to be able to make legally binding decisions on your behalf. Right now, you cannot even open your own bank account or obtain a passport. Second, you should hire a trustworthy solicitor to advise you on such matters.”

“A trustworthy solicitor,” said Harry grinning. “Isn't that a contradiction of terms?”

“For your sake, I hope not,” chuckled Dumbledore. “I know a number of solicitors whom I would not hesitate to recommend. On the other hand, Mister Potter, picking a legal guardian is a much more personal decision because the guardian will also have control over the personal aspects of your life. Do you have any preferences? I believe that anyone whom you would want to undertake the responsibility would be more than happy to do it, even though there is risk involved.”

“Hermione.” Harry said without hesitation. “I trust her with my life. She knows so much. And she has great instincts. She's almost always right, even if all too often I don't do what she says.”

“I am sorry,” groaned Dumbledore. “I neglected to tell you that a legal guardian must be of age, and Miss Granger does not turn seventeen until this September. Further, even if the decision could be put off until then, it could be extremely awkward, to say the least, for her to serve in that capacity. You and she are much too close to one another in both age and friendship for her to fill the role of guardian. A guardian must be able to act as a surrogate parent, and I do not see Miss Granger fulfilling that role in your life.”

“Remus Lupin then,” suggested Harry. “He cares for me, and he's the last of the Marauders - the last one that matters anyway.”

“I would agree, Mister Potter,” sighed Dumbledore as he gently vetoed Harry's choice again, “except that it would be illegal. The Ministry's anti-werewolf legislation precludes anyone afflicted with lycanthropy from serving as the guardian of any wizard or witch. Even if that were not the case, Remus' responsibilities with the Order require him to travel constantly. Finally, he is also a beneficiary of Sirius' will, which could conceivably place him in a conflict of interest situation.”

“Oh,” said Harry. He thought awhile longer and a scowl spread across his face. Then he bowed to what he thought was the inevitable. “Then how about you?” he asked.

“I would be honoured, but I cannot,” said Dumbledore. “I have a suspicion that managing your financial and personal affairs would take up far more time than I have available. Also, since the Hogwarts School is a contingent beneficiary of Sirius' will, and I witnessed that will, it would not be wise for me to be in a position where I myself could be accused of a conflict of interest.”

“Well,” said Harry, still looking annoyed. “I'm running out of names. It sure won't be the Dursleys. The Weasleys are probably too busy as well, with Mr. Weasley's promotion and all….”

A light bulb went on in Harry's head as he had a Hermione moment. “I know! How about Bill Weasley? I trust him. He's in the Order. He's in country now that he exchanged his curse breaker's job for something closer to home. His old job taught him a lot about Muggle ways - and since Bill works for Gringotts bank, I'm sure he knows about money.”

“Mister Potter, I never would have thought of Bill,” said Dumbledore, “but upon reflection, I think it is a brilliant choice. Are you absolutely comfortable with Bill as your legal guardian?”

Harry thought - hard. “Yes, I'm sure,” he declared.

The Room of Requirement seemed to scintillate a bit as the Headmaster stood. He walked around behind Harry to a large fireplace that Harry was sure had not been there a few moments before. Dumbledore tossed in some Floo powder, and green flames blazed. “William Weasley,” Dumbledore called out.

There was an unusually long pause, and then Bill's handsome long-haired (if somewhat disheveled) head appeared in the heart of the fire. “You called, Albus,” Bill said. “Oh, and hello Harry, what can I do for you?”

“You can be my legal guardian until I turn seventeen,” Harry said with no warning at all.

Bill's eyes widened as he grasped what Harry had said. “You're serious, aren't you Harry,” Bill said softly.

“I sure am,” stated Harry. “I'm not one of your brothers. I'd never joke about something like that. Dumbledore and I have talked it over, and we both agree that you're an excellent choice.”

“I'll do it, then,” Bill said without hesitation. “I assume that you now know about the inheritance.”

“I do,” said Harry. “You have worked for Gringotts ever since I've known you, so I reckon you have to know a lot about money.”

“I know a bit,” grinned Bill, “and whatever I don't know, I know peop…., er, I know whom to ask,” said Bill.

“Great,” enthused Harry, knowing that Bill was thinking about the goblins who ran Gringotts. “Oh, and where's your fang ear piece,” asked Harry, who had just noticed that Bill's trademark earring was missing from his left ear.

Almost immediately upon asking this question, Harry wished he hadn't. Bill's face got so pink that it clashed horribly with the green flames encircling it. “Er…,” Bill stammered, “when Albus summoned me, he interrupted me … er, us…. Well Fleur doesn't like me wearing it when we…. Anyway, Fleur made me take it off. Women can be like that.”

“Sorry I asked,” gulped Harry.

“In any event,” said Dumbledore, putting an end to this strained subject, “I shall have my solicitor draw up guardianship papers straight away for both you and Harry to sign. Harry, once that is done, do you mind if Bill and I select solicitor candidates for you to interview?”

“Not at all,” replied Harry. “I don't have the slightest idea how to go about that, so it would be a relief to me if you handled it.”

“Bill, before I let you return to Mademoiselle Delacour's charms,” Dumbledore said with slightly raised eyebrows, “what is the status of your discussions with the goblins?”

“King Ragnok has agreed in principle to our last proposal,” reported Bill. “If Harry is willing, the goblins are. He insists upon a formal ceremony, though.”

“Thank you Bill,” smiled Dumbledore. “You may go.” Smiling, and with a sly wink to Harry, Bill's face disappeared at once.

“If I'm willing to do what?” Harry inquired warily.

“Mister Potter, I was not planning upon us discussing the goblin situation at this time,” said Dumbledore, “since it is highly confidential. Now it appears that we should, at least briefly. Basically, we have been in negotiations for months seeking the support of the goblin nation in the imminent war with Voldemort. The sticking point is that the goblins want full legal equality with wizards - a demand the Ministry was unwilling to meet.”

“Why not?” asked Harry bluntly. “It only seems right.”

“That is because you have not grown up in our world,” Dumbledore answered. “Goblins and wizards are historic enemies, and that enmity has all too often been passed down from generation to generation, particularly amongst the pure-blood families that set the tone for our society. Whilst the last goblin rebellion ended over three hundred years ago, that is almost yesterday for some of our kind. Goblins are still viewed as somewhat subversive - tolerated, rather than accepted.”

“So we're sort of stuck, then,” Harry commented, “what with Fudge in the Ministry and all.”

“They do not trust Minister Fudge, or the Ministry, that is true,” the Headmaster recounted. “I proposed the same mutual exchange of Unbreakable Vows that ended the last goblin rebellion, but that was rejected. Those vows, the goblins maintain, were materially subverted by the wizard side. In the area of finance, at least, their views have some merit.”

“So then we're stuck,” Harry reiterated, “if even Unbreakable Vows aren't enough.”

“Not anymore,” Dumbledore replied cheerfully. “In an attempt to salvage the situation, I made another offer to the goblins. I proposed that, if they supported the Order against Voldemort, and he were defeated, I would use whatever political capital we gained thereby - and it would be substantial - to launch a political campaign in favour of full goblin rights.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Harry observed. “Defeating Voldemort would certainly change everything, but you've told me that the prophecy means that I'm the only one likely to be able to do that.”

“There is the rub,” Dumbledore agreed. “The goblins were interested, but wanted more, since they would be putting themselves at present risk in return for a mere promise of future action.”

“You're about as good as it gets. What more did they want?” Harry asked.

“You,” was Dumbledore's reply.

“Me?” Harry squeaked.

“Yes, you,” Dumbledore repeated. “The goblin king, Ragnok, must have his own sources. He knows enough about matters that he believes that you are fated to destroy Voldemort. Thus, he wants your pledge to support goblin equality following Voldemort's downfall.”

“What do I have that you don't?” Harry responded hotly.

“They believe, with reason, that after a personal victory over Voldemort, you would command an even greater political impact in the wizard community than I.”

“But what if I fail?” Harry asked.

“We did not discuss failure,” Dumbledore responded grimly. “Failure is not an option from the goblins' standpoint. They, as well as we, are well aware of Voldemort's supremacist views about the various magical races. Are you amenable to making such a public pledge?”

“Sure, I'll do it,” said Harry, after a moment's thought. “I don't know if it'll work, but I reckon we need all the allies we can get.”

“Thank you,” said Dumbledore. “I shall let you know when and where the pledge ceremony will take place. I am unaware what the goblins have in mind. All I know is that it will take place at midnight and will occur in goblin territory.”

“There is one more thing we need to discuss,” said Dumbledore, “and then I'm afraid I am going to have to do something you will probably find unpleasant. Will you look in the wardrobe behind you and tell me what you see?”

As Harry rose, he felt the scintillations again. He was sure that the wardrobe Dumbledore had pointed to had not been there the last time he had looked in that direction, but as the Headmaster had said, the Room of Requirement became whatever was needed. Harry looked in the wardrobe and saw it contained several large bags of what looked like folded and jumbled paper and parchment.

“A lot of trash,” Harry replied. “What of it?”

“That is your fan mail, Mister Potter,” said Dumbledore with his eyes twinkling. “Letters. All of them have arrived at Hogwarts, addressed to you, just since you left. I have had to double the school's purchase of owl treats simply to meet the needs of post owls delivering mail to you. Dobby has been trying to sort it into regular fan mail, letters from possibly dangerous cranks, and other items, such as business propositions. For example, look at this.” Dumbledore pulled another letter to Harry from his robes:

Cadbury Chocolate Company - Wizard Division

Mr. Harry Potter

C/o Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Dear Mister Potter:

As you probably know the Wizard Division of the Cadbury Chocolate Company produces wizard confections of the highest quality. One of our best selling products is the Chocolate Frog®. Along with magically animated chocolate, each Chocolate Frog® package includes a trading card depicting a famous wizard or witch, living or dead.

As are the rest of the wizarding community, we at Cadbury are deeply impressed with your defeat of a dozen Death Eaters at the Ministry of Magic on the night of 11-12 June, 1996. Therefore, we would like to include your likeness on a new Chocolate Frog® card. That likeness could resemble the prototype card that is enclosed with this letter.

We are, of course, willing to pay you a handsome royalty for the use of your likeness. We are prepared to offer you a 10% royalty on all units sold with your card included. At our suggested retail price of three Sickles per unit, you would receive 8.7 Knuts for each unit sold. Based upon our sales history in the EU alone, we anticipate a minimum annual print run of 100,000 units, so we can guarantee you a minimum annual income of 1765 Galleons, with additional sums to follow depending upon actual sales volume.

Please feel free to contact me by o-mail or on the Floo network at “Cadbury Chocolates, Chocolate Frogs.®” I sincerely hope we can do business.

Yours truly,

Husqvarna Flodden

Senior Manager, Product Development

Kaboom. For a moment Harry just sat there stunned. Then he picked up the card that had fallen out of the letter. It was identical to the Chocolate Frog cards he had traded with his classmates for the last five years, except the full-colour drawing was of him, wand at the ready, riding a Thestral into the sunset. It bore the inscription “Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived.” The word “SPECIMEN” was printed diagonally over the picture. The obverse side of the card contained a rather overblown two-paragraph account of his life.

“Well Mister Potter, what do you think,” smiled Dumbledore. “I can tell you from personal experience that Cadbury royalties have been a nice supplement to my salary over the years - not that it will matter particularly after your inheritance - but `one in the hand,' you know.”

“I, I, I just don't know what to think,” mumbled Harry, still reeling. He had long had to deal with being famous. Professor Snape sneered at him as a “celebrity” as far back as his first year. In his Second Year another aspiring celebrity, Gilderoy Lockhart, had presumed to give him tips on how to deal with fame. But this kind of adulation - an offer of a paid endorsement - was a new sensation altogether.

“Mister Potter, this is why you need both a guardian and a solicitor,” Dumbledore said in a fatherly tone of voice. “It hardly matters whether you accept this offer or not. If you turn them down, they will probably just offer you more money. I am sure that there are any number of wizard establishments that would be willing to pay you quite handsomely for use of your name and likeness.”

“I'm really not very interested in selling myself,” Harry finally said firmly, feeling miffed that Dumbledore would even make such a suggestion. Harry brusquely stuffed the letter into his pocket.

“I am not at all surprised,” remarked the Headmaster. “What I want to talk to you about is fame. I have been famous since I destroyed Voldemort's predecessor, Grindelwald, in 1945, so I know of what I speak. Fame is both a blessing and a curse, but in your case, as in mine, there is simply no choice but to come to terms with it.”

“I've been stared at for the last five years,” sniffed Harry. “I can handle it, I think.”

“This is different,” said Dumbledore firmly. “You never received fan mail before, I suspect.”

“A few letters after I was interviewed in The Quibbler, but nothing like that,” answered Harry, gesturing towards the almost full wardrobe. “Some girl even sent me a picture of herself.”

“What you will experience now, the moment you venture out into the wizarding world, is nothing like you have ever encountered before,” said Dumbledore with a knowing look. “Almost everyone will want to know you - to take some of your precious time. People will want to do favours for you, to give you things, all because of your fame. If you so desire, you will undoubtedly find many witches willing, even eager, to have sexual relations with you. You will have to distinguish between friends who genuinely care for you and acquaintances who only want to use you.”

Harry did not know whether to feel excited or apprehensive about THAT possibility. He stayed mute.

“Mister Potter, you also need to understand that this is quite deliberate. We are at war, and you are the first hero of that war. The Ministry has decided - and on this I am in full agreement - to make you a symbol of hope to us all. As daunting as Voldemort is to you, imagine how terrifying he is to the average witch and wizard who lacks your ability to fight back - those who cannot conjure a Patronus powerful enough to drive away 100 Dementors. This is all about morale. Voldemort and his Death Eaters do not look so frightening if mere students can resist them successfully even though outnumbered 2-1. So even though I know you will find your lionisation to be personally distasteful, you need to cooperate at least somewhat with the Ministry, since it is important to our war effort.”

Kaboom. “Great. Just great,” said Harry glumly. “So in addition to preparing for a kill-or-be-killed confrontation with Voldemort, I have to hand out autographs too.” He wrinkled his nose at a mental image of himself - Lockhart-like - smiling stupidly while entertaining a line of simpering autograph hunters. “What am I supposed to do, Headmaster?”

“You need to think long and hard about how to react,” continued Dumbledore, “because everything you do in public - and much of what you do in private - will find its way into the press. You remember Rita Skeeter two years ago, I am sure.”

“How could I ever forget?” muttered Harry, recalling the reporter-Animagus who, in the form of a beetle, had invaded his privacy and written several scurrilous articles about him. “What do you think I should do?”

“Largely you will have to set your own limits. I am afraid I shall not be much help. You already have the Order providing you with bodyguards, so you need not be particularly apprehensive concerning your physical safety in public. The rest of it you just have to decide how to come to grips with. You will have to choose whether to answer fan mail, or ignore it. Likewise, you can also opt to ignore or to pursue business propositions like the one that I just showed you. I would suggest having your solicitor look into anything you find intriguing. You should resume taking the Daily Prophet again, though. Even if what appears in the press does not mean much to you, you need to know what is being said about you because it will affect how others behave towards you.”

“I suppose you're right,” said Harry resignedly. “How do I subscribe? Hermione did it for me the last time and I don't know what to do.”

“I anticipated that you would listen to reason, and I have already managed it. I have had Arabella Figg's subscription transferred from Number 7 to Number 4 Privet Drive. For herself, she will open a second subscription in her husband's name. This way the Prophet will not know where you live, and you are less likely to have a reporter show up unannounced on your doorstep.”

“Now for the last matter at hand,” said Dumbledore crisply, changing the subject again. I need to get a close look at the vision you had yesterday, and I need to evaluate exactly where you stand on Occlumency. So to kill two birds with one stone I would like, with your permission, to practice Legilimency on you.”

“Do you have to?” asked Harry, now squirming uncomfortably with unpleasant memories. “Can't we do what you need using your Pensieve instead?”

“Unfortunately, a Pensieve is only accurate with respect to memories that you collect when you are awake and conscious. They are notoriously unreliable as to matters of the unconscious. No, I am afraid that to get the detail that I require, I must insist upon using Legilimency. I do not expect you to be able to resist successfully, as I am an accomplished Legilimens, but I want you to try your best. Thus, I shall give you all the time you need to prepare yourself. Unlike Professor Snape, I shall not be penetrating very deeply, since what I need is quite recent.”

“All right,” surrendered Harry. “It has to start sooner or later if you are going to teach me. Give me ten minutes.” Harry got into the lotus position and began clearing his mind and concentrating on resistance, as he was being taught by Lao Kung.

After ten minutes elapsed, Dumbledore raised his want and chanted “Legilimens.” Harry could feel Dumbledore at the edge of his mind, and he tried to resist. Harry felt recent memories flowing out of him. The letter from Hermione…. Meeting Lao Kung…. Dudley's apology…. Moody blowing up the parlour…. Harry concentrated harder, and slowly the mental outflow seemed to grind to a halt.

He was concentrating very hard now on resisting Dumbledore, and it appeared to be working. As far as Harry could tell, no more memories were flowing out from him. His mind was blank except for his concentration on resisting the odd prickling sensation in his brain that indicated the Headmaster's presence. Harry was quickly becoming exhausted at the effort that it took to resist Dumbledore's powerful magic. He was concentrating so hard it felt like his brain was melting.

Suddenly, Harry heard several sharp crackling noises very close by. Even though his eyes were tightly shut with concentration, he sensed flashes of bright light accompanying the noise. Abruptly, he felt Dumbledore's presence in his mind evaporate. As he was opening his eyes, he also became aware of an odd odour, at once both metallic and wet.

Harry could hardly believe what he saw. Dumbledore was still standing in front of him, but his beard was singed, and he had what looked like scorch marks around his eyes and on the front of his robe.

“Mister Potter,” said the Headmaster, breathing heavily, “do you know how to do the Incandens charm?”

“No,” said Harry, “I've never heard of it.”

“I thought not, because it is taught only in Advanced Charms, in the Seventh Year. It is largely used for protective purposes. You just performed a partial Incandens charm, by accident, I suppose - and you did it wandlessly,” said Dumbledore. “It was strong enough to drive me backward with considerable force, and it was intense enough to generate the ozone that we are smelling. It is a useful addition to your armamentarium, given Voldemort's recent use of Inferi.”

“What about Inferi?” Harry questioned, not understanding the last comment.

“Fire is a most effective means of repelling any attack by Inferi,” the Headmaster replied. “You should remember that. Consider it your first lesson from me.”

Harry nodded.

“You have learned much from Lao Kung,” Dumbledore went on. “He will be proud to hear of this. You have just demonstrated that, if you have time to prepare, your Occlumency is strong enough to repel a forceful attack. Still, to resist an unexpected attack…. Legilimens.”

By catching Harry unawares, Dumbledore was able to penetrate his mind without much difficulty. Almost immediately, Harry felt himself reliving his dragon vision. When the Headmaster finished, less than two minutes later, Harry was on his knees and his scar was throbbing dully.

“You bloody cheater,” Harry gasped. “what did you do that for?”

“I thought it was obvious,” smiled Dumbledore weakly. “Your Occlumency skills have progressed to the point where you are difficult for me to overcome if you know what is coming. So I had to resort to stealth. Consider it a high compliment, Mister Potter.”

“More like a sneak attack,” growled Harry, still smarting from the experience. He had to admit, however, that it wasn't nearly as awful as the attacks he had endured from Snape.

“Indeed it was,” replied the Headmaster. “You have improved markedly, and I had to go to Plan B. Always remember that age must resort to treachery in order to overcome youth and skill.”

With that, the meeting was finally over. As they were leaving Hogwarts, Harry found himself wishing for his own Pensieve, so overwhelmed did he feel with all of the information he had received - Hermione, O.W.L.s, money, fame, training…. Moody had certainly been right, “be careful what you ask for….”

It was only 10:30 p.m. when Harry returned to the Dursley residence, but it felt much later. He went directly to his room. He propped the portrait against the wall, too tired to bother with hanging it that evening. He showered and soon was gazing distractedly out his window at an uncommon thunderstorm that was rumbling by in the distance in the night sky. Lightning played in the billowing thunderhead, which was partially obscured by a puffy cumulus cloud in front of it. It looked like the archway and veil in the Room of Death. `Sirius,' Harry found himself thinking. “Sirius,” he found himself sobbing. He might have gained the world, but at what cost?

Harry meditated, and fell into a deep sleep - dreaming of lightning and veils.

* * * *

Author's notes: In my fic Hermione, with her 9/19 birthday is almost a year older than Harry. Given that Hogwarts notifications are sent in midsummer, Hermione could hardly receive notification after she had already started -- which would be necessary if she were to be younger

Note Ludo Bagman's providential presence in Hong Kong

A hint here that everything is not going well for Uncle Vernon at Grunnings.

This chapter contains a very involved OWL report, which I hope comes through the conversion relatively intact

Cho will rebound smartly from Harry's rebuff

A lot of the symbolism from Harry's dream will recur later. From Cho's perspective Harry may well have ruined her life

Masonry drill bits can be quite long

Sefu is Chinese for a teacher, especially of martial arts. I thank one of my reviewers for this nugget

My Dumbledore almost always addresses students by their last name when speaking to them

I've added side along Apparition from HBP. The sensations Harry feels with Apparition are fairly unusual, and they will later change

The reference to the bottom of the lake is to the pressure of ten or more meters of water on the ears

I like to eat hunks of chocolate that have been in the freezer. Gnawing accurately describes the method

As you might expect, the Umbridge inquiry is important, although not in the way you might think

I tend towards the “smart Harry” school, probably because it increases his compatibility with Hermione

Alpha and omega are the first and last letters in the Greek alphabet. I added mu because it is the first letter in magic

Several of these bits of information about goblins become important

A little of Dumbledore's history. I'm not sure whether I'll get into it more later. So far the plot hasn't required it

Auror Candidate School is a play on the US military's Officer Candidate Schools

The Order will be looking for a permanent new HQ most of the summer. They will find an appropriate facility

Black family names have been changed from prior drafts to comport with canon

More on the nature of the Killing Curse later

Generation skipping trusts actually exist. Their usual use is for tax avoidance

Watch the numbers with the Gringotts shares. They become important

The “contradiction in terms” is an old lawyer joke

Dumbledore leaves unspoken just what role he does see Hermione playing in Harry's life

With Bill Weasley chosen to be Harry's guardian, he will become a big part of Harry's life, with predictable results

It was not a very opportune moment for Bill to be summoned

The goblins know a lot about money, but they're not people

Harry's relationship with the goblins will become very important. I thank Horst Pollman's Steel Wings series with opening me to that possibility

Cadbury is a real British company. I learned about it years ago when I visited New Zealand

The math in the Cadbury letter is accurate

Harry has strange things happen when he concentrates strongly

A little about Inferi in light of HBP

I paraphrased a t-shirt type slogan, “age and treachery can always overcome youth and skill”

This is not an R chapter, but later ones will be

Husqvarna is a Swedish tool making company. Flodden is a town in Northern England, and site of a famous battle

The use of “specimen” in this fashion is taken from philately

One in hand, two in the bush

- 54 -

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C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch4 meeting Dumbledore.doc 09/27/03

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5. Back To The Ministry

Wherein the Dursleys meet Tonks and Harry meets Godric; Harry goes back to the Ministry, starts training, and sits for a board of inquiry; he has an audience Minister Fudge, and sits for a press conference that leaves a number of people very unhappy; he decides to hire a lawyer and to do something nice for Ginny; he sends and receives various letters about Hermione's situation.

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

Chapter 5 - Back to the Ministry

Like the calm before the storm, the next few days passed routinely - if anything could be called routine in the life of someone rich, famous, fated to face the most powerful Dark wizard in the world in mortal combat - and who was not quite 16 years old. Harry continued running with his cousin every morning, and worked out diligently at the gym. Lao Kung was both pleased and proud that his meditation techniques were proving so effective in enhancing Harry's Occlumency powers. Indeed, the old Sefu seemed so content that Harry could not bring himself to bring up the old man's not letting on that he had been teaching Harry Occlumency techniques all along.

There was the usual - this summer's usual, anyway - flow of Harry's post. His aunt and uncle were finally resigned to the comings and goings of post owls. On Saturday, a carpenter turned up at the house and installed a protective cover for what Uncle Vernon said was going to be a large ventilating fan in the attic just under the eaves. The carpenter regarded Uncle Vernon somewhat strangely, since there was no fan and no circulation vents between the attic and the inhabited parts of the house. But he kept mum and got paid.

As soon as the carpenter left, Uncle Vernon summoned Harry. “All right,” he growled, “that's done. You're to leave the fan cover louvers open except in heavy rain so those blasted birds may enter and leave discreetly.”

“I'd be happy to do that,” Harry answered honestly. “But they'll just get stuck in the attic and make a terrible racket. There's no way into my room from there.”

Uncle Vernon had not thought of that. “Oh blast…. What to do?”

“Well…. I could handle it,” Harry offered, trying to be helpful.

“The Hell you will,” his uncle spat back. “You'd probably destroy the whole roof.”

“I'm not as powerful as … er … Mister Moody - the wiz … one you met a few days ago. Rather, I think you saw I'm pretty precise with my … with what I can do.”

Uncle Vernon's face got that unpleasant expression that let Harry know he had presented his Muggle guardian with a Hobson's choice. “Oh all right!” Uncle Vernon said grumpily. “I'm not going to spend another farthing on this. You can make a ruddy bird hole in the ceiling of your room - so long as you're careful and you keep it well hidden.”

“I'll be careful,” Harry promised. “I have to be.”

“Just get on with it,” his uncle brusquely declared. “And remember, from this point forward no more ruddy owls in the rest of my house.”

“Don't worry,” reassured Harry. “I'll place it in my closet where nobody can see it.”

On Friday Harry received an effusive thank you letter from Ron for the use of his broom. Despite Ron's tone, the letter did not lift his spirits. Ron told Harry that he would not be back from camp until at least 10 August - only three weeks before the start of school. It could even be another week before Ron returned if the Hogwarts team made the finals of the tournament that concluded the Quidditch camp. Harry resolved to try to convince Dumbledore to let him go to Denmark to watch the final, if the team got that far.

Harry also received what could only be described as a “thanks for nothing” letter from Ron's fiery sister, Ginny. Ginny was incensed that Ron got to use Harry's Firebolt … whilst at the same time Harry had not spared her even the kindness of a note. Harry winced at being called “a complete ingrate,” and wondered why she reacted so volcanically to him. True, he had just selected Bill as his guardian. True, not much more than a year ago, he had given Fred and George 1,000 Galleons, which made their joke shop dream into a reality. True, he had given Ron use of his very impressive, internationally rated broom.

But then, he had not done anything for Percy and Charlie, had he? Of course, they were no longer resident at the Burrow to rub Ginny's nose in it. Small wonder Ginny was in a “what have you done for me lately” (granted, he had saved her life several years earlier) snit.

Ginny had reason to feel ignored and left out. She had, after all, played a vital role at the Ministry. Indeed, she had arguably acquitted herself better than Ron. But all she had gotten for her troubles had been a broken ankle, and undoubtedly much grief from her rightly worried parents.

Harry certainly did not want to stay on Ginny's bad side - not if Ron's description of the Bat Bogey Hex Ginny used on Draco Malfoy the day of the “events at the Ministry” had been even close to accurate. He took her threat to hex him quite seriously.

He hoped her emotional tirade at him was just Ginny being Ginny, and not the type of anger Cho had displayed at him. Ginny had said she was over her silly, hero-worshipping infatuation, and he wanted to believe her. They were both overly emotional, and tended to set each other off. His mood swings had been getting worse. They needed to be damped down, not wound up.

When not working out, Harry mostly withdrew to his room. Sometimes he brooded, sometimes he listened to Dudley's CDs, and increasingly regularly he puttered about on the Internet doing such things as looking up song lyrics using Dudley's computer. His cousin had given him the password and allowed him free reign when he was away. All the while, Harry fretted over the way he had been tricked by Voldemort into going to the Ministry barely two weeks before, and how that trick had irrevocably changed his life.

After the latest revelations from Dumbledore, he felt his loss of innocence and his deprivation of a normal childhood more acutely than ever. Before, even though he had been the “Boy Who Lived,” he had still had a passably normal life - without prophecies, solicitors, newspaper articles (well, there had been some of those), wills, politics, or piles of fan mail. Now scores of things were converging on him helter skelter. None of those things was familiar, and all of them should not have been the concern of anybody still looking towards a sixteenth birthday.

On occasion his cousin, and once even his aunt, commented about Harry seeming distant and distracted, but Harry could not bring himself to talk about his situation. It was just too complicated, and with the prophecy too dangerous, to talk to about with his Muggle relatives.

There was one break in Harry's repetitive regimen of workouts and withdrawal. Sunday morning Harry was towelling off following his post-run shower when he heard the doorbell ring. Evidently his aunt answered the door because Harry heard her scream first. Thinking wildly that Voldemort might be attacking, Harry leapt out of the shower only half dried, slipped on the tile floor as he sent the mat flying, and careened half running, half falling into his room where he threw himself at his wand and his glasses. Harry also banged his shin smartly against the wrapped headmaster portrait that Dumbledore had given him. That was a not-so-subtle reminder that he was supposed to hang that picture, but had yet to do so.

By the time Harry struggled into his clothes, he was already certain there had been no magical attack, since he could catch snatches of Uncle Vernon bellowing at someone: “HOOLIGAN…!! PUNKS LIKE YOU SHOULD BE ARRESTED…!! DISTURBING THE PEACE AT THIS HOUR OF THE MORNING…!! IN MY DAY WE DIDN'T…!! GET A HAIRCUT AND TAKE A BATH!!” Harry felt sorry for whomever it was. Somebody had probably come to the wrong address by accident.

Harry was just about to ignore the whole ruckus when he heard Uncle Vernon fall silent in mid-bellow. Aunt Petunia screamed again, and Harry heard Dudley's footsteps come pounding up the stairs. His wide-eyed cousin charged into Harry's room. “Harry,” he panted, “come down, I think it's another one of your funny friends.”

Harry lurched to his feet and hurried downstairs. There in the front doorway with her wand out and still pointed at Uncle Vernon was Tonks. Her eyes were narrowed and she looked like she had just encountered something exceedingly unpleasant, like a Boggart hidden in a toilet tank. And indeed she had….

Tonks' expression was nothing compared to Uncle Vernon's. His purple face, spittle-specked mustache, and distended lips were moving as if he were still yelling at the top of his lungs, but not a sound emerged. Uncle Vernon had only been half-dressed when he had responded to Aunt Petunia's scream, so the overall effect in Harry's opinion resembled an egg on toothpicks - a very bedeviled egg at that particular moment.

Harry could understand at once why Uncle Vernon was upset. Unlike Moody, Tonks looked quite convincingly Muggle in her appearance - only she looked like no Muggle with whom Uncle Vernon would ever be caught dead associating.

Tonks' outfit was a cross between punk and Goth. She was wearing high-healed boots and black jeans that were torn in strategic places. The torn fabric was held together with at least a dozen five-centimetre silver safety pins. She had a bare midriff with some sort of ring in her navel. Above her waist she wore a black T-shirt with a large red star that had a green seven-pointed leaf on it. The shirt was emblazoned with “The Clash” above the star and “London's Burning” below it. At least Tonks' hair was a natural colour (she often coloured it pink), but it was done up in numerous ten-centimetre black spikes that stuck out in all directions. She had also applied black lipstick.

“Wotcher Harry,” greeted Tonks. “How've you been keeping? As I was trying to tell this great lump here - if he would ever let me get a word in edgewise - I'm here to check up on you. Dumbledore understood that your relatives said they wanted someone who looked more like a Muggle than Mad-Eye. That's me. I hang out with Muggles all the time. Nobody can out-Muggle me! How have the Muggles here been treating you? Better than they treat me, I hope.”

“They've been all right,” said Harry. “You'd better end that spell, though, before my uncle explodes.”

“Happy to,” said Tonks cheerfully. “Although I must admit that would be something to see…. Finite.”

Uncle Vernon deflated like a released balloon. Panting loudly, he addressed Harry. “Boy … if you know … what's good for you … from now on … everybody checking … up on you … will look like … a respectable … normal person … not like this … blasted hooligan.”

“I'll let Dumbledore know,” Harry promised. `Be careful what you wish for...,' he thought.

“I've got something for you, Harry,” Tonks revealed.

“Great,” Harry said, smiling. “Let's go upstairs. I need you to help me hang a picture Dumbledore gave me.”

In Harry's room, Tonks took what looked like a tea bag out of her back pocket, dropped it, and picked it up again. A wave of her wand caused it to expand to the size of a large handbag. Tonks removed a large stack of parchment and handed it to Harry. These were guardianship papers, in triplicate, for Harry to sign. Bill had already executed them. There was one copy for Harry, one for Bill, and one for the Ministry's records. Thus, Harry quickly signed three more binding magical contracts, with Tonks as his witness. As they were finishing up, Harry asked Tonks if there was any news.

“Well, the Deaters … Death Eaters … have been pretty quiet….” Tonks allowed. “An occasional odd disappearance, but nothing more. Unlike them, we've been active,” said Tonks, lowering her voice until she practically whispered in Harry's right ear. “We tracked down the brother of Sirius' old wand on the Continent. That allowed us to interrogate Sirius' wand….”

“You used the Priori Incantatem effect,” Harry observed dully.

“Oh, you know about that?” Tonks observed tartly.

“A little,” Harry allowed - not really wanting to get into the circumstances under which that knowledge was acquired.

Tonks let it go. “We went backwards through the last dozen spells Sirius cast with it,” she continued. “Our test conclusively proved that Sirius did not perform the curse for which he was sent to Azkaban. We'll be repeating the whole procedure before an investigating magistrate in just a few days. You'll have to testify at some point, but this independent evidence should make the case to clear Sirius.”

Harry smiled weakly, but said nothing.

“Harry,” cried Tonks. “I thought you would be more excited about this.”

“I'm happy enough,” said Harry. “But I'd much rather have Sirius than all the money in the world. I can't help it. It feels like blood money to me.”

“There are things worse than blood money, Harry,” reminded Tonks. “You have to accept that Sirius is gone. Don't get mad, don't get sad, get even - that's the ticket.”

Harry was a little confused, but since he had no real desire to talk about Sirius anymore, he changed the subject. “Can you help me hang this picture? Dumbledore gave it to me four days ago, and I haven't gotten around to putting it up.”

“What is it?” asked Tonks curiously.

“I think it's one of Hogwarts' old headmasters, so Dumbledore can check up on me if he needs to,” said Harry, hoisting the package by the wire on the back. Tonks ripped off the covering and then stood as if rooted to the floor.

“Come on, Tonks,” urged Harry impatiently, with the wire beginning to cut into his hand. “Help me get it over to the wall, will you.”

“Harry, that's not just any headmaster, that's Godric Gryffindor,” Tonks admiringly observed.

“In the flesh - well actually not,” commented the founder of Harry's house. “Next time, I'll thank you not to keep me in the dark for so long. I can't look after you if I can't look at you.”

“Sorry, sir,” Harry apologised, still shocked that he evidently rated Gryffindor himself.

“You must understand that I can't be here very long or very often, because my spirit must pass between hundreds of portraits,” the image of the great man explained. “However, you may call on me if there is something urgent, using a special appearance charm. Pay attention….”

“Should I take notes?” Harry asked, reaching for a handy Biro and a scrap of paper.

“Suit yourself,” the Founder shrugged. “This spell requires you to burn three hundredth-weights of Floo powder under my portrait - no more, or I'm prone to sneeze - then point your wand at the centre and … say, are you trained in silent spell casting yet?”

“Er … not much, sir,” Harry answered.

“Then say, `Aparecium portratus,'” Gryffindor instructed. “And enough of this `sir' business. I'm no stuffed shirt, you know.”

“Yes sir,” said Harry, still with more than a touch of awe in his voice. “Mr. Gryffindor, do you know that I used your sword … er … to kill a Basilisk?”

“I certainly do,” confirmed Gryffindor, “as I had to decide whether to send the sword to you. That was not just any Basilisk either. It was Salazar's personal pet. That was just one of a number of positively unforgivable things that he did. I had been trying for a thousand years to find some way to do away with it, and finally you became my instrument….”

“Oops!”

THUNK.

“OUCH!” squawked the portrait. “Hey, be more careful there! That's my wand arm….”

Poor Godric. Tonks had backed into the foot of Harry's bed whilst trying to move the picture towards the wall. She had fallen onto the bed and dropped her end of the portrait, which banged heavily into the floor on its upper right-hand corner.

An irritable Godric Gryffindor ignored Tonks and concluded, “You have the right stuff, Potter. That's why I urged Dumbledore to give you my portrait. Now, since I'm currently in more danger of being damaged by this walking disaster area than you are, I must be off.”

“Hey! I'm not that bad!” Tonks yelled at the portrait. “Just a mite clumsy….”

With no interest in learning how clumsy Tonks was, the image of Godric Gryffindor departed, muttering something about a “menace,” and left an empty frame behind.

It occurred to Harry that the Order was now naught for two with his relatives. He asked Tonks, “Do you think Dumbledore can send somebody a little more to my Uncle's liking next time…? Maybe somebody like Remus?” I haven't seen….”

CRASH!!

The question was barely out of his mouth when Tonks accidentally kicked the corner of Harry's desk, lost her balance and careened into Hedwig's cage (which, to be fair, was largely obscured by Harry's invisibility cloak), sending them keeling over. The now empty Gryffindor portrait fell to the floor, and nearly ripped on the corner of Harry's trunk.

“R-R-Remus … did you say?” Tonks moaned from a heap on the floor. “Why … that would be wonderful - except there's a full moon coming up…. And he's travelling all the time…. And he works too bloody hard…. But I'll see what I can do.”

Tonks bade Harry farewell only a short while later.

Promptly he sent a note to Dumbledore asking for only “respectable Muggle” impersonators from now on. He was almost dumbfounded by the idea that Godric Gryffindor himself had been involved in making life-or-death decisions about him in his Second Year.

Once again he resorted to physical exercise to escape mental turmoil.

First, he got Dudley to help him hang poor Godric; then he went outside to do some chores.

After several more hours of gardening to earn Muggle money, Harry decided that the Cadbury offer looked very good indeed, but that he wanted payment in pounds, not Galleons. As soon as the guardianship papers were finalized, he would have Bill, and whichever solicitor Bill chose, negotiate a deal with Cadbury.

Turning to other things Muggle, Harry also finished the remaining chapters on electricity that night. The last assigned chapter, on how electricity functioned in the human nervous system, had been very interesting, and Harry now had a good idea why Dumbledore had wanted him to read this material in anticipation of intensive magical training at the Ministry. The later chapters - about various technical things like transistors and nuclear power - looked far less inviting, and Harry was relieved Dumbledore had not assigned them.

Harry had some difficulty with his meditation that night. He was twitchier than usual in anticipation of his visit to the Ministry tomorrow morning, especially after what Dumbledore had told him about the direction his fame had been headed of late. But he had other reasons to be on tenterhooks. He knew that the Headmaster would be meeting with the Grangers tomorrow, and he was worried about whether that meeting would yield a favourable outcome. Harry was no believer in any religion, but he briefly addressed himself to whatever deities might be out there with a silent prayer for the Headmaster's success.

Harry awoke to the harsh sounds of his alarm clock at 5:30 the next morning. Before he knew it, there was a small popping noise and Harry felt himself being showered with bits of the clock. Harry groaned and smiled at the same time. He was getting better at wandless, silent magic, but with the ability to do it, came the need to control it. He found his wand. “Reparo,” he mumbled, and the alarm clock reassembled, once again serenading Harry with its dulcet tones. He turned it off and started preparing himself. Harry had left himself plenty of time to get to Mrs. Figg's. He was not about to be late.

Less than an hour later, Harry was making his way to Mrs. Figg's house at Number Seven under the Invisibility Cloak he had inherited from his father. Not being entirely sure what he would be expected to do, he wore his best (only) set of dress robes - but under them he was clad in Muggle jeans and his constellation T-shirt. At Mrs. Figg's, Harry met Bill, who was to escort him to the Ministry.

“Very well,” Bill began. “The Ministry wants us to ask each other personal questions to confirm each other's true identity. I suppose I'll start. Tell me how I first met Fleur?

It was a good question, since nobody but Harry would know the answer. “You two first met at the relatives' reception before the Third Task of the Triwizard Tournament,” Harry answered confidently.

“Right in one,” Bill cheerfully confirmed.

“My turn,” Harry continued slyly. “Why weren't you wearing your fang earring when I last saw you?”

“Harry, this is Ministry mandated security, not truth or dare,” Bill answered testily. With his ears reddening, he delicately indicated, “As you have probably guessed, you interrupted the two of us during an intimate moment.”

Seeing Harry smirk, Bill assumed his guardian role. “That brings me to rule number one: Thou shalt not make uninvited inquiry into your guardian's romantic affairs.”

“Yessir,” Harry responded, still smiling.

“Now I need to go to the Ministry anyway,” Bill continued. “I have to file the completed guardianship papers, but before I do, I want you to understand something, because this relationship can still be voided by either of us. You must accept that the role you've asked me to play is that of a surrogate parent - I'm not here to be a surrogate brother. Is that perfectly clear?”

“Yessir,” Harry answered, no longer smiling.

“Whilst we will, of course, consult and discuss matters in a civilised fashion, my being your guardian means that, when I make a decision, you are expected to comply - even if you don't like it. If you can't do that, tell me now.”

“I can do that,” the boy agreed in a soft voice.

“This is important, because I've heard everyone from Dumbledore to Ginny talk about how you have a `certain disregard for the rules,'” Bill explained. “I want you to understand from the outset that when I set a rule, it's a real rule, and not something that's optional.”

Harry sighed, but answered affirmatively, “I'll do that…. I promise.”

Today's journey to the Ministry was considerably more comfortable than either of the two times Harry had gone there before. He neither used the run down visitors' entrance from Muggle London nor rode some maniacal beast. From Mrs. Figg's fireplace, they travelled by Floo powder, so all Harry had to tolerate was some soot. That was certainly preferable to either a graffiti-scarred telephone box or a flying, flesh-eating demon-horse. Harry was expected this time, and they flooed in via the Aurors' entrance.

The reception Harry received was worthy of a visiting head of state. Indeed, the ministers of magic of smaller countries like Luxembourg, Albania, or Djibouti would not have drawn anywhere near the amount of Auror interest that Harry did. The “official” welcome party consisted of Chief Auror Rufus Scrimgeour, Kingsley Shacklebolt, three other Aurors Harry did not recognise - as well as two Unspeakables who never identified themselves, and another person who said only that he represented the Muggle intelligence service MI-5. Beyond that, however, another fifteen or twenty people who worked in the general area were milling about. It looked like a scene from outside the winners' locker room after the Quidditch World Cup. Waiting for Harry…. They were all waiting for him….

Bill brought the boy of the hour into the anteroom. Everyone moved forward, some more quickly than others, to get a glimpse (or more) of the fifteen-year-old wizard whom the Daily Prophet had been touting as “the first hero of the second war,” and even “the Chosen One,” for the past several weeks. Harry was embarrassed to find himself asked for autographs by wizards and witches several times older than he was.

Chief Scrimgeour, a fierce looking man with a great mane of rapidly greying locks almost as untamable as Harry's, greeted the boy. “Harry Potter, I'm most pleased to welcome you to our Auror Candidate School. You will receive an accelerated course of instruction concerning many of the subjects that our usual recruits are taught. I hope you don't find it too much to handle. Your guide and mentor will be Captain Shacklebolt….”

“Call me Shak,” the auburn Auror remarked, far more informally than his superior officer did.

“Your serious training will begin tomorrow,” Scrimgeour continued, ignoring the interruption. “You will be instructed by a team of four handpicked trainers. Today is simply for intake and a little basic orientation. After that you will be debriefed by the inquiry into the events at the Ministry. In the afternoon the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge will meet with you in the Succession Room, which if you don't know, serves as the Minister's formal office. My orders are to have you there in time for a meeting to begin promptly at 2:00 p.m….”

As Scrimgeour droned on about what was to come, Harry got the sense that he would be receiving much of the same training in spellwork and various forms of practical magic that official Auror candidates received. The difference was that Harry was expected to learn everything in a little over two months, instead of the usual nine-month instructional course that Auror recruits received before being released to their probationary field training.

Concentrated education, Harry knew, had never been his strongest suit. His mind quickly wandered to a certain someone whose strong suit seemed to be any kind of education. He made a mental note to use the communicator that evening to ask Dumbledore about his meeting with the Grangers.

When Scrimgeour finished with his introductory spiel, it was 7:30. Harry had a little more than two hours to complete Auror intake before beginning a debriefing that would last at least a couple of hours. Then there was this mysterious meeting with Minister Fudge. If Harry were lucky, he would get a maybe an hour of actual instruction before returning home at 5:00 p.m. Bill accompanied him to the intake area so that both of them could get fitted for Auror partner rings.

These rings were definitely high-tech magic. Aurors worked in pairs, and each member of a pair had a charmed ring that allowed his or her partner to locate and identify the other's aura instantly. The charm worked in the dark and was unaffected by disguises, invisibility cloaks, or even an Incognitus transfiguration. Using a variant of the Four Point spell, partners could locate one another's rings - and thus each other - at a distance. It was necessary, however, to scan both partners' auras at the outset to activate the charmed rings. Harry was not an Auror, so he had to pick a non-Auror partner. As his guardian, Bill was the logical choice.

After Bill left, Harry's first stop was to obtain his Ministry-issue equipment from the Auror quartermasters. Shak escorted him down a long hallway, painted a drab greyish green. The monotony was broken only by faded and Spellotaped posters bearing sloganistic exhortations (“Practice Elementary Wand Safety,” “Do Not Apparate for 24 Hours After Giving Blood,” “Death Eaters Can Strike At Any Time. Always Wear Your Partner Ring.”). Along the hallway was a row of windows. A witch or wizard charged with dispensing a particular type of gear occupied each window. The drill required Harry to stop at each window successively, and he became increasingly laden with training equipment. He received:

- Two sets of standard dark grey Auror training robes, one fireproof and one waterproof;

- Auror footwear that never became untied and which was traction-charmed to permit the wearer to stand, walk, and run normally on almost any solid surface, even wet ice;

- Several pairs of wick-dry, thermal controlled socks;

- Dragon hide gloves;

- A dragon hide spell-resistant vest;

- A charmed belt with five expandable storage spots;

- A portable clamshell combination Foe-Glass and mini-Sneakoscope;

- A jock strap charmed to repel or absorb physical blows (female Aurors were issued anti-rape knickers instead);

- An unbreakable athletic band for his glasses, that only Harry could remove;

- A yarmulke functioning as a hard hat;

- A wrist holster for his wand, that Harry could make invisible at will;

- A charmed spare wand container, shaped like a cigar holder, used as a suppository (Shak warned Harry that this piece of equipment “took some getting used to”);

- A knife, similar to the present from Sirius that Harry had ruined in the Department of Mysteries, that could open doors and untie knots - but including a set of cutlery that could detect all common poisons;

- A broom identification kit that, when attached to the user's broom, prevented anyone else from using it (except for sweeping) by spraying the offender with ethanethiol;

- A magical first aid kit containing a wide range of curative potions for broken bones, sprains, open wounds, fevers and other maladies, as well as poultices for healing curse and hex marks;

- A collapsible cauldron for field potions brewing;

- The Auror's Handbook of Offensive and Defensive Magic, and an accompanying workbook on silent spell-casting;

- The Auror's Guide to Survival Magic, primarily devoted to functioning in harsh wilderness environments; and

- Ancient Magic for Modern Times, primarily devoted to wandless and persistent magic.

At the last window Harry was given an Aural Pensieve, which resembled an old fashioned down pillow in a case emblazoned with brocaded runes. Two long antennae extended rather droopily from it. Whilst Harry at least had a general idea of what his other equipment was supposed to do, this thing stumped him entirely. He stared blankly at this final acquisition. Seeing his perplexity, Shak explained. “You're to receive the accelerated course of instruction, using your books only for in-class reference. Outside class you really won't need the books, as books. Unlike most of your equipment, which stays in your wardrobe, this goes home with you.”

“Uh-huh,” Harry nodded, still wondering what the thing was.

“All of your homework reading will take place as you sleep using this special Pensieve,” Shak explained some more. “Instead of complete memories, the pillow contains sounds - the sounds of the lessons being read. Before you go to sleep, tap the pillow with your wand, state the number of the lesson you have been assigned. Then lie on the pillow and insert the knobs on the end of the antennae in your ears. A regular Pensieve shows you visual memories, but the Aural Pensieve implants memories with sound alone. Whilst you are asleep, the lesson will be transferred directly to your brain and implanted in your long-term memory.”

Harry received a wardrobe in the Auror training area for stowing his gear. Shak then led Harry through double doors labeled “Candidate Evaluation.” There he was given a vision test. His wand was tested, as were his magical reflexes. Harry was photographed. His aura was recorded (again). A set of his fingerprints were taken, as was a sample of his hair. Then Harry was given a very brief physical examination.

Finally, he was led and into a large room that contained an old fashioned copper steam boiler attached to several pipes and gauges. Shak explained: “Harry, this is where we measure your baseline magical power. This boiler has been in use for over 100 years. It contains exactly 379 litres [100 imperial gallons] of distilled water at a temperature of 20 degrees Celsius. Each candidate Auror uses a simple spell to heat the water in the boiler. You apply the spell for ten minutes. This gauge (he pointed to a small dial at the base of the boiler) measures how much water is left in the boiler after you are finished. The gauge in the corner (he pointed to a more elaborately calibrated black gauge) measures the total force of the steam generated by your spell. The spell is pronounced “Celsio” and is commenced by an upward flick of the wand after which you keep it trained on the target. You may stand anywhere along this arc, which is five metres from the boiler. Hold the spell until the buzzer sounds. You may begin when you are ready, excuse me….”

Shak had a brief conversation with a man in the corner of the room, whom Harry recognised as one of the nameless Department of Mysteries representatives. When Shak returned, he was carrying a device, on a strap, about the size of a paperback book. “Harry, this is somewhat a departure from normal, but I have a request from the Department of Mysteries that you wear this device whilst performing the test. I cannot go into details, but the device measures your output and conductivity.”

“What's going on?” Harry asked.

“I cannot tell you,” said Shak. “All I know is that this is Department of Mysteries business and therefore highly confidential - even from me. You don't have to do it. It is totally your choice.”

Harry mulled the situation over, and agreed to wear the device. He stood at the line, and took a deep breath. Harry used his concentration techniques to clear his mind and focus entirely on the boiler. He pronounced the spell, flicking his wand as shown and aiming it squarely at the boiler. His wand emitted conical reddish light that made contact with an area of boiler about a metre in diameter.

Harry closed his eyes to better concentrate, conjuring up the mental image of himself pushing beads of light along a golden thread during his duel with Voldemort not much more than a year before. Not long afterwards, Harry heard the satisfying low hiss of escaping steam. The hiss steadily rose in pitch until he had the boiler whistling like a teakettle. It was a difficult spell to maintain. Harry soon felt bone-wearying tiredness, but through sheer force of will managed to continue until at last he heard the buzzer.

Harry fell to his knees as he ended the spell, sweating profusely, his breathing ragged and heavy. He was only semi-conscious as he felt strong arms gripping his shoulders and lifting him to his feet, and another set of arms removing the mystery device. Harry opened his eyes and saw Shak's broadly smiling face. “Excellent, Harry,” he boomed. The boiler contains only 33 litres of water; you boiled over 90% of it away. You produced almost 30 thousand kilocalories of heat energy in ten minutes. That's better than I did when I was in your place. Your magical power is in the highest 5% of our applicants.”

An equally upbeat technician approached Harry, and gave him what looked like a parchment version of a cash register tape with various figures on it. Shak continued, “Here are the written results of your power test. This is for you to keep.” The Auror's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “If I were you, I would show this to your Head of House. I have reason to believe that she would be very interested to see these results.”

After additional discussion of his training schedule, Harry received his first homework assignment. Then it was time to shower and change back into his dress robes. He found that he liked the Auror's shower room very much. Each shower had five showerheads that moved and directed their flow, as commanded, to wherever he requested. One of the perks of being an Auror, he thought.

The debriefing took place in a conference room on the uppermost floor that was charmed to appear as if it had a breathtaking view of central London. Shak accompanied Harry to the room, where the Chairman of the Board of Inquiry, Mad-Eye Moody, welcomed him (“Good to have yeh on board, Potter. Now we just might get ta the bottom of things.”). Mad-Eye introduced the other three Aurors, Clifton Branstone, Quimby Quirke, and Theodora Doddinghurst. They were most interested in the “breakdowns in security” that had allowed first the Death Eaters and then Harry's rescue party access to the Ministry long after it should have been closed to outsiders. The two Unspeakables never identified themselves, and never explained their interest, but told Harry to call them “Smith” and “Jones.” The Muggle from MI-5, Sean Moore, was a security expert especially interested in determining if any of the Death Eaters were in league with Muggle terrorist groups.

The debriefing took hours, as Mad-Eye required Harry to go into excruciating detail about every aspect of not only what he did whilst in the Ministry, but also the run up to it. Many times Harry could not tell whether his information was of the slightest value, but occasionally there were exchanges between his interlocutors indicating that they had learned something useful. For example, the Ministry wards, whilst able to detect brooms, Apparition, and various Muggle transportation devices, were incapable of detecting animals, since use of animals to travel was considered archaic. By using Thestrals to get to the Ministry, Harry and his friends had been able to land only a few feet from the entrance completely undetected.

As Harry described everything he remembered about the events at the Ministry, he mentioned the brain room and Ron's close encounter with one of the brains. Both Smith and Jones tensed visibly when they heard this, and their follow-up questions indicated that they, at least, had been unaware that anyone had physically come into contact with a brain. `A bad sign,' Harry thought. He was worried that Ron might be worse off than he, Harry, had previously believed.

Although they were very guarded in what they revealed, Harry learned from the Unspeakables that Ron had been struck early on in the battle with the Death Eaters by some sort of spell that impaired his higher faculties (an Intoxicans Hex or possibly an Idiotus Jinx, they speculated). Physically touching - let alone grabbing - any of those brains was a very, very bad idea. Any physical contact triggered certain “security features” that neither Smith nor Jones was at liberty to discuss, or even to identify. They warned darkly that the effects of these features on a target, which is what Ron had become, were potentially long lasting and characterised by unpredictable sequelae.

The Aurors also wanted a blow-by-blow account of every spell, curse, and hex that each Death Eater had cast - regardless of the intended recipient. At times this portion of the debriefing resembled a macabre scouting report. Harry had the sense that the Aurors were most interested in the tendencies, powers, and weaknesses of possible duelling opponents, as if sizing up opposing members of a Quidditch team. `These Aurors don't need me, they need Lee Jordan,' Harry thought. Mad-Eye, on the other hand, kept up a running commentary critiquing Harry's performance and suggesting alternate hexes that he might have used.

This lightest part of a rather sombre meeting came to an abrupt end when Harry described Antonin Dolohov's silently cast slashing purple flame that felled Hermione and later grazed Harry as it had glanced off his partially formed Protego Charm. Harry went through the sequence and description three times in response to ever more detailed inquiries, including from “Smith” and “Jones,” who had heretofore remained silent throughout the discussion of Death Eater spells. Not even Professor Snape had examined Harry's potions more minutely.

Smith and Jones asked for a break and discussed things with the others out of Harry's earshot. Quirke and Branstone then left, whilst everyone else took a quick lunch break. The wizards passed around plates and called out their lunch orders. Harry, who had gone without magically prepared food since leaving Hogwarts, broke into his first grin since the debriefing began. From an extensive menu, he ordered pasta e fagioli and fettuccine Alfredo.

Mad-Eye, as was his habit, spurned the Aurors' menu entirely and produced a personally prepared brown-bag lunch and his hip flask.

Quirke and Branstone returned about fifteen minutes later, accompanied by two of the most physically imposing wizards Harry had ever seen - this side of Hagrid, that is. These two brawny brutes were wheeling an extremely large, extremely old book chained to a trolley. They brought it to a halt in the front of the room and stood on either side of the book, arms crossed, muscles bulging, looking menacing. Even Mad-Eye stopped what he was doing and watched with rapt attention.

Quirke told Harry that this was the Book of Merlin, Merlin's own master spell book. It was the only one of its kind in existence and had been continually updated for well over a millennium as new spells were invented. The Book was the most valuable manuscript in wizarding Britain, if not the world. Harry was one of the few non-Ministry personnel who had ever laid eyes upon it. Even Mad-Eye had never seen it in person before. Branstone instructed Harry that he was going to tap the Book three times with his wand whilst saying a secret silent spell. After that, Harry was to recite everything he could remember about Dolohov's curse.

Harry did as he was told. A slight breeze came up as the pages of the Book of Merlin flipped by themselves, first this way and then the other as he added more details. When he stopped speaking, the pages stopped turning. After making the wand movement that Harry associated with Finite, Branstone approached the book. “The Dark Fire of Tu Fan,” he announced. Reading from the Book of Merlin, Branstone described a curse that had originated in Tibet over a thousand years ago. It first appeared in Europe as one of the spells brought back from the Orient by that noted traveller, linguist (and wizard), Marco Polo.

The Dark Fire was a killing curse, far older but not as powerful as Avada kedavra. It operated by overloading the nervous system, causing autonomic breakdown and resulting in cessation of breathing and heartbeat. It was an emotion-based spell and because of that the Ministry classified it as Schedule I illegal magic. Use of the Dark Fire had never become widespread in Europe. It was more complicated than most other deadly curses, and far more difficult to learn than Avada kedavra (also, few European wizards could speak Tibetan).

The one major advantage of the Dark Fire was that it is almost the only deadly curse that could be performed silently. Even Avada kedavra had never been successfully adapted to silent magic. Nevertheless, the silent version of the Dark Fire was not as powerful as when the full Tibetan incantation is recited.

Whilst Branstone was still speaking, Quirke whispered something into the ear of one of the massive guards. The guard nodded and the two of them started to wheel the Book of Merlin away. “Wait just a minute there, boys,” called out Mad-Eye Moody. “I want ta see the description of this spell fer myself.” Since Mad-Eye was Chairman of the Board of Inquiry, none of the Aurors could raise a valid objection, although they all looked rather timorous at the prospect of the volatile ex-Auror so close to such an irreplaceable object.

Mad-Eye approached the Book of Merlin and gently, almost reverently, placed his hands on its pages. He studied the entry with such concentration that Harry wondered if Mad-Eye would have heard had he called out. The old man was plainly trying to absorb more than just the words - he seemed to be connecting with the aura of the Book itself.

Abruptly, Mad-Eye nodded to nobody in particular and stepped back from the Book. “Potter, pay attention,” he growled. Moody whirled around, his wand out, and silently performed the same slashing motion that Dolohov had used. A line of light purple flame shot from Mad-Eye's wand. The flame passed over a folding table, the wall and the faux window on the far side of the room. The wall smoked slightly, the window was etched, and after about ten seconds, the table collapsed, inconveniently spilling the remains of their lunch across the floor.

“That look like the genuine article,” Potter?” Mad-Eye asked, and then took a swig from his flask. Harry nodded affirmatively, amazed at how anyone could master a spell like that in only a couple of minutes. “One question answered then,” Mad-Eye pronounced. “Potter, yeh and yer friend are exceedingly lucky that Dolohov was impaired when yeh encountered him. Hate ta say it, but if he'd been at full strength, I seriously doubt that either of yeh would have survived.”

In an eerie reprise of the professorial style that he had never had the opportunity to actually use at Hogwarts, Mad-Eye explained, for Harry's benefit, the distinction between emotion-based and power-based spells. Emotion-based spells required the user to in the proper emotional state of mind for the spell to work properly. The stronger the emotion (provided it was the correct one), the better the spell worked. An emotion-based spell affecting the nervous system could even cause affinities because of its effect on the brain. An affinity was a magically created connection of some kind between two people that was usually secondary to a dangerous or illegal spell.

The most well known emotion-based spell was the Cruciatus curse. It was notorious for giving rise to affinities between people victimised by the curse either simultaneously or in quick succession. Because Death Eaters often cursed entire families at once, Cruciatus-based affinities had been widely studied by wizard healers. Mad-Eye was about to launch into a discussion of the Longbottoms when Smith and Jones interrupted - signalling that this subject was better not discussed at this time.

Affinities created by the Dark Fire were had never been studied in any systematic fashion. Not only was that curse much rarer, it was usually fatal - an adverse effect that, of course, prevented any other symptoms from being studied. There were only a few vague examples mentioned in the literature.

“What … what about my link to Voldemort?” Harry asked, putting the cat amongst the pigeons. That question prompted a general discussion that even the Unspeakables joined enthusiastically. Jones explained, “Avada kedavra is a power-based curse, not an emotion-based one, but it's rather unique in a number of ways.”

Quimby added, “It's hard to say, but conceivably the Killing Curse could create a strong affinity between the user and the victim, or even between successive victims.”

“I'll bet it's hard ta say,” Moody added a bit sarcastically, “seeing as how everyone - saving Harry here - ends up dead as a result. That's a bit of an impediment ta future study.”

“How does it work?” Harry had to ask.

“Avada kedavra operates by withdrawing all electrical energy from the body. That instantaneously shuts down the nervous system, causing universal cellular apoptosis, and thus instant death without any apparent injury,” Theodora Doddinghurst explained authoritatively.

`Must be a healer,' Harry speculated to himself, not understanding half of what she said.

Mad-Eye added, “The killing curse was relatively recently developed. The first documented public use was only in 1921.”

Doddinghurst further observed that Harry's own case “had prompted some healers to speculate about Avada kedavra-based affinities - but because you are a unique case, it has never been possible to do anything more than speculate. Everyone else hit with the Killing Curse has, of course, died.”

“Are there any emotion-based curses that aren't considered Dark Magic?” Harry asked.

“Well, there's the Cheering Charm,” Mad-Eye answered. “That's an emotion-based spell of a lower order that….”

“That's all well and good, but we do have work to do,” Smith cut across.

“Yes, if we don't get back on track, we'll never finish before Mister Potter has to leave,” Jones added.

The two Unspeakables thus intervened in order to keep Mad-Eye from setting out on another tangent. As much as Harry wanted to learn more about this fascinating aspect of magic, if they failed to return to the business at hand they would not be finished before Harry's audience with Minister Fudge - and Fudge did not like to be kept waiting.

The meeting continued, with Harry asked for his opinions about security in the Ministry. There was the obvious fact that a dozen Death Eaters had penetrated not only the Ministry, but also the ordinarily top secret Department of Mysteries, without being detected in the slightest. Harry pointed out what he thought were additional problems with the visitors' entrance and with the lifts.

Smith and Jones focused their inquiry on Harry's visions. They were very interested in them - especially the last - because what Harry saw was only known to relatively few. One or more of those few were now suspected of being in league with Voldemort.

It was this interest that caused Smith and Jones, whilst not trying to be disagreeable, to put Harry through the most unpleasant encounter of the day. They needed to find out exactly how badly the Department of Mysteries had been compromised prior to the invasion. Not only was this inquiry necessary in its own right, but the information could also be of great value in possibly identifying the insider who had provided the Death Eaters with information.

In order to access every detail of the false vision that Voldemort had insinuated into Harry's brain, the two Unspeakables had to use Legilimency. Mad-Eye was not going to stop the Unspeakables from trying, but he gruffly informed Smith and Jones that he expected Harry would be a “tougher nut to crack” than they thought.

Harry reluctantly agreed, but after so many defensive lessons in Occlumency, he was unable to relax and let the process proceed without resistance. Several times, he let loose with spontaneous magic that left the acrid smell of ozone behind. In the worst incident, a Furnunculus-like curse of some sort knocked Jones flat on his back and left his face covered with Christmas tree worms for several minutes. Both Smith and Jones were quite the worse for wear before they obtained the memory they needed.

Due to Harry's newfound and somewhat surprising resistance, the debriefing's foray into Legilimency took considerable time. At a quarter to two, Shak appeared to bring the debriefing to a reluctant end and to take Harry to Minister Fudge's office suite. Mad-Eye offered Harry the gratitude of the Board of Inquiry, and left Harry with an emblematic “Constant vigilance!” reminder ringing in his ears. After getting Harry cleaned up from the gruelling Legilimency session, Shak performed a Disillusionment Charm in order to avoid subjecting him to any more staring crowds.

Minister Fudge greeted Harry somewhat awkwardly in his enormous ceremonial office. He bustled about with the artificial warmth that Harry had by now come to associate with politicians and their hangers-on when they were trying to impress someone. Nevertheless, mindful of Dumbledore's instructions, Harry played along, determined not to let his true emotions get the better of him.

The Minister “trusted” that Harry was finding his current media portrayals “more to your liking” than those he had experienced prior to the “imbroglio” at the Ministry.

Harry never mentioned that he had not even been taking the Daily Prophet.

Fudge apologised profusely for being “wrongheaded” and “misguided” in his prior refusal to accept the reality of Voldemort's return.

Harry refrained from mentioning Fudge's attempts to expel him from Hogwarts and to jail Dumbledore for something Harry had done.

After a few more pleasantries, Minster Fudge started fumbling about looking for something on his large, paper-strewn desk - apparently some document that he wanted Harry to see. His eyes following the Minister's hands across the desk, Harry noticed a folder, facing away from him so that he had to try to read it upside down. The folder said something about testimony by Lucius Malfoy. Harry wished that this had been the document Fudge wanted him to read, - at least it would have made interesting reading. Red-faced and defeated, the Minister finally yelled to an aide Harry could not see to “bring me another copy of the press release.”

The aide did so.

Smiling broadly, Fudge intoned unctuously, “Congratulations, Harry. What you and your friends did in defence of the Ministry and of our society was unprecedented, and for that you will receive unprecedented recognition. The Wizard Council has decided to award you the Order of Merlin, Second Class. The award is for organising fellow students to prevent Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters from stealing secret information from the Department of Mysteries, and also for your role in capturing eleven Death Eaters - four of whom had had recently escaped from Azkaban. Each of your five compatriots will receive the Order of Merlin Third Class for his or her efforts. Please appreciate that the Order of Merlin has never before been awarded to any underage wizard.”

Harry quickly scanned the document Fudge presented him:

For Immediate Release - June 29, 1996

Minister of Magic Cornelius Oswald Fudge announced today the decision of the Wizarding Council to award the Order of Merlin, Second Class to Harry Potter for his conspicuous gallantry on the night of June 11-12, 1996, in organising a expeditionary force of five fellow Hogwarts students. This force thwarted He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and twelve of his followers (Death Eaters) from stealing highly classified information from the Department of Mysteries, on the Ninth Floor of the Ministry of Magic in London.

Each of the five other students - whose identities are not being released pending parental notification - will receive the Order of Merlin, Third Class for his or her part in the successful defence of the Ministry. This defence brought about the capture of eleven of twelve Death Eaters and the flight of the Dark Lord himself. Four of the captured Death Eaters were among those who had recently escaped from Azkaban. In view of the number of Death Eaters taken prisoner, the Council also voted to award 2,000 Galleons to each of the six students.

“These decorations are unprecedented, in that no student or other underage wizard has ever had the Order conferred,” declared Minister Fudge. “However, they are equally well-deserved, as these students demonstrated pre-eminent bravery in the course of defeating the forces of darkness in the first battle of what will undoubtedly be a long and hard-fought war. Let their efforts serve as an example to us all that the Dark Lord and his evil minions can, have, and will be defeated.”

In addition, the same session of the Council decided to confer an Order of Merlin bar upon Albus Dumbledore, who already holds the Order of Merlin, First Class.

Details of the ceremony at which the Orders of Merlin will be conferred have yet to be finalized, but it will in all likelihood take place at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry some time this autumn.

“I don't deserve this,” said Harry flatly. “I was tricked and led my friends into a trap. All of us almost got killed. If not for Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix, we would have been dead. If anybody deserves such an award, they do, not me.”

“The Council is also awarding Dumbledore a bar upon his previous Order of Merlin for his personal duel with Voldemort,” Fudge hastily added. “As for the Aurors and the Order, they were doing their duty.”

“My godfather, Sirius Black, was wrongly convicted of murder - without a trial. He risked his freedom coming to my rescue and got killed,” responded Harry. “He did a lot more than anyone's idea of duty. Remus Lupin is a werewolf, who can't find a decent job because of the discriminatory laws you've passed. I can't speak for the others, but I can't accept this in good conscience.”

“But, Harry, you must,” spluttered Fudge, rising from his chair and agitatedly wringing his hands. “You've just put your finger on why these awards properly belong to you and your friends. Your efforts are a symbol to us all that not only can You-Know-Who be defeated, but that ordinary persons can successfully defend themselves. Not everyone is an Albus Dumbledore, an Auror, or even a Sirius Black, but everyone can put up a fight if prepared for it. You showed that the Dark Forces could be defeated. We need that.”

“I know all that,” conceded Harry. “That's what's going on in the Prophet too, I reckon. Look, this is a big surprise. I wasn't prepared for anything like this. Dumbledore wants me to cooperate with you in any way I can to boost morale, so I'm not about to spoil this party. But I'm really uncomfortable with this. Perhaps if something was done for Sirius and Remus before the ceremony that you have planned in the autumn…. They don't deserve what they've received, and Sirius was the only real family I've ever had. I … I take his loss very personally, and I know he is innocent. I just want his name cleared. If that doesn't happen, I might well have second thoughts about this.”

“Thank you, Harry, and well said,” soothed Fudge. “I'll have you know that in recognition of Remus Lupin's efforts, I am planning to repeal the Werewolf Registration Act that caused him so many problems. Further, the Ministry is going to open a well-funded medical research effort against lycanthropy that will involve, among other places, Hogwarts. As for Mr. Black, I am not in the position to promise anything, except that as we speak a hard look is being given at the evidence upon which he was convicted and at other evidence that has since come to light. If the Wizengamot concludes that he was wrongly convicted, Mr. Black will be cleared.”

“I really can't ask for more, thank you,” responded Harry.

“Excellent,” beamed Fudge. “Now let's face the press, shall we?”

“The … the … the press…?” stammered the boy. “Now?”

“Yes, of course,” Fudge answered matter-of-factly. “What you just read is a press release. It is being distributed in the pressroom right now. I know the reporters are going to have some questions for you. Is there anything you'd like before we start - water, make-up, you name it, and it's yours. Personally I prepare with one shot of Ogdens' Old Firewhiskey,” the Minister chuckled, removing a shot glass from a desk drawer and a hip flask from beneath his robes.

“Just … just … just some water and a chair,” stammered Harry, his face as white as a sheet. “I've never done this before.”

“Remember that you can say `no comment,' and refuse to answer any question you don't like,” instructed Fudge with the lazy air of an old pro at handling the press. “They will ask a lot of stupid questions, many of which are personal and none of their business. It's best that you only let each reporter ask one question. That way nobody can follow up on anything you've said, since each reporter will have his or her own question already in mind. And to the extent you have been told by anybody that certain information is to remain a secret, you should of course not answer at all. Are you ready to go? It's through this door.”

Nothing could have fully prepared Harry for the bedlam that marked his appearance. Alerted by a Ministry declaration that the Minister would have an “important announcement” later in the day, at least fifty wizard reporters were crammed into a room intended for only half that number. There was even a Muggle reporter with a badge indicating that he normally worked the Palace beat, although Harry had no idea why. The press conference was covered live by the Wizard's Wireless Network, which had set up bulky equipment that blocked the view from the left-hand side. Several photographers jostled for unobstructed shots, and one of them sprawled over four rows when a folding chair he had been standing on collapsed.

Harry felt he was almost literally being fed to the wolves as Minister Fudge made some brief opening remarks that did not go beyond the information in the press release, took no questions, and introduced him. The effect was electric. The reporters, given their first chance ever (except for one interview with Rita Skeeter) to ask him questions, ignored the Minister of Magic completely. After several minutes of pandemonium in which everyone shouted out questions at once, Harry pulled out his wand, shouted “Silencio,” and then imposed order himself, going down the row one by one.

The questions began close to the topic at hand. Harry expressed his “gratitude” for the award of the Order of Merlin several times and praised his as yet unidentified cohorts effusively. His most serious concern was not to compromise any of the operational details of Ministry security, which resulted in a number of “no comments.”

There was a dicey question about the contents of the prophecy that Voldemort had been trying to steal. Harry felt fortunate that he was aware of what was publicly known about the prophecy and what was still secret. He dodged the question with the response that the Ministry's record of the prophecy had been destroyed during the battle - which was true, but which also gave the desired false impression that the exact words of the prophecy were impossible to know. Another reporter asked him what, with the Order of Merlin already in hand, did he expect “when” (not if) he defeated Voldemort. He was flummoxed by that question, and responded, “I dunno, Order of the Garter, maybe? Disney World?”

Then the order of questioning came to the one reporter most familiar with Harry's personal situation, Ms. Skeeter:

“Is it true that the only fatality on either side was your godfather, the convicted murderer Sirius Black?” she asked.

Harry glared. “Yes, Sirius was killed in the battle, and he was my godfather. But he wasn't a murderer. He was innocent and was sent to Azkaban without a trial.”

From this point on, the press conference became considerably more personal. Harry expressed confidence that Sirius would be cleared, and this comment was met by questions that suggested that he had a financial interest in that outcome. That question caught him unawares, and he laboured to answer, since he had to admit that the interest did in fact exist.

After the “serious journalists” representing ordinary news organisations had had their say, it was time for the more exotic publications. Some of these questions also proved difficult. The reporter from Teen Witches' Weekly asked Harry if it was true that his “girlfriend” had been seriously injured in the battle. He stammered badly, as first and foremost he was not going to say anything that could possibly jeopardise Hermione's return to Hogwarts. Finally, he answered, “No, I don't have a girlfriend, but I have a best friend who is a girl. All of us suffered some sort of serious injuries. I was hit with the same spell that she was, and I was also briefly possessed by Voldemort.”

This answer (along with the one-question-per-reporter rule) had the intended effect of changing the subject. The collective shudder that went up when Harry used Voldemort's name was also part of it. Questioning about the possession brought out the fact that Voldemort had been unable to possess him for any significant period of time before being forced to leave by something within Harry that he could not name. This information left the impression that the boy was even more powerful than suggested in previously published accounts.

The last question before Harry had gone through all the reporters was the only one that caught him in an untruth: “I believe you misspoke before when you said that all of the students who accompanied you were seriously injured in the battle, isn't that correct?”

Harry did a doubletake, until he saw the questioner. “I'm sorry, I didn't get your name and affiliation,” he said.

“Xenophilius Lovegood, from The Quibbler.” He replied.

“You are correct, sir,” Harry said, as they shared an inside joke. “I misspoke. One of them was knocked out, but then required no further medical treatment.”

Mr. Lovegood smiled and nodded silently at Harry. The older man had the confirmation he needed, and now knew that his own daughter was one of those to whom the Order of Merlin would be awarded. He was deeply proud of his most unusual child. Then Mr. Lovegood said:

“Oh, and I have one question for the Minister.”

Fudge, who had hovered in the background throughout, had been on the verge of leaving. He abruptly stiffened at that statement. Fudge knew that he had no harsher - or, thankfully, more bizarre - critic than The Quibbler. “Yes, Mr. Lovegood,” he said with exaggerated courteously.

“When will the Malfoy transcripts be made available to the public?”

Minister Fudge sighed and swallowed as he took his time with his answer. Most of the reporters had stopped paying attention and were packing up to leave. Fudge was in no mood to stop them. He answered, “My understanding is that the transcripts might be available as early as this afternoon, from the usual source.” Fudge then declared the press conference over and beckoned Harry back to his office.

“Harry, you were magnificent,” Fudge bubbled. “Casting Silencio over the entire press corps to begin the conference. I'll have to remember that one myself, but I'm not at all sure that I could get away with that. Where did you get that capital idea?”

Harry laughed, “I've seen one of my best friends' mother do that to her children when they wouldn't be quiet at the dinner table. When I first got up there, and everybody was shouting at once, I was at a loss what to do. That was the first thing that came to mind.”

“Excellent,” chortled Fudge. “The press as unruly children. Harry, you are destined for greatness. Someday, I wouldn't be surprised if you sit where I do now.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied Harry, “but I don't think I would last very long in your line of work. Even when they're on your side, these reporters are such blithering idiots. I can't believe that, after what I've been through, somebody would suggest that I want to clear Sirius' name because of some damn money.”

“Harry,” sighed Fudge, “the press is motivated by only one thing - to sell its peculiar product. Anything scandalous, be it money, sex, drinking, you name it, the press will chase it. You know that already. Just remember those Rita Skeeter stories a year ago. And believe me, nobody sympathises with you more than I do. I've been hit with just about everything in their repertoire. Why, I've even been accused of killing goblins for pleasure.”

“Yes, I remember that one,” said Harry. “Even though I was inclined at the time to believe everything bad that anyone said about you, I couldn't believe that.”

“Harry, I said it before and I'll say it again. I was stupid and stubborn in not believing you and Dumbledore, and I hope you accept my apology. I also apologise for pushing you out in front of the press like I did, on such short notice. But I had no choice, once the Council approved the awards. You simply can't keep anything like that a secret around here for very long. It's a simple fact of life that the Ministry leaks like a sieve to the press. It always has and always will. I thought you deserved to hear about these honours officially from me first, since it was my idea to award them. Having some reporter ring you up with no warning is hardly the way to go. I thought it best to get it all over at once.”

“Perhaps it was,” said Harry noncommittally.

“Oh, and Harry, I've been in touch with the Head of the Department of Education, and whilst I can't reveal details, I want to say that the O.W.L. performance that you and Miss Granger turned in was spectacular. It will give me something to boast about to the other Ministers for the rest of the year. I was Head Boy at Hogwarts myself, and between your grades, the Triwizard Championship, and the Order of Merlin, I'm sure you know that you're a shoe in for that position - as is Miss Granger. But if there's anything I can do to help you out, all you have to do is ask. You deserve as much after all the trouble I recently put you through.”

“Whatever will come, will come,” said Harry, not really wanting that kind of “help.” “I'd rather have your help in making sure Hermione comes back - and also in clearing my godfather's name, since he died rescuing me.”

“Harry, I will try my best,” the Minister affirmed. “Miss Granger's situation is essentially a Hogwarts issue, and I have learned my lesson from last term. I'm leaving Hogwarts matters to the Headmaster. But if it becomes necessary, I will authorise the use of any magic necessary to ensure her return. Whatever authority Dumbledore requires in this respect, he shall have.”

“As for Mr. Black, you know better than anyone that I don't control the Wizengamot - I now thank Merlin for that in your case. But I do have some influence with some Wizengamot members. You've impressed me enough today that I am ready to use that influence on Sirius' behalf, even though that will make me look more foolish about what I did before than I already do right now. There are worse things, however, than looking foolish.”

Fudge finished, “Anyway, Harry, I've kept you long enough. It's time for me to turn you back over to the Aurors. Let me show you to the door.”

Harry, now feeling much more at ease with a very personable Minister Fudge, obligingly made ready to leave. As drained as he was from the shock of the award and the pressure of the press conference, he was still pinching himself about having a lengthy private meeting with the surprisingly affable head of the entire Wizarding government. He let Fudge shepherd him to the door…

More bedlam ensued when Harry went outside. As he exited Fudge's office with the Minister at his side, he briefly saw Shak, Tonks and three other Aurors - conspicuous in their dress dark maroon robes - before being blinded by the rapid-fire detonation of flashing cameras. The five Aurors were struggling to hold back a surging crowd that was pushing forward to touch, speak to, or simply see Harry. Spontaneously, the multitude broke into applause and shouts of admiration. And these were, Harry guessed, mostly Ministry employees.

Shak growled at Harry through gritted teeth whilst Fudge waved to the cameras, turned, and went back inside. “He had to do it this way, didn't he? No point in bothering with any Disillusionment Charm this time. Let's go, Harry.”

Surrounded by a phalanx of five Aurors, Harry pushed through the pressing crowd, ignoring the shouts and requests for autographs. Harry was startled by a red flash and loud report from one of the Auror's wands. An instant later, torn and burned pieces of what was nevertheless recognisable as a woman's undergarment floated down around Harry.

“Can't be too careful,” that Auror said. “I'm Hugo Halliburton. I'm going to be one of your instructors.”

“You weren't by any chance trained by Mad-Eye Moody, were you?” asked Harry.

“Actually, I was,” replied Hugo without a hint of sarcasm.

“Figures,” said Harry. “What was that all about?”

“Somebody threw it at you,” Hugo remarked with just the touch of a leer, “and I fought it off.”

BANG.

“Another one,” Halliburton stated humourlessly.

After a few minutes that seemed much longer, Harry and his entourage had made their way back to Auror headquarters. Harry was surprised that, even after escaping the crowd, the Aurors retained their grim faces. Harry turned to Auror Shacklebolt. “Shak, I didn't screw up at the press conference or anything, did I? Minister Fudge said I was very good.”

Shak responded curtly. “Harry, you did just fine - better than any of us had any reason to expect under the circumstances. Fudge is the one who screwed up, a real corker.”

Shak abruptly strode off. Hugo Halliburton quickly took his place, accompanied by a middle-aged witch with once jet-black hair now tinged with grey. “This is Camille Wrexham, another of your instructors,” Hugo said introducing her. “We need to go over the programme with you.”

Between the two of them they explained that Harry's training would group spells, charms, hexes, and curses by category, with at least a dozen related items to be learned each day. Tomorrow's training would involve disorientation, and he was to review the lesson on disorienting magic. The first part of each lesson would involve verbal casting, with nonverbal casting emphasised, to the extent Harry mastered it, in the second, more practical portion of the lesson. His succeeding lessons would involve shielding magic, then restraining magic, then concealment, then evasive manœuvres, then pain infliction, stealth and concealment, and so on and so on. By the time it was over, he would know literally hundreds of new spells, many of which were N.E.W.T. level or beyond.

As Hugo was taking him back to his wardrobe in the locker room, Harry saw Shak across the room speaking excitedly to, of all people, Arthur Weasley. Both of them looked upset. Mr. Weasley looked exhausted as well. Harry heard none of their actual conversation, and lost sight of them as Hugo repeated to him the explanation of how to use the Aural Pensieve - going so far as to physically hook the boy up to the device. When he was asleep the Pensieve would essentially read the relevant material directly to his brain.

“Sleep learning!” Harry marveled. “Won't Hermione be jealous...?” He stopped short, making another mental note to write to Dumbledore tonight about her situation, and also to inquire after her with Mr. Weasley, if he were still present. Harry looked around. He spotted Shak again, but he was now talking to Tonks. Both of them still looked very serious and troubled. Taking the bull by the horns, Harry approached them

“Shak, Tonks, what's going on? You, and just about everybody else, have been acting as if something is terribly awry ever since I've been back from Fudge's office. If I ballocksed something up, tell me, so I'll know not to do anything like it again.”

“Harry,” Shak said, his lips extremely tight, “like I told you before, you did nothing wrong. You were top notch. We were all listening to the Wireless. You didn't give up any classified information and your handling of those obnoxious reporters - especially your use of the Silencio spell - was far beyond your years. It's just….” Shak was clearly searching carefully for the right words, “…just that the entire thing should never have happened, particularly not now.”

“I'm sorry I'm so thick, but I still don't understand what's so bad,” pressed Harry. “Fudge said he liked the Silencio bit himself.”

“He would,” groused Tonks.

“All that means is that the Minister and I agree on one thing,” muttered Shak. “Listen Harry, I'm really not the one you should be discussing this with. This is a Dumbledore-level issue. It's well over my head.”

“Well, unfortunately Dumbledore's not here right now,” complained Harry, having a hard time believing that anything was beyond Kingsley Shacklebolt, Auror captain. “Shak, I saw you talking to Mr. Weasley a few minutes ago. He's the father of one of my best friends, and he's very highly placed right now. Let me talk to him, then.”

“Harry,” hissed Shak, “I said this was a Dumbledore issue, and I meant it. It involves the Minister of Magic himself, dammit. You should not be discussing it with anyone who works for the Ministry - and especially not me or Mr. Weasley. It will do none of us any good if it becomes known that you consulted us about this. Here's what I want you to do. I know you've got a fancy link to Dumbledore right now. Use it. Tell him about the press conference, and that none of us feels competent to discuss it with you. Do you take the Daily Prophet?”

“Why yes, although I just started yesterday,” answered Harry, taken aback by the question.

Kingsley lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper. “Then I want you to read tomorrow's edition - all of it - especially any stories that DO NOT involve you.”

“Okay,” said Harry - still completely at a loss to see what everyone was so agitated about. “If you say so. But this is weird.”

“You have no idea,” grumbled Tonks.

“Come on, I see Bill Weasley now,” said Shak, sounding relieved. “It's time for you to go home. We'll see you tomorrow - for serious training. Be prepared. I know you can do this, and I know you must.”

Harry left with Bill - both Disillusioned and disillusioned. Once again he was aware that people he trusted were depriving him of information, although he was not even sure what exactly this information was about. He talked with Bill on the way home, but Bill had not listened to the press conference and probably knew even less than Harry. His guardian was deeply impressed by the Order of Merlin, however.

Bill did have some news. He had met with a couple of the solicitors Dumbledore had recommended, and had selected one, Blackstone “Blackie” Howe of the firm D'Israeli, Braddock & Pickle. He hoped Harry would have an opportunity to meet Mr. Howe before too much time passed. Bill was surprised when his ward immediately assented to the engagement of Mr. Howe. But Harry had a couple of things that he wanted done right away.

First, he wanted Bill to buy another Firebolt broom - Harry was neither aware of nor interested in the price - and to send it ASAP to Ginny in Denmark. He had never meant to favour Ron over his sister, but that was the appearance, and Harry was not proud of it. He had decided to redress the situation by getting Ginny an equivalent broom.

Second, he wanted to sign a Chocolate Frog card contract with Cadbury right away. He was willing to take the deal almost as offered, except that he wanted to be paid in Muggle money - English pounds, specifically - and he wanted an advance of £500 immediately. Harry had decided that he was sick of being penniless, and lurking in the background was the possibility that he would have to take action to retrieve Hermione. That would probably require Muggle money, and with his notoriety he did not want to chance having to go to Gringotts to get it. If this Blackie Howe fellow could negotiate a better deal, fine, but Harry wanted it done quickly. Dashing off a hand-written note, Harry gave both Bill and Blackie authority to sign his name to a binding contract.

Bill also had significant news of another sort - the goblins had finally agreed to Dumbledore's latest proposal and were ready to ally against Voldemort. But they wanted a large, elaborate ceremony with Harry as the centrepiece. This function had been tentatively set for midnight, 18 July, which was the 7th of Rodlaak on the goblin calendar. The date was the 500th anniversary of the commencement of the Goblin Rebellion of 1496, which Harry knew from Professor Binn's History of Magic class (or, more properly, from copying Hermione's notes) had resulted in an independent goblin state that had persisted for over 50 years.

When Harry got home, he found out (the hard way) that he had an owl from Mr. Weasley. Errol, the Weasleys' ancient owl, was passed out cold in the middle of Harry's bedroom floor after colliding with and knocking over Hedwig's then-unoccupied cage. Harry tripped over the cage and ended up on the floor himself, his nose inches away from Errol's leg - to which a letter remained attached. Mr. Weasley's note concerned the matter at the top of Harry's agenda:

Dear Harry:

Just a quick note to keep you apprised about the mission to Hong Kong. Albus reports to me that he made good progress at the first meeting today - which was really yesterday, your time. His belief is that Hermione's mother is persuaded, but not her father, at least not yet. Albus is optimistic that arrangements can be worked out, but this will require another meeting tomorrow.

Albus has asked that I attend this next meeting because of my prior relationship with the Grangers. All I did before was have a few drinks with them once at the Leaky Cauldron, but Dumbledore wants me to be there. I am therefore going to be Apparating halfway around the world in a few minutes in the hope that my known, friendly face might make some difference.

Keep your fingers crossed.

Regards,

Arthur Weasley, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation

Harry then whipped off a quick note to Dumbledore, not even knowing if the recipient had his communicator with him in Hong Kong. After asking for any news about Hermione and offering his encouragement to the Headmaster, he brought up the evident widespread displeasure of Order members and Aurors with, seemingly, the very idea that he had given a press conference with Minister Fudge. Harry wrote that “it was feeling like the bad old days when nobody would tell me anything,” and asked Dumbledore to tell him what the fuss was all about.

Following another late dinner - eating with the Dursleys was becoming a rarity these days, something not altogether bothersome to Harry - Harry practised Lao Kung's Occlumency mind-clearing techniques. He set the Aural Pensieve to activate in 45 minutes and fell asleep rapidly, with two sets of carefully crossed fingers on each hand.

* * * *

Author's notes: Sefu is Chinese for a master martial arts teacher. Earlier I used a Japanese term and was correctly criticized, since no Chinese would use a Japanese term. Too much bad blood

A Hobson's choice is between nothing something bad

Harry's Internet lyric searching becomes important

The Dursleys like Tonks as little as Moody, and will find the next visitor even worse. Be careful what you ask for

Babe Ruth was described as an egg on toothpicks

Tonks' T-shirt is one I used to have

Deater is Auror slang for Death Eater

Two similar sounding ways to interrogate a wand: (1) prior incantato spell used by A. Diggory, GoF #9) and (2) priori incantatem effect (GoF #34). PI spell can be done with any wand, but only shows the last spell cast. PI effect requires identical wands in opposition, and can reveal the wand's complete history if maintained long enough

Transistors and nuclear power are actually relevant

After HBP I use silent magic and identification questions more

I caught "Scrimgeour" in OoP #7, but thought it Dawlish's first name. Auror names & titles now conformed to HBP. Shak is more important here than in HBP

Auror recruits receive nine months of formal instruction, and two years of probationary field work, to get the "three years" described in OoP

Auror partner rings will figure heavily

Quartermaster's scene based on old army movies

According to Guinness, wet ice is the least frictional substance and ethanethiol is a British name for ethyl mercaptan, the smelliest substance

Harry eventually does in the boiler

The DoM device is like a Holter monitor

Kilocalorie calculation is scientifically correct

Sean Moore, the MI-5 rep, combines names of two actors who played James Bond

I'd been to Olive Garden the evening I wrote the lunch scene

Tu Fan was a medieval Tibetan state

Schedule I is the top US illegal drug category

In canon, even Voldemort does not perform the Killing Curse silently. I give my explanation

Affinities quickly become crucial

The nature of Avada kedavra becomes important

Apoptosis means cell death

Furnunculus ordinarily produces boils. Christmas tree worms are coral reef creatures

"Conspicuous gallantry" and "pre-eminent bravery" come from official descriptions of British military decorations

A bar is signifies a multiple award of the same British military decoration

Lycanthropy research becomes a factor later

Banning follow-up questions is routine at press conferences, for the reason given

The palace beat? First clue in a long-running mystery

The Order of the Garter is real. The reference to Disney World satirizes the commercials

Clues abound about why the Order is upset after the press conference

Shak's reason for not wanting Harry asking him or Arthur Weasley becomes apparent later

"Weird” followed by "you have no idea" is a Simba/Scar exchange in "Lion King"

Blackstone is a famous British lawyer. Howe is from a joke law firm name - Dewey Cheetum & Howe

D'Israeli - a 19th Century British PM; Braddock - an 18th century British general; Pickle - a lawyer friend of mine

The goblin rebellion date is made up and moved it back 100 years to avoid overlapping with the canon rebellion of 1612

- 10 -

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C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch5 back to ministry.doc 09/27/03

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6. Training

Wherein Harry learns disorientation spells, misuses them, learns true purpose of Fudge's news conference, hires a lawyer, gets his own chocolate frog card, is featured in the press, deals with an encounter between Shak and Uncle Vernon, learns about politics and goblin ceremonies, exchanges letters, gets new robes, is updated about Hermione, and has an Occlumency session with Dumbledore.

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

Chapter 6 - Training

When the alarm clock sounded, Harry woke up and immediately knew that the Aural Pensieve had worked. This was brilliant! He knew all of the disorientation spells - both their proper phraseology and their proper wand movements. Exhilarated, he threw on some clothes for his early morning run with Dudley. As the two of them were warming up and stretching, Harry caught sight of one of Mrs. Figg's Kneazle cats, Mr. Tibbles, prowling amongst his aunt's begonias. He couldn't resist having a go with what he had learned.

“Vaproso,” Harry cried, with a sweeping motion of his wand, as he caught the cat unawares. Mr. Tibbles took off across the lawn like the scalded cat he had just become.

“Occulus sinistrous,” he called out, with a sharp jab and small rotation of his wand. The spell missed, and he tried again. Finally, on the third try, Mr. Tibbles abruptly veered sharply left, running headlong into a tree.

“Occulus dextrous,” Harry shouted, employing a mirror image of the same wand movement. He missed again. A second try found the mark, and the unfortunate cat veered just as sharply to the right, now running directly at him.

As Harry leapt out of the way, he cast “Occulus reverso,” and Mr. Tibbles drunkenly attempted to run backwards.

Rolling over on the grass, he came up firing with “Occulus inverso” - at which point the animal ceased running altogether, stumbled, and lay flat on his back with his legs kicking wildly in the air.

Finally, Harry said “Finite.” Mr. Tibbles slunk sullenly away, glaring at him and yowling faintly.

His cousin goggled at the display. “What was that all about, Harry?”

“This is my first day of serious magical defence training, Dudders,” chirped Harry, “and those are just a few of the disorientation spells that I learned overnight - in my sleep, can you believe it?”

“What are disorientation spells, and what good are they?” asked Dudley.

“I'm learning how to battle evil wizards and stuff like that,” he replied as off-handedly as he could. “One way to turn a duel to my advantage is to disorient the enemy so he won't be able to hit me with his own curses. I can do that in all kinds of ways now. You just saw a few of them. First I made that cat think he was surrounded by hot steam. Then I changed his senses - first so he thought that his left side was in front. Then I changed the spell so the cat thought that what was to his right was in front. Then I had the cat confuse his back with his front; and finally I made the cat sense he was upside down when he really wasn't.

“I can also make an opponent feel like he is on fire, under water, can't breathe, has to pee, is nauseous, is dizzy, is itching all over, or is covered in slime - all sorts of things, ranging from merely distracting to very nasty. Most of them tend toward the nasty side. But I can even disorient an opponent with extreme pleasure… And that's just one day's lesson. I'll be mastering all sorts of magic over the summer.”

“Extreme pleasure?” said Dudley with a naughty gleam in his eye. “That's one I'd like to try.”

“Are you serious?” asked Harry, not sure if his cousin was taking the mickey out of him again.

“Guess so,” replied Dudley more seriously. “I trust your ability after what I've seen over the last fortnight.”

“OK, brace yourself. Here goes,” warned Harry. “I've never done this one before, and all I know about its effects are from what a chatty pillow told me. Orgasimos!”

A bolt of pink light shot from Harry's wand and disappeared into Dudley's chest. For a couple of seconds, his cousin simply stood there, his eyes glazing over and his mouth starting to drool. Then his legs buckled and he crumpled onto the lawn, landing on his back. He just lay there twitching - almost like Mr. Tibbles had a short while earlier.

“Finite,” incanted Harry. “Dudley, are you all right? You asked for it, you know.”

“Bloody hell!” heaved Dudley. “Harry, that was the most fantastic feeling I've ever had in my life. It's totally the opposite of those Demeanor things. It's like my knob feels when I have a wank, but better - all over my body, inside and out. And it's even more than that, too. I also felt relaxed like when smoking ganja.... Er, you didn't hear that Harry.”

“Hear what?” said Harry, nonplussed.

“Sort of a floating, totally relaxed sensation,” enthused Dudley, running his hands over himself to damp down the tingling after effect. “Oh damn, it did that too. Now, I'm going to have to change my underwear.”

“Must be sort of like the Imperius curse,” muttered Harry to himself, not really listening to his cousin.

“Seriously, Harry, you could make good money with that one,” effused Dudley. “Even at a fiver a minute, you'd put the kerb crawlers out of business in no time flat.”

“To the great relief of street walkers everywhere, I'm afraid that would be an illegal use of magic,” declared Harry, blanching at his cousin's suggestion. “I was probably stretching things just putting it on you, but you volunteered, and I do need the practice.”

“I sure can see how that one would come in handy in a duel,” his cousin observed. “I couldn't even stand on two feet whilst under it, let alone think about putting a hurting on anybody.”

After their run, Harry changed into clean clothes and headed for Mrs. Figgs' house. When he arrived, he found her in a towering rage.

“What exactly did you do to Mister Tibbles?” she shrieked. “I'll have a devil of a time ever getting him to patrol around your house again, and even my other Kneazles are nervous.”

“I'm sorry,” apologised Harry, who had stupidly overlooked that Mrs. Figg must have been able to communicate with her cats, if she used them to patrol for Death Eaters and other threats to Harry. “It won't happen again. I just learned my first batch of spells for my Auror training - using an Aural Pensieve - and I wanted to see how well they actually worked. Mister Tibbles just happened to be the first target of opportunity.”

“And he'd better be the last,” retorted the squib. “Or I'll report you for violating the terms of your exemption from the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery. Don't think that I won't, Mister famous Harry Potter.”

“And what's that supposed to mean?” he shot back, rounding on Mrs. Figg.

“It means that you'd best not let who you are go to your head, sonny!” spat Mrs. Figg, her eyes flashing defiantly. “Just because you're called upon to save the world every few months doesn't give you the right to walk all over the rest of us. My Kneazles are up every night trying to make sure that you don't wake up dead at the hands of You Know Who and his followers. I won't stand for you abusing them like this.”

Sensing that he was only digging himself in deeper, Harry reversed course and backed down entirely. “You're right. I just didn't think about what I was doing. I was too wrapped up in all the new stuff I'd learned and the new way I'd learnt it. I was being stupid.”

Unappeased, Mrs. Figg shot back, “And if you were being stupid with a Death Eater...? I expect it would be the last thing you'd ever do.”

A door slammed. Harry wheeled around and saw Bill Weasley striding towards him. “And you too, Arabella,” he called out. “You left the front door wide open.”

“I, at least, am not as foolish as I might look, Weasley,” responded Mrs. Figg. She slapped her thigh with an open hand, making a distinctive pop. An instant later another of her Kneazle cats, a calico named Muggsy McGraw, had raced up the back of Bill's legs and torso and was perched on Bill's shoulder. Because Muggsy had made liberal use of her claws in the process, Bill gave a loud yelp and began to swat at her. Mrs. Figg slapped her thigh again, and Muggsy instantly jumped off.

“I should have known better than to trifle with you, Arabella...,” sighed Bill. He turned towards his ward. “Harry, I know you're only fifteen, but you're learning adult magic. You have to act like an adult when using it. Random hexing of animals is irresponsible, particularly in a Muggle neighborhood.”

“Anyway, we'd best be going,” continued Bill. “Have you read today's Prophet?”

“Not yet,” replied Harry, who had been taking unusual interest in the grass stains on his trainers. “Left the house too early for the post owl.”

“Here,” said Bill, tossing him a copy. “You can have mine. I daresay your clippings are more prominent - not to mention better - than Fudge's are today. I'll Disillusion you whilst you're reading.”

Harry's breath caught in his throat, and not just from the feel of the Disillusionment charm. A full-page-width banner headline blared “POTTER, OTHERS, TO BE HISTORY'S YOUNGEST ORDER OF MERLIN WINNERS.” A pair of colour photos of him, one from the conference itself, and the other (looking more shifty) with Fudge at the door to the Minister's office, appeared on either side of a lengthy article about the press conference. Below the fold was a front-page editorial entitled “War, Morale, and Harry Potter.” Page two contained a verbatim transcript of the press conference, along with a bolded box providing conference “highlights” arranged by topic. There was also an article on the history of the Order of Merlin, and a smaller piece on Dumbledore's repeat award. On page three were a number of fluffier articles, one about Harry's use of Silencio on the press corps, another focused on Harry's “no girlfriend” comment, and a third about Sirius Black. There was no non-Harry news until a below-the-fold two column article on page four:

Minister Took Money From Death Eater, Transcript Says

Prosecutors investigating the eleven Death Eaters captured in the wake of the Potter Raid (see pages 1-3 for more details) released transcripts late yesterday of the Veritaserum-induced testimony of Lucius Malfoy, the most prominent of the eleven prisoners. In the transcripts, Mr. Malfoy recounts how a number of high-level Ministry personnel, including Minister of Magic Cornelius O. Fudge, were the beneficiaries of his financial largesse over the past five years or more.

Mr. Malfoy's testimony identifies at least a dozen occasions within the past six years on which he, or a Malfoy-controlled company, provided funds to Minister Fudge for what Mr. Malfoy understood to be the Minister's personal use. Several of these transactions were by cheque, and have been confirmed in the records of the relevant financial institutions. Other transactions have not yet been confirmed, as they involved gold. The total amount of money that changed hands is not known with exactitude, but Mr. Malfoy estimated that the figure “probably” exceeds 100,000 Galleons.

What, if anything, Minister Fudge did in return for all this money is not known. Prosecution sources state that Mr. Malfoy's mind was riddled with strong memory charms that could not ethically be broken, as doing so would threaten his precarious mental health. Another captured Death Eater, Adam Mulciber, is an Obliviator who, upon capture, wiped out his own entire memory with a powerful charm. Mulciber is now confined to the prison wing at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

Minister Fudge's office released a written statement in response to the transcripts, admitting that “on several occasions the Minister received sums from Mr. Malfoy that the Minister understood were intended for charitable purposes.” The Minister claims that he will “be able to verify with bank records that not a Knut of the funds so received went to [his] personal gain.” Before his unmasking as a Death Eater, Lucius Malfoy was known as a large contributor to many charitable causes, including the Building Fund at St. Mungo's and the Alumni of Slytherin Society (“ASS”).

Other high-ranking Ministry officials identified by Mr. Malfoy as recipients of his largesse include: Department/Office Heads, Francis Loincloth (Education); Dirk Cresswell (Goblin Liaison); Mafalda Hopkirk (Improper Use); Jacqueline Bouffant (Muggle Affairs); Congolia Samson (Mysteries); Ludo Bagman (Sports); and Malcolm Wheeler (Transportation). Samuel Murgatroyd, an Associate Warlock of the Wizengamot, was also named.

“You know what happened yesterday, don't you?” Bill asked in a low voice.

“I'm not sure,” replied Harry through clenched teeth, “but I have my suspicions.”

“Well, what do you think happened?” Bill hissed.

In a tone tinged with disgust, he answered, “I think that, by announcing the Order of Merlin awards and scheduling my press conference for yesterday, Fudge was able to reduce to a page-four story what would otherwise have been front-page news about his taking money from Death Eater Malfoy.”

“Hermione Granger herself could not have put it more perceptively,” said Bill. “Let's go.”

That last comment certainly changed his focus. Now thoroughly distracted, Harry followed Bill meekly. With a mouthful of soot, he arrived at Auror Headquarters to begin his first full day as a trainee of the Auror Candidate School. Bill told him that he really wanted him to meet Blackie Howe face to face before hiring him, so his guardian intended to bring Blackie by when Harry was finishing up his training session.

Bill left Harry in the charge of Hugo Halliburton and Camille Wrexham, along with two additional instructors Harry had not encountered before: Betsy Greengrass and Andrew Carluke. Without any formalities, this time they went straight to work. From 7:30 a.m. until noon Harry was drilled on the basics - what the assigned spells did, pronunciation and proper wand technique, and any limitations or peculiarities of the spell. There was an hour off for lunch, and then Harry was ushered onto the wanding range for practical training and silent spell-casting.

In a development that surprised both Harry and his instructors, he proved to be much better in the classroom setting than in the practical situation on the range. Everyone thought it would be the reverse, since Harry came with a reputation as a natural.

“You just have to concentrate more on your aim, Harry,” said Camille, “it's not that hard to hit a target. We haven't even put them in motion yet.”

“I'm bloody well trying,” protested Harry as he missed the target again, this time high and to the left. “I feel like I'm over-concentrating, with all these technique pointers I'm trying to remember.”

“Try holding the wand straight out in front, this time, Harry. Maybe that will help you aim,” encouraged Andrew.

“Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks,” Harry repeated under his breath as he missed yet again. Then he made up his mind. “I do believe that I'm thinking too bloody much. I'm going to try it my way for a change. Am I allowed to move?”

“Move?” questioned Camille, “what exactly do you mean?”

“I mean, like ... like … moving...,” Harry replied, reduced virtually to inarticularity by his frustration, “I'm a Quidditch player, and I think that standing still makes me worse”

“Nothing wrong with moving, if you like,” said Andrew. “Whatever you think might help, give it a go.”

He squared his shoulders and made ready to try again. Instead of standing still, Harry darted to his left. “Nauseo,” he cried. Direct hit. He kept moving in that direction, and squeezed off three more quick curses. Three more direct hits resulted, even though the targets were not close to being in the same line of fire. Not stopping, Harry lurched to his right. “Tremoros,” he roared, hitting the ground and rolling. Two more curses, two more hits.

Then he repeated the process silently - with similar results.

It developed that Harry, although scattershot when standing still or when spelling from a formal duelling position, was a natural when in motion. He scored 100% accuracy with vocalised spells. Acting silently, he hit 96 out of 100 stationary targets, and 92 out of 100 moving targets - both of which would have qualified him for a marksmanship medal had he been an actual Auror.

At 3:30, Harry's instructors moved him to the Situation Room, where Harry was to train against actual opponents, rather than inanimate objects. He did surprisingly well here, as well, although as time passed he grew upset that his opponents could conjure up shield charms when he could not. Since he was unable to defend himself properly, his opponents went easy on him (much to his disgust), using only harmless Placebus Spells rather than anything real. To Harry it seemed that he was being taunted as a rank amateur.

He became more and more frustrated until finally he got careless. On a dive to his left, he failed to look where he was standing, pushed off awkwardly, and twisted his ankle. The pain, combined with his rising anger, did something to the Flambus Hex he was casting. He heard a sound like an aluminium can being crushed. Harry looked up to see that the wizard playing his target had been flung to one side and that the padding on the back wall was still glowing where his hex had impacted. A whistle trilled, calling a halt to the proceedings.

“What in blazes was that?” called out Betsy, making her way towards the boy, who was still cursing and hopping about on one foot because of his bad ankle.

Limping to a halt, Harry explained, “Flambus Hex, but I turned my ankle just as I cast it - and I was really pissed off about that too, since I was being stupid and neglecting my footing. The pain, or being mad, or both, must have put something extra on that hex.”

“Harry, sit down and let me heal your ankle,” Camille instructed. She ran her wand over the painful extremity. His ankle glowed slightly yellow and felt instantly better. “You're only performing disorientation magic today. We start with that category for a reason. Disorientation spells are not intended to cause actual injury, and therefore these spells are not very powerful. But whatever you did not only crumpled at least half of Andrew's shield spell, but also knocked him out of the way, and then still hit the wall padding with enough power to cause it to glow red. It's make believe fire, Harry, but you caused it to generate very real heat.” She called to Andrew, who was still looking askance at the padding where the wayward hex had hit. “Is it still hot?”

“Umm … ouch!” Carluke fluttered his affected hand rapidly. “Well I'll be blowed. It's stopped glowing, but it's still too hot to touch for more than an instant.”

“I don't know how you did it,” huffed Camille, “but that Flambus packed more punch than any disorientation spell I've ever seen. And on that note, I think this is a good time to wrap things up here and call it a day. Hugo, can you take Harry to the showers and get him tidied up? I've got to write up a report on this, but the rest of you can then spend about fifteen minutes going over Thursday's assignment on shielding magic….”

Bill showed up at the stroke of 5:00 p.m. with Blackie Howe in tow. Howe had come straight from the office and was still in pinstriped grey dress robes. They had no trouble commandeering an empty conference room for a chat. Their talk went quite splendidly and stretched to half an hour. The D'Israeli, Braddock firm, it turned out, was one of the most prestigious Magic Circle legal firms in the entire City (and thus, in Britain). Unlike most of the Magic Circle, D'Israeli counted numerous wizards amongst its clientele. Howe was part of the solicitors' chamber, but the firm was full service. It had many associated barristers as well.

The founder, Benjamin D'Israeli, a Ravenclaw, had been an abolitionist as a young man before 1833, when slavery was ended throughout the Empire. He then became the principal signatory on the magical side of the Wizarding Equality Treaty of 1836 (Harry also learned that the original, as-executed wizard draft of that Treaty was on display at Hogwarts). Following that D'Israeli went on to a successful career in both Muggle and magical politics. He achieved the singular distinction of serving simultaneously as Muggle Prime Minister and Minister of Magic. In 1881, at age 77, he became the first Jew to be buried amongst the notables at Westminster Abbey. That had been a magical deception engineered for the Muggles' benefit. Thereafter, he had gone on to practice exclusively wizard law for another 42 years.

Howe charged 75 Galleons per hour. Bill, familiar with the size of Harry's Gringotts account, assured Harry that there was enough there to pay for Howe's services many times over. Harry willingly signed an engagement letter, and took one of Howe's business cards. To conform to Ministry-recommended security practices - and to prevent any problems with imposters - they decided to exchange a piece of secret information. Following some hemming and hawing, they settled upon the Shangri-La Hotel in Hong Kong. Nobody else in the world (except Dumbledore) knew that Harry had any familiarity with the place. Howe, on the other hand, had been a guest there several times.

Harry promised to owl the Cadbury letter to Howe immediately upon returning home. Learning that his new client was mostly owl-dependent, Howe advised him that he should get a Muggle fax machine, a mobile, and a PDA. Howe had been doing deals for almost 25 years. He thought it inconceivable that Cadbury's would decline to sweeten the pot substantially beyond the initial offer in the letter. After all, adding Harry's likeness to its product line would be a coup of the first order.

Harry returned home in a good mood (for him), but still somewhat on edge. That edge promptly disappeared when he found the light on the communicator illuminated. Quickly activating the machine, Harry could hardly wait to read Dumbledore's message:

Dear Mr. Potter:

I have learned from your guardian that you are interested in the Cadbury's offer because you wish to open a Muggle bank account straight away. I have acquiesced because it is now certain that you will not have occasion to use it for questionable purposes - such as purchasing aeroplane tickets on Cathay-Pacific.

I am pleased, and relieved, to report that I have reached agreement with the Grangers for their daughter Hermione to return to Hogwarts. Mr. Granger finally consented after I agreed to arrange for the warding of both his home and the dental surgeries that he and his wife maintain. He also insisted upon meeting you, in person, at his home. Given my understanding of your position, I acceded to that upon your behalf.

I will discuss details with you upon my return.

I am also aware of your recent press conference. We will discuss that as well.

Albus P.W.B. Dumbledore

Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock Wizengamot

“Yes!” Harry whooped, dancing a little jig in his room. That drew a shout up the stairs from his uncle to stop “making a bloody racket,” but he hardly cared. Hermione was coming back!

After a spot of bouncing off the walls, he noticed that there was also some post for him, an envelope bearing the Hogwarts crest. It was not thick enough to be official notification of O.W.L. results - top formers had told him that the O.W.L. letters were quite bulky because they included the entire sixth-year curriculum in addition to the O.W.L. report itself. The curious letter was from Professor McGonagall. She informed Harry that his testimony was indeed required in the Ministry's investigation into Dolores Umbridge.

He was to testify at 10:30 a.m. on Wednesday, 8 July, in the Ministry building. The prosecuting barrister for the Ministry was very interested in his information and wished to meet with him prior to the questioning. Professor McGonagall therefore directed Harry to be at Mrs. Figg's house “promptly” at 7:00 a.m. There would be a meeting that morning in her office at Hogwarts.

For his morning runs, Harry was working his way through Dudley's classic rock CD collection. He rather liked Marley and The Clash. After listening to a few Stones and Who discs, Harry thought that they tended to sound alike, although he did not mean that as necessarily a bad thing. His cousin, however, was quite partial to the harder rock, and did not appreciate that observation. Dudley told Harry that he was free to try any of “that fluffy stuff my Mum bought me” - primarily meaning the Beatles.

Harry had no idea what he was doing, so he started with what he thought was the most curious looking cover of the lot (it resembled a cartoon). For about ten minutes into that morning's run, Dudley had no idea that anything was up. Then Harry suddenly picked up his pace and threatened to leave his cousin in the lurch. Dudley sped up, but for the first time found that he was having trouble keeping up with the increasingly well-conditioned (and much more svelte) Harry. The young wizard breezed along apparently effortlessly for what seemed to his cousin like forever - it was actually a shade over six minutes - before Harry realised how fast he was going and stopped to wait for his puffing cousin.

“Bloody hell, Harry,” panted Dudley, “what did you do that for - and since when have you been able to run faster than me?”

“I like this music a lot. Can I have this one?” Harry asked.

“Tell you what,” offered Dudley. “I don't bother with those Beatles at all - too soft and mushy for me. You can keep the lot of them if you'll do that pleasure spell on me again.”

Harry considered the offer. “If you'll throw in this player, I'll do it.”

“For the player, I want another spell,” Dudley replied coolly.

“Deal,” said Harry, after a brief pause. “Two spells, then. Just pick a convenient time and place.”

That had been easy enough. Harry was still in a good mood after the news about Hermione. He could practically feel himself getting physically stronger. He could hardly wait to play Quidditch again - or for the next time Malfoy insulted him.

Harry's good moods usually did not last very long, and this was no exception. Ever since Tonks' disastrous visit, he wondered whom the Order might send to the Dursleys to check up on him the next time. Anyone except Lupin (it was a full moon) was a possibility. He could only hope that his next visitor knew how to present him or herself as a respectable Muggle. Unfortunately - for all concerned - he certainly did.

Harry had just finished his shower and was absently mindedly perusing today's Prophet. There was more on him and the Order of Merlin (“boring and repetitious,” he thought). Also on page one was Samuel Murgatroyd's resignation from the Wizengamot (`Fudge should go, too,' thought Harry). He found an article speculating on the identities of “Potter's Marauders,” as the group of six was coming to be known. That produced derisive laughter. “Cho Chang and Colin Creevey? Give me a break,” Harry snorted. He did duly note the accurate mentions of Ron, Hermione, and Neville.

A follow-up article recited the exact Galleon figures on Fudge's “bribes.” `Someone should really call for his resignation,' Harry thought. There was more Harry-related speculation - on how he was spending his summer. “I wish,” sighed Harry in response to a breathless “exclusive” that reported how he had been spirited away to Tahiti. The Quidditch friendship tour was reported to be leaving China for Japan. `I ought to owl Ron and Ginny,' Harry thought.

The most bizarre news was that Playwitch Magazine had made a very public offer of 100,000 Galleons for a full-monte nude shot of “the Chosen One.” “Bloody Hell!” Harry exclaimed. He made a mental note to be sure not to leave this copy lying around where his relatives might find it. Uncle Vernon was just greedy enough.... The sounding of the doorbell interrupted him whilst he was on his way towards a very good rant.

Having learned to anticipate the worst from Order visits, he bolted for the door. Arriving a split second after Uncle Vernon (who had deliberately stayed home late from work at Grunnings) answered the door, Harry saw Kingsley Shacklebolt looking absolutely stonking in a summer-weight three-piece silk suit, off-white with wide brown pinstripes. He wore cufflinks and a stick pin. A gold Rolex shimmered on his left wrist. Shak was holding a tan felt fedora with a wide black band, and Harry thought that he rather resembled a Muggle TV gangster. His ease with Muggle attire rivaled - no, surpassed - the late Bartemius Crouch, Sr. (whom Harry previously counted as the sharpest Muggle dresser among wizards), but Shak's snappy style was several decades more current.

Vernon Dursley, however, cared about nothing except the deep brown colour of Shak's skin. “That ruddy Dumbledore! Who does he think he is? Having a BLOODY N****R come to my stoop! The neighbors will think we're selling out! We'll never live it down....”

Then the invective abruptly stopped.

Nary a sound more escaped Uncle Vernon's throat. His eyes were almost popping out of his purpling face as he abruptly shifted his glare from Shak to his equally enraged nephew. Harry had his hand out, but was not clutching a wand. Harry's own mouth was curling up into an intense sneer, and his complexion was dark with anger. His eyes narrow, he hissed, “Stuff it Dursley. You aren't fit to lick the dirt from this man's shoes.” As Harry spoke, his uncle gradually rose about a half metre off the floor and, suspended in mid air, shook like a rag doll with every syllable the boy enunciated.

Shak whipped his black shades off, and began yelling at the top of his lungs. “Stop, Harry!! For Merlin's sake, stop before you ruin everything we're trying to achieve!” Flinging his hat aside, Shak flicked out his own wand from a wrist holster and prepared to stun Harry to prevent him from magically strangling his uncle. “There's more at stake than you could possibly know.”

Harry heard, and broke his anger-induced trance. His uncle slid back down to the floor. When Uncle Vernon's feet touched ground, he kept on going until he was half sitting, half lying in the parlour. From there, he glanced up at Harry with a mixture of fear and rage on his face. Harry's Aunt Petunia, who had hastily shut the front door, regarded Harry with the same fear in her eyes, but otherwise more in awe than in anger. Dudley's emotions, as he watched from the bottom of the stairs, were impossible to read.

Shak lowered his wand. “Harry, I know you did that for me, but the stakes are so high that it just isn't worth it. You can't risk revocation of your underage magic rights and the cessation of your training - and while I hate to be a pain about it, it would be especially inconvenient for you to seriously violate the law in my presence. I hope that someday you might be my partner, not my pinch.”

The air went out of the boy's rage like a balloon riddled by buckshot. “What a spot of bother that was,” he grunted. Taking a deep breath, he asked rhetorically, “I really went off on him, didn't I?”

“Indeed you did,” chided Shak, secretly relieved that he had avoided a duel with someone whose power, if not experience, exceeded his.

“Shak, what did you mean, `there's more at stake replied than I could possibly know'?” asked Harry cautiously.

“Upstairs,” commanded the Auror captain.

After Shak placed a silencing charm on the door to Harry's room, he turned to the boy in frustration. “You just won't let me keep my secrets, will you?”

“I'm tired of people keeping secrets from me,” replied Harry's determined voice. “Spill it, Shak.”

“All right, but this does not leave this room - understand?” said Shacklebolt in a stage whisper.”

“Got it,” agreed Harry.

“I can't have you making things go balls up in my presence because it would be politically unsound, both for you and for me,” Shak hissed. “For me, it's because I'm on the Order's short list for the Minister of Magic candidature should Fudge's government fall. For you, it's because no matter what you do, you will be a political issue in any such campaign.”

“Oh bother. Why in blazes should I be a political issue?” complained Harry.

Shak practically shook with exasperation. “Harry, you still don't grasp your standing in our community. Even the Muggle authorities are interested in you now - to the P.M.'s office and even beyond. More importantly, half the magicals in Britain would do anything you say. Right now, if you called for a vote of no confidence in Fudge, his government would fall before the day is out. Either I or Arthur Weasley would then run as the Order's candidate. I think Arthur should because he's better known, but he says he's too old and doesn't have the resources.”

“You need to keep your head down, your nose clean, and your powder dry, Harry,” Shak continued. “That's why we were so upset about the news conference. Fudge is trying to use you politically, so you need to keep a respectful distance. But you mustn't break publicly with him unless and until Dumbledore gives the word. That's why you must see Dumbledore about this. He alone knows all the arrangements he's made with Fudge since 11-12 June. It's his call, and his only, whether Fudge has held up his end. Break with Fudge too soon, and the Minister will sully you just like last year. Because of my potential candidature, I can't be seen as advising you what to do because … because it wouldn't look good - a conflict of interest for an active-duty Auror.”

“With Voldemort out there, we want to avoid the disunity of a no-confidence vote in the Wizard Council if at all possible. But after the revelation that Fudge has been taking Death Eater money, the political situation may spin out of control at any time. The Order has therefore asked me to position myself for a possible run. I'm staying on long enough to supervise your training, but at the end of the summer, I will be resigning from state's service as an Auror. From there, I'll be assuming a temporary position from which I could toss my hat into the ring in short order, should the need arise.”

“That's a bad job,” observed Harry. “I hate to think that the Ministry is going to lose a top-drawer Auror to political manœuvering.”

“True, but sometimes things can't be helped,” sighed Shak. “But look on the bright side. It means that you will be gaining a top-drawer Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.”

Harry suddenly broke into a wide grin at the unexpected news. “You're coming to Hogwarts?!” he bubbled. “That's the best thing I've heard.... Well ... well…. Since yesterday, anyway.”

“I'm relieved she's coming back, too - and thank you…. But remember,” cautioned Shak, “I've now told you everything that I wanted to leave to Dumbledore. Not a word, to anybody - and that specifically includes both red- and bushy-haired anybodies. This conversation did not exist. Now you wait here and don't do anything except act normally. I'll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” asked Harry.

“Dursley hunting,” Shak grinned. “Obliviating is one of my better skills. The Dursleys are not going to remember what you just did to your Uncle Vernon - but rest assured Harry, I'll never forget it.” Shak Disillusioned himself and headed for the door.

“Right,” said Harry, grinning evilly himself. He appreciated how skilled Shak was. Little more than six weeks ago Shak had done Harry the favor of Obliviating a traitorous member of Harry's unauthorised Defence Against the Dark Arts group, Dumbledore's Army. Shak had done it silently, in a room full of people, but nobody (except Harry and probably Dumbledore) had known what had happened. “Happy hunting,” he mouthed.

Shak was gone for less than ten minutes. “It's all one big, happy family again,” he reported. “I even gave them a cover story for the neighbours, that Uncle Vernon's business is booming and he's interviewing possible chauffeurs. I want you to know that I really appreciate what you did, Harry, even though I would have stunned you if you hadn't stopped. I'm 43 years old and no white man has ever come to my defence in that kind of situation before - and there have been more of those incidents than I care to remember.”

“You ... You're w-w-welcome,” Harry stammered. He thought Shak would make a fabulous Minister of Magic.

Having confirmed that Harry was not being mistreated by his relatives (and vice versa), Shak was soon on his way. Harry went to the gym with Dudley for another session with Lao Kung - who sensed anger in Harry. The Sefu proceeded to work the anger out of him through strenuous physical training. The boy was becoming more proficient at clearing his mind and with minor feats of wandless magic. He chose not to discuss his major - unplanned - feat of wandless magic with Lao Kung, even though it had occurred less than two hours earlier.

Harry returned home in the late afternoon to find a thoroughly disgusted Aunt Petunia. “Go upstairs and tidy up your room, boy,” she ordered.

In his room he found no fewer than six post owls waiting to make their deliveries. He recognised only one, Ron's tiny Pigwidgeon. After relieving the owls of their loads - and seriously depleting his own stock of owl treats (`I'll have to get more at the Ministry,' Harry made a mental note), Harry sat down to read his mail. There was correspondence from Ron, Neville, and Luna. His two male friends both seemed to think that he had something to do with the rest of them getting the Order of Merlin, and they thanked him profusely.

Ron said it was the first good thing that had happened to him that none of his brothers had already accomplished. Neville said it was the first time he could remember his grandmother really being proud of him about anything (usually she told Neville that he didn't measure up to his institutionalised parents). But whilst Neville had done his gran proud, he had also frightened her out of her wits. She was refusing to replace the wand Neville had broken at the Ministry until the summer holidays were over. Neville complained that he stuck with Herbology lessons until she eventually came around.

Ron's letter, after mentioning that Ginny was still refusing to talk about Harry at all (“she treats you as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named”), contained a most interesting paragraph about someone else's reaction to the news:

Cho's acting strange too, but in a good way I think. She keeps congratulating me, wanting to talk to me, and everything. She's not like you described - no crying at all. Are you sure you're over her, mate? I'd like your blessing before I let anything happen. I'd do the same for you any time if I were in your position.

He laughed out loud. Ron and Cho? He could scarcely see what they had in common with each other except for Quidditch. But who knows? Maybe that was enough - especially with both of them at a Quidditch holiday camp. Ron was clearly into Quidditch in a big way now that he had stopped being such a prat at keeper….

And what about Cho? He mulled it over. He felt he had given her his best (none too good) shot, and now any relationship (if you could call it that) that he had with Cho was over and done with. Ron was welcome to her, if that was what they both wanted. Harry wrote back a short note to Ron, jocularly giving him his “assent.” He also mentioned that he would keep Ron's “promise to do the same” in mind - he thought he knew what Ron was insinuating. He could always hope….

Luna's letter was passing strange, in keeping with the girl herself. She had written just two short sentences. “Please understand that I do not blame you for any of this. Be careful.” Harry was confused. Everybody else he knew in the wizarding world was pounding him on the back in congratulations and expressing gratitude. But Luna appeared simply to be withholding blame. What did she think that nobody else did? Harry could not be certain if that odd duck of a girl was even going to accept the award.

There was also an unexpected letter from Fleur Delacour, apparently written on her little sister Gabrielle's behalf, inviting him to visit the Delacour estate in Guyenne (which Harry assumed was somewhere in France). Gabrielle was ten now, and like everybody else, it seemed, she viewed Harry as a hero. Unlike (almost) everybody else, Gabrielle had been personally rescued by him - and evidently knew how to contact him. Harry decided not to respond to this letter. He did not want to encourage Gabrielle to become another Ginny Weasley. Harry shuddered, remembering how Ginny's crush on him had led to the both of them almost getting killed in his Second Year.

The remaining two letters perplexed him even more. They were from wizard children he didn't even know - a Jennifer Fontaine from Liverpool and a Jonathan Swanage from Somerset. These letters had simply been addressed to “Harry Potter, Living with Muggles, England.” Neither writer could have been more than eight. They sent short scrawled notes expressing admiration. One of them included a crayon picture of Harry blasting Voldemort with a wand.

These letters reminded Harry of snatches of stories he had picked up from Muggle television when he was little, about children addressing letters to Santa Claus at the “North Pole.” Was he now an iconic figure in the wizarding world equivalent to Santa Claus for Muggles? He quickly banished the thought. But nevertheless he wrote short notes back to both of them - telling them to study hard and one day they might become Aurors and fight Death Eaters themselves. It was a morale thing, Harry decided.

After an early dinner, he went to Mrs. Figg's expecting to meet Dumbledore for his first Occlumency session. Instead he found himself face to face with Bill Weasley, who was present to escort Harry to Hogwarts. As requested, Bill had acquired a Firebolt to send to Ginny. Harry wrote a note that apologised for ignoring her (“I was being a self-centered prat again”), and off the present went - tied between two specially engaged albatrosses for the long over-water trip to Denmark.

Bill also produced a Cadbury's contract for Harry to sign. Just as Blackie Howe had postulated, Cadbury's had been willing to pay considerably more than its opening offer for the right to market a Harry Potter chocolate frog card. He was to receive 2500 Galleons per year, a 3 1/2-times improvement over Cadbury's 700-Galleon initial proposal. Bill and Blackie had also made sure that the contract was exclusive only as to confections, preserving for him the option of making other endorsements (Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes came to mind) should Harry so choose. The first year's fee was to be payable immediately upon Cadbury's receipt of a signed contract.

With Dumbledore's approval, the Cadbury's contract provided for payment in Muggle pounds - over 12,500 of them - directly into a customer account established at the Bank of England. Harry was puzzled when Bill handed him a gun-metal-grey piece of plastic with the Queen's picture on it.

“What's this for?” Harry asked.

“It's a debit swipe card for your new bank account,” Bill explained. “Almost every merchant, Muggle or wizard, will accept this card instead of bank notes. It's a lot less bulky, and with the Bank of England name on it, it establishes at once that you're a person of consequence - someone with whom anyone would be chuffed to do business. You can also order practically anything mail order with it over the Internet.”

Harry was confused, “All with one piece of plastic?”

“It's not just plastic,” Bill explained. “The Bank of England is the Queen's own Bank, established almost 500 years ago with the first Queen Elizabeth's share of the booty from Sir Francis Drake's raids....”

“Who's that?” Harry asked. The name was vaguely familiar.

“She was Queen of England during the Armada,” Bill deadpanned.

“Not the ruddy queen,” Harry growled. “The other bloke. I'm not a total prat….”

“But face it, you have potential,” Bill replied with a snigger.

“You seem to have achieved your potential,” Harry shot back.

“Drake was a pirate backed by Her Majesty's government,” recounted Bill,” but that's not important. What's important is that the Bank of England doesn't accept just anyone as an account holder. Actually, your account is rather small by BOE standards. But Gringotts has longstanding arrangements with the Bank of England, and the goblins used their influence to get you in, Harry.”

“Why would goblins do that for me?” asked Harry skeptically.

“Dumbledore will be telling you more about that tonight,” said Bill, “which is one reason we've got to get a move on. Sign the contract, and I'll see to it that your account is filled tomorrow. You'll never want for gold again, I daresay.”

Upon arriving at Hogwarts, Bill escorted Harry to the Room of Requirement and took his leave. Dumbledore was there, but not as he had ever seen the Headmaster before. Dumbledore was dressed in silver-sparked glittering robes that left light trails behind him as he walked. He had his hair and beard completely down, and they reached nearly to the floor.

“These are the dress robes of the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards,” Dumbledore explained to the unabashedly gawking Harry. “The goblin ceremony on the eighteenth is going to be rather more than I anticipated. The goblins wish to hold a full Ashrak, which is sort of a combined treaty-signing and bonding ceremony. Since it is you, more than me, whom the goblins want, you will also need formal robes for the Ashrak.”

Harry shook his head. “I can't see myself wearing anything like that,” he said, gesturing at Dumbledore's finery.

“Nor could you,” responded the Headmaster, “since our sumptuary laws forbid it. As I said, these are a Supreme Mugwump's dress robes. However, the question of what you should wear is more knotty than you might think. By your formal status, you are only entitled to wear the dress robes of a student of Gryffindor House, as you will to your graduation ceremony. But mere student dress robes are woefully insufficient for the protocol of this event.”

“How so?” asked Harry. “I'm proud of being in Gryffindor.”

“A goblin Ashrak is ordinarily a meeting of heads of state, and given that you will be the Ashrakadan, you need to project more status than a mere student. But I believe I have solved the problem. You may wear the dress robes of a Knight of the Realm, since there are no ex officio requirements to be a Knight, and you are fated, by both prophecy and temperament, to be a warrior. In recognition of your past accomplishments, you can also wear the sword of Godric Gryffindor.”

“That sounds way cool,” said the boy with a grin, “but what do I do as an Ashrakadan?”

“You are the star of the show, so to speak,” replied Dumbledore. “You are giving your word to support the goblins' demand for full legal equality with wizards. The goblins view this in the same light as a formal treaty. There have been two such treaties in the past - as you would have known had you paid attention in History of Magic class.” With this mention of Harry's most notable academic failing, the Headmaster gave Harry a piercing you-could-have-done-better look over his half moon glasses.

“The first was the Great Treaty of 1648 that ended the Goblin Rebellions in Britain, and the second was the Regularisation Treaty of 1844, which established the current relationship between our two communities. The goblins look upon this second treaty as an unequal one because they had very little choice but to settle for whatever terms were offered after their community was ravaged by Doxylaria. They are particularly concerned about the clause in that treaty which allows a 75% vote of the wizard shares in Gringotts to divest them of their control over the bank. Since Gringotts is far and away the largest outside employer of goblins, that clause is a constant threat of economic ruin.”

“When the goblins sign treaties with wizards, the wizard signatory - you in this case - is required to become an Ashrakadan, which subjects you to goblin law. That way the goblins satisfy themselves that a binding commitment has been made. The position is also a great honour, however. With the responsibility of an Ashrakadan come a number of rights, the most important of which is the expectation of Vladaskat, by which the goblins agree to support you in battle. What that means to the current war,” Dumbledore paused for emphasis, “is that in any joint combat operation against the Dark Forces, you have the right to command the goblin army if you are present.”

“I'm no general,” murmured Harry. “I don't know the first thing about commanding anybody.”

“Well, there is no requirement that you be present for battle,” smiled Dumbledore, “but I would not sell your abilities short either. After all, you have created - and commanded - one army already.”

“Yeah, right,” spat Harry. “An army that was routed by one toadlike teacher.”

“And an army that ultimately drove that teacher away, held off a dozen Death Eaters, exposed Voldemort's return and, I might add, left several students in an awful state on the Hogwarts Express a few weeks ago,” chuckled Dumbledore.

“Anyway, enough talk,” said the Headmaster in a more serious tone as he strode to the fireplace. In an instant a fire was crackling, and Dumbledore called for Madame Malkin, who owned the largest robe shop in Hogsmeade. Obviously she had been forewarned, because she arrived with the necessary fabric - silver-blue Damascus steel mail bewitched to feather lightness for the formal vestments, and deep purple velvet for a long outer cape. When Madame Malkin was finished sizing the robes, she muttered an incantation that Harry could not hear and a pattern of red lacquered links appeared in the mail across Harry's chest. It now bore the red and yellow heraldic pattern of three St. George dragons.

“Very impressive, Mister Potter,” mused Dumbledore when Madame Malkin was finished. “With Godric's sword strapped at your side, you will look every bit the substantial figure needed to fill the role of Ashrakadan. Make sure that the sleeves are cut quite loose Matilde.”

“Why loose?” asked Harry warily.

“Unless I am badly mistaken - and I rarely am in these matters - you will receive the goblin Tladimax, the symbol of goblin citizenship, on both of your forearms during the ceremony....”

Harry grimaced at the thought.

“Worry not,” soothed Dumbledore, seeing the apprehensive look on the boy's face. “While they use a knife, it is charmed so that the incision causes no pain, is instantly healed, and the resulting scar is visible only to goblins, whose eyesight is somewhat different than our own.”

After they were done with the robes - Harry insisted on paying for them himself, using the swipe card - Dumbledore began their initial Occlumency programme. The Headmaster was surprised, and not at all pleased, when he learned that Professor Snape had not conducted any assessment of Harry's mind before engaging in serious attacks.

“So, you are telling me that Professor Snape conducted no assessment at all before beginning?” the Headmaster confirmed.

“None that I knew of … the bloody berk,” Harry replied.

“Please Mister Potter, language,” Dumbledore remonstrated. “He is, after all a tenured professor at this school.”

“That doesn't mean he's not a bloody berk,” Harry maintained. “Why did you let him do it?”

Dumbledore sighed. “Because of the limited amount of free time available to you during your O.W.L. year, I did not think it manageable for you to learn Occlumency generally. All I wanted was for you to become sufficiently proficient to prevent Voldemort from conducting hostile penetration through the mental link that the two of you share. Not only was the Professor an accomplished Occlumens, but he was more familiar with Voldemort and his techniques than anyone here. Thus I selected Professor Snape.”

“What did you tell him to do?” Harry asked sceptically.

“Unfortunately, I gave him no explicit instructions, other than the need to repel Voldemort,” the Headmaster confessed. “I left it to his discretion, which he apparently abused.”

Harry said nothing, so Dumbledore continued with his explanation.

“In order to teach you to defend a particular portion of your mind, Professor Snape should have first assessed the nature of the link, or links, that connect you to Voldemort. Defensive Occlumency without a mental assessment is rather like driving at night without headlamps - only worse - because it required you to stretch your defenses unnecessarily thin, covering mental territory that should not have been subject to invasion.”

Cautiously - because he remembered the Incandens charm that the boy had generated the last time he had used Legilimency on him - Dumbledore requested and received permission to enter Harry's mind in order to examine the link to Voldemort. The Headmaster promised to use only pleasant memories to gain access, specifically mentioning the conversation in which Hagrid had first told the boy that he was a wizard. Harry agreed and soon felt the now-familiar prickling sensation in his mind. This time, however, it was pleasant, as he saw images of Hagrid breaking down the door of the Dursleys' hideaway, twisting his uncle's shotgun into a knot, giving Dudley a pig's tail.... After what seemed like a long time, but was really just a few minutes, Dumbledore exited.

“Very interesting,” he said mostly to himself. “Very interesting indeed.”

“I always thought that you knew Hagrid kept bits of his wand in that pink umbrella he carried.” Harry suggested.

“No,” said Dumbledore softly, “I was referring to the state of your mind.”

“What about it?” he responded curiously and somewhat apprehensively. “You located the link with Voldemort didn't you?”

“Oh yes, it certainly took no great skill to locate that link, although it is somewhat different from what I expected to find. It was powerful, judging by its size, and either very old, very frequently used or both, judging by the lack of frayed edges. I could not even examine all of it, since you seem to have part of it walled off with something. But even from the portion I could reconnoiter, I am afraid that although the Voldemort link can be defended against, it cannot be permanently shut down by your own unilateral action, no matter how skilled in Occlumency you become. The link that the failed Avada kedavra curse created between your mind and Voldemort's is so strong that you cannot cut it without his assent.”

“But there was more,” observed the Headmaster, “and that is where the surprise truly lies. There is a second link - much fainter and much more recent. It is so faint I doubt you have the power to use it at all. It seems to be a one-way link, but very tenuous. I doubt that whoever is on the other side can sense more than general emotions.”

“You said `whoever,'” replied Harry, focusing on the most important issue. “Does that mean you don't know who I'm linked to?”

“That is correct, Harry,” answered Dumbledore. “It is simply too weak and diffuse for me to follow it back to the source. Do you have any idea who else, other than Voldemort, might be linked to you?”

“I haven't a clue,” Harry lied, thinking back to his discussion of affinities at the Ministry. “But I've a couple of questions that I've been meaning to ask you before I go home tonight. I want to ask them now before I forget.”

“As you wish,” sighed Dumbledore.

“Somebody from the Department of Mysteries asked me to wear something whilst I had my Auror power test..., something to measure my `output and conductivity.' Why?”

“That question I cannot answer at this time, Harry,” said Dumbledore with an unreadable expression on his face.

Harry frowned. “Then let's try something else. What's up with Hermione?” he asked. “I've heard from everyone else whose going to receive the Order of Merlin, but not a word from her since the letter by Muggle post.”

“Things are delicate right now...,” started Dumbledore, but seeing - and indeed feeling - Harry's furious glare, Dumbledore hastened to add, “but there is no change in her status, she is definitely coming back.”

“Can't you just tell me honestly, what is going on?” demanded Harry.

“All right, but please listen,” began Dumbledore. “The Minister surprised everyone with the Order of Merlin announcement. I had agreed to the concept, but he timed it for his own purposes....”

“Shak says he did it to reduce the impact of the news that he had been bribed by Lucius Malfoy,” Harry said flatly. “That's why the Aurors and Mister Weasley were all so aggravated right afterwards.”

“And Minister Fudge succeeded,” admitted Dumbledore. “Many in the Order believe that he violated an agreement he made not to involve you in petty politics. Given what you are fated to do, the Order felt, and feels, that to involve you in such politics would be an unnecessary and unwise distraction. You should not have to second-guess your instincts by worrying about possible political consequences of your actions. You have more than enough on your plate.”

“All right, I understand that I shouldn't bother with politics,” said Harry getting a little frustrated, “but I must be thick. What does all this have to do with Hermione?”

“I shall get to that, but first I must clear up a misconception,” answered Dumbledore. “I said for you to avoid petty politics, not all politics. By virtue of what you have done, and even more by what you are fated to do, you are inevitably a figure of political consequence. That is why you are an Ashrakadan, for example. What is imperative is that the powerful political symbol you represent not be sullied by the machinations of petty politics - speeches, endorsements, press conferences and the like. Your purpose is to unify, not to divide. That is what the Order attempted to impress upon the Minister when he finally accepted that Voldemort had returned.”

“But now to answer your question about Miss Granger,” said Dumbledore, turning around to face Harry directly. “Matters are delicate for two reasons. First, as a consequence of your both having been struck seriatim by the Dark Fire curse, her more seriously than you were, we believe that you and Miss Granger share an affinity that allows her to sense your emotions. I essentially confirmed that a short while ago.”

“But, but, but, then why did you ask me?” stammered a very surprised Harry.

“To see if you would be as honest with me, as you were asking me to be with you,” responded Dumbledore, giving the boy another piercing look. “Frankly, Mister Potter, you are such a very poor liar that you could be in significant danger if you found yourself in a situation that required you to dissemble.”

“I'm sorry...,” mumbled Harry miserably.

“Don't be, it was a personal subject,” replied Dumbledore. “I expect people not to be willing to tell the truth about such things. But, in light of her parents' actions, we have thought it best not to inform Miss Granger of this affinity until she is back amongst us. I would not be surprised if she has self-diagnosed, however. Mental affinities can be closed if both sides agree, so I need to know if you want me to sever that connection when the time comes.”

Harry was perplexed - badly conflicted. On the one hand, having somebody you knew well being able to sense your emotions was potentially rather embarrassing. On the other hand, this was Hermione, and the idea that there was a mental, emotional link between them did not upset Harry in the least. On the contrary, he found the idea of such mental closeness surprisingly satisfying. “Do I have to decide right now? I'd rather talk to her about it first, to find out how she feels.”

“Of course,” said Dumbledore. “However, the affinity complicates matters at present because it brings her closer to you, and her parents are quite of two minds about you at present. Whilst they think that you protect her, they also believe, with reason, that you endanger her. Revealing such an unusual emotional link between yourselves to Mister and Mrs. Granger at this time might cause them to reconsider her return. Therefore, Mister Potter, you must not have any contact with Miss Granger until I inform you it is appropriate.”

Harry gulped, “I, I, I understand, sir,” was all he said, but he was careful neither to agree nor disagree with the Headmaster's command.

“Now the second reason things are very delicate is the Minister's premature announcement of the Order of Merlin awards. As you know, that decoration is awarded only for conspicuous valor in battle under life-threatening circumstances. As distinguished as the award is, you can see, I'm sure, why it would be counterproductive to emphasize just how much danger Miss Granger was actually in at the Ministry before she is back from Hong Kong. Therefore I have decided that it is best for there to be no further contact between anyone in the wizarding world and the Grangers until they are all safely back in England. I do not want them to find this out until I have them committed fully to her return. Therefore, Mister Potter, you need not feel that you are in any worse position than anyone else.”

“When will she be back, then?” asked Harry.

“If all goes well, quite soon,” answered the Headmaster. “That is all I can say right now. But lest you worry excessively, please be aware that I recently had an idea how to facilitate matters. You may rest assured that I shall not let this situation drag on.”

Then Dumbledore changed the subject. “But the purpose of our being here tonight is to have an Occlumency session, and that is what we are going to do. Do I understand correctly from Sefu Kung that through meditation you have largely mastered the art of clearing your mind?”

“I've gotten pretty good at it, yes,” said Harry, thinking that the word “master” was overstating things.

Dumbledore promptly put the boy through his paces. He quickly ascertained that Harry could clear his mind well enough that he could learn nothing through ordinary Legilimency. Dumbledore therefore decided to move on to the next step.

“Mister Potter, I want you to think of the most mind-numbingly boring activity that you can imagine,” Dumbledore asked.

“What good is that?” Harry responded - surprised but interested.

“You see,” Dumbledore explained, “when Voldemort or anyone else attempting to break into your mind encounters total blankness, as I just did, he knows that he is being resisted. He may leave, since he has been detected, but he may think that he is being obstructed because something important is afoot, in which case he may try harder to break in. If, however, he is under the impression that you are not doing or thinking about anything interesting, he may leave for that reason alone - because he is wasting his time. This exercise is the beginning of teaching you how to use Occlumency as more than just a passive defence, in this instance to work a deception.”

Harry got the concept. He thought of using Professor Binns' History of Magic class, but realised that this would not be very deceptive because he was not in school at the moment, and even if he were, he would no longer taking History of Magic. Finally, he settled on being a couch potato and watching football games, as Dudley often did. He then practiced focusing on that image and transmitting it to Dumbledore for the rest of the session.

At the end of the session, Harry had an idea of his own. “Headmaster, is there a way that I could … like … seize and hold someone who is trying to invade my mind, and either keep him inside or force him to come to where I am?”

“Mister Potter, if you are thinking about Voldemort, the answer is no - not without causing him to destroy your mind. You might be able to trap and hold someone very inexperienced, but a powerful wizard like Voldemort would tear your mind to shreds until you were too weak to try to hold him any longer, and then you would be, as the Muggles say, a vegetable,” Dumbledore warned. “Do not even think of trying that. Not only would it be suicidal, but it would not stand a chance of ultimately succeeding.”

“But if Voldemort could destroy my mind through Legilimency, why hasn't he tried already?” Harry asked.

“That is a good question. I suppose the answer is because he thought he could use you for other purposes,” explained Dumbledore. “But he could decide at any time to try exactly that. At present, that risk is the most immediate reason why it is imperative that you learn Occlumency. Unless and until the mental link between you and him is closed somehow, you need to be able to shut him out. Your sanity could well depend upon it.”

As they were preparing to leave, the Headmaster brought up one more subject with Harry that reinforced his amazement at how much Dumbledore knew about seemingly everything.

“Mr. Potter, you recently used a number of disorientation spells on one of Mrs. Figg's Kneazle cats….”

`Damn,' thought Harry, `she ratted on me even after I apologised and said I wouldn't do it again.' “Yes sir,” Harry answered truthfully (because he had no choice), “I understand that was stupid and I've already promised not to do it again.”

“Too right,” the older man replied, “but a member of the Order, who was sent to determine what happened, also detected the signature of another spell, the Orgasimos Curse.” Harry was stunned that Dumbledore knew about that, but tried to keep a straight face and said nothing. “As far as I am concerned, that was simply another spell you placed on the unfortunate Kneazle. I want you to appreciate, however, that there is a good reason this spell is taught only in the Auror's course and only for duelling purposes - its use for any other purpose is extremely addictive. Whatever else you do, you should not perform that spell for any reason other than its intended purpose. Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir,” said Harry.

“Very well, then,” said Dumbledore, “it is time to get you home.”

* * * *

Author's notes: I haven't seen an equivalent of the Orgasimos charm anywhere else. I don't see any canon reason why it shouldn't exist

Dudley's couldn't stand on two feet line comes from "Sea and Sand" by The Who

When you find yourself in a hole, first, stop digging

"Muggsy McGraw," the name of one of Mrs. Figg's kneazles, is the nickname given to an old-time baseball manager, John McGraw, who despised the nickname

The "Alumni of Slytherin Society," mentioned in the Prophet article, makes an interesting acronym

The list of bribe takers has been updated with HBP information

This kind of manipulation of the media by timing the news is common among national politicians, especially in the USA

Carluke and Wrexham are UK place names

Halliburton is a notoriously venal American defense contractor

Greenglass is from the canon character. It had been Zabini, but HBP made him a male, so I changed it. The Zabini/Greenglass change will make for some discontinuity between the revised and unrevised chapters

The first names - Hugo, Camille, Betsy, and Andrew - are all names of hurricanes that struck the USA

The "am I allowed to move" sequence is inspired by a similar episode in the movie "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid"

Don't know if D'Israeli was really a particularly prominent abolitionist (he would have been rather young). He was PM. I made up his being the first Jew buried at Westminster Abbey - D'Israeli wouldn't be caught dead in the same place as his great rival Gladstone

Placebus = placebo, an inert, harmless substance

The display of the treaty foreshadows something that becomes important

Magic Circle is a real term referring to the most prestigious London (the "City") law firms

The Hong Kong Shangri-La is a very posh hotel in real life

Cathay Pacific was the Hong Kong flag carrier at that time

There's only one cartoon Beatles cover - and only one six-minute song on that album

The Playwitch nude photo offer was inspired by a similar offer made a couple of years ago concerning the baseball player Ichiro Suzuki

Shak's attire was influenced by the items recited in "Sharp Dressed Man" by ZZ Top

The reference to "the PM's office and even beyond" begins a riff that will persist, but won't come to fruition unless and until I write a 7th year follow-up. Five points to whomever unravels it first

"Do anything you say," from "On the Cover of the Rolling Stone" by Dr. Hook

I believe that the Quidditch camp would fit into the category of what the British call "holiday camps"

I'm keeping the 5.25-1 Galleon/pound conversion rate. I considered using the dollar/Galleon conversion rate from the back covers of QA and FB, but a Lexicon article convinced me not to.

The connection between Sir Francis Drake, Queen Elizabeth I, and the Bank of England is historically accurate

Dumbledore's robes was inspired by "Amazing Journey" from the Tommy album - "He was dressed in a silver sparked glittering gown, and his golden beard flowed nearly down to the ground"

Sumptuary laws are another anachronistic feature of wizard society

The St. George dragon is common in British heraldry, including an appearance on the coat of arms of the current Royal family

Dumbledore's statement about expecting people to lie about sexual relationships reflects a pet peeve of mine dating back to the American impeachment fiasco

- 40 -

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C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch6 training.doc 08/21/03

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7. So Close Yet So Far

Wherein Hermione returns and almost gets together with Harry, a poorly phrased explanation torpedoes that hope, leading to many trials and tribulations; light is shed upon Hermione's relationship with Harry, Ron, Victor and her parents; Hermione cleans Harry's room, they share their marks and discuss school, the Order of Merlin and Harry's inheritance.

I was not planning on uploading this chapter so soon, but the problem (now fixed) that left Chapter 6 truncated meant that some readers have not seen the full chapter six. So if you only experienced the abrupt ending, go back and finish that chapter first.

Also, given the nature of this forum, it is probably best to provide everyone with a little Harry-Hermione interaction - even if I am sure that you will find it exquisitely frustrating how they end up missing the mark. Eventually they will get together, I promise, but not now and not soon. They each have some growing up to do.

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

Chapter 7 - So Close, Yet So Far

It was early Sunday morning on Privet Drive. It had rained overnight, and the mist still hung heavy in the pre-sunrise gloom. In Number Four, Harry was already awake, and despite what promised to be a rather cool morning, he was dreading the day. Sunday was when the Dursleys were due another check-up visit from the Order. Whilst these visits were supposed to ensure that his relatives treated him well (or at least as well as could be expected), all they had succeeded in accomplishing so far was infuriating them. He could not avoid thinking that the Order's periodic visits had become more trouble than they were worth.

He was restless and unable to fall back to sleep. He threw on a pair of jeans and his runic T-shirt. What to do now? Harry had read his latest owl post: a couple more of what he had taken to calling “Dear Santa Claus letters,” and more importantly an enthusiastic thank you note from Ginny signifying that she and Harry were on friendly terms again - but hopefully not too friendly.

There was gossip in the letter as well. Harry smiled at the thought of Ron scandalising his little sister - she was reporting that Ron “was now on very friendly terms indeed with Cho.” Ginny expressed worry that Harry would be jealous; he and Cho having taken an unsuccessful stab at romance during the just-completed term. But there was no issue. Harry wished Ron and Cho only the best. He was over her. He felt no jealousy at all upon hearing the news.

What else could he do? Harry had finished the book on Muggle electricity - or at least the chapters Dumbledore had wanted him to read. The assignment had been interesting enough, but he perceived no great insights. There were no summer reading assignments for school. He had not yet been formally notified of his O.W.L. results. Thus he had not selected his N.E.W.T.-level classes for the coming year. No classes meant no homework.

Harry's alarm clock sounded. Annoyed, he transfigured it into a tangerine.

He went pacing around his room absent mindedly whilst running his hands through his permanently disheveled hair. Then he trod on a plastic bag and nearly took a purler. He picked up the bag. It contained a copy of the current issue of Teen Witches' Weekly. Tonks had jokingly given it to him on Friday, during a break in his Ancient Magic lesson at Auror Candidate School. She had bought the magazine on a lark because it had Harry's face on the cover. He “might get a kick” out of it, she had told him.

Harry got a kick all right - straight to the head. He started reading, but not really comprehending, until… “Oh bloody Hell!” Teen Witches' Weekly had put together a feature length article from Harry's “I don't have a girlfriend” statement at his press conference. Entitled “Look Out Girls, Potter's Hotter Than Ever,” most of the article was a thinly disguised exhortation to the magazine's readership (“sophisticated witches, 12 to 20”) to take their chances at being “the lucky one,” that is, to try to attract his romantic interest.

Along with the article was a list of the “Top Ten Hints for Getting Harry Potter's Attention.” These ranged in subject from “Let Harry find you in danger” - because he supposedly liked to rescue damsels in distress - to “Dress in your best Muggle clothing” - because he was raised by Muggles and supposedly fancied girls who wore revealing Muggle togs.

There were interviews with a “panel of experts” (purporting to be “anonymous” girls “on the scene” at Hogwarts) about Harry's life at school. He winced at the idea of some air-head like Lavender Brown posing as an “expert” on “what girls do that turns Harry Potter on.” The interviews mentioned the D.A., Harry's friends, his nightmares, and worst of all, his abortive relationship with Cho Chang and the supposed conflict between Cho and Hermione for his affection. Those rumours that Rita Skeeter started just would not die. Rather, they had morphed in any number of new, and outlandish, directions,

“I don't want to read this rubbish,” Harry raged aloud, as he flung the magazine under his bed with the dustbunnies. “If this is what being famous is all about, I wish I'd never been born.” He could not shake bizarre images of himself - surrounded by girls in short shorts and tube tops about to fall out of third storey windows and begging him to rescue them - just so they could get a “ride on Harry's broomstick.” He was not amused by the double entendre.

Maybe he should show the article to Blackie Howe.

The article surfaced one of Harry' hidden worries - that his fame meant he would never be able to take at face value what any girl claimed to think of him. If a girl ever came on to him as strongly as the magazine suggested, he had no idea what he would do. He thought he might just turn tail and run. Most seriously, he wondered how he could ever trust anyone in a romantic situation again, with so many girls chasing after him, putting on phony airs, and wanting to be “the lucky one.”

He put on his running clothes and pounded on Dudley's door. That boy, however, had been out late boozing with Muggle friends from his gym, and skived off today's run. That was fine with Harry. He slapped his favourite CD in his borrowed Walkman (fortunately he now had Muggle money to pay Dudley, as he was not about to chance Dumbledore's wrath by using Orgasimos on his cousin again) and ventured out into the misty morning.

The route was second nature now, and Harry had some time to think about his predicament. Girls. Why was everything about them so difficult? From what everyone else was telling him, directly or by implication, he could practically write his own ticket. But what good was that having all the choices in the world when he had no idea how to choose?

There was deeper discomfort too. Harry speculated that his anxiousness around girls reflected a deeper problem - because of his upbringing, he had no idea how to accept and return love. His relatives showed him no affection, and he had learned long ago that they did not want his. That could not be a sharper contrast with the Weasleys. Watching them, Harry understood that he had hardly known love in his own life - everybody that loved him seemed to die.

How could he tell if a girl really loved him, was just in love with this overblown media image of him - or worse, was only cynically out to use him? One way, Harry supposed, was to stay with girls who were attracted to him before that image existed. That left a very limited universe.

There was Cho, but she was now with Ron. Anyway, Harry had hardly enjoyed what little time they spent together.

There was Ginny, who had once had a crush on him. But Ginny had just told him to his face that she no longer had any interest in him. Most of the time, he thought of Ginny as more of a little sister anyway. She deserved better than his stringing her along because he had no idea what else to do. She was very pretty though….

There was Hermione - but she was his best friend, and Harry had no desire to lose her friendship as the price of a failed romance. Hermione was without question the cleverest person Harry had ever met. He needed to borrow her brain every now and then when the schoolwork became overwhelming. More importantly, incalculably so, he needed her wits and support in his fight against Voldemort.

But was that really a reason - or at least a good reason? Or was it just an excuse for being scared? Harry thought back to the way he felt when he first read Hermione's plea for help. He had been desperate almost beyond measure. The tone of her letter certainly did not rule out similar feelings. His mind wandered to the last time she had kissed him. It was barely more than a tap on the cheek, but he remembered how light-headed and barmy he had felt afterwards. Yes, Harry admitted, he certainly had had feelings for Hermione for some time, but he had kept them resolutely to himself. Why was that?

One reason, Harry had to admit, had always been Ron. Harry suspected that Ron might also fancy Hermione. Beyond that, Ron was also given to fits of extreme jealousy. His jealousy had nearly destroyed their friendship in Fourth Year, when he had been convinced that Harry had engineered his entry into the Triwizard Tournament. Ron had sulked (or worse) for weeks, and Harry did not want to risk that again. What else could explain Ron's angry reaction when Hermione had dated Victor Krum? Harry still remembered finding bits of Ron's plastic Krum action figure all over the dormitory…..

But his best mate was otherwise occupied now. And Hermione's relationship with Victor seemed restricted to exchanges of letters (long letters - but just letters) through the post. Harry started giving himself a pep talk, with emphasis on Ron now being with Cho. After the Ministry, Hermione could hardly be in more danger from Death Eaters than she already was. There was no longer any good reason for him not at least make discreet inquiries to find out if Hermione might be interested in something more than friendship.

But there WAS another reason, even if not a particularly good one - Harry was positively terrified that Hermione would rebuff his advance. Even in the abstract, the thought of rejection by Hermione left Harry gasping for breath. Sometimes a good dream was better than harsh reality. He could always dream….

Throughout his childhood, the Dursleys had brushed off his hopes - his need - for affection. Two years ago almost the entire school (including his pathetic attempt to ask Cho to the Yule Ball) had turned away from him in favour of Cedric Diggory as the “real” Hogwarts Triwizard champion. Last year practically everyone in the wizarding world, even Dumbledore, seemed to push him away. With Sirius now dead, Harry admitted that he was not sure how much more rejection he could face.

Still, his left brain thought, Hermione was worth the candle, was she not?

The response came back from his right brain - two-thumbs-up affirmative.

Moreover (Harry smiled), if Hermione was, in fact, going to have Auror training with him over the holiday, there would undoubtedly be plenty of opportunities.

Harry ran somewhat farther than he usually did with Dudley. The weather was quite brisk, making the run pleasant, and he was lost in thought much of the time. Many of the thoughts he was thinking were not particularly happy, so after he finished, he spent a half an hour clearing his mind through meditation. Being as it was Sunday, and he was due another visit from the Order, Harry's sense of impending doom soon returned.

Because he was still restless, Harry decided to go over the shield spells he had learnt on Thursday and to get a jump on the restraining spells he would be learning on Monday. After half an hour he had finished revising shield spells and gone over the simpler restraining spells (Petrificus totalus and ropes, chains, fire, etc. coming from his wand) that he would be performing tomorrow. He was studying a more complex Magneto Curse - one that bound the target instantly to any large iron object in the vicinity as if held there by a powerful magnet.

The doorbell rang.

It was 8:00 in the morning. Zero hour, Harry shuddered, had come a little early. Evidently whoever had been assigned to visit him today wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. A capital idea, he thought.

Almost instantaneously, he bolted from his seat and went racing down the stairs three at a time. He thought that if he were able to answer the door himself, and keep his most unwelcome visitor out of the house, this would have the best chance of forestalling further unpleasantness. If the entire visit took place on the front garden, where the neighbours could see, it should be less likely that the Dursleys would cause another scene.

Catlike, he leapt the remaining five stairs to the hall. Three long strides and he reached the front door. He had beaten the Dursleys. Aunt Petunia's horsey face had only just appeared at the far end of the hall, and Uncle Vernon's obnoxious self was not yet in view, although Harry could hear his footsteps. He flung open the door, stepped outside - and stopped dead in his tracks, speechless.

It was Hermione.

It was Hermione, as Harry had never seen her, in casual Muggle clothes - a light yellow anorak over her shoulders, with a light blue stretchy t-shirt underneath bearing the lime green slogan, “Talk nerdy to me.” She wore a dark denim blue skirt (with two incongruously large pink pockets) cut a couple of inches above the knee, and comfortable-looking flats.

Still a couple of inches shorter than he, she was positively beaming. Her brown eyes sparkled, her brown hair (not as bushy as in school) was kept out of her face by slides and was cascading down her back in waves well past her shoulders…. She was practically bouncing with excitement.

“HARRY!!”

Wham! That was all he was able to take in before he found his face buried in her ample brown hair. Hermione launched herself bodily at him, throwing her arms around his shoulders and pulling him fiercely toward herself.

“I never thought I'd see you again,” she blurted, and she started sobbing tears of joy. “I can't thank you enough!” Then she kissed him, square on the lips.

Harry was reeling, too happy for words. He lost himself in her scent - she smelled all soapy and clean, as if she had just given her hair a thorough wash and rinsing. Although Hermione must have been at least eight stone, she seemed light as a feather to him. In his excitement and intoxication, he just could not be still. He began spinning Hermione around and around, as he revolved off of the porch and onto the well-manicured (he had cut it just yesterday) front garden. Harry did not stop until he was dizzy and the two of them fell down in a giggling heap, oblivious to the rest of the world.

His gawping relatives watched from the front doorway, too stunned to say, or do, anything.

“I knew I'd see you again … I knew it…. Even if I had to come for you myself,” Harry choked out, as he prised Hermione's arms from around his neck so he could get a proper look at her. “I just didn't know when, or what I'd have to do to make it happen.”

“Oh, Harry, I hope you weren't serious,” gasped Hermione as she tried unsuccessfully to disentangle herself from Harry's still dizzily uncoordinated legs. She failed and fell still, revelling in Harry's familiar presence and less familiar feel. “I haven't told you anything, I'm afraid…. You don't even know my parents' names, let alone where we were staying.”

“Try me when my head stops spinning,” mumbled Harry, still attempting to convince himself that what was happening was real - that he deserved the happiness he felt. “I was as serious as death….”

He was also becoming all too aware of a distinct prickling sensation in his naughty bits. Harry was ashamed and embarrassed at the urge he was feeling, and he hoped it would escape Hermione's notice. `I don't want to think about that right now,' Harry thought, trying to convince the rest of his body that this was true, and hoping it went away. `This is a dream come true, and I don't want to ruin it.'

Hermione reluctantly brought the impromptu lie in to a close. “Harry, let's go inside,” she suggested. “I could lie on my back in the newly mown grass forever, but we have so much to talk about.” Less dizzy than Harry, she successfully extricated herself from the jumble of their arms and legs.

Her feelings for Harry were not all that different. She was also under attack by thrilling shivers in naughty places, but this came as no surprise to her. She had been aware of such feelings, generated by being near him, off and on for more than two years. But she was Hermione Granger, official best friend of Harry's - and she thought of herself as his conscience as well.

This Hermione Granger was much too much in control of herself to give vent to such feelings, except when alone. Until now, that is. The traumatic events of the past fortnight, much of which she spent worrying that she might never see him again, had given the girl plenty of time to think about how she really felt about him, and what she might do about it….

Her face still flushed with excitement, Hermione offered her hand and helped Harry rise unsteadily to his feet.

He noticed his relatives staring from the doorway and his ears went pink. He said the first thing that popped into his head. “Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, Dudley, this is Hermione Granger, my best friend from school.” Harry became acutely aware that Hermione had not released his hand.

His relatives mumbled what Hermione supposed were greetings. Dudley mutely continued to stare.

“Now if you'll excuse us, we have things we have to discuss in private,” Harry said with as much gravity as he could muster.

“Your abnormality be damned,” Uncle Vernon blustered. “You'll not be bunking up under my roof, boy. Am I understood?”

Harry's ears went even pinker, as did Hermione's. She abruptly let go of his hand. “Oh, no sir…. I mean yes sir.” Harry stammered. “It's not at all like that. I wouldn't dream of….”

“That's enough Harry,” said Hermione, taking charge. She addressed his relatives as much as him. “Now show me to your room so I can conduct my inspection - or I'll be forced to call upon my friends - my friends who watch Harry. I daresay you've already met some of them, such as dear old Mad-Eye Moody and the lovely Nymphadora Tonks. It's very nice to meet you, Mister and Mrs. Dursley.” She gave them a half curtsey, and Harry a prod in the back. Quickly they moved inside. For once the Dursleys were too stunned to do or say anything to obstruct them.

“I'll talk to you on the other side,” said Dudley with a wink at Harry.

As Harry and Hermione silently climbed the stairs, they each had remarkably similar thoughts - that maybe, just maybe, they would be able to go beyond being just friends - indeed, to move to a relationship more of the sort that Harry's uncle had so rudely implied. The way she had just responded to him, Harry felt certain that he would not be leaving his room without knowing, one way or the other, whether the two of them could be a couple. The thought intoxicated both his mind and his body. He stumbled slightly on the top stair.

Hermione's knees were weak with expectation as she followed him upstairs. He was even more handsome - more perfect - than she remembered him. Emotionally, he still seemed to be her a little like a lost puppy. Although he was so often depressed or angry, Harry seemed as overjoyed at their reunion as she was. Could there be more? More even than joy?

So many people - her parents, Viktor, the Daily Prophet, and now even Harry's relatives - already presumed she and Harry were more than friends, and Merlin knows she had suffered for it. But to Hermione, that was a small price to pay if only fiction could become fact. The moon and stars were aligning. Even her muse (her pet name for the unusual, seemingly self-possessed emotional surges she had been having since her parents had tried to ruin her life) was sharing in the romantic giddiness of the moment.

Tempering her excitement, Hermione's rational side cautioned her to treat Harry with extreme care. `He's naïve, and probably hasn't outgrown the typical male view of how relationships start,' she reminded herself. `I'll be sure he at least thinks he's making the first move.'

She felt that she had already exercised maximum self-restraint by keeping her lips closed whilst kissing him, instead of snogging Harry senseless right there in front of everyone. Nevertheless, she had reached some conclusions … conclusions about him … whilst involuntarily abroad.

Most importantly, she would deny him nothing. Hermione smiled and patted the magically shrunken handbag in the pocket of her skirt. The first step, she thought, was to make sure that even Harry - thick as he sometimes was about girls - understood that she was available. Now to do that….

“Oh honestly. Boys!” Hermione blurted out.

She had gotten her first glance at (and whiff of) Harry's room - the smallest bedroom on the second storey of the Dursley house. Aunt Petunia had hardly set foot in Harry's room after his return from Hogwarts. To Hermione, the room more resembled some sort of den than the residence of a human being. Dirty clothes hung from the foot of the bed and shared floor space with old copies of the Daily Prophet, bits of owl treats and owl pellets, various wrappers and miscellaneous scraps of paper. Harry's desk was littered with wizard quills and parchment haphazardly thrown together with Muggle biros, pencils and paper. Books were piled randomly on the desk and on the unmade bed.

Harry's trunk, still partly full, was on the closet floor, whilst almost nothing was hanging in the closet itself. Hermione took note of the opulent, albeit currently empty, portrait that hung on the wall - surely there was a story to that. But she was certain that the painting would look even better without a pair of boxers hanging from one corner. Part of Harry's lamp was entirely obscured, as it had Harry's Invisibility Cloak draped over it.

Hermione's nose wrinkled. It was also obvious that Hedwig's cage had gone at least a week without a cleaning.

“Harry, how can you live like this?” she chided. “There isn't even enough space for the both of us to sit. I think even Kreacher kept neater quarters.”

Looking embarrassed, Harry started shifting everything from his bed onto the floor so there would be a place for Hermione to sit. She had one of her bright ideas and stopped him. “Don't you think you need a woman's touch?” she asked rhetorically.

While Harry gawked, she rattled off a series of spells that totally transformed his room. His dirty clothes danced in the air as Hermione scourgified them. They folded themselves neatly and disappeared into Harry's chest of drawers, the drawers opening of their own accord to accept them. A summoning charm brought the dustbin from the Dursleys' kitchen floating into the room, and assorted detritus from his floor and shelves was soon flying into it. Books arranged themselves on Harry's shelves (alphabetically by author) and Daily Prophets neatly stacked themselves on his desk in chronological order. His various letters followed suit. He winced as the copy of Teen Witches' Weekly soared out from beneath his bed and landed gently atop the newspapers. A whiskbroom and dustpan followed the dustbin through the door and began swishing away under the bed. The grime (and worse) in Hedwig's cage disappeared. A rubber window wiper appeared and went to work on both the inside and outside of the window to Harry's modest room.

Hermione asked him if he had clothes hangers or pencil holders. When no response was forthcoming from the thunderstruck young man, she closed her eyes, concentrated, and said “Aparecium chez Hermione 20 clothes hangers” and “Aparecium chez Hermione spare desk organiser.” Almost instantaneously the items appeared. Another spell had them flying into place, the desk organiser shortly being filled with Harry's school supplies and the hangers supporting Harry's trousers, shirts, robes and cloaks.

As she was finishing up, she jumped when she heard a woman's voice say “very nice” behind her. Aunt Petunia, ever the snoop, had made her way silently upstairs - initially to see where her cleaning supplies were off to. She had witnessed well over half of Hermione's demonstration of domestic magic. “I approve,” she said to the both of them, and then dropped her voice to a whisper, “but please respect Vernon's sensibilities.”

Hermione needed only a moment to consider the situation. She offered Aunt Petunia a deal. She and Harry needed to talk privately, behind closed doors, but she offered to make his door transparent so Aunt Petunia could check on them “as much as you want” to satisfy herself that “nothing improper” was transpiring. She demonstrated the Vannoportus Charm for Harry's aunt, who pronounced herself satisfied.

As Aunt Petunia turned on her heel and disappeared downstairs, a grinning Hermione held up her arm to signal Harry not to do anything. Aiming her wand at the head of the stairs, she whispered, “Elggum departo.” A beam of golden light jumped from her wand and left a softly glowing line across the upper staircase landing that gradually blended into the carpet.

Hoping that she had impressed Harry as much as his aunt, Hermione quickly beckoned him inside. After shutting and sealing the door, she rendered it transparent and then cast a silencing spell. Turning back to Harry, she fixed him with a sympathetic gaze and said, “now where were we?”

Harry visibly flinched, and Hermione bit her lip, annoyed at herself for evidently being too forward.

“What … what did you just do?” Harry asked. “And where in the world did you learn all that?”

“If I didn't put your relatives' minds at ease, I'm sure you would never have heard the end of it, Harry,” she said, in a slightly patronising voice. “I used a simple transparency charm on the door. But you needn't worry about being spied upon by your aunt….”

“You don't know Aunt Petunia, Hermione,” he countered. “She's the biggest busybody in the neighbourhood. She's constantly spying on everyone, so why wouldn't she be keeping track of what goes on in her own house?”

Looking rather smug, Hermione replied, “Because I just put a Muggle Repelling Charm across the top of the stairs, that's why. You saw the same golden glow all over the stadium at the Quidditch World Cup. While your aunt certainly could try to spy on us, she won't want to. Whenever she tries, she'll remember something else that she urgently needs to do.”

“As for the rest of it, I used some spells, like Scourgify and Accio, that I'm sure are familiar to you - if not in that context,” she added, amazed at the filth boys could tolerate. “Mrs. Weasley taught me most of the rest whilst I was at Grimmauld Place last summer, but there's some that I've been doing longer than I can remember as accidental magic. My Mum told me I started at age four after watching Mary Poppins on the telly.”

“Mary Poppins or no,” warned Harry. “You shouldn't have done that. Not only is it underage magic, but you were acting in the presence of a Muggle. I almost got expelled for less.”

“Oh no I won't, Harry Potter,” she laughed. “Dumbledore came to visit last night, and I signed a contract like yours. He told my parents a most hilarious story about a series of unfortunate events involving certain wizards visiting your house whilst….” Hermione's smile vanished. “…whilst I was away. He more or less asked, and I more or less volunteered, to take over the Order's inspections of your relatives. The Headmaster is wonderfully skilled at putting people at ease, even my parents. They agreed to it, and here I am.”

He moved closer to her as her face started to break. Putting his hand on hers, he asked, “What ever happened Hermione? How could your parents do it? They seemed nice enough to me. I was frantic when I got your letter.”

“Not half as frantic as I was when I posted it,” she answered in a faltering voice, tears falling freely now. “It was horrible…. I was sloppy. I left a copy of the Daily Prophet about. It had one of those stories about the fight at the Ministry - how brave all of us, but especially you, were … how much danger we were in; how several of us including…” Hermione paused for emphasis. …“Including `your girlfriend' were hurt; and how S…, S…, somebody got killed… Oh I'm so sorry Harry, to be putting you through my silly problems when you must be feeling a hundred times worse.” Hermione broke down completely, sobbing in his arms.

`Snap out of it,' her analytical side told herself. `You're Hermione Granger, the cleverest witch at Hogwarts, not some human hosepipe like….' Recalling Harry's short and unhappy fling with Cho Chang brought her abruptly back to a more even keel - until she realised that her shoulders were not the only ones heaving. “Harry?” she whispered. She looked up into his red, tear-splotched face. “Oh, Harry!”

She held him even closer as Harry wept for Sirius. She had known Harry for almost six years. She had seen him face his own possible death several times; seen him after he barely survived Voldemort; seen him deal with the terrors of the Triwizard Tournament; seen him bear the brunt of Ron's jealousy; and seen him break who knows how many bones playing Quidditch. This was the first time that she had ever seen the impassive Harry Potter cry about anything.

“I killed him, Hermione!” Harry mumbled through his tears. “If only I had listened to you…. I'd remembered the mirror…. Not provoked Snape.… Hadn't let Wormtail get away.… Oh, if I hadn't ever been born!” He wept some more. Finally he managed, “Hermione, have you ever felt like you wanted to be dead?”

She had long worried about Harry's stoicism. The harder the exterior, the more brittle as well. She had intuited that he would need some form of emotional release from horrors such as his godfather's death, and she intended if at all possible to be his refuge. She now sensed that things were rapidly spinning out of control. Afraid that Harry might attempt something rash, she resolved to be strong.

“Yes, Harry, I have,” she said softly but firmly. “The night my parents took away my wand and told me I wasn't coming back to Hogwarts. We had a tremendous row. I had such flashes of anger and despair that I surprised myself. I broke a number of knick-knacks with spontaneous magic and fled upstairs to my room. My parents thought I needed to be alone and let me go. My … my … my father watches too many American westerns. He keeps a pistol in his nightstand. Well … you see … our bedrooms share a common bathroom, and I went into his room. I held that pistol in my hand - but it didn't happen to be loaded…. If it had been, I honestly don't know what the outcome would have been. My parents found me aimlessly pulling the trigger of the empty gun….”

Harry's jaw dropped, but he was too shocked to say anything.

Hermione continued, “Basically, they freaked, and I can't say I blame them. For a while I thought that we would be going to Australia or New Zealand after Hong Kong, and that I would never see England again. They wouldn't tell me what they were planning to do…. Maybe they didn't know themselves…. Not knowing what was going on, I assumed the worst. I always do….”

Her soliloquy had a profound effect. At the thought of how close she had come to putting a bullet through that magnificent brain of hers, Harry stopped feeling sorry for himself, and instead started fearing for her. His hands went to her shoulders and he looked into her brown, tear-filled eyes. “If, If, If… you'd done it… You would have killed me too,” he rasped.

They sat in meaningful silence for what seemed like a long time. “But why was this time so different?” he asked. “You've been in danger before. A Basilisk petrified you. I know Dumbledore told your parents at least something about that.”

“They saw the affair at the Ministry differently,” Hermione replied in a more normal tone of voice. “With the Basilisk, they accepted that I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time - which wasn't exactly true, but I let them think it. This time there was no way to hide that I had voluntarily chosen to put myself in harm's way. And it's more than even that. I endangered myself because of you, Harry….”

She reached up to her shoulders and took both his hands, lowering them, in hers, between them.

“…The `girlfriend' business bothered them greatly, even though I told them it wasn't true. They almost sent me to Muggle school a year ago, because of….”

Hermione's voice trailed off. The conversation had veered towards forbidden terrain. She cursed herself for not having told him about this episode before, but with Ron acting the way he did, there just had never been an opportune time.

Harry, who had been listening raptly, picked up the pause in her story. “Because of what, Hermione?” he prompted gently.

She swallowed, hard. If she was to win Harry Potter's heart, honesty was the best policy - he had been deceived and lied to so often that she vowed she would not do it. “Because of Victor Krum.”

His eyes flashed dangerously, and he set his jaw. “If Krum's done anything to you Hermione, I swear I'll kill him. Ron will help. They won't find enough crumbs of Krum to give him a decent burial.”

She gasped, and her hand went to her mouth, as she saw him intent upon mayhem. “Oh, no Harry! Please, it is nothing like that. Viktor has always been the perfect gentleman. Do you think I would have been writing to him all last year if he had…? Well, you know….”

Hermione had a point, and Harry calmed down - if anything he had said or felt since he had first seen her standing at the front door could be considered calm. “Well, if it wasn't that, what could Viktor Krum have possibly done that frightened your parents so much that they wanted to make a Muggle out of you?”

It was her turn to put a hand on his shoulder. “He… He… Krum asked me to marry him.”

Harry was on his feet. That was not an answer he had been expecting at all, and the thought that somebody else had asked her that question - had threatened to take her away from him - was profoundly unnerving. “What? When? Where? How?” he spluttered. It had never dawned on Harry that, with Ron now ensconced with Cho, there might still be a rival for Hermione's affections.

She stood, put her arm back on his shoulder and gently, but firmly, pushed him back to a sitting position. It was convince-Harry-I'm-available time for Hermione. “Harry, don't get upset,” she half smiled and half pleaded. “It was when I visited his castle in Bulgaria last June. I turned him down. He just wasn't my type. I told him that, although he'd swept me off my feet in the beginning, I'd thought better of it, and I couldn't see myself in that kind of relationship with him after all. But since I hadn't even turned sixteen, my parents thought I was entirely too young even to be getting such offers. My father said it reminded him too much of a Dracula movie.”

The warm glow Harry had felt when climbing up the stairs returned. Hermione had turned down an international Quidditch player - apparently turned him down flat - and now she was in his room with him. “Why'd you do that?” Harry asked considerably more calmly. “I mean, he was the boy wonder Viktor Krum, wasn't he?”

Hermione also relaxed, seeing - almost feeling - Harry's release of tension. She launched into a lengthy, somewhat rehearsed explanation. “Well it all goes back to my being a Muggle-born witch. I've worked very hard, harder than anyone can possibly imagine, to accomplish what I have at Hogwarts, and I'm not about to have anybody cast aspersions on those accomplishments by saying that I didn't really earn them … that they were somehow given to me because of who my husband was. I wasn't going to be another trophy for Viktor and live in his shadow. He seemed to think that he was somehow entitled….”

It was a good rant - too good - and Hermione began wandering off-script. “No, I'm sorry, but Viktor Krum is simply too rich, too famous, and too pureblood for me to deal with, particularly when I'm still in school. When he asked me, we were riding horses around his estate….”

She went on with her explanation, but Harry had stopped listening as a roaring noise developed in his ears. His warm glow had vanished. His mouth felt like ashes, and his insides went leaden - even worse, if that were possible - than when Cho Chang had refused his invitation to go to the Yule Ball in his Fourth Year. Hermione's words seared his psyche.

“Too rich.”

If Viktor Krum were too rich for her, how would she react to his being the sole heir to the Potter fortune? That was worth around 35 million Galleons according to Howe - not to mention that he may well be the sole heir to the Black fortune, worth who knows how much.

“Too famous.”

Harry cast a glance to his smiling face on the cover of Teen Witches' Weekly and silently cursed himself. Krum was a famous athlete, but Harry had little kids writing to him as if he were Father Christmas come to life. If Dumbledore were right, a word from his lips could bring down Fudge's ministry.

Then it dawned on him. He smiled a wry half smile. While not a happy thought, it could have been worse, he supposed. He understood what she had done. She was so clever and so considerate, he realised. She must have sensed his budding romantic feelings - he never was worth a damn at hiding his feelings - not from her. Not being able to return them, she had looked for a way to let him down gently and thus preserve their friendship. Through her discussion of Krum, she had warned him off any such ideas, and thus saved him the embarrassment of her rejection.

Then and there he resolved to be the best friend she could ever have - because he needed nothing less from her. He was fated to kill or be killed, and she was the brains of his operation. If he were ever to succeed in defeating Voldemort mano a mano, some plan that she dreamed up would likely be the vehicle to bring that about. And if not…? He could hardly blame Hermione for not wanting to be a widow, and a hunted one at that, before she was twenty.

And so the die was cast.

Hermione soon sensed Harry was no longer following what she was saying….

She sighed. “…and then Viktor said that he loved my new look with aubergines dangling from my ears.…”

When Harry still said nothing, she had to react - but she made a mental note that she must tell Viktor that it was over between them. Harry seemed surprisingly jealous of the Bulgarian, in his odd, Harryish sort of way.

“Harry have you heard a word I have been saying?” she asked pointedly.

Harry jerked out of his daydream. “Truthfully, not for a while,” he admitted. “I've been thinking, Hermione, of how wonderful a friend you have been ever since I've met you. You've never abandoned me, not once, and I want you to know that I will always be there for you - like I was ready to get you in Hong Kong - if I think you need me.”

Hermione was at a loss. Friendship was fine, but.… She sensed her moment ebbing away. The moon and stars were no longer in alignment. She and her muse were no longer on the same page.

“Oh, Harry,” she pleaded, “what have I done wrong?”

“You haven't done anything wrong, Hermione,” Harry answered sincerely. “You never do. You're the most wonderful friend anyone could hope to have. I'm just telling you that I will be there for like you always have been for me….”

This sudden onslaught of weirdness left Hermione adrift. She floundered about verbally. “But what could you have done, Harry?” she questioned. “You didn't know my parents, you didn't know where I was, and you wouldn't have been able to get there anyway, with no Muggle money.”

This time it was Harry's turn to surprise. “Your parents are Edwin O. and Eva LaFayette-Granger. They were in Hong Kong attending a meeting of the Commonwealth Dental Association and were staying at the Kowloon Shangri-La hotel. Your mother was one of the presenters, and she was speaking about some new treatment for gingivitis … something involving a laser, I think.”

Hermione goggled. After rattling off these facts, Harry never slowed down before surprising her again.

“I've got a Muggle bank account now, and there's over £12,000 in it. More than enough for plane fare to Hong Kong - I've checked. Then I thought we could do what you said in your letter … secret ourselves in a cave somewhere until you turn seventeen this September. I was thinking about just keeping going to Hawai'i. I saw an old movie once on the telly about places on Hawai'i where people hid out and avoided capture for years….”

“Ko`olau and Pi`ilani,” Hermione said dreamily. Hermione rather liked the image of herself and Harry alone together in some tropical paradise.

“Sorry?” said Harry, uncertainly.

Hermione explained, “You saw a movie about a man with leprosy, Ko`olau, and his wife Pi`ilani who escaped to an inaccessible Hawai'ian valley rather than being forced to move to a leper colony. You really were planning this weren't you?”

“I told you I was,” said Harry flatly. “And I meant every word of it. It could have been an ice cave in the Arctic if necessary. Dumbledore told me to wait, so I did. But Dudley - my cousin whom you struck dumb earlier - said he knew somebody who could get me a false passport for £100. If Dumbledore had failed, I wasn't about to.”

Hermione looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, took a deep breath, and shrugged her shoulders. She sensed that nothing was going to happen - at least not right now - and she resolved to make the best of it with her best friend in the world.

“Where did Godric Gryffindor come from?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation to something less disturbing than desperate rescues and more realistic than hidden island getaways. “I've seen a similar portrait at the Burrow.”

“Dumbledore,” Harry replied, appreciating the lighter conversation as much as she. “He uses portraits of old headmasters of the school, to keep track of things - things like me.”

“So that's why he has all those portraits in his office,” said Hermione with dawning comprehension. She had noticed the portraits, but failed to grasp their utility, when she had had meetings with Dumbledore. “And what's that thing on your desk?”

He went pink, “Oh, that's just something that Tonks bought for me the other day….”

“It looks fascinating,” she said, getting up and going over to the desk. “How does it work?”

“Huh?” responded Harry. Then he figured out - to his great relief - that she was not referring to his face emblazoned on Teen Witches' Weekly, but rather to his communicator. “Oh, that…. That's how I can send and receive secure messages with Headmaster Dumbledore. Mad-Eye brought it, during one of those visits Dumbledore joked about with your parents. Actually, I guess I have you to thank for this as well. Dumbledore said that the device was your idea.”

“The concept, that's all.… So it really works, then?” she asked.

“You bet. It's brilliant…. Er…. You're brilliant, really. Let me show you. I'll send a message to the Headmaster that you've arrived. He'd probably like to know that.” She watched avidly as he showed her the various security features of the communicator. Harry scrawled rapidly:

Dear Headmaster Dumbledore:

Hermione arrived this morning. She is here right now, watching as I write this. I guess you thought I could use a good surprise. I almost had a heart attack.

Seriously, though, thank you for getting her back. I'm very much in your debt.

Harry

As Hermione observed his writing magically vanish on its way to Dumbledore, she recalled the meetings at which the Headmaster had pulled out all the stops to change her parents' minds. Not only had Dumbledore used her own O.W.L. scores in the argument, he had brought up joint Auror self-defence training with Harry, which meant that he knew Harry could be an Auror, which meant….

“Harry,” she asked, “how often have you and Dumbledore been in touch since you got back here?”

Harry thought for a moment, and answered, “Two meetings face to face, and at least a half dozen messages. I used this thing to tell him what had happened to you.”

“Then you must know too,” Hermione said expectantly as she reached in her pocket to check her shrunken purse. `One more try,' she thought. `If he responds to the suggestion, jackpot; if not, there's a fallback….' “If you show me yours, I'll show you mine!”

“OK then…. What?!” Harry stammered. His mind snapped back to an incident in the third form when a girl had said the same thing and…. `Oh blast, I don't even want to think about what happened next,' he though desperately. `She couldn't be…. Not after bloody `rich and famous'….' He must have misunderstood. “Hermione,” he gulped, “you can't be serious.”

Her shoulders slumped slightly. Even being extremely forward did not seem to help. There certainly was someone in this room who was not serious - but not her. “Oh, Harry, get a grip,” she chided, “I was talking about O.W.L. results. Dumbledore gave me mine early, and since you've been meeting with him I thought he must have given you yours as well.” She pulled a tiny black object out of her right pocket and pointed her wand. “Engorgio.” The object swelled into a fashionable Muggle black patent leather handbag with a gold clasp in the form of two winged lions.

Harry looked on with interest as she fished for what she wanted. Hermione noticed. “Harry James Potter,” she said in a dangerously low voice, “if you don't want to be shopping for eyeballs with Mad-Eye, you must learn not to go peeking into witches' handbags.” She found what she was looking for and snapped the handbag shut decisively. “Reducio.” She returned the shrunken handbag to her pocket.

“I'll go first,” Hermione said excitedly. “Take a look.” Harry did.

Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry

1996 O.W.L. Report

Student: Hermione Jane Granger

Subject Theoretical Practical Overall Numeric Weighting Transfiguration O+ flash O+ flash O+ flash 126 2 Potions O O- O 98 2 Charms O+ flash O+ O+ flash 117 2 Defence Against Dark Arts O O O 104 2 Herbology O E O- 91 2 Astronomy O A-* E- 83* 2* Care of Magical Creatures ___ O O 97 1 History of Magic O ___ O 101 1 Ancient Runes O- ___ O- 92 1 Arithmancy O+ flash ___ O+ flash 122 1 Total 1651 16 GPA 103.2*

O.W.L.s Passed: 16*

O.W.L.s Failed 0*

Total O.W.L.s 16*

*Astronomy practical O.W.L. ruled “incomplete” due to external interference; make-up scheduled for Autumn 1996

You are _1st___ of 40 in your class.

You are _1st__ of 302 in the Western and Northern European Region.

Harry's eyes went wide. “Sixteen O.W.L.s! That's a new record isn't it? Congratulations Hermione! This is incredible.”

Her voice softened, but lost none of its excitement. “Yes it is, but actually there's even more. Dumbledore told me that the present O.W.L. system has been in place since 1840, and the previous record for most O.W.L.s was fifteen - shared by … er … Dumbledore. Hogwarts and the West/North region added numeric scores almost eighty years ago, right after the First World War. My numeric is already the second highest score recorded, and is less than one point behind the all-time record of 104.1. And did you see the asterisk, Harry. Oh, Harry, I'm scared!”

She grabbed him around the shoulders once again and started shivering. Harry had not the slightest idea why. Extremely uncomfortable with this latest turn of events, he tried to find out what was wrong. “Hermione, the only thing scary about your scores is how terrific they are. You're great in Astronomy like everything else. So there's a retest because of that horrible Umbridge woman. It can't possibly hurt your average. The Astronomy practical score listed now is so out of line with your other scores that I'd bet my life your score will go up. In fact … I'll bet you a Hogsmeade shopping spree that it does.”

She flinched again. Harry's words had not seemed to help at all. Her lip kept quavering. “Please Hermione,” Harry pleaded, “I don't know what's going on. There's obviously something else…. Can you tell me?”

She looked up. In hardly more than a whisper she said, “Harry, have you looked at the charts in the back of Hogwarts - A History lately?”

He had not even known that there were charts at the back of Hermione's favourite book. “Er…, no,” he admitted.

She continued, “Well, after Dumbledore explained the record to me, I looked it up in those charts yesterday. The previous record holder for average had also tied Dumbledore for most total O.W.L.s - Thomas Marvolo Riddle.”

Harry blanched as he heard Lord Voldemort's given name. “So you mean you have the chance to beat Voldemort twice?”

“Exactly,” she said in a low whisper. “If my practical just matches my Astronomy theoretical score, I surpass his old record easily - and I was better in practical throughout the term.”

“That's not scary, Hermione, that's wonderful,” enthused Harry. “Think of the morale booster that will be in the war. Big, bad Voldemort beaten twice by a Muggle-born witch. That old pureblood bigot deserves it.”

“But…, but…, like you said…. I don't want to bet my life … or yours…. Don't you think that will make me and my family a target?” She went pale as she said the words.

“Hermione, you were put in Gryffindor rather than Ravenclaw for a reason, and that reason wasn't that you lacked the courage to excel,” he said as he put both hands on her shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. “I'm sure Voldemort's going to be right chuffed about your knocking him down a peg, but face it, you're a target anyway just for being … being my friend. He knows you were in the Ministry with me. I've been a target all my life. It's just something you have to accept as a fact and meet it if it comes…. Look, just a little while ago, you did more for me than anyone else to help accept that, that … Sirius is dead and move on. Let me help you deal with Voldemort's threats the same way, OK. Together, we can beat him.” Harry fervently wished that this would be true.

She looked into Harry's incredibly deep green eyes, which were now gleaming with emotion. “Harry, I… I… I…” She wanted so much to tell him to his face that she loved him - loved him more than life itself, but the words just would not come. How could she add that to the weight of everything else he was carrying? Not in the absence of any indication that he was interested. After an awkward silence, Hermione finally spoke, “I think you're right, I'm being foolish. I'm going to go for it if the entire Auror Corps has to guard Hogwarts Castle.”

Friendship it would be.

“Are you going to start Auror training with me tomorrow, then?” he asked.

“Of course, Harry, don't be thick. I wouldn't dream of doing anything else. With you, it's always in for a penny, in for a pound. It will be so much more valuable than being a scullery maid for the Order like during last year's holiday.” Hermione then changed the subject - or rather brought it back to where they started, “Now, Harry, you have to show me yours.”

In for a pound, indeed, he thought. Again he had felt on the verge of feeling the earth move, but again he had come up half a crown short. Obediently, he strode to his desk, and started thumbing through his now neatly stacked pile of papers looking for his report. Hermione followed him, and this time her eyes found Teen Witches' Weekly.

“Oooh!” she squealed, grabbing the magazine, dancing out of his grasp, and making her way quickly to the opposite side of the rather small bedroom, “Harry Potter is a cover boy! HARRY POTTER IS A COVER BOY!!” she teased.

He went pink all over. “Cut it out, you, and give me that back. Tonks gave that to me, I didn't get it for myself.” He grabbed at the magazine, trying to pull it out of her hands. All he succeeded in doing was knocking her off balance and into the bed. She flailed wildly, trying to keep from falling whilst also holding the magazine out of his reach. She tried to right herself by latching onto his shirt collar with her free hand. All that did was cause them both to topple onto the bed.

“Gerroff!” she cried, laughing all the while. “You're not getting this away from me until I find out what all the ickle girlies are learning about the famous Harry Potter! Did they interview Lavender?”

He gave up, and was none too happy about it. “Well go on then,” he snapped. “I hope you have a bloody good time. You're more interested in famous Harry Potter than I am, that's for sure.” He sat on the bed sulking with his back turned to her, glowering at the blank wall with his arms tightly hugging his own chest.

She read a little, but felt bad about it. Soon she put the magazine down and said softly. “Harry, you're really upset about this aren't you? I can practically feel it. I won't read it if you don't want me to, but my not reading it isn't going to change anything.”

“I know,” he sighed. “I can't stand it though. I didn't ask for any of this. I'd much rather be plain old Harry, but that will never be. Not as long as I have this damned scar.” His stomach growled audibly, which brought about a change the mood.

“Oh, my,” Hermione gasped. “What time is it?

“I have no idea,” he replied. “My watch broke years ago and I've never bothered to replace it. From the looks of things,” he said, staring out the window, “around noon…. Oh blimey, wait…. He pointed his wand at a tangerine on his desk. “Finite.” The tangerine was instantly replaced by his alarm clock. “I forgot,” he said sheepishly, “I do have a clock. It's 11:45, British Summer Time.”

“I've got to call my parents. They were nervous about my coming to see you anyway, and they'll wonder where I've been. I didn't expect to be gone all day.” Looking at him, she said, “but there's no place else I'd rather be than here.”

She fished a mobile out of her handbag - Harry not looking, this time - and told her parents that everything was fine but that they should not expect her back before evening. It took some convincing, particularly with her father, but they allowed her to stay.

Harry continued feeling famished. He had missed breakfast, and now was on the verge of missing lunch. He made ready to go to the kitchen and brave his relatives. While he could handle his relatives' “hospitality,” he was not particularly keen on exposing Hermione to any more of it.

Thus, he did a double take when she asked him matter-of-factly, “What would you like to eat, Harry?”

“I dunno,” he said vacantly, “I don't know what Aunt Petunia has on hand.”

“Oh, hang your aunt,” she continued, “would you care for some sandwiches then? Perhaps ham and cheese…? Or salami? Tell me what you like best. I could even get kiwi marmalade.”

He looked at her oddly, without a clue as to what she was on about, but played right along, “My favourite, although I don't get it much, is roast beef, cheese of some sort, and peanut butter.”

She made an exaggerated face at the thought of his unappetising combination, “Are you serious, Harry? Is that what you really want?” She had her wand out again.

“Yes, I'm serious,” he reaffirmed, very interested in what she was going to do next.

“Aparecium chez Hermione bread, roast beef, Swiss cheese, peanut butter,” she paused, tipped her wand sideways, and looked at him, “smooth or crunchy?” she asked.

“Crunchy,” he said.

Returning her wand to vertical, she finished, “crunchy peanut butter, and serving knife.”

Within seconds everything she had recited popped into view around her on the bed. Harry gawked. “What is that spell?” he asked intently.

“The Aparecium spell is a cross between conjuring and a Summoning Charm. Professor McGonagall taught it to me last year after I noticed Dumbledore seemingly magicking squashy chairs out of thin air last summer. It turns out, he was really just bringing chairs from his quarters to him. Aparecium works only on inanimate objects, and you must know exactly where they are. I concentrate on visualising them and recite where and what they are, and they appear. I'm not nearly as skilled as Dumbledore - yet - since he can perform the charm silently and, Professor McGonagall says, wandlessly. Watch again,” Hermione said as she positioned her wand, “Aparecium Chez Hermione yogurts.”

Unfortunately, Hermione forgot to specify how many yogurts, and in a trice more than thirty yogurts filled her lap. “Oh bother,” she complained, “I was distracted.” Picking two yogurts (strawberry and rhubarb) for herself, she pointed her wand at the rest. “Evanesco,” she recited, sending the rest of the cascade of yogurt back where it came from. Looking abashed, she commented, “I forgot that if I don't specify numbers, I will transport all that I am aware of from the location.”

“Looks like your family likes yogurt,” observed Harry through a mouth full of sandwich.

“Right in one,” she replied, more cheerfully now. “Blast! I forgot to get a spoon.”

Just as she was screwing up her concentration again with the intent of obtaining a spoon (just one, this time) he told her to wait. Rummaging through his desk drawer, he pulled out the knife Sirius had given him the year before. Harry gave it to her. “Door unlocking blade's shot, but the rest still works. It's got a complete table setting in it.” She smiled gratefully.

They both ate in silence, but when she saw him finish (`He actually ate three of those disgusting sandwiches,' she thought) she was not about to let her curiosity wait any longer. “Now show me yours,” she demanded.

Wordlessly, he got his O.W.L. report from the desk whilst Hermione used her wand to bin the scraps of his lunch and send the usable bits back to her house. He gave the report to her. Looking at it, she squealed in delight. “Congratulations, Harry! These marks are extraordinary.” She gave him another big hug that rendered him speechless. He watched her as she studied his report intensely, her brow furrowed. Then she said, thoughtfully, “You know, I'd take a flutter that you have the best boy's marks of the year. You're fourth in the year, so I'd reckon that Su Li and Padma Patil are the others who outscored you. They're the brightest of the Ravenclaw lot.”

“Who cares?” said Harry. “What's important to me is that I didn't let Professor McGonagall down. I can be an Auror…! Even if that means I have to take Snape's N.E.W.T. potions class,” he added a little less enthusiastically.

“It matters, Harry, because it puts you at the top of the range for Head Boy!” Hermione enthused. The words continued to tumble out of her. “I've discussed this with Professor McGonagall. She tells me that O.W.L. marks count for about half of the decision. You're number one of the boys, as I am of the girls….”

“But I'm only number four overall,” he interjected.

“That only goes to prove the superiority of the female intellect,” she said with feigned hauteur in her voice. Harry gave her the prod she was expecting. “Anyway, then about a third of the consideration is for service to your House and to the school. I'd say you're even better situated in that department than I, since you have the Triwizard championship, and an Award for Special Services, and you teach the D.A. and you play Quidditch, and you pick up loads of points for your incredible bravery. I've only got a Prefect's badge and the points I pick up in class.”

“Yeah, but that bravery,” - he made the word sound almost like an epithet - “costs almost as many house points as it brings in; not to mention that it frequently gets people killed and injured … like you, for instance.”

She said seriously, “Harry, I wouldn't be here if it weren't for your bravery. I'd be in the Dementor's kiss ward at St. Mungo's, if not dead…. And Hogwarts probably would have been closed in our Second Year. Your bravery has saved a lot more than it's cost. If you go on knocking your courage around me again, don't be surprised if I thump you silly.”

“Anyway,” she continued, “the remaining consideration concerns services to wizarding society. I haven't done much, although Professor McGonagall said at the end of the term that she thought there would be some special project she'd want me involved with this year. You might have some problems in that category too, given how the Prophet went off on for over a year … although it seemed to be coming around now. And I doubt the Ministry is too thrilled with our trashing the Department of Mysteries….”

He cut in, “You don't know, do you?”

She looked annoyed. If there was one thing Hermione did not take kindly to, it was being told that she was ignorant of something, no matter what the subject. “I don't know what, Harry?” she answered crossly.

“Dumbledore told me you hadn't been getting the Prophet lately,” he said. “Accio newspapers.”

She watched wordlessly as he sorted through the stack of old Prophets (“ugh, Dudley must have used that one when I barfed after my dream”) until he found the headline he was looking for. He handed it to Hermione. Her eyes got wider and wider as she read.

“Oh, Harry! I hadn't dreamed of it…! The Order of Merlin! Congratulations!” She hurled herself at him again and he found himself lost in another bone crushing, and emotionally confusing, hug. Why was she doing this all the time when she did not want to be with him - that way? Presently, she let go, somewhat put off by the tentative embrace she had received in return. “And thank you for remembering the rest of us.”

“This wasn't my idea at all,” he said, put out that she also seemed to think he had somehow brought about the award. “Fudge did that. He says he did it because we raised the morale of the community, but I think he did it to save his ruddy neck.” He then showed her the article about the Minister taking money from Lucius Malfoy.

She ravenously read the Prophet almost cover to cover, asking occasional questions. Occasionally, she noticed something he had thought was a minor detail and, to his discomfort, started getting excited again. “You're being awarded the Order, second class! Do you know what that means?” He had no clue. “That means you become an ex officio member of the Wizard Council for life! That's like Parliament! You can sponsor a bill to free the house-elves! You can be the Wilberforce of our generation!”

Again he was clueless. Hermione explained - at greater length and in greater detail than he thought necessary - that William Wilberforce had led the nineteenth century political movement that had resulted in the abolition of slavery throughout the British Empire in 1833. The name D'Israeli came up several times, which got him thinking about his solicitor … which got him thinking about his inheritance … which (gulp) he had yet to tell her about. When Harry got around to listening to her again, she was chattering about the particulars of the legislation that she was planning to draft for him to introduce.

“Um… Hermione, I think the house-elves are going to have to get in line behind the goblins.” That stopped her, quite cold, allowing him to explain how he was going to be the centre of attention at a secret goblin treaty-signing ceremony taking place in less than a fortnight. Although he could tell that she was disappointed, as always, any unusual magical happening intellectually fascinated her. He promised to ask Dumbledore if she could attend the Ashrak.

“So, have you heard from any of them?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject again. Seeing his rather blank look, she added, “The others…. What are Ron and Ginny up to, for instance?”

“Er…. Both of them are away all summer at an international Quidditch camp in Denmark.” Seeing her questioning look, he answered before she asked. “Dumbledore didn't want me to go. He thought it more important that I train with the Aurors. That's why I don't have my broom around. I loaned it to Ron. Then Ginny got mad at me for ignoring her. Not wanting to have bats coming out of my nose, I….” `Oh bloody Hell,' he thought, `now she'll wonder where I got the money….' “…I bought her a Fi… broom too.”

She looked as if she was going to ask the question he hoped not to answer, so he quickly added, “It seems like Ron and Cho are getting along rather well.”

“Ron and Cho are an item?!?” she blurted.

`Success,' he thought. “I think so, from his last letter. I'm all right about it,” Harry hastily added. “I'm well over her. Umm … Hermione…? Are you all right with it? Ron and Cho, I mean?”

“Of course I'm all right with it,” she huffed. “Why shouldn't I be?”

He looked determinedly at his hands. “Well…. Er…. There were times over the last two years when I … er … thought that Ron was acting … er … acting like he rather fancied you. I thought you might have noticed it.”

Hermione sighed. She thought, `Damn you, Harry Potter. Why can't you talk about all the times YOU acted like YOU fancied me?' However, she replied, “Of course I noticed. He was so obvious at times it was painful. But I have no romantic interest in Ronald Weasley. He is a great and loyal friend - every bit as brave as you, only not as lucky. But he has the emotional range of a teaspoon, and an intellectual depth to match. Even worse, he has no social conscience at all. He couldn't care less that house-elves are enslaved. He told me last summer that if he ever came into enough money, he would get a house-elf for himself….” She paused slightly when she saw Harry blanch. “…Ron will have far more trouble with his mum over Cho than he ever will from me.”

Harry found himself losing mental purchase again. “Why would Cho set off Ron's mum? Cho seems nice enough. A little weepy, that's all…. And maybe a little forward.”

“You boys are so thick!” Hermione interrupted fiercely. “She's been at it ever since the end of your Second Year, when you saved Ginny from the Chamber.”

“Who's been at what?” he asked just as blankly as before.

“Molly Weasley! She wants to bring both you and me into her big happy family,” she explained, sarcastically emphasizing the adjectives. “In her perfect world, I marry Ron and guide him through life just like she guides her husband, and you marry Ginny and produce loads of grandchildren.”

Hermione then let loose with a diatribe. “That's why Ron and I ended up alone together at Twelve Grimmauld Place for a month last summer. Molly arranged it. She convinced me to come, and my parents to let me.… They were disturbed about Viktor, and I was upset with them. Molly even made a point of telling them that YOU weren't going to be there…. So I arrive thinking I'm going to do my bit against Voldemort…. I end up playing housemaid to the Order; having Molly teach me `magic that women need to know'; listening to Ron moan about his endless insecurities; and being kept almost as much in the dark as you were about everything that mattered. I was bored out of my skull, and the only thing worthwhile reading in the entire Black library was books about Dark magic. Only after you arrived did things start to get interesting. But to answer your question … there were no sparks between me and Ron - not then and not ever.”

Harry was utterly taken aback at her rant, particularly how it ended, since he did not remember asking her THAT question. He decided that the current topic of discussion was even scarier than the last one he had avoided, so he said, “Hermione, there's something I need to ask you, about….”

Her face brightened. “Really,” she squealed, loudly enough to discomfit him even more.

“…About house-elves,” he completed the thought as her face fell again. “I, er … I .…”

“Well spit it out, Harry,” Hermione said, frustration in her voice. Once again, his true feelings remained terra incognita.

“I've already talked to Dumbledore about this, and I thought you might be able to help, since you're interested in the subject and all….” Harry was painfully aware that he was stalling. “It seems, that I … er … I'minheritingalotofmoneyandIdon'twanttoownhouseelves,” he said very quickly.

She had trouble understanding what he said, and what he meant. “You're getting an inheritance…,” she said carefully, as if feeling her way. He nodded. “Yes, that makes sense - from your parents - they were an old wizarding family. That inheritance includes an estate.” He nodded again. “The estate has house-elves….”

“Yes,” Harry responded, mistaking her last statement for a question. He could feel himself getting warm, and he knew his face was going pink. He continued, “Not only am I more famous than Viktor Krum, but I'm probably going to be bloody richer than him too.”

Hermione gasped and put a hand to her mouth. She was almost ready to respond with hearty congratulations when she comprehended what was behind his odd reference to Viktor. In less than the blink of an eye, her emotions went from thrilled to despairing. She understood that she had said something incredibly wrong before, and she had no idea what she could say now to correct it.

Hermione burst into tears.

Harry silently reaffirmed his belief that girls were impossible to understand. Whatever reaction he had expected from his sardonic reference to Viktor, complete emotional collapse was not it. He fumbled around for something, anything, to say that might make the girl in front of him - whom he wanted more than anything to make happy - stop crying.

“I want to free the house-elves, not own them, Hermione,” he said. “I can't see myself owning anything that thinks and talks. Please, Hermione, I need your help to figure out how best to do it. I've got to do better than you did last year.”

At his mention of the failure of her efforts last term to free the Hogwarts house-elves by surreptitiously giving them clothes, her lovesickness began being replaced by indignation. “And…. And what do you know about that?” she asked.

Even though he knew that talking to this particular girl about something she had not done well was dangerous, anything was better than her tears. So he told her what Dobby had told him many months before: The Gryffindor house-elves had been insulted by her trying to free them against their wills. They had refused to clean Gryffindor tower. Dobby had collected all the hats and socks Hermione had knitted. And Dobby had been forced to clean the tower by himself.

“So it didn't work at all?” she sniffed.

“No, I'm afraid it didn't,” he said, relieved that she had returned to rational thought. “They've been enslaved so long, I think they like it….” Harry quailed at her fierce glare. “At least they can't conceive of anything else,” he hastily added. “I don't think I can just walk into a manor house as the new lord - somebody the elves don't know from Adam - and throw clothes at them. The elves might react badly. They might do harm to themselves, or even to me. Do you think you can help me figure out a way to free any elves I might own and have them like it?”

“All right Harry,” she said, smiling weakly. Her hand went for his and covered it. “We'll let that be our own little project - together.”

“Yes,” he said, very relieved.

“I'm so proud of you, Harry.” Even though she was a witch, she was also a rationalist intellectual and did not like the idea of being emotionally out of control - especially when reason was Harry, AND she was with him. She sat up straight and rapidly set to the task of pulling herself back together.

“So this inheritance was how you got enough money to buy Ginny an expensive racing broom and 12,000 English pounds?” she asked.

He winced a bit. Even though she was acting strangely at times, she had plainly not missed a thing - even when he thought she might have. “Not entirely,” he said as he got out his wand. “Accio Chocolate Frog card.” Harry, however, miscalculated as badly as she had earlier with the yogurt. From almost every drawer of his desk Chocolate Frog cards of every sort came streaming at him. “Aarrrgh,” he yelled, covering his head with his arms to fend off the blizzard of cards. Soon his entire card collection was scattered about him. That was the bad news.

The good news was that Hermione was practically rolling on the floor, she was laughing so hard. Although embarrassed, he grinned broadly when he saw that his magical slapstick routine had made her sobbing a thing of the past. “I forgot I had more than one,” he said quietly. He started fumbling through the mess looking for the one card he had wanted.

“You're … hopeless,” she gasped, still laughing. “Use Evanesco.”

It was not immediately obvious to him how that spell was going to assist his current predicament, but for want of any better idea he followed her instructions. Instantly, all of the cards returned to their prior locations. “Oh - right then,” Harry said. He walked to his desk and picked up the proof card with his own image on it.

Handing the card to Hermione - who goggled at it - he explained, “I got the Muggle money for agreeing to this. I probably wouldn't have done it, but I needed some pounds fast in case I needed to come get you.”

“That's sweet, Harry,” she said, causing the pinkness in his ears to return. “So when are these going to appear in the hands of young witches and wizards all over England?”

“Dunno,” he said. “Could be any time. This isn't exactly the card that's being used, it's more of a … er….”

“Prototype?” offered Hermione.

“Yes, that's it,” agreed Harry readily. “Cadbury's changed the portrait a bit, and I made them modify the language to be more modest…. And they insisted on adding the business about the Order of Merlin. I reckon that might make this one a collector's item. Would you like it, Hermione?”

“Why yes, Harry, I would,” she said, very flattered. “The first Harry Potter Chocolate Frog card ever made - and one of a kind, too - just like you.”

The boy looked away, shyly. Glancing outside, he became concerned about the time, it was getting well into the afternoon, and he had to get ready for Occlumency with Professor Dumbledore - and he still hadn't discussed the one thing he had promised to bring up with Hermione. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Oh dear, it's almost five,” she said worriedly. “I've kept you all day, I'm sorry.”

“I'm not,” Harry responded, “but I have to keep you a bit longer. There's this … er … medical issue … that I need to discuss. I promised Dumbledore I would. It's a little personal, so I hope you won't mind….”

Once again she knew where he was headed before he got there himself. “It's about me feeling your emotions, isn't it?” Although phrased as a question, she made it sound more like a statement.

“Yes, that's it…. How did you figure that out?” he said with a start. Once again he was caught flat-footed by his friend's exceptional insight.

“I've been feeling strange emotional flashes ever since I've been home from Hogwarts, possibly even before,” she recounted. “But it was only sitting here with you all day - seeing you whilst all along sort of feeling you … your emotions that is … that I figured it out. I wasn't sure at first, because things seemed out of sync….” Actually his emotions had seemed in sync with hers, but out of sync with his own actions. “…But as the day went on, I became sure of it. I was meaning to bring it up myself.”

“Hermione?” he said, with a worried look. “I felt suicidal too, on the first night of the holidays…. I was so disturbed about Sirius, and everyone who had died. I was ready to perform an unforgivable curse on myself, but thought better of it at the last minute. You don't think that I influenced you to….” His voice trailed off. “Anyway Dumbledore asked if I wanted to cut the link between us, and I told him it should be your choice. It could be dangerous, I guess.”

She bit her lip, looked thoughtful (and, in Harry's quite biased opinion, beautiful). Although having an emotional link to him was worrisome in that it invaded HIS privacy, she quickly warmed to the idea of her mind being emotionally connected to Harry's. If she couldn't be intimate with him, at least she could share this unique form of intimacy. She thought about his confession of suicidal thoughts. If he had them again, she would know, and she would go to him. Hermione decided that she wanted to retain the link.

“I've been calling it my `muse,'” she started, “not knowing what these odd, seemingly out of place emotional flashes were. I wouldn't be at all surprised if your suicidal thoughts reinforced mine, or that your anger and other strong emotions have done the same. But now that I know what's happening, there's no longer any danger in that. Now I can distinguish your emotions from mine and avoid being influenced. But more importantly, Harry, I can help you. If you're ever suicidal again, you won't have to deal with it on your own. I'll know - and if I can't come to you myself, I'll at least let someone like Headmaster Dumbledore know. It's the least I can do for you after you were so helpful with my parents. So you can tell Dumbledore that I've decided not to sever the link.”

Having finally talked each other out after almost ten hours, Harry and Hermione said their goodbyes - she making sure that she first removed the anti-Muggle charm from the Dursleys' second floor stairs. Their parting was hardly traumatic, since they would be training together tomorrow at Auror Candidate School. She had to start the long journey home on Muggle public transport. He had to prepare for his Occlumency lesson with Professor Dumbledore.

* * * *

That night Harry suffered through his worst performance at Occlumency since his lessons with Professor Snape. Almost everything went wrong. He was unable to concentrate and clear his mind, which allowed Dumbledore easy entry. When that happened, he would overcompensate. After Dumbledore had his beard burned away for the fifth time, he finally called a halt to the proceedings.

“Is there something wrong, Mr. Potter?” the Headmaster asked. “I'm not seeing your uncle watching television as we had discussed. Instead I'm seeing Miss Granger talking about Viktor Krum. Godric has informed me that you and she spent practically the entire day together in your room. Did something untoward happen?”

“No,” Harry spat, completely abandoning his usual silence before the Headmaster on personal topics. “Nothing happened at all. Abso-bloody-lutely nothing. I only found out that Hermione doesn't fancy rich and famous wizards. That's why she was never serious with Krum, and that's why she says she can't ever be anything more than my best friend. She won't be anybody's `trophy' or stand for her accomplishments being discounted by whispers that somebody in her life paved her way….”

Dumbledore knew enough not to say anything.

Harry put his head in hands and said very softly, “I fancy her; I think I have for years. She's the one girl … er … woman …er … whatever, that I knew wouldn't want me for my fame and fortune. And she certainly doesn't. The more I learn about her, the less I feel that I know her.”

“That is most distressing.” Dumbledore said sympathetically. “Necessarily, I make it a practice not to concern myself with the romantic involvements of my students, but having observed both of you, I would have expected otherwise. You can either wait, and hope that she changes her mind … which women often do. For instance, your mother detested your father until their seventh years…. Or you can move on and hope to find someone else. Only you can make that choice.”

Harry then told Dumbledore about Hermione's desire to attend the goblin Ashrak. The Headmaster chuckled, since “that is a different aspect of the same issue” he had just raised. If Hermione were coming as Harry's “mate,” Dumbledore explained, that was something the goblins would have understood and allowed. However, the goblins would not understand anyone wishing to attend their ceremonies out of “intellectual curiosity” - and if they did understand, they would probably be offended. Thus the Headmaster's answer was a polite, but firm, no.

Because no constructive Occlumency training was being accomplished that night, Dumbledore decided to dismiss the session early. By the time Harry got back to Privet Drive, he was mentally and physically exhausted. He had barely connected his Aural Pensieve when he fell fast asleep.

* * * *

For many of the same reasons, Hermione was also out of sorts when she returned home that evening. She brusquely told her parents that “nothing happened; we just talked for a long time, that's all.” But that was the problem. Nothing had happened, and thanks to her flippant remark about rich and famous wizards, it looked to her as if nothing would. She was looking at quite an emotional readjustment. Unwittingly, she had shot down the very hope that had sustained her in Hong Kong.

There had been an owl from Professor McGonagall. She used that as an excuse to eat and run. Once she reached her room, she flung herself disconsolately on her bed and tried to read. For once reading did not help the girl. Harry's face, with those sad green eyes, kept swimming into view. His reference to being not only more famous, but richer, than Viktor kept ringing in her ears. “Oh, blast it,” she thought, “I'm going to start sobbing again.”

She fumbled in her handbag for a tissue, and came across what she had purchased that morning, when a combination of worry and anticipation led her to brave a Muggle apothecary's rather scandalised look. She laughed bitterly at how absurd that had become, in light of the day's events. Still, if her parents found it, they might withdraw her from Hogwarts again.

She had not received the highest marks in all Western Europe in Transfiguration for no reason. A flick of her wand turned the offending object into a scrap of paper. “Enflagrate.” It burst into flames and was no more. “One less johnny in the world,” she thought, as she contemplated the end of her romantic dream.

But she was still Hermione Granger. She would soldier on and be the best friend she could possibly be, since that was all the Harry could want now. “In for a penny, in for a pound,” she thought, as she opened Professor McGonagall's letter.

* * * *

Author's notes: The first climactic chapter - Hermione returns, but her reunion with Harry is not what either of them wanted, or expected, it would be

Stab at romance is from Springsteen's Jungleland

Hermione's t-shirts will be a recurring theme, like Harry's alarm clock

After HBP, I added reference to Hermione's scent

Hermione has the muse figured out

Hermione's statement about being able to lie on her back in newly mown grass forever is a reworking of a line from "Love Ain't for Keeping" from Quadrophenia

"Need a woman's touch" - from the Stone's "Live with Me. " Shame on you, Hermione

"Elggum" is simply Muggle spelled backwards

Hermione's clean up of Harry's room so resembled a similar scene from Mary Poppins that I couldn't resist making the comparison explicit

In the absence of information, Hermione tends to assume the worst. This won't be the last time

Krum asking Hermione to marry him - she has a way of doing that. Also he thinks of her as a widow

Too rich and too famous… I'm horrible to them, I know, but I don't write pure fluff. It's just not my style

A word from his lips - from Styx' Suite Madame Blue

The Ko'olau and Pi'ilani story is a true Hawaiian love story. The inaccessible valley is Kalalau. I've been there - as far up the valley as trails will allow. It's one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. There are caves, too, although a landslide destroyed the best ones on the beach some years ago. Eventually Harry and Hermione will get there too - but not until much, much later

"In for a penny, in for a pound. " It's not "pence" anymore, after decimalization. Harry will use the same phrase, much later in the story

Half a crown - two shillings six pence. Pre-decimalization this time

The description of the Wilberforce Bill is accurate, and of importance to the story

D'Israeli comes up again and again

I'm probably wrong, but this is my take on why there seemed to be nothing between Ron and Hermione after they'd spent all that time together in OOP before Harry arrived at Grimmauld

Hermione's summer reading at Grimmauld Place will figure significantly in the story

"The more I learn, the less I know" - more song lyrics.

- 33 -

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8. Testimony

Wherein Harry has a disturbing nightmare, contacts Dumbledore, share's Auror partner rings with Hermione, uses a spell improperly and gets in trouble during training, prepares for and gives testimony against Umbridge, learns more about Hermione, encounters a different Draco Malfoy, agrees to a business proposition from the Twins, and meets someone new and different.

I'm off for vacation for a week, but I wanted to leave everyone with something to read while I'm gone.

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

Chapter 8 - Testimony

At first, Harry thought it was a flashback from first year. He found himself on a gigantic chessboard facing a set of human-sized pieces. Shaking himself fully awake, Harry realised that this was no first-year frolic. Opposite him were a full set of Death Eater chessmen in black robes, all identical except for silver markings denoting their status. Only two of the black pieces were identifiable - Lord Voldemort as King and Bellatrix Lestrange as Queen.

Voldemort's evil high pitched cackling echoed over the board. “You can only lose in life, Potter. No matter how well protected you think you are by the Muggle-loving fool, I will have you in the end. So few care about you, whilst so many are willing to serve me. One by one yours will fall, until you are alone, friendless, and hopeless. Now we play!”

Harry tried to move away. He was bound in place, unable to leave. Frantically, Harry looked around. He saw Ron in the same predicament to his left, on a knight's square, struggling but unable to move. With a start, Harry noticed that he was playing short - there was no white, King-side bishop. Knowing (and dreading) what he would see as he turned to his left, there was Hermione in the Queen's place, likewise struggling, and unable to move.

White was opening. Directly ahead of Hermione, a pawn, played by Molly Weasley, moved two spaces forward. A faceless Death Eater did the same. Harry's remaining bishop, Remus Lupin, leapt forward from the Queen-side and took the exposed Death Eater Pawn. In a flash of green light the pawn dropped dead. But this was Voldemort's game. A replacement Death Eater pawn Apparated in the square where its predecessor begun the game.

“That's not fair,” Harry yelled, now realising that he had also begun play one pawn short.

“Spare me your whining. Life, or in your case death, is unfair,” sneered Voldemort. “Surely you of all people understand that. You are not here to compete - you are here to die. But first you will watch all the others die before you.”

Voldemort was not a particularly skilled chess player. The white pieces, playing under Ron's direction, were obliterating many more black pieces than they suffered casualties. But with every black piece instantly replaced, capture and thus death came inevitably to those in white. Bill Weasley, a Queen-side pawn, was the first to fall, collapsing in the face of the familiar, deadly flash of green light after taking a black bishop. Arthur Weasley died in an exchange of pawns. Hagrid followed, cut down by a black Knight.

Then Cho Chang was exposed. Harry screamed as Ron sacrificed himself for her. He fell to the black Queen, Bellatrix Lestrange. “How tender,” Voldemort hissed. “The easiest way to take a teenage boy is with a teenage girl as bait.” Luna Lovegood, the Queen-side Knight, took Lestrange, but she reappeared by Voldemort's side as Voldemort laughed loudly. “And the easiest way to take a teenage girl is to use a teenage boy.” Luna fell to her black counterpart.

Harry himself came under attack after Molly Weasley died. He castled with Ginny, but was not nearly the chess player Ron was. Hermione eliminated the immediate threat, and did not venture more than three squares from Harry. Aided by Ginny, Hermione did away with any piece coming that close. Lupin attacked again, drawing attention away as Neville recklessly succeeded in putting Voldemort in check. Although Neville took a bishop and a knight in successive moves, he was greatly outnumbered, and the green flash took him in two more moves.

There were virtually no more white pieces. All the Weasleys that had been on the board were now gone. Boxed in by pawns, Hermione could no longer evade the opposing Queen. Bellatrix Lestrange moved in for the kill. Voldemort's howl, “There are none left, Potter,” rang in Harry's ears. He screamed louder and longer than before and desperately tried to give up the game by sacrificing himself. If he could just move, this would be over. The green glow started… All of a sudden lightning flashed and torrential rain began to fall.…

Splash!!

Harry awoke on the floor, soaking wet, clutching his scar as it burned in agony. Dudley's face hovered over him. He held a dripping four-litre green plastic bucket, the contents of which he had just dumped on Harry's head. Remembering his cousin's last dream, Dudley did not attempt to pull Harry to his feet.

Aunt Petunia appeared behind Dudley, looking for all the world like a large, pale fish - the colour entirely drained from her face, eyes wide, and stupidly opening and closing her mouth without saying a word. Harry's Uncle soon panted into view behind his wife, red faced and holding a sand wedge, with which, Harry supposed, Uncle Vernon intended to beat out of him whatever he might have thought had taken possession.

“I-I-I … had a nightmare,” Harry gasped. “Must tell Dumbledore….”

His relatives slowly backed away and eventually left without further word. Harry dragged himself to his desk, grabbed his enchanted quill, activated the communicator, and with great effort scribbled the most detailed description of his nightmare/vision that he possibly could. Despite the lingering ache from his scar, he filled four feet of parchment.

Harry's angst grew as he wrote his exegesis. He had no way of telling whether, or to what extent, the nightmare he was describing had any basis in fact. Several of his previous nightmares had been factual - Arthur Weasley owed his life to one of those. But Voldemort had also sent him wholly fictitious images, costing Sirius his life. Desperate to know if any or all of the people he cared about were alive, Harry considered taking the Knight Bus to the Burrow.

Suddenly, Harry remembered Hermione mentioning that there was a portrait of Godric Gryffindor in the Weasley homestead. Harry immediately performed the Aparecium portratus spell. At first he thought it had failed, but after a few minutes a visibly sleepy and somewhat annoyed Godric Gryffindor padded into view - holding a candlestick and dressed in a red silk nightshirt with little gold lions running across the cloth in constantly changing patterns.

Gryffindor was thoroughly irritated at being summoned in the wee hours of the morning. Nevertheless, Harry explained the situation, in his urgency not stopping to think of the illustrious personage that he was proposing to use as his personal messenger. The founder of Gryffindor house grumpily agreed to check the Burrow to see if all of the Weasleys were present and accounted for. Instantly, he was off, leaving the empty portrait behind.

After fifteen anxious minutes Gryffindor returned with welcome news that everything was in order at the Burrow. “I had to yell at the top of my lungs,” he complained hoarsely. “Then I almost got hexed by that madwoman for my pains. She finally told me all was well. So, if you please, good night.”

After meditating for another quarter hour, Harry noticed with pleasant surprise that he had not only emptied his mind, but also focused on the peaceful image of a calm sea lapping against a sandy beach. Mentally steadied, he finally drifted off to sleep.

His preparation for Monday's Auror training on restraining spells was less than desired. The extended interruption of Harry's sleep was to blame. The nightmare and its aftermath meant that his Aural Pensieve had only repeated the day's lesson twice, rather than the ordinary three times.

Just to do that much, he had to skive off his morning run with Dudley. Harry was in the kitchen, wolfing down a couple of crumpets, when Dudley returned.

“So, Harry,” began Dudley slowly, “you've been holding out on me, I see. Can't say that I blame you though. I would have thought you were lying, if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes.”

“What are you on about?” a rather riled Harry asked.

“That pretty girl,” Dudley said, raising his eyebrows. “She threw herself at you and kissed you on the lawn, right in front of my Mum and Dad. Then you both disappeared to your bedroom for - what was it - almost ten hours. You told me you didn't have a girlfriend. What you didn't say is that you had a lover instead.”

Harry lost it. “HERMIONE IS NOT MY GIRLFRIEND AND CERTAINLY NOT MY LOVER, you berk!” he yelled. “She's my best friend and she happens to be a girl, that's all.” Harry noticed that his fingertips felt strangely warm.

“You… You're not that way, are you?” Dudley asked, making an exaggeratedly effeminate motion with his hand.

“I'm not a poofter either, all right,” Harry snapped in annoyance.

“Then you're even more daft than I thought,” replied Dudley breezily, as Harry scowled. “I saw the way she looked at you. So did my family. I can't believe they let you entertain her in your bedroom for hours without even once taking a peek at what you two were doing.” Lowering his voice, Dudley added, “Don't know how you did it. They'd never have let me get away with that. Wait a minute…. Was she one of that crew that threatened Dad?”

Harry thought about the question, and smiled. “I guess you could say that. Still, it's the truth when I say she isn't my girlfriend. I wish she were, but she isn't.” With that Harry grabbed his travelling cape and strode out of the house and headed for Mrs. Figg's fireplace.

Fortunately, that day's training - in restraining spells - was not particularly complicated, so Harry's relative lack of preparation went unnoticed. A far greater complication was that Hermione was now training with him. Her presence, and his unrequited feelings, kept Harry on edge the entire day. Little did Harry know that the edginess (and the reasons for it) was decidedly mutual.

Hermione did not appear until after Harry was well into the lesson, having finished with Petrificus totalus and with ropes and chains. She was late because she had to collect, and then stow, the same sort of pile of supplies and training materials that Harry had previously received from the quartermaster. Harry was working on binding a dummy with barbed wire shot from his wand when she arrived.

At first, Hermione was positively rhapsodic about the Aural Pensieve as a method of learning magic. Within minutes, however, she looked as bashful and tentative as Harry had ever seen her. Finally, she asked Harry a question:

“Er … Who's your partner? With your Auror's ring, I mean.”

“I asked Bill to do it, since he's now my legal guardian.” Harry responded.

Hermione shuffled her feet and did not look him in the eye. “Well okay then... But I was wondering…. Wondering if you might want to be my partner, since we're now training together.”

Harry quickly brightened into a smile. “Of course I'll do that, Hermione. When I picked Bill, I still wasn't sure if I'd even be seeing you here…. You know … Tonks told me that Aurors always have other Aurors as their partners, and we're about as close to that as we're going to get anytime soon. It makes perfect sense. I'll just have to talk to Bill.”

At their first break, Harry used Floo powder to find Bill. Bill thought the change was a good idea, but was not sure if he could get away from work that day. Bill told Harry that Gringotts was re-evaluating a number of its procedures in light of the failure to freeze the Malfoy accounts, and he had to make a report concerning some of that the next day.

Thus Harry was very surprised indeed to see Bill striding into the training room only a half an hour later.

“I forgot that you're golden with the goblins these days,” Bill said, grinning. “My boss was very impressed when he found out that I was your guardian, Harry. He told me that the report could wait and that I could have the entire rest of the day off if I needed it.” The re-programming of the Auror's rings, and Bill's returning his to the Aurors, went off smoothly. Harry was bidding goodbye to Bill in less than half an hour.

At lunch, Hermione was studying frantically for the afternoon lesson, since she had only just received her Aural Pensieve and had yet to be able to use it to prepare. She was surprised to see Harry studying his printed text as well. Harry explained that his sleep time the previous night had been insufficient for the recommended repetitions. That led to questions.

“Harry, what happened to break up your sleep like that?” she asked with concern in your voice. “You haven't been having…?”

“Nightmares … yes,” Harry admitted. In many things, Hermione's powers of deduction were positively unnerving.

“Have you contacted Headmaster Dumbledore about it? I'm sure he would like to know,” she continued.

“Doing that took longer than the dream itself,” Harry answered.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

After a bit of indecision, he allowed, “Yeah, but not here.”

Rather than leave their trays for the house-elves, they quickly banished them to the rubbish area. Then they left and found a more secure location - in the now deserted classroom. She took a chair facing Harry, and waited….

“It was about chess … something like First Year,” Harry began. “Only it was Voldemort and a bunch of Death Eaters against me … and you … and the Weasleys … and other people I care about.

“I hope I put up a fight, at least,” Hermione commented.

“You … you did….” Harry answered haltingly. “You were the … the last one left…. You were the queen….”

If that bothered Hermione, she did not show it. Indeed, she hardly reacted at all to that information.

Harry proceeded to describe the dream in as much detail as he could remember.

“…Ron died … earlier,” Harry added. “Trying to protect Cho….”

“So just about everyone was in the dream,” Hermione observed.

“…And they died…. Everyone I care about,” Harry reaffirmed. He almost broke down as he told Hermione what he thought the dream meant. “I think Voldemort … sent it to me … to let me know…. He intends to … to kill … you … and everybody … everybody I cared about … or who cares about me….”

Hermione made Harry feel better by doing what she did best - applying rational logic to the situation. “Think about it calmly for a moment, Harry. Eight of those you saw in your dream were Weasleys. Well, four Weasleys are in the Order already, and now Arthur is also highly placed in the Ministry. If there's any family that is already well guarded, they are. Hagrid is both an Order member and on the Hogwarts faculty. Lupin is an Order member. I … I'm already under 24-7 guard, as are my parents. That leaves Neville, Luna and Cho, and they are all at Hogwarts most of the year anyway. It shouldn't be difficult for the Order and the Ministry, between them, to guard three more people for a fraction of the year, now should it?”

Harry allowed himself just a bit of a smile. Even if it seemed sometimes that the Ministry would have trouble organising a three-broom Quidditch match, when thought out, the problem did not seem so overwhelming. Hermione was like that - the best problem solver he knew.

The good feelings failed to survive the afternoon session in the Situation Room. Although she had been in training for less than a day, Hermione attacked the assignment with her customary single-minded ferocity. Despite her late start, Hermione insisted upon duelling with Harry. Harry did not really care to duel Hermione until she had fully caught up, but she insisted (“There's no other way for me to get better.”).

Harry quickly had her disoriented with directional spells. He could tell that Hermione's Protego shield was little more than what she had learned in the D.A.

Rather than do something that might hurt Hermione, he used the Placebus charm in order to illustrate the flaw in her shield. Otherwise he did nothing. The idea of Harry not using his full strength whilst duelling with her seemed to enrage the girl.

“Harry Potter, you stop going easy on me this instant,” Hermione shrieked. “No Death Eater will be so considerate. How am I ever going to learn to defend myself in a real fight if you won't fight me because I'm a girl?”

That was hardly Harry's reasoning, but Hermione was not inclined towards listening to reason at the moment. Reluctantly, he faced her for another duel, not at all sure what he would do if a similar situation presented itself.

This duel lasted no longer than the first - and was much nastier. Two of Harry's directional disorientation spells had Hermione not knowing which way was up. A Conjunctivitis Curse shattered her shield charm and left her unable to see at all. Frigidio encased her upper body in ice, rendering Hermione unable to move her arms. Nauseo put her on the floor retching, and Expelliarmus ended it. Although she was soundly and fairly beaten, Hermione nevertheless shot Harry a furious look.

At that moment a siren sounded, signalling the end of the day's training. Hermione ignored Harry, whilst buttonholing one of the instructors about something, so Harry left for the showers to wash. When he emerged, Hermione was nowhere to be found. He was escorted back to Number Four Privet Drive without apologising to her, as he had been planning. Harry was not at all comfortable with the parting image of Hermione on the ground in a pool of vomit, particularly knowing that he had put her there.

The next day's lesson, involving movement spells, was more physically pleasant, but not for good reasons. There was no unpleasantness because neither of them was very effective once the lesson moved beyond the most basic magic. To begin with, they could not perform the Instantermobile Charm. Cast by pointing one's wand at oneself before a duel began, and incanting “Xyzzy,” Instantermobile detected unforgivable curses as they were uttered and instantly moved the target a random distance (up to 25 feet) in a random direction (but out of the line of fire). While only useful in open ground, since the user could otherwise end up splonched (caught inside of a solid object such as a wall or a tree), Instantermobile was often a lifesaver.

The reason for the two trainees' magical ineptitude was quickly identified - neither Harry nor Hermione knew how to Apparate. Most advanced movement spells involved some form of (usually short-distance) Apparition. This unanticipated turn of events led to a number of conversations amongst the trainers, from which Harry and Hermione were excluded. The trainers then needed to confer with unidentified superior officers. As a result both of them were dismissed early for lunch.

Hermione was quite talkative at lunch - not to mention well rested. Harry found out that she had wheedled some Dreamless Sleep draught from Camille Wrexham and had spent nearly eighteen hours in bed with her Aural Pensive catching up on all of her missed lessons. “You just wait, Potter, until I get you in the Situation Room today,” she mock-threatened him. Harry had a feeling that his duelling with her today would not be anywhere near the walkover he had scored the day before.

He had a little news of his own. In addition to the now routine Santa Claus letters (to Hedwig's profound annoyance, Harry had been forced to engage additional owls on a piece-work basis to handle the extra deliveries), he had received more correspondence from Ron. Most of Ron's letter consisted of vainglorious boasting about how Hogwarts had won its first two serious Quidditch matches - against Beauxbatons and against host Elsinore - and that as keeper he had succeeded in totally shutting out Elsinore. A professional scout had even approached Ron, albeit on behalf of an Italian league team, about plans to play professionally after leaving school. The letter had an ecstatic, almost arrogant, tone throughout.

Nevertheless, Harry felt quite pleased for his friend. Ron had spent most of his life in the shadow of, first, his older brothers and, then, Harry knew, of himself. Thinking about his own Quidditch plans, Harry frowned. He wondered if he would be able to get enough Quidditch practice. He had N.E.W.T.-level courses in school. He wanted to continue his work with the D.A. Now he was also being besieged by all of these extracurricular things, such as his special training, the goblins, and his probable inheritances. There were too many things competing for his limited time.

Hermione also let him know that she would be seeing him tomorrow. This puzzled Harry at first because Wednesday was not a training day. He guessed blindly that it was because she had taken over the Order's visitation duties. Hermione informed him that there would be no need to continue those separate visits now that they were in training together.

The meeting tomorrow was because they were both going to Hogwarts and then to the Ministry in order to testify as state's witnesses in the inquiry involving Professor Umbridge. Hermione had also received a letter from Professor McGonagall asking her to testify, and she had agreed. From her point of view, however, there was even more exciting news.

“Guess what, Harry,” Hermione enthused, practically bouncing in her chair in the Aurors' cafeteria. “Professor McGonagall wants me to participate in a Ministry sponsored original research project at Hogwarts this year. The Department of Magical Maladies has designated Hogwarts as one of its `Institutions of Excellence,' and is funding research into lycanthopy. Professors McGonagall, Flitwick and Snape all agree that a multidisciplinary approach including both Charms and Transfiguration is what's needed to improve upon the Wolfsbane potion. You've seen my O.W.L.s in those subjects, Harry, so Professor McGonagall says I'm a `natural choice' for the student research fellowship position that has been created. Even Snape agreed…. Snape! And it comes with a 50 Galleon a month stipend, so I won't have to be bothering my parents for money any more….”

Harry was gratified by this development, since anything that made it possible for Hermione to go to Hogwarts without having to pester her parents for anything was a good thing. He wondered if Dumbledore's invisible hand was behind this.

“That's great, Hermione,” he said. “You wouldn't have needed to go to them anymore anyway. Remember, you're also in line for a 2,000 Galleon award from the Ministry for helping capture all those Death Eaters.”

While that fact had been in the Ministry press release, it had yet to make its way into the Daily Prophet. “What!?” exclaimed Hermione. “When did that happen?” Harry spent the rest of the lunch period talking to Hermione about what had happened with Fudge and the Ministry that had not been reported. While pleased with the windfall, Hermione was disturbed by the thought of Cornelius Fudge politicising Harry's exploits.

A pleasant surprise awaited them both after lunch. Captain Shacklebolt was waiting with the news that the Ministry had authorised waiver of the Apparition age limit for the both of them. Since Hermione turned seventeen in September, the waiver saved her only a few months. Harry, however, was being allowed to learn Apparition before he even turned sixteen.

As a result, the Friday class on wilderness survival skills was being postponed by a week, and replaced with a special all-day Apparition crash course. Apparition could take considerable time to learn - the annual Hogwarts lessons (which both of them were eligible to take, for an extra fee) on the subject lasted twelve weeks. With these two, however, the Aurors were plainly hoping that their extraordinary motivation would allow them to master it in one very long day. “Be prepared to stay well into the evening,” warned Shak.

Back in the Situation Room, Harry could see for himself just how motivated Hermione was. She had set herself to the task of making up four days of missed spell training in just one session. Throughout the afternoon period, she had that deadly look in her eye that he knew meant she was really concentrating. He had last seen that expression when she had led him and Professor Umbridge into the Forbidden Forest the day of the incident at the Ministry.

When the time finally came for the two of them to duel against one another, it was like night and day. Hermione was dramatically improved. She knew every spell, and was able to cast each with surprising power. Harry, however, had just received the highest Defence Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. marks in history. There was a reason for that. As good as she had become, Harry was still better.

In particular, he had his uncannily deadly aim when he was in motion. From the brief glow that a deflected stunner left on Hermione's shield charm, Harry detected a slight flaw in her protection. He did not want to hurt her, but neither did he fancy facing her wrath - something he most decidedly would if she thought that, even now, he was holding back.

Hermione shot a vicious restraining spell at him that would have trapped him in a swarm of angry hornets. Narrowly dodging it, Harry dove to his right, rolled over twice and from a prone position behind a rock yelled “Orgasimos.” She went to her knees and slowly toppled over. Soaked with sweat from twenty minutes of combat, Harry gathered himself, stood and quietly said “Expelliarmus” and then “Finite,” thus ending their duel.

She staggered to her feet, beet-red and panting. He hurried towards her, offering her wand back and ready to steady her. Instead of welcoming his assistance, Hermione took a wild roundhouse swing at him, the force of which knocked her wand from his outstretched hand and sent her reeling back to her knees.

“You stay away!” Hermione gasped, her eyes blazing. She reached for her wand, and pointed it at Harry. “If you do that again, I swear I'll hex you to Hong Kong - and there won't be enough of you left when you get there to fill a fortune cookie! That was totally inappropriate…. No Death Eater would ever use that spell in a duel.… Don't you ever use that on me unless you're serious…. I have never been so embarrassed…. Get away from me if you know what's good for you!” With considerable effort, Hermione stood up and practically ran to the privacy of her dressing room.

Harry stood there mutely, mouth half open, letting Hermione's abuse wash over him. When she ran off, he took two steps in the direction she had gone, before feeling a steadying hand on his shoulder. Harry turned and found himself looking into the sympathetic eyes of Andrew Carluke.

“Sit down, mate,” he said. “We need to chat….”

“Wh-What … What was that all about,” stammered Harry. “I didn't want to hurt her, but she warned me yesterday not to go easy on her. She was out for blood with that Hornetentious Hex.”

“You've grown up with Muggles,” said Carluke. “So it seems that there are still a few things that you just don't know about magic.”

Harry grimaced. If he had heard that explanation once, he had heard it a thousand times, although not as often during the past few months.

Carluke continued, “The Orgasimos Curse is a legitimate disorientation spell among adversaries, particularly when an Auror is trying to capture someone unharmed. Your partner is right though. It is not a spell that a Death Eater would use, so it probably should have been deleted from your syllabus. Otherwise, Orgasimos is not really used any longer, except as a very intimate spell between lovers. Evidently the two of you aren't that - and no matter what, to use that spell in public is … well … impolite, at best.”

Harry was mortified. Without even bothering to change clothes, he went to the door of the woman's dressing room and called out, “Hermione, I'm sorry.” He was relieved that he got any answer at all, even if it was, “Leave me alone.”

In the sanctuary of her dressing room, Hermione was struggling with her emotions. For a brief moment, she had experienced the most wonderful physical feeling in her life - and Harry had given it to her. Her own fantasies about Harry had never approached that. On the other hand, she did not have that kind of relationship with Harry, and apparently that pipedream was not about to happen….

Harry had used that spell recklessly, not knowing what he was doing. More than that, he had cast that spell on her in public and without her consent. Even though Harry had undoubtedly acted innocently - if stupidly - Hermione felt humiliated and used.

Finally, after about half an hour, Hermione emerged to find a deflated Harry slumped against the wall next to the door of her dressing room.

“Herm … Hermione, I'm sorry,” Harry said softly, looking up at her with his deep green eyes. “I didn't want to hurt you like I did yesterday, so like a prat I did something that ended up hurting you even worse. I know how you feel, and I won't do that again - ever. Friends?” Harry held out his hand.

`Like Hell, you know how I'm feeling,' thought Hermione. If he had, they could be using the spell - just not in public. But Hermione's heart was melting. Try as she might, she was simply unable to stay angry at Harry.

“All right, friends,” she extended her hand to his, and helped pull him to his feet.

* * * *

The next morning Harry's alarm clock blasted him out of bed half an hour earlier than even his usual 5:00 a.m. weekday schedule. He responded by blasting the unfortunate clock with an overly-strong Silencio spell that sent it flying through the wall. After he had retrieved and reconstructed the clock, and repaired the clock-shaped hole in his wall, Harry got dressed for his running. He would be alone this time, because Dudley could not be persuaded that any sane person rose at 4:30 in the morning. But Harry had no choice if he were to get his running in. It was Wednesday, and he was scheduled to testify against Umbridge. The running calmed him down and woke him up, both of which he sorely needed.

He cursed himself once again for having been too exhausted to perform his Occlumency routine before falling asleep the previous Sunday. Leaving his mind unprotected, particularly after the emotional roller coaster of that day's events, had been a major error. Even though he had successfully used Occlumency to prevent Voldemort's from obtaining further access to his mind, deaths of people he cared about were becoming a part of ordinary dreams that did not involve his scar.

After running, and otherwise preparing, Harry carefully folded his school robes and carried them to Mrs. Figg's, where he donned them and Flooed to Hogsmeade station with Bill Weasley. His timing was just about perfect, as Hermione arrived less than thirty seconds later. They boarded a waiting Thestral-drawn carriage that took them to the Castle.

Professor McGonagall met the pair at the main entrance and led them to a room adjoining the library. He had never been in that room before. That was not the case with Hermione, as she was almost giddy with enthusiasm to enter.

“Oh Harry, we're going to be meeting with the barristers in the Ceremonial Library!” she bubbled.

“Err… What's that,” Harry asked with genuine puzzlement.

“You've never been here, Harry?” she responded. “It's used for smaller ceremonies such as the investiture of the Head Boy and Girl or the awarding of honourary degrees. I was here a lot during Third Year because this is also where the books on the subject of wizarding law are kept. I had to use them to prepare Buckbeak's defence to the charges of being a dangerous Hippogriff that should be destroyed.”

Harry winced at Hermione's recollection because, two years later, he still felt guilty for not having helped her at all. That legal effort had been unsuccessful, and her failure had led directly to a literally later-than-last-second rescue of Buckbeak from the executioner by means of a Time Turner. Still, he had some fond memories of that rescue - many involving physical closeness - such as the tight embrace she had given him whilst riding the beast….

When Harry picked up Hermione's torrent of words again, it had rolled on to the glass-encased documents that lined the walls.

“….And this room houses the most important collection of organic wizard documents in all Great Britain. Here is a copy of the magical codicil to the Magna Carta, as signed by King John - technically sealed, as King John was illiterate - and by Wulfric Gryffindor, descendent of Godric's, on behalf of the wizard communities. Here is one of only three enrolled copies of the Wizarding Equality Treaty of 1836 still in existence, signed by Benjamin D'Israeli on behalf of the Wizard Council. Here are the originals of the treaties that ended the last two goblin rebellions. Here's an original copy of the American Declaration of Independence. Benjamin Franklin, who received an honourary Hogwarts degree in 1760, presented this to Hogwarts. And here's an original copy of the French Declaration of the Rights of Man, sent to Hogwarts as a peace offering to the English wizard populace by Napoleon in 1804.”

“Hermione,” said Harry in desperation, “how could you possibly know so much about a bunch of ancient documents?”

“I collect signatures myself, if you must know,” sniffed Hermione, sounding somewhat hurt. “Professor McGonagall is the curator of this collection, and I discuss historically important documents with her quite often.”

“Oooh, I hadn't seen this one before,” squealed Hermione. “This is a signed copy of Winston Churchill's notes for his `their finest hour' speech - which in my opinion is the finest oration ever delivered in the English language.”

“Winston Churchill was a wizard?” Harry croaked with incredulity.

Professor McGonagall broke into the conversation. “No Harry, Winston Spencer Churchill was a Squib. The magic in that family always resided on the female side,” she said, emphasizing the sex distinction. “For many generations the duchesses of Marlborough were all witches, some quite powerful. They still…” McGonagall paused “…although Winston's father married an American Muggle.”

McGonagall undoubtedly saved him from what would certainly have been Hermione's even longer exegesis about a hobby never before disclosed to Harry. His thoughts about what else he might not know about his best female friend after five years were cut short by McGonagall's introduction of Waldo Copperfield and Carmella Dewey, barristers for the Wizengamot. They were representing the prosecutor's office in the Umbridge inquiry.

Harry was somewhat reserved, given the circumstances, leaving Hermione to break the ice. She did so quickly did by establishing that Mr. Copperfield was the second cousin of a famous American illusionist (whose existence was totally unknown to Harry), of the same surname. Even so, he found it most ironic that the supposed magician was actually from the Muggle side of that family.

Mr. Copperfield explained that the inquiring magistrate, who was Amelia Bones, would ask all the questions. That Magistrate Bones herself was presiding indicated how seriously the Ministry was taking the charges laid against Professor Umbridge.

The prosecuting barristers could submit questions or topics to Magistrate Bones, but as inquiring magistrate she had complete discretion over what testimony to take. Professor Umbridge's barrister would have the same rights. When the hearings were over, a decision as to whether to prosecute would be made. If there were a full trial, Umbridge's fate would be decided by a select panel of the Wizengamot, presided over by Dumbledore.

Three witnesses were scheduled to testify that day. Harry would go first, followed by (to Harry's great surprise and even greater disgust) Draco Malfoy. There would then be a lunch break, and Hermione would testify in the afternoon.

As lead prosecuting barrister, Mr. Copperfield would be present for Harry's and Hermione's testimony, as they were state's witnesses. Ms. Dewey would be present when Malfoy gave evidence. Mr. Copperfield explained that the rules of procedure for the private inquiry portion of the prosecution required that all of the witnesses be sequestered. This meant that Harry could not be present to listen to either Hermione's or Malfoy's testimony.

For the next hour, Harry reviewed his testimony with Mr. Copperfield whilst Ms. Dewey met with Hermione. Unlike his friend's evidence, his testimony was two-fold. He was to describe his detentions with Professor Umbridge and demonstrate the properties of Umbridge's torture quills (which Copperfield called “blood” quills). In addition, Harry was to testify regarding Umbridge's confession that she had ordered Dementors to attack him the previous summer in an attempt to get him expelled from Hogwarts for underage use of magic in the presence of Muggles.

While Harry was under no obligation to testify under Veritaserum, Mr. Copperfield explained that if he were willing to take the potion upon demand, his credibility would be enhanced. Grimly determined to do whatever necessary to convict Professor Umbridge, Harry agreed. Mr. Copperfield was even more pleased with his suggestion that, instead of using truth serum, it would be better to use a Pensieve to augment his testimony. A good barrister is a showman, and Copperfield could appreciate that the visual impact of Pensieve testimony would be greater than Veritaserum.

As Hermione's testimony was less involved, Mr. Copperfield would meet with her during Malfoy's testimony and during lunch, if necessary. Because the prosecution was not sure what Malfoy would say, Mr. Copperfield requested that Harry stay in an adjacent room to be available for consultation whilst the ferret was on the witness stand.

After that, Harry would be excused, so he had the rest of the day off. He was uncertain whether or not to wait around for Hermione until she told him in no uncertain terms not to. Rather than waiting for her, Hermione instructed him that he would be better off studying his next day's Auror lessons (object charms) or practicing Occlumency.

Mr. Copperfield explained to both his witnesses that they would be able to avoid quite a few difficult questions by asserting privileges of state's security. Whatever might betray the identity of members of the Order of the Phoenix was off limits, as was anything that might expose Auror procedures or compromise Ministry security - meaning that practically anything having to do with the events at the Ministry was out of bounds.

The inquiry hearing was conducted in a much more relaxed atmosphere than Harry's hearing before the full Wizengamot the previous August. Instead of a massive stone courtroom with witness chairs that had chains to bind prisoners, the inquiry took place in Magistrate Bones' airy second-level office. Upon entering the inquiry room, Harry observed a raised dais where Magistrate Bones sat, a couple of chairs set aside for her clerks, and a couple of low tables for the lawyers. A youngish blonde woman was operating some machinery, the function of which Harry did not understand. The lawyers told him that she was a court reporter. To make sure he was heard properly, he was required to look in the reporter's direction as much as possible whilst speaking. Nevertheless, he also needed to pay respectful attention to Magistrate Bones whilst being asked questions.

Harry provided what the prosecuting barristers thought was excellent, and at times dramatic, testimony. Although the process was occasionally tedious, such as having to list names of quite a few other potential witnesses, the overall testimony was compelling. His story of how Professor Umbridge attempted to break his will through repeated detentions involving blood quills clearly resonated with Magistrate Bones, especially because the disciplinary action involved Harry's insistence that Voldemort had returned. His position had been validated in the most dramatic fashion possible only weeks before - and those revelations were still reverberating thorough wizarding England.

Magistrate Bones' sharp insufflation was audible when Harry demonstrated on his own wrist the blood quill found in Umbridge's office. In her hasty departure, the former owner of the quill had forgotten to remove its enchantment. In open court, when Harry wrote “I must not tell lies” on a piece of parchment provided by Mr. Copperfield, the words appeared sliced into the back of Harry's hand and drew copious blood. Harry explained in excruciating detail how he wrote lines with this quill (or one like it) hundreds of times a night during detentions lasting over several weeks. He described how the wounds eventually failed to heal, and how he had resorted to essence of Murtlap tentacles to ease the pain.

When Harry's testimony turned to the Dementor attack, the defence predictably sought administration of Veritaserum. Harry offered the Pensieve as an alternative, and Magistrate Bones opted for both. Both Harry and the prosecutors objected that unlimited questioning under Veritaserum threatened security concerns such as the identities of Order members and the inner workings of the Order and the Ministry. It was agreed that, if Harry had a concern about his answers, he could confer with Mr. Copperfield before he had to answer any question on the record. This was possible because, while Veritaserum precluded false answers, it did not prevent Harry from pausing to allow objections.

The defence submitted a long list of questions designed to show that Harry was a rule breaker and had a vendetta against Professor Umbridge. However, many of these inquiries - such as what Harry had been doing in Umbridge's office in the first place on the day at issue - were deflected by security-based objections. All sides finally agreed to stipulate that “Voldemort had attacked Mr. Potter's mind with a disturbing vision, regarding which Mr. Potter was attempting to contact members of the Order.” It was uncontested that the only unmonitored Floo-connected fireplace at Hogwarts was in Professor Umbridge's office.

Harry testified that Professor Umbridge admitted that she had ordered the Dementor attack in front of not only her Inquisitorial Squad, but also five students (besides Harry) who were being forcibly detained. The testimony identifying them was held confidential and placed under Wizengamot seal because it was the first time that the identities of all six student participants in the “events at the Ministry” had been revealed.

Harry not only presented this testimony under Veritaserum, but also provided visual proof by temporarily transferring his memory of the relevant events to a special Ministry Pensieve reserved for judicial use. The Pensieve was much shallower and broader than the Pensieves to which Harry was accustomed. He had to smile at the slightly ridiculous sight of Magistrate Bones, the defence barrister and the court reporter all frozen in place, heads vanished in the Pensieve viewing Harry's disembodied memories.

Watching the proceedings was a bailiff, who pulled the three of them out once Harry's memory had run its course. After it was over, and his memory returned to him, Harry inferred that Dumbledore's talent for using a Pensieve without immersing his head and going dead to the world was not a widely held skill - but then very little about the Headmaster was ordinary.

Harry thought that the last 45 minutes of his testimony - about what had happened after Hermione's faked confession had deterred Professor Umbridge from using the Cruciatus curse on Harry (another audible gasp from Magistrate Bones) - was a colossal waste of time. Magistrate Bones indulged the defence barrister rather more than Harry (or Mr. Copperfield, who objected throughout on relevance grounds) thought necessary regarding Hermione's successful ruse against Professor Umbridge in the Forbidden Forest.

Fortunately, anything regarding the reasons for or method of travel to the Ministry was excluded on security grounds. By the time Harry was through, the court record contained a detailed and humourous (the court reporter giggled audibly on a couple of occasions) account of how Hermione had pranked Professor Umbridge and engineered her capture by angry centaurs.

After Harry was excused, he left the hearing room for an anteroom to wait out Draco Malfoy's testimony. In the corridor, Harry briefly found himself face to face with his long-time adversary, who was in a state quite unlike any Harry had ever seen. Not only were his robes uncharacteristically wrinkled, but Malfoy smelled slightly of Firewhiskey and disinfectant. Harry had never seen Malfoy less than immaculately dressed in a public setting before. His pale blond hair was neat, but badly trimmed. His grey-blue eyes were slightly wild and unfocused, and he was wringing his hands.

One thing that never changed, however, was Malfoy's hatred of Harry. If anything, that loathing seemed to have increased. The blonde boy's cheeks flushed and his eyes narrowed as he spotted his enemy. The only other person in the hallway was Malfoy's barrister, who was engaged in an animated conversation with a small mirror, and not paying particular attention to his young client.

“Harry Potter, Mudblood lover,” sneered Malfoy.

“Draco Malfoy, junior Death Nibbler,” sneered Harry right back at him. “I hope they put your father under Azkaban, not just in it.”

“I told you before, you're a dead man, Potter,” Malfoy continued, fixing Harry with a strange stare. “The Dark Lord will not be denied.” In a lower and more serious voice, Draco hissed, “Don't go trying to steal my birthright, Potter, if you know what's good for you. Do it and you die - and your Mudblood whore along with you.”

Harry was almost ready to launch himself at Malfoy again, and damn the consequences. “Sod off, you pathetic bastard! You've always hidden behind daddy's money, and now everyone is going to see how worthless you truly are! You never could catch the Snitch, Malfoy,” responded Harry. “You've got no chance of catching me.”

The shouting match was on the verge of coming to blows, when Malfoy was unexpectedly propelled backwards as if shoved by some unseen force. The boy awkwardly collided with his barrister - who gave Harry an exceedingly dirty look. Not a moment too soon the barrister pulled Malfoy away from Harry and frogmarched his client into the hearing room. Harry stared venomously at Malfoy until the door had closed and the other boy was out of sight.

A little shaken - and a lot angry - Harry entered the empty anteroom and waited to see if the prosecuting barristers had any questions for him about Malfoy's testimony. Harry had no doubt that it would be a pack of lies intended to save Professor Umbridge's sorry skin. He was accustomed to Malfoy being an arrogant git, but something different bothered Harry about Malfoy's attitude this time.

Malfoy seemed less scheming and more reckless than Harry had ever seen him. He had obviously been badly affected by his father's sudden fall from grace to Azkaban and by the confiscation of his father's wealth. He did not understand Malfoy's raving about a birthright - not that it much mattered. Harry was already quite aware that he had to watch his back any time Malfoy was around. Such a lovely thought for Harry's upcoming Sixth Year at Hogwarts.

There was little to break the utter boredom of the empty anteroom other than watching stray pages from old Daily Prophets that he had already read fluttering about. Harry wished he had brought some course material to read - as he was sure Hermione had. The tedium was almost uninterrupted. There were only a couple of legal consultations over the ensuing hour.

From what Harry could gather, Malfoy's story was that he and Professor Umbridge had met beforehand and plotted an effort to break Harry's will using psychological pressure. The claim about the Dementors and the attempted Cruciatus were ruses designed to bring that about. The attempt was abandoned when Hermione seemed to have thrown in the towel to protect Harry.

Harry pointed out the obvious flaw in Malfoy's story. Neither the Slytherin nor Professor Umbridge could have known ahead of time that they would catch Harry in her office. His decision to use her Floo connection was largely spur of the moment - indeed, Hermione had attempted to dissuade him until the last possible instant. Malfoy also hurt his own credibility when he invoked his right as a Time Immemorial Pureblood (a pureblood whose ancestry predated the reign of Richard I) to avoid having to testify under oath or under the influence of Veritaserum.

After being excused, Harry was free to leave. He looked for Bill Weasley and found him in the Ministry cafeteria. Both of them were hungry, so they decided to buy some food before exiting. Whilst waiting in line with Bill, Harry's eyes narrowed as he briefly caught sight of Malfoy, who had evidently also finished his testimony. Bill was chatting with a member of Wizland Revenue about some problem Gringotts was having with taxes, and missed seeing Malfoy. The ferret, after giving Harry another furious look, disappeared into the men's room.

As Bill and Harry were taking their lunch to a booth, they found themselves intercepted by Fred and George Weasley. The Twins looked horribly resplendent in ostentatious dragon hide zoot suits with five-inch side vents inlaid with cloth of gold. The twins claimed that they had been looking for Harry all morning. They rushed to fill the remaining two seats in the booth so quickly that they collided with a balding wizard who was headed for a solitary lunch in the adjacent booth. The bald wizard muttered something uncomplimentary under his breath at the Twins' unconvincing apology.

“Harry, my good friend, my boon companion, and teenage idol…,” began Fred.

“My bosom buddy and one-third silent partner…,” continued George.

“I couldn't believe my eyes when I first saw it. I hadn't realised that you'd grasped the price of fame,” said Fred.

“I was greatly surprised that you didn't think of us when the urge came over you to capitalise on your capital adventures,” said George.

“We could do better by you because you are our partner,” said George.

“You could do better by us because we are your partners,” affirmed Fred.

“Will you two please explain what in blazes you're on about?” broke in a thoroughly confused Harry.

“Ah, mate, we were pierced to the quick when we learned that you had chosen to bestow your first commercial endorsement upon another,” continued George.

“Imagine our consternation when we learned - purely by personal experience mind you - that you had elected to peddle your visage to the Cadbury's corporate behemoth,” exclaimed Fred. With that both of the Twins produced copies of Harry Potter Chocolate Frog cards. Bowing low in mock prostration they chanted. “All hail Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived … to make a tidy profit off his own mug.”

“Seriously,” Fred said, no longer joking, “when you decided to go the endorsement route, why didn't you come to us? You're already an equity holder in Weasley Wizard Wheezes, and your endorsement of our products would mean a lot more to you - not to mention to us and to our customer base - than to the bloodless MBA types at Cadbury's.”

“We'd like you to say nice things about our products too,” said George, “and we can make it worth your while. You can have, for personal use, all of our products that you want, from our old reliable Extendable Ears to our latest creation, Skunk Sauce.”

“Put a little skunk sauce in your - or better, someone else's - food, and in five minutes or less the resulting flatulence can clear out a classroom or a common room,” grinned Fred. “Skunk sauce can knock a buzzard off a dung heap, and it comes with a double-your-stink-back guarantee.”

“But you've already promised me all the joke products I can use,” replied Harry. “Really though, I'm sorry I didn't go with you lot first, but you couldn't solve my problem. I had a very immediate need for some Muggle spending money, and Cadbury offered a contract that did that, and at just the right time. I really think WWW sells the most wicked joke products around, and I'd be happy to endorse you for free.”

“Oh no, knight-errant,” replied Fred with a knowing grin. “We will not ask of you the source of such urgent need.” Dropping his voice to a stage whisper, Fred continued, “since our father has already told us that you planned to enter the dragon to retrieve your lost lady love.” Harry grimaced, but Fred placed his hand over his heart in a dramatic gesture and added. “You've lost your amateur status now, Sir Harryhad. We can't allow ourselves to take your charity.”

Finally, George got to the point. “What we'd like you to do, oh partner of ours, is attend the grand opening of our first branch store. We've acquired premises in Hogsmeade now, as well as Diagon Alley, in order to serve our customer base better. Whenever the school's first Hogsmeade weekend is scheduled, we'd like to raise a big banner with your face on it announcing that you will be present to help introduce our new fall line of academically disruptive offerings. We'll give you an extra 25% of the profits from all sales that weekend.”

“Of course I'll do it,” enthused Harry. “So what exactly should we do?”

Seeing that Harry and his younger brothers were going to be some time in planning the minutiae of the grand opening, Bill excused himself to visit the Wizland Revenue Department about the Gringotts tax problem. Harry promised not to leave the cafeteria until Bill got back. The three went on with their planning for about fifteen minutes. Harry could tell that one thing the Twins needed badly was a good solicitor to deal with the Ludicrous Patents Office.

He had just finished giving the Twins Blackie Howe's business card - and insisting that Howe's fee be charged to his account - when Harry noticed the same blonde woman he had seen in the courtroom approaching their booth. She was about Hermione's height, and she carried a Muggle stenographic pad and Biro rather than a lunch tray.

“Excuse me,” she broke in,” I'm Eliza Marie Brookings, certified court reporter, and I need to speak to Mister Potter.”

Harry's first impression was that Ms. Brookings was probably quite pretty, although the severely formal business robes she wore successfully concealed much of the physical evidence. Fred and George evidently shared Harry's assessment. They practically fell all over themselves standing up and making dramatic introductions. George tried to get her business card, saying that the two of them “might be in need of transcription services for our next Annual General Meeting.”

“I need to meet with Mister Potter alone,” Ms Brookings replied archly. “He gave highly confidential testimony this morning.”

“Some blokes have all the luck,” said George, hastily preparing to depart. “Can't beat Teen Witches Weekly.”

“Don't blow it, mate,” added Fred. “Maybe you can bring us another customer.…”

George continued, with a leering grin, “We'd be willing to hold our Annual General Meeting in Bora Bora….”

“Out … now,” ordered Ms. Brookings. She mockingly hurled a bread roll at the Twins' retreating backsides, and then deftly directed the roll to a rubbish bin with a flick of her wand. “What I'd give simply to be treated as a professional…. Anyway, Mister Potter, I've gone over the rough copy of your transcript and I have a few questions I need to ask to ensure accuracy….”

Neither of them noticed as one of the Weasley Twins' old reliable products crept over the edge of the booth.

For the next half an hour Harry and Ms. Brookings went over his transcript line by line, correcting the spelling of numerous names, fixing broken syntax and generally making sure that Harry's testimony read the way he had intended it. Bill came by, having finished with Wizland Revenue, and told Harry that he would be waiting in the bar when Harry was done.

As they were finishing, Harry said, “That's the end of it then. Miss Brookings, I'd like to apologise for the behavior of my … er … business associates earlier. They're just jokers, not malicious. If it's any consolation, I think that you've been very thorough and that you're a consummate professional.”

Ms. Brookings smiled demurely and blushed slightly. “Thank you very much Mister Potter, you may call me Eliza. I'm sure that I'll be transcribing your testimony again.”

“How so?” asked Harry, somewhat puzzled.

“I'm only filling in on the Umbridge inquiry because the regular reporter was out sick with the Doxy Pox,” said Ms. Brookings. “But I'm the regular reporter on the Sirius Black inquiry and related will contest. As one of the principal interested parties, I'm sure your testimony will be taken. Mister Malfoy testified last week….”

“Lucius Malfoy is in Azkaban,” broke in Harry. “As everyone knows, I helped put him there. How could he possibly be testifying…?”

“Not Lucius Malfoy,” Ms. Brookings interrupted, “Draco Mal….”

“What does bloody Draco Malfoy have to do with anything?” asked Harry, his temper instantly rising when he heard the name. A swirl of breeze sent the loose paper serviettes on the table flying - just as loose pages of the Prophet had swirled earlier when he had entered the anteroom in a similar state of upset.

“Please calm down Mr. Potter. I'm… I'm sorry that I've upset you. I'll just be on….” stammered Ms. Brookings.

Harry's hand flew to her wrist. “Please wait just a bit…, Eliza. I'm very sorry about that. I shouldn't have done it, and it won't happen again, I promise. I'm afraid I'm just surprised, that's all. What does any Malfoy have to do with Sirius - I guess you know he was my godfather - or his will? Sirius hated all Malfoys.”

Harry heard Ms. Brookings - no, Eliza - gasp in the same shocked fashion as Magistrate Bones during his testimony. “Har… Mister Potter, are you serious? You mean that you don't know?”

The implication that, yet again, Harry was ignorant of something very important caused him great annoyance, but this time he exercised greater self-control. He could not let this woman get away before he got some idea of what Dumbledore - damn Dumbledore - was still keeping from him. “No, I don't know,” said Harry emotionlessly.

“Do you know who is the heir to the last will and testament of Orion Black, if not Sirius Black?” Ms. Brookings asked.

“I did not know there was another heir,” Harry responded.

This time it was Ms. Brookings' turn to show some emotion, if only by the half-shocked, half-worried expression that crossed her face. “Why the Malfoy barristers will tear you to shreds if you walk this cluelessly into the hearing room,” she said as much to herself as to Harry.

“Please - Eliza,” Harry practically pleaded. Looking Ms. Brookings straight in the eye, he said huskily, “everybody has been hiding things from me - for years, it seems. I don't know what is going on. Please, will you tell me the truth?”

For a moment, Eliza Marie Brookings simply stared wide-eyed into Harry's sad green eyes. Then, with a slight nod of her head, she made up her mind. She reached into her handbag and pulled out a small piece of paper and briefly scribbled on it. In a low voice barely above a whisper, she said, “I could lose my job for this…. But you have a right to know what you're getting into. Here's my card. That's my Muggle phone number on the back. I live in Muggle London. Give me a call and we'll get together somewhere we can talk openly. But nobody can know about this, you understand? Nobody.”

Harry silently nodded and closed his fist around the business card.

“Good day, Mr. Potter, and thank you for your cooperation,” Ms. Brookings said loudly in her mock cheerful voice as she made to leave the room.

Leaving the Ministry, Eliza Marie Brookings was feeling almost breathless with her own audacity. She had just agreed to involve herself in the highest stakes wizard litigation in well over a century - in direct violation of the confidentiality pledge she had signed as a court reporter. Not to mention that she had just agreed to meet privately and secretly with the young man whom the Wizard press had taken to calling (among other things) the most eligible bachelor wizard in all Britain, if not the world.

Leaving the Ministry, Harry James Potter was feeling almost breathless with anger and frustration. He had just discovered that, despite all his protestations of openness, Headmaster Dumbledore was still keeping him in total ignorance of some very important matters involving his deceased godfather, Sirius Black, the Black and Malfoy families, and evidently a very, very large amount of money. Not to mention that he had just agreed to meet privately and secretly with a very pretty, intelligent, and independent witch, significantly older than he, about whom he knew next to nothing.

Harry was very quiet as he travelled back to Privet Drive with his guardian Bill Weasley. Bill had always been his friend and confidant, but right now Harry was not viewing him as such. Rather, Bill was no different than the rest of the Order of the Phoenix - an agent of Dumbledore's who must be evaded if Harry was ever going to learn the truth of what he was “getting into.”

* * * *

Author's notes: The chess dream sequence has Harry short a bishop and a pawn; the identities of the missing (dead) pieces should be self-evident

A sand wedge is a golf club

The "three-broom Quidditch match" crack, is a variant of an old joke about screwing up a three-car funeral

"Institutions of excellence" is a play on the current British educational "centres of excellence initiative"

Xyzzy comes from an early computer game in which is served approximately this function

Walkover is a racing term, for a race in only one registered horse remains. The horse only has to walk the course to win the race

Harry's and Hermione's ages match HPB, Hermione being about nine months older. September birthdays are the hardest to fit into the academic calendar

The discussion of Apparition has been modified to conform to HBP

This use of the Orgasimos Charm was predictable, but the reaction to it is not. In her anger Hermione lets a little something slip

King John, the royal signer of the Magna Carta (also king at the time of the Robin Hood legend) was illiterate. The Magna Carta was signed in 1215 - a couple of hundred years after Hogwarts was founded. A major wizard line like Gryffindor would likely have survived that long

I've made both Ben Franklin and Napoleon Bonaparte wizards. Both were so gifted in their respective areas of expertise that their contemporaries would not have been surprised

Hermione's collecting signatures plays a minor future role

Hermione is not alone in her assessment of the “their finest hour” speech

The discussion of Winston Churchill continues a previous riff. Nothing much will come of it this year, although it would figure prominently in a Seventh Year fic. There's enough here already for knowledgeable Anglophiles to figure it out, although more will be provided later

I've introduced solicitor Howe. This chapter introduces barrister Dewey. These names are derived from an old lawyer joke about a law firm named Dewey, Cheetum and Howe. In Britain, attorneys who appear in court (at the bar) are called barristers, and lawyers who only do deals are called solicitors

The American illusionist is, of course, David Copperfield

This is a reasonably accurate description of how criminal inquiries are conducted in Britain, including how lawyers play games with state security claims

The reasons for Malfoy's odd characteristics are explained later

Harry has a way of doing unusual things when he's angry

"Time immemorial" under English law means anything (usually possession of land) that predated the reign of Richard I

The Twins' clothing is taken from "Cut My Hair" by the Who: "Zoot suit, white jacket with side vents five inches long"

The "knock a buzzard off a shit pile" line comes from George Carlin

Fred's "enter the dragon" reference is to the famous Bruce Lee movie

A knight-errant is one who wanders the countryside in search of adventure - not terribly inapt here

Sir Harryhad is a take off on Sir Galahad. For almost all of this fic, the comparison is accurate

A "Biro" is European slang for a ballpoint pen, it being the name of the inventor Laszlo Biro

An annual general meeting is a corporate shareholders' meeting

Bora Bora is in Tahiti. It's unfortunately gotten rather overbuilt as of late.

So who is eavesdropping on the conversation?

- 39 -

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9. The Great Escape

Wherein Harry is angry at Dumbledore's omissions, learns object magic, discusses Necromancy with Hermione, surmises the basis of Dumbledore's GoF triumphant look, discovers the Voldometer, learns how to Apparate, plots and carries out an escape from the Order with Dudley's help, goes to the library, meets Eliza, has a wild motorbike ride through Central London, and ends up at Eliza's flat.

I'm sure that the introduction of a competing love interest into Harry's life will raise the blood pressure of some of those here. But my story is my story. It all works out in the end, although it takes what might be considered to be a inordinate amount of time and effort to do so. Do not expect instant gratification.

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

Chapter 9 - The Great Escape

The next day, Harry still boiled with scarcely hidden rage as he accompanied Bill Weasley to the Ministry for his Auror training - today's topic being spells concerning objects. Through his Aural Pensieve, Harry had acquired some serious magic. He learned to transfigure hundreds of pine needles into nails and hurl them simultaneously at a target. He could bewitch objects so that they were many times heavier or lighter than normal, causing them to come crashing down or go floating away. Harry was now able to conjure, and then employ as weapons, a wide variety of noxious substances - from the deadly (corrosive acids and alkalis) to the merely loathsome (Stinksap or vomit).

Nevertheless Harry's mind was elsewhere. He was focussed not primarily on learning all this new spellwork, but rather on planning an escape from constant Order surveillance whenever such an opportunity arose, or could be created, at some point during the next few days.

Harry concluded that he no longer trusted any of the adults who so often claimed that they had his best interests at heart. For that reason, he had thrown himself into Occlumency sessions with redoubled fervor. In the afternoon, he scheduled a special session with Lao Kung. Harry did not just want to protect his mind from penetration by Voldemort; he wanted to prevent everybody - Dumbledore, Snape, Moody, Lupin, and the rest - from knowing his private thoughts. If they were not going to be open with him, he was not going to leave himself open to them.

The Sefu had been much impressed with the boy's progress. Harry had been able to clear his mind sufficiently to repel invasion in less than thirty seconds. Essentially at will, he had been able to redirect Lao Kung's attempted mental penetration either to the unrelieved boredom of Dudley's daytime television shows or to the abstract nothingness of the ocean meeting a sandy beach. Lao Kung therefore initiated a new exercise. He sent Harry to the main part of the gym to work out - and even to have a go with Dudley in the ring (Dudley being requested to pull his punches, of course).

Lao Kung then attempted to use Legilimency against Harry at odd times when his conscious mind should be distracted by his other exertions. On his five attempts, the Sefu was completely unsuccessful in accessing his student's thoughts and memories. The only untoward effect upon Harry was the one occasion that he had to pause to concentrate whilst sparring with Dudley. That was not an advisable thing to do, for his cousin was indeed an accomplished pugilist, and Harry caught a right hook to the jaw. That planted the boy quite firmly on the canvas for about thirty seconds. But even the process of taking a fist to the face did not cause him to permit intrusion into his mind.

Harry was also making significant strides with the wandless magic that Lao Kung was teaching him. Whilst he was not yet to the point of breaking bricks, or pulverising them, he was learning to project several kinds of spells from his bare hands. Not only was Harry now routinely setting sawdust on fire - but he could extinguish the fire by drenching the sawdust with water. He could freeze the sawdust, blow it around, and cause it to rot.

In short, Harry was finally mastering not only Occlumency, but quite a bit more. Dumbledore discovered just how much more during his regularly scheduled Wednesday evening session. For the first time, the Headmaster found himself totally unable to penetrate Harry's defences without resorting to tactics that would be plainly unethical if used against a student. Little did Dumbledore know that Harry considered his intrusions almost as unwelcome as Voldemort's.

Hermione, perhaps the only person Harry still trusted, was aware of his sentiments almost immediately due to her mental link to the boy's emotions. During their first break in training the next morning, she asked him, “Is there something wrong, Harry?”

“No,” Harry denied, “just a might tense from all the practicing, that's all.”

“My you-know-what is telling me that that's not all,” Hermione hissed in response to his quite predictable lie. “Yesterday, your roller coaster emotions were extremely distracting, and almost caused me to lose my train of thought in the midst of testifying against her Royal Toadness. Today, it's almost as bad.”

He muttered only a cryptic reply. “Nothing that concerns you, really. It's just those bastards keeping me in the dark again.”

Hermione knew Harry better than to be put off. At lunch, she returned to the same subject. For her trouble, she was treated to another of Harry's tirades about how Dumbledore, after twice promising full information, still was not telling him everything. He also ranted on about things that she did not fully understand, such as the Malfoys being involved in contesting Sirius' will and how there was much more at stake than Harry had thought.

Eventually he found the limit to Hermione's tolerance for verbal abuse. After Harry carried on with his outburst for some minutes, she got shirty with him. “Harry, do you know how much of an egotistical prat you're being right now? This isn't all about you all the time, you know. Sure Dumbledore holds back with you. Join the club. I'm certain he's telling each and every one of us only what he wants us to know. But you're hardly one to be going on so self-righteously about it. You're not exactly the most forthcoming person in the world yourself.”

At this Harry ceased his vituperation and looked at Hermione as if she had suddenly grown another head. “What in bloody blazes do you mean, Hermione?” he snapped. “I tell you things I've never told anyone else.”

`Why then don't you tell me you love me?' Hermione thought to herself with a sigh. But to the boy himself she said, “I'm sure you have, Harry, but that still doesn't mean that you've told me enough - if you want to have my best endeavour at helping you fight Voldemort. Do you realise that in almost two years, you've never told me about the spell Voldemort used to return to corporeal form…. Not a word, Harry!”

“Sure I have,” he retorted. “During the interview last year with Rita Skeeter, I told you all about how Cedric died, how Voldemort came back, and how I fought and escaped from him. In fact, you're the only one, other than that Skeeter cow, that I've ever told face to face about that. I'm sorry, but I just don't fancy going through that again.”

“Sod Cedric Diggory,” replied Hermione. “Sod your duel with Voldemort too. That doesn't help me help you. I want to know exactly what Voldemort did to get his body back, how, and with whom. How am I supposed to help you get ready for the next duel with Voldemort if I have no idea what nature of being he now is?”

That stopped Harry cold. She was right…, more right than she knew. Other than Dumbledore, and some Aurors, Harry had never discussed with anyone - not even Sirius - the magic Voldemort had employed to create a new body for himself. If he should tell anyone, it should be Hermione, since she was bound to find something interesting and useful buried in the details.

“You're spot on, as usual,” conceded Harry with a defeated look on his face. “I haven't told you that, and I should … and I will. But not here and not now…. It's a long story, and I need a more private place than the Auror's cafeteria. If you're free, I'll see if we can grab a spare office after training this afternoon.”

The lesson went very well after that. Object spells were interesting and dramatic, which maintained Harry's attention. For her, these spells involved transfiguration and charms, which were her best subjects. In their daily concluding duel, he noticed, both to his chagrin and relief, that Hermione had corrected the flaw in her shield charm. They struggled back and forth against each other for almost fifteen minutes - littering the Situation Room with all manner of objects that they either flung at one another or used to block various spells. Harry finally won, but only by using a Gravitas Charm to bring the roof (including a couple of very surprised Aurors from the floor above) collapsing down about Hermione's head. At the last instant, he reversed the charm to cause the rubble to float harmlessly away. However, by then she had chosen discretion as the better part of valour, and done a bolt. Having left the field of battle, Hermione had given Harry victory by default.

Harry was indeed able to borrow a room, but Bill could not (or, Harry thought, did not - as in “Fleur” - want to) stay late that evening. Tonks volunteered to escort the both of them home, since she needed to catch up on some paperwork. “Be thankful you're not really training to become Aurors,” she had groaned in frustration. “You're only learning the fun stuff.”

Harry then gave Hermione a blow-by-blow description of everything Voldemort and his followers did to create that new body a little more than a year previous. “Here's what happened,” he explained as she listened intently. “After they caught me, they tied me to a cemetery headstone…. It was Voldemort's father's. Then they brought out a great stone cauldron and lit a fire under it. They filled it with some liquid - maybe water, but perhaps not - and set it to boiling.”

Hermione's breath caught in her throat, and she clutched Harry's hand.

“It boiled so fast it was probably something else,” Harry allowed. “As it steamed, it threw off sparks - so many that the whole surface looked shiny and sharp. Wormtail was carrying Voldemort, who looked like a huge hideous slug, except covered with scales…. He had tiny misshapen limbs, and blood-red eyes.”

She could stand it no longer, and let out a long, “Eeeeuuuuuwwww!”

“That's right,” Harry agreed. “Made me want to spew…. Then he dropped what there was of Voldemort right in the cauldron. He, or it, sank out of sight. After that, Wormtail chanted some sort of spell, about how the bones of the father, unknowingly given, would renew the son. I didn't catch it exactly, but that was the gist of it. The ground below me cracked and dust came out…. I assume it was what was left of Voldemort's father's bones….”

Harry stopped as Hermione let go of his hand. She summoned a quill and began taking notes.

“Er … The bone made the stuff in the cauldron turn blue,” Harry went on. “Then Wormtail took a knife and cut off his own hand….”

“That's disgusting,” Hermione interjected, but she kept writing.

Harry continued, “He said something about `flesh of the servant,' but I couldn't make out the rest, because he wasn't speaking very loudly and was facing away from me, towards the cauldron. He cut off his hand so it fell in. Then whatever was boiling went bright red - so bright I could still see it with my eyes closed.”

Hermione was breathing deeply, trying to calm herself so that she could continue writing. Harry paused to wait for her to recover. She acknowledged his indulgence with a weak smile, and when ready to continue, she nodded to him.

“Then Wormtail … he … he … cut me … cut me with a knife … right here….” Harry pushed back the sleeve covering his right arm and showed Hermione a faint vertical scar in the crook of his elbow. Hermione's jaw started to tremble, and he thought she might break down, but she retained control, although just barely.

“He said to me - and I'll never forget this as long as I live - `Blood of the enemy' … that's me … `forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe.' My blood.… He let it ran down my arm until it dripped into some sort of glass phial that he had. He took my blood to the cauldron and poured it in….” Harry let out a deep breath at the memory.

Hermione gasped again, “Oh Merlin…. And then it happened, didn't it?” she prompted.

“Yeah, then it happened,” he confirmed. “The liquid turned white … more brilliant than anything I think I've ever seen. There was a whoosh and a flash of steam - the whole cauldron erupted - a great billow of it. And out of the cloud … stepped Voldemort….”

Hermione shuddered visibly. Throughout it all she had tried her best to stay quiet - to let Harry tell the hideous story in his own way. All the while she wore an odd worried look on her face, something more than mere concentration.

Harry continued to tell her what happened. When he finished describing Priori incantatem, she finally interrupted him with her usual informative thoughts. “Harry, I was thinking before that we should devote our seventh year independent work to Necromancy. Now I'm certain. For over a year I've thought Voldemort's power probably lies in the magic that transforms life and death. Even so, I had no idea that his power would be so starkly revealed. Harry, I know Necromancy is quite a Dark art, but I recognise the magic that Voldemort used to create that body. If you want to destroy Voldemort, Necromancy or something related to it is likely to be the means to his death, just as it is presently the source of his life.”

“Quite dark is the understatement of the year,” Harry responded. He felt like he had been hit with one of Dudley's sucker punches - or with another of Dumbledore's sudden, yet calculated revelations. How could she have known anything about this? He had to find out.

“According to Ron anyway, who I grant isn't the world's greatest authority, Necromancy is so Dark that even the Restricted Section isn't allowed to have books about it. Wait a minute….” Harry paused. “…Where in the world did perfect, rule-abiding Hermione Granger learn to recognise Necromancy spells?”

She made a face and stuck her tongue out at him in retaliation for his barb, but answered the question slowly and precisely. “You're very welcome, Harry. I never learned anything about Necromancy at Hogwarts, and I didn't set out to study that subject at all. But whilst I was being bored to tears at Grimmauld Place during last year's summer holiday, I had nothing else to read but the Black family library. The Blacks had all the Necromancy literature anyone could possibly want, and I read parts of several books on the subject. I don't remember the name of the spell, or all the details, but bone-flesh-blood and blue-red-white was discussed in one of those books - `Life into Death' something or other - and it's not something I could ever forget.”

“You're amazing, Hermione. Do you know that?” said Harry putting his arm around her impulsively. “No matter how bizarre, or obscure, or even evil the spell, you seem to know something about it.”

“And don't you ever forget it, Harry Potter,” she chortled. But her light tone rapidly became very serious. “But that spell, whatever it is called, was never completed properly. I remember distinctly that the `enemy' from whom blood was collected has to be killed before the spell is truly complete. Otherwise the homeostasis of the conjured body is incomplete and the result possibly unstable.”

“What does that mean, Hermione?” Harry asked with even greater interest, “that Voldemort is liable to explode or spontaneously combust?”

“It means that the corpus created by the spell cannot reach equilibrium. Beyond that, I just don't know…,” Hermione sighed. She had a forlorn look on her face and was practically beside herself. “I'm sorry. I only took a casual interest in those books. I didn't really study them, and this spell, like so many others, was awfully repulsive. If you had only told me sooner, I would have paid more attention…. I do remember that the enchantment was supposed to transfer power from the blood donor to the recipient - and if the blood donor isn't killed the donor retains the power to penetrate the recipient's defenses.”

“Bloody hell, Hermione!” Harry exclaimed. “That's it. That's why Dumbledore had that weird triumphant look in his eye for a split second when I first told him what had happened. Once I described the magic Wormtail had used, his face lit up, just for a bit. Then he went all poker-faced again. Dumbledore knew…. That bastard….”

“Ow, Harry! Let go of my hand…, if you're going to squeeze it that hard,” Hermione protested.

Harry did, “Sorry Hermione…,” he apologised, but he could not stop muttering about Dumbledore. “He knew…. He knew, that because I had escaped, the failed magic meant that I could finish Voldemort, and that the…. Dammit. He knew I was to be his weapon, but he never told me why! That son of a bitch keeps so many secrets! Now if you could only figure out what power I have that Voldemort would ever want….”

Then Harry looked at her with an intensity that made her go weak in the knees. “Hermione - thank you yet again. I should always tell you things like this, because you always have something incredibly useful to offer.”

As he said these words, however, Harry shivered a bit because he knew he was being hypocritical. He had almost told Hermione about the prophecy, but had caught himself just in time. At some point he knew he would tell her, but not today.

“There's more, Harry,” she said briskly after the warm feeling in her face retreated. “I assume that Dumbledore did tell you that the Priori incantatem effect that you experienced with Voldemort comes from two wands sharing the same core. You must know what that wand core is, since your own wand has it.”

“A phoenix feather,” Harry answered. “Feathers from Dumbledore's phoenix, Fawkes.”

“That's wonderful Harry!” Hermione bounced up and down as she always did when she was overly excited. Then she hugged him, but he had no idea what for - although he liked it just the same. He soon learned.

“I thought it would be something much rarer…. Even I can learn to fight Voldemort then,” Hermione declared. “Whilst I know that the wand picks the wizard to a large extent, Moody has been keen on us acquiring reserve wands in case our primaries were stolen or broken. Why shouldn't I…? Why for that matter shouldn't the entire Order of the Phoenix become a real order of the phoenix by getting reserve wands with Fawkes' feathers as their cores? If we could all stymie him the way you did, wouldn't it go a long way to neutralise Voldemort's ability to use the Killing Curse effectively?”

Harry's jaw dropped. While not nearly as clever as she, he could think of no reason why her idea would not work.
Could Fawkes be the key…?

Oblivious to the passage of time, the two of them continued their discussions for quite some time until Tonks stuck her head in the door.

“All right you love birds, wrap it up,” she ordered. “It's almost eight o'clock, and I have to get the both of you home before your families throw a fit … or Hermione's anyway. Also you've got a very important day ahead of you tomorrow - Apparition isn't easy to learn.”

Harry scowled. Tonks had no business joking about either his lack of family or his being with Hermione … when she did not want him that way. “The Dursleys would greatly prefer if I never came back,” he replied.

“Harry, don't say that,” tutted Hermione, looking scandalised.

“Well it's true, isn't it?” snapped Harry back at her. “My entire family is dead - and my godfather. Unlike you, I don't have a family worthy of the name to go home to, and my only living relatives tolerate my presence only because the Order has scared them half out of their wits. Tonks, give us five more minutes, please?”

Tonks nodded and slipped away.

“What is it Harry?” Hermione said, considerably more gently. “You seem so depressed all of a sudden.”

“I'm just so frustrated by all the lies and cover ups,” he muttered. “I know I shouldn't go off on you about it, though. You won't believe it, but I do feel sorry about screaming at people…, even if I can't seem to stop myself…. Hermione, I need you to do something for me - or more accurately, to refuse to do something for me. I think I'm on the verge of finding out a big chunk of the truth about what's going on - why all these things are happening to me without me knowing.”

“You know I'll do anything for you, Harry,” Hermione smiled and took his hand.

“I have to meet with someone willing to share things with me - don't worry, it's not dangerous or anything like that, just that the information is supposed to be hush-hush, and the person could get sacked for telling me. But I have to get away from the Order's constant watch over me to do it….” His voice trailed off.

“You need me to help you escape, then,” whispered Hermione. “I don't think it will be easy because you know I'm being watched too.”

“No, Hermione, I think I can manage getting away all right,” said Harry conspiratorially. “It's keeping myself away that'll be the ticket. You and I both know that the Order is going to throw a fit when they find I've gone, and that they'll try to find me again. I just need some time. If what I have in mind works, I'm sure they will come to you - because of these.” Harry tapped his partner ring against hers. “The ring lets you find me, and I need you to let me stay unfound - at least for a while. I guess what I want is for you to refuse to use your ring to locate me until…, say midnight.”

“Midnight, when?” asked Hermione.

“I don't know yet,” replied Harry, “because I haven't thought it all through…. The details need working out…. It's going to have to be a spur of the moment thing - more of my improvised magic….” He talked over her grimace. “…All I can tell you is that it will happen sometime soon, and during the day. Can you give me until midnight of whatever day they ask you to find me? If I'm not done by midnight, then something's wrong and I might need help - but I'm not trying anything dangerous, I promise.”

“I have a bad feeling about this - your record with improvisation is quite spotty…. You know they'll be furious with me if I do what you want,” said Hermione.

“And I'll be furious with you if you don't,” replied Harry, grinning at her to let her know that was meant as a joke. “I promise I'll tell you what I find out. Please do it for me?”

“You're asking me to take a pig in a poke, you know,” Hermione said.

“True,” said Harry. “You're the only one in the world that I'd trust would do it.”

Hermione thought for a moment and said, “I'll do it for you on one condition.”

“And what is that?” said Harry, with a slight edge to his voice.

Hermione smiled slyly, “You have to come and have dinner - at my house in Knightsbridge - and meet my parents like Dumbledore promised you would.”

Harry's face brightened. “Of course I'll do that. I would've done it anyway, you know….”

“Good,” Hermione replied crisply. “I'll get some dates from my parents. And if you're still breathing when the Order gets through with you, you can tell me what you've learned.”

Harry poked his head out of the door and called, “Tonks, we're done”

Using Portkeys, Tonks dropped Hermione off at what looked to Harry like a big brick and stone house. It was set back from a quiet, well-lit street by a small lawn containing several large, old trees. Harry had never seen Hermione's house before, and he was impressed.

Before dropping Harry off, Tonks told him some interesting news. “I didn't want to worry Hermione any, but I think you need to know that there's going to be a change in your guard this weekend. Fudge has decided to up the Voldometer to orange this….”

“What's a Voldometer?” he asked.

“Oh, I'm sorry, Harry,” giggled Tonks, “that's what the Aurors call the Death Eater Activity Alert Code Fudge began last week. Bit of a joke really - colour codes from scarlet to white, based upon the supposed threat of a Death Eater attack. It's in a little black box on the front page of the Prophet.”

“I haven't noticed it,” he confessed.

“I'm not surprised that you haven't,” replied Tonks. “It's not like it's serious security - just political fluff… Makes it look like the Ministry's doing more than it is. The Ministry gets some rumour from who knows where that the Death Eaters might be up to something. So it puts out an alert to the public….” Tonks lapsed into her deepest, most official sounding voice:

“`Based upon anonymous information that Death Eaters may or may not be planning an attack of an unknown nature against an unknown location somewhere in the British Isles, the populace is advised to be especially cautious over the next 24 hours,'” she boomed. “Like that tells anybody bloody anything. So the Ministry gets the public in a tizzy without telling them anything useful.”

“But if that were all, it would just be a nuisance,” Tonks continued. “Unfortunately a Code Orange level or above automatically revokes all leaves for the Auror Corps. With no Aurors on leave, there are no Aurors available to guard you, Harry. Having the stupid Code Orange tomorrow and over the weekend, means that instead of having Aurors protecting you, you'll be stuck with the likes of Sturgis Podmore, Daedelus Diggle, or even Mundungus.”

Tonks made a face as he said the last wizard's name, going bald, wrinkly, and practically toothless. “They're not as skilled as your normal weekend guard, so please be extra careful with yourself. Ironic isn't it? The higher the alert status, the less protection available to Voldemort's number one target - but there you are. Don't get your knickers in a twist, though. Our own spies say there's nothing to suggest any increased Death Eater activity at the moment.”

Although his relatives had nothing but cold leftovers for his supper (“Don't expect us to wait on you if you're out late with your freaky friends.”), Harry minded not at all. Somewhere between Occlumency and going to bed with his Aural Pensieve set on Apparition, a plan of action began forming in Harry's mind. He dialed the number Eliza had given him.

Harry was disappointed to reach only an answerphone. “Er … Eliza, this is Harry - Harry Potter. You met me at the Ministry the other day, gave me your number, and said I could ring you up. Well I'd like to see you again, and I have a plan [click]”

Eliza picked up the phone, slightly out of breath. “Harry, is that really you?”

“Of course it is,” said Harry, feeling slightly annoyed. “You gave me your number on the back of your card. Surely you expected that I would call.”

“Well, you never can tell,” she sighed. Harry was definitely not like most men she knew. “What is your plan?”

“I'm still not exactly sure, but I want to meet you Saturday somewhere in Muggle London,” said Harry. “Please be reachable Saturday around noon.”

“Muggle London is a big place, Harry,” Eliza cautioned. “You know that don't you?”

“Err, I guess so,” Harry fumbled. “Is there a Tube stop near the British Library?”

“Which branch, Harry? There are several.” Now here was something Eliza had not expected - no man she knew would voluntarily choose to go to a library.

Harry fumbled around a bit. “Er, St. Pancras branch.”

“That's easy Harry,” Eliza replied. “It's close to both the Kings Cross and Euston stations.”

Harry was relieved. “Kings Cross? At least I have some idea where that is.”

“So do I, Harry,” she confirmed. “So you're serious about this?”

Harry declared, “Serious enough to risk landing in a great deal of trouble.”

“In that case, I want to give you another telephone number to use,” she said worriedly.

“Why is that?” asked Harry.

“Oh Harry,” Eliza said gently. “You're so naïve about this kind of thing. Have you ever seen the charges for your phone?”

“Err, no,” he mumbled.

“The bill probably doesn't even go to you,” she informed him. “Well the statement lists every number that you call. I don't want to get crossways with my bosses either. Whilst you'll just get told off by whoever's minding you, I don't have that kind of leeway. If I get caught, I'm sacked, and I doubt I could ever get another job in my field. This new number's in my mum's maiden name.”

“Won't your mum skin you for this?” asked Harry apprehensively.

“I doubt it,” Eliza replied cheerily. “She emigrated to Australia ages ago.”

* * * *

The special Apparition lesson on Friday was every bit as grueling as Harry had been warned it would be. Apparition shared some elements with conjuring and others with Occlumency, but Harry expected to find it much more difficult than either of those had been. In effect, he had to conjure himself. And instead of clearing his mind, Harry would be attempting to teleport it instead.

The Apparition practice zone was nowhere near London, but rather out in the country - somewhere in Lincolnshire, Harry was told. When he arrived, both the thick early morning mist and the somewhat foul odour suggested to Harry that he was probably amongst the Fens near The Wash. Auror candidates typically already knew how to Apparate, so this lesson was irregular. The Aurors has somehow borrowed a large fallow field almost a kilometre across, with no trees or other solid objects that could splonch a novice Apparator.

Dress was informal, with lightweight, loose fitting clothing recommended for both the instructors and the instructed. Harry deliberately wore some of Dudley's hand-me downs - figuring that he could hardly get any looser than that. Hermione wore an orange T-shirt emblazoned with the purple-lettered slogan “A Man of Quality Is Not Frightened by a Woman for Equality.” Harry duly noted that it was quite the opposite of loose-fitting.

Hugo Halliburton and Betsy Greengrass approached the two somewhat anxious trainees with a short, wisp of a man and a rather stout woman trailing behind them. The man had light brown hair and piercing, watery brown eyes. The woman was blonde, blue-eyed, and looked considerably younger - thirty at most - but she was built rather like Molly Weasley.

Hugo called out to his trainees, “Harry, Hermione! Meet Wilkie Twycross and Honoria Thurso. He's a senior Apparition instructor with the Department of Magical Transportation. She's an Unspeakable with a postgraduate in Theoretical Apparition from the Institute for Advanced Magic in America. I was quite fortunate to nab both of them on such short notice. They've agreed to help with the practical side of things.”

Introductions all around followed. Harry and Twycross chatted about Hogwarts. He learned that Twycross supplemented his Ministry paycheck by serving as the school's Sixth Year Apparition instructor.

Hermione at once fell into an intense conversation with Thurso concerning the Institute.

After a few minutes of idle chatter, Twycross conjured up folding director's chairs for everyone in the middle of the field. He sat himself down and addressed the two teens, “All right then…. Apparition. My favourite topic. I've been teaching it for over two decades now. Have either of you had any experience with it before?”

“None whatsoever,” Hermione admitted somewhat sheepishly.

“Er … I did a Side-Along Apparition with Headmaster Dumbledore not too long ago,” Harry indicated.

“Excellent!” Twycross exclaimed. “You know how it feels, then?”

Harry could not stop himself from making an uncomplimentary face. “It felt - really awful. I was being squeezed in all directions. It was like being crushed tightly against other people…. I was about to be sick, when something like a small opening developed, and all of a sudden I felt like I was being sucked through a straw…. Then I was there. It wasn't exactly pleasant….”

“Well, well,” Thurso said in an even voice. “I've never heard it described exactly like that before, but to each his own. You're quite correct. It's definitely an acquired taste. Apparition almost always feels uncomfortable to novices….”

Twycross stood and conjured a large slate board. Picking up a piece of chalk, he asked his two students, “Do you fancy the technical or the lay description of what it's about?”

“Technical,” Hermione quickly requested, before Harry had even processed the question.

“Excellent,” Twycross responded. “Honoria? Care to do the honors? That's more your area of concentration….”

Thurso summoned her own piece of chalk, clapped her hands once and began, “Apparition, as best we understand it is an application of what's called `superposition' - which is just a fancy word for the characteristic of being in two places at once….” The chalk wrote the big word on the board by itself as she spoke.

Hermione had a quill out, and was furiously writing away herself. Thurso took pains to mention that, “There's no need to take notes.” While that made Harry feel better, there was no deterring the girl.

Somewhat bemused, Thurso launched into a discussion that was as technical as anyone could desire. “The principle of superposition holds that the total response to multiple signals propagating in the same space at a given place and time is the sum of their separate individual responses. If we take the converse of that principle, then the disassociation of those signals will allow the response to possess simultaneously two or more values for the same observable quantity - specifically position. Hence, the ability to project simultaneously to different spaces or places.”

Hermione was enthralled. Harry was at sea.

Thurso continued, “Muggles are currently only able to envision superposition on a quantum level - with the notable exception of an equally notable cat owned by one Dr. Erwin Schrödinger. Wizards, on the other hand, possess sufficient reserves of charmonium, or charmed quarks, in their nervous systems to direct superpositional forces on the macroscopic level. Apparition takes place only on this level, which is fortunate because otherwise it would be subject to the Uncertainty Principle and thus would be too dangerous to be used….”

If the word had more than three syllables, it might as well have been Gobbledygook to Harry. Hermione, by contrast, was lapping it all up.

“How, then, does one operate superpositionally?” Hermione asked - the far-away look in her eyes revealing that she was thinking hard. Harry, on the other hand, was having a hard time thinking.

“Excellent question,” Thurso beamed. “I was just getting to that. The technical term for the medium is an `asymmetric Casimir force….' As a practical matter, Apparition is performed through our magic, which enables us to tap into the zero point energy that is all around us, but unseen and unfelt by Muggles. The simplest form of Apparition - which is all we intend to teach to you novices today - requires you to visualise your destination. You then focus your magic on that position, employ the charmonic forces to disassociate yourselves into the multiple signals I mentioned previously, and finally project yourselves through the means of zero point energy to the desired destination. At the precise moment of Apparition you will become superpositional, and occupy both spaces simultaneously. By focusing on the destination you will pass instantaneously from one place to the other.”

“Have I made myself clear?” Thurso concluded.

“Completely,” Hermione chirped. She was almost bouncing on her heels as she vanished the quill. “I can't wait to get started.”

Unfortunately, for Harry, Thurso's long-winded explanation had been so much technobabble. “Er … Mr. Twycross?” he interrupted. “Could I trouble you for the lay explanation she offered earlier? I'm not sure I followed all that…. In fact, I'm sure I didn't.”

“Certainly, Harry,” Twycross agreed instantly. If there were any annoyance with Harry's thickness, both instructors hid it well. “In nonscientific terms, all Apparition involves is the Three D's … destination, determination, and deliberation. You focus on your destination. Let your magic flow in that direction. Then you determine that you are going to occupy that spot - first in addition to, but then in preference to, the space you are currently in. Third, you feel your way into nothingness - that's the zero point - and with your determination and deliberation, you will yourself across the intervening void to seize your destination, and Bob's your uncle, you're there.”

With that, the time for mere talk ended.

Harry and Hermione started out practicing conjuring, making small objects appear and disappear hither and yon. Hermione, who had mastered the Aparecium Charm, had a much easier time of that bit than Harry did. Although Harry could conjure small objects from short distances away, not until around 9:00 a.m. that he was able to familiarise himself with the precise magical effects of the spells he was performing.

The learning process was also physically exhausting. Their instructors had brought with them 10-litre Muggle plastic jugs with spigots at the bottom. Both Harry and Hermione were more than pleased to learn that the jugs were filled with a specially modified version of the Pepperup Potion that the Aurors had developed for advanced Apparition training. Whilst ordinary Pepperup Potion was brewed using a water base, the version the Aurors dispensed contained Lucozade instead.

By the time Harry was comfortable with his conjuring, Hermione had already moved on to dissolving and reforming herself - in one spot. Fortunately, Harry was able to make up a little ground at this point, because of his Occlumency training. The zero point energy involved in mentally willing one's body to dissolve was at least somewhat similar to the energy he used to clear his mind of conscious thought.

Lunchtime saw large quantities of specially selected high energy food - mandrake-flour biscuits covered with peaches and cream, candied Mimbletonia fruit, dragon meat burgers, and a tuck box filled with American-style deep-fried Rocky Mountain oysters. All of this was washed down with as much Lucozade and Irn Bru as one could drink. The relaxed and informal atmosphere, which mixed hard physical effort with all-you-can-eat food in the warm summer sun, produced a distinct feeling of contentment in the two trainees.

“You know Harry?” remarked Hermione with her mouth full. “These Yank oysters are really good. I hadn't heard of anyone raising oysters near the Rocky Mountains, but the Yanks must have very advanced aquaculture. I wonder if we could get these added every now and then to the Hogwarts menu?”

“Excellent idea,” Harry agreed, whilst refilling his plate. “I never much liked the oysters we get served at Hogwarts, because they taste too fishy. These are much better.”

“It's a Muggle recipe, isn't it?” Hermione asked. Hugo nodded, whilst laughing at some joke that Twycross cracked. “That means it's probably available on the Internet. I'll see what I can find when I get home.”

“You do that, Hermione,” Hugo replied, still chuckling.

Harry was particularly pleased when Betsy Greengrass took both him and Hermione aside and asked about his plans for Dumbledore's Army, the extracurricular dark arts defence group they had founded at Hogwarts last term. Betsy explained that her daughter, Daphne, had complained the entire year about the inadequacy of Professor Umbridge's lessons. The elder Greengrass feared that Daphne had done poorly on her O.W.L.s as a result of substandard instruction. Betsy hoped that Harry and Hermione would accept Daphne into the group.

“She's reliable and she really admires the both of you, even if she can't publicly say so, being in Slytherin,” advised Betsy.

All Harry knew about Daphne is that she was green-eyed blonde who was as pretty as she was quiet - which in both cases was “very.” He probably had not spoken more than a dozen words to her in their five years at Hogwarts. Whilst he had been leaning towards continuing the D.A., his thoughts had been primarily idle. He had yet to focus very much on what the D.A. might look like when it no longer necessary to organise it as a clandestine organisation.

“What do you think, Hermione?” asked Harry. “We won't have to be hiding this year, and I daresay that Malfoy has been taken down a peg or two with his daddy in Azkaban.”

“I thought we should have reached out to the Slytherins last year, rather than letting Umbridge just have them,” she replied. “I think that the Sorting Hat was right about the need for unity in the school.”

“Ditto,” agreed Harry. Turning to back to Betsy, he told her. “Daphne can come. We will welcome her, although she should expect that some people in the D.A. will probably act like prats to her, at least for a while.” Harry thought of Ron, and his best mate's strongly unfavorable views about Slytherins.

After lunch it was time to tackle actual Apparition: the physical process of dissolving from one location and reforming at another. Their instructors split up Harry and Hermione at this point. Honoria Thurso and Betsy Greengrass took Hermione to one side of the field, whilst Wilkie Twycross and Hugo Halliburton led Harry to the opposite side. It soon became clear why this was done.

Twycross tossed a galvanised metal bilge hoop on the ground. When Harry gave him a quizzical look, he told the boy, “That's your destination. It's something to aim for. I find that these hoops help novices to focus.”

They certainly did. Harry's first successful solo Apparition soon followed. He felt the same awful sensations he had with Dumbledore - and the distance he travelled was only a metre or so - but the worst, and most embarrassing, thing was leaving his clothes behind.

“It happens, Harry,” laughed Twycross. “I am pushing you quite hard, after all - much harder than if you were in one of my Hogwarts classes. Since I'm having you skip several intermediate steps, you're concentrating so much on moving your body from one place to another, that what you're wearing just slips your mind.”

“Don't worry about it at all,” advised Hugo. “In fact, don't even bother to put them back on for the moment. Clothes are actually an unnecessary distraction at this point in your training. The hard part of Apparition is converting your body into magical energy and back again. Once you've gotten that down, adding clothes is a cinch.”

Harry spent the next two hours starkers, popping from place to place in the open field under the warm afternoon sun - and feeling vaguely nauseous the entire time. Beyond the uncomfortable sensations of Apparition, which he was using Occlumency to ignore, in the back of Harry's mind was the worry that someone might decide to collect all those Galleons that Playwitch was offering for a nude photograph of him.

That worry, however, vanished in one terrifying moment. A horsefly took a bite out of Harry at the precise moment he was attempting a three-metre Apparition. As a consequence, he splinched himself spectacularly, with the upper two-thirds of his body disappearing to parts unknown.

Thankfully, the part of Harry that disappeared included his Auror partner ring. After discreetly determining that Hermione was decent, Harry's trainers had her activate her ring. The rest of Harry was soon located on a golf course a few miles northeast of Plymouth near the South Coast. Harry was reunited with the rest of himself (and with his clothes), whilst the Obliviators were handed the task of modifying the memories of several very surprised duffers.

Hermione was frantic until the brief ordeal was over.

“Thank Merlin, Harry, you're all right,” she cried when she first saw him again, hugging him tightly.

“Stop squeezing me so hard Hermione,” gasped Harry. “They just put me back together.”

“Sorry Harry,” Hermione apologised. “What on earth happened?”

“I'm not altogether sure,” Harry admitted. “I was concentrating on the jump, and I got a nasty insect bite on my bum. The pain disturbed my focus, and all of a sudden what was supposed to be a three-metre jump became a 300-kilometre Apparition … er … for most of me anyway. Beyond that, I haven't the faintest idea how I did it. I'm just happy I didn't end up somewhere out at sea.”

The summer sun was making its way to the northwestern horizon when their instructors decided that the risk of an out-of-clothes experience was sufficiently remote to warrant bringing the two prize pupils back together for more advanced training. Neither of them had left more than the occasional shoe sole or shirtsleeve behind in the last twenty minutes.

“Harry, Hermione, this is what passes for our Apparition range,” announced Thurso. “Please spend the next fifteen minutes walking over it and familiarising yourselves with it. Pay close attention to the limed lines, they tell you the distance from your starting point. The key to Apparition over any significant distance is deliberation. You must create a mental image of yourself in the destination where you want to be - then you flow to that image. As novices, you cannot achieve superposition if you're not aware of your end source location. Once you can create and access that image, then you perform the same unbundling of your magic that you have already successfully used over short distances. The result should be the same.”

A quarter hour later Harry and Hermione were standing next to one another at their designated practice positions, looking over the field, which had concentric circles and little white signs with red numbering denoting 100 metres, 200 metres, and so forth through half a kilometre. “This looks like a driving range,” commented Hermione.

“Wouldn't it have to have a little more asphalt, or at least macadam?” responded Harry.

“No, silly, I meant a golf driving range,” answered Hermione.

“Oh, I wouldn't know,” said Harry. “I'd never seen a golf course until I landed on one earlier today. My uncle plays occasionally. I've seen him with his bag. He tried to teach Cousin Dudley once, but Dudders has a temper, and after he pitched few of my uncle's clubs into a pond, my uncle gave up.”

Harry volunteered to be the first to try. He concentrated, and went through the three Ds in proper sequence. He flickered, and then flickered again at the 100-meter target location, but almost immediately returned to where he started - feeling squeezed, stretched, and crowded all at the same time.

“Excellent try out of the box!” exclaimed Twycross. “You actually hit your target, however briefly. When you couldn't hold it, you did the right thing to give it up and try again. Plenty of first-timers let their determination get the better of their deliberation, and try to hold it when they're not ready. They end up splinching themselves for their trouble….”

Hermione tried next. She set an initial goal more modest than 100 metres and with the characteristic pop, succeeded in Apparating to a point approximately 65 metres distant. Unfortunately the particular spot she had chosen had a large anthill in it. She ended up having to walk back to the starting point because she was too distracted by ants in her knickers to risk a return Apparation.

The two made slow but steady progress as day turned to dusk and then to night. Hermione pointed out that the Summer Triangle was shining brightly overhead in the Milky Way when their instructors called a halt to the proceedings and pronounced themselves satisfied (she was already studying for her Astronomy retake). At that point, both Harry and Hermione had successfully performed twenty consecutive out-and-back Apparition cycles to various distances throughout the Apparition range. Harry was successfully blocking out most of the unpleasant sensations.

Hugo conjured a stand-up desk, some quills and two provisional Apparition certificates. By wandlight, all four instructors made a show of signing the certificates, which had Harry's and Hermione's full names on them in elaborate Gothic script. Twycross announced, “By the power vested in me, I hereby declare you officially, albeit provisionally, licensed to perform Class I Apparition, with all of the rights and responsibilities that such license entails. Congratulations to both of you - and I think I speak for all of us that we would be happy to welcome you back as official Auror candidates for advanced Apparition training.”

* * * *

It was almost midnight by the time Harry returned to Number Four Privet Drive, fully licensed for basic Apparition. He could now learn to perform Auror spells, to the extent they involved Apparition, and could Apparate rather than Floo to the Ministry from now on. Harry was of two minds about this. When he tried Apparition, he thought he preferred the Floo network - but when he tried the Floo, he believed he would rather suffer through Apparition.

True, he could not Apparate to any place he had never seen before, and he lacked the ability to Apparate extremely long distances - although his unplanned jump to Plymouth had Harry wondering if he might go as far as Hogsmeade. But his mind was really set upon Apparition of an entirely different sort.

Harry's escape plan had developed to the point that he had only a couple of loose ends to tie up. He needed Dudley's help, or at least his acquiescence. By telling his cousin only a part of the truth, Harry obtained it quickly.

“So you need to fly the coop to see a girl?” asked Dudley, with a knowing look.

“Yeah,” acknowledged Harry, “now will you help me?”

“Sure,” replied Dudley enthusiastically, “I'd never keep a bloke from his girl, even you. It's the same bird that you had in your room isn't it? Things went farther than you've let on, eh mate…?”

“No,” growled Harry irritably - it seemed like everybody from Dudley to Tonks to Voldemort himself seemed to think he had a romantic relationship with Hermione. “Actually it's somebody new. I only met her the other day. She's quite pretty.… A witch.… Older than me. Wish me luck, Dudders, the third time's the charm.”

“With you, more like three strikes and you're out,” replied Dudley.

“Huh?” responded Harry blankly.

Dudley fumbled a bit. “It's … er … the Yanks play this game … like cricket…. Nah, it would take too long to explain…. Anyway, what do you need, Harry?”

“Not much really,” began Harry cautiously. “I need you to take this package to the gym and keep it in your wardrobe….”

“Oh no…. What's in it?” asked Dudley suspiciously. “I don't want to get in a tight spot carrying around things I can't explain what they are.”

“Nothing like that at all,” Harry assured his cousin. “It's only a change of clothes. I'm keeping all of the … er … freaky things that I need with me. When I'm done with my … er … karate lesson, I'll come by where you're sparring and make some sort of harmless remark. You get the parcel and bring it to me in the loo. I'll change, and you wrap up my original clothes and take them back with you. After that, you just act normal and keep mum - like you have no idea what's going on. I'll be back tomorrow night.”

Dudley put his hand on Harry's shoulder and whispered, “If you're going to all this trouble, by all means spend the whole night with her. Might as well get hung for a stag as for a squirrel.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” said Harry with a smile. Old Dudders was turning out to be an all right bloke - at least when the subject was the opposite sex. Harry pulled a wad of paper pale green and red paper out of his pocket. Handing Dudley a £20 note, he said “I hope this makes it worth your while.”

Dudley goggled, and croaked out, “Blimey, what are you doing with all that? Not up to anything dodgy, are you?”

“Nope. It's a long and boring story, but let's just say that I signed a contract and somebody's paying me to do something. I figure I've got to ride the rail and the Underground, and I'll probably need to buy some other stuff,” said Harry.

“Mate, you need some smaller notes,” advised Dudley. “You can't really buy a one-time Tube ticket with anything more than a fiver - lest you want a lot of attention.” Harry followed Dudley back to his room, where his cousin exchanged a couple of his suddenly rich relative's £50 notes for a roll of smaller bills. “And don't let my dad see you out and about with that, he might start charging you rent,” Dudley cautioned.

Harry went to his room, pleased with the finer points he had picked up from Dudley. Even though his cousin's conversion fee was a good bit dearer than the goblins at Gringotts, Dudley had helped him out with a detail that he had completely overlooked. Harry wondered how many other such details might cause his first solo jaunt into the Muggle world to come a cropper. But his thoughts returned to Dumbledore's repeated evasions and deceptions, and Harry steeled himself. More than anything else, he wanted to know the truth.

Pulling out a piece of (uncharmed) parchment, Harry sat down at his desk with a Biro he had nicked from Aunt Petunia's desk and opened the book on electricity he had been given by Dumbledore. But he hardly looked at the book - it was a ruse against the off chance that Godric Gryffindor might stop by the portrait hanging in the bedroom whilst Harry was writing. The boy started scribbling random notes of anything he could think of relevant to the Black family and his possible inheritance.

He struggled to remember the names of ancestral members of the Black family from the tapestry genealogy that hung in the house on Grimmauld Place. Harry remembered a few - Algol Black, the 17th Century patriarch; Phineas Nigellus, whose portrait hung in Dumbledore's office; the 14th Century twins Merak and Dubhe Black; and Europa Corcaroli. He wrote those names in no particular order and added some monetary sums he pulled out of thin air. The exercise strongly reminded him of how he and Ron had prepared their Divination homework over the last three years.

* * * *

Harry took a deep breath as he left Sefu Kung's karate studio shortly after 11:00 a.m. He was as ready as he would ever be for his great escape. Lao Kung had shot him a few quizzical looks that morning because he had been quite distracted at times (when trying to dampen sawdust, Harry had evaporated the Sefu's tea instead). Relatively convincingly, Harry managed to pass off his mood as an aftereffect of his exhausting Apparition training the day before.

Looking for Dudley, Harry smiled evilly. Poor Sturgis Podmore could not have the slightest idea of what was going to happen. Almost certainly, his unsuspecting Order minder was unaware that he had just learned to Apparate. `Sorry Sturgis,' Harry thought, `this isn't about you, it's about me, Dumbledore, and the truth.'

“Hey Big D,” Harry hooted at Dudley when he spotted him in the ring. “Don't forget that Aunt Petunia wants you to pick up two litres of milk, we're just about out.”

“Right-o,” replied Dudley.

In a desultory fashion, the boy headed toward the loo. When he saw Dudley slinking towards his wardrobe, Harry picked up the pace. By the time his cousin arrived, Harry had already had a showerhead splashing away. He doffed the clothes he had worn to the gym (inconspicuous Muggle items intermixed with Dudley's ill-fitting hand-me-downs), as if he were washing up. The tap was also on for one of the sinks - filling it almost to the brim with water.

Dudley brought in Harry's package, wrapped in an old bed sheet. The boy beckoned to his cousin to come close, but did not take the parcel just yet. He whispered to the larger boy, “I'm going to generate a lot of steam, don't be surprised - it's nothing to be going on about.”

Harry concentrated on Lao Kung's wandless magic, creating as much heat as he could with his left hand. He then plunged that hand into the sink. Almost instantaneously the entire sinkful of water exploded into steam, transforming the loo into an impromptu sauna. Harry darted around the misty room several times examining every nook and cranny before and the steam dissipated. Harry then took one of the fastest showers in the history of mankind.

Through all this, Dudley remained rooted in one spot. As Harry was frantically towelling off, he asked stupidly, “What was all that about?”

“Making sure we're not being watched,” replied Harry in a low tone. “With all the steam, anybody in an Invisibility Cloak would have stood out as a clear spot. I'm now sure that I wasn't followed into this loo.”

“An invisibility what?” Dudley mouthed.

Harry fumbled a bit. “In my world … er … you can weave cloth with Demiguise…. Nah, it would take too long to explain…. Let me have the parcel.”

Harry quickly put on the change of clothes. Instead of the grey sweatpants, dragon t-shirt and sockless beat up trainers he had worn to the gym, he would leave wearing a new and completely Muggle outfit he had just received by mail order. He had chosen olive green elkhorn light-weight pants, a beige air strip sun shirt, light green socks, black Rockport walkers and a red American-style baseball cap bearing the Manchester United logo.

“Dudley,” instructed Harry. “When you leave, stand outside the door. You'll hear a noise like something falling. At that point, I'll be gone. Open the door and yell at me like I've been a prat and made a mess, then order me not to come out until I've cleaned it up. That should give me all the head start I need.” Dudley nodded, impressed by the young wizard's planning.

Dudley did one last thing before leaving. He plucked the cap off Harry's head and replaced it backwards, bill to the rear. “That's how they're worn these days,” he grinned. “Glory, glory Man United.”

As soon as Dudley left, Harry inventoried his own pockets. He had his money, his Invisibility Cloak (“What Dudley didn't know didn't hurt him”), the wrist holster for his wand (“Can't be too careful when out and about alone”), his Auror's knife, his scribbled-on piece of parchment, a note pad and a Biro. Harry Disillusioned himself, blending into his surroundings. He pointed his wand at the mops, buckets and other cleaning equipment piled in the corner. “Wingardium leviosa.”

“Finite.” The cleaning paraphernalia crashed to the floor. At that precise moment, Harry Disapparated. The loud popping sound from his Disapparition was completely camouflaged by the clattering of mops, buckets and the like bouncing across the tile floor of the loo.

Harry Apparated about 5 kilometres away, close to the vandalised playground equipment in the park where he did his running. Bending over to let the unpleasant Apparition sensations pass, he breathed a sigh of relief. There had not been any Muggles in the vicinity to see him. He threw his Invisibility Cloak over himself for good measure, and headed off at a fast trot to the bus stop four streets away.

Shortly before one o'clock Harry emerged from the Underground into the balmy mid-summer sun at Euston Station near the St. Pancras branch of the British Library. It was quite humid, and he at once regretted sprinting up the stairs - which left him with an unnecessary sheen of sweat. The first thing Harry did after finding an isolated spot was to ring up Eliza. “Can you meet me in a half an hour on Euston Street in front of the library?”

Eliza agreed even though she was still worried about what she was getting herself into. In particular, using the library as a meeting place seemed rather off. But this was Harry Potter, and everything about what she was doing felt a bit mad to her. “I'll be there. I'll be wearing a dark riding outfit and be riding a sky blue Aprila Atlantic.”

“Er … what's that?” Harry replied, in complete confusion.

“Oh, Harry, you're not very keen about the Muggle world are you?” Eliza asked rhetorically. “It's a motorbike. I have to get around somehow.”

“OK,” Harry said numbly. “I'll be wearing a red Man U. cap.”

“Ick, I'm with the Gunners.”

Harry ducked in between an old-style pillar box and a large rubbish bin and disillusioned himself again. He snuck into the library. `Time for my alibi,' he thought to himself.

Harry consulted the card catalogue and located the old and rare book collection. He also noticed several vacant research computer terminals available gratis to library patrons. Logging into them all in succession, he typed in the names of the Black ancestors. It was all for show, so without bothering to look at the search results he walked away, leaving the computers on.

He was off in search of the old and rare book section, which he found straightaway. As anticipated, it was under lock and key. Once Harry made sure that the area was deserted, he kept it that way by casting the Muggle Repelling Charm he had learned from watching Hermione.

The library's Muggle locks were no match for the combination of Harry's Auror's knife and an Alohamora Charm. He was inside in less than a minute. Reviewing the titles on the shelves, he selected a few that looked plausibly relevant. He unfolded the piece of parchment he had brought and placed it on a table. “Displia.” All of the folds and creases in it vanished. He sat down and carefully opened several of the books whilst keeping the parchment in front of him. He took out his Biro and leaned over the parchment to scratch out a few phony notes.

Deliberately leaving the Biro and parchment behind, he exited the library as quickly as he could. As soon as he was beyond the main gate, Harry dodged behind an ornamental shrubbery and tried to catch his breath. Attempting to remain as calm as he could, he walked to the street looking for a woman on a light blue motorbike.

She was quite easy to spot, especially since Eliza had already arrived, and had already seen Harry coming. She giggled at the way he had emerged from the bushes in dodgy fashion, whilst he tried unsuccessfully to look inconspicuous. `Muggle clothes certainly become him…,' she thought. She reached over the Aprila and sounded the horn.

Harry saw her and could not suppress a smile. She was dressed Muggle-style as well - dark form fitting jeans and a blue sleeveless pullover blouse with gold trim. `Muggle clothes certainly become her…,' he thought.

Her long blonde hair hung down past her shoulders; the ends in wild disarray where they had escaped from the matching cerulean helmet she had worn whilst riding. She was carrying an old bomber jacket, which was too hot and sticky to wear in this weather unless she was actually moving.

The greeting was awkward, as each of them was stiff and not sure what to make of the other. “Thank you for coming, Eliza,” Harry finally choked out.

“My pleasure I'm sure,” she responded. She lightly touched his chest as she leaned in and whispered to him, “I just couldn't let you go bashing on without knowing.”

He bounced a couple of times on his heels, “Well should we be off, then?” he asked.

“What do you mean, Harry?” Eliza replied with a puzzled look. “I thought you wanted to do this at the library.”

He swallowed uncomfortably. “Er… I don't think that a public library is anywhere near as private as we need,” he said. “I came to the library as a ruse … so I could make it look as if that's where I spent all my time. I have to have a cover story when I go back - to protect you. Now can we go someplace private in Muggle London?”

This was another unexpected turn of events for Eliza. Although she also had doubts about whether the library was private enough for the conversation that she was planning, she had assumed that the library was where Harry had wanted to go, and that was that. On the spur of the moment she was at a loss. There was no public place in London that came to mind as sufficiently private on a sunny summer Saturday afternoon. That left only one alternative.

“Can't stay parked in this cab-rank. We'll have to go back to my flat, then,” she declared. “Get on Harry.”

“Get on what?” Harry asked. Because he thought he knew the answer, he was becoming very discomfited.

“The bike, silly,” laughed Eliza. “What else is there?”

“I've never ridden a motorcycle before,” Harry mumbled.

“Well, it shouldn't be hard for you, should it?” Eliza replied, rather enjoying the distress of the famous Boy Who Lived. “I remember you as a pretty hot shot flier…. The last Quidditch match I ever went to, you completely outflew our seeker. Then you rubbed our noses in it by blowing away those hapless Slytherin berks with a Patronus Carm, whilst simultaneously catching the snitch with your other hand. I'd never even seen a corporeal Patronus before…. So if you can fly like that, you can certainly perch pillion on a motor bike.”

Harry nodded, and gamely but gingerly made for the back seat. “Ouch!”

“Sorry. Forgot to warn you, the exhausts can be pretty hot,” Eliza mentioned.

Soon Harry was seated rather uncomfortably on the back of the Aprila, the heat from sun-warmed black Naugahyde under his butt causing him to sweat profusely. He did not find being on a motorbike at all like being on a broom - at least being in the pillion seat. There was precious little for him to hang on to.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked with a bit of a tremor in his voice.

“I live in one of the new blocks of flats near Canary Wharf,” Eliza answered breezily as she zipped up her jacket. “It's only a couple of kilometres away. Of course, the traffic could make it interesting.” She expertly tossed her leg over the bike and started it.

“Harry, you've got to put on your helmet,” she directed. “I don't want to be ticketed.”

“Oh,” he replied. He removed the helmet from its perch behind him and tried unsuccessfully to put it on.

“You'll have to take off that cap,” Eliza giggled. “Here, let me.” She reached around Harry's neck, turned her spare helmet the right way, fastened his straps for him, and pulled the visor into place. With that she popped the clutch and eyed the traffic, looking for a break. When an opening appeared, the motorbike jerked forward. Eliza heard a slight yelp from the boy - who felt very precariously balanced upon the pillion seat - and stopped.

“Hold on, Harry,” she said, with a little exasperation in her voice.

“I'd bloody well love to,” he replied, in a voice rather higher than normal. “But to what?”

“That would be me, Harry,” Eliza said with a twinkle in her eye that he could not see under her visor.

Harry swallowed hard and put his arms around Eliza's waist, trying to keep his hands as far away as possible from what he considered forbidden parts of her body. Eliza eased the Aprila into traffic, and they were off.

For the next wild 25 minutes, Harry learned exactly how Hermione had felt when she had ridden pillion on the hippogriff Buckbeak as they saved Sirius from a Dementor's kiss. Riding in back was not at all like he was used to. Harry was accustomed to being in command of where he was going. Now, he experienced a sense of powerlessness and loss of control that made him quite anxious.

Soon enough, he gave up altogether trying to pay attention to the traffic or to the scenery - even though he had never seen much of Central London before. Harry simply buried his face in Eliza's back whilst holding on tight. He was surprised at how nice it felt, really, just to surrender to someone else's will and not have to take responsibility for what was occurring.

Eliza was also thinking about how nice it felt to have Harry clinging to her. Since she had broken up with her previous boyfriend (a Muggle unable to handle her magical abilities) six months ago, she had not dated at all. Whilst her emotions were enjoying the physical contact, her mind kept reminding her - this was not just any young man, this was Harry Potter.

Not only that, Harry Potter was fully four years younger than she was. Eliza thought back to some sage advice her mum had given her about men when she had been about Harry's age. There were two types of men - the fun type and the serious type. A relationship with a fun-type male would leave no lasting effects, however serious-type men were life-changers and had to be handled with care. She thought that Harry, young and inexperienced as he was, was off-the-scale serious.

Eliza lived in a west-facing one-bedroom flat on the 29th floor of her block. Practically everything about the building was new to Harry. It seemed he had only been imagining the Muggle world beyond Privet Drive. He had never been in a large underground car park before, nor had he ever signed in with lobby security, nor had he ever been in a high-rise. Harry openly gawked when he saw the view from Eliza's window - all of Central London was laid out before him, with the dome of St. Paul's and the towers of Parliament especially catching his eye.

“Enjoy the view?” Eliza asked playfully.

“You bet,” Harry answered enthusiastically. “I've never been this high up before - except on a broom.” Harry looked around the room with interest. Other than the house in which he had grown up, Harry had not been in many Muggle homes, and he had certainly never been in an apartment occupied by a single woman before. “So you can just come and go as you please, then?”

“Absolutely,” affirmed Eliza. “That's one of the best things about living as a Muggle. This world is so much bigger … I don't have to know my neighbours at all. It's not like wizarding society, where everyone's nose is into everybody else's business. Nobody bothers me and I don't bother anyone. I barely know who lives on either side of me, and that suits me just fine. That's why, when you said you needed privacy in which to talk, I really couldn't do better than my own flat. Where do you live, anyway?”

“Little Whinging,” replied Harry. “It's in Surrey - to the southwest.”

“You must be starving, then,” said Eliza more seriously. “Let me fix something.” Eliza puréed some fruit with a non-magical blender whilst inserting something into the microwave. In no time they were eating mini-pizzas and drinking fruit smoothies. Harry seemed so enthusiastic about the food that she had to ask whether he ever eaten either of these items before. Harry admitted he had not, since they were not on the Hogwarts menu and were not the type of foods the Dursleys would ever dream of serving. Nor had Harry ever had the Caprice chocolate ices that Eliza produced from the freezer for afters.

Lunch completed, Eliza cleaned off the table. Harry noted that, once again, she did not use magic. Then she looked Harry straight in the eye.

“You asked for this meeting, wonderboy,” she said, attempting to keep a straight face. “Now what do you want to know?”

* * * *

Author's notes: The cauldron boiled too quickly to be water

The Necromancy exchange introduces a subject that will be important during the Hogwarts school year

The Necromancy library at Grimmauld Place figures later

Here's my explanation of Dumbledore's "triumphant" look at the end of GoF

Harry's failure to tell Hermione the prophecy will cause them both serious consequences, and eventually Harry has to inform Hermione

I've always wondered why the Order didn't exploit Priori incantatem by using phoenix-cored wands. Now we'll find out

Hermione is formally going to bring Harry to her parents. That will be something, I promise. Harry in Knightsbridge will also be interesting

The Voldometer satirizes an equally ineffective (and blatantly political) terror index here in the US. Tonks description of how it works ("based upon anonymous information...") is drawn in part from a spoof by the group Capitol Steps

As for the face Tonks makes, think of baseball's Don Zimmer

The description and location of the British Library is accurate

The Wash is really near Lincolnshire, and has smelly tidal flats. Large fens, perhaps the ancestral home of Salazar Slytherin, are in that area

Splonch is a made up term for Apparating inside of some solid object

My wife had a T-shirt like Hermione's until it wore out

HBP required significant character changes in the Apparition sequence. Greengrass replaces Zabini as Blaise is now known to be male. Twycross is the HBP Apparition instructor. Honoria Thurso is invented. Honoria comes from a trading card, and Thurso is a town in northern Scotland

The Institute for Advanced Magic is patterned after the Institute for Advanced Studies in Princeton, NJ, where Albert Einstein worked after emigrating

How Harry feels Apparition will later become significant

Superposition, charmonium, the Uncertainty Principle, the Casimir force, and zero point energy all come from theoretical physics, and for a fanfic are relatively accurately used. Dr. Schrödinger is a real physicist, and his thought experiment with his cat is a macroscopic application of superposition

Lucozade is a popular British sports drink, like Gatorade in the US

Irn Bru is an orange version of Coca Cola, popular in Scotland

Even Hermione doesn't know about Rocky Mountain oysters. Check them out, if you don't know either. Hermione would want Harry to indulge

Playwitch will eventually get its picture, but not pay the reward

The Summer Triangle exists in the Milky Way, consisting of the brightest stars of Cygnus (Deneb), Lyra (Vega), and Aquilla (Altair). It is visible on this date, although it wouldn't rise to the zenith until somewhat later

The colors of twenty-pound and fifty-pound notes (the largest printed) are accurate

The Black family names (Algol, Merak, Dubhe, Europa, and Corcaroli) are all astronomically related

The Aprila Atlantic is a real motorbike, sold in the UK

The Gunners - the Arsenal football team

A pillar box is a traditional British mailbox

Canary Wharf is a real part of London, and relatively recently redeveloped

"29th floor of her block" and "imagining the world outside" - from Get Off of My Cloud by the Stones (actually 99th floor in the song)

- 9 -

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C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch9 great escape.doc 09/28/03

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10. Truth And Consequences

Wherein Harry learns the extent of his likely inheritance from Sirius, finds out considerably more about the Malfoys, uses Occlumency, gets angry and embarrasses himself, is introduced to classical music, sees his first movie, eats his first restaurant meal, acquires a new love interest, faces the music, gets in quite a spot of bother, and has his world explode.

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

Chapter 10 - Truth and Consequences

For several seconds, Harry simply stared in silence at the woman sitting across the table from him. He could not remember the last time he had been asked such an open-ended and honestly put question. When Dumbledore told him things, the discussion was always on the Headmaster's terms, not his. Even when Hermione helped him figure things out, it was in a much more limited and focussed way. Eliza, on the other hand, was inviting him to ask her anything he wanted.

“At least close your mouth before flies get in,” Eliza snickered, giving him a sideways glance.

“Er.… Okay, what does Draco bloody Malfoy have to do with Sirius Black's will?” Harry asked. “That's a truly odd combination if I've ever heard one.”

Eliza explained the situation in small steps, starting with what Harry did know - that Draco Malfoy's mother's maiden name was Narcissa Black, and that she was Sirius Black's cousin. That placed Narcissa's male offspring squarely in the line of succession to the Black fortune because the direct line, through Orion and Walburga Black, had died without children of their own.

Eliza explained, with visible disgust, that in the wizarding world women could not inherit as long as there were male heirs, so the male lines were essentially all that mattered. “Witches come with dowries, so they are forbidden to inherit.” Thus, there had been no legal need to disown Andromeda Black; since she was disowned by operation of law for marrying outside the Wizard community. Conveniently, however, the action also avoided the need to provide her with the substantial dowry that a Black daughter ordinarily cost her kin.

Eliza recounted that in 1979, Regulus Black had died, and less than two years later Sirius had been imprisoned on thirteen counts of murder. These developments, together with Andromeda Black's marriage to the Muggle and the involvement of Bellatrix Black with Death Eaters were too much for old Orion Black. In a fit of rage, he had amended his will to leave the entire Black fortune to his first heir that reached majority without becoming either a Death Eater or a common criminal. Only three days later, the elder Black had suffered an apoplectic stroke, which had left him in a persistent vegetative state.

Orion Black died in December 1981, not long after being stricken. There was some suspicion that his wife Walburga had poisoned him to put him out of his misery, but nothing was ever proven. By operation of law, Mrs. Black received a life estate (property rights for the rest of her life) in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place - the city home that the elderly Blacks had been occupying at the time of Mr. Black's death.

Harry commented about his unpleasant posthumous encounters with Walburga Black's portrait - but he found himself uncomfortably unable to answer Eliza's resulting questions. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place had been the headquarters of the Order, and he did not want to involve her with anything having to do with the Order. Finally, he settled on telling Eliza that her safety could be endangered if she knew more than he wanted to tell her. She sighed and responded, “That's quite alright, Harry. You asked me for information; I didn't ask you.”

Eliza continued with the saga of the end of the Black line after a run of almost a millennium. After Walburga Black's death, the succession of the Black Estate was uncertain because of the conditional nature Orion's bequest. Draco Malfoy was the heir apparent, because he was the only male heir of any of the surviving Blacks, but he could not inherit until his seventeenth birthday. Unless Malfoy became a Death Eater, or was convicted of a crime, the Black Estate was for all intents and purposes his - as long as Sirius' conviction remained in place. However, because Sirius had never had a trial, only the Ministry, but not the Wizengamot, recorded his conviction. These questionable circumstances left a cloud over the inheritance, and provided an avenue for a collateral attack upon the “conviction.”

Because there was no definite heir to the Black Estate until Malfoy reached his seventeenth birthday and attained majority, management of the estate property fell to the Office of Escheats and Inheritances in the in the Ministry's Law Enforcement department. Theoretically, a Ministry employee administered each uncertain estate. In practice, because the Office of Escheats and Inheritances was something of a bureaucratic backwater and was grossly understaffed, estates of this sort were almost invariably run by whomever had been in charge before the inheritance problem arose. Thus, holdover employees of Walburga Black and her husband had conducted the estate's affairs since her death, subject only to the loosest oversight by the Ministry.

Harry asked how the legal proceedings had begun. Eliza explained that, about three years before she first became involved in the matter, Lucius Malfoy had filed an action for an accounting of the Black Estate's assets on behalf of his son as heir apparent. There was good reason for such an action. The commercial affairs of the Black family had been closed to outsiders for centuries and, as one might expect, the books and accounts were in a state of utter disarray. Many property deeds were missing or long out of date.

There being no rush, the accounting proceedings had stretched Bleak-House-style out for years, to the great emolument of barristers, solicitors, accountants, title searchers, and assorted other legal hangers on. The books of account were by now largely straightened out, but there were issues regarding real property - particularly real property located outside of the British Isles - that might never be resolved. With some trepidation, Harry asked how much money and property were involved.

“You've asked that question to the right person,” Eliza smiled weakly as she fidgeted with a Muggle pencil. “My first job out of Hogwarts, after six weeks of vocational training in wizard and Muggle court reporting, was to organise the asset information of the Black case. It was a very dull, tedious, and time-consuming job, so the least senior person - me - got stuck with it. That was my introduction to the case.”

Ploughing on, she described how she had found accounts at a half-dozen wizard banks, as well as Muggle banks in Switzerland, Portugal, Liechtenstein, the Cayman Islands, and Barbados. Those accounts were all closed and the assets centralised at Gringotts. After consolidation the Black Estate account at Gringotts contained approximately 185 million Galleons on deposit. At present, it was the largest individual Gringotts account. Aside from money, about seven metric tonnes of gold bullion were transferred to Gringotts, mostly from overseas accounts in Switzerland. Even after deducting about fifty years of bank storage fees, the bullion added another approximately 14 million Galleons to the Black balance sheet, at prevailing conversion rates.

Eliza also told Harry that the Black vault at Gringotts contained the most valuable pieces of the Black family jewellery. The jewellery had not been completely inventoried, due to problems with various and sundry curses. After handling one particularly nasty piece, an accountant died when her brain became a mass of spun gold. Another accountant ended up in the permanent curse damage ward at St. Mungo's, when a curse, believed to be ancient Egyptian in origin, transfigured his head into that of an ibis.

After that, Eliza mentioned that the Black Estate held a variety of stock certificates, many quite ancient and of questionable value. The Blacks originally made their fortune as privateers, and military outfitters, mostly involved in Muggle warfare. As privateers, they sent out ships to sail against Turks, Arabs, and Spaniards under letters of marque and reprisal. As outfitters, the Blacks used magic to make the purest “salt of the rock” in England. The result was “Black's powder” the highest quality explosive then available in Europe. Its purity was such that ultimately the family name and the product itself became synonymous.

She also told the story how the Black family's breach with Muggle society involved them in some historical events. In 1589, at the height of the Armada scare, the Muggles seized the Black family mill in order to create a government gunpowder monopoly. For some fifteen years the Blacks tried, through accepted means of bribery and influence peddling at Court, to obtain either return of their property or compensation. The first King James' repudiation of a solemn promise to compensate the Blacks was the last straw.

Seeking revenge, some Black family members transferred most of their residual stock to some rather dubious Muggles. To further their own agenda, the Muggles promised the Blacks compensation from a new government. Unfortunately for the Blacks (and even more unfortunately for the Muggles), the plot failed in November 1605. The Blacks covered their tracks too skillfully to be directly implicated, but the quality of the powder in the almost two-score barrels discovered beneath the Lord's chamber of Parliament left little doubt of its origin. The Blacks' powerful magic prevented any direct retribution, but thereafter the Black family's disrepute saw them excluded from any direct dealings with the Muggle government in England.

For hundreds of years thereafter, the Blacks largely confined themselves to the maritime trade, so the Black Estate included hundreds of ownership certificates for ships and shipping companies, most of which undoubtedly no longer existed. Under pseudonyms, a couple of Blacks became charter adventurers of the Royal African Company in 1672. There were also assorted gold mining stocks, particularly Brazil and South Africa.

As far as Eliza could determine, after the turn of the Nineteenth Century, the Blacks briefly involved themselves in whaling, but then diversified from the maritime trade into banking and finance. The Black Estate currently owned four of the 23 wizard shares in Gringotts, each share worth about ten million Galleons. She ticked off about 25 million Galleons of additional banking investments in Muggle banks in London, Liverpool and New Castle on Tyne, as well as in Switzerland, America, and Brazil. Harry's brain was swimming at that point, and he asked her to please change the subject.

She switched to real estate. “The Black Estate involves quite a variety of real estate. I assume even you know about the city estate at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place….”

Harry nodded.

Eliza added, “…There is considerable waterfront property along the Thames in London as well. Some of that's been redeveloped into a theme park not far from here.”

“What's a theme park?” Harry responded.

“A fancy amusement park,” Eliza replied easily, almost before she heard what he had asked.

Harry showed little sign of comprehension. Eliza was surprised, but tried to explain further. “A theme park is a place where there are rides like roller coasters, water slides and Ferris wheels, usually all grouped around some kind of common theme like Walt Disney characters or Legos.”

Harry looked thoughtful. Then his brow furrowed, and he remarked in a low voice. “Before I came to Hogwarts, my cousin had a birthday party at one of those.”

“You weren't invited, were you?” Eliza asked.

“How did you know?” responded Harry dully.

“You're expression was a dead giveaway,” Eliza pointed out. “You looked like I felt when I was four years old, and my friend got a puppy when I didn't.”

Somehow, that information failed to cheer him up very much, so she continued discussing the Black fortune. “Anyway, Harry, in the future you will probably be able to buy your own amusement park if that's what you want. As far as other real estate, the Blacks own about seven kilometres of shorefront in the northwest, around Blackpool - which used to be known as `Black's Pool' when it was their own private harbour for several hundred years. There is other maritime property in New Castle and Liverpool….”

“There's considerable foreign real estate as well. On the Mediterranean, there's the wizard side of Monte Carlo.”

“What's that?” Harry asked blankly.

“A rather large casino,” Eliza told him.

“What's that?” Harry asked again.

“A fancy gambling house,” she explained briefly, as Harry pursed his lips in distaste. “And there are properties in America - in New Orleans the Blacks still own most of the land on either side of Poy… Pod…” Eliza stumbled over the pronunciation, “They told me it was spelled P-O-Y-D-R-A-S Street. Anyway, it has all been commercially developed, and the rent revenues are considerable. There's also property in Charleston, South Carolina and some arrangement known as `Brown and Black' in Newport, Rhode Island. In South America there's ranch land near Pernambuco, Brazil, and in Paraguay. Once there was a large estate in Ireland, too, but we determined that it was seized at the time of the establishment of the Irish Free State. Oh, and some abandoned whaling stations on rather inaccessible islands.”

“Then there are a strange lot of property deeds that nobody's been able to locate, I think it's because the places no longer exist. I only remember some of those names. There was a dreadful sounding castle in Elmina - good riddance to that one - some kind of estate in a place called Sainte-Domingue - sounds vaguely French - and what the solicitors described as livestock operations in a number of now lost places such as Old Calabar.”

“But more important than chasing real estate will-o-wisps, there's the ancestral Black country estate near New Castle - Château Blackwalls - perhaps you've heard of it?”

“No,” said Harry, his mind reeling at the description of assets he could well soon own.

“Château Blackwalls is located partly in Lancashire and partly in Yorkshire. I believe it consists of just a bit under 35,000 contiguous hectares. It is one of the largest landed estates left in Britain, and has been in Black hands since the War of the Roses. The Château is the largest British producer of magical herbs and other plants. I'm willing to bet that most of what Professor Sprout doesn't grow herself comes from the place, as well as most of Professor Snape's herbologically related Potions supplies. The Château grows just about everything, from asphodel to wolfsbane. It is also known for magical wine making, both ordinary wines and champagne,” helped Eliza.

“Sorry, I've never drunk wine,” said Harry. “Don't know the first thing about it.”

“Well, that's probably one thing you're probably keen on learning,” she told him, ever so slightly frivolously. “The Château's wines are quite famous, and the vintners have mastered magical techniques that allow them to create practically any kind of mental effect you could imagine.”

“I dunno,” said Harry warily, thinking of his Aunt Marge. “In my experience, those kinds of drinks don't seem to make people very pleasant. I much prefer these smoothies.” He took another long sip.

A teenage boy not interested in getting drunk - Eliza smiled and watched Harry for a bit, still pinching herself that somehow here was HARRY POTTER, sitting at her dining room table. She considered following up with the rather odd statements about wine, but thought better of it. Instead she chose to continue describing the Black property. “In addition to agriculture and viniculture, the Château is also known for its elves. Château Blackwalls is the largest breeder of both house-elves and field-elves in…. Eek…!”

Eliza threw up her hands in a largely unsuccessful attempt to shield herself from the fine spray of smoothie bits that filled the air as Harry spat out the contents of what he had been drinking.

“HOUSE ELF BREEDING!?!” sputtered Harry. “Oh, Sweet Merlin, no! It's bad enough that I have to own them, but breeding?”

“Where did you think house-elves came from?” responded Eliza stiffly as she reached for a serviette to try to tidy herself up.

“I don't know what I thought,” he replied. “Maybe that they had wives and kids like the rest of us…. I suppose I ought to have known better. One thing I know for sure - Hermione is definitely not going to like this, and she won't let it rest.”

“Hermione?” asked Eliza. “You mean Hermione Granger? I remember her vaguely. She was the girl petrified along with my housemate Penny Clearwater in my Sixth Year. She has a reputation as being extraordinarily intelligent. We wondered why she wasn't in Ravenclaw….”

“I can tell you why Hermione isn't in Ravenclaw,” Harry said, warming to the subject. “She was petrified just after she figured out that a Basilisk was responsible for the attacks that year - but when she worked that out, she didn't just tell a teacher or anything. No, she had to go out looking for the Basilisk straight away. And she found it, too. That's Gryffindor behaviour.”

“Yes, I suppose it is,” she said thoughtfully. “And you, I gather, killed the Basilisk. Then the Mandragora restored her…. She nearly tackled you at the feast.”

“That's her alright,” Harry confirmed. What else he had done, a secret, he had never revealed to anyone - and he did not reveal it now.

Eliza rose to get more smoothies from the refrigerator. “I recently met her, by the way,” she commented in a too calm voice. “Just like I did with you, I had to go over her testimony. Is this Hermione your girlfriend like they say in the newspapers?”

“She's my best friend, and she's the most clever person I know, witch or wizard,” answered Harry softly. “But she's not my girlfriend - although not for want of my trying,” he added in a low monotone. “She's afraid I'd overshadow her own accomplishments. As a result, I don't have any girlfriend…, and the way things are going, it's probably best that I never do.”

That statement, and the look on Harry's face, startled Eliza. “That's a horrible thing to say, Harry. You've had so much placed on your shoulders - and at so young an age. Certainly you would like someone to help ease that burden?”

“Only if somebody wants to court death on a regular basis,” he muttered, his face clouding further. “Anyway, enough of that…. Oh…!”

He staggered and started talking to himself, suddenly only vaguely aware of where he was or whom he was with. “Must concentrate…. OK, who is it this time…? Not Voldemort…. Scar's not hurting…. Only a couple of others could even attempt over this distance….”

“Harry, what's going on?” Eliza was positively alarmed now. Her guest seemed to be blinking in and out of consciousness. Worse, he had mentioned the name of the Dark Lord. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

Through gritted teeth, Harry hissed, “My mind's under attack, must practice Occlumency…. I need to relax….” He sank into a lotus position in the middle of her living/dining room, closed his eyes and concentrated. He opted for a new defensive strategy he had invented following his last visit to Lao Kung. The trick was to envision the sky - a partly sunny, partly cloudy day - and in particular the random white and blue patterns of passing clouds. He intended that, over time, the clouds would gradually become thicker and darker until he would try to end the intrusion forcibly by mentally bringing forth a lightning bolt….

Eliza knew none of this. With one of the most famous wizards in the world suddenly virtually immobilised on the floor in her flat, she was beside herself. Desperate to help him in some way, but having next to no idea what he was doing - all she knew about Occlumency is that it was a N.E.W.T.-level specialised subject she had not dreamed of taking - she considered his plea for calm. From her Muggle CD collection, she selected Beethoven's Ninth Symphony and set it to playing on her stereo. Then she waited, as patiently as she could, for Harry to exorcise whatever mental demon he was facing.

The symphony was midway through its fourth movement when Eliza saw him jerk several times - almost as if having a seizure - and collapse onto the floor. Terrified, she rushed to his side and gathered his heaving frame into her arms. As Harry regained consciousness, she was relieved to see that he was smiling.

“What is that music?” he choked out, slightly glassy-eyed. “It's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard….” Harry's voice trailed off. “I … I guess I've died and gone to heaven. You're … you're an angel … you have to be.”

“I'm sure I'm no angel, Harry,” Eliza spoke in a wavering voice. “I'm Eliza, and you're still in my flat. Please tell me what's going on. What you're hearing is the Ode to Joy. It's by Beethoven, and I hope you found it sufficiently relaxing to help you with whatever it is you have been doing.”

Except for Dudley's interest in classic rock and roll, Harry's relatives had never bothered with music. Nor had there been much music at Hogwarts. “I've never heard music like that. Thank you, Eliza. The music helped inspire me to repel the attack.”

“Attack…?” she gasped. “What kind of attack, Harry? Do you need to leave? Do you need me to contact anyone?”

“No,” Harry said firmly. “The attack was Legilimency - an invasion of my mind - almost certainly by the same people I would have to tell you to contact. I'm an escapee right now, don't forget. I'm supposed to be under 24-hour watch…, for my own bloody protection they say…, and I've evaded my guard to come here. It wasn't Voldemort, because my scar never hurt. There are only a couple of other people I know who are powerful enough to have a go at long-range Legilimency like that, Dumbledore and maybe Snape. Whoever it was just got a nasty surprise. I imagined a lightning strike and drove the intruder from my mind. I'll be surprised if the person on the receiving end of that will try again anytime soon.”

Eliza was shocked. He was discussing Lord Voldemort - the most feared wizard in her lifetime - almost casually, as if he were just another Quidditch adversary. Equally casually Harry had just mentioned the likelihood that he had repulsed some other extremely powerful wizard, either the famous Headmaster Dumbledore or Professor Snape, the scariest member of the Hogwarts staff (with the possible exception of Professor McGonagall on a bad day). Evidently Harry did not think it extraordinary to have repelled either of their magic or possibly to have inflicted considerable magical harm upon either of them. Nor did he seem the least bit upset about that prospect.

“I don't know what to make of you, Harry,” Eliza sighed. “On one hand, your magical power and talents are almost inconceivable to me. But on the other, you've never heard of Beethoven….”

“I've never been allowed to be normal, and I probably never will be,” he spat in an agitated reply. “Get used to it.”

Eliza was somewhat offended by Harry's curt retort. Irritation crept into her voice as she said, “Is there anything more you want to know? I don't think there's much more I can tell you about the Black fortune. I don't know any more about how the Blacks acquired it - something dodgy, I'd reckon.”

“That would seem to go with the territory,” he sighed dispiritedly. “Can you tell me anything more about the Malfoys and what's going on with the legal proceeding? After that, I should be able to let you live in peace once more,” Harry was upset with himself. Once again he had started to lose his temper, and he was embarrassed by it.

“Well, it's all a lot of legal manœuvering that I don't fully understand,” Eliza tried to explain. “It started as an action for an accounting of Black Estate assets prosecuted by Lucius Malfoy on behalf of his son. Then, maybe a year ago, Albus Dumbledore as Chief Warlock…. He filed a petition concerning Sirius Black. They got consolidated, since both of the actions implicated the Black inheritance. Then there was a lot of legal jockeying back and forth…. Petitions and counter petitions; writs and præcipes.”

Harry's eyebrows skyrocketed. “Dumbledore? He filed a petition about Sirius…? Whatever for?”

“It was a petition seeking Wizengamot intervention to bring about Black's exoneration from the original criminal charges. Why he needed to file a private action to get action from a body he supposedly led, I've never figured out,” Eliza remarked with a puzzled expression. “All I know is that Dumbledore's petition alleged that Sirius was innocent; and that his conviction for the murder of Peter Pettigrew was invalid. The averments appeared quite barmy then - that Pettigrew was still alive after all these years; that he was really an unregistered Animagus with a rat form; and that he was responsible for not only the deaths of … er … your parents, but also of all the people Sirius supposedly killed….”

As Harry was hearing this, it seemed like the room started to spin. Blood rushed to his head and he began to sense a roaring in his ears, although he still heard every word she said - as clear as day. He was simply amazed at what he was hearing. To avoid another outburst in front of Eliza, he had to bite his tongue until it practically bled.

Dumbledore? He did that? The implications were staggering.

This was the same Dumbledore who, during Third Year, had told him that without evidence, what he, Ron, and Hermione had discovered about all the injustices visited upon Sirius would never be believed. Yet Dumbledore himself quite evidently had done one thing whilst saying quite the opposite. Not only had he believed their story, but the Headmaster had felt sufficiently strongly about it that he had started his own legal action to try to uncover proof.

Harry fumed. Dumbledore was hiding from him even things of which he would have heartily approved - had he but known. And he had a right to know!

“What went on was all hush-hush,” Eliza explained. “Once Dumbledore filed his action, the Ministry summarily sealed the entire proceeding. There was no good reason for it - only that Dumbledore's position conflicted with Fudge's public stance. After that, things stretched out for years, as the Ministry dragged its feet…. That wasn't hard for Fudge to do. Everyone, even me, thought initially that the whole thing was a crock, a cock and bull story…. I'm sure you saw the press reports last year with the implication, if not the outright accusation, that Dumbledore was losing touch with reality….”

“Yeah, that I saw,” Harry allowed. “I almost agreed with them - although never about Sirius…. It was about then that everyone, not just at the Ministry, but a fair number at the Castle too, started to abandon Dumbledore. I'll bet that this suit was a big reason that so many of those in the Ministry were thinking that Dumbledore had lost his touch….”

“There sure was a lot of that…,” Eliza agreed.

“I'm sure Fudge was behind it - the berk,” Harry mumbled. At last some of the pieces of this huge puzzle were starting to fit together.

“He undoubtedly was,” Eliza agreed sympathetically. “Dumbledore took on a lot of water at first, but the suit allowed him to demand the production and interrogation of Sirius' wand. He turned out to be right; after all … the most important piece of any Wizard's defense to charges of that sort is always his wand…. Both the Ministry and the Malfoys put up every procedural roadblock known to man, but because Dumbledore pressed on, nothing worked for them in the end. Finally, after many months of delay, the Ministry was forced to admit that Black's … Sirius' … wand had gone missing since shortly after his arrest….”

“That, I knew about,” Harry said, trying but failing to sound casual. “Please go on.”

“Well,” Eliza continued, “they had to bring back old Bartemius Crouch himself to testify about the disappearance of that wand. That happened maybe eighteen months ago, maybe less … I'm not good with dates - just before he disappeared. I'm not sure anybody ever saw him after that….”

Harry knew she was wrong about that - but he had no desire to revisit that part of his life - especially when he was learning really useful information. So he kept quiet.

She described Crouch's testimony. “In his view, the wand's disappearance was one more piece of evidence that Sirius Black had been in league with Death Eaters … and that there were still spies in the Ministry. They were trying to conceal what Black had done by making off with his wand…. For that reason, Crouch said that he had ordered Black sent straight to Azkaban without a trial.”

Harry was trying hard not to embarrass himself by losing his temper again. But he knew one thing. It was a good thing that Barty Crouch was dead, because it kept him, Harry, out of trouble … the trouble of maybe killing the man himself….

Not noticing the hard look that had come - and gone - from Harry's face, Eliza continued her narrative. “Then, and for most of the time that these lawsuits were pending, the Malfoys hadn't really had to do anything, save throw an occasional procedural spanner in the works. They were content to be spectators whilst the Ministry stonewalled Dumbledore's action and tied everything up in legalistic knots. But you changed that, Harry….”

“I-I did?” he asked skeptically. “I didn't even know about any of this….”

“It doesn't matter, Harry,” she said. “Have you ever heard of the law of unintended consequences?”

The blank look on his face was enough to tell her that he had not.

“You see, the whole situation with the litigation was knocked into a cocked hat when your trip to the Ministry resulted in Lucius Malfoy's arrest,” she told him. “Arthur Weasley led a Ministry raid on Malfoy Manor followed almost immediately after his Death Eater status was revealed. Somehow the Aurors had got wind that there was a hidden chamber beneath the drawing room in the manor….”

“Er … You can credit me for that - me and Ron Weasley, that is,” Harry admitted. “That's how Ron's dad knew…. We learnt about that chamber from… Umm…, I probably shouldn't tell you more about that, either. Again, it's something that could endanger you. But anyway, I'm glad that information finally came in handy….”

“Dead useful it was,” replied Eliza, frowning slightly at this encounter with yet another of Harry's mysteries. “The Ministry apparently found quite a few things in that chamber. Rumour has it that the raid uncovered evidence that He Who Must Not Be Named himself had been living there….”

“I wouldn't put anything past Lucius Malfoy,” the boy commented.

“…But the biggest effect on the Black proceeding was that Sirius Black's original wand turned up,” Eliza revealed. “Either Lucius Malfoy had stolen it himself or gotten somebody to do it for him.”

Harry gritted his teeth, hard. That was something even he had not considered … that the elder Malfoy was behind the disappearance of Sirius' wand. But there it was - yet another reason for him to hate the Malfoys with even more passion than before.

“Well,” Eliza continued, “Dumbledore demanded possession, custody, and control of Black's wand. I know he's had it tested. Various writs that were filed describe how his people had to scour the whole continent, until recently a brother wand turned up. I gather from the most recent papers that the testing's now complete and that Dumbledore's pleased with the outcome. The final results aren't in yet, but…. I think he's saving them for the end….”

“Do you know anything about what they've found out?” Harry asked. Fortune or no, he wanted to help Sirius clear his name, if there was anything he could do.

Eliza sighed. She was disclosing more and more confidential information, even a bit of which could get her sacked. “The offer of proof Dumbledore recently submitted stated that, with the brother wand, they ran a Priori incantatem inquiry of Black's wand….”

“Please,” Harry requested, “call him Sirius…. It's strange and unsettling for me to hear him referred to by his last name … like that….”

“I'm sorry, Harry,” Eliza apologised, “but he's almost always called `Black' in the hearings…. And he's thought of as a fugitive killer.”

“Well, he's not,” Harry grunted. “He's a good man who was framed.”

“That's what's been coming out recently,” Eliza hastened to add. “Dumbledore's camp is claiming that Priori incantatem proves that … er … Sirius … never cast the spell that killed all the Muggles. And there's more … Lucius testified under Veritaserum that Peter Pettigrew was still alive, so obviously he couldn't have been murdered….”

“Him, you can call by his surname,” Harry instructed.

“I'll try,” Eliza agreed. “Again, it's been just the opposite at the hearings. Anyway, Malfoy said that Pettigrew had recovered Voldemort's wand after whatever it was you did to him back in 1981 - and almost immediately gave it to him for safekeeping….”

“I want to kill him,” Harry said grimly.

“Harry, it's not your place to be judge, jury, and executioner,” Eliza reproached him. “Even for someone so foul as Lucius Malfoy….”

Harry bit his tongue and said nothing, even though he had meant Pettigrew rather than Malfoy (although both were outstanding candidates). Truthfully, he had been rather over the top - but she sounded so … so Hermione-ish … when she scolded him like that.

“Anyway, after that, Malfoy said that he assumes Pettigrew must have faked his own death. All those Muggles that … Sirius was blamed for killing died … I have to believe now … as cover for Pettigrew's escape. At some later point, Pettigrew must have retrieved Voldemort's wand - but not even Malfoy knows how….”

“I can guess,” growled Harry, getting up to pace about.

“So could Malfoy,” Eliza replied. “Malfoy didn't know how or when, but he suspected that Pettigrew had broken into Malfoy Manor as a rat…. I guess the remarkable conclusion is that every crazy thing that Dumbledore had alleged in his petition has either proven true or is well on its way toward being proven.”

“Whatever else anyone can say about Dumbledore,” Harry observed, “barmy, he's not.”

“So we've all been reminded,” Eliza agreed heartily. “But you should know that the collapse of the criminal case against … Sirius … caused an abrupt change in the Malfoys' legal tactics. With the defense of Sirius' conviction falling apart, they could no longer count on winning the case at that stage. Recently they've been filing papers that specifically attack your fitness as an heir to the Black fortune.”

“And I don't know anything about this?” he angrily asked nobody. “I'm being dragged through the mud without my knowledge…?”

“I'm afraid so, Harry,” Eliza conceded. “This attack has several prongs. The Malfoys' latest motion claims that Orion Black was temporarily insane - what they call non compos mentis - and thus not legally competent when he had revised his will. There've also been papers filed claiming that you, personally, should be held incompetent to inherit because you're prone to sudden attacks and fainting spells. I'm sure you're familiar with at least some of this, as the basis for this claim is what that Rita Skeeter wrote in those nasty Daily Prophet articles … which are all attached as exhibits, by the way….”

“If it weren't that it would all go to Malfoy, being thought crazy wouldn't be that bad - if it could get rid of that money,” Harry wished.

“I don't know that you should think that way,” Eliza contradicted him. “Because it only gets worse. The Malfoys are also claiming that the Black will can't be enforced the way it was written because that would create a situation that's prima facie … on its face … against the presumed intent of the testator, Orion Black. You see, the Blacks' devotion to purity of blood was notorious….”

“Yeah, I know,” Harry broke in, “Toujours pur and all that….”

“Precisely,” Eliza agreed. “So the Malfoys are arguing that to allow you to inherit the Black fortune would likely place it under the influence of non-purebloods. That's one of the reasons I asked about Hermione Granger earlier…. The Malfoys are now alleging that you're romantically involved with her. They claim that for any half-blood offspring of your supposed union to inherit the Black Estate would be anathema to everything that the Orion, Walburga, and the rest of the Black family have represented for generations.”

At the mention of Hermione being dragged into all this, Harry pinched his thigh and bit down so hard that his clenched jaw muscles created a high-pitched ringing in his ears. Eliza paused and looked askance at him, so he inhaled and said, “Please continue,” in an unnaturally even voice.

“All right,” Eliza uncomfortably agreed, “but I warn you that even blood libel has not been the most controversial allegation in the Malfoy papers. The last claim they have made has caused a positive uproar…. At the mere mention of it, the magistrate threw everyone out and had immediately convened a Star Chamber proceeding. The upshot was that part of that Malfoy motion was immediately stricken from the official record of the case…. But more than that, the magistrate ordered it burned on the spot…. Something I've never seen, or even heard of, being done.”

“What the Hell was that about, then,” Harry asked, girding himself mentally for the worst.

“The Malfoys have claimed that joining the Black assets with your own `extraordinary and dangerous' magical abilities will create a combination too powerful for wizarding society to tolerate…. Er.…” She looked like she was not sure she should even say this. “…Because of your claimed questionable sanity and your supposedly Dark propensities.”

“What did he say about me exactly?” Harry asked deliberately.

“I don't understand the magical significance,” Eliza confessed. “But what I remember is that the motion claimed you were something like a Fifth-Element elemental, whatever that is. I had no idea what was going on, but as soon as that claim was made everybody started shouting at once. Some bloke from the Department of Mysteries was screaming about state security. The Aurors closed the courtroom and all non-essential personnel were ordered out. Even I had to leave, and my notes of transcription were confiscated. That's all I know, I'm sorry….”

Harry was nonplussed. He had no idea what a Fifth-Element elemental might be. He did not even know that there was a Fifth Element. Snape had taught them about magical elements in Potions, and Harry understood that there were four - earth, water, air and fire. Whilst they were studying for O.W.L.s, Hermione had told him that the concept of four elements dated back to the ancient Greeks. Whatever the Malfoys' claim was, though, it sounded very important and very controversial. The more he thought, the more annoyed Harry became because, once again, Dumbledore had not breathed a word about any of this to him.

Harry got up and went to the window with the breathtaking view. He was running out of questions to ask, but at the same time was not ready to face the reception he knew would be awaiting him upon his return to Privet Drive….

“Where are Surrey and Knightsbridge from here?” he asked.

“Surrey's that way, and fairly far away,” Eliza told him. “Knightsbridge is a little further to the right, and not nearly so far.” She also pointed out her directions.

Harry took off his ring, placed it on his wand, and whispered an incantation that she could not hear.

“What are you doing now?” she asked. Harry's magic was far more complex than she had ever seen done by anybody other than Hogwarts professors.

“I'm locating Hermione,” Harry said blankly. “Good, at least she's still at home. They haven't come for her yet.”

“Who's coming for her?” asked Eliza, getting a little worried again.

“My keepers - Dumbledore and his supporters,” said Harry matter-of-factly. “She has the same kind of ring, and what I just did to locate her, she could do to locate me. But I have her promise that she won't help them.”

“Are you sure there's nothing going on between you and Hermione Granger?” asked Eliza. “That's the second time you've mentioned her of your own accord in the last hour. She seems to be the only girl you think about.”

“I'm sure there's nothing romantic. I would know that, at least,” Harry replied. “I'm not very good at relationships, but even I'm not that daft.”

“There's just so much feeling there,” Eliza commented. “I can sense it. You're sure she doesn't see you that way? You did ask her, didn't you?”

Harry blanched, but hoped he had kept it hidden from Eliza. Truth be told, he never had exactly asked her, although in his opinion her response to his unasked question could not have been clearer. “Of course,” he lied.

“If you say so,” Eliza remarked, airily. “You'll be getting your chance to testify about it under oath soon enough, I'm sure.”

“WHAT!?!” Harry squeaked. The pinched look on his face amply matched his voice, which abruptly rose by an octave. “I'll be damned if I'm going to explain myself and Hermione to anyone. That's very complicated - and personal.”

“I'm sure you'll be asked when you testify,” Eliza warned, “since it's now one of the main points of Malfoy's opposition papers. Most of Draco Malfoy's recent testimony was on this subject, although it's all his speculation of course.”

“Son of a biscuit,” Harry shuddered. “What did he say about me - about us?”

Eliza revealed, “Well, after that Draco Malfoy briefly went through how he had satisfied the conditions of Orion Black's will - that he was neither a Death Eater nor a common criminal - practically all the rest of his several hours of testimony were about you, and about you and Granger, mostly. Not only did he restate all of the horrible things that Skeeter witch had ever said about you two, but he also offered his informed opinion that you and she had been romantically involved off and on since the end of your Third Year….”

“That's … That's just … not true!” Harry spluttered.

“Harry, I believe you,” Eliza pointed out. “I'm just telling you what he said,” she protested, “and I should know, since I've only just finished transcribing it. Draco Malfoy testified that during the final task of the Triwizard Tournament, you hexed Viktor Krum because you were jealous that he was dating Hermione….”

“I did hex Krum, but not for that reason,” Harry couldn't help but saying. “Er … I can't tell you what the real reason was, though; that's private too….”

“Well, you had best think of some way to describe what happened that's better than that, Harry,” she said sharply. “Or you could lose….”

“I'll try,” he stated.

“And it had better be the truth, too,” she challenged him. “Because you'll most likely be under Veritaserum,” she warned.

“And Malfoy won't be?” Harry replied, still upset.

“No, he won't be,” Eliza answered. “He's got bloody Pureblood Privilege - which gives him carte blanche to lie if he wants to.”

“Anyway,” she continued. “That Draco claimed that you and Hermione had … er … become intimate … during the previous year. You were having some sort of unauthorised defence meetings that you two supposedly organised as a ruse. He says that after those meetings the two of you trysted in something called the Room of Requirement. I've never heard of that, but that doesn't mean much…. Malfoy told the proceeding that Hermione had hexed Marietta Edgecombe because Marietta had caught the pair of you en flagrante … er … in the act. He claimed that she told Professor Umbridge what was going on, and one or the other of you put some kind of curse….”

Harry's temper had been flaring throughout Eliza's description of Draco's graphically mendacious testimony. Eventually, his anger was white hot and scarcely concealed. Eliza, however, became so involved in telling this part of the story that she failed to notice Harry's state - until all six glasses, two plates, and one serving tray that had been on the table between them simultaneously shattered with great force. Half of her flat was now covered in sharp shards of glass, bits of residual smoothie, and pizza crumbs.

“Harry! Stop that this instant!!” Eliza screamed, half angered and half frightened by his impressive display of spontaneous, wandless magic. “I will not have you trashing my apartment because you asked for the truth but can't handle it! I should think you'd be thankful to be hearing about this ahead of time, rather than be ambushed with it when it comes your turn to testify. If you can't control yourself, I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

Eliza's emphatic rebuke deflated Harry's temper straight away. He was now embarrassed almost beyond words. Once again he had lost control of himself, and now he was on the verge of driving away a very rare person - someone who not only had been truthful, but who had gone out of her way to help him when she had absolutely no reason to make that effort.

“I'm so sorry. I'm nothing but a git. I just can't seem to help myself.” Words of abject apology poured out of Harry's mouth, almost tripping over one another. “Let me clean it up. Reparo. Reparo.”

He pointed his wand where each of the unfortunate glasses had once stood. Unfortunately all the broken glass was so intermingled that his very nervously performed repairing spells left quite a bit to be desired.

“Scourgify.” His cleaning spell was less complicated and therefore performed better. “I'm so sorry about your glassware.” Harry fumbled with his wallet and laid two £50 notes on the table. “Here, this should cover it.”

Eliza glared at him. “Stop being foolish, Harry. One hundred pounds for that crockery is so extravagant that it feels like a bribe. I don't want your money … I've got enough. What I want is for you to control yourself. You're just too powerful to be going on like this. This is a recipe for tragedy. One day you're really going to hurt someone when you don't intend it. At best, you'll suffer a personal loss. At worst, you could face Azkaban. You have to be careful with your magic. You don't know your own strength.”

She continued. “Now, do you have any more questions?”

Harry dreaded that moment, because he knew he couldn't think of anything more to ask. The clock on Eliza's wall told him it was only a little past three in the afternoon yet. He was not at all ready to go back to his not-so-gilded cage.

“Truthfully, I can't think of any more,” Harry confessed. “I'm sure you're keen on chucking me out and getting on with your day, but I'm still not ready to face the consequences of what I did to get here. Could you show me a map of how to get back to where I was? I think I'd just like to walk. I've never been on my own in London before. And you've given me a lot to think about while I walk - for which I'll always be grateful - even if I don't seem to….”

Eliza had trouble believing what she was seeing and hearing. Harry Potter - the Boy Who Lived, the toast of the wizard community, and very likely a soon-to-be multimillionaire - seemed as alone and forlorn as anyone she had ever met. “Harry, I'm not keen to chuck you out. I just thought that you must have so many things to do, now that I've told you all I can.”

“Not today,” he sighed. “All I've got to look forward to today is being punished for escaping from my handlers. But whatever they do to me, I'm going to give them a piece of my mind. I still can't believe how much they've never told me.”

They sat in silence whilst Eliza considered the situation. Then she had an idea. Harry had loved the music. She would play some more - and he could watch as well. “I know,” she said. She strode purposefully to her considerable collection of videos. She selected the American classic Fantasia. Not only did it contain an entire concert of classical music, but the music was animated as well. “I think you'll like this,” she said, smiling at him.

He did. Indeed, he was enthralled. He had never seen - or (before today) heard anything like that before. “I'm sorry I missed the images that went with the Beethoven.”

“Don't be silly, Harry, the Beethoven music wasn't illustrated like this,” Eliza chided.

“Why not?” He said guilelessly. “I think this is smashing.”

“Because the Beethoven was simply for listening to,” Eliza said, trying to avoid sounding too patronising. “This is not only music but also a movie - from the cinema.”

Harry nodded rotely and turned his focus back to the intriguing animation. Eliza was getting restless so she decided to make them a snack in the microwave. A few minutes after she got back, Harry heard a faint pop, like a house-elf arriving. He tensed, and when he heard several more pops, his wand was almost instantly in his hand. “Impedimenta!” Harry roared, pointing the wand over his shoulder. The spell flashed as his wand danced. He pushed her down below the top of the davenport and spun around, wand at ready.

“Harry! What…? How…? Why did you do that?” Eliza sputtered. He had forced her face-first into the cushions.

“I heard what sounded like something Apparating into your kitchen,” Harry whispered. “I still hear it, but I don't see anything.”

“Harry,” said Eliza, sounding both annoyed and relieved. “All you heard was the sound of Muggle popcorn popping in my microwave. I like eating popcorn when I watch movies. Now, do you like butter on your popcorn or not?”

Harry was abashed. He quickly removed the useless restraining spell and stowed his wand. “I don't know,” he answered truthfully.

“Where did your wand go?” she asked softly, almost as if she were talking to herself.

“Auror wrist wand holster - it's invisible too,” he replied casually. “Can't be too careful. I can't be fumbling in my robes for my wand when facing Death Eaters.”

“Harry, you're full of surprises, most of them unsettling.” She shuddered as she got up to check the popcorn.

Fortunately Harry had not hexed or otherwise ruined the Muggle popcorn. Eliza preferred butter, so she made it that way. Soon she and Harry were sitting on the davenport giggling over Mickey Mouse's totally inept attempts to perform magic - until the Dumbledore figure had to come to the rescue. He was much more relaxed and happy now, munching away at popcorn and watching a rare video from beginning to end. “So, is this what it's like at the cinema?” he asked Eliza casually, his mouth full of hot buttered popcorn, and bits of popcorn spilling down his shirt.

“Oh no, Harry,” Eliza began. “In the cinema, you sit in the dark and watch on a big… Harry, you've never been to the cinema, have you?”

“No I haven't,” he said a little more tensely.

Eliza mumbled softly as she processed this last bit of information. “No cinema, no amusement parks, no pizza - obviously never been on a motorbike before….”

“Harry, have you ever gone to the seaside?”

“No.”

“Have you ever skipped rocks?”

“No, what's that?”

“Have you ever been to a restaurant?”

“Not inside. My Aunt and Uncle always made me stay in the car.”

“Have you ever thrown a Frisbee?”

“No. Fanged Frisbees are on Filch's forbidden list at Hogwarts.”

“Have you ever been to the circus?”

“No.”

“Have you ever been to a play - or to a concert?”

“No,” Harry said a little more sharply. He was getting uncomfortable with this line of inquiry. It made him feel like an inexperienced fool, and that struck a little too close to home.

“Have you ever climbed a tree?”

“Once, when I was being chased by my Aunt Marge's dog.”

“Have you ever watched the sky for shooting stars?”

“Again, no. What are you on about all of a sudden?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Harry,” Eliza said reluctantly. “It's just… It's just that I'm surprised that the Boy Who Lived never really has.”

“And what's that supposed to mean?” he snapped. “I've never been normal. I'm sorry but I've had Voldemort out to kill me since before I could walk. I never knew my parents. I spent most of my childhood locked up in a cupboard beneath the stairs with only spiders for company. My relatives would prefer that I not exist. And the few people who ever actually loved me keep having this nasty habit of getting killed…. Don't look at me that way. I don't want and don't need your pity.”

Such pity as Eliza had started to feel for Harry's circumstances vanished with that last comment. “I'm not offering you any pity,” she replied waspishly. “You don't need mine. You seem to have more than enough of that for yourself.” In a much softer tone she added, “I was thinking of maybe something a little more practical.”

“Like what,” Harry grunted.

“How about companionship?” Eliza responded, smiling at him now.

“Wha…?”

“It's just…. I don't have anyone to go places with at the moment, and you…. You have never had a chance to do normal things, even Muggle things.” Eliza started talking faster now, in stream of consciousness style. “Harry, my best guess is that you're going to win your case. The Minister has switched sides now, and you're a lot more popular than you were. That means that you've only got a few months before you become a slave to all that money and property. I was thinking, maybe you'd like to … you know … spend that time doing some normal things with me.”

She had done it. She had gotten all of that out before losing her nerve.

Harry paused and looked at her like he had never seen her before. Her offer was not only unexpected, it was practically incomprehensible to him. Here was a chance - at least for a while - to be just plain Harry rather than a hero, a symbol, a target, or a weapon. That prospect was very attractive to him, and come to think of it, so was Eliza. “Yes, I'd like that. I'd like that very much.”

“Great,” she beamed. She swept into her bedroom. “I'll just be a minute. Then we can go.”

“Go where?” Harry asked.

“Out.”

Eliza quickly reappeared, dressed in lighter and more practical clothes than the ones she wore for riding her motorbike. “Come on, let's go.” She spotted an ordinary red plastic Frisbee lying in the corner near the door. She picked it up. “Catch.” She threw it at Harry.

He dropped it.

The unusually hot and hazy day had progressed into a hot and muggy late afternoon, with a touch of thunder in the air. Eliza got a Daily Mail from a news agency and perused it. “Harry, would you prefer a serious movie or….” Her voice trailed off as she looked at the ads. “Don't bother answering, Harry. I'll pick this first time. I don't feel like doing anything serious today. And for that, there's nothing better than a rip roaring Yank shoot-em-up. You can sit back and watch somebody else try to save the world for a change.”

For about a half an hour, the two of them tossed the Frisbee back and forth on the greensward across the street from Eliza's flat. Harry quickly got better at throwing the disc, although she rather suspected that he was, consciously or unconsciously, using magic to direct it. It was asking too much of coincidence to believe that one of Harry's wild throws simply bounced off a moving artic lorry, a tree branch, and an electrical wire before landing safely in her hands.

They walked about four blocks to a cinema playing “Independence Day.” They loaded themselves with theatre junk food, and spent the next two or so hours in fantasy land watching the Yanks battle some nasty aliens. Eliza did not really like the newer cinemas in Canary Wharf very much. They had too much air conditioning, and she was cold in her light summer clothes. She leaned closer to Harry. Eliza smiled to herself when she felt his arm tentatively inching across the top of her chair. She reached her right hand around back of her, grabbed Harry's hand, and decisively brought his arm down around her.

Harry was relieved beyond words. He wasn't going to “do a Dudley” and end up with his hand in her drink.

“That was really amazing,” he enthused as they were leaving. “Don't American wizards have laws like we do that forbid performing magic in front of the Muggles?”

Eliza gave him an affectionate shove. “That wasn't magic, silly. Those were Hollywood special effects.”

Next, she took Harry a couple of blocks down a side street, where they had dinner at an Indian restaurant. After gorging themselves on keema and curry, they walked hand in hand to the Canary Wharf Underground. With the sun now setting, it really was time for him to go home and face the music.

“I hope you got what you wanted - and what you needed,” she said as they separated.

“I did, and…. And you are,” Harry replied. Eliza leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. “Ring me up when you've got some free time,” she whispered, “and we'll get together for some more `normal' activities.”

As he left, Harry felt very confused, conflicted, and euphoric all at the same time.

* * * *

The closer Harry came to Privet Drive, the more the joy of his last few hours with Eliza evaporated. It was hardly the first time that he had dreaded going to his relatives' house - indeed he had scarcely felt otherwise for several years. However, tonight was the first time that the Dursleys themselves did not factor into his dread. As he changed from the Tube to the rail to the bus (no Knights Bus ride for a fugitive from the Order), Harry thought less and less of Eliza and more and more about what she had told him. His fury at being kept in the dark, after two promises from Dumbledore, returned and smouldered.

He was in no hurry. He used no magic whatever on his return trip. The heavy, damp, muggy air that surrounded Harry during the twenty or so minutes he trudged home from the bus stop fit his mood perfectly. He went over his newfound knowledge again and again: the Malfoy connection, Draco Malfoy's libel, the litigation to clear Sirius, the almost incomprehensible value of the Black inheritance, breeding house-elves, the Fifth Element….

Harry spotted the contingent waiting on the ordinarily immaculate front garden at Number Four Privet Drive before anyone there paid any attention to the lone figure trudging along the pavement on the opposite side of the street. In the questionable illumination cast by one street light and the Dursleys' garden lamp were Dumbledore and McGonagall, who were having what appeared to be a heated discussion with Hermione. Remus and Bill Weasley were chatting together, but warily watching Hermione. Kingsley was standing in his maroon Auror's robes deep in discussion with Moody and a several other Aurors whom Harry could not identify in the poor lighting. Tonks was by herself pacing with her head down. Professor Snape - (Snape!) - was sitting in a lawn chair with Madam Pomfrey leaning over him. There were no lights on in the Dursley house itself.

Hermione was the first to recognise Harry. She shouted and pointed in his direction as everyone's head started to turn. An instant later, Moody, wand out, Apparated just in front of him. But the old man was not quick enough. Before Mad Eye could bring his own wand to ready, he found himself staring straight at Harry's glowing wandpoint. “I wouldn't if I were you,” Harry intoned in a measured, but deadly, voice.

“Wouldn't dream of it, Potter,” Moody replied, his ravaged face twisted into an odd half-smile. “Yeh've right well learned how ta use that Auror's holster, I see. The others will have plenty of questions, I'm sure, but I've only one. What's the first principle of elementary wand safety I taught yeh?”

Harry relaxed just a bit as he realised that, even in this situation, Mad Eye was following proper Auror identification techniques. “Don't carry my wand in my back pocket,” he replied, adding, “As you can see, I don't.”

Moody pocketed his wand and shouted to the others, “It's him.”

Harry kept his wand out, and furtively muttered “Protego reversis” to cast a special protection spell on himself. He still was not sure what kind of reception to expect. Everybody started talking at once -

“Mister Potter, thank Merlin you are safe….”

“…it's about time you got back. I tried to tell them….”

“…Harry, I demand to know where you've.…”

“…This has been most irresponsible, Potter.…”

“Quiet!!” Harry yelled. “I've been out, OK. Now I'm back. I'm going inside, and I really don't want to talk about it.”

Bill stepped forward, “Harry, it's not that simple. You've committed a serious breach, running off like this without telling anyone anything. As your guardian, I have to know what you've done and why.”

Harry's eyes reflexively narrowed, but he had to admit that Bill had a point. After all, he had personally agreed to place himself under Bill's supervision. “Like I said, I've been out. I haven't gotten into any duels or used magic in front of any Muggles. I spent some time at a library. In short, I've been a good boy. There's no law that says I have to allow myself to be followed every minute of every day - and I'm not going to!”

“Harry, it's not your say that governs, it's mine,” said Bill in a slightly raised voice of his own. “I don't believe that I was unclear before, but if I was, I'm going to make myself perfectly clear now. You are not to be going off unsupervised. It's dangerous; you know it; and I won't permit it.”

Dumbledore spoke up, “Mister Potter, you know Voldemort is after you, and I have told you why. That is why you are getting all this extra training and all these extra privileges….”

“You bloody well tell me only what you want me to know!” he angrily shot back. “And that's all! I'm just a tool to you, like every other person here! Anything inconvenient you just keep to yourself - even though you've promised me twice to tell me everything!” Harry pointed to Hermione whilst continuing to scream at the Headmaster. “You're quite content to let the effing Malfoys drag Hermione's name through the mud aren't you? To let me testify without having the slightest idea what slime I'm going to be hit with!” Harry advanced upon Dumbledore.

“Harry, what on earth are you talking about?” Hermione shrieked. “Harry!!!…”

“Stupefy!” A bolt of red light soared towards Harry from his left and slightly behind him. It bounced of Harry's protective shield and rebounded on its caster. A maroon robed Auror toppled over.

“Bad move, Scrimgeour,” Mad Eye muttered. “Harry's been in training a hell of a lot more recently than yeh. Blimey….”

The instant the stunner hit his shield, Harry had flung himself to the grass and rolled to his right. Whilst rolling he aimed a volley of spells at the other Aurors who had been standing with their boss, Rufus Scrimgeour. In a few seconds, it was over. Four other uniformed Aurors were scattered across the Dursleys' garden. One was on his hands and knees, retching uncontrollably. Another was on the ground with the Dursleys' letterbox on her head. A third was planted headfirst among the Dursleys' begonias, his legs in the air with his robes in a heap on the ground, baring his unmentionables. In his case, the question “boxers or briefs” was definitively answered.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, the fourth Auror, was completely unharmed, but surrounded by the snake-like coils of a live power line ripped from the poles that ran down the street. The line hovered inches away from his body, spitting sparks from its severed end.

With a shriek, Madam Pomfrey left Professor Snape and rushed to the shattered Aurors.

Power to the entire neighbourhood had been interrupted. All the lights in the area went out. No moon or stars were visible in the cloudy sky. The only light came from Harry's glowing wandtip. It was no longer glowing white, but was changing colours prismatically with the movements of his arm, which was shaking ever so slightly.

Kingsley could not see anything. Still he boomed in his best command voice, “Everyone, hold your fire! That's a direct order. Harry, please stop. I know it may not seem like it right now, but we are on your side….”

Hermione chimed in, “Harry, for the love of Merlin restrain yourself. This is only making things harder….”

Harry slowly got to his feet, breathing hard and his wand at the ready. He backed away deliberately; until he was sure he had everyone in his field of vision. He slowly pointed his wand at the writhing mass of cable that surrounded Kingsley. “Finite,” he said. The power line flew back to the poles, reconnected, and the outdoor lights came back on.

“On my side?” Harry spat. “Bloody well doesn't look like it! Attacked from behind, Death Eater style. Why even the Death Eaters - some of them - have more ethics than that. That dolt deserves to be turned into a bouncing ferret. I'd do it myself, except I don't know how - yet.” In the shadows, Professor McGonagall blushed.

“Can you please revive my colleagues?” Kingsley asked with urgency in his voice. Everything had happened so fast that he did not know exactly what spells Harry had used.

“Only if you get them the bloody Hell out of here!” Harry shouted. “I'm not in the mood for another attack.”

“I'll do my best, Harry, I promise,” pleaded Kingsley.

Harry uttered several Finites. The remaining Aurors began staggering to their feet, still significantly worse for wear. Shacklebolt addressed Scrimgeour, who was Chief Auror. “Request permission to speak freely, sir.”

“Granted,” mumbled Scrimgeour, still shaking the cobwebs from his brain.

“Sir, things are now under control. Potter has been found. I suggest that it would be a good idea - a very good idea - if you took your men and returned to headquarters, so that we can restore the anti-Apparition wards here,” Shak pleaded. “The Code Red needs to be cancelled, and there are quite a few persons who need to be notified. If you move quickly, perhaps you can catch Minister Fudge before he leaves for Chequers and Sandringham…. Summer, you know.”

“Scrimgeour, get yer bloody arse out of here before yeh make a bad situation even worse,” Moody growled. “Yeh saw what happened at the Ministry. Yeh should have known that Dumbledore can take care of himself.”

“Too right,” Scrimgeour grunted. “Men, let's be off. Carry on Captain Shacklebolt.” With that, the squad of Aurors Disapparated and were gone.

When they left, Harry flicked his hand and his wand returned to its wrist holster. He addressed himself to the one person he was certain was entirely on his side. “Hermione, you've been lied to just like me. You've no idea what bloody Malfoy is trying to do to you. He's going to make you out as some sort of gold digging slag. And all of them” - Harry made a sweeping gesture at the various adults present - “were just going to let it happen without telling either of us. We didn't even knew that we had to defend ourselves.”

Hermione gasped, not sure what to say. She was quite aware that he had switched from second person singular to first person plural in the middle of his statement. This was surely significant, but she lacked time to consider it. Before she could speak, Bill cut in.

“Harry, I don't know what you think you've learnt, or from where - but right now you and I have to settle this serious breach of your responsibilities. You have to promise me that this is the last time that you'll ever go off unannounced and unguarded.…”

“And if I don't feel like promising…?” Harry sneered.

“Then you'll be grounded,” Bill snapped. “Not allowed to leave your house, period.”

“You can't ground me!” Harry yelled. “You don't have the power. I know how to Apparate now!”

“You are grounded until further notice!” Bill yelled right back at Harry. “I'll have Dumbledore reinforce the anti-Apparition wards around your house. If you continue, I'll have to ask the Ministry to revoke your special dispensations!”

“You wouldn't dare!” Harry screamed; his temper ready to explode. “It would interfere with my bloody training. I can't be the Order's damned weapon against Voldemort unless I train!”

“Then you're grounded except for going to and from your Auror training,” spluttered Bill, trying rather poorly to improvise. “Other than that, you can sit here and stew until you come to your senses and agree to reasonable limits on your actions!”

“Well I'm just chuffed,” growled Harry. “You're worse than the damned Dursleys, you know that…!” Then he stopped. He got a gleam in his eye, and smiled nastily. “Alright, I'm grounded! Nothing but training, and my cell here. You can go tell your frigging goblin friends to sod off then! I've bloody well had it with doing things for other people who turn around and do nothing for me but treat me like a mushroom!”

“A mushroom?” said Bill, nonplussed.

“Kept in the dark and fed shit!” Harry retorted. One of Dudley's sayings had finally come in handy. He started stomping towards the door of Number Four Privet Drive. “I'll just go in now and start my sentence! Good night!”

Worried about the treaty with the goblins and trying to keep matters from spinning entirely out of control, Dumbledore addressed Harry's retreating form. “Mister Potter, please wait. About the goblins. About the Malfoys. If you will let me explain…”

The atmosphere was electric. Harry whirled around and stared for a moment at the man who, more than anyone else, was responsible for the situation in which he found himself. A rush of anger rushed over him, followed by a rush of words - all shouted at maximum volume. “SO YOU'RE GOING TO `EXPLAIN' TO ME AGAIN ARE YOU?! WHAT ARE YOU TRYING FOR? STRIKE THREE AND YOU'RE OUT? YOU DON'T CARE ANYWAY - NONE OF YOU DO!”

Hermione yelped, but Harry was too busy yelling to hear.

“I'M JUST A BLOODY TOOL TO YOU - A TOOL FOR THE ORDER. NEED A WEAPON TO FIGHT VOLDEMORT? CALL HARRY! NEED A CONVENIENT PLACE TO STASH A BILLION POUNDS? A BILLION PROBABLY DODGY POUNDS? JUST SLIP IT TO HARRY! WHAT WERE THE BLACKS ANYWAY? A BUNCH OF BLEEDING PIRATES? NEED TO SEAL A DEAL WITH THE GOBLINS? HARRY WLL DO IT! NEED A SYMBOL TO KEEP UP MORALE? DRAFT HARRY! WELL I'M SICK AND TIRED OF BEING DRAFTED! FIGHT YOUR OWN BATTLES! ALL I WANT TO BE IS….”

Dumbledore struggled to get a word in edgewise. “Mister Potter, Harry, if you will just listen.… About the Blacks - they were not pirates. I am sure what they did was perfectly legal, but….”

Harry was past screaming now. His eyes were wild and his hair was even more unkempt that usual. Hermione thought she saw his wand tip still glowing crazily even though it had been stowed.

“I'LL BET IT WAS! WHAT ELSE ARE YOU PLANNING TO LEAVE OUT OF YOUR EXPLANATION? YOU NEVER TOLD ME THAT DRACO MALFOY WAS MY RIVAL FOR SIRIUS' INHERITANCE! YOU NEVER TOLD ME THAT HIS FATHER STOLE SIRIUS' WAND AND DAMNED HIM TO AZKABAN! YOU NEVER TOLD ME ABOUT BEING A FIFTH ELEMENT ELEMENTAL! APPARENTLY I'M NOT SUPPOSED EVEN TO KNOW WHAT I MIGHT BE!”

Eliza had described the pandemonium that had broken out in the Magistrate's Court when the “F word” had been mentioned. It happened again on the Dursleys' now considerably less than immaculate front garden. Some onlookers gasped in incomprehension. Those who knew what Harry was talking about did more than gasp.

“Mister Potter!”

“If you would just let me explain, that is precisely why…”

“Can't we take this inside?”

“Potter, I would think the even someone with your notable lack of common sense and discretion would know better than to….”

Harry whirled and glared at Professor Snape, who was struggling to his feet. This was his first encounter with his number one tormentor at Hogwarts since Sirius had died. “YOU SHOULD BLOODY WELL TALK ABOUT COMMON SENSE AND DISCRETION! YOU DIDN'T TEACH ME OCCLUMENCY - YOU JUST GOT YOUR JOLLIES RAPING MY MIND, WHILST TELLING ME HOW WORTHLESS I AM! YOU LEFT ME WIDE OPEN FOR VOLDEMORT! YOU WANTED THAT TO HAPPEN, DIDN'T YOU? YOU WANTED SOMETHING TO HAPPEN! YOU WANTED AN INCIDENT!! YOU GOADED SIRIUS FOR MONTHS, HOPING THAT HE WOULD DO SOMETHING BRAVE, RASH AND FATAL!!!”

“YOU LOOK LIKE YOU WERE THE ONE WHO TRIED TO SNEAK INTO MY MIND THIS AFTERNOON!! YOU DID, DIDN'T YOU?! WELL YOU'VE FOUND OUT THAT I HAVE BEEN ABLE TO LEARN OCCLUMENCY WHEN I WAS TAUGHT BY SOMEONE WHO ACTUALLY WANTED ME TO LEARN!! DO YOU WANT TO TRY AGAIN? I'M READY - RIGHT NOW!!!”

Harry was now beside himself with fury. The encounter with Snape was pushing him over the edge. The others could feel the magic pouring off him into the muggy night air. Harry's eyes were wild and his hair, if anything, was even wilder. Hermione was staring at him in disbelief - he was at once so powerful and so powerfully enraged. It looked like static electricity was crackling between Harry's fingers.

Mad Eye took a couple of steps toward Harry. “Harry - STOP. Yeh need ta calm down….”

Just as Harry turned to face Moody, he caught a glance of someone pelting towards him at full speed from his left-hand side.

“HARRY!!!” Hermione screamed at the top of her lungs as she ran at him. She had no idea what would happen when she collided with the Protego shield that still surrounded him, but she no longer cared.

Harry turned towards Hermione just as she collided with him full tilt. Apparently the Protego charm only worked against magic. “Hermione, what the Hell…? Oof….” Hermione tackled Harry and roughly knocked him down to the grass.

The two of them had not even stopped rolling when they were both blinded and deafened.

It seemed to Harry that the world had just exploded.

* * * *

Author's notes: Black family names now conform to new canon

The description of a life estate is accurate. Property rights do exist in this form, although they are no longer common

Bleak House is a Dickens novel about the cost of endless litigation

Dumbledore detests imprisonment without trial, hence the Wizengamot action

Lax management by the Office of Escheats and Inheritances figures later

Muggle banks in Switzerland, Liechtenstein and the Caymans are notorious flight capital havens, - but Portugal and Barbados have other connotations

Gold sitting in a Swiss bank for fifty years. Wait till Hermione gets a look

The Egyptian god Thoth has the head of an ibis

Turks Arabs and Spaniards - from Emerson, Lake & Palmer's "Pirates," to which privateers are akin. Letters of marque and reprisal are government piracy permits mentioned in the U.S. Constitution

Saltpeter was once called "Salt of the rock." "Peter" is Latin for "rock" - hence the stone city of Petra and "upon this rock I shall build my church"

The events involving the Blacks in the 1589-1605 period are actual history

After the Gunpowder Plot, what did the Blacks do? There are clues for any independent researcher. It will strain the H/Hr relationship even further - as fire tempers fine steel

One of the whaling sites will figure later

Hints here plus what is already revealed (do the math), explain the Goblins' interest in Harry

Liverpool and New Castle on Tyne are also clues

Blackpool - the Black name allows many plays on words. The same with black powder

Poydras is a major commercial street in New Orleans. Several of my lawyer friends have offices in high rises there

New Orleans, Charleston, Newport (& Brown), Brazil - all clues

The old property deeds are from real places; Château Blackwalls is fictional, but proper geographically

The War of the Roses involved a Black Prince

Compared to other issues, Hermione can much more easily stomach house-elf breeding

The Ode to Joy is the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth, and the EU anthem. Classical music figures in upcoming events

Eliza as an angel is a recurrent theme

This is my theory about Voldemort's wand and how he got it back: Pettigrew took it on 10/31/81, and gave it to Malfoy. After the end of PoA, Pettigrew recovered the wand and went to find his Master. When Voldemort and Pettigrew returned from Albania, they stayed at in Malfoy's hidden chamber until moving to Crouch. I believe this is consistent with canon

Non compos mentis is legal Latin for incompetent

A Star Chamber proceeding is conducted irregularly. The Star Chamber saw notorious abuse in the Middle Ages

The Fifth Element. The four Greek elements correspond to the four states of matter. The fifth can be considered another state of matter

En flagrante is short for en flagrante delito or "in the act"

The "Sorcerer's Apprentice" sequence in Fantasia starred Mickey Mouse and a Dumbledore figure

Independence Day was released in summer 1996. The movie is accurately described

Harry can flirt a little bit too

Permission to speak freely is a military term for wanting to criticize a superior

Chequers and Sandringham are real places

A bit of a cliff-hanger at the end. Plenty of clues about to figure out what happened

- 47 -

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C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch10 truth & consequences.doc 09/28/03

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11. Return Strikes

Wherein Hermione saves Harry's life (again); there is a thunderstorm; Ron and Cho continue to get together; Harry meets Fudge and Dumbledore; he gets the carrot and stick routine; Eliza returns an unwanted gift; the Malfoy legal maneuverings are explained; the Fifth Element is explained (sort of); Harry and Hermione make the front page; Harry and Hermione have a talk; they win scholarships; and they choose their Sixth Year academic courses.

In this chapter, the cliffhanger is revealed and the Fifth Element is somewhat explained. This is more of a 'talk' chapter. The next one will have more action.

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

Chapter 11 - Return Strikes

Harry was dazed, not quite sure if he was alive or dead. Soon, however, the weight of Hermione's body on his (especially her left elbow in his midsection), the racing of both their hearts, and the rhythm of their lungs, brought him back to reality. No, he was not dead - just somewhat subject to sensory deprivation. He could not see very well because, even after his pupils readjusted to the return of darkness, her hair obscured his vision. Harry could not tell if he could hear or not, because his ears were ringing so loudly, but he could feel, and what he was feeling terrified him.

He felt enveloped in a throbbing, pulsating force. It crackled all around him. While he did not know what it was, he could sense that this force was powerful enough to kill him - or Hermione. Urgently, Harry racked his brain for something, anything, he could use to banish this humming haze that surrounded them, but came up empty. He did not know what had happened, so he did not know how to even begin setting things right. The explosion and its aftermath were both utterly beyond his comprehension.

Not knowing what else to do, he clutched at Hermione with the same death grip she was also maintaining on him, willing them both to remain still. Whatever their current state was, at least the force field they were in did not seem to be hurting either of them or making anything worse. All Harry could do was concentrate, not move a muscle and try to fathom what had happened - what he could possibly have done. The seconds that passed seemed like an eternity.

Then, as quickly as the force came, it departed. Glowing gold this time rather than white, the power (whatever it was) left with the same spectacular concussion that marked its arrival - with a blinding, ear-splitting discharge that Harry thought must have reverberated even more loudly than the first. They were slammed into the ground with the pressure of its exit. The tinkle of falling glass sounded in the background. With the wind knocked out of him, Harry thought he must have left an indentation in the earth as the recoil rumbled through his chest with the force of the Whomping Willow.

After the force was gone, all was dark and still once more. It felt to Harry as if his flesh were buzzing and his nerves tingling. `It must be Hermione's weight pressing on a nerve,' Harry thought. For the moment, his world did not extend much beyond his and her jumbled together bodies. There was no seeing, no hearing, just feeling … and his sense of smell.

As Harry fought his way back to the land of the living, he could smell the acrid metallic odour in the air. He now knew to associate the smell of ozone with abrupt magical discharges - his own abrupt magical discharges. Now, this odour was stronger than he had ever known it to be. Harry knew that this had something to do with him, but he could not fathom how.

He needed to find out how badly he had hurt her.

“Hermione?” Harry whispered. “Can you hear me? Are you awake?”

He felt her stir in response, and relief flooded over him.

“Yes,” she responded is equally low tones. Then came the oddest thing. It sounded and felt was as if she were actually laughing.

“Hermione, what's going on?” he croaked.

“Harry, if you were away all day pursuing all those serious things you were ranting on about…?” She tittered again, he was sure of it this time. “How come you smell of buttered popcorn?”

“It's a long story,” he rasped, even more softly than before. “I learned a lot, and I have lots to tell you, just not now. Hermione, I'm so frightened, I might have wet myself. What just happened?”

“You were almost struck by lightning, Harry,” she whispered back. Practically on cue, there was another white flash, almost immediately followed by a deafening peal of thunder. Hermione refused to flinch. She was surprisingly comfortable and was in no hurry to face the others again. She and Professor McGonagall had just had a spectacular row when Hermione had flatly refused to use her ring to search for Harry until midnight - and McGonagall was her favourite professor.

Hermione continued, “I saw textbook signs of an imminent lightning strike. …And before you ask, yes, I read about that in a book. Your hair was standing straight up. There was static electricity between your fingers. I had to force you to ground immediately or else y-you pr-probably would have d-d-died. Oh Harry!” She was no longer whispering. “I tried to get your attention, but you were so intent upon Snape. I think Mad Eye figured it out too, but I move faster - the benefit of having a full complement of limbs. I didn't know what else to do!” She was no longer even trying to avoid being overheard.

Neither was Harry. “Hermione, you don't need to explain yourself. Thank you. I now owe you a wizard debt.” He gave her a fierce hug. Harry was very tempted to do more, and disregard the consequences. She had just saved his life at the risk of her own, but he still knew he had an audience. He also did not know how Hermione would react - probably badly, he feared.…

There was also all of this information Eliza had told him. He realised that Hermione did not truly know who he was anymore. Hell, he was no longer sure who he was himself anymore. All of these untold secrets lurking in the background weighed him down and gave him pause. He was determined not to prove that anything about what Draco-bloody-Malfoy had been saying about the two of them was accurate. Anything he did here, Snape would just relay back to them….

For her part, Hermione wanted more - her soul ached for Harry's touch - but nothing came. Unfortunately, she did not know why, except for her earlier misstep…. If not now … after what had just happened … then when?

Never…?

She was no longer laughing.

Another flash of lightning and crash of thunder rudely interrupted their thoughts. It was starting to rain - hard. With effort, Harry began to stir. “We have to get up, Hermione…. Need to sort out the others. But first….” He slipped a note he had written into her pocket.

“Harry, that tickled!” she squealed.

Harry instantly drew back. Hermione frowned; she had not told him to stop.

The others were indeed stirring, and comparing notes.

“You did see that, didn't you?” Professor Snape hissed at Dumbledore and McGonagall as they struggled through now pouring rain into the Dursleys' no longer neat house. Neatness was especially difficult with all of the windows blown in.

“Certainly,” said Professor McGonagall. “She saved his life - again.”

“You know full well that's not what I'm talking about,” spat Professor Snape. “I mean the return shot - the ground-to-cloud thunderbolt - not to mention its distinctive colour. Being struck by lightning is one thing; being able to return the favour, is something else entirely.”

“Of course. How could anyone have missed it?” replied Dumbledore neutrally.

“Don't be coy with me, Headmaster,” warned Snape. “You know well and good what I mean…. Where it originated.”

“I understand you perfectly, Severus,” sighed Dumbledore. He gave his head a slight jerk, and all of the glass on the floor of the Dursleys' parlour and living room jumped back into its shattered panes. Then he pressed his long fingers together. “At times like this, it does indeed seem that everything happens to young Mister Potter. Regrettably he is not happy with either of us at the moment. I have to admit, it now appears that your hypothesis is almost certainly correct.”

“And what are we going to do about it?” questioned McGonagall, her frowning lips pursed with worry.

Dumbledore paused, then answered, “The same as before, I suspect. Try rather poorly to assist Mister Potter in coming to grips with his own nature. His nature I can accept, but I am very worried about how he is channelling his developing power. He needs more positive outlets. Perhaps on this day he found one.”

McGonagall knowingly gave Dumbledore a half smile. However, the Transfiguration professor did not know what she thought she knew. Neither of them did.

Dumbledore opened the door. Speaking loudly enough to address everyone over the roar of the downpour, he announced, “Inside everyone…. Let us try to complete today's festivities with as little additional destruction as possible, shall we?”

Quite a few squelching sounds later, everyone had found his or her way inside. Harry was disconcerted. He was facing a dozen wet, bedraggled, and tired witches and wizards in the Dursleys' uber-Muggle living room. Sodden robes of various colours would have soaked through the chintz furniture, but for the plastic slipcovers.

As far as he could tell, the Dursleys were not there. On top of this, he was not at all certain of his status. Was he grounded or not? Would cooler heads prevail? Did Harry even want cooler heads to prevail? The silence was deafening. The drumbeat of the rain was the only sound for several long moments. The musty odour of Drying Charms encountering soiled robes was the only smell.

Finally Harry filled the void. “Look, I'm shattered. I'm not sure how that all happened, but I feel very lucky just to be standing here. You might not believe it, but I'm sorry about putting you all through so much trouble. I had to find out the truth - even if it's bad. But if any of you had been willing to tell me the truth, none of this would have been necessary. Bill…. If I'm grounded, so be it. I won't try to escape. But don't expect me to go out of my way as long as I'm not free to come and go as I please.”

His guardian seemed speechless and befuddled. It was Dumbledore who responded. “I agree that we should talk about things tomorrow, when we can all think more clearly. You and I…, we both need to explain ourselves.”

Harry paused, thought a bit, and decided to dÃ©but his alibi. “There is one thing though…, if I'm not to be allowed out on my own…. I accidentally left some papers in the British Library at St Pancras. If someone could get them for me. They're really not fit for Muggle eyes.”

Dumbledore put a hand on Bill Weasley's shoulder to indicate that he should go along with whatever the older man was going to say. “We shall discuss your arrangements tomorrow. I have chatted briefly with Bill, and we are of a mind that what little free time you have should be your own. You should be able, within reason, to come and go as you please - and that includes going to London if you wish.”

Harry felt like he had been struck by lightning all over again. He must have so appeared, as well, because Dumbledore reacted.

“Harry, please do sit down,” the Headmaster requested. “There is a caveat, however…. You must accommodate your own safety. The fact remains that you are Voldemort's primary target. You simply cannot be travelling about unguarded. I hope that, after we all sleep on it, we can work out an acceptable compromise. While your tone this evening has certainly left something to be desired, you did make a number of persuasive substantive points.”

“All right, then,” Harry said warily, as he slid into a chair that Hermione hastily vacated. She stood behind him, leaning lightly on the back, her fingers centimetres from his shoulders. “If I'm to be staying here tonight, where are my relatives?” he asked.

“Your aunt and uncle were uneasy sharing their home with the large number of our kind who have passed through here today, so they are staying at your Aunt Marjorie's. Your cousin elected to remain, and he is in his room. Please be discreet in what you say to him, if only for his own safety,” answered McGonagall.

After a brief discussion, Dumbledore and the others agreed that Hermione would retrieve Harry's papers. She was accustomed to Muggle libraries and, even more importantly, had volunteered. Dumbledore asked everyone to leave as quickly as possible and authorised Shacklebolt call in teams of Obliviators to deal with the Muggles who were attracted by the lightning strike.

After Harry, distracted by the stormy end to his tumultuous day, proved himself useless, McGonagall stayed behind to return the Dursley house to as close to pristine condition as she could. The inside anyway….

For the moment, the Dursleys' lawn was left as is - the scorch marks and other damage caused by the lightning strike were simply too massive to be concealed. A special Ministry magical reversal crew would have to be dispatched, although exactly how much of the damage was magical was open to debate.

Just before Hermione and Dumbledore left to return her to her parents, she mentioned to Harry that O.W.L. results had just now been officially distributed. Hermione had received hers earlier in this most eventful of days.

Harry had been telling the truth when he complained he was knackered. But in his room he found not one, but two owls - both waiting impatiently. He groggily relieved the annoyed Hogwarts school owl of its burden first. It boxed him about the face with its wings as it flew away, obviously upset at having to wait for several hours.

“Probably gets fed by the trip,” he muttered.

Somewhat less upset was an overseas delivery owl bearing what turned out to be a letter from Ron. Harry was too fatigued to read any of his mail that night. He practiced Occlumency for a few minutes. Then he decided to use his Aural Pensieve even though he did not have training the next day. He figured that as long as there was any risk of having his training halted, he should take the opportunity to learn as much as he could as fast as he could. Soon enough, Harry fell into an uneasy sleep.

Although he had forgotten to set an alarm, Harry found himself being prodded awake at 5:00 a.m. by his cousin, who wanted to know if he was interested in going running. Initially, Harry was uncertain because he still did not know whether he had actually been grounded or not. Thinking it over, he decided “nothing ventured, nothing gained.” He might as well push his luck until somebody tried to stop him - but first he was interested in what Ron had to say. Harry opened the envelope and took out a letter and a picture. The picture was of Ron and Cho seated on the same broom, with Cho's arms around Ron.

Harry:

Hogwarts rules mate! We are now 7-0 in the intramurals. I've only given up one goal in the last three games, and Cho and Ginny have been awesome too. Even the Slytherins have stopped acting like berks now, most of the time anyway.

I found something interesting the other day when I opened a Chocolate Frog. Why didn't you tell me that you now have your own card?! It's always you isn't it?

Still, it's something being the best mate of somebody as famous as you. People ask me about you all the time.

Any idea on when O.W.L. scores will be out? I'm getting nervous, and I'm sure you are too. We can't let Hermione get lonely, having to take advanced courses all by herself, while we go for Desmonds, now can we?

Quidditch forever!

Ron

Ron's letter made Harry wax nostalgic for the simpler life that his best male friend was leading this summer. Why did his own life have to involve so much more than games, girls and grades? Even more than before, he looked forward to doing more “normal” things with Eliza….

“Get your sodding arse down here Potter! Stop dawdling!” yelled Dudley from downstairs. Harry shelved Ron's letter and picture. It turned out that Dudley was at least as interested in finding out from Harry what had happened the day before as he was in running. Harry gave him a highly abridged version of his visit to Eliza - one that entirely omitted the real reason he had gone. To Dudley, it sounded like Harry had just been on an interesting date with an older woman that had involved a madcap motorbike ride, a first-run film, and dinner. In short, Dudley was actually somewhat jealous of his long-deprived cousin.

Surprisingly, Harry learned far more valuable information from Dudley than his cousin did from him. It turned out that Dudley had been a watchful, but unobtrusive, observer of all of yesterday's events at Privet Drive. Wizards had started arriving visibly before noon, and from Dudley's descriptions Harry thought that Tonks, Mad-Eye, and Lao Kung had been the first to appear. Chief Auror Scrimgeour and various maroon-uniformed Aurors began arriving about 2:00 PM., and Dumbledore arrived shortly thereafter.

Harry's aunt and uncle got more and more fretful (and in Uncle Vernon's case, more volubly angry) all afternoon. They departed for Aunt Marge's country house around teatime. Dudley decided to stay, and was supposed to ring his parents when all “the freaks” were gone. He seamed in no hurry to make that call, and had decided to wait until at least noon. Harry had a passing suspicion that Dudley had almost as little use for his parents as Harry had for them.

Harry was only moderately surprised when Dudley described a wizard who could only have been Minister Fudge. Dudley said that this wizard had paid a brief visit to Privet Drive around 6:00 p.m., wearing his trademark green bowler - something his cousin found laughable. Harry had a hard time fathoming something as incongruous as the Minister of Magic in the Dursleys' so resolutely non-magical home. Harry was reminded of Third Year, when Fudge had last intervened in similar circumstances. `Here we go again,' Harry thought.

Dudley also informed Harry that Hermione (“that girl of yours who's been over here before”) appeared shortly after that - escorted by a pair of adults whose descriptions matched McGonagall and Snape. But it was Dudley's description of the final events that proved the most revealing to Harry:

“You were bloody brilliant after that one bloke tried to blindside you,” Dudley said rather breathlessly, “it looked like Star Wars out there, and you took them all out. But at least I could understand how you did that. After all you had your thingy out.”

“It's called a wand, Dudders,” groaned Harry.

“Whatever, did you do to create the golden lightning bolt?” asked Dudley in a hushed tone of voice.

“I didn't do anything,” replied Harry. “It just sort of happened. I seem to recall that return lightning strikes are not all that rare anyway.”

“Then why did the ruddy thunderstroke come from your hand?” asked Dudley.

Harry felt thunder struck all over again. He had done THAT?! Any intelligible response being beyond him at the moment, he just stared gape-mouthed at Dudley (who was doing the same to him), and ran his hands through his hair….

Then he looked at the palm of his right hand. Come to think of it, it did look somewhat scorched, although there was no pain. He examined his arm and noticed that there was no hair left on his right forearm. He sniffed at it, and he could still smell burnt hair. Harry had been around enough people (including himself) who had set their hair on fire that he was well acquainted with that smell.

Finally, Harry answered in a low voice, “I just don't know.”

“Let's go running then,” suggested Dudley, relieving the tense silence. “And if you see that nutter that's after you, let him have it with another bolt, then.”

So run they did. Harry was a little surprised - but only a bit - that nobody tried to stop him, since he was supposedly grounded. He was also sure that he was being watched even more closely than before his escape. The two of them ran their usual circuit. Just as they started pounding back up Privet Drive, a post owl landed in their path. Harry removed the letter and the owl flew off. It was a prepaid letter, something that was uncommon when rented post owls were used. He opened the letter. It was from Eliza:

Dear Harry:

I trust you have returned home safely. I am returning your property, which I found in my flat after you'd gone. If you left them by accident, please be more careful. If you left them on purpose, please NEVER do that again. You need to consider appearances. I have no such motivation, and Malfoy doesn't need any more ammunition.

Eliza

Harry turned the envelope upside down and the two Â£50 notes that he had “forgotten” to put back in his pocket the day before came fluttering out. He felt crushed. What had been intended as a thank you obviously received quite a different interpretation. Would Eliza even want to see him again? Sullenly, Harry snapped up the notes, shoved them and the missive in his waistband and refused to tell Dudley what the letter - or what the presence of two quite large-denomination notes - were about. Dudley got annoyed.

“A Dear John letter so quickly?” jeered Dudley. “It was three strikes and you're out, wasn't it.”

“Shut up Dudders,” growled Harry as he kicked at the kerb with his trainers, “unless you want to try on a pig tail again. Maybe I'll throw in the snout for good measure.”

Dudley wisely did as requested - despite suspecting that his cousin was less than serious. They approached Number Four in silence. Another owl approached. Harry recognised it as the delivery of his morning Daily Prophet. Dispiritedly, he paid for the newspaper without so much as looking at it as Dudley unlocked the front door.

Harry's froze as he stepped inside. There in the living room, chatting as calmly as you please while drinking pumpkin juice, sat Minister Fudge, Headmaster Dumbledore, Bill Weasley, Blackie Howe - and Hermione.

Superficially, it looked like a pleasant get together over drinks - albeit in the most unusual of locations. Harry, however, could read Hermione's body language well enough. That language was extraordinarily tense, with her legs tightly crossed and pointed away from the others. Regarding her more closely, Harry noted that the smile on her face could have been painted on.

“Harry, please do come join us at your earliest convenience.” Dumbledore beckoned with excess affability.

He decided on the Gryffindor option - to face things as they came. Thus, his shower would have to wait. Harry summarily sat down heavily in the proffered armchair. Dudley hurried out of sight, and the inevitable Imperturbable Charm was cast.

“My dear Harry,” began the Minister, “you gave us all quite a fright yesterday. I can't imagine what a blow it would have been to the morale of our community if you had been taken by the Dark forces. We had every Auror we could spare looking for you. Albus here tells me that you're interested in the proceedings involving Sirius Black. As I told you before, I'll do everything within my power to bring those to a favourable conclusion. I'd offer you a complete set of the transcripts of the proceedings, except that I'd have to show the same consideration to the other side…. So why alleviate their current disadvantage, eh?” The Minister winked at Harry.

“I'd just like to impress upon you, Harry, and all of the rest of you as well,” Fudge carried on, “how committed my Ministry is to your safety and well being. Anything necessary to secure your safety, we'll provide. I assure you that whatever decisions you and Dumbledore reach concerning the resolution of this matter will have my full support and will be backed with all of the resources at the Ministry's disposal. But those decisions must be yours and yours alone.”

The labourious political drivel continued. As Fudge's platitudinous speech droned on, Harry understood full well that what the Minister was telling him - albeit in the nicest way Fudge could phrase it - about the carrot and the stick.

The stick aspect was the Minister making it plain that Ministry would back Dumbledore to the hilt in whatever steps the Headmaster (and incidentally Bill) thought necessary to curb Harry's rebellious streak. If he attempted another escape, there would be significant adverse repercussions.

As for the carrot, if there was anything Harry wanted that he could plausibly relate to his safety, he would get it.

The boy quickly grew bored and impatient. He glanced at Hermione, who typically was paying much closer attention. Her foot however, was betraying disinterest akin to his - it traced lazy rectangular patterns in the air. She must have been wearing Muggle footwear, as a worn-through patch in her sole appeared at the top of the figure she made. Harry slumped in his seat and simply tuned Fudge out. He knew he was being told to behave, and he was anxious to get to specifics. Just when he thought his effort at politeness was about to come to naught, the Minister veered to an unexpected topic.

“Oh yes, and Harry, I want to convey to you my belief that the notes you have been writing to children are simply smashing. What a capital idea. I wish I had thought of it myself. By all means carry on….”

Harry's glazed-eye expression abruptly vanished. Perplexed, he asked the Minister how he knew about the Santa Claus letters, since Harry had been answering these on his own, in private, and (he thought) secretly. Fudge told him that his actions had been featured in The Magical Years, a wizard parenting magazine, in an article about the first two recipients of Harry's responses.

Jenny Fontaine was only mentioned in passing, but apparently the parents of little Jonathan Swanage had provided the publication not only with a copy of Harry's response, but also an additional drawing sample by their son of Harry lighting Voldemort up like a Christmas tree. While the image was a crude scrawl, its message was unmistakable.

This explained why the quantity of Harry's Santa Claus letters had grown so much recently.

Harry expressed some annoyance with the amount of time (both his and Hedwig's) that responding to these letters was consuming. Fudge almost immediately offered to provide him with clerical assistance. Seeing Hermione decisively shake her head “no” out of the corner of his eye, Harry politely demurred.

“I think I can handle it,” he responded with feigned jauntiness, “the price of fame, and all that.”

After saying his piece, Fudge took his leave, flanked by two Aurors who had been waiting circumspectly in the kitchen. Now it was time for Harry to face the music in earnest. He was pleasantly surprised.

Dumbledore and Bill agreed that, in his spare time, Harry could (within reason - and reason was sometimes difficult to ascertain in the wizarding world) come and go essentially as he pleased. However, he had to give advance notice and tolerate an appropriate and fittingly disguised escort from the Order.

He could travel to London if he wished, which meant (although nobody described things in those terms) that he could see Eliza again. Harry queried himself whether Eliza even wanted to see him again, but that was a completely different issue. In as much as the adults were being reasonable, he decided he would be too. He agreed to fulfil his social obligations to both the goblins and to Hermione's parents.

There followed a relatively brief question and answer session. Harry had not been particularly inclined to ask Headmaster Dumbledore for more information because he no longer trusted the completeness of his answers. Nevertheless, Dumbledore seemed eager to justify himself, so Harry decided it could not hurt to hear the Headmaster out.

Dumbledore explained that he would have been more than happy to tell Harry about the Malfoy interest in the Black inheritance at their first meeting, but that Harry did not seem especially interested in that entire subject. The Headmaster did not particularly concern himself with monetary matters, other than to deny resources to Voldemort. He had thought that Harry shared that perspective; therefore, he had not bothered to tell the boy anything about the inheritance beyond what Harry specifically asked to know.

Although he was deliberately trying to keep his mental distance from Dumbledore, Harry could not help but agree with him about the money. If it had not been for the Malfoy aspect, he would not have cared at all about inheritance questions. Particularly with Lucius Malfoy in Azkaban, Dumbledore had not anticipated that Harry would have any contact with any of the Malfoys until after the legal manœuvrings were over. He had not anticipated Draco Malfoy being involved with the Umbridge affair.

However, once the Malfoy lawyers filed the motion and began attacking Harry personally, Dumbledore's justification no longer held water. The Headmaster's excuse was that the motion had only just been filed when he had last spoken to Harry.

Dumbledore's barrister had assured him that the motion was legally groundless because it attacked only the fitness of the legatee of a legatee. Harry was simply not a beneficiary of Orion Black. That meant that, Malfoy's motion was directed against the wrong will.

At this point Blackie Howe began interrupting. While Howe agreed that the Malfoy motion was meritless “because the contingent nature of the bequest made testamentary intent a non-issue,” he criticized Dumbledore for keeping “his client” uninformed. As Harry watched, Howe put the Headmaster consistently on the defensive about keeping Harry ignorant. Seeing Dumbledore's imperturbability thoroughly punctured in this fashion led Harry to appreciate the value of having his own lawyer.

Nevertheless, when Howe called Dumbledore “a bulbous meddler” the old man couldn't help but laugh. “That was a good one,” Dumbledore complimented.

The argument gradually shaded into a negotiation. An agreement was reached that would allow Harry to intervene in the Black will contest. A barrister at the D'Israeli firm of his own choosing would represent him. Not only would Harry be informed, he would be a participant in his own right, and he would no longer be dependent upon Dumbledore in any way.

The conversation then broached the subject that interested Harry the most - what was the Fifth Element all about, and why was there such an uproar when that element (whatever it was), and Harry's name were mentioned in the same sentence?

Dumbledore viewed this as an extremely delicate subject. He refused to discuss the matter any further until Blackie and Bill left. Even then, he performed a complicated Concealment Charm. Surprisingly, the Headmaster made no effort to exclude Hermione. Harry certainly did not.

“Mister Potter, as you know magic in its purest and most ancient form is elemental - and wandless,” Dumbledore explained. “Master Kung informs me that you are showing significant aptitude for all four elements in your work with him. As for elements, Aristotle perfected the concept of there being four of them over two millennia ago. Subsequent developments have of course shown that he was wrong about earth, water, air, and fire being actual elements. Coincidentally these four substances do closely approximate the four known states of matter. My knowledge of Muggle science is rather dated, but I believe those states are solid, liquid, gas, and plasma.”

“This much is well known, but the rest of what I am telling you is quite confidential, and I must ask the two of you to keep it that way,” Dumbledore continued. “Since magic is more concerned with states of being than with specific compositions, the fact that the four elements were really something other than fundamental building blocks has proven to be of little magical consequence. Thus, magic in general has functioned very well, despite much of it having been developed under somewhat erroneous theoretical premises.”

The Headmaster then delved into magical history - some of it quite obscure. “The concept of a Fifth Element is thus largely foreign to traditional magical thinking. Its magical origins are uncertain. Some speculate that the mysterious Russian mage Kitai Gorod experimented with some sort of Fifth Element magic after being exiled to Siberia for turning czarist police into swine during an unsuccessful uprising in 1905. Nobody is quite sure, though, because all traces of what he did were destroyed in the magical accident that killed him three years later.”

“To the extent there is a modern conception of a Fifth Element, it arose around the beginning of this century with Muggle scientists. I was still a young man, not much more than seventy, when I first heard the concept. I was intrigued, but rather frightened. Many of our kind thought the Muggles were being unfathomable and abstruse - maybe a dozen people in the world understood the mathematics. But it was fascinating. I still remember being struck by the prospect of almost unimaginable power that the Muggle theory suggested.”

Dumbledore's eyes stopped twinkling. “Although many wizards discounted any idea that originated with Muggles, in the thirties some wizards began experiments with what they called the `Fifth Element.' One of them, a Dane named Lisen Broh, succeeded in developing a curse of unprecedented power. We know that curse today as Avada Kedavra.”

Harry and Hermione both gasped audibly. She clutched his arm. As he looked back at her, he saw her brow furrowed. She was deep in thought.

The Headmaster soldiered on, “The concept of an unblockable curse causing instant death was totally foreign to our world before then. I believe the Muggle phrase is they `didn't know what hit them.' This creation obviously held out the prospect of great power, and Mister Broh was seduced by it. Sadly, Avada Kedavra did not prove terribly difficult to teach or to learn once it had been devised. Mister Broh threw in with Gellert Grindelwald, who went on to acquire a large following and to undertake a campaign of magical conquest.”

“You defeated one of the first users of the Avada Kedavra curse?” Harry gasped.

“Indeed I did,” sighed Dumbledore, “at the cost of immeasurable personal loss. With Grindelwald's defeat, and Broh a suicide, a great international magical conference was convened. Avada Kedavra was banned as the worst of several spells that were all classified as `Unforgivable.' That much I am sure you, or at least you” (Dumbledore looked at Hermione), “know from your History of Magic studies.”

“Less well known is the fact that further magical research into the so-called Fifth Element was proscribed by the International Confederation of Wizards. The only exceptions are three Confederation-approved approaches that magical researchers now believe are next to useless. Even the existence of the Fifth Element has been suppressed. Research into the Fifth Element is thus also considered Unforgivable, in Britain carrying with it the same life sentence in Azkaban. You can imagine the penalty in America….”

Harry shuddered.

“Thus, I am sure you now understand the gravity of the charge of involvement with the Fifth Element, even if, in your case, that involvement would be entirely involuntary. In your case, the charge has been even more controversial given your notoriety as The Boy Who Lived. When the Malfoys raised it in litigation, their motion was immediately suppressed. Thus, you can see why many of us thought it extremely unwise for you to be mentioning the Fifth Element in public last night, even though I am sure you had no idea what you were talking about.”

Harry then asked the question that had been on his mind ever since he first learned of the Malfoys' claims. “Is there any truth to the accusation about me being a Fifth Element elemental?”

“Neither I nor anyone else can answer that question,” spoke Dumbledore gravely. “The charge is based on the undeniable fact that you are the only person ever known to have blocked - no, given what you did to Voldemort, I had best say `repulsed' - the Killing Curse. Since that curse is associated with the Fifth Element, the supposition is that you must have acquired some control over that element to have survived.”

“Once the charge was made, the Unspeakables attempted to test you, but those test results were inconclusive. While your aura showed distinctly unusual features, there was nothing that could definitely be linked to the Fifth Element. I am not even sure how valid the test was, since it is doubtful that anyone even knows what to look for. In that sense, the ban on Fifth Element research is a hindrance, since in the absence of serious research all we now have is guesswork.”

“I… I… I… was tested?” Harry spluttered. “Without my knowledge or agreement?”

“Precisely so,” said Dumbledore. “I was against it, but the Unspeakables insisted. After what you did to their Department of Mysteries, my objections were unable to carry the day. The test was performed on your first day at the Ministry, while you were undergoing Auror orientation.”

Harry thought back to the unknown piece of equipment he had worn when he had performed the Auror power test with the boiler.

“Hermione, when you took the boiler test, did anyone ask you to wear any sort of special device?” Harry blurted.

“No, coming from a medical background, I would not have permitted any test that I didn't understand,” Hermione replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

To say that Harry was displeased over being secretly tested would be an understatement. He glowered at Dumbledore.

Dumbledore thought it wise to turn Harry's attention to the present.

“Mister Potter, while I wish to emphasize that nothing has been proven, you know what happened last night, and you know that there were quite a few witnesses to it. After those events, a number of us left the scene believing that there may well be more truth to the Malfoys' claim than even they suspect.”

Harry's face flushed, his anger dissipated, and his throat went dry. He croaked out, “If it's true, what does that mean?”

“A Fifth Element elemental, assuming he or she could control the gift, would command magic of extraordinary power. Advanced elemental magic of any sort is impressive, but I am sure that the strength of true Fifth Element elemental magic, if indeed it exists, would exceed by several, perhaps many, orders of magnitude anything that I have ever witnessed. If this is so, and I believe that possibility is greater now than I did before last night, then you need to be very, very careful, Mister … er … Harry. I am not sure what you might be capable of.”

Needless to say, there was not much more to be said after that discussion. Dumbledore prepared himself to leave, his objectives accomplished, and his presence no longer needed. Hermione remained behind. Her primary purpose in getting up early and coming to Harry's house had nothing to do with either the Headmaster or the Minister. Rather, she had wanted to discuss Sixth Year academic selections with Harry. But now there were other topics on the agenda.

As Dumbledore was leaving, Harry felt the rolled up Daily Prophet in his fist. Harry had maintained a death grip around it ever since he had walked in and encountered his distinguished welcoming committee. The newspaper was considerably worse for wear, so Harry made to bin it.

“I would not do that if I were you,” remarked Dumbledore as he walked out the door. “I think you will find it of considerable interest.”

Harry fumbled with the paper, but he had crumpled it pretty badly during the morning's discussions.

“Displia,” Hermione helpfully incanted. The paper magically straightened itself out. Harry saw his and Hermione's pictures smiling back at him on the front page, just under the headline:

“GRANGER, POTTER PACE REMARKABLE HOGWARTS O.W.L. SHOWING”

Muggle-born witch Hermione J. Granger and her widely rumoured paramour, The Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter, paced a remarkable Hogwarts performance in last year's O.W.L. examinations, the results of which were released today. En route to a Hogwarts-record sixteen O.W.L.s, Miss Granger racked up six top scores for the entire Northern and Western Europe Region, including three overalls. Mr. Potter turned in three regional bests, including one overall. Two other Hogwarts students, Su Li and Padma Patil, turned in one regional best each, giving the British institution eleven regional bests - tying the all-time record and far outpacing any other institute of magical learning this year. The overall academic showing was Hogwarts' best ever.

When asked for comment, Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore stated that he that the O.W.L. results were a “vindication” of the school's policy of merit-based admission, evidently referring to the Muggle-born backgrounds of Miss Granger and Miss Li, Mr. Potter's Muggle-born mother, and Ms. Patil's colonial, albeit pureblooded, heritage.

Miss Granger's sixteen O.W.L.s topped by one the Hogwarts previous record for most O.W.L.s, held by Headmaster Dumbledore and Thomas Riddle, and tied the regional record set by Ambrosia Carteret of Beauxbatons. Miss Granger's overall numeric of 103.2, is the second best overall Hogwarts GPA ever, and is well within striking distance of the record 104.1 Mr. Riddle posted in 1944. The Hogwarts Practical Astronomy O.W.L. was disrupted by outside events, and will be retaken in the fall, meaning that Miss Granger will have a chance to break that record as well. As a result of her top marks in both Charms and Transfiguration, she has been awarded a Ministry research fellowship.

Mr. Potter brought home a total of ten O.W.L.s and scored an unprecedented 127 in Defence Against The Dark Arts. His score led a raft of top-notch DADA scores at Hogwarts. Nine Hogwarts students received DADA scores of 100 or better, with only Slytherin House being unrepresented. There were only six 100+ scores in the rest of the region combined.

Harry was agog; Hermione resigned.

“So much for that,” she sighed.

“So much for what?” he replied uncomprehendingly.

“So much for keeping my out-performing Voldemort under wraps,” she answered. “Anyway, have you looked at your course options for next year? I think that if we budget our time well we can share….”

Harry broke in. “Before we get into that, let me tell you about what I learnt….”

It was Hermione's turn to break in, which she did by firmly putting her hand over Harry's mouth, physically shutting him up. She silently replied to his wide-eyed stare by putting a finger to her lips and beckoning him into the Dursley kitchen. Motioning for Harry to keep quiet, Hermione rummaged through Aunt Petunia's shelves until she found a bag of unshelled walnuts.

Harry watched as she poured the lot down the sink drain and turned on the garbage disposal.

The resultant racket as the plughole unit tried to digest walnut shells could have raised the dead. Harry could barely hear his cousin yelling at him from the upstairs bath to stop. Harry covered his ears as Hermione performed an imperturbable Bubble-Head Charm around the both of their heads.

“Fudge and his people have been all over this house since yesterday,” she said. “I don't trust him, and it wouldn't surprise me at all if he were trying to keep an even closer watch on you than the Order.”

“What do you mean?” he responded.

“Do you remember what I said about bugs when we were wondering where Rita Skeeter was getting all of her information about you in our Fourth Year?” she hissed. “Well I would not put it past Fudge to arrange to have planted bugs here. And now I know how to find out.”

Hermione ended the Bubble-Head Charm, waived her wand in a sweeping motion and said softly, “Surveillius revelato.”

Both Harry's and Hermione's Auror rings glowed green, but she ignored that. Silently the two of them - or more properly, Hermione leading a rather perplexed Harry about - searched the house. They disturbed Dudley taking a shower, but Harry did not think that Hermione saw anything (she was not sick, at any rate). Sure enough, they located no fewer than seven concealed magical microphones, all glowing bright green.

Taking their search out of doors, they observed three more devices hidden in the front garden. When their search was finished, Hermione repeated the sweeping motion with her wand, uttering “Surveillius confundo.”

“That will take care of that,” she said smugly.

Harry was amazed. “Hermione, what did you just do?”

“The first spell caused all clandestine surveillance devices in the house and the grounds to show themselves. Because our rings can be used to track us, they glowed as well. When I was satisfied that I knew where they all were, I cast a variant of the Confundus Charm that mimics conversation. I can end the spell with the usual Finite.”

“What conversation? How…? How did you learn all this?”

Hermione smiled. “One at a time, Harry. The Confundus Charm that I used will replicate whatever conversation the spell caster is thinking of at the time. I wanted something really inane and inconsequential, so I focused your Quidditch discussions with Ron - although the spell takes on the voices of whomever is actually here.”

“So Fudge is going to think you are a Quidditch fanatic,” chuckled Harry.

“Well, it IS called disinformation,” Hermione sniffed. “I can be as disinformative as I want - as long as everything remains plausible - and Fudge does know that I attended the Quidditch World Cup two years ago.”

“How did you learn about all this?” Harry inquired again.

Hermione's smile became a sly grin. “Courtesy of the Ministry itself. I've been working ahead on my Aural Pensieve. In my free time, I've been skipping around on the Pensieve, finding out what the other lessons we haven't been assigned are all about. My parents don't understand why I'm in bed so much. I tell them the training tires me out.”

“From the moment I first examined our lesson plan, I immediately wondered why our training lessons aren't consecutively numbered. It turns out that there are 144 total lessons, and the Ministry did not bother to delete any of them from the Pensieve. A lot of it is rubbish of course: how to fill out forms, interrogation techniques, Auror command structure - but some of it, like Lesson 136 on surveillance and counter-surveillance, is dead useful.”

Harry looked at Hermione knowingly. “For once I'm not that far behind you. I started working ahead last night, after I began to fear that they might halt my training. But I obviously haven't thought it through like you have. As usual, that's a clever idea, Hermione.”

They spent the next half-hour talking about this and that. Harry now understood why Hermione had been signalled him to turn down Fudge's offer of secretarial help.

Particularly after the attempt to listen to his private conversations, there was no way Harry would now allow any of Fudge's people read his post. Hermione thought she knew someone else that might be suitable, and agreed to follow up. She was reluctant to embarrass anyone, so Hermione did not want to reveal any names unless she was successful. Harry did not press her.

In a pleasant surprise to him, she took the news that he stood to inherit ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls rather well. She had already accepted the possibility that he might end up owning house-elves, so the news to her was more a difference of degree rather than of kind. Hermione was familiar with Blackwalls from her S.P.E.W. activities, of course, and knew full well that the ChÃ¢teau bred and sold elves. They agreed that, if the inheritance materialised, their already agreed upon “little project” to figure out how to free Harry's house elves would just become that much grander in its scope.

They also discussed more generally the Blacks, the Malfoys, the inheritance, and Malfoy's accusations. Hermione agreed to help Harry investigate the various odd place names Harry had jotted on the note he had shoved into her pocket the night before. She had some ideas for some magical sources to check, and failing that, there was always the Internet. That reminded her of something:

“Harry, we both know that the Internet is a great research tool, but you do accept, do not you, that sometimes the results will not be to our liking?” Hermione asked in a quavering voice.

“Of course,” said Harry, not sure what she was on about.

“Well, I used some of my nervous energy yesterday researching those Rocky Mountain oysters, and it turns out they're not what they seem….”

After Harry recovered from oyster shock (Hermione privately thought it might do Harry some good to eat more of them), they went back to discussing his inheritance issues. They agreed that Dumbledore had probably been honest in his claimed ignorance of financial matters - although Harry still had some doubts.

Hermione was considerably less shocked than Harry about Malfoy's allegations that the two of them were involved in some meretricious relationship. Girls thought about their “reputations” much more than boys did, and hers had been cannon fodder for well over a year now. She began to plot some way to make Malfoy pay - and pay as spectacularly as Rita Skeeter had. That, however, would take time.

Hermione was also willing to take Dumbledore's vagueness concerning the Fifth Element at face value, but Harry was not. He informed her about what his cousin had told him earlier that morning.

“If Dudley could see that it came from my hand all the way from his bedroom window, the Headmaster had to see it too, since he was much closer. Dumbledore's failure to mention it tells me more than what he did say. He has to think that the lightning bolt proves that I am a Fifth Element elemental - or close to it.”

Hermione had to agree, although neither of them understood fully what the new element was or what all the implications were. More grist for her research mill.

Harry started to shift the discussion to next year's courses, when she, to his surprise resisted. She confessed that she had been quite worried about his disappearance, even though she knew that it would happen in advance.

Professor McGonagall and others had been very upset, fearful, even, and their concerns had affected Hermione - even though logically she believed them to be mistaken. She explained that, in order to assure herself that keeping her promise to him was “wise,” she had “listened carefully to her muse.”

That is, to be sure that Harry was safe, Hermione had concentrated long and hard on their emotional link. As a result, she had been more acutely aware of what Harry had been feeling than ever before.

She asked, “The person you went to see for this information…. It was a she, wasn't it?”

Harry felt his insides lurch. “Er.… Yes.”

“The two of you…. You did more than just discuss business, didn't you?”

Again Harry answered yes. He found himself describing to her the motorbike, the music, the movie, and the meal. Especially at the mention of Beethoven, Harry thought he saw Hermione's lip quaver. She thus got the answer to her popcorn question of the night before, and a chuckle as well - when as Harry described his misadventure with Muggle popcorn popping in the microwave.

Harry eventually thought that this discussion seemed to be playing itself out - much to his relief. He looked forward to the less personal subject of courses for the coming term. Then Hermione took a deep breath and muttered something about “that damn Egyptian river again.”

Harry could only respond, “Huh?”

She had not been aware that her last comment was audible. At Harry's inarticulate inquiry, she gave a start, seemed distracted, and finally replied, “I was just commenting on my Pharaonic tendencies, Harry,” she said ruefully. After an uncomfortable pause during which he looked bewildered and she apprehensive, Hermione swallowed hard and asked, more briskly, “Did you kiss her, Harry?”

Harry could not have reacted as rapidly to a Death Eater attack. He jerked to attention so quickly that his knee struck the bottom of coffee table. The blow caused the table to jump and overturned a bowl of Aunt Petunia's wax fruit. Faux apples and pears went rolling across the living room floor. He envied them; wishing that he, too, could also roll away under a davenport. That was not possible, since his Transfiguration skills were nowhere near that advanced. Nervously, Harry considered the question as he stared into Hermione's slightly frowning face.

“Er…, no,” Harry answered truthfully - if not wholly accurately.

Hermione studied him intently for a moment, and followed up, “I'll try again, then. Remember that I could feel your emotions Harry. Did she by any chance kiss you?”

He was trapped. He would not lie to her in answering such a direct question. Telling less than the whole truth was as far as he would go. Even if Harry had intended to lie, it would have been futile. Still he was worried that the truth might hurt her. “On the cheek,” he muttered.

“Are you going to see her again, then?” she asked in a surprisingly dignified manner.

Harry simply confessed to his best friend. “She asked me to. I want to. But now I'm not so sure. I think I did something stupid….”

Hermione made a noise that might have indicated disgust, or it might have indicated amusement, he was not sure. She did not say anything else. The pregnant pause was soon unbearable, so Harry plunged ahead….

“I got rather cross-ways when I was told about what Malfoy was doing. I let loose with spontaneous magic that damaged some of her things. I couldn't sort them out…. My Repair Charm wasn't good enough.… I offered to pay for things instead. I'm afraid that my offer was rather much, and she refused it. Then we started watching the Muggle tape on the telly, and agreed to go out, so I thought she would change her mind. So I left it. She sent it back, though. I just got this letter.” Harry fumbled in his pockets and presented the letter to Hermione, who quickly read it.

“And I thought Ron was an insensitive wart,” she burst out. “Harry James Potter, do you have any idea how that must have appeared to her - especially with Malfoy and his scurrilous attacks? Not everybody knows you like I do, you know. Your fame and fortune precede you, and it's high time you realise that.”

Harry's face flushed red at the mention of fame and fortune, and he unburdened himself. “What good is all this bloody money anyway? I can't spend it all! I can't even seem to give it away! She was nice to me. I was a prat and damaged her things. I like her, and I wanted to pay her back!”

“So you think it's going to impress her for you to drop cash money on her like she was some cheap East End tart?” Hermione replied just as hotly. “I'll accept that your heart was in the right place, but your actions leave a great deal to be desired. You made it look like it was payment for services rendered - or worse, for services expected. She's telling you she won't be your kept woman, Harry. Don't you see? If she took the money and Malfoy ever found out…. Why, what's been said about the two of us would be mild by comparison.”

Harry's temper subsided straight away, replaced by a sense of defeat. “It's that bad, eh?” was all he could say in reply.

Hermione swallowed. “Well I suppose it could be worse,” she said, feeling Pharaonic again.

Harry grunted, but said nothing else. She charged into the lull. “She could have told you to stay out of her life once and for all, but she did not. Even as angry and embarrassed as she undoubtedly is, she only told you not to do it again. I think that's a pretty clear signal that she's willing for there to be an again.”

Hermione placed particular emphasis on the final word.

Harry's face brightened, and he jumped up. “You really think so? I'm not stuck having done something that came out so badly differently from how I meant it?”

Hermione was not happy. “Sit,” she commanded. Harry sat down. She put her hands on both of Harry's shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Harry, listen to me,” she pleaded. “This is an awkward time of life. You're a boy - but you're a man too. We're all living in the middle of doubt. The relationships that existed when we were children are in the process of rearranging themselves into an entirely new set, on a more adult basis. Romance is a lot harder than it sometimes appears, especially at the beginning. People say things and do things that come out in ways other than they mean them to. That's what … er … you did, but that's all you did. It was a mistake borne from lack of experience….”

“You did something capable of serious misinterpretation, but that doesn't mean that there's no chance for redemption. Anybody can do that. It needn't be the end of the story. If you really like someone, romance doesn't have to turn upon one stupid thing or a single statement gone terribly awry. Try again, Harry. That's all I'm saying.”

He smiled thoughtfully. “You really should write that book, you know.”

Harry might have continued this conversation, but Hermione seemed increasingly on edge, almost as if she were close to tears. Harry felt it prudent to talk about something else - something safer.

“Well, Hermione, how did your parents react to your marks?” he asked.

Her face brightened. “They were delighted Harry, as you might expect - especially when I explained what you just read in the Prophet. Oh yes, and my father was particularly pleased by the scholarships. I think that we may have been living somewhat beyond our means…. This relieves some of the pressure. I think that was another reason I was being withdrawn from Hogwarts.”

Harry beamed. “You got a scholarship, Hermione. That's great. Good things do happen to people who work for them.”

“Actually, I got several,” she responded enthusiastically, “and I'll be shocked if you haven't also been awarded one or more. Hogwarts has been around for a thousand years, and many of its alumni come from very affluent families, as you have discovered. One way wealthy people show off is to endow scholarships with their names on them. When we reach the O.W.L. level, there's a scholarship attached to practically every achievement.”

Harry gritted his teeth at the mention of rich people “showing off.” There were worse uses for excess money, he thought.

She pulled a letter from her purse (which was not shrunken today). She ticked off her various awards. “I received the Merlin Award for best overall O.W.L. score at Hogwarts, and the Confederation Commendation for placing first in the region. That's two full scholarships right there. There's the Ravenclaw Medal for the most total O.W.L.s achieved, the Gryffindor Prize for the best performance in Gryffindor House, the Switch Scholarship for outstanding work in Transfiguration, the Marlborough/Spencer Award for Achievement in Charms, and the Pythagorean Prize for the highest score in Arithmancy. All together, my way is now paid more than four times over.”

Harry's interest was piqued. He ran upstairs to get his letter, which was lying unopened in his room. Ripping it open as he pounded back down the stairs, Harry let out a whoop as he discovered that he also had won a full scholarship - not that he needed it, of course.

“You were right Hermione,” he exclaimed. “I won the Ministry of Magic Scholarship for the highest O.W.L. in Defence, the Headmaster's Award for the highest single O.W.L. score in any subject, and the Belby Trophy for the highest score in Care of Magical Creatures.”

They hugged each other in mutual recognition of their accomplishments.

The two friends then turned to the matter of next year's courses. To Harry's distinct lack of surprise, she had already studied and memorised the upper form mandates. Sixth Years with sufficient O.W.L.s were required to take no fewer than five, nor more than eight N.E.W.T.-level courses - assuming that they had passed that many O.W.L. examinations (which both Harry and Hermione had). Unlike pre-N.E.W.T. courses, the advanced courses took place mostly in the afternoon - except for those Professor McGonagall taught, as she routinely used a Time Turner to manage her schedule.

In addition to the mandatory course, all students were to take two non-N.E.W.T. electives. The two of them had no trouble agreeing on five N.E.W.T. courses. Transfiguration, Charms, DADA, and Care of Magical Creatures were no-brainers. Potions was also an obvious pick, even though Harry was revolted by the idea of enduring two more years of abuse from Professor Snape. Nevertheless Potions was a prerequisite to a career as an Auror, and that was what Harry wanted to do.

He was surprised to learn while discussing courses that she was no longer sure that she wanted to be an Auror. Hermione was now seriously considering a career in wizard healing - which was why she had been so excited over obtaining a medical research fellowship. Harry briefly thought about the likelihood of them going their separate ways after graduation, but quickly shelved the subject as both too upsetting and too remote to think about.

They agreed that they would both take Herbology as a sixth course.

Harry decided that was enough for him. He did not want to take more than six N.E.W.T.s, because he wanted to have time to continue the D.A. sessions, for Quidditch practice, and (he grimaced) for the responsibilities of simply being Harry Potter.

It was not something he wanted, but it was becoming increasingly unavoidable.

Hermione shocked Harry by only taking one additional N.E.W.T., in Arithmancy. In response to his accusation that she was “going soft,” she explained that her student research fellowship also counted as a N.E.W.T.-level course, although it was not marked, as such. She also reminded him that she was a prefect and also would be involved in the D.A.

She convinced Harry that he should take the non-N.E.W.T. Arithmancy elective, because a working knowledge of that subject would be necessary for studying Necromancy as their Senior Independent Work. They both made notes of this desire in the “comments” section of the forms they were filling out.

Hermione was quite surprised when Harry selected Domestic Charms from the calendar as his second non-N.E.W.T. elective. That was overwhelmingly a girl's course, and if there was one thing that she did not think he needed, it was more exposure to his female classmates. Thus Hermione sought to talk him out of that choice. Harry replied that, coming from a Muggle background, he needed to learn how to look after himself in the magical world. He was none too happy when she reminded him of the likelihood that he would have servants and elves looking after him (she did not mention a wife). Still, he would not be deterred.

Hermione chose electives in History of Magic and Muggle Studies.

When they were done choosing, she uttered the spell listed in the instructions, and her course list appeared

Course List for Hermione J. Granger, Sixth Year, 1996-97 Term

Advanced & Human Transfiguration, Minerva McGonagall. Course books: Transfiguration of Living Things, by Minerva McGonagall; Transfiguring Oneself, by Tuan Mac Cairill; Animagus Workbook, by Gandolfus Rottweiler.

N.E.W.T. Potions - Bottling Fame, Brewing Glory & Stoppering Death (Part I), Severus Snape. Course Books: The Emerald Tablet, by Hermes Trismegistos; The Joy of Potions, by Auroleus Phillipus Theophrastus Bombastus von Hohenheim.

Charms for the Charming, Filius Flitwick. Course books: Standard Book of Spells, Grade 6, by Miranda Goshawk; Quintessence: A Quest, by Nicholas Flamel.

Defending Yourself with Modern Magic, TBA. Course Books: Confronting the Faceless: Creative Defences to Dark Magic, by Alastor Moody; The Pre-Auror Guidebook, by the Ministry of Magic Auror Candidate School Training Group.

Heavy Duty Herbology, Pomona Sprout. Course Books: One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, by Phyllinda Spore; Field Guide to Carnivorous and Other Dangerous Plants, by the Wizard Geographical Society.

Interesting Magical Creatures, Rubeus Hagrid. Course Books: Everything You Wanted to Know About Restricted Classification Beasts But Were Afraid to Ask, by Uric the Oddball; Light and Darkness: A Comparative Study of Unicorns and Leithifolds, by Newt Scamander.

Analytic Arithmancy & Numerology, Septima Vector. Course Books: Sefer ha-Zohar, by Shimon ben Yohai (De Leon translation); The Number of All Things, by Bridget Wenlock; al-Kitab al-Mukhtasar fi Hisab al-Jabr wa'l-Muqabala, by Muhammad ibn MÅ«sÄ� al-KhwÄ�rizmÄ« (Wenlock translation).

Selected Topics in Modern Magical History, Cuthbert Binns. Course Book: Patterns of Darkness & Light: The Magical History of the Twentieth Century, by Barbara Tuchman.

How Muggles Manage Without Magic, Arthur C. Asimov. Course Book: The Way Things Work, by David Macaulay.

The first six items on Harry's course list were the same as Hermione's. His two non-N.E.W.T. electives were:

Arithmancy for Poets, Septima Vector. Course Book: Arithmancy Made Easy, by Albert E. Hawking.

Household & Domestic Magic, Filius Flitwick. Course Book: The Better Homes & Gardens Complete Magical Guide, by Samantha Schlafley and Tabitha Palsgraf.

When Hermione and Harry finished, they fretted about having to pick courses without including Ron. While they did not have any choice, since Ron was in Denmark all summer, they felt guilty nonetheless. Hermione performed the Replico spell on their course lists, and they gave the copies to Hedwig to deliver to Ron. Harry was going to see Dumbledore that night for an Occlumency lesson, so he would deliver both of their completed forms by hand.

After Hermione left, Harry was at loose ends. For a while he amused himself by transfiguring some coat hangers into miniature Quidditch goal posts and trying to throw wadded up bits of pages from Teen Witches Weekly through them, but that soon became boring.

Harry had three choices:

First, he could apparate to Lao Kung's studio for more training. Harry felt guilty that he was not seeing the Sefu as much as before, but other things had taken precedence.

Second, he could try to avoid the Dursleys' return by taking a nap and checking out that intriguing gap after Tuesday's scheduled session in combat flying. “Hermione will love that,” Harry thought.

Or third, Harry could grab the bull by the horns - so to speak - and call Eliza to apologise.

Being the courageous son of Gryffindor House that he was, Harry opted for the nap.

* * * *

Author's notes: Chapter 10 ended with warning signs of a lightning strike. Nobody knows more signs than Hermione.

Cho and Ron are rapidly getting together. Eventually, Ron will live (just barely) to regret it

Ron is typically ambivalent about Harry's Chocolate Frog card.

"Desmonds" is Brit slang for "2-2" (Tutu), or less than stellar marks,

Publicity rarely does Harry much good, and that concerning the Santa Claus letters is no exception.

The legal regime is fictional, but lawyers act similarly in the real world.

The science is reasonably plausible. The four classical elements are roughly equivalent to the four states of matter, but additional possible "states" of real matter are controversial. One of them will surface as a novel way to block the otherwise unblockable Avada Kedavra curse.

The Russian wizard is made up, but the other events are factual.

The description of the Muggle science is accurate, if intentionally vague. The "maybe a dozen" is a hint.

I employ a couple of anagrams in this chapter, for those into that kind of things.

The "great magical conference" is the equivalent of the UN conference after WWII.

The ban on Fifth Element research as an impediment to legitimate understanding of magic analogizes to the US controversy over stem cell research.

Hermione agreeing to investigate odd place names is not going to be good for Harry.

Hermione ends up making Malfoy pay.

Hermione's reaction to the Beethoven mention is explained in time.

"Pharaonic" tendencies and Egyptian rivers are references to "the queen of denial."

The pair's discussion regarding Eliza consciously parallels the discussion of Cho in OOP.

The East End as a British reference for unsavory goes back to Dickens' time.

A boy, a man … living in the middle of doubt, are references to "Eighteen" by Alice Cooper. It's also Hermione simultaneously trying to explain herself, and growing up, to Harry.

Hermione's reference the Grangers living beyond their means is foreshadowing.

Lots of symbolism in the various scholarships and awards, including more hints relating to the royal references in prior chapters.

Ditto with their courses and course books.

In Irish mythology Tuan Mac Cairill could change himself into almost anything

The Emerald Tablet is a classic alchemy text; the author is correct.

The Joy of Potions is one of two reworked titles derived from works about sex. The impossibly long name of the author is the given name of Paracelsus.

The unicorn study will come in quite useful, and sooner than Hermione had any reason to expect.

"Analytic Arithmancy and Numerology" is a take off on the Muggle math course analytic geometry and trigonometry.

2 of 3 Arithmancy texts are real. Sefer is a major kabbalistic Numerological work. The al-KhwÄ�rizmÄ« work is among the most famous mathematical texts ever - "Al-jabr" giving rise to the word algebra. Authorship of Sefer is disputed

Professor names and course book titles are updated through HBP, except Snape is never slotted for DADA in this fic.

Barbara Tuchman is a famous, and excellent, historian.

Arthur C. Asimov is a combination of two great sci-fi authors, Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov.

Albert E. Hawking is another combined name.

Samantha and Tabitha are the female characters from the old TV show Bewitched.

Schlafley is a notorious American right winger, one of the inspirations for Ladies Against Women (for those of you too young to know the LAW see < http://blogs.salon.com/0004123/ >).

Palsgraf is the name of a famous American court case.

- 44 -

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12. Squaring Accounts

Wherein there is a Death Eater attack; Harry apologizes to Eliza and ends up with a date; Harry arranges a floo meeting with Ron and Ginny; Harry and Hermione have flight training on powerful new brooms; Harry nearly gets himself killed; Hermione is nearly assassinated; Harry goes to the rescue again; the assassination plot is revealed; and Harry Dumbledore discusses squaring accounts. Flying scenes abound.

This chapter features flying, near-death escapes, flying, a Death Eater attack, flying, and just a touch of H/Hr fluff.

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

Chapter 12 - Squaring Accounts

Harry arrived home from Monday's training in Auror survival spells in a mood of nervous expectation. Survival training had been plenty rigourous. He had learned spells against extremes of heat and cold, charms for locating food and water, transfigurations that conjured shelter and anti-insect netting - along with distress signals, magical mapping techniques that provided insight into the workings of the Marauders' Map, and some field potions and healing techniques. These were useful things to know, even if using ones wand as a dowsing rod was not nearly as flashy as dropping a ceiling on an opponent or immersing him (or her) in fire and brimstone.

Still, Harry had some trouble focussing because he was thinking of a number of other immediate - and more daunting - issues.

Most disturbing had been the news of a Death Eater attack, the first since Voldemort's defeat at the Ministry the month before. To be sure, Harry had never expected attacks to cease (unlike the Ministry, which had been planting optimistic speculation in the Prophet over the past week), but it was nevertheless upsetting to contemplate that the hiatus of Phoney War may well be over.

More upsetting still was the nature of the attack. The Death Eaters had diverged from the previous war's pattern of terroristic attacks upon isolated small groups or helpless families in their homes. Instead, they had staged another daring assault similar to - and in some ways even more audacious than - the trap they had laid for Harry in the heart of the Ministry Building. When the training session ended, a grim-faced Kingsley Shacklebolt informed both Harry and Hermione that a group of at least twenty Death Eaters had attacked an Auror barracks hidden in a supposedly flooded tin mine in the southwest.

Harry had suspected that there was something amiss, as his instructors had seemed distracted over the last two hours of the training session. They had hardly commented when Harry had used an Escalatio Charm to scale a 50-metre ice-covered cliff face in the teeth of a gale whilst carrying the mock-injured Carluke on his back. Rather the instructors (except Carluke of course) were clustered around a Wizard's Wireless listening to a dedicated Auror Corps magical frequency. They deflected questions from their two trainees about what was happening. Therefore Harry - already inured to having bad information withheld - immediately assumed the worst.

The Death Eaters had been repulsed, but not before two Aurors had been killed and another four sent to St. Mungo's suffering from varying degrees of spell damage. Since (belying the Ministry's public optimism) the Aurors had received permission to use Unforgivables two weeks ago, at least seven Death Eaters had also been dispatched.

The body count was uncertain because the Death Eaters used a new enchantment that caused their corpses to spontaneously combust after death. The spell was extremely thorough. Even after the Aurors picked their way through the wreckage and the stench, they had been unable to identify individual bodies in the charred remains.

The Aurors were also surprised that the Death Eaters had engaged in suicidal tactics rather than surrender when surrounded. Other than the occasional rogue last-ditcher, self-sacrifice had never before been a Death Eater standard operating procedure. Rather, Voldemort's supporters had put their trust in their Master's ability to rescue them. No longer. This unexpected change in Death Eater tactics (an attack after a white flag had been displayed) had been directly responsible for two of the Auror casualties. Not a single Death Eater was captured alive.

With no prisoners to interrogate, the Aurors were mystified over what objective that Death Eaters had sought to achieve. The Dark forces had briefly seized the barracks' communication facility before being beaten back by Ministry reinforcements summoned from bases throughout the region. But after recapturing the area, Ministry investigators did not detect any attempt to compromise Auror codes. All in all, the attack bespoke a new level of Death Eater ferocity and fanaticism, whilst its purpose remained maddeningly obscure.

The second reason for Harry's nervous anticipation was tomorrow's combat flight training. It seemed like forever since Harry had last flown a broom - the previous November, to be exact. That was when that vile Umbridge woman had seized his broom and banned him from playing Quidditch at Hogwarts as punishment for fighting with Draco Malfoy.

After Umbridge was removed from Hogwarts, Harry had briefly gotten his Firebolt back. Unfortunately, he had not had a chance to fly it before he loaned it to Ron to use at the summer Quidditch camp in Denmark.

Harry loved flying more than any other activity. It gave him a sense of exhilaration and freedom that was so lacking in his lonely and ever more highly scripted life. He longed to be back in the air, to feel the wind whip through his hair, to see the broader horizons visible only from the back of a broomstick a hundred or more metres in the air.

The more he thought about it, the more Harry became convinced that inability to fly contributed to his frequently bleak emotional state. Certainly being grounded in the literal sense was not as much a factor as the constant threat of sudden and violent death that Voldemort posed to him and anyone he cared for. But Harry could not deny that flying had been one of the few pleasures in his life, and he wanted it back.

Harry smirked a bit as he thought of the diametrically opposite opinion that Hermione held about flying. She hated being on a broom and avoided them like the plague. Harry was not quite sure why. Ron had once let slip that there had been an incident in First Year flying class (after Harry's skill had placed him out) involving an unsteady broom, a sudden wind gust, and the Whomping Willow. Harry could not extract more details from either Ron or Neville. Given their reactions to the inquiry, Harry suspected that Hermione had threatened to hex them into the next century if either of them told him what had really happened. Hermione had both feet firmly planted on the ground, and that was the way she wanted to stay.

Harry wondered if Eliza liked to fly.

Eliza was the third and most immediate reason for Harry's current discomfiture. Having put off the inevitable on Sunday, he had spent most of Monday marshalling the nerve to ring her up and apologise, as Hermione had practically demanded that he do. He understood that Occlumency techniques could also be put to distinctly non-magical uses.

Using his new mobile, Harry had tried three times already - before leaving for training, during his lunch break, and right after training ended. Each time there had been no answer at the number she had told him to use. He did not dare try the other number, since Eliza had forbidden it. He was quite firmly enough in the doghouse already.

Nervously, Harry ran his hands through his already mussed hair, paced a bit, fed Hedwig, paced a bit more, flopped on his bed, meditated. Finally he pulled out his mobile (Howe had been right, it was a useful little gadget) and tried again. Once again he got that infuriating answerphone with the mechanical voice and vague greeting that left him wondering if he had even reached the right number.

“Er … Eliza, it's me again, Harry Potter. I really would like to talk with you, if you don't mind. Like I said, I got your letter….”

[click]

“Hello, Harry.” He instantly recognised Eliza's voice and successfully fought the urge to hang up and run away. “Do you know this is the fourth time you rang today? You could have waited for me to return your calls.”

Harry choked out a response. “I know.… And maybe I should have, but I didn't know if you would want to ring me back.… And I really had to talk to you.… I'm really sorry, you know. I didn't mean anything like what it looked.… I had no idea….”

Eliza smiled into the receiver. Harry was so utterly honest and so utterly naïve at the same time. He was definitely not like anybody else she had ever met. Men never apologised for anything. She thought something in the Y chromosome made them genetically incapable of apology. Hell, most men would never even bother to call her back - unless they wanted sex - let alone ring up four times in one day.

If anybody else had done what Harry had done, Eliza admitted to herself that she would have been so insulted that she would not have even bothered including a note - just an envelope full of torn up red bits of bank notes. With Harry, though, she knew to an absolute certainty that there had been no ulterior motive. However, no good deed could go unpunished that was capable of being misread so badly.

“Harry, relax,” Eliza soothed. “It's not like it's the end of the world. You just have to think before you act.… Think about appearances.”

Harry stammered on, talking when he would have been better off listening. “But…. After Hermione explained it to me…. I was a bigger prat than I ever thought possible.… Please listen to me!”

Eliza was taken aback. “You discussed this with Hermione Granger?”

Harry gasped. After all, their rendezvous was supposed to be a secret. “Not who your were … I mean are, no, but otherwise, yes,” he rather disjointedly admitted. “I'm really thick about this kind of thing. She's always been able to explain girls … er … women to me. She knew what I had done better than I did. She set me straight….”

“I suppose it was her idea to apologise to me?” Eliza growled.

Harry struggled on. “Er.… Not really. That much even I could figure out for myself. It's more like she told me what I had to apologise for.”

Eliza was flabbergasted. She could hardly believe her ears. Hermione Granger had a well-earned reputation as the cleverest witch Hogwarts had seen in many years, but Eliza thought her a fool. Harry's heart was lying in the street, there for the taking. This wonderful, unique wizard was so obviously under that girl's spell if she ever so much gave him the slightest encouragement. Yet, the Granger girl was inexplicably content to advise Harry on how to mend things with her!

Eliza shook those thoughts off. They were not her business. She said simply, “apology accepted, Harry. Now stop being so serious. This was supposed to be fun, remember?”

“Fun, yes, of course,” Harry went on, not quite sure what he should be saying.

“Yes, Harry - F U N,” Eliza purred. “It's fun to have fun, but you have to know how. The idea was for both of us to relax and maybe have good, normal fun together, whatever that might be. I don't want to add to your already overly full plate. No strings attached - capisce? Everything is zipless.”

“Zipless - right.” Harry felt like a zombie.

Eliza sensed Harry's verbal helplessness and took the initiative. “So now that you have finished apologising, Harry, when do you want to get together?”

A thoroughgoing pessimist about all matters of the heart, Harry had not even thought to develop any “Plan B” for what to do if his apology were accepted. Nevertheless he felt incredibly relieved. “I guess I'm free all Wednesday afternoon. I have a karate lesson in the morning.”

“Good,” Eliza said briskly. “After you're done, you can Apparate to my flat. We'll go to the Docklands theme park near Canary Wharf. Just ring me up before you do, so I can have everything presentable.”

The call ended moments later, and Harry - after he got over his numbness and shock - was elated. He had a date! A real date! He could hardly believe it. Eliza made everything seem so easy.

Harry awoke early the next morning awash in nervous energy. He had gone to bed early, and listened to a full lesson and a half on his Aural Pensieve. He was going to be flying today and he could hardly wait. As he was dressing for his morning run, an owl arrived. It was from Ron and Ginny:

Dear Harry:

Congratulations. I saw the Prophet article about the O.W.L. results, with your and Hermione's pictures. I didn't do badly, not by recent family history, anyway, but I didn't do anywhere near as well as you two, or Bill, or that prat Percy. I'm struggling with course selection right now. I hope this won't be the end of the “Trio.”

Ginny, who is reading over my shoulder, is telling me it's now the “Sextet,” whatever that means. I don't know what this has to do with sex. I've got to talk to her about Dean, I guess.

At this point Ron's scrawl trailed off into unintelligible inkblots.

Sorry about the mess. Ginny just kicked me.

We'd both really like to talk to you face to face. It's been a month, and so much has happened - about marks, and awards, and Quidditch, and relationships and all. I've enclosed some Floo powder, in case you might have problems getting any. The address here is Elsinore, Hafnia (that's what the Wizards here call Denmark), Library Hall. We can be free any evening after 9:00 p.m. BST. Just send us a note by return owl to let us know when to be there.

Your friends and family,

Ron & Ginny

With Dudley waiting downstairs for him, Harry had no time to sit down and figure out his schedule just then. He would write Ron back that evening.

Returning from his run, Harry was somewhat surprised to see Bill Weasley waiting for him. Wondering what else he had done wrong, Harry braced himself for something unpleasant. But what Harry received from Bill was more mystifying than mortifying.

Bill handed Harry a folded up parchment with four sentences written on it - at least Harry thought they were sentences. Harry looked at Bill quizzically, then held the parchment at arm's length. “Let's see, cover the right eye and ... D-A-V-A-L-A-Q….”

“No Harry,” chuckled Bill. “It's not an eye chart, it's Gobbledegook. You need to memorise these phrases for Saturday night's ceremony.”

“Well, what do they mean?” inquired Harry.

“They are formal phrases that you say at designated points during the ceremony,” Bill explained. “The first one means something like `I accept the obligations of this agreement freely and willingly.' The next one is about subjecting yourself to goblin law. The one after that is about becoming a full member of the goblin community with all rights and responsibilities. The last one gives thanks and accepts a commission as a general officer in the goblin army. There are probably nuances that I don't know, even though I've worked with goblins for almost a decade. Dumbledore can tell you more when we prepare.”

“Alright,” said Harry. “I'll memorise them. I can't do worse than Bagman, can I?”

“If I were you, Harry, I wouldn't mention Ludo Bagman in front of the goblins,” a suddenly serious Bill cautioned. “I don't even want them to know that he's back from his trip. There's too much bad blood there.”

Harry explained to Bill that he was intending to Apparate to London on Wednesday after a morning session with Lao Kung. Bill was a little worried about Harry taking such a long jump with so little Apparition experience. Mindful of how awful he felt during the process, Harry agreed that he would make the jump in the presence of whomever the Order assigned to guard him - just in case he splinched himself.

Harry gave Bill Eliza's address (not that had much of a choice) but extracted Bill's word that his minder would not try to learn her identity. Bill promised that the Order would remain a “respectful distance” away from them. Harry, in turn, agreed not to take any evasive manœuvres.

Harry met Hermione after both of them had Apparated to the Auror Candidate School. While they were both impressed with how much travel time Apparition saved them, Harry wondered if the process affected her as badly is it did him. It did not seem to.

Hermione was planning to use the extra time gained by Apparition to get a head start on her course work. She now knew what books she had to get, and all this training ate heavily into the time she would ordinarily have spent studying for school.

Harry had trouble believing that she was planning to start schoolwork already - but this was Hermione. Harry thought he might use the extra time to answer more of his “Santa Claus” letters. There certainly were more of them. “Morale,” he had to remind himself.

Harry was eagerly looking forward to combat flying training. Hermione considerably less so. Anything she did, she liked to do well, but she had never been very proficient at flying. Thus she avoided it whenever possible. Now that she knew Apparition, Hermione saw even less reason to practice flying. Today, however, there was no ducking it, even if security seemed considerably tighter after yesterday's attack.

Together with an Auror escort, Harry and Hermione Portkeyed (using a greasy fish and chips basket) to the Ministry's aerial training facility. It was located on an abandoned R.A.F. base in Perranporth, Cornwall that the Muggles had transferred to the Ministry in the late 1950s. Throughout the first war against Voldemort, Perranporth had served as the Ministry's primary air base. Difficulties in concealing operations from an ever-growing number of Muggle tourists had recently forced the Ministry to redeploy its active duty forces. However, the Perranporth Aerodrome still served as the Ministry's aerial training facility.

Several stone-faced Aurors met Harry and Hermione's group, along with two wizards dressed in what Harry soon learned was wizard military flight gear. The Ministry's military flight wing, although not exactly secret, was still not a matter of common public knowledge. The two trainees were curtly informed that one of the reasons for tight security was the aerodrome's proximity to the Auror barracks attacked by Death Eaters the day before. Many Perranporth personnel had been in the first wave of the relief forces. What they found had not been a pretty sight, and it was still fresh in everyone's minds.

Harry and Hermione received flight suits, with their names already embroidered on them in red and gold block letters, the colours of Gryffindor house. They were led into a large building, and saw - side by side - two identical brooms.

But what brooms!

These were the sleekest, most impressive brooms Harry had ever laid his eyes upon. They almost seemed to radiate power. Their broomsticks were long and tapered, with some sort of device at the tip.

Harry was unable to tell if the broomsticks were made out of wood or something else with a close-grained composition. Hermione asked, and they were told that the manufacturer had used wand-quality white oak, harvested on the last day of the Bowtruckle mating season. The wood was then soaked in an Unbreakability Potion for two weeks.

The brooms were countershaded, painted light grey on the bottom and brownish black on the top. The back of each broom was flanked on either side by metre-length stabilizer bars on which the rider could rest his or her legs, or even stand up in flight. The effect was to give the brooms a triangular appearance when viewed head on. The tail twigs must have been 70 centimetres long by themselves. They were aerodynamically sculpted and shorter in the middle.

The tail thus looked “V” shaped, reminding Harry of nothing so much as the guitars used by the Weird Sisters wizard rock group (Seamus Finnegan, a Weird Sisters fanatic, called them “axes”). Harry later learned that leading edges of the “V” on each side automatically lowered at high speeds, compressing the air beneath the broom and generating additional lift.

“Alright trainees, listen up!” barked one of the pilots. He introduced himself only as Mannock, something confirmed by the green and silver lettering stitched into his flight suit. “You will learn your combat flying skills - elementary or whatever level your experience merits (he shot a glance at Harry) - on these brooms. These are,” Mannock paused for effect, “the fastest, most formidable brooms in the world, the Valkyrie-70. You, Potter, what broom are you currently using?”

Harry jumped. “Er … I have a Firebolt, sir.”

“Ah, yes,” half-sneered Mannock. “A Quidditch broom - quite a good one, at that, but nevertheless inadequate for combat purposes. The Valkyrie is not a Quidditch broom, Potter, even though I daresay it would leave your Firebolt in the dust if ever used for sport. This is a fighting broom. For defense, it is equipped with a Protego Totalum curse/hex repellant, and an Iffendus glass. The glass is capable of detecting any witches and wizards within a radius of 500 metres, regardless of concealment, and determining whether they are friendly … or not.”

“For offense, the Valkyrie has triple-wand ordnance. The broomstick and stabilizer bars are all cored….”

“Cored, sir?” Harry questioned.

Mannock explained, “That's what I said Potter, cored. The handle has a magical core just like your wand - and it functions like a wand. The stabilizer bars too. All of them contain magical wand cores, specifically Norwegian Ridgeback dragon heartstring. Upon insertion of your wand in the handle of the Valkyrie all of these cores are activated. In combat you aim your broom through the sighting mechanism, there, on the nose of the broomstick. The entire broom acts as an oversized wand, or more precisely as three wands that fire simultaneously.”

The other pilot trainer, a witch named Cheryl Markham (yellow and black embroidered lettering), asked Hermione the same question Harry had answered. “Miss Granger, what kind of broom do you use?”

“I, I, I don't have a regular br, broom,” Hermione stammered. “I've used the school Shooting Stars on those occasions when I had to fly, but I really haven't flown much - on a broom that is - since the end of first year.…”

Mannock flashed a grin halfway between evil and appraising. “Granger, remember to fasten your safety belt, you'll need it.”

Hermione gasped, and for a moment Harry thought she was on the verge of refusing the training. Perhaps Mannock also realised that, or perhaps he caught Harry's furious glare, or just possibly he responded to Pilot Markam's Inverso Curse that left him suspended upside down trying to keep his flight robes over his Y-fronts.

Whatever the reason, Mannock hastily added, in a much more sympathetic tone of voice, “Granger, I'm sure you'll perform far better than you think right now. Anyone who can ride a Thestral she can't even see bareback for several hundred kilometres can ride one of these. The Valkyrie is superbly balanced, and turns with the merest shifting of your weight. It has anti-inertial cushioning, so that G-forces from acceleration, deceleration, pitch, yaw, and roll never exceed 2. That means it feels as comfortable as an old Bluebottle to fly, no matter how fast you start or stop. You don't even have to hold the stick to steer.”

Markham winked at Hermione as she gently returned Mannock to normal, upright position. Mannock's not altogether voluntary concession to Hermione's skittishness defused any immediate problem. Much to Harry's annoyance, however, they stayed on the ground for another hour, reviewing aspects of the Valkyrie that were too new or too highly classified to be in the standard Auror lesson plan.

The Valkyrie cast a brilliant light in response to “Lumos;” but also possessed an infrared ranging beam that provided the rider with night vision. There were a number of special charms. In addition to the Protego Totalum Charm, a Furtim Charm that made the Valkyrie practically invisible to opponents. An Anti-Collision Charm would activate at the last possible instant to turn the Valkyrie away from large solid objects, including (in all but extreme cases) the ground. In a pinch, there was an Ejection Charm.

The windscreen was charmed to protect the rider from the wind. This was necessary because the Valkyrie was almost twice as fast as Harry's Firebolt. It could reach top speed of 450 kilometres per hour in level flight after twelve seconds and could approach 500 klicks in a powered dive

Beyond teaching the attributes of the Valkyrie combat broom, it took considerable time to activate its personal security features. Each Valkyrie was charmed to respond only to its designated rider. This required both Harry and Hermione submit to a number of recognition spells, involving passwords, their auras, and their wands. For his part, Harry perceived the Valkyrie's recognition charm as similar (involving the same colour light, anyway) to the one cast on the quill in his communicator.

In normal mode, the Valkyrie would only operate for its designated rider. Prolonged contact with unrecognised persons or unauthorised attempts at movement caused Valkyries automatically to return to their designated riders. In combat mode, the same circumstances would cause the Valkyrie to emit a powerful stunning spell, disabling any intruder. Only if placed in maintenance mode by its designated rider could a Valkyrie be handled by anyone else.

Harry casually remarked, “All these lengthy broom security procedures … aren't they a bit excessive for a one-day training course?”

Pilot Markham's reply was shocking. “Not at all Mister Potter, these brooms will be yours to keep for as long as He Who Must Not Be Named is a threat to you. Direct orders from the Ministry.”

Harry found his jaw dropping, an increasingly frequent occurrence. To own a Valkyrie exceeded his wildest dreams. Even though Harry instinctively knew that, after a fashion, he (and secondarily Hermione) was being bribed to behave, Harry could not resist the present. He knew now that he needed to fly. It was psychological sustenance to him - a release for his pent up emotions and an antidote to his poisonous black moods of depression.

The anticipation that had been growing inside Harry all morning ended soon thereafter. Mannock, a pilot from a family of pilots, visibly sympathised with Harry's impatience to become airborne. “Let's fly Potter,” growled Mannock. “One circuit, then stop.”

Harry did not need to be told twice. He kicked off for the nearest of the windsocks that lined the edge of the aerodrome and pelted away. The Valkyrie handled so smoothly and the anti-inertial cushioning was so effective that Harry had trouble believing he was really moving as fast as his eyes were telling him.

Cautiously, Harry released the Windscreen charm. Big mistake. The blast of wind rushing by at over 300 kilometres per hour would have knocked him off the broom if not for his safety belt. As it was, the air stream forced him backwards and almost pulled his glasses, affixed with their unbreakable band, right over the top of his head.

The Valkyrie automatically responded to the rearward shift in Harry's weight, and slowed down. Harry heard Mannock (who had been marking him) swoosh by, laughing. Partly in anger and partly in embarrassment, Harry snapped the Windscreen charm back into place, and sped after him.

Harry had been Hogwarts' youngest Quidditch player in a century for good reason - flying came as naturally to him as eating or sleeping. Pushing the Valkyrie to its limit, Harry caught up to Mannock about three-quarters of the way around the circuit. He rode in Mannock's slipstream for several seconds, catching his breath, drawing some of the power from Mannock's Valkyrie, and slowing Mannock down a trifle. Less than 500 metres from the end, Harry rocked from side to side and sling-shotted himself around and under Mannock. Harry finished in front of Mannock by less than a broom's length.

Hermione, who was being closely marked by Pilot Markham, had been taking short straight-line sprints to get used to her broom. They both stopped to watch as Harry and Mannock came thundering down the home stretch. As it ended, Hermione clapped and cheered for Harry as if he had just caught the Snitch.

Pilot Markham simply stared. Under her breath she told Hermione that Mannock provoked impromptu races whenever he could, and that Mannock had never lost to a trainee before. Even against regular pilots, Mannock was unbeaten in over two years, since Shak had been promoted and given up regular flying.

When it was over, Mannock flew beside Harry. “Your reputation preceded you, Potter,” he remarked. “And from what I've just seen, every bit of that reputation was fully and justly earned.” Harry beamed at the remark from the tough, veteran pilot, and he could feel his chest swelling. He snapped back to attention when Mannock barked, “Twenty minutes free flight, Potter. I want to see everything you've got.”

The weather was producing another hot July day - broken only by occasional puffy clouds. Harry was already glistening with sweat from his previous effort. Nevertheless, when given that kind of an invitation, and this kind of broom, he was once again off like a shot, diagonally across the field. “Bloody Hell,” spat Mannock, and he took off in pursuit.

Harry was practically prone on his broom, continuing to familiarise himself with its capabilities and limits. Streaking over the center of the aerodrome, he stomped hard on the stabilizer bars, yanked back on the broom handle, and shot straight up. With nothing but the azure sky before him, Harry laid himself flat against the broomstick, letting the rhythmic power of the Valkyrie pulse through him.

This was as close to ecstasy as Harry had ever been. Before his eyes the wild blue yonder got bluer and bluer. There were no longer any clouds in the sky. For an almost sixteen-year-old orphan, starved of love, under constant threat of death, and fated some day to kill or be killed - it did not get any better than the mesmerising quality of high-speed flight.

Very shortly, however, reality pulled Harry back. He started getting cold, despite the Windscreen charm, his pilot trainee robes, and the bright sun. Looking around at the violet-blue sky, Harry realised that he was having trouble breathing - or rather that he was breathing normally whilst his lungs were telling him he was gasping for breath. From his lesson Harry recalled, with a start, that high altitude flight carried with it a very real danger of anoxia. Fighting to keep a clear head, Harry leaned back on the broom and brought it to a vertical stall.

Within seconds, the broomstick flipped over and Harry put the Valkyrie into a power dive. Harry's teeth were chattering and he was desperate to return to the oxygenated reaches of the lower atmosphere. Nevertheless, Harry could not possibly ignore the awesome sight spread before his eyes.

He was pointed almost straight down. In front of him stretched the jagged Cornish coast, the green lay of the land abruptly changing to bluish grey ocean, separated by a winding thin ribbon of blinding white surf punctuated by black waveswept rock. To Harry's right, the coastline doubled back abruptly at Land's End. He could see the Scilly Isles beyond as desolate droplets in the boundless sea, and then nothing but blue, until the grey-blue of the sea merged in the far distance with the cerulean sky. To Harry's left, the abrupt division between emerald isle and sapphire sea meandered to the horizon.

Scattered billows of cloud were starting to form over the land, but Harry was, for the first time, looking down upon their phantasmagoric shapes. Near the barely perceptible curve of the horizon, Harry could barely make out the Isle of Wight. Spread out in front and above Harry's broomstick was the majestic English Channel, La Manche, and beyond that the Channel Islands and the Norman coast of France. A large cloud bank - brilliant white in the midday sun - lay towards the horizon where Brittany should be.

Like a bird - like his own miniature satellite - Harry was perched above it all with a gloriously unobstructed view. He could practically reach out and touch it. It seemed so close. If he tried he could make the entire world revolve around him. There was Wales coming into view, then Bristol, then the English Channel again.

It was so beautiful. So peaceful. So very beautiful. If only Hermione were here to share it with him, she would understand why he loved to fly. Flying was worth it. It was worth anything…. The wind was hissing by….

The hissing grew louder and louder. Harry could hear someone shouting in the distance. “Dammit, Potter. Come out of it.”

Harry jerked his head up. He was still in the air as best he could tell. He was definitely still on his broom. But his vision was partially impaired, and there was this hissing sound in his ears.

Harry's head was feeling very hot and the air was bright, but indistinct. It was as if he were inside of a fishbowl, but the fishbowl was covered in mist and all he could see was light and shadow. The hissing was coming from bubbling liquid only a foot or so in front of him. The liquid was frothing around cut-up pieces of something brownish. Harry reached for it, but his hand hit something hard.

“Ouch!” Harry yelled.

Something, somebody, had grabbed his arm and squeezed down hard. “Don't move,” he heard Mannock yell. “What's your name?”

“Harry Potter,” Harry mumbled. “Why are you…?”

“Where do you live?” Mannock asked urgently.

“Er…, Four Privet Drive.”

“What are your parent's names?”

“James and Lily Potter.”

“Who's your girlfriend?”

“Herm…. Er…. I don't have one. What is this all about?!”

“Thank Merlin's lucky stars! Finite.”

The fishbowl vanished, and Harry could clearly see Mannock's creased and frowning face less than two feet in front of him. “Evanesco.” The foaming liquid with its auburn bits vanished.

“Wha…? What happened? Whe…? Where am I?” Harry asked unsteadily as he glanced this way and that, taking in his surroundings.

Mannock responded, “As for where, at this moment you're about 3,500 metres over the Perranporth Aerodrome. Effectively out of sight of the ground. As for what, that depends on your meaning. I could tell you that you just broke all-time Fédération Aéronautique Magique flight records for unpressurised broom altitude and speed - I know because it was my record. But if I told you that, then I'd go to Azkaban and you'd be grounded.”

Mannock continued, “What I need to tell you is that you almost bought the farm. You just lost consciousness at around 8,000 metres after the biggest damn fool abuse of a broom that I've ever seen. You went into a death spiral, and you'd be a damp spot on the ground right now if your Anti-Hex shield had been up and had prevented me from stopping you. Even the Anti-Collision charm can't stop a power dive.”

“What I hope you'll agree to, Potter, is that what just happened never did,” Mannock spat. “But you should let this be a lesson to you. If you ever - I mean ever - have to fly an unpressurised broom anywhere near that high again, use the Bubblehead Charm and heat hydrogen peroxide mixed with bits of Fwooper liver inside it like I did for you. The oxygen it generates will save your life.”

Mannock finished, “Now, I can give you about ten more minutes. How about showing me how well you can manœuvre on a broom instead of just how bloody fast and high you can make the damned thing go.”

Suitably chastised, Harry started slowly, with a couple of figure-eights. But as he flew to lower altitudes, his head cleared and he regained his confidence. Soon Harry was attempting the more aggressive manœuvres that he had either tried on the Quidditch pitch or read about in books on the sport. Harry executed an inside loop. He executed two inside loops in succession. A barrel roll. A barrel roll during a loop. An outside loop. A deliberate stall and reversal of direction. A half-loop/barrel roll causing reversal of direction. Finally, in a series of kilometre long Wronski feints, Harry brought the Valkyrie to the ground once more.

Hermione had been performing far more basic manœuvres - although they did not seem at all basic to her. She had not flown seriously on a broom (as opposed to a Hippogriff or a Thestral) since helping Harry save the Philosopher's Stone in First Year. When she saw Harry descending, she broke off and flew swiftly to him. “Harry, where on Earth … er … not on Earth have you been? I was beginning to go mad with worry!”

“There was nothing to worry about, Hermione,” Harry said blandly, trying not to display any emotion. “Mannock wanted to see what I could do, so I showed him.”

“I guess you did,” Hermione said more softly. “It's just that you seemed very happy…. And then, nothing. That worried me, but you seem fine. I was also concerned because I've never seen anybody - not even at the Quidditch World Cup - fly straight up like you did at such a high speed.”

“That's nothing to be concerned about,” Harry lied. “Mannock tells me it happens all the time around here, when the real pilots train.”

The next several hours passed in real (shields up) combat training. About the only concession their trainers made to Harry and Hermione being mere student flyers was to have them keep their brooms in normal, rather than combat, mode. That way nobody got accidentally stupefied.

The two trainees had target practice to measure how well they could aim spells from their brooms. The targets were generously sized, as the object was simply to disable the broom, not to hit the rider. Both Harry and Hermione did well enough at this, although Harry once again showed an uncanny ability to hit targets from impossible angles, even during inverted flight.

They also had in-flight training - broom on broom. Here, Hermione was at a pretty basic level, and was content to learn entirely defensive skills. Harry, on the other hand, was soon immersed in advanced techniques, like Immelman turns and stall rolls (actually, he could already do these, but had been unaware of their tactical use), four- and eight-point rolls, reverse figure-eights, yo-yo turns, and positioning the sun at his back whilst attacking. After Harry twice made mock runs at Hermione, she told him in no uncertain terms to back off and stop using her for simulated target practice.

After lunch the training turned to close air support, which primarily consisted of attacking targets on the ground, rather than other flyers. The two of them were again approximately equal in this type of marksmanship, but as always Harry was the far superior flyer. Harry quickly graduated to zigzag strafing runs and the like, whilst Hermione continued to have trouble with the basic straight down and in high-speed run. Pilot Markham was still required to guide Hermione through her runs - especially trying to keep her from letting her airspeed drop dangerously.

Waiting for Hermione to finish some practice runs, Harry and Mannock got into an argument about the merits (or lack thereof) of Muggle aerial technology, whilst hovering lazily about 500 metres above the ground:

“Why do we keep fiddling around with brooms at all, then?” Harry asked. “Muggle aircraft are so much faster than any broom ever can be. We should just charm them.”

“Won't work, Potter,” replied Mannock. “Brooms do because they operate on pure magic. Muggles can't control performance aircraft without avionics, and avionics and magic don't mix any better than computers and magic. All the defensive charms necessary to send an aeroplane against wizards would fry the Muggle technology they need to work.”

“If the aircraft are fast enough and well-armed enough, would they even need defensive charms?” persisted Harry.

Mannock sighed. “Potter, there's no reason for you to learn it here, but almost any fully trained wizard not taken by surprise is capable of downing an unprotected Muggle aeroplane with little difficulty. Muggle aircraft are just too vulnerable in too many ways to.…”

Mannock was interrupted by the cheery voice of Pilot Markham flying up to them. “I think I've finally got her to the point where she can make the run by herself. It's just a matter of self-confidence. Hermione has the potential to be an above average flyer. Not in Harry's league, mind you, but until now I've had to shepherd her everywhere….”

“Oh bloody Hell!! What now?” Markham pelted off behind Harry.

Harry saw Mannock's eyes grow wide. “She's in trouble! Follow me Harry!” Mannock flattened himself on his broom and was gone.

Harry went spare. “Hermione!” he yelped. Facing the wrong way, Harry instinctively dropped the Valkyrie into a descending Immelman from a standing start. Coming out of the turn, he pulled himself prone against the broomstick. In a frantic effort to get more speed, he deactivated all the defenses except the Windscreen charm in order to free up more power.

With no time to think, Harry at first simply followed his instructors. All too soon, however, he spotted Hermione at least a kilometre away and a couple hundred metres above him. Harry had no idea why, but Hermione and her broom were tumbling end over end in a macabre series of aerial cartwheels. Worse, rather than stopping, the rate of tumble seemed to be accelerating. Hermione and her broom were spinning faster and faster.

Trailing behind Mannock and Markham, Harry saw them firing spells at Hermione and her broom. Her shields were up, and the spells had no effect. She was spinning so fast now that she was practically a blur. Harry could tell that whatever was going on was entirely beyond Hermione's control.

Her anti-inertial cushioning was nonfunctional. Neither her hands nor her feet remained on her broom. Centrifugal force generated by the spin was splaying Hermione's arms, legs, and hair out crazily behind her. At 600 or more metres in the air, she was attached to her wildly rotating broom only by her safety belt.

Even though he was moving at close to 450 kilometres per hour, Harry felt like he was taking forever. As he closed in, his stomach seemed to fill with lead as he discovered that he was unable to tell if Hermione was still conscious - or even alive. “You can't die, Hermione!” he silently begged. Despite the instructors' spells having no discernable effect, Harry felt that he had to try something.

Hermione was right. Harry did have a “saving people thing” - and now he put every fiber of his being into trying to save his best friend. At this speed, he was only going to get one shot….

“Dammit!” Harry yelled to nobody in particular.

His instructors were in his line of fire. Harry stood on the left stabilizer bar and yanked the broomstick up. He sailed high and to the left. Aiming again, Harry jammed his eyes into the broomsight. Beads of sweat popped up all over his forehead as he squinted in intense concentration. “Three, two, one … Immobilus!!” Harry screamed. The three cores of the Valkyrie emitted angry blasts of yellow light, the likes of which he had never seen.

The recoil from the Immobilising Curse slammed into Harry like a sledgehammer. The Valkyrie bucked and shuddered. Somewhere in the depths of his consciousness in that frantic moment he regretted sacrificing the Anti-Inertial Cushioning Charm for more speed - but only for the briefest instant. His Seeker's instincts took over as Harry struggled for command over the crazily veering broom.

Despite his fight for control, Harry's eyes never strayed from the beam of yellow light streaking towards Hermione's wildly spinning form. Harry didn't believe in God - at least not the sort of corporeal God so popular with the Muggles - but at this moment he found himself praying to any and all deities that might exist to ensure that his aim was true.

It was.

The blur that was Hermione lit up like a daisy as Harry's spell found its mark. A split second later the yellow glow burst apart like an aerial firework as Harry's spell shattered the Protego surrounding Hermione and her malfunctioning broom. In the blink of an eye, the pinwheeling broom froze in place. Harry allowed himself to breathe again.

But to his horror, Hermione did not stop. Her safety belt snapped and off she went on a wide arc that inevitably led down - some 600 metres down. As he flattened himself on his broom once more, Harry noticed that his magical indicator light was glowing yellow. Harry's overloaded mind took note of the likely gremlin and promptly ignored it. He wrestled the Valkyrie into position and aimed again. This one would be trickier, because the spell required a flick at the end. “Wingardium leviosa!”

The colourless spell rocketed out of the ends of the three cores on the Valkyrie. Except for a slight flutter in the atmosphere, Harry could not see what he had done. He could feel it though. For a second time, he felt the sledgehammer recoil as he went pirouetting wildly sideways.

This time though, Harry also heard sputters and pops beneath him. He saw smoke begin to rise from the socket where his wand was inserted into the broomstick, and also from the connection to the left stabilizer bar. Cursing like a sailor, Harry yanked his wand free with one swing of his right hand. “Merlin, what more could go wrong?” he thought.

In the same millisecond, that question was answered. As Harry was grabbing for his wand, he saw Markham and Mannock closing in on Hermione's falling form with what looked like a large net strung between them. “Noooooooo!!!!” Harry screamed, as they flew into the path of his spell. The spell passed through the net, which instantly fouled, wrapping around itself, and flipping the instructors out of Harry's sight like balls on a string. Where they went, Harry did not know - because his eyes never left Hermione.

This time, Harry's spell had missed its target and taken out Hermione's rescuers instead.

Not knowing what else to do, Harry dove after her. Fortunately, at the low altitude, the rational side of his brain still worked. She was falling at maybe 150 kilometres per hour, close to terminal velocity. Harry was in a full power dive at around 450 kilometres per hour. Even if Harry were to catch up to her, what could he do? If he tried to catch her, their closing speed of 300 kilometres per hour would produce a collision that would surely kill them both - she would hit ground with less violence. Hermione was far too large for him even to consider catching her like the snitch at this speed.

The sight of the ground rushing up caused Harry to go numb in the groin. As that numbness spread to his legs, Harry reeling mind came up with one last desperate idea. Slowing his broom to get the best possible aim, Harry went to his knees on the stabilizer bars. He was too shaky to stand properly. He swallowed once to calm himself, aimed his wand at Hermione by hand, and shouted, “Aparecium parachutio!”

A reddish orange beam streaked from Harry's wand and found its target. A parachute appeared on Hermione's back. Some feeling returned to his legs, and he noted the relative lack of recoil. “Alohochuto,” he bellowed. The parachute opened, instantly slowing her descent.

Still in a moderate power dive, Harry shot by Hermione whilst trailing black smoke. He hastily reactivated the Valkyrie's anti-inertial cushion, which seemed to work, and executed another Immelman. When he had Hermione in view again he realised that she was falling towards the remains of the concrete R.A.F. runway. Whilst the parachute was slowing her descent, it had nonetheless opened at far too low an altitude to prevent serious injury - or worse. Harry was too close to both the ground and Hermione for another spell. He could see people running frantically below him. He had no other choice. He jammed on the brakes….

FWUMP! Harry deliberately flew into the canopy of the parachute, rolling left and upward as he struck the chute in order to foul it as much as possible around him and his broom. Just before his vision became totally obscured in the white nylon, Harry located the ground and jerked his broomstick up once again. Blindly, Harry rose straight into the air.

Operating entirely by feel, Harry eased back on the broom causing it to lose its remaining speed gradually. He deliberately put himself into a vertical stall. Slowly he felt the pull of gravity return, and when he did, he put a much gentler version of the Wingardium leviosa spell on the Valkyrie itself. Now Harry was floating rather than flying. Completely wrapped in opaque fabric, Harry could tell up from down only from the direction that the parachute cords hung.

Furiously, Harry tore at the cords, grabbing them upward and draping them over the broomstick. With each yank of his sweaty fingers on the cords, Harry cried out, “Please don't be dead.” Soaked in sweat, Harry continued to pull - metre by agonising metre. Friction from the cords burned and cut into his hands, but he noticed neither the pain nor the blood as he frantically tugged away.

Surrounded by nylon, Harry was terribly hot, physically exhausted, and perspiring profusely. Almost as if viewing himself in the third person, he willed himself to continue. A part of him dreaded what he might find at the end. The possibility of ending it all that always seemed to lurk in the darkest recesses of his mind came more and more to the fore. Harry's lungs and muscles ached as he rhythmically grappled with the tangled web of parachute cords.

After what seemed like an eternity, Harry pulled Hermione's inert and unconscious body into view. She was bound up in the parachute cords. With one final heave he dragged her onto the Valkyrie. She was all he could see. She was all he wanted to see. With his last dregs of adrenaline and anaerobic muscle function rapidly fading away, Harry could contemplate doing nothing more to do than hugging Hermione's body to his.

“She's breathing,” he realised. A wave of relief swept over him, dissipating tension that he had hardly known was there. Utterly drained from minutes that seemed like days, seconds that seemed like hours, Harry could push himself no further. Eerily like the experience on Privet Drive less than three days before, he retreated into his own little world with Hermione - only this time white, rather than black surrounded them.

Harry felt totally bereft of energy. He remained more or less conscious, but was incapable of thought, much less action. Even a thunderous crash in the distance could not disturb his reverie. He had no idea how long he and Hermione sat there immobile on his broomstick. He had no idea how long Aurors and others on brooms had been circling and shouting at them. Harry remained inert, in numbness and exhaustion, until Hermione finally stirred, “Har… Harry? Harry! Is that you? Are we alive?” Hermione murmured.

“It's me, Hermione,” Harry rasped, his voice hoarse from all the earlier screaming. “Yes, we're alive.”

“Help me, please,” she said more urgently. “I can't move!”

Harry flicked his wrist. Nothing. He remembered he had jammed his wand in his pocket rather than reholstering it. As he fumbled for it with one hand, he asked Hermione for an appropriate severing charm. She told him. “Disassocius,” Harry muttered over and over, carefully freeing Hermione from the parachute cords one by one - all the while making sure she stayed balanced in front of him. As he sliced at the cords, Harry heard yelling from outside the nylon barrier. “Diffindo!” With a sweeping arm movement, Harry used the less precise severing charm he knew best to slash a large gash in the parachute canopy, which quickly fell away from them.

As the two sat blinking in the bright sunlight, their eyes adjusted to a chaotic scene. The air around them was thick with aerodrome personnel, Aurors, and mediwizards all circling the exhausted pair. At least ten witches and wizards hovered some distance below them holding another large net. Above them, several uniformed Aurors were in the process of tying themselves to bungee cords, evidently planning to rappel down Muggle-style to where Harry and Hermione were. On the ground, about 100 metres below, was a small crowd of gawking onlookers. Flashing lights were in abundance. In the background, a siren wailed.

Mannock eased his broom in close and straddled the space between his stabilizer bar and Harry's (thank Merlin for normal mode). After their ordeal, Harry and Hermione were both content just to let themselves be led for a while. Mannock helped move them from Harry's Valkyrie to two floating evacuation stretchers that the mediwizards quickly conjured. As Harry was moved, he looked in the opposite direction from where he had been staring since he had cut away the canopy. He was shocked to see half of the main aerodrome building lying in ruins. “Was…? Was there an attack?” Harry asked weakly.

Mannock smiled, shaking his head. “No, Potter,” he confided. “It seems that a very strong Levitation Charm caused half of the building to float away. We didn't know what else to do, so after getting everyone out, we ended the spell. What you're seeing is what a 200-metre fall can do to a rather old Muggle aeroplane hanger.”

Although the mediwizards were impatient to whisk Harry and Hermione away to the nearest Auror medivac facility, there was one thing left to do. Both of them personally had to switch their respective brooms to maintenance mode, to permit a thorough inspection - of Hermione's broom for sabotage, and of Harry's broom for investigation of the failure of its magical cores. After what had happened, Hermione was understandably hesitant to even touch her broom again. She was also surprised that it was so nearby, and she asked about this.

“It came to you as intended when I held on to it long enough to activate the security spells,” Pilot Markham explained.

“So you stopped it, then?” Hermione asked.

“No, I'm afraid that Pilot Mannock and I both failed rather badly,” Pilot Markham admitted. “It was your own Mister Potter who accomplished that.”

“Why wasn't I on my own broom, then?” Hermione asked.

“Your broom was sabotaged, Miss Granger,” Pilot Markham explained. “The safety belt was cut almost through. Someone wanted you to be thrown from your broom, presumably to your death.”

“Why did you activate the security spells, if the broom was sabotaged?” Hermione pressed.

“After the situation had stabilized, it was the fastest way I could think of to be sure that the plot had failed,” Pilot Markham answered. “Since your broom came to you, it meant you were still alive. If you had died, the security spell on your broom would have ceased to function. We were quite relieved….”

“What ever happened, then?” Hermione persisted.

“You had best ask Mister Potter, Missy,” Pilot Markham responded. “He's the only one who saw it all. After you were thrown from your broom, all I know is one minute I'm convinced that you are a goner, but in the next minute not only did you survive, but there you were, under a parachute with Mister Potter.”

Needless to say, the nearly successful attempt upon Hermione's life put an abrupt end to that day's training session. Mannock had seen enough, however. Taking his leave as Aurors came to debrief both Harry and himself, the grizzled pilot told Harry. “Mister Potter, I've been flying brooms in combat and in Quidditch for over half a century, but I've never seen flying like you showed me today. I know it's not my place, but if you sought entry into Ministry's flight wing right now, I'd be chuffed to be your wingman.”

Hermione had significant internal injuries, including aggravation of her prior spell damage. She spent the rest of her afternoon at St. Mungo's. Harry suffered only assorted cuts, bruises and superficial rope burns. He spent the rest of his afternoon under interrogation - first by jittery Aurors and aerodrome personnel, all of whom seemed to tread very lightly around him - and later by Headmaster Dumbledore. Harry quite willingly told the entire story over and over. He probably learnt as much from his questioners as they did from him.

Harry discovered that everyone was astonished that he had penetrated the Protego Totalum Charm on a Valkyrie with a mere Immobility Charm. The Valkyrie had been under development for five years, and both Dumbledore and Professor Flitwick had been involved in creating this charm. It was thought to be impenetrable by anything short of Unforgivable Curses. Harry's interrogators were further impressed by his Levitation Charm. First, it imparted enough force to a loosely woven net to hurl two experienced pilots and their brooms more than half a kilometre. After that, the spell retained sufficient power to float the better part of a large aeroplane hanger 200 metres in the air. Dumbledore had a theory, which sounded right to Harry, that something (the Fifth Element?) amplified Harry's magic when he was in pain or under extreme stress.

His questioners' reaction to the parachute was also informative. Initially, they were surprised that Harry knew of that spell at all. It was advanced aerial combat conjuring, and had not been included in his assignment. He had to admit to learning unassigned material.

Beyond that, Harry found out to his surprise (since the materials he studied had been ambiguous) that both the Aparecium parachutio and Alohochuto spells were short-range magic designed solely for the caster to use on him or herself. Neither spell had ever been attempted before absent physical wand contact - let alone upon a free-falling individual at a distance of more than a hundred metres.

Being kept on base had other advantages for Harry - since being kept ignorant was probably what he detested most. The base commander ordered everyone on duty for the week (since orders arrived concerning Harry's and Hermione's training), starting with herself, to be interrogated with Veritaserum. She also encouraged a thorough search of the aerodrome's perimeter with powerful magic detectors. Harry was in the next room telling his story for the fourth time, when an uproar ensued.

Under Veritaserum, a Valkyrie mechanic confessed that a Death Eater had surprised him in the lavatory the day before, and had placed him under the Imperius Curse. The description of the Death Eater matched that of Peter Pettigrew. Later, Dumbledore told Harry that Shak had told him that an Auror scouring the perimeter had turned up a fresh three-inch cut in the base of a fence. The cleanly sliced fencing was tested and found to have surface traces of enchanted silver.

Harry shuddered when he realised that the recent Death Eater attack that had cost the lives of two Aurors was probably a mere diversion - intended to draw down the guard of the Aerodrome to facilitate an infiltration directed at his best friend, and thus at him. Was there yet more blood on Harry's hands? He had, after all, once made the choice that allowed the rat Animagus Pettigrew to live.

After Dumbledore told Harry rather firmly that nothing would be gained by going to St. Mungo's to see Hermione, the boy was allowed to observe the rest of the interrogation. The unfortunate mechanic had been compelled to place a Confundus Charm that overrode the anti-pitch portion of the stabilising magic that enchanted Hermione's broom. As confunded, the charm sensed high-speed pitch when there was none, and its misdirected corrective action caused the broom to tumble.

The mechanic had also tampered with Hermione's anti-inertial cushion. However, this sabotage was took effect only when the Valkyrie's Iffendus Charm detected nobody within range.

Finally the mechanic was ordered to weaken the safety belts, but only from the underside, where his tampering would be particularly difficult to detect. This elaborate sabotage would have succeeded - but for Harry's “saving people” thing, and pure luck. It was entirely fortuitous that Hermione had initially been flung partially upwards when the safety belt gave way. Had the angle been different, the same centrifugal force would have propelled her straight into the ground, leaving no time for Harry's rescue efforts.

The mechanic's testimony was confirmed by a physical inspection of Hermione's Valkyrie.

Harry saw Mannock once more before leaving for Privet Drive under the personal escort of Headmaster Dumbledore. Mannock had good news for him. The magical failure of his broom was not caused by any deficiency in the dragon heartstring cores. Rather the cores had been connected to Harry's wand and to one another by insufficiently magical circuitry - charmed metal rather than actual wand-core quality material. “Damn low-bid contracting,” Mannock grumbled.

Harry's powerful spells had burned out, literally vapuorised, the metal. Harry's broom (and eventually all Valkyries) would be refitted with continuous heartstring circuitry. Mannock had ordered that the retrofit of Harry's broom be given the highest possible priority. Harry was thrilled to learn that he could expect his Valkyrie delivered to him within the week.

It was not late, so Harry and Dumbledore stopped off for some tea, crumpets, and conversation at Mrs. Figg's house. At Harry's insistence, the Headmaster summoned someone from St. Mungo's and received a report that Hermione was in no danger, and would be discharged later that evening.

Dumbledore then gave Harry more details of how this Saturday's Ashrak would unfold (a big fire, an even bigger cave, and a ceremonial altar), and how they would get there (via Gringotts). He assured Harry that, if there were any last-minute difficulties, he would be available to resolve them. Dumbledore explained that, because Minister Fudge was determined that there be a treaty, the Ministry had vested the Headmaster with plenipotentiary powers to bring matters to a final conclusion.

They also discussed Harry's Auror training and his progress with Occlumency. Dumbledore agreed that he seemed ready for learning the rudiments of Legilimency. Harry took advantage of the Headmaster's availability to obtain permission to have a Floo-based conversation with Ron and Ginny on Sunday evening after his Occlumency lesson. The recent increase in Death Eater activity ruled out Harry's actually going to Denmark, but Dumbledore was willing to allow him use of a fireplace at Hogwarts to pop his head into a fireplace at Elsinore. Dumbledore would arrange security at both ends.

Harry also asked Dumbledore for phoenix feathers from Fawkes for making spare wands for Hermione and Ron. Harry planned to have such wands custom turned at Ollivander's, and he hoped to have Hermione's in time for her 17th birthday on September 19. Dumbledore found the idea intriguing, but indicated that he doubted that the wands would have the desired Priori Incantatem effect in the event of a close encounter of the Voldemort kind. It was likely that two wands not only had to share the same core to create this rare effect, but also had to be created at the same time. Dumbledore was no wand expert, but Octavian Ollivander should know the answer to this question, and the Headmaster promised to “contact him expeditiously.”

Dumbledore also seemed unduly interested both in Harry's trip to Muggle London and in his relationship with Hermione. Harry was largely successful in avoiding the Headmaster's questioning. Harry declined to tell him anything at all about what he was planning to do in London, and he discussed Hermione only superficially.

The Headmaster's main point about Hermione seemed to be that the events of the day had perversely demonstrated how Harry's worry about exposing her to unnecessary danger was groundless - or at least fruitless. Dumbledore emphasized that there was nothing Harry could do to prevent Hermione from being placed in such danger, since she was already among Voldemort's prime targets. Isolation was not an option.

The Headmaster further explained to Harry that he, Dumbledore, would be going from Mrs. Figg's directly to St. Mungo's because he was personally taking Hermione home to her parents. Dumbledore did not think it wise for Harry to accompany him, because that meeting would be “delicate.” Dumbledore confessed that he “had some explaining to do” for Hermione's parents, and that he was not looking forward to it.

All this information jangled Harry's already frazzled nerves by raising his fear of another parental attempt to remove Hermione from the magical community. Dumbledore explained that his visit to the Grangers' this evening was intended precisely to forestall this possibility, and that every step that needed to be taken would be.

Harry sighed in apparent resignation at this information. “Well, at least I squared my accounts with her today.”

“Your basis for that belief is?” queried Dumbledore.

“She saved my life last week, and I returned the favour today,” Harry replied. “In the course of three days, we discharged wizard debts to one another.”

“Ah,” Dumbledore wheezed, with his eyes twinkling. “If only it were that simple. Your `accounts,' as you call them, with Miss Granger are far too complex and interwoven after five years to be settled by any single event - however traumatic or cataclysmic. It may take a lifetime to square those accounts. Indeed, it may not be possible to square them as separate accounts. Some matters just do not lend themselves to a ledger book solution. You must continue to explore your magic. It is deeper than you suppose.”

More than a little puzzled, Harry returned home. To his disgust, he arrived just in time to be tasked by his uncle with responsibility for preparing dinner. Although the boy grumbled, he was able to cook up a passable meal of onion soufflé and Salisbury steak from the contents of the Dursley refrigerator. Harry was even able to keep his use of magic to a minimum, resorting to his wand only when necessary to restore a collapsing soufflé that was inopportunely threatening to become a pancake.

After dinner, Harry went to his room to think and to write a letter to Ron. Most of his thinking was about Hermione. He admitted to himself frankly that had not even the slightest idea whether his rescuing her from a near-death experience had, or should, change the nature of their relationship. He would like for that to happen, surely, as long as things changed for the better. Harry did not, however, desire to end up like Viktor Krum after Krum's marriage proposal - “too rich, too famous, and too pure blood” and thus relegated to an occasional letter now and then.

In his confusion, Harry strongly felt the loss of his father and godfather. He really felt the need to talk to some man he trusted about his feelings, but the adults who could guide him were dead. Those remaining were all unsatisfactory confidantes, either because they had their own agendas (Dumbledore), were too close to the situation (Arthur and Bill Weasley), or were simply unavailable (Lupin and Hagrid). Grasping at straws, Harry thought that perhaps Lao Kung could provide some insight. By himself, Harry felt paralysed - unable to resolve anything in the face of intense and contradictory feelings.

Harry then sat down and wrote to Ron and Ginny.

Dear Quidditch fanatics:

Congratulations on what sure sounds like your ripping good Hogwarts Quidditch team.

I've got some good news and some bad news. The good news is that Dumbledore will let me talk to you by Floo at 9:00 p.m. on 19 July. Be there or be square. The even better news is that I just got a fantastic new broom. It's almost twice as fast as the Firebolt, more nimble, and the broomstick has its own core that works like a giant wand. Slytherin won't have a chance this year!

The bad news is that both Hermione and I almost got killed whilst flying today. With me it was the same old story. I did something stupid on my new broom, wound up unconscious, and had to be rescued. What happened to Hermione was scarier. We had flying lessons with the Ministry Flight Wing, and a Death Eater snuck in and tampered with her broom. She was thrown off the broom and would surely have died, except I reached her in time.

I hope you've gotten mine and Hermione's course schedules by now. I hope they made it easier for you to select your classes. Like you said, we can talk more about it by Floo.

Talk to you soon

Harry

Harry decided not to talk about his inheritance, his inescapable fame, his special exemptions permitting Apparition and underage magic, or his relationships with the opposite sex. He knew Ron, and he was afraid that Ron would just get jealous if he mentioned the first three. Harry also knew himself, and was afraid that he would get jealous of Ron if he dwelled too much upon the fourth topic.

Exhausted, both physically and mentally, Harry turned in early after he gave this letter to Hedwig (the international delivery albatross Ron had used having long since vanished whilst Harry was out). He chose a chapter about magical herbs that did not appear on his training curriculum for his nightly study, followed his increasingly familiar ritual of clearing his mind each evening, and fell to sleep.

* * * *

Author's notes: Cornwall was the site of tin mining for some 4000 years until the last mine closed a few years ago. It closed because flood prevention was too expensive

The Death Eaters' gradual loss of faith that Voldemort would rescue them is an important catalyst of future events

I'm assuming that Harry placed out of first year flying. The course vanishes in PS after Harry's abilities become manifest

I have been informed that £50 notes are red in color

Harry's heart lying in the street is a variant on the metaphor that power was lying in the street during the 1917 Russian Revolution

"It's fun to have fun," A line stolen from Dr. Seuss

"Zipless": Eliza is already a little randy, having read Erica Jong

There's no Docklands theme park to my knowledge, but Docklands is an area of London close to Canary Wharf

Elsinore is the Danish site of Shakespearean magic; Hafnia is the Latin term for Denmark, which also finds expression in the element hafnium

BST stands for British Summer Time, the same as daylight savings in the US

Perranporth is a real Cornish town, and was the site of an RAF base in WWII. It's being overrun by tourists

Countershading is a common form of aircraft camouflage: light like the sky when seen from below; dark like the ground when seen from above

The Valkyrie brooms are modeled after the XB70 Valkyrie, an experimental US high altitude bomber from the 1960s that was technologically ahead of its time. Among other things it featured, v-shaped wings that could change positions to foster supersonic flight

Mannock and Markham are names of WWI British flying aces

Iffendus: "IFF" means "identification friend or foe" in military jargon

Slipstreaming is standard racing practice, whether in the air or on the ground

At his altitude Harry was well into the anoxia zone

The vertical stall is a fast way of changing a plane's direction from up to down

All the landmarks Harry was seeing are accurate. I worked with an atlas to write it

Heating hydrogen peroxide with bits of liver liberates oxygen through the action of liver enzymes. A prior draft had used the Lavoisier method of liberating oxygen from mercury calx, but I have been informed that toxic amounts of mercury vapor would also be produced

The Fédération Aéronautique Internationale is the organization that keeps track of flight records

The aerial maneuvers are accurate

The discussion of Muggle aircraft foreshadows something that happens later

A "gremlin" is an aviation term for something unknown going wrong

A wingman's position is generally a subordinate one

In his characteristic elliptical fashion, Dumbledore is trying to tell Harry something about Hermione

- 43 -

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C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch12 squaring accounts.doc 09/28/03

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13. Out On The Town

I'm back from my long Hawaii vacation. Here's the next chapter.

Wherein Harry has a nightmare, has a man-to-man talk with Lao Kung, has a date with Eliza at an amusement park, gets mugged, learns about modern swimwear, prevails over fraudulent games, gets a real kiss for the first time in his life, has underwater training, has issues with Hermione, requests a Pensieve, gets yelled at by McGonagall, and Hermione makes a critical request.

Most of this chapter is lighter than the previous one. It features Harry's attempt to find some way out of the box he is in with Eliza, his first date with Eliza, which opens up one escape option, and the beginnings of Hermione's ultimately disastrous reaction to this situation.

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

Chapter 13 - Out On The Town

Harry Potter was miserable when he awoke the morning after flight training. Nightmares, but not the kind that Occlumency had any power to prevent, had shattered his sleep. Occlumency was useless because these dreams were not caused by anyone's penetration of Harry's mind - at least directly. His scar was not bothering him at all. Images of Hermione were.

The nightmares now torturing Harry featured images of Hermione falling - falling in front of him, beside him, behind him - and his not being able to reach her in time. Fortunately, as victims of falling dreams are wont to do, Harry woke up before the sticky end; half strangled by his sheets and completely soaked in sweat. In places, the sheets even appeared slightly scorched.

His unfortunate alarm clock got quite a workout during the night - being blasted, hexed, or just plain thrown by Harry in his frustration over being unable to sleep consistently in the wee hours of the morning. When Harry stopped the charade of trying to sleep, his first action was to send a note to Dumbledore asking about Hermione's condition.

His hot and humid night filled with nightmares only increased Harry's desire to speak to Lao Kung. That was the goal upon which Harry focussed the following morning.

Harry got quite shirty with Dudley during the morning run, threatening (only partially in jest) to turn him into a slug and put salt on him. But all his cousin had done was display his usual sardonic interest in Harry's love life, and on some level Harry recognised that. Moreover, on this occasion, Dudley had good reason for heightened interest. He knew Harry had “a date” with Eliza scheduled for noon that day.

Harry's tetchy reaction finally goaded Dudley into wrestling him into a headlock. For a moment it seemed just like old times, except Harry's now somewhat less than spontaneous magic soon sent a charge coursing through Dudley's arms, causing them to go numb again - for the second time this summer.

Dudley muttered something about how Harry no longer “played fair,” but Harry was having none of it. He remembered being beaten up by his cousin and his gang when they outnumbered him five to one, so Harry was not particularly in a nostalgic mood. The two stayed cross with each other all the way to the gym. Dudley's dalliances for his usual slingshot practice with the ravens on the telephone wires only annoyed Harry this morning. He was not inclined to waste time.

Lao Kung seemed almost as anxious to see Harry, as the boy was to see him. He had heard (no doubt from Dumbledore) about the latest displays of his student's extraordinary power. Unfortunately, their conversation left Harry more confused than ever, because Lao Kung was not a believer in the Fifth Element, or indeed in any elemental theory of magic.

Lao Kung postulated magic as more of a continuum - that magic was not so much composed of separate elements as different facets of a multi-dimensional whole. He explained it to Harry with the parable of the seven blind men and the elephant. Perhaps Harry was only exploring an aspect of the elephant that most wizards were never able to experience. Whether elephants or elements, Lao Kung had no solid information to offer about any new form of power or, more importantly, whether or not Harry had such power.

Harry's actual training session with Lao Kung was very successful, particularly since the Sefu now knew he was authorised to explain what exactly he was teaching. Heat and cold; solid, liquid, and gas; size, shape and color - all these were attributes of matter that magic affected. By working wandlessly with sawdust, Harry was learning to master the ancient magic of the ancestors.

Wands only concentrated a wizard's inherent powers. According to the Sefu anything that could be done with a wand could also be done wandlessly with the fingers of one's hand - provided that the wizard had sufficient confidence in his or her powers. Harry's confidence in his wandless powers burgeoned as he put the sawdust through its paces. He burnt and froze it. He made the sawdust flow and blow. He shrunk it to invisibility and then enlarged it to snitch-sized fragments.

Lao Kung allowed Harry to progress to bricks for the first time. By the end of the session, the boy had not only learned the theory of how to break them but had actually broken one - the hard way. His hand hurt for fifteen minutes after that, but he was careful not to do anything that would amount to an admission that anything was wrong. Lao Kung, perhaps conscious of the fact, never inquired.

After the training session was complete, Harry used his newly honed powers to cast a Cooling Charm on himself in the now sweltering gym. He began peppering Lao Kung with the burning questions that were preying on his mind. Yes, Lao Kung explained, it was possible for one to master his mind so that one's own experiences did not create nightmares. Unfortunately, the process did not involve Occlumency or any other form of magic.

Lao Kung questioned whether Harry had the kind of contemplative personality necessary to control his own thoughts to such a degree. He bade Harry to consider whether it was even a good idea, given the sort of situations in which Harry all too frequently found himself. Rather, the Sefu suggested that his student address the problem in a more Western fashion. What Harry needed, Lao Kung explained, was his own Pensieve in which to leave overnight the troubling images that produced his nightmares. Like Dumbledore before him, he had been through many more harrowing experiences than had the average wizard. A Pensieve was like a wand - a device to facilitate what a wizard could do anyway, if sufficiently trained.

Harry promised himself that he would write to Dumbledore for a Pensieve. The other question for Lao Kung was harder, but Harry thought that he might get a better answer. The Sefu was much more of a totally objective outsider than any of the other adults he knew.

“Lao Kung…,” Harry asked tentatively. “Could I ask you a personal question, but with your assurance that you won't tell Dumbledore anything about this?”

The Sefu responded affirmatively. “Hahli, I will maintain your confidences, provided that you are not contemplating something dangerous to yourself, or others.”

That was an acceptable caveat, since Harry's concerns were not dangerous, not physically anyway. “I am not, sir. I was wondering what is the proper path when I think I might be in love with someone in a … er … romantic way, but I'm not sure this person … that she shares my attraction? I know this must sound trite to you, but it's a very serious matter to me, and there's really no one else I can ask.”

The Sefu mulled his response for several awkward seconds before answering, “I will take it seriously, Hahli, I assure you. One who does not know love, cannot know wisdom, but one who does know love will know wisdom. Now this person, do you know her well?”

“Very well indeed,” responded Harry.

“Do you trust her?”

“With my life,” Harry affirmed.

“Have you asked this woman how she feels, Hahli?”

“Er…. Not exactly,” muttered Harry. He silently cursed himself for sounding so stupid.

“If you haven't asked, Hahli, there must be something else that is troubling you. You are ordinarily very courageous.”

Harry felt better. Lao Kung was indeed as wise as he had suspected. “Yes, Sefu. She said something about a former … er … boyfriend that leads me to believe she may … er … the she probably doesn't want to be with me that way.”

“Hahli, you are who you are, and you cannot be otherwise. You are not anyone else.”

“But I don't know what to do,” he whinged. I have such a close friendship with her that I don't want to risk that. Nor can I risk her safety, and that's a real problem. You see, Voldemort tries to kill - rather successfully - those whom I love.”

“Your friend sounds not unlike yourself. If you truly trust her, Hahli, you must believe that a single direct question would not imperil your friendship. How long ago did she say this thing that worries you so?” Lao Kung ignored the second aspect of Harry's angst for now. He thought it easier to deal with than the first.

“I do trust her,” Harry affirmed. “We talked about her former boyfriend several weeks ago.”

“The only thing constant in a woman's emotions is change, Hahli. Has anything significant happened in the meantime?”

Harry thought a bit. Lao Kung had a point, because quite a bit had happened. “I suppose so, sir. She saved my life, and then I saved her life.”

“Parallel wizard debts are rare, Hahli, and very powerful. If you do not ask, you cannot know. Obviously, you do not want to continue along the current path, or we would not be having this conversation. You must once again conquer yourself before you can conquer others.”

“I think that's right,” replied Harry.

“Hahli, what is the sound of one hand clapping?'

“Huh,” stammered Harry. This sounded like a trick question. “Er … I don't think that one hand clapping makes a sound, Lao Kung. It takes two.”

“You have feelings without actions. In that you are like one hand clapping, Hahli. One without the other, nothing happens. Love can conquer all, not without contact with others.”

“But what if I end up getting her killed?” Harry asked frustratedly. “This isn't some academic exercise. This is Voldemort I'm dealing with.”

“Hahli, you cannot seek life at cost of love. What makes life worth living, if not love? You said before that you recently saved her life. Is she safe now?”

“Probably not,” conceded Harry. Things were getting a bit frustrating, as Lao Kung could be maddeningly indirect. “Voldemort already knows we're friends, maybe more. Voldemort sent me a dream where she was a queen to my king.”

“Indeed, Hahli, I fear that the time for concealment from Voldemort is long past, if indeed there ever was such a time. It is not a question of prevention as much as of avoidance. Do not your own actions demonstrate that no one is as likely to maintain her safety as yourself?”

It all came back to the first question. Harry again asked plaintively, “Then what should I do?”

“You must answer that for yourself, Hahli - but you should remember that every great journey begins with a single step.”

That essentially ended the audience between the aged oriental and young occidental wizards. Harry thought about this conversation all the way back to the Dursleys. The status quo was not acceptable - Harry was tearing himself apart on the inside. Hermione, he trusted, and he thought the he meant more to her than Viktor Krum ever had.

Plainly, the “single step” he had to take was to have an honest heart-to-heart conversation with his best female friend as soon as possible.

Upon returning home, he had a note from Dumbledore explaining, to his relief, that Hermione had been pronounced fully recovered by the Healers at St. Mungo's. She was resting comfortably at her home - no doubt using the bedrest as an excuse for more studying ahead with her Aural Pensieve, Harry thought.

But before Harry would see Hermione again, there was the matter of Eliza - specifically their trip to that amusement park near her flat at Canary Wharf. He had been looking forward to this almost from the last time he had spoken to Eliza. For once in his life, he was going to do something just because it was fun.

The Order and Harry had arranged that his guard, whoever that was, would meet him at Mrs. Figg's. They would then Apparate together, Harry directly to Eliza's flat at the appointed noontime rendezvous, and the guard to the vicinity of the building itself.

Harry had never been to an amusement park, and his familiarity with them was limited to the occasional television or billboard advert. Not only was he unclear what to wear, he was equally uncertain what to bring with him. He decided to wear his new convertible khaki zip-off pants so he could have shorts or long pants, whichever Eliza said was better. It was hot outside, so he chose a T-shirt - his favourite, the one with the dragon. His usual trainers and his Manchester United hat completed the rather minimal wardrobe.

Money would be an issue, so Harry stuffed a bunch of bank notes into his pockets, a few larger ones (his ambition was to spend those two â‚¤50 notes that Eliza had returned) and a fistful of smaller ones as well. Harry also decided to bring along the special issue Bank of England debit swipe card he had gotten. To date, there had been precious little opportunity to use it. He wanted somebody familiar with such things around to help him when he finally got the chance.

As he was stuffing everything into his pants pocket, Harry decided it would be a good idea to get a Muggle wallet … even though that would be like his Uncle Vernon. Ugh. The thought of being similar in any way to his uncle made Harry blanch.

When Harry arrived at Mrs. Figg's, he was pleased to discover that Tonks had been detailed as his guard for the day. She was usually Hermione's minder, but a last-minute substitution had been necessary after Dung had gotten himself into a spot of bother with the constabulary. No other replacement was available, as Azkaban guard duty was stretching the Auror Corps thin.

Oddly, Tonks did not seem particularly pleased with the reassignment. Overtly cool to Eliza, she was nevertheless tight-lipped about it. Harry wondered what her cryptic reference to “Stockholm Syndrome” was and whether it might be contagious. Since Tonks was not being forthcoming, Harry thought he might ask Hermione what was up with her minder. Tonks was primarily assigned to watch his friend, so Hermione struck Harry as the person most likely to know what was bothering the young Auror.

Harry, on the other hand, could not have been happier about Tonks as his minder on this outing. Of all the Aurors he had met, Tonks seemed the most sympathetic to his requirements as an underaged (but just barely) wizard. Also, she would be easy to spot in a crowd with her violently orange hair. After a brief discussion of logistics with Tonks, Harry called Eliza on his mobile and received permission to Apparate to her flat.

A few minutes later Harry and Eliza were on their way to Canary Wharf on the back of Eliza's sky blue Aprila motorbike (Tonks was marking them with a broom and an Invisibility Cloak). Harry found this trip to be considerably more - if not relaxed - then enjoyable, than his first pillion ride on her bike had been. First, the ride was shorter. Second, he had been flying recently and had gotten reacquainted with the sense of motion. Third, this time Harry had no worries about where he was going or what he would be doing.

Less than ten minutes after leaving the underground car park, Harry was wide-eyed as they approached the entrance to the Docklands theme park. In front of him, towering scores of metres into the air were many bizarre, multi-coloured constructions of a sort that he had never seen before. Not even Hogwarts could compare to the huge mÃ©lange of multicolored rides. Harry stood there gaping and watching the riders moving up, down, along, and about the various structures in various cars and other mobile units.

Seeing Harry rooted to the ground, transfixed, Eliza grabbed his hand and tugged. “Quit gawking Harry,” she giggled. “You'll get sunburned on the inside of your mouth. Let's queue up.”

“Huh…? Right,” muttered Harry as he returned to the here and now. “This is just … so amazing…! It's the closest Muggles get to magic isn't it?”

“I suppose you're right,” Eliza replied thoughtfully, as she led Harry through the crowd to one of the queues at the kiosks.

“Er … Eliza,” said Harry haltingly. “Is it alright with you if I pay? I … er … do have more money than you…. But I don't want to be insulting you again. Just thought I'd ask….” Harry's flustered voice trailed off.

“Oh, certainly, Harry, it's traditional,” chirped Eliza, covering her face to hide a grin. “You're sweet for asking though.” She squeezed his hand. Harry now noticed that she was still holding it.

Whilst queued up in the sweltering heat, Harry had time to look around. He had never seen so many Muggles in one place before. There were obvious tourists, families with children, scruffy looking groups of teenaged boys his own age or older, and gaggles of giggling Muggle girls, most making eyes at the boys - and being eyed in return.

He spotted Tonks in the next queue over, looking confused as she contemplated her own Muggle money. Her hair, now brilliant lavender, would stand out in any crowd. Otherwise there probably was not a single wizard in the entire place. Harry realised that in this world he could go out in public without attracting any attention - and certainly none of the quick glances at his scar that were so commonplace amongst wizards that he hardly noticed any more. Harry was content.

Again, Eliza had to yank him out of his thoughts. “Harry, if you're going to pay, then pay.”

He wheeled around awkwardly. They had reached the front of the queue. “Cash or charge?” said the perky blonde in the booth.

“Er … charge, I guess,” he responded. There was an awkward silence.

“Harry, you need to give her your card,” Eliza whispered.

“Oh!” he exclaimed with embarrassment. As he fumbled around in his pants pockets for his BoE card, Harry scattered several of his bank notes on the ground, including one of the Â£50 notes he had brought along. Both Eliza and Harry scrambled to pick them up, and they were successful in retrieving them all, with the help of the some smirking young men behind them. Harry presented his card to the clerk.

“Right you are guv'nr,” she responded. “Don't see many of these here. Funny, you don't seem like the type….” She stopped as the computer printed out two all-day, both-park tickets. Harry signed the slip he was presented with, pocketed the tickets, and started to walk off.

“Sir…!” called the kiosk girl.

“Harry!” Eliza grabbed his retreating form. “You have to take your card back now,” she said.

He flushed again and retrieved his BoE card as the smirking young men behind him mumbled some inaudible, but no doubt derogatory, comments. He apologised to Eliza as they headed for the park entrance. “I'm sorry. I know I looked like a git back there.”

“Not a problem,” said Eliza soothingly. “It's just a learning experience. Better to work things out here rather than in front of anyone important.”

“Er … I think you are important,” said Harry earnestly. “Nobody's taken me anywhere just to have fun before.”

“Oh, aren't you the sweet one,” cooed Eliza. She came closer to him and kissed him on the cheek. Harry went red again. He looked around, but fortunately he could tell from Tonks' now-blue hair that she had had her head turned and had missed what had just transpired.

“Let's check out some rides!” Eliza squealed and pulled him into the park.

The next couple of hours were exhilarating for Harry. He and Eliza rode three different kinds of roller coasters. In one of them, they were suspended from above in a harness and whirled about upside down, their feet flailing in midair. They rode some sort of compressed air tower that shot them almost 100 metres into the air and let them free fall most of the way back down. They got soaked on a ride in a big ersatz plastic log. Harry could not help but notice how Eliza's wet clothes clung to her in a rather revealing way. He found himself staring, and was not at all sure that he did a good job in concealing it.

Nonetheless, he practically ran from one ride to the next, he was so excited and relaxed. Here he could just be plain Harry and not have anyone gawking at him.

Eliza dragged him into the haunted house ride. He was not terribly impressed by the Muggles' very stereotypical portrayals of ghosts, ghouls and, especially werewolves. The ghosts, ghouls and werewolves Harry knew would surely have been insulted.

The two of them gorged themselves on pizza, candyfloss, lemonade, and blancmange.

Unfortunately it had not been a good idea to consume all that pizza, candyfloss, lemonade, and blancmange just before Eliza got Harry on some sort of whirligig ride that looked for all the world like several acromantula lashed together. It was called “the whip.” Before Harry was through, he thought a better name for it would have been “Aragog's Revenge.”

The ride spun Harry and Eliza in about three different directions at once. By the time it was over Harry was so dizzy he could barely stand. But standing turned out to be an even worse idea, as he rapidly went green with nausea. Harry hurled the half-digested remnants of his lunch all over the front of his clothes.

After retching out the contents of his stomach, Harry felt he was a stinking mess - and he was right. Eliza half led, half dragged him to a deserted stretch behind a maintenance building where he could use magic to clean himself up. Before Harry could finish, however, he heard Eliza give a frightened squeal. At the same instant he felt somebody roughly grab his right arm and twist it painfully around behind his back.

Harry went spare as he was jerked around. He recognised four of the scruffy Muggles who had been behind him in the queue. Two of them were restraining Eliza. Another had a large knife and was pointing it at him. Obviously there was a fifth - the one who had taken hold of him from behind.

The blonde goon with the knife was built like a Muggle version of Gregory Goyle, the larger and stupider of Draco Malfoy's two large and stupid sidekicks at Hogwarts. He sneered at Harry, “Alright Nancy-boy, just give it up real slow and easy and nobody gets hurt. Hell, we might not even do anything with the girl.”

The two darker-haired thugs holding onto Eliza guffawed in the background. One of them pointedly reached around and grabbed her left breast. She let out a muffled scream.

It was too much for Harry. He felt the same energy surge race through his body that had immobilised Dudley earlier that morning. It had the same result. The thug holding onto him abruptly let go. But now Harry had to act - and he did. In one motion he whirled around and clocked the surprised hooligan with a roundhouse right to the jaw. The thug fell heavily to the pavement, like a bag of wet potatoes. Dudley would have been proud of how well Harry had learned the rudiments of the sweet science, but at the moment he had no time to think about such things.

As he spun to face the knife-wielding leader, Harry flicked his wand from his holster. “Expelliarmus!” Harry roared. A red flash struck the unsuspecting Muggle squarely in the chest. The knife went flying to Harry as the would-be mugger careened backwards into another Muggle tough who had been just standing around gawking. Both of them fell in a heap and were not moving.

Harry threw the knife as far as he could. Screaming incoherently at the top of his lungs, he launched himself at the hooligan who had groped Eliza. That hoodlum screamed in pain as Harry kicked him in a strategic location.

The hood screamed even more loudly after Harry grabbed him. Harry concentrated as he had been taught by Lao Kung. The smell of burning flesh rose from where Harry had the brute by the arm. Instead of burning sawdust, however, he was searing the thug's limb.

Seeing that, the other goon broke and ran. Harry ignored the fleeing criminal and moved his hands to his chief target's throat. He started to squeeze. Unable to breathe, the object of Harry's anger sank to his knees, silently trying to scream as Harry's hands burnt his neck and began choking the life out of him. Harry pushed him over and slammed the back of his head into the concrete.

“Harry, please stop! That's enough!” Eliza shrieked. Harry relaxed just in time to hear “Inverso! Nauseo!” uttered behind him. He let go of the still-writhing punk and saw Tonks - her face almost as red as her now-flaming scarlet hair - with her wand trained on the fifth hoodlum, who was retching whilst being suspended upside down in midair.

“Wotcher Harry!” greeted Tonks, a nasty smile on her face. “I got here as fast as I could - WC break you know…. Whoa! A spot of bother, I see, but you seem to have things well in hand. It looks like you had some major mojo working. You do need to watch your use of magic in front of Muggles, though. You were plainly justified, but I'm going to have a lot of paperwork, nonetheless. Scrimgeour doesn't like this kind of thing.”

Harry looked at Tonks. Then he looked at Eliza, who was wide-eyed and breathing heavily. He moved swiftly to her and enveloped her protectively in his arms. She began sobbing. Harry whispered to her, “It wasn't the money. They could easily have had that … but when that one went to touch you like that, I just couldn't take it.”

“What! Which one of these berks was he?” demanded Tonks.

“That one,” Harry and Eliza both pointed.

“Looks like you already let him have it quite proper,” said Tonks, bending over the man and examining the blistering burn marks on his neck. Still, it needs to be done. Enervate.”

The hoodlum stirred, but did not get up. Tonks stood over him. “If I ever catch you doing anything of this sort again, I will personally kill you, but only after first making you wish you had never been born,” Tonks snarled. Then she reared back and kicked him square in the face. Tonks then repeated the process with each of the other hooligans.

“T-T- Tonks,” Harry stammered, “was that violence really necessary?”

“I'm not sure you're one to talk, but you'll learn when you become an Auror, Harry, that with these types, you can't just beat them. You have to put the fear of Merlin in them or they'll just come after you again,” Tonks said softly but firmly.

“That goes double for Death Eaters,” Tonks emphasized. “You need to know, Harry, that being an Auror is not the most enjoyable work. These sorts here are some of the more pleasant ones I've had to take into custody lately. At least they couldn't hex anyone.”

“Is this what Mad-Eye taught you?” asked Harry.

“Indirectly,” Tonks answered. “Mad-Eye introduced me to Rafer Hoxworth, and I learned my fighting philosophy from him.”

“Who is this Mr. Hoxworth?” Eliza asked, having composed herself.

“A character in Muggle literature,” Tonks responded. Turning back to Harry, Tonks said, “Maybe I'll introduce you to Captain Hoxworth some day soon.”

There were several popping sounds. Harry and Tonks looked up, wands at ready, to see who had Apparated. They relaxed when they saw several maroon-robed Aurors. The backup squad had arrived. Almost immediately, Tonks was deep in conversation with them, explaining just how she wanted those thugs Obliviated “enough, but not too much.”

Harry asked Eliza if she wanted to leave, but she was even more determined that they would both have fun as they intended. She did not want their visit to Docklands to end on such an ugly note. It was a scaldingly hot afternoon, well into the thirties. Harry was sweaty from his unplanned exertion, so they decided that it was time to enjoy the second park - the water park.

Eliza was dumbfounded when she found out that, not only had Harry failed to bring any bathing costume, but that he did not even own any.

“But Harry, in the Triwizard tournament, I read that you had to stay under water in the Hogwarts lake for an hour…”

“I did that in my robes,” Harry responded.

“Well it's high time that you got yourself a respectable bathing costume,” Eliza chided. She grabbed Harry's hand and pulled him through the crowd of Muggles towards the park called Docklands Wet and Wild, and towards that park's souvenir shop.

Harry was distracted and found himself content just to be led. The closer he came to the water park the more distracted he became. He was not thinking about Voldemort, Death Eaters, or even the Muggle thugs he had just thrashed. Harry was thinking about girls.

There were more and more striking girls in even more striking swimwear. Harry had never really seen a bikini before, up close, that is. Now his eyes were being overwhelmed by the sight of girl after girl in bathing costumes that left less to the imagination than Harry could imagine.

On various occasions, Harry had accidentally seen his aunt, Hermione, Ginny, and (on one memorable occasion in the Quidditch dressing room) Alicia Spinnett in their undergarments. Harry had been embarrassed each time that had happened. Now he wondered why. As best he could remember, their knickers had hidden from sight considerably more than most of the bathing costumes he was now seeing in public in broad daylight.

Harry was still distracted when Eliza brought him into the souvenir shop. He tried to focus, but was only moderately successful. Then they came to the display racks for bathing costumes, and there were a number of mannequins modeling the same kind of woman's swimwear. As Harry ogled the mannequins, he vaguely heard Eliza ask him, “Do you like Speedo or baggy?”

“I detest baggy clothes,” Harry answered - entirely truthfully. Harry had spent enough time in Dudley's oversized hand-me-downs that if he could help it, he never wanted to be seen in baggy clothes again. Harry told Eliza that he had a size 28 waist, and that Gryffindor colors would be fine. Eliza also picked out for Harry a red waterproof plastic container for his money that he could wear around his neck and a Union Flag beach towel.

It was ghastly hot, and all the water in the vicinity had never looked so inviting. Harry and Eliza went to a nearby bathhouse to change and use the lockers. As Harry changed into his new bathing costume, he relaxed, knowing that here was one place that he had no worries about anyone trying to take a Playwitch 100,000-Galleon photograph of him.

At least Harry relaxed until he started putting on his bathing costume - what little there was of it. His suit shared one similarity with the swim clothes of the girls Harry had been watching. There was less fabric to his swim trunks than there was in his normal underwear.

Harry had seen a suit like this only once before. Victor Krum had worn a black pair during the second task of the Triwizard tournament. Harry thought about how scrawny he had felt next to the Bulgarian professional Quidditch player. Suddenly he was thinking that maybe baggy had something to say for itself after all. But Harry was stuck with the costume that he had asked for. To ease his embarrassment, he decided to leave his dragon T-shirt on, at least until he got used to wearing so little clothing in public.

Somewhat self-consciously Harry left the dressing room and looked for Eliza. She was not hard to find, since she was wearing a teal-green string bikini. Eliza was sitting on a low wall putting something - suntan lotion, Harry realised - on her very long, very smooth legs. When Harry saw her, he felt like someone had turned a switch that cut off his air supply.

His mind flashed through a mental checklist: keep your mouth shut; no gawking; do not drool; try not to make a fool out of yourself; act normally, and above all keep your mind away from that, he told himself.

The attempt at mental discipline was totally unavailing. The more Harry told himself not to think of that, the less capable he was of thinking about anything else. As far as acting normal went, he hardly knew what normal behavior should be in the presence of a girl - his own date - wearing less in the way of clothing than any girl he had ever actually met. Crikey! There was more cotton in the top of an aspirin bottle.

Harry nervously moved his beach towel so he carried it directly in front of him. He took a few halting steps towards Eliza. Almost as if she had sensed his approach, she lifted her head and smiled broadly at Harry. `Dammit,' he thought, `doesn't she know what that kind of an outfit does to a guy? Speak Harry, speak,' he reminded himself.

“Er…. You look … er … unbelievable, Eliza.” Harry stammered.

Still smiling, she gave him an appraising look and said, “Why, thank you Harry. You're looking pretty buff yourself.”

Harry stood there with a half-worried, half-quizzical look on his face. For one terrorised moment he wondered whether he had somehow forgotten to put his trunks on at all. He shot a quick glance at his own midsection. No, he was decent…. “That means, handsome, Harry,” Eliza teased, giving him another appraising look and emphasizing the word handsome. “Now lose the shirt and come help me with this gook. We don't want to fry, you know.”

As he was hurrying back to the locker room to put away his shirt, Harry concluded that Eliza surely knew exactly what the male reaction to bikini swimwear was - and that his reaction was undoubtedly very much intended. He sucked in some air as he thought that his trunks were no doubt intended to generate the same sort of reaction in girls … er … women. …And she had picked them out for him.

Trying to move his mind onto safer ground, he thought about one thing that he knew, suntan lotion. At least that was one Muggle item with which he had experience. He remembered how his aunt had screamed at him - and locked him in the cupboard under the stairs - when he had gotten badly sunburned at age four. His relatives had left him there for several hours as punishment.

That time, the sunburn had hurt so badly that he had cried constantly and wished that it would go away. Surprisingly it did. When his relatives had finally let him out, they had already made an appointment with a pediatrician to have him seen. When Harry emerged from the cupboard without any trace of sunburn; it was awkward, indeed. The Dursleys had to cancel the hastily arranged doctor visit they had scheduled. Not until much later did Harry understand why his relatives' reaction had been one of disgust rather than relief when they found that he had healed himself - and why he had been strapped and forced to stay in the cupboard for the next day and a half.

Even though magic could heal sunburn, Harry had always found it easier (not to mention less upsetting to the Dursleys) to avoid burning altogether by using Muggle lotions. He had certainly done enough of his relatives' gardening to appreciate the finer points of the “gook,” as Eliza had called it. Why, he had even figured out how to use the backs of Aunt Petunia serving spoons (thankfully, she had never noticed) to reach those hard-to-get-at places on his … back?

Harry felt his air supply being cut off again - Eliza was going to want him to touch her, a lot, to put on suntan lotion, and she would likewise be expecting to touch him. What on earth would so much female skin feel like? This was not going to be anything like hugs with Hermione.

In due course, Harry found out. Eliza felt incredibly soft and smooth - and with the lotion, she also felt somewhat cool to the touch and slippery. And those curves! Harry had never really considered how differently a girl's … no a woman's … torso joined to her hips. The anatomy seemed so amazingly interesting up close, and the bikini left so little to the imagination. With his fingers tingling and his nerves on edge, Harry probably got as much suntan lotion on himself as on Eliza. He had to keep reminding himself to move on and finish the job.

When he was done with her back, she returned the favor. He was in exquisite agony. No girl, er … woman had ever touched him in this way - not Hermione, and not even Cho during their brief romantic interlude the previous year. Eliza's every touch gave him goose pimples. Harry kept his towel resolutely in his lap to avoid revealing what else she was making him feel.

Then, suddenly it was over. Eliza binned the tube and smacked Harry on the behind. “Tag, you're it!” Eliza shouted and ran off in the direction of a large pool with an artificial wave making machine at one end.

Harry caught up with her quickly enough. After both of them had stowed their towels on a white plastic beach chair, they enjoyed bouncing among the mechanically generated metre-high waves in the deepest part of the pool. He thought that this must be like the ocean, except that he had never been to the seaside before. The only time he had been close to the ocean had been when his relatives were fleeing from the Hogwarts owls shortly before he learnt he was a wizard.

Frolicking in the waves with Eliza raised another version of the same problem for Harry. How should he touch her? There was so very much skin, but touching her directly on the skin - except on Eliza's arms and hands, seemed overly intimate. But there was so very little cloth that it was even less appropriate to touch her on her suit. Those locations would surely draw a slap or worse. He decided that the only solution would be for him to touch Eliza as little as possible.

That solution failed utterly, because it soon became clear that she was having none of it. When the wave machine stopped, he looked about briefly for Eliza, but saw nothing. Suddenly, he found his ankles being pulled out from under him. With a shout and a splash he was underwater. Swiftly her fingers moved under Harry's armpits and … SHE WAS TICKLING HIM. He had never thought about being ticklish - he blamed it on Rictusempra - but Harry determined very quickly that if he failed to respond in kind he would soon have to surrender. A splashing, screaming tickle war was on.

The tickle war ended his inhibitions about touching Eliza, which was surely for the best since she was certainly in a mood to be touched by him. For the next several hours, the pair splashed their way over, around, and through a wide variety of water filled rides. Sometimes they rode inner tubes, sometimes they rode double tubes, sometimes they rode plastic mats (“you ride these with the smooth side down so the mat slides, and with the rough side up so you stick,” Eliza had told him), and sometimes they used nothing more than their bodies.

Every now and then Harry would catch sight of Tonks, always at a discrete distance, come rocketing down one of the rides - her hair and features changing abruptly as she went screaming at the top of her lungs. Even Tonks seemed to be having a good time, in spite of herself. It was that hot of a day.

Late in the afternoon, Harry and Eliza were sharing a double tube on a gently flowing ride that behaved like a river - except for the constant jets of water that were spurting from all directions. She was leaning back into him. He thought she had to be aware of how much she was arousing him, but if she were, her only response was to wiggle that much closer to him.

It occurred to Harry that the ideal solution to his dilemma was right in front of him. He could maintain his close friendship with Hermione, since Eliza seemed oddly comfortable with that. But he would not have to risk that friendship by attempting to turn it in a romantic direction, contrary to Hermione's evident wishes. With Eliza, Harry could pursue enough romance to satisfy him. He sighed and said softly to Eliza, “I don't think I've ever felt contented before, but I do now.”

She responded, “Contented is good, but maybe we can do better….” Then she rolled over onto him and kissed him properly, square on the lips.

Where that might have gone, neither of them was able to find out, because the unbalanced inner tube promptly capsized. Before they were able to right themselves, it started to rain. Eliza smiled and said “rain check.” Harry was too stunned to say much of anything.

The two were peckish, so they spent the next hour eating supper and waiting for the rain to stop. Harry was rather subdued, still trying to process his own feelings after their brief but intense kiss. After the rainclouds moved off, it was considerably cooler, so the two of them dressed and left the water park. In the sunset they wandered across the original park going nowhere in particular. Then somebody addressed Harry:

“Step right up, young man and try your luck! Only 25 pence a chance! Win the little lady something softer and cuddlier than you are. How about it, kid? Only 25 pence a chance.”

Harry stared at the barker. In a triangular stack there were ten of what looked like old-fashioned milk bottles. The man was holding rubber balls for knocking them down, juggling two in one hand. He looked at Harry with an air of insolent challenge.

“Do you want me to?” Harry asked Eliza.

“Why not?” she answered.

He slapped down the necessary coin and fired away. Harry knocked down a couple of the bottles, but not nearly as many as he had thought he would. He plunked down another coin, took closer aim and threw again. Again his yield was only about half of what he had expected. Watching a couple of the remaining upright bottles rock before coming to rest, Harry's eyes narrowed. He realised that these were not regular milk bottles at all. They had weights in the bottom. In other words, the game was rigged.

“Alright, then,” he squeezed out a thin smile and put down another coin. If the game was rigged, he need not feel at all guilty about evening the odds with a little wandless magic, courtesy of his training with Lao Kung. Harry took very careful aim this time, cleared his mind and concentrated a spot at the base of the pile that he thought would bring them all tumbling down. His eyes never leaving that spot, Harry reared back and threw. WHAM. He knocked down all the bottles, sending them flying off the beam in all directions.

“We have a winnah!” shouted the barker, as he handed Eliza a fluorescent pink foot-long stuffed cat with an equally long tail. “Would you like to try double or nothing, young man?”

“What does that mean?” Harry asked.

“For fifty pence, you can try again. If you win, you get your choice of these,” - the barker pointed at the metre-long or better stuffed animals hanging from the rafters. If you don't win, you give up little puss-in-boots there.”

“I'll go for it,” Harry responded. Two minutes later, he was walking jauntily down the Midway, with a large plush electric blue snake wound around his and Eliza's necks.

Harry eyed all the other midway games that he passed. He concluded that every one of them was rigged in one way or another. The coin toss plates sloped down imperceptibly so that the coins would slide out. The ring toss rings were just a little too wide so they couldn't go over the bottle necks without hitting an adjacent bottle. The openings on the ball toss game were coated with high impact plastic that caused the balls to bounce back out.

Harry smiled evilly. “How many nieces and nephews did you say you had, Eliza?”

“Five,” she responded.

“I think that all of them deserve just as nice a gift as you have, don't you, Eliza?”

“If you say so, Harry.”

A half an hour later and a few pound notes lighter, Harry was triumphantly strutting up the Midway trying with only moderate success to carry five additional large stuffed animals in various garish neon colors. Tonks, with her hair just as garish, was bringing up the rear, laughing out loud. After Harry had dropped one of his prizes for what must have been the tenth time. Tonks called out, “You just need better balance, Harry.”

“Fine,” Harry huffed, “you're hardly one to talk about balance as I recall. Why don't you try carrying five of these bloody things?”

“Allow me,” Tonks said with a superior air, entwining her fingers and cracking all her knuckles. Then she started juggling them. To peals of laughter - not just Harry's and Eliza's - she juggled the five large stuffed animals as they walked towards the front gate.

Harry was amazed that somebody who was as notoriously uncoordinated as Tonks knew how to juggle so well. Tonks told him to look closely at her hands. He saw that she was using her Metamorphmagus ability to lengthen or shorten her fingers as necessary for the juggling.

Tonks started to explain that she was well coordinated as long as she was using Metamorphmagus powers, when she tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and tumbled to the ground. Despite sprawling flat on her back, she never stopped juggling. Unfortunately for the skin on Tonks' knees, her special ability had only been applied to the use of her fingers.

The onlookers - and there were many - only thought that the pratfall was part of Tonks' act. A park supervisor accosted her. She thought she was going to be ejected for busking, but instead he wanted to hire her on the spot. Tonks of course declined. After they all left the park, the three of them ducked behind an autobus and magically shrank the stuffed animals.

After another thrilling ride through London traffic on the Aprila, Harry and Eliza said their farewells at the door to her flat, with six now-full-sized stuffed animals at their feet.

“Eliza, I was serious about what I said, back there. I've had more fun today than I think I ever have before,” Harry said in a very low voice.

“Thanks, Harry. I might have, too.”

“I'd really like to see you again … er…. Only if you want to, I mean.”

“Oh, Harry, of course I would! When are you next free?”

“Er … I've got a ceremony that I have to attend on Saturday night, you probably read about it in the Prophet, but I think I'll be free pretty much all next Sunday.”

She gave just a hint of a frown. For someone so young, he had all these important events, some of them secret, going on in his life. At times like that, he seemed so - mature. At other times he seemed hopelessly naÃ¯ve, a combination she found all too appealing. If she were going to become involved with him (and all signs were pointing in that direction), she was going to have to learn to live with uncertainty and intrigue Harry-style. She sighed. “I meant what I said back there, too.”

“Er…. What was that?” said Harry blankly.

“This,” Eliza cooed, and she kissed him on the lips again, a little more forcefully than before, with her hand snaking around behind Harry's head and into his unruly black hair. She was in control of the moment.

When Eliza finally decided to break the kiss, Harry stood there stupefied. “Th…, Thanks,” he finally muttered.

“Any time, Harry,” Eliza responded and turned to unlock the door to her flat. She was startled when she heard a soft “pop.” Eliza whirled around, but Harry was gone. Another louder “pop” from down the hall signalled the departure of Harry's guard - that strange warrior woman who could change her appearance at will.

Eliza smiled and shook her head. Harry had not even attempted to talk his way in for a “nightcap.” He was so unlike any other man she had ever met. She sighed. Unlike any other man under these circumstances, Eliza knew that she would have let him in.

* * * *

Harry had felt the sensations from that kiss rip from the front right through back of his skull. He spent several minutes longer than usual at Mrs. Figg's recuperating. Mrs. Figg eyed him suspiciously, but said nothing.

As he crossed Privet Drive, Harry was practically skipping, even though Tonks had given him a less than cheery send off. His cousin noticed his unusually buoyant mood - and immediately jumped to conclusions.

“You're mighty chipper all of a sudden,” smirked Dudley.

“Sometimes, life can be sweet,” replied Harry.

“You got some this evening, didn't you?” asked Dudley, regarding Harry carefully.

“Did not.”

“Did so. I'd know that kind of smile anywhere.”

“Have it your way then, Dudders. I've got to run. Things to do, you know.” With that Harry bounded up the stairs taking them two at a time. He left his cousin staring at his back, opening and closing his mouth silently in a spot-on imitation of giant grouper.

Harry sat down at his desk and activated his communicator. Grasping the enchanted quill firmly, he wrote a letter to his headmaster.

Dear Headmaster Dumbledore:

I hope this letter finds you well. Lao Kung says I have been making excellent progress in his Occlumency lessons. I had a different sort of nightmare last night, though. It was not related to any outside interference, so Occlumency can't help. The problem is that I keep seeing Hermione falling. Lao Kung said that the best solution is for me to get a Pensieve of my own. I was wondering if you could help with this. I'm willing to pay for everything myself, of course.

Another thing that I think I need to do is keep flying. I feel better; I don't feel as mad or as unhappy, when I can fly. I was hoping that I could use the Hogwarts pitch and grounds for flying. Whatever schedule you set would be fine with me. I can, of course, supply my own equipment.

Finally, we haven't discussed it much, but I think I would like to continue with Dumbledore's Army in the coming year. Hermione's okay with this. With the decrees lifted, it can be more of a regular club, perhaps a sort of a duelling club. I'm even willing to include some Slytherins, at least if they ask. When we last discussed the Army, you didn't tell me to stop, but I didn't directly ask your permission either. If you don't want me to continue, please tell me.

Please let me know what you think.

Harry

Harry reread the letter carefully before sending it. He was satisfied with his approach. While not altogether pleased with having to ask Dumbledore for permission to do this and that, Harry thought that the tone of this letter would get him what he wanted. He also suspected that Dumbledore wanted the Army continued - the beneficial effect on D.A. members' O.W.L. results had been striking. Harry reckoned that including this topic in the letter would also help him get what he wanted.

He was not being entirely forthcoming with Dumbledore. Like the Headmaster, Harry had a hidden agenda. The flying he hoped to do was not limited solely to brooms. He hadn't forgotten what he had been told about his inheritance. He used Hedwig to send another letter to his lawyer, Mr. Howe, asking him to inquire into the whereabouts and availability of Sirius' motorcycle. Harry hoped that perhaps Eliza would someday ride pillion with him.

* * * *

Thursday's training in water combat was uneventful - a little too uneventful for Harry's liking. Things were bland and mild because Hermione was strangely distant all day. She was not being angry with him or anything like that, nor was she avoiding him. She was simply being correct - all business and no banter. Even Harry's new Speedo bathing costume, which elicited considerable ribald commentary from his instructors, failed to produce much more than a raised eyebrow from Hermione.

Hermione wore a modest two-piece blue costume of her own. It was much more revealing than anything Harry had ever seen her wear before (except, perhaps, for the underwear incident), but after the bikinis of the day before, that suit was hardly something to turn his head. He made a couple of mildly suggestive remarks about Hermione's outfit - for which he had expected to pay, at least rhetorically. After being met with polite disinterest on both occasions, Harry kept his mouth shut on such topics for the rest of the day. She asked him absolutely no questions about his activities of the previous day.

It ceased to matter much after the serious training began. Bathing costumes were only in evidence during the morning workouts in the Auror swimming pool. There, Harry and Hermione practiced underwater spellwork against a variety of simple targets, and learned how to use Muggle aqualungs, which their instructors called “scuba” gear.

While magic worked better for short periods of time, and in particular applications, for underwater operations Muggle scuba gear was overall superior to than anything the wizard community had yet devised. Harry remembered how he had considered getting an aqualung for the second task of the Triwizard tournament. He had abandoned that scheme because he had no idea how to scuba (even if he had been able to locate the equipment). In retrospect he thought that he would have won the task easily if he had been able to follow through with his original plan.

In the afternoon, the training moved to a large lake - significantly bigger than even the lake on the Hogwarts grounds. The water was deep and quite cold, so all of the swimwear disappeared under Muggle wet suits. The high specific heat content of water meant that underwater warming charms took too much magical energy. Gillyweed tended to habituate after extended use. Thus full body protection from the cold required use of Muggle equipment.

Harry and Hermione spent most of the afternoon learning which spells worked best under water and which spells suffered in that environment. He noted with interest that Avada Kedavra and the other Unforgivable Curses lost most of their range underwater. The Killing Curse generated a lot of ice. It became blockable at 15 metres underwater, and lost its deadly effect altogether outside of about 50 metres. The Cruciatus Curse became little more than a tickle outside 25 metres. It was not possible to cast the Imperius Curse at all underwater, although previously cast curses lost none of their effectiveness.

The last part of the training was spent learning how to use Gillyweed and the Bubble-Head Charm as alternative means of underwater survival if aqualungs were not available.

The only even arguably extracurricular discussion that Harry had with Hermione the entire day came after they had finished their lesson and were waiting to leave. Hermione asked Harry to review Lesson 128 (not on their study list, of course) and to give her his impressions of the spells taught in that segment. She would only tell Harry that she found some of the material “troubling.”

Harry used the occasion to inquire about the research she had promised to perform regarding the origins of his potential inheritance. “Speaking of `troubling,' Hermione,” he asked, “Have you had a chance to look into the Black family fortune?”

“Actually I have, Harry,” she snipped. “I tried a couple of wizard sources last weekend. Both of them were dead ends. This weekend I am planning to examine some Muggle sources over the Internet…. That is, if you still want me to look.”

“Of course I still want you to look, Hermione,” he responded, somewhat surprised at her on-edge tone of voice. “I'd be sure to tell you if I decided not to bother - you know that.”

“I'm sure you will,” said Hermione, switching to that unnervingly far off voice she had used earlier in the day. “You always do.” She turned away and saw her escort home. “Oh, there's Tonks! Time for me to go Harry. I'll see you tomorrow.” With that, she brushed past him and was gone.

When Harry returned to Number Four Privet Drive, he found a note from his relatives that one of Aunt Marge's dogs had just had puppies, and they had gone to her home for a visit. That meant he would be alone all evening. Graciously, Aunt Petunia permitted him to raid the refrigerator and make himself some dinner, provided he cleaned up after himself. “As if I ever failed to clean up,” he muttered. “For years, that's all I did.”

The absence of his relatives also meant the absence of any restraints upon Harry's use of magic in food preparation. Between the spells he had picked up by watching Mrs. Weasley, the survival spells he had learned earlier in the week, and the Muggle cooking skills he had acquired from a lifetime of being treated as the Dursleys' household servant, Harry was quite proficient in this area. Rummaging through some of the less used kitchen drawers, he found a Muggle cookbook. Soon he had a full meal of shepherds pie, jacket potatoes, and an ice cream bar of Dudley's he had found hidden in the back corner of the freezer behind the frozen broccoli.

As Harry was eating he heard a tapping at the window. It was an unknown, but elegant owl. Since he had his mouth full, he motioned to the owl to try upstairs at the far end of the house. The Dursleys had kept their word (grudgingly on the part of Uncle Vernon) and had not complained about his receiving owls as long as he did so discretely. Thus, he was inclined to keep his part of the bargain and keep owls out of the rest of the house even when his relatives were away.

The owl was from the D'Israeli law firm, and contained a written response to the query regarding Sirius' motorcycle. It was better news than he could have hoped. Hagrid had taken possession of the bike when the Order vacated Number Twelve Grimmauld Place shortly after Sirius' death. He was intending to give it to Harry for some time, but there had been delays due to Mad-Eye's insistence that the motorcycle be equipped with updated security features.

Hagrid had hoped to have the bike ready by Harry's birthday, but Dumbledore had called Hagrid away on urgent business. The motorcycle was in storage behind Hagrid's hut at Hogwarts, charmed to resemble a pile of firewood. Thus, Harry did not even have to go out of his way to locate the motorcycle - it was already where he was hoping to fly it.

Mr. Howe cautioned Harry that he should not fly without a helmet (the letter contained detailed instructions on helmet conjuring). The solicitor also informed him that he could not legally drive the motorcycle outside Hogwarts grounds. The Muggles had set the minimum age for driving motorcycles at seventeen years. They also required registration documents and motor insurance, neither of which Harry could obtain until he was of age.

The letter further warned Harry that it would be unwise to attempt to teach himself how to drive a full-size motorcycle, and he should seek assistance from someone with experience. That was a problem, since Sirius was dead and Hagrid was unavailable.

Fortunately, Bill had once mentioned something about having driven motorcycles whilst curse breaking for Gringotts, at least until Fleur had made him give this up as too dangerous. Harry decided to ask Bill for lessons on Saturday, when they would be preparing for the Ashrak. It was a good idea to tell his guardian about the motorcycle in any event, Harry decided - he did not want to end up grounded again. Even though he would be limited to Hogwarts, Harry wanted to surprise Eliza with a ride on his motorcycle before the summer was over.

Finally, Mr. Howe's letter mentioned that Fred and George had been by to see him. He thanked Harry for the referral. While patents were not within Mr. Howe's personal competence, he set the Twins up with a patent specialist in his firm. The solicitor thought it odd that Harry was paying the legal fees. He told Harry that it would be preferable - and more advantageous in terms of the taxes attracted - simply to increase his investment in Weasley Wizard Wheezes and let the Twins pay his fee as a deductible business expense. Mr. Howe dealt with venture capital in both the Muggle and Wizard communities, and stated that he was impressed with the Twins' business. It was an excellent investment.

After finishing with Mr. Howe's letter (there was also an invoice - “How come attorneys always end up costing so bloody much?” Harry muttered to nobody in particular), Harry noticed there was light on the communicator indicating a response from Dumbledore.

Dear Harry:

Your request for a Pensieve did not come as a total surprise to me. Given the events of the past year, and the trials and tribulations that are certain to come, your need for one was probably inevitable. Remus has returned and has something in mind. He will be in contact with you shortly, as he has to make some inquiries. In the meantime, I am sending you a palliative by owl. Please do not use it unless you actually need it, as it can be habit forming.

You have my permission to use the Hogwarts grounds for flying. I agree with your assessment entirely, and regret that I did not think of this myself. You may come at any time on Saturdays or Sundays, but you must wait until after 21 July. Work out the details with your escort, and the necessary arrangements will be put into place here. I am informing Mr. Filch, who has been seconded to Professor Hagrid's grounds keeping duties for the summer.

I agree with Mr. Kung's assessment of your progress.

Albus P.W.B Dumbledore

Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards, Chief Warlock Wizengamot

Harry checked his training schedule and saw that he was going to learn how to program Portkeys on 21 July. He could almost hear Hermione's voice in his ears, “You cannot Apparate into or out of Hogwarts.”

Harry was a bit at loose ends, and decided to call Eliza. They had a pleasant half-hour conversation, mostly devoted to reminisces and sweet nothings. They did flesh out plans for next Sunday.

Eliza was going to rent a Muggle car, and they were going to drive to Brighton for the day so Harry could experience the ocean for the first time. Given the late “meeting” Harry had to attend the night before (he did not tell Eliza what it was), he was likely to have gotten little sleep. He could kip in the back seat of the car on the way to the seaside.

Eliza was disappointed that they would not be able to have dinner together, but Harry had to be back in time for his evening Occlumency session with Headmaster Dumbledore. Eliza was impressed, but no longer surprised, that he was receiving personal instruction from the Headmaster.

Whilst they were talking, a Hogwarts school owl swooped into the room. Harry untied a small sack of what looked like Floo powder. He examined it and found the directions: “Powdered Dreamless Sleep Potion. 1 Tbsp. to 300 cc tepid tap water. Stir in counter-clockwise direction for exactly three minutes and twenty-four seconds. Can also be taken with warm milk - same preparation. Package contains six draughts. Caution: May be habit forming. Contact a Healer before refilling.” Keeping the caution in mind, Harry decided that he would not make the potion unless he actually had a nightmare.

* * * *

The next day's lesson was on various methods of magical concealment - both of ones person and of other objects. After listening to the lesson, Harry brought his own Invisibility Cloak with him. Hermione was a little less distant, and they agreed to meet for lunch so Harry could describe what he knew about the sabotage of her broom and his ensuing rescue. Her legendary curiosity could not be contained for very long.

Whilst they were at lunch, Harry had occasion to wish, very strongly indeed, that he had been practicing a concealment technique at the time.

Unbeknownst to Harry and Hermione, the door to the Auror's cafeteria creaked open and a tabby cat silently entered the room. The cat slinked to their table and before they knew it the cat metamorphosed into Professor McGonagall. She was not happy. “Mister Potter, Miss Granger, please follow me.” It was not a request, and both of them knew it. They followed their Head of House into an empty office. Professor McGonagall performed both sealing and silencing charms. “Sit,” she instructed. They sat.

Professor McGonagall reached into her robes and produced their course requests. She slammed them on the table in front of them both. “What, may I ask, is the meaning of these comments?” She was pointing to the comments about wanting to take electives that would be appropriate for eventual Senior Independent Work in Necromancy.

Her voice trembling slightly, Hermione spoke up first. “That was my idea Professor McGonagall. I … er … came to the conclusion that the source of Voldemort's power is probably Necromancy of some sort. Harry agreed with me. I … er … thought it would be a good idea if we became familiar with it. I know it's not on the regular course syllabus, but Voldemort's after Harry, so I thought it would be useful if we knew Necromancy so we could develop better counter strategies. I, I … er … I thought, and I still think … that it might, s-s-s … save Harry's life some day.”

Professor McGonagall looked at Hermione more thoughtfully, and less ferociously. She turned to Harry. “Mister Potter, come with me please. Miss Granger, stay here. I need to talk to Mister Potter alone. I won't be long.” Beckoning him to follow the professor swept out of the room. Presently they found another vacant room, which she also charmed. Then she put an additional Silencing Charm around Harry and herself.

“Mister Potter, does Miss Granger know the contents of the prophecy?” Professor McGonagall asked.

“Not from me, she doesn't,” Harry responded. “I haven't told a soul.”

“A wise move, Potter. With your impetuosity I could not be sure. Very well, come.” With one wave of her wand, Professor McGonagall undid all the charms, and they returned to where Hermione was waiting. Reentering that room, Professor McGonagall recast all the spells and also the Silencing Charm around the three of them.

“Miss Granger, you continue to exceed even my very high expectations of you,” Professor McGonagall started. Despite the evident seriousness of the situation, Hermione could not suppress a small smile. “I don't know how you deduced it, but you are correct that Necromancy is at the heart of … Voldemort's power, and of his return to corporeal form. Even though Necromancy is perhaps the darkest of the Dark Arts, in light of Voldemort's vendetta against Mister Potter, I consider it a capital idea for both of you to become familiar with Necromancy. BUT…”

“But what?” Harry said. He was not inclined to take being talked down to by anyone anymore, even Professor McGonagall.

“But it was extremely indiscrete - dangerously so - for you to place such a request in writing on a routine student form,” McGonagall hissed. Harry shrank back. Neither of them had considered this rather basic precaution, and in retrospect he felt pretty stupid about that.

“This form is not only distributed to everyone on the Hogwarts academic staff for scheduling purposes, but a copy is automatically transmitted to the Education Department in the Ministry. Even assuming that we have no more Quirrells on our hands in Hogwarts itself, we have good reason to believe that Voldemort retains a network of spies throughout the Ministry. If Voldemort were even to suspect that you were to be instructed on the root of his magical power, he would have every reason to try to bring about both of your demises as quickly as he possibly could. Indeed, such an attempt may already have been made.”

Harry winced and all of a sudden felt very small. He knew Professor McGonagall was referring to the sabotage of Hermione's broom, and thus inevitably to the diversionary assault on the Auror barracks that had left two Aurors dead. Were they dead because of a stupid oversight? He looked at Hermione. She was close to tears. Harry had a pretty good idea of what she was thinking - because he was also thinking the same thing.

McGonagall continued, “I was able successfully to retrieve the copies of your forms from the Education Department. They appeared to be unopened, but the mere fact that I had to engage in that unusual step undoubtedly means that everyone in the department is aware that there is something in those forms of an extraordinarily sensitive nature.”

Hermione regained her voice. “Does that mean that the idea's dead then?”

“No, but I do expect more discretion from you in the future,” Professor McGonagall snapped. “Mr. Potter's audacity is … well, notorious. However, I expect more circumspection from you.”

Professor McGonagall's expression then softened. “It remains a capital idea, and the Headmaster was kicking himself - figuratively, of course - that he hadn't thought of it himself. We are not exactly sure what we are going to do, since Senior Independent Work ordinarily culminates in a public oral examination that includes not only Hogwarts staff, but also at least one professional practicing in the relevant field. We can't very well invite Voldemort to conduct the inquiry, can we?”

“Even without Voldemort, Hogwarts has enough political problems without being accused of putting Necromancy on the curriculum. Last term Narcissa Malfoy, as chairwoman of Purebloods for Life, tried to influence Umbridge” (McGonagall growled out the name) “to sack both Severus and Poppy for their role in developing Britain's most effective Abortifacient Potion - and they did that over a decade ago.”

Hermione's eyes narrowed. “Narcissa Malfoy?” she spat. “They might as well call it `Death Eaters for Life.' It's a funny thing, politics.”

“Be that as it may,” rejoindered Professor McGonagall with just the hint of a smile. “So you see what kind of practical problems your request presents.”

“But surely that toady Umbridge has been sacked,” growled Harry. “Hasn't she?”

“Actually … no,” Professor McGonagall answered, with a sigh. “She's been demoted, of course - and removed from anything having to do with Hogwarts. But Fudge refused to discharge her and instead packed her off to Durmstrang as special Ministry liaison … at least until she is convicted and sentenced. With any luck that will be before next term starts.”

“Well I'm going to testify,” Harry declared.

“Me too,” insisted Hermione.

“Very well,” said Professor McGonagall, with another hint of a smile. “But as for your Senior Independent Work, I will let you know in due course what we are able to do. Until then, don't owl us, we'll owl you.”

After Professor McGonagall's lecture, both Harry and Hermione found it difficult to focus on the rest of the training session, but he was more profoundly affected than Hermione. He had not told her about the barracks attack being diversionary, and Harry had trouble getting images of dead Aurors out of his mind.

Partially as a result of Harry's malaise, Hermione almost beat him in a duel for the first time. She used an Imagium Multiplicitus Charm to create scores of mirror images of herself, then slipped on an Invisibility Cloak and caught Harry from behind. But for the link between his holster and his wand, her Expelliarmus curse would have disarmed him. Had she used any of a number of other spells, she would have won. As it was, the duel was called a draw.

Hermione came up to Harry as he was waiting for his escort (who turned out to be Mundungus Fletcher) to collect him.

“Harry, I'm sorry for the way I've acted the past couple of days,” she said. “Please understand, it's hard for me right now.”

Harry was nonplussed. “You don't need to apologise to me, Hermione - ever,” he said, not sure what she was on about. “It's been hard for me, too.”

Hermione seemed to be unduly fascinated with her shoes, and her left foot was nervously tapping her right. “Tomorrow's your big day, isn't it?”

“Er.… Yeah. Tomorrow night I get to bond with the goblins, and sign some fancy treaty in which I pledge to support full goblin rights if … when … I defeat Voldemort.”

“Do be careful, Harry,” Hermione said softly. “From what I've read these ceremonies can be pretty scary, with all the knives and blinding lights and all?”

“I should have known,” he exclaimed. “You've read up on the Ashrak. You surely know more about it than I do.”

“Be that as it may,” she replied. “You're the one who has to perform it.” She rummaged about in the backpack she wore, and pulled out a small book. “Here,” Hermione said, “this might help you a little.” Harry took the book. It was an English-Gobbledegook phrase book. He was touched that she was trying to help him with the Ashrak even though she hadn't been allowed to go herself.

“Thanks,” Harry said, “I'll study it this evening.”

“You do that,” Hermione replied. She dropped her voice to a whisper and moved closer. “When you're out there performing tomorrow, please remember that house-elves need a champion too.” They looked each other in the eyes. For a moment he thought she was going to kiss him again, but that did not happen. Hermione squeezed his hand and then turned away, her face going wet.

Later, as Harry was leaving Mrs. Figg's house, she called out to him that “some wizard” who was “probably in the military like my dear departed Mr. Figg” had left a package for Harry. Mrs. Figg said it needed to be Engorgioed when he got home. Harry thought he knew what it was, and his suspicions were confirmed when he got to his room. He uttered the spell and there before him was his Valkyrie-70 broom, fully repaired and reconditioned. Now all he had to do was make sure he had the opportunity to use it.

* * * *

Author's notes: A Pensieve could be a good idea, but it could be a very bad one - or both at once.

The various aphorisms about love and other things that Lao Kung says are paraphrased from the Analects, except for the one hand clapping, which is Taoist in origin.

As mentioned previously, the amusement park is entirely invented, although the London locations, Canary Wharf, Docklands, etc. are real.

As is typical, Harry has a prestige credit card before he has ever used one.

Stockholm Syndrome specifically has to do with hostages binding with their keepers. Tonks uses the term as an indication that she has started seeing things from Hermione's point of view, since she is with her so much. It's a cryptic reference to not being happy that Harry is seeing Eliza.

Tonks has different colour hair each time it is mentioned.

Not a good idea to be spilling that kind of money on the ground in public.

I can't ride these rides that revolve in several planes at once without throwing up myself.

Aragog's revenge is a play on Montezuma's revenge, which is an American nickname for a GI bug that also causes vomiting.

Part of this fight is parallel to one I was in almost 30 years ago - except, of course for the burning part. Also, there was only one mugger in my fight.

Rafer Hoxworth is a character from the novel "Hawaii." He had this fighting philosophy. Interestingly, after I had already decided to use the reference, I went to verify some details on the internet, and learned that Richard Harris (Dumbledore in the first two movies) had played Hoxworth in the film Hawaii.

Harry in Speedos - A consequence of not paying attention.

"More cotton in an aspirin bottle" describes skimpy clothing. I think I first heard the saying on a Richard Pryor album.

The inner tube capsizing with the kiss is parallel to the "Kiss the Girl" scene from Little Mermaid.

"To the back of his skull" a partial paraphrase of a line from Harvester of Eyes, by Blue Oyster Cult

The discussion of specific heat content of water is accurate.

Gillyweed impairing judgment - another possible explanation for the end of the Second Task.

The killing curse generating ice is consistent with the prior discussion when Harry testified before the board of inquiry. It will be important in the future.

Lesson 128 will be very important. Hermione will make a crucial misjudgment based upon what she knows of it.

The "dead ends" weren't quite as dead as Hermione is letting on. They just didn't tell Hermione what Harry had asked her to look for.

Howe's tax advice is accurate - at least if British law follows the American tax code in this respect, which it probably does.

The idea of Senior Independent Work comes from the curriculum at Princeton. My SIR was a 300-page thesis.

HP fanfiction seems to be a rather anti-choice. No "good" character ever goes through with an abortion, and the only abortionists portrayed are of the back alley version. So I thought I'd throw in a little pro-choice polemic.

By talking to Harry about the elves Hermione will change the nature of the Second War

- 47 -

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C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch13 out on the town.doc 09/28/03

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14. Ashrak

Wherein Harry learns nasty new curses, has a chat with Lao Kung, is asked to be Bill's best man, overcomes the wards around Privet Drive, arranges to ride Sirius' motorcycle, has a confrontation with Percy, is inspired by Hermione, reveals a goblin secret, forces an amendment to the goblin treaty, changes the course of the war, rides in a Rolls Royce, goes through the looking glass, visits the Goblin Nation, helps defeat a Death Eater attack, prevents a disastrous cave in, makes his first kill, signs the goblin treaty, becomes a blood brother to a goblin prince, receives a goblin signet, and sends Hermione an unexpected gift.

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

Chapter 14 - Ashrak

The long-awaited day of the Ashrak - 18 July, 1996 - had finally arrived. Harry woke early, soaked in sweat and shuddering violently. He had endured no ordinary, or even extraordinary, nightmare. What he had just experienced was Auror training lesson number 128. Hermione had been reluctant to discuss this lesson and had simply characterised it as “troubling.” Harry thought that “terrifying” or “disgusting” would have been more accurate descriptions.

Lesson 128 consisted of a variety of deadly curses that the Auror Corps considered obsolescent after the advent of Avada Kedavra. Harry was appalled, but not particularly surprised, at the wide variety of ways that wizards had developed to kill one another - and often themselves, as well - over the centuries. At least ten of the curses were essentially suicidal, intentionally resulting in death for not only the target but also for the caster of the curse.

Harry was not in the slightest keen on any of those curses. But if that was what it took to rid the world of Voldemort once and for all, he was willing to make even the ultimate sacrifice. And now, he shuddered, he knew how to perform such curses if necessary. Hermione absolutely did not feel the same way about suicide. No wonder she had been so appalled when she encountered these spells, even if they were not part of their training.

In addition to girding himself for the possibility of magical murder-suicide, Harry also now knew many new and grotesque ways of killing:

He could curse an opponent so that his limbs, and finally his head, were torn from his body - at a speed that could be varied to suit the caster of the curse.

There was a curse that fried the target's brains inside his skull.

Another curse instantaneously turned an adversary's entire skeleton to dust.

Another caused the lungs to explode violently, literally blowing the victim's heart through the chest wall.

Another employed reverse transubstantiation, turning the victim's blood into wine inside the victim' veins.

Another caused the stomach to fill with molten lead.

Even the gentlest curses of the lot were grotesque. Why anyone would want to kill someone with an inverted baldness curse that caused ones hair to fall in and clog the brain was beyond him.

As much as he might want to forget, Harry now knew forty-one new - well, old, actually - ways of killing. He wondered how the Aurors could practice most of these spells. They were too cruel even to use on animals. `Well maybe not Wormtail' … Harry reminded himself.

These curses had fallen into disfavour because their outcome was less certain. They lacked the pure killing power of Avada Kedavra. Above all, these spells were less effective because, unlike the Killing Curse, a victim could block them under ordinary circumstances. When the roster of Unforgivable Curses was drawn up following the defeat of Grindelwald in 1945, these blockable death curses were already sufficiently rare and obsolete that nobody bothered to add them to the list.

Still, more than fifty years later, they remained part of the standard Auror curriculum. It was enough to make Harry reconsider his career choice. Maybe that had been Hermione's intention, he ruminated.

His relatives had evidently decided to spend the night with Aunt Marge. This gave Harry another chance to run alone. All for the good, Harry thought, as he had a variety of vague ideas about the Ashrak and the goblin treaty that he was going to be signing. Harry hoped that he could sort things out during his run. He slapped his favorite Beatles CD - the one with the song that reminded him of Hermione - in the portable player he had gotten from Dudley and took off. Harry did some of his best thinking whilst running. By the time he finished with what was now up to ten kilometres, he had the makings of a plan.

Although he was not scheduled to meet Bill Weasley until noon, Harry was feeling skittish and at loose ends. He was uncomfortable talking with Hermione about the Ashrak at the moment, and he had made a conscious decision not to involve Eliza. Wanting some sort of dialogue, Harry decided to Apparate to the gym for an impromptu session with Lao Kung. Since his relatives were absent, Harry gave whoever was guarding him the signal to follow and Apparated directly from his room for the first time - not bothering with the usual trip to Mrs. Figg's house across the street.

That was not a particularly good idea. In addition to all of the uncomfortable feelings he ordinarily associated with Apparition - the squeezing, the stretching, and the sense of being crowded - Harry arrived feeling out sorts and with a pounding headache.

Some sort of ward, he supposed.

Seeing Harry's unprepared state, Lao Kung first sent him into the main section of the gym to expend some energy on the speed and heavy bags. When Harry returned, the Sefu put him through a battery of calming exercises, followed by some balance and sensory expansion drills that the Sefu thought would benefit Harry.

Sefu Kung was pleased to learn that Harry had come to a satisfactory arrangement for dealing with the personal issues that had been plaguing him. The outcome was quite different from his original recommendation, but hardly foreign to his experience. Lao Kung congratulated Harry on finding a “rather Chinese” solution.

“What's that supposed to mean?” asked Harry archly. “What's `Chinese' about not wanting to burden my best friend with additional demands that our relationship might not be able to bear?”

The old Sefu tried to explain. “Chinese culture, Hahli, is not so … linear … as that of the English. In China there is no contradiction in loving different women in different ways. A Chinese man of high status traditionally has been able to have more than one wife, and to maintain different wives for different purposes. You are not as far from that as you might think.”

Harry was surprised. “They're not wives, they're friends. I'm not planning on marrying anyone. I'm only sixteen bloody years old.”

“True enough,” replied the Sefu, “but your life has already seen violent upheavals. You are older than your years - in many ways, an adult mind in an adolescent's body.”

Even after his rather confusing session with Lao Kung, Harry had left himself plenty of time to get ready for his noontime rendezvous with Bill Weasley. His guardian was to take him to the Ministry for final preparations. As best Harry understood it, he would be meeting with both wizard and goblin diplomats to review the ceremonial aspects of the Ashrak.

Harry was quite surprised to see Bill already relaxing on the front stoop of Number Four Privet Drive when he returned from the gym. Uncertain whether his relatives had returned, Harry had used his prearranged concealed Apparition spot at Mrs. Figg's. As he pushed through the bushes from behind the neighbouring house, he saw Bill.

“Bill,” he shouted as he pelted across the drive. “I'm sorry, but you're quite early.”

“Keep it down,” Bill hissed. “I'm already enough of a spectacle just because of these robes. No need to attract the attention of the whole neighbourhood. I know I'm early, but I needed to discuss something with you privately. I didn't expect you to be out.”

“I'm glad you're early,” panted Harry, holding a stitch in his side from the sprint. “I need a word with you about some things too. Come inside, but please be quiet.”

The door was locked from the inside and Harry had forgotten to take a key when he Apparated. “Bloody Hell,” he cursed. “That's the last time I Apparate out of here without a key.” Harry trotted around to the back of the house, Bill following. “Accio broom.”

A tiny package zoomed out of Harry's open second storey window and into his hand. “Engorgio.” The Valkyrie-70 returned to its normal size, and the boy leapt on. Bill whistled at the sight of the broom, but Harry did not hear him. He ascended slowly to his open window, jumped in and pulled in the broom after him. Bill was still staring up at the window when he heard the deadbolt on the Dursleys' back door click open.

As they went inside, Bill commented, “Harry, I couldn't help noticing that you didn't bother to take out your.…”

“Ssshh,” hissed Harry, also gesturing emphatically at Bill. “Not yet.” He paused, flicked his wand out this time and uttered, “Surveillius confundo. Now we can talk.”

Bill was impressed by the magical demonstration. “What was that all about?” he began.

“Ministry's bugged my house. I'm used to it though,” Harry stated flatly, as if having his conversations monitored was perfectly normal. “Just can't discuss anything important without first using the proper defence.”

“That's one hell of a broom,” Bill commented.

“Sure is,” Harry replied. “That's also courtesy of the Ministry. It's military issue - a brand new top-of-the-line combat broom. Ironic isn't it? The Ministry trusts me with their most sophisticated weaponry, but still bugs my house. That brings me to one of the things I need to talk with you about. I have to be able to fly to keep from going crazy with everything that's going on. Dumbledore says I can use the Hogwarts grounds starting next week, but since Hagrid's not around, I need you to help teach me….”

“Harry, you've forgotten more about flying that either I or Hagrid ever knew,” Bill broke in. “The idea that we could teach you….”

Harry interrupted. “Listen, Bill, this isn't just about brooms. I've inherited Sirius' motorbike, and I want to learn how to ride that. I remember you telling stories about riding motorbikes in Egypt, and I was hoping you could teach me.”

“Get out!” Bill exclaimed, before recalling that he was Harry's guardian and not a teenager anymore.

Bill continued in a more even tone of voice. “Er … Harry, that's a lot of bike for anyone. Are you sure you can handle it? I mean, Sirius rode a Gus Kuhn Norton….” Seeing Harry's blank look, Bill hastened to explain. “That's a kind of Muggle racing bike - a BIG one. I don't even know if they're made any more. But that's the kind of person Sirius was back then. That bike could top 200 klicks easily before it ever left the ground.”

“Try me,” replied Harry, his jaw set.

“All right,” said Bill. “I suppose you're old enough. I'll give it a whirl as long as you respect your safety. From the looks of it, that broom you've got is perfectly capable of killing you all by itself. You could hardly do worse with Sirius' bike. Where is it anyway?”

Harry did not answer immediately. Bill's comment about killing himself on the Valkyrie hit a little too close to home. Bill crossed his arms and tapped his foot, taking on the air of a parent waiting for an answer after a child let something slip.

“That's almost as brilliant as the bike itself,” began Harry. “It's already at Hogwarts. Hagrid took it from Grimmauld Place. I gather the Order cleared out because Kreacher compromised security. Supposedly, Hagrid stashed it behind his hut, under a concealment spell. Only he was called away before he could give it to me.”

“Fine,” said Bill. “Now there's something I'd like for you to do … but it needs to be kept rather confidential for a while. You see…. I've decided to ask Fleur to marry me, but I'm worried about the reaction….”

“Congratulations!!” enthused Harry. “I can't believe you're worried, though, from what little I've seen, Fleur is head-over-heels in love with you. I hope I'm that lucky, when … er … if that time ever comes.” He caught himself thinking of the prophecy again.

“It's not Fleur I'm worried about,” responded Bill, nervously wringing his hands. “She's been dropping hints in that direction for months. It's…. It's … her father. I've never met him, but he has a formidable reputation. He's everything I'm not. He's filthy rich. I'm a Weasley - no need to say more in that department. He's a war hero. I understand that he helped lead the French resistance to Grindelwald, and lost most of his family doing it. Me? I've only recently joined the Order, and have yet to kill a single Death Eater. Fleur's dad is very highly placed in the French Ministry, and I'm a lowly bank clerk. He's French. I'm English. I'm petrified that he won't find me good enough for his eldest daughter.”

“I can sympathise … er … I-I-I can try to sympathise, anyway,” stammered Harry. “I doubt killing anyone is very much fun though. I've had a hand in a couple of deaths, and I've always felt terrible about it…. I'm a lousy killer….”

Don't go there, Harry thought - too close to Sirius. Harry quickly returned to the subject at hand. “But what does anything concerning Fleur have to do with me?”

“Everything,” sighed Bill. “Fleur says her dad is a great admirer of yours.”

“Great,” spat Harry. “You want me to suck up to another big-shot admirer of The Boy Who Lived.”

“It's not that way at all,” said Bill as patiently as he could. He was trying to keep this conversation as low key as possible. “You're not The Boy Who Lived to Fleur's father. You're more like `The Boy Who Saved His Beloved Gabi.' I've been told you impressed him a lot with that, especially since you did it with no thought of personal gain.”

“He was also there the night you disappeared during the Third Task - came to watch Fleur, you know. I mean he was, not you. You should have seen him when you and … er … Cedric vanished. He went into the maze after you from the stands. Knew some special French spell for cutting through hedgerows, he did. He blasted right through the walls of the maze and reached the plinth before anyone else. It's for all these reasons that I was hoping you'd agree to be best man at my wedding. I'd like to be able to tell him that when I go to visit.”

Harry was quite relieved at Bill's explanation. “Of course I will,” he said eagerly. Although Harry had never even been to a wedding, he was quite relieved that Bill's request was not more difficult. “You can even tell him I'll come for a visit. We can compare notes. He can tell me about Grindelwald, and I can tell him about Voldemort.”

“I knew I could count on you, Harry,” thanked Bill. “There is a more immediate matter that I also need to discuss with you.”

“Same here,” replied Harry. “Why don't you go first? I've a feeling mine will take longer.”

“Alright,” said Bill. “Did I hear you correctly a short while ago that the doors here were locked because you Apparated out of the house?”

“Yeah,” replied Harry with a blank look on his face. “You can ask my guard. What of it?”

Bill frowned. “You're not supposed to be able to do that. There are anti-Apparition wards all over the place here. Dumbledore designed them himself. He told the Order that the Dursleys' house is almost as well-warded as Hogwarts, and those Muggles don't even know it. Can you do it again - say, leave from your room and pop into the back yard?”

“I'll try,” agreed Harry. “But I don't really like Apparition much. It's dead uncomfortable, and the last time I did it from here, on top of everything else, my head didn't stop pounding for almost half an hour, the headache was that bad.” Harry went inside and a short while later Bill jumped at that sound of Harry's “pop” behind him.

“Dammit,” cursed Bill. “These wards are going to have to be torn down, inspected, retested, and rebuilt from top to bottom. Your relatives didn't like it when we inspected them before you arrived, and that was scheduled spellwork. They'll be even more annoyed at being inconvenienced by an emergency inspection and reinstallation. How do you feel?”

“Awful. Even after I'm over the usual nastiness of it, I feel like I got clocked in the back of the head with a Beater's bat,” groaned Harry, rubbing the back of his scalp. “Other than that I'm fine, though. I guess I've just got that old Fifth Element mojo working.”

Bill offered Harry a bit of analgesic potion, which the boy declined. He also cautioned Harry, “That's not something to be joking about - not at all. Now what did you want?”

“I'd rather discuss it inside,” Harry requested.

Harry took Bill into his bedroom, and used his best Silencing Charm. He explained to Bill that he had eliminated Ministry surveillance devices in his room with faked accidents. He asked Bill to see a copy of the goblin treaty he would be signing that night. Fortunately Bill had a copy of the final draft, although he mentioned that the actual documents to be signed were in the hands of the respective chiefs of protocol. Harry wondered why Bill broke into a scowl when saying this, but had more pressing things to on his mind.

Harry skimmed the text and explained how he was planning to demand a change in the last paragraph “because of Hermione,” as Harry put it. “I'm not that worried about the goblins' reaction,” Harry remarked. “They can add, and the change doesn't affect them at all.” He asked Bill, “Do you think I'll have serious problems with the Ministry if I insist on this? It's not really the Ministry's commitment anyway, it's mine.”

Bill thought about it carefully. The goblin treaty was his project for the Order, and he certainly had no desire to jeopardise it, but he sympathised with what Harry had outlined. “I really don't think so. If Fudge were around it might be a problem, but he's on holiday. He's given Dumbledore plenipotentiary powers to get the treaty done.”

“What's that?” Harry broke in.

“A free hand, essentially,” explained Bill. “Fudge wants the treaty very badly - particularly now that it's public. If the treaty fell apart at this point, that would be laid at his feet. Fudge is even more worried about bad publicity if there's another Death Eater escape, and he dearly wants to free up the Aurors who are now guarding Azkaban. But Fudge is prejudiced against goblins and really doesn't want to deal with them personally, so he's skipped out and essentially given Dumbledore authority to complete matters whilst he is away. I reckon by keeping his distance Fudge figures that he can blame Dumbledore if there's ever a problem.”

“Why Dumbledore?” asked Harry, wondering if, in the wake of his “Great Escape,” the Minister had generally ceded all “Harry problems” to the Headmaster. “Doesn't the Ministry have some sort of Goblin office?”

“It does,” replied Bill, “but the head, a bloke named Mockridge, has always been more of a hindrance than an help. Then he turned out to have been bribed by Lucius Malfoy. Neither the Order nor the goblins trust the Liaison Office any more, so it has been frozen out. Fudge had little choice but to turn negotiations over to Dumbledore and the Order.”

“So that means that you have to deal with Dumbledore,” Bill continued. “That's not a bad thing, actually. I'm sure he'll try to talk you out of it, but if you stand up to him on this, I'm willing to bet that in the end he will consent to your amendment….” Harry's guardian kneaded his brow as he thought through the implications. “It's not a bad idea at all…. In a number of ways. And at bottom, I know he'll be sympathetic. It's what he would do if it were up to him - and he thought about it…. And let's face it … without you, nothing can happen with the goblins. All in all, I think you can pull it off.”

Bill and Harry discussed tactics. Bill was intimately familiar with the meeting that they would attend that afternoon, and explained to the boy the optimal point in the agenda for making his demand known. Harry agreed to act upon a prearranged signal from Bill. Bill was curious why Harry was quite unconcerned with the reaction of the goblins to a last minute alteration. He cautioned Harry that goblins did not trust wizards.

“Like I said Bill, the goblins can add,” responded Harry. “Let me ask you a question. Have the goblins been following my litigation with Malfoy over the Black estate?”

“Quite avidly,” replied Bill. “After all, it does involve the largest account at Gringotts, and the goblins are very attentive to anything that could impact the bank.”

“Precisely my point, but there's more to it than just deposits,” suggested Harry. “Forget deposits and consider ownership. If you put the four Black wizard shares in Gringotts together with the two Potter shares, that makes six - and six is more than a quarter of the 23 total Gringotts shares. That means I'd be able to block, by myself, any attempt to remove Gringotts from goblin control. I think that's what the goblins want, and I think they want it a lot. By bringing me into goblin society and under goblin law, they effectively eliminate the club that we wizards have been holding over their heads for more than 150 years.”

Comprehension dawned on Bill's face, as he stared at Harry. The boy might not have known much about finance, but he was proving to be a fast learner indeed.

Harry commented, “That's exactly how I must have looked this morning when I figured this all out. And that's why I'm not worried about the reaction of the goblins.”

The chat with Bill had taken longer than either of them had expected, and they had to hurry. After a quick shower for Harry (who was quite ripe from his session with Lao Kung) they ran through Bill's tick-list of things Harry needed to bring. Harry grabbed his robes to carry with him to Mrs. Figg's. As he pulled them towards himself, a small square card fell out of an inside pocket face up onto the floor. The card contained fancy engraved printing.

“What's this?” asked Bill curiously as he picked it up.

“Oh, right,” Harry replied. “That's an invitation to dinner at Hermione's house next Friday. I got it through the Muggle post the other day - well, actually Dudley intercepted it and took the mickey out of me. . I'd really like to hex him. I've been meaning to ask you about this invitation, too.” They descended the stairs, and Harry left a short note for his relatives advising them that he was likely to be quite late.

They discussed the Granger invitation as they were leaving for Mrs. Figg's. Harry had never been to a formal sit-down dinner at anyone's house, even a Muggle dinner. Whenever his relatives had hosted formal dinners or high teas, he had been kept strictly out of sight. Harry knew from what he had overheard that it was traditional to bring a present of some sort, but had no idea what to do.

Bill had some inkling what the Granger dinner was all about, so he clued Harry in on the etiquette. It was expected that the guest would bring some sort of contribution to the meal, typically an apéritif of some sort. Bill thought that a bottle of enchanted Château Blackwalls champagne would be just the ticket - particularly since Harry might one day be the next proprietor of the Château.

There were many varietals. Bill thought, and Harry agreed, that a bottle of the château's classic never-empty-but-minimally-intoxicating brut would be appropriate. Everyone could drink champagne all evening, but never become more than slightly tipsy.

Since Harry was being invited to a formal dinner by the parents of a female friend of his own age, it was also traditional, Bill explained, to bring a present of some sort for the young lady. Here Bill was less certain. He said Harry should get Hermione something that she would appreciate, but that he should try not to be too mundane. They were approaching the Figg residence by this time, so the discussion ended inconclusively. Harry would have to return to this problem later.

As soon as they were in Mrs. Figg's, it was quite clear that this was no ordinary trip to the Ministry. Bill was joined by Mad-Eye Moody and Kingsley Shacklebolt from the Order and by Chief Auror Rufus Scrimgeour. There was also a middle-aged witch whom Harry gathered was from the Ministry protocol office. Harry changed into his shiny silver-blue Knight of the Realm robes, and this witch fussed over him. Harry was relieved that these were dress robes and that he would not have to bother with any sort of helmet. He was also told to leave the dark purple outer cape behind. Harry soon learned why.

A smile creasing his ravaged face, Moody directed Harry's attention to a long leather-bound package. Moving as gently as Harry had seen him around the Book of Merlin, Moody carefully unwrapped the package. In the centre, glowing even more brightly than the unicorn pelt in which they had been swaddled, were the sword and shield of Godric Gryffindor.

Harry was awestruck. Even Scrimgeour seemed rather impressed.

The boy had never worn a baldric before, so it took considerable prodding, measuring, adjusting and buckling before he was comfortable, and before the middle-aged witch pronounced herself satisfied with Harry's appearance. Harry was right-handed, so the broadsword hung from his left side in its matching scabbard, kept more or less in place by an adjustable frog.

During the ceremony, Harry would be called upon to draw the sword. The method was a sweeping cross-body gesture that he had to practice several times. At first, the sword would lodge in the scabbard, requiring him to give it a second, decidedly undignified, yank before it came free. Finally, Harry mastered the technique of drawing the sword in a single motion and bringing it to a vertical present-arms position directly in front of his face without clumsily threatening to slice anyone and anything within two metres of him.

The kite-shaped shield, emblazoned with the Gryffindor crest, was bewitched to be feather light. That was important because it was over a metre long, almost a metre wide, and made from some sort of solid metal. Harry carried the shield diagonally across his back. It hung from another shoulder belt, which crossed Harry's back in the opposite diagonal from the baldric.

Once the protocol witch declared that everything was in order, she taught Harry some very useful spells. Imago vestmentae fixed the organisation of everything Harry was wearing. Colix vestmentae caused the outfit and the accoutrements to pack themselves away. The witch cautioned Harry that, unless he was an exhibitionist, this spell should only be performed in a robing room or other suitably private place, and he needed to have a change of clothes at the ready. Restoro vestmentae restored the outfit to Harry's person in perfect order. Once again, a dressing room was recommended. All three Vestmentae spells expired in 24 hours.

Finally, there was the matter of Harry's unruly black hair. Harry had been letting it grow since he had been home (Dudley liked it; Uncle Vernon rather volubly did not), in order to obscure his scar more effectively. At the Ashrak, however, the scar was to be seen, not hidden.

After considerable experimentation and back-and-forth with Harry, the protocol witch decided that Harry' hair looked best swept back around the sides. Harry had absolutely refused to comb it directly over the top. The over the top style produced a wavy bulge in the front that Harry thought made him look like Dudley's Teddy Boy friends.

Scrimgeour said little, but pushed throughout for them to wrap things up and get moving.

The protocol witch also transfigured the unbreakable athletic band Harry used for his glasses. It became silver chain that Harry could let fall over his hair in the back in order to help keep it in place. Jokingly, Harry tried to borrow Bill's fang earring “to complete the new look.”

After Harry changed back into ordinary robes, he, Bill, Moody, Scrimgeour, the protocol witch, and a couple of Aurors who had been standing guard Portkeyed to the Ministry. Harry was ushered into a large room dominated by a massive wooden table holding a model of what Harry guessed was the location of the Ashrak. Various self-important looking witches and wizards were buzzing about, and the occasional paper airplane memorandum zipped overhead. Scrimgeour melted into this crowd and soon took his leave.

Harry noticed several goblins. They were all shy of four feet tall and somewhat pot-bellied. They wore uniforms, not unlike those Harry had seen at Gringotts, but much nicer. These uniforms were cut from a rich blue fabric, and were filigreed with some sort of shimmering silver-grey material.

Someone loudly announced “the Potter party,” and everyone in the room - wizard and goblin - stopped what he or she was doing and gave Harry the once over. On the opposite side of the room, an immaculately attired wizard who had been leaning over talking to two goblins abruptly stood up. Harry knew that hair anywhere. After nervously smoothing the front of his already wrinkle-free robes, Percy Weasley clapped his hands together softly and resolutely strode towards Harry.

“Mister Potter, absolutely spiffing to see you again,” Percy said in a slightly overloud voice. The former Head Boy extended his hand, which Harry noticed was trembling slightly. “As Chief of Protocol, I welcome you the world of intermagical relations. I trust your trip here was safe and uneventful.” After a slight hesitation, Harry shook Percy's hand. At that, Percy visibly relaxed. He continued their oh-so-correct conversation. “We are ready to start with preparations, but we await the arrival of Ambassador Plenipotentiary Dumbledore. In the meantime, could I have a quick word with you in private?”

This was not exactly a request. Percy both led and guided Harry into an alcove. Once inside, he immediately released Harry. The older man chewed on his lips a bit, put his hands together behind his back and bounced twice on his heels. Then he began saying something he had obviously been rehearsing for quite a long time.

“Harry, take out your wand, please,” said Percy softly.

Harry wordlessly gave his wrist a flick and instantly his wand appeared. Percy, not expecting a wrist holster, gave a barely detectable start, but continued. “Now go ahead, hex me; curse me. Whatever you want, I deserve it. I behaved quite improperly towards you last year, and I have no defence. Just get it over with quickly, because whatever you think of me, we need to work together on ensuring that this ceremony is properly and successfully completed.”

Once he realised that Percy was actually being serious, Harry briefly considered transfiguring Percy into a toad, for being a toady. The thought of making him perform some sort of anatomically impossible act, such as kissing his own arse, also crossed his mind. For many months, the mere mention of Percy had caused Harry to fume (or worse) with anger, but now confronted with the real thing, Harry felt more numb than anything else.

As sometimes happened when he was confronted with something unexpected, Harry fumbled for words. “Er … you sent your brother … Ron … a letter last year telling him he shouldn't have anything to do with me because I was violent and crazy.” Percy was nervously shuffling his feet, and at times Harry thought he had his eyes completely closed. “If you really thought that, you wouldn't have just invited me to hex you….”

Percy mumbled something more about being “misguided” and “out of line,” but Harry was not really listening. Rather, he was figuring out what to say next.

“Ron tore up that letter straightaway and threw it in the fire. He called you something like `the world's biggest git.' I think Ron had it about right, although I would've added `brainless' to the description, since I rather doubt you were thinking for yourself…” There was an awkward pause. Percy had his eyes tightly shut, as if anticipating being on the receiving end of some extremely unpleasant curse at any moment.

Harry continued, “But you never did anything to me directly as far as I know. Too busy running at Fudge's heel, I'd wager. Dumbledore told me that in Hong Kong you helped keep Hermione's parents from taking her away from me. I need to thank you for that. That puts you more to my plus side than your stupid letter could ever take away.... I guess what I'm trying to say is that as far as I'm concerned, we're square. What you really need to do is get right with your family. You've hurt them far worse than you could ever hurt me.”

Harry returned his wand to its holster.

Percy exhaled so deeply that Harry thought he must not have been breathing the entire time. “Thank you Harry,” he said in a rather deflated tone of voice. “Ironic isn't it? You're the one I called deranged, but you're being more rational about things than anyone in my own family….”

“Hold on,” interrupted Harry. “They were far closer to you than I ever was or ever will be. Because they were closer, you hurt them worse… Dammit, Percy - they loved you, and probably still do. Of course, it's not rational with them. You started this, now you've got to put an end to it!”

At that point Harry appreciated that he was practically yelling at Percy. He abruptly stopped. In a conversational voice he said, “I think we've been in here long enough. As you say, we've got work to do.” With that Harry left the room.

He almost ploughed headlong into Headmaster Dumbledore, who was conversing with several goblins almost directly outside the door. Dumbledore was already wearing his Chief Justice finery, and had evidently arrived whilst Harry was closeted (literally) with Percy. `How convenient. Probably trying to eavesdrop on my conversation,' Harry thought nastily as he stopped short.

Harry had no opportunity for additional thought. Percy came bustling out of the alcove. He collided with Harry from behind, knocking him into Dumbledore once again.

All three of them stumbled about for a bit, and made their excuses. Then Dumbledore spoke. “Mister Potter … Mister Weasley.… There you both are. Mister Potter, allow me to introduce you to Kamar, the goblin chief of protocol.” The Headmaster then said something in Gobbledegook to a well dressed, stocky goblin with a grey beard and elaborately bobbed ears.

Kamar extended a wiry arm and said, “I'm very pleased to meet you Sir Potter. I have long time been looking forward to this moment. We make history tonight, yes?”

Harry was momentarily taken aback. He had never heard a goblin speak English so well before. The Gringotts goblins he had met knew only a few phrases. Recovering, he tried to think of something appropriate to say using the rudimentary Gobbledegook he had learned from Hermione's phrase book. “Gradnuk, Kamar. Asi vrakici kram samduk. Asi Impatok Ragnok amdaklah qam slag.” [Thank you, Kamar. I will try my best to do that. I am looking forward to meeting King Ragnok.]

Kamar was visibly delighted at Harry's effort to speak the goblin tongue- halting and badly accented though it was. He started speaking in very fast Gobbledegook to another goblin, who was obviously on his staff.

Turning back to Harry, he said. “Excellent, Sir Potter. I see that truly well-deserved is your reputation for everyone's expectation to exceed.” With that, Kamar took his leave and waddled off to sit with the rest of the goblin contingent.

Percy called the meeting to order.

Dumbledore guided Harry to a seat next to him, and the next several hours were spent going over the conduct of the Ashrak in excruciating detail. On occasion, Harry and others actually walked through some of the more complicated manœuvres. As Ashrakadan, Harry had a fair amount to say and a great deal to do.

The process would have been a lot more difficult, had Dumbledore not given Harry an enchanted quill and showed him how to use it. With the quill, Harry took written notes on the various steps in the ceremony. After he finishing scratching out each paragraph, Harry would circle it with the quill, tap the tip of the quill three times inside the circle and then touch the quill tip to his temple. The material in the paragraph was thus imprinted on his brain.

The quill was sort of a reverse Pensieve. Harry mused aloud that he could have passed even his History of Magic O.W.L. with this quill. Dumbledore replied that Harry had just discovered exactly why use of such devices by students was strictly prohibited at Hogwarts. Outside, school, however, they were dead useful.

When the agenda reached the actual execution of the treaty, Harry started watching Bill. Harry knew it was almost time to voice his demand for an amendment to the treaty. Percy was droning on when Harry saw Bill give a tug on his fang earring. Harry stood up.

“…and the order of signing will begin with Ambassador Dumbledore for the Ministry, followed by Impatok Ragnok for the goblin nation. Ashrakadan Potter will finish the signing…”

Harry interrupted. “Excuse me, but before we go any further, I want to add an amendment to that part of the treaty concerning my actions and obligations.”

The effect was instantaneous. The boredom and distraction permeating the room evaporated, and all the participants focused their eyes on Harry. Percy nearly dropped his wand, which he had been using as a pointer. Percy answered.

“Er… an amendment, Potter?” asked Percy. “At this time? I'm afraid that's quite out of the question.”

Trying mightily to look more confident than he felt, Harry responded. “I'm sorry Chief Weasley, but if you expect me to sign the treaty, then my wishes must also be respected. I haven't been party to any of these negotiations, so I haven't given my consent to the provisions of the treaty concerning myself… a bit of an oversight, I'd say.”

Percy stood there dumbfounded. Once things wandered off-script, he was essentially useless.

Instead, it was Dumbledore who ventured to speak. “Now Mister Potter, this is a little late in the game is it not? The negotiators worked out the final language weeks ago. If we start entertaining changes now, it will lead to a reopening of negotiations by the goblin side as well, and we cannot afford the delay.”

Harry was expecting Dumbledore to offer an objection of this sort, and was prepared. “No it won't, Ambassador. I was not shown the language of the treaty until this morning….”

This was technically true, but Harry had not previously bothered to request a copy of the treaty either.

“The amendment I have is only to the codicil concerning myself, and it's not really a matter of negotiation. It's what I want to do. Either it's accepted or I will reluctantly decline to sign and go home.”

A drone of whispered conversation started to fill the room. Before either Dumbledore or Percy could address Harry, Kamar rose and spoke. “Amendment to hear I would like, Sir Potter.” The conversation abruptly ceased.

Trying hard to use firm gestures and steady speech, Harry pulled a folded up copy of the treaty out of his pocket, uttered the Displea Charm, turned to the last page. After a calming breath, Harry started to read from the notes he and Bill had prepared.

“On the last page, in the final substantive codicil, the third sentence reads, `Should he defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named,' - meaning Voldemort….”

Nervous twitters arose from many of the wizards present at the sound of the Dark Lord's name. Harry noticed, however, that none of the goblins flinched.

“`…Sir Potter solemnly affirms that he shall, without fail and without falter, devote all his efforts to secure passage of legislation by the Wizengamot and the Ministry of Magic. Said legislation is to ensure that all members of the Goblin Nation enjoy in perpetuity rights, privileges, and immunities that are in all respects equal to the subjects of said Ministry….'” As he reached the end of the pre-existing treaty language, Harry stopped and took a second deep breath.

“Here is where I want to make an amendment,” Harry explained. “To that last sentence, I want to add, at the end, `and thereafter that such equal rights, privileges, and immunities be extended in perpetuity to all sentient magical beings.' That's it. It's the only change I want to make to the treaty. It doesn't affect the Ministry's obligations, nor does it affect what the goblins agree to do. It changes only my obligations, but even there it does not affect the primacy of what I'm promising the Goblin Nation I will do….”

Harry made most of his explanation whilst looking Kamar straight in the eye. When the boy finished, Kamar announced that the Goblin side needed to caucus, and all of the goblins filed out of the room.

Dumbledore addressed Harry, “Mister Potter, why are you doing this? Although you are correct that your proposal affects only your obligations, surely you recognise the implications of having that language added to a treaty that is to be formally endorsed by the Ministry.”

Aware that everyone in the room was listening to their conversation, Harry answered Dumbledore firmly, “Of course I do. I'm not daft. That's the purpose - and that's the commitment I want to make. It can't be halfway. There can't be equality for just one set of beings. That's still discrimination … like they're honorary wizards or something.”

“But Mister Potter,” remonstrated Dumbledore. “You know that I quite agree with your sentiments. Unfortunately, there is the matter of timing. We have a war coming on. This will change the entire character of the war into….”

“If not now, then when?” answered Harry, his jaw set and his eyes shining. “It's been a century and a half, just for the goblins. I'm sorry, but on this my mind's made up. I've been agreeable to everything else. I haven't asked for anything for myself. But this is what I want. Now, do I stay, or do I go….?”

Dumbledore was shocked by Harry's resolve. He started to probe. “Mister Potter, inflexibility of this sort is not a virtue in this situation….”

The Headmaster never had time to finish.

A door's loud clack announced that the goblin representatives had returned from their caucus. All eyes turned to the goblin contingent. Kamar tersely announced, “To the Goblin Nation acceptable the proposed amendment is. No counter-amendments do we offer.”

By throwing their unconditional support to Harry, the goblins aimed the Snitch squarely at Dumbledore's goal.

All eyes, including Harry's furious gaze, now turned to Dumbledore. The wheels turned in his head for a moment before he acceded. “Very well,” agreed the Headmaster, with an unaccustomed air of defeat to his words, “the proposed amendment is acceptable to the Wizengamot and the Ministry of Magic. You may draw it up.”

Harry was so busy beaming at Dumbledore that he did not notice that Percy had fainted dead away. He eyed the Headmaster as he stood next to him, “You won't regret this, I promise,” he whispered.

“I can only hope that you are proven correct,” the older and wiser wizard replied in equally hushed tones. “But in the end, it just might make for a stronger - and broader - alliance….”

Since it was too late to prepare new documents, Harry inserted the amendment by hand onto the last page of the three English-language copies of the treaty. His interlineations were closely observed by both wizard and goblin representatives. Wizard and goblin translators were consulted and the amendment was translated into runic Gobbledegook script for the two goblin copies of the treaty.

To the considerable amusement of many of the career bureaucrats in the room, Harry insisted on trying to verify personally the translation using Hermione's phrase book. He was able to locate some nouns and adjectives, but could not understand the verb conjugations. At length, Kamar produced a full English-Gobbledegook, Gobbledegook-English dictionary, and helped Harry through the complete translation. When Harry was convinced that the translation was accurate, he, Kamar, and Dumbledore initialed the handwritten amendment on all five copies of the treaty.

That completed, the three of them simultaneously clasped hands in a weird three-way goblin handshake that Kamar proposed. None of the wizards had ever seen the like before. As several goblins also appeared taken aback, it was evident that they had not either.

The meeting closed with no additional incidents more significant that Fawkes' sudden appearance to collect a message from Dumbledore to Professor McGonagall.

An elaborate state dinner followed, with Harry (somewhat underdressed in regular school robes) seated at the dais along side Dumbledore, Kamar, Percy and other luminaries. Harry was underage, so he was not allowed to drink the champagne that was freely being dispensed - an irony, Harry thought, given the distinct possibility of his being the next proprietor of the château that produced it.

Various dignitaries made various toasts, during which Harry faked his way through the libations. He realised to his discomfort that he would surely be called upon to offer a toast himself.

When his time came, Harry remained largely at a loss, so he settled for stating out loud how he felt. He raised his glass, “Enough talk. It's time for action. Let's go to war together against Voldemort.” Then he sat down.

There was a collective gasp, and Harry wondered what faux pas he had committed this time. Then he comprehended that diplomatic gatherings were yet another place where the Dark Lord's name was just not said.

Sure that he had just made a spectacle of himself; Harry put his head in his hands. He didn't pay attention to the stream of Gobbledegook from the next speaker - until he heard the word “Voldemort.” Harry looked up and saw Kamar smiling back at him with bared teeth, his glass raised. Plainly, the goblins had none of the fear of the name that increased fear of the man himself.

Realising this after an awkward pause, Harry grabbed his glass, stood, and tapped Kamar's. Several tables of goblins started clapping, and then Dumbledore joined in. At length, the entire room rang with appreciative applause of the alliance that was being forged.

It was time to go to Gringotts, and so to enter goblin territory for the ceremony itself. Harry and a number of others had to change into the formal garb they would be wearing. Harry decided it would be best to see a wizard about a Hippogriff before changing. He was by himself conducting his business, when Dumbledore walked into the WC and positioned himself at the next urinal.

“It was a noble and risky thing that you did today, Mister Potter,” Dumbledore remarked. “At a stroke, the war between Light and Dark has been reoriented. It could well become a war of liberation. The Light and Dark sides have fought for millennia, but the war you are interested in waging has almost no precedent. The risk is that you have handed Voldemort the added weapon of anthropocentrism. The corresponding benefit is that you have greatly complicated his efforts to recruit giants, werewolves, vampires, and all other magical beings to whom your manifesto could apply. If we act wisely, Voldemort may even have trouble maintaining the allegiance of the Dementors. I admit I remain skeptical but, upon reflection, I must say `well done.' We chart new ground tonight and from now on….”

“Don't forget to thank Hermione the next time you see her, then,” replied Harry evenly. “I really wasn't thinking grand strategy at all - I'm not that clever. My narrow interest was to do something for her. She's been somewhat out of sorts lately, and she asked me to remember the house-elves the last time we were together.” Harry flushed, and left the WC.

Glittering in their formal diplomatic finery, the treaty party departed as a group. Harry first thought they were going to Apparate. Then when the party made for the Atrium, Harry supposed that they were going to travel by Floo. However, they entered the lifts rather than the fireplaces.

All along their route, knots of Ministry employees gathered in the halls to watch the treaty party go by. The Ashrak had been front-page news for several days in the Prophet, and many Ministry workers had stayed late to see the treaty party off.

Instead of going down, as Harry was accustomed, the lifts rattled upwards to Level B, and the familiar mechanical female voice announced: “Employee gymnasium, motor pool, magical recycling and disposal, access to Muggle London.”

The group traveled down another long hallway, out a set of large retractable glass doors, and down a well-lit stoop. Outside, a line of Silver Spur limousines, their doors wide open, awaited them at the curb. Each limousine had the flag of the Ministry of Magic and the pennant of the Goblin Nation fluttering from their front fenders. As Ashrakadan, Harry shared highest diplomatic status with Dumbledore, who was Ambassador Plenipotentiary. Therefore the two of them rode together in the lead limousine, just after the security force.

The trip through Central London went quickly, as traffic seemed to jump out of the way of the speeding motorcade. Harry openly gawked at the luxurious handcrafted appointments of the limousine's interior. He explored the available creature comforts - playing with the walnut burl finished wet bar, the refrigerator, the television, and the on-board GPS system. Awkwardly positioning his sword, he craned his neck out of the window as they crossed the Thames on the Tower Bridge, hoping for a glimpse of Eliza's high rise. The motorcade's route, however, did not pass close to Canary Wharf.

Harry asked Dumbledore how the Ministry got away with these cars, since Arthur Weasley's lowly Anglia was considered an illegally charmed Muggle object. As the motorcade rumbled into Diagon Alley from an entrance that Harry did not even know existed, Dumbledore explained, “Actually, Mister Potter, these are not really motorcars at all.”

“Magic?” Harry asked.

“Quite,” Dumbledore affirmed. “Underneath all of the spellwork, these are nothing but wizard carriages, similar to those at Hogwarts. However, they have been enchanted to resemble the finest motorcars in the world. All of these amenities … powered by magic, not by Muggle technology.”

The motorcade glided to a stop in front of Gringotts and the limousine doors magically opened. Harry stepped out and immediately noticed that a considerable crowd had gathered, restrained by magical ropes and stone-faced Aurors.

As Harry alighted, a broadside of flashes from wizard cameras met him. Reporters from the Prophet were in attendance, and a number of people in the crowd had their own cameras. Through the purplish spots the flashbulbs left in his field of vision, Harry recognised a number of people in the crowd. Colin and Dennis Creevey were there. Colin had one of the cameras, of course, and was fiddling with some complicated dials. Harry also saw Neville Longbottom and his grandmother, Lavender Brown (wearing a tube top, he duly noted), the Patil sisters with their parents, and Michael Corner. Harry heard some shouting and waved to Fred and George, who had obviously made their way down from their premises a couple of blocks away. Even a Slytherin, Daphne Greengrass, was present.

Harry would have been happy to talk to any of them (well, maybe not Lavender, whose outfit was certain to leave him tongue-tied), but each time he approached the crowd, it surged forward and he risked being mobbed. From behind a line of Aurors spaced every metre or so, the crowd seemed to be a forest of extended arms - some seeking to shake his hand, some wanting autographs, and some apparently just wanting to touch him.

Harry chanced only one real foray, to talk with the Creeveys. He gave a note to an Auror and asked him to pass it along to Colin. It had Harry's Muggle address and a request for a copy (on Muggle film) of the pictures that Colin had just taken of Harry emerging from the limousine. Harry wanted to show them to his relatives, who put great stock in fancy cars.

Colin was shouting something. Harry wished he knew a charm to enhance his hearing. He moved closer and heard part of what the boy was shouting, “Have you talked to Hermione? We've accepted.” Harry could not chance getting close enough to the crowd to find out what that was all about.

Harry turned away and noticed, to his embarrassment, that the entire treaty party was waiting for him. As he strode hastily around the limousines, Harry felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Dumbledore, who told him, “Easy does it, Mister Potter - slow down….”

“But I'm holding everything up,” Harry protested.

“Hardly,” the Headmaster replied. “It is your pace to set. Remember, you are Ashrakadan. In your capacity, you have no need to hurry. Slow and steady wins the race.”

“But everyone else…. The goblins…,” Harry stammered.

Dumbledore was infuriatingly calm. “Relax and let yourself be Ashrakadan. This is diplomacy, not a trip to Hogsmeade. You should act your rank. Primacy and appearances are important tonight. It is not a matter of rudeness to tarry, so long as you are not excessive. You may move at a leisurely pace, and thereby set the pace for the rest of us.”

Harry understood - and yet he did not. He still tried to hurry.

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore asked, “you would like a souvenir of the trip.”

“Umm … I guess so,” Harry readily agreed.

The boy stood by in shock as Dumbledore snapped the ornament off the bonnet of the limousine that had brought them.

“Very well, a souvenir it is,” Dumbledore chuckled, as he and handed the figurine to a scandalised Harry. Tentatively, Harry accepted it. Upon examination, it turned out to be a silver statuette of what he supposed was an angel - it was a woman with wings at any rate. He anxiously pocketed it and turned again towards the entrance to Gringotts.

Dumbledore gave a bemused sigh and followed the boy.

Gringotts bank was the largest building on Diagon Alley. It was constructed from impossibly white marble. Five three-storey columns formed its imposing main entrance, behind which was a single set of solid bronze doors some four metres high and equally wide. Harry took his indicated place close to the forefront of the procession. Everyone walked towards a double line of goblins that extended from the bottom of the steps all the way to the front doors. Both front doors to Gringotts had been thrown wide open, something Harry had never before seen.

As the treaty party approached, various clipped commands in Gobbledegook rang out. The double line of goblins performed precise synchronised manœuvres. As he came closer, Harry could tell that the goblins were handling some very sharp looking swords and pikes whilst conducting precision, close-order drill.

At the top of the stairs, there was an exchange between Auror in charge - Scrimgeour had appeared again - and a uniformed Goblin. With that the Aurors who had been guarding the party smartly departed. Henceforth, the treaty party passed under goblin protection. The group of humans who actually entered Gringotts was much smaller: Harry, Dumbledore, Bill and Percy Weasley, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and half a dozen aides, all of whom seemed to take their direction from Percy. Kamar was also present, leading a contingent of eight goblins.

The scene as the treaty party moved through the halls of Gringotts was reminiscent of that at the Ministry. Clots of goblins, presumably Gringotts employees, stood in the halls watching them pass. Clearly, the treaty that was to be signed was every bit as important to the goblins as it was to wizardkind.

Presently, a horde of heavily armed goblins fell into step around the treaty party. Everyone passed through a final set of bronze doors, as tall and wide as those in the front of the bank. The party filed into a set of goblin railed carts. Whilst the waiting carts outwardly resembled the ones Harry had ridden before when accessing his vault, these were much nicer. Not only were they well oiled and fully padded, but they also moved much more sedately. The rails underneath lacked the sharp turns and abrupt dips that he had come to associate with his gut-wrenching trips to withdraw money from his vault. As they moved at a slower speed, Harry had more of an opportunity to look around. He was sure he saw an Antipodean Opaleye down one of the side corridors.

After gently descending for about fifteen minutes, the railed carts rounded a curve and a dual track appeared parallel. The corridor had broadened significantly, and ahead Harry saw what looked to be a giant mirror that spanned the entire tunnel. He expected the carts to come to a halt, but instead they accelerated.

The goblin piloting the lead cart said something in Gobbledegook, plunged through the mirrored surface, and disappeared. The surface of the mirror vibrated and rippled, as it absorbed the cart and its passengers. Otherwise it remained smooth and intact as the lead cart passed through. The second cart, containing Dumbledore and Kamar, similarly traversed the mirror and vanished. Harry was in the third cart…

Bloop. The cart smoothly crossed through the mirrorlike surface. It passed around them like some vertical liquid. Behind it, the environment immediately changed dramatically. Gone were the torches in sconces that had provided the only illumination. In their place were glowing cubes on the ceiling that emitted pure white light, without so much as a flicker. The temperature was a good ten degrees cooler.

The walls of the tunnel, which before had been dominated by the browns of slate and sandstone, were now much darker - mostly rough black stone. Here and there, veins of white quartz, sometimes sporting gigantic hexagonal crystals a metre or more in length, broke the monotony. Scattered along the tunnel walls were glimpses of golden shimmering pyrite crystals. The tunnel on this side of the mirror seemed much older. Water dripping through cracks in the ceiling had left calcium deposits up to a foot long. They must have taken centuries to form.

Harry had little time to ponder these changes before the carts came to a station. Hundreds of goblins were waiting. Here, light came not only from cubes, but also from a wide variety of different colored and shaped crystals. Runic writing was omnipresent. In places he noticed pictures of goblins engaged in everyday activities - eating, drinking, using various gadgets or wearing distinctive clothing. Apparently, adverts were something shared by both societies.

The goblin hosts led the treaty party through the well-behaved throng to a row of leather-covered chairs placed two abreast. As soon as everyone was seated, the chairs began moving across the floor, in formation but with no visible means of power. They passed through a corridor lined with heavy blue cloth that looked like velvet. The moving chairs filled the passage with a low humming noise. This ride lasted for about a minute and a half, when the chairs approached what looked like a shimmering curtain. As he passed through this entryway, Harry grasped that the curtain was really formed from a myriad of gold and silver chains, each made of hundreds of tiny, intricately woven links.

On the other side of the chain link curtain was the largest cavern Harry had ever seen - or even imagined. Mentally comparing his surroundings to the model back at the Ministry, he surmised that the treaty party was on the far right hand side of the stage. But the model had utterly failed to convey the immensity of the place.

The stage must have been fifty metres long and an average of 15 metres deep. The large oval pillar at centre stage was not featureless as in the model, but rather was huge column of more or less cream-coloured flowstone, at least seventy metres tall. From top to bottom, it resembled a series of frozen waterfalls - or row upon row of massive teeth - Harry could not decide which description was more fitting.

The altar where the treaty signing and the ritual bloodletting were to occur was located directly in front of the flowstone column. It was carved from a single piece of flawless alabaster two metres high and almost five metres square. Absolutely symmetrical, it was richly inlaid with runic writing embossed with gold.

To each side of the altar, about halfway between towards each end of the stage, were massive 3-metre bowl-shaped metallic objects. They hovered in midair about a metre above the stage surface.

Arranged onstage at both sides of the flowstone column, and carrying around in front, were more than 200 crystals of various sizes and shapes. Each one of them glowed softly. Some of the crystals were gigantic, over ten metres in length, and others were no bigger than Harry's finger.

The stage, as magnificent as it was, could not compete with the rest of the hall in stark grandeur. Beyond the stage were huge grandstands, about half the size of the Quidditch World Cup stadium Harry had seen almost two years previously. These grandstands were ornately carved from the living rock. They were faced with deep blue stone that was interspersed with patterns of the same odd silver-greyish substance Harry had noticed on the uniforms of the first goblins he met. Row upon row of grandstand extended upward and backwards until Harry could no longer see them clearly in the gloom. Harry estimated the grandstands could seat maybe 50,000 people, and considerably more goblins, since goblins averaged a little less than four feet tall.

A shimmering floor about five metres wide ran the width of the cavern and separated the stage from the grandstand. Harry knew from the afternoon's planning session that what looked like a solid floor was really quicksilver - liquid elemental mercury - about a metre deep. Harry and Dumbledore would be sitting in the visiting dignitary's box in the first row of the stands, and on cue would walk across the quicksilver (which although liquid, was heavy enough to support their weight easily) and climb a solid crystal staircase to the stage. Harry was glad to be wearing his Auror boots to ensure he would maintain his balance upon what could be a tricky surface.

From top to bottom, the walls of the cavern were covered with hundreds of larger, heavier versions of the intricate silver and gold chains that had demarcated the entrance through which Harry had passed. Upon closer inspection, each link in these chains was fully six inches long and must have weighed at least a kilo.

At their uppermost ends, the chains were all anchored to a circular fitting, maybe 30 metres in diameter, located in the centre of the cavern's ceiling. From there, the chains radiated outward more or less horizontally until reaching a second set of anchors placed where the irregularly shaped ceiling met the cavern wall, more than fifty metres above the floor. From those anchors, the chains extended downward and ended at a third set of anchors at floor level. These anchors fixed the chains at the corner where the floor met the wall.

Blanketing the walls behind the chains was more of the ubiquitous blue velvet cloth. The overall effect made the stone cavern appear as if it were the interior of an enormous, two-level tent, with a starburst pattern in the ceiling. The thirty-foot circle in the centre of the roof contained numerous orbs of various colours. At the time, only the white orbs were glowing.

A fanfare announced the arrival of the royal goblin party - Impatok Ragnok and his retinue, consisting of his queen, Runasa, his son, the Impratrax (crown prince) Maragnok, the Imprexii (princesses) Imuna and Karanata, along with numerous courtiers and servants. They entered from stage left. King Ragnok was dressed from head to toe in that silver-grey material the goblins fancied, and wore a peaked headdress decorated with large feathers plucked from birds of prey.

Kamar motioned to Percy to follow him, and both of the protocol chiefs hastened to present themselves to royalty. Kamar prostrated himself in the goblin custom. Percy bowed rather stiffly. After some conversation, the goblin king came to greet the treaty signatories. He spoke in Gobbledegook with Dumbledore for a minute, and then motioned for Harry to approach.

Through a translator, Harry heard the King say how pleased he was finally to meet “the remarkable Harry Potter of whom so much we have heard,” and how the goblins looked forward to a “fruitful and ultimately successful alliance” in the war against Voldemort.

Before using the translator, Harry again tried out his phrasebook Gobbledegook. “Gradnuk, Impatok Ragnok. Asi vrakici kram sos Voldemort rasho. Asi amdaklah Gablankansta tallof ardan.” [Thank you King Ragnok. I will try my best to help defeat Voldemort. I am looking forward to being forever allied with the Goblin Nation.] Harry then turned to the translator, and spent the next ten minutes discussing his high regard for goblin prowess in combat. He claimed that to have learnt about this from his History of Magic classes at Hogwarts - an assertion with only the most tenuous relationship to the truth.

Kamar brought the conversation to a close because it was almost time for the audience to enter, and everyone needed to take their places for the opening of the ceremony. Three goblins motioned for Harry and Dumbledore to follow them. They passed through a door on the right of the stage, went down a twisting corridor, and into an anteroom to await their planned entry.

About fifteen minutes later, Dumbledore let Harry know that it was almost midnight. Within a few seconds, the lights in the anteroom dimmed. Soon, the boy became aware of a powerful low-pitched hum - so powerful that he felt it as much as heard it. It was time. The goblin at the door opened it and motioned them forward.

Harry, followed by Dumbledore, began walking down the aisle in front of the first row of seats. At once they were bathed in brilliantly white spotlights from the very top of the cavern. They walked past the rest of the Wizard contingent (minus Percy, who was already onstage with his goblin counterpart) to the seats of honour at the centre. Harry could see goblin the King and Crown Prince doing the same from the opposite end.

They met at the centre aisle and took seats across from one another in the visitors' and royal boxes respectively. Aside from the spotlights, the only light in the cavern came from the two metal dishes on stage - which now contained blazing fires with crackling flames that shot as much as five metres high - and from the much softer glow of the largest crystal on the stage.

A haunting melody filled the air as the goblins on the stage conducted the opening rituals of the ceremony. Harry quickly deduced that the music came from the crystals, which glowed when they vibrated. All of the crystals were linked to a keyboard and formed a huge goblin version of a pipe organ.

The music ended. Kamar ascended the altar and issued the call for his King and the Crown Prince to join him onstage. The ceiling lights bathed the chamber in deepest blue. King Ragnok and Impratrax Maragnok rose and expertly traversed the moat of liquid mercury, as the silvery metal glowed like the sky on a perfect morning. Additional music reverberated through the vast chamber. Kamar prostrated himself as the King approached. After reaching the altar, King Ragnok read a proclamation in Gobbledegook, with the Impratrax standing about two paces behind him.

Percy Weasley ascended the altar. He issued the call for Harry and Dumbledore to join him. The ceiling lights bathed the chamber in brilliant red. Harry and Dumbledore rose and began traversing the quicksilver, which glowed like molten lava. Because ancient goblin practice accorded more status to the Ashrakadan than to an ambassador, Harry led the way. He hoped that Percy had no plans to prostrate himself. That would be embarrassing.

Harry was about ten feet from the staircase when, over the music, he thought he heard a disturbance in the stands. He craned his neck and saw what appeared to be goblins on brooms flying around the cavern. This was definitely not in the planned programme.

Dumbledore reacted as well, levitating himself to the stage in one prodigious leap; drawing his wand whilst he jumped. Startled by Dumbledore flashing by, Harry whirled around and flicked his own wand into his hand. The music stopped abruptly.

Unfortunately, as Harry spun, the Gryffindor sword got caught between his legs and tripped him. Harry fell heavily to the surface of the quicksilver. Flat on his back, Harry saw the white orbs on the ceiling come on - but only for a moment as several cries of Reducto rang out. The orbs shattered and went dark. Broken bits of crystal showered the crowd, which started to stampede. Although the fliers in the cavern appeared to be goblins, they made magic like wizards, used wizard spells, and most importantly, were wand users.

Goblins could not use wands. That was one of many sore spots between the two peoples.

King Ragnok rose to his feet and called out a loud command. Such was his control over his people that the stampede in the stands stopped immediately. By stopping the stampede, however, King Ragnok revealed himself as a target to the fliers. At least ten of them swooped down, targeting the altar and peppering it with green blasts of Avada Kedavra. Kamar leapt in front of his sovereign and took the one truly aimed curse square in the chest. He died on the spot.

Standing firm as errant spells blasted bits of alabaster from the altar, Dumbledore cast some sort of Fogging Charm that enveloped the entire structure. Harry heard him cast a Shield Charm as well. To maintain two spells of that size simultaneously took all of the concentration that the Headmaster had.

Two fliers spotted Harry on the quicksilver and strafed him with curses. Harry downed one of them by casting a Summoning Charm on the flier's broom. The broom came to Harry and the flier fell screaming into the grandstand, where he was immediately set upon by enraged goblins and torn limb from limb.

A hail of arrows, bolts, steel shot and other objects from goblin arquebus and cross-bows knocked the other flier from the sky - and convinced Harry that this was neither the time nor the place to engage in an aerial dogfight riding an unfamiliar broom. He soon saw two flashes. What remained of the fliers' corpses was incinerating spontaneously. This was proof positive that, whatever they resembled, the fliers were in fact Death Eaters.

The goblins quickly regrouped and laid down a withering fire using a wide variety of unfamiliar, but nasty looking weapons. This bombardment soon brought down two more Death Eaters who had returned for a second attack. The rest of the Death Eaters, of which Harry counted ten, retreated to the upper reaches of the cavern where they were effectively out of range of the goblin fusillade.

Momentarily Harry relaxed, as it appeared that a stalemate was developing. Harry saw spells ricocheting off of the ceiling of the cavern. He thought it was Shacklebolt and Percy firing curses at the Death Eaters - but he was wrong. Harry soon located Shacklebolt in the flickering firelight that now provided the only illumination. Shak had his wand out, but was not casting spells. Instead, the spells being fired at the ceiling came from the Death Eaters themselves.

One of the flying Death Eaters cast a spell from a low enough altitude that Harry could hear it over the din of the discharge of the goblin weaponry. It was the Reductor Curse. With that, the Death Eaters' intent suddenly became clear. They were attempting to collapse the cavern roof and bury everyone beneath uncountable tonnes of stone. Cursing under his breath, Harry made another determined effort to stand. Burdened as he was by his bulky robes and the Gryffindor sword, Harry had trouble getting the soles of his Auror boots under him on the wobbly quicksilver surface. He was able to rise only to his knees.

Harry again considered using the Death Eater broom he had summoned, but again thought better of it. Ten to one odds were extremely poor, and the goblins were discharging their weapons at anything that flew.

The mercury, although extremely heavy, was still a liquid, so when Harry moved, it sloshed slightly from side to side. Harry would never be able to aim his wand accurately enough to take out the flying Death Eaters in the very poor visibility conditions of the gloomy cavern.

As Harry was wracking his brains trying to think of something useful to do, a flash of gold caught his eye. One of the Death Eaters' Reductor Curses had cut one of the chains very near the top. The chain fell heavily into the crowd, no doubt causing several casualties. The opposite end of the chain hung limply from its anchor high on the wall. All at once Harry had a capital idea. He might not be able to hit a moving target like the fliers, but he could surely hit a relatively large stationary object like a chain.

Harry cleared his mind like Lao Kung had taught him. He concentrated as if the lives of everyone in the cavern depended upon him. He raised his wand, aimed for the chains just above their upper wall anchors, and fired the best and most powerful severing charm he could conjure. Harry severed a golden chain right where he wanted to, immediately above its upper wall anchor - then another, and another. Like suddenly freed pendulums, the chains swung through the air, anchored only to the ring at the very top of the cavern. Harry kept on severing chains, and soon a dozen or more were swinging through the air.

The flying Death Eaters could not avoid so many chains slashing through the air from so many different directions. Soon, amongst the jingling noise of the swinging chains, came a thud as a chain connected with a Death Eater and knocked him or her from the sky. Then there was another thud. Shak and Percy grasped what Harry was doing, and begun firing their own severing charms. Dumbledore also understood. He abandoned his Shield Charm, and “Diffindo!” he produced a sweeping Severing Charm that sliced through a dozen chains at once.

Now the air was filled with swinging chains - the harbingers of defeat for the flying Death Eaters. Inevitably the chains collided with one another or with flying Death Eaters, lost their energy, and came to a halt. But well placed Kineticus Charms would set them moving again.

Some of them, anyway.

Near the back of the elevated grandstand, a number of severed chains dangled barely overhead.

Some nameless goblin in a back row had a brilliant idea. He stood on the shoulders of his neighbors, grabbed a hold of the end of the chain, and started climbing, a crossbow over his shoulder. Other goblins imitated him, and soon a dozen goblin warriors were climbing a dozen chains to the ceiling - grimly intent upon finishing off those Death Eaters who had taken refuge from the swinging chains high amongst the ruined crystalline orbs in the centre of the ring. Seeing his climbing subjects, King Ragnok gave everyone the attack command.

Goblins started jumping on one another's shoulders reaching for the dangling chains. Using Mobilicorpus, Harry and Shak levitated goblins to chains that hung closer to the stage. The air rang with goblin attack cries. Harry heard the crackle of spells and the discharge of goblin weaponry. Sure enough, four Death Eater bodies fell into the crowd over the next five minutes, where they almost immediately self-combusted. At least as many goblins also fell. The surprise Death Eater attack had been defeated, and all of the greatly outnumbered Death Eaters had died at the hands of the goblins.

Dumbledore returned to where Harry was still struggling with the quicksilver. He helped the boy to his feet and got him moving once again towards the stage. Just as Harry was reaching for the guardrail on the staircase, he heard a grinding noise followed by series of loud pops behind him - as if objects the size of elephants were Apparating. Wheeling around, Harry saw to his horror that a huge chunk of the left-hand side of the cavern over the grandstands was breaking loose. Harry had no time to do anything but react. “WINGARDIUM LEVIOSA!!” he roared.

But for his Auror boots, the recoil from the spell would have sent Harry sprawling once again over the surface of the quicksilver. Harry vaguely heard the staccato of falling rocks striking the grandstand. King Ragnok gave an evacuation order, and Harry heard the shuffling feet of tens of thousands of goblins filing from the stands in an amazingly orderly fashion.

The Levitation Charm, however, was not intended for objects remotely as heavy as a 50-metre chunk of solid rock, and after about thirty seconds, the wall/ceiling began creaking ominously again. Dumbledore called out to Harry from the stage, “Harry, the Feather-Light Charm, on my count of three - and maintain!”

Harry and Dumbledore simultaneously shouted “Pondopennius” at the teetering section of the ceiling, and held the spell. It seemed to be working exactly as intended until Harry felt the pressure of the boulder slowly sinking him into the liquid mercury. Dumbledore could not see Harry from his vantage point, and Harry realised that just to call out would break the concentration required to maintain the spell at the necessary magnitude.

The quicksilver around him seemed to be sparkling. Harry dearly hoped that the information in the briefing, about there being not much more than a metre of quicksilver, was accurate. He agonised as he continued sinking in the quicksilver - past his knees, and past his thighs. Harry noticed the sword of Godric Gryffindor sword floating upwards, he supposed because solid steel is lighter than mercury. Harry saw the mirror-like surface of the mercury pass his waist in an eerie reprise of the boundary mirror he had passed through earlier. Harry was chest deep in the shimmering liquid before, thankfully, he stopped descending.

In due course the grandstand was completely evacuated. Harry heard Shacklebolt whisper in his ear from behind. “Harry, I don't know what you're doing, but Dumbledore wants to switch from the Feather-Light Charm to a Hover Charm so we can let this thing down easy. On my count of three, OK?” Sweat glistening on his forehead, Harry nodded slightly, to acknowledge. On three, Harry yelled “Suspendeo.”

Carefully and steadily Dumbledore and Harry lowered their wands. Numerous small avalanches flowed from the damaged area. The cracked cavern ceiling and wall resolved into a massive boulder, which gradually detached and came gently to rest on the grandstand, slowly crushing it. As the boulder settled into a stable position, Harry felt himself abruptly ejected from the quicksilver, which abruptly ceased sparkling.

Harry landed heavily on his backside, and soon felt Shak helping him to his feet.

“What just happened?” Harry mumbled.

“Nobody's sure,” Shak responded in a whisper. “You started giving off sparkling light, and some force around you repelled the quicksilver. Because your sword was suspended over your head, I think the force was some sort of reverse magnetism. Let's get you out of here.”

Shak half guided, half carried the exhausted Ashrakadan off of the quicksilver and up to the stage, where a heated argument had broken out. Percy Weasley and Queen Runasa were insisting that the rest of the ceremony be cancelled due to the possible structural unsoundness of the cavern. King Ragnok was just as insistent that the ceremony be completed in the same place where every Ashrak in the history of the Goblin Nation had been held. Seeing Harry, King Ragnok, called out, “Callagosto tavi, Harry Potter” [What do you think, Harry Potter]?

From the phrasebook, Harry understood that simple question, and provided an equally simple response, “Kastor calco, sav tasi calido” [Finish the job, all those who want to].

The king nodded. His will, with Harry's support, settled the matter. The ceremony would continue, but without the audience, the visual effects, and the music. Impratrax Maragnok would not leave his mother. Queen Runasa refused to leave her son and husband. Impatok Ragnok simply refused to leave. After Bill insulted Percy's manhood, Percy decided to stay as well.

With the death of Kamar, there was no goblin chief of protocol, so King Ragnok undertook that role as well. He gave a series of detailed instructions to the remaining goblins, including the Impratrax, who were to assist with the modified proceedings.

Dumbledore whispered to Harry that there was going to be a “slight change in plans.” Instead of Harry simply receiving the tladimax marking him as a goblin citizen, King Ragnok had decided that Harry was going to become a blood brother to Impratrax Maragnok. His actions had been essential in saving what amounted to the entire goblin nation, thus Harry would become a prince - an Impratraxis - himself.

Harry was hardly enthusiastic over that prospect, but there was no way to decline such a singular honour without causing a rift with the goblins. He had not been frightened by all that had happened so far this evening, so a mere ritual was nothing that could scare him now.

Harry said his lines, and at the appointed time he and Impratrax Maragnok stepped forward. They placed their arms - Harry's left and Maragnok's right - next to each other on the now spell-pockmarked altar. King Ragnok himself wielded the magical goblin dagger. He formed the tladimax with two cuts in each of their wrists, which joined in an inverted “V”.

Harry winced but the incisions caused no pain. Instead, there was an oddly cool sensation, similar to what Harry felt whenever he walked through a protective ward around his relatives' house. Once the cuts had been made, Ragnok said a few unintelligible lines of Gobbledegook, pulled out what looked like some leather binding, and tied Harry's and Impratrax Maragnok's wrists together so that their blood would intermingle.

The formal execution of the treaty was the next part of the ceremony. Harry chafed a bit because he was considerably taller than Impratrax Maragnok. It was uncomfortable for him to have to stoop all the time. Harry thought that, if the blood brother bit had been planned, somebody would have been clever enough to provide something for the goblin prince to stand on. Since nobody seemed in the least inclined to remove the binding that affixed him to the prince, Harry resigned himself to having to drag poor Impratrax Maragnok around with him whilst signing the treaty as Ashrakadan.

As planned, Harry was called forward to receive his manmak, a signet bearing goblin runes that established Harry as a legal person - and in this case a prince - in goblin society. King Ragnok opened the box, and examined the manmak carefully. He did not make the expected move to give it to Harry. Departing from the script once again, King Ragnok placed the manmak on the altar, muttered something in Gobbledegook, and touched both his index fingers to the signet. It briefly glowed red. King Ragnok examined the manmak again, nodded in a satisfied manner, and gave the signet to Harry.

Still bound to Harry, Impratrax Maragnok had no choice but to follow him around. For the same reason Harry had to stoop to his left side whilst executing all five official originals of the treaty. When he signed the English-language copies, they glowed with the characteristic blue of a binding magical contract. He saw nothing when he placed his manmak to the Gobbledygook-versions of the treaty. Judging from the start that Impratrax Maragnok gave at the precise moment Harry affixed his seal, something equivalent must have happened. Harry recalled that goblins could see in different wavelengths.

Each of the signatories: Harry, Dumbledore, and King Ragnok, received one original. Another original was given to Percy for the Ministry's records. In Kamar's stead, King Ragnok retained the fifth copy, in runic Gobbledygook, that was intended for the archives of the Goblin Nation.

Mutual solemn oaths of fealty followed. Harry underwent the vladaskat, and received a commission as a general officer in the goblin army. In connection with the vladaskat, he acceded to the rights and obligations of a goblin citizen under goblin law. Harry managed the sword removal and salute bit quite admirably. However, he fumbled the return of his weapon to its scabbard because he was being particularly cautious to avoid skewering Impratrax Maragnok (who flinched visibly when Harry first wielded the sword), and making him yet another casualty of the ceremony.

Finally - and to Harry's great relief - King Ragnok severed the leather strap that bound the boy to Impratrax Maragnok. The king performed goblin magic that healed Harry's arm so completely that there was no visible trace of a tladimax scar. After that came a few perfunctory closing remarks, and the ceremony ended.

Now that the Ashrak was over, Harry's adrenal glands shut down, whilst his guilt instinct kicked into overdrive. On the one hand, he was so tired that all he wanted to do was sleep. On the other hand, he was unable to clear his mind of the images of Death Eaters plunging to their fate amongst throngs of murderous goblins.

For over two years, Harry had tried to avoid it - done everything within his power - but it had not been enough. For the first time in his life, he had blood on his hands. It was Death Eater blood, to be sure, but all the same the inevitable had occurred. He had killed someone tonight, several people actually.

This time death had been no accident or quirk of fate. Rather, death had come through Harry's conscious acts. He had summoned that broom; he had severed the chains and turned them into pendulums. In both cases Harry had voluntarily chosen to become a killer. His first kills had certainly been necessary, but nevertheless he felt awful.

Dumbledore was deep in post-Ashrak conversations with King Ragnok and others in the goblin hierarchy. Feeling faint and queasy, Harry slipped away to the anteroom where, well over an hour ago, he had waited for the Ashrak to start. He was sick almost as soon as he sat down. Muttering a Scouring Charm, he slumped into a chair, and tried to clear his mind like a good Occlumens. Perhaps his exhaustion helped, but for whatever reason within minutes the boy was sound asleep.

Once it was noticed, Harry's absence nearly caused an incident among the goblins. They were in a state of high dudgeon following the serious breach of their security precautions. The twitchy goblins almost sounded a general alarm before someone discovered the whereabouts of the missing Ashrakadan. Mercifully they let him sleep.

Unbeknownst to Harry, Bill and Percy almost came to blows when Percy insisted upon waking Harry for an interview with a reporter from the goblin information office. Bill finally prevailed by pointing out that the reporter could just make up a few quotes. The goblin press was strictly controlled, so the quotes would be innocuous in any case.

Dumbledore, who had wanted to discuss the ramifications of Harry's becoming a blood brother to the goblin crown prince, took one look at the exhausted young wizard and decided that the conversation could wait.

Harry had no idea how he got home that night/morning. All he knew is that he awoke in his room with his alarm clock showing 3:30 a.m. and Albus Dumbledore staring him in the face. Dumbledore told him he could - and should - go back to sleep, but that he wanted to give Harry the signed original copy of the treaty to which he was entitled. He handed Harry a half-metre jade cylinder covered with goblin runes and told him that he would find the treaty inside.

Dumbledore also collected the Gryffindor sword and shield. He reminded Harry that they had an Occlumency lesson together the next evening and left. Still feeling uneasy, all Harry wanted to relieve himself, and to get out of his cumbersome formal robes.

Before going back to sleep, Harry pondered what to do with the treaty in the jade cylinder, since he really didn't have any good place to keep it. Remembering that Hermione collected signatures, Harry decided to give it to her. He dashed off a quick note to Hermione, and fashioned a package for the cylinder that he could attach to Hedwig.

Harry knew he would have to talk to Dumbledore about his feelings, but not at this time. The last time he had a conversation with the Headmaster on too little sleep and in the immediate aftermath of disturbing events, he had wrecked Dumbledore's office. After sending Hedwig off, he turned to his alarm clock and groaned. It was now 4:15 a.m. and Eliza was picking him up at 9. Harry set the alarm for 8:15 and cast a lasting protective spell around his clock.

* * * *

Author's notes: Ashrak is a totally invented word, as are almost all of the Gobbledegook phrases in this chapter. It has nothing to do with the Buddhist ashram

Lesson 128 will have serious consequences, even before Harry ever has an opportunity to use any of the spells

To say that Hermione did not have the same resigned attitude as Harry about the prospect of possibly using suicidal magic is an understatement

Transubstantiation is the religious (mostly Catholic) concept that communion wine turns into Christ's blood

Polygamy was commonplace in traditional (pre-Communist) Chinese culture

A GKN is a British specialty racing bike of the MWPP period. A big one would pack about 850ccs and manage 200 klicks (kph)

Hedgerows are very common in France, at least they were during WWII, when they caused the invading Allies considerable problems

All the numbers and percentages leading to the 6/23 Gringotts shares were set out in previous chapters. Anybody out there pick up on this

Hermione's parents send out engraved invites for private get togethers. Not a good sign

Consider Bill's familiarity with this sort of dinner, and what that might portend for Harry

As best I understand it, the description of how to wear and use a broadsword is accurate

Teddy Boys often wore over-the-top ducktail doos

Running at Fudge's heel, the thought comes from "Bellboy" on the Who's "Quadrophenia"

The "If not now, when" quote is from Hillel

"Should I stay or should I go" The Clash

"See a wizard about a hippogriff" is a version of "to see a man about a horse" as a euphamism for using the restroom

A Silver Spur is a large Rolls Royce limousine

What might the Creeveys have accepted?

The mirror's vibrations and ripples as an object passes through are based upon similar situations in the Matrix movies

Goblins have advertisements too

The moving goblin chairs are modeled on similar chairs at the Disney World Haunted Mansion

The cavern is modeled after, although much larger than, Luray Caverns in Virginia. Likewise the goblin crystal pipe organ is modeled on the organ made from stalactites at Luray

The contrast between bowing and prostration is from descriptions of pre-Opium War diplomatic missions to China

Mercury is incredibly dense. It took great force to displace enough of the metal to sink Harry into it

The behavior of the goblin royal family parallels the Royals during the Battle of Britain in WWII, where it was explained that Princess Elizabeth would not leave her mother (to go to Canada), the Queen would not leave her husband, and the King would never leave

What the goblin king did to the signet at the last minute becomes quite important

- 52 -

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C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch14 ashrak.doc 09/28/03

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15. The Prince And The King

Wherein, Hermione finally can't take it any longer, Harry and Eliza's date is cut short as Harry must deal with the dirty little (OK, not so little) secret of the Black fortune, Hermione finds the answer and winds up needing some answers herself, Harry finds his in the Room of Requirement, has dinner with the Headmaster, and has a long Floo conversation with Ron, who has been coming out of Harry's shadow in his own way, and Ginny, who is still uncertain whether she wants to do the same. Also mixed in: Dudley, a sand castle, some wine, Eliza's confessor, republican wizards, a goblin prince, lessons in Legilimency/telepathy, Dobby, and what really happened in Umbridge's office.

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

Chapter 15 - The Prince And The King

Harry slept fitfully, flashes of incinerating Death Eater corpses punctuating the disorderly fragments of his dreams. All too soon his alarm clock went off, signifying that he had only 45 minutes to prepare for Eliza's arrival.

“Urgh,” he groaned, and shot a Silencing Charm at the clock. Like Mad-Eye Moody, he had taken to sleeping with his wand holstered. His spell, however, simply bounced off the clock and sizzled into the wall, leaving an ever-so-slight scorch mark. That was when Harry remembered having warded his clock only a few hours before. “Good move, Potter” he muttered to himself as he groggily pushed himself to his feet.

Looking about, Harry noticed that his room was, if not exactly a wreck, in considerably worse condition than at any point since Hermione had showed off her cleaning magic. In his haste to satisfy his craving for sleep, he had undressed none too neatly the minute Dumbledore had left. Almost everything he had worn to the Ashrak - his dress Knight of the Realm robes and assorted other clothes - were now sloppily strewn about on the floor.

To save time, Harry decided to use that Colix vestmentae charm to collect and organise his garments. But the moment he cast the spell, he promptly lost his balance as he felt himself involuntarily dumped on his bum on the floor - his now quite bare bum that is.

“Bloody Hell!” he growled, annoyed at having forgotten that he was still wearing the same boxers that had been enchanted the day before by the initial Imago Vestmentae. Once Colix Vestmentae was cast, those boxers had to come off, and they did.

Other than that minor detail, the magic had obviously worked, since his scattered clothing was now squared away. `At least it's some improvement,' Harry thought, as he absent-mindedly began collecting himself.

“Ouch!” he yelped as he trod on something hard whilst going to the wardrobe for a change of clothes. After a bit of one-footed hopping, he spotted the offending object. It was the silver angel that Dumbledore had given him as a souvenir the night before. Since he had once called Eliza an angel, impulsively he decided to give it to her.

After switching to a clean pair of pants, Harry headed for the loo. He had just started drawing water when the door creaked and his cousin Dudley entered. Quietly closing the door, Dudley looked askance at his cousin and asked in a loud whisper, “What in blazes did you do last night anyway? Go on the mother of all benders? Mum says that it was after three in the morning when that Dumble-whazits professor of yours brought you in. You were passed out cold - dead to the world. She says he floated you to your room, or whatever it is that you fr… folks do to move things through thin air.”

“I've got to get ready for a date soon, so I really don't have time to talk much,” Harry muttered in reply, “but I wasn't drunk, if that's what you mean. I'm not of age. I've never drunk anything stronger than Butterbeer in my life. I was knackered, both body and soul. I was at an important event last night. There was an … an attack, and I, I, I … killed someone, several people. Had to … actually. I'm not in trouble or anything - obvious self defence - but feel like shite about it. More than that, you don't want me to tell you, and I, I … I couldn't tell you if I wanted to.”

Dudley left without even taking the mickey out of Harry for his new hairstyle. Forget “Butterbeer,” whatever that was…. For one of the few times in his life, the Muggle boy was not certain how he should be feeling. He was a boxer and used to being the tough guy - but he had never killed anyone. He had never even come close in any of his scrapes, either inside the ring or out.

Yet here was that scrawny runt of a cousin, somebody that he had beaten, bashed, and generally brutalised for a decade, calmly confessing to him that he had just taken not one, but several, lives. Although Dudley did not even remotely understand Harry's circumstances, he reflected for a moment on the horrible, but horribly exciting, life that Harry must live as a wizard….

Harry finished washing up. When finished, he regarded himself carefully in the mirror. He had to admit that the protocol witch was right - as long as he was not afraid to show off his scar, he looked better, much more dashing, with his longer hair combed to both sides and parted up the middle. His hair had always seemed to have a mind of its own. But it was so much more controllable this way that it seemed to be telling him to celebrate rather than conceal his notorious scar.

He was going Muggle today, so Harry decided to leave his hair that way. He was interested in what Eliza would say, which in and of itself was unusual. He had never really given his personal appearance much thought. Looking more closely at the rest of his face, he noted that what had been peach fuzz on his chin was starting to turn the same color as his hair.

He hurriedly got dressed. Then he remembered how he wanted to prepare today's lunch himself, to impress upon Eliza that he did in fact know his way about a kitchen. On came the adrenaline again. He quickly Transfigured a paper bag into a hamper and raided the Dursleys' refrigerator. He thanked his lucky stars (such as they were) for the small favour that his aunt was out “hanging laundry” - her euphemism for trading gossip. Harry grabbed a couple of marinated steaks, the ingredients for rice pilaf, some fresh vegetables, and half a dozen Moroccan clementines. He piled these inside the hamper with his collapsible cauldron.

Having only recently finished a survival training lesson, he could have tried his hand at Transfiguring something that passed for food. Real food, however, was tastier and cooked more predictably. Also, the same lesson had taught him that Transfigured food was not really food. Real food could not be conjured. Rather, Transfigured “food” retained the nutritional content of whatever it had been made from, no matter how good it might look or taste. Harry did not particularly fancy eating the nutritional equivalent of wood or plastic - even though Transfiguration could rearrange it into something he could stomach.

Harry was back in his room gathering the last of the things - such as his swimming costume - when he heard a horn sound. Evidently Aunt Petunia was still chattering away out back, because only Dudley's overly large form was peaking through the front drapes when Harry entered the living room. “Nice car,” his cousin commented.

And so it was. Eliza had hired a silver Lexus, which was now parked in the Dursleys' drive. Whilst Harry was lugging his hamper and other items to the door, Dudley let him know that Eliza had gotten out of the car. “Even nicer bird,” Dudley commented, adding a leering whistle. “That doesn't look like Hermo … Hermino … er … the girl who was over here before, is she trans … trans-whatevered?”

Harry responded, “No, you're looking at Eliza, and she is nice. More than that I can't tell you. Neither of us wants this generally known.”

Dudley grinned evilly back at his cousin. “Playing two birds at once, I see. I wouldn't have expected that from you. No offense, but you don't seem the type. Growing up fast, eh?”

Harry did not like where this discussion was headed, not even a little bit. Fortunately, Eliza rang the bell, so he took his leave without further conversation with Dudley.

Eliza was more than a trifle startled at Harry's appearance. He looked so much more handsome when not combing his hair unnaturally to try to hide his scar.

“Now that's a new look,” she told him. “I like it. It's more rakish…. It becomes you.”

As usual, personal compliments left Harry dumfounded. “Er.… Thanks. It's … it's an experiment … for Muggle places only.”

“Well, I do like it,” she repeated, giving him a shy smile. “And what's that?” She had just noticed the hamper Harry was carrying.

“Umm … since you hired the car, I thought I'd try to handle making lunch,” Harry told her. “I've got everything I think we'll need in here.”

“You? You can cook?” Eliza replied, doing nothing to conceal her surprise.

“Well … yes, actually,” he answered, looking a little hurt at her evident lack of faith in his abilities. “I've been doing it for years here, as part of earning my keep….”

She looked at him and remembered what he had told her about how his Muggle relatives had treated him. “Oh, I'm so sorry, Harry,” she said, touching his arm gently with her hand.

“Don't worry about it,” Harry replied quickly, because Dudley was still watching them. “After, all, it's the least I could do since you're going to be driving us all the way to Brighton and back.”

“Oh, no … it's just…,” Eliza started. But seeing the other boy and sensing Harry's reticence, she ended the conversation. “Anyway, shall we be off?”

It turned out that Eliza had hired the Lexus for two reasons (in addition to the obvious one of preening a bit for the Dursleys' benefit). First, it had an ample back seat where Harry could sleep during the drive. Second, it came with a top-drawer CD player, and she had brought along more classical music that she thought he would like to hear for the first time. Sleep, however, won out over the music. They were just entering the M25 when he nodded off in the back to the strains of Stravinsky's Firebird.

A little over an hour later, Eliza stopped at a lay-by and gently shook Harry awake. They had left the A23 arterial and were in Brighton proper. He climbed back into the front passenger seat. They cruised through the centre of Brighton listening to more classical music and getting the feel of the place. On a summer Sunday, the town was crowded with beachgoers and other tourists.

Shortly they reached the strand. After some doing - involving Harry Mobiliautoing a car that had rudely been occupying two spaces - they found a place to park. He gathered the hamper full of food and his bundle of personal effects. She popped the boot and removed a couple of beach chairs and a beach umbrella. Looking like any other day-trippers, the pair headed for a nearby bathhouse, and afterwards, to the water.

Mutual suntan lotion assistance - the caused of so much stress during their first date - was conducted with a minimum of fuss. True, Eliza's hands wandered just a little lower than necessary to ensure that Harry would not get burned about the top of his trunks. Granted, his hands lingered a little longer than required to ensure adequate coverage of her waist, as he continued to convince himself that those curves were real. Whilst the interest surely remained, the trepidation had largely passed.

The next several hours they spent with nary a care in the world. Harry and Eliza splashed in the waves and ran on the strand. Even though the waves were averaging less than a metre, Harry thought they were wonderful. He had never seen anything like it.

“Yeck,” he spat after she had tripped him in thigh-high water. Harry had never tasted anything like seawater either.

They watched ships pass in the Channel. They fed the gulls, until a bobby told them it was prohibited. They found little cockles and other shells. Harry stepped on a flounder and then chased it about a bit, using the Aquavisio Charm he had just learnt in his training to give himself perfect underwater vision. They tossed a Frisbee back and forth along water's edge. His proclivity for impossible targeting remained - he simply substituted the circling seagulls for passing lorries as ricochet targets.

After tiring of the sea, Eliza encouraged Harry to build an elaborate sandcastle, partly modeled on Hogwarts and partly on some castle in Bavaria that she had visited as a child. The sandcastle ended up quite large - over a metre high - and, if truth be told, he cheated a bit to keep it stuck together properly. The working drawbridge he fashioned out of nothing more than sand, seaweed and a stray piece of plank (as well as a deftly concealed Mobilitablus Charm) especially impressed the a crowd of passing Muggle bathers who had been promenading along the strand. They offered many words of praise that Harry inarticulately acknowledged.

It started to cloud over by midday, so Eliza slipped on a top. This time she had been wearing an orange two-piece suit, still a bikini, but more substantial than the breath taking string bikini she had worn to Docklands. Harry only had his one bathing costume. He put on his constellation T-shirt. They found a nearby brazier, and he announced that he would begin preparing lunch. He started rummaging through the hamper he had brought and came across the silver angel. He held it out to Eliza.

“This is for you,” Harry said. “I got it last night.”

“I thought you were at some hush-hush goblin ceremony last night,” said Eliza, sounding surprised and not particularly happy, “not out vandalising the motorcars of the rich and famous.”

“I'm not a hooligan,” protested Harry. “I didn't muck up anything. Dumbledore gave it to me. If anybody was vandalising cars, he was. He took it off the bonnet of a Ministry car and said I could have it.”

“He did, did he?” replied Eliza, sounding somewhat annoyed. “Well it's good to see how the Ministry is spending our taxes. Of course, Dumbledore can make this grow back, I suppose. Do you know what this is?”

Harry frowned. He wasn't sure what Eliza meant. “It's an angel of some sort. That's why I decided to give it to you. You're my angel.”

That body of hers, however, kept inspiring anything but angelic thoughts in his mind.

“That's very sweet of you, Harry,” Eliza said with a dazzling smile. “Actually it's not an angel, it's a winged victory. It's a bonnet ornament from a Rolls Royce automobile.”

“Really?” Harry gawked, considering whether Eliza made as good a winged victory as she did an angel - but what he said was, “I've heard of those I think. That means something extra fancy, right?”

“Well, yes and no, Harry. A Rolls Royce is a specific type of car, like a Lexus or a Mercedes, but they're frightfully posh, so it also does mean fancy.” `Just like him,' Eliza thought. `The first time he ever sees a Rolls, he's riding in it.'

It was time for lunch, and Harry certainly did demonstrate his culinary skills. Eliza seemed as impressed as he had hoped she would. He was not quite sure why or when impressing her had become important to him, but it had. He had two marinated steaks frying on the brazier, rice pilaf cooking in his cauldron, and was cutting up the fresh vegetables for a salad. Eliza walked away whilst Harry was too absorbed in his cookery to notice. She soon returned with a bottle of red wine.

Harry was not terribly at ease with wine. “Er ... you know, I've never had anything stronger than Butterbeer,” he said warily when she produced it.

“Well, no time like the present to learn,” she said whilst stripping the foil off and starting to pick at the cork. “In moderation, wine is relaxing. But you…. Especially since you're undoubtedly going to be … unh … attending events at which … unh … drinking is expected…. Oh, Harry,” she gave up in exasperation, “you wouldn't happen to have a corkscrew in your hamper would you?”

“A what…?” Harry asked blankly.

“I suppose not,” she sighed in frustration. “I need something to get the bloody cork of the bottle….”

Harry looked around. None of the nearby Muggles was paying them any mind. If they were paying any attention at all, it was to his sandcastle, which was a good twenty-five metres from the brazier. He slipped his wand from its holster and hissed, “Accio cork.”

With a melodious “bloop,” the cork flew into his hand.

“Thank you, Harry,” Eliza said wryly. “As I was trying to say … before that … it behoves you to learn to drink, at least a little, in a low-pressure situation like this….”

Thinking back to the toasts at the pre-Ashrak diplomatic banquet, he thought that she was probably right.

Eliza was certainly right about the relaxing part. Before long he was lazing comfortably in a beach chair, whilst giving her a carefully edited version of his goblin encounter. Even though she did not take the Prophet at her Muggle flat, she had seen the earlier stories at work, and she was curious. Just before he was going to ask her for help in sorting out his feelings about his having had to kill those Death Eaters, his mobile rang.

Harry was surprised, almost shocked. Very few people knew his number. He had given it to his relatives. Of course, Bill, his guardian knew it - and (Harry assumed) some members of the Order who understood what a telephone was and how to use it. Eliza did too, but she was right in front of him. The caller turned out to be Dudley.

“Harry, is that you?” Dudley asked.

“Of course it's me,” Harry rasped curtly. “Who were you expecting, Princess Diana?”

“That would be a damn sight better than chatting you up, now wouldn't it,” Dudley replied with equal sarcasm. “Look, I didn't want to call you, but that other girlfriend of yours, that Hermione… She's rung up here three times already today - each time sounding more frantic than the last. A right drama queen, if you ask me… Mum's getting annoyed….”

“Wha - What did she want?” asked Harry, suddenly very attentive.

“She wouldn't tell me,” spat Dudley. “Got very huffy, that one did. She said she had just `researched something important and I simply must to talk to him….'” He said the last part in an exaggerated falsetto that was a passingly adequate imitation of Hermione. “…It didn't sound like good news, I warn you.”

“So where did you leave things?” asked Harry.

“She called the last time about five minutes ago. To get shot of her, I finally told her that you were at seaside all day and wouldn't be home before dark,” replied Dudley. “Don't worry, I didn't tell her where you were - or more to the point, who you were with” (Harry could well imagine the leer that accompanied that comment). “I covered for you, but I expect you'll be having problems with her. You've never been a very good liar.”

“Dammit Dudley,” Harry complained. “It's not like that at all. We've discussed this before….” Harry would have been at a loss, however, to describe exactly what his relationship with Hermione was like. Fortunately, his cousin didn't ask. “Anything else?” Harry demanded.

“Oh, yeah,” said Dudley, savouring the bomb he was about to drop. “She said that whatever it was couldn't wait, and she was having a hard time - what was that fancy phrase she used? - `reconciling herself' to something. When I told her you weren't going to be in, she said she would talk to that Professor Doubledoor of yours.”

“That's Dumbledore,” corrected Harry. “Oh blast, what am I going to do now?” he said, not expecting Dudley to answer. “Anyway, thanks Dudders. Maybe I can return this favour some day. Bye.”

Harry was worried and uncertain. Eliza immediately sensed this. He explained to her that something - and he did not think it was their being on this date - had upset Hermione greatly. Whatever-it-was was sufficiently important that, after she failed to reach him, she had decided to go straight to Dumbledore. If this was becoming the Headmaster's problem, it was likely to appear on Harry's doorstep again before too long. He decided that he had better get in touch with Hermione, but how?

His first option was to contact today's Order escort. That was hardly difficult, since they were not exactly camouflaging themselves very effectively at the moment. These supposedly “undercover” chaperones were quite obviously the pair of oldsters who had stationed themselves about fifty metres or so down the strand.

They were hard to miss - both being clad in horizontally striped, single-piece bathing costumes of a type probably not seen in these parts since Edwardian times. Harry trotted over to the pair, who turned out to be Emmeline Vance and a new recruit named Orville Pemberton. Harry explained the situation, and they promised to contact the Headmaster promptly through Order channels.

Returning to Eliza, Harry tried to continue as if nothing had happened - but he soon concluded that was an impossible act for him to pull off. They finished eating and tried to amuse themselves tossing the Frisbee whilst splashing in the surf. He found himself staring about absently mindedly, wondering what could possibly have upset Hermione this badly.

After Harry got hit flush in the head with the Frisbee for the second time, Eliza called a halt to the game. She had planned to spend part of the afternoon walking the boardwalk, patronising amusement arcades, and window shopping, but Harry was loathe to change locations without word from Dumbledore.

Finally, he sighed and pulled out his mobile. Straining to remember, he punched out Hermione's telephone number. The phone rang twice, and a woman answered:

“Granger residence,” a precise-sounding female voice answered.

It was plainly not Hermione, so Harry hesitated. “Er.… May I speak with Hermione please?”

There was a noticeable pause on the other end, then the woman spoke, “She's not in right now, may I ask who's ringing?”

“Umm… This is Harry Potter,” he identified himself.

There was an even longer pause, and then the voice, with a strained air of familiarity, continued, “Why Mister Potter, how pleasant finally to be speaking to you. I don't believe we've been introduced. I'm Ms. … er … Doctor Eva LaFayette-Granger, Hermione's mother.”

“Pleased to meet you. Er…. Do you know where she is right now?” Harry asked urgently. “I gather that she's been trying to reach me, and that it's important.”

“Frankly, I thought she would be with you by now,” responded Dr. LaFayette-Granger more curtly. “She was very upset about something - she never tells me what anymore - and insisted on seeing that Dumbledore after she couldn't reach you. She might be at Hogwarts, I suppose. She left via the main fireplace about a quarter of an hour ago. Just a flash, and she was gone…. Fancy that.”

“Thank you for the information, ma'am, and I'm sorry to bother you.” Harry said in his most polite voice.

“Oh no, no bother at all. I am looking forward to meeting you in person this Friday,” she said somewhat more warmly.

Harry had forgotten about the upcoming dinner. “Oh, yes … so am I. Well, I'll be seeing you then….”

“Mister Potter…. Harry?” Dr. LaFayette-Granger said tentatively. “Please look out for her. We don't know what is going on, and we are very frightened for her safety. You will keep her safe, won't you?”

Harry was unsure how to respond to this heartfelt but entirely unexpected plea. “Umm…. I will Doctor Granger, believe me…, I intend to…. There's … er … nothing I want more than her safety.” Actually there was, but Hermione's mother was definitely NOT the person to discuss that with.

The conversation ended, and he knew that Eliza had been listening in. He tried, in his typical fumbling fashion, to explain to her what was happening. After hearing a couple of his rather inarticulate explanations, she simply said, “Well Harry, if it's that important to you, I think that you ought to try and find her. The purpose of this outing was to have fun, and you're not going to have any fun as distracted as you are right now.”

Eliza was just the opposite of Cho. Rather than be offended at Hermione's inopportunely-timed interruption, she affirmatively sent him to her. He also knew she had done the right thing, even if to some extent she had been speaking rhetorically.

He turned in the direction of Mrs. Vance and Mr. Pendleton, and saw that they were already plodding through the sand in his direction. Mrs. Vance, who was obviously the witch-in-charge, addressed him as she approached.

“We reached Dumbledore, Potter, and he would very much like to see you as soon as you are willing to come.” She said this with some hesitation, given Harry's circumstances.

“Umm … that can be right now,” Harry indicated, “just let me get changed.” Behind him Eliza nodded her assent.

Mrs. Vance replied with an approving nod of her own and said, “I thought so. Take this.” She handed him a half-crumpled aluminium beer can. “It's set to go off ten minutes after you touched it, so say your good-byes. The Headmaster will be waiting for you.”

Using Eliza's beach towel to cover himself, Harry quickly changed in the Lexus' back seat. He then muttered his fervent apologies to Eliza, who still saw fit to give him a short, intense kiss. He was not quite sure what to say after that, and was still mumbling about calling her “real soon” when the Portkey activated. Feeling the familiar tug at his navel, he disappeared.

Eliza stood staring at the spot where Harry had been for quite a long moment before picking things up and returning to her car. Her mind was a jumble of confused thoughts and emotions.

She was confused about Harry. Should she keep seeing him or not? Every meeting potentially put her career in jeopardy - a definite drawback. But he made her feel alive - an even more definite plus in her rather drab existence. He seemed to like her, and she was definitely starting to like him in ways that this Hermione woman either did not or would not reciprocate. The pre-prepared dinner for two in the refrigerator back at her flat was testament to that.

Eliza feared that some day soon Hermione Granger would come to her senses and comprehend how much Harry really cared for her. He wore his emotions on his sleeve, and nobody that clever could be that stupid, could she? When that day came, Eliza doubted her ability to do anything to compete with the hold Hermione so evidently had over Harry.

Eliza was also confused about herself. What exactly did she feel about Harry and why? He was so discrepant - so magically powerful, but so emotionally fragile… So naïve in some ways, yet so worldly in others…. So vulnerable, yet so … dangerous.

Harry was not just Harry, but also the Boy Who Lived. He was involved in so many things Eliza could not begin to understand. She doubted that she wanted to understand, for fear of her own safety. As attracted as she was to his Muggle side, she was almost as frightened of his magical one.

She had more experience than she needed with how it felt not to have parents in ones life. She knew that feeling must be incalculably worse for Harry, who had never known his at all. He needed to have fun, and she wanted to have fun with him, and for him. Although at the moment he was unselfconsciously single and undeniably available, Eliza could not shake the feeling that, nevertheless, she was almost playing the “other woman” to that Hermione.

But from everything he said, Hermione seemed not to want him in that way.

Eliza, like Harry, desperately needed someone older and wiser to confide in. Her parents had divorced, and her Muggle mother had emigrated to Australia. Her mother had left because she wanted nothing further to do with the wizard world. Her father had quickly found a witch, remarried, and moved to Edinburgh. Since she had graduated from Hogwarts, her father had taken next to no interest in her. Their last conversation had been over a year ago.

The only shoulder available to Eliza to cry on was that of Lucinda Trucipp, the older former-court-reporter-now-general-office-factotum, who had been so helpful to her ever since she had started with the service. With an ironic smile and a soft snort, she recalled that, when Lucinda first learned that her friend had been assigned the Black-Malfoy-Potter litigation on a regular basis, she had jokingly suggested that Eliza should try to meet Harry Potter. What would Lucinda say when she found out that this had really happened? Perhaps she would be able to help sort out Eliza's complex and contradictory feelings….

* * * *

Harry arrived at Hogwarts Castle not sure what to expect. He was not happy at receiving a summons on what was supposed to be an “off day.” He was also worried that he was about to receive still more bad news.

In his perfervid imagination, Harry even worried that Hermione was going to tell him that she was being withdrawn from Hogwarts again. He completely overlooked that her mother had just seemed to indicate that he was still welcome in their home. The reception he received upon arrival at Hogwarts did little to allay his fears.

He landed in the Great Hall, beneath the charmed ceiling reflecting a leaden sky. The hall was empty, save for a couple of house-elves who were making minor repairs to the furniture and who almost immediately vanished. Gathering his bearings in the eerie stillness of the empty hall, Harry revised his hairstyle back to its messy, scar concealing normalcy.

That done, Harry tired of dallying and decided to make for Dumbledore's office. He had moved less than a dozen metres toward the main doors when Dumbledore swept in, followed by Bill Weasley. Neither of them looked very chipper.

Dumbledore immediately addressed Harry. “My regrets for disrupting your … your outing. I am very pleased, Mister Potter, that you arrived so quickly. You showed good judgment in deciding to come on such short notice….”

“Where's Hermione and what's wrong with her?” interrupted Harry, cutting to the chase.

“Miss Granger awaits in my office,” Dumbledore answered, looking somewhat uncomfortable. “She is physically well but rather distraught. It seems she has uncovered some disturbing information from Muggle sources … information that I, myself, was quite unaware of until just now. Unfortunately, this knowledge affects her attitude towards what the Order is trying to accomplish…. I am afraid to say that it also affects her attitude towards you. In light of this, it appears you were quite prescient indeed yesterday when you insisted upon the amendment….”

Harry broke in again, impatient with the Headmaster's circumlocutions. “Well, what is this information anyway?”

Dumbledore paused, “I think it would be best if Miss Granger told you directly,” he finally said.

The rest of the way was spent in silent disquiet. “Peppermint humbug,” Dumbledore intoned, and the gargoyle guarding the revolving staircase to the Headmaster's tower office sprung aside.

Harry heard muted shouting as they approached Dumbledore's office. Hermione was screaming at someone. Recognising her voice, Harry sprang in front, unholstered his wand, and flung the door open.

Her back was to him. “…DON'T FEED ME THOSE EXCUSES! SOME THINGS ARE JUST EVIL. IT'S NO WONDER EVERYBODY AT HOGWARTS DETESTED YOU WHEN YOU WERE….”

Hermione was in the midst of a blazing row with the portrait of Phineas Nigellus, the former Hogwarts Headmaster. She whirled around and stopped shouting abruptly when Harry, followed by the others, entered.

“Such impertinent pupils these days!” Nigellus huffed. “And to think you're considered a candidate for Head Girl. Not in my day!” With that the former Headmaster and great-great grandfather of Sirius Black departed, slamming some unseen door, and leaving an empty frame behind.

“H-H-Harry,” she croaked. She said nothing further, as her face screwed up. She was using all her effort in an ultimately unsuccessful effort to prevent herself from losing her composure. The odd silver devices in Dumbledore's office softly clicked and whirred in the background. Giving up, she put her face in her hands. In between muffled sobs, Harry heard her trying to speak.

“Oh, blast it…,” she mumbled. “Why now? I have to be strong…. Damn being brought up female….”

Harry stowed his suddenly useless wand.

It was quite out of character for Hermione to curse - less so, to cry. Harry closed the distance between them and tenderly clutched her shoulders. Tentatively he addressed her. “What's wrong Hermione? What have I done?” he asked gently.

The two adults in the room mutely glanced at one another.

Hermione pulled away from Harry's touch, and looked at him with angry eyes. “It's what you're all doing,” she wailed. “Not just you - not even mostly you - it's all of them.” She gestured wildly at Dumbledore and Bill. “They're trying to pollute you, Harry. Trying to turn you into something odious. It's all a bloody great game. They're using you to fight evil, but I'm afraid they will turn you evil to do it.” She slumped into a chair.

Harry was stunned at the outburst, and too tongue-tied to form a coherent sentence. Dumbledore attempted to fill the awkward silence. “Miss Granger, its origin disgusts me equally, but the fortune exists. The present alternative is Voldemort, and that simply cannot be allowed.”

“I know that damn well!” came Hermione's resentful reply. “But why does it always have to be Harry? And if it has to be Harry, why does he always have to make things so difficult and complicated for me?” she added without thinking.

Harry winced at those last words. He looked at Dumbledore. Addressing both, or neither - it hardly seemed to matter anymore - he practically begged for answers. “Will someone please tell me what is `always me' this time…? And what have I done that's so difficult? Hermione, I'd never deliberately do anything to hurt you. That's not my intent, you know that…. And whatever it is, I'm sorry.”

She seemed to be looking right through Harry. “It's the blood money,” she replied in a much softer voice. “The immorality of it all. And just when I have myself convinced to make a clean break of it, you … you … you have to go and do this…!”

She reached into her robes, pulled out the jade cylinder containing the goblin treaty and a rolled up bundle of paper. She tossed them in his direction, and the cylinder landed at Harry's feet and clattered away. “Dammit,” she swore. “I can't decide whether to kill you or kiss you….”

“Umm,” Harry paused, thinking. “Kiss me first; then at least I'll die happy.”

Harry's attempt at humour fell worse than flat. Hermione's tears burst forth again. For so long she had longed for such an opening - and now he had to say that.

The cylinder had rolled out of sight under Dumbledore's desk, so Harry grabbed at the paper. It was a copy of the Sunday Prophet, which he never took because there was just too much in it to read. The banner headline took up practically the entire front page above the fold:

Potter Adds Equal Rights Manifesto To Goblin Treaty

Dumbledore Agrees On Behalf Of Ministry

The rest of the front page consisted of a long story about the contents of the just-initialled goblin treaty. Over half of the story discussed the implications of equal rights for other intelligent magical beings. Harry quickly leafed through the rest of the newspaper.

The inside pages carried related stories. There was an account of a protest mounted by the Sons of the Knights of the Goblin Rebellions (a pureblood group). The Prophet had included a point-counterpoint debate over the merits and demerits of equality among magical beings between Madeline Thackery (for equal rights) and Newt Scamander II (against).

The remarkable thing was that the point Harry had been trying to make was totally missed…. The various Prophet articles brought up goblins, giants, werewolves, merpeople, centaurs, and vampires. Nowhere was there any mention of house-elves. It was as if nobody in the wizard community could even conceive of elf equality.

Just as absent was any account of the Death Eater attack upon the Ashrak, which both the Ministry and the goblins were apparently conspiring to hush up.

Feeling a lump rising in his throat, Harry once again faced his overwrought friend. “I don't understand, Hermione…. I-I-I thought you would approve. I don't know what to think. They don't get it…. It was supposed to be about house-elves. In fact, I had you in mind when I decided to do this.… If you don't believe me, ask Bill. I talked it over with him beforehand….”

Bill cringed. Dumbledore shot him a look that clearly indicated his unhappiness at learning that Bill had a hand in Harry's obviously pre-arranged ambush of the Headmaster the previous afternoon.

Hermione never even looked at Bill. But if anything she appeared more troubled. A painful grimace distorted her face and she bit her lip painfully. After a few seconds she lifted her head and focused her brown eyes on Harry's green ones. The expression on her face was difficult to read, as it was an unholy mix of pain, adoration, and despair.

“You're right Harry,” she began calmly. “You don't understand. What you did with the treaty was the noblest, most wonderful thing I could imagine. At a stroke you have done more for equal rights for house-elves, centaurs, werewolves … so many beings … than I could ever hope to accomplish myself in a lifetime of trying. You had no fear. You sought no favour. You just did it and damn the consequences....”

Her voice quavered, and she stopped to draw a deep breath. “Then you send the original document to me…. And now … you, you tell me that … that I inspired you to do this….” Her voice broke, and she choked back yet another sob. “It's all too much for me to take, Harry…. Your act shows you at your finest, and your motive prove that my friendship with you is worth whatever sorrow, pain, and worse that may come my way because of it.”

Tears were flowing from her eyes. Bill looked like he wanted to say something, but Dumbledore silenced him with a frown.

“I-I-I still don't understand, Hermione,” stumbled Harry in confusion. “Why on earth are you so unhappy?”

“Because you're.… No, not just you….” She paused and glared fiercely at Dumbledore and Bill. “THEY are forcing me to compromise my deepest moral values! After what I learned yesterday, I'd gathered enough courage of my convictions to decide not to have anything further to do with you if you were going to accept that horrid blood money … the, the inheritance from the Blacks. The Black family was awful, Harry…. Pure evil….” She shivered and blurted out. “I can't think of anything more evil than what they did.”

“Tell me, Hermione,” Harry pleaded, “what did they do?”

“What did they do?!?” she shrieked. “You're not that thick, nobody is. Why don't you guess, then? Think of the most evil possible way to make money - then think of something ten times worse!”

“Well, I once thought they might be pirates…,” started Harry. Quailing under Hermione's fierce glare, he continued. “But they must have been worse than that - ten times worse.”

Wide-eyed recognition began to dawn on his face. “I know! It's the house-elves, isn't it? They made their money buying and selling elves! Well, we can stop that Hermione! We'll figure out a way to free the….”

He stopped abruptly. Instead of the approval he expected to see on her face, Hermione looked like she was about to explode.

Then she did.

“NO, YOU IGNORANT WART!” she shouted. “THE BLACKS DIDN'T MAKE THEIR MONEY BUYING AND SELLING BLOODY ELVES! THEY MADE THEIR MONEY BUYING AND SELLING PEOPLE!!! HUMAN BEINGS, HARRY!!! THEY. WERE. SLAVERS! GODDAMNED, BLOODY SLAVERS! YOUR BLOODY INHERITANCE COMES STRAIGHT FROM THE WORST CRIME IN THE HISTORY OF HUMANITY!!! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS … MAYBE MILLIONS … OF LIVES THEY MUST HAVE DESTROYED TO LEAVE YOU A BILLION BLOODY POUNDS?!?”

Harry was staggered. This was beyond his comprehension. He could not have felt worse if ten Death Eaters had him under the Cruciatus Curse. Slave money was blood money, no two ways about it. He had never thought about it much, but human slavery was one of those things that was pure, unadulterated evil - the equivalent of Voldemort two hundred years ago or more.

There were just no excuses. There was no way out; no denying it. He was at a loss for words, so he only said, “Oh Merlin, Hermione. I'm sorrier than I can possibly say.”

“You're not half as sorry as I am,” mumbled Hermione. “I.… If my ideals meant anything to me, I should be running away from you screaming, b-but … but I can't. There's too much that's good and pure in you. The problem is that … that Dumbledore's right, dammit!”

Her shoulders slumped in defeat. “You can't avoid taking this blood money because Voldemort's the only alternative. If it goes to Malfoy, then it goes to Voldemort. And Voldemort's present evil - something that must still be fought. As horrible as the Blacks were, their evil is … past. Nothing can ever restore freedom to the multitudes they must have sold into slavery.”

“But still…. It's disgusting…. It's, it's hideous…. It makes my skin crawl. It's so horrible; I can't find words to describe it…. I feel like I'm betraying everything I believe in. But I can't abandon you, Harry. Not now…. Not after this.… I should … b-b-but I just can't….”

Feeling utterly drained, Hermione again slouched in her chair. Before he could think, Harry was beside her. He knelt and wrapped as much of her in his arms as he could gather. She did not resist, and he silently rocked her for quite some time, whilst she attempted without great success to compose herself. Then, looking up, he glared at the two other men in the room.

“Now what?” he growled.

Dumbledore had used the interlude wisely, to organise his thoughts in preparation for precisely this question. He spoke quietly, but firmly. “We continue, Mister Potter. I had no idea, because I'm not a worldly man in that way. I've never had much use for money, and less for its pedigree. But you heard what Miss Granger said, and she said it as well or better than I can. She has stronger moral compass than practically anyone I've ever met, but even she accepts the fruit of the poisonous tree as necessary to defeat Voldemort.”

The Headmaster continued. “I only ask that you accept this as well. It all comes back to Voldemort. The sooner he is defeated, the sooner you can eliminate this … pollution … as she calls it. As I told Miss Granger earlier, Voldemort has already spirited away the Malfoy fortune, and we simply cannot afford for the Black inheritance to suffer the same fate. That fortune is indeed more cursed than I could have imagined, but only upon Voldemort's defeat can you safely seek to be rid of it.”

Harry turned to Hermione and asked if she agreed with Dumbledore. She made no response for quite some time, but eventually nodded and then said in a small, defeated voice, “There's no other way, Harry. Not that I know of….”

“All right,” Harry said grimly. “We will soldier on - but on one condition.”

“And what is that?” inquired Dumbledore.

“You're in this as well. If Hermione had decided to run away just now, I have no idea what I would have done. The only thing that kept her, and therefore kept me, was the equality pledge that I put in the goblin treaty. I had to force that pledge down your throat, if you remember. If … when … we beat Voldemort, I want you on my side fighting that next fight for equality without reservation, until that's won as well.” Harry paused for breath. “Deal…?”

Hermione had been gazing at Harry with wonder. She glanced uncertainly at Dumbledore.

For once, the powerful old man did not hesitate. “Indeed,” he said. Harry held out his hand and Dumbledore solemnly shook it. There was a brief bluish glow. “Binding magical contract,” the Headmaster affirmed.

Hermione threw her arms around Harry. Harry gently moved her aside so he could look straight at Dumbledore. “And for once, you're the one being obligated,” Harry shot back, still angry.

The old man regarded his two remarkable pupils. Harry could almost sense the wheels turning in his head. The Headmaster's head nodded slightly, as if reaching some unspoken conclusion.

“I already was obligated,” Dumbledore responded slowly. “Your comments were nothing compared with the protests I have already received from Cornelius and Rufus. Suffice it to say that the Ministry hierarchy is not pleased - but they are also in no position to act upon that displeasure, and for once they know it. But the Minister cannot act against either of us now without causing an open breach with the goblins - and the goblins do solve the Ministry's Azkaban problem.”

Hermione sat up straight, trying to appreciate what had just happened - and her own role in it. She could barely believe what her distress had just wrought. She had moved Harry, he had moved Dumbledore, and that may have moved the wizarding world. On a more personal note, Harry also looked incredibly handsome … standing right beside her.

Behind the three of them, Bill Weasley beamed. His faith in the old man, and his belief that he, personally, had done the right thing in becoming Harry's guardian, were both vindicated that afternoon.

Harry summoned the treaty from wherever it had rolled and returned it to Hermione. “I … I really wanted you to have it, for your collection.”

“Oh, Harry, I couldn't possibly take that,” she said, trying to refuse the offer. “It's too valuable and too historic to be in anyone's private possession.”

“But I really wanted you to have it,” Harry persisted. “But for you, I wouldn't have decided to do it….”

“I really shouldn't….”

“Miss Granger, please,” Dumbledore intervened. “Take it. I assure you, it is not the only copy. I have one of my own, and I intend to put it on display in the Hogwarts ceremonial library, alongside all the other documents of similar import….”

Reluctantly, Hermione accepted Harry's copy of the treaty.

After that, Hermione wanted to leave, chiefly because she was emotionally spent, but also because she felt guilty about leaving her parents so abruptly. Dumbledore prevailed upon her to remain for another couple of hours because he wanted his two prize soon-to-be Sixth Years to practice Occlumency and Legilimency together. After what the Headmaster had just done, she could hardly refuse him that.

For his part, Dumbledore was convinced that both of them should learn these arts. He thought that Harry, in particular, would receive more benefit from joint Legilimency training with her than by himself. He believed that, even with (and perhaps because of) today's revelations, they trusted each other in a way neither of them would ever be able to trust him again. Harry needed to be able to trust someone unreservedly- needed more than that, actually.

Both students were initially uncomfortable with the idea. They finally agreed after Dumbledore assured them that they would not be at any risk of seeing one another's deepest thoughts. Their training at this point would be only an overview - a skimming of the surface of the field.

They would enter into one another's minds only to the very limited extent needed to learn to communicate with one another telepathically. It was only one aspect of Legilimency, but Dumbledore did not anticipate any immediate need for them to know more. If and when they did, they would tell him - or hopefully he would have the prescience to recognise a deeper need.

Harry thought it would be “rather cool” to be able to talk without speaking. With that incentive, they both agreed.

The session went swimmingly, but after an hour and a half Hermione finally put her foot down, saying that she really had to get back to her parents.

Just before she left, Harry remembered the other question he was meaning to ask. It seemed so trite now, but it was a necessary detail. “Hermione, last night, in the … er … crowd…. Colin and Dennis Creevey were there. I couldn't talk with them, but they said I should talk to you about something. What were they on about…?”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione excitedly replied. “It worked. I asked them, and they agreed to help you with all the fan mail you've accumulated. I think they're the perfect choices.”

Harry was not so sure. “Why gives you that idea?” he inquired.

“Well, they both admire you greatly, but I wasn't sure either,” Hermione answered. “After they responded positively to my first inquiry, I went to their house to be sure. They're Muggle-born and so am I. I got to know them a bit better, and their skills - along with their enthusiasm - convinced me that they'd be both loyal and a good fit….”

“But all Colin's ever wanted to do is take pictures of me,” Harry reminded her. “Sometimes it seems, the more embarrassing, the better. Why would he have any skills, as you say?”

“Well, Harry, you're right,” Hermione initially agreed. “Colin's a photography fanatic, that's true, but that's not all. It's what he's done with his photos. You wouldn't believe how excellently organised everything was. He showed me his collection. He had every photograph, not only catalogued by date, but also cross-indexed by subject matter. That's when I knew that we had gotten lucky…. He'll get everything done … and keep track of it too.”

“Okay,” Harry conceded. “But his younger brother, too? He's barely out of Second Year….”

“It's probably more than any one person could handle by himself, that's the problem,” Hermione explained her reasoning. “Now, Dennis is not nearly as organised as Colin, but he impresses me as a really hard worker. Not only that, if anything he was even more enthusiastic about helping you any way he could, and Colin promised to keep an eye on him.”

“But Dennis struck me as, I don't know…. A little weird, last year,” Harry observed.

“In a way, but not in a bad way, I think,” she replied thoughtfully. “It turns out that he's every bit the tinkerer with Muggle things as Arthur Weasley. He showed me a shed full of half-constructed Muggle junk - everything from can openers to computers…. I think with that talent, he might be able to make things that are useful for us. The Communicator that you use to talk to Dumbledore, that's a marriage of Muggle and magic, and it works pretty well, I think….”

“You're definitely right about that,” Harry agreed.

“Anyway, they're a pair, because their parents make Colin watch Dennis over the holidays,” Hermione added. “They've agreed to work on the fan mail project full time over the rest of the summer for 25 Galleons a month, each.”

Harry was impressed both with Hermione's initiative and, after persuasion, with her selection. The Creeveys were unconditionally loyal, reasonably competent, and, according to her, they could really use the money. He agreed to engage them on whatever schedule she could negotiate.

At that point, Harry also would just as soon have left. There was a certain someone he had left alone on a beach not all that long ago. He needed to make his own peace with her - and he needed to make his own peace with himself concerning her.

Dumbledore, however, said that he and Bill needed to speak with Harry about relationships with the goblins under the treaty and specifically about the “implications” of the Ashrak. Dumbledore could be very persuasive when he tried hard enough, so Harry ultimately agreed to stay on. Rather than leave Hogwarts and then return for his scheduled Floo visit with Ron (and Ginny, he supposed), he accepted the Headmaster's invitation to dine at the castle.

Dumbledore and Bill brought him up to date with the aftermath of the Death Eater attack on the Ashrak. “The most likely explanation is that the Death Eaters gained access to the Ashrak chamber through use of Polyjuice Potion,” the Headmaster explained gravely.

“The goblins told me this morning that they found flasks with traces of what turned out to be Polyjuice Potion in the area of the grandstand where the Death Eaters were first seen,” Bill added.

“I didn't know Polyjuice Potion could work goblin transformations,” Harry offered.

“Neither did anyone else,” Dumbledore confirmed, “but I can tell you that this question is now being investigated urgently. The answer to that will be known within hours.”

“But what about the brooms?” Harry asked. “How did they smuggle them in?”

“It is believed that the Death Eaters had most likely Transfigured their brooms into goblin weaponry,” Bill replied. “That implies a greater degree of familiarity with goblin culture than one would expect from Death Eaters.”

“Or some sort of assistance from one or more goblins,” Harry added.

“True enough,” Dumbledore confirmed. “That is probably the most disturbing news of all. For you see, the goblins themselves have concluded that such an attack could not have occurred without treason within their own ranks.”

“I think that's right, too,” Bill agreed. “From what I've seen of goblin security, there's just no way that Death Eaters could have passed powerful magical objects such as their wands through the level of security the was in effect on the night of the Ashrak. Someone who was familiar with the grandstand seating - a `someone' who had to be a goblin - must have spirited those wands into the cavern well before the Ashrak and hidden them where the disguised Death Eaters were going to sit. It couldn't have been anyone else. Nobody, not even Percy, had that kind of advance detail about the ceremony.”

“For certain, the goblin investigation will continue,” Dumbledore assured Harry. “But I do not expect to get much, if any, information about it. The goblins fully intend to take care of their own.”

Harry winced at the thought. He rather doubted that goblin interrogation techniques were as refined as those he had recently observed in Cornwall.

“Rather, what you need concern yourself about is King Ragnok's unscripted addition to the Ashrak ritual,” Dumbledore advised. “That was entirely unexpected, and due entirely to your outstanding performance during the attack. Without doubt, none of us would be sitting here today if you had not devised a way to deal with the Death Eaters after they retreated to the ceiling.”

“Harry, do you have any idea what King Ragnok did?” Bill asked.

“Something about becoming a blood brother with his son,” Harry answered as best he could. “If there's more than that, I have no idea….”

“You're family, now,” Bill declared.

“Family? What do you mean?” Harry responded weakly.

“Let's try it this way…. When you become blood brother to a goblin, to them that means that you're really that bloke's brother,” Bill began to explain. “When the blood brother just happens to be the goblin crown prince, well, as far as the goblins are concerned, you're now a goblin prince yourself.”

“Oh Merlin, what now?” Harry exclaimed.

Bill continued, “What now? Your title is now Impratraxis Potter….”

The Headmaster broke in. “Mister Potter, perhaps the most significant aspect of this is that, by virtue of the king's actions, you are now second in the line of succession to the Goblin throne….”

“But…. But the princesses…?” Harry groped.

“Goblin society is strictly patrilineal, I am afraid,” Dumbledore went on. “Thus, King Ragnok's two daughters have no standing. They are nonentities.”

Once again Harry was stunned at how things always seemed to happen to him. “I don't need this. I really don't need this,” he muttered darkly. “Why did he have to do that?”

“King Ragnok didn't have to do anything,” Bill replied. “Certainly, you impressed him. You demonstrated great power holding back that gigantic boulder. But even more important, you had just saved his life and the lives of everyone else in that cavern, including mine. If you hadn't come up with the idea of setting those chains swinging, the Death Eaters would have brought the entire roof down for sure. That would have been the end of goblin society as currently structured. It was a very close thing even as it was.”

“Why couldn't he just have given me some sort of medal, like the Ministry wants to do?” questioned Harry. “I'd much rather collect medals than titles. Medals are less bother.”

“It's a goblin tradition,” said Bill. “Creation of blood brother relationships is how goblins deal with life debts. But the royal title applies only to you - unless you marry a goblin woman that is, in which case your male descendents would also qualify.”

“Eeuuw,” replied Harry, shrinking from that thought. “So I guess that means that there are now two Prince Harrys in Britain, then. Some coincidence, that.”

“Perhaps not,” replied Dumbledore. “Since the other is really named Henry.” Changing the subject, the Headmaster added, “Actually, you will acquire other titles through the Black line, should you inherit. As the Blacks have become progressively more anti-Muggle, their Muggle titles have fallen into disuse in recent times. However, technically you would become the Baron of Blackwalls as well as the hereditary Lord Mayor of Blackpool.”

Harry rolled his eyes at Dumbledore after that latest eye-opener. “Right now I want no more to do with the Blacks and their accursed titles than absolutely necessary,” he declared.

“Actually the barony long precedes the Black family's involvement in human bondage,” countered Dumbledore. “In Plantagenet times there was Black blood in the royal line, and they were the hereditary Dukes of all Northumbria. However, the bloodlines diverged, and the ducal title was lost several centuries ago when Oliver Cromwell abolished all dukedoms in Britain. Only those in the direct royal line were later restored. The barony that you may inherit was created somewhat in the nature of titular compensation after the restoration. There is no requirement that you ever use it, but in the spirit of full disclosure, I thought you ought to know.”

“If I might return to the matters at hand,” chided Bill gently. “Harry, I would like to verify our suppositions as to your goblin status. Do you have the signet you received last night - or, rather, early this morning?”

“No,” he answered. “It's at my relatives' house.”

“Actually, I have my copy of the treaty that Harry signed,” added Dumbledore helpfully.

“But that's not a Gobbledegook copy,” responded Bill. “I need to examine the goblin runes on the cartouche Harry received.”

“I might be able to try something,” Harry offered. “Let me concentrate. I've never done this, but I've seen it done. Aparecium Chez Harry Signet ring.”

Nothing happened - except the Dumbledore told Harry, “I will have to modify the wards for you first.”

The Headmaster turned his back on both Harry and Bill and mumbled some sort of spell that included a broad motion with his wand. “Now, you may try again,” he instructed.

Harry did, and within a few seconds, the signet magically appeared.

Both the Headmaster and Bill were impressed. “Excellent, Harry. That was quite advanced magic - particularly over the distance between Surrey and Hogwarts,” congratulated Dumbledore. “Now, Bill, if you please?”

Harry's guardian pulled a jeweler's glass out of the folds of his robes. He took Harry's signet out of its case and examined it closely. “Indeed it is,” he exclaimed. “Harry, you need never pay a Knut to Gringotts again.”

“What are you on about,” Harry replied with renewed surprise.

“Harry, as your guardian I receive your statements of account from Gringotts,” Bill answered. “I also work there, and I know that Gringotts never debits the accounts of the goblin royal family for any reason. All you have to do is apply your signet to your statement each month and all debits to your account from whatever source will disappear.”

To Bill's surprise, Harry was not pleased in the slightest. “Then how am I ever to be rid of the Black blood money?” he replied with evident disgust.

“Once again, Harry,” Dumbledore broke in, “this is not something you have to use it. However, the privilege applies to all of your accounts, not just the Black fortune. You do need to keep that signet in a safe place - it is also a tangible symbol of your link to the goblin royal family.”

Before dinner, Harry wanted to be alone for a while to digest all that had happened. With Dumbledore's permission he walked the virtually deserted halls of Hogwarts thinking of many things - such as how the Blacks could have been so … well, black.

Even more important to him was to appreciate the reasons for Hermione's obviously strong feelings. Harry was certainly disgusted at the slavery link, but his reaction paled in comparison to hers. Her vehemence on the subject surprised and worried him. According to her, he had almost lost her friendship over this, and he needed to know why, particularly since refusing the inheritance was not a viable option.

Eventually, Harry's meanderings took him to the seventh floor, where he idly examined the tapestry of Barnabus the Barmy. He turned around - and there it was - the door to the Room of Requirement had appeared, reflecting recognition of his urgent need. Having regularly used the room for the secret D.A. meetings last year, Harry knew it well.

His need for the Room then had been very concrete - a clandestine meeting place. His need now to come to grips with Hermione's reaction was a considerably more diffuse and metaphysical necessity. He wondered how Room could help with that. He haltingly opened the door….

He was almost bowled over by the stench - a toxic mixture of sweat, urine, feces, rancid seawater, and boiling vinegar. Permeating it all was the overwhelming smell of death. Harry could barely see in gloomy half light, and had to stoop even to do that. Suddenly, with a lurch, the walls of the Room creaked with the sound of wood rubbing against wood. Off balance, Harry was more or less thrown inside. The door abruptly shut behind him.

The only real light in the hellhole in which Harry found himself was from some glowing coals in a cast iron grate beneath a large copper kettle that also seemed to be the source of the vinegar smell. The floor was solid - but slowly undulating in a manner reminiscent of the mercury at the Ashrak. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, Harry saw dark-skinned bodies all around him. They were nearly naked, tightly packed and manacled to one another, cheek and jowl, lying in each other's excrement, blood, and vomit.

Most were still alive, as revealed by hideous groans and wails in a dozen incomprehensible languages. As bizarre as it seemed, babies cried somewhere in the distance. Mixed amongst the living were the dead, with hollow eyes and still-fresh wounds inflicted by thrashings that put Uncle Vernon's worst to shame. The dead and the living were chained together, as far as Harry's eyes could see, in the shadows between decks. In the distance the darkness of skin and the darkness of the hold gradually merged into a single black miasma.

Harry could hardly move, for fear of stepping on the woeful, tightly packed captives. He could hardly breathe, not just from the ghastly odours, but from the humid, stale air and suffocating lack of ventilation. Besides Harry, the only other things free to move in this maze of iron chains and shackles were the vermin - rats, cockroaches, flies, and especially lice. Harry could feel the lice making for him, and rubbed himself repeatedly in an utterly unsuccessful attempt to hold these denizens at bay.

The captives all around Harry were had been scarred by hot iron brands and were restrained by cold iron bands. Some were literally crawling with insects. Others had developed sores where their chains had rubbed their skin. Wriggling maggots fed on their festering wounds.

It did not take long for Harry to decide that he had had all he could stand. But try as he might, he could not find the door. Whilst searching wildly for a way out of this prison, he heard a hatch bang somewhere in the distance. Heavy tromps announced the arrival of a hulking member of the crew.

“Hell's bells, one got loose,” the short, broad-shouldered, bearded figure bellowed. The man came at Harry with a set of iron manacles in one hand, and a short stout whip fashioned from multiple knotted leather strips in the other.

Harry instinctively flicked his wrist. Nothing happened. Not only was he without his wand - his arm was just as dark-skinned as the bodies all around him. He tried to flee, but the limbs of all the captives and the extremely low ceiling impeded his progress. He turned as he heard the heavy footfalls getting closer - just in time for his face to explode in pain as nine lashes of salt-soaked, knotted rawhide slashed into his skin.

Harry screamed, staggered, and fell to his knees. As he felt the man roughly grab his arm and clank a manacle into place, the boy fainted….

* * * *

“Master Potter, sir, you must be getting up…. You is worrying poor Dobby.”

Harry groaned, and opened his eyes. The Room of Requirement was back in deceptively good order. It now seemed no different than any ordinary Hogwarts class room.

Harry jumped to his feet, startling the fawning house-elf. Dobby squeaked and backed out of the way. “Is you all right Harry Potter, sir?” Dobby asked, his bulbous eyes protruding even further than usual.

Harry hurriedly checked himself…. Pale skin - very pale at the moment…. No chains…. No open cuts…. No lice either…. His wand was safely in its holster.

He turned to Dobby, who was eyeing him with undisguised concern. “Yeah…. I guess so…. Must have nodded off, I reckon.”

He wondered how much of what he had just experienced had been the Room of Requirement, and how much had only been a particularly vivid dream. Regardless, it was relief beyond belief for him to be back in a friendly place talking to someone he knew and trusted.

“You have no idea how good it is to see you,” Harry told Dobby.

“It's good indeed to see you too, Harry Potter sir,” Dobby replied. “If you pleases, the Headmaster desires your presence for dinner.”

Harry was still pale and shaken as Dobby led him back towards the Great Hall. Headmaster Dumbledore and Bill greeted him just outside the main doors. Dumbledore looked at him quizzically, but made no comment about his condition.

“How good of you to join us, Mister Potter,” the Headmaster said instead. “I had originally planned for Mister Weasley and yourself to dine with the staff. That, unfortunately, will not be possible. Someone raised the quite valid objection that neither you nor Mister Weasley is, in fact, a member of the staff. Thus, it was pointed out that you should not be afforded what amount to staff privileges….”

Harry could guess who might have voiced that objection. “So I should be going after all, then?” he asked.

“Certainly not,” Dumbledore countered. “Hogwarts' hospitality cannot be defeated by such technicalities. Instead, I have arranged for the two of you to dine with me in my office….”

When they arrived at the top of the Headmaster's tower, Harry saw that Dumbledore's office had been expanded and a table with settings for five had replaced the usual massive desk. Harry was about to ask who would be joining them when there was a knock on the office door.

In walked professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout.

The ensuing dinner was quite pleasant, especially compared to Harry's recent experience. He avoided any mention of what had happened in the Room of Requirement.

“Congratulations on your excellent O.W.L. results,” Professor Flitwick said genially. “Good show, indeed.”

Professor McGonagall lost no time, “You appreciate how well situated you now are for the pre-Auror course of study?” she asked a question that really did not brook of an answer other than….

“Yes,” Harry replied dutifully as he fished through the pockets in his robe. He found a crumpled up piece of parchment that now looked rather worse for wear. Handing it to Professor McGonagall, he told her that “Shak … er … Mister Shacklebolt thought you would like to see this.”

Although the condition of the parchment earned it a brief disdainful glance, the professor took it none the less.

She started to unfold it, muttered “Displia” under her breath, and then drew a bit of that breath back as she comprehended it. Professor McGonagall looked up at Harry sternly. “Potter,” she clipped, “why have you been carrying this about like rubbish?”

“Er….” He tried to think of a dignified way of admitting that he had not known any better. “Well you see….”

She cut him off. “Because you should have this mounted and framed,” Professor McGonagall declared, breaking into as broad a smile as she had worn when first announcing his O.W.L. results. “This result is outstanding, even better than Miss Granger's. We may have to.… Oh, there will be plenty of time for that later.”

Harry missed the glance that Dumbledore threw at his deputy. Both professors seconded the Headmaster in encouraging Harry to continue with the D.A. They had reviewed their respective houses' O.W.L. scores and how they had been impressed with the proficiency that D.A. members had exhibited on the Defence examination.

Harry summarised his summer Auror training. After that, Professor Flitwick remarked, “In light of all this extra Defence training, and your evident aptitude, I think that it might be worthwhile if I stopped by one of your Defence Association meetings and had a duel with you myself. It could be instructive.”

Harry looked uncertainly at the diminutive Flitwick. Despite an occasional rumour, how much of a dueller could someone that size be? “Er … that's really not necessary…. I'll see that everyone gets plenty of duelling in.”

“Mister Potter,” the Headmaster intervened before Harry said something he might regret. “You should appreciate how high a complement that truly is…. Filius was the All-England dueling champion - Gold Cup in 1925, `26 and `27. I think you'll find him quite a match.”

“Umm … I guess I will,” Harry said evenly. Now that he appreciated how fine a dueller the head of Ravenclaw House really was, the implicit challenge left him somewhat uneasy.

The only other point at which Harry felt uncomfortable was when McGonagall and Flitwick traded some not-so-gentle barbs over inter-house Quidditch. “My sources in Denmark have told me that, not only is Hogwarts dominating the other schools at the International Quidditch Camp, but the driving force behind that team is the Weasley show…. I rather think that you'll have your task set out for you, Filius, if you think that the Cup is leaving my office this coming year. Oh, and I understand they're both flying Firebolts, as well….”

Professor Flitwick reacted rather poorly to what he perceived as his colleague's rubbing salt in his Quidditch wounds from the previous year. “Perhaps you will, Minerva,” he said with a forced evenness to his voice. “Perhaps you will. I'm just not as happy as you are with how Hogwarts Quidditch is degenerating into a Muggle-style arms race. It's really not appropriate for victory to go to a team just because it can afford the best brooms.”

“I agree with Filius,” Professor Sprout spoke up. “Victory should go to the house that has the most talented players, not to one that can buy better brooms than everyone else. You've got some talented players, Minerva. You don't need the help.”

Somewhat surprisingly, Harry found himself agreeing more with Flitwick and Sprout than with McGonagall - even though he knew that his own funds had acquired the brooms that were the source of the other houses' ire.

Their table talk also touched upon politics, both Muggle and wizard. Harry was quite surprised to learn that both McGonagall and Sprout were Republicans. They both spoke of the Royals - particularly Prince Charles - in terms that varied between sarcasm and disdain. Although he laughed at the jokes they made at the Royals' expense, especially when Professor McGonagall threatened to Transfigure “Bonnie Prince Charlie” into a tampon (she was certainly capable of granting that wish), Harry sensed that his professors were nevertheless being guarded in his presence.

As far as Ministry intrigue went, Harry was interested to learn from Dumbledore that an investigation had confirmed the accuracy of Minister Fudge's protestations that he never used any of the Malfoy “contributions” for personal gain. Fudge not only claimed, but also had financial records to establish, that he had given almost all of the money he had received to charity. Nothing worse had been uncovered than a couple of “contributions” to the political campaigns of favoured candidates for the Wizengamot. Professor McGonagall remarked darkly that the same could not be said for most of the others who had taken money from Lucius Malfoy.

Harry's equal rights amendment to the goblin treaty was also discussed. He was relieved to learn that all of the professors stood four-square in favor of equality.

McGonagall explained that, after Fawkes had arrived bearing news of Harry's amendment, she had immediately owled Hagrid with a verified copy of the revised treaty text. Dumbledore hoped that this development would assist Hagrid's latest mission to the giants. There had been some thought of recalling Hagrid for a full briefing - only nobody wanted to see Grawp again. The Headmaster expressed his belief that the new commitment to equal rights could prove pivotal in a new attempt to woo the giants away from Voldemort.

Similar pitches were being made by Remus Lupin to the werewolf community and by Charlie Weasley to some vampires he had befriended in Romania.

All too soon dinner was over.

However, that also meant that the time for Harry's Floo talk with Ron and Ginny - something to which he had been looking forward all week - was fast approaching. Although his summer was turning out to be insanely busy, he did miss the companionship of his two red-haired friends.

He had not spoken to either of them, except through the post, since they had all left Hogwarts shortly after their memorable night at the Ministry. If the Weasleys' Quidditch exploits were any indication, they had both recovered nicely from their injuries suffered that night. Harry had been particularly worried about Ron, who had continued to act a little off. At least there was something he could remove from his overburdened conscience.

At 9:00 p.m. sharp, with Bill Weasley discreetly in the background to ensure security, Harry knelt on a towel (a precaution against aching knees) before the fireplace in the Gryffindor Common Room. He tossed in the Floo powder and said, in his clearest voice, “Elsinore, Hafnia, Library Hall.”

The result made him blink a couple of times. He was staring into what looked like a large room lit by crystal chandeliers and paneled in dark wood and cut glass. Ron was seated on a chaise lounge directly in front of him - with a very contented Cho Chang curled halfway in Ron's lap. Cho was even prettier than Harry remembered her. Her rather short blue robes highlighted her figure much more dramatically than anything Harry could ever recall her wearing at Hogwarts. Ron's hands were … well … Ron's hands were not anywhere visible, but Harry was willing to bet that Cho knew exactly where they were.

Ginny was sitting on the floor in front of her two obviously in love teammates. She had let her trademark fiery orange-red Weasley hair grow. It now cascaded well down her back. Atop Muggle jeans, she wore a pale blue T-shirt reading “Quidditch Players Do It In The Air.” Her shirt also featured a picture of Ginny on a broom. Harry tried unsuccessfully not to look as that image circled around and around her now quite ample bosom. Her still prominently freckled face carried an unreadable expression - until she saw Harry and broke into a broad grin.

“Ron, Ginny … er … Cho! It's me, Harry! What's…? What's going on?” Suddenly he realised that they were not alone - far from it. There were whispers galore and some scattered applause. Apparently Diagon Alley was not the only place that an appearance by Harry Potter could draw a crowd.

Harry's eyes narrowed. “Ron, will you please tell me what all these people are doing here? This was supposed to be a private conversation.”

“Righto, mate,” Ron replied. Turning to face the crowd, only a few of whom Harry could see, he yelled, “All right people, that's quite enough. You've seen the truth with your own eyes. Now you are all dismissed. Be gone! So says the King.” There was an immediate sound of scraping and shuffling as what sounded like several dozen people filed out of the hall.

Ron and Harry waited until the noise subsided and they heard the oaken doors of the hall thud shut for the last time. For Harry's benefit, Ginny was rolling her eyes at Ron, who could only see the back of her head.

“There,” said Ron with a shrug, “private audience from now on. Sorry about that, but some blokes here questioned whether I really knew you. I said I could prove that I did, and word got out…. Anyway, those berks are all gone now. I really wish you were here! The Hogwarts team is just outstanding, but with you … er … we'd have even more fun.”

Ron quickly tacked for safer waters. He had forgotten that Cho owed her place on the starting team - and maybe on the team at all - to Harry's absence. To remind him, Cho had elbowed Ron in the ribs.

There followed a lively conversation between Harry, Ron and Ginny (Cho hardly said a word) about Quidditch, winning the Order of Merlin whilst still in school, events in the wizarding world generally, and Harry's amendment to the goblin treaty. Ginny enthusiastically approved of what Harry had done.

She told him, “Harry, I think that's wonderful. We'll need all the help we can get with war now being inevitable, and you've taken the initiative to get that for us. And some of those centaurs…, well Constance and Demelza were saying….”

“I dunno, mate,” Ron cut her off. “Maybe it'll do some good, but I'm not fighting Voldemort to win Ginny the right to marry a goblin….”

“Ron, if you don't shut up about my personal life and leave me alone,” Ginny growled, “I'll show you the same jinx that flattened Malfoy.”

“That reminds me…,” Harry remembered. “You never told me just how you lot got the best of Malfoy and his mates last term after Hermione and I had left with old toadface Umbridge for the Forbidden Forest.”

“Harry, it was just brilliant,” Ron began. “After you two left, things got rather boring in Umbridge's office. That git Malfoy, well he seemed really insulted about being left behind. Thought he was better than that, I guess. He was sort of the leader of the group that was left. He couldn't keep still in his sulk, though, and started tossing his wand in the air one-handed. The git….”

“He was a git, all right,” Ginny warmed to the story. “Couldn't catch his wand any better than the Snitch. He fumbled it, and it fell on the floor. That bint Beth Dunstan didn't have a very good hold on me, and when Malfoy turned his back to pick it up, I broke free and went for it….”

“Dunstan never had much of an attention span,” Harry observed, “except for that pure-blood propaganda she was always reading….”

“Thank Merlin for that,” Ginny chirped. “Because she didn't even slow me down. I flew at Malfoy and knocked him sprawling. I spotted your wand in his pocket, Harry. I grabbed it and put the nastiest Bat Bogey Hex you ever saw on that bugger before he could even turn around.”

“Sounds gross,” Harry commented.

“It was, because it was really a `Butt Bogey' Hex,” Ron chortled.

“What's that…?” Harry asked before figuring it out for himself. “You mean…? That is gross.”

“But dead useful, I'd say,” Ginny said, laughing along with Ron. “Glad Malfoy got to be first.”

“But where'd you learn that one?” Harry asked. “It's certainly not taught in any of our classes.”

“Fred and George taught it to me,” Ginny revealed.

“On the occasion of her first ever boyfriend,” Ron added dryly.

“Will you shut up about that!” Ginny demanded. “Anyway, Malfoy couldn't even begin to retrieve his own wand after that. I kicked him out of the way, rolled over and stunned Dunstan before she could even get a spell off….”

“Everything started happening at once after that,” Ron broke in equally enthusiastically. “I slammed Wes Warrington right into the corner of Umbridge's desk. Must have gotten him right in the spine, too, because he went down and didn't get up very fast. Luna.… Well I couldn't believe it, but she kneed big old Moose Montague right in the crotch and he doubled over. That idiot Crabbe had been guarding Neville, and he tried to help the others, but somehow he got tangled up with Neville and fell flat on his face….”

“He did not get tangled up,” Ginny corrected. “Neville deliberately tripped him. I tossed Neville somebody's wand and he stopped Montague for good with an excellent Impediment Jinx. Just for good measure I hit Crabbe with an Itching Jinx….”

“The funniest moment of the whole thing happened next,” Ron took over. “I don't know where Luna learned how to fight, but she really can - in her own way…. She pulled one of Umbridge's kitten-design plates off the wall and brained Millicent Bullstrode with it. When she hit her, it sounded like someone had stepped on Crookshanks' tail, and bits of crockery went flying in all directions. By then Luna had also spotted Malfoy's wand. She grabbed it and stunned Crabbe whilst he was still scratching like crazy. That berk really got peppered….”

“Then I saw my own wand rolling on the floor,” Ron added. “I dove for it and finished off both Warrington and Malfoy with Stunners. That was pretty much the end of the fight….”

“Yeah, the rest of them surrendered at that point…. I almost wished they hadn't,” Ginny remembered. “I had so much anger and frustration built up over the year…. It felt good to release some of it. But anyway, I disarmed the rest of lot. Neville cast another textbook Impediment Jinx, on all of them this time. Then, just to make sure so there would be no escape attempt even if the Slytherins got free of the jinx, he conjured enough Devil's Snare to surround them all.”

Ron sniggered. “To top it all off, Luna - that nasty girl - vanished all the Slytherins' clothes. You know … just in case. Ginny here put silencing and locking spells on Umbridge's office….”

“And as we were leaving the office,” Ginny told Harry, “we encountered Peeves. I hadn't been sure what to do with all of the Slytherins' wands we had confiscated, so I gave them to him, and told him to do his worst. I assume he did….”

“Then we went looking for you,” Ron finished.

Harry did not have any stories to tell that were as interesting, but he did tell his friends about the near-death encounters that both he and Hermione had experienced during Auror flight training. He rather breathlessly described the capabilities of his new Valkyrie broom, and Ron understood why Harry had been willing to make him a loan of his Firebolt.

Harry mentioned possibly using the Valkyrie for Quidditch, but at the prospect of a Gryffindor team sporting two Firebolts and a Valkyrie, not only Cho, but even Ron stiffened.

“I don't think that would be such a good move, mate,” Ron cautioned. “That much broom power will definitely cause problems with the Hufflepuffs, who've already been complaining about brooms deciding the Cup rather than talent.”

“It's not just Hufflepuff,” Cho told them both. “I can tell you that most of my own teammates think the same thing - that Hogwarts Quidditch has become too dependent on who has the best and fastest brooms and thus on who has the money to buy them….”

“But it will be Hufflepuff that cracks first,” Ron warned. “If you show up with that Valkyrie thingy, I wouldn't be surprised if they withdrew from Quidditch Cup participation altogether, and where would that leave us…? We have to have someone to play….”

“It wouldn't be just Hufflepuff, I'm afraid,” Cho reiterated. “We'd probably follow. It's not right to have victory decided by who has the newest, most powerful brooms before any of us even flies onto the pitch. If you want there to be a Quidditch season, you better not do that, Harry.”

Harry did not say anything, since he had no idea whether the Valkyrie was even appropriate for Quidditch. Mannock had told him otherwise, after all. But in light of remarks by Professors Flitwick and Sprout earlier in the evening, Harry was pretty sure that Cho's prediction would come to pass if he tried.

Moreover, even though he was now the proud possessor of the most wicked broom in creation, philosophically Harry supported the Hufflepuff position. Something needed to be done to level the playing field so that skill and training mattered.

Then he had a brilliant idea - a “Hermione moment,” as he called it. It was a perfect way for him to give away large sums of money to a good cause that nobody could criticise.

“Hey, what about this…?” Harry offered. “I've found out that I stand to inherit more bloody money than I've ever wanted, let alone needed. Why don't I buy, say, forty of the latest model Firebolts, and give ten brooms for each house….”

Cho's jaw dropped. “Do you have any idea how many Galleons you're talking about, Harry?”

“I dunno exactly,” Harry answered. “My last Firebolt was a gift, and I didn't buy the one I sent Ginny. I reckon if they cost five thousand Galleons each, that's two hundred thousand Galleons for the lot. From what I know, I could do that….”

“Er … Harry,” Ron replied as he eyed his best friend warily. “They cost only about half that … trust me, I know….”

“Well, do you think it would work?” Harry asked. “It would solve the problem wouldn't it?”

“Well, you'd have to set it up in such that it looks like some sort of new Hogwarts perquisite,” Cho told him. “That means it would have to be done through the school, on an on-going, four-house basis. Otherwise there could be problems. You'll have to present whatever broom fund you're thinking about in such a way not to make it look like charity. If it looks like a gift, rather than a right, you'll lose both Slytherin and Hufflepuff for sure. Those houses would never accept charity from another house….”

“All right,” Harry acceded. “That will take some thinking that I'm not clever enough to do. I'll have to have my solicitor set up some sort of James Potter Memorial Hogwarts Quidditch Broom Fund.…”

“What?” both Cho and Ginny exclaimed.

“You, Harry Potter, have your own personal solicitor?” Ron asked incredulously.

“Er … yes,” Harry admitted.

“Mate, we've been separated too bloody long,” Ron laughed. “That's a lot of change….”

“You've changed a bit yourself, it looks,” Harry replied, eyeing the way his friend had his hands all over Cho. Hermione for sure - and probably Eliza - would slap him silly if he did that, Harry thought.

The conversation about Quidditch had been slowly exhausting itself, even before Harry made that last remark. Ron responded by abruptly telling Ginny to leave because he had “private matters” to discuss with Harry. When she protested that Cho was staying, Ron cut her off, saying that these matters “involved” Cho, but not her. Cho looked rather embarrassed, but said nothing.

Finally Ginny stormed off, but not before extracting a promise from Harry that she would get her own chance for a private chat with him before the night was through. He expressed surprise at Ron's behavior towards his sister. Ron waved it off, saying, “Once a little sister, always a little sister.”

Ron had a surprise for Harry. “Unlike you two, I didn't bring home any headline-quality O.W.L. marks,” he commented with some shame and even more envy evident in his voice. “I got eight O.W.L.s … more than Fred and George, but not in your league….”

“Come on, Ron, eight O.W.L.s are nothing to sneer at,” Harry cajoled. “That's hardly anything to be kicking yourself about….”

Ron was having none of it. “Well, King failed Divination, History of Magic, and Theoretical Potions … and I have to sit the Astronomy retake to have any chance of passing that.”

“But you passed everything else, and I bet you did just fine in Defence, what with the D.A. and all,” Harry countered.

“Yeah, I passed all right, but Defence was the only Outstanding I was able to score. Overall, I scored just under eighty.”

“Well that's just fine, and I don't care about anything else,” Harry protested.

“I'm just not Auror material, Harry. I have to admit it now. You and Hermione, well you can both pursue your dream careers together. Plain old average Ron has to figure out what to do next…. And as the King, I'm just bloody tired of working all that hard, anyway.”

“Don't…. Don't get down on yourself, Ron,” Harry encouraged him. “There's lots of stuff to do that's a whole lot better and safer than Auror work…. I'm seeing now that a lot of it isn't all that glamorous after all.”

“Well, that's a choice you'll be able to make,” Ron allowed. “That is if you even want to work…. I guess with this inheritance business you won't have to do anything you don't want….”

“What do you want, Ron?” Harry asked evenly. He knew about Ron's envy issue all too well. He had been its target before.

“What I'd really like to do?” Ron said. “Well if everything really works out, with this camp and all, is to try to play professional Quidditch. And you know what? The King just might be good enough. That's what I've been finding out this summer…. Failing that, I suppose I could work at the Ministry like Dad….” Ron made an unpleasant face as he mentioned that. “Or else, my brothers would probably hire me to work in their joke shop - and not as a product tester, either. They've made something out of their lives….”

Harry was thoughtful. “Well you could always….”

“No, Harry,” Ron cut him off. “I'm not going to work for you. I just couldn't do that in good conscience. Not and still be the King….”

“Well, what are you planning to do, then - after this camp and all?” Harry asked bluntly. All this “King” business was starting to put him off.

“Not work as bloody much as before,” Ron told him. “Frankly, I've admitted to myself that the King just can't keep up with you two…. I don't want to either. I'm just not interested in Hermione's bloody homework planners. I'm not willing to revise that hard in all these courses any longer. I'm just tired of trying. She makes it seem effortless, and you … you're so bloody talented. That, and you've got her….”

“Ron, you're really assuming too much, I think…,” Harry protested, but Ron did not seem to hear.

“What the King wants to do is concentrate on two things - Quidditch and Cho.” He gave his girlfriend an affectionate squeeze when he said that, and she responded by kissing him on the cheek and snuggling up even closer, if that were possible.

“So, I've signed up for the minimum number of courses next term that I can get away with. I'm aiming for the N.E.W.T. in Transfiguration, Charms, Defence, of course, Herbology, and Magical Creatures. My electives, they're Quidditch Strategy and Wizard Government.”

“Well, we'll be together in all our N.E.W.T. courses then,” Harry said, struggling to find positive things to say.

“The other thing I've decided to do is give up the Prefect's badge,” Ron said with artificial nonchalance.

This was not news to Cho, but Harry was in shock. “No you won't,” he said. “It's…. It's just not done. It's not right to quit an honour like that.”

“An honour like what?” Ron replied. “So I could play the fool compared to Hermione? Let's face it; I was a miserable excuse for a Prefect anyway. I let her handle all the hard bits, like trying to control Fred and George. Me? I spent my time bullying the First and Second Year midgets, taking points off Slytherin, and sleeping through prefect meetings. If Hermione hadn't done so much of my job for me, McGonagall probably would have sacked me last term.”

“That's not true, Ron. You were a fine Prefect,” Harry lied, knowing that for once Ron had fairly accurately assessed his own shortcomings. “You can't turn it down, Ron; it's part of who you are.”

“Please call me King; all my friends here do,” Ron instructed. Then Ron surprised Harry (and gave Cho quite a start) by shouting, “I'm king of ruddy Elsinore. Harry,” Ron went on to explain, “You have no idea how good it feels to take that bloody Malfoy insult and stuff it back in all the effing Slytherins' faces.”

“Er … I'll try,” said Harry uncertainly. Returning to his previous argument, he pleaded, “You can't quit! Have you thought about what your parents will think about this?”

“Well, duh. I'm not that stupid,” Ron spat. “Oh, I know what they'll think. Mum will skin me alive, and Dad won't be chuffed either. I haven't even told Ginny - that's one of the reasons I wanted her out of here. But my decision is final, Harry. Don't even try to change it. I posted my resignation letter to McGonagall the other day. I'd rather present my folks with a done deal.”

Harry began, “Ron, I really wish you'd reconsider….”

Ron cut him off decisively, “It's done. Anyway, Harry, I reckon that the Prefect's badge will fall to you now. You deserved it last year…. Everybody thought so even then - Hermione sure did. Almost a month with me, and she still expected … and wanted … it to be you…. But anyway, I was hoping that…. I mean….”

Ron seemed to be losing his train of thought. He nervously ran his hands through his hair and then started absent-mindedly tracing a circle around one of Cho's breasts with his finger. “Well, I was wondering if … maybe with all the other irons that you have in the fire … you might be less interested in the Gryffindor Quidditch captaincy than you used to be?”

Harry could hardly believe his ears. Ron was practically ceding him the Prefect position in hope that he, in turn, would back Ron for the title of Quidditch Captain.

Harry never wanted Ron to give up being Prefect, but since there was no stopping him, the more he mulled over his friend's idea, the more reasonable it sounded. Harry's love of Quidditch was rather selfish. He loved it for the flying, for the thrill of ending the game by catching the Snitch … and for the victory lap around the pitch afterwards.

As the Seeker, his role had never been much more than catching the Snitch - predominately a solitary task. Harry had never been required to think much about what his teammates did, except for his Beaters protecting him against Bludgers. As a result, he knew very little about Quidditch strategy. Ron, on the other hand, had been steeped in Quidditch strategy virtually from the cradle, because both of his parents, four of his brothers (all except Percy), and his sister had all played the game at one point or another.

To make a silk purse from a Skrewt's ear (if there was such a thing), Harry was inclined to agree to Ron's proposal. There was only one minor fly in the ointment - more like a Hippogriff, actually - he had absolutely no influence over the selection of who would be Gryffindor Quidditch Captain. The selection of the house captain was the closely held prerogative of Professor McGonagall as head of Gryffindor House. She had never breathed a word about her choice to him, and their most recent conversation had ended less than an hour before.

McGonagall was a stickler for protocol, and her previous choices for captain had all been based on seniority. If she held true to form, the captain would be seventh year Chaser Katie Bell, whose team seniority equaled his, and who was in her final year. Although he wanted to help his best mate, all Harry could promise very little.

“Er … I don't know what I can do, Ron … er … King,” Harry said in response to Ron's proposition. “I think you'd make a great Quidditch Captain…. Much better than I would. All I can do is refuse if Professor McGonagall offers me the position. Beyond that, I have no idea what she's going to do….”

Ron wasn't exactly chuffed by that response. “Well, Harry, whatever you can do, I'm sure you'll do,” he replied. “I mean you're the great Harry Potter and all…. Maybe when you're buying all those Firebolts that you talked about, you can put in a good word or two for the King….”

Harry found the final item on Ron's agenda - girls -even more disturbing due to his friend's rather presumptuous attitude.

“Harry, I want to make sure that you're not in any way bent out of shape about the King and Cho being together,” Ron declared.

Harry winced. While it was entirely fitting for Ron to appropriate that originally sarcastic nickname for himself, the more he was exposed to Ron's newfound tendency to speak of himself in the third person, the more offputting it became.

“No!” he answered, a little more loudly than was necessary. “We were never a good fit, like you are - too much stress. All I want is for the both of you to be happy.”

Ron and Cho cuddled together once again, and she started kissing and gently biting Ron's neck. Harry felt embarrassed at the public display of affection, and found himself diverting his gaze.

“All right, mate,” Ron replied at last, “in return for no hard feelings over Cho, I'm willing to give you free reign to seek Hermione's affections. It's bloody obvious that she's the one for you, not me. You two both do amazing things. I don't - except in goal….”

Cho giggled, as if to remind Ron that she thought he did amazing things elsewhere.

Harry was going to mention chess, but Ron continued, “The King should have learned his lesson a year ago, when she turned me down effing flat….”

Harry did not like where this conversation was going, but Ron plunged ahead.

“Ironic, ain't it mate? Not six months ago the smart money would have been backwards - you with Cho and me with Hermione. Looks like we both ended up with the other's seconds….”

Cho scowled.

Harry's patience was exhausted as well. “Ron…,” he said, with a dangerous coolness in his voice, “What you and Cho do is your own business … but Hermione is nobody's seconds. She was never with you, and even if she had been, that wouldn't give you rights over her. You can't `give' her to me. She was never yours to give, nor is she mine to take. She's her own person. You know that. She'd hex you into oblivion if she heard you talking about her like this….”

Again Ron seemed not to hear, or if he did, he failed to understand. “Er…. All right then,” he replied. “Whether or not you get together with Hermione is your affair, mate. I just want you to know that if you do, there will be no hard feelings on this end, just like you have no problem with the King and Cho.”

A little small talk followed, but Harry found himself without much more to say. Using the (not entirely false) excuse that his knees were killing him from kneeling in the Floo, he said he would have to be going soon, and asked for Ron to send in Ginny as had been promised. She arrived practically apoplectic at her older brother.

“I don't know what's gotten into him. I don't think he's….”

Harry shushed her. Something was not right. From his recent progress in Occlumency, he was sensing some sort of odd quasi-invasion of mental privacy. After a moment's hesitation, he produced his wand and muttered, in a voice so low that it was barely audible above the crackling fire, “Surveillius revelato.” Underneath the chaise lounge, he saw something glow green. “Surveillius confundus,” he said in a similarly low voice.

“What are you doing Harry?” Ginny asked nervously, since Harry's wand was pointed nearly at her.

“There's something under your chair. See what it is, won't you,” he replied softly.

Ginny ducked down and looked under the chair. Harry saw her swipe at something with her arm. She reemerged with her fist tightly grasping a set of Extendable Ears. Ginny's face was rapidly turning redder than her fiery hair.

“Finite,” Harry commanded - more loudly this time. Then he waited for the ignition of Ginny's formidable temper. He did not have long to wait.

“RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY, YOU ROYAL JERK! IF THESE EARS AREN'T GONE IN FIVE SECONDS, I'M GOING TO MAKE YOU THE `KING PINHEAD'!! YOU'RE GOING TO BE KNEE DEEP IN BUTT BOGEYS FOR A WEEK!!”

As soon as Ginny let go of the Extendable Ears they retracted with an audible zing.

“Jesus H. Merlin!” Ginny groaned. “I just don't know what's with him lately. Ron hasn't been right since he was hurt in the Ministry. I don't know why, though. He refuses to talk about what happened with anybody. In everything else, he's so arrogant now that he almost struts sitting down - and he's taken that horrid nickname to heart. He doesn't seem to care about anything anymore except Quidditch and Cho…. He's becoming almost as big a prat as Percy.”

“I wouldn't judge him that harshly,” advised Harry, who found himself uncomfortable that his promise prevented him from telling anyone, even Ron, what the Unspeakables had told him about Ron's brain incident. “Ron's finally found things that give him a lot of pleasure and a sense of accomplishment. He's needed both for a long time.”

“Oh, I guess you're right,” sighed Ginny, brushing her hair out of her face. “He has become a fantastic Keeper - far better than anyone else here. And Cho…. The pleasure he gets from her is obvious, I suppose. Neither of them makes the slightest attempt to hide what they're on about. They're positively reckless though. I'm surprised nobody's walked in on them yet. If that happened, they'd both probably be sent home….”

They spoke for another ten minutes about this and that. Harry told her about his recent encounter with Percy. Ginny asked after Neville, and Harry was embarrassed to say that he had no idea what Neville was doing - other than that the boy's performance in the Ministry had set well with his grandmother. Ginny seemed to know more about Neville than Harry did.

By this time a complaint of pain in the knees was no longer just an excuse. Even cushioned by the magicked towel, Harry's knees were protesting more vociferously than a cage full of Cornish pixies. He asked Ginny how she was getting along with Dean Thomas.

“Dean…?” Ginny replied, looking embarrassed. “There was even less between me and Dean, than between you and Cho. We had a date. He writes me every now and then….”

Ginny looked odd. She took a deep breath and continued. “But you know and I know that there's only one Harry Potter. Now, I know you're spoken for, and I accept it, but if you ever need a friend - or more - well, you know where I am….”

Impetuously, she poked her head into the magical fire and kissed Harry - not on the lips, but on the cheek. The kiss lingered just a bit longer than a purely friendly farewell would have. Not knowing what else to do, he stammered a good bye and pulled himself backwards out of the Hogwarts fireplace, ending the Floo connection.

It was a very confused Harry Potter whose head touched the Aural Pensive pillow on his bed at Number Four Privet Drive that evening.

* * * *

Author notes: Even Harry's silencing spells have a little sizzle to them

Note to self: Never use a disrobing spell whilst still wearing the affected clothing

Harry really doesn't enjoy killing. I think that's cannon, and I don't think that Voldemort can be dealt with by anything as simple as just killing him

Harry has a new look, at least for times when he's travelling in Muggle circles. But not everyone who seems to be a Muggle really is

Dudley can be an oaf, but he has a knack for calling them like he sees them

Off-camera, it's clear that Harry's told Eliza a little about the Dursleys

All road numbers are accurate. I consult a website with a detailed map of Britain

The Firebird is (in my opinion) Stravinsky's prettiest work

The Bavarian castle is Mad King Ludwig's Neuschwanstein Schloss

Here, I make the more oblique references in the prior chapter explicit - that the Ministry had used replicas of Rolls Royce limousines to take the treaty party to Gringotts

Lucinda Trucipp is loosely modeled on a figure from recent American political history

"Sons of the Knights of the Goblin Rebellions" is mostly a play on the Sons of the American Revolution and less so on the Knights of Columbus

Without fear or favor is an old quote from Adolph Ochs of the New York Times

The slavery link was strongly foreshadowed by all of the place names associated with Black assets mentioned in Chapter 10

Hermione's line "its all too much for me to take" figures prominently later on - and has already been foreshadowed

"Fruit of the poisonous tree" is a legal phrase involving suppression of evidence

Dumbledore's unspoken decision will become clear in due time. It will cause dissention amongst the Hogwarts staff

Denis Creevey's tinkering will figure in later

Dumbledore is a master of deflection by non-answer. "Perhaps not" is one of those

The business about the Plantagenets and Oliver Cromwell is entirely invented

The Room of Requirement responds to need, not necessarily conscious desire

The Room of Requirement scene was researched from websites concerning the Middle Passage, except for the reference to babies, which came from the O'Jays "Ship Ahoy"

The whip is the infamous cat 'o nine tails

The paper Harry fished from his robes was the Auror boiler test print out

Republicans on the staff - more of the little riff mentioned in prior notes

Ron is getting in touch with his inner jock. His behavior will get worse before it gets better (which it will)

The idea of Ron turning in his badge isn't new, but I haven't read anything about this sort of deal. Harry's acquiescence will come back to haunt him, big time

"Jesus H. Merlin" tracks the American epithet "Jesus H. Christ"

"struts sitting down" - another American insult

- 63 -

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16. Anticipation

Wherein people react to where Hermione lives; Harry learns interesting enchantments; Ministry security malfunctions; Hermione apologizes; there is backstory about Hermione's family; Hermione tells Harry to shave; Hermione gets buried in cement; Bill gets a promotion; Harry rides Sirius' flying motorcycle; Snape gets angry; Uncle Vernon makes a disturbing announcement; they learn to program Portkeys; Harry considers the meaning of life; Harry goes to Harrods and has dinner at Gordon Ramsay; Harry's relatives find out he's not a pauper; Harry has a date with Eliza at Kew Gardens, a romantic candelight dinner, and a snog; Harry turns down more; Hermione bests Harry in a duel; Harry visits Diagon Alley to shop for Hermione and Neville.

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

Chapter 16 - Anticipation

Harry's week was shaped by what was scheduled for its end - the formal high tea/dinner event at Hermione's Knightsbridge home in London. Everyone else's responses to this event did little to quell the rapidly multiplying butterflies that inhabited his stomach.

Dung's reaction was to withdraw altogether. “Juss too much des res fer me. I wouldn' fit in. Ya best find somebod' else ta mind ya.”

Shak commented, “As my friends in America might say, `Boy, you is chopping tall cotton.'”

His relatives' reactions were little different. Uncle Vernon nearly swallowed his mustache and had to be excused from the dinner table to recover from a coughing fit. When he returned, he would not meet Harry's eyes and would say only, “Don't embarrass this family, boy.” Aunt Petunia was more sympathetic, “Well, I'm sure they're nice, or they wouldn't have invited you.”

Dudley positively shrank (solely a figure of speech) from the news. His reluctant response reflected his parents' ambivalence. They had reproached Dudley along the lines of, “Why that freak, and not you?” But Dudley's own ignorance also contributed, since he knew Hermione's neighbourhood only by reputation.

Bill gave Harry the best advice when he collected him for his Monday training. “People are intimidated by `Knightsbridge' because it's synonymous with `money' - particularly old money. You needn't worry. You're looking at enough sterling to buy the whole ruddy block she lives on without batting an eye. In fact, I'm surprised the Grangers even live there. They're dentists aren't they?”

“They're a bit more than just dentists, I gather,” Harry responded. “Her dad's head of some sort of national board, and her mum's published a bunch of scientific papers with titles full of words I couldn't understand.”

“Could be worse. At least he's not a ruddy war hero. You'll do just fine, Harry,” Bill said reassuringly. “We know from the other night that you clean up pretty well when you have to. Come to think of it, you could use a really top-drawer Muggle suit for this dinner, since it's by engraved invite and all.”

Harry hesitated. “I don't know anything about that,” he replied warily.

“Probably the best Muggle store in all England for that sort of thing's only a few blocks from where the Grangers live,” Bill continued. “We could also take a stroll through her neighbourhood to get the lay of the land, so to speak. I can't do it tonight because I'm making … er … other arrangements…, but I can relieve Dung tomorrow night and escort both you and Hermione home from training.”

Their training that day consisted of a rather eclectic course of “interesting enchantments.” This mélange of charms had less of a central theme than most of the lessons. This particular magic operated on objects or persons, and its range was limited only by the imagination.

One particularly useful spell detected the influence of the Imperius Curse - most of the time. The mental tension between the curse and the victim's free will triggered it, but that also meant it failed whenever a curse victim was ordered to do something he or she already wanted to do. There being no tension, this Unforgivable Curse faded into the background and became undetectable even by the victim.

That, Harry learnt, was yet another reason that the Imperius Curse was so insidious.

Other more straightforward enchantments involved physical objects. He learnt, for example, how Hermione's “Chez” charm - the one that brought all the yogurts - worked. Whilst showering after his morning run with Dudley, Harry used a modified version of another of the enchantments before he even left Privet Drive. He charmed his towel to stay warm and dry no matter how much he used it. The effect was quite strong enough to work even directly under the showerhead itself.

Things like that were just extra advantages. This lesson appeared in the Auror curriculum because these charms had a wide variety of combat usages. A typical example put trees and shrubs in motion to provide cover for forces advancing in battle. Hermione was called upon to demonstrate this particular application, and muttered something about “Birnam Wood marching on Dunsinane.”

At that, Harry gave her a quizzical glance, but the superior look he received in return deterred him from asking what her additional incantation was all about.

By fortunate accident, Harry and Hermione had much more time to talk over lunch than usual. The Ministry's innovative Security Charms turned what was supposed to be an hour's break for the noon meal into more than two hours' delay. Whilst Fudge hushed up the actual Death Eater attack over the weekend, he did raise the Death Eater Activity Alert Code to Orange. A Code Orange declaration also activated the newly installed lockdown security wards in the main Ministry building - which immediately malfunctioned.

The two of them, and scores of others, were thus detained in the main Ministry cafeteria until the whole complex was searched and the offending security wards were reset. The cause turned out to be ridiculously simple. A flying interoffice memorandum accidentally struck a poorly positioned sensor. Since (as the Quibbler had often pointed out) the contractors responsible for these wards - and for the entire new system - had far more experience in making political contributions to Fudge and his faction than they did in performing security work, the slipshod functioning of the system was hardly surprising.

On the one hand, Hermione swore never again to forsake the Auror cafeteria for the greater culinary selection of the main cafeteria. But on the other hand, she sorely needed the extra time to muster enough courage to make some amends. By newly learnt Legilimency, Hermione privately apologised to Harry for some - but not all - of her previous day's outburst.

`I'm… I'm sorry for being so … indiscriminate,' she said haltingly. `I wasn't trying to condemn Sirius. I can only imagine how much he means to you….'

`Well, he lived in a cave and ate bloody rats for me for me, so I suppose that's something…,' Harry said silently, annoyed that she was picking at the wound. `He only passed along the money; he didn't create the problem.'

`I know, Harry, you're right and I…. Well that's just the way I am sometimes. Sirius was special. For you, he even tolerated Snape - in his own house no less. Would you do that? I'm sorry; I didn't mean to besmirch his memory. I just get rather worked up at times, and I don't realise what I'm doing…. I don't mean to drive you away….'

`Oh, Hell, Hermione, just leave well enough alone,' replied Harry (who had briefly considered taking up a troglodyte's lifestyle himself whilst she was in Hong Kong). `It's done. It was bad enough the first time. Don't go beating yourself up again.'

`Well, I suppose there are occasions when I deserve getting beat up,' she persisted. Seeing the sceptical look he was giving her, she hastily added, “Figuratively speaking, of course.”

`Figurative … right,' Harry sighed. `Don't forget, you're talking to the all-time champ at getting `rather worked up.' At least you didn't draw down lightn … er … I didn't have to knock you to the ground like you did me. I don't want you to change. Really…. You're one of very few people I can trust always to give it to me straight. You're not a suck up….'

To avoid the touchy subject (and to satisfy his curiosity) he silently told her about another recent experience.

`You know Hermione, what you think means a lot to me. After you left, I was worrying about what you said when I went walking by the Room of Requirement,' he explained. `It sensed my need and the door to the Room appeared.'

`That's … that's wonderful, Harry,' Hermione replied, until she saw a rather uncharacteristically fearful look on the normally fearless boy's face. `Er … at least I think it was….'

`The Room showed me a slave ship,' Harry declared with a shudder.

`Well that would have been educational, at least,' Hermione replied uncertainly.

`I got to see it from a new slave's perspective,' Harry revealed. `It was awful. The stench…. The despair. They thought I had gotten loose and started flogging me.'

True to form, she became quite concerned for his welfare - so much that she reminded him of Molly Weasley. `Oh, are you all right then? Do you have any new scars? Do you need any healing? A Disinfecting Charm…? Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry that I gave you yet another set of horrible memories.'

He did not want to deal with the worrywart version of Hermione any more than the apologetic one. `It's okay…. I passed out, and when I came around, everything was back to normal.'

Again changing the subject, he asked her how she had solved the mystery of the Black fortune. This diversion was more successful, but Harry received a far more detailed account than he bargained for - a veritable deluge of telepathically transmitted words.

`Oh, it wasn't all that hard in the end. I can do both Muggle and magical research with about equal proficiency. My only mistake was to start with the magical side of things. I began with transcripts of the Wizengamot litigation. But it turned out that almost all of the transcripts of those hearings were sealed - off limits to anyone but the parties…. To outsiders, they only listed the case caption, the names of the testifying witnesses and transcriptionist, and the date.'

`You could've asked me,' Harry commented. `I probably could've gotten those for you.'

`Oh that really doesn't matter,' she told him. `It was a stupid idea anyway. If I'd thought it through, I'd have known that those hearings were all about only what Lucius Malfoy wanted them to be about. Of course, you couldn't expect Malfoys to be interested in slavery at all. In any event, with only the cover pages available, they were useless. I quickly reached a dead end.'

`So what did you do that worked, anyway?' Harry asked.

`The key was the Muggle Internet,' she told him proudly. `It was just like what you did with Hong Kong. I used it to track down a number of the place names on the handwritten list you gave me. St. Domingue … it became Haiti after a slave revolt - the only completely successful such revolt in the history of mankind, in fact. Elmina and Old Calabar were notorious African slave entrepôts, and the Black castle in Elmina turned out to have the largest slave corral on that tortured continent….'

Harry felt queasy again. All this, he really had no desire to know - although he sensed that he probably should know it. Thus, he let Hermione carry on. Carry on she did.

`Minas Gerais in Brazil, a hellhole…. They worked enslaved gold miners to death in two to five years….'

`New Orleans and Charleston were the two largest American slave markets…'

`Newport … that turned out to be in Rhode Island. It was the main northern American slave port, and the northerners weren't nearly as blameless in all this as they'd like everyone to believe. They provided the ships, the sailors, and the financing. All the South provided was the market. The Newport operations were run by Colonials allied with the Blacks - the Brown family mostly - slavers so rich that they endowed a university named after themselves.…'

And so on and so forth…. Harry lacked the heart to stop her. Guiltily he soaked in the bloodthirsty history of the fortune he stood to inherit. Finally, he could stand it no longer and changed the subject by giving her his mobile number. She wrote it down on a piece of paper, circled it with her wand, and touched her wand to the side of her head - thus committing the number to memory.

The conversation moved to this Friday's high tea. Harry wanted to know what he should do, since he had never been to anything of the sort.

Here, she seemed to be hesitating - as she chose her words very carefully.

“Yes, Harry, a present … not too extravagant … would be appropriate,” she agreed. “And a contribution to the meal as well; all things considered, Bill's idea of magical bubbly should be excellent….”

“Okay,” Harry said uncertainly. “Do you have any idea what he might like…? Because I don't.”

“As for the present, I'd recommend something small, but magical - unthreateningly magical, that is. He's not the obverse of Arthur Weasley, but he is interested. Your suggested would contribution to the meal, sounds excellent, quite sufficient,” she advised. “Nothing too strong though - and please don't overdo it by buying sort of rare and outrageously priced wine.”

“Well, what Bill's suggesting is something charmed so that it can't get anyone really wasted….”

It did nothing to calm Harry's nerves when Hermione responded. “That's a good thing, Harry; after all you don't want to see my father drunk. Remember, he picked up that nasty Yank habit of collecting Muggle firearms.”

“Umm…. Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all…,” Harry squeaked. He was teetering on the verge of canceling the whole thing.

“Er … sorry, Harry. That was supposed to be a joke,” Hermione hastily confessed. “But a rather bad job, I'm afraid….”

At least she hoped it was a joke - her father's views about Harry had been subject to abrupt mood swings in recent weeks. She knew why the invitation had issued, and she desperately hoped that Harry would make a good first impression. A tendency to snap judgments was a family trait.

“I'm also a little concerned about the way everyone's reacting to you living in that Knightsbridge place,” Harry confessed. “It just sets my nerves on edge … that I might not be good enough … or something….”

“Remember, you're Gryffindor,” she reminded him. “That means no fear - at least not of my folks…. They're not bad people. You just need to understand where they're coming from. Neither of them was born to this…. Quite the opposite. Both Mum and Daddy started with practically nothing. They both attended Cambridge on merit scholarships, and then went to really top-notch dental schools.”

“Where'd they go?” Harry asked. Anything that would help him understand her parents - and thus keep from making a fool of himself - that was good.

“Daddy crossed the Pond to America, and attended the Harvard School of Dental Medicine…. He stood first in his class,” Hermione told him proudly. “Mum stayed in London and matriculated at the UMDS, where she had stood second…. Whilst still in school, she won a Leatherman for original dental research.”

“What's that?” Harry wondered.

“It's a little involved, but - trust me - it's really hard and really good,” Hermione replied.

“Well, now I know where you got it from, at least,” Harry said with a smile.

“Why thank you, Harry,” Hermione returned an even bigger smile. “Anyway, they were acquaintances at Cambridge, but only that. They didn't see each other in a … well, romantic way, until they found themselves in the same post-graduate dental program once Daddy returned to England.”

That much of her parents' background she could recite with great pride. Hermione cautioned Harry that, as with many self-made, successful people, her parents were very hard-charging - particularly her father.

“You see, Harry, he's always been rather … er … acquisitive,” Hermione sighed.

“You mean greedy,” Harry clarified. “Like the Blacks.”

“Now that's perceptive,” Hermione replied. “Actually, that may be another reason why I blew up at you yesterday. That kind of behaviour…. It strikes pretty close to home….”

“Speaking of homes,” Harry broke in. “It's got to be a rather.…”

“Posh place,” said Hermione, finishing Harry's sentence for him. “Too right. It's part and parcel of their striving, I guess. A house half the size would do quite nicely, but only the best for them … no matter how harsh the debt service.”

“I hope I don't get lost in it,” Harry commented.

“I'll never let you get lost, Harry,” Hermione responded, “… never…. Er … in fact I'll give you the grand tour.”

“I'd like that, Hermione,” Harry replied

Harry kept mum about his plan to drop by ahead of time to check out the locale, as Hermione moved on to the matter of Harry's appearance. She thought it a capital idea that he planned to dress as nattily as possible short of formal wear. And she had another suggestion.

“You're getting older, Harry; you need to shave,” she instructed matter-of-factly.

“Shave?” Harry replied, his voice climbing an octave.

“Yes, shave,” Hermione repeated. “Your peach fuzz has gotten much darker lately. My parents might not react well to it…. They're rather conservative … in a number of ways.”

“I know the type,” Harry grumbled, thinking of his Uncle Vernon.

The all clear signal sounded, and they had to hurry back to their now rather behind-schedule training. The shaving issue stayed with Harry. Nobody had ever told him to shave before, so Hermione's request made him feel satisfyingly mature. On the other hand, he lacked the slightest idea how to go about it, and that made him feel juvenile. The only thing he associated with shaving was the unpleasant-looking cuts that sometimes appeared on his Uncle's face when he was in too much of a hurry.

Once the afternoon session finally recommenced, Harry and Hermione put their practical enchantments to work. As before, she gave him as good as she got - but once again he managed to squeak out a win by the slimmest of margins. Enchanting various objects to have a go at her, Harry finally backed her into one of the room's concrete walls. This had not been easy, as Hermione had managed to charm Harry's shoes so that he involuntarily turned cartwheels every ten seconds or so. Instead of aiming at Hermione, who had conjured a Protego Reversis Shield, Harry fired a Disassociatus Hex at the wall itself. A large section instantly dissolved into sand, gravel and Portland cement.

The resultant avalanche of non-magical material went right through that kind of Protego Shield - something Harry had recalled from the night of the lightning strike. It buried her past her armpits, and (he found out later) briefly threatened the structural integrity of part of the Auror headquarters. Still Hermione fought on. Only after Harry used a Fluvius Charm to drench her with water and start the concrete reforming about her did she finally concede.

After the session, Bill had a surprise for Harry. His guardian was grinning so broadly that Harry initially thought the redhead had worked things out with his would-be father-in-law. The actual news was not quite that good for Bill, but even better for Harry.

“How would you like to pay a quick visit to Hogwarts?” Bill inquired - with the obvious implication that Harry should agree.

“You're not tying the knot this soon?” Harry cracked. “I don't even have my tux.”

“I wish,” Bill responded, “but it's not that. This one's for you. The Headmaster was hesitant, but I just convinced him to agree that you could learn to ride Sirius' Gus Kuhn Norton.”

Harry had no thoughts of doing anything else after hearing those words. Upon arriving at Hogwarts, the two of them almost broke into a run as they hurried to Hagrid's hut. After confirming that the half-giant occupant was still away, they went behind the building, where they saw several woodpiles.

Bill expressed doubt that Hagrid would use anything more complicated than a standard Concealment Charm. He pointed his wand at one of the piles. “Restoro!” Nothing happened. Trying the next woodpile, he repeated the spell, and instantaneously a large classic motorcycle appeared. It was black with red trim, but to Harry's regret it sat only one person.

In the heat of the moment, even that detail hardly bothered him. Excitedly, he leapt on the motorbike and grabbed the handlebars. Then it occurred to him that he had no idea what he was doing. Even retracting the dual kickstands was a mystery.

Bill laughed. “Harry, at minimum, you're going to need the keys for the bike and a helmet. There's no way I'll let you ride bareheaded, and if I did Dumbledore would have my arse for that. Don't forget, we're only here at his sufferance.”

Harry frowned.

Bill added, “But it just so happens….”

Reaching into his pockets, Bill produced two objects that resembled marbles. They enlarged into two state-of-the-art helmets - Harry got a black helmet with red trim for Harry, which matched the bike's colors. Bill got a bright yellow one, which clashed horribly with his orange-red Weasley hair.

To recover the keys, Bill cast the same spell Harry had used on his signet ring the day before. “Aparecium chez Hagrid GKN keys.”

To Harry's amazement, the keys immediately appeared.

“No great shakes,” Bill responded to Harry's expression. “I know what the keys look like. I've seen Hagrid working on the bike before. Hagrid wouldn't have done anything with them other than just leave them in his hut, so I also knew where they'd be. And that's all I needed to make the spell work.”

It must have been his Seeker's instinctive balance. For someone who had never ridden so much as a bicycle before (not after borrowing Dudley's trike at age four and being beaten severely for it) Harry learnt how to ride the big motorbike quite quickly - but not flawlessly. He laid it down once early on when he popped the clutch without raising the kickstand, but had only one minor accident after that. The charms on the bike automatically took care of the cosmetic damage Harry caused.

After a half an hour, Harry went tearing up the path from Hagrid's hut to the Quidditch pitch at considerable speed, leaving substantial ruts in the wet grass. The racket was tremendous. A number of curtains fluttered in the Castle's nearby staff apartment wing.

Bill had not anticipated being left behind. He had to create a quick Portkey to take him to the pitch so he could keep pace with his ward.

“Harry, stop! You're making too much noise too close to the Castle!” Bill ordered.

Over the din, Harry was unable to hear his guardian ordering him to stop.

“Stop, dammit!” Bill yelled impotently. “Oh Hell…. Accio keys.”

That put an end to Harry's joyride.

“You can't do that here,” Bill scolded. “Not this close to the school. A lot of the staff is still here. You'll annoy them and they'll complain to Dumbledore … or worse….” Bill's voice trailed off as he looked towards the Castle.

Harry's eyes followed Bill's, and the reason for his guardian's concern almost immediately became apparent to the miscreant teen. Striding towards the two across the pitch was an exceptionally angry Professor Snape, his usual black robes billowing behind him.

“Weasley and Potter, what's the meaning of this?” Snape asked, in a tone clearly meaning that no explanation would be enough.

“I'm Harry's legal guardian, professor. I'm teaching him to ride a motorbike,” said Bill with a straight face.

“I see,” replied Snape. “And is this motorbike what it appears to be?” The professor's upper lip fairly curled in displeasure as old memories resurfaced.

“If you mean, did this belong to Sirius Black?” Bill responded, “Yes, it did. Harry's inherited it.”

“Indeed,” snarled Snape. “Following the same path to perdition, no doubt. I suppose you have the Headmaster's permission for this little escapade?”

Bill nodded.

Snape continued, “Need I remind you both that when Hogwarts is in session, all students are strictly forbidden from keeping any sort of vehicle on campus. That rule applies even to students old enough to operate such vehicles legally under Muggle law, which I know for a certainty Potter is not.”

“Right,” said Bill.

“Need I also remind you that this is a charmed Muggle object, and if either of you operate it in the presence of Muggles you'll be guilty of misuse of a Muggle artifact?”

“Yessir.” said Harry. `Bloody, greasy git,' he thought.

Snape rounded on Harry. “And you, Potter. You've already exhibited a number of unfortunate traits - particularly impetuosity - that you've undoubtedly inherited from your father. If you wish to live long enough to save the world again, you should avoid combining those traits with the worst of Sirius Black.”

Harry was angry, but held back. Compared to past insults from Professor Snape, these comments were relatively mild.

“And one more thing….”

“Yessir?”

“You will put a Silencing Charm on that … that thing, unless you wish to have me, on behalf of the entire staff, petition the Headmaster to revoke your latest - special - privilege.” With that, Professor Snape turned on his heel and stalked off back towards the Castle.

Bill gave his ward a rueful smile. “See? I know of what I speak,” he said quietly enough that Snape did not hear.

“And how,” Harry agreed.

“Anyway, before you rev the bike up again, let me show you a couple of its … shall we say … more unusual features.”

“Great,” Harry agreed once more.

“All right,” Bill continued. “You need to familiarise yourself with these three settings,” he said, pointing to a toggle switch on the bike's minuscule dashboard. “Right now, you've got it set straight up. That's the configuration for a single rider. Naturally, the bike will have the best speed and performance in this setting.”

“Okay,” Harry murmured, whilst trying to memorise everything.

“Sometimes, you might not want to ride alone,” Bill added meaningfully. “Sirius sure didn't. So there's setting two - a quarter turn to the left.”

Bill toggled the switch in that direction and instantaneously the bike elongated so that it could accommodate two people.

“Now this would let you and, most likely, a lady friend ride together. But you need to be careful because this setting degrades the bike's performance. That's because the GKN was designed as a Muggle racing bike, and it's not really supposed to carry more than one rider. Now toggle the switch the opposite way, to the right.”

Harry did as instructed and positively gaped when the bike grew a sidecar.

“That's the other way that you can carry a passenger - or a spot of cargo,” Bill told him. “But again, you've got to watch out. I've never ridden it that way, but Hagrid says, whilst the ground handling's passable in this mode, the sidecar makes the bike a rather unstable flyer. Under no circumstances, save a life threatening emergency, are you to take the bike airborne in this third setting.”

“All right,” Harry agreed, “but you know that life threatening emergencies tend to follow me around.”

“Well, we can hope, can't we?” Bill replied.

Acceding to Snape's demand, Bill cast a Silencing Charm on the GKN, set it on the second setting and rode pillion with Harry all the way back to Hagrid's hut. As soon as they arrived, he removed the charm.

“All right, Harry,” Bill said as he lifted the silencing spell. “To true initiates, motorbikes, like rock 'n roll music, are both best appreciated when they're really loud.”

Harry responded by revving the engine.

“GKN should have trademarked that rumble against those Yank invaders,” Bill commented mostly to himself. “They might still be in business….”

Bill allowed the boy about twenty more minutes of riding around Hagrid's paddock. After that, he was permitted to take the bike aloft for one simple flight around the Hogwarts grounds. He was to stay strictly within the wards and to avoid any “fancy” manœuvres.

After bringing the 1200cc magically enhanced GKN engine thundering to life once more, Harry lifted off for the bike's first flight in well over a decade. It was an exhilarating, if bittersweet, experience. Sitting in the same seat that Sirius had occupied so many times, Harry could not help but bask in his godfather's bright memory whilst simultaneously wallowing in the sorrow of his absence. As much as he liked Bill, he loved Sirius. But what was done was done, and no amount of wishing was going to change the fact that Bill, not Sirius, would greet him upon landing.

All too soon the circumnavigation of the Hogwarts grounds was over. Harry and Bill magically repaired the tire tracks that scarred the paddock and locked up the motorbike until the next time. Although they could have performed more advanced Concealment Charms, they wanted to avoid confusing Hagrid when he returned. They therefore decided to leave things exactly as they found them.

When he returned to Number Four Privet Drive, Harry was still pumped up from the ride. He tried to replicate the Occlumency technique he had stumbled upon in Elsinore. This time he was disappointed. Evidently Ministry surveillance devices were a good deal more sophisticated than the Twins' Extendable Ears. Occlumency was entirely unable to detect them - the only spell that did that was the one Hermione had taught him.

Shortly before bed, he was incredulous when Uncle Vernon invited him to attend a family meeting about something “serious.” Looking at his aunt and cousin, Harry could tell in a trice that they were as clueless as he was. Everyone sat in awkward silence until Uncle Vernon entered. He cleared his throat once, twice - then pulled nervously at his mustache.

“Well, I've asked to see you together because it seems that there's going to be an inquiry at work.” Uncle Vernon paused to let that fact sink in, and then continued. “As best I know, the constabulary … bloody idiots … seem to have mistaken some of Grunnings' sales incentives as rather more than they are. They think that these incentives are … well … that they are kickbacks, actually. I'm not personally implicated - I've never bribed anyone in my life - but since I'm Director of Sales, it's my department that's under investigation.”

There was at first stunned silence. Then Aunt Petunia and Dudley asked a few questions. Uncle Vernon professed puzzlement at who supposedly received the illegal gratuities, since the Scotland Yard detectives were not talking. There was nothing immediate. No, it was unlikely that their home would be searched without notice. `That would be rich,' Harry thought, wondering how the wards surrounding the house would react to a Muggle police raid.

Nor was Uncle Vernon likely to lose his job. The papers (“babloids,” Vernon called them) knew nothing, a state of affairs he was quite content to let continue. Harry stayed mum throughout the family meeting, as he felt out of place inquiring after his uncle's strictly Muggle business dealings. Still, this revelation left him with an odd sense of impermanence. He was used to drastic changes in the magical world, but boring and obnoxious as it was, Uncle Vernon's plodding Muggle existence had been a source of stability - and now even that seemed threatened by unseen, uncontrollable forces.

After excusing himself for the evening, Harry sought to reach Eliza. This time she answered, and to his relief did not make him grovel too pathetically about their extremely disrupted date the previous Sunday. She readily agreed to see him on Wednesday - although only in the afternoon, as she had a hearing to attend that morning. She “had something in mind,” but was keeping it a secret - she told him just to call her before Apparating, and to wear ordinary, casual clothes.

Tuesday's training session was devoted to programming Portkeys. These charms were highly technical and had to be performed in precise sequence. This type of exercise greatly favored Hermione's strong intellect, and she far surpassed Harry at mastering the complex subject. He had also lost time by reviewing an unassigned chapter about Muggle combat techniques (mostly firearms - a waste of time, he thought), to the detriment of a third repetition of the actual assignment.

Any non-magical object could be charmed to become a Portkey - even portions of larger objects, such as a doorknob on a door. Elementary Portkey programming required concentrating on the intended destination, and on an available timepiece. One cast a Transferable Charm initially on the timepiece and then moved it to the would-be Portkey. This set its activation time, travel location, and the duration of useful life. A skilled programmer did all of this mentally, with only the single incantation, Portus, but only Hermione attained that level by the end of the lesson.

Privately prepared Portkeys were also a magical grey area. They were technically illegal under wizard law, but since they were so useful, this was one law that was honoured mostly in the breach. Even the Aurors looked the other way. “As long as you don't go overboard, nobody but a Captain Queeg type would give a damn,” Betsy Greengrass told him when he asked. “It's rather like the Muggles and their speed limits for motorcars.”

Useful they were - but not easy for beginners to master. Every Portkey parameter had to be individually set, since the charms worked only upon mundane objects with no inherent magic. Repetitions and modifications of this basic procedure allowed the creation of single use, multiple use, or round-trip Portkeys. The only major security limitation on Portkeys, at least at the level they were being taught, was that they could not be restricted to use by specified individuals.

Even with Hermione's help, Harry despaired of being able to keep pace. Thus, he daydreamed a bit about the most significant Portkey in his life - the Triwizard Cup. He realised he was alive only because the false Moody (really Death Eater Bartemius Crouch, Jr., in disguise) had inexplicably, and probably accidentally, programmed the Cup as a round-trip Portkey. If the Cup had been a simple one-way Portkey, like almost every other one he had ever used, he would never have escaped his graveyard encounter with Voldemort and more than a score of his Death Eaters. In short, he probably owed his life to an accident.

This insight led Harry to contemplate the meaning of life - woolgathering he rarely indulged in. If random error and accidental mistake loomed so large in something as critical as his own life or death, how could he expect to fulfill a prophecy uttered before he was even born? How could anything be that deterministic when chance played such a large role?

Harry understood that, if Hermione's father had not left that pistol unloaded, or if she had been flung from her broom slightly more in the direction of the ground, Hermione would be dead….

“If she dies, then … what's the use…?” he muttered to himself, so quietly that nobody could hear.

Hermione was not the only one whose life depended upon chance, he realised. If Hagrid's little brother Grawp had not providentially appeared to chase off the centaurs last term, soaking Harry and Hermione in blood during the process, there never would have been any trip to the Ministry, and … and … Sirius would still be alive.

Caprice and happenstance so often decided matters as important as life and death.

“Harry…? Harry! Harry!!”

With a start, he found himself dragged back to more prosaic matters. Hermione looked at him with concern as she Legilimenced, `What on Earth were you doing? Is it your scar? The instructor and I have been trying to get your attention for the last thirty seconds.'

Harry attempted to explain himself, “Er…. I was just thinking about how much dumb luck plays in everything, and how I have to…. Er…. How people live or die because of mistakes.”

Philosophical issues did not impress Madam Wrexham, the immensely practical Auror who was instructing them at the time. “Well, I'm sure that's interesting to consider, but I must ask you to please pay attention to your training and, if you must contemplate your navel, to do it in your free time…. I and your other instructors are here to train you, and we'll be damned if we fail at that because you'd rather pursue the deeper meaning of life.”

Hermione felt a brief flash of the kind of magical power that emanated from Harry when he was provoked, but it was gone almost as quickly as it came. He seemed to take to heart the message that he needed to stay focused.

She waited for Harry to say something, but when he bit his tongue she just gave him a quizzical glance. After he made no effort to continue, she finally patted his hand and advised, “Well you'd best pay better attention then. You wouldn't want to make a mistake with one of these Portkeys.”

That was true, but he was thankful that Barty Crouch, Jr. had.

At lunchtime, Harry was surprised to see Bill Weasley waiting for him in the Auror's cafeteria. As he approached them, he was even more surprised to see his guardian dressed in brand new business robes - worsted grey and white herringbone. Bill always dressed neatly for work (never garish like the Twins), but Harry had never known him to spring for such obviously dear clothing.

Evidently Hermione concurred. Harry heard her call out, “Why look who just stopped off at Saville Row.”

Bill was grinning from ear to ear. “You're looking at the new Head of Collections and Curse Breaking,” he announced. “I just got promoted to one of the most senior human positions at Gringotts.”

“Well, that's wonderful!” Hermione gushed. Only for a fleeting moment did she have any concern for the fate of the prior placeholder.

“Couldn't happen to a nicer or more deserving bloke!” Harry agreed. “I'd offer to buy you a drink, but I'm not old enough to buy.”

“I think this means you'll definitely need that tux,” Bill told Harry happily.

“Umm…. And just what tux would that be?” Hermione asked. She had never seen Harry in a tux, and certainly would like to.

Bill comprehended he had just accidentally doubled the number of people he had to take into his confidence about his intentions towards Fleur.

“Hermione, can I trust you to keep a secret?” Bill asked. “It's about a personal matter….”

“In that case, yes,” she replied quickly.

“Well…. You see, I've become quite serious about my … er … relationship with Fleur. I've just got a major promotion….”

“Well congratulations … on everything,” the perceptive girl allowed.

“…But more than the promotion itself…. I'm frankly over the moon about it because with the new position, there's no longer much chance that Fleur's father will regard me as an English nobody. I'm going to France shortly, in less than a fortnight, to seek Fleur's parents' approval of my asking her to marry me.”

“That's wonderful, Bill!” Hermione exclaimed. She kissed Bill on the cheek.

Harry might have turned as red as Bill did.

“Actually, I think this is as much Harry's doing as my own,” Bill confessed.

“What could Harry possibly have to do with Fleur?” Hermione asked, nonplussed.

“Er … not that part of it, I meant - just that he was probably instrumental in bringing about the promotion. It all started the Monday after the Ashrak, when I reported for work. All of a sudden, the goblins I was working for addressed me as Drasuk, both orally and in writing. I'd never heard that title before, and I thought I knew just about all the goblin ranking terms by now. By that afternoon, I was so perplexed that I finally asked my boss what the unusual Gobbledegook word meant. He told me that the closest English equivalent was `regent.' I was stunned….”

Harry was acutely embarrassed. “Bill I'm sure you won that promotion on merit,” he said - not really being sure at all.

“Stop play acting, Harry,” Bill told him. “I know how the world works. I'm just happy it worked for me for once, not against me.”

Bill turned back to Hermione. “What happened is that Harry became a royal prince in the eyes of all my goblin superiors at the bank. Since I was his guardian, I was looked upon as his regent. I'm no fool. When I was informed of the promotion, the senior goblin present left the impression … by implication, as they're not nearly so crass as to say such things directly … that my relatively low-level clerk's position was insufficiently exalted for someone serving a regent's role in goblin society. Anyway, I don't give a damn what the reason is. I'm certainly in no mood to look a gift horse in the mouth. I really want to marry Fleur, and now at least I have the resources to make a go of it….”

“That's just marvelous, Bill,” Hermione congratulated him. “I'm so happy for you.” She stood up and this time gave Harry's guardian a sincerely meant hug.

“You know what?” Bill asked rhetorically. “I feel like celebrating. How would you both like to go out for dinner - my treat?”

“I'm afraid I can't,” Hermione demurred. “I'd love to, really, but it's such short notice and I don't see my family enough as it is….”

“I'll take you both to Chelsea,” Bill offered, mentioning one of London's funkier nightlife areas.

“It's terribly tempting, but my father's travelling between now and the end of the week. This was my night to be with him….”

Bill persisted. “I'll treat you both to dinner at the Gordon Ramsay - and that's my last, best offer…. It's been on the Beeb, you know.”

“Oh, come on, Hermione, it'll be fun,” Harry pleaded. He added uncertainly, “Whatever it is….”

“You couldn't possibly get reservations on this short notice,” Hermione quibbled. “That requires weeks….”

“Sure I can,” Bill replied briskly. “Goblin connections.”

“I'm sorry, it's just … I can't,” Hermione said with finality. Turning to Harry, she added, “I'm sure it would be wonderful, but if you want our little soirée this Friday to go well, I can't be skiving off my father tonight.”

“But you told me about that before,” Harry protested. “It's only a bunch of mindless Muggle paperwork - you said so yourself.”

“Granted all these NHS forms are a bit much,” Hermione conceded, “but sometimes Daddy trusts me with more medically relevant tasks…. I've inventoried drugs, set up the drills, and other equipment. He's even showed me the rudiments of reading dental x-rays. You need to understand, Harry, that ever since starting at Hogwarts, I've spent very little time with my parents, and especially Daddy. I'd really like to go…. It's a place everybody's heard of….”

“Er … I haven't,” Harry admitted.

“…All right, a place everybody but Harry's heard of,” she flippantly amended her statement. “What with the telly and all. But family time is just more important right now.”

Hermione had momentarily overlooked how tactless such comments were when directed to Harry. She cringed when she saw the expression on his face. It was one of those lost puppy looks he wore when he thought about being an orphan. Fortunately, Bill caught it as well and sensed the need to lighten the mood. He jokingly gave Hermione a rain check, and only slightly more seriously told Harry that he should set himself a Portkey for Hogwarts tomorrow.

Harry knew what Bill was implying, and he dearly wanted to fly - but he had arranged a date with Eliza beginning at noon. He had no desire to discuss that in front of Hermione, because it made him feel unaccountably guilty. He simply told Bill that the Portkey would have to be set no later than 9:00 a.m.

Unlike most training days, Harry and Hermione did no duelling. Instead, their time in the Situation Room was spent programming Portkeys from one part of the room to another and making sure that they mastered single use, round trip and multiple use spellwork. Harry, who had never been particularly fond of such devices as a mode of magical travel, nearly became nauseous on several occasions and had to pause to avoid actually getting sick. It was one of those rare days during which Hermione plainly outclassed him on every aspect of the Auror lesson.

Harry really could care less, because his mind was elsewhere - on what was becoming a more and more promising Muggle-oriented evening with Bill. Before they left Auror Headquarters, Bill showed them the most interesting feature of his new robes. On command (“Mugglise”) the robes transfigured into a stylish three-piece Muggle suit made from the same material.

“Er … that's easy for you, but I've only got jeans and a T-shirt under these robes,” Harry confessed.

“I suppose I should have warned you,” Bill admitted, “but I figure I can at least get you in the door with a `cleaning up' spell I know.”

Harry unfastened his robe, and Bill winced as he saw what he had to work with. “I'm telling you right now that your scruffy togs would probably get you a security escort to the nearest exit at the place we're going. I'm just glad we're doing this here, since there'd be too many Muggles about later.”

Bill waved his wand and performed a silent spell. Harry's jeans became khakis. The design on his T-shirt flowed together and morphed into a little alligator as it changed into a burnt orange polo shirt. His feet felt strange indeed as his trainers converted themselves into topsiders.

True to his word, Bill first had them accompany Hermione to her home. Seeing it for the first time in daylight, Harry was mightily impressed. It was practically a mansion - two storeys high, brick, with white stone corners. It was set back from the street behind a wrought iron fence that enclosed a small grassy garden. The front garden harboured several massive oak trees with branches that overspread the sidewalk and part of the close. Hermione would have invited the both of them in, except she knew that they had errands to run and Harry would be there in only a few days.

The walk to Harrods took only a few minutes. They entered the lower level from Brompton Road through a very elabourate entryway beneath some sort of ornate tower. They dodged the souvenir racks, but Harry could not help but stop for a ride on the most unusual escalator he had ever seen - not that he had seen that many - decorated in Egyptian style friezes. At first he thought they were real, but upon closer examination he concluded that, whilst extravagant, they were just Muggle fantasy. Nevertheless, he could not resist riding the escalator as far as it went, so he could get a good look at the constellation-inscribed ceiling. When he got back down, he found Bill waiting for him impatiently.

Bill more firmly guided Harry to the designer men's shop at the back of the store. Almost immediately a liveried sales assistant accosted them and greeted them superciliously.

“May I be of assistance,” the man said, casting a suspicious eye over both Bill's shoulder-length red hair and single fanged earring, and Harry's unruly black locks.

“I … er… I need to buy a good suit,” stated Harry.

“Quite,” replied the man (whose nametag read “Morgan”), not making eye contact. “We have the largest selection in the world of finely tailored designer suits. Where would you like to start?” He started edging Harry and Bill towards the discount racks nearer the food courts.

“I, I don't know,” stammered Harry, clearly uncomfortable. If the man would just look at him it would help. “I have a rather important engagement, and I don't own any suits….”

“Very well,” answered the man laconically as he led Harry towards a rack of nondescript two-piece grey and blue suits.

“I rather think not,” said Bill, breaking in. “That's bog standard. I believe that young master Harry would do better with a summer-weight more along those lines.” He gestured towards the display of Dolce & Gabbana and Gucci silk suits at the center of the department. “A word, if you please.”

Bill and the sales assistant moved away from a rather embarrassed Harry. Bill put one arm around the man's shoulder and they chatted for about a minute in low tones that the boy could not hear. When “Morgan” returned, he was much more helpful. Harry selected a dark indigo coloured D&G lightweight two-piece with a two-button jacket with a six-inch drop and a center vent. There was just a trace of a hexagonal design woven into the fabric. The pants were flat front, no pleats with button down pockets. The suit felt very comfortable even before tailoring.

Harry also selected several shirts, two ties, matching indigo socks, black patent leather shoes, and two pairs of cufflinks - gold and silver. The department had a computerised engraving machine. Fascinated, Harry watched it custom engrave “HJP” on the cufflinks in ornate lettering.

Now that the sales assistant had started pampering him, Harry felt much better - until he had to deal with a Muggle tailor. He was quite unused to being poked, prodded and pinned, especially in places where he was not accustomed to other people (with the sometimes exception of Eliza) touching him. Magical tailors, like Madam Malkin, let the measure itself do all of this work. This rather uncomfortable experience dragged on for some time.

With the hour approaching their dinner engagement, and the restaurant being some half an hour away, the tailoring was still incomplete. Mindful of the time, Bill shooed the tailor and sales assistant out of the changing room.

“You'll be needing this for this evening, Harry,” Bill said, “otherwise I'd let the Muggles handle this.”

Bill uttered a couple of spells as he moved his wand over Harry's suitpants and coat. Harry felt a tickling sensation as the fabric moved gently until it fitted him perfectly. Bill said another incantation, touched the shirt Harry was wearing, and then touched the other shirts he had selected. The shirts started rippling and writhing for about thirty seconds.

“Muggles have invented many ingenious ways of compensating for lack of magic,” Bill informed Harry, “but tailoring simply isn't one of them.”

Both of them jumped at the sound of a throat clearing. “Morgan” was standing in the doorway, with his eyebrows raised so far they almost disappeared under his fringe.

“Don't bother, he'll wear them out,” said Bill airily to the astonished sales assistant as they exited the dressing room. “I'm an accomplished tailor myself, and I took care of everything.”

“That's quite all right,” Morgan replied. “It's just, had I known, I would have shown you to our … er … Hogsmeade Shop designs.”

It was Bill's turn to look thunderstruck. “You mean…? You….”

“Serve both worlds, yes sir,” Morgan replied. “And you, young man, what did you say your name was…?”

“He didn't,” interrupted Bill, flashing his BoE card at Morgan the nosy Muggle. “Please ring everything up.”

Harry intervened. “No, Bill, I insist,” he said rather more loudly than necessary. He reached into his pocket for his own BoE card, extracted it rather hastily, and sent the remaining contents of his pocket cascading to the floor in a shower of bank notes and other bits of paper and parchment.

“That reminds me,” said Bill, struggling to suppress a nervous laugh as he addressed Morgan. “I'd like to add to the purchase the finest folding wallet that you have. You may select it - so that it goes with his suit.”

Bill stubbornly paid the tab - for security reasons, he indicated discreetly. As the selection was rather dear, Harry insisted upon reimbursing him. He also hefted the packages containing the items not currently in use. Whilst exiting Harrods, he asked Bill the question that had been on his mind for more than an hour.

“Bill, what did you say to that sales assistant that made him stop being bored by me and actually start paying attention to what I wanted?”

“He was being difficult, so he needed some persuading,” Bill explained. “A right brown-nosing bastard, he was, just like anyone else who works on commission. I told him a number of things, each less true than the last. First I explained that you were the presumptive Baron of Blackwalls, I was your legal guardian, and you were soon to turn sixteen - all true enough. I next said that you had been invited to a posh coming out party, which was not exactly true. Then I told that Muggle that the party was at Sandringham, which was not true at all. Finally I implied that you would be meeting the owner of this establishment there, which was the biggest whopper of them all. Still, he had no business acting like that. He was hired help and you were the customer. I made sure he got no gratuity. Such behaviour was inexcusable.”

Whilst in the taxi to Chelsea, Harry's mobile rang. Harry tensed and answered it. His cousin was on the other line.

“Bloody hell, Harry - I tried to reach you all during the day and all I got was some prerecorded rot that your mobile was out of order and `the customer is unavailable.' A group of fr … er … your kind came over this morning and took over the whole bloody house!”

“Oh bugger!” Harry exclaimed. “What happened?”

“I don't rightly know,” Dudley said. “Something about wards was all I heard. I thought they were talking about you at first. Anyway, for a while they didn't know I was there. My father had a corking fit when they told him to leave and not come back until evening, and Mum was in a right state. From the noise, dad started throwing things at them, and eventually your kind did some spell that restrained them both.”

“I was scared out of my skull that they were those death beaters or something. When they found me, I thought I was going to die. Then I suddenly remembered that I was late for an urgent event at the gym, and they let me go. When I got there, I couldn't remember what the bloody appointment was, and nobody could tell me. But I couldn't go back either, not until just now. Now my parents are walking around just as normal as you please acting like nothing ever happened. What in the name of God is going on?”

Harry kicked himself for not at least telling Dudley that the Order was going to come and reset the protective wards around the house. He kicked himself again for being able to Apparate through those wards. Even though that was supposed to be impossible, he had done it, and he suspected he would be able to do it again. He told Dudley as much as he dared.

“The people who visited… They were friends, not enemies. They thought that there was a security breach in the house, and they repaired it. That's as much as I can safely tell you. Don't bring anything up with your mum and dad. I'm pretty sure they've had their … er … they've forgotten all about it. Just act normal, and everything will be all right.”

“I've been … running some errands, and I'm meeting my … er … legal guardian for dinner to discuss … things in my world, so tell your parents I will be late. Bye.”

Harry scowled. He had made a promise to Uncle Vernon not to let his magical world invade their Muggle one, and he felt that his promise had just been violated. Harry tried hard not to make promises that he would be unable to keep.

The black cab stopped. Bill paid the fare before Harry had time to react. He had not gotten used to the wallet. Somewhat annoyed, he threw a £50 note at Bill. As they stepped onto the kerb, Harry took him aside.

“I don't care how high you've been promoted,” he hissed, “I've still got more money than you, so let me pay my own way.” Ever since learning of it, Harry had been uncomfortable with being so rich. After the problem it had caused with Hermione, he was beginning positively to detest it. It seemed he could not even give the accursed stuff away. At minimum, he did not need other people spending their money on him.

Bill hissed right back, “Harry, if you're not going to let me foot this bill, then we can go home right now. I'm a bloody Weasley, remember - never having two Galleons to rub together. Until just now, I've never been able to do anything for anybody that cost more than a couple quid. You helped make my big break, and more than that, you're the reason I won't be trembling in front of Fleur's father, afraid I'm not good enough for the woman I love…. And I'm your bloody guardian, dammit. So let me thank you properly. Okay? This is supposed to be a celebration of my good fortune, not yours.”

Chastened, Harry said nothing more. Money was hard to understand. It affected people so differently….

The dinner was grand, and their little tiff soon forgotten. Harry had never experienced such fine food - at least not among Muggles. He had the house salad, buttered artichoke hearts (possibly his one mistake), French onion soup, potatoes Lyonnais, lobster tortellini, and chocolate parfait mousse pie with milk ice cream.

The only things off-limits were alcoholic. Those did not particularly interest him, but on principle he did not like that restriction. Harry considered mentioning that Bill had agreed to buy the champagne he was taking to Hermione's, but thought better of it. He was determined to avoid anything that might cause the man to reconsider that agreement.

Other than that, however, Bill was being quite consistent. On his way to the loo, Harry finally found someone who would take his money.

“Sir?” he said to the maitre d,' “I've a favour to ask….” He had been watching what other customers did, so he slipped the man the same £50 note that Bill had spurned. “We're here celebrating my friend's big promotion, so I'd like to get him something congratulatory.”

“Well, you're a spot late,” the tuxedoed man said - even more superciliously than Morgan from Harrods. “Still, I think we could arrange a cake of some sort on short order….” The man palmed the £50 note, and Harry never saw it again.

The maitre d' may have been a snob, but he was a competent snob. The restaurant arranged a very nice, quite fancy “Congratulations Bill” rum cake. Despite the ensuing celebration, neither partook of anything intoxicating - beyond the lightly flavoured morsel itself.

When Harry returned to Number Four Privet Drive after his night out with his guardian, he was not greeted warmly by his relatives.

Uncle Vernon growled, “Boy, where have you been, we were about to….”

Their displeasure, which Harry thought might be residual anger bleeding through their recent Memory Charm, almost instantly turned into stunned silence. The Harry that walked in the front door was not the Harry that they had expected. He was dressed to the nines like something out of an Italian fashion magazine, and was wearing a tie - something else that was entirely out of character for the scruffy boy they knew.

“Sorry I'm late,” he started, richly appreciating his relatives' reaction to his appearance. “I told Dudley to tell you. I had to do some shopping for Friday night.”

With that he set down the two large shopping bags he was carrying. Uncle Vernon, whose habit it was to take the measure of everyone according to their social status, suffered a virtual cognitive disconnect when he saw the Harrods logo on the bags. For emphasis, Harry fished from a suit pocket a couple of matchboxes with the purple and white logo of the Gordon Ramsay restaurant on them and handed one to each of his relatives.

“They have nice food,” Harry told them. “I highly recommend them.” He picked up his shopping bags and started for the stairs.

“Not so fast, boy,” grumbled Uncle Vernon. “Sit.”

Harry did as he was told. He was quite expecting this, and was ready to get it over with. Given what was happening in with his life, it was becoming harder and harder to conceal his newfound wealth from them. Just as he was sick of being lied to himself, he was also tired of lying to his relatives. It took so much energy merely trying to remember all the lies.

“What is the meaning of this, boy?” asked Uncle Vernon rhetorically. “When we agreed to take you in, all those years ago, we were under the impression that you hadn't a farthing to your name. It's now rather apparent that we were, or are, mistaken.”

Harry gave his relatives the two-minute thumbnail description of how his life had changed with the death of his godfather and the imminent devolution of the Potter family trusts. Uncle Vernon protested, “Well I think, now that you have come into all of this money, you should bloody well pay us back rent for all we've done for you over the last fifteen years.”

Harry had fully anticipated this and replied coldly, “Not on your life…. You beat me for years, locked me up in that dirty, spider infested cupboard under the stairs, half starved me, gave me nothing but Dudley's hand-me-downs, and never tired of calling me worthless and my parents worse than that…. You gave the neighbours the impression I was some sort of hooligan…. You made nasty remarks about Hermione…. And I won't even mention the spoilt milk incident…. Pay you back rent? You should both count yourselves bloody lucky that I didn't report you to the authorities long ago.”

Harry's eyes were flashing, his hair sticking up, and it appeared to Vernon that his fingertips were starting to glow. For once, he wisely said nothing as Harry delivered his rant.

As he hated the money worse than his relatives, he was willing to pay a reasonable rent going forward. After some bargaining, full of exaggeration and posturing on both sides, the sum of £100 a month was agreed upon. Harry coolly pulled out his new wallet and laid out three rather crumpled £50 notes on the dining room table. “There, we're even - rent through September,” he said. Then he hefted his purchases, and climbed the stairs to bed.

He was starting to change into his pyjamas when he noticed that Dudley had followed him. “What do you want?” he snapped, “and thanks for passing along my message, by the way.”

“Sorry mate, I forgot,” explained Dudley. “Too many blows to the head, I reckon. You got this letter today in our post.”

Harry snatched the letter from his cousin's beefy hand and opened it. Several pictures fell out and a short note. Harry wadded up the envelope, thought about binning it, but instead put it down on the bed beside him.

“Well, holy shite….”

Dudley was gawking at the pictures, some of which had landed right side up on the threadbare carpet. Colin Creevey had taken them at Diagon Alley on the night of the Ashrak. They showed Harry and Professor Dumbledore in their dress robes alighting from the Silver Spur limousines. Harry was mugging a little for the camera. Dumbledore was standing there looking serene.

“Th…. That's you?” Dudley finally managed to choke out.

“None other,” replied Harry, somewhat annoyed by his own lack of discretion. The last thing he needed was for Dudley start fawning over him. As much as Dudley could vex him, Harry preferred a moderately abusive cousin to a toady. At least the abuse was honest.

“Who is the other bloke?” asked Dudley - practically shielding his eyes from the photograph of Dumbledore's glittering robes.

“That's the Headmaster of my school, Albus Dumbledore,” Harry answered. “Among other things, he's the one responsible for my being here all these years.”

“Where did you get that Rolls?”

“From our Ministry,” replied Harry. “These were taken last week, on the night I was out so late.”

“Damn,” exclaimed Dudley. “The runt I used to know is gone. I think my parents are regretting their ways. If you'd give them another chance, I'm sure they would do better.”

Harry bit his tongue at the insult and half-scowled at Dudley. “Not bloody likely,” he growled, “too late for second chances now. It wouldn't be honest. I'd never be able to trust them. It's hard to trust anybody I didn't know before all this happened. Money changes everything.”

Dudley thought for a second. “Spect you're right - even about my own folks. But it's not just them. You've changed too, though. If it wasn't for your ugly mug, I wouldn't have recognised you when you walked through the door a little while ago.”

“True enough, Dudders,” said Harry slowly, as he thought about how his own changes would affect (or had already affected) his friends. “Now goodnight. I'll be up to run with you tomorrow.”

The next morning, after their run, Harry was concentrating on using what the Aurors had just taught him to create a Portkey out an empty roll-on deodorant bottle when his cousin walked into his room and asked him what he was doing.

“Blast it all, Dudders, you ruined my spell,” spat Harry. “If you must know I'm preparing to transport myself to Hog … my school, in Scotland. From there I'm setting a second trip - to London to see my … er … a girl.”

“Wow!” exclaimed Dudley. “You mean you can jump all over Britain?”

“Close enough,” said Harry. “Now be quiet or go away. I have to concentrate on this. It's hard; I've just learnt it; and I'm not very good.” Dudley shut up, and Harry continued - struggling just a bit with the still not totally familiar spell sequence. Harry first primed the bottle that would serve as the Portkey.

“Portus Primus.”

He envisioned Hagrid's hut at Hogwarts.

“Portus Locatus,” he said. Then he charmed his alarm clock and set it to 9:00 a.m.

“Portus Tempus.”

Next, he primed the Portkey for his second destination.

“Portus Secundus.”

He thought of Eliza's flat and repeated the Portus Locatus portion of the spell. Harry then reset his alarm clock for 12:30 p.m. - the time he had agreed upon with Eliza - and repeated the Portus Tempus portion of the spell. That was the end, since he could simply Apparate back from Eliza's. He pronounced “Portus Finite” to end the spell and also removed the enchantment from his alarm clock.

Seeing that Harry was done, Dudley snidely asked him, “Which girl is it this time, the clever one or the older one?”

Harry nearly made a very rude hand gesture. He thought that Dudley was quite mistaken and jumping to unwarranted conclusions. The question implied that Eliza and Hermione were interchangeable when, to him, they were currently filling quite different roles in his life. Still, it would take more time than he had to explain the situation to his sometimes-thick cousin, so he just gave him minimal facts.

“The older one today; the clever one on Friday.”

With his cousin's interruption, Harry barely had time to prepare himself before the Portkey activated. Harry grabbed the deodorant bottle - nearly fumbling it - felt the familiar jerk behind his navel, and was transported almost instantaneously to Hagrid's hut. He did not even bother bringing his Valkyrie. That omission was not for lack of interest in flying. Bill was waiting for him, and his guardian's hair and clothes betrayed that he had already been riding the GKN motorbike.

This session went better than the last - particularly because Professor Snape did not make his presence known (assuming that Snape was still at Hogwarts at all). Harry flew around the Hogwarts grounds twice, startling the Thestrals in the Forbidden Forest the second time. He also flew with Bill riding pillion, not so much because he had any desire to show Bill around (Bill would rather ride alone anyway) as to get some experience flying the GKN in that configuration. As long as he avoided extreme speeds, acceleration, and turns, he found it easy to control the GKN in its passenger-carrying mode. He also tried out the sidecar feature on the ground. It really did muddy the bike's performance, so he was not very fond of it.

Harry had other things to discuss with Bill. The first, relatively minor, was to pick an appropriately small, appropriately magical, and appropriately useful present for the Grangers. After some back and forth, they came to an agreement.

“How about Omnioculars, then,” Bill suggested. “I think Hermione's parents might find them useful.”

“I don't think they'd care to watch Quidditch highlights,” Harry quipped.

“The kind I'm thinking of would do more than that,” Bill explained. “When Hermione graduates from Hogwarts, don't you think they'd like to see the full magical ceremony?”

“You mean there are Omnioculars that let Muggles see through Concealment Charms?” Harry asked, more interested.

“Just the simple ones used on events attended by both wizards and Muggles,” Bill went on. “In fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised if your mum bought your grandparents a pair they could use when she married your dad.”

That was enough to convince Harry. Bill agreed to select a pair at Diagon Alley.

The other issue was both more expensive and more unexpected. At first, Bill was inclined to be dismissive of Harry's rather radical idea.

“I've been thinking, and I've decided that it's unfair for Hogwarts Quidditch teams to have to supply their own brooms. Some teams are so much better equipped than others that the matches aren't being decided on talent or strategy anymore.”

Bill initially dismissed his complaint. “Stop worrying about it. You're starting to sound like Hermione. Anything that helps Gryffindor beat Slytherin, I'm cool with it.”

“Well, I'm not,” Harry persisted. “I think that brooms should be standardised.”

“Pie in the sky, if you ask me,” was Bill's grunted response. “The School's got better things to spend its money on than keeping all four teams in brooms.”

“There's no reason that Hogwarts would have to pay a Knut,” Harry declared.

“Oh, so you think Firebolt Unlimited and the other broom companies would just give brooms to the School in return for an endorsement or some such?” Bill answered contrarily. “A pro team maybe….”

“No endorsements, Bill,” Harry corrected. “I intend to put up the money myself. I've got it. I don't much want it. And it's something I can do to fix a steadily worsening problem….”

Bill was astonished. “You're serious, aren't you?”

Harry nodded.

“You know? That's a crazy enough idea that it just might work,” Bill added as he thought it through more carefully. “You'll need some sort of formal gift … some kind of trust, I reckon. Have you discussed this with Blackie Howe? That's the kind of thing he's best at. The goblins speak highly of his skills….”

“Not really. I wanted to get you're opinion first,” Harry admitted. “He's always so busy. I really don't want to bother him….”

Bill snickered out loud at Harry's naiveté. “Harry, believe me, he wants to be bothered. First of all he gets paid a gorgeous Galleon for it. Second, to set up a donation - to Hogwarts - on behalf of - Harry Potter…. Well, most solicitors would do that for free just to have their name associated with a venture like that.”

Harry was surprised at the thought of having someone so distinguished … so much older … so, well, adult … essentially at his beck and call. “You really mean it? If it were me, I think I'd get annoyed at being interrupted by some uppity kid so often….”

“If that is what he really thinks, rest assured he'd never say so outside of the loo,” Bill reassured. “As long as you're paying him, he'll dance to your tune. Harry, you've got to get used to the fact that all that money brings with it a great deal of power. You pay a solicitor; you're the boss, no matter how exalted he or she might be. And you'd better get used to thinking that way - especially with lawyers - or else you'll be taken advantage of.”

Abashed, he pulled out his mobile straightaway. Bill yelled, “stop!” and reminded him that he was at Hogwarts. The magical interference would at best render the mobile inoperable and at worst might permanently damage it. Harry made a mental note to call Howe as soon as possible after he left Hogwarts, which would be at Eliza's flat.

As soon as he reached Eliza's, Harry excused himself and made that call. Blackie Howe was in his office and, as Bill had predicted, was only too happy to talk to him. Harry described what he wanted to do, and Howe (who had been in Ravenclaw) was enthusiastic. The solicitor knew just what documents to draw up, and even had a business contact at Firebolt Unlimited Ltd., the manufacturer. “Let me do the deal, Harry,” Howe advised. “I'm sure that, by buying direct from Firebolt at wholesale, rather than … say … marching into Quality Quidditch Supplies, I can get you forty top-of-the-line sporting brooms for probably 750 Galleons each. That's less than half the retail price.”

Harry agreed with some hesitation. “Er … all right….”

“Something else that might reduce the pricetag even further,” Howe continued, dropping his voice conspiratorially, “if you're up for an endorsement deal, I rather think the Firebolt company would jump at it. You've been getting….”

“No, I don't think so,” Harry quickly cut across. “Anything I'd save wouldn't be worth it.”

“Well then … even with no further discount, the 30,000 Galleon total price is only a small fraction of the cash Bill says is currently on hand in your vault….”

Harry frowned at that. He had yet to receive any of the Potter family inheritance, let alone the Black fortune. Disposing of all this money was going to be harder than he thought - especially if the goblins insisted on not debiting his accounts.

Eliza only caught snatches of Harry's end of the call - enough to know that he was talking to a lawyer about an expensive proposition that involved Quidditch and brooms - but no more. What was more, she did not even care. Such talk bored her. Her interest was not in the wizard side of Harry's life, and she certainly had no desire for his money (although she did permit his reimbursement of the cost of renting the Lexus for aborted trip to Brighton).

She was feeling a little better about things … more relaxed. Conversations with her confidante had convinced her that, whatever would happen with Harry would just happen. The poor kid already had too many demands on him, and she would not impose any more. As far as she was concerned, the two of them would have as much fun together as possible. Whatever boy/girl - make that man/woman - attraction Harry wanted would just flow naturally.

Eliza had planned an outing to the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew, followed by another trip to the cinema, after which she intended to collect the “rain check” - a cozy dinner for two at her flat, and then who knows what…. Her bustling about whilst Harry was on the phone had ensured that everything for the meal was in good order before they left.

They took the Tube, since Kew was farther than Eliza cared to travel on her Aprila. Harry was impressed at how easily she navigated the maze of Muggle underground trains. They took the Jubilee train, and changed to the District line at Westminster Station. At Westminster they bought crumpets whilst waiting for another connection.

When they alighted at Kew, Harry was shocked…. He actually recognised the place! He had been there before, on a field trip when he was still at his Muggle primary school - thus it had to be quite close to Surrey, he deduced. The field trip had not been very enjoyable, because Dudley's gang kept threatening to throw him into the lake (they had been bluffing). Harry knew that this second visit would be much better.

It was. Harry and Eliza spent most of the afternoon strolling through one spectacular exhibit after the other. Harry was enthralled by the giant water lilies in the aquatic garden, and intrigued by the exhibit on plant evolution. What he liked most though was the enormous and pungent collection of all kinds of orchids. He enjoyed the orchids for their beauty, to be sure, but he appreciated even more the way they entranced Eliza. It gave him courage. He tentatively grasped her hand whilst she was exclaiming about one epiphyte or another. When she did not pull away, he held onto it for most of the rest of the afternoon. Given how much Eliza liked them, Harry decided to study the orchids quite closely.

Eliza finally told Harry that they had to leave because they were going to see “The English Patient.” He first thought that meant visiting one of her relatives at St. Mungo's. Then she explained that it was a film - one with excellent reviews that was playing to sold-out houses. She had pre-ordered tickets, which required them to be at a will-call window in Canary Wharf by 6:15. Dependent upon the Tube, as Eliza had not even brought her wand. Fighting the London rush, they just made it.

It was a rather romantic film - not at all like “Independence Day.” The two were cuddling close together well before the film was finished. After they walked back to her flat, Eliza put on some Beethoven and busied herself in the kitchen reheating the dinner. Harry got his hands slapped when he tried to stir the puttanesca. She absolutely refused to allow Harry to help her.

Feeling somewhat at loose ends, he sat on the davenport for little whilst listening to the symphony. Then he had an idea. He put a Silencing Charm on the living room and then repeated the Orchideous spell over and over again - thinking of the different orchids they had seen that afternoon, and trying to remember which ones Eliza had liked the best. By the time she had the first course ready, her conjoined living/dining room was literally awash with brilliantly coloured and fragrant smelling orchids.

Eliza gasped as she entered the room, and almost dropped a full dish of pasta. Putting it on the table she grabbed Harry's hand and began moving around her completely redecorated apartment smelling one bundle or another. It was a spell with which she was obviously not familiar. She could barely believe the beauty of the flowers and told Harry so - by kissing him.

Harry thought he was floating on air. Eliza's kiss felt much more natural than Cho's. It was incomparably more romantic than anything he had ever actually scraped together the nerve to do with Hermione. It was more like his daydreams….

More than that, even. It was closer to what he had just seen at the cinema.

Eliza had kissed him before - twice - but both times had been abbreviated. This was much different…. Now he had all the time in the world….

Instinctively Harry started kissing back, something he had never really done before - the only other time he had ever been more than passive was just too … different.

Here he was in terra incognita, and for once he found himself not minding it a bit. Eliza responded in kind, and he noticed the tingling sensation in his naughty bits was back - the one he had felt with Hermi.… He willed himself to focus on the present.

Their lips separated briefly and reluctantly. He looked into her sparkling blue eyes - but only for an instant, as she tugged at Harry's spectacles. With the Auror charm they had on them, they did not budge. She sighed, and dove back into him. Breathing was becoming an annoyance. Neither wanted even so much as to come up for air.

One of his hands was stroking the back of Eliza's neck, becoming entangled in her generous blonde tresses. The other was sliding up her back. She grabbed him around his shoulders. Her lips were soft and sweet, like nothing in the world he had ever tasted. She was inviting him in, and he followed. Totally engrossed, Harry was not paying any attention to his surroundings, and he backed into the davenport. They half fell and half slid into it, with her landing partially on top of him amongst all of the orchids.

He had no idea how long they snogged. The sensation was so delicious, he utterly lost track of time. It might have been half an hour (but was probably more like five or ten minutes) before Eliza gently pulled away. With a giggle, she traced the outline of Harry's jaw whilst reminding him that dinner was getting cold. Between the look in her eyes, and the butterflies in his stomach, he would have forgotten about the meal if she had given him the option.

The dinner, which they ate by non-magical candlelight, was excellent. Harry hardly thought about it, however. His mind was racing throughout the meal. He thought about their kisses, imagining more. Is this was what love is really like? He had little to compare it with. He thought he had been in love with Hermione, but she had never done anything that made him feel so lightheaded and warm at the same time.

Of course, he had never really pressed the subject.

He was a git, but now it seemed not to matter.

He had never really loved anybody else, romantically. For him, orphaned so young, any kind of love had always been unusual. Whilst his parents surely had loved him, they were forever beyond the reach of his memory.

Sirius had loved him too, but mostly from afar and once again all too briefly.

Harry thought about what else might happen between him and Eliza, maybe even tonight. He felt anxious, expectant, needy, and scared all at the same time. He knew the expression, “every dog has his day,” but had never expected to live to see his. As fatalistic as he was about his own prospects, the track record of those caring for him was worse - far worse.

With all of these thoughts scurrying about and colliding in his head, Harry said very little. He sat there, in silence; mechanically eating the tasty meal Eliza had obviously spent a great deal of time preparing.

All the while he looked at her with what he hoped was a not-too-goofy expression on his face.

She blushed quite a bit, but did not disturb his thoughts

For dessert, she served ice cream, added hot fudge sauce and then, on top of that, poured a small cup of amber liquid. Then she struck a safety match and touched it to the concoction. The entire bowl burst into bluish flames - a particularly dramatic effect in the darkened, candlelit flat. Startled, he abruptly pushed his chair back and flicked out his wand. Eliza gestured for him to do nothing, so he watched as the flames gradually diminished and finally died.

One taste of the ice cream, and Harry had a pretty good idea what had happened. Mixed among the delicious taste of pineapple-vanilla ice cream and chocolate was the distinctive, much sharper taste of alcohol.

His lips curled involuntarily. “Ugh … this has spirits in it,” he complained.

“You're right,” Eliza confirmed. “Sorry if you don't like it, it's brandy - so alcoholic it's downright flammable. Even the fumes burn. But you should try again; almost everything's burned off….”

Harry did as told, and she was right. He quickly finished that spoonful and took another. “It's better now,” he opined. “What's left is light enough that it's just another flavour in the ice cream.”

“That's what's intended, Harry,” she said with a sly grin. “All things in Moderation. Moderation in all things.”

It was one of her favorite phrases.

He insisted on taking care of the dishes. She agreed, as long as he used no magic, because she feared that any more of it would damage the appliances. Since the flat had an automatic dishwasher, Harry soon returned to her side. He was nervous. He knew it, and Eliza could sense it as well.

“Er…. Is this what you want to do…? I-I mean the two of us and all?” he asked tentatively.

She smiled at his shyness. “Harry, if I hadn't wanted to kiss you, I wouldn't have done it.”

“You…. You…. You could be in danger, you know,” he stammered. “People who get close to me tend to … to die.” Voicing that fear, he had some trouble keeping his composure.

“So what, Harry?” she retorted. “I could get killed any day riding my motorbike through this awful London traffic. Someone told me once….” She thought of a conversation with Lucinda. “…Whatever happens will happen. That's how I feel right now. From the beginning - the first moment I offered to help you - I knew I was getting into things I couldn't hope to control. So I never tried. You don't have to either. Just relax, Harry, you think too much sometimes….”

She leaned into him and captured his lips again.

It was the best therapy in the world. All those delicious feelings came flowing back. After a few more minutes, they came up for air. This process was repeated several times before Harry thought of something that he wanted to say.

“Eliza, I've got something I'd like to show you.”

She tensed just a bit as she asked what it was.

He continued, “I've … I've got a motorbike of my own now, and I've been learning how to fly it over the last couple….”

When Harry mentioned the motorbike, Eliza relaxed. She did not think he was the sort, but the first words out of his mouth could have been a proposition. She was uncertain how she felt about that - just yet. Her relaxation lasted only for a matter of seconds. “You've been learning to do what?” she asked.

“To fly it,” Harry responded. Then he appreciated how odd that phrase sounded. “Oh … it's a magical motorbike. It was left to me by … by … by my godfather when he d-d-d … died.” Harry silently cursed himself. This was hardly the polished delivery he was trying for.

“It's all right, Harry,” she cooed. “I felt the same way when my parents divorced. It just takes time….” She kissed him again.

Eliza's brand of medicine was very effective in helping Harry over those thoughts. After a few silent seconds, he continued.

“Anyway, I'm still underage. I've got the bike at Hogwarts. I feel I'm just about skilled enough to fly it safely with a passenger.… I'd … er … I'd like you to be that passenger.”

Her answer stunned him.

“No, Harry, that won't work. Not at all. As much as I want to be with you here, I can't be with you at Hogwarts … or anywhere else in the magical world. I-I-I … can't live like that….” She was obviously flustered.

“But why, Eliza?” Harry pleaded. “I thought that you and I….”

“If I did that I could never go back,” she said, also in pleading tones. “I'd lose my job … but worse than that, I can't live like you, Harry. I'd be a moth to your flame. I'd no longer be my own person. I can see how your life is.… Under constant guard because You-Know-Who is trying to kill you…. You've learnt to live with it - or at least you've had no choice. But I can't be a bird in a very gilded cage. I'd go mad. I want to be here for you Harry, but I can't be there for you. Do you understand…?”

On a rational level, he understood, but nevertheless he was bitterly disappointed. It was a replay. He was rich, famous, and once again facing rejection because of it. He detested it all. At this moment, outside that very building - or even outside Eliza's very door - somebody from the Order was minding him.

Harry's own his first reaction had been to rebel. That was how he actually met her in the first place. After an all-too-brief moment of euphoria, it simply hurt - on a most basic level - that his girlfriend (after this evening, that was how he viewed her) was telling him in so many words that she did not want to be seen in public with him … wizarding public at least.

Up until that point, he had been doing a good job convincing himself he was in love. But Harry still idealised love. He wanted love to be like it was in færie stories - forever and for all things. He was not a halfway person, yet he felt he was being offered a halfway relationship. Things had been moving quite far quite fast - until he ran headlong into this brick wall.

Eliza had not wanted to tell Harry any of this - especially not on the night of their first serious snog - but he had unwittingly forced her hand by bringing up Hogwarts and the flying motorbike. She eyed him warily, not sure how he would react.

“I hate being rich, and I hate being famous,” Harry muttered. “I have everything I don't want and nothing I do want.”

“Harry,” Eliza chided, “don't judge yourself so harshly.…”

“It's no harsher than you've judged me,” Harry lashed out. “Not to be seen in public, that's all. Still, I suppose it's for the best….” He moved towards the door.

“Harry, I'm not asking you to leave,” Eliza blurted out. “Far from it.” As if for emphasis, she physically blocked his path to the door.

He felt completely demoralised. “I know, but I, I … I'm not looking for a back street girl…. It just doesn't feel right to stay. It's always going to be the same with me in the end, I guess.…”

“Please don't leave like this, Harry.” Then she said more softly, “If that's the choice, I'd rather you not leave at all.”

Harry had been too busy feeling sorry for himself to listen closely. “It's just that you sounded so much like…. Huh? What do you mean, not leaving?”

Harry's reaction had been far worse than she expected. Maybe she could fix it, maybe not, but she if she let him leave like this, she probably would never see him again. As different as he was, Harry was nonetheless a man, and there was one thing that tended to keep men from leaving.

As Lucinda had reminded her on several occasions, “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

“It means just what I said,” she replied nervously. “I-I don't want you to be angry or insulted because I told you the truth. That doesn't change how I feel about you…. I want you to know that, and if it takes you spending the night to prove it, well I'm ready…. I guess.”

Harry had not seen that coming. He was stunned by the proposition. More than stunned…. Shocked was more like it. Or scared to death. It was too much, too soon. He never envisioned it occurring that way - not his first time and not with her. He backpedaled furiously.

“I'm sorry, I-I-I shouldn't have gone off on you like that,” he croaked. “I-I-I know where you're coming from…. I understand…. But … but … I don't want you to think for one minute that you have … to `prove yourself' to me in any way. That was never my intent, and I won't have it be like that. I think too highly of you…. I won't be spending the night, not … not now, anyway. I ought to be going, but I need you to know that … I do want to see you again.”

Eloquent, it was not, but he had finally said what she needed to hear. They kissed again, even more passionately. With this kiss, Harry was newly tempted - he found himself starting to work his hands underneath the back of her jumper to caress the smooth skin on her back. When he became conscious of it, he stopped himself, and gently broke the embrace. He needed time to think, and perhaps to prepare.

As he was making ready to leave, Eliza asked him a question that confirmed that she had listened to him more closely than he had listened to her:

“Who did I sound so much like, Harry?”

“What?”

“A bit ago…. You said I sounded like someone,” Eliza persisted.

Harry squirmed a bit, but told the truth nonetheless.

“Hermione. I thought that you sounded like Hermione. She can't get beyond my being rich and famous, either,” he said with transparent sadness.

She had more or less expected that answer. It confirmed her suspicions about why he had reacted so badly - and why she had any chance at all.

“She wouldn't date you because of your fame and fortune, and you're still bearing the torch?” she diagnosed.

“Something like that,” he mumbled.

“Don't worry, Harry,” Eliza said in a half-whisper, placing her hand on Harry's cheek. “I'm not trying to replace her.” She paused and spoke very carefully. “I know I can't be what she can for you, but maybe she can't give you some of the things that I can, either.”

Harry looked at her with an unsure expression, and then he swallowed and nodded. Harry took her hand and kissed it gently. Maybe the Chinese solution was not actually so far fetched after all.

“I hope you're right,” he said, not sure exactly what he was hoping for. He checked to make sure he had everything he had come with. “Bye.”

As he Disapparated with a pop, Eliza said, “Till we meet again.”

It was late when Harry trotted home from his Apparition point behind Mrs. Figg's house. His head was swimming, and all he wanted to do was get his Occlumency over and go to bed - maybe take a cold shower as well.

Tomorrow's training session with Hermione would be difficult enough, given the emotional spectacle in Eliza's flat. He only hoped that she would be in her withdrawn mode, rather than asking searching questions. Truthful answers could be embarrassing, and Hermione had proven fully capable of using her emotional link to him as a polygraph.

Thus, Harry had little patience for Dudley sauntering into his room just as he was folding himself into his lotus position. Stating the obvious, his cousin commented, “You were out late, mate. Did you get any?”

“No,” Harry responded truthfully, but incompletely. He had no intention of telling Dudley that, for the first time in his life, the answer could have been “yes” - and that the decision to defer had been more his than hers. His cousin would never let him live that down.

“Well, better luck next time, eh?” Dudley leered. “At least you've got options. I'd settle for just one bird right now.”

Harry said nothing. As he waited for his cousin to leave, he found himself wondering if Muggle Repelling Charms could be done wandlessly.

As it turned out, Thursday's training session with Hermione was better than expected - until the last ten minutes, that is. She was indeed in withdrawal mode. Whilst he noticed her furtive and pensive glances on a number of occasions, she never questioned him about the previous night's events. Their conversations were quick, guarded, and mostly consisted of her telling him not to go all twitchy over the upcoming tea.

The day's lesson was improvisational duelling. There were only a few new spells. Instead, the emphasis was upon new and unusual amalgamations of already-learnt magic. The two trainees were mastering techniques for putting multiple spells together - mixing transfiguration with a Banishing Charm so that, for example, a single wand movement could both change dead leaves into circular saw blades and send them whirling at an opponent.

The daily duel between Harry and Hermione was fought entirely with new combinations of old spells. He thought he was going to prevail after he successfully created a swarm of fire breathing mosquitoes and sent them over her makeshift revetment. She had conjured the fortification with a combination spell that transformed her leftover French fries from lunch into large logs and stacked them neatly around herself.

Expecting that she would be driven from cover any second, Harry noticed too late that not all of the little bright lights over the revetment were buzzing insects. She had responded with a quadruple spell - transfiguring the pesky insects into small mirrors, levitating the mirrors, positioning them so she could see his reflection, and splitting a stunning spell into dozens of separate beams. He was trapped in a hail of stunners reflecting off the mirrors. Whilst his reflexes made Harry one of the best at dodging spells, there were simply too many of them. Hit by three different stunners, he fell unconscious. He never heard himself being disarmed by Hermione's triumphant, “Accio wand.”

Fortunately, Harry had other things to do than listen to Hermione's almost terminally smug dissection of her first-ever duelling victory (“I didn't use Expelliarmus of course because I might have hurt you”). Unbeknownst to her, he was going to Diagon Alley immediately after training to get the present he would give her on Friday.

Bill had told him about etiquette dictating that the young man invited to such an event brings a gift for the young lady. Hermione had confirmed it. Harry had also decided to buy something for Neville's upcoming birthday, which was the day before his. He had already decided what he was going to get Hermione - and this time it would not be a book. He still had no clue what to get Neville, so he was hoping for inspiration from something in a shop.

That was going to be difficult.

Given Harry's ability to attract a crowd, the Order was facing quite a chore just getting him in and out of Diagon Alley without causing some sort of riot. The entourage accompanying him included not only Bill and Dung, but also Tonks, Shak, and two other people whom he thought were also active-duty Aurors. Harry was under strict orders to stay out of sight until his handlers decided otherwise.

Harry was self-conscious that a relatively trivial shopping trip to Diagon Alley demanded so much scarce Auror time. He tried to apologise. “Shak, I'm really sorry that you … and everyone have to go through this. I mean, this is crazy. Four Aurors just so I can go shopping. What if somebody gets killed because I've pulled all of you away from what you should be doing…?”

Shak told him not to worry. “We're better off now than we have been in months, thanks to you. The goblins just took over guard duty in Azkaban. That's freed up over sixty Aurors for other duty.”

“That's just great,” Harry responded, feeling considerably less like a dead weight. “But still, my little frolic here must be tying up Aurors who really should be somewhere else.”

“Think nothing of it,” chimed in one of the men Harry did not know. “Dustin Redford, by the way….”

He stuck out his hand, and Harry shook it.

“…We're all volunteers here - working on our own time…. Time we wouldn't have if we were still stuck playing Dementors at that awful place.”

“Yeah. Not to worry,” Tonks added cheerfully. “Even with the heightened security level, there are still more Aurors than ever available to focus on Voldemort.”

Two at a time - with Dung bringing up the rear - they Flooed to a large fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron's private dining room. Only Tom, who obviously had a part in the arrangements, was there to greet them. Exiting, Harry noticed that the Cauldron's public areas were virtually deserted. A first, he thought.

Even with Harry thoroughly Disillusioned, it was hard for a coterie of seven people, four of whom were active-duty Aurors, to travel through Diagon Alley without people figuring out that something was afoot. There were not very many witches and wizards on the street, and those who were walked fast, kept to themselves, and reacted to anyone they encountered as anxiously as a lone skinhead lost in Brixton.

The scrum that surrounded Harry was all the more noticeable on the otherwise uncrowded street.

Making his way through the warm summertime evening in the Alley, Harry kept close to Bill, staying only a step or two behind him. Diagon Alley was different, and not in a good way. The vibrancy that he always associated with the place was missing. The street vendors were all gone … except for a few shady pushcart peddlers selling protective talismans of dubious quality.

Almost every square metre of available space, even some of the shop windows, was posted with ugly Ministry bills - in purple, black and white. Somehow, the Ministry had managed to make even the colour purple look drab. Some of these posters were Ministry self-defence instructions. Harry's escorts snorted upon reading them, and then ignored them. Others were Death Eater wanted posters similar to what Harry had seen before, when his godfather had been a fugitive.

More than anything else, having a dozen animated images of Bellatrix Lestrange all leering at him at once made Harry wish he could conduct his business by owl post instead.

Shak led the way, which was probably a mistake because he was the best-known of the bunch - with his high rank in the Auror Corps and his naturally outgoing personality. That would be particularly necessary since he was likely to be seeking the Minister's job in the relatively near future. Sure enough, an irate witch stopped Shak in the middle of the High Street to complain about the recent Death Eater attack on Florean Fortescue.

When Shak stopped, Bill and Harry had to do the same. Then Tonks had to feign a talk with Bill so he did not appear to be aimlessly - and suspiciously - standing around. The two other Aurors stayed on either side, close to the shop entrances, trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Dung, under no such restrictions, prowled anywhere he wished.

The break in their progress gave Harry a chance to report to Bill that he had reached Blackie Howe and gotten the Potter Quidditch Trust off square one. Bill recommended that Harry hire other professional help - making a quite specific suggestion.

“Harry, you really ought to consider hiring yourself a good forensic accountant as well. I think you're going to need one,” Bill warned.

“A what accountant?” Harry asked cluelessly.

“A financial accountant with experience in sorting out criminal or other types of questionable financial dealings,” explained Bill.

“Why?” asked Harry, “I haven't done anything dodgy.”

“Stop being a git, Harry,” said Bill seriously. “Of course you haven't. But both the Black and Potter estates have operated for quite some time with nobody minding the till. I wouldn't even describe the Ministry's minders as providing oversight. You know how the prospect of easy Galleons corrupts Ministry bureaucrats. The affairs of the Black Estate are particularly likely to be bollixed. For years, everyone assumed it was going to belong to the Malfoys. Who knows what funny business has gone on with all that money? That's why you need….”

Bill stopped in his tracks. Tonks ran into him and they both fell down in a heap in the middle of Diagon Alley, drawing more suspicious stares. Only Harry's cat-like agility allowed him to avoid their fate.

Bill had a gleam in his eyes as he picked himself up. “Actually, you don't need an accountant at all - not a wizard one, anyway.”

“What do you mean?” questioned Harry, puzzled by Bill's abrupt about face.

“What you need…” Bill said, grinning, “is someone expert in sorting out financial schemes … somebody absolutely loyal to you - and who can set things right immediately, without involving the Ministry's inept and sticky-fingered officials. I know just the right… er … being.”

“Who might that be?” asked Harry, becoming more intrigued.

“I don't know his real name - I don't think any human does,” said Bill. “Everyone calls him Bladvak. He's in charge of dealing with delinquent wizard accounts at Gringotts.”

Finally, they reached Eeylops Owl Emporium, their first stop, and the only shop Harry was sure about. He stood on the threshold for several seconds allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light within. Although festooned with the Ministry's posters on the outside, inside Eeylops remained one hundred percent owl.

Most of the shop was crammed with all sorts of owls in all sorts of cages. There were barn owls, horned owls, scops owls, and screech owls - even a couple of snowys whose white feathers that practically glowed in the half-light. A large cage contained a score of owlets resembling Ron's owl Pigwidgeon. Eeylops even had a couple of rare breeds Harry had never seen before. One cage had a sign identifying a Sumba Boobook, and another disclosed its resident as a Papuan Hawk Owl.

Above the Eeylops cashbox was a large sign reading, “Eagle owls shown by appointment only.” Given the sheer number of birds, Harry was surprised by the relatively tolerable odour. He supposed there must be a Scouring Charm for that.

There were no shelves at all. Some cages rested on plinths, but most were suspended from the ceiling on chains of varying lengths - it recalled the Ashrak chamber after the battle, with dozens of severed chains hanging down. Against the far wall were a variety of owl supplies: cages (including a new self-cleaning variety, according to the sign on a particularly fancy one), feeding devices, toys, collars, delivery pouches, and other gear for working owls. For Hedwig, Harry selected a charmed plastic vole that actually moved.

Like the rest of the shops on Diagon Alley, Eeylops was almost deserted, with only a couple of other customers in the aisles. Bill and Shak approached a man who appeared to be the most senior sales assistant. After about fifteen seconds of whispered conversation, Harry saw the man's eyes grow wide. He strode quickly into the back room, and soon reappeared with an older man whom Harry supposed was the proprietor. Between the two of them, they hastily shooed out the other customers and levitated a “closed” sign into the window. Tonks then ended Harry's Disillusionment.

Once Harry had reappeared, he saw the older man's eyes make the familiar sweep across his forehead. The man introduced himself, “I'm Cameron Stanbury, and I've owned this shop for the past twenty years. I'm certain I can help you with any and all of your owl-related needs.”

“I want to buy an owl for a friend of mine,” Harry told him. “Er … I guess you've heard that enough times.”

“Of course I have,” Mr. Stanbury answered in a kind fashion. “I've even memorised a set of questions for just this occasion. Now this friend … male or female?”

“Female,” Harry answered quickly.

“Related?”

“No.”

“Your age, younger or older?”

“My year,” Harry replied.

“Okay,” he said thoughtfully. “Is she intellectually inclined, athletically inclined, or both?”

“Much more intellectual,” Harry answered, adding, “But she's been working out more lately.”

“Does she like jewelry, flowers … that sort of thing?”

“Umm … not really.”

“Where's the owl likely to be kept?”

“At Hogwarts most of the year…,” Harry answered mechanically. Then the reason for the question came to him. “…But during holidays, she lives in a Muggle house in a Muggle neighbourhood.”

From Harry's answers, the old shopkeeper played a hunch. “This owl, Mister Potter, it's for Hermione Granger, is it not?”

Harry was taken sufficiently aback by the older man's intuition that to lie would have been impossible, even if he had been so inclined. “Er … yes,” he answered.

“I read the papers,” Mr. Stanbury explained, “and not many witches could fit her description. Not only does Miss Granger fill that bill; her being with you is not exactly a secret.”

Harry was annoyed by this last remark, and had to bite his tongue. That was a good thing, as in his next breath Mr. Stanbury remarked that he had “just the bird.” He disappeared again into the back room, and emerged with a large squarish cage containing an orange and brown patterned owl about two-thirds the size of Hedwig.

“This is an adult female Aluco Tawny,” he explained. “She is from powerfully magical stock. Unless I use a particularly robust charm, she is capable of opening this cage by herself with only the touch of a talon, as far as I can tell. I bought her and a clutch of five chicks from a Greek wizard in sudden need of ready Galleons. He said the mate had been killed. I've sold off all of the chicks, but I've been keeping the adult female segregated - for some special customer. She's had quite a loss, since her kind normally mate for life. She answers to Athena.”

“Why a special customer?” Harry asked with some suspicion.

“As I said, this breed normally mates for life,” replied Mr. Stanbury. “Since she's lost her mate, she'll imprint strongly on the next living thing that acts like a mate - by providing her with food and closeness. Because of the strength of Athena's magic, I will not bond her with another owl in the shop, since that bond would only be broken again. It would be even worse to sell her to some frivolous Hogwarts underclassman with no appreciation of the bond. Miss Granger, however, seems to be a perfect solution.”

Harry was agreeable. “How much?” he asked.

“Ordinarily, I would charge 25 Galleons for as capable a bird as this, but for you I will reduce the price to twenty.”

Harry scowled as he reached for his wizard coin purse and carefully counted out 25 Galleons. “Here,” he said coolly, “I don't require special consideration.”

Before they returned to the Alley, Tonks grabbed the cage. Harry started to protest that he could carry his own purchases, but Tonks gave him her “use your head” look. Harry realised that if he carried the cage whilst Disillusioned it would look like it was bouncing along of its own accord. Whilst such things were hardly unheard of in Diagon Alley, they did attract attention. Attention would defeat the purpose of the Disillusionment Charm.

Having made the only purchase he had thought out in advance, Harry was unsure where to go next. A shop two doors down from Eeylops caught his eye. With its lurid yellow and purple décor it could hardly do otherwise. The purple stripes on yellow background - or was it yellow stripes on purple background - formed patterns of circles, squares and spirals that slowly moved in, out, and around. The sign over the door explained all: “Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes” in half-metre-high red lettering. Harry told Bill that 3W would be his next destination.

If not packed, 3W was at least amply endowed with customers - doing far better business than the other shops. George was behind the counter manning the cash box as Bill and Shak entered. Looking up, George noticed them.

He loudly greeted Bill, “Oi, if it isn't my big brother, the French kisser. What brings a newly-minted bank executive to a humble joke shop? I can't see a goblin appreciating a Puking Pastille.”

“It's not my choice, I assure you, little brother,” bantered Bill. “I'm here because my ward wants to be here.”

George had never been particularly fast on the uptake where Bill was concerned. “Wards?” he said. “Well, you're in luck. Our crack research department just invented a `Weasley Ward.' It's completely personalised … combination of Shield and Incognitus Charms. Guaranteed to stop all Grade 7 or under unfriendly curses and hexes for thirty minutes - of course, once you use it, everyone else sees you dressed in fuchsia leotards. Now Bill, I think you could manage that look, but Shacklebolt there.… I think he could do better. I'd have to modify….”

“No, you prat,” complained Bill. “I'm with a ward, not looking for one. That ward just happens to be rather well-known to you - and quite Disillusioned right now.”

George finally understood. He wordlessly mouthed “Harry” to Bill, who nodded. George seemed nonplussed - but only for a moment. With a “eureka” expression on his face, he turned the cash box over to a young lady he called “Verity.” Looking around furtively, he slipped his wand into his hand and pointed it at a box on a nearby shelf that read “Deflagration Deluxe.” He muttered an ignition spell.

Almost instantly the shop erupted in a multi-coloured blaze. Starbursts flew in all directions, trailing red and gold sparks as they ricocheted off of the walls stacked with merchandise from floor to ceiling. Stacks of Skiving Snackboxes and Nosebleed Nougats toppled. A shooting star crashed into a display of WonderWitch love potions, sending violently pink phials crashing into an adjacent cabinet of Weasley U-No-Poo constipation lotion. The combination produced a very odd - but not particularly unpleasant - odour.

“Still, I wouldn't want to touch that mess,” George commented to nobody in particular as he regarded the ugly brown goo. “Until I've tested it … on some Death Eater.”

Green and purple dragons burst forth, roaring and breathing bright yellow fire as they headed for the front doors. International orange Catherine wheels whirled through the air like so many UFOs. Several sparklers were writing very rude words in midair.

George screamed, “Magical accident! Everyone evacuate!” All the customers stampeded for the exit, nearly trampling Harry in the process.

It was all Bill could do to stop Shak and the other escort Aurors from cursing George into the next millennium. But Harry was almost doubled over in laughter.

In an instant, the shop was free of customers. Tonks - who alone among the Aurors appreciated George's efficient, if unorthodox, way of clearing the premises - took this opportunity to end the spell hiding Harry.

Someone else most assuredly did not appreciate George's technique. “You great prat, I'll snap your wand for this! What good is it for us to stay open late in times like this if you go scaring off all the customers?! At least we had some!” A furious Fred Weasley burst into view, the look on his face suggested that he just might carry out his threat.

Looking chastened, George mutely handed the wand he was holding to his twin brother. It discharged loudly and started beating Fred about the head and neck. Fred grabbed a Shield Hat from behind the counter for protection, and then ended the spell wandlessly. The fake wand fell to the floor.

Fred glared at George. George returned the furious look. For an instant it looked like the two of them would be at each other's throats. Then, without warning, both Twins burst out laughing. Fred also noticed Harry for the first time. “My most esteemed partner…,” he began - and then stopped….

A residual red firework was whizzing straight for Harry. In less than the blink of an eye, Harry's wand was in his hand, and he shouted out, “Evanesco” as he ducked out of the way. The spell caused the firework to miss him, but only because it split into ten pieces, each as large and as loud as the original.

“No!” screamed Fred. “Disflagratus!” he shouted waving the useless fake wand in a wide circle. When nothing happened, Fred disgustedly threw it on the ground. He repeated the process with his own wand. Mercifully, the entire collection of blazing magic vanished.

“Great form, but wrong spell, Harry,” Fred observed. “To what do we owe the honor of your presence in our humble establishment?”

“I was just in the neighbourhood,” the boy explained. “I thought you would be offended if I didn't stop by.”

“Spot on,” agreed George, “but it would be far preferable for you to give us fair warning that you were coming. After all, we'd rather you attract customers, not drive them away.”

“Sorry, but it was sort of a spur of the moment thing,” Harry apologised. “I couldn't miss your premises, though. Who is your decorator?”

“Oh, that,” Fred replied. “You can thank Lee Jordan for that. He's turning out to be quite the artist, but his day job.…”

“I'm looking for some unique party favours,” Harry interrupted. “Do you have anything I haven't seen before?”

“Not only do we have something you've never seen before,” spouted George. “We have something you'll never see at all.”

“What's that?” asked Harry, confused once again.

“Shall I?” asked Fred.

“Please do,” answered George.

Fred walked over to a box by the door. “And now, presenting the latest invention of Weasley Wizard Wheezes - the Portable Hole.”

Fred scooped up a handful of small, flat black objects. He spent the next few minutes sticking Portable Holes in various locations around the shop and demonstrating their usefulness. He put one on the front door, and Harry could see out. He put one on the wall by the back door, stuck his hand through and opened the door from the outside. George grabbed one of the holes, stretched it out to about four feet in diameter, put it on the floor and leapt through it into the cellar. Then he pulled the hole in after him and vanished altogether. Fred put one in his robes and in a moment the contents of his inside pocket came crashing to the floor.

“I've got a hole in me pocket,” he said, fighting back a laugh.

Harry laughed himself. He remarked, “If there'd been Portable Holes last summer at Grimmauld Place, your Extendable Ears could have been used much more effectively.”

“Bloody brilliant!” Fred exclaimed.

“A born salesman,” agreed George.

“An entrepreneur extraordinaire,” Fred called back.

After complimenting Harry for his brilliant commercial acumen, the Twins immediately made plans to sell their holes and their ears in packaged sets.

Harry bought five of the holes at nine Sickles apiece, the hardest part being to get the Twins to take his money. They were very grateful for his assuming the expense of the patent lawyer they had so desperately needed. Now nobody else could sell Portable Holes.

The only thing left was a suitable birthday gift for Neville. Harry thought about a game of chance, maybe a wizard backgammon set - but found it incomprehensible.

He considered something associated with Herbology, Neville's favorite subject. A wizard dry goods store up the Alley had a magical transpotting kit in a dingy window display. But Harry rejected that idea as uninspired. Then Fred's threat to George flashed back into Harry's mind, and Harry knew what he needed to do. He asked his minders to take him to Ollivanders.

The Ollivanders wand shop - makers of fine wands since 382 B.C. - was just as narrow and shabby as Harry remembered it. Nobody else was in the shop when Harry and Bill entered. The shop was so cramped that the rest of Harry's minders decided to stay outside, except for Tonks, who thought Bill should have some on-site backup, just in case. A bell tinkled somewhere in the bowels of the shop as they entered. In due course, the tintinnabulation brought a wizened old wizard with silvery eyes shuffling to the counter.

“Harry Potter, eleven inches, holly, supple, with a phoenix feather core. How are you, and how is your wand?” asked Mr. Ollivander.

“You can check it for yourself,” Harry replied, and with a flick of his wrist his wand was in his hand.

“A wrist holster, and obviously you know how to use it,” remarked Mr. Ollivander. “Very impressive…. Very impressive, indeed…. Of course I expected no less. Extraordinary wands belong to extraordinary wizards.” He touched Harry's scar with his long, pale fingers. Of all the wizards Harry had seen, only Voldemort himself had longer, paler fingers than the wandmaster.

“What can I do for you?” Mr. Ollivander asked. “You certainly don't need a replacement. Are you looking for a backup wand?”

Harry knew that he should buy a second wand. His Auror trainers had been after him to get a spare for weeks. Then he remembered the question Dumbledore had been unable to answer.

“I'm considering ordering a number of wands…”

At the prospect of a large sale, Mr. Ollivander grew even more attentive.

“If I got more feathers from Fawkes, could you make wands that would stop Voldemort with the Priori Incantatem effect? I'd outfit … some people … with them,” Harry declared.

The bright look in the man's eyes vanished in a trice. “An excellent idea, Potter, but it ignores one crucial detail.”

“What?” replied Harry, slightly petulantly.

“I'm sure Fawkes has gone through quite a number of burnings since yours and You-Know-Who's wands were turned,” Mr. Ollivander explained. “Once a phoenix goes through a burning, the effect vanishes. You see, it's no longer the same animal - at least for wand core purposes. Believe me, if it were that easy, we would have made those ages ago.”

That answer reminded Harry that he had not really been looking to buy a backup wand.

“That's too bad. It did seem too easy,” said Harry thoughtfully. “Anyway, I'm actually looking to buy a wand as a present for a wizard who recently had an accident and lost his. Do you remember what kind of wand Frank Longbottom used?”

“I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mister Potter, every single one,” declared Mr. Ollivander, examining Harry intently. “But I daresay, Mister Longbottom is not in a position to use a wand, and hasn't been for quite some time. What kind of accident could he have had? To give him a wand, in his present condition, would create a danger to himself or to others. I'm sorry, Mister Potter, I can't do that.”

“Oh,” gasped Harry. “It's not for him, it's for his son Neville. He'd been using his father's wand until recently, when his wand was snapped in an accident. He hasn't been able to replace it yet, and his birthday is approaching, so I thought I'd save him the trouble.”

“Hmm…” Mr. Ollivander murmured. “It is not exactly optimal, since every wizard gets the best results with a personally selected wand. But since he was already using his father's wand, it can't help but be an improvement… All right, it was teak with a core of woven Occamy-shell silver, fourteen inches long and firm. It was an excellent wand for Defence against the Dark Arts. I have none like it in stock, but I can have one turned. How soon do you need it?”

“Er… His birthday is a week from today. How soon can you get it?” Harry asked.

“That depends entirely upon how much you are willing to pay, Mister Potter. Anything made to order is more expensive than an off-the-shelf wand. Ordinarily, I would say fifteen Galleons for the wand, with delivery in two weeks. I can special order it and move your order to the front of the queue for 25 Galleons.”

“When would I get it, then?” asked Harry somewhat warily.

“I will place the order immediately, with highest priority, and it should be available by Monday, Tuesday at the latest. You won't be able to pick it up though, I'm afraid. How would you like it delivered, Mister Potter?” he asked.

Harry hesitated. He wondered about Mr. Ollivander's cryptic remark. But more than that, he had been instructed never to disclose his Muggle home address for any reason short of dire emergency. Before he could say anything, Bill intervened. “You can send the wand to my attention, care of Gringotts Bank.”

Harry handed over 25 Galleons.

“Very well,” Mr. Ollivander said, “but I don't consider this final.”

“Why not?” Harry asked curiously.

“As I said, it is not optimal,” the wandmaster replied. “Giving someone another person's wand does not produce the best magical results, I'm sure you know that. There are, however, things that can be done to improve matters. For that, I need to see Mister Longbottom personally, and I need to leave certain finishing touches undone until then. When the wand arrives, have the boy contact Albus, and he'll arrange something. Does that meet with your approval?”

Harry thought about all the times that Neville had looked so magically hopeless. He wondered if the problem might have been his wand as much as his ineptitude.

“Yes,” he answered. “I'll get word to Neville and arrange it.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Using Knightsbridge as a posh location is from the reference in the Rolling Stones “Play with Fire.”

“Des res” is short for “desirable residence”

“Chopping tall cotton” is an African American phrase from my youth about possibly being in over ones head

The Imperius discussion is foreshadowing

Birnam Wood marching on Dunsinane is from Macbeth

Political influence by shoddy contractors exists everywhere

Brown University (Providence, RI) bears a slaver family name

The slavery factoids are from “The Slave Trade,” by Hugh Thomas

Britain bans private firearms, but Hermione's father has a rather relaxed view of legality

Lafayette-Granger was deliberately chosen. The Marquis de Lafayette came to America in a ship named “Hermione”

The dental school references are accurate, including the Leatherman award

Harry's shaving becomes important

Sand, gravel and Portland cement form concrete. Add fluvius and the mix hardens

The “trademark the rumble” line is a reference to Harley-Davidson, which tried and failed to do precisely that

The line about rock `n roll being played loud is from the slip cover of the original Stones' “Let it Bleed” album

Harry's inability to detect Ministry surveillance by Occlumency is more foreshadowing

Captain Queeg is the martinet character in “Caine Mutiny”

The Portkey issue struck me as odd when I first read GoF, since I can't see any use Crouch had for the odd two-way Portkey

Harry ponders the age-old question of free will, as implicated by prophecy

Saville Row is a street in London known for upscale tailors. The Beatles frequented the place

Gordon Ramsey is a top London restaurant, at least now. I don't know about 1996, so call it creative license

The little alligator is the Izod emblem, beloved by preppies everywhere

All descriptions of Harrods (except magical references) are accurate

The cock and bull story Bill told “Morgan,” contains clues

The spoilt milk incident will be revealed in time

Much later, in greatly changed circumstances, the Omnioculars do come in useful

“Money changes everything” is a Cindi Lauper song, and a suspicion that continues to haunt Harry

Gorgeous Galleon = pretty penny

The London Underground route to Kew Gardens is accurate, as are the exhibit descriptions, and the location in Surrey

The English Patient is another 1996 first run movie

Puttanesca is mentioned with a bow to A Series Of Unfortunate Events

Harry's prior non-passive snog will be revealed in time

In America we call the dessert Harry had “Baked Alaska”

The saying "moderation in all things" goes back to the Romans

The backstreet girl line is from an old Rolling Stones song

Dustin Redford is from the two lead actors from “All the President's Men”

Bladvak = “pickaxe” in Gobbledegook - a good nickname for a goblin debt collector

Owl species names are accurate

Portable Holes, including the “hole in me pocket” line, are from “Yellow Submarine”

Harry will pay for not obtaining a backup wand

If Voldemort's wand could be duplicated, it would have been tried; I give a reason why it can't be done

“Danger to himself or others” is the standard for civil commitment

- 72 -

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17. The Road To Hell

Wherein Harry listens to the Beatles, learns to shave, thinks Hermione has been killed, has a flash back, burns down the Auror Situation Room, faces down Fudge, gets ready for the High Tea, travels on the Knight Bus, and meets the Grangers. Hermione thinks some things through.

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

Chapter 17 - The Road To Hell

“Breep… breep… breep… bree… BLAM”

Harry flinched as he was showered with bits of alarm clock. It had been such a good dream, and there were so precious few of those.…

He and someone … Eliza? Hermione? Generic teen female…? were doing some quite naughty things on a davenport - only it really was not inside. No, there were all these palm trees about, and the davenport was floating in the air and….

Blast. Now the dream was fading away, dribbling away from Harry's conscious memory like water through his bare hands.

“Reparo,” Harry muttered unsteadily as he pointed his wand in the area where his alarm clock had been until a few seconds earlier. As the clock reassembled, Harry read “5:01” on its scowling face. He was glad he did not understand the odd pattern of clicks, ticks, chirps, and buzzes emanating from it. Otherwise he suspected he might have been rather offended by rude remarks in Clocktock.

It was time for him to leave sleep behind, to have his run with Dudley, and then…. He stared idly into space as he contemplated what lay ahead.

Awfully many things were going to happen before the next night's sleep. He refocused himself only in response to direct outside intervention. Specifically, his cousin appeared in the doorway and began pelting him (quite accurately) with rolled up dirty socks in order to get him moving.

The big day had finally arrived. Knowing that he would be seeing Hermione this very evening, Harry decided to start with the Beatles CD that included the song that reminded him of her. The second Walkman selection was yet another of Dudley's unwanted Beatles CDs. It had no name that he could see, but turned out to be a good choice. Whilst the first CD had a long song that spoke to him of Hermione, this new (to him) one had a long song strongly reminiscent of his own predicament.

Dudley was not by nature the contemplative type. He could care less about deeper meanings that Harry found lurking in song lyrics. From him, Harry's mention of this musical find drew only an insult. “It figures,” Dudley joked, “patron saint of hopeless causes.… Makes it a spot on description of your love life…. Mine too, for that matter….”

Harry returned an equally sarcastic comment. “Well I wonder what kind of music a cretin like you might fancy?”

Dudley simply handed his own Walkman over without words. A few seconds was all Harry could stand. He cringed as a heavy beat and raucous shouting about “TNT” and “dynamite” (which training had taught him were Muggle explosives) assaulted his eardrums.

A conveniently timed post owl provided Harry with just the excuse he needed to terminate the increasingly useless conversation. The handwriting was unfamiliar; he was guessing as he opened it.

It was from Colin Creevey.

Working under Hermione's very loose guidance, he and Dennis had categorized several bags of the fan mail stored at Hogwarts. Colin had sent drafts of suggested replies to Hermione. She would be editing them and submitting the final product for Harry's approval. Almost apologetically, Colin also inquired about being paid.

`Blast it,' thought Harry. `Another thing on my to-do list.' He jotted a quick note to Bill, and gave it to Hedwig. The post explained how he had no cheques and wanted Bill to take all necessary steps to transfer 25 Galleons a week from Harry's Gringotts account to each of the two Creevey brothers.

The run itself was uneventful. Dudley said little, and Harry less.

After showering, Harry was running a trifle late. Standing in the bathroom holding his wand uncertainly, he contemplated his rather scruffy reflection in the mirror. For once, Harry wished it were a wizard mirror, so it could give him advice and instruction on shaving. From snatches of overheard conversation he knew that wizards shaved with their wands. He had no idea what the spell was. For once, his wand was for all intents and purposes useless.

Harry knew a variety of Severing Charms and the like, but was frankly afraid to experiment with them for this purpose. Whilst incidents that illustrated his persistent ignorance about this or that routine magic were becoming less and less frequent, they still occurred. But even he knew better than to try to shave with any spell taught in Auror-level Defence training. He did not fancy slitting his own throat. `Why save Voldemort the trouble,' he thought.

Then Harry had an idea. He had made his hair grow at a tremendous rate when he was little, and he thought he remembered how that had felt. Perhaps he could apply the same wandless magic in reverse. Setting his wand down, he concentrated on reverse replication of that long-ago sensation. He closed his eyes and….

When he opened them, even the Muggle mirror told its tale quite plainly. The wandless magic had been successful - far too successful. The blood drained from his face as Harry gawked at the image gawking back at him. He was … bald. …Completely, totally, and utterly hairless. Even his eyebrows had vanished.

He looked like a bloody light bulb.

With no hair at all, his scar stood out like a banshee at a beauty pageant. He had no illusions that either Hermione or her parents would appreciate his new ultra-skinhead look.

After recovering from the shock, Harry successfully - if squeamishly - reversed the spell. Once again he might have overshot the mark a bit with his magic, although not by as much. After all the back and forth, the scraggly beginnings of a beard on his chin looked more pronounced than ever. So much for his bright ideas. Magic was not nearly as easy as his Muggle relatives thought.

Of all people, Dudley came to his rescue. Both Harry's predicament and his need for a shave were quite obvious to his cousin. After taking the mickey out of him (“very hairy Potter,” “the wizard of pez”) mercilessly, Dudley showed him how to use a Muggle electric shaver. Harry was amazed at how simple it was after receiving about thirty seconds of instruction. The whirring, circular motion of the shaver's three heads tickled his face, which was unused to the sensation. In less than two minutes Harry was clean-shaven.

Upon seeing him again, Dudley laughed, and commented, “So tonight you're wearing your Nancy boy outfit to impress the clever girl, aren't you? Hope you have more luck this time - otherwise you've wasted a great deal of Sterling.”

Harry found Bill waiting impatiently for him at Mrs. Figg's house. His guardian was impressed with Harry's clean-cut appearance. Upon learning of his dependence upon Muggle shaving methods, Bill promised to teach Harry the “real way” - shaving with a wand - soon, maybe the next time that they were together at Hogwarts. He was somewhat taken aback at Harry's sudden lack of enthusiasm for another trip to Hogwarts, but chalked it up to his ward's satisfaction with the Muggle shaver.

Bill did not catch on that, since his dinner with Eliza, Harry was a lot less interested in mastering Sirius' old GKN.

Today's Auror training involved techniques for fighting whilst outnumbered. The session coincided with the annual reunion day for recent graduates of the Auror Candidate School official training programme. This was no accident. The timing allowed Harry's instructors to recruit the necessary number of witches and wizards with Auror-level fighting skills that this particular lesson required.

His instructors were well acquainted with Harry's propensity for outlandish magical outbursts during the heat of battle. Thus they wanted seasoned veterans - witches and wizards who could test Harry's skill level and handle any erratic response might result from Harry being pushed.

There was no shortage of qualified volunteers. Even within a group that tended to be blasé about such things, Harry's reputation (and recent press hype) was such that the opportunity to meet him - not to mention to duel with him - was all the incentive necessary. A little risk just made things interesting. ACS graduates were trained to handle things far worse than a possibly over-enthusiastic trainee unaware of his own strength.

Training to fight multiple foes was twofold. One aspect was solo duelling against as many as five adversaries at once. The other was pitting Harry and Hermione as a team against an even larger number of opponents.

In solo duelling, attackers could enter from any direction - there were hidden entrances in the floor and ceiling. Harry was more proficient than Hermione at this sort of combat for two reasons.

First and foremost was his uncanny ability to aim his spells better whilst moving than whilst stationary. This talent served him well, as unexpected movement was one of the primary methods of evading multiple attackers.

Second, skilled fighters tended to receive a variety of glancing hits whilst outnumbered - fragments of hexes slipping under shields, and the like. With Harry, the pain from these superficial wounds augmented his ability to perform wandless magic. It particularly helped him cast wandless protection spells with his free hand. Lao Kung, in the separate training he was providing, had made wandless ward casting a priority. Now Harry was starting to reap some crossover dividends from his two simultaneous training regimens.

Whilst the objective in multi-attacker duelling was primarily to buy time until help could arrive, Harry still tried to do more than hold his own. Even though lasting fifteen minutes against multiple, Auror-level opponents was more than satisfactory, he still took it personally each time he was stunned.

Hermione was less successful at solo fighting against several opponents because she had to stop and set herself before casting powerful hexes. She also lacked Harry's raw power that allowed him to bring down ceilings and send large objects flying across the room. Her greatest strengths, as always, were her encyclopedic memory coupled with a creative intellect. She never forgot a spell, and she used them in original combinations.

In this way, she took the prize for the most original manœuvre of the day. Fighting four opponents (all of whom were active-duty Aurors), Hermione incapacitated one attacker, grabbed his wand and started blasting away with both hands. Although the spells she cast from a borrowed wand in her off-hand were not particularly strong, simply being able to throw off different hexes simultaneously in different directions caught her adversaries by surprise. Very few magicals had achieved independent use of both hands simultaneously. Hermione lasted almost fifteen minutes herself during this round, even though groups of opponents had come at her in waves.

Harry was not capable of casting different hexes simultaneously. He wondered where she had acquired such an unusual skill.

When Hermione was training, Harry felt extremely twitchy. On a couple of occasions, despite knowing how affronted she would be at his coming to her rescue, he was on the verge of leaping into the fray to help. Even though he had been told that the attackers were using nothing stronger than Expelliarmus and stunners, he tended to forget such details when Hermione was in trouble. Hugo Halliburton made a point of sitting next to Harry to remind him that he was just watching play-acting - very realistic play-acting, but acting nonetheless.

The second half of the simulation, pitting Harry and Hermione as a team against more numerous attackers, went very well. The Aurors were not aware that the team could communicate by Legilimency. Dumbledore's instruction had involved skills that were outside the standard Auror curriculum. Thus the two of them repeatedly caught their attackers by surprise, as with a glance one of them would silently warn the other of otherwise unseen threats or ambushes.

Hermione had already mastered the technique of multiplying her spells by dividing them. She discovered by accident that she could multiply Harry's more powerful spells the same way by touching the tip of her wand to his in a certain way. The result of this collaboration was especially unpleasant for the group of attackers cut down by a hail of more Nauseo hexes that it possible for anyone to block.

On all sides, the level of intensity ratcheted upwards throughout the afternoon. Harry had not seen Hermione this alive since their rescue of Sirius and Buckbeak in Third Year. She was sweaty, dirty, her hair was mussed, her face was flushed - and she was having the time of her life collaborating with him. They were partners; they were protecting each other; and he could not have been happier. He almost had to pinch himself to remain convinced that this was real. What had he ever done to deserve this?

For their part, the Aurors and ex-Aurors discovered that Harry and Hermione were, if anything, even more skilled than their already substantial word-of-mouth reputations suggested. This increasingly vigorous competition climaxed when the duo got the drop on a new group of attackers that included Clifton Branstone, one of the Aurors who had participated in Harry's initial debriefing.

Harry cast a Serpentsortia Curse. Hermione deftly cut the curse into 25 separate beams - all of which became highly poisonous spitting cobras. Once Harry hissed out an attack command in Parseltongue, most of the attackers chose the better part of valour and Disapparated from the room. Even most Aurors were unwilling to confront a regiment of consciously directed venomous snakes on a lark.

Branstone, however, was quite the dueller in his own right. He banished the snakes that attacked him and hurled himself sideways as the Disapparition pops of other Aurors echoed through the room. Using an Excavating Charm and some noisy Disorientation Hexes, he remained hidden in a hole he dug until he managed to get a clear shot at Hermione. Seeking maximum effect on both adversaries, Branstone disguised the stunner he used so that it resembled the slashing purple flame of the Dark Fire of Tu-Fan.

He got rather more effect than he bargained for.

Harry saw the purple flash from the corner of his eye and whirled around just in time to see a thin line of flame connect with Hermione's torso.

“HERMIONEEEE!!”

He screamed out her name as he saw her collapse. His memory flashed back to the desperate fight in the Department of Mysteries when he thought the same spell had just killed her in front of his eyes. Rationality went out the window.

Maddened by terror and rage, Harry responded as if he were once again facing Antonin Dolohov. With what felt almost like a mental click, he roared out “HELLAS INFERNUM!!” A torrent of flaming material emerged from his wand. This substance was known in classical times (to which the spell dated) as “Greek fire;” the exact formula had been lost, but it resembled modern napalm.

Branstone was indeed fortunate that he was a superb dueller. Anything less and another name would have been added to what Harry called his “body count” when he was feeling particularly saturnine. If Branstone had not managed to get an Auror-quality Protego in place just as Harry's spell found its mark, there might not have been enough left of him to fill a thimble.

As it was, the Shield Charm warded off Harry's furious spell, but only barely. The angry orange burst from Harry's wand deformed Branstone's shield, and drove him feet-first straight into the dirt like a spike hit by a sledgehammer. This deformation was fortunate for Harry, because, instead of reflecting the spell back at him, the contorted shield deflected his fountain of fire into one of the walls at a crazy angle.

Ka-Whoosh!

The powerful magic slammed into the wall with an enormous, blinding fireburst that put George's fireworks from the day before to shame. The impact produced a thundering reverberation. The entire Situation Room throbbed like the inside of a great drum. A large portion of what had been a nondescript green wall was glowing red hot and vibrating visibly.

Regaining his self control, Harry appreciated the magnitude of what he had done. He hastily tried to correct things with a Fluvius Charm. This well-intentioned magic just made things worse, because Greek fire burns even under water. The burst of water simply set the flames in motion. A fiery cascade came pouring down the wall - flames mixed with water and phosphine, topped by a hissing cloud of steam.

Harry instinctively scooped up Hermione's limp body, conjured a granite column, and leapt on top of it to avoid the lahar-like torrent of blazing water pouring towards then. Crackling flames mixed with Disapparition pops as those remaining in the Situation Room escaped incineration.

Suddenly there was a louder, lower-pitched “pop” followed immediately by an intense ripping sound. A fifteen by three metre section of the wall abruptly became transparent, and then shattered - sending broken glass raining into the flaming lake. The sudden temperature change wrought by a curtain of fire followed by a geyser of water had exceeded the physical capacity of even two-inch thick magically tempered glass.

What had appeared to be a plain, blank wall stood exposed as a spacious observation booth. The gaping hole revealed quite an audience. Among those clearly visible were Minister Fudge, Chief Auror Scrimgeour, Madam Bones, Headmaster Dumbledore, Arthur Weasley, Shak, and - seated as far away as physically possible from Fudge - Mad-Eye Moody. Dumbledore and Moody already had their wands drawn and were uttering fire-fighting charms. The others seemed glued to their seats, somewhat singed by the blast of hot air that entered when the glass shattered, but otherwise unharmed.

At that moment it barely registered with Harry that he had unwittingly been giving a command performance before the Minister himself, as well providing a spectacular show for many other highly ranked personages of wizarding Britain.

Harry's mind was focussed on another far more pressing matter. Cradling Hermione's body in his arms, he Apparated directly into the observation booth, which was safely above the conflagration. Ignoring the unpleasant Apparition sensations - ignoring everyone else - Harry addressed his Headmaster:

“A Portkey to St. Mungo's…. Now!” he demanded.

“Mister Potter, please calm down,” Dumbledore replied serenely. “You need to understand that….”

“We can talk later,” Harry interrupted, “but we've got to get her to St. Mungo's immediately. Don't you understand, that berk used a deadly spell! He wasn't supposed to do that!” Harry's eyes were getting wild, and static electricity was beginning to play around him. Fudge and some other occupants of the booth started backing prudently away.

Dumbledore continued. “It's not what you….”

“Finite,” incanted Shak. Hermione started moving. In his rich, low voice, he explained, “You see, Mister Potter, all of your opponents were under strict instructions not to use anything more potentially harmful than your basic stunning or disarming spells….”

Shak's explanation would ordinarily have been of great interest to Harry, as the man was providing the background rationale for the drills he had been performing for the past several exhausting hours. But Harry was not paying him any mind at this particular moment. Hermione's groggy, semiconscious movements captured Harry's full attention - especially because he was still holding her in his arms.

She was still far too dazed for Harry to risk setting her on her own two feet quite yet. She sighed audibly, and mumbled something he could not hear, since Scrimgeour and Bones had now joined Moody in yelling out spells to extinguish the fire. Her left arm slipped underneath Harry's and extended more than halfway around his back. Her right arm reached out and tentatively found his left shoulder.

She was lifting herself up towards him. To Harry it resembled nothing so much as one of Eliza's favourite snogging moves. This thrilled Harry, yet terrified him at the same time - he had quite an audience at the moment and no idea what to do or say. He found himself unable to move as her face came closer to him. All he could see were those lips coming towards him…. Please let this happen…. Please let it not….

Hermione's eyes fluttered open. She slowed - and then her body abruptly stiffened as she reclaimed consciousness. She seemed confused. In that, she could have been channelling him.

“Harry!” she exclaimed, “Thank goodness you're really here…. Oh!” She realised with a start that they were not alone. In the next moment she comprehended that the onlookers included the Minister of Magic and others she knew only from photographs. She kicked her feet out of Harry's arms and dropped them to the floor. Standing was difficult. She slipped, wobbled, and staggered. Harry tightened his grip around her waist to make sure she would not fall.

Hermione was mentally reeling. The boundary between reality and her imagination was most unclear. She felt warm and fluttery with amorous thoughts that she had never been able to act upon before. Harry had just saved her life; she was sure of that. Somehow she had been in his arms, and she had been on the verge of snogging him senseless - or maybe that part had only been in a dream, like in a trashy novel. Now she was at a loss. Where had all these people come from?

“Whatever happened here?” Hermione asked nobody in particular. “We were duelling. I saw purple flame coming at me just like at the Ministry, and I thought I was going to die. How did I get here…? And how did all of you get here?”

“As I was explaining to Mister Potter,” Shak offered, “your opponents were under strict orders not to use any spells more dangerous than stunners and disarmers - but they could disguise them as worse. You and he, however, have proven to be far better, particularly as a team, than anyone anticipated.”

A frown flashed across Fudge's face, but only for an instant, as his impassivity quickly returned.

Shak continued, “You have been using extracurricular spells and, unless I miss my guess, Legilimency to coordinate your actions.”

The looks they gave him let Shak know he was correct, so he went on.

“Don't forget that your opponents are all either Aurors or ex-Aurors, and that they take pride in their own abilities. One of them, a Mister Branstone, took it upon himself to concoct a stunning spell that mimicked the spell used on Miss Granger at the Ministry. He was playing by the rules, but stretching them for all they were worth in an effort to win. I do hope he is alright.”

“What happened to him?” Hermione asked. “Oh, sweet Merlin,” she gasped, taking in the smouldering wreckage to which most of the Situation Room had been reduced. Instantly she was afraid that Harry had just killed someone. This was serious, and she was worried. Harry was extremely fragile in that way. Killing someone intentionally, even while deceived, might just wreck him as well - spiritually if not physically.

“Mister Potter can answer that better than anyone,” interjected Dumbledore sombrely.

For his part, Harry was looking stricken. “I … I … I … guess I went off again, didn't I?” he mumbled with his head down. “Maybe this isn't such a good idea after all. I could have killed him.… I wanted to kill him after what I thought he did…. I don't know that I should be here. I'm dangerous….” He started to walk away, overcome with guilt over what he had nearly done.

Dumbledore was about to say something. He did not have to because Hermione reacted first. She stepped forward and to put a hand on his retreating shoulder. “Harry, don't go. I'm glad you're here. I want you to stay … everyone does. You didn't do anything except try to save my life - again - for which I will always be grateful. You didn't kill anyone, but if this had been a real battle, you wouldn't have had much choice.”

She ignored Dumbledore. She ignored Fudge. She ignored everyone except Harry. She guided him to a less damaged part of the observation gallery, banished shards of glass that remained in the chairs, and bade him to sit down.

Harry was so upset at the idea of almost killing an Auror (or anyone who was not a Death Eater) that he surrendered himself to her guidance - indeed, he welcomed it. His mind was still buzzing with the power that his rage had put behind that spell.

She took his hands in hers, and talked to the top of his slumped head.

“Harry, you were magnificent … as always. If this had been real combat, you would have given me a fighting chance. Everyone here was a volunteer. They knew what they were getting into. There's a reason you're being trained. You're powerful…. You're a force for good. All we have to do is help you learn how to control it…. You have to train like this Harry. You have to succeed. The more skilled you become, the less likely that you will have an accident….”

She left out the corollary - that on a battlefield, the more likely he would be to kill people on purpose. He did not need to hear that now. Logic was not always the greatest virtue, and now was one of those times. There would be enough time for logic later. Right now Harry was hurting, and that was what she needed to reach, and to ameliorate.

Harry replied dully, feeling the need to explain himself. “I saw you get hit. It was horrible. Then…. It was almost like being in a trance…. I thought I was back at the Ministry, facing Dolohov. I responded with the first thing that came to mind … the Greek fire spell from you know where. I'm sorry … I just wanted to obliterate him after that. I never should have learnt those spells…. You told me they were troubling.”

“Harry, I asked you to look into those spells,” she reminded. “Don't blame yourself.”

Harry droned on. “I guess he had a shield up, because I didn't hit him - not flush anyway. The spell ricocheted and hit the wall, and then it was fire everywhere. But the other strange thing was that the wall I hit wasn't really a wall. I guess it is - or was - a hidden window.… Some sort of one-way mirror.…”

“Hey!” Harry forgot about Hermione for the moment and rounded on Fudge and the others. “What are all of you doing here anyway?”

In the background, Hermione was relieved. The soul crisis was passing. Harry would not be falling to pieces this day - not ever, if she had anything to do with it.

“Oversight,” said Fudge imperturbably. “Your training involves a considerable investment of resources, both human and matériel, by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and other units. It is my responsibility, as the accountable, authorising officer, to determine if that time and money is well-spent.”

Chief Auror Scrimgeour filled in the details. “This session was planned weeks ago to coincide with the annual reunion of the Auror Corps, to which all ACS graduates are invited. The graduates, both active Aurors and those who have moved on to other careers, comprised the attackers whom you have been battling all day. Most of the organisations contributing to bringing about your training sent representatives to observe. You have acquitted yourselves in, in…. Well, let me just say that you were astonishing, particularly at the end. Although we have not been keeping score, like we would have if you had been formal candidates….”

“Speak fer yerself, Rufus” spat Mad-Eye Moody. Harry looked over at Moody and noticed that something resembling a clipboard was hovering in front of the battle-scarred ex-Auror. Harry could not see what was attached, but Scrimgeour could.

“Alastor, you aren't supposed to be doing that any more. You are retired,” the Chief Auror spoke sharply.

“I've done it enough times that I'll never ferget how,” Moody growled without a hint of remorse. “And I know where the forms are kept. I thought there should be a written record, just in case. If yeh've got a problem with that, yeh'd best explain yerself.”

Turning away from Scrimgeour, Moody addressed Harry. “Not bad at all, Potter, particularly given the abbreviated training yer receiving. Of course, yer opponents were pulling their punches, but on my tally sheet yeh were averaging a 92, until I was distracted by yer final stunt. Yeh could start in my old unit today.”

Moody then critiqued Hermione. “Granger, yeh still need ta work on yer individual duelling - particularly learning ta react rather than having ta stop and think about what yer doing. Yer teamwork, however, is outstanding, so I scored yeh with an average of 83. That wouldn't make my unit, but it would easily qualify yeh for regular Auror work.”

Moody continued his critique, “However, I don't believe that the spell division technique of yers is part of the lesson plan yeh were supposed ta be following….”

“Neither was that Greek fire spell,” huffed Fudge.

“Nor, do I believe that the basic Apparition training Mister Potter has received included anything about Apparating with a passenger,” added Shak. That startled Harry, because Shak was quite right - and he had not studied advanced Apparition on his own, either. When the need had arisen, he had simply done it.

By mutual consent, an early halt was called to the training session. Harry's destruction of the Situation Room, including the glass front of observation booth, was not something that could be repaired in short order. Reconstruction after magical damage of this magnitude took considerably more than a few swishes and flicks.

Nor were the remaining volunteer attackers particularly keen to continue after learning of Branstone's fate. The force of Harry's incendiary spell had driven the man bodily into the earth up to his shoulders. Fortunately, there had been a rescue squad standing by, and they had extricated him before he had been buried in fiery debris. He was evacuated to St. Mungo's so that both of his legs could be reboned.

Harry had trouble feeling very sorry for Branstone, now that he knew the Auror would live. That had been a nasty thing for him to do, even as a ruse. It had involved inside information. He declined to accompany Hermione to St. Mungo's when she decided she needed to know how Branstone was faring.

She could forgive him; she had not had to deal with the aftermath - seeing her seemingly falling dead at his feet.

Harry did not feel so forgiving, not in the short-term, anyway.

Thus, Harry got home early, much to his relief. His exhaustion and distress at what had already happened lasted only a short time before his nervous energy about what was going to happen began bubbling to the surface once again. It was finally time. He could get himself ready for High Tea at the Grangers earlier than he had planned.

Hermione had hinted that, the earlier he arrived, the more time he could spend with her before having to suffer through the dinner itself. He was confused about what exactly to expect. He was haunted by the image of those lips, the feeling of her arms around his neck, and he wondered - had she been on the verge of kissing him, really kissing him - before recovering her senses?

The more obvious the answer to that question seemed, the more his nervous energy multiplied. `Damn, damn, damn-de damn, damn - what does she want? Damn, damn, damn-de damn, damn - what do I want?' He was grateful for every minute of the extra preparation time.

Harry had been home less than a half-hour when Bill arrived. One look and Harry knew his guardian was anything but happy.

“You look like you could use a Cheering Charm,” Harry commented.

“Unless it's cast by a new Minister of Magic, no bloody charm's going to make any difference,” Bill grumbled.

Harry took the obvious bait. “What's Fudge bollixed up now?” he asked.

“Well, you know that supposed `oversight' demonstration that he just put you through?” Bill responded. “More than likely it was a set up.”

Harry did not understand, but that did not make him any less interested. “I don't know what you mean. Everybody who said anything said I was doing great until I had my … er … accident.”

“And look who was talking - mostly Mad-Eye and Kingsley.” Bill reminded. “That's just the point; you weren't supposed to do well at all. The whole thing was set up so that you'd fail and your training would be stopped.”

“Who told you this?” Harry asked, beginning to seethe a bit himself.

“Oh, let's just say `connections,'” Bill dodged the question. “Other people who were present, and who didn't share the Minister's intent.” With that, Bill made an exaggerated facial imitation that let Harry know that the source was the Headmaster.

“Why would he do that?” Harry asked.

“Come on, use that bloody brain of yours instead of depending on her all the time,” came the pointed reply. “It's not like you're the most popular person amongst Fudge's long-time supporters. Mostly they're old-line purebloods like the Vice-Auror. They didn't care for your equal rights manifesto - not even a little bit. They're all over Fudge to distance the Ministry from you.”

Although he tried to be angry with Fudge, Harry was still at a loss. “Even so, what does that have to do with the training session?” he asked.

“Everything,” Bill answered. “Think about it. By approving a session that pitted the two of you - outnumbered at that - against fully trained Aurors in combat simulations, Fudge's friends hoped to ensure that you would turn in a dismal showing. That would have given Fudge the excuse he needed to cancel further training as `a waste of scarce Auror resources.' Here, take a look at this….”

Bill handed a piece of parchment to Harry, who read it through, crumpled it angrily and tossed back the wad.

“See, the Ministry even had a draft press release announcing the cancellation drawn up in advance. Of course, it was never distributed, but thank Merlin Mad-Eye still has his sources inside the Auror Corps.”

Now Harry's mood matched Bill's. “What did Moody do?” Harry asked darkly.

“Well, I know you and Dumbledore don't always see eye to eye, but give him credit for looking out for you. As a precaution, the Headmaster put Mad-Eye up to scoring the session. He had been Chief ACS Instructor for several years before the first Voldemort war - until complaints about his being too strict led to his `promotion' back to active duty as head of the elite Auror special weapons and tactics squad. Moody has quite a reputation as a niggardly scorer, so having an evaluation from him was a counter to any attempt to characterise your or Hermione's performance as substandard.”

Harry was not particularly happy, even about that. “So, you mean that Moody rigged his evaluation - only in my favour?”

“Hell no, Harry,” Bill dismissed that thought. “As events transpired, no such counter-skullduggery was ever necessary. You did spectacularly. Fudge had no idea how much you have been trained. Ultimately, your own merit, not any fix, thwarted Fudge. It was absurdly evident that your performance was anything but substandard. And your finale…. Leaving the Situation Room as a burned out shell only provided the icing on he cake. That room's been used for seventy-five years, you see. It's withstood everything Auror candidates could conjure up. Nobody … I mean nobody … had ever let loose with anything that ever before brought down the magically reinforced concealed window that hides the Ministry's evaluators from those being tested. Not even a scratch…. Before you, that is.”

“Served the bastards right,” Harry spat.

“Sure did,” Bill agreed. “If anything Fudge and his pureblood faction had to come away even more leery of you than before…. One thing's for sure, afterwards, Fudge didn't even bother to try to convince anyone that they'd been witnessing slipshod magic. That would've been worse than futile; it would've driven away all but his most hardcore pureblood supporters. He'd have been hoist on his own petard. After all the weeks of non-stop Harry worship in the press….”

At that, Harry silently gave his guardian a look like a thundercloud.

“Like it or not, it's true,” Bill told the boy. “Be thankful for whatever favours you get…. Anyway, the public would've seen through Fudge's pretext in an instant. Whatever else the Minister is, he's a practicing politician - and a good one - to get where he's gotten. Fudge wasn't about to take such a risk with what remains of his base of political support.”

Back at Privet Drive, Bill helped Harry get ready for the reception. For starters, he took the opportunity of Harry's early return to teach him the Razus Charm for shaving, even though the barely pubescent Harry was nowhere near sporting a five-o'clock shadow. For once, Harry was not particularly impressed by magic. The Muggle shaver was much more comfortable than the scraping sensations that accompanied the Razus Charm.

After watching Harry fumble inconclusively with his tie for a couple of minutes, Bill took pity on him and taught him a knot-tying incantation, “Nodarus Windsorus.” The complicated wand motion was difficult, but after Harry got the knack, it nicely took care of that problem.

Once Harry was fully dressed - and getting more uncomfortable by the minute - Bill helped him heft Athena's cage out of the attic where the Dursleys had forced him to store her (“we will not have this house become an owl hostel”) for the night. Harry made sure that Athena was well stocked with owl treats, since it would not do to present Hermione with a starving owl when she was not prepared to take care of it.

Fortunately, Hedwig was out hunting. She could be one jealous bird.

Next, Bill performed an Obvolvus Charm, which looked rather more complicated than its function warranted - to wrap a gift. Harry experimented with various and sundry colourations until he found a turquoise hue that he liked for the wrapping paper. Bill added a bow, and then showed Harry how to conjure an appropriate card. Harry inserted one of Colin's pictures of him and Dumbledore in their dress Ashrak robes.

Bill also produced a pair of Grade 2 Restricted (“approved for Muggle use”) Omnioculars designed for select Muggles invited to attend events - graduations, weddings, funerals - that also involved magic. If Hermione became Head Girl, something both thought extremely likely, her parents would be able to witness the spells she would cast in that role at her graduation.

Since the Grangers were Muggles, Bill suggested that Harry wrap it in non-magical paper, something the Dursleys had in abundance.

For party favours, Harry stuffed a couple of the Twins' Portable Holes in an inside pocket. These would appeal both to Hermione's practical and whimsical sides, he thought. He was careful not to use that particular pocket for anything else.

There was only one other thing, the Château Blackwalls bubbly. Bill removed the Shrinking Spell from the Jeroboam-sized bottle. He showed Harry the Château's ancient logo. Harry thought the logarithmic spiral resembled some sort of seashell - which it did, a chambered nautilus. They spent a little time going over the drink's magical characteristics. Then everything was done. It was time to depart.

Travel, unfortunately, presented an unanticipated problem. Muggle homes such as the Grangers' were not connected to the Floo system except in extraordinary circumstances. Given the security the Grangers required - because of Harry - connecting them for the mere purpose of a dinner party was unthinkable.

In any event, on this particular evening Harry absolutely refused to travel by Floo. He was not about to let the only good suit he had ever owned get covered with ashes immediately before the event that had occasioned its purchase.

“I expect we'll just have to Apparate, then,” Bill pronounced.

“Can't,” said Harry, “I've never seen the inside of her house.”

“You Apparate as far a Hogwarts with no problem. You Apparated right through some pretty powerful wards not too long ago - I saw you do it…. They … they said that today….” Bill stammered, becoming increasingly worried. “You mean to tell me you're still only a basic Apparator?”

The not-so-implied criticism of his skill level got Harry's back up. “I only had one measly day of training,” he retorted. “What did you expect, Albus Dumbledore?”

“Bugger,” said Bill uncharacteristically. “I thought for sure you could Apparate there. We can't Apparate outdoors into a Muggle neighbourhood; the law forbids it. How are we going to get there on time? It won't make much of a first impression to be late.”

The choices were few. A Portkey was out for the same reason as Apparition - neither could visualise the inside of Hermione's house, and an outdoors arrival was forbidden by the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy. Besides, Portkeys of the improvised variety were at least technically illegal. Harry was unsure how far his various exemptions extended.

Travel by broom was out. There was the problem of transporting Athena - and they might be seen - and Bill was without his broom - and neither of them knew what Hermione's house might look like from above.

To get all the way from Surrey to Knightsbridge by Muggle means would be a horror all its own. Neither Athena (even wrapped) nor a Jeroboam of magical champagne (even shrunken) would be welcome on the Underground, particularly at peak usage. Muggle black cabs were few and far between in suburban Surrey, and would get stuck in London's abominable traffic. Neither of them knew how to drive, so even stealing the Dursleys' car was out.

Thus, in the end there was no choice. Loaded down with a large decoratively wrapped owl cage in his left hand and an outsized bottle of Château Blackwalls champagne in his right, Harry made his way outside to the curb. Bill followed, puzzled. The Muggles barbecuing minced meat across the drive in the yard at Number Five were startled by Harry's odd appearance - but not for long.

Harry threw out his right hand…. BANG!

The Muggles could no longer see Harry or Bill. They were unable to see much of anything because the violently purple triple-decker Knight Bus, which fishtailed to a stop only a few feet away from Harry and Bill, could only be seen by magicals.

Bill jumped back, stepping into some of the Dursleys' begonias, and protested, “No way! Not in this life or the next.”

“What choice do we have?” responded Harry.

“Harry, I've been on this thing before,” said Bill. “It's not the way you want to travel. It makes you have to hurl.”

“You mean it makes YOU have to hurl,” shot back Harry. “I've been on it twice, and whilst there are better ways to get around, in a pinch the Knight Bus is all right. As long as nothing goes around in circles like some bloody theme park ride, I don't think I get motion sickness, anyway. But you don't have to come. I reckon I can take care of myself for one bus ride.”

Bill was stuck. As much as he hated the Knight Bus, he had no alternative to offer that would get Harry where he had to go when he had to be there. Although the mere thought of the ride made him queasy, Bill was a member of the Order and had received unequivocal orders not to leave his ward unaccompanied even for an instant. Besides, he was Harry's guardian, and he owed him his company, even against his better judgment.

“Welcome to the Knight Bus,” greeted a pimply young wizard in a mouldy lavender uniform that looked like it had been out in the sun for much too long.

“We know what this contraption is,” grumbled Bill as he tried to get Harry on board as inconspicuously as possible. That was not easy, as Harry looked like nothing less than a drunken reveler. He was dressed in an expensive Muggle suit, with a large champagne bottle in one hand and an even larger brightly-wrapped package in the other - and that package was hooting loudly at the moment.

“'Ere - Why it's 'Arry!”

“You had best keep that to yourself, if you value your tongue in one piece,” threatened Bill. He performed a hasty Colouration Charm that changed Harry's hair from its usual jet black into something approximating Weasley red. Bill could only hope that this impromptu disguise would suffice for the ride. “If you want to go, then go,” he spat as he gave Harry an annoyed poke in the back to get him into the bus. Bill was not looking forward to this.

He gave the conductor two gold Galleons. “We're in a hurry. The extra is for you and your driver if you'll move us to the front of the queue.”

“'Ou don't say,” said the conductor, whom Harry knew to be Stan Shunpike. “I'll take `at up wi' Ern….”

Ernie Prang, the driver, was only too happy for the opportunity to pick up a few extra Sickles. He made an announcement to the passengers, “'Ere's a bit o' an 'mergency,” he informed them. “Seems that Neville 'ere 'as to get 'is owl to London for an 'mergency - appendectomy, 'at's right, so 'is owl can deliver this 'ere bottle o' bubbly to 'is … 'is parents' twenny-fif' weddin' annivers'ry. So we've got to make an unscheduled stop in London.”

Harry scowled. Even Goyle could have invented a better excuse than that. He did not even have parents. Neither did Neville - not in any practical sense, anyway. Fortunately, it mattered not. The passengers seemed so apathetic (or perhaps so badly afflicted with motion sickness) that nobody protested. He wondered if the Knight Bus actually kept any set schedule. If there were any such thing, it was honoured primarily in the breach.

The Knight Bus was in more or less the same condition as Harry remembered it. The beds were folded away in daytime. Its three decks were jammed with an eclectic mixture of different kinds of chairs that rearranged themselves every time the bus jerked into motion or skidded to a halt. Some of the passengers tried to hold on, but most had simply given up. They sullenly picked up their feet, and resigned themselves to sliding randomly about the bus. A few were still picking up themselves up and gathering their belongings from the abrupt halt on Privet Drive.

Harry was expecting to be stared at, if not worse. He was pleasantly surprised when nothing of the sort happened. Preoccupied with his struggle to get everything on the bus and get himself seated, Harry had not noticed that Bill temporarily camouflaged him in Weasley locks. The few passengers who eyed Harry at all looked reprovingly at him due to his outlandish garb. Very few people rode the Knight Bus dressed in Muggle clothes - let alone in a designer suit.

Bill muttered to himself as he dragged Harry to the rear. Harry sunk into a black upholstered wingback armchair with enough room to hold both him and his champagne bottle. Harry hung the owl cage from a brass hook beneath a candle bracket extending from the wall. There was no danger because none of the candles was lit during daylight. Bill ended up perched on a spindle-topped carved wooden chair, which in due course he discovered had a loose leg.

With another loud bang, the Knight Bus resumed its breakneck course. It shot down Privet Drive and skidded around the corner onto Magnolia Road. Two lampposts bent out of the way and Muggle dustbins (it was rubbish day) flew in all directions to avoid being struck. Harry was more amused than worried, since he knew that everything promptly resorted itself to its original location after the bus had thundered by. Bill had wisely chosen to move to the back, so neither of them was flung any further backwards as the Knight Bus accelerated.

Another pop and the bus went careening down a dual carriageway against traffic. Harry had to grab the candle bracket himself to avoid being thrown from side to side as Ernie crazily avoided oncoming motorcars and lorries. As he did so, Harry lost his grip on the champagne bottle, which rolled onto the floor. Fortunately, all alcoholic beverages bearing the seal of Château Blackwalls carried Unbreakable Charms.

The bottle, however, began to careen crazily around the cabin, and Harry was afraid it would slide the length of the bus. He flicked out his wand and fired off a Summoning Charm. The first time he missed, and ended up with only bits of rubbish flying back to him. On a second try, Harry was luckier and the bottle soared directly into his hand.

Stan wanted only to talk to Harry, who he evidently idolised. “Ye're all over th' papers now, ya are,” he said happily, hanging onto a conveniently located strap that just happened to appear. “No more nutter rubbish either. Ye're the bigges' think 'at's 'appened 'is year. “Order o' Merlin a' everythink. “'Oo woulda thunk.”

With difficulty, since his chair seemed on the verge of toppling over every time the Knight Bus made a lurch (which was more often than not), Bill managed to shoo the overly loquacious conductor away. Every minute the trip lasted, Bill felt more like toppling over himself. Anticipating the inevitable, he inconspicuously conjured himself a barf bag.

One minute they were on a motorway, the next on a dirty industrial street between seemingly abandoned factories. Trafalgar Square went flying past. Then, for a while the Knight Bus appeared to be travelling through the Tube. Bounding up a staircase, the bus swerved onto a leafy street of massive old houses shaded by massive old oak trees. When the bus skittered to a halt, Bill's face was the sickly shade of old yogurt. He was doubled over in his chair in intimate conversation with his barf bag.

“Thirty-Three Cadogan Place - Knightsbridge,” Stan called out. Harry had arrived.

With a groan, Bill motioned to Harry to just get off the bus. He thought it undignified for his ward to see him in his agony, so he never looked up. Bill had no security concerns anymore, since Hermione's house was at this moment being guarded by a healthy contingent of Aurors and members of the Order. Without these special precautions, a Death Eater attack was a distinct possibility. Any gathering of Harry, Hermione, and Hermione's Muggle parents could hardly present a more inviting target for Voldemort's minions, even in a Muggle neighbourhood.

Bill was finally through for the evening. All he wanted was to get to someplace, anyplace, in the wizard community from which he could Apparate home.

Lugging Athena's cage and the Jeroboam of champagne, Harry tentatively approached the front gate in the wrought iron fencing that surrounded Number Thirty-Three Cadogan Place. He was looking for some sort of buzzer or bell to signal his presence when the tall gate suddenly swung open of its own accord. Startled, Harry flicked his wand out his wrist holster - and, in the same graceful motion, once again dropped the bottle of champagne, which clattered to the concrete walk.

Harry thought he recognised a faint giggle, and then heard a whispered, “Wotcher, Harry.” Tonks - obviously concealed by Disillusionment Charm - had opened the unlocked gate for him. “Nice disguise,” she continued sotto voce.

“It's not a bloody disguise, Tonks,” Harry muttered annoyedly as he sheathed his wand and retrieved the now thoroughly shaken champagne bottle. “It's a Muggle suit.”

“Suit yourself…. And good luck, Reds.” Tonks then apparently took a couple of steps back from the gate, tripped over a root and her invisible behind produced a sizable indentation in one of the Grangers' holly bushes.

In response to her yelps, Harry hissed, “nice disguise, yourself,” in a stage whisper. He made for the marble steps that led to a set of elegant white double doors. Tonks' response, as she attempted to extract herself from the holly, was unprintable, but Harry was no longer listening. He was compulsively checking the knot on his tie as he prepared himself to lift one of the gleaming brass doorknockers.

Harry used the knocker, and after a slight pause the door swung open. He took a deep breath and came face to face with - a rather tall liveried butler. “You rang?” queried the butler in a low sonorous voice.

“Er.… Harry Potter, to see the Grangers.”

“Very well,” the butler intoned as he moved away from the door. “You are expected.”

Harry was uncertain if etiquette allowed him to follow the butler inside the house without an explicit invitation, but he reckoned that he would rather be on the inside than remain out front. Laden with his gifts, he haltingly entered the two-storey foyer. Directly before him was a massive marble staircase leading from the ground floor to the first floor. Beneath it were doorways on either side of the base of the stairs. A crystal chandelier glowed overhead.

A booming, “This must be Harry Potter,” interrupted his gawking. Harry turned around and saw a burly man who looked to be in his early fifties striding towards him, eyeing him intently. He was a little over six feet tall, with straight brown hair and cold hazel eyes. His jaw could have been carved from granite, except it was clenched so tightly that a small muscle twitched ever so slightly.

Undoubtedly this was Dr. Granger. He was wearing a navy blue suit, but instead of a tie he wore an apricot-coloured silk ascot scarf. Fortunately, Harry lacked a free hand with which to offer a handshake, because Dr. Granger did not offer his. After all, less than six weeks before the man had decided to withdraw his daughter from Hogwarts specifically to excise Harry from her life.

Hermione's mum trailed only slightly behind. She was wearing a dark brown business suit open at the neck. It almost precisely matched the shade of her full and curly hair. Harry could see at once from whom Hermione had inherited her bushy hair. The woman seemed a little tentative and hung back as if confused.

Harry addressed (the male) Dr. Granger,” Er…. I brought this - for the dinner.” He held out the bottle of champagne, and Dr. Granger took it.

Hermione's dad relaxed just a bit. “Well, I'll be,” he said, expertly examining the label. “I've heard it said that all champagne is magical, but now it appears we'll be finding out.” Dr. Granger handed the large bottle to an underbutler who had inconspicuously parked himself in the doorway, along with instructions to put it on ice. Pointedly, he said to Harry, “I do hope any magic tonight will be confined to the champagne, young man.”

Harry handed the wrapped Omnioculars to Hermione's mum, explaining that it was a gift for them both. He also set down the cage, whilst both Grangers looked curiously at it. There was an awkward pause, as the father looked his daughter's best male friend up and down. Finally he said, without a hint of irony in his voice, “Welcome to my humble abode. Oh, and is that an Armani?”

* * * *

Hermione's afternoon had been troubled. As much out of a sense of obligation as anything else, she had gone to see Clifton Branstone in his hospital room. She had been impressed by his lucidity despite his obviously being in great discomfort. Bone regrowth was always itchy and often painful.

She was taken aback by the Auror's frank analysis of what had provoked his hospitalisation. He bore Harry no ill will, despite having escaped death only by a hair's breadth. Aurors were used to that - one reason why Hermione had earlier been questioning her own (and implicitly Harry's) career choices.

“Both technically and tactically you're a top-notch team, but speaking strictly as an Auror, there is no way in Hell I'd ever partner you two in the field,” Branstone forcefully declared. “The both of you would be dead within a month. He can't control himself around you. The Deaters … they'd go after you, just like I did. He would gladly - too damn gladly - lay down his life to protect you.”

“They'd do something to you to set him off. He'd do something spectacular but exhausting. But unlike this practice, there'd be another Deater lying in the weeds to curse him in the back whilst he was distracted by your situation. With him out of the way, you'd be dead meat…. Except they wouldn't kill you right away. The Deaters would have you begging for death before being done with you. That's why we don't recruit sixteen-year-old kids no matter how powerful they might be….”

It was a serious, unsettling warning. Afterward, Hermione had excused herself as soon as had been polite. She had maintained her façade of calm all the way back to Knightsbridge, but upon reaching the sanctuary of her own room, she promptly lost it. It was more than just nerves over the upcoming event - although she was worried enough about that. She was questioning everything.

For quite some time, she had known that she had more than friendly feelings for Harry Potter. Her romantic attraction was not so much for the Boy Who Lived - that persona was sometimes insufferable - but specifically for Harry Potter, the boy who had once been a lost-looking, eleven-year-old kid with no inkling of his place in the wizard world.

He had grown up abused and ignored by those horrible Muggles - living in a cupboard and deprived of any exposure to paternal affection, physical or psychological. He had been an outcast, and so had she. She was the “brainiac” who had been teased and friendless throughout her pre-magical life. He had no friends because his bullying cousin chased any potential friends away.

Harry's existence, however, had been incomparably worse, because at least she had had her parents' love. He had had nothing.

Nevertheless, he had been more or less content, sometimes even happy, despite all that. So had she, after the troll incident had commenced her friendship with him and Ron. With Harry, such contentedness and happiness as he enjoyed might have been a perverse example of ignorance begetting bliss. Now Harry was on the verge of having essentially everything - and he seemed less happy and more moody than ever.

That somewhat perverse combination was why he needed her, and why she longed for him - why she depended on his instincts, and he depended on her savvy. She wanted nothing more and nothing less than to be the one who would make him happy. Beyond any girlish fantasy, she was convinced that her lengthy friendship and her intimate acquaintance with his emotions (long preceding their magically induced affinity) uniquely qualified her to succeed in that ambition.

It was a qualification that she cherished every bit as much as her preeminent class ranking, her Prefect's badge, or her O.W.L. scores. She had consciously played the compass needle to his true north for over two years - ever since they had collaborated in rescuing Sirius. There had been premonitions well before that, going back to that first time that he had taken her breath away. It started in First Year, when he had set his jaw, walked through fire, gone alone in search of the Philosopher's Stone, and had faced down Voldemort.

Now Voldemort was back, Sirius was dead, and she had just heard a seasoned Dark Wizard fighter - a totally dispassionate observer - tell her point blank that Harry cared about her as well … so much that he might well meet his death trying to protect her. Could she do that to him? Did she have that right?

She prepared for his arrival almost mechanically whilst wrestling with that question - did she have that right? Her mere presence could put him at risk, even mortal risk. In light of that possibility, could she justify acting upon - or even having - such feelings for him? It was a troubling question.

Even the negative conclusion was problematic. If the conclusion were that the risk was too great - did that effectively resurrect Harry's cupboard under the stairs? Would risk aversion condemn him once again to a friendless and loveless existence?

She was not privy to the prophecy the Death Eaters had been so intent upon acquiring, but she was clever and had her ideas. Loneliness was not conducive to fulfilling prophecies of any sort. Quite the contrary, she was convinced that unrequited love and its attendant despair could only have an adverse effect on anyone's magical power - be it Harry's or hers.

The spectre of recreating the emotional equivalent of Harry's cupboard under the stairs was dispositive. If not her, then who? Ultimately she concluded that her feelings were not overreaching. She had the right, but it would have to be Harry's choice. She had no right to his heart unless he gave it to her, but all the right in the world if he did.

That was a right worth fighting for.

Upon further reflection, she thought that she might have been with him too much recently. She was even starting to think like him. He had always been the one who had tried to push her and Ron away out of concern over their safety. He had almost driven himself to distraction doing that last Christmas - isolating himself from everyone. She had chosen to cut her own holiday short to prevent it. She had gone to the Ministry to prevent it. She had almost died preventing it. As long as he needed her, she would be there. She just hoped he would continue to need her.

As it had been for him, so it should be for her. Letting the fear of what might happen to either of them prevent whatever would - or should - develop between them was a coward's way out. They were Gryffindors. They were friends. Whether he ever ended up loving her or not, she would be there. It looked like a choice, but only superficially. Harry had become part of who she was. She could no more turn that off now, she thought, than she could stop breathing.

She would not compound Harry's problems; she would help solve them. One way or another…. As slowly and as gently as necessary.… Harry had lived such an emotionally deprived youth that he probably did not feel worthy of the kind of feelings she had for him - despite all his fame and fortune….

Oh blast it all…. There was her self-inflicted wound rising up like a Boggart escaped from an armoire. Her greatest error, if not necessarily her greatest fear, was staring her in the face once again. She had to put all that behind her. She would try to reach him, even though she had botched it royally before. Love was about getting back up after falling and giving things another go. She would not give up on Harry Potter anymore than she thought he would give up on her. Now, if only her parents could avoid screwing things up….

Her parents, indeed.

They made this occasion such a bloody tightrope - with no net. She had not, and could not, tell them the truth about Harry, even though it would undoubtedly bring the both of them - especially Daddy - to her side. She knew full well how their attitudes would flip 180 degrees if they only knew about those things that unequivocally turned her stomach, and just as certainly made Harry miserable.

Fame and fortune - especially fortune. Her parents knew he was famous, but had no idea that Harry was rich. Rich as Croesus, maybe richer.…

Richer than the bloody Queen….

Maybe even as rich as J.K. Rowling….

She could just imagine ringing that bell and watching both her parents salivate. She had never breathed a word of it to them and had no intention of starting. For years, she had prattled on about “Harry this” and “Harry that” whenever she was with her parents. More times than she could count, she had portrayed him as a maltreated orphan in ill-fitting, hand-me-down clothes who, despite horrible circumstances, was growing up strong, courageous, and kind (even handsome, she blushed). It had all been true, and yet now it was not.

She plotted, planned, and prayed that her omission to correct this misperception in light of more recent information was the right course. It seemed like the only way that might ensure that everyone got through the evening unscathed. Harry hated being fawned over. He was all too acquainted with that aspect of celebrity. He would see through her parents' charade in an instant, and that would be that - something would happen … someone would say something better left unspoken … and she would be presented with an irreparable breach between Harry and her parents.

She had known, at least since Hong Kong, what choice she would make in that event. She was no longer of her parents' world; she was of Harry's - no, make that both of their - world. She dreaded the prospect of being put to the choice, though. Thus, this evening she thought it preferable that Harry be greeted with honest emotions, even if rather antagonistic. Far better that he face that than hypocritical obsequity. That was her hope, anyway.

She heard voices from the foyer. It was time.

* * * *

Author notes: I thought I needed to make clearer that Harry's alarm clock was magical. It really has to be with all the magic it suffers through.

The two Beatles songs are purposely not identified. One becomes clearer later in this chapter and is identified in the next. The other will not be identified for another 14-15 chapters and plays a key role in Harry rescuing Hermione. True Beatles aficionados already have more than enough information to identify both - such as the patron saint of lost causes

Dudley is, of course, listening to AC/DC

"Mirror told the tale" from "Lighter Shade of Pale" by Procol Harum

It will definitely be a bad hair day for Harry. I had always wondered about a bald Harry. Never seen it in any other fic, so I decided to create something that would portray it, at least for a bit

Pez is slang for facial hair, although not likely slang that Dudley would have heard - but it fit and I didn't care to spend more time on the minor point

The shaver could be a product placement for Norelco

Aiming better while moving. As previously indicated, think Dustin Hoffman in "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid"

Independent hand usage is a skill commonly taught in one area of Muggle endeavor. What that is becomes clear in the next chapter

The description of Greek fire is accurate

A lahar is an avalanche of fire, water, and debris, usually caused by the abrupt melting of large quantities of ice during the eruption of a glaciated volcano

Special weapons and Tactics = SWAT. That was the unit Moody had referred to in his critique of Harry and Hermione

Harry's preference for the muggle shaver will become important later

The Windsor knot is a standard method of tying neckties

The picture Harry slips into Hermione's card figures later

As it turns out, Harry will put the portable hole to far more practical use

A Jeroboam is a rather large bottle size, but hardly the largest

A chambered nautilus inscribes a logarithmic spiral that closely approximates a famous mathematical formula. Its symbolism associated with Château Blackwalls (which Harry inherits) becomes important later

A dual carriageway is a divided highway

Buzzer or bell - from "Pinball Wizard"

Tonks' pratfall was uncomfortable, as holly bushes are known for their thorny leaves

For the front door scene with the Grangers' butler, think Lurch in the Addams Family

The apricot ascot comes from "You're So Vain"

Harry's D&G suit is much nicer than mere Armani

"Deater" is Auror slang for Death Eater

Usage of "true north" is not technically correct, but it sounded better than "magnetic north"

I know the J.K. Rowling reference is not correct timing, but I couldn't resist

The ringing bell references the canine experiments of Pavlov

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch17 road to hell.doc 02/07/05

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18. Good Intentions

I know that most of the fanatic H/Hr shippers will hate this chapter - or at least the end of it, in which Harry crashes and burns.

Wherein Harry learns Hermione's parents' nickname for her, gets a tour, plays pool, visits Hermione's room, learns Hermione can play the violin, they both miss each other's cues, Harry gets a Howler and is forced to explain himself, the Grangers get sterling signs in their eyes, a huge row develops, and Harry has enough and runs away.

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

Chapter 18 - Good Intentions

Harry was at a loss how to answer Hermione's father's question. What was Armani…?

Salvation came with a clicking sound that grew rapidly louder. She appeared at the top of the stairs, radiant in a long, deep blue dress split up the side. What the dress added at the bottom, it subtracted at the top. Her shoulders were breathtakingly bared, and there was a hint of cleavage that was sure to distract him all evening. She was obviously wearing heels.

The question forgotten, Harry looked up with a smile. Hermione took one look back at him, and all the tension she had been carrying throughout the day dissolved. She started tittering and could not stop.

She continued in this fashion as she made her way down the stairs, leaning heavily on the marble banister. Trying hard to compose a coherent sentence she asked, “Harry, what on Earth happened to you?”

Before he could answer, her Mum asked Hermione, “Hermy, dear, I'm confused. If I remember the pictures at all correctly, wasn't Ronald the one with the….”

“What did you do to your hair?” Hermione interrupted as she tried to regain her composure. The question was directed to Harry.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he replied, a growing sense of embarrassment making his face feel warm.

“Oh!” Hermione exclaimed as she stopped in her tracks and one hand went to her mouth. This was serious. The affinity was positively radiating with Harry's discomfort. This was not just his unique way of breaking the ice. “I'm sorry for laughing, Harry. You really don't know, do you?”

“What don't I know?” he asked with increasing embarrassment. He felt as though everybody else was enjoying a big laugh at his expense, and he was the only one who did not get the joke.

“You'd best check yourself in the mirror, Harry,” Hermione quickly advised as she pointed to a full-length mirror on the wall by the front door.

Looking at his reflection, Harry realised for the first time that his hair had been coloured Weasleyish red. “Oh, bloody He…! Sorry. It's just that Bill Weasley had better say his prayers.…”

Harry bolted for the nearest door, which led only to a coat closet. That would have to do. Hiding himself behind the door he pronounced, “Finite,” and ended the spell. Trying to look as nonchalant as possible under the circumstances, the now properly black-haired Harry rejoined the others in the middle of the room.

“I'm so glad you could make it early,” Hermione gushed as if nothing had happened. She gave him an enthusiastic hug. Harry felt himself going somewhat weak in the knees as he returned the embrace. Hermione felt it too.

Hermione's father, on the other hand, tensed at this innocent but unmistakably physical display of affection. His face became a mask, and his knuckles went white from clenching his fists.

When Harry and Hermione broke apart, she saw her parents looking at each other with questioning expressions on their faces. She had her own questions, no doubt the same as theirs - albeit focussed in diametrically the opposite direction.

Knowing her father, and wishing to preserve the peace, she took a different tack. “What's that, Harry?” Hermione asked quickly, with a gesture towards the large turquoise package on the floor.

“I was told that it's customary in these situations to get a gift for you as well,” replied Harry, shuffling his feet. “That means … umm … it's for you.”

Hermione gave the large object an evaluative look. “Harry, we've been over this. You know I don't want you giving me extrav … er … any presents…. But let me see what it is!” she added as her curiosity got the better of her. She quickly closed the gap to the rectangular shape, bent over it, and began ripping off the paper.

Harry could not help but watch. The view he had of Hermione's partially recumbent form - so attractively packaged by her azure gownlike dress - reminded him rather forcefully that she had developed rather more of a figure than her usual clothing revealed. Just as he was stepping forward with a warning to be careful, there was a loud squawking sound. One rather startled tawny owl had once again encountered outside light.

“Oh, Harry, you shouldn't have. She's beautiful!” Hermione turned kissed Harry on the cheek.

At that, Harry snapped to attention, and she got a jolt through their affinity. She could not help that this had happened. That revealing link was always open. Hermione eyed him questioningly. She looked like she wanted to say (or Legilimence) something, but she refrained.

“Isn't it wonderful, Mummy?” gushed Hermione. “I've wanted a magical owl for ages, and now I have one!”

Her mother responded with some bromide, but Hermione was not really listening. Rather she was peppering Harry with questions.

“What is her name?”

“Is she trained?”

“What species is she? Tawny, right?”

“How will I feed her?”

Harry replied to her questions as best he could, but it was difficult for him to give accurate, coherent answers. Her father's previous mandate to keep magical chat to a minimum was only part of it. Hermione soon sensed Harry's nervousness, and took a guess at its source. “Daddy, can I show Harry around the house?”

“All right, Hermy,” her father answered. “But I know where you'll end up. Remember what we discussed - the door stays open at all times, and both feet stay on the floor.”

Hermione scowled at that tactless reminder. She asked the housekeeper to please take Athena to her room, which the servant did gingerly. Then she caught hold of Harry's hand and practically dragged him out of her parents' presence.

She kept up a running commentary that described the rooms they were passing through, but Harry was not really paying attention. Instead, it was his turn to struggle to keep from laughing out loud. By the time they had reached the library, he lost that struggle.

“Hermy? Hermy!” Harry choked out Hermione's parents' pet name for her between guffaws. “Your folks and Grawp - now there's a combination.”

Hermione's eyes narrowed dangerously at being taunted, even in jest. “Harry Potter, if you breathe so much as a word about this to anyone at Hogwarts, you'll find out what it feels like to have a Boiling Charm performed on your tongue.”

“Actually, your dad does remind me a bit of Grawp…. Not as friendly, though,” Harry voice dropped to a grumble.

“Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry.” apologised Hermione. “I can't help the way he is. I wish I could, but I can't. From what Daddy did in Hong Kong, you must know that he doesn't care for you very much, but he's not a bad person. It's just that he knows so little about you. What he does know he doesn't really like. First, he thinks that my being friends with you almost got me killed. Second, he believes that you're a penniless orphan who couldn't give his little girl anything except a reputation.”

“He's not exactly wrong about the getting killed bit, you know,” Harry responded glumly. “When I saw you get hit with that spell, my life passed before my eyes. I felt worse at that moment than when Voldemort took me in Fourth Year. Cedric was more of an accident - you, I let come. It was the worst feeling in my life - for about fifteen minutes anyway….”

Hermione could tell that Harry was starting to think about Sirius again, and through their link she could sense him rapidly becoming morose. That was not how she wanted him tonight. She gave him another quick kiss on the cheek.

“That's sweet, Harry,” she said. “Sad, but sweet. I'm honoured for you to think of me in the same sentence as Sirius.”

Harry looked at her with a dreamy, almost unfocused look on his face. For a brief, thrilling instant, she thought he might be going to kiss her back - and not on the cheek. But nothing happened. She wanted so much just to grab him by that tie….

Her shoulders slumped imperceptibly. “Harry, I'm supposed to be giving you a tour, remember? What do you think so far?” She noted that he had voiced no objection to her not having told her parents anything about his newfound wealth.

Since he had primarily been contemplating the humour in Hermione's parents' pet name for her, Harry had not paid particular attention to the tour. “I think this place is so big, I'd need a Marauders' Map not to get lost in it; that's what I think.”

“Well, now that the Aurors have taught us something about how it works, maybe I can create one for you - if you can stand Daddy, that is,” Hermione commented jokingly.

“I think it's more like whether he can stand me,” Harry observed accurately. “At least a map would let me avoid him.”

`This isn't going to be easy,' Hermione thought nervously as she changed the subject. “So what do you think of the library?” she asked. “I practically grew up in this room.”

Harry looked around the large, well-proportioned reading room. Three of the four walls were entirely taken up with mahogany bookcases rising all the way to an intricately painted coffered ceiling. Two additional rows of identically crafted, double-sided bookcases stood in the centre of the room. Only doorways broke the walls of books, and even over the doorways there were books.

A rolling ladder was attached to a horizontal brass bar that ran along all three walls and passed just above the doors. The fourth wall was bare except for a couple of paintings - and two large windows covered with gauzy white curtains. Next to the windows, taking advantage of the extra light, were two red-brown leather reclining chairs. Between the chairs was a floor-mounted globe of the world fully a metre in diameter. Off to one side was a small standing desk for writing.

“I think it's huge,” replied Harry. “Although I have to say Advanced Gingivitis Treatment with Illustrations isn't exactly what I'm dying to read right now - or ever. But I can see where you got to be such a … er … so into books.” Harry caught himself before he had called Hermione a bookworm (which she was), but was still rewarded with something of a glare. It did not take a genius to figure out what he had almost said.

“Anyway, let's continue with the tour,” Hermione sighed.

They walked through what Harry thought must have been all of the rooms on the ground floor, and then went downstairs to the basement. They passed a woodworking room, a bowling alley (Harry had no idea what it was) and a studio (Harry wondered why the walls seemed to be covered with egg boxes painted grey) before arriving at what Hermione called the game room.

“Er,” Harry stumbled. “This is really … different.” The room was wood paneled, with several stuffed heads of large game animals mounted on the walls. A glass cabinet containing several hunting rifles was mounted on one wall. On another were more of the omnipresent bookshelves - this time containing about twenty years of Nature magazine. A wide screen television dominated one end of the room, along with equipment for playing video games, and a wet bar, complete with four bar stools.

At the other end of the room were a full-sized pinball machine and a large green-covered felt table. Harry had never seen such a thing, except fleetingly on television, and asked Hermione what it was.

“That's a pool table,” Harry. “Don't tell me you've never played before,” said Hermione in what Harry thought of (strictly to himself) as her “I-know-something-you-don't know” tone of voice.

“All right, so I won't tell you, then,” groused Harry, who was beginning to get rather annoyed. “Let's go somewhere else.”

“Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it, that way,” said Hermione, begging the question of how she had meant it. “I didn't know you had really never seen a pool table.”

“Hermione, sometimes I think you could write a book about all the things you don't know about me,” replied Harry grumpily. “Especially the things you don't know that I don't know.”

Hermione looked abashed - but had an idea. Her face brightened again. It was somewhat the reverse of the “normal” clichéd situation, but who had ever accused Harry (or herself, for that matter) of being normal. Harry was tense, and frankly she did not feel that she had done much to help relieve it. She thought further, `bar billiards or snooker would be too difficult … the table's a bit large, but he might have a prayer at pool.'

“Pool is a fun game to play. Will you let me show you how to do it?” she asked. “Please?”

“Umm…. Okay.” He had heard Dudley mention playing pool once or twice over the last few years, but Harry had no idea what the game was about.

“Go to the other end of the table then. You'll find the balls and a big wooden triangle - that's a rack. Put the rack on the table and put the fifteen numbered balls inside of it; leave the little ones,” Hermione instructed. “I'll get our cues chalked up.”

Whilst Harry was plopping various coloured ivory billiard balls in the rack, Hermione went to a cabinet on the wall and removed two cues. She slipped off her infernal high-heeled shoes. Better to play barefoot than in those.

“Hermione, there's one too many balls,” Harry complained peevishly. “There's sixteen rather…. Whoa, and are those wands? I didn't know pool was a magical game.”

“Oh, Harry, it's not,” Hermione said with a laugh. “These are cue sticks, not wands. We use them to hit the balls. The white ball's the cue ball - it doesn't belong in the rack. Roll it up here to the other end of the table. The other fifteen balls go in the rack. Here, let me show you the arrangement….”

Hermione showed Harry how to rack the balls in proper order, and where they went on the table. She showed him how to chalk his stick. Then came the “fun part” (and why Hermione had made her offer once she found out he knew nothing about the game) - showing Harry how to hold the cue and shoot with it.

Harry was several inches taller than Hermione and had longer arms, which is why she had chosen her father's 58-inch Fury RP for him to use. She had her favorite 52-inch model - the one her father had personally turned for her as a present for her fourteenth birthday. The actual instruction involved a good deal of touching and close body contact, as Hermione tried to maintain both of his hands in the proper grip simultaneously.

Contact and touching were good.

Even if she had wanted to, Hermione could not have avoided paying attention to Harry's emotional state during such moments. At least now, their affinity was telling her something that her other senses could confirm. He was responding favorably to her touch. She could feel him relax into her as much of his previous tension vanished. All she had to figure out now was how to steer the conversation to find out where she stood. She did not want her father to turn this dinner into a disaster.

“Now we'll play a simple game,” she told Harry. “Eight ball - solids and stripes. I'll break. You watch how I do it, and where I shoot from. If I knock anything in on the break, then I shoot whatever I put in, and you get the other. From then on, however, we have to pocket our balls in numerical order, lowest to highest. So you can get a sense of the strategy, I'll call my shots, but you don't have to.”

SMACK…! Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, clack, thunk, clack, click, click, click, click … thunk.

Hermione grinned, “Power house break.” She kept up a running commentary throughout the game - which, being his first, was quite one-sided.

“Combination on the three, left corner pocket.”

Clack … clack, clack … thunk.

He tried hard, but not altogether successfully, to process the steady stream of information she imparted about English, bank shots, cushion shots, combinations and how to avoid “scratching” (pocketing the cue ball). He was most impressed - and not just at her skill - when on one particularly awkward shot, Hermione had opted to use the cue stick behind her back.

“Four, corner pocket, opposite side, down and back.”

Clack … clack … clunk … thunk.

Harry nearly dropped his cue at the way her blue gown stretched over her … well … bosom as she arched her back to take that shot.

Some five minutes later: “Harry, what I'm going to do this time is to try for the eight ball - that's the black one - in the corner pocket at your end. I may end up pocketing your eleven in the other corner, but that's all right because I'm doing it to avoid scratching. If that were to happen when I'm shooting the eight ball, I would lose the game.” Then Hermione did exactly what she said she was going to do.

Clack … clack … thunk … click … thunk.

“Great,” Harry said. “Now you've knocked in all of your balls. Does that mean I get to shoot now?”

“Well … actually, no,” Hermione replied, a little embarrassed that she had let her competitive instincts take over. “That means I've won. I did what is called `running the table' - pocketing all my balls in a row with no misses. But we can play again, and just take turns.”

“I think that would be best,” Harry agreed. “You're incredibly good, Hermione.”

“I try to excel at everything I do,” she responded honestly. “Of course, it helps that I've grown up with a table in the house … and lots of time to practice when I was younger. It's not exactly something most girls end up learning, but my parents didn't object so long as I did the girly things they expected - before I got my Hogwarts letter, of course.”

“You're not using magic, are you? That time that you hopped the white one over the orange stripy one looked really hard.”

“It was hard, Harry, but I am quite good at this,” she reminded him. “I assure you I never use magic when I shoot pool. It wouldn't be sporting.”

Hermione racked the balls again and they took turns shooting at anything they wanted. Harry was hardly terrible - he made some shots - but hitting balls with a cue stick required his arm muscles to work in ways he had never used them before. She was constantly adjusting his arm and hand position and trying to get him accustomed to making the straight back and forward motion necessary for the tip of the cue to go where he wanted it to go. She enjoyed every adjustment.

“I was wondering,” Hermione asked tentatively late in their second round of taking turns, “about the affinity caused by the purple-flame spell. Are you still comfortable with maintaining the link? Things have been….” Hermione searched for a sufficiently neutral word. “…Well, rather unpredictable this summer, and if you consider it an invasion of your privacy, I could….”

Harry cut Hermione off. “I don't have anything to hide from you, Hermione. You don't have to change anything on my account.”

After a little more small talk, Hermione took the opening Harry had given her. “Does she make you happy, Harry? This woman you're seeing - I don't even know her name. What I feel from you when you're with her suggests that she does, at least most of the time….”

Clack-riiiiiip … CRASH.

It was not exactly the most opportune moment to bring up that subject. Harry missed his shot badly, his cue leaving a six-inch tear in the baize and causing the cue ball to fly off the table and land with a glass-shattering crash on top of the pinball machine. Hermione flicked her wand out of her wrist holder and repaired the damage with a couple of simple spells.

“Gentle Harry - gentle,” she cautioned. “Remember, no harder than necessary to get the job done….”

Harry stood there feeling intensely stupid.

“I'm just trying to understand how it is,” she said. “We can go to Dumbledore to sever the affinity any time you like.”

“No need,” he replied. “You're good, Hermione. You're spot on in your description. Most of the time she makes me feel … happy things that I've hardly ever felt in my life….” He caught himself. He really should not be discussing with Hermione the exception implied by “hardly ever,” since that exception involved her.

But for fame and fortune….

“She, she just lets me be myself - no demands - and she's showed me to so many fun and interesting things that I'd never known existed. The cinema…. Indian food…. Beethoven….”

It was all Hermione could do not to scream out. “She…? She introduced you to classical music, Harry?” Hermione missed her shot as well.

Clack … clack … clunk-clunk, click. The balls rolled to a halt.

“Yes, before I met her, those composers, Beethoven, Bach, Tchaikovsky…. They were just names to me. My relatives never played them. I didn't know they had written such beautiful music….” He got a far-away look in his eye as he thought about the music Eliza had played for him.

Hermione wanted to cry.

“Oh, really,” she responded, gritting her teeth. She paused, and said, “What instrument does she play?”

“Oh, she doesn't play anything; she chooses music and lets me listen to it,” replied Harry. He pocketed the four ball without scratching.

Clack … click, thunk.

“Can you at least tell me her name?” she asked.

“I … I'd like to - I really would, Hermione, but she doesn't want me to tell anybody,” Harry said in a less enraptured, more leaden tone.

“That's passing strange,” she responded. Trying to sound as disinterested as possible, she asked him, “Why is that?” Hermione sunk the nine ball, drawing it off the opposite cushion and back to the corner pocket on her side.

Clack … clack, clunk … thunk.

“Well…,” Harry paused. He had never discussed this problem with anyone. He had wanted to, but did not know anyone close to him that he trusted. Even Bill had his biases, as he was a Weasley. Harry needed to get it off his chest, so in a trice, he decided to tell his best friend. He tried to put in the six ball, but missed.

Clack … clack, clunk.

“Well, like I said….” Harry haltingly started. “She almost always makes me so happy. But there's this problem….”

Hermione had to remind herself to breathe. She had NOT wanted to be in the position of giving Harry sexual advice about a rival of hers for his affections. She stood there, not taking her shot, staring at him.

“She's…. She's like you in a way. She has big problems with all bloody money and all the bloody fame,” Harry growled out these last few words as if they were a curse. “She won't be seen in public with me…. Not wizarding public, anyway. Everything is wonderful as long as we stay in the Muggle world, but she doesn't want to be associated with me in anything having to do with … with magic. She says I'm like a bird in a gilded cage - ruddy well treated, but trapped - watched every minute of every day for my own safety. She's afraid that would happen to her if she's publicly seen with me, and she says she wouldn't be able to live that way. She's not wrong … about any of it … so I don't know what is going to happen….”

At that moment Hermione was exceedingly grateful that the emotional link between them worked in only one direction. She would not have wanted Harry to know how she was really feeling. That information put her over the moon. Her heart was doing backflips of joy, as she instantly understood the implications of what Harry had said.

He was simply having a summer romance - something that could not possibly last, given Harry's position in the wizarding world.

She did not have to do anything. Any affirmative step would be intrusive and foolish. All Hermione need do was to stay Harry's best friend, not mess anything up worse, and be there for him when the inevitable happened. She had not felt so happy since she had learned she was going to be allowed to return to Hogwarts. Come to think of it, he would probably say the same thing. Her happiness and his were already intertwined, she thought.

Clack … clunk … clunk-clack, thunk.

Hermione calmed herself by lining up a two-cushion shot on the fifteen, which she made smartly. What she said, of course, was completely different from what she thought. “That's terrible Harry…. You're not thinking about going Muggle on everyone, are you? With your goblin manifesto, you've become my indispensable man, you know.”

As if that had not already been true for the better part of three years - maybe longer.

Harry sighed. “I've thought about it, but I know I can't. I've got too many damn responsibilities here to just chuck it all and forget about magic.” At some point, Harry knew, he would have to tell Hermione about the prophecy, but this was hardly a proper time. He took aim at the one ball, trying for the side pocket.

Clack, click, thunk.

“Well, since I've never really had a boyfriend - Viktor being … just too … different - I can hardly give you profound advice,” Hermione advised. “Just enjoy yourselves and see where it goes. But be careful. I wouldn't want you to do anything that would hurt her, and even less would I want her to do anything that would hurt you.”

They shot pool for a few more minutes, until Hermione told him that she wanted to show him her room before dinner started. She led Harry across the house and up the stairs. She was not particularly agile in high heels (the reason she ideologically considered such attire to be the Western equivalent of foot-binding), so she made a virtue of necessity. She concentrated on walking in the most feminine way she could - head up, chin level, and glide with straight-line steps. Harry was, of course, right behind her, and there would not be much besides her for him to look at.

It was not the most opportune time for Hermione to encounter her mum, but that was exactly what happened in the upstairs hallway. Hermione's mum eyed her daughter knowingly, but said nothing. As a woman, she understood very well what that walk in those high heels was for.

“I want to show Harry my room,” pleaded Hermione. “I've been at Hogwarts for over five years, and nobody from school has ever seen it.”

“All right dear,” allowed her mum. “But you know the rules, daughter of mine, and I expect you to obey them. Door open. Both feet on the floor.”

As a teenager, Hermione understood very well that her parents existed to embarrass her. “Yes, mother,” she huffed. More than a little sulkily, she led Harry out of her mum's presence. However, as she reached the doorway to her room, she began to giggle.

“Don't tell me my hair's gone all Weasley again.”

“No, silly.” She flicked out her wand.

She whispered to him, “Same drill as at your place, then.” Her wandtip glowed yellow.

“You are a wicked witch,” gasped Harry as it dawned upon him what she was planning to do. “You'd use a Muggle-Repelling Charm on your own parents?”

“Ten points for Gryffindor, Mister Potter,” Hermione replied, and cast the spell.

Her room looked lived in, but not messy. It was dominated by a lavender coloured four-posted bed that took up about one-third of the space. The gauzy hangings were open, and Harry could see a poster with the Gryffindor coat of arms on the wall between the posts. The bed was neatly made, with a pile of stuffed animals at the foot and some papers scattered about. There were hideaway baskets under the bed.

The opposite wall had a roll-top desk with a Tiffany lamp on one side and a well-used canterbury on the other. The desk was open and Harry could see numerous drawers and cubbyholes, one of which contained her prefect badge. On the wall above the desk was another poster, this one with the Hogwarts crest. Next to that were several framed pictures, presumably courtesy of Colin - the Trio together, the four Triwizard contestants, her and Harry, Harry alone.

Outside light came through a dormer window, in and around which were clustered a variety of plants in flower boxes and hanging baskets. Hermione had a large walk-in closet, in which Harry could see both robes and a number of Muggle outfits hanging. A second door - no doubt to the infamous shared bathroom - was on the left-hand side of her bed.

Two walls of her room were themselves devoted to floor-to-ceiling bookshelves - something Harry entirely expected. In between them was a large, somewhat out of place, portrait of Artemisia Lufkin, former Headmistress of Hogwarts and, later, the first female Minister of Magic. When he asked Hermione about that, she replied, “You're not the only one whom Dumbledore wants to keep an eye on.”

What bare wall space there was was painted light lavender, harmonising with the bedclothes. The ceiling was coffered like the rest of the house. It was painted a darker purple and emblazoned with yellow stars that Hermione explained glowed in the dark, obviating the need for any night lamp.

A wide variety of objects occupied Hermione's room: a stereo with an assortment of newer CDs and a few older vinyl records, Crookshanks' cat bed, an exercise bicycle, a music stand, a vivarium housing a frog and a chameleon, and a computer table with a new-looking computer upon which a coral reef screen saver programme was playing. She had swivel chairs in front of both her desk and her computer. There were a number of framed documents on the walls, from Hermione's signature collection. Harry saw documents signed by John Lennon, Jimmy Carter, and David Lloyd George. There were several others.

Resting on the purple shag carpet, just inside the door was the large owl cage with Harry's unopened card lying on top. Athena was inside, with her feathers puffed out. The owl was hooting regularly and quite obviously agitated.

The reason for her agitation was readily apparent. Crookshanks had parked herself on the carpet about a metre away, his bottle brush tail swishing. He was eyeing Athena intently with a “dinnertime” look in his yellow eyes. Hermione immediately shooed Crookshanks from the room.

“Oh you poor dear,” Hermione cooed to Athena. “Cooped up for all this time. It's time you were let out. Hermione removed a large hanging bacopa (“I'm learning to grow some of my own herbs”) and placed it on her desk. She transfigured Athena's large square cage into an elegant stainless steel dometop, and Harry helped her hang it from the chain that formerly held the bacopa. Hermione let Athena out. The tawny owl promptly landed on her outstretched arm.

Hermione winced as she learnt the hard way that it was not a good idea to allow owls to perch on bare skin, but she stroked Athena lovingly nonetheless. After chatting with Athena for a bit, she decided that she wanted to send a letter to someone. She first thought of Ron and Ginny, but Harry reminded her that they were across the sea in Denmark. Hermione agreed that a long over-water delivery was a bit much for an inaugural flight.

Instead she decided to send a note to Neville, which she hastily drafted and would not let Harry read. “Gentlemen don't read each other's mail,” Hermione admonished. After affixing the letter, Hermione threw open the sash. With a joyous squawk, Athena took flight. She had been caged for a long time.

Harry picked his card off the floor. With a nervous half smile he handed it to her. She could sense that his hesitation was real. She took it from him and opened it. Inside was a card with Athena's picture on it, and an inscription (in blinking rainbow colours) that read, “To Hermione, who makes my sad songs better.”

“Oh, Harry, that's so sweet!” She kissed him on the cheek, drew back and waited for his response. She felt a swirl of conflicted emotions through the affinity.

“Umm … there's a picture in there too.”

Hermione took out the picture. “Oh my, aren't you something to look at.… A true knight in shining armour.” She eyed the picture more closely.

“Harry, you weren't…? What are you going to do with the bonnet ornament in your hand?”

It did not occur to Harry that the question might have been rhetorical - or even that a little white lie might have been appropriate.

“Er … It's already gone…,” he confessed. “I gave it to my … girlfriend.”

That certainly broke the mood. Back to square one. Regroup. Try again.

“Harry, you remember when I sent you the letter through the Royal Mail?” Hermione asked.

“I'll never forget that as long as I live,” Harry responded. “I stayed up all night learning about Hong Kong.”

“Well, I fooled my folks, by using stamps from this book,” Hermione said, gesturing to a large green volume embossed with “United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland.”

“My grandfather was a philatelist, and I got this when he died. I'd never had any use for it until that night. My parents didn't know that I had any postage. I snuck the letter into a pillar box at the airport.”

“I wondered how you did that,” Harry said, suppressing a smile. “You upset my relatives, since the postman inquired after the stamps.”

“Speaking of Hong Kong, would you like to see the photographs from my trip?” Hermione asked. Harry readily agreed. His hasty research had left him somewhat curious about the place.

Hermione pulled a large white-paged Muggle photo album from one of her shelves. She pushed the papers on the bed to one side and for the next few minutes she reminisced about what she had seen and done on what had to have been the worst holiday she had ever experienced. There were lots of pictures of abrupt hillsides, breathtakingly tall buildings (Harry always thought that place looked like the New York City pictures in his old primary school geography books), and gaudy Chinese objects. Some photos from a tram ride were so mind-bendingly steep that the buildings looked as if they were almost lying on the ground - and these were non-magical pictures.

Hermione continued, “The one thing I regret most about the trip is that, because of my parents' attitude, I had no chance to learn anything about the magic of the place. On every other trip since I've been at Hogwarts, I was able to learn about magical customs as well. I feel like there's a lacuna in my experience….”

“A what?” Harry asked.

“A lacuna - a hole, a gap, an empty spot. Anyway, I took only one picture that had anything to with magic, and I wasn't even sure about that at the time.” Hermione paused, thinking about that hole she felt in her heart.

“Which one is that?” asked Harry.

Hermione flipped several pages. “This one,” she said. “Can you tell who that is?”

“Why that's Percy the perfect prefect coming out of some building,” laughed Harry. “How did you get that shot?”

“Well, he wasn't easy to miss,” Hermione explained. “Especially with almost everyone being Chinese, he stood out. I was so lonesome for anything magical, that I took his picture without even being absolutely sure it was he. It was him, though. Dumbledore drafted him to speak to my parents, and if I do say so, he did a marvelous job of negotiating. It was all coincidence - he just happened to be in the colony on some Quidditch tour with Ludo Bagman.”

“Hermione,” Harry began, “I'm getting some Occlumency and meditation training from a Chinese wizard who knows loads about Hong Kong. I could arrange for you to see him if you'd like. I mentioned you to him … er … when I thought I might have to come for you. I'm sure he'd see you. At least you could show him your photos, or something…. Maybe there's more to them than meets the eye? He might even tell you about Hong Kong magic.”

“Oh, could you?” Hermione bounced on the bed with her hands clasped together. “I would like that very much.”

“Sure,” said Harry. “By the way Miss Granger, your feet aren't on the floor.”

“Mention that again,” replied Hermione, making a show of drawing her wand, “and something else will be on the floor.”

They both laughed. Harry continued, “It's not the greatest neighbourhood though. He works in the same Muggle gym my cousin attends - he's a member of the Order and is there to watch over Dudley … security, you know.”

She started to put the photo album down on the scraps of parchment that were on her bed. “Oh, yes, that reminds me,” she said. “These are the drafts that Colin and Dennis prepared of form responses to your fan mail. They sorted the mail into eight categories: generally favorable; letters with concrete business or personal proposals of one sort or another; umm … marriage proposals … which require a rather different response; offers to adopt you, which are surprisingly numerous; autograph or picture requests; generally unfavorable; hate mail, and dangerous mail. We see no reason to respond to the latter two categories. But we have prepared generic, noncommittal letters to address the remainder. I helped Dennis charm an autopen to sign your name, he's very clever in that way, and Colin already has some suitable photographs of you for those requesting them.”

“Just what I need - to be the second coming of Gilderoy Lockhart,” Harry muttered.

“Well you could do worse,” Hermione sniffed. She thought of the precious spare time she had spent supervising the Creeveys when Harry had not gotten around to it himself.

“You're still crushing on him, aren't you,” he teased.

“I most certainly am not! I've moved on!” Hermione protested. Harry decided it would not be wise to pursue this conversation any further.

Hermione was left waiting for the follow-up question that never came - the one that might have allowed for a life-changing “inadvertent” admission.

Harry started to read the letters, but she told him to take them with him and read them at home. He could mark them up if he wanted and send them back directly to the Creeveys with Hedwig.

Hermione was rooting around in one of the hideaway baskets under the bed, looking for something. While watching what he could see of her form-fitting dress, Harry brought up the purple-themed décor of Hermione's room.

“Oh, purple has always been my favorite colour, for ever since I can remember,” Hermione replied. “Daddy always encouraged it…. Said purple was the colour of royalty.”

“Well, that's one thing anyone can always fantasise over,” Harry said absent mindedly, still observing Hermione as she bent over whatever it was she was looking in. Through the affinity, she could sense Harry paying her the same sort of attention as he had when they walked to her room. She was in no mood to hurry.

“I never can tell with Daddy, though,” Hermione replied. “He's so very ambitious. For all I know he could be serious…,” her voice trailed off. “You can gain the world but lose your soul…. There … found it.”

“Found what?” Harry asked.

“This,” said Hermione enigmatically. Then she turned around and Harry saw she was holding a violin and a bow.

“You…? You play violin?” Harry asked, his mouth wide open in undisguised surprise.

“Why yes, Harry,” Hermione replied with a half smile. Harry watched as she sat on the bed, rubbed something on the bow, and fitted a shoulder rest to the instrument. “You see, the things you don't know about me - you too could fill a book with them. My parents had me do all the usual girly things when I was young: ballet, gymnastics, choir, violin. I was hideous at most of them, but this one stuck. I've been taking lessons since I was four, and I might have gone into music if I hadn't received my letter. Tibor was very disappointed….”

“Tibor who?”

“Tibor Varga.” Noting Harry's blank look, she added, “He's a Muggle violin instructor, quite famous, and a prodigy in his own right.”

Without saying anything further, Hermione put the violin under her chin, and her bow flashed across the strings. Hermione adjusted a couple of the pegs, making sure the instrument was in tune. “Would you like to hear me play?” she asked, although Harry could tell this was hardly a request.

“Sure,” he said, “just pick anything pretty.”

“Don't worry,” Hermione shot back. “Remember, I said that everything I do, I try to excel. This is no exception.” Unblushingly, Hermione shook her head to banish furious thoughts of that other woman introducing Harry to this. She took a couple of deep breaths and began to play….

Harry was almost instantaneously transported by the beautiful music that Hermione coaxed out of the violin. It was classical music of some sort, but Harry knew he had never heard anything like it before. Eliza had preferred orchestral music, not soloists.

Hermione rocked back and forth, playing intently. She knew Twelfth Night, so she played on and on. She poured her heart and soul into the music, hoping that it could speak to Harry in ways that her words, halting and self-conscious, had not. Her teacher had impressed upon her that music was a language that expressed what no other language could.

In her concentration, Hermione did not know it, but she was slowly walking around the room as she played. After what seemed at once to be a very long and a very short time, she finished with furious bow work. It was as if she had suddenly returned from a higher plane to mere mortal consciousness.

“How did you like it, Harry?” she asked.

He likewise jerked out of the trance he had been in. “Hermione, that was amazing…, beautiful…. I don't know enough words to describe how wonderful that was…. What was it?”

“It doesn't really have a name,” Hermione replied with a far-away smile. “It's by Tchaikovsky, but it's simply called `Violin Concerto in D.' It's one of my favorite pieces. I could play you some more - Brahms and Beethoven wrote concertos in the same key that are almost as beautiful.… Or any of the other composers that you named … or Bartók, or even Shostakovich - although my favorite Bach would need a second violin.”

She was getting enthusiastic now, and Harry's head was spinning.

“I could even record some music if you want….”

“Hermione! This is the five minute warning for dinner!” her insufferably nosy mum called up the stairs. She stayed downstairs, though. Even Tchaikovsky could not overcome Hermione's most effective Muggle-Repelling Charm.

“You don't have to give me anything more, Hermione,” Harry said. “That was wonderful enough….”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Harry continued, “I have something for you that I didn't want to give you in front of your parents.” He fished out one of the Twins' Portable Holes from his pockets.

“What on Earth is this?” questioned Hermione, eyeing the featureless flat black object suspiciously.

“It's Fred and George's latest,” Harry replied chortling. “Just put it on anything and you've made a hole in it. I reckon it would be handy for opening locked doors, or for looking through walls, or for any number of things. Look - you can stretch it and make it bigger.”

Harry stood up and produced another one. “Watch this,” he said. He put the hole in his main pocket, and the contents spilled onto the floor. “I've got a hole in me pocket,” he joked.

“Oh, Harry, that's just like the scene in Yellow Submarine,” Hermione responded.

“What?” asked Harry dumbly. “The only Yellow Submarine I know about is a Beatles album - one that has my favorite song on it, actually.”

“It's a Beatles movie, as well…,” then what Harry had said registered. “Oh, really Harry - mine too! Let me get it out….”

But this was not to be. The booming voice of Hermione's father sounded up the stairs. “All right you two! It's dinner time - NOW!”

“I'll play it for you some time,” Harry told Hermione as they scrambled out the door.

The table in the Grangers' formal dining room could easily have seated twenty. The one room was almost as large as the Dursleys' entire ground floor.

This night only four people - two magicals, two Muggles, all of them uncomfortable - sat down to dine on salad, buttered asparagus tips, spinach soufflé, filet mignon, and for dessert, raspberry panna cotta with powdered sugar and chocolate syrup. All of this was to be washed down with liberal amounts of Harry's charmed Château Blackwalls champagne.

The underbutler who served the first champagne set the mood. He had an injured hand, and glared at Harry whilst serving him. Harry suspected that dropping the champagne bottle as many times as he had had something to do with that. After the first time, Bill had warned that it might make for a rather explosive opening….

Hermione's father asked her to perform a charm to Confund the staff so they would not hear any conversation about magic. After that, Harry and Hermione kept the conversation deliberately light. He discussed how he had gotten much better marks than he had expected on his O.W.L.s and described some of the tamer portions of the training he and Hermione had been receiving. He explained how the Omnioculars he had gotten them as a gift worked and the kinds of events for which they were useful.

The Grangers were interested in the Omnioculars, and asked a number of questions. They also talked some about dentistry, but mostly about their daughter when she was younger. Hermione said as little as possible - speaking up only when her parents' descriptions of her childhood became too embarrassing or embellished.

About halfway through the soufflé, just when Harry thought that things were going on well enough, he caught sight of an owl streaking towards him - one that he could not identify. Any unexpected magical carrying-ons could not be good. The owl had something in its beak. As it came nearer, he could tell that the something was red. That was even worse.

Harry's eyes grew huge when the owl deposited its message directly in front of him. Someone - someone who knew how to get through the security that the Order had placed on his o-mail - had chosen this precise moment to send him a Howler. Harry looked helplessly at Hermione. He received the same helpless look in return.

The red letter was smoking slightly. Harry knew that if left unopened, it would explode, and the results would be even worse. Tentatively he reached for it. As he did, Hermione desperately tried to explain to her parents what a Howler was.

Closing his eyes, Harry ripped it open…

The magically amplified voice of Molly Weasley echoed throughout the room and beyond. “HARRY JAMES POTTER, I'M SHOCKED AND APPALLED THAT YOU COULD BE SO SELFISH. NOT ONLY DID YOU LET RONNIE GO THROUGH WITH RESIGNING AS GRYFFINDOR PREFECT, BUT YOU AGREED WITH HIM TO SWAP HIS PREFECT POSITION FOR THE QUIDDITCH CAPTAINCY. YOU KNOW FULL WELL THAT YOU CAN'T CARRY THROUGH YOUR PART OF THAT DEAL, AND NOW RONNIE HAS NOTHING. DON'T YOU HAVE ENOUGH IN LIFE, WITH TWO INHERITANCES? WHY DID YOU HAVE TO TAKE FOR YOURSELF THE ONLY HONOUR RONNIE HAS EVER WON?”

Its message sent; the howler burned to ashes with a fizzing noise.

Everyone, even Hermione, stared dumbfounded at Harry, as he struggled to explain himself. He told them how Ron had decided to quit as prefect before he had ever spoken with him about it. Harry protested that he, Harry, had tried to dissuade Ron, and that the business about the Quidditch captaincy (here, he had to explain about Quidditch), had all been Ron's idea. Harry said he had warned his friend that he had no control over who was chosen captain, since the head of house, Professor McGonagall, kept her own counsel in making that decision.

The Grangers at least knew who Professor McGonagall was. Harry thought Hermione believed him, but her parents were unreadable. The elder Grangers were silently exchanging significant glances at one another across the table.

Just as silently Harry cursed Ron. He was fairly sure that, when an angry Molly had confronted him about what he had done, Ron had tried to divert her wrath from himself by making it appear that the whole thing had been at least as much Harry's doing as his own.

Dinner was even more strained after the Howler incident. Harry tried to talk about safe subjects - such as Quidditch. At least in Quidditch, Harry was only endangering his own safety, and nobody else's. Hermione's father discussed his work on the NHS formulary board. He described how he chaired a group that decided what equipment had to be in the office of every dentist in England. Hermione mouthed platitudes, and concentrated on nervously (if covertly) monitoring Harry's mental state. Fortunately, his dominant emotion was confusion.

They were imbibing a great deal of Harry's charmed champagne, which led Dr. Granger to ask Harry to explain how he had acquired the bottle, since Harry was still under age. Dr. Granger reminded Harry that even Hermione, who was some ten months older than he, was not legally permitted to purchase anything alcoholic. Harry was forced to admit that Bill had done the deed, which detracted from the suave image he had hoped to project.

Harry's mental state indicated an uptick in embarrassment.

It took until dessert - after even more of Harry's charmed champagne had been consumed - for Hermione's father to get around to the topic that he had intended this dinner to address from its inception. Hermione, knowing her father, had been dreading this moment.

Addressing Harry formally, he asked, “Tell me, Mister Potter, what are your intentions towards my daughter, Hermione?”

Harry could feel all eyes upon him, but he did not quite understand that the phrasing of the question had meaning beyond its words. Hermione sensed confusion, nervousness, and, interestingly, honesty. She held her breath.

“Well, sir, that's hard to explain - I assure you that my intentions are good,” Harry said, struggling for the right words to answer what sounded like a rather metaphysical inquiry. “I reckon that my primary intention, above all else, is to make sure that she is safe.… That what happened to her in the Ministry never happens again. When…. When she…. When she went down, I felt like I was dying too. I had never felt as bad in all my life as I did at that moment…. If something worse ever happened, I don't think I could go on…. I hope you believe that.”

Hermione allowed herself to exhale. In her eyes, Harry was never cuter than when he was trying to be earnest around adults. Even though it was not the answer that her father had expected to his question, she felt that it was an excellent response nonetheless. In his own sweet and unpretentious way, Harry had answered the question.

Her father did not share her opinion and let Harry know. “That's all well and good, Mister Potter,” he said with exasperation evident in his voice, “but what I need to know - what I have to know before you leave tonight - is what are your romantic intentions towards my daughter?”

With almost all eyes still on Harry, the death glare that Hermione shot her father went unseen.

Instantly, Harry's confusion level plummeted. THAT was a VERY clear question. Confusion was replaced by fear, nervousness, angst, embarrassment, entrapment, a suppressed desire to prevaricate - and underneath it all a steady current of … could it be … some sort of love?

“Oh,” said Harry, responding almost as if he had been slapped in the face. “I - I - I guess I don't have any of those, at least I don't think so.… Probably once, but not any more. Hermione….”

Entrapment and sorrow zoomed to the top of Harry's emotional chart, followed by a healthy dollop of wistfulness. Hermione wanted to Apparate somewhere - anywhere - but her sense of obligation to Harry for placing him in this horrid situation kept her riveted to her chair.

He looked at her with pleading in his eyes, silently begging her to understand. “She…. She told me that she wasn't interested in anyone as rich or as famous as I am, or … er … as I am quite likely to be. I already have a girlfriend … if that's what you mean.”

That was not at all the answer Hermione's father had expected to hear, in a number of ways. But one aspect of its unexpectedness outweighed all others… From everything his daughter had told him about Harry Potter (which of course was hardly anything) Dr. Granger had always thought that Harry was as poor as a church mouse - an orphan barely tolerated by his relatives.

But he was wearing a rather finely tailored suit…. And that … that Howler thing had mentioned inheritances….

“Well, Mister Potter, I suppose that's a relief to hear,” Dr. Granger said. “I had understood you to be famous among magical people, and Hermione here has given me a good idea why that is so. But I did not understand you to be wealthy - in fact, I understood quite the opposite.” He looked accusingly, and increasingly angrily, at Hermione, who was turning very red in the face.

For a shocked moment, Harry thought Dr. Granger might be going to hit Hermione right there at the dinner table. Harry wordlessly slipped his wand into his hand under the table. He would not allow that, even if all of his special exemptions would be revoked…. Even if it meant Azkaban….

Hermione felt a surge in Harry's anger, as well as the calm of a seasoned dueller preparing for possible action.

Harry Legilimenced to a shocked Hermione to be ready to duck if her father made any aggressive move. Simultaneously, he tried one last stab at civility - even servility - if it would prevent a blow up.

Hermione sensed determination, extreme nervousness, and honesty.

“Sir … please…?” Harry choked out. “It's not her fault. I'm sure she told you what she believed was true - what I believed was true - until a few weeks ago. I've no doubt she didn't tell you otherwise because it involves the deaths of several people who were very close to me, closer than almost anyone in the world…. You did hear correctly, though.… As it turns out I am inheriting, or am likely to inherit, a great deal of money.”

Harry exhaled as Dr. Granger turned his attention back to him, “And just how much is that, young man?” the man asked.

Hermione sensed Harry's resignation. She Legilimenced Harry to `be careful,' but it simply did not occur to him to lie about money to Dr. Granger's face.

“I'm not exactly sure, sir,” he said with an even voice, “but I've been told, by people I trust in such matters, that it's on the order of a billion pounds, maybe more.”

Hermione's father's jaw dropped. He sat there mute, staring at Harry, for fully fifteen seconds. His lips seemed to be silently forming the letter B. Shaking himself out of his transient stupor, he said to his family, “Eva, Hermione, I need to speak to you both - alone - and immediately. Come with me.”

With that rude command, Dr. Granger got up and smartly left the room. Hermione's mother at first simply stared after her husband, then she abruptly stood and followed, almost knocking over her chair in her haste. Hermione's face was drained of all colour, and for a moment Harry thought she was going to faint. She rose, fighting for composure, and walked towards the door through which her parents had both disappeared.

Harry stood up as well. Hermione motioned sharply at him to stay where he was. His predominate emotions were shock and sorrow.

Before exiting, she turned to Harry and tearfully said, “Oh Harry, I'm so very sorry about this, I really am - you have no idea how sorry.” Then, unsure what to expect, she too exited the room, leaving Harry alone with his half-eaten dessert, two rather startled footmen, and some very unsettled thoughts.

For several minutes, Harry simply remained in his seat, picking distractedly at his dessert. As he was sitting there waiting for the finish of whatever Granger family conference had just been called concerning him, he became acutely aware of the amount of champagne he had drunk with dinner. The call of nature was urgent, and would not wait for anything or anyone.

He asked one of the lurking servants where the loo was, and the man (who seemed almost as distracted by recent events as Harry) gave him directions rather than escorting him, as would have been the normal practice.

Harry was confused almost at once by the directions, but he ended up finding a loo soon enough - although he was not at all sure that it was the one to which he had been directed. Emerging a few moments later, he soon realised that he was both tipsy and quite lost. As he tried to find his way back to the dining room, Harry heard muffled shouting from down a hallway.

It was readily apparent to anyone within earshot that Hermione and her parents were having quite a row. Harry was conflicted. Half of him wished that he had never stumbled upon the scene, particularly since he knew he was the primary bone of contention. The other half of him wished that he had a set of Extendable Ears. Harry reflexively put his hand in his pocket - and felt nothing. Rather, he felt the spare Portable Hole he had brought along with him.

All the shouting made Harry's mind up for him. If her father Granger were to hurt Hermione, Harry would… Well, he was not sure what he would do - but he was absolutely sure that he would think of something that would make it worth any punishment that he might receive for performing underage magic in front of, or on, Muggles.

Harry kneaded the Portable Hole until it was down to about five centimetres in diameter. After casting Hermione's Muggle-Repelling Charm at the opposite end of the hallway, he placed the Portable Hole on the wall.

Harry was lucky - at least in the sense that he achieved his immediate objective. The hole did not end up behind a cupboard or a wardrobe, nor was it in a place where anyone in the room would be likely to see it. He could just see Hermione, her hair now bushy and wild, facing away from him. She was surely looking at her parents, whom he could not see. All concerned were shouting at the top of their respective lungs.

“…JUST ASKING YOU TO BE REASONABLE, HERMIONE. AFTER ALL, YOU SAID YOURSELF THAT YOU HADN'T MEANT IT IN THAT FASHION!” Mr. Granger yelled. “CAN'T YOU KEEP AN OPEN MIND…?”

Hermione's loud and shrill voice cut him off. “OPEN MIND? WHAT YOU'RE ASKING FOR IS MORE LIKE `OPEN LEGS!' I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU DADDY! TWENTY MINUTES AGO YOU COULD BARELY STAND TO BE IN THE SAME ROOM WITH HIM AND STAY CIVIL! NOW YOU WANT ME TO THROW MYSELF AT HIM? HE'S MY BEST FRIEND. I WON'T DO THAT. MONEY DOESN'T CHANGE EVERYTHING FOR ME!!”

“WELL IT SHOULD!!” bellowed Dr. Granger. “THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH MARRYING THAT KIND OF MONEY!”

“THEN YOU MARRY HIM, IF YOU WANT IT SO BLOODY MUCH!!” Hermione spat.

Then it was her mum's turn. “HERMIONE JANE GRANGER, STOP TALKING LIKE THAT TO YOUR FATHER! YOU SAID YOURSELF HE MISINTERPRETED! HOW DO YOU KNOW HOW HE REALLY FEELS…?”

Hermione practically screamed. “SO I MESSED UP - OKAY? HE'S NOT VIKTOR, WE ALL KNOW THAT, BUT IT'S TOO BLOODY LATE!! HE'S FOUND SOMEONE ELSE! I KNOW HOW HE FEELS BETTER THAN YOU THINK! WE WERE BOTH HIT WITH THE SAME NASTY SPELL! AS A RESULT, WE'RE EMOTIONALLY LINKED. I CAN FEEL HIS EMOTIONS! I KNOW HE LOVES HER…! OH MY STARS…!”

“YOU WHAT?” Dr. Granger howled.

Through the red haze of her own anger, Hermione had just sensed Harry's emotions, and she knew that he knew exactly what was being discussed. Her anger began trickling away, replaced by a surfeit of despair and regret.

Harry knew what had happened too - but he was past caring. He had had enough. He fully understood what Hermione's parents were pressuring her to do, and he knew her well enough to know that she would never, ever, give into them. It was now painfully obvious to him that there was no longer any realistic chance for the two of them. The scales fell from his eyes as he had been listening.

This was not the kind of situation that any amount of Gryffindor courage could alter. Heroics were useless.

Everything was useless.

Harry felt that he was useless. He felt a million other emotions as well, all bad and all stumbling over one another in a chaotic, discordant muddle.

He had to get out of this place. There was nothing here for him except pain and more pain. He ripped down the portable hole and sprinted along the hallway. But he was still lost. He was almost ready to blast out a window with his wand and jump through it when he finally came upon a piece of overblown sculpture that he recognised. His patent leather shoes skidding on the highly polished wood floor, Harry made a right turn and ran full tilt down a hall that led to the main entrance.

Not knowing whether the front doors were locked, Harry tried to flick out his wand. Unfortunately the wand caught in his fluttering coat sleeve. Before noticing, he had shouted “Alohomora!,” and the doors flung themselves open. Oblivious to the wandless magic he had just performed, he screamed into the darkness to his unseen guardians that he was Apparating at once to his usual spot behind Mrs. Figg's house. With a loud pop, he was gone.

Hermione tried to follow, but the slinky blue gown now betrayed her. Even knowing all the shortcuts, she could not reach him. She heard Harry's pop just as she reached the threshold. No longer having any reason to do anything else, she broke into bitter tears.

Had she the presence of mind to scrutinise their emotional affinity at that moment, she would have discovered that for once they were matching perfectly - Harry was doing the same.

* * * *

Author notes: The line about nothing but a reputation comes from "Only the Good Die Young"

Gingivitis is a rather disgusting gum disease

The studio is a recording studio

The billiard scene is as accurate as I can make it. I've never seen a Harry plays pool scene in any fic that I've read so I took a shot at one

The Fury is a top of the line cue

When you've got no friends, you can play a lot of pool

Hermione's desire to excel at everything she does will come through when they finally get together

"Clack" is a hard hit, "click" a soft one, "clunk" is a ball hitting a cushion, and "thunk" is a ball going into the pocket. This is a pool table with rails, not basket pockets

A behind the back pool shot arches the body in a way that tends to display female assets, particularly if the shooter is wearing the type of dress Hermione was

I played a fair amount of pool in my teenage years, so I can at least visualize making all the shots I describe as Hermione's

Foot-binding was a Chinese practice of crippling women by deforming their feet so they could hardly walk

Head up, chin level, and glide comes from the movie "Miss Congeniality"

And what might Hermione be writing to Neville about that she doesn't want to tell Harry about?

The "gentlemen don't read each other's mail" is a paraphrase of a quotation attributed to Henry Stimson concerning espionage

The inscription in the card Harry gave Hermione should give one of the Beatles songs away

The stamps that Hermione used to mail that letter are real, as is the description of the album they are in. I'm a philatelist myself

Hong Kong is a very vertical city; I thank Olaffr for the descriptions of the tram up Mt. Victoria, as I haven't been there in almost 30 years

The Percy photo will be important later

Gain the world/lose your soul comes from “Within You Without You” by the Beatles

Hermione's musical training with the violin is how she learned to use her hands independently of one another

Tibor Varga was a real person, who did exactly what is described

The Twelfth Night (Shakespeare) reference: "If music be the food of love, play on"

The Tchaikovsky, Brahms, and Beethoven reference to violin concertos in D are accurate. These are some of the most famous violin pieces that exist

The "I'll play it for you sometime" is heavy duty foreshadowing

O-mail is short for owl mail

This is an accurate description of the function of a formulary board

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions

- 41 -

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch18 good intentions.doc 02/06/05

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19. Dreams And Memories

Wherein Harry has a Voldemort-induced nightmare in which he gives up magic, Remus and Bill snap Harry help Harry over it, Harry discusses Sirius with Remus, Harry has a workout with Lao Kung at Hogwarts, Dumbledore gets wanted and unwanted advice, Harry gets a letter from Ginny, Harry has a fly and then a man-to-man talk with Bill about Harry's relationships with certain women, Bill has an idea, Harry gets Eliza presents and has an impromptu date, Harry gets Sirius' Pensieve from Remus as a present, except it isn't empty, Harry experiences the night his parents died through Bill's eyes and solves the mystery of Voldemort's wand, Harry learns something he was not supposed to know, Harry confronts Dumbledore about it and draws back a nub, and Harry turns down a modest proposition.

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

Chapter 19 -Dreams And Memories

How much time had passed, Harry had no idea. He did not care - not about the now-setting gibbous moon; not about his expensive dew soaked designer suit pants; not about anything but his own despondency. How long he forlornly lay curled in a fœtal position on Mrs. Figg's grassy back garden, he did not know. Alternately he cried, cursed the day he was born, and regretted ever being a wizard. The first thing he noticed beyond his own misery was a soft white glow behind him.

At first he ignored it - like he wanted to ignore everything else in the world. The glow grew brighter, however, and he felt a slight warmth. `Damn,' he thought, `another of Dumbledore's fancy appearances. Well, there's no escaping the Headmaster, so I'd best deal with it.'

Groaning, Harry rolled over to face the light. To his surprise, it was not Dumbledore at all. Instead, he saw the white, ghostly figure of an ancient wizard whose beard was even longer than his Headmaster's. The man's figure was surrounded by an ethereal glow. With no discernable steps, he, or it, slowly glided towards the prone young wizard.

Harry scrambled to his feet. “Who, Who, Who are you?” he stuttered.

The figure stopped a couple of metres away. “I am the ghost of Merlin,” he replied in soft sepulchral tones, “keeper of magic. I roam the Earth to meet wizards like you who experience dark nights of the soul. You have been expressing a strong desire to be rid of the gift of magic. Is that indeed your wish?”

Fresh tears flowed down Harry's face as he pondered that question anew. Sadly, he nodded his head affirmatively. Reluctantly he had concluded that his magic was no longer worth the pain. The whole magical world was not worth his crushing responsibility to it….

…Magic had killed his parents. It had killed Sirius. A prophecy damned him to kill or be killed. The only one who might have made everything worth it had just been driven away. Taking stock of what little he had left, Harry decided that might as well turn up on Eliza's doorstep as a Muggle and try a new life.

“Are you certain?” the shimmering Merlin figure asked once again. “Once the gift of magic is revoked, that consequence is irreversible.”

Harry thought long and hard. He decided that he was no longer (if he ever was) capable of being what Hermione had called the “indispensable man.” In the end, what had magic ever done for him except kill, injure, or repulse everyone he had ever loved? “I, I am,” he choked out.

“Very well, so be it,” said Merlin. “Take your wand and thrust it tip-first into the earth. But do not let go. Continue to grasp the handle.”

Harry complied.

The ghostly figure withdrew his own wand from a pocket in his robes. He pulsated and changed shape as he lowered himself to the ground. The figure started to undulate. It took on a less human and more serpentine form whilst approaching Harry's wand. Still, Merlin's ghost remained human enough to utter a lengthy Latin incantation that Harry did not understand. The incantation and the transformation concluded at the same time.

Now a snake, Merlin's ghost carried his wand in his mouth. He struck, and their wands touched. Harry was enveloped in soft yellow light. There was a hissing sound like air escaping from a pinhole in a balloon. The light gradually left his body, flowed through his arm, and into his wand. Finally, only his wand was glowing. Then, after a long moment, the wand went dark as well.

“You may let go now,” the ghost commanded. “It has returned to the earth from whence it came.”

Harry released his wand. Spontaneously, it burst into flame before crumbling into ashes. He could no longer feel any magic in him. A quick repetition of one of Lao Kung's wandless spells confirmed that he was no longer magical. The blob of light that was Merlin was transforming again. Feeling relieved, yet still intensely sorrowful, he turned and began to walk away - haltingly ready to begin his new, non-magical life.

The shadow Harry cast indicated that Merlin's glow was changing from white to red, but Harry no longer cared. He was free. The magical part of his life was over. The Dursleys would be pleased. He only hoped that Eliza would be as well….

“Where do you think you're going, Squib?” came a sharper voice from behind him. Merlin seemed angry.

Harry turned. Merlin was shimmering red now, but the red light was shifting - dividing in two swirling vortices. As the vortices shrank in size, their ruddy glow became more intense and their edges more solid. They looked like - like eyes. Harry's jaw dropped as he realised….

His scar suddenly exploded with pain. He slumped to his knees. A single word, “V-V-Voldemort,” escaped Harry's anguished lips.

“The very same, you foolish Squib. I have taken your magic, now I am going to take everything else - slowly, but surely. Behold!” Voldemort began laughing maniacally. Harry looked past him. The scene illuminated by the moonlight was at once disgusting and astounding.

Hermione was there.

And she was lashed tightly to Mrs. Figg's picnic table. She struggled against dark bindings that held her fast.

Harry gasped as it dawned on him that she had been stripped naked. Forcibly. She was bruised and bleeding from the mouth. Two masked Death Eaters flanked her, laughing and making rude gestures at Harry. Some kind of design had been daubed on her midsection in what was probably blood….

Looking harder, he prayed it was only painted - one of the Death Eaters was holding what looked like a very sharp object.

Voldemort removed a Silencing Charm, and Hermione's screams echoed through the night, “No, Harry! Please, no! Please tell me that you didn't do it! No. No. No….”

`Where in Hell is the bloody Order?' Harry thought frantically. `This is Mrs. Figg's own damned garden….'

Voldemort was in his head, reading his mind. “No one will come,” the Dark Lord hissed. “There's no more magic. You're worthless to them … a broken tool. They can't track you any more even if they wanted to - which they don't….”

Voldemort's voice trailed off into a mirthless laugh. After a pause, he commanded, “You want her, don't you? Well, go take her - with my compliments.”

Harry was too stunned even to stand, let alone walk.

“NOW!” Voldemort bellowed.

An unseen force jerked Harry to his feet and began pushing him, marionette-like, towards where Hermione was pinioned. A ripping sound followed and Harry saw to his horror that his own clothes were being torn away.

“Resistance is futile,” Voldemort hissed. “You're nothing but a pathetic Squib. You might as well enjoy yourself one last time before I kill you.” His loud, cackling laughter filled the night.

Harry was being pushed closer and closer to her.

“…Haaaarrrrryyyyy! Noooooooo!”

With his approach, the design resolved into the Dark Mark - carved obscenely into the soft skin of her abdomen…. He could even hear its edges sizzling.…

“NO!” screamed Harry. With one final, great exercise of will, his legs gave out and the unseen force dumped him face first in the wet grass.

“Always the gentleman, I see,” Voldemort said icily. “We'll just do it the hard way then.” He lazily pointed his wand at Harry, “Imperio.”

Harry's body snapped to attention, as all thought receded. His mind went strangely but comfortably numb. He had secretly hoped for this woman to be his first lover for more than a year, and now that was possible, courtesy of the Dark Lord. Was that not wonderful? The circumstances were not quite what he had fantasised, but still…. He moved closer to her. He could barely hear Hermione continuing to scream - scarcely more than background noise….

Then Eliza's face flashed before Harry's eyes. Was it not for her, rather than Hermione, that he had just surrendered his magic? Did he really want this any more? Maybe not. He lurched clumsily to a halt, his mind a fuzzy battleground of conflicting signals and colliding emotions.

Suddenly the haze lifted. “Very interesting, Potter. Very interesting indeed,” Voldemort observed. “When someone under the Imperius Curse is told to perform something already desired, obeisance results almost as if the Curse isn't even there. Reluctance such as yours doesn't happen - especially from a Squib. Could it be that this Mudblood no longer interests you? Is there someone else? Who is she, Potter? Tell me now, and I might just let this one go.”

“Nooooooo…!” howled Harry.

“Legilimens,” roared Voldemort, jabbing his wand once again at Harry.

Voldemort's eyes bore into his. Harry's scar felt like a dagger plunged into his brain. Voldemort was twisting it, driving it ever deeper. Harry collapsed in agony. He was trying harder than ever in his life to protect his thoughts, but he was no longer magical. He retched as images were torn from his mind. The overheard argument at Hermione's.… The violin performance marking the swan song of their friendship…. His embarrassment at having red hair.… His brain felt like it was melting.…

“Eyaaah!” Harry recoiled from a harsh slap in the face. Guttural, animal sounds were all he could muster; 100,000 generations of evolution having departed en masse. He could barely breathe. His chest was constricted. He was thrashing about. Foul-smelling smoke choked his lungs - as if his own hair were on fire.

“Harry!” someone yelled. A bucketful of cold water splashed over his burning face, allowing wakefulness finally to prevail. His scar throbbed with scalding pain, whilst the side of his head was being ground into a sodden mattress. The noxious smoke mixed with steam from his scar, making him nauseous. Harry stopped thrashing as he felt hot panting breath on his neck. There was someone on top of him; someone struggling to hold him down.

“Thank Merlin,” came the vaguely familiar voice of the person astride him. “I think he's coming out of it now. I've never seen anything like that, and I never want to again. I couldn't have held on much longer….”

The haze was lifting from Harry's mind. “Harry, can you hear me?” asked a very familiar voice from directly in front of him. “Can you feel me with you?” Harry noticed a hand on his shoulder, cracked open his eyes, and saw Bill's face. Lines of concern were etched deeply into it.

“B-B-B-Bill, what happened? Where am I?” Harry mumbled. The room seemed to be spinning.

“Remus, you can get off now,” Bill instructed. “Harry, you're in your bedroom. You've obviously had a very serious nightmare. From the way your scar is bleeding, we think it was Voldemort.”

The weight on top of Harry lightened and disappeared. There was a thump of feet hitting the floor, and Harry saw the exhausted and quite disheveled form of Remus Lupin towering above him.

Bill continued, “Harry, Dumbledore was afraid that something like this would happen tonight. He had us sit with you while you slept. As usual, he was right. You went feverish … then it broke. When we tried to remove your shirt to apply the poultice the Headmaster had given us, you started seizing up - giving off wave after wave of raw magic…. Dumbledore told us that there was an incident yesterday evening at Hermione's….”

“Bloody Hell!” Harry cursed as he sat bolt upright. “Voldemort! He's got Hermione! He was doing horrible things to her! He tried to make me to do horrible things to her! We've got to do something!”

Before anyone could react, he leapt out of bed and wandlessly summoned his Valkyrie from his closet. In one motion, he flicked out his wand and a Reductor Curse blew out the window.

Harry had barely thrown one leg over his broom when Remus grabbed him, and yanked him to the floor. Once again, he felt the unnatural physical strength inherent in the man's lycanthropic condition. Remus spoke forcefully. “Harry, that was a nightmare - sent by Voldemort. Hermione is safe and sound, if rather distraught. Her home is under 24-hour guard by the Order. It may be the most secure place in London at the moment. Calm down.”

In a more soothing voice, Bill said, “Harry that was all a dream - a false dream - like Sirius being tortured in the Department of Mysteries, remember? Whatever Voldemort showed you, it was a lie. He did it because he wants something else. We have to figure out what, and why.”

Harry stared at his wand. But … had it not just been destroyed…? In his hand was an incontrovertible physical fact that confirmed his mental manipulation.

His legs suddenly going limp, Harry slumped to sit cross-legged on the floor, staring into space. He tried to recall what had happened after he fled Hermione's house. He had Apparated to Mrs. Figg's back garden as intended. Upon arrival, he had been in full-bore panic. He tried to run the moment he materialised, but probably because he was tipsy, had slipped on the wet grass and had not gotten up. The rest was a mystery - how he had gotten home, how he had ended up in his nightclothes, or why his nightshirt was now hanging in tatters. His alarm clock, fluorescing from all of the magic, now read twenty-five, or six, till four in the morning.

Harry noticed as well that he had a splitting headache. His bloody brain seemed to be fighting to get free of his skull. He felt irresponsible and stupid. For once since learning the process, he had allowed himself fall asleep without performing his nightly Occlumency ritual. He had left himself open to attack, and Voldemort had played that opening for all it was worth. Now he was paying for it - mentally and physically.

This kind of mistake was potentially fatal - and not just for him…. Not even primarily for him….

How much had Voldemort learned? The nightmare seared his consciousness. It was a powerful reminder that his responsibility to those he cared for could not be shirked, no matter what the circumstances. Come what may, he could not let his defenses lapse like that again. Voldemort had shown he was always out there … lurking … looking for any available avenue through which to strike.

A beeping noise made both Bill and Remus jump. Harry recognised it at once, got up and fished his mobile from an inside pocket of last night's rather damp suit jacket. Someone had casually tossed the jacket over the Communicator. That must have blocked the magic; by all rights, his mobile should have been fried.

“Harry, are you all right?”

It was Hermione. Harry could hardly believe how relieved he was just to hear her voice, methodically checking on his condition.

“Er … not exactly…. But I'm not in danger either,” he told her in a muted voice. “Bill and Remus are here. Everything's okay….”

“Thank Merlin,” she sighed heavily. “You can't believe the horrible set of emotions that just came through our affinity…. Well, maybe you can…. I thought you might be under attack.”

“It was just Voldemort, up to his old tricks,” Harry replied, more confidently than he felt. “He didn't fool me this time, though. Nothing I can't handle,” he lied.

Sounding skeptical, Hermione pressed for details. “What happened, Harry? You felt terrible … like everything was hopeless….”

His relief at simply hearing her voice quickly dissipated….

Feeling overwhelmed and inarticulate, Harry answered a couple more questions in monosyllables. He was frankly not really ready to talk to Hermione about anything serious … not even to accept her freely offered apologies. It was too soon. His wounds were too raw. She seemed to appreciate that. With relief, he hung up.

“Now that you've regained self control, Harry,” Remus said softly, “I need to go heal myself. These burns are quite painful, even for a werewolf.”

“D-d-did I do that?” Harry asked. In horror, he regarded the skin that was sloughing away from Remus' hands, and the huge blackened area on his bared chest. He was almost afraid to hear the answer.

The object of his concern merely looked away, his eyes full of worry. His wand held charily with his fingertips, Remus removed the Sealing and Silencing Charms from Harry's door and slunk toward the Dursleys' bathroom.

Bill and Harry watched him leave. Harry felt a fresh wave of guilt, and, nearly in tears, turned back to his guardian. “D-did I, Bill?” Harry already knew the answer.

“Yes, you did, Harry,” Bill answered, with a slight tremolo in his voice. “About half an hour ago you started thrashing about in your sleep. Our instructions were to do nothing unless you became a danger to yourself or others. The thrashing got worse, and then, about five minutes before you awoke, you began emitting an irregular glow. You started to spark. I had seen that before, so we tried to wake you. It was getting worse. Remus grabbed you and tried to shake you awake. That didn't work, so I slapped you as he was trying to wrestle you to the floor. You never got there. You did something to him that started frying his flesh wherever he was touching you.”

Bill continued, “That's when I soaked you with a bucket of water that I had drawn for just such a possibility. I'm sorry, but I was afraid that you were about to go off again. The sparking reminded me of what how you looked the night you got back from your unauthorised trip to London. I don't know what might have happened, but I was afraid that you would destroy this house and everything and everyone in it.”

“You … you did the right thing,” Harry conceded as he hesitantly stood and then walked to his desk. He knew that he owed Dumbledore a full report of his dream. Remus reentered the room, his nasty looking wounds more or less healed. He looked as exhausted as Harry felt.

Bill and Remus eyed Harry questioningly. “I'm going to write to Dumbledore now before I forget anymore of the dream,” Harry calmly replied to the unspoken question. “It's something I have to do. He wants a full report anytime something like this happens….”

Harry picked up the quill. Poised to start writing, he paused. He lay the quill down, took a deep breath, and addressed the two wizards again. “All right, how much do you think he already knows about last night?”

Receiving a crosswise glance from Remus, Bill gave Harry a sad-eyed look. “He knows enough, Harry. Enough that he sent us here to stay the night. You needn't get into it, unless it impacts the dream. Dumbledore was immediately informed of your abrupt departure and Disapparition. Mad Eye and I reported both your return here and that we had to magic you to bed after you passed out in Mrs. Figg's front garden. I also understand that he has received a relatively full rundown from Madam Lufkin on Hermione's version of events. Tonks stayed the night with Hermione for the same reasons we've stayed with you.”

“How…? How is she holding up?” Harry asked weakly, needing the answer, even though it would certainly be bad.

“About the same as you,” Remus conceded, “but without the added complication of Voldemort sending his greetings.”

Harry had already let far too much time pass before writing out a full description of his nightmare. Details were becoming blurred. He started scribbling away furiously on his Communicator - describing how Voldemort had masqueraded as Merlin's ghost and persuaded him to surrender his magic. He struggled to put into words why he had been willing to do that. He depicted the Merlin-Voldemort transformation, Hermione's sudden appearance, and how Voldemort tried to force him to rape her in the dream.

Harry had a vague recollection that Eliza also figured into things, but he could no longer remember exactly how. He knew that she would skin him alive for bringing her to the attention of the Order without an extremely good reason. He did not want that to happen - particularly with the embers of last night's burning bridges still glowing - so with some misgivings, he elected not to mention her.

Harry finished the report to Dumbledore just as day was breaking. He mentioned his persistent headache to his minders, and they looked meaningfully at one another. Remus fished inside his scorched robes and tossed Bill a small red pouch tied with a golden thread. Bill nodded and left the room. Harry looked at Remus and, with a start, remembered….

“Professor Lupin, I haven't seen you since we were in Kings Cross,” he said, brightening considerably. “How have you been?” Harry put out his hand.

Remus grasped it gingerly, his burns, albeit healed, still fairly sensitive, “Busy, like yourself,” he replied, barely meeting his eyes. “I'm not a professor anymore - I'd really rather you call me Remus … if you could. I'm on Order business, mostly. I … er … follow the money. More than that, I can't really tell you.”

“You, you … were in Hong Kong when … it … it happened,” Harry struggled with the words. “Thank you very much for helping rescue her….” He rubbed his forehead with one hand, his lower jaw trembling. Maybe none of it mattered anymore. “Blast it,” he grumbled. “I don't want you to see me like this…. Can you leave me alone for just a bit? I don't….”

“Go ahead, Harry, you can cry in front of me if you need to,” Remus responded gently, moving cautiously toward Harry. “I know how it feels to … lose someone….”

“Oh, stop it. No you don't,” Harry spat, ire rising involuntarily within him.

Somewhat testily, Remus responded, “Oh, I don't, now, do I? Perhaps, Harry, you've forgotten the last time I had to forcibly restrain you before just now.…”

“Oh, that was….” Harry trailed off. He realised that Remus was referring to Sirius' death.

“If I hadn't had to keep you from following him through the veil,” the man said softly, “I probably would've gone through it myself … just what I prevented you from doing…. He was my last and greatest friend, Harry…. I'm the only Marauder left … effectively, anyway. So I'm alone. Not many want to have anything to do with werewolves…. It's not safe.”

Remus' voice rose slightly, and a steely glare appeared in his eyes. “So don't go feeling sorry for yourself. At least she's not dead - and as long as she lives, there's always a chance to make things better.”

Harry looked at the sad werewolf and he felt guilt at his reaction. In many ways things were worse for Remus than for him. He lowered his eyes, ready to wallow in the injustice of it all. He never got the chance.

Bill reentered the room carrying, a steaming container just as Remus had finished his little speech. He was singing softly, just loud enough for Harry to hear, “Naaaa na na na-na-na naaaa, na-na-na naaaa, hey Jude….”

“Stifle yourself, Bill,” growled Harry, annoyed. “How'd you know about that, anyway?”

“It's been a long night, Harry,” Bill replied. “I used your Walkman to help pass the time. Good choice, by the way….” Bill handed him the fuming beaker and told him to drink it.

“What's in this?” Harry asked.

“Powdered essence of Opuntia, mostly,” Bill told him. “It's probably the best Anti-Hangover Potion there is…. Take it. You'll feel loads better. Whilst that champagne was charmed so you never felt very squiffy, it still packs as much punch, hangover-wise, as the uncharmed kind. You just didn't feel it. Didn't you read the label? It was 25 proof.”

Harry's groan suggested that he had not, and it was soon apparent that he did not know what a “proof” was anyway. He gulped down the foaming contents of the glass, which tasted surprisingly sweet and not nearly as hot as it looked. Bill was right. The pounding in his skull began abating within seconds.

“I'm never going to do that again,” Harry stated firmly.

“Do what?” both Bill and Remus asked simultaneously.

“Drink anything that could get me at all drunk,” replied Harry. “I really made a royal mess of things last night. I can't help but think that if I'd been all there, I could have thought of something more appropriate than just running away. I wasn't a very good Gryffindor….”

“Harry, there are times when discretion is the better part of valour,” Bill reassured the boy. “I don't think your staying would have helped anything…. Hexing them would only have made things worse…. I can't begin to tell you how much worse.”

“But what if her father had hurt her?” Harry interrupted.

“That's silly,” chastised Bill. “First, you don't have to save everyone every time. Second, do you really think that any Muggle could hurt Hermione? What exactly have the two of you been doing for the past several weeks?”

“True,” conceded Harry. “But he has those guns in the house. I saw some of them.”

“And we had at least a dozen Order members and Aurors hidden inside - all with appropriate authorisations, of course,” replied Bill. “You really ought to ask Dumbledore to teach you some Legilimency techniques so you could detect wizards under Invisibility Cloaks.”

“Now that things are under control, I think I'll be off then,” Remus interjected. “I really need to get some sleep.”

“Prof… Mister Lu… Remus!” Harry exclaimed. “Er…. Don't go. When will I see you again?”

Remus forced a little smile, “Don't worry, Harry. I'll be back tomorrow. I have something for you. You can call it an early birthday present, I suppose.”

“Then why don't you come by on my birthday, too?” Harry invited. “I have the day off from training. Shak took pity on me, I guess. It's not like I'm going to be doing anything anyway. You can help me eat some cake. Er…. Somebody will send me one … probably….”

Come to think of it, Harry could not say who would. Molly Weasley was evidently furious with him. It was too early for him even to begin contemplating how Hermione now felt. No more parties at her house, that was for certain. Hagrid was off somewhere.…

“Sorry, Harry, I can't - that time of the month, you know,” said Remus softly. “No party?” he asked.

“Why would I have one?” muttered Harry. “I've never had a birthday party in my life. You really think the Dursleys would ever do something like that for me…?” He brightened a bit, and added, “See you tomorrow then?”

“Certainly….” Remus replied. “But, Harry…?”

“What?”

Remus spoke slowly, as if trying to avoid setting Harry off again. “What I'm going to give you is something you asked for, but…. Well, when I retrieved it…. Things turned out to be rather more complicated than I had supposed….”

Harry grimaced. He threw up his hands. “Just forget it then,” he sighed. “Whatever it is, I don't need any more complications. I've got too bloody many in my life right now as it is.”

“No, Harry, I'm going to give it to you anyway, and let you make your own decision with all the details,” replied Remus with that steely look back in his eyes. “If you still feel that way after you've seen it, then I'll take it back. Now if you'll excuse me, I really have to go.”

Harry watched Remus sulk out the door. He knew he should apologise for his outburst but could not bring himself to take that step. Instead he put his head in his hands and exhaled greatly, the force of it expanding his cheeks.

Bill was eyeing him. “You need more sleep, and then a good fly to let off some steam, don't you think? Would you like to ride the GKN later today at Hogwarts?”

“Sorry, Bill,” Harry said in a defeated voice. “I'm not really interested anymore. You like the motorbike. You ride it for a while…. And while you're at it, why don't you run off with the rest of Sirius's bloody fortune too. A right spot of good it's doing me! It's not even mine yet and already it's ruined my bloody life!”

“Harry,” Bill said firmly. “We need to have a man-to-man talk, but not right now, because, frankly, you're right dead knackered. Aparecium chez William Dreamless Sleep Potion.”

The requested phial appeared in Bill's hand. “Harry I want you to take this. I'm going to set your alarm for 9:00 a.m. Then we'll take your broom - you don't have to ride the motorbike if you don't want to - to Hogwarts. You can fly and we can talk about things.”

“It will have to be later,” said Harry. “I want to go to Dudley's gym this morning and have another Occlumency lesson. Meet me back here at half past noon.”

That was progress. Bill readily agreed. Harry set the alarm for 8:30 a.m., and thankfully drank the potion.

* * * *

It felt passing strange to go to Dudley's gym alone, but Harry had really needed those few hours of real sleep after the events of the previous night. When he arrived, his cousin was hard at work in the central ring. Harry knew better than to try to interrupt him in the midst of a sparring match, so he went straight to Lao Kung.

“Come in, Hahli,” beckoned the old wizard. “I would say that this was a pleasant surprise, except that I have been expecting you.”

“So you've heard, too,” Harry grunted. “Bad news travels fast, I guess.”

“Hahli, I am quite old, but the most placid river remembers what it was like as a roaring stream,” Lao Kung said cryptically.

“I want you to put me through the toughest workout you can devise,” requested Harry. “I need to get this … this rage out of my system before I accidentally do something I'll regret.”

“It cannot be here, then, for precisely that reason,” replied the master.

“Where?” asked Harry.

“Hog-wa-tze, of course,” managed Lao Kung, with the hint of a smile.

“Hogwarts?” Harry echoed in confusion. “Why there?”

“The answer awaits,” Lao Kung replied enigmatically. “You need to gather whatever clothes and other equipment you need for a most strenuous session. Then do anything else that you feel you must … but meet me back here in five minutes.”

When Harry returned, Lao Kung led him into his private living quarters, where there was a full fireplace.

Seconds later they were stepping out into a basement room at Hogwarts. The school appeared deserted as Lao Kung expertly threaded his way through a maze of stone passageways and out a side door Harry had never been through before. Fleetingly, he wished he had the Marauder's Map with him so he could learn what they had just done.

The door opened onto the path to the Quidditch pitch. Rising from the grass was a huge, pillow-shaped white blob. It looked rather like the indoor practice facilities of the more prosperous Muggle football teams that Harry had seen on the telly or in the papers - only this one was held up by magic rather than positive air pressure.

“Go inside and change,” Lao Kung instructed. The Sefu unshrank a good-sized wrapped package, which he handed to Harry.

“What's this?” Harry asked.

“Consider it your birthday present from me,” the aged wizard answered.

Inside the facility there was a small dressing room. Harry changed and opened the gift. Lao Kung had gotten him a pair of bright green Basilisk skin boxing gloves. They fit perfectly, probably because they were charmed to conform to his anatomy.

Dressed only in his newly bought trainers, an old pair of Everlast boxing trunks Dudley had scraped up for him from who-knows-where in the gym, and a torn muscle T-shirt, Harry entered the main part of the structure. He was confronted with at least a dozen heavy punching bags, and an equal number of stand alone bags. There was a short note from Lao Kung that simply told him to start at one end and work his way down the line.

Somewhat confused, Harry spat on his hands, took a deep breath, and protected his fingers with the elastic wraps just like Dudley had shown him. Then he methodically laced up the new gloves. He wiggled his fingers. These felt much better than his cousin's old oversized gloves he had been using up until now. Those had been haphazardly stuffed with bits of stray foam and mashed up newspapers, because of his smaller hands.

Thud, thud, thud.

Harry set to work on the first heavy bag, hammering away. The sound from his exercise echoed through the air. All he could see was the bag and the surrounding whiteness of the featureless structure. He kept pounding. “Damn you, Doctor Granger,” he thought, “I won't take your daughter - not that way. Not for YOU I won't.”

Thud, thud, THUD, THUD, CRASH!

At the sound of the crash, one of Harry's Basilisk skin-covered hands tore through the bag and literally ripped the stuffing out of it. He did not care. A couple more blows and it tore clean in half, filling the air with whatever bits of old rubbish were used to fill that sort of thing.

On Harry went, pounding away; trying to get it all out of his system. “Not that she wants me anyway….”

THUD, SNA-SNAP … Plomp, plup, plup, plup.

With one vicious blow, he had broken both that bag's upper and lower supports at the same time. The bag had gone flying, landing in the grass and rolling crazily end over end until it came to a halt.

Harry shrugged, examined his gloves, and moved on to the next station. Lao Kung was a good teacher. He had anticipated exactly what was needed. Harry decided to show the karate master that he could also be a good student. He moved to a stand alone bag. Whirling, he gave it a stout kick.

THUD.

It went down almost to the turf and bounded back up. He visualised the dentist again. “You won't see a CENT of my money, Granger,” Harry resolved. He whirled around again.

THUD.

“But I don't want the godforsaken money anyway.”

Twirl, whip, THUD.

“I'd throw it all away in an instant to have Sirius back.”

Twirl, whip, THUD; twirl, whip, THUD.

Harry decided to see how many consecutive times he could land that kick without stopping. After the fifth time, there was another crash as the stand alone broke free and skittered across the lawn.

Harry moved on - back to a heavy bag.

Thud, thud, THUD.

“To Hell with the MONEY…. To Hell with the FAME…! I just want things to be the way … they … WERE!”

When? At the end of Fifth Year, with Sirius just dead and Hermione and Ron were both in the hospital as a consequence of their frolic and detour at the Ministry?

Thud, thud, THUD.

In the middle of Fifth Year, when Umbridge was running wild and everybody thought he was nutters?

Thud, thud, THUD, THUD.

At the end of Fourth Year when Voldemort had just killed Cedric and used Harry's own blood to return to power?

Thud, thud, THUD, THUD. RIP. CRASH.

Another heavy bag disintegrated under Harry's furious blows.

Harry moved on. He jettisoned all of Fourth Year as well and decided that the last time he had been even moderately satisfied with things was at the end of Third Year, when he and Hermione had just rescued Sirius and Buckbeak from certain death. Even that was scant consolation, Harry remembered.

Thud, thud, THUD.

If Remus had only remembered to take his potion, then that cursed Wormtail would have been exposed. Sirius would have been cleared. Voldemort would never have been resurrected. And Harry would be living happily with his Godfather.

THUD, THUD, SMASH….

Another one bit the dust.

And so it went. For over an hour, Harry pounded away at mental images of virtually everyone who had ever hurt him. Bellatrix Lestrange - that bag did not last very long. Wormtail - ditto. Umbridge…. Malfoy, BOTH of them…. The Dursleys…. Skeeter…. Fudge…. Scrimgeour…. Dolohov…. Harry let out a primal scream of rage as one of his reverse karate kicks sent the top of another stand alone knifing through the air until it sliced an as yet unused heavy bag clean in half.

Harry was scintillating now, drawing energy to him and expending it. The air around him was hot and dry.

THUD, WHAM, POUND….

* * * *

High above Harry, from his balcony perched atop one of the highest towers of Hogwarts Castle, Dumbledore and two companions dispassionately looked down upon the scene. They could not see or hear the boy, but they knew he was there. From this angle, the white blob looked vaguely like a squashed marshmallow against the emerald green background of the summertime sod on the Quidditch pitch - if one could imagine a marshmallow that quivered constantly and glowed from within with unearthly brightness.

“There is not much question of it now, is there Severus?” the Headmaster remarked to the sallow-faced, black-haired wizard at his side.

“No, regrettably there is not. I only hope that he will show as yet unachieved levels of maturity before the Dark Lord comes for him,” cautioned Shape. “As I have told you, there is increased Death Eater activity of late.”

“My concerns have lessened,” Shacklebolt replied, “from everything I've seen personally, and everything I hear through the Corps, Harry seems to be maturing at a phenomenal rate.”

“I hardly mean physically … just look at him…. I mean emotionally,” Snape corrected. “It has been my misfortune to have watched Potter for over five years now, and in my opinion he is more emotionally fragile now than when first admitted to Hogwarts. Albus, when you did your duty and thereby became head of the previous Order, you were already mature - a centurion. You had been married. You had had….”

Dumbledore frowned. “Please, Severus, there is no need to remind me of what once was.”

“…How can we expect Potter to do what you did before he is even out of his teens? When he is still sorting out who he is and what he needs, after all that those Muggles did to him? I shudder to think of him as leader of….”

“I have seen enough.” Shacklebolt pronounced. Satisfied that Harry was getting the kind of a workout he needed to avoid further unpleasantness in the Situation Room, Shacklebolt took his leave to get back to his job as Adjutant Chief of the Auror Corps.

“That is quite enough, Severus, is it not?” Dumbledore cautioned. “I assure you that I am every bit as concerned as you are. If I feel it necessary, I will not hesitate to take drastic, even unprecedented measures.”

Snape's eyebrows arched. “Such as?”

“I shall cross that burning bridge when I arrive at it, Severus, and not one moment before,” Dumbledore replied. “I was not in a position to act with Tom…. Now, if need be, I am…. Speaking of such matters, did you, yourself, ever take the step towards emotional maturation that I recommended to you so many months ago?”

“Indeed, I was doing as you directed,” growled Snape, “but as always that Potter boy interfered, and I was forced to stop. It hardly matters much now, does it, since Sirius Black is dead.”

“Nevertheless, Severus, I would like you to complete the process, since the likelihood of any more `interference,' as you call it, has also been eliminated. If nothing else, I believe it will be good for your soul.”

“Very well, Headmaster,” grumbled Snape. “But my soul will hardly be lightened when Potter blabs what he saw to the entire student body.”

“I would give young Mister Potter, rather more credit than that,” chided Dumbledore. “Other than from yourself, I have not heard a word about that incident from anyone. Have you?”

“Come to think of it, no,” the Potions Master conceded - with notable lack of good grace.

“Innocent until proven guilty, then. Don't you think?” asked Dumbledore rhetorically.

The Headmaster sat heavily in his chair after Professor Snape left. He sighed and rubbed his forehead with his hands. He would soon have to leave again. His sources had alerted him about a family named Gaunt….

“You really shouldn't regret what's happened,” a crackling voice sounded. “It's for the best, you know.”

“No, I do not know that at all, Phineas; nor do I believe it,” Dumbledore replied wearily. “He needs her badly - you know that.”

“He needs someone, that's clear enough,” the Slytherin's portrait agreed. “But most certainly not her. She is too … foreign … too uncontrollable. Think about it. Think about the number of times she has incited him to defy you…. That statement of magical equality … dangerous poppycock…. Particularly in a time of war.”

The Headmaster shook his head. “I doubt you understand, Phineas. I really do. You have not truly lived in over two-hundred years, after all….”

“Things haven't really changed all that much,” Phineas Nigellus retorted. “Potter will soon hold not only his line, but the House of Black as well. With his upbringing, he needs a nice pureblood girl to ease him into proper society … to show him how to behave as his station warrants … to have his children, and perpetuate his inheritances….”

“That is just not the way it works anymore,” Dumbledore countered. “Mister Potter would never accept an arranged marriage. The Granger girl … she is not only his friend; she is very powerful and surpassingly clever…. And I still believe they love each other.”

“What does love have to do with anything? She is Muggle-born, Albus,” Phineas said hotly. “And not just any Muggle-born; a dangerous, radical leveler…. All she will do is create complications that we don't need. You know that you don't have to `arrange' anything - not formally anyway. With the proper nudging he could be directed towards any number of nice, pureblood girls … Avalon Danvers, Susan Bones, even Daphne Greengrass of my own house would be interested…. Anyone but her.”

“You have no idea what Mister Potter must do before he could even think about such things, Phineas,” the Headmaster replied evenly. “He cannot be guided in that fashion. He must discover the power he needs through his own heart….”

“Mark my words, Albus,” the portrait screeched. “You are making a serious error….”

“Well, what would you have me do, Phineas?” Dumbledore exasperatedly asked.

“Nothing, Albus. Nothing at all,” came the reply.

“What?” replied the rather vexed Headmaster. “But I thought you…?”

“She is meddling in things that a Muggle-born cannot possibly understand,” the portrait wheezed. “Just do nothing. Stop trying to protect her from her own mistakes and everything will take care of itself…. Let nature take its course.”

* * * *

It took well over an hour, but Harry finally exhausted himself. After showering, he found a beaming Lao Kung waiting for him. He complimented his student on an impressive display of power. When he had finally called it quits, Harry had been too blinded by rage and exhaustion to pay much attention to anything around him. Now, he trudged to the curtain that separated the dressing area from the workout area. What he saw disturbed him. Bits and pieces of equipment were strewn all over the dried, desiccated, and occasionally blackened grass. Only two stand alone bags and one heavy bag remained functional. “I did that, didn't I?” Harry asked after what he already knew.

The Sefu bowed. “You see your power. Now do you understand why you need to match it with control?”

Harry nodded, and with that Lao Kung handed him a Portkey. They both returned to Gator's Gym. Once they were gone, Dumbledore flicked his wand, and the paraphernalia that had been erected for the boy's visit vanished. All that was left was a large brown square of dead turf. Even the Headmaster's magic could not resurrect what was dead. This would be a problem for Hagrid, who was due back any day.

Harry and Lao Kung had a productive session. As the Sefu had expected, physical exhaustion helped Harry clear his mind more effectively than he had ever done before. He showed that he had mastered simple wandless magic involving earth, air, fire, and water. Moving on to more complicated magic, Lao Kung started teaching him simple levitation. By the end of the session, he had been able to elevate himself several centimetres off the floor whilst he remained absolutely still, in the lotus position.

As Harry prepared to go, he remembered the promise he had made to Hermione in what seemed like a different lifetime, but which in reality had been uttered less than twenty-four hours before. He explained it, and Lao Kung replied that he was willing to discuss magical Hong Kong with Hermione, and even to suffer through looking at her travel pictures. Harry was feeling that he had gotten through the conversation unscathed when the aged wizard asked him, “Is she the one, Hahli?”

Lao Kung needed no verbal reply to have his question answered. The anguish apparent in Harry's face was quite sufficient. He got one anyway. “Not any more it seems,” was the curt reply.

“I am truly sorry, Hahli,” Lao Kung said, surveying Harry's shattered countenance.

“Not half as much as I am,” replied Harry earnestly.

On that depressing note, Harry departed for home. He would not remain there for long. After last night's events, Dumbledore was not one to leave Harry alone to brood. He was keeping Harry's card full….

Next on the boy's surprisingly busy schedule was flying with Bill. Harry was not even sure he wanted to bother. Flying the GKN would remind him of the problems in his relationship with Eliza - how she had not wanted to be seen with him in the magical world.

Flying the Valkyrie would be even worse. That would remind him of Hermione - and an entirely different level of problems. How could she want anything to do with him after what happened?

The two owls Harry found waiting for him when he returned to Privet Drive did nothing to help his mood. Relieving both birds of their burdens, Harry opened the more official looking Ministry letter first. It was something called a “subpoena ad testificandum.” From what Harry could derive from the legalistic jargon, he was being required to appear before the Wizengamot in thirty days to testify at the trial of Dolores Umbridge. He would have to talk to Blackie Howe about this.

The other letter was from Ginny.

Dear Harry:

I'm writing because I have to vent to someone, and I know you'll listen to me. Ron is not only one of the best Keepers I've ever played with - but now he's high on my all-time prat list. I can't stand it when he patronises me, and he knows it. Still he's always calling me “Princess” (he, of course, is the “King”).

He's spending practically all his free time with Cho, now, and I'm beginning to think it's not healthy for him. I'm afraid they're doing things they really aren't ready for, like joining their magic. I'm sure it's mostly Cho's idea - not that Ron needed much persuading. But I'm worried. He's not even of age!

Finally, I need to warn you that Mum's really angry at you for some reason. What could you possibly have done? Mum's keeping me in the dark, but I think it involves Ron. He's not talking. No surprise there.

Since Mum's cancelled it, I feel I can tell you that Neville and Hermione had been planning a surprise birthday party for you at the Burrow. Hermione says you've never had one before. I'm very sorry.

Our first playoff game is tomorrow. Wish me luck!

Friendship and Quidditch

Ginny

Harry wanted to write Ginny back and thank her for the belated warning, but Bill would be arriving almost any minute. Harry had no intention of letting him see that letter.

The doorbell rang, and it was time for him to go. Shrugging, Harry made the last minute decision to take his broom with him after all. Bill may be right. A good fly would probably help him break out of this black mood he was under, and he had to confront the demon of his ruined relationship sometime. Because they would have to leave from Mrs. Figg's, Harry shrunk the Valkyrie and wrapped it in his Invisibility Cloak.

At Hogwarts, Harry rapidly concluded that his guardian's idea had been a good one. Bill flew the GKN and Harry flew his Valkyrie in loose formation all over the Hogwarts grounds. As the Valkyrie was much more nimble than the massive motorbike, Harry literally flew rings around it. Bill noticed the odd brown patch on the pitch (it was hard to miss), and Harry told him about his unanticipated morning visit with Lao Kung.

After quite some time, Bill signalled Harry to follow his descent. He guided them to a bare spot on the far side of the lake, and led the way to a large flat sandstone rock that extended into the water. Harry had never seen this place before. Several large trees shaded the area, and another tree had toppled over in such a way that its mossy trunk blocked the view of anyone looking across the lake from the Hogwarts side.

The sandstone rock split a small, smooth sandy beach. Dense thickets of large bushy plants sporting waxy, evergreen leaves and the brown remnants of large flowers separated the spot from the depths of the Forbidden Forest. Cattails lined the banks, and the water was dotted with water lilies bearing yellow and white blossoms.

Bill explained that a girlfriend of his had shown him the rock in his Sixth Year. He had felled the tree to increase their privacy.

It was a hot afternoon. Bill sat on the rock, took off his boots, raised his robes, and put his feet in the cool water. Harry followed suit.

Bill cleared his throat and addressed his ward. “Harry, I'm worried about you. I know you're seeing someone that you don't want to name. I respect that. I've also seen how you are around Hermione. Neither of you is as good at hiding such things as you fool yourselves into believing. There are feelings there, and you can't tell me there aren't. But then there was last night's disaster….”

Bill paused as if waiting for Harry to say something - anything - even a protest or a denial. The boy said nothing. This was the “impassive” Harry. Bill had met this one before.

“You're at an awkward age, and this is an awkward subject,” Bill continued. “You don't have anyone you can talk to. I always had Dad, and sometimes my mum. He was always there to tell me that it wasn't the end of the world when I broke up with this or that girl. These emotions are difficult to deal with, even dangerous, and you're too important to be endangered, Harry.”

That got Harry thinking, “Dumbledore put you up to this, didn't he?”

Bill sighed. Playing father figure to a moody teenager was difficult business in the best of times. With someone like Harry, under current circumstances, it was close to impossible. “Harry, you picked me to be your legal guardian, and I accepted that responsibility. Parts of that job are harder than patting you on the back after a good show or teaching you to ride a motorcycle. This is one of those. I'm not going to lie to you and tell you that Dumbledore hasn't expressed his concerns - he has - but I'm trying to talk to you now, because I'd want someone to listen to me if I were in your shoes.”

Silence.

“Look,” Bill went on, hoping he was not just talking to himself, “I can't make you open up, but I think you want to talk, and I know you need to. Just let me ask you some questions for now. You can stop me anytime you like.”

Bill held his breath, hoping for some sort of response. For what seemed like forever, Harry stared mopily out over the still water of the lake, half looking at the reflections of clouds in the water. “Go on,” he finally said.

“I know there are two women, Hermione and this mystery lady. Do they know about each other?”

“That's for sure,” responded Harry.

“Good,” declared Bill. “At least you're being honest. The alternatives are all worse. One thing I can tell you straight off - because I've dated non-exclusively quite a bit - is that both of them are going to be extremely wary of the other. Especially Hermione, because she doesn't know what she's up against.”

“You're talking about them as if they were rivals,” protested Harry. “They're not.”

“You may not want them to be, and they probably sense that and act otherwise, but I assure you Harry, they are rivals. That's the way of the world,” explained Bill.

Harry grunted.

“Next question,” continued Bill. “If you could have either one, which one would you choose?”

Harry tossed a pebble into the water and stared morosely at the widening ripples, saying nothing. Bill was afraid he would refuse to continue. He fixed his own piercing gaze on the boy. After what seemed like forever, Harry took a deep breath and answered. “I can't avoid it. There's only one answer to your question. If I could have Hermione with me, I don't think I'd ever look at another woman … ever.”

“I feel the same way about Fleur,” replied Bill. “Only I had to suffer through, oh what… maybe 40 or 50 failures before I got to that point. It just seems that you got there faster….”

“That's rich,” groused Harry. “You're going to marry Fleur. I'm no-bloody-where. I'll be lucky if she ever….”

“Don't be daft,” Bill interrupted. “I get information from Dumbledore as well as give it…. Do you want to know how she really is? She's devastated, Harry. I'm sure she'll be dying to talk to you. Her parents? Now that's another story…. But this isn't about her, it's about you….”

Bill looked at Harry. More silence.

The guardian sighed. “All right, I'm going to try to keep it simple. Tell me how you met this mystery woman.”

Harry gave a thumbnail sketch of how he met Eliza, steering clear of any specifics that might identify her. He only told Bill only that they met when she offered him “some information” that he wanted. He surprised even himself with how much he was able to tell Bill truthfully.

“What's the one word that best describes what you like about his relationship with your mystery woman?” Bill asked.

Harry raised his eyebrows, but Bill just nodded back to him. The boy gave it some thought and answered, “Comfortable, I guess. She makes me feel relaxed…. It's not all that easy to explain, but it's probably that she isn't pushy about things. She doesn't really demand anything … doesn't try to make me do anything.”

Bill continued, “What's the one word that describes your biggest problem with her?”

Harry sighed. “That's easier - frightened. She doesn't want anyone to know about us because she's terrified of you, Dumbledore, and everyone … that they'd immediately put her under the same sort of twenty-four-hour guard that I'm under.”

After they chatted for a while, Bill summed up his analysis of Harry's mystery woman. “She's got a good but boring job and a good but boring life. She's single and out of school for several years. She probably hates the London singles scene. You're the most interesting person she's met for years, if not ever, so she took a chance. The chance paid off, and now she has no idea what to do next. If she doesn't love you already, she thinks she could - but she's petrified in the face of the likely consequences.”

Harry looked at Bill with increased respect. He thought the redhead's analysis made a lot of sense. “Well, what do you think I ought do?”

Unfortunately, Bill's response was not terribly encouraging.

“I know this type well,” Bill reminisced. “I'd meet them frequently when I was working in overseas for Gringotts. I was a curse-breaker, Harry. Not to brag, but it was an interesting and rather … well, how do I put this? It was a rather … sexy job. Needless to say, I was slightly heroic, I did some rather cool things, and they were, well, available.”

Bill thought a moment, reflecting again on his own experiences, “Frankly, Harry, I think this is the same thing - a flash in the pan. She's attracted to the idea of you.…”

Seeing Harry glare, Bill explained himself.

“I don't mean she's after The Boy Who Lived. She's not one of those; you'd have seen through that yourself. I mean, like I was, you're someone incredibly interesting…. She's attracted to what you are, not as much as to who you are, do you see the difference?”

Harry's features relaxed, so Bill continued.

“Frankly, I do doubt it will last. That's not a bad thing, Harry, because she's probably in over her head. My advice is to have fun, be kind to her, and treat her well. Don't make too many of your own demands, and above keep your morals about the whole thing - don't you either use her or hurt her.”

“Use…? Hurt…?” Harry spluttered. “Why I'd never….”

“Harry, I'm willing to bet you a hundred Galleons that you're still a virgin,” replied Bill.

“You're welcome to my whole bloody inheritance if you like,” grumbled a moody Harry. He waved his hand and wandlessly sent some sand swishing into the water. A multitude of tiny ripples obscured the reflections on the smooth water.

Finally, he muttered, “You'd win that bet.”

“What I mean is, don't just use her to remedy that particular situation,” Bill said gravely. “Be patient, Harry. If it happens, it happens, but don't be frantic about it.”

“That's rich. I'm not frantic,” Harry dissented. After a pause, “scared, more like it - or at least so bloody confused that I back away when I think something could happen.”

“That's so?” Bill stated. “It's not a sign of immaturity to feel that way. Quite the opposite, really. I only wish now that I'd shown more restraint. Now, I wish that Fleur was my first… But she never will be that… It's a shame, I suppose.”

“It's not a shame,” Harry said softly. “At least you've got someone.”

“True enough,” Bill reflected. “But this is supposed to be about you, not me. Why do you think that you feel the way you do about … well, sex?”

“It's not that I don't want to…,” Harry started. “I actually think about it quite a bit…. It's just something I know I'll remember all of my life, and I want it to be perfect…. Well perfect really isn't the goal…. I'd settle for not making a fool out of myself. I know there's charms and stuff, but I don't know them. I know where things are supposed to go, but not how to get them there…. It all seems like rather of a tangled mess….”

“Umm…,” Bill replied slowly. “The charms and the tangled mess part … that's easy. There are plenty of books on the subject - good ones. I've still got the one that Dad gave me when I turned sixteen. A little late he was…. I'm going to give it to you as a birthday present. That will give you plenty of practical pointers, and it covers your standard contraceptive charms and potions. I can't emphasize that part of it enough, although you seem far more responsible than I ever was….”

Harry eyed Bill questioningly.

“No, there aren't any little bastard Weasleys running around, if that's what you're thinking,” he hastened to clarify. “But in the beginning … I'm not particularly proud of myself … it was as much luck as anything. With Voldemort after you, I'm afraid you don't have the luxury of trusting to luck.”

Harry responded with a sarcastic grunt.

“Actually, these kinds of technical things pretty much fall by the wayside when you're with the right person,” Bill added helpfully. “That's infinitely more important than the right technique - something it took me forever to learn.”

“But no matter what, it will be something I'll never forget, right?” Harry asked.

“Oh absolutely,” Bill replied. “Supply room behind the Gryffindor Quidditch dressing room. Twenty three April, Fifth Year at about eleven o'clock at night. No more than fifteen minutes, and it was over and done with. I'm not naming any names, though.”

“It's just…. I don't…. With me, I'm just hoping for a bit of a better memory. I could use more of those, I guess…. I do think about her that way. A lot. It embarrasses me how much. But when I actually try to figure out how to … er… get from here to there … er … in a practical sense, I always see something…. Something else I can never forget.”

“Someone else, you mean?” Bill asked, pointedly

Harry shrugged, and a noise emerged from his throat that failed to sound passably human.

“Hermione Jane Granger?”

There was another pause, as the younger wizard fidgeted. “Yeah,” he conceded, suddenly looking very interested in the small fish nibbling at the hairs on his ankles.

Bill stood up, legs dripping, and ran his hands through his long orange-red hair. He put his hand lightly on Harry's shoulder. “I think it's time we talk about her - about Hermione. Do you think you can?” asked Bill.

Harry fixed Bill with a look of utter defeat. Bill was afraid Harry would burst into tears, which would probably terminate the conversation. He was forcefully reminded of the way his own father had looked, little more than a year ago, when he gathered the family together at the Burrow to make the announcement that Voldemort was back.

Finally, Harry swallowed and nodded affirmatively.

“Same first question, then; what's the one word that best describes the best part of your relationship with Hermione, and then the word that describes your biggest problem?”

Harry thought. Most of the adjectives that flittered about the tip of his tongue concerning what he liked about her had nothing to do with sex, or even romance. Eventually Harry said, “indispensable … no that's not right either, more like dependency. I depend on her, and she depends on me … at least that's the way it was until recently. I know I can't be Harry Potter without her, and I'd like to think she's not Hermione Granger without me…. But I'm not sure any more…. It feels like something's been ripped out…. It hurts….”

“If it didn't, Harry, I don't think we'd be needing this conversation,” Bill reminded. “Are you frightened of feeling this way? Worried about your individual identity?”

“I've been alone all my life,” Harry replied softly. “I've never had anyone remotely like her. Before meeting her, I'd spent most of my life locked in a cupboard less than half the size of this rock. She cares, Bill…. She cares about me…. At least she did. I'm afraid I'm going to be all alone again … for the rest of my life.”

“You're not even sixteen, Harry,” Bill reminded. “The rest of your life is a long time….”

Harry looked at Bill skeptically. Bill knew what he had said, and anticipated some snide remark about Voldemort and Harry's short life expectancy. But Harry was contemplating a fate worse than death.

“You're forgetting about the second part of your two-part question,” Harry reminded. “The biggest problem - remember that? Even assuming that I don't get killed by Voldemort, which I probably will, I'll never get away from all that money. I think it's Voldemort's ultimate revenge.”

Bill gawked, “Surely you don't think that Hermione….”

“No, Bill, you don't get it,” Harry said, shaking his head. “Just the opposite. She can't abide it, but even worse, she thinks she couldn't be her own person with her own achievements in the face of so damn much money…. And her parents are just the opposite. They're like everybody else in the world - everybody I haven't met yet - everybody I'm going to meet for the rest of my life. I can't trust new people not to have sterling signs in their eyes…. That's why I'm going to be alone for the rest of my life. She was the only one I could trust not to care about the money.”

“She told you this?” Bill asked, cocking an eyebrow. A year ago, at Grimmauld Place, he had seen Hermione fearlessly go toe to toe with his redoubtable mum about why Harry was being left with the Muggles. He doubted Hermione could be so easily intimidated by money, no matter how much.

“She's said enough,” Harry grunted, kicking the sand. There was another awkward silence.

“But you need her,” Bill continued. “You need her to make you feel whole…?”

Harry's frustration boiled over. What he felt went way beyond that kind of cliché. “No Bill it's not like that at all. I literally wouldn't be here without Hermione. I wouldn't be anywhere. She's clever. I'm not. She thinks things through. I don't. Without her, I'd be blundering about like Grawp in the Forbidden Forest….”

“What's Grawp?” Bill asked.

“Hagrid's…. Oh it doesn't matter, somebody incredibly strong but equally stupid. Anyway, I've never seen anybody who can think under pressure the way she can. I sure can't. Do you know how we got away from Umbridge?”

Bill had never heard the tale, so Harry described how, despite the shock of being apprehended by the High Inquisitor, Hermione had kept her wits about her, and improvised a plan that ended with Umbridge lured into the Forbidden Forest and captured by centaurs. “I couldn't have thought of that in a hundred years,” Harry declared once the tale was told. “Without her, we'd have all been expelled, or worse. So it's not dependency in any sort of abstract sense. I could give you a dozen other examples. It's real. It's so real it overwhelms me.”

“I think it might be a little too real,” Bill observed. To himself he mused about how he had drawn Harry out of his shell. All he needed now was a leather couch and a German accent, and he had a new career.

“That's my problem, not yours,” Harry replied. “I just need her very badly simply to survive. I couldn't outwit Umbridge on my own…. Is there any reason to think I can beat Voldemort without Hermione there to figure out what I should do? I can't think of one.”

“You'd involve her in that?” asked Bill.

“Hell, like I could stop her…. She'd involve herself whether I like it or not,” Harry answered. “That's the way she is. She wouldn't let me go alone to the Ministry. Maybe it gets back to indispensability. I'd like to think she feels the same way, but after last night….” his voice trailed off.

Bill thought he had lost him.

Then, abruptly, Harry was back. “And now this damn money that Dumbledore keeps forcing on me is driving us apart. Can't you get him to find some other way to keep it away from Malfoy besides giving it to me? Anything else. Let the goblins have it. I don't want it.”

“I wish I could,” Bill sighed, “but the rules of wizard inheritance are unyielding. What exactly is the issue with the money?”

“Oh, nothing much,” Harry spat acerbically. “Only that I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't. You were there. You saw how revolted she was at it - and she's right. What could be worse than slave money?”

“Well, I've seen the seamier side of banking,” replied Bill. “I can think of a few things.”

“Not to Hermione, there's not, and she's all that matters right now.” Harry was getting worked up. “Did you know that Viktor Krum asked her to marry him? She turned Mister World Cup MVP down flat…. She wanted her achievements to be her own, and Krum was just too rich and too famous. Well, if he's too rich and famous, what does that make me? I'm Krum bloody squared. Hermione's got peculiarly strict standards, and I'm afraid I just don't meet them.”

“I can only hope you're wrong about that, Harry - for her sake even more than yours,” Bill remarked.

“How so?” Harry asked curiously.

“If Harry Potter cannot meet Hermione Granger's standards,” observed Bill, “then I'm afraid she's doomed to lead a very lonely life.”

Harry shrugged off the backhanded compliment. “It's more like I'm overqualified, I'm afraid. And now it's even worse. Hermione's dad is one of the smarmiest gits I've ever met. He couldn't stand the sight of me until he found out that I'm either filthy rich or even filthier rich. Now he's trying to pressure her to go out with me - or more. Well nobody makes her to do anything she doesn't want to do. Since I'm in the odd position of wanting the same thing as Hermione's dad, guess who ends up left out in the cold…?”

Harry paused. He was running out of things to say. “I can't stand it… Just can't stand it. I don't know what to do. It's trouble if I stay, but if I give up … well, it looks so bleak.”

“Hermione's just a lot more complicated than most women, I'm afraid…,” started Bill, trying to say something constructive, but failing to complete the thought.

“Tell me about it,” Harry growled. “Complicated should be her middle name.”

Suddenly, Bill brightened. “Harry, I'm afraid I'm fresh out of ready answers, but I know someone who might have some. Fleur's in France right now, on holiday with her family. I'll be visiting in a week. With your permission, I'd like to ask her what you might be able to do. Fleur's half Veela and 100% French - perfectly qualified in my book to comment on romances! In fact, she makes a hobby of analyzing relationships. If anybody can square this circle, Fleur Delacour can.”

Harry thought it through. Fleur was drop-dead gorgeous, so she probably knew all about things romantic. She was also undoubtedly clever - enough to be Triwizard champion of Beauxbatons, and Bill had reported that she respected Harry a great deal. He did not see any down side, as long as everything was kept in confidence.

“Can she keep a secret?” Harry asked.

“With the best of them,” Bill answered readily.

“Okay, I guess,” Harry agreed haltingly. “I can't see how it could hurt.”

As he was getting ready to leave Hogwarts, Harry thanked Bill. His guardian had been right. Simply having someone to talk to - not having to deal with everything that was happening in his life alone - had made him feel much better.

Then Harry remembered…. He'd completely forgotten to call Eliza all weekend, even though he had promised her he would. He was mortified, but Bill was more relaxed. Whilst arranging for a suitable Apparition site, Bill suggested, “Just bring her flowers - or jewellery. It always worked for me.”

So Harry did. Before leaving, he sprinted to the Hogwarts greenhouses. There, he found flowers in profusion. Since Professor Sprout was usually more interested in roots than in blooms, surely she would not miss a few - especially during the summer when she did not require classroom supplies.

Harry scratched his head, not sure what to choose. Eliza had liked the orchids, but that would be repetitious. He remembered vaguely that roses were supposed to be romantic. At least that's what Uncle Vernon bought for Aunt Petunia every Valentines Day.

`As good as anything,' he thought. `Not much variety, though. Too bad Sprout only has red ones.' Pulling out his Auror knife, Harry cut twelve of them in short order, and trimmed off the thorns.

By the time he was done, Bill had left and Mundungus Fletcher had taken his place as Harry's minder. Harry was pleased with this, since Dung was willing to give him a little more privacy than other members of the Order on guard duty - even after Harry's great escape (Dung had said he admired his technique). The guards made Eliza nervous, and Harry was feeling badly about not calling her. It was easy for him to convince Dung to keep his distance.

* * * *

Eliza was brooding. Harry had not called, and that was not like him. She was afraid that she might finally have scared him off. Telling him the truth about her physical attraction to him had not made for a very happy ending to their last date. First she had insulted him, and then she had more or less propositioned him. He had not reacted well to either - youth and insecurity, she thought.

She had her own insecurities. Was he just trying to be nice when he said he wanted to see her again? And he had said he was going to see Hermione Granger. Had the two finally worked things out? Still, he had never lied to her before. She had to have faith.

Her mobile rang, and Eliza's worries evaporated. It was Harry after all.

“Er…. Hi,” he said. “Sorry I forgot to call. I got … er … distracted.”

“Harry, don't worry,” Eliza reassured him. “Everything's fine. Everything's fine. Do you want to get together?”

“Yeah, that would be great,” replied Harry more enthusiastically.

“When?” asked Eliza.

“Well … now might be nice,” suggested Harry.

Eliza was shocked, “Are you joking, Harry? Where are you?”

Harry tried hard to contain his glee, “Right outside your door, actually.”

Eliza shrieked with surprise and ran to the door. Sure enough, Harry smiled at her through the peephole. When she opened the door she gasped. …He had brought her a dozen roses - red roses. Things were not so bad after all.

Eliza practically yanked Harry inside, even though she was dressed only in old jogging bottoms and a T-shirt, and her hair needed work. She opened a cabinet and took out a clear glass vase filled halfway with clear glass marbles. As she disappeared down the hall to get water for the roses, Harry benefitted from the same perspective he had when following Hermione around the night before. Some irony he could appreciate.

They spent a quiet several hours together in Eliza's flat. She talked about her promotion at work, about the new neighbors whom she thought horrid when they played their music too loud but who apologised when she complained, and about the progress of the Black/Malfoy litigation. She did not want to ruin the mood, but she had to tell him to expect a subpoena to testify. He would probably be the last witness, and she told him it was largely pro forma.

Harry talked a little about his training, and a little about Hogwarts. He became quite taciturn when she asked after Hermione. From the bits she was able to prize out of him, it was clear that the two of them had definitely NOT managed to work things out. Eliza could not help but feel pleased.

Harry had other amends to make for his previous hasty departure. “I've … I've got something else for you - besides the flowers, I mean. I-I-I stopped off before I came here. There was a jewellery store around the corner.… I wanted….”

He was getting progressively more tongue-tied. Disgusted at himself, he reached into his pocket and thrust a long, thin, blue box at her.

Eliza gasped. Links of London was just around the corner - and was rather dear, but if it was one thing she had learned about Harry, it was that he could hardly care less about money. Her hands trembling slightly, she opened the box.

Inside she found a silver, heart-shaped locket, encrusted with what were probably diamond chips, on a gold chain. She opened the locket - and saw a head shot of Harry, rather inexpertly clipped from some larger photograph. It was more or less shoved into one half of the locket. The other side was empty. She looked at him questioningly.

“Err…. I-I-I … don't have any pictures of you,” he said.

Eliza took care of that. Jumping up, she got her Polaroid, showed Harry how to use it, and in less than five minutes Harry had taken half a dozen photos of her.

“You pick,” she said.

Harry chose the picture with the biggest smile. Eliza retrieved a fine blade from her sewing kit, and she showed him that Muggle means of trimming pictures were better than using a wand and a Severing Charm.

After both photos were firmly and neatly installed in the locket, Harry cast both Homing and Indestructibility Charms on it. From now on, Eliza could neither lose nor damage it.

These activities took place between longer periods of cuddling and snogging. When he realised that Eliza was not wearing a bra, Harry reacted like he had received an electrical shock. She had to take his hand and physically place it on her breast (through her shirt, of course, she did not want him to faint clean away) before he understood that he was being permitted that liberty.

It felt so soft and smooth. Does the other one feel the same way? Soon he had his answer. He tried to keep Bill's admonition in mind. It was not easy, but he reckoned that he did. Still, Harry could not help thinking that his guardian's birthday present might just prove more timely the second go round.

From both of their perspectives, 9:00 p.m. came all too soon.

* * * *

Dudley was very excited when Harry returned to Privet Drive. “Guess what?” He pestered.

“I dunno, what?” Harry answered curtly.

“I've just found out that I'm to fight for the Greater London Junior Novice Marquess of Queensberry title on 6 August.”

“That's excellent, Dudley, really,” Harry said more attentively

“Do you want to come?” Dudley asked. “It's going to be at Miguel's Boxing Club in Brixton at 8 p.m.”

“Yeah, I think I would,” Harry agreed. It was a Muggle facility. Maybe Eliza would go with him.

When they were upstairs, Dudley tried to satisfy his curiosity about all the wizard comings and goings of late. Harry could not avoid telling him that his dinner with the Grangers had been a disaster. When Dudley also found out that Harry had just returned from a date with “the pretty one” he could not stop himself from offering unsolicited (and jejune) advice.

“All for the best, I say, Harry. Those clever girls mess with your mind too much. Tear you up inside. Dad tells me that pretty but dumb makes the best wife” (Aunt Petunia was neither, but that discrepancy did not seem to occur to Dudley). His cousin continued, “I could tell from the first time I saw her that the clever one wasn't worth the trouble.…”

Dudley's eyes went big as he found himself staring down the business end of the wizard's wand - tip glowing brightly - with a glowering wizard right behind it. “When I want your romantic advice,” Harry hissed, “I … will … ask … for … it. Got it?”

Dudley seemed to shrink under his cousin's furious glare. “Got it,” was all he said.

As Harry stalked off for bed, Dudley screwed up a little more courage and called after him. “Whatever she did to you, you can't tell me that you still don't fancy her.”

Harry heard, but did not respond in any way. After all, Dudley was right. Even a blind pig could snuffle up a truffle every now and then.

* * * *

It was mid-morning the next day on Privet Drive when, as promised, Remus Lupin returned, carrying a hefty parcel. He was well enough dressed and sufficiently normal not to cause any problems with the relatives. Even so, Uncle Vernon suddenly remembered something that needed doing at the office. All of the Dursleys knew, from the number of visitors, that something was going on with Harry. Only Dudley knew what that something was and, after his last conversation with Harry on the subject, he kept mum.

Harry greeted Remus warily. When they got to Harry's room, he said, “I told you, I don't need anybody giving me anything that will make my life any more complicated.”

The werewolf was not easily deterred. “First of all, Harry, this was a requested item. Second, this is something about which you need to make a personal decision, since it belongs to you in any event. You have to at some point, and since you asked, that point might as well be now.”

Seeing that Remus was not going to be denied, Harry helped him clear a spot on his desk, which had steadily sunk back into disorder since Hermione's first visit several weeks ago. Remus set down the package on one of its flat sides and began cutting away the string and paper with a penknife.

“Don't want to risk magic damaging it,” Remus explained.

“Looks pretty Muggle from the outside,” Harry commented.

“Oh, it's magical enough inside, trust me,” Remus replied mysteriously.

He removed the last of the fastenings, and pulled the box open. There was an elaborately carved round object inside. Remus carefully slid the now flattened box from underneath, and touched his wand to it, causing it to vanish.

What remained was a Pensieve, and Remus was right that Harry had requested one. Indeed, after last Friday's events, Harry was quite desperate to unload some of his thoughts. There was only one small problem - the Pensieve was not empty - not by a long shot.

“Well, I know what this is, and I did ask for it,” Harry began. “I can also see what the complication is. Why don't you tell me what's going on?”

“You have me to blame for this, I suppose,” Remus replied. “When I learnt that you wanted a Pensieve, I told Dumbledore that I would handle it. I knew just the thing - or at least I thought I did. This is Sirius' Pensieve.”

“Oh,” Harry said flatly. Here was another surprise in a summer that had produced far more than its share. “Then I suppose these are Sirius' thoughts?”

“Five points to Gryffindor,” Remus answered. Then his expression turned serious. “Here is the deal. I didn't know that Sirius had been using the Pensieve, but he had. I had to find out the hard way what he had been doing. For once in his life he was actually obeying orders - Dumbledore's orders. He was trying to let bygones be bygones with Snape. Apparently he didn't know any other way, so he was emptying his mind of his worst memories involving Severus.”

“So this … this is full of all of Sirius's unhappy memories involving Snape?” Harry asked, pretty much knowing what the answer would be.

“I wouldn't say `all' because Sirius needed to keep some memories - at least enough to remember who Severus was - but a large number, I'm sure. I sampled a few, so I know.” Remus remarked waspishly.

“And what do you want me to do with them?” Harry asked.

“That's what you have to tell me. You don't have to do anything, but the memories that you see floating around are Sirius' only earthly remains. Since you're his primary heir, I didn't want to dispose of them without your approval.”

Harry nodded, and got a sad, far-away look in his eye. Remus knew that he was thinking about Sirius falling through the veil in the Department of Mysteries. Remus had probably replayed that scene in his mind every bit as often as Harry.

“Harry - I'm sorry to have to put you to this, but I feel I have to ask. It's your decision,” Remus instructed, trying to bring the boy back to the present.

“I know,” said Harry resignedly. “You're doing the right thing.”

“Do you want to use the Pensieve?” Remus asked.

“You mean - to relive Sirius's memories?” Harry said, his eyes widening with comprehension.

“That's right. It's your call. I can remove them, but outside of the Pensieve they will evaporate - and once they're gone, they're gone.”

Harry swallowed. Practically every day, often several times a day, he had wished fervently that he could see Sirius again - just once. He had even asked Dumbledore if he could commission a portrait of Sirius, only to learn that a portrait had to be painted during life for it to be properly magical. Now Remus was laying an opportunity squarely before him. As Harry already knew, encounters with Snape ordinarily did not show Sirius at his best, but beggars could not be choosers. Harry agreed. In the end, it was not that hard of a decision.

“Yes, I believe I do,” Harry answered.

“I've been told that you know the drill,” Remus said dryly, referring to Harry's previous encounters with Pensieves - neither of which had been with the subject's consent.

Harry nodded. At least this time he would get to finish whatever he started. Remus instructed him to sit at his desk squarely in front of the Pensieve and to grasp the seat of the chair with both hands. Whilst experiencing Sirius' memories, his body would be effectively paralyzed and his conscious thought would come to a halt. Remus would remain in the same room with Harry at all times - to rescue him if necessary, but more likely to pull him away when the particular memory had ended. Remus explained that the surface of the Pensieve glowed whilst a memory was being experienced and the glow ceased when the memory was over.

Harry readied himself. Nervously, he examined the roiling liquid fog in the in the intricately carved ivory bowl. Delicately, he prodded its surface with the tip of his wand. It started to swirl, and a black dot - like the pupil of an eye - formed in the middle. He took a deep breath and looked at Remus, who returned a crooked half-smile. Gripping the seat of the plain wooden chair in which he was sitting, Harry lowered his face towards the swirling mixture. Finally, his nose touched….

Everything went black. He felt the familiar falling sensation, but this was more than an ordinary fall. His stomach lurched as he did a complete front tuck and found himself peering over someone's shoulder into pitch darkness. A powerful wind whipped in his ears. He was moving - flying - at extremely high speed. Almost at the same instant he noticed a powerful vibration rumbling upward from his thighs and his seat.

Harry looked down and saw that he was riding pillion on Sirius' GKN. The source of this memory was hunched over the handlebars. He had the throttle jammed as far towards “accelerate” as it would go. He was not particularly well dressed for riding. Sirius was in full robes over which he had hastily zipped a well-worn Muggle leather jacket. Silver studs outlined the neck, wrists and seams of his jacket, glinting barely visibly in the dim light. Damp tendrils of Sirius' hair streamed out from under his black helmet.

The weather was awful. There was not a light in the sky. Mist and intermittent heavier rain were blowing all around Harry, battering his unprotected face. From what little Harry could glean from the dark, uncertain shapes passing below, Sirius was flying at only about fifty metres above the ground. Despite the night and fog, Sirius was riding with the headlight off. The GKN itself was roaring, and Sirius was making no attempt to conceal the noise.

Harry noticed that his Godfather was riding with his wand clenched tightly in his right hand. It was pointing at himself. From the arrangement, Harry deduced that Sirius was wearing a wrist holster like his. Every so often Sirius growled “Dessicatus” and cleared his visor of accumulated droplets and condensation. He did so without ever taking his hand off the throttle. Other than this periodically muttered spell, Harry heard nothing beyond random curse words and urgings for the already speeding motorcycle to go still faster.

When he swore, Sirius' wand emitted red sparks.

Suddenly several jagged stone pinnacles, rising abruptly from the forested hillside loomed in front of them. “Damn … the Four Fingers,” Sirius growled as he slammed the motorcycle into a gut wrenching climb. For a brief horrible moment Harry thought they were going to crash, but the bike cleared the brushy tops of the vegetation that capped the pinnacles by no more than a few feet - scrubby tree branches reaching up as if to grab them. The land dropped off just as abruptly on the other side, and Sirius followed its contour into the hollow beyond. For the first time Harry saw light ahead - an indistinct yellowish-green glow. Sirius spotted it at the same instant and let out a long low guttural howl, more like an injured dog than anything human. The howl was followed by a string of expletives and death threats that would have made Mundungus cringe.

The source of the light grew ever larger. It appeared to be coming from the front of a house. There was a fire burning out of control - no firefighters in evidence. Harry had little more chance to look at it, but there was no need. He had this awful sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, as he caught the first whiff of the smoke. Even though he did not recognise the scene, he knew what it was … where it was. It was the stuff of a thousand nightmares. It still qualified as the worst day of his life.

The motorbike landed heavily on the drive, forcing Harry deep into the leather seat and kicking up gravel in all directions. Harry again feared a crash, but Sirius was an excellent driver. With the tyres tearing out great gouts of grass and mud, and the entire bike bucking wildly, Sirius braked and brought it skidding to a halt a couple dozen metres from the blazing building. He rammed down both kickstands, flung his helmet off, and jumped straight over the handlebars with his wand firmly clenched in his right hand. He was screaming.

“JAMES!! LILY!! Oh my God!”

Sirius' left foot caught on the handlebar, and he tumbled face first to the wet grass. The bike swayed but remained upright. Sirius was scrambling to his feet when, in the sickly illumination provided by the spreading magical flames, he noticed something lying on the ground barely a metre in front of him. He grabbed it. It was smoking at both ends.

“James' wand,” Sirius gasped.

He pointed it at the fire and held it up to his eye. Harry could see that it was hollow - the core was completely burnt out. Sirius howled his unearthly howl again.

Something seemed to be howling back, indistinctly over the roar of the inferno that was the front of the Potter house in Godric's Hollow. Sirius looked and saw a massive, shadowy figure plodding slowly towards them from the as yet unburnt rear of the house. The figure seemed stooped over and distracted.

“Hagrid!” Sirius screamed out, “Please tell me it's not too late. Did anyone survive?”

Hagrid looked up and recognised Sirius. The large man was blubbering, and Harry had the feeling that Sirius was too, although he had the wrong angle to see.

“Only little `Arry `ere,” the half-giant managed to reply. “Oh, Sirius, its `orrible! Lily's… Lily's bo … bod…. She's `round back. An' James, Sirius… James...! Tha's `is leg inna fire there…”

Hagrid pointed to something that - Harry shuddered - looked something like a leg in the doorway of the burning house. It was on fire. “I canna get to `im, Sirius, I tried, but I canna.” Hagrid burst into tears again, and wailed almost as loudly as the injured and terrified baby that he cradled in his arms.

Sirius started to point his wand at the corpse, but stopped. What good would it do now?

Still, James deserved a decent burial. Wordlessly, he magicked his corpse from the flames, extinguished what was left of it, and moved it aside.

Then Sirius stopped. He was muttering to himself, speaking softly, still panting. Harry could tell from personal experience that Sirius was trying to regain control over himself.

“Let me have him, Hagrid,” Sirius desperately requested, pointing to baby Harry. “I can get him out of here fast before anything worse happens.”

Clutching the small bundle tighter, Hagrid refused. “Fraid I canna do tha' either, Sirius. Sorry, but them's me orders from Dumbledore. Keep `im m'self until we can sort out wha' `appened `n why. Sorry.” Hagrid hung his head but remained firm.

Sirius' own shoulders slumped, and Harry knew why. This was something that in all likelihood Harry understood better than Sirius himself. In the chaos, nobody knew why the Fidelius Charm had failed, and everyone was under suspicion. Their suspicions would soon lead them to a wrong conclusion - a very horribly wrong conclusion.

But that was in the future. Sirius simply accepted Hagrid's orders. “Is it unsafe here, Hagrid?” he asked urgently. It was more of a statement than a question. “Listen, you have to take my bike. Take little Harry, and go - quickly. Please go, now! Get out!”

“T'wasn't jus' Death Eaters,” Hagrid replied ominously. “You Know Who was `ere `imself an' done it, Sirius. You Know Who `imself!” Hagrid choked back more tears.

“Great gates of Hell!” Sirius swore. He knew what this meant. Voldemort had made his long awaited - and long feared - main strike against the Potters. Sirius had gotten there too late. Too late for his best friends in the world. Only baby Harry was left.

“Go! Take him to Dumbledore as fast as you can!” Sirius yelled. “There may still be Death Eaters about. If there are.… I'll kill them. I swear it.”

Hagrid kept talking, rooted to the spot. “…But summat `appened. I got `ere jus' as there was a green flash. I'd know it anywhere. T'was a Killin' Curse, it t'was. Couldn' see nuffink. Jus' some shoutin'. Then the Death Eaters, they panicked. The `ole lot of `em jus' popped off.”

“Still, there could be some around. Take my bike and go - NOW!” Sirius roared.

“Right,” Hagrid said and meekly obeyed. “But `ow will you get…?”

“Does it matter anymore?” Sirius shot back, with an almost insane look in his eye. Hagrid mounted the bike, secured his baby bundle around his middle, under his massive coat, and roared off into the night.

Wand still out, Sirius trotted to the back of the blazing house. All of the windows and doors had been blown out, but only now were the first wispy curls of fire beginning to creep over the roof line. Not two metres from the back door lay Lily Potter's body. Or what remained of Lily - her body was broken and battered from a two-storey fall. Her eyes were vacant, and her hair - her beautiful, bonnie red hair, Sirius thought - was matted, twisted, and soaked with blood. Weeping openly, and moaning her name, Sirius knelt over her.

For the first time since that night Harry got the chance really to see his Mum. This was how she looked in the flesh - and not some sanitised, conjured up image like the Mirror of Erised. Even in death, Harry could tell she was beautiful. Now, however, her green eyes stared blankly out upon a scene of horror. Her perfectly formed jaw hung limply, her mouth half open. Harry was in tears himself, as he watched Sirius reach down and gently close her eyes, never to open again.

Sirius gathered Lily's limp corpse in his arms and staggered to his feet. He stepped awkwardly on the edge of his robe, stumbling backward a few steps. Steadying himself and stowing his wand, he moved Lily's body away from the fire. Harry could not catch all of his indistinct muttering, but could tell that his godfather was begging “forgiveness” for “failing you” in the “most important promise” he had ever made.

Lily had met her end in a loose-fitting pale green flannel robe. As Sirius struggled to move her, the robe was pulled tight over Lily's abdomen. Through his tears, Harry gasped. Lily's belly was not flat. She had been pregnant. A flash of anger cut through Harry's grief.

`Damn them all to Hell! Fifteen years and nobody ever told me. Why didn't I know?' he raged.

His rage did not last. Renewed grief poured over Harry, washing his anger away. Voldemort had not only the blood of his parents on his hands but the innocent blood of his unborn little brother or sister…. That also meant that when Lily had sacrificed herself to protect him, she had sacrificed more than just herself - she had sacrificed that sibling. Harry realised that his body count was not four, it was five. Harry's place in the prophecy had claimed a life before it had even started. Harry felt weak in the knees. He would have collapsed had he not merely been inhabiting Sirius' memory.

Harry groaned in grief and guilt and tottered backwards from the scene, where Sirius was gently laying his Mum's body out of harm's way. Sirius looked up abruptly. For a brief insane instant, Harry thought that Sirius had heard him.

Harry knew that was impossible. He had enough experience in other people's memories to know that he could not affect events in any way whatsoever.

But there was another groan. Harry heard it too, distinctly this time. At the edge of the trees was another body - this one alive - albeit just barely. It was a Death Eater, Harry was sure of that. Not only was it clad in black, but there was a white Death Eater mask lying next to the body.

In a movement familiar to Harry, Sirius flicked out his wand from his wrist holster and was instantly facing the source of the noise. “It looks like James didn't go quietly, though,” Sirius growled to himself. “There's one of the bastards over there.” Sirius approached the prone, black robed figure with his wand pointed menacingly at its chest. Harry followed behind. Instinctively, Harry tried to without success to draw his own wand.

Sirius stomped on the mask, which gave a crackling sound as it shattered. The Death Eater was badly injured. His left leg looked half torn off. His groans gave no indication that he was even aware of Sirius' presence.

Sirius took care of that. With a vicious kick, Sirius turned the Death Eater over so he could see the face of one of James' and Lily's killers. “Snape,” he growled.

Harry blanched as he saw the pale and bleeding face of a much younger Severus Snape. Anger rose in him again. His Potions professor had been one of the Death Eaters accompanying Voldemort when the Dark wizard had murdered his parents - and unborn sibling.

Snape was glassy-eyed and semiconscious at best. He had obviously lost a great deal of blood. Still he was gasping - trying to form words. “Black, you traitor…. Didn't work…. You're too…. You're too late…. Gone….”

Snape's slurred comments sent Sirius into a towering, maniacal rage. “YOU SLIMY TURNCOAT BASTARD,” he roared. “YOU'VE BETRAYED EVERYTHING AND EVERYONE JUST BECAUSE YOU COULDN'T HAVE HER. TOO BAD JAMES SAVED YOUR WORTHLESS LIFE. I'LL FIX THAT MISTAKE RIGHT NOW…”

Wide-eyed with fury, Sirius gave Snape another savage, rib-cracking kick. Then he cold-bloodedly pointed his wand squarely at the prone wizard's back. Sirius started to roar out what Harry knew would be a Killing Curse…. Harry tried to turn away.

Suddenly there was a disturbance. Another higher pitched voice shouted out in the darkness. “Avada Kedavra!”

Eerily Sirius' voice echoed, “AVADA KE…”

A jet of green light rocketed by, just over Sirius' shoulder. It slammed into one of the huge oak trees that lined the Potter property, splitting the tree in half and setting it afire. Sirius had begun whirling around towards the latest threat even before he finished his own Unforgivable. The green jet from Sirius' wand sizzled harmlessly into the wet grass.

Across the lawn, Harry could just make out the vague silhouette of another wizard, presumably the caster of that impressively powerful, if poorly aimed, Killing Curse. That wizard (he moved like a man) had stumbled and was now scrambling to his feet and trying to run away. Sirius instantly transformed into a huge black dog and sprinted towards the fleeing form. All of a sudden Harry felt his senses changing. He could see somewhat better and, most importantly, his sense of smell was incomparably better.

Harry smelt a rat….

Everything suddenly went black. Harry felt himself whirling, until he felt the hard wood chair in his room under his butt once again. Harry was panting loudly, his eyes wide open, his mouth dry. He felt mixed waves of magic and emotion flashing through his body. He felt hot, cold, and hot again. For several seconds he lay with his head uncomfortably on the hard edge of the Pensieve, unable to speak.

“Harry.… Harry.… Are you all right?” It was Remus.

“I-I-I … think so,” mumbled Harry.

“What did you see?” Remus asked urgently, “from the looks of you, it must have been intense. You started jerking like you were having a fit.”

“I … saw my father's body burning…. I saw my mother … dead….”

Remus' eyes went even wider. “Oh sweet Merlin! I had no idea THAT memory was in.…”

“…I saw Sirius almost kill … SNAPE! That bloody bastard was one of Voldemort's Death Eaters the night of my parents' murder. I WILL DESTROY HIM!!”

Enraged, Harry started to get up. He felt Remus' werewolf strength again - forcing him back into his chair. “No you won't,” said the last Marauder calmly but forcefully. “You're going off half-cocked just like Sirius did … and look where that got him.”

“Sirius was about to perform the Killing Curse on Snape…. Then somebody tried to kill him…. Pettigrew!”

“That would make sense,” Remus sighed. “Peter probably thought he was helping out a fellow Death Eater. He was the only one whose whereabouts on that night were never known. Not until after Sirius' escape did anyone place him at the scene. Snape hadn't seen him, and the Death Eaters hadn't invited him, so we think he was there on his own - like an arsonist come to watch his own fire.”

“It was Pettigrew all right,” Harry confirmed. “He had fallen down, I think from the recoil of the spell. Sirius transformed and started chasing after him. He smelt…. I smelt … Pettigrew's rat like essence.”

“He what?” Remus asked, as if he could not believe his ears.

Harry repeated, “Sirius smelt him.…”

Remus cut Harry off, “No, before that - you said Peter fell?”

“Yeah,” replied Harry. “He was trying to get up when I first saw him. It was like he didn't know the strength of his own spell.”

“Harry, you might have just solved a longstanding mystery,” Remus said thoughtfully. “Sirius never mentioned that detail - probably because he was too enraged to notice.” Remus closed his eyes for several moments and steadied his breath before speaking again. “That makes sense.…”

“What makes sense?” asked Harry. “Because nothing makes sense to me.”

“After he disappeared, Voldemort's wand was never found,” he informed the boy. “From what you just said, I'd put Galleons to Knuts that Peter retrieved it, and tried to use it to kill Sirius - but the wand was too powerful for that pathetic little git to handle. He obviously escaped from Sirius and either hid Voldemort's wand or gave it to someone. Even Snape has never been able to find out how Voldemort ultimately got it back.”

The mention of that name refocused Harry. “What was Snape doing there in the first place?” Harry asked through gritted teeth.

“Because Snape was a spy for us,” Remus spat. “Sirius didn't know that then, and neither did I. Nobody knew who the traitor amongst the Marauders was then…. Well, Wormtail knew, but he wasn't talking…. Once I became a member of the Order, I learnt that Snape had been warning us for several weeks that the Death Eaters had something planned that involved the Potters - that Voldemort had somehow figured out how to penetrate the Fidelius Charm. He was trying to give us warning, but…. Oh dammit!”

Remus sat heavily on Harry's bed and buried his face in his hands. He took several deep breaths. “This is hard, Harry…. I still hold myself responsible.”

Harry gawked at his former professor.

“You see, Harry,” Remus continued, “I made a mistake.… Sirius had been having second thoughts about Peter as the secret keeper almost from the moment he had agreed to it. He started trying to keep watch on Peter. I suspected Sirius as the traitor, and I told Peter to be careful - that he was being watched. According to what we later learnt from Snape, Voldemort somehow found out that his scheme to kill the Potters had been compromised.”

“Snape told you this?” asked Harry.

“Some of it,” Lupin replied. “There's ample corroboration. I saw Sirius' behavior myself, because I was also trying to keep watch, more discreetly, on the both of them. Anyway, Voldemort abruptly advanced the date of the operation - that is, the date that Peter was to tell him the Potters' location. The Order was caught unawares. Nobody knew anything was happening until suddenly memories returned, and we all remembered where James and Lily were living. It was the worst feeling in the world.”

“I still remember exactly where I was when the charm collapsed. I was working as a Muggle carpenter because I couldn't get a magical job. I was on my knees using a nail gun to lay insulation…. I nearly put a nail through my own hand.… Because of my condition, I can't Apparate worth a damn. I begged off work and created an illegal Portkey as fast as I could.” His voice trailed off, reduced to a choked whisper. “But I was too late, Harry…. Too bloody late to do anything except help remove their bodies.”

“Snape came away even more convinced than ever that Sirius was the spy. He also blamed Sirius for forcing him to almost blow his own leg off with a Reductor Curse. From what Snape said, Voldemort thought there was a spy in his own ranks. Snape believed that the only way he could make his cover story convincing enough was to make it appear that James nearly killed him in the firefight. It took him years to recover full use of his leg. He was in a lot of pain, and may still be now, for all anyone knows. Snape doesn't talk about pain very much.”

“S-S-Sirius screamed something about Snape wanting my mother,” Harry stated in as unemotional a voice as he could muster.

Remus sighed, “I wish I didn't have to be the one to tell you this, but it's the burden that falls to the last survivor, I suppose. He may well have. Snape tried to date your mother in their Sixth Year. He was more or less an outcast - terrible social skills - and she was one of the few girls at Hogwarts who treated him like a human being. How far they got, I guess Snape is the only living soul who knows that.”

“Anyway, to make a very long story short, they had a nasty split over his unwillingness to allow their relationship to be public knowledge. She was prouder of him than he was of himself. It's just my guess, but Snape probably went Dark over it. Shortly after they broke it off, we started getting reports of him consorting with known Death Eaters.”

“James was lucky. He almost always was…. James was in the right place at the right time, and had already begun cleaning up his own act. Lily was reluctant, but James courted her ardently.”

“How do you know all this about my Mum?” Harry asked.

Lupin looked at Harry sadly, and sighed again. “I was one person both James and Lily trusted. I acted as something of a go-between for them, and I helped them over some rough spots when they were just starting out.”

Harry sighed himself. “You were a good friend, Remus.… I wish I had a friend who would do that for me.”

“You've got Ron,” Remus chided. “He would march through the gates of Hell for you, you know that.”

“I don't know, Remus … he's been acting strangely ever since he was hurt,” Harry said. “Sometimes I don't think I know who he is anymore. I think he let his mum blame me for his decision to quit as Prefect.”

“There's also Hermione,” reminded Remus. “I've frankly never seen two people more symbiotic than the two of you - not even your parents.”

“Impossible,” Harry grimaced.

Remus regarded Harry with a puzzled expression. “I don't see why?” he said.

“BECAUSE SHE CAN'T BE A GO-BETWEEN WITH HER OWN BLOODY SELF!” Harry yelled.

For the first time all day, Remus had nothing affirmative to say. A lot of things were becoming clear to him. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked.

“NO!” Harry said rather more loudly than necessary. He was tired of talking about that. “What I want to talk about is how come nobody ever told me that Voldemort not only killed my parents but also my unborn brother or sister.”

Comprehension dawned on Remus' face. He smacked himself in the forehead and let himself drop heavily onto Harry's bed. “If you don't know, then I can't tell you. Like I said, I didn't even know Sirius had put this particular memory in there. There's got to be a good reason why you haven't been told, but I frankly don't know what it is. You'll have to ask Dumbledore.”

Ask Dumbledore.

There was little more to say after that. Harry decided that he did not want any more close encounters with Sirius' memories about Snape. Remus explained how Sirius' memories would quickly dissipate once removed from the Pensieve. Because those memories, ephemeral as they might be, were the last physical remnant of Sirius the person, Harry told Lupin to keep the Pensieve. He was determined that there would be some sort of memorial service for Sirius - a public one if he were cleared, a private one otherwise.

It was with some trepidation that Remus left. He knew he had inadvertently made a big mistake. Accidentally, he had allowed Harry to cross one of Dumbledore's need-to-know barriers - one he had not even known to exist. Moreover, Harry still seemed agitated - and frankly Remus could not at all blame him.

Harry more or less stewed in the juices of his successive emotional traumas for the rest of the afternoon. He tried to distract himself by keeping busy. He called Blackie Howe about the subpoena. Howe said it sounded routine and that Harry could owl back the return receipt. Howe would get a duplicate copy from the Ministry to make sure.

Harry distractedly looked through the Creevey material Hermione had given him. Trying hard not to think of her, he edited the drafts of the form letters. Amongst them he saw a letter, addressed to him, which Hermione had not mentioned. It was written in a horrible shade of fuchsia ink and contained one of the most bizarre proposals Harry could imagine:

Wizard's Wireless Network “88.8 On Your MM Dial”

Department Of Special Promotions

Dear Mr. Potter:

On behalf of the entire WWN Network, I congratulate you upon your recent accomplishments, both martial and academic. You stand as a beacon to the wizarding world.

And so do we. Broadcasting at 100,000 Magiwatts, WWN is the music and talk beacon of Magical Britain. It only seems logical that Britain's number one young wizard and its number one radio station for young wizards should get together to throw the biggest party that Magical Britain has ever seen.

Thus we are delighted to solicit your appearance at our planned all-day “Happy Birthday Harry” street jamboree to take place in Diagon Alley, on the square in front of Gringotts Bank, from noon until midnight - the witching hour - on 31 July. Our top jock Waldorf “Weird Wally” Wilson will preside over the marvelous mayhem WWN has planned.

You will of course receive outstanding compensation for your appearance. As our birthday gift to you, we will give you 2000 Galleons and, and WWN will make a contribution of another 2000 Galleons to the wizard charity of your choice. In addition you will retain any and all birthday presents you receive during the course of the festivities.

We look forward to your response by o-mail, or you can floo over in person to WWN Central.

Sincerely Yours

Europa Sydenham

Vice-President for Special Events,

Harry was appalled that anyone - well, anyone other than Fred and George - would seek to cash in on his popularity in so flagrantly crass a manner. He scrawled an emphatic “NOT ON YOUR LIFE” over the letter with the widest point quill that he owned, and sent his rejection back with Hedwig posthaste.

Finally it was time for his Sunday evening Occlumency session with Dumbledore. `Would Hermione even be there?' he wondered. …And he had a bone or two to pick with the Headmaster himself…. The simmering stew that was Harry had reached a nice rolling boil by the time of his 7 p.m. appointment. He met Bill at Mrs. Figg's for the trip to Hogwarts.

Bill looked like a thundercloud himself. “I've talked to Mum,” he told Harry. “About Ron. There was quite a confrontation. Ron didn't tell Mum about resigning as Prefect. Mum found out when she received an owl from Professor McGonagall accepting the resignation. She went nuts…. Harry, you know how she can be….”

“I'll say,” Harry agreed.

“Well, she got on the Floo with him right away,” Bill continued. “She threatened to bring Ron home from Quidditch camp, even though that meant he would miss the final tournament. She only relented when Ron had told her that you had been the one who had offered the swap - that the two of you had a Floo conversation and you found out that Ron would rather be Quidditch Captain than Prefect.”

“That … That's a lie!” Harry spluttered. “Ron had already posted his bloody resignation letter before we ever spoke - he told me that!”

Bill thought for a moment, and then said, “So you can prove it, I guess. McGonagall will know when she received the letter. If she got it before you talked to Ron, then Ron's goose is well and truly cooked.”

“Yes,” said Harry. “Er … no.” Harry thought some more. He shook his head. “No. Forget it Bill, it's not worth it. Not now.”

“Please explain, Harry,” prompted Bill.

Harry did. “Ron lied to his mum - your mum - because he couldn't face being removed from the Quidditch tournament. If we prove his lie to your mum, the same thing still happens, only much worse. She would pull the plug on Ickle Ronniekins' Quidditch camp faster than a London minute … and probably ground him too. And who would he blame? Me, that's who. I don't need any more ruined friendships right now. One is quite enough, thank you. I don't like it, but I think I just have to take this one sitting down.”

Bill nodded. “Harry, we were talking about maturity yesterday. This is a very mature thing to do. A sacrifice for the greater good. Let's get you to Hogwarts. I have some other business I need to attend to - some family business.”

Dumbledore was not there to greet Harry when he and Bill Portkeyed to the Castle. Instead, Dobby was there with instructions that the Headmaster awaited him in his office. The elf gave him the password (“Fizzing Whizbees”), and Harry ascended the rotating staircase to Dumbledore's tower with growing unease. He knocked and was promptly granted admission.

Dumbledore sat behind his desk, looking inscrutable. As soon as Harry was seated, he knew that something was amiss. “Where's Hermione,” he asked quietly.

Dumbledore explained. “In light of recent events, Miss Granger expressed hesitancy about our Legilimency sessions, at least for the moment. I therefore suggested that she need not come.”

Harry slumped in his chair. After a pregnant pause, he said in a barely audible tone, “She hates me now, doesn't she?”

That quiet comment prompted a far greater reaction from the Headmaster than had Harry's previous physical destruction of his office. Dumbledore responded as if he had been slapped. “No, Mister Potter, she does not. Of that, I am positive. I did not wish to speak to her directly before talking to you, but I am being kept informed of her situation by two independent sources. Things are delicate, to be sure. She is worried about what her parents, particularly her father, might do. But I do not believe that your friendship has suffered more than superficial damage. It is imperative that you understand that.”

“I ran away,” Harry said.

“You did the right thing under the circumstances. Any aggressive action by you, especially towards her parents, would have been disastrous.”

“I was a coward,” Harry muttered.

“You are most certainly not a coward,” replied Dumbledore. “You are far more likely to get yourself in trouble through excessive bravery than by any show of cowardice.”

“I-I-I had another vision.… A horrible dream,” Harry said.

“It was Voldemort's doing,” wheezed Dumbledore, “and I thank you for reporting it promptly.”

“I, I, I had given up on magic,” Harry continued. “I was a powerless Squib. Could that really happen?”

“The spell you described in your report is real,” Dumbledore explained gently. “However, the circumstances are not. There is no ghost of Merlin. Merlin was too strong a person ever to consider becoming a ghost. What happened after that illustrates only a tiny fraction of the dangerous consequences that could befall you - and all the rest of us - should you ever actually make such a foolish decision. I hope you appreciate that, whatever your reasons, such a course of action is never justified. Your path will never be easy, but you are a Gryffindor in every sense of the word. You cannot deviate.”

“Why not?” groaned Harry.

“Because Voldemort would triumph; the wizarding world as we know it would cease to exist; and the Muggle world would follow in time.” Dumbledore said frankly. “The Order of the Phoenix, and the earlier Orders that preceded it, have not been defeated by an emergent Dark Lord for almost four hundred years. The last time we suffered defeat, the resultant conflict devastated much of Europe and lasted for over thirty years. The time before that, there was war for over a hundred years.”

Harry looked horrified. Dumbledore nodded.

“That is correct. Under the influence of Dark Magic, Muggles fought for ten decades over various meaningless dynastic disputes. There is a reason why we teach History of Magic, Harry - to learn from past catastrophes how to prevent their recurrence.”

“Oh,” Harry replied, with a tinge of sarcasm, “so no pressure, then. Right?”

“Ultimately, pressure is what you put on yourself,” Dumbledore replied.

Harry fidgeted in his chair, then he gulped and asked, “Can I ask you something else about the dream?”

“Most certainly,” Dumbledore responded. “Indeed, I have some questions of my own about such matters.”

“In the dream…. Voldemort…. He used an Unforgivable Curse to try to force me to … to … to do something unspeakable….”

“Mister Potter, he was trying to destroy your dignity - your sense of self worth - to ruin you without killing you,” Dumbledore interrupted.

“He stopped, though…. I don't remember why, but he did,” Harry continued. “But what if he hadn't? I'm frightened…. What if I can't throw off his Imperius Curse the next time? What if he uses the Cruciatus Curse to force me? I can't even begin to fight that. If I ever actually did anything like … like in the dream … I wouldn't want to live. Hermione…. Oh, Merlin…. It's something I've seen on Muggle television…. Can, can you give me a suicide pill that I could hold in reserve for such a situation?”

Dumbledore had not expected that turn in the conversation. He rose from his seat briskly. “Absolutely not!” he thundered as he pounded his fist on his desk, making the various apparatus jump. “That would only be giving Voldemort one more way to kill you - an absurdly easy way. The only solutions are to avoid such situations in the first place or to learn better ways of fighting. No matter what you are facing, suicide is never an option. Never! You must understand that. There are always better alternatives. I implore you to never think that way again!”

Harry had never seen Dumbledore so upset at him. In truth, Dumbledore was to some degree acting. He had to banish that thought from Harry's mind immediately and permanently, because the creation of a suicide pill was well within the capability of almost anyone, even (especially) Harry, who could muster an Outstanding on the Potions O.W.L. Magic was not even necessary. The Headmaster now appreciated the full malice of the latest vision that Voldemort had sent the young man's way.

Dumbledore sat back down and turned off the anger. “Mister Potter, as I said, there are always other ways. I want to help you with this - more than that, I need to. Let me see what I can do. All right?”

Harry nodded.

“Now may I ask a question?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry nodded.

“Remus has reported to me that you accessed some of Sirius' memories through a Pensieve, is that right?”

“Yes!” said Harry, almost shouting, “And I DO have some more questions for you!”

“I thought as much,” replied Dumbledore, “and I am telling you right now, you will probably be disappointed in some of my answers. But for the moment it is my turn. So tell me, Mister Potter, what did you see?”

Harry recited the mad flight with Sirius. He described Sirius's actions after arriving too late, meeting Hagrid, and with considerably more difficulty seeing his mother's corpse and learning that she was pregnant. He also recounted how Sirius had almost killed Snape, since that was the reason that this memory had found its way into Sirius' Pensieve in the first place.

Dumbledore added some depth to Sirius's somewhat narrow perspective. He explained that Sirius had found James' wand, its core completely burnt out, and left it in his flat before departing to have his revenge upon the traitor Peter Pettigrew. Some Death Eaters had staged a diversion, and Hagrid had been with Dumbledore when the Fidelius Charm had collapsed. Dumbledore had to deal with the diversion (since it involved the envoy from the American Ministry) but had sent Hagrid to Godric's Hollow as soon as he could create the necessary Portkey - Hagrid had never learnt Apparition. The rest of the Order had wasted precious time seeking instructions from Dumbledore, which accounted for their tragically delayed response.

When the Order finally arrived in force, Snape was taken to the hospital wing at Hogwarts for treatment and safekeeping. There was no love lost between Snape and either the Ministry or the Death Eater remnants. Only when Snape was revived, did the Order learn from him, the only available eyewitness, how Voldemort's Killing Curse had backfired somehow, and the Dark Lord had disintegrated. Numerous signs of disarray amongst the Death Eaters were already pointing towards some sort of calamity involving their leader, but it was Snape who provided the actual confirmation.

Dumbledore was very interested to learn the new information about Pettigrew's powerful but stumbling curse, and its probable link to the mystery of Voldemort's wand.

This was all very interesting, but Dumbledore did not touch upon Harry's most burning question. Eventually, Harry became impatient and interrupted.

“My mum was pregnant. I saw that with my own eyes. Why has nobody ever told me that I lost a brother or sister that night?”

“That is a very good question,” Dumbledore responded. “I am afraid that I cannot give you as good an answer as you deserve. That is something Voldemort does not know, and given his nature, it is information he would find quite valuable….”

“Why don't you tell me?” Harry repeated with rapidly growing annoyance.

Dumbledore sighed. “Why do you think we are here, Mister Potter? Like it or not, you and Voldemort are linked. You penetrate each other's minds. I am very distressed that you have learned this information at all, and I would use a Memory Charm were I not afraid of interfering with your magical maturation. In light of this knowledge, it is critical - absolutely critical - that you continue mastering Occlumency, and that you perform it every night without fail.”

“All right, then. At least you've told me that you can't tell me,” Harry grumbled. “Can I ask you a different question?”

“Yes,” said Dumbledore, “and I hope I can give you a different answer.”

“It's more of a statement anyway,” continued Harry. “I'd like to place flowers on my mum's grave - my dad's too, if there is one - but I don't know where it….”

“I cannot tell you anything about that,” Dumbledore curtly replied.

Harry was shocked. “What? All I want is….”

Dumbledore spoke with finality. “I repeat, I cannot help you, and regrettably, I cannot even tell you why.”

“But….”

“Please change the subject Harry, or I will be forced to end this conversation.” Dumbledore said with finality. The old man sat back in his seat and crossed his hands over his chest. There was no twinkle in his troubled eyes.

As perplexed as he was, Harry had no choice but to move on. In desultory fashion they discussed Harry's growing disenchantment with his prospective inheritances and how this was causing Harry relationship problems. No solution was reached.

Dumbledore and Harry then had an Occlumency/Legilimency session. Overall, Dumbledore was extremely pleased with the progress being made, particularly given the extremely adverse mental circumstances.

Dumbledore's little motivational speech seemed to have struck a nerve. Harry tried like never before. The Headmaster learned firsthand what had been reported to him so many times by the staff: Harry could be an excellent, indeed outstanding, student when he applied himself.

A little too good, perhaps. When Dumbledore had Harry practice Legilimency on him, the Headmaster found him digging just a little too deeply. It hardly took a genius to figure out what Harry was after. Dumbledore responded with an Incandens Curse of his own, which burnt away Harry's eyebrows, singed his hair, and partially melted his glasses. “Harry, I am serious about what I said,” Dumbledore warned. “Stay away from that subject.”

The smell of burning hair reminded Harry of something. He told the Headmaster how he had severely burnt Remus during the struggle at the end the recent Voldemort-induced nightmare. Once again Harry found he had reached a limit, although this time of a different sort.

“Harry, I can truthfully say that I do not know the answer to that question. I had you read some chapters on electricity because I believe that there are parallels between how electricity and magic works. But with you, I'm afraid that the relationship is even greater - and incomparably stronger - than with the rest of us, even me. How much and in what ways, I do not know.”

“One explanation that I am investigating is that whether there is anything to the theory you have already encountered that you are an elemental of the Fifth Element. Beyond that, things remain so indistinct that anything I say would likely mislead you. What I do know is that you need to be careful - very careful. You are prone to magical eruptions of considerable power. They could be extremely dangerous in an inappropriate location. Think, for example, what would happen if for some reason you unleashed that Greek Fire Curse of yours during the Sorting Ceremony.”

A few more exercises followed, but they were more of an orderly cooling off period than anything strenuous in their own right. Dumbledore walked Harry back to the fireplace from which Harry would Floo home. Putting his hand on his shoulder, the old wizard said, “I hope you understand that everything we have discussed here tonight - what you saw in the Pensieve, and my speculation about your nature - is extremely confidential, and should not be shared with anyone.”

“Not even Hermione?” Harry asked skeptically.

“Especially not Miss Granger,” the Headmaster emphasized. “You cannot comprehend how valuable this information would be to Voldemort. If he ever even suspected that it was available, he would seek out Miss Granger first. I think you know why.”

“I can guess,” replied Harry flatly. He Flooed home.

Dumbledore muttered as he shuffled back to his office, “That is precisely why Harry will tell her, something will happen, and we shall be fighting this war on even more fronts. Oh, Sirius, why was this the one time you decided to follow my instructions?”

* * * *

Author notes: Gibbous moon - all lunar phase descriptions are accurate as checked on a phases of the moon website

Comfortably numb - a song by Pink Floyd that is quite apt to Imperio

Swan song, from the myth that swans sing beautifully before their death

100,000 generations of evolution is about 2,000,000 years

Harry can you hear me? Harry as Tommy, perhaps

"Incontrovertible physical fact" is a legal doctrine concerning facts that at trial allow no contradiction

25 or 6 to 4 is an old Chicago song. There are other references in the same paragraph

The flesh frying magic resembles what happened to Quirrell in Book One

Na na na - that's one of the songs from the prior chapters

Barbary fig is reputed to have anti-hangover powers

The blob is patterned after a large plastic practice facility that the Eagles (of course, in this context, "football" means something different) used a number of years ago. They do utilize positive air pressure

Everlast is a real brand name for this sort of thing

Frolic and detour is another legal phrase - used sarcastically here

Not in a position to act with Tom - here is more foreshadowing, although it will take a while for others to get into a position to be acted upon

I use the actual technical name for a subpoena requiring testimony

The spot by the lake is a combined description of two places in Acadia National Park - the Featherbed on Cadillac Mountain and Paradise Pool (Sargeant Mtn. Pond)

Leather couch and German accent - Bill contemplates a career as a psychiatrist

Bill's reference to the seamier side of banking, some foreshadowing

With a dozen red roses, Harry stumbles into rather more than he bargained for

Links of London is a major jewelry store, with a branch in Canary Wharf

A Marquess of Queensberry is credited with creating the first universally accepted rules of pugilism

The Brixton gym is a real place

Blind pigs and truffles - truffles emit odors mimicking porcine sexual scents, which is why sows have been used to hunt them. It's purely sense of smell

Night and fog - nacht und nebel - the nickname of the infamous WWII decree, and an appropriate setting for what follows

Typically Snape and Sirius talked past one another. Snape was talking about Voldemort being gone, Sirius thought he was talking about the Potters

My stab at the mystery of what happened to Voldemort's wand after he disappeared

A split over keeping a relationship a secret, parallelism here

Faster than a London minute - it's usually "New York" that goes in here, but being as how the setting is England

Dumbledore's reaction to Harry belief that Hermione blames him involves the same bridge that the Headmaster previously discussed with Snape and Shak

Dumbledore's foray into history of Magic references first the 30 Years War, and then the Hundred Years War

Fought for ten decades - from "Sympathy for the Devil." The Stones added "for the Gods they made," but the Hundred Years war was dynastic, not religious

- 82 -

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C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch19 dreams and memories.doc 03/13/04

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20. Secrets Told And Untold

Wherein Harry and Hermione must deal with the aftermath of the disastrous dinner, they learn memory charms and location spells, Dumbledore's duplicity is revealed, Harry visits his lawyer, formally becomes a Black claimant, exchanges letters with Ron, gets a remarkable photograph, receives secret orders, receives insights from Lao Kung, has a run in with Snape, is reunited with Hagrid, snogs with Eliza, and Hermione has an idea.

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

Chapter 20 -Secrets Told And Untold

Following a weekend apart (in so many ways) from Hermione, Harry approached their scheduled training session on “the Monday after” with trepidation bordering upon dread. His alarm clock practically seemed to be leering as it jarred him out of a fitful sleep at five in the morning. Feeling extremely testy - almost twitchy - he promptly froze the offending timepiece. That only made matters worse. The resultant pitiful whining clocktock emitted by the icebound clock sounded almost exactly like he felt. Cringing at the offending sound, he reversed the spell and, for once, turned off the alarm in the recommended, Muggle-style fashion.

Dudley was not very communicative during their early morning run. Harry was neither surprised nor affronted. His cousin was in the process of “psyching himself up” (or so he said) for his own big bout. Even normally he was not the most talkative bloke. Creating that mental edge required for the business of pummeling somebody senseless was hardly calculated to make him any more garrulous.

The disagreeable course of their last conversation also figured, since Harry had ultimately threatened to hex him over what (for his cousin, anyway) were actually fairly intelligent comments about Hermione. Harry had not really cared to hear what Dudley had to say in the first place - and that Dudley had drawn a correct conclusion about something so personal, and something so troublesome, had only made matters that much worse.

“Who does that great lump think he is, trying to psychoanalyze me?” Harry muttered to nobody in particular. “He can't scope me out. Nobody can. Complicated is my middle name.”

As a result, Harry ran in silence, pushing the volume on his Walkman ever further towards the max in the forlorn hope that the music would wash over and somehow ease his weary mind. Unfortunately, even that failed to lift his spirits very much. Some of the songs had now acquired specific associations for him - associations that now haunted him like ghosts (apologies to real ghosts). His already fragile emotional landscape had been demolished. After Friday's earthquake, and the weekend of aftershocks, some of the pieces no longer seemed to fit together very well.

* * * *

The door to the Auror candidates' dressing room creaked open.

“…so I'm sure that after all your brooding over the worst of all possible worlds, whatever actually happens will be a pleasant surprise….”

“Right Bill, that's the ticket,” replied Harry, without much conviction.

“So just be yourself, okay,” Bill counseled as he started to leave. “Pure, unadulterated Harry…. That's what made her your friend in the first place.”

“Sure. Well, I'll give it a go…. Wish me luck,” Harry replied.

“I would, if I thought you needed it. You don't.” With that Bill was gone - and Harry was on his own, with nothing but his mental demons for company.

To be sure, Harry appreciated Bill's words of encouragement - but somehow the exhortation to “just be yourself” seemed utterly inadequate for the circumstances. His guardian had made sure to deliver him to the Auror candidates' dressing room with plenty of time to spare. But once inside, the nervous young wizard consciously dawdled whilst dressing and storing his things in his wardrobe.

The moment of truth was fast approaching, and Harry knew it. It was just … everything seemed in slow motion, like trying to run through jelly. Sitting on the bench in the dressing area of the otherwise deserted locker room, head in hands, Harry felt like a condemned man. As it was wont to do, time perversely seemed to accelerate when Harry would have preferred it to slow down - or stop altogether. Soon, he could delay the inevitable no longer. Sighing, he told himself that it was just about time to commence his lesson and, just maybe, meet the one who haunted his thoughts. One thing for sure, he was certain to learn something today….

Almost as if he were sleep walking, Harry headed for the classroom. Today's subject, Memory Charms, was practically beside the point. If Hermione were there, Harry would have to talk to her about all that had happened. That was not likely to be a pleasant conversation, and the thought of having it dismayed him. There was a lump in his throat the size of Big Ben.

But far worse was the chance of her not being there at all.… That was the possibility that made Harry feel like he had a Dementor riding on each shoulder. Hermione's absence would be inconceivably awful; so much so that he didn't have any firm plan for what he would do. Her abandonment of training would signify a total breach - the effective end of their friendship. And all because of the stress he himself had put on it….

Harry was hesitant even to open the classroom door. He preferred another go with a dozen Death Eaters - alone, so nobody else could be hurt. At least when fighting Death Eaters, he would have a decent idea of what was good and what was evil.

As he approached the doors, he realised that they had windows in them. He had never noticed that before. They were extremely small with diamond-shaped patterns of reinforcing wire, but they were windows nevertheless. He swallowed, mustered such courage as he possessed at the moment, and forced himself to take a peek through the right-hand window.

Harry saw the head full of bushy brown hair that he would know anywhere. She was there! Despite her fight and his flight, she had still come - come to at least associate with him of her own free will. He let out a breath that had snuck up on him, unaware of its presence. Allowing himself to relax just a bit, only now did he appreciate how badly his knees were shaking.

Lucky to be able to stand, let alone walk, he stood watching her through the window for fifteen seconds or so. She had a dozen or so Muggle note cards with handwriting on them, which she was arranging and then rearranging. It was nothing out of the ordinary, and to others the scene would have been mundane. To him, it felt like watching the most amazing thing he had ever seen.

Suddenly, Hermione's shoulders stiffened and she stopped puttering with the note cards.

`She knows I'm here,' he immediately thought. `She's got that link ... can't fool it…. Well, now I'm going to have to do something, but what?' Harry hesitated.

So did Hermione. She did not get up, or even turn around. Instead, she simply remained seated, her back slightly arched, with both of her palms face down on the desk in front of her. It was as if she were giving him time to adjust to the fact that she was there. Like him, she was waiting for something to happen - waiting for that bomb to drop. What was it going to be?

Harry resorted to Legilimency. `Hermione, please don't hate me,' he pleaded wordlessly. `I didn't mean to do it. And I wish I hadn't fled, but I did. I can't change what happened. I can only try to make up for it….' If it sounded a bit like begging, then he could stand to be half a man. Pride had its limits.

When Hermione abruptly sat bolt upright, Harry was sure she had understood his message. He received her reply. `Harry, I don't hate you. I couldn't possibly…. If I didn't know you so well, I wouldn't have believed that you could conceivably think that any of this was your fault. I've been worried sick for the last three days, hoping against hope that you wouldn't hold what my parents did against me. Please, Harry, come in. I need … to see you.'

“Oh, Hermione….”

He burst through the double doors just as she whirled around to face him. The two friends embraced; both shedding tears of relief. It seemed like all was forgiven, and for a brief moment there was no angst in his mind, no thoughts at all but for the wonderful feeling of warm physical contact. But it was not to be. After only a few seconds she stiffened and - with great effort - pulled away.

“It's just…. My dad….” she choked out. “I trust you, but I don't trust him.”

“Right,” Harry replied.

“It is true, you know.”

“What?”

“You're the only one I trust right now.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Just as he had feared, his maddening quasi-relationship with her had taken yet another lurch towards the Platonic. While that might have been just corking for long-dead ancient Greek philosophers, it was not exactly the right cup of tea for an angst-ridden, not-quite-sixteen-year-old wizard. He had no doubt that Hermione would win any test of wills with her father, but the real loser, he was afraid, would be him. Limbo was better than nothing - but not by all that much.

He missed her regarding him with a strange look. His attention was elsewhere; he had caught a glimpse of her note cards. The names and details of various pieces of Muggle classical music were written on them in Hermione's regular, compact script. He only recognised a couple of the names, but they included that amazing Tchaikovsky piece she had played for him - what seemed like an age ago.

“What's that all about?” Harry asked with genuine curiosity.

“Oh, it's nothing,” she replied. “Just some reorganising that…”

Just then, the rather belated appearance of their instructors brought conversation to an end. Shacklebolt himself was teaching, since the subject was Memory Charms. Instructor Shacklebolt (Harry did not dare call him Shak, or even Kingsley, when he was teaching) was a fully trained Obliviator.

Harry and Hermione learnt how to cast simple Memory Charms - practicing on animals. Mostly their efforts concentrated on causing trained mice to forget their training. While her mice would sniff at the entrance to a maze not knowing what it was, his mice usually curled up in a fœtal position and refused to move at all.

“Harry, what did you do to that poor mouse?” Hermione inquired.

“Not all that much more than you,” Harry replied, slightly annoyed with how his spell casting had turned out. “Yours looks pretty clueless to me.”

“Clueless, I'll grant you,” she conceded, “but yours looks so browned off that it wants to curl up and die.”

“Well, I guess we just deal with our issues differently,” he observed.

That was the extent of their practical training. They knew from their Aural Pensieves that they could not practice on each other or, indeed, on anyone. Shak laid down the law fairly early in the session:

“Memory Charms must be respected. They're not hard to do, but they are hard to do well. When cast by amateurs - and you are amateurs - Memory Charms are capable of doing great damage to both mind and magic….”

Both of them had the same thought. `Lockhart,' they Legilimenced to one another simultaneously.

“…particularly if cast upon adolescents whose magic had yet to mature. I do not want to see either of you experimenting with these unsupervised on any sentient being. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly.”

Neither of them was planning upon becoming an Obliviator, so the most important part of the lesson was prevention, not casting. They trained in how to recognise the telltale signs that someone had been Memory Charmed, and how to prevent themselves from being affected by such a charm. Defeating an adversary's attempt to cast a Memory Charm required many of the same skills as Occlumency. With all the Occlumency training Harry had been receiving of late, he excelled at this.

At lunch, he apologised once again to her for what he considered his most egregious sin on Friday night - eavesdropping upon the Grangers' family argument.

“Hermione, I want to…. I need to … tell you that I really regret listening in on your fight with your parents. I got lost, and I wasn't thinking quite right, and….

Hermione replied, “Don't regret it Harry, I don't.”

“But it was an invasion of your privacy,” Harry protested.

“Don't be silly, Harry,” Hermione chided. “There was nothing to be invaded. After they staged that spectacle for your benefit, leaving you alone like that in that horrid dining room, they had no right to privacy.”

“It was wrong of me…. I should have just left. That's what I ended up doing anyway. I just embarrassed myself more,” Harry continued.

Hermione reassured him, “You had absolutely nothing to be embarrassed about, Harry. I was the one who was mortified. I've never seen them be so rude - to anyone. I'm glad you heard it for yourself…. Otherwise I would have had to tell you about it, and that would've been much more difficult for me. If you hadn't heard it for yourself, I'm not sure you would've believed my telling it. I know I wouldn't, had I been in your shoes.”

Even more unexpected was her reaction when he apologised for making her so upset that she had declined to come to their last Occlumency session with Dumbledore. After upbraiding him somewhat - “Harry, you never have to say you're sorry to me. It's simply not necessary” - she insisted that she had been perfectly willing to come. She maintained that she had only stayed away because Dumbledore had suggested it.

“I would have come, Harry, had I been given the slightest indication that you wanted me to.”

That surprised Harry. “But Dumbledore said you were upset….”

“Of course I was upset,” Hermione responded. “I was convinced that you must hate me after what happened. My parents invited you to their house … and then did that. You must have thought I set you up for an ambush….”

“I'd never think that, Hermione,” Harry reassured her.

Now Hermione was confused. “Then why did Dumbledore tell me that you were in such a state that it was best I not come?”

Harry figured out where the blame belonged. “You know that the old man isn't exactly the most truthful person in the world. He likes to make you think he is, but he's not. If you're telling me that he warned you off, then I've got to assume that it's because he wanted me there alone. He knows damn well that he can't manipulate me as well when you're there. You see through him better,” he grumbled.

“Just call me the abominable `no' woman, then,” Hermione agreed.

“Deal.”

Harry weighed his options as this conversation unfolded. The Headmaster had told him that she had been hesitant, but had told her that he was. These kinds of casual lies were not conducive to his keeping the secrets Dumbledore wanted him not to tell her. He was on the verge of telling her about Sirius' Pensieve when a group of adult wizards sat down in the booth next to them, effectively ending any more serious conversation between them. It was almost time for them to resume the training session, anyway.

With relatively little practical training being possible with Memory Charms, the instructors used the afternoon portion of the lesson to complete the unfinished earlier session on Movement Charms, which had been truncated by their need to learn Apparition first. The retake provided a test of the mental staying power of material learnt through use of the aural Pensieve. The Pensieves were up to the task. The two trainees practiced outside, in an open field. Deftly dodging all manner of nasty hexes that Shak and the others threw their way, Harry and Hermione both passed with flying colours.

Harry really would have preferred a little more serious conversation with Hermione once the day's training ended, but he found Bill waiting for him.

“Harry, I got an owl whilst you were in training,” Bill said. “Your … solicitor, that Blackstone Howe, he needs to see you…. Says it's urgent.”

Spending quality time with his lawyer was not exactly at the top of Harry's priority list. “Oh, bollocks! Can't it wait?”

Bill looked at Harry, noticing at once that Hermione was standing behind him, looking tense. He would have much preferred to allow those two more time to make up. But he had promised Howe, who had been both insistent and persuasive.

“Sorry, Harry; if I could put it off, I would,” Bill answered. “He said it had to do with the Black Estate, and some other matters that he could only discuss with you….”

“You go on then,” Hermione directed. She turned on her heel and left quickly.

Harry looked miserably after her as she left. “Thanks a lot, Bill,” he growled.

Bill rolled his eyes and let out a mighty sigh. This little encounter had not gone at all as he had hoped. The guardian was exasperated, and the ward sullen, as they took a short Floo trip to Howe's office at his Magic Circle firm (he had never seen a cleaner fireplace, Harry noted). Shortly, Harry and Bill were greeting the pretty young witch who was the secretary for the magical side of Mr. Howe's practice.

Bill had impeccable timing - choosing that exact moment to make himself scarce. Mr. Howe's perky blonde secretary was quite taken with Harry, and made a big show of chatting him up.

“Oh! Harry Potter! I was hoping I'd meet you one day, ever since I found out you were Blackie's client….”

Harry breathed in her rather strong perfume, redolent of the orchids at Kew Gardens. “I'm delighted,” choked out Harry, who was about as far from delighted as he could get. “And you are?”

The secretary flipped her curls out of her face. “Oh! How silly of me! I'm just so tongue-tied! I'm Isabella Wing, the magical receptionist for Mister Howe…. Could I have your autograph?”

Her coquetry embarrassed him to no end, even as he did his best to ignore it and be polite. He was almost relieved to sign the autograph - until she rolled up the piece of paper, unbuttoned her blouse one button and slipped the paper in between her two rather large…. All the while she was smiling at him - with this impish grin.

All he had to do was ask.

This attention made Harry very nervous. He looked down, but noticed she was wearing black heels sparkling with rhinestones. They were held on by intricate pattern of straps that tied together most of the way up her shapely calf. Her heels had the same effect on her legs as Hermione's had done on that disastrous evening - except he could see a lot more of Isabella's legs.

Isabella breathily explained that her boss was “Muggle-qualified,” maintaining a dual practice for both wizard and Muggle clients. “The most magical office in the Circle,” she joked. She let on that Mr. Howe had a completely different office for Muggles, on a different floor of the building. That office was not presently in use.

“Would you like to see it?” she asked, taking his hand. “It's frightfully posh.”

“Umm…. Er….” Harry responded inarticulately as uneasily he allowed her to pull him to his feet.

“I'll give you the private tour,” she purred, squeezing his hand. “You're a Quidditch star…. Not afraid of flying, are you?”

At that moment, Blackie Howe roared into the suite, his face florid and a sheaf of faxes in his hand. Bill trailed along behind. Isabella abruptly dropped Harry's hand and flounced away. Harry could hardly begin to describe his relief.

“Ah, there you are Harry!” his solicitor boomed as he held out his hand. “Dreadfully sorry I'm late. It's just been one crisis after another today….”

Harry stuck out his hand, and Blackie pumped it mightily, while leading him into his office. Harry gave his head a good shake to reorient himself. That had been a rather long five minutes.

The solicitor dove right in. “I see you've met Isabella. She's quite the fan of yours. Right this way. We've much to discuss.”

Having thus been rescued, Harry soon found himself seated in Howe's teak panelled corner office - this one with an ACTUAL stunning view of Central London. At first he was anxious when Mr. Howe took Bill aside. He heard him say something about “attorney/client matters” and “confidentiality,” but most of the hushed conversation was unintelligible.

“Hey!” Harry protested as Bill started to leave again.

“It's all right,” Bill said calmingly. “I can't be here because he's going to be discussing hush-hush matters with you. He can only keep your secrets if I'm not present.”

Harry was still on the needle - primarily worried that Isabella might come back. He only acceded to the arrangement when Mr. Howe explained that the confidentiality of their legal discussions could be compromised by the presence of any third person, even Harry's guardian. The portly attorney then stepped outside briefly to edify Bill.

Harry glanced around. Even the bloody armrests on his chair screamed “PLUSH!” The office had the usual certificates on the walls, and potted plants in ornate containers. There was the de rigueur collection of law books that he associated with lawyers' offices - Aunt Petunia had rather fancied watching BBC Four Cinema, where it seemed all lawyers had desks situated in front of imposing walls of books. Mr. Howe even belonged to his own order; something called the “Order of the Coif.” Harry wondered what a coif was.

There was a massive cage holding four post owls. Various legally-related prints hung on the walls, prints which he supposed lawyers found humorous. There was a drawing entitled “The Lawsuit” consisting of a stubbornly unmoving cow with the “plaintiff” yanking the horns, the “defendant” pulling the tail, and a “barrister” sitting on some law books milking the cow for all she was worth. Another depicted a rumpled frantic-looking attorney with his wand out frantically accioing documents, a harried male assistant with the contents of a filing cabinet suspended in mid-air all around him. Behind them both a smug-looking secretary was lifting up the corner of the attorney's travelling cloak, hung from a coat rack, revealing the missing file in a chair.

All around Blackie's office were a hodge-podge of knick-knacks - presumably souvenirs from previous clients that he had represented. Harry recognised a miner's headlamp, a box of Wizbits® cereal with its animated Hippogriff logo (Ron's favorite), and a miniature keystone of polished obsidian.

There were dozens of clear acrylic plastic blocks containing miniaturised legal documents. Uncle Vernon had a similar plastic block on his desk at Privet Drive, a memento of some transaction involving Grunnings, so these were not altogether foreign to Harry. Waiting for Mr. Howe to get through his faxes, he absent-mindedly picked up one of the blocks and began reading as best he could the document it contained … something called “debentures” to finance some new venture of the Daily Prophet called “Faux News.” Harry gave a start, but only for an instant, when the page obligingly turned itself after he had reached the end of it.

Mr. Howe finally finished with his latest round of distractions. “Harry, I did manage to inquire after the subpoena you received with various Ministry sources. I must tell you, I found out rather more than I expected….”

“That doesn't sound like the best of news,” Harry gulped.

“Unfortunately, your instincts are spot on,” the solicitor replied. “Not only is this thing legitimate, but there are more coming, I'm told. You can expect to be on the receiving end of two more subpoenæ in the coming few days.”

“What!” Harry nearly jumped out of his chair. “Why are they doing this to me? I thought the Ministry was finally on my side.”

“It is, Harry, believe me,” Howe tried to reassure. “It's just procedure. There's nothing here that would surprise you if you thought about it. As you know, there's your testimony at the trial of Dolores Umbridge. Beyond that, you're being scheduled to appear two days later for what promises to be a rather pro forma presentation of your claim to the Black inheritance. I've mentioned that before, and I'm sure Albus has too.”

“Oh, all right,” Harry grudgingly acceded, “but what else?”

“Only the trial of the century, Harry,” Howe revealed. “Two days after that, you're tipped to be the leadoff witness in the trial of the eleven Death Eaters that you helped captured at the Ministry. That's your show. You're the star. Nobody knows more about what happened there than you - especially since you set the whole thing off.”

Mr. Howe let Harry digest the news of having to testify three times in less than a week. The solicitor stood up and scratched the underside of a large bud on one of his potted plants. It wriggled and then burst into bloom with a flash of golden light and a puff of golden dust. “Golden Anthurium - very magical,” Mr. Howe commented. “The best ones have always come from Blackwalls.”

Once Harry was duly dismayed and discomfited by his testimonial prospects, Mr. Howe presented him with his legal advice.

“What I'd recommend is that you engage one of my partners who is a barrister specialising in criminal wizard law. We have several, but I have to see who is not attached for trial on those dates. Between the two of us, we'll contact the Ministry and smooth your path as much as possible.”

That seemed both reasonable and appropriate. Harry nodded his assent.

“Good. Now, these appearances are serious events. The Death Eater trial, in particular, will draw massive media attention as it approaches. You need to be thoroughly prepared. Otherwise, our opponents could cut you to ribbons on the stand. You should expect to set aside a full day of preparation for each hearing - preferably the day before your appearance, so everything will be fresh in your mind.”

Harry gulped. Given the timing, that meant that he would be sacrificing a full week of training. “Do you think all that's really necessary?”

“I do,” the solicitor replied gravely. “This is adult business. It's not a Hogwarts Quidditch match. The stakes are very high, and you can rest assured that our adversaries will leave no stone unturned. You must prepare.”

Spending a week meeting with lawyers and testifying had never been high on Harry's list of favorite things to do on holiday. But if that was what putting Umbridge and the eleven Death Eaters in Azkaban required, he would do it. He was much more ambivalent about the Black Estate, but the alternative - Malfoy - meant that he had no choice but to move forward. He was not about to be embarrassed in public.

For all these reasons, Harry assented.

“Also, under no circumstances are you to meet directly with the Ministry Prosecution Service. They do not represent you. We do. Any conversation with the Ministry prosecutors is not protected by the most ancient and secret of privileges - that between an attorney and his client - and the other side can force you to divulge what you said. To preserve confidentiality, we'll handle all contact with the Ministry, and we'll serve as your go-betweens as much as is necessary.”

In short, Mr. Howe was determined that, if any woodshedding needed doing, he and his partners would handle it. Every aspect of Harry's preparation would be with counsel he had engaged. That way, all preparation would by protected by attorney-client privilege.

Mr. Howe had other matters that needed to be finalized. With a stroke of Harry's pen, Mr. Howe informed him that the James Potter Memorial Hogwarts Quidditch Trust was now in existence.

Mr. Howe then had Isabella show Bill in. She smiled her come-hither smile at Harry as she did. A couple more signatures, by Harry as settlor and by Bill as the settlor's guardian, authorised the trust to acquire the necessary brooms. In addition, all arrangements concerning the Creeveys were completed, and the last loose ends of the Cadbury deal tied down.

Far more important - at least if measured by the number of Galleons involved - were the papers concerning the Black Estate. Mr. Howe pushed the stack across his desk to his client, who avoided taking them.

“These papers were provided to me by a goblin by the name of Bladvak,” the attorney said with a slight shudder. Bladvak had made clear that he had little use for solicitors. Bill gave Harry's shoulder a quick squeeze to confirm that this had been his doing.

“Goblin Bladvak indicated that you wished to have an audit performed. Once you sign these papers you will be a formal claimant to the Black Estate. The existence of a second claimant creates a dispute. In turn, the presence of a dispute gives Gringotts the right, as the trustee institution for the Estate, to initiate a comprehensive audit of the Black Estate's books and records.”

Harry thought he followed what Mr. Howe meant. “Oh, all right,” he said. “Bill said that Bladvak would be the right investigator to uncover anything dodgy, and if that's the way to get it done, let's do it.”

He went through a number of the papers, skimming over them before signing. At the fourth document he balked. “I don't like this one,” Harry complained. “It reads like I'm allowing Gringotts to take my money if there's ever a problem between me and the Estate. Once I sign, it doesn't seem that there's much I would be able to do about it.”

Mr. Howe took a quick look. “You're a quick study,” he commented. “That's a pretty accurate description. This is one of the standard documents that Gringotts requires of any claimant to one of the banks' fiduciary estates. It is a special form of confession of judgment. What it means is that, if Bladvak's investigators ever found anything crooked in dealings between your personal accounts and those of the Black Estate, the bank would be pre-authorised to make the estate whole using your personal funds - all without the need for additional legal proceedings.”

“But why do I need to sign this?” Harry protested. “I haven't had a bloody thing to do with the Black Estate…. I-I didn't even know it existed until a few weeks ago,” he added nostalgically.

“That's precisely why you should sign,” reassured Mr. Howe. “Even if you were so inclined, you simply haven't had a chance to do anything that could cause you any concern…. For you, this is essentially a free shot. Unlike the other claimant,” the solicitor emphasized the word other; “you could sign a whole stack of these without anything ever coming of it. Remember who your friends are - you want the goblins to conduct this investigation. Anything dodgy they unearth will be entirely to your benefit. You just have to sign to achieve the necessary status of claimant.”

“But what if the goblins are wrong?” Harry asked.

“In matters like this, the goblins are never wrong - not in two hundred years, at least that we know of. That's one of the reasons they're in charge of Gringotts,” Mr. Howe answered.

While Mr. Howe's arguments did not entirely convince him, Harry remembered the power of his goblin Manmak to erase debts. Thus, he signed the document quickly with unspoken reservations. The remaining documents did not seem to have any nasty surprises in them.

Harry then had some directions for Mr. Howe. “Assuming I do inherit all this rot from Sirius, I want you to make plans to break it up.”

“Break it up?” echoed Mr. Howe in the sort of skeptical tone only a solicitor speaking to a lay person could muster.

“Yes,” replied Harry grimly, ignoring Mr. Howe's suddenly supercilious attitude. “You work for me, and what I want is for all of the land to be sold off in small parcels. Then I want you to figure out ways that I can give the money away to good causes - elf rights, getting rid of Muggle landmines, that sort of thing…. By the time I'm done, I don't want there to be any more Black Estate.”

“I'm sorry, that's impossible,” Mr. Howe said, shaking his head. “The money - the bank accounts… That could be done, yes… But the land itself is entailed.”

“I don't care what it is,” snapped Harry. “I don't want there to be anything recognisable as `Black' property once I'm done.”

“The Wizengamot still recognises the Law of Entails, Harry,” the solicitor explained. “That's why you get everything to the exclusion of any other blood heir. But the flip side of primogeniture is that you cannot alienate or convey the land yourself.”

“Primowhatsis?”

Harry still did not get the concept, so Mr. Howe conducted a fifteen-minute tutorial about rights in real estate in wizarding England.

“…Basically, the fee taile ensures that great wizard estates pass from generation to generation in perpetuity. There's ordinarily a rule against such things, but this an exception….”

“…There are a fair number of these about. Roger Davies, the current Quidditch captain of my own House, Ravenclaw, is such an heir. You know about Master Malfoy….”

“…Female inheritance of an entail is prohibited. Avalon Danvers of your class, for example….”

Harry had trouble believing that fact. “That little mouse is an heiress?” he interjected. “She's so quiet.”

“Not exactly.” Mr. Howe continued. “Her sex precludes an inheritance. She would come with a sizeable dowry … if you're interested,” the solicitor added, dryly.

“Go on.”

“…Under Wizard Law, an entailed estate cannot even be encumbered with a mortgage - much less alienated piecemeal as you proposed….”

“…Although the Muggles abolished the fee taile over a century ago, it still holds sway among us. It is very effective at keeping the great wizarding estates whole, even when the beneficiary is a wastrel….”

Harry's eyes were starting to glaze over.

“…Only the first born inherited an entailed estate, unless the previous holder did what Orion Black had done….”

“…He created an unusual inheritance requirement, called a `fee taile special.' The special requirement premised first-born inheritance rights upon the satisfaction of a condition precedent, in that case obtaining majority without becoming a criminal or a Death Eater.”

A flicker of interest appeared in Harry's eyes. “Could I do that?” he asked.

“I suppose so, yes,” Mr. Howe replied, “but I don't recommend it. A special can be quite unpredictable…. I doubt old Orion would have wanted what we're discussing right now, for example. Also such testamentary direction depends in large measure upon the good faith of the succeeding generation. Good faith can be an exceedingly rare commodity when so many Galleons are at stake.”

Harry was quite frustrated, but something deep inside had told him Howe was right. Nothing could be as simple as the clean break from the Black family's infamous past that he had envisioned. With noticeable ill grace he thus accepted Mr. Howe's explanation. His final instructions to his lawyer were, “If this goes through, I'll want to revisit this. I won't care how much it costs, but I'll want you to find some way to get around it.”

Upon returning to the Dursleys, Harry received confirmation that Mr. Howe knew what he was talking about. A Ministry owl was waiting for him with another thirty-day notice subpoena to testify in the matter of the Black estate. A second owl bore a letter from Ron.

Dear Harry:

How are things going? I've heard that Mum's upset with you, and it's probably at least partly my fault. I'm sorry about that, and I'll try to figure out how to sort things out. You might want to talk to Hermione though, since she's cleverer than I am. Unfortunately Mum's attitude means it's B'day presents by owl for you from Ginny and me this year (as always, it seems).

Things here are generally brilliant. I had a bit of a scare when Cho's time of the month didn't happen, but the test was negative, so we're fine.

Great Quidditch news! First, Hogwarts took the combined Scandinavian team 270-10 in the first round of playoffs. Cho caught the Snitch, but the way I was keeping we probably would have won anyway. I've enclosed a photo from shortly after the game. We play some Spanish school on the 29th. I can't begin to pronounce its whole name, but it's got `Mágico Futuro' in it somewheres.

The other Q news is that Dad and Bagman pulled it off. There's going to be a World Tour of European versus Asian Quidditch all-stars to promote international magical cooperation, or something like that. Don't know the details, but I have it on good authority that one of the games will be at Hogwarts sometime next spring. We'll have great seats again, you can be sure of that. Bet Dumbledore's going to have to enlarge the stands.

I'll write again after we win our next game, and Happy Birthday.

Ron

Harry was more than a bit peeved at Ron - understatement of the year - but he tried to be as diplomatic and reasonable as possible in his return letter, whilst still getting his points across.

Dear Ron:

Your Mum sent me a Howler. It arrived when just as I was having dinner with Hermione's family. Predictably, things are now more bollixed than ever. Your Mum thinks I put you up to resigning as Prefect. Fancy that. I'm sure Professor McGonagall could set your Mum straight. I do hope you'll sort things out, though.

Congratulations on leading Hogwarts to victory.

Harry

After finishing the letter to Ron, and adding a separate, more effusive note of congratulations to Ginny, Harry remembered what else Ron had mentioned. From the discarded envelope, he fished out the picture Ron had enclosed. It made Harry's jaw drop, his hands sweat, and his eyes nearly jump out of their sockets….

Ron and Cho were once again on the same broom - his bloody Firebolt. Ron was in a normal rider's position, although perched a bit farther back than usual. Cho was sitting on the front of the broomstick, but backwards, towards Ron. She was facing the camera. Her feet were resting on Ron's thighs, which pointed her knees towards the zenith.

The cosmic force of gravity being what it was, and Quidditch robes being quite susceptible to it, Cho was showing a great deal of leg. To Harry it seemed like an almost impossibly great deal. Ron had the greatest deal of all. Unless she were using some sort of special charm (and Harry quite doubted any such thing) Ron must have been having a spectacular view.

Harry suspected the worst … or the best … or … oh bother!

Most of the time Ron looked happy but somewhat bewildered, but every so often Cho would wriggle her hips, and gravity would pool her robes a bit more. When she did this, Ron's expression changed to utterly besotted - and Harry almost dropped the photo.

Cho's actions (and, Harry admitted, her legs) were provocative enough, but her face was her most striking feature. Instead of looking at Ron, she looked straight at the camera and tossed her hair back flirtatiously. At times some trick of the light made her eyes, otherwise dark brown, look bluish. Her expression betrayed - no, celebrated was more like it - full appreciation of exactly the effect she was having on Ron, and on anyone seeing the photograph. Cho was, in a word, beyond hot.

Plainly, the crying girl of last February had somehow undergone an extreme personality makeover. Harry had heard that she had started with special weekend classes in Chinese magic shortly after their own breakup. The classes - or something - had certainly done wonders (if that was the word) for her self-image….

Harry could not recall ever seeing a more erotic wizard photograph (not that he had ever had much opportunity). He had sensations that he had not associated with Cho since before Valentine's Day…. For the first time he could remember, he actually felt jealous of Ron's love life. Ron had always had family … but now he had this, too. Without the chains of fame and fortune, it seemed that so much was possible. It must be like a færie tale….

After a few minutes, he shook himself out of his photographically induced trance. Come to think of it, he wondered how much his own expression had differed from Ron's. Finally, just to be rid of the picture, he slipped it and the letter that accompanied it into the growing pile of papers on the side of his desk.

* * * *

The next day's training focused on magical means of locating yourself and others. This included finding those who wanted to be found, finding those who did not, and also techniques for avoiding being found. The spells were ingenious and varied. They ranged from variants of the Four-Point Spell Harry had learnt in his Fourth Year, to an Audibilising Charm (“Audibilius”) that magnified the heartbeats and breathing of anyone hiding under an Invisibility Cloak within a radius set by the spell's caster.

To Harry's surprise, the magical technology that went into the Marauders' Map was quite well known to the Aurors. There was no indication they knew about the Map, of course, but his trainers described very similar maps of the Ministry. Hermione had no such illusions. She said she had always doubted that any magic the Marauders could have taught themselves at Hogwarts was particularly novel. The raw material - especially enchanted Paneruditius Parchment - was even for sale at Dervish & Banges.

While the lesson was not comprehensive enough to teach them how to make their own enchanted maps, Harry and Hermione did learn how to recognise them, to read them, and to determine what location an unidentified map portrayed.

Auror partner rings were also useful as location devices. A benefit of this lesson was to teach the pair full use of their rings. Any Auror could locate his or her partner by performing the Four-Point Spell with a wand placed through the available partner ring. The wand pointed unerringly in the direction of the other partner ring, and the colour of the wandpoint approximated the distance at which the other ring was located. Auror partner rings normally looked like ordinary plain gold rings (some Aurors enchanted them to look more stylish), but they glowed light blue when activated by a partner's locating spell. They could also glow red - as a distress signal - when the other partner was in danger and signalling for an Auror assist.

Location was precisely the sort of extremely technical art in which Hermione far surpassed Harry. Before they broke for lunch, Betsy Greengrass, one of the instructors, stood up and gave a short speech.

“Now listen up. When you return from your break, you will find the Situation Room charmed to resemble a tropical jungle - with all that entails, from mosquitoes to man-eating plaints. You will enter from opposite sides. Your mission is to locate each other and rendezvous. You will have to do that whilst avoiding a number of adversaries who will also be searching for you. Remember, some locational spells can be tracked by enemies, but others cannot.”

Harry sat alone in the Auror candidates' locker room pondering the upcoming task. He was half changed for lunch. The door creaked open and Shak, who was not one of Harry's instructors for the day, slipped in. He had an envelope in his hand.

“Wh, What is it?” asked Harry.

“Special instructions for you,” replied Shak. “Special secret instructions,” he emphasized.

“What about?” questioned Harry.

“I'm not altogether sure,” grunted Shak in response. “All I know is that a special training class for you alone has been set up for Friday morning. Evidently, someone quite senior has decided that you won't be having all of your birthday free after all.”

“How secret?” asked Harry, more archly this time.

“For your eyes only. I've been instructed to tell you specifically not to inform the Granger girl about this,” responded Shak.

“Why?” Harry demanded heatedly.

“I'm not at liberty to tell you all I know, Harry. I'm sorry,” Shak apologised. “Suffice it to say that whatever you are to be taught must be viewed as neither necessary nor beneficial to her training, and is also considered too dangerous.” Shak gave Harry a reassuring squeeze of the shoulder. “Don't fret now, Potter, you'll learn more on Friday.”

With that, Shak handed Harry the envelope and exited - leaving the boy with an odd mixture of fear, indignation, and worry flooding through his mind. What on Earth could be too dangerous for Hermione? He frowned. Even though he did it routinely, he was always uncomfortable keeping secrets from her. He liked even less being told to keep secrets from her by people who knew neither of them one iota as well as they understood each other.

Although he implicitly trusted and admired Shak, he was growing ever more suspicious of Dumbledore and his obscurely mixed motives. Harry was especially angry with the Headmaster concerning the matter of his parents' final resting places. Nevertheless, because it was Shak who gave him the orders, he decided to make an effort to obey unless and until presented with a good reason not to.

Frustrated, he rammed the envelope into his wallet unopened, stuffed the wallet back into his jeans, and tossed the lot unceremoniously into his wardrobe. He slammed the wardrobe door shut. It bounced back open. Even more annoyed than before, Harry charmed the door shut and closed the lock hasp.

He was also apprehensive about the afternoon session in the Situation Room. When he saw it, he gave a big sigh of relief. Harry was afraid that the damage he had done might be irreparable, but everything was back to normal. Hermione made some remark that went over his head about “quick claims settlement” when “origin and cause can't be disputed.” She did not seem well disposed towards insurance companies.

Harry was not at all surprised that Hermione performed much better during the practical side of the location training than he did. Location demanded finesse rather than power, and she could out-finesse him any day of the week and twice on Sundays. Not to mention, he was disturbed and distracted from Shak's message. Not only did she locate him every time she was tasked to find him, she always seemed to locate Harry first, or at least make it ridiculously easy for him to locate her, when it was his turn to perform.

The only aspect at which he excelled was avoiding unfriendly attempts at locating him. His method, however, was unconventional and most definitely not part of the course curriculum. He used a combination of Legilimency and offensive magic to find the paths of locating spells and to return incapacitating hexes back along those paths. It was ingenious, and effective. He noticed his instructors taking notes about what he had done.

During a break, Harry had a brief chat with Hermione. However, the talk did not concern any of the cosmic issues between them. As to that, his abstract resolve always seemed to melt away when near her.

“Er … Hermione, how have you been getting along?” Harry asked, not quite meeting her eyes.

“About as well as can be expected,” she replied, not meeting his either.

“I just wanted to know … how you … how you … were … getting along with our … our reading ahead project.” Harry deflated. He had not been able to force out the real question so now he was off on a meaningless tangent.

Hermione looked a little deflated as well. “I've been … carrying on. It's not all that difficult, really.”

“Well, I'm afraid I've been too … too busy to work any extra reading in lately,” Harry half lied. He had been busy, but that had not been the reason he was not taking full advantage of the Aural Pensieve.

Hermione was not sure she believed him. The feelings over the link were contradictory. “I find that it helps me sleep at night,” she said.

“Oh,” Harry responded. “You've been having trouble sleeping?”

“A little bit.”

“I … I could give you some of my Dreamless Sleep Potion,” Harry offered.

Hermione looked at him. “No, with the other potions I still have to take, I don't think that would be a good idea … using potions prescribed for others. Polycharmacy, you know. Besides, I've got my own.”

“Oh. Why'd they give it to you?” Harry asked, genuinely surprised. It was not like Hermione to request that kind of potion.

“Tonks was afraid I'd wake up in the middle of the night and do my father harm,” Hermione replied truthfully. “And you?”

“The usual,” Harry confessed. “They're afraid I'll set myself off and blow up the neighbourhood or something.”

“You do have a unique way of dealing with stress,” Hermione commented dryly.

Harry did not pursue the topic any further. He would just end up telling her some other lie. He did not even bother deluding himself into thinking that she believed him. After the disastrous denouement of their dinner, he had to admit that he would not have believed himself either.

While Harry was kicking himself for being so transparently mendacious towards his best friend, Hermione ignored the whole thing. `He's hiding something, and I know it,' she thought, `but it's too early yet. When he's ready to talk, he'll let me know.' Right now, the best she could hope for was company.

Thus, she prattled on about various topics and finally recommended that he “get back in the habit” by reviewing the chapter on security.

“While the first half of it was useless because it had to do with police work, much of the rest was valuable - and I found the discussion of the Fidelius Charm and its evolution over the years was especially fascinating,” Hermione recounted.

She continued, “That spell was extremely complicated, therefore the lesson did not even attempt to teach it. Fidelius is beyond the ken of even most Aurors.”

That comment caused a level of pride to rise within Harry. Although they had chosen the wrong person, his father and mother were talented and clever enough to pull off this highly advanced bit of magic.

“Neither of us will be able to do it, of course…,” Hermione continued. “Not for a long time, if ever. Nevertheless, I think that understanding the theory behind the spell will help you understand your parents' betrayal and their fate.”

“Now that's a cheerful topic,” Harry caustically commented.

“I'm sorry Harry, but I thought you would be interested,” she sniffed. “If you don't want to, I'll surely….”

“No, Hermione, I'm sorry,” Harry backtracked. Although she was unaware, Harry was even more interested in such things now, after his experience with Sirius' Pensieve. “You're just trying to help. I'm sure it's a good idea. I'm just … a little sensitive right now.”

“You and me both,” Hermione agreed. She saw Tonks rounding a corner and made her excuses. At least they were talking, if still rather guardedly.

Bill took Harry home that evening. When he asked after Hermione, he was visibly disappointed at Harry's terse “at least she doesn't hate me.”

`Give it time,' Bill silently reminded himself over and over, `just give it time.'

Bill suggested that they go flying at Hogwarts again the following day. Harry agreed, less reluctantly this time. This pleased the redhead, albeit not as much as he had previously been disappointed. At least there was some sign of Harry's increasing resilience. Despite everything, his ward appeared to be healing once again. When they got back to Privet Drive, Bill pulled a small irregularly shaped parcel out of his robes and handed it to Harry.

“Here. I ran some errands for you today. You'll be needing what's in here,” Bill instructed.

“Doesn't seem like very much,” Harry responded as he examined the small, light, and irregularly shaped parcel

“Don't be fooled, Harry,” Bill replied. “It's got both Shrinking and Feather-Light charms on it. It's far more substantial than you might suppose. Don't go opening it in front of the Muggles. Leave the charms on until you are safely in your room.”

Harry did as he was told. The parcel turned out to be his complete Sixth-Year course books, except…. Right on top of the pile was a rather well thumbed copy of Making Magic: An Introduction to Sexuality for Young Wizards and Witches, by Shere Kinsey. He leafed through it quickly, mostly looking at the pictures. Even though they left nothing to the imagination, they were somehow … clinical. In terms of raw eroticism, all of them together did not approach the one photograph of Cho and Ron (mostly Cho) that he had seen earlier.

There would be plenty of time to study this particular book later. As for the rest of the lot, Bill had purchased them by owl post to save everyone the hassle of another heavily guarded trip to Diagon Alley. Getting his books had been one of those minor worrisome details floating somewhere in the back of Harry's mind. For once, ignoring a problem had apparently solved it. Now that he had his books, he knew that he had best get on with his summer course studies. As a N.E.W.T.-level student, he now had much more assigned summer reading. As Harry Potter, he had a lot less available time than most of his classmates in which to do it.

As it was, Bill's delivery turned out to be phenomenally good timing. Harry was at loose ends for the evening. Things with Hermione were still maddeningly unsettled. Eliza was out shopping, so there was no companionship to be had from that quarter. Dudley was sparring into the evening at Gator's Gym, and Harry's aunt and uncle were ignoring him as usual.

With nothing else to do, he spent the evening reading his Charms and Transfiguration assignments. He could hear Ron's and Hermione's voices in his head. “Cracking good, Harry! I'm proud of you! You're really turning it around, aren't you?” Hermione would have said. Ron, on the other hand, would have simply muttered one word under his breath. “Prat.” Harry thought they might both be right.

Just before bed, he was changing into his pyjamas when he spotted the envelope Shak had given him earlier that day protruding from his wallet. He nonchalantly ripped the envelope open and began reading. His insouciance vanished instantly.

He had been assigned Lesson 128.

His eyes could no longer focus; he was blinking so rapidly. To avoid incipient feelings of nausea, he breathed deeply and concentrated on his mantra. Occlumency techniques had more than one beneficial use. All the while, Harry stared at the note announcing his Friday training assignment with unease approaching terror. Why? Why in Merlin's name could anyone think he needed to know this?

Lesson 128: “How to Kill Without Being Unforgiveable”

Without being unforgiveable? Bloody fracking Hell. Even the Muggles understood. What part of “thou shalt not” did wizardkind not understand? When Harry had killed those Death Eaters in the Ashrak cavern, he had never felt greater remorse.

There was only one reason this lesson could have been added to his training - the prophecy must be a lot closer than he had been led to believe. Like it or not, the Aurors were expecting him to learn how to kill people, and Voldemort was at the top of that list. Harry put his head in his hands and grabbed at his hair.

Suddenly, his training took on an entirely new level of seriousness.

Harry was certain that this lesson could not possibly have been assigned without the knowledge and approval of both Dumbledore and Mad-Eye. Speculating as to their motives led him past the day-to-day realities of his training and brought his focus to why he was being trained in the first place. He was fated at some point in the not-too-distant future to engage Voldemort himself in mortal combat - and maybe even to die in the process - if necessary to take Voldemort with him. That prophesised eventuality only reinforced Harry's awareness of his painfully short life expectancy.

It took considerable Occlumency before Harry could go to sleep this night.

He slept spasmodically and woke up groggy. Part of his Charms reading had been about the construction of simple wards. For practice he had warded off his alarm clock. This proved to be a colossal mistake, as he overslept and woke up to the even less pleasant sound of his cousin yelling at him to get his “rear in gear” if he wanted to go running. He did, and tumbled out of bed whilst grabbing for whatever clothing first came into his grasp. Dudley was wolfing down his training breakfast when Harry thundered down the stairs.

They were well into their run before his cousin noticed that he was wearing his Quidditch T-shirt with the moving broom riders. It was too late to turn back, so Harry had to ignore some very quizzical looks shot his way by other early morning joggers - until he realised he could simply Transfigure the image into something else. He chose the phrase “I'm with stupid.” Fortunately, Dudley was oblivious.

After the run, it was a quick shower, a change into more appropriate clothing, and then the pair was off to Gator's Gym. Dudley was training fanatically now, with both morning and evening sessions - avoiding only midday in the un-air-conditioned gym. Harry asked him about the new, two-a-day regimen.

“Well, it's like this…,” Dudley began. “I've never been much in school. I'm not flunking out, mind you, but I'll never make the A list and get into any worthwhile university. Smeltings is accustomed to better.”

“So Aunt Petunia and Uncle Ver…”

“My Mum?” Dudley answered quickly. “A little, but I think she's realistic. My Dad says that I can go to work for him at Grunnings after school, but I don't really want to do that. This is my main chance. I'm hoping I can make a go of it in the fight game and maybe earn some serious money for a few years.”

“I think I know how you feel,” Harry sympathised.

“The Hell you do!” Dudley replied hotly. “You and that fr… wizard school of yours! Making things appear out of thin air and all. You'll learn enough fancy hocus pocus that you'll be set for life once you get out…. I don't have magic; only my fists.”

Harry thought about hurling some remark about his own problems with Dark wizards, but thought better of it. “I didn't mean it that way,” he said. “I mean that you sound just like one of my best mates at school. He believes that pro sport is his ticket out too.”

“Oh,” grunted Dudley. He said little else.

At the gym, Lao Kung pronounced himself pleased with Harry's Occlumency progress and introduced him to a branch of Chinese Legilimency, in which the trick was to visualise oneself actually travelling through the target's mind. There being no other good option, Lao Kung allowed his student to practice on himself. The sensation of being inside Lao Kung's mind was strange and unsettling. Harry felt like he was on a crowded sidewalk in some large Asian city - Hong Kong, perhaps - and was fighting his way through endless crowds of Chinese pedestrians.

When he described this sensation to Lao Kung, the old wizard congratulated Harry on his progress. He had mastered the art of entry on the first try, a better first performance than most initiates had been able to muster. Every mind felt different, Lao Kung instructed. He had Harry shut his eyes and take several deep, calming breaths. The master, with permission, then briefly entered Harry's mind in the same fashion as Harry had done. Harry could not consciously detect anything at all. Soon Lao Kung returned.

“Well, what does my mind look like?” Harry asked, eager to know what the Sefu had sensed.

“It is … different, Hahli,” Lao Kung began, sounding uncharacteristically evasive. “I'm still not used to Western outlooks on life, I suppose.”

“Surely, it had to look like something,” Harry pressed. “Were there lots of people charging about, like I felt in yours?”

“Yes, Hahli … and … no.”

“Well what then?”

“Not all knowledge is a good thing, Hahli.”

“Come on, I really want to know.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.”

Lao King closed his eyes and breathed deeply, just as Harry had done before. When Lao Kung opened his eyes, Harry saw some sort strange emotion there - sadness, perhaps? Indecision? Confusion? “Very well,” Lao Kung said slowly. “I do not know how much Muggle history you know….”

“A little,” Harry responded. “Probably not as much as I should, because history hasn't exactly been my strong suit.”

“Are you familiar with what most Muggles call the `First World War'?” Lao Kung asked.

“Some.”

“What do you know of it?” Lao Kung asked.

“Er…. Trenches. Poison gas. The Red Baron. Whole armies charging headlong into machine gun fire. Lots of people getting killed for no good reason…. Why?”

“Do you know what `no man's land' is?”

“Yeah….” Harry answered, starting to get impatient with the old man's seemingly tangential questioning. “From old movies, I reckon it's the area between the opposing trench lines. In battle, one army would have to cross it to attack the other.”

“I'm afraid, Hahli,” Lao Kung continued, “that more than anything else, your mind resembles a no man's land just after the last shots of such a battle have been fired.”

Harry stared into the old man's eyes and saw great pain inside. “You're not joking, are you?”

“Hahli, I am Sefu. I do not joke with my students, I try to train them.” Lao Kung stopped, collected his thoughts, and continued.

“You life must have been far harder than I thought,” Lao Kung remarked. “And it still is. Much soil is recently churned. It is not good to have such desolation inside. With considerably more training, Hahli, perhaps you will be able to enter your own mind, and I hope improve its … its ecology.”

But that time was not now. Lao Kung cautioned Harry to be very circumspect with this type of Legilimency, as he was only the barest of novices. Under no circumstances was he to try using any of the Legilimency techniques he was learning to interact with or otherwise engage Voldemort. Any such attempt to enter Voldemort's consciousness would undoubtedly be too terrifying for any but a master to control, Lao Kung warned. It would probably resemble a trip into Hell - with the traveler being utterly destroyed.

The master explained that Chinese Legilimency was altogether different than Harry's link to Voldemort. That link only channelled conscious thoughts, not consciousness itself.

Lao Kung taught, “It can be extremely dangerous to try to seek out another's essential consciousness - that thing called the ego, or the soul, depending on one's religiosity - inside that other person's mind. It should not be attempted, especially alone.”

“Okay,” replied Harry, “but I got back all right.”

“You were not searching, only observing,” Lao Kung pointed out. “Further, I accepted you in. It is another thing entirely to enter a mind uninvited. Such a search can be exhausting. Without help or invitation, the searcher can very easily get hopelessly lost and become trapped.”

This was powerful magic at a very deep level. It had to be respected. Harry was barely scratching the surface. In time - with much work - he might just become an adept. He did not expect to be entering anybody's mind, let alone uninvited, any time soon.

“When…. When Voldemort possessed me at the Ministry, was that the same thing?” Harry asked. If ever something were personal, mind possession was it.

“No, Hahli,” Lao Kung replied. “Possession is an altogether different form of Legilimency - an invasion, not a reconnaissance.”

“What was it, then?” Harry asked again. He felt he was learning quite a bit.

“First, what he did was not Chinese magic, so I do not pretend to understand it fully. But from what I do know, possession is a supreme exercise of the will to impose control over someone else's entire higher faculties of thought.”

“Is that something I will have to learn?” Harry pressed on.

“Certainly not from me,” Lao Kung retorted, “and I doubt from anyone. Truthfully, such power is probably within your magical capability, Hahli, but it is far beyond your training. It is also illegal. Possessory Legilimency is a Dark Art. Even to offer training in such things carries criminal penalties. You cannot hope to fight Voldemort that way. You would risk becoming him.”

“Why are we having this discussion, then?” Harry asked.

“In large part because you requested it,” Lao Kung responded. “But there is more than just that. Much of the training I have been providing - and I believe all of the Occlumency training you receive at Hog-wa-tze, is in defence against Voldemort's demonstrated ability to penetrate your mind, including the power of possession. It is best that you know what you have to fight.”

Lao Kung believed that Dumbledore's rather martial view of the mental arts of magic was too limiting. Thus, he had decided that Harry should be exposed to gentler, more therapeutic, forms of Chinese Legilimency. The intent was to direct him beyond merely defeating (or eventually effectuating) the egotistical control of one mind over another. He was starting the young wizard on an entirely different road - what some called the Noble Eight-Fold Path - focused upon contemplation, location, and understanding of consciousness as a whole, rather than mere strands of conscious thought. He stressed wisdom, ethical conduct, mental development … and more.

Lao Kung distinguished between consciousness and that which was conscious. Unfortunately, these Buddhist-grounded concepts did not translate well into English, thus Harry was never sure that he understood - or even knew what he was supposed to understand. Beyond consciousness, Lao Kung told Harry, this new road led to the possibility of the merger of individual egos, and finally to the ultimate dissolution of the ego in a mental state Lao Kung referred to as Nirvana.

It was all a little strange and unsettling to Harry. But Lao Kung's brand of magic sounded far more peaceful than the training he was receiving. Especially with being assigned the deadly curses in Lesson 128, he was receptive to anything that could bring a little peace to his life. Therefore he consented to further sessions in Chinese Legilimency. Lao Kung gave Harry a book that seemed very ancient indeed. It was in English - but only barely. The mediæval English text was accompanied by totally incomprehensible Chinese language footnotes. Lao Kung asked him to read the first chapter and return in a week.

As Harry was leaving, Lao Kung mentioned that someone was coming by to chat about Hong Kong and its magic later that afternoon.

“Oh, Hahli, you should know that I have been contacted by the one.”

“Which one?”

“The one of which you spoke … Heh-mai-o-ni. I will be seeing her later today to answer her questions. I wish to make sure that is still your wish.”

“Yeah, sure,” Harry replied, trying to sound far more casual than he felt. “Just one thing.”

“That is?” Lao Kung asked.

“No personal stuff … about me, that is. I need to be able to speak for myself on that.”

“Very well.”

On one level, Harry was not at all surprised to learn that Hermione would be meeting Lao Kung. She had asked. He had agreed, and her nature was always to follow through on whatever she wanted to do. On another level, he was very nervous, since he had had some fairly serious chats with Lao Kung about his feelings for her. Whilst the Sefu was reliable, she could be a very resourceful questioner in pursuit of anything she really wanted to learn. Harry had not mentioned these reservations, since there was nothing he could say that did not in some way threaten to make the problem worse.

Harry met Dudley just before noon, and together they took the bus back to Privet Drive. Harry had about an hour of free time before he was to meet Bill for a Portkey to Hogwarts and a flying session. Only the two cousins would be at home, since Uncle Vernon was at work and Aunt Petunia out shopping. `What is it,' Harry wondered, `about women and shopping, anyway?'

As they made for the side door (the front door was reserved for guests and Uncle Vernon) Harry was hoping to pump Dudley for some useful physical training pointers. Suddenly his cousin lumbered to a stop.

“Oh, bugger…,” he said with a start. “I just remembered. I have a meeting at Town Hall in half an hour with a bloody guidance counsellor.”

“Why would you need a guidance counsellor?” asked Harry curiously.

“I sat for my General Certificates in May,” Dudley said nervously. “I'm due for my results, I figure.”

With that Dudley ran off in the general direction of the bus stop for town.

Watching him go, Harry shrugged. He resigned to spending more time by himself. Unlocking the door, he began thinking that he should get cracking on his N.E.W.T.-level Potions summer reading. He smirked. Snape was probably livid that he had achieved an Outstanding O.W.L. in Potions…. That greasy git…. Thanks to Sirius' memory he knew more about Snape than he cared to….

Harry opened the door, and was dumbfounded to find himself eye-to-eye with the very same - Professor Snape - who was standing in the hallway just inside the door with his wand outstretched.

“Legilimens!” Snape cried out, before Harry had any time to react or to summon some sort of mental resistance.

Harry's knees buckled as the onrushing spell collided violently with his mind, its magical tendrils rummaging through his psyche. Snape's angry features filled Harry's field of vision, and everything else seemed to vanish except the Slytherin's fathomless black eyes. Harry felt images being ripped from his brain. Sirius sprinting towards Harry's parents' burning house…. Hagrid in tears carrying baby Harry…. His dead father's leg on fire in the front doorway …. Sirius kneeling beside his mother's corpse and closing her vacant eyes for the last time…. His godfather stumbling whilst belatedly moving her body out of further harm's way….

Urgently, Harry struggled to grasp the Occlumency techniques he had been taught. `Wall off the attack.' He found this surprisingly easy to do, as Snape's mental assault seemed narrowly focused on his experience with Sirius' memories. `Once the attack is contained, use mental concentration to drive the attacker out.'

Harry concentrated; totally oblivious to his body's involuntary thrashing in his relatives' front hallway. There was a crackling sound, as Harry saw the image of Sirius preparing to execute Snape (`I wish,' he thought). A snapping noise followed, and finally a loud BANG accompanied by a brilliant flash of bluish white light.

Harry briefly lost consciousness. He was breathing heavily when he reawoke. An oddly familiar moaning sound snapped his brain to attention. With effort, he glanced around. The ordinarily immaculate wallpaper in the Dursleys' front hallway was scorched and hanging in tatters. Light flooded in from behind. Harry rolled over and saw the front door lying in the lawn. He heard the moan again, whipped his head around, and squinted down the hallway. All of the furniture was overturned and the wall pictures had been dislodged. The door to Harry's old prison in the cupboard under the stairs was splintered, and there was a large dent in the plasterboard just above and behind that door.

Harry pulled himself to his feet. At first, he thought he was going to lose his balance and fall, but for all his swaying he remained upright. He noticed that the living room windows were all smashed, and the room itself was in disarray. He heard the moan again. Creeping into the Dursleys' kitchen, he saw Snape lying in a heap against the cabinetry. Snape's body had struck the cupboards with considerable force. The door behind him was cracked in several places, and the drawer above had been jarred loose. Cutlery was scattered all over the floor.

Harry gazed down at Snape's prostrate form through narrowed eyes. He now knew that this man had been there when…. A flick of his wand and Snape was tightly bound with barbed wire. “Enervate,” Harry said.

Snape's eyes slowly opened. He struggled for a moment against the wire, but Harry had learnt his magic well. His struggles only caused the wire to tighten and cut more deeply. Soon Snape focused exclusively on Harry. “I'm not here for my health, Potter. Now release me,” the older man commanded imperiously.

Harry scarcely thought that Snape was in any position to be issuing orders - especially after ambushing him in his own house. “Not so bloody fast,” he panted, suddenly being acutely aware of how weak he still felt. “You break into my house and attack me without warning. I think you've got some explaining to do first.”

“I'm not telling you anything I don't care to,” spat Snape. “What are you going to do? Kill me? Torture me?” He looked down at the barbed wire encasing his body. “Cut me to bits? You know what I do for the Order, and I assure you that I've been through much worse than anything you're capable of. Excuse me if I'm not impressed. Now let me loose.”

Harry thought about how he could make that barbed wire glow red hot - probably without a wand. He growled, “You were a Death Eater and present for the deaths of my parents. I saw everything through Sirius' eyes. He would have killed you then and there except….”

Snape's demeanour changed ever so subtly, and his previously frozen features softened just a bit as he looked at Harry's glowing wandtip, “Surely you don't believe that I had a hand….”

Harry cut him off. “You now owe a wizard's debt to a werewolf,” he declared. “I would have believed exactly what Sirius did, except Professor Lupin explained to me what Sirius hadn't seen….”

Snape took Harry's implied statement of narrowly averted murderous intent in stride. Threats did not impress him. “And what might that have been?” he spat, knowing what the answer had to be, but wanting to force the boy to admit it.

As much as he would have liked, Harry could not deny the Potions Master his due. The hateful tone slipped from Harry's voice as he answered, “Even … even though you … you hated them, you risked your life to try to save theirs…. At least you tried; I can't fault you for that.”

“You're wrong, Potter.”

Harry wheeled, his ire returning instantaneously. “What?”

“I didn't hate them…. I hated him.”

“Professor Lupin told me about that as well,” Harry admitted, lowering his wandtip a bit.

“I see…. Well, it's ancient history. Now let me go.” Snape demanded again.

Harry was at a loss. As much as part of him would like to tear Snape into mincemeat and feed him to Mrs. Figg's Kneazles, he knew such revenge fantasies were out of the question. Not knowing what else to do, Harry vanished the restraints he had conjured around the Potions Master - but he kept his wand trained resolutely on Snape's chest.

“Explain why you are here,” Harry ordered. “Why you attacked me….”

Snape struggled to his feet, and leaned heavily on the Dursleys' cracked countertop. “If you must know, this is just about the last place I would ever want to be,” he began. “I am here because the Headmaster required confirmation - precise confirmation - of your description of the night of your parents' deaths. Unfortunately, I have to vouch to him that everything you told him was the truth.”

Harry gasped, and his eyes narrowed, “So this was Dumbledore's doing.”

“None other,” growled Snape. “Your talent for insinuating yourself where you don't belong is as strong as ever. I had this mission assigned to me, but I chose the method by which it was accomplished. Perverse curiosity I suppose. Your counterattack skills have become excellent, Potter, but you still need work on your initial defence.…”

“You attacked me without warning in my own house!” Harry interrupted. “You've got some nerve to criticize what I….”

“Hah! You think a Death Eater would give you any warning?” snarled Snape in return. “I let you off easy, considering you were playing with other persons' memories to start with.”

“They were my godfather's memories - and his Pensieve now belongs to me,” Harry protested.

“Quite right,” sneered Snape. “I am positive that Dumbledore thoroughly regrets ever asking your godfather and me to cease our hostilities by Pensieving our less-than-fond memories of one another. You've now succeeded in intruding upon those thoughts from both sides. I'm sure you will find the filthy canine's exploits more … amusing…. After all, at least he enjoyed most of them.”

“I could care less what you think,” spat Harry, “after what you did to me today.…”

“I'm sure I'll be hearing about that for the next two years, at least,” Snape growled. “Particularly since you managed to hoodwink the O.W.L. examiners. I expect the entire school will be treated to plenty of humorous descriptions of their Potions Master being made sport of.” Ignoring Harry's wand, Snape turned and made ready to leave.

The younger man finally lowered his wand. Snape obviously was not finding it threatening in any event. “Why in bloody Hell do you think I'd do that?” he asked.

Snape turned back to face Harry, his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flaring. “Because that's what your father and … Mister Black … would have done. That's what they did to me for years. And you've always been the Second Coming of your father.”

“I AM NOT MY FATHER!!” Harry yelled. “I haven't told a soul about your blasted memory, and I don't care to see any more of Sirius' memories about you either.”

“How touching,” sneered Snape. “Spare me the melancholy melodrama. Excuse me if I don't believe that young Potter has all of a sudden become … noble….”

“Nobility's got nothing to do with it,” replied Harry in a much quieter tone of voice. “Actually, I'm ashamed of it all. I wish I'd never seen it.”

“Being Harry Potter means never having to say you're sorry. You know that, don't you?” responded Snape, with somewhat raised eyebrows.

“Look, Sna… Professor…,” Harry said as a rather half-hearted attempt at further anger failed utterly. “I don't like you, and you don't like me. But I do love my Dad … and Sirius…. I'm not happy having bad memories of them. They acted like gits towards you - not very much different than you always act towards me, actually. So, yeah, in a way I am sorry. I'm sorry I saw my Dad being less than perfect … a lot less than perfect. That's not how I want to remember him…. Nobody else is going to remember him that way either, if I can help it. I've never even told Ron or Hermione about what I saw, and I don't plan to.”

In the midst of the Dursleys' half-ruined kitchen, Snape looked thoughtful. He said nothing for a moment. Finally he spoke, “I don't know if you intend that as an apology or not, but it's the closest thing to one that I've ever heard from a Potter, so I will accept it. You're showing a level of maturity that I didn't expect, and haven't seen before. I would like to see more of that, particularly in class. Now, I really must be going.” Snape turned towards the rear door of the house.

“Not so fast,” Harry called out.

“What is it now, Potter?” Snape snapped. “My mission here has been accomplished.”

“You've got to help clean up this mess,” Harry replied. “I didn't cause it by myself, you know.”

“Actually you did,” replied Snape, “but … you were provoked,” he conceded. He took out his wand, waved it twice around over his head. “A priori!” he bellowed. Everything started coming back together again, and within thirty seconds the Dursley home looked like nothing had ever happened.

Snape surveyed the scene. Then he turned to Harry, who could not help but look admiringly at the magical demonstration. “Satisfactory?” Snape snorted, but with less hostility and condescension than usual. “It may be silly wand waving, but it is a useful spell nonetheless. Oh, and you needn't worry about the neighbours. I set a powerful Muggle-Repelling Charm when I arrived. I'll remove it when I leave.”

The Potions Master strode quickly out the back door, his robes flapping behind him. As he was leaving, he turned to Harry. “You do have your mother's eyes.”

Harry gaped. By the time he had recovered enough to charge after the bastard who had once dated his mother, Snape had already passed through the wards and Apparated away.

Harry went to his room and sat on his bed, trying to sort through what had just happened. When it all started, he had been angry enough with Snape to have a go at killing him, or at least to give the Cruciatus Curse another try. In the end, instead of harming the man - which he felt well within his rights to do, considering that Snape had just ambushed him - Harry had more or less apologised to the greasy-haired git.

Even more oddly, he felt better after having done so. It was as if one of the many weights loading down Harry's conscience had been removed. He realised that it no longer even seemed all that important who was right and who was wrong. The relief he felt was not derived from righteousness, but rather from transcendence. Maybe Lao Kung was right….

Truthfully, he felt far more anger towards Dumbledore, for having tasked Snape with his mission, than he did with the man himself for performing it in just about the most obnoxious way possible. First Dumbledore had never told him about his mother's condition. Then the Headmaster refused to tell him where she was buried, or even why he kept that information secret. Then he demanded that he conceal everything about his parents from Hermione.

Only a couple of days after that, Harry had been told to conceal something else - Lesson 128 - from her as well.

The more he thought about it, the more he convinced himself that Dumbledore had to be behind the Lesson 128 assignment. Nobody else knew that about his fate to kill or be killed. He decided that he had had quite enough of the Headmaster's double, and triple, games. Dispatching Snape to seize what he had already willingly provided was the last straw. Harry had been a good boy, done as instructed, and voluntarily told Dumbledore everything he could about Sirius' memory. He had been straight with the Headmaster. His best efforts had not been enough. Dumbledore still sent Snape….

Bill found Harry brooding when he arrived to take him flying. Harry told him about Snape, but not about the background or the apology. Bill offered to intercede with the Headmaster, but Harry doubted that that Bill talking to Dumbledore would solve anything - not anymore. Harry did think he was up for a good fly, though. He was even determined to try Sirius' motorbike again.

Harry arrived at Hogwarts to find the GKN on the Quidditch pitch, already fuelled up and ready to fly. Bill encouraged him to test the bike's limits, both on the ground and in the air. His guardian put him through his paces methodically - so much so that it seemed eerily like a test. This time Bill was quite capable of keeping up with Harry in the air. The redhead had brought along a Firebolt of his own, purchased on his new and improved Gringotts salary.

There was mercifully little ground time. Harry just flew, and flew, and flew. He tried out the GKN in all of its configurations, even with the sidecar. Bill occasionally shouted instructions or encouragement, but mostly he just watched. Finally, after almost three hours, his guardian signalled that it was time to land.

Harry flawlessly brought the bike to a halt near Hagrid's hut. “Whew!” he exclaimed, mopping his brow after taking off his very steamy helmet. “Now that was a good workout. This weekend, again, I reckon?”

Bill was facing the other way, getting the GKN ready for its Concealment Charm. “I don't know, Harry,” he responded. “I'm not sure there's much more I can show you. You're a natural at flying. You don't need….”

“But I need to fly,” Harry broke in. “You're not about to take it away, are you? It's rightfully mine, after all.… You just said that I was a natural. It's not like I'm not ready.”

“I think we need a second opinion then,” replied Bill. “What do you say?”

Harry was confused. He had no idea what his guardian was on about with this business about a second opinion. He was not particularly in the mood for another surprise. Cautiously, he responded, “Well…. All right - as long as it's not Snape or Dumbledore.”

“I wouldn't dream of it,” Bill casually replied as he walked the GKN to its customary place by the woodpile. He took out his wand. Harry assumed that Bill was going to perform the usual Concealment Charm, but instead he said “Alohomora.”

The shutters to Hagrid's hut opened, and to Harry's astonishment and delight, he found the half-giant grinning back at him. They had been out of contact with one another since Harry had flashed Hagrid a furtive thumbs up months ago upon completion of his Care of Magical Creatures O.W.L. examination. Umbridge had tried to sack him the very next day.

“How yeh doin' 'Arry?” Hagrid asked with a big smile on his face.

Harry was ready to dive through the open window into Hagrid's gigantic arms, but Hagrid hurried to the door instead. Hagrid took Harry into a bone-crushing hug just outside the cabin. “When did you get back…? Where have you been?” The questions tumbled out of Harry's mouth, even as he found it difficult to breathe.

“Got back yes'erday,” Hagrid rumbled. “Where I've been, tha's secret.” Yer th' reason for me bein' back…. In a way, anyhow.”

Harry had all but forgotten that Bill was there, when the redhead piped up, “So, Hagrid, what's your opinion of Harry's flying?”

Harry looked at Bill. “You knew?” he mouthed.

Bill nodded, but Hagrid spoke first, “He owled me as soon as he was named yer guardian, but I couldn' get back `afore now.”

“Well?” said Bill, archly.

“Oh yeah, right….” Hagrid paused, as if collecting his thoughts. “Ruddy near perfect, I'd say. Sirius woulda' been right proud.”

“That's good enough for me,” Bill said decisively. He flipped the keys to the GKN to Harry. “Here. Happy birthday - if anybody deserves one, it's you.” Both Bill and Hagrid beamed at Harry.

“You mean…?” Harry gasped, hardly daring to believe it was real.

“Yup,” said Hagrid, vigorously nodding his massive head. “Reckon it's yers now. Course, yeh can' take it off grounds fer another year. Bill and me…. We figgered tha' th' time's right, an' Sirius woulda wanted it tha' way.”

It was a bittersweet moment for Harry, since the bike was his only because of the death of his godfather. However, at long last he was working through his grief and anger. For the first time, standing there with Bill and Hagrid, he was able to face the stark fact of Sirius' death without surrendering to rage or sadness. “I suppose you're right,” was all he said.

“'Arry, this is an early birthday present because I'm off to France tonight. I'm sorry I won't be here for your actual big day. I'll be gone for at least a week - longer if things go well. I hope to have a wedding date, and also some advice for you, when I get back. The Order will be filling in for me whilst I'm gone. I have to go and pack. I'll leave you with Hagrid to catch up. He can supervise your Portkey home.”

Hagrid invited Harry inside. Neither of them noticed Bill making his way towards the staff entrance for Hogwarts Castle, rather than to any of the usual off-grounds Disapparition points.

The first thing Harry noticed was that the customary fare of horrible rock cakes was gone, replaced with much more palatable offerings. Hagrid was cooking quiches, which were really quite good. He confessed that Madame Maxime, Headmistress of Beauxbatons, the most prestigious magical academy in France, had been teaching him some better recipes. Hagrid and Madame Maxime (“Olympe” to Hagrid) were both half-giants, and from the way Hagrid spoke of her, it was clear that they were becoming more than just good friends.

The second thing Harry noticed was that Hagrid's hut was unusually quiet. Fang was missing. When he asked after the all-bark-and-no-bite wolfhound, Hagrid's face fell. “`E never came `round after bein' hexed by th' bloody Ministry `it wizards,” he explained. “Lingered a bit, `e did, but was gone nary a week after yeh took the Ministry down a few pegs. Jess after you all left, actually. I'd still like t' wring tha' bloody Umbridge's neck.”

Harry told Hagrid about the torture quills and how he was set to testify against Umbridge in a few weeks' time. He said he hoped the ex-High Inquisitor would have a long stay in Azkaban. Hagrid - who had actually done time there - said he could not wish that on anyone except a Death Eater.

Harry also asked after Grawp, Hagrid's younger half brother - the full giant who nevertheless was on the small side. Given the havoc that Grawp had created in the Forbidden Forest, Harry was not really surprised when Hagrid said he had taken him away on his mission and found him some other, more appropriate, place to live.

“Well, yeh know,” began Hagrid. “Grawpy couldn' stay inna forest f'ever. Even I realised tha' after a while. Sooner `r later th' Centaurs woulda got `im. So's I took `im wi' me on me mission.”

“Where did you go?” asked Harry.

“Can' tell yeh `bout the mission,” chided Hagrid. “Dumbledore's business. But I'd heard `bout a race o' smaller sized giants what lived in Spitsbergen - way up near th' North Pole. So's on me way, we stopped off, an' sure `nuff, they were there. They `adn' `ad many giant-type visitors in ages, bein' stuck way out in the middle `o nowhere like they was, so's they was only too happy to take Grawp in, seein' as how `e was practically th' bigges' one there.”

“But is Grawp happy?” asked Harry. “He really missed you the last time I saw him, you know.”

I'ma `unnert percent sure `e is,” replied Hagrid. “Yeh see, `e'll be able t' find `isself a mate there. Them giant girls was all `angin' `round even afore I left. It's best fer all concerned. `E was on the verge `o bein' of th' age where `e'd a gone inta ruttin' iff'n `e didn' `ave a mate. In rut, things coulda gotten dangerous wi' `im still in th' forest `round Hogwarts. `E didn' have much o' a choice, but….”

“But what?” Harry prompted.

“I don' know iff'n I should tell you this 'Arry,” said Hagrid with an apologetic look in his eye. After hesitating for a few seconds, he continued, “But seein' as how `e's gone an' all, I guess it can' `urt. Well…, from me talks with Grawpy, I think that `e more or less fancied `Ermione. Tha' wasn' right, an' I wouldn' `ave wanted anything t' `appen t' `er.”

“I see,” said Harry slowly. Hagrid's last observation had stopped him cold. Harry's stomach turned a bit as he tried to contemplate how that might have worked. Harry was unable to think of anything that would not have involved serious physical harm to his best friend. “You did the right thing, Hagrid.”

“That' wha' I think, or I woudn' a done it,” Hagrid replied. “I figure if Grawpy `ad done summat t' `Ermione, yeh'da tried t' kill `im, an' giants is awfully `ard t' kill - even harder than t' try t' stun `em.”

“Why do you think that, Hagrid?” Harry asked. “Ron would have tried too.”

“Yeh, but yeh have feelin's fer her, 'Arry, I'm sure `o it,” Hagrid grunted nervously. “Yeh may not know it yerself yet, but one day, an' one day soon, I reckon yeh will figure tha' out.”

Harry refused to rise to that bait - which was likely Dumbledore's bait. He said evenly, “So how long are you back for? I hope you'll be teaching us again this year.”

“`Spect so,” Hagrid replied. “`Specially with yeh getting' th' `ighes' marks in th' whole school in me subject. But I truthfully don' know. The Order decides wha' I do, an' when I do it. Right now I'm only back `cause `o yeh.”

That was the second time Hagrid had made such a comment. It puzzled Harry because he hadn't said anything much to, or even thought much about, Hagrid in several months - since he had first learnt of Grawp. “How so?” Harry asked blankly.

“It's what yeh did,” said Hagrid, looking misty-eyed. “Never `eard `o nuthin' like it in me lifetime. Yeh decided t' stand up fer equality fer everyone, even giants. Dumbledore owled me once tha' happened. Sent me a copy o' yer signed statement t' give t' th' Gurg. Don' know `ow much good it done though… So few o' us left ya know. Wha' with us killin' each other off like we do. An' not many o' us can read anyhow - least not English.”

Hagrid paused, gave Harry a half-smile, and continued, “Anyhow, Dumbledore reckons tha' equality is th' one thing tha'… Voldemort … never can promise giants. `E's prob'ly right - usually is. Got some unexpected `elp too… Th' local goblins came ta me, offrin' ta `elp. I gave `em the copy o' th' treaty. They've got ties ta th' giants, yeh know, datin' back to alliances in wars against wizards. Maybe it'll do some good.”

It was on that uncertain note that Harry Portkeyed back to Privet Drive. Just before he left, he and Hagrid embraced again. He was uncertain when he would next see Hagrid, but he felt uplifted by the huge man's huge gratitude. Even if the amendment to the Goblin Treaty had failed to break the ice with Hermione as he had hoped, it had been the right thing to do for a lot of other reasons that he could not have even begun to imagine when he decided to do it.

That evening's date with Eliza was pleasurable, but in an unsettled sort of way. The two never went out, but enjoyed a home-cooked Muggle meal in Eliza's flat. Harry helped prepare the meal and was rightly proud of his dearly bought prowess in the kitchen. Eliza had a new stereo sound system with such large components that Harry wondered how she had ever hefted them down the hallway. It produced wonderful sound.

And not just sound. Eliza's new system also had a VCR player, and the two of them watched a rented movie - Bridges of Madison County, a romance flick from the year before. The passionate subject matter prompted considerable snogging, but the kissing had a nervous edge to it. The movie told of a love affair that only lasted but a few days, after which the lovers never saw each other again. This disturbed him and (he thought) Eliza too, because they had an unspoken understanding that their own relationship was temporary - and would end when he went back to school.

That was not the only source of nervousness - at least for Harry. The love affair in the movie was torridly sexual, and that was a subject around which he was treading very cautiously. He was on completely unfamiliar territory. Every time they snogged, he went a little further with his advances, and every time Eliza let him. Somehow, in a way he did not exactly follow, several items of her clothing found their way to the floor. During the ensuing grappling, he lost his balance a bit and one of his hands found its way to somewhere it had no business being. But before he could remove it, she covered his hand with her own - and then trapped it with her legs. She made some exotic, trilling sounds after that. Truth be told … it was one trap he did not bother trying to escape.

Harry left Eliza's flat that night with the unnerving feeling that he was holding himself back more than she was restraining him. He was not at all sure how to phrase the big question, and not entirely sure that he even wanted to ask it. Harry knew he would be disappointed if the answer were “no,” and he was afraid of what he would happen if the answer were “yes.” At any rate, the question did not get asked that night.

It was time to read Bill's book.

* * * *

Harry received the expected third owl borne subpoena, and he hastened to tell Hermione about it the next morning as they waited for their potions and poisons lesson to begin. That was not all he wanted to discuss with her. After his encounter with Snape, Harry concluded that Dumbledore was being less than candid with him. He wanted her views and guidance on the subjects that Dumbledore had wanted him to keep hidden from her. He felt that she was more trustworthy than Dumbledore, and resolved to disobey the Headmaster.

“Hermione, I need to talk to you,” whispered Harry.

“Talk then,” she replied in an unnervingly curt tone of voice.

Two separate, but Harry-related, circumstances led her to be rather short with him so early in the morning.

Item One: Yesterday, he had done something - she was not sure what - that had left her unconscious, or so she believed. His emotions that afternoon had become so unpleasant that she felt the need for a lie-in. The next thing she knew, it was two hours later. Hermione did not take mid-afternoon naps.

Item Two: The evening hours had not been easy either. Her inability to shut off her link to his emotions whilst he snogged Eliza was most of the reason why. Those emotions both aroused and shamed Hermione. They made it impossible for her to sleep, but dealing with them brought only temporary release - and left her feeling sullied and unfulfilled at the same time.

“Not here,” Harry hissed. “There's some like … secret things I need to tell you.”

“You're getting married and moving to America?” Hermione responded sarcastically.

Harry was a little taken aback by his friend's distant attitude, but having made up his mind, he plunged ahead. “I'm sorry that you're mad at me, but this is serious.”

“How serious?” replied Hermione, her interest now piqued.

“Serious enough that I'm disobeying direct orders from Dumbledore just by telling you,” he replied, dropping his voice to a whisper once again.

“Perhaps you shouldn't then,” she snipped.

“I have to,” he pleaded.

Hermione frowned. She had long suspected that the Headmaster was having Harry keep secrets from her, and she did not like it one little bit. At times she thought Dumbledore did this to keep the two of them apart. Thus his desire to confide in her could be a big deal. Hermione pondered the matter.

Soon her calculating mind hit upon the best scheme under the circumstances. Her idea could keep their minders away long enough for Harry to tell her what was on her mind - and it might have other, more fulfilling, benefits….

* * * *

Author notes: Complicated is my middle name - Harry's prior description of Hermione

Worst of all possible worlds - the obverse of Leibnitz's philosophy, satirized by Voltaire in "Candide"

"Be yourself", from Aladdin

Hermione's note cards are explained in two chapters

"What's it going to be" - from "Paradise by the Dashboard Light"

Begging; half a man. Temptations/Stones "Ain't Too Proud to Beg"

Never having to say your sorry - One definition of what "love" is. From the movie "Love Story"

The "Abominable No Woman" - my wife's nickname - for her handling telemarketers, time share salesmen etc.

"Magic Circle" - a real nickname for top-notch London law firms

Isabella Wing and the question about being "afraid of flying" derive from Erica Jong's "Fear of Flying"

"Muggle-qualified" parallels the "internationally-qualified" London lawyer

The description of attorney/client privilege is accurate

BBC Four Cinema is real. It featured Rumpole of the Bailey, which is about lawyers

The Order of the Coif is a legal academic society. A "coif" is a barrister's white wig

The described legal prints are real

Lawyers collect souvenirs of their representations; miniature legal documents in clear plastic are common

"Ministry Prosecution Service" a play on "Crown Prosecution Service", British felony prosecutors

Woodshedding - taking difficult witnesses "to the woodshed" before testifying to ensure they say what the lawyer wants

The description of a confession of judgment, is fairly accurate, although this is unusual use

The confession of judgment is targeted squarely at Malfoy. It will find its mark

Elf rights are one thing - but Muggle landmines involve a different crowd

The law of entails is fairly accurately described, and is the sort of retrograde legal arrangement typical of Wizard society

"Rule against such things": The infamous Rule Against Perpetuities

Avalon Danvers - one of the missing Gryffindor girls of Harry's year. The other will be introduced

That spring Quidditch match sets up the usual end-of-fic denouement

"Trick of the light" - from the Who song of the same name, as is the bit about "like a fairy tale"

Paneruditius ("know everything") parchment becomes important

This Four-Points Spell with the Auror ring will reappears, as does the distress signal

"Origin and cause" is a legal term about fire investigation in arson cases

Polycharmacy - a play on the term "polypharmacy" - interactions between different drugs taken together

Shere Kinsey - a combination of Shere Hite and Alfred Kinsey, two noted sex researchers

My Harry is not at all religious, but even so "thou shalt not" seemed an appropriate metaphor

Chinese mind-entering techniques resurface, and of course Harry does what he has been warned not to

Dudley's description of General Certificates is accurate

Snape's Muggle repelling charm is why Dudley suddenly left

Smaller sized giants on Spitzbergen. Large creatures get smaller when marooned on isolated islands, such as pygmy mastodons on islands north of Siberia

Harry's wondering about Eliza's stereo is foreshadowing

The timing and description of Bridges of Madison County is accurate

- 57 -

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21. Cover Stories

At last, for the H/Hr. shippers (myself included) - finally just a little fluff. But just a taste before Hermione starts thinking too much, and Harry starts thinking too little.

Wherein Hermione provides Harry with a cover story, they fake a date, Harry gets a little too real, there is a brief snog, Harry tells Hermione about some of Dumbledore's secrets, Harry is confused, Hermione is shattered, Harry is besieged by strange owls and unbidden birthday gifts, Dudley gets Harry a birthday present, Harry goes back to the Department of Mysteries, Harry learns something about what happened to Ron, Harry finds out that Lesson 128 was another cover story, Harry learns the Suturc spell to counteract Cruciatus, Hermione thinks Harry is training for a suicide mission, Harry meets serious twins, and Harry learns what Hermione's cover story was.

This chapter is devoted to the tangled webs of deception. Everyone, but especially Dumbledore and Hermione, has cover stories. Eventually the truth will out, but at great cost.

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

Chapter 21 - Cover Stories

Hermione relented. “All right then, Harry, I have a plan. There will be certain repercussions - but since you're asking me to pull a rabbit out of a hat on short notice, I suppose that can't be helped. Here's what we'll do: This evening, when we're done here, I'll Apparate straight away to Daddy's dental surgery. I go there every Wednesday to help him with late appointments….”

Harry grimaced at the very mention of Hermione's father. Right now, there were very few things in all the world that he was less keen on doing than meeting that man again - even another go with Voldemort might be less unnerving. “Why can't we just use Legilimency?” he proposed.

Hermione saw the question in Harry's eyes and immediately understood that she had not been clear enough. “Because too many Order members can detect it and would become suspicious,” she responded.

Then, addressing what she understood to be Harry's primary concern, Hermione added, “No, Harry, HE won't be there. Daddy only keeps late hours on Wednesday nights, so he's not going to be there tonight. For that matter, neither will you. All I'm going to do is wait there for you. I want you to take the back entrance from the Ministry to Muggle London, then catch the Tube….”

“Can I do that?” Harry asked sceptically. “I thought when Fudge raised the security level, it meant that the Muggle entrance was closed off. That's what Mad-Eye told me last week.”

“Not any more,” replied Hermione with a somewhat superior air. “Fudge lowered the Voldometer to pink yesterday, and the lower security level means that the Muggle London entrance has been reopened. Now I assume you have taken the Tube before….”

“Yes, I know what to do,” Harry grumbled, feeling as if she were patronising him.

“Well then, take the Tube to Hyde Park Station, walk to Belgrave Square - there are directional signs - then use your Auror ring to locate me just like we were taught on Tuesday.”

“All right….” Harry conceded, still just a touch unsure. “What's the point?”

“I'm getting to that,” Hermione continued. She had to keep talking, or else she would lose her nerve. “Whilst you are travelling - and especially as you come near the Square, I want you to drop hints - without being very specific - to whomever is shadowing you from the Order. You need to tell him, whilst play-acting that you are nervous, that you would like a little extra `privacy.' Make sure your minder is very aware of this request before you start the locating function.”

“Okay, I can do that. Is there any particular reason I'm doing this?” Harry asked, now feeling absolutely clueless.

“Yes, Harry,” Hermione clipped. “The best cover story is the one with the most truth in it. I want your minder to know that you're planning to meet up with me.”

“And I am,” affirmed Harry.

“On a date….”

There. She had finally squeezed it out, and she left the potent phrase to hang in the air - a trace of exasperation having leaked into her carefully modulated voice.

“Oh.” Harry realized he would not have to play act being nervous. He WAS nervous now - just thinking about the prospect. It was as plain as the scar on his forehead.

Seeing the expression on his face, Hermione frowned. “Look, if you're getting cold feet, I'll just be off then,” she offered.

“NO!” Harry yelped, more loudly than was necessary. “I need to do this … really.”

Hermione squeezed her thumb with her other hand until it started to hurt. Repressing the urge to say something else, she continued with her explanation. “My ring will glow and I'll come downstairs. Your keeper will observe you meeting with me, and will know I'm trustworthy. We can go for a walk in the park. Both of our minders will back off. Then you can tell me whatever it is that's on your mind.”

Harry considered the idea, nodded, and agreed - what he usually did when presented with one of Hermione's plans.

* * * *

Hermione's plans almost invariably turned out for the best. Following her directions, Harry thought that this plan, as well, seemed to be going off like clockwork. A new Order member - Sylvanius Farrow, a five-year Auror having good familiarity with Muggle London - was minding Harry. This was his first such assignment. Perhaps he was a little bit overly impressed with, even intimidated by, Harry.

Hermione's instructions caused Harry to take unintentional advantage of the notoriety of their supposed relationship amongst members of the Order. Farrow readily agreed to watch the two of them from as discrete a distance as he could safely allow. Hermione, who knew exactly what she was doing, reached a similar modus vivendi with Hestia Jones, who was minding her that night.

Everything went swimmingly. Less than two minutes after performing the Locating Charm, he saw Hermione walking towards him. At first he glimpsed only her silhouette against the blazing shop windows. She appeared so … so … feminine. She had let her long auburn hair down, and somehow it seemed less bushy than it normally was. Her clothes were simple, yet there was something different - in an attractive sort of way - about how they fitted her.

Hermione was wearing rather tight Muggle blue jeans with holes in various places that had been patched with bright bits of intentionally mismatched cloth. Her equally snug-fitting, light-coloured T-shirt had some sort of an image on it - darker than the fabric. When she got closer, Harry saw it was the Mona Lisa, with the mysterious letters “L H O O Q” inscribed underneath it.

She was also wearing heels - not excessive ones - but heels nonetheless. He had never seen her do that in public before. But then he had never been out on a date with Hermione in a Muggle area before, or anywhere before, for that matter.

“What's that mean?” Harry asked, pointing to the letters on Hermione's T-shirt.

“Oh…, nothing,” she responded. “It's French … for why she's smiling.” As if to emphasize, Hermione gave Harry an enigmatic smile of her own.

Harry nodded. “Okay.” While he had expected more of an explanation than that, he accepted it without question.

Hermione sighed, but she said nothing further, merely indicating where they should go. As the two of them walked into the park, Hermione slipped her hand into Harry's, nearly causing him to jump out of his shoes. She shushed him sharply but quietly.

“Harry, if you want privacy, you had better act like you need it.”

Putting on the airs of two teenagers on a date, the pair walked the Serpentine. Just as Harry was starting to relax and feel comfortable with the idea that he was really, really holding Hermione's hand - in public no less - she had another shock for him. She pulled his hand, and thus his arm, around behind the small of her back, drawing him much closer. Her final, decisive yank staggered Harry, and he half stumbled into her, clutching her waist to keep from falling. Quickly, she freed her hand, and before he could disentangle himself, he found himself with his arm around her waist and her arm snaked around his shoulders.

Harry's mind went numb. He could hardly believe what was happening. On the one hand, for years he had hoped and dreamed and wished for a moment exactly like this. On the other hand, he kept reminding himself over and over again that this was a cover story - a fantasy of a fantasy - simply a charade to achieve the necessary privacy.

Hermione tried to make small talk, but Harry seemed lost in thought.

“Well, Harry, how did your last session with Mister Kung turn out?”

“Wonderful, just wonderful.”

“How was your last meeting with Dumbledore?”

“Wonderful, just wonderful.”

“And how is your dear, sweet, beloved friend Voldemort getting along these days?”

“Wonderful, just wonderful.”

Harry's befuddlement was coming through loud and clear on the emotional link. At that point, Hermione gave up the idea of carrying on a conversation. Their arms around one another, the two walked along in extremely close and companionable silence.

Slowly - ever so slowly - Harry grew more at ease. He could get used to this.

The two continued their leisurely walk along the Serpentine until they found a relatively secluded park bench near the Royal Artillery Memorial. That they could find peace and quiet in the shadow of a huge stone howitzer seemed odd - but there was no accounting for Muggle taste.

No sooner had they sat down than Hermione asked, “So what is going on?”

She could see a twitch in Harry's face, followed by a shake of his head, as if he were forcing himself out of some other-than-conscious state. After Harry had clawed his way back to reality, and finished reminding himself why he was there in the first place, he started spilling the secrets about which he wanted her perspective. The first was the story of Sirius' Pensieve and what Harry had learned from Sirius's memory of the night of his parents' murders.

Hermione was shocked. She easily understood how having a front-row seat for the deaths of his parents upset Harry. From her own perspective, the mere fact that she fought with her own parents the night of Harry's visit was disconcerting enough. She could not even contemplate witnessing their deaths.

`How,' she wondered…. `How has Harry been able to hold himself together with all the unspeakable horrors he's experienced?' That he was so strong and gentle (at least with her) after all the terrible things he had been through was one of the things about him that Hermione found most amazing.

Hermione thought it best just to let him talk, since he so rarely overcame his instinctive taciturnity about the many losses he had suffered. He had never liked talking about himself. Hermione kept quiet until Harry told her about seeing his mother's body.

“That's not possible,” Hermione interjected.

“It's not only possible, it's what happened. Sirius saw it, and Dumbledore never denied it,” Harry responded testily.

“But … but…,” Hermione stuttered, “I've read at least three accounts of that night in authoritative wizarding publications - including the definitive History of Magic textbook by Professor Abigail Huckabee. You may not like it, Harry, but your parents' deaths and what followed are historic events taught in every wizarding school in Europe. Every history states that neither of your parents' bodies were recovered, that they were,” Hermione's voice wavered, “destroyed in the conflagration….”

Harry blinked rapidly and sucked in a sharp breath. “Well, the books lie, then. Those bloody book writers weren't there! I saw what happened with my own … er … with Sirius' own eyes,” Harry protested, the inflection in his voice rising an octave in his anguish. Hermione motioned frantically for him not to let their minders hear, but her signals did not register any meaning for Harry.

“Sirius did not let Mum burn, and what's more she….”

He was being too loud.

Finally, Hermione threw her arms around Harry and pushed him down on the bench, pretending to kiss him. She had not wanted to go this far this fast, since Harry was in a serious relationship with someone else. It was admittedly over the top - skirting a line she vowed she would not cross. But this was supposed to be theatre, and she had to remind Harry of his lines.

At first Harry was stiff as a board, his lips pursed tightly against hers, but sooner than she expected, he relaxed, his facial muscles warming and melting into her own. His right arm, which had been lying awkwardly across the small of her back, came to life and slid forward until it gently rested on one of her shoulders. He brought up around his other arm, which had been hanging limply off of the bench. It found its way under her hair and his fingers began tracing slow, seductive circles over the sensitive skin and downy short hairs on the back of her neck.

Harry's touch felt so wonderful, causing electric shivers all along Hermione's spine, and down through her groin, legs, and toes - tingling sensations quite unlike anything that she had ever felt before, even with Viktor.

The next thing she knew, Harry closed his eyes and began trying to kiss her seriously. His warm lips not only met hers, they began actively seeking out more kisses, pushing Hermione toward more openness, more … more … passion - something she had given up hope expecting. `Sweet Matilda, Mother of Merlin,' she thought, her mind awash with surprise, `I can't just let it happen.'

But for one frozen moment, she did. She could get used to this

With hope, and regret, and desperation, Hermione relaxed and allowed her mind and body to fall deeper into the kiss…. She fell into a living, breathing Harry James Potter, whose strong arms completely entwined her and held her close … into a Harry whose surprisingly tender mouth was intent upon doing more than magical things with her own….

Utterly intoxicated by her desires and Harry's presence, she gasped, opening her mouth just a bit in an involuntary reaction to Harry's increased ministrations. When his tongue slipped inside her mouth, exploring, loving, caressing … in that very instant, Hermione felt a bit of heaven on earth… but only for an instant.

Then, as quickly as she started, she stopped. “No. It can't be this way,” she declared.

Pushing her hands against his chest, Hermione broke away. She heard herself saying, “No, Harry. Not like this. It's…. It's just not right.” But her voice sounded strange to her. It was exogenous and foreign - as if it were coming from someone else, from somewhere outside the hotchpotch of raging emotions that her mind had become.

Surprised but respectful, Harry immediately let go. “But … Hermione,” he protested, “I thought you wanted….”

Hermione sat up. She brushed a stray strand of hair out of her face, somewhat exasperated with herself - and, unexplainably, with Harry. “What I want, Harry,” she stated firmly, “is not to be the `other woman.' That's just not me, Harry. I have my morals. It can't be this way. Maybe some other way, but not this way.”

Harry's eyes darted about in sudden bewilderment. “I don't understand.”

“Be honest, Harry. You already have a girlfriend,” she reminded him in a stage whisper. “You have to make up your mind about that first. It could be … different … but until you resolve that, anything between us is just a cover story. Do you understand now?”

“Uh…. Yeah.” He said mechanically, although he was actually more confused than ever. Embarrassed too. Just when he thought that he knew what she wanted - and that what she wanted was what he wanted - he discovered that she did not want what he thought she wanted at all … or so he thought.

Still, she did not get off of him, and her lips stayed uncomfortably and tantalisingly close to his. He wanted more than anything to reach up and recapture them with his own…. But he knew it would not happen. “I want you to know,” Hermione whispered. “I believe you. No matter what, I'll always believe you, don't you forget that.”

“Believe me about what?” Harry asked dumbly, his brain still reeling from hormonal overdrive.

If doing so would not have blown their cover to smithereens, Hermione would have screamed. “I believe you about your parents' bodies,” she said very slowly.

“Oh.” Harry sounded like a sick owl. “Thanks, Hermione.”

Hermione decided she had to take charge of the conversation. The hairpin turns of the last few minutes had caused Harry to lose his bearings. “Apparently someone covered up the recovery of your dad's - and especially your mum's bodies - and rather effectively at that. The question is why. Did you ask Hagrid about it?”

“Oh, bollocks,” Harry muttered, “I forgot to when…. Hey! How did you know Hagrid was back?”

`Oh, bollocks,' Hermione silently winced at her own stupidity - that mental compass of hers was not exactly pointing unerringly to True North either. Hermione had her own cover story to maintain. She did not want Harry to know just yet that she had been in secret communication with Hagrid.

Quickly she recovered. Sometimes the best defence was a good offence. “You're not the only one who's in contact with the Hogwarts staff, after all,” she huffed aggressively. “I know a little about what's going on, too.”

To Hermione's relief, Harry accepted her non-responsive response and backed off, physically as well as mentally. Her tiny indiscretion was soon forgotten altogether when Harry mentioned that his mum had been pregnant at the time of her death.

“I think the reason they hid it is that she was pregnant,” Harry mused.

It was Hermione's turn to reflexively raise her voice. “What!?! Pregnant?? You mean you were almost an older brother? Oh, Harry that's horrible. I'm … I'm so sorry.”

“Not half as sorry as I am,” Harry muttered.

Hermione knew from her copious and varied reading that the possible magical implications of sibling death - especially in utero - were huge. Hermione started losing the flow of Harry's conversation as she silently ticked off a mental checklist of the likely motivations of those who had concealed this fact.

Harry moved on to discuss Dumbledore's distressed and abrupt reaction when he became aware of what Harry had discovered.

“…So then Dumbledore said he'd have Memory Charmed me if he thought that he could pull it off without hurting me,” Harry went on. “All I want to do is pay my respects to my own parents, and he won't let me - not only that, he wouldn't even tell me why. Wouldn't tell me a bloody thing. What do you think…? Is that such a terrible thing to want? Hermione?”

Harry waved his hand in front of Hermione's face. When that drew no response, he fleetingly entertained the thought of kissing her again, since her face was still very much within range. But one embarrassment like that per evening was enough. Discretion being the better part of valour (or of fear).

Harry instead gently pinched her on the nose.

“Oh! Harry, I'm sorry,” Hermione apologised. “It's just so unlike Dumbledore to behave that way, at least to you. It must be awfully important to something - probably something dangerous - that Dumbledore immediately hushed it up. I'm not sure what, but I have a couple of good guesses what might be afoot.”

Although Harry did not share her opinion about Dumbledore's actions being that much out of character, Hermione's response was precisely what he had hoped for. Her guesses were worth as much as anyone else's documented facts - something that events had demonstrated time and again. It paid to listen to her. Other people had lost dearly when he had not.

“First, it could - probably - have something to do with keeping you safe,” Hermione conjectured. “You've told me that the magic that keeps Voldemort and the Death Eaters away from your relatives' house somehow involves your mother's sacrifice of herself to save you. So one possibility is that your mother's corpse was hidden or later destroyed to prevent Voldemort from trying to use it to develop some sort of Dark magic that would counteract your protection.”

Harry's eyes went wide. Hermione was brilliant. That could well be it - at least it made sense out of something that had been inexplicable. But she was not done yet.

“Second, from the way Professor McGonagall reacted a while ago, I'm sure we were on the right track about the source of Voldemort's power lying in Necromancy. That's because Necromancy is almost all about dead bodies. Its association with murder and grave robbing is why it's considered an illegal Dark Art. Almost all powerful Necromancy spells require at least part of a corpse to work properly…. I remember at least that much from last summer's reading in the Black family library. So it's also possible that Voldemort would want the bodies of your father, mother and sibling for Merlin knows what awful magical experiment - probably intended to kill you, of course.”

“Oh,” Harry mouthed. The sick owl had returned. Sometimes Hermione's ideas could be as unsettling as they were astute. “But why wouldn't Dumbledore tell me that? Why wouldn't he tell me bloody anything at all?”

Hermione leaned back into Harry and put her hand lightly over Harry's mouth to quiet him. “I don't know, Harry,” she whispered. “That, I'll have to think about a lot longer. I have a lot of things to think about right now….”

Her hand came off Harry's lips and went to her own forehead. She sighed and her shoulders slumped as she regarded him. She continued, “But I'm just sure that Dumbledore wouldn't do anything that hurtful to you out of whim or spite. He's not that untrustworthy. I don't know what his reasons are, but I'm sure he has a good one if he feels that he can't even tell you about it.”

Although Hermione never said so aloud, Harry knew her well enough to understand that the unspoken codicil to her last statement was “…and I'm going to figure out what it is.”

Hermione loved solving mysteries as much as Ron loved chess strategy - or Dudley loved the arts of pugilism - or Harry loved her.

`Dammit,' he thought. `Why can't I make this work?'

Hermione thought that Harry's revelations were over. He had reverted back to his customary brooding. She broke their theatrical embrace and started to stand when Harry spoke up.

“Er…. There's something else that Dumbledore's trying to keep secret.”

Hermione sat back down at once. Harry told Hermione about the surreptitious note he had received from Shak, and solo training session that had been hastily scheduled for tomorrow.

“He wants me to train tomorrow morning at the Ministry,” Harry related earnestly. “He's set up a special session with somebody - I haven't a clue, who - to teach me.”

Hermione was immediately taken aback, but the first thing out of her mouth was surprising because it was about when, rather than what or who. “What time is this session scheduled for?”

“Er…. “Early. It starts at nine. I should be done a little after noon.”

Hermione seemed just a tiny bit less nervous after that. “Am I…? Am I invited?” she asked.

“Hardly,” Harry replied. “That's the spookiest thing about it. Dumbledore was very clear that not only weren't you invited; but that you weren't even to know about it.”

Upon learning this information, Hermione went silent and just let Harry talk. He seemed inordinately apprehensive about the solo session.

Harry had not wanted to upset Hermione, but even in the dim light, he could see that she was fuming. She never liked being left out of any educational opportunity.

But Hermione's slow burn was nothing compared to her reaction when Harry disclosed the subject matter.

“He wants me to learn Lesson 128 - all those deadly curses.”

All of the colour drained out of Hermione's face.

“Oh … no.” If he had sounded like a sick owl, she sounded like a sick Niffler. “Please, Harry. Please tell me you're joking.”

“I'm not joking,” Harry grimly affirmed. “I'd never joke about something like that to you. Why do I have to learn this, Hermione? I don't want to.”

“I … I don't know, Harry,” was all she could muster.

It was all a shock to Hermione. She said very little after that. The more Harry talked about it, the more aghast Hermione appeared … and felt.

“Umm … why don't I just bow out of the session, then?” Harry suggested in response to Hermione's expression. “I know Shak and the trainers will be upset with me, but if it bothers you this much….”

Harry would rather chance their displeasure than hers.

In an unusually high voice, Hermione squeaked out, “No. Since Kingsley himself delivered the message, the session is obviously very important - more than what we're doing together, even. It's best that you attend….”

She said it, but the reluctance in her voice was more than palpable.

“But Hermione….”

“You should go, Harry … really…,” she reiterated. “I'm sure Dumbledore has his reasons. It's … I'm just insulted, that's all…. Yes, that's it…. Just because somebody in the Auror Corps thinks I'm too bloody dainty to learn those nasty, macho spells.”

Harry gave Hermione a cross-ways glance. Whilst she professed insult about not being invited and seemed to be blaming gender stereotypes for the omission, her body language did not seem to convey insult; nor was she meeting his eyes.

He had accurately assessed her true feelings. That brave front was just that. She was not all right with it all…. Far from it. Her feigned insult was another cover story - a mask to conceal her true feelings. Her protestations were rather stilted and forced, and something in Hermione's voice sounded a little … off.

Harry was concerned, but tried not to show it. He asked her several times what she thought was going on, but each time she claimed not to have any idea. She answered with terse “I don't knows,” and before too long they had fairly well talked the subject out. Harry wished he had the kind of insight into Hermione's emotions that their link gave her about his. First, he had misunderstood her intentions and overreached - and now this….

Sensing that Harry was through, she stood up again, much more stiffly and firmly this time.

“Unless you have any more secrets to reveal, I think I should be going now,” she said. “Otherwise our minders will start to talk.” Actually, she expected them to talk anyway - that being the “repercussion” she had originally mentioned to Harry.

When they first entered the park, Harry had been weighing whether to tell Hermione about the prophecy as well. Sensing that she was already rather agitated, Harry elected not to. He had burdened her with quite enough for one evening.

To “keep up appearances,” Hermione had him walk her all the way back to the building housing her father's surgery. Although not many words passed between them during the return walk, most of the time they held hands. To Harry, Hermione's hand felt distinctly cooler and sweatier than he had remembered it earlier - and he had made an effort to remember everything about it. Harry ascribed it to Hermione's acting. The entire evening had been a one long thespian exercise, and Harry supposed that it must have been draining on her.

When they reached the doorway to Hermione's father's surgery, Harry was uncertain what to do. Before he could react, she abruptly reached up, put one arm around the back of his neck and kissed him squarely on the lips.

Harry was too startled (not to mention gun-shy) by this unexpected development to do anything except let Hermione carry on. After a couple of fleeting, blissful seconds, Hermione broke the kiss, choked out, “Vive la différence,” and practically fled inside.

Had Voldemort attacked Harry at that moment, he could have taken him with a Placebus Charm.

Harry wiped his lips against the back of his hand, and stared at it. He was not at all sure exactly how he was supposed to feel - other than topsy-turvy; other than mortified. Could he allow himself to dream again? What had just happened?

Up until now, he had been certain that his earlier imposition upon Hermione had been a catastrophic mistake - much worse than the last time he had tried something along those lines, because this time she was aware of it. Just when he had allowed himself to believe that his most treasured fantasy might become real….

`She really is a superb actress when she wants to be,' Harry told himself. `Just ask that toad Umbridge.' He, too had been a toad, he thought - one who had just fallen, quite warty head over slimy flippers, for her act. That was all….

Less than an hour ago, had she not pushed him off, questioned his honesty, and sternly reminded him that he already had a girlfriend? If she had really cared about him, surely she would have at least mentioned his birthday tomorrow. Not a word….

But now, Harry was hopelessly confused, his emotions pummelling his brain, his thoughts ranging from blissful possibilities to sheer paranoia. Hermione had countered her earlier push-off with a pull-in. But even if her kiss were just for show, at least he had a pretty good idea that he did not positively repulse her, even after all that had happened. And what was she trying to tell him with this French phrase about differences?

What was different now?

Wishing that he could talk to Bill, Harry wandered aimlessly back to the park, lost in thought. Eventually, he found a secluded place to Apparate back to Mrs. Figgs' house.

Hermione could feel Harry's emotions. He was not the only one feeling confused and mortified. Harry Potter was definitely hazardous to her moral health.

Why now?

Why had he tried to snog her only after he had a bloody girlfriend? Damn that woman, whoever she was. Why could this not have happened when they were first reunited? Then, she had been ready, willing, and able not just to snog, but to shag him senseless. Why not after he had rescued her at the aerodrome? He was not that attached then. Why had he not offered to experiment with the Orgasimos Charm in private?

Just when she was carefully hiding her feelings for Harry, he had to go and try really to kiss her. She had slowly been reconciling herself to the blood money, but now he had threatened another of her bedrock moral values - about monogamy and the sanctity of relationships. Even so, she had almost given in….

She had wanted him so much.

It was shameful enough that she had practically solicited him to throw over his present, nameless girlfriend for her - and she had done it twice, for emphasis. Hermione Granger was not, and never would be, what Ron called a “scarlet woman.” But if Harry acted on her suggestion, she knew she would let him have his way with her.

As if it mattered anymore.

A shattering realisation overwhelmed even the prospect that Harry still might harbour romantic interest in her. That only explained Hermione's confusion - not her mortification. The root problem was that Harry's last secret had left her devastated. In the face of Lesson 128, she felt helpless, a feeling that she detested above all others. There was only one reason for him to be taught close-order, forgivable killing curses.

That night, Hermione fell to sleep cursing Dumbledore, the Order, and everyone associated with Harry's (and her) training.

* * * *

Harry's birthday began, as always, right after midnight. He was expecting an owl from Ron and Ginny, and once again was not disappointed. At one minute after midnight, a large great-grey overseas post owl swooped into Harry's room bearing two packages. Harry opened the gift from Ron first. Ron had gotten him a pair of pre-recorded Omnioculars.

Ron's accompanying note said that the Omnioculars contained the highlights of the Hogwarts team's first two victories in the Elsinore all-EU Quidditch Tournament. Intrigued, Harry paused to watch a little of it. About three-quarters of the clips showed Ron making one spectacular save after another. Whatever else Ron might be right now, his development into a superb Keeper was undeniable.

Ginny got Harry a new wristwatch, something he had needed for almost two years. Harry's Muggle wristwatch - one of the few things his relatives had ever gotten him - had been a casualty of the Second Task in the Triwizard Tournament. The new watch was magical. It did more than tell time, according to the tiny book full of even tinier print that came with it. The watch had an alarm, a stopwatch, and could even keep Harry' schedule.

The watch was also compatible with the big clock at the Burrow, although Ginny's note told Harry not to expect that connection to be made any time soon. Even if Molly Weasley had not been furious at Harry, the Weasley clock had a maximum capacity of ten hands. After the seven Weasley children and two Weasley parents there was only one opening. Bill's imminent engagement to Fleur Delacour had preempted that final space.

Harry stopped reading the watch manual when another owl zoomed in. Harry thought it might be from Hagrid, or even from Neville, but it turned out to be a gift from somebody Harry had never heard of - some Sally Crowninshield. There was no return address on the post. Like Harry's “Santa Claus letters,” the gift was addressed simply to “Harry Potter, Living with Muggles, England.” The gift was a rather nice Gryffindor scarf.

Whilst dealing with this unexpected gift, Harry heard squawking behind him. From over his shoulder, he saw four more owls jostling each other for position, with a little scops definitely getting the worst of it. Every time it got pushed off its perch, it would squawk and fly about in search of another place to land. But every time it found a spot, another owl would arrive and push it away again.

What were all these owls doing here?

Feverishly Harry worked to relieve the owls of their loads, but the more he tried, the behinder he got. Two owls seemed to arrive for every one Harry unburdened. Other than a birthday cake from Hagrid (his real gift had been all of the work he had done to get the GKN ready), none of these additional owls were from people Harry knew. There seemed to be dozens of people like Sally Crowninshield.

Despairing of getting all of these unfamiliar owls to exit through the false ventilation system in the Dursleys' rooftop - particularly since outgoing owls were colliding with incoming ones - Harry flung open the sash to let escape several of the owls he was done with. More owls promptly entered through that route. Apparently some owls were less intelligent than others and had been unable to find the concealed avian entrance to Harry's house….

Only a half an hour had passed since midnight, yet Harry was getting desperate. His room - rarely neat to start with - was now awash in unopened birthday presents, owls, owl droppings, feathers, and bits of owl treats. Too late did Harry notice that one of the owls had found the partially used bag of owl treats that Harry kept for Hedwig on a shelf in his wardrobe. In a flash, the bag was ripped open, spilling its contents everywhere and creating a feeding frenzy among the score or more of otherwise bored owls waiting to make their deliveries. Fortunately Harry had the presence of mind to cast a Silencio Charm over the frantic birds.

Harry was also getting increasingly uncomfortable. He thought, `If all of these witches and wizards' (it seemed like three quarters of the gifts were from witches) `can find me like this, what is there to stop anyone from sending me something dangerous?'

He also needed some sleep. He had his special training - rather unpleasant training at that - later that day. He had to review the material on his Aural Pensieve.

Something had to be done, but what?

Finally, knee-deep in owls, Harry decided he had no choice but to call for reinforcements. He poked his wand out his window and fired off a shower of red sparks - the lowest level distress call that he had been taught. In almost no time, two of his minders appeared at his window, mounted comfortably on their brooms.

“What's gone dodgy?” Elphias Doge's rasping voice asked after he dropped his Invisibility Cloak so Harry could identify him. It was a rhetorical question. Once Doge - or his companion, Theophila Ascot, got close enough to see clearly through Harry's window, Harry's problem was obvious. They almost doubled over in laughter at the sight of the frantic birthday boy, whom they both thought should have been better prepared.

Truth be told, shortly after learning of that night's assignment, Ascot had come to the far more senior Doge to discuss what to do if precisely this situation should present itself.

“Help,” Harry panted. “I swear, it seems like I'm getting a present from every witch in England … and half of the wizards too. I can't even keep up with them, much less check what's inside. Also, what if somebody sent me a bomb?”

“We'll take care of it,” Doge said calmingly. With a swish and a flick, he Transfigured all of the presents that were piled haphazardly on Harry's bed into marbles. He then summoned the marbles into a red velveteen sack that he drew from an inner robe pocket.

Doge instructed, “Theo, kindly dismount into the boy's room and tend to the owls. Harry, you need to send Dumbledore a note on your communicator. Tell him what's going on, and he'll adjust the wards to confund the owls and have them deliver their mail to Hogwarts for the remainder of the day. I'll take this accumulation of what's already here to Mrs. Figgs' for review and safekeeping.”

Harry did not particularly care for that idea, because he had yet to receive anything from Hermione - or at least was unaware of it (for during the last few minutes he had been tossing presents on the bed without bothering to see who sent them). Still, with no better idea for interrupting the storm of owls, Harry nodded his assent.

Theo Ascot dismounted in the windowsill, and almost took a header when she encountered an unseen chair that had Harry's Invisibility Cloak draped over it. Ascot was no Tonks, however. Instead of falling, the Auror-in-training did a slow-motion flip and ended up sitting in the invisible chair.

Whilst Harry scratched out his note to Dumbledore, Ascot cast a Knot Untying Charm on the room. All of the waiting owls dropped their respective loads (and Harry's trainers came untied as well). The consequences were not quite as Ascot had expected. After the owl treats had been exhausted, the post owls had been impatiently waiting their turn under less-than-comfortable conditions. With their obligations suddenly and simultaneously discharged, they rose as one and flew for the open window. Harry's earlier Silencing Charm had only affected the owls there at the time (all of which were long gone), and an awful din resulted as the newly-unburdened owls testily fought with one another for their freedom.

“Oh, bloody Hell,” Ascot complained. “Couldn't well get any worse, could it?”

“I don't know about that,” Harry replied. “After all, you're talking to Harry Potter. `Worse' seems to be my middle name.”

Harry was all too right. He cringed when he heard the pounding of approaching footsteps. It was never a good thing to wake up Uncle Vernon in the middle of the night - and especially not a good thing to awaken him with loud bird calls. The door flew open and Uncle Vernon burst in, roaring threats at Harry, and waving a large leather belt.

“BOY, I'LL TAN YOUR HIDE FOR THIS!! HOW MANY BLOODY OWLS ARE THERE DEFILING MY … MY…? My, my my….”

The bizarre scene unfolding before him drew Uncle Vernon up short. Harry was seated at his desk, upon which a strange device beeped and flashed as a page of Harry's handwriting suddenly vanished. In front of him, an unknown witch in dark blue robes sat on what seemed to be an invisible chair. She had her wand out and pointed lazily at him. Various wrapped packages were strewn across the floor. A pile of large feathers lay near the window, and the room reeked worse than the guano-specked old dock from which Uncle Vernon had taken his family to the Hut on the Rocks almost exactly five years before.

“How do you do,” said Ascot, with the largest false smile she could muster. “I'm Theophila Ascot, Ravenclaw, Class of 1994 - here to help Harry with his birthday presents. The pleasure's all mine.” She held out towards Uncle Vernon a dainty hand with an unusual signet ring on it.

As she spoke, two more heavily laden owls entered the room.

All of the bravado drained out of Harry's Uncle. “It certainly is,” he muttered at the young witch, as he beat a hasty retreat. “I don't even want to know.” Uncle Vernon shut the door, but he snapped at Harry. “Just make sure you clean up before leaving your room, boy.”

“Is he always like that?” Ascot asked Harry with a shudder.

“No,” replied Harry in a low voice. “Most of the time, he's worse. Until this year, he probably would have hit me with that belt, or tried to….” Harry smirked as he appreciated the value of Uncle Vernon now knowing that Harry could perform magic out of school. That fat bastard would never beat him again.

The message to Dumbledore must have been received and acted upon quite rapidly, as only three more owl stragglers had to be dealt with. None of them was from anyone Harry knew, and he was somewhat disappointed. He was not at all sure why Hermione had impetuously kissed him and then ran away a few hours earlier. He was hoping that her present for him might provide a clue. Did he have half a chance? Now her gift for him was either diverted to Hogwarts or buried at Mrs. Figg's house amongst a pile of unrequested and unwanted presents from strangers.

Harry tried the A Priori Charm Snape had showed him. It worked - like a charm. With his room restored to normal, Harry's two minders retreated to their unknown posts, visibly impressed by his advanced magic. Harry went through his Occlumency exercises, swallowed hard, and tuned his Aural Pensieve once again to Lesson 128. Sleep would not be restful this night.

That was an understatement. Just as he had the first time he encountered Lesson 128, Harry woke up troubled. He now knew - twice over - dozens of nasty ways to kill people, and he considered most of them worse than the Killing Curse. At least Avada Kedavra killed instantaneously. Some of these curses killed slowly - and all of them killed painfully. Harry could not understand why they were not banned as well. He guessed that it must be their relative lack of potency. All of them were blockable, and most worked only at uncomfortably close quarters.

Harry, feeling quite Hermione-ish, had developed a hypothesis - little more than an educated guess, really - about why these curses were being taught to him. First, because they were less potent, these curses were more easily performed, and thus more within his capacity. Second, none of these curses was emotion-based. He had trouble generating the malice necessary to perform Cruciatus properly and doubted his ability ever to form the specific intent to kill necessary to accomplish Avada Kedavra.

The Death Eater, Bellatrix Lestrange, had essentially said as much in the Ministry of Magic shortly after she had killed Harry's godfather - and as a Death Eater, this was one subject about which she was undoubtedly an authority. Harry had enough trouble trying to figure out ways to counteract Hermione's spells, and she was his friend. How in Merlin's name could he ever deal with Death Eaters, much less Voldemort himself?

Harry was not fancying his go with Lesson 128. He would be by alone, and the subject matter was unsettling. He robotically went through his morning routine. That changed abruptly after he and his cousin finished their morning run. Harry had not said much, but that was no longer a problem with Dudley. Dudley was deep into his own boxing training and had put on his game face early.

As Harry left the shower, clad only in a towel, Dudley knocked the wind out of him by slamming something colorful into Harry's midsection.

“Happy birthday, bloke,” Dudley smiled.

Harry staggered under the unexpected blow. He briefly considered hexing his massive cousin before comprehending what Dudley had said. It was quite unexpected. He had never gotten any present from Dudley before.

Harry opened it and smiled gratefully. It was a solid black heavy-duty karate uniform. “Thanks Dudders,” Harry wheezed out, still slightly winded from Dudley's forceful means of delivery. “You didn't have to do that.”

“But I wanted to,” Dudley responded. “I hope it's useful. I hate useless gifts. I couldn't think of anything else you needed - not that I could get, anyways. But I can tell you like karate better than boxing, so I thought you could use some real training clothing. I've noticed that you've been going over there in just your regular street clothes.”

Harry refrained from correcting his cousin. Dudley did not have the slightest idea what Harry did in Lao Kung's studio. Very little of it qualified as karate. Still, it was the thought that counted, and Dudley had been more perceptive than Harry supposed. “I did need something exactly like this,” Harry replied not altogether truthfully. “Thank you very much. I'll wear it the next time I go to the gym.”

Dudley's consideration left Harry feeling somewhat happier as he departed for Mrs. Figg's. The unexpected kindness took a little of the edge off Harry's feelings about his assignment over the next several hours. He hoped the rest of his magical friends would put as much thought into their presents - if he could ever find them. That thought made Harry scowl a little. He wondered who on earth had been responsible for all the gifts he had received (and was probably still receiving) from total strangers.

Harry knew that he would have a different escort because Bill was in France, but had no idea whom. He was a little surprised to find Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Auror in charge of his entire training program, waiting for him.

Whilst Harry liked and trusted Shak, seeing him sharpened his suspicions. That such a high-ranked Auror had come to collect him only emphasized the unusual, important - and dangerous - nature of this special training session. The spells in Lesson 128 were desperate magic for desperate circumstances. If he ever had to use one of these on Voldemort, the best Harry thought he could hope for is that neither of them would live to tell about it.

They Flooed to the Aurors' fireplaces at the Ministry. Shak deliberately chivvied Harry, walking very quickly. Harry almost had to trot to keep up with the taller man. The forced-march pace was successful in keeping distractions to a minimum, thereby avoiding the need to Disillusion Harry. By the time that others in the hallway figured out that the famous Harry Potter was in their midst, he was usually well past them.

After only a couple of turns through the corridors, it was obvious to Harry that Shak was not taking him to the Auror situation room - or anywhere in the Auror Candidate School. They reached the main set of lifts at Level Two. Catching a lift was ordinarily crowded business during the morning arrival rush, but two lifts were departing just as they arrived. When they clattered off, there was a brief moment when the two where alone. Shak was silent, but Harry could contain his curiosity no longer.

“Where are we going?” he asked the dark-skinned Auror captain.

“You'll know when we get there,” was the enigmatic response.

Harry pressed. “Seriously, Shak, I'd really like to know where this particular lesson is going to happen.”

“This is very serious business,” Shak hissed. “Stop asking questions. You'll be there soon enough.”

Harry opened his mouth to offer a familiar protest against being kept in the dark, but never uttered it because another of the shiny brass lifts came banging into view. It was already three-quarters filled with typically-bored witches and wizards on their way to work at various Ministry offices. A buzz of conversation started when Harry got on.

“Hey! That's Harry Potter.”

“Harry Potter.”

“Harry Potter? Really?”

“Congratulations, Harry.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

“Happy Birthday, Harry.”

People were patting him on the back, shaking his hands or simply reaching over others to touch him. Harry was very uncomfortable, although he smiled wanly and tried to engage in proper small talk. With the distraction, Harry forgot to check what button Shak pushed.

The lift descended, shuddering and rattling all the while. The front grille clanged open and shut. People got on and off, as did numerous origami, paper-airplane interdepartmental memoranda. Harry shrank into a corner behind Shak's formidable form. He was jammed next to a woman holding a wristwatch, not that much different than Harry's new watch, except that whenever the alarm went off it shot out multi-coloured jets. Some of the jets struck Harry's robes, but they were not painful, leaving only faint coloured splash patterned marks. Fortunately she got off at Level Seven, leaving in the direction of the Ludicrous Patents Office.

As they reached the Atrium on the Eighth level, everybody else got off, some muttering farewells to Harry. Harry kept waiting for Shak to move for the door as well, but nothing happened. Gradually Harry realised that they were about to descend even further. He could hardly believe it. They were going to the….

The lift shuddered to a halt. Its disembodied cool feminine voice spoke, “Level Nine, Department of Mysteries.” Harry felt his own body shudder involuntarily, and it was not due to an aftershock from the rickety lift.

As Shak made his way down the bare-walled corridor, Harry burst forth, even more insistent than before. “I need to know what is going on, Shak. Why are we here?”

“All in good time, Harry,” came Shak's clipped reply. He moved swiftly towards the plain black door at the far end of the corridor.

Harry had had enough. He reached out and grabbed the older wizard by the sleeve of his robe. “Sorry, Shak, but the best time is right now - before I go through that door. I want to know exactly what is going on.”

Shak's eyes flashed as he jerked his arm away from the importuning, and impertinent, teenager. He started to say something angry, but thought better of it. He paused, gathered his thoughts, and only measured words emerged.

“Potter, you have great potential as an Auror. Your magic is more than sufficiently powerful, even now, and you have a first-rate intellect. However, you lack a disciplined temperament. To be an Auror, or to be a proper member of the Order, you have to be willing follow orders without questioning them - even when you know that you are not being given full information. Youthful power and skill are not everything. Stealth and secrecy have saved my life more than once. If this is what you truly want to do, as you've told me it is, you have to accept that need-to-know limitations come with the territory. More importantly, you have to trust your superior officers. That's just the way it is.”

Shak's calm but firm dressing down chastened Harry. He lowered his eyes and shuffled his feet. Finally he said, “I'm sorry … sir…. It won't…. I'll try not to let it happen again.”

“Too right,” replied Shak. “Besides, I haven't the faintest idea what goes on behind that door. My assignment was to deliver you here by….”

Shak checked his own watch. Harry was slightly self-conscious. He was out of the habit and had forgotten to wear the watch Ginny had just given him.

“…Eight-thirty.” Shak took out his wand and with the butt end trapped out what Harry presumed was some sort of code on the door.

Nothing happened for a couple of seconds. Then the door started to ripple. Presently, a large eye, and then an equally large ear, emerged from the blank blackness of the door. Shak put an arm around Harry's shoulder and gently manœuvred him into the eye's line of sight. He boomed out,

“KINGSLEY SHAKLEBOLT WITH HARRY POTTER FOR MISTER POTTER'S SCHEDULED EIGHT-THIRTY APPOINTMENT.”

The eye stared at the two of them for a few more seconds. Noiselessly, the door opened inwards.

Responding to the light pressure of Shak's fingertips between his shoulder blades, Harry hesitantly entered the room. He drew in a quick breath through his mouth as the memories flooded back. Cold blue candlelight…. The vertiginous sensation of rotation…. Hermione clutching his arm…. Harry knew exactly where he was. He took in the round, circular, black-painted room with the many doors opening off of it. He could see his reflection on the polished marble floor. This time, however, the room was neither deserted nor dimly lit.

There were five people - four wizards and a witch - waiting to greet him. From behind him, Harry heard Shak's voice. “I commend Mister Potter into your experienced hands. Good luck, Potter. I will be back to collect you at half past noon.” The outer door leading back to the corridor clicked shut as Shak departed.

Harry examined the room again. Although painted flat black, it was brilliantly lit from recessed lighting around the edges of the ceiling. Several of the dozen or so identical handle-less doors were open, revealing equally well-lit offices or corridors. There was no trace of his prior visit. Hermione's flaming X's had long since vanished from the doors, and all of the damage seemed fully repaired.

Harry recognised two of the wizards from his interrogation before the Board of Inquiry, but in their own element, the Unspeakables were - just different. They were uniformly dressed in robes both well-tailored and expensive. The robes were solid black, as were their patent-leather shoes. Starched white collars and cuffs peeked out of their robes, and they each sported polished dragon-hide wand holsters. Only the colour of the lacquer pins that they wore on their robes distinguished them, Harry presumed by rank.

Their movements were calm and deliberate. Their voices were monotonous and understated, with just a touch of fear-inducing malice. Their expressions were expressionless, and their eyes concealed behind dark sunglasses. They regarded Harry as a research psychologist regards a laboratory rat - as a subject to be trained. Very nervously, Harry waited for someone to do something.

“I'm Smith.”

“I'm Jones.”

“I know, sirs,” replied Harry.

“I'm Smithson.”

“I'm Johnson.”

“And I'm Jackson,” finished the witch.

“My … my pleasure,” responded Harry noncommittally. He was under no illusions that any of the Unspeakables who were going to be his instructors for the morning had revealed his or her real name.

Another awkward silence developed, which Harry filled, “Well…. I'm here to learn three dozen nasty ways to kill people…. I'd like to get this over with as quickly as possible, so can we get started?”

The one calling himself Mr. Smith responded blandly, his voice smooth yet with an unmistakable lack of human emotion, his face also reflecting nothingness, as an expressionless mask, “Mister Potter, you may disregard whatever cover story you received.”

Harry was stunned. Did Smith mean what Harry thought he had just said? “Wha … what do you mean by cover story?” he asked warily.

Smith answered cooly, “I wouldn't be so glib if I were you. It's inappropriate here, nor does it become you. A cover story is a plausible, but false, explanation for something - in your case, Mister Potter, an explanation for why you are truly here this morning.”

“You…? You…? You mean that I, I'm not learning … a bunch of killing curses?” Harry stammered.

“Whatever you were told is inoperative,” Jones said, as if Dumbledore's explanation were simply data to be overwritten. “Now, this way please.”

Harry was reeling. Numbly he followed Smith and Jones, who were walking side by side, in tandem, their arms unmoving. They went through a door and up a set of wide stairs, as the other instructors brought up the rear in similar formation. At the top of the stairs was a corridor at right angles. After a very short distance, they passed by a series of internal windows that overlooked a large, two-storey room. What Harry saw snapped him back to reality - at least to what passed for reality as it existed within the Department of Mysteries.

“The Brain Room!” he exclaimed.

“The what, Mister Potter?” one of the wizards behind him asked. The four male Unspeakables sounded so much alike, that Harry could not tell who had spoken.

“Those … those brains in the giant tank down there. We saw them when the Death Eaters were here…. One of them attacked Ron … er, one of my friends. He hasn't been quite right ever since.”

The wizard directly behind him, Johnson, clipped, “Yes, Mister Potter, we are quite aware that one of your followers somehow managed to trigger one of the primary security functions on Intelligence Unit Six. We understand that went on for about twenty minutes, so he received quite a substantial dose. There was a great deal of damage generally, as well….”

“Intelligence unit? Security function? Substantial dose?” Harry spluttered. “What in bloody Hell goes on down here?”

Jones had stopped, and was eyeing Harry. “Sorry, we cannot tell you that. If we did, we would have to Obliviate you, and that would not be a good thing to happen, would it, Mister Potter?”

“But Ron's my best friend … or at least he was.” Harry replied more seriously. “Can't you at least tell me what happened to him, and if he's going to be all right.”

“That much we can do,” said Smithson, “but only in general terms. You see, we have various security functions that protect our intelligence units. Your friend … Ron was it…? He somehow came into direct physical contact with Unit Six, apparently after he had been on the receiving end of some curse that adversely affected his judgment. It could have been worse, he could have received the Mentanarus Curse from Unit One.”

“What's the Mentanarus Curse?” Harry asked.

“It's what we call a `mind-fuck,'” the witch, Jackson, said bluntly. Harry was taken aback by the curse word, given the other Unspeakables' almost robotic mannerisms up until this point. She seemed somehow, different, than the others. Perhaps, Harry thought, female Unspeakables played different roles than the males.

Jackson continued, “It causes raving insanity followed by catatonia. Anyway, your friend didn't get that, thank Merlin. His physical contact activated the primary defense of Unit Six. I can't tell you how, but that function penetrates and takes over the intruder's central nervous system. It incapacitates the intruder by sending out random disturbing images that, because the target's nervous system is being controlled, seem very real. Very effective - and rather nasty, if I do say so.”

Harry grimaced, remembering the persistent scars that the brain left on Ron's arms, legs and scalp. That must be what she calls `penetration,' Harry thought. “How long will Ron be affected?” Harry asked, very concerned now.

“That is impossible to say, Mister Potter,” interjected Smith, who was making subtle motions telling the others to move along. “Chief Warlock Dumbledore knows what happened, but the spells weren't designed to be reversible. Your friend will be affected as long as he thinks the images are real and probably for some time after that, at least subconsciously. In many wizards, the effects are permanent. In practice, however, they tend to go away once the victim suffers some other, equally traumatic, event in real life. Now, let's get moving or else we won't have enough time.”

Harry was still thinking mostly about Ron, but he allowed Smith to guide him. Soon they joined the others in a large, windowless room about eight metres square. All the walls and the floor were thickly padded. There were occasional magical burn marks in the padding. Two of the walls had low benches in front of them. Johnson and Smithson had lowered a collapsible table from another wall and were stocking it with a variety of potions and poultices.

Seeing all this, Harry gulped. `My own padded cell,' he thought. “Can somebody please tell me what is going on?” he asked.

Smith took charge. “At this point, yes, Mister Potter. It is my understanding that you recently had a conversation with Chief Warlock Dumbledore in which you expressed concern that your will could be overcome by Unforgivable Curses. Is that correct?”

“Umm…. Yes,” Harry admitted.

Smith continued. “And you told the Chief Warlock that you would prefer committing suicide to being forced to perform certain acts?”

The ghastly image of Voldemort compelling him to rape Hermione popped into his mind's eye view. After some hesitation, Harry answered in the affirmative once again. Harry was now very uncomfortable about the Unspeakables' cross-examination over this subject. He really did not care to tell anyone specifically what acts had made him feel that way.

Mercifully, Smith did not ask.

“Under the Chief Warlock's orders, you are here to learn very secret, very new, experimental magic,” Smith stated. “The breakthrough occurred only days before the Death Eater attack, and some here still think that is no coincidence. We have developed magic that largely neutralises the Cruciatus Curse.”

Harry's jaw dropped. He felt astonishment, relief, and gratitude towards the old man rush through him in equal parts. Smith kept talking.

“I trust that I do not have to remind you that this development is highly confidential - for your eyes only. The number of people outside of these walls that know about this is fewer than the fingers on your hands. Do you understand why?”

“Er … no,” Harry answered honestly.

Smith's ordinarily stony expression became stonier than ever. “Even the Aurors, who are most likely to suffer from Cruciatus have not been informed. You are being told because Voldemort has already shown his inclination to torture you personally with that curse. The Chief Warlock believes, and I agree, that the element of surprise provided by your mastery of this new magic could help you escape death or even bring about Voldemort's downfall - but to maintain that element of surprise, you cannot tell anyone, and I do mean anyone, about it. Have I made myself clear?”

“Absolutely,” Harry said. If there was anything that his encounters with Death Eaters and Voldemort had taught him, it was the value of surprise - planned or otherwise. Harry also felt rather guilty for having willfully disobeyed Dumbledore's instructions not to discuss this lesson with anyone. Now, Harry also understood part of Dumbledore's reticence. There was value to a good cover story.

“We are not playing around here, Mister Potter,” Smith warned. “This is as real as it gets. For the purpose of the evaluation and training that you will receive from us, do you consent to the use of Unforgivables against your person?”

“I-I do,” Harry affirmed.

“Does everyone else in this room similarly consent?” Smith asked. He received murmuring affirmative responses. Smith noiselessly flicked his wand, and blue light shot out towards each person. “Very well, binding magical contracts. Shall we begin?”

Harry nodded and, with an effortless wrist flick of his own, had his wand in his hand.

“You may put that away, Mister Potter,” said Smithson. “This is purely wandless magic.”

Harry appeared confused, so Smith intervened. “Have you ever seen Tom Riddle perform Cruciatus against an armed person?”

Once he got over his surprise at hearing Voldemort referred to so matter-of-factly by his given name, Harry thought of the times that Voldemort had used Cruciatus against him, against other adversaries, and even against his own Death Eaters. He could not think of a single time that Voldemort had used that curse during the course of an actual duel. “No,” Harry admitted.

“The Chief Warlock has informed me that you have been making excellent progress with wandless magic,” Smith stated. “Is he correct?”

Harry thought, and supposed the Lao Kung must be providing Dumbledore with updates on his magical progress. “I'd like to believe he is,” Harry replied, with some degree of pride.

Harry and his instructors then turned to the business at hand, Smith doing most of the lecturing.

“The incantation associated with the new spell is simple - the one word `Suturc,' he began. The spell itself is known by the same name. You cast this spell, as I said, wandlessly, with the palms and fingers of ones hands curved towards one another. Can you demonstrate that hand position?”

Harry cupped his hands in imitation of what Smith had described. Whilst his first effort was close, Jackson undertook to mould his hands into precisely the correct position.

Smith continued, “The necessary degree of curvature increases as the hands came closer together. Thus, someone who finds himself,” Smith leered cynically at Jackson, “or herself, suspended in chains, and spread-eagled against a wall, need only bend his,”

“Or her,” Jackson smoothly broke in.

“Or her,” Smith echoed, “fingers slightly to accomplish the magic. Conversely, a person with his … or her … hands were bound tightly together behind the back may still cast the spell just by cupping his … or her … hands.”

There was a pause as the Unspeakables each inspected Harry, making sure he could demonstrate the proper hand gesture from various positions. When they were satisfied, Smith continued with his lecture.

“In keeping with its surreptitious nature, this spell is soundless as well as wandless. Suturc need only be thought, not spoken. The key to success is strong inward concentration, concentration that focusses upon the brain itself. The spell specifically protects the brain - which is the seat of both magic and intelligence - from the effects of magically induced pain. The rest of the central nervous system is left unprotected, and deliberately so. Thus, the user of this spell will continue to twitch, writhe, scream, and even soil himself” (he waited for Jackson to interrupt him again, but she did not) “just as if under the full influence of Cruciatus. Suturc preserves only the faculties for conscious thought and magic, thus allowing the user to plan an escape or a counterattack.”

Quite disturbing practical demonstrations followed. Jones put Johnson under Cruciatus for a full five minutes. He seemed in such terrible agony that Harry could barely watch. But the moment Jones released the spell; Johnson sprinted away, showing none of the usual aftereffects of Cruciatus. Smithson then did the same to Smith, but tossed a wand on the padded floor in front of him. The moment Smithson released the spell; Smith grabbed the wand and dropped him with a well-aimed Stunner. Harry watched wide-eyed. He had been under Cruciatus enough to know that when the spell was removed, his entire body was numb and merely standing was a chore - let alone running or casting a drop-dead accurate spell. Harry shivered as he thought about the white-hot pain….

“Mister Potter!”

Someone had called his name. He snapped out of his thoughts and turned in that direction - only to see four rather annoyed wizards and an equally put-out witch staring balefully at him.

Smith spoke forcefully, “We're not here Cruciating each other for our health, you know. It is now your turn. I hope that you have been paying attention.”

Harry swallowed hard, grimaced, and stepped to the center of the room. Smith gave him a pep talk and some advice. Jones chimed in with some additional observations. Harry readied himself, cupping his hands approximately six inches apart, and concentrating….

“Crucio.”

The pain was awful. Harry felt like he was being roasted alive, like his fingernails and toenails were being torn out of his body, like red hot objects were being inserted up his…. He lost control of his bodily functions. He could almost smell himself burning….

“Finite.”

Harry was lying on the floor panting. With great effort he brought himself to his hands and knees. He looked up and saw his five instructors consulting. He knew that he had failed and failed miserably. Two of the instructors left the room at a jog.

Smith addressed Harry, “Mister Potter, that was my fault. I was just too strong for a first attempt. I apologise.”

“Wh-What are you going to do now?” Harry croaked out.

“I'm going to have Mister Johnson cast the spell next. He is the least powerful of us. And until you learn the ropes a little better, we're only going to cast the spell through a pane of magically tempered glass, which will dampen it down still further,” Smith explained.

Harry was not pleased. He hardly needed to be reminded of the basis for his original fear of the Cruciatus Curse. “How am I going to learn, then?” he growled from all fours. “I don't expect that Voldemort or any Death Eater is going to go easy on me. They haven't before.”

Smith replied in his eerily even voice, “Well, we are going to take it slow whether you like it or not, Mister Potter. You are just learning, and you seem to have developed some other defenses that we're not sure about at this moment.”

Harry was puzzled - he thought his brain was not back to normal either. He struggled to his feet, felt a bit dizzy, swayed, and glanced down at the floor. Harry saw that the part of the mat where he had been lying on was scorched. That observation brought him to his senses, and he breathed the telltale acrid smell of ozone once again. “What did I do?” Harry asked.

“After about thirty seconds, you started to glow. Then we smelled the mat you were lying on start to smoulder. The glow grew brighter, and the air around you started to crackle. That is when I ended the spell,” Smith recounted in a clinical fashion.

Harry was adamant about continuing. He scourgified himself as he waited for everyone to return so the lesson could recommence. Smith magically restored the padding. Johnson and Jackson returned, levitating a large pane of smoky glass between them.

“Salvage…” Jackson told Harry. “It comes from the largest chunk that was recovered after your Situation Room `accident.' We asked for it because we thought it might come in handy…. We just didn't know how soon.”

Another witch and wizard dressed in Unspeakables' robes slipped in silently and began setting up additional equipment on the fold-up table. They had tried to be unobtrusive, but Harry noticed them.

“What are they on about?” he asked.

“They have been instructed to create some additional precautions, just in case what I described to you happens again,” Smith explained with just a touch of edge to his voice.

Harry was curious, but doubted they would tell him what those were. His habitual annoyance at being kept in the dark surfaced, and he briefly contemplated using Legilimency to find out. He thought better of it though, since Legilimency was certain to be detected in a roomful of highly trained Unspeakables. “Alright, let's have another go,” Harry said implacably. “I have to learn this.”

The technique of starting small bore much fruit. After a couple of painful missteps, Harry fought off the weakened Cruciatus Curse successfully with the Suturc Countercurse. Success brought about increased confidence on Harry's part, which in turn contributed to stronger defensive magic and greater success. Eventually, Harry resisted everyone's curse in succession, and continued to resist successfully once the pane of magically tempered glass was removed.

There were a couple of setbacks, but Harry's instructors were learning as well. If he was indeed in pain, the tips of his fingers started to clutch as he lost control of them. If he was successful, the tips of his fingers remained steady as he maintained the wandless magic. The instructors were careful to end the spell quickly once determining that they had overcome Harry's resistance. The eerie glow, heat, and crackling sounds did not recur - much to the relief of everyone in the room, except for the two latecomers who had hoped to witness the phenomenon.

The remaining time passed quickly. Harry was ultimately able to resist every instructor's spell, and he could do it in any of a variety of positions - not just hands free, but hands tied in front and behind and even whilst chained to the wall.

Harry was being unshackled after that experiment, and Smith was explaining the final exercise, which was to teach resistance to the curses of two wizards striking from different directions. At that point, Harry noticed something glow green inside of Smith's tunic (they had all long since shed their all-too-formal robes). Smith raised his hand and touched his ear. Some kind of listening device appeared at the precise location of the touch.

“Mister Potter,” Smith called out quietly but firmly, “it seems there has been a change of plans on your end. Captain Shacklebolt will not be able to make your rendezvous. Rather, you will be met at the outer door by a Mister Weasley and a Ms. Tonks.”

Harry was not sure whether he should be pleased or not. He always enjoyed having Tonks around, since she was relatively close to his age and made the outrageous seem routine. He was not sure exactly what he should say to Arthur Weasley, though. Harry had not seen him or Molly since before Molly's memorable Howler.

* * * *

It might have been her own anxiety, or it may have been her ability to channel Harry's emotions, but whatever it was, Hermione awoke that morning in a state of nervous unease. She had hoped that her anticipation of Harry's supposedly secret training session would be worse than its reality.

She was utterly and absolutely wrong.

The intensity of Harry's pain, fear, and shock as it flowed through the link she shared with him was almost physical.

“Oh my stars! What are they doing to him?” At one point Hermione had trouble just standing. “So this is what human sacrifice feels like,” she muttered to herself.

The first time was the worst, but for several hours, she suffered along with Harry's recurrent bouts of intense physical pain, usually followed by even longer surges of complete emotional desensitisation. She could not even conceive of the training methods that the Aurors must have been using - to draw that kind of emotional response despite Harry's two separate nights of preparation for this exercise.

By the end of it all, Hermione was actually wondering how much longer Harry had left to live. She left home that day more determined than ever to succeed with her own cover story.

* * * *

Harry's nervousness about what to say to Mr. Weasley promptly vanished when he left the Department of Mysteries. Not just one Mr. Weasley was there to greet him - but two - Fred and George Weasley. However, the two inveterate pranksters were not their usually uproarious selves. They were so tense and sombre that Harry asked them questions (which they answered correctly) designed to determine their true identities. Harry had no need to ask Tonks any questions, because her pig snout demonstration immediately removed all doubts about her bona fides.

“Sorry, Harry, there's been a change in plans,” George told him.

“A big change in plans,” Fred added.

Tonks then explained. “There's been some Death Eater activity today, so Dumbledore wants us to take you to a safe house temporarily.”

Harry's stomach churned. “Is everyone all right,” he asked urgently.

“Everyone's fine,” George hastened to add. “This happens every time that bloody fool Fudge lowers the Voldometer, though.”

“That dunce didn't count on the Death Eaters reading the Prophet too,” spat Fred. “They wait for an announcement of the decreased alert status, and then they strike.”

“Somewhere, a village is missing its idiot,” George commented.

Harry's face paled again.

“But they haven't struck yet, and we have all your friends under watch,” Tonks reassured him. “All of them…. Yes, especially the ladies…. Trust me, we're ready. We're here to take you to a safe house.”

“The safest,” Fred chimed in.

“Oh shut up,” George replied.

Tonks, as the senior Order member of the three, explained the plan.

“The four of us, with Harry Disillusioned, will slip out of an unmarked Ministry side door that opens onto Diagon Alley. I know where that is. We will go to the Twins' shop. Harry and I will Floo from there to a back room at the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. At the same time Fred and George will remain behind to stage a diversion to distract any Death Eaters in the area.”

“What are you going to do?” Harry asked.

Still acting grim, the Twins declined to divulge what they had in mind. “Can't tell you that,” refused George.

“But I guarantee you it will be big enough to make tomorrow's Prophet, so you'll see it then,” Fred promised.

“We've been practicing for something like this,” George added.

Tonks continued, “Once we reach the Three Broomsticks, Harry and I will be met by additional members of the Order. I'm not sure how many. From there, you will be escorted to Honeydukes.”

“But what if somebody sees me who shouldn't?” Harry asked.

“I wouldn't worry about that too much,” Tonks reassured him. “When Hogwarts isn't in session, Hogsmeade rolls up its pavements.”

Harry's eyes got bigger. He was not sure if he believed her.

Seeing Harry's expression, Tonks backed up. “I mean that figuratively, not magically, Harry. Hogsmeade this time of year is so deserted that there's little likelihood that the short trip between the Three Broomsticks and Honeydukes could be dangerous.”

“Okay,” replied Harry, feeling a little embarrassed. “What then?”

Tonks laid out the rest of the escape plan. “I don't know if you know this, Harry,” she said with an air of secrecy, “but in the basement of Honeydukes, there's a trapdoor. The trapdoor opens into a secret underground passage that leads into Hogwarts Castle….”

Harry grinned just a bit despite the grim situation. He thought Fred and George (who were responsible for Harry knowing about the tunnel in the first place) would burst out laughing, but their worried faces had not relaxed.

“…You will take the tunnel whilst the rest of us stand guard. The tunnel runs for somewhat less than a mile and ends on third floor of the Castle. From there, you are to go straight to Dumbledore's office.”

From behind Tonks' back, Fred and George winked at Harry, although their sombre expressions remained.

The plan itself went off without a hitch. Tonks Disillusioned Harry before they called for a lift. Nobody noticed him as they rose to the top level of the Ministry and exited through the little used side door.

Remaining graver than Harry had ever seen them, Fred and George bade Tonks and Harry farewell in the back room of their store - which they had closed for the occasion despite what appeared to be a huge and noisy crowd gathered outside. Things had to be serious for them to give up so much potential patronage.

Just as he and Tonks were Flooing to Hogsmeade, Harry heard a muffled boom that he assumed meant the beginning of the Twins' diversionary event.

At the Three Broomsticks, Madam Rosmerta met Harry and Tonks with none of her customary good cheer. She offered them - and an equally businesslike Hagrid - Butterbeer. Hagrid uncharacteristically refused it, silently underscoring the worrisome state of affairs.

Madam Rosmerta was disappointed when Harry also refused. He had sworn off drinking after the dinner at Hermione's, and was serious enough about this promise he had made to himself that he extended it even to Butterbeer.

The three of them crept out of the otherwise empty pub into Hogsmeade's equally deserted main street, which was quite festooned with Ministry warning posters. Almost entirely blocked from view by the Disillusionment Charm and Hagrid's massive girth, Harry made his way as unobtrusively as possible to Honeydukes.

Probably by prearrangement, the lights were on at Honeydukes, but the front door was locked and a “closed” sign hung from the doorknob. Tonks produced a key, and the three of them slipped inside. Their stealthy passage was interrupted when Tonks tripped over a box of Ice Mice and fell into several buckets that the proprietors used to measure bulk candy. The Ice Mice squeaked plaintively, and the buckets clanged loudly as they rolled around the floor. Plainly furious with herself, Tonks swore loudly.

She regained her composure, and moments later opened the door behind the counter that led to the basement. The basement stairs were pitch black. Tonks illuminated her wand and told Harry to enter the basement first. He did so, but just as he reached the bottom stair step, Tonks inexplicably extinguished her wand. For a brief moment, Harry stood there, quite confused, in the dark. He was flicking out his own wand when bright lights suddenly illuminated the room.

A large chorus of voices called out:

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARRY!”

* * * *

Author's notes: The description of Hyde Park is as accurate as I can make it while working just from a map

The French pun (L H O O Q) on Hermione's shirt sounds like "Elle a chaud au cul," a rough translation being "She is hot in the crotch." It comes from a famous work Marcel Duchamp

Given how Harry responded to Cho's advance, and his halting response to Eliza here, his reaction to Hermione seems to be a reasonable extrapolation

This is a typical Hermione reaction to her book learning being erroneous, and a typical recovery once she accepted it

Hermione's morals (here, no poaching, at least not directly) truly make her the Queen of Denial

From Eliza, Harry knows more now about kissing

"Matilda, Mother of Merlin" is parallel to "Mary, Mother of God" and used in the same fashion

Hermione essentially tells Harry that if he dumps Eliza, she is available. But Eliza will have something to say about this as well

By the end of the chapter it becomes clear what Hermione and Hagrid were conspiring about

Hermione is already figuring out what is going on involving Dumbledore and his refusal to explain the fate of Lily Potter's body. She will spring it on Dumbledore later

Hermione's defense of Dumbledore as not that untrustworthy will eventually seem very ironic

Hermione's mistaken impression that Harry has been specifically assigned to learn close-range killing spells is the fulcrum to her equally mistaken view of the prophecy, and thus to what she thinks happens to Harry later on

Hermione had previously told Harry that things could be different between them if he ended his other attachment. The parting kiss and French phrase at the end of their meeting were intended to emphasize that

Harry as hazardous to moral health. Parallel to the cigarette warning

It will become clear soon enough, but any ideas as to why Harry received all these gifts from strangers?

"Your problem is obvious" - derived from a t-shirt of someone with his head up his ass

Part of Shak's dressing down of Harry comes from the adage that experience and treachery beats youth and skill

Another part of the same little - intellect versus temperament - is the obverse of Oliver Wendell Holmes' assessment of FDR as having a second-rate intellect but a first-rate temperament

These Unspeakables are like secret service agents, or something out of the Matrix

"Inoperative" is the famous adjective that Ron Zeigler, Richard Nixon's Watergate press secretary, used to dismiss prior lies

The Mentanarus curse will resurface later. Harry will not be pleased

So there's a way for Ron to be rid of the effects. All he has to do is have an even more harrowing experience

As a result of the Unspeakable's instructions, Hermione is left thinking Harry learned Lesson 128

Suturc is Cruciatus spelled backwards with the middle syllables removed

The Unspeakables know about the Fifth Element

Fingers/clutch, is from the Who's Acid Queen

The "village is missing its idiot" line is taken from a slogan about President Bush

The presence of the crowd is explained in the next chapter

Tonks making all the noise in Honeydukes was actually intentional - a sign to those lying in wait

- 50 -

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C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch21 cover stories.doc 04/23/05

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22. Sixteen Candles

Wherein Harry has to interact with a large number of interested girls for the first time; the Twins try and fail first to spike the punch and then to track Harry's wish; Harry learns of a new hit song; there is break dancing; Luna warns Harry about shattered dreams; Harry finally dances with Hermione, after some encouragement; Harry gets a Hogwarts birthday cake; Harry makes a wish; Hermione is upset; the Twins make a gift of pranks; Harry receives an historical present from Neville indicating that he knows something; Neville confesses what he knows; Harry receives a gift of music; Harry receives two wands that can be combined into one; Harry goes to a rock concert; and Harry receives his present from Eliza.

This is the last light chapter for a while, I'm afraid. Death Eater attacks and serious H-Hr miscommunication ahead.

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

Chapter 22 - Sixteen Candles

Harry was flabbergasted. At one moment, his heart pounded with worry - and, yes, fear - as he believed he was being spirited into Hogwarts to escape imminent danger from Death Eaters. The next moment, the collywobbles vanished and Harry practically leapt for joy as he grasped that he had just encountered the very first birthday party ever thrown in his honor. The surprise had been total.

Harry could hear Hagrid roaring and Tonks howling with laughter behind him. He started to make a mental note of who was there. It seemed rather like a D.A. reunion. Harry saw Hermione and Neville - and Seamus, and Terry and….

“Hi, Harry!” POP!

Harry went temporarily blind from the flash of a wizard camera. “Colin, if you don't cut that out, I'll … I'll….” Harry burst out laughing. “I'll buy a set of your photos….”

“All right, Harry,” Colin replied, and trotted off to record something else for posterity. At least Colin had graduated to wizard cameras.

As Harry was trying to regain his vision and composure, he heard a rather loud, rather high female voice approaching him rapidly.

“Oh, Harry! I was shocked when I read the paper. I was shocked and scared and soooooo worried about yoooooou….”

Harry turned toward the high-pitched squeal to his right, just as the source of that squeal collided with him and gathered him into a smothering embrace. Long hair obscured Harry's vision and he breathed in an intoxicating feminine scent of shampoo and lilac perfume.

For a moment Harry supposed that it must be Hermione, since he had never known himself to generate anything like this reaction from any other girl likely to be in the room….

But nothing fitted…. The hair was too straight and too light … and Hermione did not wear perfume - Ron once gave her some, but she had used most of it to make magical scented candles, and poured the remainder down the drain.

“Ooooooh, look at these muscles…. Someone's been working out.”

The girl kept on cooing at Harry - trying to slip her hands inside his shirt, attempting to kiss him on the lips, and complementing his physique.

“I'd just luuuuv to take this new Harry for a test drive.”

Harry soon realised he was in the midst of an encounter with Lavender Brown. Lavender was pretty enough. Those boys at Hogwarts who “rated” girls (most of them, unfortunately) would consider her prettier than Hermione. To Harry, however, Lavender had always been one of the “giggle girls” who embarrassed him any time the topic turned to anything remotely romantic, and generally made him feel like a prat. Consequently, Harry had never had any particular interest in Lavender, and certainly even less now.

“A little sugar now will get you lots more later,” she whispered in his ear before trying to nibble it.

This Delilah had stolen his strength. Trying desperately to escape Lavender's amorous assault, Harry Legilimenced Hermione, whom he spotted through a gap in Lavender's hair, `Help…. Please do something to get her off me.'

Hermione, whose attitude had been one of detached bemusement, thought for an instant, and then silently flicked her wand. The wand movement was almost imperceptible, but its effect was almost immediate. Lavender let out a somewhat pained “ooh,” let go of Harry, and urgently climbed the stairs.

Thoroughly relieved, Harry thanked Hermione mentally. `You're a life saver. What did you do?'

`Don't you forget it. Not much, really,' Hermione Legilimenced back. `A very mild discomforting hex called Repletus Urinus. She needs to use the facilities very badly. Be careful though, I'm sure she'll be back.'

Beating her hasty retreat, Lavender nearly collided with the Twins, who came thundering down the stairs, whooping and hollering.

“…Did you see that? The slash by itself must have been ten metres long! Brilliant, bloody brilliant…!”

The Twins stormed into view, now dressed in their latest trademark - expensive, but horrible, matching bright-green dragonhide suits. Harry turned to look at them, as did everyone else. It was, to say the least, unnerving. The Twins looked as grave and sombre as they had when they first collected Harry at the Ministry, even though their facial features seemed to twitch unnaturally as they cackled with obvious delight at some grand prank they had just committed.

Harry wondered what in the name of Merlin was going on.

He did not have long to wait. Fred and George Transfigured two party serviettes from a nearby table into terrycloth flannels. Holding the flannels together, they drew their wands with their free hands.

“Fluvius,” George said, drenching the flannels.

“Saponoro,” Fred followed, and the flannels filled with white soapsuds. Stowing their wands, both Twins rubbed their faces furiously in the flannels.

Presently they finished, and flashed knowing grins at the crowd staring at them.

“Weasleys' Magical Notox Face-Freezing Lotion Potion,” George announced.

“It'll preserve any facial expression you like for as long as you like, only fourteen Sickles a bottle,” Fred added.

“And be sure to check tomorrow's Prophet,” chortled George, “for an on-the-scene review of our new Nolovolo Fireworks….”

“As big as the Dark Mark, but not nearly as frightening,” added George with a sly wink.

After finishing their dramatic entrance, the Twins congratulated Harry on his sixteenth birthday. Whilst impressed with the Notox Potion, Harry wondered what could have initially evoked such saturnine reactions from the normally genial Twins.

“What happened that got you all serious looking to start with?” Harry half-whispered.

“Ask us no questions, and we'll tell you no lies,” Fred replied, his expression again turning serious.

“None of your business, partner,” George added. “Family business … bad news from Bill.”

“Oh bollocks,” gasped Harry, “you mean the engagement's off…?” Harry knew that Bill would be devastated. For Harry, just being turned down by Cho for a lousy dance had been bad enough.

“Oh no, the randy sod will make good on that, no doubt about it,” George reassured.

“But what then?” Harry pressed.

“Just internal Weasley family business, which we'll sort out in our own way in our own time,” Fred clarified. “I wouldn't pry, Mister persona non grata.”

“Don't chance another Howler,” George warned. “Nothing to worry yourself about - not now of all times. NOW IT'S TIME TO PAR-TEE!” he whooped.

“Get down! Get down!” Fred burst out, as he waded into the pressing crowd of partygoers that were forcing the Twins to cease monopolising Harry. He roared off with his fists balled up at chest level. Fred was next seen shaking his shoulders with what passed for rhythm and doing the white man's overbite.

“Jungle boogie!” George echoed as he likewise ran off, looking for any of the Seventh Year Gryffindor girls. He was always willing to make up in enthusiasm what he lacked in style and grace.

A mass of friends and classmates immediately filled the vacuum left by the Twins. Harry shook hands all around and made small talk with Colin, Terry, Parvati, Padma, and the rest. Most of the attendees - particularly the distaff side - complimented Harry on his newly-developed physique.

Her eyes flashing, Parvati squeezed his triceps. “Almighty Shiva, look at what I found,” she cooed. “You know, Harry, I could teach you to tango with these…. Much more fun than those boring old Yule Ball waltzes….”

Even after Parvati was shouldered aside by other well wishers, Harry's cheeks were burning. More times over the years than he could count, he had wished for a birthday party of his own. But this was hardly what he had envisioned. Still, there were sixteen candles on his cake now - and all those fawning articles in the Prophet.

Harry could truthfully say that he had not given his physique a thought the entire summer. There had just been too much else to cope with. For him, the physical changes had been so gradual that he had not paid them much mind - other than being forced to discard some shirts. The tailor at Harrods had made a remark, but he had ignored that floppy ponce.

However, to those who had not seen him since last term, the difference was dramatic. All his running, training, and other exercise had wrought considerable change in how Harry was built, and everyone who cared to look could see that the change was certainly for the better.

Harry finally had a chance to look around. The ordinarily dank, dusty, and dark Honeydukes cellar was totally transformed. It was bathed in light almost as bright as day from several globes that might have been mistaken for Muggle lighting fixtures were they not suspended in midair and slowly moving around the room to illuminate wherever the greatest number of people congregated.

The large cartons of stored sweets, familiar to Harry from his previous adventures with the secret tunnel, were gone and replaced by several long tables. One table groaned under a large assortment of Honeydukes' finest - no doubt a contribution from the proprietors. Another table held a metre-high birthday card, which all the partygoers had signed in all sorts of magical inks. Some of the names shimmered, some pulsated, some changed color, and some moved around the card seeking the most prominent location.

Beside the card was a large punchbowl. It was filled with a red liquid in which multicoloured ice cubes floated. The ice cubes slowly changed hue as they melted. Newly committed to temperance, Harry wondered if the punch contained anything stronger than punch.

His question was answered soon enough, when with a distinct splooshing sound, the punch erupted and thoroughly soaked the Twins.

“Oh no you don't, laddies!” Tonks erupted as well. She and Hagrid were guarding the punch against just such an eventuality. “You silly fools will straighten up and fly right, or I'll have to give you the bum's rush….”

“I'll chance a bum's rush from you, babe,” George replied, raising his eyebrows flirtatiously and giving her a wink. “Is your bum rushing yet?”

“Don't go there,” Tonks warned, her eyes laughing. “You don't want to see what an enraged Metamorphmagus is capable of.”

“Try us,” joked Fred.

An odd expression passed over Tonks' face. Then, suddenly, her leg grew about two metres in length. In the same motion she tripped them both. “Inverso. Accio bottles.”

The Twins were hanging helplessly upside down in mid-air trying to keep their skivvies hidden as Tonks divested them of their alcoholic cargo.

“Well, well, well,” Tonks tutted, “`Rasputin's Revenge.' At least you brought decent vodka. I was afraid you'd try something horrid like Old Ogden's. I ought to boot you two right on out of here this minute. Some Order members you are!”

The off-duty Auror good-naturedly dropped the Twins to the floor in a heap and allowed them to skulk away. Afterwards, she let Harry know that the punchbowl was subject to an Anti-Alcohol Hex “as a concession to the parents.” Never a stickler where Harry was concerned, she offered him a swig from her hip flask. “Birthday boy's privilege,” she declared.

Harry declined.

The third and final table was also of great interest to Harry. It was piled high with an assortment of wrapped items that he presumed were his gifts. To his relief, none of the gifts seemed to be moving of its own accord, although it was not particularly easy to tell. Most of the gifts were covered in wrapping paper that sparkled, changed colours, or shifted patterns.

It dawned on Harry that, since Hermione was here, her gift was undoubtedly on that table, not buried in some anonymous mass of presents at Hogwarts. For a moment he felt butterflies in his stomach. He hoped it would not be embarrassing.

Once the excitement of the guest of honour's arrival dissipated, the crowd rather quickly resolved itself into generally male and female groupings. The girls clustered in tight knots, whispering, laughing, and occasionally gesturing towards Harry. They played pin the wings on the Hippogriff in one corner of the room. After each attempt, the charmed Hippogriff image would struggle to become airborne - often careening out of control when its wings had been inexpertly or inconveniently attached. The player whose Hippogriff flew the farthest without running into anything was the winner.

Except for the Twins, who continued to flirt outrageously, the boys segregated themselves elsewhere in the large room. They spent the time telling rude jokes, mostly about the girls' appearances, and playing more competitive games, such as Exploding Snap and poxy Quidditch, on some magical pinball machines underneath the stairs. Every so often there were colourful explosions and loud noises from that quarter.

Hermione, Neville Longbottom, and Luna Lovegood stood apart from either of the main groups, chatting more seriously amongst themselves. As was her wont, Luna was oddly dressed - in short grey robes, with what looked like a long pink gown underneath. Her gown appeared frayed at the bottom, but upon closer examination the lower hem was intentionally cut to resemble flower petals. The effect made Luna resemble a large morning glory. Yellow shoes and leggings completed the look.

Colin circulated widely, making a pest of himself with his camera. His brother Dennis was by his side, taking meticulous notes on each picture Colin took.

Almost every member of the D.A. was at the party, except for those Harry understood to be playing Quidditch for Hogwarts in Denmark. In addition to Ron, Ginny, and Cho, Harry counted Katie Bell, and Zach Smith in that category. Marietta Edgecomb, betrayer of the D.A. to Umbridge last term, was understandably, and thankfully, absent.

Making up for their nonattendance were three non-D.A. members, Avalon Danvers and Marona Zelandowicz (the only Gryffindors in Harry's year who had not already joined the D.A.), and Daphne Greengrass - the only student from Slytherin House in the entire room. The two Gryffindor girls mixed reasonably comfortably enough, but Daphne was keeping to herself - talking quietly with Tonks.

Harry knew that Daphne had come because he and Hermione had decided to invite her to become a member of the D.A. next year. `Somebody ought to try to make Daphne feel comfortable,' Harry thought, and then appreciated that he was that somebody. If he failed to make an effort to include the willowy, green-eyed blonde and have her feel welcome, he could hardly expect anyone else to try.

Harry moved casually across the room and struck up a rather superficial conversation with Daphne and Tonks. No sooner had he begun than - “Ow!” He was walloped in the back of the head by an erratically flying model Hippogriff, with wings awkwardly pinned to its hindquarters.

With his glasses knocked askew, Harry lost his balance. Trying to steady himself, he leaned on the edge of the punchbowl, causing its contents to slosh over the side. With punch all over his robes, Harry cursed his luck. He had always been excessively tongue-tied in the presence of beautiful girls like Daphne, and his sixteenth birthday was proving no exception.

“Scourgify,” the Slytherin giggled, cleaning Harry up.

“Er…. Thanks, I needed that,” Harry said nervously. He had never been this close to Daphne for any period of time, and was only now realising the she was several centimetres taller than he was.

“You don't need much,” Daphne replied, with a hint of mischief in her eyes.

“I'd best check on the punch,” Tonks hissed, noticing that the Twins were trying to make up for what Harry had spilled. She moved to confront them, leaving Harry to his own devices.

“Er…. I hope you're having fun…,” Harry tried to make small talk. “Being the only one here from Slytherin, and all….”

“I am now,” Daphne said, her wand disappearing into a pocket of her elegantly tailored cinnamon-coloured casual robes, “but your premise is incorrect….”

Drawn into conversation with Daphne, Harry failed to notice Seamus, Dean, and Dennis fiddling with something behind the table full of presents. He had just learned from the girl that Tonks had been in Slytherin when Dennis touched something with his wand, and a blast of music caught everyone's attention. After considerable effort, they had just gotten an antiquated and long-disused crystal-powered Wizard's Wireless to operate. The closing strains of a Weird Sisters song that Harry could not name wafted through the air. Soon the music was replaced by familiar voice.

“Good afternoon Mister and Missus Magical, and all the brooms in flight. Don't be frustrated, there's still lots of time to Apparate, Floo, or fly to the big WWN Harry Potter Birthday Bash here in Diagon Alley. We'll be boogying down in front of Gringotts with all of your favorite magical and Muggle tunes until eleven o'clock this evening. I'm Maaaaaaagic-Lee Jordan, WWN's newest magi-jock, broadcasting live until 4:30 and spinning oldies but goodies. Following me, `Weird Wally' Wilson will be on to count it down to the finish line. But enough talk, here's `The Third Spell's a Charm,' by Toil and Trouble.”

Once the Wireless began playing, the separate boy and girl groups began melding together. Before last year's Hogwarts Quidditch broadcaster, Lee Jordan, had even finished his schtick, they were already pairing off. Somebody lowered the lights, and Tonks used two wands to cut a Lumos spell into hundreds of shimmering slivers. She twisted the wands to send tiny points of light whirling around the room, disco style. In the semi-darkness, Harry noticed Parvati dancing with Justin Finch-Fletchley, Ernie McMillan with Marona, and Terry Boot with Hannah Abbott.

Harry chuckled at the sight of Luna, still looking for all the world like a large, oddly coloured flower, trying to convince a very reluctant Neville to get out of his chair. George had prevailed upon Vicki Frobisher, a Seventh Year Gryffindor, to dance with him.

He had no time to notice much else, because he saw Lavender making a beeline for him. To avoid Lavender's clutches, there was only one choice - Harry asked Daphne to dance.

“Would you like to give it a go?” he asked.

“I though you'd never ask,” she accepted.

It had all happened so fast. Harry had never asked a girl to dance in his life - and Daphne had accepted without hesitation. That somewhat startled Harry, since she had never given him the time of day before (not that he had ever asked). Thus in fifteen seconds, Harry found himself on the dance floor, accompanied by a very pretty girl he hardly knew, and with not the slightest idea what to do.

With minimal dancing experience, Harry decided to imitate whatever everyone else did. He was discomfited, to say the least, when the new song turned out to be a “touch dance” melody. Harry typically froze, but Daphne calmly arranged Harry around herself and leaned into him until he was off balance enough that he had to start moving. For someone so tall and svelte, she could be surprisingly forceful when she wanted.

After they had rocked back and forth for a little, Daphne said cautiously, “I hope you're all right with me, aren't you?”

“Why … sure, Daphne,” Harry answered equally tentatively. “I asked you, didn't I?” This was not turning into the disaster he had feared. Between Quidditch and his training, Harry had the coordination necessary to move gracefully to the music. All he lacked was experience. He was not a menace to toes, like Neville - who was making Luna jump nearby.

“You're not just doing this because my mother wants you to, are you?” she asked.

“Oh no…. What would your mum have to do…?” Harry finally understood she was talking about the D.A. rather than their joint activity of the moment. “I'm 100% sure of this Daphne. I welcome you with open arms … er … as you can see.”

The girl laughed lightly at Harry's spontaneous, if stumbling, attempt at humour. Harry's unselfconscious naiveté was quite a contrast to the sort of groping she was accustomed to in similar situations with the Slytherin boys. Compared to this shy Gryffindor, they were all world class gits - especially Malfoy and his sidekicks Goober and Gomer.

“Good, because I'm going out on a limb myself, and I want to be sure it's going to be worth it - that this is a real invitation. My mother says you're an excellent student - and a better Defence teacher than most of the ones we've had.”

Harry could almost feel his ears going pink. “Umm…. That's not very hard.… What with some of the teachers we've had…. Excepting Professor Lupin…. I … er … I do the best I can, Daphne. That's all I can do. I can't guarantee that everyone will be friendly at first,” he cautioned, thinking especially of Ron, “but if anybody gives you trouble, you tell them to talk to me.”

The song was winding down. “I'd much rather talk to you myself,” Daphne said. “Ciao.” She sashayed off as Harry stared after her. From the way she left him tingling all over, Harry wondered if maybe Bill's fiancée might not be the only part-Veela he had ever met - but that was silly. Aside from an occasional oddity like Tonks, Slytherin was virtually synonymous with pure-blood.

Fred and George made their way over to Harry. “Hello, dear partner,” Fred whispered. “Now that we've gotten you safely here, we'd like to discuss your scheduling an appearance in our shop. Your Mister Howe says that if we were Muggles we'd make a fortune selling our wares on that Internet thingy. Muggles we're not, but fortunes are good, so we really do need your help.…” The Twins were just about to lead Harry off for an extended business discussion, when Lavender came bounding up and rescued Harry.

If rescue it could be called.

Given Lavender's almost predatory look, Harry was not altogether sure whether the fire was worse than the frying pan. Fortunately, the next song on the Wireless was fast, loud - and above all short - “Sweet Little Sixteen” by some Yank named Berry. Imitating those around him, Harry wiggled, jumped, and twisted frantically to the music as he tried to keep Lavender from getting him in a clinch again.

The music had barely ended when Harry broke loose from Lavender and scooped up Padma Patil for the next song - a slower, but nevertheless no-touch number called “Magic Moments” by The Four Warlocks. Padma congratulated Harry on his O.W.L. marks, but did so in a way that left him with the distinct impression that she had done almost as well and gotten far less publicity for it.

After that dance, Harry fled to the punchbowl. He was hot, sweaty, and flustered by all the attention being bestowed upon him by the fairer sex. Harry had next to no experience dancing with girls, and was still getting over his fear of making a prat out of himself. He was afraid that he might look like he was having a seizure or something equally stupid. Still, Harry had just danced with three girls - two more than he had ever danced with in his entire life - and nobody had laughed at him or made any rude remark.

Harry warmly greeted Hagrid, who had stationed himself nearby - presumably to prevent, or at least divert to his own consumption, any further attempts at tampering with the liquid refreshment. Quickly gulping his way through two flagons of punch, Harry realised that girls were all but jostling to dance with him as soon as he turned away from the table. Somewhat wearily, and warily, he offered his hand to Avalon Danvers, who was more or less first in line. Squaring his shoulders, Harry returned to the dance floor.

Thereafter, things were a blur as Harry danced with one girl after another - the oddest being Susan Bones, who seemed more interested in exploring Harry's political views than in actually dancing.

Harry paid no particular notice when Maaaaaaagic-Lee Jordan introduced the next song as the “number one request and number one on the charts.” It had an insistent ska beat, and Harry was just starting to dance with Parvati Patil when someone shouted, “Hey Harry, they're playing your song!” Looking up, Harry paid closer attention to the fast-paced words that some almost breathless bloke was belting out:

“Very few did reply to the Ministry's lies `bout the return of Voldemort.”

“Nobody listened to a frank admission that he's back without remorse….”

With a whoop, Dean cleared out a space for himself and began break dancing. Everyone else stopped to watch Dean's furious, whirling moves. With another whoop he had a partner - Tonks started break dancing as well. Neither Harry, nor anyone else, had ever seen a Metamorphmagus break dance. Tonks' head spins, back flips, and assorted gyrations were accompanied by rapid-fire physical Transfigurations into everything from Uma Thurman to a drunken mountain troll.

“What in bloody Hell is that?” Harry asked as he skeptically regarded the two.

“I have no earthly idea,” Parvati replied. “Do you think they're having a seizure?”

“I don't think seizures are that coordinated,” Harry answered, not getting the joke.

“Anyway, I can't watch any more without getting dizzy,” Parvati sighed. “I need some punch. Remember, I've got a rain check for the next tango - or anything Latin.”

Harry hardly heard her. He alternated between watching the break dancers and trying to make out the song's lyrics. The verses told a highly speculative, Harry-centric account of the fight at the Ministry. Harry could not catch all the words, many of which were lost against the throbbing guitar riff, but he did pick out the chorus:

“Potter's Marauders - undaunted in the face of death.”

“Potter's Marauders - battling with every breath.”

“Potter's Marauders - defiant of the feared Dark Lord.”

“Potter's Marauders - our heroes of the second war!”

Harry had never heard the song before, but Michael Corner, who was standing next to him, was only too pleased to bring him up to speed:

“Mate, where have you been the past month…? That tune's about you…. It's `Potter's Marauders.' A brand new group, the Four Broomsmen of the Apocalypse recorded it. It's been the hottest thing on the Wireless for the last few weeks. It debuted at number one on the wizard charts and remained there ever since….”

The blur continued. Eventually Harry found himself with Luna, dancing to a Muggle instrumental number that Maaaaaaagic-Lee Jordan called the “Mustafa Dance.” The tune sounded somewhat familiar to Harry, yet different, as if he were expecting lyrics of some sort. Fortunately it was not terribly loud like some of the songs had been.

Harry had a hard time not gawking at Luna. She tended to put her hands together over her own head as she wiggled to the music - a move that emphasised her quite ample bosom. But that was hardly her most notable quirk. Rather, she had her wand above one ear, which was customary for her. That wand, however, was such an angle that it pointed directly at her dance partners. Harry sympathised with Neville's earlier reluctance to dance. Dancing with the business end of a partner's wand centimetres from one's face was quite disconcerting.

Luna's large silver-grey eyes were unfocused, and Harry could not be sure if she fully appreciated that he was there. She certainly never touched him.

“Er … when did you get back?” Harry gently asked Luna. “I thought you were in Iceland chasing Crumble-Horned … er … whatevers.”

“Snorkacks, Harry,” Luna answered readily. “Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. And we were in Sweden, not Iceland.”

“Right…. So did you catch anything?” Harry asked.

“No, but I think we have some photos of them flying upside-down … or perhaps we were upside-down. We'll be publishing them in the Quibbler this autumn,” Luna answered.

“Anything else memorable about Sweden?” Harry inquired, trying to keep the conversation going.

“Nothing much … except the spirituous liquors we needed to develop our photos were outrageously expensive - something about Muggle taxes,” Luna giggled somewhat inappropriately.

“Er … Luna? Are you going to accept the Order of Merlin? I couldn't tell from your note.” That was something Harry really wanted to know.

“I suppose,” she answered with a sigh, bringing her hands down in front of her for the first time in several minutes. “Personally, I wasn't inclined to, but even Daddy thought that I should. He is very proud of me, you know.”

“I know,” Harry affirmed, recalling his exchange with Luna's father at his Ministry press conference. “That's why I don't understand how come you're so ambivalent about all this.”

“I'm afraid that you don't know me very well, then, Harry,” Luna replied. “Above all else, I detest being used - so does Daddy. He refused a Ministry offer of protection … the story about Voldemort's return and all…. So maybe I should turn this down. It's all about the Ministry using us, you know.”

“I s'pose,” Harry agreed. “I guess I'm so used to being used by now that I hardly care about it anymore.” Harry mentally reviewed the long list of those whom he felt were using him: the Ministry, Dumbledore, the Order, the goblins, the Twins - even his classmates had used him, in a way, to pass their Defence O.W.L. last year.

They danced in silence for a while, each absorbed in thought, then Luna asked, “Where's Ronald… and Ginevra? I would have expected them to be here.”

“Who?” Harry asked. “You don't mean that's…?”

“…Ginny's real name, yes,” Luna said.

“I never saw that one coming,” Harry chuckled. “They're both playing Quidditch in Denmark. Their folks aren't too happy with me right now, so no special allowances were made for them to be here.”

“I'm not really surprised,” Luna replied. “A pity though. You just being you makes your friends' parents uncomfortable. Even Daddy's mentioned it….” Luna gave Harry an insightful look. “You're a hero, and for good reason - but danger is an occupational hazard of that business.”

Harry was not really interested in engaging in this deep a conversation at this time. Recalling Luna's previous interest in Ron, Harry added, “Ron's with Cho now, you know.”

A frown briefly darkened Luna's normally imperturbable face, but vanished as quickly as it had come. “A pity…,” she mused. “They're both injured…. They're hurting, both in their own way. No good can come of it…. She's not like she was … any more than Ron is….”

The music stopped, and Luna turned away, humming what sounded like “Weasley Is Our King.” Over her shoulder, she delphicly said, “Cache your dreams before they slip away, Harry. Watch out for the shattered ones. When dreams shatter, they have sharp edges - and there are more of them.”

Harry ran his hands through his unruly and now quite sweaty hair. He liked Luna. She was entirely fearless, and in her own way quite as loyal as Ron had always been - but Harry did not think he would ever understand her.

Several songs later Harry urgently made his way towards the punchbowl after dancing with Marona to something called “Frankenstein.” It was excellent dance music - loud, fast, and long. Maaaaaaagic-Lee Jordan described Edgar Winters as the first major wizard cross-over into Muggle rock `n roll, clearing a path for the likes of Uriah Heep and Stevie Nix. But because the song was so long, Harry was very thirsty again. He was also fairly content with himself. He was coordinated enough not to be a prat. Even better, dancing with girls was not the emotional nightmare he had feared, at least when they were all queuing up to dance with him.

Almost all, that is.

If he wanted to dance with the one person at this party whom he most wanted to be close to, he would have to ask. As he saw Hermione at the punch table chatting with Hagrid, Harry realised that she was almost the only girl at the party with whom he had yet to take a turn.

Hermione's outfit was almost defiantly Muggle-born. For one thing, she flaunted wizard decorum - Hermione wore her light summer robes hanging open, revealing Muggle corduroy jeans and a white T-shirt with a Union Flag overlaid with “My Country - Right Its Wrongs” in screaming orange letters.

Feigning a casual mien, Harry sidled up to the table next to Hermione, who was nursing an almost empty flagon of punch. She watched him intently, but said nothing. Her air was neither inviting nor standoffish. She wore a slightly askance look, as if she knew exactly what he was doing - which, with the emotional link, she most certainly did.

She was waiting.

Harry counted as an achievement that, whilst under Hermione's observation, he managed to ladle himself more punch without spilling it down either his front or his sleeve. `Oh bother,' Harry thought to himself, `why is this always so hard? I feel like Fourth Year again.'

`I hope I'm at least better company than dragons or merpeople,' Hermione Legilimenced to Harry.

Harry almost dropped his punch. In his nervousness, he had completely forgotten that Hermione could do that. “Er … just reminiscing,” he stammered. Since he could not even lie convincingly, Harry changed the subject. “You … you wouldn't happen to know anything about how this party came about, would you?”

Hermione broke into a mischievous grin. “I might,” she said mysteriously, inviting further inquiry. Drawing her wand and holding out her own now empty flagon, she incanted, “Replius.” A stream of punch emerged from the punchbowl and smartly refilled Hermione's motionless glass.

“I figured it was you,” Harry responded. “Nobody else here knew I'd never had a birthday party before, except Hagrid. Nobody else would have invited Daphne.”

“All right, it was my idea,” Hermione conceded, “but you ought to thank Neville at least as much. He handled almost all of the arrangements.”

“How did you get everyone to come…? That's what I don't understand,” queried Harry.

“I changed the Protean Charm I'd originally cast on the D.A. coins,” Hermione explained. “I took you off the network. Then I asked everyone else if they were interested in a party. At first, it was going to be at the Burrow, but you went and had your little tiff….”

“It wasn't like I started it,” Harry protested.

“I know that, Harry,” Hermione reassured, touching his arm lightly. “But that complication did leave your party homeless for a bit. Then Neville offered to help organise things. He let this space, and cleaned it up.… I helped select it, since I knew about the secret tunnel to Hogwarts. Oh, and thank Tonks too - she enlisted Hagrid and the Twins, and between them they came up with the ruse that brought you here.”

“Are you also behind all those presents that I received last night?” Harry asked. He was extremely conscious of Hermione's fingertips on his right forearm - three of them, about seven centimetres above his wrist.

“Now I truthfully have no idea what you're on about,” Hermione replied curiously. She drew back her hand. “What on Earth happened?”

“It started just after midnight,” Harry recounted. “Owls.… Hundreds of them…. With presents from people that I had didn't even know…. I couldn't keep up. I had to call for help from Dumbledore and the Order. If they hadn't changed the wards, the presents would have filled my room from top to bottom, and I never would have gotten any sleep.”

“You wouldn't have been the first,” Hermione said. “Atahualpa once gave….”

Tonks broke in. “Neither of you listen to Wizard's Wireless, do you?”

Harry and Hermione shrugged. They did not.

“You really need to stay more informed about what's going on - both of you. WWN has been running a `Happy Birthday Harry' promotion for over two weeks now. Everybody's been urged to send you presents, since you're stuck with the Muggles. There's also a huge outdoor party going on right now in Diagon Alley. The Order's livid, since providing protection for both that - and for this,” Tonks waved her arms - “is stretching us more than thin. I can't believe nobody told you.”

“The Order isn't the only one who's livid,” Harry grumbled angrily. “I told the station to sod off, but they kept right on, it seems. Maybe my solicitor….”

“Can't do anything, Harry,” Tonks interjected. “It's the price of fame.”

“You haven't any idea what that price really is,” Harry said in a markedly downcast tone of voice.

“Relax Harry. Don't let it spoil your fun now. How about if I ask Colin and Dennis to inventory the lot?” Hermione suggested cheerily, not wanting Harry to get into a funk at his birthday party. “You can take anything you want, I'll pick through the rest for the D.A., and you can donate what's left over to some charity. What do you say?”

Harry agreed and Hermione carefully steered the conversation to more innocuous subjects. They went on talking, with occasional comments from Hagrid or Tonks, for several minutes. Harry failed to notice, but the pace of the party had slowed, as most of the guests kept at least one eye on the two friends. Everyone in attendance had heard one rumour or another about Harry and Hermione, and was hoping for clarification - one way or another.

The motivations generating this interest differed. Much of the female population hoped the rumours were false, so they could try their own luck - Teen Witches' Weekly or no. A similar proportion of the male guests would be right chuffed to have the rumours borne out, as that would remove Harry as a potential rival to their own romantic pursuits.

Then there was Neville, who was at the dénouement of his longstanding private crush on Hermione. Neville had regretfully decided that he had no choice but to move on. He'd spent enough time longingly eyeing the girl to know he stood no chance whilst Harry was in the picture - because he recognised how she looked at Harry in the same fashion. Not only was Neville an outsider to their profound friendship, but he knew in his heart of hearts that there was just no way he could compete with Harry's fame or (if other rumours were to be believed) wealth. A more kindred spirit was what Neville needed.

Harry and Hermione continued to chat - Harry becoming more and more conscious that he was dithering. He was oblivious to the lilting strains of “Miracles,” the latest dedication, beginning to play on the wireless. Hermione was likewise. Others, however, were paying closer attention.…

“Ow…!” complained Harry, as he jumped forward, having been jabbed rather roughly in the bum.

“Eek!” shrieked Hermione, taking similar evasive action in response to a hard poke in her own back.

The two practically fell over one another. Harry glared at Hagrid, who was inexpertly attempting to conceal his pink brolly behind his back. Hermione looked at Tonks, who smiled back as her Pinocchio-like nose retreated to its normal length.

“Er…. Would you like this dance?” Harry asked somewhat uncertainly, since it was a slow one.

“Umm…. Love to,” Hermione responded, brushing aside any hesitancy. She stepped into Harry's arms and rested her head on his shoulder.

“…If only you believe like I believe, baby

We'd get by.

If only you believe in miracles, baby

So would I.…”

Harry held Hermione wordlessly as he let the music take control. After a bit, he tensed up. It dawned on him that some of the lyrics were a mite suggestive.…

That was not all.

Some of the thoughts he was thinking, maybe most of them, were not what one best friend should be thinking about another. They were inappropriate, more like. And she could…. He started to put some daylight between them, but Hermione pulled Harry back towards her.

She almost whispered something about Hyde Park, but thought better of it.

`I told you there would be repercussions, Harry,' Hermione Legilimenced.

Harry was jolted back to reality. He still had not gotten used to Hermione speaking to him mentally. It always surprised him. `Er…. What do you mean?' he directed a thought back to her.

`When out of the blue you decided you wanted to tell me the truth about those hideous … those suicidal….' Hermione paused to keep her composure. `…Those spells you were learning this morning, you needed a quick cover story, and I came up with one. I told you there would be repercussions.'

“Er…. Okay,” Harry said aloud slowly and rather blankly. Harry was blanking out intentionally, as he used Occlumency to keep Hermione from finding out that what she thought was the “truth” really was not. Harry wanted to keep his word to the Unspeakables. It could be a matter of life and death, after all.

Hermione could tell Harry still was not following. She Legilimenced again, `In order to get privacy for ourselves in short order, what did we have to fool our respective keepers into thinking?'

`That we were snogging…. Oh, I get it…,' Harry replied with instant comprehension.

`Well, duh, Harry. Even a stopped clock tells the right time twice a day, doesn't it?' Hermione snarked.

His eyebrows furrowed, and then, when understanding dawned, he sighed.

Hermione continued, `and the snogging worked, right? Tonks is my primary minder now, and it was no accident that she prodded me, or that Hagrid prodded you.'

`It's not that horrible a thing to put up with, now is it?' thought Harry somewhat petulantly. It might have been a one-off situation, but he would always remember it fondly.

`Come to think of it, it's not,' Hermione conceded. She relaxed into Harry's arms and the two sought no further conversation for the remainder of the song.

Since Lavender was still lying in wait when “Miracles” ended, Harry made a big show of offering to dance with Hermione again, to an odd wizard number that sounded something like Riverdance, but was played with mandolins. Harry and Hermione continued dancing together through the Muggle “Get It On (Bang a Gong)” and “Give Up the Funk (Tear the Roof off the Sucker).” They probably would have outlasted Lavender, except that Lavender's own name was suddenly, and unexpectedly, mentioned over the Wireless.

Her resolve fortified by the lucky coincidence, Lavender cut in rather insistently. “You have to dance with me to my own dedication song,” she protested.

That was one argument Harry had no good counter for. Lavender all but enveloped him. Fortunately for Harry's moral fibre, not thirty seconds into the song there was a loud crash, and the music abruptly stopped. Harry turned and saw Tonks sprawled on the floor, speaker cables around her ankles. Tonks winked at Harry. So did Dennis Creevey, who was standing next to Tonks. Now Harry would never learn what Sheena whatshername meant by those “sugar walls” she was starting to sing about.

That set just fine with Harry.

“Well…. I guess it's `bout time ter give `Arry here our gifts,” boomed Hagrid.

Lavender looked rather mutinously at Hagrid, but slowly moved away….

“Ow!” Harry jerked up, grabbing his bum where Lavender had given it an appreciative parting pinch.

Hagrid had his brolly out again. Since becoming a full professor, his right to use magic had been restored. He muttered a few words Harry did not catch, and a fountain of red and silver sparks emerged. This luminous cascade surrounded the table full of wrapped presents. The presents hovered in midair, whilst the table itself gradually vanished.

At a muffled squeak of metal on metal, Harry and many others tore their eyes away from the shimmering parcels and turned their attention to where the table once stood. Only Harry, Hermione, the Twins, and a sprinkling of others knew where the noise was coming from.

With a second, louder squeak, a metre-square trap door set in the floor swung open, and the near end of the secret passageway to Hogwarts was revealed. At first it was dark as a pit, but gradually a multicoloured glow got brighter and brighter. Sixteen magical candles rose into view, and then the magnificent three-layered birthday cake beneath them. The candles glittered like nothing Harry had ever seen before. Their flames simultaneously bespoke fire and ice. Light from the flames - both direct and refracted - melded to produce a fluttering, prismatic effect that reminded him more of a cut-glass chandelier than a birthday cake.

Dobby and six other Hogwarts house-elves scrambled out from underneath the cake, shut the trap door, and rather raggedly arrayed themselves in formation between Harry and the enormous confection. Dobby stood in front - obviously in charge and just as obviously anxious. On his head was a chef's hat almost as tall again as he was. Holes were cut in the hat to accommodate the elf's long pointed ears. He wore a blue child's sailor-suit shirt, a pair of red and white striped shorts and the horribly mismatched socks Harry had given him the previous term.

The other elves were all wearing Hogwarts pillowcases with tea-towels wrapped around their heads bandana style. All of them were sporting badges bearing Harry's picture. As soon as the elves were settled in, Dobby began squealing out commands.

“Attennnn … shun! Pre … sennnnnt arms!” Dobby yelled, sounding more like a scalded housecat than like a lieutenant.

With some scraping and clattering, Dobby and the other six elves raised the large carving knives they had been holding into roughly vertical positions in front of their bodies.

Dobby continued, “On three…. One, two, three!” Dobby and the house-elves began belting out a loud, enthusiastic - and quite screechy - rendition of “Happy Birthday to You, Mister Potter, Sir.”

The bemused partygoers quickly got cracking themselves, each in his or her own key - the result being cacophonous, uproarious, and altogether good fun. When that song ended, the elfin chorus launched immediately into “For He's A Jolly Good Fellow.” Again, everyone else joined in.

The last strains of “and so say all of us” had hardly faded away when Dobby invited Harry to extinguish the candles.

“It's time, Harry Potter sir, for you to blow out candles,” the elf invited.

“Uh…. Okay,” Harry replied, wiping a tear from his eye. Neither song had ever been sung for him before. He moved forward to do the honours.

He felt a hand insistently on his arm, gently restraining him. “Harry, you're supposed to make a wish first … it's tradition,” Hermione reminded him.

“Uh…. Right.”

As Hermione and the rest watched and waited, Harry pondered the question of what to wish for.

Should he be selfish? She was right beside him.

Or…. Shortly an insightful expression spread across his face.

`There's really only one thing I can do,' he thought. `The most important thing of all is everyone's safety. I'll wish that everyone who came to this party for me survives to see my next birthday - and then renew the wish. Until what's to be done is done.'

Unless and until his primary purpose in life changed, that was really the only birthday wish that Harry could honestly make - and it would be the same one each year.

Beside him, Hermione smiled, until the very end. Then the smile fled her face, and her expression clouded. `Not to question why,' she thought. But she said - and Legilimenced - nothing.

All of a sudden, everybody in the room - except Harry - glowed blue for a couple of seconds. By the time people caught on that something was happening, the transient glow ceased just as quickly.

A buzz of whispers arose, before, virtually in unison, Hermione and Neville asked Harry, “What was that?”

Harry had no clue, but Fred Weasley filled the void. “That was a Wishtracker…!”

Brother George added, “…You bloody altruistic git.”

“Only the size of a Knut, it's lying on the floor next to you,” Fred continued. “We were hoping that you'd make a rather more person-specific wish.”

“That would have made for a better product demonstration,” George pointed out.

Behind them, Hermione struggled to remain poker faced in the face of her realisation - Harry's wish had not included himself.

Harry, oblivious, bantered with the Twins. “So I suppose these are now on sale at your shop.”

“Right in one!” the Twins chorused. “Lets you see who's making wishes about whom.”

“Well all right, then,” Harry said with some relief. His sense of obligation had just saved him from a potentially embarrassing - and revealing - situation.

Summoning all the breath he could muster, Harry blew out the candles.

No sooner had the magical flames been extinguished, than the still smoking candles began emitting a whirring, sputtering sound. Copious quantities of multicoloured bits of paper and balloons started pouring from their formerly burning tips. Awash in confetti and batting balloons about, the partygoers were cheering and laughing.

Fred and George had stationed themselves on either side of the room. As soon as the candles commenced spewing their magical contents, they again cried out in unison, “Crystal Confetti Candles, available now - and exclusively - at Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, seven Sickles a dozen.”

The elves were almost ignored in the hubbub - until Dobby's squeaky order of “serve” rang out. Instantly, he and the other six house-elves attacked the cake with their knives. Golden Hogwarts plates and silver forks seemed to conjure themselves out of thin air exactly as each piece of cake was cut loose, after which the servings soared unerringly into the hands of eager partygoers. Magically, with all the confetti and balloons filling the air, nothing had landed on the cake.

As the partygoers devoured helpings of crème bouquet wizard-food cake with vanilla frosting, Hagrid started nudging Harry towards the considerable collection of gifts. The party had been underway for quite some time, and the Order would soon have to redeem a number of promises made to a number of parents about returning their children safe, sound, and at the appointed hour.

After some encouragement, Ernie McMillan agreed to go first, on behalf of Hufflepuff House. Unfortunately, his “prepared statement” waffled on for several seemingly interminable minutes. The gift, however, was useful. The Hufflepuffs had sprung for forty identical enchanted mirrors, for distribution to all members of the D.A. in the coming year. Much of Ernie's speech had been an ill-concealed plea for Harry to continue the D.A.

The thought of mirror communication saddened Harry, as memories of Sirius flooded back, but he forced himself to consider the sentiment of the Hufflepuffs. A simple charm made the mirrors unreadable by anyone other than the owner, and the only other necessary element was a proper Protean Charm - one of Hermione's specialties. That charm, however, would have to await an initial D.A. organisational meeting at Hogwarts in September, when the new membership list would be established.

On behalf of Ravenclaw House, Luna presented Harry with a new Invisibility Cloak. The new cloak sported the dead useful feature of being able to expand or contract in area to any size between a king bedsheet and a serviette. He was appreciative of the gift, since the cloak inherited from his father was scuffed and starting to fray around the edges after several years of rather heavy use. He worried that someday a not-so-bare spot might betray his otherwise unseen presence. Still, Harry was surprised that Luna had any knowledge of his cloak. He could not fathom when she ever would have seen him use it.

Although it caused some grumbling among her fellow Ravenclaws (many not being altogether reconciled to someone they had only recently called “Looney” acting as House spokesperson in the first place), Luna also got Harry an individual gift - a Quick Quotes Quill. It had three settings: “verbatim,” “fix grammar/syntax,” and “embellish.”

“This is the same model that Rita Skeeter uses,” Luna pointed out, “except that she never bothers with the lower two settings.”

“No surprise there,” Harry commented.

Hermione nodded in agreement.

Luna added, “Coming from a journalistic family, I can tell you that having your own 3Q is an excellent means of controlling untrustworthy reporters.”

“Are there any other kind?” Harry asked rhetorically. “Silencing Charms work nicely as well.”

“Forget journalism,” Hermione advised in a low voice. “This will be a wonderful timesaver in revising N.E.W.T.-level essays. Sixth Year and up are now allowed to use this sort of magical labour-saving devices. I'm so jealous of you.”

“Wait a minute, there,” Harry mock protested. “I'm the one with the green eyes here.”

Lavender insisted on going first for the Gryffindors - who had not been anywhere near as organised as the other two other represented houses. Lavender giggled, and Harry blushed furiously, at the very skimpy Speedo bathing costume she had given him. If anything, this garment had even less fabric than the equally form-fitting trunks Eliza had bought for Harry earlier. Turning with alacrity to his next present, Harry did not stop to ponder whether the similarities were anything more than coincidence.

Neville went next. Harry thought his friend seemed unduly fidgety, particularly for someone who would soon be receiving a richly deserved Order of Merlin. Neville's present was flat and maybe a half metre square. Harry took a step backwards when he first set eyes upon it. It was an antique - an old-style imperial cavalry pennant carefully preserved under glass. Several argent and sable bands extending from the sinister chief to the dexter base crossed the escutcheon background. The charges in the foreground consisted of a skull and the number “17” with the motto “Death or Glory” placed in scrolls above and below. This blazonry left Harry feeling extremely uncomfortable. He turned to Neville for an explanation, as did the rest of the onlookers.

Neville hemmed and hawed, “Umm … it's a keepsake…. Been in the family for generations…. One of my great-great-great uncles was a Squib, and a second son.... He served as an adjutant in the 17th Duke of Cambridge's Own Lancers in a Muggle war against the Russians.... Won a Victoria Cross at some place I can't pronounce…. He also received this pennant for that battle.… I think some Muggle later wrote a poem about it….”

Hermione's brow furrowed in concentration, recalling her Primary - the Remembrance Day assembly when she was in Second Form - where she had presented the recital from memory. Because the PM was going to be there, she had worked really, really hard.

Hermione closed her eyes. Her lips began to move ever so slightly, but no sound emerged.

Harry never noticed Hermione. Instead, his eyes bore into Neville's. “A Victoria Cross sounds awfully important, Neville,” he said in what he hoped were measured tones, “but why did you decide to give it to me?”

Haltingly, Neville chose his words very carefully. “Umm…. After what happened … you know … in the Ministry.… Gran agreed that it was an appropriate gift. The motto and all…. Anyway, it seemed to fit.”

It was as if an electrical shock hit Hermione, driving all thought of poetry from her mind. Her eyes flew open wide with horrified deductions. What must Neville have learnt that night after she had been incapacitated? Harry's wish….

Harry nodded curtly, both cutting Neville off and ending his own first attempt at silent Legilimency upon an unsuspecting person (it had failed). He very badly wanted to continue this conversation, but not in public.

Not waiting for the next gift giver, Harry grabbed something from the table. It was from Parvati. Harry opened it. She had given him a CD player. Harry thanked her warmly for the gift, but mentioned that he already had one. “Not like this you don't,” Parvati replied, “this one's magical. You can take it to Hogwarts with you.”

Harry nodded. Parvati was spot on, in what seemed to be a very lucky guess on her part. Besides, Harry didn't have any magical CDs - he wondered whether such things even existed, or if his Muggle CDs would work in Hogwarts' magical environment.

Fred and George then barged their way to center stage. They addressed the partygoers in their best theatrical style. “We've had a bit of a problem,” started Fred.

“Actually it was a rather large problem,” George corrected.

“It was a terribly large problem actually,” Fred agreed.

“Which called for some creative thinking,” added George.

“Very creative indeed, as it turned out,” remarked Fred.

“Enough, get on with it,” interrupted Hagrid. “There be others waiting, yeh know. Out with it. What was yer problem?”

Feigning hurt, George replied, “Very well, kind sir. The problem was what to get Harry for his sweet sixteenth birthday….”

“Or more specifically,” Fred cut in, “what to get for a Boy Who Lived who has everything - or soon will.”

Harry glared at them. That was not supposed to be common knowledge. The Twins did not seem to see him.

“He's already more powerful than we'll ever be,” said George.

“He's soon to have more Galleons than he could ever spend - although I'm sure we could be of assistance in that regard,” continued Fred.

“He'll have his own house-elves,” remarked George.

Hermione scowled; Harry glared; but Dobby did something almost unthinkable - he contradicted a wizard in public. “Harry Potter, sir, need not own we house-elves,” Dobby said indignantly, his already large eyes bulging even more. “We is happy to work for Harry Potter right now.”

The Twins were quite taken aback, but decided not to make a show of it. They were loathe to confront the unknown magical powers of a free elf. They were even less inclined to have a go with Hermione's formidable mental and magical skills. But most important, they were reluctant to risk upsetting someone who was not only the man of the moment, but also their primary financial backer.

“Harry will soon have his own house,” added Fred hastily. “A manor more likely.”

“Perhaps a castle,” commented George quickly. “Or at least some grim old place.” That comment lightened the mood a bit, bringing some twitters from other members of the Order.

“He can have just about any girl he wants,” responded Fred. Many of the females in the room began to blush - or worse. Tonks looked rather furious now, and seemed on the verge of cutting off the Twins.

“Or he could have the girl of his dreams, once he stops being so thick…,” replied George. Harry went red with that comment, and again he was not the only one. “…Just need to get some folk in focus.”

“Which brings us back to the original question,” continued Fred, cracking an evil smile. “What kind of gift would mean something to someone who doesn't need anything? We're not the first to have that problem.”

“Nor the last,” added George.

“And certainly not the least,” declared Fred.

“So we thought,” said George, dropping his voice into a conspiratorial stage whisper. “How about something that doesn't exist yet?”

“Precisely, old bean,” answered Fred, obviously mimicking Percy. “Something that has yet to be invented. The envelope, if you please.”

George reached into an inner pocket of his lime-green dragonhide vest, and produced a large parchment envelope bound with a bright red waxen seal in which the initials “WWW” had been embossed. With an exaggerated flourish, he handed it to Fred.

Fred broke the seal on the envelope and pulled out what appeared to be some sort of certificate. To Harry it bore ironic resemblance to one of the many Ministry proclamations that Umbridge had posted at Hogwarts last Term.

Fred whipped out a pair of odd-looking glasses from his breast pocket, put them on his nose, and prepared to read. Suddenly the glasses started emitting bright flashes of red and blue light and a loud oscillating wail. The din caused all the onlookers' hands to go for their ears, until Fred took off the glasses.

“Siren Spectacles,” announced George loudly. “Another Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes exclusive. Now where were we?”

“Of course,” harrumphed Fred, affecting mock disdain for what amounted to a prank within a prank. He started to read. “By the power vested in me….”

“…And me…,” George offered.

In unison they recited, “…as proprietors of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes, otherwise referred to as `3W,' Harry James Potter, hereinafter referred to as the `Birthday Boy,' is hereby awarded the right….”

“…And privilege,” added George. “Equal right and privilege, of course….”

“…to request from the hereinbefore identified 3W the immediate development of any innovative prank idea that said Birthday Boy desires, for use upon anyone at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Provided, of course, that said prank is not prohibited by the rules of said school, as said rules are interpreted at the sole and unfettered discretion of the Birthday Boy. Signed and sealed this 31st day of July, 1996 by Fred….”

“…and George….”

“…Weasley,” they finished together.

Harry burst out laughing. “You mean that any strange idea I might have to hex Malfoy or somebody, you'll put into practice?”

In the background, Daphne Greengrass made a sarcastic remark loudly enough to make sure Harry overheard. Harry did, and was reminded that not everyone in Slytherin should be considered target practice.

“Precisely,” said George. “But don't be looking to turn his hair blue or anything like that.”

“Oh, no,” joined Fred. “This certificate assumes that you will be much more creative - and devious.”

“Yes,” continued George, “we expect your requests to be worthy of your exalted station. For example, if you wanted us to charm Snape's hair so that the grease came floating out and formed the words `I'm a greasy git' over his head, that's something we could consider.”

The room erupted in laughter. “Particularly if you want the prank to take place in the midst of class,” added Fred.

“You see,” said George, faking a serious tone, “we were very hurt two years ago when you didn't seek our assistance….”

“…Very hurt, indeed,” interrupted Fred. “Particularly since our dear younger brother was being such a git at the time….”

“…As he is at this time,” interjected George.

“Too right,” replied Fred, “but that's a matter for another time….”

“…My timing is gone. Where was I…? Right, so instead you chose to bear the slings and arrows of an outrageous fortune all by your lonesome self,” continued George

“When it would have been so easy for us to help solve your problem. But during those events we waited for you to ask,” Fred responded. “A mistake we've vowed never to make again. Why don't you just show it, George?”

“Very well,” muttered George as he fished through another pocket. “Harry, do you remember these?”

Harry looked, first in anticipation, and then in disgust. He could never forget them, but he had hoped never to see one again. It was a reminder of a very hurtful time - a “Support Cedric Diggory” button from the beginning of the Triwizard Tournament. Eyes narrowing, Harry replied, “Of course I remember. How could I ever forget? Now what are you on about?”

George replied quickly, trying to staunch the bile all too obviously bubbling up within Harry, “There was no need, my dear Harry, for you to have tolerated these in silence the way you did, when it would have been so very easy for us to do this….”

George pressed the button, but instead of it just flashing “Potter Stinks,” a stream of glowing words started marching across the button - accompanied by an equally glowing luminescent dot. The lighted dot bounced as the button also burst forth with the Muggle Christmas carol “Jingle Bells,” in a manner that encouraged a sing-along. The button began singing, in time with the words running across it:

“Jingle bells, Malfoy smells, Voldemort's a twit.”

“Salazar haunts ponce bars, and Snape's a greasy git.”

Laughter resounded throughout the room. Some of it was loud and raucous, like Harry, the Twins, and Hagrid. Some of it was nervous and twittering, like many of the Hufflepuffs, who quailed at the derogatory reference to the Dark Lord. Only Daphne and Tonks, the lone Slytherins in attendance, did not particularly appreciate the humour - particularly about Salazar Slytherin, who was, after all, a Hogwarts founder.

Their public demonstration at an end, Fred and George advanced on Harry and pressed both the certificate and the singing button into his hands. In whispered conversation, Fred said to Harry. “Actually there's one more thing about your `Pranks Unlimited' certificate, mate. It's nothing written, but we do hope that after you're done with any prank you commission, you'll let us market it to the wizard public as `conceived by Harry Potter.'”

“If you think up enough new pranks,” added George, “Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes could make a whole Harry Potter line of prank products. You'll receive royalties of course - how about an additional ten percent above your entitlement as a part owner? We think it would be a smashing marketing idea.”

Harry pursed his lips, mulling the proposition. Fred and George waited with bated breath. Then Harry smiled, “Of course, I'll do that for you two. I'd do it for free, you know. We can all use the laughs.”

It was never easy to follow a presentation by Fred and George. Harry reached out to the somewhat depleted selection of hovering gifts, but before making a selection he let Hagrid know that he needed a breather to use the facilities. On his way out, Harry spotted Neville chatting with a visibly tense Hermione. Harry covertly flicked out his wand and performed on Neville the same spell Hermione had used earlier to rescue him from Lavender.

Harry found his way to the men's room and waited. Less than a minute later, it became apparent that the spell had worked once again. The door creaked open, and Neville entered. Before Neville knew what was going on, Harry performed his pre-prepared triple combination spell that sealed the door, cast an Imperturbable Charm on the room, and relieved Neville of his artificial discomfort.

“Tell me what you know,” commanded Harry. “I know you knew more than you could say in there…. Out with it.”

“It's … it's … it's about that prophecy….” Neville stammered.

“I reckoned as much,” interrupted Harry.

The other boy continued his reluctant explanation. “After I dropped it, and it broke… Whilst my legs were still helter-skelter.… I, I, I heard a couple of bits.… Not much, but enough to figure some things out….”

“Like what?” Harry pressed. “This is incredibly important, even more important than you might think.”

“W-W-What could be more important than life or death?” Neville protested. “I caught something about neither you nor V-V … Voldemort being able to live whilst the other survived. I don't have to be as clever as Hermione to figure out what that's all about. That's what I thought of when I saw the old pennant.”

“All right,” Harry said grimly. “What else do you know?”

“I-I-I … I heard something about … born as the seventh month died. That's how I knew it was you. And, and, and … we almost share the same birthday. I know it's not right, but now I go to bed at night thanking my lucky stars that it wasn't me,” Neville confessed.

“I can't say that I blame you,” Harry affirmed. “I wouldn't want to be me either, except that it is what it is, and I haven't any choice in the matter.”

“And there's one thing more,” Neville continued, happier at the opportunity to get everything off his chest than he thought he would be. “I saw the sphere that contained the prophecy. It had Dumbledore's initials on it - bloody long set, you know. Years ago, he signed a commendation from the Order to Gran concerning my parents. I've read that letter more times than I can count, so I'd memorised his initials. Anyway, I can't really believe that any of this is news to you. Surely Dumbledore's told you more about the prophecy than anybody else.”

Harry paused for a moment. He knew better than to confirm or deny. “Thanks for being straight with me, Neville,” Harry said as he prepared to end the charms he had cast on the room.

“You deserve as much,” Neville replied. “Oh, and Harry…?”

“What?” Harry asked.

Neville held out his hand to the other boy. “Thanks for the wand; it's just like the old one, except I think it's going to work better once Mister Ollivander makes some minor revisions.”

Harry shook Neville's extended hand. “So your grand mum let you have it after all. From your letter, I had my doubts.”

“Actually, she wasn't too keen on it,” Neville admitted. “She's still convinced that you'll get me killed somehow. But I, I … I told her that I couldn't think of a better way to die.”

Harry's eyebrows went up. “She actually let you have it after you said that?”

“She did,” Neville answered. “She told me I sounded like my father…. I think that's what she wanted to hear.”

“You'll be all right, Neville,” Harry said. “Oh, and I've been meaning to thank you too - for the party. Hermione told me you had quite a hand in it.”

“It was nothing, really,” Neville replied modestly. “I was just following orders. This was Hermione's show from beginning to end. She was just too busy to do everything herself - what with her training with you four days a week.” Neville looked a little jealous as he mentioned the training.

“Well, I've already thanked her,” Harry responded. “But I hadn't thanked you.”

“I, I, I hope that you'll thank her properly,” Neville choked out. “She…. She deserves it … and I think she's a little upset right now. She didn't dance very much…. Only with me and a couple other Gryffindors - besides you, that is. She spent most of her time talking with Luna, Tonks, and me…. I'm sure my gift didn't help her mood any…. That Cross was a posthumous award. That's why I wouldn't tell her what it was ahead of time….”

Harry was getting uncomfortable again. He made for the door and motioned for Neville to follow. Hermione regarded both of them sceptically when they returned, but said nothing. Harry made sure to open Hermione's present next. Even though her gift consisted of two separately wrapped presents, it was not very large - almost getting lost in the shuffle.

Harry could tell what the larger of the two parcels was before he ever opened it. Merely hefting it removed all doubt that it was a book. The significance of the title, Black Ivory: A History of British Slavery, was lost on the onlookers. They were not privy to this aspect of the interplay between Harry and his best friend. Harry was well aware of the significance - and in any event, Hermione was not one to leave matters of this sort to chance.

`This is a serious book on a serious subject. I want you to take it seriously,' Hermione privately Legilimenced to Harry. `As the heir presumptive, you need to understand how unspeakably vile the basis of the Black fortune is.'

`For you, I'll read it,' Harry Legilimenced back.

Only Tonks, who was Auror-trained to recognise Legilimency, had any idea that anything out of the ordinary was afoot, and she knew only that something had happened, not what.

Removing the wrapping paper from Hermione's smaller gift revealed a plain, jewel cased CD. Harry curiously opened the case and extracted a folded sheet of paper. “Displia,” he said. The paper held a list written in Hermione's neat script. It was entitled, “The Most Beautiful Violin Music in the World, Interpreted by Hermione Granger, 25-29 July, 1996.” The list indexed some 20 composers and compositions that were included on the CD.

“You … you played all of these?” asked a stunned Harry.

“Yes,” Hermione acknowledged. “After the way you reacted to the Tchaikovsky, I knew what my main gift for your birthday had to be. I'd rather make something than buy something any day. You saw the basement studio. That was where I recorded, arranged, mixed, mastered, and burned the CD. It's a magical CD, by the way, so you can take it to Hogwarts with you. The jewel case is not only charmed unbreakable, but repels outside magnetic fields, so as long as you store the CD in its case, it should keep indefinitely.”

There were increasing murmurs of surprise among the partygoers. Hermione faced the crowd. “Yes, I play the violin - I am Muggle-born after all. It's a pity that Hogwarts doesn't consider music sufficiently magical to merit teaching. But there's more to life than just magic….”

The rest of the presents - such as Dean's gift of a Golden Snitch; Daphne's gift of the book, The Better Part of Valour: Living to Fight Another Day, which presented strategies for when and how to take flight from magical opponents; and Dobby's mismatched red and gold Quidditch socks - were anticlimactic by comparison. Soon the last of the giftwrap had found its way into the bins and party was over.

Dean, Seamus, and several others were Flooing to Diagon Alley to catch the evening portion of WWN's Potter Day extravaganza. Fred and George agreed to escort them, as the Twins were anxious to reopen their shop for the huge crowd of potential customers. Dean tried to get Harry to come, pleading that his presence would “help catch some birds.” Harry refused, saying that he already had a date for the evening.

It fell to Hagrid to shepherd most of the partygoers home. Hagrid was apologetic about only giving Harry some baked goods (mostly the quiches Harry had liked), but Harry knew that Hagrid's real birthday present was his work repairing and modernising Sirius' GKN.

Tonks had become Hermione's regular minder, so she stayed behind. When everyone else had left, Tonks motioned Harry to sit down and told him that she had something for Harry from the Order. Very carefully, Tonks unwrapped a chamois cloth and revealed two wands.

Tonks recited a few obviously rehearsed lines, “Harry, on the occasion of your sixteenth birthday, the Order would like to return to you these wands, which are rightfully yours. Merlin knows you've suffered enough from the events that brought these wands into our, and now your, possession.”

Tonks picked up the shiny reddish brown wand. “This is what remains of your father's wand. Unfortunately, it's non-functional. As you can see.…” Tonks brought the wand to eye level and looked at Harry through its hollow center as if it were a spyglass. “It once had a Nundu-hair core, but that burned out completely when James tried to duel Voldemort on the night that … er … you became an orphan. Your mother's wand was never found; we suspect it was destroyed with the house.” With that, Tonks handed the remains of James Potter's wand to Harry.

Harry accepted the wand reverently. As he stroked the soft russet sheen of the essentially intact wood, Harry thought of where he had seen this wand before - in Sirius's memory.

Tonks turned to the second wand. It was rather worse for wear, being covered in gashes, scuffs, and splinters. “Now this one is Sirius' original wand - the one he had before being imprisoned. Until recently, it was in pristine condition, but those berks at the Ministry insisted on destructive testing….”

“What took them so bloody long?” Harry asked hotly. “He only spent a dozen years in Azkaban for something he didn't do!”

“I can't tell you that, its classified information,” Tonks said. “Suffice it to say that it was stolen by persons with an interest in seeing Sirius in Azkaban for a crime he didn't commit.”

“I know Lucius Malfoy ended up with it,” said Harry evenly.

Harry's observation stopped Tonks in her tracks. Harry knew more than she thought he did - how much more she was not sure. “…Anyway, Ministry experts (Tonks gave the word sarcastic emphasis) were not satisfied with the ordinary Prior Incantato spell revealing that Sirius' final spell had not been the one that killed all those Muggles. They weren't even satisfied with the extensive magical history that we were able to draw from the wand using the Priori Incantatem effect, and the Order had to go all the way to Poland to borrow a brother wand.”

Tonks was angry now; her hair was flashing bright red. “Oh no, the Ministry had to run a battery of abusive tests that ruined the casing - can you believe that this mess used to be the finest ebony? Say what you will,” she cast a sidelong glance at Hermione, “we Blacks have always had exquisite taste in wands.”

Tonks carried on, “Only after their bloody experts had destroyed Sirius' wand for nothing did the Ministry finally concede what we all knew. The wand evidence supported Headmaster Dumbledore's position that Sirius did not do what put him in Azkaban. Even then the Ministry tried to retain Sirius' wand as `material evidence.' Dumbledore only got it back last week. Anyway, the uncontested portion of Sirius' will bequeaths his personal effects, including this wand, to you.”

Harry took Sirius's wand from Tonks. For a brief moment, Hermione was afraid that her best friend was going to cry, but he never reached that point. Instead, Harry's green eyes stared into space, grieving for a father he never knew and a godfather that he knew all too briefly. He absent-mindedly touched the wands of his deceased father and godfather together. A few sparks guttered from Sirius' wand.

Harry was so lost in morose thoughts that he had stopped paying attention to anything in particular. Feeling Harry's anguish, Hermione was desperate for some way to alleviate it. “Tonks,” she whispered, “is the core of Sirius' wand intact? It certainly behaved that way.”

“I suppose so,” answered Tonks quietly. “Dumbledore agreed to the Ministry's testing on the express condition that the core not be damaged. That core is extremely rare, Gallician Red-Wing dragon heartstring. I told you my family selected some extraordinary wands - or rather vice versa.”

Trying to help Harry with the first Triwizard Task, Hermione had read more about dragons than she ever hoped she would. She thus knew that the species Draco gallicius was not only extraordinarily magical, even for dragons - but also quite extinct.

The more Hermione pondered, the more intense her eyes became. Harry had been vaguely paying attention to her since she started talking to Tonks. At first it was simply because he had to look somewhere. Harry idly thought that the colour of Hermione's eyes matched the colour of his father's wand almost exactly. But as the sparkle in her eyes grew, Harry wondered what brilliant idea she was working on now.

Finally, Hermione explained herself. “I don't know much about wand turning. I only read one book on the subject, and that was two years ago. But I don't think any magical principle precludes combining Sirius' wand core with the casing of Harry's father's wand - to create a single functioning wand. With that combination, I suspect the wand synthesis would produce great power - especially in Harry's hands.”

Harry stared at his friend. “You're not joking, are you?”

“Harry, I'm as serious as can be,” Hermione replied. “Do you honestly believe I find humour in something like this? Besides, you know that all of our instructors have been pestering us to get backup wands - well, here's your reserve.”

Harry thought, and as he thought, his eyes gradually became as big as Hermione's. “That's bloody brilliant,” he exclaimed, “even by your standards. Let's do it!”

Tonks had never tired of warning them both that it was risky not to have a backup wand. Harry, however, had gone his entire magical life without ever having a backup. Thus, he was not overly worried about the three to four weeks that Tonks estimated it would take Mr. Ollivander to complete the necessary custom crafting and wand turning. There was no doubt that he would take this job - it promised to as delicate as it would be prestigious. It was just the kind of challenge that England's (and maybe the world's) pre-eminent wand craftswizard would relish.

It was time to go. Harry took his new Invisibility Cloak, the magical CD from Hermione, and the magical CD player from Parvati. These he shrunk, and then stowed in compartments in his Auror belt. Tonks indicated that she would arrange to have Harry's remaining gifts discreetly delivered to Privet Drive - except for the Hufflepuff mirrors, which Harry entrusted to Hermione so she could devise how the D.A. could best make use of them.

“So where am I supposed to deposit you two?” Tonks asked. “I assume that all the necessary arrangements have been made, although nobody bothered to tell me.”

“They have,” Harry assured the Auror. “Drop me at any suitable Apparition point, and I'll be fine. You can take Hermione wherever she wants to go.”

Tonks was confused. “But I thought you said you had a date for this evening,” she said.

“I do,” replied Harry firmly. “But it's not with Hermione.”

Hermione scowled. She had known this all along, but she was none too happy with Harry being so blunt about it.

* * * *

Harry Apparated immediately to Eliza's flat, where she had her own birthday celebration to conduct give. Eliza had gotten Muggle motorbike leathers for Harry. Embroidered on the back of the blacker-than-black jacket was the motto “Potter's Marauders.” The words formed a circle surrounding a design consisting of the Dark Mark overlaid with the familiar prohibitory red circle and diagonal slash seen on innumerable road signs. The leathers were V-pilot cut, extra thick, with reinforced stitching, a removable liner, and spandex stretch panels in strategic locations.

Harry was most impressed with the symbol. Eliza had to confess that it was not original. She had been in Diagon Alley earlier in the day and had seen the detonation of a huge firework that generated the design. That had given Eliza the inspiration she needed, and she had spent most of the afternoon redoing the embroidery - even using her wand - something she ordinarily avoided whilst in her Muggle neighbourhood. Then again, embroidering motorbike leather was no easy task.

Eliza had planned an evening visit to the Docklands amusement park. On the way, they did yet another commonplace Muggle thing that Harry had never experienced, stopping at McDonalds for American take away fast food. Harry was not particularly impressed. He barely tolerated the overcooked cheeseburgers, lard-soaked French fries, and fizzy drinks. In contrast, he enthusiastically chronicled the surprise party his friends had just thrown him.

“It sounds like you got more presents than in the whole rest of your life combined,” Eliza observed. “Which of the gifts did you most prefer?”

That was sort of like asking a parent which of the children was the favourite. After considering the question carefully, Harry said “probably Hermione's CD, because she made it herself. There's something more … er … real to made gifts - like your embroidery - that beats purely store-bought presents.”

Eliza brow furrowed, as she found Harry's honesty somewhat painful. “Can I see that CD?”

The moment she saw it, Eliza knew that Hermione had trumped her. Whilst Eliza may have introduced Harry to classical music - as she was acquainting Harry with a variety of Muggle delights - Hermione had moved to establish her unmistakable dominance in this particular field through her ability actually to perform that kind of music. From Hermione's handwritten list of compositions and composers, there could be no doubt of her mastery.

Gritting her teeth, Eliza knew that her rival was far too clever for this bit of oneupsmanship to have been an accident. Eliza wondered if perhaps the trump could be a two-way street.

At the Docklands waterpark, Harry and Eliza spent over an hour pleasurably splashing away on various rides and attractions. The main event, however, at least from Eliza's perspective, was the evening rock concert under the stars. Attending a rock concert was yet another of the many “normal” things Harry had never done. He had never heard of Stone Roses before, but he was probably familiar with very few bands that he could actually see in person. Most of the music Harry had been exposed was from his parents' or relatives' generation.

Eliza said it might be the band's last live concert, as there were rumours of an imminent break up. Harry decided that he did not care. This particular concert turned out to be one of Eliza's less successful ideas - maybe a rave party would have been better.

The outdoor setting was rather chaotic. Close to the stage, it was too loud, the singer was off-key, and it was almost impossible to see anything with everyone else standing and worse - moshing. The close quarters, the noise, and the motion combined to make Harry extremely tense.

Farther away, the sound quality was poor, and pedestrian traffic constantly interfered. Everywhere, loud and surly oafs or ubiquitous drug dealers sullied the experience. Drug dealing was something else that Harry had never experienced.

“Score some pot?” a rather scruffy young man asked Harry whilst continuing to walk in the opposite direction.

“Er … what?” Harry replied, but the man kept going.

“What was that all about?” Harry asked Eliza.

“He was a dealer, Harry,” she told him. “He wanted to sell you some pot. You'd have to follow him.”

Harry blankly responded. “No way. I've already got two cauldrons, one of them collapsible.”

After about an hour of frustration, it was getting thoroughly dark. Harry and Eliza found a reasonably out-of-the-way place at the base of the steel ride tower where Harry knew his minder, Mundungus Fletcher, had been perched. Harry had come to prefer having Dung as his minder when out with Eliza because Dung was, so … flexible. Dung knew how to maintain his distance and to provide security whilst being unobtrusive. If it had not been for accidentally seeing Dung on the tower earlier, Harry would never have known he was there.

Harry and Eliza started snogging. At first, he was stiff and mechanical. The memories of Hermione's reaction haunted him. But, unlike Hermione, when the kisses and passion escalated, Eliza did not push him away. Far from it. His tender touches and openness only made her kiss him more enthusiastically.

The feelings became more and more enjoyable, and Harry went with the flow. Being physical with Hermione was like handling something fragile of incomparable value. But being physical with Eliza was simply natural - like the feel of his own, familiar wand as opposed to cradling a delicate prophecy orb.

As the two of them snogged, Harry began wondering what they were still doing at Docklands. They could hardly hear the band - the supposed reason they were there - and Eliza's flat was not only more comfortable, but also a hundred times more private. Harry got an idea. Peeling Eliza off him for a moment, and begging her forgiveness for the interruption, Harry pulled his new cloak from the storage compartment in his belt.

“What's that?” Eliza said, somewhat mutinously. Harry noticed that her cheeks were flushed and her lips were pouty. Whether she was aroused from the make out session or just sullen about having to stop, he did not know. But he was willing to find out.

“Just the thing,” replied Harry, “an Invisibility Cloak.”

“Show off,” chided Eliza. “I should have known you would have one.”

“I've got two now, actually,” admitted Harry. “Here, hold it in front of yourself and hold on to me. I've got an idea.”

“I like the idea of holding onto you better than holding onto this stupid cloak,” Eliza grumbled. But she did what Harry asked.

“Wingardium leviosa,” Harry incanted, his wand pointing at both of their feet. Slowly they began to float up the side of the steel tower, keeping themselves hidden behind the cloak. After about thirty seconds, Harry and Eliza rose to the small platform where Dung was keeping a rather desultory lookout.

“Wotcher, Dung,” Harry called to the very startled Order member. “Would you mind too much if we booted you from your little hideaway here?”

“Not a problem,” Dung rasped in his tobacco-ravaged voice. “Plenty more towers where this one came from.” With a pop, Dung Apparated to another vantage point.

Eliza had to admit that Harry's idea was the best of the evening. This small platform, perched over thirty metres in the air, had an outstanding view, a cooling breeze, and (most importantly) complete privacy, since the ride had shut down at dusk. The Invisibility Cloak prevented anyone from seeing them.

Their eyes locked. Without another word, Harry and Eliza attacked each other once again. His hands had started up the back of her blouse, but somehow ended up in front. Whilst he twisted and turned beside her to try and hide the obvious physical evidence of his own arousal from Eliza, he doubted that he was successful. She was just too close to him too often. He even tried out Lavender's technique of breathily nibbling her ear. Eliza seemed to like it - but then she seemed to like anything he did.

The snogfest went on for maybe half an hour (nobody was counting), until Eliza decided to say what was on her mind.

“Harry, I've got another birthday gift for you,” she purred, rolling herself on top of him.

“Oh really,” he groaned, his voice deep and husky, “and what is that?”

“Your favorite kind,” she teased, “the make-it-yourself variety.”

Harry snaked his arms around Eliza's waist and squeezed gently, “I'm terrible at guessing, especially in this state.” He brushed his lips against hers and smiled. “Why don't you just tell me?”

Eliza took a deep breath. “Let's spend the night together, Harry. I want you.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Harry trusts Tonks and Hagrid implicitly, thus he was not exactly in a throw-up-an-immediate-protective-shield frame of mind

Having Dumbledore and other senior Hogwarts faculty attend a student party is unrealistic

The perfume Ron gave Hermione vanished from canon without a trace, so here's one version of what happened

I made Lavender a roundheel before JKR did

The Delilah reference is to the Samson bible story

Notox = Botox, which paralyzes facial muscles

Persona non grata means the expulsion of someone with diplomatic immunity as not acceptable to the host country

Get down and jungle boogie are both from a Kool and the Gang dance numbers. "White man's overbite" is slang for poor dancing ability

Poxy means miniature, as in "poxy pinball" from "Christmas Morning" by the Who (Tommy)

Avalon Danvers and Marona Zelandowicz are the "missing" Gryffindor girls of Harry's year. Marona's name is a bow to the Earth's Children (Clan of the Cave Bear, etc.) series

Daphne Greengrass replaces Blaise Z, who I'd cast as a girl before HBP

"Mr. and Mrs. Magical and all the brooms in flight" paraphrases the Walter Winchell radio opening ("Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea"). While before my time, I heard it in Alice Cooper's "Elected"

Crabbe and Goyle = Goober and Gomer. Probably too American a joke, as refers to the Pyle brothers on 1960s U.S. television

"Sweet Little Sixteen" is a Chuck Berry song that became the Beach Boys' "Surfin' USA"

The initial Potters Marauders lyrics are set to the rhythm of Jefferson Airplane's "Plastic Fantastic Lover"

Mustafa Dance is an instrumental version of The Clash's "Magnificent Seven"

Swedish liquor prices are inordinately high

Lovegood's refusal of protection isa very bad idea

"Cache your dreams before they slip away" paraphrases a line from "Ruby Tuesday"

Luna's shattered dream comments are foreshadowing

"Frankenstein" by Edgar Winters is as described, except for a hard-to-dance-to instrumental part in the middle

Uriah Heep is a 70s band that did an album "Demons & Wizards" that was very magically themed

Stevie Nix wrote a lot of magically themed songs, both solo and for Fleetwood Mac, such as "Rhiannon" and "Sisters of the Moon." The latter plays a significant role later

"My Country Right Its Wrongs" is credited to Norman Thomas, an American socialist

The Atahualpa reference is to the roomful of gold Pizzaro demanded as his ransom

Neville thinks Harry's fame and fortune help him with Hermione

"Miracles" is a very pretty, but explicit song by Jefferson Starship

Harry conceals his morning training from Hermione - bad move

"Get It On" is by T-Rex; "Tear the Roof Off" is by Parliament/Funkadelic

Lavender's dedication is the beyond suggestive "Sugar Walls" by Sheena E

"Wizard-food" parodies devils food cake

Neville's gift is historically accurate, see http://www.regiments.org/regiments/uk/cav/D17b(L).htm

Hermione recited "Charge of the Light Brigade". The "Valley of Death" metaphor recurs

"Folk in focus" / "not the first, not the last, not the least"; from ELP's "Hallowed Be Thy Name"

Slings and arrows are from Shakespeare's Macbeth

The jingle bells routine was suggested by the "Batman smells" version

Neville's line about not having to be as clever as Hermione poses the critical question of what someone who IS as clever as Hermione thinks

"Black Ivory" is a real book

Hermione's musical gift explains the index cards from Chapter 20

I've thought there should be more music in the HP series, but singing frogs aren't the answer

I weak on R&R circa 1996, but the Stone Roses seem sufficiently substantial

Harry in a mosh pit? Not here

- 57 -

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C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch22 sixteen candles.doc 06/24/04

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23. Darkness Descends

Things get Dark and scary now for a while. Nor is all well on the good ship Harmony. All I can say is, read `em and weep. Warning for the squeamish. There are character deaths - major and minor - in this chapter. Also a rather frank discussion of certain sexual matters. If you've been wondering why this is an R-rated fic, you will begin to understand.

Wherein Harry dreams, faces sexual failure, gets unexpected help from an unexpected source, receives unexpected birthday gifts, works out to distract himself, listens to music, progresses in Chinese Legilimency, is misunderstood by Hermione, reconciles with Eliza, hears the parable of the hai xing, visits Kew Gardens, learns that Death Eaters attacked Hermione, thinks he is attacked, defends himself and Eliza, goes to Hogwarts, discusses Dementors, learns about widespread attacks, is assaulted by Hermione's father, watches Hermione meet Eliza, chats with Mundungus and Tonks, argues with Hermione, learns about two more attacks, bonds with Neville, and receives terrible news in the middle of the night.

There won't be a posting next week because I'm visiting my mother and she doesn't have a computer.

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

Chapter 23 - Darkness Descends

Harry awoke in darkness - soaked in sweat and thrashing wildly. The nightmare of the chess pieces had recurred … after a fashion … part of it, at least. It was hard to say, actually. Everything had been so much less distinct this time - occurring in a dense fog. But it had been so terrifying that Harry had awoken before Voldemort or the Death Eaters had even made their appearances.

After blinking and finding his bearings, all Harry could recall - but he could remember this quite clearly - was that after he and the others had been pinioned upon the original chessboard, as before, the board had come apart, splintering into more or less its constituent squares. The other squares, with Hermione and the rest still attached, spun off in the ether of his mind to who knows where. For an eerie moment Harry was alone in the dreamscape.

Then the really frightening part happened. Harry's square regenerated itself - expanding anew into its own complete chessboard. Maybe all the other squares had enlarged in the same fashion. It was unclear. In the dream Harry had lost sight of all the others.

But on Harry's own piece the chess pieces were suddenly a whole new cast of characters. The implied loss of his friends scared him out of his wits.

The nightmare made little sense, and even its very existence was puzzling. Despite distractions and numerous extenuating circumstances, Harry had faithfully attended to his Occlumency the night before. He checked his scar: nothing - no blood, no pain, not even prickling. That meant that this dream was a figment of his own imagination; not Voldemort's doing. Should he consider such self-generated nightmares to be a relief … or a warning?

The dream had been too hazy, and its duration too fleeting, for Harry to identify all of the new pawns fated to become Death Eater fodder. Harry could recall a few - the Creeveys, the Dursleys and Lao Kung - but most vividly he remembered Eliza. She had become his new queen after Hermione's fragment of the chessboard had broken free and whirled away into nothingness. That imagery was unsettling on several levels. Eliza had replaced….

Eliza!!! Harry shook himself completely awake and groaned in misery. She was not there … and had not been…. The only reason they were not together was because of his embarrassing response to her desire for him.

There was no way to sugarcoat what had happened. He had lost it … jumped the gun … false started … prematurely whatever-the-word-was…. They all meant the same thing - that Harry had been utterly unable to act upon Eliza's unexpected and flabbergasting offer, closer to insistence, to make him a man on his sixteenth birthday. His breath went spare just thinking about what had happened, what should have happened, and what had ultimately not happened.

“Stupid, bloody wanker,” Harry berated himself.

She had touched him … there! And “touch” was a word that completely failed to do her actions justice…. Then, he had to go and make a sticky mess of things. He had accomplished nothing and ruined everything. If he only knew how, Harry would have Obliviated himself straightaway.

“Effing, good-for-nothing tosser.”

For her part, Eliza had been understanding - remarkably so from Harry's standpoint. She had been almost too good to be true: erotic, aggressive, experienced, patient, persistent, and gentle all at the same time. She was all the things that a young, nervous, virginal male should have needed most.

“Pikey, over-eager git.”

He did not deserve her. She tried to “bring him back to life,” as she called it, partially undressing and stroking him. Eliza even tried to get Harry to fondle her in tandem … to explore her … there! She had tried so hard that she practically.…

“Daft, pathetic prat.”

And there was more. Eliza had declared herself willing to do anything Harry wanted. She had even asked him to name his fantasy. For some bizarre reason Harry could not fathom, she had mentioned the American president. Unfortunately, the more vigorously Eliza sought to claim his essence for herself, the less she succeeded. Harry's feelings became ever more disturbed and conflicted. He had tied himself into an emotional knot.

“ARRGH!!”

Harry's hands instinctively went to his forehead and kneaded his brow. How much of a fool had he been? How big a loser? He knew of no insult grand enough.

Strong and contradictory urges ripped through Harry as he contemplated Eliza's actions and his misadventures. One thing for certain, he no longer needed Dudley's grainy computer pornography to imagine what those parts of a woman actually looked like.

That very image - that very thought - emerged from his brain, rocketed down his spine, and piqued the belated interest of another part of Harry's body. A familiar sensation, so damnably absent before, travelled back up his spine, causing his eyes to fly open in shock. Looking down, he sighed resignedly.

“Dammit. Hard as a ruddy rock, it is. A lot of good that does me now.”

Harry also began to appreciate how Cho must have made Ron feel in that photograph. At times, Eliza's … bits-that-must-not-be-named … had been mere inches from his face or groin….

“Shit! This should have been so easy!!”

In the end, however, his and her mental states had been light years apart; and still were.

When the moment of truth arrived, Harry had been unable to seize it. Everything had gone wrong - not with Eliza, but with him. She tried to retrieve the situation, but he had failed once again. It was physical, but it then it was not. He should have been able to perform, even after his initial accident, but somehow he could not.

Something mental … emotional … psycho-bloody-logical … had left him flaccid. Harry's would-be amorous encounter had crashed full tilt into some huge, submerged mental block that he hardly knew was there. Something had not just been right with his feelings. Eliza's advances had unleashed a brooding presence from some back room of his psyche. This Boggart from his subconscious had left no doubt that all was somehow not the way that it was supposed to be.

Bad karma, Lao Kung would call it - or, more likely, evil feng shui.

It had been part nervousness, part fear, part confusion, and part a profound sense of unease. For some reason his inaugural encounter with carnal delights seemed not to be proceeding according to his cosmic destiny.

Finally, the burden of Harry's emotional and physical cross-purposes had become too much for him to bear. Just as Eliza was going beyond taking matters into her own (ahem) hands, he had started to spark and glow again. Not everywhere; just his most affected parts - or so Eliza had said. That phenomenon proved too much even for her to cope with, so she had reluctantly conceded sexual defeat. It was probably just as well. Harry certainly had no wish to attract another lightning bolt.

Harry knew he had hurt Eliza. He had besmirched her self-image as a desirable woman. What he had done simply did not happen. In real life, blokes never went around spurning sexually aroused females the way he had … at least not sixteen-year-old virgin - and thus still virginal - blokes with hyperactive imaginations.

If he had been at all religious, Harry might have considered the priesthood right about now. There was more than a grain of truth in Eliza's catty remark that it was miraculous that the Potter line had persisted for so many generations.

Harry tried to explain that she was blameless - that all fault lay with him and none with her. But he had no illusions that she truly believed, or even understood, his rationalisations. Hell, he did not even understand himself (although he believed everything was wholly his fault). This was not the kind of thing Harry had any experience in discussing. Eliza had acquiesced, but even Harry, thick as he often was in such matters, could tell that she was only being polite and remained far from convinced.

The upshot of this erotic disaster was that they agreed to give one another some space. Harry could call Eliza sometime later during the week, once he had decided what he wanted to do. They would spend the weekend apart.

Harry's most immediate problem was that he had no idea what he really desired. He wanted desperately to see Eliza - to make things better … maybe even to try again to do what he had fallen so miserably short of that evening. It had been so close to a dream come true. But all too quickly, it had become a nightmare personified.

Harry needed somebody - a father figure - to talk to. This gut-wrenching experience, and the questions it raised, were simply too much for his adolescent brain to manage. But Harry never knew his father.

Sirius was dead.

Bill was abroad….

Lupin probably was too.

Dumbledore? Been there, done that. Never again. It would simply become another item on the old trickster's agenda.

He looked around the darkened room. A neat stack in the far corner by the closet indicated that Tonks had been true to her word about delivering his presents. He remembered something Hermione had once explained in connection with their Useful Enchantments lesson - that “talismans sometimes can be substitutes for the real thing.” It was worth a shot, he thought.

“Accio wands.” The soft cloth containing what remained of his father's and Sirius' wands sailed to him. He unwrapped them and reverently laid them, side by side, on his pillow. With his own wand he cast a Silencing Charm over the room.

“Dad? Sirius?” he began haltingly, trying not to feel stupid for deciding to spill his soul to a couple of pieces of wood. “I've got a problem….”

“You see, I'm discovering … well, sex. I'm … I'm … well, not very experienced…. Not very … good…. It's just…. Well, to me sex is serious business…. Maybe I regard it too seriously, but that's just the way I am….”

“I thought I knew … well, for a little while, anyway, who the one was going to be…. But all of a sudden … there's … there's someone new. She wants me … that way. Physically, that is…. But if I become intimate, really intimate, with her then everything changes….”

“It didn't start out seriously enough for that. It just sort of … happened. It was supposed to be a casual sort of fling … something for the summer…. She's not at Hogwarts … oh, but she is a witch…. But if I … er … have sex with her, then for me the fling is over, and something altogether more complicated is going to replace it.”

“Sirius, I'll wager that you especially must think I'm a prat, but nobody's loved me for so long … that I'm … different. It's just the way I feel. I don't know if I'm capable of … sex … unless I at least think it's … with someone I'd want for the rest of my life…. I thought I knew…. I'm feeling so weird right now; I'm freaking myself out….”

“But there are so many problems. Life expectancy, for one. Voldemort's after me … I guess you both know why…. Even if I survive the summer, this g … woman, has made it one hundred percent clear that she doesn't want the life I have to lead. I've thought about just running away with her…. But I can't do that … I'm too Gryffindor. There's too much I have to do….”

“Damn this prophecy.”

“Do I have a right to ask her if she'd give up her independence for me? I don't even know that I want her to, actually. I can't say that I'm in love with her the way I need to be … because … something happened when I tried…. I'm not even sure I know her well enough to talk with her about … everything. I'm just so … bloody bad … with this sort of thing…..”

“You both know the truth. That's why you're both … wherever you are. Not many people love me, but those who do … have this nasty habit of winding up dead. Dad … ever since I found out what really happened to you and Mum, I've lived every moment of my life in the shadow of death. Sirius, that shadow's just become so heavy since you…. Can't … bear….”

Harry had to stop for a good while. He could not keep from crying.

“I-I-I think that's why I can't…. I just can't … endanger … Hermione…. But this other lady … her name's Eliza … she knows about … the shadow, and everything … and she doesn't seem to care….”

“She wanted me … that way … last night. I failed. I don't know what to think. She was really insistent…. Is it her way of telling me she's ready to change her life to be with me? That she no longer cares about the risk?”

“It could be worse … much worse…. I'm so afraid that she wants me but doesn't want to change her own life…. She called my life … a `gilded cage….' But what if … if she's signing her own death warrant by becoming my … my … my lover, I guess, without being willing to accept the protection I have to.”

“What do I do? When I'm with her, I feel happy and carefree like I've never been before. But … but … Hermione…. She makes me … live, I guess. I wish she'd just let me love her…. I can't take both … not that way, because that's just not me. I don't know where I'm going…. I feel like I'm on fire sometimes….”

He was about to break down again. As Harry leaned over to bury his head in his sheets, his foot bumped the pillow. The two wands rolled into one another. As had happened before, a few sparks emerged from what was left of Sirius' wand. There was a slight hissing noise.

Harry protectively scooped up the two wands. They left a burn mark on the pillow. He separated the wands and felt something light against his leg. There was a ribbon-like tendril of parchment. Excitedly, he picked it up. It read:

“The one who is true shall come for you.”

“Thanks,” Harry muttered as he rolled the scrap up gently and closed his fist around it. It was not very much, little more than a fortune cookie might offer, but it was from a reliable source, and it was a start.

His throat felt dry. “Aparecium lemonade chez Aunt Petunia.” A two-litre carton of lemon drink appeared, and Harry never bothered with a glass. After guzzling fully half of it, he rose to put the remainder on his desk. He stumbled in the darkness after stubbing his toe on a stray giftwrapped present. The present had been on his bed when he had returned from the date with Eliza, but at that time he had been too exhausted, both physically and mentally, to deal with it.

Too agitated to fall back to sleep, Harry decided there was no time like the present to find out what was this mystery gift. It was flat, not too large, and fairly heavy for its bulk. He was astonished upon opening it - a Toshiba laptop bearing advert stickers that announced the presence of “Pentium Pro” and “Windows 95,” whatever those were. Harry had seen his uncle use one of these little, flat computers for business, so he had a fair idea how to plug in the mouse and telephone cords. Uncle Vernon kept his in the home office he had set up in a corner of the master bedroom, a room he had always kept absolutely off limits to “freaks.”

A handwritten note accompanied the computer:

Dear Harry:

Happy Birthday. We've never done much to celebrate your birthday before, so we weren't really sure how to start now. Obviously we can't get you anything associated with your condition, so we've done as well as we could.

Dudley told us you that you've enjoyed using his computer. That seemed like the best thing. Grunnings is upgrading its laptops, and employees have been allowed to purchase prior equipment at a good price. I took advantage, so here you are.

Dudley also said there's no electricity at your school. Hard to believe, but then what isn't about that place? There's a substantial battery on back order, but it hasn't arrived yet. Also, we've gotten you a year's worth of Internet access via remote, so you can go online whilst you're at school.

We'd hoped to give you this personally, but it's now almost midnight and we don't know when you will return.

Vernon & Petunia

Harry laughed out loud at the idea of him being the only person at Hogwarts with Internet access. His relatives were totally ignorant of the wizarding world and had no clue that Muggle electronic devices such as the Toshiba were rendered useless by the magical atmosphere surrounding his school. Still, for the first time in fifteen years, his relatives had at least tried to do something nice for his birthday. He felt a brief pang of regret that their gesture had been so completely unexpected that he had not even made time to accept their gift in person.

But that feeling did not last for long, given the Dursleys' history….

Harry was torn between wanting to thank his relatives - hardly practical in the wee hours of the morning - and being deeply suspicious of their motives. After all, this newfound generosity followed hard upon their learning that he was not an impecunious orphan as they had heretofore thought. Whilst he was not inclined to look a gift horse in the mouth, the same did not hold true for the gift givers themselves.

He wasted a couple of hours trying unsuccessfully to sleep. It was windy outside, but not raining. After Occlumency techniques failed to relieve his insomnia, Harry lay back and mostly watched the lights play on the ceiling. Leafy branches swaying in the breeze passed back and forth in front of the sodium yellow streetlamps that kept the darkness at bay on Privet Drive. Hedwig was out there somewhere, hunting - and so was a member of the Order, watching. That was what his being under guard 24-7 was for everyone else: a lot of boring waiting.

His brain was abuzz with anxiety generated by all of his unfinished personal business. Sometimes his mind was on Eliza, and sometimes on Hermione. There was no doubt about it. He had sure bollixed up both of those relationships, had he not? He was relieved that Hermione had undoubtedly been asleep during his monologue with his father and grandfather, and thus had not felt those emotions of his.

At long last, Harry heard Dudley's alarm go off and, turning the usual tables, he rousted his large cousin out of bed for their morning run.

For almost the entire weekend, Harry sought refuge in the hardest physical and mental labour he could find. He arranged to see Lao Kung on both Saturday and Sunday - first at Gator's Gym and then in the great white workout bubble at Hogwarts. The amount of magical energy that Harry felt the need to work off was increasing.

His Chinese mentor dropped even the pretense of using boxing equipment. He simply conjured up bale after bale of hay and let Harry destroy them with his fists for however long he wanted. He was so persistent that Lao Kung had to teach him a charm for his gloves so that they did not disintegrate from overuse.

Harry pounded away methodically, shut off from the world behind the earplugs connected to his magical CD player. Harry never volunteered what he was listening to so raptly, and Lao Kung did not inquire. He must have played Hermione's entire CD a dozen times. Almost all of it was Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Wagner, Brahms - heavy duty classical. But the last arrangement was so different from everything else that Harry even rechecked her handwritten index to find out what it was: “Billy Don't Be a Hero, M. Murray, arr. for classical violin by H. Granger.” He was baffled, recognising nothing. He would have to ask Hermione about it sometime.

To improve Harry's agility, Lao Kung introduced him to two pieces of Muggle workout equipment: a set of suspended rings usually used by male gymnasts, and a balance beam ordinarily used by women. Lao Kung was astonishingly limber for his advancing years, and taught Harry how to perform aerial manœuvres on both. On Sunday, the Sefu had Harry practice dodging curses whilst perched on the beam or hanging from the rings. After the workouts, Harry had aches in muscles that he did not even know he had, and he had rips on both hands. Still, he felt good - at least compared to the alternative of thinking about his personal situation.

With his focussed approach, Harry also made good progress in both Chinese Legilimency and wandless magic. With Legilimency, he started trying to move about in the crowded metropolis that the Sefu's mind resembled. It was a difficult technique, and Lao Kung made sure that Harry took things exceedingly slowly.

“Hahli, you must not under any circumstances move beyond what your mind's eye first sees. You must maintain visual contact with that spot,” Lao Kung cautioned.

“But I'm getting better at this, really,” Harry protested.

“You are nowhere good enough to avoid becoming lost,” the Sefu reminded Harry.

“But you said that the Four-Point Spell works with this magic,” observed Harry.

“It does, but only to find a quested item within; not to leave, since that could be in any direction,” Lao Kung corrected. “You must reread chapter three. Until you have mastered the art, which takes years, only I can assist you in leaving, as it is my mind.”

“All right,” Harry conceded grudgingly.

“You cannot get lost,” the Sefu reminded. “In all likelihood that would prove irretrievable. Indeed, I am already pressing matters. In most such training there is a second master present as precaution.”

“I've told you before,” Harry bridled, “mind entry is private for me. I don't want to be studied - or worse - by Dumbledore, Snape, or even Hermione.”

Lao King accepted Harry's reluctance with resignation. “Very well, but you must be extremely careful, Hahli. Becoming lost can kill you, or worse.”

With elemental magic, Harry had now advanced well beyond sawdust. He had attained the ability to command each of the four elements to perform minor feats. With fire, he could make a small flame dance in the palm of his hand. He could conjure enough water to give himself a refreshing shower any time and any place he wanted. His command over wind allowed Harry to create dust devils as tall as he was. From the earth, Harry could coax grass to grow - fast enough to be noticeable to the unaided eye.

To an experienced elemental, these were mere parlour tricks, but for Harry - well, Lao Kung considered them considerable accomplishments. As always, any discussion of the rumoured Fifth Element remained off limits, as Lao Kung strictly deferred to Dumbledore. Harry doubted that his Sefu even believed that such an element existed. Dumbledore's views, as usual, were a mystery.

After each day's training session at Hogwarts, Harry performed a couple of hours flying under Hagrid's rather-less-than-watchful eye. Like Lao Kung, he did not intrude on Harry's musically maintained privacy. Disabled by his size from using a broom, the purported supervisor remained conveniently grounded. Hagrid was astonished by the capabilities of the boy's Valkyrie broom and highly complimentary of his new “Potter's Marauders” motorcycle jacket. The gigantic man was somewhat hurt that his praise drew little more than grunts from Harry. But Harry wanted physical exertion, not conversation.

Harry also exercised his mind. Now that he could access his course books, he actually started studying them seriously - surprising even himself. He dredged out Hermione's old unused gift of a homework planner, and actually set himself a schedule. She had always nagged him for procrastinating with his schoolwork, but now, for once in his life, he did not. The planner seemed happy about his new found habits as well, as it rewarded him with comments like, “Study like this. Your marks will be bliss.”

Over the weekend, Harry completed a quite demanding Potions assignment - reading two chapters and writing well more than the minimum three parchment rolls on the principles of opposition and similarity in determining the composition of potions. He churned out almost five rolls before finishing what he had to say on that subject.

“I don't care whether the greasy git likes it or not, I think this is bloody good,” Harry fumed to himself.

On Tuesday afternoon, whilst working on his Transfiguration assignment, the irony struck Harry to the quick. In large part, the reason he was finally doing what Hermione had always wanted him to do was the massive hole in his life caused by her absence.

That absence was more mental than physical - something that became painfully apparent during Harry's Sunday evening Occlumency/Legilimency session with Dumbledore. The lesson was unusually strained, and thus not particularly productive. The Headmaster was at his meddlesome worst when it came to the events of Harry's birthday.

“You know that I could not attend your party, as I do not wish to give the appearance of favoritism,” Dumbledore reminded Harry.

“That's fine,” he replied. “There were plenty of people there. You weren't missed.”

“I do hope you had a good time,” the Headmaster persisted.

“It was good,” Harry answered unhelpfully.

Dumbledore did not know when to quit. “Hagrid and Tonks provided adequate security, I trust.”

“They did the job they had to do,” Harry said vaguely, thinking of Hagrid's prod in the back. “It was useful that they were there.”

Still another question from the Headmaster, “Did you like your cake?”

“It was the best,” Harry admitted. “Tell Dobby thanks for me when you see him.”

“Oh, I shall,” Dumbledore continued. “And were your presents satisfactory?”

“Tonks gave me the wands,” Harry replied. “Thanks for those. They're … remarkable. I wish you could have preserved Sirius', but Tonks said you had no choice. I'm going to have them combined into one wand - the backup wand you've been after me to get.”

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled, “A magnificent idea, Harry. Just the thing. I wish I had thought of that….”

“You've thought of plenty,” Harry answered. “Now where were we?”

Dumbledore's vague warning to “watch yourselves, because we have become aware of an uptick in Death Eater activity of late,” did not exactly help the atmosphere either.

Hermione was just the opposite. She assiduously avoided any mention of those events - at least any event that occurred after Harry's party.

Harry had halfway hoped that, as before, Hermione could help talk him through his present situation. Hermione was having none of it.

“You know Hermione … I'm sorry I had to leave in such a hurry after the party,” Harry told her. “I never got a chance to thank you properly for all your work on it. You did achieve total surprise….”

“You thanked me in your own way, Harry,” she replied coolly. “There's no reason for you to be sorry. No reason at all.”

“That doesn't mean that I'm not, though,” Harry continued. “About what happened afterwards….”

“What happened afterwards was your own business, Harry,” Hermione harrumphed. “You don't owe me any reports, and frankly I'd rather not discuss it.”

For her part, Hermione was angry and upset - with him. After she had gone out on a limb emotionally, he had cut it right off, as quick as you please. She had never expected he could be so callous. He had “achieved total surprise” as well.

Given the way he had kissed her on that park bench, she had allowed herself to believe that, maybe just maybe, Harry might want her the way that she wanted him - thus, her offer of a “different” relationship. She had never done anything remotely like that before. She had forced poor Viktor to reaffirm three times that he was unattached before she merely consented to go to the Yule Ball with him. For Harry, she had done everything short of proclaiming her availability in blinking lights - if only he would break off with Eliza.

But what had Harry done after that? Not twenty-four hours later he had gone and had sex with the bloody tart for the first time, or so she thought. Her only comfort was that the act had evidently not gone very well. That was cold comfort indeed.

The nature of her emotional link to Harry was quite imprecise. What Hermione sensed came as if through a glass, darkly. Her facts were not quite straight, which prompted her to cut Harry's tentative conversation off with a waspish comment.

“Remember when you asked me if I had kissed her,” Harry reminded. “I almost upset the furniture.”

“At that point, it was a safe subject, Harry,” Hermione responded. “You've travelled rather farther down the road now.”

“Well that's … er … sort of the problem…. The road's gotten … rather bumpy,” Harry stammered.

“Then perhaps, rather than talking to me, you had best visit a urologist,” Hermione snapped at him.

That remark left Harry feeling stupid (the word was not in his vocabulary) as well as annoyed at the snide tone of Hermione's rebuff. His subsequent consultation of a dictionary did not improve Harry's humour any.

Things worsened when training recommenced the following week. There was an unearthly calmness between them, almost the sleep of the dead. Harry felt an utter lack of spontaneity between himself and Hermione. It was not that she was still angry or disagreeable. She made no more caustic comments. Rather, she just no longer reacted to him at all. She stayed entirely focussed upon the tasks at hand during training and was even more hardworking than ever. With him, she simply stopped initiating conversations - and when it was absolutely necessary to talk to Harry, Hermione steered resolutely away from anything extracurricular.

She started bringing large books with her to class: Harrison's Principles of Internal Medicine (Muggle) and Medicinal Potions and Charms: A Holistic Approach to Healing (wizard).

“Er … Hermione…. I'd be more than happy to carry those for you,” Harry offered. “They look even heavier than Hogwarts: A History.”

“I'm quite capable of managing, Harry,” Hermione clipped. “I know full well how to bewitch them to be feather light.”

Instead of sitting with Harry during lunch and breaks, as she had before, Hermione retreated to a corner table and read.

She shrugged off Harry's enquiries with the explanation that her research fellowship required extra studying. He knew he was getting the truth, but felt just as certain that it was not quite the whole truth. This was hardly the first time that he had seen her use a large book as a barrier against unwanted intrusion, but it was the first time Harry could remember being on the receiving end of that tactic.

It was not so bad on Monday, since that was the second session on nonverbal spell casting. Not being quite sure what to talk about was easier to endure when one was not supposed to be speaking at all. Besides, that session was not very interesting. Mostly it was repetition, albeit silent, of spells he knew well enough to cast in his sleep. Both Harry and Hermione had obviously been practising after their less-than-stellar performances during the first session. In this instance familiarity bred boredom.

Tuesday's class on the uses of small magical creatures should have been different. The creatures that they worked with - færies, Puffskeins, Crups, Nifflers, Demiguises, and Kneazles, even an immature phoenix - produced numerous hilarious or endearing moments. But none of them, not even Kneazles that resembled her pet Crookshanks, coaxed a smile or a chuckle from Hermione. What should have been one of their most enjoyable sessions was tinged throughout by gloom.

Toward the end of that session, feeling particularly out of sorts, Harry even resorted to a few snide remarks of his own. Desperate for anything that might inveigle some sort of emotion from his almost robotic friend; he called her an “ice queen.” This tactic also failed miserably. Hermione told Harry matter-of-factly to stop, and that if he persisted, she would go elsewhere.

Harry immediately apologised. Things remained calm, too calm - deadly calm.

The only interaction between the two of them that could be called even remotely personal occurred at the very end of the Tuesday session. Hermione told Harry that she “had something for him.” She retrieved three items from her wardrobe: a small box, a middling box, and a large roll of parchment.

The parchment contained the results of the Creeveys' inventory of the various birthday presents intended for Harry that had been redirected to either Mrs. Figgs' house or to Hogwarts. Harry glanced through the imposing list, but when he raised his head to thank Hermione, she had already left.

Harry sighed as he shoved the list into an outside pocket of the dun-coloured training robes he used with the magical creatures. Nothing seemed to be working out the way he had planned, or hoped.

He took Hermione's list to his own wardrobe on the men's side of the trainees' dressing quarters. If he had been feeling less morose, the outpouring of recognition and largesse from his fellow witches and wizards would have been quite gratifying. There was enough Gryffindor clothing to outfit the entire House several times over. There was enough Quidditch gear to equip a team. There were enough sweets and other delectables to swell Harry to Dudley's size.

He had also received a wide variety of gadgets, including another Quick-Quotes Quill donated by the staff of the Daily Prophet. Then there were more serious gifts - several Dark Detectors, a small library of instructional books, even a couple of wands. Finally, he had been sent a number of malicious gifts: several poisoned items, a couple of highly explosive Erumpent horns, and most creatively, a bushy-haired Lolita doll that concealed a dangerously effective Severing Charm.

Harry passed on that. He already felt more than sufficiently emasculated by his own emotions.

From the rest, he chose a particularly nice Foe-Glass, a high-end Sneakoscope (to replace the cheap model Ron had gotten that never seemed to work correctly), and a couple of the more intriguing books for his own use. As for the rest, he agreed that Hermione could select whatever she thought the D.A. could use productively. He would donate the remainder to some charity, maybe even to S.P.E.W. Perhaps that would help her attitude, although he rather doubted it. She would probably think (with reason) that he was trying to bribe her.

She knew him too well - yet she hardly knew him at all.

The two boxes Hermione had given him were gifts from known givers that had been mislaid during the insanity of the owls. Cho Chang had sent him an elaborate “chop” that had served as a family signet - an oddly familiar looking Chinese rune. The short accompanying note explained about the gift's Tianhuang stone composition. The magical translucent yellow-orange carved device looked enough like frozen honey that Harry touched it to his tongue. When he recited “Vermilius,” as instructed by Cho's note, just the right amount of vermilion ochre appeared. It was a very nice gift (vermilion being the colour of Chinese royalty), but completely impractical, since it bore Cho's, not his, symbol. He had never understood Cho and supposed he never would.

The other gift was from Charlie Weasley. Charlie's dragon camp produced various products from the leavings of the great, magical beasts, including Dragon Ambergris. When crystallised, the ambergris was as clear as glass, only much harder. Dragon Ambergris was more resistant to deformation than any other magical substance, second only to diamonds in hardness - or so said the promotional brochure (offering other dragon products for sale) Charlie had included. Charlie sent a selection of lenses ground from the Ambergris, and also some unfinished blanks. The lenses could be assembled into ultra-high-resolution spyglasses; they could amplify wandless magic; and they made superior spectacles. Two of the thinner blanks were for Harry to take to a magical optometrist.

Harry called Eliza on Monday night, and to his relief she was still willing to see him - but not in private. They agreed to a date at Kew Gardens Wednesday evening. What might or might not happen after that was left deliberately vague. With one relationship on tenterhooks, and another on rapidly failing life support, Harry thought sarcastically, `If Teen Witches Weekly only knew the truth, I'd be the laughing stock of the wizard world, and then relegated to the back pages for the rest of my life.'

He saw Lao Kung again in the gym on Wednesday morning. After Harry had laboured single-mindedly for half an hour upon his Occlumency techniques, Lao Kung finally interrupted him. “Hahli, what is clouding your mind? It is not healthy to work as hard as this, particularly for one as young as you.”

Harry stopped and looked at his elderly Chinese teacher. “When things go badly for me, I try to find something else I can do that works better.”

Lao Kung looked back pensively, “No matter how hard the wind blows, it cannot move the mountain, Hahli.”

A crease of annoyance crossed Harry's brow. Lao Kung could be maddeningly indirect. “Stop speaking with shadows on your tongue,” he sighed, throwing a metaphor of his own back at the Sefu. “I can't deal with that right now. If you want to tell me something, tell me.”

“But Hahli,” Lao Kung replied, “I think it is you who has something that you need to tell me.”

The dam burst. “All right, dammit, but it's not pretty. I feel like I'm on a bloody wheel, connected to practically everything - the Order, the Ministry, Hogwarts, Gringotts, Voldemort - you name it. But I'm being broken on that wheel…. All the spokes are pulling in opposite directions. I'm being pulled apart. There's nothing left for me anymore….”

In a fevered fifteen-minute monologue, Harry's fears and frustrations came pouring out. He bitterly decried everybody who was trying to use him - the Ministry, for morale; the Order, to fight Voldemort; Dumbledore, to keep money from the Death Eaters; the goblins, to cement control over Gringotts; giants and others, to seek equality with wizards; girls like Lavender, as a trophy. Harry damned the Death Eaters, the inheritances, and even the training he was receiving, for making it impossible for him ever to have a normal life. He bewailed that his mere caring about anyone placed that person in mortal danger.

As he was at last winding down, Harry even cursed his personal life, “I'm screwed there like everywhere else. I can't have a decent relationship with an ordinary girl because I can't ever be ordinary enough…. But the most extraordinary girl I've ever met doesn't want me because I'm too damned extraordinary - too rich and famous. Either way, I can't bloody win.”

“Sometimes I think I should just chuck everything and go back to being a Muggle,” Harry continued. “I could just disappear that way … fade into the background and never use magic again.”

Lao Kung's features hardened. What had been a generally sympathetic frown transformed into a near angry glare. “Hahli, you are far too great a wizard to do that,” Lao Kung chided. “Are you not a Gryffindor.”

“Yeah, I know…. I know. I've done the whole sword bit and all,” he admitted without admitting anything.

“Such symbols are important,” the old Sefu observed, his voice sharpening. “That is why they originally became symbolic. You are not a Muggle, Hahli. You are less Muggle than almost anyone I have ever taught.”

“I'm afraid you're right,” Harry conceded. “I could never just chuck it … not really…. Much as I might say I want to…. I owe too much to too many. There are so many bloody obligations…. My head is ready to explode sometimes.”

“You need to set limits, Hahli,” the Sefu counseled. “There is only so much that you can give … or that you should be asked to give.”

“It's not that easy,” Harry complained. “It's like Hrr … somebody … once said, I have this ruddy `saving people thing.' I just can't help it. If there's something that needs doing, it always seems to come down to me to do it. Why can't I just be ordinary for once … let somebody else save everything, instead?”

Lao Kung's tone softened again, “Because a synonym of `ordinary' is `mediocre' - and that could never describe you. Remember though … it is not a contradiction to want to save everyone. But not personally…. You also need to save yourself.”

“There's not much worth saving right now,” Harry said glumly. “My own life is so messed up, that the only way I can forget about it is to bury myself in more training and more learning…. Might as well make a virtue of necessity….”

“You sell yourself very short, that is all I can say,” the man chided. “Things have a way of changing radically - for the better or for the worse - in a very short time.”

“Sometimes I wonder how things can get much worse,” Harry moped. “Sometimes I wonder if nothing at all would be better than the grief I'm causing now. But I'm too much of a coward to find out.”

“No,” Lao Kung disagreed, instantly furious, “that would be the true coward's way out. It always is. You have too much courage to find that a plausible option.”

The Sefu listened until Harry talked himself out. Virtually the only matters Harry consciously withheld from Lao Kung were the prophecy and the sexual aspect of his current problem with Eliza.

When Harry was done, Lao Kung commented, “When I was growing up, I was neither outstandingly wealthy, clever, magical, nor athletic. It took me half a lifetime to find what I excelled at. You say you wish to be ordinary. It is much overrated, I assure you. You would not like it. Nor did I. For years I wished I was anything but ordinary - in what way did not matter.”

“Nobody was expecting you to save the bloody world,” Harry replied heatedly. “Otherwise you might have felt different.”

Lao Kung smiled. “Let me tell you the parable of the hai xing, Hahli,” he offered. “In parts of China hai xing are a most common sea creature, and live in the rocks close to shore. A boy lived near Po Hai - what you might know as the Gulf of Chihli. He loved watching the hai xing and other sea creatures in the waters near his home.”

“One day, however, the moon and sun were aligned, and together produced a very low spring tide. When the boy went to the shore at dawn, he found hai xing marooned by the thousands above the tide, slowly succumbing to the sun and the air. Hurriedly, the boy began collecting them and throwing them into the sea, beyond the breaking waves.”

“The boy did this for some time, until he heard someone calling his name. It was the head of his village. Somewhat embarrassed, as he was covered in ooze, the boy respectfully approached the older man. As he got closer, the man called out, `Good morning! What are you doing?'”

“The boy paused, looked up and replied, `throwing the hai xing back into the sea.'”

“The old man appeared puzzled. `I suppose I should have asked, why are you throwing hai xing into the ocean?'”

“The boy replied, `the sun is up and the tide is still out. If I don't return them to the sea, the hai xing will die.'”

“The village leader scoffed, `Can't you see, young man, there many, many li of shoreline, and hai xing all along as far as the eye can see. There is only one of you. You cannot possibly make a difference!'”

“The boy listened politely. Then he shrugged. He bent down, picked up another hai xing and cast it into the sea, as far as he could throw it. Turning back to the old man, he said, `It made a difference for that one.'”

Lao Kung paused, indicating that the story was over. Harry looked at him. “And the point is….”

“Hahli, it is very well to concern yourself with saving the world,” the Sefu explained with an enigmatic smile. “But such great tasks can become overwhelming. When that happens, you must remember that you always make a difference to those you can touch personally. Never stop trying to make that difference.”

Harry felt a little less burdened by his troubles as he left the gym, even though objectively nothing had changed. He quietly resolved to try to make a difference in the lives of those he cared about the most - starting that afternoon when he met Eliza.

Their date at the Royal Botanical Gardens had a strong sense of déjà vu, and not just because they had visited the place only two weeks earlier. Their entire encounter had the distinct flavor of starting over - of a second first date. Neither of them knew quite what to expect from the other.

Harry arrived with essentially no expectations. He was too embarrassed by what had happened to hope for anything. He was grateful when Eliza allowed him to hold her hand. He was ecstatic when she let him put his arm around her. Things that had been taken for granted no longer were, and each baby step seemed to propel them both along a path of emotional recovery.

Or so it seemed.

Harry and Eliza were strolling hand in hand along a shaded path lined with stately oak trees that could have been planted by Queen Victoria herself, or even earlier. The Sun had just gone down, and a glorious sunset was just beginning to surrender its brilliant colours to the gathering dusk. It was idyllic until Harry staggered and clutched at his forehead with his free hand.

“What is it, Harry?” Eliza asked urgently.

“Voldemort…,” Harry croaked out. “He's rather pleased with something. I can feel his … emotions.”

“Oh my God, can I do anything?” Eliza gasped. She had been witness to this sort of attack the first time she met Harry, and her actions at that time had brought about his introduction to classical music.

“Let … me … sit … on … this … bench,” Harry groaned. Eliza guided Harry to a wrought iron and wood bench, and sat next to him, nervously rubbing his back.

Harry performed Occlumency, and within five minutes he had closed off his mind. “That's better,” he sighed and looked at Eliza. “I've been learning how to stop this kind of thing,” he remarked. “It's part of my training. Also, he wasn't after me, he was just happy. Still, I don't like that fact. His happiness is almost always bad for me. Maybe we ought to go….”

Suddenly the ordinarily inconspicuous ring that Harry wore on the index finger of his left hand lit up brightly red and began to hum softly.

“Wha…? Oh bloody Hell! Oh, damn! She's in trouble…!” Harry exclaimed. He anxiously took two steps in one direction, then two steps in the other, ending up exactly where he had started. He was talking - no arguing - with himself. “I've … I have to go…. No, I can't. What if they come for you…? But I'd never forgive myself….” He was babbling.

“Harry, what on Earth is going on?” Eliza asked, alarmed.

“She could be dying this instant…. Blimey, what can I do? Auror distress call….” Harry gibbered on. He flicked his wand out of its invisible wrist holster.

“Take a deep breath, Harry, and speak in complete sentences,” Eliza said gravely. “Who is in trouble, and what is that ring?”

Harry did as he was told. “This is an Auror partner's ring. It connects me to my partner … that would be Hermione. When it glows red like this, it's a critical distress signal. She's never activated it before. Something horrible is threatening her, and I have to respond. But I can't leave you here. What if Death Eaters come for you…?” Harry's speech sped up again and became less coherent. “Can't leave you. Have to go.… Where…? I've got it…. Let's Apparate back to your flat.”

“I'm sorry,” Eliza confessed, “I can't Apparate any more - not farther than I can see at any rate. I haven't Apparated that far in years, I'm out of practice, and I'd just make things worse by splinching myself or something. I'm not the powerhouse you are, that's why I ride my bike and take the Tube.”

Increasingly frantic, Harry seized on the last thing Eliza said, “The Tube stop then, can you Apparate as far as the Tube stop? I'll ask Dung to escort you from there…. That's it….”

“What's it?” Eliza asked, feeling Harry's panic. “What's going on…?”

Harry never got to answer that question. He heard the staccato popping of at least a half dozen wizards Apparating around them. “Oh, Merlin, they've come for us too…!”

Eliza screamed, and Harry surged into action. As fast as the blink of an eye he fired two powerful Severing Charms in opposite directions, bringing two of the stately oaks crashing down parallel to each other, with him and Eliza sheltered between their massive, now horizontal trunks. Harry heard the shouts of the still arriving wizards as the great trees came down. Without stopping, Harry performed an Excavating Charm. Pushing Eliza into the six-foot deep hole he created, Harry jumped in after her. Harry immediately used the dirt he had removed from the pit to create a breastwork between the tree trunks, which he further fortified with a couple more spells.

Harry pointed his wand skyward. “Auror Assisto!” he cried. A brilliant fountain of red streaks representing the universal Auror officer assist signal arced into the heavens. They flew straight up and then criss-crossed, marking his location. Harry undid his belt.

“What in blazes are you doing now?” Eliza gasped. Her entire left side was filthy with ground-in black dirt, and being shoved into a foul hole without warning had not left her in the most charitable mood towards Harry.

Harry fired off several wild spells, including a torrent of Greek fire, but it did not sound like he had hit anything. “…Trying to save your life,” Harry panted. From a compartment on the backside of his belt, Harry removed … nothing.

Harry stretched the Portable Hole until it was over three feet across. He shot out a spell that conjured barbed wire, and quickly sent the wire slashing through the air in circles overhead. Harry placed the Portable Hole on the earthen side of the pit they were standing in. “Get in,” Harry commanded, “and give me your wand. There are Death Eaters about, thicker than fleas on a troll.”

Too stunned by the abrupt turn of events to do anything but obey, Eliza surrendered her wand and climbed in. He shrank the Portable Hole down to less than an inch. He whispered to her through the small air hole. “Stay here until I come for you. If I don't come for you, that means they've killed me. In that case, stay hidden for as long as you can stand it, and pray that they've left.”

Harry was more convinced than ever that he had to get to Hermione. These were serious attacks. But first, there was the small matter of saving himself - and Eliza. In short order, Harry Transfigured a branch full of oak leaves into shiny mirrors, levitated them into position overhead and set them to spinning. Harry concentrated on maintaining his strongest Reductor Curse, which flared skyward.

“Okay, you can do this,” Harry reassured himself.

Howling out “Puff the Magic Dragon!” he used Eliza's wand to cut his Reductor twenty-five ways, just as he had learnt in the lesson on fighting when outnumbered. The multiple curses reflected off the mirrors and blasted through the gathering gloom into the terrain surrounding Harry's little makeshift fortress.

The effect was awful. Each shaft of Harry's multiply cut spell struck with a thunderous roar. The very earth shook, sending loose dirt cascading down upon Harry as he crouched in the bottom of the pit he had created. The noise and bright light reminded Harry of the grand finale of the Muggle fireworks display he had recently witnessed with Eliza - the huge white flashes and booming reports resonating chaotically - only this was serious, deadly serious.

Harry determinedly kept up his spell casting for over a minute, until he noticed two things: first, there was no return fire; and second, another Auror assist signal appeared in the sky.

Harry stopped. He had to get out of here, and he was wasting time. Hermione could be dying as he sat in this damn hole, making rubble bounce all around him. Everything looked like black velvet and sounded deathly silent compared to the bombardment he had been conducting. “Sound off or I'll carry on!” Harry yelled, moving his wand back into the ready position. “I swear, I'll kill you all.”

“Potter, cease fire fer Merlin's sake,” a familiar voice rasped. “We're friendlies.”

“Mad-Eye?” Harry called out.

“In the flesh - what little I've left,” Moody growled.

“Wait a second,” Harry ordered warily. “How did you injure yourself when you were last in my relatives' house?”

“Damn you Potter, I'll get yeh fer that,” Moody spat.

Harry was unyielding. “Go on,” he replied.

“I grazed myself in my own bloody arse with a Reductor,” Moody answered with noticeable lack of good grace. “…something about a ruddy telephone.” In the darkness Harry could hear others laughing.

“I believe you,” Harry called out. “Show yourselves…. What's going on?”

“Advance; nighttime; friendly!” Moody shouted out. Almost immediately Harry saw the lighted tips of nine wands, being held high overhead by nine robed figures walking slowly towards him. A tenth, less steady, light soon followed.

The wandlight illuminated a surreal scene. The graded gravel path between towering oak trees had all but ceased to exist. The trees were shattered wrecks - their splintered, smoking trunks and pulverised crowns leaning at crazy angles.

Massive craters rent the earth, and piles of dirt were strewn randomly about. The dirt was rapidly becoming mud, as water gurgled from the arboretum's shredded irrigation system. In the distance sirens wailed. Astonished, and more than a little frightened at what he had done, Harry dropped back into the pit.

“Oh, bloody Hell,” Moody muttered. “This looks like Verdun during the Great War, except….”

“Except what?” another voice spoke up.

“Except there aren't any bodies,” Moody replied. “I don't think Potter killed any of us with that display.”

“Well, it's ruddy sure not fer want `o tryin',” growled a voice that Harry would have recognised as Mundungus Fletcher's, had he been listening.

Harry was exhausted, but fixated on what he had to do. He stood in the dark at the bottom of the increasingly muddy pit, breathing heavily, his wand held loosely and a stitch the size of a Hippogriff in his side. Moody and the Aurors were shouting instructions to one another, but Harry did not care.

He screamed into the darkness, “Get in here, dammit!” I don't have the time to…!”

Moody's annoyed growl cut him off, “Potter! If yeh wouldn't mind, we can't very well get ta yeh with these damnable basilisk venom-covered punji stakes in the way. Only yeh can get rid of them.”

“Sorry,” Harry called out sheepishly. He ended a variety of defensive spells he had cast over his redoubt, and cleaved an entryway in the earthen breastwork. “Oh blast,” Harry thought to himself. Eliza was still in her hastily arranged hiding place.

Harry illuminated his wand and called to Eliza, “Don't worry. Everything's safe…. It's all right. It was my mistake. They weren't Death Eaters after all … only Aurors. I'm coming to get you out!”

Running his fingers frantically across the crumbling loam walls of the pit, Harry located the Portable Hole. “I'm very sorry about this…. I overreacted again….” He ripped the hole wide to reveal Eliza; her eyes shining but otherwise covered head-to-toe with a crust of sticky, musty black filth. The loam in the botanical gardens was so rich and dark that if Harry had not been aware that Eliza had been wearing a green and white striped blouse and light blue short pants, he would not have been able to tell by looking at her.

Eliza shielded her eyes from Harry's wand light. “A mistake? A BLOODY MISTAKE!!? I … I … I was convinced you were going to die … and maybe me too!”

With that verbal explosion, the last vestiges of Eliza's composure fled.

Eliza hurled herself at Harry, grabbed him about the midsection and shoved him into the dirt. Harry was too surprised to resist. Seemingly exhausted by that single violent motion, Eliza lay on top of Harry, her back heaving, sobbing hysterically. Over and over she mumbled through the tears “thought you would die … thought you would die … thought you would die….”

Increasingly frantic on one level at the further delay, Harry had no idea what else to do. He had been incredibly cruel … an insensitive git. He had no business expecting Eliza to be able to handle this sort of experience, so he wrapped his arms around his crying girlfriend and held her - tightly but silently. The more the realisation of what had happened sank in, Harry felt almost as shell-shocked from the entire episode as she was.

But there could be no rest for the weary. Harry's Auror ring was still glowing insistently. He gently asked Eliza, “Can you stand?”

“I … I … I think so,” she replied uncertainly. Harry helped her to her feet. Then he backed up a couple of steps, still holding both her hands.

“Let's have a look at you,” he said. Regarding Eliza's trembling figure up and down, he told her, “I'm going to clean you up.” Harry quickly Scourgified her and was returning her wand when Moody stumped into view - his face streaked with dirt and looking all the more ravaged in the unflattering wandlight.

Eliza jumped again into Harry's arms, terrified of the unfamiliar advancing figure.

“All right, Potter, let's go. I've got ta bring yeh in. There's too much evil happenin' tonight,” Moody ordered.

“Not so fast,” Harry growled back. “First, some of your lot is going to see to it that this lady makes it home safely. Then the rest of you are going to take me to Hermione.” He held up his Auror ring so Moody could see it.

“Negative on both counts,” the aged Auror responded. Moody drew himself up as straight as he could and thought hard about what could possibly convince the reluctant and willful young wizard in front of him to yield. Moody's orders included authorisation to use force, but after what he had just seen, Moody felt less than assured that force was a viable option - even with six Aurors and two Hit Wizards at his command. It was either persuasion, or spending the night out-of-doors with Harry.

Using his best command voice, Moody addressed Harry. “My orders are ta bring the both of yeh in, and that's what I'm gonna do. There's Death Eater activity tonight - a lot, but we don't yet know the full extent of it. Yer lady friend there probably isn't safe, and in any event we can't afford ta take chances. As for Hermione Granger, she's been attacked, but that's not yer fight. Kingsley took two squads with him ta sort that out just before I left ta come here. Yeh know Kingsley's top notch. Whatever's ta be done is already done. His orders were the same as mine. The fastest way for yeh ta see her is ta come with me.”

“Bloody Hell, it's not my fight!” Harry protested. “I'm the only reason she was attacked - and there's nothing going on here - except a big job for the Obliviators. Wherever you're taking me, I'm pretty sure E … this woman … doesn't want to be seen with me.”

Harry was only half right, if that. The air crackled with another series of Apparition pops, and curses started to fly.

“Crikey,” Moody howled. “We've been followed.” He barked some orders to his unit, and a great deal of sound and fury ensued. Curses coursed through the air. Moody pulled a smashed-in bowler hat from an inside pocket in his robes. “Grab hold,” he ordered.

“Hell no,” Harry spat. “I'm not running from Death Eaters.”

“Dammit Potter, this isn't yer fight either,” Moody roared. “There are six active-duty Aurors, two Hit Wizards, and Mundungus ta handle this. Yeh're not only endangering yerself, yer endangering Miss whoever here - and every minute yeh're not where yeh're supposed ta be, yeh're tying down our forces trying ta protect you and everyone else in England. Now grab this portkey or I swear I'll stun yeh.”

Eliza tugged on Harry's arm. “Please do it, Harry. I'll go.”

Harry took a deep breath and allowed Eliza to pull his hand to the hat. The last thing he remembered before the familiar jerk behind his navel was the same ear splitting crack that he had heard whilst reliving Sirius' memory - a powerful Killing Curse crashing into the trunk of a large tree.

Harry staggered but remained upright as he landed hard at the darkened Hogsmeade train station. There were several wizards standing guard, and Moody barked more orders to them. Harry recognised one of them, Sturgis Podmore. Harry thus assumed all of the guards were members of the Order. Harry remembered that he had not seen Podmore since his own great escape (to see Eliza for the first time) at the poor man's expense nearly a month ago. A shiver went down Harry's spine as he considered how much grief his escapade must have cost Podmore.… Still the man had come.

Then Harry whipped his head around. Pangs of regret were not responsible for all the shivers down his spine. There was a Dementor at Hogsmeade station. Harry flicked out his wand. “Don't anybody move,” Harry hissed. “Dementor at 5 o'clock.” Harry used the directional language he had taught in his locating class. “I'll take it on three….”

“Stow it, Potter,” Moody whispered back. “That one's on our side. Whilst Voldemort's got over 500 of `em,” (Eliza flinched at the name and squeezed Harry's hand harder) “but thirteen stayed loyal ta the Ministry. That one's known as 905, it's posted out here because it can sense its own kind from farther away than any of us could…. Over there…. Get in now.”

Moody directed Harry to one of a number of the Hogwarts Thestral-powered carriages waiting in readiness to ferry new arrivals to the school. Harry was certain that the Thestral between the shafts was the same one that Neville had ridden to the Ministry. He started to stroke it when Moody testily ordered them both inside, and climbed in after them.

“What were you doing just then?” Eliza asked Harry. “There was nothing there…. Eek!”

Eliza let out a yelp as the carriage jerked forward and rumbled off at tremendous speed, almost immediately taking to the air. She looked terrified.

“There is something there,” Harry said softly, “a Thestral. You just can't see it because….”

Eliza pressed two fingers to Harry's lips, stilling them. “Oh you poor dear…. You don't have to tell me, Harry, I had to learn that for my N.E.W.T.s.” She nuzzled into his side, trying to hide the tears she was crying for Harry, for the horrible things he must have seen.

Harry stared disconsolately into the darkness, wondering if he had done the right thing. If anything had happened to Hermione, he would never forgive himself….

Moody felt uncomfortable disturbing the couple's brief quiet interlude. From the reports he was receiving from troops in the field, the battle-scarred Auror feared that this was going to be a long, awful night - especially for Harry.

To prevent Harry from brooding, Moody spoke. “I suppose we'll have ta teach yeh how ta communicate with those ruddy Dementors…. Awful things, really, but at least a few are on our side.”

Harry looked up at Moody, “What are Dementors, anyway?”

“Don't rightly know,” Moody replied, relieved that Harry was at least responding. He kept talking. “From what I've been told, they're the product of malignant magic, Dark wishes, and death - lots of death. Are yeh sure yeh really want ta know?”

“Go on,” said Harry grimly.

“If lots of people die in about the same time and place - dozens of wizards or hundreds of Muggles - and they were all thinking terrible, awful thoughts when they died.… Well, the joinin' of their deaths, the simultaneous release of so many tortured souls bearing Dark thoughts…. They come tagether, and the result's a Dementor. That's why they feed the way they do. They're desperate ta extinguish themselves. Unfortunately, there's more of `em now than ever before. This century's created a lot of `em….”

“Battlefields?” Harry mentioned.

“Too right,” Moody replied. “Almost all of `em are created by warfare down through history from Arbela and Agincourt to Goblin Wars and Gallipoli - occasionally aeroplane crashes and other disasters. 905 there originated with the Titanic sinkin'.”

Harry thought aloud, “A man.… A skilled Legilimens recently told me that my mind resembled a battlefield…. I wonder…. If I kill him, and I die too…? At the Ministry, Dumbledore said that there were things worse than death.…”

“NO, HARRY, DON'T EVEN THINK THAT!!” Eliza screamed.

“Harry, I don't think fer a minute that….”

The carriage jolted as it returned to earth and skidded to a stop.

Moody sighed because he had no answer to Harry's unstated but obvious question. “Alright, let's move,” he grunted. “Welcome ta Hogwarts Castle.”

Supporting Eliza, who could scarcely stand, Harry moved through the corridors as fast as his legs could carry them both. The Castle was mostly deserted, but every now and then, he would see or hear someone else in the corridors - almost always running, or at least trotting. Harry did not pay much attention. For once he let Moody lead. Eventually they stopped. “I suppose yeh know where yeh are,” the older man grunted again.

Harry knew this place well. His last experience with it had been rather terrifying, so he was hesitant. “The Room of Requirement,” he said.

“The very same, Potter,” Moody replied wearily whilst walking back and forth. “Now in yeh go - both of yeh.” Mad-Eye flung the newly appeared door open and prodded them both inside.

It was chaos - or it would have been but for the grey-haired, silver-bearded wizard at the heart of it all, sitting at a huge rounded wooden desk in the center of the room. All around were the buzz of conversation, the beeps and flashes of communications devices, the squawks of owls, and the constant motion of witches and wizards rushing about. Harry barely had time to take in the scene before Moody roared loudly behind him, “Potter's here.”

Everyone in the room stopped what he, she, or it was doing and stared at Harry. Eliza clutched his arm tightly, as if he were her life preserver. A number of people acknowledged him, but only briefly before they quickly returned to what they were doing. Discarded scraps of parchment littered the floor, and Ministry-type paper airplanes went whizzing through the air.

Whilst Harry held back, Moody pounced. “Dammit, Dumbledore,” he spat. “We were ambushed out there. Probably followed, too. The Deaters've been a step ahead of us all night, and it's cost us dearly. Yeh've got ta stop the Ministry's stallin' on a new headquarters. The wards here are simply too bloody strong ta work around.…”

Harry, too, only had eyes for that same person, and that person soon made eye contact with him…. Dumbledore waved Moody off and bade his most noteworthy student approach. He conjured a chintz chair and his massive, messy desk changed shape readily so that Harry could sit closer to him. As Harry approached, the Headmaster spoke, “Minerva, the young lady must be mortified, can you take her some place private, make her clean and comfortable, and explain the situation to her? I need to speak to Harry.”

Professor McGonagall, Harry's Head of House, approached from his left. She smiled wearily at Eliza and held out a hand. The professor's hair was in its customary bun, but part of it had come askew and tendrils framed the right side of her face.

“This way dear,” she spoke gently to the skittish Eliza, “the worst is over. You're safe at Hogwarts. Let's get you squared away….”

Whilst she tried to smile, Professor McGonagall's smile could not reach her eyes. The Deputy Headmistress was plainly under a great deal of pressure, and it showed. Everyone was.

“Eliza, please go with her,” Harry requested. “Everything will be all right, I'm sure,” he reassured her more confidently than he felt. “I'll make sure to see you soon.”

His girlfriend reluctantly left his side. He followed the two witches with his eyes as they walked away and noted through which of the doors they passed as they vanished from sight. He turned to face Dumbledore.

Without so much as a greeting, Harry addressed his Headmaster. “What's going on? Where's Hermione?” he asked.

“I have just confirmed,” Dumbledore gestured towards a hand mirror, “that Miss Granger is safe and in transit. She was attacked at her father's dental surgery by a number of Death Eaters. Somehow they penetrated or brought down the wards. The two Grangers - and Miss Tonks - fought the Death Eaters off, although not without considerable property damage. I am of the belief that the Death Eaters did not anticipate that either Miss Granger or Miss Tonks would be present.”

Upon learning that Hermione was safe, Harry slumped forward in his chair. He buried his hands in his face, softly repeating, “Thank you, thank you, thank you….”

The burst of magic at Kew Gardens had taken more out of him than Harry had appreciated, and a freight train of exhaustion was roaring over him. He could feel aches and pains all over his body now that the adrenaline was running out. It also dawned on him that he was filthy. He had Scourgified Eliza, but not himself. Haphazardly, Harry started cleaning himself wandlessly, as he asked weakly, “What else?”

“Attacks all over England, I am afraid,” Dumbledore replied weakly. “The first occurred in Surrey, not far from where you were. You must have grown closer to your relatives this summer. The attack was directed against your cousin's gymnasium….”

“SHIT!!!” Harry cried out. All around, people stopped briefly and looked, but then hurried on with their business. He put his head back in his hands. “Damn!” Harry muttered more quietly to himself. “He's dead then - do my relatives…?”

“Actually, no, Mister Potter,” Dumbledore answered with just the glimmer of a smile. “Your cousin Dudley escaped with merely a broken left wrist and a few burns, I am told. Even though the surprise was complete, there were only a couple of fatalities - among the Muggles….”

“Oh, Merlin, no!” Harry cut Dumbledore off. “Lao Kung is dead!” Harry was on the verge of tears.

“Once again, no,” Dumbledore hastened to add. “At least not yet, although his condition is extremely grave. Kung Meng-tse was a hero tonight. He single-handedly fought off at least ten Death Eaters whilst ensuring that almost all of the Muggles in the gymnasium were able to escape. He not only alerted us to the attacks, but also conveyed important intelligence - which I believe to be correct - that most of the attackers were trained in Chinese magic. Unfortunately, he was overcome less than a minute before relief arrived, and was buried in flaming rubble. He was retrieved alive, but unconscious.”

“Is he in St. Mungo's then?” Harry asked. “Can I go see him?”

“Sadly no, on both counts,” Dumbledore sighed. “He is en route to the Chinese facility he specified should treat him in the event that such a thing occurred, and St. Mungo's was another target of an attack - a large attack involving Dementors. The Ministry is in charge of that scene, so I am of course unable to tell you what happened, except that there were a number of fatalities and other victims who were kissed.”

Harry's head sank further into his hands. “Go on,” he mumbled.

Dumbledore did. “The Burrow was attacked….”

Harry's entire body stiffened and his head shot up. “Did anyone … die?” Harry asked hesitantly, not really wanting to know the answer.

“No,” replied Dumbledore quickly. “We believe that attack was merely a diversion. The Weasley homestead is heavily guarded, as the Death Eaters must know. The attackers left after a brief siege - nothing more.”

“The Quidditch camp!” Harry exclaimed. “Both Ron and Ginny….”

“Locked down tight,” Dumbledore reassured. “Nobody enters or leaves there tonight. I have been in contact with the Danes, and there has been no observable Death Eater activity. That is understandable. It has never been Voldemort's modus operandi to conduct attacks beyond the British Isles.”

“What else?” Harry asked.

“Percy Weasley was attacked, but survived, at his flat near Diagon Alley,” Dumbledore replied. “He is also in transit to Hogwarts.”

So there had been two attacks on the Weasleys. To Harry, that added up in a macabre sort of way, since two of the Weasley children had accompanied him to the Ministry. “Anything else?” Harry asked.

“The Dark Mark has been reported in the sky over both Liverpool and Somerset, but the nature of those attacks is unknown. Some Muggles reported unauthorised use of fireworks. There was a more serious attack in Exeter, however. It involves the Lovegoods.” Dumbledore's face turned extremely grave.

Harry said nothing, waiting for the Headmaster to continue.

“As you know, Xenophilius Lovegood has been a frequent and rather harsh critic of the Ministry. His relationship with the authorities was rather strained as a result. For that reason, Mister Lovegood was suspicious of the offer that was made to place his family under constant guard. He refused that offer, and I'm afraid that his refusal probably cost him his life tonight.…”

“Oh no,” Harry gasped, “That means Luna is an orphan.”

“If she survives … Harry,” Dumbledore said, using the boy's given name - which he almost never did with students. “Unfortunately that is by no means certain.” He stood and placed a hand on the boy's sleeve. “The Lovegoods were ambushed in the Exeter print shop where they publish the Quibbler. Mister Lovegood died to save his daughter's life. Nevertheless, Miss Lovegood is very gravely injured, and Madam Pomfrey is tending to her as we speak.”

Harry started to stand, but Dumbledore tightened his grip. “I know that you wish to see her, but she is in no condition to be seen at this moment. I shall notify you when….”

Two things happened at once. Another of Dumbledore's communication devices flashed, and he made to answer it. A split second later Kingsley Shacklebolt's booming voice announced, “The Grangers are here.”

Dumbledore released Harry's sleeve just as the boy decided to pull away. Harry jerked backwards, banging his knee violently on the bottom of Dumbledore's desktop. The desktop rose just enough for all of Dumbledore's communications equipment (except the mirror he was holding) to slide onto the floor. Harry was spun around by the impact. Too exhausted for his reflexes to recover, he landed face first on the floor. Several nearby witches and wizards let out shouts and made to help him up.

Thus Harry's face was burning with embarrassment as he first laid eyes upon Hermione from his kneeling position. Her long brown hair was as wild as he had ever seen it. She had a badly plastered gash on her right cheek and her left eyebrow was practically singed away. She was wearing Muggle clothing - a white T-shirt emblazoned with the slogan “what part of [some impenetrable mathematical equation Harry could not begin to comprehend] don't you understand?” and nondescript blue jeans. The right knee of her jeans was torn away and the rest of her lower pants leg hung in tatters. Her exposed shin was covered in scrapes, bruises, and numerous small cuts.

Hermione was urgently scanning the crowd when she saw Harry rise to his feet. He hobbled towards her as fast as he could, bumping people out of his way with perfunctory “sorries” and “excuse mes.” As he reached her, Harry saw Hermione readying to launch herself at him. He choked out, “Oh Hermione, what on Earth happened?”

“Oh, Harry, it was horrib…. Urp….”

He glanced up to see Hermione suspended in midair from her father's muscular right arm, which had roughly caught her around the waist and drawn her up short. Edwin Granger's face was covered with soot and sweat, and his eyes burnt malevolently.

“YOU'RE WHAT BLOODY HAPPENED, THAT'S WHAT!” Dr. Granger bellowed. “NOT ONLY ISN'T MY DAUGHTER SAFE IN THIS CRAZY PLACE, BUT NOW NONE OF US ARE!!!”

Dr. Granger hefted Hermione out of the way and wildly took a swing at Harry with his left fist. He missed Harry, but connected with the side of Kingsley Shacklebolt's face instead.

Hermione screamed.

“What the…?” Shak shouted as he dropped to his knees.

“GODDAMN YOU!!!” Dr. Granger ranted as he lunged again towards Harry. The room was rapidly devolving into an uproar.

The female Dr. Granger screamed.

“Stupefy.” Mad-Eye Moody's voice rang out and Dr. Granger fell in his tracks, unceremoniously dropping Hermione.

A brilliant flash of light left everyone blinking. “ENOUGH!” boomed out Albus Dumbledore's magically amplified voice. Everyone stood stock-still. “Quietus.” Everyone (except Dr. Granger who lay there unconscious) turned to the Headmaster for instructions.

“It has been a very long evening for all of us, and I fear it may be longer still,” Dumbledore began. “Mundungus, please take Mister Potter to an anteroom and see that he becomes presentable. Tonks, if you would be so good as to do the same with Miss Granger. I believe that I need to speak to the elder Grangers myself.”

Tonks started to lead Hermione away. Harry started after her, only to feel Dumbledore's hand on his shoulder. “Not now,” he said, giving him what looked like a wink. “I fear that there is a bit of….”

“Harry! Are you all right?” It was Eliza. She had heard the commotion, and even Professor McGonagall had not been able to persuade her to stay in her room.

“I'm fine,” Harry replied. “Just a minor spot of bother, but it's over now.”

“Harry, is that…? Is that her?” Hermione asked. She had stopped short, and her eyes were boring into his.

Harry, uncomfortable with Hermione's mother so close, said nothing aloud, but Legilimenced, `Yes.'

Hermione squared her shoulders and stepped smartly over to her blonde-haired rival. Belatedly, Harry scuttled after her. Draco Malfoy had learnt the hard way that the headstrong witch was no pacifist in her personal behaviour, and Harry meant to ensure that there would be no more Granger-initiated fisticuffs this evening. He need not have bothered.

Hermione strode up to Eliza, extended her hand, and addressed her. “Eliza Marie Brookings, I presume?”

Eliza's jaw dropped. So did Harry's as he stopped dead in his tracks. Tonks, who had also been chasing Hermione, ran headlong into him, and for the second time in what had become a very long fifteen minutes, Harry found himself planted head down on the old, nondescript carpet.

Eliza brought one hand to her mouth in surprise. “How…? How do you know me?”

Hermione smiled knowingly, and almost but not quite maliciously, as she pondered her answer to this question. She withdrew her hand, which Eliza, in her shock, had failed to grasp.

“Oh, it wasn't that difficult, really. You introduced yourself to me when we went over my transcript on the day of my Umbridge testimony. I assume you did the same with Harry, since he also testified. Then, only a couple of days later, Harry asked me to keep his confidences whilst he met with some mystery person about information concerning the Black inheritance that was being withheld from him.”

Hermione shot a withering look at Dumbledore, and continued. “Harry returned with all this information about the Black Estate, and asked me to help him investigate. Miss Bookworm Granger naturally agreed. The first place I checked, of course, was the records of the Black Estate litigation. That was rubbish because everything is under seal - except that the transcript cover pages bore the name of the transcriptionist - and lo and behold the court reporter was the same Eliza Marie Brookings who had filled in at the Umbridge hearing.”

“I later confirmed with Harry that the mystery person he went to meet was female and lives in Muggle London. I rang up information and learnt that there is an unlisted Muggle telephone number for `Eliza Marie Brookings' in London. Between appointments with professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, I've been at Hogwarts fairly often this summer. I dropped in a bit early one afternoon and spent an hour or so at the library looking through old - but not too old - Hogwarts annuals. I found your picture. Eight ball in the side pocket, so to speak.”

Hermione seized Tonks by the arm and marched off. Harry mouthed “I'm sorry,” to a stunned Eliza. The blonde woman was almost in tears as she fled back to the room where Professor McGonagall had initially been trying to calm her down. The professor scowled at Hermione's backside and rushed after Eliza.

Harry started to follow his girlfriend, but Professor McGonagall sternly waved him away with a few rapid flips of her hand. He turned after Hermione, but Tonks likewise put up a furious stop sign. Reluctantly, he stood down. Dismayed, defeated, and exhausted, he slumped into a nearby vacant chair, where Mundungus soon caught up to him. Dung escorted Harry to his own temporary quarters.

Dumbledore was standing at the door, waiting for them. He motioned to Mundungus to enter the room, but pulled Harry aside. Dumbledore radiated a feeling of profound melancholy as he told Harry:

“I was about to tell you before the latest interruption…. I now have confirmation from the Aurors at St. Mungo's. It is as I had feared. The Death Eater attacks all seem directed at you or your friends. Among the casualties at St. Mungo's are both of Mister Longbottom's parents. I knew them, and it had always been my hope that research into the Cruciatus Curse would one day bring about a cure. They are now dead. It was no accident. All of the other casualties of the hospital attack were kissed instead.”

“So you think this is all about me?” Harry hissed angrily and kicked at the wall. “I'm not only death to my friends; I'm death to my friends' families now?”

“Harry, the Death Eaters are making it obvious that this is about you. The Longbottoms' corpses were … mutilated…. Marks in the shapes of … lightn… your scar … had been carved or burnt into their foreheads.

Dumbledore put a firm hand on Harry's shoulder. “There can be no doubt that Voldemort is trying to destroy you mentally … emotionally. He has taken this tack only because he is afraid he cannot destroy you physically - you must remember that.”

Harry took a step backwards, and his own hand went to his forehead. His breaths were coming fast and shallow. He felt like an unseen force was choking him. “THEN WHY DON'T YOU BLOODY WELL TAKE ME TO HIM RIGHT NOW?!” he demanded in a voice midway between a howl and a scream. “Right now … before I get anybody else killed.”

“You are not strong enough. You need more training,” Dumbledore replied curtly but quietly. “Whilst we are progressing with you as fast as is wizardly possible, I do not think I can work you any harder without risking your mental state.”

“And what do you think my bloody mental state is right now?” Harry groaned. “Is Eliza next? She's not exactly a secret anymore - if she ever was. Have I sentenced her to death too by deciding to date her … by merely being seen with her?” Harry slumped down against the wall, and once again buried his face in his hands.

“I rather think not,” Dumbledore explained as he bent over the distraught young man. “Whilst Miss Granger could have exercised a bit more discretion, unless there is a traitor in our midst at this moment, I believe Miss Brookings remains safe. She lives in the Muggle community, and Death Eaters are too contemptuous of Muggles to bother with Muggle means of identification. As long as nobody who frequents her flat” - Dumbledore looked sternly at Harry - “uses unusual magic, I think that she remains safe from Death Eaters.”

Dumbledore continued, “There has never been the slightest hint of Death Eater interest in Miss Brookings. Upon reflection, I believe that the attack upon the Grangers had its origins in my rather shortsighted agreement to install wards at their home and offices. With the benefit of hindsight, it is probable that the magical signature of the wards themselves was what led the Death Eaters to the Granger surgery.”

“All right,” Harry sighed. “I don't know what more I can do - now. I reckon that even breaking up with her at this point wouldn't help.”

“Your understanding of Death Eaters is improving,” Dumbledore replied. “Unfortunately you are right. Do you think that the young lady would accept our protection? I do not want you pushing away anyone else who cares about you.”

Harry cringed. “Not on your life. She would leave me first. And if your theory about what happened to Hermione is true, then the presence of such a guard would only attract unwanted attention.”

Dumbledore stared at the ceiling. “True enough, Harry. True enough. You may go. You look as poorly as you undoubtedly feel.” The old man started to turn away.

“Oh, Headmaster?” Harry called out.

Dumbledore turned. Harry's lower jaw was quivering.

“You…. You said this was all about … about me. What do Somerset and Liverpool have to do with me?”

“Harry, there is no need for you to know everything. Knowledge does not always help.…” Dumbledore said in a pleading voice.

Harry said nothing. He just looked at the Headmaster resolutely, his eyes momentarily blazing with a current of new anger. There was the hint of a glow around the boy.

Dumbledore's shoulders drooped. “Oh very well, Harry. Yes, they do. I have received confirmation. Are you sure that you want to know?”

Harry nodded.

Dumbledore took a deep breath. “Do you remember Jennifer Fontaine and Jonathan Swanage?”

Harry shook his head negatively.

Dumbledore continued, “They are … were small children. They posted letters to you; you replied; and the letters were later featured in a wizard parenting magazine…. The same marks were.…” The Headmaster stopped, unwilling or unable to go on.

Harry's face went pale and soon changed from beige to greenish grey. “I think I'm going to be sick….” He staggered through the door and promptly threw up all over Mundungus Fletcher's shoes.

“I'm ruddy pleased t' see ya too.” Mundungus remarked.

“'Lo Dung,” Harry choked out, still retching. “Sorry `bout that.”

“No problem. Just ya remember tha' somebody mi' return th' favor someday,” Mundungus said in a friendly fashion.

Harry stood up. “Damn, I need to wash,” he remarked. He eyed Mundungus, whose presence (and Harry's modesty) was the only thing standing between Harry and a nice elemental magic shower.

Dung gave new meaning to the term “disheveled.” His ginger hair was even more of a mess than Harry's - particularly since at Kew Gardens he had been near the impact points of some of Harry's Reductor Curses. Dung smelled of stale tobacco. At least he did not seem to have been drinking.

Dung contemplated Harry for a second. “Albus says I should keep ya comp'ny. Seems `e wants us both out `o th' way `n not underfoot.” Then Harry found Dung giving him a leer and a wink, “…Been watchin' ya. She sure looks like a damn fine Hippogriff on the flat. Have ya tried `er on th' jumps yet?”

Harry was a bit slow on the uptake and at first failed to grasp that Dung was talking about Eliza. “NO!” he shouted indignantly when he figured out what Dung had just asked. “It's none of your bloody business who I'm with or why.”

“Ya're wrong `bout tha', ya know,” said Dung, fumbling in the pockets of his torn and dirty robes. “Yar business is th' Order's business… Ya've got tha' unicorn in th' `eadlights routine down, m' boy. Every bird ya could want is flockin'.… Been pullin' security details f' ya all summer, `cludin' `afnia. Seen ya get sugar from three dif'rent birds, an' that's just on me own watch.”

“Dammit, Dung, this is hardly the time…,” snorted Harry. “I bloody well know I'm being watched constantly, but do you have to keep a bleeding tally.”

Dung shrugged. “Mostly borin' work. Gots nuffink else t' do.” He pulled out a pipe and made to light it.

Harry winced and wrinkled his nose. “Do you mind? That's a rather nasty and common habit.”

“Don' knock common, `arry,” replied Dung, putting away the pipe. “Most of me better moments `ave come bein' common.”

“I don't know about that,” said Harry. “I've had my share of detentions with Filch at Hogwarts. My friend Ron's not the only one who's cleaned every trophy in the Trophy Room Muggle style. I know you haven't always been common. You were Head Boy in 1941. What happened?”

“Don' wanna talk `bout tha' - I was dux in a dif'rent lifetime,” muttered Dung. But the older man did not stop talking. “Tha' was wartime… Worse'n now `cause th' Muggles were warring too. For tha' reason, th' Seventh Years… me year… we were allowed t' commute t' school… `Spose t' keep th' `family safe,'” Dung spat out the last two words as if they were epithets. Harry said nothing. After an awkward pause, Dung continued.

“Th' ides o' N'vember… Left me family - Mum, Dad, `n two little sisters - `ad ta work late as `ead Boy checking th' wards, what with Grindelwald on th' loose an' all. I jus' ga' back when it all started…. Nuffink I could bloody do…. Foun' `em dead … wha' was leff…. Th' `ole lot of `em. Blown an' burnt ta' bits.…” Dung broke down and began sobbing.

After almost a minute, Dung seemed to be pulling himself back together. Harry said as gently as he could, “So you're like me then? You lost your whole family to Grindelwald….”

Dung cut Harry off fiercely, “Screw Grindelwald! Twas th' bloody `uns!! An' was' worse, th' bloody squib let `em get away wi' it! Foun' tha' out aft'wards.… They knew! …An' still let it `appen. Goddamn Muggles an' squibs! Never said why - only tha' twas an `nigma.”

“Anyway, I couldn' `andle nuffink after tha'. Dropped out o' school. Couldn' abide either wizards or Muggles. Learnt t' support m'self by thiev'ry. Would `o been dead or in Azkaban by now, if Dumbledore `adn't come `n got me…. Been workin' for th' Order since Voldy started risin' th' firs' time. So's I turnt out common…. Big deal. Common, but dead useful too, iff'n I don' say so m'self. Great man, Dumbledore.…”

Once again Harry found himself both embarrassed and confused. “Er … Dung, I really need to take that shower.”

“Wha'ever ya want then, lad,” Dung blubbered. “Ya `member where ya is, don'cha.”

“Er.… Right!” Harry turned around and spotted a nice walk-in shower. “Dung, if you don't mind, could I have some privacy?”

“Oh, right.” Dung shuffled for the door. “I'll be jus' outside.”

Harry showered himself clean and set to work fully Scourgifying his clothes. He had his pants back on and his wand trained on his shirt when a door that Harry was sure had not been there a few minutes ago creaked open.

“Well, hellooooo there,” a voice called out silkily. A gorgeous blonde - a dead ringer for the young bride in Les Liaisons Dangereuses - entered Harry's room.

“Well … er … Hi. Who are you, and why are you here?” Harry struggled to form coherent words as he tried to flick out his wand inconspicuously whilst also fumbling with his shirt. This day had been too weird already for him to take anything at face value.

Harry was right to be suspicious. “Look whose been working out….” the beautiful woman said. “Oh no, Harry's no little boy anymore … young, but not a child.…” Harry stared at her, not quite sure what to do. She had wonderful eyes…, full pouty lips…, and a nose like a … pig snout!

“Tonks, cut it out!” Harry protested. “This is no time to try being funny! People are dying out there…. Because of me.”

In short order Tonks was her usual punked out self. “Wotcher, Harry,” she chirped. Then she frowned. “Nobody's dying because of you, Harry. It's all because of Voldemort - because Voldemort's afraid that he won't be able to beat you even up.”

She continued. “Anyway, put on your shirt - or leave it off for all I care. I've got someone who badly needs to talk to you.”

Harry yanked his shirt on over his head with a start. “What?” he said. “You mean … Hermione?”

“Yes, Hermione.” Tonks said seriously. “Didn't Dumbledore remind you this is the Room of Requirement? Oh … and really nice look, Harry.”

Harry glanced down and saw that he'd put his shirt on backwards - which was certainly an accomplishment, since the shirt had a collar.

Harry had just gotten himself straightened out when Hermione tentatively stuck her head through the doorway.

“Harry? Can I come in?” she said in a rather high pitched squeak.

“Of course, Hermione,” Harry replied. “Why do you even ask that question when there are so many more important ones?”

“Well, when you consider that my father tried to assault you in public not very long ago, I thought it was at least courteous to ask,” she sniffed. She took three steps across the room, and practically collapsed into Harry's arms. “It was horrible.… For a moment I was afraid I was going to die…. Then we drove them off. They really weren't very good - magically that is.… Daddy shot two of them. Killed one outright, and injured the other.”

“I think they were really surprised at running into me. I put some of our training to good use…. Then … just as help was arriving.… I had forced them into the hallway.… I hit one of the remaining Death Eaters with Expelliarmus, but just as I did … a lift door opened, and the Death Eater sort of stumbled backwards into it. He - I think it was a he, anyway - must have thought he was being captured, because he blew himself up.…”

“Oh, Merlin it was awful….” Hermione was crying now. “The Death Eater immolated himself somehow.… And six innocent people burnt to death in that lift. I … I … can still smell the charred flesh…. Oh blast, I think I'm going to be sick again….”

“GLUURH….”

Hermione threw up on Harry's shoes - or at least she would have if she had anything left to regurgitate.

“They're carving lightning bolts in the foreheads of their victims, tonight,” Harry said flatly.

“How could even Death Eaters be so cru…? UUURRRP.” Hermione dry heaved again.

Harry looked frantically around. In a corner was a small table with a pitcher of ice water, several glasses and fine linen napkins. Harry thought it passing strange, as that was where the shower had been not long ago. He laid Hermione on the sofa - there had been nothing but chairs previously - and sopped her forehead with a napkin containing ice water. When Hermione felt well enough, he sat her up and gave her some water to drink.

“You know the Death Eaters are trying to break your spirit, Harry,” Hermione declared.

“To hell with my spirit,” Harry growled. “I was a bloody failure tonight…. Not being able to respond to your distress call.”

“If I've said it once, I've told you a million times not to feel guilty,” Hermione responded. “I'm not at all upset about that. Bringing you here straightaway was the right thing to do, just like it was for me - if my father hadn't gone crazy, that is….”

“I went spare when I saw it,” Harry continued. “Couldn't think straight…. Some fine trainee I am….”

“You were no more frantic than I was when I saw your distress call,” Hermione replied. “How did you escape?”

“Didn't have to…. Not immediately, anyway,” Harry answered. “False alarm. I was a bloody prat. I thought Moody and the rest were Death Eaters….”

“Don't kick yourself, Harry,” Hermione offered. “Moody's obviously just fine. When I was rescued, I was ready to make Shak take me to you. When he told me that Moody had charge of a crew sent to rescue you, I had accepted there was nothing constructive I could offer. I'd just get in the way.”

“You're probably right,” Harry conceded. “I just bollixed things worse by thinking I could save you, and then going off half cocked.”

“Well, I wasn't exactly punctual myself,” Hermione admitted. “I went spare even worse after help arrived. I thought … everything was over, but then I couldn't find Daddy. It was terrible…. I thought some hidden Death Eater had ambushed him. The lifts were out, so I ran back up six flights of stairs screaming for him all the while.”

“Obviously, he turned out all right, sort of,” Harry commented. At this moment he was not exactly the world's biggest fan of Hermione's father.

“Obviously,” Hermione repeated, catching Harry's drift. “I found him back in his office wielding a fire extinguisher and single-handedly battling a fire that was consuming the records room. A Death Eater spell must have started it, but it smouldered for quite some time before becoming a conflagration. Organising those dental records was what I'd been doing the entire summer. They're all gone now … burnt to ashes.”

Harry was aghast, but even that shocker paled in comparison to what Hermione had to say next.

“They're leaving, Harry,” she shrieked. “My parents have decided to emigrate to Australia - immediately - at least, as soon as they can sell the house.”

Harry was almost ready to burst through the front door and hunt down Dumbledore when Hermione assured him, “Oh, no it's not like that … not like that at all. I said they were moving to the Land of Oz - not me. They're … they're not taking me with them….”

Harry had trouble comprehending that. “You mean … they're going to leave you here … by yourself? During this war?”

“Yes, that's exactly what I mean, Harry,” she confirmed. “They asked, but I refused to go with them…. Then they gave up. They know there's nothing they can do to stop me from being a witch…. That's what I am. I'm staying at Hogwarts.”

“That's a relief,” Harry commented. “But who will look after you?”

“They're assuming you will,” Hermione replied acidly. “No doubt you can tell…. They blame you for all of this. They wish I'd never met you. Because of you, they don't feel safe anywhere in England anymore.”

“Oh.” There was very little Harry could say in response to that.

Only after Hermione had conveyed all of her news did Harry think for a moment and ask her the most pressing question of his own. “Hermione, why did you do that to … to Eliza?”

“Do what?” she responded coyly.

“You know what…?” Harry started; then he caught onto what she was doing. “Hermione! Don't play games with me! You know bloody well what you did, exposing her in public like that! That was mean and uncalled for.”

Hermione shrunk back a bit. So did Harry - but not very much. It had been quite some time since he had raised his voice in anger towards her. After biting her lip for several seconds Hermione broke the awkward silence.

“All right Harry,” she said defiantly, “let me try to put you in this picture. First, she asked me. In case you haven't noticed, I've been under a bit of strain tonight, so I was probably rather brusque, but basically I answered her question.”

“Second, the both of you need to stop living in your fantasy world. You may want to think that nobody knew about your secretive relationship. You're deluding yourselves! If I could figure this out, don't you think that Dumbledore - and others in the Order - know everything I do, and more?”

“Third, she needed to be brought up short. She has a choice to make. Either she accepts you and everything about you, or she needs to give you up. It's degrading to you both for her to be your back street girl like this! And for you to be her back door man! If she can't be with you openly, she's going to break your heart, and I'm afraid that's going to be sooner rather than later. I don't want to see you hurt Harry….”

Harry thought about all of this. He thought about Dung's tally. In every instance Hermione might be right on an intellectual level. But on a personal level she was wrong - what was worse, she was loud wrong….

Harry started to seethe. After all, only recently Hermione had yet again turned him aside romantically. After toying with his heart, it was none of her bloody business how he conducted his relationship with Eliza, even if she did not think much of it as a friend. Harry bluntly told Hermione to please keep her thoughts on this subject to herself:

“You might be right, but that's not the point, Hermione,” Harry told her. “It's like with you and Viktor. Neither Ron nor I thought much of that, but at least I respected your decision. I need to be able to make my own choices, and if necessary make my own mistakes - so SOD OFF!”

Hermione looked for a moment like she was going to burst into tears again, but she stopped herself. She bit her lip so hard that Harry was surprised it was not bloodied. Then she nodded a silent assent to Harry's demand, got up and left without another word.

Harry slumped on the sofa, head back in his hands, and pulled at his own hair. The pain helped reassure him that at least he had not died and gone to Hell. His life was a wreck. People all over England were dying simply because they knew him, or because their children knew him.

He felt helpless and worthless.

He regretted yelling at Hermione like that…. But maybe it would be best if he could drive her away somehow…. Maybe she should go to Australia…. At least there she would be safe….

No she would not be safe…. She would never be safe…. Not now. Nor did he really think he could drive her away…. He had been down that road before, and it was a dead end. That die had been cast long ago. Hermione's parents were right about one thing. He would look after her. He had to. For all intents and purposes, she was being orphaned too … because of him.

Things had calmed down considerably when Harry reentered the main room. There had been no new incidents, and as more information became available, it was evident to both the Order and the Auror Corps that the Death Eaters had suffered tremendous losses in the attacks. Five had been killed at Kew Gardens; three at the Granger dental surgery; seven more at St. Mungo's - as well as eleven Dementors being dispatched by powerful Patronuses. And so it went.

Dumbledore thought it was safe for Eliza to return home, and remain under discreet guard until she arrived at work the next morning. She took Harry to the room she had been using, and kissed him passionately before she departed. He promised to come see her when he could, but he did not know when that would be, given all that had happened. As Harry reemerged feeling somewhat less depressed, he ran into Fred, George - and Percy - Weasley

Percy hung back, but to his everlasting chagrin, the Twins gleefully recounted the story of their brother's narrow escape from death at the hands of four Death Eaters.

“The perfect prefect here never told us that he has this little love nest over the Magical Menagerie…,” Fred began.

“He should be in the Menagerie,” George added. “Fortunately little Penelope was working late when the Deaters paid a visit.”

“No protective wards,” Fred commented. “Tut, tut, tut…. Thought a Head Boy would know better.”

“He's always been the Pin-Head Boy,” George confirmed.

Percy looked like he was about to explode. “If you two weren't my brothers and hadn't rescued me tonight…,” he threatened.

“We hardly rescued you,” Fred corrected.

“Pulled you out of deep shit, true,” George cut in, “but no rescue, really.”

Fred turned from Percy back to Harry, “You see, our prat of a brother here was taken by surprise, and hit with a Disarming Spell….”

“But the lovebirds have this lovely third-storey picture window in the back of their flat,” George added. “Right next to their king-sized bed….”

“With satin sheets,” Fred pointed out. “Don't you forget the satin sheets….”

“Too much information,” Harry protested.

“…I never would have survived without those sheets,” Percy likewise objected.

“That's only because you were caught in your skivvies and tried to cover up,” George replied.

“According to eyewitness accounts,” Fred smiled maliciously, “Percy here was blasted through the window clad only in his boxers and clutching a pink satin sheet. From the third storey rear he fell through three window awnings on the way down until the sheet fouled in the last one.”

“It ripped clean in half,” George confirmed. “Percy's pink flag was still waving in the breeze when we arrived on O-Fish Alley.”

“So you were Percy's official rescuers?” Harry asked. He was becoming amused in spite of himself.

“No, no, no,” Fred corrected, “that's the name of the wee street behind the Magical Menagerie - O-Fish Alley.”

“Go ahead, get on with it…. Tell him the best part,” George prodded

“Can't you let it go, for once?” Percy snapped.

“After how you treated Mum and Dad, I rather think not,” Fred snapped back. “You're lucky we rescued you at all.”

“Well, what happened?” Harry asked. This was going to be rich - he could tell.

“Anyway, Percy landed in a cartload of fresh dragon dung that had been parked, awaiting unloading, at the Menagerie.” George revealed.

With that, Fred tapped his mutinous older brother on both shoulders with his wand as George intoned, “By the power we vest in ourselves, our dear brother is hereby dubbed, and shall henceforth be known by the title, of the `Great Dragon Dung Diver.'”

Whilst George was rendering his proclamation, Fred informed Harry, “Smells bloody awful, dragon dung does. But as Percy's a right accomplished brown-noser; I doubt he even noticed. Seriously, though, fresh dragon dung is powerfully magical - not to mention being a relatively soft landing. It was just about the best thing that the Great Diver here could have landed in. It protected him from what must have been torrent of spells from the Deaters….”

“We arrived whilst that was happening,” Fred added. “Got two of them. Our first kills as members of the Order.”

Moody and Dung were making arrangements for two squads of Aurors to escort Harry home. Two Obliviators instructed Harry on the cover stories that he needed to know for both Gator's gym (a gas explosion) and Kew Gardens (a backhoe had detonated a long-forgotten ammunition dump from the Second World War). Harry did a doubletake when he saw Neville Longbottom's grandmother, who was wearing summer-weight green robes and carrying her usual red handbag. Harry moved around for a better look and soon saw Neville as well.

Either Neville said something, or his expression gave him away, because the elderly witch immediately turned and gave Harry a meaningful looking over. She prodded Neville, and said a few words to him that Harry could not catch. Neville strode over to Harry as fast as he could comfortably go.

Neville spoke first. “Harry … I guess you know….”

“I know,” Harry affirmed, “I am so sorry. I'll apologise to your Gran if you want, since this is mostly my fault…. Getting you involved in the Department of Mysteries business and all that….”

“No, Harry,” Neville said firmly. “That's not what I - or my Gran - want at all. The time for apologies is over.”

Harry started to say something, but he thought better of it, seeing the look in Neville's eye.

Neville declared, “Harry, I loved my parents - more than anything - even though I can't remember them ever saying a coherent word to me. V-V-V-Voldemort's forces took their minds away from me when I was a baby, and now that I've become a … a man, they've killed them. I know what you've got to do, Harry. I'm not stupid. When it's time for you to go, I want to go with you. It should be my job as well…. I'd do it regardless, but Gran approves.”

Harry looked at the matriarch of Neville's old Lancastrian wizard family. She had a face that left no doubt that there was little she had yet to encounter in her long life. Beyond that, she still appeared more than ready for anything life had left to throw at her. She looked Harry straight back in the eye - and nodded.

Harry clapped Neville on the back. “You're in,” Harry said grimly. “I hope you understand what you're up against.”

“After tonight, I do,” Neville replied.

“Here's something you probably do want to know,” Harry told Neville. “Ron and Ginny are safe - Dumbledore told me.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Neville replied with his first smile of what had been a long, horrible evening for him as well. “You have no idea how relieved I am to know that.”

“I think I do,” Harry answered.

It was finally time for Harry to go home. A dozen Aurors and members of the Order escorted him back to Privet Drive, and then settled in to provide an extra guard for the night.

He was mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted. He had been attacked. Other people were dead - with lightning bolts mockingly carved in their foreheads. Eliza had been outed, by his best friend. He had screamed at that friend, after her own father had almost been killed because of him … and after she had told him that, for all intents and purposes, her refusal of her father's final demand to leave him had left her essentially without parents herself.

Harry frankly did not know what else could possibly go wrong.

He performed Occlumency - it was difficult, since that reminded him of Lao Kung. Harry realised that he did not even know if his Sefu were dead or alive. Dedicating his efforts to the Chinese sorcerer's memory, Harry was finally able to clear his mind enough to risk sleeping. Setting his Aural Pensieve for his next lesson, Harry soon fell into slumber, exhaustion winning out over misery.

“Mister Potter…. Harry! Wake up….” Somebody was shaking him, too.

Harry mumbled, “Oh go away Dudders. It can't be time to get up yet. It's not even light….”

“Harry, it is Albus, and we have some news for you. I am afraid it is not good….”

Harry's eyes snapped wide-awake. Before him, he saw not only the white maned visage of the Headmaster, but also the sad golden-yellowish eyes of Remus Lupin, and the identical - and identically blotchy - faces of Fred and George Weasley. Harry sat bolt upright. “What's going on now?” he asked urgently.

Lupin put his hand on Harry's shoulder, and told him to lie back down.

“It concerns your guardian, Bill Weasley,” Dumbledore said gravely. “He is dead.”

* * * *

Author notes: The chessboard sequence follows Luna's mention of shattered dreams in the prior chapter

In too many fics Harry effortlessly becomes sexual; I don't think sex will be any easier for him than anything else

The Clinton reference: Paula Jones/Gennifer Flowers, as Lewinsky unknown in 1996

“All fault lay with him and none with her” - from similar line in Tommy, “Go to the Mirror”

Harry feeling so weird to freak himself out - “Anything But Ordinary” by Avril Lavigne; that song could be metaphor for first half of chapter

The “on fire” reference - Springsteen

The gray, two-inch thick 1998 Toshiba model laptop was the first I ever used

Computer software is accurate for circa 1996, except maybe remote Internet access, advent of which I could not date

Dursleys giving Harry a laptop out of sudden goodness of their hearts is not likely

Sodium emission lines give many street lights a yellowish cast

Billy Don't Be a Hero, sums up Hermione's view of the prophecy is; the song figures later

“Rip” - gymnast term for a torn blister

The Four-Points spell is handy when Harry does exactly what Lao Kung warns against

Through a glass, darkly is from Apostle Paul

The “see a urologist” comment presumes sexual dysfunction

“Harrison's Principles of Internal Medicine” - standard medical school text

Lolita doll - a sex toy, named after the Nabokov book

Chops took place of signatures in traditional China

Tianhuang stone exists, and is accurately described

Vermilion is associated with Chinese emperors, who wrote decrees in that color

Wind/mountain is traditional Chinese saying; appeared in Mulan

“Shadows on your tongue” - used in Earth's Children

Harry should not wonder how things could possibly get worse

“Anything but ordinary” - same Lavigne song

Hai xing = starfish in Chinese; parable is fairly common

Po Hai, or the Gulf of Chili, is to the west of the Korean peninsula; like the Bay of Fundy, its shape creates large tides

Low spring tides necessarily occur at dawn and twilight

Li is Chinese equivalent of kilometer

“Thicker than fleas on a troll” comes from similar Civil War battle comment

Puff the Magic Dragon = C-130 gunship, a fast-firing close air support weapon

Verdun, perhaps the worst WWI battle, killed millions

Punji stakes are sharp, stick out of the ground, and are coated with obnoxious substances = poor man's land mine

“Let's have a look at you”: line on Rolling Stones “Get Your Ya Yas Out”

905 is name of clone in song by the Who

Arbela, Agincourt, and Gallipoli are famous battles, the latter two involving the English

The equation on Hermione's T-shirt is Navier-Stokes for fluid dynamics; such shirts exist; Hermione's T-shirts are mostly comic relief like Harry's poor alarm clock, but this one figures later

“Brookings, I presume” - from the famous Stanley/Livingstone greeting

Description of keeping confidential legal papers under court seal is accurate

Ides of November/Head Boy class of 1941/Enigma. Mundungus' home town (revealed earlier) explains what happened to his family

If you've seen Les Liasons Dangereuses, you know what I mean

“Young, but not a child” - “Gypsy Acid Queen” by the Who

The fire Hermione's father battles is not what it seems

“Back street girl” - Stones. “Back door man” - Doors (Dixon actually)

“Not only wrong, but loud wrong” - an insult when I was growing up

Patroni = plural of Patronus

Lupin is a werewolf, thus the yellowish eyes

73

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch23 darkness descends.doc 07/11/04

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24. Requiem

Wherein Harry learns the circumstances of Bill's death, has to be stupefied by Dumbledore, is both salvaged and savaged by Hermione, punches out a mirror, visits Dudley, learns Eliza has quit her job, and tries to help, learns of political upheaval from Dumbledore, finances the Order's new headquarters, gets new glasses, sees his lawyer, talks with Professor McGonagall, learns what happened to Luna, and upsets Ginny.

This is the first chapter written entirely after the debut of Half Blood Prince. I stated the following about that book: “Anyway, it's JKR's world and we are merely trespassers. She is perfectly within her rights to do with us as she will, even to set traps. Still, it would be nice to know what an idealistic genius Muggle-born could possibly see in a Quidditch-obsessed pure-blood whose only beef with the status quo is not enough status. Could be commercial. The book buying market has a lot more Rons and Ginnys than Harrys and Hermiones, so the bell curve rules.”

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

Chapter 24 - Requiem

That was a topper. Harry yanked his arm free and retreated under the bedclothes. “This cannot be happening,” he mumbled unbelievingly. “It's another bloody nightmare, and when I wake up you'll all be gone….”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said gently but firmly. “This is no nightmare. This is worse.”

Under the strain of all that had happened, Harry finally cracked.

“NOOOOOOOO!!!” he screamed.

Dumbledore tried his best to manage the situation. “I share your distress, Harry….”

Harry continued to bellow, paying no heed. “I CAN'T STAND IT ANY LONGER!! TAKE ME TO THE BASTARD NOW, BEFORE ANYONE ELSE GETS HURT…!! I'M NOT WORTH THIS…!!!”

“You need to control yourself,” Dumbledore counseled. “This is precisely what he….”

Harry was beyond listening. He started to glow and spark. In his rage, he grabbed the first object he could focus on - his long-suffering alarm clock - and hurled it through the window. The glass fragmented and fell with a resounding crash.

Nothing seemed to matter. Nothing seemed to help. Voldemort was destroying his world, piece by deadly piece. “I DON'T CARE ANYMORE!!! MAYBE I'LL KILL HIM!!! MAYBE HE'LL KILL ME!!!”

“Harry, you are not meaning what you are saying, surely….”

“MAYBE WE'LL KILL EACH OTHER!!! NO MATTER WHAT, AT LEAST EVERYONE ELSE WILL BE BETTER OFF!!!”

Harry was shimmering ever brighter. Hedwig squawked with fear, and swooped out the shattered window. In her haste, she scraped her left wing against a jagged shard, causing her almost to howl - an eerie owlish echo of Harry's own pain. Hedwig quickly vanished in the darkness.

The air was crackling. Dumbledore was suddenly aware that his own substantial locks and beard were all standing on end, giving him the appearance of a large, greying sea urchin.

Lupin pleaded with the Headmaster. “Albus, please do something. No good can possibly come of this. Harry … he's … he's….”

Dumbledore acknowledged Remus' worry with a raised hand and a nod. His sorrowful, blue-eyed gaze never left Harry's thrashing, effulgent form as the boy became increasingly enmeshed within the writhing sheets below. The sheets were starting to smell. Soon they would be smouldering. “You leave me no choice, Harry…. Stupefy.”

Dumbledore's spell, of course, worked. Harry instantly fell unconscious and his ethereal luminescence promptly faded. Silence was restored, and an unreal calm briefly reigned.

“Bloody Hell,” George swore. “I never thought I'd see the day….”

Fred shook his head. “Sorry, but that was the easy part. We're even further from setting things right than when we got here.”

“Right!?” George gave his alter-ego an odd look. “Forget right, at this point I'd settle just for holding things steady.”

Dumbledore slowly shook his head, and gently brushed an errant lock back from Harry's damp and clammy forehead. Softly, he addressed the insensate young man whose travails were overwhelming. “Truly, everything happens to you. I wish with all my heart that it were otherwise - but your course will never be easy…. The path of righteousness in wartime never is.”

The Headmaster displayed uncharacteristic sorrow as he straightened up and surveyed Harry's prostrate form. The boy's young body was sprawled brokenly on his meagre Muggle bed. He was clad only in his rumpled boxers and partially wrapped in the disheveled bedclothes. “He had already lost so much,” Dumbledore sadly thought out loud. “Now yet another life, another lifeline, has been cruelly wrenched from his grasp.”

Lupin, Fred and George said nothing, lost in their own gloomy meditations. The Headmaster heaved a great sigh. “Stunning Mister Potter was the last conceivable thing I wished to do….” His steely gaze fell upon Lupin, searching for an affirmation that was not forthcoming. “….But I am not about to risk a magical catastrophe, here or anywhere else. Nor can I have the Board of Governors concerned that he is a danger to himself or others.”

Grimly, Dumbledore looked away from Lupin, to Fred and George. “He did not take that very well,” the old man admitted. “Unfortunately, I think we are going to need reinforcements, are you agreed?”

Lupin looked at Dumbledore knowingly and imploringly. Harry's perilous state did not leave them with many options….

Fred and George added their reluctant approval. Fleur was not Bill's only confidante in (at least some) matters Potterania. The Twins were well acquainted with his descriptions of Harry's previous magical outbursts. Neither cared to experience one of those up close and personal.

Further discussion of the matter was unnecessary. All present understood what the Headmaster had proposed.

Dumbledore continued, “Very well, I shall collect her. Her family will not like it, but their changed circumstances leave them little choice - provided, of course, that she agrees.”

“No matter what, she will, I'm certain of it,” Lupin affirmed. The Twins nodded their agreement.

* * * *

Hermione was dead knackered. The night had had already been much too long and far too horrendous. Whilst she had survived the Death Eater attack, she had also been eyewitness to the immolation of six people. In one panic-filled moment, she thought Death Eaters had murdered her father. Then her parents informed her that they were moving to Australia - without her - as though the alternative would have been any better.

To add an exclamation point to that awful evening, she had finally met, face to face, the woman she believed had taken Harry's virginity. Hermione had not handled it well. Bollixed it royally was more like it.

Her reaction, she was now convinced, had been rather over the top. As a result, she was convinced that she had hurt - not helped - her cause with the only person who really mattered. Harry's voice, loudly and angrily telling her to mind her own business, still stung in her memory. It echoed through her thoughts, at once raw, sharp, and sarcastic.

The moment she returned home, she had locked herself in her room. She had not emerged since.

Hermione was in fitful slumber when, well after midnight, a drawn and grave Headmaster Dumbledore appeared uninvited in her bedroom and sought to rouse her.

“Miss Granger,” Dumbledore began without formalities. It was not an advisable approach - not in the immediate aftermath of the attacks. Hermione rolled over….

“Diffindo!”

The Headmaster's reactions were just quick enough. The Severing Charm missed his face by millimetres; a large portion of his beard dropping to the floor. The spell buried itself in the wall. A poster bearing the Hogwarts coat of arms slowly flopped over, supported only by its lower pushpins.

Dumbledore silently and wandlessly conjured a protective shield that deflected several more rapid-fire hexes.

“Miss Granger,” he repeated patiently, “It is I, Albus….”

“Dumbledore,” the young witch groaned. “I don't believe it. I just attacked my Headmaster…. Oh, I'm so sorry….”

“Not to worry,” he said wearily, “there is no harm done.” With a wave of his hand, Dumbledore's whiskers leapt from the floor and reattached themselves. “I am the one who must offer amends for the unannounced intrusion. It seems there has been an emergency, and I am requesting your assistance. Mister Potter….”

“I'm so sorry,” Hermione said wearily. “Not that I don't want to help, but I rather doubt Harry wants to see me right now. I haven't been a very good….”

“Whether or not he wishes to see you, he needs to see you, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore replied. “When I told him that Bill Weasley was dead….”

“Dead!? Bill!?” Hermione struggled to grasp the concept. “That's awful,” she finally said. “I can't see how Harry can take much more….”

“Precisely,” Dumbledore agreed. “He went into an irrational rage…. I had to Stun him to prevent another outburst.”

“I'm still not sure he'll see me,” Hermione admitted abjectly. “We had a row. I deserved what I got. I wasn't a very good friend to him earlier. I let my emotions get away from me….”

“It happens, Miss Granger. Sometimes, it cannot be helped,” Dumbledore offered with a weak smile. “Last night was a terrible time for us all. None of us, including myself, performed altogether admirably…. Not meaning to pry, but you do not think that Mister Potter would harm you, do you?”

“Feh.” Hermione dismissed that thought immediately. “No matter what, I'm certain Harry would never deliberately do anything to hurt me,” she declared.

“I agree,” Dumbledore answered. “Which is why I came here. Will you help me bring Mister Potter back from the brink? I doubt that there is anyone else who can.”

Hermione swallowed hard but did not hesitate. “Very well,” she agreed. Her thoughts, while chaotic, all circled the same centre of gravity - `If Harry needs me, I will be there for him.' Hermione realised that, whilst she might not be able to give him what she wanted, she could still try her best to give him whatever he needed. That was what friends were for.

Thus, at four in the morning, Hermione was standing alone before Harry. Hastily dressed in an old jumper and dungarees, she was trying however she could to find some way to help him cope with the murder of his guardian of only a few weeks. Dumbledore had fully explained how badly his attempt to tell Harry had ended. Hermione had as much, or more, eyewitness experience with Harry's eruptions as anyone, but she willingly accepted that risk.

Dumbledore counteracted his Stunning Spell. “Ennervate.”

Hermione whispered, “Harry, wake up. You need to wake up….”

His eyes flickered. He groaned loudly. “Oh, Hermione… I had the most terrible nightmare…. Whaaaa?” Harry abruptly jerked himself upright in the gloom. “Hermione, what are you doing in my room…?” Harry pulled the bedcovers over his nearly naked body. The indistinct blob under those covers shuddered and for a few moments gave off the sounds of hyperventilation.

In a very small voice, Harry asked, “It wasn't a nightmare was it?”

Hermione struggled to answer Harry's question. “N-n-n-no Harry, it's not… Dumbledore told you the truth. Bill's really … dead.… Y-you have to be strong because… because … because I can't be any longer….” Hermione wailed the last few words and collapsed in tears against Harry's sheet-covered figure.

His gut reaction was to try to soothe her. Harry awkwardly tried placing both hands on Hermione's back … but the sheets got in the way. Frustrated, he vanished them wandlessly. Once he did that, the touch, the smell of her hair, the feeling of Hermione's body lurching in sorrow beneath his hands was too much. A wave of emotion shot through Harry's own core….

His anger melted away. His stoic exterior shattered. Within seconds, Harry began weeping as well. For both, the events of the past twenty-four hours were simply overwhelming. The two grieved together for what seemed like forever. No more words were spoken. None needed to be. Their embrace was sufficient - more than sufficient.

It had not been planned. Such a thing could not be. But their mutual catharsis through mutual mourning relaxed Harry and calmed his fevered emotions. He did not explode. He did not hurt Hermione, or anyone. He accepted the horrible news without further incident.

Eventually, Hermione gently disentangled herself, and whispered to Harry, “Are you ready to see the others now?”

Harry reluctantly nodded, but when Hermione made to rise, he caught her by the wrist. “Give me a few minutes more…. Please?” Harry did not attempt to draw her towards him again, so Hermione parked herself in Harry's desk chair.

“Would you mind?” Harry asked. After brief moment of uncertainty, Hermione figured out that he wanted to get dressed.

“I can leave,” she offered.

“No,” Harry said with a start. “Just … just turn around….”

Her cheeks burning crimson, Hermione turned to the wall until Harry told her he was done changing.

Then Hermione mutely watched as Harry resolutely folded himself into a lotus position and performed Occlumency to clear his mind.

Hermione was struck with the cruel irony of Harry's plea to her for a few minutes more of solitude; in his own house no less. How much different this encounter was from her previous visits here. Before, the atmosphere had been lively. Now it was just … deadly.

Somebody had once said “no man is an island,” but this man, no this boy, was simply marooned. He was a rock, but he was an island - isolated. What was worse, in this case, at this moment, he was one feeling the pain. He was one who did cry. All his fame and fortune (Hermione grimaced at that thought) notwithstanding, Harry was so profoundly alone. He so desperately needed a bridge….

Hermione tried to imagine what Harry must be feeling at that moment; her emotional link to him was detecting the most abject depression she had ever sensed. She tried to ignore the link, particularly as it began to affect her own psyche. At this moment, more than any other, Harry needed his privacy….

Seconds stretched into minutes. Lost in her own thoughts, Hermione did not notice when Harry had finished preparing himself. His dark depression had lifted. A dull aching pain had replaced it.

She was startled when Harry told her, in an even, unfamiliar voice devoid of emotion, “I'm ready Hermione. You can let them in now.”

She walked slowly to the door, but just before opening it, Harry caught her by the arm. “Hermione?” he asked questioningly, “I'm glad you came … after … after everything, and all….”

“Why, of course I'd come,” she responded quietly, “a little unpleasantness is nothing compared to this.”

“You're, you're better than me,” Harry choked out. “I'm not sure I would have … after … after somebody yelled at me like that.”

“You're not just somebody,” she replied. “You're my best friend in all the world. It was my fault…. I hope you can forgive me….”

“You don't need to be forgiven, Hermione,” Harry reassured her. With that, their private moment ended.

Hermione stepped to the door, opened it, and had a whispered conversation outside Harry's earshot. Soon Dumbledore, Lupin, Fred and George filed back in. Harry said nothing, but looked at Dumbledore and nodded.

The Headmaster did not miss the cue. “Mister Potter, Voldemort's Death Eaters did something utterly unexpected this evening … completely out of character. They carried out an attack on foreign soil. Previously - for more than thirty years - Death Eater activity had been confined to the British Isles. Voldemort may someday rue this escalation, but tonight he achieved total surprise.”

He paused. Harry said nothing, but was staring intently, so Dumbledore continued. “A group of Death Eaters led by Bellatrix Lestrange carried out a successful attack on the Delacour estate in France. Your guardian and one other were killed, and there were lesser casualties.”

Hermione scowled at the Headmaster. He had already told her some of what had happened. She would not have described any casualty as “lesser.”

“Tell me what happened,” rasped Harry, his voice tapering off to the verge of dullness.

“The French authorities are still keeping a number of details close to the vest, but the attack on the Delacour estate commenced precisely at midnight. Fleur Delacour had taken the TGV to Paris to announce the engagement and make some arrangements. Bill Weasley stayed behind to take advantage of the opportunity to make better acquaintance of his soon-to-be in-laws and to meet some local friends of the family. The return train was delayed, perhaps by sabotage.”

“In any event, except for some house-elves, Mister Weasley and the remainder of the Delacour family were alone in their château at the time of the attack. There was apparently quite a struggle, and several Death Eaters perished. In the end, however, the force of the Death Eaters' numbers was simply too great. He, Maréchal Delacour, and most of the elves perished.”

“What about the rest of the family?” Harry asked earnestly.

“Madame Delacour survived, but was driven to madness by the violence of the assault. The only sane survivor was the young daughter, who hid in a laundry bin. Miss Delacour - Fleur, that is - discovered everything when she arrived home. She is in seclusion.”

“The daughter - that would be Gabrielle Delacour, wouldn't it?” Harry asked through tightly pursed lips.

“That is correct, Mister Potter,” replied Dumbledore.

“I-I saved her once…. During the Triwizard Tournament's second task…. Gabrielle was the person Fleur valued the most, and when Fleur was delayed, I cut her loose and brought her to the surface along with Ron.” Harry's voice continued devoid of emotion.

“Ah yes,” Dumbledore reminisced with a sigh. “I had almost forgotten about that.”

“I haven't,” Harry replied. “Fleur sent me a note, inviting me to their … château, is it? She said I was Gabrielle's hero.”

“I do not doubt that for a minute, Harry.” Hermione interjected.

“Some hero I was last night…. No bloody chance that will ever happen now,” Harry spat, showing emotion for the first time during the conversation. Turning to Dumbledore, Harry said, the words like daggers, “I think you're keeping things from me again. I want you to tell me exactly what happened. I need to know all the details.”

“You really don't want to know,” cautioned Lupin. “The details are not pretty…. Not in the least.”

Harry wheeled and glared at his former professor. “I have to know - and I have a right to,” objected Harry. “I have to know to be able to fight them. I'm too bloody weak. I tried to use the Cruciatus Curse on Lestrange at the Ministry and failed miserably. She said I really had to mean it. I have to appreciate exactly how evil Voldemort is … how evil she is … if I can ever hope to kill them.”

Taken somewhat aback by Harry's lethal sentiments, Dumbledore groped for words. Hermione did not.

“No Harry, you don't want to know and you don't have to,” she forcefully insisted. “Why on Earth are you taking advice from a slimy Death Eater…? You can't fight Voldemort on his own terms like that - it's suicidal. He'll…. He'll know just how to deal with you, since he's the master of vengeance.” Hermione paused for a breath. She was shaking with rage herself, a rage that took on all comers.

“If you ever try to destroy Voldemort by turning yourself Dark…,” Hermione admonished Harry, and then turned to the others, “…or if you ever encourage him to, I will, I will … walk out of that door, forsake magic altogether, and never look back! I cannot…. I will not live with that. You are good Harry, not evil, and you cannot make a deal with the Devil, even to finish Voldemort.”

Fred and George looked at each other, but said nothing. They had only come to offer moral support, as Bill's brothers. They were in no mental shape to do anything but watch the drama that was unfolding.

Dumbledore chimed in, offering the wisdom of age in support of Hermione's certainty of youth. “Miss Granger is absolutely right, you know. You will never defeat Voldemort with the magic Voldemort knows most thoroughly.” Turning to the others, he said, “Now it is my turn to ask you to step outside, if you will.”

The others looked confused, but they all filed out docilely.

Dumbledore muttered an Imperturbable Charm, and then addressed Harry. “Have you told Miss Granger about the prophecy?”

“No,” Harry answered truthfully. “I've often considered it, but I haven't.”

“You have acted with admirable circumspection, although you might have let something slip just then,” affirmed Dumbledore. “Be that as it may, it appears that Miss Granger has independently come to some fairly accurate conclusions regarding the prophecy. Remember what it said, Harry. The power that you have to `vanquish the Dark Lord' is `the power that the Dark Lord knows not.' You will not fulfill the prophecy through cold-blooded hatred, or by means of an Unforgivable Curse, for there are no powers with which Voldemort is more intimately acquainted.”

“Well, what is it, then?” countered Harry.

“That I cannot tell you,” replied Dumbledore. “Nor would it do either of us any good to tell you, for you must find it within yourself.”

Harry gaped at the Headmaster. “You're the Legilimens,” he mumbled. “If you can't tell me, nobody can.” He kicked disconsolately at the floor. Behind him, unseen by the young man, the painted image of Godric Gryffindor gave Dumbledore a knowing wink, before yawning and shuffling off again.

“It is not as far away as you think,” Dumbledore answered, “nor as unknowable.”

Harry sat mutely on the bed, shaking his head at the latest of the Headmaster's færie tales. “Your perspective is different from mine,” he moped.

With their discussion of the prophecy concluded, Dumbledore invited the others to return. He announced, “Notwithstanding Miss Granger's point - or perhaps because of it - I believe that the both of you need to know exactly what happened at the Delacour château. This has nothing to do with revenge. The forces of light should never entertain such fantasies. However, under the circumstances, I believe that the truth will come out. I would much rather you learn it now, and from me, than from some lurid, half-fictional account in the Prophet.”

“As best I know, Mister Weasley and Maréchal Delacour fought together against overwhelming odds. They almost succeeded in repulsing a phalanx of at least twenty Death Eaters, directed by Madam Lestrange. Mister Weasley was felled by the Killing Curse moments after a great feat. He had collapsed the roof of the Delacours' indoor swimming pool on several of his adversaries, drowning them….” Dumbledore stopped and gathered his thoughts.

“Unfortunately, his death was not the worst of it. For some time after that, Maréchal Delacour fought on tenaciously to protect the rest of his family. Several of his elves evidently sacrificed themselves to block additional Killing Curses…. But it was not enough.”

“Somehow, the Maréchal was injured. Due to that, the Death Eaters captured him alive. They also found his wife. They … they brought him before his wife. Purely for spite, Lestrange used a dismembering spell - something known as the Four-Corners Curse….”

Harry and Hermione both shuddered. That was one of the very same curses that had been featured in Lesson 128. Harry's eyes narrowed, but that was nothing compared to Hermione's reaction. The young witch purpled, and had to bite her lip savagely to keep from interrupting. `They taught that awful curse to Harry,' she thought. But she said nothing.

“...literally to tear him apart in front of her,” Dumbledore continued. “Madame Delacour had evidently been hiding in the wardrobe. There is no evidence that she participated in the fight. Unfortunately, the Defence curriculum at Beauxbatons for girls has always left something to be desired….”

The Headmaster paused again, returning from that tangent. “As a result she took leave of her sanity. Her daughter, Fleur, discovered her sitting on the floor of their wrecked bedroom, babbling incoherently and surrounded by blood and human body parts.”

“Both corpses - or in the Maréchal's case, what was left - were mutilated … in that … in the manner I… er … previously described to you earlier in the evening…. Maréchal Delacour's severed head was found impaled on a splintered post on what remained of their canopy bed.”

“Her recovery is doubtful,” Dumbledore concluded, a rueful expression on his face.

There was little more to say after that. No funeral arrangements had yet been made, as the French Ministère de la Magie was involved. The time of night did not lend itself to small talk.

“Mister Potter, no one save vampires is awake at this hour. As difficult as it seems, you should try to get some sleep. You are undoubtedly exhausted - as am I,” Dumbledore instructed.

“Easy for you to say,” Harry grumbled. “You weren't the target of these attacks.”

“If ever there were a time for you to use that Dreamless Sleep Potion that Madam Pomfrey prescribed for you last June, this is it. You are too tired to think straight, and when you have trouble acting rationally….” Dumbledore's voice trailed off.

Harry knew the Headmaster had in mind the recent screaming fit that had forced his hand and drawn a Stunning Spell. Harry agreed to use the Potion.

Surprisingly, Hermione also requested some of the Potion. Except during her immediate hospitalisation after the events at the Ministry, Hermione had never used - let alone requested - this type of potion. The stress of the Death Eaters' revelry had taken its toll on her as well.

Late the next morning, Harry was roused from deep sleep by bright sunlight streaming through his magically repaired window. Startled, he jerked himself to a sitting position in bed. “Oh bloody Hell; I must be terribly late…. What time is it anyway? Accio alarm clock.”

CRASH.

Startled by the noise of shattering glass behind him, Harry had his wand out faster than the blink of an eye - just as his alarm clock restored itself to its accustomed position of prominence on the corner of Harry's desk.

“Right,” a chagrined Harry muttered to nobody in particular. Only now did he belatedly recall hurling the clock through the window the night before. Now the clock had managed to break the same window twice - going and coming.

Harry started to remember everything. He ran a hand over his face, reaching upward to tug at his errant hair, as untamed as ever. The cobwebs in his mind fell away much more easily than his unruly locks. Images, revolting memories of the night before, began flooding back unbidden - and despite pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, he could not staunch the flow.

Very shortly, however, a realisation, more prominent than the others, overtook him. He was likely late for his Auror training lesson. The clock read 10:30 a.m. Harry snorted and lurched out of bed in the general direction of the loo.

“Relax Harry; your lesson's been cancelled.”

“Bloody Hell!” Harry whirled around whilst assuming a defensive combat position. He saw Remus Lupin at the foot of his bed, leaning back in what was normally his desk chair. The front two chair legs were in the air.

“Professor Lupin!” Harry blurted. “What's going on?”

“Harry, please - I'm Remus to you….”

Lupin received a blank look for his trouble. Harry had asked a question, and wanted an answer.

“What's going on is that the entire Ministry is in an uproar, especially the Auror Corps,” Lupin informed Harry. “The attacks have caused a full-blown political crisis.” He lowered the chair slowly. “Your lessons are suspended for the rest of the week - maybe longer - whilst things sort themselves out.”

“When will I know?” Harry replied.

“Same as always - when somebody tells you,” Lupin said, shrugging. “Oh by the way, you've had an owl.” He unceremoniously tossed Harry a letter.

“Reparo.” Lupin took the opportunity to fix the broken window.

Harry ripped the letter open. It was from Ron - another Quidditch-soaked letter, containing Ron's dramatic descriptions of Hogwarts' latest victory in the quarterfinals of the Danish interscholastic tournament, and including another Omniocular with excerpted highlights. Written before the attacks, Ron's letter seemed wildly out of place now, even trivial.

Giving Ron's latest only a cursory glance, Harry tossed it aside. “Where's everyone else?” he asked.

“Your aunt and uncle spent the night with Dudley in the Frimley Park Hospital. He's got a broken wrist and some burns. You might want to visit. Fred and George are back at the Burrow. Their family has a funeral to plan.”

“Why are you still here?” Harry asked.

“Dumbledore didn't think you should be left by yourself - not after all that's happened,” Lupin replied. “Why it's me, I'm not altogether sure. I suppose it's because I'm the last of the Marauders. With James and Sirius dead, and with the other turned traitor, Dumbledore must feel that, of everyone, I have the best idea of what you are going through right about now.”

Harry mutely regarded Lupin for what might have been the longest fifteen seconds of the older man's life (if Lupin's own life had not been so tragic). When Harry finally spoke, it was to ask another question. “Profes… er … Remus, do you ever think about what's happened and … you know … think about what might have been done differently…? I guess … what I'm asking is … do you blame yourself for what happened?”

Lupin let out a huge sigh and blinked rapidly. “Only every day of my life for the last fifteen years or so,” he confessed sadly.

“I thought so,” sighed Harry alongside him. “I think I'm the most inept and useless person that ever walked the Earth, sometimes - and this is one of those times.”

“Well, join the club,” Lupin invited, his left eyebrow raising, giving away his not-so-subtle sarcasm.

“How have you found the strength to … to continue? I'm just about ready to go bonkers,” Harry asked, eyeing the man intently.

Lupin returned his gaze through saddened, slightly wolfish, eyes. “Because, Harry, I have to. And so do you. That's just what he wants - Voldemort - for us to become too depressed, guilty, fearful, whatever, to carry on…. If we don't pick up the pieces and continue, Voldemort wins. And that's just too terrible to contemplate…. So it's hardly strength when there's no other choice.”

“What do you think I should do now?” Harry asked.

Lupin replied flatly, “Carry on as best you can…. That's all anyone can do. But remember that too much sacrifice can turn your heart to stone. You still have to live, somehow. But for the moment, there are wounded to heal and dead to bury. Where do you want to start…?”

Harry stared into space for an unnervingly long time before speaking. “I suppose with the living,” he decided. “Can't help the dead, after all. Can I see Lao Kung?”

“Not now, since nobody knows where he is,” Lupin replied. “His directive for such an event has taken him back to somewhere in China, and we've been told not to inquire. If he lives, I reckon he'll be back when he's ready.”

Harry went down the list. “What about Luna - or Dudley?”

“Miss Lovegood's still in intensive care. Her injuries are severe and, at this point, prevent her from speaking. You'll be informed when her condition improves, I assure you. Your cousin is not seriously injured. He's a much better bet, if you're willing, that is.”

“Damn right, I am,” Harry replied resolutely. “Dudders turned out to be almost okay, and now he's paid the `I-know-Harry' price for it.”

With that he rose to his feet and headed for the Dursley bathroom to wash up.

“Oh, and Harry….” Lupin called after him. Harry turned. “How do you feel about funerals?” Lupin asked. “If it's too much, too soon, I'm sure people will understand.…”

“Whatever anyone says about fault,” Harry responded grimly, “in some sense what happened is my responsibility. I'm prepared to go to every funeral that will have me. I feel that's the least I can do for those who died for the crime of knowing me - or of being related to one of my friends.” Harry turned on his heel.

“Is that something I can tell Dumbledore?” Lupin asked.

“Why?” asked Harry in return.

“Because if you're serious, Dumbledore's the one to convey that offer to the families,” Lupin responded. “I'm sure you'd rather not be having those conversations yourself, and it's not something I think you could trust the Creeveys, or even Hermione, to do - although I'm sure they would try, if you asked.”

Harry pondered the point a bit. Ordinarily Dumbledore was far too nosey to be trusted as a social secretary, but this was different. “Yeah, I suppose so,” Harry agreed. “He's far smoother about such things than I am. If there's anyone to be offended, let him do it…. Tell him that I'll attend any funeral where I'm welcome.”

“Got it,” Lupin acknowledged. He sighed in amazement at how Harry could possibly hold up under all the strain, being barely sixteen years old. Without warning, he heard a tremendous crash from down than hall. Lupin sprinted to the bathroom to find Harry standing in front of a ruined medicine cabinet mirror, shattered glass everywhere, calmly examining his bloody, sliced-up fist.

“Why in Merlin's name did you do that?” Lupin asked reproachfully as he drew his wand and made to set the cabinet right again.

“I just couldn't stand to look at myself just now,” Harry replied honestly. “I'll get over it, though,” he continued, with just the slightest hint of a smile. “The pain helps me remember that I'm still alive.”

Lupin pointed his wand at Harry's bleeding knuckles, but Harry stopped him. “Leave it,” he directed. “I figure that I should at least have some sort of a scar on account of last night. To share everyone else's losses, so to speak.”

Harry applied some Betadine and sticking-plasters to his knuckles Muggle-style, the way Dudley had showed him earlier that summer when he introduced Harry to boxing. Then Harry went to see Dudley, Muggle style - trailed discretely by Lupin.

Harry cautiously popped his head through the door to Dudley's sick room. “There you are,” he said evenly. “Thought I'd never find it.”

“Harry, mate,” Dudley's eyes brightened when he recognised Harry. “Glad you could make it. Bloody inconvenient that nobody knew where you were….”

“I … I heard….” Harry said haltingly. “I'm so relieved you're safe, and alright … er … mostly…. Gas explosion…. Terrible things, those….”

Whilst Dudley was pleased to see Harry, his Aunt and Uncle were less receptive. But even they did not make any rude remarks, given the circumstances. Amazingly, there were apparently some things that overcame even the Dursleys' dislike of him. They were too thankful that Dudley had escaped from the horrible natural gas explosion that had leveled his gym and killed several people.

With a wavering voice, Dudley told Harry something that he thought his cousin did not know. “Er … Harry … I'm afraid that … that your karate teacher … that Kung fellow … didn't make it…. At least that's what I heard….”

Dudley had no way of knowing that Harry had far more information about Lao Kung than he did.

“You're….” Harry started and stopped. “Why, that's awful,” Harry said, whilst thinking of Bill so that his face would convey the correct emotion. “He was … one of the best teachers I've ever had. Any word on a memorial….?”

Of course, there was none, as Harry well knew.

The Obliviators had done their work effectively. Dudley had no idea what really happened, and the rest of the family was altogether clueless. Dudley rattled on good-humouredly about how he would be out of the hospital in a matter of days and how he would get the large cast off of his left arm in a month or so. The fight for which he had been training was, of course, postponed, but Dudley was simply happy to be alive.

Dudley did not know the half of it, Harry reminded himself.

The Dursleys' sheer gormlessness left Harry feeling rather ill at ease. It seemed to him that the entire scene was one big lie - enough lies to turn his stomach, even though for once they were not directed at him. He felt like he was walking on eggshells to avoid saying or doing anything that would give the game away.

As a result, Harry said good-bye to his relatives sooner than he anticipated. Outside the hospital, he rang up Eliza on his mobile. Harry expected merely to leave an apologetic message on her answerphone, because Eliza was normally at work during midday. Harry was surprised when she answered.

“Harry, is that you?” she asked, upon hearing his voice, knowing the answer full well.

“Er… Yeah. I was expecting you'd be at work. I have some more bad news….” Harry waited for Eliza say something, but when she didn't, he ploughed ahead. “Bill Weasley, my guardian, was killed last night by Death Eaters - he was in France.”

“Oh, Harry, that's so terribly awful,” Eliza wailed. “You must be shattered. I,I,I don't know what to say. Do you want to come over? Is there anything, anything at all, I can do to help you. This makes my bad news sound so trite….”

Harry was a little nervous. Eliza's “anything at all” comment called forth uncertain memories of the last time she had offered to do “anything” for him - and that time she had meant “anything” in the carnal sense. That offer had led to … well … one of Harry's now lesser problems….

Then he heard Eliza mention “bad news.”

“Oh, Merlin, no!” Harry gasped, jumping to what seemed to him the most obvious conclusion. “They didn't…. Dumbledore didn't tell me the Death Eaters had attacked your family too!”

“Calm down, Harry, that's not what I meant,” Eliza soothed. “I don't have any family worthy of the name, really. I'm not that different from you in that respect. Although, come to think of it, I will ring my Mum in Wagga Wagga, just to be sure. My bad news is only that I'm quitting my job.”

“Quitting your job?! Why are you doing that?” Harry protested. “Don't go anywhere.…” Harry ducked between two motorcars. With only the barest effort to let Lupin know what he was planning, Harry Apparated to Eliza's kitchen - tripping a couple of car alarms to cover the distinctive “POP”.

Eliza whirled around upon hearing a similar pop behind her. She was still holding her phone.

“I hope it's not because of me…,” Harry continued.

“Of course, it's because of you, Harry,” Eliza chided. “I can't continue there because too many people know about us now - thanks to your dear friend. The tongues will be wagging, and sooner or later, probably sooner, the news will reach those who wish us … well, you … ill. I'm not about to stay on as the next inviting target for another nasty Malfoy court filing. It was a risk that I accepted from the day I met you. I've just decided I'd rather resign rather than wait and get sacked.”

“Wha…? What are you going to do now?” Harry asked, flabbergasted by the news.

“I don't know. I'll find something. There aren't many transcriptionists who can work in both magical and Muggle settings like I can,” Eliza explained.

“Let me help you,” Harry offered. “I can cover your expenses until you….”

“That would only make a bad situation worse, and you know it,” Eliza shot back. “What have I told you about giving me money? I won't accept it. I'm not going to be your kept woman….”

Harry's jaw clenched, tightly.

“…Even though we know it's not like that, you're shadowed by a bloody mob of paparazzi and other would-be hangers who won't know and won't care,” Eliza finished.

Harry let out a sigh. “At least let me help you find another job, then,” he pleaded. “I'm sure I know somebody who.…”

Eliza cut him off. “That might be even worse. Office gossip is deadly. Even if you did that, how could I show my face each day with the rest of my office talking behind my back that I've only been hired because I'm Harry Potter's mistress? No! Any new position I'm going to get will be on my own merits - as paltry as those might seem.”

Harry was taken aback. He felt so useless. “Isn't there anything you'll let me do for you?” Harry asked. “This is my fault, after all. If you hadn't met me.…”

“Then I wouldn't have had the most exciting, wonderful month of my life,” Eliza interrupted.

Harry replied, “Even with all that's happened…?”

“Yes,” Eliza affirmed, “even with everything that's happened I don't regret meeting you for a second. Now, there might be something you could do….”

They spoke for another fifteen minutes. It was finally agreed that Eliza would accept Harry's help in obtaining a new position - in her field of specialty, or close to it - but only indirectly. Harry could open doors for her, but not at any establishment with which he had business. She refused to work at any place where Harry was a major client, customer, or (thinking specifically of Cadbury's) contractor.

Even though Eliza would have been happy for Harry to stay for some snogging, he reluctantly excused himself.

“I'm … I'm sorry. Things…. Well they're just too unsettled, right now.” Harry regarded those pouty lips he was losing the opportunity to taste.

“I see you're still sorting things out,” she observed.

“I'm afraid so,” he replied with a bit of annoyance. “Death has this way of depressing me, you see. All these funerals to attend…. Some not even scheduled yet…. I'm not sure when I'll next be able to see you….”

“I could go with you if you'd like,” Eliza unexpectedly offered. “If you'd like moral support, that is.”

Harry was surprised to the point of being shocked. “I-I-I … thought you didn't want to … to be seen in public with me. You were quite clear on that….”

Understanding that Harry's statements were really a question, Eliza explained. “Well, the secret's out anyway. So, if we're going to keep seeing each other, there's no use to being dodgy about it anymore. That would only make matters worse. The only thing I don't want is public displays of affection where wizards might see us. I don't want to be that much of a spectacle. No front page pictures in the Prophet….”

Although the appear-in-public issue had been one of his biggest complaints about his relationship with Eliza, this resolution - or at least significant advance - oddly left Harry not feeling as happy as he thought he should. The circumstances that had brought it about were just too ghastly. Harry had a very valid excuse at the ready, however.

“Umm…. That's … that's great. But I'll have to clear something like that with the affected families. With some it might be a stretch for me to be welcome even by myself. You know how those bloody reporters are. If you're with me, there's sure to be a paparazzi feeding frenzy. I don't want to disrupt anything. These are supposed to be … solemn.”

Harry returned to Privet Drive around 3:30 in the afternoon. The Dursleys were still at the hospital. There was a short note from Dumbledore acknowledging Harry's stated willingness to attend funerals, congratulating him for it, and inquiring if there were “difficulties” between Harry and the Weasley family. Dumbledore closed by asking Harry to come to Hogwarts for a meeting “as soon as practicable.”

Harry frowned. He was not at all sure how to tell Dumbledore about how the Weasleys - and particularly Molly Weasley - blamed him for Ron resigning as a Prefect. He assumed the Headmaster knew at least something about this. It was a Hogwarts matter, after all. However, Dumbledore had never broached this subject with him before.

Harry pondered that situation, and his other situations, and made a couple of decisions. He arranged to meet the next morning with Blackie Howe. His stated reason was to take advantage of an unexpected day off to go over his upcoming testimony at the Malfoy will contest and at the trials of Lucius Malfoy and Dolores Umbridge, but there were other reasons as well….

Harry also dashed off a rather painful letter to Professor McGonagall, his Head of House. Quickly, Harry sealed it and gave it to Hedwig to deliver - before he changed his mind.

Only after that did Harry go to Mrs. Figg's and comply with the Headmaster's summons.

Harry quickly made his way to Dumbledore's office after Flooing to Hogwarts. He used his Valkyrie in the halls of the Castle for the first time. Afterwards, he planned to fly - for his sanity. Harry was a little embarrassed to find the Headmaster at the foot of the stairs next to the gargoyle. Obviously, Dumbledore had been alerted to Harry's arrival and was waiting for him. Harry was relieved that the Headmaster said nothing about his unusual mode of travel whilst leading the way to his office.

“Mister Potter,” Dumbledore began, “did you see today's Prophet?”

“No I haven't,” Harry admitted. “After last night, I slept in, more or less by accident, and then there were some things I had to do. I've seen Dudley and…,” there was no reason not do use her name now, “…Eliza. I'd like to see Luna.”

“In good time, Mister Potter,” Dumbledore answered enigmatically. “She very nearly died and she is badly injured. She is under heavy sedation, but if you insist, I shall take you to the Hospital Wing to see her. Poppy will not approve, but it is your choice.”

“If not now, when can I see her?” Harry asked.

“I believe on Sunday, at the earliest,” Dumbledore replied. “She will probably be recovered physically on Saturday, but she needs some time of her own to accept what has happened. If she is willing to see you earlier, I shall summon you. What you need to know about is the political situation - and how that situation dovetails with your willingness to attend funerals.”

Harry was nonplussed. “Political situation? What's that got to do with funerals?”

“Let me start with Cornelius Fudge,” Dumbledore explained. “Whilst Mister Fudge is still Minister of Magic, he has essentially been relegated to a caretaker's position. At the moment, he would be lucky to poll ten percent in the Wizengamot if there were a no confidence vote - and he knows it. The only reason Cornelius has retained even his nominal position is that the immediate aftermath of such serious attacks is simply not the most opportune time for a change at the top. That, and the fact that the attacks' effect upon the overall political situation is still quite uncertain….”

Harry was unimpressed. “So what?”

“So this,” Dumbledore replied. “You may well hold the political balance.”

“Stop having me on,” Harry told the Headmaster. “Last year I was a nutter, and everybody around me is a target for Voldemort. That hardly seems bloody politic to me.”

“What you think is not particularly important,” Dumbledore carried on in an annoyingly sagacious manner. “It is what others think about you. As could be expected, the attacks have generated an enormous amount of public sympathy for you. That sympathy may or may not be transitory. To what extent the public's sympathy would crumble, should an appeal to wizard chauvinism be made in response to your stand on equality of all magical beings is unclear. Both what you did, and what has happened to you, are unprecedented in recent history. That creates uncertainty, and politicians hate uncertainty. Until things sort out, neither of the two major factions is sufficiently sure of its strength to call for a no confidence resolution and thereby bring about new elections.”

“How about starting with the basics?” Harry requested. “What factions are those?”

“Very well,” Dumbledore agreed. “One of the factions is mine - and I would like to think of it as yours as well. This is the faction that has publicly embraced equality of all sentient magical beings as essential to prosecute the war against Voldemort. Unfortunately, this faction has previously been a minority, with the support of perhaps 30-35% of the wizard public.”

Harry grimaced and made some unintelligible sound.

“I'm sorry,” Dumbledore responded. “but most wizards - like most people -respond to political messages that would target their fears more than to those that would inspire their hopes. The simple fact is that, since time immemorial, most wizards have preferred to maintain their overlordship with respect to other magical beings rather than ally with them for the greater good. Previously, they have been unwilling to change even to oppose Voldemort and his Death Eaters.”

“You're right about one thing,” Harry spat. “Most people are bloody fools, or worse.”

“True enough,” Dumbledore concurred. “You saw firsthand how most of the wizard community was manipulated last year by lies about yourself, and about me. But these attacks seem to be a watershed. I have heard reports from all over, through the Order and otherwise, that last evening brought home to practically everyone how hideous the Dark Lord really is. Memories are short. They had been dulled by almost fifteen years of peace. The attacks rekindled the full terror of the First War. I expect that at least 10% of the wizard electorate shifted overnight, driven to our position by the urgency of defeating Voldemort. That fraction may well be even greater, but I try to be conservative in my estimates. If much more than ten percent, Mister Potter, the sympathy factor for you could well be the fulcrum upon which the next election will turn.”

Harry was startled and more than a little afraid of the political cup that had just been set before him. “I don't want that any more than the money. I'm … I'm a terrible leader,” he protested. “I'm not even Prefect material.”

“Will you forget about that?” Dumbledore replied, himself annoyed. “If you had been Prefect, you would have been even more of a target for Madam Umbridge than you were. If you desire a badge, I shall see to it that you get a badge.”

“NO!” Harry yelped. That was the last thing he wanted. Not with Ron….

“Well then think about things rationally,” the Headmaster scolded. “Just last year, you founded and led that provocatively named army of yours, and that organisation included quite a few Prefects.”

Harry dismissed the thought. “Hermione organised that. Left to my own devices I never would have done anything.”

“You also brought off a marvelous counterpunch to all the lies by telling your true story to the Quibbler. …An end run worthy of the most seasoned politician.”

“I didn't set that up either,” Harry frowned. “I was handed that opportunity on a silver platter…. Didn't do anything more than talk.”

“You inspired five of your fellow students to storm the Ministry itself, and fight a force of Death Eaters twice their number,” Dumbledore reminded.

“I wanted them all to … to let me go alone,” Harry admitted. “Except Ron, that is…. Hermione absolutely refused to stay behind, and so did the rest of them. Hardly leadership, I reckon.”

“Well, I must say that I disagree completely,” Dumbledore admonished. “But that is neither here nor there. At some point in the near future, perhaps you would do well to consider any common threads - positive common threads, that is - in those incidents. But my point at present is simple. You are a leader because you are perceived by others as one.”

“All right, all right,” Harry replied testily. “So I'm a bloody leader, or at least I do a good enough job of faking it…. But what now?”

Dumbledore continued. “Ironically, Voldemort probably holds the key.… If he were capable of restraining himself, which I doubt…. In the absence of any more provocative Death Eater attacks, the pure-blood faction, which Cornelius has long championed and which is now recoalescing around Rufus Scrimgeour, would probably grow stronger….

“Who is he, anyway?” Harry interrupted.

“Currently the Chief Auror, and quite a politician,” Dumbledore explained. “You have never had much to do with him, and that is probably a good thing. He is anti-Death Eater, but just a devious as Minister Fudge, and he is angling to replace him…. Classic man on a white horse….”

“Okay,” said Harry glumly. “I don't think I like politicians anyway…. You were saying, about Voldemort….?”

“Yes,” remembered Dumbledore. “My point was that, if the urgency of the War diminished in the public mind, so would the desire to reach out to potential non-wizard allies. If Voldemort goes quiet, then that probably happens, but from a political standpoint, if there are additional Death Eater attacks, our war/equality party gains strength.”

Harry screwed up his face with that abject reminder of why he hated politics. “So from a `political standpoint,' I'm supposed to root for more attacks, is that it?”

Dumbledore said nothing, but looked extremely uncomfortable. Harry decided that he was not being entirely fair, since the old man had been doing his level best to explain what was going on. Harry remembered what Shak had told him weeks earlier, so he asked a more answerable question. “So who's it going to be, Arthur or Shak?”

It was Dumbledore's turn to raise an eyebrow. “That was quite percipient, Mister Potter. I think you have been paying more attention than you let on, sometimes. I had hoped it would be Arthur, but that is not in the cards. He has declined to lead our faction into elections. He will not say anything publicly - in order to keep the other side guessing - but he has just informed me of his definitive decision not to stand for higher office. Bill's death brought home to him the possible personal cost of such political ambitions, and I am afraid that tipped the scale.”

“That's too bad,” Harry commiserated.

“Truer words were never spoken,” Dumbledore again agreed. “On one side was Arthur's hatred of Voldemort and everything he represented, as well as his personal loyalty to me. But on the other was Arthur's conviction that he is too old, too penurious, and has too many family involvements to stand for the highest office. When his children's personal safety was added to the mix, Arthur bowed out. He has never said anything, but I feel quite certain that Molly also had a hand in that decision.”

“He needn't want for funds,” Harry offered. “I'd give him whatever is required.”

“Noble but unwise, Harry,” Dumbledore disagreed. “More than anything you need to remain above the fray.”

“So it's Shak, then?” Harry asked.

“That it is,” Dumbledore revealed. “We shall tip him as our faction's choice whenever that choice must be made. But as with everything, there are complications. Rufus has to resign to stand for Minister. Kingsley would be the logical person to succeed him. An overture was made, but it was necessary for him to decline the position. I quite agree with our established, unwritten tradition that it would be subversive of civilian control of the Auror Corps for anyone to stand for Minister of Magic whilst holding the Chief Auror position. Conversely, it would be too disruptive of the Corps, for him to take the job, only to surrender it a short while later to stand for the Ministry. Thus, he turned down the promotion, using as his excuse his commitment to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts.”

Harry nodded quietly.

“I see that you must have known about that, as well,” Dumbledore remarked, taking in Harry's lack of reaction to that bit of supposedly closely held news.

“Shak told me a while ago that he was going to be a professor,” Harry admitted.

“So you see?” Dumbledore added jocularly. “You have your sources. Soon I shall have no secrets from you.”

“The sooner the better,” Harry replied pointedly.

Dumbledore again looked uncomfortable after that jab, but he let it pass and continued with his description of the political state of affairs. “Kingsley's refusal left the Chief Auror's job in limbo. Because there is a war on, that's not a situation that could be tolerated for long. Thus Cornelius made a rather striking decision and asked Alastor to come out of retirement and temporarily assume the position. Before last night's events, that appointment would have been unthinkable.”

“Moody hates Fudge,” Harry observed. “I saw that firsthand the day I burned down the Situation Room.”

“True enough,” Dumbledore acknowledged. “Indeed, there has never been any love lost between those two. Ever the diplomat, Alastor had told Cornelius to his face that his primary loyalty was, and would always be, to me. He was terribly melodramatic, I am afraid. Amazingly Cornelius persisted. I can only hope that, at this late date, he has decided to atone for his many past mistakes and has chosen to base the final appointments of his waning Ministry solely upon considerations of merit.”

“Did Mad-Eye take the job?” Harry asked, genuinely ignorant of this point.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore affirmed. “His decision to accept has strengthened the Order's influence within the Ministry immeasurably. On the other hand, it has weakened the Order itself, by subtracting one of its most experienced members.”

After finishing his explanation of the political situation, Dumbledore shifted to one of a number of uncomfortable topics - Harry's problems with the Weasleys, specifically with Molly Weasley.

“When I related your offer to attend Bill's funeral to the Weasleys, they accepted - but it was my distinct sense that it was with reluctance - that there is some … shall I say, unpleasantness … afoot between yourself and at least Molly Weasley. Lest nothing mar that occasion, I would appreciate it if you could explain what has happened.”

“They.… Well, especially Missus Weasley … blame me for Ron's decision to resign as Prefect,” Harry explained with his head down.

Dumbledore regarded Harry intently over his half-moon spectacles. “I am of course well aware of what Ronald has done. Is there any truth to his mother's suspicion?” he inquired.

Harry stiffened. He waited for the tingle of Dumbledore's Legilimency, but the Headmaster refrained. Still, he could scarcely believe that Dumbledore had actually asked that question. Who did the Headmaster think he was?

Harry responded heatedly. “Not on your bloody life.… Sir!”

If Dumbledore was affronted, he never showed it. “I believe you, Mister Potter,” he said calmly. “However, since the impression - as wrong as it is - exists, have you given any thought to rectifying the situation? Impressions have a nasty tendency to become reality, when left undisturbed.”

“I've already done everything I can do,” protested Harry. “It's not a good idea to be on Missus Weasley's bad side. I just hope it works.”

“And what is that, if I may ask?” inquired Dumbledore.

“You may not ask,” Harry responded annoyedly. “You'll find out soon enough.”

That avenue foreclosed, Dumbledore moved on to another sensitive topic. “Mister Potter, the first of the funerals will be on Saturday….”

* * * *

Harry woke early Friday morning. He was still shaking with apprehension. So much death…. And now he had agreed to make more than a passing acquaintance of its aftermath. When he and Dumbledore had finished their discussion, Harry had not known what to do. Even flying did not bring about the hoped-for release.

After about fifteen minutes under Hagrid's nominal supervision, Harry was still feeling morose and distracted. His Valkyrie was a lot of things, but it was not particularly forgiving of rookie-type mistakes in the twilight. So, after one last abrupt lurch to avoid the Whomping Willow, Harry had given up on flying, gone home, and gone straight to bed.

Early to bed, early to rise.

Now it was very early morning in the still deserted house on Privet Drive. Dawn was just breaking, and the scene outside the window was that fuzzy mixture of black and grey present when there is not quite enough light for the eyes to sense colours. What Harry saw reminded him of what he felt. He rose and prepared himself for an extra-long run. It would give him time to think.

Whilst running, Harry kept asking himself what in the world he had been thinking when he had agreed to attend the funerals.

`What have I gotten myself into….?'

`Being Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived, I suppose….'

`It's going to be a week under the shadow of death….'

`What's one week out of a whole lifetime…?'

`That depends on how long the lifetime is….'

`Odds aren't good, you know….'

`Need some way to even the odds….'

`No, need somebody to even the odds….'

`Get real.'

After this bit of arguing with himself - and drawing occasional stares from the very occasional Muggle up and about at the hour - Harry came full circle to the funerals themselves.

The first would be the Longbottoms' funeral tomorrow afternoon. It was going to be an Auror's funeral, Dumbledore had told Harry. He supposed that meant lots of dress military robes, elaborate bicorne and tricorne hats and white gloves, magical pipe and drum processions, precision formations, and martial posturing - maybe even wand-spark salutes, flag presentations, fly-bys…. Who could say?

Fudge himself was going to officiate. That was one way to ruin a good funeral.

Harry was of course invited to the ceremony. It would take place at the National Auror's Cemetery on the Black Heath near Enford in Salisbury. He was not being called upon do anything other than be present - a relief, because Harry had never seen a funeral before.

The next day would be harder. That was Bill Weasley's interment. The Weasleys did not believe in fancy funerals - even though they could now afford one. Rather than any programme, the family was holding an open house Sunday afternoon, at which anyone who wanted could come and sit quietly to pay their respects.

Molly would undoubtedly serve something delicious, Potter pâté, perhaps … or maybe Harry Cajun style - seared, of course.

At four in the afternoon there would be a testimonial session at which all comers with something to say could stand in front of the gathering and talk about the deceased. Harry knew, even though Dumbledore never said anything directly, that he would be expected to say a few words. Thick he might be … but not that thick.

Harry also knew (again without having to be told), that he would be seeing the entire Weasley clan for the first time since last Christmas, when Arthur Weasley had almost been killed. His stock had been high then. He had saved the lives of two members of the family.

Unfortunately, stocks have a way of falling as well as rising. Thus it was also true, and of more immediate importance, that he would be seeing senior Weasleys for the first time since Harry had been blamed for Ron's decision not to be a Prefect any more. Harry could only hope that he would be able to make sufficient amends.

Harry shuddered. This would not be easy. Nor did it even feel right, which was sometimes the solace of the harder path.

Bill's body would then be laid to rest in the Weasley family plot behind the Burrow. As family patriarch and matriarch, Arthur and Molly would provide the eulogies. No one else was expected to speak formally at the burial.

Dumbledore had explained that the Weasleys had used a relatively recently created potion-unction that, when applied within 72 hours of death, would demagify Bill's body. For this reason, he could be buried with the family ancestors without worry that Death Eaters might disinter it and use it for nefarious Necromancy. The Order was providing a special tombstone, as had long been customary when a member was killed whilst battling against the Dark Forces.

Xenophilius Lovegood's funeral had not formally been set because Luna, who was still lying incapacitated in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, had to give her assent. Dumbledore anticipated that it would occur on Monday, as the Druidic custom followed by the Lovegood family demanded that the ceremony occur before the new moon on the twelfth, and Monday was the most logical open date.

Druidic ceremonies involved cremation, and the pyre would be ignited precisely at sunset. There would be no speeches, only ritual music and mystic chanting, led by the local High Druid. The funeral would likely take place in an oak grove near Exeter that had been used for these purposes since before Julius Caesar first set foot in Britain.

Dumbledore had also told Harry that later today Madam Pomfrey would make her first attempt at lifting Luna's stasis. Her healing was chancy, and any thrashing about would have placed it in jeopardy. If that attempt went well, the injured girl would be returned to full consciousness the following morning. Luna's physical healing from her awful neck wounds was well advanced, and Dumbledore expected that she should be able to speak.

A specialist brought in from St. Mungo's (which had not yet been reopened, owing to its being a crime scene) had magically reconstructed Luna's severed and crushed larynx cartilage as well as her somewhat less mangled esophagus. If Luna were conscious, and wanted to see Harry immediately, he should expect to be summoned sometime on Saturday, before having to leave for the Longbottom funeral.

“What the…?” Harry was startled by fluttering wings. He recognised a school owl. It was a message from the Headmaster:

Dear Mister Potter:

After our chat, it occurred to me that your calendar will be somewhat hectic. To ease one small aspect of your burden, I have prepared the accompanying schedule of the upcoming funerals. The parchment is charmed and will update itself as matters become clearer.

Albus Dumbledore

Harry looked at the schedule. It reminded him of what he would have rather forgotten. Tuesday was yet another funeral, perhaps the saddest of all. Jenny Fontaine's parents had agreed that he could come to their otherwise private ceremony, as long as his presence was not announced in advance in any way. They were just average wizards, and they would not permit any publicity that could disrupt the ceremony or cause the family to be targeted again by the Death Eaters.

He was distressed, but not particularly surprised, to learn that the other similarly situated family, the Swanages, had refused to have anything to do with him. With some reluctance, Dumbledore told Harry that they blamed him for Johnny's demise. Harry could not really disagree. That attack had been extraordinarily cruel. The boy had been half devoured by a werewolf….

…Or so the Headmaster had said. Thinking about it, Harry was confused. The moon had been nowhere near full last night. Something was bizarre. He would have to ask Dumbledore….

The last of the funerals was the most unnerving proposition of all. Dumbledore told Harry that the French preferred to issue a formal invitation for Harry to attend the state funeral of Maréchal Delacour. That event would take place next Thursday at the great Cathedral in Reims. Since the Maréchal had been killed in an attack by British Death Eaters that had been directed against Harry, the French Ministry intended - hoped - for Harry's presence to bring the two countries closer together. Harry appreciated the political gravity of the situation after Dumbledore explained the deceased's position as the recently retired Marshal of wizarding France - that nation's highest magical military position.

That one he had tried to avoid:

“Headmaster, I know I promised, but that one…. I had no idea I was…. I don't want to create an international incident,” Harry pleaded.

“If you only go to one of these events, this is the one you need to attend,” Dumbledore insisted.

“But they're going to want me to say something,” he protested. “I'm rubbish….”

“I have said it before; I shall say it again,” Dumbledore continued, trotting out the same arguments he had used in the context of the Ashrak. “What you say hardly matters. Of paramount importance is symbolism of the event and the morale boost that your mere presence will bring.”

“You didn't deny it,” Harry observed.

“No, I did not,” Dumbledore admitted, “and you will indeed be expected to say a few words to those in attendance. However, you can be sure that the Ministry wants you to succeed as much as I do. You will have help….”

So he had agreed.

Then Dumbledore told him that the Reims cathedral was quite large, and he should expect well over a thousand people to be there - including dignitaries from both the British and French Ministries.

The Headmaster was still a trickster…. Harry got a funny, cold feeling in his gonads just thinking about standing up in a Muggle church and trying to say something coherent in front of all those people.

The Headmaster was still a bloody trickster … a bloody, conniving trickster. The so-called “help” the Ministry was offering, turned out to be the services of Percy Weasley as a speechwriter. Nevertheless he had accepted the offer. Something was better than nothing - he hoped.

There had been other things last night as well, Dumbledore had summoned Madam Malkin to his office, and on the spot she had made Harry a set of formal black mourning robes. These were trimmed discreetly with fabric that changed colour in response to a simple spell. In his mind's eye, Harry could see the robes hanging in his closet, the trim set to deep maroon in anticipation of the Auror's funeral for the Longbottoms.

Then there was the unsettling matter of Harry's once again vacant guardianship. When Dumbledore had raised that subject, Harry had flatly refused to consider any other appointment at all, calling it a “death sentence.” Dumbledore insisted, however, explaining that Harry was underage and if he did not select one, someone would be appointed for him - with or without his approval.

Harry was quite surprised to find out that, even with his morbid track record, there were still volunteers. In particular, Rufus Scrimgeour, the presumptive pure-blood candidate for Minister of Magic, had made sure that Dumbledore (and many others) were aware of his willingness to accept the position.

That was unthinkable, and Harry had to strain to avoid a response that was unprintable. “After all this, I'm going to grow up as the son of an effing Minister? I don't think so!”

The result had been that Harry - very reluctantly - had asked Dumbledore to assume the role. Even though Harry hated the idea of giving that man any more power over him than he already had, Harry reckoned that the Headmaster had the best chance of surviving the assignment. That was key. Harry's primary deciding factor was that nobody else get killed on his account.

Nevertheless, Harry was not entirely disappointed (secretly elated was closer to it) when Dumbledore declined, citing conflicts of interest with his Headmaster and Chief Warlock positions.

Professor McGonagall was likewise excluded because she was Head of Harry's House.

Lupin was ineligible because wizard law prohibited werewolves from having any legal responsibility for wizard children.

Whilst no law barred Hagrid, one would probably get passed within days if Harry had tipped him. Besides, Hagrid drank too much.

Of one thing Harry was certain - he would never ask anyone else who had family commitments to risk his or her life. He was never going to put any other family through the grief he knew he had just caused the Weasleys. He needed someone like himself, someone who was alone.

So had arisen Harry's primary excursion for the day. Dumbledore suggested, and he agreed, that it would be best to discuss the guardianship issue with his own lawyer, someone paid to look out solely for his own interests. Harry had then decided to kill two birds with one stone - he would spend the better part of the day meeting with Blackie Howe to go over his upcoming testimony as well. With his training cancelled, Harry thought it would be a good time to get one of his preparation sessions over with.

Mr. Howe had of course agreed, despite the short notice. Having Harry as a client was very prestigious. Harry still found it amazing that someone so important should be at his beck and call.

Harry was naïve.

The last, and to Harry the least important, event at the meeting had been a complete surprise. On behalf of the Order, Dumbledore had asked to borrow a considerable sum of money. Harry had at first refused - as a hoax - to enjoy the expression of surprise and befuddlement on Dumbledore's face before telling the truth. The truth was that Harry had little use for his fortune and was quite happy to be rid of even a chunk of it for a good cause.

Thus Harry told Dumbledore that everything he had was at the Order's disposal in the battle against the Death Eaters. Rather than a loan, Harry made a gift of the requested 600,000 Galleons instead. The Order needed the money to seize a sudden opportunity to purchase a replacement headquarters. The recent events had demonstrated the urgency of that need. However, the opportunity could be lost without fast action. Harry asked only that the new building be dedicated to - and named after - Bill Weasley.

* * * *

Harry had an errand to run first. After carefully disillusioning himself, he took the Floo from Mrs. Figg's to Diagon Alley accompanied by Remus Lupin. Harry visited a witch optometrist, with the arresting name of Clarity Mankiller, to have Charlie's lens blanks turned into a new pair of glasses. Due to the delicacy of fashioning the special lens material to Harry's precise visual specifications, the glasses would not be ready for a week. They would be identical in all other respects to his existing pair. After all that had happened, Harry had no use for a new look - which he considered vanity.

Soon enough, Harry found himself back on Magic Circle in Blackie Howe's office. Most of the session was spent preparing for testimony in the inheritance action. The two prosecutions, of Lucius Malfoy and Dolores Umbridge, would be easy by comparison. In those Harry was simply a witness - albeit an important one - in cases controlled by Ministry prosecutors. All he had to do, essentially, was answer questions truthfully (relatively easy), and keep his cool under cross-examination (relatively difficult).

In the inheritance action, by contrast, Harry was a principal, and the outcome would directly affect him. They rehearsed answers to the most intrusive and sarcastic questions that Howe and two of his barrister associates could think of. The barristers plotted amongst themselves when to object, and on what grounds.

The arduous, and at times emotional, session lasted seven hours - with lunch brought in by the always vivacious Isabella Wing. At its close, Harry felt as exhausted as he had ever been after Auror training. It was as if the lawyers had taken him behind a woodshed, beaten the truth out of him, massaged it thoroughly, and replaced it with a carefully prepared script.

After another brief but disconcerting encounter, Howe had given the flirtatious Miss Wing the afternoon off. Harry felt relieved and fortunate for that. He took advantage of his budding elemental magic capability to give himself a brief cold shower in an empty office after that incident was over. Then Harry met alone with Howe to discuss some other things that were salient in his mind.

“Dumbledore says I have to have a legal guardian,” Harry stated. “Is he right?”

“Unfortunately, he is,” advised Howe. “I can postpone things a bit.… Allow you some time to think whilst maintaining your legal status.… But a month's time at most, is all that I will be able to buy, beg, borrow or steal for you. Soon, you'll have to make an election, or else the Ministry will select for you - and I'm sure you don't want that.”

`No, I damn well don't,' Harry silently agreed. Still, there were very few people he would trust with that task. Bill had almost not been up to it at times - or to put it another way, Harry had almost been too much for Bill to handle.

Now, however, death had sobered Harry. This time he wanted a guardian with few other ties - someone whose death, if worse came to worst, would not cause as much grief to as many people as Bill's had. But Harry kept these thoughts private. To Howe, all Harry could do was choke out, “How can you postpone things?”

Now Howe was in his element. “I can ask the goblins for a bereavement dispensation so that you can continue to access your Gringotts accounts. Completely irregular, of course, but if I act as if it's legal, the goblins aren't going to care. They want to help you however they can.… By the way, Bladvak sends his regards - there was good reason to audit the estate.”

“Seeing as how I might own veto powers over Gringotts in the near future, I'm hardly surprised,” Harry smirked. After all that had happened, cynicism was just about the only kind of humour Harry had left.

“Well, you do need to think about it,” Howe admonished.

“Don't worry,” Harry replied somewhat flippantly, “I hardly think of anything else.”

Somewhat irritated at his recalcitrant client, Howe changed the subject. “Now what else can I help you with?”

“I need to transfer a lot of money to … er … Remus Lupin,” Harry instructed, not wanting to bring up the Order. “Six hundred thousand Galleons, and it needs to be done in secret.”

The size of the sum startled Blackie Howe. He had, however, been a solicitor long enough to avoid tipping anyone off when he was in a quandary. “That's quite a lot, really, over three million pounds. Why to this Mister Lupin? I know he is an associate of Dumbledore's, but from what little I know, I'd not think him the type to dabble in high finance.”

“I have my reasons. They involve the fact that Voldemort wants me and all my friends dead. You don't want or need to know anything more than that. The half-Muggle bastard might come after you,” Harry replied, in a tone that made clear that he wanted Howe to confine himself to the “how” of the transaction, rather than the “why.”

At that, even Blackstone Howe's suave lawyerly demeanor wavered. He had never before heard H-W-M-N-B-N's name bandied about with such venom and obvious disrespect. “M… M… Mister Potter, are you sure it's wise to refer to You Know Who in those terms?”

“Can't see what the harm of it is,” Harry replied. “Fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself. Besides, Tom Voldemort Riddle can't really do more to me than he's already trying to do, now can he?”

After getting over the shock of hearing Harry disrespect Lord Voldemort, Howe had to admit that Harry had a point. “No, I suppose not,” he conceded. “But that leads me to another subject you probably don't want to think about.”

“Try me,” Harry shot back.

“You do understand that as your solicitor, it's my responsibility to assist you - my client - in dealing with the unpleasant things of life?” Howe instructed.

“Yeah - I understand that,” Harry sulked. “I just don't like the unpleasantness itself. I seem to collect quite enough of that on my own.”

“Quite,” Howe responded. “Now, Harry, it is my professional opinion - in light of your undoubtedly accurate assessment of the Dark Lord's intentions - that you need to consider making out your own will.” Howe closed his eyes and braced for Harry's anticipated tirade. It never came. Howe soon blinked, and saw Harry with his head in his hands.

Finally Harry said something. “I don't even know what I might have.… How can I decide what I want done with it after I'm gone?”

“Well,” thought Howe aloud, “you certainly had some ideas about what you wanted to do with at least some of your property the last time you were here. You simply need to decide whom you trust to carry out your intentions if you were to die. Beyond that, it's just a matter of deciding for whom you wish to provide. You don't have to do anything yet, but the sooner the better. If you think your finances are difficult now, just imagine the chaos that would ensue were you to die intestate.”

Harry took a deep breath. As much as he wanted to deny it - and to avoid thinking about any more morbid subjects than he absolutely had to - Howe was right. There were not that many people Harry cared about leaving money to….

Remus, for sure.… Harry was surprised Sirius had not taken care of his friend, but Harry had to admit that he had never actually seen, let alone read, his godfather's will….

The Weasleys were also deserving, although their fortunes seemed to be looking up. They would never accept if they knew, however….

Luna, if she needed money to keep The Quibbler going.… But he'd see to that whether or not he died.

Eliza, if she'd let him … but in that case, well, to Hell with it. He would be gone and would never have to face her wrath.

Hermione…. If he had anything to say about it, she would never have to worry about being Muggle-born again.

“All right, I'll think about it,” Harry finally said to Howe. “What does it have to look like?”

“Almost any form is acceptable,” Howe explained. “You can even do it holographically … umm … that means you could write it out yourself, longhand. Witnesses to your signature are advisable, but also not essential. Orion Black's final will was handwritten and unwitnessed, which in no small part brought about the present morass.”

Howe launched into the standard spiel he had developed for clients considering the creation of testamentary instruments. The longer he held forth, the more he appreciated how exhausted he was. Spending almost an entire business day with Harry Potter was enough for anyone. After completing his discussion of wills and bequests, he sighed and asked his client, “Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Actually there is,” came the voice of a much more subdued Harry. He was looking at his shoes now and nervously crossing and uncrossing his legs. It was as if the boy were having trouble looking Howe in the eye - never previously a problem. “I need a rather different kind of favour….”

Howe's interest was piqued despite his fatigue. “You are my client, Harry,” the solicitor spoke gravely, “and I would like to think that you are in some way my friend. If it is legal and ethical, you know I will do my best to bring about whatever you need.”

“I … I … I need to help my friend…. No … actually more like my girlfriend…, find another job,” Harry stated.

Howe's eyebrows rose imperceptibly. This particular client was rather young to be making such a request, but this was hardly the first time Howe had been asked by substantial clients to find suitable accommodations for lovers and mistresses - present or former. “Tell me what you think I need to know, and no more,” Howe advised.

“Because of me, she doesn't think she can keep her current job much longer, since she's… she's rather in a conflict of interest situation,” stumbled Harry.

“Indeed,” responded Howe noncommittally. “Does the woman have any particular training?”

“She's a transcriptionist … a court reporter,” Harry explained. “I've heard her say that she's she can do both wizard and Muggle events.”

Howe relaxed a bit. This might not be a difficult placement - except for one thing. “You heard her say…,” Howe thought out loud. “Does she know you're doing this?”

Harry thought for a minute. That seemingly simple question was hardly simple. “Er…. Sort of,” Harry began. “She's very independent. She was reluctant even for me to make inquiry on her behalf. But she agreed that I could ask around - as long as it wasn't a job at anyplace with which I do business. She's adamant that she be hired on her own merit.”

“Well, that complicates things a bit,” Howe observed. “The D'Israeli firm can always use qualified transcriptionists and legal assistants. But it sounds like she would never consent to work for us because you're my client. Let me make some calls…. See what I can do.…”

“Should I wait?” Harry asked uncertainly.

“Most certainly not,” Howe instructed. “This may take a while.… And more than that, you really don't need to know some things. It's like sausages and statutes; it's best that you not observe too carefully how either are made….”

“Very well,” Harry replied. He got up to leave.

Howe rose as well, “Oh, Harry,” he spoke in his soft but urgent voice. “You did say she could perform Muggle reporting?”

“Yes,” Harry affirmed, wondering what Howe was on about.

“Does she attend Muggle events?” Howe asked.

“Yes,” Harry nodded.

“Well it just so happens that I've got two tickets to Royal Philharmonic at the Albert Hall for tomorrow night,” Howe offered. “They're purchased for client entertainment, and you are a client. Good location, in the firm's box.” Howe looked at the tickets, “Prokofiev and Ravel, a delightful juxtapose, and one I'd wager you and your lady friend would appreciate.”

“Sure….” Harry grinned for the first time all day. “Thanks.” He pocketed the tickets and left.

Howe watched him leave. “He really has so much to be going on with,” the lawyer mumbled to himself. “Let him find his pleasures where he can.”

Howe sat back in his leather-upholstered chair for a long moment, contemplating his telephone through his steepled fingertips, pressed against one another just in front of his face. Then he reached for the phone and dialled….

“Cadbury Chocolates, Flodden speaking.”

“Husky,” Howe began, “Blackstone Howe here. I've got a bit of an unusual favour to ask on behalf of my client and your endorser, Harry Potter….”

“Blackie, what is it?” Husqvarna Flodden said with just a shiver of apprehension. “If Mister Potter wants a better deal, that can be arranged. Sales have been phenomenal, you know.”

“He doesn't want a better deal for himself,” Howe replied. “That's not Harry, and you know it. Actually, he's looking for a position for his … er … well, if he were my age I'd call her a mistress, but frankly with Harry I'm not sure of anything. This is hush-hush, of course…. No, it can't be with you or me. That's rather complicated to explain…. What I'd like to know from you is what firm is Cadbury's largest outside counsellor? Muggle or wizard, doesn't matter.”

Flodden told him.

“Excellent,” Howe responded. “Just around the corner, and I have several friends there. Can I use your name, and … you know…?”

* * * *

Saturday - the day of the first of all too many funerals - dawned grey and leaden on Privet Drive. Harry had just come back from his run when the Communicator sprung to life with a message from Dumbledore. Harry was to Floo to Hogwarts as quickly as he could. Luna was conscious and wanted to see him. Harry was to bring along his mourning robes. Dumbledore expected that Harry would be leaving for the Longbottom funeral directly from Hogwarts.

Barely pausing to say hello to his relatives, who had brought Dudley home from the hospital the night before, Harry headed for Mrs. Figg's house at a trot. Lupin was present to accompany him to Hogwarts, but after that, the man had to resume his work for the Order. He bid Harry a reluctant adieu.

Harry had no idea from which fireplace he would emerge. It turned out to be Professor McGonagall's office. Harry barely had time to dust himself off from a rather awkward landing when his Head of House was leading him away.

“Reasonably expeditious, Potter,” she said in her usual succinct tone of voice. “Still, the others are already here. This way.”

“Others?” Harry asked, as they began stepping quickly down the stone corridors. He did not need to pay attention to where they were going, as he had paid all too many visits to the Hogwarts Hospital Wing.

“Yes, others,” Professor McGonagall said rather archly. “You're not Miss Lovegood's only friend, or even her best friend.”

“But I'm the reason that she's….”

Professor McGonagall cut Harry off abruptly. “I'll have none of that nonsense. Everyone knows whose fault it is, and it's not yours. If I hear such talk when the Term starts, there will be points off, Potter.”

The rest of their quick walk was spent in not entirely comfortable silence, as Harry debated what he would say next. The opportunity to see his Head of House face to face was unexpected, and Harry had to walk a fine line. For her part, Professor McGonagall saw fit to say nothing at all. That might have been ordinary McGonagall behaviour, or she might be peeved at him. It was hard to tell.

They reached the solid oaken doors of the Hospital Wing, and Professor McGonagall gave it two solid raps. Footsteps could be heard approaching from the other side. As Madam Pomfrey creaked open the door, the older witch turned to go.

Over her shoulder, Professor McGonagall said to Harry, “Ordinarily, I do not permit student requests to alter the decisions I make for my House. However, I have taken yours into account - somewhat.… Quite a pity, though. You are not thinking of quitting the team, I hope? I have grown rather fond of the Quidditch Cup decorating my office.”

“No ma'am,” Harry responded to the unexpected question. “I promise I'll play…. I'm just … not ready for that responsibility … on top of everything else.”

“Very well,” McGonagall replied, her voice very clipped. “I shall respect your wishes, misguided though they may be. There's another year left, after all….” With that, she was gone.

Madam Pomfrey greeted Harry, placed his robes next to some similar bundles, and led him to the bed nearest the windows at the far end of the room. The destination was obvious, as it was cordoned off by several movable cloth partitions. Harry could hear the murmur of low voices. Rounding the corner, Harry encountered Hermione and Ginny, seated in chairs on either side of Luna, who was propped up in bed on several pillows. A visitors' register floated in mid-air at the foot of the bed.

The bandages were off and the poultices had been removed, so prominent on Luna's neck was an angry red slash of frighteningly large proportion. It extended completely across her neck so that neither end was visible. It neatly bisected what would have been her Adams apple, if she had had one. Feeling guilty for staring at the scar, but unable to look at anything else, Harry collided with the floating register, knocking his glasses askew.

He hardly noticed as he blurted out, “Oh, Luna, I'm so sorry. If only you hadn't come with us, none of this would have happened….”

“The past is prologue,” Luna responded. Her voice was unnaturally ragged, and she occasionally had to gasp for breath. “And this isn't about you. I was where I was because I wanted to be there. And I was ready the other night…. Daddy wasn't though, that's the supreme irony. But the Snorkack protects its young with its life, too.”

Luna stopped speaking, and Harry noticed that the usual faraway look in her large eyes was even further away than usual. A tear streaked Luna's cheek, and Hermione attentively daubed it with a handkerchief.

“Ready?” Harry asked, “How could you have been ready for a Death Eater attack? I've been training all summer, and it took me completely by surprise….”

“Death Eater, Schmeath Eater. I was ready to die for you, Harry,” Luna corrected dreamily. “If I had been decapitated by that paper cutter, I would have gone to meet my Mum gladly, knowing that I had been ready…. But Daddy…. Huhayee….”

Luna stopped initially because she coughed up some bloody phlegm. That stop became a full-blown pause as she heard Hermione and Ginny gasp audibly - and because of the stricken expression on Harry's face. “I suppose you don't know how it happened, do you?” Luna inquired. Nobody replied, but the perturbed looks Luna saw were enough to answer her question. “Very well,” she said.

“Daddy and I were working late. After we finished cutting and sizing the latest edition, we decided to complete the typesetting for an upcoming Quibbler editorial. It took rather longer than we hoped, since the equipment was old,” Luna whispered.

“You didn't use magic?” Hermione asked, looking slightly scandalised.

Luna answered calmly. “No. Thanks to the Ministry's interference, most of our equipment is Muggle, including the bindery press, because Fudge's Heliopaths can't trace our Muggle suppliers.”

Luna paused. She was obviously very weak. Presently she returned to her story. “Two Death Eaters confronted us and relieved us of our wands.” Luna's eyes hardened. “However, Expelliarmus does not affect Muggle weapons, as they found out.”

“You mean firearms?” Hermione asked. She was definitely scandalised now. She associated firearms with her father, and such associations were no longer happy ones.

“We have had problems being vandalised by Muggle hooligans,” Luna explained. “Many in the neighborhood thought Daddy queer. For protection Daddy kept a sawn off under/over shotgun beneath the press table….” Luna stopped to cough again.

Ginny looked at her blankly, with uncomprehending eyes. Harry had some idea what Luna was talking about, from one of the Auror training sessions. Hermione knew exactly what Luna meant.

Luna gathered what strength she had and continued. “A blast from it disembowelled one of the Death Eaters. But the other one was quicker. Daddy couldn't squeeze off another shot before that one caught me by the arm and flung me under the blade of the electrical paper cutter. They must have been watching us for quite some time, because that one knew to press the start button.”

All three friends gasped. Harry clenched his wand so tightly, that it emitted a steady stream of angry orange sparks.

“Careful, Harry, you might set the bedclothes alight,” Hermione warned. “You wouldn't want to cause any worse injuries.”

Harry looked down, frowned in embarrassment, and expertly sheathed his wand in his wrist holster. He could not remember when he had taken it out in the first place.

With a deep breath, Luna continued. “I could feel the blade slicing through. Oddly, it didn't hurt much. There was blood running down my throat. Practically all at once there was a loud scream, another blast from the shotgun, and a flash of green light. The blade stopped. That's the last thing I remember before losing consciousness.”

“Oh sweet Merlin,” Ginny muttered audibly.

“Yesterday, when I first awoke, the Headmaster told me what the Aurors and Muggle police concluded had happened,” Luna said hoarsely. She coughed once, but seemed determined to finish the story. “Daddy had one last shot. He used it to destroy the fuse box in the print shop - to save me - rather than to kill the last Death Eater. That Death Eater, who has escaped, killed Daddy.”

Hermione started crying softly.

From his previously assigned reading concerning electricity, Harry understood what had happened. Ginny had no experience with electricity, so Harry had to explain that Luna's father's last living act had been to interrupt the power to save Luna's life rather than to save his own by shooting the second Death Eater.

Harry and Hermione were too shocked by Luna's story to say anything else for a moment. At the sight of Hermione's sobbing, Ginny also broke into tears.

Luna did not cry. Instead, she slumped back into the pillows, exhausted from the effort. She covered her eyes with her hands and started humming some melody that Harry did not know.

Soon Hermione had joined in, surprising Harry even more. She hummed more or less the same tune, but in harmony. Hermione laid her hands on Luna's forehead, and motioned the other two to follow suit. Harry felt clumsy, but did as requested. Soon Luna had fallen asleep.

Wordlessly, Hermione beckoned Harry and Ginny to leave Luna in peace. They tiptoed out. Hermione had a few words with Madam Pomfrey in the Charge Nurse's office, then the three friends left the Hospital Wing.

“What was that?” Harry asked.

“A wizard therapeutic calming technique,” Hermione replied. “It's one of the things I've studied for my special project. I don't know where Luna learned about it, though. She was using music - Verdi's `Requiem' to be exact - to focus and calm her aura, and thus herself. Telling us what happened took a lot out of her. She's only been conscious for about three hours, and she's had a lot to absorb.”

“Do you know whether she wants us to go to the funeral?” Harry asked.

Ginny spoke, “Yes, she does. That's what we'd been discussing before you arrived. Unfortunately, I don't know yet if Ron and I will be allowed, because Mum and Dad are quite upset about Bill, and the family is going to have a private mourning day after his funeral.”

“Where is Ron, anyway?” Harry asked.

The words were barely out of Harry's mouth when Ginny's venomous expression let Harry know that he had misspoken. He should have chosen some other topic for his first question to Ginny after barely seeing her for almost two months.

“I'm quite well, thank you very much,” Ginny responded. Without saying another word, Ginny stood, turned on her heel, and stalked off down the corridor in the direction of the Great Hall.

Slack-jawed at what had just happened, Harry turned to Hermione, who was eyeing him with a rather quizzical look on her face. “Not the best question, I reckon,” he mumbled.

“Hardly,” Hermione responded pointedly. “The next time you see someone for the first time in weeks, particularly after traumatic events, it might be a good idea to ask after that person first - especially someone like Ginny.”

“Right,” Harry grunted noncommittally, running his hands through his hair. Even though he felt rather stupid, he still thought that Ginny had wildly overreacted. “But why did she go so spare on me just for that? I mean…. Both of you know how thick I can be.”

Hermione sighed. Harry was partially right. “All right, Harry,” Hermione began, “there is more at work here. Ginny and Ron are not exactly on the best of terms at the moment. Ron insisted that one of them had to stay in Denmark and play in some Quidditch game being held today, or else the Hogwarts team might lose. Ginny was appalled that Ron would even think of putting Quidditch before being with the family as quickly as possible after Bill's death. Ron, the wart, was adamant. He even asked her to draw straws, but she decided that, if Ron wanted to stay, she would be the one to come home early.”

“What!?” exclaimed Harry in disbelief. “He's going to miss his own brother's funeral for some bloody game?”

“Oh no,” Hermione corrected. “He'll make the funeral all right, unless something else happens. The match is tomorrow, and the funeral's on Sunday.”

Harry relaxed, some faith in his friend restored. “That's different then,” he declared.

“Not really,” Hermione said crossly. “In my book it's still awfully insensitive not to support your own family in a time of great need. What is it about boys anyway? It's like what you just did to Ginny….”

“Just what in blazes did I do?” whined Harry.

“Can't you see?” Hermione asked disbelievingly. “You haven't seen her in over a month. So what do you do? You ask after Ron without even the courtesy of a `how do you do' for Ginny herself. I also.… Well, I'm sure that.… Anyway…. No, just forget it. That's bad enough.”

Ordinarily Hermione was not one to stammer, and Harry knew it. “There's something else, isn't there?” he asked.

Hermione took a deep breath. Her own cloudy expression was hard to read. “Yes, I suppose that Ginny was hoping … well … wondering if you might just have developed some small degree of feelings for her.”

Hermione could have knocked Harry over with a feather. “But…. But…. She's going with Dean. She said she was over me.” Perhaps Harry protested a bit too loudly, given how his last Floo conversation with the girl in question had ended.

Hermione eyed Harry carefully. The link was, of course, open. It always was - but all she was receiving was pure, unadulterated confusion.

Somehow she thought that she should have felt worse about what had just happened than she did. Hermione had had several conversations with Ginny since that girl had arrived back in England the day before. In some sense she had to view her as a rival. It was an uncomfortable situation, because Ginny was also a good friend. Sighing, Hermione thought, `there, but for the grace of Fate, go I.'

What Hermione said, of course, was hardly what she had been thinking.

“One out of two - par for the course,” she said. “You're quite wrong about Ginny and Dean. That was over very quickly, and became a lie she told solely for Ron's benefit. But I think it's safe to say now that Ginny is indeed over you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go find her.”

Hermione jogged off in the same direction Ginny had gone, leaving a rather bewildered Harry behind. Slowly he trudged towards Dumbledore's office, deep in thought about the inherent insanity of the female gender.

* * * *

Author's notes: In his agony, Harry is less than tightlipped about the essence of the prophecy

Danger to self or others is the legal standard for involuntary commitment

The Grangers' changed circumstances become apparent in future chapters

Needing a bridge - I didn't want to get too hokey, but I was thinking of Bridge Over Troubled Waters at that moment

"Dull, aching pain, " from the Stones' "Wild Horses. " That song will recur

"Don't need to be forgiven," from "Baba O'Reilly, " AKA "Teenage Wasteland"

TGV = Train à Grande Vitesse, the name of the French bullet trains

Find it within yourself - at least I didn't follow with "There's no place like home"

Sitting on the bed … shaking his head … fairy tales - from the Who's "Trick of the Light"

The inadequacy of DADA instruction at Beauxbatons will arise again

Frimley Park Hospital is an actual hospital in Surrey

"Heart tunes to stone" is a Foreigner song

Wagga Wagga is a real town in Australia

Lips … would love to taste, from "If You Can't Rock Me, Somebody Will," Stones

Cup set before him, is a biblical reference to the Last Supper

The first "man on a white horse" in politics was nationalist French politician from the 1800s named Chauvin, from which comes the word chauvinism

Some of you might know what else is on the Black Heath at Salisbury. We will see it again

Demagification of Bill's body, that's a hint

As will be developed, the Reims Cathedral is an important place in French Muggle and Magical history

Marshal of France is a real position

There's an Amerindian chief by the name of Mankiller

Woodshedding is a lawyer's term for intensive witness preparation

The description of the Royal Philharmonic is accurate, right down to the music; lawyers do this sort of client entertainment all the time

An under/over shotgun has two barrels situated vertically

60

1C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch24 requiem.doc 08/20/04

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25. Departures And Arrivals

Wherein Harry attends an Auror funeral, gets Hermione's help with his speech, goes to the Philharmonic at the Albert Hall with Eliza, engages in Royal watching, gets bored, has an idea, gets roughed up a bit, sends a mysterious note to the goblins, drafts a mysterious document, has pangs of regret, attends Bill's funeral, makes a false confession to save his friend, delivers a eulogy, receives an apology, has a long talk with Ron, gets to see Ron's marks, goes to Luna's father's funeral, and has a fainting spell.

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

Chapter 25 - Departures and Arrivals

For all of Harry's repeated protestations that he wanted only to be left alone and not treated as if he were someone special, he was not at all happy when that actually happened. Alone was precisely how he found himself after Shak deposited him in a well-situated private box and left to prepare for his own role in the Longbottoms' funeral. Morose eyes staring over his pyramided fingers, Harry observed the arriving mourners in desultory fashion. Having no part to play in the Longbottom double Auror funeral, he would just be watching it from his prime location - one row back, on the main aisle, across from and slightly behind the Longbottoms' honours box.

On that day there were more active-duty Aurors at the National Aurors' Cemetery on Salisbury Plain than anywhere else in Britain. A Muggle Royal Army training base with secret wizarding connections was also close at hand. Thus, Shak had not bothered to assign Harry any bodyguards after escorting him from Hogwarts. Nor was Dumbledore anywhere to be found. The Headmaster had not even been in his own office when Harry arrived at Hogwarts that morning. Instead, Harry had encountered Shak waiting to bring him to the funeral.

Black clad wizards and witches in nearly identical mourning garb were filling up the boxes of seats, which stretched for a dozen or more metres on either side of the main aisle. Occasionally, one of them would acknowledge Harry, but mostly his glances were not returned. This was a solemn occasion, run by adults for adults, and Harry felt like an outsider. Boredom and malaise competed for primacy among Harry's emotions.

To pass the time, Harry absent-mindedly thumbed through an event programme that he found on the adjacent vacant chair. There was going to be a 21-wand salute, a flyby, a speech by Fudge (“wuuuuuuunderful,” Harry moaned), and a tombstone presentation by Dumbledore on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix.

The programme was rather damp. Everything was insufferably damp. It was a misty day on the Black Heath. The fog obscured the tumuli that stood in silent testament to the rampant magic that had suffused this place for millennia. One of the few things Harry remembered from History of Magic was how the great monument - already ancient - had once been the Nemeton at the centre of the Druidic magical culture and religion. That had been before the invading Romans had destroyed the Druids' power.

“Well, if it isn't Harry Potter,” came a voice behind him. A beefy arm, not unlike Uncle Vernon's, clapped him on the shoulder, although in a much more friendly fashion than his uncle had ever done. Harry dropped the programme, whirled around, and found the other beefy hand - outstretched - in front of his face, awaiting a shake.

Knowing he should be on his best behavior, Harry grasped the wizard's hand rather limply. “Delighted. Horace Slughorn, but my friends call me Slug,” the man introduced himself. “Cornelius has told me so much about you,” he continued, ostentatiously dropping the Minister's name. “I would certainly like to get to know you better…. If you'd like, I could introduce you around to Rufus and some of the other senior staff who are here….”

Harry gawked. Whoever this … this “Slug” … was, this man did not seem to be the type of person he had any great desire to spend time with. “Slug” was relatively short and incredibly fat. His girth showed even under his voluminous mourning robes. He had a balding head with the greying remnants of blonde hair on the sides. His massive sideburns merged smoothly with a walrus-like moustache, all flecked with grey. These more than made up for the lack of hair higher up.

His hands were soft, indicating unfamiliarity with manual labour. His robes were trimmed with green and silver, indicating he was a Slytherin - hardly a recommendation, that.

“I'm sorry, sir, but Kingsley Shacklebolt - he's a high ranking Auror and my escort for the day - said I was to remain here,” Harry lied. He had no desire to be paraded about as “The Boy Who Lived,” or worse as “The Chosen One,” by this overbearing stranger.

“Oh I'm sure he'd make an exception for Rufus,” said “Slug,” gesturing again to Harry's right, “since the man is his superior officer. I would think that, by all means, the Head Auror is someone you should meet. He can help you, as can I.”

Harry looked in that direction. “Slug” had been pointing to an older, almost leonine-looking man with somewhat wild hair only partially contained by his black pointed hat. The man's casually fierce expression bespoke someone well accustomed to both action and command….

“Wait a minute…,” Harry said aloud. He had seen that man before…. He had been with Minister Fudge the day of Harry's “accident” in the Situation Room. Given what Fudge had been up to, any invitee of his was no real friend of Harry's. And if he was that Rufus - the one Dumbledore had mentioned - Harry definitely did not want to be seen with him….

“I'm sorry, sir,” Harry lied some more, “but I'm expecting the rest of my party at any moment. They won't know where to sit if I'm not here.”

A frown of frustration ever so briefly flashed across the portly wizard's face, but was gone a quickly as it came. “Oh, very well, then, maybe some other time,” he said ingratiatingly. “But if you ever need anything, remember to ask for Horace Slughorn. I probably will be able to see that you get what you need.” With that the man turned away, spotted somebody else, and with his beefy hand once again outstretched, went off in search of new prey.

Preoccupied with watching the overweight wizard waddle off, Harry failed to hear the soft clicks of her high-heeled shoes on the temporary flagstone walk until she was almost upon him. Belatedly aware of the quicker footsteps of youth, Harry whipped his head around just in time to see Ginny Weasley. Her severe expression was only partially visible behind the black fishnet of her mourning veil. There was, however, no mistaking her flaming orange-red Weasley hair. No veil could obscure that. Only partly due to his worry that “Slugman” might return, Harry made a gesture of greeting. Ginny entirely ignored him - not even slowing her pace, let alone throwing a glance in his direction.

Confused as to where Ginny could possibly be going, Harry followed her with his eyes. His eyebrows both raised and (he had to admit afterwards) narrowed as she stopped at the honours box and tapped Neville Longbottom on the shoulder. Neville rose and stumbled just a bit as his bulky robes caught briefly on an adjacent chair. With a grateful look on his face, Neville gently took one of Ginny's black-gloved hands, ushered her into the box, and made introductions all around. Ginny occupied the chair immediately to Neville's right.

Watching Neville, Harry was once again forcibly reminded of just how alone he really was in the wizarding world - and he hated it. Even though Neville was burying his parents this day, family and friends nonetheless surrounded him. Harry had neither family nor, so it seemed, friends. “Proper and fitting,” Harry thought to himself, as he slumped forward. Harry's chin dropped to his crossed arms as he leaned forward to rest them on the back of a chair in front of him.

Was it just sour grapes? He had barely given Ginny the time of day before, so why was he begrudging Neville? Isolation was better for him, the bloody “Chosen One.” For the umpteenth time Harry reminded himself that anyone he let close to him, he placed in grave and mortal danger. He was, after all, the reason for this funeral.… For a week of funerals.… For who knows how many funerals to come?

Harry thought dark and depressing thoughts.

He was lost in those thoughts when a new voice beside him spoke hesitantly, “You look like you could … umm … use a little … companionship.”

“Huh…?” Harry jerked upwards and abruptly straightened his body, bruising his knee on the underside of the chair in front of him for his troubles. Ignoring the throbbing pain, he turned and faced Hermione. Unlike almost everyone else, she was wearing a black Muggle-cut suit featuring an ankle-length skirt. The mandatory black net veil somewhat obscured her face, but she had obviously used Sleekeasy's Hair Potion (or something similar) to manage her very much un-bushy hair. It hung in neat ochre waves down her back, restrained by a black ribbon.

Harry could not help but remember her hair being much like that on a happier occasion - at the Yule Ball two years previous. Happier for Viktor Krum anyway…. Ron had spent what seemed like the entire dance scowling at Krum. Harry had spent the entire dance wishing he was with Cho Chang. Now Ron was with Cho … and Harry had … well, not Hermione. That was for sure….

Perhaps Hermione was thinking similar thoughts, because an awkward silence developed. She and Harry stared at each other, like Cecil and Claude, each politely waiting for the other to speak. Finally, Hermione began, “Aren't you going to invite me to sit down?”

Harry felt so stupid. He started to his feet and staggered just a bit as his mourning robes entangled in the armrest. Pulling himself free, he appreciatively grasped Hermione's proffered hand and guided her to the chair on his left.

Tonks was escorting Hermione. All things considered, Tonks looked downright normal in dress Auror's robes trimmed in black. Her hair was black today, cut straight with no spikes so that it hung just above her shoulders. There was just enough of a forward curl to keep the young Auror's hair close to her head. Harry half expected her to join them, and was making room in the box, but Tonks made her excuses and hurried off to find her place in the formal funeral procession.

“Auror's funerals are supposed to be magnificent,” Hermione commented.

“`Spose so,” Harry grunted.

“It's the way they'd want to have us remember them, Harry,” Hermione reminded him, her hand barely brushing his wrist. She was pained (but not surprised) to see, and feel, him depressed yet again.

“I'm sorry, but I don't like going to funerals,” Harry responded. “Not ones I'm responsible for at any rate.”

“Harry, you know this is not your fault,” Hermione hissed.

“Yeah, I know,” Harry replied dispiritedly, “but what I know and what I feel are two different things.”

“That's very true,” she observed.

The opening roll from an unseen assemblage of muffled drums caused further conversation to cease. The first six bars of “God Save the Queen,” performed by a fife and bagpipe detachment, pealed surprisingly mournfully across the landscape. There followed a melody that Harry did not recognise. Everybody else stood up, and Hermione's hand deftly snaked under Harry's armpit, giving him a yank that told him to rise as well. Seeing Harry's blank look Hermione whispered, “That's `Pride of Magic,' the Ministry's anthem.”

The drummers, pipers, and flautists paraded past - fortunately the fog appeared to be lifting. A lone trumpeter played a fanfare, and two flag-draped caskets glided into view. Union Jacks (technically, Union Flags) covered the head of the caskets, and Ministry flags of silver, black, gold, and green graced the foot. On each coffin, resting atop its flags, were what Harry presumed to be the deceased's pointed dress hat, a wand, and a number of medals and other decorations.

Above the caskets hovered misty, three-dimensional images of the deceased Aurors. These were not the frail and disheveled Longbottoms Harry had seen at St. Mungo's. Rather, they were portrayed in their prime and in uniform, no doubt from photographs in the Auror archives. The misty portraits were bordered in black.

Two lily-white, pink-eyed Thestrals pulled each of the two caskets forward. Harry did a double-take. He had never seen any but black Thestrals before. All four of the Thestrals were saddled, but only the ones on the left-hand side bore riders. Trailing behind each casket were riderless caparisoned black Thestrals with ornamental tack, saddles, and blankets - all in matching black leather and polished silver. There were boots reversed in the stirrups. The caparisoned Thestrals symbolically declared that these two Ministry warriors would ride no more.

Harry turned to Hermione, only to see her face pale and her hands gripping the sides of her chair. She was fighting back tears.

“The coffins…,” Harry whispered, “they're not moving by themselves, they're being pulled by.…”

Hermione's own hoarse whisper broke in. “Thestrals…. I know. I can see them now. I just … don't like being reminded why that's so. It's too … raw.”

Harry had difficulty swallowing. Hermione had had a much-too-close encounter with death that horrible night - seeing it for the first time. Wordlessly, he reached down and placed his hand over Hermione's clenched fist that was gripping the armrest of her chair. He was relieved to feel her fingers relax underneath his. `She can see the Thestrals,' Harry thought. `Because of me.'

She formed a fist again, this time clenching Harry's fingers in a determined grip. “It's. Not. Your. Fault.” Hermione firmly Legilimenced back, startling Harry, whilst giving his hand a squeeze with each word.

He turned towards her, only to find her fiercely possessive gaze already fixed on him. It was, he thought, as if she can see into my soul. `I wonder how she can stand what she sees?' Harry wondered, amazed and gratified at the remarkable attitude of the girl looking so intently at him.

Harry sighed, and looked back to the funeral itself.

So did Hermione. She was not happy with Harry's attitude, but her options were limited.

Shak, Mad-Eye Moody, and four other pallbearers Harry did not recognise (all bearing Order of the Phoenix insignia) were escorting the two caskets. The Longbottom family had pointedly selected them for this role - choosing them over more senior figures like Slugman's friend, Harry duly noted. There followed a phalanx of several dozen maroon uniformed Aurors, their uniforms likewise bordered in black.

The procession halted. Commands were shouted, and the Auror phalanx resolved into two lines marching smartly in parallel formation. The parallel lines halted. The pallbearers simultaneously unsheathed their wands. With coordinated flourish they pointed them at the ground. There was a flash of light, a loud report, and a puff of smoke. When the smoke cleared, Harry could see two newly excavated gravesites. The portraits had disappeared.

The Thestral drivers halted their mounts, and the pallbearers levitated the caskets forward with their wands, so that the coffins came to a halt directly over the open graves. The traces were magically slipped, and the Thestrals flew off at a rapid pace.

Harry could follow the animals' progress. Amazingly, given the weather earlier, the sun was now showing some signs of breaking through.

Somehow Albus Dumbledore was there - as if from thin air. His laconic remarks explained that both of the fallen were members of the Order of the Phoenix and that the Order provided tombstones for all members killed by Death Eaters.

“We are gathered here to bury two of the finest examples of what is the best in our magical community. Tragically, they were murdered in their hospital room by corresponding examples of what is our worst. We mourn them, but let us turn our mourning into something affirmative - a new determination to prevail over the Dark forces that confront us and threaten the well-being of us all. That is what Frank and Alice would have wanted above all else.”

“It is with profound sorrow, but also with the greatest pride, that on behalf of the Order of the Phoenix, I present these two tombstones so that their ultimate sacrifice will always be remembered.”

With those brief words, Dumbledore waved his wand. Two identical smooth Botticino limestone memorials, each shaped as a rising phoenix, appeared. As his last act, Dumbledore intoned the dedicatory inscription that the family had chosen: “So That Virtue May Prevail.” With an almost imperceptible flick of his wand, Dumbledore vanished in a flash of red phoenix fire, leaving only phoenix song behind. This was not the uplifting song Harry had heard before in times of need. Rather the music this time was haunting, moving, and mournful.

Shak and Mad-Eye held the procession still until the music faded away. Then they made a hand gesture, and the remaining pallbearers stepped forward in unison. They removed the personal effects, and then the flags, from the caskets and solemnly folded the flags. The four Aurors marched the deceaseds' effects, and four triangularly folded flags, to Shak and Mad-Eye. Salutes were exchanged, as the two accepted the offerings. Shak and Mad-Eye in turn approached the honours box, where they saluted Neville. He returned the salute nervously but firmly, and they presented him with his parents' things, and the ceremonial flags.

The caskets were slowly sinking from sight into their final resting-places. Neville fumbled a bit with his burden, and handed all but his parents' wands and one of the flags to his grandmother and Ginny. Neville exchanged formalities with the senior Aurors that Harry could not hear.

“What's Ginny doing there?” Harry Legilimenced to Hermione.

“Oh…” Hermione paused. “…They've… They've been … corresponding … most of the summer.… Since the announcement of the Order of Merlin awards…. Neville asked her to come. As much as anything, that's why she agreed to let Ron stay on for the extra couple of days in Denmark.”

Harry was nonplussed. “Ginny and, and … Neville…? Are they…?”

“Seeing each other?” Hermione anticipated. “I wouldn't call it that. At least not yet.… But after your performance yesterday, I'd say that the odds in favour have significantly increased.” She smiled at Harry knowingly.

Harry winced. He had been a bit of an oaf, he knew. But it was all for the best. Even though Ginny had become quite … shapely … he thought he would always think of her as Ron's little sister. Hermione had seemed to be scolding him, but she was smiling…. At least she did not seem upset….

Before Harry could reply, another resounding report brought his attention back to the reason they were there. After receiving a final salute from Neville, Shak and Mad-Eye had turned on their heels, and bellowed commands to the two lines of Aurors flanking the graves. A third of the Aurors had drawn their wands. Simultaneously, they let loose a deafening salvo of crimson magic that produced a stupendous display of red crisscrossed light. When silence returned, another group repeated the process with bright blue jets of magic and another roar. The command was given a third and final time, and a forest of white spells shot towards the heavens.

As the final fountain of white light faded away, the crowd heard a soft whistling sound in the distance to the east. More and more of the attendees craned their heads and looked. The sound grew more insistent, and on the horizon Harry saw a line of broom riders hurtling towards the cemetery at little more than treetop height. They were moving at a speed that Harry would not have thought possible before encountering the Valkyrie. Their brooms were trailing some sort of smoke.

In almost no time, the riders were upon them. Abruptly their horizontal course turned vertical, and they shot upwards. They were, indeed, Valkyrie riders. Harry could now make out their precise formations - the guarding formation that the Order had approximated whilst escorting Harry to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place last year. Here, however, the formation was executed with absolute precision.

Fourteen riders were arrayed in two seven-person formations, one rider in the middle, one in front, one behind, and four circling regularly around the axis of flight spaced ninety degrees apart. In each formation, each rider trailed a different colour smoke: the red, white, and blue of the Union Jack; and the additional silver, black, gold/yellow, and green hues of the Ministry.

Suddenly, the middle rider in each formation peeled away diagonally, creating two “Missing Man” formations. The other riders continued upwards until they were lost from sight. Trailing black smoke, the two “missing” riders traced gigantic arcs and curved back towards the crowd of mourners. Slowing to a more sedate speed, the riders crossed paths with one another and fired off identical spells. The spells resolved into gold-covered boxes floating gently to earth beneath golden parachutes.

One box went promptly to Neville. That was not surprising.

The other parachute, however, floated just as unerringly to Harry. Rather than reach for it, Harry drew back. This was not his ceremony. Since he did not move to take it, the unbidden parcel conked Harry on the forehead, knocking his glasses halfway off. It kept insistently tapping Harry about the head until Hermione grasped the box, confirmed the rather obvious fact that it was indeed addressed to Harry, and handed it to him.

“I don't want it,” Harry hissed to Hermione.

“Obviously,” Hermione whispered back. “However, it seems to want you, so the fastest way to get this over with is to take it.”

Uncomfortably aware that all eyes were now on him, Harry fumbled with the box before prising it open. There was a small scroll inside. It said. “I know what happened. I've got your back. We all do.” It was signed simply “Mannock.” Wordlessly, Harry showed it to Hermione. They both nodded. Then Harry stuffed the note of encouragement into his pocket, tried to return to being inconspicuous, and waited for the ceremonies to continue.

The playing of four drum ruffles and trumpet flourishes announced the arrival of the Minister of Magic, which was followed inexorably by Fudge's windy speech. It was more of the same mixture of platitudes and self-congratulatory statements that Harry had come to expect from the Minister. He Legilimenced to Hermione, “I'm going to have to do that, and I'm scared to death.”

“Have to do what?” Hermione Legilimenced back.

“Give a speech,” Harry responded slowly. “Dumbledore says the French want me to say something at Mister Delacour's funeral next Thursday. I haven't the foggiest what to say … or to do…. I'm afraid I'll come a cropper and embarrass the whole ruddy country.”

“Didn't Dumbledore give you any help?” Hermione asked.

“The Ministry gave me Percy, but I can't just do what that pompous plonker tells me,” Harry answered bitterly. “I got the draft text of a speech from him last night by owl. It's horrible. It's more of the waffle we're listening to right now. I'm going to be awful if I try to sound just like Fudge.”

“I'm sure you'll do just fine,” Hermione soothed. “We'll just have to redo what Percy writes until it's to your liking,” Hermione suggested smoothly. “Remember, you're in charge. They invited you, not Percy. You've already learnt that, if you're firm enough - and underhanded enough - nobody can make you say anything you don't want to say. Percy's draft may be poor, but at least it's a starting point.”

Harry was quite relieved to have some help that he could trust. “That's great Hermione, you're a lifesaver,” he Legilimenced.

“So are you, Harry - in every sense of the word,” replied Hermione. “How soon can I get a copy?”

Fudge droned on. “…and in our brotherhood of magic, under the fatherhood of God…”

“I don't know….” Then Harry smiled. “Wait, I learnt that spell of yours.” Flicking out his wand and hunkering down, Harry tried to be as quiet as possible. It was not a dueling spell, so he had not practiced casting it silently. “Aparecium chez Harry Percy's draft speech.” He said in a muted voice.

”…And in response to He Who Must Not Be Named, we declare, `We fear no fear but fear itself….'”

Harry was greatly relieved when the small role of parchment appeared. He was not sure how audibly that spell had to be pronounced in order to work. Magic could be funny that way. Hermione had always performed it loudly and clearly. He handed the parchment to Hermione, who equally surreptitiously duplicated it, handed the original to Harry, and pocketed the copy.

“I'll let you know what I think, as soon as I can. Oh! And why don't you say something in French?” Hermione Legilimenced.

“French?” Harry gawked at Hermione. “I don't know any French.”

“Well, you can learn,” Hermione stated.

Harry looked shocked. “In a bloody week?” he questioned.

“Haven't you ever stopped to think what else your Aural Pensieve can be good for?” Hermione responded rhetorically.

“…so that government of wizards, by wizards, and for wizards shall not perish….”

Fudge was truly grating on his nerves. Harry sincerely hoped that he could do better than that in France. As for now, he could not wait for the last act listed in the programme - the Auror bugler sounding “Last Post” and “Taps.”

* * * *

“…And remember, Dung, no picking pockets, I don't want anything to embarrass me tonight.”

Mundungus Fletcher looked somewhat mutinously at Harry. It had been his own fault though. When he learnt where he was going to watch over his charge, he should not have wiggled his fingers in anticipation - at least not where the boy could see him do it.

Harry's date with Eliza to see the Philharmonic at the Royal Albert Hall could only be described as an exercise in contradictions. On the one hand, it had all the ingredients of a wonderful outing. Eliza had been thrilled to accept Harry's invitation. He wore his fancy Muggle suit for the first time since the disaster at Hermione's house, and he was undeniably rakish with his hair combed back from a middle-of-the-forehead part. That style emphasized rather than concealed Harry's distinctive scar. Unless he wanted to be mobbed, it was a look he could only use whilst attending Muggle events with Eliza.

For her part, Eliza was positively radiant (not to mention absurdly attractive) in her “Ravenclaw” dress - a dark blue strapless evening gown with iridescent bronzed sequins in the décolletage. In all the right places, her dress appeared to Harry to have been painted on. He wondered if she had used magic to make if fit like that, yet stay completely wrinkle, stretch, and panty-line free. She had layered her long blond hair, teasing it just enough so that it fell in a mane. It surrounded her practically-perfect-in-every-way face like a golden halo. When Harry gave Eliza the opportunity, that face showered him with kisses.

“Now, if we could just drop from the sky on that flying motorcycle of yours, that would be perfect,” Eliza joked as they headed for the taxi rank. “The grandest entrance of all.”

“I would if you would,” Harry joked back. “And I'll wear your Potter's Marauders jacket to underscore the point.”

“You wouldn't,” she gasped.

“I would,” he affirmed.

“Well I won't,” she put her foot down, not sure whether he was still joking. “I'm not having you sent to Azkaban for a gross breach of secrecy. I like having you around too much….”

Eliza looked so beautiful that it made Harry uneasy. Entering the hall, Harry became intensely aware that other men were ogling his date. That was a novel sensation for him, and it was unnerving. Maybe something similar had happened at the Docklands amusement park, but on that occasion he had been too busy with his own ogling to notice. This time, however, Harry had seen Eliza in her finery beforehand, and he was duly captivated. His own eyes never wandered.

The seating was outstanding. The D'Israeli firm was a long-time, top-drawer donor to the Philharmonic. Its loggia-level box was so close to the orchestra that, if Harry had known how to read music, he might have been able to follow the score over the musicians' shoulders. The box was situated directly opposite the Royal Box, occupied that night by the estranged Princess of Wales and her entourage. Although aware that many of his professors detested the Royals, Harry could not help but engage in the guilty pleasures of Royal watching.

Those were the good parts.

The contradictions arose because Royal watching was just about the most interesting thing that he did all evening. To a classical music neophyte such as Harry, the composers Prokofiev and Ravel meant next to nothing. Nor did it take much conversation for him to discover that Eliza was no more knowledgeable.

“So what do you know about this Prokofiev bloke?” Harry asked Eliza, making conversation once they were seated. “I reckon he's from Russia or something.”

“Well, it says here….” Eliza replied haltingly whilst squinting at the programme in the half-light, “that he's `neoclassical influenced,' whatever that's about…. `…his sheer wilfulness is to be contrasted with a warm, Romantic, nostalgic lyricism….' What do you think that means?”

“Haven't the foggiest,” Harry replied truthfully.

“Me neither.”

Eliza had never even been to the Albert Hall before for any of the proms - one of the reasons she had been so thrilled by the invitation.

Thus the music was rather puzzling, and there was little else for Harry and Eliza to talk about. Nor were other activities available - the box's prime location eliminated all possibility of privacy, and Harry had left his Invisibility Cloak at home.

After a very short while Harry got bored. He began to regret not offering the tickets to Hermione instead. The Yule Ball notwithstanding, Hermione would never draw the sorts of stares that Eliza did, but she was far more interesting to be with. Hermione not only would have known everything about these composers and their music, but she would have maintained a running (albeit silent) commentary answering all of his questions.

The music was entrancing. Harry could almost see the notes exploding in colourful bursts on the back of his eyelids, which were steadily drooping.

One thing for sure, Harry was never bored with Hermione…. He loved just listening to her talk…. She knew so much about so many things. She could always figure out…. Harry was on the verge of nodding off when a flash of inspiration came to him. He sat upright, blinking his eyes furiously and wiggling his fingers to restore the blood flow.

It was brilliant! He had just figured out how to ensure a satisfactory resolution to one of the many knotty problems that his violently changing circumstances had created. Not only that, he would have to act quickly if he wanted to kill two birds with one stone tomorrow at Bill's funeral.

Awkwardly excusing himself from Eliza just as the second movement of “Daphnis and Chloe” was beginning, Harry strode quickly to the loo.

What a loo. He gawked as he entered through double swinging doors. `This is twice the size of my uncle's house,' Harry thought. `And not only that, but much more than twice as posh as well.' Harry had never seen so much cut glass and mosaic tile in a lowly toilet before. These Muggles were as bad as any wizards were when it came to showing off.

He found an empty stall and Transfigured a roll of toilet paper into a notepad. The Transfiguration was not perfect - Harry's biro tended to tear the paper overly much - but it would have to do in a pinch.

Harry exited the loo right into the middle of a situation. There were flashes of light. People were yelling and shoving. Harry found himself roughly slammed against the wall by several burly Muggles. He reacted reflexively as he had with Dudley. The man who had been restraining him let him loose like he had grabbed a live wire, almost turfing him as a result. That man, who had the largest forearms Harry had ever seen on somebody without a giant in his gene pool, regarded the boy with the distinctive scar through narrowed and suspicious eyes….

Harry's attention was elsewhere. For a brief moment, Harry saw her - Princess Di - and for an even briefer moment he thought that they made eye contact. Then it was over. The entourage swept past, trailed by hyena-like paparazzi. Harry last saw the Princess berating one of her bodyguards. There was too much noise to hear anything, even if he had brought Extendable Ears.

Harry smiled. Getting jostled in the hall would probably be the most noteworthy thing to happen all night. His being within a few metres of the Princess of Wales would be enough to turn the status-conscious Dursleys green with envy. However, for now he had work to do.

After dusting himself off, Harry returned to his box. He hardly paid attention to the rest of the performance; he was so absorbed in jotting down various thoughts on the notepad. Eliza asked what he was doing. He told her it was another of those things that she was better off not knowing. He added mysteriously that it would only aggravate the conflict of interest problems that had forced her to change jobs.

Eliza pouted.

Harry felt he had no time to lose. To his date's great disappointment, he begged off going back to her flat after the show.

Eliza pouted even more.

To assuage Eliza, Harry promised that nothing would detract from their “special date” planned for Tuesday evening. That was a major concession because Harry was still in the dark about exactly what she had planned. He asked her again.

“Since I've promised now to come along peaceably, can't you at least tell me what you've got planned?” Harry persisted.

“But that would spoil the surprise,” she responded coquettishly.

“Oh, come on,” Harry pleaded. “You know that me and surprises don't mix very well.”

She cryptically replied, “All I'll tell you is that it's another one of those simple Muggle things that you've apparently never done.”

Plainly, she was not about to offer any specifics.

The vague description of the upcoming date made Harry uneasy. Although not his primary intent, Harry's hasty exit allowed him to avoid further awkwardness over the S-E-X question. Harry was strongly conflicted. On the one hand, Eliza was physically almost irresistible. On the other hand, something about the prospect gnawed at Harry, although he had never quite been able to articulate (even to himself) exactly what that “something” was.

Hailing a black cab, Harry tipped the driver excessively and had the visibly annoyed Eliza driven home. Then, pausing only long enough to inform a rather confused Mundungus Fletcher of his intention, Harry found a secluded place and Apparated to Mrs Figg's.

Ugh. Whilst he enjoyed the convenience of this mode of travel, he thought he would never get used to the feeling of being squeezed, which always seemed to resemble an overly crowded telephone box.

Harry was likewise curt with the Dursleys after his return. That posed less of a problem, since the more nattily he dressed, the more restrained his relatives became in his presence. After only a few pleasantries, such as inquiring how long Dudley had to wear the cast on his arm, Harry bolted upstairs.

His first act was to give Hedwig something to do. As he tied a note to her leg, Harry urged, “Don't know if you can even find a goblin, but give it your best, won't you girl? And please hurry.” Hedwig soon soared off into the night.

Harry next noticed the green light shining on his Communicator, signifying some post from Dumbledore. Harry quickly read it. Apparently one of Moody's first acts as acting Head Auror (after deep-sixing the Voldometer) was to designate Harry and Hermione's training as a matter of utmost importance. Training would recommence on Tuesday. That complicated things a bit because of Eliza's date, but not irrevocably.

Turning to the task at hand, Harry crankily pored over the papers on his desk, looking for the forms that Blackie Howe had given him.

“Dammit, where are those,” he cursed under his breath. “Not there…. Not there…. Not here, either….”

Harry haphazardly stacked the various papers and other clutter on his desk on top of one another and moved the stacks out of the way until he finally located what he wanted.

“There you are, you bugger!” he exclaimed when he finally unearthed the envelope with the D'Israeli law firm name and logo (the “I” in D'Israeli took the form of a wand which changed colours randomly) engraved in the upper left corner.

Harry grabbed a roll of fresh parchment and his Quick Quotes Quill. Setting the quill to its “correct grammar” setting, Harry began transcribing his scrawled notes and shaping them into coherent sentences. For once Harry regretted not knowing how to type. Otherwise he would have been pleased to use the Muggle computer that the Dursleys had given him.

Harry worked diligently. He was just finishing up at 2:15 in the morning when Hedwig returned, bearing a note. Reading it, he pumped the air with his fist. His gamble had paid off, and he would be able to complete matters tomorrow. After that Harry fervently hoped to be done with the whole morbid subject.

Harry duplicated the documents, signed each copy, and to underscore his seriousness, imprinted them with his Manmak signet ring. Carefully, he sealed both copies with magical wax and ribbon. He gave one sealed copy to Hedwig and instructed her to take it to Blackie Howe. Harry placed the other copy under his glasses as he prepared for sleep. For the first time since the attacks, Harry activated his Aural Pensieve.

Tomorrow, Harry thought, would be a very hard day. He had to go to the Burrow for Bill's funeral. Burying Bill would be bad enough. He earnestly hoped that his reunion with the surviving Weasleys would not prove to be worse.

Breeee…. Breee…. Fwump! Harry's alarm clock exploded into bits that turned into multi-coloured confetti and streamers before they hit the floor.

The long-suffering clock paid the price for awakening Harry from a vivid dream involving Hermione, Eliza, a river and a beach. One moment he had been snogging on a riverbank with Eliza, who had been dressed in tight blue denim Capri pants. The next moment, he was dancing on the strand with Hermione, who might not have been wearing anything at all. She had been surrounded by prismatic light, whilst she turned churning sea foam into sparkling gemstones. Muggle rock and roll (a song from a Yank band whose name he forgot for Eliza, and “Angelsea” for Hermione) played in the background. It had been quite pleasant…. Reality was so much worse.

Harry rose early to run by himself, as Dudley still nursed a couple of nasty leg burns in addition to the big, clumsy cast on his forearm. Today was going to be all about death, so he was feeling depressed. Depression loves company, so he threw “We Sold Our Souls for Rock `N Roll” (one of Dudley's) into his Muggle CD player and let it repeat over and over.

After running, Harry had hoped to go to Hogwarts for some flying, but he received bad news when he arrived, his miniaturised Valkyrie in hand, at Mrs. Figg's.

“Good morning,” Harry greeted the elderly Squib. “I'm here for my morning fly.”

“Sorry, I just received word from Hogwarts, not ten minutes ago that it's been cancelled,” Mrs. Figg said through the screen door.

“Oh oh,” Harry replied, “I don't like the sound of that. Did something happen?”

“Nothing serious,” Mrs. Figg hastened to reply. “It's just that Hagrid, the great lush, went three sheets to the wind after returning from the Longbottom ceremony.”

“That bad, eh,” Harry replied sadly.

“If anything worse,” the Squib confirmed. “Even Professor McGonagall's Sobering Charm had no effect. There's nobody else available, and Dumbledore doesn't want you flying unsupervised. You're too much of a target, even at Hogwarts.”

“But, if I just stay within the grounds and don't fly any higher than….”

“No buts, Sonny,” Mrs. Figg cut over him. “You'll just have to go home.” Then she smiled and looked at the boy more softly. “I know you've got an incredibly hard day ahead of you….”

Reprising the night before, Harry's relatives continued ignoring him after he returned from Mrs. Figg's. In the basement, Dudley was working out as best he could on improvised equipment, following a training regimen designed to keep him as decently conditioned as possible whilst he healed. Uncle Vernon was closeted in his home office reviewing papers in preparation for a meeting with a barrister. Aunt Petunia was out shopping.

The snub from his relatives turned out to be a good thing, as Harry received not one, but two unexpected owls. Other than the Daily Prophet, Harry was not used to owl deliveries at that hour of the morning. The first owl bore a package, but would not let Harry near it until he read the accompanying C.O.D. note and deposited 35 Galleons in the owl's pouch. Harry did not recognise the sender - some outfit called BerlitzMagical - but since the message had referenced Hermione, Harry paid.

Inside Harry found three French language instructional lessons for his Aural Pensieve and the directions how to use them. Harry felt a piercing pang of regret.

“Damn, I'm a ruddy git, aren't I,” he muttered to himself.

Hermione had once again taken it on herself to help him with a serious problem. Harry had repaid her by throwing her over in favor of Eliza on something involving classical music - an area that was obviously far closer to Hermione's heart than Eliza's. He felt he had made a spectacularly inappropriate choice. Even Dumbledore would have a hard time placing the blame for that choice anywhere but squarely upon Harry's shoulders.

The second owl made Harry feel even worse. Athena, Harry's present to Hermione, fluttered in through the trapdoor with a revised text of Percy's draft speech. Calling it a “revision” failed to do Hermione's effort justice. The text was almost totally rewritten. Gone were Percy's stock platitudes and windy phrasing. In their place were apt historical references and propositions that passed the test of reason. Instead of the defensive self-justifications characteristic of Ministry politicians, there was a resolute call to arms.

Hermione had even indicated what parts of the speech Harry might want to say in French. Little blinking tricolours flashed next to those parts, and the text switched every ten seconds or so from English to French and back again.

Yet he had taken Eliza rather than her to the symphony last night. Hermione had to know that. The strange link they shared meant that she could sense his feelings. Harry realised that she must have worked on this speech despite full awareness that all the while he had been with Eliza - maybe even at the exact same time. Harry felt lower than dirt. Not for the first time in his life, he was unsure what to do next. But now, he had nobody left in whom he could confide.

Harry made some comparatively minor revisions to the speech and sent them back via Athena, who had waited patiently for him. He read the BerlitzMagical directions and, with his alarm clock set for noon, went back to bed to learn if the Aural Pensieve taught French as effectively as it did spells. Harry silently vowed that he would not bollocks up this speech - not just for his sake, but for Hermione's. He owed her that much.

A sombre George Weasley - no Face Freezing Potion necessary - came to collect Harry at the appointed time.

“Okay,” Harry began, “Where did the money come from that I loaned you and Fred?”

“Triwizard winnings,” George answered. “Now me. What bloody excuse did Ronniekins give you for quitting as Prefect?”

Harry had never discussed the details of this problem with the Twins, although he assumed that, as members of the Weasley family, they knew the outline of what had happened. “You…? You really want to know about that?” Harry answered.

“Not really,” George admitted. “It's enough that you know that we know.”

“Ron's going to be there, isn't he?” Harry asked. “I'm really eager to see him. It's been such a long time, and so much has happened.”

George remarked sternly, “After Mum's finished with him, Dear Ronald may wish he'd never met you.”

That comment badly jolted Harry. “What do you mean by that? It's bad enough that she's upset with me. I can't stand having Ron blaming me for what's happened as well.”

“Sorry, this is a private Weasley matter,” George answered a bit testily. “Little brother has had this coming to him, and now the bloody day of reckoning is at hand.”

Harry was worried sick. His last doubts over his chosen course of action disappeared.

Heightened post-attack security was not allowing anyone to Apparate directly to the “Weasley Compound,” as the Ministry operatives had taken to calling the Burrow. George and Harry Portkeyed to a checkpoint several dozen yards down the driveway. It was manned by a bored witch and wizard in nondescript robes bearing Department of Magical Transportation insignia.

Even though George was recognisably a Weasley, and Harry was Harry, the DMT wizards rotely followed standard procedure and put them both through inspection. Harry had to empty his pockets, turn over his wand, and submit to a full-body scan with Probity Probes.

Harry complained, but the wizard checking him was having none of it. “You'll take the bloody check and be happy with it. It's this or a manual body cavity search. Your choice.” He leered as his witch companion cackled.

Just when Harry thought everything was over, he was asked to take off - of all things - his shoes. Harry had had enough. He let the DMT wizards keep the shoes, and simply Transfigured a couple of nearby pinecones into another pair. Taking his cue from Harry, George did the same, except George could not resist also putting a nasty delayed Transfiguration on the shoes he left behind. In fifteen minutes they would change into Dungbombs and go off.

The Burrow was hardly recognisable. There was nary a chicken nor a rusty cauldron in sight.

The oddly constructed, somewhat tumbledown structure that Harry had known was now overshadowed by a solid two-storey brick “new wing” that halfway surrounded the Weasleys' back garden. To Harry it looked as if a chunk of Hermione's house had been torn free and set down in Ottery St. Catchpole. The new wing looked as imposing as the old Burrow had appeared homey. He did not particularly care for the addition.

Harry gulped as he and George approached the new front entrance. All the living members of the Weasley family, except Ginny, were waiting for him in their black mourning robes. Arthur Weasley looked sad and world-weary, as if he would rather be anywhere else. Molly Weasley was stolid and stone-faced - determined to steer her brood through their present torment. What struck Harry about Mrs. Weasley's appearance was her hair. No longer vibrant red, it was now well streaked with grey. She looked like she had aged twenty years since Harry had last seen her in Kings Cross Station.

Charley was there, appearing slightly out of place in black robes that struggled to cover his muscular frame. He now bore all of the responsibilities that came with being the eldest son of a pure-blood family. Somewhat to Harry's surprise, Percy was also present, elegantly dressed but somewhat detached. Fred as usual looked just like George, which in this context meant there was a frown on his face. Fred flashed some sort of hand signal to George that, because George was behind him, Harry did not know whether George returned.

Ron was somewhat squashed between his mother and Fred. Just looking at his friend revealed to Harry how much the past weeks of hard Quidditch training had agreed with Ron. He was almost as tall as Percy now, but was growing into Bill's robust physique instead of Percy's more gangling frame.

Never had Harry seen such a contrast between Ron's physical and mental states. From all appearances, being back home did not agree with Ron at all. His expression was like death warmed over - that of a condemned man facing execution. Harry realised that he had given Ginny's complaints entirely too much credence. It was plain for anyone to see that Ron cared, and cared deeply, about what had happened to Bill.

Ron's distraught face brought home to Harry that, no matter how desolate he felt, Bill's loss had affected the Weasley family far worse than it had him. He had been in Bill's charge for only a few weeks. That was nothing. Bill had been the first Head Boy in his family - the brightest hope of the Weasley clan - for well over a decade.

From losing his own parents, and Sirius, Harry could sense the Weasleys' loss, but not entirely fathom it. Harry had no real recollection of his parents, and had known Sirius all too briefly. Bill, on the other hand, had been a strong thread running through the fabric of the Weasleys' entire lives, a fabric now tragically rent asunder.

Only Harry's sense of duty kept him from giving into the impulse to run away - to leave a Wizard world that had become overfull of sorrow and death. But Gryffindors do not run away. They stay the course and go forward. Harry gulped and pinched himself. He had been over and over what he was now going to say. He only wished for a smaller audience, especially for Ron not to be there at this moment.

Banishing the tears that threatened to flow, Harry addressed the elder Weasleys - both of them, although Molly Weasley was the primary recipient. “I'm … I'm so sorry. I'd do anything to bring Bill back, but there's … there's nothing I can do….”

After a few more sentences about Bill, Harry got to the point he needed most to make - the point that he hoped would close the developing rift.

“I can't set that right, but I can make amends to the living. It was wrong…. It was wrong for me … to try for Prefect at Ron's expense. I can't take back what I did, and what Ron did, but I want you to know that I've written Professor McGonagall. I-I-I told her that I don't want to be either Prefect or Quidditch captain, and … that if she tipped me, I wouldn't accept. I hope that means that Ron gets both.…”

Then Harry waited, for whatever would follow from his not altogether true confession. Mrs. Weasley allowed a slight smile to cross her lips before pronouncing, “That's quite alright, dear.”

Mr. Weasley, looking lost, simply said, “Right-o.”

Charlie was bewildered; news of the Prefect affair had never reached Romania.

Percy looked scandalised, as if he could not believe that Harry would do such a thing.

Fred and George looked furious, as did Ginny, who had chosen that instant to poke her head into the doorway.

Ron had gone even paler than before, and was openly gaping at Harry. It was if he were having trouble comprehending what Harry had just said.

The Weasleys offered Harry their hospitality. The episode appeared forgotten, or at least completely displaced by the more recent traumatic events. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shepherded Harry through the crowd of wizards and witches paying their last respects to Bill. They introduced Harry to various relatives and coworkers, taking pains to ensure that he was subjected to as little hero worship as possible.

There were more Weasley relatives than Harry could keep track of. He knew that pure-blood wizard families were interrelated, but this was ridiculous. Every redhead in Britain seemed to be there. He was starting to get nervous. He hoped he had not missed them….

Finally, Harry spotted the goblin contingent, and more specifically Bladvak, who was talking to a ruddy-haired wizard and witch who were undoubtedly also Weasley relatives. Subtly Harry began steering the Weasleys (who thought they were steering him) in that direction. Five minutes later, Harry was being introduced to Arthur Weasley's somewhat elderly second cousin, Horace, who was an accountant, and Horace's daughter, Mafalda Hopkirk, who headed the Improper Use of Magic office.

Both were pleased to remind Harry of their rather remote ties to him. Horace pronounced himself chuffed to be “working for” Harry, but was immediately silenced by an annoyed snort from Bladvak. Hopkirk regretted her harsh letters to Harry, which she said were “unfortunately” mandated by office policy. She told Harry that his juvenile records had been sealed by direct order of the Minister of Magic and, barring “some other incident,” they would be expunged when he reached majority.

Bladvak saved Harry the trouble of excusing himself from the pair by bluntly declaring that he needed to discuss something with Harry in private. They walked to an unused cloakroom.

“It you have, Your Excellency?” Bladvak asked in accented but reasonably grammatical English.

Ignoring his embarrassment at being addressed as goblin royalty, Harry produced the sealed parchment from an inside pocket. “Yes. It is signed and sealed as you directed. To be opened only on occasion of my death.”

“I direct you not, only inform,” Bladvak replied as he inspected the seal, nodded, and slipped the document inside his goblin greatcoat.

“Gradnuk, Bladvak,” Harry thanked the goblin in his tourist phrasebook-level Gobbledegook.

“Alama,” Bladvak responded, “I hope never to see what there is written.”

That task accomplished, Harry made his way to the location of the funeral - or more accurately the leaving ceremony - in the Weasleys' back garden. Slipping behind a large tree, Harry brandished his wand and uttered, “Liliaceous.” A large bouquet of white lilies appeared. Harry was relieved. He was not at all sure such a spell existed, but he had followed the principles of magical syntax that were the subject of Tuesday's lesson. Rule number one: Similar spells almost always have similar morphologies.

Largely due to Neville's skill in Herbology (and the new wand Harry had given him) the Weasleys' back garden had been completely transformed. The somewhat chaotic and bedraggled scenery familiar to Harry was gone. In its place there was a shady glen with a koi-stocked pond under one of several weeping willows. There were no gnomes in sight.

Near the house, amongst a welter of large amau ferns, was the bier upon which Bill's coffin (closed, given the manner of Bill's death) rested. Surrounding it was a shrine to Bill's life. Harry saw things that he recognised, such as Bill's 1989 Head Boy badge and graduation robes. He also saw things that were new and unexpected, such as a metre-high carved onyx ankh, with an eye that followed the viewer, and other less recognisable objects that Bill had accumulated during his career as a curse breaker for Gringotts.

The lump in Harry's throat grew larger as he saw that the most recent portion of Bill's life was also represented. There were several photographs of Bill with Harry, mostly from the night of the Ashrak. Bill's Ashrak robes hung opposite his Hogwarts Head Boy graduation robes - the only two outfits displayed. There was a matchbook from the Gordon Ramsay restaurant. Next to that was a never-to-be-finished printer's proof of the card that would have formally announced Bill's engagement to Fleur Delacour.

Mourners came and went all day. They could sit anywhere they pleased using a simple spell to conjure plain Muggle-style wooden folding chairs anywhere in the garden. The ceremony itself resembled a Quaker Meeting for Worship. A small podium was placed about two metres in front of the bier. Anyone could use the podium to address whoever was present at the time with whatever came to mind.

Harry waited until the goblin contingent had departed. Since he was nominally a general in the goblin army, Harry did not want the goblins to think him weak if they heard what he might say. For about ten minutes, Harry sat levitated a discreet half inch above one of folding chairs whilst he practiced Chinese Occlumency - taught to him by another victim of the Death Eaters' recent rampage. Then he looked about, making sure that nobody like Fudge, or that Slugman or Rufus whoever-he-was was present.

About thirty people were in the glen when Harry approached the unadorned podium.

Harry had no notes, no prepared text. He did the only thing that would be honest to both him and his audience. He spoke from his heart about what he felt.

The eulogy began haltingly. “Bill…. Bill died…. Bill died because he tried to be the father I never knew. He didn't have to do that. He could have refused when I asked him…. He should have refused when I asked him.”

“I'm afraid I wasn't a very good son. I ran away. Disobeyed. Talked back. Caused him grief. Caused everybody who cared about me grief. Now all I've got left is grief….”

“Actually, that's not true. I've got memories. Good ones. More than anything else, what I'll always remember about Bill is his honesty. He could be brutally honest. He tried to teach me about life.… That was real to me.… And about love.… That's so unreal.…”

“His guiding principle was always be honest. If I didn't feel that I could tell the truth, I should just be quiet - or better yet, I shouldn't get myself into situations where lying seemed like an acceptable choice. …And he taught me not to take advantage of others. No manipulation or false pretenses…. I'm afraid my shabby reality hasn't always lived up to Bill's ideals.”

“But that's not surprising, really. I'll never be half the man he was. For the rest of my life, however short it may be, I just hope I can practice what Bill preached.”

“Those were great life lessons. Bill was so full of life. He taught me to ride a flying motorcycle. He was a great flyer. Made it seem effortless. But that was Bill. He was great at everything he decided to try.”

“He made a great father. I only wish he could have been mine a lot longer … and that I had been a better son. I was so selfish…. I only thought about what I wanted. Bill was just the opposite. He gave of himself to others … to me….”

“It was selfish of me to ask him to try to be my dad in the first place.… To even think I had the right to ask.”

Harry addressed his Weasley classmates and friends. “Ron … Ginny… I've tried to be your friend ... even thought of myself as almost family. Some friend I turned out to be…. My unfulfilled needs…. Unfulfillable needs…. They cost you your brother…. And for what? He tried to give me what's just not mine to have, I guess. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me. I should have known better.”

Harry was once again on the verge of tears, but never crossed the brink of an unprecedented public cry. To fight them off, he stopped and looked around.

Then he saw her.

Harry had not noticed when she had entered the garden. He had been so wrapped up in trying to speak intelligibly and to say things that at least approximated what he felt. Even in mourning garb, the flaxen haired half-Veela beauty who had captured Bill's heart radiated elegance.

“…And Fleur,” Harry rasped, “I've wronged you most of all… You're like me now. Well, almost. Orphaned. It's horrible. I know. I've lived that way all my life.”

“I-I-I had no claim.… I had no right … to ask Bill to try to be my father. That was … an imposition … on you. He should have been the father of your children … children that will never be…. All because of me…. Because I had to go and make him a target of that madman…. Voldemort.”

“Someday, though … I'll make it up to you. I'll make it up to all of you … or die trying….”

Harry realised he was rambling - rambling perilously close to the prophecy. He glanced at Hermione, who was white as a ghost. He wanted to say something to her, but words failed him. Harry did the only thing he could think of. He sat down and shut up.

Harry had no idea how long he had stayed slumped his plain wooden chair in the Weasleys' back garden, biting his lips to keep from crying. It felt like hours, but probably was less than five minutes. Harry wondered if he should just Apparate away.

“Harry?” The voice barely registered.

“HARRY?!” It registered that time. Harry remembered the Howler. Molly Weasley was a person not to be crossed, and surely she had not appreciated Harry's creating a scene at her family's solemn gathering.

Harry slowly raised his head. He felt he would be lucky not to be tossed out on his bum after a eulogy like that.

“That was … so … beautiful. Welcome home!!!” Mrs. Weasley gathered Harry into a bone-crushing embrace.

As he was being swarmed by the Weasleys, Harry felt a warm sensation. He had exorcised the grief, at least for a while. He felt happiness for the first time since the Death Eater attack. Even Fleur comforted him, stating emphatically that Bill had never been happier than during the last weeks of his life.

After a few minutes, most of the Weasley family excused themselves to return to their grim duties, but Fred, George, and Ron walked Harry down a hallway, through a couple of doors, and into the old Burrow that Harry recognised.

Ron now occupied what had been his parents' master bedroom in the old Burrow. Whilst the main colour was still Chudley Canons orange, there was more than a smattering of Gryffindor red and gold. Ron had several pictures of himself in action on the pitch at Elsinore.

Thankfully, Ron had not taken to autographing his pictures.

In the place of honour above the headboard of Ron's bed was a large wizard photograph of Cho in what Harry supposed was a very skimpy outfit. She pulled a towel over herself (well, most of herself) when the others entered.

Ron clapped Harry on the back and gave him a great hug. “Harry! It's bloody great to see you again. Even considering the circumstances.…” Ron's face fell a bit.

Fred interrupted before Ron could resume his previous thought. His voice was surprisingly harsh. “Now, Ron. Do it now. You dodged the mother of all hexes out there - not that you deserved it - when Harry decided to fall on his wand for you.”

George picked up where Fred left off. “Don't think yourself out of the woods, dear younger brother.” He then made the same threat to Ron that Hermione had once directed at him. “If you even think of doing anything like that again to our partner, Mum will know everything.”

Ron sighed deeply. “Harry…. Mate…. I'm sorry I did that to you - make Mum think giving up my badge was at all your idea. You know how she is. Once she found out, I was scared of what she'd do … pull me out of camp. Once it got started, things just kept getting worse. I didn't know how to end it.… Then Fred and George….” Ron glanced at the Twins, who glowered back at him. “They made me see that I had to face the consequences.…”

“Only after blowing the bloody whistle on you,” George snorted.

“By getting a copy of your incriminating letter to McGonagall,” Fred added. “Duly logged in `received at Hogwarts' before your little chat with Harry, here.”

Smiling wanly at Harry, Ron continued. “And, then Bill was.… Well, you know mate, none of us wanted to upset Mum more than she already was. Sometimes it seemed she ready to go around the twist as it was. Anyway, it got put off…. Today was going to be the day. Then, crikey, from out of the blue you go all noble on me and take the blame for something you didn't even do…. Why, Harry? Even when I mess up, do you have to bloody rescue me?”

Harry smiled wanly at Ron. “You're a friend, Ron. As good a friend as anyone could ask for. You…. You…. You only have to go downstairs to see what can happen to my friends.” Harry gestured towards the back garden. “Yet here you are. I need all the friends I can get right now.”

“Well, you've got me,” Ron affirmed, wrapping Harry in a trademark Weasley hug of his own.

Harry asked the Twins for some privacy with Ron. Their mission to force an apology out of their younger brother accomplished, the Twins readily agreed - or so it seemed.

Harry had learnt to cast Surveillius Revelato silently. An incriminating green glow revealed two pairs of Extendable Ears.

“Your call,” Harry told Ron.

Ron did not need to be asked twice. There was a large metal laundry hamper in the corner. Ron silently emptied its contents. Grabbing a Beater's bat that lay on a chest of drawers, Ron inverted the hamper, slammed it over the ears, and made an unholy racket bashing the hamper with the bat as hard as he could.

After about thirty seconds, Ron released the ears. In wobbly fashion they slowly slipped out of sight.

“Good one. Now what really happened?” Harry asked.

“Well, it all goes back to Cho,” Ron started.

“I thought it might,” said Harry evenly, “but I have no idea how.”

“We were discussing next year at Hogwarts,” Ron explained. “I was complaining about everything I had to do … everything that would keep me from spending time with her. She told me to stop complaining if I wasn't man enough to do anything about it.”

“Ouch,” commented Harry. “So she doesn't just cry; she can be tough when she wants to.”

“You got that right,” Ron confirmed. “Well, that put me to thinking, and I brought up what I thought was a mad idea of resigning as Prefect. Cho was shocked, actually, but after we kicked the idea around, she couldn't think of any convincing reason why I shouldn't.”

“Except that's it a great honour,” Harry observed. “One that runs in your family, I might add.”

Ron shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. But having Cho's honour is even better. So I immediately wrote to Professor McGonagall, turning in the badge. I owled the letter straightaway, before I could get cold feet and change my mind. I thought it was a done deal.”

“Wasn't it?” Harry asked. Here was something he had not guessed.

“Oh it was done all right,” Ron growled, “except for that bloody McGonagall. She sent a confirmatory letter here - to the Burrow - which meant my parents received it. Well, you can just guess what happened next. Mum positively went ballistic. She sends me a Howler….”

“Yeah,” Harry commiserated. “I know what her Howlers are like, you know.”

Ron looked uncomfortable. He had forgotten, or perhaps never really appreciated, the collateral damage he had inflicted on his best mate. “Right…. Well, anyway, she threatened to bring me home from Denmark - right away. It was `Quidditch be damned' and `you won't be seeing her any more either.'”

“So that's when you decided to do it?” Harry asked. He was surprised, but there were limits, it appeared, even to Ron's courage.

“I'm not ruddy proud of it, looking back, but yeah, that's when,” Ron confessed. “Mum was going to do everything but hang me from the rafters by thumbscrews if I couldn't give her a good reason for why I quit. I was desperate.”

“So you deflected her onto me….” Harry said. His voice was accusatory but not angry.

“Harry, I said I was sorry. I meant it, and I'm telling you the truth because I'm tired of lies.” Ron fervently pleaded.

“Except for mine, earlier today,” Harry observed in the same flat voice.

“Harry, you're bloody stronger than me,” Ron protested. “It's true…. You always have been. And you've more resources. You've got her to come up with brilliant solutions to all your problems. I'm just stupid old Ron, and the best I was able to come up with on my own was that we had a deal to swap my Prefect badge for a Quidditch captain's badge.”

“I'm not captain, and probably never was,” Harry said stiffly. “You can't assume such things….”

“Maybe you don't,” Ron replied emotionally. “But I do. It's been a lock since you were the only Gryffindor First Year starter in I don't know how many years - and at Seeker no less. And Head Boy too, I reckon…. And you get the girl. You're a bloody triple first, Harry….”

Harry scowled. Had his relationship with Eliza somehow become a topic of conversation as far away as Denmark? “What girl?” he asked.

“Hermione.”

“Hold on,” Harry commanded, extending his hand for emphasis. Ron fell silent. Harry flicked his wand from his concealed wrist holster (at which Ron went wide-eyed), and again silently cast Surveillius Revelato. Not one, not two - but three - pairs of Extendable Ears eerily glowed green.

“The bastards,” Ron muttered. He reached for the laundry basket again, but Harry stopped him.

“My turn this time.” After a slight pause he said aloud, so Ron could hear, “Surveillius Confundus.”

“What was that?” Ron asked incredulously.

“Spells Hermione taught me,” Harry said a little smugly. “That first one, which I can now cast silently, was how you got caught trying to listen in on my Floo talk with Ginny.”

“Sorry about that, too, mate,” Ron broke in. “She was writing someone regularly, and wouldn't tell me who. I thought it might be you.”

“Not I,” Harry protested, not mentioning what Ginny had said at the end of the conversation Ron had initially tried to overhear. “It was Neville….”

“I know that now, so I won't have to kill you,” Ron said smiling. Then he groaned and rolled his eyes heavenward. “Saw them together this morning whilst finishing the preparations - holding hands so bloody sweetly. With Bill not even cold, too.… If he thinks that the bloody Order of Merlin gives him license to shag my sister, I'll … I'll strangle him with his own bloody ribbon.”

Ron was getting a murderous look in his eye. To save Neville from possible bodily harm, Harry changed the subject. “Anyway, the second of Hermione's spells confuses would-be spies. Right now they think we're talking about Quidditch.”

“Oh,” replied Ron, “so it's safe now?” Harry nodded. Ron grinned, and asked, “and just how are you two `widely rumoured paramours' getting on, anyway?”

Harry grimaced. “That's what I was trying to tell you before we were interrupted,” Harry responded, a little more sharply than he had intended. “There is no me and Hermione - no `us' - not like that, anyway. Everybody seems to think so…. Her parents seem to think so…. They were set to take her out of Hogwarts to get her away from me.”

“NO!” exclaimed Ron, genuinely shocked.

“Yes,” declared Harry. “But to make a long story short, Dumbledore put a stop to that…. For which I am eternally grateful.”

“So am I,” declared Ron. “I'd fail half my classes if I couldn't copy her notes.”

Harry frowned, but let the remark pass. “Anyway, then her parents invite me to dinner. I didn't have a clue why, but it turned out they wanted to ask the same question you just did … to find out my `intentions' towards Hermione. It was a big fancy meal in their big fancy house, and right in the middle of it, in came this owl with the Howler from your mum. That right well set the tone for the whole disastrous evening.”

Harry was looking ominous. Ron knew that look. It often presaged some kind of adventure that got one or the other of them hurt. “Wha…? What happened?”

Harry scowled. “Well, the owl arrives the middle of the meal, and I have to explain about Quidditch captains and Prefects and things like that….”

“That's good then,” Ron commented, “you could impress her folks.”

“No, that's not good,” Harry insisted. “Maybe it encouraged them, but her father, he asks this stupid question about my `intentions,' that I don't understand. I try to explain, but I botch the job, so he asks me directly - about `romantic intentions.' And I tell him the truth….”

“And he throws you out on ear?” Ron asks, rather surprised. “The ruddy Chosen One gets the bum's rush. That's rich.”

“No, you don't understand,” Harry replied testily. “We had had this talk earlier … Hermione and me … about, well … us. She told me that I was too bloody rich and too bloody famous, and that she wanted to make her own way, and how she wouldn't stand for everybody thinking her accomplishments were because of me…. There, are you satisfied?”

Ron gawked at Harry with wide eyes. “Bloody Hell! I don't believe it. The two of you…. You're the perfect pair. I mean, if she can't handle you, then nobody….”

“You haven't heard the half of it,” Harry interrupted angrily. “That's what I told her father. Once he finds out I've got all this stupid money, then he just can't wait to throw her at me. They leave me sitting there - by myself - in their own damn house whilst they have some sort of family powwow about me. We'd been drinking champagne, so nature calls whilst everyone else is still away. I go looking for the ruddy loo, get lost, and I overheard her screaming at them when her father suggested outright that, because I'm likely to be rich, maybe she should date me after all.”

Harry concluded bitterly, “You know Hermione. You know how she is when she feels pressured to do something that isn't right … that she doesn't want…? If I ever had a chance with her, that killed it. After something like that, it's like trying to stick butter up a Hippogriff's arse with a red-hot poker - can't be done.” He emitted a morose laugh.

“Tell me about it,” Ron commiserated. “You should have seen us row when I thought I fancied her….”

“I think I did, Ron,” Harry observed evenly.

“No you didn't,” Ron replied. “Not the worst of it, anyway. You hadn't come to Grimmauld yet. Anyway, she was like Our Lady of Perpetual PMT. Now, I'm just glad that she put me out of my misery by giving me the old thumbs down. So you got it too….”

Harry was not entirely sure what Ron meant, but said nothing.

“…Well, don't you be coming back to Cho because you can't have Hermione,” Ron warned (mostly) jokingly.

“Don't worry, you're safe,” Harry grunted. “Actually, there is someone else.”

Ron's eyes got big. He clapped Harry on the back. “All right Harry!! I knew you had it in you. Of course, being the great Harry Potter gives you the pick of the litter, I daresay!”

Harry tried to smile at his overly enthusiastic friend. “I don't want the pick of the litter.”

Ron continued. “Who is it? Parvati? She went with you to that ball in fourth year. She's gotten pretty hot. Lavender? She's really hot, and she might just jump you if given half a chance - or so I've heard from Cho. Some of the younger ones too … they're right feral. They'd probably hold a rainbow party in your honor if you'd let them.”

Harry was not really listening. “I can't tell you who it is, Ron,” he said softly. “She doesn't want our relationship known - at least not yet. All you need to know is that she's not at Hogwarts.”

Taking that in, Ron glanced at Harry slyly. “Older woman, then. Gotten any yet?”

“Any what?” Harry replied blankly.

“Don't be daft,” Ron laughed, making a rude hand gesture consisting of his right forefinger inserted into a circle formed by his left thumb and forefinger.

Harry blushed furiously. “Oh.… We're close.… But not quite.”

“Well I hope you do, and soon - for your own sake,” Ron enthused with a faraway look in his eye. “It's the most wonderful, fantastic feeling in the world. She's so soft and warm and wet. Then she starts rocking, and moaning, and even screaming…. And then she sort of grabs you and pulls you in more deeply, until you don't want to hold anything back. And then.… Oh, wow! It's indescribable! A million times better than I could ever do myself.”

Harry was getting more embarrassed by the minute. “Well, if you say so,” he offered noncommittally.

“I don't say so - I know so!” Ron almost shouted. “She makes me strong, Harry. So strong that when I'm away from her I feel sort of - weaker, less alive. Look, I'll give you some advice.…” Ron had an impish look on his face.

Harry was not at all sure he wanted Ron's advice on this subject. He said nothing.

“Just ask her,” Ron declared.

Harry stared at Ron blankly, waiting for him to continue. When he did not, Harry inquired, “Ask her what?”

“Ask her … you know … `Fancy a quick shag?' or some such. It's not as difficult as all that - especially for you.”

“Yeah, right,” Harry groaned. He thought of Hermione. Say something like that to her, and he would be lucky to retain his human form. “So that's how Casanova Ron got Cho Chang, with a question like that?”

“Not really, actually,” Ron admitted.

“Thought so,” Harry shot back, looking triumphant.

“Actually she asked me that question,” Ron revealed, with a sly look on his face.

“No she didn't,” Harry shot back, looking shocked. “Not in a million years.”

“Yes, she did,” Ron reaffirmed. “We were talking about Quidditch - and you, actually. I'll never forget it as long as I live. She out and out asks me if I want to try what you, Harry, she meant you, `weren't man enough to try.' And that's Merlin's truth.”

“Swear?” Harry asked.

“I swear on our friendship, and that means as much to me as anything in the world - except maybe Cho's body,” Ron declared.

Harry flopped back on Ron's bed and stared at the ceiling. Ron might actually be right, if the way Eliza approached sexual matters was any indication. He sighed, and looked at the large picture of Cho. She was giggling and making motions like she was going to drop her towel. Mercifully she never followed through.

“So you must think I'm the world's biggest prat, then,” Harry asked his best friend.

“Hardly,” Ron replied seriously. “A prat wouldn't have done what you did for me down there in front of my whole family - those that are left, that is. You're a stand up guy, Harry…. It's just … with sex.… I just think you're making the same fool mistake I did. Thinking things are so difficult when they're not…. Look whether it's Hermione or this other bird, or somebody else, if you can't get up the nerve to just ask, try humour, then.”

“What?” chirped Harry sceptically.

“Humour. Whoever it is, just ask her if she'd sleep with a guy for a million Galleons. When she says `yes,' ask her if she'd sleep with you for fifty Galleons. When she says something like, `What do you think I am,' tell her that's already been established and you're only haggling over the price….” Ron finished with a snigger.

That seemed like spectacularly bad advice to Harry. Eliza would garrote him for such a remark. Hermione too - or worse - if he were ever so bold. When Harry started to get upset, Ron protested that it was “only a bloody joke”

Harry did not see the humour, but cracked a smile anyway. “Okay, remind me to tell that to Neville.”

Touché. It was Ron's turn to glower. “If you did, Ginny wouldn't be satisfied with a Bat Bogey Hex. She's show you her Severing Charm, and you'll never have an heir.”

“Now you understand why I didn't find it funny,” Harry replied coolly.

Red faced, Ron changed the subject back to Cho. “Seriously, she's a miracle worker.” Ron's voice dropped, “You know, Harry, ever since the Ministry I've had nightmares of horrible, unspeakable things happening to me. I think it's that bloody brain, although I can't get anyone to give me straight answers. She takes those away. I don't have nightmares when I've been with her.… I just want to thank you, Harry.”

“Thank me for what?” asked Harry.

“For giving Cho up,” Ron responded guilelessly. “For setting her free so she could come to me.”

“Cho was never mine to give up,” said Harry, annoyed at the underlying assumption that girls were property. “Our relationship barely left the starting blocks.”

“Wake up, Harry,” Ron spat. “You're the `Git Who Lived.' You're not only famous, but now it seems you're going to be filthy rich as well. What else do you need? Hell, Cho would have waited for you - she told me that straight out. They'd all wait for you, Harry, if you gave them the slightest encouragement. Even Ginny would have waited….”

“GIVE ME A BREAK WITH THE BLOODY `BOY WHO LIVED' CRAP, WILL YOU!!” Harry shouted. “You have no idea how hard I have to try … and how little I have to show for it.”

“I know,” protested Ron, “but you can't deny that your position comes with great fringe benefits.”

“LIKE FREE TRANSPORTATION TO ALL THE DAMN FUNERALS I CAN HANDLE!!” Harry roared in anguish.

Ron drew back. “Whoa, Harry…. Chill. Let's not go back to last year. I'm completely cool with it. Even if I wasn't Cho's first choice, I'm her last choice, and that's all I want.”

Harry growled, “Just don't go telling me that because I'm the effing rich and famous Harry Potter I can get any girl I want, because it's not true!”

Ron replied sulkily, “All right, I won't.…” Then he added, mostly to himself, “But it's true and you know it.”

Harry just glared. Finally, he took a deep breath and said, “Watch this.” Harry held out his right hand and concentrated. Icy tendrils emerged and extended outwards, gradually attaining a length of half a metre. Water vapour in the affected air condensed and fell as snow.

“Wicked,” exclaimed Ron. “What's that?”

“Elemental magic,” Harry answered, with just the hint of a grin returning. “It's one of the things that I've been trained in whilst you've been playing Quidditch.”

Ron's face fell. Harry did not know why until Ron grumbled. “That's great, Harry, but I'm afraid that you … you and Hermione both, really … well … you're leaving me behind. I mean, how can good old `average' Ron expect to be part of a Trio with you two headline makers?”

“Because. We. Want. You. To.” replied Harry, drawing out each word. “That's all we care about. Your marks can't be that bad, can they?”

Wordlessly, Ron got up, strode to his desk, pushed some papers around, grabbed one, and shoved it in Harry's face.

Hogwarts School Of Witchcraft And Wizardry

1996 O.W.L. Report

Student: Ronald Bilius Weasley

Subject

Theoretical

Practical

Overall

Numeric

Weighting

Transfiguration

A

E

E-

82

2

Potions

P

A

A-

71

2

Charms

E

A-

E-

82

2

Defense Against Dark Arts

O

O

O

101

2

Herbology

A

A

A

76

2

Divination

___

___

P-

61

1

Astronomy

A

Inc.*

Inc.*

74*

1*

Care of Magical Creatures

___

___

E

88

1

History of Magic

___

___

P

65

1

Total

1112*

14*

GPA

79.4*

O.W.L.s Passed: 11*

O.W.L.s Failed 3*

Total O.W.L.s 8*

*Astronomy practical O.W.L. ruled “incomplete” due to external interference; make-up scheduled for Autumn 1996

You are _19th__ of 40 in your class.

You are _150th_ of 302 in the Western and Northern European Region.

“Eight O.W.L.s,” Harry commented. “Nothing wrong with that. It tops Fred and George put together… And you're ranked right in the middle of the class. That's nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Don't condescend me, Harry,” Ron warned. “It's nothing compared to my best mates both being out there making history. You've raised the bar for the Trio pretty damn high.”

“Ron, you know that my friendship … and Hermione's too … doesn't depend on your marks. We're friends with you because of who and what you are - not because of coloured numbers on a piece of parchment. Besides, you've apparently set the bar pretty high yourself in Quidditch lately.”

With that Harry steered the conversation with his moody friend to the other activity that boosted his ego. The Quidditch talk that followed defused the situation. Ron discussed how they had barely won the match that Ginny missed, and invited Harry to the final next Saturday - if Harry could find some way to get to Denmark.

They decided to ask Mr. Weasley to talk to Dumbledore about getting Harry to Denmark. That game was more important than Harry thought. If Hogwarts won, the planned international Quidditch tour would play a match at the Castle sometime near the end of the term - the international all stars against Hogwarts' best.

Harry even ended the Surveillius Confundus Charm because it was no longer necessary. They really were talking Quidditch now.

* * * *

To an outside observer, it appeared that Harry spent his rare Monday without training relaxing (or recuperating, as the case may be) in bed. In reality, he was using his Aural Pensieve in what he hoped would be a successful effort to learn enough French to give a creditable speech. He had yet to tell anyone, even Hermione, but his new goal was to give the entire speech in French. Harry also exchanged more revisions with Hermione, whilst falsely telling Percy that his draft was fine. Once again, Harry honoured Bill's aphorisms about truth and honesty mostly in the breech.

The sun was painting fiery streaks in the western sky when Dumbledore himself arrived to take Harry to the Druidic funeral for Xenophilius Lovegood. The funeral was scheduled to begin at sundown at the Ravenshayes Nemeton. Dumbledore had come out of “natural curiosity” because he had never attended a Druid ceremony of this sort.

Given the opportunity, Harry personally asked Dumbledore to go to Denmark to see Hogwarts play for the championships. Somewhat to his surprise, Dumbledore agreed - probably, Harry thought, because he had heard about Harry's depressed eulogy to Bill from someone (there were plenty of suspects). Dumbledore remarked that, “if it takes a battalion of Aurors,” he would set something up. Harry was to be ready early Saturday morning.

There were far fewer attendees at the Lovegood cremation than at the other funerals. Neville and Ginny were there, and they had in tow a rather peevish Ron, who would have preferred to be somewhere else. Hermione was also present - typically fascinated at the prospect of seeing something new - in the company of Tonks, her usual minder. Also there were a couple of Fifth-Year Ravenclaws that Harry hardly knew. Eight or so odd (some very odd) adult friends of Mr. Lovegood rounded out the non-Druid attendees. Some two dozen long-robed Druids were also in attendance.

Everyone had to negotiate a winding path through thick oak-dominated woods to reach the Nemeton. No magic - other than ancient Druidic magic - was being used, not even so much as a Lumos spell to light the path in the gathering gloom.

The pyre upon which Mr. Lovegood's body lay had been constructed in the northwest quadrant of the circular Nemeton - at the point on the compass where the sun had set not long ago. A senior Druid priest led Luna - the “Descendant” - into the Nemeton to the spooky beat of hollowed out wooden percussion instruments played by shadowy musicians. Additional robed and hooded Druids followed, leading the attendees to the opposite side of the Nemeton, where they sat on bare ground beneath huge, ancient oak trees.

The large trees looming in the increasing darkness strongly reminded Harry of the Forbidden Forest. He half expected Aragog, Grawp, or a band of angry Centaurs to come bounding out of the forest at any moment. However, outside of the Nemeton, beyond the range of torchlight, all was quiet.

The senior Druid priest spoke, “We are here to honour the life of Xenophilius Lovegood and commemorate his journey into the Summerland. Lo, an Ancestor is made!”

Raggedly at first, but with increasing intensity, the audience chanted, “An Ancestor is made!” Imitating the chanters, Harry began to understand what was expected of him and the other outside visitors.

Taking their cues from the Druid adepts, the audience linked hands and raised their joined arms over their heads. A singsong interaction between the senior Druid Priest and the audience followed, with chants of “Hail to our Ancestors,” “Hail to our Kindred,” and “Hail to the Mysteries.” The drumming grew wilder. Hooded figures passed through the attendees burning various herbs and incense.

Fresh sprigs of mistletoe, no doubt harvested from nearby oaks, were tossed onto an altar. Other flammable items were added. Another Priest, the Grove Seer, wailed out an incantation, “Fires of Creation come forth within us, within our Nemeton! Sacred Fire be a beacon for Xenophilius, guiding him to Tech Duinn, the house of the Dead, the resting-place of souls on their journey to the Summerland. Sacred Fire awaken!”

Harry sensed the presence of powerful Elemental Magic as he and the others returned the call, “Sacred Fire awaken! Burn in remembrance of the absent High Priestess and the lost stone.” The Grove Seer bent down and abruptly raised both arms towards the heavens. The altar flared with flames. Even Harry had to admit that it was an impressive performance - much like Lao Kung.

Another Druid Priest, the Grove Bard, stepped forward and performed a similar elemental ceremony causing water to gush forth magically from a ceremonial well. He hurled several hazelnuts into the well. Yet another Druid summoned a wind to fill the sails of the deceased as he passed into the Summerland. Finally, the senior Druid planted an acorn in the earth and summoned forth an oak sapling to symbolise the strong roots of the Lovegood family within the Druidic community.

All four elements were thus represented.

Luna was called forward. She seemed to be in a trance. In a much louder voice than Harry had ever heard her use, she eulogised her father in formal Druid canto. “Daddy - Xenophilius - hear me! I thank you for the time our souls shared together. You are not gone, but live in my memory eternal. You created my life. The world has been richer for your presence. Journey well into the Summerland oh Xenophilius, and take your place among the Ancestors in the Otherworld….”

Her stylised eulogy complete, Luna approached the senior Druid and gracefully sank into the lotus position at his feet. The Druid Priest raised a jet-black stone bowl over his head and chanted something in some incomprehensible language. He offered Luna the bowl, which Harry could now see contained a milky liquid. She took it and drank it.

Luna sat quietly for several minutes as the drumming approached another crescendo. Somewhat unsteadily she rose. The Grove Seer handed her an unlit torch. Luna's large eyes seemed to protrude even farther than usual, and her forehead glistened with sweat. Holding the torch in front of her, she approached Ron and tried to persuade him to take it. Ron was having none of it, and shrank from her.

Shrugging her shoulders, Luna abandoned the attempt and turned towards Harry instead. As she drew near to him, she said, in an unnaturally low voice, “You and I both need closure, Harry. Please take it. The fire cleanses what it consumes.”

There was an unpleasant, but vaguely familiar, odour to Luna's breath. At first, Harry had trouble placing it, but then he remembered the herbs he had studied in his survival lesson several weeks earlier. He could almost hear Hermione's voice instructing him, “Thorn apple, otherwise known as datura or Jimsonweed, is used in small doses as an anesthetic, painkiller, and soporific, and in larger doses to stimulate the heart and to remedy … er … feminine disorders. If used to excess, it can produce trances, hallucinations, and even death.”

Somebody - either Hermione or Dumbledore - kicked Harry in the shin. He lurched forward. Smiling broadly now, but with strange, unfocused eyes, Luna pushed the unlit torch into Harry's hands.

Harry was confused about what was expected of him until he saw Luna glance first at the burning altar, and then at her father's pyre. She wanted him to do the honours of sending her father to the next world.

Harry once again felt required to play a more central part than he deserved in a funeral. For Luna's sake, however, he resolved that would play this unwanted part to the hilt. Spurning the altar, Harry raised the torch with his left hand, cupped his right hand near it, and concentrated. Almost at once it burst into flames. Many of the attendees gasped, and even the Druid priests were startled. Harry took the fiery brand and thrust it into the pyre.

The fire took almost immediately. From the shadows a horn sounded three times, accompanied by rapid deep bass drumming. The Druids started a wailing chant, which the rest of the attendees soon joined. The flames climbed higher into the night, casting a ruddy sacrificial glow. The Nemeton seemed to start spinning. One or more of the Druid priests started invoking the image of the ferryman guiding the Ancestor to the Otherworld….

Blackness closed in. Harry passed out.

When he regained consciousness, Harry found himself on the edge of the Nemeton, with his head in Hermione's lap. Her hand, cool to the touch, rested lightly on his forehead. From somewhere in the background he could hear the concluding remarks of the senior Druid priest, “…As Xenophilius is departed from the world of the Folk, so let us close the gates between the Otherworld. Let the Tree recede into the realm of the Other, let the Well now be only water and let the Fire now be only smoke and ash. Let all be as it was before. Let the gates be closed….”

“Wha… What happened?” Harry mumbled.

“You fainted, now hush,” directed Hermione's gentle voice. “Eat this, Dumbledore says it will help.” She brought a large chunk of chocolate to his lips.

Harry broke off a piece with his teeth and chewed it until it was gooey. He began feeling better almost immediately.

“Did you see anything?” Hermione asked with concern in his voice. “Were there any visions?”

She daubed Harry's forehead with a cool wet cloth. He could remember very little.

He tried to answer, “It felt like … like an alternative universe … but there was very little in it … only a few blasted trees - nobody there as far as I could see. There was … twilight. I felt … no pleasure, no pain, only a desire to explore. I could feel magic though - very strong magic, and quite close by.”

Hermione smiled at him and sighed, “I think you're overtaxing yourself, Harry. Three funerals in three days, and lessons restart tomorrow. You need a break.”

“This weekend, when I go to Denmark to watch Ron and Ginny play Quidditch, I'll have a break,” Harry replied. “I'm over half-way done. Only two more funerals - tomorrow and then Thursday in France.”

“What's tomorrow? I hadn't heard of anything,” Hermione asked.

Harry could have kicked himself. “The funeral of a kid who wrote to me,” he explained sadly. “A very small, private affair. The parents almost wouldn't let me come.”

“But you're mentally exhausted,” Hermione scolded. “You just fainted. I don't know how many more dead bodies you can take. At least let me come with you - if something like this happens again.…”

“I'd really, really rather that you not come,” Harry groaned. There was no escape.

“Why not,” Hermione replied, somewhat affronted.

Harry was trapped. He would not lie about this to Hermione. He sighed loudly, “Because I've already invited Eliza, and I'd rather not have the two of you in the same room if I can avoid it.”

“Oh,” was all Hermione could say to that news, to which she silently appended, `damn.' That was not supposed to happen - not in public.

* * * *

Author notes: The Black Heath of Salisbury Plain is a real, rather famous, place that Harry will revisit

There is actually a military base on the Salisbury Plain

Just a bit of jealousy/loneliness for Mr. Potter once Ginny so quickly turns elsewhere - soon to be forgotten

Cecil & Claude are the English equivalent of Alphonse & Gaston

Harry's reaction to Hermione parallels Neville's reaction to Ginny

My Tonks is made of stronger stuff than the character in HBP

The British military funeral details are as accurate as possible, as I could not find a manual

What most call the “Union Jack” is technically the “Union Flag.” The Jack is a navy usage

Combined, the Union Flag and the Ministry Flag incorporate the colors of all four Hogwarts houses (yellow and gold being considered the same thing)

Whilst all canon Thestrals have been black, they, like other animals, are affected by albinism

Boots reversed in stirrups is classic funeral symbolism

Military pallbearers are normally from the same unit as the deceased; here that role is filled by the Order

Botticino limestone is real - a thin grained, light tan stone. The War Graves Commission uses it for headstones

The missing man formation is used in military flybys. I've invented a wizard equivalent

The parachuting package behaves like the magic glasses at the Dursleys' in HBP

Brotherhood of magic…. This parallels the original BOMFOG - a sarcastic description of similar Nelson Rockefeller's similarly windy rhetoric. Elsewhere Fudge's speech steals from FDR's first inaugural speech and the Gettysburg Address

The London Philharmonic does play at the Royal Albert Hall. This is a real musical selection from one of the proms

Harry's enjoyment of listening to Hermione talk about “things” will figure later on, as the Fifth Element is explained

A biro is a British brand of ballpoint pen

The songs supplying both music and images in Harry's dream are Journey's “Stone in Love” and Cat Stevens' “Angelsea”

We Sold Our Souls for Rock `N Roll is a Black Sabbath greatest hits album

Berlitz is a well-known language training service

At the Weasleys' I spoof airport security

The Horace/Hopkirk relationship is canon

Expungement is a typical Muggle way of dealing with old juvenile offenses

The mysterious document will be revealed when Harry is thought dead (greatly exaggerated)

Bill's funeral has distinct Quaker overtones

Amau ferns are very large, and native of Hawaii

Love as unreal to Harry - Black Sabbath “Paranoid”

Harry's eulogy only reinforces Hermione's impression of the prophecy

Mother of all hexes is a double entendre

Triple first usually refers to academics, but it accurately explains how Harry appears to Ron

“Bloody Order of Merlin” will recur

In America, it's “stick butter up a polecat's ass with a red-hot poker”

In America, PMT is known as PMS

If you don't know what a rainbow party is, look it up

Ron tells Harry an old joke

The international Quidditch tour's Hogwarts match triggers the conclusion of this year's story

A nemeton is a Druid place of worship

The details of the Druid funeral are accurate, although some details are influenced by Jean Auel

Both the absent high priestess and the lost stone will eventually be revealed

The bowl of milky liquid and thorn apple are derived from “Clan of the Cave Bear”

Flames climbing high into the night is from American Pie

Harry will revisit the twilight zone of blasted trees

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch25 departures and arrivals.doc 10/21/04

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26. From Reims To Ruin

Wherein the H/Hr relationship hits bottom; Hermione doesn't know what she should do, but has to meet with an Auror; they learn magical linguistics and defensive strategy; Harry attends an Anglican funeral with Eliza; they watch meteors at Sherwood Forest; Eliza makes a declaration; Harry has a realization; he learns more about sex; goes to Reims; learns that Hermione wants to sever the link; receives a mysterious note; gives a smashing speech in French; gets a dose of Veela charm; looks for, but can't find, Hermione; sets up a fateful date with Eliza; learns shocking information from Dudley; selects a new guardian, tries - unsuccessfully - to tell (and show) Hermione what he has learned, and gets her hand headed towards him.

Most people on this site are here because they are H/Hr shippers. Thus, for most people this chapter will be rather painful.

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

Chapter 26 - From Reims to Ruin

The bad patch in Hermione's life was getting rougher. It had not been a good week, nor did things seem likely to improve anytime soon. Her first and foremost problem was the sorry state of her wannabe relationship with Harry. Hermione felt like she was swimming against a strong current - one largely of her own making. Worse, she was backsliding.

On top of that, she could no longer ignore the imminent move of her parents to Australia. Its signs were all around Hermione now. Throughout the house, moving boxes were strewn about - filled, unfilled, and half-filled. Things that had stayed the same for years were changing. Her Muggle past was disappearing behind endless rolls of translucent bubblewrap. That was problem number two. It seemed that everything in her heretofore stable home life was in a state of flux.

Another problem - number three - was Harry's relationship with that … that … that other woman.

Enough said.

And then, as bizarre as the idea might seem to everyone who knew her at school, Hermione was under appreciable academic pressure. She not only had her assigned summer work to finish, but as always she was intent upon reading and outlining several chapters ahead in the next term's syllabus. This year, however, that was easier said than done. Instead, she was spending an inordinate amount of time training with Harry. That would have been quite all right - more than all right, actually - if not for problem numbers one and three.

But more than any previous summer, there was the problem of too much this and that - distractions - most of which in some way involved Harry: investigating the Black inheritance, planning the birthday party, reorganising the D.A., and in recent days Harry's upcoming Reims speech.

There were the Death Eater attacks, and all these funerals making her depressed.

There was … Harry.

All these commitments and catastrophes were starting to corrode Hermione's outwardly tremendous self-confidence. That was one reason she had leapt at the chance to help Harry with his upcoming speech. Whilst keeping it to herself, she recognised that this eagerness was due in no small measure to her need to convince Harry that she bore him no hard feelings following the scene she had caused upon meeting Eliza Brookings - and his subsequent reprimand.

As in the previous year when Harry had been so sullen, Hermione found it hard to cope with his being upset with her - and she compensated by trying to be helpful. Sometimes she berated herself for feeling the need to prove herself over and over again to Harry. Logically, it made no sense. After all, he had not demanded (or even asked for) anything.

Logic she could handle, but Hermione's feelings for (and about) Harry had long since transcended logic. She was in emotional terra incognita - and making a right awful mess of the journey.

Hermione had been slaving away to create a usable text of a speech Harry would be comfortable giving (not to mention ordering French-language tapes for him).

“Aaarrrggghhh,” she groaned.

It was happening again - that damnable mixed-up sensation of happiness, lust, and uncertainty was underway again. There was no mistaking it. This combination of emotions flowing over her shared link with Harry immediately told her that, at this very moment, he was with that other woman.

Every time it happened, Hermione wanted to scream. Then she wanted to cry.

Harry had sounded so troubled at Bill's funeral. His pledge to stop Voldemort, made at the end of his impromptu eulogy, resurfaced all of Hermione's repressed fears about the mysterious prophecy and the secret, nastier aspects of Harry's training. Perhaps everything was for the best, then. If they had gotten closer, she doubted she could tolerate what he was obviously being prepared to do.

But then, perhaps not…. No, definitely not. It would never be for the best…. Not for her, and certainly not for Harry. She just could not stand idly by and let him kill himself, not even to save the world.

She had wanted to comfort Harry and to dissuade him from doing anything rash - but her blasted overly full schedule intervened. Comfort would have to wait. Time could still pass. She had to attend a long-scheduled meeting with an Auror who was investigating the Death Eater attack on the surgery. It could not be rescheduled on such short notice.

That meeting was itself worrisome. Some of the Auror's questions flummoxed her - a rarity. It made no sense that the largest fire in the aftermath of the Death Eater attack did not exhibit signs of magic. The burned out records room had been behind them. If Death Eaters had attacked from that direction, neither she nor her father would have lived. The cause had to be an errant spell unleashed by one of the attackers in front. Hermione had seen the entire attack, and her father's pistol had been the only non-magical weapon used. The investigator's question about Death Eaters using Molotov cocktails was simply absurd.

The crusher had been yesterday - Harry's admission that he was attending a wizard funeral with that Eliza woman. That was not supposed to happen. Harry had told her that Eliza refused to be seen in wizard public with him. That fact had become her talisman. Eliza's refusal disturbed Harry so much that Hermione thought it would inevitably destroy that relationship. That would leave her in position to pick up the pieces.

Ever since learning about the other woman's reticence, Hermione had daydreamed of soothing Harry's broken heart once they returned to Hogwarts. But now, everything had come a cropper. Something had changed that woman's mind. Hermione was devastated. Maybe there actually was no end in sight. Maybe what she had thought of as the light at the end of the tunnel was really an onrushing locomotive.

This latest revelation had so shaken Hermione that she had even sought advice from her mum, something she had vowed never again to do after the spectacular row the night that Harry had come to dinner. For the first time she overtly admitted her romantic feelings towards Harry to Mum - but to no avail. Mum's face immediately went all pale and stiff. Through a pasted-on smile, the woman had doled out hoary platitudes about “love will find a way” and “follow your heart.”

That was rubbish. She had needed practical advice about how to attack and solve a problem - the kind that her mum previously had dispensed routinely. But there was none of that to be had any longer when the topic was Harry.

In retrospect, Hermione wondered why she had even bothered. The attack had changed everything. Both her parents were transparently frightened to death of anything involving Harry. They had given up. They were moving to the other side of the world to escape … to escape him; to escape magic; and thus to escape her as well. Her father had said essentially that - he was prepared to go “as far away as humanly possible” to flee from the nightmare that Hermione's magical world had become.

Oh Daddy! How had it come to this?

He was leaving this weekend to find a new residence in Australia. When she would see him again, she had no idea. The sale of the Grangers' London property had already been arranged. Hermione was meeting next week with the purchasers. At least (according to her parents) the buyers were a gracious lot. They would permit her to stay on until she left for Hogwarts. After that, she realised, she would be on her own at age seventeen.

Their unspoken assumption was that Harry would see her through. Now she was not so sure.

She had grimly participated in Tuesday's training with Harry - determined not to let him know how upset he had made her. Fortunately the lesson dealt with magical linguistics, something that played to her intellectual strengths. Etymological rules governing relationships between similar types of spells were very logical and surprisingly easy to apply. A more practical lesson could have been disastrous. If Hermione had had to do something along the line of casting emotion-based spells, the results would have been utterly unpredictable and probably embarrassing.

All day Hermione had been dreading the end of that class - dreading the evening, when her emotional link to Harry would once again bombard her with his amorous feelings towards that other woman. Over the course of the summer, things had turned out appallingly the opposite of her expectations when she first told Harry and Dumbledore that she wanted to retain the link. The link no longer helped her get closer to Harry. Instead, it was torturing her.

Maybe she had made a colossal mistake.

Hermione pondered whether to tell Dumbledore that she had changed her mind and that he should cut the link. That was not a step Hermione wanted to take. On an emotional level, it was symbolic of her throwing in the towel. But to that emotion, Hermione's logic answered that she no longer had much of value to surrender.

* * * *

At the end of class, Harry had no time to reflect upon Hermione's distant, businesslike attitude. The scheduling of the Fontaine funeral had always been rather problematic, and Eliza's unexpected change of heart about wanting to attend public wizard events with him had complicated matters even further. Since he had been the one pressuring her to go places with him, Harry had very little choice when she finally agreed.

Consequently, this would be the only one of the five funerals that Hermione would not be attending. After the last encounter between the two women in his life, he thought it was simply too risky to chance another meeting at a solemn ceremony.

Hurriedly, Harry had Apparated home, changed into his now well-used mourning robes (he left himself a reminder to Scourgify them before Reims), rendezvoused with Mundungus, and Apparated to Eliza's flat. He still preferred other modes of magical travel, but there was just too little time….

She was waiting for him. Eliza did not own mourning robes, so she had recoloured a set of old school robes to be velvety black with blue Ravenclaw trim. However, she had filled out since she had graduated, and the robes were now tighter (and more revealing) than the Hogwarts dress code would have permitted. Eliza was in the process of Transfiguring an Easter bonnet into appropriate mourning headgear when Harry arrived. The young man did bring out her magical side. She found herself using her wand quite a bit more frequently since knowing him.

Seeing Eliza in her rather tight black robes with her extravagant blond hair framing her face and spilling down her back took Harry's breath away. He greeted her with a nervous smile, whilst half bent over, recovering from his Apparition. She responded with a short but deep kiss that left a tingling sensation in Harry's fingers and toes. She whispered in his ear, “That's nothing” - promising more of the same after the funeral when they were finally to have their long planned date.

Eliza had yet to reveal the nature and location of that date. All Harry knew is that she had asked him to bring both of his Invisibility Cloaks. All he had been told was to expect to be out quite late.

Mundungus (who had discreetly Disillusioned himself upon arrival) produced a Portkey that took them to a prearranged location outside of Somerset, where they were greeted by Emmeline Vance and a couple of other Order members whom Harry had never met before, Brentworth Fenwick and Alixander (“with an I”) Meadows. The church where the funeral was to be held was just around the corner.

Harry had been informed that the Fontaines were Anglican wizards, as were most of their relatives and friends. The service thus took place in a local Anglican church. Harry assumed that the minister, if not a wizard himself, was well versed in wizard ways. Their introduction promptly confirmed that supposition - the familiar upward flick of the minister's eyes to Harry's scar. The ceremony was mostly conducted in a traditionalist Muggle fashion, lots of incense and organ music, with overt displays of magic kept to a minimum.

Harry had never met the deceased or any of her family, and he was attending only as a spectator. He had never been to a Muggle-style funeral, and he had not set foot inside a church since before he had learned he was a wizard. He would have been quite at sea if not for Eliza.

She was sitting very close - close enough that he could feel her wriggle against him (which she did whenever he put his hand on her knee). Unlike Muggle classical music, Eliza knew about Muggle church services. Since Harry was unfamiliar with them, she helped him use the Bible and a hymnbook. There being but one copy between them, their hands touched often.

After the seemingly interminable service concluded, a cortège and interment were to follow. Harry and Eliza absented themselves and Portkeyed back to her flat. Mundungus said he would be back in short order with a “borrowed” Ministry car. As she quickly doffed her robes, Eliza told Harry she had a rental in the car park. He thought little of her request that he help her unzip the Muggle dress she had worn underneath her robes - until he figured out that Eliza intended to change clothes in the same room with him.

His face reddening, he wordlessly fled to the loo and shut the door. Breathing hard, and his fingers unsteady, Harry removed his change of clothes from a compartment in his Auror's belt, ended the Shrinking Spell that he had placed on them, and started changing. As he was dropping his pants, Harry decided to take the precaution of locking the door.

Eliza heard the lock click. “Oh, Harry, did you really think I'd come barging in for a look at your drawers?” she called to him through the door. “It's really not that big a deal. You've seen me before. Honestly! Sometimes I wish you weren't so different from any other guy I've ever known. Why do you only want to touch me when I'm dressed?”

It was a good question. Harry, in a cold sweat listening from the other side of the door, could not think of an equally good answer.

Neither could Eliza. That made her nervous. She had been hiding something from him, and she had decided to tell him tonight. She hoped he would be able to accept it without wrecking their relationship.

Soon Eliza was driving them north along the M1 away from London. Mundungus was attempting to follow in the Ministry car that he had “borrowed” for the evening. Eliza was not accustomed to acting as the lead car in a two-car convoy, and was paying poor Dung no mind. All four northbound lanes were crowded, and Eliza was weaving in and out of traffic a bit in her haste and excitement.

Even with the Ministry car's magical ability to slip through impossibly narrow gaps in traffic, Dung was having a hard time keeping up with them. Motorway driving was not his cup of tea - and he hated reverse cambers. Tired of playing dodge-ball with cars, busses, and lorries, he eventually gave up and just left the car in compressed mode. It was less than entirely comfortable, but at least he could travel in an unobstructed fashion through the gap between the rightmost lane and the central reservation.

From his spot in the passenger seat in Eliza's rental, Harry reached over and put a hand on Eliza's thigh, above her knee and below her pastel orange skort/culottes. “Not now, Harry,” she squealed. “Do you want to cause an accident?”

He removed his hand with an obviously faked sulk. “At least tell me where we're going and what we're going to do. You've been so mysterious about this.”

Eliza felt she was not being as much mysterious as she was being nervous. She decided it was finally time to start putting paid to the suspense. “Remember when we first met, you got upset about all of the things I asked you about that you hadn't done.”

“Yes, vividly,” Harry responded.

“Well, we've now done almost all of them.” Eliza forced a laugh, knowing how both she and Harry were undoubtedly thinking about what Harry had not yet been able to bring himself to do. “One thing that we haven't done is look for falling stars, and you can't really do that around London with all of the lights.”

“So we're going someplace dark,” Harry answered. Realising how that sounded, he added, “at least someplace where the sky isn't all washed out with Muggle electrical lights.”

“That's right,” Eliza agreed. “We're going to Nottinghamshire - to the Sherwood Forest. That's been a royal forest forever, but it's now a national park, so most of it's quite free of Muggle buildings and roads. It's a little more than 130 miles away. I expect we'll be driving for two to three hours, depending on all of this bloody traffic.”

“A couple of hours,” Harry said skeptically. “But it's already after 9:00. We'll be out all night.”

“That's perfectly all right, Harry,” Eliza cooed back at him. “The show doesn't really start until after midnight, anyway.”

“Wh- What show?” Harry asked anxiously, not sure he wanted to find out how randy Eliza was planning to get, and recalling the two Invisibility Cloaks he had squirreled away in his Auror's belt.

“The Perseid meteor shower,” Eliza responded authoritatively. “Astronomy was my best subject at school. The Perseids are a very rich shower. We might see hundreds of meteors an hour. They're debris left over from some comet that the Earth's orbit passes through every year. You'll get to see lots of falling stars - and make lots of wishes.”

“Meteors? Wishes?” Harry asked in both relief and puzzlement. “Who said anything about wishes?”

“It's traditional to wish upon a falling star,” Eliza explained.

“So you've been planning all this time to bring me way out here to look at meteors?” Harry continued.

“Well…. Yes,” Eliza conceded. Batting her eyelashes at the boy in the seat next to her, she added, “And whatever more you're up to….”

“Umm.… You see….”

“…But you're going to have to tell me what that is,” she talked over his incoherent mumbles. “I'm not about to be embarrassing myself again.”

She reached over and returned the favor - putting her hand on Harry's thigh, whilst nonetheless keeping her eyes on the still quite crowded road. “But you know I'm not going to tell you to stop once we finish driving. You're the one who keeps saying `no.'”

As it was clear that Harry was having trouble making conversation, Eliza added, “Why don't you try to get some sleep? We'll be up most of the night watching the meteors.”

The rumbling of the Muggle car down the motorway worked its own magic. Harry was asleep almost immediately after reclining his seat.

All the way to the Sherwood Forest Country Park, whilst Harry slept, Eliza fretted about what else she had to tell him. Since he looked so cute and peaceful whilst asleep, Eliza only woke him once they were in the car park at the forest preserve. Harry was groggy, so Eliza tickled him awake.

The preserve was rather more crowded than she had expected. Quite a few Muggles were also taking advantage of the forest's dark skies to watch the meteor shower. A ranger with a torch covered in red cellophane directed them down a path to a large clearing. There were several dozen Muggles - even somebody with some sort of camera attached to a telescope. At Harry's remark that it must be difficult to follow something as fleeting as a meteor with a telescope, the Muggle explained that he was using a charge-coupled device to take meteor images superimposed on star trails.

The Muggle would have talked his ear off, but Harry made his excuses before his eyes glazed over. The conversation impressed upon Harry that he had an Astronomy O.W.L. retest - and that he badly needed to study for it.

Having thus embarrassed himself, Harry was somewhat irritated even before he and Eliza found a rather bumpy spot that nevertheless had a good view of the eastern sky. Not particularly enthused with the idea of snogging under an Invisibility Cloak, he was intrigued when she told him to spread the Cloak out like a tablecloth. He questioningly did what she asked. When he was done she lay down in the middle of the Cloak (as measured by where the grass was pushed down). Giving Harry a sultry look, Eliza bade him to lie down next to her and look at the stars.

He complied. Almost as soon as Harry had gotten himself comfortable, Eliza asked him to levitate the Cloak. After the briefest confusion, a flash of comprehension crossed Harry' face. Wingardium Leviosa applied to an Invisibility Cloak in a horizontal position meant that, as long as they kept their arms and legs within its borders, nobody on the ground could see them. Harry carefully performed the spell and the Cloak, bearing him and Eliza, gently lifted off the ground and rose to about thirty metres - about the height of the Major Oak and other tall trees.

Soaking in the now glorious view, Harry and Eliza alternatively watched the meteor shower and explored one another for the next couple of hours. While Harry had seen the occasional shooting star during practical Astronomy classes at Hogwarts, nothing he had learnt in school prepared him for the majesty of a strong meteor shower - almost a storm, really. Meteors radiated from a point in the constellation Perseus at a rate of one every few seconds. Some of them were bright enough to leave trails. Often several meteors streaked across the sky at the same time.

As they lay comfortably, after watching the Perseid meteors for several hours, Eliza snuggled close to Harry and whispered in his ear, “I-I-I've got a confession to make.”

Harry jerked just a bit, going fully awake. `Oh, oh,' thought Harry, `this cannot be good news.' His only audible response was an acknowledging grunt halfway between “huh” and “wha…?”

Haltingly, Eliza continued, “I-I-I'm afraid … afraid that I haven't been … entirely honest with you lately…. You, you remember how this was supposed to play out … companionship not commitment ... trying to have some fun? I'm afraid that hasn't turned out to be enough … for me.”

Harry groaned and started to sit up, looking into Eliza's eyes. She was on the verge of tears. `Here it comes,' Harry thought to himself. `She's going to dump me for sure. She brought me all the way out here to dump me. Maybe it's for the best….'

Harry tried to say something aloud that made sense. “I'm.… I'm sorry that.…”

Eliza shushed him with a finger to his lips. “Please Harry, this is hard for me…. Please let me say my piece before I lose the nerve.”

Harry gulped and nodded.

“I wanted our time together to be fun for the both of us … without adding to the crushing responsibilities that you face.… I was open to sex, to be sure, but I wanted it to be zipless. It's just that … everything's changed … with me, that is. I'm just not satisfied, I guess…. I've concluded that I need more than what we agreed upon.…”

Harry grimaced, but kept his mouth shut as she had asked. But the look on his face gave him away.

“Oh no, Harry…. It's not like that,” Eliza pleaded. “It's nothing you've done…. Even with the sex part.… Oh, Harry, it's just what's happened to me … that's all.”

`Oh, Hell,' Harry thought. `She's dumping me for sure, and for some other bloke no less.' He could stand the suspense no longer. He was feeling like he had been run over by the Knight Bus. She was hesitating, but he wanted to get it over with.

“Who is it?” Harry asked, not really wanting to know the answer, but looking to get closure through confirmation.

“Who- Who- Who is who?” Eliza stammered, looking lost. To Harry, she resembled a unicorn in the headlights, with her big questioning blue eyes staring into his.

“Who's the guy?” Harry repeated, although half of his brain was screaming at him to cover his ears because he really, really did not want to know.

As Eliza comprehended the question, a look of shock spread across her face, followed closely by something approaching relief.

It was nothing like that at all. Harry had misunderstood completely.

“It's you,” she said. “I love you, Harry.”

Harry went slack-jawed. His shoulders slumped as the blow he had been bracing for never came. Instead, his question had drawn a very different response from an entirely unexpected direction. He could not believe his ears.

“Yes, Harry,” Eliza confirmed, her voice racing to get the phrases out before words failed her altogether. “That's what I've been trying to say … not very well, I guess. I love you. I've fallen in love with you. I didn't mean, or even want, this to happen, but … I just can't deny it any longer…. Not to myself, and not to you.…”

Practically weeping, Eliza threw herself into Harry's arms.

As Harry held her, he was sure that Eliza's unicorn-in-the-headlights expression had transferred itself to him. So many years…. So many words…. But never these words….

His head was filling with powerful, contradictory emotions - shock, disbelief, fear, wonderment, and (yes) love swirled around inside his head until he felt like his skull was about to explode.

Harry told Eliza something he had often thought, but had never before dared to express out loud. “As long as I can remember … all my life … nobody's ever told me that. My-My- My parents probably said it when I was a baby … too young to understand…. Your `I love you' is the only one I remember.” Harry could tell he was close to crying too.

“If you'll let me, I'll, I'll, I'll tell you that every day for the rest of my life,” Eliza responded quietly but firmly. She looked so fragile after her confession.

Harry stiffened. He was not over the L-bomb Eliza had just dropped, and now she was alluding to forever. “Eliza, I need you to know that….”

“Don't say it, Harry,” she cooed gently. “I know that you don't feel the same about me - at least not yet. If you did say it, I think it would be a lie, and I've never known you to lie to me. I don't want you starting now. I just hope that you … might eventually grow to have feelings for me that approach what I'm feeling for you right now.”

Eliza captured Harry's lips and pulled him into a passionate embrace. They fell together onto the softness of the floating Invisibility Cloak, lost to the rest of the world. For the moment, all conscious thought was banished from Harry's brain.

Presently, after their lips separated with a barely audible “pop,” Harry asked Eliza, “How … how long have you known?”

Eliza answered, “I-I-I'd been attracted to you since the first time we met.…”

“I'll say,” Harry broke in.

“…but the first time I really knew that it was … love … not just infatuation or physical attraction … was on that awful night when everybody died. You … you thought Death Eaters were attacking us, and you pushed me into that horrid hole you created. I couldn't see anything, but I could hear and feel explosions all around. With every shake of the earth, I thought you were going to die.… I thought I'd never see you again…. That was it. That's when I knew.”

Harry said nothing, looking like a unicorn in the headlights. Thus, Eliza rambled on.

“I was frantic … completely beside myself.… I didn't care about myself any more. I didn't care whether I lived or died. All I knew is that I was in one place and you were somewhere else … and you were in danger and fighting for your life. I understood then that I couldn't bear to live without you anymore. If you had died, I wanted you to take me with you.”

“If I'd been able to work that bloody Portable Hole, I'd have come to you straightaway, but I couldn't. So I had to lie there and listen to all those spells crashing around, thinking that any one of them might have killed you. I couldn't bear that. I curled up into as tight a ball as I could and prayed. I hadn't prayed - and really meant it - since I was a child. I was praying for you, Harry. That was love speaking, nothing else, nothing more, and nothing less….”

Harry had started out only half listening, but as Eliza bared her soul, he paid more and more attention. What he heard, and what he felt, made Harry ever more conflicted, and less and less certain about what he should do. The eeriest thing about it all was that it began to dawn on Harry that he understood exactly how Eliza had felt that night….

Harry understood because at that moment he realised that he had felt exactly the same emotions that very night, even though - as thick as he was about such things - he had not recognised them for what they were at the time.

It was so very much the same, yet again so radically different. Harry grasped that every word of Eliza's description mirrored his own feelings … at the moment his Auror's ring had glowed scarlet….

He had been frantic beyond measure - ready to risk anything and everything. He had shed all concern for his own safety. What he had felt at that moment had been far beyond Harry's usual “saving people thing.” He had been ready to risk splinching himself by trying to Apparate someplace he had never been. The arriving Aurors practically had to restrain him physically.…

…from going to Hermione's rescue.

Hermione!!! Everything suddenly became clear to Harry. The fog lifted from his own emotional landscape. The cause of his confusion was laid bare.

He was in love with Hermione!

Eliza was accurately describing her love, but the love that Harry had felt was for Hermione. Harry knew that he would risk his life for Hermione every day of the week and twice on Sundays if necessary - and call it a bargain. Just thinking about his best friend in this new way caused a warm fuzzy sensation to fill Harry's brain and to light up his eyes.

That outburst of feeling, while intense, was short lived, because at that particular moment, Harry was not with Hermione. He was with Eliza. That presented the acute problem of his being in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person. The situation was becoming more extreme by the second….

Eliza had just declared her love for Harry - and now she wanted to show him.

Taking Harry's stunned, thoughtful smile and the emotional glimmer in his eye as consent - or at least acquiescence - Eliza had resumed her advances. “Now that you know this isn't just some one-night stand, let me show you how much I love you,” she purred. Her fingers were wandering onto his trousers again.

On one level, Harry knew it seriously wrong to let this go on, but he was becoming aroused in spite of himself. Bill's advice had been never to lead a woman - and especially this woman - along under false pretenses. But Bill had cautioned him not to hurt her either. At this time, in this context, Harry knew that if he revealed what he was really thinking, he would crush Eliza. It would be cruel to the point of inhumanity for him to break Eliza's heart by telling her that her declaration of love had just convinced him that he fancied someone else … let alone that the someone else in question was Hermione.

As Eliza's fingers busied themselves, he searched urgently for some half measure. There had to be something that would get him through this spot of serious bother without doing permanent damage either to himself or to Eliza. He needed something that would deflect Eliza's insistent sexual desires, or at least hold them at bay, until that he could get a calm moment to think about sorting out what he could only describe as bizarre circumstances.

With Eliza amorously crawling all over him, her hair in his face, her lips on his, and her hands increasingly inside his clothes, a crazy half-formed thought came to Harry. It probably was not the best idea. It might not even be a good idea. But at least it was an idea, and something was better than nothing.

Coming up for air after another of Eliza's mind-numbing kisses, Harry gasped, “Eliza, you were right, you know.… I'm not where you are.… I-I-I still need to take things rather more slowly.… Can you…? Can you first show me how to pleasure you?”

“Oh,” Eliza responded hesitantly, not knowing whether she should consider this progress or not. Yielding to the optimism of her just-declared love, she quickly decided to make the best of it. “Sure, Harry… I'd looooove to.”

She took Harry's hand and guided it to herself…. “The first thing to know is that whilst you come as long as you can, we can come as long as we want….”

* * * *

Set for 11:00 a.m., Harry's alarm clock rudely roused him from a strange dream combining his two most immediate concerns: Eliza and his impending speech in France. Still more than half asleep, Harry staggered forward, and his erratic hand motions generated an unbidden wandless spell that Transfigured his clock - into a rather noisy French tickler.

A few moments later, Harry's head cleared enough to comprehend what he had done … even if he had no idea how he had done it. Red-faced, Harry waved his wand in the characteristic motion for “Finite.” He noted with relief that the clock returned to its usual state.

Mulling over that incident, Harry thought about how he had managed to get to this point. In retrospect, his bright idea to fend off Eliza had not been so bright. True, he had managed to get through the rest of the evening without having cynically used Eliza for his own pleasure, but the converse was most emphatically not the case.

True, he had also avoided crushing Eliza emotionally by confessing his epiphany - that she had inadvertently described his own feelings about Hermione more clearly than he, himself, had previously comprehended them. Thus, he had bought himself some time to think. The cost of that time, however, had been very high. In every other way, he believed that he had just made things worse.

Lost in thought, Harry robotically made for the loo and began washing up. He had to get ready for Reims.

But he was unable to stop thinking about it….

A neophyte at matters amorous, before last night Harry had had next to no concept of the sexual capacity of a genuinely aroused woman. Now he fully grasped how pathetic his own autoerotic experiences truly were by comparison. Nor had Harry anticipated how much he was going to be aroused by Eliza's own pleasure. Harry cleaned his glasses. He had to admit that, if he were not bigger and stronger than Eliza, SHE might have raped HIM.

Harry started to shave, using the electric razor he incongruously kept in a Hogwarts drawstring bag. He was still thinking about it….

Aided by the second Invisibility Cloak and an Imperturbable Charm, they had carried on for quite some time. After Harry's wrist went numb, Eliza breathlessly brought up something that sounded scandalous, but worked splendidly in practice … even if at times it had been somewhat difficult to breathe.

Harry helped himself to a rather overlarge dose of Uncle Vernon's greenish-blue antiseptic-smelling mouthwash…. He drank it straight out of the bottle….

Thus his jaw had wound up going the way of his wrist. After that, Harry had even showed Eliza the Orgasimos Charm. For once, Eliza was dumbfounded - but not for long. More arched back screaming followed. Finally, when it was nearly four in the morning, Harry used his upcoming speech as an excuse to Apparate back to Privet Drive.

Harry knew one thing for certain. He could not go on like this. It was not being honest to her, and it was not being honest to himself. Bill was hardly cold, and already Harry was ignoring his advice - advice that he had specifically solicited. Even though Eliza was clearly the sexual aggressor, he felt that he was leading her on. The longer he continued, the worse the fallout would be for the both of them.

Unfortunately, he could not spare any time at present. He would have to deal with that problem later. At the moment, he had to get ready for his speech in Reims. Nervously, he glanced over the parchment written in Hermione's neat script, marred only occasionally by his own messier interlineations….

Harry sighed. Once he had sorted out Eliza, he had to make things right with Hermione. At least with her he had the luxury of time. They would be together at Hogwarts….

Thus fortified in what he had to do, he fished his mobile out from under a stack of papers on his increasingly cluttered desk and dialed Eliza's number. One of the stacks wobbled, but Harry steadied it before it toppled and made a mess that he had no time to clean up.

Harry held his breath. One ring… Two… Three… Four. Eliza's answer phone came to life. For once, Harry was relieved to reach that infernal machine. In as calm and even a voice as he could muster, Harry left a message.

“Eliza? It's me, Harry. We need to talk … about things. Can I pop over to your flat this Friday, say around seven o'clock? Call me back. You know the number.”

Harry was almost shaking as he put his mobile away. He was at sea, in uncharted emotional waters, and he knew it. The arrival of Hermione's owl Athena only underscored his dilemma. Athena bore a short note of encouragement from Hermione: “Good luck, Harry. Not that you need it. You're going to be great. I know it. I'll see you in Reims.”

Harry sighed. He needed to straighten things out with Hermione badly - at least as badly as with Eliza. He had something huge he needed to figure out how to tell her…. But he had to do it right….

Right now, there was at least as much wrong as there was right…. Hermione had written him that note even though she must have known both whom he had been with the previous evening and approximately what they had been doing. Exactly how much she knew, he did not know. He was too ignorant of the finer points of their shared link to be able to say.

Shak collected Harry at Mrs. Figg's house. He saw to it that Harry was properly dressed in his formal Knight-of-the-Realm robes (without the cumbersome sword and shield), this time including the purple/black outer cape. He performed the Imago Vestmentae spell to make sure that everything stayed just so. Then it was off to Hogwarts to join the official party for the trip to France.

Upon arrival, Harry found himself once again breathing rarified air as a member of the official British party to Maréchal Delacour's state funeral. Cornelius Fudge, Amelia Bones, and Arthur Weasley headed up the Ministry contingent, ensuring that all of the political factions were represented. Also in the Ministry contingent was Percy Weasley, who, after a perfunctory conversation with his father, promptly attached himself to Harry like an annoying shadow.

Hogwarts was represented by Headmaster Dumbledore, Deputy Headmaster McGonagall, and (looking more dressed up than Harry had ever seen him) Hagrid. Several goblins were also present, although nobody that Harry knew.

Dumbledore led the group at a swift walk to the Quidditch pitch, where a huge, powder-blue, horse-drawn carriage was waiting. A dozen winged palominos the size of elephants waited placidly in their traces, heads lowered, drinking from buckets that Harry could tell from quite far away emitted a strongly alcoholic odour.

At the approach of the British party, the carriage doors parted and a physically imposing witch - easily Hagrid's size - disembarked. Harry instantly recognised Madame Olympe Maxime, Headmistress of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, the foremost institution of magical education in France.

Although dressed from head to foot in a gauzy black mourning robe, Mme. Maxime wore a distinct smile as she descended from the carriage. She reached out her hands to Hagrid, who strode forward to greet her. She planted kisses on both of Hagrid's cheeks, which promptly turned as red as his rather sunburnt ears. Chattering rapidly in French, she gave directions to a couple of liveried coachmen. Almost immediately, the British party was invited inside.

Harry had never seen such luxurious appointments, not even in the Ministry Silver Spur limousines that had taken him to the Ashrak. Everything seemed to be finished in leaded glass, silk, or velvet - right down to the blue cloth-of-gold brocaded seat belts. The coach had seating on three levels, and a massive crystal chandelier lit the open space in the middle.

Inevitably Percy ensconced himself in the seat next to Harry. He was going over and over the order of events. Shortly after takeoff, Minister Fudge briefly plopped himself down in the seat opposite Harry and explained that “to take the pressure off,” Harry's speech had been scheduled before his own remarks and those of the French Minister of Magic. Harry could expect to be speaking to a packed house of over 1500 witches and wizards.

After Fudge left, Percy droned on about the minutiae of protocol. Because of Harry's claim to the Black inheritance, there was a minor religious complication involving the proprietors of the cathedral. Fortunately, that complication could be finessed. Harry had trouble paying attention. He noticed that there was a handle on the side of his seat, not unlike the handle on Uncle Vernon's recliner at Privet Drive. Thinking that propping his feet up would be more comfortable, Harry grasped the upholstered handle.

The effect was entirely unexpected. Instead of reclining the seat, the handle converted it into a full-sized sleeper compartment complete with blue satin sheets and perfumed pillows. Sleep, however, was one luxury Harry could not afford at the moment, so with regret, he pushed the handle forward again and the sleeper disappeared. Percy's continuing babble left no hint that he had even noticed Harry's brief disappearance.

`Anything would be better than Percy,' Harry thought. Then Harry caught the flash of Dumbledore's silver-sparked robes, looked up, and saw the Headmaster motion for him to follow. `Almost anything,' Harry corrected himself.

With reservations, Harry followed Dumbledore to an unoccupied row of seats on the second level of the carriage. They sat down across from each other.

Harry knew it was time for a serious conversation when the Headmaster silently cast an Imperturbable Charm around them.

“My understanding is that Percival is in for quite the shock this afternoon,” commented Dumbledore.

“So you know, then?” Harry asked warily.

“Not only do I know, but I heartily approve,” responded Dumbledore in a lighter voice. “Miss Granger informed Minerva of your plans, and Minerva naturally sought my counsel. I was somewhat concerned, of course, but since your stellar improvisation with the goblins, I have learned to trust your judgment on such matters.”

“Where is Hermione, anyway?” Harry inquired nervously. “I rather thought she would be here. I know she was planning to come.”

Harry almost instantly regretted the question.

Dumbledore sighed. “I expected her as well, but this morning I received word from Miss Tonks that Miss Granger would be making other travel arrangements. Apparently Miss Granger is somewhat indisposed. I did not press Tonks as to the cause.”

The Headmaster's eyebrows were raised, and Harry sensed his unspoken question. “Don't press me either,” Harry growled. “If she's upset because of me, I'll be handling it. I promise.”

Dumbledore sighed even more deeply. “Very well. I need to see you both next week - together. Miss Granger has asked me to sever the affinity between the two of you. For that, you must be together. I would also like to recommence your Occlumency training, which has been disrupted of late.”

Harry barely heard Dumbledore's last sentence. At the news that Hermione had requested the destruction of their mutual emotional link, Harry sunk his face into his hands. Apparently there had not been the luxury of time he had thought….

He was forcibly pressing his thumbs into the bottom of his jaw - determined NOT to break down in front of Dumbledore. After an awkward silence, he nodded his head slightly and choked out. “So be it…. It's always been her choice….”

Dumbledore pulled himself to his feet and looked down at Harry. “I shall respect your wishes and not pry,” he said. “But I must ask, is there anything you would like to tell me?”

Harry thought about the events of the last fortnight, and how much his increasingly intense encounters with Eliza must have bothered Hermione for her to take this action. He thought about being ready to chuck it all and live as a Muggle, if that was what it took to work things out with Hermione. He thought about how he was intending to end his relationship with Eliza tomorrow. He thought about the reasons why.

“No.” Harry replied.

Dumbledore invited Harry to look out the window. The Beauxbatons carriage was passing over Reims, presumably concealed by some sort of Invisibility Charm akin to what had - intermittently - shielded Mr. Weasley's long lost Ford Anglica. Reims was not a large city, counting less than 200,000 in population. In all respects the city's centre was physically dominated by the Cathédrale de Notre-Dame de Reims, one of the finest examples of Gothic architecture in the world.

In order to calm Harry, Dumbledore gave him a brief tutorial on the history of the building in which he would soon be speaking. Notre-Dame de Reims was begun in 1211 and, typically of Gothic construction projects, was not finished for some 250 years. It was a huge and elaborate stone structure, with damage from the last war only recently repaired. The seating area, consisting of the nave and choir, was 139 metres long and thirteen metres wide. The stunning ceiling, which surmounted numerous stained glass murals, was fully 35 metres above the floor. At 225 metres, the two west towers of the cathedral dominated the Reims skyline.

As fine an example of architecture as it was, the Reims cathedral's primary significance was historical. Between 1223 and 1825, no fewer than 24 kings of France, from Louis VIII to Charles X, had been crowned within its walls. The most notable coronation was that of Charles VII in 1429, which could not have happened without the cooperation of the French magical and Muggle communities. For that reason, Reims had also been the site of every important French Muggle-wizard treaty after that date.

As much as any place else in France (and, indeed in Europe) Notre-Dame de Reims signified the acceptance of magic by the Roman Catholic Church. The efforts of Ste. Jeanne d'Arc had led the Church to an understanding that all magic was not evil and a tool of the Devil - an attitude that still poisoned magical relations with many Protestant denominations (particularly in America). Recognition of the positive aspects of magic became even more firmly ingrained in Church policy with the advent of the Counter-Reformation and the rise of the Jesuits, some of whom were also wizards.

By the time Dumbledore had finished his story, a soft jerk signified that they had landed. Harry took a deep breath, and disembarked.

Harry thought, `I'm as ready as I'll ever be,' as the British delegation approached the crowd milling about on the steps beneath the ornately carved west entrance to the cathedral. Whilst most of the delegation plunged right into the crowd, Harry, Percy and Dumbledore hung back, waiting beneath an oddly out of place modernistic sculpture. They had one last prefatory ritual to complete. Soon enough the cantor of the cathedral strode out of the crowd. Even though Harry knew what was coming and what he was supposed to do, he found himself unaccountably nervous.

“You are Harry Potter?” the cantor asked - in English. Percy had made it sound like such an accomplishment when he had arranged for this conversation to take place in their native tongue.

“I am,” replied Harry according to the script.

“Are you the legatee of the line of Merak Black?” the cantor asked.

“Not at present,” Harry responded. “The patrimony is disputed. I may be in the future, but I am not now.”

“Then you may enter,” pronounced the cantor. “But you are warned that the Black legacy is subject to permanent personal and local interdict for schism, blasphemy and heresy. As the legal heir of Black, you will not be welcome here in the future.”

“I understand,” said Harry.

That was supposed to be the end of the conversation, but the archpriest produced an intricately sealed envelope and offered it to Harry. “As you are not of Black blood, there is interest in resolving the dispute, which is centuries old. Please consider the contents, and respond if you interest is mutual.”

Confused and curious, Harry took the plain envelope wrapped in a yellow and white ribbon. It was addressed to “Hr. Potter.” Harry made to open it, but the cantor raised his hand and remarked, “Best be done in private.” Before shoving the letter into an interior pocket in his cape, Harry noticed embossed words on the reverse side that read, “Msgr. J. Echevarría, Prelature of the Holy Cross and the Work of God.” Whoever he was, and whatever that was would have to wait, because the funeral of Maréchal Delacour was about to begin.

Seeing the plethora of wizards in formal robes similar to those worn by Dumbledore and Fudge made Harry more nervous than ever. As he walked the length of the nave with its soaring pillars of stone, he openly gawked at the arched ceiling far above. Even at Hogwarts he had never seen such intricate stonework.

With a start, Harry realized that, unlike almost everyone else, he had not brought flowers to leave at the almost completely bedecked bier of the deceased. Affecting a veneer of calm that he hardly felt, Harry produced his wand, performed the Liliaceous Charm, and conjured a large bouquet of - golden iris. How that had happened, Harry did not know. The charm had worked differently the last time he had used it.

Clutching the bouquet, Harry banished that momentary confusion from his mind. His luck was with him. Entirely by happenstance (or so it appeared), Harry had conjured the flower that was an immemorial symbol of France. His offering of fleur-de-lis oriflam did not go unnoticed, although none of the French was gauche enough to comment.

Returning from the bier, Harry was ushered to the speakers' section located near the junction of the transepts. He was more or less beneath the towering marble and mahogany pulpit from which the speeches would be delivered. Harry found a programme and learnt that his speech came close to the end of the ceremony, followed only by the addresses of the English and French Ministers of Magic.

All of the speakers were given a brief acclimatisation tour of the pulpit before the ceremony commenced. Harry noticed an odd Muggle device affixed to the balustrade just to the left of the lectern. He asked Percy what it was.

“Oh! That's an autocue. Handy little Muggle electrical device that helps you keep track of your speech. You activate with this switch, here, and control the speed with that dial, over there. The Minister swears by it.… Uses an autocue whenever he's in a Muggle location. I've taken the liberty of loading your speech into it….”

“No thanks!” exclaimed Harry a little more vehemently than the situation warranted. “Er … I don't need it and on such short notice I wouldn't know how to work it.… I've memorised my speech anyway.…”

The ceremony began, and all too soon it was Harry's turn to speak. Reaching the apex of the pulpit, he quickly scanned the audience. Finally he saw Hermione, who was studying him intensely, seated near the back, to his right. Harry could not help how he felt as he smiled at the girl who was, for all intents and purposes, the author of the speech he was about to give … and so very much more.

Clearing his throat, Harry placed his notes on the lectern. In so doing, he bumped the autocue screen. Annoyed, Harry made a hand gesture and muttered “Evanesco.” The autocue disappeared, much to Percy's (and Minister Fudge's) surprise and chagrin. But their surprise and chagrin was only beginning. Not only did Harry's speech in no way resemble what Percy had written, but Harry was delivering it entirely in French.

“Sorcières et sorciers de France, je suis Harry Potter, et à cause de mon rapport avec mon tuteur, William Weasley, et à cause de son rapport avec Maréchal Delacour, ils sont tous les deux morts. Autant que je suis honoré d'être avec vous aujourd'hui au site de la plus grande réussite de la sorcellerie française, je donnerais tout ce que j'ai, et j'abandonnerais toute la magie que je possède, afin qu'ils ne soient pas morts. Mais il y a des choses qu'on ne peut pas changer.”

[Witches and wizards of France, I am Harry Potter, and because of my relationship to my guardian, William Weasley, and because of his relationship to Maréchal Delacour, they are both dead. As much as I am honoured to be with you today at the site of the greatest accomplishment of French wizardry, I would give everything that I have, and surrender all the magic that I possess, were this not so. But some things cannot be undone.]

“Bill Weasley est mort à la main de Voldemort, qui n'est pas un seingneur mais seulement un autre sorcier malin. Moins de deux mois avant sa mort, Bill a consenti à ma demande qu'il soit mon tuteur. Il est mort comme mon tuteur précédent, et comme mes parents sont morts avant lui - et à la même main. Maréchal Delacour est mort en défendant Bill, et sa propre famille et foyer, contre cette attaque - et à la même main. Je n'ai jamais fait la connaissance de Maréchal Delacour. Je voudrais l'avoir connu. Sa force en guidant la résistance magique de France contre Grindelwald et les Nazis, est vraiment ce qu'il nous faut aujourd'hui.”

[Bill Weasley died at the hands of Voldemort, not a lord but just another evil wizard. Less than two months before his death, Bill agreed to my request to be my guardian. He died just as my prior guardian, and my parents, died before him - and at the same hands. Marechal Delacour died defending Bill, and his own family and home, from that attack - and from those same hands. I never met Marechal Delacour. I wish I had. His strength in leading France's magical resistance to both Grindelwald and the Nazis is exactly what the strength that we all need today.]

“La première fois en plus de cinq siècles, un sorcier malin anglais a attaqué les français sur la terre française. Une marque de ténèbres anglaise a salli les cieux de l'Europe. La dernière fois que c'est arrivé, la sorcellerie anglaise et les moldus anglais ont conspiré pour éteindre la vie de la sorcière qui a sanctifié cet édifice même où nous sommes aujourd'hui. La magie noire a accompli ce que le feu ne pourrait jamais faire.”

[For the first time in more than five centuries, an English Dark Wizard has assaulted the French on French soil. An English dark mark has sullied the skies of the continent. The last time this happened, English wizardry and English Muggles conspired to end the life of the witch who sanctified this very structure. Evil magic accomplished what fire never could.]

“Des décades sont passées, mais enfin toute la France a été libérée, et les anglais, mon peuple, ont été expulsés. Aujourd'hui, c'est l'Angleterre qui a besoin de libération - avec l'aide de toutes les sorcières et tous les sorciers du monde qui croient à la liberté de la magie. La France est attaquée, mais cette attaque fait partie d'un assaut beaucoup plus grand, la plus grande partie de laquelle s'est produite dans mon pays.”

[It took decades thereafter, but eventually all France was liberated, and the English, my people, expelled. Today it is England that needs liberation - with the assistance of every witch and wizard everywhere who believes in freedom of magic. France has been attacked, but that attack is part of a much greater assault, most of which occurred in my country.]

“Un grand sorcier a dit, `Si l'on ne reste pas ensemble, on va tous être pendus séparément.' Cette fois-là, la France a aidé Benjamin Franklin et les americains. Il y a cinquante ans, un cracmol a offert à la France - et au monde - le sang, la sueur, et les larmes. C'était l'heure la plus magnifique de mon pays. Maintenant, je vous prie d'aider Albus Dumbledore et la communanté magique anglaise. Il faut qu'on débarrase le mond du fléau de Voldemort ensemble. Il n'y a pas de choix. Si l'Angleterre est vaincue, il n'y a pas de doute que la France va suivre.”

[A great wizard once said, “If we do not hang together, we will all hang separately.” France aided Benjamin Franklin and the Americans then. Fifty years ago, a Squib offered France - and the world - his blood, sweat and tears. This became my own country's finest hour. I ask you now to help Albus Dumbledore and the British magical community. Together we must rid the world of the scourge of Voldemort. There is no choice. If England falls, it cannot now be doubted that France will be next.]

“Maréchal Delacour aurait compris. Il savait la signification de déclarer `Un seul but la victoire.' Je vous remercie de fond de mon coeur.”

[Maréchal Delacour would understand. He knew what it meant to declare, “Un seul but la victoire.” Thank you from the bottom of my heart.]

On autopilot, Harry descended the stairs from the pulpit and sat down, breathing hard and almost unaware of his surroundings. He was done. The die was cast. A week of funerals was over.

Harry hoped he had not made a fool of himself - he thought the speech had gone rather well. There had been no fumbled phrases, although the word play in the Franklin quotation did not translate as well as he had hoped. At that moment, Harry wanted only go home for a richly deserved (he thought) evening of doing absolutely nothing. But he also wanted … as much as he wanted anything … to thank Hermione. It was up to him to begin their reconciliation….

The French knew of Harry Potter only by reputation. Throughout his speech, the curious standing-room-only audience had listened with such rapt attention that Harry had no idea how he was being received. That silence was broken with sustained stormy applause when Harry invoked the old Résistance slogan in his conclusion.

The overwhelmingly French crowd knew Harry's story, of course. The entire Wizarding World did. But nobody had expected a barely sixteen-year-old English boy to speak more than a few words, if any, en français - far less to deliver an entire speech in the native tongue of his hosts.

It took Harry a few moments to comprehend what was happening. The applause continued for what, to an increasingly embarrassed Harry, seemed like forever - longer than the speech itself. He had no idea how to respond. Fortunately, he did not have to figure that out.

Unseen amongst the standing, roaring crowd, Gabrielle Delacour had slipped away from her overcome sister and mentally absent mother. She found the aisle between the seats and sprinted towards the pulpit. Harry saw little more than a blonde streak running towards him and catapulting herself into his lap. “Magnifique! Magnifique! Mon héros merveilleux!” she squealed. If possible, the crowd roared even louder at the ten-year-old's public display of affection.

Gabrielle was not to be denied. A French deputy Minister of Magic surrendered his seat, and Gabrielle did not leave Harry's side for the rest of the programme. Only once did she even let go of Harry's hand - when he had to use his wand to end the spell that had evaporated the autocue so that a somewhat peeved (and even more embarrassed) Minister Fudge could deliver his own speech.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, Harry thought he caught a brief glimpse of Hermione coming towards him as he was engulfed by enthusiastic Gallic well-wishers. He tried to move in that direction, but all of a sudden Fleur was in front of him, looking typically stunning in the same form-fitting mourning robes that she had worn to Bill's funeral.

Fleur introduced Harry to her mother, who was plainly not at all there. The older woman had gone round the twist in a big way, and Harry assumed from Madame Delacour's blank eyes and slow movements that she was under the influence of a strong Sedating Potion. Fleur also prised Gabrielle away from Harry's side.

All the while Fleur was talking to him in breathless and rapid French. Harry was mentally exhausted, and he soon gave up even trying to translate what Fleur was saying. All he could pick out of the torrent of words were references to Bill and to Maréchal Delacour. Harry felt like his brain was turning to warm, pleasant mush.

“Fleur, don't you worry about a thing,” Harry drawled in English. “I'm going to destroy Voldemort and any Death Eater that gets in my way. I've been taking combat training all summer, because I'm the only….”

Reflexively, Harry's Occlumency training brought him up short. Harry realized that he was strongly under the influence of Veela charm. Harry eked out, “Fleur, please stop. Why are you doing this to me?”

Fleur looked startled, and switched to her heavily accented English. “Oh, I am zorry, `Arry. It ees not intentional … zee `eat of zee moment….”

“All right,” replied Harry a little warily. He did feel somewhat warm.

“…But you know, `Arry. Bill ees dead. Nuzzing you or I can do will bring `eem back. Zo eef I am to `ave les bébés zat you spoke of at Bill's funeral, I must find zomeone else to create zem….”

Fleur's mother was starting to wander away, so Fleur said “au revoir” and slinked off after her. Harry was thoroughly unsettled. Why had Fleur brought up creating babies - of all things?

Shaking off such thoughts, Harry again set about searching the crowd for Hermione. Unfortunately she was nowhere to be found, and a mass of French-speaking glad handers and autograph seekers constantly interrupted Harry's effort. After a fruitless forty-five minutes, he gave up and sought out Dumbledore for the long ride home.

* * * *

For Hermione the last two days had been a continuation of the downward spiral of her relationship with Harry Potter. Wednesday night had brought another onslaught of Harry's feelings from what was obviously another sexual encounter between him and that other woman. But the sensations from this encounter had been worse for Hermione than the others. Previously, they had been a muddle of lust, happiness, confusion and frustration. This encounter started out the same way, but then - in the middle of it - had come the unmistakable feeling of love.

Hermione was despondent. That shining beacon of emotion could not have been clearer. The natural progression that she had always feared was indeed coming to pass. Harry was transcending mere sexual desires and actually falling in love with Eliza - it was the oldest story in the world….

That emotion could not be ignored, denied, or wished away. The sensation of love radiating from Harry late that evening had been strong, pure, and powerful. Hermione felt all of her plans, hopes, dreams, and wishes turning to ash before her eyes. For once neither her intelligence, diligence, nor her creativity could save her. Eliza had beaten her. There was no longer anything Hermione could do….

The emotional link that Hermione had once thought would be her key to understanding, and winning, Harry's affections had instead becomr the engine of her destruction. Hermione surrendered. Not hesitating this time, Hermione wrote a strongly worded note to Headmaster Dumbledore demanding that her link with Harry be severed at the earliest practicable time.

After that, it took all of Hermione's discipline and will power just to write a short note of encouragement to Harry on the occasion of his crucial speech. She had largely conceived, planned, written, and strategised this speech. Her reward was the same as always. Harry had treated her as a useful friend, showering her with compliments, but that was all. As she wrote, Hermione repeatedly muttered “Evanesco” to remove her tears from the parchment. A friend was all she would ever be to Harry. Someone useful. A resource. Nothing more.

Under the circumstances, Hermione did not think that she could tolerate the emotional strain of being close to Harry for any extended period of time - not just yet. She decided to ask Tonks to tell Dumbledore to cancel the arrangements she had made to travel to Reims from Hogwarts. In her current state, she did not care to have any conversation with the Headmaster herself. She might let something indiscreet slip….

She would still go, of course. She could not bear to miss witnessing the culmination of her handiwork. Nor did she want to distract or worry Harry with her absence. Delivering a speech, in a foreign language, to a large, sophisticated audience, on unfamiliar turf…. That would be hard enough for Harry under optimal circumstances.

She would never add to his burden if she could help it. That was not her way.

Hermione slowly climbed the stairs to the roof of the house that she would soon be leaving for the last time. Next to the rooftop observatory - a gift to her from her father on the occasion of her thirteenth birthday - Hermione found Tonks in her usual post maintaining her usual lookout.

Hermione discussed with Tonks her desire to leave for Reims directly from home, and to avoid being intercepted by the Hogwarts party. Tonks sensed something was amiss, but had the good sense not to say anything. She had come to know Hermione quite well over the last few weeks as she had become her regular minder and been put in overall charge of her security. Tonks knew better than to push Hermione. She would talk only when she was good and ready.

True to her word, Tonks expertly put together some Portkeys and some international Floo transportation that brought the both of them to the cathedral on time and unnoticed. Hermione regretted that she was too hurried to investigate the cathedral's intricate architecture, but the less time spent there, the better. She was emotionally fragile at the moment. She did not want to risk anything that might cause another scene. This was Harry's moment. Hermione would do nothing to detract from it.

She sat near the back. At one point she thought Harry had looked straight at her. Almost immediately that cursed link told Hermione that she must be mistaken. Harry was not looking at anything. He was daydreaming about Eliza. She was certain of it. In his thoughts, she had felt a reprise of the unmistakable emotional signature of romantic love.

Harry had been magnificent - exceeding even her rather high expectations for him. The speech had been powerfully delivered in almost flawless French. The crowd's reaction had been overwhelming. Harry received far louder and more enthusiastic applause than anyone else, more than even the French Minister of Magic.

Momentarily conquering her anxieties, Hermione decided to talk to Harry after the ceremony ended. She had some trouble fighting her way through the crowd that surrounded him. She had almost succeeded when she felt it - Harry was feeling an intense sexual attraction that had left him almost completely besotted. Ever so briefly, the crowed parted, and Hermione saw Harry with Fleur, and Fleur was giving Harry a full measure of her Veela powers.

In this way, Hermione was forcefully reminded that, even if Harry's current relationship with that Eliza woman somehow foundered, someone else would be more than willing to fill the resultant vacuum. What chance did she have against someone as beautiful, accomplished, beautiful, rich, beautiful, suddenly available, beautiful, and mesmerising as Fleur Delacour if Fleur decided she wanted Harry? A snowball had a better chance in Hell.

At that, Hermione had turned on her heel and left the cathedral as fast as her feet could carry her.

* * * *

Upon Apparating to Mrs. Figg's house, Harry collected his mobile, which he tried never to take to Hogwarts because of the risk of magical damage. There was a message from Eliza, “Hi, Harry. I just called to say `I love you,' and to let you know that I've got an interview this afternoon at the Muggle May & Slaughter law firm. I don't know how they got my resumé, so I figure it's your doing one way or another. Wish me luck. I'll see you tomorrow night.”

Harry did not feel like calling her back. He would be seeing her soon enough - for what he reckoned would be the last time. Early the following morning he would be leaving by international Portkey to see Ron, Ginny, and the rest of the Hogwarts picked seven play for the international interscholastic Quidditch camp championship in Denmark. Dumbledore had come through for him in that respect at least. Harry knew he would be needing that break.

He was about an hour into what had promised to be a relaxing evening in his room, when there was a soft knock on his door. Harry put down the copy of Black Ivory that he had been lackadaisically trying to read and found Dudley looking at him rather tentatively.

Harry said, “Come in,” and his lumbering cousin limped into the room. Harry could see that he was still wearing large plasters to cover burns on both legs. The fibreglass cast on his left arm would be there for at least two more weeks.

“What's cooking, Dudders?” Harry asked languorously.

“I was hoping you could help me,” Dudley croaked, in a half whisper. “I know you have them, and I was wondering if you could tell me how you deal with them.”

“Deal with what, Dudley?” Harry asked, now paying better attention.

“Nightmares,” replied Dudley, lowering his voice even more. “I've been having them almost every night since the fire at Gator's Gym. I hoped they'd get better on their own, but they haven't. I figure yours are even worse, so you've got to have something you take for them.”

“Can you describe them for me?” Harry asked. He knew from hard-won experience that content was essential to any and all treatment of nightmares.

“Well, the basic dream is always the same,” Dudley began. “I'm … I'm in the gym, working out, and then a flock of crows … what you called ravens … flies in from somewhere. Then the ravens turn into black hooded freaks … er … wizards.… I think, anyway…. They're sort of … like you … well not that way. They're all wearing some sort of masks; at least I think they're masks….”

Dudley was stumbling, but Harry was intrigued. This sounded too much like a classic Death Eater attack to be a coincidence. “What did they do?” he prompted.

“They had wand thingies like yours,” Dudley continued. “They started destroying the gym, and trying to hurt everyone in sight with light and stuff coming out of those wands. Then things start to get different…. Sometimes I get away okay, sometimes I'm hurt, and sometimes I get hit by one of the flashes of light…. Then I wake up…. It's getting that I'm afraid of going to sleep at night….”

The more he heard, the less Harry believed that Dudley was describing nightmares. It was clear the Dudley was somehow having visions of the Death Eater attack that had come very close to killing him. For some reason, Harry had no idea why, the Memory Charm administered to Dudley after the attack was malfunctioning - somehow slipping whilst he was asleep. Harry's Auror training had taught him that supposedly repetitive dreams were the classic symptoms of incipient Memory Charm failure.

Harry decided that Dudley had become enough of a friend over the summer that he deserved to know the truth about what had happened to him. “Dudley, there's more going on here than you know. Do you really want to know what I think is the truth?”

“Yeah,” his cousin answered, after only a moment's hesitation.

Harry performed a Silencing Charm. “You have to swear to keep this a secret,” Harry told him seriously. “It's important and Mug … people like you aren't usually allowed to know things like this.”

“I'm in,” Dudley reaffirmed. “What's going on…? I'm scared.”

“It's not a dream at all,” Harry told his cousin. “The whole story about a gas explosion at the gym is phony. You were attacked by Death Eaters … evil wizards…. It's the same crew that's been after me. In fact, they went after you because they were trying to get to me. You survived because my karate teacher … the Chinese bloke, Lao Kung, was really a wizard assigned to protect you from exactly what happened.”

“Shit,” said Dudley. “But I guess it wasn't the first time, was it? There were those Demeanor thingies last year….”

Harry thought that Dudley would be scared out of his wits, but his cousin turned out to be surprisingly receptive to the notion that he had been attacked. Dudley was quite relieved that he was not going bonkers.

“Why couldn't I remember any of this except in dreams?” he asked Harry.

“It's because of what the wizard police do to Muggles who witness magic,” Harry explained. “They wiped out your memory, and did the same to everybody else who was there, except with you they apparently didn't get it quite right….”

Harry got up, bent over, and popped open the loose floorboard. He pulled a small phial from amongst several hidden beneath it. “Here,” he said to his cousin, “try some of this - only a bit at a time though. It's Dreamless Sleep Potion. I use it sometimes when I'm having similar problems. Use it only as a last resort … it's both powerful and addictive.”

“Thanks,” Dudley said, grasping the phial as if it were something rare and valuable - which, in actuality, for a Muggle it was.

“Then you need to decide what you want to do,” Harry told him gravely. “If you'd rather not know … and get rid of the nightmares … I could call the Obliviators - those are the people who erase memories - back in and they could give it another go. Or you can stay the way you are, as long as you can keep the secret. What'll it be?”

Dudley pulled on his chin with his hand, thinking it over. There were advantages and disadvantages both ways, but ultimately Dudley decided, “I think I'll leave it. All in all, I'd rather know the truth.”

Dudley was even more gratified when Harry used some of his recently learned field first aid techniques to heal the burns on his legs.

But as Dudley was leaving, he accidentally kicked Harry's chair and stumbled. He leant on the corner of Harry's desk to regain his balance and knocked over several stacks of papers with his ungainly, casted arm. Dudley hastily apologised for making a mess and tried to pick up the scattered sheets.

Harry had his wand out and was on the verge of telling Dudley not to bother when he saw his cousin suddenly freeze whilst staring mutely at one of the papers.

“Do… Do… Do you know this g-g-girl?” Dudley asked, wide eyed.

Harry got up, crossed the room, and discovered that Dudley was drooling over the erotic picture of Ron and Cho on a broom.

Harry was a little exasperated at his cousin. He never intended for Dudley - or anyone - to see that photograph. “Yeah, I do,” Harry muttered. “That's Cho Chang, the girl I had half a date with last year. And her boyfriend's my best mate. What's it to you?”

“Holy shit!” Dudley exclaimed. “Some guys have all the luck. I-I-I know her…. Well I know of her, anyway. But not by that name….”

“Dudley, what are you on about?” Harry asked testily. Harry was genuinely confused by his cousin's reaction.

“That…. That girl…. She's Liko Mee. She's.… She's…. Well, to be blunt … she's a porn star on the Internet.” Dudley finally choked out.

“What the Hell…?” Harry barked angrily. Instead of performing the A Priori Charm to deal with the mess, he pointed his wand threateningly at his cousin. “I'll not have you standing here and insult my best mate's girlfriend like that.”

Dudley paled and quavered as he looked at Harry's wand pointed right between his eyes. But he did not back down before his magical cousin. “I'm … I'm serious, Harry. The girl you call Cho Chan, er … Chang, is also Liko Mee … a porn star…. I've got pictures on my computer. Let me show you.… You be the judge.”

“You'd better be right,” Harry cut him off gruffly. “Her boyfriend has four brothers and a sister. If you're wrong, you're going to have quite a few wizards using you for target practice.”

“I know…. I've met some of them already…. Remember?” Dudley replied bravely. “But this time, I'm not wrong…. I swear it.”

Warily, Harry followed Dudley into his own bedroom, where his cousin wordlessly booted up his computer, and clicked on some ambiguously named files. Soon the intended images appeared on the monitor.

This time it was Harry's turn to stare at the pictures in wide-eyed incomprehension. Dudley was right. That girl … if you could call her that … was Cho Chang. Having had a serious crush on Cho, Harry would recognise her anywhere, even if her eyes did look oddly blue and catlike in the downloaded photographs.

The images, however, were nothing like the Cho Harry knew. This was way beyond page three. She was completely starkers, or occasionally in impossibly revealing outfits. More to the point, she was engaged in all sorts of sex acts with various men, all of whom looked like they had used Engorgio Charms on their you-know-whats. Cho looked like she was enjoying herself immensely - and these were only non-moving Muggle photographs.

Weighing on Harry's conscience had been what he considered to be quite a bit of naughtiness with Eliza over the past fortnight. These pictures let him know that he had barely scratched the surface, if you will. The images seared Harry's brain as, entirely involuntarily, he found himself becoming aroused. How could she possibly fit something that big into…? Ugh, Harry did not even want to think about it.

Harry saw other odd things. Cho had some sort of round tattoo about midway between her navel and her … you-know-what. She had another tattoo - long and thin - sort of like a bird in flight, but not really, in the small of her back just above her you-know-where.

He was having a very hard time believing what his cousin was showing him - but seeing was believing. Breathing heavily, Harry collapsed into a chair, muttering, “Oh, shit…. Oh, Hell…. What will Ron think…? Ron will kill her for this.… No, he'll kill me first for telling him that his first-ever girlfriend is a…. What in Merlin's name am I going to do now?”

“Is there anything you want me to do?” Dudley asked quietly.

Harry sat there, staring into space. Finally he decided that he had to tell Ron - although he had no idea how and when. Even if Ron hated him for it, it was better than keeping something this big a secret, at least Harry thought it was. Ron might be unwittingly exposing himself to a fatal disease. Harry had never paid much attention, but he thought that some of the things Cho was doing in those photographs could transmit AIDS.

“Yeah,” he sighed, with a defeated look on his face. Pointing to the thumbnails on the screen, he told Dudley to print him out copies of about a dozen specific photos. Harry tried to select pictures with a minimum of sex and a maximum of Cho's face, but it was not an easy task - since Dudley had originally selected these pictures for quite a different purpose.

“You keep those well hidden, I tell you,” Dudley warned Harry. “Mum and Dad would have my hide if they knew I did this…. And I'll have yours.”

It was a meaningless threat to an Auror-trained wizard, but even so Harry affirmed, “You have my word.”

Still feeling stunned, Harry was soon back in his room. The night had turned into anything but the relaxing interlude he had hoped for. These pictures could ruin his friendship with Ron. But Ron obviously had no idea what was going on with Cho. Harry could not see himself simply standing aside and allowing Ron to be used like this. Cho's motives were entirely inscrutable, but to Harry they could not possibly be benign.

The situation was absurd, and absurdly delicate. It called for thoughtfulness and finesse, not precipitate action - for craftiness, not courage. Everything he could think of seemed to have twice as many drawbacks as advantages. Harry was no good at this sort of thing. Hermione, on the other hand, was a master at solving this sort of problem.

* * * *

Harry was up early Friday because he remembered that he had to write a letter to Blackie Howe. Blackie had told him he could hold off the Ministry for a while, but not forever. Even that had gotten dicier, as the prospect of the Black inheritance grew more likely. Harry had decided that his new guardian had to have no loved ones to leave behind. Sudden death was, if not part of the job description, at least a serious occupational hazard. He also wanted any new guardian to have a strong personality. To serve as a gatekeeper between Harry and everyone trying to get a piece of him, that was essential.

The answer had come to him last night in something of a dream. It was not a conventional pick, but it made sense. An Order member would also be easier to contact in an emergency - and Harry always seemed to be having emergencies. The main trouble was that Harry had no idea where the person he had picked was at the moment. He did not want to broach the subject with Dumbledore unless he was sure that the nominee would accept the selection. Thus Harry was writing a letter. Hedwig could find practically anyone.

But Hedwig was not there when Harry finished. `Out hunting probably,' Harry thought. He would have to send the letter in the evening, when he returned. He left the letter in plain sight on his desk, to remind himself to post it.

Friday's training was in defensive strategy - how to retreat under fire whilst maintaining order, how to anticipate and avoid ambush, how to conduct an evacuation, that kind of thing. It was a rigorous class with complicated simulations, complete with multiple attackers and, at times, panicky charges over whom Harry and Hermione were supposed to exercise responsibility.

Hermione could sense that Harry was troubled and tentative towards her. He had experienced some sort of panic attack the night before. Ordinarily she would have tried to find out what was bothering him - because that was what she always did.

But not today.

She really did not want to deal with Harry until the link was severed. Thus, she brought her large books again, and barricaded herself behind them when they had breaks, which was not often. She dodged him at lunch by claiming (partially truthfully) that she had some shopping to do in Muggle London, and that she was shopping for “girl things.”

Finally, Harry could no longer take being put off. He told Hermione directly that he needed to talk to her after practice was over, and that it was urgent. Reluctantly, Hermione agreed.

Harry caught Hermione immediately when they had finished, and directed her into the first empty office he came across. He was very anxious, and found it hard to string sentences together.

The link betrayed Harry's uncertainty and embarrassment.

“Hermione, you've got to help me,” he started. “You've got to help figure out how to tell Ron….” Harry stopped, not sure how to phrase this next part.

“Tell Ron about what?” Hermione asked impatiently. At least Harry was not asking for advice about Eliza.

“About Cho.” Harry burst out. “About how she's… she's….”

“I assume that Ron knows far more about Cho than I do,” replied Hermione coolly, “since he's never said a thing about her to me.”

“It's not like that!” Harry replied hotly. “It's a hundred times worse! Ron doesn't know, but I do.”

“You know what?” Hermione asked, puzzled. Harry was not making sense. His emotions were more and more jumbled.

Harry was getting rather red in the face, “That she's … she's … she's Liko Mee,” he finally forced out. Hermione looked at him blankly, her eyes narrowed in concern - about him.

Harry did not know what else to do. Words were failing him. “Look!” Harry thrust the printouts from Dudley's computer at Hermione.

Reflexively Hermione took the photographs, but after one glance at them she pushed them back at Harry in disgust. “Harry James Potter, I don't know what's come over you, but I am not going to look at this filth…. I'm surprised and appalled at you.”

Harry would not take the pictures back, but instead pushed Hermione's hands back towards her. “It's not like that…. No, it is…. Can't you see? It's Cho! She's Liko Mee! She's living a double….”

“I'm warning you, Harry, take this smut back,” Hermione snapped.

“No, look at it. It's Cho. How are we going to explain this to Ron?!” Harry pleaded.

“I'm not explaining anything to Ron!” Hermione huffed, getting more upset by the second. “Take this back, I tell you. I feel unclean just holding it!”

Harry sensed that his explanations were being ignored. He appreciated that the pictures were pretty disgusting, but if Hermione would just look, she would see that the naked girl was really Cho. “You've got to believe me,” Harry protested. He reached out and caught Hermione's left wrist. “Here, let me show you…. Please listen…. It's not like that….”

“Harry! Stop!” Hermione protested loudly. “Let go! You're hurting me!”

He was not listening to her. He kept on babbling absurd things about Cho Chang and somebody called Leeko Mee.

Being physically (and painfully) restrained by Harry pushed Hermione over the edge. Harry's romantic involvements - on top of her parents' preparations to move - had made her last week a living Hell, and Hermione finally snapped.

SMACK!!!

With her right hand Hermione slapped Harry with as much force as she could muster.

Harry immediately released Hermione's arm, as she screamed at him, “I DON'T KNOW WHAT'S GOTTEN INTO YOU LATELY, BUT AS LONG AS YOU'RE ACTING LIKE THIS, I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU ANYMORE!!!” Her hair wild and disheveled, Hermione flung the offending pictures in Harry's general direction and fled - literally running out of the room in tears.

The pain brought Harry's hand automatically to his left cheek. Otherwise he remained motionless - rooted to the spot where it had happened. Too shocked and hurt for words, he stood there gaping, staring first at Hermione's back and then (for much longer) simply gawking at the empty doorframe.

All the while, Hermione's last words reverberated. “I don't want to see you anymore….” “I don't want to see you anymore.…” “I don't want to see you anymore.…”

Slowly the magnitude of the event sunk in - first to Harry's conscious faculties and from there as an intensely cold sensation seeping into his very bones. In his foolish and frantic attempt to “save” Ron from something Ron had no desire to be saved from (and which in any event was causing him no apparent harm), Harry had lost Hermione.

Harry's emotional façade crumbled. The door slammed itself shut, impelled entirely by his shock and grief.

He had lost Hermione.…

He had lost Hermione.…

Occlumency had helped with his nightmares, but this was even worse. This was real, and it was totally his own fault.

Harry started to feel faint. He sat on the floor until his wooziness passed.

Instinctively, almost catatonically, Harry pointed his wand at the scattered computer printout pictures of Cho/Liko that had assumed such great importance such a short while ago. One by one, Harry incinerated them. “Enflagrate,” Harry repeated tonelessly a dozen or so times, too numb even to consider silent magic. With a final flick of his wand, even the ashes disappeared.

He got up. He started to walk. Harry was supposed to meet up with Elphias Doge for a routine trip home, but that was now the farthest thing from his mind. He needed to get away - now.

Harry walked wordlessly to the maintenance stairwell, ignoring everyone he passed. Even though he was “The Great Harry Potter” passing through the halls, the other witches and wizards shied away. They could sense magical power and intensity pouring out of him - and Harry's aura told all comers “I'm extremely confused and extremely hacked off and I don't want to be disturbed.”

Once in the stairwell, Harry methodically climbed the stairs, flight after flight, until he reached Level B. Using the same deliberate steady gait, Harry stalked through the largely deserted corridors of Level B, retracing his steps from the night of the Ashrak. Harry reached the exit to Muggle London. Calmly, but firmly, Harry opened the various doors and passed through.

Somewhere along the way, Harry started replaying the events of the past 24 hours over and over in his mind, second-guessing his own actions from beginning to end. All the while Harry kept up a heated conversation with himself.

You should have left well enough alone…. After all, Ron was the last person in the world who wanted saving…. If you'd ever showed him those pictures, you'd find that Hermione's slap was a love-tap by comparison….

But it just wasn't right. What kind of friend would I be to let Ron date somebody who was concealing a secret life as a pornographic movie star?

You'd still be a friend of Hermione's, that's what.

* * * *

Why did I show her the pictures? Why didn't I just tell her?

Because Hermione never would have believed me without the photos to back it up. Hell, I wouldn't have believed me without seeing the photographs.

But Hermione never saw the photographs - or at least never looked at them.

* * * *

Why didn't I just write her a letter explaining everything, enclose the pictures, and let Hermione make up her own mind?

Because she was … is … Hermione, dammit. I'm supposed to be able to tell her everything.

Really? Have I ever once done that all summer?

Actually not. I never told her that I fancied her, for one thing.

I didn't know that until just recently.

Oh, I knew it all right…. I just wasn't clever enough to figure it out, that's all.

Bloody late on the uptake, then. I'll never have that opportunity again, that's for sure….

* * * *

Harry had no idea how far he had walked. In Muggle London, even moreso than in the Ministry, nobody bothered Harry or tried to puncture his melancholy trance. No Muggle in his (or her) right mind would want to approach a disheveled teenager in full-length black robes who was constantly muttering to himself and appeared to be off in his own world.

Harry was finally jolted back to reality not by man but by machine. He happened to be passing the Houses of Parliament when Big Ben announced that it was 8:00 p.m.

* * * *

Eight o'clock on the first day of the rest of my life.

Why didn't I think to talk about this with Eliza first? She's a girl, and she could have told me that Hermione would have been mortally offended. Even if Eliza were offended, it wouldn't have been that great a….

“Oh shit!” Harry exclaimed aloud. “Eight o'clock. I was supposed to be at Eliza's a half an hour ago.”

As he urgently looked for a secluded place from which to Apparate, Harry reflected upon the incongruity of it all. He had originally made this date because, upon hearing Eliza explain how SHE had fallen in love with HIM, Harry had concluded that HE was in love with HERMIONE rather than her.

Harry had resolved to end his relationship with Eliza because he felt he was using her and leading her on. In short, Harry intended to break up with Eliza because he wanted to be with Hermione instead.

“Fat chance of that ever happening now,” Harry grumbled.

Not finding anything better, Harry crouched down between a parked delivery lorry and a caravan and disapparated. A moment later Harry arrived at Eliza's without the slightest idea what he was going to say or do.

* * * *

Eliza was getting nervous … on the verge of panic was more like it. She had already almost swooned less than an hour earlier. She had been doing some last minute tidying up when, without warning, she had felt faint - only dimly aware of her surroundings, as if she were going to float away….

Not that it had been terribly unpleasant, just passing strange. She had felt vaguely happy. In another circumstance the sensation might even have been pleasurable, but not this evening. Fortunately, the episode was brief, and Eliza shrugged it off. She picked up the mini-Hoover she had dropped, took a Muggle iron pill, and kept on going. She had to be ready for Harry.

Now that she was ready, Harry was nowhere to be found. It was most unlike Harry to be late. She had had a bad feeling about this date from the moment Harry had made it. Harry had seemed different - more reserved, less enthusiastic - than any other time he had asked her out.

Afraid that she had pushed Harry too far, Eliza tried to compensate with a romantic meal. The candles were burning low in their holders when her mobile rang. She grabbed for it like a drowning person seizes a life preserver.

Breathlessly, she babbled into the phone, “Oh, Harry, I'm so glad that you called. Where are you…?”

A strange voice answered, “Sorry, but I'm not 'Arry, I'm Mundungus, his … er … bodyguard. So 'e's not there either, I gather.”

“No he's not. Why are you ringing me…?”

The doorbell rang. Looking through the peephole in the door, she saw the man she had come to love.

“Harry,” she squealed almost involuntarily.

“Thank Merlin,” Mundungus Fletcher exclaimed, having overheard. Then he hung up.

As she opened the door, Eliza was excited and worried at the same time.

* * * *

Author's notes: Terra incognita is what ancient mapmakers called the unknown parts of the Earth

Hermione's suppositions about the prophecy are somewhat accurate, but terribly mistaken in a critical respect. That is reiterated here due to its importance

The non-magical fire is, of course, a clue to future developments

Vyacheslav Molotov was the Russian foreign minister who plotted the Russo-Finnish War. The Finns named the improvised gasoline bombs they used against Russian tanks after him

“As far away as humanly possible” - another clue, this time for the geographically inclined

The M1 is the route between London and parts north. Near London it is three to four lanes in both directions

The location and description of Sherwood Forest is accurate

The Perseids are a real meteor shower. The descriptions of how it occurs, and when it starts, are accurate, as is the date upon which it occurs in 1996

The use of a charge-coupled device in astronomical photography is accurate

I don't remember an invisibility cloak used this way in fanfic, but it seems logical

Zipless, as a description of sex, comes from Erica Jong

Hermione's a triple first, but not the first person to tell Harry, “I love you”

Eliza's “every day” speech is also a clue

Call it a bargain (the best I ever had), from Bargain, by the Who

A French tickler is a textured condom designed to increase sexual pleasure

“She might have raped him” - this recalls a scene from “Time After Time” in which the diffident H.G. Wells character is faced with a similarly aggressive woman

Harry's wrist going numb - from the line in Zappa's “Dinah-Moe-Humm”

Harry's uncharted waters parallel Hermione's terra incognita

Here's my guess at the interior of the Beauxbatons carriage

Most of the description of the Reims cathedral is accurate. All of its history is. The one exception is the height of the spires. I chose the height as a ratio of the length, which is accurate

The conversation with the cantor introduces something that is primarily a next-summer/seventh-year element

“Msgr. J. Echevarría, Prelature of the Holy Cross and the Work of God” - a real person and a real organization, although not ordinarily known by its formal name

Golden iris are the original fleur de lis

An autocue is known in America as a teleprompter

I hope my French is passable. It's been a long time since I've studied it, and it gets little use

Recurrent themes - Franklin as a wizard and Churchill as a Squib. Harry's speech quotes Franklin and paraphrases Churchill

“Un seul but la victoire” is a Resistance slogan

There is a prestigious law firm in England called Slaughter & May. I inverted the name

The “What'll it be” comes from “Paradise by the Dashboard Light”

“Liko Mee” is a triple entendre, but if you don't get it, I'm not telling

Blue and catlike is a clue to what eventually happens

“Page three” is a reference to the quasi-erotic photos on the third page of some British tabloids

The round tattoo is of cosmic importance

Big Ben is part of the building housing Parliament

The description of Eliza's vertiginous feeling is a clue

60

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch26 from Reims to ruin.doc 11/19/04

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27. The Other

Wherein we learn what Draco Malfoy has been up to: obsessing about, and spying on him, taking over the affairs of the Malfoy family; getting drunk; conspiring with Nott; and wherein Harry has a good cry, gets stoned, and enjoys a romantic interlude.

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

Chapter 27 - The Other

As Draco Malfoy looked back upon the rapidly expiring summer holiday, he had to admit that it had not been a good summer for his family - or even a fair one. No, for the Slytherin born to a life of luxury and command, the summer had been downright rotten. One moment, he had been in his accustomed spot on top of the world. The next, he had started a long slide into the depths of such misery that any escape still seemed a like a bad job.

During those increasingly uncommon moments when he had the time to think - and the inclination to do so - he had to admit that his own lack of discipline bore a fair portion of the blame. That had been especially so the day all Hell had broken loose. That day…. That horrible day, he had been bitterly disappointed after Madam Umbridge had left him in her office with the rest of the Inquisitorial Squad and the Scarhead's captured fan club, whilst she had taken Potter and Granger off to hunt for Dumbledore's supposed weapon….

Soon enough, he had allowed that disappointment to fester and morph into disgust and boredom. In retrospect, he knew it had been weakness - and Malfoys despised weakness.

He had been passing the time in Umbridge's office idly flipping his wand in the air, a bored habit of his well known to his fellow Slytherins. Then he had fumbled his wand….

Disastrously, Sally Capper's attention had been wandering, too, at the same time. She was supposed to restrain that damned Weasley girl, but had not been - at least not enough. At that instant, the Weaselette had slipped away from Capper and attacked him, going for the loose wand. She got to it first. After a few horrendous seconds, it was over. The captive Gryffindors had erupted and completely turned the tables on their captors.

He had caught the worst of it. The Weaselette had hit him with a spell that he had never seen before, and never wished to see again. The laughing Gryffindors made some reference to it as a “Bat Bogey Hex.” The spell had made live bats emerge from his nose - one after another, without stopping. Her hex had been more or less the same concept that had caused the Weaselette's pathetic excuse for a brother to end up belching slugs way back in second year. The Weasel had done that one to himself (inadvertently, of course … he lacked the brains to have figured something like that out), with a wand that had backfired into his own belly.

Live bats had hardly been the worst of it. Once they came out on top, the bloody Gryffindors typically had wasted no time rubbing it in. He and the other Slytherins, male and female alike, had promptly been stripped naked, trussed up together, and left in Umbridge's office surrounded by a thicket of Devil's Snare. The Gryffindors had done everything in their power to prevent the Slytherins' escape, and Potter's crowd had been nothing if not thorough - again, especially the vengeful Weaselette.

Draco and his housemates had remained shut up in Umbridge's office for what seemed like forever. Finally, a shocked house-elf discovered them and must have gone to find their Head of House. At any rate, it had been a sneering Professor Snape who finally released them.

The humiliation of that day was just the beginning of Draco's troubles. As the defeated Slytherins were leaving, Snape had held him back.

“Whilst you were so usefully occupied,” Snape had informed him, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “there was an … incident … at the Ministry.”

“Like I give a damn about what goes on with those nincompoops,” he had shot back.

“Silence!” Snape had commanded. “Your impertinence is exceeded only by your incompetence. You need to know, because your father has been arrested as a result. He has been accused of being … a Death Eater.”

Draco was stunned into incoherence. “But…. Father can't…. He's too careful….”

“I'm afraid not,” Snape had hissed. “He was captured with ten others - all quite well known to the Aurors. And the Dark Lord himself was seen.”

He had not believed his ears. “That's impossible,” he had protested, “It would take more Aurors than the Ministry has….”

“That's so far off, it's not even wrong,” Snape had replied icily. “All it took was Dumbledore - and six measly little Gryffindors - led by Potter - precisely the ones you were supposed to be guarding here at the Castle.” With the word “supposed,” a slight spray of spittle had flown from Snape's mouth onto his cheek.

To Draco it was as if Snape's information had been leaping from one absurdity to another. “What? You mean Potter and his Mudblood bitch escaped Madam Umbridge? Excuse me, sir, but I'm having a hard time believing you. She's more than a match for them … she said so herself.”

“How it happened, I have no earthly idea,” Snape had replied. “No more than I have any idea where the Acting Headmistress might be at the moment. She has not returned to her office, and her whereabouts are unknown…. And given what has happened … you would be well advised to watch your tongue in referring to dear Mister Potter … and his friends. This is going to redound to their benefit - I know it.”

Strangely, and sickeningly, it had all been true. Somehow Potter and his manky Mudblood bint had managed to join up with the rest of the Gryffindors (and that one bizarre Ravenclaw). Together, they must have traveled to the Ministry itself - because that was where the six of them had ended up.

Snape had no idea how, but Potter and his five hangers on had obtained access to the Department of Mysteries. That department was reportedly the most impenetrable part of a supposed fortress of a building.

Snape had no idea how, but Potter and his followers had evidently encountered Father, that most thoroughly mental of aunts, Bella Lestrange, and a number of other Death Eaters deep inside the Department.

Snape had no idea how, but Potter and his sidekicks had managed to escape after what must have been a tremendous fight. The Dark Lord himself had appeared and had duelled with Dumbledore. Snape had described the duel itself as “inconclusive,” but the Dark Lord had been put to flight by the arrival - belated as usual - of Aurors and other Ministry personnel.

Inconclusive? Like Hell it had been inconclusive. The Dark Lord and Lestrange had escaped - but they had been the only ones. The bottom line for the Malfoy family, and the inescapable fact that had guided his own every move from that terrible moment forward, was that the Aurors had captured Father (and ten others). This time their Death Eater affiliation had been undeniable. They had been apprehended in the Ministry itself, and worse had been caught in the presence and on the side of the Dark Lord himself.

Ever since, the Ministry had held Father and the rest at Azkaban pending formal charges. Father, in particular, would be fortunate indeed if he ever experienced freedom again. Always the dutiful son, Draco's task all summer had been to try to enlarge that small sliver of fortune. He was loyal to his family and to his bloodline - that was all that mattered.

Professor Snape had warned him to keep his head down and his nose clean until the furore blew over and things began to sort themselves out. It had not been a request; but rather an order; and he had known it. Snape, however, was not Lucius Malfoy, and Draco had chosen not to obey his Head of House. Snape had many admirable characteristics, but in this matter, that wizard was never fit to raise Father's wand.

Moreover, he simply could not allow Potter to get away with what he had done to a Malfoy. Nobody did that to any Malfoy with impunity.

Thereafter, it seemed that every day's Prophet had brought more awful news. Dumbledore - Potter's biggest fan - had been cleared of all charges and returned as Headmaster of Hogwarts. Unfortunately Umbridge had turned out to be the wrong horse to back. She had ended up a prisoner of a bunch of mangy, half-breed centaurs somewhere in the Forbidden Forest. To add insult to injury, Dumbledore had been the one who freed her from those … animals.

To make matters worse, a squad of Aurors had raided Malfoy Manor - led by, of all people, that simpering, Muggle-loving idiot, Arthur Weasley. The Manor itself, his ancestral home, had been seized by the Ministry and was being held under threat of forfeiture. It had become subject to condemnation and expropriation, since the Aurors found evidence that the Dark Lord himself had once been given shelter within one of the many underground levels beneath the manor house.

One shining light amongst all the blackness had been the death of the mongrel Animagus Sirius Black - but before long even that seeming advantage had turned into its own catastrophe. Contrary to all previously published information, Black had been killed whilst fighting against the Death Eaters, rather than with them….

Then Black's original wand had mysteriously turned up, and his death, too, had abruptly moved from the plus to the minus column. With Black's bloody wand in hand, Dumbledore had publicly claimed that … that criminal … was innocent, and that testing that wand would prove it.

The drumbeat of horrific news continued. Most disgusting of all, the Prophet had begun a seemingly interminable campaign lionising Potter and his gang of Muggle-loving misfits as heroes - how excruciatingly pathetic. Soon the rest of the wizard press picked up on the theme, and after that it had become impossible to escape “Chosen One” Potter's smirking mug festooning the front page of this rag or that.

The only unalloyed piece of good news had been the defection of the Dementors from Azkaban. Even though Dementors were vile, when he had learned of their flocking to the Dark Lord, Draco's heart had risen. Surely, he thought, with his Dementor-augmented power, the Dark Lord would see to it that Father was freed in short order.

No such luck. He - and presumably Father - were still waiting.

That wait - the entire situation - had been infuriating, and had become the hub from which all the spokes of his current troubles radiated. He had heartily despised The Boy Who Lived from the first day they had met. Scarhead had publicly scorned his offer of friendship on the Hogwarts Express at the start of their first year.

Potter had then become Dumbledore's favourite student. After that, he had always seemed to be in the right place, at the right time, with the right number of House Points to wrest, and then keep, the House Cup from Draco's beloved Slytherin. Even more personally galling was that Potter had become the Gryffindor Seeker in his first bloody year. From then on, he had consistently beaten him and his Slytherin squad at Quidditch. Nobody was supposed to beat a Malfoy and get away with it - ever - but that was just what Potter had done, regularly.

At the end of the just completed term, he had angrily confronted Potter. In so many words, he had told his enemy that he would kill him over what Potter had done to Father. Unfortunately, Potter had turned out to be every bit as proficient at Defence as rumoured, and had, once again, gotten the drop on him. Draco knew he had been exceedingly lucky that Professor Snape had stumbled upon their encounter. Otherwise, he thought, Potter might have done something that would have left him wishing for the Bat Bogey Hex, or perhaps, longing to be a bouncing ferret once again.

Draco had tried to pick his spots more carefully after that. Finally, he, Crabbe, and Goyle had caught Potter exactly where they thought they wanted him on the Hogwarts Express. He had been on the verge of doing Potter some real harm when the adjacent compartments opened, and out had flooded a brigade of wrathful Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Somehow - it could not have been in Umbridge's worthless DADA class - they had learned how to duel.

There had been just too many of them for him and his two friends. He remembered nothing about the train ride back after that. Probably that had been just as well; being bested by Hufflepuffs - bleeding Hufflepuffs - was not something he cared to remember.

The end of the train ride had not been the end of Draco's agony - it only marked a new beginning. His family situation had become so muddled that he had not even known where he would be going once he left the Hogwarts Express. The next thing he had remembered was looking down at Mother from atop a luggage rack. He was not sure how he had gotten there, but that was the least of his worries.

Mother had looked positively awful. Her ordinarily impeccably coiffed hair had appeared disheveled, and her expression had been that of someone not entirely sure of who or where she was. Instead of her usual glittering retinue of retainers, Mother had been accompanied by a couple of haggard looking house-elves and a nearly bald, heavyset man with whom he had only the most passing of acquaintances. He thought that the man might have been the overseer of one of the Malfoys' more remote country estates.

Unfortunately, Draco had been right. The man who had helped him down then introduced himself as Llewellyn Tredegar. He had run several Malfoy properties in South Wales since before the Malfoys had even owned them. Tredegar had told him bluntly to “be thankful for” the formerly Black-owned estates that Narcissa Black Malfoy had received as her dowry. These were all that was left - the only Malfoy properties that remained undisturbed by the recent wave of Ministry raids and seizures.

Draco then had learnt to his disgust that he would be spending the summer on the estate on Ramsey Island. All he had known about Oceanix, as the estate was named, was that the place specialised in Thestral breeding. He was soon to learn much more on that subject - far more than he had ever wanted to know.

For one thing, he had been lucky even to see the Thestrals. For all his surreptitious practice in Dark Arts, Draco had never actually had the opportunity to kill anyone. But once he had witnessed a nasty accident involving one of the servants.

From the way this Tredegar person had described it, this Oceanix place sounded like the very end of the earth. With reason, it had been disguised from the Muggles as a nature reserve. In person, it had proven even worse than the description.

He had then spent an initial sullen week wandering over the Oceanix property, casting stones into the foaming sea from atop the stark ten-metre cliffs, and climbing around sea caves in search of poisonous mollusks to use in potions. He had practiced Unforgivable Curses on random small animals, Engorgioed insects or arachnids, and sea birds - all of which he had imagined were Potter. The scion of the House of Malfoy had been home schooled in the Dark Arts, and he thought, schooled quite well.

Oceanix had had a surprisingly well-stocked supply of potion ingredients (even if temporarily short of shellfish toxin), for someplace as far into the back of beyond as it was. He had taken full advantage. Potions had always been his best subject - he had taken the O+ O.W.L., after all - and the only subject of consequence in which he believed he had surpassed the hated Potter. With little else to do, he had practiced his N.E.W.T.-level concoctions. When he had come across some already-stewed lacewings, Draco decided to attempt the Polyjuice Potion. The shortcut had been providential, as that potion ordinarily took weeks longer when started from scratch.

Nevertheless, he had soon been beyond bored. The ramshackle house, whilst not run down, had not been very modern either. The bucolic Oceanix house-elves were possessed of a rather limited set of culinary skills. There had been nothing to do and nobody worthwhile to talk to. Mother, he learnt, had resorted to pretending that she had gone half-way round the twist with depression after Father had been incarcerated. She had been quite frankly scared out of her wits … for her son. The insanity defense had been intended not only to protect her, but him as well.

Like Snape, she had warned him to remain inconspicuous and do nothing that would attract attention - especially the attention of the Dark Lord. Father had failed, she said, and the Dark Lord abhorred failure. With Father under lock and key at the moment, he was out of the Dark Lord's reach. As a result, Mother had been terrified that Lord Voldemort would revenge himself upon her only son, and Lucius' only heir.

Otherwise, Mother had pretended to be unable to carry on a coherent conversation about any important matter. Sometimes he had not even been sure it was an act. Whenever Draco had tried to discuss the family's now serious legal and financial situation, she would fall to pieces and begin weeping. He had hated seeing Mother like this. And slowly, he had begun to hate her as well - for displaying un-Malfoy-like weakness.

Surely, Mother was wrong, he had thought. Father would be out of Azkaban soon and would devise some scheme to save them all from this idiocy of rural life.

The enormity of his changed circumstances could no longer be denied when, on 25 June, 1996, a fortnight after Father's arrest, Draco had received the letter. It had happened just like Father had told him it would - “some day” had come early. An insignificant looking envelope had appeared on his nightstand from nowhere, addressed only to “Balthazar,” his little-used middle name.

Knowing what it had been, but not wanting to believe it, Draco had nevertheless followed the procedure Father had drilled into his head. This was not supposed to be happening. Only last year the Dark Lord had freed his servants from Azkaban. That was what should have been happening again, not this. Evidently Mother had been right - the Dark Lord was wrathful.

Making sure he had been alone and would not be overheard, Draco had cast the pre-arranged spell over the seemingly blank piece of paper in the envelope. The erstwhile invisible ink had shown itself, responding not only to the spell that had been cast, but also to its source in his wand. Just as he had been told it would, the letter contained detailed instructions. He had waited until the next morning, when Mother would be out visiting pureblood society friends in London. Under cover of the ubiquitous, drizzling oceanic fog, he had set out. After following the extremely precise directions, he had found the canister hidden in a hollow tree.

Faithful to Father's instructions, Draco had taken the canister with him and inserted it into a grimy, half water-filled indentation in the stonework on the fence around the main building. A trapdoor had appeared. Marvelling at Father's thoroughness, he had descended into a tunnel that ran beneath the house. Presently, he had arrived at the hidden room promised by the letter. The torches had flared magically as he entered, filling the room with an eerie, bluish light.

The accommodations were comfortable enough, there being an elegant oaken table surrounded by a number of leather-bound chairs. Old books lined the walls. Despite Oceanix's perpetual dampness, there had been only the slightest hint of mildew in the air. Sliding the central leaves of the table apart had revealed another circular indentation. He placed the canister in the recess.

There was a hissing noise, and then a soft “pop” as the top of the canister separated. A smoky mist had emerged, glowing, and Father's diffuse image had soon taken form.

“Draco,” Father's shimmering image had addressed him, “the fact that you are viewing this means that you must become a man - now. Either I am dead or as good as dead. Listen carefully, because I am going to provide you the information you need to become the new patriarch of the Malfoy line … the forty-fourth in a succession that traces itself back to Salazar Slytherin himself….”

To a rapt audience of one, his spectral father figure had then proceeded to provide him with contact information and numbers, communications procedures, vault combinations, access codes, maps, and diagrams. It took well over an hour, but it had been an hour well spent. By its end he had learnt everything he (and Father) thought would be necessary to carry the Malfoy name and fortune forward.

That is - if there were to be any Malfoy name, or especially fortune, left to direct.

Draco's follow-up contacts with the Malfoy family bankers and lawyers revealed a grimmer set of facts than he had ever thought possible. Father's bank accounts had been emptied, he was told in furtive whispers, on orders of the Dark Lord himself. The Ministry had seized Malfoy Manor and all the other landed estates that were either owned in Lucius Malfoy's name or had been subject to his legal control.

At first Draco had only sneered. Father would be freed soon, and he would know how to fix things. He always did - Father had always been the ultimate fixer.

Even if (he shuddered) Father were not to be freed, he had anticipated having to tolerate his presently reduced circumstances for only another half year (most of which would be spent at Hogwarts anyway). Upon attaining his majority, he had fully expected to inherit the even greater wealth of the Black family. He had been raised from infancy secure in the knowledge that the Black inheritance was his birthright and future.

Only now it was not.

And the reason it was not had once again been - Harry Potter.

Sodding, effing Harry Potter, who had just been tipped for the Order of Merlin - in large part for the capture and incarceration of Father and the others. When that had been announced, it had been enough to make him want to set the offices of the Prophet alight.

Draco had been shocked and infuriated beyond words once he learnt how the wheel seemed to be turning. Before the mountebank Sirius Black had died, the quasi-canine had executed a will leaving all his possessions (whatever those might be) to his godson - the one and same Potter. Nobody had given a damn at the time. Black owned nothing of consequence, save a life tenancy in Azkaban.

Then, the Ministry's raids turned up Black's original wand - the one with which he had committed all those crimes that had earned him his richly deserved life sentence. But that had been before Dumbledore had started insisting that Black's wand be tested using Priori Incantatem. Dumbledore had gone through the trouble of locating a brother wand from some godforsaken place on the Continent. With that wand, the Headmaster's wizards could conduct a thorough interrogation of Black's wand well beyond the last spell or two it had performed.

What if the old man turned out to be right and Black's wand proved that he had been innocent? The answer had been so foreign and so earth shattering to Draco, as the rightful heir of the Blacks, that the unfortunate barrister had to explain it three times before he understood all of the implications - and had admitted them to himself.

If Sirius Black were innocent, then Black was not subject to the exclusionary clauses in old man Orion Black's will. Black had never been granted a real trial. Because of that irregularity, the Wizengamot - Dumbledore again - had never formally accepted the conviction.

Dumbledore. He was coming to hate the Headmaster with every bit as much fervor as he hated Potter.

He had been shocked to learn from the Prophet that Father, under Veritaserum, had admitted that Peter Pettigrew - the wizard Black was charged with killing - was still alive.… Not only was he alive, but a Death Eater to boot, and the one who had seen to the Dark Lord's second rising. If Sirius Black were innocent, that meant that Black, not he, had been the first member of a succeeding Black generation to reach wizarding majority after the old man's will without first becoming either a criminal or a Death Eater.

If Sirius Black were not a criminal - he certainly had not been a Death Eater - then that meant Black would be the sole heir and beneficiary to Orion Black's will. The will's provisions operated automatically, so it would be of no moment that Black had never known of his inheritance. That had been the source of the Malfoy barrister's insistence that he sign another round of pleadings in the suit over his inheritance.

Black's innocence, if proven to the satisfaction of the Wizengamot, would mean that the entire Black estate, with its almost inconceivable wealth, would pass to Potter - Merlin-be-damned Potter - under Sirius Black's will.

In short, old Scarhead would be filthy rich, and he, Draco Malfoy, would just be filthy. The magnitude of this debacle had left him totally at sea. He had really needed advice from Father. Even with Mother's warning, he had never fully accepted that the Dark Lord would not act with his accustomed alacrity to free his loyal, if failed, servants.

Such illusion-shattering information had not been what he had expected to learn when he had scheduled that meeting with the family barrister. He had called that meeting only because Madam Umbridge had asked him to testify on her behalf in the Ministry inquiry involving - once again - Potter.

If not for the Potter connection, he would have declined and laid low as Mother and Professor Snape had both urged. Umbridge, after all, had never really been a follower of the Dark Lord, even if she sometimes acted like one. Still, her interests had coincided with those of the House of Malfoy frequently enough that Father had found her uncommonly useful. Father had thus encouraged him to cooperate with her at Hogwarts.

In the end, Umbridge had failed miserably in her attempt to take the Headmaster's job away from Dumbledore. For that reason alone - failure - he had initially not been inclined to involve himself with her legal defence. But once he had learned that the inquiry involved Potter, and that Scarhead would be testifying for the other side.… Well, he had to say yes after that.

Anything to get back at Potter.

During the preparations that followed, the subject of his inheritance had arisen, and he had learnt the awful truth. He had been impotently furious when he left, and had done something that he had never done before. He had gone straight back to Oceanix and got righteously pissed on an unappetising but nevertheless effective combination of Firewhisky and well-aged Muggle cognac (Louis XIII, of course).

That mixture had been pure nectar of antipathy - allowing him to give full vent to exactly what he thought of Potter and everything and everyone associated with him. He had felt so terrifyingly awful that he felt good. Whilst rendering him totally powerless, the elixir had made him feel powerful again. It had been a rare release for him just to yield up control to the demons of the bottle.

Draco had been, unfortunately, unused to being sozzled. He promptly lost his way in the largely unfamiliar house and had fallen down the cellar stairs. That had earned him a nasty cut on the leg for his troubles, courtesy of a jagged edge on an old rusted-through cast iron pipe that some idiot had stored by the basement staircase. It had been most unsanitary, but he had not wanted to advertise his inebriated condition to anyone. He had treated himself with some malodourous antiseptic he had found in the potion ingredients cupboard.

He had retired almost immediately thereafter. Being an inexperienced drunk, he had forgotten to set an alarm. Predictably, he had overslept and almost missed the Umbridge hearing. His head throbbing, and not even having time to shower, he had thrown on his robes, Scourgified himself as best he could, grabbed the satchel containing the notes he had made for his testimony, and Portkeyed to the Ministry.

Unfortunately, Draco found that he had grabbed the wrong satchel. Instead of being able to consult the notes that he had painstakingly assembled with the help of Umbridge's barrister, all he had brought with him to the bloody hearing was some of his latest batch of Polyjuice Potion. It had been a damnable situation. He had not even been able to conduct a last-minute review of his testimony.

Nor had it helped that, just as he had been entering the hearing room, he had encountered old Scarhead himself. The incendiary result had been undoubtedly quite predictable. Draco had initiated an exchange of insults. Potter had responded in kind. He had threatened to kill Potter. His enemy had done something weird and magical - without a wand. Then his barrister had intervened to end the altercation before it became really violent.

Nevertheless, the encounter had left him off balance, and it showed. Having just once again come off second best to the Boy Who Lived, Draco had been preoccupied and injudicious. As a result, his testimony had not been nearly as persuasive as could have been the case.

He had remembered the basic story line well enough, testifying that Umbridge's seemingly incriminating statements about Dementors and her going through the motions of performing the Cruciatus Curse were all a ruse to force information from reluctant student miscreants. Unfortunately, he had no real answer to offer to the question of how anyone could have anticipated that the lot of them would be captured at all, as the actions of Potter's Peanut Gallery had been spur of the moment. So Draco had filibustered - inartfully as he had readily admitted afterwards. Fortunately he had been able to avoid total disaster by invoking his pureblood rights to avoid testifying under oath. Still, he was not at all sure if he had sounded very believable….

Spite had been involved as well. He had learned from the posted schedule of witnesses that not only Potter, but the Mudblood as well, were to testify. Thus, he had expanded his testimony to include all of the salacious and unverifiable statements about the two Gryffindors that he had read in the last set of legal papers that he had signed in connection with the Black will contest. If those two were going to oppose him, he had decided, he would make it as unpleasant as possible by going out of his way to slime them both.

After his testimony had been completed, Draco had left for the Atrium in order to use one of the Floos to return to Oceanix. On his way out, however, he had noticed not one, not two, but three Weasleys. Speculating that they must have been waiting for Potter, he had gotten an idea. He could put that Polyjuice Potion to use….

It had turned out to be a capital idea, even though he had been considerably less than keen to appear in public bearing the likeness of Llewellyn Tredegar. Other than almost getting bowled over by either Fred or George Weasley (as always, it was too much bother to tell them apart), Draco had been able to spy on Potter with ridiculous ease. Whilst he had no use for either of the Weasley Twins, he had to admit that some of the products they sold were dead useful.

Most of all, he had been startled to hear Potter inveigle the pretty blonde court reporter to violate her oath of confidentiality regarding the will contest. That had not been the saintly Potter of the press clippings that Draco knew and loathed, but rather someone altogether more dangerous. It must have been the aphrodisiac effect of great wealth - something he had himself exploited for quite some time as need (and opportunity) would have it.

Still, he had thought that this information, properly husbanded and timely used, might prove a valuable legal weapon. Perhaps the advocates would be able to use it as evidence that Scarhead was corrupting the proceedings. Perhaps the barristers could convince the magistrate, or failing that a majority of the Wizengamot, that Potter was not a fit candidate for the Black inheritance after all.

Slightly less than a week later, with Father still languishing in prison, Draco finally managed to execute a ruse that brought him to the grounds of Malfoy Manor without anyone knowing where he was. Even better, he had bought himself enough time to put to good use some of the information Father's image had provided him. It helped that Mother, as she kept playing her mental act, had been unable to pay much attention to his whereabouts. Detesting the weakness inherent in her ruse, he had hardly cared. He had been finding his comfort in Black Pearl cognac and Firewhisky….

Secretly landing the Thestral he had “borrowed” from the Oceanix stables, Draco tethered it close to a Muggle town. Swallowing his pride, he had then stolen a Muggle bicycle. With his Seeker's balance, and minimal magical assistance, it had not been difficult for him to master the contraption. Thus, his visit to the home of his ancestors had begun in a fashion he would not have dreamed possible before this summer - Muggle style.

He had been relieved, but not necessarily surprised, when he saw no Auror's maroon in evidence at Malfoy Manor. He had used a simple spell to propel a rock that activated the wards. When he had confirmed that the only responders were paunchy, middle-aged wizards wearing the crest of the Escheats Office, Draco knew he was home free. From visits to Blackwalls with Father, he had known for quite some time that the Escheats blokes were a bunch of duffers if ever there were any. Typically, their response was neither very vigorous nor very vigilant. They had never even figured out anyone was still there, even though he had left the bike in plain sight whilst taking refuge under the Invisibility Cloak that Father had just bequeathed to him. Those Ministry dullards probably did not even know what a bicycle was.

Leaving the roadway well north of the Manor, he had backtracked on foot. Travelling south across land, he had located without difficulty the stream marked on the hand-sketched map that he had found with Father's instructions. The next several hundred metres had been rather boggy. He had congratulated himself on his foresight in having brought along a sturdy pair of Wellies from Oceanix.

Topping a beech-covered rise, he had heard his objective before seeing it - the unmistakable gurgling hiss of a waterfall where the fairly small stream he was following went over a relatively small cliff. The rocks near the falls had been moss-covered and treacherous, but Father's notes had warned him not to use any magic whatever, to avoid tripping the protective wards.

Portable handholds had abounded. He had cursed under his breath each time he slipped and slid, but persevered because the family name had been at stake. After what might have been the longest fifteen minutes of his life, Draco had finally picked his way over the mossy pile of scree to the back of the falls.

Although the slimy moss had greatly complicated his passage, it had also dispelled his greatest worry. The moss had been cool, lush - and delicate. Dark brown slashes marred the emerald carpet where his footsteps had just fallen. That no similar signs of human presence had preceded his passage gave him confidence that nobody else had recently passed this way. The fool Weasley's raiding Aurors had missed this hidden back entrance, just as Father had anticipated.

Draco had only needed to feel along the rocky, damp cliff face for a few moments. The indentation had been exactly where Father's message directed him. Using one hand to block stray rivulets of falling water with the Invisibility Cloak, he had carefully removed the canister from his robes and inserted it. That done, he next inserted the key that Father had instructed him to use. Almost immediately the cliff emitted a brief scraping noise. Then an irregularly shaped entrance to a roughhewn passageway had appeared, as if from nowhere.

Continuing to follow Father's instructions to the letter, Draco had inserted his wand into what he understood was a recognition chamber inside the door. For an instant he had feared a trap, as a blue light flashed and hit him flush in the chest. The light had quickly vanished, however, and he had seemed none the worse for wear. Only later had he deduced that, at the moment of the flash, he had become the master of the Manor. Thereafter, all of Malfoy Manor's various wards and other protective spells responded to his command.

Torches had flared automatically in their sconces as he cautiously made his way along the narrow underground tunnel for the first time. Whilst Draco had always known instinctively that such places existed below the Manor, he had never been there before. Father had kept many secrets, even from him. He had overheard bits of hushed conversation from time to time - maybe this was the place where Father had given shelter to the Dark Lord himself….

There were cobwebs in this place. Draco elongated his wand to serve as a spider stick. The torches also automatically extinguished themselves as he passed, which had given him the jitters. In front of him the tunnel had trailed off into the gloom. Behind him it did the same. At any point the unseen magic controlling the torches could have plunged him into darkness more profound than the blackest night. Draco's nagging disquiet at not even being in control of his small oasis of luminosity was magnified by his lack of foresight. His wandtip was tiny; he had not remembered to bring his own torch; and he dared not risk the possible consequences of attempting to remove one of those provided from its sconce.

Darkness ahead and darkness behind - if he had been of philosophical bent, Draco might have appreciated in this situation a metaphor for his life.

He had not been in any mood to be philosophical, however. He had been hoping against hope that he would find at least some of the Malfoy Manor complex untouched by Aurors and other Muggle-loving filth. In this, he had indeed been in luck.

After what had seemed like forever, the dreary tunnel had opened up into a series of equally dreary, but at least more capacious, rooms. There, Draco had discovered Father's secret stores - supplies and booty accumulated through decades of service to the Dark Lord. There had been a complete potions laboratory, an extensive library devoted to the Dark Arts, and a variety of potentially useful magical objects. There was even a quartermaster's collection of Ministry-issue equipment, no doubt pilfered from the Auror Corps and other Ministry security units infiltrated by Death Eaters.

On that first visit, Draco had conducted himself most carefully until locating “the Guests,” as Father's image had euphemistically called them. He had found the two Dementors securely caged behind magically charmed steel bars. Fortunately, the amulets necessary to control them had been left plainly visible on a nearby (but not too nearby) table.

Father had been evasive, even with him, but he understood that the “Guests” had been in residence for almost a year. The Ministry had employed them, but after some sort of altercation, they had needed refuge. Father had provided it - in his own inimitable fashion - by confining them to a cell so magically powerful that even Dementors could not escape. Apparently these two Dementors had broken Azkaban discipline, and were guilty some sort of unauthorised attack. Although such attacks were ordinarily considered unpardonable, these Dementors must have had highly placed protectors in the Ministry. Father had agreed to house them as some sort of favour. He had always been the ultimate fixer.

Still, the Dementors had required feeding. From a ledger on the table, Draco learnt that once every two weeks the house-elves had been required to venture out and kidnap a couple of randomly chosen Muggles from randomly selected locations - usually near public houses. Draco supposed that the magical manacles hanging from the bars of the Dementors' cage were to hold these victims whilst the Dementors fed. After a couple of harrowing days having their happiness systematically drained from them, the Muggles would be released at some far removed location.

Draco had sneered at the thought of how those ignorant Muggles must have made up rumours of alien abductions in a pathetic attempt to explain what had happened to them. Still, he had been only too pleased to arrive when there were no Muggle prisoners on premises. Next time, however, he had vowed he would be prepared.

He had also quickly determined that the Ministry incompetents had never discovered Father's most inner sanctum, his Death Eater hall. An inscription had confirmed that the Dark Lord himself had supervised its construction two years ago, whilst a guest (much better treated than the Dementors) at the Manor. This hall still contained enough Death Eater equipment to outfit a full squad of Dark wizards, a gathering place, and various Death Eater apparatus.

Also in place was the communications hub of the once vast spy organisation that Father had supervised.

`That's all in the past now,' Draco had thought whilst passing by unused magical communication equipment already beginning to collect dust. With this equipment Father had operated the most extensive espionage network that the Dark Lord had ever commanded. Spies, like most people, were fair-weather friends. With the Dark Lord's defeat at the Ministry and Father's capture, Draco had fully expected that all of the spies who had once been so willing to back a winning side would now be avoiding their erstwhile Death Eater connections like the plague.

Thus, the last thing that he had expected to find was an obviously recent covert communication lying unopened in one of the receptacles. Curiously he had lifted the plain black envelope - which had spontaneously opened at his touch. Draco pulled out two pieces of enchanted parchment.

By such coincidence, lives would unalterably be changed.

Draco had found himself staring at a letter about Potter. Some witch (it was a woman's handwriting) was reporting that a “transcriptionist” in her section was gossiping about possibly “having an affair” with Scarhead. The spy was awaiting instructions on how to proceed. Should she encourage this witch to continue? It had all the makings of a scandal - not Profumo/Keeler of course, but something that might knock Potter at least partway off his bloody pedestal.

He had almost burned the letter in frustration. It had been just his luck that the one secret this spy would have stumbled upon was the one secret Draco already knew - she had obviously been in contact with the same court reporter that he had himself overheard talking to Potter some days previous.

Still, the irony had been exquisite. So, Scarhead was two-timing the Mudblood? Enviously, he had cursed the golden boy with feet of clay. None of the Slytherin girls he had relied upon for physical release (he hardly even thought of it as “pleasure” anymore) had given Draco the time of day since his family's recent eclipse. Nothing was more fickle than a female's attentions … especially a Slytherin female's.

But, goody-two-shoes Potter had evidently been able to get all that he wanted….

Still, being curious in a voyeuristic sort of fashion, Draco had looked up “Correspondent Number 64” in the master directory of the Dark Lord's confidential informers. Lucinda Trucipp…. Middle-aged witch, about 65-70.… Had been a spy for about five years.… Worked as a supervisor in a Wizengamot office that provided verbatim transcripts of testimony….

Draco was most amused. Father had kept this Trucipp woman operational largely because she had provided useful inside information about the Black will contest. She had never produced any information of significant import to the Dark Lord…. Trucipp had become a spy for ideological rather than financial or extortionate motives because she thought the Minister's people were ill disciplined.… She had been reliable, if somewhat slow and poorly situated….

At the time, Draco, too, had been thinking of nothing more than the inheritance contest. He promptly provided Correspondent 64 with instructions to encourage her unknowing friend to become romantically involved with Potter - in the strongest terms that would not evoke suspicion. He had hoped he could generate a scandal that might undercut Potter's attempt to steal the Black inheritance from him. Little had he realised on that first day where it all would lead….

Over the succeeding weeks, Draco had visited the unoccupied portions of Malfoy Manor as often as possible. Once the Manor and its servants recognised him as master, access was much easier. It had turned out that there was even a well-hidden entrance for Thestral riders. For his part, Tredegar had been all too happy to oblige his absences, as long as he was bribed with sufficient samples from the Manor's wine cellar.

Even though his excursions had been limited to dreary, underground dungeons, Malfoy Manor, to him, was nevertheless his real home. Draco instructed the house-elves - now his slaves, and absolutely loyal to him - to spy on the Ministry drones who were ostensibly in charge of the rest of the property. He bided his time, hoping that the Dark Lord would free Father. The ever-shrinking contents of Father's liquor cabinet had helped him with the wait.

The next weekend, he had finally managed to see Father, if only for a few minutes. The solicitors had received a notice setting Father's trial for 28 August. They had been authorised to visit him to try to plan a defence. Ever the dutiful son, Draco insisted on tagging along, even though there had been no assurance he - as a mere relative - would be allowed any face time by the Aurors who had assumed guard duties after the defection of most of the Dementors.

Ultimately, he had been permitted the grand total of five minutes alone with Father. The older man had looked awful - pale, disheveled, dirty, and dressed in little better than rags. Gone from Father's face had been the perpetual half smirk, which had been replaced with enough lines for him to have aged ten years for every week he had spent in Azkaban. Gone as well was Father's commanding, purposeful gait. Instead, he had shuffled uncertainly from place to place.

Even though there were no longer any Dementor guards, Father had not seemed to be mentally all in one place. Draco feared that Father was likely to get barmier before he got better. There had been persistent articles in the Prophet that Azkaban would be turned over to the goblins to operate. Once again, it had seemed to have something to do with Potter.

The father/son conversation had been extremely indirect and elliptical because of the certainty that outsiders were listening in. Draco managed to convey that he had received and followed his instructions and reclaimed at least some part of the Manor. That had prompted the only smile that crossed Father's face the entire visit. No matter what was going to happen, the torch had been passed successfully to a new generation.

Even more elliptically, Draco also managed to convey to Father his hope that “last year's history would repeat.” That statement had prompted Father's ominous reply that, “Sometimes failure is not an option.” He had not been sure what Father had meant. He had chosen to view it as a warning that no rescue should be attempted on his behalf unless it had a certainty of success. He had shuddered - did Father think he had come as an emissary of the Dark Lord? Was he supposed to be?

The next day, everything had changed. Draco received an unexpected owl from Ted Nott, strongly suggesting that they meet to discuss “matters of mutual interest.” He had always been cool to Nott, even though they were both in the same year at Slytherin House and both had parents who served the Dark Lord. He had resented Nott because the other boy was more clever and apparently, better informed. Nott undoubtedly resented the superior social position enjoyed by the Malfoys.

Nott had always been something of a loner. For a Slytherin, he was not particularly well off. His mother had died of her own hand. Only once before had Draco ever had more than a casual natter with Nott, that being when Nott's father had him in tow during a trip to the Manor to discuss Death Eater business with Father.

Then, he and Nott had played “can you top this” with their grievances against the Muggle-loving fool Dumbledore. They also speculated about Potter - how Scarhead kept managing to cheat death at the hands of their fathers' mutual Master. They both wondered why the Dark Lord had given a tinker's damn about Potter in the first place.

Beyond that, they had always gone their own separate ways. Draco had always been the Quidditch playing social lion of Slytherin. Nott, by contrast, had been the rather bookish outsider who nevertheless was not one to be trifled with. Moose Montague had learnt this the hard way when Nott once caught him soiling his duvet with Bubotuber Pus as some sort of prank. Nott retaliated with some spell that resulted in Montague swallowing the stuff. Montague had spent almost two weeks in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing.

Nobody had bothered Nott after that.

Still wanting to maintain a modicum of social leverage over Nott, Draco arranged to meet him the very next day by the stile at the end of the lane that left Hogsmeade opposite from Hogwarts Castle. The area was relatively wild and deserted, particularly when the school was on holiday. His short notice response to Nott meant that their meeting had more the feel of a Malfoy summons than of a mutually agreed event. That had been his intent.

Nevertheless, Nott had been there at the appointed time, affecting his usual nonchalant attitude. Draco handed the other boy one of the special Portkeys from Father's storeroom. With a jerk and flash of colours, the two Slytherins had been transported to a safe location not far from Malfoy Manor.

The sudden Portkey did indeed make an impact on Nott. Inwardly he had been pleased that his preparations to overawe the other boy seemed to be working.

Draco then had produced two Invisibility Cloaks - another ostentatious show of wealth given their rarity - and he had shepherded Nott through one of the secret entryways to what he considered the “liberated” part of the Manor. Stopping at the very first underground room they had passed, which was well removed from the most important part of the catacombs, he had motioned Nott in an offhanded, but nevertheless imperious, fashion to take a seat and explain his business.

Draco had also offered a bottle, but Nott had waved it off, saying that he could not afford to dull his faculties. Nott had willing to accept sweets, however.

He would never forget the conversation with Nott that followed as long as he lived.

“As you can see, I still have access to part of the Manor, despite the worst that the Ministry can do,” Draco had begun. “Now, to what do I owe the pleasure of your request for an audience?”

“Believe it, this is no pleasure trip,” Nott had retorted. “I'm here because, like it or not, we're both in the same boat. You're nothing if not resourceful,” the boy had continued as he unwrapped one of the Chocolate Frogs provided by one of the Malfoy house-elves, “so I'm wondering what you have in mind to spring your father from Azkaban?”

Draco had been taken aback, and had tried to maintain a relaxed expression whilst popping a chocoball. “Well,” he drawled, “for now I'm leaving things to the Dark Lord. I rather suspect that he has more resources than either of us.”

“You'll be waiting for quite some time, I'm afraid,” Nott had sneered, not at all respectful of their parents' Master. “The trial date's been set. Your father and mine could very well both end up kissed, what with the public mood like it is.”

Draco stiffened at this, and his ears had begun going red. “The Dark Lord wouldn't stand for that. Father is too important to his operation. An escape will be even easier than last year, with almost all the Dementors gone….”

“What makes you think the Dark Lord even gives a damn?” Nott had asked archly.

“What makes you think the he doesn't?” He had shot back.

Like he had been waiting in the weeds all along, Nott pounced on that flippant remark. “My father at least told me something of what was going on,” he had taunted. “Unlike you, I see…. That whole Ministry thing…. It was your father's bright idea. There was some prophecy the Dark Lord wanted. Apparently only Potter could get it. Your father dreamed up some trap. But it didn't work. The Dark Lord was publicly humiliated by Dumbledore, Potter and Potter's merry little band. The Dark Lord doesn't like failure. I think he's ready to let them all rot - or worse.”

Draco had remembered Father's last words to him. Then it had all started making sense. He had been shaken, but tried to keep up his brave front. “Well, I don't think so.…”

Nott had jumped down his throat again, whilst fumbling with another Chocolate Frog. “You're a bloody Slytherin. So am I. At bottom we're supposed to trust nobody. At least you should have a Plan B when the Dark Lord lets us all down in order to exact his own punishment from our fathers.”

“You can't pressure the Dark Lord,” Draco responded, thinking of the unquestioning obedience that Father had always told him Lord Voldemort demanded. “He'd kill us without a moment's hesitation.”

“True,” Nott reluctantly concurred. “But we need to find something to convince him to act; otherwise, I doubt we'll ever see our fathers again.” Nott had clutched futilely after the escaping Chocolate Frog that had started hopping away with its card still attached to its back.

Draco deftly skewered the wayward frog with his wand. “Agreed,” he had muttered sloppily as he bit the head off of Nott's frog whilst stripping away the card. “But what…? Oh bloody Hell….”

Nott watched Draco's face purple with fury. “What's got into…?” Nott had gone silent once Draco had flung the Chocolate Frog card at him. Nott had snatched it from midair, and almost choked at the sight of Potter's picture on it. “We can't get away from that blighter, can we?” Nott had grumbled.

Draco had sighed, thought a bit, but then his eyes had narrowed. “Actually, there is something the Dark Lord wants badly enough that we might gain some bargaining leverage,” he said, gesturing at the card, “…and I think I know a little something that even Scarhead's own people don't….”

And thus the plot - which came to be known as “the Potterless Conspiracy” by its participants - had been born. The plot had given Draco back his focus. He had not touched anything alkie after that.

It began as a more-or-less idle Plan B, as Draco had retained more faith in the Dark Lord than had Nott. But at least the plotting had been something useful to be getting on with. It had certainly been better than sitting around, getting plastered, and doing nothing.

His thick-skulled sidekicks, Gregory Goyle and Vincent Crabbe, had been enlisted without trouble. By desolate coincidence, it transpired that Crabbe's father was another of the Death Eaters who had fallen victim to Potter's bloody Marauders. The struggle to keep a roof over the Crabbe family's head had consumed every bit of his mother's time and every fragment of her attention. Crabbe had been on his own and at loose ends. He was an easy recruit.

Goyle had been little better off. His father was also a Death Eater, and after the disaster at the Ministry, dear old dad had been away almost constantly in the Dark Lord's service. What was worse (or better, from a Malfoy perspective), Goyle's parents had told him that he had to get a job - either that or stand in a Muggle dole line.

Providentially, Crabbe and Goyle had nothing to look forward to besides becoming last ditchers for the Dark Lord. They had both received negative O.W.L.s - meaning that they had failed more examinations than they had passed. Negative O.W.L.s meant that they had flunked out of Hogwarts. They were not going to be back to school. Thus they had been facing bleak and uncertain futures, and had been more than willing to let themselves be led by Draco Malfoy … and Ted Nott.

Draco had quickly requested and received information about Eliza Marie Brookings' whereabouts from Lucinda Trucipp. He had been appalled (but not entirely surprised) to learn that she had “gone native” and was living as a Muggle in a Muggle neighbourhood in London. If possible, he thought even less of Potter for shagging an apostate witch.

Nevertheless, Scarhead had been in the position to pick the playing field, so he and Nott had no choice but to prepare to play on hostile turf. They had caught a lucky break when the flat immediately below Brookings' had gone vacant. Nott had quickly arranged for Crabbe and Goyle to let that flat and live there as Muggles. For once, the two had played their role perfectly - not that difficult because that role had been to act like a pair of clueless and anonymous Muggle lunkheads - and to stay out of Potter's way.

It had been Nott's idea for the two of them to blast a Muggle stereo at top volume until that Brookings girl finally became sufficiently upset to confront them. It had been quite a risk in retrospect. If she had sent Potter, he would have recognized the pair of Slytherin drop outs immediately. Fortunately, she had come herself, and Crabbe and Goyle had gone properly apologetic. Shortly thereafter they feigned contrition, and had offered to help Brookings move a new sound system into her flat. Whilst inside, Crabbe and Goyle had been able to hide a number of Ministry spy marbles - another something useful he had found in Father's stash of stolen Auror equipment. Even they could fool that half-Muggle slag.

After that, the plotters had been able to keep Eliza Brookings under constant surveillance whenever she was in her flat.

Draco still had access to some money from several relatively small (to him, anyway) trust funds left by other Malfoy ancestors. Also, with Mother continuing to play her divorced-from-reality shtick, it had fallen to him to handle her accounts. Some of those funds had stuck to his fingers as well.

Whilst he had remained personally well away from the goblins, he had funnelled the necessary funds to Crabbe and Goyle. They converted Galleons to pounds to pay the rent. Draco had also provided them with enough money that, to their harried parents, it had appeared that they had found gainful employment. With their parents fooled into thinking that they had steady employment, Crabbe and Goyle had instead been at Draco's constant beck and call.

The “Potterless Conspiracy” slowly crystallised from idle musings into a real plan of action. Draco brewed a constant supply of Polyjuice Potion, and Nott obtained hairs from random wizards. Thus disguised, Nott had devoted his time to shadowing Scarhead - always from a sufficient distance to avoid stirring the suspicions of Potter's handlers.

Through Nott, Draco had gained familiarity not only with Potter's routines, but also with persistent and disturbing rumours that Scarhead actually possessed some sort of tremendous, but uncontrollable power. At first he had dismissed such rumblings, telling Nott that his family lawyers had fabricated those rumours as a legal tactic in the Black litigation.

But what Nott had been hearing was more recent. He learnt that there were whispers about various accidents Potter had had during his training - training for what? Draco wondered. He had cared little about the nature of the Fifth Element allegations that had appeared in the briefs his lawyers had filed, but these new rumours had been from a different source, and they warranted extreme caution.

It was at about this time that Draco had successfully solicited the involvement of the mysterious person whom he would only describe as “The Contact” to his small band of plotters.

For good and weighty personal reasons, the Contact had wanted Scarhead out of the way - and rather quickly. The Contact was willing and able to help him with what the two of them referred to as “diversions” and “alibis.” Crabbe and Goyle hardly mattered. They had become latchkey children - and Hogwarts dropouts as well. Nobody would care about them. But Nott and Draco had other plans, and they had needed alibis to make those plans work.

Nott's alibi was going to be that he had joined the Death Eaters in honour of his father. He was not keen on returning to Hogwarts as almost an orphan. He had already had enough of being looked down upon by other Slytherins. If the Potterless Conspiracy failed, Nott was planning to try his hand as a Death Eater for real - if the Dark Lord would still have him.

Draco, on the other hand, had hatched the more elabourate excuse that he was transferring to Durmstrang. Mother was tricked into signing a letter to Hogwarts, addressed to Professor Snape, stating that he had withdrawn and would be seeking education elsewhere. Ever the scion of the House of Malfoy, this alibi had meant that he could hedge his bets - as long as the Contact could carry off the promised cover story and fake his presence at Durmstrang.

Draco's hopes that the Dark Lord would make all of his preparations unnecessary briefly surged when word came of widespread Death Eater attacks. Those hopes plunged back to Earth, however, after it had become apparent that the Dark Lord had contented himself with attacking Scarhead's friends and their families. He had not lifted a finger to redeem his followers imprisoned in Azkaban. After these events, Draco had finally reconciled himself to the fact that the Dark Lord was not bloody likely to play deus ex machina to his current problems. He and Nott were on their own.

That realisation had been the moment when, for Draco, the plot had become truly real, and was no longer just an elaborate charade.

Plot or no plot, everything else quickly went from bad to worse. Some of the goblins - and some very highly placed ones at that - were evidently working hand and glove with Potter. Like a bolt from the blue, Mother had received a threatening legal letter from some bloody bob-ear named Bladvak. That goblin was claiming that there were financial irregularities between Father's accounts and certain captive accounts of the Black Estate.

He had taken the dunning letter to the family solicitor. The solicitor did some checking, and as usually happens when lawyers get involved, things had turned out to be even worse than Draco had anticipated. During the many years that Draco's accession to the Black fortune had seemed assured, Father had “borrowed” considerable sums from various accounts of the estate - borrowings frequently followed in short order by the payments to Minister Fudge and others whose identities had recently been revealed in the Prophet.

Now, the goblins had relieved the Black Estate's most malleable bookkeeper, and were undertaking their own audit of the Black Estate's books on behalf of another serious claimant - Harry fracking Potter. Worse, they were demanding that these outstanding “loans” be satisfied. The goblins referenced some formal-sounding legal papers Father had executed in order to facilitate his son's claim to the Black fortune. The bob-ears were threatening to put lis pendens liens on Malfoy Manor.

Could they even do that? Draco's impression that the goblins were precluded from pursuing creditors' actions against pure-blood property turned out to be woefully inaccurate. The lawyers had to warn him that, whilst goblins could not act on their own behalf, they could institute proceedings on behalf of a wizard. Here, the Goblins could seek foreclosure against Malfoy Manor in Scarhead's name.

The thought of Potter as legal owner of Malfoy Manor was unthinkable, but there was no money anywhere that Draco could lay hands on that would be enough to pacify the damned goblins. Not only were the sums claimed to be owning larger than anything Draco owned personally, but the goblins' demands also constituted a considerable percentage of Mother's entire dowry.

One more reason that Potter had to be eliminated - and soon.

The Contact was also pushing for action. Draco had gone back and forth with the Contact about the Contact's demand to see words converted into action by a date certain. The Contact had promised not only to provide him with an airtight personal alibi, but also to provide a diversion the likes of which would keep both wizard and Muggle authorities busy whilst the deed was done. In return, however, the Contact had wanted action.

Finally, the Contact had simply set a deadline: 21 August. Either the plot was to be carried out by that date, or the Contact would cease all involvement in the Potterless Conspiracy. For good measure, the Contact had threatened to Obliviate the lot of them.

Draco wanted to beat that deadline, for a variety of reasons. Scarhead's relationship with that Brookings woman was one fly in the ointment. Partially from surveillance - but even more from the now regular pouch that he was getting from Lucinda Trucipp - he had reason to question the permanence of Potter's little love affair. On the one hand, Brookings was now wearing an expensive locket with Potter's picture in it. On the other hand, things were not progressing as she wanted. Trucipp had bewitched a mini-Wizard's Wireless to record her conversations with Brookings and had sent Draco weekly Quick Quotes Quills that scratched out those conversations verbatim. He sneered at the thought, but all the signs pointed to Potter having a case of size 15 cold feet.

Then the pouches stopped coming. Trucipp informed him that Brookings had abruptly quit her job. It had everything to do with Potter, she said. He was worried. That Brookings woman could just as easily decide to find a new residence as a new job. If Potter ever got over his cold feet - a little love nest would be just the thing. This was yet another reason that he had to act.

Thus, everything had flowed together. On the evening of 14 August, 1996, Draco found himself pacing back and forth in Crabbe and Goyle's monotonous, minuscule Muggle flat making last-minute preparations. The moment of truth was less than an hour away. Potter was expected at 7:30, according to intercepted mobile calls. Over their heads, the magical apostate woman was inanely puttering about, getting ready for Scarhead.

He checked to ensure that Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle - in addition to himself - had their hand mirror communicators in working order. The four Slytherins would be in constant and immediate contact to ensure precise timing. Draco, of course, was the only one who would speak to the Contact - he always was.

It was time to ensure that they would be able to strike when Potter was least expecting it. This aspect of the Potterless Conspiracy was straight out of standard Death Eater tactics. As ready as he would ever be, Draco summoned the new stepladder he had bought with him to complement his disguise as a Muggle painter - in which he had been able to gain entrance to the building. He cursed as he futilely tried to set up the damned Muggle device. Nott waved him off and expertly unfolded the ladder.

Draco ascended the ladder. From a pocket of his robes he produced one of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' most useful products - a Portable Hole. Kneading it impatiently, he enlarged its diameter to about half a metre across. Nott was carefully listening to the hidden marble-sized microphones in the flat above. He gave the signal.

Quickly, Draco affixed the Portable Hole to the ceiling. Standing on the highest step of the ladder, he pushed his head and shoulders through the hole into Eliza Brookings' flat one storey up.

Her back was turned - just as he had hoped. He pulled out his wand and aimed. “Imperio,” he whispered.

The blonde apostate witch stopped in her tracks and dropped the mini-Hoover she had been using. He recognised a dustbuster from one of the Muggle adverts near the Ministry. `Pathetic bitch,' he thought. Under the Death Eater philosophy in which Draco had been steeped since infancy, the only thing worse than a Mudblood was an apostate. `Gone completely over to the Muggles.… The Dark Lord would not suffer this one…,' he thought maliciously.

Draco wanted everything over with as quickly as possible. He gave the command that, under the Imperius Curse, Potter's latest abomination would be powerless to resist, “You will seduce Harry Potter tonight, by any means necessary.”

His spell complete, Draco quickly removed the Portable Hole, descended the ladder, and took two deep, calming breaths. He ladled out Polyjuice Potion from the paint can he had carried. He ended the spell cast on his long-handled paint roller. It Retransfigured into his broom.

Pulling on the Death Eater robes and mask that he had “borrowed” from Father's collection, Draco commanded, “Everyone to his positions.”

Covering himself with an Invisibility Cloak, he mounted his Nimbus 2001 and flew out of the window.

It was now or never. Potter was about to get his.

* * * *

The moment she opened the door, Eliza sensed that something was very, very wrong with Harry. It was nothing he said. Talk was not necessary to make his feelings obvious - and in fact he did not. As he wordlessly entered her flat, waves of magical agony cascaded off of him in all directions. She had never seen, or felt, anyone as tense as the love of her life was at that moment.

“Harry, what is it?” she asked nervously. “You're very late…. It's not like you….”

He did not answer, unless one counted a guttural sound halfway between a grunt and a squeal.

“Are you all right….? Did something … something happen…? Oh God … not more attacks.”

Harry just looked at her sadly, whilst shaking his head slightly - indicating, at least, that he heard and had not been attacked - not by Death Eaters, anyway. He took a couple of steps forward, clearing the door enough so that she could close it, which she quickly did.

“There's … there's … something going on that's … that's not right,” she twittered anxiously. “Let's get you seated so you can … well, sit down, anyway.”

Ignoring a growing sensation of unease, she slipped her hand into his and slowly guided him to the davenport. To get him just to sit down, she had to lean on him, gently but firmly. For a moment, he resisted, but then Harry collapsed onto the cushions with a loud sigh. Once seated, he stared morosely into space, looking out the window to where the lights of Central London were beginning to blink on in the gathering gloom.

Gathering gloom was precisely how he felt … and he had been gathering plenty.

Eliza slid as close to Harry as she dared, and starting massaging his back. Wordlessly, she kneaded his tightened trapezius and stroked his densely drawn deltoids. Five minutes passed…. Then ten…. Then a quarter hour. Despite her several attempts to initiate conversation, he had yet to speak anything more than a groan or two. But slowly, ever so slowly, she could feel him start to relax.

All this hands-on with Harry was starting to arouse Eliza - it was involuntary, he just did that to her - but real, nonetheless.

“Harry,” she whispered. “What ever happened? Please talk to me.”

“I…. I can't.… Not right now,” he choked out.

Eliza exhaled. This was not what she expected. She had to get through to him - to stop Harry from torturing himself over whatever was bothering him. She snuggled a little closer and moved her hands down to his waist, all the while trying to recall the therapeutic massage techniques she had learned in that Hogwarts Basic Healing class all those years ago.

She leaned in and kissed his cheek, whispering “I love you Harry. I just need to know how I can help….”

She squealed, half in pain and half in surprise, as he brusquely elbowed her away.

“Harry!” she cried out, completely taken aback.

He looked at her, his face set in an imperturbable, and rather frightening, mask. In response, shock and surprise became etched on Eliza's face. Tears of hurt glistened in the corners of her eyes.

Harry realised at once that he was doing it again. He was driving away someone who genuinely wanted to be with him - someone who actually loved him. It was hardly her fault that he loved … had been in love with, someone else. His whole life had been one long, drawn-out exercise in emotional futility. Not knowing anything else, he was showing her the same gnawing ache that he felt deep inside.

Harry reached his breaking point at the thought of what he had done to Hermione and how, just hours apart, he was now repeating history with Eliza. The mask he wore tottered, crumbled, and finally fell. He started sobbing - not just sniffles, but great wracking wails of despair that echoed across his innermost core of emptiness - howls that reverberated from a hole torn in his very soul.

Stunned by his frank display of emotional desolation, Eliza found it impossible to stay angry with him or frightened of him - even if he had been physically aggressive towards her. He was not, after all, the first guy who had struck her in anger. There was that dolt of a boyfriend that she had ditched almost two years ago. Otherwise, though, he had been as different from Harry as chalk and cheese. Good in bed, but ultimately a druggie with hardly a pence to his name, and in the end hardly a thought in his brain.

She caught herself after zoning out for a moment, then her hand came to her mouth. Now, that was an idea….

Harry was still crying bitter tears. Eliza tentatively reached out, and when he did not resist, she embraced him. He did not push her away this time. Emboldened, she pulled him closer to her, until she could feel the wet from his tears penetrate the fabric of her jumper. He still did not resist, and did not seem at all inclined to lash out at her again. She cooed his name over and over again, cradling him, stroking the hair on the back of his head. As Harry's sobs lessened into whimpers and sniffles, she lifted his face to hers, and kissed him, shooing away the tears with her thumbs. Again, he did not resist.

Eliza pushed further, kissing Harry deeper. Gradually, Harry allowed his hurt to surrender to her ministrations, losing his own self in her kisses. Increasingly wrapped up in everything that was Eliza, his emotional gyroscope began to reset. Harry felt his tears dissipate and cease. The smell of her, the feel, and the passion bubbling from within her shaved away a small portion of Harry's despair. He began willing himself to forget, and gave into her further, allowing her to pull off his bulky (and somewhat ripe) robes and shoes.

“Please talk, Harry,” Eliza pleaded. “Whatever's going on is tearing you up inside. You've got to let it out before you can heal.”

The magic of the kiss ended, his mind wandered back. He slumped over, chest to knees, arms drooping, his knuckles scraping the carpet, until he grabbed his own ankles. “I don't want to,” he muttered.

“But you need to,” she persisted. “I'll say it again. I love you, Harry. I can't bear to see you like this. You've got to talk it out.” She leaned over him and recommenced kneading his back. He was still undeniably tense. His scent was strong - and enticing.

“It's.… It's.… It's.… Oh damn, I've been such a toerag!” Harry wailed. “A bigger git's never been born.”

“It can't be that bad,” Eliza commiserated. “What happened?”

Harry turned his head slowly and regarded her with a quivering jaw and eyes again so bottomlessly sad that they looked ancient. “It's worse than bad,” he murmured. “It's … it's … the end.” He took a very deep breath….

So did Eliza. All of a sudden she had the horrid realisation that maybe he was about to declare their relationship over.

“Hermione slapped me silly and told me she doesn't want to see me again…. There, I've said it. Are you satisfied?” His voice had started out softly but grew increasingly agitated with each syllable.

That response had been so unexpected that Eliza could not think of anything worthwhile to say for a long moment. She laid the side of her head on Harry's back, and held him around his midsection. Finally, she spoke, “You're right. I guess it actually could be that bad…. I'm not going to ask you how or why. I've only got one question….”

“What?” Harry asked in a tone that suggested a strong disinclination towards answering.

“Did … did … did it have anything to do with me?” she asked in a very small voice.

He exhaled loudly. “No.” he affirmed, “I can truthfully say that Hermione slapping me had nothing whatever to do with you - or with us being us.”

When she heard him say “us” Eliza's own tension broke, and her own tears welled up. “I'm the one who really loves you, Harry,” she replied softly - so relieved that her own nightmare scenario had failed to materialise.

Harry had no idea what to think anymore. He had made this date with the intent of breaking things off with Eliza. After that, he hoped that he could honestly tell Hermione how he felt, and that his best friend would not tell him to go pound sand.

But Hermione had just declared that, not only was his love in vain, but also how his latest escapade had gone too far - that she no longer even wanted him around as a friend.

Harry's prior plans no longer made any sense. It was as if they had been prepared for another lifetime. He remembered some Muggle song in that pile of “soft” CDs for which Dudley no use. It had gone, “If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with….”

In one swift moment, Harry sat up, turned, and captured Eliza's face between his strong hands. At the end of that movement, he kissed her.

Eliza was stunned - and ecstatic. Harry had never initiated a kiss before. It was not that he was a bad kisser; more like he had trouble believing that anyone would find him worth kissing. She kissed him back. He was still terribly tense. It was almost like kissing a mannequin.

“Harry, you need something to eat,” she said, breaking it off. “I made dinner, but it's gone cold. I could heat it back up, though.”

“Not hungry,” he grunted.

“Harry you have to relax,” Eliza declared flatly.

“I know, but I'm sorry, I can't right now,” he replied.

“Do you trust me, Harry?” she asked bluntly.

“Yes, of course,” Harry answered, somewhat perplexed. “I wouldn't have come here after what had happened if I didn't.” That was not entirely true, but his original purpose had become less than irrelevant and more than absurd.

“Then I … I have something that can help you relax,” she said. “I want you to try it - and not get prejudiced, and all.” Eliza got up and started towards her bedroom.

“Remember, I've sworn off the sauce,” he said, only half jokingly.

“Oh, it's nothing like that,” Eliza answered, only half joking herself.

She entered her bedroom and opened the knickers drawer in her chest of drawers. She moved all the silk and cotton undergarments to one side and took out a small cedar chest with “420” elaborately carved on the lid. It was something that she had not opened in almost two years. She cracked the top and peered in. Yes, it was still there. She counted three three-skin joints done Yank rather than Jamaican style … and a small zip-loc with some desiccated greyish-greenish sinsemilla flakes inside. The odour confirmed what her other senses already knew.

That old berk of a boyfriend had ultimately turned out to be worse than useless, but he had shown her how to relax. Now Eliza was going to show Harry. Nobody needed to relax more than he did just now.

On her way back to him, she stopped by the WC and plucked a cardboard toilet roll from the bin.

Harry was a little more lively now. She hoped that with a little help from her friends in the box, she could get him all the way back - or even better.

“What's that?” he asked curiously. “It smells funny.”

Eliza replied airily, “It's weed, otherwise known as marijuana. Sometimes called the `thinking man's cigarette.' I haven't used it in years, but you're so tense…. This will help you relax. Trust me.”

“Isn't that illegal?” Harry replied warily.

“No more illegal than the magic that you used to save me from those horrid Muggle muggers,” Eliza answered flatly. He had no response, so she continued. “It's harmless, but entertaining, and I can make sure nobody ever knows.” With that she collected her wand from a nearby countertop and cast not only a Soundproofing Charm around the entire flat, but a Disolfactorus Charm as well. That charm did to odours what the Soundproofing Charm did to noise. For good measure, she placed a Muggle-Repelling Charm across the front door.

Eliza was still good at charms when she wanted to be.

“I thought you didn't like using magic in this Muggle flat,” he observed.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” she retorted, “and I never saw anyone as desperate as you when you first showed up tonight - a half an hour late, by the way.”

With Harry watching intently, she used another spell that heated the tip of her wand. She quickly burnt a small hole in the cardboard tube, and then enlarged the hole with a serving knife. After making sure that the skins were not about to separate, she lit the end of the first joint with the same spell. She took two small drags until she was sure that it would stay lit. Once confident that it would not go out, she inserted the other end of the joint into the hole in the tube and lodged it securely.

Harry's nostrils flared ever so slightly as he caught the first pungent whiff of the oddly sweet-smelling smoke. The smell was not as completely novel as he expected it would be. He remembered that he had sometimes noticed the same stale odour on his cousin's clothes - not so much recently as in prior summers. Because it was Dudley, he had never given it a second thought.

“Harry,” Eliza said softly, causing him to refocus, “watch me. Since you've never done this before, I brought this tube so you don't have to take … er … toke the smoke full blast. Have you ever smoked anything before?”

He shook his head negatively. Except from open fires, and his own hair set alight, Harry had never breathed smoke. It had never before occurred to him even to try cigarettes. They caused cancer, after all. Maybe this did too … but with Voldemort after him, did that really matter?

Eliza brought the tube to her lips with her right hand, the lit joint sticking straight up from the far end. Covering that end of the tube with the flat of her left hand, she inhaled. The ember at the end of the joint glowed brightly. She almost coughed herself - she was seriously out of practice. Quickly cupping her left hand, she allowed some air to enter the tube to dilute the smoke. It had been a very long time, and she wanted to avoid looking silly.

Holding her breath, Eliza noiselessly gestured for Harry to take the tube. He did, and tried to imitate her. He exhaled, jammed the tube against his lips, covered the other end firmly and strongly inhaled. Within seconds he dissolved into a coughing, gagging fit.

Giggling at his amateurish discomfiture, she reclaimed the tube. “Take it easy, Harry. It's not going anywhere, I'm not going to bogart it, and there's more where this came from. This is your first time…. Relax. Breathe in gently and slowly. If you feel like you're going to cough, let in some air through the back of the tube. That's what the tube is for, so you can carburate your hit.”

Harry listened carefully to her directions but said nothing. He wondered what “bogart” and “carburate” meant. But, at bottom, he trusted Eliza. It was obvious that, whilst he had been paying attention during her first demonstration, he had not known what he was supposed to look for. Eliza showed him again. Harry quickly got better at using the apparatus.

Before they were even done with the first joint, Harry noticed that he was feeling not only better, but most peculiar. His extreme tension was leaking away, along with his black despair. Something lighter was floating into his brain.

Eliza put on some music - a CD bearing a picture of a prism by some group called Pink Floyd - and cut the lamps. They stood by the window, arms around each other's waists, looking east across the lights of London. Somehow, the colours looked more vivid, and the music sounded more intense, than he ever recalled previously.

Thus sated, Harry turned and once again snogged Eliza properly. She kissed him back enthusiastically. Both thought the feeling was fantastic. He felt almost like he was floating on air….

Harry also realised that now he was starving. It had been noontime since he had last had anything to eat. Upon his inquiry, Eliza raised the lamps and looked over the remains of the meal she had cooked. The pasta was beyond saving, but the Swedish meatballs themselves could be reheated. When she mentioned this to him, he took care of it in no time flat. His impressive, if a little overenthusiastic, display of wandless magic left scorch marks on the tablecloth. At some other time they both might have been mortified, but for once the both of them just found the accident hilarious.

They broke down into seemingly uncontrollable giggling fits, each one's laughter encouraging, and feeding upon, the other's.

Their appetite for food soon being satisfied, they lit up the second joint. They were about halfway done with it when she decided to show him something new. She plucked the joint out of the tube and brought her face very close to his. Her left hand snaking around the back of Harry's neck, she whispered, “Close your eyes and start inhaling through your mouth, hard, when I pinch the back of your neck.”

Intrigued, he happily agreed.

She reversed the joint and held it with the lit end inside her mouth so that only a couple of centimetres of the opposite end protruded. When she pinched the back of his neck, she simultaneously exhaled robustly through the joint. This produced a strong stream of smoke that Harry sucked up until he was simply overwhelmed and had to pull away. He rolled backwards, ending up lying on his back on the floor. He flopped there staring at the ceiling with his legs and arms splayed out on the carpet. It seemed like the room around him was pulsating rhythmically with the music. After a few moments silence, he could only whisper breathlessly, “Wow!”

Eliza studied the young man as he sprawled before her now utterly relaxed, and wondered, `should I?' Something told her she should.

Taking a drag herself, she helped him back into a sitting position. “Ready for another go?” She asked expectantly.

“Yeah,” Harry responded dreamily, his eyes losing their usual sharp focus and starting to cloud over in hazy bliss.

Eliza repeated the process, but when Harry started to pull away this time, she dropped what remained of the joint into a half empty bowl of Bertie Bott's Every-Flavour Beans, and snogged him deeply. As he rolled backwards to the floor, she followed him down. Her hands sliding around his neck, she pulled herself onto him. Harry, feeling her open her mouth, reciprocated and held her body to his longingly.

He was amazed at how wonderful everything felt. After he was able to get rid of the stale smoke and catch his breath, his entire world narrowed to himself and Eliza. She was hotly erotic and, increasingly, so was he. As she moved on top of him, he felt that familiar prickling sensation around his naughty bits. She was rubbing just a bit too hard.

He slid his hands down her back to her round buttocks and adjusted her so he was more comfortable. Eliza gasped. Harry had never grabbed her before - not like that. His rather mechanical, defensive touch of their prior encounters was gone. She kissed him harder and ground her body more deliberately against him.

He was in Nirvana - or at least in the general vicinity. He groaned, and almost without knowing, found himself rubbing and squeezing her buttocks with both hands in time to her motion. She was moving in time with the music, some rock song he did not recognise and cared not the least about.

“Harry,” she panted into his ear. “Do you really want me this time?”

The only response he could manage was a low, pleasured moan from somewhere within this sensuous fog that enveloped him. It had never been this way before - with anyone, not even her. Something had changed. “Yeah,” he rumbled, “I think I'm finally ready.”

She rolled off Harry, and took his hand. He stumbled groggily to his feet, and she led him into her bedroom. She was elated. She had wanted him for weeks, and at times she despaired of ever overcoming whatever it was that always seemed to draw him up short. It was finally going to happen tonight. She was sure of it now.

He was nervous, but excited. His prior fiddling about with Eliza had always seemed forced, but this was entirely different. He followed her in. He had never been in a girl's bedroom before. Well, actually he had. He pushed that thought from his mind - not wanting to resurrect his mental block. Under Eliza's influence, and that of the sweet-smelling weed, he found this surprisingly easy to do.

Harry had enough to think about as it was. He concentrated on trying to remember every moment of what was happening. He never wanted to forget this, or her. There is only one first time.…

Eliza was standing between him and the bed, blocking his way. The lamps were off in the room, and the curtains drawn. Indirect light from the doorway revealed not only her pouty, half-glazed lips and disheveled clothing from their previous snogging session - but also her well-rounded hips, full breasts, and erect nipples that strained at her blouse. Harry pinched himself, amazed that a girl this magnificent would want anything to do with him.

Eliza's clothing began dropping to the floor as she undid various buttons and hooks. She slid the final item, a filmy pair of pink lace knickers, from around her hips. They pooled at her feet. She kicked them at Harry, and he felt the silky fabric, still warm, land gently on his toes.

His breath caught inside him. She was so beautiful. How has he managed to stay away from her for this long? More times than he could count, when he had been alone lying in bed, Harry had guiltily undressed Eliza in his mind's eye. But for some reason, he had never been able to follow through on such fantasies with the real thing. Tonight everything was becoming real - him … her … this.

Eliza, now totally nude, stood before Harry expectantly. She had an expression of deepest yearning on her face, and if he did not do something right away, she probably would. Comprehending what was expected of him, he fumbled a bit with his own clothing. She approached her bed. He heard the springs squeak and saw the mattress dip just a bit as she sat down. Calling his name softly, she beckoned him to follow.

He stood stock still, drinking in her shadowy beauty with his eyes. Eliza sighed just a bit, stood up again, and quickly closed the distance between them. She put her arms around him under his shirt, her fingers trailing across his sensitised skin.

“Oh, Harry…. I'm ready…. So ready…,” she whispered in his ear.

He gasped as goose pimples shot up and down his body. He allowed her to lead him by the hand. At the edge of the bed, she clasped him to her firmly, took him into her arms, and pulled Harry into another fierce kiss.

Harry's euphoria seemed total - the afternoon's bleakness, so far away. His mind was struggling to take everything in and file it away in his most permanent memory banks. Inevitably they came up for air.

“Harry?” she said softly. “Are you going to take those off, or should I?” Not waiting for an answer, Eliza started with his shirt. As she leaned over him, he kissed her lips. She had not meant to start the act right then. The kiss would have been completed without much thought, except he lost all pretense of control.

He clutched her naked body to him and started doing to her those things that she had painstakingly showed him on their previous dates, when he had been such a reluctant participant. She ran her fingers through his hair, leaned away from him so he wasn't obstructed, and let the feeling flow through her. He was ready, and so was she - more than ready.

Harry kissed her with a fervor that surprised them both. “Eliza, I need you,” he murmured into her mouth.

She responded with equal if not greater ferocity - as if she were drowning, and he her only salvation. She threw her head back, thrust her pelvis forward, and began moving in time with his touch. Abandoning any pretense, she let loose with what Harry thought were most awesome series of gasps and groans from her half-open lips. The effect on him was immediate and electric.

At last, he was feeling ready for release. He was ready to expurgate all the pain and death that had accumulated during his young life. He had known only heartache and horror - except for her. He flopped onto the bed, pulling her atop him. She rolled off him to grant him better access, and arched her back as Harry resumed showing how quick a study he really was. She kicked at his pants and reached for his arms with her own. He felt he could go on forever, pleasuring her, plucking her body like a string, wondering what she would do next as he changed the pattern of his motion….

“Ouch,” she squealed in frustration. “What's that?” Something on his right forearm had poked her badly. In the semidarkness, she could not tell what it was.

“Sorry,” he choked out, breathing heavily, as much from his own arousal as from the physical effort. “That's the wrist holster for my wand…. It's invisible.”

“Please take it off,” Eliza requested. “It wouldn't do for that to happen again - at an even more inopportune moment.” She giggled, and he did too. “If you're that paranoid you can put it right here on the headboard of the bed, where you cannot see it in plain sight.”

Harry did as he was told, except he pulled his wand halfway out of its invisible holster so he could find it again - when they were done. Whilst stretching for the headboard, he was rocked with another of those awesome sensations he had been feeling lately. Eliza had used the interlude to push his trousers and boxers the rest of the way off. Then she started caressing what she found. He was most appreciative, as was she. There was no longer any doubt what Harry's body wanted. She regarded him with wide, contented eyes, and pursed her lips, pondering her next move. Should she…?

No, she decided, she didn't want to risk it - not tonight, with his inexperience … and what had happened before. There would be plenty of other occasions to introduce him to the pleasures of the French arts. She tried to calm herself, to recover from the sensations he had already given her. She would slow things down a bit. This was his first time, and she meant to make it memorable for the both of them.

Licking off beads of sweat, she kissed her way back up Harry's chest until she was once again face to face with him. He buried his head in her breasts, softly moaning her name.

Eliza rolled over Harry onto the middle of the bed. Pushing the pillows up towards the headboard, she made half of a nest for herself. He was hovering over her, breathing raggedly as his hands - and almost immediately his mouth - began paying her homage once again. She wondered how he could even concentrate. She was losing that ability.

He took a deep breath, looking down at her writhing under his touch. He had never seen a more beautiful and wanton expression on her face. She was ready. And so was he.

He was kneeling before her prone figure. Her legs extended on either side of him, her feet drawn up, just touching his buttocks. Harry leaned over and ran his hands up the sides of her body, from her hips, to her waist, to her armpits, to the tips of her fingers, covering her with his body in the process. He grabbed both of her hands in his, intertwining their fingers.

She was almost ready to demand, “Now, Harry,” when Eliza felt something hard on his left hand. It was on his index finger, and she thought she knew what it was - having seen it on that horrible night in Kew Gardens.

“Take that off too, Harry,” she urged.

“I think you've already got everything off me,” Harry chuckled in response. Then he stopped still, and began laughing.

“Sorry, I can be such a prat,” he giggled more loudly, removing his glasses and placing them next to his wand on the headboard.

“No, it's not those,” she insisted, “although they would surely have to come off soon as well…. Take off the ring.”

“Oh,” Harry responded tentatively, he halted what he was doing and looked uncertainly at his left hand. “I'm not sure I should. Auror instructions and all….”

She slid herself into a sitting position and looked at him with pleading, bedroom eyes. “That ring connects you to her. For once, I want to be the only person you're connected to tonight.” She reached for his member and stroked it to emphasize the point.

He groaned with pleasure and returned her gaze. Eliza's long blonde hair curled around her face and poured over her shoulders. Her figure, illuminated by the uncertain light from outside the room, made a perfect silhouette of the female form against the pale white sheets.

Harry understood. This vigorous vixen, even now, remained unsure that she, and only she, was what he desired. She had given up her last defenses, now so did he. “Okay,” he agreed. He leaned over her and carefully slipped the ring around his wand until it fit snuggly.

“It's not like anyone else even knows we're here,” Eliza continued soothingly. “Nothing is going to ruin this night.”

Just to be sure, he picked up his wand and checked her charms - her magical ones - one more time. He strengthened the Soundproofing Charm over the entire flat, and for good measure put a Locking Charm on the bedroom door.

“Now where were we?” he asked slyly. His hands quivered just a little as he repositioned himself, and her, sliding Eliza back down the slope of pillows until her privates just touched the end of his. Her hands were similarly unsteady as she released him and readied herself for the amazing experience that she was now certain was only moments away.

Drawing a breath, Harry touched her. Physically, as well, she was more than ready for him.

One last time, he looked around, trying to remember every detail, as his hands wandered over her body. Music remained playing softly in the background. Sheets were curled around his feet. He kicked them off. The orange of what must be a magnificent sunset glowed indistinctly through the thick white curtains that covered the window behind the headboard.

Harry felt Eliza's heels digging into his buttocks. He realised that if he waited much longer, she would start the act herself.

“Harry,” she whispered urgently, “rock my world.”

His heartrate quickened, as did his breathing. Time, on the other hand, seemed to slow to a snail's pace. Harry felt almost like an outside observer watching himself. He had been a prat before, but still he was glad that they had waited. This was going to be perfect. He eased himself into position. Now was the time.

Underneath him, he felt the earth move….

* * * *

Author's Notes: Sally Capper is the “large Slytherin sixth year” described but not named in OOP; from the S. Capper who checked out Quidditch Through the Ages

“Not even wrong” was a caustic putdown uttered by Wolfgang Pauli

Tredegar is a Welsh place name and Llewellyn is a Welsh name

Ramsey Island is a Welsh island at the south point of Cardigan Bay

Unlike JKR's, Draco, mine can do unforgivables

Draco's O+ becomes important

“Idiocy of rural life” is from Marx's Communist Manifesto

The middle name I picked for Draco, Balthazar, is one of the three Christmas wise men, but I got it from “Saucer News” by Blue Oyster Cult

Wizards live longer than Muggles so, thirty-four generations is about 1,000 years

Lucius-in-a-can is the same spell as the Fudge-in-a-can in Chapter 1

Louis XIII is a real (expensive) cognac brand

Nectar of antipathy, another Blue Oyster Cult phrase, from Transmaniacon MC

As did Draco, I once cut my leg on a jagged, rusted out cast iron pipe

This explains Malfoy's appearance in Chapter 8

Draco was the nondescript wizard the Weasley twins bumped into in chapter 8 - and who used extendable ears

South across land is from Baba O'Reilly by the Who

“Portable handholds abound” - from a hiking description on Kauaii's Na Pali coast

Spider sticks are another attribute of Hawaiian hiking

There's enough here to reveal what these particular dementors did to end up as Malfoy guests

Voldemort's prior presence at Malfoy Manor becomes important

Profumo/Keeler was a huge 1960s British politics, sex, and espionage scandal

Lucinda is consciously based upon a real person, in actions, motivation, and name. A mention in the next chapter's authors notes to the first reviewer to guess who it is

“Torch passed to a new generation” is from JKF's inaugural speech

Nott's background and personality are from information on JKR's website

A grading system that subtracts failures from successful O.W.L.s, creates the possibility of negative O.W.L.s. Negative O.W.L.s flunk out

Apostasy is a capital offense in some religions

How Eliza had gotten her new stereo system moved in and set up is explained

The Contact is not OC

Malfoy's need of money helps eventually bring him into line with HBP

A lis pendens prevents transfer of title to property subject to a legal dispute

“By any means necessary” is a 1960s Malcolm X slogan

“Love the one you're with” is from Stephen Stills' song of the same name. Harry repudiates it later

For some reason 420 is associated with marijuana

American style = closed tip; Jamaican style = open, flared tip

Sensimilla is good weed, grown with a bag over the bud to prevent pollination

Desperate times line was Jafar's in Aladdin

The described use of the toilet paper tube is accurate

Bogart means to monopolize; as used in “Easy Rider”

The CD is Dark Side of the Moon - a favorite of mine for such activity, as is Aqualung, Master of Reality, and Brain Salad Surgery

The “something new” is what I've always called shotgunning

The source of Harry's mental block should be obvious

Plucking your body like a string, from Miracles, by Jefferson Starship

There's something wrong with the orange sunset - having to do with the direction Eliza's windows face

56

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch27 the other.doc 11/22/04

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28. Trial By Fire

Wherein the plotters stage a spectacular diversion; Harry is ambushed; people die; Mundungus' secret is revealed; the Contact releases a Lethifold and destroys a building; Hermione feels Harry's pain; wrecks part of her parents' house; locates Harry's ring; flies across London with Tonks in the teeth of a firestorm; goes suicidal and has to be rescued; Voldemort's activities on the night Harry was at the Ministry are discovered; a shellshocked Hermione is taken to Hogwarts; the Order discusses what has happened; and Snape prepares to do his duty

CAUTION: THERE ARE SEVERAL CHARACTER DEATHS IN THIS CHAPTER.

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

Chapter 28 - Trial By Fire

British Airways Flight 17, nonstop to Singapore, was number two for departure on runway 09L/27R LHR (London-Heathrow). Captain Jonathan Mayfair was at the controls of the B747-400ER long-range jumbo jet for the thirteen-and-a-half hour flight. The long-time Muggle aviator was content. He was looking at an on-time 21:15 departure in nominal weather conditions - ceiling and visibility unlimited. There were only a few mid altitude clouds, which at this moment were reflecting the last, dying rays of the sun. Tomorrow, eight time zones later, he would deliver his 416 passengers to the steaming Asian metropolis.

Captain Mayfair was where he had always wanted to be - the most senior-grade pilot with the most prestigious airline in the Commonwealth. He had paid his dues, flying everything from milk runs to Edinburgh to the more high-risk routes involving decrepit airports in decaying countries and terror-shrouded fields in the Middle East and Horn of Africa. He had served Queen and country as well, flying Harriers off carriers in the Falklands War. In that brief contest, he had racked up four kills against the plainly overmatched Argentines.

Captain Mayfair had been shot at, flown through hurricanes and typhoons, narrowly missed mountains due to erroneous navigational charts, and had once successfully landed an almost zero-fuel-remaining airliner at night in Ottawa after a sudden blackout had darkened every alternative field for hundreds of kilometres. He was expecting no such problems tonight, on his favorite flight from his favorite city.

He pushed the throttle forward and eased the over 400,000 kg bird off the ground, goosing the four Pratt & Whitneys under his wings to the upper level of their normal thrust. He would make the wide bank to the right over Windsor, Slough, Uxbridge and Wembly before acquiring his south-southeasterly vector. Then - still gaining altitude, he would pass directly over Paddington, Mayfair, Westminster and finally the City itself on his way to France, the Alps, the Mediterranean, the Red Sea, and beyond. The view of London was glorious.

That view was in front of him now, as Captain Mayfair hummed a Gilbert & Sullivan ditty and chatted with his long-time friend and co-pilot, William Bush. All systems were functioning nominally. He was expecting an uneventful flight, and then two days mandated layover in Singapore with his lovely, almond-eyed mistress. Never married, he had no problem with acquiring “a woman in every port.”

Without warning, he felt two quick lurches on the starboard side. Momentarily, the starboard wing lifted up, as if relieved of a great weight, and then even more abruptly that wing dipped dangerously, as the plane fell into a deadly spiral, driven by the two port engines still operating at full thrust. Instantly, red lights flared everywhere on the monitors. A dozen klaxons were all sounding at once. Captain Mayfair could scarcely believe what he was seeing. Simultaneously, he had lost all power from both starboard engines. Indeed, the sensor readings - or lack of them - suggested that the engines had actually rent away from the wing altogether. That was impossible, but that was what was happening.

Captain Mayfair grabbed the wireless as the airliner flipped over in midair and continued its fatal spin. “Mayday!! Mayday!! Mayday!!” He screamed, all sense of propriety and protocol being chucked right out the window. “Mayday!! BA-17, sudden, complete power loss from engines one and two. Heathrow tower…. Losing … control…. Controls inoperable due to 100% power imbalance. I can't… Can't compensate, Heathrow! Lost…. spinning… Oh. No! Lord have mercy!” The Captain's thoughts strayed to the abject terror certain to be gripping his 400+ doomed passengers in the tumbling cabin. He had always accepted that flight could be dangerous. These innocents had not.

The nose of the dying bird turned finally and fatally down. The last thing Captain Mayfair saw in life were his beloved lights - the lights of London. He thought for a split second of the almost quarter million litres of aviation fuel the jet was carrying, but, in his mind there were more important things to consider, more important things such as his own death and moreso, what lay beyond death.

“Oh, Jesus! God in Heaven, teach me how to die….”

* * * *

The Contact watched without emotion as the stricken aeroplane pinwheeled to its cataclysmic end. They were only Muggles, after all…..

“Can't make an omelette without breaking some eggs.”

Perched on an abandoned multi-storey factory building, the Contact calmly observed as a tremendous fireball erupted amongst the lights to the east. Louder than a thunderclap, the tremendous roar from the explosion followed not two seconds later. “Whitechapel, maybe Shadwell,” the anuran, black-robed figure estimated. The Contact noted the secondary explosions that soon followed. “Must have hit something on the ground,” the Contact commented bloodlessly. “Something major. All the better to keep the Muggles, the Ministry, and the Order all occupied.”

It had taken considerably longer than anticipated to reach this point. The Contact had been at the appointed location for almost half an hour before the communication mirror had finally flashed the fifteen-minute warning. The watch across the canal, the thoroughfare, and upon at the block of flats where Potter and his ladyfriend were supposedly trysting had indeed been getting tiresome. The Contact had experienced no trouble locating the exact flat in question, and at one point had seen what was presumably the pair of them looking out the window. It had just taken them rather longer than expected to get down to business. The Contact had even wondered if the Malfoy boy had mastered his Unforgivables as well as he had claimed. He had always been the boastful type, more mouth than magic.

Once the signal had been received, however, the Contact was all business. The Muggles provided a steady stream of targets that rose from the large airfield to the west. The next one that flew into the targeting area was chosen. It was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Contact's aim with the split Severing Charm had been true. It seemed that luck was with the “Potterless Conspiracy,” the silly moniker that Malfoy and his unknown recruits had hung on the plot. The target had been a large one, making for an even more spectacular diversion than promised. It was a good omen.

“Mobiliapparatus!”

That taken care of, it was time for the next step, something that promised to be trickier than merely shooting Muggles in a barrel. The Contact's wand rose, carefully aimed to where the signal about to be given would be certain to be seen. Red sparks jetted skyward. From within voluminous robes, the Contact withdrew the phylactery that the Malfoy boy had provided. It was familiar.

* * * *

Mundungus Fletcher unscrewed his silver hip flask and, hands trembling, took another shot of Firewhiskey. He usually did not drink on duty, but this had become a more worrisome outing than he had expected. First the Potter boy had left the Ministry without checking in with Elphias Doge, who had been assigned to escort him home, and then the tension had started to mount on his end. Liquid courage had its place….

Potter was late. Uncharacteristically late. Very late.

Dung was on the verge of ringing in a missing persons report on Potter - which meant that all Hell would break loose. Instead, he had the bright idea to ring up Potter's ladyfriend first, using the Muggle pay telephone booth in front of the building. Not every Order member knew how to operate a blower. From years on the lam, Dung did.

Luck had been with him. Potter had serendipitously showed up whilst Dung had still been on the phone with the lady. Dung had no idea where in blazes Potter had been, or what had possessed him to outfly his Beaters again. Frankly, he no longer cared about things like that. Dung had learnt not to make it his business to care about what went on outside his bailiwick.

Dung had just started to settle into what he hoped would now become another pleasantly relaxing-if-boring evening - keeping a loose watch over Potter whilst the young man had a well-deserved dalliance with that pretty witch of his. There were others, especially Tonks, who seemed to disapprove, but in Dung's book, if ever there were a wizard who deserved some innocent pleasure, it was Potter. He had seen Potter on the night of the attacks, and had been astounded how well he had stood up under all that barbarity.

Dung was indifferently staring into space in the general direction of the flat he was watching when what sounded like a huge explosion erupted in the distance behind him. Dung did not like explosions, even Muggle ones - especially Muggle ones - and an explosion was indeed what it seemed to be. Within minutes the air was thick with the wails of innumerable Muggle sirens.

From his usual perch, Dung was unable to see anything over the intervening buildings except for a glowing orange pall that lit up fully half the sky. He was anxious about this, and contemplated calling a premature halt to Potter's rendezvous. One thing he did not contemplate was leaving his post. Let the Muggles sort out whatever was wrong. Again … not his bailiwick.

Then, he saw something completely different. Red sparks shot from the top of a building across the street. That was undeniably magical. Taking careful note that he would still be in full view of the flat where Potter was staying from the place where the sparks originated, Dung decided to investigate. Staying in line of sight meant that he was not leaving his post - not technically anyway.

Dung was an accomplished sneak thief. He prided himself on his ability to approach places without being seen. Rather than Apparating, he slunk to an outside fire escape, soundlessly levitated himself to its lower landing, placed a Silencing Charm on his shoes, crept to the top, and Bob's your uncle, he was on the roof. Somebody had sent a magical signal - he meant to find out whom.

Mundungus Fletcher never stood a chance. The Contact was well hidden amongst the crumbling chimneys and dilapidated water towers that were scattered across the roof of the building. Leaving nothing to chance, the Contact had inspected these premises in daylight not long before, and had laid the trap carefully.

As Dung slipped over the railing, he saw and heard nobody. Still, he had a bad feeling. The orangish glow of what had to be a colossal fire was casting long shadows over the roof. He crept to the centre of the building and took in his surroundings, using wandlight to illuminate the dark spaces that remained. Whoever had been there seemed to have departed hastily and without a trace. Dung was curious about the orange glow and took several steps towards the east wall of the building.

Then suddenly a scarlet jet of magic hit Dung square in the back, disarming him and sending his body sliding across the roof. He came to rest at the rusty foot of the railing on the eastern edge. Dung reflexively began following standard Order protocol to alert others that he had been attacked, when he made the mistake of accidentally staring into the maw of the enormous conflagration.

It was astonishing in its awful majesty. At least a half-mile square was fully consumed by the inferno. Shoddily installed stopcocks in feeders for several tower blocks had failed, allowing fire to spread through broken natural gas lines. As a result the flames were also inexorably engulfing several of the towers. People were jumping from upper stories, choosing quick death over being burnt alive. Only the Thames had halted the southern progress of the blaze, and high winds were whipping it west. With an awful sound another multi-storey building collapsed in flaming rubble.

Dung screamed. The most terrible memories of his youth came roaring back. He was in Coventry again on the night of the Blitz, the German firebombing. “Mum!!” he cried. “Dad!!” Everything he had ever loved was being consumed in an incandescent holocaust. Dung never heard the Contact recite “Petrificus Totalus” and then “Alohomora.” He never saw the Lethifold until it was upon him. The inky black creature slowly smothered Mundungus Fletcher's tortured thoughts and ended his anguished cries.

The Contact turned away. There was no point to watching the Lethifold feed. Fortunately the phylactery provided by the Malfoy boy kept the foul creature at bay. A Lethifold could not be controlled like a Dementor, but it could at least be repelled. The Contact had only one more task. Turning towards the block of flats, the Contact saw that the attack was finally in progress.

* * * *

Harry felt the earth move under him - literally. With a sickening “crack,” the bed lurched forward, spilling him roughly onto his shocked, almost-but-not-quite lover. The bed, and everything on it, then began to fall. Eliza screamed. Harry groaned, and lunged futilely for his wand, which had already rolled to the other end of the headboard.

Whilst Harry was groping madly for his wand, too confused to think of anything else, there were two simultaneous crashes. The bed and much of the surrounding room smashed into the floor below, bashing him and Eliza painfully against one another. The bedroom window exploded and blew in as a strong Reductor Curse passed through and blasted a floor-to-ceiling hole in the opposite wall. The cowering, naked couple were showered with shards of glass, bits of aluminium frame, and pieces of wallboard.

A broom-riding Death Eater in full regalia swooped through the gaping void where the window used to be, shedding an Invisibility Cloak as he entered. Harry had barely managed to get a finger on his wand when, “EXPELLIARMUS!” the invader cried. As Harry slammed into the headboard, he vaguely saw his wand go spinning out of what used to be a window. The Death Eater followed immediately with “PETRIFICUS TOTALUS”, hitting Harry neatly in the chest before he could even turn around. Harry instantly lost all ability to move, went rigid, and toppled onto Eliza. He rolled off of her and came to rest on the edge of the bed, helplessly facing away from her and staring at a blank wall.

Although immobilised, Harry could still hear. What he heard made him wish for deafness. Eliza was screaming non-stop, alternatively begging Harry for help and the Death Eater for mercy. He head a thud as the Death Eater dismounted from his broom, and then…

“And you, you disgraceful whore…! You sorry excuse for a pure-blood witch…! You have outlived your usefulness! Avada Kedavra!!”

From his petrified position, all Harry could see was the glow of the green flash of light on the opposite wall. But he had no need to see. He knew what had just happened. In his mind's eye, the permanently implanted image of Cedric Diggory's lifeless face now morphed into Eliza's. If Harry had been able to use his voice, it would have produced a howl that would have put a werewolf to shame. Tears seeped from his eyes notwithstanding his paralyzed state.

Harry was now aware that there was more than one Death Eater - and they seemed to be arguing about something…. They spoke in the odd twang of magically disguised voices.

“That went rather smoothly, now where's Tweedledee?” the one in charge said.

Whomever he was addressing seemed rather dense. “Uh.… I think he's under there. Boss, why did you kill the girl…?”

Harry was beyond caring how many Death Eaters there were. A murderous fury was building inside of him. He began to concentrate on the magic that bound him … willing himself to rip that bloody, effing spell to shreds…. After which he would do the same to the Death Eaters who had just killed Eliza.

“Oh, shut up,” the leader snapped. “If you were any slower, you'd be moving backwards. We don't want any witnesses…. You said what?”

“He's under there.”

Harry was almost free; he could feel his own rage-fuelled magic straining against the constricting spell he was under. Slowly, surely, he was winning….

“I don't believe it…. You mean to tell me Tweedledee didn't have the sense not to perform a Reductor Curse directly above his own bloody head?”

Another voice suddenly rang out, “STUPEFY!” Fade to black. Harry heard nothing more.

Draco Malfoy whirled around to see Nott, in his Death Eater robes, looking down at them from what had been Eliza's flat, through the massive hole in the ceiling.

“Just what the Hell are you playing at?!” Malfoy yelled at him.

“Behind your bloody back, Potter was doing something weird,” Nott snapped. “He was starting to glow or something. I knocked him out, and that seems to have put a halt to it.”

Draco felt abashed for just a fleeting instant. He had turned his back on his quarry, and might well have paid for it. Fortunately nobody could see his face go red underneath the Death Eater mask.

“Greg, mate, it'll be alright, just get out, come on lad,” Crabbe blubbered, pulling on an arm that extended from the rubble on which two other bodies - one dead, the other unconscious, lay. He leant down and tried inexpertly to find a pulse. “Greg, I'm sorry it turned out this way….” He turned to the others, “I-I-I think he's dead….”

Malfoy was more than a little shocked himself - shocked chiefly that even Goyle could be so daft as to drop a ceiling on his own thick skull. He helped Crabbe to his feet, and thrust a Beater's bat in his hand. It was a Portkey, and when it activated a few seconds later, Vincent Crabbe vanished.

Ted Nott levitated himself easily down to where Draco was. “What are we going to do about him?” Nott asked, gesturing at the arm that evidently belonged to the late Gregory Goyle.

“I don't think there's anything we can do,” muttered Draco. “These damned pre-programmed Portkeys don't work on anyone that's unconscious - or dead. That's why I didn't care to Stun Potter. I reckon it will be all right to leave Goyle where he is, since the Contact is going to cover our tracks…. Speaking of which, we have to get out of here! We don't have time just to naff about.”

“Well, at least take this,” Nott admonished. He prised a hand-held Auror receiver from Goyle's already stiffening fingers.

“You take it,” Draco said, “I'm going to have my hands full as it is hauling bloody, frakkin' Potter out of here on my broom under my cloak. Where is that blasted thing anyway?”

“Upstairs, I'll get it.” Nott levitated himself back up to the dead girl's flat.

For the frantic couple of minutes that followed, the two conspirators methodically trussed Harry Potter's limp body to Malfoy's Nimbus 2001 using drapery cords from all four windows of the two flats. With difficulty, the ringleader draped his Invisibility Cloak over his new hostage.

When they were finished, Malfoy handed Nott another Portkey, and told him they would meet back at the Manor. As he was mounting his broom, Malfoy noticed Harry's glasses lying in the corner. One lens was shattered, but they were nonetheless easily recognisable. Malfoy Summoned them.

After that, he was off like a flash on his broom. As he exited the ruined apartment, leaving two corpses behind, he fired off a volley of green sparks.

Far below, the Contact saw the sign. The Contact's wand slashed through the air, sending one of the severed jet engines - still dripping with jet fuel - crashing into the blasted out window that marked Eliza's flat. It made a satisfyingly fiery explosion all its own. With a second wave, the Contact took careful aim and sent the other engine careening towards Central London. Then the Contact Disapparated, using a stolen wand. Phase One of the Potterless Conspiracy had been successfully completed.

* * * *

Hermione spent much of the evening in her bedroom with the door closed and magically locked. She was depressed and devastated - and there was absolutely nothing she could do and nobody she could tell about it. Although she had become close with Tonks over the past few weeks, Hermione rebuffed two attempts by the young Auror to try to get her to discuss her obvious upset. And those two attempts had just been during the short time she had needed to get herself to a suitable Apparition point at the Ministry - and to get the Hell out of there.

How in blazes could she tell anyone that Harry, of all people, had tried to force pornography - really disgusting pornography - on her? It was just too embarrassing, not only for her, but for him. Hermione laughed bitterly at the contradictions of her situation. Still thinking of Harry…. She was acting just like a bloody victim of abuse, which in a manner of speaking she was.

But still, if this episode - which seemed so stunningly out of Harry's character that even now she had trouble believing he had done it - ever found its way into the Prophet…. Hermione shook her head. She felt lost, lonely, scared, and sad all at once. How had she messed up her life this way? She should never have kidded herself. She and Harry in a relationship? Get real! Bloody Camilla Parker Bowles had as much chance of becoming Queen of England.

After almost an hour of mindless rocking back and forth, curled up in a fœtal position with her hands clutching her ankles, Hermione stirred. She turned for solace to her violin. The distraught girl attacked the Tchaikovsky piece in D, her favorite concerto in the whole world. She played it over and over again.

It helped, but only temporarily, because for the life of her, Hermione could not stop replaying the incident. Things just were not adding up, and that always bothered her. She would have been quite content simply to hate Harry with the same passion that she had loved him - at least for a while - but his reaction to the incident just did not engender hate. For once, she would have been happy with an easy way out, but he was not even allowing her that form of escape.

Their emotional link, which Hermione was fervently looking forward to ending at the first possible moment, was utterly confusing her. Harry was plainly dazed, confused, and every bit as devastated as she - perhaps worse. He seemed to be almost insensate, on autopilot. It was as if he had lost all sense of purpose.

Then why in the world had he done what he did in the first place?

Harry's profoundly penitential attitude was almost enough for Hermione to entertain the absurd possibility that he might actually have been telling the truth. The longer his contrite emotional cast persisted, the more she came to doubt herself. She was tempted to turn on the computer - what was that name he had mentioned? “Liko Mee,” or something like that?

Hermione almost did - but not quite. Around eight o'clock, Harry's emotional demeanour abruptly shifted. Within half an hour after that it was absolutely clear to Hermione that he was with that Eliza woman again. So much for his redemption…. The hate option reared its ugly head again.

She knew exactly what would happen next - and probably for the entire ruddy evening. She had fought through it a number of times previous. It did absolutely no good for her to read or try to sleep when he was with her in that way. The feelings would only become all encompassing. Only some sort of strenuous mental or physical activity could even partially keep her mind off Harry's emotions - and then only to a limited extent.

Somewhat half-heartedly, she decided to revise for her upcoming do-over O.W.L. in Practical Astronomy. The intricate set-up procedure for her telescope promised to keep her mind occupied as well as anything else could. Unfortunately, even as it got dark, her revisions went just as badly as everything else had that day. The seeing conditions, not good to begin with, only deteriorated further as evening dragged into night. Damn Muggle light pollution.

She thought she had heard a rumble of distant thunder, but that was not likely, as the sky, and the dusk, had been almost cloudless if rather hazy.

The nature of Harry's emotions was also different - stronger, yet a little … goofy … was the best way she could describe it. Things felt vague and fuzzy with him, even more than usual through the imperfect link. He was undergoing mood swings, sometimes sad, like before, and then just as abruptly verging on euphoria. She had never felt anything quite like it.

One thing was sure though - he was definitely building up to another sexual encounter; Hermione could just feel it. He was getting randy. Ordinarily, it was hard for her not to feel a bit of the same (as much as it made her feel dirty) - but not after what had happened today. She could not shut his feelings out, but her reaction to them tonight left her utterly cold. Whatever turned him on, turned her off.

She loathed the affinity now. She knew she had lost him. Harry was acting in ways so strange that Hermione no longer thought she knew who he was. What a disaster everything had become. Dumbledore could not cut this blasted link soon enough. Maybe she should have withdrawn from Hogwarts after all….

Grimly she tried to soldier on. When she was unable even to find Saturn due to the washed out skies, Hermione gave up on Practical Astronomy in frustration. Whatever Harry was feeling, though, it certainly was not frustration….

As she locked up the little observatory on the roof, she wondered if she would ever get to use it again. Her father was scheduled to leave tomorrow for Australia, and her mother would follow shortly thereafter. The new owner was coming next week…. Everything was topsy-turvy. Nothing was as it should be.

Hermione stumbled and almost fell as, with fearsome and onrushing suddenness, a succession of strong and unexpected emotions ripped through her link to Harry. His seemingly all-consuming erotic focus vanished instantly and completely. Powerful waves of panic, shock, surprise, and confusion washed over Hermione, followed almost immediately by what felt like an all-consuming fear.

Something was seriously - terribly - wrong. Harry was as fearless as anyone she had ever known. He never panicked. To her knowledge, he had not shown real fear all summer (except maybe a little on the night that Bill died). Even during the Ashrak, when he was personally under attack, his emotions had gone from surprise to anger and determination, without ever betraying real fear. For him to show fear this frankly meant something was happening that was beyond his control - probably some perceived threat to Eliza, Hermione thought ruefully.

Then everything changed again.

In a trice, Harry's fear was almost totally replaced by piercing grief so strong that it seared into Hermione's soul as well. She stifled a scream, trying to keep her wits about her. In that, she failed…. Instead, she acted like she was eleven years old again.

She hurtled down the stairs from the roof calling wildly to her parents, although exactly what she wanted from them she hardly knew. Something too horrible for words was happening. She had to get to Harry, and somehow her parents would help her - make things better as they always did when she was little. Hermione had always liked the large house because it gave her places to hide when she wanted to be alone. But now she was having trouble locating her parents. Turnabout was most emphatically not fair play.

Where could they possibly be?

All the while, Harry's grief was changing - merging into anger and then into rage. Hermione cringed. He was positively scary when he got mad. Whatever was going on, he was steeling himself for a fight.

Then, just like that, there was nothing - nothing at all. It was as if a curtain fell, or a veil dropped. Harry's emotions simply stopped flowing altogether. He was at minimum unconscious, and maybe even…. NO!! THAT IS TOO HORRIBLE EVEN TO THINK ABOUT!! No longer even trying to stay calm, Hermione screamed for her parents.

“MUMMY!! DADDY!! HELP … HELP ME!!”

Finally they answered her. They were in the foyer, dressed for travel and making ready to leave. Hermione's hopes rose. They just had to take her to find Harry. He was somewhere in Muggle London - wherever that Eliza woman was….

But Hermione's parents had other plans - plans that of necessity involved neither her, nor certainly Harry.

“Mum! Dad! You've got to take me with you! Something terrible has happened to Harry!”

Both her parents stiffened at the mention of Harry's name. “I'm afraid we can't, dear heart,” said her mum. “Something terrible has just happened to a lot more people than just your young Mister Potter.”

Seeing Hermione's furious stare, her father hastened to explain, “There's nothing we can do. We've both just been paged. For the first time since the Blitz, Civil Defence has just called all medically trained personnel to active service. There's been some terrible accident … a plane crash, we believe. We've been ordered to report for emergency duty at Kings College Hospital. I'm sorry, but we're duty bound to go, and I haven't the foggiest when we'll be back….”

“Your friend Potter will be fine, I'm sure,” Mum said in her most reassuring voice, its artificiality not fooling a soul. “He always is, you know.…”

As comprehension dawned that her parents were leaving her in her time of great need, and that they would be of no help whatever, Hermione went spare - silently. Fear, despair, and grief at the thought of a life without Harry built up within her as she watched her parents close the door behind them and depart. As the door shut, those few knick-knacks in the foyer that had not yet been packed away exploded one after another, disintegrating into clouds of porcelain powder.

Feeling utterly helpless, hopeless, and worthless, Hermione dropped to her knees, pounding the marble floor in impotent frustration. Bright flashes and loud reports of spontaneous magic went off all around her. The alabaster balustrades of the great formal staircase started to detonate. The mirror which, during a happier time, had shown Harry that his hair had been charmed Weasley red, shattered and dropped to the floor with a crash. Overhead, the great chandelier rocked back and forth, its lights flickering and its hanging crystal prisms bashing into one another. Bits of glass rained down upon the distraught girl.

The truth could not be denied. This was her own fault - all of it. If she had only not lost her rag at Harry and slapped him … for all intents and purposes forcing him into the arms of that … that woman. If she had just shown more restraint, more reason, whatever had just befallen Harry would never have happened. How could she live if he was…?

A brass fireplace poker flew across the room and noisily imbedded itself into the far wall, quivering.

“EEEK!” A scandalised voice shouted out, “Hermione Granger, what on Earth is going on? Have you gone wonky along with the rest of the world?”

The target of those questions looked up. It was Tonks. Tonks! TONKS!! Hermione realized how appallingly foolish she had been. She had not been thinking straight - not thinking at all was more like it. Of course! The Order! They watched not only her, but Harry too.

Hermione dashed over and grabbed a handful of Tonks' maroon robes. “SOMETHING AWFUL HAS JUST HAPPENED TO HARRY!!” she shrieked at the Auror. “We have to rescue him!” Regarding Hermione carefully, Tonks did not move. “Don't just bloody well stand there! Let's go!” Hermione yelled again.

“Calm yourself, Hermione!” Tonks ordered in her most authoritative voice, hoping to jar the girl back to an approximation of the supremely clever witch that she usually was. “We'll find him, but we're not running off half-cocked into an uncertain situation until we first make some inquiries. Remember what happened to him and Sirius at the Ministry….”

Hermione froze. Tonks was right. She was not acting any more rationally than Harry had in response to his vision of Sirius being tortured. Maybe Voldemort was somehow using her link to Harry in the same manner. Could someone be putting into her head the same sort of false imagery that had caused Harry - and her as well - to fly to the Ministry on their ill-thought-out rescue mission last term?

Tonks pulled up the sleeve of her robes, revealing a metallic band around her upper arm. “I'm contacting the Order now,” she said as calmly as she could. “Someone, probably Mundungus, is watching Potter. I'll get a report.”

And so they remained for several minutes. Tonks sat in the old white upholstered love seat that was the only piece of furniture left in the once grandly appointed (and now thoroughly wrecked) foyer. Hermione busied herself trying but not entirely succeeding in repairing the balls-up mess she had made. If everything that was broken had been demolished naturally, or because of any spell she knew, her Reparo Charms would have worked. Probably because she had released so much spontaneous and thus unknown magic, Hermione found that most of the wreckage was irredeemably bollixed and reluctantly concluded that parts of the foyer would never look the same again.

She tried the A Priori Charm, but it too produced less than satisfactory results. Her own distraction was another factor. Hermione continually watched Tonks out of the corner of her eye, and what she saw did nothing to lift her profound sense of unease. Every now and then, the metal band would glow red. The Auror would respond in the low voice that she always used whilst discussing matters she did not want Hermione to overhear. The news could not have been positive. Tonk's hair was changing colours fairly rapidly, and the brighter the colour the more agitated that meant Tonks was. Hermione had never seen her go to Blaze Orange before.

When Tonks rolled down her sleeve after about fifteen minutes, she motioned to the girl. Then she took a deep breath….

“I need you to be strong, Hermione,” Tonks addressed the younger witch. “I'm afraid that nobody can raise Mundungus. Worse than that, we're on our own. Everything's disrupted right now. There's a huge fire in Muggle London, the Ministry's been evacuated, and some of the Muggles are even suspecting magic. A large aeroplane lost two engines simultaneously and crashed.”

“How does that implicate magic?” Hermione retorted impatiently.

“The two engines seem to have gone in different directions,” Tonks explained. “The Muggles claim that is ballisticly impossible - and one of the engines landed less than a hundred metres from the Ministry itself.”

“What does this have to do with Harry?” Hermione demanded.

“It means the bloody Ministry is in an uproar. They're not watching anything at this of all blinking moments, not even spontaneous magic in a Muggle area, and there don't seem to be any bleeding Aurors to spare, not even for Harry Chosen-One Potter!” Tonks exploded. “And if that weren't enough, I don't have any bloody backup tonight because of a bleeding Order meeting at blooming Hogwarts - hopefully the last of those! That complicates things because….”

“Nobody can Apparate into or out of Hogwarts,” Hermione recited dully. “Oh sweet Merlin, we have to find Harry ourselves!” she continued, getting distraught again.

“We'll never find him if you act like that,” Tonks reprimanded. “Tell me exactly why you're convinced he's in danger.”

For the first time, Hermione told Tonks about her emotional affinity link to Harry. “It's … it's … well …,” she stammered. “I have this psychic link to Harry's emotions…. I can feel - not precisely, but not vaguely, either - the emotions that he's feeling. A little while ago … he felt fear, then grief, then rage …, and then … nothing at all….”

Hermione broke into tears and fell into the young Auror's arms. Tonks was shocked - but only briefly. “You have an affinity … with Potter?” she asked.

“Yes!” the girl wailed.

“Well, I guess that explains a lot,” Tonks said thoughtfully to the heaving girl. She thought of Mundungus' leerings. Whilst that nasty little man was indulgent towards Harry's trysts, he was also something of a gossip. “Why didn't you tell me? I could have helped. I can just imagine what that must have been doing to you lately.”

“Nobody could have helped!” Hermione spat. “Besides, Dumbledore said I should keep it a bloody secret…!”

“I can see why he would,” Tonks allowed.

“Harry's never afraid! Not like that!” Hermione continued shrieking. “And now, nothing!!”

Tonks tried hard to calm the girl. Upon learning from Hermione that Harry had been with Eliza when “all Hell broke loose,” the Auror instantly grasped that the boy could be in grave danger indeed. The emotions Hermione described sounded all too much like a response to an ambush. In her book that meant only one thing - Death Eaters. Tonks did not have the heart to tell the girl that in all likelihood whatever was going to happen already had.

Tonks immediately had Hermione locate Harry using her wand and her Auror partner ring. The wand pointed steadily in an eastern direction. Its tip glowed a soft red, meaning he was at a considerable distance. That Hermione had successfully located the boy (or, technically, his corresponding Auror partner ring), and that Harry's apparent location was not moving, was either a very good sign - or a very bad one.

The Location Charm gave quite precise direction, but was rather vague as to distance. The inferno burning in London had not only shut down the Floo network, but also made Apparition altogether too dangerous. Moreover, Hermione knew only basic Apparition. She could only Apparate to places she knew. Harry's warning on the night of the first attacks had deterred her from any attempt to determine, first-hand, where Eliza lived.

“It looks like we'll have to fly then,” Tonks concluded. “Do you have a broom handy?”

Hermione shuddered. She had a broom all right - a very good one - but the last time she had flown it, she very nearly been killed. Still, with Harry's life possibly at stake, she swallowed her fears and Summoned it immediately.

“That's some broom,” Tonks said admiringly.

“It'll do in a pinch,” Hermione responded more confidently than she felt.

“You'll obviously have to lead,” Tonks instructed. “Can you perform the Location Charm in flight?”

“Yes … I think so,” Hermione hesitated, “this broom has a windscreen…. Yes, I can do it.” Hermione declared. “We need to go - now.”

Tonks and Hermione walked crisply towards the roof. “We'll follow your ring's vector,” Tonks continued. “When we get within range, you swing to whichever side is safest. That will change the angle that your ring senses. Do you know how to…?”

“I know the colour pattern and I can do the maths,” Hermione replied firmly. “I taught myself rudimentary trigonometry in order to calculate the astrological angles for Divination. It was the only useful thing that I ever got out of that insipid class. Then I mastered mathemagic for Astronomy so I could calculate parallax….”

“Let's go, then,” Tonks shouted. She had barely understood a word of what the girl had just said. “Just don't leave me too far behind.”

They kicked off. As soon as they got above tree level, both witches received the shock of their lives. In the distance, the whole of Stepney, and maybe more, seemed to be aflame. Great spiraling jets of fire rose as much as two hundred metres into the night sky. Muggle helicopters were everywhere, and a few aeroplanes were even scooping water from the Limehouse Reach and dropping it on the fire - to little apparent effect.

Hermione shot a few red sparks from her wand and motioned them back down. She put the Valkyrie in maintenance mode and told Tonks that she would have to ride pillion behind her. The Valkyrie was under a Furtim Spell that made it virtually invisible. If Tonks stayed on her own broom, she would have to fly under an Invisibility Cloak to avoid detection by Muggles, slowing her comparatively lethargic Nimbus even further. There was simply not that much time to waste if they were to find Harry.

They were soon streaking across the obscenely erubescent London sky at a speed that Tonks had never thought possible, and that Hermione had never thought she would be able to maintain. Her wandtip moved from red, to orange, to yellow, and then to green. Almost at once, they were forced off the ring vector by the aeroplanes on the Reach. This detour actually proved beneficial because the ring vector started changing angles much more quickly than on a direct flight. At least Harry was not in that awful inferno.

As fast as humanly possible, Hermione mentally calculated distances from the rate of vector shift that the Location Charm generated. Simultaneously she tried to maintain an exact 400 kph airspeed. Her wandtip moved from indigo to violet and grew ever brighter. As she adjusted the Valkyrie's heading in response to her calculations, the broom spiraled in upon a specific location. Hermione regarded that scene intently.

“Look out!” Tonks cried. Instinctively, Hermione pushed the nose of the Valkyrie down and to the right - missing the helicopter that suddenly loomed in front of them by so little margin that they both felt prop wash from the Muggle machine.

Hermione righted the broom and took a deep breath. The near collision had almost caused her to drop her wand, so she needed to reorient the Location Charm. She had to find Harry, and thus she refused to let herself be terrified by the near miss.

They were homing in upon a high rise of some sort in Canary Wharf. Unfortunately, the upper third of the building was totally enveloped in flame. On the side of the building nearest to them was a pile of debris upon which upon which fire fighters were pouring water. Other Muggle fire engines were nearby, but their fully extended ladders reached less than halfway to the fire. The building was completely surrounded and cordoned off by numerous pieces of other fire fighting equipment, police cars and vans, medical rescue units, and other vehicles with flashing lights that Hermione could not identify.

Electrical power was interrupted in the area. Her wandtip glowed brilliant purple, reminding her of a one of her father's UV lights. After circling the building once to confirm the location, Hermione landed the Valkyrie inconspicuously next to an old factory across the street from the building. The place was dark, and well away from the crowd of Muggle onlookers.

Both of them leapt off the Valkyrie as it landed. Hermione immediately headed towards the building at a fast clip whilst maintaining and fine tuning the Location Charm. Tonks stepped off of the broom into the semidarkness - and promptly sprained her ankle. Before Tonks could get up she was set upon by something awful and very difficult to see.…

At the sound of Tonks' screams, Hermione whirled around and saw the Auror's body disappearing under something even blacker than the surrounding shadows. Hermione hastily removed her ring from her wand, and concentrated on the moment, which now seemed like a lifetime ago, when she learnt that her parents had relented and would be allowing her to return to Hogwarts - and to Harry.

“EXPECTO PATRONUM!!”

A silver otter erupted from Hermione's wand. Instinctively sensing what its creator wanted it to do, the otter Patronus streaked for Tonks and made short work of the Lethifold, driving it away into the shadows.

“Are you all right? What was that thing doing here?” asked a panting Hermione as she pelted back to Tonks.

Tonks babbled, “I haven't the foggiest…. Someone must have released it, because they're not native…. I'll be fine - it was trying to smother me, but you stopped it in time.… Obviously.…”

As if only just then appreciating the enormity what had happened, Tonks paused. “Oh, and thanks, Hermione. You just saved my life. Wizard debt…. And where did you learn to do that? A lot of Aurors, including me, can't conjure a corporeal Patronus.”

Hermione's chest swelled, “Independent Defence study last term.… Harry taught me…. Oh Merlin, Harry!” She started to run off again.

“Wait,” commanded Tonks, as she struggled to her feet.

Hermione stopped.

Tonks pulled out her own wand and performed a Healing Charm on her ankle. It was not perfect, but it would do for now. As she did, she strategised with the impulsive younger witch.

“So where is he?” Tonks asked. “Not in there I hope?” Tonks was looking at the high rise fire.

“No,” replied Hermione. “The Location Charm indicates he's at ground level somewhere.”

Tonks thought out loud, “So either he's somewhere in this crowd, or he's.…”

“He's not in the crowd,” Hermione broke in. “If he were, Harry would be conscious, I'd feel it, and no force on earth could keep me away from him.”

Tonks looked at her. The Auror almost made a comment, but thought better of it. Best not to discuss such things with Harry still missing. Hermione was a much more powerful witch than she sometimes gave herself credit for, and Tonks needed her in a state of mind that would permit her to be of assistance.

Getting as close to the crowd of Muggles and Muggle emergency equipment as they dared, the two witches circled the burning building, getting the best read possible on Harry's precise location. Hermione was totally preoccupied with what her wand and ring were showing. She whispered out a steady string of directions and distances to Tonks.

Using her Metamorphmagus ability, Tonks had grown to almost three metres in height. With that vantage point, she realized that Hermione's figures meant that Harry had to be under the debris pile in front of the building. This was not good … not good at all….

Tonks took a deep breath, bent down and grasped Hermione's shoulder. The younger witch stopped in her tracks. Tonks motioned her into the shadow cast by a Muggle estate car with Civil Defence markings.

In the calmest voice Tonks could muster, she addressed Hermione. “I'm going to perform a spell that you don't know. I don't want you to watch. I want you to sit here and face the other way. It won't take long.”

Wordlessly, Hermione did as Tonks wished.

Tonks took another deep breath, and steadied herself. This was going to be one of the hardest things she had ever done in her life….

“What are you going to do?” came Hermione's voice from behind her.

“No questions!” Tonks commanded.

“Exorio Pervenius Corpus Harry Potter!”

Hermione gasped. From her extracurricular use of the Aural Pensieve, she knew that Tonks had performed a spell designed specifically to summon corpses. That meant Tonks must think Harry was dead. Hermione burst into bitter tears and began ripping out divots of grass with her bare hands.

Nothing happened. Tonks repeated the spell. Nothing happened again. Tonks knelt to comfort the almost hysterical girl.

“Hermione, the spell failed,” Tonks said. “You knew what it was, after all, didn't you?”

Hermione looked up and nodded. Her face was tear-stained, and her hair was now frizzed beyond any possibility of control.

Tonks continued, “If Potter is in that heap of rubble, he's not dead. If his body was anywhere in the area, that spell would have Summoned it.”

At once, Hermione was on her feet with her wand out. “That means he's alive somewhere in that pile!” She pointed her wand at the crowd.

Tonks screamed, “Hermione! Wait! What on earth are you going to do? You can't! There are too many Muggles!”

“Then we'll just have to get rid of them! I'm sick of being a witch, anyway!” Hermione wailed.

Tonks lunged at the girl, knocking her down just as Hermione cast a powerful Muggle-Repelling Charm. The spell struck the ground harmlessly in front of them, kicking up some dirt. The spell did have the beneficial effect of keeping Muggles away from the two witches as they grappled with one another on the ground.

Even with a gimpy ankle, Tonks was stronger and soon had Hermione pinned. “Listen to me!” Tonks grunted, breathing hard. “For Merlin's sake … you daft girl … use that remarkable … brain of yours…! I don't know … where Potter is …, but I'm not going to … to lose you too….” She panted. “If he's alive, you're the only one of us with any way to reach him…. You're not going to go to Azkaban for violating the Code of Wizarding Secrecy!”

Still struggling, Hermione spat back. “You bloody well do know where Harry is! You just said he's buried in that pile of rubble. He's probably dying this very instant! Let me up! We have to get him out, Muggles be damned!”

“All we know is that his ring is in that ruddy pile!” replied Tonks. “Tell me what you think Potter was doing when all this began.”

Hermione stopped struggling. She knew full well what Harry had been doing. She refused to say it, however, as if saying it aloud would confer approval and make it real. Even so, she had never considered the possibility that Harry might not be wearing his ring or even … that his attackers - if that was what had happened - might have amputated Harry's finger to get it off.

“Can I let you up now, without your making a spectacle of yourself?” Tonks asked sarcastically.

“Yes,” Hermione replied evenly. “I'm not about to start blasting Muggles out of the way or anything.”

Tonks rolled off of the girl, and they both got out of the mud and grass where they had been wallowing.

Hermione replaced her ring on her wand, as if to repeat the Location Charm. Tonks was strategising again, “Now we'll need to find some spot….”

However, Hermione had lied. She had no intent of just standing around. Immediately she incanted, “Aurorus Accio Harry Potter's ring.”

Tonks had forgotten that an Auror could summon that Auror's partner's ring in that fashion. That spell was, after all, rather obscure. But Hermione Granger never forgot a spell.

Within seconds, Harry's ring came flying to Hermione, along with Harry's wand, to which it remained firmly attached.

Snatching the wand from mid air, Hermione stared at it for a few seconds. She knew that she no longer had any idea where Harry, or his body, was. If he were alive, he was disarmed. Hermione looked up at the roaring fire and also understood as well that the Auror corpse-summoning spell would fail if the body being summoned had been destroyed - burnt to cinders, to use the example given in the lesson.

Heedless of her surroundings, Hermione collapsed in a heap, crying, muttering to herself, rocking back and forth, and holding Harry's wand tight to her chest. Her own wand lay forgotten at her side.

For a while, Tonks simply stood back, letting the younger witch grieve under her watchful eye. She could not make out what Hermione was saying, only that every third or fourth word was “Harry.”

There was a loud pop. Tonks jerked around. Nobody had Apparated. A large chunk of flaming debris had broken loose and crashed to the ground in a shower of sparks. The screaming Muggle crowd started to stampede.

“Hermione, we have to get out of here,” Tonks ordered. “It's not safe, and there's nothing more we can do.”

“Leave me then,” Hermione tearfully replied. “Perhaps it's for the best. There's nothing left for me anymore anyway.”

“Not on your life, girl,” Tonks replied, grabbing Hermione's arm. “You know more about Potter and what happened tonight than anyone else on the face of the Earth.”

Hermione yanked her arm free. “NO!” she wailed. “HE'S DEAD! I FELT HIM DIE! GO AWAY!”

“You leave me no choice,” Tonks muttered to herself, as the dying building emitted more pops and creaking sounds behind her. She pulled a cloth and a small bottle out of her robes, and doused the cloth in the sweet-smelling liquid. Without warning Tonks grasped a large handful of Hermione's wild hair in her right hand and jerked, pulling the girl's face up. With her left hand, Tonks slapped the cloth over Hermione's mouth and nose.

She struggled. Like a wildcat she struggled, scratching the Auror's face, and then letting out an otherworldly scream that Tonks swiftly muffled with the cloth.

More pieces of flaming debris were falling, crashing into vehicles and burying Muggles near the building alive. The crowd had dissolved into a fleeing mob, but it broke around Tonks and Hermione. Tonks silently thanked Hermione for the strength of her Muggle-Repelling Charm.

Within a few more seconds, the potion had worked its magic and sent the distressed girl into unconsciousness. Tonks grabbed Hermione's wand and summoned her broom with it. The Furtim Spell was so effective that Tonks did not even know that the Summoning Charm had succeeded until the Valkyrie came to a screeching halt less than a metre away. The Auror stumbled to her knees in surprise.

Tonks steadied the insensate girl on the broom in front of her as best she could, praying that broom would recognise its owner and therefore operate. The ruse worked, and Tonks was able to kick off awkwardly. The Valkyrie staggered into the air.

They were not even level with the top of the burning building when it started to drop. In seconds, the entire 35-storey structure collapsed in upon itself and fell straight down with a tremendous roar. Glowing clouds of flame, smoke, dust, and debris boiled out from the base of the building and engulfed the few unfortunate Muggles who had remained.

Staring at the scene, Tonks shed tears herself for the first time in years. She could not believe what she just witnessed. Harry Potter, light of the bloody wizard world, was probably dead - along with more Muggles than she could count. `May they rest in peace,' she thought. `And may this one find peace,' she added, nestling Hermione's inert form in her arms as best she could.

* * * *

Albus Dumbledore looked up from the parchment he was reviewing and with a concerned voice addressed a question to his visitor. “Are you certain these results are accurate, Alastor?”

“As much as I can be with anything at the ruddy Ministry, I am,” Mad-Eye Moody replied gruffly. “Because of the possibility of a mole, we used the departmental drones only fer the scut work - physically takin' the inventory. That's why everything took so blasted long. We couldn't let on that this was urgent. When that was finally done, we had trustworthy Order members cross-check the Department of Mysteries files.”

“So the prophecy concerning Mister Potter…?”

“They'll never be able ta sort out what happened.” Moody answered confidently. “The Deaters had rifled the files, and with Potter's crew destroying so many orbs…. Well, without the files, it'll impossible ta reconstruct that period.”

The Headmaster glanced back to the parchment. “And in the rest of the Hall of Prophecy, I see, there were seven prophecies in some way referencing a `T.M.R.' that turned up missing.”

“Aye, that's right,” Mad-Eye replied, “a fairly common set of initials, and there hadn't been a thorough inventory of the Hall in over 200 years. There were well over a thousand missing items altagether.”

“So that is the official report,” Dumbledore concluded. “Is there anything more … unofficial, perhaps, that I can announce at the meeting tonight?”

Mad-Eye smiled a twisted smile. “Aye, yeh've found me out.” He reached into his robe and gave his leader a sealed envelope with Order of the Phoenix insignia on it. “Fer yer eyes only….”

Dumbledore performed an intricate wand movement and the envelope popped open. His eyebrows rose as he read the contents. “So Tom left his calling card, I see?”

“Quite right … the blighter,” Moody growled. “Took a little stroll through the Hall himself, he did, before showin' himself ta everyone. With everyone otherwise engaged, he was able ta take that one personally, as it was both about him and made ta him. Then he went inta the files … a lot more neatly than his minions, I might add, erased all the information about it, and left a little something behind.”

“Explain the `something' please, Alastor,” Dumbledore wearily requested.

“'Bout what yeh'd expect…. A damned Dark Mark booby-trap,” Mad-Eye cursed. “It killed Audrey Bellmore, who had the bad luck of happening ta be cross-checking that one. Then it filled the Hall with his ruddy symbol…. We ran magical analysis on what was left, and we think it also sent a signal ta him - so it's likely that he knows somebody looked at that page.”

“So, another funeral,” the Headmaster sighed, “Were you able to find out anything more about this other prophecy?”

“Tom was thorough, have ta give him that,” growled Mad-Eye. “No idea what it was about, only that it took place sometime in the winter of 1944, given where it had been kept in the Hall's chronological storage system. We think it was the only missing `T.M.R.' that means anything, as the others predated his birth and their files were intact.”

“So, 1944, that would have been…?”

The fireplace in the Headmaster's office flared, halting the conversation. “Albus Dumbledore!” shouted a well-known voice.

From the tone of voice, it was obvious there was some sort of emergency. Dumbledore and Moody hastened to the fireplace, where Professor Snape's plainly worried face shown amongst the flames. “Severus, what is it?” Dumbledore asked insistently.

“A short while ago, the on-duty wizard for the Order network received a message from Nymphadora Tonks, marked urgent” Professor Snape recounted crisply. “She was with the Granger girl. For some reason she would not divulge, or did not know, she stated that that Miss Granger was convinced something untoward has happened to Potter. She said to tell you at once. I've tried raising Potter's guard.…” Snape practically spat out the name, “…Mundungus Fletcher. I was unable to obtain a response. Gone missing, it appears….”

The Headmaster's face paled as Snape was speaking. “Do we know where Mister Potter was?” his anxious voice inquired.

“No,” Snape sneered, “all that worthless fool wrote in the ledger book was `Potter - date.'”

Dumbledore was already on his feet, grabbing his cloak. “Sound an alarm,” he instructed. “Anybody you can find … I want all likely places checked, beginning with Privet Drive. All other available Order members are probably here, or on their way here…. And we have to find Miss Granger; she may be our only hope!”

Snape looked skeptical. “A full alert, simply on a Muggle-born's say so?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore insisted. “I shall explain later. Now go!”

There was a scraping noise above them, and another familiar voice chimed in. “I'm afraid it's going to be rather difficult to carry out your instructions, Albus.”

That brought another huge sigh from Dumbledore. “What is it, Phineas?”

“Another of my likenesses is not long for this world,” the portrait continued. “There's quite an extensive conflagration occurring this very moment in London.”

“Merlin, help us all,” Dumbledore inveighed.

“You think something's happened ta Potter?” Mad-Eye asked.

“Totally convinced, Alastor,” the Headmaster replied quickly, throwing the cloak over his shoulders and making for the door. “If Miss Granger sensed it, it has undoubtedly already occurred…. To the Room! I will explain on the way….”

* * * *

For several minutes, Tonks flew the Valkyrie in a vaguely southeast direction, away from all the fire. It occurred to her that she had no idea where she was going. Crossing over the M25, Tonks started looking for a suitably Muggle-free place to set down. She spotted a golf course and came in for a landing in a spinney of trees near the sixth hole. At two in the morning, and with disaster unfolding in London, it was predictably deserted.

Tonks enervated Hermione. Thankfully she was quiet, almost too quiet, after her ordeal. Leaving Hermione in the shadows, she moved towards the edge of the copse, activated the distress function on her own Auror's ring, lit her wand - and waited. Tonks had never felt so exhausted in her life. She was too tired to wonder why the girl had not followed.

The wait was not long. In less than ten minutes there was a resounding POP and Mad-Eye Moody appeared. He was in his own distinctive combat position - his good knee flexed, body bent over, wooden leg splayed out in front, and arms extended. He looked as if he had expected to Apparate into a furious firefight rather than into the absolute stillness of a fairway in the wee hours of the morning.

“TONKS! WHERE ARE YEH?” Moody bellowed. He started to perform the Location Charm using his own ring.

Tonks felt too weak to yell back. She started waving her lighted wand tip.

There were additional pops as other members of the Order appeared, all with their wands out. Lupin, Hagrid (with an umbrella instead of a wand), Snape, Arthur Weasley, Professor McGonagall.

Silently Headmaster Dumbledore arrived. He took one look at the scene and made a sweeping motion with his wand. A great ball of light appeared, turning night into day for several hundred metres.

Moody had finally managed his Location Charm. He turned in the correct direction and saw Tonks waving at him.

“THERE,” he rasped out. Everyone ran over at once, except Dumbledore, who silently Apparated to Tonks' side.

“What happened?” the Headmaster asked. His expression radiated concern. “I received word that you were making inquiries about Mister Potter.”

Tonks appeared startled, but answered as best she could. “I'm not altogether sure. We think Potter was attacked whilst he was with … his girlfriend. Now we don't know where he is, or even … if he still is….” Tonks stopped short.

“I see,” Dumbledore said. “Mister Potter was scheduled to see Miss Brookings this evening, but beyond that we are at a loss. We cannot find Mundungus, and Mister Potter did not return to his relatives this evening as expected. We are all quite concerned. What can you tell us?”

“Almost everything I know is second hand from Hermione,” Tonks gestured to where that girl was, waiting for her to jump in. When no interruption was forthcoming, Tonks glanced her way. Hermione shrunk back, so Tonks continued. “We flew to the place where she said Potter was, and searched, but we didn't find him.…”

“I'm afraid we don't have all night to listen to this side show,” Snape interrupted harshly.

“But we do…,” contradicted Dumbledore.

“…Do you have any concrete proof that anything has happened to Potter?” Snape incredulously asked both the Headmaster and Tonks. “Perhaps he and his….”

“I bloody well do!” Tonks cut off Snape heatedly.

After all that had happened, she was in no mood to be disparaged by a former Death Eater. Tonks reached inside her robes and found Harry's wand. As she was removing it, she felt Harry's ring. She pulled the ring off and kept it hidden as she withdrew the wand.

“We have this.” Tonks produced Harry's wand, still in its tattered wrist holster, and pointed it directly at Snape.

“Then it is true,” Dumbledore pronounced. “Mister Potter is missing, if not worse. Where did you find his wand?”

“The credit for that belongs to Hermione,” Tonks declared. Their flight through the flames had been Hermione's show, and Tonks felt it was high time for her to take over the narrative.

All eyes turned to Hermione. Snape lit his wand and illuminated her. The small crowd of wizards gasped. This was not the Hermione Granger they knew.

She was dirty, disheveled - almost feral - and she was wild-eyed with fear. On all fours, she tried to scuttle away, to hide behind a tree. She said nary a word.

“Enough,” Dumbledore intoned. “Minerva, Tonks … see if you can reach Miss Granger. Everyone else move away … over here.” The Headmaster led the rest in a retreat from Hermione.

Tonks and McGonagall slowly approached the panicked girl, who continued recoiling from them. She was mutely shaking her head as if indicating “no,” but still refusing to say anything. Finally, after both of them had tried to get through to Hermione without success, McGonagall achieved a moderate breakthrough.

“Miss Grange … Hermione? Do you know who I am?” whispered Professor McGonagall.

The girl had backed up against a tree. Her wild, unfocussed eyes stared back blankly for the longest time; then she slowly nodded her head.

Lowering herself painfully on ageing knees, McGonagall choked out, “You're my star student, Hermione…. The best I've ever had. I can't conceive of what you must have just gone through, but I want you to know that it's over. You're safe now. You believe me, don't you?”

Hermione hesitated, plainly uncertain. Then that unnerving blank stare started to dissipate. She nodded, slowly, once more.

“Good. Now you can't stay here, and I don't think you would want to anyway,” McGonagall continued. “The best thing for you to do would be to go home and rest….”

McGonagall stopped short, as Hermione's look of glassy-eyed terror returned. The now thoroughly unglued witch was shrinking away again, creeping around towards the backside of the tree and shaking her head vigorously.

“That wasn't a good idea, was it?” McGonagall soothed, trying hard not to lose the foothold she had gained into Hermione's extremely fragile mental state. “Would you like to go to Hogwarts, then? You know it's the safest place there is.”

Hermione's eyes darted all around, as if comprehending her present surroundings for the first time. Finally she nodded affirmatively.

McGonagall beamed at her. Tentatively the professor held out her hand. Just as tentatively, Hermione took it. McGonagall stood up slowly and coaxed the girl to her feet as well. Never letting go of her student's hand, McGonagall gently led Hermione to where Dumbledore and the others were gathered. Hermione shrunk back as the two of them approached the group. Professor McGonagall could feel her resistance.

Dumbledore saw what was happening and broke away from the others. Mad-Eye Moody followed, his magical eye whirling and taking everything in - but he stayed well behind Dumbledore nonetheless. Tonks started to follow Moody.

“I need your gentlest Portkey to Hogwarts,” Professor McGonagall told the Headmaster, “and one for me as well.”

“Thank you, Minerva,” Dumbledore said to his deputy. Addressing Hermione, Dumbledore spoke softly, “I cannot tell you how or why, but it is my unalterable belief that Mister Potter is still with us - somewhere. I give you my solemn word that, just as I brought you back from Hong Kong, I shall retrieve Mister Potter from wherever he is.”

Hermione said nothing, but both her demeanour and the tears flowing from her eyes suggested considerable disbelief.

Dumbledore handed Professor McGonagall two Portkeys.

“Please alert Poppy,” McGonagall added. “I want Miss Granger to have the best medical care possible.”

Dumbledore responded, “I have already informed Poppy that she should be ready for casualties. Tonks' signal was enough. You will find everything in readiness upon your return.”

After Hermione and McGonagall disappeared, Dumbledore turned to Mad-Eye and asked, “What do you think?”

“Shell shock,” he replied sadly. “One of the worst cases I've ever seen outside of an actual battlefield.”

“I can only imagine what she must have seen and felt,” replied Dumbledore.

“I can do more than bloody imagine,” Tonks broke in fiercely. “Hermione told me that she felt Potter die…. That's what I said - die. She's given up. You'll never convince her otherwise.”

Dumbledore started to respond. But Tonks was just getting started. “And what is the meaning of permitting her to maintain a direct link to Potter's emotions? You could have killed her! You almost have….”

“I'm afraid I was too indulgent of Miss Granger's wishes,” conceded Dumbledore. “Mister Potter deferred to her on that question, and so did I. She thought she would be able to help Mister Potter through his depressed periods, but unfortunately the affinity became a source of depression for her.”

“I frankly don't think it's depression,” Professor Snape interrupted, his voice rising indignantly. “It's post-traumatic stress syndrome. Further, I agree with Tonks! Allowing Granger to have totally unsupervised access to Potter's mind in an uncontrolled fashion was inordinately dangerous. I've seen enough of his memories to know just what a mess that boy's mind truly is.”

Dumbledore cut Snape off. “Enough, Severus! I accept that I have erred. But your mind is little, if any, better. If you had been able to overcome your own emotions and help the boy, perhaps all of us would now be better off. I suggest that we all await Poppy's diagnosis.”

“Shell shock, depression, post traumatic whatever,” pressed Tonks. “Label it any way you want, I don't care. She's the way she is because she believes Potter's dead, she felt that happen, and she feels responsible for it - although I haven't the foggiest notion why. You must understand…. She was extremely close to Potter.”

Dumbledore looked at Tonks with slightly raised eyebrows.

“Extremely close,” Tonks reiterated. “I've been her regular handler now for weeks, and at this point nobody knows Hermione like I do.”

Dumbledore's eyes grew especially thoughtful for a moment, as he tented his long fingers together in front of a morose frown. Finally he responded.

“Very well. If that is so, then I am afraid someone has been extraordinarily mistaken - either you, Tonks, or Mister Potter. If the mistake was Mister Potter's, then I suspect that I have failed him on an even more profound level than I have yet supposed. I can only hope that I am granted a chance to redeem myself.”

“All this woolgathering may be quite touching to some,” Snape groused impatiently. “But at this point, I suggest that that we retire to Hogwarts and sort out exactly what happened tonight.”

“By all means go ahead,” Dumbledore agreed. “I am afraid I shall not be able to join you for some time. I have to brief the Minister.”

* * * *

Nobody - except Hermione - got any sleep that night. The core group, along with a constantly changing roster of other Order members, closeted themselves at Hogwarts, debating the significance of what had happened, and trying to make sense of what little they knew.

Tonks was profoundly concerned for Hermione. In retrospect the Auror felt that, to save her life, she had resorted to a level of physical force that was probably altogether too rough for the girl's delicate psyche. Tonks believed that her actions were the final push that sent Hermione over the edge. Less than good naturedly, Tonks submitted to Snape's Legilimency in order to provide exact details of what the scene at Harry's last known location had been at the earliest moment possible.

As the night pushed on towards dawn, bits of additional information became available. These generally confirmed Tonks' second-hand description of what Hermione had experienced. Muggle sources were able to confirm that the building to which Hermione had been drawn by the homing power of her ring was indeed the residence of Eliza Brookings.

Snape drew Tonks' first sight of the structure out of his own mind and placed it in a pensieve for everyone to contemplate. Amongst the flames, there was a multi-storey hole in one side of the building. This supported the Muggle authorities' conclusion that the tower block had been struck by one of the falling jet engines - although the site was still too hot and dangerous to search for physical evidence.

That two engines could simultaneously fall off a commercial Muggle aeroplane was itself highly unlikely. That the engines could just happen to follow diverse, internally inconsistent trajectories was utterly implausible. That one of those engines would seek out Harry Potter and the other would target the Ministry of Magic was simply not within the realm of chance.

What had happened was plainly a magical attack of a magnitude nobody in the Order had contemplated. If one large aeroplane part could ignite a fire that could collapse a 35-storey block of flats, more than one person at Hogwarts that night shuddered to think of what an entire aeroplane could do. No Muggle structure in the world could withstand such a blow. Even Hogwarts' wards might not be enough.

Word also came that an Order search party had located the communication band and a few other items belonging to Mundungus Fletcher. There was no sign of the wizard himself.

There was plenty of second-guessing of the decision that Fletcher would be Harry's primary watcher when he was seeing Miss Brookings. True, Dung did have more Muggle street smarts than anyone else in the Order, and he had developed a rapport with Harry. Nevertheless, many viewed Fletcher as just too unreliable and believed that, to save his own hide, he had abandoned his post when things started happening.

Hagrid was not one of those skeptics. Hearing Tonks' description of her encounter with a Lethifold, Hagrid thought that Dung had also been attacked. “Tha's not their normal nature,” the Care of Magical Creatures professor insisted. “They usually attack only sleepers. But once they've made a successful attack, Lethifolds go inna feedin' frenzy - like sharks. I'll betcha anythin' tha' we never see poor Dung again. So stop badmouthin' `im….”

Everyone present agreed that there had been an attack, but there were two distinct schools of thought about who might be responsible. A majority of the group, led by Mad-Eye Moody, blamed Death Eaters. The attack itself had all the hallmarks of major Death Eater activity - except one. There was no Dark Mark.

Supporters of Mad-Eye's theory emphasized that Harry Potter was the all-time number one Death Eater target - and nobody could dispute that. The attack was well planned and thought out, and displayed an utter insensitivity to human, particularly Muggle, life that was characteristic of Death Eaters. Equally important, the magic used to carry out the attack was concealed from Ministry detection, even before the Ministry evacuation. Only Death Eaters, or those with post-N.E.W.T. skill in Defence, could hide their magic like that.

If it were a Death Eater attack, then Hermione had been mistaken. She had not felt Harry die. No Death Eater would be so bold as to kill Harry Potter. Potter's demise was well known to be Voldemort's sole prerogative. The Dark Lord, however, did not deign to visit Muggle areas. He left that to his underlings. Thus, Harry would have been abducted.

The select few who knew the prophecy understood that only Harry and the Dark Lord were capable of destroying one another - but even now they kept that knowledge secret - out of deference to Dumbledore, and especially out of deference to Harry. They knew the significance of that aspect of the prophecy.

A Death Eater operation meant that there had been a kidnapping, and that Harry was probably still alive - albeit in mortal peril. None of the Order members knew where Voldemort was currently concealing himself, not even Professor Snape. They were looking at a massive intelligence and search effort.

The minority, led by the aforementioned Professor Snape, insisted that any attack of this spectacular nature would have been heralded by not one, but several, Dark Marks. Death Eaters never hid their handiwork; instead they flaunted it. That was one of the reasons that Voldemort's minions were so terrifying.

Further, if there had been a Death Eater operation of this magnitude in the works, Professor Snape insisted that he would have known about it. Snape's skills at espionage were as unimpeachable as his skills as a Potionsmaster. If the Death Eaters had thought that Snape was untrustworthy, they would not have gone through the effort to hide something this big from him. Rather, they would have killed him outright and been done with it.

If not Death Eaters, then whom? That was the key question that Professor Snape had trouble answering. The obvious other possibility was someone aligned with the Malfoy family, since Harry Potter had emerged as a rival claimant to a great deal of money - more than enough to make an attempt on the boy's life worthwhile….

“In fact,” Professor Snape revealed, “I have been alive to that possibility. I have been surreptitiously keeping track of both Narcissa and Draco Malfoy - for precisely this reason.”

“And a lot of good it's done,” Arthur Weasley groaned.

“Perhaps true - but at least I've been doing something constructive,” Snape spat back. “What I can tell you is that Narcissa had gone well around the twist, and often has trouble stringing two coherent sentences together. But in one of her more lucid moments, she notified me, as Head of Slytherin House, that Draco was withdrawing from Hogwarts and would be transferring to Durmstrang. I rather suspect that if he were actively seeking to do in Potter, Draco would not have fled to the other side of the continent.”

Draco Malfoy's withdrawal from Hogwarts was news to most of the Order - fairly trivial news, in light of what had happened, but news nonetheless.

Snape continued, “Unlike Hogwarts - barring emergencies - Durmstrang accepts transfer students. It even has an early orientation programme for them. In full view of numerous witches and wizards, Narcissa saw Draco off late last week.”

“`Ow can yeh be so ruddy sure that ever'thin' was on the up-and-up?” Hagrid pointedly asked.

“Because, just to be sure, I made discreet inquiry both with sources in the Ministry and my personal acquaintances at Durmstrang,” Snape explained. “I have verified that Draco did indeed arrive - predictably sullen and standoffish … but there nonetheless…. I'll check again right now if you wish”

Snape got up, and with his long cape trailing behind him, left. Later, he reported that, although his Ministry source had long since retired for the evening and could not be reached, Snape's personal contact at the Varangian school had confirmed visually that Draco Malfoy was at that moment asleep in his room.

Whilst Professor Snape had some powerful debating points, he was ultimately unable to offer a plausible alternative set of suspects. Thus when the meeting broke up around dawn, the Order's marching orders were to search out and engage Death Eaters wherever possible.

Snape made it a point to drop by Dumbledore's office after the meeting finally adjourned. The Headmaster was working on his own official statement on the matter, since the news of Harry's disappearance had become public overnight. Snape had equally immediate concerns.

“You know Albus,” Snape began, “my hypothesis will soon be put to the test. I sincerely hope that I am mistaken.”

“And why is that, Severus?” Dumbledore replied.

“Since the arrests at the Ministry, the Dark Lord is seriously understaffed,” Snape observed. “He has been forced to rely more and more on those shadowy foreign mercenaries. I suspect that, if the Dark Lord doesn't have Potter, he will be every bit as eager to try and find the boy as we are. He may decide that everyone, including myself, is to be recalled to active duty.”

“That would be a great shame, Severus,” Dumbledore observed. “At that point you would be faced with a stark choice.”

“I only wish it were truly a choice,” Snape responded.

“True,” Dumbledore concurred, “but you of all people appreciate the importance of young Mister Potter to our enterprise.”

“Regrettably, I do,” Snape conceded. “Therefore, I am prepared to execute Plan B if it becomes necessary. It is likely that the ingrate Potter will not know of my sacrifice until it is over.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Dumbledore, “you underestimate the boy. He did, after all, hold out an olive branch to you earlier.”

Snape blanched. His wizard debt to Potter's father was bad enough. He did not want to owe anything else to Potter - ever. “In any event, I am ready,” he declared.

“In that eventuality, I shall do what we agreed was necessary to provide you with the cover you would require,” Dumbledore assured Snape. “But I also assure you that should you be forced to make the supreme sacrifice, there will be a remembrance, and the true nature of your effort will be known and celebrated.”

Snape gave a contemptuous wave of his hand. “Spare me, Albus,” Snape sneered, as they reached the gargoyle that guarded the entrance to Dumbledore's office. “It is enough that the Dark Lord be defeated.”

“In that case,” Dumbledore affirmed, “we had best get to work finding young Mister Potter.”

* * * *

Author notes: Airline/aircraft information is accurate, down to the flight number. London-Singapore is the longest non-stop flight in the world

Description of the Falklands war is accurate

The flight route over the London environs is plausible, but contrary to normal air traffic flow

Co-pilot Bush is of Horatio Hornblower fame

“God in heaven” line is from Bloodrock's “DOA”

Omelette/eggs quote is ascribed to both Lenin and Stalin

Timing of sound following light is accurate from Contact's location to areas stated

There is a huge clue here hidden in plain sight. Miss it and you'll wait a year for me to tell you directly

Outfly ones beaters means to go out unprotected as in “outrun the coverage,” an American football term

“Awful sound” of the collapse of a burning building, from “Smoke on the Water” by Deep Purple

The event that ruined Dung's life, hinted at several times previously, is revealed

Camilla is now likely to be Queen

“Dazed and Confused” is a Led Zeppelin song

Kings College is a hospital near Knightsbridge

Hunters in the USA wear blaze orange

Hermione's use of math is reasonably accurate

Limehouse Reach is a part of the Thames

Bellmore is a company that sells me stamps

The first bit about a second, earlier prophecy is revealed

M-25 is the London orbital road

“What an entire aeroplane could do” - a reference to 9/11

Varangian - nobody knows exactly where in Eastern Europe Durmstrang is. The Varangians were Viking offshoots who helped establish the first nascent Russian state in Kiev

44

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch28 trial by fire.doc 12/05/04

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29. Purgatory

Wherein Hogwarts wins the Quidditch final under the cloud of Harry's disappearance, Cho ponders her life, Dumbledore gives the Durlseys and Minister Fudge the bad news, Fudge tries to resign, Moody does, and McGonagall threatens to, the conspirators imprison Harry, Harry is woken up and fed, Tonks and Hermione perform an Auror tradition, Voldemort learns of the kidnapping, the Dursleys pack Harry's things, Snape is summoned, Hermione senses that Harry is still alive, the affinity is not severed, McGonagall learns the prophecy, the French declare war, Hermione goes to the Order's new headquarters, learns that Harry was being truthful, and reaches an agreement with Dumbledore, and the Twins move Harry's things to Hogwarts.

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

Chapter 29 - Purgatory

It was supposed to be Ron's day. He was de facto captain of a Hogwarts team that had played its way into the final game of an international interscholastic Quidditch championship. Everyone was going to be there watching him (oh, and Ginny, too), including his dad - who was skiving off from some overseas diplomatic mission - Hermione, his brothers, and even Ludo Bagman, the Ministry's Head of Magical Sports and Games. More importantly, Harry was going to be there … watching him, cheering him on, rather than vice versa. It was about time. Ron's chest swelled with justifiable pride.

Just as thrilling, but in a different way, Ron knew he was about to be playing in front of a baker's dozen of professional Quidditch talent-spotters - representing real teams this time, not just the Italian (read, bush) League. Fred and George had even told him a couple of days ago that someone from the Chudley Cannons would be present. Maybe they were taking the mickey out of him, but maybe not. Ron was hopeful just the same.

It was not to be.

Ron's grand illusion vanished when he and Ginny went to the cafeteria before the match to greet what they expected would be a horde of well wishers. There was no horde, and what wishers there were appeared anything but well. Instead, they met their puffy-eyed mum, who looked like she had not slept in a week, and brother Charlie, who was unusually grim-faced. He was still in his dragon-rider leathers.

“Ginny…. Ron.… Oh, sweet Merlin, this is the hardest….” Molly could continue no further. She gathered her two youngest into a smothering hug, and shook with sobs.

From around his mother's heaving form, Ron saw Charlie manfully maintaining a stiff upper lip. “Charlie, what's happened?” Ron croaked out.

“You'd best sit down,” Charlie directed. “It's not good news.”

“That much, I've gathered,” Ron muttered from within his mum's tight embrace. With difficulty the two of them prised their mum off Ron and made their way to the nearby tables and chairs. After everyone was seated, Charlie continued.

“Last night, there was some kind of huge attack, mostly on Muggle London…. Caused what they're saying was biggest fire in several hundred years. Death Eaters, we think, although nobody's quite sure….”

Although taken quite aback, Ron could not believe that any such attack - however large - could cause his mum to collapse like that. Molly was ordinarily a tower of strength, and after all, it was only Muggles. “All right, but it's Muggles…. After the Ministry, we knew the Death Eaters would try something big to get back.…”

“Ron! Just listen, will you?” Charlie snapped. “We think that was all a diversion.… They.… They attacked Harry.… Got him too.…”

“Harry?” Ron blinked. “What about.… What…? Harry?”

After an anguished sigh, Charlie tried again. “Harry's probably dead, Ron.” That finally said, Charlie sank back into his chair, and allowed the tears to flow, exhausted with the effort.

Ginny gasped loudly, began wailing herself, and quickly buried her head in her mother's chest. Ron was floored - mouth-hanging-open speechless. Charlie sat there silently, shaking his head, trying to recover his own composure, and letting cold reality sink in.

“D-D-Dead?” Ron echoed incredulously. He had trouble believing his ears. Harry was, after all, indestructible! He couldn't die! For Merlin's sake, he was the right bloody Boy Who Lived!

Charlie was the only one who answered, as both Molly and Ginny were still sobbing in each other's arms.

“Yes, dead,” Charlie repeated. “As in gone … forever. That's a long time, Ron.”

“Oh … fuck.…” Ron choked out. WHAM!! He slammed his hand into the table, splintering the Formica covering. The sound reverberated throughout the large room.

The noise only made Ginny sob harder. Charlie had to restrain Ron from putting his fist through the first available wall.

In a firmer voice, Charlie gave his siblings, and other early-morning diners attracted by the commotion, what little information was publicly available. “Nobody knows much…. One of those Muggle aeroplanes, a big one, went down in the City. At almost the same time, Harry disappeared. I don't even know where he was…. It's all being kept hush, hush….”

“You mean … he might just be missing…?” Ron asked, with just the slightest hope creeping into his voice.

“Not bloody likely,” Charlie grunted. “I'm told that the building he was in burnt to the ground … and Mundungus, who was watching him for … for our side, is also missing and presumed dead.”

“That's a lot of missing persons,” Ron began before Charlie cut him off.

“There was a lot of destruction,” he replied. “Naturally, the Ministry is on full alert - and at the same time in fully as much chaos as you might expect. Dad's a victim of all the mayhem. He can't be spared at the moment, even to watch you and Gin play for a championship. The ruddy crisis has international as well as domestic repercussions. He's in France….”

“Isn't … Isn't anybody going to do anything … for Harry?” Ron understandably asked.

“I'm afraid there's not much that can be done for Harry,” Charlie replied sadly. “The opponents of You-Know-Who,” (another euphemism for the Order, given the onlookers) “are also mobilising, but you know how it is - a day late and a Galleon short, as usual. The Twins are part of that now….”

That meant that the Twins were also too busy to attend something as trivial as a Quidditch match. Ron groaned. “Are … are the rest of my mates okay?” he asked.

Molly finally spoke. “Neville's here. Talked to him on the way in.… I expect Luna's all right. She lives near us … away from London. Hermione … oh Merlin.… I just know she's supposedly … with friends. I have no idea where….”

Ron and Ginny looked at one another. They both knew that, wherever she was, Hermione would be in a right state. They had no idea how right they were.

After about five minutes, Molly and Charlie's meagre store of knowledge was exhausted. Charlie summed up with a brief “and that's all we know for now,” and lapsed into morose silence.

Shoulders slumping after his initial hot rush of anger had burnt itself out, Ron beseeched nobody in particular, “What are we going to do now?”

“That's what you have to figure out,” Charlie replied grimly. “I gather that you're team captain, so you better decide toot sweet what you're going to suggest.”

“C'mon Gin, let's go,” Ron directed.

By this time Ginny had cried herself out, and she wanted solace of her own. “But … I want to see Neville!” she protested.

“Neville will still be here after we decide what to do,” Ron growled. “This is more important.”

Ron was right. The match was why Neville was here - why everyone was here. Ginny nodded, and after taking a moment to repair her tear-streaked face, followed. The sibling teammates left for the dressing room not having eaten a bite.

The first thing Ron did after regathering his wits was to call the team together. He explained what had happened, and offered everyone the opportunity to forfeit the match and return to Britain and their families.

“So that's everything I know,” Ron concluded. “We have to decide whether to play or to forfeit. My vote is to play, but I'm so overwhelmed right now, I could easily go the other way. The King will abide the wishes of the majority.”

“I think we should go home,” Cho volunteered. “I don't think my heart's in it … after what's happened.”

“We should play,” Ginny disagreed. “No matter what, Hogwarts Quidditch doesn't quit. That's what Harry would want. He never missed a game he was allowed to play in….”

“Actually, I agree with Weasley, much as I hate to admit it,” Moose Montague chimed in. Everyone turned to look at him. He was a Slytherin. He rarely said much. And it was common knowledge that he, like most of those in his House, despised Harry Potter. “Yeah, I think he was just about the biggest git that's ever been born - Dumbledore's pet and all…. But I wouldn't wish that on anybody…. And damned if he did turn out to be right … much as I still can't believe it.”

The other Slytherin Chaser, Adrian Pucey, also spoke in favor of playing. “I can't stand Potter, but he never quit, and that's one reason he's beat us so often. So I say play … no forfeits … and let's kick some Durmstrang arse!”

Whoops and hollers followed Pucey's declaration, and the decision to play passed by acclamation.

Ron slid onto a bench beside his girlfriend. “Cho … if you're not up to it…. It's no disgrace. I can move Ginny to Seeker….”

“No!” Cho protested loudly. “I can … play…. Ginny's our best Chaser, and we have to field our best team. If we play, we play to win!”

Thus, the team elected to play in order to show everyone that Hogwarts - Harry's school - was not going to surrender in the face of this disaster.

That decided, Ginny Transfigured athletic tape into black headbands emblazoned with golden lightning bolts for the entire team to wear. For herself, Ron, and Katie Bell, the Gryffindors on the team, she added a gold “7” - Harry's number - on a red background.

The team eschewed the usual practice of individual introductions. Instead, the entire Hogwarts team, starters and reserves, burst onto the Elsinore pitch together, holding hands. Cho conjured a magnificent image of a dragon to lead the team out. The Ravenclaws contributed a banner that read “For England, Harry, and St. George,” which the Hufflepuffs had managed affix to the dragon's tail. The team circled the pitch in that fashion.

Once the whistle sounded, the Hogwarts team played like demons. Durmstrang never had a chance, and was inexorably handed the worst thrashing of the entire playoff series.

Ron was so heedless of his own safety that he became virtually unstoppable in ring. Early in the contest he accidentally - instinctively was more like it - invented a move that nobody, not even the pro talent spotters, had ever seen before. To change directions abruptly in response to a quick pass, he hooked the side of the left-hand ring with his elbow, spun around, and whipped through the ring mouth itself in the opposite direction. The abrupt change caused him to lose his balance.

He ended up in the Starfish and Stick position for the first time in his career - and still made the block. The play caused a five-minute delay in play as the Durmstrang team screamed for a foul. There was nothing in the rulebook against it. There was no Flacking, since Ron was no longer in the ring mouth itself by the time of the block. Thus, the block stood.

That uncanny feat set the tone for the match that followed.

Ron was not the only one playing on instinct. It was showtime for Ginny as well. Her no-look passing from the Point Chaser's position was equally preternatural. She feinted and weaved across the pitch, drawing the opposing Chasers and Keeper towards her. Then, she would glance at Pucey or Montague, fake a pass in that direction, and in the same motion whip the Quaffle behind her back or over her head for a Reverse Pass to the other - for an easy shot against the now out-of-position Keeper. Zeb Bradley, a reserve Ravenclaw Chaser who grew up Muggle-born in America, gave Ginny the nickname “Magic” that day - and it stuck.

The game was over long before it ended, because the Snitch proved to be particularly elusive. The score was 320-20, before it ever made an appearance. The rout would have been worse, except Pucey and Montague (and later Bradley and Bell, inserted once the game was well in hand) had trouble anticipating and handling Ginny's seemingly impossible, but spot on, passes. They must have fumbled away another dozen easy scoring opportunities.

When Cho finally spotted the Snitch, so did the Durmstrang Beaters - the Durmstrang Seeker being at the opposite end of the pitch. Both of them launched Bludgers at Cho as she streaked for the Snitch. Tabitha Moon, a Hufflepuff Beater, deflected one of them by throwing her bat at it, but the other Hogwarts Beater was caught out of position by the Snitch's sudden appearance. Just as it seemed that Cho would have to swerve to avoid the oncoming object, Ginny flashed in from out of nowhere on her Firebolt and took the Bludger solidly in her ribs. She left no doubt in anyone's mind that she could have committed a Shitchnip if she had wanted to.

Cho caught the Snitch to end the almost four-hour game at 470-20.

When Ron led the rest of the subdued-but-celebratory team into the Elsinore infirmary, the Healer on duty had already been to work on Ginny's midsection, and her three broken ribs were well on the way to being healed. Thus, Ron walked in on his sister deep in conversation with Neville Longbottom.

“Hey Gin,” Ron said, holding out small bits of paper. “Do you want this? I was talking with this talent spotter from the Tutshill Tornadoes, and he asked me to give you one of these, too.… And here's another one, from somebody with the Holyhead Harpies….”

The two of them turned around to face Ron. Neville's normally rather ruddy complexion was ashen-faced. Ginny had obviously told him what she knew about Harry's disappearance. But Ginny was red-faced enough for the both of them.

“Ron! I'm simply not interested in any of that right now!” Ginny barked at her older brother. “We've just had the mother of all disasters, and you're going on about Quidditch….”

“But that was sort of the idea behind playing….” Ron protested feebly.

The subject was soon forgotten altogether when the first question out of Neville's mouth was whether Ron was planning to do anything “about Harry.” Ron could offer Neville neither solace nor direction, since the news was almost unrelievedly bad (“They say he's dead. I'm not sure there's much we could do about that.”). Ron had been focussed on the game, and thought Harry's situation was over their heads in any event (“Dunno, mate, King's not had much time to think about that…. Grown up work, don't you think…?”).

The only hopeful sign - if one could call it that - was the absence of a corpse. Neville stubbornly maintained that “until somebody shows me his body, I'm not going to believe it.” Privately, Neville worried whether the cup of the prophecy would pass to him if Harry died. He knew bits … and one bit was profoundly disturbing to him. Neville shakily declared that he was going to try to contact Dumbledore, and if the Headmaster was too busy, Hermione.

“Well … I don't think we can merely leave it at that. There might be something that we can do … because we know him better than anyone else…. We just can't let him go.” Neville declared. “I'm going to try to reach Dumbledore, and if I can't, I'm going to owl Hermione. If anyone knows what to do, she will….”

All the while looking Ron squarely in the eye - daring him to say anything - Ginny defiantly squeezed Neville's hand as the two boys spoke. “Where Neville goes, I'm going,” she stated grimly. Ron made no comments, snide or otherwise. Instead, he acquiesced. Equally grimly, Ron asked Neville to let him know if he found out any way for them to be useful.

“Do that, Nev…. If anything comes of it, let me know, and I'll help….”

On this distinctly sombre note, the Hogwarts team bid each other adieu for the remainder of their holiday. They would see each other again at Hogwarts in little more than two weeks. Parting was particularly sweet sorrow for Ron and Cho. He would have preferred to continue spending his every free moment with her. But between Cho's travel plans and his need to hide the depth of their relationship from his parents, Ron had no choice but to submit to a period of enforced separation.

* * * *

Cho's thoughts as she left Denmark were filled with the most mixed emotions of all. Six years ago, when she first received her Hogwarts letter, her very traditional father had almost not let her go. Hogwarts was a Western place, and her father was very much old-school Confucian. Yan Fu finally resolved his doubts by inscribing upon her the ancestral charmed Xiao Jing (filial piety) family tattoo as a condition of her attendance.

Then nothing happened for some five years. Yan Fu never invoked the charm - even when she did things (like date Cedric) of which he disapproved. For some unfathomable reason that changed just after her relationship (if it could be called that) with Harry ended. Her double life in Amsterdam, under the pretext of taking extra training in “Chinese magic,” began almost immediately. Her father had insisted, and filial piety meant that there was no disobeying him.

Although she had no evidence, from the timing she could not help but suspect that her dramatic twist of fate had something to do with Harry. Yan Fu had been as supportive of that dalliance as he had been disapproving of her deeper involvement with Cedric Diggory. He had expressed his disapproval of Cedric in racial terms, although Harry was just as much a da bidze gweilo (big nosed foreign devil) as Cedric.

To try to please her father, Cho had even written to Harry after the events at the Ministry. Although she felt that she had practically prostrated herself before her ex in that letter, Harry's return note had been infuriatingly noncommittal. That was the end of that.

With Yan Fu's somewhat surprising acquiescence, Cho conceded that Harry was beyond reach, and decided to make do with Harry's best friend. Happily, Ron had turned out to be a caring and excellent lover, even if he had a penchant for ill-chosen remarks that often infuriated her.

Whilst she resolutely stayed away from Harry after taking up with Ron, she did hedge her bets a bit, sending Harry a birthday present that contained a clue. Cho was uncertain where she fitted in her father's plans, and those plans increasingly frightened her. If things became too much for her to handle, she had still entertained the wild hope that Harry might figure out the clue and come for her. Now he was gone.

Cho was decidedly of two minds about her secret life (conducted, as was routine, under a pseudonym). She made a great deal of money, all of which Yan Fu allowed her to keep - but was afraid of ruining herself. As her star rose, her activities grew progressively less degrading, although she had learnt a wide variety of spells to deal with that. Her activities remained thoroughly scandalous. On the plus side, the physical release was exhilarating and she found a bizarre form of validation in being the object of such obvious and widespread desire.

From texts that her father had commanded that she learn, Cho was mastering various magical erotic techniques. These spells kept her anatomically intact, but had the odd effect of changing her eye colour during the act. Of equal significance, they enabled her to coax remarkable feats of sexual performance from her Muggle partners, although not without cost. Sometimes the techniques had debilitating effects on them. Three of her “male leads” suffered sustained ventricular fibrillation within a few hours of their sessions. Those incidents, combined with her unique skills, increased her notoriety - earning her the monikers “Yellow Widow,” or “Lady Deathstrike” (when she magicked her fingernails) in the blatantly racist terms of the industry. This Muggle renown, of course, engendered additional commercial success.

She brought up the deaths with Yan Fu because she thought the magic was too strong for Muggles. He dismissed her concerns with a shrug, and told her not to worry. But she disobeyed. Her worries only increased. She sensed she was a pawn in some greater game she did not comprehend. Her father had always been mysterious - she had no idea what he did with the “export business” he ran - but now that mystery was thoroughly tinged with fear.

Cho wondered - hope and fear mixing together - if anything would change with Harry's disappearance.

* * * *

Back in England, the Order was slowly coming to grips with the magnitude of the disaster that had just happened. Fires continued to rage in London, although the Muggles finally managed to stem their spread by using explosives to create firebreaks - the first time since the Blitz. One engine from the stricken airliner had been discovered in the rubble of the building that Tonks had identified as the last known location of Harry Potter. Consequently, the Muggles were not granting access to that site to anyone.

Harry's personal fate remained a mystery. The Order had dispatched several post owls to him, but none had gotten through. Since post owls could deliver mail even when the recipient's address was unknown, their failure to reach Harry was not a good sign. Owls could deliver to almost anyone - except the dead.

Dumbledore himself led the sepulchral delegation that informed the Dursleys of Harry's apparent fate. Professor McGonagall and Remus Lupin (who cut short yet another visit to the Orient) accompanied him. Mad-Eye Moody and Tonks provided additional security, but remained outside and out of sight, for once mindful of the Dursleys' sensibilities.

Uncle Vernon took the news with relative equanimity, but Aunt Petunia had a hard time holding back tears. This came as a surprise to McGonagall and Lupin, who both expected that she would barely contain her joy at the news. Aunt Petunia had thawed somewhat towards Harry over the past summer, as the extent of his ill fate had become more apparent. He had finally become a real person in her eyes, and now he was no more.

Harry's cousin, however, was the most affected. Instead of grief, Dudley began and ended the conversation in outright denial. To him Harry was “too damn lucky and too damn good” a wizard to get killed by “that nutter.” When he learnt that Harry's body had not been recovered, Dudley was quietly convinced that Harry had staged another “great escape,” and that he would eventually turn up - in all likelihood in the arms of another bird.

Whatever their other reactions, all of the Dursleys were united in their apprehension over what Harry's disappearance and probable death meant for their own security. If Harry's magical protectors could not even keep him safe, what chance did the rest of them stand? Dumbledore was not about to reveal any of the still sketchy circumstances of the attack, but assured the Dursleys as best he could that those elements were “most unusual” and unlikely to be duplicated on Privet Drive. He promised the Dursleys that the security measures guarding them would be maintained for as long as necessary, given conditions in the magical world.

On behalf of his family, Uncle Vernon asked for “a little time” to come to grips with the new reality. Dumbledore agreed to send someone to collect Harry's things in a couple of days. They left with only Hedwig, who was promptly dispatched with a letter for Harry.

The snowy owl almost immediately returned with the letter undelivered - another very bad sign - one that elicited fear of the worst even from Dumbledore.

Finally, there was the grim necessity of informing the press. Something as calamitous as the disappearance and likely death of The Boy Who Lived could not be kept under wraps for long. For morale purposes, Dumbledore had acquiesced in the press turning Harry into an iconic figure. As in all things “the bigger they are, the harder they fall.” Thus, the deflation from Harry's death would be every bit as vertiginous as his previous rise. Nevertheless, Dumbledore was not inclined to allow whoever had masterminded this outrage to control its announcement to the outside world. Early that evening he paid a grim personal visit to the Minister of Magic to inform him of the events.

“Minister,” he began sombrely, “I am afraid I come as the bearer of bad news.”

“Oh, really,” Fudge blustered. “And how much worse could it get? One of these Muggle flying machines comes a cropper over Central London and all of a sudden everybody seems to be blaming magic….”

“It can get worse because the Muggles are probably correct,” Dumbledore replied bluntly. “We have reason to believe that the aeroplane crash was a Death Eater diversion….”

“A diversion from what, man?” Fudge protested. “We've had no reports of Dark Mark observations or other indicators of Death Eater activity.”

“A diversion to facilitate a successful attack on Harry Potter,” Dumbledore answered quickly. “Mister Potter is missing and may well be deceased.”

“What … Potter? Have you gone daft…?” spluttered Fudge, as he struggled to deny what he had just heard.

“I only wish that I had, Minister,” Dumbledore continued. “I have Mister Potter's wand in my possession. A member of the Order who also happens to be an Auror found it. Mister Potter's last known whereabouts - where his wand was retrieved - were in a building struck by one of the engines that were magically separated from the aeroplane.”

All the colour drained from Fudge's face. He leaned heavily on his desk for support. “Merlin's beard…. You're … you're telling the truth, aren't you?” he asked forlornly.

“To the best of what I know, yes. I find truth generally preferable to lies,” Dumbledore replied tightly as he suppressed exasperation at the Minister's resistance. “I assure you, this is not a subject about which I would be anything less than totally candid with Your Excellency.”

Minister Fudge stood up as straight as he could and wrung his hands. Sighing audibly, he glanced at the ceiling before eyeing Dumbledore. “It is finished, then…. I have no other alternative but to offer you my resignation….”

It was Dumbledore's turn to be surprised. “It was not my intent to ask you for that,” he demurred. “Matters are pressing. There will be time to consider political issues later….”

“I-I … I have no wish to be sacked by the vote of no confidence that will surely follow this development,” Fudge persisted. “You are an authorised representative of the Wizard Council. Therefore, protocol provides that I may tender my resignation to you.”

“Really, Minister, there is no reason to be so hasty,” Dumbledore counselled.

“Yes there is,” Fudge droned. “I have consistently underestimated the threat posed by the Death Eaters. Their successful attack on Harry Potter indelibly brands my Ministry as a failure. It is … time for new blood.”

To Dumbledore, Fudge appeared on the edge of tears - or worse. “Do not have it end that way, then,” the Headmaster urged. “I beseech you not to add to the chaos of the present. At this moment, above all we need some semblance of stability in government.”

“Oh, very well…,” Fudge groaned. “But only as a temporary expedient. I am already the political equivalent of a ghost.”

After Fudge's reluctant withdrawal of his resignation, the two men worked the Floo network and managed to cobble together a “National Unity” triumvirate. This consisted of Fudge, Arthur Weasley (tipped without his prior knowledge to represent the Dumbledore faction), and Rufus Scrimgeour (the very political Chief Auror who had the proxy of the conservative faction that previously was loosely aligned around Amelia Bones). The issue of new elections would be revisited when, in Dumbledore's words, “things calmed down.”

The announcement was hurried. Less than a half an hour after Dumbledore first informed Fudge, he, Fudge, and Scrimgeour met whatever reporters could assemble on very short notice. The announcement of Harry's disappearance ironically took place in the same pressroom where Harry had so skillfully presided over his own press conference not all that long ago.

The two events could not have been more different. At the first conference, the press had had to be silenced. This time they practically silenced themselves with their shock. There was no shouting, no jostling, and almost no questions. The first time everyone had come to praise Harry - now they came to bury him.

Not everyone was in a burying mood, however. Whilst Fudge had been convinced (however reluctantly) to stay on, Mad-Eye Moody publicly resigned from his interim assignment with the Auror Office. Buttonholing a surprised (and slightly fearful) Daily Prophet reporter outside the office suite he had been occupying, he gruffly called out, “Hey you! Yer with that rag, aren't yeh?”

The reporter looked nervously about. When it became painfully apparent that the fearsome looking old Auror could only be referring to him, he answered, “Er … yes. I'm Westbrook Murrow, stringer for the Prophet….”

“Well, get yer arse over here, I've got some news for yeh,” Moody demanded.

Murrow took one look at Moody's blazing eyes and nodded. Hesitantly approaching the battle-scarred Auror, he pulled out his Quick-Quotes Quill and began, “Well … all right, let's hear it….”

“After this latest disaster, I have come ta the conclusion that I'm serving no bloody purpose staying on as an Auror,” Moody growled, his face screwing up in disgust. “I can be far more useful going ta work full-time for the Order. At least that way I'll be able ta concentrate on what's important, and that's locating Potter and taking the battle straight ta Voldemort….”

Murrow gasped. It was not just Moody's utterance of the Dark Lord's name (although that was certainly part of it). Rather, this was the first time anyone had publicly admitted belonging to the Order of the Phoenix since the end of the First War. Only Moody was so fearless - or paranoid about his chances - that he no longer cared who knew that he was a member of the foremost anti-Voldemort group in existence.

“…Thus, effective immediately, I'm resigning my position as head of the Death Eater Task Force,” Moody declared. “I'm also done with chairing the commission looking inta the Ministry Incident…. That hardly matters now, anyway….”

* * * *

Whilst the Order was still trying to divine what had happened, those who knew were hard at work. Draco Malfoy had flown his overloaded - but still Invisibility Cloak-protected - Nimbus 2001 into a well-prepared and quite undetectable entrance of Malfoy Manor. There he was greeted by his two remaining co-conspirators, who floated Harry Potter's unconscious body deep into the bowels of the secret, well-warded catacombs that lay beneath the manor house. Lord Voldemort himself had spent several weeks there without being detected. Secreting Harry away should be quite simple by comparison.

Everything seemed to be going essentially according to plan. The Contact had returned the phylactery of command as promised. Malfoy Transfigured it into an amulet - the form he preferred - donned it promptly, and backed the two Dementors away to the other side of their magical cage. The three kidnappers slammed Potter's body roughly into the bars and clamped the charmed manacles into place. There were chains for each arm and leg, and for good measure a fifth fastening to fit around his neck.

This reception - weeks in the making - had evolved as Malfoy learnt more about the magical characteristics of the Manor's catacombs. He had heard bits of rumours, all unconfirmed, that Potter might actually possess something resembling the Fifth Element ability that the Malfoy lawyers (without any factual support) had attributed to him. Potter had certainly escaped the Dark Lord's clutches often enough. Reviewing information now available to him as master of the Manor, Malfoy had discovered that this cage, with its accompanying manacles, was probably the most powerful magical object on the entire grounds.

Lucius Malfoy had arranged the enchantment of this equipment for different purposes, when it appeared that the Dark Lord might make his personal headquarters at the Manor. The old Riddle House had lost its safe haven status after Potter had escaped on the night of Lord Voldemort's resurrection, so the Dark Lord had decamped to the Manor. But Lord Voldemort was always impatient with the restrictions needed to maintain the Malfoys' veneer of respectability. Within a few weeks he left for parts unknown.

Fortunately for Draco Malfoy, a number of magical improvements made to accommodate the Dark Lord's presence - such as cells strong enough to confine Dementors and shackles stout enough to restrain Potter - remained left in place, years after the Dark Lord's departure.

The first order of business was to let the Dark Lord know that Potter was their prisoner, and that they wanted to make a deal. This contact, of course, had to be made anonymously. Nott recommended the Muggle kidnapper technique of cutting off one of Potter's fingers. There was a jinx he knew….

Malfoy dismissed the idea, warning that they had best not “damage the merchandise.” He then produced Potter's glasses - with their Auror-issue indestructible headband still attached. The glasses, and a shock of Potter's hair, should be quite enough evidence to establish their bona fides. Potter never went anywhere without his glasses, and the hair allowed confirmation of their claim through use of Polyjuice Potion, and probably by other more nefarious and sinister means unknown to him.

Nott had been assigned the difficult task of devising an anonymous means of contacting the Death Eaters. The plotters had plenty of useful equipment, such as several kinds of untraceable Portkeys. They were loath to use any of it because its Death Eater origin might give them away.

Nott decided to employ “Secret Admirer Missives” - a new Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes product. SAMs were charmed parchments marketed as aids for transmitting sensitive communications, such as love notes. Nott frowned as he recalled his second year, when that confounded dwarf had misdelivered his singing valentine to Millicent Bullstrode when it had been intended for Daphne Greengrass. SAMs were far more reliable, and one would do nicely as a ransom note.

As a further precaution, Nott decided to send the note to Gregg Goyle's father Murgatroyd - the least intelligent Death Eater anyone knew. Along with the glasses and hair, they enclosed a second SAM for receiving the Dark Lord's reply. The reply was to be left in a specified Muggle pillar box, painted a distinctive maroon colour, on the Bailiwick of Guernsey. Nott had already charmed the box to serve as a Portkey that activated only when touched by the SAM envelope. Fortunately, Nott knew as many spells as anyone in Slytherin house.

As a final security measure, the Portkey would only take the Dark Lord's reply to an open field a couple of miles from Malfoy Manor. Nott had bought and trained a Homing Zephyr to retrieve the letter from the field. The magic bird itself, regrettably, would not survive the security spells that protected the Manor, but the Dark Lord's reply would be delivered.

Until a deal was struck with the Dark Lord, the conspirators agreed that Potter should remain Stupefied most of the time. Every other day, Potter would be awakened so he could be fed, and so the Dementors could feed on his emotions for a few hours. Malfoy learnt from his father's Dark Arts library that the Dementors' ministrations would further ensure that Potter remained in a weakened state.

The honour of feeding Potter was delegated to Crabbe, whilst Nott and Malfoy stood guard with their wands at the ready. Nott was able to fashion a feeding device out of some old torture equipment that was left lying about when the Dark Lord departed. The resultant contraption could keep Potter's jaws open whether he wanted them that way or not. If Potter would not eat voluntarily, the device allowed him to be force-fed.

With his knowledge of potion ingredients, Malfoy added some power-robbing substances (Pogrebin fur, Glumbumble venom, stinging nettle, and grave wax) to the raw minced meat they intended to feed Potter. As an extra precaution, Malfoy employed the aspect of Nott's upbringing he had always despised the most - his familiarity with the Muggle world. At Draco's direction, Nott visited the mean streets of a nearby Muggle town and brought back a box of blues and two boxes of yellow jackets. Malfoy ground up the contents of the capsules and mixed it in the glop that passed for Potter's food.

Since Potter was dressed only in a rude cloak, he was left to relieve himself on the spot. They could Scourgify him as necessary to keep the odour from becoming too unpleasant.

Beyond all this, the conspirators had to wait - and take shifts showing themselves (one way or another) in wizard society so that they remained beyond suspicion. This was not the onerous task that it might have been, since practically all of the press and the Ministry were busy blaming (and looking for) Death Eaters.

* * * *

The morning after, as owls all over England (and beyond) were delivering newspapers with screaming headlines that announced Harry's likely demise, Hermione Granger was no longer screaming. Indeed, she was making no sound at all. Rather she was thinking - the same thoughts over and over again. Harry, the only boy about whom she had ever had “happily ever after” daydreams, was dead. She had felt it. Her life as she knew it … as she wanted to know it … was at an end.

Hermione was thoroughly convinced that Harry's death was the culmination of a long and dreary series of blunders and miscalculations on her part.

She had let her parents find out the truth about the danger that surrounded him.

Then, upon her return, she had assumed, logically but wrongly, that she was more or less entitled to his affections. Taking Harry for granted was probably her worst sin of all.

Thus, she had gotten careless and fumbled her moment with thoughtless words about “rich and famous.”

She had overreacted both to Harry's fortune and further to her own parents' reaction to that fortune.

As a result, she had all but driven him into the arms of that woman in whose company he had been killed.

Finally, on the very day of his death she had overreacted one last time. Anger and hurt had filled the last words she would ever have the chance to speak to him - that she no longer wanted to see him.

She had not meant it. Not literally…. Not like this.… Not at all.…

Now he was dead.

Hermione's toxic thoughts mixed with equally gruesome images of death and destruction: collapsing buildings, roaring helicopters, screaming sirens - and above all fire. Everywhere her mind saw billowing, crackling, hellish fire. Under this onslaught her fragile psyche crumbled, leaving behind a despairing wreck. In that despair, dhe sealed herself away from the outside world.

She did not want to live in a world without Harry. She had been ready to accept her own death, even to embrace it. That she even remained alive had been contrary to her own will. Only by virtue of Tonks' brute force and some sort of Insensibility Potion had she been dragged away before she could make Harry's pyre her own. Hermione could not get over what had happened - what she had witnessed and what she had felt.

The girl was trapped in a mental prison of her own making, trying unsuccessfully to come to grips with what Harry's permanent absence from her life would entail. The sensations of Harry's death replayed endlessly, as if Sisyphus and his boulder were inside her brain. She could scarcely get her hands around the concept - let alone the reality.

They had been together for almost as long as her life had had meaning. Since they had both learnt they were magical, she and Harry had never been apart for more than the summer holidays. For years, he had simply been there, growing, sharing, and being.

That was over … forever.

He was gone … forever.

Contemplation of this dismal future went far beyond the loss of some childhood fantasies. Her own actions had ruined those. Hermione was not envisioning a lost lover - worse than that. She had to ponder the loss of the boy, almost a man, who had been her companion, friend, protector, and even confessor. He had saved her life against the troll, the Dementors, the Death Eaters, and the sabotage.

If not as profound, even more meaningful were the more mundane ways in which their routines had become enmeshed. Could she get through her days knowing that she would never have to nag him to study - or that he would never be there to nick a midnight snack for them from the kitchens? How could she stay up late studying, without him around to make her to go to bed? She would never have another chance to upbraid him for rule breaking, and he would never again entice her to break those same rules. He had been part of who she was, not to mention so much of what she had hoped to become. She felt like half of her was gone; the half that let her feel as though she were truly alive.

Together, all of these things, large and small, both unique and humdrum, had become more than the sum of their parts. Together, they constituted the most essential relationship she had ever known, excepting only her own parents, and they were leaving. She dreaded the thought of being back to Hogwarts without him. Almost everything here was soaked in his memory.

Since the moment Tonks had dragged her away from the site of Harry's immolation, Hermione had not spoken to anyone. The only conversation she desired was with Harry - whether in this world or the next - to apologise for everything she had done wrong. The only person who had spoken to her in the past several hours had been Madam Pomfrey, in whose Hospital Wing she now resided as the only patient.

Hermione was alone.

She had never felt so alone in her life.

Hermione continued to brood - reliving the horrid events for what seemed like the thousandth time - when she heard the door to the Hospital Wing slowly creak open. She lay still, with her eyes closed, feigning sleep. Hermione hoped that whoever it was, probably Madam Pomfrey, would just go away.

The visitor was not the Hogwarts charge nurse, and was not going away. Rather, this visitor was responsible for Hermione's presence in the Hospital Wing, and indeed upon the planet - for what was doomed to be a useless, barren existence.

When Tonks addressed her, the full measure of Hermione's terror returned in an instant. Eyes wide with fear, she scrambled to the far side of the bed, and pulled the duvet tightly around her shoulders.

“Hermione?” Tonks repeated. “I'm so sorry…, but I did what I had to do. I will never let you die if I can help it.”

Expecting that the girl would not answer, Tonks continued. “I've come … because I have to give you something. If you'd rather not, I'll understand … but you're entitled.”

A bit of the terror left Hermione's demeanour, but she remained mute and kept the bedclothes between herself and the young Auror.

“I…. I…. I know you've studied ahead in your training. I don't know how much, if anything, you've learnt about Auror traditions. I don't want to prejudge things….”

Tonks stopped. She took several deep breaths, trying to maintain her own composure. Hermione eyed her suspiciously.

“You see… When an Auror is … killed … killed in the line of duty, his or her partner customarily … receives the … dead … Auror's ring…. Oh Merlin!”

Tonks could not hold back her own tears and began sobbing. Hermione followed suit, and before the two of them knew it, they were crying in each other's arms. After a few minutes, Tonks realised that through mutual grief she had managed to reach Hermione, at least for the time being.

Pulling herself together, Tonks reached into a pocket in her maroon Auror's robe and produced a shining band of gold. “This is Harry's ring. I kept it last night when I gave his wand to Dumbledore. This rightfully belongs to you now, since you're the closest thing he ever had to a partner. It's yours if you want it. Do you…?”

For the longest time Hermione just stared at the ring that lay in the palm of Tonks' left hand. Finally, she cleared her throat with a couple of faint grunts, and barely audibly choked out, “Yes, I do….”

Without another word, Hermione clutched at Harry's ring. She rolled it around. It was hard and smooth between her fingers. She ran her forefinger around the inside of the band to feel the engraving of Harry's name. With a focus she could not have maintained only moments ago, Hermione took off her own ring, and laid it on the bedcovers, forgotten. Just as deliberately, she replaced it with Harry's ring. That ring glowed slightly and fitted itself perfectly to Hermione's finger.

Tonks flinched, hardly believing her eyes. Overcome with emotion, she mumbled an excuse and rushed from the Hospital Wing. She had to locate Mad-Eye Moody, her Auror mentor. He needed to hear what had just happened.

Her own limited experience with such ceremonies (Tonks was far too young to have served during the First War), as well as everything she had read, had taught her that what she had just witnessed should not have occurred. A deceased Auror's partner ring was inert - just as dead as the Auror who had worn it.

Harry's ring had not been.

Its reaction to Hermione's finger was a sign that Harry could be alive.…

She would not tell the girl - not yet. No use encouraging false hopes.

After Tonks left, an exhausted Hermione sought, and soon found, sleep - the horrid memories laid aside, at least for a while. As she dozed off she whispered to herself, “as long as I shall live … or both of us….”

Elsewhere, Neville was sending urgent owls to Ginny, Ron, and Luna. He told them that he had tried to owl Hermione, but the family owl had returned with his letter unopened - and carrying a second envelope with the Hogwarts crest. Inside had been a terse two-line note from Madam Pomfrey to the effect that Hermione was “indisposed.”

The falsity of that statement had been palpable. Neville knew Hermione better than that, which was why he had written to her in the first place. Under the circumstances, Hermione would not be “indisposed.” Unless incapacitated for some reason, she of all people would be frantically busy, trying to find Harry. Either way the remainder of “the six” should be with her.

* * * *

It was enough to make Fosdick Napier rue the day he had decided to take the Dark Mark. After Potter's Marauders struck, he had been forced to quit his mid-level post with Wizland Revenue to avoid being exposed by the Veritaserum-fueled witch- and wizard-hunts taking place throughout the Ministry. Each person caught seemed to expose two more, as the Ministry rolled up large parts of the Death Eaters' spy ring.

So Napier had fled, only a couple of steps ahead of the Aurors. The Dark Lord had assigned him the relatively harmless task of monitoring news events. Suddenly the biggest news story in years had landed squarely in his lap - and the story was all wrong.

It what had to be a first, the Muggle Times of London and the Daily Prophet carried the same page-one photo - the roaring London firestorm framed by the skeletal girders of the under construction London Eye. …Only the flames in the Prophet's photo still danced.

Unfortunately for Napier, the Dark Lord was in the habit of shooting - or at least Cruciating - the messenger. Napier had initially borne the brunt of his Master's towering rage at the thought of someone other than he and his Death Eaters successfully abducting or killing Harry Potter. That pleasure was to be his prerogative, and his alone.

Lord Voldemort had scarcely finished digesting this news when, only a few hours later, a dazed Murgatroyd Goyle more or less stumbled into his presence. Practically babbling, Goyle produced an anonymous note that he said had suddenly appeared amongst his things. It had been typed on joke shop paper using an old manual Muggle typewriter:

Murgatroyd Goyle is hereby commanded to deliver this message to His Excellency Lord Voldemort:

Master:

We have Potter. Enclosed are his glasses and some of his hair, which we invite you to test to verify the truth of our claim.

We wish to serve you by delivering Potter into your hands. All we ask is that you first ensure the freedom of your eleven faithful servants who were captured by the Ministry in June.

Upon word of their release, we shall deliver Potter.

We await your reply. Please advise us of your wishes using the provided envelope….

The remainder of the letter contained detailed mailing instructions. It was signed “The Potterless Conspiracy.”

“No one engages Lord Voldemort in negotiations!” the Dark Lord thundered. “I do not negotiate. There will be no response to this letter.” A flash of fire incinerated the offending letter and envelope.

Voldemort instantly made a decision. “No true Death Eater shall rest until Potter, and the upstarts who claim to have him, are found and brought before me. Then I shall make my `wishes' known.” The Dark Lord seized Goyle's arm, touched his wand to Goyle's mark, and urgently summoned his Death Eaters.

Behind his bluster, Lord Voldemort pondered how wizards outside his control had not only done what his own Death Eaters had failed repeatedly to do - capture Harry Potter - but had accomplished the feat in so spectacular a manner. Those pretenders were indeed talented. Should they be suitably “domesticated,” wizards possessing this level of skill and power might well make useful Death Eaters.

The Dark Lord vowed that, at all costs, he would find Harry Potter before the Ministry or the Order did.

* * * *

Totally oblivious to the Dark Lord's fury, the Dursleys were dispiritedly gathering up Harry's belongings and packing them into Harry's trunk - which seemed to have a remarkable storage capacity. Even Uncle Vernon participated for a short while, making sure that his belated birthday present to Harry was included.

“Crying shame he never got to use it much,” Vernon grunted as he placed the laptop amongst Harry's textbooks and T-shirts.

“Don't be so sure he won't,” Dudley responded. One-handedly, Harry's cousin dropped into the trunk all of the music CDs that he thought Harry had liked. He added the electric shaver he had gotten Harry for his birthday, as well as a pair of Harry-sized boxing gloves that he had bought after he heard the news. Dudley showed his rather shocked parents the loose floorboard under which Harry had stored additional possessions. Not much was there, apart from disgustingly stale food items, but Dudley did manage to fish out a couple of books of photographs.

Vernon and Dudley attempted without success to remove the odd empty picture frame from above Harry's old bed. Defying both their best efforts, it refused to budge. Finally the two of them decided to leave it for whoever would be collecting and removing Harry's personal effects.

Aunt Petunia finished packing after the menfolk left. This was probably her last contact with her dead sister's son. He was with her now. Petunia retrieved from its hiding place the only thing that she still had from Lily - a sheaf of letters written mostly during Lily's first five years at Hogwarts. These letters largely predated an estrangement that arose from a combination of Petunia's jealousy and Lily's obstinacy.

Emptying the contents of Harry's desk, Aunt Petunia could not avoid Harry's prominently placed, unmailed letter. She shook her head at its contents, muttering “that man.” Even though it probably no longer meant anything, she took care to place it on top of Harry's trunk after the packing was complete. The only things not packed away in Harry's trunk were Hedwig's cage (the owl might return), the bizarre contraption that Aunt Petunia supposed was Harry's broom, and the even odder blinking device on Harry's desk that (like the picture frame) would not allow her to move it. In spite of herself, Aunt Petunia squeezed back tears as she gently drew the drapes and shut the door to Harry's room.

* * * *

“Headmaster, it is as I feared, I have been summoned. It is a strong summons, reflecting the Dark Lord's urgency.”

Looking up from his desk, Dumbledore's eyes met the intense gaze and very pale countenance of his long-time Potions Master. “Very well. Let us step outside, shall we?”

Snape followed Dumbledore outside to the Headmaster's private balcony that overlooked most of the Hogwarts grounds. The bright sunlit grounds mocked both of their melancholy feelings. The balcony was used for only the most private of discussions - those too sensitive even for the ears of Hogwarts' prior headmasters. This was such a conversation.

“As you know, I may not be able to return,” Snape began. “The Dark Lord may not care about my supposed spying against you any longer. If so, I will attempt to contact you, but in that event you must be prepared to use the backup plan, regardless of the political cost….”

“I am ready, Severus,” interrupted Dumbledore. He placed his arm on the shoulder of the wizard he had rescued and spent years rehabilitating. “Are you?”

“We both know that I have no choice but to be ready. I have the necessary equipment,” Snape responded. “The miniature Portkey I have developed is absolutely undetectable. It has been thoroughly tested. If I can possibly get it into Potter's hands, I will. It will instantaneously bring the boy here, directly to your office. Unfortunately, I have been unable to overcome its other drawbacks. The miniaturisation still prevents it from transporting more than one person….”

“Severus,” Dumbledore sighed, “if there were any other way, I would not call upon you to do this. You have suffered enough.…”

“I do not fear death,” Snape responded coolly. “That is a known consequence of the vow. It is an unavoidable risk in my line of work. Have you given any thought to my replacement?”

“I have, but that is not important,” Dumbledore replied. “What is important is this. You have my solemn word, Severus, that regardless of the backup plan, the wizard world will one day know the truth about your sacrifice - if I have to bestow upon you my own Order of Merlin to prove it. You will not have lived, nor died, in vain.”

Snape responded, in a voice as devoid of emotion as Dumbledore's had just been grandiloquent. “As you know, Headmaster, I view that as entirely unnecessary - although I appreciate it nonetheless. Now I cannot keep the Dark Lord waiting, or he might become suspicious. Good bye.”

“I have more faith in you than that, Severus,” Dumbledore replied. “Au revoir, my friend.” Dumbledore embraced the clearly uncomfortable younger man.

He then took his leave. Shortly, the Headmaster was watching the sternly erect figure of Severus Snape descending the stairs at a fast clip, his robes billowing in his inimitable style. “And good luck,” Dumbledore added, mostly to himself.

* * * *

“Wake up, you bastard,” The Death Eater's obviously false, tinny voice growled as he cast the Enervating Spell on Potter.

Slowly, the manacled and spread-eagled boy started to stir. He was wearing only an old workrobe bought in a second-hand store, and a thick hood cut from another old robe. Even though Harry was heavily hooded, the three kidnappers wore Death Eater robes and masks to further conceal their identities.

“Wha….”

“Don't say anything, Potter. Just listen. You're here until the Dark Lord decides what to do with you. One false move and you'll regret it…. Crucio!”

Caught completely by surprise, Harry writhed in pain, his manacles clanking until they pulled taut. The Death Eater before him ended the curse after only a few seconds - before Harry could even think about resorting to countermeasures.

“As you see, I am fully capable of carrying out my threats,” the masked figure continued. “You will be unconscious most of the time. It is better for us all that way. However, you must be fed. Be aware of the device in your mouth. Resistance is futile. If you don't eat voluntarily, we will force you.”

Harry gave a soft grunt of assent. Black depression gripped his soul. He no longer really cared what happened to him. The latest person to love him, like all those before her, was dead because of it. Eliza's final screams still echoed through his mind….

The only one he could have turned to now … Hermione … was estranged…. That was all for the better, he supposed. At least he would not be bringing about her death too. Her last words to him - harsh ones - also coursed through his brain.

Harry's hood lifted slightly, and the largest of the Death Eaters fed him. Harry put up no fight. The feeding was without incident.

The hood was replaced, completely obscuring Harry's vision. He dimly heard one of the Death Eaters declare, “Now for the second feeding.”

The screams and voices in Harry's head grew louder. Feeling a frosty coldness overcoming him, he did not need to see to know what was happening. Dementors were feeding on his thoughts and he was powerless to do anything about it…. He was done for.… Nobody could reach him here.… Nobody knew - or cared - where he was…. Just let Voldemort come for him quickly.…

* * * *

Hermione awoke depressed. No surprise there. She had gone to sleep depressed. Except for the forbidden realm of Necromancy, death was final, permanent, and immutable. Harry was dead, because of her….

“Aaaarrrrggggghhhh!!!” The sudden onset of pain was so intense it caused her to break her self-imposed silence. Just as suddenly, it stopped. Briefly, Hermione was befuddled. There was no reason for that kind of pain. Even in her present state, she was not resorting to self-mutilation. The pain was gone, but she still felt strange.…

Then, clever girl that Hermione was, she put two and two together.

“HARRY'S ALIVE!!!” she screeched. Hermione violently flung back the bedclothes and hit the floor running. “HE'S ALIVE!” she called out as she flew towards the Hospital Wing door.

It was locked. She was without her wand.

“MADAM POMFREY! YOU'VE GOT TO LET ME OUT!” Hermione yelled as she pounded on the door with her fists. “HE'S ALIVE! I'VE GOT TO SEE DUMBLEDORE!”

The woman Hermione was calling staggered sleepily out of her office. Madam Pomfrey had been up all night on the Floo connection consulting with magical London on treatments for victims of the calamity, and had finally taken a moment to nap. “Hermione, you're not going anywhere until I have you thoroughly.…”

“Poppy, he's alive!” Hermione squealed. “I have to tell Dumbledore.”

“You'll do nothing of the sort,” Madam Pomfrey corrected. Then she smiled a gentle smile of hope that surprised Hermione, who rarely saw the matronly nurse step outside of her steadfastly professional demeanor. “I'll call the Headmaster down here straightaway. You go back to your bed. You're probably not strong enough after all you've been through. This is the best news we've had since this whole mess started.”

Madam Pomfrey strode quickly to her still smouldering fireplace, brought the flames to full flower with a swish of her wand, tossed in some Floo powder from the container on the mantelpiece, and yelled, “ALBUS DUMBLEDORE!”

“I am in an important meeting,” the Headmaster's voice wheezed back.

“Whatever it is, this is more important,” Madam Pomfrey shot back. “Miss Granger has something to tell you.”

Seconds later the door to the Hospital Wing clicked open, and Headmaster Dumbledore walked in. A couple of minutes later he was followed by Professor McGonagall, and Tonks, who both looked out of breath.

Hermione saw him immediately. “Professor, it's my affinity. I've sensed Harry. He's alive. Not well, mind you, he feels as if he's in awful shape, actually. Probably the Cruciatus Curse. But he's not dead, he's alive. We've got to find him.”

She said this all incredibly fast.

She felt passing strange - one of the strangest feelings she had ever experienced. It was as if she were going through both phases of a manic-depressive attack at the same time. She was exhilarated. She had never been so relieved in her life. On the other hand, from Harry she was receiving feelings of utter depression, leavened only by brief periods of horror. She struggled to maintain an even keel.

“That is indeed wonderful news, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore responded. “It is also wonderful to have you back amongst us. I hate to request this of you so soon after all you've been through, but once Madam Pomfrey approves, I shall need for you to tell me everything you can about Mister Potter since the time you last saw him. You are the only one with any idea what happened.”

Hermione looked at Madam Pomfrey with hope burning in her eyes. “When can we start?” she asked.

The Head Nurse intended to give Hermione a full physical, which was standard healing practice after such an ordeal. However, she had faith in the outcome. She could see it in her patient's eyes. They had been lifeless and leaden before. Now they sparkled with all their prior intellectual intensity - intensity that had prompted the formidable nurse to select the girl without hesitation for the new Ministry project, even though Hermione was only starting Sixth Year.

Hermione demanded that the physical begin at once, and Madam Pomfrey cheerfully complied. Even before the tests were complete, the girl started giving Dumbledore her recollections. Finally, she asked Dumbledore the question that had been percolating in her mind for the past several minutes. “What do you want me to do now? We have to find Harry.”

Upon hearing that question, Dumbledore looked not at Hermione, but at Professor McGonagall. The Gryffindor Head of House shot him back a hard look. Dumbledore turned to Hermione, started to say something, stopped, and looked at McGonagall again. She stared back at him, eyes even narrower and lips even tighter than before.

Dumbledore sighed and turned back to Hermione. “Miss Granger, your foremost need at present is to look after your own recovery. There is only one thing I want you to do at this point, and that is to let me try to sever your affinity with Mister Potter, as you have requested several times over the past week.”

Briefly the unmistakable look of terror returned to Hermione's eyes, but she did not retreat into her previous quasi-catatonic state. Far from it.

“I WILL NOT!!” she roared. “NO AND HELL NO!! I can't do that. It's the only way I know he's alive, and if he's alive, I'm alive. We need to do just the opposite! We have to use my affinity to find Harry. It's the only contact we've got!”

“Miss Granger, please listen to reason,” Professor McGonagall cut in. “The Order … the Ministry … even the Muggles are doing everything possible to find Potter. As you know, he possesses very powerful but not altogether controlled, magical abilities.”

“I don't care…. He won't hurt me!” Hermione insisted.

“But it's not just him - or even mostly him,” McGonagall went on. “At any time, Voldemort could attack him. Wherever Potter is, he's under great stress. Either directly, or through the affinity, Voldemort could do something that may harm you. As your Head of House, I must consider the welfare of all of my students. Therefore, I must second Albus' recommendation that we try to sever the affinity.”

“NO!” Hermione reiterated. “Now you listen to reason! You haven't the foggiest where Harry is or what may be happening to him. The only link that we have to him is right here.” Hermione pointed to her own skull. “It's insane to throw away the only source of information that we have. Harry's too important not to do everything we can. I don't care about myself.… I accept whatever risk there might be.”

Exasperated, Professor McGonagall threw up her hands and looked back at Dumbledore as if to say `I told you so.' The Headmaster shrugged and remarked, “She speaks the truth, Minerva. I cannot deny it.”

“Then that's settled,” Hermione pronounced. “Now is there any spell that we can use to let me communicate with Harry, or at least see what he does? He's told me that he's sometimes done that with … with Voldemort - seen what he sees, that is.”

Dumbledore started to say something, but Professor McGonagall cut him off. “There is no such spell that we know of. Give us some credit, Miss Granger. I have consulted with everyone on the faculty and nobody is familiar with any such spell.”

“Then may I use the library, please?” Hermione asked.

McGonagall huffed audibly. “Very well, Miss Granger, you may use the library. But first, you must return to your home. Your parents are very worried, and, frankly, until you called for Albus, I was uncertain what I could possibly tell them. They will be leaving the country soon, and it behoves you to say your good-byes.”

Hermione started to say something, but stopped. As much as she would rather have denied it, the logic of her Head of House was ineluctable. She really had to agree with that.

Madam Pomfrey pronounced the girl to be in acceptable physical health. When her clothes and wand were returned to her, she asked for “thirty minutes” before Tonks took her home. Dumbledore agreed, and Hermione was off like a shot - but she turned in the opposite direction from the library.

“Where are you going, Miss Granger?” Professor McGonagall called out.

“To the Owlery,” she called over her shoulder. “I'm going to need some reinforcements.”

“We need to talk,” Professor McGonagall said to Dumbledore with her hands firmly on her hips. “Please see me in my office when you're done here.” She strode out the door.

Dumbledore chatted for several minutes with Madam Pomfrey, satisfying himself that Hermione was indeed as suddenly recovered as she appeared. She left for her laboratory to perform a couple more confirmatory tests, and the Headmaster exited through the door opposite to have what he knew would be a difficult chat with his deputy.

As he was about to shut the door to the Hospital Wing, Dumbledore noticed something small and shiny in the corner of the room. He Summoned it. It was Hermione's own Auror ring, which had been flung across the room when the girl had leapt from her bed upon sensing that Harry was alive. Dumbledore paused, dropped it in his pocket, and closed the door behind him.

“Minerva, you wished to see me?” the Headmaster announced himself as he entered her office.

“I most certainly do,” she answered. “I feel the need to reiterate what we've discussed before. As Granger's Head of House, I am the one most directly responsible for her safety, and I do not want her doing anything that we will live to regret.”

“Nor do I,” Dumbledore agreed.

“Your agenda, as always, is more complicated,” McGonagall replied accurately. “I think I can ensure that she doesn't find what she is looking for in our library, and I want to make sure that you won't let slip that….”

“And why would I do anything like that?” Dumbledore questioned.

“Don't play dumb with me,” McGonagall warned. “You know full well that if Granger ever finds out that there is a way - even though it's a curse - she will not be satisfied until you perform it on her, regardless of the danger…. And the danger is extreme….”

“Are you certain of that?” Dumbledore asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Absolutely!” she replied emphatically.

“Why, then, would Miss Granger behave in such a self-destructive fashion?” Dumbledore asked - more rhetorically than anything else.

McGonagall responded with her own rhetorical question. “Albus, has it really been so long that you can no longer tell? Isn't it as obvious to you as it is to me that she is hopelessly in love with him?”

Dumbledore conjured an armchair and sat down heavily. Pausing, choosing carefully what to say, he finally answered. “It is indeed. I have pondered this … development … for some time. Please tell me what you know.”

Professor McGonagall did. “As I was going to have Tonks tell you - before we were interrupted - Granger blames herself for what has happened. She had some sort of altercation with Potter shortly before, and…. Blast it…. Oh very well…. He was being intimate … with another woman when he was attacked.”

“That is not good,” Dumbledore muttered. “Not good at all … for either of them.”

“Too right,” McGonagall responded. “In any event, she refused to tell Tonks what the altercation entailed, but Granger believes that the Death Eaters killed this other woman, and, so she thought, Potter. Albus, I am convinced that she will do anything, to the point of risking her own life … and beyond … to find Potter.”

“I cannot disagree,” Dumbledore replied. “But this is a conversation that we can revisit later if there is a need. For the time being, I ask you to remember I am the Headmaster here. If I feel that it is necessary to inform Miss Granger of the spell….”

“Curse,” Professor McGonagall corrected.

“Be that as it may,” Dumbledore answered calmly. “If all else fails, there may come a time when I would have to ask her to do what you are telling me she probably would demand to do anyway, if she knew, because….”

“In which case, I shall resign, Albus,” McGonagall shot back, her Scots burr deepening with her emotions. “It is not ethical. I have made a pledge to keep all of my students safe, not just Potter. Hermione Granger is the most accomplished witch I have encountered since I've been teaching…. More focussed than Lily Evans; better rounded than Abigail Rosen.”

“I might well say the same of Mister Potter,” Dumbledore said, “but that is not the point. You see, there is….”

“It is precisely the point, Albus,” McGonagall argued. “We need her, as well as him to fight this war….”

“Please let me finish, Minerva,” chided Dumbledore. “As I was going to say, Mister Potter is the war. As with everyone else, I have told you only so much about the prophecy as I thought that you needed to know. I am afraid that now you need to know everything about it….”

* * * *

Headmaster Dumbledore was just leaving the office of his rather shaken deputy when Dobby appeared, running full tilt. He careened around the corner and slid right into Dumbledore's feet.

“Master, sir,” the freed house-elf squeaked, “you has asked me to find you right away if the gadget on your shelf near the window started clattering.… Well, it has!”

“Thank you, Dobby,” the Headmaster said calmly.

“Minerva!” he called out. “You should come with me. I believe that there is word from Arthur.”

When they reached the Headmaster's office the odd silver apparatus was still clattering away, its staccato drumbeat caused by a sharp point perforating a foil cylinder. Two completed cylinders lay on the floor. Dumbledore scooped them up and started reading the markings. “Remarkable,” he said. Reading further, he continued, “excellent, far better than we had reason to expect.”

“What is it, Albus?” McGonagall asked.

“The French wizard parliament, the Fifth Estate, met through the night,” Dumbledore replied gravely. “They have just issued a formal declaration of war against Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Arthur says that news of what happened in London - the great fire and the attack on Mister Potter - was the catalyst for this action. We no longer stand alone.”

“If we are indeed at war together, then we need to make plans right away,” McGonagall added. “As allies we should liaise at all levels.”

* * * *

“I'll answer it, Mum!” Hermione yelled whilst walking smartly to the front door. This was their last day together before Mum left for Australia. Daddy was already en route, although he had been forced to take the Eurostar to Paris because Heathrow remained shut down. Mum would follow by train and tramp steamer, riding herd over the furniture.

Soon Hermione would be meeting the buyer of the house. Her parents had told her that the new owner had graciously agreed to let her stay on until the beginning of the term (something she was not now planning to do). That meeting, however, was not scheduled for several hours. She wondered who could be calling.

Looking at the caller through the peephole, Hermione was flabbergasted.

“Who is it, dear?” her mother called from upstairs.

Hermione said nothing, and did nothing. The door opened with a soft click and Albus Dumbledore entered. But this was a Dumbledore she had never seen before. He was conservatively dressed in a brown Harris Tweed suit-coat with suede elbow cutouts, wine coloured corduroys, a tan turtleneck sweater, and black patent leather shoes. His considerably shortened beard and hair were neatly trimmed. He could have been an Oxford don, rather than Headmaster of Hogwarts.

“You.… You.… You can't come here…. Not today,” Hermione stammered. “The new owners are expected. I don't want them to think I'm at all out of the ordinary. They've agreed to let me stay on.”

Hermione's mum had come to the reconstructed marble balustrade overlooking the foyer. “You're early,” she said. “You aren't expected until tea.”

Hermione whirled around and gawked at her mum, dumbfounded. Then she whirled back around and gawked even more at the Headmaster. “You.… You're.…”

“Yes, Miss Granger, I am the new owner,” Dumbledore answered. “That is what I wished to talk with you about before the others arrived.”

There was no furniture left in the house, except in Hermione's room, so they chatted there. The first thing she learnt is that she did not have to leave home at all. Dumbledore informed her that she could keep her room permanently, or for as long as she liked, and invited her to return for any Hogwarts holiday. “As Order Headquarters, it will become the safest place in the British Isles,” he assured her.

Dumbledore explained that the Order would start moving in the following day, after her mum left. A number of wizards Hermione did not know would be arriving to begin the process of installing protective wards. By the time they were finished, the house would become just as undetectable to Muggles as Grimmauld Place had been. Dumbledore invited Hermione to be present for his casting of the Fidelius Charm over the property, so she would have uninterrupted access to her home.

Grimmauld Place had become a security concern, so the Order had removed itself to Hogwarts. The school, however, had its own considerable drawbacks, not the least of which being the approaching return of the student body. The Order had been searching for a suitable headquarters in the London area, but none of the sites offered by the Ministry had been acceptable. When (shortly after trying to slug Harry) Hermione's father had expressed a desire to leave England after the first round of Death Eater attacks, Dumbledore had offered to purchase the house. Dr. Granger had set a stiff price - over three million pounds - but Dumbledore had eventually agreed on behalf of the Order.

“That has to be a drain on the Order's resources,” Hermione commented. “You should have let me see if I could talk my father down. Are you certain that you can afford this extravagant place?”

“The Order does not want for financing, as we have a benefactor,” Dumbledore said sincerely. “In fact, that brings me to the reason for my early arrival. I need to discuss our benefactor with you.”

Hermione deduced the identity almost immediately. “H-H-Harry?” she asked.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore replied. “Mister Potter provided the Order with the funds to purchase this house. I have no doubt that he will provide the Order with whatever it may require in the future….”

“Assuming we can get him back.” Hermione added.

“Correct, as usual,” Dumbledore sighed. “And that is where I need your help. Mister Potter was scheduled to testify thrice during the week preceding the students' return to Hogwarts: at Madam Umbridge's trial, at what will probably be the final hearing on the Black inheritance, and at the Death Eater trial. I would like very much for you to appear in his stead. In particular, I know how you view the Black inheritance, but we simply cannot allow it to fall into the hands of those who have taken Harry. Indeed, that may be why the Death Eaters struck when they did.”

Upon finishing, Dumbledore looked expectantly at Hermione. The Headmaster had laid it on as thickly as he could, knowing full well the girl's oft-expressed disgust with the slave trading origins of the Black fortune. Now, he could only hope it would be enough. In this, Hermione could not be overawed, intimidated, bribed, or bamboozled. But she might be persuaded….

Hermione hesitated. “I'm already testifying against Umbridge,” she observed. “I don't know how much I could add to the other two. I lost consciousness fairly early at the Ministry, and I don't know anything about Harry's inheritance.”

“You are not the only one being asked to testify at the Death Eater trial,” Dumbledore replied. “Mister Longbottom has already agreed, and we may now have to call some of the others. As for the inheritance, you met Sirius Black several times, and your testimony will corroborate both his innocence and Mister Potter's depth of feeling….”

“Love,” Hermione broke in.

“…Yes, love, between Mister Potter and his godfather,” Dumbledore continued. “We also need to reassure the Wizengamot about Mister Potter as a person. As Chief Justice, I cannot testify. Indeed, I am pushing my technical neutrality just by asking you. But frankly, I think you are ideally situated to do that.”

“What about Ron?” Hermione protested.

Dumbledore responded, “Our opponents know about the incident with the intelligence unit….”

“The what?” Hermione asked archly.

“The brain in the Department of Mysteries,” Dumbledore elaborated. “It may well have affected Mister Weasley's perceptions. It has certainly affected his personality. All in all, it makes him a less than ideal witness. More than that, it would not be proper for me to tell you.”

Hermione began thinking things over. Dumbledore waited expectantly, not sure what her response would be.

“You know what they will attack me with,” Hermione muttered, her eyes downcast.

“I have no doubt that our opponents - and I include Madam Umbridge in that category - will attempt to defame both you and Mister Potter in any way possible,” Dumbledore answered. “Since Mister Potter cannot defend himself at present, his good name rests largely in your hands.”

Hermione stiffened. She was well aware of Draco Malfoy's utterly scandalous and utterly baseless testimony at the initial Umbridge inquiry. Dumbledore was right. If she testified at all, she would have to confront this sort of slander. After what had happened to Harry, her testimony was key. She was not one to allow herself to be scared into silence, especially now, with Harry being held somewhere, unable to defend himself. She thought carefully about what Malfoy had said about her - her and Harry.

Dumbledore continued to make his case. “You see, the case for Sirius Black's innocence was overwhelming. On the facts, we should win easily….”

“But the Wizengamot's not necessarily bound by what's true,” Hermione half asked and half declared.

“Unfortunately, as with all institutions that wield power, that is the case,” Dumbledore allowed. “Something more is needed. Specifically, it would be advisable to mollify the more conservative members of the Wizengamot. They need to be reassured that, despite Mister Potter's - and your - position on magical equality … that he is a responsible Wizard and is of high moral character….”

Hermione's ire rose. “Despite…?”

“That is how they think,” Dumbledore plunged ahead. “That is what we are up against in Harry's case.”

“And he's not around to convince them,” Hermione observed.

“Quite,” Dumbledore responded. “Thus, in Mister Potter's absence, the Wizengamot needs to hear from you - particularly since most of the rumours that have circulated about him also concern you.” The Headmaster paused; he was almost at the end of his persuasive powers.

“I'll do it,” Hermione blurted. “But there are two conditions.”

Dumbledore stiffened. He thought he knew what her conditions would be. Minerva would skin him for this, but it was essential….

Hermione rattled off quite different terms. “I want full access to the Hogwarts library, to try to find out if there's some way to use my affinity to rescue Harry - and that includes the Restricted Section. I also want to bring several people to Hogwarts to help me, if they'll agree to come, Ron, Neville, Ginny, Luna, and the Creeveys.”

Dumbledore allowed himself to breathe again. “I can certainly arrange that,” he said. “Mister Longbottom already sent an owl to you inquiring along those lines. That was before you recovered.”

“I'd also like to complete the Auror training to the maximum extent possible,” Hermione added. More than the training, Hermione wanted to keep the Aural Pensieve and the Auror materials that came with it. She intended to search them thoroughly for information about affinities.

“You have stated more than two conditions,” Dumbledore observed.

Hermione did not think her request unreasonable. “So sue me,” she replied.

“Very well, I am agreed,” Dumbledore answered. “Provided that I can persuade the Aurors to spare the personnel to continue.”

By then Hermione was hardly listening to the Headmaster. She had gotten an idea. “And I'd like to talk to Hagrid,” she added.

“That will be no problem at all,” Dumbledore assured her. “May I ask what for…?”

“You're Chief Justice of the Wizengamot. I'd rather you not know, as it involves my testimony. I don't even know if it will work. I'd rather discuss it with Hagrid first,” Hermione replied.

Dumbledore knew better than to pry further. He had gotten what he had come for. He would not jeopardise it with unnecessary further questions. Hagrid was congenitally unable to keep a secret anyway.

Hermione had one more subject of great concern. “What about my parents in Australia? I still don't think they fully comprehend how evil Voldemort is. I'm worried about them.”

“They will be watched,” Dumbledore affirmed. “From a distance, necessarily, but our influence extends to the Australian Ministry, thanks again to Mister Potter.”

“What could Harry possibly have to do with Australia?” Hermione asked disbelievingly. “Until a few weeks ago, he had never even been across the Channel.”

“Mister Potter does not even know it yet, but the scope of his own family trusts is quite extensive,” Dumbledore answered. “There were Potters in Australia shortly after the First Fleet. Two Potters, Ian and Mary, endowed substantial trusts that persist to this day.”

“Do you mean…?” gasped Hermione.

“Precisely,” responded Dumbledore. “Whilst your parents think they are escaping from Mister Potter by moving to Australia, the Potter name probably wields more influence Down Under than in Britain itself. Thus, do not be overly concerned for your parents' safety.”

They chatted a while longer about arrangements. Dumbledore asked for a tour of the house, which he had never seen from the inside. Hermione and her mother provided the inspection. Then the doorbell began ringing and the people who would be attending the closing started arriving. Hermione excused herself and went to her room.

The Order would begin warding the place tomorrow. Soon there would be enough magic permeating her house that her Muggle gadgets would no longer operate. That forced Hermione's hand. There would be no more opportunity to put it off, not if she desired the privacy of her own home, which she did. Before setting out to try to save Harry - and especially before succeeding (if she ever did) - she had to know…. Had he been telling the truth?

There was one way to find out. She had to do what Harry had done. She locked the door. After fortifying herself as if she were sitting for an important examination, Hermione booted up her computer. “Okay,” she muttered, “now to learn exactly how badly I bollixed things up….” Uncertain as to what she would find, she tried several phonetic approximations of what she remembered Harry saying. Finally, she typed “L-I-K-O--M-E-E” into a search engine.

It was not long before Hermione had her answer. It devastated her, but made her all the more determined to find Harry. He had been telling the truth, and she had not believed him. She had slapped him for trying to tell the truth…. That… that… that scarlet woman had been Cho, all right. Hermione was almost 100% certain of that, only the blue eyes were out of place. She downloaded a few pictures to her photo editing program and cut away everything but the tattoos. `Luna is in Cho's House,' she thought. `Maybe she can identify these - just to make sure.'

Then it was over. Hermione turned off the computer, put her head in her hands, and wept. Harry … wonderful Harry … had not been lying to her or trying to corrupt her. He had been honest … and worried…. She had been so upset with everything that had been going on that she had refused to listen to him, turned on him, struck him, and said hateful things to him - things she would give anything in the world to take back. Harry had almost died as a result. He remained in mortal peril.

Hermione made up her mind then and there that she simply had to see Harry again to set things right. That meant that Harry had to be found. She would rescue Harry from wherever he was - or she would die trying.

And after she had, either way, she would never make the same mistake again.

* * * *

Fred and George had been there before, twice, but never under these circumstances. Harry's Muggle relatives were loathsome, but far better that he stay with them for the rest of his life than this….

Dressed most uncomfortably in Muggle clothes selected by their little sister, Fred and George were beginning to doubt the wisdom of their decision to undertake this assignment. They reminded each other, however, that Number Four Privet Drive was one place they could reliably count upon encountering wizards using Invisibility Cloaks and sophisticated concealment charms. The extreme Muggle sensibilities of Harry's relatives demanded no less.

The Twins could not pass up the prospect of being able to field test their first inventions since volunteering their services as “Armourers to the Order” in the wake of Harry's disappearance. As they approached the house they scattered small objects resembling mushrooms.

“Now, Fred, a small bit of magic, if you please,” requested George.

“How about a Cheering Charm?” Fred asked.

“Perfect. I could certainly use one right about now,” George replied.

“I didn't mean for you, I meant for me,” Fred declared.

Fred performed a Cheering Charm on himself. The harmless magic nonetheless set off the detectors that ringed Harry's old house. The detail watching the area, alerted that the two young men were magicals, moved in from all sides.

Pfoosh. Pfoosh. Two of their number lit up in the gaudiest pink ever to grace the staid Dursley residence. A smaller pfoosh, resulting in a pink streak, signified that the Twins would also soon have a bone to pick with Mrs. Figg.

The successful field test of WWW's new “Shocking Pinks” detection devices was a low-key celebration for Fred and George. First, they had to do some explaining to their compatriots in the Order, who were not at all pleased at being made unknowing guinea pigs in the experiment. Nerves were on edge after the attack, and the Twins narrowly avoided being on the receiving end of some nasty spellwork. Second, their larger mission was not a happy one. They had come to collect Harry's things and to bring them to Hogwarts Castle.

“Weasley pick up and delivery,” they announced in unison when Dudley opened the door. He recognised them at once, despite their Muggle garb. He gave them a wide berth, since they might not know he had become much less antagonistic towards Harry since the last time he had encountered the Twins.

The Twins conducted their business in a businesslike fashion. They disconnected the Communicator and magicked the Gryffindor portrait from the wall. Then they hefted everything down to the kerb, pulled out their wands, and hailed the Knight Bus. Once aboard, they purchased tickets to Hogsmeade and quickly changed into more normal clothing. They took due regard of Harry's unmailed letter.

“Bloody Hell! Look at this, will you,” exclaimed Fred.

“I would be happy to, if you'd let me see it,” replied George. Fred passed the letter over, and George perused it.

“Just as well it's nobody else from our family,” George commented. “But I've got to believe Harry had gone daft when he decided to do this. The old man will be just as daft if he agrees.”

“He's already daft,” Fred replied.

“Good point,” George agreed.

The Twins were not the only ones headed for Hogwarts. In response to Hermione's owls, five Gryffindors and a Ravenclaw were cutting their holiday short and making immediate arrangements to leave for Scotland.

* * * *

Author's notes: A talent spotter is what Americans call a scout

The Italian League is where US basketball players not good enough to play in the NBA wind up

Harking back to the Great Fire of 1666 is hyperbole, since the Blitz was at least as bad

This is the first, and perhaps, only use of "fuck" in the story. Only in this extreme circumstance (and being uttered by Ron) do I think it's appropriate

Harry's number is from the movie, not the books

The "England, Harry, and St. George" line is from Shakespeare's Henry V

Showtime, point chaser and Magic all evoke Magic Johnson

Neville knows enough about the prophecy to worry about, if not Harry, then who. The concept of a cup passing is biblical

Parting as sweet sorrow is from Romeo & Juliet

Filial piety is the Chinese concept of children being absolutely loyal to and sacrificing for their parents, and by extension, to ancestors generally

Ventricular fibrillation is the most serious and fatal form of heart arrhythmia

Lady Deathstrike is a cartoon character, Asian with long claw-like fingernails

Use of explosives to clear out empty space has been used for centuries to stop fires, perhaps most dramatically in San Francisco in 1906

Ron's and Fudge's reaction upon hearing that Harry may well be dead are quite similar

More Shakespeare - praising versus burying is from Julius Caesar

The reporter's name combines Westbrook Pegler and Edward R. Murrow, two famous news reporters

The amulet of command controls Dementors and repels lethifolds

Draco later will not think enough about the origins of these powerful enchantments

A pillar box is a British mailbox; this is the first one ever erected

Grave wax is real stuff

Blues and jellow jackets are British street slang for seconal and nembutal

In Greek myth, Sisyphus is condemned to push a boulder up a mountain over and over again, only to have it go rolling back down

Wizland Revenue is a take off on "Inland Revenue," the division of British Government that administers taxes

Uncle Vernon always has ulterior motives. Note that both a laptop and a shaver are included in Harry's effects

Resistance is futile is a Borg line

Dumbledore will utilize Hermione's ring to good effect

So, now McGonagall knows the prophecy. Hermione does not, although she would disagree

I made one of the unknown apparatus in Dumbledore's office a communication device

There were three "estates" in the old French Estates General: clergy, nobility, and commoners. The press is usually thought of as the Fourth Estate. So I made wizards the fifth

The Eurostar is the train through the Channel Tunnel to France

Harris Tweed is made on the island of Harris in the Outer Hebrides, a part of Scotland, pursuant to act of Parliament

The Order bought Hermione's house, with Harry's money. I sprinkled clues since Chapter 23, but none of my reviewers mentioned this possibility

Hermione's little talk with Hagrid will figure greatly in what follows - and I include Madam Umbridge in that category

The "First Fleet" brought the first British settlers to Australia. These Australian Potter trusts do exist

"Shocking Pinks" are similar to something F&G invented in another fanfic I read a while ago, I think it was Anima Summa (only they were yellow)

There are plenty of clues about what's in Harry's letter

36

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch29 purgatory.doc 10/25/04

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30. Searching

Wherein Harry learns something unspeakably horrible and gains a new sense of purpose; Snape's Plan B is revealed, Hermione plots with Hagrid, greets a trainload of friends, and confronts McGonagall; Ron make a major faux pas but finds the first real clue.

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

Chapter 30 - Searching

It had already been a difficult day for Hermione. As she paced nervously in front of the two Thestral-drawn carriages that awaited the arrival of the daily Hogsmeade stopping service from London, she feared it might be about to get even worse.

The morning had begun - early - with her bidding adieu to her mum as she left for a new life in Australia. Saying her good-byes to childhood was the morning's first trauma. Neither had any idea when they would next be together. To Hermione this ritual brought a gnawing, numbing kind of sadness - a sense of things ending. It was another step in her ongoing loss of the last vestiges of youth. Whilst not the kind of screaming agony and terror she had just experienced, it was yet another weight on her soul.

Mum was accompanying the family's furniture and other possessions, first by train to the Turkish port of Antalya, and then by cargo boat to Australia. All told it would take almost a month, the longest period of separation her parents had endured since their marriage. Daddy had insisted that someone travel with the furniture. Since he was to organise the new practice, that someone was necessarily Mum.

Fortunately her mum had an early train, because fifteen minutes after her departure came trauma number two, which left Hermione virtually immobilised for most of the remaining morning. Whoever was holding Harry had awoken him again. At first it was somewhat better than the previous time, as they refrained from torturing him. His emotions were black depression interspersed with occasional flashes of curiosity. Soon enough, however, the horror set in once again and lasted for the better part of two hours.

At first, Hermione tried to fight the awful sensations the best way that she knew how - by playing her violin. Then she realised her error. All hope of her finding Harry rested with her strengthening, not weakening that link, to the point that she at least would be able to trace it somehow and at best would be able to reach him. Grimly, she forced herself to concentrate on the terrible emotions Harry was feeling at the moment. Almost two hours of her voyeuristic agony went unrewarded. By the time he was once again rendered unconscious, she was no closer to either of her goals.

No sooner than that torture was over, the Order wanted her to vacate the premises. A large group of magical construction wizards (no witches, she duly noted) arrived to begin the process of converting the house to the Order's purposes. She knew none of them. All they would tell her about their work was that every room but her own would be greatly modified. Even she would need a guide to find her room once they were done.

The Order was installing All-Way Wallboard, as well as communications and security equipment. Whoever sent these wizards must have expected, or at least suspected, that she would still be there, since the foreman had a Portkey to Hogwarts for her. She had planned to carry Athena and her violin, but the anxious owl let herself out of her cage and flew into the fireplace, evidently preferring the vertigo of the Floo system to the hard landings produced by Portkeys. The foreman looked at Hermione quizzically, as if she were someone he could not quite remember, but said nothing. He was nice enough to help her Floo her not inconsiderable remaining belongings along after her.

Upon arrival at Hogwarts, Hermione learnt to her surprise that she would be staying in the Castle's guest quarters rather than in the Gryffindor common room during the almost fortnight that remained before the start of the Term. The house-elves were engaged in their annual refurbishment of all four common rooms, and they were not to be interfered with. Mr. Filch evidently knew of her abortive Fifth Year clothes-for-the elves campaign and told her pointedly that anything she was not taking to the guest quarters must be left on the bed in her Gryffindor dormitory. Anything happening to turn up elsewhere would be binned, magically disassociated into its constituent elements, and recycled.

The guest quarters were extraordinary, and in less stressful circumstances would have taken her breath away. Now, however, she was too focussed on the task at hand to pay them much mind. The hall entrance led to a large common room of sorts, twice as wide as it was long, with a massive wooden table taking up almost half of the floor space - plenty of room to spread out the anticipated research. Large windows at either end of the room let in plenty of sunlight, and were equipped for dispatch and receipt of owls. Overall, the layout was ideal for the united effort she had planned.

On the opposite wall were seven doors spaced about three feet apart - individual closet-sized bedrooms, she expected. Her Muggle-like thinking could not have been more wrong. As the first arrival, Hermione took her pick and chose the room to the far left. Opening the door she walked into a tidy two-room suite with en suite bath. The bed was already turned down, with a package of Chocolate Frogs on her pillow, and a neatly folded copy of today's Prophet on the duvet.

Hermione was famished. She opened the Chocolate Frog and tossed Agrippa in dustbin. Absent-mindedly she reached for the paper. The frog fell from her hand and hopped drunkenly away on its three remaining legs. “Oh no…,” she gasped, “I don't believe it.” The headline blared still more bad news:

Treason Strikes At Hogwarts

Potions Master Defects To Dark Lord

Underneath the headline appeared a very unflattering wizard photograph of Severus Snape, looking as if he had been interrupted doing something distinctly dodgy.

Hermione devoured the two-page story, becoming more appalled, confused, and furious with each word. Dumbledore had made the announcement himself late the previous evening. Voldemort was apparently mustering all of his supporters, no doubt to unleash a reign of terror after having captured Harry Potter. Professor Snape, whose rehabilitation Dumbledore had defended for years to any and all comers, including the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, had answered his Master's call. His present whereabouts were unknown.

In gory detail, the article recounted Snape's former misdeeds as a Death Eater. A number of “anonymous sources” in the Ministry chimed in with observations to the effect that “once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater.” Snape was being blamed for almost anything evil that had affected Hogwarts during his tenure - in particular, the mishaps during the Triwizard Tournament and a spate of previously unexplained student petrifications a couple of years previous.

Snape's position as one of Harry Potter's instructors for the past five years also received full attention. An anonymous “classmate” revealed that Snape (referred to as “the greasy git”) had mistreated Harry in class for years. The consensus of informed speculation was that Snape's skills in both Potions and Legilimency/Occlumency were needed for the torture, interrogation, and eventual death (if not dead already) of the aforementioned Potter.

For the first time in months, the Prophet ran an editorial criticizing Dumbledore and the way he selected members of the Hogwarts staff. Once again the allegation that the Headmaster was “past his prime” - a euphemism for going senile - was bandied about in print.

It added up to a damning indictment. Hermione had no doubt that, before the day was out, almost everyone in Wizarding Britain would be convinced that Snape was also behind the attack on Harry that had incinerated so much of London.

Still it made little sense to Hermione. Dumbledore had trusted Snape. And so much of the supposedly “factual” information in the article was flat out wrong. When Harry had finally opened up and described to her the events at the end of the Triwizard Tournament that led to Voldemort's return, he had told her in no uncertain terms that Snape had been among those who had helped save his life. Beyond that, Snape had so many opportunities to do away with Harry at Hogwarts that why would he wait until the summer holi…

“Miss….? Miz Myown?”

Hermione jumped nearly two feet off the bed upon being addressed by a squeaky voice behind her. It was Dobby, wearing Harry's old Weasley jumper from First Year, a pair of black boxers with little red hearts on them, mismatched blue and lime green socks, and one of her own shapeless knit hats with holes cut in it for his ears.

She berated herself for still being in her Muggle clothes and for not carrying her wand. Some “constant vigilance” she had showed. As one of Harry's best friends she was an inviting tar…

Hermione deflated quickly as it all came flowing back to her. No longer…. Not after what she had done to Harry. The Death Eaters would interrogate Harry and find out everything about that. Maybe they had already. Maybe that interrogation had been the source of some of the horror she had felt.

Dobby repeated, “Miz Myown? Harry Potter's Myown?”

In her bout of self-reproach, she had forgotten that the house-elf was even there. Some friend of the house-elves she was. She was also puzzled, because Dobby had never called her anything but “Miss” before….

“Yes, Dobby, what is it?” Hermione turned to the elf.

Dobby cheerfully informed Hermione that, “I is assigned to be your personal elf while you is being Hogwarts' guest.”

“You don't have to do that, Dobby,” Hermione gently reminded the elf. “I'm perfectly capable of picking up after myself. You're a free elf now. You don't have to serve anyone, least of all me.”

“But I wants to, Miz Myown, and the other elves…, they don't,” Dobby revealed.

Hermione gave in. “All right then, if you insist. You know what I'm going to be doing, don't you?”

“Yes ma'am, you is here to help try to save the great Harry Potter,” Dobby declared. “We is all grateful for that.”

Hermione blushed, “You're welcome, Dobby…. And why have you started calling me by name?” she asked curiously.

“You is my master now!” Dobby chirped to her happily. “It would be disrespectful not to….”

Hermione shooed Dobby out of her room so she could change. The elf was waiting expectantly when she emerged. He was eager - even overeager - to show her the special facilities that had been provided.

“…and while you is all welcome to eat in the Great Hall, these serving trays work just like the plates there, except you says what you want….”

“…you chooses a sphere and it's yours. Write the name of any book in the library on a piece of parchment and put it inside, and it gets the book - except for the Restricted Section….”

“…if you needs anything from the Gryffindor common room, the password is `here and now'….”

Hermione spent the next several hours communing with the library card catalogue, trying to divide the collection into approximately equal units and to match them with her friends' particular interests. Neville would get Herbology, of course, Care of Magical Creatures, and (playing a hunch) Potions. Ginny would get Defence Against the Dark Arts and History of Magic, which Hermione thought were the most promising topics. Luna would get Charms, Divination, Runes, and Astronomy, the last not being expected to have anything relevant. Colin would review all governmental publications - and he had the not inconsiderable task of organising all of their research results. Ron would get sports and fiction, as she had doubts about his academic dedication. Hermione herself would take Transfiguration, Arithmancy and the Restricted Section, since only she had a pass for that. She also took law, since she already knew how to research that from her attempted defense of Buckbeak. Dennis would receive Muggle Studies and anything financial (Hermione knew he was interested in business). He was also going to assemble and test the new D.A. communication system.

To assist her friends, Hermione also wiped clean some of her old lesson planners from Third Year and before. She painstakingly prepared study schedules for each of them. Her plan was nothing less than a thorough search through the entire library for anything and everything about affinities of any sort, how they might be manipulated, and in particular strengthened.

Once this organisational task was complete, it was time to find Hagrid and meet the daily stopping service from London. She found him leading two Thestral-drawn carriages to the Hogsmeade entrance to pick up the new arrivals.

The train was late.

Hagrid reassured Hermione that because Hogsmeade was the last of seventeen stops, the stopping service trains rarely arrived on time. She had ample opportunity to discuss her idea for dealing with Malfoy's slander with the Care of Magical Creatures professor. He thought it would work:

“Tha's wunnerful Hermione…,” Hagrid praised. “Jess like yeh… Ev'ryone knows summat about tha' effect.”

“You'd have to smuggle it in, though. Nobody else has your way with this sort of thing,” Hermione warned.

“Still, it'd be small enough, I'd reckon… Evolved fer cold magical climates, yeh see,” Hagrid commented. “The birthin' season's late. In fact, I'd say it's jus' about perfect. Right after weanin' it would be yeh know.”

“But the Ministry's security has been tightened considerably. I wouldn't want to do anything that would jeopardise you,” Hermione worried.

Hagrid was not very worried. “Yer the brillian' one there, Hermione. They won' be lookin' fer tha' sorta thing. Jus' give me some sorta harmless diversion, an' I'll handle the res'.… I can get Mad-Eye or somebody ter attach me ter the Order's presentation.”

Too much time was passing. One hour's delay was becoming two. The Thestrals were getting restless. Hagrid could tell they were hungry. He reached into his copious pockets and pulled out several dead Nifflers that he said had been “raisin' Cain” in his garden and tossed them at the Thestrals. The snack calmed them down.

The later the train got, the more nervous Hermione became. As the second hour's store of minutes ticked by and accumulated, Hagrid's assurances grew more forced, and her twitchiness escalated correspondingly.

On board were her friends. They represented essentially everything that she had left in the world, now that Harry was missing and her parents had become émigrés precisely to escape Hermione's magical world. That world now seemed like a nightmare to them - and, indeed, to her. Her friends had responded immediately to her distress call about Harry. Even though she was necessarily vague about why she needed their help, everyone she asked agreed to come, with no questions asked.

Hermione was on the verge of going spare when she heard a train whistle four times. Hagrid reacted immediately to the unusual signal. “Four blasts means there's been trouble, Hermione. Fire up some red sparks will yeh…. Catches mine on fire….”

She did as she was told just as the train steamed into view. The front of the locomotive was mangled, with the pilot torn half off. Half a dozen maroon-robed Aurors astride brooms escorted the train. As the train rolled to a stop, she heard someone yell out, “Injured on board.”

Immediately her blood froze. What had she done to her friends? Hagrid leapt into action. Fortunately for Hermione's fragile psyche (if not for the wizards involved) none of her friends was hurt. Madam Pomfrey arrived with a pack of house-elves just as Hagrid was hefting two wounded Aurors out of the train.

Behind them, all of Hermione's friends poured out of the two-carriage train, unhurt and in surprisingly high spirits.

Ron spotted her first and rushed over. “Blimey, Hermione, what's going on? The train was attacked - by Death Eaters and a horde of Dementors. I cast my first real Patronus; it's a Jack Russell terrier! So did Ginny, and of all people, Neville! The Aurors riding with us were hurt duelling with the Death Eaters, but not badly, I don't think. The Dementors never really attacked, though. They made a couple of passes over the train and then left. Scared of our Patronuses, I reckon.”

Ron's sister was almost as breathless as she described more or less the same scene. Her Patronus was a fox.

“What was it that you used to get over the hump?” Hermione asked them both. Neither had managed more than puffs of silver smoke the year before when attempting to conjure their Patronuses with the D.A.

Ron proudly blurted, “I used my performance in the Elsinore Cup Quidditch final. Some of the saves I made were unbelievable - even to me!”

Ginny held back, somewhat surprised that Ron's successful imagery had not involved Cho. Then she echoed Ron. “What a coincidence. I used Elsinore Quidditch too, but thought about when I learned that I made the team. The last match … that was too tinged with Harry's loss…. I don't think it would have done the trick for me.”

Neville stood back, waiting for the redhead siblings to finish. He, too, had indeed cast his first Patronus, although he admitted in hindsight that it probably had not been necessary. The Dementors had been strangely non-aggressive. Neville's Patronus was an ox, and he credited it to a new wand. The happy expression vanished from his round face as he mentioned that Harry had gifted him the wand. The motivating force that generated his Patronus was the first time Ginny kissed him.

A higher pitched voice called out, “Oi, a little help over here!”

Hermione and the others turned and saw Colin and Dennis struggling to unload several large chests from the last carriage. They were working to music blaring out of a mini Wizard's Wireless receiver turned to WWN. Hermione caught the throbbing rhythm of Pride, one of her favorite Muggle songs. She realised that she felt sort of the same way about herself at that moment. If her affinity was the key to finding Harry, she would use it regardless of the consequences - “what more in the name of love” indeed.

The others moved to help, but Ginny was quickest. “Pondopennius,” she incanted, and the chests became feather light.

Hermione strode over and asked the Creeveys if they wanted a Shrinking Charm performed. They replied that conceivably it could damage the equipment, which had some Muggle components. Hagrid hoisted the full-sized chests onto the roofs of the carriages and affixed them with a Sticking Charm.

The six newcomers gathered around Hermione as she provided them some orientation and general instructions: where to put their belongings, where they were staying, and what they had permission to do. She absolutely refused to discuss specifics until they were all safely ensconced in their quarters.

Hermione watched her friends pile into the carriages, and sighed. She hoped the camaraderie of the present would survive the long slog that unquestionably lay ahead. Taking a deep breath, she started for the carriages herself as she heard more sorrowful, familiar lyrics from the Wizard's Wireless…

“…Childhood living is easy to do…”

She flinched as someone laid a hand on her shoulder. It was Luna.

“You know something don't you?” the eerily serene Ravenclaw said. “Something you think can save Harry.”

“…I watched you suffer a dull aching pain…. Now you've decided to show me the same…”

Hermione gulped and nodded.

Luna smiled knowingly, “I knew he wasn't dead, you see. Whatever the Prophet says. I can't imagine Harry dying in a Death Eater attack.”

Hermione smiled, and signified her agreement.

“You're scared, though,” Luna continued. “I can tell. Don't worry, you're not one to fail either - fate didn't bring the two of you together to fail.”

Hermione sighed, and looked up at the darkening sky. She had not noticed the magnificent sunset that had developed. The last rays of the sun were reflecting off the bases of some broken clouds, filling the western firmament with blazing pinks, oranges, and lavenders. She knew which words came next….

“…I know I dreamed you a sin and a lie.… I have my freedom but I don't have much time.… Faith has been broken, tears must be cried.… Let's do some living after we die….”

Hermione asked, “Are you thinking what I'm thinking, Luna?”

“I do believe so. Let's do it, don't you think?” the Ravenclaw answered.

The two girls sprinted for the carriages, but instead of making for one of the doors, they jumped on the backs of the Thestrals before them. The Thestrals jerked into motion, and they rode them all the way to the Castle.

“…Wild, wild horses, we'll ride them some day…”

They were all surprised when the Headmaster himself greeted them at the main entrance, practically in the shadow of the winged boar statues.

“Greetings all… I cannot tell you how relieved I am that you have all arrived safely. I fear that the phoney war is over. There have been reports of hit-and-run attacks by Death Eaters all over the British Isles, and I gather that you were, in fact, attacked. Miss Granger has raised serious issues concerning Mister Potter's disappearance - questions for which we unfortunately have no good answers. For that reason, I have permitted her to invite all of you here, and I am pleased to offer you all the hospitality and resources that Hogwarts has to offer.” The Headmaster paused, considering whether he had anything more to say. He did not.

“I wish you all the best of luck,” Dumbledore closed. “We could very much use some good luck, for a change…. Do keep me informed of your progress, will you?”

With that the Headmaster retreated inside, as several house-elves appeared to guide the new arrivals to their quarters.

Half an hour later, Hermione was facing her invited guests around the big table in their common room. She was as anxious to tell her story as they were to hear it.

“I asked you to come for a very simple reason,” she began. “Harry's not dead. We have to help him.”

“Best news I've ever heard,” blurted Ron. The rest murmured their agreement.

“I had a hunch that something was up,” added Neville. “Harry's trunk is on his bed in the Sixth Year boys' dormitory. I saw it when I took my extra stuff up. I didn't think Dumbledore would've left Harry's things there if he thought he was a lost cause.”

“Until they show me a body, and maybe not even then, I'll never consider Harry a lost cause,” Hermione said fervently. That brought forth more murmurs of agreement.

“But how in Merlin's name do you know, Hermione?” Ron asked. “This isn't some big hoax, is it?”

“Ronald!” chided Luna.

“It's no hoax,” Hermione maintained bravely. “Harry's really disappeared, and I do think that the Death Eaters are holding him. It all goes back to the night at the Ministry….”

“Doesn't everything these days?” Neville moaned.

Hermione continued, “…As I've told you before, I was almost killed.… By some purple flame spell that the Death Eater Dolohov used.… Don't know anything more about the spell, except that Dolohov used it on Harry later in the same evening….”

“I saw that happen,” Neville broke in. Ginny clutched Neville's arm as he spoke. “Dolohov hit me with some dancing spell and then turned on Harry with the purple flame spell …. But Harry was a little quicker, and got a shield spell partially up before Dolohov could complete his curse. Harry must have blocked most of it, because he wasn't badly hurt…. In fact, he cursed Dolohov properly only a minute or so later….”

“Good for him,” Hermione commented. The last thing she remembered about that evening was Dolohov cursing her.

“Knocked him all the way down some stone steps,” Neville elaborated, with a touch of awe in his voice. “I could feel Harry's anger at that Death Eater from four metres away. It's a good thing he couldn't perform more advanced curses then, or I shudder at what he might have done. He knew Dolohov was the one who'd hurt you….”

“Thanks, Neville,” Hermione encouraged. “That explains one thing, I think.”

She continued. “Well, I have no idea what that spell was - that's one of the things I'm hoping we can figure out together - but Harry and I, both being struck with it so closely together, it created some sort of mental link between us.…”

“You can't be serious,” Ginny gasped. “You know where he is?”

“I think she is quite serious,” Luna allowed. “It explains a lot.”

“I'm deadly serious,” Hermione confirmed. “That's why I know to a certainty Harry is alive. I've felt his emotions since his disappearance.”

“Can you locate him?” Neville asked, echoing Ginny.

“If I could do that, I wouldn't be here right now. I'd be out with … with … Oh, all right, it's better that Colin and Denis know too, since they're full participants now.… I'd be out with the Order of the Phoenix on a rescue mission,” Hermione declared firmly.

“If they'd bloody well let you,” remarked Ron.

“They'd have too.” Hermione retorted, with the air of someone who had already thought this particular issue through. “Nobody else has any idea where Harry is. Anyway, let me explain exactly how this works, because it also explains what we need to do.”

“My link to Harry is in here,” she went on, pointing unmistakably to her head. “I don't know many details yet, but certain kinds of Dark spells can create links - affinities - between those falling victim to them. I can sense Harry's emotions … not precisely, but I know if he's happy, scared, angry….”

“…or randy?” Ron asked, helpfully.

Or not.

Hermione let out an audible gasp. All the poise she had shown since the beginning of their talk drained away. With an icy look on her face, she threw down the quill she had been holding, and almost overturned her chair as she bolted to her room and slammed the door behind her. Once the reverberation of the slamming door had faded away, stunned silence filled the room.

Ginny broke - no, shattered - the unnatural quiet. “RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY, YOU ARE NOT HELPING THINGS HERE!!” she screamed at him. Ron blanched. At times like these, Ginny's resemblance to Mum was uncanny.

“Bloody Hell, Sis,” Ron protested, “I had no idea…. I figured that if Harry was getting randy, she wouldn't need a link to know that. I didn't think that….”

“THAT'S RIGHT, YOU DIDN'T THINK! YOU'D DO VERY WELL TO START!!” Ginny raged at him. Ron rose from his seat, glaring. So did Ginny. For a moment it looked like a brother-sister duel was about to break out right over the table.

“Stop it both of you!” Neville shouted. “This isn't helping either Harry or Hermione.” Relative silence descended again. Without further word, Neville rose and approached the door to Hermione's quarters. He knocked softly on the closed, but not locked door.

“Hermione,” he called softly but urgently. “May I come in?”

There was no answer. Given the situation, he took silence as consent. He found Hermione facedown in her pillow, which she was using to stifle her sobs. She was intermittently berating herself.

“…So damn stupid…,” Hermione muttered, not giving any sign of awareness of Neville's presence. “…Some things not worth knowing.… Drove him away.… Serves me right.… What was I thinking…? Wasn't….”

Neville tried to be comforting. “Hermione, we'll get him back…. I don't know how, but we will. Harry's just too strong a wizard to stay captured.”

The girl stirred, and finally looked up. “We have to. I can't let it end like this…. I'll never forgive myself.”

“You don't need to be forgiven, Hermione,” Neville declared. “Harry couldn't have a better … er … friend.”

“Don't kid yourself, Neville, I'm afraid I'm not a very nice person,” Hermione baldly admitted. “I should never have kept this link. I thought I could help him with it. Instead I hurt him … badly … you have no idea how badly.”

“I don't need to know,” replied Neville softly. “I do know this, though.… No matter how badly he's hurt, he's coming back to you. That's the way he is.”

“I wish I could believe you,” Hermione groaned in almost physical pain. “It's just been one disaster after another, all summer - and now this.”

“I don't believe that for a minute,” Neville countered. “You pulled off just about the best surprise birthday party I could imagine.”

“Even that turned out to be bittersweet,” Hermione commented vaguely. “I think I figured out what his future held that day, and I think you know, too…. It's just too horrible to think about.”

Neville began, “Hermione, I was there when it broke, I….”

“DON'T SAY A WORD ABOUT THAT.… I DON'T WANT TO KNOW!” Hermione almost screamed. “Whatever you know, I don't want you to tell. If I find a way to track Harry, I might encounter Voldemort - mentally … or even … physically. If he takes me, I don't want to know anything that might send him after you, too.”

“R-R-Right,” Neville stammered - suddenly very nervous. “Mum's the word.”

They lapsed into uncomfortable silence. At least she had stopped crying.

“Neville,” Hermione said with a sigh, “You're the cause of all this, you know.”

Looking askance at Hermione, he replied, “I can't be. I'm not that important to either of you….”

“Yeah, Neville,” she continued flatly. “It seems like forever ago now, but if you hadn't lost that ruddy toad, I wouldn't have gone looking for it. I wouldn't have met Harry and Ron on the train like I did. They wouldn't have known me any better than Avvie or Marona. They wouldn't have tried to save me from the troll. We wouldn't have become friends. I wouldn't have messed up his life like this, and he wouldn't have been ambushed.”

Neville was shocked, “I'm sorry, Hermione….”

“No, Neville, I don't…,” she cut him off.

“…Sorry that you're nowhere near your usual standards, that is,” Neville finished.

“What?” Hermione started to glare at Neville. He had never insulted her before.

“Hermione, you're naught for three on that,” the boy reiterated. “First, if they hadn't saved you, you probably would've been killed right then and there, so who knows what would have happened. Second … no way you've messed up his life. He didn't have much of a life before…. You've done more for him than he's ever had any right to hope for. If he doesn't understand that, he needs a good talking to. Third, even if the troll thing had never happened, something else would have brought you two together. It's fate. I used to think…. But that doesn't matter … you're just made for each other, that's all….”

“Oh, blast it, Neville,” Hermione sniffed. “I … I don't know what to say.…”

“Whatever it is,” Neville told her, “don't say it to me. Say it to us all. You need to tell us what you want us to do, now that Harry's gone missing.”

“Right,” she acknowledged.

Hermione pulled herself together. She could do this. She had to. She was the only one not a Death Eater who still had any contact at all with Harry. Drawing herself up to full height, she turned back to the field of her latest battle….

When he saw the door to Hermione's flat open, Ron was quick to speak, “Oi, Hermione, I'm really sorry. I didn't know…. Ow!”

Ginny hit Ron with a Bee Sting Hex when he started to try to justify himself.

Ron got the message. “It won't happen again,” he promised.

“Don't make promises you can't keep, Ron,” Hermione cautioned. “But I accept your apology. You couldn't have known. We have work to do. Here's what I have planned….”

Hermione explained the nature of her affinity in detail. She told them what she could feel, and what she could not. The affinity worked in one direction only - she could feel him, but he did not sense her. Their goal was to change that, first maybe just so he could feel her probing, and ultimately so she could forge a sufficiently strong connection that the Order could find Harry through her. She explained that Professor McGonagall believed that she was potentially placing herself in grave danger. Hermione made sure that everyone understood she fully accepted the risks, whatever they might be. At that, she gave everyone a chance to withdraw from the enterprise altogether.

No one did, although Ron, Ginny, and Neville all had family commitments that would call them home for the last weekend before the beginning of the next term. Grateful for whatever help she could get, Hermione acknowledged their excuses without comment. Thinking of the wreckage that her own family had become only made Hermione feel closer to Harry - and Luna. She was functionally an orphan now.

“So everyone's in then?” Hermione asked one last time.

Murmurs of assent arose all about.

“Very well then,” the determined girl continued. “Everybody grasp hands.”

“What are you going to do?” Ron asked.

“Nothing much,” Hermione replied. “Just a little charm to bind us to this shared enterprise.”

“Will it hurt?” Neville asked.

“No, it's aspirational only - no penalty for failure,” Hermione said. “I'd never hurt my friends - not intentionally, anyway.” She had that far away look in her eye.

Everyone joined hands. Hermione used her free hand to wrap the scrum of hands in some red thread. Then she incanted, “Nil intentatum reliquit.” The thread glowed for a bit and then disappeared. In English she added, “Leave nothing unattempted.”

Nobody said anything in response, except Luna, who added an “amen.”

Then it was back to the business at hand. Hermione explained what she knew about Harry. Through her link, she understood more about his circumstances than anyone other than the Death Eaters themselves. Hermione explained that she had felt Harry's emotions when he had been ambushed, and had thought him dead. When she felt him again, she realised that, instead, he was in captivity. She immediately alerted the Order, and then owled all of them.

She carefully omitted her intervening brush with catatonia.

Out came the lesson planners; one for each of them, including herself. She explained that their job was to find anything and everything in the Hogwarts library that had anything to do with mental connections of any sort between two people. She had obtained unrestricted access to the Restricted Section for herself, but Professor McGonagall was unwilling to grant that privilege to anyone else.

Hermione proceeded to demonstrate the available amenities, beginning with the spheres. She showed her friends how they fetched library books and could run other errands. Each friend selected a sphere, each of which glowed a different colour.

Memory Quills, prohibited during the term, were available to all the researchers.

Every Hogwarts guest was assigned his or her personal house-elf. Dobby introduced them to the phalanx of elves - who were also volunteers. In a less dire situation, Hermione would have been offended, but she was willing to accept anything that facilitated the purpose of helping Harry. That was all that mattered.

Dennis Creevey explained the equipment that he had begun unpacking and assembling whilst Hermione had been closeted with Neville. He handed out enchanted mirrors to all of them. These were some of more than forty that Dennis had prepared for D.A. members to use during the coming year. Since the D.A. would not be forced to meet in secret, the mirrors were replacing last year's coins as a communication system. They could send and receive both oral and written communications. Hermione taught everyone the simple duplication spell that committed any written message the mirror received to paper.

They all admired the central messaging system that Dennis had built for Hermione (there was another one for Harry, but it remained in storage). The system had been jerry rigged from bits and pieces of miscellaneous equipment. Most of the stuff had originally been Harry's. The Creeveys had found quite a bit of salvage in the mound of gifts Harry had recently received for his birthday from witches and wizards across England.

A converted Foe-Glass served as a screen for receiving and sending messages. Outgoing messages could be created through speech (there was a Quick-Quotes Quill inside), by writing on a special pad similar to the communicator Dumbledore had sent Harry, or via typing, as Dennis had hooked up a black cast-iron keyboard from a 75-year-old antique Underwood typewriter. Since the keyboard worked entirely manually, it could not be disabled by the magical environment at Hogwarts. Dennis had also found a device that scanned handwritten notes and other documents and put them on the screen, after which they could be sent to any of the recipients.

Following the meeting, just as everyone was preparing to retire for the evening, they heard a thumping and scraping noise outside. Somebody rapped loudly on the door. Before anyone could answer it, there was a click and the door opened.

Mad-Eye Moody lurched into sight, greeted by a forest of wands. He grinned hideously. “That's right…. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” he roared.

None of the wands lowered. Ron and Hermione, in particular, remembered how a Death Eater had impersonated the old Auror for almost an entire Hogwarts term.

Finally, Hermione asked, “What colour was the lightning on the night Harry escaped to London?”

“Golden yellow,” Moody growled, not entirely displeased by the students' security consciousness.

Nobody else knew what the two of them had just discussed, but they lowered their wands when Hermione confirmed, “It's him.”

“Yeah, it's just me,” Moody agreed. “But that display of watchfulness is commendable nonetheless. I need ta speak ta Granger.… Nah, I can say my piece in front of yeh all. It's no secret.”

“Granger, this is a Panic Button,” the grizzled Auror instructed. He produced a device from his dark leather travelling cloak that resembled a hockey puck with a big red marble in the middle. “If yeh come across anything that yeh truly think will help us reach Potter, push it and I'll come running … er … figuratively that is. But I'll be there pronto.”

“Why you…? Why not Dumbledore?” Hermione asked somewhat hesitantly of the rather intimidating wizard. She found it odd that Moody had suddenly involved himself with them. He was not even on the Hogwarts staff.

“I've quit the Ministry and joined the Order full time, that's why,” he answered bluntly. “I know that the train yeh were on was attacked. Yeh were damn lucky ta all of yen made it here unscathed, in my opinion…. And yer not the only ones…. There's been lots of attacks all over the country,” Moody explained. “Not bad ones.… Hit and runs…. The Deaters seem more interested in places than peo….”

“W-W-What's a `Deater'?” Neville asked timidly.

“Blimey, I've slipped inta Auror-speak,” Moody remembered. “A Deater's Auror slang fer a Death Eater. Anyway, I don't want any of yeh leaving the Castle with the attack levels so high. I can come ta yeh. Also, unlike some, I'm rooting fer yeh ta succeed. It's bloody personal now….”

“How so?” asked Hermione, her interest immediately piqued by any reference to Harry from a personal standpoint.

“Damn!” Moody cursed. “Didn't want ta get inta this, but it slipped. No lies from me then…. Ta answer yer question, Potter left this letter on his desk before he was taken.” With a flourish, Moody pulled a piece of parchment from his waistband and waved it around. “He hadn't posted it. Those Weasley Twins found it when they gathered his things. In it, he requested that I be named his new guardian.”

“You?” Hermione gasped. She was not the only one.

“Yeah, me,” Moody reaffirmed. “I'm it whether the bunch of yeh like it or not…. Potter said I was ornery enough ta keep him in line; skilled enough ta handle the risks - and if somethin' did happen, I wouldn't leave family behind ta mourn me. He was right on all three counts. I accepted…. I'm honoured, actually.”

Moody's magical eye, which swept relentlessly back and forth throughout his presence, lit on Hermione's D.A. equipment. “So that's where it went off ta after I lost it at the Ministry.... Was that your idea, Granger, ta use my old eye as an optical scanner?”

“No,” she answered. “Dennis built this. I'm not very mechanically inclined.”

“Creevey! How'd yeh get aholt of my eye?” Moody demanded.

The small boy quailed, too frightened of the older man to form a coherent answer.

“I-I-I gave it to him,” Neville jumped in. “I found it after the fight … when I was trying to sort things out after everyone else ran after Harry.”

“Anyway, I think it's a capital use fer it,” Moody declared. “Good work, Creevey. Yeh too, Longbottom. That's all I have for now. Good luck - we all need it.”

With that Mad-Eye Moody whirled around and unceremoniously departed.

* * * *

Hand to hand combat had never been Hermione's forté - but that was what the Aurors had scheduled. While weeks of constant training had left her in the best physical shape of her life, she was not that kind of a fighter. She was squeamish and completely without instincts for physical confrontation. One night with an Aural Pensieve tape, no matter how instructive, was not about to change that.

Nor had it - and now she hurt all over.

It had not helped that, instead of going through the lesson three times as recommended, she had skived off the last round to take in an unassigned chapter on the mental effects of magic. Unfortunately the title of that lesson had greatly overstated its usefulness. Other than learning that some spells worked through emotion, whilst others were based upon power, the unassigned lesson did not produce anything of significant use.

Finding Harry was her primary purpose now. Hermione continued her training almost entirely to ensure continued access to the Aural Pensieve. With the Pensieve, she could look for anything in the Auror materials that might help strengthen her link to Harry. The training itself became secondary.

Still, it had to be endured. For hours she had pummeled, and been pummeled by, her instructors (now down to two, with Carluke and Greengrass reassigned, presumably to the search for Harry). Hermione had started with the basics - she learned how to SING: a pattern of striking an opponent in the Solar Plexus, Intestines, Nose, and Groin. Fisticuffs were covered as well, with a review of basic brawling techniques.

Because she was female, the Auror course was not oriented towards blocking the blows of a stronger opponent, but instead had emphasized counterattack, chiefly by use of a dagger. Hermione, who had never even dreamed of being in a knife fight, was not the most adept of pupils. The Aurors offered her a choice of weapons - to keep - but she had left the stiletto in her wardrobe at the ACS, never intending to see it again.

Beyond knives, there had been impact training, which chiefly meant hitting moving targets with fists, feet, and other appropriate body parts. Whilst there was a smattering of karate and judo - and rather more training with a quarterstaff, given Hermione's rather slight build - most of it was just basic Muggle self defence. There was nothing fancy about such defence. It was about poking an opponent in the eye, jabbing him (a “him” was always assumed) with a well-placed elbow or knee, head butting him in the face, whacking or tripping him with the staff, or ideally kicking him in the groin.

Even more painful had been contact conditioning, the progressive ability to absorb impact. This was not blocking - this was being hit. Hermione had to prove she could take a punch without going down. By the end of the day, she was not sure she had proven much on that score either, except that it is possible to endure just about anything given sufficient motivation.

Her instructors even said she was rather adept with the quarterstaff, but Hermione could not care less. The lessons were taking time from her work of trying to reach Harry, and not much else mattered anymore.

The day had been horrible, but there was no rest for the weary. As soon as Hermione returned to Hogwarts, she was beset by her friends. Even as she was casting De-bruising Charms on herself and mixing an Analgesic Potion, they were anxious to show her what they had found for the day. She was equally anxious to evaluate what they had discovered.

Ginny had come across something about affinities in a medical text discussing the Cruciatus Curse. Apparently emotional links were fairly common in family members tortured by Death Eaters. It was not a big lead - and certainly not a very pleasant topic - but nevertheless it was something. Whilst Hermione was out, several of her friends had combed the library for information about this Unforgivable Curse. Other tantalising clues were found, such as the “worsening” of such affinities by exposure to items (usually hats) that had been in close proximity to the victim's head for considerable time. Most of the real research had to await Hermione's return, however, since books about Unforgivable Curses tended to be in the Restricted Section, and only she had a pass.

Hermione jumped right into the fray as soon as she was able. The Cruciatus Curse was an emotion-based spell, which encouraged her. There was good reason to believe that this avenue might lead to something useful. At least emotion-based spells had the capacity to create affinities. Luna was detailed to look for other examples of such spells.

There were significant disappointments as well. The worst was that the most promising book on the subject had gone missing. The card for the All-England Healing Society's Familial Affinities Amongst Death Eater Victims: A Five-Year Follow Up Study had “LOSS” scrawled across it in blinking blue ink. Hermione's sphere returned empty-handed (or the equivalent). To confirm, she looked on the shelves directly and likewise found nothing.

After collecting the hodgepodge of parchments that contained her friends' research notes for the day, Hermione closeted herself away and tried to make heads or tails of them. As she wrote and rewrote, combined and recombined the scraps of information, she looked in vain for patterns and wished she had a more efficient means of organising the information. Transcribing them through the communication system helped - it cured poor penmanship and allowed some grouping - but once printed out, that was it. The system did not store or organise information, something she complained to Dennis about.

That brought Hermione to the evening meal, which she took with the group. She modified some of the assignments to reflect what they had learnt and then headed for the library, where she ensconced herself in the Restricted Section.

Hours passed. Tendrils of fatigue started to weave themselves ever more tightly around the higher faculties of Hermione's brain. The physical training had taken more out of her than she had believed. Nor did use of the Aural Pensieve make for particularly relaxing sleep.

The task she had set for herself was so immense. How did she think she would ever be able to review everything that might be useful in the entire Restricted Section - and do it in a time frame that might make a difference? She was pale and drawn; her limp hair kept getting in her eyes, but it hardly mattered because she was having trouble reading anyway. One thing was sure, she would have to give up any non-essential reading (even her usual anticipatory revising for her courses) and focus entirely on the task at hand.

Still she pressed on, always hopeful that the next book with an interesting title would get her off of square one and allow her somehow to reach Harry. It was what she did best, and she had to do her best for Harry. Not only his life, but her own redemption, depended upon it.

Around ten thirty, Hermione made a couple of decisions. Her first was to pay a visit to the staff apartment of her Head of House. Professor McGonagall had never been very keen on what she was trying to do, that had been obvious enough. Her unmistakable position was that Hermione should leave Harry's rescue to adults; that the search she was pursuing was unlikely to unearth anything useful; and that if she did find something, she was likely to endanger herself trying to enter Harry's mind in this fashion.

“Professor McGonagall, I need to borrow a Time-Turner,” she stated.

“Miss Granger, your last idea was dangerous enough,” said McGonagall with cold asperity. “I don't want to hear of any harebrained scheme to travel back in time to rescue Potter. I won't permit it.”

“Oh no, Professor, that's not it at all,” replied Hermione. “I want the Time-Turner for the same reason as in Third Year. I don't have enough hours in the day to continue my training, perform the research I've assigned myself, review what my friends have discovered….”

“Miss Granger, if I thought you were deterrable, I would turn you down,” Professor McGonagall mused. “Look at you. Your complexion is blotchy, your eyes are hollow from driving yourself so hard, and you haven't fully recovered from your ordeal last weekend. Let the Order take care of this. You don't have to do everything yourself. Leave off, you've done enough.”

“I can't,” she said emphatically. “I have to follow this through.”

“Is there anything I can offer you to get you to put a stop to this madness?” Professor McGonagall inquired, already knowing the answer.

“I can't not do this - I couldn't live with myself. I'm going to get him back,” Hermione affirmed with such fire in her eyes that her Head of House would never forget her expression. “After what I did to him, I owe him that much.”

“Will you at least tell me what that was? I'm afraid you're going to work yourself to exhaustion or worse,” Professor McGonagall requested directly.

“I'm afraid I can't do that,” Hermione protested. “Not without first discussing it with Harry. It's extremely private.”

“There's nothing I can do to dissuade you, then?” Professor McGonagall asked rather dejectedly.

“There's nothing you can say or do that would change my mind,” Hermione repeated firmly. “…And there's nothing I won't do to see this through,” she said with just a touch of warning in her voice.

“Very well,” Professor McGonagall sighed. “I will get you a Time-Turner, but it will be a restricted one, capable of no more than a six-hour reversion in any 24-hour period.”

Professor McGonagall stared at her prize pupil - quite probably the most academically gifted student she had ever taught - but what this girl was aiming for was just too dangerous to be allowed. After collecting her thoughts the professor resumed the offensive. “You must understand that, even if you are able to devise some magic that does what you want, what you are contemplating is extraordinarily dangerous.”

“I'm aware of that,” replied Hermione very calmly, a far away look in her eyes.

She thus failed to note the far away look Professor McGonagall had in her own eyes. “To use an affinity in that way, you would have to put yourself into some sort of a trance. Your mind would be exposed, opened up to anything, or anyone, that might be in Potter's mind. His mental processes - and whatever he happens to be experiencing - would be pulled into your psyche with possibly disastrous consequences.”

“I'm prepared to risk that,” Hermione stoutly responded. “I'm prepared to risk anything.”

“Well, I'm not,” Professor McGonagall retorted. “I look out for my students even when they refuse to look out for themselves. Any magic that modifies the brain is difficult and unpredictable. What you contemplate is much more problematic than the memory modification technique that put Professor Lockhart in St. Mungo's.”

“With all due respect, I believe I'm better at magic than Professor Lockhart,” Hermione sniffed.

“I believe that as well, or else I'd have put a stop to this lunacy at the outset,” continued Professor McGonagall, her Scottish accent deepening with her emotion. “But a botched Memory Charm is nothing compared to an affinity gone astray. You leave yourself very vulnerable, virtually unprotected, when you open your mind to external input of this sort. Potter is a prisoner of Death Eaters. His circumstances could be extreme. You've said that whenever he's conscious, he's in agony almost the entire time. Beyond that, you know as well as anyone that Potter is prone to poorly controlled magical outbursts of great power.”

“Whatever else might happen, I don't believe that Harry would ever do anything that he thought would cause me serious injury,” Hermione protested.

“Nor do I. But he doesn't.…” Professor McGonagall paused, gathered her thoughts, and continued. “None of us know the extent of his powers. He's sixteen years old. He'll be very powerful, that is certain. Extraordinary powers of this nature oscillate wildly during adolescence….”

“I'll have to trust Harry,” Hermione said. “I don't have any choice.”

“…And then there's Voldemort,” Professor McGonagall reminded - actually using the name. “You know Potter already shares an affinity with the Dark Lord that allows him to invade his mind to a greater or lesser extent. Opening your mind to Potter means potentially opening it to Voldemort as well…. You know, I know, and Potter knows that Voldemort would leap at the chance to turn you into a vegetable. He's been attacking all of Potter's friends, and you are at the top of that list … if not beyond it altogether. If your manipulation of that affinity goes even a little wrong, it could result in your mind being invaded by who knows what - Potter's almost unthinkable childhood experiences, Voldemort's evil, anyone and everyone in Potter's vicinity. You subject yourself to being manipulated by anyone who might try to target you during the period of your trance. A neural overload could result, and that could have fatal effects. You could go insane. You could die a horrible, protracted death.”

“You seem to know rather more about this than I would have thought,” Hermione replied astutely. “Perhaps you know something that could help me?”

“I'm not a Healer,” declared Professor McGonagall firmly, “but I do know this. Something of the sort occurred in an attempt to recover the sanity of the Longbottoms shortly after the Death Eaters attacked them. Two of St. Mungo's most promising young Healers volunteered, and both of them died. As a result, the Ministry no longer supports research into affinity manipulation, which is why you will not find anything in the library concerning it.”

“I've got to try. I'm not really living now - with Harry gone like this,” Hermione answered. “There's no closure, after what happened. At least if I die in the attempt, I'll die knowing that I gave it my all.”

“Miss Granger, this is not wise,” McGonagall persisted. “I've seen far too much of Gryffindors and grand gestures….”

Hermione gave Professor McGonagall an uncharacteristic glare, but said nothing.

“Very well,” Professor McGonagall surrendered. “I will get you the Time-Turner. Potter is indeed a lucky young man to have such a friend as this.”

Having gotten what she wanted from her Head of House, Hermione set off on her second errand of the evening. This trip was more secretive. She was not exactly doing anything wrong, but what she had in mind was not exactly right either….

She knew the password, “Here and now.”

As the Fat Lady swung the door to the Gryffindor Common Room open, Hermione wondered if she could change things a bit.

“Since I'll be a Prefect again next year, can I change the password?” she asked.

“I don't see why not,” the Fat Lady replied. “As long as you tell your friends. The elves don't bother with them, of course.”

Hermione smiled at the portrait. “Thanks, I want the new password to be `gone but not forgotten.'”

“He never will be,” the Fat Lady replied she smiled back.

Hermione made sure the door had shut again before doing anything else.

The common room was rather dishevelled. In preparation for the new term, it was in the midst of the house-elves' annual refurbishment. The rugs were up and much of the furniture was on its side. Some of the squashy armchairs appeared rather squashed. The fireplace was out, and looked like it was being cleaned.

Picking her way deliberately through the clutter, Hermione moved towards the right-hand staircase at the far end of the room. Reaching it, she climbed six flights until she reached the Sixth Year boys' dormitory. Just as Neville had mentioned, Harry's trunk was on one of the beds, the hangings were open. Beside it was Harry's Valkyrie, turned upside down, and Hedwig's cage. Briefly Hermione was worried for Hedwig. Then she realised Harry's owl - like her own Athena - had undoubtedly taken up residence in the Hogwarts owlery.

Harry's trunk was locked. Pulling out her wand, she incanted, “Patefacio,” but the Opening Charm bounced harmlessly away with no apparent effect.

“Oh bother,” she muttered. In her haste, Hermione had overlooked the obvious possibility that Harry's trunk would be sealed. With her fingers intertwined behind her head, she wandered aimlessly around the room, exhorting herself to “think, think.”

Finally, she had an idea. Whoever had locked Harry's trunk and deposited it in this dormitory would surely want him to be able to open it. Maybe she could fool the spell. Taking Harry's Auror ring off of her finger, she placed it on her wand and repeated the Opening Charm. The trunk popped open without further ado.

“Miz Myown?”

Hermione gave a great start and whirled around, coming face to face with an equally startled house-elf. “Oh, Dobby,” Hermione gasped, “what are you doing here?”

“I is sent to find out what you is doing here,” the elf replied.

“Oh, I needed to borrow something from Harry … for my work … to try to find him,” Hermione replied jerkily.

“Miz Myown is the wielder of mighty magic!” Dobby said adoringly. “The trunk is supposed to open only for the great Harry Potter.”

“I tricked it,” Hermione said without thinking. Once the words were out of her mouth she almost instantly regretted them.

“How can you trick the Auror magic?” Dobby asked almost awestruck.

Deciding that honesty was, in this instance, probably the best policy, Hermione told Dobby that she had been given Harry's ring when he disappeared in accordance with “Auror tradition.” By placing it on her wand, she had passed her own opening spell off as his. To try to strengthen her affinity to Harry, she was looking for an object belonging to him.

Dobby's almost preternaturally large eyes grew even larger. “Oh my, Miz Myown, do be careful. Harry Potter would not be a-wanting you to be in danger.” Obviously accepting Hermione's explanation, Dobby snapped his fingers and vanished.

Hermione started sorting through the trunk in earnest, looking for a something suitably Harry's. There were quite a few books, including - oddly - one on Muggle electricity. She recognised a number of other items as gifts from his birthday party. That was when she had danced with him….

It seemed that had been in another world, so much had changed.… And not for the better.

Berating her own weakness, she forced herself to look forward rather than back. Hermione banished those memories and bashed on. She removed his toiletry items, including a Muggle electric shaver. `That won't work here,' she thought.

Digging further, she wondered what on earth Harry was doing with a laptop computer - at Hogwarts no less? It must have come from the Dursleys, she surmised, because it still had part of a Grunnings inventory sticker on the bottom. Harry had told her that his uncle worked for that firm. They made drills. Before everything had been packed up and shipped to Australia, there had been several Grunnings drills in her father's dental surgery.

She came across the Mauraders' Map and two Invisibility Cloaks. Underneath them was a leather motorcycle jacket with a “Potter's Marauders” design on the back. She had never seen it before, nor had Harry mentioned it. She wondered where he had acquired such a nice, if unusual, piece of clothing. The embroidery was outstanding.

Harry had accumulated rather more in the way of apparel than she had expected - but the only headgear she found was a Manchester United cap. Uncertain of how much Harry had worn it, she placed it over her face and sniffed. She was staggered, close to being physically overwhelmed by Harry's scent permeating the cap. If anything would serve to strengthen the link, this would.

Harry's cap served other functions. Smelling him again - even though he was long gone - reminded her forcefully of how truly she missed him. She not only felt alone, but empty, even broken. Having known him so long, it was like something essential to her being was missing. There was a void in her heart, a hole in her soul. Only with difficulty did Hermione maintain a stiff upper lip.

Shortly thereafter, Hermione reluctantly made ready to leave. If not for her friends, she might have considered staying the night, just to be close to something of Harry's more substantial than memories. She had taken altogether too long as it was. Whatever possessed her to look under Harry's shimmering dress robes, she never knew. Maybe she just wanted a better look at the robes - the close-up view she had never had at Reims.

Underneath Harry's robes she found a fancy looking box tied up with string, Muggle style - and, much more importantly, his Aural Pensieve.

Talk about killing two birds with one stone…. Not only had the Pensieve undoubtedly spent a great deal of time near Harry's head, but it was also a solution to another of her problems. If she could use Harry's equipment to review the Auror curriculum, she no longer needed to suffer through any more of their training sessions. Obviously, her trainers had no idea that Harry's Aural Pensieve had found its way to Hogwarts.

Once upon a time, there had been nothing as important as her training. But now Harry was missing. Not only had her need for training paled in comparison to Harry's present plight, but it was an emotional drain as well. One of the reasons she had done so badly with her last lesson was her melancholy. Everything about the training constantly reminded her of Harry - and of his absence. It had driven her to distraction.

“A Priori.” With that incantation, and a jagged, pointing movement from her wand, all of the rest of Harry's belongings neatly sorted themselves out and squared themselves away in his trunk. Hermione put a Shrinking Charm on the two precious items she was “borrowing,” and hurried back to the guest apartments. Now that she had a Time-Turner the night promised to be even longer.

* * * *

Hermione was jolted fully awake by an early morning knock on the door of her bedroom. The Time-Turner had helped her get a better night's sleep. Completing another Auror lesson, she had awoken well before her alarm had gone off. The scent from Harry's cap was stimulating. Before the knock made the decision for her, she had been weighing the relative merits of lifting the Imperturbable Charm versus having a go at autoeroticism.

She sensed the Headmaster. That meant something serious had happened. Hermione hastily changed into something suitable. Opening her door, she saw Dumbledore sitting patiently at the large table, looking grave.

“Miss Granger, I wish to acquaint you with the latest information that the Order has gleaned concerning Mister Potter's disappearance,” the Headmaster wheezed. “After some rather tense negotiations with the Muggle authorities, yesterday we were finally allowed access to the ruins of the building from which he was taken….”

“Did you find anything of Harry's?” Hermione immediately asked.

Dumbledore hesitated. “…Umm, not exactly, but there was…”

“What exactly, then?” Hermione usually tolerated the Headmaster's oblique manner of speaking, but not now, at least when the subject was Harry.

Dumbledore was unmistakably ill at ease about something. What that something was soon became clear. “We conducted a scan of the rubble for anything magical, or bearing traces of magic. One of the items we discovered was a piece of jewelry protected by a strong Indestructibility Charm. It was a locket.… When we opened it we found a picture of Mister Potter and … well, you see.…”

“Harry and that Eliza woman, I presume?” Hermione cut to the chase. There was no use denying it. Harry had gone to that woman after … the incident…. After she had driven Harry away. She had struck him. He must detest her now…. Hermione was sure of that. She had come to Hogwarts to perform her penance. It did her no good to deny what had transpired before.

“Yes,” Dumbledore affirmed. “We further believe that Mister Potter performed the charm.”

“I'm sure of it,” Hermione commented. “Since you haven't told me otherwise, am I to assume that Eliza Brookings is deceased?”

“To no avail, we have been searching diligently for her since Mister Potter was taken,” Dumbledore answered. “We assume that she perished in the fire.”

“I rather doubt that,” said Hermione.

“Do you have inside information, so to speak?” Dumbledore asked.

“Yes, and I'm sorry that I didn't tell you earlier, but I had so many other things to think about,” Hermione apologised. “Just before Harry blacked out and I-I-I … thought that he … he … died, one of the emotions that passed through his mind was grief.… It was very powerful. I believe that the Death Eaters executed her. The fire was started only after they made off with Harry, probably to cover their tracks.”

“Thank you for that information, as I also believe that to be the case,” confirmed Dumbledore. “Another item we discovered was an engine from the Muggle aeroplane. Its presence has been our main bone of contention with the Muggle authorities, as it figures so strongly in their parallel investigation. The struts on the engine, that affixed it to the wing, bear unmistakable magical traces. We believe that the crash, which devastated several London neighbourhoods, was caused by a Severing Charm. The engine itself corroborates our detection of magic. The metal was sliced cleanly through, as opposed to a fatigue fracture, which looks much different.”

“You … you can confirm that through microscopy….” He turned, and Hermione's anguish was painfully apparent. She whispered, “That means that an entire planeload of Muggles were murdered so the Death Eaters could seize Harry, doesn't it?”

“It does, but there is nothing we can do about that now, except to try to rescue him,” Dumbledore answered. “There is something else, although it may be a coincidence. We also found a ring in the rubble, protected by its own Indestructibility Charm, although the charm is much older.…”

“All right, I'll bite, whose is it?” Hermione asked impatiently.

“At the time the ring was charmed, it belonged to one Murgatroyd Goyle,” Dumbledore revealed. “He is a Death Eater. However, Mister Goyle was under surveillance that evening, and was nowhere near London.”

Hermione did not want to add yet another mystery to all the others that were confronting her. “What does that mean?”

“There is no way to know for sure,” the Headmaster answered, “since he abruptly returned to Voldemort shortly after the attack on Mister Potter, and has been in Voldemort's active service since that time. Surveillance on the Goyle household indicates that his son Gregory.…”

“Him, I know,” Hermione affirmed.

“…who flunked out of Hogwarts, has since moved away from his parents' household and taken Muggle employment of some sort. I do not pretend to know what it all means, if anything, but I would recommend that you be careful the next time you encounter the younger Mister Goyle - should you ever do so.”

Dumbledore rose and made ready to leave, indicating that the interview was over. As he was leaving, he paused and made a parting comment, “Oh, and by the way, the witness lists for next week were revealed to all litigants yesterday. Please let me know if you notice any change in the way Mister Potter is being treated.”

Dumbledore was prophetic. Only a short time after she arrived at Auror Headquarters for her last training session (in cryptography), burdened with all of the equipment she was returning, Hermione became aware that Harry was awake again. This time, however, the emotions she sensed were quite different.

* * * *

It was happening again, but in a different way. This time, his slow return to consciousness was heralded by the faint babble of voices gradually growing louder as his awareness increased. Harry was only vaguely aware of what was happening, but eventually he did comprehend. He was waking up early from the spells, or potions, or whatever his captors kept him under. This was the sharpest he had felt mentally since he had been brought here. Not wishing to let anyone - or anything - become aware of this fact, Harry began using Occlumency the moment he understood what was happening.

His Occlumency seemed to be working. The Dementors that lurked somewhere behind whatever it was he was chained to had not noticed that he was conscious. They had not come to feed.

Harry took stock of his situation. He was very weak. He still felt faint. It was as if his nerves were operating in slow motion. Simply maintaining a relatively simple form of Occlumency seemed to take all of his energy.

He could also tell he was chained to something in five places, on each of his limbs and his neck. He supposed the chains were magical because his previous struggling had abjectly failed. Upon his attempts to move, his manacles had only tightened and cut into his wrists and ankles. When he stopped resisting, however, they had not been that uncomfortable - by the standards of being chained to a wall, that is. He dared not move this time, because that would attract the Dementors.

Harry could not see anything. His head remained inside some kind of cloth sack. From the smell of it, it had not been laundered since his arrival. Come to think of it, he had no idea how long he had been there. Someone must have been Scourgifying him. He would have smelled much worse otherwise.

Even without the Dementors feeding, Harry quickly fell back into depression. His life had ceased to be worth living. All the people he cared about most were dead or lost to him. What was taking Voldemort so long? At one point he had even felt a tickle in his scar, as if the Dark Lord had been ever so stealthily trying to probe him. Shifting his Occlumency, Harry blocked the intrusion - if that was what it was.

The voices had gotten a little louder. Harry realised they were not in his head. Rather his captors were chatting amongst themselves. The voices were distant. Harry was reasonably sure that they were not in the same room.

There were three Death Eaters. The same three, Harry thought. All their voices were modified somehow and sounded artificial. Harry supposed they were all men, but that could just have been the voice alteration spell. Harry called the leader “Tin Man” because his voice was high and tinny sounding. The second voice was low and gravelly, so he became “Cowardly Lion,” which Harry shortened to “Lion,” because that one was willing to argue with the leader. The third Death Eater did not speak very much, and when he did, he did not sound very intelligent. He became “Scarecrow,” the one without a brain. Scarecrow was the Death Eater who fed him.

Harry had just been hanging onto consciousness, but now made an effort to overhear the conversation. When he heard Tin Man say “Mudblood,” his ears perked up even more. Whilst he was unable to hear everything, after a while it was terribly apparent that his captors were indeed discussing Hermione.

Evidently she was going to be a witness in, Harry supposed, the upcoming Death Eater trial. Tin Man was furious about that. The Death Eaters were plotting retaliation against her. Even after their breach and his capture, the threat to her remained - and she did not even know it.

Their conversation took ever more disturbing turns. Tin Man and Lion competed with each other to describe ever more graphic tortures that they could inflict on Hermione after Voldemort triumphed. Lion wanted to Cruciate her until her brains ran from her ears. But even that was not even enough for these fiends.

His captors were male all right…. No woman would ever make such proposals. Soon rape and murder were being bandied about amongst much harsh laughter. The scenarios they discussed were so graphic that Harry grew nauseous….

This was disgusting. But for the unassigned Auror lessons, Harry would not have understood the true depravity of the suggestions these Death Eaters traded back and forth over raucous guffaws. If they ever did what it sounded like they were plotting, they would inflict upon Hermione a horrible, degrading, slow, and painful death - made all the more agonising through Muggle means.

It was enough to make him wish for the Dementors…, but only for a moment….

The penny dropped, and in a flash of comprehension, Harry grasped that she was unwittingly courting this ghastly fate because of him. Because he had stupidly allowed himself to be captured with his pants down - literally - the Order had evidently convinced her to step forward and testify in his stead during the upcoming Death Eater trial. Although he had finally and irrevocably driven Hermione away from him, even his absence placed her in mortal danger. She was unaware of this, and could not defend herself against what she had no reason to suspect.

He would not - could not - let that happen.

Harry stopped wishing for his own death. It was like someone had touched a match to his mind. He knew now that he had to get away and do something to stop these ghouls. He was the only one who knew what was being plotted, and against whom. Harry tested his irons and could tell he was far too weak to break them. He had to bide his time and wait for release from these shackles.

Suddenly he shuddered. He had let down his mental guard. The Dementors sensed that he was awake and were coming to feed. Harry's Occlumency was also too weak - too weak to deny them their wants. But nonetheless something was different.

He had a purpose now. Since it was not a happy purpose - Harry remained convinced that Hermione despised him after what he had done - even Dementors could not destroy it. The Dementors fed greedily, causing Harry to experience the most gruesome visions of Hermione's fate.

Even so, the change in his psyche remained. Newly motivated, Harry was at least able to keep a portion of his mind clear through Occlumency.

* * * *

For the first time in a week, Hermione actually allowed herself a tiny bit of optimism. She was done with her Auror training, and the end had not been the ordeal she had feared. The Aurors had already decided to end the programme early, since so much of the upcoming week would be spent with Hermione either testifying or preparing for testimony. She was secretly relieved not to go down as a quitter in anyone's book, although she would have endured any sort of calumny in pursuit of her higher priorities.

Hermione was optimistic mostly about Harry. His emotions still consisted primarily of horror, desperation, and fear, but for the first time she had detected more positive signs as well - new determination and even new hatred were welling up inside of him. Harry was not recovering, but at least he seemed to be regaining his will. It might not seem like very much to others, but to her, it bore the germ of hope. It was much easier to rescue someone who wanted to be rescued, and now, just maybe, Harry did.

Other good news awaited Hermione when she returned to her friends. An important new clue had been found by - of all people - Ron. Hermione had assigned him some topics because she knew he would be insulted if excluded from the research altogether. On the other hand, from things Ginny had said, she was not at all certain of his dedication, and it had been more important not to jeopardise the overall mission.

Ron had come through.

Whatever had possessed him to select Marco's Millions from the shelves of historical fiction that the Hogwarts library offered was never quite clear - but it proved a brilliant idea. Ron admitted that he nearly fell out of his chair when he saw it….

“Bloody hell!!” Ron had exclaimed. “Listen to this, `a thread of purple flame.' Isn't that the spell that Hermione and Harry both got hit with in the Ministry?”

Ginny and Luna had both been present when Ron made his discovery, and quickly confirmed that he was right. The book was an ancient one, and the wizard Marco Polo had reported seeing so many outlandish and bizarre things in the course of his travels, that his memoirs had long ago been categorized as fiction. The mention of a thread of purple flame occurred in a discussion of Tibetan Dark magic.

That was all Hermione needed. Within an hour of her learning of Ron's discovery, her formidable research abilities had finally put a name to the spell that had created the affinity she shared with Harry: the Dark Fire of Tu-Fan. Finally, she felt as if she were getting somewhere. Now that she had a defined target, she could bring her research skills - and those of her friends, as well - fully to bear on the problem of using her affinity to find Harry.

* * * *

Author's notes: “Stopping service” is British for what we Yanks call a “local” train

Sex discrimination is a problem with both Muggle and wizard construction trades

The guest quarters actually have some of the same characteristics as the Room of Requirement

Hogwarts guests get their own turn-down service

The black boxer trunks with the hearts come from cartoons depicting Bill Clinton

Hermione's and Hagrid's plan will be duly revealed, but not yet. Readers may speculate on the review thread. There are plenty of hints

“Pride,” of course, is by U2

The incantation for the Feather Light charm has never been given. I made up something in Latin

Hermione and Luna ride the wild horses to the tune of “Wild Horses,” by the Stones

“Phoney War” was that period of WWII between the fall of Poland and the invasion of France

The issue Hermione has thought through will arise in a later chapter

“Don't need to be forgiven” is a line from The Who's “Baba O'Riley”

What Hermione figured out about Harry's future becomes critically important

Avvie and Marona are my names for the two unknown Gryffindor girls in Harry's year. Avvie is short for Avalon, and Marona is a character from the Auel Earth's Children series

Neville echos Lupin's “usual standards” line from PoA

Neville “used to think” that he had a chance with Hermione

Nil intentatum reliquit was Captain Cook's motto

I once had an old Underwood

“Unlike some,” Moody has some idea what the friends are up against

The SING concept comes from “Miss Congeniality”

“LOSS” is not what it seems

Patefacio is Latin for “open”

Goyle is long dead by this time

Harry's nicknames for his three captors are from Wizard of Oz

I don't describe directly what they were proposing to do to Hermione because it's too disgusting. If you must know, Google “Henry Brisbon”

“Marco's Millions” is a term for Marco Polo's autobiography, which was dubbed a “million lies” by skeptics

Tu Fan is the name of the Eighth Century Tibetan empire

49

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch30 searching.doc 02/10/05

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31. Trials And Errors

Wherein Hermione bangs her head against a brick wall, meets with lawyers, arranges a Howler for Malfoy, testifies in court, and pulls off a scheme with Hagrid; and Harry learns and sees things that he rather would not and has a strong reaction; and Draco decides to double-cross Voldemort, and threatens to harm Harry.

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

Chapter 31 - Trials And Errors

Hermione's high hopes of a research breakthrough failed to survive the day. Intensive research into ancient Tibetan, Chinese, and even Indian magic fell into the same pattern - a variety of tantalizing remarks and references in a variety of sources, capped off by another blind alley, in the form of another lost book that from its title seemed to be spot on point. This time it was Dark Magic of the Himalayas, by Prester John. It, too, was listed as missing from the Restricted Section; the card in the card catalog bore the same notation, “LOSS.”

Hermione complained to both Dumbledore and McGonagall (and also Madam Pince) about the apparently purloined publication, but they seemed maddeningly unconcerned. Professor McGonagall dismissed her gripes with the offhand remark that the card catalogue “hadn't been thoroughly updated in a century,” and given the “obscure subjects” Hermione was researching, it was “hardly surprising that any number of unlikely volumes have gone missing since Hogwarts was founded.”

Dumbledore more helpfully advised Hermione to seek an interlibrary loan through Madam Pince. However, he was anything but optimistic that such a loan could be arranged in less than two weeks, which assumed both that some other wizarding source had that book and would be willing to lend it.

Otherwise, her research was settling into a routine - still frantic, but dull and frustrating at the same time. She worked thirty-hour days. The morning began with a meeting amongst the all the friends and co-adventurers. Hermione would assign or modify the day's tasks over a communal breakfast. After that, everyone else's spheres would begin migrating to the library.

But not Hermione…. For her, it was off to swot in the Restricted Section. She read and took notes until the dinner hour. She allowed herself not even the distraction of a midday meal. Instead, Dobby prepared a bag-packed lunch for her to eat on site. Madam Pince might grumble about food in the library, but since the girl had the blessing of the Headmaster and his deputy, the librarian kept her thoughts to herself.

If it was an odd numbered day, sometime in mid-morning she would sense Harry regaining consciousness for a couple of hours. Harry must have been horribly depressed by his captivity, because these periods of wakefulness always ended with him in the throes of grief and despair. She could hardly blame him, as she was almost howling with frustration and apprehension herself - and her circumstances were infinitely better than his.

Sometime between six and seven in the evening, the researchers again ate together and discussed the day's developments. Hermione then took everyone's notes and transcribed them onto the Creeveys' communicator. This, too, was a frustrating process because once she printed her compilations, they would be gone from that system. The communicator had no memory.

Hermione would try until around midnight to make sense of whatever scraps of information everyone had found, and to see if she could discover any patterns. Then it was off to the Restricted Section again, where she would work through the night until after daybreak. Promptly at six a.m. she would return to her quarters and flop into bed, with her Time-Turner set back six hours to get some much needed sleep.

Perhaps inevitably, she was sleeping poorly, and not just because she continued putting her brain through its paces even whilst sleeping, with Harry's Aural Pensieve. No - far worse were her dreams. Hermione's dreams began differently, but always concluded at the same place - with Harry, his present plight, and her complicity driving him into the grasp of the Death Eaters. Her Imperturbable Charms avoided waking the others, and also concealed how much she was hurting.

All this was her planned schedule, anyway. In practice it was never so easy. There were always interruptions taking her away from the main task of trying to discover a way to find - and then to save - Harry.

On Sunday she lost half the day. From ten in the morning until four in the afternoon she had to meet with the Ministry barristers to prepare her testimony for the trial of Dolores Umbridge, scheduled for Monday morning. Without Harry, it would be a difficult trial. Hermione was going to testify under Veritaserum about what she knew of Harry's torture at the hands of this truly wicked witch. But Harry had suffered under Umbridge's vile blood quills, not her.

Three actual victims were also witnesses. Hermione had known for weeks that the just-graduated Lee Jordan was determined to testify about his experiences doing lines in Umbridge's detentions. Lee, it had turned out, was made of sterner stuff than she had thought. Beneath that glib exterior lurked a steely resolve.

Only on Sunday did Hermione learn that Samuel Ashburton would testify. He was a lanky Hufflepuff in the year behind whom she knew not at all. This boy had come to experience the joys of detention with Umbridge after bravely complaining in front of the entire Fifth-Year DADA class about the utter lack of practical course content.

The third blood quill veteran was a surprise:

“Luna…?” Hermione gasped.

“That's my name, right… But I think you knew that already,” the grey-eyed Ravenclaw replied serenely as she glided into the room.

“But when did…? I didn't know…. Why didn't you tell us?” Hermione spluttered, trying to process the information.

“There was no need,” Luna replied. “I know about Murtlap. I never let it bother me very much.”

“What did you get detention for?” Hermione asked.

“The course was pointless. The lectures were worthless. There wasn't even any meaningful homework, so I started bringing my revising for Potions or Transfiguration to class. She didn't appreciate that and told me to stop. For several days I did, but then Professor Snape assigned us a particularly nasty essay on the uses of salamander egg yolk, and I really needed the extra time. I told her I'd stop working when she started to teach, and that was that… A week with the quill was my reward.”

“Oh, my…,” sympathised Hermione. “When did this happen?”

“Sometime in the middle of January.” Luna remembered. “I was reasonably current with my assignments until then. It didn't hurt as much as she thought it would though….”

“How could that be?” Hermione asked with even greater interest.

“If I feel like it, I can detach myself from my physical surroundings rather effectively,” Luna replied. Her fingers aimlessly twirled a stray lock of her rather stringy hair. “You've probably seen me in that state. I'm there, but then again, I'm not. It's a defense mechanism I've had for years. It saved my life.…”

“When?” asked Hermione. “In the Department of Mysteries?”

“Oh, no, I wasn't that badly hurt there,” Luna corrected. “Not at all like you. It was when my father died…. I'm sure that if I hadn't separated my mind from my body I would have struggled and torn my carotid artery on the blade. I'm told it was a very close thing as it was.… Professor Umbridge's detentions helped me master it as a true skill, so in some roundabout way I'm indebted to her.…”

Hermione shuddered at Luna's her almost casual reference to her near-decapitation by Death Eaters. The girl's angry red scar was still plainly visible all the way from one side of her neck to the other, and she no longer bothered even trying to conceal it. The odd-duck Ravenclaw did not often talk about herself, so Hermione asked an open-ended question. “What do you mean?”

“I just sort of let go, and separated my consciousness from my body,” Luna explained. “Her detentions were the first time I was ever able to do that on demand. Previously, is just sort of … happened. In some ways it resembles post-N.E.W.T astral projection, except my body can still perform reasonably normal movements. I could still write the lines - my mind just wasn't around for the pain. If I hadn't learnt to control it, it might not have been there for me when I really needed it….” Luna's voice trailed off.

“I'm surprised you came forward to testify if you feel indebted to her,” Hermione commented.

“I feel a far greater debt to Harry, to you, and to the school generally,” Luna responded. “Professor Umbridge might have helped me, but that was not her intent. You, Harry, many of the professors - Flitwick, McGonagall … even Snape… have tried to help. That creates a much greater sense of obligation.”

“You … You think Snape tried to help?” Hermione asked archly. “After what he's done?”

“Who knows what he's done?” Luna replied enigmatically. “Many things could not be what they seem … like the Wrackspurt when it camouflages itself as a Blibbering Humdinger. With Harry's disappearance, it's likely that everyone is trying to deceive everyone else. I'm forced to suspend judgment. Everything is uncertain…. War is that way.”

Her head spinning at Luna's unique brand of logic, Hermione was content to break off that conversation as the barristers arrived. Nevertheless, during the several hours of rehash that followed, Hermione learned nothing anywhere as interesting or thought provoking as the few minutes she spent with Luna.

Until the session ended, that is.

Hermione was having a pleasant chat with Lee Jordan about what it was like being a magical disc jockey when Professor McGonagall approached them. With a worried look on her face, she interrupted the two former housemates. “Miss Granger, a word, if you please?”

The professor's tone was serious. It was not really a question. Lee understood that as well and made his excuses. Together, Hermione and Professor McGonagall walked back towards the residence area.

“Miss Granger, about your father, do you know if he had any business he needed to attend to before he arrived in Sydney? Someplace else he might have stopped off along the way? Japan? Taiwan, perhaps?” Professor McGonagall made these inquiries with some concern slipping through her enforced calm.

“Er … no….” Hermione mumbled as she mentally catalogued what little she knew of her father's affairs. “I can't think of anything. Why do you ask?”

Knowing that Hermione was less than a week removed from a bout of post-traumatic stress disorder severe enough to strike her mute, Professor McGonagall weighed her response carefully.

“It's probably nothing,” she said dismissively, “but as you may have suspected, the Order has been keeping your parents under surveillance … loose surveillance, mind you, but your father, he didn't make his … er … what do you call it … connexion in Singapore. Thus, we're not sure where he is right now.”

“Oh, dear,” Hermione gasped, “do you mean that…?”

“NO!” McGonagall exclaimed, a little more forcefully than she had intended. “We have absolutely no reason to suspect any sort of foul play. We were cooperating with the Singaporean Ministry, and there was no sign whatever of any magic - light or Dark - in the airport that day. There was no sign of any unusual magical activity anywhere in the country.… Granted, it's a small country.”

“Then what do you think happened?” pressed Hermione.

“As I said,” McGonagall continued, “we were not watching him that closely. We don't want to intrude, since your father's not very happy with us magicals right now….”

“Now there's an understatement,” Hermione commented.

“…Anyway, he simply didn't go to the gate for the flight he was supposed to take. He probably just changed his plans. People do that all the time, and there was no expectation that he would inform us. He probably took a side trip, since your mother isn't expected for a couple of weeks, yet. It would be a good use of his time.”

Hermione relaxed a bit. That would be like her father. So what if he wasted a plane ticket? He had more frequent flier miles than he could possibly use, and his professional and business contacts spanned the globe. Before she was born, he had invented what had once been the most widely used dental implant in the world. Until the last few years, he had travelled all about the globe training fellow dentists and oral surgeons how to use it. She had been on many exotic holidays whilst her father taught at one of these continuing dental/medical education courses - St. Moritz, Costa del Sol, Sun City, Las Vegas, Acapulco, Queenstown…. “You're undoubtedly correct,” Hermione replied after she finished analysing things. “He probably got an invite from some old friend.”

McGonagall nodded. “We have notified the Australian Ministry, however. They've put some disturbance charms on the house he has purchased in New South Wales. When he turns up, they'll know, and we'll get word.”

“I do tend to worry about things, though,” Hermione added. “Please keep me informed.”

* * * *

Back in old South Wales, Draco Malfoy was nervous. The day before he had been forced to leave the Potterless Conspiracy in the hands of Ted Nott in order to stage his own high profile “return from Durmstrang” in order to testify at one hearing and observe at two others. He was not at all worried about Nott, though. Nott had proved his competence. Indeed, in some ways he was probably better at managing Potter's captivity than Malfoy himself.

The headstrong blonde boy spent an entire afternoon with the barristers representing Madam Umbridge. Over and over again they put him through the rigours of cross-examination - some of it so confrontational that Malfoy had been tempted to hex his questioners. By the time they were through with him, he was exhausted.

He did, however, have a story that was less full of obvious contradictions and glaring falsehoods than the testimony he had given at the preliminary hearing. The idea of trying to rattle Potter with “disinformation” about Dementors was now a scheme of much longer duration. After all, Madam Umbridge had known of the attack within days of its occurrence. She had been informed by no less a source than Minister Fudge himself.

So Malfoy had his testimony well squared away. He was not worried about that.

What worried him was the Dark Lord. There had been no response at all to the ransom note that the plotters had sent to Lord Voldemort concerning Potter. Far from it. What Malfoy read in the Prophet suggested that the Dark Lord's response was to send Death Eaters and Dementors on a nationwide search for Potter. He secretly thanked his ancestors for the panoply of wards that protected and concealed the catacombs beneath Malfoy Manor.

That was not how the Prophet had reported events, of course. Rather, the Dark Lord's activities had been hysterically described as a wave of “attacks” throughout the country, supposedly “capitalising” upon his “success” in capturing Potter. Malfoy, however, could read between the lines. He also was familiar with Death Eater tactics. If these had been real attacks, reported casualties on both sides would be much higher. When Aurors confronted the attackers, there were no pitched battles. The Death Eaters were taking no hostages and holding no territory. Typically, as was the case today's lead story - an attack on the Hogwarts Stopping Service - there would be some minimal spell work, followed by Stuka-style dive bombing from the Dementors. Then the Dark forces would withdraw.

Nor were these “attacks” on those associated with Dumbledore or other foes of the Dark Lord. Rather, the bulk of the “attacks” targeted witches and wizards with a history of shady activities of their own - illicit potions mixers, Imperius Curse prostitution rings, traffickers in Dark magical objects, illegal Portkey manufacturers, joint wizard-Muggle organised crime operations. These were not attacks; they were searches.

The Dark Lord did not know who had Potter, but was trying very hard to find out. His suspected that some other group bent on a nefarious scheme had taken Potter. The Dark Lord was spot on as to the intent, but wrong (so far) about its source. The number of incidents in the Prophet was extremely large. The Dark Lord was taxing his resources. Malfoy knew that he had under 150 committed Death Eaters, probably fewer, given the losses the Prophet had reported since the events at the Ministry. The main meeting room far beneath Malfoy Manor had been built as a place the Death Eaters could all meet. It could not hold more than 150 people.

Malfoy was worried because his strategy was not working, and he needed a backup plan. It was more and more likely that the Dark Lord had decided that the eleven captured Death Eaters - including his father - were of no further use. Their trial was set for Friday, and the defense barristers were pessimistic. An unintended consequence of Malfoy's spectacularly successful kidnapping had been to galvanise the entire wizard population - and Death Eaters were blamed. One focus of that wave of passion was likely to be the upcoming Death Eater trial. There had been calls for stringing the defendants up without bothering with that proceeding.

If Lucius Malfoy, Maxmillian Nott, or any other of the captured Death Eaters, were sentenced to the maximum penalty, as was likely, the only thing standing between them and a Dementor's kiss would be the new automatic right of appeal to the Minister of Magic. Only recently enacted at the insistence of Albus Dumbledore, the procedure was completely untried. Realistically, that would buy only a few additional days' time. There was no way in the current political climate that Fudge - with his own Death-Eater-related baggage - would commute any of these sentences, least of all that of Lucius Malfoy.

It was almost a certainty that, barring an unexpected complete about face by the Dark Lord (not bloody likely), Malfoy's father would receive the Dementor's kiss within a fortnight. Potter's abduction, intended to induce the Dark Lord to act to free the prisoners, had failed of its primary purpose - even though it had been conspicuously successful in every other way.

Malfoy needed a new plan.

Because of his own legal hearings and lawyer meetings, Malfoy would be away from the Manor's catacombs for large parts of the coming week. He was ostensibly supposed to return to Durmstrang after that - even though he had never really been there. Knowing what was coming, the three plotters had searched through the considerable Death Eater magical stores in the Manor's magazines. They were in luck.

There were scores of Untraceable Portkeys. There were Random Portkeys. There were Portkeys preset for every other major estate that the Malfoys owned. There were Portkeys to the Riddle House, Durmstrang, and Château Blackwalls - there was even a large crate of Portkeys that, when activated, would take anyone bearing a Dark Mark into the presence of the Dark Lord, no matter where he might be.

Malfoy used these Portkeys to get back and forth between the Manor and Oceanix, where he was supposedly staying. They were faster than Thestrals, more reliable than Apparition, and utterly untraceable. Since Malfoy was not a terribly skilled Apparator, he was always worried that he might do something to trip one or another of the maze of protective spells that guarded the Manor's catacombs against just about anything short of a full-scale magical assault.

Whatever he was going to do, he could not budge until everyone turned in for the night. His mother had invited one of her old Pure-bloods for Life friends over for a visit, so he was not going anywhere soon. As was usual, the fog rolled in from the Irish Sea after the sun went down. With so many Dementors about, the weather this past week had been even worse than usual. In the drizzly darkness, Malfoy bimbled about the grounds of the estate, deep in troubled thought, not headed for anywhere in particular.

It started to rain harder. Cursing himself for not bringing a mac with him, or even an outdoor cloak, he ducked into a large barn, adjacent to the Thestral corral. He performed a rather ineffective Drought Charm. He had always been better in the Dark Arts.

“Lumos.”

He was in the working part of the estate. Large carcasses hung on hooks, already prepared for feeding the Thestrals. There were harnesses and other gear hanging on wooden pegs sunk into the poles that supported the loft and the roof. A variety of odd-looking agricultural implements - bale hooks, disassembled rotary tiller parts, scarifier shanks, moldboard shins, even an old-style sickle-board mower - filled most of the centre of the barn. The place reeked of manure.

On a low wooden bench, someone had left a nasty-looking tool, one of the few pieces of farm equipment Malfoy was familiar with. Unlike his mother, who incessantly took photographs of this “bucolic paradise,” Malfoy was almost without exception bored out of his skull by agricultural pursuits. The one exception, such as it was, involved watching the field-elves geld young Thestrals. Malfoy had always been drawn to pain and mutilation. It had to be done to maintain order in the herd, and by tradition it occurred in late summer shortly after their first year. This year, he had just missed that annual event.

The object bore prominent markings “N. BURDIZZO LAMORRA (ITALIA).” Picking up the almost two-foot long device, feeling its heft in his hands, Malfoy saw got an idea - a wonderful awful idea. If nothing changed by the time of Father's trial, there would be no choice. He would have to parlay with the Ministry instead of the Dark Lord. Whatever the Dark Lord's purposes might be, Malfoy knew enough to deliver Potter in reasonably good condition. He would never be so presumptuous as to poach on the Dark Lord's terrain by causing serious injury to Potter - if he could help it.

Tapping up the Ministry was a totally different situation. To convince the government to trade eleven captured Death Eaters in their hands for one measly Potter in the bush, the Ministry had to believe that the kidnappers would do Potter grievous, permanent bodily harm, up to and including death if necessary. These bad boys would help get his point across without saying a word….

WITHOUT SAYING A WORD!!

Malfoy smiled an evil, knowing smile as everything mentally slipped into place. He would also need to document his threat…. His mother had several.… She would never miss one in her current condition.… Some rag had offered six figures…. Malfoy told himself that he could care less about the Galleons (actually, he could use them), but it would be just the publicity stunt that his plan required.

* * * *

`Thank Merlin that's over,' Hermione thought as she left the courtroom after the Umbridge trial. Now she could get back to back to the project she really cared about - rescuing Harry from what was now over a week's captivity. Hermione walked briskly towards the Atrium where she could catch the Floo back to Hogwarts.

Even with the benefit of much longer legs, Ron was pressed to keep up with the pace she set. Hermione was even passing some of the slower memos that glided over their heads - those responding to uninvited press inquiries, for example.

Luna, on the other hand, was just gliding along, smiling benignly.

“Oi, Hermione, slow down, will you!” Ron panted. “A few bloody minutes one way or another won't be the end of the world.”

“Not yours, perhaps,” she shot back over her shoulder. If anything, she picked up her pace.

Reaching her destination, she slid into the short queue. “Now, Ron, when we get back, I'd like to go over with you an approach I've been contemplating that involves some of the other old, supposedly fictional works in the library. Your Marco Polo find was extraordinarily helpful, so maybe you can duplicate it….” She paused as she reached the front of the queue.

“See you in a few, Hermione.”

She stared at the redhead in disbelief. “What? …And just where do you think you're going?”

“To Diagon Alley to meet Cho,” Ron replied forthrightly. “Someplace private. Can't live on bread alone, you know.”

Luna's previously unworried countenance clouded a bit. “I suppose this is the `moral support' you came along to offer?”

“Not hardly,” scoffed Ron. “I supported everyone's morals for several hours in there - and for what? She gets six bloody months in Azkaban? Now it's high time I got some support of my own.… It's got nothing whatever to do with morals, that's for sure.”

With that, Ron turned and was gone. Hermione's glare could have etched glass. Luna just rolled her eyes. “This is not good,” she muttered.

Back in her suite in Hogwarts, Hermione changed into the more comfortable robes she wore whilst researching and reflected on the day so far. Her testimony had gone relatively smoothly. Fewer hearsay objections had been sustained than the prosecutors had feared. Almost all the rubbish about her supposed (“I wish”) illicit sex life with Harry had been excluded as irrelevant.

She sighed deeply. One of the silks had warned her that it would be far different - and worse - when she testified as a character witness at the Black hearing. The only silver lining on that looming black cloud was that, unlike this criminal trial, the Black inquiry was closed to the public.

Hermione wondered if it had been worth it; whether the minimal sentence justified the time she (and everyone) had lost. Lee, Sam, and Luna had all testified to their personal experiences with Umbridge's blood quills, and that hideous excuse for a professor had not even bothered to deny it. She claimed that her actions, even if “technically illegal,” had been necessary because there was a widespread conspiracy to undermine her authority. Umbridge was not even wrong about that - there most certainly had been a conspiracy to undermine her authority.

Hermione had been up to her eyeballs in that conspiracy, which is why she wondered whether her testimony had helped or hurt the cause. The worst moment - although she was not ashamed in the least - came when Umbridge's barrister had asked Hermione if she had any part in founding the student group, Dumbledore's Army, about which the defendant had ranted. Being under Veritaserum, Hermione of course told the truth that she had not only helped found the D.A., but that the organisation had been her idea in the first place. She was immensely proud of that, but in the peculiar context of Umbridge's trial, these facts had probably not been useful to the prosecution.

Unfortunately, the part of her testimony that had been excluded as hearsay was everything and anything having to do with Harry being attacked by Dementors. At the end of the case, those charges had been dismissed for lack of hard evidence. As a result, the bloody toad Umbridge had gotten off with a relatively light sentence of a mere six months in Azkaban. She had even been allowed to keep her Ministry list eligibility, although she could never again hold a position in the Ministry that had anything to do with education.

Hermione also thought that dismissal of the charges concerning the Dementor attack had been a result of much improved testimony by Draco Malfoy. She could hardly stand even thinking about the slimy Slytherin, but he had offered a much better explanation of the supposed attempt to fluster Harry than previously.

Still, he was and remained the world's biggest sodding toff. He had smirked at her whilst in the witness chair, and had taunted her about “beloved Harry's” absence during a brief encountered before the hearing began. Ron had started to hex Malfoy right then and there, and had almost been expelled by the bailiff. For her part, Hermione had waited until after the hearing was over, when she had the “little incident” that had left her fuming - and that prompted her extremely fast walk to the Ministry Floos.

She had been in the hallway chatting with the prosecutors when Malfoy had passed, accompanied by his own lawyer. Malfoy had not known she was there, and she had overheard a snippet of their conversation:

“…So at the Black hearing, I want you on your best behavior. There's nothing for you to say. Let us take care of the witnesses; let us take care of everything…. That's what you're paying us to do….”

“Heh, heh…. That's going to be bloody brilliant with the Mudblood testifying… And dammit, I won't even have that tarty, blonde court reporter to distract me.… Won't be seeing her any more….”

She could count on one hand the number of people who knew that Eliza Brookings had died in the attack on Harry. Going spare at this remark, Hermione had pounced on Malfoy, grabbed him by the collar of his cloak, spun him around, and aimed her wand right between his eyes from a distance of maybe five centimetres.

“And what exactly do you know about that, ferret face?” she had snarled with a go-ahead-make-my-day look in her eyes.

“I-I-I… What do I know about what?” Malfoy had stuttered, his eyes betraying a look of genuine fear.

“What do you know about Eliza Brookings' death?” Hermione growled again, actually poking Malfoy in the forehead with her wand. She was moments away from doing something that might have put her into Azkaban for quite a long time.

Another voice spoke - Malfoy's barrister. “Miss Granger, I assure you that neither my client nor I know anything about any purported death. I had just finished informing my client of the very public information that Miss Brookings had tendered her resignation as a court reporter for the Ministry. Now if you don't sod off and leave my client alone, I shall be forced to seek your arrest.”

Hermione had been embarrassed and deflated almost beyond words. The more she thought about the incident, the worse she felt. She had been stupid, but worse she had been indiscreet. She had loudly revealed confidential information in public, a sin compounded by her blurting it out to a damn Death Eater's son. Even though that insufferable twit Malfoy undoubtedly knew nothing at all about this, he would dutifully pass on this juicy morsel of information to his father's Death Eater pals. The Death Eaters would now know that she somehow had inside information about their kidnap of Harry Potter.

She shuddered a little at the thought of what the Death Eaters might do to her. She shuddered a great deal more at the thought of what the Death Eaters might do to Harry.

Oddly, the answer seemed to be “nothing.” During the Tuesday between the Umbridge and Black hearings Hermione felt less of anything adverse happening to Harry than on any prior day. He was awake for a couple of hours in the morning, as usual. That degenerated, as it always did, into a torrent of grief and guilt. But if that was out of the ordinary for this ordeal, it was for being relatively passable….

Hermione kicked herself about feeling that way. How dare she become inured to Harry's torment? She was his only link to the outside world, and if she failed to maintain her absolute refusal to accept his captivity, how could she expect more of anyone else? Every moment that Harry was forcibly kept apart from her against both of their wills was intolerable. It should not become less so by virtue of repetition.

But how much was she really achieving, and how much was mere bumf and guff? Her many hours burning the midnight oil in the Restricted Section had produced exactly one marginal idea. She had come across a detailed description of a Legilimency technique for the amplification and retrieval of submerged memories, sort of like Muggles sometimes used hypnosis. By analogy, she thought it might be possible to strengthen her affinity to Harry in much the same way. But the analogy was both imperfect and remote. Ron's lead was better - so much so that she shelved her own idea without even discussing it with anyone.

Still more meetings and more lawyers again disrupted her research schedule. This time it was a team of private barristers from D'Israeli, Braddock, who represented Harry's interest in the Black inheritance. Because of her feelings about that money, Hermione had gone into this meeting fully prepared to detest this lot of silks. She had even plotted out beforehand a number of very rude remarks.

They were never used, as the experience turned out quite differently. These lawyers were as smooth and personable as anyone she had ever met. Being very white-shoe, they were no happier about the dodgy origins of the Black fortune than she. In spite of herself, she took a liking to them, especially Bartram Rumpole, who would be handling her questioning the next day. He had just the sort of dry, self-deprecating wit that put her at ease. First it won Hermione over to bemused tolerance, and then to active participation in her own preparation.

She was pleased to learn that, although the hearing was closed to the public, each witness was allowed one “second” - someone who could attend the hearing to offer moral support and comfort. Her choices were not exactly infinite. Luna was her best researcher. Neville did not need the distraction, as he would be the star witness at Friday's Death Eater trial and required extra preparation for that. Ron was going to be a witness, too. She assumed he was being prepared simultaneously in another of Hogwarts Castle's innumerable rooms. Ginny was the logical choice, particularly given the personal nature of a fair amount of the probably subject matter.

Before the session ended, Hermione had even shared the great secret of her planned testimony with Harry's barristers (although not with Ginny or anyone else). They were quite impressed with her originality. Because of the possibility that it might not work, they deliberately kept their distance - turning down her last-minute offer to meet with Hagrid. They did, however, give her some practical advice to pass along.

When that meeting broke up, she hurried to Hagrid's hut for a complete dry run of their Wednesday surprise. That took a couple more hours that she was wishing she could have back. Unfortunately there was no way around entering the Forbidden Forest, and that always took time. Whilst the centaurs had been pacified, neither Hagrid nor Hermione were on their short list of favorite representatives of the human race. The practice itself went swimmingly. Returning to the Castle afterwards, Hermione allowed herself just a glimmer hope of hope that she might be able to navigate her testimony unscathed.

That evening it was back to her oft-disrupted research - more swotting, note taking, more discussions with her friends, more transcribing. Not only was she starting to despair of ever having enough time to do everything that needed being done, but on top of everything else, she was feeling lurgy. She was having odd sensations…. Nothing serious…. Indeed, nothing even certain. It was as if something were tickling at the edge of her consciousness. It was as if Harry had their link open, but it was empty. There seemed to be simultaneously both something and nothing. But it was not even at a time that Harry's captors normally allowed him to be awake.

The sensation did not cause her any interruptions because nothing was really happening. Still, it was different. She found it troubling because she suspected it had to do with Harry. As long as he was missing, anything concerning him troubled her.

* * * *

He heard a buzzing sound that gradually grew louder until it resolved into a babble of voices…. Harry was regaining consciousness once again. As soon as he became awake enough to comprehend what was happening, he tried to blank his emotions out to evade the Dementors.

It was time merely to listen…. To try to glean some information that might, at some point, help him escape … if Voldemort did not come for him first.

There seemed to be only two of them. The leader, Tin Man, was away. Scarecrow did not seem happy with his work….

“…Dammit, I need to get away more,” he complained. “You and the Boss get out and about at least every other day…. Why not me? I need a good shagging….”

“You know why not,” Lion replied, seeming to be sympathetic. “It's not fair, but the Boss and I, we have to show ourselves regularly in public, to keep up appearances. Like it or not, there's nobody out there paying attention to you…. Hell, you're probably thought dead….”

“Dead or not, I still need what I need,” Scarecrow continued complaining. “I'm going bonkers in here…. Spending all my time with nobody but that pillock Potter and his Dementor friends to keep me company…. What's taking the Dark Lord so long?”

“The Dark Lord keeps his own counsel. You know that,” Lion reminded harshly. “He will act when he so chooses. All we can do is wait until he is ready.”

Scarecrow sighed loudly. “I know…. I know. But all this waiting is so bloody boring. If I can't get out, can't you at least bring me back something - or someone…?”

“You know that would be most unwise,” Lion chided. “But how about this? When this is over, I'll go out with you. We'll find some pretty witch, or maybe even a Muggle…. I know the Imperius Curse as well as the Boss. I'll use it, and you can have your way with her. How about that? Deal?”

Scarecrow was still hesitant. “Sounds good, but are you sure it would work?”

“It worked with Potter, didn't it?” Lion reassured. “Once we put that girl he was with under it, even he was going to get some, the great prat.”

At that, the artificial calm Harry had maintained in his mind shattered. Eliza had been under the Imperius Curse! For how long? From the beginning? Had she ever really loved him? Was everything she said, and everything she did, the product of Dark magic rather than her own free will and desire? Had she just been some innocent pawn of the Death Eaters - to be cast aside as so much rubbish when, as their leader had said, her “usefulness was at an end”?

Harry felt himself grow cold. He was a pathetic loser. Why should anyone ever love him? Everyone who had ever loved him had died. Except one … and he had driven her away…. And that, for the sake of a woman who had been Imperioed.… Merlin knows that affinity that must have tortured Hermione unmercifully….

The Dementors were feasting. Harry's mind melted into obscene visions of Unforgivable Curses and Muggle weapons being discharged in places where they absolutely had no business being.

* * * *

Just before midnight, Professor McGonagall stopped by the overly laden scrubbed wood table inside the Restricted Section that had become Hermione's home away from home. “The Headmaster informed me that you needed this,” she said with a conspiratorial smile. Dumbledore's deputy handed her an unsealed red envelope.

“Good luck tomorrow,” the Deputy Headmistress added. Hermione smiled back weakly. She had sensed, almost from the moment she arrived at the Castle, that Professor McGonagall disapproved of what she and her friends were doing - although the reason for her favorite professor's disapproval was beyond her. Still, on this occasion, the older woman had bent the rules and provided a critical component of the plan to defeat Malfoy's claim to the Black inheritance.

As McGonagall's footfalls faded away, Hermione sighed. It had not been a good day. Harry had ended up in utter agony - off schedule and unexpectedly. She was knackered, but every time she felt Harry, she knew she could not stop working, not even for a little bit. He needed her very badly, and there was just too much to do. Even on the eve of such important testimony, her work was never done - today even less so because of all the time lost to meeting with the bloody barristers and to the rehearsal with Hagrid.

Hours later, she made her way through the Castle's deserted corridors back to the guest quarters, and flopped into bed. As usual she had worked through the night, first reviewing everything that her friends had found during the day, and then spending the quiet hours of the morning on her own research in the Restricted Section. She gave her Time-Turner six full twists, taking her back to midnight for what she hoped would at least be a semblance of a good night's sleep. She plugged in Harry's Aural Pensieve to conduct still more research whilst she was asleep. When she awoke, it would once again be six in the morning, and she would have to prepare for the running of yet another gauntlet.

The morning of the final hearing ever to occur in the multi-year saga of the Black inheritance/Malfoy will contest dawned cool, grey, and sullen. Hermione, Ron, and Ginny met professors Dumbledore and Flitwick and former professor Lupin by the main entrance. Hermione was very anxious to get this over with. Not only was she expecting some very unpleasant cross-examination, she still had extremely mixed emotions about the underlying purpose of the entire exercise. Had anyone told her before Harry's disappearance that she would actually be helping to bring about his inheritance of the Black blood money, she would have thought them daft.

Before they left, Ron approached her and took her hand.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

“R-R-Rather nervous,” she replied nervously. “But I'm ready.” She gave Ron a knowing smile, and showed him just the slightest glimpse of her D.A. mirror, so that he knew she had it.

“I hope I am,” Ron commented, doing the same. “This isn't my strong suit, you know. But whatever the King can do to help Harry, I'm willing to give it a go.”

Hermione winced a bit. “We all are, Ron, and don't forget you've already done much better by both Harry and me than you ever thought you would - finding that first big clue and all that. Just don't call yourself by that awful, third-person nickname on the stand, you know.”

“Don't worry, I won't…,”Ron answered. “Been practicing…. Don't worry, Hermione, it will all turn out fine. Harry couldn't hope for a better friend.”

Hermione winced again. She did not believe she had been a very good friend to Harry at all. Ron, of course, was clueless, but everything she had done since Harry had disappeared had been devoted to making her amends. “Thanks, you can still be sweet when you want to, Ron.”

She reached up and gave the redhead a kiss on the cheek. “Good luck.”

Hermione was Apparating with the rest of the staff, except Lupin. Ron and Ginny could not Apparate, and thus needed a security escort. Because werewolves were shape shifters, Lupin found it very difficult to Apparate even under the best of conditions (although he could in an emergency), and with the full moon only three days away, conditions were hardly optimal. He stayed with the two Weasleys to use the Hogwarts Floo.

Hagrid had left for London by train the previous evening.

At the Ministry, Hermione sat on the marble bench that surrounded the Fountain of Magical Brethren. Whilst waiting for her companions, she took mental notes on the new security procedures that the Ministry guards were following. She used the down time to scan someone's abandoned copy of yesterday's Prophet. Otherwise, she had no time to read it anymore.

Peering every so often over the top of the paper, she watched as people passed through security. Everyone was being thoroughly wanded for contraband magical objects. It reminded Hermione of nothing so much as the Muggle security line at Heathrow when she was leaving for Hong Kong - at the time, she thought, maybe forever.

That seemed so long ago, now - like it had been in a different lifetime, and perhaps it had…. For the past few years, Hermione had divided her life into before and after going to Hogwarts. Not coincidentally, that division also corresponded perfectly with when she first met Harry. That line was fading now. The new great rent in her life was before and after Harry's disappearance. Today, as always, was the first day of the rest of her life. `Yeah, right,' she thought. It was not a life she had any great interest in living should that dividing line become permanent.

Hermione saw Hagrid appear from a side hallway. He was too large to use the visitor's telephone box, so he had been required to use the entrance from Muggle London on the Second Level. Security had escorted him to the Atrium.

“Ya ready?” the huge man asked.

“All set,” Hermione said, patting a pocket in her dress robes.

“Same `ere,” Hagrid, replied, caressing the side of his own much more bulky robes. They were nice enough, but not full dress, since Hagrid was not going to testify himself.

“Any sign yet?”

“No, but they're always on the late side,” Hermione answered. “The barrister says they prefer the sweeping, last-minute entrance.”

“Hoist `em on their own petard, then,” Hagrid growled, giving her an appreciative look.

He waved, and Hermione saw Lupin and Flitwick approaching. Ginny was with them, but Ron was not. They, too, sat on the bench, making small talk. Hermione pulled out her D.A. mirror, crossed her legs demurely and pretended to primp. After a few minutes, it glowed green.

“They're on their way in,” Hermione said to Hagrid in a low tone. “Get ready.”

Within seconds, Hagrid hissed back, “See `em.”

With that the five got up smartly and joined the security queue. Ginny stood a short distance to one side, feigning disinterest and keeping a covert watch for her brother. Only a couple of other wizards, who had randomly joined the line, separated Hermione's group from the Malfoy party - consisting of Draco Malfoy, who kept flashing glances suspiciously in all directions, his befuddled-looking mother, a couple of more distant relatives (judging by their silver-blonde hair), and four pinstripe-robed barristers.

Briefly Malfoy's eyes met Hermione's. She quailed under a glare full of the most elemental hatred she had ever received. Shuddering she looked away. “That rotter deserves this,” she muttered.

Ginny overheard her, and nodded her agreement. The Malfoys' machinations had almost gotten her killed - intentionally - several years earlier. Anything to return the favour, she would do with gusto. Malfoy gave her a glare too. She glared right back, silently mouthing the words `Bat Bogey.'

The Hogwarts party were approaching the head of the queue. Another side door opened, and finally Ron appeared, somewhat out of breath and walking quickly. Feigning insouciance, he slipped into the queue next to Hermione. “I see you got my signal,” he huffed. “Glad I made it in time. I didn't want to miss this.”

He looked back at Malfoy, who returned the same murderous glare. “Twitchy little ferret, isn't he?” Ron commented. “And his mum looks mental….”

Hermione smiled crookedly. It was time. Lupin and Flitwick were conversing with the guards, informing them that this group was part of Dumbledore's Hogwarts contingent. Hagrid was starting to empty his pockets. Shielded from view on two sides by the half-giant's great girth and on the other two by Ron and Ginny, who had splayed their robes in mock preparation for emptying them, Hermione drew out Professor McGonagall's red envelope.

“Sealed with a kiss,” she grinned, as she did a deliberately insufficient job of sealing it. She surreptitiously reached out from behind Ron's robes and let it fly.

The Howler streaked directly to Malfoy, who grabbed at it before realising what it was. The slightest contact caused the poorly sealed envelope to burst open. As if by tannoy, Professor McGonagall's magically amplified Scottish burr boomed throughout the Atrium.

“DRACO MALFOY!! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU COULD BE SO DISLOYAL - ESPECIALLY TO SLYTHERIN HOUSE IN ITS TIME OF NEED. YOU WERE ONE OF ITS BEST STUDENTS. HOW COULD YOU DEFECT TO DURMSTRANG AT THIS OF ALL TIMES? WE DON'T EVEN KNOW WHERE SOME OF YOUR CLASSMATES ARE, AND TWO OF THEM ARE YOUR BEST FRIENDS…!!”

The guards were startled by the sudden outburst, and left their posts to see what the bother was. Grinning broadly, Hagrid took this opportunity to sidle through the unmanned security post and begin placidly replacing the contents of his pockets, as if his search had been completed and nothing was amiss.

BLAM!!

Even Hagrid jumped at the report. The flap grew even worse as people started yelling. Hagrid looked back, wondering if he was needed to protect his young charges. But with Hermione frantically waving him on, and Lupin and Flitwick rushing back, he continued onward to the courtroom….

Ron was in high spirits as the rest of the Hogwarts party entered the courtroom a bit later. “…and then ferret boy made everything ten times worse by blasting the Howler into bits - each of which became a separate Howler in its own right.… Bloody simultaneous readings”

“It was a bit like Dada poetry,” Hermione agreed, as Ron gaped at her blankly. “Ron you shouldn't find that so amusing. His Cannonade Curse was quite powerful, and is borderline Dark magic.”

“You are a know it all, aren't you?” Ron replied, “Where in the world did you learn about that one?”

“This summer, during my…. Oh, I'll tell you later.”

“Silence in the Court!” the Wizengamot bailiff ordered. Ginny, Ron, and Hermione instantly quieted. They gave their names to the tipstaff, who promptly ordered the two witnesses from the room. At the request of the Malfoy party, all witnesses were to be sequestered. Ginny found a seat at the back, near Hagrid.

Hermione glanced at Hagrid as she exited. He caressed the side of his robes.

Knowing he was an obstruction to anyone behind him, Hagrid deliberately sat on the aisle as far back in the spectators' section as he dared. Whilst nominally attached to the Order's group that would be presenting the results of the interrogation of Sirius' wand, he was assisting rather than testifying. Technically he not a witness, and thus was not subject to sequestration. He was using the time to go over his probable part in Hermione's surprise for the hundredth time - when his robes started squirming.

“Oh, hi Hagrid. Didn't expect to see you here.”

Ginny greeted the newcomer with a painfully faked smile. The squirming had distracted Hagrid. He looked around and saw Cho Chang, dressed rather severely in semi-formal robes.

“Oh, `lo Cho,” said Hagrid, even more confounded as the squirming got worse. “Wha' brings you `ere? Rootin' fer `Arry, perhaps?”

“Not exactly,” she said lightly. “Ron asked me to come to give him moral support. Only for the day, though,” she added. “I have to get back to my summer job.”

Then Cho sat down in the seat right in front of Hagrid.

The squirming got worse and worse. It even attracted Ginny's attention, and both Hagrid and Hermione had studiously kept her uninformed about what was planned. Hagrid gritted his substantial teeth. The whole scheme was about to collapse if he stayed where he was - but how to move without looking suspicious? In desperation Hagrid tapped his pink brolly against the side of his chair. It splintered with a loud “pop,” and Hagrid jumped up as if to avoid its collapse.

“Blimey,” he said. “Need ter fin' a stronger summat ter sit on.” Hagrid hurried to a stone bench against the side wall opposite, looking somewhat askance at Cho. Ginny followed Hagrid after making her excuses to Ron's girlfriend. Cho looked confused.

The hearing took almost all day. In open court, Flitwick, Moody and several other wizards replicated the results of the Priori Incantatem interrogation of Sirius Black's wand. In mind-numbing detail that only a lawyer could love, they took the demonstration back fully fifty spells, most of which were routine domestic magic. The last spell recorded was particularly poignant, being several yellow and blue bouncing Antipodean Opaleye eggs that Sirius had conjured over baby Harry's crib two nights before Voldemort's attack on Godric's Hollow.

Ron went into the witness box after eating a hearty lunch and answered a series of questions about Harry's character, emphasizing his loyalty, bravery, and dedication to resisting the Dark forces. He was cross-examined mainly about his belief back in Fourth Year that Harry had put his own name somehow in the Goblet of Fire in violation of the rules. All told, he held up rather well. When he was finished, he took a seat next to Cho. Sequestration ended once a witness had testified.

Hermione came last. Without hesitation she took Veritaserum. Her direct examination recounted everything Harry had told her about his childhood: How he had grown up with horrid Muggles who abused him and locked him away in a cupboard under the stairs; how he had learnt he was a wizard (Hagrid almost started crying); how he had come to Hogwarts not knowing a thing about his famous background; how he had studied hard and become a good student, despite obstacles; how he had killed Slytherin's Basilisk and saved Hogwarts in his second year (with due mention of Lucius Malfoy's involvement, and as little as possible of Ginny's); how they had escaped Umbridge and gone to the Ministry of Magic (this questioning did not go past their arrival, for reasons of “state security”); and how they had trained together with the Aurors during summer to learn more about fighting the Dark forces.

It was remarkable and powerful testimony - its impact enhanced by the decision of Harry's barrister to delve into previously unknown topics. This was the first time than anyone beyond a select few learnt what had happened either in the Chamber of Secrets or in the Forbidden Forest with Umbridge.

Hermione held up quite well under cross-examination. One dicey subject - whether she had anything to do with Sirius's escape from Ministry custody at Hogwarts - never even came up. Everyone knew that she had been in the Hospital Wing after barely surviving an encounter with the Dementors. With suspicion falling so strongly on former Professor Snape after his recent exposure as a traitor, even Malfoy's thorough barristers never thought to delve into Hermione's role.

She garnered considerable sympathy when all of the calumny about her supposed sexual relationship with Harry was discussed. It devolved into a long set of “he said, she said” questions that Hermione stoically denied. Everyone in the courtroom was growing uncomfortable with the kinds of things that the Malfoy counsel was asking of a 16-year-old girl who happened to be the best friend of the missing and presumed dead Harry Potter.

Then the tide turned.

THE COURT (Chief Justice Tiberius Ogden, presiding): Mister Mensong, I think we've heard just about enough on this subject. I'm frankly embarrassed that Miss Granger has had been subjected to these kinds of questions, for nothing more than being the best friend of Mister Potter.

MR. MENSONG (Lead Malfoy barrister): I'm almost finished My Lord. I believe I have only one more line of questions.

THE COURT: Continue.

BY MR. MENSONG: Miss Granger, you returned from Hong Kong, on 5 July, 1996, did you not?

THE WITNESS: Late night of the fourth, actually.

Q. Quite. You visited Mister Potter at his home, Number Four Privet Drive, on the morning of the fifth, did you not?

A. Yes, I had been asked to by … some of Harry's friends.

Q. How much time did you spend with Mister Potter that day?

A. A long time. I arrived around nine that morning, and stayed until around dinner time.

Q. Did you perform any magic whilst you were with Mister Potter?

A. Yes, I had special dispensation from Dumbledore and the Ministry to perform underaged magic. I cast a number of charms to clean up his quarters, which were in a right state. I performed magic to get us lunch. There are probably other spells I used as well.

Q. You are aware, are you not, that the performance of underaged magic in Muggle neighbourhoods is closely monitored, even when it is allowed?

A. Yes.

Q. [looking at a sheet of parchment] Did you perform a Muggle-Repelling Charm at approximately 10:15 on 5 July in the smallest bedroom at Number Four Privet Drive?

A. Er…. Yes.

Q. The smallest bedroom at Number Four Privet Drive is in fact Mister Potter's bedroom, is it not?

A. Yes, it is - now.

Q. You did that so you would not be disturbed by Mister Potter's Muggle relatives, did you not?

A. Yes, but as I said before nothing happened of a sexual nature. Not then and not ever.

Q. Very well. Then I can assume that you did not perform any Contraceptive Charms whilst you were with Mister Potter that day?

A. No. Of course not.

Q. You knew that any Contraceptive Charm would have been recorded by the Ministry, didn't you?

MR. RUMPOLE (Barrister for Claimant Potter): Objection, My Lord. Lack of foundation, and calls for speculation. Further, we've been over and over the subject of the chastity of this young lady, so at this time I would also object on grounds of badgering the witness and already asked and answered.

THE COURT: Mister Mensong, I am very tempted to grant Mister Rumpole's second objection. Do you have any more factual basis for this inquiry than you had for your previous assertions of this nature concerning this witness?

MR. MENSONG: Yes, My Lord. At this time I would like to introduce Malfoy Exhibit Number 5,273.

[Whereupon a sidebar was held outside of the hearing of the Witness]

THE COURT: You may continue, Mister Mensong, but do be quick about it. The patience of this tribunal is wearing thin.

MR. RUMPOLE: I vehemently object to this. Introduction of collateral evidence bearing solely on the credibility of a witness is a waste of time….

THE COURT: Ordinarily, I would agree with you Mister Rumpole, but I will give Mister Mensong two minutes to establish where he is going with this.

MR. MENSONG: [holding sheet of paper] Thank you, My Lord. Miss Granger, On your way to spend the day with Mister Potter on 5 July, you paid a visit to the Little Whinging Apothecary at Number 527 Magnolia Road, didn't you?

THE WITNESS: Y-y-yes, I did.

Q. [reading from paper] Whilst you were at said apothecary, you purchased, and I quote, “one Trust Condom with Wet Personal Lubricant?”

A. If … If that's what it says, my answer is yes.

THE BAILIFF: Order in the Court. If there is another outburst the courtroom will be cleared.

Q. Do you still have this condom, Miss Granger?

A. No.

Q. In light of this document, do you wish to change any of your prior testimony, Miss Granger?

A. Not one word. I'm under Veritaserum and you're not.

Q. Very well. On 5 July, 1996, were you in love romantically with Mister Potter?

MR. RUMPOLE: Objection, My Lord.

THE COURT: Denied.

THE WITNESS: Yes.

MR. MENSONG: No further questions, My Lord.

The court declared a fifteen-minute recess. All of the Potter barristers beset the distraught witch practically before she stood down. They were all asking questions at once….

“STOP IT, ALL OF YOU!!” She screamed. They quieted instantly, and wordlessly they all adjourned to a nearby room where the Dumbledore/Potter team of lawyers could confer. Once in private, Hermione explained what had really happened.

“It … It … It was a minor detail.… I had half forgotten about it…. I'm sorry I didn't tell you. It didn't seem important any longer, with Harry gone.… The apothecary did ask for identification. I had no idea he kept a register….”

Mr. Rumpole spoke gravely, “Miss Granger, I'm going to have to ask you to go back into the witness box for redirect. I need to know if anything actually….”

It was a nightmare. Hermione almost felt that she was reliving her row with her parents when Harry had come for dinner, only without the volume. “Not a bloody thing! Not that I didn't want it to…, but I messed it up, okay? It was my own fault. Nothing happened and nothing ever will, now. That's what Hagrid can prove. I burnt the bloody Johnny that evening.”

Presently, the hearing recommenced.

THE COURT: If you have any more questions, Mister Rumpole, the witness is yours.

MR. RUMPOLE: Thank you, My Lord. Miss Granger, did you have sexual relations with Mister Potter at any time on 5 July, 1996?

THE WITNESS: No.

Q. What was your purpose in purchasing a condom before you saw Mister Potter?

A. If he had been so inclined, I would have consented. It became clear that he was not, so the question never arose. I destroyed the condom that evening.

Q. And you did what you did because you were romantically in love with Mister Potter, as you previously testified?

A. Always have been and always will be.

In the audience, Ron's jaw dropped. `The git doesn't know,' he realised. `How could he possibly have misunderstood so badly…?'

Hermione's testimony continued.

Q. Do you have any interest in Mister Potter's possible inheritance?

A. None whatsoever. I hate what the Blacks did to accumulate that money. My negative reaction to Harry's prospective wealth is a major reason why that the condom we discussed previously was never used. That damned money has ruined my life.

Q. I'm sorry, Miss Granger, what I meant was do you have any testamentary interest in Mister Potter's possible inheritance?

A. Merlin, I hope not.

Q. Did Mister Potter have a will?

A. I do not speak of Harry in the past tense. If he does, then he never told me about it, and that's the kind of thing he usually would share with me.

MR. RUMPOLE: At this time I'd like to introduce Potter Exhibit Number 37. Mister Hagrid would you approach the bar?

MR. MENSONG: Objection My Lord, this … witness is not on the list.

THE COURT: I don't know that he's a witness, Mister Mensong. Let me handle this. Who are you sir?

MR. HAGRID: Rubeus Hagrid, Milud. I'm Professor of Care of Magical Creatures at `Ogwarts.

THE COURT: Why are you here, Mister Hagrid?

MR. HAGRID: Well, `Ermione here, Miss Granger, I mean, asked me ter help `er prove `erself, about … er … well, yeh know … `er virtue. I brought what I guess is that Exhibit 37 the lawyer `ere was talkin' about.

THE COURT: And what is the nature of this exhibit, Mister Hagrid?

MR. HAGRID: [reaching into robes] Here.

[Whereupon Mister Hagrid produced Potter Exhibit 37 for the Court's inspection]

THE BAILIFF: Order in the Court. If there is another outburst the courtroom will be cleared.

MR. MENSONG: Objection My Lord. This is outrageous. This half-breed is not a witness, he's not on the list, he's never been qualified as an expert, the exhibit is not authenticated, nor is it listed on the exhibit list.

THE COURT: All of your objections are denied Mister Mensong. The Court takes judicial notice that Potter Exhibit 37 is a unicorn foal. Mister Hagrid has not requested to testify, but I believe by virtue of his position he would be a qualified expert concerning this exhibit, if the Court thought any authentication was required, which the Court does not. Need I also remind you, Mister Mensong, that rebuttal exhibits need not be listed?

Mister Rumpole, you may proceed.

MR. RUMPOLE: Thank you, My Lord. Let the record show that I am approaching the witness and handing Miss Granger Potter Exhibit 37.

[Whereupon the witness held Potter Exhibit 37 in her lap for the remainder of her testimony]

Q. Miss Granger, have you taken your O.W.L. in Care of Magical Creatures?

A. Yes, a few months ago. I scored an Outstanding in that course, 97 numeric.

Q. Did you study unicorn foals in Care of Magical Creatures?

A. Yes.

Q. What can you tell this tribunal about the attributes of unicorn foals?

MR. MENSONG: Objection My Lord. This witness is not qualified….

THE COURT: Denied.

THE WITNESS: Unicorns are powerful magical creatures. They evolved a white colouration as camouflage in the cold climates where they are native, but the foals, like this one, are pure gold. The Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts has a herd, from which this foal has been borrowed. Unicorns are the purest creatures in the world, and the foals, which are born around early June, are the purest of the pure. No unicorn, and especially no unicorn foal, would permit itself to be touched by a woman who is not a virgin. An adult unicorn would kill any non-virginal woman who attempted it. Given their strong magic, unicorns cannot be fooled by potions or spells. Therefore, in … in backward societies where such things are considered more important than in modern England … unicorns are commonly used to test virginity prior to marriage. There is no known case in which this test has yielded incorrect results.

Q. Are you familiar with the unicorn foal that is Potter Exhibit 37?

A. Yes. This is Minnie. She was born on 3, June. I've met Minnie on two occasions, previous, the most recent being yesterday. Minnie is a dear. She especially likes to be tickled behind her left ear, like this.

MR. RUMPOLE: I have no further questions, My Lord.

THE COURT: Re-cross?

Hermione stiffened when the Malfoy barrister stood, his white court wig askew. When he threw his quill down in defeat and decided to ask no further questions, she curled up in a ball around the unicorn foal and cooed at it, softly calling its name and itching behind its left ear. It was over - she had survived - what was more she had won.

When Hermione did not leave the witness stand, Chief Justice Ogden gestured to counsel to help the witness down. Instead, Hagrid stepped past the bar and gently folded both her and the unicorn foal in his massive arms and carried them to the back of the courtroom.

They were just about to leave when Chief Justice Ogden began speaking. Having been instructed not to enter or leave whilst the court was in session, Hagrid and Hermione stopped to watch what turned out to be a very satisfying finale.

THE COURT: There are no further witnesses for any side, therefore with great relief the Court declares these proceedings to be complete. The Wizengamot will begin its deliberations posthaste. Mister Draco Malfoy, will you approach the bench?

[Whereupon claimant Draco Malfoy approached the bench]

THE COURT: This Court has been presiding over hearings of this sort for almost fifty years. In all fifty years, this Court has never witnessed a more factually unsupported and, frankly, more vile attempt at the impeachment of a witness' character. The sole factual support for these charges against Miss Granger was your testimony, which you gave under your privilege as a Time Immemorial Pure-blood. The falsity of that testimony has now been conclusively proven. In the face of abuse, however, even the pure-blood privilege is not absolute. In light of the irrefutable evidence of your mendacity that I heard in this courtroom today, I hereby revoke your privilege for a period of five years. Court is adjourned.

The court's gavel sounded, and the Chief Justice departed the bench for an anteroom. His wig was also askew as he left. All hearings concerning the Black estate were now concluded.

* * * *

Harry heard a door slam and rapid-fire footsteps approaching. He had been awake, unbeknownst to the Death Eaters, for over an hour. By keeping still and practising Occlumency constantly, he was able to listen quietly to his captors without either them or the Dementors being at all the wiser. Not much had happened so far; nor had there been any tingling in his scar. The footsteps belonged to Tin Man. Unable to see anything whilst hooded, Harry had learnt to recognise his three captors by the sound of their walks.

Tin Man's reappearance was fairly interesting - by the standards of what currently passed for Harry's interest. Tin Man had been gone for quite some time. Harry had relieved himself three times (the only way he had of measuring the passage of time) since Tin Man had last been present. Tin Man had left Lion in charge. Harry briefly wondered if it was all over; if Tin Man had finally returned with Voldemort.

Tin Man had not. What he had returned with was a towering rage.

“Goddamn Mudblood bitch!” his tinny false voice screamed. “Conspiring with a blundering half-breed to try to take….”

“Shut it, and calm down,” Lion yelled back. “You might wake him up.”

Harry heard the sound of a heavy travelling cape dropping to the floor, presumably from Tin Man's shoulders. He heard the click of a Death Eater mask being fastened into place. Intently, Harry concentrated on his Occlumency. Tin Man was really angry for some reason. In his rage, he might just give something away…. Something Harry might be able to use….

“I'll show you waking up!”

SMACK!!

The right side of Harry's face exploded in intense pain, as he was hit by something hard, not a fist, but a club of some sort. His head snapped back awkwardly from the totally unexpected blow. He tried desperately to maintain consciousness. He also felt coldness; Tin Man's rage was attracting the Dementors.

Tin Man was probably right in front of him, but Harry could not see anything through the heavy hood covering his face. Tin Man was imitating something in what seemed like an artificial and crude falsetto. “…always have and always will….”

SMACK!!

The other side of Harry's face erupted with similar pain. If anything it was worse. This blow had caught the end of that metal bit his captors had jammed into his mouth ever since he had first been pinioned to the bars. The bit tore into the side of Harry's cheek and he could feel warm blood trickling down the side of his jaw. He hoped the blow had not broken it.

“Boss, stop it, the Dementors are getting excited!” Lion called out.

“What the Hell…?” Scarecrow chimed in.

Tin Man's grotesquely mocking falsetto sounded once again “…in backward societies where such things are considered important….”

SMACK!!

Harry reeled again. Tin Man had swung mightily for the top of Harry's head, but the obscuring hood had produced only a glancing blow - a blow that caught the pointed top of his hood and ripped it completely off.

The sudden exposure to light was blinding to someone who has spent over a week almost constantly in pitch-blackness. For the first time, Harry caught a real glimpse of the room where he was being held - but not much of one. Tin Man was standing right in front of him, wearing full Death Eater regalia and holding a Beater's bat in his hand.

Blood now ran down the middle of Harry's face. From his Auror training he knew that even superficial scalp wounds bled profusely. He was feeling cold and nauseous … the Dementors were closing in; soon he would once again be lost to his own private Hell - a cauldron of grief and guilt over all the people who had died for him … and one more who might.…

“Dammit, boss, we'll take care of it….”

So Lion was the shortest of the three.

“… Don't damage the bloody merchandise - that's what you always say.…”

Scarecrow was definitely the largest of the three.

“There'll come a time when we might bloody well have to!” Tin Man was still out of control.

Tin Man dropped the Beater's bat. “Crucio!”

Harry's body started to burn from the inside out, as waves of intense pain - thousands of piercing, white hot knives - began engulfing him. He writhed against his restraints.

From somewhere deep inside, his indomitable Gryffindor spirit reared its head. He would not let these bastards beat him - not now.

Harry cupped his hands and thought `Suturc.' It worked. Whilst his body writhed in agony, his mind quickly cleared as the Unspeakables' experimental charm took effect. It worked even better than he had any right to expect. The experimental charm had not been fully tested. Harry was the first wizard to learn that it also provided protection against mental attacks by Dementors.…

Whilst Tin Man thought he was turning Harry's mind and body to mush, in fact Harry was enjoying a relatively pleasant interlude - and was using it to examine his surroundings. Without his glasses, many details were indistinct, but he saw dungeon-like stone walls … magical torches in sconces … a door leading to what he supposed was the hallway through with Tin Man had entered … the hall had to be long and straight, given how long he had heard Tin Man's footsteps…. His captors were obviously bored to tears; a dog-eared copy of some wizard porno magazine was lying on the floor near his feet.…

By attempting to distract his boss, Lion was trying to end Tin Man's petulant display. “… I got you a little something when you were away.…” He gestured towards a low table that sported a rather odd design where the struts supporting its legs came together.

Harry looked too. On top of that table he caught a glimpse a sawn-off shotgun. From the unassigned Auror lesson in Muggle firearms he had once reviewed in his Aural Pensieve, Harry instantly recognised it for what it was.

“Eeeyahhhh!!” Harry's blood-curdling scream cut through both the physical pain from Tin Man's blows and the mental fog caused by the magical and Muggle depressants that his captors added to his food. There was a flash of blinding white light, several thuds and loud crashing noises.

“Stupefy!” Harry lapsed into unconsciousness once again.

* * * *

Author's notes: Prester John is a mythological powerful Christian ruler in medieval times located on the other side of Islam from Europe

Hermione drives the Creeveys to make the DA central station better

The situation with Hermione's father will become clearer in the very near future

Hermione's parents would never have been able to afford their mansion on income from dentistry. Her father invented a medical device, and received significant royalties for quite a long time

Continuing medical education classes are frequently in exotic locales. Knowing Hermione, she was not happy in Sun City. I personally like Q'town the best

A Stuka is a WWII German plane known for dive bombing and not much else

Automatic appeals are common in American capital punishment cases

So how could Malfoy have been at Durmstrang without ever being there?

All the agricultural implements are real

There are house-elves and field-elves, just like there were house and field slaves in the American South

The burdizzo quote is verbatim from an item offered for sale on Ebay

Wonderful awful idea is from the Grinch

How will Malfoy "document" his threat? Clues abound

Hermione suspects Draco, accurately, but for an entirely wrong reason

A silk is a top-notch barrister

Rumpole is a lawyer on a well-known British television series

Harry needing Hermione "badly" is a JKR quotation

Malfoy did to the Howler what Mickey Mouse did to the broom in Fantasia

Dada was a form of avant-garde art shortly after WWI, it sometimes involved simultaneous poetry readings

A tipstaff is a minor court official

This is a major wizard proceeding, the equivalent presiding officer in a British high court would be called a chief justice. All of the court proceedings are accurately described

Mensong is French for mendacious

Hermione's testimony is presented in the form of an actual trial transcript

I reference an actual British brand of condom

My Lord is how barristers address judges

Hermione is asked the Bill Clinton "sexual relations" question

Rebuttal exhibits need not be listed on trial lists

Unicorns do have this magical ability

Mentioned earlier, the Time Immemorial Pure-blood privilege against being put under oath is enjoyed by pure-bloods who can trace their lineage to the time of King Henry II (at least 1189)

The odd small table becomes important

The shotgun image will recur, as will the power Harry can wield

45

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch31 trials and errors.doc 10/25/04

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32. Goodbye Gryffindor

Wherein Hermione testifies at the Death Eater trial; undergoes unexpected cross-examination; learns shocking truths about two authority figures in her life; has a musically induced relapse; finds a confessor in Luna; finds herself further entangled in Harry's affairs; meets with goblins; gets financial advice from an unexpected source; there is a breakthrough in the research; and a loss is partially explained.

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

Chapter 32 - Goodbye Gryffindor

It was going to be the trial of the century. The five of them - Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Luna, and Neville - were all witnesses to at least some of the crimes that had been charged, and thus would be eyewitnesses not only in this trial, but to Wizarding history. Fresh from her remarkably poised performance that added an exclamation point to the end of the protracted Black inheritance litigation, Hermione was to be the leadoff witness. Across from her, eleven Death Eaters were standing trial for their lives, or at least their souls.

She was not sure that she liked that…. Not sure at all….

The more Hermione learnt about how this trial would be conducted, the less comfortable she felt in her role. A new law, rushed through the Wizengamot and made retroactive, declared that anyone who caused death through concerted Dark magic under the personal supervision of Voldemort was subject to the death sentence - even where the defendant had not personally cast the fatal spell. All who accompanied the Dark Lord were chargeable with the crimes of any.

Beyond that, the new procedures for Death Eater trials that Dumbledore had insisted upon were having unintended consequences. One reform required that all Death Eater trials be open to the public. In the wake of Harry's spectacular kidnapping, the wizard public's interest in this trial became extraordinarily intense. The sheer massed number of witches and wizards expected to attend forced the Ministry to move the trial to a new, much larger venue. The Wizengamot's dungeon-like courtrooms simply were not large enough to hold the Trial of the Wizarding Millennium. The prosecution requested, and the tribunal agreed, that the proceedings be moved to newer, temporary quarters that could accommodate the anticipated throng.

These new quarters were in Kent. Dedalus Diggle provided the Ministry with free use of a large fallow field on his rural demesne. The man was a trustworthy member of the Order, and the site was perfect. In return, he asked only that he be allowed to collect license fees from any vendors. The scope of the magical construction that followed was only somewhat less expansive than building a Quidditch World Cup stadium.

Harry Potter had been instrumental in apprehending the eleven defendants - albeit somewhat less so than the Prophet's breathless coverage led the public to believe - but instrumental nonetheless. The ensuing attack on London, and Harry's simultaneous disappearance, focussed public attention on the mass trial. The Prophet had taken to referring to it as the “Potter Legacy.”

Thus, public mood was predictable: implacably hostile to the Death Eaters, who were universally reviled as complicit in the most recent, devastating attack. A very large, very angry crowd was expected. Every now and then, just as in the Muggle world, a particularly heinous crime could create a shared desire for vengeance resembling community-wide bloodlust - particularly when stoked by virulent Yellow journalism. These eleven Death Eaters were now the focus of just such pitiless impulses.

Not that their own motives that night had been much different.

The Dumbledore Reforms also changed the tone and procedures of Death Eater trials. Gone were the sarcastic questioning and prosecutorial tirades of the days of Crouch the Elder. Also consigned to history were the frequently equally fiery speeches of defense barristers. Replacing them, it was hoped, were the stern, emotionless voices of logic and law. Now, both sides would submit questions for the witnesses to an investigating magistrate - in this case, a formidable justice by the name of Cromwell Peakes. Even though they had had their differences in the past, even Dumbledore agreed that (after the death of Amelia Bones) he was the best-qualified wizard to preside over a trial of this magnitude.

Neither side would know the other's questions in advance.

Nor would there be any summations - no dramatic speeches or pontificating in closing argument, no rallying cries of guilt or innocence, justice or injustice.

With all the evidence presented, the magistrate immediately instructed the finder of fact on the law and turned the case over to their capable hands for deliberations. Where, as here, capital charges had been preferred, a jury of fifteen members of the Wizengamot, drawn by lot, passed upon both guilt and sentence.

A convicted defendant's final hope was a new automatic right of appeal for clemency to the Minister of Magic. This process had never before been pressed into service, so these cases would be matters of first impression. The Minister had seven days to decide, at his absolute discretion, if the Dementor's Kiss should be carried out - or commuted to the arguably more humane (and certainly more reversible) sentence of life in Azkaban.

For these eleven, however, that hope (if life in Azkaban could be considered a hope) was almost surely a forlorn one. It was uncertain who was even Minister. The Aurors were threatening to quit en masse if the Minister did not, and there were rumours that Fudge's own resignation was imminent. Even were he to survive the current crisis, his political situation was precarious.

Minister Fudge was still subject to strong public suspicion that Death Eater Lucius Malfoy - who just happened to be the best known of the eleven defendants - had bribed him. The likelihood that Fudge would disturb any sentence, under these circumstances, was widely considered nil. Hedging their bets just a bit, the prosecution had pointedly reserved all bribery charges against Malfoy. The penalties accompanying the pending indictment were more than enough to eliminate any need for a second trial on bribery … unless the defendants' sentences were somehow commuted.

Dumbledore's reforms had not contemplated a situation where exercise of clemency might put the Minister himself in the dock - unintended consequences indeed.

Hermione had almost entirely given up reading newspapers, both magical and Muggle, to preserve every possible minute for her quest to save Harry. Still, she got a sense of the community's ire from the prosecuting barristers who prepared her for her testimony. The prosecutors were cocky. They considered the trial verdict a foregone conclusion. They would burnish their reputations as barristers, and eleven people would get the Dementor's Kiss - no matter what the testimony.

Hermione was going to participate in that. The mere thought made her wince.

Even though these defendants had almost killed her, Harry, and her friends - and would have been all the more pleased had they succeeded - Hermione was concerned about being reduced to their level. The death penalty was not something to which she had given much thought, until now, and her feelings were extraordinarily ambivalent.

She was a European, and the death penalty seemed foreign - like the Chinese, or the Arabs, or even those wretched Yank southern governors, like in that Texas place, who warranted the deaths of as many people in a year as Voldemort ever did.

But again, the defendants were foul. Ginny had told her about Lucius Malfoy's role in the Chamber of Secrets affair. But merely the crimes for which they were actually charged richly deserved the ultimate penalty. Not only that, many of these Death Eaters had already escaped once from Azkaban. It was not at all certain that prison could hold them. There was thus a firm, practical basis for Ron's view that the only good Death Eater was a dead one - especially these.

Balanced against all that was the nature of the sentence. A Dementor's Kiss was final. It could never be undone. Mistakes had been, and could be, made. Under the new law, Sirius Black would have been eligible for the Kiss given his known presence at Godric's Hollow when Voldemort killed Harry's parents. Yet he had been innocent. Not only was he innocent, but he had escaped prison too.

Delving even deeper into the potentialities, Hermione also realised with deep seated horror that she - and Harry - would also have been at least theoretically eligible for a Dementor's Kiss. In their Third Year, they had provided critical assistance to Sirius' escape from Ministry custody. What they had done that memorable night had been in the eyes of the law a crime far more serious than they could possibly have contemplated at the time. The law of escape had not changed. Anyone convicted of accessory to escape was subject to the same penalty as the person who had escaped.

Thus, many of Hermione's thoughts as she prepared for her third and final appearance as a witness were not good ones. Oddly, or perhaps not, some of her better thoughts were about Harry, despite his predicament….

She had been worried sick about him the day before. Something unusual had happened. He had been awakened in the wee hours of the morning, and was summarily tortured. Of that she was certain. His emotions had been sufficiently atrocious that she had set out for the Headmaster's office in the middle of the night….

She never reached her destination - at least not as intended. Harry's emotions took a series of sudden, odd turns. Under torture he had abruptly become calm, almost preternaturally calm. Then, just as suddenly, she had felt this staggering pang of utter horror from Harry…. Almost immediately, that was followed by … by something….

“Something” was the only way Hermione could describe it. It had not been any particular emotion - or maybe it had been a combination of every emotion that had ever existed.

Whatever it was, it was powerful enough for her to see - as a blinding white flash … and then nothing - nothing in this case meaning her own unconsciousness.

Some indeterminate time later, Hermione had awoken groggily on the floor of the main hallway leading towards the Great Hall. Someone - a man - had been trying to help her but was being distracted by Peeves, who was pelting the both of them with soggy, wet serviettes. The poltergeist had been chanting:

“Hermione Granger, still a stranger. Has she finally cracked?

Trying more than Dumbledore to bring young Potter back.”

At first she had thought she was hallucinating - that the man helping her was … Mannock, one of her (and Harry's) instructors in combat flight. She had been wrong, of course, but not by much. The man was Gaston Mannock, the instructor's twin brother. He was also an Auror, an Obliviator. He could not, or would not, tell Hermione what he was doing at Hogwarts, other than to say that he was part of the “added security” put in place due to the increased Death Eater activity.

Peaves' bit of doggerel had not improved her attitude towards the Headmaster, but this Mannock insisted, so she dutifully reported the incident involving Harry to Dumbledore. She speculated that Harry might have made an unsuccessful escape attempt. For more than six interminable hours she was petrified that he might have been killed in the attempt. Hermione was not at all sure if she could survive feeling Harry die a second time. That abyss yawned continually at her feet, but she steadfastly ignored it - otherwise she courted lunacy.

For once her worries had been unnecessary.

The next morning, Harry had been woken up according to the usual schedule. That time, his emotions caused her less upset than any of his conscious interludes since his abduction. The mental torture associated with his every previous waking moment was absent this time. Instead, her affinity radiated with the same unearthly calm of the previous night. No emotional explosion followed, so Hermione could not conclude that anything bad had happened. She had no idea what had transpired, and neither (so it seemed) did Dumbledore.

That good feeling did not survive Hermione's testimony.

She was nervous from the start. Having entered the structure through a secret entrance exclusively for witnesses and other trial participants, Hermione was astounded when she entered what passed for the courtroom. It was surrounded on all sides with steep-rising galleries that called to mind Quidditch grandstands more than they did staid courtroom décor - rank upon rank and row upon row. The space resembled not so much a courtroom as an arena. Thousands and thousands of witches and wizards were either already seated or were filing in, buzzing with conversation.

Covering the entire structure was a white fabric canopy, thick enough to cast solid shadows, hanging from five massive wooden poles. Four poles extended from the corners of the grandstands. A fifth, taller one, was suspended magically. It stood, in mid-air, directly above the centre of the courtroom. Hermione was reminded of a large circus tent - which she thought apt for a trial that she feared was all too likely to become a circus.

Her fears soon came to pass.

Hermione was to be the first witness for the prosecution. Thus, she was present when the shackled defendants, wretchedly dressed in tattered and featureless Azkaban garb, filed in. A horde of surly looking armed goblins, and a half-dozen still-loyal Dementors guarded the prisoners. The guards escorted their charges to eleven solid, blocky wooden chairs in the center of the room. Immediately as the defendants were seated, chains that Hermione had not previously noticed glowed gold. Under their own volition, the fetters snaked up the prisoners' limbs, wrapped around their bodies, and bound them tightly in place.

Morbidly fascinated with the writhing chains, Hermione did not notice as the audience began whistling. The whistling grew louder and louder as more of the jeering crowd became aware of the Death Eaters' arrival. Soon the crowd went beyond whistling.

A small black object came flying out of the stands, dropping onto the floor near the prisoners. For a moment, it lay still. Then it started hopping, a few dozen centimetres at a time. Then a second one was flung into the dock. Another followed, and another, and another…. Hermione had no idea what the crowd were hurling until one - propelled by someone's errantly cast Banishing Charm - almost landed in her lap. Hermione realised with disgust that she had almost been hit with a Dementor action figure that then jumped forward and pretended to kiss whatever it landed upon.

With a crowd of this size, there was no real way to control it if it did not want to be controlled. Trial was delayed for almost a half-hour as the bailiffs hastily erected temporary wards to prevent more objects from being cast into the courtroom area. Eventually, the crowd's whistling, jeering, and hooting abated, and the spectators settled into a tense silence.

Because of a late change in plans, Hermione's testimony was a little tricky. As Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, Dumbledore was privy to the deliberations concerning Sirius Black. He decided that it was time to educate the public about Sirius' innocence. The Headmaster's memory of Voldemort's appearance at the Ministry was to be the climax that concluded the prosecution's case. Thus, the Ministry's barristers could hardly prevent Dumbledore from also displaying his memory of Sirius' heroic fight and ultimate death at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. All prosecution witnesses would be asked about how Sirius figured in the Death Eater plot to lure Harry Potter to the Ministry.

It thus fell to Hermione to provide the first public description anywhere of the false vision of Sirius being tortured that Voldemort sent Harry, and of the ensuing consequences. One thing necessarily led to another, so Hermione also would be the first person to reveal publicly to the wider Wizarding world the astonishing fact that the infamous Sirius Black was in fact innocent of all the crimes for which he was imprisoned in Azkaban for twelve years.

She played her part to the hilt.

THE COURT: Why was Mister Potter so affected by the image of Sirius Black being tortured at the hands of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?

THE WITNESS: Sirius was Harry's Godfather, and a longstanding member of the Order of the Phoenix. Harry loved him and was hoping to live with Sirius after he was cleared of the killings falsely attributed to him.

THE COURT: You say Black was falsely accused?

THE WITNESS: I know that Sirius Black was in fact innocent of everything with which he was charged, yes.

THE COURT: Black? How could you possibly know this?

THE WITNESS: Sirius was the obvious choice to be Secret Keeper for Harry's parents. To try to trick the Death Eaters, James and Lily switched that role to Pettigrew at the last minute. Pettigrew was working for Voldemort even then, and betrayed all of them.

THE COURT: Peter Pettigrew was a Death Eater?

THE WITNESS: By then, probably. Whether he had taken the Mark or not, he was certainly working for Voldemort….

THE COURT: V-V-Voldemort … can you please not use the name?

THE WITNESS: I'm obligated to speak the truth. Tom Riddle, then.

THE COURT: Umm…. All right. So Black killed Mr. Pettigrew to avenge the Potters, then?

THE WITNESS: No. Sirius didn't kill anyone. He never got the chance. Pettigrew framed Sirius, and the Ministry fell for the trick.

THE COURT: Really? What happened?

THE WITNESS: Peter Pettigrew is a rat animagus and is also still alive. Pettigrew killed all those Muggles to fake his own death and shift the blame to Sirius. He transformed into a rat and escaped. I would not have believed it myself had I not seen Pettigrew transform twice with my own eyes two years and a few months ago. Sirius and Remus Lupin forced those transformations, but Pettigrew changed back, escaped again, and returned to … er … Tom.

THE COURT: I confess to being astonished. Who else can corroborate your testimony?

THE WITNESS: In addition to Remus, Harry and Ron Weasley were there when it happened. Since Pettigrew became a Death Eater, I would presume that most if not all of the defendants are also aware that he still lives - especially Lucius Malfoy…. It is my understanding that after Harry first defeated … Tom Riddle, Pettigrew retrieved Tom's wand and provided it to Malfoy, I suspect for safe keeping….

The prosecutors knew that the elder Malfoy had already revealed precisely this when interrogated under Veritaserum. His - and other - Death Eater testimony ultimately unfolded just as Hermione testified that it would.

She handled her difficult role with more aplomb than she felt, clearly and precisely answering the questions put to her by Magistrate Peakes concerning Sirius. Indeed, the girl handled everything flawlessly - both on direct and cross-examination - until a defense barrister approached the bench and handed up a list of supplemental questions accompanied by what appeared to be several newspaper clippings. Magistrate Peakes' eyes widened as he read the proffered material. He called the prosecutors forward, and a lengthy sidebar ensued.

Sitting rather uncomfortably in a chair with unused manacles hanging limply from the armrests, Hermione had no idea what was causing the delay. Once the conference ended, the prosecuting barrister gave Hermione an odd, skeptical look as he returned to his seat. He was not happy.

Magistrate Peakes addressed a new and completely unexpected line of questioning to her:

THE COURT: Miss Granger, have you been promised … leniency in return for any of the testimony you have given here today?

THE WITNESS: No, not if I understand your question correctly.

THE COURT: Has any member of the prosecution promised you or any member of your family that any pending or threatened criminal charges will be reduced or dropped if you give testimony in this matter that is favorable the Ministry's case?

THE WITNESS: Certainly not.

THE COURT: Have you received any similar promise from anyone associated with Muggle law enforcement?

THE WITNESS: No. I have no idea what you're asking about.

THE COURT: Same question with respect to anyone associated with the Muggle Crown Prosecution Service?

THE WITNESS: No. I have never been threatened with any sort of criminal prosecution, nor has anyone in my family. May I ask what is going on?

Magistrate Peakes called the tipstaff forward and whispered something in her ear. The tipstaff approached Hermione and asked her to hold a talismanic crystal. She then performed a spell that Hermione recognised as intended to confirm that she was still under the influence of Veritaserum. The test was strongly positive - the crystal glowed with a blinding pure white light. Magistrate Peakes had only one more question.

THE COURT: Miss Granger, have you seen any Muggle newspaper within the past twenty-four hours?

THE WITNESS: No, I've been … er … rather busy with … er … rather serious matters at Hogwarts.

THE COURT: I'm terribly sorry, you may step down.

Hermione rather shakily left the witness stand. With her testimony completed, she was permitted to remain for the rest of the proceeding. She chose not to stay. She sensed that something was badly wrong. Remaining immobilised whilst watching Death Eaters on trial for their lives was the last place she wanted to be. Bolting from the courtroom, Hermione sought someplace quiet to contemplate the meaning of that bizarre last line of inquiry.

Instead of finding peace, Hermione was immediately set upon by a score of wizard reporters, who bombarded her with questions about the trial. Startled and half-blinded by flashes from wizard cameras, she staggered, turned on her heel, and started to flee back the way she had come. She almost immediately crashed into Alastor Moody, nearly sending the one-legged former Auror reeling to the floor.

“Whoa, lassie,” he cautioned. “Let's get yeh ta someplace private. I'm sorry yeh had ta find out this way….”

Hermione was almost in shock as she let herself be guided. She protested weakly, “Find out about what?!?” Plainly something terrible had happened, but she had no inkling what.

“If'fn yeh don't know yet, it's best that yeh not be learning about it out here,” Moody gruffly replied. He led Hermione down a hallway, opened a door, and brought her face to face with Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall.

They both looked grim and sad. Dumbledore bade her to be seated without even offering her a lemon drop. This was serious…. The first thought tumbling through her reeling mind was that something had happened to Harry - she was almost terrified that the Death Eaters holding Harry would not let the trial pass without incident. …But she would have known that herself, before them … would she not?

“I am terribly sorry that you had to encounter that situation unprepared,” Dumbledore began, “but you were already being administered Veritaserum when I received word from Mister Creevey….”

“Just tell me what in Hell has happened,” Hermione interrupted anxiously, and rather loudly.

Dumbledore took a deep breath. “Apparently the Crown Prosecution Service have just laid bribery charges against your father, and he is currently considered a fugitive from justice.”

Hermione gasped in disbelief. Her father's situation had been the farthest thing from her mind. She struggled to maintain her composure. She could not afford another breakdown.

The Headmaster then handed Hermione a rather torn and wrinkled newspaper, adding, “The Financial Times is not ordinarily meant to travel by owl post.”

“D-D-Displia.” Hermione stumbled on the simple spell, but it worked. Her eyes quickly found the headline just below the fold:

Fugitive Dentist Charged With Bribery

LONDON: The Crown Prosecution Service revealed late yesterday that Dr. Edwin O. Granger, chair of the BDA Dental Advisory Group to the British National Formulary, has been charged with 47 criminal charges of corruption in soliciting and taking bribes from various suppliers of dental equipment. Dr. Granger recently relocated to Australia, but mysteriously disappeared en route. His current whereabouts are unknown.

According to prosecution sources, Dr. Granger's activities came to light when a whistle-blower at Colgate-Palmolive stepped forward with evidence that the company had paid £100,000 in order to secure a spot on the formulary for its dentifrice products. Relying upon advice from the formulary that Dr. Granger essentially controlled, the NHS determines what products dentists throughout the United Kingdom may purchase and use in their practices.

Prosecutors further indicate that the list of companies from which Dr. Granger received payments reads like a “who's who” of EU dental product suppliers. Other names were not immediately available, except that a confidential source confirms that several makers of dental drills are implicated. The source complained that critical electronic records from the leading manufacturer of dental drills in the UK, Grunnings, have gone missing.

Dr. Granger's illegal activities apparently continued for years. The exact total of suspicious payments is still unknown, but is believed to exceed, possibly greatly, £3,000,000. A confidential search warrant was executed last week on Dr. Granger's London surgery, but very little was found, due to the move to Australia and a mysterious fire several weeks previous.

Dr. Granger became chair of the Dental Advisory Group in 1985. He had previously come to prominence as the inventor of the Granger cannulated screw, the first universal screw-based system for implanting false teeth. Royalties from this invention made him a wealthy man, and he became a generous political supporter of Baroness Thatcher, formerly the Right Honourable Margaret Thatcher, LG, OM, PC, FRS, who appointed him to the board. Dr. Granger graduated first in his class from the Harvard School of Dental Medicine in 1974.

Dr. Granger had recently announced his emigration to Australia for unstated `personal reasons.' According to prosecutors, he was supposed to have arrived in Sydney almost a fortnight ago, but never appeared. Particularly, in light of what prosecutors characterise as certain recent “unusual financial transactions,” Dr. Granger is considered a fugitive from justice. They caution that he may be armed.

Dr. Granger's wife, who is also a dentist, has not been charged. Because of possible flight risk, she was removed from a steamer en route to Australia the day before charges were preferred. She is a material witness currently assisting in the inquiry on Diego Garcia, British Indian Ocean Territory.

When Hermione finished the article, the paper slid to the floor from her limp hand. Numbly she sat, unmoving, for almost a full minute. Then denial turned into grief, and she began to sob. It was as if someone had touched a stick of dynamite to the bedrock of her self-image. Everything about her existence in the Muggle world had just been exposed as a lie. Her father was a criminal - the very sort of fugitive he had often railed so self-righteously against. He had sold his position to the highest bidder….

Among many other things, this development meant that Hermione no longer had anyplace in Muggle society to go back to. In that world she would forever bear the opprobrium of being a criminal's daughter. Nothing worthwhile awaited her there any longer. Her mother was undoubtedly devastated. All either woman had to look forward to were a succession of blaring headlines, police questioning, and ostracism from the social circles in which her parents - especially her father - had travelled.

Hermione, however, still had her magic. Thank Merlin for her scholarships. At least she would not be forced to drop out of Hogwarts.

Her father's fall from grace also meant the Hermione was witch now - irrevocably. Any possibility she had entertained of abandoning the magical world and all the heartbreak it caused her vanished with these revelations. But what kind of a life was it going to be without Harry? Unless he were rescued, the Death Eaters would surely kill him in retribution for the sentences to be passed today. Despair was starting to overwhelm her once again. She began to hyperventilate….

Hermione felt Professor McGonagall's hands on her shoulders, clucking sweet nothings like her mother used to do when her bushy-haired daughter had been distraught. Then she felt something else pass through her, calming her down and bringing her back to reality. Dumbledore had undoubtedly cast a Cheering Charm. While it was not a bad idea, the charm was unsolicited, and thus unwelcome.

Hermione believed she had a right to brood, at least for a while. She refused to look at him. “That wasn't right,” she complained weakly.

“Perhaps,” the Headmaster replied. “But it was necessary under the circumstances.”

She made an incomprehensible sound, and again retreated within herself. She needed at least a little time to grieve for her lost world. This time, the adults gave it to her….

Looking up at last, Hermione saw the Headmaster regarding her sorrowfully.

“What is to become of me now?” she asked.

“Ultimately you are the master of your own fate,” he responded softly. “As for the immediate future, you need not worry about yourself. Your place at Hogwarts is secure. The scholarships you have won are more than sufficient to see you to graduation. You are welcome to stay at the new Order headquarters throughout the summer holiday, if you desire, and beyond. Your father's Muggle transgressions, if that is what they are, should have next to no effect on your magical career. Your career prospects in this, your true world, remain as extraordinary as your talents.”

“There, there, lassie, those reporters could have cared less about anything your father did,” added Professor McGonagall. “They were after you because you were the first prosecution witness … mostly because of Sirius Black. That's a huge story, at least amongst us … as we intended.”

“Wh- wh- what about … the Muggles…? The prosecution…? Will I … have to be involved?” Hermione choked out.

“I cannot make any promises,” answered the Headmaster. “It is possible, but there are a select few at New Scotland Yard who are familiar with our world. I know them, and they know me ... particularly now that we're dealing with … that plane crash…. I am hopeful that I can prevail upon them to tread quite lightly as far as you are concerned.”

Briefly, Hermione contemplated the principled course of protesting such preferred treatment, but let it go. She was simply too tired to shoulder yet another distraction. There would be time enough for that later. At present, she could hardly presume any claim to moral high ground. Truthfully, Dumbledore's reassurances provided Hermione with more relief than she expected. Gradually her shock diminished, followed by her sorrow - in inverse proportion to another emotion - anger at her father. `No wonder that bastard had coveted Harry's money so badly…,' she thought. `I'll bet anything he set that fire, too, the night of the Death Eater attack.'

A fragment of a memory flashed into her head. Not surprisingly, it involved Harry - one of his many protestations to Snape that “I am not my father.” That burden was now hers, as well. She resolved that she was not going to answer for her father either.

And she still had the same job to do - one made all the more pressing by today's events…. Taking a couple of deep breaths, she stood up.

“Are you going to be all right?” Professor McGonagall inquired, her concern evident in her voice and just as plainly etched in her face.

“Healing always takes time, but I'll live,” Hermione forced out the necessary reply with a resigned nod of her head. “There's really nothing I can do for Daddy. But I can do something for Harry…. I really need to get back to Hogwarts and bash on with my research.”

McGonagall pursed her lips and nodded.

Dumbledore somehow sensed the turmoil behind the girl's outward calm. “You do not wish to stay for the rest of the trial?” he invited. “Not even to lend your support to this old man?”

“I've seen quite enough,” she declined his subtle manipulation. “It's a foregone conclusion what the result will be, especially with you to give the coup de grâce, and I really have no great interest in being present to see Dementor's Kiss sentences imposed - no matter how justified they may be.”

* * * *

Colin and Dennis were in the conference room, engrossed in the trial broadcast over WWN, when Hermione entered. Dennis jumped up as soon as he was aware of her presence, and rushed over.

“Oh, Hermione, I'm so sorry…. It was your father, wasn't it? You mentioned he was a dentist…. I tried to reach you as soon as I saw it, but nobody was around. My house-elf finally found Hagrid….”

Hermione silently gave thanks for her own precautions. She had not gone immediately to her room after returning to Hogwarts. She could not have successfully maintained a stiff upper lip in the face of … this … had she not prepared herself. She spent half an hour in her sanctuary - the library - trying to gather as many happy memories of her father as possible and generally collecting (and suppressing) her thoughts. As much as she could, Hermione managed to reconcile herself to this latest upheaval by reminding herself that her parents had already decided to leave her. Their decision to move to Australia was made before she had learnt any of this. Since her father had already left her alone, his motives for so doing really did not alter her circumstances very much.

Certainly it was rationalising, but under these circumstances rationality was the only way she was capable of absorbing this latest blow whilst keeping an even keel. Since she had been a small child, rationality had always been her mask to cover deep sorrow and despair. Others - Harry - depended upon her to shake this off and persevere. With her mask as firmly situate as she could muster, Hermione chose her words carefully.

“I'm going to be alright, Dennis,” she said, “I have to be. It came as a bit of a shock, I'll admit, especially learning about it first in open court….”

“I know, I heard,” Dennis moaned disconsolately.

“…But I will get through this. I-I-I am not my parents. Nor am I really a Muggle any longer. No matter what happens in that world, I have this one, and I can make my own way. I will be all right - eventually. I will deal with it. Please just let it drop. We have more important things that need doing right now.”

She could tell that the Creeveys admired her poise and self control. `If they only knew,' she thought.

What she was showing to those around her - her friends, the Hogwarts staff, everyone - was a lie. It was a Potemkin village, a false front, a façade….

Beneath that logical exterior - behind that mental powerhouse so single-mindedly harnessed to the task of finding and freeing Harry - lurked another Hermione. That hidden Hermione was still a girl, scared, guilt-ridden, and staring into the maw of unspeakable failure. That Hermione was not allowed to see the light of day. She only came out at night, in the privacy of her bedroom, her thoughts, and her dreams.

Dumbledore and McGonagall had just managed a glimpse of that girl, before she had gone hiding again. Intellectual Hermione was back at the helm … she thought. However, at the moment, the other Hermione had slipped rather closer to the surface than anyone had any reason to know.

* * * *

The Wizard's Wireless stayed tuned to the trial. Again, Hermione was right. It made absolutely no difference whether or not she was in attendance. Dumbledore gave the bravura performance she expected. All eleven Death Eaters captured in the “Potter's Marauders” mission to the Ministry were sentenced to receive the Dementor's Kiss. If not a foregone conclusion before, the result was sealed by the Headmaster's magically enhanced memory showing everyone just what had happened after she was struck down. Courtesy of some sort of magical cross between a Pensieve and a Jumbotron, the standing-room-only crowd was treated to a ten-metre-high replay of the Headmaster's Death Chamber rescue of his students, his duel with Voldemort, including the Dark Lord's attempt to possess Harry. That was the topper.

Or not.

Dumbledore also bore witness to Sirius' demise at the hand of his Death Eater cousin - adding final confirmation to the story of that man's wronged innocence that her own testimony had introduced.

For the most shocking revelations of the day had little to do with Death Eaters. Their convictions and sentences were expected. As Dumbledore had hoped, the lead story would be that Sirius Black was indeed innocent - and that he had been the sole fatality for the light side at the Ministry. Hermione was altogether too well acquainted with the hidebound tendencies of Wizard society. She knew that the abrupt turnabout in Sirius' image, from the Ministry's most wanted fugitive, to a martyr to the cause of righteousness, would be difficult for that public to digest.

Hermione snorted bitterly as she mulled the situation over. Ironically, Sirius's death made everything that much easier for the powers that be. Having the man himself alive would have been so … inconvenient … for those who had connived in his incarceration without trial. His death made it so much simpler just to let bygones be bygones.

Would it be the same with Harry?

No, dammit!

She was not going to let anyone find out. Not while a breath remained in her body.

Hermione spent the rest of the afternoon in the Restricted Section pursuing her research. She worked with an increasing sense of foreboding. The trial, in effect, had set a deadline for her work. The more she considered the matter, the more she was convinced that the Death Eaters holding Harry would execute him in retaliation for their brethren receiving the Dementor's Kiss. Her heightened urgency was unfortunately not matched by better results. The only new item of interest she came upon was that affinities were sometimes referred to as “egotistical superposition” in magical science.

Another lead … but nothing she could use directly.

Another day's useless energy spent.

Thus, the other Hermione bubbled very close to the surface that evening, nearer than the public Hermione had any reason to suspect. The “Search Party,” as her friends had started calling themselves, had finished their evening meal after returning from the Death Eater trial. It was that sliver of the day that they allowed themselves a respite from their efforts - everyone but Hermione.

Neville and Ginny were talking softly and listening to music from Ginny's wireless. Ron was sprawled in a chair on the opposite side of the room, alternately glowering at Neville and experimenting with Quidditch strategies on a charmed parchment. As he tended to do, Dennis had vanished behind the pages of yet another Muggle business newspaper; this one something called the Wall Street Journal. Luna was staring out the window, watching the gathering twilight.

Hermione, with Colin's help, was amassing yet another of her endless lists - this time of known facts, suspected facts, and questions. She dictated them to Colin, who typed them into the D.A. communication system. Whilst the number of facts and suspected facts had grown considerably since they had started their mission, their progress was not nearly enough. The number of unanswered questions remained distressingly high. It was topped as always by the toughest nut of all. “How to use the curse affinity to get through to Harry?”

That question had not budged from atop the list since day one, mocking her. Hermione knew she was running out of time. They had been at this for almost two weeks, and she felt no closer to the answer than when they had all started. Nonetheless, she kept pushing, organising, and reorganising - grasping for some new insight - anything.

If she asked herself, she would have to admit that she did not know what else to do. But Hermione did not ask herself such questions.

“…now we know that the curse, whatever it is called, has been converted to focus on individual, pre-existing affinities. That's a fact. Put that there…. Now we don't know when, or by whom, but it's a valid guess that…”

Hermione had always loved music. But to maintain her single minded focus, she had let music fall by the wayside, not even practicing her violin - much less listening to the Wireless. When it came, the straw that broke the Aethonon's back took the form of a song. She did not hear the introduction for the new song on WWN…. She did not see Ginny jerk herself straight to attention, or notice Ron toss his Dementor action figure at Neville….

“…I expect that at least one place the spell has been tried will be Oriental, since the Dark Fire of…”

“Goodbye Gryffindor

Seems we never knew you at all…”

Hermione abruptly fell silent. She recognised the Elton John melody immediately. It had been one of her Muggle favorites. However, somebody had covered it and changed the lyrics….

“…You had to challenge Voldemort

Whilst those around you crawled

Death Eaters they hounded you

And they killed you with a plane.…”

`Oh my stars,' she thought, `they've made it a eulogy to Harry. They're assuming he's dead….'

“…You have been The Boy Who Lived

Now we'll have to change your name.…”

Hermione's breathing went fast and shallow. Her heart was pounding so hard she could feel the pulses behind her eyes. Her skin turned the pale grey-yellow colour of cheap parchment. She knew what was coming, and she did not think she could handle it emotionally. “Colin, I have to go … right now.” She stood up and took a step towards her room. In her haste, she caught the chair leg with her right foot, falling heavily to her knees.

“…And it seems to me you lived your life

Like a candle in the wind

Never knowing who to cling to

When the rain set in….”

“Hermione … what the…?”

“Are you alright?”

`Yes…. No…. I'm having a waking nightmare … a panic attack,' she thought, but she gave no audible answer. The pain was bursting within her like one of the Twins' pyrotechnics. She had had no premonition - now she felt she was walking a fraying tightrope with no net. Hermione tried to right herself, but stepped on her robes, sending herself sprawling forwards again.

“…I wish you had known how I feel

Before they had you killed

Your candle burned out long before

Your legend ever will….”

Everyone was watching her now…. Calling to her…. Asking her what was wrong…. She felt burning hot and icy cold at the same time. Her breathing was constricted. She gasped for air - it felt like someone was throttling her. But there was nobody there … nobody at all….

Taking the only course open to her, Hermione fled. Half running, half stumbling she lurched across the room.

“…Loneliness was tough

The cupboard under the stairs

When you became a superstar

That pain was always there….”

“Barking, that one. It's just a song….”

“Ron, I can't believe you…!” Ginny's screech was barely audible over the roar in Hermione's ears.

She was determined not to lose it entirely in front of her friends. Her fingers felt gigantic as she fought to make them respond to her commands. She seized the doorknob, struggled with it, and finally wrenched the door open. Hermione launched herself into her room, and managed to slam the door loudly behind her. Dizzy with despair, she collapsed on her bed by the oriel window…. Invisible weights of anguish and despondency crushed her chest. If this was how a heart attack felt, she welcomed it. Anything … anything was better than living with the consequences….

The dam broke - the façade shattered, and weeks of fear, guilt, and worry spilt forth unchecked. She cried like she never had in her life. It was too late…. She was going to lose him…. Harry's candle would be blown out…. She had never told him how she felt…. He never knew he had - has - someone to cling to…. He would die thinking she had rejected him…. Her last words to him….

“…Even when you died

No, they couldn't let you be

The press it had to speculate

Who it was that Harry had gone to see….”

Chaos ruled in the suite's common area. Neville had charged Ron and rather ineffectually tried to slug him. Now those two were rolling on the floor, arms and legs flailing madly, trying to do one another damage. Ginny was in the thick of it, dodging their limbs and trying to prize Neville off so she could hex her obnoxious older brother before he hurt her boyfriend. Colin was trying to collect all of the pieces of parchment that Hermione's sudden departure had had sent flying.

Luna's voice rang out. “Silencio!”

“That's enough. All of you. Whilst we're out here behaving like children, our leader - check that, our friend - is in there, crying her eyes out. If everything we've been working on since Harry disappeared is not going to be for naught, we need her telling us what to do. That's right…. Only she can direct us, and we have to help her. Somebody's got to go in there and try to pull her back together. Since none of you lot seems inclined to make the attempt, I nominate myself.”

Without even bothering to end the silencing spell, Luna slid to Hermione's door, knocked softly and let herself in.

Hermione was a hideous mess. Curled up on the bed, she had her face jammed into the bedclothes. She was not sobbing so much as she was screaming - only her screams were muffled. She had stuffed a corner of the duvet in her mouth. Her hands clutched roughly at her own wild hair. Her fingers held clumps of it that she had torn out by the roots. Rocking slowly back and forth, the unseeing girl seemed unaware that Luna had even entered the room.

“Hermione, I'm here for you. I know what you're going through….”

“Just get out!” Hermione wailed through the duvet. “You have no idea what I'm going through!! None of you do!!”

“My father died a month ago to save me from decapitation by Death Eaters. I think I do….”

“Died….?” The word began with a screech, but ended with a moan. Hermione could no longer avoid contemplating her own personal terra incognita - within which there be monsters. The spectre of death had lurked Boggart-like in the shadows ever since Harry was taken, becoming all the harder to ignore with the passage of time. The song had forced her to contemplate the unthinkable, that she could well lose Harry forever.

Luna's words thus were hardly any consolation. “That's … what's going to happen to Harry now…. I've failed. At least your father knew how you felt about him. I never….”

“You're hyperventilating,” Luna commented calmly.

“Am not!” Hermione choked out. “If I'm lucky, I'm dying. Go away!”

“Oh yes you are,” Luna said calmly, even clinically. “Exaggerated respiratory response, wheezing, tremors, pallid skin, blank eyes, head kept below your chest level. I did it quite a bit myself when I was younger - when I thought about my mother.”

Luna expertly conjured a paper bag from thin air. “Breathe into this whilst watching it expand and contract,” she directed. “It will reestablish a normal respiratory pattern.”

Hermione knew that. She pulled her head out of the cushions, spat out the duvet, and meekly complied.

Luna was taken aback. She had known that Hermione was under extreme stress from Harry's disappearance. They all were, but the girl had, more than any of the rest of them, kept it bottled up strictly inside. Luna had some suspicions what Hermione had to be thinking, but she never talked about it to anyone. Ginny had told Luna about Hermione's revelatory testimony at the Black trial.

“Your mother knew how you felt about her, too,” Hermione blubbered. “I'll never have that to reassure me. He'll never know!”

“Yes I did have that,” she replied, “and I know how you feel about Harry. Something happened. Something bad. You need to talk about it before … well, you've already exploded, I guess. But it will paralyse you. If not for your sake, do it for Harry's. There's not much time….”

“Get out,” replied Hermione.

“I'm afraid I can't do that. This is too important.”

“GET OUT!” Hermione screamed.

“You'll have to hex me,” Luna answered firmly. “We need you back, and you can't go forward whilst in this condition.”

Enraged, Hermione flicked her wand into her hand, but got no further. Luna made no move to protect herself. Despite her threat, Hermione was truly in no condition to hex anyone. The point of her wand started to tremble, as her first her resolution, and then her anger, ebbed away….

Hermione dropped her wand harmlessly on the bed. She drew her legs tightly to her chest, curled up whilst facing away from Luna, and started sobbing again, although less violently. Luna approached the desolate girl, put her arms around her, and started humming softly.

A wave of solace swept through Hermione. She had been ignoring Luna until then. “What the…. Luna, what did you just do?”

“Empathy,” the Ravenclaw replied softly. “It's how I deal with my own sorrows … my own emotional issues. I couldn't have gotten through years of being called `Loony' and worse without it. I didn't know if it would work with you. I've never tried it on another person before.”

Hermione was still half in shock, disbelieving Luna's unusual power. She silently stared at the Ravenclaw.

“It still doesn't change that you need to talk about what happened before it consumes you,” Luna said.

“It's … so hard…. It's so terrible….”

Progress. “Try me,” Luna suggested, “I can take a lot.” Softly she cast an Imperturbable Charm on the room.

Hermione looked like she was choking. “I-I-I ... drove him away…. The last words I ever spoke to him were that … I … I … I didn't want to see him anymore….”

With that a second dam broke within Hermione, and the whole sordid tale - her innermost wreckage, all the poisonous bile - spilt out. Her increasing inability to cope with Harry's emotions…. Harry's frantic approach to her with the pornographic pictures…. The weird story about Cho/Liko…. Harry grabbing her arm till it hurt…. Her slapping him…. Telling him she did not want to see him again…. The strange response she felt through their affinity…. What she felt during his final date with Eliza…. How she had proved that Harry had told the truth after all….

Over the next half an hour of talk, interspersed with timeouts for tears, the enormity of Hermione's emotional burden was revealed.

As the Gryffindor talked, the Ravenclaw listened. Luna had suspected all along that Hermione was labouring under the weight of guilt, but the extent of the baggage, and how closely it related to Harry's abduction, surprised even her. She now appreciated the supreme act of will that Hermione's organisation of everything represented.

Hermione continued to vent. “When … when I heard that song … I couldn't take it any longer. He did…. He should have known … that he did have someone - someone he could cling to…. He wasn't all alone. He hasn't been for years…. But I messed it all up so horribly…. I'm afraid he'll die never knowing. He'll die alone … and I'll have to live alone, knowing what I did.”

Finally, Luna interrupted her flow of melancholy. “Hermione, he's not going to die, not if there's anything we can do about it. We have to keep pushing. If necessary, we can go back to the Headmaster….”

“NO!” Hermione blurted. “Nobody is to know about this. I will not have Harry's memory sullied in any way. I will carry it with me to the grave if necessary. You, you can't tell anyone about this. Especially Ron. I don't think he could handle what I think I know about his girlfriend. He's so taken by her. I mean it, Luna, I trust you - but I know some Obliviation.”

“Not a soul,” Luna promised. “We can worry about that later. What's important now is that we redouble our efforts to reach Harry. There is no way in this world or the next that we can let him go under these - or any - circumstances.”

* * * *

Hermione was groggy when she awoke the next morning after another 30-hour day. She had recovered well enough from her emotional train wreck of the previous evening. Talking it out had been more therapeutic than she had any reason to hope for….

Ron's apology had been quite expected, and she thought equally sincere. He never really meant that kind of thing…. Those remarks … just sort of … happened…. Ron was, well, Ron….

She had not expected any apology from Ginny - let alone the tearful confession she had made to everyone, even Neville.

“Hermione, I'm so sorry,” the redhead wailed. “I had no idea that they would do this with what I wrote!”

All Ginny's friends stared at her gape-mouthed, uncertain of what she was talking about.

Her boyfriend articulated the question they were all thinking. “Er … Gin, what do you mean about what you wrote?”

Ginny answered, but remained more focussed on apologising to Hermione. “I mean, that blasted song that broke you up, Hermione. I'm sorry, but I wrote the words for that….”

Hermione was nonplussed, “You? When?”

“It was at the Burrow my first day back, after the match and all,” Ginny explained. “I thought Harry was dead. We all did then. I'm sorry Neville, but I have this soft spot for Harry, and I guess I always will - even though he can be such a prat.”

“That's all right, luv,” Neville answered softly. “I can't blame you actually….”

“You're such a dear,” Ginny cooed back, as she pecked him on the cheek, earning a grimace from Ron. “You see, when everyone presumed him dead, WWN and Teen Witches' Weekly had a contest for people to express their thoughts about the disappearance - Harry's life, and all. And I wrote these lyrics to the Muggle song.”

“I have to admit, they were quite appropriate … and quite moving,” Hermione responded softly. “You saw how they moved me.”

“I'm sorry about that, but you're probably right,” Ginny answered. “That's what everyone seems to think. Teen Witches' Weekly sure did when I sent them the lyrics. I won their little contest and received 500 Galleons for my trouble. Unfortunately, I didn't realise that my entry was also some kind of release of … of … what do you call it?”

“Copyright?” Dennis offered.

“Yeah, I think that's it,” Ginny sighed. “Anyway, either the magazine or the station arranged for an Elton John sound-alike to cut a recording, and over the last few days it's become something of a cult classic, with all the airtime it's been getting. And I even received post from John himself….”

“You what?” Hermione gasped. “Really? Did he actually sign it?”

“He did, but it was very indirect,” Ginny explained. “It was addressed only `To the artist….' It must have passed through at least two sets of solicitors. I think TWW had to negotiate something with John.”

“Don't throw it out; it could be worth something,” Hermione told the girl. “I know. I collect signatures myself.”

Ginny's face brightened considerably. “Would you like it?” she asked. “It's the least I could do after causing you all that grief. It's quite short, though. He only wrote that he liked it, and how it made him see that his song could be a powerful eulogy. Funny, that's what I always thought it was - although quite after the fact….”

Hermione smiled warmly at the girl. “Yes, if you're willing. I think I'd like the letter for my collection. He is one of my favourite Muggle artists.”

“Mine, too.”

Ginny's unusual revelation unfortunately was the only one. Hermione's nightly research had been more of the same old, same old - interesting leads snuffed out by another missing book. This morning, she intended to complain to Madam Pince again, and see if any of her requested interlibrary loans had come through.

All that changed after her chartreuse sphere came into view, blinking like she had never seen it. There was an urgent message from the Headmaster. She was to meet him - and unstated visitors - at once in the Ceremonial Library. Hermione threw on some clothes, used a couple of spells to tame her hair enough to be presentable, and dashed off.

She encountered the Headmaster, who looked somewhat perplexed, at the door to the library.

“The Wizengamot acted last night. Sirius' name has been cleared. As a consequence, you have some callers this morning,” Dumbledore explained to her.

“That's not a surprise, I gather. Who is it, and what is it all about?” Hermione asked.

“You have met two of them, Alastor, and Mister Howe. There are also two goblins, whose names are Klamdok and Yastrop. Klamdok is what we would call the Managing Director of Gringotts bank. Yastrop is the chamberlain to Ragnok, king of the Goblin Nation.”

She was to meet with Harry's new guardian and his personal solicitor, in addition to two extremely highly ranked goblins. “What is this about?” she repeated. “Is there news … about Harry?”

“There are no new developments concerning Mister Potter - that much I know. As for your visitors, I have not been told why they wish to meet with you,” Dumbledore answered as best he could. “From the timing, it probably has to do with the Black inheritance. Mister Potter is a goblin prince of the blood, you know.”

“I've been told,” she responded evenly.

“You are somewhat underdressed for the occasion,” Dumbledore continued. “Would you allow me to make you more presentable?”

“Very well,” she agreed glumly - not looking forward to this meeting.

Dumbledore waved his wand in a couple of complicated patterns, and Hermione found her hair cleaned, dried, and pulled back neatly. Her nondescript work robe was Transfigured into a set of cleaned and pressed Hogwarts school robes covering a prim pastel orange blouse and a dark brown pantsuit outfit.

Warily, she entered the Ceremonial Library, holding the door for Dumbledore.

“I shall not be attending,” the Headmaster informed her. “I have not been invited.”

As Hermione entered the two wizards and two goblins rose as one. Mr. Howe, acting as spokesman for the group, bade her to join them. To her surprise she was asked to sit in a large chair facing the four of them. It was if she were giving an audience to them, rather than the other way around.

“I suppose you're wondering why we are here today,” Howe started.

“The thought has crossed my mind, yes,” Hermione replied to that rather lame beginning. Something big was transpiring, and she wished they would get to the point. “Dumbledore told me that the Wizengamot has cleared Sirius Black.”

Howe continued, uncharacteristically a bit flustered. “Yes, the Wizengamot, by a vote of 27-7 with a number of abstentions resolved that Mister Black was indeed innocent of the crimes for which he was sentenced to Azkaban. The Ministry's records have been expunged. A public apology was published in today's Prophet. I assume you know what that means to the disposition of the Black estate?”

The inevitable had come to pass. Harry was rich beyond his imagination and her fears; only he was no longer present to receive news of it himself. Why her? She sighed, but said nothing.

The silence was unnerving to her audience. Both Moody and Howe started to fidget, plainly uncomfortable. The goblins waited for the humans to say or do something.

Finally, Hermione took pity. “Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

Howe seemed unsettled by what seemed to be either Hermione's ignorance or maybe just her disinterest. “You're a triple first, Miss Granger, the first non-Ravenclaw to earn that distinction since Minerva McGonagall. I would think you had some idea.”

“I'm sorry, but I have more important things on my mind right now than to trouble myself with Harry's Galleons,” Hermione responded resignedly. “I'm afraid I've been knocked from that high horse. Don't beat about the bubotuber, please. Will you kindly tell me what you have to tell me?”

Blackie Howe had not been a successful solicitor for more than a quarter century for nothing. He executed an attitude change on a Sickle. He needed to stay on the good side of this witch.

“Well, except for a life estate in Grimmauld Place that Mister Black - that is, Sirius - bequeathed to Mister Lupin, Mister Potter is the sole heir to what I believe is the largest wizard estate in Britain. But there's more to it than that….”

“More to it?” Hermione protested. “How much more can anyone have…? How much more can anyone take?”

“No, it's not at all like that,” Howe corrected. “Mister Potter has been my client. In that capacity I advised him to look after his own testamentary interests, to ensure that his own affairs would never become as entangled in litigation as those of the Blacks. He did listen to my advice to some extent, although he decided to take matters into his own hands a bit more than I would have….”

Through all this Mad-Eye Moody had listened with growing impatience. Finally he broke into the lawyer's overly loquacious explanation.

“What I think he's trying ta say,” Moody addressed Hermione, “is that Harry wrote his own will. Yer the named executrix, as well as the major beneficiary.”

Instantly Hermione's hand flew to her gaping mouth. “Oh my….” She responded. An anguished look flashed across her face. To the absent author, she beseeched, `Harry, how could you?' but aloud she said nothing. She would not betray her true feelings to strangers. Instead she resisted. “I don't want any of that responsibility. Can I decline? All I want is Harry back. I haven't the foggiest idea what to do….”

“I'm afraid to say that Mister Potter thought otherwise,” Howe stated the obvious. “His letter to me enclosing his will states quite plainly that he thought you are the only person who could carry out the rather explicit instructions he left behind.”

“I'm almost afraid to ask what those might be,” Hermione answered, trying to keep from visibly trembling. It did occur to her, however, that her own fortune no longer had much to do with her parents, and everything to do with Harry's fate…. His impulsive act meant that money would no longer be an issue in her future….

Those thoughts vanished as Harry's solicitor replied, “I'm almost as afraid to tell you, but I'm afraid I must….” Reading from some notes jotted on parchment, Howe ticked off the items.

“Mister Potter left substantial bequests to several members of the Weasley family, Mister Lupin, Headmaster Dumbledore, a Neville Longbottom, a Luna Lovegood, a Miss Eliza Brookings, whom I gather was his … er … mistress….”

“Don't use that term,” Hermione snapped. “She's on equal footing with the rest of us, and in any event she's dead.”

“I'm very sorry,” Mr. Howe instinctively apologised. “Anyway, the bulk of Mister Potter's estate - and it is a great bulk indeed - he left to you, with the following instructions.” Howe pulled out a document from his valise that Hermione supposed was a copy of Harry's will.

My executrix is to dispose of all that I have inherited from the Black family, other than Sirius' own belongings. Everything Muggle I want sold and the selling price invested in things having nothing to do with slavery. Everything magical, except for the Gringotts shares mentioned later, I want disposed of in the same way - converted to Muggle assets unrelated to slavery. All real estate I want sold off piecemeal to Muggles. If there are any legal obstacles to doing this, I want them overcome in any way possible.

Once all of the Black inheritance is converted to things with no connection to slavery, they belong the prime beneficiary….

“That's you, Hermione.”

…free and clear….

“That means with no further restrictions. Harry was using a form book.”

…Gringotts shares. The four Black ownership shares in Gringotts bank, together with two additional Gringotts shares that I have inherited from my parents, shall be held in trust, with the executrix serving as sole trustee. Once the trustee certifies that the sale of the Black assets described previously is complete, the trust shall dissolve, and the trustee is to complete a transfer of the six Gringotts shares to the ownership, custody, and control of the Goblin Nation, in perpetuity….

Until that moment, the goblins maintained silence. “Explained thus is our presence,” one of them spoke up. “Klamdok, Aksistar of Gringotts, I am. Essentially, goblin side of Gringotts I manage. If to you these responsibilities fall, you I wish to know that my command your wish is.”

“What I wish is for you - all of you - to find Harry. That's all that I wish,” Hermione demanded. “I can see why Harry did this, but why didn't he tell me?”

“Miss Granger,” Howe answered. “You can't blame Mister Potter … er … Harry. If anyone, blame me. Harry only did this very recently. I received the completed will by Muggle post. He wrote it from a form book I provided him. He directed the secrecy. He was going to tell you himself, but evidently never had the chance before he was taken.”

Moody broke in. “I only found out this morning. Fer good reason, Howe kept this under his hat until the Wizengamot decision confirmed Harry's rights. Since yeh testified this week under Veritaserum that yeh didn't know about Harry having a will, I decided, as Harry's guardian, that yeh should be informed immediately. Once I learnt the contents, I invited the goblins, since their interests are directly at stake.”

“Harry Potter is Impratraxis, a prince of the royal blood,” the other goblin, Yastrop, affirmed. “No effort you I assure him to locate will spare we. Thousands of searchers, we have, and once found he is an army we have standing by to deliver him. Find him we will.”

Having heard quite enough, Hermione sought to excuse herself. “Thank you … very much. You'll have to excuse me…. I'm feeling a little … overwhelmed … at the moment. Can I … can I leave now?”

“Certainly, Miss Granger,” interjected Mad-Eye before anyone else tried to object. “I think yeh know everything yeh need ta know at this time. I just hope yeh understand one thing…. That Harry wouldn't have done this except yer the only person he trusts ta see his wishes through concerning the Black Estate.”

“He won't be disappointed,” Hermione replied. “But I'm not planning upon having to do any of this for quite some time to come. I'm going to find Harry - alive.”

Hermione quickly left, feeling abnormally light-headed. Thankfully, neither Dumbledore nor anyone else was hovering by the entrance. Harry was awake again, and she did not want to deal with anything having to do with his estate. That left her feeling morbid - or worse. She only wanted to commune with him. Nothing else mattered.

She could not have told anyone exactly how she made it back to her room. Her parting shot at the meeting suggested way more confidence than she actually had. In truth, she was feeling trapped. She had no idea how she was going to make good on her brash statement.

The worst did not happen. Harry's emotions, whilst full of depression, did not reach the hideous depths of some of his prior waking moments. Soon he entered that odd, almost blank state - she wondered if he had invented some way of entrancing himself.

She could truthfully say that there was nothing she would not do to save Harry. The trouble was, as always, she did not know what that nothing, or anything, could possibly be. There was simply no movement. She was only marginally closer to her goal since the research project had begun - two furious and frustrating weeks ago. Now that problem was, unfortunately, moving furious and frustrating to potentially fatal. After today, even if the unthinkable happened, there was no escape. Harry had tasked her to clean up the mess. Luna was right. She had to bash on.

But how?

She half stumbled back into her team's combined flat. Dennis had his sphere bring his latest selection of books, Muggle volumes on telepathy mostly, back to the room to read. Colin was the only other person there. He was tinkering with the equipment and taking notes.

“Hermione!” Colin exclaimed upon seeing her, “what's wrong now? You look like you've seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost,” Hermione responded. “Much worse. I've been given a glimpse of my future if we fail. I-I-I'd have to sell off the whole Black Estate … convert it all to Muggle money and stuff - as if I ever asked for a farthing of it. Harry … made me … made me the … the executrix of his will.” She practically had to force the last few words of it out.

“I'll be damned,” Dennis remarked. “After all you've done for him, is that all?”

“No, not really,” Hermione said in a rather small voice.

“Well I should bloody hope not,” Dennis continued. “By all rights he should leave it to you.”

“He did,” Hermione whispered, not wanting to believe it herself. “I'm at sea. I have no idea what to do.”

Dennis got up, moved to the girl, and took her hand. “I can help you,” he said. “I need to help you after what you've done for Colin and me. I've been interested in financial things for years, even though my family doesn't have two Galleons to rub together. There has to be a reason the fates gave me that interest. Maybe this is it.”

“You'd do that?” Hermione replied. “Thank Merlin. Right now, after everything that's just happened to my family, there's not a single person in the Muggle world I trust.”

“I've got some bright ideas, if you don't mind a little risk,” Dennis suggested.

“Risk?” Hermione replied archly. “Right now, I love risk. I've been charged with destroying the Black Estate, not preserving it. As long as nobody steals it, I don't mind losing money.”

“Have you heard of Y2K?” Dennis asked.

“A little,” Hermione said. “That's the thought that all the Muggle computers are going to turn into pumpkins at midnight on the millennium.”

“Right,” said Dennis. “That's somewhat more than three years away. What it means from a business standpoint is that every computer user in the world has a fixed deadline to upgrade their systems. There's going to be a huge demand for technology until then. In America they've got a whole special stock market for that kind of thing. They're risky stocks, but if you invested in that kind of Muggle assets, and then get out - by that I mean sell - just after the millennium changes you might just make some serious money. At least that's my bright idea. But it's risky. I also might just have given you the stupidest piece of amateur investment advice in history.”

Dennis never got a chance to finish, as Luna, followed by Ginny, Ron, and Neville, pounded breathlessly into the room.

“Hermione!!!” Luna yelled, “Oh thank Merlin you're here. I think we've found … if not the answer … then a big piece of it.” She was waving an old tome in the air.

“What did you find!?!” Hermione replied excitedly. She seized the good news like a drowning man would a rope. Right now she was sorely in need of it.

“It was horribly misclassified…, “Luna explained, “not even in a medical journal, but in something on magical physicks … an article from the early twenties. That bit you mentioned last night about superposition did the trick. I was searching absolutely everything for the word. It's called `Superpositional Conflict and Coordination of the Phrenic Communication Amongst Identical Magical Essences: A Case Study.' Some wizard named Gondolfo Sherlock wrote it. Oddly, it was published in Ireland even though it involved British witches - one of them actually became Head Girl at Hogwarts.”

Luna thrust the volume at Hermione, who needed no prodding. The witch grabbed it, turned to the tagged article and began reading. Everyone else crowded around, craning to read over Hermione's shoulder.

“…This is it. Almost an identical situation…”

“…Two twin sisters, both subjected to a Procrustean Hex … yuck, sounds nasty…”

“…The hex created a one-way affinity from the first hexed to the second. That's what we have here….”

“…In a second attack, one of the sisters is taken away by the same Dark Wizards and held on a remote island….”

“…The remaining sister employed a variant of a potentially deadly curse to strengthen the affinity in the remaining….”

“…focus the Mentanarus Curse on a specific individual using hair from the missing witch's hair brush….”

“…located successfully wandering in a forest, but the other twin sister went insane because her mind was open to everyone around her. It's dangerous all right….”

“…She was committed to St. Mungo's Spell Damage Ward and died a horrible death. Gouged her own eyes out and committed suicide by drinking carbolic acid….”

“Eeeuuuuwww.”

Finishing the article, Hermione thumped the book shut. She thought about using her Panic Button, but decided against it - for the moment. Things were still too tentative for that. It was passing strange that an article on this subject had been published solely in the Irish Journal of Magical Physicks, but she had no time to dwell upon such historical trivia.

“I think that settles it, then,” Hermione declared. “We start with this Mentanarus Curse, and learn how it can be confined to a single person. We should have an easier time of it because Harry's aura is rather unusual….”

Hermione stopped. Everyone was gawking at her. “Well, what are you looking at?” she huffed.

It was Neville who gave voice to what everyone in the room - excepting Hermione - was thinking.

“Hermione, you … you just read that article same as the rest of us. The person who did the seeking … who did what you would be doing - was driven to insanity and suicide.”

Hermione rounded on him, “And your point is?”

“I-I-I have a bad feeling about this, Hermione,” Neville continued. “As much as I want to find Harry, I'm not willing to lose you both.”

“Er … I agree with Neville, Hermione,” Ron added hesitantly, whilst wringing his hands. “Harry is my best mate in the world. I'd do this myself - but I don't have the affinity…. It's just … there comes a time when you can't throw any more good money after bad, especially since even if you do find him, how do we get him back? … Don't do this, Hermione.”

Luna, ever the contrarian, spoke up. “I know what Hermione is going through. If this is what she really wants to do, I'll help her.”

Ginny weighed in on Luna's side, as did Dennis. Colin was genuinely undecided. After another ten minutes of largely fruitless philosophical palaver, Hermione ended it with a declaration - and a proposal.

“All right, all right. I'm willing to take this risk, and since I have the most at stake, ultimately it's going to be my call. But here's my decision. We'll work out this spell as best we can, and when we get as far as we can take things by the time the term starts next Tuesday, I'll go to Dumbledore. If he has a better idea, then fine. If not, then I have to insist upon taking this risk. I know I could be driven insane, but if I don't take every possible step to find Harry, and the worst happens - I wouldn't be able to live with myself anyway. So insanity might be a blessing. With Dumbledore's help, we should stand a better chance of success than the rather rudimentary spell casting described in the article. Can you go along with me on this?”

By the time she ended her little speech, Hermione's eyes flashed so much determination that nobody even considered raising more objections. If Hermione were willing to put the finest intellect Hogwarts had seen in decades on the line for Harry, who were they to deny her that right? She was their leader in this, and ultimately they had to let her lead.

* * * *

It was 5:30 in the morning. Through the night - since ten the previous evening - Hermione had been hard at work researching in the Restricted Section. She had made considerable progress on understanding the Mentanarus Curse, but still she was in a right strop. Although she had located the incantation in two different books on the Dark Arts, the wording differed in several respects. She did not know which was correct, or if both worked. Worse, she still lacked the precise instructions, including wand movements, for invoking the curse.

In some ways, she was even more frustrated than before. Before, she had harboured the not-so-secret fear that the group's exercise might, in the end, amount to so much trainspotting. When she finally began to make real progress, the additional roadblocks she encountered were all the more infuriating. The information was out there somewhere. Hermione was sure of it.

She had seen two promising references to a book, Mind-Bending Curses, by Omertà Youssoupov. Apparently, the rogue Russian wizard Rasputin had used this book to cast the Mentanarus successfully in the early years of the century. Rasputin had used it to gain access to the minds of a number of prominent Russian Muggles, including several members of the Imperial Family. It had not ended well.

The descriptions of the Mentanarus Curse in these secondary sources were maddeningly vague, and again lacked any discussion of wand movement. That was as far as Hermione was able go. Her search for Youssoupov's original work was once again stymied by “LOSS” written in large letters on the card catalogue entry. Hermione was on the verge of Transfiguring Madam Pince into a pince-nez after discovering that.

“How many books has this bloody library lost over the years?” she grumbled to nobody in particular.

Always the stickler for detail, Hermione noted a number of minor inconsistencies in how books were shelved in the Restricted Section during her latest research. Dutifully, she jotted them down on a piece of parchment, which she intended to leave for Madam Pince (she was more useful than spectacles, Hermione had decided) as she was leaving. Fatigue was starting to dull her senses. The note she tossed onto the librarian's desk knocked another stray bit of parchment to the floor.

Berating her own clumsiness, she put down her copious notes, muttered “Accio,” and the offending paper fragment flew to her hand. Her muttering stopped abruptly as she read the short request, which was in Albus Dumbledore's loopy handwriting.

My Dear Madam Pince:

Could you be so kind as to retrieve for me The Dark Magic of East Asia Over the Centuries? There's no extraordinary urgency, tomorrow morning will be fine. I believe it's being kept in Library Off-Site Storage.

Albus

Library Off-Site Storage = LOSS.

Her blood ran cold. `That hypocritical, lying, old SOB,' she thought. `Everything he said … just five kilos of troll dung in a two-kilo bag….'

She was ready to spit nails. Hermione could not recall when she had last been so angry - certainly not when she hit Harry (that had been an act of passion) - maybe when she punched Malfoy back in Third Year - maybe not even then. She smelled smoke, and looked down. The quills in Madam Pince's quill holder were shriveling up and turning brown. Abruptly she calmed herself down … somewhat.

Revenge is a dish best served cold - and Harry is more important.

Still she could not stop muttering. “Of all the things…. The bloody, inconceivable bastards…. Lower than screwt droppings. They want me to fail. They're so damn concerned that I might do something rash, that they would risk Harry's safety.”

Then she did something quite rash. Storming out of the library, Hermione made not for the guest quarters but rather for the Gryffindor Common Room. Knowing that she did not have a great deal of time before the house-elves once again detected her presence, she rushed into the Sixth Year dormitory. Harry's trunk remained exactly as she had left it. Using the process she had invented earlier, she opened his trunk, removed the Marauder's Map and one of the Invisibility Cloaks, and repacked the trunk carefully.

She encountered Dobby just as she was leaving, and gave him the not altogether false excuse that she had needed to borrow something else of Harry's in pursuit of her quest.

Back in her room, she continued to seethe with anger at Dumbledore's betrayal of the entire enterprise upon which she had invested two critical weeks - weeks whilst Death Eaters were keeping Harry in bondage - weeks when Harry could have been killed at any moment.

There was very little chance she would forgive the Headmaster's latest deception any time soon. Once Harry was successfully freed, maybe she would become reconciled in time. Otherwise…. Perversely, Hermione took comfort in, of all things, the Black inheritance. If worse came to worse, she would much rather not be dependent upon Dumbledore's charity. Right now, even slave money seemed preferable to any sort of reliance on the duplicitous Headmaster, were the worst to happen.

But she was not about to let the worst happen. And in the game that was afoot, she now held the advantage. She knew - but Dumbledore did not know she knew.

Her eyes bleary from lack of sleep, and her mind consumed with her seemingly impotent rage, Hermione noticed the picture from the Ashrak featuring Harry and Dumbledore flanking the limousine. Grimly, she pointed her wand at it. Her aim was true, and what had been Dumbledore's face was now only a burned out, black blot.

With that small measure of satisfaction, she set her Time-Turner for 5:30 rather than six in the morning. She was determined to catch them in the act. Two could play at this game.

**********************

Lyrics to Goodbye Gryffindor (4 verses)

Original Lyrics to “Candle in the Wind” by Bernie Taupin, music by Elton John. © 1973 Dick James Music Limited.

Goodbye Gryffindor,

Seems we never knew you at all….

You had to challenge Voldemort

Whilst those around you crawled.

Death Eaters they hounded you,

And they killed you with a plane.

You have been The Boy Who Lived,

Now we'll have to change your name.

--

And it seems to me you lived your life

Like a candle in the wind.

Never knowing who to cling to

When the rain set in.

I wish you had known how I feel,

Before they had you killed.

Your candle burned out long before

Your legend ever will.

--

Loneliness was tough.

The cupboard under the stairs….

When you became a superstar,

That pain was always there.

Even when you died,

No, they couldn't let you be.

The press it had to speculate

Who it was that Harry had gone to see.

--

And it seems to me you lived your life

Like a candle in the wind.

Never knowing who to cling to

When the rain set in.

And I wish I could have said thank you,

Before they had you killed.

Your candle burned out long before

Your legend ever will.

--

Goodbye Gryffindor,

Though I never knew you at all.

You had the strength to tell the truth,

Whilst those around you crawled.

Goodbye Gryffindor,

From all of those who just admired you as you passed.

You were more than just heroic.

More than Merlin's Order, Second Class.

--

And it seems to me you lived your life

Like a candle in the wind.

Never knowing who to cling to

When the rain set in.

I wish you had known how I feel,

But you were just a kid.

Your candle burned out long before

Your legend never did.

--

Goodbye Gryffindor,

Sorry this is how your story ends.

You belong to the ages now.

It's hard to comprehend.

Dark magic orphaned you at birth,

And left you scarred for life.

You had to grow up far too fast,

And never escaped the strife.

--

And it seems to me you lived your life

Like a candle in the wind.

Never knowing who to cling to

When the rain set in.

And I wish I could have said thank you,

Before they had you killed.

Your candle burned out long before

Your legend ever will.

* * * *

Author's notes: The retroactive statute would be unconstitutional in the US as an ex post facto law

The new law imposes a version of the felony-murder concept

The community blood lust concept comes from a book I read on the Leopold/Loeb murder trial in Chicago

An automatic right of appeal is common in US capital punishment cases

At this time, Texas alone accounted for over half of all US executions. The governor referred to as killing as many people as Voldemort is Bush

Hermione received a taste of what Harry could do when sufficiently provoked

Peeves chant is foreshadowing, in two different ways

Mannock's presence at Hogwarts means something as well

A circus tent floating on air seemed like a proper trial venue

Unlike the US, crowd whistling is a taunt in Europe

The crowd behavior is based on the Medwick incident in the 1934 World Series

This is the correct name for English prosecutors' office

With socialised medicine, the role of formularies in selecting the choice of prescription medical products is heightened. What is described is fairly run-of-the-mill corruption

It should be obvious where the missing Grunnings data is

Dentists and drills go together. I'm surprised I haven't read this plot twist before

Dentistry alone could not produce the money that the Grangers have; the additional source is intellectual property

I understand these to be Maggie Thatcher's proper titles

Diego Garcia, BIOT is a real location

Hermione is right to suspect that her father had set the inexplicable fire in the surgery

Potemkin was a high Russian official who constructed fake, prosperous villages to deceive the Czar he served (Catherine the Great) about conditions in the country

A jumbotron is a very large television screen

The “useless energies spent” is a quote from the Moody Blues

“Goodbye Gryffindor” is a rewrite of “Goodbye Norma Jean,” by Elton John. The complete revised lyrics are in the supplement to Chapter 32

“Terra incognita” is what unknown parts of the world were called on old maps. Such areas were also marked with the phrase “here there be monsters”

The paper bag approach is common first aid for hyperventilation

Ginny's contact with TWW will come in handy (for her) later

Ginny's role in Elton John realizing that his song can serve a a eulogy is sort of a Forrest Gump moment

A “triple first” is a school leader in three different academic areas. It is quite rare

Dennis' financial advice will turn out to be quite remunerative for Hermione

In Greek mythology, Procrustus cut short or stretched out people to fit his bed

“Trainspotting” is a reference to an involved, if useless, activity

Omertà is an Italian word referring to the Mafia code of silence. Youssoupov is the name of Rasputin's killer

“LOSS” stands for “Library Off-Site Storage”

56

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch32 goodbye Gryffindor.doc 03/16/05

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33. Lost And Found

Wherein Dennis appreciates the value of the Marauders Map, Hermione learns where LOSS really is, takes a trip to Hogsmeade, finds her Holy Grail, has an unexpected and revealing encounter with a powerful magical object, takes a walk, enlists Luna to help her cast dangerous spells, takes a side trip to the Trophy Room, has it out with Dumbledore, obtains Dumbledore's assistance, reads the Daily Prophet, and receives a shocking revelation from Dobby; while at almost the same time, Voldemort makes a similarly shocking deduction.

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

Chapter 33 - Lost And Found

…Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap….

“Urgh….” Dennis Creevey rolled over, his eyes blinking drowsily in the early morning brilliance flooding through his window. He always had been a light sleeper.

…Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap….

He looked at his clock. 5:45 a.m.

…Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap….

Nobody except bloody Hermione was ever up at this hour of the morning - and she would be getting ready to go to bed. That Time-Turner of hers….

…Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap….

Slowly, Dennis rolled off of his inviting mattress, threw on his pants from the night before, and opened his door. It was indeed Hermione - but not as he was expecting her. She was not the groggy, early-morning Hermione moments away from giving her Time-Turner six quick twists and getting some well-deserved sleep. Rather the witch who was the cleverest person he had ever known was hunched over the big conference table looking closely at a large sheet of parchment. She was tapping her wand rhythmically. Each tap produced a few guttering blue sparks.

He regarded her through half-opened eyes and whinged, “Hermione.… It's not even six in the morning. Do you mind…?”

The girl gasped softly and instantly stopped tapping.

“Hermione … what are you doing?” he asked sleepily.

She had been too single-mindedly focussed, and had quite forgotten about her own nervous energy. “Oh - hi, Dennis…. Just looking … looking for someone.” She was not ready to involve any of her friends in her little tiff with the administration until she was absolutely sure she was right. Thus, she had to distract Dennis.

Hermione deliberately repositioned herself so he could see the Marauder's Map. He had always had a nose for gadgets.

“Who are…? Gee! What's that?” Dennis blurted, seeing the Map for the first time.

“This,” Hermione said with exaggerated smugness, “is a map of the Castle and grounds. As you can see, it shows everyplace in the Castle and the location of everyone in it. Look, here we are.”

Hermione could sense Dennis looking over her shoulder - presumably at the spot where she was pointing. But he remained silent. After allowing far more time than usual for a reply, Hermione turned partway and gave a careful, sideways glance at the boy. He was staring, all right, but obviously deep in thought.

“Dennis, what is it?” asked Hermione softly.

He continued to look intently at the Map, taking it all in. Finally he asked, “Does this show everybody even when everyone's here for the term?”

Hermione had not used the Map enough to know for sure. “I think so, Dennis, but it's not my map - it's Harry's.”

Dennis ignored the obvious question of why she had Harry's map. His mind was mulling over something far more important. “Hermione, do you know how this map stores that much information?”

“I think so,” Hermione responded. “This kind of map was touched upon in the training Harry and I had. There are charms on the paper. It's called Paneruditius Parchment.”

“Do you know the charms?” Dennis asked.

“Oh, no. They're much too advanced - even for me,” Hermione admitted. “But there's nothing secret about the paper. I've been told it's for sale at Dervish & Banges.”

“Hermione, I think this is the answer,” Dennis declared.

“What's the question, then?” Hermione responded, somewhat nonplussed, but hopeful too. Had she overlooked something? Also she needed to get Dennis to leave and stop distracting her. Madam Pince was making her way to the library. That witch was like clockwork.

“A magical memory for the D.A. communication system…. So you won't lose everything every time you turn it off,” Dennis answered excitedly.

That was good news, and if Hermione had not been so riveted upon more immediate concerns, she would have been thrilled. Right now, however, all she wanted was for him - and everyone - to be gone, so she could concentrate on what she had to do.

“That's a wonderful insight, Dennis,” she answered truthfully. “Tell you what. I may be onto something big myself, but I'm not sure yet. If you'll leave me in peace this morning and let me have some time to myself to figure things out, I promise I'll get you enough money to buy all the Paneruditius Parchment you need.”

Hermione was sure that, once she explained the need to Mad-Eye, Harry's guardian would provide funds from Harry's accounts to pay for such a useful enhancement to the D.A. communication system.

Dennis was more than happy to oblige, and quickly went back to sleep. Hermione made doubly sure by casting a Door-Locking Charm on all of the individual room doors that opened into the conference room. She did not like shutting the others in their rooms, even though they were all sleeping. But this was important, and it was only for a bit.

Madam Pince was in the library now. She stopped moving. Hermione formed an image in her mind's eye of the librarian standing by her desk reading Dumbledore's note. Hot anger coursed through the girl's veins, and she clenched her jaw hard enough that she once again heard that ever-so-subtle ringing/hissing noise in her ears from her taut facial muscles.

The Marauder's Map provided a great deal of information, but even it was not sophisticated enough to show pieces of furniture. Madam Pince seemed rooted to the spot. After two of the longest minutes in Hermione's life, the unsuspecting librarian started moving again.

Madam Pince left the library and proceeded along the main fourth floor corridor. She moved steadily, like she knew exactly where she was going. On the Map, her name floated down a side passageway, and reached the rear set of staircases on the west wing. She went down one flight. The staircase obligingly moved, and Hermione's target set off along the main hallway on the third floor. She turned right, walked through another side passage to the end, and came to a door. Presumably she opened it, since she stepped inside and once again halted.

Taking advantage of the delay, Hermione examined the corridor and suite of rooms that lay beyond the door Madam Pince had just passed through. The Map revealed that the entryway, where the librarian was presently parking herself, also opened into an unusual vertical shaft, presumably to the second floor and below. That was unlikely to be Madam Pince's destination, at her age, so Hermione examined the rest of the hidden third-floor corridor - running her finger past a couple more nondescript rooms - and finally spotted it. Written quite clearly (if in rather small print) was “Library Off-Site Storage.”

“There it is,” Hermione muttered to herself. “My Holy Grail.” She quickly gathered up the Map, unlocked all of the doors to her friends' rooms, and retreated to the privacy of her own flat. By the time she unfolded the pertinent portion of the Marauders' Map on her own bed, Madam Pince had moved again. She had left the anteroom and was now in the in the storage room herself.

Hermione studied the Map intently, committing the location of the hidden corridor and the L.O.S.S. room to permanent memory. Now it was just a matter of waiting for Madam Pince to do what Dumbledore had asked and leave. The girl began studying the various possible routes between the room she was in and the place she wanted to be. Mentally reviewing these routes, she got a strong sense of déjà vu.

Was it really the same place? Hermione strained to remember. So much time had passed. If indeed it were - and her memory was usually trustworthy - could it be that the old man would try the same thing again? Given Madam Pince's dalliance in the foyer, and what else was in the vicinity, Hermione concluded that it was not only possible, but probable. She would be prepared for that eventuality.

Once again, she knew, but Dumbledore did not know she knew.

By the time Hermione had posed and answered (as best she could) these questions, Madam Pince was again in motion. Hermione followed the librarian on the Map until it was obvious that she was headed for Dumbledore's office rather than back to the library.

“Mischief managed.”

Now she had to wait.

The hours of the day positively crept along as Hermione bided her time. There was precious little original research left for her to do in the main library, and even if there had been, her mental state was hardly conducive to detailed investigation. She busied herself retracing her prior efforts and confirming exactly what materials she knew to be missing.

The recheck, even for someone as obsessively thorough as Hermione, took only a couple of hours. She had been over and over each of her research steps so many times already that there was precious little more for her to do. Just as she had thought, besides the one volume Dumbledore had requested, there were six specific titles - six bloody dead ends - that had all been marked with “L.O.S.S.”

There may well be more.

The more she thought about how much valuable time had been wasted by the Headmaster's evident deceptions, the more Hermione seethed. The old S.O.B. had intentionally sabotaged her attempt to rescue Harry - for no good reason that she could fathom. Sure it was dangerous…. She knew she stood a significant chance of being killed, or worse descending into raving lunacy like the witch in that article. But that should be her choice.

Truth be told, Hermione's own life meant relatively little to her at the moment. How could she live with herself after disbelieving Harry and driving him away like she had? Conversely, she also knew that if she were hurt, Harry (being the kind of person he was) would have similar trouble living with himself. But at least he would be living. She would address that possibility as best she could, but his life was more important than any danger to her. The prophecy only confirmed this.

Danger.

What had been an abstraction was now becoming all too real. If she found what she expected to find, there was not much time left. She now had stark confirmation that neither Dumbledore nor McGonagall was going to help her. They were bloody responsible adults. For all their protestations, they viewed her as a child to be sheltered, not as a colleague to be assisted. Perhaps they were right. But right and wrong were becoming harder to discern as the days trickled away.

With Ron, Neville, and Ginny now gone home - more or less forced to spend at least a little time with their families - she would have to teach Luna how to perform whatever spells there were to perform. There was no other real choice. Luna had proven herself to be a powerful, if highly unorthodox, witch. Colin and Dennis were at best average spell casters. Their ingenuity lay elsewhere. She needed far more than average.

Briefly, Hermione toyed with the idea of drafting her own will, but she decided not to bother. She had precious few possessions of her own - one Gringotts account with a few thousand Galleons in it, the proceeds of her reward money and the various scholarships she had won. Her estate only became significant if Harry died. But if both Harry and she died, she no longer gave a damn what happened to all that blood money. There was nobody she particularly cared to give it to. The solicitors had discouraged any charitable bequest. Thus, the more chaos, the better.

It was one form of revenge - a posthumous retort to her betrayal.

Let Dumbledore have to sort it out, if worse came to worse.

There was only one formality she cared about, and even then only in one circumstance, for there was only one person she truly trusted. It was easy enough to find a form book in the Ceremonial Library, and the transcription did not take long. The rest - the tricky spells, and especially the Muggle means of concealment - took longer. After swallowing hard and signing her name, she placed the document where Luna would be sure to find it.

By then it was late morning. Feeling somewhat stir crazy, Hermione requested and received an early lunch from Dobby. She was not about to eat in the Great Hall because she did not trust herself around Dumbledore. Her bile had reached such a level that she was afraid she would fumble her advantage by saying something indiscreet.

Whilst eating, she felt it. Harry was conscious again. That was odd. It broke the every other day pattern. Her initial relief at receiving confirmation that he was still alive soon vanished, however. Instead of retreating into his trancelike state, Harry's emotions instead veered rapidly to shock, fear, pain, and rage … and then nothing.

Hermione never finished her lunch. Harry's emotions were poisonous enough to take anyone's appetite away. Ordinarily, she would have reported such an event to the Headmaster at once - but not today - not after what he had done. …That, and the fact that, for all their nastiness, Harry's emotions just did not have the feel of a prelude to an execution. Something else terrible was going on. What, she had no idea.

On edge and restive, Hermione could not stay cooped up in either her guest apartment or the library any longer. Unless she burned off some of this energy, she would go around the twist. First, she took a walk to the third floor - just for reconnaissance, not to attempt entry. That would come later.

Her suspicions confirmed, Hermione then decided to visit Hogsmeade. In two weeks she had barely left Hogwarts Castle except to testify at trials - two Ministry proceedings, and the closed hearing that concerned the Black estate. She needed a break … to get away by herself. Then she recalled her promise to Dennis. There was no need to bother Mad-Eye just yet. Between her scholarships and the reward money for her part in capturing the Death Eaters at the Ministry, she had more than enough funds to buy plenty of the Paneruditius Parchment on her own.

Besides, Mad-Eye was another of those blasted responsible adults.

Once off the Castle grounds, Hermione could have Apparated, but she decided to walk instead. She had both time and energy to kill. Not five minutes after leaving the grounds, however, she was startled by a loud Apparition “POP” less than ten feet behind her. Whirling around, wand in hand, she came face to face with a very exasperated Tonks.

The Auror demanded, “Just where in blazes do you think you're going, young lady, alone and on foot with all this Death Eater activity going on?”

“They have what they want,” Hermione sighed. “They don't care about me.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” Tonks replied, “I've been coming around to Snape's line of reasoning for some time now. All our intelligence.…”

“Intelligence? Bah!” scoffed Hermione. “Snape is a bloody traitor.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that, either,” Tonks snapped back.

“If you have something to say, then say it,” Hermione complained. “I'm not in the mood to talk to you or anyone right now. I need a break.”

“What you need is a bodyguard,” Tonks observed, “and I'm at your service.” Tonks started an exaggerated curtsey, lost her balance, and fell to her knees.

Ordinarily, Hermione might have laughed, but at the moment, anger welled up inside her. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don't want you or your services right now? I want to be alone.”

“Say what you like,” Tonks responded matter of factly, and with a little bit of hurt. “I'm not permitted to take no for an answer.”

“Dumbledore sent you, didn't he?” Hermione accused.

“Of course,” Tonks replied. “Did you think he'd let you - the ruddy royal widow - roam about loose at a time like this?”

“Sod Dumbledore, then,” Hermione practically yelled. “…And what in Hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You'll see,” Tonks said knowingly, “just wait until you get to the village.”

That ended the conversation. The two witches walked in mutual, if grudging, silence. Hermione knew that, try as she might, she could not rid herself of her unwanted, although amiable enough, companion as long as she was outside the Castle. She resolved to say as little as possible, because she knew that anything she did reveal would be immediately reported to Dumbledore. It was best to get things over with as quickly and as painlessly as possible.

The trouble was - Tonks was right.

It began as soon as Hermione entered Hogsmeade proper - and it had nothing to do with the tacky, purple Ministry posters that seemed to festoon every blank wall. No, the passersby's reactions were telling. Everyone on the High Street seemed to be stopping to stare. Whilst not inherently unpleasant, Hermione was not at all used to being a recipient of other people's pity. That made her very uncomfortable.

Beyond pity, Hermione could barely get anyone to talk to her. Everyone maintained a respectful distance. When she tried to approach others, she quickly realised that even silence that was better than the conversation she was able to draw out of these people. Whenever Hermione tried, the result was the same.

“Poor dear, I'm so sorry for you….”

“You have my greatest sympathy….”

“It's too bad, that's all I can say….”

Hermione did not want to be the object of any behavior that assumed Harry's death - it was too depressing. Thus, she looked for someplace, anyplace, with a modicum of privacy. After finding a suitable side street, she turned to Tonks for an explanation. “What in Merlin's name is everyone on about?”

“I hate to say `I told you so,' but I did,” the Auror informed her. “You need to start reading the Prophet again - for your own sake. Every day that passes, more people are convinced that Harry's dead. You're widely viewed as his….” Tonks searched for a sufficiently neutral expression. “…His surviving romantic interest. You're known to be at Hogwarts Castle, appearing in public only to defend Harry's legacy. A little of it's your family situation, but not that much. The general impression is that you're up there pining away….”

The false premises only made these assumptions all the more miserable for her.

“But why, Tonks?” Hermione beseeched, needing all her presence of mind just to keep her voice to a whisper. “Why would Dumbledore let everyone think that?”

“Better than broadcasting to the world what you've really been up to, don't you think?” Tonks answered. “He figures both you and Harry are safer that way.”

The thought of the Headmaster keeping her and Harry “safe” whilst systematically sabotaging her efforts was too ironic for words. “Well you can tell ruddy Dumbledore that….” Hermione caught herself just in time. Not now. Not when she was on the verge of a break through.

“Tell him what?” Tonks responded curiously.

“Tell him…. Tell him that I'd rather he concentrate his efforts on rescuing Harry than wasting his time on me,” Hermione lied convincingly.

“You won't believe me, but he is,” was Tonks' answer. “You should leave the adults to it, and stop playing at being a hero….”

Tonks could have told Hermione that Harry and Snape were both in protective custody, passing the time playing friendly games of Exploding Snap, and the girl would not have believed her any less. She snorted. She was young, but no child - not any longer.

With Tonks eying her strangely, finally, Hermione simply requested, “Take me to Dervish and Banges, I need to get something Dennis wants, and then I need to get out of here.”

“All right,” Tonks agreed, “but the term starts in a couple of days. The other students won't act that much different.”

“I know,” Hermione conceded. “I'll just have to deal with that as it comes.”

Less than an hour later, they were on the road back to Hogwarts, preceded by five large rolls of Paneruditius Parchment floating along in midair. The visit to D&B turned out no better than the rest of the trip, but at least Hermione had gotten what she - or more properly Dennis - needed. The clerk recognised her immediately (everybody seemed to now) and promptly fled, returning with Mr. Banges, the proprietor, in tow. There was more of the bloody sympathy bit…. She almost had to hex him (not really, but it felt that way at the time) to be allowed to pay for her purchases, rather than to receive them gratis.

But with her purse lighter by 200 Galleons, Hermione had what she hoped would prove to be the missing link for Dennis to create the wizard equivalent of a personal computer.

* * * *

Hermione awoke at fifteen minutes before midnight, with her time to act finally nigh. Over the rest of the afternoon and evening, Hermione had used the last of her Dreamless Sleep Potion to rejuvenate herself. She needed to be fresh tonight, and she knew she had not been getting enough quality sleep lately. She instructed her sphere to fetch several of the fattest books she knew. Then she summoned Dobby and requested a midnight snack.

Dobby and the sphere returned at about the same time. She thanked the attentive elf and unloaded the books. When she turned around, she saw Dobby still waiting, expecting another directive. He looked more apprehensive than usual.

“Dobby, what is it?” Hermione asked.

“I is…. I is … wondering if Miz Myown is to be needing anything else….” Dobby replied uncertainly, not quite meeting her eyes. That was not normal elven behaviour, even for this most unusual elf.

“Is there something else, Dobby?” she inquired gently.

For a moment Dobby almost looked like he wanted to slam his fingers in the nearest door, but he did not. “It's…. It's.… It's … just that … Dobby is very worried about Harry Potter, Miss…. We all is…. We elves don't feel right. Is anything happening?”

“Dobby, nothing is happening yet, but I feel - like I'm on the verge of a break through,” Hermione soothed.

Dobby's agitated face brightened instantly. “Oh thank you Miz Myown! Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” The enthused elf hugged Hermione's leg, the first part of her that he could reach.

She felt abashed, but determined. “Now Dobby,” she spoke. “I need something from you - my privacy. You see this huge stack of books? I have to review them all by morning. Please don't let me see you until tomorrow, Okay?”

“Okay, Miz Myown,” Dobby responded, and he vanished with a snap of his long elven fingers.

She felt badly at deceiving Dobby, but he worked for Dumbledore. Thus, she neutralised another potential complication.

Hermione positioned the Time-Turner around her neck and tucked it under her robes. Having already collected all of her absent friends' Memory Quills, she slipped a dozen of them inside two large rolls of regular parchment. To these supplies she added Harry's Invisibility Cloak, the Marauders Map, and her violin in its case. After wrapping the violin case in the Cloak, she left her room.

Dennis and Colin were in the common area, happily tinkering away, despite the late hour. Bits of enchanted glass, old wand cores, magical wax and Muggle wiring lay scattered about the conference room table amidst a clutter of other, less readily identifiable items. Their excitement was palpable.

“Hermione!” Dennis called out. “Thanks for the parchment! In a couple of hours, I think we'll have it! You won't have to lose everything you write anymore!”

She smiled. “Great, guys. Tomorrow you can show me how to use it. I hope I'll have amassed enough information tonight to make it worthwhile. Now, I'm off to the library for my nightly swot. Don't wait up.”

“We won't disappoint,” Colin replied.

`I hope I won't either,' Hermione thought as she exited the door. “I mean it. You need to get some sleep,” she called to them as she departed.

After leaving, she snuck into the first empty room she came across and shrunk the violin. She attached the diminutive instrument to her Auror belt, which she now habitually wore with jeans under her robes. She wrapped the Invisibility Cloak around herself, gave it an accomplished twirl, and disappeared from normal sight.

“Time to piss or get off the pot,” she muttered.

It was a long trek across the Castle from the guest flats to the third-floor corridor in the opposite wing. Hermione's trip was mostly uneventful, but for a three-storey detour (including a slog through the Weasley Memorial Bog) necessary to avoid Peeves. She could not discern what the poltergeist was doing, but it was undoubtedly nefarious.

When she reached the door at the end of the hall, she rechecked the Map. The third floor on this entire wing of the Castle was deserted. Hermione parked herself in front of the door, removed her violin from the case, enlarged it, tuned it and made it ready. Reattaching the case to her belt, she checked the door. Predictably, it was locked.

Drawing her wand, she tapped the lock with it and whispered, “Alohomora.”

She heard the lock click. Absence of any additional security was a good sign.

Hermione pushed the solid door open, and spun inside. Squinting in the semi-darkness, she heard it before she saw it - heavy, if irregular breathing, then scrabbing noises as if something massive were sleepily trying to stand. Soon enough, three reddish-yellow pairs of eyes regarded her, with different degrees of focus. The thing let out a low, orotund rumble, which reverberated more like a foghorn than a growl.

This was no ordinary beast.

“Good evening, Fluffy,” Hermione calmly addressed the great, slavering, three-headed dog. “Back again, I see.”

She began playing Brahms' famous lullaby on her violin, but soon switched to Kreisler's “Liebesleid,” as she recalled the circumstances of her first visit to this room - and this beast - so many years ago….

From this place, in her First Year, she had gone with Harry (and Ron) in pursuit of the Philosopher's Stone. Ron had loyally sacrificed himself first. She had continued - until her solution of Snape's logic puzzle left room only for one. Harry had sent her back, and he had gone on to face Voldemort alone.

She still remembered that event, as if it were only yesterday. At that moment they both began journeys. Harry had started his journey of becoming the great wizard he now was - assuming he lived. That night he had left her as a boy, and when she saw him again, he was more than that. Before he passed alone through the black flames, she had embraced him … her first such act towards him, or any, boy.

For her part, the same moment marked the beginning of Hermione's journey of the heart. That embrace had been the precursor (she now understood, with benefit of hindsight) of her present feelings for him. She sighed, contemplating how it could take so many years to fall in love at first sight. Over time, those stirrings had grown and expanded into the all-encompassing feeling, at once majestic and melancholy, that now sustained her - a love for which she fully expected she would soon risk her life.

She would do it gladly and call it a bargain - the best she ever had. Life without Harry was hardly worth living. Hers and Harry's journeys were destined once again to intersect. They had to be….

By this time she had almost exhausted the Liebesleid, and the great Cerberus was fast asleep, his breathing like the rumbling of distant thunder. It was time for the main chance. The Invisibility Cloak trailing behind her, Hermione set off down the forbidden corridor at a dead run. She skittered to a halt at the last door on the left. It was ajar.

Full of equal parts trepidation and hope she creaked the door open, slid through, and closed it firmly behind her. With her wand, she further sealed the door with both Locking and Imperturbable Charms. She then employed Surveillius Revelato and established the absence of any hidden listening devices. Finally she conjured a bluebell flame, just like First Year.

Hermione's dimly visible surroundings hardly resembled a proper treasure chamber. Rather, she found herself in a musty old storage room, mostly chock-a-block with what looked like old, unused furniture draped with sheets of various colours and thicknesses. An old four-poster bed with Professor Binns' name carved on the foot loomed off to one side.

The ice-cold feeling that this was all a mistake briefly shot through Hermione's mind - stealing her breath away.

Then she saw it.

Half concealed by a paint-spattered drop cloth was a battered grey steel bookcase, about four feet high. Hermione almost ran to it. She ripped the covering off and stared at its contents.

There they were … all of them.

Before her were all of the books that she had sought, fruitlessly, in the library since she had began her quest - the Ministry report, books on Asiatic and Russian magic, medical journals, everything.

There were even books - plenty of them - on this shelf that were unknown to her. The Headmaster's perfidy had obscured so many intermediate research steps that she had by no means identified all sources relevant to affinities and how to strengthen them. Now that Hermione had solved the mystery, the greatest irony was that Dumbledore had more or less done her work for her. All the books she needed were conveniently collected in a single place.

She knew at that moment that she would be spending the night here. Hermione put a Scintillating Charm on the Marauder's Map so that it would start flashing if anyone touched the outer door to the corridor.

Working feverishly now, she ploughed through the numerous manuscripts as fast as she could read - and she was a natural speed-reader. She scribbled down page after page of notes. Each time she finished a paragraph she circled it and tapped the quill to her temple.

As Hermione's knowledge increased, so did her apprehension.

This was serious, and dangerous … no, potentially lethal … magic. She - or more precisely someone else working with her - would have to perform several spells, some of them virtually curses, in succession. First came Psycho Patefacius, a spell designed to open her mind completely to the affinity, and thus to Harry. If this were performed incorrectly, her conscious mind could literally explode, scattering her personality to the four winds and leaving her at best a vegetable.

Once she had been prepared, Hermione would next be subjected to a finding spell, Locus Personum, taking advantage of her affinity as a link to connect her magic (and that of the caster) with Harry's. This spell was dangerous as well. It could overload the affinity, with the effect of magically sundering that section of her brain. Once again, insanity or permanent catatonia was the penalty for imprecision.

The third spell was the barely concealed curse. The Mentanarus Curse exposed the mind to the combined thoughts, fears, dreams, and desires of potentially a multitude of people. Whilst it barely affected all the others, this curse could drive the victim to rapid, raving madness and inevitable death caused by massive schizophrenia, as hundreds or even thousands of separate personalities invaded the mind. Death followed, slowly but surely, as all of these personalities overtaxed the brain's billions of fragile synaptic circuits. The overload would create increasingly severe chemical imbalances - as her brain cells collapsed one by one until first conscious thought and eventually respiratory control ceased.

In the sequence Hermione was contemplating, a more benign version, Mentanarus Minimus, was designed to focus and limit the effects of the curse to the thoughts, fears, etc. of a single individual - in her case, Harry Potter. To restrict the Mentanarus Curse in this manner required a potion containing a small, but not insignificant, sample of that individual's person. The spell was centuries old, but recent texts revealed that the limitation was created by contact with the target's DNA.

The potion involved was called Ma Huang, and it originated in China. Unfortunately, this potion was not nearly as powerful at replicating DNA as the Polyjuice Potion Hermione had previously brewed. Multiplication of DNA through Polyjuice - or a number of related potions - followed by filtration and purification, was therefore recommended.

Unfortunately, Polyjuice took weeks to make. Under the circumstances, she could hardly drop by the Headmaster's Office and ask to borrow a cup from Dumbledore. Even the quickest of the related potions took several days. Hermione did not have that luxury. Time was of the essence.

Would she be trapped by a tautology? In order to find Harry, she needed some of him already. Hermione was not at all sure that the greasy residue from inside Harry's cap included enough of him to suffice. Her very life would depend on it.

She would have to drink the Ma Huang potion, but only after the caster's wand was dipped in it. The greatest danger was insufficient DNA. If too little were present, the targeting effect of the potion would fail - and Mentanarus Minimus reverted to the Mentanarus Curse, if not immediately, then within a few days. That was the most likely explanation for the fate of the unfortunate witch whose grisly case study had been reported in the Sherlock article Luna had found.

With a shudder, Hermione realised that even Ma Huang would take at least three days to make. At least the Auror field potion kit she had received as part of the summer's training contained all of the necessary apparatus. She would have to obtain several fresh ingredients from the greenhouses in the morning, and get to work right away with Luna. The brewing equipment could be assembled in the Room of Requirement.

The fourth and final spell, Hyperanimus Familiaris, was the safest. It had no known ill effects, but its success was not entirely within the user's control - even if the spell were perfectly cast. This spell was complicated. It required fully three paragraphs of spoken text, and that incantation had to be customised for the specific search. As the medium for its transmission, Hermione would have to say one line in each paragraph. The caster recited the rest.

The target, however, had to allow admission for Hyperanimus Familiaris to operate. If Harry refused her access, Hermione could not force her way in, and all of her painstaking - and dangerous - preparations would be for naught. When Hermione realised this, her heart fell as her thoughts immediately jumped to her last words to him, “I don't want to see you again,” and the slap with which they were delivered. These words reverberated through her mind, and guilt cascaded down with the finality of the closing curtain of a West End flop. Within seconds she found herself sitting on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.

All the while her rational side chastised her with demands that she `Get a Grip.' Disgusted with her frightened alter ego, Hermione grabbed a nearby sheet to dry her eyes. Either she pulled too hard, or the sheet was perched too precariously. Either way, three quarters of it fell loose, with the remainder snagged on one of the ornate, gilded carvings protruding from the upper right corner of the tall, thin piece of unused furniture.

As soon as she calmed down, Hermione stood up to restore the sheet to its proper place. Her attempt at this brought her staring straight at the inscription on above what turned out to be a large mirror: “Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.”

As soon as she comprehended what she was reading, Hermione jumped back as if burnt. From many readings of Hogwarts, A History, confirmed by Harry's and Ron's personal experience, she was only too familiar with the attributes of this enchanted object, which had bedeviled successive generations of Hogwarts students. She did not intend to become one of them. Not with all of the other things she had to do right now.

Ignoring the temptations of the Mirror, Hermione turned determinedly back to the task at hand, once again scribbling furiously. She continued with the same modus operandi all night long - write a paragraph, circle it, and tap the quill to her temple. Repeat as many times as necessary…. Bash on until done….

Hours of frantic work passed.

With a sigh, Hermione slammed Prester John's massive tome on Himalayan Dark magic shut. It closed with a satisfying thud. It was now five thirty in the morning. With a Herculean effort she had finished all of the essential texts, committed them to memory and taken such extensive notes that she could begin teaching them to Luna - in about an hour by the Ravenclaw Sixth-Year's reckoning, but in somewhat less than seven hours courtesy of Hermione's Time-Turner.

There was no sense in starting anything else now. As she gathered up her things and made ready to leave, her mind turned back to the gnawing presence of the Mirror of Erised, which bulked bluish grey in the gathering dawn. She tried to shake it off, but when she raised her wand to remove the sealing and silencing charms from the door, she faltered. Her mind bounced like a ping pong ball, back and forth between “yes” and “no” - before finally settling on “yes.”

She did want to see her heart's greatest desire. Hermione thought she knew, but magical confirmation from one of the Castle's most notorious instruments would fortify her for the perilous journey that lay ahead.

Always the practical one, Hermione took precautions. Recovering a spent inkwell from the corner, she turned it into a three-metre/ten minute custom Portkey. Ensuring its automatic operation, she bound the Portkey to the outside of her left wrist. She took a deep breath, pulled off the sheet and sat down in front of the massive mirror.

She saw a somewhat older version of herself, mid to late twenties, seated behind a cluttered but well-organised oaken desk. The elegant wallpaper, billowy pastel curtains, and surrounding furniture suggested that she was working from a home office. A mirrored vanity stood nearby, but in true Hermione style, several more inches of books and papers, not beauty aids, reposed upon its surface.

The Hermione visible in the Mirror was dressed in informal robes, further indicating that she was at home. On the wall hung several diplomata and numerous pictures, of herself, Harry, herself with Harry, and the entire Trio. Several were graduation photographs - the Trio from Hogwarts, and Harry in the immaculate dress uniform of a newly-minted Auror. Her own image smiled broadly from a commencement photograph taken against the backdrop of some ivy-covered archway. She was resplendent in the blue robes of a doctoral candidate, and with a summa cum laude badge pinned prominently on her swelling chest. She looked more closely, and the carved inscription on the arch read, “Institute for Advanced Magic” - that Princeton, New Jersey, USA institution was the most prestigious magical post-doctoral academy in the world.

There were no pictures of any children.

She was obviously a fully-credentialled Healer now. The items on her desk were equally divided between talismans and texts.

Hermione-in-the-mirror was dictating something to what looked like a Quick-Quotes Quill. The quill scratched away on a piece of parchment of its own accord whilst she turned towards at some pentacle-shaped diagrams on what looked like a magical version of a personal computer. She frowned, pointed her wand at the computer and the pentacle changed.

That Hermione made some statement about the change, which the quill scribbled. Her handwriting (faithfully reproduced by the quill) had distinctly deteriorated. Hermione-on-the-floor supposed there must be illegibility classes in Healer College.

Hermione-on-the-floor sighed as disappointment creased her face. She had hoped that her deepest desires would not be so clichéd - that her desires would be something more than those of an insufferable know-it-all.

Hermione-in-the-mirror mirrored this dissatisfaction. She was obviously ready to be done with whatever she was doing. Suddenly she looked up, and her face brightened into a smile wider than any Hermione-on-the-floor could remember displaying in real life (save in the graduation photos). The object of her affection - a debonair adult Harry Potter clad in an Auror officer's dark maroon robes, took several quick steps across her threshold, closing the distance between them … all of the distance.

“Yesssss,” Hermione-on-the-floor hissed. She felt as if a great weight had lifted.

Hermione-in-the-mirror barely had time to stand before mirror-Harry had her wrapped tightly in his arms. She responded by leaning into him and capturing his lips hungrily. Her hands drifted up his sides until entwined in Harry's neatly trimmed, but barely controlled locks. All the while their kiss deepened.

Hermione-on-the-floor gasped as she noticed the sparkle from a triptych of multi-carat gemstones that her mirror image sported on her left hand. Two substantial red stones shimmered from a golden band as they flanked an even larger glittering blue-white diamond -unmistakably Gryffindor colours. A second, more familiar, ring flanked the first.

The real Hermione sighed - happily this time. Her conscious and subconscious desires were indeed synonymous.

In the mirror, Harry had broken the kiss and buried his face in his wife's ample brown hair, somehow no longer bushy, but still full and bouncy. He exhaled a soft, fluttery breath that must have tickled her ear and shoulder. Back on the floor, Hermione shivered along with her counterpart. It was almost as if she also felt his breath upon her.

The hands of the mirror-image Hermione snaked down either side of Harry's back, from his shoulders, to the small of his back, to his waist. She drew him as close to her as humanly possible whilst caressing him. Goose pimples were sprouting abundantly on the pale, flawless skin of her forearms.

Doppelganger Harry gently drew back and kissing her cheeks and forehead. Her hair now more characteristically mussed, he laughingly blew some of the stray strands out of the way. They longingly looked into each other's eyes. He said three words that took little skill in speechreading to decipher. She responded with some choice words of her own. He brought a hand to her throat and stroked her exposed and flushing neck with an odd combination of his thumb and little finger extended, the others pressed to his palm.

Hermione noticed her mirror image mimicking the same hand gesture at Harry's waist.

As they traded what must have been suggestive whispers, the look in both their eyes was no longer sweet and innocent. This Hermione was an adult. Her eyes now held the deeper and more urgent look of a lover - an expression floor-Hermione had never seen on her own face. Mirror-Hermione's hands moved slowly lower. Simultaneously she gave both cheeks of Harry's buttocks a positively wanton squeeze.

He responded with another round of passionate kisses, which she returned in full. The mood was no longer light and fluffy, but heavy and sensual. This second round of kisses left them stroking and fondling each other intently, their level of lust for one another rising by the second. Mirror Harry pulled one of his hands loose and made some sort of motion. Both his and Mirror Hermione's robes split at the seams and fell away.

Hermione-on-the-floor sighed in sympathetic pleasure. Obviously the Harry of her desires had become exquisitely skilled with wandless, silent magic.

Which was not to say that his wand in any way lacked magic of its own….

Without breaking, or even loosening their embrace, the intertwined couple turned. Mirror Harry sat Hermione on the front edge of her desk. Mirror Hermione freed a hand. Even whilst searching out Harry's tonsils with her tongue, she made a swishing motion with her right hand. Instantly, all of the clutter from her desk swooped into the air in perfect formation and vanished from sight - last seen headed in the general direction of the ceiling.

Hermione-on-the-floor sighed again. Apparently, her ideal older self was no longer any slouch with wandless magic either. Then her eyes went wide as she realised from the facial expression of her alter ego in the mirror that this would be no mere snog session. In her desires, she meant to take him right then and there, without even retiring to the bedroom.

The mirror couple completed a half-circle rotation, neither releasing the other from their mutual embrace. Harry leaned forward, gently but firmly pivoting her against the built-in blotter on the polished wooden desktop. With his left hand he braced himself as his right hand worked its way down her blouse, closely followed by his flicking tongue. He paused only slightly at the clip of her brassiere.

Hermione-on-the-floor silently applauded her image's practicality. There was much to be said for bras that unfastened from the front - especially those having magically reinforced clasps.

The woman in the mirror was so aroused now that Hermione scarcely recognised herself. However much of a genius she might be in all other situations, Hermione-in-the-mirror dispensed with all vocabulary save Old English monosyllables. Yet those words more than sufficed to express with great clarity exactly what Hermione-in-the-mirror wanted - along with when and where.

Mirror Harry looked flustered and embarrassed, but only for an instant. Then he smiled roguishly at her - as he nodded his assent. Again, it took no special skills in visual speech recognition to understand what Hermione-in-the-mirror desired. She grabbed him by the buttocks again and pulled him to her, kissing him hard, first on the lips and then on the neck as she murmured how much she needed him in the most immediate way.

With Harry now between her and her reflected equivalent, Hermione-on-the-floor could not see exactly what her mirror image was doing. Nevertheless she had a pretty good idea - as buttons suddenly ricocheted left and right. Harry's clothes began to loosen and fall open. She wondered how long the images shown by the Mirror of Erised had gone without sexual intimacy.

By now Hermione's repeated expressions of love, mingled with lust and seasoned with urgent longing, were having their intended effect on Harry. Almost desperately he removed or shoved aside whatever other clothes remained under her robes. As his desire mounted, he continued to look to her to tell him - graphically - what to do.

Hermione-on-the-floor supposed that a woman talking dirty - expressing sexual desire in an open and forthright fashion - was a universal tool for male arousal. It certainly seemed to be working.

Harry shed the last of his robes, giving Hermione-in-the-Mirror the proverbial Full Monty. Hermione-on-the-floor was jealous. She had to settle for the rear view - good enough, but not nearly enough. Hermione could hardly see her own counterpart any longer, except for her bare legs flailing against the highly waxed desk, seeking purchase.

Evidently counterpart Hermione made her wishes known, as Harry knelt before her and prepared to shift their bodies' amorous conversation from Old English to subjects best described in Romance language. Hermione-on-the-floor saw her mirror image abruptly wave both hands in the air. In a pinch, wandless magic can do wondrous things. From thin air, her counterpart conjured grab rails that instantaneously installed themselves right on the desktop.

In erotic desperation, Hermione-in-the-mirror seized the grab rails and practically flung her nether region at Harry's kneeling, eagerly awaiting figure….

What happened next is best left to the imagination.

That is what Hermione had to do. At that moment, the ten-minute function of the Portkey activated, abruptly terminating her private NC-17 showing. She found herself sprawled, hot and bothered, on the floor next to her neatly gathered belongings.

Sexual frustration boiling, Hermione's first instinct was to rush back to the Mirror so as not to miss the surely torrid climax (probably plural) to come. She started to do just that, but whilst righting herself, the rational side of her brain asserted control and throttled the urge by reciting the description of the Mirror of Erised that appeared in Hogwarts, A History.

“The Mirror offers neither wisdom nor truth. Rather it provides a window into the deepest, most desperate desires of the heart, whether hidden or acknowledged. The Mirror has often been an instrument of madness, as those affected by it frequently become transfixed by its images and come to prefer the enchantments of the Mirror to the more mundane realities of daily living.”

She repeated this description - learnt by heart - over and over until, with the third recitation, her insistent craving had been tempered. She had discovered what she needed to know; confirmed what she had already suspected. The Mirror, for all its delights, would provide only variations on that theme. Harry was indeed her most profound desire. But Harry was not in the Mirror. He was out there - somewhere - in captivity.

To have any chance at realizing her desires, she first had to get him back.

Now - finally - she had a pretty good idea how to do precisely that.

Using Wingardium Leviosa on the sheet, Hermione quickly restored the Mirror to its previous hidden state, without once looking at its inviting surface. Then, as quickly as her feet would carry her, she returned to the guest wing and to bed. Tomorrow she would tell Luna….

* * * *

Hermione cheated herself - just a bit - on sleep with the Time Turner. It was only a little past 6 a.m. when she cracked open the door to Luna's room.

“Luna, wake up, we need to take a walk,” she hissed.

Luna Lovegood was a lot of things, but not a spontaneous morning person. She groaned and rolled away, pulling the sheets around her more tightly. Hermione tried again with no better results.

“Eeeek!” Luna finally awoke when Hermione doused her with a spray of ice-cold water. “Hermione, I'll get you for that…. What? What brings you here?”

“We need to take a walk - now,” the older girl insisted.

“Why?” the Ravenclaw sleepily responded. “Where do you want to go?”

“Out,” Hermione explained tersely. She gave her would-be partner in crime a very meaningful look.

“Oh … ooooh!” Luna exclaimed as she at last woke up enough to get Hermione's drift. “You found…?”

Hermione put her forefinger to the other girl's lips, silencing her.

“Not here,” she mouthed, hoping that Luna had at least the minimal level of speechreading skill required to comprehend dialogue in the Mirror of Erised.

She did. They both dressed in silence and met in the conference room. From there Hermione made infuriatingly bland small talk until they had left the Castle and were halfway to the Quidditch Pitch. Finally, Luna could contain herself no longer.

“For the love of Merlin, Hermione, what's going on?” she blurted.

“The walls have ears,” the Gryffindor declared. “Dumbledore has listening devices in our suite. I know a spell that detects them. Before, there was no reason to bother, but now….”

“You've found the answer,” Luna gasped. “Oh, Hermione, I knew you could do it. What do you have to do?”

“You mean, `What do we have to do?'” the older girl replied, emphasizing the first person plural.

“Oh my, what is it? Something you can't do to yourself obviously,” Luna replied.

“Obviously,” Hermione echoed. “Fancy a walk around the lake? I know a secluded spot on the far side.”

Whilst they were walking, Hermione explained the situation. It took her fifteen minutes just to run through the litany of spells required to implement the magical sequence necessary to contact Harry. There was no sugarcoating. Hermione did not flinch in describing what could go wrong and why. It was essential to convince Luna that she, Hermione, was voluntarily accepting any and all risks of the endeavour. Only then did she have a chance of receiving Luna's assent and assistance.

By that time they had reached the hidden outcropping. Unbeknownst to either of them, not long ago Harry and Bill had used this place to discuss the very girl who now was recumbent on the large rock by the fallen tree. From that selfsame rock Harry had for the first time admitted aloud what he had felt for her.

That had been then.

At present Bill was dead, and Harry missing.

“Oh, this is nice,” Luna complimented. “How did you learn about this place? Not from Hogwarts, A History, I presume.”

“Umm…,” Hermione hesitated. “It was an accident really … rather embarrassing.”

“Well, if you're planning on having me open up your mind like a watermelon at a Midsummer Eve picnic, you might as well tell me,” Luna admonished.

Hermione had no real choice, so she confessed the little secret.

“In First Year, actually…. I was still a bossy little martinet, offended that anyone would want to break the rules of our benevolent despot and cost Gryffindor House Points to boot. One day, I saw the Weasley twins setting off, up to no good, I thought…. And I followed them.”

“You didn't,” Luna giggled. “And you were right, no doubt. You almost always are.”

“I suppose I was, but for once their misbehaviour was totally harmless…. Just a bit of … of starkers sunbathing.” Hermione blushed noticeably.

After their laughter at that image had died down, Hermione finished. “Several years later I overheard them - quite accidentally this time - discussing one of Fred's dates with Angelina. Apparently they learnt about this place from Charlie, who found out about it whilst spying on Bill's snogging sessions with his many girlfriends. I guess I'm invading a Weasley family tradition.”

“Well, you could go snogging with Ron and make up for it,” Luna joked.

Hermione drew back. “No thank you,” she said. “Anyway, he's already taken….”

Luna frowned.

“…And so am I - I wish,” Hermione added tentatively.

Luna smiled knowingly but steered them back to business. Looking the older girl straight in the eyes she declared, “Anyway, Hermione, let's get this over with. I have a pretty good idea what you want me to do. I'm not at all sure it's advisable to do this…. Frankly, I'm terrified for you. What you're contemplating is brain-cracked perversity, it's so bloody risky. You could die, but that's hardly the worst thing. You could end up a raving lunatic, or a vegetable. You could be trapped that way for decades….”

“That's why I gave you the document,” Hermione responded. “I'm fully aware of those risks, and I accept them.”

“Sod the document. You could come to a bad end without ever rescuing Harry,” Luna reminded.

“I understand that. Do you want me to execute another one in your favour?” Hermione queried. “I will, you know….”

“It's not that, and you know it!” Luna protested. “It's just…. It's just that I don't … I would feel … responsible if things went a cropper. And so would Harry, if he survived. You know how he is. It's just … you're so much more than I am. You're so clever and powerful. I'd feel much better if the tables were turned and you were performing these spells on me.”

“But I'm the only one with the affinity,” Hermione reminded her.

There was no answer to that.

“I know,” Luna conceded. “Why don't you go to Dumbledore?”

“Sod Dumbledore and the Thestral he flew in on,” snorted Hermione. “Don't be daft. I know now that he's been against us from day one - constantly sabotaging our work.” Then she told Luna the whole sorry tale of L.O.S.S. and how she had discovered what it really represented.

Luna replied with a few choice expletives of her own towards the Headmaster that could have drawn blood from a stone. Still she was visibly hesitant. Devious or not, Dumbledore might not be all that far wrong. Besides, she doubted not only her capability to perform the very advanced magic Hermione had described, but also her capacity to bear the guilt she would feel if thing went horribly awry.

Thus, Hermione gave the little speech she had prepared. “Look Luna, you're not responsible for any of this, I am. I've told you - and nobody else - what happened that put Harry in the position where he was taken. Who knows how much blood I have on my hands? If the worst were to happen … to … to Harry…. I-I-I don't think I could survive the guilt I'd feel for very long anyway. I'd probably go crazy within a year. Or else do myself in.”

“No you wouldn't,” resisted Luna. “You're stronger than that.”

“Stronger than that, am I?” Hermione responded as her voice rose. She stood up and advanced on the Ravenclaw. “You want strength? You want determination? I am strongly determined to do this and I need your help! You're an empath! Go ahead! Feel what I feel, and then give me your answer!”

Luna hesitated. Hermione's eyes were a bit wild. Her expression was quite unlike anything she had ever seen on the older girl's face before. Before Hermione could reach for her, Luna threw her arms around her.

The sensation was much stronger than anything Luna had felt since she had become aware of her empathetic proclivities several years earlier. Hermione was even more profoundly magically endowed than Luna had suspected. Throbbing through her was a magnificent combination of power, resolution, love, guilt, abnegation, magic, intelligence, and will - all surrounding a core of … utter desolation and despondency. Luna felt the hole in Hermione's soul caused by the absence of Harry Potter. She could not refuse to do this.

Slowly Luna separated herself from Hermione. “All right, I shall do as you ask,” she surrendered. “What do I have to do?”

Hermione let out a huge sigh of relief before responding. “I have the directions and instructions right here.” She pulled a tiny cylindrical object from the Auror's belt that had become part of her standard wardrobe.

“Engorgio.”

Luna could barely contain her surprise as Hermione handed her more than fifty feet of parchment, both the front and back of which were full of Hermione's smallest handwriting.

They returned to the Castle before nine in the morning. The rest of that day, the dying day of the eighth month of the nineteen hundred and ninety sixth year of the Venerable Bede's calendar - and the last full day before the students returned to Hogwarts - was spent in frantic, but orderly activity.

The Creevey brothers greeted the two girls upon their return. They were in equal parts excited and proud that they had successfully installed the five rolls of Paneruditius parchment as a working magical memory bank for the D.A.'s central station. After taking time out to cast Surveillius Confundus on herself and her three compatriots (anyone listening in would hear them discussing their course selections in nauseating detail), Hermione set to work testing the new machine's capabilities.

The entire rest of the morning and into the early afternoon were spent copying Hermione's voluminous notes and instructions concerning the four-part magical procedure they were contemplating.

Luna transcribed the information longhand, using her own set of special quills to commit everything to memory. The first spell she found odd indeed. Luna was a Druid of longstanding, if heterodox, belief. If translated from the Latin into Druidic Keltoi, Psycho Patefacius resembled an ancient consecration spell. This odd, but seemingly irrelevant, information she kept to herself. There were no other Druids involved.

For her part, Hermione entered all of the information into the central station's new memory, confirming regularly that the material was indeed being saved and could be closed, opened, restored, and manipulated. She grew to appreciate what she had previously considered to be one of the truly horrible experiences of her pre-magical existence - QWERTY - the touch-typing course her father had virtually forced her to take during her fourth form of primary schooling.

All the while, Hermione and Luna discussed and analysed the nature and theory of the spells they were learning. Hermione was shocked that, once the Creeveys understood exactly what was being planned, they both volunteered as human guinea pigs - offering to let Hermione curse them in succession in order to create an affinity upon which she and Luna could practise. Their attitude was that it was “the least they could do to help save Harry, and to protect Hermione.”

She probably would have refused their offer in any event, since she was determined to bear this burden alone (since her view was that she alone had caused the problem). But even had she been inclined to allow others the same right to self-sacrifice that she demanded of herself, Hermione simply was in no position to accept. She could not reliably cast any spell sufficiently traumatic to create an affinity. The only ones she knew were from that terrifying Lesson 128 - something she had spent the rest of her summer trying to forget.

Once the immense transcription task was complete, Hermione handed out new assignments. Colin and Dennis were assigned to create a procedure for securing the data Hermione had just entered from unwanted intrusion. They immediately set to work, intent upon using Stinksap, purified urushiol oil, and a perfume nebuliser Ginny had left behind to create a security system that would drive off any unintended users.

Luna took her own quick trip to Hogsmeade to obtain certain potion ingredients -powdered onyx, crushed Chizpurfle carapaces, thornapple, and Fire Seeds - that were beyond what Hermione had on hand in her Sixth-Year potions kit. Hermione, who was loathe to return to Hogsmeade after her recent unsettling experience, assigned to herself the task of raiding Professor Sprout's greenhouses for the Herbological supplies that the second half of the brewing process would require.

Hanging over both of their (but especially Hermione's) heads was the inescapable fact that they had far too little of Harry himself - a bit less than a gram of hair grease scraped from the inside of his cap - to ensure the safe performance of Mentanarus Minimus. They could clone it, but that would add at least a full week to the brewing process. Harry probably did not have a week to spare. The convicted Death Eaters' extraordinary appeals to the Minister would be ruled upon before then. Should the Dementor's kiss were administered, Hermione did not doubt that the Death Eaters would murder Harry in response.

Once reunited at the Castle, the four conspirators had a private supper, catered by the ever-helpful Dobby. After that, they packed up their things, since they would be moving into their respective house dormitories the next day.

Hermione and Luna then snuck out under Harry's Invisibility Cloak and made their way to the Room of Requirement, where they intended to set up their potion brewing operation. Upon entry, they immediately realised that their respective afternoon forays had been totally unnecessary. The ever-obliging Room was now a fully equipped Potions laboratory that even ex-Professor Snape would have envied. They had access to every potion ingredient that they could possibly need.

Every ingredient save Harry.

Hermione pulled out a separate piece of parchment bearing a schematic. She had studied the potion recipe very closely and prepared a critical path diagram that outlined how to brew several steps of the process simultaneously. But like a ghoul in the attic, the problem of not enough residual Harry loomed over these proceedings - unspoken but unavoidable. They had only 24 hours to resolve it before this shortcoming would start causing delays.

Once they had several cauldrons all simmering, mixing, or stirring at the same time, both girls pulled out their respective rolls of parchment. They passed the next several hours discussing the spells and making a list of points that needed clarification.

That list had reached 37 items when the clock on the wall struck midnight.

Hermione flicked her wand and her parchment began rolling itself up. “Well it's time,” she sighed.

“You mean I'm finally going to see your Holy Grail?” Luna asked.

“Don't set yourself up for a disappointment,” Hermione replied. “It's not much, just a dusty old storage room actually…. Certainly not holy.”

“Well, you'd have to be whole to be holy,” Luna observed, thinking of Hermione without Harry.

“That I certainly am not,” declared Hermione. She thought of the one to whom she was intent upon offering her last full measure of devotion. “One certainly doesn't have to be well to be wealthy, though.” The more material possessions Harry had obtained, the more tormented he had seemed.

“Then let's do it,” Luna urged, with a nudge to the older girl's midsection to get her moving.

“Quite,” Hermione agreed. She produced the Marauder's Map and the Invisibility Cloak. In a moment, they were on the move again.

The two girls spent another sleepless night in the Library Off-Site Storage. Exactingly they revised every line of every spell and pursued to ground every point of ambiguity. Luna even performed an intentionally much attenuated version of Psycho Patefacius on Hermione. That felt passing strange, as if her arms and legs extended into infinity. She supposed that was a good sign - but it meant very little. Harry was not conscious, and until he was, there was no way to tell if the spell was actually effective.

Otherwise, luck seemed to be with them. They suffered no intrusions or interruptions. Their worst moment, if it could be called that, came when Luna, taking a short break, curiously took a peek under the sheet that covered the Mirror of Erised. Hermione quickly stopped her, by warning Luna about the mirror. That prompted an uneasy exchange.

“And how did you discover that?” Luna inquired pointedly.

“Umm … it was an accident,” Hermione tersely admitted, hoping that would satisfy her friend. No chance. She was Luna Lovegood.

“So, did you use it?” Luna followed up, once Hermione's reticence became unmistakable.

Hermione stayed mute, but even her continued silence was eloquent. Hermione, hardly stupid, realised that soon enough. “Only once,” she reluctantly conceded. “And I took precautions.”

Luna was relentless. “What did you see?”

“It … showed me … what I needed to see,” Hermione answered carefully.

“Is that why….?

“That's enough, Luna,” Hermione cut across. “We've still got lots to do. Let's get back to it.”

Luna shrugged, and complied.

Dawn was just starting to tint the eastern sky crimson when the co-conspirators were ready to wrap things up. As Hermione stowed her violin after once again serenading Fluffy into insensibility, she made an unusual request. “I want to stop by the Trophy Room on the way back.”

“What on earth for?” Luna replied. She was extremely tired, did not have a Time-Turner, and heard the siren call of her warm, soft bed.

“A hunch,” Hermione answered mysteriously.

“Can't it wait?” Luna asked somewhat testily.

“You don't have to come.” Hermione offered. “We can split up at the Charms Corridor. You can have the Map and the Cloak….”

“No, I'll go,” Luna conceded. She was not about to leave Hermione wandering about the Castle by herself at this odd hour. “It better be good.”

“I hope so too.”

Ten minutes later the two friends slipped into the Trophy Room, having narrowly avoided an encounter with Peeves in the adjacent armour gallery. Hermione had the presence of mind to notice a lost silver Sickle lying at the base of one of the pedestals. She Banished it at high speed down the hall, where it clanged flush into a breastplate at the opposite end. When Peeves went to investigate the loud gonglike sound, the girls skulked by.

Hermione made a beeline for the silver caryatid bearing a statuette of Morgan le Fey emblazoned with the names of every Hogwarts Head Girl dating back to back to 998. Luna stared uncomprehendingly as Hermione used her wand to slowly rotate the age-old figurine.

“There!” Hermione exclaimed in an excited whisper. “Look right there. Head Girl, 1921.”

Luna gasped. “Oh sweet Merlin, do you really think…?”

“I sure do,” Hermione affirmed. “Beyond a reasonable doubt. That explains a lot.”

“Like why we've been sabotaged,” agreed Luna. “Are you planning to confront her?”

Hermione sighed and shook her head. “Who knows - maybe someday? For now I'm content just to know who my adversaries are, and why they are.”

Under the Cloak, they walked in anxious silence back to the guest flats. Hermione waited for her earlier self to leave. Back in the conference room at last, Hermione drew the golden Time-Turner chain out to its fullest extent, and threw it around them both. Then they sought solace in sleep.

For Hermione sleep was not much solace. A succession of vaguely disturbing dreams tormented her. In the last and most powerful of these nocturnal visions, she and Headmaster Dumbledore were walking some windswept Scottish ridge. The Headmaster was explaining the significance of something, but Hermione could not quite make out his words. She leaned in to hear him better when a tremendous disturbance, like an earthquake - only magical in some way - rent the ground beneath her feet.

All at once the entire slope of the hillside gave way … or else disappeared, it was not clear. Hermione suddenly teetered on the edge of a precipice, with nothing but smoking rock and raging torrents far below. She lost her balance and to steady herself above the chasm she frantically grabbed a fistful of the Headmaster's beard.

As sooner as she got a firm grip on the Headmaster's beard, it pulled loose altogether, as if shorn off. As Hermione toppled over the edge of the cliff, she looked back. Instead of Dumbledore, Harry's the clean-shaven face stared back at her. He reached for her, but the more he reached, the faster she fell.

The falling sensation caused Hermione to wake with a start.

It was 5:30 in the morning. As she started to settle back in after that unsettling experience, Hermione sat up straight. She had an epiphany - a Eureka moment - the light bulb lit over her head. Leaping out of bed, she blurted, “That's it!”

Ignoring her disheveled appearance, she pounced upon the first clothes she saw. Not bothering with the Marauder's Map or the Invisibility Cloak, Hermione single-mindedly made her way to the Gryffindor dormitory at a fast trot.

Whilst en route she reflected on the irony of it all. Hogwarts was probably the most magical building in all Britain. She was contemplating the most complicated set of spells she had ever sought to master. But all of this magic was useless - without something so mundane that only a Muggleborn such as herself could have recognised it.

“Gone but not forgotten.”

The Fat Lady swung back with a cheery “Hello, Hermione,” but closed again with a harrumph as the preoccupied girl ignored her entirely.

Hermione rushed through the now fully refurbished and restored Gryffindor common room and bolted up the stairs to the bedroom that, later that day, would house the Sixth-Year boys. Harry's trunk was neatly on the bed nearest the door. She briskly repeated the sequence of spells that fooled its locking charm and began rummaging through its contents.

She had just uncovered the object of her search when she heard a familiar voice.

“Good morning Miss Granger. Happy hunting I hope?”

Hermione whirled around to see Headmaster Dumbledore calmly regarding her from a seat on the opposite bedstead. Her jaw dropped as she almost screamed in surprise. Then she did scream - but not in surprise:

“YOU LYING, SPHERICAL BASTARD!!!” Hermione shrieked. “HOW DARE YOU SAY ANYTHING TO ME AFTER YOU SABOTAGED EVERYTHING I WAS TRYING TO DO FOR WEEKS!?! YOU USED ME!!! I TESTIFIED AT ALL YOUR BLOODY HEARINGS!!! I DID EVERYTHING YOU ASKED OF ME!!! AND YOU REPAY ME WITH BETRAYAL!!! WORSE THAN THAT, YOU'VE BETRAYED HARRY!!! HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY DO SUCH A THING!?! I TRUSTED YOU!!! YOUR'RE NO BETTER THAN SNAPE!!!”

She followed up her diatribe by furiously hurling the nearest throwable object - one of Harry's shoes - at Dumbledore.

Hermione's first surprise was that the Headmaster calmly allowed the shoe to hit him, not raising a magical finger to stop it. It bounced away after a striking a glancing blow to his left shoulder. The old man winced as he mutely regarded her, no twinkle in his eyes and a look of profound sorrow on his face.

Panting heavily, Hermione stared daggers back at him. Each second of utter, heavy silence that passed between them seemed much longer than it was. Finally, Hermione broke the silence - this time in brisk but considerably more measured tones.

“As you undoubtedly know, I've figured out what to do despite your obstruction. Don't you have anything to say for yourself? Are you going to try to stop me?”

Dumbledore exhaled audibly. “First things first. I stand guilty as charged. I have reasons - excuses - but, yes, everything you accused me of I did. I sabotaged you. I used you to accomplish my own ends. And I betrayed your trust. In that, I am not as bad as Professor Snape. I am far worse. My purpose for everything was to keep you safe - because I believed that you would needlessly endanger yourself. I only hope that, through my actions over the coming days, I can regain a small modicum of the trust I have lost. Second things second. I am not going to try to stop you. Rather, if you will allow me, I shall assist you in every way possible.”

Hermione was taken aback, but hardly mollified. “Why should I trust you now?” she asked accusingly.

“Because I have exhausted all other options,” Dumbledore confessed. “You are young and headstrong. I could not allow you to sacrifice yourself on Mister Potter's behalf as long as there was any reasonable hope that he could be rescued in some other fashion. I am simply out of hope. You need to see this.”

He held out a very rumpled newspaper to Hermione. “An advance copy of today's Prophet,” he added as Hermione took it.

She flipped it open and viewed it only long enough to comprehend its contents. Then Hermione dropped it as if it were on fire.

The entire front page consisted of a screaming headline and a picture:

Potter Held Hostage!!

Ransom: Eleven Death Eaters

Beneath the words was a photograph of a naked (but censored, the Prophet was a family publication) Harry Potter. He hung limply from a set of steel bars, chained in spread-eagle fashion, manacled at the wrists and ankles, with a heavy metal collar around his neck. A masked Death Eater grasped a fistful of Harry's filthy and matted hair and held up his head for the camera. The captive's eyes were blank, and he was obviously unconscious. A low table stood just in front and to the left of Harry's body. A copy of the previous Saturday's Prophet perched on the table, the banner headline blaring news of the Death Eater convictions.

“They … they want to trade Harry for the convicted Death Eaters?” Hermione choked out - as much a statement as a question. “Why now? Why after all this time?” She stooped to retrieve the newspaper.

“Read as much of it as you wish,” Dumbledore commented. “But you will only get a highly sanitised version of what has happened - just as bowdlerized as that photograph. In my opinion, you deserve the full, unvarnished truth.”

The Headmaster made a hand gesture at the bulldog edition Hermione was holding. She watched in horror as the air-brushing fell away, revealing Harry as the photograph had originally depicted him. She almost dropped the paper again as she sat down heavily on Harry's bed, her jelly-like legs no longer capable of supporting her weight.

All of her remaining rage at Dumbledore ebbed away in an instant, leaving only numbness and desperation behind. “What … what's going on?” she said meekly.

Dumbledore's voice sounded as if coming from the opposite end of a long tunnel. “Beaten. Flogged, actually … with a short-handled, multiple-lash whip having something sharp in the end of the lashes. The Death Eaters gave him Mosaic Law, at least … maybe more. They whipped him all over his body … within an inch of his life. Judging from the spatter marks, they then doused him with some sort of liquid - no doubt unpleasant.”

“But … but … but why? Why now?” Hermione protested ineffectually.

The Headmaster shook his head. “A very good question for which there are no good answers. Neither you nor I can fathom the cruelty that motivates Death Eaters. To the extent that these actions have any purpose at all, they were undoubtedly undertaken to underscore the seriousness of the Death Eaters' ransom demand - a purpose that, from my perspective at least, has been entirely successful.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked reluctantly.

Dumbledore swallowed hard and stated, “I mean that I am prepared to go before the full Wizengamot, as early as this evening, and argue for compliance with the ransom demand.”

Hermione's eyes nearly popped out of her head, but she said nothing further.

“We can always apprehend more Death Eaters,” the old man explained. “We cannot replace Harry Potter, and Voldemort knows it, at least I thought he did. Thus, I do not expect the Death Eaters to act in good faith. The chance that they will voluntarily release Mister Potter alive is remote. That is where you come in. Time, I fear, is growing quite short.”

Hermione gestured at the picture. “Where did this - this obscenity - come from? How did it end up in the bloody Prophet?”

“That is a long and sordid story of its own,” Dumbledore continued, kneading his aged brow with his right hand. “For some weeks an untrustworthy publication, Playwitch magazine, has been making a most ill-advised public offer of 100,000 Galleons for an unclothed photograph of Mister Potter. With their perverted sense of humour, the Death Eaters sent this photograph, accompanied by their ransom demand, to that magazine. In this fashion, they knew that the photograph and the demand would become public. Then there was the additional advantage of the recipient having no capacity to trace the delivery owl - which, of course, they could not.”

“The editor of Playwitch elected to sell the picture to the Prophet, whilst turning the note over to the responsible authorities. Other than the ransom demand, the note contained directions that led to the discovery of precisely eleven untraceable Portkeys. They appear hardwired to respond only to Dark Mark-bearing wizards. My suspicion is that they will transport the user directly to Voldemort. The note demands that these Portkeys be given to the eleven.” There, the Headmaster paused.

“You…. You said you were going to help me,” Hermione pressed. “What do you mean?”

Dumbledore gave the girl his most searching look. “I am now prepared to cast all the necessary spells to enable you to make your attempt to reach Mister Potter through your shared affinity. Although I had hoped - and worked - to prevent this eventuality, I have nevertheless been practising each of the four spells almost from the day that you arrived….”

Hermione was not sure she believed him. “How could you possibly do that? You would have had to create an affinity!”

“Precisely what I did,” Dumbledore hastened to confirm. “You, of all people, should know that something about Harry Potter creates strong loyalties - including the willingness to sacrifice oneself on his behalf. When I sent out a discreet request for volunteers, one of the Aurors who taught Mister Potter this summer, a flight instructor named Mannock, responded. He has a twin brother, which is the optimal combination for creating an affinity….”

“I met the brother here in the Castle not long ago,” Hermione remembered. “They do look alike.”

“Indeed, they do,” Dumbledore replied. “He reported your encounter to me. The long and short of it is that they both permitted me to Cruciate them until I had created an affinity running from Mister Mannock to his brother. I have practised these spells upon Mister Mannock multiple times, and I have not killed or incapacitated him yet. Thusly, I have made myself as ready as I could possibly be.”

As attractive as the Headmaster's offer sounded, the logic behind it made no sense to Hermione. “Why, then…? Why did you betray me - betray us - like this? Why didn't you just tell us?”

“Another long and sordid tale, I am afraid,” the Headmaster responded with a sigh. “I cannot make such a decision as this alone, nor did I want to. Your feelings for Mister Potter are - intense. I believed, as I still do, that you are too young and impetuous to be trusted with your own safety where he is concerned.”

“You had no right!” Hermione seethed. “You should have….”

“On the contrary,” Dumbledore interrupted in a louder voice. “I had, and have, every right in the world. Notwithstanding the holiday, I remain the Headmaster of this institution, and you are but a student. It is my job - perhaps my primary job - to provide responsibility to those who lack sufficient maturity. How can you deny it? You have been Hell bent upon risking your life since the moment you realised that Mister Potter was still with us….”

As the echoes from the Headmaster's lecture faded away, the suddenly red-faced girl said nothing. Dumbledore let her sit in silence until she finally conceded, “You're right…. But there's never been any other choice….”

“Yes and no,” the Headmaster continued. “There have been other choices - just not for you to pursue. The Order and the Ministry have been in a state of highest activity since your first revelation that Mister Potter was still alive. For once there has not been the slightest disagreement between the Ministry and myself concerning how to proceed. The Minister knows full well that an … untoward … conclusion to this episode will almost certainly result in the fall of his government.”

“Thus everyone that the Order can spare - and over a hundred Ministry Aurors - has been devoted to searching for Harry. We have been following and confronting Death Eaters constantly over the last fortnight. Death Eater activity has indeed increased, and we have redoubled our efforts in response. Our spies within the opposite camp are risking their lives daily to keep us informed, but Voldemort and his supporters are playing this one uncharacteristically close to the vest … so much so that our intelligence is conflicting as to whether this is even a Death Eater operation. Thus we have also been chasing after Dark practitioners other than Death Eaters. We have received the considerable assistance of the goblins. The French have actively pursued rumours that Mister Potter has been spirited across the Channel. We have even involved the Muggle authorities … although they are quite fully engaged in dealing with the aftermath of the London fire.”

“Our failure has not been for want of trying,” Dumbledore concluded. “The Death Eaters have simply kept everything too well hidden, and too isolated for our best efforts….”

“That's all well and good,” Hermione conceded, “but why not help me … us … as well?”

“The fear has been that your zeal would present a distraction,” the Headmaster admitted. “There has been dissention among my advisors from the outset whether to have you and your friends here at all. You basically forced our hand - as you have been forcing our hand ever since.”

Hermione thought she knew exactly to whom Dumbledore was referring.

“I was in agreement with bringing you here, on the theory that you would be less likely to take any rash action if you were in a known environment with access to trusted adults. That was the hope, anyway. With my advisors, I made the conscious decision to remove certain publications from the library shelves, so that you would spin your wheels - something that has cost us precisely that trust upon which we had relied.”

“But why not just tell me? I'm not that unreasonable,” Hermione protested.

“On this subject, I beg to differ,” Dumbledore replied. “You were not told because it was thought … I believe correctly … that you would not have waited. If you had known from the outset what these spells were, and that I could perform them, you would have come to me demanding that I do so almost immediately.”

“Oh tosh…,” Hermione began arguing reflexively. Then she stopped. On any number of things, the Headmaster was badly misguided, but this particular point was incontestable. She knew in her heart of hearts that Dumbledore was right. From the moment she first realised that Harry lived, she had been more than ready to do anything, however dangerous, to rescue him. “I can't really argue with that,” she conceded.

She quickly appended a question, however. “How long have you known?”

“Known what?” Dumbledore asked in return.

“That we…. That I was on to you.”

“For several days,” the Headmaster admitted. “Since you arrived, you kept a picture of Mister Potter and myself on your night table. One of the perquisites of being the Headmaster of Hogwarts is the ability to utilise images of those who have held this position as sources of information. Through that picture, I kept apprised of your activities - although out of respect for your privacy, I pursued that avenue as infrequently as possible. However, almost exactly two days ago you destroyed my image. With that, I deduced that you knew.”

“But why continue with the charade?” Hermione demanded.

“I felt that a suitable demonstration of your determination would have an effect on the diss….”

All of a sudden, Dumbledore went quiet. He reached inside his robes, and Hermione could see a red glow from something. The Headmaster pulled out a mirror.

Hermione caught only one side of a most two-sided conversation.

“Yes, Minerva.”

“From whom was the owl?”

“You know what I am doing now. What did Dedalus have to say that is so important?”

Dumbledore was silent for a much longer period.

“I see. You did the right thing to interrupt. That is an important fact.”

The conversation ended, and the Headmaster looked gravely at Hermione. “We have just received an owl from Dedalus Diggle from his farm in Kent - about Mister Potter. Do you see that device in the corner of the picture?”

Hermione looked closely at the Prophet. Lying inconspicuously against the bars to which Harry was chained was something that looked vaguely like a gardener's tree trimmer. “Yes,” she answered.

“Dedalus owled to inform me that that tool is a burdizzo….” Seeing Hermione's uncomprehending look, he was more explicit. “…It is a castration device commonly used on livestock. I believe that its presence in this picture can only be interpreted as an implicit threat to mutilate Mister Potter unless the Death Eaters' demands are quickly met.”

Hermione nearly fainted, but resisted the feeling. Instead her tears silently began to flow.

Taking another deep breath, Dumbledore cut to the chase.

“That brings me back to the crux of the matter. I cannot overstate the danger inherent in the course of action that you have already chosen, despite my active discouragement. Nevertheless, at this moment, but I see no other timely choice. Will you allow me, rather than Miss Lovegood, to perform these spells so that you can try to reach and locate Mister Potter?”

Hermione clenched her teeth with enough force that the hissing in her ears returned. Like Dumbledore, she could think of no better choice. She still thought him highly untrustworthy. Her faith in the Headmaster had been broken, but he was the most powerful wizard she knew - and he had been practising. His way would certainly be safer. More to the point, the odds of success were immeasurably greater. Because the Headmaster's participation would exponentially increase her chances of actually rescuing Harry, that question had but one answer.

“Yes,” she responded, her reluctance plain in her voice. Then she leant over and reached her arm into Harry's trunk. “But you'll need this.” She pulled Harry's electric shaver into view.

“What is that?” Dumbledore asked out of genuine curiosity, as he contemplated the strange Muggle artifact.

“An electric shaver,” she informed the Headmaster. “If Harry is anything like my father, he never cleaned it until he absolutely had to. I expect that the top compartment is filled with Harry's shaved off whiskers - more than enough of him to make the potion … although I suppose I could borrow some Polyjuice from you, now.”

“Ordinarily that would be the case, but unfortunately Polyjuice goes flat if not used within a lunar cycle….”

“I know that,” Hermione declared impatiently.

“…and Hogwarts is, unfortunately, between Potions masters at the moment,” Dumbledore completed his thought. “I've been too busy….”

“And Snape's a bloody traitor!” Hermione said hotly.

Dumbledore sighed at Hermione's characterization, but offered no defense of the ex-professor. Then he took the shaver from Hermione, handling it as if it were a precious jewel - which in a way it was. He had encountered the same dilemma as Hermione, but she had solved it, whilst he had not. He had even ordered the Dursley residence turned upside down seeking any stray bits of Harry he could find. He had been through this very trunk more than once. But she had known what to look for, whilst he had not.

The Headmaster conjured a crystal chalice the size of a large brandy snifter. He held the shaver over it and attempted to remove the head. Seeing him struggle, Hermione offered, “May I?” Dumbledore nodded and Hermione carefully released the catch that held the top in place. Black facial hair poured out.

“You are indeed remarkable. I cannot thank you enough, Miss Granger,” he acknowledged. “Now I have something for you. Let me see your Time-Turner.”

After some initial hesitation, she pulled it from her robes. Dumbledore applied his wand to it and muttered a long incantation in Latin that included the word “septiformus.” From his own robes, he produced a bag of powder, a phial of liquid, a piece of parchment, and something else.

“There,” he said. “I have given you seven additional twists. I want you - your mind - to be well rested and strong. Here is some of my best and most gentle Purple Sleeping Draught. I want you to retire to your room and take the full seven hours of sleep. When you awake, I want you to take your ablutions using this Defæcens Potion. In the bath, you need to recite the Autopurgus Charm that I have written here. Before your ordeal, you had best be cleansed and purified. Use the Prefects' Bathroom. You also should have this.”

He handed her a Gryffindor Sixth-Year Prefect badge.

“And congratulations, you've more than earned it.”

Dumbledore paused, as if waiting for Hermione to acknowledge the honour. She said nothing, so after an uncomfortable moment, he continued.

“When done, dress yourself in the plain white linen robe that you will find on your bed in your flat. Then come to my office. The password is `Black Diamond of Périgord.…'”

“Your passwords, at least, are moving up,” Hermione interjected waspishly.

“…We shall then proceed. Do not worry about Miss Lovegood, or the Creeveys. I shall inform them.”

Grimly determined, Hermione did as she was told. Her only additional request was for the advance copy of the Prophet, so she could read the story about Harry. She also found that she preferred the sanitised picture. It was less unsettling.

Hours later (by Time-Turner), she was well rested, but full of mental foreboding. Hermione prepared to make the trip to the Prefect's Bathroom. With a fluffy Hogwarts towel around her neck, she paused before the mirror in her room to pin her new Prefect's badge on her cleaned and pressed Hogwarts robe.

“Miz Myown?”

Hermione nearly jumped through the ceiling.

“What is it Dobby? You nearly scared me into a coronary - again,” she chided the house-elf.

Then she noticed that Dobby was not even looking at her. This was highly unusual, because elves viewed averted vision as discourteous towards wizards. Dobby was gazing intently at Hermione's copy of the Daily Prophet with such a sober look on his face that she hardly recognised him.

“What is it Dobby?” she repeated.

Slowly Dobby raised his head, his expression unreadable. “Harry Potter, Miss…. Dobby knows where he is.”

“WHAT?!?”

“That table, beside the Great Harry Potter. Dobby recognises the design right there.…” The elf pointed at an almost imperceptible detail in the low wooden table upon which the kidnappers displayed the earlier Prophet. “…Dobby made that table Miss … when Dobby was owned by the Malfoys … very bad wizards….”

Hermione did not bother to listen to Dobby's assessment of his former masters. She hurtled across the room to her dresser. She grabbed the panic button that Mad-Eye Moody had given her at the beginning of her stay and pushed it - hard - over and over again.

All Hell proceeded to break loose at Hogwarts Castle.

* * * *

Killiechonate Castle had clung to the steep slopes of Carn Mor Dearg, directly opposite fabulously rainy Ben Nevis mountain, for well over a millennium. That almost impregnable spot amongst windswept moors, dense oak woodlands, and sheer cliffs overlooking the valley of the upper Allt a Mhuilinn had sported some sort of fortress since Pictish times. The current castle had its origins around the year 800 in the handiwork of refugees from Lindisfarne, Iona, and other places along the Scottish coast that were being ravaged by Viking raids.

Thought by Muggles to have been razed in 1298 during the first Scottish War of Independence, Killiechonate Castle had actually come into the possession of wizards. Soon rendered Unplottable, it passed from one magical cult to another. Its last occupants, a group so ascetic that they denied themselves all pleasures of the flesh, died out in the early Eighteenth Century - as a consequence of those precise practices.

The castle now housed the headquarters of Lord Voldemort.

The Dark Lord was not happy. For weeks he had deployed every one of his Death Eaters (save his inner circle) and over a hundred of his Lotus mercenaries, all in a futile attempt to locate whomever had succeeded where he had failed - in kidnapping Harry Potter. He drove his minions mercilessly, with instructions to search everywhere and everyone who could have accomplished such a stunt. His instructions were neither to seek out, nor to avoid confrontations with the authorities and other wizards, but there had been enough incidents to unsettle the wider wizarding world, and to drive his potential enemies to greater preparations.

It had all been for naught. To add insult to injury, 99.9% of that same wizard world believed that he was responsible for Potter's abduction, and for the spectacular æroplane crash and fire that accompanied it. Were that only the truth, Harry Potter would have been dead long ago. After his defeat at Potter's hands in the Department of Mysteries, the Dark Lord had resolved that he would stage no more elaborate Dark magic events involving Potter. The boy was maturing. He was becoming too dangerous and too powerful - and he had always been too lucky.

The only bright spot was that he now had the undivided services of the leading Potions master in all Britain. And Lord Voldemort needed those services. His return to the flesh had not gone as planned. Potter had escaped him then, and that had ruined the final magical levels of the spell. Snape's potions kept the consequences at bay and shored up their occasional physical manifestations. But he still needed Potter's blood - and Potter's life - to stabilize the transformation permanently.

Now, nobody knew where the blasted brat was. The Dark Lord was even beginning to regret having so imperiously rebuffed the kidnappers - or at least someone claiming to be the kidnappers - in the days shortly after the abduction. He had been too sure of himself. He should have lured them out. He had underestimated them, which he should not have done after the competent manner in which they had carried out their attack. Lord Voldemort was determined not to make the same mistake again.

Thus the Dark Lord was enraged at being forced to stoop to Cruciating the latest petty wizard criminals he had seized in his fruitless search for information. He was in the main hall of the castle overseeing the torture of four of these pathetic creatures when that equally pathetic excuse for a wizard, Fosdick Napier, stumbled into his presence.

Napier was never very eager to come before the Dark Lord, but now he feared his Master's wrath even more. If he failed to bring this news to the Dark Lord immediately, he would not live to make the same mistake again.

Once he realised who had entered, Lord Voldemort broke the Cruciatus Curse on his current victims, and lowered his wand. He heartily disliked seeing Napier because as of late, he had so often been the bearer of bad news.

“What is it, knave?” he snapped. “Can't you see I'm busy?”

“Your - your most loyal servant begs his Master's pardon, but upon seeing this news, I could not stay away,” Napier apologised profusely.

“What news is that?” demanded Lord Voldemort.

“Th-th-the boy's … P-P-Potter's captors…,” the terrified messenger stuttered. “Th-th-they have s-s-surfaced again.” Shaking, he approached, holding a copy of the Daily Prophet in front of him.

“Give that to me,” Lord Voldemort scowled. With a sweeping motion of his free hand, he tore the newspaper from Napier's grasp.

Hot rage bubbled up as the Dark Lord realised that Potter's captors - now masquerading in Death Eater regalia - were offering to trade Potter for the eleven convicted Death Eaters. Only Bella, who had killed Potter's godfather, had proven herself worthy in that fight. Lord Voldemort had decided early on that Lucius Malfoy and the ten others had embarrassed him one time too often to be worth rescuing. The Dark Lord was infuriated that anyone would attempt to overturn his condemnation.

Had he been alone, Lord Voldemort might have screamed in rage - but he had learnt to control himself in front of his servants. Instead, with a disgusted sweep of his wand he sent the unfortunate torture victims plunging headlong into the stone wall opposite, crushing their skulls and shattering their vertebrae.

Turning his back on their now unmoving corpses, the Dark Lord was on the verge of torching the newspaper, when he suddenly stopped and stood still as a statue.

Then, slowly, Lord Voldemort broke into a broad hideous grin. “I have you now,” he burst out. “Those chains - I charmed those chains….”

“What is it, Master?” one of the onlooking Death Eaters asked.

“I now know where Potter is being held,” the Dark Lord declared.

All Hell proceeded to break loose at Killiechonate Castle.

* * * *

Author's notes: Paneruditius is Latin for “all knowing”

Clench your jaw tightly in a quiet place and you'll hear a high-pitched whine

The reasons Hermione discounts are precisely the reasons why she has been obstructed

Hermione's decision to address the possibility of Harry surviving, but not her, soon become important

The document Hermione prepares will also soon assume critical importance

What happened to Harry this time becomes clear by the end of the chapter

As previously mentioned, Snape's line of reasoning is that Harry is not being held by Death Eaters

High Street” is the British expression for what us Americans call “Main Street”

“Young, but not a child” is a line from the Who's “Acid Queen”

Dennis' creation gradually turns him into a wizard version of Bill Gates

LOSS, and Fluffy, are in the same suite of rooms where the PS trapdoor was located

Liebesleid, or “Love's Sorrow,” is a well-known melancholy piece of violin music, appropriate for Hermione's current state of mind

“Call that a bargain, the best I ever had”: another Who line, from “Bargain” (which begins “I'd gladly lose me to find you”)

Psycho Patefacius - literally “mind opening” in Latin

Mentanarus - literally “mental immersion”

Ma Huang is actually the Chinese name for ephedra

Hyperanimus Familiaris - literally “greatest living friendship”

I've read surprisingly few Hermione/Mirror of Erised confrontations

The Institute for Advanced Magic plays on the Institute for Advanced Studies, actually in Princeton; the arch is modeled on Blair Arch, at Princeton University, my alma mater

That med school teaches illegibility is an old joke

The rings - both of them - feature later

The change in Hermione's hair will also be explained

The extended thumb-pinkie hand symbol will eventually be explained. It's Hawaiian

If you don't understand the “Romance language” reference, you are too young to be reading an R-rated fic

Brain-cracked perversity is a phrase from ELP's song (not album) “Brain Salad Surgery”

The Venerable Bede reference is accurate

The Druidic parallel of the Psycho Patefacius spell becomes important later

Urushiol oil is purified poison ivy extract

I accurately describe the critical path concept

“Whole to be holy” and “well to be wealthy” are ELP lines from “Hallowed Be Thy Name”

“Last full measure of devotion” is from the Gettysburg address, referencing military sacrifice

I see the Morgan le Fey base being like the Stanley Cup

The Trophy Room discovery will soon be revealed

Hermione's epiphany is revealed later in the chapter

A “spherical bastard” is a bastard any way you look at him

A “bulldog edition” is a very early printing of a newspaper

The whip is the same cat o' nine tails in Harry's earlier vision in the Room of Requirement. The whipping was what Harry experienced earlier in this chapter

Mosaic law refers to forty lashes

The Playwitch offer from a much earlier chapter was not just passing humor

Mannock's presence is thus explained

The burdizzo reference is thus explained

The earlier references to Harry shaving were not just humor either

Defæcens and Autopurgus are both forms of self purification magic

The black diamond is an expensive type of truffle

All of the Scottish names in the Voldemort sequence are accurate. The castle is fictional

The description of Viking raids is accurate, as is the Scottish war

42

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch33 lost and found.doc 04/23/05

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34. Found And Lost

Wherein everything but progress happens. Hermione refuses to be left behind, and distinguishes herself as a healer; the OOTP and the DEs cancel each other out to bloody effect, whilst the real captors escape with Harry; the new prefects are named; Ron pouts; Hermione prepares herself as the students return to Hogwarts; the Sorting Hat does its thing; Hermione and friends confront Dumbledore; the captured DEs are released; the goblins are angry; and the Founder's Chamber is revealed.

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

Chapter 34 - Found And Lost

It took every particle of Hermione's grit, guile, argument, and assertiveness just to gain permission to accompany the Headmaster's hastily organised raiding party. The grownups - Dumbledore, McGonagall, Moody, Shacklebolt, and assorted others - all presumed to ignore Hermione's altogether once she had coaxed the terrified and bewildered Dobby through telling his tale. Once the elf had explained to their satisfaction why he knew that Harry Potter was being held prisoner in the catacombs beneath Malfoy Manor, the responsible adults instantaneously fell to planning. Their strategy for an immediate military assault on the Manor paid her no mind at all.

Dumbledore promptly cast an Incommunicadus Charm over the Castle - effectively isolating it from the outside world. No owls could enter or leave, and the Headmaster, as caster of the spell, assumed total control of all information entering or leaving Hogwarts. His explanation was laconic: “Loose lips sink ships.” Hermione could not even inform Ron and the rest of her friends about the dramatic turn of events.

But even that paled next to Hermione's situation. Nobody wanted to let a mere student accompany the raiding party - let alone one who would require protection. Hermione was, after all, a very tempting Death Eater target in her own right. Leaving her behind was logical, but logic had its limits, even for her. She was not about to take “no” for an answer.

After receiving a firm brush-off from the various Order and Auror types began flooding into the Castle (time being far too short to decamp for Order headquarters in London), she resolved to force the matter. To rescue Harry, Hermione decided she had to take a page from his book. Usually she practised dexterity over direct action, but now there was just no time.

Fifteen minutes of research in the library produced the address of the target. That done, Hermione threw on her Auror training garb, and grabbed her Valkyrie, Harry's Invisibility Cloak and her wand. Thus outfitted, the headstrong girl made for Dumbledore's office. The Headmaster had, after all, just given her the new password.

“Black Diamond of Périgord.”

Mounted on her broom, Hermione zoomed up the stairs.

“Alohomora!”

The extra power supplied by the Valkyrie's upgraded triple-core ordnance easily overpowered whatever charms might have been on Dumbledore's office door. It flew open, and Hermione flew in, much to the surprise of the Headmaster and his ad hoc planning team. Not even bothering to dismount, she addressed them all.

“I'm going with you!!” she demanded.

“Like Merlin's jockstrap yeh are,” growled Mad-Eye Moody.

“Then I'm going alone,” she declared, earnestly hoping not to be called on this expression of sheer bravado. Her assertion far exceeded her actual comfort level.

“Miss Granger, calm down,” Professor McGonagall admonished testily. “You don't even know where you'd be going.”

In his uniquely imperturbable style, the Headmaster contradicted his deputy. “Oh, I rather doubt that, Minerva. Malfoy Manor is not unplottable, and if I know Miss Granger, she has already ascertained exactly where it is.”

Hermione began to recite the Manor's precise address in her best know-it-all voice, but was rudely interrupted. “Accio broom!” Shak shouted out, hoping to catch the girl unawares. The spell bounced harmlessly off the Valkyrie's shields.

Hermione looked at him almost contemptuously. “Don't bother. My wards are all active and set to maximum power. The broom is in combat mode. You can't touch it. If you try to stop me, you're in for a Hell of a fight.”

Turning back to Dumbledore, she repeated, “I'm going with you.”

“Miss Granger, that would not be advisable,” the Headmaster said calmly, trying to move the refractory girl with her own beloved logic. “You know the Death Eaters would seek you out in any engagement. They know who you are, and what you are. You would be putting yourself at great risk.”

“You, of all people know exactly how much risk I'm prepared to assume.” Hermione shot back. “I'm going with you.”

Dumbledore tried another tack. “If you care not about yourself, at least consider Mister Potter. You cannot do this freelance, and you know it. If you try to go in wands blazing, we will all lose the element of surprise, and the result would hardly be to your liking.”

This was a far more persuasive argument, and Hermione had already considered it. “That's the only reason I'm here. If I thought I could free Harry myself, I'd already be on my way. I'm not saying put me in the vanguard of an attack. I'm not even asking for any combat role. I know that lots of far better trained wizards and witches are ready, willing, and able to do that…. But I'll be damned to be left waiting in the wings like some helpless child. Not after all that's happened.”

Mad-Eye was unmoved. He snarled, with customary bluntness, “As Harry's guardian, I thank yeh for yer efforts, but yeh don't belong in this. This is war. Everything about them takin' Harry's been an act of war. I'll repeat for yer benefit what I said before yeh so rudely butted in.… That was if Harry's friends - meaning yeh, since thank Merlin yeh're the only one what knows `bout this - were ta tag along, yeh would just be riskin' the rest of our skins due to yer combat inexperience.”

“I'm not asking to go into combat,” Hermione reiterated. “I just need to be there for him, and I'm not going to take….”

Moody barked at her again. “…Well, yeh better learn - if yeh want any future in this line…”

Hermione refused to back down, “I can't think about the future now…. If you try and stop me, Harry's won't be pleased to find out why I wasn't there for his rescue!”

“Stop it, both of you!” Professor McGonagall intervened. “Miss Granger, you're acting like a petulant child, and Alastor, you're acting like a crotchety old man. I think there's a basis for compromise here.”

“You must be seeing something, I'm not,” Hermione huffed. She had grievances with her Head of House as well, and was particularly inclined to trust her either.

Addressing the girl directly, McGonagall asked, “How have you been coming with your preparation for your Healing fellowship over the summer?”

Hermione was taken aback. That was an unexpected question. “Quite well until Harry was taken,” Hermione answered. “Horribly thereafter.”

“Well, Kingsley mentioned earlier that you'd also had Auror training in field healing, so my thought would be to accredit you to whatever medical support team is being assembled.” Turning to Dumbledore, the witch added, “Albus, I think she's right. Merlin knows what Mister Potter has been through, being flogged like that and I don't even want to think about what else. Once we get him out, I believe Miss Granger's familiar presence might well be valuable.”

There were murmurs of assent around the table. Mad-Eye was the last holdout. Finally he gave in, although not graciously. “All right,” he grumped, “but she has ta promise to stay in the rear echelon no matter what. Medics bring wounded ta her, not the other way round. We can't be lookin' out fer a student in a combat zone. That bloody broom of hers stays here.”

Now Professor McGonagall eyed Hermione. Would that be enough for the girl? As long as she was on that broom, it would take Dumbledore to stop her. Any such confrontation, at this time, would mean Hell to pay.

Hermione yielded. “All right. I'm probably most useful in Healing anyway. But I want your promise that when Harry comes out, he comes to me.”

* * * *

In that fashion that Hermione came to be sitting on pins and needles, waiting in an open-air clearing far enough removed from Malfoy Manor to be out of harm's immediate way. She had never been more nervous in her life, not even before her first O.W.L. examination - and she had thrown up then. Her performance on that examination, however, had at least been subject to her control. Her current situation - anxiously awaiting commencement of the hurriedly organised rescue raid against Malfoy Manor - most assuredly was not.

Trying to contain her sky-high energy level, she clutched the phials she carried inside her robes and tried to recite from memory the Healing spells she had been learning when Harry's abduction had redirected her efforts. Her agreement to join the Healing team required that she leave her broom behind, and she had detoured by the Room of Requirement on her way back from the Gryffindor Common Room.

She noticed a phial of Phoenix Tear Extract - the strongest magical healing agent known - in the Room's well-equipped Potions laboratory. When she put it in a pouch in her Auror belt, another phial magically appeared. She put the second in a pocket in her robes, and the same thing happened again. She collected a dozen phials before stopping.

Despite both Auror training and medical reading to recommend her, Hermione was still something of an odd duck in this assemblage. The others were all eminent healers - Paraceslus Huxley, Healer-in-Charge of the Trauma Unit at St. Mungo's, was there, with two of his most trusted assistants. The Auror Corps brought along a Mobile Auror Surgical Hospital, with five certified M.A.S.H. emergency evacuation healers.

Madam Pomfrey was present from Hogwarts, and Hermione spent most of her time with her. The girl felt out of place, since the entire party knew she was there, not for what she knew, but because of whom she knew. Hermione had never before been included in something for reasons other than merit. This precedent made her distinctly uncomfortable.

Having striven mightily to get this far, Hermione had no further to go. For the moment - until the attack was underway - all she could do was wait, and hope. Had she been a believer, she might have prayed to some god. She wished the assault party the best of luck. They would need it.

A muffled explosion soon indicated that Lady Luck's face had fled.

* * * *

The same muffled explosion reverberated through the catacombs beneath Malfoy Manor.

“What the Hell?!” Draco Malfoy mumbled. He had been getting some sleep, kipping in one of the rooms across the hall from where they kept Harry Potter. It was not sound sleep, because he was worried. He had grave doubts whether this latest ruse would free his father. He also wondered whether the Contact was maintaining his alibi as a transfer student to Durmstrang.

A second explosion jarred him fully awake. Leaping to his feet, Malfoy also heard the hissing sound of some spell striking one of the wards that shielded the catacombs from the outside world.

Trying to avoid panic, Malfoy trotted to the next room to study the map of the Manor grounds that hung on the wall.

His eyes grew wide as the map revealed that Lord Voldemort himself, at the head of at least thirty Death Eaters, had breached the wards around the rear of the Manor. They were approaching through the tunnel that led from the secret waterfall entrance.

“Shite, shite, and more shite!”

There was more.

Malfoy's eyes nearly popped out of his skull as he saw another even larger group of wizards entering through the Manor itself. This group counted none other than Albus Dumbledore in its number, and was composed of Hit Wizards, Aurors and Hogwarts staff. It was led by….

“Damn traitorous house-elf!” Malfoy swore. Worse, he saw that he was surrounded. There were more of what could only be Ministry wizards all about the perimeter of the Manor.

The only saving grace was that Voldemort's and Dumbledore's forces were on course to encounter each other well before they reached the suite of rooms that Malfoy and his compatriots occupied. The fate of the Potterless Conspiracy now hung in the resultant battle providing enough of a diversion to allow them to escape.

Another explosion rocked the catacombs, knocking dust from the walls.

Malfoy cast a couple of spells that stirred the Manor's not inconsiderable intruder-repelling wards, curses, and charms into full operation. Then he screamed,

“WE'RE UNDER ATTACK!! CUT THE SCARHEAD DOWN AND FOLLOW ME!! WE'VE GOT TO GET OUT OF HERE!!”

The three captors fell into a frenzy of rather confused action. Nott struggled with the magical chains that bound Harry to the bars, Crabbe gathered up robes and food. Malfoy hurriedly checked escape routes to determine what, if any, options they had. When he was done, Malfoy ripped the magical map off the wall and brought it with him.

Finally, Nott managed to release Harry's magical manacles. The captive slumped to the ground. He groaned. Leaving nothing to chance, Malfoy stunned the prisoner.

The wards around them glowed and sputtered as they strained to repel powerful magic. The invaders were getting closer. The captors could hear screams and see the flashes of curses impacting the wards and beginning to reduce the walls outside. The faint smell of bitter almonds wafted down the hall. The Manor was defending its heir as well, and its defenses were deadly.

The only unblocked escape route led through the stables.

“Mobilicorpus,” Malfoy incanted as he pointed his wand at Harry's prostrate figure. “This way,” he ordered. With Harry's unconscious body leading the way, the captors abandoned the suite of rooms that had been Harry's prison for more than two weeks.

“You go on ahead. I'll catch up,” Malfoy directed. From behind the partially closed door, he pointed his wand at the phylactery he had used to control the Dementors for the past fortnight. “Liberius totalus,” he incanted, releasing the Dementors from his control. In the next breath he destroyed the device with a Reductor Curse. Turning his wand to the wards themselves, he shouted. “Enervate levels one, three, six and seven,” thus collapsing the outer wards, and providing the famished creatures with unhindered access to the furious battle that was underway. The two Dementors were authorised, indeed encouraged, to feed on anyone they might encounter.

Those creatures encountered plenty of sustenance. Dead and wounded wizards littered the smoking halls. Killing Curses flashed amongst other, equally deadly, spells as both sides hammered at one another. In the chaos, the fighting devolved into dozens of close quarter, hand-to-hand combat encounters in the debris-littered, semidarkness of the catacombs. Voldemort's party of Death Eaters was fewer than Dumbledore's would-be rescuers, but they more than made up in viciousness what they lacked in numbers.

Fleeing the sound and fury of the battle, the escaping captors presently made their way to the mostly underground Thestral stables. Passing through the intervening tunnels, they heard the thud of heavy doors closing behind them every ten metres or so. The Manor was indeed well warded - perhaps the best warded building in Britain, save Hogwarts itself. But why had those wards suddenly failed so catastrophically?

Draco Malfoy had no time to think about that. “What do we do now, boss?” Crabbe blubbered.

“We wait, that's what,” Malfoy instructed irritably.

“Wait - Hell. They'll catch us if we wait!” cried Nott.

“They'll catch us if we try to leave too soon,” Malfoy vigourously disagreed. “Here, look at this.”

Malfoy laid the map of the Manor on a wooden bench. Crabbe and Nott gathered about. Malfoy rudely dismissed Crabbe.

“Crabbe, there are better uses for your time. Feed and water the Thestrals. We'll need them to be ready to fly soon … and when you're done, watch the map.” Dumbly Crabbe complied.

Malfoy explained his plan to Nott. “Look here, here, and here,” he pointed, jabbing his finger at various spots on the map. “We're surrounded as long as the Ministry mans this perimeter. We have to hope that the Dark Lord and his forces can hold out against superior numbers until Dumbledore calls for reinforcements. That shouldn't be long at this rate, look at this.”

Malfoy gestured to the center of the map, which continued to show a swirl of activity as Voldemort's Death Eaters battled Dumbledore's assault party. Every so often a name would wink out of existence, signifying another fatality.

“We need to figure out what we're doing about Potter,” Nott observed once he understood Malfoy's plan. “Shouldn't we just waste the bastard now and be done with him?”

“Hell no!” Malfoy roared, “Scarhead is still our best bargaining chip. As long as we have him with us, both sides have a reason to deal - and an incentive to lay off of us. We only kill him as a last resort … and that means we probably die as well.”

“We have to figure out how to move him, then,” Nott appended bitterly. “He can't very well ride a Thestral himself.”

“And we wouldn't want him to,” Malfoy replied. “Without the Manor's magical shackles, we have to keep him unconscious. I don't want to find out what that spooky power he's been giving off really is. Merlin knows what he might be capable of should he get free…. Remember your bloody shotgun. It's still embedded in the wall back there…. I know … see that old chariot?”

Malfoy pointed to the ruins of an old Thestral-drawn magical battle chariot, barely visible in the shadows. Flying chariots had retained effectiveness as magical weapons far longer than their earthbound Muggle counterparts, but simpler, more manœuverable broom technology had inexorably banished them to the dustbin of history. Obsolete for two hundred years or more, the Malfoy family chariot probably had not moved in that long.

“We can cut down one of the shafts, tie Potter to that, and hang it between the Thestrals.”

“Time's a wasting,” Nott replied. Malfoy's idea was as good as anything.

Malfoy shot a Severing Charm at the decrepit old chariot. The shafts dropped to the ground. One was shot through with Umgubular Woodworm infestation and had to be discarded when nobody knew the proper Expulsion Charm. The other appeared in good condition. Malfoy and Nott were tying Harry to the shaft when Crabbe - who had been assigned to watch the map - called out.

“They're going in.”

Dumbledore had finally been forced to call for the reinforcements. The captors had a free path to the sky, and thus to escape.

“Quick, hitch the pole between the saddles of these two,” Malfoy ordered. Within five minutes, they were airborne.

* * * *

The initial explosion was the first sign that Dumbledore's assault was not proceeding as smoothly as planned. Additional explosions augured ill, and billows of smoke heralded the incineration of parts of Malfoy Manor. Hermione grimly tried to push the potentially fearsome consequences from her mind, but with no particular assignment holding her attention, she was soon assaulted by black depression.

But not for long - and for the worst of reasons.

A wave of casualties graphically confirmed how badly awry the engagement was going. From the first batch, Hermione was assigned … “Dobby!” the girl involuntarily exclaimed. The house-elf's pulse was slow, and his breathing erratic - but physically, not a scratch was on him. Hermione passed her wand slowly over the elf's unmoving body. She read his vital signs with her wand. His aura glowed deep red.

“Severe magical depletion,” she diagnosed, as she read off the diagnostic results. “Silver bile fails to register…. Yellow bile virtually exhausted…. Blood sugars low…. Excess of black bile.”

She concluded the most immediate threat to the house-elf faced was irreversible magical shock. Quickly, she quickly mixed up a Restorative Draught, starting with Pepper Up Potion, adding Mandrake and four drops of Phoenix Tear Extract. The Draught was tricky because Dobby was much smaller than any adult wizard. Contrarily, he possessed far more powerful magic than any child - and elfin magic was altogether different from anything she was familiar with through her training.

She drew the elf to a sitting position, and poured some of the Draught into his mouth whilst rubbing his throat with her other hand, to get him to swallow. He did. The effect was almost immediate.

“Spllbbt….”

Dobby spat out most of the rest of the Draught - all over the front of Hermione's robes. As he did, his eyes flickered open.

“The Dark Lord…. Miss Myown!” he rattled.

“Yes, Dobby, it's me,” the young witch assured the elf.

“Oh, Miss Myown, we was close…. But we found He Who Must Not Be Named first…. Tried to save the rest….”

“Stop talking and drink more of this Restorative Draught,” Hermione the Healer instructed. “You almost exhausted your magic in there.”

The elf complied, consuming the rest of the 200-cc beaker.

“Must go back,” Dobby panted out. “Save Harry Potter…. Is in there…. Can feel it…. House will attack everyone…. I can avoid….”

Hermione looked at the elf sternly. “No, Dobby, your day is done. You're still weak. Whatever you did, if you tried it again, it would surely kill you.”

Hermione had no time to continue this conversation. Another patient arrived. The Healers sent Hermione one of the least injured of the next lot, Tonks, who had caught a Pulverising Curse in the left leg. “It was a bloody mess in there…. Bastard caught me from behind…. But it's the last spell that Deater's ever going to cast,” she recounted heatedly as Hermione tried to get a medical history.

With her tibia, fibula, patella and half of her femur turned to powder, Tonks was urgently in need of reboning, but did not have life-threatening injuries. Tonks would need a lot of Skele-Gro, but with nothing threatening to slice an artery, the procedure was well within Hermione's capability. Tonks would recover fully, and soon, but she was sidelined for this fight whilst her bones reconstituted themselves.

“No more action for you, today,” Hermione announced her first ever Healer's orders. “And calcium supplements `till Christmas for such a major reboning.”

Her next case was far worse. A youngish looking Auror with the name “Farrow” on his robes was brought in with a horrible face wound. His eyes protruded unnaturally from what remained of their sockets. Leaving his eyeballs exposed like that would certainly result in blindness. Not knowing what to do, and with everyone else fully occupied, Hermione groped for a solution. She settled upon a mixture of 50% aqua vitae and 50% phoenix tears - painted on the affected area with a charmed brush. It worked. Hermione could see the wound healing.

She received her next patient due to a triage decision that Hestia Jones appeared to be beyond saving. The long-time Order member had suffered acute cyanide poisoning after being cursed unconscious in a dungeon that then filled with the gas. Being too new to the profession to know that she had a hopeless case on her hands, Hermione pulled a six-inch hypodermic needle from the Muggle side of her kit, filled it with pure Phoenix Tear Extract and injected it directly into the dying woman's left ventricle. The girl then flash-vaporised another several cc's of the Extract with a vacuum pump and forced the mist into Jones' lungs.

Only when consulting a text for nerve restoration charms did Hermione become conscious of being watched. Several of the Healers, who had seen Jones brought in, were giving her sidelong glances. Two of the St. Mungo's team must have had a pause in their own caseload, because they had been overtly observing her technique - which was really no technique at all because the girl was improvising.

One of them, who had been examining a discarded empty phial, spoke to her.

“Phoenix Tear Extract, that's strong stuff,” he observed.

“The strongest I know of,” Hermione replied as she watched the charm she chose take effect. She did not take her eyes off her patient, whose colour was slowly returning. “And you are?” she asked.

“Paracelsus Huxley,” he answered.

“I'm honoured,” Hermione replied.

“Where'd you get this?” the other healer asked.

“Hogwarts.”

“Figures,” Hlr. Huxley commented.

“What do you mean by that?” Hermione asked, finally allowing herself a little emotion now that this latest patient seemed out of imminent danger.

“Once you get into the real world, you'll find out,” the second Healer said. “At St. Mungo's we don't have routine access to that. Too damnably expensive for normal channels and too bloody little time to get it otherwise. We would have to get TPW pre-authorisation, and that would take two weeks. By then, a code patient like that would surely have expired.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione exclaimed. “You mean you don't have any?”

“Not a drop. We had no idea it would get this bad.”

“Bloody slapdash planning will get people killed,” Hermione muttered angrily. “Anyway, I've got lots. Here.” She emptied her pockets.

Hlr. Huxley took effortless and instant charge, calling out to everyone. “OVER HERE!! PHOENIX EXTRACT!! ALL WE NEED!!”

It seemed like the entire team descended on Hermione's station as one, thanking her and distributing the precious extract.

“You just saved a lot of lives,” the adjutant commanding the M.A.S.H. unit told her with a slight smile. “Just wished we'd known sooner. Maybe we could've saved some of them.” He pointed to a half dozen bodies piled like cordwood beside a low stone wall.

Hermione fought to keep her composure. “How… how many died?”

“Seven after being brought here,” the adjutant revealed, with no smile now. “Overall, I can't say. They aren't even bothering to bring out the Killing Curse victims yet - and I've heard there are Dementor's Kiss cases too….”

For a moment, Hermione wondered if she had even done the right thing in passing along Dobby's earlier revelation. So many had died…. But Harry's life had been at stake, so second-guessing her actions was pointless.

A combat healer in time of battle lacks the luxury of reflection.

Hermione soon had a new patient. She recognised the face, and almost had to pinch herself when she saw the name on what was left of his robes - Branstone. The wizard that Harry had almost killed for faking the Dark Fire of Tu Fan now lay before her, with an open pneumothorax and severe magical burns over much of his anterior torso. Almost mechanically she prepared an occlusive plaster. She lathered it with the orange paste used to treat all magical burns and taped it over the sucking chest wound, taking care to leave one corner aflutter.

After lathering the rest of Clifton Branstone's burns with the paste, Hermione noticed that he was regaining consciousness. She poured a full adult-wizard portion of the Restorative Draught she had previously prepared into a beaker and talked him through drinking it.

“Mr. Branstone, please swallow this Restorative Draught,” she instructed. “You've been severely injured, but you should be out of danger now.”

The Auror complied, and after drinking the potion, his eyes cracked open. “That's good,” Hermione intoned, trying for a cool bedside manner. “You've got a collapsed lung. I'm going to perform a Healing Charm now to deal with that, then I'm going to dress your….”

Hermione paused as Branstone's eyes went wide. She thought he had recognised her.

“Yes, it's me, Hermione Granger. I'm a Heal….”

She stopped when she realised he was not even looking at her, but rather in the direction of the setting sun. He desperately trying to say something, but his injuries kept him from speaking.

Following the wounded man's eyes, Hermione looked up.

“Oh Merlin's Mother! NO!!” she screamed as she saw three Thestrals and their riders speeding away to the west. Two of them carried something between them that she realised had to be Harry.

“HARRY!!!” Screaming at the top of her lungs, Hermione flicked her wand from her holster and fired off a forlorn Impediment Jinx. It lit up the sky in the general direction of the fleeing wizards, but they were much too high and moving much too fast for it to have any realistic hope of success.

The frantic girl took two steps towards her things, but stopped. The deal she struck that brought her here also required her to leave her Valkyrie at Hogwarts. Only she could have ridden it, and no other broom stood a chance of catching the swift Thestrals.

“Oh, dammit to Hell,” Hermione bellowed as she sank to her knees. “I could have tried to save him.” Fairly shaking with impotent rage, she retreated into herself. She failed to register the frantic spells being cast at the fleeing Death Eaters by those around her. She did not even look as the heavens were illuminated with the others' equally ineffectual curses.

Indeed, she did not even notice that someone else had assumed the care of Auror Branstone.

Instead, Hermione no longer knew anything but her own pain. That pain filled her body. It flowed in to replace the hope that ebbed away like the blood that flowed from all of the wounds she had treated.

Everything had been for naught.

Two hands gently touched the girl's heaving shoulders. “Miss Granger? Hermione?”

She looked up. It was Dumbledore. His robes were dirty and torn. He was bleeding from a flesh wound on his right cheek and from a deeper wound to his left shoulder. Half his beard was singed away. There was no smile on his face; no twinkle in his eyes. But it was Albus Dumbledore nonetheless.

“Care to take a walk with an old man who has seen better days?” he asked wearily.

Wordlessly, Hermione nodded. She got up, steadied herself, and they strode away from the medical station. They walked the perimeter of the Malfoy estate, where in the distance the manor house was slowly being consumed by both magical and ordinary flames.

Once they were out of earshot of others, Hermione asked, “What happened?”

“Dobby was most assuredly correct,” Dumbledore replied softly. “Mister Potter was being kept in an unplottable set of dungeons beneath Malfoy Manor. Unfortunately, he was too well guarded. We encountered Voldemort himself, and several dozen of his followers. It was a far larger force than we had anticipated. None of our intelligence placed Voldemort here. There was a battle - an ambush, really. Dobby saved many lives, probably including my own, by blocking the Death Eaters' opening fusillade. Only a free elf could have interposed his magic in that fashion….”

Ordinarily Hermione would have been thrilled at the blow struck for elven rights, but at the moment she was numb. “What happened to Harry?” she demanded.

“Whilst the battle was raging, some of his captors took Mister Potter and made good an escape,” Dumbledore informed her frankly. “With the casualties we took, we did not have a large enough force to cover everything. I am told you saw them leaving.”

“Yes,” Hermione answered, her lip quavering. “That means I should get ready, doesn't it?”

“It does,” Dumbledore answered sombrely. “You are our only remaining hope, Miss Granger.”

She stopped - feeling the embrace of icy tendrils of fear. Trying to shake them off, she drew herself up, took a deep breath, and replied. “Let's go.”

“Captain Shacklebolt will be returning you to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore informed her. “It is my unhappy duty to go before the Wizengamot within the half hour. I shall have the unpleasant task of arguing that the eleven convicted Death Eaters should be released in the possibly - indeed probably - forlorn hope of obtaining Mister Potter's release.”

“You trust those bastards?” Hermione asked pointedly.

“Not in the slightest,” Dumbledore answered. “But they had to have some reason for making the demand, and for spiriting Mister Potter away rather than killing him outright. I frankly do not know what it is. I would not have expected it from Voldemort. But I shall pursue any and all avenues that might possibly win his freedom.”

“When do you want me ready?” Hermione volunteered.

“A useful conjunction involving Mars, Saturn, and Neptune occurs at 2:45 a.m. It will assist the magic,” Dumbledore explained. “Also the Death Eaters have to be in some disarray right now. With the reinforcements, we finally did succeed in driving them off….”

“What about Harry's safety? Can we afford to wait? I'm ready … right now,” Hermione declared, not at all sure whether she really was.

“Unfortunately, I surely am not,” Dumbledore replied, “and really, neither are you. We can still do this in an orderly fashion. I shall leave instructions that you are not to be disturbed. Remember, Miss Granger, if the Death Eaters had intended immediate harm to Mister Potter, they would not have carried him off as they did. I believe they will at least wait for the Wizengamot's decision to see if they get what they want.”

* * * *

Whilst being named a Prefect was an honour, it was one that Ginny Weasley could have done without. What was being a Fifth-Year Prefect, when you were already scheduled for induction into the Order of Merlin? In Ginny's case, the Prefect's badge was quickly becoming a royal pain in the arse - the biggest pain in the arse being her brother (and fellow Order of Merlin winner) Ron.

Members of the Weasley family had always been known for their tempers. She had grown up firmly indoctrinated into that reputation, and it had helped her out of more than one tight scrape. But Weasley temper has its drawbacks when directed against other Weasleys, rather than outward.

She had thought Ron would explode straight away when she received the owl from Hogwarts announcing that she had been tipped - especially since there was no owl for him. Everyone knew what that meant. Ron had not been made Quidditch Captain. Nevertheless, he outwardly appeared to take the news surprisingly well, for Ron, that is. Mostly he just scowled and ignored her.

The pall of Harry's absence hung heavily over the entire Weasley family during the short stint whilst Ginny and Ron were at home - adding another layer of gloom to the all-too-recent grief of Bill's death. To try to lift the mood just a bit, Molly had bravely determined to celebrate Ginny's appointment just as she had when her other children received similar honours. She created and hung the usual banner, magically baked a cake, served Butterbeer, and generally tried to act “normal.” The Twins took off time from their shop to contribute to the rather forced levity. Ron attended, with a false smile plastered unconvincingly on his face. He said very little.

Neither Ginny nor Ron had revealed much to the rest of the family about their activities at the Castle after receiving their summonses from Hermione. Nor were they particularly truthful about it. Molly took this occasion to bring up that subject again.

“So what exactly is this project that you were called back so urgently to school to do?”

“Research, for some idea of Hermione's,” grunted Ron.

“Hermione has this idea for something that might find Harry,” Ginny added. “It's terribly complicated, and she needed help with it, so Dumbledore let her recruit us.”

“If it's that important, I don't understand why Dumbledore doesn't bring in professionals,” Molly wondered. “He should be doing this himself; not involving children….”

“It's very hush-hush,” Ron said, trying to shut his mother up.

“Dumbledore's afraid that if word got out, Hermione might become a target,” Ginny elaborated.

Molly's eyes narrowed as she replied, “You aren't endangering yourselves, are you?”

“Oh, no,” answered Ginny, choosing to interpret “you” as limited to those present. “Dumbledore wouldn't allow that….”

Just then an owl flew in. Ginny recognised it, and it came straight to her. She took the letter, and the owl flew off, not seeking to get paid.

“Just when have you started receiving private owls, young lady?” Molly asked her daughter.

“Oh, Mum, it's just from Neville,” Ginny replied, referring to her still relatively new boyfriend. She quickly glanced through the post making sure there was nothing incriminating. “He's…. He's…. Oh, Mum, he's been named Gryffindor prefect!” Ginny chirped happily.

“Well, congratulations to….”

WHAM!

Ron slammed down his mug of Butterbeer, and wordlessly stalked to his room. He did not emerge for the rest of the evening. Everyone else preferred to let him be. Ron had resigned the position. He had to expect that Professor McGonagall would fill it.

The party, such as it was, broke up shortly thereafter.

Arthur was owled awake at an ungodly early hour - 4:00 a.m. - and summoned to the office for “Ministry business.” He refused to divulge what was happening, except to tell his family to “read tomorrow's Prophet.”

Naturally, nobody (except Ron, who had stayed in his room) in the family could sleep after that. When the Prophet finally arrived, four hours later, the banner story about the ransom demand for Harry's life came as less of a shock to the Weasleys than might otherwise have been the case. Relief at public confirmation that Harry was still alive mixed in an awkward emotional stew with trepidation over what would happen next. The Ministry had invested a great deal of political capital in both Harry and the capture of the eleven Death Eaters. One way or the other, some of that capital would soon be spent.

Thus Ginny was on tenterhooks, and Ron was sulky, as the Weasley clan arrived at Platform 9 3/4 to catch the Hogwarts Express. Everything was just the same, yet everything was different. The train seemed unchanged from prior years - it had obviously been mended since the attack two weeks previous. The horde of students and parents saying their goodbyes was essentially the same, although the individuals constantly changed. Security was very high. Ginny counted a dozen Aurors on the platform, or on the train, and those were only the ones who allowed themselves to be seen.

For once, Ginny was relieved not to see her boyfriend. She was not at all sure how Ron would react to seeing Neville sporting his Prefect's badge. Ron, however, soon found Cho. To be with her, he settled down in a compartment full of Ravenclaws. He did not look particularly happy about having the company.

Ginny walked the carriage corridors as the Hogwarts Express pulled away, now looking for Neville. Instead she found practically everyone else on the train - either they wanted to congratulate her on the Order of Merlin, or they wondered if she had any additional news about Harry, Hermione, and the D.A.

Of the six “Potter's Marauders” she was the only one who was accessible to other students. Harry, of course, was missing. Hermione and Luna were noticeably absent, being already at the Castle presumably engaged in Merlin-knows-what dangerous magic. Ron was hiding out, and Neville was nowhere to be found.

After she searching the rest of the train thoroughly, there was only one place left for Ginny to look….

Neville Longbottom was idly leafing through the parchment handouts when the door creaked open and Ginny slipped in.

“Hi, Luv,” she greeted. “Thought you might be here. The meeting isn't supposed to start for another fifteen minutes, you know.”

“Hi, yourself,” Neville replied, kissing her lightly on the cheek and reaching for her hand. “I know, but I'm new at this.… Wanted to find out what's going on….”

“It's new for me too,” Ginny answered lightly, whilst squeezing his hand. “You'll do famously. Don't sell yourself short.”

“I don't want to get too big a head either,” Neville countered. “You're supposed to be new. You couldn't have been selected before. I'm a replacement. That's unusual enough, but I know I wasn't even the first choice … if he hadn't gone missing and all…. Compared to him…. Compared to Hermione…. I still don't believe I was chosen.”

“Believe it,” Ginny reassured him. “I believe in you….” The sentence was never completed as she leaned into her nervous boyfriend for a proper kiss.

After they came up for air, Neville's scarlet complexion clashed resoundingly with Ginny's orange-red hair. She thought he looked so cute when he was mildly embarrassed.

“So…?” she asked, “you've been through the agenda. Who's the Head Boy?”

“Eddie Carmichael from Ravenclaw,” Neville replied. “I hardly know him to look at him.”

“I've never said more than two words to him myself,” Ginny remarked. “Hey! Wasn't he the one that Hermione caught selling bootlegged brain-boosting potions last year? I think Ron said something about how she busted him….”

“You know, I do believe you're right,” Neville said with a chuckle. “I remember Hermione mentioning that to me whilst we were planning Harry's party. It's probably a good thing for Carmichael that she's not going to be at this first meeting. She would probably make him rather twitchy.”

“She does that to a lot of people,” Ginny said more thoughtfully. “Do you think she's going to go through with it?”

“If she has to…. I'm as certain of that as I've ever have been of anything in my life,” Neville declared. “Harry…. Well, Harry means that much to her….” Neville's voice trailed off uncomfortably.

“You don't have to hide it from me,” Ginny comforted him. “I know you fancied her. But you got over it, just like I got over my own crush on Harry.” Secretly, she wondered if it were true. “I wish she could share her pain though…. It's not like the rest of us don't care.”

“They're…. They're just the royal couple … if things ever get sorted out,” Neville commented inarticulately. “I just wonder if…?”

“Oh, enough about them,” Ginny shushed him. “Extraordinary talents come with extraordinary burdens. I wouldn't want to be in either of their shoes right now. I'm happy with you, and right now that's what counts.”

“You're extraordinary enough for me,” Neville answered. Seeing Ginny ready to pounce on him again, Neville tried to change the subject. “And Beth Dunston is Head G….”

The door to the Prefects' Carriage swung open forcefully, clanging against the wall. Both Ginny and Neville expected to meet some senior Prefects, but instead a parade of maroon-clad Aurors marched by. Not even acknowledging the presence of two junior Order of Merlin winners, they stepped through the forward door onto the platform between the first car and the engine. There, they Disapparated one by one, with resounding cracks.

“I wonder what that was all about.” Neville speculated.

“A lot of Aurors just decided they had more important places to be than here, tending us,” Ginny restated the obvious.

“Wonder if that's a good sign?” Neville worried.

“We need to find Hermione, she'll know,” Ginny replied.

Finding Hermione was easier said than done. The Prefects' meeting was interminable, with all the new security procedures being instituted. Nor did it help that the Head Boy and Head Girl quite evidently could not stand one another. Dunston thought Carmichael was a typical Ravenclaw dilettante. Carmichael viewed Dunston as a run-of-the-mill Slytherin back-stabber.

The two Heads bickered and sniped until the meeting finally broke up less than fifteen minutes from the Castle. As a result, Ginny, Neville, and the other prefects with invitations all missed the initial “Slug Club” party in Professor Slughorn's private car that brought up the rear of the Hogwarts Express. The thoroughly disgruntled pack of Prefects barely had time to change into their robes - let alone to take their places escorting students according to the new procedures.

Thus confusion reigned on the darkened Hogsmeade platform. Hagrid was in a bad mood, yelling at the disconcerted First Years to get in the boats single file. Unprepared Prefects were misdirecting the older students this way and that. Ginny and Neville ended up uncomfortably sharing a carriage with several Third-Year Slytherins, all of whom made nasty comments under their breath about pro-Potter favoritism and the Order of Merlin. A particularly snide parting shot earned one of the Slytherins a five-point deduction, courtesy of Ginny's maiden exercise of her Prefect powers.

Hermione was nowhere to be found. As everyone spilt into the Great Hall, Neville and Ginny plopped down next to the Creevey brothers at the Gryffindor table, whilst Ron and Cho headed for Ravenclaw.

“I don't see Hermione,” Ginny said softly to Colin. “Is anything up…? Oh, and congratulations, I saw your name on the list on the train.”

“You're welcome,” Colin replied. “Big doings. I don't really want to talk about them at the moment….” Someone had dropped by.

“Hi, Justin,” Neville's voice cut smoothly across their conversation. “No, she's not around right now. I'm not sure where she is. We just got here ourselves. Don't know about that, either….”

“Anyway,” Colin continued, “She somehow managed to get Dumbledore to agree to do you-know-what. I don't know how she pulled that off, but it has to be better than Luna doing it.”

“That's huge,” Neville interjected; relief palpable on his face. “It's got to be much safer that way….”

Another visitor.

“No, Padma, I haven't been told anything. I haven't seen her since I got back. I guess she's not in the Hall yet.”

“I don't know how safe is safer, though,” Colin resumed. “Dumbledore asked me if I believe in God….”

“She's not here Michael,” Ginny said to the latest intruder in carefully measured tones. “And as far as you're concerned, I'm not either.” Her former boyfriend, Michael Corner, slunk away.

“…Anyway, after I said, `yes,'” Colin continued, “he asked me to pray for the both of them because they don't pray for themselves.”

“That doesn't sound very promising,” Ginny observed.

“No it doesn't,” Colin agreed. “Particularly since the Headmaster said he'd be back to talk to me and Luna about things some more before you lot arrived - and I haven't seen him since. It's not like him to make an appointment like that and simply not show up.”

“Something's going on,” Neville declared.

Once again a fellow student approached them. “No, Hannah,” Neville responded politely, “I haven't seen her yet. Yes, I'll tell her that all the Hufflepuff D.A. members are asking after her.”

Ginny turned to her equally discomfited Gryffindor housemates. “What in blazes is going on?” she asked.

Dennis, who had been silent up until then, remarked, “I think it's Ron.”

They all looked around and saw Ron trying to talk to Cho at the Ravenclaw table. Almost immediately he was interrupted by Terry Boot buttonholing him. After a brief conversation, in which Ron gestured towards the Gryffindor table, Terry also came walking towards them.

“I think,” Neville suggested, “that Ron, being their most visible friend … everyone in the D.A.'s going to him trying to find out what's going on, and he's sending them over here.”

Sure enough, Terry Boot asked the same basic questions as all their previous visitors, “Hi, have you seen Hermione? Are we doing the D.A. this year?”

An air of unease hung over the Great Hall, where the students settled into place beneath the charmed ceiling's clear, starry sky. Physically, everything was in perfect order. A thousand or more candles flickered in mid-air, providing illumination. Their flames reflected in golden plates and goblets waiting to be filled and in silver utensils arranged for use. The house ghosts were present, but congregated about twenty feet in the air at the front of the Hall having a vigorous conversation of their own. Nearly Headless Nick gestured nearly straight down at the empty chair in the center of the Head Table.

Headmaster Dumbledore was conspicuously nowhere to be found, and he always opened the Welcoming Feast.

Others ordinary occupants of the Head Table were also absent. The chair traditionally occupied by the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was vacant, as was Professor Vector's spot. Professor Flitwick's usual seat was taken, not by the diminutive professor, but by a heavily cloaked witch of better than average height. Her face and hair were completely hidden, almost as if she wore a chador.

The Potions master was no longer the scowling, batlike Snape, but a portly, mustachioed wizard with a beer belly worthy of exhibition in the British Museum. Dressed in deep green robes, he gazed out at the crowd of students, an unreadable look on his face. Beside him, Madam Hooch's lips were moving as she reviewed a roll of parchment.

Ginny and Neville saw Hagrid slip through a side door and take his seat - meaning that the First Years were now successfully in the Castle. He was still glowering mutinously, although not at anyone in particular.

Ron threw himself onto the bench across from the four of them and next to Dean Thomas, who was studiously avoiding looking at either Ginny or Neville. After muttering a few choice words about people who “wouldn't leave me alone,” he pulled out an envelope and laid it on the table.

“From Luna,” he grimaced. “She gave it to me as I was leaving…. Said I should open it with you lot.”

Ron slit it with a table knife and spread it out so they all could see it. Some of their housemates peered over their shoulders in curiosity, but soon sat back down, as the piece of parchment was charmed so only the intended recipients could read it. The shorthand note said:

D and M have been sabotaging us. H found them out and located missing books. We learnt everything. I was going to cast on H, but D threw in and agreed to do it. Would have been this afternoon before you returned, but something came up. Don't know what. Do not believe that either D or H is in Castle at moment.

L

Any chance for discussion ended when the main doors flew open and Peeves zoomed in cackling madly. A streak of angry red magic followed him closely. It pursued him as the poltergeist twisted and turned, traversing the length of the Hall at top speed. Peeves scattered the house ghosts, who ducked out of the way of the spell that chased him. Doubling back, Peeves was halfway out the way he had entered before the spell finally caught up with him. It lit him up like a Christmas tree. Paralysed and now glowing bright pink, Peeves' momentum caused him to drift towards, and ultimately bounce up against, the back wall. After a couple of smaller bounces, the pink, paralysed Peeves stopped moving like a trapped helium balloon.

Peeves was still adrift when Professor McGonagall strode into the Hall. Her mouth scowling, but with a look of satisfaction in her eyes, she sheathed her wand one-handedly. In her other hand she carried a battered pointed black hat along with a four-legged stool. Everyone in the Hall knew what these were for - except for the ragged line of First Years that trailed behind her. Some of them squelched as they walked from their recent encounter with Peeves' water balloons. Some were still adorned with bits of balloon.

The undercurrent of conversation ceased as Professor McGonagall put down the stool and set the hat on it. The time-honoured Hogwarts tradition of the Sorting was about to begin. The First Years looked small and scared - not to mention wet. These about-to-be-initiated children stood nervously in a row as they awaited their unknown test.

To the group of friends watching them from the Gryffindor table, each year the First Years seemed to get smaller and more frightened.

“Midgets,” muttered Ron.

“Were we ever that little?” commented Neville.

“Were we ever that scared?” added Ginny.

“There's bloody lots to be scared about,” Ron retorted. “I'm supposed to be part of a trio, but neither of them is here - and I know I'm terrified for the both of them.”

All eyes among the returning students settled upon the torn and frayed Sorting Hat, which had started to wriggle. A badly sewn rip just above the brim came unraveled, and popped open into what looked like a smile. The Hat, neither needing nor wanting any introduction, launched into its annual song:

The Normans they were still in France
Back when I was created.
A thousand years have now advanced
Since the Founders' wish was stated.

A school of magic they did form
United in their vision.
None of them could see the storm
That followed from their mission.

The foremost school in all the world
Successfully they built.
The Hogwarts crest proudly unfurled
They backed it to the hilt.

Gryffindor, boldest of them all
Did institute his plan:
Brav'ry and courage he did call
Within his house to man.

Ravenclaw prized above the rest
Outstanding intellect.
She searched the land to find the best
For her house to select.

Slytherin thought blood was purest.
Ancestry breeds ambition.
Genealogy was surest
And worthy of admission.

For Hufflepuff hard work did pay,
And that was what she wanted,
Loyal sorcerers did always stay
To her as the most vaunted.

Once the school was well established,
Each house sought out its type
Four fingers no longer made the fist
Among the four came strife.

That strife continues through these days,
And threatens what we're here for.
The havoc that division plays
In this, a time of sheer war.

A scion of silver and of green
Doth hold the red and gold
In captivity obscene
That story still unfolds.

But power of which we all know not
Is soon to be unleashed.
A rescue from this very spot
Could not destroy the beast.

A reaching out between the minds
Can touch a tortured soul.
Emotions that can recombine
No enemy can toll.

Release a power so immense -
As lightspeed times itself.
The unintended consequence -
The helper needing help.

As long as houses do divide,
The risk of failure mounts.
Unity comes from inside
For that is where it counts.

The job I do may not be right,
But still it must be done.
I'll sort your darkness from your light
And hope the war is won.

Another class is to be quartered,
My task decides just how.
Hogwarts unity restarted.
Begin the sorting now.

With that, the Hat fell silent and still. It received a healthy round of applause, but also a rumble of comments and whispering. If the Hat's song last year had been political - a plea for unity - the Hat's song this year was more. The plea remained, but the Hat touched upon current events. It did so in typically inscrutable fashion, with some of its references incomprehensible even to those who read the Prophet every day. The friends' comments were typical, if somewhat better informed.

“That part about Slytherin holding Gryffindor captive has to be about Harry,” Neville commented as he eyed that Hat peculiarly.

“Everyone knows You-Know-Who's the bloody scion of Slytherin,” Ron agreed.

“But what's that part about an unsuccessful rescue?” Ginny asked, her face furrowed with worry over Hermione.

“Don't rightly know,” Neville answered, “and what's this unknown, immense power that's soon to be unleashed?”

“Dunno,” Ron offered helpfully, “any more than I know what a lightspeed is….”

All conversation ceased as Professor McGonagall, apparently assuming both her normal role and that of acting Headmistress, pulled out the parchment upon which the First-Year roster was inscribed. She began calling the names:

“Accrington, Eban.”

A frightened, brown-haired boy with a pudding basin haircut was pushed forward by his compatriots. Having no idea what to do, he approached McGonagall rather than the Hat. She sternly pointed one finger in the direction of the Hat. The boy trotted over to the stool and picked up the Hat like it was something radioactive. Whilst the boy was looking it over, someone yelled out, “Put it on your head, it's a hat.” The boy did. The Hat squinted in concentration for a moment, and then shouted, “RAVENCLAW!”

“Bloke didn't seem all that clever to me,” Ron commented lazily.

Alexander Ayers went to Slytherin, prompting the first applause from that table. Neville looked over, and instead of seeing the depleted numbers he expected, noticed several older boys he had never seen before.

Calvin Beamish became the first new Gryffindor, and the table duly erupted in loud whoops and applause. In due course, he was joined by Evelyn Cavendish, Mark Evans, and Seamus Finnigan's little brother Éamon.

As the line of First Years shortened, Ron spoke for the group when he remarked that he was past being ready for the meal to start. Ginny and Neville could not have agreed more with those sentiments. They had been trapped in the overly long Prefect meeting on the train, and being first-timers, had not thought to purchase anything from the trolley beforehand. Everyone was relieved when “Zwicky, III, Fritz” became a Ravenclaw, because it meant they were that much closer to the feast.

Professor McGonagall collected the Hat and the stool and brought it to the head table, where Argus Filch, the Squib caretaker, took them from her and disappeared out the side door. She then climbed around the back and took Dumbledore's ordinary place in the centre.

Looking nervous and somewhat distracted, McGonagall stood before the assembled staff and students, took a deep breath, and assumed the Headmaster's customary role of opening the feast.

“I am happy to welcome back all of our returning students. I trust and expect that our latest entering class will take its place in the long black line of Hogwarts students and graduates that has furnished indispensable leadership to Magical Britain for almost a millennium.”

“Ordinarily, I would free you to begin your feast without further ado, but I wish to assure you that I am only a temporary stand in. Headmaster Dumbledore sends his regrets, but he has been unexpectedly delayed and was unable to attend the Opening Ceremony. He is hoping to be back sometime later this evening, perhaps early enough to address you all.”

“Also since there are several of them, and they would like to share in the feast as well, I would like to introduce our new staff members,” Professor McGonagall declared. “First, our new Potions master and Head of Slytherin House, Horace Slughorn.”

Most of the students looked at each other questioningly. They had never heard of him before. The few who had, knew him from their parents as the former Hogwarts Potionsmaster who preceded Professor Snape - and as an inveterate fixer for those students he chose to favour.

He was as different from Professor Snape as night from day. For one thing, he was fat - one of the few things Snape could not be accused of. Instead of the severe black robes Snape preferred, Professor Slughorn favoured rich deep green dress robes trimmed with silver fox fur, in the colours of his house. He also knew how to smile, something else foreign to his predecessor in the position. With a brief wave, Professor Slughorn sat back down.

“I would also like to introduce our new instructor of Defence Against The Dark Arts, Professor Kingsley Shacklebolt….” The Acting Headmistress proceeded to provide the ex-Auror's biographical highlights.

“Stealthy, that one is,” remarked Ron. “I didn't see him come in.”

“He worked with my parents,” Neville replied. “If not in the same class at the ACS, they were close. He could have eventually been Chief Auror, but for some reason quit to come here.”

Almost everyone in the Hall was surprised when, after exchanging a glance with McGonagall, Shak stood to speak.

“I have some more news that you all should know,” Shak's deep voice rolled over the Hall. “All of this will be in tomorrow's Prophet, but you deserve advance notice. We received intelligence today concerning the location where one of your number, Harry Potter, was being held against his will. Headmaster Dumbledore, Professor Flitwick, myself, and many others participated in a rescue attempt earlier this afternoon, whilst you were on your way here. Regrettably, that attempt was unsuccessful….”

Gasps arose from all about the Great Hall.

“…We had the right place, and encountered Voldemort….”

More gasps, although this time from use of that name.

“…along with at least thirty Death Eaters. Whilst we were fully engaged, some of the Death Eaters spirited Mister Potter away to parts unknown. Eventually we defeated the remaining Death Eaters or drove them off. As you might expect, a massive search effort is underway to track down these remnants and to recover the hostage. The Headmaster is now dealing with the repercussions, and is expected back at the Castle in short order.” With that he sat down.

“You don't think…?” began Ron.

“To a logical certainty,” Colin anticipated the comment. “They couldn't keep her away from that with sixteen Hungarian Horntails.”

“I hope she's alright,” Ginny commiserated.

“They didn't rescue Harry, so you can bet your bottom Galleon she's not,” added Neville. No one disputed him.

Professor McGonagall had moved on, but the friends were not really paying attention. They were too worried about both Harry and Hermione to care about some adjunct Charms professor who kept herself so thoroughly obscured by bulky robes as to be unidentifiable, until….

“…with our Ministries allied in the war, we agreed that our respective most prestigious schools of magic should exchange liaisons,” McGonagall continued. “I present you with the Beauxbatons liaison, Miss Fleur Delacour.…”

With that, the witch in Professor Flitwick's customary seat Vanished the heavy robes that had concealed her and stood before the assembled students in form-fitting French magical officer's robes - deep indigo with red piping at the seams.

Two years before, the same young woman had graced these halls as a contestant in the Triwizard tournament. Now, as then, she remained a stunning example of classic Gallic beauty. She had the same long silver-blonde hair framing her face in bounteous waves and spreading well down her back. She had the same striking light blue eyes, the same high cheekbones, and flawless teeth. Her angelic complexion still seemed more carved from alabaster than a creation of mere mortal flesh.

But Ginny, in particular, noticed something different about her. It was in her eyes, but not of them. The woman no longer had the flighty air of “Phlegm” - the sarcastic nickname the Weasley girl had previously bestowed upon the rather narcissistic Frenchwoman. Ginny could tell that tragedy had changed Fleur. Those eyes held something more substantial than during the Tournament or even during her too-frequent and too-long visits to the Burrow to see Bill. Her eyes now looked mature, even old, as if aged a thousand years. Ginny knew that look - her mum had it too - and knew the reason why. It was the ineffable sadness of a woman who could have the world, but not what she needed the most.

There was more - in the clench of Fleur's jaw, and in the fierce gaze cast by those thousand-year eyes. A determination resided within; almost palpable to those few in the room with the presence of mind to look for it. As Fleur surveyed the crowd of Hogwarts students, she exuded a sense that her time would come, and that woe befall those who did unspeakable things to the ones she cared for most.

“Bonsoir, mes amis,” she started before switching to English. “I `ave been appointed liaison officielle between `Ogwarts and Beauxbatons. For zee duration of zee war our two schools `ave been designated as fraternal by our respective ministries. Zat weell eenvolve a number of activities zat weell be announced een due time. Mes counterpart at Beauxbatons ees Aleecia Speennett.”

Just like that Fleur sat down. Her audience's greeting divided about equally between applause and expressions of affection from the besotted male population of the Castle. One other thing that had not changed about Fleur was her Veela powers.

“What a sodding drama queen,” complained Ginny. “Who does she think she is, Diana-bloody-Spencer? She didn't need to conceal herself like that….”

But Neville was paying her no heed. He was too busy gawking at Fleur. Scowling, Ginny pinched him on the cheek to restore him to reality

Across from her Ron was equally glassy-eyed. “Right in one,” he vaguely agreed. “She shouldn't conceal herself at all….”

Ginny gave her older brother a swift kick under the table. “And you, Ronald Weasley, should be watching out for someone else.”

After that, Professor McGonagall did the honours of opening the Welcoming Feast. As always, delectable piles of culinary delights appeared by magic before all the diners. This year, however, the mood was anything but celebratory. Harry's absence seemed to depress everyone's spirits - except at the Slytherin table - and the news of the unsuccessful rescue only accentuated the already negative atmosphere.

At the Gryffindor table, Hermione's absence raised additional concerns. “All right, what do you know?” Ron asked Colin in a conspiratorial undertone.

“Not much, sorry to say,” Colin responded. “She was here early this morning, with Luna. They made a really major breakthrough. Then she went somewhere she wouldn't say. Then she was back, with news that Dumbledore was going to help somehow.”

“Doubt it was Hermione … that turned him around, I mean,” commented Neville between bites. “I'll bet it was that ransom demand. It gave Dumbledore a bloody deadline and he was out of bloody ideas….”

“Whatever,” Ginny responded to her boyfriend. “I'd much rather have the Headmaster's experience and skill, whatever his motives.”

“Anyway,” continued Colin, “Dumbledore himself told the two of us, and Luna, that he would be casting the spells. We asked if we could watch, but he said only Luna.”

Ron spluttered, “What about us…?”

“He didn't say,” Colin replied. “He seemed preoccupied, and not all there. But that wasn't the end of it….”

“I'd love to know what could top that news,” Ron remarked.

“How about Hermione riding that broom of hers at breakneck speed though the Castle?” Dennis commented.

“What?” blurted out Ron, Ginny, and Neville in incredulous unison. Hermione's aversion to flying was well known.

Ron continued, “You mean Hermione's got the same wicked model broom Harry has? What a bloody waste of a broom that is. She hardly flies at all….”

“RON!!” yelled an enraged Ginny.

“Well it's true!” replied Ron with certitude.

“Back to the point,” Dennis broke in, “Colin wasn't there. He was moving some of our equipment to the Common Room, when Hermione came blasting in, astride that V-shaped broom, as mad as I've ever seen her. She took a couple of things from her flat, and stormed out again. I don't think she ever dismounted. I asked what was going on, but all she did was mutter about Dumbledore, so maybe he reneged.”

“If he did,” Neville vowed, “I'm turning in my bloody badge.”

Just as the afters were to be served, McGonagall stood again. The buzz of conversation ceased and the well-satiated student body turned what remained of their attention span to her. Before uttering any of the usual statements about the Forbidden Forest really being forbidden or Filch's new addendum to his banned items list consisting of the entire Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes catalogue, she made an unusual announcement:

“All of the Order of Merlin award winners from the past term are asked to report to the Headmaster's office immediately … to discuss arrangements.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron protested. He looked mournfully at the marzipan fruitcake and custard and clotted cream covered fudge that he was going to miss. Ron grabbed a handful of raspberry tarts as he stood up and left.

One by one, the four students rose and walked to the main exit from the Great Hall. Everyone's eyes were upon them as they strode out. A chorus of whispers swelled behind their backs.

Professor Shacklebolt met them outside the Great Hall. He shushed their urgent questions and led them to their destination.

“Black Diamond of Périgord.”

What they found upon arrival had nothing whatever to do with the Order of Merlin. Instead, Dumbledore and Hermione greeted them. The two could not have presented a starker contrast. Dumbledore was dressed in a heavy travelling cloak. Hermione was clad in a diaphanous white linen dress that reached to her ankles, the only adornment being her Prefect Badge. Dumbledore looked very old, tired, and windswept. He was wearing some ugly, heavy gold and black ring.

For her part, Hermione looked as if she had just stepped from a long bath, her hair still wet and her face pink and well-scrubbed. Dumbledore smelled of desperate duels in musty basements. Hermione was redolent of magical bathwater and purifying spells.

Ron's confused look upon seeing those two was shared by all of the summoned students. The Headmaster launched into an explanation before any of them could say a word.

“I have asked you here because momentous events have occurred and will occur,” Dumbledore began. “You, as the closest friends of both Mister Potter and Miss Granger, deserve to know the truth, both about what has happened and what is going to happen.”

“The truth is that you misled and blocked us for the better part of two weeks whilst Harry was being held Merlin knows where,” Ginny spat.

“Correct - for which I can do no more than apologise,” Dumbledore replied. “Miss Granger and I have already discussed this point, and I daresay that if she were as accurate with a shoe as she is with her wand, I would look even worse than I do now. Moreover, my deceptions have continued to this day. There was no temporary obstruction of the drains in the Prefects' bathroom, as some of you were informed on the train today….”

“No obstruction except Hermione, you mean,” Neville corrected, as the penny dropped for him.

“Quite right, as I have discovered that bodily cleanliness is positively associated with the success of the coming venture,” agreed Dumbledore.

“What coming venture?” Ron asked suspiciously.

“In a few hours, the Headmaster will be performing the spells necessary for me to try and locate Harry,” Hermione said boldly. “Since you're my dearest friends, and you all gave so much to help bring this about, I want you to observe the result. Will you…?”

This last offer plainly came as a surprise to the Headmaster, who neither expected, nor desired, a crowd of student observers. He broke in. “I am afraid that is not possible, not on the schedule we are on. This is the first night of the term. We cannot spare the Prefects. I'll allow Mister Weasley to observe since he is not a Prefect, but as for the others….”

WHAM!

Neville slammed his hand down on Dumbledore's desk. When he removed it, a Prefect's badge remained.

“Keep your bloody badge then, I was only your third choice anyway. This is more important.”

Ginny stood and placed her badge next to Neville's. “I stand with Neville,” she declared.

Luna stepped forward and wordlessly added her badge to the others. Before the rather stunned Headmaster had a chance to respond, a fourth badge was levitated in from behind him, landing deftly on top of the rest. “I can do no less,” Hermione declared. The total number of Gryffindor Prefects was thus cut in half.

“All of you are overreacting,” Dumbledore started. “With the staff, I have taken all the precautions necessary….”

“Headmaster, frankly you lost the trust of this group when you hid things from us and thus betrayed Harry,” Hermione harshly admonished. “I've already told you that I'm here only because you're a far stronger and better wizard than anyone else we could hope to recruit. You provide us with a much better chance of success. But don't let that fool you into thinking that this is over between us. It's not by any means.”

“Such impertinence!” came a voice from Hermione's left. “A potential Head Girl who would resign her position? I think not….”

“Taedus!” With a squelching sound, the portrait of Phineas Nigellus was completely covered with gooey black pitch.

Hermione lowered her wand and, her tone deadly, warned the portrait, “One more word out of you, and I'll set you alight.”

“You are not to be denied, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore commented, somewhat alarmed at how the other portraits would react if she carried her threat through. “Impertinence or no, it is not important now, in light of what we must of necessity do together…. Very well, I shall permit everyone here to attend. The services of my Prefects for an entire year are more valuable than their absence for a single night. Now we seem to have gotten altogether far afield from our topic.”

“Yes,” replied Neville, who had started the diversion. “You were going to tell us what's happened, and what's about to. For myself, I'm most interested in your change of heart….”

“Very well,” Dumbledore sighed. “I did not want any of you involved at all, save Miss Granger. But … the truth is, she outflanked me at every turn. Since she was the sole source of contact with Mister Potter, she was indispensable…. However, there was, and is, great resistance to placing any student under Hogwarts' care in danger on anyone's account, even Mister Potter's. To forestall open rebellion whilst still having access to Miss Granger's information, I was forced to engage in a ruse - however, I was found out.”

“Have you ever considered telling the truth?” Ginny exploded. “Or is truth always the last resort with you?”

“Truth about what?” Dumbledore turned to the girl. “About the type of spell that you sought actually existing? All that would have produced, I am sure, was an immediate demand to perform it. I could never have obtained the consent of the rest of my staff without exploring every possible option to placing Miss Granger at such great risk. I had to address that eventuality more than once.”

“On that, he's right,” Hermione broke in - this time defending the Headmaster. “I know myself. I wouldn't have wanted to wait a minute.”

“A confluence of matters finally left me no choice,” Dumbledore continued with his explanation. “Most prominently, everything else had failed. Mister Potter has been extraordinarily well concealed, and the Death Eaters did an amazing job - better than I have ever encountered in decades of fighting them - in concealing their true activities. Not until I saw Voldemort and his forces with my own eyes was I truly convinced that they actually had your friend. Further, the public ransom demand, together with the appeal process governing the eleven convicted Death Eaters, created an implicit deadline. My hand, in short, was forced by the very legal process I had advocated.”

“What do you mean seeing it with your own eyes?” Ron inquired.

“My original plan was to perform the necessary spells on Miss Granger today, before your return. It would have been much simpler without all the students present. However, there was an all too brief reprieve. We received information this morning that disclosed Mister Potter's location….”

“Thus the rescue attempt mentioned during the feast,” Ron commented in a voice that made no attempt to hide his displeasure at not accompanying the erstwhile rescuers.

“Quite,” Dumbledore's expression darkened. “We were informed by a reliable source that Mister Potter was being kept in the catacombs beneath the Malfoy Manor. The Ministry should have secured the place but missed that part of it ….”

“The reliable source was Dobby,” Hermione broke in. “A house-elf … a free house-elf, who because he was free was able to disclose critical information about his evil former masters….”

Ginny cut across Hermione in mid-rant with one of her own. “I will kill that ferret-face! Then I'll kill him a second time just to be sure! Then I'll grind his body into hamburger and feed it to Hagrid's Skrewts!”

“Such extreme measures are unnecessary,” Dumbledore chided. “I have no reason to believe that Mister Malfoy has anything to do with this. He transferred to Durmstrang, and my contacts with that school's administration have confirmed his presence at all relevant times. It was Voldemort. It always is. Whilst I do not profess to understand all of his evil plans at the moment, he unquestionably took Harry. Our rescue party encountered him, in person, and over thirty Death Eaters today - which is why we failed.”

“Wha … What happened?” Neville asked in a faltering voice. Hermione was at least as interested, since despite her nearby presence, she had yet to hear an account of the battle.

“Once we learnt the news early this morning, on very short notice I assembled two squads of Ministry Hit Wizards, some forty Aurors, another dozen or so members of the Order, and several members of the Hogwarts staff. With Dobby showing us the way, we entered the Manor's grounds. After stunning the useless Escheats Office wizards, we had just accessed the lower catacombs through a secret entrance when we encountered Voldemort and a large number of Death Eaters.”

Profound sadness flashed in Dumbledore's eyes. “They were ready for us…. I do not know how…. It probably had something to do with the extensive protections of Malfoy Manor itself. The Death Eaters were in full attack mode the moment they saw us. The on-point squad of Hit Wizards was virtually wiped out. Tragically, only a few survived. I was in the second echelon. We might have met the same fate except Dobby threw up some sort of magical shield that diverted most of the volley of curses aimed for us.…”

Glancing at Hermione, who seemed on the verge of interrupting again, Dumbledore hastened to add, “It was a shield that he could not have conjured had he not been a free elf. The effort of it rendered him unconscious….”

It was not Hermione, but Luna who interrupted. “But how? It's been a basic fact of life for decades that the Killing Curse is unblockable.”

“Unfortunately, Dobby has not discovered a counter to Avada Kedavra,” Dumbledore explained. “Rather, Voldemort has attracted a large number of Chinese wizards to his service of late. We only found out recently, because their practice is to destroy their own bodies if killed in magical combat. With the assistance of Miss Granger's father, who evidently is an excellent marksman, we managed to acquire a corpse of one who died non-magically. These Chinese wizards do not seem to be trained in the Killing Curse. Rather, they use equivalent curses that, whilst deadly, are nevertheless blockable.”

“After our initial losses, the battle evened out. There were numerous skirmishes in the bowels of the Manor, and continued casualties on both sides. The Manor's own protections were evidently tripped, so we were fighting the house itself as well as the Death Eaters. I duelled Voldemort personally for more than fifteen minutes, my longest ever. He and his followers were very determined. We finally had to call in the backup squads guarding the perimeter.”

“It was a calculated risk. We were worried that, the longer the engagement, the more danger to Mister Potter. In a tactical sense it was successful. Our additional numbers drove the Death Eaters away. In a strategic sense, it was a terrible blunder, because calling on the reserves opened up escape routes, which several Death Eaters evidently used to decamp with their hostage. Thus the raid was a failure. Miss Granger was outside Malfoy Manor at the time. She can tell you more, but I must regretfully take my leave for the time being. There are matters I must attend to.”

Hermione was surprised. She thought that the ritual was to begin immediately after this discussion. Standing to block Dumbledore's way, she demanded, “Where are you going, and more importantly, when will you be back? We have precious little time.”

“I know, but I must make an appearance at the Feast before it ends to prevent any panic - particularly once it becomes known that the Ministry has agreed to free the eleven Death Eaters to comply with the ransom demands….”

“WHAT?!?” the entire room (except Hermione) chorused in unison.

“We can always catch more Death Eaters,” Dumbledore responded firmly. “There is, unfortunately, only one Harry Potter. It took every bit of my persuasive powers, but I convinced the Wizengamot to order it. The release has probably already happened.”

“Professor, I for one believe you did the right thing,” Hermione affirmed, daring anyone to contradict her.

Nobody did.

“After showing the flag at the feast, I must deal with the latest diplomatic crisis,” Dumbledore continued. “I expect to return well before tonight's conjunction. I would like the rest of you to remain here. Under no circumstances can your absences delay matters.”

With a flick of his wand, Dumbledore Vanished his desk, and a table, quite like the ones in the Great Hall, only smaller, appeared - laden with all of the desserts offered at the Welcoming Feast, even the marzipan fruit cake.

“Tuck in,” Dumbledore said genially, as he turned to leave.

“Wait one minute,” Hermione called out. “What's this latest crisis?”

At the door, Dumbledore turned his head. “The goblins,” he told her. “They are incensed that they were not informed, given Mister Potter's status. They claim to have an army of 15,000 that they can deploy anywhere in the British Isles in two hours' time. They believe that I botched the job. Unfortunately, they may be right. Please be ready when I return.”

Dumbledore left. Ron practically ran to the dessert table, and most of the others followed. Hermione noticed Luna eyeing her curiously, and wondered what she wanted. Luna was probably the most perceptive person in the room.

“What do the goblins have to do with Harry?” Luna asked. Everyone in the room looked up.

“Harry….” Hermione paused. Harry might be angry with her for revealing this secret, but Dumbledore had basically forced her hand. She would not lie to her friends. “…Harry became a goblin prince over the summer…. A member of their royal family….”

“Bloody Hell,” Ron mumbled through a mouthful of treacle tart. “Seems like everything happens to him.”

“One may think so,” Hermione sighed, thinking about what had not happened over the summer.

“I think we've got some news for you, too,” Ginny mentioned. “From the feast.”

Hermione smiled at her. “Good. I can use to be distracted right now about something that's less than a matter of life and death. I'm so jumpy…. So what's the latest gossip?”

If Hermione were looking for a harmless, girl-talk diversion, she was sadly disappointed. “Fleur Delacour is back at Hogwarts as some sort of liaison from Beauxbatons,” Ginny declared.

There were very few things that Hermione had wanted to know less at that particular moment. All she could remember was how that beautiful, recently widowed (in a manner of speaking) witch had turned her considerable Veela charm on Harry in Reims. Hermione sank into a squashy chair, uncertain whether she would be able to eat her peppermint humbug without being sick.

“Thanks, I really, really needed that,” she groaned to a rather surprised Ginny.

As the evening grew long, the friends all ate until sated. Hermione told everyone the story of how she had discovered Dumbledore's deceptions and confronted the Headmaster (to clucks from the portraits of Dumbledore's predecessors), how Dobby had discovered Harry's whereabouts, and her perspective on the failed rescue mission.

Members of the staff trickled in. Hermione and the others assumed that they had been recruited by Dumbledore to help with the complicated spellwork that would occur later on. Plainly, this was not to be just her and the Headmaster alone in some cave somewhere. Professors Flitwick and Shacklebolt, Madam Pomfrey, and surprisingly Professor McGonagall all entered the room at different times.

Appearing very tight-lipped and uncomfortable, Professor McGonagall approached Hermione and motioned her to a quiet corner of the Headmaster's office.

“I know you're upset with me right now, and you have every right to be,” the Deputy Headmaster said. “I opposed all this, and I still do; tis not bairns' work. But Dumbledore is correct that there is only one Harry Potter….”

That was the second time that this precise expression had been used that evening. It put Hermione even more on edge. She wondered if McGonagall knew the prophecy….

But that was not what Professor McGonagall had come to discuss with her.

“Be that as it may, however,” she continued. “As your Head of House, there are still matters that necessarily fall to me, and this is one of them. I have just received correspondence from your mother. She is back in Britain and wishes to see you. You can certainly imagine why….”

“NO!” Hermione exclaimed loudly enough that everyone else in the room turned and looked at her. She waved them off. This was something solely for herself and McGonagall. “I … I just can't deal with that … right now. Wait till this is over. I need to maintain a clear head for this. Mum … will just drive me crazy. They both abandoned me…. He's now a fugitive from justice. I don't know whether she was involved or not, and right now I can't take time to think about it. Tell her whatever you want, but I don't want to deal with anything having to do with my parents until after I find Harry….”

“Legally, she's still your guardian, you know,” Professor McGonagall reminded the girl. “At least for the few remaining weeks of your minority, she can force matters if she chooses.”

“That's not so; not after Third Year,” Hermione protested. “You of all people know that.”

The older witch looked cross. “And so do you, I gather.”

“I do read,” Hermione said shortly.

“Indeed - I have been reminded.”

“I just don't want to see Mum now,” Hermione pleaded. “I have to stay focussed.”

“Very well, you do indeed,” Professor McGonagall reluctantly agreed. “I will attend to it in accordance with your wishes.”

Finally, Dumbledore returned. He spent about ten minutes in his private quarters cleaning up and getting ready. When he joined the others, he was splendiferous indeed, wearing the same silver-sparked, glittering robe that Hermione had seen in the photograph - the photo in which the Headmaster was now headless.

“Wh … Where do you want me to be?” Hermione asked in an unnaturally small and submissive voice.

“No. Not here.” Dumbledore responded in a voice that seemed magically fortified. He strode purposefully to the door. He was a man on a mission now. “Reverso,” he commanded. The revolving stairs leading up to his office silently reversed their upward direction. “Follow me. We are going to the Founders' Chamber.”

* * * *

Author's notes: “Loose lips sink ships” is a WWII expression for keeping military preparations secret

There are reasons why I have Hermione keep the Valkyrie even though she's terrified of it

The “what you are” line says as much about Dumbledore's understanding as the Death Eaters'

Moody's prediction proves accurate, justifying measures taken to reign in Hermione

When Hermione visited it, the Room of Requirement was unknown to the Healers with whom she worked

Upcoming events will keep Hlr. Huxley quite busy

Note the M.A.S.H. acronym

Ironically, what Hermione did goes against her usual meritocratic outlook

The “face had fled” line is from ELP's “Pirates”

Another hint as to the identity of the Contact

Draco has his own version of the Marauders' Map for Malfoy Manor

Bitter almonds is the distinctive smell of a certain substance

“Sound and fury” is a line from Macbeth

The repeated thud of heavy doors is from the old TV show “Get Smart”

Healing involves the old “humors” from Aristotle and Galen

Rubbing the throat to induce swallowing is a real technique

Hermione's Healer's orders become important later

Aqua vitae is actually an exotic term for distilled spirits

The left ventricle is the driving chamber of the heart

TPW (third-party wizard) and pre-authorization are sarcastic references to managed healthcare

Code is short for code blue, which means threatened with imminent death

Pneumothorax is medical jargon for a collapsed/punctured lung

If she had had the Valkyrie, Hermione would have given lone chase, thus doing precisely what the OOTP intended to prevent all along

Carmichael seemed to have good enough grades in OOP to get the Head Boy post. I try not to go with the usual fanfic choices

Hagrid, of course, is displeased that he was not invited to go on the raid

In case you didn't catch it, Colin is the other Fifth-Year Gryffindor Prefect

As usual, there are all sorts of clues, predictions, and conundrums in the Sorting Hat's song. The organization of the rhymes themselves is telling

Accrington is a randomly chosen British place name

The new Slytherins' presence will be explained

Seamus' brother's name comes from Éamon de Valera, a president of Ireland

Fritz Zwicky is a well known astrophysicist from the mid-twentieth century

“Long black line” is a play on the “long gray line” used to describe West Point cadets

Again, ACS = Auror Candidate School

Exactly how much of an example of Gallic beauty Fleur is will be revealed

Thousand year eyes are from Earth's Children - used to describe Ayla

Marzipan fruitcake was served at Queen Victoria's wedding

Dumbledore's ring, of course, is an HBP addition

Neville is getting more assertive

Given what Hermione thinks she knows about the prophecy - and about Harry's parents - it certainly is not over between her and Dumbledore

Taedus comes from a Latin word for sap

Voldemort's coincidental presence convinces Dumbledore wrongly that he was responsible for Harry's kidnapping - an unsurprising misconception that helps Draco greatly later on

As some of you anticipated, the Escheats Office's failure opened the door to much mischief

“On point” in this context, means leading the assault. They weren't ballerinas

Thus the goblins reappear - incensed at wizard blundering, and demanding a more proactive role. They get it

Given what happens, Hermione's mother will be a major complicating factor

61

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch34 found and lost.doc 05/15/05

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35. Ground Zero

Wherein the Founder's Chamber is utilized, the gnomon-cenotaph is explained, Dumbledore casts a series of spells on Hermione, Hermione searches for Harry and tells off Dumbledore and McGonagall, the plotters quarrel, Harry purges himself, the Dark Lord summons the plotters, the plotters obey, Hermione is interrogated, the Creeveys sell their first computer, Harry escapes with some unusual assistance, but then doesn't get away, and Hermione finally gets through to Harry.

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

Chapter 35 - Ground Zero

With an air of nervous expectation, the motley crew of students and professors followed the Headmaster down the stairs. None of the professors - evidently save Dumbledore - had ever seen this mysterious chamber. Only one of the students had even heard of it; that exception being obvious.

“Hermione,” Ron whispered as they passed the rear of the massive gargoyle that guarded the usual entrance, “do you have any idea where we're going? What's this Founders' Chamber?”

“You really do need to sit down and read Hogwarts: A History, Ron,” she chided.

“Nah,” he dismissed the thought, “no reason with you around.”

“Considering what's about to happen, you may wish to find another excuse,” Luna cut across.

“If Dumbledore lets anything to happen to Hermione,” Ron affirmed fiercely, “the last thing in the world I'd ever do is read that book.”

“Even in Hogwarts: A History, the description is unusually vague,” continued Hermione, smiling just a trace at Ron's declaration of loyalty. “The Founders' Chamber dates back to the beginning of the school, perhaps even before. It's somewhere at the bottom of the lowest foundation. Only the Headmaster can use it, and even then only for matters of cosmic importance.”

“I suppose that you being hell-bent to risk your life on the chance that you can reach Harry qualifies as cosmic, then,” Ron observed, his voice midway between jealousy and admiration. “It must be nice to be that important.”

“Ronald!” Hermione replied, thoroughly put out. “It's not like there's much other choice. Even Dumbledore's out of ideas.”

“There is a bloody choice,” Ron declared. “You just won't accept it as an option. I'm sorry; I still don't like it, Hermione. You could die in this attempt. If that happened, it wouldn't matter whether you were successful or not.”

“That's not true!” Hermione protested. “Think about Harry.”

“I am,” Ron shot back. “You know him…. You think about him, too.”

Hermione opened her mouth, but said nothing - possibly because anything she might have said would have led back to her altercation with Harry, or possibly because Dumbledore chose that moment….

“Please do not delay, Miss Granger,” the Headmaster called back over his shoulder. “There can be no dawdling, as we are on an astrologically determined timetable. I shall send the student observers back to their dormitories if they interfere.”

Down, down, down they went. Ever since passing the gargoyle the walls had gradually turned rougher, darker, and more ancient. Just as the surrounding stone surprisingly became smooth and light coloured again, the group came to a chiseled exit passage hewn into the wall of the circular stone staircase. Dumbledore awaited at the exit to escort everyone away from the stairs.

Hermione stopped before passing through. Something was peculiar. The account of the Founders' Chamber in Hogwarts: A History, described this passageway as being beneath everything else. The circular stairway, however, plainly continued downwards. Hermione knew that the book was not 100% accurate - it omitted house-elves after all - but the descending staircase looked much more recent than what they had just descended.

She paused at the exit. “Excuse my curiosity, Headmaster,” she asked, “but what's down there? The histories don't mention anything.”

Dumbledore paused, mulling over the question. “Truly perceptive. I doubt anyone else at the Castle - save perhaps Professor Binns - would even have known to ask. This, you see, is new construction, postdating the most recent publications. It leads to Mister Potter's discovery from your Second Year. Being altogether too significant a find to ignore, it required a much more convenient entrance. I am too old, or perhaps my dignity is too inflated, to be willing to travel by way of the plumbing.”

“House-elves?” Hermione asked.

“House-elves,” Dumbledore confirmed.

The passage was short - only a few metres until another, identical arched stone doorway. Beyond that portal lay the oddest room any of them, save the Headmaster, had ever seen at Hogwarts. It was round, almost a perfectly hemisphere maybe ten metres in diameter, with a domed ceiling half that in height. Whilst solid stone blocks formed the circular walls, the room had no flooring. Rather, floor was roughhewn and cut directly into the Ã¦ons-old basalt upon which the Castle had been built. They had reached bedrock.

The precisely spherical dimensions of the room were interrupted by the straight edges of a massive stone cube, some two metres per side. Carved into that stone were the letters CMXCVII and a number of ancient runes - all inlayed with gold.

Four massive ribbed buttresses spaced at precisely perpendicular angles supported the hemispheric ceiling of the chamber.

At the apex of the dome, where the buttresses came together, a pale white light shone, seemingly disconnected from and independent of any external power source.

The chamber itself was impressive enough, but even more extraordinary was what it contained.

On the floor covering the exact centre of room was a striking irregular block of stone not quite three metres in length and slightly less than half that in width and somewhat less in height. The huge solid mass of lapis lazuli was plainly ancient.

From the moment she set eyes upon it, Hermione was captivated. The highly polished stone glowed iridescent royal blue. It was shot through with random opalescent patterns of olive green interspersed with flecks of gold. Its top contained an asymmetrical, saddle-shaped depression.

This was a semiprecious stone of the highest magical power. In both magical and Muggle traditions, lapis lazuli symbolised, among other things, Truth - so much so that a lapis lazuli storage urn cut the maturation time for Veritaserum from a month to a week.

The entire object seemed to radiate magical energy.

The flattened and slightly concave cavity atop the slab was large enough to accommodate a single recumbent adult with ease.

Runes decorated the sides of the massive stone - scores of them - of the most primordial type. Hermione had studied Ancient Runes. With no trouble, she could read those on the granite cornerstone set in the wall. The runes on the sepulchre itself, however, were far beyond her comprehension, much older and, she presumed, more primitive than anything she had ever encountered. She openly gawked and moved closer to examine them.

It was Luna, rather than Hermione, who recognised the stone for what it was. “Headmaster, this has to be the gnomon-cenotaph, which my people believe to have disappeared almost two thousand years ago.” She sank to her knees.

Hermione gasped.

“Very good, Miss Lovegood,” Dumbledore praised. “That will be twenty-five points to Ravenclaw - a good start for the year. May I ask you how you knew?”

“My family has practiced Druidism for many generations,” Luna replied, still on her knees. “The lost gnomon-cenotaph is our holiest of holies. Its disappearance is the greatest mystery of my native culture.”

“But…. But…. A gnomon casts the shadow for a sundial, and a cenotaph is a grave,” Hermione pointed out. “We must be quite a few metres below ground level, and it would be impossible to bury anyone in the solid rock underneath. How could this be either a gnomon or a cenotaph?”

“It no longer serves the same function as it did before it went missing,” Professor Flitwick remarked. “Perhaps Miss Lovegood would care to try for some more points for her house?”

She did. “The stone of the gnomon-cenotaph supposedly was found by the original Magiarchs. In Druid folklore, the gnomon-cenotaph was carved from a single block of lapis lazuli obtained in magical trade from the Setem of Seshat - wizard priests of ancient, pre-Dynastic Egypt. The earliest Druids, before the beginning of recorded history, traded the information that became the Book of Gates to the ur-Egyptians in return for the original block of raw blue stone.”

“In honour of this stone, Druid warriors traditionally painted themselves blue in preparation for possible death in battle. For over a hundred generations, it graced the precise center of the Stonehenge megalith. When raised vertically, it served as gnomon for astrological purposes. When placed horizontally, as it is now, it served as the altar at which Druidic high priestesses were sanctified, and the cenotaph upon which the bodies of deceased high priestesses were cremated. The high priestesses maintained the Stonehenge structure, and may have built it - the legends are contradictory….”

“Luna, I know this is your field, but that can't be right, can it?” questioned Hermione. “Parts of the stone are inlaid with iron, and iron was unknown at that time - it hadn't been smelted yet.”

“Oh, it's iron, all right,” Luna agreed. “Take a closer look though.”

Hermione squinted at several places on the stone where obviously cold-forged iron had been pounded into carved depressions. “Oh, my, you're right … the interleaved ribbons! This is meteoric iron! To the ancients, this was the most prized mineral of all.”

“Take another ten points, Miss Lovegood,” Dumbledore intoned indulgently, “and five points for Miss Granger for recognition of the iron.”

Luna moved forward and touched the azure and gold surface reverently. “How did it find its way here?” she asked.

“The gnomon-cenotaph graced Stonehenge for thousands of years until the Emperor Claudius Britannicus defeated the Druids,” Dumbledore answered. “Rather than allow this object of supreme magical power fall into the hands of invading enemies, before her death the last Druid high priestess ordered it removed from Stonehenge and transported north. Here is as far as it went. On this site Pict barbarians massacred the leaderless Druids to the last person. Thereafter, the gnomon-cenotaph was forgotten save a few practitioners of magic who could sense its power. The presence of the gnomon-cenotaph upon this spot long predates Hogwarts. This stone is the reason the Founders built Hogwarts upon this precise location. The Castle was built around it. The other block you see is the cornerstone of the Castle.”

Dumbledore's history extended until the conjunction was nigh. He turned to Madam Pomfrey, “Are you ready to proceed?”

“I am prepared to proceed,” she responded. “You know my feelings concerning this matter.”

“Carry on, then,” Dumbledore commanded.

With a wave of her wand, Madam Pomfrey brought forward a carefully wrapped bundle of magical medical supplies. The wrapping was a gauzy blanket, translucent, almost like solidified smoke, through which ran innumerable filigreed golden strands. She flattened the Ã¦rogel over the cavity in the gnomon-cenotaph. With a muttered incantation and a twisting movement of her wand, the golden strands began to glow and the gel expanded until it was some ten centimetres thick. At the head of it Madam Pomfrey placed a pillow with several strands extending from the underside. She inserted tapered, transparent crystals into sockets at the ends of these strands. Finally, she placed the crystals in bowls of glowing golden liquid and arranged them in precise locations on the floor.

“In you go, then,” she said to Hermione.

Careful to avoid disturbing anything, Hermione turned her wand inward and levitated herself into the cavity. Madam Pomfrey adjusted the pillow slightly and rearranged the girl's arms and legs until they were just so. She turned to Professor McGonagall and asked, “Does that look proper to you?”

Wearily, the professor nodded her head and monosyllabically affirmed that the arrangement was correct.

Madam Pomfrey continued her preparations. Along the imaginary lines extending from Hermione's splayed limbs, she set up a matching series of talismans: open bowls of aromatic oil, intricately carved red stones, wrought yellow gold statuettes, magnetite covered with iron filings, and at the end, purplish amethyst crystals half a metre high. The nurse uttered a spell that caused a small blue flame to erupt from the end of her wand. Magically redirected into a jet, the blue flame circled Hermione and set the bowls of aromatic oil alight.

“All is ready, Headmaster,” Madam Pomfrey reported.

“Miss Granger, are you ready to begin?” Dumbledore asked the girl in the centre of it all.

“I am,” she replied.

“Mister Weasley, stand behind me, as close to the wall as you can,” the Headmaster directed. “Miss Weasley, do the same behind Poppy. Miss Lovegood, behind Filius; and Mister Longbottom, behind Minerva. Whatever happens, do not move unless and until I tell you. The magic you are about to witness is complicated and easily disrupted.”

Hermione lay still on the incredibly soft cushion, almost as if floating on air. Not wishing to move a muscle or do anything else that might disturb the spellwork, she stared unblinkingly at the soft glowing white light suspended directly above her in the centre of the hemisphere.

She heard Dumbledore intoning the phrases that invoked the Psycho Patefacius spell.

In the periphery of her sight she could barely detect the faint bluish glow from the lapis lazuli altar underneath her.

Once again Luna silently dropped to her knees - this time to bear witness. She stared intently at the Headmaster as he proceeded with the incantation. Just before his magic reached its climax, Dumbledore nodded his head in Luna's direction, and unmistakably winked at her. Luna was surprised he had even noticed. She had taken care to be unobtrusive.

Hermione flinched ever so slightly as a halo of white light passed over her, representing the initiation of the spell. This first part was the most dangerous of all. She closed her eyes. A wave of warmth passed through her brain - as if she had fainted, but not really. In the next instant her mind seemed to expand to infinity. She opened her eyes….

There was nothing there. The ceiling of the chamber, and the entire hundred-metre Hogwarts tower that rose above it had vanished completely. Instead the waning gibbous moon and the brighter stars were visible.

She could still see the four ribs that had supported the ceiling, only they no longer joined at the apex. Now they ended just within of Hermione's field of vision, and from the severed end of each rib emerged a shaft of coloured light. The four beams soared skyward towards the infinite heavens above - rich crimson, golden yellow, deep glowing blue and vivid emerald green.

The beams streaked through the sky and joined at the zenith in a blaze of pure white light. Rather than an orb, however, this light formed a spiral - a luminous, slowly rotating vortex. Hermione was drawn to the indescribably beautiful, three-dimensional image. It resembled nothing so much as a pinwheel galaxy, an island universe in the void of space.

Hermione felt a squeeze on her left hand. Professor McGonagall's urgent voice sounded like a far away echo, “Miss Granger, if you hear me, please, please squeeze back if you can. Don't try to say anything.”

Hermione returned the squeeze.

“Oh thank Merlin,” Hermione heard McGonagall's voice softly reverberate. “She's survived intact…. Miss Granger, I'm going to let go now, and return to my place,” Professor McGonagall told the girl. “It's time for the second stage.”

Professor McGonagall's hand fell away, and Hermione refocused on the glowing whorl above her. She heard Dumbledore's voice incanting again in the background. It felt like she was spinning - rotating in synchrony with the slowly turning whirlpool of light. Either she was rising towards its centre, or the vortex was descending upon her. She could not tell which. She and the spinning silver helix approached ever closer….

At the moment they met, everything became black one instant and exploded into a fountain of light in the next.

Hermione closed her eyes, and then opened them again. It hardly mattered. Either way she saw the same lustrous geysers of multi-coloured pixels. Except now she was no longer an observer, but a participant. She had passed into the fountain and become one with it. Everything surged about her chaotically. She swirled around and around, surrounded on all sides by particles of light that pulsated, scintillated, combined, separated, and recombined in infinite patterns. To stabilize herself, she tried concentrating on an individual photon. She could not hold it for long, but it appeared to contain an image of Crookshanks, her cat.

She focused on another pixel flying by. Briefly she made out Agatha Castelreigh, her best friend - practically her only friend - when she was eight years old. Orbiting Hermione like a swarm of fireflies were countless visual snippets from her life, flitting here and zooming there in a cloud of expanded consciousness.

Hermione started to feel dizzy. She was afraid that she would faint, or even become sick, but before either happened, one of the myriad points of light began glowing more brightly than the rest. Hermione concentrated on that point and her vertigo subsided. The brightest point flitted back and forth as Hermione's conscious thoughts pursued it. It circled and began to close upon her.

It resolved into an image of Harry. It was the first time she ever saw him. He was a lost eleven-year-old boy on the train, shocked that everyone seemed to know who he was - everyone save himself, that is. Almost as soon as Hermione realised what she was seeing, the image began to change…. Like a film on fast forward, Harry began to mature before her very eyes.

He was leaving her to go confront Voldemort and save the Philosopher's stone….

He was scared and confused when everyone thought he was the Heir of Slytherin….

He was smiling broadly at her as she raced to him after emerging from the Basilisk's petrifaction….

He was as pale as death after his first encounter with a Dementor….

He was gazing meaningfully into her eyes as she draped the Time Turner around them both….

He had a stunned look on his face just after Dumbledore read his name from a bit of parchment that emerged from the Goblet of Fire….

He was sitting dispiritedly in the Hospital Wing after escaping death at the hands of a newly arisen Voldemort….

He was glaring at her with barely controlled fury at Grimmauld Place….

He was staring down at her in open-mouthed panic as she crumpled to the floor in the Department of Mysteries after being struck by Dolohov's curse….

He was twirling her around and around in the Dursley's front garden, a look of unconscious joy on his face, after she returned from Hong Kong….

He was kissing her in Hyde Park like he really meant it….

He was regarding her with hurt and despair etched into his face as she told him she did not want to see him again….

Hermione cried out - or thought she did, “No, Harry, don't go!”

A blinding pink flash obliterated everything. When it faded, she was back where her journey started - staring up at the four beams of light representing the Founders' houses as they joined together above her in the night sky. All was calm again, except … except that among the stars, softly glowing like its own constellation…. She saw a faint image of Harry. It was an exact rendition of the adult Harry shown to her by the Mirror of Erised.

She once again heard Dumbledore's voice in the background. “Are you back Hermione … er … Miss Granger?”

This time Hermione could speak. “Yes…. At least I think so.”

She was now fully conscious. All around her, she heard people exhaling sighs of relief. She heard the soft comment, “Now, that was different,” in what sounded like Professor McGonagall's voice.

“It is time for the third, and most difficult, spell,” Dumbledore instructed. “If you please, Filius.”

Professor Flitwick approached Hermione with the Ma Huang potion in an onyx bowl inlaid with intricate, intertwined runic designs. Hermione looked in the bowl as she received it from the Charms professor. The potion within glowed white. At her touch, however, it changed to a soft pink - the same colour pink as the flash that had ended her journey through the Locus Personum spell.

“Drink it all down, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore instructed her. “And when you feel the Mentanarus flow over you, concentrate on Mister Potter's image like your life depends upon it - because it will.”

That Ma Huang potion was perhaps the foulest tasting and acrid smelling potion Hermione had ever encountered. It reminded her of petroleum and reeked of sulphur. Avoiding her tongue as much as possible, she poured the gooey substance directly down her throat. Once again she thought she might be sick. The delicate bowl fell from her hands when she finished and shattered on the rough bedrock floor. She immediately flopped back into her supine position.

Dumbledore's latest incantation began ringing in her ears.

Just in time she spotted Harry's ghostly image still suspended in the starry sky. She stared at it as a whooshing sound arose behind her, from the direction of Dumbledore's voice. It grew louder and louder, becoming a full-throated roar. It burst over Hermione with the force of a torrent in full flood and carried her with it helplessly. Over and over she tumbled. She was being dashed hither and yon, colliding erratically with large objects that she could not see.

Through it all she focused on the image of Harry. The more roughly she was battered, the brighter and more distinct the image became.

Hermione now felt the sensation of great speed. She was rushing along with the torrent now, totally out of control. At times she sensed she might suffocate, and that she would drown if she tried to breathe. She consciously willed herself to take each breath, her logic and her research telling her she must - triumphing over her reflexes.

The surrounding clamour rose to a furious climax and then abruptly faded away. Hermione perceived herself flung into space. Beneath her, opposite Harry's image, she saw what looked like a massive waterfall drop away as she hurtled through space beyond it. She was falling, falling, falling…. Below was an immense crowd of people - more people than she had ever seen in one place at the same time. The multitudes stretched away before her, rank upon rank and row upon row, in all directions. There must be millions….

She tumbled towards the crowd. Where was Harry? In her fascination with the crowd before her, she had lost her focus on Harry. She needed Harry to survive. Frantically she looked this way and that. She writhed in midair as she searched for his image. The crowd was rapidly resolving into individuals as she dropped towards it. `Where is Harry? I'll die if I don't find him. He'll die if I don't find him,' she thought.

Desperately, she screamed, “Harry!! Where are you?!? Help me!!”

She was very close to the crowd now - and lost without Harry. The ground was rushing up to meet her. This was the end….

There was Harry in the crowd. Hermione's heart almost burst with a rush of relief and affection. He was going to catch her. He always caught her.

Harry did catch her - the adult Harry of her greatest desire. He was holding her now. She was in his arms. He bent down to kiss her…. She could feel his breath on her cheeks….

The image dissolved. Hermione was back in the Founders' Chamber with a buzz at the edge of her consciousness - the faint babble of an infinite number of voices that she could not make out. It neither overwhelmed her nor felt threatening. The power of the magic kept the cacophony of innumerable other consciousnesses at bay. Her senses were clear, as was her mind. She felt at once a part of everything, yet she remained separate and distinct.

Hermione opened her eyes again. Both Dumbledore and McGonagall's faces hovered over her; their expressions revealing unalloyed worry and concern. The Headmaster had his arms spread straight out, as if blocking something (or someone) behind him.

Both of them whispered to her in pleading voices, “Did you find Mister Potter? Did you stay with him?”

Weakly she nodded.

“Thank Merlin,” Dumbledore affirmed in a low rumbling voice, sounding most relieved. “You started convulsing at the end. You shouted his name…. For a moment, I thought we'd lost you.”

Hermione smiled for the first time during her ordeal. “Well, you didn't,” she replied, “and I think you're going to be stuck with me for another two years.”

“At least,” McGonagall added. “Are you ready for the easiest part, and then to search?”

“As ready as I'll ever be,” Hermione replied. “Let's do it.”

“You remember your lines for the incantation?” Dumbledore asked her.

“Like I'd forget the most important words I've ever had to say?” Hermione shot back confidently. She had survived the worst.

For the first time this evening, she saw the twinkle reappear in the Headmaster's eyes. “Very well,” he said. “We continue.”

“Out of the darkness and into the light,

One seeks out the other for all that is right.

There is no tomorrow, no day and no night -”

That was the cue for Hermione to answer.

“The searcher is ready. Her conscience is steady.”

Dumbledore continued,

“Triumph of antipathy lasts not forever.

We beseech the Founders to aid this endeavor.

The link of these two no evil can sever.”

Hermione recited,

“As long as she lives, the searcher will give.”

Dumbledore launched into the final stanza,

“The wheel it has turned, the seeker is sought.

Return of the captive at high price is bought.

No ward can resist, all opposition for naught.”

Hermione responded with her final line:

“The searcher replete. The two souls will meet.”

She collapsed back into the smoky mattress on which she lay. Now she felt hot. She was sweating profusely. Suddenly her arms, and her legs, lost their form - or so it seemed. Her extremities seemed to extend endlessly in all directions, touching, feeling, and sensing far beyond their previous limits. She had become the searcher. It was time for her to embark upon the mission that had been her obsession since the moment, weeks before, when she had first realised that Harry was still alive.

Hermione became aware of a swirling wind. As before, she started to spin, but this time more gently. Whilst the magic of Hyperanimus Familiaris provided the motive force, Hermione now controlled it. Finally, she could command the magic. It did not control her.

She sensed that she was ascending - rising above the walls of Hogwarts Castle - freed into the immensity of the night. Far in the distance, she heard Dumbledore's parting words, “Go forth and seek him out.”

The sensations were at once strange and familiar. Hermione felt like she was flying, but it was not at all the same feeling as being on a broom. Not even the powerful Valkyrie felt anything like this. There was darkness around her, but it shaded into grey, then green. Her surroundings began gleaming, and became prismatic.

Hermione perceived swifter motion, but could not see anything. She found herself enveloped in a polychromatic cloud. Relentlessly, she concentrated on Harry. Using her arms, as if piloting herself, she willed herself into the same pattern she had used on the Valkyrie when tracking Harry's ultimately spurious signal on that fateful night. She circled, tracing an ever-expanding spiral over the hidden countryside.

At last she came across something recognisable. In an unconscious, instinctual act she set her mind's eye upon it and burst forth. Her sensation of speed again increased. The haze that surrounded shredded and started falling away. She was flying over a dark, dimly illuminated landscape. She saw the sky and tried to take her bearings. She was streaking towards whatever it was, and needed to know where she was going.

Something was not quite right. Hermione knew her astronomy. She had been revising much of the summer for the retake of her practical examination. The stars were all there, as were the moon and the planets, but the sky seemed to be in the wrong place. For a frantic moment, she thought she must be over North Africa or some such, but the green and pleasant terrain was still typical for the British Isles.

Then it hit her. The North Star - Polaris - was not at true north. Taking its place, although not as accurately, was brilliant, blue-white Vega. What in Merlin's name was happening? Hermione did not have time to think about the implications. Mentally, she substituted Vega for Polaris and took her bearings. She was hurtling south and west towards something…. Exactly what, she did not know. In her bones she knew it had something to do with Harry.

The beacon she pursued strengthened. She willed herself to greater and greater speed. As she accelerated, the nacreous remnants accompanying her elongated. They stretched into a thin iridescent strand that shone with all the colours of the rainbow. Hermione dove into it and it became her path.

Now Hermione was pelting through a thin translucent tunnel that stretched out before her as far as her eyes could see. At the end was a tiny, flickering green beacon - the colour of Harry's eyes - drawing her in. The sides of her passage were thin and filmy, like a soap bubble. However, before she reached the beacon, it suddenly disappeared without warning, leaving only a black void before her. Instinctively, she veered away and soared through the side of the tunnel.

Bursting through, she encountered first a harsh white light and then bone-chilling cold. She started to tumble, but quickly righted herself. Throwing her arms and legs out, she brought herself to a stop - at least it seemed like a stop. The perception of overwhelming motion was replaced by the more familiar feeling of floating in midair.

Hermione took in the vista that lay before her. She was seaside somewhere. There were crags and cliffs extending towards the horizon in both directions. Dead reckoning from the stars, she thought that the sea was to the west and the land to the east. It was probably the Irish Sea, Hermione guesstimated.

Willing herself forward, once again, Hermione circled the area. She found nothing, only the most indistinct of shadows where there had once been a signal. The beacon had been extinguished. Whilst unfortunate, it was not unexpected. For Hyperanimus Familiaris to succeed, the person being sought had to be conscious. Harry had been conscious only sparingly over the past two weeks.

Was he dead? Hermione did not think so. The sensations she had received over their affinity, even though accentuated by the spellwork, had been basically the same as several times before. In all likelihood Harry had only been stunned. He would wake again in time - and when he did, she would be ready.

“Uhmmm…. Urrrrrgh.” After two hours, the linen-clad girl began to stir.

Almost instantly the terrifically relieved onlookers beset her.

“Oh, Hermione, thank Merlin….”

“Miss Granger, at last you're back….”

“Oi, Hermione! Wake up….”

Her eyes flickered open, and above her she saw the concerned faces of the Headmaster, her Head of House, Madam Pomfrey, and - jostling for position - her friends.

A furious look from Madam Pomfrey silenced all the rest, “Miss Granger, can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“How do you feel? Do you know where you are?”

Hermione tried to sit up, but felt a firm hand on her shoulder, and immediately ceased the attempt. She looked up and saw the now familiar stone ceiling of the Founders' Chamber firmly in place. “I'm back. I feel tired, but all here…. I can see, hear and” … sniff … “smell. I'm very hungry….”

Madam Pomfrey sighed deeply. “We've been blessed tonight … she's back, and apparently in one piece.”

“Now, we should find out if this great gamble paid off,” Dumbledore remarked. “Miss Granger, if you can, please tell us whether you reached Mister Potter.”

“I … I sensed him….” the girl answered. “It was definitely him. He's still alive. I know it. I followed him, but he wasn't conscious long enough for me to reach him. I lost his signal before getting all the way there…. I was somewhere along the West Coast, I think along the Irish Sea, when he went missing again.”

“We shall concentrate our search on that area, and south,” Dumbledore advised. “Now it is time for these students to retire for what little remains of the night.”

Professor Flitwick showed Ron, Ginny and Luna out, but Madam Pomfrey had instructions for Hermione. “Miss Granger, Albus has left word with all of your instructors that you are to be excused immediately at any time you desire over the next week….”

“I trust you will not abuse this privilege,” Professor McGonagall interrupted.

“Of course not,” Hermione replied, some annoyance creeping into her voice.

Ignoring the interruptions, Madam Pomfrey continued. “As soon as you sense that Mister Potter is conscious, come to the Hospital Wing immediately. Here are several special voice-activated Portkeys. Just break the seal and say `infirmary.' I have a special bed already fitted with the talismans and charms necessary for your safety. You can conduct your searches in privacy from there.”

“Excellent” answered the girl, as Madam Pomfrey helped her down from the gnomon-cenotaph. However, Hermione had something she needed to say before they left.

“Headmaster, although I'm grateful for your assistance, even if grudging, I want to make sure that we understand each other … about other matters….”

“Yes, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore replied cautiously. “Is there something you believe that I still do not understand?”

“I believe there is,” she continued. “I don't want you to have any illusions that this is over. It is not … not by any measure.”

“What do you mean, Miss Granger?” the Headmaster asked.

Trying to find the right words, Hermione explained, “If … WHEN … I find Harry and get him back…. You need to know, I won't let him be led off to die…. I will fight you for him. I mean it.”

“I have no intention of fighting you, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said perplexedly. Truthfully, it was the farthest thing from his mind.

“I'm sorry…. I … I … I really wish I could believe you, but I can't…. I'm not asking you to tell me Harry's prophecy. I frankly don't give a damn what it says,” Hermione declared, finding her voice again. “I will fight you … anyone … who tries to induce Harry to sacrifice his life for the supposed greater good. I will not permit it as long as there is a breath left in my body. There has to be another way….”

“Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall cut in. “I don't think you know what you're talking about. You don't understand….”

“Don't you tell me I don't understand,” Hermione responded fiercely. More than anyone, McGonagall had been responsible for the obstacles that had been put in her path. “I understand more than you think. With all due respect, neither of you is as good at keeping secrets from me as you suppose…. I thought you would have realised that by now.”

“Miss Granger, please,” Dumbledore interjected. “I shall be certain to have a word with Mister Potter as soon as he is safe and among friends, but I think that you are mistaken….”

“Don't treat me like an ignorant First Year,” Hermione warned. “It becomes neither you nor me. Let's see who's mistaken, here. I don't expect you to answer this, and you may be doing it for the best of reasons, I don't know…. But I am almost certain that you are still keeping secrets concerning certain matters relating to Harry that are extremely important to him. He needs the truth. I intend to have a word with him too….”

“But Miss Granger, surely you understand….”

Hermione was not to be denied. Her voice bordered on insolence. “…I believe I do, but Harry's well-being is more important. If you ever want him to trust you again, you simply have to change course. If you don't tell him first, I will, and you know how he will react….”

Just as Hermione thought, Headmaster Dumbledore ultimately said nothing. His face creased in anguish, it briefly appeared that he might actually break his silence. But although his lips quivered, in the end Dumbledore stoically repressed that urge. They settled for staring at one another - in silent affirmation of just what was being concealed, and how. He tried to assess her knowledge, as she did the same with his discomfort.

Another voice spoke. “Miss Granger, this is neither the time nor the place….”

Hermione rounded on Professor McGonagall, “Then the time and place had best be found, and soon,” she shot back. “Truth needs to be something more than a last resort…. Look, I'm sorry about what happened to your sister, but that gave you no right to try to take my choice from me…. You can't let your regrets control my decisions.”

It was Professor McGonagall's turn to stare dumbfounded at Hermione. Her lips narrowed for a moment, then her stoic countenance shattered. She, too, wore an expression of astonished anguish. Tears welled up in the professor's eyes, and it took all of her ninety years to avoid losing her composure before a student. After a short pause that seemed to go on forever, the Gryffindor Head of House, choked out, “So, you knew that too…. How?”

“You weren't as successful as you thought in suppressing your sister's sacrifice all those years ago,” Hermione replied. “The healer did publish - but in Ireland, and not in a medical journal. I found … actually Luna found … the article. You were referenced, but not by name. When I checked your name against the roster of Hogwarts Head Girls in the Trophy Room, I knew. I suppose you meant well, but I need protecting less right now than Harry needs rescuing. Please don't make the same mistake twice. I'll be going now….”

With that Hermione turned, and vanished up the stairs.

Professor McGonagall turned to Headmaster Dumbledore and asked, “What can we possibly do now?”

“Try to rescue Mister Potter, of course,” Dumbledore replied. “Nothing is more important. However, assuming that is accomplished, I am afraid I need to have a chat with him. Miss Granger is right. Mister Potter needs to know the truth, even if it creates more complications. Miss Granger needs to know the truth, too.”

In a hushed voice, Professor McGonagall asked, “So you're going to inform her of what the prophecy really says?”

“Just as the time came when you needed to know the prophecy, I think the time has come for Miss Granger to know it as well,” Dumbledore replied. “But it is Mister Potter's place, not mine, to tell her. I shall recommend just that the next time I see him.”

* * * *

Draco Malfoy and the other fugitive members of Potterless Conspiracy spent a forlorn and horrible night in one of the innumerable sea caves pock-marking the southwestern Welsh coast. The hollow was dank, drafty, and reeked of dead fish and sea bird droppings - and those were its good points.

Far worse were the conspirators' inability to use any significant magic to improve their situation. They were well aware that they were undoubtedly the subjects of one of the largest manhunts in modern Ministry history. Thus, Malfoy, Nott, and Crabbe had to avoid using any spells that might attract the slightest attention.

Crabbe had been forced to collect driftwood for a fire rather than use a Warming Charm.

To feed the Thestrals, Nott had to climb to the top of the cliffs, shoot an unfortunate dairy cow with his Muggle pistol, and push it over the side. It would have been so much easier to use a Killing Curse on one of the numerous Grey Seals that frolicked in the nearby Cardigan Bay - but that would have attracted Ministry attention.

Finally, all three of them were forced to gather dried seaweed, bits of Muggle polystyrene, and anything else they could find to kip on for the night. In the early morning hours, Malfoy and Nott were sleeping fitfully in their robes, fighting a losing battle to stay comfortable. Crabbe, who had drawn the graveyard shift for guarding their hostage, had actually found a more comfortable place to sleep - or perhaps he was just a deeper sleeper.

Whatever the reason, the outcome was fortunate for Harry Potter.

“Urrrghhh,” Harry groaned as he first stirred. The dreamless aftermath of the latest Stunning Spell to strike him had gradually resolved into troubled sleep. He had been dreaming - something about being chained in the centre of a bull's eye with Voldemort hurling darts at him - when the dream had become too disturbing and jarred him awake.

Remembering his situation, Harry quickly stifled himself. Then he took stock of his surroundings.

Wherever he was, he was certainly not where he had been. Instead of unyielding steel bars forcing him to remain upright, he was now hanging by his wrists and ankles. They were bound together, meaning he was suspended from some sort of bar. Instead of manacles, he was fastened by what felt like magical ropes. He tried to work his bindings, but soon stopped when he realised that movement simply made them tighten. `No surprise there,' he thought, `Death Eaters are like that….'

With great effort Harry raised his head. For the first time in weeks he could see his limbs, particularly since his rude robe flopped away from his calves and forearms, baring them. They looked awful - slashed with suppurating sores. He realised that he must have been flogged within an inch of his life. Now his wounds had become infected.

Harry could scarcely see beyond himself. Somewhere in the distance a fire flickered. He was definitely not inside any manmade structure. What little he could make out looked like natural rock. He was near the ocean. He heard roaring waves that crashed into what had to be a rockbound coast. He smelled salt air amongst far more powerful odours of rot and decay.

He felt terrible - shivering, feverish - yet in important ways he also felt better than at any point since he had been taken. Gone were those horrible strength-sapping shackles that had confined him for weeks. The spells emanating from the charmed ropes were not nearly as powerful. If he could just get his strength back … he might, just might, be able to free himself.

The trouble was, not only was he starving, he was also ill. To have any hope of marshalling his magic for an escape attempt, he first had to rid himself of his enfeebling infection.

`Focus, Harry,' he told himself. `Your life depends upon it.' He tried to recall the Self-Healing Charms he had learned from the Auror training that seemed like forever ago … back before he had lost Hermione….

Hermione. He could not think about her right now. Even without Dementors about to accentuate his every negative feeling, that subject was just too painful….

Everything about his personal life was too painful. Bill was dead. Eliza, too - cut down in front of him. Whoever was tending that fire was probably one of the Death Eaters who had cursed him and killed her. Harry vowed to give them a dose of their own medicine if he could ever get free.

If he loved someone - that person died. It was as simple as that. There was only one way to stop the cycle. It was like the prophecy said. He could not live whilst Voldemort existed….

It was just as well that Hermione was lost to him. At least that minimised her chances of following all the others into death. He grimaced, because it was more than just that. She thought he was good, but the thoughts he was having now were far from that. Beyond her own safety, now Hermione would not be put in a position to see him kill anyone….

That was good.

Even now, he had not resolved how he felt about Eliza; or, because of that Imperius Curse, how she had felt about him. There was no such doubt when it came to his feelings for Hermione. Notwithstanding his asinine behavior the last time he had seen her - would it really be the last - he could not live with himself if she came to harm because of him. He could barely live with himself as it was….

`Focus, dammit,' he berated himself.

First things first.

Harry had to convert his depressing thoughts into something with which he could set about healing his body, if not his soul. He needed to concentrate on the infection - to force his magic inward and use it as a purgative. Knowing what spell to use in the abstract and actually performing it were two different things. Still, without a wand, or even use of his hands, the Heal Thyself Charm was all that was available.

Thankfully, it was silent magic. Harry concentrated, clearing his mind as he had been taught. To do the deed, he seized upon a throbbing beat of despair and desolation. Dudley liked the song, but it was powerful enough, in is current state of mind, to goad his magic against the pestilence within.

Soon enough he could feel the catharsis working. His very blood seemed to pop and hiss with energy as he cleansed himself from the inside out. Purulent, dull yellow pus began pouring off him - thick, sticky, and reeking of decay. Once excreted, this loathsome substance mixed with rivulets of sweat that soaked him to the skin. He could feel the combination ooze down his arms and legs as it slid to their lowest point. From the points of his shoulder blades and the cheeks of his arse, it dripped slowly onto his already filthy robes.

Harry, however, was not the only one who noticed the foul, almost gangrenous odour.

“Stupefy!” Nott cried out. His spell returned Harry to the world of the unconscious. “Crikey, Vince, what's with you, neglecting your watch like that? You have no idea what he might have done if I hadn't awoken and seen that bloody glow.”

Crabbe whinged, “Sorry, but it's bloody boring and I'm tired….”

“Bloody Hell, what is it now?” Malfoy asked groggily.

“Goddamn Potter was awake, and Vince wasn't,” Nott spat.

“You bloody watch him then,” Crabbe groused. “I'm tired, dirty, hungry, and I've had just about enough of this. I just wanna go home….”

“Like you have a home to go to,” Malfoy jeered.

“He has a point, though,” Nott replied as he rounded on Malfoy. “Just what in blazes do we do now?”

Malfoy answered, “It's always foggy in the morning around here this time of year. I figure, at first light we can take off and cross the bay. We can overnight on the LlÅ·n Peninsula, and then cross into Ireland, where there's bound to be less scrutiny. I know where the old Black property is. I'll bet it's abandoned….”

“And what does that accomplish?” Nott sneered. “I don't know a bloody soul in Ireland, and I doubt you do either….”

“You've got a better idea?” Malfoy sneered back.

“Anything's better than traveling with this bloody scarhead set to explode at any moment,” Nott said. He pulled out his pistol and clicked off the safety. “Nobody knows who or where we are. That's the only thing we've got going for us. I say we put him down right now and split up….”

“He's got all this weird magic protecting him,” Malfoy protested. “Remember what he did to your stupid blotgun….”

“That's shotgun,” Nott corrected. “That happened because he came around without us knowing it, which he almost did again. I don't care how magical he is, with one of these, it will be `hasta la vista, baby.'” Nott thumbed the hammer back.

“He's our only bargaining chip,” Malfoy countered. “They have to deal with us … both sides … as long as we've got Potter.”

“Who's going to deal with us now?” Nott said, throwing his hands in the air. “Stop all the piss and wind, will you? We don't even have a bloody owl. We can't even make a new demand, let alone make it credible. It's every man for himself….”

“I've still got these,” Malfoy said in as calming a fashion as he could. He still wanted to rescue his father, as remote as the chance seemed now.

“Bloody Weasley SAMs?” Nott scoffed. “Planning on sending another love note to the Dark Lord? It figures. He responded so well to the first one….”

Nott had a point. Malfoy could not deny that their first missive had drawn only deafening silence from its recipient. “But what about our fathers?” Malfoy pleaded.

“I love my dad, but I have to look out for number one. They might have been kissed already for all I know.” Nott was almost screaming now. He waved his pistol erratically, so Malfoy slipped his wand into his hand behind his back, just in case.

“Here's what we should do!” Nott bellowed. “Waste Potter - NOW! One shot through the temple is all it takes. We split up. You make your way to Durmstrang and do whatever you effing want. I'll take Crabbe to Liverpool. It's not that far and I know some blokes who are into magical smuggling. They'll hire Vince on my say so. Then I'll go find some Death Eaters and take the Mark….”

SCROOOOCH!!

Everyone, even the Thestrals, looked up, turning their heads towards the source of the unexpected booming croak. Dawn was still an hour away, and the cave mouth showed nothing but deep purple mist.

SCROOOOCH!!

There it was again. Squinting into the barely visible haze, the conspirators saw the dark silhouette of a large bird. It was circling them, coming closer. Nott raised his pistol and took a defensive position, but otherwise stood stock still. Malfoy showed his wand.

SCROOOOCH!!

The bird flew low overhead, as if locating them. It was almost solid black, with a yellowish-white throat-patch. Its wingspan approached two metres.

“What do you think?” Malfoy whispered to Nott.

“It's got to be a great black shag,” Nott whispered back. “Native to these parts. What it's doing here in this cave I haven't the foggiest….”

SCROOOOCH!!

With a final ear-splitting croak, the bird settled onto a rock just within the edge of the uncertain glow of the firelight. With unblinking dark eyes, the large bird of prey regarded the nervous wizards for several seconds. Then it stuck out its leg at Malfoy.

There was a letter of some sort - in a black envelope edged blood red - attached.

For a long moment, Malfoy just stared at the hook-beaked bird, too stunned to move.

“Go ahead, take it,” Nott prodded him. “Might as well face the music. It's been a long time coming.”

Malfoy did, and as soon as he finished the huge black bird flew off with a loud parting croak. The letter would not open easily. He struggled with the ribbon encircling it, and cut himself on one of the envelope's unusually sharp corners.

A couple of drops of Malfoy's blood fell on the letter. They sizzled for an instant, and then disappeared - absorbed by the envelope. The sizzling stopped and a web of thin red lines appeared on the previously featureless surface. It was addressed to:

Draco Malfoy

Sea Cave, Above High Tide

Carreg-Gwylan-Fach, Pembrokeshire, Wales

With a final serpentine hiss the envelope opened of its own accord, revealing its contents:

Draco Malfoy:

I have just learned, with considerable interest, that you are not at Durmstrang, as we all were led to believe. Polyjuice Potion is quite effective, particularly when combined with the Imperius Curse. Very clever. I have left that ruse in place for now.

I believe you have something that properly belongs to me. You have acquired it under false pretenses, masquerading as being in my service. I have Cruciated my true followers into insanity for much less.

I will give you one chance. You and your followers will bring my property to me immediately, following the enclosed map. We will discuss appropriate punishments and rewards at that time. For today and today only, I will arrange to disrupt the Ministry's efforts to find you.

Do not ignore this summons. Your fate will be far worse if you do.

Tap your wand to this letter when you have finished reading.

Lord Voldemort, Dark Lord of Britain

Malfoy swallowed hard, and showed the letter to his co-conspirators.

“Well, I'm afraid our race is run,” he sighed in defeat.

“What does it say?” Crabbe asked blankly.

“Exactly what it means,” Malfoy replied irritated, wondering where he had ever gotten the misimpression that Crabbe was any more intelligent than Goyle. “I assume you can read.”

“Actually, we can't read this,” Nott observed. “It's probably charmed so only you can.”

“Oh,” replied Malfoy, feeling stupid as well as defeated. “The Dark Lord knows who we are, that we've impersonated Death Eaters, and that we have Potter…. He's summoned us to him. He'll hunt us down and kill us, no doubt slowly and painfully, if we don't go. He mentions punishment … and reward. What do you think?”

“We go,” declared Nott, who had been planning to take the Dark Mark anyway.

“He said there was a map,” Malfoy added, examining the letter more closely. “I don't see where…. Oh, right.”

Malfoy tapped the letter with his wand. Instantly, it burst into brilliant flame. Just as instantly, Malfoy let go of it. Instead of fluttering to the rock floor of the cave, the burning letter remained suspended in midair. Within a few seconds, the flames burnt themselves out, but the charmed parchment remained instead of crumbling to ashes. It now revealed the glowing orange outlines of a map that all three of them could see.

“Wh-wh-where's that?” asked Malfoy to nobody in particular.

“Scotland, I think,” Nott replied after studying it. “Somewhere near Ben Nevis, I reckon.”

“Saddle up, then,” Malfoy directed.

* * * *

Hermione was mobbed repeatedly the morning after she had absented herself from the Welcoming Feast. Before that, she had made it back to Gryffindor Tower, unseen, by around four-thirty in the morning. She took advantage of Professor McGonagall's oversight. Her Head of House, no doubt shaken by Hermione's revelation, had failed to collect the Time-Turner she had borrowed. Rationalising that, since classes had not yet started, she could use it on one final occasion, the girl had managed some well-deserved sleep, with Crookshanks curled up contentedly at her feet.

But even a well-rested Hermione Granger had trouble coping with the onslaught that awaited her. It started in the Sixth Year girls' dormitory, before she even had a chance to get dressed.

“Where have you been…?”

“What were you doing last night that was so important you missed the feast…?”

“What's that really complicated stuff Dennis was setting up last night in the Common Room? He wouldn't tell, but said you would….”

“What's really going on with Harry? I'm sure we haven't been told the whole….”

“Are you going to continue with the D.A…?”

“Did you hear Madam Hooch's announcement…?”

“Where did you get that wicked broom…?”

Crookshanks let out a hiss as the other Sixth Year girls converged on her master.

“Slow down. Slow down,” the harassed girl pleaded. “One at a time, please. If you persist in this racket, I'll have to deduct points. I'm still a Prefect, you know….” She added to herself, `As if that matters a hill of beans.'

Eventually, her roommates settled into an expectant silence.

“Where I was…. You heard about the raid, I assume. I'm told the Ministry announced it. Well, as they said, the raid didn't succeed in rescuing Harry, but encountered Voldemort….”

There were gasps all around when Hermione used the name.

“Honestly,” she blurted. “Get used to the name. Didn't you retain anything from the D.A. last year? Fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself….”

After that interruption, Hermione continued with her truthful, but incomplete, narrative. “What wasn't said was that I accompanied the raiding party as a Healer. Anyway, there were many casualties. I returned too late to the Castle for the feast….”

Lavender interrupted, “But you were gone much later than the feast. We waited until almost two in the morning for you…. And not just you, Ron, Neville and Ginny were called to the Headmaster's office and didn't return until after then either.”

“Yes, there were other things as well,” Hermione admitted. “I can't really talk about that…. Not right now anyway….”

“Well, what's Dennis doing that's so hush-hush?” Avvie asked.

“It's not a secret,” Hermione explained. “Dennis probably just overreacted. That's the central station for the D.A. this year….”

“Ooooh,” Parvati squealed, “so you are planning to continue the D.A! Everybody's been asking about that.”

“Well, I hope so. It depends on getting Harry back.” Hermione reaffirmed.

“Oh.”

“Well, what's this about Madam Hooch?” Hermione asked.

“It's really outstanding,” Lavender enthused. “Quidditch! Everyone's going to be flying on Firebolts now. Somebody set up some sort of trust to pay for it all. Odd thing is, it's named after Harry's father.”

“So he did it then?” Hermione mused.

“Who did what?” Lavender asked, eyeing Hermione suspiciously.

Hermione backtracked. The Prophet had been mercifully quiet about the disposition of the Black fortune after Sirius' exoneration, and she had no desire to suggest otherwise. “I don't know…. I don't know anything about Firebolts…,” she sputtered.

“Oh Hermione, you're such a terrible liar,” Lavender declared. “It has to be Harry. How else would everything have been named after his father? It stands to reason that he inherited…. Can you believe it? Not only is he famous, a stud muffin … and amazingly powerful … but rich as well….”

BAM!! BAM!! BAM!!

Crookshanks let out a loud yowl and shot under Hermione's bed.

Lavender was saved physical violence - or at least a thorough hexing - by an insistent pounding on the door.

“I know you're in there!” came a familiar voice. “Either you let Hermione out, or all the rest of us are going to come in after her!”

One of the girls opened the door, and the owner of that familiar voice appeared.

“Ginny!” Hermione cried with relief. “How did you end up sounding like Hagrid on steroids?”

“Simple. Try casting a Sonorus Charm on your hand just before pounding on the door. It gets Ron out of the loo at the Burrow every time,” Ginny replied with a laugh.

“Out in a bit,” Hermione promised her rescuer. Her opinion of the youngest Weasley had just risen several notches.

The respite was short lived. The scrum that Hermione faced in the Common Room was even worse than the ambush sprung by her dormitory mates. Almost every Gryffindor from the Third Year up was waiting for her. Her assembled housemates fired questions at Hermione faster than she could answer them.

Finally, despairing of any other solution, Hermione levitated herself to the top of the table where Dennis and Colin had set up shop and gave an impromptu interview.

“All right, all right,” she cried out, simultaneously trying to quiet everyone with arm motions. “As many of you have already guessed, the reason I went missing yesterday has to do with Harry. I tagged along on the Ministry's raid against Malfoy Manor. I'm sure you'll be reading about everything in this morning's Prophet. Beyond that, all I can say is that I'm still involved in ongoing efforts to rescue him…. The rest of that's sort of … well, secret….”

Someone in the back shouted out, “Is it true that, after the rescue failed to free Harry, the Ministry agreed to the Death Eaters' ransom demand?”

“That's way over my head,” Hermione said to deflect the question. “Maybe Dumbledore will make some sort of announcement. I know that's been bandied about, but I have no part of it. If it happens, though, I would agree with that decision….”

“Well, I don't,” Dean Thomas contradicted her. “It sort of defeats the purpose of what you all went through, don't you think?”

“We can always catch more Death Eaters,” Hermione disagreed, echoing the Headmaster. “There's only one Harry Potter.”

Before any argument could really develop, Katie Bell changed the subject. “Are you planning to restart the D.A.?”

Hermione caught herself before she blurted anything out. That subject left her profoundly conflicted. “I want to…,” she started. “We've received encouragement from Dumbledore and the rest of the staff to continue the … er … Defence Alliance as a recognised school club. But everything's on hold…. I just…. I just don't think that … that I can manage by myself.”

Seeing the crestfallen look on Hermione's face, Ginny thought that she was thinking much more generally than the D.A. That girl had already suffered serious emotional problems since Harry's disappearance, and she looked more haggard and disheveled than was her custom.

Harry haunted the D.A., just as he haunted Hermione.

Hearing Hermione's words, Ron rolled his eyes. `They did that alone … just like she went alone,' he thought enviously. Once, they had once been a trio, sharing almost all their experiences. But the D.A. … that had been Harry and Hermione's production. Harry taught it and Hermione ran it. Ron was little more than another one of the students. Then the two of them had trained as Aurors over the summer…. His marks would not allow that. Well, he had Cho, and Quidditch, and that was good enough for him … if need be.

Neville spoke up, “I'll help you in any way I can, Hermione. Just name it, and I'll do it … or at least try,” he added.

“You can count on me too,” Ginny agreed.

Startled out of his thoughts, Ron could do no less. “I'm in,” he hastily added.

Hermione smiled wanly. “Thank you all very much. Then, I guess we need some sign up sheets for each house. We'll need more information this time around…. Owl type. Wand type. Home address, and for those that have it, home Floo connection…. I suppose membership should be limited to Fourth Year and above - except for Dennis, who's more than earned an exception.” Hermione nodded at the younger Creevey brother, who was seated at the table she was standing on. He had been fiddling with the connections for the D.A. central station.

“No fair,” Natalie McDonald protested. “We have Defence classes too….”

“WAIT JUST ONE MINUTE!” Ron roared, drowning out the disgruntled Third Year. “RECOGNISED SCHOOL CLUB? DOES THAT MEAN WE HAVE TO LET SLYTHERINS IN?”

Hermione did not back down an inch from her purpling friend. “Yes,” she declared firmly. “That's already been decided. Both Harry and Dumbledore agree.”

As she hoped, her almost defiant response had a bracing effect on Ron, “I don't like it,” he said less angrily. “They're all a bunch of Death Eaters in training…. Bloody Death Lickers, they are. S'no good us making bloody Queen Scouts out of them. They'll betray us…. I know it.”

“Ron, we were betrayed last year, when there wasn't a single Slytherin in the group,” Hermione reminded.

“True,” Ron replied, “but … but … I wouldn't go letting Runespoors in my house just because some of them won't bite.”

“Ron, I'm nervous too,” Hermione admitted. “But it's like the Sorting Hat said last year, we need unity at Hogwarts….”

“Hat said it again this year too,” Neville interjected.

“…Anyway, it's decided,” Hermione continued. “That's one of the main reasons why we're using `Defence Alliance' this year … to emphasize alliances.” This was a bit of a stretch for the girl, as the name change was her idea. Like so much, she never had an opportunity to mention it to Harry before … everything happened.

“Hermione, what's that thing Dennis is working on? He refused to discuss it without you here,” Morgan Maryknoll, a Seventh Year girl, asked.

“That's the Central Station for the D.A.,” Hermione said proudly. “Let me show you how it works….”

With that Hermione jumped down from the table and Dennis yielded the chair. With some help from the proud inventor, she put the system through its paces, showing how messages and other information could be received, scanned, sent and stored. When she was scabbing about looking for something to scan, Ron helpfully tore out a page from his previous year's History of Magic revision notes. “I'm bloody well never going to look at that again,” he commented.

Hermione had just inserted her wand into a wand holster attached to the main memory unit by unicorn hair when she noticed Dennis playing with the dials on a component she had never seen before. “What's that?” she asked.

“A surprise,” Dennis grinned. “Old man Honeydukes gave me that old Wizard's Wireless transceiver after Tonks ruined the speaker connections at Harry's party. I just got everything working yesterday whilst you were out. I hope this works.”

Leaning over Hermione, Dennis typed a few commands on the keyboard, and tapped Hermione's wand to activate a couple of links that popped up on the screen. Suddenly several brightly coloured images appeared on the screen, as well and writing and various icons.

“All right!” Dennis exclaimed, slapping palms with Colin. “It works.” Hermione just stared.

“What in the name of Merlin is that?” Lavender asked.

“Muggle Internet,” Dennis replied proudly.

“Mister Creevey,” Avalon Danvers addressed him formally. “I'll give you 5,000 Galleons to make me another one just like that.”

“So will I,” Vickie Frobisher jumped in. “Just the scanning and memory functions will make it marvelous for studying for my N.E.W.T.s.”

Dennis was more than a little overwhelmed. He was being offered ten times what the various components had cost - more money than he had ever dreamed of before.

He turned questioningly to the cleverest person he knew, “What do you think, Hermione?”

“It's up to you Dennis,” she responded, “but if you choose to do this, I know someone you really ought to talk to first, his name is Blackie Howe….”

Hermione was similarly mobbed when she first appeared in the Great Hall. Ron and Ginny, along with Luna, closed ranks around her so the harassed girl would be able to get time to eat her kippers. Neville helpfully handled routine Prefect duties such as handing out course schedules - including Hermione's.

The N.E.W.T.-level course load was much different than before. The core curriculum of Potions, Charms, Transfiguration and Defence all took place in double sessions - two per week, beginning at one and three in the afternoon. Hermione's other courses met two hours a week, in one-hour sessions at various times in the mornings, except for her Muggle Studies and History seminars, which met only once a week for an hour. She had much more free time in the mornings (on Tuesdays, no class until 11:00 a.m.), and much less in the afternoon.

Today, being a Wednesday, she had Heavy Duty Herbology at 10:00 a.m., followed by an hour of free time. Then came her “Interesting Creatures” class (commencing with the Occamy), and then lunch. After lunch the true heavy lifting started - back-to-back double sessions of Advanced Transfiguration and Charms.

There was something attached to her course schedule. Hermione examined it.

“Oh my,” she squeaked, “and on my birthday.”

The attachment was a notice that the Astronomy redo O.W.L. examination would take place at 11:59 p.m. on 19 September. She remembered the faith Harry had shown in her ability to use this examination to leapfrog Tom Riddle for the highest all-time O.W.L. average.

Hermione resolved that, if she lived so long, she would do it - for Harry's sake more than for her own.

More immediately, however, Sprout had not given much home study over the summer holidays, Hagrid had given none, and Hermione was up to date in Transfiguration and Potions. Still, she would cram in yet more Potions study during the hour-long break. She had no sense of the new instructor, and wished to be fully prepared.

Hermione did precisely that. The morning passed uneventfully, and for once Hagrid's benign view of creatures everyone else thought dangerous was proven correct. Occamies were pleasant - very beautiful, and much less aggressive than their reputation.

Nevertheless, Hermione arrived at her Transfiguration class rather upset. On her way to the class, she had passed the corridor that led away to Ravenclaw Tower. At that junction, as in other prominent places around the Castle, was one of the posters announcing the James Potter Memorial Quidditch Broom Trust and explaining all of the benefits that each house would share equally.

Only this poster had been defaced.

Someone had cut from the front page of the Prophet one of the innumerable headlines Harry had figured in lately. A Sticking Charm affixed that additional word to the poster. Thus, the poster now read:

“Harry James Potter Memorial Quidditch Broom Trust”

This latest unwelcome reminder of the very real possibility that the Death Eaters holding Harry could execute him at any time left Hermione feeling queasy and vulnerable as she entered Professor McGonagall's classroom.

In class, Hermione was almost her old self, however. Two-thirds of the way through the class, she already had won twenty points for Gryffindor with either correct answers or properly performed spells….

Then she felt it - the unmistakable sensation that Harry was regaining consciousness. Not only was he coming about, but the affinity was pulsing with a focus and determination that Hermione had not felt since before he was taken.

The girl did as she had been instructed, and raised her hand.

“Professor, I need to be excused,” she recited. “Hospital Wing.”

Professor McGonagall's lips pursed just a bit, as she realised what Hermione was telling her. “Very well, to Madam Pomfrey with you.”

The rest of the class gawked a bit as Hermione quickly packed her things and left. The girl certainly did not act like she was at all ill.

Hermione dashed out of the classroom and trotted to the nearest reasonably concealed space. She activated the Portkey.

The next instant, she was in the Hospital Wing. She called to Madam Pomfrey, who dropped whatever she was doing and immediately led Hermione to a well-equipped magical bed hidden from the rest of the hall by several mobile partitions. It was the same bed - or at least the same type of bed in the same place - that Luna had occupied when she was convalescing after her close encounter with decapitation.

Large talismans and other magical objects, some of which Hermione recognised from the previous night's session and some of which she did not, surrounded the bed. In a hurried, yet professional manner, Madam Pomfrey bade the girl to make herself comfortable and hooked her up to both a large blue monitoring crystal and an even larger orange protective orb designed to combat harmful magical effects from entering through the enhanced affinity.

The rest was up to Hermione. She recited the verse that reactivated the battery of searching spells she was under, and her consciousness was almost immediately loosed in pursuit of Harry's mind - wherever he might be at that moment.

Even before she had completed her spellwork, Hermione knew that something different was happening.

* * * *

The three conspirators had been trudging over the rough, muddy forest path for over an hour, leading the now almost useless Thestrals between which Harry's stunned body was limply suspended. It had been raining off and on the entire time - and for now the rain was definitely “on” again.

To keep a steady pace, Nott walked in cadence with a bit of doggerel he had picked up somewhere. In sing-song fashion, he recited, “It rained, and rained, and rained, and rained. The average fall was well maintained. And when the tracks were simple bogs, it started….”

“Can't you just shut it?” a churlish-sounding Malfoy interrupted. “It's bad enough….”

“Well, what's it to you, anyway?” Nott growled back. “I think your problem….”

“Bloody freaking Hell,” Malfoy complained. “I hate being soaked to the bone like this. How much further? Are you sure we're going the right way?”

“For the last bleeding time, yes,” Nott replied, making no attempt to conceal his exasperation. “There's only one way to go - and don't even think about using magic. We're lucky the Dark Lord diverted the ruddy Auror search parties.” For emphasis, he waved the still glowing map Voldemort had sent them.

“We need to stop for some sort of lunch soon,” Crabbe broke in. “I'm starved, what with all this blasted travel.”

“All right, already,” Nott bit back. “But I want to get to the top of this hill first. After that, we should come out of the lee of this mountain and the forest will give way to moor. Maybe we can see something then.”

Or maybe not.

“Urrgh,” Harry was stirring again, trussed beneath a swaying poll like some captured game animal. He was cold. A misty breeze raised goose pimples all over his exposed arms and legs. He was soaking wet. Whilst his raging infection was gone, a fever he could not account for still sapped his strength.

Thwack.

Something odd hit Harry in the right forearm. He saw a patch of gooey beige material, looking for all the world like thoroughly chewed gum arabic, on his arm. Almost immediately it began fading away. He felt an oddly cool sensation as whatever it was oozed into him. It was reminiscent of passing through a protective ward. Within seconds the glob vanished. Just as quickly, Harry started feeling in better condition physically than he had in a very long time.

The bushes rustled in the direction from which the object had come. Turning his head, Harry struggled to see anything without his glasses. He saw nothing but a glacial erratic - an odd greyish boulder lying just off the side of the path.

Furtively examining his surroundings as best he could, Harry realised he was out of doors, being carried along a path in some forest. Whilst the weather was miserable, he was at least exposed to it. For the longest time he had been confined indoors. Comparatively speaking outdoors was good, with no walls or bars in the way of an escape.

Something stank to the skies as the sloven caravan reached a small clearing. The three Death Eaters - Harry presumed they were still the same three Death Eaters that had been his gaolers - tethered the Thestrals by the source of the stench. Their reason was soon very apparent. The smell emanated from the decaying carcass of a red deer. The unfortunate animal probably starved after entangling its antlers in the remains of a larch that had been blown apart by a lightning strike.

The famished Thestrals began feeding on the carrion.

Harry's captors retreated to the relative shelter of some overhanging oak trees for their own meal. The trees looked old, but relatively small, judging from the few nearby specimens he could see clearly. Come to think of it, most of the trees he had passed seemed stunted. Harry suspected that he was either in the far North or high in the mountains - maybe both.

One of the Thestrals stumbled when it stepped in some sort of hole in the course of tearing apart the carcass. Harry's back suddenly scraped against the rough stump of the splintered larch.

“Aarrrgh,” Harry groaned involuntarily, before willing himself to be silent despite the pain.

“Dammit,” one of the Death Eaters swore. “He might be waking up again. Let him have another Stunner.”

Almost immediately a second, somewhat bored sounding voice cried out, “Stupefy!”

For his one stupid lapse, Harry resigned himself to unconsciousness. He was wrong. Before his disbelieving eyes, one of the scattered larch logs seemed to jump of its own accord and intercepted the stunning spell. Harry wondered whether he was hallucinating, but one thing was for sure. He was still conscious.

Squinting his eyes, Harry looked about, but saw nothing that could account for the odd turn of events - just trees, a muddy path, and a couple of boulders that the thin soil of the area failed to cover. Glacial erratics.

For their part, the Death Eaters did not seem to notice anything amiss. They had fallen into a conversation about what to do after delivering Harry to Voldemort. Oddly, they sounded apprehensive about their prospects. Harry could not fathom why, since they were doing their Master a great service. Surely Voldemort would reward them richly.

Voldemort. At that moment Harry sensed another reminder of the Dark Lord in the form of that telltale prickling around the edges of his brain - at least he thought he did. His Occlumency lessons had trained him to associate this slightly off feeling with a prelude to someone's attempted invasion of his brain.

Voldemort had been attacking him mentally for years, although his evil assaults had ordinarily been much rougher. But throughout the course of Harry's Death Eater captivity, Voldemort's attempts at mental penetration had inexplicably become gentler - more like Dumbledore's and Sefu Kung's Legilimency over the summer. Only Snape, the bastard, never changed.

Harry felt fortunate that he could now repel such attacks. He had already twice shut out Voldemort. Once again the boy slammed down his mental defences and cut off the Dark Lord's attempt to muck about inside his brain.

There were more important matters to think about. It was now or never.

The incipient mental attack, not to mention the Death Eaters' discussion of Voldemort, provided an abject reminder that if Harry did not make good his escape now, he might never have another chance. A vision of that Muggle firearm - and what these Death Eaters planned to do with it before his wandless magic eruption had destroyed it - passed before Harry's eyes.

He had to succeed. More than his own life was at stake.

The cold rain fell harder, but Harry felt stronger than he had since his world had fallen apart a few hours before his capture. He was as ready as he would ever be.

He turned his attention to the charmed ropes that bound him. He closed his eyes and performed wandless elemental magic as the Sefu had taught him. The old Chinese sorcerer had suffered on his account. Harry had never learnt if his teacher had survived his grievous injuries suffered on the night of all the attacks….

In short order, Harry could smell the ropes smouldering. Between the rain, and the stinking corpse of the red deer, Harry hoped that the Death Eaters did not detect it - and that seemed to be the case. A little more elemental magic and he could feel the ropes beginning to give way. He stopped, and clutched the ropes with his fists. Resuming, Harry felt the ropes fall away within another thirty seconds.

His arms were free! He was supporting himself solely by his grasp on the severed ends.

It was time to repeat the process with his legs. This would be trickier. He had never practised elemental magic with any part of his body other than his hands and arms.

Harry directed his attention to his ankles, where he remained bound. He could feel the ropes coiling around his anklebones, which protruded markedly and allowed his restraints to catch hold.

That reminded Harry…. If his ankles were any indication, much of him was little more than skin and bones. He had been half starved for a long, if indeterminate, time. During his entire ordeal, he had never once felt ground beneath his feet. Would he even be able to stand, let alone outrun his captors?

These thoughts distracted Harry. His initial attempt at elemental magic through his ankles failed.

`Concentrate!' he berated himself. `There's only one way to find out. If I get caught, I'm no worse off than if I'd never tried.'

An idea suddenly dawned on him. Harry took as good a look as he could as far up the path in front of him as he could see … he also noticed that the Thestrals had shifted position so that one of them prevented him from watching the Death Eaters. That also meant that they could not see him….

Harry banished from his mind all thought that he might be too weak. He tried again, his brow furrowing with the intensity of his effort. Soon his nostrils were rewarded with the smell of burning rope.

The Thestrals behaved skittishly. They could smell the same thing.

Success begat confidence. Harry pulled himself up so he could see his ankles. They were glowing. He could feel the ropes lose their magical grip and begin unraveling. With a soft squelch, his heels dropped to the churned up mud beneath.

He was free!

With a pop, he Disapparated about forty metres up the path - as far as he had been able to see distinctly with his poor eyesight. It was as much distance between himself and his captors as he had been able to manage.

“Bloody hell, what was that?”

“Where did Potter go?”

“There he is, over there!”

“He's trying to escape!”

“Get him!!”

Harry stumbled and fell upon landing his Apparition. With great effort, he scrambled to his feet, and started to run. He staggered, but maintained his balance. With each step he regained confidence - and muscle memory.

His captors began giving chase - and more.

“Stupefy!” one roared.

“Avada Kedavra!” another shouted at almost the same instant.

Things started happening very fast.

The Stunner missed. Something grey rushed past Harry in the other direction. All he could tell is that it was bipedal and quite short. Harry kept running. He never saw the Killing Curse, but heard something thud into the ground behind him. He could not spare a backwards glance; he had to outrun the Death Eaters.

“Where did that come from?”

“Bloody bob-ear. Ran right into the curse….”

Harry was not even listening. He was putting all his effort into running away - into living to fight another day. His heart pounded in his ears as he topped a rise in the path….

A blast of cold wind tore into him, battering his exposed skin with pellet-like raindrops and nasty, biting midges. The scrub oak forest abruptly turned into open moor, brilliantly colourful compared to the dull, dripping forest. The moor was innumerable shades of green and brown, and interspersed with bogs that reflected the leaden grey sky. In early September, the moor was its final glorious bloom of the season, bedecked with purple heather, white meadowsweet, and - of course - the ubiquitous bright yellow gorse.

But natural beauty was not what caused Harry to come skidding to a halt. Through breaks in the low clouds scudding over the highlands, Harry could just make out the silhouette of a dark, squarish castle rising from an indistinct peak on the far side of the moor. The path he was on led to the castle - and on that path, coming towards him, were the foggy outlines of at least two dozen black-robed Death Eaters.

Harry again became aware of that odd tingle around the edges of his brain. Even if not particularly threatening at the moment, it had to be Voldemort, lurking. His captors had no doubt alerted their Master to his escape. Again, Harry raised his mental defences against intrusion.

Curses sizzled by him from behind. His erstwhile captors were catching up to him quickly. The Death Eaters on the path through the moor in front of him also saw him. They were pointing and starting to run in his direction. There was no choice.

Harry lurched into the boggy moor itself, his feet almost instantly being cut and ensnared by the ubiquitous gorse. Grimly, Harry concentrated on maintaining his footing as he tried making his way to a line of trees on his left. Beyond the edge of the forest he could see nothing but clouds and more clouds. If he could just reach those trees, maybe he could elude the Death Eaters in the foggy forest.

Unfortunately, Harry had supposed that the moor would equally impede the pursuing Death Eaters. He was wrong. They had what looked like mini-magic carpets and immediately used them. His black-robed pursuers glided above the entangling vegetation like a squadron of Dementors.

Harry tried to run faster; they were gaining on him. He willed himself to greater exertion, and amazingly it worked. The boy found himself not only picking up speed but positively springing over the entangling gorse bushes.

All the lost strength and poor muscle tone of his captivity seemed to melt away in an instant. Harry suddenly found himself bounding through the moor with inhuman ease. Something incomprehensible had happened. His legs felt sturdier and surer than he could ever remember, even when at peak condition from running with Dudley. His feet were bare, but were somehow immune from the onslaught of spiny gorse.

Briefly tearing his eyes from the targeted tree line, Harry looked down. His feet … his legs … were gone - transformed. In their place were the sinewy, golden-haired hind legs of some sort of large feline. His now clawed and padded feet were making short work of the bogs and gorse bushes.

`Wicked,' Harry thought. `I've somehow become some sort of chimera.'

And so he had. Propelled by the feral strength and endurance of his serendipitous new hindquarters, Harry tore into the tree line still substantially ahead of the small army of pursuing Dark wizards. Harry allowed himself a modicum of hope for the first time. Surely he could now lose them in the forest….

Then the bottom dropped out.

The very earth itself gave way. Harry found himself myopically staring into an abyss yawning beneath his reconstituted feet. He was on the edge of a 200-metre cliff dropping away into a steep-sided valley - mostly forested with a gravel-choked stream running through it. Harry's claws tore up the dirt as he desperately grabbed a tree to keep from plunging over the precipice.

He had been fooled by a microclimate. Over time, the same warmer breezes from the valley that now ruffled his hair had battled the harsher winds from the highland behind him. The resultant climactic stalemate allowed a line of trees - not more than ten metres wide - to grow all along the edge of the abrupt drop off.

Taking advantage of his claws, Harry instinctively scrambled to the top of one of the trees. But in so doing he trapped himself. He was treed. He could not go forward. He could not go back. He could not go up. He could certainly not go down.

Damn. There was that bloody mental tickling again. Voldemort was no doubt coming to gloat. Harry shut it off hurriedly and vowed not to be taken alive. He would not give his foe that satisfaction. Summoning all of his remaining magical energy, Harry raised a wandless Protego Omnibus shield against his attackers - whose spells were already blasting branches loose all around him.

The only way out, Harry decided was to Apparate. He had no idea whether it was even possible to Apparate through his shield, but he had to try. In his condition, long-range Apparition was an invitation to Splinch himself. He decided to Apparate back to where his captors' Thestrals had been left. Maybe he could ride one of them to safety.

He had barely figured out his plan when his shield deflected a powerful Severing Charm. Inside the shield, Harry felt himself lurch from the powerful momentum of the blocked magic. He grabbed the tree trunk … but it did no good….

The Severing Charm ricocheted directly into the tree trunk beneath him, slicing cleanly through and sending Harry and the crown of the tree hurtling into thin air. There was no way he could Apparate now. This was surely the end. Nobody could survive a 200-metre fall onto jagged rock.

Harry screamed.

He let go of the tree remnant and began tumbling as the wind whipped by. At least it would be quick - if not painless.

Then abruptly the tumbling ceased. Harry found himself looking down at the ever-less-fuzzy ground below. But in a not-so-subtle change, he was no longer falling straight down. The rocky base of the cliff was no longer at his nadir. Instead he was over the forest.

Uncertain of everything except his own impending death, Harry thrashed about. He immediately experienced the sensation of rocking back and forth, as if once again suspended from something. He almost shut his eyes in anticipation of the imminent impact when a flash of red caught the corner of his vision.

He saw … feathers - large scarlet feathers comprising a wingtip. The wingtip was attached to a wing that must have been ten metres long. The wing was attached … TO HIM!

Some additional, unintentional, miraculous Transfiguration had taken place. He had wings!

Could he use them? Harry had absolutely no experience with the movements necessary to maintain flight with his own set of wings.

He had less than five seconds to learn. With renewed vigor he flexed what he supposed were the massive muscles through that worked the almost absurdly large appendages affixed to his back. Something was succeeding. He was moving forward more than downward. This was going to be a very close thing….

Harry was betrayed by his own inexperience in autonomous free flight. He miscalculated his approach by less than a metre, but that error was enough that one wing slammed painfully into the uppermost branches of a beech tree.

Harry spun out of control and hit the gravelly alluvium at an awkward angle. His right ankle snap audibly as it fractured. He tumbled over and over, spraying the metalled surface everywhere. Soon he came to a halt, lying by the stream - alive but covered with small cuts from the sharp pebbles. His intact wing was gone. It had disappeared as quickly, and as spontaneously, as it had come. His left wing, broken in three places, hung uselessly by his side.

Above him, at the top of the cliff, the two dozen Death Eaters pursuing him had watched the spectacle with no little amazement. The sight of a brilliantly red-winged Harry Potter gliding towards the valley below had given them pause.

Until they saw him crash.

A Disapparition pop followed almost immediately - followed by another, and another, and another…. Soon the escarpment was empty, except for Harry's three original kidnappers, who had brought up the rear, totally ignored by the real Death Eaters.

“What do we do now?” Nott asked, puffing from all the exertion.

“You said it before. I'd say it's every bloody man for himself at this point,” Malfoy replied, even more out of breath. “I figure we've done our duty to the Dark Lord and delivered up Potter, so do what you want to do. I have no great desire to meet the Master himself under these circumstances.”

“Well, I'm going down there,” Nott declared, gesturing to where the Death Eaters were moving to surround Harry's prone form.

“I-I-I can't Apparate,” Crabbe whinged. “Don't leave me here by myself.”

“Sorry mate, this is over,” Malfoy declared, and in an instant he was gone, Disapparating to who knows where.

Crabbe looked uncertainly at Nott.

“Don't worry,” Nott reassured Crabbe. “Deep down, he's always been an arsehole. When the chips are down, Malfoys are loyal to nobody but themselves. Wait here for me. I'll come back for you when this is over.”

With that, Nott Disapparated after the Death Eaters.

On the valley floor below, Harry Potter shook off the cobwebs and tried to stand, but his shattered ankle could support no weight, and his broken wing unbalanced him. He sank to his hands and knees as the first Apparition pops signalled the Death Eaters' arrival. With his last remaining strength, Harry re-conjured his shield.

One after another, the Death Eaters began firing curses. Seeing that Harry was shielded, but unmoving, his would-be captors switched to spells, such as the Cruciatus Curse, that they could maintain for an extended period of time. Slowly but surely, Harry's strength was ebbing away under the barrage. His Protego Omnibus shield was collapsing by increments - getting smaller and smaller around him.

It would not be long now…. He had failed … at everything…. He would soon once again be a captive of Voldemort's….

There was that tingling in his brain again. But for once Harry was too weak both to fight it and to maintain his shield. He surrendered his Occlumency.

With an almost audible whoosh, the intruder entered his brain.

“Harry! Oh thank Merlin….”

That voice! It certainly did not belong to Voldemort.

It was Hermione.

And from her very first word - from her very first feeling - it was one hundred percent clear that she did not hate him.

Absolutely and utterly to the contrary….

* * * *

Author's notes: The stairway also now leads to the Chamber of Secrets, a handy piece of knowledge

CMXCVII = 997; the Hogwarts millennium is the Trio's senior year

Lapis lazuli, is accurately described, as its association with truth

Snape once said Veritaserum took a month to mature, but he was dissembling

Magiarchs, the original magical people, lived tens of thousands of years ago

The Setem is an ancient Egyptian priesthood; Seshat was the goddess of knowledge

The Book of Gates is a real ancient Egyptian text, involving death and the underworld

Pre-Roman Druidic Briton warriors painted themselves blue

Meteoric iron forms geometric patterns, and was the most valuable metal in pre-iron age cultures

Claudius Brittanicus conquered what is now England for Rome. Julius CÃ¦sar had only raided it

Picts were barbarian inhabitants of Scotland

Madam Pomfrey opposes risking Hermione's life

Solid smoke is an accurate description of aerogel

Madam Pomfrey's crystals resemble Lex Luthor's in Superman Returns

The Dumbledore/Luna interaction in the first spell is significant

Beams of light pointed skywards can create quite a visual effect

The color pink is symbolic

The Mentanarus waterfall image comes from Rescuers Down Under

McGonagall suggests Hermione will be at Hogwarts for more than two more years

“Let's do it” were Gary Gilmore's last words

The cadence of the Dumbledore/Hermione chant is from Jean Auel's “Mother's Song,” only a line shorter

“Green and pleasant” describing England is from William Blake's “Jerusalem”

Vega being the north star indicates how old these spells are - given procession of the equinox

Hermione misunderstands what the prophecy says. Dumbledore's decision to leave telling her to Harry has unfortunate consequences

“Keeping secrets” about matters “relating” to Harry - Hermione has deduced something else

Hermione figured out that the Irish journal article was about McGonagall and her deceased sister

Cardigan Bay and Grey seals are accurate

“Heal thyself” is from the biblical phrase about physicians

Nott's familiarity with Muggle things extends to some movie lines

A black shag is a great cormorant

The Welsh address on the Voldemort letter is real

Objectively, Harry isn't a “stud muffin,” but all his other attributes make him attractive

Queen Scouts are the UK equivalent of US Boy and Girl Scouts

The line about snakes not biting is from someone like H. Rap Brown opposing white involvement in the civil rights movement

The Creeveys sell their first wizard computer

Hermione knows that, if you go into business, you need a good lawyer

Nott's poem is the New Zealand rain song, which I first encountered in Westland twenty years ago. It goes: “It rained and rained and rained. The average fall was well maintained. And when the tracks were simple bogs, it started raining cats & dogs. After a drought of half an hour, we had a most refreshing shower. And then most curious thing of all, a gentle rain began to fall. Next day but one was fairly dry. Save for one deluge from the sky, which wetted the party to the skin. And then, at last, the rain set in.”

Harry's fever is from a different, much more pernicious, source

The goo on Harry's arms signals the arrival of invisible magical help

The grey boulders are significant

Harry's Occlumency is, of course, unknowingly fighting off Hermione

The moor vegetation is accurately described

In the heat of the moment, Harry undergoes partial Animagus transformations to an obvious form

The source of microclimate is accurate

“Metal” oddly means gravel in the UK

43

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch35 ground zero.doc 5/5/2010

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36. Destroyer Of Worlds

Wherein Voldemort pushes Harry too far; the Fifth Element becomes a weapon of annihilation; a lot of Death Eaters are vaporized; Hermione suffers traumatic collateral damage; Snape dithers; the valley and Voldemort's castle are destroyed; magical shock waves sweep across the landscape; the Hogwarts' wards barely survive; a goblin army attacks; Dumbledore averts a catastrophe and destroys another piece of Voldemort; healers make preparations; Dumbledore confesses and makes a resolution; McGonagall is scandalized; the Minister of Magic calls; the goblins send a messenger; and Harry is rescued.

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

Chapter 36 - Destroyer of Worlds

Madam Pomfrey frowned. She was worried - very much so - and worse she had no idea what to do. The Granger girl's search was not going peacefully. The girl whom she hoped would one day become a Healer of the first order was tossing and turning, crying out, and virtually swimming in sweat. For almost an hour her search had been like this.

Still, all of the protective talismans and charms were active and functioning properly. The girl was in no danger of dislodging any of the monitoring equipment. Madam Pomfrey simply had no experience with this set of spells. She did not know what to expect; how her patient was supposed to progress. This uncertainty was her greatest worry of all.

She was just not accustomed to feeling helpless.

Other observers shared these worries - if not openly. Ron had encountered Ginny in the corridor after Transfiguration.

“Oi, Ginny, I've been looking for you,” her older brother shouted, grabbing her from behind by her long Weasley-red locks.

“What is it, Ron?” Ginny hissed angrily. “You're embarrassing me. This had better be important.”

“Shhhh, this way,” Ron hushed. “It is.”

They ducked into a nearby empty classroom. “Spill,” demanded Ginny.

“You know who…,” Ron paused as Ginny looked horrified. “…No, not that You Know Who…. You know her was excused from Advanced Transfig to go you know where.”

“Oh my…,” Ginny gasped. “And so soon. I'm done with classes; I'll get over there straightaway.”

“I'll be by later,” Ron promised. “I talked to McGonagall after class. She says there's nothing I can really do at this point - except get in the way. So I can't very well skive off my first Quidditch strategy preceptorial for the term.”

Ginny gave Ron a less-than-believing look. She had compared notes with Luna and knew that one Cho Chang was also in that seminar. Useless or not, Ron could be awhile.

Ginny was unlikely to be any more useful, but she had a free period, so she went to the Hospital Wing. Moral support was better than nothing.

She was in luck. Madam Pomfrey let the youngest Weasley stay, provided she sat quietly in a chair by the wall - and did nothing. Soon Luna joined her. Nobody had told the Ravenclaw that anything had happened. She had just known. She came because she “felt obligated to help protect Hermione.”

Neville arrived shortly after Luna. He was not taking N.E.W.T. potions, having only scraped by with an “Adequate.” Madam Pomfrey, rather peeved at the growing size of the audience, sternly sat him down in a chair next to Ginny. Wordlessly, he grasped her hand.

Hermione's thrashing and grunting got worse. The unfortunate girl thrashed like a bee beating against the side of a gigantic glass jar.

Finally, she cried out in unmistakable anguish, her voice rising to a crescendo. “Harry…! Let me in. Please… I LOVE YOU!!”

They all heard it - but had Harry?

With that, Hermione stopped yelling, stopped flailing, and became calm. She mumbled words that her friends could not catch.

Some fifteen seconds later, she began speaking in a much more composed voice. In clear, clipped tones she recited, “Located Harry. Surrounded by Death Eaters. Need help….”

Luna whipped out some parchment and a Quick Quotes Quill set on “verbatim.” The quill started scratching away, taking down everything Hermione reported. She had obviously reached Harry. The critical question quickly became whether he could be located in time to save him - or maybe the both of them. It might be impossible to convince Hermione to leave….

Hermione continued calling out everything she could. “…In a valley. Steep cliffs. Mountains. Appears uninhabited. But some sort of castle nearby. Raining. Probably in the far north. Feels like I'm not alone….”

It was time - past time - to call for reinforcements.

Madam Pomfrey strode purposely to the Hospital Wing fireplace, grabbed some Floo powder and flung it into the flames. As they burnt green, she shouted, “Albus Dumbledore!”

* * * *

The Dark Lord paced back and forth, burning with several weeks worth of anticipation. Soon he would have Potter in his clutches. The boy would not escape again….

What a turnabout the past twenty-four hours had wrought. His high hopes of seizing the Potter boy from what turned out to be his equally callow abductors were initially dashed. The several squads of Death Eaters that he personally led unexpectedly encountered an even stronger force of Ministry and other wizards under the direct command of his personal nemesis, that Muggle-loving fool Dumbledore.

They duelled one another to a standstill. But a standstill meant failure. His attack failed - as did Dumbledore's, for that matter - and in the end the Dark forces were driven off in some disarray.

The only lasting benefit of that encounter had been the Dark Lord's identification, at long last, of the miscreants who kidnapped Potter and then masqueraded as his followers. Not wasting a second, once Voldemort had reached a safe house in one of the wilder parts of Wensleydale, he immediately sent young Draco Malfoy an ultimatum: Deliver Potter or die - slowly and painfully.

Despite young Malfoy's numerous serious transgressions of Death Eater conduct, the Dark Lord could not help but be just a bit impressed by what Malfoy fils had accomplished. If that boy could be housebroken, he would in all likelihood make a very useful Death Eater - perhaps even more than his arrogant failure of a father. If not … then the Malfoy boy would always make a good meal for Nagini.

Then something even more unexpected happened. Little could shock, or even surprise, Lord Voldemort - but this had.

That evening, when the Dark Lord had still been licking his wounds, uninvited guests started dropping in all around him. It happened with absolutely no warning, so the first arrival, Rastaban Lestrange, almost met a Killing Curse before Voldemort realised who it was. In less than a minute, the Dark Lord was surrounded by all eleven of the formerly captured Death Eaters.

Naturally, the former prisoners all credited Lord Voldemort with their release - kissing the hems of his robes and swearing undying loyalty. He did nothing to disabuse them. Once again the Dark Lord's opinion of that whelp of a Malfoy rose. Despite acting as a free agent, the boy had actually managed to achieve his objective. Without even giving up Potter, he had bamboozled the Ministry into acceding to his demands. As a result not only Lucius, but all of the captured Death Eaters were now free, and had returned to their Master's service.

What capped it was that the younger Malfoy in all likelihood was unaware of what he had accomplished. Now, if that boy would only bring him Harry Potter, the Dark Lord might even overlook the insubordination of attempting negotiations rather than immediate obeisance - or, maybe not….

The released Death Eaters were generally in terrible shape. Azkaban under goblin control was only marginally less of a hellhole than Azkaban under the Dementors. Of all the returnees, Lord Voldemort took only Rodolphus with him when he relocated to Killiechonate Castle. Rodolphus had always been loyal, if rather reckless. The Dark Lord hoped he could find an appropriate outlet for those qualities, and soon. The sudden, unexpected return of Bella's husband had created … a complication….

The others he left in Wensleydale to recuperate under Wormtail's questionable care, augmented by the ministrations of a hastily abducted Healer kept under the Imperius Curse.

Voldemort spent the next morning at the old, damp Scottish castle studying his options and making sure all was in readiness for the imminent arrival of Harry Potter. The incident at the Ministry had only increased his unease over the Potter prophecy. He even re-examined his own memories to try to divine new clues from a long ago incident….

He sat alone in his dungeon chambers when his lookouts alerted him that Malfoy and two followers were approaching as ordered. Using multiple security spells, he locked what he was perusing away and immediately set out. If things proceeded well, he probably would not need any of this any more, and he could simply be rid of that fleeting figment of his former self.

“You have a suitable spot prepared, Bella?” the Dark Lord asked, even before he passed beyond the stone entrance.

“Of course,” his right hand witch replied. “It's quite secure, but not intended for the long term.”

“Quite right,” Voldemort replied wickedly. “I'm afraid that Mister Potter, charming as he may be, is expected for only a very short stay. He's only paid for a half-way ticket.” The attempt at humour concealed a lesson that the Dark Lord had taken to heart. The Potter boy was more dangerous than he appeared. There would be no more elaborate rituals - no ceremonial duels.

He intended to kill Potter and be done with him, the quicker the better.

“Severus!” Voldemort bellowed. “You have the potions?”

“Yes my Lord,” the former professor replied silkily. “Everything is prepared - and in duplicate - as directed.”

“That is as it should be,” Voldemort allowed. “Now, give me my daily booster.”

“Very well,” the Potions master complied, producing a goblet of white creamy liquid emitting frigid looking steam that sank over the edges.

Voldemort clutched it in his long, pale fingers and drank it greedily. “Aaahh. As excellent as this is, I will be very pleased never to have to take it again. Review for me your preparations.”

“Master, I have the Paralysis Potion for Potter here.” Snape showed a phial of bright blue liquid. “The `main event' is to take place in the tower as you directed. Everything is in readiness. You are of course welcome to inspect the cauldron and its appurtenances for yourself,” Snape invited obsequiously. “Once the Potter boy is deceased, we can complete the ritual and stabilise the transformation permanently.”

“You have done well,” Voldemort responded. “Let us see how well….”

The Dark Lord whirled around and fixed Snape with a piercing glare. He had no concerns with Snape's technical prowess, but he had, on occasion, doubted his allegiances - and Lord Voldemort was nothing if not thorough in assessing loyalty. One technique was to search his followers' minds with no warning at random intervals.

Voldemort's intense Legilimency ripped into Snape's mind. The sallow-faced turncoat had learnt to accept such bouts impassively. To resist, or even to show any reaction at all meant torture - or worse.

Fortunately for him, Snape was every bit as excellent an Occlumens as the Dark Lord was a Legilimens. That skill had saved the ex-professor's life on numerous occasions and did so once again.

After less than two minutes of intrusion, the impatient Dark Lord pronounced himself satisfied. “Your loyalty appears impeccable,” Voldemort commented. “As it must be. I am told you are not to be trusted, but those concerns appear unfounded….”

“They are indeed, my Lord,” Snape agreed.

“Yes,” Voldemort hissed. “You answered my summons and thus showed your true Dark colours to the entire wizard world. It was necessary … for this.” The Dark Lord waved his hand around the room. “There can be no going back….”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Snape replied. Verily, there could be no going back for Severus Snape.

“Come, Bella…. I need some Cruciatus practice….”

The evil witch who served as the Dark Lord's second grinned wickedly and left with her Master. As she was leaving she glared at Snape, who returned the evil eye, stare for stare. Both of them knew that she was the source of the malicious rumours about his loyalty.

For his part, Severus Snape was passing what he believed to be his final hours on this planet. For weeks he had faithfully served the Dark Lord, biding his time. Finally Potter had surfaced.

As a double agent, Snape had practiced not being what he seemed for years. That philosophy coloured his view of everything. Snape suspected from day one that Potter's kidnapping was no Death Eater operation, as almost everyone else had believed. In response, Mad-Eye Moody and others had laughed in his face - and like so many others, questioned his loyalty. Finally he had been vindicated. But such vindication as might be would be posthumous.

What had actually transpired was still a mystery to Snape. The Dark Lord was keeping the secret of the true perpetrator's identity (or identities) closely held. Snape knew only that Potter had been confined in the abandoned Death Eater headquarters beneath Malfoy Manor. Snape suspected a rogue former Death Eater. But that was only a supposition. Instead of accompanying the Dark Lord on the raid, he had been obliged to remain behind at the castle making preparations that only he among all the Death Eaters had the skill to undertake.

Exclusion from the raid had profoundly depressed even the perennially dolorous Snape. The Dark Lord might have killed Potter on the spot, without Snape ever having the opportunity to use the one-way mini-Portkey that he made sure to have with him at all times. True, that precipitate course of action was unlikely - Voldemort knew Potter had to die near the great cauldron to stabilise his transformation properly - but nothing was certain in the heat of battle.

Snape was mostly relieved that the wait was almost over. Voldemort had designated him to administer the Paralysis Potion to the boy, which would give him the necessary opportunity to use the mini-Portkey to transport Potter to safety. With that, he would repay his life debt and could die in absolution, if not peace. He put the manner of his own death out of his mind - the Dark Lord would undoubtedly make a terrible example of his treason.

Minutes passed. Events were taking longer than anticipated. The Dark Lord received an owl from the field. He read the message and angrily threw it against the wall.

“Severus, something has happened.”

“Indeed my Lord,” Snape replied. “How may I best serve you?”

“Somehow Potter escaped from A and B squads,” Voldemort spat. “He's no longer on the moor. The latest word is that he sprouted wings and flew into the valley. I find that extremely difficult to believe, but that's the location where the report claims he now is.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“I want you to leave your precious potions for the time being,” the Dark Lord commanded. “Take charge of C squad from that idiot Anniston. Go use the valley entrance … I assume you know where that is … and provide reinforcements. I expect it will be all over by the time you get there, but if not…. I will not have him elude me again - not after all this.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“How is Potter's Occlumency?” the Dark Lord asked.

“Improving, but unorthodox,” Snape replied. “He is more skilled at driving out intrusions than in preventing them in the first place.”

“I can handle that,” declared Voldemort confidently. “To ensure his capture, I might just try sending him my own greetings. Now go and see to it that the boy is secured.”

“Are you sure that is wise, my Lord?” Snape questioned. “I have experienced the boy's powers of expulsion personally. They are formidable.”

“Do not question Lord Voldemort!” the Master threatened, his voice quickly turning frigid and snake-like. “You were not at the Ministry. That was an aberration … Dumbledore's distraction. I have visited Potter since - on more than one occasion. When I choose to use my full powers, that pitiful boy is helpless…!” Cold-hearted hatred oozed out of the Dark Lord's every pore.

Snape dutifully turned on his heel. Behind his stoic face, deep within his shuttered psyche, Snape's hopes fell. Following these new orders would take him away from the Dark Lord, possibly at the critical moment…. A second phial of Paralysis Potion was in the cloakroom…. The Master had become a believer in redundancy following Potter's last escape…. After all the planning, Snape realised he might not be in position to rescue Potter after all….

Snape did the only thing he could do - he dithered, in the hope that everything would be over before C squad would be needed. Prior to leading his Death Eaters anywhere, he began giving them a painstaking briefing on what was going on, although in truth he had no idea.

* * * *

“HERMIONE!!” Harry blurted out, even though he was enmeshed in the heat of what promised to be a futile battle.

“Yes, I'm here, Harry,” she said softly. “Where is here?”

“Go!” Harry demanded. “Get out of here! It's not safe! I can't hold out much longer! I'm going to die.”

“Not today, you're not. I went through Hell to find you, Harry,” she spoke urgently. “I'm not going to lose you again.”

“Hermione, what are you trying…?”

Harry had no idea how, but the nature of their affinity had changed dramatically. It was no longer just a one-way drain, flowing out of him. Now, her emotions were positively flooding in - vivid ones. His soul felt bathed in affection, tenderness, compassion … and, yes, a novel, wonderful emotion that could only be love.

Even in his desperate straits, Harry gasped. “Hermione, please…,” he moaned, but he could not muster the strength to order her to leave again. Warmth, of a sort he had never before experienced, was spreading through his bleeding and battered body.

The feeling flowed with an intensity that seized his heart and shook his mind. It infused him with purity of motive and clarity of purpose unlike anything he could recall feeling in his young, bleak life….

On one level, the love swirling around his mind almost left him dizzy. But on another he felt just the opposite. In a way, he felt solid and anchored - like a rock. The realisation of Hermione's amazing emotions made him want to shout, to scream, and most importantly, to survive. What he felt simply would not be denied. The warmth reached into the most atavistic recesses of Harry's being; stirring feelings he had neither given nor truly received since infancy…. It summoned forth a strength he did not know he had….

She loved him.

She loved him!

Whatever had passed before was inconsequential. She loved him.

His acceptance of that simple fact had immediate physical consequences. Harry became possessed of a powerful second wind that, until that moment, he had not realised was there.

A surge of fresh magical energy shot out from all his limbs at once and coursed into his beleaguered Protego shield. It flushed a brilliant white and in a trice the area within the shield swelled to some thirty metres on all sides. Most of Harry's attackers were bowled over by the force of the expanding shield, and were left bruised and groggy on the ground.

The sudden distension of his Protego also struck the ground itself. Scattering a hail of sharp pebbles, the recoil from his shield bounced Harry fully fifty metres into the air. On his way back down, the same shield helpfully flattened upon encountering air resistance. The parachute-like effect slowed his descent. Protected from impact by the shield, he caromed a couple of times and came to rest. Harry was left suspended several metres above the metalled ground by the force of his now almost spherical shield. All around him it glowed softly, a milky pinkish-white.

Hermione, only present in spirit, could not see except what Harry saw - which was now hazier than ever. She ignored the bizarre goings on and concentrated obsessively on her task of locating Harry so he could be rescued. She continued calling out everything she could make out about their surroundings.

The Death Eaters cautiously regrouped. Floating in midair, seemingly lit from within, and with a single scarlet wing trailing beneath him at an odd angle, Harry was a bizarre and unsettling sight. Cautiously, his foes approached the illuminated globe that contained and protected Harry. Led by Rodolphus Lestrange, they reopened fire.

Inside the sphere and independently of his only semi-conscious thoughts, Harry's glowing body started to pulse, in response to the Death Eaters' magical disturbances. Beginning as a dull yellow, his form increased its brilliance as it resisted the Death Eater curses that struck his shield. Sparks of static magic started erupting from Harry's fingers and toes. These currents - visible for all to see - flowed erratically to the surrounding shield, providing reinforcement wherever an unfriendly spell impacted it.

Ted Nott chose this moment to join the fray, firing off several wild shots with his Muggle pistol in addition to using his wand. To him, Harry, the shield, and the bolts of magic flashing back and forth within resembled nothing so much as a gigantic electrostatic VandeGraaff generator, like he had once seen in a Muggle museum in Manchester. He did not notice, as with such a generator, his own hair standing on end.

Harry's armour had a chink - the defence he had dropped that permitted Hermione's initial entrance. He had been too enthralled by her feelings to even think of cutting her off.

It came without warning.

“AAAIIIIEEEE!!” Harry screamed aloud as his scar exploded in agony.

“Welcome to my parlour, said the spider to the fly,” Voldemort's cold, high voice echoed through Harry's skull. “So good of you to drop by.”

In an instant Harry's mind filled with rage and hatred for the one who had killed his parents, and countless others. “GET OUT OF MY HEAD!” Harry roared.

“All in good time, dear boy,” Voldemort taunted. “As you can no doubt see, you are outnumbered by more than twenty to one…. Why don't you just surrender? I can make your inevitable death come quickly - perhaps even painlessly.”

Above all else, Harry knew he had to protect Hermione - to distract Voldemort from discovering her presence. He had few options. Taunting the Dark Lord was the first thing that came to his fevered mind.

“YOU CAN'T BEAT ME TOMMY RIDDLE! YOU NEVER HAVE!!” Harry howled back.

He was scrambling with all his power to ensure that the Dark Lord focussed solely on him. He had to expel the Dark Lord from his mind before Voldemort discovered that they were not alone….

“V-V-Voldemort,” Hermione gasped involuntarily. She had never been in the monster's presence, even mentally, and the noxious feeling was so awful that she could not help herself.

“Well, well, well,” Voldemort chuckled mirthlessly, “maybe I was wrong. Maybe, you're only outnumbered by something like twenty to two?” He put particular emphasis on the second number.

Harry notched his concentration up another level. He did not care what happened to himself, but until his dying breath he would not allow Voldemort to harm Hermione. Just like his father and Sirius had foretold, she had come for him in his moment of greatest need. And, as he had just discovered, SHE LOVED HIM TOO!

“Come out and play, foolish girl,” Voldemort beckoned. “When I'm done with you, you'll be in no shape to break my record after all….”

Harry shuddered. Diversionary tactics were no use against this fiend. Voldemort obviously knew exactly whose spirit was sharing his brain at that moment. Pouring everything he had into a supreme effort at Occlumency, Harry roared, “I WON'T LET YOU HURT HER, YOU BASTARD!!!! NOT NOW AND NOT EVER!!!! YOU HAVE TO GO THROUGH ME FIRST!!!!”

As his anguished scream echoed through the U-shaped valley, Harry thought he heard an audible “click” inside his head. It was as if someone threw a switch that reconfigured the magical portion of his brain. A mental junction closed, and with the circuit complete, Harry's collected magic burst through.

The resultant magical amplification would have been impressive in any event, but Harry was channelling no ordinary magic - working without a wand, he had summoned, for the first time in his life, the full power of Fifth Element.

Nobody who saw what happened next lived to tell the tale.

In a minute fraction of a second, Harry's original Shield Charm blew out to infinity, followed closely by a blindingly brilliant pinkish-white flash of raw magical energy, radiating at many wavelengths at once. The intensity of this transient emission exceeded by many times the brightness and temperature of the surface of the Sun. For a grotesquely shining moment the dazzling glare Harry generated illuminated the clouds, and then pierced them. The fleeting, highly polarised energy Harry generated was easily visible from the Moon.

…But only for an instant. Quarks - even charmed ones - cannot exist as free particles in this world for more than a few nanoseconds. The enchanted symmetries that Harry's Fifth Element magic transiently achieved almost immediately recrystallised in the terrestrial environment. The momentary gluonic plasma state of the amplified Fifth Element converted only inefficiently into ordinary types of radiation. The chief result of this inefficiency was randomly directed energy - commonly known as heat - massive amounts of it.

With terrible potency, Harry's radiation and his heat sterilised the entire valley in explosive fashion.

As it spread and dissipated, Harry's magical emission raised the temperature of everything in the surrounding valley to “only” a thousand or so degrees Celsius. All the water in the stream flash evaporated in a burst of searing steam.

All organic matter that his magical shock wave encountered - whether animal, vegetable, or Death Eater - incinerated instantaneously. All the witches and wizards in the vicinity, and Vincent Crabbe watching from upon high, who were in the way of the full fury of this shock wave never realised what hit them. One moment they were alive and hurling their curses; the next moment their disassociated atoms were adrift in the howling, incandescently hot hurricane that arose within Allt a Mhuilinn Valley.

Following the initial flash of light, the shock wave from Harry's magical explosion pounded into the ground beneath him at supersonic speed. Everything combustible in the soil burnt instantly. The refractory remnants were pulverised and joined with the uppermost several centimetres of underlying rock as a superheated powder being sucked upwards with the expanding fireball.

The tremendous pressure crushed the underlying rock - granite, basalt, or anything else - where it survived incineration and vaporisation. The conical configuration of this shattering impact extended deep into the earth. At the same time everything left on the surface fused together under the tremendous heat to form an amorphous, translucent greenish black glass. These extreme conditions created distinctively odd minerals, coesite, stishovite, and the like….

The recoil from shock wave reverberated first from the ground, and then off the walls of the doomed valley. The effect, in that semi-enclosed space, was rather like that of a cork being removed from a champagne bottle. All of the fiery debris that Harry's explosion tore loose shot violently into the air.

In and amongst that debris was Harry Potter himself - the magical core of the explosion. His mental effort and the resultant release of extraordinary magical energies left him semi-conscious at best, but relatively unharmed. The massive energy release, after all, was all directed away from him, and his Protego shield afforded him protection from the environment he had unintentionally created.

Harry was flung upwards and outwards towards the mouth of the valley, more than two kilometres into the sky. Eventually, he was caught in the prevailing winds that blew towards the Highlands. They pushed him back towards his origin. Once his uncontrolled magical outburst ceased, Harry's Protego shield had spontaneously reconstituted. As before, that shield collapsed against itself in response to the air pressure, forming something of a parachute. He was magically depleted, badly burnt in places, but alive … very much alive.

Upwelling behind Harry was a column of eerily glowing dust and debris, suspended in superheated air, all rising rapidly, as torrid air is wont to do. The intense heat dried up all of the low-lying clouds, and they disappeared to distance of nearly a kilometre. The initial flash, blast and shock wave left in their wake a sweltering hemisphere of more-or-less clear air pierced at its centre by the turgid, brownish-gray vertical stele of billowing smoke that marked ground zero.

Above, in the remnant higher cloud cover, and thus unseen, that fiery upwelling obelisk collided with the preexisting, damp layers of the atmosphere. With this final collision Harry's fireball slowly lost momentum, swelled outward, and eventually flattened out horizontally in all directions. As it cooled the smoke and debris eventually merged with the surrounding pall. For hours, the rainfall in the vicinity of Ben Nevis was black from the dust and ashes it contained.

* * * *

Inside the main tower of Killiechonate Castle, Bellatrix Lestrange watched lazily as her long-time Master, and newfound sex partner (she enjoyed receiving the Cruciatus Curse as much as the Dark Lord did performing it), toyed with Harry Potter's mind. That had been his plan all along - kill the mind and the body will follow. Today would culminate years of effort. Harry Potter would be no more, and the Dark forces would prevail. She would rule at his side, and they could dispense with their annoying, and to her unsettling, alliance of convenience with the White Lotus Triad.

She had not paid attention to the Dark Lord's taunts - what he mattered little - but very suddenly something very obviously went very wrong. Lord Voldemort let out a hideous scream, its pitch rapidly rising until it ended silently. He staggered backwards and abruptly burst into crimson fire. With a final supreme effort, Bella's master performed the spell that shut down his own longstanding mental link to the boy, Harry Potter. Then he collapsed.

Taking immediate action, Lestrange extinguished her burning master with a Flame Freezing Charm.

The next instant, a tremendous, thundering shock wave rocked the castle. Every window and door blew in. It became unbearably hot, and air pressure abruptly spiked. Bella screamed in exquisite agony as her eardrums ruptured. Exposed paper, cloth, and wood flared and burnt. Massive cracks appeared in solid stone walls that had survived the worst of the Scottish elements for over a millennium. The wards shattered and fell. Rock fragments began breaking loose from the walls and ceiling as Lestrange sprung forward and fell upon her prone, steaming master. She Apparated them both away just as the entire structure collapsed and disintegrated into an avalanche of smoking rubble.

* * * *

Unintentionally, Snape's filibustering saved not only his life but those of every Death Eater in C squad - at least temporarily. The unit remained ensconced in the bowels of the castle when what felt like an earthquake hit. Everyone was thrown to the floor, cracks formed in the walls, dust shook loose from everywhere, and several portions of the ceiling caved in.

“Stay where you are!” Snape commanded. “Don't even try to move until this is over.” To himself he added, `This has something to do with Potter.'

When everything was still after a few minutes, Snape ordered his dazed squad to its feet. With rock dust greying his greasy hair, Snape picked his way over, around, and through the newly fallen debris. He led his troops to the castle's valley entrance and turned the doorknob. The door would not budge.

“Alohomora!”

Even the Door Opening Charm failed. Snape was puzzled and extremely ill at ease. He pointed his wand at the recalcitrant door. “Evanesco!” The door vanished. A pile of rocks fell in. The entrance was buried in stone from the collapse of the castle above.

The falling rock brought with it stifling heat. Snape bent to retrieve a fragment that had rolled to a stop at his feet. It burnt his fingers.

“Fluvius!” he called out loudly and a stream of water poured onto the sizzling rubble.

It was not one of Snape's better moves.

Popping noises reverberated, as the abrupt temperature change exploded the overheated stones. Stinging bits of debris raised welts and cuts on Snape's exposed face and hands whilst partially shredding his robes. Beyond that, all he accomplished was to turn the corridor into a sauna.

After an exasperated groan, Snape uttered some minor Healing and Mending Charms. Then he regrouped.

“Everyone! Excavato!” Snape roared. “All follow suit,” he ordered.

A chorus of Excavating Charms followed, and in due course a path was cleared through the rockfall.

Snape and his squad of Death Eaters stepped into an otherworldly scene. The very earth and the sky seemed transposed. Snape took everything in, his eyes as desolate as the landscape they surveyed. The normally green and flowering earth was utterly burnt and barren as far as the eye could see. The forlorn, cinder-strewn landscape had become a true Valley of Death. It offered nothing but the black, grey, and sooty brown. Not a leaf, not a twig, not a blade of grass survived. Even the lichens had been blasted away from the scalded and scorched rock. A thin, dark, glassy coating covered every exposed surface. It seared at a touch.

As the Death Eaters walked through the surreal scene, the very ground crunched brittlely underfoot.

“I have become Death, the destroyer of worlds,” Snape murmured philosophically to himself.

“What's that boss?” one of his men asked.

“Nothing,” Snape dismissed him. “Nothing at all.”

All around them the valley was still as death. Only the hissing of great gouts of steam broke the stark panorama of destruction. Water still flowed from upstream; relentlessly attempting to reclaim its accustomed path to the sea. The venting steam gradually moved downhill, indicating that the water was inexorably prevailing in its eternal quest.

In brilliant contrast to the stark and colourless earth, the ordinarily sullen and overcast sky sparkled with every hue of the spectrum. Peering up into the sweltering winds that whipped in the wake of the initial fireball's vertical departure, the startled crew of Death Eaters saw the base of the now greenish-grey column of the smoke, dust, and ash that the explosion had produced. The high winds were rapidly tearing it apart.

Free magic criss-crossed the sky and lit up the clouds, mixing with constant lightning flashes generated as innumerable ionised particles discharged excess energy and returned to a grounded state. The random magic scattered and rescattered itself until it took on the appearance of a half-dozen aurora glowing at once. One wave was pink, changing to orange. An iridescent green streak merged into cobalt blue. Another ray of blinding white ended in a prismatic blossom of dazzling rainbow colours. From one wall of the steep-sided valley to the other, the heavens flickered and morphed in a constantly changing, kaleidoscopic display. Even the hardened Death Eaters were awestruck by the overpowering beauty of unfettered raw magic.

Snape ordered his underlings to conduct a search for either Potter or their compatriots - not truly expecting to find either.

“Stop gawking. Spread out and search for signs of life. Our Master wants Potter,” Snape barked.

The Death Eaters dumbly complied and scattered over the devastated valley. Unlike them, Snape had some inkling of what might have happened. Potter had once drawn lightning to him - and then he had merely been angry, not threatened with death.

The valley's configuration gave Snape a good idea of where it might be best to look.

He turned his hooked nose and beady black eyes to the heavens and watched. Soon enough he spied an object spiraling downward, larger than the now-constant patter of bits of ash and other debris. As it wove lower, Snape discerned a mostly human form, with something long and odd fluttering behind it. It could only be Potter, still enveloped in what passed for a Shield Charm.

As the boy tumbled into range, Snape pointed his wand and cried, “Arresto Momentum!” Snape gently lowered the nearly naked boy to the ground, taking care to land him next to the stream, where the ground had cooled sufficiently to cause no further harm.

`Blast it. What have you done to yourself now?' Snape thought as he regarded the barely stirring young wizard.

Snape ordered the rest of the Death Eaters to stay back. He would examine the boy himself and, if at all possible, press the escape Portkey into his hand. He was just approaching Potter's softly moaning figure when a cacophonous blast of noise turned his head. A large rent appeared at the base of the cliff on the opposite side of the valley. Hell itself appeared to open and discharge its occupants.

Out of the hole, scores … no, hundreds … no, thousands, of enraged creatures spilled forth, all heavily armed and intent upon mayhem. In the vanguard were shock troops - howling berserkers with sharpened teeth and even sharper nails. Flitting this way and that in practiced manœuvres, the leathery-skinned warriors wore tight fitting, dull green scaly armour. They flung deadly projectiles from slings and fired magically guided inextinguishable flaming arrows from crossbows as tall and as wide as they were.

Behind them advanced the main force, thousands upon thousands of heavily armed troops in a checkerboard quincunx formation that quickly spread from one burnt-out side of the valley to the other. Over each unit fluttered the banner of the canton from which it had been raised. In precision order they discharged their weapons, launched their missiles, fell back and reformed - over and over again.

In front of the infantry lumbered the snarling forms of adult Blast-Ended Skrewts. The animals, encumbered by massive stone amour that absorbed deadly curses, discharged ear-splitting blasts of orange fire. Atop their wide backs were massive beams, and the beams supported mirror-like shields - broad enough that they overlapped all along the front. These mirrors deflected all curses that were blockable, and made it impossible for the Death Eaters to aim their unblockable curses.

The mirrors, however, worked in only one direction. The advancing forces fired their weapons through the mirrors from behind with no problems.

With fireballs and other charges exploding all about them, the isolated band of Death Eaters at first retreated in good order and formed a stout defensive front, as trained to do. The Dark Lord was somewhere in what remained of the castle. Escape by Apparition under such circumstances was unthinkable. Their resistance however was short-lived. Their curses either deflected harmlessly off the mirrored bulwarks or were simply absorbed by the Skrewts' armour.

For the first time in over three hundred years, a goblin army took the field against an opposing force of wizards. Given the numerical mismatch, the result of the engagement that followed was foreordained.

* * * *

A hundred kilometers - sixty-odd miles - away, Albus Dumbledore hastily put the finishing touches on a letter to the acting troika currently leading magical England. It was not an easy task, as he was thanking them effusively for taking the politically difficult step of freeing the eleven captured Death Eaters. Fawkes, whom the Headmaster used only for his most important correspondence, was standing by.

Dumbledore was writing furiously because Madam Pomfrey had also summoned him. That meant only one thing. The monomaniacally determined Granger girl was once again searching for Harry Potter. Unquestionably, she was the most brilliant student he had encountered in over fifty years of teaching at Hogwarts - but she was also one of the most stubborn and resourceful. These combined traits were potent, and potently dangerous.

Thus, she was engaged in the most personally reckless quest that the Headmaster had ever permitted to occur on Hogwarts grounds. He had allowed it for two reasons: first, he could not stop her; and second, the prophecy. She was now the only hope of finding Harry Potter. He knew it; she knew it; and she knew he knew it. Potter was the only one who could defeat Voldemort - but she did not know that … not yet.

The Headmaster was just signing his name when, out of nowhere, he was knocked to his office floor by the most intense wave of non-specific magic he had ever felt. At the same instant his office was briefly bathed in brilliant pinkish-white light that made a mockery of the largely overcast day.

Dumbledore groaned as he tried to regain his footing. The magic left his head pounding, as if hung over. Fawkes screeched and flew around the office. The portraits were in disarray. Outside, in the distance to the south-south west, through a break in the clouds, the still lustrous sky was shot through with what looked like a half dozen interconnected rainbows.

But unnoticed, below that beautiful sight, an odd iridescent flutter hugged the horizon.

As the Headmaster reached his feet, the normal magical lighting in his office began fluctuating. His silvery devices all emitted strange sounds in response to wildly oscillating magical power. Dumbledore's immediate concern was the Castle's wards. The unusual goings on indicated that they were under great stress and might even be overwhelmed.

He had no idea what could be causing this.

KZZZZZTTT!! BANG!! Crash!

A cabinet located inconspicuously near the staircase abruptly erupted in pink flames. The door blew off, spun across the office at high speed, and shattered one of the windows. Inside, hot pink flames and arcing magic engulfed a set of large crystals. The power of the magical field set the crystals humming audibly. The presence of such energetic magic told Dumbledore that the Hogwarts wards had been forced into failsafe mode. He needed to insert another crystal into the mains - quickly - or risk the wards being overcome altogether.

Fortunately, he always kept a spare on hand, just in case. Eyeing the sparking, smoking, cabinet, Dumbledore Summoned the extra crystal, and it zoomed to him. He reached for it and the 25-centimetre long, perfectly hexagonal quartz crystal flew into his hand. Entering the Headmaster's grasp, it struck the large gold ring he had recently acquired with a resounding “clink.”

Dumbledore took two steps towards the cabinet and stopped. He looked at the flawless, transparent crystal in his hand. He observed the ring. He regarded the fierce pink blaze in the cabinet. Was it worth the risk? He had conjured the wards' failsafe mode himself, and it appeared to be working correctly. The more benign magic was passing through, replenishing the wards and simultaneously providing energy to continue repulsing the rest. It was the colour he would expect if….

He went for it.

“AAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHHH!!!”

With an ear-splitting bellow, Headmaster Dumbledore lunged at the cabinet. Reaching through the angry pink fire, he rammed the additional crystal into place with his bare hand. The tendrils of flaming Light magic seared his right hand and arm all the way to his elbow as the dancing flames licked the black stone on the ring.

KAA-BLAAAAM!

A second strong explosion hurled Dumbledore across his office like a rag doll. He slammed into a bookcase next to the previously shattered window with enough force that half the books cascaded to the floor. Slumping to his haunches and bruised by the falling tomes, Dumbledore regathered his wits.

He was getting too old for this.

Half stunned, he looked at the ring. The black stone, formerly smooth and shiny, was now dull and worn. A large crack cleaved it in half. His right hand, however, was blackened and burnt. He could barely grasp anything and had no feeling left in his fingertips. Although an evil force had been consumed, it had taken its final toll.

Nonetheless, Dumbledore smiled a satisfied smile. The extra crystal grounded the excess magic. The wards were stabilising, and fluctuations in the Castle's magical power sources were damping down. He had done it, and preserved the Hogwarts protective wards at the same time. Exhaling from the effort, the Headmaster allowed himself a moment to relax.

But he only had a moment.

The Floo erupted with an urgent summons, “Albus Dumbledore, NOW!”

* * * *

Luna and her friends all glanced up in surprise when Hermione abruptly stopped her recitation of everything she saw or sensed. Instead, the girl on the bed lapsed into silence.

Madam Pomfrey, took two steps towards the bed, but stopped. Hermione's vital signs were good. In fact they were much improved since she had evidently located Mister Potter.

Maybe fifteen seconds passed.

Hermione uttered a single, frightened word, “V-V-Voldemort?”

More silence. Madam Pomfrey hesitated. This was so beyond the realm of her prior experience that she honestly did not know what to do.

That hesitation saved her life.

Abruptly, Hermione screamed out. “HARRY!!! DOOONNN'TTTTT BEEEEEEEAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!” Her desperate plea merged into an inhuman shriek that rose in pitch until it passed out of the range of human hearing.

Everything started happening at once.

Madam Pomfrey rushed towards the girl's bedside as Hermione and the bedclothes around her spontaneously burst into violent pinkish-purple flames. She never reached her patient. The large orange and blue talismans hanging over her bed exploded upon contact with waves of magic that poured from the tortured girl. Sharp shards of crystalline shrapnel shot everywhere.

The force of these explosions caught up the Hogwarts Head Nurse and blasted her across the room. She struck a windowsill on the wall opposite with a sickening thud and fell still - covered with broken glass and bleeding profusely.

The shock vibrated the Hospital Wing's windows. They cracked, broke apart, and fell as one with an earsplitting crash.

BAM!! BLAM!! POW!!

A series of loud reports continued as all the remaining talismans, charms and assorted enchanted objects that surrounded Hermione were flung away with great force. They crashed randomly about the Hospital Wing, shattering themselves and splintering the wood panelling, or chipping the stone walls upon impact.

Alarms blared on every monitor that had been checking Hermione's vital signs.

Fighting a pounding headache, Neville picked himself up, pointed his wand at Hermione's flaming bed and shouted, “INCENDIUS FRIGIDIO!!” His spell stopped the progress of the flames in their tracks.

The shock wave blew Ginny into one of Hermione's monitors. She and the machine toppled over. Ginny found herself face-to-face with the monitor screen, which bore a single straight line. Even she knew what the flat line meant. She screamed out, “SHE'S DYING!!! MERLIN, DO SOMETHING TO SAVE HER!!!”

Nobody was qualified to act. Madam Pomfrey lay unconscious, bleeding from the mouth, nose, and ears, and numerous cuts where the crystalline shrapnel had pierced her.

Luna staggered in the opposite direction, to the fireplace. She wildly grabbed the entire canister of Floo powder and hurled it into the flames. She fell to her hands and knees shouting, “ALBUS DUMBLEDORE!!! NOW!!!”

Neville, on autopilot, reached Hermione's bedside. A sweep of his wand banished those few noisy sensors that remained attached to the girl's now still body. With his bare hands, he shoved the frozen flames away from Hermione's chest and face, sending them clattering to the floor. Lacking any training, save a pamphlet he had once read whilst cooling his heels at St. Mungo's waiting to see his parents, Neville was going to try cardio-pulmonary resuscitation upon his horrifically burnt friend. It was his final, last-gasp attempt to do something - anything - to save her rapidly ebbing life.

Squeak…. CRASH!!

The door to the Hospital Wing disintegrated into splinters. In the doorway stood Dumbledore, his craggy, bearded face at once terrible and magnificent to behold. At the same time, his expression betrayed profound anguish. The Headmaster raised both arms, holding his wand oddly in his left hand. His right hand seemed to be steaming. Magical power pulsed from his imposing silhouette as he briefly surveyed the chaotic scene before him.

Madam Pomfrey was prostrate with serious injuries. The mostly pink and black mess that had previously been the most brilliant witch of her age lay motionless on her still smoking bed. Hovering over her, an uncertain yet determined Neville Longbottom was about to start pumping the girl's seared chest. Acrid smoke and the awful smell of burnt flesh permeated the air. Every window in the Hospital Wing was shattered, and a layer of assorted debris obscured the floor. Ginny Weasley was screaming encouragement to Neville. Luna Lovegood was on all fours choking.

The Headmaster lowered his wand and bellowed, “PHOENICIUS EXPIATUS!!”

From over Dumbledore's left shoulder Fawkes flashed into the room, flying at top speed. Phoenix song filled the air as the bird flew straight at Hermione, becoming a red-and-gold blur as it approached and finally vanishing within her. The girl's mangled form glimmered faintly with a residual reddish glow. The beautiful tones of the phoenix song persisted, but now emanated from Hermione herself.

“You may stand down, Mister Longbottom,” Dumbledore commanded. “She will not die. Not from the trauma, at least. Please help your friends.”

Dumbledore turned his attention to Madam Pomfrey. He performed some stabilising magic, but the Headmaster was no Healer. He had saved Hermione's life only by sacrificing Fawkes. That prevented death, but did not really cure anything.

Dumbledore turned to the portrait of Dilys Derwent, that hung (rather lopsidedly at the moment) on the wall above the fireplace. The imposing witch in the portrait, who served as both Headmistress of Hogwarts and Chairwoman of Internal Magic at St. Mungo's Hospital, was sorting through damage done by a flying crystal fragment that impaled one of her bookshelves.

The Headmaster waved his wand and, instantly, order was restored to the portrait. Its occupant turned to offer thanks, but was stilled by the sight of Dumbledore's urgent expression.

“Dilys, I need Paracelsus Huxley here, right away,” Dumbledore instructed. “Tell him it is as important as anything he has ever done for me. And he must bring a complete burn unit - here, to Hogwarts.”

Hlr. Derwent raised her eyebrows at this most unusual request. “While you look like you could use it, I doubt you need an entire unit brought here.”

“Look there,” the Headmaster commanded, gesturing toward Hermione. “It is not for me. My injuries are trivial by comparison.”

“Take her to St. Mungo's, then,” the portrait responded. “Whatever treatment is required can best be performed there. You know that.”

“I cannot,” Dumbledore replied. “I dare not move her, and I have reasons - good ones - for not wanting her beyond the purview of my authority as Headmaster. Now please get him…. This girl's life, and maybe more, hangs in the balance.”

“Very well, then. I shall fetch Healer Huxley.” Instantly, the woman in the portrait turned, and with a flash of her silver curls, was gone.

Dumbledore was just turning back to Hermione, when a magical roar, louder than a thunderclap, rocked Hogwarts Castle. For a second time, klaxons sounded, and the lights flickered. Briefly, the terrible Old Testament prophet expression the Headmaster had worn upon entering the shattered infirmary returned, as he drew himself up to full height once again. Fortunately, the situation required no further drain upon his magical resources. This time, the wards protecting the Castle held against whatever had assaulted them. Dumbledore allowed himself the slightest relaxation. At last something had gone right.

* * * *

Dumbledore and Hlr. Huxley had almost completed the erection of a magical burn recovery unit in the Room of Requirement. Some six hundred litres of sterile, healing fluid glowed softly yellow whilst hovering stably in mid-air. The two wizards were concentrating on fine-tuning the Oxygen Impregnation Charms. Soon they would be ready to summon the rest of the St. Mungo's team who were painstakingly preparing what was left of Hermione Granger for total immersion in the healing solution.

Hlr. Huxley ended the silence that had hung between the long-time close friends. He called a break to the single-minded attention to the business at hand. It was time for an explanation for the horrible accident that had obviously taken place.

“Why here, Albus?” Hlr. Huxley began. “I know you say she must be stabilised, but we have two of these units on 24-hour call at the hospital.”

“Believe me, Parry,” the Headmaster replied,” if I thought I could risk it, I would have saved you all this trouble. I am deeply grateful for your help. I am certain your absence is being felt.”

“Tell me about it. I'm going to catch more flack than you can imagine when I get back. Albus, when are you going to tell me what in Hell happened - why I'm here?” the senior Healer pressed. “When you act this way, there's always more to things than meets the eye - and I daresay there is a great deal that meets the eye at the moment.”

“You know me too well,” Dumbledore sighed. “Miss Granger's domestic situation is...,” he paused and considered his phraseology, “…shall we say, complicated. Her parents are Muggles, but recently left the country. Her father has become a fugitive from justice….”

“So she's the daughter of that Granger? The dentist.” Hlr. Huxley inquired.

“You still follow Muggle events, I see.” Dumbledore smiled and a slight twinkle returned to his eyes.

“It's only just about the biggest current scandal in Muggle medicine,” Hlr. Huxley remarked. “Between this and the flap about the mad cows, medical issues might well cost the Muggle minister his position. It probably exceeds anything since the French AIDS disaster a few years back.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore responded. “But that is not all. Her mother, who by all accounts was uninvolved in that scandal - recently turned up in Hogsmeade, demanding to see her daughter. Since your patient has yet to reach her majority, the woman was entirely within her rights. I cannot put her off much longer. You think you have Hell to pay…?”

“Then why here, Albus?” Hlr. Huxley asked again. “I'm afraid I don't understand.”

The Headmaster grimaced as he answered. “Miss Granger is a good friend of Mister Potter, as you no doubt know. What you probably do not know is that the girl's family sought to withdraw her from Hogwarts several months ago, believing - correctly - that their friendship put her at great risk. To enable her to continue her studies, I promised that I would see to her safety. It appears that I have failed rather miserably….”

“You don't mean…?” Hlr. Huxley interjected questioningly.

“I mean that precisely, Parry,” Dumbledore said, shaking his head. “If - when - Miss Granger's mother sees her in her present state, I am afraid that she will demand immediate custody….”

“She can't … can't do that!” Hlr. Huxley spluttered. “These are magical injuries…. Far beyond the ken of Muggle medicine…. She'd die within days….” Hlr. Huxley paused, and looked Dumbledore straight in the eye. “In fact, she should be dead already.”

The Headmaster let his friend's final comment pass. “You see what I am up against,” he continued. “I can at least delay things as long as Miss Granger remains subject to my authority. At St. Mungo's you would be bound by regulations to release her, even against medical judgment….”

The Headmaster busied himself with charming the devices that would be needed for removing Hermione's waste when she was submerged in the fluid.

“Albus, I'm waiting,” Hlr. Huxley stated quietly.

“Waiting for what?” Dumbledore replied, not meeting his gaze.

“First of all, I'm waiting to hear about the circumstances of your own injury,” Hlr. Huxley persisted. “Your wand hand is badly burnt. You need treatment too. Here, let me help you.” Hlr. Huxley could still move with surprising speed, and he deftly pinned Dumbledore's right arm to a low table so he could examine it. “How did this happen?” he asked.

Dumbledore explained what he had done in his office, characterising his actions as a desperate attempt to stabilise the wards and nothing more. Hlr. Huxley drew his wand and uttered a couple of Burn Healing Charms that accomplished nothing.

“That's a bad burn indeed,” Hlr. Huxley observed keenly. “Here, let me give you some Mandrake Salve, but even with that, it could take a long time to heal.”

“Some wounds never heal,” Dumbledore remarked matter-of-factly. “We both know that.”

Ordinarily, Hlr. Huxley would have responded to such a remark with a torrent of additional questions, but Dumbledore was not the most badly injured person he was treating. “I am still waiting, Albus.”

“What are you waiting for now?” Dumbledore asked, again feigning ignorance.

“Waiting for you to tell me the whole truth - the truth about what happened to her,” Hlr. Huxley declared. “Albus, we go back over fifty years. I helped you ready yourself to face Grindelwald. That success, in turn, made my medical career. If this were anyone other than you, I would be reporting these events to the proper authorities right now. I'm still obligated, you know. I need a reason not to…. I need the truth.”

In a dark undertone, the Headmaster replied, “Parry, some things you really have no wish to know about.”

“I suppose,” Hlr. Huxley answered relentlessly. “But this time, I'll have to be the judge of that.”

Dumbledore heaved a mighty sigh. “Very well. I am not sure that you really want to know the truth as much as you believe. You have always thought quite highly of me - at times, considerably more highly than I have thought of myself.”

“We're both at the top of difficult professions, Albus,” Hlr. Huxley tried to draw the man out. “I know better than anyone that the most skilful treatment regimens are no guarantee of success. But consider the situation I am in. Only yesterday, I saw this … this girl … that's what she is, after all. Your student. Charged to your care….”

“I know,” Dumbledore replied, shaking his head. “Believe me I know. I did not want this to happen. I tried everything to prevent it.”

“Yesterday, she was … magnificent,” Hlr. Huxley continued, with a faraway look in his eye. “She had the presence of mind to bring an ample supply of Phoenix Tear Extract - something I couldn't obtain from St. Mungo's on the short notice I had. That foresight alone saved at least half a dozen lives, maybe as many as the rest of us combined….”

“She is indeed remarkable,” Dumbledore agreed. “I brought you here to give her the best chance I possibly could to remain so.”

The Healer continued. “…Then in the heat of battle we threw all manner of casualties at her … and she has no formal training that I know of. She cured a bloody house-elf, can you believe it? A house-elf! Then she successfully treated that victim of Muggle gas. I thought it was a hopeless case, and I've been a Healer for over half a century. I've never seen anyone so precocious. I'd have taken her on staff in an instant….”

“Indeed,” agreed Dumbledore once again. “I selected her as the initial trainee for Hogwarts' Institution of Excellence program.”

If the Headmaster were expecting concurrence, he did not get it. Instead, Hlr. Huxley rounded on him. “And the next day, she's at death's door…. More than at the door, actually. She frankly should be dead. The integumentary damage alone is more than enough to have killed her. And she obviously breathed flame; her lungs are lethally seared. Yet she lives - why, Albus?”

“Everything you say is true - I know,” Dumbledore responded. “And I am totally responsible, both for the injuries and for her survival.”

“You say you know, but that's not enough I'm afraid. I need to know. My professional ethics demand it, dammit” Hlr. Huxley pressed.

“Very well,” Dumbledore conceded. “It all comes down to Harry Potter. They were extremely close….”

“So those rumours are true, then?” Hlr. Huxley observed.

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. “If only it were that simple. I wish the rumours were true. Maybe they are - maybe they were - I simply do not know…. She testified to her feelings under Veritaserum. He said as much to his late guardian. But they could not seem…. It is beyond me. In any event, something happened between them. To this day I cannot fathom exactly what…. Miss Granger was tightlipped, and I thought it wisest not to pry, given her fragile mental state at times….”

“Go on … the point, Albus,” Hlr. Huxley prodded.

“It seems there was a falling out,” Dumbledore explained. “Miss Granger blamed herself. When Mister Potter was taken hostage, she became, if not entirely suicidal, at least fatalistic to the point of recklessness.” The Headmaster said this as he half-heartedly inspected the essentially complete equipment.

“But what could she possibly do?” Hlr. Huxley asked. “Clever as she is, she's only a student, after all.”

“You betray your ignorance. You do not know Miss Granger as I do,” cautioned Dumbledore. “She cannot be underestimated, as I have learned to my sorrow. What is not generally known is that, as a consequence of certain injuries suffered during the Ministry incident last June, she shares an affinity with Mister Potter. She has the ability to sense his emotions. The Death Eaters who took him did not realise this. Her affinity was how we first knew that Mister Potter had survived the London fire.”

“All right,” Hlr. Huxley agreed. “She's insinuated herself very deeply into his psyche. Given what I know of Mister Potter's background, that may not be a bad thing.”

“I firmly believe it to be a very good thing indeed,” Dumbledore replied. “But I am constrained by the rules…. Never mind that…. Miss Granger took it into her head to find a way to reverse the affinity and locate Mister Potter…. And she succeeded…. Despite my best efforts, she succeeded.”

Hlr. Huxley gawked, aimlessly twiddling some monitors he had already cross-checked twice. “Is that even possible? I know of snippets in the literature, but I confess it is not my field. That would have to be extremely dangerous, particularly the locational aspect. I'm not a magical neurologist - in fact, I will order an immediate neurological consultation after her burns are healed - but I know such magic carries a risk of madness, or worse.”

“The consequences can be … and here may have been … much worse,” Dumbledore agreed sadly. “Nevertheless she persisted, and I had no choice but to allow it, because the Order had no other insight as to Mister Potter's whereabouts or condition. I even removed certain books from the library, but in the end she found me out. I am still not entirely sure how.”

“That's all well and good, but even she couldn't perform such complicated magic on herself,” Hlr. Huxley pointedly noted. He was determined not to allow Dumbledore - lifelong friend or not - wriggle off the hook.

“True,” Dumbledore admitted. “I performed the spells … last night … after the failure of the rescue attempt. It was that or allow her to proceed with the assistance of a Fifth Year she had recruited. In retrospect, that would have meant her almost certain demise.”

“Oh, my heavens,” Hlr. Huxley said, comprehending Dumbledore's dilemma.

“It gets worse,” the Headmaster hung his head. “I should have forbidden it, but I had no choice. Do you still want to know the whole truth? It involves Mister Potter.”

“Yes I do,” Hlr. Huxley reaffirmed. “Because you're my patient … and my friend, as well … and have been for fifty years. I've been in the Order since it existed to fight Grindelwald. You know from experience I'm trustworthy. I've kept your darkest secrets.”

“I trust you more than I trust myself,” Dumbledore declared. “But for your intervention, we both know that I would not be here. I shall not tell you everything - that might endanger you - but suffice it to say that Mister Potter is destined follow in my footsteps. That is what the incident at the Ministry was all about.”

“So that `Chosen One' crap isn't just so much Prophet pabulum,” Hlr. Huxley repeated softly, more to convince himself of that fact than to prompt Dumbledore.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore confirmed. “And Voldemort knows as much … more or less. That is why Mister Potter's young life has been so tragic. It is a variant of the strategy that Grindelwald used against me. I fear the same outcome - or worse…. Harry is more powerful than I was, but also much younger, and thus far more impulsive. It is a dangerous combination.”

“Has he made any attempt?” Hlr. Huxley asked.

“Voldemort? Certainly,” Dumbledore responded. “He has sought to drive Mister Potter to the depths of despair, with ever more sophisticated stratagems. Mister Potter himself? Fortunately he has not as of yet attempted to harm himself, although on one occasion he sought the means. I dissuaded him in the strongest terms I knew.”

“Well, one solution - and the only option that currently presents itself - is to save this girl's life,” Hlr. Huxley replied. Here, at least, was an outlet for his medical talents. “Although I remain deeply troubled by her condition. As I said, she should be dead.”

“I sacrificed Fawkes that she might live,” Dumbledore revealed.

Hlr. Huxley was more than shocked. “You…? You did? So the phoenix song I heard up there…? I didn't pay it much attention…. It wasn't just Fawkes somewhere in the rafters…?”

“No, the phoenix song is within her now,” Dumbledore admitted.

“I have heard of that theoretical possibility, but to my knowledge, successful use of the Sacrifice of the Phoenix to avoid imminent death hasn't been reported in over 250 years. I don't doubt your ability for a moment, Albus, but I would like permission to publish an article about this feat … to bring it out of legend….”

“You have my permission, but you will need Miss Granger's,” Dumbledore replied. “Unfortunately, she is in no position to consent at the moment. My fear is that Mister Potter, somehow, is the cause.”

“What!? Are you implying that Harry Potter…? Wherever he is, I'm certain he's nowhere near Hogwarts…. That he somehow magicked this girl ... who's been his friend for years … to the point of spontaneous combustion…? I thought you were implying that they were, in all likelihood, romantically interested in one another, if not actually involved?”

“That is the core of my present predicament. You must keep in the strictest of confidence what I am about to tell you,” Dumbledore instructed, “as both a member of the Order of the Phoenix and as an integral part of your physician-patient relationship - with both me and Miss Granger.”

“You have my word,” the Healer readily agreed. “But that doesn't mean I'll approve of what you did.”

“I would not expect any more,” Dumbledore replied wearily. “You see, with my belated practical assistance, Miss Granger succeeded in reversing the affinity and in locating Mister Potter. At the time her injuries occurred, she was actually within Mister Potter's mind. A witness took detailed notes. The problem was that Voldemort, I believe, also entered his mind. It was something along the lines of another attempted possession - or worse.”

“From your previous descriptions of Mister Potter, I gather you believe that he overreacted,” Hlr. Huxley diagnosed.

“Unlike many, your skills are not inversely proportionate to your success,” Dumbledore complimented. “I'm assuming that you felt the bizarre magical fluctuations of a few hours ago. Here in Hogwarts, they were strong enough to bowl me over, and they overtaxed our wards. Unfortunately, it also corresponded precisely with the infliction of Miss Granger's injuries. That I fear cannot be coincidental.”

“I certainly did feel it. I suspected that emission might be involved in the girl's condition, given the timing,” Hlr. Huxley observed. “Indeed, I almost felt compelled to refuse your summons because of it, but it proved more annoying than injurious in London. You think Mister Potter is the cause?”

“I believe you consulted on the treatment of one Mister Branstone some weeks ago?” Dumbledore asked.

“Indeed I did,” Hlr. Huxley confirmed. “A most remarkable case…. You mean, Potter caused that…?”

“Mister Potter has intermittent access to magic of great, but unformed power. Several incidents happened this summer, as Mister Branstone's case exemplifies. Most, if not all of those incidents have involved Miss Granger in some way. I am afraid that in this instance, he may have almost destroyed her in an overzealous attempt to protect her.”

“You're not implying…?” Hlr. Huxley began, and then stopped. The Healer had a quizzical look on his face as he silently held up his hand - thumb and all four fingers extended.

“That cannot be ruled out,” the Headmaster answered the unspoken question. “As you would say, it remains in the differential diagnosis. Not much else does.”

“Merlin's beard, he could be dangerous,” Hlr. Huxley exclaimed. “Especially after this.” He waved an arm in the direction of the burn unit.

“If anything, an understatement,” Dumbledore agreed. “If Mister Potter has survived whatever has happened - and he is a proven survivor - I have no idea how he will react to the likelihood that he is in some way responsible for Miss Granger's hideous injuries. He may well despair and attempt to harm himself. In a worst case scenario, he could even level Hogwarts Castle in his agony. I need your help in navigating these perilous waters.”

“You shall have it, then,” Hlr. Huxley pledged. “My initial advice is that, assuming Potter turns up, keep them close. That's one advantage you didn't have. It doesn't matter whether Potter goes depressive or manic. He'll be far less likely to cause a catastrophe if he appreciates that doing so would further harm the Granger girl.”

“That would seem to be sound advice,” Dumbledore concurred. “Sound indeed.”

“But only in the event that Potter is found,” Hlr. Huxley went on. “No matter what, we must soldier on in the here and now. Let's bring in the patient, then. It's time to get back to work.”

* * * *

The Room of Requirement was calm for a half an hour after a comatose Hermione Granger was immersed in the magical equivalent of an artificial womb. Already the Healer's monitoring equipment was reporting the beginnings of successful regrowth of both her skin and alveoli.

Hlr. Huxley was pleased with that, but only with that. Otherwise, he became increasingly perturbed by the aberrant neurological readings that the monitors recorded. “Too faint. Too bloody faint,” he repeated over and over again.

“What do you make of it?” Dumbledore asked worriedly.

“It's not my specialty, but I'm afraid that over time her physical injuries will prove to be the least of our concerns,” Hlr. Huxley said slowly and precisely. “You saved her physically, but maybe not mentally. Her mental state is suppressed - in a bizarre fashion I have never encountered before - but suppressed nevertheless. Her faculties are reduced to the point of coma … but it's unlike any coma I've ever seen. I'm afraid she's not going to be regaining consciousness anytime soon.”

Dumbledore buried his face in his hands. “A fate worse than death,” he intoned. “I am convinced that I shall have quite a bit of explaining to do.”

The situation had steadied to the point that Hermione's friends, along with an almost fully recovered Madam Pomfrey, were permitted entry to the Room of Requirement after submitting to thorough sterilisation spells. Dumbledore ordered that they not be informed of Hermione's mental condition - indeed, that they not be told much at all, except that she was stable and out of immediate danger.

Protocol demanded that next of kin be informed first. That would be extraordinarily difficult.

Dumbledore exited the after leaving strict instructions not to be disturbed except for the most pressing business. Once back at his office, he summoned his deputy before even sitting down. The conversation with Hlr. Huxley had led the Headmaster to a momentous personal decision. A few months earlier he had been relieved of his post on trumped up charges. The decisions he had made over the past few days could present valid grounds for a similar action, should they ever become known.

Hermione Granger simply had too high of a profile for her condition, - and the reasons for it - not to become public.

“Minerva, I should have listened to you, even if it meant a breach with Miss Granger,” Dumbledore confessed. “Healer Huxley's prognosis is that she will live, but in a coma.”

“Oh, Albus, that's terrible, just awful,” Professor McGonagall admonished. “I have never known a keener intellect, not even yours.”

“Nor have I,” the Headmaster agreed.

“Well, what do you propose to do about it?” his deputy asked sharply.

“At this point, isn't it best just to let nature take its course?” the portrait of Phineas Nigellus interrupted - reprising his advice of several weeks earlier.

The suggestion was roundly ignored.

“I am prepared to resign my post, should you wish to assume it,” Dumbledore declared firmly. “It seems that I have lost them both. Some of my predecessors have been sacked for less - I know that I have.”

“You'll do nothing of the sort!” McGonagall retorted heatedly. “Resignation is the coward's way out. You'll stay on until you have resolved this mess. Besides, now isn't the time to bother with positions. We have to make this right. We simply have to, and I haven't the foggiest idea where to start. After all, I agreed with you in the end - given that wretched prophecy.”

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore sighed. “Mister Potter's indispensability. Must not forget that. Is there any word? Any at all? …Or was my plea to let the Death Eaters go only the latest in my series of disastrous misjudgments?”

“You tried, Albus,” McGonagall consoled the Headmaster. “That's all any of us can do. If error it was, at least it was an error of commission.”

“True, indeed. In fact, that brings me to the immediate reason for this meeting. It is speculative at best under the current set of circumstances, but I have come to a decision.”

“Which is?” his deputy asked.

“Not here,” Dumbledore cautioned. “Come to my balcony. The sunset promises to be spectacular….”

Professor McGonagall frowned slightly but followed Dumbledore out onto the balcony. “What's of such importance that you can't utter it even in front of portraits sworn to obey you?”

“It involves, in part, the story of one of the portraits,” Dumbledore mused cryptically. “But first I would like you to reconfirm your position on a matter we have touched upon previously.”

“Albus, you need to be more straightforward,” McGonagall chided. “I'm not following.”

“I shall try,” Dumbledore agreed. “My question is - do you still believe that Miss Granger is romantically inclined towards Mister Potter?”

Professor McGonagall looked at him askance, as if the Headmaster had just made an indecent proposition. Finally, she answered, “I'm ordinarily extremely reluctant to speculate on student relationships. But her recent behaviour, her testimony whilst under Veritaserum, not to mention my years of observation of those two as their Head of House, leave me no doubt that this is true.”

“Thank you for the confirmation, Minerva,” Dumbledore said with the first smile of their conversation. “I have also seen evidence of her feelings. Moreover, I believe the same to be true of Mister Potter, based upon both personal observation and information conveyed in confidence by his late guardian, Bill Weasley. This confluence worries me greatly.”

“Albus you surprise me,” McGonagall blurted, looking even more scandalised. “Personally I think it would do them both of them a world of good - assuming either lives long enough to speak to the other again.” At that the Deputy Headmistress' face fell noticeably.

“Sorry, I am being obscure again, a personal failing,” Dumbledore responded. “I quite share your opinion. I am worried because, despite their evident feelings, they have so far succeeded only in driving themselves apart. I thought that the affinity would unite them. It has resulted in precisely the opposite effect. What we have here is a serious failure of communication.”

“Speaking of communication, where is this conversation going?” Professor McGonagall asked, quite perplexed at the turn of their discussion. “This is really none of our business, but even more so, what does any of this have to do with any of your predecessors?”

“You are, of course, aware that I do not have a very high opinion of my immediate predecessor, Headmaster Dippet?”

“You have so hinted on a number of occasions,” Professor McGonagall concurred.

“There is good reason for that,” Dumbledore continued. “And over the last couple of months, I have been overtaken by an ever growing sense of déjà vu. Today, I came to a decision.”

“Somehow it seems to me that this `decision' of yours must involve the Potter boy and the Granger girl,” Professor McGonagall deduced.

“Indeed it does,” Dumbledore confirmed. “I have been on the horns of a dilemma with potentially long-lasting consequences. Against my better judgment, I refrained from even broaching the subject with either of them. Nevertheless, I have been tempted to violate one of the fundamental tenets of my position, and today I resolve to yield to temptation.”

“Albus, what on Earth are you talking about?” Professor McGonagall asked, not sure whether to be relieved or scandalised.

“Have I ever told you the true circumstances of my defeat of Grindelwald?” Dumbledore asked.

“Only in the most general terms,” Professor McGonagall replied. “You must excuse me if I don't see the relevance of that at the present.”

“You will shortly,” Dumbledore promised. “You know of course that the final engagement occurred shortly after I translated certain enchanted runes that foretold the downfall of Grindelwald?”

“Certainly,” Professor McGonagall confirmed. “That's no secret. It is in all of the history books.”

“Well, as is often the case in such matters, the resultant language was imprecise. The combination of `Hogwarts' unsurpassed,' `faultless loss of love unspoken,' and `vexed of Muggle relations,' did not as everyone now assumes necessarily have to refer to me - notwithstanding the situation with my unfortunate half-brother Aberforth. Another could have stood in my stead.”

“But Grindelwald pursued you, slaughtering first your wife, then your son, and driving you to the brink and beyond…,” Professor McGonagall responded in disbelief. “And you've always been so powerful…. Wait just a minute…, have you been having another heart-to-heart with the dear Healer Huxley?”

“I repeat what I said previously,” Dumbledore answered. “You have me pegged. Yes, I had occasion to reminisce with the good Healer whilst we were preparing the Room for Miss Granger's treatment.”

“In that case, I'm not sure I like where this conversation might be going,” Professor McGonagall retorted, “but continue nevertheless.”

“At the time of the events in question, and thereafter, another possibility existed - more akin to Mister Potter's situation than to mine,” Dumbledore went on. “Indeed, my task was far less daunting than his, as I had overcome the impetuosities of youth, whereas he is so awfully young to have to face such a burden…. Which was once again, the same problem….”

“I'm afraid you're lapsing into convolutions again, Albus,” Professor McGonagall replied. “Please, enough allusions. Clarity is more important right now.”

“True, it is a failing of mine … one of many…,” Dumbledore agreed. “Very few know this, but Thomas Marvolo Riddle - who surpassed my overall O.W.L. marks, if not my score in Transfiguration - could very well have taken my place as the one destined to defeat Grindelwald. He had the power, and the intelligence, to have succeeded. Unfortunately, he came from a background every bit as bleak as Mister Potter's, and failed ever to find love….”

“Sweet Merlin's ghost,” McGonagall exploded. “Voldemort could have been the….”

“Yes,” Dumbledore reiterated. “And therein lies the rub. In no small measure, I blame myself - because I could see it coming. Unfortunately, the Hogwarts rules of professorial conduct prevented me from acting.”

“How…? What…?” The Headmaster's revelation reduced his deputy to incoherence.

“Mister Riddle grew up in an orphanage, an awful one,” Dumbledore explained. “He was an outcast and had practically no conception of his magical abilities until I personally told him about Hogwarts and his true nature. Here, he did spectacularly academically, but as a half blood was out of place in Slytherin. The Slytherin girls of his time snubbed him for his lineage. Beyond Slytherin, house rivalry - and his own maladroitness - prevented him from finding any other outlet. Only one woman treated him like a human, a Hufflepuff named Abigail Rosen.”

“I definitely don't like where this story is headed,” Professor McGonagall interjected. “That girl … oh, and what a girl she was … was one of Voldemort's first victims - killed along with her entire family.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore again confirmed. “Riddle and Rosen were interested in one another for almost two years, but for reasons I never quite understood could not overcome their differences. I'm sure you now see the parallel….”

McGonagall availed herself of the opportunity to remain stonily silent, so Dumbledore continued.

“Riddle was such a remarkable student and powerful wizard that I sought permission from Headmaster Dippet to intervene in their personal affairs, contrary to longstanding Hogwarts protocols. Dippet refused, choosing rules over reason. So I had no alternative but to stand aside - and watch him go Dark….”

Very little astonished Minerva McGonagall, Mg.D. But the sight of Albus Dumbledore shedding tears after all these years left her thunderstruck.

“So much evil…. So many deaths…. All preventable…,” the Headmaster droned as he daubed his cheeks. “I could have done something about it … but I failed. Were I just more certain of my instincts, and had I a little more disregard for the rules…. Why, the world might never have heard of Lord Voldemort or Harry Potter…. And Mister Potter might have been able to lead the ordinary life that he so craved…. That is the burden that I must bear. This is all my fault…. All of it….”

Professor McGonagall did not know how to react. The Headmaster always kept his own counsel. He never betrayed what he truly thought, not even to his trusted deputy.

“There, there, Albus,” she stammered whilst awkwardly patting the old man on the back. “That was fifty years ago. There's … there's no need for you to dwell on ancient history….”

“If only that were true,” the Headmaster replied wearily. “Why do we study History of Magic…?”

“To avoid the mistakes of the past, by understanding them” the Deputy Headmistress responded. “Professor Binns' opening remarks to the First Years have not changed in a century, if ever.”

“Miss Granger, I fear, has even more profoundly touched Mister Potter than Mister Riddle was touched in his day,” Dumbledore declared. “I fear for the Light within him, particularly given today's events.”

“What are you proposing, Albus?” McGonagall asked.

“Minerva, I am proposing that, if I am going to persist in making mistakes, I shall at least make new ones. It seems like a long shot at present, with Mister Potter missing and Miss Granger lying near death, but I have faith in them both. Should the opportunity present itself, I shall not stand aside and watch the two of them fail. In that sense, some of my detractors in the Black litigation were correct. Given Mister Potter's power and his resources, were he to succumb to the temptations of the Dark Arts, we would be better off with Voldemort.”

“Surely you don't think that Potter has Dark tendencies?” Professor McGonagall asked rhetorically.

“Not now, but were Miss Granger no longer with us, I would not care to speculate,” the Headmaster replied evenly. “After all he did recently express interest….”

“…In Necromancy,” McGonagall completed Dumbledore's sentence.

“Precisely,” the Headmaster gravely confirmed, “and should he hold himself responsible, he might be moved to try to make amends…. He would hardly be the first.”

“And that's why you're expecting me to stand aside whilst you run roughshod over our mutual oath not to concern ourselves with our student's romantic relationships?” Professor McGonagall asked fiercely.

“Not at all,” Dumbledore calmly replied. “I expect, and need, your assistance. You know the prophecy, and you also know that unrequited love and its attendant despair can tarnish a wizard's powers. Mister Potter will need every edge we can give him….”

She stared at the one person at Hogwarts who outranked her - astonished at what she had just heard. After a deafening silence, McGonagall finally asked, “And just what might that entail?”

“I cannot possibly have Mister Potter know anything about my decision. It would be self defeating,” Dumbledore replied. “But I likewise cannot do anything without Miss Granger's consent. That would be truly unethical. I need you to have a conversation with her offering the resources of….”

This conversation would have to be continued some other time.

“What is that Albus!?!” McGonagall gasped in alarm, pointing to a rapidly approaching object silhouetted against what had indeed become a spectacular sunset.

“I have no idea,” Dumbledore replied, drawing his wand. “Be ready and stay back.”

BRAAAAAK!!

A large leathery creature - a refugee from a bad science fiction movie - bore down on them. A grey-clad rider no larger than a First Year, prone on the beast's back, guided it in. Pulling back on the reins, he brought the huge animal, the size of a small airliner, to a halt by the Headmaster's balcony.

When the rider sat up in the saddle, his goblin ethnicity was quite apparent. He and Dumbledore had a staccato conversation in a language Professor McGonagall did not understand. The rider then handed the Headmaster a green jade cylinder. Then the rider wheeled the quetzalcoatlus around and departed as rapidly as he had come.

“What did it … er … he say, Albus?” Professor McGonagall asked nervously.

“He had a confidential message for me, but did not know its contents,” Dumbledore replied, equally anxious. “Come inside, I have a reader.”

At that precise moment, however, Dumbledore's amulet glowed green with an urgent message through Order channels.

“What is it?” Dumbledore barked into a mirror he withdrew from his robes, his annoyance plain. This impatience only increased when the leonine features of Minister Scrimgeour appeared.

“I apologise for the disturbance, but under the circumstances this just couldn't wait,” the Minister declared. “I've just had an urgent request for information from the Muggle Minister - from Prime Minister Major personally.”

“What happened now?” Dumbledore asked, trying to juggle the mirror, open the cylinder, and insert its message into one of his spindly silver gadgets all at once.

“It appears that we are in the midst of an international incident,” Minister Scrimgeour explained. “This goes well beyond anything that the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes is capable of handling. I've convened the highest level Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee meeting in recent history, but we're stumped. We need your help.”

“Perhaps if you first told me what this is about?” Dumbledore replied coolly.

“Those ruddy magical shock waves we all felt…. Apparently some sort of magical explosion caused them,” the Minister reported. “The results were detected by one of those pesky American spy saddlemites….”

“I believe that is `satellite,'” Dumbledore corrected, “but go on.” Finally, he had properly inserted the goblin message into the translation device on his desk.

“The Yanks thought Britain had been attacked with something the Muggles call a thermonuclear device,” Minister Scrimgeour continued. “They went to some sort of red alert - I think Major called it `deaf calm two.' Fortunately cooler heads prevailed as to that threat. But our problem is that the Muggles traced the source to a valley in Scotland. We just had an Accidental Magic Reversal Squad report back. They were denied access. The goblins have seized that territory. All we know is that it's total destruction up there. Far too big a job just to be covered up. Can you suggest anything?”

Dumbledore was still trying to formulate a response when the translator started its loud clattering. He tried to pay attention to both the message and the Minister.

“Dumbledore! Are you there? I can't hear you!” Scrimgeour was practically shouting from the mirror.

“I am indeed present,” the Headmaster replied, “but I am also receiving an important message. Can you wait a minute?”

“Like Hell,” demanded the Minister. “I'm trying to keep the bloody Muggles from starting bloody World War Three over this. Remember, it's an election year across the Pond….”

The translator clattered away.

The Headmaster's eyes nearly flew out of his head. He took two steps one way, and then remembered he was on a mirror with the Minister of Magic. He had to pull a rabbit out of his hat quickly.

Only one analogous situation came to Dumbledore's mind.

“I have to go, Minister. I have just received an important message that requires my personal attention. Yes…. I am aware Minister, that your matters are important too…. But this simply cannot keep…. I suggest that you use the same excuse that the Russian Ministry offered after the 1908 Siberian disaster - blame it on an encounter with a piece of a comet.”

With that, Dumbledore sheathed the mirror with his good hand before the sputtering Minister had a chance to respond.

“My dear Minerva, I need you to alert Healer Huxley … immediately. I am afraid his services are about be put to yet another excellent - if unexpected - use.”

Sometimes it was best to obey without question. Hurling Floo powder into Dumbledore's office fireplace whilst the Headmaster continued reviewing to the message, McGonagall shouted, “Paracelsus Huxley!”

The Healer's richly bearded face popped out of the flames. “What surprise do you have up your ample sleeves now?” he asked.

“Can you accompany me on yet another difficult and delicate mission?” Dumbledore asked.

“As this patient is stable, I can,” Hlr. Huxley agreed, wondering if his day could possibly become even more peculiar. “Where are we off to now?”

“I have just received word from the goblins. Mister Potter is currently in their custody. He is alive, but in rather poor condition - something unusual that seems to have been lost in the translation…. They are asking for us to provide immediate medical attention.”

“I'll be there in an instant. Just a few things I need to tidy up here,” Hlr. Huxley answered. His day was indeed going to be more bizarre - probably the most memorable of his professional life, which was saying something.

“Oh, and could you arrange for a … Transfiguration specialist … to accompany us?” Dumbledore added.

* * * *

Author's notes: Luna has her reasons for trying to protect Hermione

Bees generally beat on glass to get out, rather than in

Luna's notes will help Harry figure out what he needs to know about Hermione

Wensleydale is a randomly picked relatively wild part of Britain

All Scottish place names are accurate

Voldemort's means of re-examining his past will be very important

VandeGraaff generators exist and behave similarly to Harry's shield

The junction amplifying current crossing it is from Muggle electronics

Massive explosions generate polarized light

Quark gluon plasma is an extreme energy state. These condense into hadrons, breaking chiral symmetry. Magical energy involves charmed quarks

Much of the description of the explosion and its consequences comes from Richard Rhodes' "Dark Sun" and "The Making of the Atomic Bomb"

Shatter cones typically form through meteorite impact

Coesite and stishovite form from meteorite impacts and nuclear weapons

Protego shields differ. Unlike Chapter 10, Harry uses an omnibus shield that intercepts everything, including physical objects

I accurately describe the formation of a mushroom, however this one is mostly invisible in the surviving clouds

The White Lotus Triad becomes very important after the H/Hr problem is resolved

The pink flash moves at the speed of light, but the shock wave only at the speed of sound, thus arriving later

Freshly cooled lava crunches underfoot

"Death, destroyer of worlds" comes from the Bhagavad Gita, as quoted by Robert Oppenheimer after the first successful A-bomb test

The atmospheric phenomena (except for lightning) are made up

The goblins' dull green scaly armor recurs

Quincunx is an alternating military formation favored by the Roman legions

Harry encountered goblin mirrored wards going to the Ashrak

The iridescent flutter Dumbledore sees is the approaching shock wave

The box of crystals acts as a fuse box for Hogwarts' wards

My version of how Dumbledore destroys the ring Horcrux

Hermione's last words are important

Fawkes' merger into Hermione saves her life but has lasting effects

Paracelsus was perhaps the true first physician; Thomas Huxley was "Darwin's Bulldog" and founded the first true medical school in Britain

Hermione is returned to the womb to heal

The French AIDS disaster is real; an official cover up led to numerous additional infections

Hermione's majority becomes critically important

Harry overreacts. He's not "Super Harry" in this fic, although very powerful. Rather, most magic that he tries for the first time fails for one reason or another

The failure of communication phrase parallels the famous line in "Cool Hand Luke"

Some backstory concerning Dumbledore

Riddle's failed romance will be revisited in more detail; Dumbledore is clueless

I changed the girl's name to Rosen from Rosenberg, to avoid Buffy connotations. Her ethnicity is far more important than her name

The goblin rider is patterned on the Skybax rider in the Dinotopia book "Land Apart from Time"

"Deaf calm two" = "Def Con (Defense Condition) 2" a readiness level only reached during the Cuban Missile Crisis

1908, piece of a comet reference, and Siberia all refer to the Tunguska event

61

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch36 destroyer of worlds.doc 10/25/04

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37. The Boy Who Lived?

Wherein Harry receives emergency medical attention in the palace of the goblin king, undergoes detoxification, asks to see Hermione, and is reunited with her while she is unconscious; Dumbledore gets through to Harry in the nick of time, meets with a goblin general and his prisoner, brings Harry to Hogwarts, and begins explaining things to Harry; and Ron nearly gets into a fight, learns what happened to Hermione, and assumes temporary leadership of the DA.

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

Chapter 37 - The Boy Who Lived?

A dozen heavily armed and decidedly jumpy goblins eyed their three highly unusual charges with all the deep suspicion that their race held for wizards. In turn, the visitors gawked at the massive edifice that loomed before them.

“Cor, would you look at that!” Hlr. Huxley exclaimed with undisguised admiration. “I've been to the magical communities in Petra and Cappadocia, but I've never seen anything comparable to this.”

“I seriously doubt that any of us have,” Dumbledore added, as he also regarded the imposing structure. Chiseled directly into an underground deposit of deepest black obsidian, its main entrance was inlayed with jewels and semiprecious stones of all shapes, sizes, and colours. Whilst richly appointed, the building was also designed for practicality - the practicalities of war. Each level was fully fitted with battlements, and several score more heavily armed goblin warriors stared at the visitors through the crenels.

“We are probably the first of our kind ever to gaze upon the threshold to the palace of the goblin kings - let alone to enter it,” Dumbledore added gravely. “None of the Ministry's diplomats from Goblin Liaison has ever set foot here. I daresay that is why our escorts are so nervous.”

Indeed they were - and that apprehension had been increasing since Dumbledore, Hlr. Huxley, and Hlr. Hypatia Bosworth had first passed into Goblin territory directly from the Chief Goblin's office at Gringotts. This unheard-of wizard incursion had been arranged and organised on extremely short notice. No accepted protocols existed. Every step both sides were taking was unprecedented.

The leader of their goblin escort party tugged on Dumbledore's sleeve and let loose in staccato Gobbledegook.

Dumbledore translated for the rest of the party. “Prince Maragnok bids us to hurry. Mister Potter's medical situation is believed to be grave, and not everyone here is inclined to make us welcome.”

With no additional conversation, the goblin prince who had become Harry Potter's blood brother ascended the shiny black steps. The rest of the party followed. Dumbledore doffed his hat at the entryway - an act taken as much out of necessity as from diplomatic considerations. The entrance, whilst grand by goblin standards, was not designed for much taller wizards. Had he not removed it, Dumbledore's high pointed headgear surely would have fallen victim to the lower ceilings within the palace.

The others followed suit.

With everyone's footsteps echoing off the carved stone passageways, their hosts led the three wizards through the mazelike corridors of the ebony palace for several more minutes. Presently, they reached what appeared to be the main dining hall, but it was not set for a feast.

Instead, the expansive chamber was a hastily converted sick room. Several tables were shoved together in disorderly fashion. Surmounting them were what seemed like every pillow, cushion, and pouffe in the palace. Atop of this padding, swaddled in clean sheets soft enough to have come from the king's own bedchamber, lay Harry - or least someone, or something, who resembled Harry.

He was being attended, remarkably lackadaisically, by a number of goblin Healers. As the wizards arrived, these goblins were chatting anxiously among themselves, but did not appear actually to be trying to treat Harry.

What truly brought the wizards up short was the remarkable protuberance from Harry's back. It was bright red and almost ten metres long - a wing - a single, badly broken wing.

“What in Merlin's name happened to him?” Hlr. Huxley burst out, practically involuntarily. “I thought the reference to a `wing' in Dumbledore's note from the goblins was a typo - a mistranslation.”

“Well, typo or not, I'm very pleased you saw fit to act on it and bring me along,” Hlr. Bosworth replied as she heaved her heavy black bag of potions, charms and other healing devices onto her shoulder. “It looks like my speciality will be necessary after all.”

“What do you make of it?” Hlr. Huxley asked the witch who occupied the position of Department Chief at St. Mungo's for Transitory, Charmonium-Mediated, Epigenetic Phenomena.

“I've read articles devoted to this sort of syndrome,” Hlr. Bosworth replied, shaking her head as if she could not believe what she was seeing. “And I once had a patient that sprouted antennae, but never have I seen a case anywhere near as serious as this….”

“And what is this?” asked Hlr. Huxley urgently.

“Unless I miss my guess,” Hlr. Bosworth diagnosed, “we are faced with a case of spontaneous partial Animagus transformation. In all probability it was brought about by the extreme stress that this patient experienced at the end of his Death Eater captivity - but that's just a preliminary conclusion based purely upon the gross morphology.”

She turned to Dumbledore, who had been listening in, and asked him, “Has Mister Potter ever shown signs of Animagus abilities before now?”

“None that I am aware of,” Dumbledore responded, struggling to recall something - anything - that might have been a harbinger of the sight before him. “He is a year away from any serious cultivation of such skills. At Hogwarts, even preliminary assessment of Animagus ability is conducted only in the second half of the Sixth Year. His father was an Animagus, though….”

“Well, it's not known to be hereditary, but I have no other explanation for how that wing could have gotten there,” Hlr. Bosworth replied, stroking her chin in thought. “Symptomatologically it all fits. The Animagus transformation must have been incomplete, and the transformed appendage suffered serious injury before the process could revert to its usual state. That prevented the injured wing from retracting once the transient emergency that prompted its existence had passed. It does look very horribly mangled - fractured in at least three places, one of them compound.”

She turned back to Hlr. Huxley. “Healer, why don't you see to stabilizing the patient's condition? I'm going to concentrate on healing his wing so that it is capable of undergoing reversion. The physical structure is so extensive that its persistence is taxing Mister Potter's condition. His body is not acclimated to supporting it.”

Dumbledore held back as the two wizard Healers moved forward to take charge of their badly injured patient. Hlr. Bosworth made to examine Harry's damaged wing more closely. Hlr. Huxley confidently shooed the goblins out of the way as he withdrew several diagnostic runes from his own black bag.

Almost immediately, they determined why the goblin Healers had seemed lost - and why they had so uncharacteristically requested the assistance of wizard practitioners.

They could not touch Harry - at all. A rogue Shield Charm prevented any physical access to his body. The harder Hlrs. Huxley and Bosworth pressed against the shield, the more powerful a defensive shock they received. Hlr. Bosworth quickly resorted to a variety of spells after being repulsed. Hlr. Huxley persisted in using direct pressure until his entire right arm was numb and the shield was glowing faintly yellow.

Nothing worked.

Dumbledore strolled up behind Hlr. Huxley, as the Healer was trying to take readings with a diagnostic rune from thirty centimetres distant. “What is your prognosis, Healer?”

“Extremely grave,” Hlr. Huxley replied with frustration tingeing his voice. “Beyond that, it's hard to say, since all of these bloody runes are charmed for direct contact. These readings are unreliable, but they indicate extremely low concentrations of charmed baryons. He's losing what's left of his magic…. It's just flowing out of him, and I don't know how to staunch it. There's no magical equivalent of a tourniquet.”

“If we don't find some way of lifting this Shield Charm, and soon, we'll be burying him,” Hlr. Bosworth added urgently. “Look underneath - it's repelling his body from the cushions on which he's lying. I tried levitating the wing a bit and whilst I could move it, the shield still precluded direct contact. It's consuming what little reserves he has left. It's as if he's sacrificing everything to maintain the shield. What must he have been through?”

Dumbledore saw no alternative. He shed his deep brown travelling robes, revealing beneath them the gaudy Hawaiian shirt he had thrown on in a rush after hurriedly replacing the clothing he had scorched earlier. The Headmaster extended his hands - the intact one and the badly burnt and blackened one - and placed them as close to Harry's chest as he could.

Hlr. Huxley tipped his hand to shush Hlr. Bosworth, who gaped in shock at the Headmaster's own injury. “I don't think direct pressure will work,” he whispered to Dumbledore. “I've tried everything.”

“Mister Potter does not recognise you or your aura,” Dumbledore replied. “I just hope he can still identify mine.”

His brow furrowed and his face reddening in concentration, Dumbledore brought his hands closer and closer to Harry's burnt, battered, and bruised body. He mumbled under his breath, “Harry, this is Albus…. It is all over, Harry…. Albus Dumbledore…. You have known me for years…. Albus…. I want to help you…. I need to help you…. You know I would never hurt you…. Albus Dumbledore…. You are safe here…. Let me through, Harry….”

Everyone - human and goblin - stopped what he or she was doing and watched in tense silence as Dumbledore sought to work his unique brand of magic.

At first the shield surrounding Harry glowed yellow, just as it had done in thwarting all of the Healers. But as Dumbledore kept mumbling soothing words, slowly the colour changed - first to orange, then to red, and then to ever deeper red, as the shield began to fade away. Finally with a barely audible hiss, it dissipated altogether, and Dumbledore's hands gently went to Harry's torso. The Headmaster's facial expression relaxed noticeably when he made physical contact, but otherwise he kept up his soft stream of words.

“…Good Harry…. Stay calm…. I am going to help you now…. Albus…. I have brought Healers - good ones…. To help bring you back…. Albus Dumbledore…. You are safe now…. You have been rescued….”

The ancient wizard slid his hands - one good and one burnt as badly as any spot on Harry's body - up to Harry's head. He brushed away what remained of the injured boy's charred and filthy black robes. Soon his hands rested on Harry's cheeks, cradling his slack-jawed face. The scar that emblazoned Harry's forehead was hot to the touch, but the rest of his face was algid and clammy with hypomagusic shock.

“I am bringing the Healers now…. They will help you…. It is over Harry…. You are with Albus…. With friends….”

Never moving his hands from Harry's face, the Headmaster nodded his head to his compatriots, letting them know that they could approach and start tending to Harry's perilous condition. Several of the goblin Healers swarmed forward as well, and began daubing the boy's prominent burns with a milky blue salve that was cool to the touch and smelled strongly of camphor. Hlr. Huxley had never seen this particular concoction before, but let the goblins carry on. He had more serious healing to attend to.

“What on Earth did you just do, Albus?” he asked.

Dumbledore looked back at him philosophically. “Fortunately, whilst Mister Potter no longer trusts me in many ways about many things, it appears that he still trusts me with his life.”

“Well, that's the most important thing,” Hlr. Huxley reassured.

“Perhaps not. As I have discussed with you before, there are things far worse than dying - and things more important than living,” the Headmaster reminded his friend. “The degree to which I have truly regained this boy's trust remains to be tested.”

Hlr. Huxley would have liked to explore Dumbledore's typically maddening comments, but he had a patient to treat.

Dumbledore offered but a single additional question to the Healers. “Do you think you can save his life?”

“Yes,” they replied in unison, and with that they set to work.

The two Healers were in their element now, and they lost no time. Hlr. Huxley employed a non-stick, Apparating magical catheter to access the cubital vein in Harry's arm. He began an IV push of as much charmonium (Î©+++) enhanced Blood-Replenishing Potion as Harry's rather depressed system could handle. He mixed together a Restorative Draught of Phoenix Tear Extract and Mandragora for Harry to take per os. It was the most potent mixture he knew. Because Harry was unconscious, Hlr. Huxley had to massage the boy's throat to stimulate an involuntary swallow reflex.

So much needed to be done, possibly in very little time. Hlr. Huxley's next step was to mix tincture of dragon liver with powdered ginger roots in a solution of sparkling water in order to purge Harry's system of an excess of black bile. Then he would need to set his patient's badly broken ankle…. After that, he had to treat Harry's fever…. Perhaps he had an infection?

Dilute Green Absinthe, perhaps? Or maybe an Invigoration Draught? Thank Merlin he had kept some of the Phoenix Tear Extract he had received from that Granger girl….

Hlr. Bosworth was similarly busy. Her most immediate concern was to reduce and heal the fractures in Harry's remaining wing. First, she soaked warm poultices in hospital-strength Skele-Gro to create an infusion that would penetrate the skin - the skin of whatever beast or fowl Harry's Animagus actually was. In fifteen years of practice, she had never had to immobilise anything quite so large. She was a Healer, not a veterinarian.

Next, to produce the necessary splints, she used the Engorgio Charm to enlarge the splinting material she had brought with her. As she was treating a victim of spontaneous Animagus transformation, she could not affix any splints in the usual way. Successful healing of the spontaneously generated appendage would eventually prompt an equally spontaneous reversal of the transformation. Anything too strongly attached would get in the way of the reversal, possibly causing reinjury. She settled on a cantilevered, hypoallergenic Sticking Charm. It would let the entire splint pop off in a fail-safe manner once the wing began to transform and withdraw.

Harry's wing was so large and badly broken that the end result of Hlr. Bosworth's efforts resembled nothing so much as an encasing scaffold. It took over an hour of frantic labour to construct, and it had to be kept in traction. Taking advantage of the providential appearance of a goblin translator, she asked for something she could use as a counterweight….

Hlr. Bosworth almost did not believe her eyes when, less than a minute later, several goblins pushing a handcart presented her with a gigantic aquamarine crystal that weighed over twenty kilos. The goblins who brought it batted nary an eye when she used a Drilling Charm to punch a hole clean through the massive gemstone so she could run a hoisting lanyard through it.

Even with these orthopÃ¦dic labours completed, there was no rest for the weary. Hlr. Bosworth's successful external fixation meant only that she could turn her attention from broken bones to ruffled feathers. She boiled a decoction of powdered blue Moonstone in salamander blood to produce mucilage for restoring order to Harry's bent and broken plumage. The same potion, albeit far weaker, was the active ingredient in Sleekeasy's Hair Potion - but instead of hair, Hlr. Bosworth had to straighten out feathers that were as much as a half metre long.

Both Healers were totally engrossed in their work. They did not notice when a goblin dressed in a sumptuous grey uniform beckoned Dumbledore out of the room.

Dumbledore acknowledged the high-ranking goblin as soon as they were alone and could not be overheard. “Greetings, General Barduk. Congratulations are in order, I understand.”

The goblin general deflected Dumbledore's praise. “Nothing, it was,” he pronounced. “Except strange … exceedingly strange. In ruins the castle was, verily before we attacked. Mopping up we were, nothing more. Whatever happened, already had. Quite small were the opposing force remnants - and divided, I think.”

“Well, you rescued Mister Potter, and that was what really mattered,” Dumbledore persisted. “For that I shall always be deeply and profoundly grateful - and of course chastened. I should have remembered to ask for your help at Malfoy Manor. That oversight was solely and entirely mine.”

General Barduk remained dismissive. “All water under bridge. What happened is the paramount question. More immediately, though, tell us you must what to do with your traitor.”

Dumbledore did a double take. “What?”

The general smiled slyly. “Yes, your traitor, captured by us he was. To death we thought of sending him immediately like every other live Death Eater we caught, but strangely this … Snape, I believe he calls himself … was acting, so to wait I ordered.”

“You have captured Severus Snape?” the Headmaster asked, now genuinely concerned.

“To see you, he requested. Repeatedly, he did,” the general confirmed. “To spare him, enough that would not have been, except for in battle odd his behaviour was.”

“I would like to see him as soon as possible,” Dumbledore requested, trying not to betray too much eagerness to the goblin. In the past, goblins had been quick to demand ransoms in such situations, and the Headmaster did not want that complication. “In what way was he acting oddly?”

“Killed one of his own men, he did, when the other on Harry Potter trained a wand. Also something to give Potter, he was trying it seemed. Succeed that did not. Here it is. This.” General Barduk removed a small object - the hasp from a wizard cloak - from his vest pocket and offered it to Dumbledore.

The Headmaster recognised it immediately. It was one of Professor Snape's forms for concealing the miniature Portkey he had developed. The same persistent shield that had stymied Harry's medical treatment must have also prevented Snape from rescuing the boy.

“Yes, I do wish to see Professor Snape,” Dumbledore told the goblin. “He is of interest to me.”

“And to me as well,” General Barduk confirmed. “Saved his own life, he did. Suspicious he was. Perhaps for you he is truly working?”

Dumbledore made a snap decision that the goblin general was worthy of his confidence. “You must keep this a secret,” he said in a low voice. “He was - and is. It would be extremely beneficial to the war effort were that to continue.”

The goblin nodded and said no more. He bade Dumbledore to follow. They passed through several of the palace's labyrinthine, low-ceilinged corridors. These were not the glistening, highly polished walls of the formal sector, but rough-hewn and occasionally jagged to the touch. Not only did the Headmaster have to remove his hat; he had to stoop to pass through. Shortly, they arrived at another of the goblin mirror surfaces. A featureless black sphere mounted on a stele stood beside it. Running his leathery hands over the sphere, General Barduk swivelled it this way and that whilst it.

“Go we now,” he yapped at Dumbledore. The tall wizard and the goblin less than half his height passed together through the shimmering surface.

Emerging on the other side, Dumbledore found himself in what was obviously a goblin prison of sorts. It has only a few cells, as goblins usually did not keep prisoners unless money was to be made. Most prisoners met the same fate as those Death Eaters - other than Snape - who had not been so fortunate as to perish before the goblins took them.

General Barduk barked out some orders in rapid-fire Gobbledegook. From how the other goblins responded, it was obvious that, as the rescuer of the missing goblin prince, he was the goblin of the hour. He received congratulations from everyone.

“This way,” the general impatiently motioned Dumbledore after being diverted one time too many by some glad-hander. The Headmaster was led to a windowless, featureless stone cell no more than three metres cubed. Except for two stone blocks on opposite sides and various sized metal rings driven into the walls, the cell was totally unfurnished.

“Do privacy you require?” the general asked.

“That would be best, yes,” Dumbledore responded, grateful to be given the choice. “The fewer who know about this, the safer we all are.”

“Do any guards you wish?” the general asked again.

“No, I do not find Severus Snape dangerous,” Dumbledore commented, “except perhaps to himself.”

“Down the corridor await I will where first entered we did,” General Barduk informed the Headmaster. “Attend to matters I must.”

Within a minute, Dumbledore heard a shuffling noise, followed by what sounded like epithets in Gobbledegook. A battered and bleeding Severus Snape was roughly shoved into the room, clad only in his undergarments. Chains restrained his arms, legs, neck, and midriff. His captors followed and began methodically trussing Snape to some of the rings in the wall. When Dumbledore protested in Gobbledegook, the goblins looked at one another, shrugged their shoulders, and left without a word.

Snape sat down heavily on the stone opposite the Headmaster. He looked a fright. The goblins had were plainly none too gentle in their treatment of their rare wizard prisoner. Snape's face was bruised and battered. His ordinarily prominent hooked nose had been broken, probably more than once. He was bleeding from at least two scalp wounds, and from where his goblin-forged manacles had cut his skin. Nevertheless, Snape was lucid.

“Forgive me, Headmaster, I have failed you,” Snape declared, surprising Dumbledore with his articulateness. “I had my opportunity, but Potter did something characteristically unusual. I could not bring the Portkey into contact with him. Then I was captured. If you wish to invoke the vow, I am ready.”

“Nonsense, Severus,” Dumbledore chided. “You have many years of useful life ahead of you. Mister Potter has been successfully rescued, and is undergoing medical treatment as we speak. I have just come from his sickbed.”

“And so my distasteful mission is over,” Snape half asked and half told the Headmaster. “What now? It seems that I have wasted what little standing I had acquired in the greater community for little or no benefit.”

“It limits the scope of your usefulness, but I believe also deepens it,” Dumbledore sagely replied. “How is your standing with Tom these days?”

Snape sighed. “As always, he finds my skills useful. The Dark Lord trusts me more than before, if only because one result of our backup plan was to deprive me of other options in his eyes. Thus, I am privy to some things, but not everything. I can confirm his fixation upon, and reevaluation of, the original prophecy. However, I have never been allowed to see it myself, so its contents remain mysterious. On another matter, I am reasonably certain that Lupin is correct - the Dark Lord is negotiating with the Triads. Unfortunately, I do not know who his counterpart is, or how far the talks have progressed.”

“Have you been able to learn anything of the circumstances of Mister Potter's kidnapping?” asked Dumbledore.

“Some,” Snape replied. “I can confirm absolutely that Potter was not taken by Death Eaters…. At least not by anyone working for the Dark Lord….”

“Not taken by the Death Eaters?” Dumbledore repeated with scepticism. “But Tom himself was present when we assaulted the kidnappers' lair. Are you certain?”

“Completely,” Snape affirmed testily. “That was merely a remarkable coincidence. We've been over this many times before. The Death Eaters did not take Potter. The Dark Lord was as surprised as anyone at that turn of events. Thereafter, he tried as frantically as the Ministry to locate the boy.”

“Truly interesting - and worrisome - that evidently some other game is afoot,” Dumbledore conceded, whilst kneading his brow anxiously. “Any intelligence as to whom, or why?”

“Unfortunately, none,” Snape admitted bitterly. “The Dark Lord does not include even me in such confidences. From his attitude, I gather that he views the perpetrators as renegades and spectacularly lucky amateurs. However, the Dark Lord has kept their identities a closely held secret.”

“What do you know of the circumstances of Mister Potter's escape?” Dumbledore asked with keen interest, craving first hand information. The Headmaster knew only that some sort of cataclysmic explosion had taken place, liberating a helter-skelter, but nevertheless powerful, combination of Light and Dark magical elements. The effect of the magical shock waves upon the Hogwarts wards established as much. Beyond that, available details remained sketchy. The goblins had control of the site and were permitting nobody - wizard or Muggle -access to it before completing their own thorough search.

“Again, relatively little,” Snape confessed. “The Dark Lord expected he would be disposing of Potter imminently and was quite excited. I never saw the boy beforehand, but a report arrived that he had freed himself with Death Eaters in hot pursuit across the moor. They never caught him, apparently, and made the excuse that Potter had escaped by sprouting wings and flying over the cliffs at the end of the valley. At the time, I thought it preposterous.”

“Understandable, but quite wrong,” Dumbledore corrected. “I have seen the evidence with my own eyes. Mister Potter has previously undiscovered Animagus abilities - abilities that involve a large flying creature.”

“Oh, spare me,” Snape snorted. “So Potter becomes even more insufferably special than before. At least I doubt I shall be around to bear witness to it.”

“Quite true, I'm afraid,” Dumbledore agreed. “Do you know any more about what happened?”

“I was ordered to lead reinforcements into the valley to ensure the boy's capture,” Snape continued with his story. “I had no desire to go, as that created the possibility that Potter might be apprehended and even dispatched by the Dark Lord in my absence. I purposely delayed, and I believe that delay saved my life.”

“The explosion?” prompted Dumbledore.

“The explosion,” confirmed Snape. “I was deep in the bowels of the castle with my team. A detonation the likes of which I have never experienced took place. It threw us all to the floor, and even in so protected a place brought down parts of the ceiling and walls. Most of the castle itself evidently collapsed, as we found our way out blocked.”

“The power…. I don't believe anything short of the Fifth Element could have produced the utter destruction I witnessed. Not only was nothing left alive in the valley, but every trace of life had vanished completely. The rocks themselves were hot, and they bore melted crusts. The stream had evaporated. The usual fog and low clouds had altogether disappeared. In their place was a tremendous pillar of dust and debris. Free magic coursed through the air, forming various rather … eye-catching … patterns. It was unlike anything I have ever seen.”

“Where was Mister Potter?” Dumbledore wanted to know.

“Nowhere to be found,” Snape answered. “Nor were any of the two score or thereabouts Death Eaters who had been trying to apprehend him. I deployed my group of ten widely, separating them on the excuse of looking for the others. From the evident force of the blast, I thought I knew where Potter might be, and I was correct.”

“Where was he?” Dumbledore asked again.

“The explosion had propelled him far into the air. I can't even speculate how far,” Snape answered. “I saw him falling back to Earth - with that useless wing of his. His progress was being slowed by … something … a something that turned out to be some sort of shield that prevented my ultimate success. He was an easy target for Arresto Momentum, and I brought him safely to Earth. He had not been on the ground for more than a few seconds when our lovely allies attacked.”

“So the goblins arrived after the fact?” Dumbledore questioned.

“Entirely,” Snape spat. At the moment his attitude towards the goblins was hardly charitable. Snape had suffered more than enough pain and torture at the hands of the Dark Lord to tolerate with equanimity any more inflicted by supposed friendlies. “They swarmed us. I ordered a retreat, but not all of my men made it even that far. A few did, and when someone, I think it was the one called Louth, attempted to execute Potter in advance of us being overwhelmed, I had no choice, and I acted.”

Dumbledore continued his inquiry. “You killed this Death Eater Louth?”

“I killed Mister Louth, yes,” Snape confirmed. “I am still fully capable.”

“Obviously,” Dumbledore observed, saying nothing further on that subject.

“I attempted to fulfill the mission,” Snape continued. “Potter was barely, if at all conscious, but he remained enveloped by the shield. The Portkey would not function without physical contact. I continued to try, unsuccessfully, until our so-called friends put a stop to it, and I wound up here.”

“A remarkable tale indeed,” Dumbledore observed. “One for the history books.”

“You would do well to take care, Headmaster,” Snape warned. “The Fifth Element is dangerous and poorly understood. The boy is impetuous, if not unstable, and can generate great, but uncontrolled power. I saw the immediate aftermath. If such a thing were to happen at Hogwarts, the Castle would be leveled, and I doubt anyone would survive. I know how you feel about the boy, but he should be expelled for everyone's safety.”

“Duly noted,” Dumbledore responded in the kind of non-committal way that Snape knew, from long association, meant that the Headmaster would ignore his advice. “And about yourself?”

“I am collateral damage, so it appears,” Snape replied sarcastically.

“On the contrary, Severus,” Dumbledore answered. “I believe you are still of great value. The goblin commander informed me that you are the only survivor of your men. From what you tell me, it is highly improbable that any of the Death Eaters previously present could have survived the event. If you are quietly freed by the goblins, nobody need be the wiser. You can return to Tom. Do you know where he is likely to be?”

“I doubt the Dark Lord is capable of being killed in that manner - thus one of several places,” Snape speculated. “He is probably injured, so that narrows the options still further. I shall, of course, do your bidding.”

“Come, then,” Dumbledore motioned towards the door. “I shall arrange your release.”

* * * *

When Dumbledore returned quietly to Harry's improvised sickroom, he at once noticed the improvement. The Headmaster cheerily sidled up to Hlr. Bosworth, who was engrossed in mixing some light blue potion. “My dear Healer Bosworth, it appears that your medical skills are every bit as great as your reputation suggested. Mister Potter's wing is no longer with us.”

“Well, it's no longer evident,” she mumbled back, not taking her eyes off the potion. “In a sense, it's still there, though - lying dormant until he triggers the transformation again, whether consciously or unconsciously. The wing finally healed enough to achieve disformation about five minutes ago, and just like that it spontaneously vanished.”

“Any surmise as to what manner of Animagus Mister Potter might be?” Dumbledore asked with interest.

“With only one wing to go on, it's hard to make a definitive diagnosis,” Hlr. Bosworth replied distractedly as she added a precise amount of Murtlap Essence to the potion. “Could be one of several things, but my best guess, from what little I know about Mister Potter, is a griffin of some sort. It would be fitting, and very little concerning Mister Potter seems to happen by chance.”

“What are you mixing now?” Dumbledore asked again. “I thought your work here would be just about complete.”

“An antipyretic,” Hlr. Bosworth replied curtly. “We've had trouble getting Mister Potter's fever down. I'm assisting Healer Huxley. He can tell you more.”

Dumbledore shuffled off see Hlr. Huxley, whom he found anxiously watching the colour patterns emitted by several of his diagnostic runes. “Problems?” the Headmaster asked, with growing concern.

“Some,” Hlr. Huxley told his old friend. “On the good side, his burns are healing apace, his ankle's been fixed, his charmonium count and other magical indicators are steadily increasing, and, of course, the wing's gone - which has greatly eased the stress on all of his systems. On the bad side, I can't seem to get this fever down, his pulse and breathing are racing, and he's shaking. I suspect he is also hallucinating. If you look closely at his eyes….”

“But his eyes are closed,” Dumbledore observed in frustration. “If something else is important, I am afraid my eyesight is not what it used to be.” The Headmaster pushed his half-moon glasses back up his nose with his good hand.

“Give me your hand, then,” Hlr. Huxley requested. The Headmaster complied and the Healer's practiced guidance drew the fingers on Dumbledore's good hand to a very light touch on Harry's closed eyelids. “Do you feel that?” the Healer asked.

The Headmaster's eyes registered surprise at the unexpected amount of activity he sensed. After a moment's pause he responded, “Yes, what does it mean?”

“Rapid eye movement,” Hlr. Huxley explained. “That's diagnostic of hallucinations, or at least extremely intense dreams. None of it responds to standard magical cures. Therefore, something non-magical must be involved, but I just can't put my finger on it.”

As the Healer turned back to his latest attempt - a Sobering Solution - much grunting and rustling of sheets occurred.

“He might be coming out of it,” Dumbledore informed his medical friend urgently.

Just as Hlr. Huxley wheeled about, Harry groaned loudly, sat halfway up and opened his eyes. The boy's eyes met the stares of two very surprised goblin Healers who were changing some of the burn poultices on his leg.

Harry screamed.

“DEMONS!! I'M IN HELL!!”

Dumbledore tried to get the howling, disoriented boy's attention. “Harry, it's alright. You're safe. It's over….”

“URRRRRK.”

The sound of violent vomiting interrupted Harry's screams. His eyes rolled back into his head. His body stiffened as he once again lost consciousness. He fell back heavily and started jerking about uncontrollably. Even though unconscious, Harry uttered another strangled scream. His breathing became irregular. His lips turned blue as he went cyanotic. Harry's thrashing about ripped the catheter out of his arm, tearing his skin and spattering the sheets with blood.

“Parry, do something,” Dumbledore pleaded.

Hlr. Huxley was well ahead of the Headmaster. Pointing his drawn wand at his writhing patient, he incanted, “Petrificus Totallus.”

Harry stopped moving abruptly, and the Healer rushed to examine him

“What do you make of that?” the Headmaster asked nervously. All around them, goblins were staring. To them, Harry was a prince of the royal blood - and royal blood was not to be spilled.

“That was a textbook tonic/clonic seizure,” Hlr. Bosworth interjected.

Hlr. Huxley, meanwhile, was saying nothing. He had a far more immediate task - making sure the boy's airway stayed clear. After about thirty seconds of frantic efforts, he looked up at Dumbledore, the situation now stabilized.

“Once again, my magic was useless - except for stopping the most obvious external symptoms,” Hlr. Huxley growled. “Something bizarre is going on…. Wait a minute…. Fever, tremors, elevated respiration, hallucinations, seizures…. It can't be…. The Death Eaters would never do that….”

“Would never do what?” Hlr. Bosworth asked. She knew Hlr. Huxley's methods from interning with him years before. He was plainly onto something.

Hlr. Huxley rummaged through his bag. He pulled out a daytimer, and opened it to what appeared to be a series of coloured squares accompanied by tiny writing. Flipping pages, he came to the square he wanted and touched his wand to it. Instantly a softbound book appeared, and Hlr. Huxley seized it.

“Now that's unorthodox indeed,” Dumbledore remarked whilst watching the Healer conduct his research.

“You'd be surprised some of the cases that come through St. Mungo's,” Hlr. Huxley replied distractedly. “Sometimes magical issues are only a minor part of the problem.”

“But Parry,” Hlr. Bosworth reproached, “surely you have something more authoritative than the High Times EncyclopÃ¦dia of Recreational Drugs?”

“Not for this, I don't,” Hlr. Huxley replied, continuing to flip pages until he poked an authoritative digit at an entry. “There, it all fits.”

“What fits?” asked the Headmaster, genuinely perplexed.

“Mister Potter is exhibiting all the symptoms of withdrawal from barbituric acid poisoning - that means he's been fed illegal Muggle drugs for quite some time, and he became physically dependent … in a word, addicted. I can't believe that Death Eaters would deign to use Muggle methods, but there you are…. Hype, can you round me up a blood sample to confirm?”

“Certainly, Healer,” Hlr. Bosworth assented, reverting to her long-ago role as the master Healer's intern. She drew her wand, and waved it at the blood-soaked blankets surrounding Harry, “Tergeo,” she recited. Instantly she had collected enough blood to complete the necessary tests.

After a couple of minutes, Hlr. Bosworth exclaimed, “Parry, you're a bloody genius! Barbituric metabolites are present in this blood. I can't tell exactly what isomer, though.”

“Doesn't matter,” Hlr. Huxley replied triumphantly. “Now that I know what it is, I know how to treat it.”

The two Healers whipped up another set of potions in less than ten minutes. By then the worst of Harry's seizure had passed. They freed him from the spell and administered the brew. Then they waited.

The next three-quarters of an hour were not a pretty sight, glutted with Harry's moans, groans, sweat, and other bodily excretions. Harry's body bucked violently as under the influence of a strong Counter-Addiction Potion, he purged himself of the remnants of the poisonous cocktail to which he had been subjected for weeks.

On more than one occasion, the scene grew exceedingly tense. Through his goblin counterparts, Hlr. Huxley had to plead with his hosts to avoid imminent violent intervention. Harry's torment perturbed many goblins, who regarded what was happening as unpardonable lÃ¨se-majestÃ©. The Healer's words and assurances probably would not have sufficed if the goblins had some even remotely plausible alternative to his treatment.

After what seemed like forever, Harry's movements gradually started to lessen and his breathing normalized. The boy enjoyed a few minutes of calm rest before beginning to stir. His eyes fluttered open, and his gaze fell on the Headmaster.

“Whahr…. Mye?” he choked out.

Dumbledore put his ear close to Harry's mouth as Harry repeated, “Whahr…. Mye?”

“You are safe,” Dumbledore said slowly and softly. “You have been rescued by the goblins. We are in their stronghold, and you are finally among friends.”

“Wha'appen?” the boy asked weakly.

“That I am not sure. I believe you escaped, and when Death Eaters tried to recapture you, you had another incident of spontaneous magic - very powerful.”

“Whahr…. V'mrt?”

“What?” Dumbledore asked.

“Whahr…. V'mrt?” Harry repeated, with a little more insistence. The boy struggled to lift himself up.

“I cannot tell you where Voldemort is. Nobody here can,” Dumbledore relayed. “You destroyed his castle, I believe. You may have injured him.”

“Uhhoh,” Harry sighed. He fell back on bed, still exhausted. “Errk…. Whahr H'mnee?”

Again, Dumbledore did not understand. Holding Harry's burnt hand in his own, the aged wizard leaned in as closely as he could to hear Harry's faint and slurred words.

“Whahr H'mnee?” Harry struggled to form the words, his faint breath barely rustling the Headmaster's beard. “Shii…. Shii camfrmeee.”

“You mean Miss Granger?” Dumbledore asked slowly. This was not good. Harry was still terribly weak. He could never stand the horrible truth in his enervated condition. Right now, above all, Harry needed his will to live.

Harry nodded, and the barest flicker of a smile passed his face as the Headmaster said Hermione's name. “Rii….” The reply was so soft that Dumbledore could barely hear him. “Mus' sii'er. Camfrmeee…. Mus' polgiy….”

Hope and fear registered in the boy's eyes, battling for supremacy. Again he struggled to sit up, but without much success. With a weak smile of his own, the Headmaster reached out to touch Harry's chest and bid him to be still.

“Harry, you are too weak to have any visitors right now,” Dumbledore instructed. “Concentrate on recovery … on healing yourself. As soon as I can, I shall take you to her. I promise.” The Headmaster squeezed Harry's burnt hand in his own and repeated. “I promise.”

The boy's eyes became almost pleading in their quality. “Yllll … ta'me ta hr…?” he rattled whilst gazing up at Dumbledore's face. After a couple of more raspy breaths, he added, “Pleeez…?”

“As soon as you are well enough to be moved, I shall take you to her….” Dumbledore felt a cup being pressed into his far hand. He glanced over and saw Hlr. Huxley. Dumbledore raised his eyebrows, and Parry nodded. The Healer silently mouthed the identity of the potion.

The boy let out an audible sigh and closed his eyes. Tears seeped out as Harry began to imagine what the promised reunion would entail.

Dumbledore continued without missing a beat. “Right now, Harry, I need you to take this potion. It will preserve your strength and allow you to heal. It is equal parts Dreamless Sleep Potion - like you have had before - and Draught of Peace. After all you've been through, trust me you need it.”

Harry said nothing, but nodded his acceptance. The Headmaster cradled the boy's head in the crook of his right arm as he brought the cup to Harry's lips. It was not easy. Harry was still terribly weak and could barely open his mouth wide enough. But with effort, he managed to drink the entire cup, with only a little dribbling down his chin.

A tranquil expression came over Harry's face. He relaxed, and fell - finally - into undisturbed, dreamless sleep.

After a few minutes, Hlr. Huxley whispered. “He has normal pulse rate and respiration. What are you going to do now, Albus?”

“Keep my promise,” Dumbledore replied.

* * * *

It had been one of the strangest afternoons anyone could remember at Hogwarts. The first magical wave had slammed into the school, knocking everyone for a loop, just as the N.E.W.T.-level students were switching from one double period to the next.

Ron Weasley, however, was not where he was supposed to be. Instead of going to his Charms class, he had arranged an amorous rendezvous with Cho Chang in the deserted Ravenclaw Quidditch locker room. It had been over a week since they had last been intimate - in the room Cho had rented in Diagon Alley - and both of them were almost insanely randy.

They were outdoors, almost at their intended destination when the first wave hit. It knocked them to their knees and temporarily disoriented them, but did nothing to cool their ardor. If anything, the incident seemed to inflame their passion still further.

A tocsin sounded.

Together, they watched from behind the referee's shed as everyone in the vicinity obediently flocked back to the school - teachers and students alike. The last to pass was a line of Third Years led by Hagrid, who had hastily called a halt to their Care of Magical Creatures class.

Ron and Cho never made it to the locker room. Taking advantage of the sudden absence of others, they made their love on the grass in a secluded corner of the Quidditch pitch. They were fully engaged when the second, and more ominous appearing, shock wave struck. This second magical disruption was enough to cause even those two ardent lovers to call a halt to the proceedings and make their way back to their respective common rooms.

Ron was quite out of sorts when he reached the Gryffindor portrait hole. The halls of Hogwarts had been oddly deserted for a weekday mid-afternoon, and he had not known why until encountering that new Potions professor, Slughorn. Ron was docked fifteen points for violating the shelter in place directive that was in effect.

It had been bad enough that McGonagall had called him a slacker and practically forced him to add Potions to his schedule (Snape's entry requirements having vanished with him), but now he had lost points before ever attending the ruddy class.

Stepping into the common room, Ron was instantly the center of attention.

“Ron! Thank Merlin! Now maybe we'll get some answers,” Katie Bell exclaimed as she jumped to her feet, her Prefect badge askew.

“Where's Hermione?” Morgan Maryknoll, another Seventh Year, asked urgently.

“What made the lights almost go out?” Lavender Brown interrupted with her own breathless question.

“Where's Ginny?” inquired Demelza Robbins, a classmate of Ron's sister.

“What in blazes happened this afternoon?” a Third Year chimed in.

“Where's Neville?” Parvati Patil joined in the chorus.

Numerous other questions tumbled into one another - far too fast for Ron to answer, even had he known the answers. Ron seemed to shrink as the crowd of curious housemates backed him into a corner. He had his hands protectively outstretched and was genuinely unsure how to provide information he plainly did not have.

Mercifully, the Seventh Year male Prefect, Geoffrey Hooper, stepped in. He put a stop to the babbling and imposed a semblance of order. Addressing Ron, he explained, “Everyone's on tenterhooks about the strange goings on today. We're all clueless. Nobody's told us anything, but we all sense something major is happening. We're all confined to our dormitory and with the four of you all gone missing, it's only natural that we figure….”

The burly Cormac McLaggen interrupted the Prefect. “What he's trying to say is that we're all being kept in the bloody dark. With golden-boy Potter out of the picture, Dumbledore only tells you boom-wins what's what….”

Ron never held McLaggen in much regard, particularly once the older boy had let it be known that he was planning a challenge for Ron's Keeper's position - Denmark or no Denmark. The redhead started feeling warm in the face. “And just what is a boom-win?” he spat, fists clenched.

“Bloody … Order … of … Merlin … winner,” McLaggen spat right back, emphasizing every word.

“I'll show you bloody … you overgrown sideline sitter,” Ron sneered as he boiled over. “We earned every bit of that…. Nearly got ourselves killed….”

Ron lunged at McLaggen, swinging wildly. The Gryffindor common room once again descended towards chaos. In the shouting and shoving that ensued, nobody noticed the portrait hole opening again.

“That is QUITE ENOUGH!!” Professor McGonagall's magically enhanced voice boomed over the din. “Everyone sit down where you are - at once.”

Ron and McLaggen disentangled themselves whilst the Gryffindors grudgingly complied. As their Head of House ended her Amplification Spell, the rest noticed that she had Neville and Ginny in tow. Neville was ashen faced. He seemed barely able to stand and looked to be on the verge of losing what little lunch he might have eaten. Ginny's puffy eyes and damp cheeks betrayed that she had been crying.

Ron duly noted who was not present. “Oh shite,” he muttered under his breath. “Merlin help her now.” He did, after all, have some inside information. Thus Ron had no doubt that something had gone terribly wrong with Hermione's undertaking. He managed to attract his sister's attention.

`Harry?' he mouthed silently.

Ginny gave her brother a curt nod of the head and mouthed, equally silently, `later.'

Professor McGonagall saw none of this. Although furious at the unruly conduct she had just witnessed, she nevertheless acted oddly drained - as if maintaining her own composure were no easy task. Thus, no points were taken.

“As you know, I do not usually frequent the tower,” she began. “But in light of what has happened, I believe that you all deserve an explanation of what we know about today's events … since they affect Gryffindor House most peculiarly. It is my sad duty to report to you all that a terrible accident involving….”

“WHOOOEE!”

“ALL RIGHT!”

Professor McGonagall's attention abruptly shifted. She had been interrupted by whoops from upstairs in the boys' quarters. Two sets of feet pounded down the stairs.

“Listen to this…. Sonorus!”

The artificially loud sound of a Wizard's Wireless filled the room.

“…AS OF YET WE HAVE NO INDEPENDENT CONFIRMATION. WE REPEAT, THE GOBLIN NATION HAS JUST MADE THE ANNOUNCEMENT, THROUGH GRINGOTTS BANK, THAT HARRY POTTER HAS BEEN RESCUED FROM CAPTIVITY AND IS CURRENTLY IN GOBLIN HANDS. FURTHER BULLETINS AS MORE INFORMATION BECOMES AVAILABLE….”

Scattered spontaneous cheers broke out as Seamus Finnegan and Dean Thomas burst into view, grinning madly. Coming face to face with Professor McGonagall's fierce countenance, they skidded to an abrupt - and meek - halt. The Wizard's Wireless had reverted to regular programming, and a public service presentation on Perfecting Your Patronus now droned incongruously in the background.

With a wave of her wand, Professor McGonagall silenced the Wizard's Wireless.

The Gryffindor Head of House caught her breath audibly. “That is truly welcome news,” she agreed, “and I sincerely hope it turns out to be true. Regrettably, however, it does not lessen the gravity of the other news that it is my sad duty to convey….”

Ron could hold it in no longer. “Oh Merlin,” he burst out uncontrollably, “she's gone…. Dammit! Nothing's worth this…! Nothing!” He turned on his heel and started to storm away.

“No, Mister Weasley,” Professor McGonagall replied firmly. “Stop right there! You are mistaken. You are correct that the news concerns Miss Granger, but you quite wrong to believe she is deceased. Now please restrain yourself, or I'll have to deduct points….”

Actually, McGonagall was in full agreement with Ron's sentiments - for weeks she had emphatically expressed similar views to Dumbledore and others - but she did not want a student's overwrought emotions revealing precisely what her favorite student had done. The Deputy Headmaster's candor, whilst genuine, was not going to be entirely candid.

Both Ginny and Neville shook their heads at Ron, their eyes promising a fuller explanation later. With difficulty, the redhead managed to regain his mental balance. The enormity of Hermione's sacrifice briefly had him thinking dark thoughts - pounding Harry to a pulp (if indeed he had been rescued) merely because his plight had brought this about.

A little more thought, however, led Ron to realise that Harry would undoubtedly be his own worst critic - just like he would be if something similar ever happened to Cho…. But Harry had already lost so many, and had so little left in the way of people he truly cared about….

The voice of Professor McGonagall, who was once again beginning to speak, drew Ron back to the present. She resumed the announcement she had rehearsed so thoroughly that it practically sounded like a written statement:

“It is my sad duty to report to you all that a terrible accident has befallen Miss Hermione Granger. Some time ago she volunteered to help test some experimental magic for the Headmaster. This afternoon, whilst she was engaged in these tests, the magical impulse that I'm sure all of you felt passed through Hogwarts. The spellwork malfunctioned under the strain. Miss Granger was badly injured as a result - too badly, I'm afraid, for our Hospital Wing to treat. She has been moved elsewhere to receive more intensive medical care.”

“As I said earlier, she is not dead. However, her condition, whilst stable, is grave. At present I do not know if or when she will recover, and thus I cannot tell you whether, or when, she will be able to resume her studies. I hope that the situation will be clarified in the coming days. For now, I am not replacing Miss Granger as a Prefect.”

“Mister Longbottom and Miss Weasley were present when Miss Granger was injured. Fortunately, their own injuries were minor. However, they were exposed to a very traumatic situation, and I would request that you not make enquiry of them. They have a right to choose whether and when to discuss it.”

“I will now take your questions.”

A forest of hands erupted from the audience, but Ron's was not among them. He could tell from Professor McGonagall's remarks that she was not going to discuss what really happened. That conversation was promised by Neville and Ginny - who had taken their leave without waiting for him.

Ron stood quietly in the back with his hands in his robes, watching his Head of House. She answered precise questions with precise answers, but those answers in no way revealed that Hermione had been searching for Harry when the worst (almost) had happened. Yadda, yadda, yadda….

Ron felt a tap on his shoulder. He whirled around and saw - nothing. Then he heard Ginny's disembodied whisper, “Sixth Year boys' dormitory, as soon as you can without being conspicuous.” That was it. She was gone.

Affecting boredom, Ron slouched away. When he was out of view of the crowd, he sprinted up the stairs and burst into the room.

“Bloody Hell, Ginny,” he panted, “where did you get Harry's mfffbbblt…?”

Neville planted his hand firmly across Ron's big mouth whilst Ginny sealed the door and cast an Imperturbable Charm on the room.

“From Luna, who got it from Hermione,” Ginny answered impatiently. “How Hermione got it, I don't know, but that's not important.”

“You're right in one,” Ron agreed. “What's really going on?”

“It was horrible,” Ginny wailed. “Well, not at first. Hermione actually did it. She found Harry - mentally that is. She was sort of in his mind, calling out what she was seeing through his eyes…. Then somehow V-V-Voldemort was there…. She mentioned his name. That was just about the last thing she said that I could understand. Then there was that … that…. What did McGonagall call it?”

“Impulse,” Neville offered.

“Magical impulse,” Ginny repeated. “It hit the school and Hermione at what seemed like the same time. It was awful…. Hermione, she … she….”

Ginny could not finish the statement. She leaned into Neville, stricken. “Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit,” she repeated in a furious half-whisper as she turned towards Neville. Ignoring her fists pounding his chest, he held her tenderly. Ron looked at him too, but Ron's usual overprotective affectations did not come.

“Basically ... Hermione started burning up,” Neville said softly. “She caught on fire.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Ron groaned.

“Pomfrey was knocked out. I managed to put Hermione out, but I thought she was going to die then and there, right in front of me. Luckily, Luna kept her wits about her and summoned Dumbledore. How he got there so quickly I don't know. He did something with that phoenix of his that kept her alive somehow. Then he revived Pomfrey. Whilst we were being treated for our own injuries, some Healers came in - it looked like they were from St. Mungo's - and took Hermione away. Later, they let us see her for just a bit. She's in the Room of Requirement in some kind of yellowish bubble. Nobody would tell us anything about her condition except that she's alive and stable. That's it. Now you know as much as we do.”

“What do we do now?” Ron asked, mostly rhetorically.

“What can we do now?” Ginny shot back, at what she plainly thought was her brother's stupid question.

“Wait, I suppose,” Neville answered disconsolately. “The damn shelter in place remains in effect until further notice…. More of a lockdown actually…. None of us is very good at sitting….”

“Wait,” Ginny yelped, cutting Neville off. “There is one thing we can do…. Assuming that announcement is correct, I'm sure Dumbledore's going to have Harry brought back here, where it's safest. I think we can keep watch for that. Then we can go to the Headmaster and demand to see him.”

“How do we do that?” Ron asked.

“Last night and today Hermione had Dennis and Colin handing out the mirrors to all of last year's D.A. members, not just Gryffindors,” Ginny informed her brother. “It's a good reason to test the network. Also, you need to learn from them how to work the central station, since it looks like you're the senior D.A. member left here at the moment. It falls to you to run things then … unless you don't want to.”

For a brief moment, Ron almost felt queasy at the prospect of taking over for his fallen friends.

But only for a moment.

Steadying himself with one arm against his four-poster bed, he took a deep breath.

“SMACK!”

Ron slapped himself hard across the face. Now looking determined, he set his jaw and replied, “Okay.”

* * * *

With the bulk of Gryffindor house looking on - and with Colin and Dennis by his side for technical advice - Ron nervously spoke into the large screen that directed the D.A.'s Castle-wide communication system, “Brilliant Blue, come in, this is Red Leader, do you read?”

He held his breath, but after a brief silence, the screen flickered and the speakers crackled to life. Luna's voice came across, faintly at first, but then loud and clear as Dennis adjusted a connection in the magical equipment. “Red Leader, this is Brilliant Blue. The system works. However, we've nothing to report here. The front of the Castle is quiet.”

“Thank you Brilliant Blue,” Ron replied, more relieved than he let on. “Same here. All quiet on the rear front … er…. You know what I mean. I'm patching in Hufflepuff. Mellow Yellow, this is Red Leader, do you read…?”

For a while Ron thought that nothing more would be accomplished beyond a shakedown cruise of the new communication system. In front of a clot of admiring housemates, he put the various written, automatic, and spoken functions of the equipment through their paces. For the first time in his life, Ron thought that the Creevey brothers were “bloody brilliant.”

Shortly after midnight, with Hogwarts' mandatory lights-out requirement scattering the bulk of the group, Ron finally learnt something substantive. Oddly, it was from Hufflepuff, the only one of the three D.A. houses without a broad tower view. “Red Leader, this is Mellow Yellow,” Justin Finch-Fletchy's tense voice announced. “Our portrait is reporting activity in the hallway leading to the Quidditch pitch entrance. Several people, presumably staff, are exiting.”

“I copy,” Ron said. He alerted Ravenclaw to increase the watch, and sent Ginny and Neville to rouse the Gryffindor D.A. contingent. Soon several dozen eyes - most of them using Omnioculars - were scanning the horizon. Ravenclaw reported the first sighting.

“Red Leader, Luv, this is Brilliant Blue” - Cho's image in the mirror gave Ron a mischievous wink. She had taken over from Luna, who had switched to observing. “We've spotted something … several somethings, actually … in the general direction of Hogsmeade. There's something really large flying this way. It's hard to make out, but we think it's being escorted by a number of other, smaller flyers, but not brooms, at least not all of them.”

Cho kept a running commentary over the open mirror as a flying caravan approached. Its centre was a large rectangular object, with no visible means of power except several glowing crystals on its underside. Along side it flew maybe a dozen broom riders and an equal number of “child-sized people” astride what might have been small dragons - although none of the ordinarily knowledgeable Ravenclaws could identify the type.

“It doesn't look like they're stopping on this side,” Cho informed Ron less than a minute later. “They're swinging around to yours. Be ready.”

Soon several of the Gryffindor mirrors began signalling simultaneously. The caravan was in sight. Parvati was the first to spot the rest of the welcoming committee. “Look there, behind the greenhouses,” she blurted. “There must be thousands of them…. But they look really small.”

Neville and Ginny cried out almost as one, “Goblins! It looks like a whole army of them.”

“How could they get here?” Lavender asked. “We have wards to stop that kind of thing.”

“Harry and the goblins, they're…,” Ron began before catching himself. What he had been on the verge of announcing into the master mirror was not common knowledge. “They rescued him you know.”

“Nice save, Ron,” his sister's sarcastic voice crackled.

“I am the King,” Ron replied without missing a beat.

“Nobody could have forced the wards so quickly and silently,” Neville commented. “That means Dumbledore must have let them in. If Dumbledore's out there, then I'm sure Harry is too.”

“Mission accomplished,” Ron sighed contentedly. “It's time for bed. Tomorrow, if Dumbledore doesn't come to us, we boom-wins will go to him.”

With a big grin, Ron turned to the Creeveys, “Abso-bloody-lutely fantastic guys. I've never seen anything like this. Can you make me one? I've got Ministry reward money coming, and I'd like to connect the Burrow.”

Colin and Dennis were noncommittal. Ron's request was only the latest of several such enquiries. After the way the system had performed, similar entreaties from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were inevitable. They had no choice but to take Hermione's advice to meet with Harry's solicitor about patenting and selling what they had put together - but not before both Harry's and Hermione's situations were clarified.

* * * *

The gentle, muffled sound of phoenix song hung in the background of the Room of Requirement.

It was well after midnight when Hlr. Huxley at last gave his medical approval after running his diagnostic runes over Harry for what seemed like the hundredth time. The Healer had been doing nothing but treating Harry since they had taken off in a hastily converted goblin ore transporter hours ago.

“Albus, you may wake him, but keep the curtains up for now,” Hlr. Huxley instructed. “I agree that this is the best of some rather poor choices, but above all be gentle. Don't overwhelm him. He's got to stay calm, and from what you've let on, that won't be a soft option.”

“He's stronger and more responsible than yeh might think,” Mad-Eye Moody commented testily. It had been a very long day for the old Auror. The morning began with plans to recapture the newly released Death Eaters, moved abruptly to dealing with the aftermath of the magical surges that bowled across the British Isles, and finished with Dumbledore's summons that Harry was returning to Hogwarts. Moody's presence, as Harry's designated guardian, was urgently requested.

“We shall soon find out,” Dumbledore replied calmly to Moody. “Understood, Parry,” Dumbledore acknowledged his old friend and physician. “Here goes…. Ennervate!”

Almost immediately, with a groan, the dark-haired figure between the white sheets began to stir.

Ignoring the protests from his almost 150-year old knees, Dumbledore knelt down beside Harry's hospital bed. “Harry, this is Albus. You are home - at Hogwarts. It is all over. You are safe.”

The boy's eyes opened, closed, and opened again, blinking rapidly. “H'master Dumbledrrr…,” he choked out, still rather woozy. “Wha' happnd? Wha' happnd to th' goblins? Voldemort?”

“Please, after all this, call me Albus,” Dumbledore gently requested. “As best I know, what happened is the goblins rescued you, but only after you all but obliterated a castle full of Death Eaters. How, I don't know…. The goblins called me because you were very ill….”

Dumbledore noticed Harry's eyes roaming. “Harry, that is Paracelsus Huxley, an old friend of mine and one of the foremost Healers in the country. He has been tending to you for hours….”

Harry's eyes began to focus better as Potion-related sedating effects continued to wear off. He turned his head fully to face Hlr. Huxley and said, “Thanks, Healer.”

“You're quite welcome,” the Healer replied. “Your case was challenging and unusual - a bit like the curse of living in `interesting times.'”

Hlr. Huxley's allusion evidently went over Harry's head, as the boy said nothing in response. He blinked some more and took in his surroundings.

“Room of Requirement?” Harry asked perceptively.

Dumbledore beamed, “Quite correct, Harry….”

“Figured,” Harry cut in. “I know the Hospital Wing ceiling by heart, even without my glasses, and this wasn't it. The Room's the only other logical place….” With the mention of logic, Harry's voice trailed off, as he seemed to be thinking.

Dumbledore's soothing voice filled the silence. “Harry, have Alastor Moody with me. After you were … taken … we found amongst your things the unposted letter appointing him as your guardian. He has accepted the position.”

Harry squinted around and his eyes fell on a semi-blur that he supposed was his new guardian. “Thanks, Mad-Eye.”

“I'm honoured, Harry … son…,” Moody replied with uncharacteristic hesitance. He had broken in hundreds of candidate Aurors, but had nothing he could call “family” since before the Great War - the first one.

Dumbledore reached into his pockets. “Harry, I have some things that I believe belong to you - your wand, an Auror's ring, and a new pair of glasses that arrived whilst you were … indisposed.”

Harry took the glasses first, then the ring, which glowed slightly as it adjusted itself to his finger, and finally his wand. The wand was still in the remnants of its invisible holster, which Harry felt, even though he could not see it - just his wand through the rips and holes.

Memories of the circumstances under which he had last taken the holster off came flooding back.

Harry's chest hitched and his voice cracked. “Oh Merlin,” he blubbered. “She's dead … because of me…. I should never have….”

Dumbledore placed his hand on Harry's forehead and softly pushed him back to the pillows. In his calmest voice, he intoned, “No she is not. She is here - alive, if not well. I promised you….”

“What do you mean she's not dead?” Harry replied, confused but no less distraught. “The first thing the Death Eaters did was kill her in cold blood. I was petrified, but I heard the leader curse her….”

Dumbledore realised that they were not discussing the same woman. “You are referring to Miss Eliza Brookings?” he asked gingerly.

“Y-y-yes….”

“I apologise, Harry, I misunderstood,” Dumbledore confessed. “Miss Brookings is missing and presumed dead. We assume that her body was consumed in the fire. You have my condolences….”

Uncomprehendingly, Harry asked, “What fire?”

Dumbledore blinked. He had stumbled again. The aftermath of the great fire that had reduced a large portion of Central London to smoking ruins was constantly on his mind and demanding his attention. He had forgotten the blaze's coincidence with Harry's kidnapping - and that Harry may be the only person in England who knew nothing of it.

“A serious fire happened in London shortly after you were taken,” Dumbledore explained. “It destroyed the building in which Miss Brookings resided. We will need to pool our memories over the coming days, but for now I need to tell you about the critical importance of remaining calm at all times….”

“Where's Hermione?”

“In a moment, Harry, but first I have to impress upon you the magnitude of what has just happened….”

“You said Hermione was here, but that she's hurt. We can talk all you want, but I want to see her first. You promised….”

“Very well,” Dumbledore surrendered. “She is in this same room behind that curtain.” He gestured at the white floor-to-ceiling drapery behind Harry. “She is not well … not at all. She is unconscious and cannot speak to you.”

Harry's chest hitched. He felt like he was being strangled. His tongue felt huge, his eyes started to burn. He dropped his head into his hands. He did not want to cry - especially in front of Dumbledore.

So he did not.

Falling back upon his Occlumency training, Harry willed his emotions to go blank. Clenching his fists, he stilled his trembling jaw. His face became a mask as he tried to come to grips with what he had just been told.

It was happening again - just like it had happened to his parents…, to Sirius …, to Bill …, to Eliza…. But this was the end. Nobody else was quite like Hermione. She had come for him, and from the sound of things, she had paid a horrible price. Hermione was the last person on Earth he could say that he truly loved. But he had never been able to tell her that.… Now it appeared that he might never get the chance.

Finally, Harry slumped into a chair that the Headmaster had conjured. The adults allowed themselves to relax just a bit. The news had not been met by any sort of outburst. The boy was not angry; he was desolate.

“Harry, I'll do everything in my power ta get her back,” Moody's gravelly voice pronounced softly after a few minutes. “We all will. I promise.”

“Y-y-you, you w-w-will?”

“I swear on my honour as an Auror and on my responsibility as yer guardian.”

“I do as well,” Dumbledore affirmed, “and to prove it I will go one step farther.”

Harry just looked at the Headmaster blankly.

“I offer you an Unbreakable Vow,” Dumbledore declared. “I will do everything in my power to restore Hermione to you, and to us all, healed and uninjured. I will bring in the best Healers in the world. I will leave no stone unturned….”

Both Moody and Huxley were staring wide-eyed at the Headmaster, but neither said a word. Harry did not notice them.

“What's this unbreakable thing?” Harry asked, his puzzlement clearly registering.

“If I fail to carry out the vow, I die,” Dumbledore replied.

A pregnant pause…. “No! I don't want that!” Harry recoiled. “Too many people have died in my place already. Your regular promise - the one you just made - is quite enough.”

Another uncomfortable silence followed, which Harry eventually broke.

“Can I see her?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore replied gravely, “but as I said before, you must remain calm. I shall explain more fully - perhaps as soon as tomorrow - but neither you nor I can afford another of your uncontrolled magical outbursts. You know Occlumency now. You must use it, and use it constantly, to purge yourself of strong emotions. If you do not, you will be endangering everyone in this Castle, including Miss Granger, as well as the school itself, your future at this school, and thus my ability to ensure that you learn what you need to know. Do you understand that?”

“Yes sir,” Harry replied soberly.

Dumbledore looked him straight in the eye. “Can you do that?”

“Yes sir.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore responded as the twinkle in his eye returned. He started to make a gesture to the curtain when Hlr. Huxley broke in.

“Mister Potter, please do not try to touch anything. The fluid is sterile, and any introduced infection would lessen Miss Granger's chances of recovery.”

“Okay,” Harry instantly agreed.

With a wave of Dumbledore's good hand the curtain fluttered as if caught by a wind, lifted over everyone's heads, and vanished. The sounds of phoenix song became more distinct, soothing Harry and lifting from his mind, ever so slightly, the black clouds of despair.

Suspended in midair against the darkened background of the Room was an orb of softly glowing, pale yellow fluid within which Hermione's body was plainly visible. Streams of tiny bubbles constantly formed at the bottom of the orb, floated through it, and exited through the top. Several massive spheres of shimmering opal were beneath it, likewise glowing and changing patterns constantly.

Hermione's form floated freely in the orb, and the tiny bubbles would attach themselves to her for a time when they encountered her. She was not moving - not even breathing - and her eyes were closed. Left to its own devices, her body had more or less curled in upon itself, as if seeking protection from anything and everything that lay beyond the sphere. She was hairless, or almost so.

Harry sat bolt upright in his own hospital bed, transfixed by the sight. He said nothing - simply staring at the person who meant more to him than anyone else in the world, and contemplating her present condition. After maybe 45 seconds, he found himself getting distinctly uncomfortable with the situation. Hermione, after all, was quite naked, except for the Auror's ring she wore, like him, on her right hand.

“You can bring the curtain back,” he murmured. “I really shouldn't be seeing this.”

Another wave of Dumbledore's hand restored the curtain.

Harry realised something. “The … the phoenix song…. It's … it's coming from Hermione.”

“Five points to Gryffindor, Harry,” Dumbledore replied. “It is indeed. To save her life I had to sacrifice Fawkes. Fawkes has become a part of her.”

“Phoenix song is so beautiful,” Harry observed sadly - whilst thinking the same thing about Hermione. “What's happening to her?”

“I shall give you the thumbnail sketch now, and all the details I know tomorrow,” Dumbledore said, his voice turning sombre again. “You remember what you just promised me about using Occlumency to keep your emotions tightly in check?”

Harry flinched just a bit, but answered, “I do,” in a somewhat shaky voice.

“Please prepare yourself, then,” Dumbledore requested. “Parts of this story are not pretty.”

In general terms, Dumbledore described Hermione's determination to use the emotional affinity that existed between them as an avenue to locate Harry and try to bring him back. He explained that a set of spells that would do just that existed, but were exceedingly dangerous. He had tried and failed to dissuade her. His need for her cooperation in the Death Eater trial had forced his hand, and compelled him to permit her to recruit fellow students to help her research. Dumbledore had tried hiding the necessary literature from Hermione, but she had bested his efforts and located the missing books. When Hermione had been determined to go ahead, even if Luna Lovegood had to cast the spells, Dumbledore had agreed to perform them, since it was safer that way.

Harry listened silently and raptly to Dumbledore's story until the Headmaster had described what happened after Hermione had successfully reached him.

“….She mentioned Voldemort, went silent, and then tried to say something, but it ended in a scream. At that same moment a tremendous burst of magical energy hit the school, and from what I have gathered, emerged simultaneously from Miss Granger. That resulted in the injuries from which she now is healing. Healer Huxley constructed the healing device you saw, because Miss Granger needs to regenerate much of her outer body, skin, fingernails, hair, ears, corneas….”

“How did the … the energy … get into Hermione in the first place?” Harry asked, with a thoughtful look on his face.

“I cannot say for sure,” Dumbledore answered, again looking Harry straight in the eye, “but I can offer you my best hypothesis.”

“Please,” Harry answered. He could feel Dumbledore testing the strength of his Occlumency. For once, he did not begrudge the old man doing so.

The Headmaster found it sufficient, because he answered, “I believe that the energy originated with you - generated by whatever you did - and that it traveled through the affinity that the two of you share….”

“I thought as much,” Harry said calmly. “I did it, after all…. Would the affinity let me go … go and try to reach her?”

“Unfortunately not,” Dumbledore answered glumly. “The direction an affinity operates is determined by the order of in which the underlying spells that created it were cast. Whilst it may be modified in some respects, an affinity cannot be reversed repeatedly.”

Harry thought about this for a moment. “Then I want you to cut the link,” he instructed. “It's simply too dangerous for her - and probably for me too.”

“I can do that, Harry,” Dumbledore answered, secretly relieved. The existence of the affinity had long worried him as well. “In fact I offered to do so several….”

Harry cut the Headmaster off. “And I deferred to Hermione and she decided to keep it. That choice nearly killed her. It's just too dangerous for her to be that close to me, with me being the way that I am….”

Dumbledore did not agree with all of the implications of Harry's expressed sentiments, but he heartily agreed with his immediate decision. A consult with Hlr. Huxley produced his agreement, since the spell Dumbledore had in mind could be performed without harm to her - even in her present condition.

Holding his wand between his hands and pointing it at Hermione, Dumbledore gently placed both hands on the back of Harry's head. The Headmaster then chanted a lengthy Latin incantation. Harry felt what seemed to be a cool breeze blow through the inside of his head.

“There you are, Harry,” Dumbledore said softly. “The affinity is now broken. In some ways I wish I could have convinced the both of you sooner, but of course you would not have survived to be here had that been the case.”

“Hermione wouldn't have been hurt, though,” Harry said softly. “A fair trade.”

“Very few would agree with you,” Dumbledore replied. “Least of all Miss Granger.”

Harry was not really paying attention. As the Headmaster withdrew his hands from Harry's head, the boy had noticed something.

“Your … your hand…. It's all blackened, shriveled, and burnt….”

“That it is,” Dumbledore answered calmly.

“What happened to it?” Harry asked.

“Later, Harry,” said Dumbledore. “That is truly a story for another day.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Petra and Cappadocia are known for buildings carved into the sides of rock faces

Hypatia, one of the earliest female scientists, was killed in a Christian purge of pagans

Bosworth was the battle that ended the War of the Roses and began the Tudor dynasty

Charmonium is matter that includes baryons containing charmed quarks. In this fic magic is a product of charmed quarks

Epigenetic is the scientific term for reversible changes in biological structure that are not directly related to a person's DNA

Like his father, Harry has Animagus abilities, but Harry's powers are still wild (untrained)

I wanted to work in the image of Dumbledore in a Hawaiian shirt somewhere; it's from Disney's Sword in the Stone

Hypo is a Latin term for “low”; hypomagusic is a made up word for low levels of magical power

IV push means to inject something intravenously by using positive pressure

Î©+++ is the most charmed form of charmonium, with all three quarks charmed. Charmonium of this sort has yet to be experimentally observed

Per os is the medical term for administration by mouth. A throat massage will produce swallowing

Green absinthe is form of wormwood extract supposed to enhance creativity

“A healer, not a veterinarian” parallels Dr. McCoys' Star Trek line, “I'm a doctor, not a bricklayer”

Cantilevered means the support points were beyond the wing itself. Hypoallergenic means the charm was non-reactive with the wing

The largest aquamarine ever found weighs almost 25 kilos

Moonstone is a stabilizer, salamander blood a strengthener. The Sleekeasy's bit is made up

Goblins who speak English tend to reverse their phrases - like Yoda-speak

Goblins do not follow the Geneva Convention

The Voldemort/Triad alliance is central to the second part of the fic

Hlr. Bosworth's diagnosis is correct

The seizure description is accurate, as are the withdrawal symptoms

The High Times encyclopedia is a real book

LÃ¨se-majestÃ© = affronts to the person of royalty

That part of Harry's raw magic that the Hogwarts wards let pass included a solid dose of romantic love, with aphrodisiac effects

The Chinese have a curse, “may you live in interesting times”

If you have been paying attention, you know why the Auror's ring had to adjust itself to Harry's finger

The bubbles in Hermione's sphere resemble carbonation in a soda, but are oxygen

Picture Hermione as a fetus in a giant womb

28

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch37 boy who lived.doc 09/11/05

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38. The Mountaintop

Wherein both Harry's and Draco's return is announced to the school, Harry wakes up, contemplates Hermione's condition, takes a Thestral flight to a mountaintop and has a long talk with Dumbledore. Dumbledore reveals a critical secret; they discuss what the other doesn't know; something precious is hidden in a significant place; and Harry discovers a lost ability.

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

Chapter 38 - The Mountaintop

Despite very little sleep, Ron, Neville, Ginny, and most other Gryffindors arrived quite early to the Great Hall for breakfast. The three “boom-wins” amongst them were determined to buttonhole the Headmaster themselves should no announcement about Harry be forthcoming. Evidently, they were not alone in anticipating significant news. The Great Hall, barely half full for breakfast on most days (since many students skipped the meal, or else ate and ran), was almost as crowded as for the dinner hour. Even Slytherin attendance was noticeably greater than normal.

The three Gryffindors spotted their Ravenclaw boom-win counterpart. To enlist Luna in their scheme, they had a pleasant, if somewhat cryptic, conversation - cryptic because everyone seated nearby strained to overhear. They never finished.

Ron and the others looked up as the Great Hall went silent. Sure enough, Headmaster Dumbledore had making his way into the Hall from the staff entrance. His right hand was wrapped in some sort of dressing that gave off a dull orange glow, but the twinkle in his eye was unmistakable - even from the aft end of the Ravenclaw table.

Taking Luna's leave, the three Gryffindors quickly made their way back to their proper table. Dumbledore seemed to be waiting for them to find their seats before he began. When he did, the Headmaster's words were more momentous than any student in the Hall had ever heard him use.

Students of Hogwarts, at last it is my pleasure to have some good news to impart. I speak, of course, of the return of the prodigal. First….

“Whhheeuuu,” Ron exhaled audibly, “If there's a first, then there's got to be a second….”

Ginny kicked him hard in the shins to shut him up.

…I can now confirm what some of you may already know. One of our students, Harry Potter, is free of the clutches of the Death Eaters. I did not rescue him, nor did the Ministry. Rather, Mister Potter owes his freedom to the forces of the Goblin Nation. We, too, owe the goblins a corresponding debt of gratitude.

As might be expected, Mister Potter was not well treated during his lengthy captivity. He has required medical attention beyond the capacity of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing. Thus, he is being treated elsewhere. Do not ask me where. I can inform you that his rehabilitation is proceeding apace. If all continues to unfold on its present course, the healer in charge of Mister Potter's care is of the view that he may be released as early as tomorrow morning.

As I am sure all of you recognise, Mister Potter has been through a considerable ordeal. My wish is that none of you add to that ordeal by bombarding him with questions. Please welcome him back without precondition, and let him decide how best to deal with what has happened on his own terms.

All Gryffindor house appointments are unaffected. Beyond that, Mister Potter's eligibility for extracurricular activities is a matter for his Head of House to decide.

Second, I am also pleased to inform you that Draco Malfoy will be returning….

“Bloody Hell!” Ron exclaimed loudly, causing much of the student body to turn and stare. Somewhat less audibly, he commented to his tablemates, “Who gives a farthing about the bleeding ferret. What I want to know is….”

Ron shut himself up, but not because of others' disapproval (although Ginny was not alone in being on the verge of hexing him). He suddenly realised that no news was probably not good news.

…I see that my opinion is not fully shared by everyone, Dumbledore observed over his half-moon glasses.

Be that as it may, Mister Malfoy will be returning to Hogwarts. As some of you may know, he had withdrawn in favour of attending Durmstrang, however his stay there was as short as it was unhappy. Recognising the error of his ways, Mister Malfoy recently contacted the Ministry's representative at Durmstrang and requested readmittance. I have given my concurrence. Thus, I expect that he will be back amongst us by the end of the weekend.

I hasten to assure all of our sixth-year Slytherins, both the returnees and those admitted under the Moses-Welday Emergency Dispensation, that your status will not change. One extra Slytherin is no cause for upset. Once again no house appointments will be affected, and Professor Slughorn will determine Mister Malfoy's eligibility for extracurricular activities.

In other circumstances this news would be cause for celebration, but not in light of our recent losses. Nonetheless, a gesture in the direction of Gryffindor and Slytherin is appropriate.

The Headmaster drew his wand and pointed it in the general direction of first the Gryffindor, and then the Slytherin table. The floating candles above each table changed from white to the colours of the respective houses.

Very well - you may carry on.

With that the Headmaster turned on his heel and swiftly exited through the staff entrance before anyone in the Great Hall could think to pose any questions.

Ron immediately leapt to his feet. “Let's go,” he demanded. “We've got to find him, or at least McGonagall.”

“Where are you off to, Ronald?” Luna asked in her dreamy voice. Somehow, she always seemed to turn up.

“You want to see Harry don't you?” Ron replied breathlessly. “We've got to find Dumbledore.”

The four of them hurried out of the Hall, having altogether forgotten about their breakfasts.

* * * *

Harry woozily blinked his eyes at the midday sunlight streaming into the Room of Requirement. The Dreamless Sleep Potion had done its work exceedingly well, and it took some time before Harry recalled where he was. The faint, muffled sound of phoenix song reminded him of his circumstances.

Intermingled with the delicate, soothing music, Harry noticed the hum beneath his own bed.

Falling back upon his summer survival training, Harry mentally examined himself. His various burns, bruises, cuts and abrasions were mostly healed. There was very little ongoing pain. One after another he checked the status of each extremity, finding them all in reasonably good working order. His fingers and toes all responded to his commands. His senses, too, were functioning - as well as they normally did anyway. The tick list was complete.

“Accio glasses.”

His new and unbreakable dragon ambergris-lensed glasses zoomed into Harry's outstretched hand - but he felt a sense of weakness course through him. He could perform wandless magic, but his magical abilities remained very much in the recovery stage. `Best to take it easy,' he thought.

Harry recalled that Dumbledore had returned his wand the previous evening - at least he presumed it was the previous evening. He had no idea how long he had been asleep.

Sure enough, he found his wand on the other side table. Harry grasped and waved it, generating random sparks. A tray with potions that appeared to be steaming lay next to his wand. A note from Hlr. Huxley addressed to him accompanied the potions.

Harry Potter - Daily Orders

Both your and Miss Granger's conditions are stable. I have returned to St. Mungo's for the moment, but will return soon.

Upon waking, you are to take by mouth the following three potions in the following order.

1. Draught of Peace (blue potion) For mental stability. Up to four times a day, as needed.

2. Invigorating Draught (yellow potion) For strengthening of your magical capabilities. Twice a day after waking and before bed.

3. Purgative Draught (grey potion) To ensure removal of all traces of illegal Muggle drugs from your system. Once a day, after waking, until all tests are negative.

The note ended with an illegible scrawl that Harry supposed was Hlr. Huxley's signature

He hoisted the first goblet. Although the bluish liquid gave off visible vapour, it was cold to the touch. In the air, its vapours sank rather than rose. Harry followed Healer's orders and consumed it. It tasted minty.

He drank the others as directed. The second potion tasted sour, like lemon peelings, and the third simply foul. Finished, Harry sank back into the bedclothes.

Harry felt better - less tired - almost immediately. After a few minutes, he gingerly swung his legs off the side of the bed. The hum beneath his bed dropped in pitch as his feet hit the floor. He stood without problem.

A small hand mirror rested on the headboard. Harry picked it up and took a look at a familiar face. Thankfully, his new glasses were not noticeably different from what he had been wearing for years

A set of Muggle clothing, obviously removed from his trunk, hung from a nearby trolley. He started to dress….

“Mister Potter, sir?”

“Dobby?”

Harry turned around slowly as he pulled his pants up. His eyes met the almost worshipful gaze of the free house-elf. Dobby could no longer restrain himself, and with a loud squeak darted forward and hugged Harry around his knees, almost causing the young wizard to lose his balance.

Tears streamed from the house-elf's eyes as he literally cried with joy. “Please, please, please … don't ever you go off like that again. You's a scared poor Dobby to death. Dobby was beside himself. I thought I'd a lost my master before he had ever….”

“You don't belong to me, Dobby,” Harry reminded the elf.

“Next best thing, though,” Dobby shrieked with rapture. “Dumbledore promised me that if … when you got back, I works for you! I's getting my reward!!”

“That's just wonderful,” Harry told the beaming elf, whilst questioning to himself just how wonderful it would really turn out to be. “…Reward…why?”

“Bad wizards. They tooks your picture…. When I saw it … I knowed where you was,” Dobby explained, enthusiasm evident in every word.

Now Harry was truly interested. “Er … where was I?”

Dobby looked around as if afraid of being overheard. “You was under Malfoy Manor,” he fearfully whispered, “… with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named hisself, I've heard.”

Mere mention of the name Malfoy raised a dozen urgent questions in Harry's mind - all of them unpleasant. He opened his mouth to grill Dobby, but the poor elf looked so pale, scared, and prone to self-punishment that Harry thought better of it.

`Dumbledore.… If anyone knows, he will,' he reminded himself.

As for Dobby, Harry had mercy and changed the subject. “You know, Dobby, I'm really hungry. You don't suppose….”

The elf snapped his fingers, and a golden Hogwarts service tray, identical to those in the Great Hall, came zooming across the room and halted smartly just in front of Harry.

“Anything!” Dobby squeaked, colour returning to his face and happiness to his voice. “Anything you want!”

“Well … I'm still a little weak, so something light…. A few strips of bacon, a Cornish pasty, perhaps…, a couple of pears, some runner beans, some pumpkin juice, and treacle tart….”

Harry had hardly stopped ordering when a mound of food - far more than he (or anyone except maybe Ron) could possibly eat in a single sitting appeared on the tray. The food kept coming and coming, filling up the tray and cascading onto the floor.

“Enough!” Dobby shouted, rapping the bottom of the tray with his diminutive fist. “So sorry,” he apologised as he vanished the excess with a wave of his leathery hand. “We's been waiting for this for so long. Kitchen elves, they just outdid themselves a bit.”

“That's quite all right,” Harry grunted as he tucked in, eating heartily for the first time in weeks. It was so good to be back at Hogwarts … except…. Harry's mouth pursed as if still drinking the lemony Invigorating Draught, and his eyebrows knitted together as an idea formed in his head.

“Dobby, have you been here long?” Harry asked.

“Oh, yessir!” Dobby yelped, bouncing up and down. “Ever since Dumbledore got word that you's a coming back, Dobby's been here, making the Room ready for the great Harry Potter!”

“I know Hermione's behind that curtain,” Harry said softly. “I can hear the music. What … what can you … you tell me about her … her … her condition?” The more he thought about the injuries to his best friend - who had amazingly come for him through space and time and then paid dearly for it - the more inarticulate Harry became. He pushed the tray away, raised his hands, and started rubbing his eyes as if he had a pounding headache.

Dobby shifted his feet nervously waiting for Harry to compose himself. When the elf spoke, it was barely above a whisper.

“Miz Myown … she's in a bad way … very bad. I hears the Healers talk. She was burnt … magical burns … over just about all her body…. Would have died, methinks, `cept for Headmaster Dumbledore and Fawkes. Healers, they's created something to heal her…. They thinks she'll heal … except … except….”

Dobby seized the largest of the empty potion goblets. He looked about to punish himself for thinking bad thoughts, so Harry swept out his arm, scooped up the startled elf, and deposited him on the bed next to him.

“Except what, Dobby?” Harry asked, staring directly into the elf's outsized eyes.

“The healers, they uses lots of big words that Dobby no understand,” the elf whispered again, this time sadly. “They's saying, methinks, that Miz Myown's body will recover, but … but methinks … methinks that they's afraid for her mind.”

With that Dobby burst into tears again - bitter tears this time. Harry might have followed suit but for the admonition he had received from the Headmaster the last time they had spoken. No matter what, he had to control his emotions. If he became overwrought, there was something dangerous about him - something dangerous that could hurt Hermione still further. He simply would not allow himself to do that.

Grimacing, Harry resorted to Occlumency to bottle up his emotions. He lowered his chin to his chest and brought his hands to his head until his cupped fingertips barely touched his forehead whilst his thumbs dug into either cheek. He concentrated on an image of the pale blue smoke cascading from the Invigorating Draught.

Harry shook his head wearily, feeling weak again from the magical effort. He retired to his sickbed and lay down for a bit. When Dobby regained his wits, he sent the elf away…. “Dobby, thanks for what you've done, but I'd really like to be by myself for a bit before the Headmaster gets here. There's a lot I have to think about.”

He was alone in the Room of Requirement - alone with Hermione, that is. He wanted to be with her - to see her; to touch her; to tell her how sorry he was about all that had happened; even (if he mustered the nerve) to confess how he really felt. He rose again, and with effort pulled back the curtains that separated them. Almost immediately her nakedness made him uncomfortable. He closed the curtains, but that muffled the phoenix song so much…. The fading music matched the fading of Harry's hope.

Finally, without using magic, Harry dragged a chair to the same spot and reopened the curtain. He removed his glasses, so he could not see her clearly anymore. Then he closed the curtain behind him, sat down, and thought … thought about everything that Hermione meant to him….

She meant a lot - so much that Harry lost track of time.

Time lost its meaning as he sat there, thinking, inwardly devastated but maintaining his calm faÃ§ade - Potemkin Harry. Eventually, he felt a friendly hand gently grasp his shoulder. With a bit of a start, he looked up into Dumbledore's piercing blue eyes. They were not twinkling, not this time. They looked as melancholy as Harry felt.

“She's … she's not doing well, is she?” He croaked in a soft voice.

“Well, yes and no,” Dumbledore replied softly. “That is one of many things I wish to discuss with you before you are released back into the student body, but not here. Come…. Finish getting dressed, and we can go.”

Harry numbly did as he was told. After he had donned a set of Hogwarts robes and finished lacing up his trainers, he started for the door, only to be halted once again by the touch of Dumbledore's hand. He looked questioningly at the Headmaster.

“Not that way, Mister Potter,” Dumbledore warned. “Lest you desire to be mobbed. Come; let us take the scenic route.”

Following the Headmaster's eyes, Harry spied a small door on the far end of the Room of Requirement. He was certain that this door had not been present during any of his previous visits - although admittedly he had been too panicked to seek an alternative exit the day Umbridge's gang of Slytherins had found the D.A. out.

Turning sideways to pass through the rather narrow exit, Harry followed Dumbledore's surprisingly rapid progress down a series of torchlit stone staircases and roughhewn corridors. Presently, they arrived at the same side door through which Professor Snape had emerged the day Harry first rode Sirius' flying motorcycle. A beaming Hagrid met them both.

“`Arry! I knew they couldn'ta kept yeh f'ever,” the gigantic man bubbled. “Yer too darn strong fer `em. Knew yeh `ad it in yeh….”

“Rubeus, I believe you have a class to attend to.” Dumbledore asked somewhat impatiently.

“Nah,” Hagrid replied airily. “Th' moment I got yer request, I skived it off ta Grubbly-Plank. Had ta see `Arry after all this time, an all…. Yeh look like … like … like yerself, `Arry.” He turned to Dumbledore, “There they are `Eadmaster. Brung `em just like yeh asked.”

Hagrid gestured to the two Hogwarts carriages parked nearby, the Thestrals in their traces waiting placidly on the gravel walkway that skirted that part of the Castle.

“Oh Professor Hagrid,” Dumbledore said with just a touch of reproach. “When I asked you to bring two Thestrals, I never mentioned carriages. That was intentional. Can you unhitch them?”

Hagrid gave the Headmaster a quizzical look, but did as requested - whilst muttering to himself. Soon the gamekeeper finished. He returned, a lead in each hand, with two Thestrals trailing docilely behind.

“Now we mount up, Mister Potter,” Dumbledore said, the twinkle in his eye reappearing for just an instant. “I trust you recall how.”

Gamely, but clumsily, Harry attempted to mount the nearer of the two Thestrals. “Urf,” he panted. “I'm afraid I'm still a little weak from … from everything….”

“`Ere yeh go,” Hagrid offered as he plucked Harry from the ground and effortlessly deposited him on the leather-winged beast. Somewhat more gingerly he also assisted the Headmaster, who still noticeably favoured his wrapped up hand.

“Let us be off, then,” the Headmaster remarked. In a strong voice he called out, “Eagle's Mere.”

Like arrows from a bow, the Thestrals took flight. Harry wrapped his arms around the ample neck of his mount. He stayed in that clinch until looking over at Dumbledore serenely controlling his animal with the lead that Hagrid had helpfully left attached. Harry fumbled for his own Thestral's lead, found it at last, and tried to mimic the Headmaster's full upright position.

Harry always loved the sensation of flight. The Castle - and the entire valley in which it was situated - rapidly dropped away beneath him. Afternoon sunlight glinted off the clear blue waters of the lake, where he could make out the giant squid lolling about just beneath the surface in the middle. Looking ahead, he saw the rapidly approaching bald, windswept crest of a tall rounded peak.

In almost no time the two Thestrals set down gently in the midst of an alpine meadow. An effusion of late season wildflowers bedecked the entire mountaintop mixed amongst verdant grasses and sedges.

The two wizards dismounted.

“What is this place?” Harry asked, more than a little awestruck as he took in the breathtaking 360Â° view.

“The Muggles call it Cairn Gorm,” Dumbledore answered, as he removed his hat and let the stiff breeze ruffle his long grey locks. “As you have probably guessed, we wizards refer to it as `Eagle's Mere.' It is the tallest of the mountains that overlook Hogwarts Castle. If you look there, you can see the Castle….”

His eyes following Dumbledore's gesture, Harry drank in the scene. “It's beautiful,” he remarked after spending quite a few seconds gazing at the distant structure set by the impossibly blue lake, as if in a picture postcard. “But why bring me here to have a serious discussion?”

“Several reasons,” Dumbledore replied, his tone of voice becoming at once more serious. “First, it is secluded. Second, since the matters we have to discuss are indeed serious, it is well removed from the Castle. As long as we stay out of view of the Castle, even were you to have an accident with your control, I would not be risking a catastrophe. Third, I thought you would like this place. It was a favourite of your parents. James proposed marriage to Lily on this spot.”

Whilst providing his explanation, Dumbledore strode across the crest of the mountain, moving away from Hogwarts. Harry trailed after him, all the time appreciating the stunning mountain views all around him. As Dumbledore finished reason number three, Harry noticed something vaguely familiar in the distance towards the western horizon.

“What's that?” Harry asked, gesturing towards a jagged feature atop a distant ridge.

Dumbledore raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun and squinted in the direction Harry was pointing. “You mean the pinnacles rising from the ridge over there to the northwest?”

“Yes,” Harry replied decisively.

“Those are known as the `Four Fingers of the Gods,'” Dumbledore replied. “They are natural basalt outcroppings with ancient magical connotations, dating back at least to the Druids.”

Harry was thinking hard, trying to remember…. “The Four Fingers … do they overlook Godric's Hollow?”

“Why yes, Mister Potter, they do,” Dumbledore said, pleased with Harry's observation. “I see that you must have spent a little more time awake in History of Magic than some would give you credit for.”

“That's not how I know them,” Harry replied, countering the Headmaster's banter with a more serious tone. “Sirius nearly crashed his motorbike into them the night my parents were murdered…. I saw it in the Pensieve…. You've said you were going to tell me everything. Why don't we start with that? I want to know about my parents' graves and about the little brother or sister I never had….”

“I meant what I said, Mister Potter” Dumbledore declared, the last traces of his smile vanishing. “And, in fact, that is amongst the topics that I intend to discuss today. Please believe me. But I would much rather that your parents' ultimate fate be among the last, rather than the first, items on the agenda.”

“I'd much rather it be first,” Harry declared obstinately. “You and I.… There's history here to overcome. It will be much easier for me to overcome it - and trust that you're telling me the whole story - if I'm first satisfied with your explanation of something you'd obviously rather not discuss. I'm afraid it's a matter of trust….”

Dumbledore hesitated, weighing his options and regarding Harry's steely eyes. Then he sighed and surrendered. “Very well. Trust is paramount, so we shall do it your way,” the Headmaster said in a slightly put out voice. “Since I believe that Voldemort is presently badly injured and cannot respond quickly, I suppose that the risk is less than it might otherwise be.”

“What does Voldemort's condition have to do with anything?” Harry asked, betraying both impatience and curiosity.

“Everything, I am afraid,” Dumbledore replied. “Mister Potter … please let me call you Harry … at least for today…. You see … I am….” He paused, took a deep breath, and continued. “I am the Secret Keeper of your parents' final resting place. And that final resting place…,” Dumbledore paused and extended his arm, “…is right here.”

The air shimmered momentarily with the sensation of magic falling away - of protective wards collapsing. Harry gazed intently in the direction of the Headmaster's outstretched arm. There, from whence they had come, appeared two characteristic Order of the Phoenix tombstones, side by side, both commanding a glorious view of Hogwarts.

Ignoring Dumbledore, Harry made his way to them. He touched the markers reverently. He expected the polished, ivory-coloured marble tombstones to be cold to his touch - but instead they felt warm, as if still infused with the magical power of his parents' love, a power from beyond the grave. That may well have been the case, as both monuments were inscribed with the same simple epitaph, “No greater love.”

Increasingly overcome, Harry gently sank to his knees between the tombstones. They were just close enough together that, if he extended both of his arms to the fullest, he could simultaneously touch the near sides of both. There was no floral arrangement; none was necessary. The abundance of alpine wildflowers kept the gravesites alive in riotous colour.

He openly wept, for just this once unafraid and unashamed to let anyone, even Dumbledore, see that he could cry. It had been almost fifteen years….

Fifteen years of not knowing….

Fifteen years of emptiness….

Fifteen years of having everyone else he grew up with take for granted what he so desperately craved….

Fifteen years without closure….

Dumbledore allowed the grieving boy as much private time as he chose to take. Presently, when Harry seemed to be finishing his cry, and starting to refocus, he stepped up behind the boy and once again put a guiding hand on his shoulder.

“Whenever you are ready, Harry….”

The Headmaster then stepped back and waited patiently for Harry to finish. Not much changed at first, then he saw the boy compose himself, give the pair of tombstones a soft slap with his fingertips, stand, and face him. There was questioning look on Harry's face.

“This is the truth,” Dumbledore said softly. “When James and Lily died, the Demagifying Ritual used today did not exist. There was no choice but to conceal their graves to prevent Death Eaters from desecrating their corpses in pursuit of some nefarious Necromancy. Lily was indeed pregnant - with twins - which made this elaborate concealment all the more necessary. That consideration looms every bit as large now as it did then. Because of it, your parents unfortunately cannot stay in their preferred location any longer…. The Fidelius of that time was also … less refined … less adaptable than today's version.”

`Peace…,' Harry thought ruefully. He had come here seeking it. He had hoped to find some serenity in answers to some of his most gnawing questions. He had hoped to find it in quiet contemplation with the spirits of his parents.

But that was a forlorn hope, as he had known all along whenever he stopped to consider things logically. It had probably been a mistake even to seek this information. Logic, however, was not his strongest point - and Harry was missing his logical anchor.

More than anything else, even Voldemort, that absence made peace hard to come by at this moment. There was someone behind a curtain down in the castle in the valley. He had put her there. Peace would have to wait.

Harry shook his head. Not only was his own peace elusive, but he had ruined whatever modicum of peace his parents had managed to find in death.

Harry looked up at the Headmaster, his face still streaked with remnants of his prior tears. “What just happened?” he asked, already fearing that he knew the answer.

“The only Fidelius Charm available when your parents were murdered extended only as far as those present when it was cast. It was impossible to add latecomers. You were already with the Dursleys, and far too young for such a spell in any event. With the Fidelius Charm protecting this place broken, word will soon get back to Voldemort of what has heretofore been concealed,” Dumbledore explained gravely. “After all, you can probably guess who was amongst the small band of mourners that attended the interment so many years ago.”

Harry thought for a moment. His fists briefly clenched in involuntary rage before his Occlumency training kicked in and once again his emotions vanished behind a mask of sang-froid. “Wormtail,” Harry said. It was both a statement and a question.

“Quite right,” Dumbledore affirmed. “As a consequence, one of the things you must now decide - before we leave this place - is what should be done with James' and Lily's bodies for safekeeping. Originally, I had planned to have this discussion with you when you came of age, but my hand was forced, and not just by you.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asked.

“I believe Miss Granger had already ascertained my Secret Keeper status,” Dumbledore revealed. “She said as much when she submitted to the magic through which she located you. That being the case, it was only a matter of time before you knew. It was best that you learnt it from me.”

Harry gulped. There was old grief, and there was new grief. His anguish for his parents at least bore the superficial comfort of familiarity. Not so, the raw, ragged heartbreak that felt now as if ripping him in two. “Hermione, then…. Tell me what happened,” he choked out. “How it happened ... why? Oh, please … Merlin please … please tell me she's going to be alright!”

At this, Harry's knees began wobbling and he started losing his balance. To keep from toppling over altogether, he grabbed a handful of the Headmaster's robes as he collapsed. Harry's Occlumency-mediated calm evaporated. Dumbledore reached down and placed both hands on Harry's head, ruffling his wild hair. The old man remembered, from long ago, when another Dark wizard had landed him in almost the same position - except that he had been middle-aged - so much older and more prepared than the boy before him.

“Harry, I took you to this place to tell you the truth, unvarnished….” Dumbledore intoned gravely.

Harry's anguished voice interrupted, “I-I-I … did this … somehow…. It was … me … wasn't it…?”

“Harry, I wish I could tell you no, but I cannot,” Dumbledore admitted, trying to cushion the blow with the softest voice he possessed. “Your fate, and hers, are once again intertwined…. But to answer you fully, I first need to ask you a number of questions of my own…. I'm sure you had the purest of intentions….”

“The road to Hell … is paved with them,” Harry answered desolately.

“And the way to Heaven could not be found without them,” Dumbledore remonstrated. “It is….”

“I've as good as killed her,” Harry muttered.

“She is not dead, not by a long shot,” Dumbledore reminded the boy. “What cannot happen, if she is to recover, is for you to give up. Neither of you can give up, it is not in your natures. Why are you both in Gryffindor?”

Harry tried to stand on his own again, but he stepped on the hem of his own robes and fell flat on his face.

“AAUUGGHH”

At Harry's guttural sound, Dumbledore abruptly Apparated a few metres away. The boy emitted a puff of golden-coloured raw magic, followed almost immediately by a sharp crackling noise and a tendril of brownish grey smoke. The frightened Thestrals took flight and made a couple of circling passes before descending and resuming their searches for rodent snacks in the grass.

Finally, the boy staggered to his hands and knees, leaving behind a charred outline of where his body had rested - where the alpine meadow had been burnt black.

Dumbledore again approached, “Harry, how do you feel?” he asked.

“Mmmm…. Better, I think,” he mumbled.

“You see why I brought you here,” the Headmaster reminded. “I thought it was too much to ask of you, being inexperienced and in your present state, to exercise complete control of your power, given what we have to discuss…. No harm done, you see….”

“What … what power?”

“The Fifth Element,” Dumbledore stated, pleased to change the subject for the time being. “I no longer have any doubt that you possess elemental magic of the fifth kind.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked weakly.

“I know of nothing else could have caused the destruction reported in the valley where you were found,” the Headmaster explained portentously. “I have not personally seen it, as the goblins have declared it off-limits for the time being. But from what they tell me, you left several hectares of flat burning junk heap…. Not a thing remained alive. But for it happening in a steep-sided valley, I fear that the destruction would have been far wider. Even as it was, the Muggles thought a nuclear device had been detonated - until they found no radiation. This was too big for Obliviation, so it has been reported to the Muggle public as a close encounter with bit of a comet.”

Harry grimaced. “At least all the Death Eaters are gone, then?”

“Anyone in the valley at the time of the incident was instantly vaporised,” Dumbledore added. “By any chance, before this happened, did you see a castle nearby?”

“There was one,” Harry recalled. “It was hard to see. I didn't have my glasses, and it was rather foggy, but yes there was.”

“That was Killiechonate Castle - well over a thousand years old, and protected by centuries of accumulated wards that originate almost as long ago as Merlin himself. You destroyed it in an instant; reduced it to rubble. The goblins are searching it bit by bit, but word is that very little was left standing.”

“And I did it…? How … how did it happen?”

“That, I do not know,” Dumbledore admitted. “No one does…. In our society, even the study of the Fifth Element is an Obliviatable offence, so the questions that you pose are rarely asked, let alone answered. My guess - and that is all it is - is that something inherent in your own nature, combined with Voldemort's Killing Curse and your mother's blood magic, somehow gave you access to this power. One thing we do know is that the Killing Curse is associated with the Fifth Element.”

Harry set his jaw. “I meant how did Hermione get hurt?” he clarified. The already tense muscles in his cheek flexed. He was returning to the most important topic and he was expecting more bad news.

Dumbledore conjured two absurdly out of place squashy armchairs, sat in one, and offered the other to Harry. “I shall tell you what I know, and if you do the same, maybe we can figure that out.”

“All right,” the boy said, taking a seat.

“I believe that the two of you had some sort of altercation shortly before you were kidnapped,” Dumbledore stated.

Harry flinched visibly, but maintained his composure. Hermione's harsh last words to him were indelibly burned into his soul. “That's right…. I'd … I'd really rather not speak to that…. Need some privacy….” This was one memory that no amount of time and familiarity could ever make any less traumatic. It was just as jagged and painful as the day it happened. “…I might lose control again…, so just don't go there. Please…?”

“Very well,” Dumbledore responded. “The details are not important here. She likewise refused to reveal them. However, I believe that her remorse over that incident is no less profound than yours. As much or more than anything else, that remorse drove her to do what she did.”

Harry was shaken. “Remorse? You mean she regretted…?”

“When you were taken,” Dumbledore added, “she and Tonks made a mad dash across London through the flames….”

Harry was genuinely puzzled, “Flames?” he asked.

Dumbledore's brow furrowed in surprised realisation. “Yes, the fire in London I mentioned in passing yesterday. It was a very large conflagration.”

“Large fire,” Harry repeated warily. “Well … there was this orangish glow through Eliza's window shades…. I thought it was the sunset, but … that can't be right, come to think of it … it was much too late…. Oh Merlin, help me…. She's dead too. I let it happen….”

The Headmaster could see Harry struggling with his Occlumency. The boy's fingertips left distinct indentations in the skin where he jammed them into his temples. To help, Dumbledore invoked the rationale of Hlr. Huxley's successful suggestion to keep Harry and Hermione close. He resorted to the same tactic that succeeded in the goblin palace. He put himself in harm's way and relied upon the reservoir of trust that he knew still to be there.

He stood and moved behind Harry's chair. Placing both arms on Harry's shoulders, he spoke softly, “Not this time … once is enough. Calm yourself. Use your training. You can do it….”

Harry struggled, knowing that if he lost control now, he could do grievous harm to the Headmaster. It was sufficient extra incentive for him to regain mastery over himself.

Dumbledore could sense it. “Better?” he asked.

“Better,” Harry affirmed.

Relieved, Dumbledore returned to his seat. Sinking into it, he continued, “We have always suspected that Miss Brookings was deceased, although we never found any recognisable remains in the rubble of her building.”

“Rubble?” Harry replied sceptically. “She was killed by Death Eaters using the Killing Curse. I was immobilised … by a stupid Petrificus … but I witnessed it. There was no rubble. What do you mean?”

Dumbledore sighed, “Your kidnapping coincided with a major disaster in Muggle London. I, and many others, have always believed the two events to be interrelated, and I believe you have now confirmed it. You see, that same evening, at almost the same moment, there was a terrible aeroplane crash. A large Muggle airliner lost two engines - very mysteriously - and crashed in flames into the Whitechapel District. The Muggles tell me that the resultant explosion compromised a number of poorly constructed natural gas lines, causing numerous secondary fires. They merged, and a firestorm, the likes of which has not been seen since the Blitz of the Grindelwald years, resulted…. Several thousand Muggles, the exact number is still uncertain, perished.”

“Dammit … I had no idea….” Harry moaned. “I was Stupefied and carried off. I woke up in chains. I never knew…. So many people died because of me….”

It was the first time Harry had ever cursed in front of the Headmaster.

“They did not die because of you,” Dumbledore corrected. “They died because the Death Eaters - like the Nazis - cared nothing about human life.”

Harry shook his head slowly. “I know that,” protested Harry, “but that just doesn't help what I feel very much…. She was cursed, you know…?”

“I am not sure I do,” Dumbledore replied. “Tell me; who was cursed with what?”

“E-E-Eliza,” Harry forced the word out. “She was under the … the Imperius Curse…. For how long, I don't know. She told me … a lot of things…. I don't know whether any of them were true anymore….”

Harry was looking shattered again, so Dumbledore did not press to find out what the “things” were. From the boy's face, he had a pretty good idea. “I sympathise,” he said, “but if it is any solace, I can tell you with a high degree of certainty that she was not subject to that curse the night the two of you were brought to Hogwarts. It would have been detected….”

That helped - a little. Nor was there anything that could be done about Eliza's circumstances. That chapter was closed. “So this fire burned up Eliza's building, then?” Harry asked.

“No … which is why your added information is most enlightening,” Dumbledore explained. “The main conflagration never made it across the docks. The building from which you were kidnapped was struck by one of the engines that fell from the aeroplane. That caused a separate fire that brought about the collapse of the building. That an engine just happened to strike this particular building is entirely too much for coincidence, particularly since the other engine took an entirely different path, almost striking the Ministry building, and killing Amelia Bones in the process.”

“Then you think it was all a horrible ruse to hide the kidnappers' tracks?” Harry asked.

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore replied. “Certainly to facilitate that crime … but if they were trying to hide their deed, they failed rather quickly, because of Miss Granger.”

“She had the link…,” Harry realised. “She knew, didn't she?”

Dumbledore was rummaging through his robes. “Correct, and I want to get back to her…. But before we pass on, I believe I have something for you. Something magical was found in the rubble….”

The Headmaster stood once more. With difficulty, he clutched something with his burned and bandaged hand. He held out a silver, heart-shaped locket.

Harry had to concentrate on suppressing his emotions again. It was touch and go for a bit, but in the end, the strength of his ego overcame the emotions of his id. The presence of the locket helped âˆ’ and hurt âˆ’ at the same time. Harry clutched the proffered relic of his relationship with Eliza. “I gave this to her…. I placed an Indestructibility Charm on it….”

“And a fine one it was,” Dumbledore complimented as he returned to his seat. “There was not a scratch on it. The Muggle investigators were quite perplexed. Eventually, it made its way to me and I was able to open it and identify it from the pictures inside….”

Even with his strongest emotional autopilot locked firmly in place, Harry was having trouble dealing with what the locket made him feel. “I âˆ’ I put a picture of me in it, and then we … we took a photo of her,” he choked out. “That was the only picture of her I ever had. She barely had the locket two weeks…. Who knows what she really thought?”

“That is true, Harry,” Dumbledore said soothingly. “The photographs are still there, if rather carbonised by the heat, but there is at least one unintended consequence.”

“What's that,” Harry asked, hesitant about what new and awful thing he might learn.

Dumbledore had the same fears, but for once there was nothing he could do. “You can imagine how the Muggle government - any government - would react to what happened. The scale of destruction is almost unprecedented … some say since 1666. Personally, though, I would compare it more to the Blitz, given the causes and origins of the fire. There is a major inquiry underway, conducted by the Prime Minister himself. The Muggles already wished to question you - a desire that will only be redoubled, given the rather explosive manner in which you have reappeared.”

“So I'm going to have to tell the Muggles all about things too?” Harry asked apprehensively.

“Correct, I am afraid,” Dumbledore confirmed. “I cannot prevent it…, not without causing a total breach with them. I can negotiate, however, but you will need to prepare yourself. Do you think you can do that, Harry?”

“It … It won't be easy, but I'll do it,” Harry affirmed. “I think I have to. Just … oh Merlin…. Please don't let it be in public…. I wasn't taken under … exactly the best of circumstances….”

“Thank you, Harry,” Dumbledore responded. “That is very brave of you. I shall arrange something. Now, back to Miss Granger.”

“Yes, please,” Harry agreed. “Please, what happened to her?”

Ponderously, because he dreaded this conversation himself, Dumbledore began, “From what Miss Tonks told me, once she arrived at Miss Brookings' building….”

Harry could not restrain himself. “Eliza's building? How did she know…?”

“She traced your ring, Harry. You may not have noticed, but she is still….”

“I saw,” Harry broke in. “She's still wearing her ring.”

“Auror rings are remarkable,” Dumbledore advised. “You would do well to examine them more closely.”

Rather than focusing on what the Headmaster was saying, Harry was thinking about how to tell âˆ’ or more precisely, how to avoid telling âˆ’ Dumbledore about the circumstances of his abduction. Ultimately he told him only that that he had not been wearing the ring at the time, which was obvious, and that the circumstances were “embarrassing.” Wisely, the Headmaster chose not to pry further.

Harry hung his head in shame. It would be even harder to tell Hermione what happened âˆ’ if he ever got the chance.

“Very well,” said Dumbledore, “Miss Granger recovered both your ring and your wand using an Auror summoning spell. She not unreasonably concluded you had died….”

Harry shook his head and groaned.

“…At that point, Miss Granger began to exhibit irrational and self-destructive behavior. Tonks was forced to remove her from the area against her will for both of their safety. Miss Granger was brought to Hogwarts Castle in a state that could only be described as catatonic. She was unable, or unwilling, to speak to anyone for days - until she determined, through your shared link, that you were alive.”

“So she recovered, then?” Harry asked, a glimmer of hope in his voice.

“Outwardly, at least,” Dumbledore affirmed. “It appeared to be a full and remarkable recovery, except that she continued to have occasional incidents whilst under stress. She placed an inordinate amount of pressure upon herself during the ensuing weeks. Evidently, she viewed herself as on a mission.”

“A mission to find me, I suppose,” Harry commented.

“Precisely, Harry,” Dumbledore confirmed. “It must have originated in that row of yours that I mentioned earlier. She blamed herself for something, and as a result she refused to rest until she had retrieved you. She was extraordinarily persistent. She outmanœuvred all my attempts to keep her safe. She was simply beyond caring about herself, and she willingly placed herself in extreme danger.”

“Extreme danger?” Harry repeated harshly. “What did you let her do to herself?”

“I did not let her do anything.” Dumbledore reiterated. “Quite the contrary, I tried to erect roadblocks to her obsessive quest at every turn. If I had not, I would have had a full-scale staff rebellion on my hands. However, as I said, she was not to be denied. She either forced my hand, or she and her friends outsmarted me….”

“Her friends?” Harry processed this latest revelation. “Who else did she involve in this? Ron? Neville? Ginny?”

“All of the above, but please âˆ’ one question at a time. This old man is beginning to lose his train of thought,” Dumbledore requested. “You see, with you missing, I needed her cooperation … I needed her to testify at several upcoming inquiries….”

“Yeah, I remember those,” Harry observed. “I assume she did, then, but she exacted her own price.”

“Precisely,” Dumbledore affirmed. “Her price was that I allow her to invite a number of your mutual friends to Hogwarts Castle to help her research ways of using your shared link to reach you, and that I provide all of them with access to the library.”

“Exactly how much danger was she putting herself in?” Harry asked pointedly.

“Extreme danger,” Dumbledore replied gravely. “So much danger that, at Deputy Headmistress McGonagall's insistence, I spirited what I thought were all the relevant texts out of the library and hid them away. I was trying to devise some way to do what she wanted to do without involving any student, but I was ultimately unsuccessful.”

Harry's eyes narrowed as he leaned forward towards the Headmaster, “And then you sort of `let something slip,' didn't you…? You gave some not-so-subtle hint knowing that she would make you tell her everything even if it came at the cost of her own life!” His voice was rising with his anger as he spoke.

“No, Harry!” Dumbledore defended himself stoutly. “Not in the slightest. The Deputy Headmistress would have resigned, had I given Miss Granger the slightest encouragement. As I said, the girl outsmarted me….”

“Professor McGonagall?” Harry asked. “Why her?”

“I can only say that she has unfortunate experience with magic of the sort that did what Miss Granger sought to do,” Dumbledore said vaguely. “Any more than that is for her, not I, to decide to tell you. But as I was saying, I continued to try to thwart Miss Granger and the others using every trick I could devise without having her think I was sabotaging her effort. Unfortunately, I was found out.”

“What did she do?” Harry asked whilst flopping back in his chair.

“That, I cannot say exactly,” Dumbledore admitted, “except that it had something to do with that map of yours.”

Harry was taken aback. “The Marauders' Map? How did she get that?”

“Again, I can only surmise,” Dumbledore replied. “Presumably it arrived at Hogwarts when your personal effects were collected - they are all in your dormitory room by the way - and somehow she was able to gain access to your trunk. But I can still remember the exact moment I knew she discovered I was trying to stop her.” Dumbledore reflexively rubbed his left shoulder.

“Okay.” Harry prompted.

“She destroyed one of the means by which I had been monitoring her progress,” Dumbledore sighed, recalling the moment. “She had a wizard photograph of you and me taken on the night of the Ashrak…. Well, you know how a Headmaster's picture can be used. One morning, she returned to her room and burned a hole right through my image. At that moment I knew that she knew.”

“I … I gave her that picture,” Harry added sadly. “I put it in a card I gave her the day I had dinner at her house. Now she's … she's….”

Harry had to stop and pull himself together again. He was contemplating a very bleak future, indeed. And worse, he was responsible for what had happened to her.

“Harry, stop it,” Dumbledore instructed bracingly. “You are not to blame here. But even if you were, you cannot go falling to pieces like this. For your sake; for her sake; for everyone's sake…. That's why this is all so important…. You have so much to live for. You are the only one! You know what the prophecy says.”

“Right. The bloody prophecy,” Harry spat the words back in the Headmaster's face. “So I'm living just for bloody dying.”

“I shall help you Harry,” Dumbledore declared, “help you in any and every way I know how.”

“So then I'm dying just for you?” Harry added sarcastically. “Seriously, I'm a wreck right now … a total wreck. I won't stand a chance against him. Answer me truthfully. Do you think I can beat Voldemort after all this? I mean, what good am I?”

“Truthfully, not at this time and certainly not in your present state,” Dumbledore forthrightly acknowledged. “But that is of no present moment, as Voldemort is in no state to face you at this time either. Whatever you did, you injured him too, I am told. Not as seriously as Miss Granger, perhaps, but she had opened herself to you whereas Voldemort had not….”

“Sod Voldemort then. So it was me that did that horrible thing to Hermione?” Harry's question was also a statement.

“Unfortunately, I believe the answer is `yes,' Harry,” Dumbledore answered.

“Then why don't you go ahead and kill me now?” Harry replied, his voice betraying equal parts sarcasm and intense guilt. “The spell is `Avada Kedavra,' and if you don't, I just might do it myself….”

Dumbledore practically leapt to his feet, his eyes narrowing to chips of icy blue. “NO YOU SHALL NOT!!” he thundered, stopping Harry cold. For once he did not care if he set the boy off. This was more serious….

With a sharp wave of his arm, he Vanished Harry's armchair, dumping the boy roughly onto the grass. At the same time, the Headmaster berated Harry in a cold fury. “Even after all she has done, you still have no clue. Have you given the slightest thought to what Miss Granger sacrificed to see you brought back here alive? She risked her life, and her sanity, for you. That you could even contemplate throwing everything she fought for away … just because you have this monumental guilt over something you could not control. Frankly, I am shocked. I would have thought that she meant more to you than that.”

Harry hardly knew what to say. He had never seen the Headmaster so furious. He stuttered unintelligibly throughout the older man's diatribe, until the end, when Dumbledore demanded, “Get up. Well, do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Scrambling to his feet, he took the old man's bait, “Her…. She…. Hermione means more to me than you could possibly understand … everything.”

“Then it would be a very good thing indeed if you began behaving as if she does,” Dumbledore shot back, a little less angrily. He slumped back into his armchair, leaving Harry standing. But secretly he was pleased to have found an argument that seemed capable of pulling Harry back from the brink.

“You … you keep saying that Hermione made this huge sacrifice,” Harry would not give up. “Well, just what did she do?”

“She found - in those books that I foolishly believed I had effectively hidden away - a series of spells that allowed her to locate you. Essentially, she opened up her own mind to you so completely that her consciousness was able to flow through the shared link, follow you, and reach you, wherever you were. The details are unimportant. Suffice it to say that she risked not only death, but raving insanity, to do what she did….”

Harry's expression went cold. “And when she succeeded, she suffered an even worse fate at my hands. Whoever said `payback is Hell' had no idea….”

“She accepted the risks with full understanding,” Dumbledore countered. “I made sure before I cast the spells that….”

“YOU cast the spells?!” Harry fired back, eyebrows raised. “I thought you tried to stop her from doing this.”

“Yes, I cast the spells,” Dumbledore replied, adopting a rather defiant stance. “There was no other choice. She was prepared to proceed with Luna Lovegood in my stead. Miss Lovegood is a powerful, if unorthodox witch, but these spells were - quite frankly - entirely beyond her experience. It would have been suicidal for Miss Granger to go down that route … every bit as suicidal as you asking me to kill you a few minutes ago. Even so, to obtain Deputy Headmistress McGonagall's consent I had to tell her the prophecy.”

“So she knows?” Harry said softly. “Does anyone else?”

“No,” Dumbledore answered. “Not from me. Nor have I told Miss Granger … although in light of all that has happened, I now believe that it would be an excellent idea for you to tell her at some point.”

“Why?” Harry asked. “I thought you said…?”

“That was then, this is now,” Dumbledore stated. “I suspect that Miss Granger believes she knows the prophecy, but that she has misinterpreted it in a critical particular. Specifically, I think she has concluded that, in order to do away with Voldemort, you must also die in the process. That is something that bears correcting, and you should do so at your earliest opportunity, if we recover her.”

“You mean when we recover her,” Harry corrected.

Thoughtfully, Dumbledore reconjured Harry's armchair and offered it to him once again. “You swing from blackest despair, to outright optimism very quickly, Harry,” Dumbledore observed.

“If you'd been hit with all this, all at once, right after being held captive for several weeks, you'd have trouble thinking straight too,” Harry responded whilst ignoring the proffered seat. “And this isn't even the first time. You hit me with the prophecy in much the same way.”

“I suppose you are right,” Dumbledore conceded with a sigh. “Anyway, I wish I shared such conviction, but I am old and have seen much tragedy. The world is not for the faint of heart…. However, make no mistake, we shall spare no expense. We shall bring in the best specialists in the world.”

“Take my money, then. Any and all of it, if need be,” Harry offered as he paced back and forth. “It's no good to me.”

“I could not possibly spend it all,” Dumbledore replied. “That brings me to another matter that I needed to discuss with you.”

“I beat Malfoy, didn't I?” Harry guessed. He had expected that was the case, since the Death Eaters had been so angry over Hermione's testimony. “I mean, Hermione did, since I wasn't in any position to testify.”

“Indeed you - and she - did just that. The appeal period expires this Saturday, and I am told there will be no appeal. At some point thereafter, the will must be formally read. At that time, the award necessarily becomes generally known, if only because publicly recorded ownership documents will change. After that, everyone will know of your inheritance. You need to consider how to handle that,” the Headmaster advised.

“Just how public is public?” Harry asked warily. “Is everything the Malfoys said about me … and Hermione … going to be released?”

“Oh no,” Dumbledore responded more hopefully. “We wizards are far more secretive about wealth than that. The only official announcement should be that you are the primary heir to the Black Estate - that is quite enough, I would think.”

“Much more than enough,” Harry answered glumly. He flopped back into the armchair, seating himself heavily enough that its springs groaned in protest.

Dumbledore winced as he perceived Harry cycling into depression again. “I have taken the liberty of providing you, as the victorious party, with a complete set of the transcripts of the proceedings. You will find them on your bed in the dormitory. I recommend that you read them. It is best that you familiarise yourself with what you possess.”

“That's what … somebody … once told me,” Harry commented, recalling Eliza's advice. “There's so much of it that I'm going to become a slave to all that money. I'm really not all that interested. Send it all to Blackie Howe.”

“I frankly believe that it should require your personal attention,” Dumbledore remonstrated. “At the very least you should read Miss Granger's testimony. I think you will find it most enlightening. Thus, I have placed that volume on top.”

Harry remembered his preparation with Howe and his partners. “She … she had to testify under Veritaserum, didn't she?”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore replied, hopeful that the prospect of truth might get Harry interested.

“Why bother then?” Harry replied bitterly. “I already know how she feels about the money. She's made that quite clear. At least now she doesn't have to find out how right she was.”

“You really should read it,” Dumbledore persisted, “particularly in light of your will, which she has seen because you were thought dead.”

“Well isn't that a perfect bollocks, then,” Harry grumbled. “That was only supposed to come out after I'm dead, when it wouldn't matter whether she hated me or not. I didn't even do that for her. I did that for your bloody goblin friends…. That and Howe said I needed to do something….”

“Those `bloody goblins' saved your life,” the Headmaster reminded Harry.

“And now Hermione hates me,” Harry shot back at him, “or would if she could feel anything….”

Dumbledore leaned forward as he glared at Harry. “For the last time,” he replied with exasperation, “Hermi … Miss Granger does not hate you. Please read the transcript. She would not have done what she did if she hated you.”

Harry was about ready to yell at Dumbledore, but anything he said would have revealed what had transpired the last time he and Hermione had been together. He also realised that Dumbledore was probably right. “…Yeah, I take that back. At least when she came for me, she didn't hate me. I felt it through the link before Voldemort came and ruined everything.”

“I need you to tell me about that,” Dumbledore bore in, relieved that Harry seemed no longer to be denying the obvious. “I need to know exactly what happened from your perspective before what I'm assuming was some sort of explosion. All I have is the Quick-Quotes Quill notes that Miss Lovegood took of Miss Granger's side of the conversation, which I will gladly share with you.”

“That, I think I'd like to see,” Harry answered, for once accepting one of Dumbledore's offers of help.

“I thought so, therefore you will also find a copy of the notes also on your bed when you return,” Dumbledore told him. “Now, as best as you can remember, what happened?”

“I had been kept in chains, in some sort of dungeon, for I don't know how long,” Harry commenced. “There were three of them, three Death Eaters. I got one decent look at them. One was quite large, the others were normal sized âˆ’ small even âˆ’ all wearing Death Eater robes and masks. They all disguised their voices, so I can't tell you anything there that's helpful either.”

“Anyway, something must have happened, because we left that place. I briefly remember being by the sea…. I could smell and hear it, but then they stunned me again. They kept me unconscious most of the time…. Beat and whipped me too…. I was usually out of it, but just before I escaped, I healed some infected cuts that I didn't have before.”

“Tell me about your escape,” Dumbledore prompted with great interest.

“I was hanging upside down, tied to something by my wrists and ankles, between two Thestrals. It was raining when I came to. Maybe that helped me wake up. Something hit me. I don't know what, but I suddenly felt more alert than I ever had in the dungeon. I used Elemental Magic to burn through the ropes that bound my hands…. At one point they made to stun me again, but they must have missed.”

“I burnt through the ropes on my feet, and when I got free, I Apparated as far as I could away from them. They tried to kill me then and there, but something - it might have been a goblin, but I couldn't see very well - got in the way. Then I outran them. Even after being locked up for two weeks, I was still faster than they were. But I didn't know where I was going, and I ran right towards their castle.”

“Ah yes, the castle,” Dumbledore remarked. “You mentioned that. Go on.”

Harry continued his rather emotionless description. “The forest opened onto the moor. I think it must have been somewhere in Scotland, given the mountains and all, a bunch of Death Eaters came at me from this castle in front of me, and I tried to escape through the moor. That was a mistake; it was almost impassable…. Then something really strange happened … the first of several. I started running faster all of a sudden…. When I looked down, I had the feet of some sort of beast.”

“Harry, I can help you there,” Dumbledore offered. “You are a natural Animagus, I believe some sort of griffin. Such powers usually start to manifest themselves around your age. The stress of your situation caused a spontaneous, partial transformation. One of the healers who treated you diagnosed this.”

“A griffin Animagus, you say” Harry said, shaking his head. “What more can happen to me? Still, that goes a long way to explaining what happened next, though, so I guess it's right.”

“What happened next?” Dumbledore prompted.

“I got to a line of trees. I thought it was more forest and I would try to lose the Death Eaters, but I was wrong again. Right on the other side of the line of trees was a huge, steep cliff, hundreds of metres straight down.” Harry paused and took a deep breath. “I was treed, and one of them sliced off the branch I was standing on. I went over the cliff. I thought I was going to die. Then I started to fly. I had wings. I couldn't believe it.”

“You were found with one wing still extending from your back,” Dumbledore commented. “That is how your new ability was diagnosed.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” Harry agreed half-heartedly. “Anyway, I crash landed. It hurt like Hell. The Death Eaters must have Apparated after me. They started cursing me. I got up a shield, but it wasn't holding very well, and there were a lot of them…. Then it happened….”

“You did whatever it was that you did?” Dumbledore asked.

“No, at least not right away…. Hermione, she came for me. I still don't believe it….”

Harry paused. He concentrated, willing himself to recount what came next as calmly as he had previously done. Giving his head a rapid, little shake, he continued.

“I was on the verge of giving up. I couldn't maintain the shield; even though I put every bit of magic I could muster into it. I must have let down my other guards, because all of a sudden, she was there âˆ’ in my head. I told her to get away, that it was dangerous. She refused, and then.…”

Harry paused, and fidgeted whilst again gathering his thoughts, considering exactly what he wanted to reveal. Dumbledore waited silently for him to continue.

“…I guess it was her.… There was this wonderful feeling. I thought she hated me, but she obviously didn't. I felt hope, real hope, for the first time in I don't know how long. With that, I found strength I didn't know I had. For some reason, I knew that the Death Eaters couldn't hurt me any more, so they didn't. But then….”

“Voldemort came,” Dumbledore finished his sentence for him. “Miss Granger said something; that is how I know.”

“Yeah, the bastard got into my head too. I don't know how, but it doesn't matter. He seemed to know Hermione was there. I wasn't going to let him hurt her. I tried harder than I had ever tried anything in my life to throw him out of my head. It was like something clicked…. There was a surge…. There was pain … blinding pain. The next thing I remember is waking up seeing goblins.”

“Truly a remarkable story, Harry,” Dumbledore allowed.

“Sod remarkable … I was so stupid,” Harry spat, almost clawing at his face. “I forgot that whatever I did to Voldemort would also happen to Hermione. I didn't keep her safe, like I'd promised. Maybe I just should have let him have me….”

“She would not have been safe,” Dumbledore interrupted. “Not for very long. None of us would be safe if Voldemort had succeeded. They would have made a terrible example of her, and you know it. As it was, I have it on good information that you injured Voldemort very severely - severely enough that it will take weeks, if not months, for him to recover.”

Harry thought about what his captors had already been planning to do to Hermione, and he knew Dumbledore was correct. “What now?” he asked with fear creeping into his voice.

“You and I, we must trust each other,” Dumbledore responded, measuring every word. “The world is very changed with what has happened. It presents great opportunities, but great risks. If it becomes public that you are a Fifth Element elemental, the Ministry's hand may be forced. Remember, it is a serious criminal offense merely to study the Fifth Element. You go far beyond that, Harry. If the new Minister of Magic were forced to act….”

“There's a new Minister of Magic?” Harry asked with interest. “Fudge finally fell?”

“Yes, in the immediate aftermath of the events surrounding your kidnapping, the Aurors threatened a mass resignation unless Fudge himself resigned. He did. The major factions were in disarray. Our side was trying to come to grips with your disappearance, and Ms. Bones, the leader of the pureblood faction, had just been killed. A Death Eater rampage was in the offing; suddenly they were being reported everywhere, along with Dementors. I don't believe it was as serious as was thought at the time, but everyone was terrified.”

“Who's the new Minister?” Harry cut to the chase.

“Rufus Scrimgeour, the Head of the Auror Office, who organised the mass resignation threat.”

“He tried to stun me that night âˆ’ when the lightning came. He was with Fudge when they were trying to sabotage my training.” Harry replied. “The day I set fire to the Situation Room. I remember him. He's no friend of ours.”

“No he is not, but neither is he an enemy,” Dumbledore cautioned. “He came in on a white horse, so to speak, and gave a blistering speech before the Wizengamot about how we had to fight the Death Eaters above all. He at least promised strong leadership after the drift under Fudge. He all but dared the Death Eaters to come out and fight. It was … `They know where I am, bring `em on,' I believe. Unwise bravado, to be sure, but it played well in a highly emotional session. There was no good alternative, and by acclamation, he was voted acting Minister, pending new elections. He is a wily politician in his own right - not overly bright, but willing to take tough measures. Right now he is a tactical ally of the Order.”

“You said things were not as they appeared?” Harry questioned. “In what way?”

“What appeared to be a Death Eater rampage probably was nothing of the sort. Whilst they and their Dementor allies were certainly out and about, they actually caused very few casualties - far fewer than they could have - and most of those were among other Dark, or at least suspect, wizards. I believe they were doing the same thing as we … looking for you….”

“But the Death Eaters had me, I saw them,” Harry sputtered. “I saw them kill Eliza in cold blood. I heard them plot against Hermione.”

“Professor Snape was summoned by Voldemort,” Dumbledore revealed. “As you know he is a spy. He reports that Voldemort was quite as much unaware of your whereabouts as we were. Whoever took you was on a rogue mission of their own.”

“Snape is a liar and a traitor,” Harry responded furiously. “He was there when my parents were murdered.”

“Professor Snape tried to stop that from happening, and suffered for years because of it. In any event, I trust Professor Snape,” Dumbledore declared.

“Why?” Harry asked pointedly.

“That is nothing that concerns you,” Dumbledore responded. “That is between him and myself. All you need know is that he has conclusively proven his loyalty to me.”

“You said you would tell me everything,” Harry protested.

“I did not require you to tell me about what went on between yourself and either Miss Granger or Miss Brookings. I did not think that I needed to know, and I will prevent anyone else from inquiring. You must trust me, Harry, this is just as personal, and you do not need to know.”

“You … and Snape? I never would have believed it?” Harry responded with a mock look of shock.

“I assure you that there is nothing afoot of the sort you are insinuating,” Dumbledore responded in a similarly mock affronted manner. “I am not in the least bit sexually attracted to him.”

Harry could not help but snigger. “I know, I know,” he said. “It's just that you compared it to….”

“I know what I compared it to,” Dumbledore responded. “I was not insinuating anything along those lines. The point is simply that there are limits to what the both of us need to know, and you are only sixteen, so most of what you wish to keep private is of a sexual nature. What you have to decide is: Are you prepared to live with some modicum of privacy upon both of our parts? We do need to trust each other.”

“Yeah, I s'pose so,” Harry conceded. “Don't think there's much choice.”

“Good, because during the coming year, I intend to continue to instruct you personally in various things that I believe you need to know in order to do what you will eventually be called upon to do.”

“That's fine,” replied Harry, grudgingly. “But you need to know that, without Hermione, I don't think I'll ever be able to do what I need to do.”

“I understand, and I reiterate that I will leave no avenue untried in seeking a cure for her condition,” Dumbledore replied.

“So you don't think it's Death Eaters, then,” Harry responded curiously. “If not them, who? They certainly played the part.”

“Oh, I believe they were Death Eaters, at least at one time,” Dumbledore corrected. “But they had their own objectives, and were operating without Voldemort's knowledge, or his consent. I doubt we need concern ourselves with them, because they will not live long. Voldemort does not tolerate insubordination.”

“Do we know anything about them? …Beyond what I've told you?” Harry asked. He thought of everything they did to Eliza, whose only mistake had been to help him when he had asked - what they planned to do to Hermione. “If Voldemort doesn't kill them, I'd like to give it a go.”

“Harry, deliberately killing them would be beneath you,” Dumbledore answered softly. “Even with Voldemort, bringing about his death will be complicated. Do not sully yourself with the blood of your enemies.”

“Turn the other bleeding cheek, you're saying?” Harry replied angrily. “After what they did to me, maybe, but after what they did to Eliza âˆ’ and wanted to do to Hermione. I'm not some saint. I need … revenge….”

“I quite disagree,” Dumbledore said placidly as Harry raged. “I simply mean that death is too good for them. Becoming them does not become you.”

“I won't go looking,” Harry said grimly. “But I make no promises if I find them anyway. Now, what do we know?”

“A little,” Dumbledore replied. “They knew of a secret hideaway Voldemort had created beneath Malfoy Manor, because that is where you were held….”

“Dobby told me … wait,” Harry narrowed his eyes. “Malfoy. He allowed this to happen. He … that little piece of…, I'll kill him!”

“Poppycock, Harry,” Dumbledore responded hotly. “Do you not think that that possibility has crossed my mind? Young Mister Malfoy was at Durmstrang throughout most of the incident, attending orientation for transfer students. I have this on good authority from two different sources. His presence there was confirmed repeatedly. I know you despise him, but there is no reason to believe that he even knew about the dungeons where you were kept. They were built either by Voldemort himself or at his direction, and Voldemort would have no reason to take an underage wizard into that kind of confidence….”

Harry opened his mouth, but closed it again. Maybe he was being irrational. Everything the Headmaster said made perfect sense. But insignificant or not, he still hated Malfoy with a passion. Finally, he growled, “If he's at Durmstrang, then I no longer give a damn about the bloody ferret. Good riddance, after everything he's said and done to me. That's one less complication in my life….”

“Unfortunately, that is not the case,” Dumbledore cautioned.

“What?”

“Mister Malfoy has decided to return to Hogwarts, and I have approved his readmission,” Dumbledore declared. “He will return for next week's classes, if not before.”

“Why would you let him back?” Harry protested vehemently. “If he's not a Death Eater already, that's what he wants to be when he grows up!”

“There is an expression that you would do well to remember, Harry,” Dumbledore responded calmly. “Whilst one should keep one's friends close, one should keep one's enemies closer still.”

“Oh, so you want to watch him?” Harry asked sarcastically.

“In a sense,” Dumbledore replied evenly. “Voldemort needs followers. You did in a great many of them the other day. If he approaches Mister Malfoy, I would like to be in a position to do something about it. That is no different from my desire to protect you from anyone in the Ministry or with the Muggles who might be tempted to wish you harm because of the Fifth Element.”

“No, no, no, NO!” Harry crescendoed. “He's a junior death eater âˆ’ a security risk … and the biggest jerk in the school, now that Snape's left. I don't want him here…. Besides, with Hermione as helpless as she is right now, he might try something…. He hates her as much as me.”

“I am sorry, Harry, but I remain Headmaster,” Dumbledore responded magisterially. “That decision is final. Draco Malfoy is returning to Hogwarts.”

“You're making a big mistake,” reproached Harry.

The Headmaster ended the discussion. “It is my mistake to make, then. I shall live with it…. Harry, I am ready to release you to normal classes tomorrow. I promise you that you can visit Miss Granger whenever you want for as long as you want, within the constraints of your workload. But I need you to promise me two things….”

“Name them,” Harry demanded.

Dumbledore stood and fixed the boy with an unyielding stare. “First, you must promise me that, under no circumstances will you lose control of your emotions whilst at Hogwarts - no matter what the provocation,” he instructed - meaning Malfoy in particular. “You have immense power, but you do not know how to use it. You could harm yourself or others … especially Miss Granger. You have learned Occlumency well from both me and Sefu Kung. You must use it at all times to maintain control.”

Unconsciously imitating the Headmaster, Harry rose as well. “Okay,” he replied. That seemed logical - indeed essential.

“Second, you must promise to maintain your high level of academic achievement. You would be letting both me and Miss Granger down if you allowed her situation to distract you from your studies.”

“I can do that,” Harry said. “I want to do that.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore said reaching out his hand.

Harry stayed back. “Not so fast. I have some promises for you too.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore repeated.

“First, you'll do everything within your power to find out what's wrong with Hermione and set it right, whatever it is - and if there's anything outside of your power, let me know. Maybe my money can buy what you can't command,” Harry demanded.

“I would be pleased to make that promise,” Dumbledore answered.

“Second, if I ask you to, I want you to help me try to deal with all of the other ways that my life's been changing âˆ’ the fame and fortune parts. I feel overwhelmed by it all at times, and you've been through it,” Harry added.

“I would be happy to do that even without you asking, Harry,” Dumbledore replied.

“No, I want the option of asking,” Harry affirmed. “You can ask me if I want help, but it has to be my call.”

“I accept that,” agreed the Headmaster.

They shook hands, and blue light passed between them, creating a binding magical contract.

Dumbledore clapped his hands (causing himself to wince in pain) and Vanished the armchairs. “We should go now, but we have to make arrangements for your parents' remains, as the Fidelius Charm has been broken,” he reminded Harry.

Harry looked stricken. “I don't know what to do,” he confessed. “I'd like to bury them at Godric's Hollow, because I'd eventually like to rebuild the house there, but that's way in the future - if I even have a future.”

“May I make a suggestion?” Dumbledore offered tentatively.

“Go ahead,” Harry agreed.

“For the time being, we can store their remains in a safe, secret place in Hogwarts. Somewhere that I very much think Voldemort would not wish to tread, as I am sure Lucius has told him of the unpleasantness that went on there.”

“You haven't said where,” Harry commented warily. “What's the catch?”

“I'm afraid this place doesn't harbour very pleasant memories for you either,” Dumbledore replied frankly.

“You don't mean….”

“Yes, the Chamber of Secrets, Harry,” Dumbledore explained. “It is no longer frequented by any Basilisks, except for the remains of the one you killed.”

“How would bloody Lucius Malfoy know about anything beyond that I destroyed his master's diary?”

“At the time, he was a member of Hogwarts' Board of Governors, and as Headmaster I owed them a full report concerning that incident,” Dumbledore explained.

“No thanks,” Harry dismissed the idea. “I'm not sending my parents' bodies through a loo.”

“I had the house-elves build a new, more usable entrance,” Dumbledore went on, “and the memory Voldemort has of the place - you destroyed it on your visit some years ago.”

“But Voldemort speaks Parseltongue!” Harry protested.

“He does, but I know Tom Riddle. I have placed additional enchantments, in that language, upon the Chamber to deal with him. It is as safe as any place in Hogwarts, and safer than most. There are many catacombs in the Chamber that would serve quite well as a temporary resting place for their remains, particularly as I am disabled from performing another Fidelius Charm.”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked, in shock at that news. “You can't be asking me to do that.”

“I am not proposing that anyone do it, as the fewer that know about this, the better,” Dumbledore explained wearily. “It is one of the quirks of the complex Fidelius Charm that it can only be cast one time by any one caster for any one purpose. Therefore, I cannot do it a second time. You do not yet have that skill, and I do not wish to endanger anyone else with this information. Therefore, if we keep it a secret between ourselves, we serve the same purpose. At least that will have to do until you can enlist someone else acceptable to you to serve as the caster.”

“Why would I want that?” Harry asked, puzzled.

“Because it is inevitable,” Dumbledore answered knowingly. “That person is simply in a coma of sorts at the moment.”

“Hermione?” Harry half asked, half stated.

“Could it be anyone else?” Dumbledore answered rhetorically. “As I mentioned at the outset, I believe she has already discovered my secret. That means it is inevitable that she will eventually seek to share it with you.”

“Yeah, you're right,” Harry agreed. “And if anyone else could learn how to do that spell right, she could.”

“Precisely,” Dumbledore affirmed. “Are we in agreement, then?”

“I have nothing better to propose,” Harry admitted, giving Dumbledore's plan a rather weak endorsement.

“Very well. We have been away for quite some time, and we have yet another task to perform before either of us may rest. Could you collect the Thestrals, whilst I perform the excavating spell?”

* * * *

There were many things about Dumbledore that amazed Harry, and that afternoon the Headmaster added another item to that list. Despite age and injury, he deftly brought his Thestral - laden with both coffins containing the earthly remains of Harry's parents - to a perfect landing on the small balcony outside his tower office. Harry, by contrast, could barely bring the Thestral he rode within ten metres of the tower.

Struggling to maintain his Thestral relatively stationary, Harry shouted, “I don't think I can do that, sir!” across the gap separating him from Dumbledore.

“Nor is that my expectation,” the Headmaster replied calmly whilst dismounting, of necessity favouring his uninjured hand. “I shall handle this. Hold still….”

Harry did as he was told and brought his Thestral to a halt.

“Now, I shall Disillusion you,” Dumbledore told him. The Headmaster drew his wand. Harry heard the incantation and felt the cool, almost drippy, feeling as he came under the spell.

“You should stay Disillusioned and land anywhere you can, as long as it is within the Castle walls. Stay hidden unless you want to be mobbed. Then meet me by Gregor. No password will be necessary, just touch him with your wand.”

Befuddled, Harry asked, “Who's Gregor?”

Dumbledore smiled whilst shaking his head. “The gargoyle who guards the lower entrance to my office is named Gregor. You will find him more helpful if you address him properly.”

With considerable effort, Harry was able to manœuvre his Thestral into one of the Castle's smaller courtyards and, less awkwardly, to dismount. Fortunately, Thestrals remained invisible to most students, late afternoon classes were still in session, and the hallways were largely deserted. He was at the appointed location within the quarter hour.

Just as Dumbledore had promised, at the touch of Harry's wand, Gregor the gargoyle jumped aside, revealing the patiently waiting Headmaster.

“Thank you, Gregor. You may stand at ease,” the Headmaster advised.

Behind him, two caskets levitated ominously.

Dumbledore motioned Harry onto the rotating staircase - which at that moment was not rotating. But as soon as Harry set foot upon it, he felt a lurch as stairs resumed moving. This motion, however, was a downwards rotation, the first time Harry recalled that happening. They descended for the equivalent of several storeys below ground level. Finally, the stairs ground to a halt where the walls, until that point roughhewn and dark with the grime of age, abruptly gave way to much newer stone facing.

“From here, we walk,” Dumbledore declared. Seeing Harry's uncertain expression, he added. “Surely you did not think that I would leave something as significant as the Chamber of Secrets accessible only through malfunctioning toilets. That would have been most inconvenient - not to mention undignified.”

Eerily trailed by two just-disinterred caskets, the two descended. For ten minutes they went down, down, down, until the vertical shaft opened into a corridor wide and tall enough for them and their macabre cargo easily to pass through. Ahead of them, less than ten metres distant, loomed an entrance into a vast room.

Harry overtly gawked upon entering the Chamber for the first time in over three years. It was even bigger than he remembered it. Behind him, Dumbledore must have performed some sort of spell, as the gloomy half-light abruptly brightened. They were at the back of the main chamber. Opposite, Harry could see the huge statue of Salazar Slytherin from which the deadly Basilisk had once emerged.

“Oh Merlin, look at that,” Harry blurted. “This is way, way bigger than I remembered it.”

“Undoubtedly you had more pressing matters during your previous visit,” Dumbledore remarked dryly, “and with the shadows banished, the Chamber's true dimensions are more readily apparent.”

“I'll say,” Harry agreed as he craned his neck. Now, the ceiling - a series of massive, interconnected vaulted arches - was clearly visible in the improved lighting. “The ceiling must be as high as in the Reims cathedral. Actually, I'll bet this place is even bigger than that.”

“That would be correct, Harry,” Dumbledore informed him. “Indeed, this chamber is substantially larger than any room in the Castle above. Whatever else one might say about Salazar Slytherin, he made no little plans.”

Harry stopped dead in his tracks.

Before him stretched the corpse of the monster that occasionally still haunted his dreams. The body of the massive 25-metre-long Basilisk lay where it fell. A powerfully magical, if evil, creature - its toxic-looking green skin was still intact.

“There is no need to fear it, now,” Dumbledore intoned.

Gingerly, Harry approached it. He could tell that over time most of the huge serpent had mummified from within. Its one remaining fang, however, had lost none of its lethal, razor-sharp edge.

A morbid fascination with the fang gripped Harry. Careful to avoid its razor sharp serrated edge, he ran a finger along the smooth side of the fifteen-centimetre dagger-like structure. The other one of these had gone right through his arm. It would have killed him âˆ’ except Fawkes saved his life.

“Harry….”

He snapped out of the trance. It occurred to him that he was altogether too fascinated with this monster. Instinctively, Harry drew back.

“It is dead, Harry. You killed it. It deserves no more respect in death than you ever gave it in life,” Dumbledore advised the boy. “That could be dangerous.”

With that the Headmaster reached his good arm into the maw of the beast, grasped the base of the remaining fang, and broke it cleanly off. A drip of venom fell from the cavity left behind. It sizzled as it struck the floor, etching the cold stone. Then he tossed the fang unceremoniously down the throat of the dead leviathan.

“I would leave you here for a moment to share some last private time with your parents,” Dumbledore remarked, with the urgency of a command. “I shall investigate the Chamber's catacombs for a suitable interim resting place.” The Headmaster lit his wandtip and strode off and out of sight down one of several corridors that led away from the cavernous main room.

Harry spent the next several minutes sadly communing with the mortal remains of James and Lily. Other than their deaths, he had no memory of his parents. He had zoned out, staring into space, when he realised he was gazing at Slytherin's statue - at the situs where the memory of Tom Riddle had once summoned the Basilisk.

Maybe, he thought, that might make an almost fool-proof hiding place. Riddle had used Parseltongue to open it, so it would take nothing less than Voldemort himself coming to the Castle to endanger his parents' bodies. That was virtually unthinkable. Dumbledore was the one wizard Voldemort feared.

He remembered the words Riddle had used to open the statue as if it were yesterday. Facing the gigantic stone face, Harry spoke slowly and clearly.

“Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four.”

Nothing happened - nothing at all.

After spending a minute waiting in vain for the great mouth to open, Harry repeated the spell, this time pointing his wand for extra effect.

Again, nothing happened.

Harry then noticed that his voice did not have the characteristic hiss to it. Puzzled, he turned to the most snakelike thing in the Chamber - the body of the Basilisk. Addressing it, Harry said loudly, “I killed you, now I'm going to cut you to pieces.”

His Queen's English echoed through the Chamber.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Headmaster Dumbledore's curious voice came from behind him. The Headmaster had returned.

“I'm … I'm … not sure,” Harry answered weakly. “I think … I might have lost my ability to speak Parseltongue.”

“Oh, my, that would be quite a development … unsettling,” Dumbledore observed, his good hand rubbing his chin beneath his beard. “What makes you think that?”

“I tried to address Slytherin's statue in Parseltongue the way Riddle did the … the last time I was here. I tried twice and couldn't do it. Then I addressed the Basilisk itself. That's never failed before. I never even had to think about it. It's always just happened when I tried to talk to a snake of any sort.”

“This is most unusual,” Dumbledore agreed. “Is there anything else you could use as a confirmatory test?”

Harry thought. “The door,” he realised. “Take me to the original door to the Chamber. That has snakes on it, and Parseltongue was how I got in here the first time.”

Dumbledore guided Harry to the ancient, but intact, entryway. The serpentine door was firmly shut.

“Open,” commanded Harry in a low, firm voice.

“That was English,” the Headmaster announced.

“I know,” Harry replied, more confused and concerned than ever.

He repeated the process with the same results. Turning to Dumbledore, Harry asked, “Do you think that the Fifth Element did it … destroyed my Parselmouth ability?”

“I cannot say,” Dumbledore responded honestly. “The timing alone suggests that as a very plausible hypothesis. It bears research, and this could be of tremendous significance.”

Now Harry was intrigued - and more than a little frightened. The Headmaster's eyes were not twinkling; they were fairly glistening with concentrated thought. “How so?” he demanded.

“I am not sure,” Dumbledore replied, “but it may signify a change in strategy as to how you approach the prophecy.”

“You'll have to explain that,” Harry replied. “I'm afraid I'm not in very good shape right now for strategic thinking.”

Rubbing his wounded appendage, Dumbledore answered. “Nor, unfortunately am I. First, some research. I need to consult the Book of Merlin, and possibly some other texts at the Ministry. Then I hope to be able to tell you something more concrete. Until I know more, it is best that I not say anything further, lest I mislead you. Can you live with that … with some uncertainty … for the moment?”

Harry was not very happy about the prospect, but agreed. “Yeah, I'll survive,” he replied after a moment's hesitation. “I've done it all my life, after all.”

“Then let us go about the unpleasant task of re-interring your parents. I have found what I think you will agree is a suitably out of the way spot. Then, I believe you will be fit to be released back into the student population, with one caveat….”

“That is?” Harry asked.

“As I said before, you must remain calm and in control of your emotions at all costs,” Dumbledore instructed. “You cannot allow yourself to become agitated, for any reason - good or bad - or by any person, no matter whom that might be…. And it goes without saying that no one can know what we have done here.”

* * * *

Author's notes: A farthing is a British coin of very small value, a quarter of a pence

Moses and Welday are the names of two brothers who were the last black major league baseball players prior to Jackie Robinson

Doctor's signatures are notoriously illegible

“Potemkin Harry” is a play on “Potemkin Village,” a false-fronted village constructed to hide the wretched condition of the inhabitants. Minister Grigori Potemkin supposedly built these to deceive Catherine the Great about the wealth of newly conquered territory

The Room of Requirement should have generated an escape route for the DA in Book 5. Here's my attempt to harmonize canon

Eagles Mere is the name of a resort town here in Pennsylvania

Cairn Gorm is a real Scottish peak

“Risking a catastrophe” is an American criminal offense

There is a feature known as the “Five Fingers of the Gods” in Kauai

Order tombstones are made of Botticino limestone, which is accurately described

“No greater love” is part of a biblical phrase, with the unsaid portion being to lay down one's life for another

More insight into how Dumbledore's journey to face Grindelwald

“Flat burning junkheap” is from “Stop the World” by the Clash

The relationship between the killing curse and the Fifth Element was explored back in chapter 5, although it was not presented as the Fifth Element then

Harry doesn't catch Dumbledore's drift about Hermione's Auror ring until considerably later

Living just for dying … dying just for you, lines from “Sabbath, Bloody Sabbath, by Black Sabbath

That nobody's told Hermione the prophecy is quite consequential

Deeds to property are ordinarily recorded in searchable, public files

By offering the transcripts Dumbledore is trying to nudge Harry to reading Hermione's testimony about her feelings for Harry, but again he doesn't bite

That Harry's captors felt a need to disguise their voices should be significant, but even Dumbledore misses it

The new minister's speech was no different from Bush's “bring `em on” line

Dumbledore foreshadows the horcruxes

Harry's neither a saint nor a savior, but Dumbledore has the right idea

Harry's pledge to Dumbledore leads to dangerously extended passivity

This is the same staircase that leads to the Founders' Chamber

“Make no little plans” is what Thomas Burnham said about Chicago

The Chamber of Secrets will reappear in this fic. I'm surprised JKR has ignored it

Harry's inability to speak Parseltongue is the key to what happened in the valley

61

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39. Uncomfortably Numb

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

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

Chapter 39 - Uncomfortably Numb

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

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

Finally he found it….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No … what?” the other sneered.

“No, SIR!” the victimised one begged.

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

Still the simpering figure remained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But he also rewards success,” Pettigrew added.

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look out, Colin!” somebody shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was some reaction,” Dennis commented.

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

If he wanted her, he could have her.

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

“But it's fun,” Romilda protested.

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

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

“Colin, what's all this?” Harry inquired.

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

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

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

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

“Can't, that's our Quidditch tryouts.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry made the decisions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dennis Creevey had violated the evening's unspoken rule.

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

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

Dennis gulped and slowly nodded his head.

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

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

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

“Go ahead, dammit,” Harry growled. “Say it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“HERMIONE!!!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it your scar?” Ron whispered.

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

“No.” Harry said in a low, gravelly voice.

“What about your scar?” Neville asked uncomprehendingly.

“Long story,” Harry muttered.

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

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

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

“Damn, you're getting good,” Ron commented breathlessly.

“Been practising all summer,” Harry replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was awful…,” Neville began.

“And Hermione … oh, Merlin….”

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

But not everything.

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

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

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

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

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

“Right in one,” Ron concurred.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bloody traitor,” Ron growled ominously.

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

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

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

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

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

“Well … you are,” Neville observed.

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ron hesitantly raised his hand. “Sir…?” he asked.

“And you are?” Professor Slughorn replied haughtily.

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

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

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

“Quite,” Slughorn responded, looking vaguely bored.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Constant vigilance.

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

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

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

Slughorn looked a bit peeved, but readily excused Harry.

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

Dumbledore explained the reason for the gathering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

“Buckinghamshire,” Dumbledore answered. “Those are the Chiltern Hills.”

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

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

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

“Very well. With me, then,” Dumbledore commanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mister Potter, welcome to Chequers,” the Muggle driver announced.

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHAM!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something had to be done.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dumbledore had just stunned every Muggle in the room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry stared back wide-eyed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What's that?” Prime Minister Major asked dumbly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It can,” he replied imperturbably.

Prime Minister Major quickly made the call.

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

She looked so pale, so fragile.

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

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

Mercifully, her eyes were closed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Twice,” Harry declared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I shouldn't do that,” he murmured.

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

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

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

The last grains trickled from the hourglass.

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But….”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That will be quite against all medical advice…”

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

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

“And just who are you?” barked Dr. Granger.

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

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

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

“SAYS WHO!?!” Dr. Granger practically screamed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Luna was right.

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

“Hermione is nothing if not thorough,” Luna commented calmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

“Where … where, am I?” Harry asked reflexively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” Harry asked.

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

Harry brightened visibly, so Hlr. Huxley continued.

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

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

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

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

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

“Luna,” Harry offered.

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

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

“Quite serious,” Hlr. Huxley answered gravely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“M-M-Monitor?” Harry replied apprehensively.

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

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

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

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

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

“But … Dumbledore….” Harry stuttered.

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

“But I'm not your patient,” Harry observed.

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

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

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

“Er … no,” Harry answered.

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

“I sure do,” said Harry somewhat more enthusiastically.

“Ask away.”

* * * *

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

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

Meth labs are known for obnoxious odors

A terraced house in the US is called a “rowhouse”

Snape magicked Pettigrew into a French maid outfit

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

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

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

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

Johanna Lindsey is a romance novelist

Fleur describes smells associated with Harry

Fleur Veelaed the unsuspecting Harry

“Keep all hoops covered” is Quidditchspeak for “keep all bases covered”

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

Hermiome's present will be revealed in time

The Buckinghamshire location is accurate

A red tie is a “power tie” common in interviewing

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

All the vehicles would be appropriate to the setting

Chequers is the British Prime Minister's country residence

John Major was just finishing as Prime Minister in 1996

A “member of chambers” is a senior British barrister

D'Israeli founded the Tory party

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

“Premier” and “Prime Minister” are synonymous in Britain

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

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

Nobody's guessed the magical link to the Palace yet

Fleet Street refers to British newspapers

The American terrorist fixation might be little early for 1996

1816 was the “Year Without A Summer”

The mad cow disease problem with British beef surfaced in 1996

Uncle Vernon received Tory political mailings

Red boxes are attaché cases issued to British cabinet members

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

EU medical privacy directives are quite strict

“Clean white sheets” is from “Sister Morphine” by the Stones

Hermione gets somewhat of a new look with her hair

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

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

Exactly what Harry did three years previous will eventually be revealed

Keltoi mothertongue (ancestral Celtic) becomes important

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

“Torch” is British for flashlight

Malpractice cubed - malpractice in every dimension

999 is the UK equivalent of the US 911

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

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

76

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch39 uncomfortably numb.doc 12/13/05

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40. Staying Alive

Wherein Harry gets the medical low down on Hermione's condition, learns of something odd in Hermione's living will, considers heroic measures, learns about Thomas Walker, almost has an incident with Romilda Vane, increases his reliance on Occlumency, hears a social announcement, receives an unexpected invitation, has an incident with Fleur, attends Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts, vanquishes competition for Seeker, learns who made the team, gets a new/old wand, has an incident with a girl he didn't know before, has another nightmare, and learns something from Horace Slughorn

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

Chapter 40 - Staying Alive

Hlr. Huxley fixed Harry Potter with a practised eye and tried, as gently as possible, to draw the boy into the discussion that neither of them wanted - but both knew they had to have. “Well, Harry, before we start I must go through the formality of personally reviewing Miss Granger's living will. May I see it?”

Harry looked surprised. “Oh…, that … sure,” he agreed, whilst fumbling in his robes. Finally, he found the pocket into which he had hastily shoved the document after it had flown to him. “Here.”

Hlr. Huxley gave it a perfunctory once over. Everything certainly appeared in order … until the very end, when his eyebrows shot up.

Harry noticed, but waited for the Healer to finish. Not much later, Hlr. Huxley laid the document on the table and declared, “Everything is in perfect order, as I expected. Since I am trained in healing, not the law, I cannot speculate about anything beyond its form. The only thing out of the ordinary is this right here … at the end….”

Harry leaned forward, looking over Hlr. Huxley's shoulder as the Healer pointed to a short, incomprehensible string of letters and numbers written just after Luna's signature as a witness. It was the very last thing on the page, with only blank parchment below. The word it spelled out - which Harry knew full well was not a word at all - was:

K_3[Fe(CN)6]

“What's that mean?” Harry asked curiously.

I'm not at all sure,” Hlr. Huxley admitted, shaking his head slightly. “Unless I miss my guess, it's a Muggle chemical formula - for what we wizards call Farmer's reducer. It's a fairly common industrial chemical, usually dissolved in water, used by the Muggles for various things, such as electroplating, tempering, photography, steganography, reagency, oxidisation, and encolouration.”

Even though raised by Muggles, Harry did not know what half those words meant, and hardly cared. “What's it got to do with Hermione?” he framed the only question that mattered.

“Other than her choosing to write it on a document such as this…? No earthly idea,” the Healer replied frankly. “Farmer's reducer is only used as a colouring agent in a few minor potions, since its concentrated form is bright red. I know of no use for it in either healing or Muggle medicine. In fact, it's rather poisonous, especially in combination with acid.”

“Oh,” Harry responded blankly, not sure if Hlr. Huxley was done. Even in a coma - especially in a coma - Hermione's mental processes were far beyond him.

Hlr. Huxley pointed his wand at a cupboard on the far wall. “Nevertheless, since this is the Room of Requirement…. Accio Farmer's reducer.”

The cabinet flew open and a frosted glass bottle holding a lightly pink liquid flew into Hlr. Huxley's hand. “I don't know why, but if Miss Granger bothered to write out that formula whilst contemplating the possibility of her own demise, I have to think it's important somehow. Therefore, I think you should have this - in case you come up with any better idea than I have.”

Harry accepted the proffered bottle, removing the stopper to peer inside. “You said it's poisonous…,” he said slowly. “You don't think she could have been poisoned….”

“Frankly, no,” Hlr. Huxley replied confidently. “Since she wrote this,” he jabbed at the markings on the parchment with his finger, “it would have to be a suicide attempt, and that I can't conceive of. At the time of this writing, she was about to submit herself to serious magic indeed … which she did.… Why would she seek to kill herself on the verge of that? To tell the truth, she had everything in the world to live for - especially you, it seems. Self destruction would make no sense.”

“Nevertheless…,” Harry began. There were things about Hermione's personal circumstances that only he knew … such as the horrific emotional stress his own conduct must have caused her.

“I will have it checked, Harry,” Hlr. Huxley responded, before the thought was even completely out of the boy's mouth. The Healer produced a small mirror, waved his wand over it and gave instructions to the witch whose image appeared.

“Madam Pomfrey, would you be so good as to scan Miss Granger for any sign of Farmer's reducer, or potassium ferricyanide, and any of its metabolites - and report the results to me statim.” A pause occurred, apparently for a response. Hlr. Huxley added, “No, I frankly don't expect that you'll find anything, but I want to be one hundred percent certain.”

Putting the mirror away, Hlr. Huxley turned his swivel chair in Harry's direction. Seeing the boy's inquisitive look, he explained, “Ever since I became Hermione's attending Healer, I've needed Poppy's help - hence the mirror. They're handy devices. I use them at St. Mungo's.”

Hlr. Huxley returned Hermione's living will to Harry, took a deep breath, and stated, “Now for the main event…. What do you want to know about Miss Granger's medical condition? You see, that power of attorney allows you to ask me anything and get the same full answer that the patient herself would be entitled to receive.”

Harry tried to act calm as he faced Hlr. Huxley, but his fidgeting betrayed a bad case of nerves. “I hardly know what to ask…. Why don't you just tell me how she is - and when she's likely to recover?”

“The proper way to phrase that question, Harry, is, `Tell it to me straight, doc,' and I can do that,” the skilled Healer agreed, using his practised bedside manner to lighten things a bit.

Harry simply nodded.

“I've run a complete battery of tests - both magical and Muggle - everything I can think of…. Whilst she appears fully recovered physically, mentally she seems to be completely unreceptive to any measure and unresponsive to any treatment.”

Harry flinched visibly, but still said nothing. His eyes, however, were extraordinarily attentive.

“I repeat, whatever it is, it's not a physical issue. Her eyes react to light and her ears react to sound. Miss Granger's mother - however either of us might otherwise view her - is quite skilled. Her seat-of-the-pants physical essentially hit the nail on the head. And that is where the problem lies … in your friend's head.”

“You…. You mean … that … that she….” Harry was having trouble articulating what he needed to say. He feared even voicing the thought out loud, irrationally believing that doing so would somehow make it that much more probable. Ultimately, his need to know won out.

Hlr. Huxley had been in this situation more times than he cared to count. He patiently waited for the boy to finish.

“You mean … that she's … brain dead?” Harry finally choked out, and then buried his face in his hands. He started to tremble, waiting for the Healer to answer. From conversations with Dumbledore, Hlr. Huxley knew better than to view Harry's reaction as anxiety. No, Harry's trembling was characteristic of intense, if imperfect, Occlumency.

“No, I do not mean that she's brain dead,” Hlr. Huxley answered slowly and clearly. “A less skilled Healer than I - or perhaps a Muggle physician - might make such a misdiagnosis, but it is simply not true. Her diagnosis is nowhere near that simple.”

Harry sighed and allowed himself to breathe again. “Oh, sweet Merlin, you don't know how much I needed to hear that….”

“But I think I do,” Hlr. Huxley replied calmly. “I overheard your confession when you thought you were alone, after all.”

“I … I … I couldn't do it, you know,” Harry went on. “Not and be able to keep on living afterwards…. I couldn't pull the plug…. Not on her…. It would be easier to pull the plug on myself.” Despite all the Occlumency, the boy seemed again on the verge of surrendering to his emotions.

With his finely tuned diagnostic senses registering warning signs of spontaneous magic, Hlr. Huxley placed a hand on the distraught boy's shoulder. “That's fine, Harry, I understand,” he soothed, “remember, I've been through this kind of thing before. You, thankfully, have not. But I might as well discuss something now that I would have to bring up before we finished.”

“What's that?” Harry asked, lifting his head fully out of his hands for the first time since he asked the key question.

“How do you feel about heroic measures, Harry?” Hlr. Huxley asked.

That inquiry seemingly stopped the boy's train of thought in its tracks. After a pause he answered, slowly, “Well … that's … that's what everybody says I'm best at. So, just tell me what you need me to do and I'll do it - no questions asked.”

“Actually, Harry,” the Healer prompted, “that's not exactly what I had in mind. I doubt there's anything I could ethically ask of you at this moment. I meant heroic medical measures.”

Harry looked back, still rather confused. “Such as?” he asked.

“I'm talking about artificial prolongation of life,” Hlr. Huxley explained, “or what some people consider life, at any rate. For example, if she became unable to breathe on her own, would you want me to perform a Ventilation Charm? It's effective, but not very pretty to watch. If her kidneys failed, would you want artificial dialysis? That sort of thing…. That parchment says that these are your decisions to make.”

The haunted look returned to Harry's eyes as Hlr. Huxley spoke. The Healer did not miss that reaction, or what it meant. “…Not if you don't want to, Harry. She's nowhere near that point. But you need to think about it, given the measure of trust she has reposed in you.”

“Okay … but I don't want to discuss it now,” Harry answered softly. “I just … can't. Exactly what point is she at?”

“Frankly, that's maddeningly hard to say,” Hlr. Huxley admitted. “Here, let me show you what I mean…. Accio chart.”

A clipboard holding a sheaf of multi-coloured pieces of parchment flew across the room into Hlr. Huxley's outstretched hand. He flipped through several pages, showing Harry numbers and tables with his hand-entered data.

“It doesn't look like anything's changed much lately,” Harry observed carefully.

“Precisely,” Hlr. Huxley confirmed. “She's stable. All of her vital signs are rock solid stable. That doesn't mean they're normal - or good - by any stretch of the imagination. What they do mean is that you're not facing a life-or-death decision anytime soon, except with that blasted witch she has for a mother.”

“Actually, Hermione's mother is a Muggle,” Harry corrected.

“For once I wasn't trying to be literal,” Hlr. Huxley replied. “Although, to be fair, she hasn't exactly been treated with the consideration a wizard parent would have received. But her being a Muggle only makes matters worse, because if your friend is exposed to any of the more extreme Muggle treatments for coma, a life-or-death situation could evolve very quickly. She's not in any sort of coma that I've ever seen before, and I've seen more than I care to discuss.”

“What's different about it?” Harry asked. Hermione's mother was the wild card in all this - that was clear. In the foreseeable future, her meddling was far more likely to create a life-threatening crisis than would Hermione's actual medical condition. Harry made up his mind he would stun that woman first … and damn the consequences.

“Come here and look,” Hlr. Huxley invited as he stood up and walked to a large metal machine covered with dials, switches, and wires. Its most prominent feature was a large black circular screen with a bright horizontal green line on it, running from one side to another.

“What's this,” Harry asked, perplexed.

“Although you're Muggle raised, I gather you've never been in a Muggle hospital before?” Hlr. Huxley asked.

Harry thought a bit, going over his Muggle memories. Whilst they were not very pleasant, they were not that unpleasant. “No … I guess not. Not since I was little, anyway.”

“This is Muggle monitoring equipment … producing a real-time image of Miss Granger's physical thought processes. It's highly charmed and insulated to protect it from the overall magical conditions at Hogwarts, but this Room of Requirement is, indeed, a wonderful space. I can stash all this equipment here to keep tabs on Miss Granger's ordinary, non-magical vital signs, with only the sensors themselves in the Hospital Wing, and thus exposed to magic.”

“That … that line…. It's awfully … flat.” Harry observed.

“It is indeed,” Hlr. Huxley agreed with a grave expression on his face. “In fact, it would lead a less experienced Healer - or a Muggle physician, perhaps - to a very dire diagnosis. But observe closely how the same line is rather fuzzy and wide.”

Harry could be rather perceptive when he wanted to be - and he wanted to be now. “Fuzzy and wide, compared to what,” he asked.

“Very good, Harry,” Hlr. Huxley praised. “Very good, indeed. I could make a Healer out of you yet. Perhaps a demonstration is in order.”

As Harry watched intently, the Healer walked to a second, identical unit and flicked a switch, turning that unit on. For a moment nothing happened. Then Hlr. Huxley struck the side of the machine with the flat of his hand, producing a sound that reverberated through the room.

“Percussive maintenance,” he remarked flatly.

Before Hlr. Huxley had finished speaking, a similar flat green trace appeared on the screen, but - Harry noticed - distinctly crisper and thinner than the line present on the machine that monitored Hermione's condition.

Hlr. Huxley took two steps to the side of the machine and picked up something circular, attached to the unit by wires. “This, Harry, is a transducer. Watch what it does….” Hlr. Huxley pressed it against his own skull. Instantly, the green trace began jumping around on the screen. “That, Harry, is what a normal human brainwave looks like when seen on an electroencephalograph.”

“A what?”

“What it's called isn't important, Harry. What it does is, however.” With that, Hlr. Huxley removed the transducer from his own head and pressed it onto Harry's. The same overall pattern immediately emerged.

The Healer's expression turned grave once more. “As you can see, there is no detectable movement in Miss Granger's case.”

Harry's face fell at once. He understood instinctively what the lack of response meant.

“But … things are not what they seem….” Hlr. Huxley said mysteriously. As he moved to Hermione's unit, he continued to explain. “The fuzzy, somewhat indistinct nature of the trace on Miss Granger's screen is the giveaway, but you have to be looking for it. This isn't anything a Muggle physician would expect to see - and thus it would probably be overlooked.”

He switched off the visual display on Hermione's unit. Then he opened a panel on the side of the machine and gave a dial inside two lengthy twists. “I'm increasing the amplification a hundred-fold - far beyond anything Muggle medicine would ever find useful or appropriate,” he commented. “A Muggle doctor would consider such data spurious. I, however, do not.” He closed the panel and turned the oscilloscope back on. “Voilà,” he said.

Harry gasped. At that extreme magnification, Hermione's brainwaves looked to his untrained eye indistinguishable from those his own brain had generated only moments ago.

“She's.… She's still there!” he exclaimed jubilantly.

“In a sense, Harry,” Hlr. Huxley agreed, “but don't get your hopes too high. This data tells me that, in a sense, Miss Granger is conscious - however, it is a very weak, very repressed, and very far away sort of consciousness. She cannot, for example, hear or sense your presence in any way. I don't know how to reach her, and I frankly don't know what's causing it. I've only seen something similar once in my career….”

“What was that?” Harry asked. “Did the person survive?”

“That was the Thomas Walker case,” Hlr. Huxley responded. “I can't discuss details because the patient - a Muggle - is probably still alive.”

“You … treat Muggles, too?” Harry asked incredulously. “But I thought….”

“Only extremely rarely, at the express request of the Department of Magical Catastrophes when they suspect a case of magical possession or something similar. In this case they were right. Young Mister Walker, who had pre-existing mental problems since infancy, had become possessed by a magical artifact that had somehow found its way into the Muggle world. Parts of his brainwave patterns were repressed in a way that resembled Miss Granger's - except hers is much more profound…. Affecting all of her faculties, rather than just some.”

“Did … did you cure him?” Harry asked, wondering about Hermione's prognosis.

“Yes, but not of what you might think,” Hlr. Huxley continued.

“What does that mean?” Harry asked out loud.

“I presented my tentative diagnosis to the mother and step-father,” the Healer reported. “They had their suspicions, and before anybody in our world could caution them against it, they attempted to destroy what they - correctly - viewed as the source of the possession. The resultant magical discharge caught the poor boy right in the chest. The prior problem was cured, after a fashion, but he acquired some rather powerful wild magical capabilities from the artifact … before we were able to catch up to him with a Magical Reversal Squad, that is. In the interim, he caused quite a sensation, because the Muggles didn't know quite what to make of him. Anyway, eventually the Squad and several Obliviators sorted everything out, and the artifact in question was retrieved, repaired, and moved to its current location at … at … Hogwarts….”

Hlr. Huxley paused, as if deep in thought.

“Umm…. Healer, what is it?” Harry asked after an awkward silence.

“Miss Granger hasn't had any untoward incidents involving the Mirror of Erised recently, has she?” he asked.

“Not to my knowledge,” Harry replied. “That's the kind of thing I'd expect her to tell me, but … I haven't exactly been about for her very much lately….”

His voice trailed off into thought. “…I don't even know where it is,” he added.

After a pause, Hlr. Huxley went on, “All right, that's one aspect of your friend's condition…. But there's another that I understand even less.” The Healer was on the move again, this time to a large transparent crystal hovering in mid-air, to which a quill was attached. The quill just brushed up against a roll of parchment. Like the unamplified Muggle oscilloscope, the quill was tracing a flat horizontal line.

The Healer explained, “This device records Miss Granger's magical activity. As you can see, it is completely flat - indicating no magical capacity at all.”

Harry's stomach dropped, feeling like a lead weight in his abdomen. “Has she … lost … lost her….”

“I do not believe she has lost her magic, Harry,” the Healer answered before Harry finished asking. “That just doesn't happen … until death, that is - and in several ways, not even then. These readings are simply inexplicable.”

“Why?” the boy asked.

“If I knew why, then they wouldn't be inexplicable,” Hlr. Huxley replied, with just a touch of irritation at his own cluelessness. “But I do know - from hard-won experience - that the flat line you are seeing is incompatible with either a classic coma or with lost magic. Let me show you. Accio Murgatroyd's.”

A rather large tome, inscribed Manfred Murgatroyd's Principles of Internal Magic, departed its place on a nearby bookshelf and zoomed into Hlr. Huxley's outstretched arms.

“Oof,” the Healer exhaled involuntarily as the heavy book found its mark. With his wand he flipped its pages to a chapter entitled “Magically Induced Insensibility.” As soon as the pages stilled, Hlr. Huxley pointed authoritatively to a graph. “There's a classic example of a magicoencephalogram of a wizard cursed into a permanent vegetative state. As you can see, it is punctuated by various stray magical discharges. That's what happens when magic is left uncontrolled by any level of consciousness. The quill should flick and rock randomly … not do nothing at all….”

A beeping noise interrupted the conversation. Hlr. Huxley stopped his exposition and promptly produced the pocket mirror. “Yes, Madam Pomfrey? Nothing…? Nothing at all on any assay…? I see - that was not unexpected. Thank you for your help.”

The Healer turned back to Harry. “Those were the test results for Farmer's reducer. No trace of it or any metabolite.”

“What do you think it means?” Harry asked.

“That she has never ingested the stuff,” Hlr. Huxley replied confidently.

“Sorry, I meant her lack of magical response … as measured by the quill,” Harry corrected.

The Healer's confidence disappeared. He kneaded his bearded chin vigorously, as he pondered his answer. “It's impossible to say for sure, given all the confounding factors, but I do not believe that her magic is gone. Rather, it's being repressed somehow…. Intentional repression is the only thing I've ever seen or heard of that could produce a pattern like that in a living witch - and she is undeniably alive.”

“But.… But … intentional? You just said she's quite unconscious,” Harry asked, not even bothering to try concealing his confusion.

“I know,” Hlr. Huxley sighed with undisguised frustration. “She is, but she isn't…. It doesn't make any sense. None of it makes sense…. That's why it's so … maddening.”

The Healer's obvious bafflement somewhat unnerved Harry, who was pinning his hopes, maybe even his life, on Hlr. Huxley's success. “What happens when you magnify it like the other one?”

“Doesn't bloody work that way,” the Healer replied tersely. He fired off another Summoning Charm and a long piece of parchment shot to him. Hlr. Huxley handed it to Harry. It was reminiscent of one of his own ink-sodden parchment rolls back in Second Year, just after being embarrassed to the point of tears by a singing dwarf.

“You see, I tried,” he said, more softly. “The quill isn't capable of such magnification.”

“That's a mess,” Harry observed.

“Too right,” Hlr. Huxley replied. “The Muggles have us bested here. Our equipment isn't sensitive enough to detect magic at the same minimal level that the Muggle equipment can measure nerve impulses. All I got when I tried….”

“Was a blot,” Harry helpfully added.

“…A bloody blot,” Hlr. Huxley agreed. He sighed again and continued. “So, anyway, as I said before, her magical condition is simply inexplicable. I have no idea what's repressing it. I can't make a differential diagnosis worth a damn because of all the confounding variables….”

“Er … I'm sorry. You've lost me,” Harry remarked.

“I'm the one who should be sorry, Harry,” the Healer gently replied. “I lapsed into jargon. I'll try again. What I meant is, I can't come to any conclusions about her magical problem because Miss Granger had so many extraordinary magical things happen to her in the hours before her injury - and immediately thereafter….”

“Such as?” Harry prompted.

“Such as everything,” Hlr. Huxley answered with a frown. “First, less than 48 hours previous, she undergoes a set of spells that haven't been attempted in many decades, and that have only been described in the literature two or three times in all wizard Healing history. What little we know is that this set of spells is accompanied by serious mental risks. That's one complete unknown.

“Then, there's her injury…. She was exposed to whatever it was you did. Dumbledore thinks it involved the Fifth Element, and I defer to him … but we know nothing at all about the consequences of such a thing because it's a criminal offense even to study it…. That's the second complete unknown.”

“To top it off, Dumbledore saved her life with the Sacrifice of the Phoenix. He merged Miss Granger's very being with that of a powerful non-human magical creature - a phoenix. I assume you recognized the phoenix song she emitted whilst she healed - that's another manifestation of what Dumbledore did….”

“Yeah, I figured out that the phoenix song came from her,” Harry answered. “But that hasn't been happening since she was moved to the Hospital Wing.”

“It shouldn't,” Hlr. Huxley responded. “When it stopped, that meant her physical healing was complete. In fact, that told us she could safely be moved.”

“One thing I can stop fretting over, at least,” Harry responded with some relief. In his ignorance, he had been afraid that the phoenix song's cessation was an adverse development.

“Anyway, back to the original point,” Hlr. Huxley persisted, “that … occurrence - I don't even know if the Sacrifice of the Phoenix is properly considered a `spell.' It hasn't been reported in some 250 years. I have no idea what the systemic magical sequelae of such a thing might be. So we have three remarkable, essentially unprecedented, magical shocks to her system in a very short period … after which she's in this bizarre coma, for lack of a better word to describe it. I frankly don't know what to do….”

“But you've got to do something!” Harry responded, growing agitated. “You can't just let her….”

“Calm down, Harry - remember your Occlumency,” the Healer responded softly, placing a hand on the younger man's shoulder once again. “I don't intend to sit idly by. I promised Dumbledore, and I'll promise you, I'll leave no stone unturned, no incantation untried. I'm consulting with magical specialists from all over the world. I'll do everything I can, but….” His voice trailed off.

“But what…?” Harry asked the obvious question that was hanging in the air.

“It's just a gut feeling, really,” Hlr. Huxley answered. Another pause followed. “Frankly, I don't think she'll come out of it until she's good and ready. Whatever her inner block is … I don't know. I think that hope in this case lies with her, not with me.”

* * * *

The rest of the week sped past with Harry in something of an emotionless daze. It was not that nothing happened; only that the events were - from Harry's perspective - so far beneath his interest that he failed to respond to them as he ordinarily would have. That … and he knew he was becoming ever more mentally, and magically, exhausted.

The overall reason was Occlumency, and the immediate reason was an incident on Monday. He had finished his first Herbology lesson and exchanged the course materials for his morning and afternoon classes. Rushing, Harry intended a quick lunch so he could spend the remaining half-hour or so of the free period studying with Hermione - or at least in her presence. To save being bothered in the hallways, he wore his Invisibility Cloak as he made for the Fat Lady. He was only a metre away when the portrait opened from the other side….

“…Did you see her yet? I did,” came Romilda Vane's distinctive voice. Harry flattened himself against the wall to avoid the pack of Fourth-Year Gryffindor girls.

“Can we do that?” asked Jessica Carmichael, another Fourth-Year Harry knew only by sight. “I mean, they said she was so horribly burned and all….”

“Oh, that's all better - believe me,” Romilda replied cattily. “They've fixed that all up, just as pretty as you please.”

Harry froze. They were gossiping about Hermione.

“Oh really,” another girl Harry did not know at all said as she stopped to dry her cloak with her wand. It had rained all morning, and they were probably returning from Magical Creatures. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means that she looks like she bloody near killed herself in the course of an extreme makeover,” Romilda continued jealously. “It's Granger all right, but not like you've ever seen her. Her skin … it's damn near flawless. And her hair…? You know how it used to frizz out all over? I'd - I'd kill for how it looks now.”

They were moving away now, in the direction of the girls' staircase.

“That nice, huh?”

“I'll say…. And what a waste. She makes such a perfect corpse….”

A pungent odour inside his cloak made Harry look down. His Charms book was smouldering and sparks were visibly flying between his hands. With a start, he bore down with a strong dose of Occlumency.

It was easy enough to repair the damage to his books, but from that moment forward, Harry decided he had to use Occlumency for his every waking moment - except time spent with Hermione. Repressing his emotions effectively for hours at a time took a great deal out of him … and out of his emotions.

Also on Monday, a group of Healers from the West African Healing Convention came all the way from Timbuktu - all to no avail. Their spells, chants, and magical herbs seemed to have no effect on Hermione's condition.

* * * *

The next day, Tuesday, started out unexceptionally. Harry had a long morning study session in the Hospital Wing, and his Muggle Studies seminar. He was finishing up a quick lunch in the Great Hall with Neville, Colin, and Ginny (Ron and Cho were not in evidence) when the announcement was made.

Harry's head was turned when he heard Neville gulp, “Oh, my - will you look at that….”

Fleur Delacour approached the podium, only this time she was not wearing her attaché's uniform. Rather, she was dressed in sky blue Beauxbatons formal robes that made her look radiant - as always seemed to be the case with Fleur. Her wistful smile complemented the look perfectly.

She cleared her throat twice, obviously a novice at public speaking. “As some of you know alreazzy, I am `ere to facilitate zee relations amicale between `Ogwarts and zee Academie Beauxbatons, as we are allies in zee war contre Voldemort.”

Barely audible gasps accompanied Fleur's use of the Dark wizard's name, which would have annoyed Harry had he paid attention. He was, however, was scrutinising the speaker - and she seemed to look directly at him as she continued.

“Apropos of zees mission, I am pleased to announce zat our respective `eadmasters `ave agreed zat we should `ave an exchange of events. Zere will be un bal masqué - a masked ball - at `Ogwarts on `Alloween night. A portal weell be established and zee students of Beauxbatons weell attend. For zose who so desire, zere will be a signup sheet for zee … er … rencontres à l'aveugle….”

Fleur stopped. She bent in whispered conversation with Professor Flitwick, her mentor, who sat to her right.

“…er, zee blind dates…. Zee second event will be at zee Palais de Beauxbatons on zee vernal equinox. Zee format `as not been decided, and we are open to les suggestions….”

At the mention of a formal masked Hogwarts ball, the audience of students, particularly but not exclusively the girls, began to twitter. More than a few eyes turned towards the Gryffindor table, and to the newly revealed heir to the Black fortune.

They were disappointed. Harry was no longer visible. Once the matter of dates arose, he slipped his Invisibility Cloak out of his back pocket (his handy Auror belt destroyed when he was kidnapped), and vanished under it.

More observant sets of eyes may have noticed Neville Longbottom passing a number of food items to his left where they similarly vanished.

Harry left the Great Hall as quickly as he could.

Even in N.E.W.T.-level double sessions, Defence against the Dark Arts was a relatively easy class for Harry, given the summer's Auror training. At the end of class, Professor Shacklebolt (not “Shak”) allowed him to announce that the first D.A. session of the year was scheduled for Friday evening - in the “usual place.” This caused some confusion, because this year's signees included a number of students who did not participate in the prior year's underground organisation. Afterwards, Harry mirrored Colin and Dennis to ask them to send a more usable announcement to everyone who had signed up.

Potions was another matter. Ron constantly distracted him, whispering under his breath about this or that amazing thing he found in handwritten scribbles in his Potions book. He called the writer the “Half-Blood Prince,” after an alias written in the front cover.

“Harry, look at this…,” Ron hissed, “did you know you can make that love potion from last week even better - just add some Muggle thing called oxy … toxin to it, and a couple of other - ouch, powdered ruby, that's dear…. But it lasts longer and its almost undetectable … loses that effect on smell. You can even personalise it.”

“Yeah, right, Ron,” Harry hissed back, trying to pay attention to the lecture, “something else I have to look out for, I reckon.”

Whether the Prince was right or wrong, Harry hoped never to find out. But something about Potions was certainly working right for Ron. He took fifteen points for Gryffindor - he had never raised his hand in this class before - and he produced an effective Auditory Enhancement Draught in half the time as the rest of the class using a shortcut mentioned in the Prince's annotations.

Class was almost over. Harry was finishing up his potion - it looked rather darker green than Ron's, and Slughorn had praised that - when he heard a knock on the door.

It was Fleur again…. She was asking for him again.

“Proffesseur…. I am so sorry, but may I borrow `Arry again, s'il vous plait?”

Professor Slughorn looked disappointed to lose Harry again, even though the class was for all intents and purposes done. “Umm, certainly,” he grumped. Waddling over to Harry's chair, he spoke in conspiratorial tones, “Harry, please take this,” and handed over an envelope tied with a green string. “Hope to see you there…. Oh, and you, Ronald…. One for you too. You earned it today.” Ron received an identical envelope - except that Harry's had his name nicely printed on it, whilst Ron's was blank, except for an opaque piece of Spellotape that blended in rather well with the parchment.

Harry gathered up his things and trudged up the stairs towards Fleur, whilst opening the envelope. It was an invitation to a party, of all things. He was in no mood to party whilst … well, by himself anyway. He binned the letter at the first opportunity.

Fleur swept along determinedly, and Harry soon realised he had to concentrate on where he was going just to keep up. Walking with Fleur, though, was better than walking alone. The stares of passers-by at least this once were not directed at him. And passers-by there were, as afternoon classes let out whilst they were in transit.

After quite a walk, they reached Fleur's cubbyhole of an office, between Professor Flitwick's rather more palatial digs and the Charms classroom. She bade Harry sit down in a chair opposite her desk. Instead of taking her own accustomed seat, she perched on the front of her desk. She was still wearing the blue robes he had seen at lunch.

Harry was surprised they even stopped there. He had assumed that Dumbledore or somebody else had summoned him again. It was quite presumptuous of Fleur - a lowly intern - to pull a student out of Slughorn's class of her own volition.

“'Arry, I `ave one request, and one question - which may lead to anuzzer request,” Fleur began. The way she sat on her desk led Harry to realise that her robes were slit up the sides….

Before he could say anything, Fleur exclaimed, “Oh, `Arry, you look flushed. Deed I walk too fast? Some pumpkin juice peut être?” She said a spell in French and a carafe of pumpkin juice and a tray of sandwiches appeared.

Harry took the pumpkin juice gratefully. He did feel rather warm. He was also relieved she had not offered him anything stronger. He might have repulsed it explosively again, and that would have been embarrassing. He tried to make small talk,

“Er … how have you been, Fleur?”

Bad question. The woman's blue eyes glinted with tears, but she held them. “I am bezzer now, `Arry, zank you. I have kept beezzy. Zee Muggles, zey want a new Marianne eemage for zer timbres … er … les postage stamps. I have been seetting for zee portrait.”

Harry did not know what this last bit was about, except some French Muggles evidently wanted her likeness for something akin to a Chocolate Frog card. “Er … what do you want?” He felt very warm again.

“Now, zee reason I sought you out zees afternoon ees I would like, very much, to be allowed to participate een zees Deefence Association zat you are starting. Unfortunatement zee deefence course at Beauxbatons, eet was razzer … preemative … compared to what you learn `ere at `Ogwarts. Zat was one of the raisons zat I sought zees posting. Zey … zey killed my papa and ruined my maman, `Arry.” Fleur was almost in tears, “and I need to know `ow to fight zem…. Weel you `elp teach me, `Arry?”

Making this request, Fleur leaned forward and took Harry's hand gently. “Please? Everyone … zey say you are so excellent een zee deefence. I would be `onoured to be your student.”

Harry almost fell out of his chair in shock. Fleur was two years ahead of him in school - and a Triwizard champion, meaning the best at her school. “Why … why, of course, you can attend the D.A. classes. The first one's this Friday in the Room of Requirement.”

“Zee … zee room of what?” Fleur asked.

“It's … it's a special room - at Hogwarts,” Harry explained. “It's on the seventh floor, next to a rather ugly tapestry with trolls in tutus….”

“Trolls een zee tutus?” Fleur giggled. “Quele c'est drôle….”

“Er … don't ask,” Harry added.

“Zank you, `Arry!” Fleur gushed. Harry felt even warmer. “And now, for my question. Zee ball I announced aujour … today. I really need to practise my Eengleesh…. Who are you planning to go avec…? I know whom you would like to take, but she eez, unfortunatement, not een any condition….”

“To tell the truth, I wasn't really planning on going, unless … things change,” Harry mumbled.

It was Fleur's turn to show shock and almost fall off of the desk. Her robes hiked further up her legs in the process. “But you must, `Arry. Eet ees for zee alliance … and for zee morale! Zey weell want you - and your friends - to open zee ball! And my compatriots at Beauxbatons, zey will want to pay zeir respects.”

All Harry's unpleasant memories of the Fourth Year Yule Ball began flooding back. He was not going to another ball unless he could go with Hermione. He was not about to have the same miserable time he had suffered through back then….

“Why do I have to go at all?” he asked skeptically. “I'm not a bloody Hogwarts Champion anymore. Why does anyone want me to open anything?”

“Zut alors!” Fleur exclaimed. “You mean nobuzzy `as told you?”

For a moment, Harry's face purpled, before he slammed the gates of Occlumency shut even tighter. “Nobody has told me what?” he asked evenly. Harry hated being left in the dark.

“I learned through zee deeplomatic channels,” Fleur said apologetically, “zat you are to receive your Order of zee Merlin zat day - `ere at `Ogwarts - so I petitioned to `ave zee ball zat eevening … in your `onour … and zat of your friends,” she added as a rather obvious afterthought.

Harry felt even warmer than before. He took another swig of pumpkin juice from the cup, which seemed charmed to stay full, and a big bite from one of the sandwiches. He said nothing.

“I am so sorry, `Arry,” Fleur said in a softer voice. “I zought you would know alreazzy.”

“Well, thanks for telling me, anyway,” Harry mumbled with his mouth full. He was afraid they would ask him to accept her award as well, and he did not think he could manage that. Everyone would be there.

`Arry, let me `elp you, zen,” Fleur offered. “I can see zees ees something of a shock.”

“How can you help?” Harry asked sadly. “How can anybody help?”

“I can `elp you best by attending zee ball with you,” Fleur declared. “I can teach you zee dance like you teach me zee deefense. I can make all zee eentroductions….”

Harry felt extremely hot around the collar now. Fleur had just asked him to attend the ball - as her date. He would be the envy of everyone at Hogwarts….

“And zen we can see `ow compatible we are - togezzer, zat ees,” Fleur continued. “Peut être een zees room of yours….”

Harry mumbled, “That's … that's….”

Everything seemed so warm, fuzzy, and exciting. This was all so unexpected - and remarkable. It seemed as if…. Suddenly Harry realised something.

He dialed up his Occlumency another notch. The warmth retreated.

Fleur regarded Harry very intently. The warmth advanced once again.

Harry focussed even harder.

So did Fleur. Neither of them said a word, until….

ZZZZAAAPPPP! FWOOSH!

Pink light flared hotly and was gone. A rush of wind set all of the papers in Fleur's small office in motion. Harry toppled over one way in his chair; Fleur did the same in the opposite direction. The last he saw of Fleur were her impossibly long legs propelled backwards across the desk on their way to the floor somewhere on the other side.

“Urgh,” Harry groaned. He could hear similar moans from the far side of the room. “Fleur?” he called out. “Are you all right?”

“Comme ci, comme ça,” a voice mumbled back. “…I've been better, but I'll survive.”

Harry scrambled to his feet and looked across the desk. He saw Fleur's soft blue - blue and tearful - eyes staring back at him as she, too, began to rise. Quite disheveled, she was still stunningly beautiful, even though rather worse for wear.

“Why, Fleur?” Harry asked softly. “Why the Veela attack?”

“No attack … non … never. But I am sorry, `Arry,” Fleur rasped. “I suppose, I see you as my eenstrument of revenge for zee death of zee only men zat `ave ever meant anyzzing to me. You are zee best `Arry…. Zee best zere ees left….”

“I'm not nearly as good as Dumbledore,” Harry countered in a resigned voice.

“Zee `Eadmaster ees an old man, `Arry,” Fleur corrected. “Eef you have not surpassed `eem alreazzy, you weel soon…. Zat ees why … zee monster … `ee attacks you, not `eem. Let me `elp you, `Arry. You have needs … all men do….”

“I'm … I'm … not ready for that kind of help,” Harry gently refused. “You could die, you know…. I'm…. There's…. I'm … just not interested in anybody else that way.”

“I can tell,” Fleur answered. “I should `ave known better. You - you only `ave eyes for `er?”

“I'm sorry, too, Fleur,” Harry said in his own low voice. “But as for that, I stand convicted. It wouldn't be right. I've been down that road before, and it's a dead end - a very dead end.”

“I … I weesh you zee best zen,” Fleur said with a slight pout, coming as close to accepting defeat as she ever could in this arena. “Zere are powers zat can be unleashed … by zee … by zee act of love…. Great power…. I `ope one day she can show you … eef I cannot.”

“I hope so, too,” Harry answered sadly. “But, no, you cannot.”

“Zen, so be eet,” Fleur frowned. “I see I am wasting my time at zee moment - but eef you ever change your mind, you know where I am.”

Harry gulped at the not-so-subtle invitation and quickly took his leave of the young lady's office. “Good bye, Fleur.”

“Good bye, `Arry,” she called after him. “I `ope she knows `ow truly lucky she ees.”

That evening, a consortium of Koori, Murri, and other Indigenous Australian shaman visited Hogwarts. Like all those who had gone before them, they left defeated. Hermione's condition remained unchanged.

* * * *

Harry had as many classes on Wednesday as any, which meant less time to spend studying in Hermione's sickroom. But even Herbology, Care of Magical Creatures, Transfiguration and Charms paled in comparison to what came after.

Wednesday was Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts - called and organised by the new captain, Katie Bell. It seemed like at least half the House was trying out, including a number of students (especially girls) from the lower years whom Harry had never known to harbour any pretensions of playing before.

The last class had barely ended when Harry and Ron fell in together, heading for the Gryffindor clubhouse, and then the pitch. As returning team members, they both had their uniforms distributed in advance - cleaned and pressed immaculately by the Hogwarts house-elves. Earlier, Dobby had proudly presented Harry with his uniform in the Hospital Wing, after the boy had failed to return to the common room.

“Bloody Hell,” Ron grumbled. “This could take all afternoon. And even after Denmark, I've got three blokes trying for my spot - and two of those blokes are … girls … can you believe it? A girl Keeper….?”

Both boys jumped as a familiar voice piped up behind them

“I can believe it - and you should too, Ronald,” his younger sister declared scornfully. “We girls are tougher than we look. Harry's got competition too - but you don't see him complaining about girls playing Quidditch.”

“Yeah, but Seeker's different,” Ron went on.

Ginny's declaration commanded Harry's attention. One of the many mundane things he had been ignoring was the Quidditch sign up sheet. “Oh, really?” he asked, feigning nonchalance. “And who might that be?”

“Some Third-Year I don't know at all,” Ginny replied. “Word from her year is that she's rather strange….”

“A midget Luna Lovegood,” Ron laughed, “just what we need at Seeker.”

“…and intense - really intense,” Ginny continued, not deigning to acknowledge Ron's interruption, but dropping her wand into her hand. Harry heard her mumble something as she kept it pointed towards the ground in front of her. “Unlike many of the others who've signed up, I believe she's a serious flier, though.”

“What's with all these sign-ups anyway?” Harry complained. “Ron says we'll be lucky to get done before dark.”

“You just don't get it do you, Harry?” Ginny said, her voice exuding frustration. “They're attracted by you, of course. You're everybody's hero now, what with the Ministry and the Order of Merlin, and…. You've even made the cover of Teen Witches Weekly. You're just about the most fanciable thing there is right now.”

That brought a protest from Ron. “Hey! I was at the Ministry too - and I've got one of those Order of Merlins coming to me, too! So you shouldn't say it's all…? YAAAHH!”

Ginny jerked her wand down firmly as Ron continued to butt in. Ron stumbled over his feet and turfed himself spectacularly.

“You really should tie your shoes better than that, Ronald,” Ginny advised sarcastically. She resolutely kept walking, and Harry followed, as Ron fumbled with his shoelaces on the wet grass - cursing that somehow they had managed to get entangled together.

“…And, as I was going to say, to top it off, now it's suddenly revealed that you're also quite likely to be amongst the richest wizards in England,” Ginny continued. “It's no wonder they're practically falling out of the woodwork to see The Chosen One in action. And maybe get a little action themselves … if they're lucky.”

Harry's head started to spin as it did when Dumbledore told him much the same thing many weeks before. “But … but, I'm dangerous. People get killed … or worse,” he protested. “You should know, you nearly died yourself.”

“Oh, Harry, danger is just part of your mystique,” Ginny explained. “A lot of us, we're excited by an aura of danger. In fact, right now it's undoubtedly contributing to this - since the danger thing, it's … it's…. Well, it's the main reason that these girls have reason to hope that you might be - available - right now.”

Harry stopped walking. At that moment, he truly wished he could Disapparate on the Hogwarts grounds.

Then Ron caught up to them, huffing and puffing. His shoelaces looked like they had been fused together by an inexpertly performed Melting Charm.

Ron's reappearance allowed Harry a temporary escape. He called out, “race you to the locker room!” and took off running full tilt - away from Ginny and her tales of gold-digging witches.

Ron gave a whoop and sprinted after Harry - his longer legs eating up the distance between them.

“Boys,” Ginny muttered disgustedly.

The Gryffindor locker room was crowded, even the changing areas. Ron was not exaggerating in saying that half the House had turned out. Even with only a few of the hopefuls lugging brooms about, conditions were cheek and jowl - particularly for Harry, who as Ginny had foretold was the focus of a great deal of ill-concealed attention.

At long last Captain Bell called the tryout to order. The ten Firebolts provided by the James Potter Memorial Quidditch Trust were woefully inadequate to accommodate everyone, so Katie started with some rudimentary drills. In groups of ten, the Quidditch wannabes had to fly once around the pitch at the highest speed they could comfortably manage. When they returned to their starting point (the west goalposts), they were to reverse directions using an ascending turn and roll and complete another lap. During this second circumnavigation, at the higher altitude, the applicants were to perform not less than two barrel rolls.

As a culling device, it worked well enough. Less than one third of the first flight successfully completed even this rather basic set of manœuvres. Katie wisely took the precaution of stationing the returning starters (and D.A. members) - herself, Harry, Ron, and Ginny - at regular intervals around the pitch to rescue those who fell off their brooms. With the great majority unused to handling high-powered Firebolts, the rescue crew down under found their skill tested more often than they would have liked.

Harry was rather vexed to have to rescue Romilda Vane during the second flight. He rather thought the saucy girl jumped, rather than fell, off of the Firebolt she was flying. He was even more unnerved when Lavender Brown did something similar during the third flight. She had not fastened her robes securely, and as Harry levitated her down, her revealing Muggle clothing beneath became all too obvious.

Even more bizarrely, one-third of the tryout hopefuls were not even Gryffindors. As these imposters were found out - almost all being Third through Fifth Year Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw girls - the stands filled with onlookers. Harry duly noted Cho's presence in the stands almost from the beginning, cheering Ron on. Neville turned up a little later, stationing himself wherever he could be closest to Ginny. Almost all the other spectators seemed to be shadowing Harry.

Whilst most of the applicants were dreadful fliers and were soon cut, a few stood out. One of the few survivors of the first flight was a dark-haired, olive-skinned slip of a girl who flew like she was possessed. Even though at times she seemed on the verge of losing control of her Firebolt, she always managed to recover in the nick of time - as if operating on pure willpower.

Cormac McLaggen was, as expected, another of the successful fliers. He completed his circuit with ease and without mistake, landed his Firebolt gracefully, and sauntered over to Harry.

“Not bad, eh,” he favorably critiqued his own performance. “I'm trying out for both Keeper and Beater…. Can't put all the old eggs in one hamper, you know.”

“That's wise,” Harry responded noncommittally, having difficulty getting beyond the Seventh Year's unappreciated “boomwin” comment from his first night back. “Ron's supposed to be really good.”

“So I hear,” McLaggen replied evenly. “But enough of him, what I really want to know is when will you show up at one of old Sluggy's get togethers. He's been complaining about it, you know. Hell, even Weasley made the one last night.”

“Sorry, but I've got better things to do than attend a bunch of meet and greets,” Harry replied cautiously.

“No you don't,” McLaggen disagreed. “You never know who you might meet there who could do you some good. Last night I met Alvin Farnsworth and Nicola Belby - both of whom are N.E.W.T. practical examiners, by the way.”

Before Harry could respond to that, a whistle sounded. McLaggen said, “Gotta go, Harry. It looks like it's Keepers and Chasers first. Good luck.” He gave Harry a pat on the back (rather harder than necessary for a purely friendly gesture) and sped off.

McLaggen was right. Katie opted to begin the head-to-head tryouts with teams of rival Chasers and Keepers. She told Harry to “grab a Snitch, go topside and loosen up.”

Harry obeyed and was soon perched some fifty metres in the air, desultorily catching and releasing a rather overused practice Snitch with a bent wing. He spent more time watching the head-to-head below him and rooting for Ron than he did preparing for his own tryout.

Harry caught the lopsided Snitch for the third or fourth time.

Ron was doing rather well, Harry thought. Both girls trying out for Keeper had been awful. No real competition there.

But McLaggen put up rather more of a fight. Through the first five shots on goal, Ron had blocked them all - and only one of them had even looked like a difficult save. Still, McLaggen was right there with him. Harry had never seen this guy play before, but he was visibly skilled. He wondered why McLaggen had never tried out previously.

Ron was better, though. At least three of McLaggen's blocks had been of the desperation variety. Unlike Ron, he seemed rather more lucky than good.

Then they switched teams with the Seekers. Play had barely resumed when Ginny got a quick score on McLaggen. On the next run, she executed an amazing behind-the-back pass to a teammate for another successful shot on ring. He hears spectators in the stands rooting for her - calling her something that sounded like “Magic.” Having never heard it before, Harry had no idea what that nickname represented.

What was obvious was that, as much as her brother sometimes infuriated her, Ginny had been taking it easy whilst her team had been opposing Ron. Like Ron, though, she had really taken her Quidditch to another level over the summer. McLaggen had no chance now.

Oops, there was that Snitch again. Harry did a barrel roll and went after it. It would be his turn soon.

Whoosh.

Something shot by him from above and behind, at almost twice his less-than-all-out speed. Harry pulled up to avoid a collision as the blur cut him off. He, or she, exploded into that poor Snitch, capturing it roughly with a triumphant cry of “Yi-yi-yi-yi….”

The voice gave the mystery flier away as female. The rider slowed, banked a little uncertainly on the powerful broom, and turned back towards him - a manic grin splitting her very young, rather dark-skinned face. Harry recognised her as the breakneck rider whose barely controlled flying had attracted his attention during that first flight of Gryffindor hopefuls.

“Hi, I'm Harry,” he said, introducing himself. “That was some flying. Who are you…?”

“I know who you are, everybody does,” the girl said rather pointedly. Her sleek, dark hair fell easily back into place as she came to a stop. She flipped the Snitch - now with both wings bent - back at him. “These are actually your brooms, I gather…. Good choice.” She started to fly away.

Harry flew after her, “Wait a minute, you never told me your name,” he protested.

“Oh, you can call me Jazzy,” she called out over her shoulder. “Everybody else does - when they're making nice, that is.”

Harry caught up to her, and using some of the Auror-level flying techniques he had been taught over the summer, he brought her gradually to a halt. “I don't want to call you what everybody else does. I want to call you what you want me to. I've been called a lot of things I don't like either….”

She was visibly aggravated by being outmanœuvred in flight, “All right, then don't call me anything at all.” She started to fly off again, but Harry put a silent Restraining Charm on her Firebolt and it stopped moving. “Fine,” she huffed, “you can call me `Jazzy Habbi,' or better than that, `Your Worst Nightmare' if you dare.”

“I rather doubt that,” Harry replied, beginning to get impatient with her repeated impertinence.

“How so,” she replied curtly. “You've seen how well I can fly….”

“I've had some really awful nightmares,” Harry replied. “I don't think you'd come close to living up to that name.”

“I rather think I could match you nightmare, for nightmare,” she growled her answer. “At least people care what happens to you….”

Harry was almost at a loss for words when he heard a whistle blow and Katie Bell's magically amplified voice booming across the pitch. “Seeker candidates, kindly take your positions, if you're ready to stop sharing tea and sympathy.”

He looked uncertainly at the girl. “You? You're trying for Seeker?”

“You got that right,” she said firmly. “Expecting you'd have it handed to you again, I suppose?” She roared off to the other end of the pitch at her customarily excessive rate of speed.

Katie released a match-quality Snitch.

It was Harry and two Beaters against Jazzy whatshername and another pair. He had that great oaf McLaggen and a Third-Year named Jimmy Peakes handling the Bludgers on his “team,” whilst the girl was backed (if one could call it that) by last year's returnee Andrew Kirke and a Fourth-Year Harry recognised as Richie Cooke. The other “veteran” Beater from last term, that berk Jack Sloper, had botched the inverted turn on the final flight, lost control, and fallen off his Firebolt. Katie had not expected returnees to have any difficulty with that initial test, so no guards had been stationed. Sloper had hit the ground hard and broken his shoulder.

This girl was a maniac.

She seemed to have only two speeds - fast and faster. She never smiled, and she had this grimly determined glint in her eye that positively unnerved him. On the other hand, it was glaringly obvious that she had never handled any broom approaching a Firebolt's quality. Inexperience caused her to miss turns regularly. Harry thought he could exploit that….

After a few minutes searching, Harry caught his first glimpse of the Snitch - off to one side, level with him, trying to hide in the glare of the sun now low in the western sky. He pelted off after it. Just as he was closing in, that crazy girl careened in from his left and cut off his approach. Simultaneously, a Bludger shot in from the other direction, and both fliers had to take evasive action.

“Sorry about that, mate,” McLaggen's voice boomed out as he flew by. Under his breath, Harry heard him mutter, “Bloody Golliwog….” The burly Seventh Year (perfect Beater's build) started shouting instructions to Peakes - and it seemed to the opposing Beaters as well - “Look sharper, this time…! You take her high and I'll take her low…!”

And so it went for what seemed like an eternity. Even though he was much better protected from Bludgers by his Beaters, Harry could not seem to get to the Snitch and end the ruddy competition. Every time he got close, that Jazzy girl would do something dangerous and turn him away. She flew fast and furious - and, Harry had to admit, rather well. She had raw talent … talent the likes of which he had not seen at Hogwarts since … well … himself, when he first started.

But this was just wasting time. Harry knew the Seeker's position was his, no matter what happened, and that Katie was just holding this tryout for show. This stubborn hellion of a girl was keeping him from visiting Hermione.

After he was blocked - it probably would have been a Skinning foul in a real match - for what must have been the tenth time, a frustrated Harry decided to end the charade. Surely, this raw recruit had never seen what he had in mind.

He soared back up, looking madly around for the Snitch. After he caught sight of it, high and to his left, he located her more or less behind him. Deliberately, he put his Firebolt into a power dive - straight ahead. He squinted into the orange rays of the setting sun as he descended. Predictably, she followed, no doubt thinking he was chasing the Snitch again.

Only this time, Harry was feinting - the Wronski feint performed straight into the setting sun so she would not be able to tell that the Snitch was not there - but rather was above and to one side.

To complete the deception, Harry extended his hand as the turf rose to meet them both. Sure enough, she went for it, practically Blatching him. At the absolute last instant, he veered up and away from her and took off to where the Snitch really was - a perfectly executed feint.

Only it was too perfectly executed. Harry was pointed upwards with the Snitch in his sights when he heard a high pitched scream cut off abruptly by the sound of a broom-snapping, bone-shattering crash. He broke off his pursuit just in time to see the girl bouncing crazily along the Pitch, her arms and legs flopping like a rag doll's.

She came to rest face down in the grass with one arm beneath her at an odd angle. Within a few seconds, a panting Harry Potter had hopped off his broom next to her bloodied and battered figure. Kneeling down, he heard a faint moan. He was on the verge of turning her over when….

“No, Harry, leave her be!” Captain Katie commanded.

Harry stopped and turned. “What?! She's hurt.”

“Damn right … and anything you do would probably make it worse,” Katie shot back. “Get out of the way, I'm pre-Healer. Petrificus totalus. Wingardium leviosa.”

The girl's rigidly immobilised form rose from the pitch. “I know you want to save her. You always do. But after a crash like that, there's no telling what might be broken, and moving her the wrong way could just cause more problems. Now out of my way whilst I get her to the Hospital Wing. Oh, and congratulations, Harry, you're obviously the starting Seeker. I'll sort the Beaters out later.”

Katie left, taking the injured girl with her. Ron and the rest of the rest of those who had successfully made the team, either as starters or reserves, surrounded Harry, patting him on the back and praising his effort.

“…and a great feint there, at the end, too,” Ron chirped happily. “Executed to perfection….”

“…I can't believe the way she was fouling you, too,” Ginny added, nudging Harry in the direction of the Gryffindor locker room. “She was trying to make up in cheek what she lacked in skill.”

“…Still, I thought it was mean to use the Wronski thing like that,” came the contrary voice of Demelza Robbins, a Fifth-Year who had probably made the team for the first time as the third Chaser. “Half the time she was barely in control of that….”

“Oh, nonsense!” McLaggen broke in. “Harry was well within his rights, with that bloody wog bint jostling him like that….”

“Cormac, watch your mouth,” Ginny chided. “If Parvati heard that, she'd hex you.”

“Let her try….”

“Oh, shove off, McLaggen, or I'll sic Cho on you,” Ron threatened. He sympathetically put an arm around Harry and guided him into the boy's side of the locker room. “Obscurus. Still, she who lives by the sword, dies by the sword, eh mate? She did have it coming….”

Harry only grunted. He tended to agree more with Demelza than anyone else. He had allowed that girl to get to him - to wind him up. He had overreacted and used a World-Cup-level manœuvre on a ruddy Third-Year who had never been on a Firebolt before. Now somebody else was sharing the Hospital Wing with Hermione.

A very subdued Harry Potter showered and changed quickly. Giving Ron a business card for Blackie Howe, he asked the redhead to send an owl. Gryffindor would need a replacement Firebolt - and he wanted to know how his solicitor was coming along with his special request item….

He asked them all to tell Dobby, if they saw him first, that he wanted to take supper in the Hospital Wing rather than in the Great Hall.

When Harry arrived at the Hospital Wing, Madam Pomfrey was still working on Jazzy, assisted by Katie and another of the upper form pre-Healers. The Charge Nurse pointedly ignored Harry - although she made sure he overheard her ostensibly private mutterings. “…insanity. Giving these children such overpowered brooms, and calling it sport. I wonder how many more I'll get like this….”

After Harry stayed with Hermione for several hours, a gaggle of Chinese Healers trooped in, all in magnificent yellow robes with red designs and green trim. They built an elaborate tent-like structure over Hermione, and for most of the rest of the night tried one spell after another. Harry could understand very little of what they said, but he caught a few phrases he had learned from Lao Kung. Chinese Legilimency was one thing these wizards were attempting.

Eventually, the Chinese Healers rested. They had to regroup from a rather alarming moment when one of their number almost became lost inside Hermione's mind. For several tense minutes, the situation was touch and go. The woman who went in was only barely retrieved - thanks to some sort of reddish magical twine. Harry used the pause to ask one of them, “Sir, do you know anything about a wizard named Kung Meng-tse? He was my Sefu before he got hurt and….”

“Ah, Lao Kung,” the wizard answered with a knowing smile. “And you are Hahli Potter, no doubt, the Master's prize student?”

“I am?” Harry answered, unaware how highly the Sefu had thought of him. “Er … I am,” he stated more affirmatively in response to the Chinese Healer's quizzical look.

“Lao Kung is recovering,” the Healer answered. “He will have some … permanent injuries … but his magic is intact. When we return to Shandong, I shall tell him that you asked for him.”

“Is he likely to come back?” Harry asked.

“You mean to England?” the wizard replied. “Not likely. You see, he is at home. His opportunity to instruct you over the summer has ended, and you are back in the hands of your Dumbadoh. Lao Kung believes you are in better hands than his own.”

“That's too bad,” Harry sighed. “I liked learning what he had to teach … a lot.”

“I shall tell him that,” the Healer replied. “He will be pleased.”

Unfortunately, for all their efforts, the Chinese Healers were no more successful than their predecessors were. Thursday morning dawned with Hermione's condition unchanged.

* * * *

Classes were relatively light for Harry on Thursdays. After staying up late urging on the Chinese Healers, he slept in. Padding down to the common room, he and everyone else present were treated to Cormac McLaggen's rant about the injustice of the Gryffindor Quidditch team's postings. The gist of it was that he had not been named a starter - not for Keeper, which even he expected was out of reach - but not as Beater either, as Captain Katie had “gone with those kids.” Katie was absent, something probably best for the both of them.

Harry did run into Katie whilst exchanging books after the Arithmancy N.E.W.T. seminar that Hermione had convinced him to take. The captain was interested in his opinion.

“Harry,” Katie said, whilst grabbing him by the arm and steering him to a vacant corner of the common room. “Since you're the senior member of the team by experience, I wanted to make sure that you're all right with my picks.”

“Actually, I haven't bothered to look,” Harry confessed. “But from the way McLaggen reacted, I think I know who you tipped to start as Beaters.”

“Actually, I would just as soon have been shot of the lot of them,” Katie replied. “But we have to have Beaters, so I went with the ones I thought were the most redeemable. You don't suppose you could prevail on Fred and George to return to school do you?”

“Not on your life,” Harry replied. “From what I can tell they're raking in the Galleons. What's got you so cross with the Beaters?”

“Oh, Harry, didn't you notice?” Katie groaned. “They weren't working together with their Seeker. I think McLaggen co-opted them to let his shots through. I'm amazed that your competition lasted as long as she did, having to dodge so many Bludgers. Anyway, I decided not to stand for that, so ringleader McLaggen's the reserve, even though he was probably the best of the lot. I hope you're okay with that.”

Harry was thoughtful. “I think you did right. McLaggen didn't like that Jazzy girl.”

Katie thought more than that was going on. “And he was trying to suck up to you, Harry. I think that new Potions master's a bad influence - worse than Snape in some ways.”

“I dunno,” Harry said noncommittally. “When you consider Snape's a Death Eater, it's hard to get much worse.”

Katie went back to her original subject, “Anyway, even though he's a reserve at two positions, I'm not all that inclined to play McLaggen unless somebody gets hurt.”

“I wouldn't tell him that, though,” Harry responded.

“I'm captain,” Katie huffed, “I'll tell him anything I damn well please.”

“You don't want anybody to get hurt, though,” Harry observed coolly.

“What…?” Katie replied. “You don't think….”

“I just wouldn't want to chance it,” Harry advised. “I'm not sure he should be on the team at all - talk about bad influences.”

“Then maybe I'm making a mistake,” Katie said worriedly, “but he can sub at two positions. That's important, because it frees up a slot for a reserve Seeker.”

Harry's eyebrows rose as he eyed Katie questioningly. “You don't mean…,” he started.

“Yes,” Katie confirmed. “I think Jazzy earned that spot with a rather gutsy performance against you yesterday. Do you think you can train her?”

Harry thought things over, “I'll sure try, but I think she hates me. She's got the biggest chip on her shoulder I've ever seen.”

“From what I've heard, she seems to hate everybody - especially guys,” Katie observed. “If you'd rather not…. Well, that's why I wanted to run this by you. We are short a broom now.”

“No, that wouldn't be right,” Harry countered, “and I'm having the broom replaced. She has a lot of talent.”

“She reminds me of you, Harry,” Katie said.

“You know?” he agreed, “I've had the same thought. If I can only reach her….”

The Hospital Wing now held two girls whom Harry needed to reach. He was going to start the easier job right after DADA, when Shak held him back, telling him that he needed to see Professor McGonagall, and that she was waiting for him in her office. It was unusual for his Head of House to wait around for anyone, let alone a student, so Harry was rather concerned as he knocked on her door.

“Come in, Potter,” came her clipped voice.

He opened the door as noiselessly as possible and slipped in. Seeing Professor McGonagall sitting rather formally behind her desk, Harry deposited himself in the empty chair facing her. Before he had a chance to say anything, she addressed him again, whilst looking at something long and black on her desk.

“Potter, I have received something intended for you. The Headmaster is not here at the moment, so the presentation falls to me.” Harry recognised the object in her hand as a very fancy ebonywood wand box. Its top bore a mother-of-pearl inlaid pattern he could not quite make out.

“The work was delayed whilst you were being held,” she said, “and there was a Death Eater raid of some sort on Mister Ollivander's premises that caused him to go into hiding. But once you were retrieved, he was determined to finish this. It arrived at Hogwarts yesterday - through Order channels.”

She handed Harry the box. As he took it, he saw that the mother-of-pearl mosaic made out six letters, reading vertically, from top to bottom:

J

P

S

B

H

P

Inside Harry found a handwritten note from Mr. Ollivander:

Mr. Potter

I am enclosing the wand you commissioned, for which payment in full has been received. I apologise for not meeting the originally promised date, but your circumstances changed. In your absence, there was some question as to the wisdom of completing such an object. My unwanted visitors further disrupted matters.

I hope you will be as pleased with the result as I am. In your hands, the combination should be quite powerful, even if this wand lacks some of the notable characteristics of your first. This one has unique attributes of its own, as it is imbued with residual magic of its prior owners - and the power of what they felt for you.

Please remember that all wands act as a channel, using the magic they contain to focus the magic flowing through them.

Octavian Ollivander

When he finished reading, Harry looked up at Professor McGonagall with tears shining in his eyes.

“Yes, you may use it, Potter,” she affirmed. “But please be gentle with it. Professor Flitwick tells me you made quite a mess of his assistant's office. I don't fancy a similar cleanup.”

Harry grasped the wand reverently. He could practically feel it hum with power. He decided to practise with a simple Summoning Charm. He thought about summoning the Marauder's Map, because of its links to both his father and Sirius - but in McGonagall's presence, he thought better of it. “Accio photo book,” he said instead.

Instead of taking its time flying through the halls of Hogwarts, the book instantly appeared.

“My, my, Potter,” Professor McGonagall commented. “That was no ordinary Summoning Charm.”

“The note … it said that the wand's still connected to both my dad and Sirius in some way,” explained Harry. “This book - it contains pictures of them both.”

Professor McGonagall smiled. “Very good, Potter, you never know when something special like that might come in handy. For that reason, Headmaster Dumbledore thought you might also need this.” She handed Harry what looked like a half-metre long piece of shimmering cloth.

Upon examination it turned out to be new wrist holster, just like the one that had disappeared during his kidnapping - except it was double-barreled.

Whilst Harry strapped it on, Professor McGonagall offered an explanation. “When the Headmaster gave Mister Ollivander the go-ahead to complete this, he realised it would be more than the usual reserve wand. So he asked Kingsley to obtain a dual holster. A number of Aurors, including Alastor, have relied upon more than one wand at various times. Think of it as an additional resource.”

“I'll have to thank them both,” Harry said, as he inserted both wands in the holster. “When will Headmaster Dumbledore be back?”

“When he has completed what he is doing. That is all I know,” Professor McGonagall replied.

With that, it appeared that the interview was over. Harry stood to leave.

“Oh, and Potter…?”

Hearing Professor McGonagall's voice, Harry turned back to face her.

“As you may know I was opposed to what Miss Granger did … until Albus told me about … well, your fate. I finally acquiesced when she was our only hope of finding you, and I must say that Miss Granger was extraordinarily resourceful in bringing that about.”

Harry did not know what to say. He clamped down further on his emotions with Occlumency. “Umm … that's what I've been told. She found me just in time. Sometimes I wish she hadn't.”

“It's the Egyptians tonight, you know,” continued Professor McGonagall, “the oldest magic in the world. If that doesn't work, tomorrow the Yanks are coming - with their big talk and big machines. After that … I don't know….”

Harry had never known Professor McGonagall to wander from one thought to another like she seemed to be doing. “Dumbledore lets me watch,” he commented.

Professor McGonagall switched subjects again as she uncharacteristically struggled with not only her composure, but what she wanted to say. “Potter … all I know is that I, personally, have no answers. I just hope that if you ever … find yourself in … in the same position she did. I hope you will prove to be equally resourceful.”

He just stared at his Head of House.

She dismissed him. “That is all Potter. You may go.”

Harry was lost in thought as he made his way to the Hospital Wing. What had Professor McGonagall meant by her rambling? Was she trying to tell him to defy Dumbledore's edict to leave Healing to the Healers? How could he ever be as resourceful as Hermione? That was one of the many things he depended on her for.

Reaching his destination, he saw that wild girl in one of the beds, still unconscious - but thankfully stable. Harry now knew enough about reading magical monitoring talismans to see that. Giving in to temptation, he took a look at her chart. “Eew - quadrilateral deboning and reboning - requiring two full bottles of Skele-Gro.”

Harry had suffered through the reboning of one arm, which was bad enough. Now he had to find some way to reach this girl - who had disliked him, or worse, even before he had done this to her.

After several hours of studying and completing a Potions essay in Hermione's presence, Harry was ready for dinner. After that the Egyptian Healers would try to work their magic.

As he was leaving, Harry noticed that Jazzy was awake. She stared at him with an unreadable expression. He went to her bedside.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I shouldn't have done that…. You weren't experienced enough … and it was your first time on a Fireb….”

“Spare me your sympathy, Potter,” Jazzy said, sounding weak but resentful. Her eyes, however, did not reflect the harshness of her words. “You beat me straight up - I can't complain. In the end, it was just you and me … none of your Beater friends. But I'll be back next year.”

“No, Jazeera,” Harry corrected, “you'll be back this year. You're the reserve….”

Her eyes widened. “What did you just call me?”

“Your real name, Jazeera al-Habiba,” Harry replied. “I read it off your chart. I know it's unusual, but I like it. I don't know why you don't.”

“Come over here,” she beckoned to him in a low voice, as if she were conserving her strength.

But as he leaned down to hear what she had to say, she brought a hand to her mouth. Then in an instant, before Harry had a chance to react, one of her hands darted out, catching his collar in a death-grip. The other - the hand that went to her mouth - was poised at his throat, a magically glowing and extremely sharp blade just touching his skin.

The intense look in her dark brown eyes was back - the look that had so unnerved Harry the day before. But the young witch, as stealthy as she was, had never seen the sort of magic Harry Potter was capable of.

There was a buzzing sound, a jolt, and a flash. He called upon the same force that had shocked Cousin Dudley during the Summer holiday, and Uncle Vernon the year before. This time it was considerably stronger. The girl flew away from him, and down, slamming into her sickbed and bouncing off it more than a metre into the air. Before she had even reached the apex of that bounce, Harry had his wand out. Using the multiple-spell technique the Aurors had taught him, he combined Petrificus totalus and Wingardium leviosa so that the maniac girl was both paralysed and floating in midair.

He thanked Katie Bell for that combination.

Harry noted the telltale odour of ozone and looked around. He half expected to contend with a furious Madam Pomfrey storming towards him, but she must have been taking her own supper in the Great Hall. There was nobody else around - except Hermione behind her screens, and she was insensate.

He allowed himself to relax just a bit. This girl's reaction had been so extreme it was difficult for him to comprehend. Even now, she was still clutching a piece of his collar that she had ripped clean off his shirt when he reflexively repulsed her. What had he done that was so horrible?

Even after what had just happened, Harry wanted to find out - only he would be more cautious this time.

He lowered her back to her bed. Then to prevent a recurrence, before he ended the other spell, he applied a Sticking Charm instead - but at least she could speak. Almost as soon as he had done it, though, Harry regretted his choice of spells. The girl squirmed frantically trying to get loose, and that caused her loose-fitting hospital gown to hike up altogether too high. Harry moved quickly to restore her modesty.

“Do it, and I swear I'll kill you,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I don't care who you are.”

“Do what?” Harry instinctively responded. Then he realised where his hand had been reaching. Blushing fiercely he pulled it back and, with a short, sweeping movement accomplished the same result with wandless magic.

“Oh, no. I would never…,” a shocked and embarrassed Harry stuttered.

“You wouldn't be the first,” she spat, “but I promise you you'll be the last. You damn men aren't all that much different….”

“You…? You mean…? You have…?” Harry fumbled, dumbstruck.

“I told you yesterday, I could match you nightmare for nightmare,” she answered abruptly. “You didn't believe me.”

“I'm so sorry,” he apologised. “If I let you go, will you promise at least not to attack me again?”

“As long as you promise not to call me by that bloody name again … yes, you'll be safe - from me that is,” she agreed grudgingly. “But if you ever - and I mean ever - use it again, I swear you'll be grinning from ear to ear. I've got more blades where that one came from.”

That was good enough for Harry. As a precaution, however, he drew his wand and trained it on her, then he incanted, “Finite.”

As soon as she could move, Jazzy pulled the bedclothes over herself and glared at him. “You can go now,” she directed.

“What…? But…? I don't … understand.” Harry protested rather inarticulately. “There's nothing wrong with your name.”

“Don't play dumb with me,” Jazzy warned. “You know bloody well what that name means. It means I'm a goddamn Paki, Arabushit, a burkha bitch, a wog, a kabt, and all the other lovely things your friend McLaggen called me yesterday!”

“I … I hardly know McLaggen. That tosser's not my friend,” Harry insisted. “I don't like people like that - they're the type who would call Hermione a Mudblood.”

“I'm not stupid, Potter,” she replied, disgustedly tossing at him the bit of his shirt collar she had torn off earlier. “I saw the two of you joking together before we started. Then he gets my Beaters to let all the Bludgers through.”

“Please … Jazzy … will you let me explain before you go jumping to conclusions like that,” Harry pleaded, not even sure why he cared.

Somewhat to his surprise, she did. Harry quickly explained to the glowering girl that he had never associated with and did not like McLaggen. He told her that his only real friends at Hogwarts were the five who had gone to the Ministry with him the previous June. This McLaggen oaf had insulted him and his friends as “Boomwins.” Finally, he let slip that McLaggen was only on the Gryffindor team because it opened a spot for her.

“…And if you'll let me, I'll try to teach you everything I know about being a Seeker. I think you fly amazingly well. You're better than anyone I've seen at Hogwarts, except … maybe … well, maybe … me.”

By the end of his monologue, Jazzy's fierce expression had softened to the point that there might have been just the barest hint of a smile in it. “All right…. Perhaps I have judged you too harshly. It's just that - well you're the Chosen One, and I'm … I'm just a Paki bint that nobody can figure out how I got into Hogwarts.”

“So does that mean that you're a … Muslim?”

She looked at him like he had grown a second head. When she finally realised he was serious, she answered, “My family is Sufi, actually, but I suppose that's close enough.”

“It's just … just that I've never really met one before,” Harry tried to explain. “From what I've seen, I thought - I thought you had to wear that scarf thing on your head.”

That nasty look returned to Jazzy's eyes as she scowled at what Harry said. Before she spoke, she made a visible effort to calm herself. “Not me, I'm from … from Universal Sufi,” she replied. “My mother taught me that the hijab is a symbol of women being … well, second-class - inferior…. It's one reason my family left Kashmir when I was a baby. The struggle there created too much intolerance. But here in England, the problems turn out to be is almost as bad.”

“Are your parents magical?” Harry asked.

Jazzy looked down, and said softly, “They were….”

“I'm sorry,” Harry apologised. “I'm an orphan, too.”

“Everyone knows your story,” she replied pointedly. “But it doesn't compare to mine. Most of your kind think I'm just as much a bloody camel-driver as the rest of them, after coming here we had to live some Muslim ghetto. Thinking I was one of them, the English wouldn't have anything to do with me. At the same time the Muslims treated me like some kind of immodest tart because I wouldn't wear that rag on my head…. That's why I learned to carry this.”

She reached under her pillow and pulled out another nasty looking thin steel blade. It was identical to the one she had threatened him with not long before.

Harry had let his wand drop down during the conversation. When he saw the blade he instantly trained it on her again.

“Don't worry, you're safe,” she told him. “I need to be, too.” Without a word she opened her mouth and deftly slipped the razor sharp blade under her tongue.

Again, Harry was shocked. “But … why?”

Jazzy's eyes became harder as she regarded him. Finally she decided to answer. “The first spontaneous magic I ever did was to summon one of these. Because of it nobody will ever take advantage of me again. I might die first, but I swear - anyone who tries…,” she made a slashing motion, “… he'll never do that to anybody again.”

Harry would have liked to continue the conversation, but after that Jazzy began to cough. Coincidentally, Madam Pomfrey returned from wherever she had gone to shoo him away.

Later that evening the Egyptians came. Their invocation of pyramid power was in vain. Hermione's condition remained unchanged.

* * * *

Overall, Harry considered his Occlumency to be a great success. It was a physical drain, but it kept him calm. Feeling a bit like a robot was an acceptable price to pay for preventing further incidents of spontaneous magic, and thus keeping the school and everyone in it, safe.

But Harry's emotions - his guilt over what had happened to Hermione - were only repressed, not absent. They were only waiting for a moment of weakness to burst forth.

He was back at Privet Drive, standing on his relatives' front garden in the dark - confronting a goodly number of witches and wizards. Suddenly, a red flash of spellfire. He rolled to his right and came up cursing. It was a mismatch, and he quickly took out his four maroon-robed attackers.

Now it was truly dark, far darker than was normal. The only light was the glow on his wand. He felt powerful. He heard Hermione's voice asking him to be careful. She was right - she was always right. He let his attackers go.

He tried to explain himself to Hermione…. How he had been misled. How he had never wanted to lie to her. What the Death Eaters had been planning to do to her. How he tried to stop them, but they had simply been too numerous and too powerful.

Did she believe him? He had no idea.

Suddenly Bill was there too. The scene replayed itself, as Harry offered the same apologies, in the same words, to his murdered guardian. Bill was angry with him - threatening to ground him.

Harry became riled in response. Nobody seemed to believe him. He needed them to believe him. He needed her to believe him most of all.

Dumbledore stepped forward and tried to calm him. But Dumbledore had been part of the problem. He had restrained him - kept him from telling her the truth. The Headmaster had used him as a tool, to keep the goblins happy and to pursue the damned prophecy.

He screamed at Dumbledore, overpowering Hermione's pleading voice.

Harry was beginning to spark. He felt powerful - like he was connecting with something much larger, and much Darker, than he was. His wandtip, far from fading out, was growing steadily brighter.

Snape appeared. That bastard had the nerve to address him after going over to Voldemort. Harry wanted to curse Snape - curse him into ashes for assisting that monster - the monster from whom he had tried and so spectacularly failed to protect Hermione. He raised his wand at his sneering enemy.

But Hermione was there. She tried to stop him. She ran at him screaming, “HARRY, DON'T BE A….”

She yelled this as she knocked him down. A blinding flash of blue-white light pierced the darkness, and an explosion louder than anything he had ever heard drowned out all other sound.

From flat on his back Harry watched a tremendous bolt of lightning strike her in the back. For an instant she glowed, then a fierce orange flame enveloped her, and she was gone.

Unable to move or do anything else, he screamed her name over and over again,, “HERMIONE!!! HERMIONE!!! HERMIONE!!! HERMIONE!!!

In the far distance, he heard a response, “Harry! Harry! Harry…!”

“Harry!”

“Harry!”

“Harry wake up, will you! You're having another nightmare!”

SMACK! SPLASH!

The combination of Ron's slap and Neville's well-placed pitcher of freezing cold water brought Harry out of it. Panting like he had just run the hundred-metre dash, he looked up into the concerned eyes of everyone in the dormitory - Ron, Neville, Dean, and Seamus.

“You…. You were glowing…,” Neville declared haltingly, his voice choked with concern.

“He's right. You were lighting up like a Christmas tree,” Seamus agreed.

“I'm - I'm sorry,” Harry rasped.

“Is…? Is that … normal - well, for you that is?” Ron asked.

“Er … yeah,” Harry lied, knowing full well that what had just happened was anything but normal. “I just forgot to take my potion, that's all.” He reached for the bottle of Dreamless Sleep Potion Dumbledore had provided him with earlier. He took a generous swallow directly from the bottle.

The following morning, whilst his dormitory mates were at breakfast, Harry took what he considered to be necessary precautions against any recurrence of the previous night's situation. He knew that what had happened was dangerous, and that he could not always count on the providential intervention of others. The next time…. Well, he better not have a next time.

Relying upon his summer training, he combined a spell that detected magical energy with a garden variety Pluvius Charm. For the energy level he used the power calculation that was recorded on his Auror intake boiler test, because that had hurt nobody. Anything more, and he would get the kind of drenching his mates had just given them - but without the necessity of waking them up. Finally, he cast a Silencing Charm on the bed curtains, so that he would neither embarrass himself nor annoy the other Sixth Years.

* * * *

Friday also meant a double period of Potions. Even though Snape was gone, it was still Harry's least favorite subject. He did not know which was worse: an instructor who wanted him to fail or an instructor who wanted him to succeed - and was determined to open all the “right doors” for him on the way to that success (whatever it was).

Still, nobody at Hogwarts knew more about chemicals than a Potions master, except maybe Dumbledore, and he was not around. That professor knew what Harry needed to know at the moment. Thus, after class had ended, and with a long afternoon ahead of him, Harry bit the bullet.

“Er … Professor Slughorn,” he said as he approached. “I have a question about a Potion … well about an ingredient anyway.”

“Call me `Slug,' Harry. All my friends do,” the professor replied jovially. “Come to think of it, I have a question for you as well….”

Neither of them spoke for a long moment after that, until Harry broke the silence. “Er … you can go first, sir. You're the instructor.”

Oh, very well,” Slughorn responded. “Always the polite one, you are. I want to know when you will attend one of my little get togethers with the `Slug Club.' With your multiple talents - and now all those Galleons - you're going to go far, I know it. At my soirées you'll meet people who can assist you in getting where you want to go. And who knows? Maybe you'll meet somebody whom you could help out as well.”

“I'm sorry, Professor,” Harry answered, “but I'm just not in the mood to attend parties just yet. I've been through a lot recently, and I'm still learning to cope. It just wouldn't feel right. I'd be out of place.”

“Harry, Harry, Harry…. I'm never going to force you to do anything,” Slughorn responded. “But I really do think you need to get out of that shell a little bit - in the right company, of course. Tell you what.… If I'm able to help you with your inquiry, will you come? And if there's anyone you'd like to see on the guest list, just let me know.”

“Oh, all right - yeah.” Wearily, Harry agreed. If Slughorn could help him learn what he really needed to know, he would gladly suffer one of his parties. The trouble was, Harry increasingly felt that what he needed was a miracle. But he had no faith in the supernatural. Nor did he really expect an opportunity to chat up God at the Slug Club.

“That's excellent, Harry - truly excellent,” Slughorn responded, a big grin creasing his face. “Now what can I help you with?”

From his robes Harry pulled out a bit of parchment, on which he had copied the mystery set of characters from Hermione's living will. “I need to know about this,” he said, handing the scrap to Slughorn. “I've heard it called `Farmer's reducer' and `potassium ferricyanide,' if that helps.”

“Now this is truly unusual,” the Potions master said, staring at the symbols. “If you'd come in here asking about aconite, or Abyssinian shrivelfig, or even leeches, I'd be able to tell you a great deal that you could use. There's just not much to know about Farmer's reducer.”

“Please, sir,” Harry prompted. “It's important. I'm not sure how, but it is.”

“Very well,” Slughorn said. “It's used as a colouring agent in Egad's Blood Imitating Potion, but not as an active ingredient. It's used for the same purpose in Bard's Bile for Boils, a minor Healing Potion, because it is effective at counteracting some effects of black bile. It's also been used to sterilise Hinkypunks. It works, but don't ask me why.”

The professor raised his wand and gave it a lazy flick. A large book whizzed across the room to Slughorn's desk. “Let's see if Paracelsus' Pantheon of Potions can shed any light on the subject.”

For the next half-hour Harry and Slughorn reviewed all the Potions reference books in the professor's not inconsiderable library. They found a number of other magical uses for the chemical - all of them obscure and none of them conceivably relevant to Hermione's current situation.

“…That's everything that I have, Harry - at least on magical uses. Farmer's reducer also has a number of Muggle uses. We can start on those if you like, but I really don't know very much about more than a couple of those. It did come in handy once, in the first war against You Know Who.”

“How could that be?” asked Harry, only mildly interested. He was afraid that he was only wasting his time. “How could something Muggle help fight Voldemort?”

“Please, Harry, I'd rather if you not use that name around me,” Slughorn requested edgily. “You see, we used it to pass secret messages. The Dark Lord's forces seemed to know, and be able to break, every magical code that there was. So we had to resort to Muggle means, which the Death Eaters did not deign bothering to learn. We used invisible ink, and potassium ferricyanide activates a couple of those agents. Let me see…. Wait here a bit.”

As Slughorn waddled through a door into a back room, Harry could barely contain his excitement. Finally, something made some sense! Hermione knew the only way he would ever read her living will was if he lived and something went terribly wrong for her. In that circumstance, she would surely want to leave a message - a private message - explaining herself to him.

`Please, Hermione,' he silently pleaded. `I need a clue. I need to do something, but I don't know what.'

* * * *

Author notes: K3[Fe(CN)6] is the chemical formula for potassium ferricyanide a/k/a Farmers reducer. All of the Muggle attributes given to it are accurate

Statim, “stat” for short, is a medical term for “immediately”

“Completely unreceptive” is part of a continuing subplot (minor cross-over) with the Hlr. Huxley character

“Eyes react to light” is another part of the part of the subplot

The definition of “heroic measures” is accurate

Percussive maintenance is a joke term referring to striking a malfunctioning machine to fix it

A transducer is a medical device. It functions as described

I accurately describe an EEG

Thomas Walker is another part of the subplot

Sensation is another part of the subplot

The Mirror of Erised is another part of the subplot

Murgatroyd's is similar to Harrison's in the real world

“Flick and rock” is another part of the subplot

“Differential diagnosis” is a fancy medical term for the process of elimination

“Inner block” and “hope lies with her” are the final parts of the subplot

Oxytoccin is a hormone implicated in, among other things, human sexual response

Fleur's mention of the power of love is foreshadowing (my other fic has developed this)

I changed the source of the “fanciable” line from HBP

Lavender Brown's action parallels the Witches Weekly story described in Ch. 7

I track the phrase, “I'd rather be lucky than good”

As mentioned earlier, Ginny's nickname is the same as Magic Johnson's

All of the insults are actual UK ethnic slurs, except for Arabushit, which is Hebrew/Israeli

Skinning is deliberately flying to collide

Blatching is basically the same as skinning

J P S B H P - the initials of James Potter, Sirius Black, and Harry Potter

“Quadrilateral” in this sense means all four limbs

Jazeera is Arabic for truth; Habiba is a Sufi saint

I once dated a girl who knew how to conceal a razor blade under her tongue

I thought the story could use a Muslim character, especially since there's a substantial Muslim minority in Britain

Sufi is an offshoot of Islam, sort of like Mormonism is an offshoot of Christianity

Universal Sufi is a real sect

Jazzy has Lorena Bobbit ideas

Biting the bullet is how wounded soldiers before anesthesia went through amputations

Bingo! Farmer's reducer activates invisible ink, but that was revealed almost a full chapter ago

65

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch40 staying alive.doc 12/10/06

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41. Being A Hero

Wherein Harry gets a hidden note, reads the transcript, meditates, has goblin encounters, talks with Ron and Neville, runs a D.A. meeting, receives an invitation, learns about a song, realizes Hermione's problem, watches Americans practice healing, decides to rescue Hermione, has a talk with his head of school and of house, prepares for the rescue effort, and begins to undertake it

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

Chapter 41 - Being A Hero

Once he finally escaped Slughorn, Harry was so excited he practically ran through the corridors. Reaching the portrait that guarded the Gryffindor common room, he stopped to compose himself. “I haven't seen you so excited since you returned,” the Fat Lady commented. “Something good, I hope.”

“I hope,” said Harry, waiting. “Oh…. The password. Far, far better thing.”

The new password had been Hermione's idea - practically her final act before the fateful day she tried to come for Harry.

Waving off all attempts at conversation from his housemates, Harry swiftly made his way to the Sixth-Year dormitory and closeted himself behind the curtains surrounding his bed - and behind a strong Silencing Charm. He pulled out Hermione's living will, conjured some sort of tabletop, and summoned the bottle of Farmer's reducer Hlr. Huxley had given him. After reading the directions, he performed the Bubble-Head Charm he had learnt during underwater training. Noxious gas was a possibility.

Soaking a serviette in the chemical, he started by laying it across the back of the first page and pressing. Nothing much - just some numbers adding up to 42. He repeated the process on the back of the second page. This time there was absolutely nothing. He swallowed hard, and pressed the serviette into the blank space underneath Luna's signature, taking care not to do anything that might smear any message.

The wave of disappointment Harry felt when nothing immediately happened was soon replaced by a thrill of hope as bluish lines gradually began to form. He added more of the pinkish liquid to the serviette and gave the area a thorough soaking.

The bluish lines first revealed what looked like a tracing of a hand - Hermione's right hand, Harry surmised. Inside the tracing he could make out her tiny, well-formed handwriting:

Harry:

Your reading this means that you survived and for all intents and purposes I did not. You truly are the Boy Who Lived. I know you, and I know that, no matter what happened, you will find a way to blame yourself for what's become of me. Don't. I forbid it. I did everything of my own free will to try to save you. Don't blame anyone but me, because I forced everyone else to go along with my plan - MY PLAN - not yours. Respect my free will. Nothing could have stopped me, not even you, because this was for you.

I know what you have to do. If it will help you succeed, you should know that every word of my testimony was true. My greatest regret in life, and in death, is that I could never muster the strength or courage to tell you face to face. You were always the Gryffindor. I should have been in Ravenclaw. My fondest hope is that, somehow, I'll see you again after you've saved the world.

When finished, put your hand over mine.

All my love forever,

Hermione

“All my love forever.” Harry felt the need to cry. Almost instinctively, he began applying Occlumency to deaden his emotions, but upon reflection decided against it. His tears fell freely, and left splotches on Hermione's message. Once again though, no sign appeared of the great, ill-controlled power he apparently possessed. He generated neither glow nor sparks because he felt no anger, no pain - only grief. For some reason, grief in its purest, unalloyed form did not activate his barely understood Fifth Element powers.

Harry wept for almost a quarter hour. When he finally cried himself out, he followed Hermione's instructions and placed his own hand over the somewhat smaller outline of hers. The jolt from the sensation that ensued almost knocked him over.

It was the same wonderful, amorous feeling he had experienced once before.

Only this time he could enjoy it.

From the parchment warmth flowed through him, blushing his cheeks, making his breath catch in his throat, and causing him to break out in a feverish sweat. His legs felt as if he sat on them too long and put them to sleep. And all the while, this throbbing sensation in his bits just would not go away.

Once again he was on the receiving end of that deep, almost velvety, ardor he experienced the moment she reached out to him when he was on the verge of being overwhelmed by Death Eaters. This time was stronger and more immediate. Through some amazing spell that she had learnt somewhere, this amazing girl had imbued the parchment with her emotions.

In less than a minute it faded, and with it her handwritten note. Harry's hormones ran wild. His emotions had been knocked off kilter and he was not thinking straight. He was obsessed with that wonderful - practically orgasmic - sensation. Immediately, he tried pressing his hand to the parchment again - and then again, but with more Farmer's reducer. Nothing happened. Again, and once more.

Harry almost screamed out in frustration.

A few minutes later, with rationality returning, Harry concluded that Hermione had been wise in her choice of magic. His yearning for more of that feeling had been almost mindless in its intensity. If he had been able to continue feeling that way, he would never have given it up. He would have become addicted to it, just like he had once been to the images shown by the Mirror of Erised.

He carefully rolled up the living will and stowed it in a safe place. Then he drew his wand, “Accio transcripts.” Out from their banishment beneath his bed zoomed the jumble of legal transcripts that the Headmaster had given him when he first returned from captivity. He had never been willing to read them for Dumbledore.

But he would do anything for Hermione.

There were days and days of transcripts - all dry, and dull, and official looking. There no longer seemed to be any order to them. He tossed aside all of the ones before his kidnapping. From an index on the inside cover, he located the one that listed her as a witness.

Clutching that softbound volume like a drowning man holding a lifeline, Harry once again made for the Hospital Wing. Now on his own private mission, he paid no attention to anyone, except to acknowledge that, yes, he remembered that he had called a D.A. meeting for this evening. If, however, if he found what he now hoped and expected he might come across in the transcript, he wondered whether he would be in much of a condition to run anything - let alone the inaugural D.A. meeting of the Term.

Harry had always been more of a doer than a thinker - the latter had been Hermione's role - but right now, doing was secondary. He was annoyed with himself for even agreeing to lead the D.A., since that seemed so secondary at the moment. Hermione's well-being hung in the balance, and would be spending his time supervising Fifth Years trying to hex one another. Harry wondered if he had his priorities straight.

Thankfully Hermione had no other visitors at the moment. The novelty of her condition was quickly wearing off as the new Term got fully underway. Most other students had more immediate things to do. To Harry's knowledge, only Luna (early morning and late evening) and Ron (usually just before dinner) continued to pay regular visits to Hermione's sickbed.

Harry slid into his customary chair next to her. Squeezing Hermione's inert hand he said, “I'm doing this for you, so I wanted to do it with you.”

He read and he read. As he reached the key point of her testimony, he found himself putting the transcript aside and gazing at the girl in disbelief. She brought a condom to Privet Drive? She had wanted to shag him right then and there? She certainly used the right type of spells….

She loved him since Third Year?

The ardent urges - along the lines of what Hermione had provided with her note - returned as he read. Almost involuntarily, Harry found himself thinking thoughts about Hermione that were entirely inappropriate to be feeling for someone in her state. As he reached the end of the brilliant unicorn riposte to Malfoy's lawyers, Harry realised that it was not a good idea to stay any longer or to read any more.

He left the unfinished transcript under Hermione's bed.

Thus Harry staggered out of Hermione's cubicle, feeling very warm and with his head spinning from strong, contradictory impulses. He felt wonderfully lightheaded knowing that she was every bit as in love with him as he was with her. At the same time, he was wallowing in self-reproach because his uncontrolled magic - his, and his alone - had left her in a state that hovered somewhere between life and death.

Presciently, Hermione had prohibited just this reaction from Harry, but to no avail. She could not know what, precisely, had brought her to this state. Harry did. Harry knew that his power had been the engine of her destruction.

This was no fairy tale, Harry forcefully reminded himself. He was not Prince Charming, and she was not Sleeping Beauty. He had grown up since Second Year.

He also had to leave because he badly needed to think more clearly. Right now, in Hermione's presence, he found that impossible. He had to turn off his Occlumency to decide what to do. He could not do that within sight of her.

Every time he looked at her, he strongly wanted to harm himself - for being so incredibly stupid, clueless, and just plain mean to her.

Beyond that, he wanted to annihilate Voldemort and his Death Eaters for their role in killing Eliza and driving Hermione to this.

Finally, he wanted to reach out and choke the life out of Malfoy and his slimy solicitors for what they had put her through at the hearing. No one should be forced to admit such things in public. Even if Harry was incredibly glad to know….

Not even bothering with his Invisibility Cloak, Harry headed for the rear entrance of the Castle. He walked faster and faster until he broke into a trot. As soon as he reached the broad back garden, he began to run as hard as he could. He had been cooped up in a mental prison for a week, struggling to keep his emotions in check, and he needed to do something, almost anything, flat out to the max.

He had not run for exercise since before he was kidnapped. He had not run at all since his escape from the Death Eaters. No matter. Soon he was pelting towards the steep walkway that led to Hagrid's hut and the lake beyond. Suddenly he skidded to a halt. It was not because he had lost his wind, although he had. Rather, his feet were starting to scream with pain. He looked down and saw that they were transforming again - inside his shoes, which were now crushing a set of leonine paws.

When he stopped, the transformation vanished almost immediately, leaving only his shoes somewhat worse for wear.

Harry pushed on, ignoring the growing stitch in his side, desperately seeking solitude. As he hit the lower plain, he briefly contemplated visiting Hagrid. He should thank the Creatures professor for the marvelous defence of Hermione's honour he had pulled off using the unicorn foal. But that would reveal that he had read the transcript…. Which would undoubtedly lead to a discussion of how he felt about her…. He was not ready for that discussion just yet.

Not just with Hagrid - with anyone. Not with a soul would he discuss the uncomfortable combination of heartbreak and rapture that was driving him to distraction, until he had first discussed it with Hermione. Once right with her, he would take on the world.

At the moment, though, he was about as far from being right with Hermione as it was physically possible to be. She lay dead to the world in the Hospital Wing because he could not control his infernal magic.

Harry erupted with an anguished scream, loud enough he thought to be heard back at the Castle. Casting his trainers aside, he sprinted for the back shore of the lake at top speed. He decided to visit the secluded spot where he had had his man-to-man talk with Bill all those weeks earlier - whilst in the midst of bollixing up things with Hermione so royally.

As a result, one girl who had almost been his lover was dead, and the other who should have been was hardly better off.

After bolting down the shore path at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, Harry skittered to a stop at the small sandy opening. He waited a minute for the spontaneous Animagus transformation of his feet again to disappear. Then he jumped atop the large flat rock. Thankfully, the huge fallen oak still hid it from prying eyes. He dropped into his lotus position, intending to meditate as Sefu Kung had taught him. Meditation offered a chance to free his mind from the tyranny of constant Occlumency….

Harry looked up. He thought he heard panting - no longer his own breathing, he was sure of that.

He saw nothing. To be sure, he used his wand to illuminate the nearby area with a strong beam of light. Still nothing.

He began concentrating on his meditation. Rather than his previous mantra, Harry thought of the first word that came to mind:

Desolation.

Suddenly, a major disturbance flared just behind the adjacent bushes. THUMP!! THUD!! “OOOF!!” THUD!! THUD!! “OWWW!!” RRRIIIIPPP. Flashes of light indicated that spells were being cast. In response, Harry's wand flew into his hands - his brand new one combining the remains of his father's and Sirius' wands.

Within seconds a writhing mass of bodies broke through the hedges at the edge of Harry's dell. Four fierce-looking goblin warriors, their sharp teeth plainly visible, were roughly restraining some unfortunate wizard who was face down in the sand.

“Please, let him up,” Harry asked. Not knowing the phrase in Gobbledygook, he made a hand gesture.

One of the goblins grabbed a handful of the unfortunate's hair and jerked his head up - revealing a familiar face.

“Mannock! What in Merlin's name…?” Harry blurted.

No sooner had he said this than the goblin shoved the man's face back into the sand.

“I know him,” Harry declared sharply. “Let him get up.” He repeated the hand gesture.

The goblins instantly if not altogether willingly obeyed their prince. Mannock was allowed to struggle to his knees. The four goblins surrounded him; all brandishing very sharp looking dirks and short swords.

“What on Earth are you doing lurking about?” Harry asked, keeping his wand trained on the man. “Why aren't you with your squadron?”

“Actually, you've mistaken me for my twin brother Alphonse,” the captive wizard corrected. “I'm Gaston Mannock, from the Auror Office. I'm honoured to meet you - although not like this.”

“That still doesn't answer my question,” Harry pressed. “Why were you hiding in the bushes spying on me?”

“I've been detailed to Hogwarts for the past several weeks,” Gaston Mannock replied, still panting. “My brother was here whilst you were missing, and the two of us served as guinea pigs for some experiments Dumbledore conducted … er … secret experiments….”

Twin experiments could only mean one thing. “On affinities,” Harry finished the Auror's sentence.

Harry almost enjoyed the disbelieving look that comment prompted. “Yeah, on affinities,” Mannock confirmed. “Since you've been back, I've been detailed to watch you.”

“Watch me!?” Harry said, a bit of anger bubbling out before he shut it down with Occlumency. “Why?”

“Owww,” Mannock protested, as one of the goblins roughly yanked his arms behind his back. Spying on the prince was lèse majesté. “Dumbledore's orders. You've been under constant suicide watch - what with the girl…. Owww!” The goblin jerked again.

That was enough for Harry. “Let him go! Arak!” he commanded. “He means me no harm. You may go. Bor arak.”

The goblins obeyed - not entirely happily, but they obeyed.

“You may go, too,” Harry added. “I assure you that I'm in no mood to commit suicide at the moment. I've actually just learnt something that could be quite wonderful. I just need some private time - to think - because it's not wonderful yet.”

“I can't just leave. I have my orders,” Mannock replied with regret. “But I can give you your privacy.” With that, he picked up his wand, left behind when the goblins retreated. Ending a Shrinking Charm on his broom, Mannock alighted immediately to a new position about fifty metres above Harry's private place.

With the brief excitement, it took a little more effort for Harry to regain his Zen state - but he was determined. Soon he was back to meditating on a string of similar sounding words.

Desolation

Isolation

Separation

Desperation

Tribulation

Mitigation

Consolation

Realisation

Invocation

Revelation

Reclamation

Liberation

Transformation

Extrication

Propitiation

Restoration

Jubilation

Exultation

Our salvation

Adoration

Culmination

Consummation….

Harry had probably gone through dozens, if not hundreds, of words ending in “ation” when another bustle in the surrounding hedgerow brought him back to the here and now.

“Harry?” Ron had found him.

Harry's eyes flew open. Then, “owww,” an impact started his backside aching. He must have been levitating half a metre off the ground when, concentration broken, gravity dropped him onto the hard rock in his lotus position.

“Sorry, mate,” Ron said softly. “Nobody knew where you were, but Neville said he thought he saw you running towards the Forbidden Forest as he was coming back from Herbology. You weren't there when I went to see Hermione, and I started worrying.”

“No problem, Ron,” Harry replied, rubbing his tailbone. “But how did you know I was here?”

“Luna suggested that you might be behind the lake somewhere,” Ron replied. “She's a right strange one, but she just seems to know things sometimes. Once I got in the vicinity, you weren't hard to spot - what with that eerie glow you were giving off and being suspended in midair. You looked like one of the funny pictures in those Hairy Christmas pamphlets Dad used to bring home after trips to Muggle areas.”

Harry smiled at his friend, “Thanks, Ron, for caring enough to look.”

“Umm … I brought you these as well,” Ron said, holding out Harry's trainers. “I found them on the way down here. They looked like yours, and now that I see you barefoot, I'm sure of it.”

Ron magicked Harry's shoes over to him as Harry said, “Thanks again. Saves me the job of Summoning them.”

Ron gestured in the direction of the Castle. “Anyway, we've got to get back to the Castle. Dinner's started by now, and then you have to lead the D.A. It's so much bigger now, that could be quite a job.”

“She loves me,” Harry declared.

“Dinner can wait,” Ron remarked as he instantly made what was, for him, a supreme sacrifice. He plopped down next to Harry on the smooth, somewhat sandy rock. “So you finally figured that out?”

“I read her testimony,” Harry continued. “You should have heard the things she said about me under Veritaserum.”

“I did,” Ron answered. “I was there.”

Harry's eyes grew big. “You were? Why didn't … didn't you tell me?”

“Listen, Harry, we all knew,” Ron admitted. “We deliberately decided not to say anything, for several reasons. Most importantly, we didn't know how you would take it, especially after you told Neville and me how she got hurt. We reckoned that it was something Dumbledore would want to deal with.”

“Well, I guess…,” Harry began, flustered, before Ron had finished.

“…Also it was so bloody obvious that some of us thought you probably already knew. I didn't agree with that last one, since most of the obviousness was after you were taken. But, for me - basically, there are some things you just have to figure out for yourself, and this was one of them.”

Harry impulsively embraced his friend. “Thanks, Ron … you were right, you know.”

“Think nothing of it, mate,” Ron answered. “Just trying to expand my emotional depth, that's all. Anyway, now that you know, how do you feel … you know … about things?”

Harry was not expecting such a question from Ron. His best mate usually did not do touchy-feely. He furrowed his brow as he tried to explain.

“I … I feel wonderful, but terrible at the same time,” Harry admitted. “I don't know what to do, but I think I just have to do something. I'd give anything … I'd give my life, just to see her smile at me one more time. But I don't know what to do.”

“Whoa, cue the violins,” Ron remarked at Harry's answer.

If it were a joke, it fell flat. Harry scowled a bit. His thoughts grew darker. “It's my own bloody fault. I caused all this, you know. I still can't believe I was so damn stupid. I'm so afraid that I've killed her.

“Well, I see we were all right about something else, too,” Ron answered dryly. “Your first reaction is to feel guilty and blame yourself for everything….”

“Hermione thought so too,” Harry observed. Seeing Ron's incredulous look, he added. “She left me a note on that medical thing she signed - in Muggle invisible ink. She forbade me from feeling guilty, but I can't not feel guilty. She didn't know how this would end.”

“Look, only you can stop beating yourself up,” Ron advised. “I've done a right huge share of it myself, since I didn't want her to go through with it…. But I can tell you this, because I was there. She was bloody possessed - driven. She knew it was dangerous, life-threatening-type dangerous, from the beginning. She drove the rest of us, and outsmarted both Dumbledore and McGonagall to try to find you.”

“You had the right instinct, Ron,” Harry answered sadly. “I wish you had…. Better me than her…. Better anything than this.”

“You know, mate, she felt every bit as guilty then as you do now,” Ron commented. “I don't know what went on between you just before … that night…. She wouldn't tell, and since she felt so strongly, I don't want to know. But whatever it was, mark my words, she doesn't hold it against you anymore.”

“Thanks Ron.” Harry was relieved - especially that Ron was not interested in learning what caused his fight with Hermione. Never in this life would he tell Ron what he had learned. That madness with Cho had already cost him his best female friend, and (now, it seemed) quite a bit more. He would not let it cost him his best male friend as well.

As Ron watched Harry's expression grow thoughtful, a sly smile appeared on his own face. “In fact, I think there's only one thing that Hermione would hold against you right now.”

Harry blanched. “Wha…. What's that?” he asked, worry creeping into his voice.

“Herself,” Ron replied. “Now you also know that she badly wants to shag you…. They made her tell that to the whole bloody courtroom.”

“Umm…. Er….” Harry stumbled about.

“Just another reason to want to get her back,” Ron deadpanned. Then, more seriously, he added, “But really, mate, before you go charging off to try to save her somehow, talk to Dumbledore. I don't mind you knowing that I didn't want her risking herself going after you, and I don't want you chancing death trying to save her. I know you would if you thought it would help. But I need my friends, too, you know.”

“I don't know what to do, Ron, that's the problem,” Harry admitted sadly.

“Well, when you figure it out, mate, you know where I am,” Ron replied, standing up and stretching his legs. “I can still play a mean game of chess, and my wand doesn't backfire anymore. Now, let's get back to the Castle before those nasty looking goblins over there get any more nervous.”

* * * *

Unfortunately, the D.A. meeting did not come off as smoothly as Harry had hoped. With everything else going on that day, he had little time to prepare, and it showed. He gave a little off-the-cuff speech about the purpose of the Defence Association, its history (he did receive a spontaneous ovation when he described its origin as being to oppose the universally reviled Umbridge), and his hope for interhouse unity in the face of the war that had broken out.

Then Harry had showed off his Patronus, which was always good for impressing a crowd. To conjure it, he used a very powerful, very recent image - when he first laid eyes on the transcript where Hermione revealed her feelings for him. However, the emotions it generated were just as powerfully mixed.

Maybe that was why his Patronus came out … odd.… That was the best way he could prescribe it. It did not seem quite as corporeal as many of his previous efforts. Rather it was more transparent. The Patronus also emerged quite off-white, with a distinct yellowish tinge. Ron told him later that it looked rather like he had when meditating. To top it off, this Patronus lingered much longer than they usually did. Its persistence distracted Harry when he tried to teach. It took a full quarter hour to dissipate.

Stuck without a lesson plan worthy of the name, Harry decided on the spur of the moment to begin with Disorientation Hexes, just like his Auror training had at the beginning of the summer. As the Aurors had said, these spells were the easiest to learn. The spells also lived up to their name, which was what ultimately caused Harry's next problem.

“No, it's `Occulus Dextrous,' not `Occulo Dextrous,'” Harry said with a touch of frustration creeping into his voice. He was attempting to instruct a quite perturbed Fifth-Year Hufflepuff. The misspoken spell had just forced Harry to call on Katie Bell for Healing assistance. This one's duelling partner's eye had been deposited in his right ear by the erroneously recited hex, and restoring it to its proper location was beyond Harry's limited Healing skills.

“It's really important to be precise with these, to avoid bizarre results like that…,” Harry continued.

All around him, paired off duellers were attempting to cast the several directional Disorientation Hexes Harry had showed them - all in uncomfortably close quarters. The D.A. was quite popular this year. The large crowd of interested students was taxing even the capacity of the ever-magical Room of Requirement to expand its dimensions.

Then somebody - Harry never did find out who - accidentally hit him with an ill-aimed spell that reversed his perception of forwards and backwards. Whilst teaching he had let his Protego lapse.

Suddenly disoriented, Harry turned around, and took two big steps in precisely the opposite direction from where he thought he was going. He stepped on somebody's dropped wand, took a purler, and fell right into - Daphne Greengrass, one of only three Slytherins who had turned out. The two of them collapsed in a heap.

“Finite,” Daphne ended the spell that was disorienting Harry. She suppressed a giggle as she readjusted his glasses, which had been knocked askew. “We've got to stop meeting like his, people will start to talk….”

Harry ruefully realised that history was repeating itself. After all, the first time they had spoken, he had introduced himself to her with a pratfall at his birthday party. Considerable colour came to his cheeks and ears. Today, she was still every bit as pretty in her green trimmed robes as she had been on that day. Then, he had asked her to dance.

“Er … sorry,” Harry apologised. “Just being a prat today, I guess.”

“Don't be, I'm not,” Daphne replied, fixing him with eyes just as green as his. “Sorry, that is…. I'd been meaning to thank you anyway for that nice little impromptu speech about how the houses should stand together more often.”

“Umm … you're welcome,” Harry answered, tongue-tied as usual in any conversation with a very pretty girl.

“I haven't thanked you yet,” she replied enigmatically. “So, did you really mean it?”

“Mean what…? You mean about interhouse unity and all?” Harry was more than a little confused until Daphne nodded. “Of course I did.”

“Then how would you like to go to the ball with me?” Daphne asked. “Interhouse unity and all that.”

Harry froze, blushing furiously and at a loss for words.

“That's how I wanted to thank you,” Daphne continued as Harry's dumbstruck condition persisted. “Now we're even - I've asked you to dance, too. You may speak, Harry. I don't bite - much.”

By this point, half the room had stopped trying to hex one another and were watching the two of them. Two people, in particular, were regarding the scene with ill-concealed fury: Ron, with his anti-Slytherin prejudice, and Fleur Delacour, whose invitation to the ball Harry had just turned down. Fleur moved to the far side of the room when her eyes met Harry's. Ron just glared back.

Harry hardly knew what he was saying. “Umm … I'm sorry, Daphne. I might not even go. I'm just not … ready. Too much going on. Thanks anyway, though. It's not you - it's me….”

Before he had even finished, Daphne had lithely regained her feet. If disappointed or affronted, she hid it well. “Too bad, then…. Ciao.” She sashayed off, leaving Harry to stare after her. For the second time in two conversations, she had left him tingling all over - and quite emotionally confused.

“Bloody Hell,” Ron whispered in Harry's ear as he helped his friend up. “Did she just do what I think she did?”

“She…. She asked me - to the ball,” Harry answered, as if he still had trouble believing it.

“And you said `no,' I gather,” Ron whispered back.

“Yeah,” Harry answered, “I've been down that road before. I'm not going there again. I've already almost ruined my life. And that's not the worst of it.”

“Good for you,” spoke up Neville's voice from his other side. Neville gave him a hearty pat on the back.

“Not only is she Slytherin, but probably tapped for Sisters of the Moon on top of it,” Ron added. “I'd watch myself around her.”

“Wha…?” Harry shook his head to clear the feminine-induced cobwebs, “What's this Sisters of the Moon bit all about?”

Ron leaned forward, very close to Harry's ear. “Kabbalah. Female Kabbalah at that. Very hush-hush - and very powerful…,” he whispered.

“Er … what's Kabbalah?” Harry whispered back. Once again he had stumbled into something new to him.

“I don't know much, but it's some sort of secret Jewish magical society,” Ron muttered. “They're seers, I think. Maybe more…. Mum once called them a succubi society…. Not sure why.”

“What does being Jewish have anything to do with anything?” Harry hissed back. “It's all a bunch of myths anyway. Hell, Marona's Jewish too.”

“Well, for one thing, Marona's not a Slytherin - and for another, she's not after you,” Ron pointed out. “A word to the wise….”

Harry had little familiarity with, and even less interest in, Muggle religions - so he changed the subject. “Second time this week it's happened,” he mentioned.

“Oh really?” Ron leered. “Who was the other one? Not Ginny, I hope. Er … sorry Neville.”

Neville bit his tongue and said nothing. Ginny was his girlfriend, not Harry's - he reminded himself.

“Nope - Fleur,” Harry answered softly.

“Naw…. You're just having me on - trying to make me jealous again,” Ron said with disbelief.

“Merlin's truth,” Harry reaffirmed. “She even tried to use Veela powers on me. She wants to help me beat the Death Eaters that killed Bill and her dad.”

“Some folks have all the luck,” Ron muttered darkly. “Anyway, we're all standing around. You'd better tell us what you want to do next.”

After some indecision, Harry climbed onto a table and proposed that the group practice the Flambus Hex next because of the rumours that Voldemort was using Inferi. He was halfway through telling everyone what to do when a Seventh-Year Ravenclaw, Rhiannon Buckingham, spoke up.

“Mister Potter, I'm learning about Inferi right now in my Demonic Quasi-Human Creatures seminar, and from your description of Flambus, I don't think it would work.”

Harry was more than a little flustered. Aside from a couple of very short conversations with Dumbledore and Hermione, he knew nothing about those evil creatures - only that they were like zombies and that fire warded them off. “Er.… Okay, why don't you tell me where I've gone wrongheaded?”

“Well, Flambus sounds like imitation fire…. Another disorientation spell,” Rhiannon pointed out. “And to fend off Inferi, I'm sure Professor Hagrid said we had to use the real thing. So do you know any real fire magic?”

Harry was more than a little embarrassed, because Rhiannon was absolutely right about Flambus. Worse, he was about to come off looking like a fool. Some damage control was in order. “Well, I can do this,” he responded. Using the elemental magic Sefu Kung had taught him, he shot a 3-metre long jet of fire out his empty left hand over the heads of the crowd.

That brought quite a few “oohs” and “ahs,” but Harry knew that his demonstration, whilst impressive, failed to address Rhiannon's point, which concerned magic that the rest of them could do. Practical elemental magic was post-N.E.W.T., not anything taught in Hogwarts. Nor was it something D.A. members could realistically expect to learn. Even with Lao Kung as his personal magical trainer for most of the summer, Harry had only learned the rudiments - and he had already been well beyond his peers in this sort of skill. His Defence marks had shown that.

“Er … there are several fire charms,” he went on. “Almost all of you know Incendio, and some of you I'm sure know Flagrate. I don't think I should teach Hellas Infernum because, frankly, I don't know how to put it out. So I guess that leaves Enflagrate, which is strong enough that, when mastered, it will do what is necessary.”

At least he hoped it would.

Harry proceeded to explain the spell, and soon his audience was again paired off and squaring off.

Unfortunately, the same problems that plagued use of the disorientation spells recurred. The Room - even with its magic fully engaged - was just not large enough to accommodate this many duellers safely. After another half-hour of having to extinguish somebody's robe every five minutes or so, Harry called a halt to the proceedings for the night.

As everyone was leaving, Harry had to deal with Fleur again. This time, however, she was complimentary, rather than aggressive. Once that distraction ended, he, Ron, Neville, Ginny, and Luna cleaned up the Room. They discussed the logistical problems that had become all too apparent.

A few stragglers remained, searching for course books and other personal items they had unwisely brought along. During all the somewhat confused duelling, not a few things had been kicked hither and yon.

“…And I don't think we can train everyone at once,” Harry was complaining.

“But where in blazes are we going to find the time for a second day a week of D.A. meetings,” Ron groused in response. “I'm not planning on working all that hard this year - thanks to the Prince.”

“I'll sub for you Ron,” Ginny offered, “if you'll let me borrow the Prince for my own Potions homework.”

“Well, maybe…. Let me think about it,” Ron replied. “I wouldn't want Sluggie finding out, though.”

“I wish Hermione were here,” Luna said out of the blue. “She'd know what to do.”

As they were leaving, they passed a couple of younger Hufflepuff witches, one of whom was reloading a Muggle backpack after finally having located her wayward books. She was not paying attention to Harry's group, and was whistling….

Just as he was leaving the door, Harry's ears perked up. That tune was familiar - too familiar…. Could it be…?

It was.

“Why don't the rest of you go on?” Harry told them. “I just remembered that I have to talk to Healer Huxley, so I need to stop by the Room again in one of its other forms. I'll see you later.”

Once he had finished telling this convenient lie, Harry turned around, and went back in the way he had come. Almost immediately, he asked, “Excuse me, what's that song you're whistling, if you don't mind.”

The young witch whirled around, and found herself face to face with … “Harry Potter!” she squeaked, holding one remaining book tightly to her chest.

“That's me,” Harry replied, not happy that he was having this effect even upon some members of the D.A. “And you are?”

“Virginia Valentine, sir,” she replied, “but everyone calls me `Ginny' - like your friend.”

“Please don't call me `sir,' I'm Harry - just plain Harry,” he requested.

“Yes sir … er … Harry, sir,” the overtly flustered girl replied.

Inwardly, Harry groaned. “What was that song you were whistling?”

At that, the girl seemed to get even more nervous, not meeting his eyes and shifting one of her feet back and forth across the floor in front of her. “Er … that … well, I'm Muggle-born, sir. But I'm not the first magical in the family - my older brother just finished Auror training….”

None of this seemed to have anything to do with the song - a tune that he had heard so many times before as a violin arrangement. “I'm sorry,” Harry persisted, “…Er … congratulations to your brother and all, but what's the song?”

“Er … it's a Muggle song sir,” she answered. “It's called `Billy Don't Be A Hero'.”

Jackpot.

The same song was on the CD Hermione had cut for him. He would know the tune anywhere. That song was so … different … from all the classical music on the disc that he had meant to ask his friend about it. But like so many other things, he had never gotten around to it, and then everything had happened.

Hermione had personally selected all the music on that disc.

Its inclusion had to mean something. Hermione was not the type to include something so dissonant without a good reason.

Now that he finally knew she loved him fully as much as he loved her, he needed to find out the reason.

The girl was still anxiously standing in front of Harry, patiently waiting for him to continue.

“Oh … sorry,” Harry apologised when he realised he had been zoning out. “What's it about? Does it have words?”

“Umm … I'm sorry, sir … er, Harry. I probably shouldn't have been thinking about it here, with what the D.A.'s all about and all.”

“Don't worry about it,” Harry dismissed that thought, a little impatient at all the hemming and hawing. “What's it about?”

“I'm so frightened for my brother,” she answered, seemingly off on another tangent. “It's rather an antiwar song, you see. I'm sorry…. Just like the girl in the song. I don't want him to get killed.”

“I hate the war,” Harry replied with stark honesty. “I hate it more than anything. Don't you think for a moment that I like having to do any of this. I don't enjoy fighting. Not at all. I've lost so much….” He stopped himself, and forced the conversation back on track. “What's it about exactly?”

For the first time this Ginny seemed to get over her nervousness. “Well, there's this girl, who loves this boy. He has to go off to war. She begs him not to be a hero, and to come back and marry her. He acts the hero anyway and dies….”

The last phrase caught him like a fist to the gut. Harry struggled to end the conversation. “Er … thanks. Thanks Ginny, you've been a big help. Gotta go. Bye.”

Harry sped away from the Room of Requirement as fast as his shaky knees could carry him. It was starting to make sense. He needed - really needed - to try finding these lyrics on the Internet. He learnt over the summer that Hermione was a connoisseur of song lyrics - as indeed she was of music in general. That song had to be intended as a message to him.

But before he could do that, or anything, he had to see the girl herself. It was time for the American Healers to have their go at curing Hermione.

* * * *

It was past three in the morning when a drained and depressed Harry Potter eased the door to the Hospital Wing shut behind him. An evening that began with such high hopes had ended in failure and discord.

The Americans had arrived, as Yanks often do, with confident talk and huge amounts of equipment. They were full of the “New World coming to the rescue of the Old” mentality - but for the sake of helping Hermione, Harry was quite prepared to bear their condescension cheerfully.

They brought plenty of magic - very powerful magic. The Yanks tried Magical Activation Analysis and Charmonium Chelation. They surrounded Hermione with a wall of multi-coloured crystals and looked for positron emissions. They poked and prodded, and scanned and sampled.

The only problem was the same old thing. Nothing seemed to work. None of the dials and needles moved, and neither did Hermione. As one dead end followed another, the Americans began muttering darkly amongst themselves about resistance - that this patient somehow did not want to be cured.

Worst of all, the Yanks did what came naturally to them when encountering resistance. They upped the power of their magic to try to overcome it - to bulldoze right through it to the objective.

The result was just shy of disastrous.

A megadose of Wit-Sharpening Potion caused Hermione to go into convulsions - and even then all the Americans had wanted to do was to add still more spells. A shouting match ensued between Hlr. Huxley and the head of the Yank team, in which he accused the visitors of behaving more like Muggle physicians than true Healers. The spectacle of Hlr. Huxley losing his temper made Harry intervene. Using the legal authority Hermione had vested in him, Harry called a halt to the proceedings.

The Americans left in a huff.

What they left behind was worse. Hermione's temperature spiked at over 40°C, and Hlr. Huxley had to apply emergency Cooling Charms to stop the rise. The convulsions had also dislocated her shoulder. For about fifteen minutes, Harry could only watch in mute terror as Hlr. Huxley, aided by Madam Pomfrey and a couple of stray Yanks who stayed behind, worked frantically to save Hermione's life once again. They did, and in her restabilised condition she seemed no worse afterwards than before.

But she was no better, either.

It all came as quite a shock to Harry, who had entered the Hospital Wing daring to hope for a cure. He left drained and demoralised. To avoid untoward incidents, he had been forced to employ a great deal of very heavy duty Occlumency that evening.

Utterly spent and with his head still spinning, Harry trudged back in the direction of the Gryffindor common room - not even bothering with his Invisibility Cloak.

He soon heard a familiar voice saying unfamiliar things.

“Hey, Potter!”

“Oh, hi Neville,” Harry said wanly. He tried unsuccessfully to force a smile. “Sorry about not having a pass and all. It's been a rough night, and I guess I forgot. I'm getting pretty useless about that kind of thing, unfortunately.”

“Potter, right now House Points are the least of your problems. You and I, we need to talk,” Neville insisted, leading Harry into a deserted, out-of-the-way alcove just past the staircases.

“Er…, alright Neville,” Harry agreed, “but what's with this `Potter' business? You're one of my best friends … that's left anyway….” His voice trailed off.

Neville looked not at all like himself. His face purpled with barely repressed anger.

“Potter, we've talked plenty as friends before, and we'll do it again, but what I have to say right now isn't friendly,” Neville glowered. “Right now, just think of me as … I don't know … your beaten rival, or some such. And I'm plenty pissed about things.”

Harry stared at Neville, hardly believing his ears. “What are you on about?” he protested. “Whatever you think I did, I'm sorry. I'm not all here right now.”

“You haven't done a damn thing,” Neville spat. “And right now that's the bloody problem.”

Harry's ire started to rise as well. “Well excuse me for living, then,” he growled back. “I've got a lot on my mind, as I'm sure you know. The Americans failed tonight.”

“Oh, sod the bloody Yanks,” Neville broke in, “and don't go on with that `poor little Harry Potter' routine. That won't cut the mustard anymore - not with me! Harry, you're just about the luckiest man on earth.”

Harry interrupted right back. “Stuff it, Neville. You of all people know better. You want to be in my shoes? Everybody who's ever loved me has died or worse. Try that on for bleeding size!!”

“Believe me, I have,” Neville declared, “but you're still wrong.”

“What would you know?” Harry spat back. “You still got….”

“Not everybody who loved you is dead!” Neville practically shouted. Surreptitiously he cast an Imperturbable Charm across the hallway behind him. “She's not dead - not yet, anyway.”

Harry was shocked. “Neville, have you gone around the twist?”

“Not hardly. You should try imagining yourself in someone else's shoes once in a while,” Neville pressed. “Bloody Dumbledore hardly lets the rest of us know what's going on. We only get to see her during very limited visiting hours, and you know what? She just lies there waiting for something to happen. You get to sit shiva for her anytime you bloody well please, but that's all you do. You're not the only one who loves her, you know….” Neville looked like he was about to explode - or else break down completely.

Harry spluttered. “But I've never had the chance. You don't…. You're with Ginny, Neville - you're not making sense!”

“Aren't I now…? You're damn right I'm with Ginny,” Neville growled. “She's the only thing that's saved my sanity these last few days. But just so you can't claim any more bleeding ignorance, before I found Ginny, there were few things that I'd ever wanted as much in my life as I once wanted Hermione to be interested in me. Well, except for my parents….”

Harry was dumbfounded at what he was hearing. He stared mutely at a Neville Longbottom he had never seen before.

“...But she only had eyes for you. You, dammit! Don't tell me you never had a bloody chance, Potter,” Neville's harsh voice cut the air. “You're the only one who does - and you're wasting it!”

“What the bloody Hell is it to you anyway, then?” Harry shouted, his fists clenched and on the verge of seriously throwing a wobbly, Occlumency or no Occlumency. “You're right about one thing, though, she never had eyes for you!”

Neville quailed a bit at Harry's anger, but refused to back down.

“Right in one, but right now that'll be the death of her. Because if you don't get off your ruddy arse and do something, Hermione's going to die!!” roared Neville just as loudly. “This time it really is all about you!”

“No it's not,” Harry protested again. “Dumbledore and Huxley are handling her care, I wouldn't have the foggiest.…”

“Dumbledore can't reach her, Harry. He's tried.” Neville replied in cold anger. “You're the only one who has a chance to move her now. Whatever you did, only you can undo it, and you bloody well ought to know that.”

Harry resisted. “But if Dumbledore can't cure her, how can I?”

Neville cut him off again. “You're asking me? You're Harry `Boy-Who-Lived' Potter. You can use Gryffindor's own sword, for Merlin's sake. You could duel the Dark Lord to a draw at age fourteen. When you get off your duff, things start to happen - good things mostly. Think of something…. Do something, dammit!!”

Neville had that look in his eye that Harry hadn't seen since First Year - just before Hermione petrified him the night they went out for the Stone. Harry was concerned that Neville just might try taking a swing at him. So he backed down, because Harry knew that, as in First Year, Neville was right.

“All right, dammit, you win, Neville,” Harry grudgingly conceded. “I'll do something - that's a promise. I just have to figure out what.”

Neville exhaled visibly and audibly. “Okay, that's settled then. Now get out of here before I do something that'll give you even more of an excuse to put me in the Hospital Wing right next to her.”

Harry turned to go, a new sense of purpose in his stride.

Then Neville zinged him. “Oh, and one more thing - ten points from Gryffindor for being out and about after hours.”

“What?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Have to keep up appearances,” Neville replied with a wink. “I'll award you double - Hell, quadruple - back as soon as I see her up and about.”

Harry may have been irate about Neville's upbraiding, but their shouting match had left him feeling more clear-headed, determined, and focussed than at any time since he had been brought back to Hogwarts. Without another word to - or from - Neville, Harry stalked off.

Neville watched Harry climb the stairs until his footsteps were no longer audible. He exhaled loudly and started shaking. In the shadows something - someone - moved.

“H- H- How was I, Ginny?” Neville gasped as his redheaded girlfriend - and fellow Gryffindor Prefect - stepped into view.

“Shhh…. Now take this,” she hushed as she handed him a Draught of Peace. “That bright idea of yours to mix Strengthening Solution with Hate Potion might have worked, but it could have just as easily have put you in a world of hurt.”

Neville drank it greedily. “You're right,” he told her when finished. “Harry's right scary when he's riled, and I've never made him that mad at me before, even back in First Year. Then it was Hermione who petrified me.”

“Nevertheless, you … were … magnificent,” Ginny affirmed. “You said what had to be said. I think you saved both of their lives just then.” Ginny put her arms around Neville and kissed him properly.

* * * *

In the half-light of the deserted Common Room, Harry resolutely repeated the spell Dennis had taught him to activate the D.A. central station. He intended to find out for sure the message Hermione had tried to send him. She had arranged “Billy Don't Be A Hero” for the violin - in a minor key - and included it on a CD of otherwise exclusively classical pieces by the greatest composers who ever lived. Hermione rarely left things to chance. She certainly would not have done that by accident.

`Thank you Dudley, wherever you are, for teaching me how to do this,' Harry thought as he opened up the Internet connection on the hybrid machine. `You have no idea how important this could be.'

He typed in the AltaVista URL and then the words “Billy Don't Be A Hero,” just like his cousin had showed him. The Internet was amazing; proof positive that Muggles were not without their own forms of magic.

A couple of clicks and he found it. The lyrics displayed on the screen - and a tinny melody dispelled the silence of the Common Room at four in the morning. It was Hermione's song all right, only sounding a hundred times worse.

That it sounded at all surprised him. Harry wanted to keep his doing this a secret - for now, anyway. He looked around urgently; trying to find a button or switch to shut off that infernal noise. Neither Denis nor Colin had mentioned sound, however. Giving up, Harry hit the print button. As soon as a bluish light signified that Mad-Eye's old eyeball was on the job, he hurriedly clicked away from the site, and the infernal music stopped.

Harry read the lyrics, and he understood.

The girl pleaded with the boy not to get himself killed by being a hero - but rather to “come back and make me your wife.” The boy went off to war and died a hero. The army sent the girl a commendation letter, saying that she should be “proud of how he died.” In her grief, she threw the letter away.

Unlike the hearing transcript, which Harry never could bring himself to read until the previous morning, he had read and reread Luna's Quik Quotes Quill notes of Hermione's final minutes before the - his - magical explosion. That piece of parchment was dog-eared; he had gone over it so many times. He knew what she had screamed at him in her last moment of consciousness.

“HARRY!!! DOOONNN'TTTTT BEEEEEEEAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!”

And now he knew what she meant.

She was begging him not to be a hero - not to die battling Voldemort.

But it was more than that, he realised. Far, far more than that.

Hermione thought he was dead.

She must have thought that. She knew he was confronting Voldemort. With their link wide open, his pain and desperation had merged with hers in that fateful moment when his power exploded. The last thing that she had ever learnt - or thought she had learnt - was that Voldemort had killed him.

Hermione thought he was dead.

But on some level, she was still conscious - Hlr. Huxley's amplified readings showed that.

“She still must think I'm dead,” Harry muttered out loud to nobody in particular.

“Er … what was that, mate?”

Harry looked up and saw Ron standing in the doorway to the boys' dormitory looking disheveled in his scarlet and gold Gryffindor pyjamas. His friend was vaguely frowning and squinting at him through sleep-filled eyes. Ron awkwardly scratched some itch in his very mussed up Weasley red hair.

“Ron.”

“…Thought I heard music. Must have been a dream, though. You coming to bed?”

“Ron! It was no dream,” Harry told him. “There was music from the D.A. computer. I did it. Hermione thinks I'm dead.”

Ron had been following along as best he could, but Harry's last blew the cobwebs from his mind. “Oh, all right…. WHAT!? What do you mean Hermione thinks you're dead?! How can she think anything?”

“Over here,” Harry gestured, hardly wanting to say what he had to say out loud. When Ron got close enough for a conspiratorial whisper, Harry cast an Imperturbable Charm and continued. “Ron, it's not exactly like everybody's been told,” he hissed. “She's conscious on some level; I've seen proof. It's very faint and very far away.”

“And she thinks you're dead?” Ron asked, still not entirely comprehending. “I don't think so. She did once, but then she realised you weren't. That affinity had some use.”

“No,” Harry cut across. “Not then, later. Her last words to me. She pleaded for me not to be a hero and get killed by Voldemort,” Harry continued, talking very rapidly. “She felt whatever it was I did, and I'm sure she thinks I died - there was so much pain….”

“But she can't sense you now,” Ron realised. “You told us that you had Dumbledore cut the link.”

“I did.” A cold shudder passed through him. “I can't reach her anymore…. Bollocks.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ron - both confused and quite concerned.

“I can't reach her from here to let her know I'm alive. But if I….” Harry's voice trailed off as his brain kicked into high gear, despite his exhaustion.

“But if you what?” Ron asked after the silence between them became oppressive.

“That's it,” Harry suddenly blurted out. “I have to go in after her.”

“Go where?” Ron asked. “Not into her head. You don't know how.”

“I do too know how,” Harry replied firmly. “I learned some Chinese Legilimency over the summer. Not a lot, but it'll have to do. I can learn more. I still have the book.”

“No, Harry, it's too damn dangerous to try something like that,” Ron warned. “Hermione - she risked all to rescue you, and look where it's left her. Now you want to do the same thing. Who knows how you'll end up?”

“I have to do it, Ron. There's no other way,” Harry maintained. “Nobody else can convince her that I'm not dead. Those bloody Yanks were right, I think. She's thinks I'm dead, and she doesn't want to come out.”

“Can I come, then?” Ron asked. “You'll need to train. I can train with you.”

“Ron, there's not time,” Harry answered. “I'm sorry….”

Ron grabbed his friend around the shoulders, “Why isn't there time? She's stable isn't she? The Yanks…. They didn't bollix things up worse, did they?”

“No, Ron,” Harry corrected. “It's not that. It's … It's her mum. That living will Hermione signed - it's no good because she was underage. Some bloody solicitor is going to point that out to her mum any day, and she'll try to take Hermione away to some Muggle hospital where they'll drill holes in her head or something like that. I'm on borrowed time. I've got to go study. Sorry I can't take you with me, but I have to go right away.”

Harry bolted to his feet and practically ran to the stairs. In so doing he passed right through his own Imperturbable Charm, which sizzled briefly and fell away.

“At least talk to Dumbledore first,” Ron called after him.

“Oh, I'm talking to the Headmaster, all right,” Harry's retreating voice replied. “I'm not letting him stop me!”

* * * *

Minerva McGonagall's sharp eyes regarded the anxious, and frankly rather ripe, young man who could barely stand still - Harry was such a bundle of nerves. He had Flooed ahead to set up this meeting, saying it was urgent. She was sitting at her desk in her office as he stood before her, trembling.

She had been teaching at Hogwarts for over three decades, and this was the first time a student had ever Flooed her in such an impertinent fashion.

It was also the first time she had allowed it.

“Mister Potter, have you had any sleep?” she asked through pursed lips.

“Yes … just not lately,” Harry admitted. “I need to see Dumbledore.”

“As I have informed the entire school - and you privately at least twice - the Headmaster is not available. He is traveling, and will not be back until next week.”

“I need to talk to him. It's urgent and it can't wait,” Harry pressed. Then he added, “Hermione thinks I'm dead.”

“What?” the Deputy Headmistress asked in a shocked voice. “How can that be?”

“It was the last thing she did. What she was trying to do when it happened. She was begging me not to play hero and not to let Voldemort kill me. Like in the song she played for me…. Hlr. Huxley showed me. She's still conscious in some way deep inside. She doesn't want to come out because like the….” Harry's frantic flow of words ground to a screeching halt.

Professor McGonagall had been having enough trouble following as it was, “What is like what?” she asked.

Harry took a deep breath, and swallowed hard. He was stuck, and he did not know how much the woman knew. “It's like the transcript said,” he told her slowly, “you know what she said about me. She sacrificed herself. Now she thinks I'm dead, and I'm afraid she doesn't want to come out from wherever she is.”

Harry's Head of House also took a mental step back. She remembered Dumbledore's plea for her assistance in just such an affair of the heart. The circumstances were hardly as anticipated, but her superior's request still applied….

“I can reach the Headmaster,” she replied slowly. “It is highly irregular, going against his express instructions, but everything about the present state of affairs is irregular. What do you wish to propose that he do?”

“I don't propose that he do anything,” Harry replied. “There's not much time. I just want you to tell him that I have to go in after her. Only I can convince her I'm alive. I learned some Chinese Legilimency over the summer. I've been up all night brushing up on it. I'm going to go into her mind, find her, and convince her to come back.”

Try as hard as she could to fight it, a scandalised look spread over Professor McGonagall's face. “You're no trained Legilimens,” she observed accurately. “What you're proposing is exceedingly dangerous - almost as dangerous as Miss Granger's original scheme to find you.”

Harry tensed. “I understand that,” he answered as gravely as he could. “But there's no choice. I - I - I can't go on like this … with her suspended halfway between life and death. Her mum will take her away, and that will kill her.”

Professor McGonagall started to say something, but stopped. She tightened her lips, tented her fingers, and thought whilst the boy fidgeted. Perhaps the Headmaster's wish could be fulfilled after all - just not in any way that he could foresee. He had been presumptuous to ask her to intervene in such matters in the first instance.

“I shall inform the Headmaster of the situation and what you propose to do,” she said. “Although there are no guarantees, I expect that he will wish to speak with you directly. Please refrain from doing anything rash until he has his say.”

“He has six hours,” Harry replied firmly. “This is not a request for permission. I am simply requesting his advice about something I am determined to do.” His voice dropped practically to a whisper as he added, “I - I can't live without her.”

“You are making a highly impertinent demand, Mister Potter. You know that, don't you?” the Deputy Headmaster chided coldly.

“Yes,” Harry agreed, “but really … I'm beyond caring at this point. This really doesn't have anything to do with Hogwarts - this is personal.”

“I shall relay that as well,” McGonagall sighed. “…Provided I get a satisfactory answer to one question.”

“What?”

McGonagall regarded him sternly. “Earlier, in connection with a transcript, you mentioned Miss Granger's confessed feelings. Are those feelings reciprocated?”

At that, Harry stopped his nervous fidgeting and stood stock-still. “You really need to ask me that question?” he returned. “Isn't it obvious?”

“You came here for a reason, Potter,” McGonagall pressed. “I must make absolutely certain that you - yes, you - understand precisely what that reason is.”

For a moment Professor McGonagall was afraid she had gone too far - that the boy in front of her was just going to leave. But whilst his face flushed, he stood his ground. Finally, he said, in a low and even voice, “Yes - Merlin, yes. More than reciprocated … and I'm proud of that.”

“Were more to be possible,” she commented softly as she stood up, turned away from him, and reached into a glass cabinet behind her. “Very well, you may go, but take this. You will need some sleep. It is important to keep your wits about you.”

She handed him a delicate glass Time-Turner on a golden chain. It was the same one she had entrusted to Hermione almost exactly three years before.

Harry really smiled for the first time in a week as he took it from her.

“You do know how to use it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he affirmed, “Hermione taught me how.”

“Seven twists should be sufficient,” she instructed. “And use it for nothing except sleep. Otherwise it could lead to dangerous paradoxes.”

“You … You have my word,” Harry replied hesitantly. “And thank you.”

“Very well,” McGonagall acknowledged, “but beyond your word - you should also know that its maximum capacity is twenty-four hours.”

Harry nodded to show he understood, but thought, `damn.'

* * * *

Harry's eyes flew open at the sound of a knock on the door to his dormitory. The door opened of its own accord before he had a chance to do more than find his glasses. Headmaster Dumbledore, still in his heavy travelling cape, strode into the room, followed by his deputy.

“Do not bother to rise, Mister Potter,” the Headmaster greeted Harry. “After all, you asked to see me.” Headmaster Dumbledore waved his hand and a squashy armchair appeared, then another. The two senior Hogwarts staff members settled into them - as if it were the most normal thing in the world for a student to summon the Headmaster of the school and demand that he break off whatever else he was doing.

“Do … Do you have any news?” Harry asked.

“I do indeed, but that can wait, because it is not about the matter that prompted your summons to me - and that caused me to comply with it. Minerva tells me that you have finally reviewed the transcript of Miss Granger's testimony. Something I recommended some time ago, I believe.”

“She's right,” Harry replied, letting the Headmaster's gentle (and deserved) chastisement pass. “I know now why she did it.”

“And the lesson you have drawn from all this is?” Dumbledore asked.

“She thinks I'm dead,” Harry said flatly. “The Yanks, as wrong as they were about everything else, were right about one thing - she's resisting. She doesn't want to come back. I'm sure of it.”

Dumbledore asked no questions about this series of extraordinary deductions. He merely prompted, “Minerva tells me that you have a proposal.”

Harry stared back. Choosing his words carefully, he answered, “No, no proposal.”

For the first time, surprise showed in the Headmaster's eyes. “But, I thought…?”

“No proposal,” Harry cut him off, “just a course of action. I'm going to use the Chinese Legilimency I learned over the summer to enter Hermione's mind, find whatever there is to find of her wherever she is, and convince her I'm not dead. That's what I'm going to do. I'm not proposing anything.”

Dumbledore regarded Harry's steely eyes and firmly set jaw. “And I am not proposing to stop you,” he demurred.

“I knew you'd want to try something like…,” Harry began angrily, before his mind processed what the Headmaster had actually said. “What?”

Harry had been certain that the old man would try to invoke the prophecy and forbid him from trying. He was half right.

“Mister Potter - Harry,” Dumbledore responded, “Minerva is one of the few to whom I have chosen to entrust the full prophecy. Knowing full well the significance of your destiny, we both agree that you should do what you propose.”

Harry could not believe his ears. He had been preparing for Dumbledore's resistance ever since he had decided what he had to do.

“In whatever fashion you must ultimately do what the prophecy calls upon you to do,” Professor McGonagall began, “there is no requirement that it be done alone. Indeed, I am not at all confident that it can be accomplished all by oneself.”

“I agree,” Dumbledore joined in, “and I understand the dangers. However, when there is no other preferable choice, then whatever choice remains necessarily becomes the most reasonable course of action. I made that assessment previously with Miss Granger's quest to find you, and I have made it presently in connection with your own equivalent quest. I only ask that you give me twenty-four hours….”

At the Headmaster's request for more time, Harry's suspicions flared. “Why? I'm as ready as I'll ever be right now. Any minute, Hermione's mum could come bursting through the Castle doors, a bloody barrister in tow.”

“There are two reasons,” Dumbledore replied. “First, I need to inform both your guardian and the goblins of your decision. The goblins have been quite cross with me in the recent past for not consulting them concerning yourself.”

“All right,” Harry agreed, “but why should that take so long? They're in the Forbidden Forest. I saw them this afternoon.”

“Most of the time is required by my second reason - because I disagree that you are as ready as you could be,” Dumbledore continued.

“I'm not waiting for more training,” Harry declared testily. “There's no time for that.”

“But you could use supervision,” Dumbledore answered, his eyes twinkling for the first time in the conversation. “It will take that long for Sefu Kung to get here from China. He is not well enough for intercontinental Apparition, I'm afraid, and he has been staying in a rather isolated area.”

Harry's spirits lifted, almost soared. Lao Kung was one person - perhaps the only person - who could truly help him with the task he envisioned. “You … You think he would do that in his - condition?”

“He's already on his way,” Dumbledore replied happily. “When Minerva explained to me what you had decided, and why, I immediately contacted him - and he immediately agreed.”

* * * *

Somewhat incongruously dressed - wearing nothing but his Speedo bathing costume beneath his long school robes - Harry pulled at the grey material that covered both his wrists. Finally, one of the two goblins attending him asked permission in his somewhat broken English to assist the most unusual goblin prince.

“Assist allow me, Impratraxis Potter?”

The goblin tailors, unused to his more robust human physique, had plainly made the arakkilli - goblin wrist coverings that obscured his tladimax and channelled its powers- too tight. “Yes, please,” Harry moaned in frustration.

The goblins discussed the matter amongst themselves in Gobbledegook spoken far too quickly for Harry to understand. They then ran their hands over the offending fabric. It gave off a brief white glow and resized itself to fit Harry's arms perfectly.

“Gradnuk,” Harry said gratefully.

“Thanks need not be given, Impratraxis,” one of them said. “To serve you our purpose is in your time of need.”

“Wear your manmak, you must,” the senior goblin instructed Harry.

Harry was somewhat confused. “You mean, the ring?” he asked. “I - I don't even have it with me.”

“Then obtained it must be,” the goblin insisted. “Without manmak, not function won't the magic.”

Fortunately for everyone, Dobby was present. With a little description and a bit of direction, the house-elf was able to retrieve the goblin signet ring for Harry in short order. Whilst he was gone, the goblin representatives attempted, with only moderate success, to explain how goblin magic operated on a different plane than that of wizards. However, Harry did not need to understand this divergent form of magic for it to protect him. It was enough that he wear the ring that symbolised his membership in the goblin royal family.

“Ready you are, presently,” the other goblin told Harry, after both his ring and his arakkilli had been checked one final time and pronounced satisfactory.

Harry bowed to the two retainers sent by his adoptive father - the Goblin king. In response, the two goblins prostrated themselves, making Harry most uncomfortable. After all, he had quite an audience in the Hospital Wing.

“Please get up,” he asked, but they did not.

Harry walked over to Dumbledore. “I anticipated that the goblins would prove to be of assistance,” the Headmaster observed, maintaining his façade of imperturbability as the moment of truth approached.

“What did you tell them?” Harry asked.

“I told them the truth about what you were planning to do,” Dumbledore replied. “They drew their own conclusions from that. They quite reasonably see parallels between your decision to project yourself into Miss Granger's mind through Legilimency and their own Epic of Hsemaglig - the story of Impatok Rakazag's descent into the Netherworld to rescue his soon-to-be queen Ilina.”

“Isn't that a little much?” Harry protested feebly. “This is just Legilimency, after all.”

“Perhaps it is excessive,” Dumbledore agreed, “since from their union was sired the current ruling dynasty. But what you or I think doesn't matter. It provides them with what I am sure they consider to be good reason.”

“Such as what?” Harry asked, wondering what additional detail the Headmaster might have learned.

“Whilst you were being held, there were times when you were thought dead,” Dumbledore revealed. “You gave the goblins a copy of your Last Will and Testament, which they had occasion to review. Thus, they are quite aware that you left almost everything you possessed to Miss Granger, and they drew their own conclusions from that.”

“Oh,” Harry responded dully, not knowing what more to say.

“In light of that, it is hardly unreasonable for them to draw their own inferences concerning the nature of the relationship that exists between the two of you,” Dumbledore expounded, “especially since you are about to risk your life.”

“No less than she did. Maybe by the time I've come out, I'll have proven something,” Harry alluded.

“I assure you, you need prove nothing to the goblins,” Dumbledore told him.

“Maybe I wasn't talking about them,” Harry replied sharply. He knew it was purposeless for him to deny anything now.

“There is more, though,” Dumbledore continued. “They profoundly appreciate that you charged her with carrying out your solemn obligations to the Goblin Nation. Your obvious expectation that she was capable of shouldering that role produces their considerable interest in her. Putting aside your own situation, it is a matter the goblins naturally consider to be of utmost national importance. Hence their support.”

“No matter what happens,” Harry requested, “please pass along my gratitude to Impatok Ragnok.”

“I shall indeed, although I have no doubt that he knows already,” Dumbledore agreed. “By the way, the goblins have something they state belongs to you as the `victor' in your recent encounter with Voldemort. They were unwilling to tell me what it was, however.”

“That will just have to wait,” Harry replied. “I've got something far more important to do now. I just hope that - when I find her - that I'll know what to say. I'm miserable with that kind of thing, you know.”

“I am sure you will do splendidly,” Dumbledore reassured.

“That's easy for you to say,” Harry grumbled. “There's a lot of…. Well, let's just say that there's a lot I have to overcome.”

“Doubtless that is true,” Dumbledore counselled, “but do not underestimate your advantages. They are many. You would do well, for example, to examine your ring closely.”

“Why?” Harry asked.

“Trust me,” Dumbledore replied.

Harry did as he was told - slipping the Auror partner ring from his finger and examining it carefully. In very little time, his eyes went wide.

“It's … It's not mine! It's Hermione's,” Harry said as he fingered the band almost reverently.

“And?” Dumbledore prompted.

“That - that must mean…. That she's been wearing mine. I just assumed….” Harry's voice trailed off into thought. Unbeknownst to him they were wearing each other's Auror rings.

“Yours was retrieved the night you were taken,” Dumbledore explained. “Tonks gave it to Miss Granger. She's worn it ever since. Given the charms, only she - or you - could remove it. It should, of course, give you some sense of her feelings.”

“That's for sure,” Harry agreed, once again startled by how much the old man seemed to know. “But - why didn't you tell me?”

The Headmaster regarded him sadly. “I was hoping that … somehow, she would,” he answered, with a wistful look in his eye. “I believed that would be - more appropriate. There are some things in which even I am hesitant to meddle. Regrettably, that never happened, and meddlesome or not, I thought you should know before you attempted this.”

The explanation mollified Harry. “All right,” he replied. Then he looked over to Lao Kung, recumbent on a rug that floated in midair next to the enlarged bed that held Hermione's still comatose body. The elderly wizard bowed slightly, indicating that he was prepared to commence whenever Harry was ready.

“I think it's time,” Harry told the Headmaster. “I'd like to see my friends first, though.”

“I thought you would,” Dumbledore said sagely. “They await. I shall usher them in. But one more thing - please feel free to tell her anything that you feel is appropriate under the circumstances. You have been asked, by myself and others, to keep certain things to yourself. This is more important, so do not feel bound by any of that.”

“You mean…?” Harry gawked at the Headmaster.

“Precisely. I fear that she may have misunderstood,” Dumbledore answered, looking Harry straight in the eye. “Do what you think is right.”

Before beginning what would be a perilous and quite possibly fatal journey through Hermione's mind, Harry took his leave of his friends - who had all trooped to the Hospital Wing to pay their respects.

First he embraced Ron. “Ron, I know you have - mixed feelings - about this, but I have to do it…,” Harry choked out. “I couldn't live with myself otherwise.”

Ron clapped him firmly on the back, “I only wish I could go too. Good luck, mate. You'll need it. We'll have a party - just the three of us - when you bring her back.”

Cho, who was standing just behind Ron, frowned just a bit at that remark, but said nothing. When the time came, she also briefly wished Harry, “Good luck and Godspeed.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Luna said when the departing boy turned to her. “This means a great deal. Far more than you could know. In finding her, you also find yourself. Now be the Seeker…. Go and get her, Harry.”

Neville wrung Harry's hand emotionally when it was his turn. “I glad to see you thought of something - something typically brave and dangerous,” he said. “Anyway, you deserve her. You're a better man than I am.”

“No he's not,” Ginny observed from Neville's right-hand side, “but he sure is close. Good luck, Harry. Hermione doesn't know how lucky she is.”

“I - I hope to tell her that when I find her,” Harry affirmed. “… and a lot more.”

“I'm sure you'll do that, Harry,” Ginny replied, her shoulders slumping just a bit. As much as Ginny cared for Neville, she could not avoid a twinge of jealousy. The boy for whom she had so long carried a torch was ready to risk everything for the sake of another witch - the same witch for whom her current boyfriend had also once had romantic feelings.

Some people have all the luck.

Unless they're comatose.

Ginny smiled wistfully at Harry, and he smiled back.

With that he turned and strode to Lao Kung.

“You are prepared, Hahli?” the elderly Chinese master asked. He was missing the better part of an arm and a leg - the consequence of the Death Eater attack on Dudley's gym some weeks before. Despite still being convalescent, he had immediately travelled halfway around the world at Dumbledore's request, once he learnt what Harry was planning. For most of the previous six hours he had been closeted with Harry going over the finer points of Chinese Legilimency.

“I'm ready,” Harry declared. “As ready as - as I'll ever be.” His voice faltered just a bit at the end.

“You have eaten and drunk your fill?” Lao Kung checked.

“Yes, Sefu, I have,” Harry confirmed. “As you directed - as much as I could without creating any causing discomfort by stuffing myself.”

“Remember, because you can take neither food nor drink once your consciousness separates from your body, you have three days, at the most, to complete your journey. Once you are inside, use the vermilion thread to guide you. It will help you retrace your steps and escape if you are unsuccessful. And remember - only the lightest levels of magic when you are inside. The mind is extraordinarily delicate. No magic beyond yourself or your immediate surroundings. Absolutely nothing elemental. Are you ready?”

Harry nodded.

“Then begin … and maintain physical contact,” the Sefu instructed. “Tell me when you are situated. Everyone else, please exit the room at this time so we can concentrate.”

Harry shed his robes as everyone except himself, Lao Kung - and Hermione, of course - shuffled out. Before allowing his robes to fall to the floor, Harry took out a small object from one of the pockets and clutched it in his right hand. He had made a gift of it once before, as a token of his feelings. Tragedy had returned it to him. He had refurbished it with a new message, and fully intended to repeat the process a second time.

His feelings were much deeper this time - and, correspondingly - so was the meaning of the message. He knew that now. It was knowledge that he had won at an exceedingly high cost. Too high a cost.

Lao Kung made a hand gesture. The single white sheet that covered Hermione rippled and billowed upward, and the girl's body rolled onto its side.

Crookshanks had been watching everything intently from under a nearby table. At the sight of Hermione's motion, the ginger cat yowled loudly and jumped up on his mistress' bed. The cat sniffed the girl's face, but obtained no reaction. He skulked to the foot of the bed and plopped himself down at Hermione's feet, curling up into a large orangish ball. He fixed his yellow-green eyes on Harry.

Harry moved to shoo the cat away.

“Let him be,” Lao Kung advised softly. “The feng shui is positive.”

Harry shrugged his shoulders. Refocussing on the task at hand, he moved toward the magically billowing sheet. Hermione was clad in a brand new white hospital type gown and was now on her side, facing away from him. Her hair cascaded to the mattress and pooled behind her. Whilst it was still the same colour, he could not get over how much softer and thinner it was than before.

He took a deep breath and slipped into the bed beside Hermione. Almost at once the sheet deflated and dropped down to cover them both. As Lao Kung had directed, he spooned the girl for maximum physical contact. Greater contact made for more efficacious Legilimency, especially for a virtual novice such as Harry.

This would not be easy. On the one hand, he was nearly naked, emotionally on edge, and very attracted to her. On the other hand, she was comatose, and for that reason his urges disgusted him. It was quite a bit more - intimate - than Harry was comfortable with (yet), but anything that improved the chances of success he would do. He would deal with these roiling intimacy issues in due time.

For now he had to banish such thoughts. He needed to concentrate on what she had called his “saving people thing.”

He snaked his right arm underneath and across Hermione until he found her left hand. As he grasped it, he felt his/her Auror ring on her finger. He ran two fingers along either side of it, hoping he would get a chance to discuss this with her. He took her hand fully so that the object he clasped in his own settled neatly between their adjoining palms and intertwined fingers. His left arm he rested gently on Hermione's side, with that hand spread broadly across her forehead. Like her hand, Hermione's forehead was cool to the touch and slightly clammy.

He adjusted his hand slightly so that his own ring did not press as much into her forehead.

He whispered into Hermione's ear, “I love you. I'm coming for you. I hope you'll have me.” With light pressure, he pushed the back of her head into his own forehead. Again, this was the position Lao Kung had described as most effective.

Harry buried his face in her ample, just shampooed hair. Surrounded by her scent, he began to meditate upon an image of Hermione. He had quite a number of choices. He selected her appearance when he first saw her on his doorstep after she had returned from Hong Kong.

It had been as close to pure joy as she could get.

In the firmest voice he could command, Harry called out, “I'm ready now.”

“Very well, Hahli,” Lao Kung replied. “Repeat after me….”

Lao Kung began a sonorous chant in Chinese, which Harry carefully repeated. Gradually, his surroundings began to fade into obscurity. First he lost sight of his surroundings. As he had learnt from Lao Kung, he closed his eyes as this happened. Then he began to feel a floating sensation as he lost touch with the outside world and his consciousness began infusing into the girl's mind. The sense of smell likewise vanished imperceptibly, by degrees.

The last sense to disappear was Harry's hearing. He kept repeating the unfamiliarly tonal Chinese incantation as the Sefu's voice faded farther and farther into the background. Eventually, he could hear his Legilimency instructor no more.

Harry kept chanting and chanting. He lost track of time. He no longer knew whether the chant he heard himself reciting was even audible, or merely a figment of his own mind.

Finally, he heard the chant begin to echo as he repeated it. That was the key. It had happened, with Lao Kung's considerably greater assistance, when he had entered the Sefu's own mind during training. It was happening again.

He was in. Briefly he wondered what Hermione's mind would resemble. Lao Kung's had been a busy, crowded city - like Hong Kong. His own mind, he had been told, looked like a desolate battlefield after combat had ceased.

Harry opened his eyes. He saw nothing. Everything was pitch black.

* * * *

Author's notes: Far, far better thing is from Dickens' Tale of Two Cities, spoken by Carton, who chooses to give up life for another

Under certain conditions, potassium ferricyanide yields cyanide gas as a decomposition product

42 has specific meaning; it is not from Hitchhiker's Guide

The colored reaction product in this invisible ink is cobalt chloride, which is blue

Hermione put only a single-use charm on the parchment so Harry wouldn't end up like a rat pushing a lever to get a drug hit over and over again

Luna has her own reasons for tending Hermione

What happened in Second Year will be revealed later

I'm using the PoA movie Hogwarts topography

A dirk is a long Scottish knife

Alphonse and Gaston are characters from a famous comic strip

Mannock's presence in the castle during Hermione's search is explained

Lèse majesté = an offense against the person of royalty

The recitation of “ation” words comes from U-2's “Bad”

Bustle in the hedgerow is from “Stairway to Heaven”

“Hairy Christmas” = Hare Krishna

The odd Patronus is a precursor

There's a limit to what even the Room of Requirement can accommodate

We'll meet a real Sister of the Moon in a few chapters - the name has already been mentioned

Kabbalah is Jewish mysticism, which involves numerology and divination, among many things

Succubi society - a touch of old-time blood libel

Rhiannon Buckingham arises from Fleetwood Mac, as does “Sister of the Moon”

Billy Don't Be A Hero gives important insight into Hermione's thought process

New World to the rescue of the old is another Churchillian paraphrase

Magical activation analysis is a play on neutron activation analysis, which is a form of full-body tomographic scan

Chelation is a chemical way of purging the body of contaminates

Positron emission is another form of tomography

Sitting Shiva is slightly misused (Neville's not the best about Muggles) as it's a Jewish mourning ritual

My betas thought Neville was too OOC, so I added the potions bit

AltaVista - 1996 is pre-Google

The goblins speak English like Yoda

Hsemaglig is Gilgamesh spelled backwards; the Epic of Gilgamesh is the oldest piece of human literature to survive to the present day

Harry's spoils will be revealed

Luna's found her … now go and get her line is a reprise of “Hey Jude”

Vermilion - the color of Chinese emperors

The object Harry put in his hand should be obvious

Chinese is a tonal language, which is why it sounds so different to Western speakers

57

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch41 being a hero.doc 01/29/06

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42. Now Or Never

Wherein Harry overcomes darkness, becomes lost in a maze, loses his lifeline, visits music, reaches the center, uses music, finds Hermione, explains everything, and convinces her to return; McGonagall gets a summons; and Voldemort reviews a reading.

“Thomas Walker” in Ch. 40 is “Tommy” from the Who's rock opera of the same name. Thus, Hlr. Huxley is the doctor in “Go To The Mirror Boy,” and the mirror in the song is the Mirror of Erised.

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

Chapter 42 - Now Or Never

Harry gasped. Everything was black as a pit. He may as well have been transported into the depths of a sealed dungeon - or worse, back to Malfoy Manor with the hood back over his head. A suffocating blackness, more profound than the most starless of nights, surrounded him. He could see neither his hand before his face nor the ground (or whatever) upon which he stood. Was this how it felt to be killed by a Lethifold?

He had no idea what environment he would encounter once Chinese Legilimency cleared the way for his consciousness to enter the fastness of Hermione's mind, but he had expected to find something. That he would confront only an inky gloom - like some never-explored cavern far underground, had never even crossed his mind.

Did this mean that, contrary to his hopes and expectations, she was brain dead after all…? Were all of his efforts futilely and fatally too late…?

“NO!!!” he screamed into the oppressive invisibility engulfing him. Only a hollow, not-quite-echo responded. An intense claustrophobia swept through him. Gripped by fear and anguish, Harry started to run….

He had taken but a few steps when he collided, hard, with something mostly flat that felt like a wall. Harry crashed into it at an oblique angle and lost his balance. Arms flailing as he toppled over, the fingertips of one of his hands found a small hole in the wall. Instinctively grabbing at anything that might break his fall, Harry dislodged something large and solid….

He hit the floor - or what felt like a floor - with a jolt hard enough to cause him see stars. An instant later, whatever he had pulled loose struck him painfully on the ribs, bounced off, and landed beside him with a thud.

Physical pain replaced his panic. The vaguely metallic taste in his mouth made Harry realise he had bitten his tongue. Breathing hard and trying to collect his wits, he just lay there in the stifling black for what seemed like an inordinately long time.

Everything looked the same whether his eyes were open or closed. His vision useless, Harry inventoried his other senses. He could hear nothing, save the faint sound of his own breathing. The silence was as deep as the darkness. He lay on a flat, smooth surface that felt like stone…. He smelt … a slight mustiness….

Finally! Something he recognised; something he could latch onto; something he could build upon. He associated this same smell with that out-of-the-way nook that was Hermione's favoured studying spot in the far reaches of … the Hogwarts library.

That was it.

It was so obvious - Harry kicked himself for panicking.

He extended his arm. With his fingertips he felt about his inky surroundings until locating the object that had struck him. He moved it easily. Grabbing it, he flopped it over and, ran his hand across it. He cracked it open and … turned a page … and then another.

Harry rolled himself over, gave his right hand a flick, and had his wand where he wanted it. It was not really his wand, of course, but Lao Kung's training had taught him that his disembodied consciousness would seek out familiar forms.

Only gentle magic.

“Lumos.”

Harry's wandtip glowed, appearing unnaturally bright in contrast to the utter absence of any other source of illumination. He was in a long low-ceilinged corridor with walls filled to bursting with books. Other, similar, passageways emerged at irregular intervals on both the left and the right. All around were books, books, and more books - as far as (and altogether farther than) the eye could see.

Lao Kung had not thought to tell him, and Harry had not bothered to ask, what the lighting conditions would be within a comatose mind. Maybe the Sefu had not known. It made sense that there would be no light.

Harry looked at the tome he had yanked out of the shelf next to him whilst falling. It was an old, leather-bound edition of Hogwarts: A History - Hermione's favorite book. On its spine was an incomprehensible string of numbers and letters, beginning with “941”. He picked the book up and gently slid it back into its place. He noticed that the books in the endless shelves were precisely ordered, by number, and within numbers, by letter.

This was Hermione's mind, all right - but everything was dark and still. He saw only form without function. His quest was just beginning. He still had to find the essence of the girl herself.

* * * *

Although they could not say it - indeed, could not even think it - the congregated Death Eaters were well pleased to take their leave of their Master. A dank odour of decay permeated the air in the half-lit chamber that served as Lord Voldemort's sickroom during his extended recovery from … whatever it was that had happened. Even the sickeningly sweet incense that had burned constantly in the otherwise shrouded space could not entirely mask it.

Lord Voldemort cursed at how weak he remained from his injuries, but at least his eventual recovery was now a foregone conclusion. His immediate concern was to contemplate the implications of unexpected news that his servants - loyal, or otherwise - Snape and Pettigrew had related. He lay back on the black satin sheets of the large bed.

“Bella, you are to stay,” he commanded. Scowling at the others, he ordered, “All the rest are to go … quickly. You heard me! Be gone!”

Lord Voldemort's remaining followers fled, almost tripping over the hems of one another's robes in their haste, whilst Bellatrix Lestrange, his latest “most loyal servant,” remained. Not bothering with his wand, the Dark Lord lazily flicked an Imperturbable Charm into being with a couple of his long fingers.

“Yes, Master?” she asked with lascivious anticipation. She had been waiting for this call ever since that horrible day when she had Side-Along Apparated them both away, only an instant before an inferno would have engulfed them.

“Patience, Bella, for I need to regain more strength,” Lord Voldemort cautioned whilst casually tracing with his finger an ivory inlay of a skeleton in one of the elaborately carved ebony wood pillars of his four-posted bedstead. “Soon, but not yet. I know how you regard Severus, but his potions are quite useful….”

Lestrange frowned - both from frustrated desire and from her Lord's mention of the one Death Eater she considered least reliable. “But you'll do it for them…,” she sighed.

“You are not to question that again, this is a direct order,” the Dark Lord dictated angrily. In the next moment, however, his voice softened. “I know you're jealous, but some things can't be helped. War requires alliances. We are seriously understaffed, and I require more manpower. Unfortunately, Potter saw to that.”

“Perhaps, as you yourself have suggested, the boy requires more - consideration - than we supposed,” Bella alluded, choosing her words carefully.

“I agree,” Lord Voldemort admitted uncharacteristically. “I have underestimated that runt for the last time. It cannot now be denied that he possesses great power … power he cannot wield effectively, but he is young. It must be - as rumoured….”

“The … the Fifth Element, my Lord?” Lestrange hinted softly.

“Do not speak of it to the others,” Voldemort demanded, “but yes, I suppose precisely that. Nothing else could have wrecked that castle and its environs in such short order. He is indeed a danger. From now on, we must assume the worst about the prophecy involving him - and act accordingly.”

“Then you have other plans, My Lord?” Lestrange asked.

“Indeed. My recuperation has provided much-needed time to think,” the Dark Lord confirmed. “Tell me - what did you think of the information brought to us tonight by Severus and Wormtail?”

“Potentially quite valuable,” was the most Lestrange would allow Snape. “The bodies of Potter's parents would provide the means for a different angle of attack.”

“True - but irrelevant,” the Dark Lord spat, cutting her off. “You never were a deep thinker, Bella. I assure you that those bodies have been removed and again secreted. In that sense, the information is worse than useless. Dumbledore was the Secret Keeper, after all. Inveterate plotter that he is, he would not have revealed such a secret without being prepared.”

“Then you think it was a trap?” Lestrange asked. “Snape is a traitor, I know it.”

“Even if Severus is a traitor, he could not have planned this,” Voldemort replied lazily, as if addressing a child. “Remember, Wormtail possessed the memory, but it was Dumbledore who released the secret. As devious as Severus undoubtedly is, he could not control that situation. The interesting question is why Dumbledore acted now.”

“We should investigate nonetheless,” Lestrange suggested. “It is only prudent.”

“As soon as I am prepared to vacate these premises, I shall send Wormtail,” Lord Voldemort decided. “His ability to transform would be of use. In any event, with the Black inheritance matter concluded - adversely - he is expendable, if it comes to that.”

“If not one, then the other,” Lestrange commented - appeased, if not necessarily pleased, by her Master's choice.

“The questions raised by this event are probably more significant than the answers,” Lord Voldemort went on, thinking aloud. “Why would Dumbledore reveal this now - after all these years? I answer myself…. Potter, and none other.”

“What brings you to that conclusion, My Lord?” Lestrange asked.

“There were very few witnesses. It was a very hasty burial. The day after, it appears - just before Wormtail tricked Black. Those who attended … hmmm…. Wormtail named Dumbledore, McGonagall, the Longbottoms, the werewolf Lupin, himself, and the half-breed Hagrid. None of them have any current need to know.”

“Potter, then, by the process of elimination?” Lestrange prompted.

“Precisely,” Lord Voldemort answered. “Potter is coming of age, magically and legally. Not having been told about his parents, he wanted answers. Ah … Potter must have forced the old man's hand. That means Dumbledore's afraid of him.”

That surprised Lestrange. “Dumbledore?”

“Correct,” the Dark Lord congratulated himself. His evil eyes shone with cold delight as he put the pieces together. “And that means Potter, too, survived our recent confrontation. I rather suspect the boy suffered less from it than I. The boy's power must be barely controllable. Even Dumbledore must feel the need to appease him.”

“There must be something we can exploit, then,” Lestrange answered.

“Perhaps. I have been thinking along the same lines,” the Dark Lord brooded. “But the course will be different, of necessity. Interestingly … I do not seem to have the power I could use before. Previous, I could penetrate Potter's mind with ease - and he, mine, unfortunately - but since our last meeting, I've been unable to reopen that affinity. I believe I know why.”

“You are even more perceptive than I had previously thought possible,” Lestrange simpered.

“Or perhaps not sufficiently perceptive before. I trust you recall the importance of Horcruxes, then,” Lord Voldemort prompted.

“Surely,” Lestrange replied. “I could never forget. You honoured me above all others by revealing that to me - and then helping me create my own after I dispatched my dear cousin.”

“October 31, 1981, the date of my first fateful encounter with young Potter, I had created two Horcruxes - my last - in anticipation of his death, and that of his father…. The site of the Potters' hideaway was propitious,” the Dark Lord explained. “Thus, I completed one, but as for the other…. My mission failed before I could finish that task. Whatever power he had … forced my spell back into my wand, causing a backfire. I always believed that the incomplete Horcrux had been destroyed, or had dissipated, in the aftermath, but now I think not….”

“You mean - your link to Potter…?” Lestrange was dumbfounded. She had no idea.

“Very good,” Lord Voldemort replied. “That was unusually perceptive. Yes. Horcruxes being fractionated souls, storing them within inanimate objects is quite difficult - a most prized ability of mine. Also, excellent camouflage…. But left to their own devices, as happened after I decomposed, Horcruxes gravitate to the living. It's where souls belong after all. A living environment is far less stable, due to the inconvenient possibility of death. But I digress. I now believe that the second Horcrux lodged itself in Potter's mind, unbeknownst to either of us.”

Lestrange thought she knew. “Then the recent failure of the link….”

“…Was due to the destruction of my rogue Horcrux by Potter's uncontrolled magical emission,” Voldemort confirmed. “At least that's the most reasonable supposition. That would make at least two terminated by his actions, the first being my initial effort, hidden in an old diary of mine.”

He paused as his thoughts turned inward. “Or perhaps not….”

“My Lord?” Lestrange asked after him.

The Dark Lord's thoughtful moment passed. “Bella, I trust you above all others, thus I need you to conduct an inventory of those remaining. My imperviousness to death depends on them. I shall tell you where I believe them to be. But first I need additional resources.”

“I am ready, My Lord,” Lestrange declared.

“You are an existing resource,” Voldemort replied. “I require something new and different for a task that I am still devising. When we are finished - which is not quite yet - I shall need you to send Lucius in. He and I, we have some unfinished business.”

“As you wish, so shall it be, My Lord,” Lestrange affirmed.

“Which brings me to my second topic….”

The witch's dark involuntarily eyes went wide. The Dark Lord did not often share confidences, and this was her second of the day. “You honour me too much, Master.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “This matter requires discussion, not because of its complexity, but because my Pensieve is lost and for now I have no replacement. Thus, I lack optimal access to my own memory.”

“From one who forgets as little as you, I suspect you are having me on,” Lestrange replied.

“I never engage in low humour,” Voldemort hissed. Without further warning, he struck, shouting “Crucio!”

He withdrew the spell after only a few seconds. “Remember that,” the evil wizard grimly directed.

“I … I shall, Master,” Lestrange responded whilst catching her breath. Her ebony hair was wildly disheveled - but not so nearly as wild as the almost feral look in her eyes. “And thank you, I needed that.”

“Your attitude towards pain is indeed … refreshing,” Lord Voldemort remarked wryly. Noticing that her lascivious look had returned, he responded, “When I am stronger. What matters now is the original prophecy I was studying when the latest unpleasantness occurred. Whilst it was certainly lost in the castle's destruction, I still have my souvenir from the Hall of Prophecy, as well as these to explain - or to obscure, as the case may be - what it means.”

The Dark Lord wandlessly summoned an object the size of a box of Floo powder. A flick of his hand magically removed its tightly wrapped black velvet covering. He handed the contents to Bellatrix. “Do you remember what these symbolise?” he asked the stunned witch. “Keep them in order,” he directed.

She examined them. “Y-y-yes - of course,” Lestrange stammered, not sure what hidden meaning he might be driving at. “The final seven…. It's in all the histories of the time. They are same as the Grindelwald Reading.”

“Recite for me your knowledge of the reading,” Voldemort ordered.

“What I know is - common knowledge from History of Magic,” Lestrange stumbled on. “Herr Grindelwald gave a reading to that foolish Muggle who started their Second World War. From the cards, Hitler took it that a union of Jews and Communists would overthrow his country unless he put a stop to it. But he was wrong. What it really meant was that the Americans and the Russians would come together to destroy him, personally, and with that all his works. And through his ignorant miscalculations, that's precisely what they did.”

“Well, well … quite good,” Lord Voldemort praised, “only these - these eight cards - they were drawn for me a decade after the Grindelwald Reading. And, indeed, I have interpreted them in much the same way as that stupid Muggle.”

Bellatrix felt a hitch in her throat. “This is why you - you believe that there is a threat to pure-blood magic?” she asked breathlessly.

“That Muggle-loving wizards and Mudbloods will bring about the downfall of pure-blood power, yes,” the Dark Lord hissed. “Thus I am determined to drive out or exterminate both. But I fear I may be making the same mistake as the Muggle pretender Hitler in interpreting matters too broadly and impersonally. Delusions of grandeur are best avoided.”

“I'm afraid I don't follow,” Lestrange admitted

Voldemort's eyes became slits. “You notice the Four of Pentacles - the Exile?”

“Yes, Master, I do,” she replied, still not following.

“Well, consider the implications if, instead of denoting Muggle-loving wizards generally - it were to refer to the Potter boy personally….”

* * * *

Harry had no idea how long he had searched through the gloomy maze of Hermione's mind for some sign of life - seeking whatever produced the activity that Hlr. Huxley's Muggle (if not magical) equipment detected. Time lost its meaning. The only way Harry knew considerable time had passed was physical. He was getting hungry and worse, thirsty, despite all he had eaten and drunk in anticipation of his journey. Even though he was in someone else's mind, his body was alerting him to its needs.

It would only get worse.

The lifeline he carried only slowed him down, perhaps fatally. It took time - time he did not have - to unravel. More precious time was lost reeling it in when, as had just happened for the half-dozenth time, he found he had somehow tracked the equivalent of a circle and crossed his own path.

He tried moving as fast as he comfortably could without breaking the lifeline. Otherwise, Harry pressed on, stopping only to reshelve any loose books he might come across. He found minor untidiness fairly often, although never any large pile in any one place. No matter what else he wanted to do, he always replaced the books - very carefully in their exact numerical and alphabetical order. He fervently hoped that, by attending to any disarray he encountered, in some small way he could help Hermione heal.

Nevertheless, his frustration grew. Harry did everything he knew how to do. He employed the directional spell just as Lao Kung said he should. It was supposed to show him the direction of Hermione's magic. But it did not work. He guessed that the same problem had thwarted Hlr. Huxley's magical equipment. Hermione's magic was too well hidden. She was hiding it - she had to be. As a result, the Four-Point Spell could not fix upon anything, and was yielding random results.

With nothing else to guide him in this labyrinth of nameless and essentially identical passageways, Harry relied upon the only thing unquestionably available - the numbers that appeared on the spine of each and every one of the books. They differed, and he could tell that the never-ending shelves were organised according to those numbers. Having entered Hermione's mind in the nine hundreds; he decided to work his way down. But it was taking too bloody long.

What good was a lifeline if it did not lead to life? If he failed now, and used it to escape, what awaited him? His answer: A life that would be solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and above all, short. Harry remembered how he felt in the immediate aftermath of Eliza's death. He had hoped for his own death, then. In his grief, he had wished only that Voldemort took him quickly when he came.

And he had not even been in love with Eliza. She had loved him, but he had finally grasped the truth about his feelings. He had been about to break that relationship off when, instead, his life had fallen apart. Learning Cho's secret had left him in such a tizzy about Ron's situation that he had tried to force Hermione to help him do something - what, he was never quite sure. He had driven her past her breaking point.

So many ways to count the tears.

He was in love with Hermione - he knew that now. Why else was he here? Now Harry was face to face with the prospect that maybe, just maybe, she was irretrievably broken.

He could not live with that, and he could not live with himself if it came to that. If she were broken, he had caused it. After she had risked everything to come for him, his horrible, uncontrollable power had left her like this.

She was the only one left alive whom he truly loved - like that - but alive and living were two very different things. If she stayed like this, sooner or later Hermione's mother would find out that she had been tricked, and would come to take her away.

He would never see her again - and worse, never communicate with her again. Even if she stayed in a state like this … she would almost be better off dead, actually.

And he, not Voldemort, had done this to her.

What would his life be without her? Merely a drawn-out prelude to death, Harry supposed. The prophecy fated him to face Voldemort in a kill-or-be-killed struggle. For him to have any chance of winning, at the very least he had to want to live.

The trouble was, he realised, with what he had done to Hermione on his head, his will to do just that was sapped - perhaps fatally. There was too much guilt. Voldemort would surely kill him, and then take over the wizarding world.

Harry made a decision. Between a painful, violent death on some lonely battlefield at the hands of the most evil of wizards, and a painless, peaceful death within the mind of his best friend in the world, he would - for once - choose peace. It would be success or nothing.

He doubted the prophecy promised immortality if Voldemort did not kill him. The lifeline he held in his hands did not lead to life, but only to a more prolonged form of death. Harry cast the lifeless lifeline away, throwing it as far as he could. Then he pulled out his wand and banished the vermilion thread altogether. If he could not find Hermione, there was no place better in the world for him to die than surrounded by her earthly remains.

* * * *

The goblin emissary had just let loose with a stream of very fast and rather angry sounding Gobbledegook. Before a tired and haggard looking Dumbledore could even translate for the rest of his guests, who did not speak the language, Mad-Eye Moody muttered, “Whatever he said, I agree with it. The more painful the better.”

“Oh, I rather doubt that,” Dumbledore replied, both to Mad-Eye and to Banzaf, the goblin who had just finished speaking. Mad-Eye had not been far off. The goblin had, in fact, recited a number of rather unpleasant punishments that could be visited upon on anyone guilty of abducting, or otherwise committing crimes against the person of, a member of the goblin royal family - or a goblin royal consort.

“Whilst that may indeed be their status under goblin law, surely you understand that the situation is highly unusual in that neither Mister Potter nor Miss Granger is actually of goblin birth,” Dumbledore tried to explain, addressing Banzaf. “Her mother, after all, is a Muggle, and I am sure the Muggle authorities would frown upon one of theirs being drawn, quartered, and fed to a dragon - not to mention some of your more unpleasant punishments.”

“They wouldn't hafta know,” Mad-Eye grudgingly grumbled. “Potter's my ward now, and I'm not about ta have that blasted Muggle kill him because she can't comprehend what forces she'd be disturbing. She can't have the girl now, parent or no, as long as Potter's still in there. Muggle law be damned, even if she has the right ta do in her own daughter, I'll curse her myself before I'll let any more harm come ta him.”

“Would everyone kindly remain calm?” Professor McGonagall tutted. “I am, after all, the only one named in the summons, and you don't see me getting all bothered by the letter. Doctor Granger is only one Muggle, after all, and even with that solicitor she's facing an entire castle full of witches and wizards, any one of whom could Transfigure her into something quite loathsome, should the need arise.”

McGonagall left unspoken her own position as Professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts - that she was probably be the most skilled of them all, should it come to carrying out that implied threat.

The goblin Banzaf unleashed another verbal barrage - this time consisting of highly uncomplimentary remarks about lawyers, both wizard and Muggle.

This meeting in the Headmaster's office had been occasioned by the arrival, not two hours earlier, of a recorded delivery owl bearing a letter and summons addressed to Professor McGonagall as Hermione's Head of House. Just as the Deputy Headmistress and Dumbledore had expected, Hermione's mother had learnt that her daughter's advance medical directive - conferring authority over Hermione's medical care upon Harry - was void and of no effect because she had signed it before the age of seventeen.

The missive contained an ex parte cease and desist order directed against Professor McGonagall (Dumbledore, as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot being immune from such process), demanding that she release Hermione to Eva Granger's custody as parent and legal guardian. The accompanying letter, signed by another City lawyer with a “cross over” practice, stated that he would be accompanying Dr. Granger to the Castle to assume custody “forthwith” - but gave no precise date.

The conversation went around and around, with no clear resolution. Dumbledore was speaking, “I agree with Minerva that there is no reason to be hasty and overreact. Mister Potter could well be back by then. But it does behove us to be prepared. I believe I shall ask….”

“ALBUS DUMBADOH!” rang a loud voice from the Headmaster's fireplace.

“There must be news from Sefu Kung,” the subject of the Floo summons declared. Everyone rushed to the fireplace where the aged wizard's head shown amongst the flames.

“Are they back?” Dumbledore asked hopefully.

“No,” Lao Kung answered. “But there is a development. Hahli has expelled the provided lifeline. You know what that means.”

At this news the Headmaster's demeanour deflated. He lifted his good hand to massage his furrowed brow. “I do, indeed,” he sighed. “It means that both of them return, or neither. Mister Potter cannot possibly find his way out alone. It is truly now or never.”

Professor McGonagall threw up her hands in frustration, “Oh, blast the two of them. Young, powerful, Gryffindor - and in love - it's such a dangerous combination. If I believed in that sort of thing, I would be praying right now that their penchant for grand gestures doesn't kill them both, and lose the war in the process.”

“You should have let nature run its course,” Phineas Nigellus' portrait second-guessed.

“Shut up!” Professor McGonagall retorted.

Not everyone was depressed by the latest development. To the surprise of the others Banzaf cackled. Seeing the humans' questioning looks, he commented in Gobbledegook.

“Yes, it does parallel the Hsemaglig,” Dumbledore answered. “Rakazag did much the same thing. May Mister Potter be so lucky.”

* * * *

`Damn,' Harry thought, smacking himself in the forehead. `Not again.' He had gotten as low as the mid 400's this time before taking what was now revealed as yet another drastically wrong turn. He found himself back in the 780's again, in a distinctive place he had passed through three times before.

He knew he was rapidly running out of time left for fruitless meandering. Harry suspected that the body he had left behind was on its last legs. The sensations of hunger and thirst had largely faded away. He must now be consuming his own internal stores of energy now. When the shortages of water and protein began affecting his brain, he would become as she was. According to the Sefu, he would lapse into a coma and eventually die.

Harry ran his hands through his hair. Frustrated, and worried that he was staring failure - and not incidentally death - in the face, he began pacing the unusual enclosure. He needed, really needed, to get his next attempt right. He was running out of chances.

This bit of Hermione's mind was so different that Harry had to believe it was somehow important. Almost all the maze of dark passageways he had traversed were an orderly arrangement of right angles and perpendicular junctions. This space most emphatically was not. He was in a large semicircular room, like a half moon, with no fewer than six passageways punctuating the curved wall. That wall was, like all the rest, festooned with books from floor almost to the ceiling.

`Think, Harry, think,' he berated himself. `If I were Hermione, where would I go when all seemed lost? And how would I get there?'

The wall opposite the passageways was more typically flat, but it was singularly different in its own right. Instead of being covered with books, it was bare except for a large painting of someone furiously playing a violin. It might have been a self portrait - the hair was close enough - but Harry could not tell due to the odd perspective. The vantage point of the image was from behind, over the artist's right shoulder. None of the woman's face was visible.

The image seemed apt. Because of his own stupidity, Hermione had turned away from him. Giving up his pacing after a third pass in front of (or behind) the portrait, Harry slumped against the wall beneath it. He need to gather what little strength he had left before beginning what might be his final assault.

“Please, Hermione,” he mumbled, barely making any audible sound. “For both or our sakes, if you're still in here at all … give me some sign - anything…. I need you more than I've ever needed anything.”

That appeal seemed to disappear into the void, like so many similar pleas before it. Harry sighed, and put his hands against the wainscoting to push himself back to standing. Then he heard it.

There was a creak - the first sound he had heard in this place that he had not made. Before Harry could even turn to face the source of the noise, a lurch followed. That sensation was even more unexpected. Startled, Harry fumbled his wand, which clattered to the floor. The Lumos spell was extinguished, leaving him once again in total darkness.

Harry felt himself moving, being shoved across the smooth floor by what must be the motion of the wall behind him. Mentally and physically exhausted, he lacked the strength even to try getting out of the way. He had no better idea, so he let this wall in Hermione's mind do with him what it would.

Whilst being pushed along, Harry saw something bouncing and emitting blue sparks as it rolled. His wand was right beside him, being pushed by his knee, which was splayed out by the motion. He grabbed it, but cast no spell.

He kept sliding in pitch darkness. Finally, with another creak and a thump, the movement stopped. Breathing hard, Harry waited to make sure nothing else was going to happen. Then he illuminated his wand.

For a brief moment, it seemed that nothing had changed. He was still in a hemispheric room, leaning against a flat wall, and staring across at a round wall covered with books - but he saw a critical difference.

Instead of six passageways leading away from the room, there was but one. That was the only way out - and, except for what had just happened, the only way in.

Newly invigorated, Harry clambered to his feet. A few long steps and he was inches from the volumes shelved beside the corner of the single connecting corridor. Examining the white numbers on their spines in the uncertain wandlight, Harry saw they began with “326.” He was staring at some book concerning that Muggle named Wilberforce about whom Hermione had once been so enthusiastic.

He was closer to the beginning than ever before - by over 100 numerals!

Harry trained his wand down the corridor in front of him. It seemed straight and quite narrow - only half the width of anything he had yet encountered - little more than a metre wide. Unlike every other hallway in the endless maze, this passageway did not consist of jam-packed bookshelves. Instead its walls were knobby, covered with what appeared to be eggbox cartons painted grey.

This spare and unusual décor seemed to go on forever … or at least past the limit of Harry's wandlight to pierce the tenebrous gloom. Harry was just about to charge down the corridor when he heard something different, but familiar.

The melody was Tchaikovsky violin concerto in D, probably Harry's favorite piece from Hermione's CD. He had listened to its melancholy-but-uplifting refrain many times since his return to Hogwarts.

He turned towards the sound. It came, as suspected, from the painting behind him. But that portrait, like the wall upon which it hung, had turned around. It indeed portrayed Hermione playing the violin. Her face wore that same look of intense concentration that he remembered from her playing the same piece for him such a long - but such a short - time ago. Then, they had been in her room, in her house, on the occasion of his single, disastrous visit.

Only this time, Harry could not be sure if that intense concentration was the product of a violin mæstro at work. The Hermione in the portrait seemed to look straight at him - maybe even straight through him.

Harry wanted to say something, anything…. But everything that came to mind sounded unspeakably banal, given why he (and, he thought, she) was here. It was just a portrait,. So he simply repeated what had become something of a mantra to him - when she was the subject.

“The one who is true shall come for you.”

Gathering his wits, Harry squared his shoulders, turned, and set out down the narrow, strangely decorated corridor at a swift trot. It was as fast as he could move without outrunning his wand's illumination, which - as before - provided the only light within the gloomy, deserted environment that was Hermione's mind.

The claustrophobic tunnel seemed to go on forever, but Harry suppressed his fears and banged on. His mind harkened back to his running with Dudley. “Pick a steady pace and keep to it,” his cousin had instructed when he first started. He followed that advice here.

Finally, just as abruptly as the tunnel had begun, it ended. The walls that surrounded and hemmed him in fell away, leaving him in a massive round chamber, again with the walls covered with books. Those walls curved away into the gloom on either side and above him. Directly in front loomed something different - a second circular wall, nested within the first.

Briefly, Harry examined a nearby book. It was a Muggle encyclopædia and not numbered. He crossed the eight or so metres to the wall in front of him. It seemed made of polished black stone lacking any markings or other distinctive characteristics. Apprehensively, he reached out and touched its surface. It felt smooth - polished to an almost slippery sheen - and not nearly as cold to the touch as he had expected.

After a few seconds, Harry noticed something else - the entire massive stone wall vibrated. Because it was not been immediately obvious, he checked it a second time. He sensed a barely perceptible, but constant resonance.

Worried that his physical exhaustion might be causing his mind to play tricks on him, Harry waved his lit wand around. It cast the expected array of eerie shadows. He pressed the lighted wand against the wall. He did not seem to be hallucinating. He could see the illuminated wandtip flutter ever so slightly. The vibration was apparently real, at least as real as the rest of his surroundings.

Harry pressed his ear to the wall. The vibration seemed accompanied by a low, steady hum. Harry had a premonition that what he wanted - what he needed right now more than anything else in life - was somewhere close, on the other side of this wall.

But the wall was a formidable obstruction. Harry had never given a thought to the possibility of such an impediment. He simply had not considered the possibility. One thing he knew - Lao Kung had warned him against any resort to powerful magic whilst inside Hermione's mind.

He tried light Legilimency. In the outside world - before his impetuosity had ruined everything and driven her away - he had learned to communicate with Hermione telepathically. He screwed up his concentration and focussed on a simple message. `Hermione, it's me, Harry. I've come for you,' he broadcast.

The message did not go through. Instead it reflected back at him loudly and clearly, like an echo bouncing off a sheer cliff.

Resistance.

The same phenomenon had frustrated Hlr. Huxley's magical machinery. The same phenomenon had repulsed the American Healers' best efforts. Hermione had raised barriers against the outside world - and that world included him.

Harry tried again. He extinguished his wand to put everything he had left into the effort. The telepathic echo only reflected back at him that much more powerfully. His ears rang with the sound of his own silent shouts. His throat became parched. His knees began to give way, as he started to feel faint from the exertion. Eventually, he stopped.

After resting, he came back for more. He tried pounding and kicking - no luck, only bruises.

He could not climb the wall. It was too slick, even using a Sticking Charm.

Having no way to grasp anything, Harry tried a Traction Charm, hoping he could push his way in. Nothing happened, at least not at the level of magic he was willing to use. The Feather Light Charm, used with such great effect at the Ashrak, likewise had no apparent effect. Even his Vannoportus Charm was futile. The unyielding stone remained as black and solid as ever.

Finally, Harry simply turned his back to the wall and slid slowly down until he sat on the floor. He seemed to have met an immovable obstacle. Hermione had walled herself off. To penetrate her defenses at minimum would require resort to very powerful magic he had been instructed in no uncertain terms not to use.

To save her, he would have to destroy her. Seemingly he could not do the former. He would not do the latter - he would die first. Never in his life had he felt more hopeless.

It seemed like the end - the end of the Boy Who Lived. He wondered why he was still trying to hold back tears.

He had closed his eyes whilst concentrating and had never bothered to reopen them, since with no light it made no difference. In despair, he opened his eyes again and blankly stared into the darkness - darkness that mirrored his soul.

But all was not quite dark.

To his surprise, with his eyes now fully acclimatised to the gloom, Harry discovered he could just barely discern the outline of the entrance through which he had come. That should not happen. Without his wand lighting his way, the blackness should be absolute - but it was not; not quite.

Again worried about hallucinations, Harry re-illuminated his wandtip. Making note of some of the more distinctive patterns of the books on the opposite wall, he extinguished it again and waited once more for his eyes to readjust.

They did, and Harry found that he could, if he used averted vision, still make out some of the patterns.

That could only mean one thing. Somewhere in the large, ring-shaped enclosure in which he found himself, was another light source. It would be the first he encountered since his mental journey had begun so many - he had no idea how many - hours before.

Harry quickly roused himself and went looking for the light.

On the opposite side of the ring he found it. At floor level, about a metre long and at best a millimetre high, was a crack illuminated by white light. The light was quite faint. Harry's lit wandtip washed it out almost completely.

Harry extinguished his wand again, and once again let his eyes readjust. He stood there, contemplating this pale chink in the armour that the solid polished stone wall represented. Behind him, he cast a weak, but noticeable, shadow.

This sliver of light seemed familiar. It triggered something atavistic inside him. Somewhere, deep in his past, he had seen this sort of light before. It was as if he were a small child again, locked in the cupboard under the stairs, staring at the faint bit of light that shone through….

…the crack under the….

DOOR!!

Harry relit his wand and rushed to the location of the crack. Holding the wand between his teeth, he desperately examined the surface visually as he felt it with both hands.

It was a door all right - a dark, featureless door, with no visible handles, hinges, or hasps. It reminded him strongly of those he found at the Department of Mysteries a few months previous. Except for one thing.

This door was firmly and utterly locked.

There was no give to it at all. Harry pushed it, kicked it, tried Alohomora, and even used a gentle Traction Charm on it. It did not move in the slightest - not even a bolt rattled.

Harry put his ear to the door. For a bit, he heard nothing, not even the hum he had sensed earlier. But then, as his ear acclimated, he began to make it out. There was music, violin music, coming from inside.

On the other side there was something - something alive - alive and wonderful. It could only be Hermione, or (if he thought about it) her consciousness, which was essentially the same thing.

Harry started pounding on the door with his fists and shouting at the top of his lungs, “HERMIONE!! LET ME IN!!! IT'S ME, HARRY!!! I'VE COME FOR YOU … TO BRING YOU BACK!!! PLEASE, LET ME IN!!! PLEASE!!! … I LOVE YOU!!!…

Nothing happened - nothing save an odd lot of noisy echoes that reverberated throughout the ring-like space between the outer circle of books and the inner concentric wall of shiny black stone.

Harry kept it up until he had shouted himself hoarse, and his bruised hands started to ache from the effort.

Chest heaving, breathing heavily, Harry stopped, his adrenaline running out. This approach was also a failure. All his banging had neither moved the door one iota nor prompted Hermione to open it for him.

He put his ear to the door again. For what seemed like a long time, he could hear only the sound of his own lungs gasping for air, but as his own exhalations returned to normal, he heard the music again. If anything, the music seemed louder.

Harry slumped to the floor in exhausted despair again. She was not letting him in. Did she even know he was there?

`Please, Hermione,' he tried telepathically. `Where you are, let me be.'

Nothing.

How could he get through to her?

He seemed to have no means of communicating with her consciousness on the other side. Shouting had not helped. Pounding had not helped. Even telepathy had not helped. Nothing seemed to get through.

Nothing but music.

Music. Something Dumbledore had said long ago came back to him - “Music! A magic beyond all we do here.”

But Harry was a musical illiterate. The Dursleys had never allowed him so much as a kazoo. Nor was music a subject on the Hogwarts curriculum. Never had he been as acutely aware of his complete lack of musical skills as right now.

But Harry did, at least, know some music. He had listened to Hermione's CD - a lot. He had also listened to Dudley's CDs - some of them quite a bit, too.

If music could get through, was there something Harry could conjure up from the recesses of his own mind that would alert her to his presence? More importantly, given his conviction that she thought he was dead, was there something he could transmit that would let her know he was alive, or at least that she should entertain that possibility?

There was one song that would undoubtedly let her know that he was on the other side of the door - Billy Don't Be A Hero - the song she had recorded to send him a message. But that message was `please don't get yourself killed.' Now, he knew that she thought he had done precisely the opposite and died as a result. That was hardly the message he wanted, and needed, to send to her at this moment.

He needed a melody not only meaningful to both of them, but also a celebration of life.

There was one other song - that Beatles song that he had played over and over again whilst he was running with Dudley. It had always reminded him strongly of how he felt for her, before he even understood (or admitted to himself) what those emotions had actually been.

He had been on the verge of telling Hermione about that song that night they had talked in her bedroom. He thought back to that conversation:

“What? The only Yellow Submarine I know about is a Beatles album - one that has my favorite song on it, actually.”

“It's a Beatles movie, as well…. Oh, really Harry - mine too! Let me get it out….”

The next moment, they had been interrupted by Hermione's father's fateful call to dinner. Still, he thought they had both been talking about the same song - although neither of them had mentioned it by name. Then again, maybe he was fooling himself - maybe he had just wanted so badly for the two of them to be compatible.

Harry shuddered. He realised that this one song was the only cut on that album he knew well enough to be able to recall its details with sufficient accuracy even to attempt to conjure it. If he were wrong, there was no fall back. What if she really liked `Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds'?

Worse, what if she really meant `Eleanor Rigby' - or `Nowhere Man'?

Still, he had to try - to play his last hunch. There seemed to be no downside, if only because he had run out of other ideas.

Harry put both hands on the door, palms cupped to focus the magic. This was how the Unspeakables had taught him how to combat the Cruciatus Curse. He pressed on the unyielding door, concentrating intensively on the song….

Faintly he began to hear it - not just in his head, but in the air around him as well. His fingertips felt odd. His own musical efforts were causing the locked door to vibrate distinctly.

“To your m….” A high-pitched guitar riff almost immediately drowned out the first words. It quickly devolved into pulsating, much lower pitched feedback. Then the electronic organ chords kicked in….

It's all too much…. It's all too much….

Cheery, upbeat music filled the air around Harry now. He felt himself vibrating.

When I look into your eyes, your love is there for me.

And the more I go inside, the more there is to see….

He kept it up, leaning hard into the unyielding door as he willed the music to flow through and beyond him. He closed his eyes, creating and listening to his creation at the same time. All the while he knew that he might not get another chance. His body was teetering on the edge of collapse. His muscles were aching, and his mind was blank except for the music he was striving to amplify as much as his rapidly draining strength would allow.

Floating down the stream of time, throughout your life with me.

Makes no difference where you are, or where you'd like to be.

It's all too much for me to take,

The love that's shining all around here.

All the world's a birthday cake,

So take a piece….

Suddenly, he heard a “click.” It sounded identical to the click he had felt in his mind just before he had unleashed those elemental forces against Voldemort - the forces that had all but killed Hermione. For an instant, his blood ran cold, and he feared he had concentrated too hard.

Harry's concentration disrupted, the music stopped abruptly.

But then, as if by magic, all of the resistance he had been struggling against disappeared in a flash - a literal flash. In the next instant, Harry was blinded by an outburst of dazzling, white light. Unable to see anything, he did not realise that he had lost his balance until his face hit … something - something firm but not hard and as brilliantly white as the starburst that had just bedazzled him.

Half senseless from his fall, Harry looked up at the undeniably female silhouette that, from his prone position, seemed to tower over him. “Hermione…,” he rasped as he rolled over onto his back to look at her.

“H-H-Harry?” The silhouette stuttered, shaking her head. She shifted position slightly, and Harry finally saw her face. It was unmistakably Hermione's. Her eyes were wide and bloodshot, with dark rings around them. Behind her, in the background, Harry saw a violin seemingly hovering in space.

The girl, however, was not at all happy to see him. Rather, she was crying and telling herself, through her tears, “No, it can't be Harry ... Harry's dead.... Dead, dammit….”

“Hermione…?” Harry forced her name out of his mouth again.

It was if she never heard him. “Harry won…,” she repeated lifelessly. “Harry defeated Voldemort.... Harry shouldn't be here….”

Throughout, the white light was shading into violet - and throbbing, as if unsure which primary colour to become: blue - or red.

“Hermione … please….” Harry choked out as he tried to move - to turn over as a prelude to standing. Almost cowering, Hermione started sliding away from him.

“Are - are you a ghost? Have you come to haunt me?” she asked meekly. Then her wide eyes went even wider with sudden realisation. Red became the predominate colour. “No, no, no…,” she repeated. “You can't be. You won. You won…. You're fulfilled....”

Intense red light blazed. Hermione screamed - a scream of despair and remorse, rather than fear.

“HARRY'S DEAD! YOU'RE NOT HIM! NOT A GHOST … PLEASE, NOT A GHOST! PLEASE…!”

“Hermione….”

The surroundings of wherever they were continued burning bright red, but her voice dropped precipitously in volume. “I ... not this, please, not this.... Please, don't do this to me....”

She approached him again, and in a dead whisper, told him, “I'll be joining you soon Harry, don' t worry... please, just let me be.... Let me be….”

In her bout of anguish and mourning, Hermione was becoming less and less coherent. Finally, she broke down altogether and began weeping. As she wept, she struggled to close the door and push Harry's fallen form back outside into the darkness.

All but exhausted from his effort, Harry found that he lacked the strength to stop her.

“Hermione,” he pleaded feebly, trying to make himself heard. “I'm - I'm not dead. Really…. Please.… Listen to me….”

Half mad with heartbreak at her thoughts of what Harry had become - because of her - Hermione had almost closed the door to her sanctuary again. But his final plea struck home with a spiritual force that shattered her resolve.

She was doing it all over again.

Despite everything she had promised herself - over and over again - she was not hearing him out. Again. Heedlessly, she was acting without listening. That was precisely what caused her misery in the first place.

She stopped pushing on the door, and let it swing wide open again. Ghost or no ghost, she owed him that much. She had been ready and willing to die for him - and he for her.

If he were not dead, that meant she was not the one who had killed him.

It would mean that, instead of dying for him, she needed the courage to live for him - again.

Almost as quickly as before, the ruddy glow paled and regained its previous whiteness.

“Come … come in, Harry,” she hesitantly invited, trying to regain her composure.

From where he lay - astride some bizarre boundary between outer darkness and inner light, Harry struggled to his feet and staggered inside, towards Hermione. Not at all sure what he was walking on, he stumbled.

Hermione reached to steady him - and her hand passed clear through his arm without her feeling anything.

Blinking at the abrupt transition, from utter black to the flood of bright white light that now shown upon him from all sides, Harry missed the expression of horror that marred her face.

But not for long.

The white light that surrounded them both took on a distinct bluish cast.

Regaining his balance, Harry turned and faced her - his first time face-to-face with a conscious Hermione in over a month. She wore a gossamer white ankle-length dress and, incongruously, her Prefect badge.

He was starting the most important conversation of his life - a plea for both of their lives.

His breath choked up, as he saw her staring at him, wide eyed, pale faced, and open mouthed, with her hand still extended in front of her, as if it had something revolting on it.

“Er … Hermione? Before I say anything else, I have to tell you.… I love you - I really love you - more than anything … and everything that means….”

Harry's confession was not been particularly articulate, but at least he spoke the most important thing he needed to say, before he lost his nerve.

He quickly added, “…And I'm not dead.”

The light around them started to resemble a sunset. The light blue began shading to turquoise and mingling with pink.

Hermione buried her head in her hands and started sobbing again. Harry reached out to comfort her - to touch her for the first time in over a month - but his hand disappeared into her shoulder. His fingertips felt nothing. He gasped and removed his hand, as quickly as if he had been burnt.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione moaned through her tears. “I-I-I wanted … so much … so much to hear that … when you were … alive. I would have done anything … anything. But now, after you've died. It's too late - for both of us….”

The pink light was fading away, as their indistinct surroundings becoming navy blue.

Harry focussed. Hermione's halting, devastated speech accomplished one thing - forcing him to find his mental footing. “I'm not dead, Hermione,” he repeated, this time with more conviction. “I've - I've come for you. To bring you back.”

“Harry … whether you know it or not … you're a ghost,” Hermione repeated. “My hand…,” she held it out again as if disgusted by it, “it passed right through you when you stumbled. And - and you shouldn't be a ghost - a pale imitation of your former self.”

“My hand just went through your shoulder,” Harry countered. “I didn't feel a thing. I think we're both just seeing each other's … er … I guess, consciousness the way we remember one another.”

Hermione continued her soliloquy as if not hearing him. The wheels in her mind were turning again, and they reached a horrific conclusion. “…and if anyone should be fulfilled, it's you - after what you did to die. OH, NO!!! It's me, isn't it? Even though you accomplished the prophecy and got rid of Voldemort. You felt unfulfilled and became a ghost because of me. I CAN'T STAND IT!! I'M NOT WORTH THAT!!”

Again, the light veered rapidly towards indigo.

“No. No! NO. NO! NOOOOOO….!!

He thought she would disintegrate into tears again, but what happened was worse. She felt the irony. She was certain that because she had so cruelly ordered him away, he had chosen the miserable, feeble existence of a ghost, despite having carried out that prophecy and destroyed Voldemort … along with himself. She started sniggering, then giggling … and then fell to all fours laughing unstoppably.

Harry was afraid she was going mad - right there in front of him.

Nothing he could say seemed to shake Hermione's conviction that he was dead and had returned to haunt her. He had to do something - anything - to shake some sense into her. With both hands he reached out to her. He stopped, because he knew what would happen if he tried to touch her.

But something told him to continue, so Harry took a giant step towards the heaving girl and put both arms around her until they disappeared in her back. Again he felt nothing.

But nothing could be a good thing.

“Hermione, look at me,” Harry asked his miserably unhinged friend. “Please look at me.”

Slowly, Hermione raised her very red and puffy eyes out of her hands. She saw Harry very close to her - his arms vanishing inside of her.

“Hermione, do I feel cold to you?” he asked.

“…N-N-No…,” she answered slowly. “You don't….”

“Then I'm not a ghost, am I?” Harry observed. “Think, Hermione. Please think logically. Ghosts feel cold, don't they?”

“No … yes, you're right, they don't … rather, they do,” Hermione agreed, allowing a shard of hope to pierce the inner darkness in which she dwelt ever since she had felt the pain of Harry's death during his confrontation with Voldemort.

The deep blue that surrounded them - the colour of the sky at 8,000 metres on a day Harry had once saved Hermione's life - lightened just a bit.

“Ghosts … they always wear the clothes they died in, don't they?” Harry asked. He did not know this for a fact, but on the spur of the moment - it seemed right. That had to be why the Bloody Baron was bloody.

“Yes … I think so,” Hermione responded more brightly and coherently.

“You see me in my Hogwarts robes … don't you?” Harry asked. He knew that was how he saw himself. Halfway through the question, he had the disconcerting thought that maybe she was seeing him only in his Speedo costume - which was how his physical body was at this moment back in Hogwarts - but at that point it was too late to rephrase.

“Yes,” replied Hermione, picking up on the cue now, “and you certainly couldn't have been wearing those when you encountered Voldemort.”

“One more,” Harry added, gaining confidence. He thought he had devised a way to banish the spectre of him as a ghost once and for all. He held up his right hand. “What am I wearing?”

The glint of gold told her all she needed to know. He was wearing an Auror partner's ring - but…. She looked down, at her own hand, with his ring snugly on her finger. “You're wearing … my ring!!”

There was no doubt about it. Harry had survived the encounter with Voldemort.

White light - almost pink - flared.

All at once deliriously happy, Hermione hurled herself at him - just like she had when she first saw him after returning from Hong Kong - only this time she passed clean through him. Hermione landed awkwardly behind Harry in the blank landscape and flopped through a most inelegant somersault.

Before Harry could even turn around, he heard the torrent of words that began pouring from the bottom of Hermione's tortured soul.

“Oh, Harry! I'm so sorry - so, so sorry - you have no idea. I still can't believe what I did. What got into me? I was frightfully, horribly wrong. You must find me so foul after how awful I was. I know I hurt you terribly. I was so stupid. Why you're even here, I have no idea. I don't deserve you. I don't even deserve to be alive….”

Their surroundings were starting to resemble the sky again.

“Hermione, please stop,” Harry asked her softly. “It doesn't become you. None of that's necessary. If I felt any of those things, I wouldn't be here.”

“Not necessary…? Why I…,” she looked at him, and saw him smiling. It was the saddest smile she had ever seen.

“Because I had no right to force those vile photos on you like that. I had no right to manhandle you the way I did. You would have been well within your rights to curse me into oblivion,” Harry said. “You have nothing - I mean nothing - to apologise for. You came for me when I…,” Harry looked down. “…when I didn't deserve to be the dirt on the bottom of your shoes.”

Hermione was wide-eyed in shock, “I don't believe you, Harry, how could you possibly think…?”

“I incinerated you,” he said flatly. “Burnt you to a crisp. Dumbledore said you had burns over your entire body. It's a miracle that you survived. I did that horrible thing to you, so don't tell me I shouldn't apologise.”

“Harry, I said in my note…,” she stopped. “You did read the note I left, didn't you?”

“Yeah,” Harry answered, “and after that, your testimony. It's what convinced me I had to do this. I don't deserve you or what you did.”

She practically screamed at him, “Then you know I told you not to feel guilty, because everything I did, I did of my own free will!”

The surrounding light, which had reverted to white, was now burning orange - the colour of flame.

“But when you wrote that you didn't know I would burn you alive,” Harry replied softly. “You didn't know what I was capable of.”

“Harry, I hit you; I hurt you; and I drove you into the Death Eaters' trap,” Hermione replied hotly. “That means I'm responsible for incinerating half of London, and your girlfriend, and for everything horrible that's happened to you since. Compared to that, you have nothing - I repeat nothing - to feel guilty….”

“This isn't right,” Harry broke in. “Truce?”

“Truce?” Hermione echoed questioningly.

“Yeah, truce,” Harry repeated. “Let's stop the competitive guilt. What's over is over. Can't we just let go, and go on?”

“Oh…, Harry!” Hermione looked at him with a rather shocked expression on her face. “When did you get so wise?”

“I've had a lot of time to think,” Harry replied sadly. “All the time that I've spent sitting next to you in the Hospital Wing, with you lying there unmoving, looking an inch away from death.”

The orange glow disappeared from their environment, and white light shown once more.

Hermione could just imagine what Harry had gone through. “I'm so, so sorry that you had to see that. It wasn't….”

“Please, Hermione,” Harry reminded. “Truce, remember.”

“Okay,” she replied in a small voice, stopping herself from again saying she was sorry. Hermione took a deep breath, and had that look in her face that Harry knew meant she was nervous. “Harry, you said you read my note - and my testimony. Then I guess you know. It's true. I really do….”

“You - You don't have to say it, Hermione,” Harry said, putting up his hand. “I know.”

“I do have to say it. I want to say it,” Hermione insisted. “You don't know how many nights I cried myself to sleep whilst the Death Eaters had you - worrying that I might never get the chance to say this to your face. I love you Harry. I have for years, really. I love you more than anything, anything in this world. That's why I did what I did. After I'd bollixed things up so badly, I had to try to set them right. I love you more than is probably wise. That's why I'm here, hiding out. I thought you were….”

Their environment was taking on a pinkish hue.

“Dead,” Harry finished her sentence for her. “I know. I figured that out.” If he could have rushed to her and held her, he would have, but Harry knew what would happen if he tried.

Tears welled up in her eyes again, “Harry, I can't stand you dying - or even the thought of it. I've believed I felt you die twice, now. And I just can't take it. I went to pieces the first time - until I sensed that you were still alive. The second time, I wound up here….”

“Where? Where is here?” Harry asked, looking around. There was - nothing - around them. At the moment, everything was a featureless white glow, with no up, down, or sideways apparent. They were both standing on apparently nothing. Whilst Harry felt a surface of some sort under his feet, he could see nothing. It was something like being in a cloud.

“I'm not entirely sure,” Hermione answered. “All I remember was brilliant pink fire, intense, screaming pain - all over. I guess that was when I was being burnt. I heard a roaring sound. I felt like I was moving away at tremendous speed. The pink went black - then it felt like something hit me, hard. After that, the black went white … and here I was. I think it's magic.”

“It had to be magic,” Harry affirmed. “Dumbledore's magic. Otherwise, you would have….” He paused. He wanted to talk about life, not death.

“No, I mean…. I think I'm with my magic,” Hermione corrected. “Wherever the seat of it is - in the mind, or soul, or limbic system, or whatever. This is where this is. It's pretty much just been constant, although there was a brief period, not too long ago, when the light in here did start to flicker. I did think, at that moment, that maybe my time had come.”

`Bloody Yank Healers,' Harry thought, but all he said was, “I think one of our wonkier attempts to rouse you caused that.”

“Well, the light returned to normal soon enough,” she remarked. “Remember our truce. About the light - I can control it to some extent. Watch!”

Hermione screwed up her face in intense concentration - amber and scarlet fountains of light erupted all around them - startling Harry and making him jump. He landed on a somewhat different plane and had to adjust himself to look at the girl again.

“I can also do this,” she said, summoning the violin that had been suspended in the background since Harry arrived. She started to play, and violin music - one of the Beethoven sonatas on the CD - flooded around them. It started softly, but the more Hermione concentrated, the louder it became. When it rose to just this side of deafening, she shut it off.

“Anytime I want, I can summon a violin, at least the image of one, and I can play any song I've ever learnt. I can conjure any book I've ever read and re-read it,” Hermione explained. “But - I can't do anything new. I think I'm limited to what I've already done, what I've already experienced…. At least I was until you got here.”

“It sounds like you're more of a ghost than I am,” Harry observed. “How come you want to stay like this?”

“My magic protects me,” Hermione declared. “It won't let me be hurt any more. When you - I guess - started pounding on the door, it reacted. It started producing music, trying to drown you out. But then I heard other music … that I hadn't summoned. And I realised that it was that song…. I had to find out what was out there. It was the first time I'd even considered opening up since I got here. I wasn't even sure there was a door. It just … happened.”

Harry interrupted her monologue. “Hermione, it doesn't matter how you got here, or how I got here for that matter. What's important is that I know how you feel about me and you know how I feel about you. Will you come out - with me - so we can start over, and be together?”

Harry had hoped, with reason, that her answer to that question would be an enthusiastic `yes.' He was disappointed. A haunting look - one of fear and of sadness - came to her brown eyes. No longer bright, they seemed muddy.

The white light began fading back into blue the moment Harry finished his question - perhaps even a split second before.

Looking at her feet rather than at him, she replied in a low tone. “I suppose, if you're still alive … that means that - Voldemort - is still alive, too.”

“Er … yes….” Harry replied, realising he still had some explaining to do. “That's what the Order thinks anyway. Nobody's seen him, as far as we know, but there's been none of the Death Eater panic like there was the - the first time I defeated him.”

Hermione was biting her lower lip hard by the time Harry finished his answer. Her jaw trembling, she stumbled into a little speech she had obviously spent a great deal of time considering, “Harry … this is … the hardest thing I've ever had to say…. But I've thought about it a lot, both before and since I got here. Because I'd like nothing better in this world than to come and live `happily ever after' with you. I've wanted nothing else for - for months, if not years….”

She choked up, stopped, regathered her wits, and continued. “But I can't…. I can't be that selfish. I realised it just … when the lights in here started flickering…. I have to stay here - and you have to go and do - do what you have to do. I'd only get in the way….”

Hermione shook like a leaf all through her statement. The light that surrounded them became bluer and bluer as she spoke. When she got to the end of what she had to say, she burst into wretched tears and, unable to stand any longer, she dropped into a cross legged sitting position, her head in her hands and wailing pathetically.

For a moment, Harry just gawked - stunned by the development. He had not expected this, not in the slightest. Given what he knew about her feelings, and encouraged by his own, he had always thought that the hard bits of this rescue would be over once he found her and convinced her he was not dead. He was wrong … possibly dead wrong.

He knelt beside her. He wanted so much to touch her - to hold her - to comfort her…. But again, his hand passed clean through her, and she hardly noticed anything.

All he had were words - and words had never been Harry Potter's forté. Hermione ghostwrote his best speeches.

Still, he had to try. He had not gotten this far - at tremendous cost - to give up now. “Hermione, listen to me. You'd never be in the way. That's so untrue. It's the opposite. There's no way … no way in the world … that I can possibly defeat Voldemort without you. Whatever power I'm supposed to use, if it's this Fifth Element rubbish, I can't control it. I haven't been able to kill him with it anyway. I need you Hermione … to keep me under control. It's hopeless otherwise.”

Hermione's tears diminished in quantity, and her sobs in volume, whilst Harry was speaking. But still she refused to look at him, even though he was right beside her. When he said things were “hopeless,” he finally got a response, “It's - it's not hopeless, Harry. You're much stronger than you think. And you're so much stronger than I am that it's not even worth talking about.”

Brilliant cerulean light illuminated the cloudscape around them.

“I-I-I can't do it alone, Hermione,” Harry insisted. “So many people want me to … to carry the world. But I need you - to carry me.”

“Harry,” she said, still not looking at him, “they don't want you to carry the world - they want you to save it. And you have to. It's your bloody fate, I guess. You're doomed to greatness…. That's exactly why I can't go with you. It would be too selfish of me. I know that if I went with you, it would be worse than my just getting in the way. For my own personal happiness I'd try to stop you from … doing what you have to do. And to lose the whole world, just to save myself. That would be wrong. You need to go, Harry.”

The luminescent blue that surrounded them deepened towards royal.

“NO!” Harry exclaimed as frustration and worry welled within him. “To Hell with the world, then. I can't let you die in here all alone! Let's run away then. To Hell with prophecies and Voldemort both! I can choose free will as much as you! Let somebody else save the bloody world!”

“Harry, what on Earth are you saying?” Hermione gasped.

There was a feral look to Harry's face now, that of a caged animal. “I'm saying, let's chuck it all, Hermione - forget about the prophecy, Voldemort, death, and all those horrible things! Let's run away to that South Seas island you told me about once. We'll hide out in some cave, and survive on our own magic. We can be together! We have to be. I-I-I care too much about you to ever leave you again.”

The navy blue light quivered, and notched a shade in the direction of lavender. Hermione looked up at Harry's flushed face with her own blotchy, tear-streaked complexion. “No,” she said, softly but firmly. “You. Have. To. Save. The. World. Harry. You have to. Not me - you. We can't run away, because Voldemort will hunt you down, wherever we run. That's how he is. The prophecy - it asks for your life. Don't let it strip you of your pride, too.”

“But I don't want the world, Hermione,” Harry protested. “All I want is … is … you. Please, Hermione!”

“Believe me, Harry, I feel the same way! I've … I went though Hell just to get you back, and … and for the same reasons.” Hermione declared, her voice quavering. “But you and I - we can't always get what we want. You're a Gryffindor, Harry - the truest Gryffindor I've ever known. Now go. Leave me here, and I'll … I'll see you in the next world, whatever that is. I promise. I'll come for you there, but I can't come with you here.”

She had started out strongly, but what she had to say took so much out of her emotionally that she broke down again at the end of it. Once again forlorn tears echoed across the featureless, cobalt-hued landscape.

Harry did not know what more he could say to her. He had nothing left. He was feeling faint, as if his last reserves of energy were running out. Instead of persuasion, he simply told her the truth. Without her, he did not know where to go.

“Hermione, I can't. Even if I wanted to, I can't leave. I don't know how to get out. I threw away the lifeline that Lao Kung gave me - a long time ago - and I have no idea where to go. I decided that … if it came to that … I'd rather die in here, with you, than out there, with Voldemort.”

Hermione looked up and fixed him with a furious stare. The almost indigo light around them lightened and shifted several shades towards violet. She was aghast at what he had done. “You - You used Chinese Legilimency to find me here? That's suicide. Your Lao Kung told me when we met, that I had to prevent you from doing any such thing on your own … for any reason. That without years of practice, you'd never come out alive if you tried it. And now he sends you in … on a one way trip to me?”

“Yes, he did,” Harry declared, a bit defensively at her implied criticism of the Sefu. “And after I told Dumbledore that I was going to do it myself, if I had to, Dumbledore sent for him, and Lao Kung travelled half-way around the world just to give me a little more training. It's a measure of how seriously you're missed, by everyone, not just me. Besides, it's no more suicidal than me facing Voldemort without you in my life. I need you that much, Hermione. Please come back … otherwise I'm staying here and you can watch me die peacefully - by your side - the way it should be.”

That moved Hermione. What Harry described doing sounded so much like her own behavior towards the Headmaster that it was déjà vu just thinking about it. “Harry, you're putting me in an impossible position,” she said sadly.

“Join the club,” Harry quickly replied. “I've been in an impossible position since you.… No - I won't go there - we've got a truce on that.”

“Harry, I'm only doing what I'm doing because I can't stand you dying. I've told you that. I've thought I've felt you die twice, and if I ever feel that again I know I'll kill myself. There's nothing more suicidal than you going after Voldemort. The prophecy says that you're going to kill one another, and I know that you'll….”

“The prophecy doesn't say that,” Harry said softly. “Not at all.”

“It doesn't?” Hermione shrieked, her voice instantly going up an octave and quite a few decibels. The light in their indeterminate environment abruptly shifted to a pale shade of green.

“No, it doesn't, and Dumbledore told me before I started this that he feared you had misinterpreted things. I hadn't believed him until now. He said I could tell you if I thought….”

“Harry, I don't know that it's wise,” Hermione quickly cautioned. “If you're planning to tell me….”

“Actually, the two of us slowly dying in here isn't exactly the brightest thing in the world, either,” Harry immediately countered. “You need to know the whole truth, Hermione. Even Dumbledore thinks I should tell you. No more bloody lies!”

“Lies?” Hermione repeated in a questioning voice. “You've been having everyone on that you didn't know the prophecy for how long, exactly?”

“Er … since the night of the Ministry and Sirius' death,” Harry confessed. “Dumbledore told me, and he told me not to tell a soul,” he quickly added.

“Oh Merlin, you've no idea the trouble that could have been avoided,” Hermione began. Then she stopped. It was useless to be cross with Harry about that - not now, after all that had happened - and especially if the prophecy was other than what she thought. The green light all around them was getting paler and more yellow by the second as the girl allowed herself a little hope about Harry's fate for the first time in ages. “All right, Harry, tell me then.”

The boy swallowed hard and began, “Here's what it says, `The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches. Born to those who have thrice defied him…,' those were my parents, who fought Voldemort in the First War. That's why they were killed.”

“All because of a few words,” Hermione mumbled sadly.

“And by Trelawney, of all people,” Harry muttered.

“You're sure this is real, then?” Hermione asked, as scepticism filled her voice. It was hardly a secret that Hermione considered the long-time Divination professor a fraud. Saffron jets of light spurted around them.

“Very much so,” Harry answered. “She spoke it to Dumbledore, and he showed the entire memory to me in his own office on his own Pensieve just after I got back from the Ministry last term. He's kept her on staff all these years because of it - probably to protect her from Voldemort.”

“Well that explains a generation's worth of worthless Divination,” Hermione remarked bitterly.

“So, that's the first bit. The second, what told Voldemort it was me, is this, `born as the seventh month dies' - that's 31, July - my birthday.”

“Harry,” Hermione said as she instinctively reached out for his arm, only to have her hand pass right through it, “it - it could be - Neville, couldn't it? He pretty much shares your birthday, and his parents were Aurors and Order members. They defied Voldemort all the time.”

“I once thought the same thing,” Harry admitted, “but it's not Neville - not any more anyway. That's because of the next part, which Dumbledore doesn't think Voldemort knows about.”

“How does Voldemort know any of it?” Hermione asked. It was a logical question.

“According to Dumbledore, some Death Eater overheard the first two lines, before being caught,” Harry explained. “You see, the prophecy happened at the Hog's Head Inn, where Trelawney had been staying. It's not exactly the most private place in the world. The berk was caught lurking about, and tossed out. If Dumbledore knows who it was, he hasn't told me.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “I'm sure he knows,” she said. “He knows too much not to know that. I'd wager he hasn't told you because he doesn't want you seeking revenge.”

“I would, too,” Harry admitted, “for everything. Anyway, that's all Voldemort knows. The rest of the prophecy goes like this: `The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live whilst the other survives.' Then she repeated the bits about `vanquish' and the date of my birth. That's it. That's what killed my parents and has Voldemort after me. That's what the Death Eaters were trying to get from us in the Department of Mysteries.”

The light around them was back to bright white as Hermione shook with relief. “You're right! It only means one of you has to die - not that both of you must! Oh, Harry, I've been such a fool! Such a bloody fool! All because….”

Hermione stopped talking momentarily and was obviously thinking hard. “…I misunderstood because I thought - Lesson 128. Harry, the reason why I thought the prophecy foretold that you both had to die was because the Aurors were determined to teach you all those close-order, short-range killing curses in Lesson 128. That, and they wouldn't teach me. I thought for sure that you needed to learn them because you weren't fated to survive. Oh, damn it all! I've put you through Hell … all because I read too bloody much into my own stupid exclusion.”

The lighting started veering towards sapphire once again.

To Hell with the truce.

“Hermione!” Harry said sharply to interrupt her latest descent into self-reproach. When she turned to him, he confessed. “I allowed you to believe a lie, Hermione. It's my fault. That's not what I was being taught at all. It was a ruse - a cover story - and the Unspeakables told me I needed to keep it secret. So I did. Blame me, not yourself.”

“The Unspeakables!?!” Hermione asked in a shocked voice. “What happened, Harry? I thought you were with the Aurors.”

“They dropped me off at the Department of Mysteries,” he explained. “To learn some new, just-developed magic that even the Aurors didn't know about yet. They wanted it to be kept secret because they said the element of surprise might save my life. I let myself believe them, so I let you believe something that wasn't true. That lie almost killed you. I'm sorry, Hermione.”

“Oh, Harry,” she sighed. “Truce, remember?”

“Yeah, right, truce,” he muttered, leaving little doubt that he still blamed himself. “Anyway, what they taught me was….”

“Harry, if the Unspeakables said it should be a secret, leave it as one,” Hermione directed. “Anything that might save your life.”

“No,” Harry declared. “No more lies. Besides, it might save your life too. They taught me a way to defeat the Cruciatus Curse. They're going to teach it to you too, if I have anything to say about it. I never want you to experience that. It would - drive me insane, or worse, to explode again. I-I care about you so much. I really do love you.”

Had she finally crossed her own burning emotional desert? Maybe, just maybe, she could see the Promised Land. The wasteland behind her, she sought the broad sunlit uplands - well-watered places where she could quench her passion - could satisfy this overwhelming thirst that tortured her. She reached for Harry, not even caring that she could not actually touch him.

Burying her arms elbow deep in his image, she responded fervently, “I - I love you too, Harry, more than I can put into words. I love you so much that I didn't want to live anymore once I thought you were dead, so much that the thought of a world without you paralyses me. Tonks - you really do need to thank her…. She dragged me away, when I was ready to let myself go and die in the fire on the night you were taken…. Oh, Harry! After all this, you have to destroy him. I can't live with things this way any more than you can.”

The white light all around them had vanished, going intensely fuchsia as first Harry, and then Hermione made their declarations.

“Will you come back with me, then?” Harry softly asked the critical question again, now that Hermione finally knew the truth. “Please - return with me to where we both can really live?”

“Yes, Harry!” Hermione affirmed, her eyes sparkling with vitality. “Yes to that … yes to life … and yes to everything. I want to be with you - I think more than anything I've ever wanted! And I never thought I'd have that chance.”

In the roseate glow that surrounded them both, Hermione saw Harry regarding her expectantly. His look sent shivers down her spine. But neither of them could do anything about those types of urges - yet.

“Harry, why are you looking at me that way?” she asked. “We can't be doing anything in here anyway. You've seen what happens.”

Harry gave a big start as he stuttered out his response. “Oh! No, Hermione! It's … it's … it's not like that….”

He saw her frowning at him.

“…Well, all right, it is - some - can I help it after what's just happened?” he added defensively. “But you're right about first things first. I'm - I'm just waiting for you to show me the way out of here, the way to go home.”

“But … I don't know the way out,” Hermione admitted, the pink radiance going purple as azure infiltrated it. She looked miserable. “I was just sort of swept in here when I was very weak and near death. I thought you'd have some idea. After all, you got yourself here much more recently than I did.”

Harry tried not to panic. He had gotten so far. He had found Hermione, proven to her that he still lived, confirmed her feelings for him, and convinced her to return. Surely, he would not fail at this final step - not when Lao Kung had insisted all along that Hermione would be able to help him return.

“Well, we can start - I think - by at least going outside and taking a look around,” Harry suggested.

Hermione agreed. Simply by will power - without any effort to move anywhere - she extended her arm and there was the door. Her hand grasped a handle. Then, with some effort, this time, she pulled on the handle, and a gaping black void appeared in the otherwise featureless white.

Harry went first. Acting more boldly than he felt, his consciousness purposefully exited Hermione's refuge. He was back in the outer ring. Once his eyes readjusted, this place looked no different than it had when he had been there before.

“Hermione, nothing's changed. You can come out with no problem,” he called to her.

Gingerly, Hermione's consciousness followed - leaving her refuge for the first time since being involuntarily deposited there almost two weeks prior.

The moment she crossed the threshold, however, amazing things began to happen. White light poured from the open door. Almost instantaneously the entire area was illuminated, until it appeared as bright as day.

Before Harry's eyes, Hermione's image - with whom he had conversed for all this time - began expanding. She reoccupied her own mind. As she did, her likeness first became translucent, and then increasingly transparent. The girl's consciousness permeated and enlightened the entire structure through which Harry had travelled for days in such profound darkness.

As she diffused, Hermione's conscious left Harry's with one final message, “Harry, it's time for you to go back where you belong - for both of us to go. Come. You know I won't hurt you….”

Harry felt the brush of wind on his face. The air in this place started blowing about. Harry sensed himself start spinning - slowly at first but inexorably gaining momentum. Something, he was not sure exactly what, was pushing, leading him away from the centre of this labyrinth.

As the spinning ratcheted upwards, he heard a distinct whirring noise - like something revving up. It increased in pitch, like a huge, finely tuned turbine had switched on and was starting to operate.

Whilst he could still see - before he started spinning too fast to focus - Harry noticed a wondrous phenomenon.

The thick wall of polished stone that once seemed so impenetrable was vaporising before his eyes, being replaced by a gauzy, pellucid membrane. The books that had inertly occupied their places in the almost infinite shelving of Hermione's mind stirred once more. Guided by Hermione's consciousness, which now suffused everything he could see, the various books began leaving their shelves and floating purposefully from place to place.

But Harry could only view the workings of Hermione's mind for an instant. The spinning accelerated. And everything became a complete blur. Harry felt that he might also be moving through space, but the sense of rotation became so strong that he could not be sure what was happening to him.

In his weakened state - needing both water and food - the vertigo soon overwhelmed him. He senses ceased to register any connexion to Hermione's mind. When that happened, and the whirring noise was all he could hear, Harry's own consciousness finally gave out.

* * * *

Author's notes: Hermione's mind as an endless library, quite fitting, I'd say

Legilimency usually serves no purpose when the target is unconscious

941 and the other numbers are from the Dewey Decimal System, a form of library organization. All numbers in this chapter are DDS accurate

What is Lestrange complaining that Voldemort will “do,” and for whom?

Voldemort doesn't want DEs to know about the 5th Element because they might doubt his power

Voldemort knows the mental link to Harry is inoperable after Harry's explosion

Voldemort gives important details about how Horcruxes behave

What would Voldemort want from Lucius, and why?

Here we start to learn how Riddle went seriously evil

The Four of Pentacles - beginning the tarot reference in the story summary

Voldemort's final question is, of course, important

What happened to Hermione knocked some books loose, so Harry helps her heal

“Solitary, poor, etc.” - from Hobbes' Leviathan

“Lifeless lifeline” is from U2's “Bad”

“Become as she was,” from a line in Blue Öyster Cult's “Don't Fear the Reaper”

The revolving wall is from a similar device in “Young Frankenstein”

The Wilberforce comment recalls Chapter 7

The eggbox covering recalls the recording chamber in Hermione's house

Harry's touching the flat black surface recalls the apeman in 2001 Space Odyssey

“To save … must destroy” - is from the Vietnam War

Averted vision is a real technique; where the eye stares straight ahead is not the most sensitive

“Where you are, let me be” is from Les Miserables

Dumbledore's music line - chapter 7 of the first book

The song Harry listened to while running with Dudley is in Chapter 6

The Yellow Submarine quote is from Chapter 18 - and ties this theme together

“Lucy in the Sky,” Eleanor Rigby,” and “Nowhere Man” are all on Yellow Submarine

And, of course, so is “It's All Too Much” - which has always been my favorite Beatles song

Harry used “please listen” before (just before she slapped him) and will again

The lighting changes predictably with Hermione's emotions

Hermione's clothing is what she wore when Harry exploded

The discussion of ghosts is canon accurate

The Auror Ring development since Harry's kidnapping is for this moment

Hermione's mental prison is from the George Lucas movie “THX 1138”; it made a brief appearance in Chapter 25

The limbic system is deep in the brain. It's where I've chosen to seat magic

The amber and scarlet fountains of light come from the group “Starcastle”

“Carry the world … carry me” is from one of Lori's fics

“Doomed to greatness” is from Red Badge of Courage

“We can be together” is a Jefferson Airplane song

“Asks for life … not take your pride” is from Pride, by U2, Harry's response “all I want is you” is a U2 song

“Can't always get what we want” is close to the Rolling Stones' song title

We now see the unintended effect of the Chapter 21 Lesson 128 cover story

The Promised Land is biblical; “broad sunlit uplands” is from a Churchill speech

“Show me the way to go home” is an ELP cover of an old drinking song

58

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch42 now or never.doc 02/26/06

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43. Coming Together

Wherein Harry and Hermione return; service of process fails; Hermione confronts her mother, McGonagall, and Rita Skeeter in succession; the secret of Hermione's living will is revealed; Hermione's mother meets goblins; Hermione's mother's lawyer gets his comeuppance; Harry and Hermione pass physicals and rejoin the student body; Hermione gets birthday presents; they take the Astronomy redo; have a confrontation with Malfoy; and Hermione makes a discovery.

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

Chapter 43 - Coming Together

Just as it seemed that all Hell would break loose in the Hospital Wing, all Hell broke loose in the Hospital Wing. Some Hells, however, are preferable to others.

Matters had been coming to a head ever since early morning, when post owls across Britain delivered copies of The Daily Prophet headlined, “Muggle-Born Granger Being Held At Hogwarts Against Parents' Will.” The “exclusive” story beneath the headline contained details of how Hermione lay comatose in the Castle after some kind of serious magical accident.

According to the article, Headmaster Dumbledore, Deputy Headmistress McGonagall, and Harry Potter were all conniving to keep Hermione confined against the will of her “natural parents,” who only wished to “ensure that she would receive the finest care that real medicine could provide” (the latter comment drew the wrath of an editorial unfavourable to “Muggle medicine”). The Hogwarts pretext for holding her was flimsy - a supposed power of attorney that Dr. Granger's wizard solicitor, Sylvanius Beasley, called “not worth the parchment it was written on” because Hermione had been under age when she executed it.

That was plainly just the opening salvo. Later that morning, Hermione's mother, Solicitor Beasley, and three process servers from the Civil Division of the Wizengamot - all trailed by quite a few members of the wizard press - appeared at the gates of the Castle. The process servers carried with them a just-issued writ of habeas corpus ordering that Hermione appear, or be brought, before a magistrate for a judicial inquiry into her mum's request for a recovery order. This hearing was to take place the next day, the day before the girl's seventeenth birthday.

Once inside Hogwarts, this motley crew of litigants, legal officers, and controversy-hungry reporters had their numbers considerably augmented by curious students attracted by the disturbance. By the time they all reached the closed and locked doors of the Hospital Wing, the crowd of onlookers had reached several dozen.

At the urging of Solicitor Beasley, one of the process servers hesitantly pounded on the door. To everyone's considerable surprise, a rather haggard and gaunt Dumbledore greeted them. After a brief, rather tense conversation, the core group of five was ushered inside.

The wizard press corps were not so lucky. They were left to cool their heels outside, where they fell to trading ever more outrageous rumours with members of the Hogwarts student body:

Hermione Granger was being reborn as a phoenix….

Harry Potter was missing and had not been seen in almost five days….

Harry had gone mad, killed Hermione, and then committed suicide….

Hermione had been kidnapped and was being held for ransom against Harry's newly found wealth….

Harry had nearly blown up the Castle and was being held in chains in the dungeons….

Hermione was pregnant with Harry's child….

Inside, Dr. Granger's party encountered a sombre, almost ethereal atmosphere. She had intruded on an unearthly quiet scene. Dumbledore retreated behind a spindly-legged desk, appearing exhausted and acting worried. An ancient, oriental wizard was sitting mostly cross-legged on a raised dais that was covered with rich red velvet. He stared morosely at a large hourglass, its diminishing sand glowing pure white. It took a second glance for Dr. Granger to grasp that this wizard was short most of an arm and a goodly part of a leg.

Almost as soon as she digested this scene, Dr. Granger's nostrils flared. There was a most unusual odour to this place - strong enough that the back windows of the Hospital Wing had been thrown open to provide extra ventilation. She followed the smell of more-than-slightly rancid buttermilk until she found that same witch charge-nurse who had been present during her previous visit to the Castle. That witch was holding what looked like a large saucepan almost full of some cloudy alabaster liquid, and was playing nursemaid to some hideous, half-human creature. That creature, clad in grey, was sponging the liquid onto the arms of….

“HARRY POTTER!” Dr. Granger shrieked. “WHAT IS HE DOING, STARKERS, IN BED WITH MY DAUGHTER!”

Furiously, she turned on the Headmaster. “I don't know what kind of establishment you think you're running here, Dumbledore, but whatever you claim this is - education, therapy, medical treatment - I don't care! This kind of thing is downright unethical under any definition! I'm going to put a stop to this…!”

Dr. Granger advanced on the bed, where a goblin Healer and Madam Pomfrey had the sheet turned partway down in order to bathe Harry's arm in the liquid. Harry, who was wearing only his Speedo bathing costume, did indeed appear nude to the casual observer. Both the Hogwarts Head Nurse and the goblin Healer moved to intercept Hermione's incensed mother, who was intent upon bodily wrenching her daughter and Harry apart.

Had she done so, the separation would have had the disastrous effect of sundering the link of Chinese Legilimency whilst Harry's consciousness was stranded outside of his body.

Dr. Granger's own lawyer prevented a physical confrontation by restraining his client. “There's no need for self-help, Eva. Let me handle this sort of outrageous conduct the proper way.” He gestured to one of the Ministry wizards, “Deputy Merriweather, please serve the writ immediately.” Facing Dumbledore and the rest, the solicitor began reciting in a loud voice, “This is to notify you all that you are legally required to produce Miss Hermione Granger, a minor, at an inquiry to be held tomorrow….”

Whilst this was going on, the overtly nervous deputy sheriff approached the bed where Harry lay inertly with his face buried in the hair flowing down Hermione's neck. Merriweather pulled out a piece of parchment wrapped in a shiny blue ribbon, which he started to place on Hermione's shoulder. The instant parchment touched skin, produced a blinding flash of blue-white magic. Its force propelled the poor deputy violently backwards. He was blown through the air towards the back of the Hospital Wing where he collided violently with Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had just appeared, as if from nowhere. Those two collapsed in a heap.

Dr. Granger let out a shriek at this unexpected turn of events. Solicitor Beasley likewise could not believe his eyes. “This cannot be happening!” he bellowed. “See here, Dumbledore, I don't know what kind of game you're playing….”

Several goblins, all visibly irritated and armed to the teeth, emerged from behind a screen that was near the open window. They moved menacingly towards the unwanted visitors.

At just that moment, klaxons began to blare, several crystals flanking the two teens' sickbed began flashing with yellow and green light, and a number of protective talismans hovering overhead commenced spinning and emitting high-pitched whines.

Dr. Granger reacted by once again rushing furiously towards her daughter. This time, an equally aggravated Madam Pomfrey tackled her. That was indeed fortunate, because behind the nurse, a protective line of goblins had formed. These goblins brandished razor sharp short swords, and plainly were in a state of mind to use them.

“What is going on?” the distraught Muggle wailed.

“Unless I am badly mistaken,” Dumbledore replied happily, “I do believe we have a favourable resolution to our primary problem.”

* * * *

To the extent Harry had ever allowed himself to think - nay, dream - about what it would be like if against all odds he succeeded, he had envisioned returning to the same low-key environment from which he had begun his quest. He would wake up slowly in Hermione's presence, as if from a long sleep. Then he would give Hermione the little memento that he held in his hand. After that, they would gradually renew their acquaintance, and maybe more.

Please let it be more….

Reality, however, has a nasty way of shattering dreams. The reality, in this time and place, could not have been more different from Harry's preconception. As he revived after leaving Hermione's rejuvenating mind, the first thing penetrating the shroud of his unconsciousness was the noise. Foremost were shrieks from all the various blaring medical alarms tripped by the abrupt changes in his (and her) physical condition. Next, was the babble of voices (some of them spouting Gobbledygook), none of which sounded very calm or pleasant. Then he heard the tromp of many footsteps.

The ding-dong was quite unnerving. Harry realised that, unfortunately, this moment would not be the best time or place to give Hermione any token of his true feelings - let alone one as profound as the message borne by the piece of silver now between their hands. The gift he had for her would require a lot of explaining. Whatever was going would preclude any opportunity for reflection. With regret, he unclasped their hands and fisted the little metallic lump that had nestled between them. It felt warm, as did she. Much warmer than before…. `Next time,' he thought.

Harry smiled a little private smile. At least there would be a next time.

Sighing, he decided to concentrate for a moment on how it felt just to be lying next to the girl he had risked everything to rescue. His position had not changed. He was spooning her, back to front along the lengths of their bodies. Her soft form, covered only by a hospital gown, hugged his all the way to his ankles, where their feet intertwined. His face remained pressed against the back of her head. Her long brown hair tickled his cheeks. His left hand still rested on her forehead, holding her head against his. His right arm still snaked under her body, his forearm rising to where it had been clutching her right hand.

The feel of her next to him - in his arms - made him never want to move again.

But move he must. This urgency was supplied by what Harry noticed next, an odour that quickly became overwhelming as his awareness of his surroundings increased. It was a sour, rotten sort of smell; reminding him strongly of a childhood incident that he would much rather forget and never think of again….

He could not have been more than seven years old, but the Dursleys already made Harry do kitchen detail. One day, whilst they were out, he accidentally left a large glass pinta, three-quarters full of milk, out on the table. It had gone off by the time the adults returned. Uncle Vernon went into a rage, and whipped off his belt.

“I'll teach you not to ruin perfectly good food ever again, you irresponsible little runt!” he screamed. Then he began beating Harry with the buckle end.

It was not the first time, and would not be the last, that Harry felt his uncle's lash. But for some reason, this time was different. After only a couple of blows, something - at the time he had not known what - happened. Instead of his stout leather belt, Uncle Vernon suddenly found himself holding a large, sodden piece of fettuccine.

Visibly frightened, as well as incensed, Uncle Vernon bellowed, “No! I'll not be having that in this house. Now you've gone too far, Boy!” His uncle tipped the remaining contents of the offending pinta all over Harry. Then he picked up the frightened, dripping youngster by the back of his shirt collar, and tossed him - thoroughly soaked in sour milk - into the cupboard under the stairs.

There, Harry had remained for the next day and a half, too afraid to do anything (especially any more spontaneous magic), locked inside his tiny dark prison in the stifling summer heat. He was not let out until Dudley complained about “Harry's stinky smell.”

The odour now wafting up his nostrils reminded Harry strongly of that incident. He hated it, and he was a guy. Guys could tolerate stink. What would Hermione think? He could feel her just beginning to stir beside him.

In all the din, nobody actually seemed to be paying the two of them any mind.

Whatever caused the smell, Harry had to do something. With as much regret as difficulty, he disengaged Hermione from his embrace and sat up, slipping the object in his hand under the pillow in the same motion. Instantly, the voices stilled and every eye in the room rested on him.

After being away mentally for no idea how long, Harry's first words were, “Urgh … what's that awful stink?”

Madam Pomfrey, the closest human to Harry, gave a start and quickly moved in his direction. The goblins ringing the bed let her pass. “Potter - thank Merlin - here, let me help you….” As the Head Nurse reached for Harry's left arm, he determined that the arakkil on that arm was soaking wet and covered with slimy, suppurating, whitish-yellow goo. The source of the disgusting odour was something he was wearing.

Hermione was starting to mumble beside him, “Harry…?”

This was not how he wanted her to find him in the first moments they were face-to-face and conscious in the real world, after being apart for over a month; physically, mentally, or both.

“What in Hell have you been doing to me?” he spat at the rest of the world in general. He stripped off the sticky arakkil in one angry motion. Wandlessly, he banished the nauseating object through the open window.

“Don't be so quick to judge, Potter,” Madam Pomfrey said softly, “that saved your life.”

The dam burst, and it seemed like everyone was shouting questions at him at once. But at first, the only questions he cared about were those being murmured from beside him. “Harry … where are we? What's going on?”

“QUIET!!” Harry yelled at the onlookers, as he raised his arm, fingers extended, threateningly at the unruly crowd surrounding him. Visible magic sparked and crackled between his fingertips. He noticed the goblins ringing the bed and was thankful for their presence. At the sound of his shout, they had raised their swords menacingly to prevent him from being swarmed. Both for that reason, and because everyone had just seen him perform wandless magic, Harry's audience in the Hospital Wing took a step back and hushed.

He turned to Hermione just as she roused and turned to him. His green eyes looked into her brown ones for the first time since their mutual ordeal began, all those weeks ago. “We're home,” he said softly, a smile breaking out across his face, “at Hogwarts - in the Hospital Wing. Welcome back.”

She rewarded him with the ghost of a smile. Gently, he reached out his hand to her. She took it weakly, and held on. Harry pulled her into a sitting position and silently put his arms protectively about Hermione's shoulders. “You have no idea how happy I am,” he whispered in her ear.

`I beg to differ,' she replied, using Legilimency so nobody else could hear. `I know how happy I am.' She slipped her arm around his waist.

Her fingers touched nothing but Harry's bare skin. Surprised, she drew back; startled by her sudden awareness of how little in the way of clothing he had on. “What's going on?” she asked again, as she became acutely conscious of the substantial number of onlookers.

“That's just what I'd like to know,” came a familiar voice.

“Mum?” Hermione gasped. “Wha…, What…? What are you doing here?”

“I've come to rescue you from this insanity, that's what. To take you away from this looney bin,” Dr. Granger replied tartly as she shouldered her way forward. “Now let me through,” she demanded of the goblins. “Hermione, we are going to a real hospital to get you checked out and determine just what these … these … magical menaces have done to you.”

“Well,” Hermione huffed, “you're so very welcome. It's so good to be back.”

The goblins, of course, were having none of it. They cocked their swords and were quite prepared to cut this bizarre, unknown woman down if she continued to threaten their prince and his consort.

“Arak” Harry commanded in a harsh voice.

Instantly, the goblins lowered their swords and stood down. They did not, however, move out of the way.

“You…? You control these … these things?” Dr. Granger inquired of Harry in an alarmed voice.

“Yes,” he responded softly, declining her implicit challenge. “I'm afraid I'm quite capable of things you haven't expected, and of some things you might not even be able to imagine.” It came out sounding vaguely threatening.

Harry still had one arm about Hermione's shoulder as she continued to gawk at the idea of seeing her mother at Hogwarts.

Dr. Granger quickly regathered her wits as she regarded the nearly starkers boy with his hands on her daughter. “Be that as it may,” she grimly addressed the one whom she believed had nearly killed her only child. “I nevertheless intend to get some answers. How long have you been sleeping with my daughter?”

“Mother!” Hermione cried out, incensed.

Harry was quite put off by this question, and stumbled, “er … I … don't know, really….”

“Mother!” Hermione repeated heatedly. “How could you? If you must ask that kind of question, you will direct it to me!”

“Don't tell me what I can and can't do, young lady,” her mother shot back angrily. “You're not of age yet!”

She turned back to Harry. “Potter! Answer me,” she demanded. “How long have you been sleeping with Hermione?”

“Umm … how long have I been out?” Harry asked nobody in particular. “Less than three days, I'd reckon.”

“Mother, stop it! You will address those sorts of inquiries to me, and only me!” Hermione cut in, her voice now white hot.

“OH NO, I WON'T!” Dr. Granger retorted with equal vehemence. “You're far too good a liar. You've been lying to me for years. He's not.”

Turning back to Harry, Hermione's mum once again demanded, “How long have you been having sex with my daughter?”

Finally, Harry understood the question he was really being asked. Dr. Granger was spot on; Harry was not a good liar, especially when he had nothing to lie about. “Er … I've never done that, with Hermione, or anybody else,” he softly confessed.

Hermione almost felt faint. Her face abruptly turned from her mother to Harry. At the same time her expression instantly went from narrow-eyed and furious to wide-eyed and tender. “Harry is … is that true?” she asked, hesitantly. As she posed the question, her hand rose until it just lightly brushed against Harry's cheek.

“Every word,” he choked out. “No more lies, remember. I never got….”

“Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry!” Hermione wailed. With a great sorrowful moan, she threw both arms around his neck and buried her face in his bare chest.

She believed him.

And because she believed him, she understood that much of what she had thought had gone on between Harry and the late Eliza Brookings really had not happened. Whatever they might have done, it was not what she had led herself to believe. Once again, the indistinct nature of their erstwhile emotional affinity had betrayed her.

In her heart of hearts, she knew. She had falsely accused Harry - to herself, if not to him - of giving his virginity to someone other than her. Hermione's jealousy, (mostly) baseless jealousy, had almost destroyed the most meaningful relationship she had ever known.

For once silent, but still livid, Hermione's Mum did a slow burn whilst regarding the pair's interactions.

Harry sat there dumbly, his hands absent-mindedly tracing circular patterns on Hermione's back; his entire attention focussed on her. He was interrupted by a sharp tap on his cheek as a piece of parchment struck it and then fell into Hermione's hair.

“I hereby notify you both,” Solicitor Beasley's stentorian voice boomed out, “that you are commanded to appear tomorrow, 18 September, 1996, at an inquiry before the Orphan's Division of the Wizengamot. Said inquiry to address the Petition of Dr. Eva Lafayette-Granger, to have her daughter, Hermione Jane Granger, adjudicated a dependent child and removed from contact with the wizard world until she has attained her majority in accordance with Muggle law.”

“What?” Harry gasped. He was not the only one. As the import of this announcement sank in, the room began to buzz with conversation.

“We'll be doing nothing of the sort!” Hermione addressed her mother icily as she let go of Harry and stood on her own two feet for the first time in over a fortnight.

“Headmaster Dumbledore,” Harry called out, “I need Mister Howe, right away.”

“Already en route,” Dumbledore replied, his normally reassuring voice sounding uncharacteristically worried.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward, “Doctor Granger, I'm afraid you don't understand….”

“I understand plenty well, professor,” Dr. Granger returned firmly, almost hissing McGonagall's title. “If I let her stay another two days, I lose her. In my world, at least I have her until she's eighteen. I'm not about to give up my own flesh and blood without a fight!”

“Mother! What have you done?” Hermione demanded.

“Shall you tell her, or should I?” Professor McGonagall asked Hermione.

“Tell who what?” Harry cut across, quite confused.

BANG! BANG! Clack.

There was a pounding at the magically secured Hospital Wing door, and then the lock clicked open as somebody who obviously had permission to enter overrode the spells that kept the area off-limits to outsiders.

“ALBUS! ALBUS!” a panting and plainly out-of-breath voice called out. “I think something marvelous is happening! The dials, the screens…. They're returning to normal!”

“I know, Parry,” the Headmaster answered. “Come here, we are bearing witness to precisely that.”

Hlr. Huxley pushed his way forward as everyone's head turned. “Sorry, I took so long,” he panted. “In my excitement, I'm afraid that I got lost on one of the staircases. Couldn't Apparate.” As he broke through the onlookers, the Healer stopped short.

“Van, what are you doing here?” Hlr. Huxley asked in unbelieving surprise.

“I could ask you the same thing, Parry,” the lawyer replied, his face mirroring Hlr. Huxley's disbelief.

“You quack,” Dr. Granger spat. “I thought at the very least they'd gotten shot of you.”

Hlr. Huxley recognised the voice instantly. He realised that the rather overdressed Muggle standing next to solicitor Beasley was his patient's mum.

The Healer replied in an even voice that did not reflect the anger dancing in his eyes. “Instead of insulting me, you should be thanking everyone here - especially Mister Potter - that your daughter is alive and, from the indications I just saw, I believe quite well.”

Turning next to the lawyer, Hlr. Huxley added, “Van, I don't know what exactly you've gotten yourself into, but I assure you it's a bad job, a very bad job.”

“I know what I saw, both before and when I walked in here today,” Dr. Granger broke in angrily. “That's not therapy, and that's not ethical, not by my standards, and I doubt even by yours. Having my daughter in bed with a virtually naked young man. I don't know what you practice, but it's certainly not medicine.”

Solicitor Beasley put a hand on his client's shoulder and gently but firmly turned her until she faced him. “Eva, I don't know exactly what was transpiring here, either - and it certainly looked dodgy enough…. But I do know this: Healer Huxley is not, as you put it, a `quack.' Far from it. He is probably the most well-respected wizard Healer in the British Isles at present. I know from personal experience. He's been my expert witness on a great many occasions. I think it behoves us to determine what has been happening here before we proceed any further with this litigation.”

“What!?” Hlr. Huxley exclaimed. “Litigation!? Oh, Merlin! I know your methods, Van - that horde of reporters outside the door. That's your doing, isn't it?”

The mention of the press jolted both Harry and Hermione. For him, his last precious hopes for some quiet time with her evaporated. For her, cold fury at her mother's meddling in things she did not understand boiled over.

Bitterly outraged, Hermione addressed her mother in icy, precise language. “Mother, let me set a couple of things straight. First of all, I am not going to any inquiry tomorrow. There is not going to BE any inquiry tomorrow, because nobody has the power to declare me any kind of child. I am an adult now, and I have been for a while. I left a note with Professor McGonagall….” At this, she turned her incandescent glare on her own Head of House. “…but I gather she chose to keep it to herself. I learnt something about Time-Turner knock-on-effects during some recent research.”

“Miss Granger, I can explain,” Professor McGonagall broke in.

“I'm sure you can, and I'm sure you will,” Hermione addressed the professor tautly, “But not until I sort all this out….”

“What's a Time-Turner?” Dr. Granger asked with incomprehension.

“Oh, Goddess!” Solicitor Beasley groaned, now comprehending what was happening. “That's why the service failed.”

Turning back to her Mum, the girl - who was no longer a girl at all - continued, “A Time-Turner is a magical device that allows someone to go back in time. I used one to maintain a course overload throughout my Third Year, and again for a fortnight earlier this month to conduct research to help Harry.”

At the mention of his name, Hermione turned to him and flashed him a warm smile, which he gratefully returned.

That smile had fled, however, when she again addressed her Mum. “I calculated it out, and the extra time comes to 42 days, give or take a few hours. It's additional time that I've lived. This extra Time-Turner time has to be added to the calendar when determining attainment of majority under wizard law. I've been of age for more than a month, although I didn't know it myself until after it happened.”

“I don't know what you've done,” Hermione finished, “and I don't know why you chose to publicise my situation, but I'm telling you this, and I mean it.” Hermione's eyes were blazing now, with fury and determination. She spoke in deadly low tones. “You are going out there right now. You are going to deal with those reporters. And you are going to set this right. I don't care how. But if you don't - you can exit that door and just keep walking. I … I swear that if you don't fix this … NOW … I will never speak to you again, except to hex you into oblivion if you ever try to come near me! Now get out of here this instant, the both of you!”

“You heard her,” Harry seconded. “You've meddled in things you don't understand. If you love her like you claim, go!”

For a moment, Dr. Granger just stood there, rooted to the spot, as she struggled to assimilate what she had just learnt. Her little girl was little no longer, thanks to, of all things, time travel. The legal action she thought would win her custody of her daughter was a nullity, and a fiasco. But all of that paled into insignificance compared with one incontrovertible fact.

Hermione was mentally and physically whole again.

Everything she knew about medicine screamed that this was a miracle - and Harry Potter, who had been the target of her enmity for weeks, was somehow responsible for that miracle.

That boy had just saved her daughter's life.

“Mister Potter,” she said uncertainly. “I now understand that you saved my daughter's life … somehow. I-I-I have to respect you for that….”

Nobody said a word in response. Even Hermione could only gawk.

Just as the silence became oppressive, Dr. Granger turned to Solicitor Beasley. “This was your idea,” she hissed. “You got me into this, and you're going to help me get out.” She grabbed him by the wrist. With that, the two of them turned on their heels and left.

Watching the two of them depart, Harry was at last able to focus on something other than an ongoing brouhaha. “Er … could I get some clothes?” he requested. “Please?”

“Right away, Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby answered happily. “Welcome back!” With a snap of his fingers, the house-elf disappeared.

Exhausted, Hermione flopped back onto the bed, her eyes staring, unfocussed, at the ceiling. “I can't believe she did that - sued everyone - and aired all this dirty linen in the press. Why?”

“From her perspective, it was quite a wise precaution,” an oddly familiar voice drawled from behind her.

Hermione rolled over. Harry turned around. Both of them gawked. It was Hermione's twin.

“You're … you're … me,” Hermione forced out. “Do I really look like that? The hair? It's almost beautiful.”

“It is beautiful,” Harry murmured in as low a voice as he thought she could hear, “trust me.”

Hermione was on the verge of snogging Harry in front of everyone when the Hermione look-alike answered. “I'm Luna,” she said calmly. “You certainly do look like this. Professor Slughorn brews first-rate Polyjuice Potion.”

“Polyjuice Potion?” Hermione echoed, “Why?”

“I'm sure your mum did what she did to make it as difficult as possible to use magic against her,” Luna observed. “It was a clever move. Professor Shacklebolt was prepared to Obliviate her. Well, because of what she'd done they thought they needed someone to play you for a little while to distract the press. I volunteered. Fortunately, that won't be necessary.”

Professor McGonagall could remain silent no longer. She explained, “Your mother's lawsuit left us no choice but to resort to subterfuge. We could not possibly permit the two of you to be separated with Harry's consciousness, his soul if you will, inside of you.”

The professor added, waxing philosophically, “The poor woman. Acting like a harridan over sex. She has no idea. What's gone on between the two of you - first his rescue, and then yours - has involved far more intimacy than mere coupling.”

Hermione was not prepared to go there, not yet. She had other unfinished business, another bone to pick with her favourite member of the Hogwarts staff. “Professor McGonagall? Why didn't you just tell her the truth?” she asked. “Didn't you tell anyone about the age of majority thing? I thought I spelled it all out for you in my note.”

After a brief interruption as Luna made her way to the door, clutching an Invisibility Cloak, the professor replied. “Miss Granger, I owe you an apology. I am truly sorry. But I had my reasons. I had no idea your mum was capable of this. I was afraid that your situation would drag on, and it's been quite a close thing as it was. I kept your majority to myself because it created a sense of urgency, and I wanted that to remain. It set a deadline of sorts … to get you back before your birthday. You do, after all, have a very important examination two days hence.”

Hermione was back, all right. Professor McGonagall's reminder of the imminent Astronomy O.W.L. redo hit her like a ton of bricks. Thoughts that she might be academically unprepared made her go spare.

Hermione's eyes shot wide open and she squealed, “Oh no! Two days! I haven't prepared in the slightest. Can I get it postponed? Where are my Astronomy books? My planisphere? Merlin, I'm going to fail!”

With a knowing grin, Harry put a calming arm around her, and reassured, “Hermione, calm down. You're not going to fail. You never do. To start with, Professor McGonagall is going to get you a Time-Turner. Aren't you professor?”

At that moment, Dobby reappeared with the requested clothes, and Harry's wand. Harry reluctantly let go of Hermione; it felt so warm where he had touched her. As the boy was covering himself (and slipping an object from under his pillow into his pocket), he dropped his lingering smile and mutely fixed both Professor McGonagall and Headmaster Dumbledore with his steeliest of gazes. He wanted an answer to his question.

“I believe extenuating circumstances would permit that,” the Head of Gryffindor house answered. Dumbledore's silence signified his consent.

Harry turned to Hermione, who had flopped on her back again, and leaned down next to her. “When Mister Howe, that's my lawyer, gets here, I'm going to have him get your birthday present. You see, I anticipated this, but….”

Harry's voice trailed off as he realised that something else was not making sense. “Wait a minute,” he wondered. “How could your birthday be in two days…? That would make this the seventeenth. I went in on the twelfth. How could I possibly have been gone for five days? Sefu Kung?!” he called out.

The old master had been watching everything from his dais in a rather detached fashion, not seeing fit to say anything, or even to move - something that was no longer easy for the elderly double amputee. When Harry asked for him, he responded simply, “Yes, Hahli?”

“Was I in … in Hermione's mind, for five days?” the boy asked incredulously. “You told me that I'd be dead of thirst after three.”

“Indeed, five days,” the Sefu responded. “And that had been my best understanding, based upon a lifetime of learning and experience.”

“But…? How…?” Harry stammered. “I mean, I'm not dead.”

“Even a lifetime of learning sometimes is not enough, Hahli,” the aged Chinese wizard explained. “One is never too old to learn something new.”

“Ow!” Harry involuntarily interrupted. Hermione had been lying on her back on the bed, when suddenly what had been her very loose grip on his hand tightened.

Lao Kung paused.

Harry heard Hermione's voice, this time through telepathic Legilimency, tell him urgently. `Please have him continue, Harry, but listen to me and do what I say.'

“Sorry,” Harry said to the Sefu. “Please go on.”

Lao Kung continued, “When you banished your lifeline on the third day, I was sorely afraid for you….”

`Harry, I'm going to ask for a hand mirror,' Hermione explained silently. `I'm going to ask you look into it over my shoulder….'

Meanwhile, Lao Kung recounted, “I explained my concern that your body's stores of food and water were almost exhausted, and could not be replenished without disrupting the fragile magic….”

`Think of a good restraining spell from your training, and be ready to use it exactly where I show you,' Hermione simultaneously transmitted.

“The goblins advised that your arakkil could sustain you,” Lao Kung explained. Harry regarded the old wizard in a rather glassy-eyed fashion, trying to pay simultaneous attention to Hermione. “Goblin magic works on an altogether different plane. So they offered the services of four goblin wet nurses, whom I believe are still behind the screen. Goblin mother's milk sustained you….”

`I'm going to begin now,' Hermione finished.

“That's all so fascinating,” Hermione broke in as she sat up. She ostentatiously ran her hands through her hair. “But could I trouble someone for a hand mirror? I must look a fright.”

Lao Kung at once waved his hand, and a majestic mirror, framed by two golden, five-toed dragons, appeared on the bed next to the girl. She picked it up, made a face at her reflection and started clucking over her appearance like some vapid teenager. She asked Harry for his opinion, and he bent over her.

`Look in the mirror at the side wall, about halfway between the open window and the fireplace flue…. See it?' She communicated silently.

“I think you're still pretty…. Even dishier than before,” Harry declared out loud. It was a ploy, but he thought it true nonetheless.

At the same time, he Legilimenced to her, `You mean that greenish black thing?'

`Yes,' she answered. `Concentrate…. You're unlikely to get a second shot.'

Harry mumbled out something else about Hermione's good looks. Then - suddenly and without warning - he twisted himself around. His wand shot into his hand from his holster as he threw himself onto the floor. The goblin guard raised their swords again in confusion as Harry roared.

“Arachneortia!”

A milky white jet shot from his wand. The spell splattered against the beadboard wainscoting that bordered the Hospital Wing's vaulted ceiling. It thoroughly coated a relatively small object that promptly fell off. Before it even hit the floor, one of the goblins was racing to retrieve it.

Grabbing the gooey object, the goblin motioned to Hermione, implicitly asking her if she wanted him to crush it. She shook her head, so the goblin brought the eight-centimetre-long, and extremely sticky, object to her.

“Oh, smashing, Harry!” she exclaimed. “Spider silk! How appropriate.”

Peeling the glutinous object off her hand with some difficulty, Hermione laid it on the sheets and addressed it. “We can force you to transform, you know. But I hear it's quite painful. You might as well do it yourself. If you want to stay out of Azkaban, you had best see what kind of a deal we can strike….”

At the mention of a deal, the blob trembled and began to expand rapidly.

“Why Rita, such a pleasure to see you again. Your hair looks lovely indeed,” Hermione waspishly addressed the quite goo-covered witch reporter. “I'd really thought you'd learnt your lesson.”

“You've caught me again,” the lantern-jawed witch addressed her. “You're very good - the most difficult I've ever encountered. Now about a deal?”

The trash journalist said no more. A gurgling sound briefly escaped her lips as her arms and legs snapped together and she toppled onto the bed, paralysed.

Harry and Hermione turned around. Headmaster Dumbledore, his blue eyes flashing with the same ineffable wrath Harry remembered from the Fourth-Year encounter with Barty Crouch, Jr., had his hand out towards the fallen woman.

“There shall be no deal, Rita,” he declared magisterially, “unless and until I approve. I am the Headmaster of this school, and this is the second time you have trespassed upon its grounds whilst misusing your illegal status as an Unregistered Animagus.”

Hermione gasped softly. Believing the issue settled by private blackmail, she had told none of the Hogwarts staff about Ms. Skeeter's prior transgression.

“Each episode is punishable by five years in Azkaban, and your unregistered status by itself warrants another ten, followed by a most disagreeable course of Disanimation.” Dumbledore paused to let his words sink in. The room was so silent one could hear an owl's feather drop.

Still resembling a vengeful Old Testament prophet, he continued, “That is, if I choose to have you prosecuted as a witch. My second option is to consign you to Mister Potter's friends here,” Dumbledore gestured to the goblins, “and allow their law to prevail. I need some time to decide. May I remind you that, unlike Doctor Granger, nobody outside of this room knows you are here.”

Motioning to his newest staff member, Dumbledore directed, “Kingsley, please take her away.”

Professor Shacklebolt stepped forward, levitated the immobilised witch, and floated her to the fireplace, through which the two of them immediately disappeared.

Dumbledore watched them leave, and then turned to the two teens. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am for both of you to be back at Hogwarts, apparently safe and sound. And that is the first thing that must be confirmed. I would like Miss Granger to stay here and undergo a thorough physical examination. Mister Potter, I would like Healer Huxley to conduct the same on you in the Room of Requirement. Assuming positive results, you will both be promptly cleared to rejoin the student body.”

“Er … Headmaster,” Harry tentatively replied, “before I go, could I have a word with the goblins … the wet nurses? I'd like to thank them.”

“Why, I think that is a splendid idea,” Dumbledore immediately concurred.

With that, the boy rose and, with his goblin escorts, passed behind the screen to say his gradnuks.

Hermione's transparently adoring eyes followed him. Dumbledore, who took due note of her expression, reluctantly interrupted her thoughts.

“Miss Granger, your situation is rather more complicated due to your mother's presence,” he reminded her. “She has acted as you demanded concerning the press. I do not wish to be premature, but have you considered how you wish this situation handled? I shall be guided by your wishes.”

“I … no, I … well,” Hermione unsuccessfully replied. “It's such a shock. No, I haven't. I, I still love her with all my heart - despite everything. And Daddy too, even not knowing where he is. But I need some time to think … to settle in. Can it wait until after the O.W.L?”

Dumbledore smiled warmly at her. “Of course,” he assured Hermione, “I shall arrange for suitable accommodations at a secure location of her choice. For what it is worth, my judgment is that she would profit from a cooling-off period as well.”

The Headmaster quieted as Harry reappeared after thanking the goblins. Wordlessly, these magical allies began stowing their things and preparing to depart. Harry made a beeline to Hermione's side.

“Umm … I'll see you after we're both checked out by the Healers,” he said, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. Switching to Legilimency, he added with a wink, `We need to have a long talk, about us,' again cherishing the warm feeling that shot through his hand.

“You're right,” she said, almost whispering in his ear. She switched as well. `I'm still pinching myself that this is all really happening; that there even can be … an us. I was so depressed.'

Her mental voice trailed off, and Harry could see her eyes tearing up. Instead of crying, though, Hermione leaned into him and kissed him tenderly on the cheek, her lips lingering. “See you real soon,” she breathily told him out loud.

As Hlr. Huxley led Harry through a secret back passage and to the Room, the boy swore his cheek stayed flushed until they were all the way up to the Seventh Floor.

Harry and Hlr. Huxley were well into an enthusiastically conducted medical examination when the door to the Room of Requirement creaked open and Blackie Howe entered, being led by Dobby.

“Harry, you're such a sight for sore eyes! I can't begin to tell you how relieved I am!” the pinstriped wizard blurted upon seeing him. “I saw Dumbledore on the way in. I gather all the papers my office is frantically preparing will not be necessary.”

“Er … papers … preparing?” Harry asked hesitantly.

“You know, to call a halt to the Granger inquiry madness,” the solicitor reminded. “That's why I thought you'd summoned me.”

So much had happened. Harry had completely forgotten the original reason Mr. Howe's presence had been requested. “Oh, that,” he responded sheepishly. “Right. It's over. She backed down.”

“All for the best, then,” Mr. Howe intoned. “But I could have stopped it anyway, on a technicality. I checked, and Mister Beasley was not authorized to appear in Scotland under Rule 9 of the 1990 Solicitors' Overseas Practice Rules….”

Blackie saw Harry rolling his eyes, and knew he had strayed beyond his client's limited tolerance level for legal minutiae. He adroitly changed course.

“As I said, Harry,” Mr. Howe went on. “I know. Dumbledore told me. I'd like to call off the dogs, but my mobile doesn't work here, and I can't Apparate. Dumbledore said you still wanted to see me.”

“Right,” Harry said, still a little abashed. “Did you get Hermione the gift I requested? I really hope so.”

If Harry's request were unanticipated, Howe did not let on. “Of course,” he confirmed. “It required customisation, and the Muggles charged a pretty penny for the rights, but it's done. It's at my office. When do you need it?”

“How fast can you get it?” Harry replied, adding, “I'm serious.”

Howe began to protest, “As I said, I can't use my mobile and I can't Apparate.”

“Dobby!” Harry called out.

With a squeak and the sound of skittering feet, the house-elf appeared. “Yes, Harry Potter, sir!” was Dobby's breathless reply.

“I need you to do something for me, fast,” Harry instructed.

“Yes. Yes!” Dobby practically begged for what must be an important task.

“This is Mister Howe. I want you to take him to his office, get something he has for me, and bring it back to me as fast as you can,” Harry asked the elf.

Dobby almost dragged Blackie Howe out the door.

The house-elf returned, excitedly announcing that he had what Harry wanted, less than fifteen minutes later. His timing was impeccable, as Harry was just receiving a clean bill of health from Hlr. Huxley. He thanked the Healer - sincerely, if hurriedly - and once again made his way to the Hospital Wing. He fervently hoped it would be the last time he had to use the secret passages between the two.

Once returned, Harry had to cool his heels a bit more. Given her condition and recent medical history, Hermione's examination took considerably longer. Late, bright noontime sunlight streamed through the open window when, at last, she emerged. She, too, had been pronounced in good health. However, nobody - not Dumbledore, not Madam Pomfrey, and not Hlr. Bosworth (who had been summoned to assist) - could say with any assurance that no long-term consequences would arise from the powerful and unusual magic to which she had been subjected.

The girl, however, was thinking about none of that. Her focus was entirely on the here and now - or more properly the here and next couple of days. Hermione had always been compulsive over her education. She nagged herself at least as badly as she nagged Harry and Ron about matters scholastic. This aspect of her personality was one reason for her extraordinary academic success.

Thus, when Harry found her, Hermione had worked herself into the frenzy of a worrywart in full “worry” mode.

“Oh, Harry, I'm so far behind, it's appalling,” she fretted when first seeing him. “I'm weeks in arrears in every course, and we've got the Astronomy O.W.L. in less than two days. I haven't revised for it since … since before you went missing. Oh, Harry!” She grabbed his hand and would not let go. “Thank Merlin you're back, and safe!”

“I feel the same,” Harry answered throatily. “And I've thanked Merlin, probably every ten minutes since you've come back. But wait! Like I mentioned, I have something for you. Whilst it's technically for your birthday, I think you'd want it straight away.”

He restored the shrunken package to its original almost-as-big-as-a-breadbox size. “Here, for you. I hope it helps.”

She opened it. “Why, it's an Aural Pensieve,” Hermione acknowledged. “But, but, I already have yours. I'm afraid I stole it from your trunk whilst you were missing,” she confessed, her eyes downcast. “I hope you're not furious with me.”

At this moment, nothing in the world could have caused him to be furious with her. She could have his trunk and everything in it, he thought. “Of course not, Hermione,” he replied. “You can go into my trunk anytime … take anything. What's mine is yours, if you'll have it. But this Pensieve is preloaded with….” He pulled out the piece of parchment on which he had written what Blackie Howe told him. “…Burnham's Celestial Handbook, all three volumes. It's never been on Pensieve before”

As he watched, she broke out into a brilliant smile. “Oh, that's wonderful, Harry. It's the best astronomical reference there is. Oh, I love you so much! Come here.”

Harry smiled back. He could feel blood rushing to his face and to, well, elsewhere. He had dreamed of this moment. He was finally going to get to kiss her properly. He felt all warm and fuzzy, inside and out. He stepped towards her open arms and her inviting … everything….

“Potter! Granger!”

At the sound of Professor McGonagall's voice the two jumped apart before they had ever really gotten together.

“Don't make me take points from my own House for public displays of affection,” the professor lectured. Whilst her voice was typically stern, her face betrayed a more mixed set of feelings. She placed noticeable emphasis on the word `public.' “Don't forget, Miss Granger, you are still a Prefect. And you, Mister Potter, you should have been. Come, it's time for me to deliver you both back to your common room.”

Hermione found it difficult to conceal her disappointment. Clutching her gift, she turned and started trudging after Professor McGonagall. “Another time?” she sighed.

“Another time, you bet,” Harry replied, equally unhappy with the unexpected turn of events.

* * * *

“Incendio,” he shrieked in disgust, throwing down the copy of the Prophet he had just finished. “It is over then, and they're both back at Hogwarts, apparently unharmed. A pity, but not unexpected. I never count on anyone except my faithful servants to do my work for me - and often, not even then…. Lucius!!”

The blond-haired man who had been chatting quietly with Severus Snape quickly stepped forward, “Your Lordship,” his mellifluous voice intoned as he kneeled to kiss the hem of his master's robe. “How can I serve you?”

“My first…,” the Dark Lord paused; there were some here who did not know. “The diary. Tell me again how your foolishness brought about its destruction.”

The elder Malfoy gulped, but complied. “It fed on the girl I secretly passed it to,” he explained. “But it fell into Potter's hands. He had no idea what it was, and she was able to retrieve it. Then, I am told you brought the girl to you … as bait to lure Potter. That worked, but the result was exceedingly unfortunate. In the Chamber of Secrets beneath Hogwarts, Potter destroyed the diary, and according to Dumbledore, `your memories.' Potter and the girl returned safely from the Chamber, or so I was informed shortly after the event. Later, Potter returned the remnants of the diary to me.” He sneered the boy's name. “It was returned to you in precisely the condition I received it.”

“Did Dumbledore leave you with any impression that he thought the diary to be anything other than he described it?” Voldemort asked harshly.

“Umm … No, My Lord,” Lucius replied hesitantly. “He simply described it as one of your `old school things.'”

“Then perhaps your stupidity has not produced a total loss,” Voldemort hissed. “Have you had the conversation that I directed you to have with your son.”

Lucius flinched slightly. Loyal Death Eater that he was, he still never intended to bring Draco into the ranks before he was of age. The Black inheritance had precluded that, and even the Dark Lord had agreed. Now, that had been lost. No really good reason existed any longer, except inertia - and his lingering doubt over whether it was what either of them actually wanted.

“No, my Lord,” Lucius replied unctuously, “not yet. I am a fugitive, and was not in the best of health until recently. My son has been at Hogwarts since shortly after the beginning of the term. Our paths have not crossed.”

“Not crossed? Not good enough,” the Dark Lord pronounced. “Crucio!”

The blond man immediately fell to his knees, writhing in pain. Then he keeled over completely and flopped about on the floor. Voldemort watched impassively.

“Bella,” he called out whilst keeping his wand trained on Malfoy. “Do you know the whereabouts of Dolores Umbridge?”

“In Azkaban, my Lord,” the gaunt witch replied eagerly. “She recently began serving her sentence over the torturing incidents at Hogwarts.”

“Good,” the Dark Lord intoned as he cracked an evil smile. “I believe I know just how to send the right message.”

Nonchalantly, he ended the curse on Lucius Malfoy. “You shall contact your son,” he ordered. “Since you cannot meet directly, use the auspices of Borgin and Burkes as an intermediary. As you know, I have longstanding ties with that establishment, going back fifty years. The original proprietors, Rindelaub Borgin and Caractacus Burke, hired me out of school. Contact Burke, as Borgin is deceased and his son is … not entirely trustworthy.” Voldemort snarled out the last few words. “Burke will facilitate matters.”

“Yes, my Lord,” gasped the rather shaken Malfoy.

“I have need of your son's services,” Voldemort hissed. “There is business that needs doing at Hogwarts. He seems quite resourceful, and reasonably discreet, but he has been lacking in both judgment and loyalty. If he proves to me that he can be trusted, he will be richly rewarded.”

Malfoy's eyebrows rose involuntarily. It was hard to be impassive when one needs a great deal of money, and rich rewards are promised. “It shall be done, My Lord.”

“Indeed, it shall,” Voldemort replied ominously. His face grew stern and threatening. “Make no mistake, Lucius, it shall. I mean what I say about a rich reward. Your current unfortunate involvement with the goblins is quite well known to me, and I am prepared to resolve it. But if you and your son fail me again, it will be the last time. Now go!”

“Yes, my Lord,” Lucius repeated as he bowed and scraped until out of sight.

“Severus,” Voldemort called out.

“How may I serve you, Master?” the dark haired man replied silkily as he stepped forward and prostrated himself.

“Get up,” Voldemort demanded, sounding irritated. “I wish you to accompany Lucius and ensure he completes the task I have assigned. Given the latest turn of events, I almost regret your absence from Hogwarts. But I suppose I had no choice, and your potions have been excellent. Once I have won, and the Castle is purged of its long-accumulated filth, I shall give it to you to run. What I need to have done shall hasten that day immensely.”

“Thank you, my Lord, I am most honoured. Shall I seek to overtake Lucius?” he asked.

“Yes, be off,” Voldemort agreed.

“Bella, come with me,” the Dark Lord demanded. “My recovery proceeds apace, and I wish to discuss with you further the matter I broached recently. I believe another card has been turned over.”

* * * *

The period between Harry's and Hermione's return to Gryffindor and the O.W.L. retake was a great disappointment to the boy. He had hoped that their essence-to-essence talk had resolved the many misunderstandings between them, and her reaction to his birthday gift (before being so rudely interrupted by their Head of House) suggested that they were finally prepared to start moving forward together. That did not happen, at least not how he had hoped.

They were both just too damned busy. The school was in session, and they both had missed too many classes already. Their reception in Gryffindor Tower scarcely amounted to more than a few pats on the back from those housemates who happened to be on hand. Their workload meant that Ron's promise of a Trio party had to be postponed.

No sooner had they changed clothes and eaten a very quick lunch, they had to turn around and attend their afternoon lessons. Those featured back-to-back double periods of N.E.W.T.-level Transfiguration and Charms, for which neither was prepared in the slightest. Whilst their professors were sympathetic, and refrained from calling on either of them, they both endured being gawked at by shocked classmates.

For once, Hermione bore the brunt. Although nothing was articulated out loud, quite a few of those staring at her had never expected to see her conscious again. Between competition for Head Girl - and competition for Harry Potter - not all of her classmates were entirely happy once again to encounter a fully functional and whole Hermione.

Nor did the two have any time to talk (or more) once classes ended. Wednesday was the day Gryffindor had the Pitch reserved, so Harry had to spend most of his time before dinner at practice. Hermione, in full academic panic, retreated to the library to study. Before and after Quidditch practice, Harry was able to bring Ron and Ginny up to date on developments. They did not know anything about what had gone on save what was in the Prophet.

Ron and Ginny were tremendously relieved that Hermione was back and seemingly fully recovered. Harry's best mate offered hearty congratulations when he learnt that the two had also resolved their personal differences. Ginny seemed rather less enthused about the latter event.

“Well, bloke, you got her back,” Ron said as they did their pre-flight stretching. “Are you going to do anything about it?”

“Ron,” Ginny cut in. “Can't you lay off him even a little? He's only been back a day!”

“That's all right, Ginny,” Harry said, dismissing her protest. “Actually, I wanted you lot to be first to know. Hermione and I, well, we had a long talk. Seems I was every bit as much a prat as Ron thought. We're … we're together now - as a couple, I mean. And I … I couldn't be happier.” Finishing the sentence, Harry broke into the biggest grin that either Weasley could remember seeing, at least since before Sirius had died.

“Fantastic, mate!” Ron beamed. He put an arm around Harry and waggled his eyebrows at him suggestively. “That calls for a celebration! After practice, why don't we get Dobby to nick some stuff from the kitchens for us? We'll have a party, and you and Hermione can show off your snogging skills!”

“Umm…, I don't know Ron,” Harry replied cautiously. “Hermione's pretty uptight about her studies right now, and we do have that Astronomy do-over tomorrow night. I doubt she'll be in the mood for a party before then. Let's see, okay?”

“All right, then,” Ron agreed, “but after that, you both are going to prove to me that you can find each other's tonsils, perhaps blindfolded.”

Harry was game, but he wondered what his new girlfriend would think. She had always been quite reserved about such things. “Whatever Hermione wants,” Harry said noncommittally.

Ginny had not uttered a word in response to the news. When Harry looked to her, she finally offered rather lukewarm sentiments. “Yeah, Harry, that's great. It couldn't happen to a nicer pair. You really do deserve each other.”

With that, she mounted her broom and flew off to join the other Chasers. Before Ron and Harry could say anything about Ginny, Captain Katie blew her whistle. “Come on, you two. Look sharp, and be on time. I won't have veterans setting a bad example for my erks!”

“Blimey,” Ron growled as he mounted his broom. “What is it about that badge? Must be possessed, or something. Everybody that puts it on turns into a bloody-minded Oliver Wood!”

“How would you know?” Harry asked, as he also kicked off. “You weren't on the team then.”

“Fred and George do some wicked imitations,” Ron replied over his shoulder as he set out for the goal hoops.

Harry spent the bulk of the practice trying to train the new hellion - Jazzy Habby, as she now permitted Harry to call her - to be a Seeker. She had outstanding instincts for catching the Snitch, and she was a fearless (if quite unpolished) flyer. However, she had practically no grasp of Quidditch strategy, and she fouled way too much. To make matters worse, most of her new teammates hated her. Both Katie and Harry had to stop practice twice to upbraid the Beaters, who still wanted to take potshots at the backup Seeker.

Harry was impressed that Jazzy kept the stiffest of upper lips in the face of such treatment. But he was not fooled. He had been mistreated enough himself to know what to look for. In her cloudy eyes, he saw unmistakable flashes of pain - and rage.

Dinner was a hurried affair, and uncomfortable for both Harry and Hermione. They had not both been in the Great Hall at the same time since the last term, and they very much felt as if on display. Professor McGonagall did not help matters much when she formally announced the obvious, that the two missing students had returned, and advised everyone to leave them alone. For the most part, the student body obeyed, although a surprising number of D.A. members seemed to feel the need to confirm that there would be another session on the upcoming Friday.

Under such a public microscope, the pair were not about to engage in any extracurricular activities. With their friends gathered about them at the Gryffindor table, and assorted hangers-on occupying every other nearby seat, the audience was simply too large. Indeed, Harry and Hermione had to explain themselves so many times to others that they barely spoke to each another during the meal.

At one point, though, Harry was briefly rendered speechless by the progress of her foot venturing up the cuff of his pantleg. When he looked to her with an expression midway between shock and desire, she flashed him a shy smile. `Sooner or later, Harry,' she Legilimenced, `you will be mine.'

`Deal,' he communicated back to her.

Just when that would be, however, was a matter of considerable doubt. After dinner, Hermione went straight to bed. She pleaded with the rest of the House, who wanted to party, that she was still weak from her ordeal. Harry knew better - that she wanted to get started with both the Time-Turner and her new Aural Pensieve.

While for once not as academically under water as his more accomplished girlfriend, Harry was still several days behind. He edgily answered his housemates' questions for about a half an hour whilst munching on sweets that Dobby provided. The promised party never really got off the ground, given classes the next day and, for most of Harry's Sixth Year friends, tomorrow night's O.W.L. retake. After regretfully turning down a chess challenge from Ron, and not so regretfully declining the opportunity to play Exploding Snap with Romilda Vane and her friends, Harry likewise made his way to his bed. Once inside, he drew the curtains, cast a Silencing Spell and studied until past midnight.

* * * *

A crystal clear and unseasonably cold day faded into an equally clear and even colder night on Hermione's birthday - examination day. Other than in class, Harry hardly saw her to wish her Happy Birthday. She firmly rebuffed any suggestion that she have any sort of party, or even a break from her constant swotting. Just before Defence class, she confirmed his suspicion of what was going on:

“Hermione, what are you trying to do? You don't have to memorise the entire Burnhams, you know,” Harry asked her.

“Of course not, Harry,” she responded, her face looking rather pale and drawn. “I'm not trying to learn the whole thing. Just those parts of the sky that will be visible during the test…. That's only about 65% of it, and if I keep to the schedule I set, I can just about make it.”

“But it's your birthday,” Harry protested. “You deserve at least a little break, don't you think?”

“No, I don't so think,” Hermione replied as they walked down the hall. She slipped her hand into his, and he felt a bit better. “You've already given me a wonderful present, and nobody else will remember.”

Quite to Harry's surprise, Hermione was just about right. Other than a box of sweets from Ron, a glorious Golden Anthurium from Neville, a book about the history of Druidism from Luna, and a handbag embroidered with beads from Ravenclaw's Su Li, nobody else gave Hermione any presents at all, not even Ginny. But then before this year Ginny had never gotten Harry birthday presents, either.

Colin and Dennis did, however, send Hermione a hilarious electronic Happy Birthday card over the D.A. central system.

As Hermione was gathering her rather meagre gift collection to take to her dormitory, Jimmy Peakes, whom Harry knew only from Quidditch, approached Harry and his friends. He had a roll of parchment.

“Harry,” the boy said urgently, “this is for you. Dumbledore himself asked me to give it to you.” As soon as Harry took it, Peakes meekly said goodbye and left. He was plainly unused to acting as go-between for the Headmaster of Hogwarts and the Boy Who Lived.

“What's that all about?” Hermione and Ron asked in unison as Harry slid off the Headmaster's personalised violet and green ribbon.

“Umm … he wants to start my private lessons this Sunday night,” Harry answered as he perused the short note. “And meet with the goblins. They had something that I wouldn't let Dumbledore bother me with before I went in for you. I'll bet it's that.”

“What's that?” Hermione asked the obvious question.

“Dunno,” Harry truthfully responded.

Harry was about to jam the parchment in his pocket and bin the ribbon, but Hermione stayed his hand. “A priori,” she spelled. Then the ribbon retied itself neatly around the rerolled parchment.

“There,” she pronounced. “Good as new.”

“Sure is, but who bloody well cares,” commented Ron. He thought Hermione was showing off.

“You never can tell when a note from Dumbledore might come in handy,” she replied stiffly.

Harry shrugged his shoulders and slipped the scroll into his robes, as Ron muttered, “mental.”

Shortly before midnight Harry, Hermione, and most of the other Sixth Year Gryffindors (Marona had done well enough the first time that she did not sign up to retake; Seamus had failed so badly that he decided not to bother) made the slog to the Astronomy Tower for the long awaited O.W.L. redo. Their cohorts from the other Houses soon joined them.

Security was tight. Hermione was not alone in understanding that she had a realistic chance of dethroning Tom Riddle with a good practical score. Dumbledore accepted an offer from the new Minister, Rufus Scrimgeour, of a squad of Aurors for the evening. That squad found themselves patrolling the grounds in uneasy proximity to a much larger number of goblin warriors.

Mad-Eye Moody had signed on as well. He used the occasion as an excuse to see Harry for the first time since his successful rescue of Hermione. However, the testers would not let the guardian for one of the students stand watch during the test. Thus Mad-Eye found himself banished to the roof of the Ravenclaw Tower. He missed seeing Harry altogether before the examination.

Harry was assigned a spot on the inner part of the Tower, near Professor Tofty. The professor emeritus, whose extra credit the previous spring had brought about Harry's almost unprecedented Defence O.W.L. score, greeted the boy warmly as Harry set up his telescope.

Ron got a spot adjacent to Harry. Hermione, probably by design, was relegated to the opposite side of the Tower, where Professor Sinistra invigilated. Harry was not happy about that, although the seeing conditions on his side were marginally better, since it faced away from the rest of the Castle.

As a retake, the test was structured differently from the original, interrupted O.W.L. exam. Instead of preparing a detailed star chart, each student was assigned a list of twenty-five objects to locate, plot, and describe. Some of these were the same for all, but over half of them were different.

Some of the objects on the lists were fairly obscure. “Bloody Hell,” Harry heard Ron mutter, as he looked at his. “What in blazes is Comet Kopff?”

Harry set to work, without any interruptions. His very first object was the Andromeda Galaxy. Finding that one was easy, as it was almost directly overhead. He had no trouble with Saturn either; its rings were plainly visible through his telescope. Sketching the Saturnian system, he located, with considerably more difficulty, its main moon Titan. Steadily, he worked his way through the list, as behind him, the few remaining golden squares of light in the Castle walls winked out one by one. It seemed a very peaceful night.

He found Mars, just rising on the eastern horizon. It was close to a conjunction with Venus, which was just too easy to be on anyone's list. The Asteroid Juno escaped him, as did the Ring Nebula. Comet Hale-Bopp, however, was an easy bag, even visible to the naked eye. He was about three-quarters done with his list, writing up the variable star Algol and trying to remember what the Coal Sack was, when Harry heard a familiar voice - Hermione's.

She sounded on edge, or maybe just excited. “Professor Tofty,” she asked, “would you please take a look at something I've found? Something's not right. Professor Sinistra's not sure what to make of it.”

“Certainly, child,” the aged professor agreed, and tottered off with her to the other side of the Tower.

A few minutes later, Harry was almost done in more ways than one. The last object on his list, and from what he could tell from Ron's mutterings, on everyone else's as well, was the Triangulum Galaxy. Harry vaguely remembered that there was a constellation by that name, but had no idea where in the sky it might be. He was muttering to himself, and getting ready just to put in any galaxy he could find in the Summer Triangle (at least he knew where that was), when he heard Professor Tofty return.

Something was definitely up. The Professor was actually jogging, not walking. That could not be easy for him, as he was older than Dumbledore. Soon he returned, going back to Hermione's station, leading the tiny and stooped Professor Marchbanks.

Shortly thereafter, Hermione herself came up to him, as Harry was touching up his sketch of the great nebula in Orion.

“Harry, how are you doing? Are you just about done?” she asked. She was unmistakably excited.

He had reached the end of his list. Whilst there were a number of holes in his examination - things he had not been able to find, he was essentially done. “I guess. What is it?”

She took his hand and started pulling him with her. “I want to show you something. If it's what I think it is, I want you with me to see it.”

“What is it?” he insisted.

She stopped, and out of deference to other students who were still frantically observing or scratching with their quills, she whispered in his ear, “I'm not sure yet. The professors have to make the final determination, but I might have found something new….”

Then she affectionately gave his ear a little nip with her teeth.

Harry jumped. “Ow,” he squawked, prompting annoyed shushing noises from his classmates. He walked off, following Hermione.

“What was that for?” he said in a stage whisper.

She stopped and waited for him to catch up to her. “No reason,” she replied in a real whisper. “Except to say that I love you.”

He grabbed her about the shoulders. “Then I guess I have to give you two nips, since that's how much I love you….” He started trying to nibble on her ear, prompting her to giggle and try to break away.

That led to more shushing noises, and a peeved Terry Boot advised them to, “Get a room, for crying out loud.”

They moved further around the tower, Harry still in pursuit of Hermione's now exposed ears.

“Hey, stop blowing in my ear,” she giggled in mock protest, as he cornered her once again.

“That's supposed to make you want to follow me anywhere,” he replied, doing it again.

“You already know that I'll follow you anywhere,” she said huskily. “Been there, done that. You don't need to….”

That caused Harry to say, in what he hoped was a suggestive voice, “Well why don't you follow me over here…?”

Hermione started tagging after Harry into the deep shadows when the two teens were interrupted by two beaming professors, Tofty and Sinistra.

“Miss Granger,” Professor Tofty said, not even bothering to keep his voice down, “it's official. You've discovered a comet. We believe it's a new one. It's not on any of our charts. It's not particularly bright, but it's evidently quite close.”

“We've put a call into the Muggle Central Bureau for Astronomical Telegrams, to register your discovery,” Professor Sinistra added. “If it's indeed a first, then the comet will bear your name. This hasn't happened at Hogwarts as long as I've been teaching here.”

Hermione was almost jumping up and down with excitement. Her classmates' whispers quickly spread the news to everyone on the Tower.

“Yeah, just what we need,” sounded another familiar, and most unwelcome, voice. “Comet Mudblood.”

Harry whirled around, eyes blazing and fists raised. “Malfoy, you'll keep your mouth shut around her, if you know what's good for you,” he said in a deadly voice.

“And just who's going to make me, Mudblood lover,” Draco Malfoy sneered. “What are you…?”

Malfoy's drawl ended with a gurgle. Harry had his arm up and, in his fury, was performing the same wandless magic that he used on his Uncle Vernon earlier in the summer. And for much the same reason.

Hermione yanked at his arms whilst telling him, “Harry! Please stop! He's not worth it!”

It was like Harry could not see her. Malfoy started turning purple.

Hermione tried something else. To break Harry's concentration, she kissed him full on the lips.

That worked. Malfoy slumped to the stone floor of the tower - forgotten.

Harry gave her his undivided attention. He raked his fingers through her hair as he started to deepen the kiss. She made an indistinct little moan and leaned into him.

“Ahem,” Professor Tofty interrupted. “There's still five minutes to go on the O.W.L. I don't want to fail either of you, but you are disrupting your fellow students.”

Hermione pulled away. So did Harry, but more reluctantly.

Malfoy groaned in the corner. Seeing him there, Harry boiled at all of the insults the Slytherin had hurled at him, and Hermione, over the years. Harry kneeled down beside the blond boy.

“You listen to me, Malfoy,” he whispered so nobody but the two of them (and Hermione, who was right beside him) could hear. “Just to show you there's no hard feelings, I want you to know that when I end up owning Malfoy Manor - because your daddy was a thief as well as a Death Eater….”

“Scarhead, you wouldn't dare,” Malfoy grunted.

“Watch me,” Harry sneered. “Remember this: It's winner take all. I won. You lost. Got it? I'm going to free all the house-elves. That means I'll need someone to clean out all the Malfoy rubbish that's in there. I figure who better qualified to do that than a Malfoy? The wheel's turned, and look who's in the shit now.”

With that, Harry rose, making sure that he trod on Malfoy's knuckles as he did so.

“Harry, what good did that do?” Hermione asked him uneasily.

“It made me feel good, after all he's done to you,” Harry replied with a relaxed smile. He took her hand.

“Still, it was gratuitous,” she reminded him.

“He's gratuitous,” Harry answered as they walked in the direction of her telescope. “Now how about showing me your comet before we all have to go?” Harry also gave a mutinous glance at Professor Tofty, who shrugged.

In hushed tones, she started chattering, “It's right there between M31 and M33. I saw it first at the beginning, but only after it had moved at least fifteen arcseconds in little more than an hour did I think anything of it….”

Harry smiled and shook his head at his new girlfriend's boundless enthusiasm. He turned to Professor Tofty, who was also more-or-less listening.

“Does that mean she's passed?” he asked.

“I'd say with flying colours,” the professor replied. “I've given her the same amount of extra credit that you received for your Patronus.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Sylvanius was made up; Beasley was the name of a very good Philadelphia plaintiffs' lawyer

Writ of habeas corpus is real, and means literally “produce the body”

“Recovery order” is the correct British terminology for the order Dr. Granger seeks

Some of the outrageous rumors weren't that outrageous

The odor was introduced as a reason for the open windows, but took on a life of its own

Writs are served by sheriff's deputies

Kingsley's appearance was not accidental

My wife and I verified Harry's and Hermione's relative body positions

Uncle Vernon with a wet noodle

Once again Harry misinterprets a euphemistic question about matters romantic

Until the moment of Harry's revelation, Hermione assumed he had had sex with Eliza

Orphan's division is on name for a family court

Huxley is the type of doctor a lawyer would hire as an expert witness in a big case

The use of Time-Turner time to augment Hermione's age, and much of the calculations, were suggested by an excellent piece on the HP Inkpot called “Hermione's Actual Age” by who girl

With her realizations, Hermione's mother becomes less obnoxious

With a potionsmaster on premises, Polyjuice is once again available

The “more intimate than sex” line comes from, I think, the second of Horst Polmann's trilogy

A planisphere is a day/time adjustable star chart

Most Chinese dragon depictions have five toes per foot

Rita Skeeter thus knows a lot that could cause Harry problems

Owl's feathers are specially designed to be silent

Old Testament prophets tend to have long white beards like Dumbledore

The description of Scottish legal practice is accurate, if rather Muggle

Worrywort in full worry is a line I use for my wife

Burnham's Celestial Handbook is a standard, 3-volume astronomical reference for deep sky observers

“Another time” - in the US, the phrase would be “rain check”

Lots of clues to subsequent events in the Death Eater scene

“Erk” is British for “rookie”

Golden Anthurium is the same plant that was in Blackie Howe's office

Hermione immediately grasps what the Dumbledore letter could accomplish

Mad-Eye will still find a way to involve himself

All of the astronomical objects are: (a) real, (b) visible from Central Scotland in autumn, 1996, and (c) would actually have been located where in the sky they are described

Comet Kopff is a short-period comet easily visible by telescope in 9/96

The Andromeda Galaxy (M31) is naked eye visible, and the nearest neighboring full-sized galaxy

The Ring Nebula (M57) is a deep sky object in Lyra

Algol, in Perseus, is a famous variable star known since antiquity

The Coal Sack is a dust cloud in the Milky Way

The Triangulum Galaxy (M33) is an almost naked eye (quite bright) galaxy in a nondescript constellation. It's proximity to Andromeda is accurate

The Orion Nebula (M42) is a bright cloud of interstellar gas. It would be in the east on 9/19

The “blow in my ear” line is from “Laugh In,” an old TV show

The description of how comet discoveries are handled is accurate

As usual, Harry would have done well to listen to Hermione's advice about Malfoy

49

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch43 coming together.doc 03/19/06

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44. Second Thoughts

Wherein Harry has a horrible dream, is late for breakfast, learns of new Death Eater attacks, reads some urgent mail, and has a long talk with Remus; Hermione receives a summons, learns some unexpected news, and has a request for Remus; there is an accident at the D.A. meeting; and Harry goes to a reunion of sorts.

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

Chapter 44 - Second Thoughts

As they trundled down the Astronomy Tower stairs, Hermione was still keyed up from her discovery of a comet. Harry was keyed up from his encounter with Draco Malfoy. Each was even more keyed up by the other's presence.

The O.W.L. that hung over their heads since their return was over. The call of their mutual attraction, first interrupted by Professor McGonagall and most recently by Professor Tofty, was all the more insistent through repeated frustration….

Even though it was after 2:00 a.m., the last thing either wanted was to spend yet another boring, lonely night in the Gryffindor dormitories.

“Harry, do you still have the Headmaster's summons?” she asked as they reached the bottom of the tower stairs. Hermione had this mischievous, almost feral, look in her eye.

“Umm … yeah,” Harry said. He fumbled about until locating it in his robes.

“Give it to me,” she demanded, “and follow my lead.”

He did, and the two broke ranks from the rest of the Sixth Years at their first opportunity. Almost immediately Argus Filch challenged them.

“And where do you two think you're going at this hour of the night?” he growled. “I'll have you….”

“You'll do nothing of the sort,” Hermione retorted, in the haughtiest voice she could muster. She flashed her badge. “I'm a Gryffindor Prefect, and this is Harry Potter. He has an urgent appointment to see the Headmaster,” she waved the parchment with Dumbledore's characteristic ribbon under the Squib caretaker's nose, “and I'm his escort.”

Filch flinched. He was suspicious that the Headmaster would see anyone at this hour, but these two being who they were, giving them a pass was less bother. “Go on, then, but be quick about it,” he waved them off dismissively.

“You…. You lied to him,” muttered Harry, astonished.

“Oh no, I didn't,” Hermione replied with a naughty grin. “Everything was true - at some point. He just didn't ask when your appointment was, and I didn't volunteer.”

With that, she took him by the hand and led him through the darkened halls of the Castle in an unfamiliar direction. “This isn't the way to Dumbledore's office,” Harry accurately observed.

“No it isn't, but I've something to show you,” she said excitedly as she squeezed his hand. “When we were all looking for you, the Headmaster gave me this.” She produced a large, golden key. “With everything that's happened since, nobody's bothered to collect it.”

“What's it a key to?” he asked, as they slowed and turned down another hall he had never seen.

The words had barely left his mouth when they stopped at a door that Hermione knew well, but Harry knew not at all.

She moved very close to him, almost flattening him against the door, and whispered in his ear, “The key to the gates, Harry.” She began kissing urgently, almost mauling his lips. Her silky hair tickled his neck.

Harry moaned and took her into his arms when the kiss broke. “I don't get it, what gates?” he answered lazily, captivated by her fiery eyes.

“You will,” she responded hotly, giving him a tantalizing nip. “Think Astronomy. Try Venus, or perhaps some other heavenly body.”

Her key turned in the lock, the heavy oaken door moved, and Hermione all but shoved him inside. Whirling about as he backed his way in, Harry saw a long, dark room dominated by a huge table that loomed in the gloom. Harry got a only fleeting glimpse because, after a brief pause to lock the door, Hermione was all over him, urging him through a second entrance on the far left-hand side.

He felt out of control as zealously she pushed him off balance. Hermione seemed to know exactly where everything was. In an instant, they toppled together into a soft bed by a large oriel window. Hermione rolled atop him and looked intently into his eyes. “I said, that sooner or later you would be mine,” she purred from all fours. “And now's sooner….”

With that, she dropped down on him fully and hungrily claimed his lips.

At the taste of her, Harry let out a long groan that merged into a growl. He started giving as well as receiving. His hands moved under her jumper, and then under her blouse. The two pawed at one another, and somehow or other one item of clothing and then the next went flying through the air or slithering off the side of the mattress.

“Oh, Merlin, Harry - you don't know how long I've wanted this,” Hermione mewled between gasping breaths as at last she felt his bare skin. “I'm of age now, and I swear, if you even think about stopping, I'll hex you!”

She squirmed whilst divesting him of his few remaining garments, until her pawing had left him naked to the stars that shone through the window. She touched him. He growled even more deeply. He touched her, she moaned even more heatedly. Their hearts were racing. Their bodies yearned to become one.

“What are we doing, Hermione?” he asked as she ran her tongue over his nipples. It felt so exquisite, it was almost painful.

“If you don't know by now,” she replied ardently, beads of sweat beginning to glint on her forehead, “I guess I'll just have to show you….”

She rolled over, pushed off of his chest and straddled him. Harry gasped. Hermione intended to initiate the act herself.

“Make me a woman tonight, Harry,” she cooed at him, her eyes almost closed as she concentrated on her - and his - desire.

She wiggled into position, and….

In an eerie reprise, a blinding flash erupted and the window blew in, showering them in bits of glass and twisted strips of lead. A Death Eater screamed, “Stupefy!” The stunner hit Hermione foursquare in the back, and its force knocked her off of him and onto the floor.

Harry groggily flicked his wand into his hand, but before he could utter any coherent spell, a second Death Eater paralysed him with Petrificus Totalus, and then hit him with some kind of binding curse. It constricted his chest as he impotently struggled against it.

The first Death Eater threw off his mask, revealing Draco Malfoy's sneering face - the same expression he had earlier worn atop of the Astronomy Tower. Dismounting his broom, he reached into his robes and pulled out a metre-long Muggle object. Harry had seen one before, whilst in captivity.

“And now you get what you so richly deserve, you insufferable Mudblood slag.” Bending at the waist, Malfoy turned the object on Hermione - now out of Harry's sight on the floor - and moved towards her.

Harry screamed with wild, deadly rage. The Death Eaters' magic could no longer restrain him. No magic could restrain him. The constricting spell that confined him audibly tore away. Just as he flew at Malfoy, a torrent of water hit him in the face…..

Sopping with frigid water, Harry thrashed about half-awake. He sent his alarm clock flying, and further ripped his already tattered bedsheets to shreds. Quills, bits of parchment, his magical CD player, and his wizard sponge bag all fell from the headboard as Harry violently flailed away at the demons in his head.

Finally realising where he was, he lay still, breathing hard and fast. Reflexively he felt his scar. Nothing. It was another entirely homegrown nightmare.

“Oh Merlin, that was - awful,” he groaned wearily as he tried to calm his feverish mind.

Thankfully, the Silencing Spell he cast over the bed curtains after his last similar incident remained intact. At least that spared him further embarrassment in front of his dorm mates - unlike the previous time he had erupted.

Harry tried taking stock. The dream had seemed so real - and most of it had been so delicious.

After the Astronomy O.W.L. ended, Hermione snuggled into his side, just as in the dream. Drawing close to his ear, her breath hot on his neck, she had whispered something decidedly immodest. Then she showed him this key she had…. That much had been real, but….

Damn that Mad-Eye Moody.

Hermione had just begun to explain the details of her plan for them to “slip away to celebrate my emancipation.” That ended abruptly when they encountered the ex-Auror at the base of the Astronomy Tower staircase. Unfortunately, he also happened to be Harry's guardian (by Harry's own request). Thus Mad-Eye justifiably presumed to tell Harry what to do. Mad-Eye had been at his paranoid best (or worst) - full of suspicions that Death Eaters might attempt an attack to prevent Hermione's eclipse of their Master's old O.W.L. record.

To the vast amusement of other snickering Gryffindor Sixth Years, Mad-Eye insisted on personally escorting then both every step of the way to the Gryffindor common room. Protests by the two frustrated and mutinous teens were met with Mad-Eye's litany of dire possibilities - each seemingly crankier than the next. Deflated by losing yet another chance for quality time with his new girlfriend, and with his adrenaline at rock bottom, Harry had flopped into bed and….

“Oh bloody Hell! Accio alarm clock.”

Harry had quite forgotten to set his alarm clock, and thus overslept.

Everyone would be heading down to breakfast. Shaking the remaining cobwebs from his brain, Harry exhaled loudly and clawed away the tattered remnants of his sheets. Freeing himself, Harry stumbled through his bed curtains, still dripping from the Fluvius Charm that successfully woke him before another uncontrolled magical discharge could cause any serious damage.

He came face-to-face with Ron, who was straightening his tie before leaving for the Great Hall and his morning meal.

Ron immediately went red in the face and almost doubled over laughing at the sight of him. “Blimey Harry. That must have been one Hell of a wet dream. Sorry about last night - but you bloody well picked him as your guardian. I'll see you downstairs, mate.”

Summoning his scattered toiletries, Harry staggered to the bathroom. Only when he encountered his reflection did he grasp what a fright he was. The mirror agreed. “My, my, you must have seen far worse than a ghost,” it remarked. “Did you shower in your nightclothes?”

“Sod off, you glass arse,” Harry growled, in no mood for banter with an ostensibly inanimate object. He splashed steaming hot water across his face and started to shave.

Regarding his gaunt - and increasingly foggy - form, Harry leaned hard on the edge of the porcelain. He forlornly dropped his eyes into the basin and sighed deeply.

His nightmare…. He had seen far worse than a ghost - any ghost.

`If I go through with this,' he thought, `I'll get her killed, as surely as I did Eliza.'

What little appetite Harry when entering the loo had vanished completely before he left. He sat on the edge of his bed, listlessly trying to repair his bedclothes when what he had half expected happened.

It began with a pounding on the door. “Harry, are you in there? Are you all right?” Hermione's voice rang out. Even in his present state, there was no mistaking the concerned edge to her otherwise typical questions.

“I'm fine,” he called back. “Just overslept, that's all. I'll be down in a minute.”

“You don't sound fine,” she perceptively replied. “If you're in there blaming yourself for last night's Death Eater attacks, I'm coming in after you! You've two minutes.”

Death Eater attacks!?!

“Oh, shite!” Harry yelped. “What now? I'll be right out….”

Dispensing with anything nonessential, Harry started waving his wand and dressing magically. He handily, if somewhat inelegantly, beat Hermione's deadline, and opened the door.

Hermione's insistent embrace nearly toppled him over. “Oh I'm sorry, Harry,” she wailed overloudly in his ear. “I was terribly insensitive to break that kind of news to you so flippantly. It's just that I blame myself. After the publicity, I shouldn't have gone ahead….”

All through her explanation, Hermione clung needily to Harry. As her face drew ever closer to his, he was acutely conscious of being jammed rather uncomfortably into an angular doorway corner. After a quick glance hither and yon, she moved to kiss him like she had at the end of last night's exam. Harry flinched at the last minute - and not just from the doorframe's pointed contact with his thoracic vertebrae. Instead of their intended target, Hermione's lips plowed into his not entirely clean-shaven cheek. Surprised, she desisted.

“What is it, Harry?” she complained.

He answered in his usual articulate fashion. “Umm … this isn't really a good idea, is it? In public and all?”

Harry's professed concern fortuitously materialised at precisely that instant. The Creevey brothers hove into view - partially at least, as they were non-magically lugging a large box inscribed “Faneuil's Fabulous Foe Glasses - quantity, six” up the stairs to one of their dormitory rooms. Seeing Hermione in Harry's arms, Colin dropped his end of the box in embarrassment, sending the box (and Dennis) crashing back down the stairs.

Colin promptly disappeared after it.

“You didn't seem to mind at all last night,” Hermione said slightly miffed. She slipped an arm around the back of his neck as if to make ready to try again.

Keeping his lips out of reach, Harry replied gloomily, “I'm not sure last night was all that great of an idea either.”

“Rubbish,” Hermione answered dismissively. “Everybody there knew or suspected we're together, and I'm so tired of hiding how I feel about you. I did it when you were with Cho - and with…. And I very nearly lost you.”

Seeing Harry's stricken expression, Hermione changed course in mid-rant.

“Anyway, the `public' be damned,” she continued. “They'll just have to get used to it. The only thing last night that wasn't a good idea was your going after Malfoy like that. It was unnecessary and uncalled for. That - and of course my ever deciding to take that stupid retest. I'd already passed.”

A stricken expression flowed across her own face. She stopped, her lips quivered, and she burrowed into Harry's hastily thrown-on robes, trying relatively successfully to stifle her ragged sobs in his chest. As before, her hands insistently clutched at him.

“Er … Hermione - it's okay. It's not your fault,” Harry murmured uncomfortably. Awkwardly, he patted the distraught girl on the back. `I'm still no good at this,' he thought.

Hermione was guilty of an accusation she often threw at Harry - blaming herself for everything. After quite a few seconds, each one seeming rather longer than it should, she appeared to be calming herself in his arms. `You're better than you think,' she Legilimenced.

Finally, Harry felt he could chance the obvious question, “What happened, Hermione?”

“Umm … Come downstairs, it's - it's in this morning's Prophet,” Hermione told him hesitantly. “I've arranged some food for you, too, since it's gotten so late,” she added.

When they reached the common room, Hermione caught Ron, Dean, and Cormac McLaggen red-handed.

“Ron! All of you! Get away from there, I fetched that for Harry,” Hermione shouted.

Dean protested, “But there's more here than anyone could eat … even him.” He gestured towards Ron. The redhead only laughed and took another handful - because Dean was surely correct.

Hermione was, however, a Prefect - and a scarily powerful witch on top of that. Thus, the three boys moved away from the still substantial pile of food. With his mouth full, Ron gestured at her and mumbled, “Good kippers. White pudding could use a little more sweetening, though.”

Hermione cracked a semi-smile as she rolled her eyes. “Honestly,” she exclaimed as she led Harry to the mound of food on a gold tray.

Addressing her, Ron added, “You've got a note.” He pointed to the table. “Right there. McGonagall wants to see you during your first open period.”

“Damn,” Hermione muttered as she collected food for a still rather unenthusiastic Harry and found her copy of the Prophet. “There goes another chance….”

“What chance?” Harry asked absent-mindedly before he took in the headline. He nearly spat out what he was chewing, and promptly forgot about everything else.

“ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION OF FUDGE; EXAM AUTHORITY DESTROYED,” the thirty point font screamed.

“Merlin's bloody beard, what happened last night?” he blurted.

“I did, I'm afraid,” Hermione almost wailed. “Because so many Aurors were guarding the Castle during my stupid, egotistical pursuit of that unnecessary academic record, they were spread too thin to cover things elsewhere. From the Prophet's description, I suspect the Death Eaters attacked Fudge as a diversion, and once the Ministry's reserves were committed, their main group flattened the Testing Authority to send a message - to me….”

Her quavering voice trailed off completely at the end.

“That's a topper of a strategy,” Ron commented, his mouth finally clear of food nicked from the tray she had set out for Harry. “How'd you figure that?”

Hermione looked at the redhead with stricken eyes. “They did the same thing to spirit Harry out of Malfoy Manor that day we thought we would rescue him,” she answered softly. “I was there - I saw it.”

Ron scowled - precisely because he had not been there. He needed no reminding that was been sulking in his tent (or at least various other locations) whilst she had accompanied the unsuccessful raiding party on what was hoped to be a rescue of his best friend. “I would have gone, if you'd just told me,” he muttered.

“I know you would have,” Hermione snipped at him. “But Dumbledore wasn't allowing messages. And there wasn't time. We were too late as it was…. They were ready for us. I wish you'd been there. You fly better than I. Maybe you could have convinced Dumbledore to bring my broom.”

“Doubt it,” Ron replied whilst still sounding unhappy. “From what Harry's told me, the thing would have bounced me right off.”

Ron obviously had thought about that day more thoroughly than she had. “Sorry, Ron, you're right,” she admitted.

“For once in my life,” he remarked testily. “A bloody milestone.” He swiped another couple more kippers and left in search, presumably, of Cho.

Hermione sat down beside Harry and rather carelessly threw her left leg over his right. Again Harry flinched at her rather mild public display of affection. Hermione noticed, but refrained from commenting about how the past month had forced her to reexamine her priorities. Neither did she remove her leg, however.

“So they wanted the Testing Authority,” Harry sighed. He roughly flung the Prophet across the table. It spun off and disappeared over the other side. “They had to make an example of you, didn't they?”

“I'm afraid that's what they do,” Hermione replied, with a pensive look in her eye. “But to me, it was only a message. The examples were those unfortunate enough to be in the Testing Authority that late at night. That's some fifteen dead. Fifteen people dead because I had to go and try to beat Riddle!”

“Hermione, you can't blame yourself for what the Death Eaters did,” Harry told her gently.

“Mister Pot, meet Miss Kettle,” Hermione replied sarcastically. “But if I hadn't got it into my head that that trivial record meant so much.”

“It didn't seem so trivial last night,” Harry reminded her. “I can't remember the last time I saw you just so plain happy.”

“No, it didn't,” she admitted, although in truth Harry was as much the cause as the O.W.L. “But that's the problem, actually. If I hadn't wanted it so much….”

“But you did want it, I could tell,” Harry responded. “It's all right for you to fancy something for yourself, you know.”

Hermione thought over what Harry had said. She also reviewed his conduct towards her this morning, compared to the night before. She stood and gathered her things. “You're right Harry,” she sighed. “I only hope that you take what you just said to heart.”

Harry did not focus, at least not on what she intended as the deeper meaning of her remarks. “So how'd they get into the Ministry this time?” he asked resignedly.

“It wasn't there,” Hermione told him. “The Testing Authority moved to its own facility some time ago, supposedly so the powers that be would have less opportunity to influence the results…. It was located in what was once the County Hall Island Block near Waterloo. That's a crater now. The building itself - a horrible concrete pile the Muggles were only too pleased to get shot of - was no great loss. It's the people that matter…. The Prophet says the Ministry's calling it another a gas main explosion. Been a lot of those lately….”

“Better than a plane crash,” Harry muttered.

Hermione stared at him with wide eyes; then threw her arms around him. “Oh, I'm so sorry, Harry. I've been awful haven't I?”

“No you haven't, and you hardly need apologise to me for feeling guilty about some such,” he replied, as he tried prising her off. “I've been known to do that myself, as I recall…. You've the right to be as brilliant as you can be. Voldemort had none to stop you.”

She looked at him through still watery eyes and Legilimenced. `Whatever else happens, you know I love you, right?'

“So much it scares me,” Harry whispered into her ear.

Hermione drew back, feeling both gratified and concerned. Sensing all the eyes on the two of them, she straightened herself out and said, “Now I have to see if I can catch Ernie or Su - to borrow their notes for the classes we missed. I'll see you in Creatures.”

With both sadness and longing, Harry watched her leave.

Before she reached the portrait hole, a red-faced Colin Creevey reappeared. He was out of breath - as if he had sprinted up all the movable steps from the Main Hall - which indeed he had.

“Harry…,” he gasped, huffing and puffing. “You … never made it to breakfast…. You've just had a couple of important owls…. We thought you should see … these personally…. Here….” Colin thrust the parchments at Harry so emphatically, he lost his balance.

A surprised Harry caught him. “All right,” Harry responded whilst accepting the papers, “but what are you doing with my post?”

Colin looked befuddled, so Hermione - who had stayed to watch the exchange - interrupted. “Colin and Denis are still sorting your mail,” she explained. “There's been even more of it since you've been rescued. You didn't have time to be bothered, so I asked them to carry on.”

Harry accepted Hermione's justification without question or comment. Instead, he tore into the top letter. It bore an official Gringotts logo and was sealed in the goblin fashion. Reflexively, he shook his head.

“Harry, what is it?” Hermione asked, as she moved back towards him.

“Never mind me, then,” the Fat Lady protested. “I'll just hang around….”

Realising that she, a Prefect, had left the Gryffindor Tower entrance wide open, Hermione immediately made a hand gesture, and the door closed smartly. The display of wandless, silent magic did not go unnoticed among the few housemates (mostly seventh years) who had not yet left for classes.

He shook his head. “They want me to schedule the - the reading of Sirius' will - now that he's officially been pardoned. Damn, I don't want to do that.”

“Merlin knows I'd rather you not,” Hermione agreed, “but you have to. Blood money or no, it's yours now, and neither of us can do anything about that. If even I can come to terms with it, so can you.” She gave him a peck on the cheek. His putative fortune was something else his absence had forced her to reassess. If they could make this work, the “independent” part of “independently wealthy” was worth the candle.

Harry frowned in resignation. “You're right as usual.”

Morosely he flung that letter onto the table. It skittered across and floated out of sight on the opposite side, following the Prophet to the floor. Harry's curiosity spiked whilst opening his other post, which was private correspondence from the Minister of Magic himself.

“Damn,” he muttered again….

Hermione started massaging Harry's shoulders. One consequence of all the weeks they spent apart was that she now had difficulty keeping her hands off of him. It went beyond making up for lost time. Knowing how he felt about her had been a revelation….

But at the moment, he was so tense. “What's wrong now, Harry?” she asked tentatively. Whilst her hope of him melting into her embrace went unrealised, he did seem to loosen up. Harry shifted to make the base of his neck more accessible.

“It's.… It's the Minister. After the usual rubbish about congratulating me for my escape, he wants me to approve this draft programme for the Order of Merlin Award Ceremony on Halloween. I didn't want to do that for Fudge. And this Scrimgeour - Dumbledore says he's even slipperier a politician than Fudge was. It's bad enough, with Sirius dead. I don't want to be kissing any politician's bloody arse.”

Hermione scrutinised the proffered schedule. Six Ministry speakers capped by the Minister's own twenty-minute address did seem a bit much. “Yes, he'll use you too,” Hermione observed, forcing her voice to stay calm. “That's what someone in his position has to do - but you're not helpless, you know. Exactly who kisses whose arse is open to question.”

If Harry had been paying more attention to her - rather than to her touch - he might have sensed the wheels turning. “S'pose so,” he replied blankly, “but I don't want anything from him. Only that the Ministry fights against the Death Eaters, and Dumbledore says that, at least on that, Scrimgeour isn't the problem Fudge was.”

“But you do want something, Harry,” Hermione reminded him gently. He turned and looked questioningly into her eyes. They shone brighter than before. “You've said so yourself. And I think you can get it. Don't forget, things have changed since … since everything happened - first to you, and then to me. In between, Sirius has been officially cleared of everything Fudge's regime sent him to Azkaban for….”

“Do you really think?” Harry broke in.

“Sure do,” she went on. “You know, with Fudge sacked as Minister, Scrimgeour shouldn't have any good reason to continue the cover up of Fudge's mistakes.”

Harry's eyes widened as he caught the drift of her logic. “That's bloody fantastic, Hermione! I'll do it! It can be part of the ceremony. Er … you don't think any of the rest will mind, do you?”

“Of course not, Harry,” she reassured him. “We'll all support you if need be. I'm sure of it. He died trying to rescue all of us.” She paused as a new thought crossed her mind. “Just be sure to talk to Remus first. After all, they were best friends.”

Care of Magical Creatures passed relatively uneventfully - if any lesson featuring a hissing two-headed Runespoor could be called uneventful. Hagrid tried to move matters along by prodding the riled up animal with his brolly. In response, it spit venom everywhere. That hardly bothered Hagrid, clad in his usual creature-resistant clothing. But Parvati suffered second-degree leg burns (and a thoroughly ruined pair of Muggle nylons) whilst Ernie Macmillan lost a set of new school robes.

Afterwards, Hagrid called the Trio aside and informed them tearfully that Aragog, the elephantine spider he had released into the Forbidden Forest more than fifty years ago, was ill. “Raised `im from an egg, and now there don' appear anythin' I can do,” he admitted. Given Aragog's advanced age (for an arachnid), Hagrid justifiably feared that this illness would be fatal.

Ron, seriously arachnophobic even before his terrifying encounter with Aragog and his prolific progeny, found it extremely difficult to express much sympathy (real or feigned) over this news. As soon as decently possible, he made his excuses. Somewhat to Ron's surprise, Hermione left with him - due to her summons from Professor McGonagall. That left Harry to try his hand at comforting the half-giant who had introduced him to the magical world. The task was difficult because, in truth, his views hewed closer to Ron's than Hagrid's on this subject.

* * * *

At the soft scrape of her office door, Professor McGonagall looked up from marking a pile of third-year Transfiguration parchments, “You may enter. It's not charmed.”

As she expected, Hermione Granger strode into the room, precisely on time. But Professor McGonagall did not anticipate the girl would unburden herself as she did - physically.

Clunk.

Hermione resignedly placed the golden service tray she had used during her fortnight of swotting for Harry on the edge of the professor's desk.

Clinkity, clinkity, clinkity, clink.

A soft rattling sound followed as she produced a gold and silver Time-Turner, its chain making the noise as it snaked down onto the tray.

Clack.

She laid the golden key to the guest flat on the tray next to the Time-Turner. Several other items followed, including an Auror-issue panic button that the professor did not recall ever seeing before.

“I'm sorry, but with all that's gone on, I forgot to return these,” Hermione explained.

“Oh, is that why you thought I summoned you?” her Head of House asked. To Hermione's surprise, she did not seem pleased with this turn of events.

“Maybe not entirely, but yes,” the girl responded.

“Well it wasn't,” the professor replied curtly. “I hadn't forgotten. When I inquired, the Headmaster seemed quite unconcerned about you retaining those items indefinitely. But since you've brought them to my attention, I suppose the rules require that I lay claim to them. Except for the Time-Turner, which I think you should retain for another week until you can catch up with your studies. Your circumstances were certainly extreme enough to justify that accommodation.”

“Oh, thank you,” a surprised Hermione replied. “Can Harry have one too? His circumstances were even worse than mine.”

“Not to revisit our prior disagreements,” the older witch replied carefully, “but you came much closer to dying than he did - twice. Nevertheless, should he make such a request, in person, I shall allow him to have one, but subject to the same limitations as yours, and for the same purpose. These must be used exclusively to make up time lost from academic pursuits. Since Time-Turners must be individually calibrated, he must present himself.”

“I'll ask him,” she said evenly. With Professor McGonagall in a relatively generous mood, she wanted no arguments. “But why summon me, if not to collect these overdue borrowings?”

“As head of Gryffindor House, matters concerning your family fall to me….”

The girl's frantic voice cut across her. “Daddy's dead, isn't he?” she gasped, on the verge of breaking into tears.

“No. Thankfully news of that magnitude is the province of the Headmaster,” Professor McGonagall hastened to add. “But one of the matters does involve him.”

“In custody, then?” she interrupted again.

“No, I'm afraid not,” the professor sighed. She was making a lot of allowances for this girl.

Quite relieved, Hermione slumped into her chair and watched Professor McGonagall stride purposefully to the office fireplace. She reached into the House Cup, removed a handful of the Floo powder she kept in it. Once the flames turned green, she called, “Remus Lupin.”

Hermione expected only the former Marauder's head to appear in the fireplace. She was surprised with the door clicked and the man himself entered. He looked slightly peaky, which she attributed to the full moon being a bit less than a week away. She rushed to embrace him, saying, “Oh Professor Lupin, it's so good to see you again.”

Returning the hug, the werewolf smiled a tired smile. “That's Remus, Hermione, and the pleasure's entirely mine. I really mean that. There were times when I almost despaired of ever seeing you conscious - or even alive. You…, you and Harry both, once again exceeded my expectations.”

She smiled and let go, but although she returned his smile, it failed to reach her eyes. “Why are you here?” she asked directly.

He sighed. She could tell he was tired - and not just from an approaching full moon. “Up front, you should know that I can't tell you anywhere near everything, but I'm more or less the Order's forensic accountant right now. I follow the money - Voldemort's money. That's why I've been away so much recently. Anyway, after the news of your father's predicament broke, Professor McGonagall asked me to take time out from my other investigations to see if I could trace your father's whereabouts through his financial dealings. I did for a while, but the wolves were called off, so to speak, after your accident. But then, when I got the blessed news that you were all right….”

“Harry came for me,” Hermione interrupted. “Remember to thank him.”

“Believe me, I intend to,” Remus answered, a vague, far-away look on his face. “But for the moment, I need to talk to you. Your father beat me to the punch.”

“WHAT!?!” Hermione shrieked. “Take me to him, please!”

“Can't. His locale remains just as unknown as before,” Remus tenderly replied as the girl's face fell once more. “However, this morning Professor McGonagall received a delayed letter from him through an accommodation address. He pulled out a plain white business-sized envelope from his robes. “This was sent to you care of the post office box Hogwarts maintains for mail from Muggle parents. It contains a letter and a bank draft - a substantial bank draft.”

A bland mask fell over Hermione's face as she accepted the letter from Remus.

Dearest Pumpkin:

By now I'm sure you are cursing me for my crimes. I can't deny it. Whatever Fleet Street claims I did, they're undoubtedly right about most of it. Please understand it was only partly to feather my own nest. I was born with nothing, and I'm content to die with nothing, but I could never stand for you or Eva being reduced to penury. I admit, my methods stank, but my heart was in the right place.

So it wouldn't be sequestered, I pulled the money from our accounts. Now, I'm sending it to you. The enclosed bearer draft should be convertible almost anywhere. Please take care of your mum with it. I can't any longer.

I love you, and I'm sorry. But I soiled my bed and have to sleep in it.

Love always,

Daddy

She examined the “pay to bearer” bank draft that accompanied the letter. It was drawn on the Canton branch of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation. “Oh Merlin, this is for more than four million pounds,” she gasped. Then her shoulders slumped. “I wonder how much of it's dodgy.”

“All of it, I reckon,” Remus hesitantly answered. “It was easy enough to trace. This money is from a joint account also belonging to your mum. Most of it's undoubtedly from the sale of that house - I'm sorry, your home - to the Order. I doubt your mum even knows it's gone missing yet.”

“That's why he wants me to look after her,” Hermione stated as she contemplated the position she now held. Pausing to make up her mind, she fidgeted whilst the adults watched expectantly. Biting the corners of her lower lip, she turned to Remus and asked a question that had been troubling her for weeks. “Did Mum have any part in what Daddy did?”

“None that I've been able to establish,” Remus answered, looking slightly happier than previous. “And I've gotten pretty good at what I do - so I think I'd have spotted anything dodgy on her part. Investigating this was child's play compared to how Voldemort handles his Galleons.”

“Can you give it back to her in a way that can't be seized, but so she won't know that Daddy did this?” Hermione asked.

“Without too much trouble, yes,” Remus replied. “Banking in the Far East is … well … rather flexible.”

“Then please do.” Hermione asked. “I don't want it, and I don't need it. Mum does if she's to have any chance at a new life in Australia.”

Remus sought confirmation. “Are you sure? That's an awful lot of money.”

Hermione smiled a tragic smile. “As sure as I can be. I really don't think I'll be wanting for money. I hated Harry's inheritance when it happened, and in many ways I still do, but ever since I learnt what - I'm sorry professor, but what I'm going to say is true….”

“Call me Remus, please.”

“I'm talking to Professor McGonagall,” Hermione corrected.

“Oh.”

Turning to face her Head of House, Hermione explained, “I'm sorry, but ever since I discovered how Headmaster Dumbledore and you - sabotaged - my efforts to find Harry, I've become more accepting of … that money. I've had to think over a lot of things. I realise that I trust him more than anyone. I never wanted to be dependent on anyone, but for him I'll made an exception. That money lets me do things like this.… Something I consider right … without having to worry about the consequences to myself.”

At first, a frown betrayed Remus' discomfort with Hermione's explanation, but his expression had gone unreadable by the time she was finished. “I guess congratulations are in order then,” he said, surprisingly flatly.

Hermione returned a somewhat restrained smile of her own. “Yes, I think so. I hope so. It took mutual near-death experiences, but I think we both know how we feel about one another now - if we just don't mess it up again.”

“Then I'm honoured to do this,” Remus continued. “For the both of you.”

He turned to leave, his part of the conversation completed more pleasantly than he had anticipated. “Oh, and Remus?” she called after him. He turned. “Please be sure to talk to Harry before you go. I've asked him to talk to you - it's important.”

He looked at the girl oddly, almost as if afraid of what she was telling him.

“He should be the one to tell you, not I,” Hermione reiterated.

After Remus departed in search of Harry, Professor McGonagall moved to the second reason for her summons, “Now, you need to decide what to do about your mum. Her missteps are indeed grievous. Those lurid press stories about you being held against your will - because of Potter - were most ill advised. But she has earnestly sought to make amends, as much as she is able. She refused to leave. She's waiting to hear from you, and you should see her, even if you'd rather not.”

“She loves me,” Hermione observed softly. “She was terrified by what had happened. I can't say I would have done anything less, had I been in her shoes. All she sees is magic killing her only little girl. And she wasn't very far wrong.”

“So you do realise the seriousness of what happened,” McGonagall stated, reverting to her Head of House voice.

“I don't want to revisit that,” Hermione replied in a voice almost as stiff. “But, yes, I do. Harry has told me everything. I'm even more convinced now than ever that I did the right thing.”

“So you know then,” the professor asked considerably less imperiously.

Hermione eyebrows briefly rose. “I suppose you do too?” she asked. It was a question only in form.

“Albus told me,” Professor McGonagall replied elliptically. “He had to; otherwise he would have been engaging another Deputy.” The necessary information having been exchanged, the original purpose of their conversation resumed. “But about your mum….”

“She's safe, isn't she?” Hermione asked worriedly. “With all the Death Eater activity, a lone Muggle in our world….”

“She's quite safe,” Professor McGonagall reassured her. “The Order took care of that.”

“Then I need to see her,” Hermione answered quickly. “I have at least to try to get through to her. I need - I need her - to accept what I have done. I need her to accept … this.” She held up the hand that bore Harry's Auror ring. “I may die because of Harry, but I wouldn't be living without him, either.”

“I had hoped you would see it that way,” one former Head Girl addressed her odds-on successor enigmatically. “Of course I can arrange a reunion. To my mind, that was the primary purpose of this meeting.”

The rest of the meeting dealt with the logistics of that reunion. They agreed that it would take place the following morning, at Order Headquarters, and would last as long as necessary. Since tomorrow was a Saturday, there would be no academic conflicts. When their discussion finished, Hermione was more than a little surprised that the Deputy Headmistress rose to walk her to the door.

She was even more surprised when, at the door, McGonagall took her hand and pressed something into it - something familiar.

“I think you should retain this,” the older woman said. “It may come in handy on some enchanted evening.”

Hermione looked into her hand, and then at her Head of House. “You mean you want me to…?” The older woman saw the shock and surprise residing in her eyes.

“I don't want you doing anything of the sort,” the older woman replied, her inflection shifting back to her mode of addressing students. “Nothing that you wouldn't do on your own, anyway. However, when the Headmaster told me everything, he did make a request. I am complying with his wishes.”

She spoke the last sentence with such finality that Hermione knew at once that their meeting was over.

* * * *

Still finding it rather difficult to believe all that had just happened, Hermione immediately went in search of Harry. It was lunchtime, but her boyfriend - oh, that word made her feel marvelous, even if things remained maddeningly tentative - was nowhere to be found. She did find Ron, resident at the Ravenclaw table with Cho.

“Hi, Cho,” she said a little too brightly, “coming to the D.A. meeting tonight, I hope?”

“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” she said with a smile. Hermione noted that she squeezed Ron's thigh as she was speaking. “Ron says we'll be doing post-N.E.W.T.-level Levitation Charms.”

Ron blushed, but Hermione took no offence at the preview. The Trio had discussed the curriculum a bit - at Harry's request - and had settled on the weight-altering charms from the summer Auror training as an appropriate skill to teach. That Ron had mastered them quickly suggested that the others would too.

“I've been practising,” Ron affirmed, “so I'll be ready to help you two. Watch,” he pulled out his wand.

“Ronald Weasley, if you make me feel fat again, I will hex you - when and where you least expect it,” Cho threatened, although her smile betrayed her true intentions.

“You wouldn't do that,” Ron laughed. “You fancy me too much the way I am.” He tried to kiss his girlfriend, as she giggled and made a big show of half-heartedly fending off his advances.

“Get a room, you two,” came someone's complaint from down the table.

Ron looked up at Hermione. “Anything I can help you with?” he asked.

“I'm looking for Harry. Have you seen him?” she asked.

Ron gave his friend an appraising look. “I hope you find him. I was sitting with him earlier, over there,” he gestured towards the Gryffindor table. “He was being a bit of a git about things, and I told him so - told him he was being a sorry excuse for a Gryffindor, actually. He didn't like that, but he needed to hear the truth. Then Lupin showed up, and they went for a stroll together. He said you told him to talk to Harry.”

“I did,” she answered. “It's about the Order of Merlin ceremony. There'll be some changes to the programme, I reckon. Anyway, I'll leave them to it. If you see Harry before Potions, tell him that I'll bring his book and things for him.”

“Don't worry,” Ron said as she got up to leave. “And don't worry about me either. I've got the Prince.”

“You're in such good hands,” Hermione replied sarcastically, noting where Cho's hand has crept whilst they had been talking. “I'll leave you to them, too.”

* * * *

Harry and Remus took a long walk. Instead of eating lunch, they ambled most of the way around the Castle as Harry explained how he wanted to add a memorial to Sirius to the Order of Merlin award ceremony. Remus was pleased and gratified that Harry wanted his Godfather (and Remus' best friend) remembered in such a fashion.

Remus readily agreed to participate and to present the eulogy. The older man was unsure exactly what he wanted to do, but promised that it would be something to make Sirius proud. Because there was no body, they agreed to inter Sirius' remaining memories instead. As those memories all involved encounters with Snape, neither cared to examine them more closely.

Remus also served as a voice of reason moderating Harry's more extreme flights of fancy. He recommended, first, that Harry not demand that the Ministry award Sirius an Order of Merlin. When the boy proved adamant, Remus advised Harry to settle for a Third Class award (which fit precedent, particularly since Sirius was a private citizen - indeed a fugitive). In return for the award, Harry further agreed to acquiesce in just about anything the Minister otherwise wanted concerning the content of the ceremony, including (especially) the Minister's own undoubtedly overly long speech.

By the time they had hammered out a workable memorial plan, the two found themselves on the old wood and stone covered bridge that led from the Castle to the back end of the Quidditch pitch and the Herbology greenhouses beyond. In Harry's third year, he had a serious chat there with Lupin. It was time for another.

Looking somewhat furtive and out of sorts, Harry confessed, “I'm scared, Moony. I'm so scared. I've brought her back, but for what? A fate worse than the one she condemned herself to?”

Remus was caught unprepared for this sudden outburst of emotion. “What? Who? You mean - Hermione?”

“No, Moaning bloody Myrtle,” Harry spat. “Of course I mean Hermione. I've finally told her the truth - everything. I had to. She wouldn't have come back otherwise. But she'll just be marked. The Death Eaters, they'll kill her … horribly. I-I-I'm afraid I can't do this….”

“Harry, of course you can. I don't know the details, but I know what the Order is all about. I used to think we were here to support Dumbledore, but now I think that we may be in business to support - well, you, actually.”

“You don't know, then,” Harry observed. “I think you need to. It's that prophecy that was in the Department of Mysteries….”

Remus jumped back, alarmed enough to train his wand on the boy. “Harry, stop, please! Don't tell me anything about that! I'm not … safe.”

Harry said no more, but looked at the werewolf sceptically.

“You see, my condition,” he explained sadly. “Whilst I have some favourable physical attributes, mentally the wolf in me makes me … weak. What I do for the Order…. I could be captured, and if I were, well, I'm not very resistant to Legilimency. That's why I've learned to keep Dementors away from me. I can't let them get close either - at this point, I'd collapse. So, you see, I'm nothing more than a glorified accountant for the Order. If Voldemort caught me, the only serious secrets he'd be able to get out of me what he already knows - his own financial dealings. I can't know something like the prophecy. I'm too much of a security risk.”

Harry listened mutely to Remus' account. He shook his head and replied resignedly. “All right. I didn't mean that, anyway. I meant…. I meant that I - that I can't be with … Hermione. I can't be her boyfriend. It's … just … too dangerous….”

Harry had been choking up throughout his last statement. When he finally fought his way to the end of the thought, he whirled away from Remus and grabbed hold of one of the covered bridge's squarish support pillars with his bare right hands. Squeezing the corners of pillar fiercely he shook himself violently, all the while without saying a word.

“You really love her, don't you?” Remus said softly.

Harry could not even give a coherent answer. He simply gritted his teeth and squeezed the quartzite stone harder. His hands began glowing softly blue. Remus noticed a small rivulet of sand cascading onto Harry's shoes.

“Harry, stay under control,” Remus warned as he silently drew his wand. The older man waited, however, and finally Harry stopped.

“Y-y-yes,” the boy whispered just loudly enough for Remus to hear.

For his part, Remus was almost stunned speechless. His own condition had forced him to similar conclusions on more occasions than he cared to think about. “I - I know how you feel. I'm worse even … as a werewolf I can't let myself…. You're not that, though, at least you're in a position to protect her.”

“Protect her? I can't even protect myself,” Harry moaned, still clutching the pillar, but this time for support. “All I do is destroy things.”

Remus did not know what to say, because he did not know what Harry meant. He spent most of his time overseas, and Dumbledore handed out information on a need-to-know basis.

Still he tried. “Harry, you know you're in love with her. You told me that. You told Bill that. Love is the opposite of destruction. It's what I wish I could….”

Harry stood up straighter, and began supporting himself again rather than relying upon the cold stone of the covered bridge. “Do you remember - when I burned you - after the dinner at Hermione's?”

“Yes, you'd had an awful dream,” Remus replied. “But that was all it was.”

“In that dream, Voldemort tried forcing me to rape Hermione,” Harry replied in a voice again dropped to a whisper. “But it's worse than that now. They killed - Eliza in front of me. Now they want to rape and murder Hermione at the same time. I overheard them plotting it … whilst I was captured. And now that's in my own dreams. I can't let it go.”

“You had another dream?” Remus asked.

“I had another dream - without Voldemort's help - and it was worse,” Harry confessed. “If it weren't for this contraption I'd rigged up, I've no idea what might have happened.”

“I'm - I'm afraid I don't follow,” Remus admitted.

“I love her more than anything - far more than my own life,” Harry declared whilst his hands raked his hair. “Threats to her set me off, and I'm … dangerous.”

“Harry, I….”

“No, just listen,” Harry cut him off. “When Hermione came for me, I blew up a whole valley - who knows how many hectares of it - just to keep Voldemort away from her. If Death Eaters ever tried anything like that in front of me, I don't think I could control myself. If I went off at Hogwarts, there wouldn't be any more castle. I destroyed a castle in that valley. If it happened in London….”

“It could be worse than the aeroplane crash, that's what you're saying,” Remus offered.

“You have no idea,” Harry replied, emotionally wrung out. “It could be worse than the whole bloody Blitz at once. I could - destroy most of a city. That's just what Voldemort would want, to use me to massacre more Muggles than he's ever dreamed of killing at once. Then he could finish me easily. I'd have nothing left to live for with her gone.”

“Well,” Lupin exhaled loudly, “that certainly changed things….”

Like a tsunami on a clear, calm day, despair swept over Harry, throwing him for a loop and then sucking him down in a cold undertow. It was everything he most feared - about Voldemort and the Death Eaters, and about himself. Visions of horrible events surfaced from the darkest corners of his past and polluted his churning thoughts with their foul excrescence.

Harry knew that his most noble reactions - his overwhelming desire to protect the one for whom he had overwhelming emotions - also turned him into death personified. He had done it before, and it could happen again. A threat to her safety could release enough power not only to kill her, but also bystanders by the thousands, maybe millions. He could become not merely a killer, but a mass murderer comparable to the worst in history. In the end, Harry worried, he was just fated to spread pain, suffering, and desolation wherever he might be.

How could he even think of loving her - of loving anyone, for that matter? He could not hope for any kind of reasonable existence with her. He had to be realistic. There was no future, no family, no happily ever after waiting for him.

His whole life was defined by other people being killed on his behalf - his parents, Cedric, Bill, Eliza, those Aurors who tried to rescue him. All had died, because of him. If he stayed with Hermione, he signed her death warrant, and not only hers but potentially the lives of anyone within … what was it, an almost ten kilometre radius?

It would never be over - he could never be normal - until Voldemort was gone, and maybe not even then. Surviving Death Eaters would seek revenge upon him, and would target her to get to him. It would never, ever, truly be over.

His legs no longer willing to support him, Harry slid down the wall until he sat, with his knees folded against his chest, on the filthy floor.

“Go ahead,” Harry rasped. “Tell me how I'm overreacting - how I should follow my heart. All the boloney about how I need to harness the power of love and all that. Tell me how much of a fool I am.”

“I can't,” Remus replied sadly.

“You can't?” Harry replied, looking blank.

“Harry, I'm a werewolf,” Remus pointed out. “I'm not in your league, to be sure. I don't have the power to destroy the City. But just like you must deal with what Voldemort did to you, I have Fenrir Greyback's legacy staring me in the face. If I let anyone love me, I'd put her in mortal peril. Every month I become a violent killer. I've had the same conversation you're contemplating. More than once - and quite recently, in fact.”

Now Remus Lupin was tearing up. Harry had not expected that. He thought the werewolf was contemplating somebody in particular, but he respected his privacy.

“I've pushed away everyone who's ever tried to love me, except the Marauders. That was only because they became Animagi for me, and I couldn't hurt them in that form. They were friends - but not lovers. I can't have a lover because of my condition, because it would be too damn dangerous. So that's the long and short of it. I can't tell you that you're wrong. I'd be a hypocrite if I tried.”

“She'll hate me, you know,” Harry choked out, as Remus sat down beside him. “She'll scream and cry and use everything that brilliant brain of hers can manage to change my mind. She'll accuse me of lying to her if she thinks it would guilt trip me - and maybe she could…. Except….”

“Except what?” Remus commiserated.

“Except … at the end of the day, there's nothing she can say or do,” Harry answered. “This isn't a danger she could escape by learning to become an Animagus. She barely made it the last time, and Voldemort was much nearer to me than to her.”

“Well, there you are,” Remus said starkly, “there's only one way out.”

“That is?” Harry asked. Before the distraught werewolf could respond, he answered his own question. “I have to kill Voldemort first.”

“You have to do in Voldemort?” the werewolf said, with a hint of sarcasm slipping into his voice. “Only then can you live happily ever after. Is that what you believe? Do you really think the Death Eater threat will end with Voldemort? Or that it began with him? You picked Mad-Eye as your guardian, didn't you? There had to be a reason.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Moony,” Harry was quick to apologise, “I would have picked you if I could.”

“That's not what I meant,” Remus replied uneasily. “I know full well why I couldn't do it, and I'd have refused even if the law were different. What with your declaration of magical equality, and your connection to Hermione, the war effort didn't need the additional baggage of your having a werewolf for a guardian. We need the pure-bloods too - those we can reach. No, I'm perfectly happy you picked Mad-Eye. But, tell me, why did you?”

“Well,” Harry thought, “he's tough enough to keep me in line, and barmy enough to take the job. But mostly it's because the Weasleys were so hurt when Bill was killed. I tend to lose people whom I'm close to. I couldn't do that to anyone else.”

Lupin stared at the dark mossy underside of the covered bridge's ancient roof. Exhaling loudly, he continued, “Mad-Eye's fought in a lot of wars, you know. He fought Grindelwald. He cut his teeth fighting the Dark Legions before that, around the turn of the century. He's been an Auror almost as long, and he'd probably tell you the same thing.”

“What's that?” Harry asked.

“That there's too much danger in his line of work to justify exposing anyone else to it,” Remus replied, shaking his head. “He's never been married either - never even had a serious dalliance - at least as far as any of us knows. That's why he's all alone right now, why he met the criteria you established for a guardian.”

“Actually, I was thinking of talking to him about this, too,” Harry admitted. “So he'd agree with you, and me, you think?”

“I'm certain of it,” Remus answered, still shaking his head. “We're both examples of the same choice, if that's what you want - to end up like me or Mad-Eye. That's the path you're headed down.”

“But you just told me that there wasn't any other choice,” Harry observed.

“You said that, not me,” Remus replied softly. “There is another way.”

“Then I bloody well hope you'll tell me, because I must be pretty damn thick,” the boy shot back, his ears going pink. “I don't care how hard it is - I'll do anything. I-I love her that much.”

“I don't have to tell you because you already know,” Remus said softly. His face bore all the earmarks of tragic sadness.

“I don't,” Harry said again.

“You do,” Remus replied. “You're here, aren't you?”

Harry thought. His eyes grew wide. Then tears started to flow again. So quietly that Remus could scarcely hear him, he murmured, “Mum and Dad.”

“That's right,” Remus answered with a sniff. “They were the golden Gryffindors - the Muggle-born Head Girl and the pure-blood Head Boy who publicly defied Voldemort. The parallels should be obvious.”

“But they … died,” Harry pointed out the obvious.

“But before that, they well and truly lived,” Remus added sadly. “And they blessed us with you.”

* * * *

Hermione was anxious and on edge as she made her way to the Room of Requirement to prepare for the D.A. meeting. Harry had been so distant since his talk with Remus - even though their plans for turning her idea of a memorial ceremony for Sirius into reality sounded simply smashing.

Come to think of it, he had been curiously unresponsive ever since his emergence that morning. Maybe her honesty policy - telling him immediately about the Death Eater attacks - had not been such a good idea. But the attacks were prompted by something she had done, and she had wanted, and needed, him to comfort her. That's what boyfriends were supposed to do, especially this one. He had said as much.

But now Harry was not saying much at all. He hardly spoke a word to her all through Potions, and worse, not once had he reached out to touch her. Worst of all, when she touched him he stiffened and went tongue-tied. After class, he had agreed - unenthusiastically and seemingly out of some sense of duty - to go to Slughorn's next “Slug Club” soirée on Sunday night. Even though she was standing right next to him when the invitation arrived, he made no attempt to ask her to go with him. It took Professor Slughorn to do that. Surprisingly, Harry had not seemed visibly pleased at the professor's suggestion.

She was running late. She had hoped to get to the Room a full half-hour ahead of time; because Harry said he wanted that much lead time. But duty called. She was a Prefect, after all. An escaped copy of the Monster Book of Monsters, and having to sort out an altercation between a couple of Fourth-Year Hufflepuff girls and several Second-Year Slytherin boys had delayed her. The spell damage was hardly serious - a couple of frog legs and stray tentacles in odd locations - but still it took some time to reverse.

When she finally stepped into the Room, she found Harry hard at work. He had most of the folding chairs already spread out, along with dented cauldrons, fireplace tools, and other assorted objects they would use for this evening's lesson. She heard a hissing sound. Dobby was inflating balloons from what looked like a tank of helium.

Whatever her doubts, her heart melted when she saw Harry, bent over and moving several stone cobbles around - wandlessly. He was facing away from her and had not noticed her arrival. The door to the Room had not made any sound when she entered.

This time they were not in public. There was no reason not to…. She stole up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist.

Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The heavy blocks dropped to the floor.

“Hi there, lover. Sorry I'm late,” she purred.

She released her grip just enough to let him spin around towards her. The two of them faced each other and smiled. “Whatcha doing,” she asked, almost intoxicated from finally being close to him - alone - after such a long and frustrating day.

He smiled back at her, but it was an odd, sort of far away smile. “Just practising some wandless magic,” he said. “I've arranged almost the whole Room that way. Oh!”

Whilst he was talking, Hermione had slipped her arms back around him - underneath his robes - and her hands had gone into the back pockets of his Muggle jeans. She had just given him a little squeeze.

“We're not in public anymore,” she said breathily to him. “I want you … I need you … to kiss me. Now.”

With that she started kissing him, nipping at his lips and trying to gain access to his mouth. For what seemed like the longest time Harry just stood there, almost robotically, neither responding nor trying to stop her. At last, he started to react, bringing his arms up to her shoulders. She prayed that he was about to pull her towards him rather than try to push her away.

She never got the chance to find out.

“I know what you're up to,” a voice called out. “Get a room.”

“We have,” Hermione replied, somewhat out of breath. “It's just that you're in it.”

Harry had jumped back, but Hermione refused to release him entirely. As a result the two of them ended up side-by-side, facing the door. One of her arms disappeared around his midsection inside his robes whilst one of his arms was slung across her shoulders. Ron, Ginny, Luna, and Neville had arrived. Ginny, who thoughtfully sounded the warning, was smirking. Neville was red-faced. Ron eyed the two of them curiously. Luna was her usual serene self.

“S-S-Sorry about that,” Neville stuttered. “We can come back….”

“Oh, stop that nonsense,” Ginny demanded. “The more the merrier,” and she started to snog Neville, who responded by nearly fainting dead away.

“Harry, you're still a git,” Ron joked. “I know what a girl looks like when she's been right and properly snogged - and that isn't it. What do I have to do with you two? Lock you in a ruddy broom closet until you both get acquainted the way you should?”

Hermione tried mustering a suitably affronted scowl for Ron, but failed miserably - because she frankly agreed with him. She broke into laughter as she eyed her best friend who was not her boyfriend. “Care to make good on that threat, then?” she challenged.

She felt Harry stiffen again. Casting a quick look in his direction, she saw that he looked mortified.

“Oh, let them be,” Luna remarked airily. Harry was about to thank Merlin for befriending the odd Ravenclaw - until she added, “They'll get there at their own speed.”

“Speed don't kill, mate,” Ron added slyly.

“Well,” Harry began nervously, “should we get on with it then?”

He stopped when Ginny started sniggering and Hermione squeezed his side. Only then did he get how that had sounded. “Er … I mean the D.A. that is.”

His head whipped around towards Hermione, as he received a Legilimenced comment from her. `We need to talk,' she communicated.

`I guess you're right,' he sent back. He should have known he could not fool her for long. She was just too observant - and he, too obviously tentative. He thought about Remus. The werewolf had been so sympathetically downcast about the type of conversation Harry was contemplating. Harry imagined he might be downright suicidal after actually going through with it himself.

`I just … need to make sure that we're still on the same page,' she added.

He nodded. There was nothing more he wanted to say just then. His heart ached, he loved her so much. But Voldemort…. She had to be safe.

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by a very odd voice saying, “Hello, Ronald, a Knut for your thoughts.”

Ron must have jumped a foot in the air. “What the…. Luna! What are you doing?”

Holding a half-deflated balloon, Luna had snuck up on Ron. At his reaction, she dissolved in squeaky laughter that sounded more like Dobby choking on a biscuit than Luna Lovegood.

Ron was giving the Ravenclaw girl a very sideways look when Hermione, trying to keep a straight face, told Luna to, “Stop playing with the helium. You're scaring the poor boy.”

This D.A. session was even more crowded than the last - stressing the Room of Requirement to - and beyond - its magical capacity. The sudden and mysterious return of the D.A.'s leaders, in Hermione's case seemingly from the dead, attracted almost every non-Slytherin in the school. The same Potter fan club that turned out in force for the Gryffindor Quidditch tryouts was out even more forcefully this time. The D.A., unlike house Quidditch, was quite publicly open to all.

Hermione fretted - not about the fan club; she was secure about Harry's affections - but about possible accidents in the crowded conditions. One reason she had chosen relatively simple weight modification charms was that they were safer than actual duelling spells in close quarters. But things were so cramped that even these charms had their risks.

Harry climbed up on top of a large, solid oak table that had so helpfully appeared. “Everyone, if I could have your attention please. I'd like to get started….”

After making Hermione's announcement about everyone signing in, Harry began what he hoped would be a demonstration that would convince many of the newcomers that regularly attending D.A. meetings would be worth the bother - especially as the homework piled up.

“I showed you my Patronus last time, but so you don't think that I'm having you on, I'd like to show you my mates' handiwork tonight,” Harry began. “My friends can tell you, I think, how these lessons helped them on their O.W.L.s….” A murmur of assent rose from the Sixth Years present. “…But seeing is believing. I'd like to ask the other … Boom-wins … to show what they can do.”

Towards the back of the crowd, Cormac McLaggen grimaced.

By prearrangement, Ginny and Neville went first. They clambered onto the table - which expanded to accommodate both them and Harry - and drew their wands.

“This one's for you, Ginny,” Neville said happily, looking at the red-headed girl who had recently walked into his heart. “Expecto Patronum!” A silvery long-horned ox exploded from his wand and tromped about over the heads of the collected students. Before anyone expected it, Ginny's cry of “Expecto Patronum!” also rang out. A silver fox joined Neville's ox in gambolling in the air.

“Think I can get your extra credit this year in my O.W.L.s, Harry?” the fiery witch asked the master of ceremonies.

Harry didn't say anything, but Neville interjected, “Well you're certainly foxy enough.”

“Oh, very good, the both of you!” Hermione cut in. “What more do we have Harry?”

“I'll get to you,” he replied, mistaking her enthusiasm as desire to demonstrate her own skill. “But first we have Ron - and Luna - if you want to that is.” Hermione had told him about the others' Patronuses, but he just that instant realised that she had never mentioned Luna.

Even before his sister and her boyfriend had gotten down, Ron was climbing up in front of the crowd. Luna simply floated up, having placed on herself one of the anti-gravity charms they were about to be practising.

Ron waved to Cho, who was towards the back of the crowd, before confidently producing his Patronus - a silvery Jack Russell terrier - adding a superfluous wand flourish after the spell was technically complete. Ron's terrier sprinted around the room and came to rest on his girlfriend's shoulder and appeared to be licking her ears. Of course, that was an illusion.

Everyone turned to Luna, who had her wand out in front of her, but otherwise remained motionless - staring into space.

“Luna, are you all right?” a concerned Hermione inquired.

The question seemed to focus Luna, who nodded in her direction. She almost lazily pronounced the spell, and something silver flew out of her wand as well - to the questioning looks of everyone.

“Luna,” Ron asked perplexedly, “how did you mate a ruddy duck with a ruddy beaver?”

Hermione was just about to explain, when the distinctively accented voice of Luna's fifth-year housemate Macquarie Palmer boomed out, “Yo, you Pommy figjam, that's no bloody mutant, that's a platypus - we've got `em in Oz.”

At first Ron scowled. Then he burst out laughing. “You mean that thing's real?”

“It's just as real as the Crumple-Horned Snorkack,” Luna sniffed.

Hermione thought it significant that one of Luna's housemates actually came to her defense. That would never have happened last term.

“All right, all right,” Harry broke in. “If she says it's real, it's real. And now, Hermione, if you'd come up.”

She extended her hand. Harry briefly looked nonplussed, but instinctively reached out and grabbed it. Using him as leverage, Hermione popped herself up beside him, not letting go of his hand until hearing comments from the crowd.

Oddly, Hermione had more trouble than the others with her Patronus. Her first two attempts did not produce anything corporeal. Harry was going to let her stand down, but she motioned him to be still. The third time she looked directly at him, repeated the incantation, and her wand produced the desired silvery rocket of magic.

The newcomers oohed and aahed, but most of the returnees just stared. That was no otter streaking overhead. Somehow, Hermione's Patronus had changed. The otter was gone, and she conjured an altogether different, altogether magical Patronus - a phoenix. Only the “Boom-wins” amongst them knew why that had happened.

`You've … you've changed, Hermione,' Harry Legilimenced to her.

`Yes, in a lot of ways, I suppose' she responded. `I couldn't go through everything that happened and still be the same person I was. I'm not afraid of anything anymore; not disapproval, not even my own death. That's the phoenix effect.'

With the crowd distracted by a Patronus in the shape of a magical creature, she blew a kiss at him. `Don't you be afraid either, especially not on my behalf.'

His confidence somewhat shaken, Harry nervously cleared his throat. “Er … that was amazing Hermione. I've never seen a Patronus be a magical creature before. Now, I showed off my Patronus last time, but now you know that, with work, a corporeal Patronus is within everyone's reach. With all the Dementor attacks, it's more important than ever.”

Hermione then took over. “Now Harry's going to demonstrate a little more of what elemental magic is all about.”

“Okay,” said Harry. “This elemental stuff …er … supposedly it's best done wandlessly, but I'm not all that good yet, so here goes….”

“Good” is in the eye of the beholder. As far as everyone else was concerned, Harry put on quite a show. Using his wand, he caused a tulip to grow visibly from a just-planted bulb and bloom. He made it rain - inside the Room. Just before that scattered the crowd, he switched again and dried his audience with a warm breeze. He focussed on one of the cauldrons until he melted it. Finally he just pointed to a random spot of empty air in front of him and concentrated. For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the spot briefly started to snow. That stopped. After another short period of seemingly nothing happening, with a clunk and a hiss, something else froze out.

“Dry ice,” Hermione commented as she watched him closely.

Harry smiled at her as he kept his wand trained on the same spot. After a few more seconds, some pinkish flakes precipitated out, and almost instantly hissed away.

With a louder clunk, a relatively large chunk of something whitish or maybe clear (if it had been smooth) dropped to the floor, where it steamed mightily. As that happened, more air rushed to fill the void, and there was a pop almost like an Apparition.

A second pop followed maybe half-a-minute later, as something else solidified - light blue, this time. It also fell to the floor, where it hissed nastily as it likewise evaporated rapidly.

Then Harry stopped. Hermione could tell he was very tired. She eyed him thoughtfully before moving towards him. “That's all,” she told the crowd without further explanation. “Now everyone, please find an object and a partner, and start practising the charms I've written on the slate board.”

As she spoke, behind her a large board filled with instructions materialised.

“We will be circulating to help everyone out.”

Hermione took Harry's hand and bade him to sit down. Luna helpfully brought some Pepper-Up Potion, which he drank avidly. “You should have stopped after the argon, Harry. You're exhausted,” Hermione tutted.

“Wouldn't have meant anything if I had,” Harry puffed out his answer. “But you're right. I'm not in any shape to tackle one of those balloons yet.”

A half an hour later Harry seemed perfectly chipper as he circulated amongst D.A. members - both new and old - whilst they attempted dramatic changes in the weight of the various practice objects that lay scattered throughout the room. Heavy blocks and miscellaneous pieces of furniture went floating in the air. Helium balloons came crashing to the floor with resounding thuds.

Harry had just finished adjusting the wand technique of a couple of Hufflepuff Fourth Years. Hermione was nearby, having intercepted Romilda Vane. The Potter fan girl had deliberately imitated the Hufflepuffs' incorrect wand movements in the hope of getting personalised instruction of her own - just not from Hermione. As the Romilda stalked off in a huff, Hermione could finally ask Harry the question her fertile brain had formulated about his recent demonstration.

“Harry, just how cold can you go with that elemental magic?” she asked cautiously.

“Don't know really,” Harry responded. “That was as far as I ever…. Hey…!

A loud banging noise occurred as a floating folding chair got away from one student and collided with somebody else's hovering fireplace poker. Harry looked to his right. Hermione drew her wand and started to scream something…. A blinding yellow spell streaked upwards only inches from his face. Then, nothing…. The lights went out, and the Room of Requirement vanished.

* * * *

It seemed he had been walking for hours over a gently rolling but blasted and sodden landscape. Splintered trees loomed out of an eerie mist that clung to everything. If time passed, nothing seemed to change. He trudged onwards in perpetual twilight - neither night nor day. Mud squelched as he stumbled from hollow to hollow, trying for spots of solid ground that did not appear recently churned up by some violent force. The air was heavy with odours of death, decay, and just a touch of sulphur.

Each time he topped a rise, he gazed upon a new, but depressingly similar scene. Harry half expected to see piles of mangled corpses, but never did. He seemed totally alone.

At long last, he heard something. Stopping in his tracks, Harry listened intently.

He heard it again - something alive somewhere off to his left was making some sort of noise.

Harry turned in that direction. Picking up the pace, he picked his way through scorched and battered hedgerows. Surmounting yet another hill, he looked around and saw them. Four shadowy figures, gathered about a roughhewn, candlelit table next to the caved in and burnt out remains of a farmhouse.

They must have been the only survivors of some horrible, titanic struggle. Harry rushed towards them.

When close enough to make out their faces, he came to an abrupt and complete halt.

“Harry, how good of you to drop by, glad you could make it,” a cheery voice greeted him.

“B-B-Bill?!?” Harry stammered. He moved forward to shake his late guardian's hand.

“My first bit of advice?” Bill replied with a welcoming smile, “at least close your mouth so the Bumblewurts don't fly in. They're always pests this time of year … even worse with all of this disruption.”

Another occupant of the table - lanky with almost shoulder length black hair turned towards him, “I know what you're thinking, `Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot.' Pull up a chair and all will be revealed. Care for some wine?” He held out an elegant, crystal goblet that seemed absurdly out of place in these primitive surroundings.

“Sirius, stop that,” a brown-haired figure half-heartedly chastised. “He's not of age yet.”

“Oh, sod off Cedric,” the older man replied with a laugh. “You're old enough to know better, but still young enough not to care, aren't you Harry.”

“Actually, I've sworn it off,” Harry replied.

“Hah,” Cedric exclaimed. “I knew it.”

Harry had stopped listening though. No longer too stunned to move, he had thrown himself at Sirius and given him a tremendous hug.

“Whoa, son,” Sirius responded to Harry's embrace. “You ain't seen nothing yet.”

“Tea, then,” Bill offered. The wine bottle and wineglasses disappeared, replaced by several mugs and a steaming pot of tea. By this time, Harry had released Sirius. The boy claimed a cuppa and sat down.

“Oh, codswallop,” Sirius shot back at Cedric as they resumed their previous bickering. “He's more like his father than he'll ever be like you - goody two-shoes, Prefect swot….”

“I'll be the judge of that,” the fourth figure spoke in an oddly flat and nebulous voice. Harry almost thought he was looking into a mirror - except for the eyes.

“D-d-dad?”

“That's Dad to you; Prongs to Sirius; James to the newcomer; and Mister Potter to our straight-and-narrow friend here,” the image of Harry's father replied. Whilst his voice was hazy, his image was not. James appeared identical to the dashing, sharply dressed, groom-to-be in Harry's favourite picture from the book of Potter family photographs Hagrid had given him.

“I don't … believe this,” Harry choked out. He moved towards his father's image and gave the older man a tentative hug. James reached out and crushed the boy to his chest.

“Harry, I've waited so long to do this … for you to come to me like this,” James said into the boy's ear.

“Wha…? What's going on?” Harry finally moved himself to ask. “How come you don't sound like the others?”

“What's going on is that we're memories, and you finally wanted to have a chat,” James explained. “You conveniently took leave of your senses, and here we are. You know what these blokes sound like, but nobody's yet figured out how to make wizard photographs talk. Since you've never been to the old family manor, you don't know my voice. Bloody shame too, but once you're seventeen, you'll inherit, and our fearless leader will have to let you visit.”

“Why…? Why haven't I seen you before…?”

“Oh, you have, in countless dreams, no doubt,” Sirius answered. “At least that's what Bill here thinks. But those dreams were just that - you don't remember them upon waking. When you asked for Prongs' and my help before, we gave it. Passing strange that you're thinking of ignoring it, though.”

“We told you what to watch for; it happened; and I'd have thought that'd be the end of it,” James chided his son gently. “I love Mooney like a brother, but his perspective on some things is unfortunately rather skewed. You must have your doubts too, or else you wouldn't be here - or we wouldn't….”

Harry had been thinking, and not entirely paying attention. “Is - is Mum here, too?” he asked.

“Certainly,” James answered. “I never go anywhere without my better half, if I can possibly help it. I don't feel whole otherwise.”

“Takes her sweet time about it, though,” Bill laughed.

“You know how she is when asked to render assistance,” Sirius remarked knowingly.

Bill replied, “Actually I don't - it was before my time.”

“Mine too,” Cedric echoed.

“Just don't have her appear in that damned Muggle wedding dress,” James warned. “All lace and crinoline, `In the family for generations,' she said. So ruddy delicate it was, she wouldn't even let me use magic on it on our wedding night….”

“I heard that,” came a female voice from inside the ruined farmhouse. Like James' it was maddeningly generic and unaccented - the kind that recited instructions on a thousand telephone voicemail systems.

“Er … rather too much information,” Harry responded.

“I rather like that kind of information,” Sirius commented, waggling his eyebrows.

“That's because you're a dog,” Bill responded.

“Woof,” Sirius responded. “Alpha male, don't forget.”

“I heard that too,” repeated the female voice.

“How - How did you … and I … get here?” Harry asked again. “And where's here?”

“We're memories. We've always been here for you, and for anyone else who remembers us,” James answered in that disconcerting voice of his. “`Here' is wherever you've chosen to keep your memories.”

“Could make do with a better interior decorator, you could,” Sirius commented. “This is altogether too desolate - looks like a battlefield, and a thoroughly fought over one at that.”

“Still, it's better than before,” Cedric allowed. “It's lighter now, and he's not flitting around anymore.”

“Wait, wait,” Harry pleaded. “You mean I can summon a memory of anyone I want and actually talk to them?”

“Well, as long as it's someone who's dead,” Bill answered, “and then you have to go and get yourself knocked unconscious somehow. We can be summoned through dreams, but then we're limited. We can't talk back.”

“Oh, I see,” Harry realised. “But you said someone's no longer here. Who?”

“You Know Who,” James answered.

“Who?” Harry repeated, confused.

“Voldemort,” everyone save Cedric said in unison. The Hufflepuff said “the Dark Lord.”

“Wanker,” Sirius referred to Cedric.

“Oh, that You Know Who…. But, he's not dead,” Harry accurately pointed out.

“Well, he's not exactly alive either, we don't think,” Bill explained.

“And the usual rules don't seem to apply to him,” Sirius added.

“Or maybe he wasn't a memory,” came the female voice. “Maybe he was something else.” The lustrous image of Lily Potter hove into view, dressed in her red and gold edged Hogwarts graduation robes - her Head Girl badge glistening.

“M-M-Mum…,” Harry choked out, as they walked towards one another. “I … don't know what to say…. I just wish you could have been there - for everything….” He tentatively reached for Lily's hand.

“Oh, no you don't,” she said, her green eyes flashing. “I want a hug from my boy, too. I've waited long enough.”

With that, she hugged him fiercely. Harry's knees started to wobble as he felt his mother's love for the first time in many years.

Reluctantly, they separated. Lily took Harry by the hand and led him back to the rest of the group. Bidding Harry to sit in the only remaining unoccupied chair, she plopped into James' lap and gave him a moderately chaste kiss.

“Woof.”

“Who's a wanker now?” Cedric commented.

“Takes one to know one,” Sirius answered, gaily pointing a finger at Cedric.

“What could he be, if not a memory?” James answered, obviously respectful of his wife's intelligence.

“That I don't know,” Lily answered, flicking her husband's messy forelocks with her index finger. “Something Dark, I suppose, that resembles a memory. I can't even say I'm right, but it could bear looking into - and Harry knows someone topnotch at looking into things.”

Harry still looked puzzled. Bill tried to explain. “Anyway, the number one rule seems to be that only memories of the dead appear like this. Don't know why, but it's probably a good thing. Otherwise, we might see Wormtail or even Snape in here.”

“I don't care if they'd be memories or not, I'd still have a go at tearing them apart,” Sirius spat, whilst glowering darkly.

“Here, here,” James added.

“Second the motion,” Cedric remarked.

“Now don't be so hasty,” Lily chided. “I'll have you know, neither of them is very happy in their present circumstances. Peter can't stand working for Sevvie, and Sevvie would rather be anywhere than in Voldemort's inner circle.”

James stiffened noticeably. “I wish you'd stop calling that git that….”

“…Sevvie this and Sevvie that,” Sirius growled. “He deserves anything he gets. Once a Deater, always a Deater, I say.”

“And how do you even know that, my lovely wife,” James asked whilst gazing lovingly into her eyes. Their devotion to one another was so blatant that Harry almost felt jealous.

And he was planning to do exactly what to Hermione?

And why was that?

“Harry isn't the only one who summons my memory, my dear,” Lily revealed. “They both call to me regularly.”

James frowned, and a scowl disfigured his face. “You shouldn't go to them,” he said flatly.

“Harry, the next time you see either Wormtail or Snivilus, will you kindly kill them for me?” Sirius requested. “Oh, yes, and my charming cousin as well….”

“Sirius, I don't want my boy to grow up a killer. You know that.” Lily protested. “No more than I wanted James to become one. There has to be a better way. That's why I made you rescue Sevvie - even after he said all those horrible things to me. Oh, and speaking of not being hasty, come dear, it's time to make your maiden appearance….”

Eliza Brookings hesitantly stepped through the crumbling farmhouse doorway. She looked fetching indeed in the form fitting blue jeans and pastel orange spaghetti-strap blouse that she had worn on her first date with Harry, after she had told him all she knew about the Black inheritance.

“Thank you, Harry,” Eliza spoke to the thunderstruck boy. “I quite feared that you might remember me as I died. That would have been - embarrassing.”

Upon seeing her, Harry instantly stood up, knocking over his chair in the process. He did not try to hug - or even touch - this woman. “Eliza, I'm so sorry. I-I-I can't believe you're actually thanking me for anything. By all rights, you should hate me. I was … caught off guard, and couldn't protect you. You were….” Harry paused, and fought for his composure. “…under the Imperius….”

Everyone at the table gasped, except Eliza, whose eyes flashed angrily. “Harry Potter, you stop that this instant. You always blame yourself for what's not your fault. I was an independent actor, you hear me. I chose to be with you, knowing the danger. And what I did, I did of my own free will. You are worthy of love Harry! Don't you dare think you're not. This gathering is proof enough of that. And it wasn't until … right near the end … that I did anything that was against my better judgment.”

“And just how embarrassing would that lack of better judgment be?” Sirius inquired, giving Harry a wink.

“Shut up, Sirius,” Bill answered for her. “I saw a bit. On an embarrassment scale of one to ten, I'd say it warrants about a nine point five - a perfect ten if it had happened a minute later.”

Harry's jaw dropped. “H-H-How did you know, Bill?”

“I'd like to know that, too,” Sirius commented.

“You are truly a dog,” Lily observed.

“Woof.”

“For a brief moment Harry remembered Miss Brookings' death and mine in the same thought,” Bill explained. “That was enough.” Then he turned to Eliza, “I'm sorry. Bill Weasley. We've never been introduced, although I feel I know you - Harry did talk of you, a lot.”

“Eliza Marie Brookings. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Favourably, I hope,” she responded.

“Quite,” Bill replied. “Although with respect to the matter presently before the group, I'm afraid that you did come off second best.”

“I know that,” Eliza admitted. “I always knew that. I never asked Harry to reciprocate my feelings. There are some things one just can't compete with.”

“Er … Eliza…?” Harry haltingly broke in. “…If you're - not too embarrassed, I'd really like to know … what you did that was against your better judgment. It would put my mind at ease to know that the rest was … really you, and not the curse. I hope that … taking me in after the … the … what happened with Hermione … was really you … and not … you know?”

Eliza gave Harry one of her warm smiles. “It was, Harry. Everything up to then was. Everything. The only matters I've thought better of were the marijuana and then trying to have my way with you.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Sirius cut over. “You smoked pot, Harry?”

“Yes,” Harry answered, not looking at him. He was not particularly proud of that - and the result had been beyond disastrous.

“Well, all right!” Sirius exclaimed, raising one hand in James' direction. Weakly, Harry's father outstretched his palm, and Sirius gave him the high-five. “Not a dull boy, after all. Not like that one.” He glanced at Cedric. “…but a true Marauder.”

“Oh, Sirius, stop your blather,” Lily upbraided him. “You know that was a bad idea…. Just look what happened.”

“It was a bad outcome, not a bad idea,” Sirius answered. “What's the bee under your bonnet? You indulged, too.”

“Only very occasionally, and only because of you lot,” Lily returned fire. “And we called a halt to it entirely when James started his Auror training.”

“She's right, Sirius, and you're wrong,” Harry seconded in a dull voice. “If I've learnt one thing from all this, it's that I can never, ever let my guard down with Voldemort about. That's why I've given up anything alkie as well.”

“So you're the infamous Sirius Black?” Eliza asked the roguish looking man.

“The same. I don't stand on formal introductions, but I'd stand for you - if Harry would permit it.”

“You're such a dog, Sirius,” Lily laughed. “Pay him no mind, Eliza; he's never been able to stop flirting, not even now. I believe he's trying to prove that there really is life after death.”

“Woof.”

“You're the one who started all this, then?” Eliza continued, looking Sirius straight in his laughing eyes. “You're the reason we've been gathered here.”

“How do you figure that?” Sirius protested. “It was the bloody Deaters what killed you, killed me, and it's the bloody Deaters who've got poor Harry here on the verge of ruining his life.”

“True, but if you hadn't left all that money to Harry, I never would have had a chance,” Eliza explained. “He would have been so deeply into Hermione Granger by the point he met me - assuming he ever met me at all, which is doubtful - that he never would have given me a second look. He told me as much the day we first met.”

“But … but … but if I hadn't done that, look where the money would have gone,” Sirius sputtered.

“I didn't say that it wasn't necessary,” Eliza replied, “only that it was a `but for' cause.”

“`But for' cause?” Sirius echoed.

“I'm a legal transcriptionist,” Eliza explained.

James had been watching Harry closely whilst Sirius and Eliza exchanged words. When Eliza finished, he broke in. “So, is that true, Harry? Since before you ever met this young lady?”

“Yeah, it's true,” Harry readily admitted, no longer hesitant to speak the truth in front of Eliza - to whom he directed a wan smile. “Well before that, actually. Back as far as Third Year for sure, maybe even back as far as First Year. I was just rather thick about things.”

“Harry, don't blame yourself,” Lily counseled. “You didn't exactly grow up in a very conducive environment.”

“You know about that?” Harry asked.

“Oh yes,” both James and Lily chorused simultaneously. Taken aback, they looked at each other. James nodded, and Lily continued. “In addition to your own frequent summons throughout that time, Dumbledore called upon us often and apologised profusely. He said it was necessary. But come to think of it, your summonses did become less frequent after your Third Year.”

“I hope I can take at least some of the credit for that,” Sirius huffed. “Surely that girl doesn't fill all of your heart?”

“No, Sirius,” Harry replied. “There'll always be room for you - and all of you. Even you Cedric….”

“On that score, could I speak with you just a moment - privately?” Cedric requested.

“What could you possibly have to say that you can't say in front of us all?” taunted Sirius.

“Oh, hush,” Lily demanded. “Let him be. Just because he wasn't a bad boy like you.”

“You sound like a Prefect,” Sirius protested.

“Right now, I'm better than that,” Lily replied, flashing her Head Girl badge.

By then, Harry and Cedric had strolled out of earshot of the others' banter. “What is it?” Harry asked.

“I'm sorry to impose,” Cedric began, “but can you watch out for Cho? Just a bit?”

“Er … I suppose, but I don't think she's all that happy with me right now,” Harry replied noncommittally.

“There's something wrong, something that I can't fathom,” Cedric continued. “We've stopped communicating. She still summons me in dreams, but not in ways we could talk. Not like we used to. Just before that, she told me she was scared - but she never told me about what. I'm quite frankly worried.”

Harry thought about Cho's secret - something so explosive that it had nearly destroyed his relationship with Hermione, which, come to think of it, would have saved Voldemort the trouble. He would never tell Cedric about that (since Cho obviously had not), but he did agree to keep an eye out. “All right, I'll pay special attention, but she's not confiding in me, so don't expect much.”

“That's all I can ask. Thanks Harry,” Cedric said as he clapped Harry on the shoulder.

Somewhat distracted by Cedric's request, which seemed more consequential than it should, Harry trailed the tall Hufflepuff back to the rest of the group.

When they returned, James took charge. “Well I think it's time that we got this debating party back on track. We've already touched upon the matter before us quite a bit, but it's time to state the proposition affirmatively: `Resolved, that it would be tragically foolish for my son….'”

“Our son,” Lily corrected.

“…Right. `It would be tragically foolish for our son to try to push away that Granger girl in a misguided attempt to keep her safe from a Deater attack.' Our colleague and friend Remus Lupin, who unfortunately allowed his unique experience as a werewolf to colour his viewpoint, has already presented the negative of the proposition. It has also been expounded, at least implicitly, by Harry's current guardian, Mad-Eye Moody, who, I'm afraid, bears a number of scars beyond those that are readily apparent.”

“As the senior memory here, albeit only by a few minutes, I shall begin,” James continued. “Harry, don't do this. First of all, you're extraordinary and she's extraordinary. Every person who has summoned mine - and Lily's - memories confirms this. You are plainly made for each other. I hesitate to compare the two of you to Lily and myself, because you're both so young, but in my mind the comparison can neither be doubted nor ignored. More than that, though, I'd have been lost without my Lily. She's my heart, my soul, and my conscience. I was a prat before I knew her. Her love changed me….”

“You need that even more than I. You're gifted with tremendous powers - such that I can hardly conceive of them. But your upbringing has scarred you with great anger. That's what causes you to lose control. You need a moderating force, an even keel, someone to make you listen to reason and keep yourself calm. I admit that this Granger girl hasn't summoned me more than four or five times in her life. Every time she's been trying to keep either your rashness or your anger in check. Her lament has always been that Lily and I had died prematurely.”

“In sum, you fit together remarkably well. You're powerful enough to protect her - if anyone in this world can - and she's wise enough to guide you in what you have to do.”

“You know?” Harry asked.

“We know,” James affirmed. “Dumbledore did finally get around to telling us. That's why we submitted to the Fidelius.”

“You can't do that alone, Harry - not something of that magnitude. The strain would only aggravate the emotional deficits in your upbringing. The kind of incident you fear will be more likely, not less, without her cool hand on your brow.”

Lily did just that - giving James' forehead a loving stroke. James stopped, returned Lily's glance, and then looked expectantly at Harry. The boy realised he was waiting for more questions, if any.

“But you're dead,” Harry commented. “All of you are. If she dies, there's nobody left who loves me - whom I could trust unquestionably. I would be alone….”

“Oh, Harry!” Lily jumped in. “And if you drove her away - assuming you could - how would that help you? You'd be just as alone, and everything else would be worse, because that really would be your fault. You'd have killed her love for you. If she dies, at least she dies loving you, like I did James. At least you'd not be in that loveless special type of Hell in which poor Remus and Mad-Eye … and Sevvie too … have to live.”

“She'd still be alive,” Harry replied. “That's worth something.”

“Alive, but not living,” Lily rejoined. “And you'd be the same way - no better off emotionally than in the cupboard under the stairs. Worse, actually, because you'd know what you'd given up.”

“Maybe I shouldn't know,” Harry suggested.

“Tosh,” Lily tossed that idea aside. “Harry, she loves you - as much as I ever loved James. She's chanced death and worse for you, and she's already taken your ring. Think about what that must have meant to her. To me, that's better than some overwrought pure-blood declaration of intent. Sorry, Luv….”

“Well, I thought my declaration was nice - and I meant every word of it,” James theatrically protested.

That exchange went over Harry's head, but it hardly mattered. “I - I'm wearing her ring, as well.”

“Well good for you,” Lily grinned. “Think about why, then. Your grandmother, bless her soul, had a saying about people strong enough to give unreservedly to others. It was `in for a penny, in for a pound.' That's this girl - an extraordinary, irreplaceable girl who's seen fit to bestow her love upon my … our little boy. I can't betray her privacy by telling you what she's summoned me for, but I can tell you this: She's offered you the most profound gift that one person can give to another. If you don't accept it, I'm afraid you'll be regretting that decision for the rest of your life, however long, or short, you might think it will be.”

No questions came to Harry's mind. “Er … thanks, Mum,” he choked out.

Sirius was next.

“I come at this from the opposite direction from my happily married best friends there,” he growled. “If you were my son, or my brother, I'd be telling you that you're far too young for any of this - that you need to take your passion where you find it - check out the options, play the field, have fun for a while before even thinking about any sort of commitment.”

“But you're not my son, or my brother, however much I might have tried to deceive myself about that. Death has a way of stripping away such illusions. Instead, you're Harry Potter - the one the stupid papers call `The Chosen One.' In thinking about you, my Godson, I can't ignore what you've been called upon to do. You've the weight of the world thrust upon your shoulders, son. And that gets damn tiring after a while; it has to….”

“It already has,” Harry affirmed.

“I'm chuffed you can admit it, then,” Sirius continued, looking even more serious. “Even Dumbledore has trouble with that. Anyway, when you feel tired of carrying the world, you need someone who can carry you, yes you, for a while. Unlike your parents, I've had the pleasure of meeting Granger in the flesh - and I can tell you, I've never seen a stronger woman. Those simpering fan girl types, the kinds that follow you around in a crush, but when you actually meet them the lot of them are fools; they'd just be a burden to you. And if it's one thing you don't need, it's another burden.”

“Harry, you need someone you can laugh with, cry with, and - yes - make love with. It's that simple. If you were anybody else, I'd tell you to sow some wild oats. But Dumbledore got me to write that stupid will, and then I was even stupider and got myself killed. Like it or not, that amount of money will make almost anyone's motives suspect. Anybody, that it, except Hermione. You can trust her with anything. Any questions?”

“Do you think I can keep her - keep her safe?” Harry asked. That question was at the root of his guilt, and his guilt was the source of his dilemma.

“Keep her safe?” Sirius looked Harry straight in the eye with the gravest expression he could muster. “Frankly, no. Nobody can say that. Voldemort is just too powerful, and the bloody Deaters are just too malicious, for anyone to give that kind of assurance.”

Seeing Harry's face go pale, Sirius hastened to continue.

“…But nobody, and I mean nobody, Dumbledore included, has a better chance of keeping that girl safe than you do. You're powerful - I don't think anybody knows how much - and you've been trained extensively. You've got innate talent, and you took the highest Defence marks in history, as far as that goes. Let me turn that one around on you. Who the heck has a better chance of keeping her safe? Surely you don't think she could do better on her own?”

“She wouldn't have to do better on her own,” Harry replied sadly. “She wouldn't be nearly as much of a target.”

Sirius raised his eyebrows as his fathomless grey eyes bore into his Godson's. “Harry, that's absolute and utter bullshit. She beat bloody Voldemort's O.W.L. scores, and she's an odds-on Muggle-born Hogwarts Head Girl. She'd be Voldemort's target whether you were with her or not. Just think about it. How many times have you had to keep her safe - or even save her life - before matters got to this point?”

Harry had no answer to that. Or rather he did, but his answer only proved his Godfather's point.

Bill spoke next. “Harry, I don't have much to add to what your relatives have already said, or to our discussion by the lake over the summer, but I can say this. I don't think I've ever really seen you happy. I've seen you proud, content, victorious, and even giddy. But I've never really seen you happy - and frankly there's no reason I should have, given your past and your future.”

“However, I think Hermione can make you happy, if you let her. But don't blind yourself either. I have faith in you. If she can't, I'm sure you can find someone else who can…. I'll leave it at that. There's no reason, except some misguided sense of duty, for you to deny yourself a chance at happiness. I can speak from experience here.”

Bill choked up a bit. “Harry, nothing in my life gave as much happiness as those few short months I spent with Fleur - and no event in my life made me as happy as the day she agreed to marry me. Being your guardian gave me the confidence to ask her to. I hope, in return, I can contribute in some small way to you having an equally happy moment, even if I have to do it from beyond the grave.”

Harry was feeling equally emotional by the time Bill ended his little speech. “Thanks Bill, I'm honoured that you feel that way. Ever since you've been gone, I've felt like an ingrate for how I treated you - and I feel so sorry about Fleur … I….” Harry stopped abruptly. He did not care to tell Bill about Fleur's recent behaviour. “I just hope she can get over everything and find some degree of happiness herself.”

Bill's response flabbergasted Harry. “Don't worry about me, Harry. Fleur summons me practically every day - she has to use pills to do it - and we've talked about just that. I'm dead, Harry. She has my blessing if it would make her happy again.”

Cedric spoke next, but only very briefly. “Harry, I never knew you very well, and I'm not even sure why you summoned me here - because of the way I died, I guess. You are honourable, Harry. When it counted, you're the most honourable person I think I've ever met. Please, don't feel guilty over what happened to me. Live your own life. I know you love that girl. Someone who loved me very much told me, before she thought you had any idea yourself. Like everybody else has said, you deserve to have your chance at happiness. Don't cheat yourself.”

Harry replied, “Cedric, you know you're asking the impossible. I'll always blame myself for what happened to you - not so much for your sake, since I can't do anything about that, but for Cho. She mourned you for so long. She didn't want me, she wanted closure with you, and somehow thought I could give her that. But I couldn't. I'm just so afraid. I don't think Hermione would take my death any better than Cho took yours, and probably a whole lot worse.”

Cedric might have said something further, but it had become obvious to all during Harry's comments that their time together was growing short. Harry was fading away, becoming increasingly transparent - and one of their number had yet to address him.

“Harry, I love you,” Eliza rushed to tell him whilst he was still with them. “Never doubt that, but I knew from day one that I could never hold a candle to Hermione Granger in your heart. I couldn't match her no matter what I did - or even in the end, what she did. At best I could borrow you for a while, until the two of you worked out what is obviously an incredibly complex and equally profound relationship.”

“I'm one hundred percent certain that how I died is high on your list of reasons for turning away from her and her love for you. Don't you dare, Harry. If I mean anything to you, don't let me come between you and your last, best chance at fulfillment. That would be the negation of everything I ever wanted for - and from - you.”

Harry was fading fast. “Goodbye Harry. I loved you, but somebody else loves you even more. And you love her - more deeply than anything I've ever seen. Give her that chance, Harry. Please…!”

Harry was gone. He dwindled away to nothing - returned to the land of the living. That meant that Harry's memories of Voldemort's various victims, never before assembled in the same place, would be going their separate ways.

Lines of concern edged James Potter's own attenuating face. He turned to his beloved wife. “So, do you think we convinced him? He seemed attentive enough, but almost everything he said was to disagree with us. I'm afraid he might have already made up his mind - no matter what we could say.”

Lily smiled at James' diminishing figure. “Who can say? I have faith in our Harry, though. I always have, and always will.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Gates … of Venus is a reference to female privates

The Malfoy image comes from the Astronomy Tower encounter; Harry does not suspect him in his kidnapping

The object DE Malfoy has is what Harry destroyed while in captivity

Faneuil is the name of a building in Boston

“The public be damned” was said by Commodore Vanderbilt

Hermione's “I did” answer to the “what happened” question parallels her father's response to a similar question in Ch. 23

Sulking in a tent originates in Homer's Iliad and refers to Achilles

Pot/kettle refers to the “pot calling the kettle black” - since he's telling her not to do something he routinely does

The County Hall Island Block is a real London building - said by many to be the ugliest building in the City

I can't stand “Mione” as a pet name, and it's totally without canon support

Hermione suggested putting a memorial to Sirius into the Order of Merlin ceremony

An accommodation address is an anonymous letter drop

Fleet Street refers to British Muggle press

A bearer draft is a financial instrument payable to whoever has possession of it

The Hong Kong & Shanghai bank is real, and was British for a long time

Lupin has very mixed feelings about Harry being with anyone, especially someone as high-profile as Hermione

Some enchanted evening is originally from “South Pacific,” but to me it's a Blue Öyster Cult album

Remus also refers to his own relationship problems

The Blitz here refers to the Nazi bombing of London during WWII

If Harry & Hermione are the heads, then the James & Lily parallel is overwhelming

A solution to the Room's inadequacy will be found

Inhaling helium dramatically raises the pitch of one's voice, since helium atoms are small and vibrate faster than air

Foxy is slang for pretty in a sexy sort of way, introduced into general (at least US) vernacular by Jimi Hendrix' “Foxy Lady”

Luna having a platypus for a Patronus is appropriate

(Lachlan) Macquarie and (Thomas) Palmer were Australian early colonial figures

Pommy is an insulting Australian name for a Briton

Figjam is Aussie slang, standing for “Fuck I'm Good, Just Ask Me”

Oz = Australia

Hermione's phoenix merger changed her Patronus - to one of a magical creature

Harry's going cold freezes, in order, water vapor, carbon dioxide, argon, nitrogen, and oxygen

Harry's ability to chill things will become important once he gets skilled enough to freeze what's in the balloons. Freezing helium is particularly difficult

Harry finds himself in his own mind, previously described as resembling a battlefield

Whiskey, Tango, Foxtrot = WTF = What the fuck?

“Ain't seen nothing yet” is by Bachman Turner Overdrive

At 17 Harry inherits from his parents

Lily had insight as to Harry's erstwhile Voldemort connection, and Pettigrew's state of mind

Yes, the Marauders smoked pot - quite common at that time

“But for” cause is legalese for a relatively remote, but necessary, cause of an event

A hint that Cho knows something bad is happening to her

Resolved… is how formal debate team propositions are stated

James and Lily were told the prophecy

Shouldn't know - the germ of a really bad idea of Harry's

Declarations figure in wizard courting rituals

“Take your passion where you find it” from “She Was Hot,” by the Rolling Stones

“When you meet them … fools” - from “Sea and Sand,” by the Who

At this point, Bill's OK if Harry were to get together with Fleur

Last line echoes Hermione's testimony

73

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45. The Parent And The Pensieve

Wherein Hermione reconciles with her mother, tells her the story of her and Harry, and explains canon events; Harry has another nightmare, meets with Dumbledore and some goblins, and learns about Gaunt, Horcruxes, and Umbridge; the goblins bring a gift; Harry and Dumbledore see an important memory; there is a Tarot reading; and an important piece of Voldemort's past is revealed.

Thanks to: Betas Catch_the_Snitch, Sonicdale, Mr. Sean, MarkGardiner, Shane and Mumrarj.

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

Chapter 45 -The Parent And The Pensieve

Hermione was so upset over Harry's accident in the D.A. that she almost cancelled her trip. If she were visiting anyone in the world except her own mum, she would have rescheduled. But things were what they were, so promptly at nine in the morning she departed the Castle under Tonks' watchful escort.

Still, Hermione worried. Anxiety was in her nature, especially where Harry was concerned. Despite Madam Pomfrey's assurance that he would be fine - and would be awake long before she returned - she worried.

To Hell with Voldemort - Harry could have been killed right then and there - killed by the sheer happenstance of an inexperienced Fourth Year's accidental and premature ending of a Weight-Reversing Charm. Equally coincidentally, Hermione just happened to be with Harry at the critical moment. Her hasty spell had barely managed to deflect that cobble just enough so it had not dropped squarely on….

An involuntary attack of goose pimples swept over her.

…But then, if her conversation had not distracted him, maybe he could have avoided what happened. Everything could be second-guessed. Holding an overcrowded D.A. meeting in the Room of Requirement certainly invited second-guessing. It was unsafe. Something would have to be done.

Forget second-guessing. The actual event was bad enough. Although Hermione diverted it somewhat, a two-stone cobble still fell on Harry. Just the glancing blow fractured his skull. The solid strike to his shoulder shattered his collarbone so badly that it needed to be completely regrown. As he might thrash about in pain from the Skele-Gro and exacerbate his head injury, Madam Pomfrey consulted with Hlr. Huxley by Floo. Together, they made the Healing decision to leave Harry unconscious until the regeneration was complete.

Hermione stayed resolutely by her boyfriend's side, holding his hand whilst working through her complicated Arithmancy homework. At midnight, Madam Pomfrey finally put her foot down and shooed her out.

Ordinarily Tonks could be counted on for something to lift Hermione's spirits, but not this time. Rather than her usual outrageous hairstyle and flamboyant dress, the Auror accompanying Hermione was strangely subdued. She wore drab brown hair straight, close-cropped (for her) and in nondescript, mousy fashion. She looked, and acted, as if suffering from a stomachache, gas pains, or both.

Tonks offered no explanation, and deflected Hermione's questions. With more than enough to worry about - Harry in the Hospital Wing, and Mum awaiting somewhere at Order headquarters - Hermione did not pursue Tonks' mood swing.

Hermione felt like a cat on hot bricks as Tonks led her through the ever-changing magical labyrinth of what was once her own home. For better or worse, she would have closure with her mum. Mum had left Hogwarts Castle - by all accounts both defeated and desolate - when Hermione ordered her from her sight. Now, either they would reconcile or probably never see one another again. Her father had already vanished … and Australia was half a world away.

Only when Tonks stopped at a familiar door did Hermione know where the Order had lodged Mum. “Oh, Tonks,” she complained. “The Order didn't have to rub it in like that, did they? The thought of Mum having to stay in my room - isn't that a little much?”

“I would agree, Hermione,” Tonks replied seriously. “Except it wasn't anyone here looking for payback. She requested it.”

Hermione considered that as the Auror wandlessly opened the door. “Take as long as you want,” Tonks instructed. “When you're done, tap the doorknob twice with your wand. If you need anything - or anyone - let me know via your mirror.”

The implicit offer to get Harry if Hermione needed him produced a faint smile. The girl knew better than anyone that Harry was at the centre of most of what had gone pear shaped with her family - just as he was now the fulcrum of her existence in so many other ways.

Mum was seated at Hermione's old davenport, nondescriptly dressed and in her stocking feet. Uncharacteristically Mum wore no makeup. Her brown hair, now flecked with grey, was held back with a simple clasp. At the sound of the door opening, the older woman looked up expectantly. The moment she saw her daughter enter the room, Dr. Eva Granger smiled broadly. It was a smile suggestive of deliverance.

Even upon seeing she was welcome, Hermione was tentative … after all that had happened.

“Hermione dear, why your hair…. It's - it's amazing,” the older woman began. “It's lovely. Whatever did you do to get…?”

“You really don't want to know,” Hermione responded with unusual frankness. She would no longer sugarcoat anything for Mum's benefit. Mum would have to accept her and her life the way it was. “It's one small benefit of nearly being burnt alive.”

“Oh my dear,” Mum retreated hastily. “I'm sorry. That wasn't a very good start, was it? I'm so relieved you've come.” She beckoned her daughter to make herself comfortable in the other chair, or anywhere she chose. “Don't worry; I won't go off on you again. I've been so afraid I've lost you after what that damned lawyer talked me into doing.”

Hermione cautiously slid into the chair. She'd made up her mind - there would be no blame shifting. “Mum,” she said evenly, “that barrister worked for you, not the other way `round.”

Dr. Granger's face fell at the reminder, more in sorrow than anything else. “You're right,” she conceded. “Everything happened because of me. It's just … I thought they were killing you. I've lost everything else - your father, my friends, colleagues, much of my reputation - everything I had. I couldn't bear losing you, too, at least not without fighting to keep you.”

Hermione continued being blunt. This would be a conversation between equals. “You know, don't you, that, if you'd succeeded in separating us, you'd have killed us both? Harry would have died instantly, and I would never have returned without him.”

Mum nodded dolefully. “On the way out, your Head of House, that McGonagall, explained what I'd almost done - after I'd told all those reporters that everything was a huge mistake - that you were fine, after all. At least I did that right, I hope?”

“Yes, I think you did, Mum,” Hermione allowed, permitting herself the first hint of a smile.

“But … you mean … you were in that state - whatever you were in - voluntarily?” Mum asked incredulously.

“Not at first,” Hermione explained. “But later, by the time you found me, yes. I didn't realise it. I didn't even care. It took Harry coming for me to figure out that I ultimately held the keys to my own mental prison.”

“So you'd never have come out, and would've shrivelled up and died otherwise?” Dr. Granger asked tentatively, still not seeming to grasp her daughter's motivations.

Hermione had trouble maintaining her even keel. The emotional baggage between the two women was tremendous. “Mummy, I need you to understand - or if that's too much, at least to accept…. I didn't want to live in a world without him, and I thought he was dead. Even though I thought he hated me.”

“But he doesn't hate you, dear,” Mum replied with that irritating expression that meant she thought she was telling Hermione something obvious. “Even I can see that.”

“I know, Mum,” Hermione replied with a touch of annoyance. “It's so much stronger now. Please - please, don't fight Harry. I love you both, but if you force a choice, I'll choose my future over my past. But … please … don't make me choose.”

The dam burst. Hermione's face was soon half-hidden in her hands, as she tried to stop - or at least conceal - her tears. Internally, she berated her weakness. She arrived so determined not to go to pieces, and all her resolve vanished within five minutes.

“I won't make you choose, dear,” the older woman said softly. She closed the space between them and kneeled down beside Hermione who sat in her favourite rocker. “He saved your life, and not for the first time. When I saw how he looked at you…. I can't deny what's there any longer. Your father did, and look where that got him.”

“Is there any word?” the girl mumbled. “Any word at all?”

“None, I'm afraid,” Dr. Granger admitted. “None whatsoever. It's as if he vanished from the face of the earth after Singapore. I'm almost positive he's not dead, but he obviously planned this. And then - everything happened. He had to know what was coming … and he left us.”

Mum started sniffling, too, and then worse. Soon they both sought comfort in each other's arms - the mum trying to prevent her future from slipping away, the daughter similarly trying to preserve her past.

“Can you … forgive my stupidity?” the older woman asked.

Hermione answered, “If you can set aside everything I kept from you the last several years.”

“I can't dwell on the past, anyway,” Mum confessed. “It's too painful.”

“I still love you, Mum, and I always will,” Hermione blubbered.

With that, they shared their biggest hug since before Hermione went away to Hogwarts.

Having renewed their bonds in the shadow of their separate, but mutual, tragedies, Hermione's mum asked in a faltering voice, “Have you known for long, Hermione - about Harry, I mean?”

“It's - It's a long story,” Hermione answered. “More of a continuum, than some sudden revelation. At least for me. Harry? I'm still not sure when he knew.”

“One thing I have right now is time, I guess,” Dr. Granger sighed, encouraging her daughter to confide in her, as she once did before magic - and a certain magical boy - came between them.

“It - it goes back before I even hoped that Harry might think of me in that way,” Hermione began. “Of course I've always thought him more just-plain-Harry than anything else. That's what he wants. But after what happened in First Year, a part of me can't stop seeing him as almost some Prince Charming, and me the færie tale princess. I know that's stupid…. I'm nobody's princess.”

“That's not stupid, that's sweet,” Mum commented.

“But face it, most people wouldn't call me a sweet person,” Hermione protested. “It's stupid for me of all people to think in those terms. And in my stupidity, I deliberately fought against what I actually wanted - him. At least, unlike some, I made sure to stay away from overt hero worship….”

“But you just told me, and from what I've seen, he really is a hero - not to mention a prince,” Mum pointed out.

“It doesn't matter, he hates that kind of thing,” Hermione answered. “I knew it, and was bloody determined to stay away from that. So I went overboard in opposite direction. That's how I nearly drove him away for good. I just … well, I couldn't deal with so many complications. Then all the other things began emerging - first, his fame, and then, wham, all that money,” Hermione ended, muttering as much to herself as to her mum.

Mum had the good sense to say nothing.

After collecting herself, Hermione continued.

“You know, I went to Hogwarts - to this new school - not much different than I'd fled the other one, as a know-it-all, the Bookworm. I was bossy, bushy-haired, and bucktoothed. In short, a perfect bitch-in-the-making. That's what they had called me, you know, in primary. First `Bitch Hermione,' and then after the staff got on them for language, shortened to `B-miney'.”

Mum lifted her hand to her mouth in shock. “I had no idea. Why didn't you say something?” she commented.

“Getting you involved would only have made it worse. I'm sorry, but that's true,” Hermione answered. “If I'd grassed on them, everyone would just have hated me worse.”

“I'm so sorry,” Dr. Granger commiserated.

“And Hogwarts started out the same way,” Hermione continued, regaining her stride. “I had no friends, and worse I didn't know how to make any. If not for Harry, I'd probably have been so lonely as to have a psychotic break.”

Hermione declined to mention that she had suffered just such a nervous breakdown only a few weeks before, the first time she thought Harry had died.

“Then, tell me honestly,” Mum pressed, seeing her daughter both reasonably calm and reasonably willing to talk, “do you think he's the one?”

Hermione cocked her head and looked somewhat askance. “I suppose you did have to ask, but I thought it was obvious - to you, of all people. Yes I do. If he'll have me. After what's happened, I don't see myself ever voluntarily leaving him…. He'd have to drive me away, and he's not like that.”

Mother eyed daughter with a smile, but one that carried an air of defeat. “Actually it has been obvious, and for some time. I tried to fight it, that's all. I need you to humour me. I'm trying to come to terms with it all. I've been in denial. Edwin - we both were.”

A faraway look - one that Hermione could sympathise with - shone in her eyes.

“Let me put it this way,” Mum continued, “how many letters have you posted to us since you started at Hogwarts - what is it now - you were eleven then, and now you're seventeen?”

“It must be hundreds,” Hermione guessed. “I tried writing at least once every two weeks, and until this past year I was pretty good about it.”

“Good?” Mum chuckled. “That doesn't do you justice, Hermione dear. You were like clockwork. It was every week through your first two years - except for when you were paralysed in your Second Year.”

“That's `petrified,' Mum,” Hermione corrected.

Dr. Granger shuddered at the memory, “Very well, petrified, then. And you wrote reliably every two weeks thereafter. Now, in how many letters did you not mention Harry, at least by reference, if not name?”

“Er … I don't know,” Hermione said slowly, mentally reviewing the mass of her correspondence. Many of those letters had been less than fully honest - or at least incomplete - but she had always written about something going on at Hogwarts.

Mum held up her hand, thumb pressed against forefinger. “Exactly zero,” she said. “Edwin saved them all, and we even had them bound….”

“Why on Earth do that?” Hermione wondered out loud.

“It figures,” the older woman sighed. “From our perspective we've always worried….” She looked down, unsure of herself. “We wanted to save a record of what you were like…. In case, well, we lost you to this other world….”

“You should have known you'd never lose me,” Hermione responded quickly.

“But you know that's not true,” Mum stood her ground. “You've as good as said as much in this very conversation….”

That stopped Hermione cold - because Mum was quite right.

“I'm sorry, Mum,” Hermione conceded.

“That makes two of us,” came the maternal response. “But I, at least - Edwin probably didn't - thought you might want them some day for your … well, children….”

“I don't know when, if ever, that will be,” the daughter immediately tried putting the kibosh on such speculation. “I certainly haven't discussed it….”

But, Hermione realised, there were other parents, and other children.

“All in good time,” Eva answered, in her most condescending, mother-knows-best tone of voice. “It's not like the other party to that conversation is a mystery anymore. Edwin always thought….”

“I'm not at all interested in what Daddy thought,” Hermione cut across. “He made his opinion of Harry quite clear when he tried to start a fistfight.”

“Edwin wasn't always that way,” Mum said defensively, “only after all those dangerous things you hid from us came out. As I was trying say … your letters … last year he checked them. He suspected your feelings for Harry before I did - or at least before I was willing to look at reality.”

“You were always, Harry this and Harry that,” she continued. “We thought nothing of it - until you first mentioned his doing something dramatic. You were economical with the truth at the time, but that was the troll incident, I believe…. After that, we paid attention.”

“As well you should have, Mum,” Hermione commented. “That troll … Harry saved my life for the first time, and we became friends. You do know that he - and Ron - were the first real friends I ever had?”

Hermione sighed. Such intense friendship was a two edged sword. She understood that now. Harry's friendship was so very valuable that fear of losing it had restrained her - maybe both of them - from going beyond, until almost too late.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Mum answered. “That much was always clear. But as far as things being more than friendly, we first suspected when you wrote so much about that broom game … er….”

“Quidditch,” Hermione offered.

“Yes, Quidditch,” Dr. Granger agreed.

“Your father first broached that possibility when you began writing about Harry's play - even though you had nothing to do with the game yourself.”

“I never had anything to do with sports,” Hermione protested.

“Precisely my point, dear” Mum emphasised. “You set off Edwin's fatherly instincts the moment you, of all people, betrayed interest in a competitive sport…. You'd never had that before. You disdained them all - football, cricket, even badminton.”

Hermione fidgeted. Her father had been rather more perceptive than she had thought.

“So, you see, on some level, we both sensed that Harry was special - extremely special - to you for quite some time. We let it go, because it … he … made you happy.” She sighed, and Hermione could see the wistful glint in her eye returning. “But finally, it got so dangerous. We felt we had to do something. We tried, at least, but I'll bet you'll tell me it was already too late.”

“Yes, too late,” Hermione agreed. “But I'm afraid it got late early.”

“Late, early,” Mum repeated. “Yes…. So how far do you see it going?”

For one crazy instant Hermione considered telling her about the Mirror of Erised, but thought better of it. Mum could be rather prim, and throwing something like that in her face - why do that, when she seemed groping her way towards acceptance?

Hermione leaned back in the rocker, and stared for a moment at the ceiling, gathering her thoughts. Without making eye contact, she asked, “Mum, when you fell in love with Daddy, how did you know he was the one?”

Hermione heard the expected audible intake of breath. “That's both a question and an answer, dear,” Mum commented.

“I suppose it is,” the daughter agreed, “but from what you saw the other day, you must've suspected.”

“That's why we're having this conversation, dear,” Mum conceded. “You're my daughter; I love you very much; and I've accepted that I can't - and shouldn't - stand in the way of what you truly want.”

“You never answered my question,” Hermione reminded.

“How did I know he was more than some passing crush?” Mum looked rather anxious. The two had conducted a rather pro forma birds-and-bees chat on the occasion of Hermione's first period (thankfully, during the summer holiday), but never had they discussed anything like this - focussing on specific people.

“Well, Edwin … you know … he was always a little hot-headed - sometimes rather more than a little. And he was always fascinated with those awful guns….”

“How was he allowed to keep them?” Hermione broke in. Her impression was that UK gun control restrictions were quite strict.

“Oh, he always had some official connexion or another,” Mum complained. “Usually some cock and bull story that keeping cocaine on hand at the surgery made him a target of some sort. But anyway….”

“I'm sorry,” Hermione realised. “I shouldn't have butted in like that.”

“No matter,” Mum dismissed it. “He caught the awful habit from his time with the Yanks, I think. Once, shortly after we were dating, he got so angry at someone - I don't even remember who anymore - that he stormed out of his flat taking one of those guns with him. I was so terrified that I couldn't move. I was afraid he would end up in prison, or worse. He didn't, of course. Cooler heads prevailed. But that's when I figured out that I really, really fancied him, and that I'd be devastated if he were the victim, or the cause, of anything untoward….”

She started sniffling, and daubed her eyes with a tissue from her handbag. “…and I still feel that way … to this day. Oh, I miss him, and I'm so afraid!”

Another crying fit ensued, and again Hermione found herself in the unusual position of trying to comfort her mum. Once she had Mum calmed down, it was Hermione's turn to field the next personal question.

“And - and you,” Mum looked at Hermione with troubled eyes, but with more happiness mixed in than before, “I'm sure it wasn't guns, but there must have been something … something that prompted, well … you and Harry?”

“He's been my best friend and confidante for years. You've read all my letters, and now you've seen the stories in the Prophet as well - the truth as well as the junk,” Hermione commented. “I'm certain you've gotten reasonably familiar with the story of his life.”

“Not him,” Mum corrected, “you and him.”

“Umm…. How far back do you want me to go?” she looked at Mum.

“Like I said, I've nothing but time at the moment,” Dr. Granger answered. “How about at the beginning?”

Hermione took a deep breath. “Right. The beginning it is, then,” she reluctantly agreed. Harry had recently adopted the slogan “no more lies.” So would she. It would be so much easier if Mum would accept, rather than just tolerate, the truth about her relationship with Harry.

“You know, it could have been love at first sight … only it took me ages to acknowledge it.” Hermione repeated out loud something she had grasped during those weeks of desolation. “I never realised just how long it could take to fall in love at first sight.”

“Hermione, I do believe you're turning into a romantic,” Mum commented.

“It's Harry's doing,” Hermione replied. “The story…. Well, first there was … you've seen the Hogwarts Express. As you know, I was eleven. A fellow First Year - his name was Neville - lost Trevor.”

“Trevor? Was he one of those…?”

“No, Mum, Trevor was Neville's pet toad.”

“Neville, then?” Mum repeated, as if searching for something mentally. “Was he one of those…?”

“Yes, Mum,” Hermione anticipated. “He was one of the Ministry Six. Now if you will….”

“Poor boy,” Mum went on, “he lost his parents the same evening our surgery was attacked.”

Hermione had to stop and take another breath. She had not known Mum to be aware of that. Worse, thinking about all those attacks - how Death Eaters had deliberately targeted all six of their families - made her stop and perform an emotional gut check.

“Anyway, I'm willing to tell you the story of Harry and me, if you're willing to hear it,” Hermione finally offered.

“Yes … quite. Please go on.” Mum got the message.

“So I was helping look for this toad, and I checked a compartment where a scrawny, black-haired boy with taped-together glasses was watching another boy, whom he'd just met, trying to do magic. The spell was rubbish, but that wasn't what mattered. What mattered was the expression on his face. He was enthralled; magic was obviously new to him.”

“From that I deduced that here was somebody like me - another Muggle-born, even though I didn't know that term at the time. He'd just found out about being magical, and why he'd always been different than the other kids. That was him, and that was me.” She held up two fingers, side by side. “I was horrible, I'm afraid,” Hermione admitted. “I was quite abrupt with Ron - the other boy….”

“The boy you shared so much time with at that grim place over last year's holiday,” Mum remarked vaguely. “The redhead….”

“Yes, indeed, that was he,” Hermione confirmed a bit impatiently.

“We liked him - your father and I,” Mum went on, “as a safer alternative to Harry.”

Hermione's back stiffened, with confirmation of something she had always suspected. “He wouldn't have been any safer,” she said a bit peevishly. “Almost every time I've been endangered, he's been in the thick of it, right with Harry and me. And besides, when we're together for very long, all Ron and I do is fight. Sometimes it's so hard to have a civilised conversation with him.”

“I'm sorry, then,” Mum retreated. “Sometimes, though, bickering can be a form of flirting.”

Hermione's lips pursed. “Well, at times I've suspected that Ron may have thought the same thing,” Hermione replied evenly. “But for me it's not. Bickering is just that - bickering. I don't like fighting. I don't want to work that hard, and with Harry, petty bickering isn't an issue.”

“Poor dear,” Mum continued. “Maybe he was just being overenthusiastic.”

“Maybe he was just being a prat,” Hermione cut her mum off. Ron was one subject they did not need to discuss in any depth. “It doesn't matter anyway. I've told you before and I'll tell you again, he never really had a chance. In fact, I told him so the summer before Fifth Year. It wasn't just Ron, though. Nobody else really did, except for a couple of months with Viktor.”

That drew a response. “Ugh! That horrible Russian who tried to get you to marry him when you were only sixteen? Even Harry has the sense to wait.”

“He was Bulgarian, Mum,” Hermione corrected. “Do you want to hear the story or not?”

“Yes … Please,” Mum answered. “I'm sorry.”

“We're getting ahead of ourselves, so back to First Year,” Hermione circled back. “It was all too obvious to me that history was repeating itself. I started being ostracised again. All those Pure-bloods - the kids with Wizard parents … they had been brought up to feel superior, and I reacted by constantly demonstrating my own superiority at anything I was good at. That hardly endeared me to my classmates. They talked about me behind my back. I heard the dreaded B-word again. Even Harry wasn't my friend then, but he wasn't horrid, either. I at least felt like I had something in common with him. The others could be hateful; he wasn't.”

“Along came Halloween, and the troll…,” Hermione paused. “You already know the outlines of that. Ron made a nasty comment about me to Harry, which I overheard. I thought, `even them,' and I cracked. That's how ended up in that bathroom, crying my eyes out. I was wondering whether I even wanted to stay at the school, I was so lonely.”

Hermione shuddered and continued, “Well, enter this three-metre tall troll. It would have killed me, I'm sure of it. Then, from out of nowhere, here come Harry and Ron…, two absurdly tiny boys against this huge monster. Harry jumped on the thing's back to distract it whilst Ron cast a lucky spell that levitated the troll's club and dropped it on its own head. The image that's stayed with me - and sometimes haunts me still - is Harry on the back of that raging beast, his wand up its nose, hanging on for dear life.”

Hermione sighed. “At that moment, he was my savior, a færie story come true in a færie story castle. He had saved my life - something he's done quite a few times since, but the first time still stands out.”

“First times always do,” Dr. Granger commented obscurely.

“From then on the three of us became friends - that's three, not two,” Hermione emphasised carefully. “They were equal, but Harry was always somehow a little bit more equal than Ron. I couldn't have told you why at that point. But the end of the term brought that episode with the Philosopher's Stone, and as I told you before, brought Harry face-to-face with Voldemort, and with death.”

At the name, Dr. Granger made a hissing noise.

“Oh, don't you go doing that too!” Hermione interjected. “Anyway, I went along part way. He was my first real friend and a natural leader to boot. When I had to let him go finish it alone, I couldn't bear the tension, and I gave him a hug and … well, I wanted to kiss him for the first time in my life, but I didn't.”

“Why not then? What happened?” Mum asked.

“Immaturity, I guess … that and the consequences of being wrong. Before I left, I-I called him a great wizard, but I'll never forget his reply,” she explained. “He said he thought I was better, more clever, than he. It still shocks me when I think of it - but crazy as it sounds, he meant it. Here was this genuine hero, and … and …he respected me … little bookworm me … for what I knew from all those books. I knew then he really wasn't like the rest, not just for being some great hero, but in his attitude. He was the first person outside my own family who actually valued me for what I was. At that point, he was still just a friend. But for the first time I caught myself wanting him to be more.”

“You were twelve years old,” Dr. Granger commented.

“Yes, I was twelve years old,” Hermione agreed. “That's five years ago. Harry is no passing fancy, Mum. You have to believe me. That's why I asked about you and Daddy.”

Mum nodded for her to continue.

“Second Year we remained just good friends. I was still too immature to know what I was feeling, or what it meant. That year I got petrified. Whilst I was out of it, Harry and Ron saved Ginny's - Ron's little sister's - life from that almost twenty-metre Basilisk.”

“Yes - one of those hidden incidents that came spilling out of you this June, I recall,” Dr. Granger reminded. “I complained to that McGonagall about their vague notice omitting mention of any beast.”

“I've said I was sorry over and over, Mum,” Hermione said stiffly.

“I know,” Mum responded. “I'm sorry too.”

“Anyway, that's not why I brought it up,” Hermione went on. “Rather, just after I'd recovered, at the final feast of the year, I ran to Harry when I first saw him. I gave him a huge hug and almost kissed him - on the cheek, Mum…. But again I didn't quite have the nerve. I wasn't that precocious. He was my best friend, and … well I never really had many friends. I had to protect that.”

“Third Year … that was different. Harry's godfather - whom we all thought was a vicious murderer, but wasn't - escaped from the wizard prison, Azkaban. Everyone thought he wanted to kill Harry. Again, I was so frightened that I might lose my best friend … friends, actually, since Ron was attacked too. But I realised that, even though Ron was the one actually assaulted, I was more worried about Harry. He was the target, we thought. And but for the grace of Merlin, what happened to Ron … it could have been Harry, and I didn't know if I could handle that. Those feelings led to my entertaining for the first time that someday there might be something more than friendship between us … that there might be a happily ever after in our lives.”

Hermione started coughing. She had been monologuing quite a while, and her throat was incredibly parched.

“Oh, you poor dear,” Dr. Granger said worriedly. She went to the tiny Muggle refrigerator the Order had supplied (anything bigger would have been shorted out by rampant magic). “Care for a Sprite Z?” she asked.

“No fizzy drinks for me, thanks,” Hermione declined. “Have you any juice?”

“There's an Orangina,” Mum answered, rooting about.

“Yes, please,” Hermione gratefully rasped.

When seated again, Mum prompted, “Next is the rescue of Sirius Black. You and that Time-Turner. The same thing that wrecked my best-laid plans.”

“Plans that could have killed both me and Harry,” Hermione pointedly reminded her in a noticeably harsher voice.

“My best hasn't been very good, has it?” Mum sighed in resignation.

Hermione let Mum's comment pass.

“Harry had a number of scrapes that year, with werewolves, Boggarts, and - we thought - Sirius Black. He survived them all, and each time I felt more and more profound relief, like you did after Daddy didn't shoot anyone, I'd reckon. From that point on, my emotional state depended increasingly on his safety. Ron got hurt too. He broke his leg, but qualitatively it wasn't the same, and I knew it.”

“Then Harry saved my life again, although I didn't know it was he at the time.”

“You didn't?” Mum asked, the incredulity being obvious.

“It was Harry from the future,” Hermione explained. “He produced a Patronus … er … did some very difficult and advanced magic. With it, he drove away a horde of awful, disgusting Dementors, who were probably seconds away from stealing my soul and leaving me a vegetable.”

“Ugh,” Mum recoiled. “I don't think you've told us, or at least me, about that before.”

“I found out who a few hours later, although `later' really doesn't make a lot of sense. The rescue itself was when I mentally crossed the divide between friendly and what I had to admit were romantic feelings for Harry,” Hermione disclosed. “We went back in time - just the two of us - with this golden chain holding us together.”

Hermione saw Mum shaking her head in wonder. “I still don't believe all this,” Mum remarked. “It's just so astounding - like something out of H.G. Wells … a time-travelling daughter.”

“That was the least of my problems, Mum,” Hermione corrected. “I'd been using it almost every day for months. What was new, and terrifying, was flying on the back of Buckbeak. He's a Hippogriff, a gigantic half eagle, half horse. We flew up to a seventh storey window - and I've always avoided flying. I was scared to death, but I wasn't going to leave Harry, I just couldn't. So I rode behind him, bareback, and sort of hung on with all I had. I wasn't even looking; my face was jammed in his back so hard my nose hurt. I held onto him like there was nothing else in the world.”

Hermione paused, took a sip, and mentally calmed herself down.

“And you know what? With him, I felt secure. Although I was twenty metres in the air, on the back of this lunatic, heaving animal, holding onto him I felt that somehow everything would turn out okay. And for a brief time, it did, but only for a bit. Although we rescued Sirius, he was a fugitive. He had to leave, and that meant Harry was all alone again. Poor Harry!”

“He'd never known his parents, and now he had to stand there and watch - watch his godfather fly off and leave him. Harry was always so alone. Well, I didn't want to leave him alone that night. That's when I knew that, if he'd let me, I would be with him, for as long as and in every way possible. Sure, a lot of little girl `Some Day My Prince Will Come' was still wrapped up in it, but the basic feeling hasn't changed much since - it's just matured.”

Hermione looked at her mum, sitting across from her. For the first time, she seemed to be tearing up over her daughter's description of her feelings about Harry - the boy Mum had only recently come to Hogwarts determined to separate Hermione from, no matter what.

Hermione took another long slug of Orangina.

“But then things got bad,” she added. “Harry sort of, well … fell in love … with someone else - someone so pretty that I had no chance of competing. I had to stand there and take it. And I did.”

“Actually, you didn't,” Dr. Granger reminded. “You dated Viktor Krum.”

“He dated me,” Hermione corrected. “I-I-I admit, I wasn't sure what I wanted for a while, but I eventually concluded that I never really wanted Viktor. There weren't any sparks, even when I let him kiss me.”

“Given what happened, I suspect he'd disagree,” Mum observed. “He sent letters too, I recall, but we never kept them. And he asked you to marry him when you were barely sixteen.… Ugh!”

“Mother, I turned him down!” Hermione raised her voice. “And as for the letters, well, they weren't addressed to you. They were for me.”

“And what exactly was Krum for you?” Mum asked directly.

Hermione sighed. “Viktor … for me, I think I simply wanted the feeling that came with someone wanting me. It was an ego boost, yes, since so many other girls got jealous, but ultimately, it's always been Harry. Anyway, after the blow up with the marriage proposal, Viktor and I agreed just to be friends - and now we're not even that, I'm afraid.”

“Well, it's not surprising that someone like him, a famous athlete and all, found someone else,” Mum sniffed.

“Actually, that's quite wrong,” Hermione disclosed. “He was still - as far as I could tell - unattached when I wrote him earlier this summer and told him I wouldn't be writing him anymore.”

“Why did you do that?” Mum queried, mystified.

“I thought he'd become an obstacle to what I really wanted,” Hermione explained. “Harry seemed somehow insecure, or maybe jealous, of Viktor. It seemed like a small enough price to pay, since we had nothing more between us, but Viktor wrote a long, pleading letter back. He guessed what was going on - that it had to do with Harry.”

“He shouldn't have made you do that,” Mum tutted. “Just because you fancy Harry, doesn't give him the right to tell you who your friends are.”

“He didn't,” Hermione answered. “Harry doesn't even know what I did. Truthfully, Ron was always more bothered by my corresponding with Viktor than Harry ever was. But now, I don't think I even needed to do that. I think I misunderstood what Harry was feeling. Unfortunately, it's water under the bridge.”

“Just as well,” Mum supposed. “There was always something creepy about that Krum. But maybe I was just prejudging. It's just - that accent could be quite off-putting.”

“Mother! You couldn't have talked to him more than twice - and then only about travel arrangements,” Hermione reproached. “But anyway, Viktor turned out to be a substitute, although not a bad one for a while, for what I really wanted. All his jealous fan girls would be shocked to hear that. They envied me more over Viktor than when all those horrid press stories linked me with Harry during that same year - even though that wasn't true.”

Hermione sighed again. “But I couldn't tell him then. He wanted a relationship with someone else, and I was mortified that he would tell me he didn't feel the same way about me … why should he with someone so much prettier in the picture? His knowing how I felt would have ruined our friendship - made him unable to confide in me. He was always uncomfortable with that kind of emotion. He was so unloved as a little boy. He had horrid relatives….” Hermione stopped, and grasped what she was doing. “Oh, I'm sorry, I'm just rambling now.”

“Don't be, dear,” Mum said softly. “It's a lovely story - really….”

“Only if you didn't have to live it,” Hermione muttered. “There was the Yule Ball - something I did tell you about. I was certain Harry wouldn't ask me. Nor was I ready to ask him. He finally scraped together the nerve to ask Cho Chang, the pretty one I mentioned. Who's ironically with Ron now….”

That brought back Hermione's memory of those pictures and the aftermath. She shuddered again.

“Are you cold, dear?” Mum asked.

“Oh, no! Just, anxious, I guess,” Hermione recovered. “This next part's not very nice. Anyway, he'd been making eyes at her for … oh, too long. He was more obvious than he thought he was.” Hermione fidgeted because this part of the story was difficult. “It hurt me to see it. Anyway, Harry asked her out - and she turned him down. I just prayed after that … that he wouldn't ask me, and he didn't.”

“You didn't want him to ask you to the ball?” Mum repeated incredulously.

“Viktor had already asked me, and I'd accepted,” Hermione explained. “I was locked in … sense of obligation, I suppose. It would have ruined everything for us both if I had to turn him down - especially right after Cho's rejection. A second turn down would have crushed him. Harry's suffered so much rejection in his life. His upbringing has left him with self-esteem problems.”

Mum shook her head at that bizarre but undeniable truth.

“Anyway, instead of Harry, Ron asked me, and I had no trouble refusing him,” she continued. “He was very mean upon being turned down - and I wasn't nice to him either. Ron was being … a prick….”

“Hermione!” Mum responded to the language.

“Get over it, Mum,” Hermione reacted. “My two best friends are boys, after all.”

“It's just not very ladylike,” Mum persisted.

“I'm not much of a lady, then,” daughter resisted. “Now let me tell you why that's true.”

“Oh, go on, then,” Mum surrendered.

Hermione did. “Anyway, Ron presumed I would be a wallflower - that nobody would think of going to the ball with me. He expected me to fall all over myself when he finally asked, at the very last minute. He acted like he was doing me a favour. I'll never forget the look on his face when he finally got it through his head that I meant it when I said I already had a date. I purposely didn't tell him it was Viktor. Ron was Quidditch-crazy and fawned over Viktor like so many others. He didn't find out until the ball itself. We had a huge row after that. He was mad at me, mad at Viktor, and mad at the world. Ron implied that he'd actually wanted to invite me for some time. I screamed at him that he needed to learn how to ask, but let slip that I likely would have agreed.”

Mum knew what that meant without having to be told. “That's unfortunate,” she commented.

Hermione gave her a wry smile. “Yup, even though true. Before Viktor I was afraid I wouldn't have any date. Still, it was a very wrong thing to say. Quite wrong. I think it gave both Ron and Harry - he overheard us, almost everybody in the House did, since we were both screaming…. They both got the wrong idea. It suggested to Ron that I might like him, that way. And it drove Harry away. He later told me that he thought I fancied Ron because of what I'd said.”

“Well, back to Cho, anyway,” Hermione changed direction. “I never really believed they were right for each other - no surprise there. But Harry had to get her out of his system; that I knew. He would never look at me until he'd seen through her. That much was obvious at the end of Fourth Year, when I snuck him a kiss when nobody else was looking.”

“That was rather bold of you,” the elder Granger remarked.

“Hardly. I'd only waited three years…. Anyway, it was something of a test. I'm not the type just to pine away, even after Harry. I was feeling my oats after outsmarting that obnoxious reporter who'd written all those terrible stories I've mentioned. Harry - well, he just looked so sad, there in the station, after the Weasleys said their goodbyes. He had to go back to those awful relatives of his for the entire holiday, or so I thought. But I'm not kidding myself; I wanted to do it for me, too.”

“But, as a test, it failed,” Mum commented.

Hermione's face fell. “As a test, it failed,” she agreed. “He wasn't ready for me. I had to back off.”

“And then last year was just miserable,” Hermione continued with the story. “Harry was constantly in trouble about one thing or another. He was having terrible nightmares. That, that … bitch … Umbridge took over the school. And in the midst of it all, Harry finally got what he thought he wanted, and got together with Cho.”

“Well, you got rid of her,” Mum offered. She had remained stoically silent at her daughter's latest choice of adjectives.

“I did indeed,” Hermione confirmed. “Not one of my finer moments in some ways. But still, when Harry finally decided he'd rather be with me than her - I had a hard time believing it, I was over the moon.”

“I meant that Umbridge,” Mum responded, her eyes darkening as the name crossed her lips. “But you said you also got rid of Cho?”

“Umbridge I'm proud of, but Cho…. I said it wasn't one of my finer moments,” Hermione admitted. “It was devious, and it's probably not right to be devious about something like that.”

“All's fair in love and war,” Mum commented. “So what did you do?”

“In that case, it's more like `failure comes not from falling down, but in not getting up again,'” Hermione replied to Mum's adage with her own.

“So what did you do?” Mum asked as she leaned forward to hear the next bit.

“He kept Cho on a pedestal, and I had to knock her off. So I gambled. I more or less encouraged Harry to go out with her,” Hermione explained, “reasoning in my heart of hearts, that if they did, they probably wouldn't like each other. It was a calculated risk, but it worked. Anyway, after quite a bit of hemming and hawing - from his upbringing, Harry's always had a hard time believing that anyone could have feelings for him - they stumbled into each other's arms around Christmas. I think I was the first person he told, along with Ron, that they'd kissed.”

“But like I thought, they weren't very compatible,” she added. “For the first time in my life I actually paid attention to the gossip-mongers around Hogwarts. The word I got back was that she still wasn't over Cedric - that's a previous boyfriend of hers, who got in Voldemort's way and was murdered.”

Mum shuddered. “That's what I hate about this magical world. You toss around somebody getting murdered like it was something that happens every day.”

“Unfortunately, we have a war on,” Hermione replied tersely, her hackles being raised. She was glad she had omitted Harry's part in Cedric's death. “But actually, he was the first Hogwarts student to die like that in I don't know how long.”

Hermione doubled back from that line of inquiry. “Anyway, back to Cho. The other thing I heard was that, when Cho wasn't moping about one thing or another, she was saying catty things about me - she didn't like me being Harry's best friend. Right jealous, she was. It wasn't very hard to figure out that, eventually, she'd force Harry to drop me if he wanted a serious relationship with her.”

“That's not very nice,” Mum agreed.

“She's not that nice of a person, either,” Hermione replied, grimacing a bit. “She's got her hooks into Ron now, and even though I'm relieved he's not focussed on me anymore, I'm still somewhat concerned. If she lets him down, it won't be easy for him.”

A mischievous look appeared in Hermione's eyes as she recounted what happened next. “Anyway, she wasn't wrong, either - to worry about me, I mean. Whilst I'd never stoop so low as to make a direct move on someone else's boyfriend….” Hermione paused, remembering how close she had come to just that when Harry was with Eliza. “…I'm not above a little indirect plotting. I encouraged him to ask her to Hogsmeade on Valentine's Day, but I set up a press interview for him in the middle of that date. The reporter chose the time, but I didn't object. I'd be present to supervise the interview, of course.”

Mum gave Hermione a conspiratorial grin. “And I gather things unfolded the way you expected.”

“They certainly did.” Hermione grinned back. “They were together in a tea shop when he told her he had to leave early for the interview. He must have mentioned me being there, because she certainly did. She made him choose. When he did, she yelled at him at the top of her lungs and dumped him right then and there, in public, for all to see. I heard several versions from eyewitnesses. The one most sympathetic to Cho came from Harry himself, which tells you the kind of person he is. And I don't have to tell you I was so pleased - when forced, he chose me rather than her, even though she was snogging him, and I wasn't.”

“So then, Harry was free and so were you,” Mum observed.

“Yes, but,” Hermione said as her shoulders slumped, “we were still only best friends.”

“You know the saying, though,” Mum broke in, “the one about good friends making good lovers.” To Hermione's astonishment, Mum actually giggled a bit.

“I do, and believe me, I think so, too,” Hermione replied a bit impatiently. “The problem was going from him and me to us. It still wasn't in the cards. Umbridge was awful. The D.A. got found out - thanks to one of Cho's unreliable friends. Dumbledore got sacked. Umbridge replaced him and was looking for some way to expel Harry. She found it too. I managed to worm us out of that one, but doing that turned into the Ministry adventure where I was almost killed. And I think you know the rest.”

As she mentioned the Ministry fiasco, Hermione's hand instinctively went to where Dolohov's curse had hit her. But she drew back. That scar was gone - because the affected skin was also gone. Her latest ordeal had required complete regrowth of almost every bit of her skin.

“Well, there's one thing I don't know, and I hope you can see fit to tell me,” Mum asked. “What you just went through - the coma - did Harry cause that, too? I could never get a straight answer from anybody at your school, which was a big part of why I did what I did.”

“I'm not sure,” Hermione replied carefully, looking into her hands. “Harry was involved, yes, but we haven't discussed it much. It's so traumatic. He went missing for weeks. I found him, mentally, using some very difficult magic. Our minds were in contact when suddenly, somehow, Voldemort appeared. Harry screamed something about protecting me. Then I felt something awful, like I was in the presence of immense out-of-control power. Something struck me. Whether it came from Harry, Voldemort, both of them together, or something else, I still don't know for certain. It was incredibly hot, incredibly bright … and then I was gone. I woke up deep in the recesses of my own mind - wherever it is that my magic is seated. There I stayed until Harry came and drew me out. And that's the truth as I know it.”

Mum heaved a great sigh, feeling very stupid and very lucky at the same time. “So where does it go from here?” she asked. “Was Harry being honest the other day when he said the two of you had never had sex?”

“Mother!” Hermione replied, with her best scandalised voice. Still, the question was one she had always thought would arise at some point in this conversation.

“I'm sorry,” Mum backtracked.

“No, it was just … rather abrupt,” Hermione spoke more calmly, afraid she might have overdone things. “Like I said, I'd rather you ask me, not him, the sex questions.”

“And?”

“No, we haven't. What's going to happen? Well, I can't see myself without him, now. Why didn't I want to come back from the coma? I thought he'd died, and I didn't feel like living without him - it was slow suicide, I guess. I know I'm terribly young for this, but I'm convinced I want to be with him for the rest of my life…. That is, if he'll have me.”

“You're in love,” Dr. Granger summed things up.

“We're in love,” Hermione corrected. “We had that conversation, and that's why I'm back here.” The girl looked out the window dreamily. “I just don't know where it goes from here.”

Mother studied daughter very intently. “I suppose you want to have sex with him, then?”

This time Hermione did not even bother trying to feign embarrassment. Instead, she returned an ironic sort of smile. “What do you think?”

“Other than that you should take precautions…? Well, I only have one frame of reference,” Mum replied. “When I was with your father, with that gun incident behind us.… My God! Sometimes I wanted him so badly, that I dreamt about it. It was all I could do not to ask him.”

Hermione got squeamish. Perhaps answering her question with a question had not been a good idea. Over the years, mother and daughter had shared many things - even sex, from an academic standpoint, of course - but one thing she had always avoided discussing had been her parents' sex life.

Ugh! Too much information.

Having a choice, she'd rather talk about her own sex life, since so far that remained entirely hypothetical.

“I think that's about right,” the girl allowed. “I can't say that I haven't had my own dreams of that sort.” For a second time, steered clear of the Mirror of Erised, and also that incident with the condom. “…And the generation gap being what it is, if Harry doesn't ask me, after all that's happened, unlike you, I may well ask him.”

“Hermione!” Mum gasped, “you wouldn't be that forward, would you? I was being facetious. Well, sort of….”

“You raised it,” Hermione replied strongly. “I assumed you wanted the truth. Besides - you know Professor McGonagall, the prim one? She said after you'd left that Harry and I, what we did to rescue one another was already altogether more intimate than mere sex.”

“So it's `mere sex,' is it? Well, you will be careful, won't you?” Mum asked urgently. “We've already had that talk, so I assume you remember what to do. It's just - well, things can happen so suddenly, and it's hard to think straight sometimes. I'll tell you what my mother told me. Until you're sure, don't dare lock the door.”

Hermione once again feared learning something she'd rather not know about her parents, so she answered one of Mum's questions, and let the rest pass. “Of course, I'll be careful. We witches have plenty of options. I've already learnt several. That parental consent form you signed for Fourth Year involved that. But I will revise that material, I promise.”

“Young lady,” Mum remonstrated. “I'm not trying to encourage you.”

“I don't need encouragement, Mum,” Hermione retorted. Then she sighed, and added. “If anything, he does.”

“I'll be thankful for small favours, then,” Mum replied.

Hermione clenched her jaw, gritted her teeth, counted to ten, and then replied, “Look, there'll come a time that, yes, Harry and I will have sex - but not right away. I'm in love with him, and he's in love with me. I want that moment to be perfect, and I have to think he does too. It's not going to be some bumbling grope session in a broom closet, like some people I've known.” Hermione stopped. She was not going to bring Ron and Cho (or, if the rumours were correct, certain others she could name) into things.

“That's nice to hear,” Mum said demurely.

“But don't expect me to wait until after we're married if Harry doesn't want to,” Hermione warned. “I've already committed my heart and my soul to him - not to mention risking my life - and I expect that someday in the not too distant future, my body will follow … and his too,” she added suggestively.

“Well, I know I can't stop you,” Mum admitted, with a touch of regret. “And I can't bear losing you over him. You've always had a wonderful head on your shoulders, so I have to trust you. Anyway, what do you think I should do now?”

“There's nothing you need do,” Hermione responded, happy with their evident reconciliation, “you've already done it.”

“Sorry,” Mum said. “I meant with myself. I mean I can't stay here. I have to go somewhere, but - but my life's been turned upside down, with Edwin a fugitive. I never thought….”

Her mum started to cry. Hermione put her arms around her, trying to comfort her. Hermione remembered her conversation with Dumbledore about just this eventuality, and once again marvelled at the Headmaster's prescience.

“It's not really my place to say,” Hermione struggled, “but - for me - I think you should go on and start your new life Down Under. That's where all your things are, and it's pretty far away from … the unpleasantness here.”

“You really think so?” Mum replied. “I mean - you won't…. I won't…. I wouldn't want to miss anything.”

“Mum, it's not like Harry and I are on the verge of eloping,” Hermione reassured. “Whatever happens, believe me, you'll be the first to know.” She did not remind Mum that Harry essentially had no living relatives that he cared about.

The elder Granger sighed, a faraway look in her eye. “Well, whenever and wherever your wedding is, I want to be there.”

“You will be, Mum. I promise.”

“What do you think about…?”

The question was never asked, because at that moment, the door opened and Tonks reappeared. She bore a message from Dumbledore requesting that Hermione return to the Castle as soon as possible. Something had developed. Either Tonks did not know what it was, or she was deliberately playing ignorant in front of Hermione's mum.

“Oh, very well,” Mum said with amused exasperation. “Your remarkable life calls.” She rose and approached Hermione. “Thanks, dearest … for everything. I think I'll take your advice.” She gathered her daughter into a great hug. - something they had not done in several years - since Hermione decided she had outgrown such things and let her parents know after First Year.

As she was leaving, Hermione turned back for one last piece of information. “Mum … uh … where are my letters, anyway?”

“Why right there in the bookshelf,” she pointed at two large privately-bound tomes. “We moved them here whilst packing….”

“Thanks, Mum.”

* * * *

In the Hospital Wing, Harry's concussion-induced sojourn with his deceased loved ones' memories faded. For an indeterminate period, he floated along in black, velvety nothingness. That void began swirling with unsettling and broken fragments of dreams. First, he was at the Ministry again. Then he was back at Hogwarts; then he was outside….

Somehow Death Eaters had managed to infiltrate the Castle. A furious battle developed. The staff shooed all of the students outside, where it was safer, whilst they battled the intruders within.

But outside proved not much safer after all. The students were beset by Dementors, giants, trolls, and giant spiders. Harry rallied the D.A. into action. Hurling Patronuses right and left, the group he and Hermione had founded fought valiantly and eventually routed Voldemort's Dark allies.

The battle was over. Harry spoke with the Headmaster, speculating about how Death Eaters could have accessed the Castle. Hermione worked in tandem with Professor McGonagall supervising captured Dark creatures.

Suddenly he heard a snapping sound - then a roar. Harry whirled around in time to see the biggest of the giants break free.

“Hermione!” he yelled as he saw the giant scoop her up with one massive hand. Chaotic incantations drowned out her screams as staff and students alike fired spells at the huge creature.

Giants are extremely resistant to magic, and the assorted spells only maddened this one even more. He lumbered off, trying to escape around the side of the Castle

Harry raised his own wand. “Thixotropus,” he shouted, as he aimed not for the body but at the ground beneath the giant's feet. His spell instantly transformed solid ground into quicksand. The giant staggered and began sinking in the mess. Harry sprinted across the yard, intent upon rescuing Hermione.

He never got there. To his horror, he watched the enraged monster fling Hermione at the nearby Castle wall. Harry tried to cast a Cushioning Charm but missed by several metres.

With a sickening thud, Hermione smashed into the stone wall, tumbled to the ground and lay still.

Harry screamed her name once more, and somehow - instantaneously - was at her side.

His legs shaking uncontrollably, he knelt over her. One of Hermione's own legs was shattered, her breathing was laboured, and blood was everywhere. He hesitated even to touch her; she had so many injuries.

“Hermione? Please, can you hear me?” he choked out. He placed his hand gently on her forehead, cool and clammy to his touch.

She stirred, and her eyes fluttered part way open. “Harry, I'm sorry, I can't….” Bubbles of blood spluttered from her mouth as she struggled to speak.

He dropped all the way to his knees next to her. He cradled her head in his arms, pushing her blood-matted hair away from her face. He saw one of her arms trying to move towards him. Ever so carefully he entwined his hand in hers.

“Please, Hermione, stay with me,” he pleaded as he saw her eyes glazing over. “Dumbledore's coming. No, please, you can't…. This can't be happening”

He squeezed her hand harder, no longer caring if it was broken. Maybe his touch - maybe the pain - would somehow keep her in the world with him.

She rewarded him with the most sorrowful smile he had ever seen. Her face had farewell etched all over it. “It's cold…. It's dark…,” she murmured. “I love….” Her eyes rolled back into her head and she went limp.

Harry felt all of his confidence, his strength, and his hope ebb away. He was utterly and totally lost.

“HERMIONE … NOOOOOO!!” he screamed to the heavens above.

From behind, he felt a strong hand on his shoulder, shaking him.

“Harry, wake up,” Madam Pomfrey shouted. “You're hallucinating. Wake up! Everyone's safe.”

Harry shuddered, and instead of Hermione's lifeless eyes, he found himself staring into the very concerned visage of the Hogwarts charge nurse. Frantically, he looked around and confirmed that he was indeed in the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey regarded him peculiarly.

The first words out of his mouth were, “Hermione, where is she?”

“On an errand of some sort with Tonks,” Madam Pomfrey told him. “She stayed most of the night with you, but she's been away now for several hours.”

All of the tension left Harry's body, and he slumped back down into the bed. It was only a dream, after all.

“Better?” Madam Pomfrey asked.

“Better,” Harry responded - but not entirely truthfully. He knew one thing. If Hermione died, he expected to follow her in relatively short order. A world without Hermione did not seem to be a very attractive place.

“Here, take this Calming Draught,” the nurse told him. “It's very mild and has no synergistic effect with anything else you're taking. You had a nasty blow to the head and shoulder, but you're all healed up. When you feel ready, call me, and I'll probably let you leave.”

He did as he instructed. He heard the curtains closing about him even before the potion was done. Harry took inventory. It was midmorning. His shoulder was still sore and he was more than a little disoriented, probably from the all the potions he had to take.

He remembered soon enough why Hermione was away. She had to deal with her mum that morning. Good luck. Maybe having no mum at all - like him - was better than having a mother like hers.

Ron was off somewhere with Cho. Neville toiled away on some Herbology project in the greenhouses - or so Harry was told. Ginny was also scarce. After Madam Pomfrey's once-over, she pronounced him fit to leave, so Harry went to the library. There, he plowed through Slughorn's rather long essay on fruits as potion ingredients, finishing sections on the uses of jujube flesh, pomegranate juice, voavanga seeds and cherimoya skin.

N.E.W.T.-level courses were a lot more work - particularly when one actually wanted to learn what was being taught.

Harry thought about his D.A. accident, too. The group had attracted too many participants for the Room of Requirement to hold. Although it would further tax what little free time he had, Harry could see no other way. He would have to divide the group in two. What they were doing was unsafe. Last night was only the latest demonstration.

Finally, he went for a jog to clear his head.

Behind everything loomed the most serious immediate issue in his life. What to do about himself and Hermione? Once he made up his mind, would he be strong enough to do what he must?

Harry still brooded over this problem when Dobby popped into view.

“Harry Potter, sir,” the enthusiastic elf bubbled. “Is you being free to see Headmaster Dumbledore earlier than scheduled?”

Harry realised that, for once, he could truthfully say he was. He had not been at such loose ends since before - everything had happened.

“I guess,” Harry responded. “Although I probably should be revising. What's going on?”

“Visitors is being expected for the Headmaster later on, and he is wanting to advance your training session,” Dobby explained.

“All right,” Harry agreed.

“Oh, and the Headmaster is telling me to tell you,” Dobby said with an `I-think-the-old-man-is-mental' look on his face, “that he prefers strawberry cordial.”

* * * *

Headmaster Dumbledore sat calmly behind his desk when the massive oaken office door creaked open, revealing Harry's dishevelled black hair and piercing green eyes. Those eyes immediately fixed the Headmaster with a questioning gaze.

“Ah, Mister Potter, I have been expecting you,” Dumbledore remarked as he beckoned the boy to be seated. “I appreciate your accommodating my predicament. Unfortunately, I have some rather high-ranking visitors arriving later this evening, and I wanted at least to start the training I have promised you.”

Harry nodded instinctively and asked, “Dobby didn't tell me what to wear. I hope this is okay. If not, between the two of us we ought to be able to Transfigure something.”

“That is quite all right, Mister Potter…. May I address you as Harry for the evening?” Dumbledore continued.

“You can call me Harry any time you want, actually,” Harry replied.

“Harry, your training with me will be primarily historical in nature, not magical,” Dumbledore revealed. “My hope is to provide you with insights into the background and nature of your ultimate adversary.”

“All right,” Harry replied noncommittally. “But that means no magical training, then?”

“You may contact Professor Shacklebolt and schedule as much magical or physical training as your two schedules permit,” Dumbledore told the boy. “As for myself, I shall try to acquaint you with how Voldemort thinks and has prepared himself.”

The Headmaster brought his left hand over to his badly injured right. Wincing visibly with pain, he removed the large, dull gold ring from his finger. He laid it on his desk with an audible clack. He pushed the ring, set with a cracked black stone, towards Harry.

“This ring figures prominently in your first lesson,” Dumbledore instructed Harry. “Please examine it closely.”

Harry picked up the ring and looked it over, inside and out. “I see some sort of remnant coat of arms on the stone,” he remarked cautiously. “And it's certainly rather thoroughly scorched.”

“Quite,” answered Dumbledore with a trace of his old smile. “You know that, of late, I have frequently been absent from the school. Many of these absences involved my acquisition of this ring and a colleague's memories concerning its history. I had planned to review that history with you using a Pensieve, but with company expected, it is faster simply to tell you. This ring was once the property of Salazar Slytherin himself, and for quite a few generations resided in the possession of a branch of Slytherin descendants known as the House of Gaunt.”

Over the next half hour, Dumbledore recounted a bizarre story about a most dysfunctional family of Wizards who used to live near Little Hangleton. The head of the house - and former owner of the ring - Marvolo Gaunt, was a ne'er-do-well fallen on hard times. His son, Morfin, was mentally unbalanced and also a Parselmouth, reflecting direct Slytherin lineage. Marvolo's daughter was victimized by the angry old man's constant mental and occasional physical abuse.

That daughter, Merope, was Tom Riddle's witch mother. But her volatile father disowned her upon learning of her romantic interest in the Muggle who became Tom Riddle's father. For all their poverty, the Gaunt family were every bit as rigid pureblood chauvinists as the Blacks. Morfin hexed Merope's eventual mate - Tom Riddle, Jr., Voldemort's father - in retaliation for her evident interest in him. That conduct drew a visit from a Ministry enforcement officer, Bob Ogden, whose memory Dumbledore had accessed to learn the tale.

That magical assault on a Muggle - and subsequent resistance to arrest - earned Morfin Gaunt three years in Azkaban. Marvolo Gaunt received six months. Whilst they were in prison, Merope used some sort of magic, probably a Love Potion, to influence the Muggle man, and the pair eloped. Given the Riddle family's prominence, that caused a great scandal within the Muggle community. Of course, it also permanently estranged Merope from her wizard family.

From their brief union was born the man who now called himself Lord Voldemort.

“And the ring … how did you get it?” Harry asked.

“I discovered it near the ruins of the abandoned Gaunt family home,” Dumbledore revealed. “Very powerful wards protected it, and it bore a very evil enchantment, called a Horcrux, added by Voldemort. I defeated the wards, and the enchantment has been destroyed.”

“How did you destroy Voldemort's magic?” Harry asked.

“Beyond nullifying his wards, I did not do it,” Dumbledore answered enigmatically, “not the magical aspect, anyway.”

“Who did, then?” Harry asked.

“You did,” Dumbledore declared starkly.

This news shocked Harry. “I-I-I couldn't have,” he protested. “I've never seen it before, and I was probably in Death Eater hands at the time.”

“You did…. And you were,” Dumbledore added even more mysteriously.

“Er … you had best explain this further,” Harry responded. “I'm afraid you've lost me.”

Dumbledore did. “I only recently acquired the ring. Its evil enchantment I could sense, but I could only guess at its nature and its provenance. I did not know how to destroy it, but when your magical outburst….”

Harry struggled with his next question. “You mean the one in the valley? The one that - that hurt…?”

Dumbledore's quick answer spared his interlocutor the pain of fully framing the question. “Yes, that one. You see, the magical energy you generated, even at a hundred kilometres' distance, almost overwhelmed Hogwarts' wards. They went into an emergency configuration that repulsed the evil attributes of the magical shock wave whilst channelling its more benign aspects to ground. Even then, some of the Castle's crystals failed under the strain. A fire started, and I had to replace a crystal immediately. In so doing, I converted necessity into a virtue. I exposed the ring to the intensity of what I believed was your good - your white - magic. That produced a secondary explosion and the evil enchantment, the Horcrux within the ring, was destroyed. Unfortunately, some portion of it entered my hand, and the resultant wound is evidently incurable.”

“I'm sorry,” Harry muttered upon learning of the Headmaster's injury - something else added to the baggage of guilt Harry carried. “You didn't have to do that on my behalf.”

“I did not presume to act on your behalf,” Dumbledore answered with a serious mien. “I acted it, first, to ensure the continued safety of the Castle and, second, to destroy the Horcrux. In both endeavors, I was successful. This…” he raised his injured hand “…is merely collateral damage.”

“What's a Horcrux?” Harry asked, intrigued.

“A lesson for another day,” the Headmaster intoned. “And I assure you that day will come. I must perform additional research on that point, and it would be counterproductive to provide you with information that may well be so incomplete as to be false. For the moment, suffice it to say that a Horcrux is every bit as evil as you would expect from Voldemort.”

Harry fidgeted uncertainly in his chair. “Er … are we done, then? I know you're expecting visitors….”

“No, Harry, we are hardly finished,” the Headmaster corrected. His eyes sparkled mischievously. “I rather think that we are just getting started.”

Harry stared at the Headmaster with equal parts of annoyance and intrigue. Dumbledore's habit of keeping secrets was irritating, even when only for a little while. “Then perhaps you should tell me this evening's schedule,” he answered evenly, but with an unmistakable edge to his voice.

“Very well,” Dumbledore replied. “The first order of business remains from your recent return. I am referring, of course, to the disposition of one Rita Skeeter.”

Harry's nose involuntarily crinkled in disgust, as if catching a whiff of a noxious odour rising from a sewer.

“….I believe, if we hurry, we have time enough to dispose of her before our visitors arrive. I expect them around seven. After that….”

“What do you mean, `our visitors'?” Harry interrupted suspiciously. “I thought they were your visitors.”

“They are coming to my office, that is true,” Dumbledore continued. “But their interest is much more in you than me.”

“Tell them to sod off, then,” Harry responded hotly, immediately concluding that Dumbledore was planning to ambush him with more Ministry types. He really had no interest in the Ministry right now. His agenda had more important things - more important even than Sirius' memorial - things that demanded what could well be very a painful resolution.

Dumbledore looked at Harry carefully before responding. Plainly, the boy was on edge. “If you want it that way,” he answered carefully, “then you must tell them yourself. They answer to you, not me.”

Harry's attention snapped back. After a moment he asked, “Goblins?”

“Five points to Gryffindor,” Dumbledore responded. Harry cared not a whit for the House Points.

“Why?”

“I am not entirely - or even remotely - certain,” the Headmaster confessed. “They asked for a meeting this morning, telling me only that it involved `spoils of war.'”

Harry sighed in resignation. “Have there been more attacks?”

“No further Death Eater activity that we know of,” Dumbledore answered quickly. “I think they have something for you, probably to do with Voldemort, since they have set about dismantling what was left of his castle stone by stone. Beyond that, as a final order of business, I hope you might enlighten me concerning your personal situation, as arrangements need….”

Dumbledore paused as Harry flared. “That is none of your business!” the boy snapped. “There's nothing to tell because I don't bloody know!”

The Headmaster's exquisitely developed senses could feel magic emanating from the boy as his Occlumency shields snapped into place. This was not good, but he could feign misunderstanding - which he did.

“Harry, I apologise for not being clear,” Dumbledore responded. “I meant to refer to the handling of Black Estate matters. I have tried not to burden you with this due to everything else that has transpired. But some decisions must be made.”

“Oh,” Harry replied, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. To him, his `personal situation' meant only one thing - one person - the alpha and omega of his life. He was teetering on a knife-edged precipice, not knowing which way he would fall. Either way, it would be a very long descent.

The Headmaster waited patiently for Harry to continue.

“There's … there's nothing to … discuss at the moment,” Harry stammered. Whilst undoubtedly important, he frankly did not want the bother just now. “Let me talk to Howe and … er … some others. I'll get back to you.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore replied, scrutinising the boy closely but avoiding Legilimency. “But I reiterate; decisions do have to be made.”

“I know,” Harry said, sounding sad.

“A more interesting subject then,” the Headmaster changed the subject. “Rita Skeeter. What is to be done with her?”

Harry was surprised at his views being sought. When the rogue reporter was captured, Dumbledore seemed quite determined to deal with her himself. Harry vividly remembered how abruptly the Headmaster cut Hermione off when she had some bright idea.

“That ruddy woman belongs in Azkaban with Umbridge,” Harry spat. “I thought you were going to lock her up as some sort of repeat trespasser.”

Dumbledore stared at Harry down his half-moon glasses, his expression unreadable. He seemed to be calculating where to go next. After the brief hesitation he exhaled. Was there any reason not to tell him this?

“Madam Umbridge is no longer in Azkaban,” the Headmaster informed Harry.

“What?” came his predictably startled reaction. “How did she escape? Did she turn into a blasted toad and hop into a storm drain?”

Dumbledore quickly disabused Harry of such notions. “I am afraid she is for all intents and purposes deceased. An incident, adjunct to the attacks mentioned in the Prophet, happened last night. One the Ministry is for the moment keeping under wraps.”

“What? Why?” Harry struggled to process the information.

“She received an unauthorised Dementor's Kiss whilst the other attacks were occurred,” Dumbledore explained. “Some of the circumstances suggest Voldemort eliminated a possible witness. Others point to revenge from beyond the grave. It is being hushed up whilst the Aurors and the goblins attempt to sort things out.”

“What's there to sort out?” Harry asked.

“I would rather not say,” Dumbledore put him off. “It does not concern you, and appears to be personal to the deceased.”

“Oh, all right,” Harry conceded reluctantly. “I could say that puts paid to her, but even she doesn't deserve that. It's too horrible.”

“Back to Ms. Skeeter, then. I certainly could land her in Azkaban if you wish,” Dumbledore responded more forthrightly. “Her recent behaviour warrants sufficient criminal charges to keep imprisoned for quite a number of years. But she has proved - useful - to you in the past. As you are more wronged in this than I, I wished to solicit your opinions.”

“I don't know what I want,” Harry admitted.

“Well, Miss Granger seemed to have some idea,” Dumbledore prompted.

“Then why did you shut her up like that?” Harry answered peevishly. “You said you'd handle it, and wouldn't even let her talk.”

“Ah, yes, that,” the Headmaster recalled. “The time was not right to commence negotiations. It was too soon. Ms. Skeeter needed to cool her heels in one of our dungeons for a time whilst contemplating the more unpleasant possibilities of her situation. My judgment was, and is, that she would be more - how should I say it - malleable, after a spell of confinement. She knows that our accommodations, limited as they are, are far more pleasant than what she would find in Azkaban.”

“So that was for show?” Harry asked.

“Yes, for Ms. Skeeter's benefit,” Dumbledore confirmed. “Her having had time to stew, you should find her rather more amenable to Miss Granger's proposal.”

“Except I don't know what that was. And I don't trust Skeeter,” Harry declared. His eyes narrowed as he remembered all the grief that woman had caused.

“Trust can be enforced,” Dumbledore observed.

“How?” Harry asked, going for the obvious penny in the slot.

“A charm exists - rather more of a curse, actually - called the `Unbreakable Vow.' Once administered to the oath taker, to violate the vow causes death,” Dumbledore revealed. “Such magic seems rather extreme, I know, but has its uses.”

“It doesn't sound extreme, it sounds evil,” Harry corrected.

“Death Eaters do employ the Unbreakable Vow, yes,” Dumbledore agreed, “but it is simply powerful magic. I have used it myself on occasion….”

“Albus Dumbledore!” shouted the summons from the Headmaster's fireplace. Harry recognised Professor McGonagall's voice.

“Yes, Minerva,” Dumbledore reacted and rose to face the fire. “Have my guests arrived?”

“They have,” she answered. “And bearing gifts, it appears.”

“Very well, send them up.”

A short time later Harry heard footsteps on the landing. The door opened by itself and several goblins entered. Four of them, acting as porters, carried a large, carefully wrapped package. Without saying a word, they set it down and left. The remaining three, much more nicely attired, spoke in unison, “Impratraxis Potter,” and prostrated themselves.

Their show of abject submission disturbed Harry, and it showed plainly in his face.

“Er … please get up,” he mumbled. They did not move. Harry, not knowing what to do, looked pleadingly at Dumbledore.

“Goblins do not respond to `please,' Harry,” the Headmaster explained. “To them it is as if you are giving them a choice. You are royalty to them. Command them instead.”

“Get up,” Harry repeated. “Anyor!” The goblins immediately took to their feet.

“I know General Barduk,” Dumbledore observed. “I met him on occasion of your rescue, Harry. I have yet to make the acquaintance of his colleagues.”

“Kamarak, I am,” the goblin in civilian attire introduced himself, “the Nation's Chief Investigator of Suspicious Magic - Wizard and Dementor Division.”

“Slamdor, I am,” the other goblin in military uniform followed. “Commander, I am of the guard for the Impratraxis in Forbidden Forest deployed.”

“You have something for Mister Potter, I understand,” Dumbledore addressed them all.

“Correct,” General Barduk took over. “First Colonel Slamdor. Activate Communication Sylimps we wish. Then summon Impratraxis may the guard.”

The goblin called Slamdor took over, requesting to see Harry's manmak, his goblin signet ring. Fortunately, Harry had taken to wearing it after it proved so useful in rescuing Hermione. Slamdor and Harry touched signets whilst Slamdor incanted something in Gobbledegook. The rings glowed, and once the spell was verified as complete and functional, Slamdor respectfully withdrew.

Once the Headmaster's office door clicked shut again, General Barduk explained what goblins had brought for Harry.

“The Dark wizards in battle Impratraxis Potter defeated. Only after victory had been won, by means too terrible for us to comprehend, we arrived. Spoils of war to the victor belong. This we found, in the rubble of the Dark castle….”

Harry had a sly smile on his face. “Before we get to that, may I ask the two of you a question?”

The goblins bowed to him. “To obey you, we are bound, Impratraxis,” General Barduk replied.

“Tell me what really happened to Dolores Umbridge in Azkaban,” Harry directed, as Dumbledore's eyes went big.

Harry had learnt an important lesson - that for some things he had an alternative source for information than the all-too-slippery Headmaster.

Kamarak answered, as that issue fell squarely within his jurisdiction. “On best information, Dementor who Azkaban infiltrated performed on that prisoner, unauthorised Kiss. With recent attacks timing corresponded. Dementor either followed orders to eliminate witness to your kidnapping, sought personal revenge, or both….”

Harry's eyes narrowed. “Why do you believe Umbridge was involved in my kidnapping?” he asked.

“At Azkaban nothing Muggle should be,” Kamarak responded. “In woman's cell after Kiss badly damaged insignia we found- a set of pilot wings - Muggle. Restorative charms allowed us name to read. Name on wings, Mayfair, name of pilot of aeroplane that crashed matches. Believe that incident, number and circumstances of deaths, sufficient to create new Dementor.”

Harry's eyes then bore into Dumbledore's ashen face. “Did you know this?” he demanded.

“I did not,” the Headmaster answered. “I knew only that something suspicious had been unearthed, which demanded an immediate investigation. I assumed it had solely to do with Madam Umbridge being kissed, but that appears mistaken.”

Looking around, Harry saw that not only Dumbledore but the goblins as well were looking extremely uncomfortable. He let out a sigh.

“Why would Umbridge have anything to do with this Mayfair?” Harry asked bluntly.

“Absolutely no idea,” Kamarak replied. “Umbridge only could answer, and gone she is.”

“I guess that's as far as that can go,” Harry said with a voice calmer than he felt. “What's in the package?”

General Barduk produced a distinctly curved dirk from within his robes and passed his hands over it. It glowed deep red. He inserted the knife into the wrapping, wiggled it and then slashed strongly downward.

The gash in the packaging produced a hissing sound. The wrapping surrounding the object sizzled and bubbled where it had been cut. It rapidly began melting away into nothingness. Less than a minute later, the wrapping vanished, Harry found himself gazing upon a shiny, round, jet-black object attached to a roughhewn block of stone. The stone appeared recently chiselled from a larger chunk of rock.

It was obviously a Pensieve. Cloudy white thoughts still swirled within.

Dumbledore immediately stepped forward to examine the object further. The two goblins stepped in front of him to obstruct his passage.

“No,” Harry commanded. “Let him through.”

The goblins stepped aside.

“This appears to be Voldemort's personal Pensieve,” Dumbledore pronounced after briefly examining the object.

“Agreed,” Kamarak interrupted. “Protected by many Dark enchantments it was. Simple enough to detect, but difficult and time-consuming was their removal.”

“Do I understand you to mean that these Dark spells are no more?”

“Correct,” confirmed Kamarak. “No more they are.”

“Thank you,” Dumbledore intoned, and resumed his examination of the unusual object. “This Pensieve is fashioned from a single piece of flawless onyx. The white inlay is probably alabaster, as ivory could not have survived the temperatures Harry produced. Eight, equidistant skull renderings appear at the major compass positions. The green band is malachite. Looking closely, it is an ouroboros - a snake in the position of consuming its own tail. I know of none besides Voldemort who would currently favour such a design.”

Dumbledore passed his hands over the Pensieve. Nothing happened. He produced his wand and muttered an incantation. Again nothing seemed to happen. Then Harry saw a green glow at the feet of the Pensieve, where they touched the stone beneath. The glow gradually turned yellowish until it faded from view.

“Definitely a Sticking Charm with power worthy of Voldemort,” Dumbledore declared. “Even after all this time, it defeated my initial wandless attempt to remove it.”

The goblins, also unable to defeat the spell, had simply hacked the underlying stone loose from the remnants of Killiechonate Castle. They were curious and approached the Pensieve. It now lifted easily from the rock.

“Where should we place it, Harry?” Dumbledore asked. “This is certainly unexpected, and potentially quite valuable to the training I am providing you. I could never have obtained a memory personally selected by Voldemort himself.”

“Er … is your desk all right?” Harry asked uncertainly.

“Certainly,” Dumbledore agreed, his eyes twinkling noticeably. With a wave of his hand he Banished the clutter on his desk to various intended locations.

The goblins placed the evil-looking Pensieve on the center of the Headmaster's desk.

“You actually want to explore this thing - not knowing what's in it?” Harry sceptically inquired.

“Absolutely. Memories by themselves can cause no harm. Only our reactions to those memories make them dangerous. With your permission, I would like to reconnoiter. If I judge it sufficiently safe - meaning it does not concern something overly disturbing - I shall invite you to join me for a stroll down Tom Riddle's Memory Lane.”

Harry felt cold. He had been privy to enough of Voldemort's thoughts through the years not to find the prospect very inviting. But then, he was a Gryffindor.

“Do you think it'll help me resist him?” he asked the Headmaster.

“That is the only reason I would ask you to do such a thing,” Dumbledore replied, with a slight smile. “I have been scouring our world for useful insights into Voldemort's history - and now, remarkably, such an insight probably has been deposited into our proverbial laps. If you will allow me?”

Harry told the goblins not to intervene, and Dumbledore was soon motionless with his head in the Pensieve. What seemed like a very long time passed, and Harry's concern started rising. Soon enough, however, the Headmaster's body jerked, and he lifted his head from the swirling memories.

“Yes, Harry, I think you definitely should see this. Its value probably exceeds the combined fruits of all my efforts,” Dumbledore immediately declared. He added, “and, no, it is neither violent nor intense. I should not cause you any problems with … umm … a reaction. Are you game?”

“Er … yes, I guess so,” Harry tepidly replied. He had no reaction - that he knew of - to his latest nightmare, but was leery of pressing his luck. “Still I'd like to have someone here when we're in - just in case. Someone who could … you know … pull me out if I start to … er … react.”

Dumbledore immediately appreciated Harry's fear. Whilst the Headmaster considered the event unlikely, the precaution was certainly worthwhile. “An excellent idea. Whom do you want?” he inquired.

“Ron and Hermione,” Harry stated without much hesitation. Hermione was away, but Harry would wait. She was at her best in situations like this, and…. Shifting to Ron, Harry wanted to reconnect with Ron. He was frankly nervous about his friend spending so much time with Cho. The Ravenclaw girl was not what she seemed, and that bothered Harry a great deal.

“That will take some time. Why don't you return here after dinner?” Dumbledore agreed.

* * * *

When Harry returned, both Ron and Hermione had already arrived. The two of them had been speculating about the summons. Hermione immediately moved to Harry and took his hand. Harry seemed nervous, but kissed her chastely on the cheek. Giving him a half-smile, Hermione squeezed his hand.

Ron asked the obvious question whilst the other two danced around one another. “What's such a big deal that we both got called to Dumbledore's office? And who were those goblins?”

The Headmaster answered as he returned the black object to his desk. “This is Voldemort's Pensieve. The goblins brought it to Harry today, as the fruits of his defeat of the Death Eaters. They have left because their presence was no longer needed.”

“You - you beat the Death Eaters?” Ron said breathlessly. “Positively wicked.”

“Not exactly, because that's when Hermione got hurt,” Harry explained. “The same explosion also killed a bunch of them. I didn't think of it as a victory, but the goblins do. They found this in the rubble. There's a memory in it, and Dumbledore wants to show it to me.”

“Harry, I'm not sure that's safe,” Hermione fretted.

“I assure you Miss Granger, it will be perfectly safe,” Dumbledore said in a soothing voice.

“Then why can't we all go?” Ron protested.

“Because I want you two to stay behind and make sure,” Harry answered. “If I start to … er … spark or glow or anything like that, I need the two of you here to pull me out. I wanted you guys because - well, you're my best friends, you know what to look for, and I want you to know whatever I find out.”

Hermione gladly - and Ron grudgingly - agreed.

Ideally, Dumbledore would have kept this sort information from anyone else, but he knew that would be impossible. Harry's best friends would inevitably learn about this latest discovery, so he made the best of it.

“Shall we commence?” The Headmaster beckoned Harry. “We shall enter together.”

When they came to rest in the memory, the scene was a small Hogwarts classroom - the type used for N.E.W.T.-level seminars of ten or fewer students. Outside the window, snow blanketed the landscape. A feeble winter sun provided adequate light, but no heat. Harsh wind rattled the lead-lined windows and produced a faint roar in the unlit fireplace.

The memory preceded the elves' installation of central heating in the Castle.

Even though he had some idea what was coming, Harry shuddered. The only person present, seated on a bench at one end of the seminar table, was someone he had seen before - Tom Riddle as a student. Slightly older in this vision, the handsome, dark-haired Riddle wore standard black Hogwarts robes with a Slytherin patch. Just visible at his throat were the starched white collar and dark green and silver striped necktie typical of that period. The Head Boy's badge was pinned to his chest. He was clearly waiting for someone, or something.

Uncharacteristically nervous, Riddle's dark green, almost black, eyes darted about the room.

The wind seemed to die down. The rattling ceased, and then the roar. The silence became intense, only to be broken by a click and a creak. The door opened of its own volition to admit a willowy witch with hair and eyes even darker than Riddle's. Entering like a wraith, she glided into the room without a sound. She, too, dressed in Hogwarts black robes, but hers seemed … different, as if the fabric were almost alive. Harry soon realised why. Whilst most of her robes were normal enough, they ended, not in a hem, but with numerous tendrils that billowed and trailed behind her.

Whoever this girl was, she was a Hufflepuff. Accompanying her house's patch, a severe black necktie with yellow pinstripes hung about her neck. It disappeared within a somewhat low-cut waistcoat she wore over her Hogwarts-issue white blouse. Her face was somewhat thin, with high, well-formed cheekbones, a prominent nose, and a rather small mouth accentuated by full lips.

She wore a great deal of makeup, which Harry supposed was typical of the time. The skin of her hands was several shades darker than her face. In one of those hands, she carried an octagonal wooden box, elaborately carved and bound in black leather.

Riddle rose reflexively as she entered. “Abigail, thank you for coming. I am honoured you have. I was hoping you would. But I can never be sure.”

The girl cracked an ever so slight smile before answering. “I am never quite sure myself. With you, I have to listen to the voices before knowing what I should do. Sometimes I think I ignore my own wishes.”

“I have something for you,” Tom replied, producing a glittering golden object from his pocket. “I came across this over the summer. I believe it is an original.” He placed on the table a goblet of sorts, inlayed with various jewels. Harry leaned in for a better look. The highly stylised form of two badgers extended in bas-relief about the waist of the vessel. Depending upon one's perspective, the images might have been fighting - or coupling.

Abigail's smile became slightly forced as she responded, “Why thank you, Tom. It's indeed very - original. Perhaps we should get started, shall we?” She swept the object from the table and deposited it in a pocket of her own, now stilled, robes.

“Yes, we should,” the boy who would become Lord Voldemort agreed. He gazed at her intently whilst she opened the box and withdrew a deck of cards from its black velour lined interior. She avoided his eyes.

Harry understood Riddle's behavior, since he had done the same himself - a lot - when believing Hermione was not watching him. Unlike Riddle, though, Harry had never been bold enough to look at Hermione that way when she might see him.

The young lady began - businesslike. “I, of course, use a Kabbalah deck. There are many forms of readings. I prefer the so-called `straight reading' of seven cards,” she said, “plus a significator. It is simple, sequential, and thus a very powerful predictor.”

“I am told the magic of that form of reading is extremely difficult to control,” Riddle commented.

“You have been told correctly,” the girl replied. “I myself have only been accepted as a Kabbalah practitioner for less than a year. I passed my test on my seventeenth birthday.”

“I accept your ability,” Riddle replied. “Indeed, I stand in awe of it.”

The girl's blush was visible even through her makeup. “That is high praise from the Head Boy. Now, there are a total of seventy-eight cards in this deck. The odds of any card being drawn in any sequence are less than ten percent. The odds of a particular sequence being drawn at random are astronomical.”

“I understand,” Riddle said, his intense eyes practically boring into her. “You are the best, so it is said. I have faith in you.”

She blushed again. “Now … place your hands, palms up on the table,” she instructed.

Tom Riddle did as directed. The girl placed her hands on his, palm facing palm. When Riddle tried to close his fingers around her hands, she abruptly pulled her hands back.

“No, Tom,” she chided. “Flat hands only. It is the way of the Tarot.”

Riddle laid his hands flat again. She placed hers upon his and there they rested - whilst the Tarot deck shuffled itself on the table, guided only by the girl's wandless magic. When the deck stopped moving, signifying that it was ready, she withdrew her hands.

“The cards have told me that all is in readiness,” she said. Her voice had dropped, becoming flat and unaffected, like she was in a trance. “First, the significator. This card best describes you at this moment in your life.”

She drew the top card on the deck. “The Nine of Wands,” she said. “This is the maze, indicating complexity, confusion, uncertainty. It also requires this reading to be studied closely. It could have a number of possible meanings.”

Whilst she spoke, the deck again reshuffled itself. When it stopped, she drew another card. “The first card in the reading is the Two of Pentacles - the stranger. This card signifies an outsider, a foreigner, someone who is not of, or who is alien to the society.”

All the while, the deck reshuffled. She drew another card, the second of the reading itself. “The Four of Pentacles - the exile. This card signifies forced separation from family and society, both physical and mental. It could be an orphan, or someone who was expelled.”

The deck was ready; she drew the third card. “The … the Ten of Cups. This card signifies the start of a family, the act of conception, the raising of a child … or of many children.”

She did not say as much about this card as those previous. Instead, she watched the deck. Her hand hesitated just a bit in reaching for the next card. When she drew it, she did not speak for a moment, as if holding her breath.

“…The Dark, or Lightning Struck Tower…. This … this is major arcana. It signifies a crisis. It could be personal or societal. The tower's destruction signifies the throwing down of one's great works, possibly one's life work, or viewed more broadly, a threat to the existence of a society or of a people.”

Her hand trembling visibly, Abigail Rosen reached for the fifth card. “The … the King … of Swords. This card signifies, most notably, mortal peril. It is considered but one card shy of death itself. Something, or someone, hangs in the balance….”

Tom Riddle no longer looked at the girl, but stared instead at the partial reading that lay on the table. That was a good thing too, because Harry could see fear plainly present on this witch's face. She had to will herself to continue when the deck finished reshuffling. But continue she did.

“Oh my…,” whatever the girl named Abigail feared finally made its way into her previously professionally calm voice. “The sixth card is the Wheel of Fortune…. More major arcana…. This card represents the chances of success or failure … the card that follows will provide the greatest likelihood of success in an endeavor, a likely … solution….”

The deck stopped shuffling for the final time. The girl wore a pained expression on her face. Abigail was no longer the confident, accomplished seer. The look in her eyes was frightened, verging on terrified, as she reluctantly reached for the seventh and final card. She saw it and dropped the card as if it were on fire.

“I … I must go,” she blurted. “I'm sorry, but I cannot continue.” Gathering her flowing robes, she practically ran out of the room, leaving her entire Tarot deck (which looked quite valuable) on the table.

Tom Riddle, who remained seated, calmly observed her departure. Only when she slammed the door behind her did he turn over the card, which had fallen face down across the first two cards of the substantive reading.

It was Death.

Carefully Tom Riddle gathered up, in order, the cards that comprised the reading. The scene began blurring and went blank before he finished. Harry felt his feet return to a solid surface as both he and the Headmaster withdrew from Voldemort's Pensieve.

Harry's face betrayed confusion.

The Headmaster looked thoughtful, worried, and saddened all at the same time.

Ron and Hermione held Harry firmly as he returned from the black Pensieve in which roiled the cloudy memory belonging to Lord Voldemort. Hermione immediately took Harry's hand. “Here, Harry, sit down - please. Are you all right?” She led him to a nearby chair, sat him down, and stood behind him, nervously stroking Harry's hair. She looked at the Dumbledore, who had also taken a seat.

“You look like you've seen a ghost, Headmaster,” she commented, sounding every bit as worried as before. “Did Voldemort kill someone?”

“Harry, you came through okay,” Ron added. “No sparks, glow or anything. Good show.” He gave his friend a pat on the back.

“Only in a manner of speaking, Miss Granger” the Headmaster replied as Ron finished. “That explains quite a bit. Quite a bit….”

“You Know Who was trying to recruit ghosts?” Ron asked.

“That's `Voldemort,' Ron,” Hermione hissed.

“Not at all,” Dumbledore remarked before lapsing into silence, plainly thinking hard. His good hand absently stroked his beard.

The three Sixth Years waited respectfully for their Headmaster to continue. When he remained silent, following a long pause, Harry asked, “Er … what does it explain? Who was the girl seer?”

Dumbledore sighed and began slowly, “The girl was Abigail Rosen. Very gifted in Divination, she was…. The Tarot deck you saw, Harry, that was genuine Kabbalah.”

Harry heard an audible gasp from Hermione. Ron just stared.

“She was initiated into the mysterious - and powerful - female Kabbalah Yareach Sisterhood on the first day she was of age, which I suspect was practically unheard of.”

“That's - they're the Sisters of the Moon,” Ron said very softly. “Bloody powerful witches, those are….”

“Indeed they are,” Dumbledore confirmed. “She was fully qualified at seventeen to issue prophecy. Miss Rosen also could have been Head Girl, but declined.”

“You said it explained some things,” Harry reminded the Headmaster. “What does it explain, other than she left that room plainly terrified of Riddle?”

“The Tarot reading - those eight cards - do you remember them, Mister Potter?” Dumbledore asked.

“Yeah, I think so,” Harry answered.

“Please enlighten Mister Weasley and Miss Granger as to their order, then,” Dumbledore prompted.

“Er … Okay,” Harry responded to Dumbledore's rather unusual request. “The first one, which she called the significant….”

“Significator,” corrected Hermione. Whilst she had a generally low opinion of Divination, she considered Tarot, being grounded in Arithmancy, rather more reliable than the rest.

“… significator was the Nine of Wands,” Harry continued. “Then she drew seven cards: the Two of Pentacles, the Four of Pentacles, the Ten of Cups, the … next I think was the Tower struck by lightning, then the King of Swords, the Wheel of Fortune, and finally - Death.”

As he named the final two cards, Harry felt Hermione's grip on his hand tighten. She spoke as he turned to look at her, “Oh Merlin help me. That's…. That's the Grindelwald Reading - save the first card.”

“That deserves twenty points to Gryffindor,” Dumbledore pronounced. “It is indeed, except for the Nine of Wands - the maze - substituted for….”

“The Emperor,” Hermione finished, as Dumbledore paused to allow her.

“You truly deserved your `Outstanding' in History of Magic,” the Headmaster declared.

“And I truly deserved my `Dreadful,'” Harry interjected whilst Ron nodded his agreement in the background. “Now will someone please enlighten me about this Grindelwald Reading?”

“That started the Muggle second world war,” Ron observed.

“Quite right, Mister Weasley, take five points yourself,” Dumbledore said brightly. Then his tone went abruptly serious. “Herr Grindelwald, among his other qualities, was an accomplished Tarot reader,” he explained. “In June of 1936 he performed such a reading for Adolf Hitler at the Villa Marlier outside Berlin. The eight cards that he drew, in sequence, are known as the Grindelwald reading. Most in the magical community believe that Hitler's resultant fear that German society would be overwhelmed by a combination of Jews and non-Germanic outsiders - chiefly Communists - was the motive force that produced the Nazi genocide against the Jews, and the aggression against Russia.”

“And she knew that when she drew that last card,” Harry added.

“Yes, of that I am sure,” Dumbledore confirmed.

“But how would she know?” Hermione asked. “The war wasn't over yet, and Hitler certainly wasn't telling.”

“Perceptive as always,” Dumbledore commented warmly, before his voice again turned grave. “Grindelwald, like Voldemort, was not one to conceal his own self-perceived brilliance. He boasted to quite a number of wizards about the reading, and from that word spread. Jewish wizardry, the Kabballists in particular, took this quite seriously. Given Miss Rosen's rising reputation amongst those practitioners, her not knowing would be implausible. But there's more.”

“Isn't that quite enough?” Hermione protested. “What could anyone possibly add to six million dead Jews and twenty million dead Russians?”

“Miss Abigail Rosen herself - and her family,” Dumbledore replied. “You see, I was at Hogwarts at the time. It is my belief that Miss Rosen was the only person for whom Mister Riddle truly harboured romantic feelings. I knew that they had danced around each other for over a year, and then had a falling out. Now I know why.”

“She was Jewish, and she associated Riddle with Hitler,” Hermione observed sadly.

“Definitely a turn-off - romantically speaking…,” Ron commented.

“Another five points, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore cut across Ron. “Undoubtedly, she refused to have anything to do with him after that. In February 1945, or thereabouts, I noticed the profound change for the worse in their relationship. I never saw them together again after that. And that reading is most certainly the reason. I shall investigate this further, including the goblet….”

“What goblet?” Hermione asked intently. This was something new.

“Before the reading commenced, Riddle made of gift of something to Miss Rosen,” Dumbledore answered quickly. “It bears looking into.”

“You mentioned her family,” Ron added. “You Know … er … V-V-Voldemort killed them all, right?”

Dumbledore sighed. “Regrettably, that is correct.”

“What does it all mean?” Harry asked.

“Many things, perhaps,” Dumbledore told everyone. “It is as Miss Rosen stated upon turning over the first card, the maze. Even more than most readings, this one was capable of multiple interpretations. I believe that Riddle has interpreted it rather like Hitler - that Muggles and those of mixed parentage will eventually destroy the magical pure-blood society with which he identifies. He has reacted in much the same way, with his Death Eaters and their terror tactics against those Voldemort despises.”

“But he's not exactly pure-blooded himself,” Ron observed.

“He's essentially a convert, Ron,” Hermione replied. “Converts can be the most fanatical of all.”

“I believe that is correct, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore agreed. “Hitler, after all, was hardly an archetype of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed super race that he espoused.”

“It's not like Hogwarts was immune, either,” Hermione continued. “Back then Hufflepuff was the only Hogwarts House that admitted Jews. Even Gryffindor discriminated.”

Harry looked at Hermione - and then Dumbledore - in dismay, “Is that true? Why would Hogwarts do that? Even Voldemort didn't seem that prejudiced.”

“Unfortunately that was the way the world was,” Dumbledore said with a frown. “My generation, I am afraid, grew up immersed in all that. After the war, Headmaster Dippet declared an end to official anti-Semitism at Hogwarts, a rare courageous decision on his part. I believe Miss Rosen's fate had something to do with that. He would have made her the first Jewish Head Girl, after all. Through your struggle with the origins of your inheritance, Harry, you have had to face slavery, probably the greatest sin of the New World. I can only hope that you never have a similar confrontation with what may well be the greatest sin of the Old.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Tonks is taking on her HBP appearance. This ties into things that were said in Ch. 44

I am indebted to (and inspired by) IronChef's “Their Way,” chapter 14, for some of the subject matter covered in Hermione's conversation with Mum. That's another great fic and I highly recommend it

Hero worship has always been more of a “Ginny thing,” but since between canon and this fic, Harry's saved Hermione's life at least four times that I can think of (compared to Ginny once), I have to think that at least some undercurrent affects Hermione as well

Bullying 101 - overt parental intervention only makes it worse

Getting late early is a Yogi Berraism

An explanation (I don't know how good) for Mr. Granger was able to amass a gun collection in the UK. In the US, regrettably, he would have had no problems to speak of

“Don't want to work that hard,” from Just The Way You Are, by Billy Joel and Barry White

Ron and Hermione were together at Grimmauld for quite a while before OOP started. There was no suggestion in canon of sparks between them when Harry got there. To me that means Hermione must have turned off Ron's attraction from GOF

“More equal than,” a concept from Orwell's “Animal Farm”

“Z,” for “Zero Sugar Added,” would be the kind of drink a dentist would favor

H.G. Wells wrote a famous novel “The Time Machine”

The note to Viktor comes back to haunt Hermione later on

Don't know the specific origin of “all's fair in love and war.” At one point, that was going to be the title of my entire fic, before I thought of the Fifth Element

The failure adage is also of uncertain origin

“Best friends … best lovers,” another phrase of unknown origin

“Don't lock the door” will return later, at an appropriate time

Quicksand is a thixotropic substance, hence the spell

All the exotic fruits are real

While Harry first learns of Horcruxes, by the end of the chapter there will be more to consider

As mentioned previously, Dumbledore used the Unbreakable Vow on Snape

As previously hinted at, Umbridge was the Contact, and now the only surviving plotter is Draco Malfoy

Onyx (black), alabaster (white), and malachite (green) are notably colored semi-precious stones

Britain was notoriously slow in adopting central heating

Abigail's entrance is scripted from the Fleetwood Mac song “Sister of the Moon”

Riddle's gift becomes important

There is some speculation that Tarot originated from Kabbalah. All of the Tarot cards and much of the significance are real, although I have taken some liberties with some meanings. The number of cards in a deck varies from Tarot to Tarot

This Tarot sequence can be read in a number of ways, only some of which are discussed

Rosen was originally Rosenberg, but I changed it to avoid any Buffy connotations

In Hebrew, “yareach” is associated with the moon

The Villa Marlier is where the Wansee Conference was held in 1942. The Wansee Conference finalized plans for the Holocaust

Harry will have such a confrontation

73

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch45 parent and pensieve.doc 05/25/06

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46. A Modest Proposal

Wherein Wormtail fails to carry out his master's orders but stumbles upon something interesting; Remus comes out second best in a confrontation; Ron sees Harry at his worst; Harry has a very bad idea, and a very good one; Jazzy has advice for Harry; Harry and Hermione have a confrontation; Harry answers Hermione's question incorrectly; Hermione answers Harry's question correctly; and they are both interrupted by goblins

Thanks to: Betas Catch_the_Snitch, Sonicdale, Mr. Sean, MarkGardiner, Shane and Mumrarj.

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

Chapter 46 - A Modest Proposal

The barely breaking dawn sent purple tendrils across what had been a pitch-black sky. A lone wizard wheezed audibly, making his way as quickly as he could up the steep mountain path. The path was slow going. Every third step or so, one foot or the other would slip clumsily in a spray of loose gravel.

“I'm getting too old for this,” he muttered.

And so he was.

Peter Pettigrew longed just to use magic and be done with it, but he knew magic could be detected. Where he was going, the likelihood of someone trying to detect any magic was quite high. So on he trudged.

He had broken magical silence only once - maybe an hour before - to transform from his rat to his human form. He had been behind schedule, and human legs travelled faster than tiny rodent ones. Also, some odours entering his alter ego's nostrils had been worse than disturbing: predators!

So he had transformed. Apparently he had gotten away with that calculated risk. He had been far enough from his destination to avoid detection.

He struggled on, behind schedule. His task needed to be complete before the sun burned off the concealing morning fog. For now, that fog hung over everything, dampening his clothes and casting an eerie, leaden shroud over the increasingly treeless landscape. The top would be exposed - and so would he - if the fog dissipated before he was finished.

He trudged on wearily, cursing footwear that provided neither sufficient purchase nor protection from blisters. His Master had specifically tasked him with determining whether the bodies of James and Lily Potter remained in what had been intended as their final resting place.

That assignment was dangerous and likely futile, but Pettigrew nevertheless eagerly accepted it. He argued he was uniquely well suited for the task. Alone amongst all the Death Eaters, he had attended the Potters' funeral all those years ago. Once the Fidelius Charm fell away from the gravesites, he knew exactly where to go. His other distinctive talent - his extremely sharp nose in his rodent form - meant he could detect olfactory traces from the corpses if, as suspected, they had been recently exhumed. That would require retransforming into a rat when he reached the top, where Dumbledore undoubtedly had installed magic detection wards. He would not have much time. It would be risky, but necessary.

The Dark Lord had ordered it.

Pettigrew felt some degree of pride. After tasking him, the Dark Lord taught him - and nobody else - a difficult spell to record the dead Potters' residual magical signatures. Their death predated the magical advances that now allowed demagification of dead bodies. These bodies should still have recognisable magical signatures, making them extremely useful, especially against their sole surviving son.

The exhaustion Pettigrew felt whilst climbing this difficult, half-hidden path encouraged unusual honesty. The true reason he volunteered for this mission was to get away from that greasy bastard Snape. The last few months of his life had been among the worst he had ever suffered. Even his prior existence as a pet rat was better than being Snape's servant. The two loathed each other, and the traitorous ex-professor used every available opportunity to make the traitorous ex-Marauder's life a living Hell.

When the Dark Lord had honoured him above his other followers by personally instructing him - Pettigrew felt - take that, Snape!

If this mission was a success, maybe - just maybe - the Dark Lord would not return him to Snape's beck and call at Spinner's End.

He was reaching his goal. The trudging grew easier as the terrain levelled out. The top had no trees, only an unbounded expanse of tall grass and alpine wildflowers. In all directions the scene disappeared into the uncertain whitish-grey curtain of fog that enveloped everything. Whilst the sun was fully up, the hour was early enough that the sunlight's low angle set the heavy dew glistening with every colour of the rainbow.

The place was beautiful - and when clear, the view was awesome. Pettigrew understood why his ex-friends had chosen to be buried here. Sometimes, when alone, he still wished everything could have turned out differently….

This was the place. It had to be. The grass bore unmistakable signs of recent disturbance. In the Dark Lord's opinion, Dumbledore's abilities were declining, and here the Master seemed to be correct. The magic used to restore the location was a bit too hastily cast and failed entirely to conceal what had transpired - thanks to the fragile alpine ecology.

Preparing to cast the spell to record the Potters' magical signatures, Pettigrew noticed an odd, brown patch off to one side. The patch approximated the size and shape of a person. As he muttered the spell, he turned to look at it.

“Oh!” the startled wizard gasped.

A wandpoint's harsh jab in the back of his neck banished all thoughts of curiosity.

“Good morning, Wormtail,” a familiar voice growled in his right ear. The holder of the wand was close enough that his hot breath raised hackles all up and down Pettigrew's neck. “I've been expecting you. Drop the wand, don't make any false moves, and I'll let you live - for now…. Which is more than you did for James and Lily.”

This person knew him - knew him well enough to approach from his right side. In school, Peter Pettigrew had always duelled better to his left than to his right.

Peter dropped his wand, as instructed, and began raising his hands.

“R-Re-Remus - I didn't mean for that to h-h-happen. I was just too weak….”

Pettigrew was no longer a school boy. He staggered, faking that he had tripped over a stone hidden in the grass. “Aauugghh!”

Remus Lupin hesitated for a moment, seeing the smaller man stumble. That moment cost him dearly.

Pettigrew struck at Lupin with his now-silver right hand, slashing him across the eyes. The contact with silver, highly poisonous to werewolves, caused intense ripping pain. Instantaneously, everything went dark. Maddened by his agony, Lupin struck out blindly with a strong Reductor Curse. If aimed only a few centimetres to the left, that spell would have reduced the Marauder-turned-Death-Eater's head to Montana mist.

But the deadly spell barely grazed Pettigrew's cheek. He swiftly struck another blow at the reeling lycanth with his pearly, metallic hand - and then another, and another. Lupin toppled over with a damp-sounding thump and lay still amongst wild flowers bearing the same name.

“Bastard,” the victorious Death Eater panted. He aimed what he intended to be a vicious kick into the fallen man's ribcage. Winded, he missed badly and succeeded only in raising a huge divot. Still, Lupin did not move. “Sorry, old friend,” he muttered. “I should probably kill you, but fortunately for your sake, I've been ordered just to get in and get out.”

Whilst retrieving his own wand, Pettigrew noticed Lupin's fallen wand nearby. He stomped on it and felt a satisfying snap as it broke under the pressure.

Hastily, the rat Animagus recast the spell his Master had taught him. It took less than a minute to locate Lily and James' residual magical signatures - and to confirm that, as he thought probable, their corpses had been moved. Before he could finish committing the signatures to memory, Pettigrew heard distinctive pops announcing several undoubtedly unfriendly wizards' Apparition.

Aurors! Pettigrew traded a couple of ineffectual hexes with the first one as he turned to flee. He could not fight this many, and the fog was starting to break up, making him steadily more visible - and vulnerable. Forced to dodge curses, he could not stand still long enough to Disapparate. There was but one way out. Stowing his wand in his cloak, Pettigrew transformed.

In rat form, Pettigrew dodged through the thick meadow, well hidden from the Aurors, whom he could hear calling to one another in confusion. Odours, some familiar and some frightening, assaulted his highly sensitive rodent nose. Yes! He could still smell their residual presence. He had been around James Potter so many times, in both human and animal form, to know that scent anywhere. The second, distinctly feminine redolence was less familiar but undoubtedly Lily's.

He detected a third aroma as he sidestepped that small burnt spot, not wishing to expose himself to anyone's sight - Harry Potter's smell. Had the boy burnt the groundcover to a crisp? How?

Pettigrew decided to skirt the brow of the ridge until he could get behind his pursuers. Then he would make for lower ground.

“Mroowww! Pffsst!”

Dodging wildly at the last instant, Pettigrew barely avoided a very sticky end. A jet-black Kneazle tom, one source of the frightening scents pervading the mountaintop, hurtled past. He was hungry. He had a most disagreeable temper. And he had an appetite for rats.

The rat Animagus stopped abruptly, swerved, and doubled back as a second Kneazle attempted to pounce. His nose told him at least a half-dozen of these magical felines were loose in the area. Frantically, he skittered away in another direction.

Pettigrew faced a dilemma. He could either take his chances with the Aurors, or risk being breakfast for the Kneazles….

Suddenly, to his left, the vegetation fell away and he saw the splendid image of Hogwarts Castle passing into and out of view between streaming, torn remnants of the rapidly dissipating fog. The vividly blue lake stretched from the Castle to the base of the almost vertical ridge upon which he was perched. The Forbidden Forest curved around beside the lake, its dark green foliage pierced by autumnal blazes of yellow, orange and red. There was a third choice - the cliff.

A slavering Kneazle pounding towards him forced his choice. Still in rat form, Pettigrew hurtled over the edge, whilst his natural enemy skittered to halt. If he could just make the forest below, he would be home free. As a Marauder he had spent many a night exploring its numerous trails and hiding places. However, even as low to the ground as his rat form was, the slope was too great. All four of Pettigrew's clawed feet lost their grip and he began tumbling end over end.

Out of control, he could not avoid the edge of sheer rock face that dropped off before him. Pettigrew found himself falling through empty space. This sort of thing had happened to him before during a transformation. Maybe he would survive the plunge. He always had before. The foliage in the trees rushing up towards him was quite thick and would break his fall. Maybe he would die. At least then, he would not have to face Snape, or the Dark Lord, ever again.

Leaves, twigs, and pine boughs tore at his sides as his clawed feet desperately clutched at the vegetation flying by. He felt like his fur was on fire as he bounced off a larger limb. He closed his eyes and felt no more.

* * * *

The terrain seemed all too familiar as Harry trudged through the twilight - over blasted hills and through barren dales. Searching….

Searching for … something - exactly what danced just beyond the fringes of his consciousness. Perhaps he was seeking what had gone before. He had certainly been here before.

Wearily, he plodded on in the odd half-light. It might have been the dawn of a new day, or the end of an old one. Time had a way of losing its meaning in this godforsaken place.

Harry picked his way along the holed and blasted remnants of what has once been an elegant line of shrubbery. Reaching the crest of a long, low hill, he saw it - the same half-demolished farmhouse, the same candlelit table, with the same cast of characters around it.

Drawn to them like a færie to a foxfire, Harry made his way as fast as his legs could carry him over the broken and uneven landscape.

“Mum!! Dad!! Sirius!! Bill!!” he called out.

They all looked up at the figure trundling gingerly down the hillside.

“Harry! How good of you to drop by again,” the image of James Potter welcomed.

“Great to see you again, Harry!” Sirius beamed.

The others expressed similar thoughts as Harry bent down and kissed Lily on the cheek. “I hope you decided to take our advice,” she whispered in his ear.

“Well, it's harder than I thought it would be,” Harry hedged. “I'm still trying.”

“Harry, I know it's hard to get over such a traumatic experience,” advised Bill. “But you can't let yourself be miserable forever. You have to let go.”

That reference brought home to Harry that, alone among his deceased loved ones, Eliza was nowhere to be seen.

“Er … where is Eliza?” Harry asked.

“You know women,” Sirius chortled. “Still getting ready.”

“I heard that,” rang Eliza's voice from inside the farmhouse. “Almost ready.”

“You have to overcome the hurt and keep going,” James counselled. “You'll find another. Don't despair.”

“That's not the problem, really,” Harry answered. “It's more like, how do I….”

“Ready!” Eliza's voice rang out. “Now close your eyes until I tell you to open them. It's a surprise!”

Harry did as he was told. He heard rustling and footsteps; then a familiar voice told him, “We're ready. You can look now.”

He opened his eyes. Whilst Eliza was there, he hardly even noticed her. All he saw was Hermione. She wore the same Muggle clothes - that light blue slogan t-shirt and dark denim blue skirt - she had during her first visit after returning from Hong Kong.

Reflexively, Harry smiled at her - but only for a moment. She should not be here. The only people who were here were….

“OH, NO! HERMIONE, NOT YOU TOO!! PLEASE - MERLIN - DON'T BE DEAD!!!”

Still screaming his impassioned pleas, Harry bolted towards her.

“DON'T BE DEAD!! I CAN'T STAND IT!!…”

He had taken but a half dozen steps when he slipped on the torn up turf, lost his balance and landed face first in one of the numerous mud puddles that dotted the devastated area.

“NNNOOOOOOO!!!”

Soaking wet, white as a sheet, and trailing bedclothes that threatened to strangle him, a screaming Harry rolled from beneath the drawn - and soundproofed - hangings about his bed. He landed with a resounding thud on the floor of the Gryffindor sixth-year boys' dormitory.

Ron was the first of his housemates to Harry's side.

“Harry! Mate, you're dreaming again!” the redhead yelled in his ear. “Whatever you think happened didn't! You're at Hogwarts, dammit - Hogwarts!”

Harry's frantic eyes popped open. He stared into Ron's worried face, and behind him saw the equally concerned looks of his other housemates. He ceased struggling, but his breath still came in rattling gasps as Ron half whispered the inevitable question.

“Is it your you-know-what, mate?”

Harry reflexively touched his forehead, but his scar was cool and painless, the same as since his rescue by the goblins. Voldemort had not visited - that might no longer even be possible.

“No…,” he panted. “That … that doesn't seem … seem to happen anymore…. In some ways … this is … worse…. Because it's … me….”

Reaching out his hand, Harry weakly grabbed the collar of the taller boy's robes. He waved the others away. Ron shooed them out as well. When alone, Ron eyed his friend cautiously.

Harry was steaming - his inner heat visibly evaporating the water leftover from his emergency awakening spell. Still, despite the dream's horrific content, nothing suggested that he had been on the verge of an incident.

“I … I can't do this,” Harry rasped. “They'll kill her. They'll kill her so they can make a monster out of me.”

“The bloody hell you can't,” Ron upbraided his wild-eyed friend. “You're letting them beat you without a fight. You'll never be a monster. Not if I can help it. And you'll have to go through her, too. That I'm sure of.”

“Ron, you really need to know some things,” Harry answered. “About that prophecy that the Death Eaters were after last Term, and about what happened when Hermione was hurt.”

“I'm all ears, mate.”

* * * *

A couple of hours later, a thoroughly shaken Ron sat by himself in the Gryffindor common room when Hermione came looking for Harry. She had been closeted away in the Library, attempting to learn as much about the Grindelwald Reading as she could. Her low opinion of Divination was notorious. Only the links between Tarot and Arithmancy kept her from viewing the former as every bit as much codswallop as Divination's other purported “arts.” For Harry, however, she suspended her disbelief.

“Ron, do you know where Harry's off to?” she asked.

“Why don't you try the Pitch,” he offered. “He said he was going to try to train his replacement.”

Hermione wrinkled her nose. “I don't exactly like the sound of that,” she commented, “but thanks.”

“Oh, and be careful,” Ron warned his friend. “He's in one of those moods, I think. Having nightmares again, I'm afraid.”

“Bad ones?” Hermione asked, concern seeping into her voice.

“Bloody awful,” Ron replied. “They're like the ones about Sirius just before…. Well, you know.”

Hermione bit her lower lip in concern over her boyfriend. “That's terrible,” she said cautiously. “Who is it this time?”

“Who do you think?” Ron shot back.

“Er … me?” she answered in a small voice.

“Knew you'd get it,” Ron answered. “Just be careful, okay? You know how he gets - melodramatic and all. No telling what he might come up with.”

“Thanks Ron,” Hermione responded. “I guess there's no time like the present to get to the bottom of things.”

She set her jaw and went off to look for Harry. First, however, Hermione made a detour to the Room of Requirement. Once before, the Room had provided her with something that had saved quite a few lives. Now, she hoped it would provide her with something that would save their relationship.

There would be no more lies.

* * * *

“Now the key to successful Seeking is to keep control of the wide side of the Pitch,” Harry instructed his audience of one. “That means, everything else being equal, you want to be on the inside of your opponent, so that you maintain the advantage to the greater part of the Pitch….”

His first private lesson teaching Jazzy how to play Seeker was unfolding far better than Harry had secretly feared. The Kashmiri wild child had arrived on time and ready to practise. During the lesson, she actually paid close attention to what he said. Not only that, she was flying a tad less recklessly.

“…But whilst you play to the inside, you watch to the outside. The Snitch has a mind of its own, and will usually stay to the wide side. But if it doesn't, you're going to be at a disadvantage to your opponent. Using strategy to minimise that disadvantage will be much more important to you than it ever has been to me.”

“And just why is that?” Jazzy challenged.

Harry gave her a crooked smile. “You see, I've always been able to cheat. For years, I've had the best broom on the Pitch, so if I was caught out of position I could make it up with better raw speed, agility, or some such. That's all history now that everyone's flying on the same model broom. It's all about talent now … talent and strategy.”

Jazzy understood all about privilege. “Okay. I see - so what's the strategy?” she asked.

“I was getting to that,” Harry answered with a sigh. “You watch to the outside. When the Snitch appears relatively close to a Seeker, it likes to hide in plain sight - stay where he can't….”

“Or she can't,” added Jazzy.

“…or she can't see it,” Harry agreed wearily. “But it's really hard for the Snitch to evade two people at once, so if you keep special watch to the outside, you'll actually see it better than the Seeker closest to it.”

“But won't the opponent have the same advantage - to the larger side of the Pitch, then?” Jazzy asked.

Harry smiled again. Jazzy was rather young to be Seeking, but she had a head on her shoulders. She asked the right questions. “That's right. That's why you need to use other senses - especially hearing - to detect the Snitch when it's behind you, but close by. If it's far away, it doesn't matter as much because you can make up a head start with a combination of superior positioning and better flying. And no mistake about it, you can really fly. But when it's close, that option's not there. That's why I want to give you this….”

Harry pulled a used Snitch from inside his robes and cast an immobilising spell on it.

“You keep this with you and listen to it,” Harry told the girl. “You keep it around you a lot - until you can practically hear that distinctive Snitchy whine in your sleep.”

Harry was about to demonstrate when he noticed that Jazzy was no longer looking at him - but by him instead.

Harry turned in the direction of Jazzy's stare. He immediately saw Hermione striding purposefully towards the Castle side of the pitch.

Harry glanced at Jazzy, and she gave him a head gesture indicating that he should do whatever he needed to do. He started to descend - his trainee following at a respectful distance (although she would have roundly hexed anyone describing it in those terms).

Harry knew the time had come. So did Hermione. `I'm sorry to interrupt, but we really need to talk,' she informed him telepathically.

`I know. You're right.' He replied in the same fashion. `Let me get cleaned up. Meet me near the Whomping Willow in about twenty minutes, and we'll go some place private.'

Hermione assented, and Harry slowly turned his broom towards the Gryffindor clubhouse. One look at his tightly knit brow and suddenly serious expression was all Jazzy needed to see.

“I know when a practice is over,” she remarked. She turned her identical James-Potter-Memorial-Trust-issued Firebolt in the same direction. She started to zoom ahead of the listlessly flying Harry, but thought better and circled back.

“Er … Harry…?”

“What?” the boy answered in a flat and far away voice.

“It's.… It's like the Headmaster said - at the end of the Welcoming Feast when you were still away.”

“No need to sugarcoat it,” Harry told her. “I was captured by Death Eaters then.”

“Well, he showed up very late - when we were all worried about the failed rescue and all. He talked to us mostly about choices, and how some of his hadn't worked all that well.”

“Yes?” Harry replied. He wasn't particularly listening to her, but nothing in his voice told her to leave, either.

“He said something.… He's probably said it before, but it was new to me,” she continued haltingly. It really was not her place.

“Dumbledore says lots of things,” Harry mumbled absent-mindedly.

“He said that our choices don't always go the way we intended, but at the end of the day we could live with ourselves if we chose what was right - over what was easy.”

Harry winced visibly at hearing those familiar words. He looked at the wisp of a Third Year who presumed to tell him about choices at this moment in his life. “And your point is?” He said archly.

She had touched an even deeper nerve than expected. Jazzy almost gasped at the wave of - whatever it was - Harry emitted. Words became even harder. “Well it's just…. You and her…. Whatever's going on … between you. I thought you could use the Headmaster's advice.”

Unable to say more, she flew off - directly back to the Castle still dressed in her Quidditch practice robes.

Harry was also unable to articulate anything further: no question about how she had known; no cutting remark about her presumptuousness; no word of thanks for support in a time of need.…

Harry pointed his broom towards the changing room.

He had never felt more alone….

Some fifteen minutes later, with a lump in his throat the size of a Bludger, Harry approached that lone figure waiting patiently for him barely beyond range of the Whomping Willow's club-like branches. She sat on a conveniently located small grey boulder that poked through the thin, grassy soil.

“Hi,” he greeted her tentatively.

“Hi, yourself,” Hermione smiled tightly as she rose to greet him.

His heart jumped to his throat as he watched her approach. His stomach churned as if filled with buzzing Doxies. Merlin, he loved this girl. And that was precisely the problem.

“Er … where do you want to go?” Harry asked her quietly.

She bit down on her lower lip, and replied in an obviously rehearsed fashion. “Umm … I know a nice, secluded spot down behind the lake.”

That surprised Harry. Was she thinking of the same place he was? “You mean … the one with the fallen tree that hides everything from the Castle?”

Hermione was likewise surprised - but not too much. Harry had a very good map of the grounds. “You know about that, then,” she stated softly. “I should have guessed.”

“I … er … Bill Weasley showed it to me,” he replied. It was painful recalling his deceased guardian. But that pain was minor compared to what his heart felt.

They began walking around the lake.

“I learnt about it from the Twins,” Hermione offered. “I gather that they learnt about it from Bill too.”

For some time they walked together in silence. Ironic thoughts whirled through Harry's head. His first time at that place, he had confessed his feelings for Hermione to Bill. Since then those feelings had waxed incomparably stronger. She had come for him. He had come for her. That only made everything so very much more difficult.

This was not going to be easy.

But was it right?

Her voice shook his mental cauldron. “Harry?”

“Wha…?”

“Take my hand. Please?”

He did, and warmth from their interlocked fingers flowed through him. He considered using Occlumency to steady himself, but quickly dismissed it. In all the world, Hermione was the person he least needed to defend himself against.

“Harry, we need to talk this out,” she began bravely. “Ever since that night of the Astronomy retake when everything - everything was so wonderful for a brief and shining moment, you've, you've seemed so … well, withdrawn.”

“I could never hide anything from you,” Harry answered glumly. “Not for long.”

“And I know better, now anyway, than to leave you stewing in your own juices,” she answered in the subdued, accepting voice reserved only for him. “We'll talk it through and work it out - that's what we've always done.”

Actually, talking things through was quite the opposite of their usual approach, and they both knew it. But that was then, and this was now - and “now” meant nothing was more important in her life. She would work to save this relationship from Harry's demons.

“I'm … I'm…. I'm a disgrace to Gryffindor house,” he blurted out.

“Tosh.” Hermione had anticipated many things in the hours she brooded over the conversation they were commencing, but not this. “That's absurd,” she quickly appended, before realising how judgmental she sounded. “Harry, you're more Gryffindor than anyone. Dumbledore gave you the Founder's picture for goodness sake. You've used his sword. Why in the world would you say that?”

“I'm so scared,” he confessed weakly.

“Being scared has nothing to do with courage, Harry,” Hermione reminded him. “Fear is what keeps courage from becoming foolhardiness. I don't mind that you're scared. That just means we can be scared together.”

“He'll kill you,” Harry blurted.

Now that was more what she expected. Hermione gave Harry's hand a squeeze. “He's tried, and he's failed,” she declared, “because of you. We've had this conversation before, you know. Think logically, Harry. I'm very well protected. I'm even better protected than you, because I've you protecting me!”

Harry put up a fight. “He'll try harder, if we … well you know.”

“And you won't let him, just like the last time,” she said, thinking of the sabotaged broom.

“The last time, I nearly saved him the trouble,” Harry corrected. Unlike Hermione, he viewed the last time Voldemort invaded his mind as another attempt on her life. “I burnt you up, Hermione. I burnt you alive - from a hundred kilometres away. I can't let that happen again.”

By this point, they had circled behind the lake and reached the spot of both of their prior meaningful conversations - his man-to-man talk with Bill, and her woman-to-woman chat with Luna.

“You first,” Harry invited Hermione.

“No, you first,” Hermione declined. Seeing his odd look, she explained, “This is important. I want to cast a charm to ensure that we won't be disturbed.”

She was right. This was important. He shrugged his agreement and moved on ahead, watching what she did from the corner of his eye.

Hermione turned, and if she muttered an incantation, Harry missed it. Twisting her wand like a corkscrew, she conjured into existence the same twinkling anti-gravity mist he had encountered in the Tri-Wizard Tournament's maze.

Stepping on a half buried hunk of greyish rock, she made her own way to the shore, where Harry was waiting for her. A small sandy beach was split by a large, flat slab of reddish sandstone. Moving to the big stone, they sat down side by side. The colours of Scottish autumn were inexorably replacing the verdant green of their previous visits.

The beauty of the place was all but ignored by its occupants.

“Where did you learn that?” Harry asked, momentarily distracted from their more momentous topics.

“My own reading ahead in the Auror lessons over the holiday,” she replied tersely, before returning to the matter at hand.

“Now don't change the subject, Harry,” she told him. “Whatever you did to me was inadvertent. It doesn't matter any more. It's in the past, and I'm still alive. You saved me, Harry. You rescued me. That's what you do, always, and there's nobody better. Have faith in yourself. I have faith in you.”

“But Voldemort will do horrible things to you,” Harry continued as if not hearing a word she said.

“He'll rape me with a flaming broomstick, throw me off a cliff, and leave my corpse to be eaten by Fire crabs,” Hermione answered, her voice rising. “I know. You think I haven't thought about all this? Well, I have - a lot! I'm at risk, after all. But you're more important to me, Harry! I don't want to live without you. That's why you had to come get me.”

“Even worse, he'll try to force me to do his dirty work,” Harry continued undeterred with his parade of horribles. “I know. He sent me a nightmare of that over the summer!”

“How?” she asked. Ron had warned her of his nightmares. She was certain they played a huge role in everything that gave rise to his fears.

“He wants me to be the one who rapes you, that's what!” Harry pushed one of his deepest fears into the light of day.

“That's simply impossible,” Hermione shot back. “It can't be done.”

“How can you say that?” Harry protested. “Voldemort is that bloody powerful. He possessed me at the Ministry.”

“He cannot possibly use you to rape me,” she declared again. “That won't happen! It can't….”

`Dammit, Harry, ask me why,' Hermione thought to herself. He had plainly spent the last few days obsessing over all the risks of their relationship. She needed to get him thinking about its benefits.

Harry did not put the penny in the slot. Instead, he continued, “Hermione, this is so much bigger than just us,” he raved. “He…. He - wants to turn me into a monster. He'll use me … to kill you myself. Like I almost did before, only worse.”

“You'd better explain what you're on about, then,” Hermione replied, less sure of herself. “I certainly can't see it. You're not a monster, and you never will be. For one thing, I won't let you.”

“You don't understand, because you weren't there,” Harry spluttered. “This terrible Fifth Element thing that's part of me. It's awful. I nearly killed you from so far away! I must have killed two dozen people, at least, vaporised them at a stroke. Nothing was left for anyone to find. And the valley … I utterly destroyed that whole valley - whole hectares of it. I even melted the bloody rocks.”

“I can't help myself, when it comes to you,” Harry continued, desperate to make her understand. “It just happens. If he tries to hurt you, when I'm nearby…. I'll go off again and kill you the same way. And then he'd have won, because I'd be a monster.”

“You wouldn't do that!” Hermione broke in. “You can't. You're good, not evil. You just have to learn to control it.”

“That's the problem! I can't. Not when it involves you!” Harry cried in anguish. “I even have problems when it's just dreams. Just think! If Voldemort really came after you whilst we were in London, it wouldn't only be you who I'd fry when I went off - I could end up killing … millions! I'm a bloody bomb. It's just, just not something we can risk!”

“Harry, think what you're saying,” Hermione cried back at him. “You were in London! The Death Eaters did attack! They killed - your girlfriend at the time, and you did not, I repeat, not - destroy London! The Death Eaters did what they did, but not you!”

Harry looked at her with anguish etched in his every pore. “Hermione, don't even think of comparing your situation with Eliza's. I … I didn't love her. I'd realised that, and I'd originally made that date to break up with her. I was planning to tell her it was over when - you and I had our fight, and everything seemed so hopeless.”

“Harry, I'm sorry, I should never have brought her up,” Hermione apologised immediately.

Harry, however, was relentless. “Well, now that it's out in the open, I might as well tell you. When the Death Eaters outright executed her, I was right there - right next to her, only I had been Petrified. I couldn't see it, but I heard it happen. And you know what? I couldn't save her. I couldn't even muster enough power to break a puny Petrificus totalus. I was pathetic.”

“No, you were taken by surprise,” she steadfastly offered in his defence.

“Doesn't matter…. That's not what I'm getting at,” Harry went on. “You see, when it was you. When Voldemort so much as hinted that he was going to harm you after you'd come for me…. Why, at that point it didn't matter that a score of Death Eaters were all cursing me at once. I blew up everything within several kilometres. If I hadn't been deep inside a valley, it could have been much worse.”

For the first time, Hermione found her own confidence wavering. Harry did have a point. “What are you trying to say, Harry?” she asked.

“I … we … We can't be together … not now … not until I destroy Voldemort - which I swear to you I'll work on unceasingly until it's done.”

“Harry! What are you saying?” Hermione demanded in a shocked tone. “After all we've been through to get to where we can be together! What you told me when you came for me…. You told me you loved me, and you didn't want to be apart anymore!”

“I'm sorry, Hermione, I hadn't thought everything through,” Harry said miserably, his eyes downcast and his face a pasty white.

Hermione was just the opposite. The girl's skin purpled as her eyes narrowed dangerously. “Don't you dare tell me you didn't mean what you said in there,” Hermione warned ominously. “You've never been a very good liar, and I'm not about to let you get away with that kind of rubbish now!”

Whilst lecturing Harry, she drew a small phial from an outside pocket of her robes. When he saw it he mouthed, barely aloud, “Veritaserum?”

“If necessary, yes,” Hermione replied as fiercely as she could manage. “`No more lies,' you said. Well, that's absobloodylutely right. You can't put me off with nasty lies about how you don't love me, or some such tripe, so don't even think about it.”

“I wasn't,” Harry said whilst refusing to meet her blazing eyes. “I told you the truth then, and that hasn't changed. I love you so much that it scares me.”

Hermione softened when as Harry disclaimed any attempt to deny his feelings or tell her some other malicious lie to drive her away. “Love is nothing to be scared of,” she told him in a much softer calmer of voice.

“It is when it's me - and you,” Harry persisted. “When there's a threat to you, I just react … like with Voldemort.”

She now knew where Harry was headed. Hermione fought to prevent her world, and her future, from falling to pieces. “Do you really think you can defeat Voldemort by yourself? That's why you told me about the - well you know - wasn't it? So we would be in this together! So we would be together, and act together, and beat this together!”

“I was being selfish, Hermione,” Harry admitted. “I only wanted you. I only wanted … us. Now, I've understood what could happen - how many could die. I realise I was being unrealistic. There's no happily ever after with Voldemort about. We have to go see Shak.”

“Harry, if you're going in for more training in Defence, then count me in - not out. We're much better as a team, aren't we?” she pleaded.

Harry brushed that aside. “Ordinarily, yes, but not when constantly distracted by protecting you and trying to keep my own bloody self under control.”

Hermione fought back. It hardly mattered that she contradicted herself. “Harry! How many times do I have to tell you, you don't have to protect me! I'm pretty damn tough when I have to be. I found you, didn't I - even with Dumbledore blocking me at every turn? I'm not some helpless damsel! I'm not Ginny in the Chamber of Secrets. I can bloody well learn to protect myself! That's why I want to be there when you train with Kingsley.”

“I'm not suggesting that we train with Shak,” Harry abruptly declared.

“Then what?” In her exasperation the girl asked an open-ended question.

Harry answered her, speaking very fast. “Okay, I'll tell you. Here's what I think we can do. Shak's an Obliviator, a really good one. What he did to Edgecombe last Term proved that. We can take some of our best memories; hide them away in a Pensieve somewhere with Ron as Secret Keeper. Then Shak can Obliviate us. Then it can be with us, like - oh, I don't know … me and Avvie, or you and Seamus. Acquaintances only. You'll be safe and out of the crosshairs, and I can concentrate on Voldemort. Then, when it's over, assuming it goes reasonably well, we can put things back together again. And if it doesn't go well … then I guess, you're still as safe as you could be.”

Hermione listened to Harry's torrent of words with ever widening eyes.

“Harry, that's your plan?”

The folly of it all took her breath away.

“Yes. I don't see any other way.”

It was spherical absurdity - ridiculous any way you looked at it.

“That's so wrong on so many levels, I hardly know where to begin,” she began. “Have you even discussed this with anyone?”

“Not any of the details,” Harry conceded. “I wanted you to hear it first. The general concept I talked through with Remus, though.”

Her opinion of the werewolf dropped precipitously as she marshalled her arguments. “Well, first of all, on a medical level, there's no way it would work. It's possible to shave off a recent memory cleanly with no adverse consequences, like Shak did to Marietta. But there's no way that either of our minds could be wiped clean of something as long, deep, and complex as our friendship without substantial adverse consequences - especially now, when our magic's still maturing. Why, the premature removal of even a single traumatic event can stunt one's magical growth.”

“You mean I could lose…?”

“Listen to me, Harry,” Hermione was not done. “I'm afraid that you might lose almost everything. Trying to remove something as significant as our five years of friendship could have disastrous consequences. You'll need every iota of your magical talent to defeat Voldemort as it is. You don't want to end up like … like … Professor Lockhart!”

“So, it won't work medically?” Harry asked, his face a mask.

“No!” Hermione almost yelled. “And it wouldn't work practically either. I mean everyone knows there's something between us. Neither of us was exactly subtle about things atop the Astronomy Tower the other night. Malfoy certainly knows. Are you going to Obliviate him too - without his consent? And you're talking about erasing our friendship…. Are you proposing to Obliviate Ron? How about Ginny? Neville knows what's going on. Him, too? I mean … to do what you're proposing; you'd have to Obliviate the whole bloody Castle. Even that probably wouldn't be enough - not with all the rubbish the Prophet has already published about us. It called us `paramours' over the summer, Harry! We're just too bloody famous now for Obliviation ever to work.”

Hermione paused, appreciating the supreme irony of what she had just said. She had largely reconciled herself to his fortune. To prevent this fool's errand he had dreamt up, she would gladly come to terms with his fame too.

“So, it won't work practically?” Harry asked, his lips trembling now.

“No!” she repeated, her face as red as her Gryffindor Prefect badge, “and even if by some miracle everything else worked out all right, it would probably be for naught anyway….”

This time Harry asked the open-ended question. “How so?”

Hermione took full advantage. “Harry, I've been attracted to you for years. I know that now. And you told me the same thing when you came for me. I believed you then, and I believe you now. So even if Shak could reduce us to little better than strangers, who's to say we wouldn't just fall for one another all over again? I know I've never been interested in anyone else - who's at Hogwarts…. And you? Well, Ron's got Cho and Neville's got Ginny. Who does that leave? You and Lavender or Parvati? Don't make me laugh! In all likelihood, history would repeat all over again, only we'd lose the benefit of five years of intense friendship. We'd get involved without knowing each other as well.”

Harry gave a sigh of defeat. “That wasn't a very good plan, was it?”

“No, it wasn't,” Hermione shot back. Thankfully, he was beginning to talk of it in the past tense. “That's because the idea behind it wasn't very good to start with. But it could well be worse than that.”

“That hardly seems possible,” Harry moped. He did not really have a “Plan B.” He has only contemplated one other outcome.

The gears in her mind kept operating furiously. Sensing that she finally had an advantage, she took his hand and gazed squarely into those amazing green eyes. She could sense the fear residing within. “Harry, do you remember the saying I put in your ruddy speech - that Franklin bit that didn't translate well? Don't you think we stand better before Voldemort together, rather than separately?” Hermione asked.

“I don't think so,” Harry reflexively responded. He did not want Hermione to face Voldemort - ever. “That would just give him two targets.”

“I'm a target anyway,” Hermione reminded him pointedly. “If nothing else, my O.W.L. scores prove that. Nothing you do, or don't do, can change that. Without you in the picture, it just gives Voldemort a freer hand to make an awful example of that Mudblood who topped his marks.”

In his emotional torment, Harry had overlooked that. “I'm sorry,” he choked out. “But still, I don't want to be … a monster that kills millions. I'm no killer. I hate it.”

“It's a good thing; killing being so terrible,” she comforted him. “Lest we become too fond of it.”

Hermione reminded him of something else he had forgotten, trying to engage his intellect. “Harry, we need to think outside the box. You've known the prophecy much longer than I have. Surely you've thought about this. What do you think is the `power he knows not'?”

The question came at Harry from deep in the covers. “It's pretty obvious, isn't it?” he groaned. “It's this ruddy Fifth Element - the same thing that'll make me a monster. I have it; he doesn't; and it's really overpowering. I just have to learn to control it. If I ever can….”

“What if it's not, Harry?” she asked him. “What if it's … something else?”

“I don't think it can be,” Harry replied. “I needed a power. Then all of a sudden, I've got one - that. It's too much for coincidence.”

“But Voldemort knows,” Hermione pressed. “He learnt about it as vividly as - well - as vividly as anyone outside present company. The Fifth Element didn't kill him then; not even when it truly was an unknown power. I agree that it would have fit perfectly before … before everything happened. But not anymore. It's no longer an unknown power. He knows of it only too well.”

Harry kicked at the sand forlornly. “But I don't have anything else,” he told her. “Nothing that he'd be afraid of anyway.”

“Yes, you do, Harry,” Hermione said. “You've got me….” She moved closer to him.

“You're powerful, Hermione, but you're not a power,” Harry-the-literalist answered.

“Oh, Harry,” came her exasperated reply. “Let me spell it out. You have what we feel for each other - love - and that's definitely a power.”

The wheels started turning in Harry's head, as well. Maybe clever Hermione was on to something. Maybe another outcome could possibly be Plan B.

One thing was certain - a middle ground was not possible.

It would have to be all or nothing. The Fifth Element was just too dangerous.

“It's.… It's a power, I grant you,” Harry conceded. “But, it seems so weak - so puny. Compared to what I've done with the Fifth Element … compared to what Voldemort can do.”

Hermione raised her hand to stroke his cheek. “I don't think it's weak at all,” she affirmed as she watched him closely. “You said so yourself, only a few minutes ago. What was it that set off the Fifth Element in the first place? You wanted to protect me. Why? For that matter, what led you to set the Situation Room on fire this summer?”

“I love you,” he replied thoughtfully, “and I thought they were trying to hurt you. You're right - it can be powerful! Dumbledore once said quite the same thing, but I didn't believe him.”

“Harry, the Fifth Element is a tool. Love is the power. It's like - like a fulcrum, and with enough leverage we can move the world,” Hermione answered him, her hopes finally rising as she grasped how could overcome this roadblock. “You have love. We have love. Voldemort doesn't.”

“But it's still the same problem,” Harry lamented. “We can't just snog him to death. Because I can't control how I feel about you, I can't control this - tool. I can't live without you, but I can't live with you either, because one way or another I'll get you killed. I don't know what to do.” Harry's shoulders slumped as he stopped speaking.

Hermione had a ready suggestion. “Harry, think of yourself; just for once,” she pleaded. “All this pain you've felt - your whole life - you can't keep hiding it away inside you! You really will explode.”

Harry followed along intently until her final words, at which his face crumpled.

“I'm sorry, Harry,” she wailed. “That was a horrible metaphor. What I'm trying to say is let me help with some of that pain. Give yourself a chance for happiness - please! After everything you said, you must feel something.”

Seeing Harry's obvious hesitation and conflicting impulses, she decided she had to put everything on the line. If she could not get the answer she wanted now, it was unlikely she ever would. She wanted - needed - to make it easy for him.

“Please, Harry, just answer one question totally honestly,” she requested, unshed tears shimmering in her eyes.

“Er … okay,” he agreed haltingly. “I'll try my best.”

“Your best has always been plenty good enough,” Hermione encouraged. “Tell me truthfully, Harry - don't you want to go out with me?”

`There,' she thought, `finally it's out on the table, where he can't avoid it.'

“G-g-go out with you?” Harry repeated. His eyes popped open wide. He looked quite taken aback at what should have been a simple concept.

“Yes, Harry,” Hermione pursued, putting her hands in his. “In your heart of hearts, don't you want to date me? Well - I'm here…, and I'm asking.”

Harry's hands felt like they were burning. He had never really thought of his relationship with Hermione in such … shallow … terms.

“Going out with you…. It's just that…. Well, dating - that's for getting to know someone…. To see if there's enough in common….”

“Please, Harry,” Hermione pleaded. “It can't be that hard. It's a yes or no question. I'm waiting - for you….” She tried batting her eyelashes, Lavender style, but thought she failed miserably.

Harry gulped. He had a feeling his answer to her question was not what Hermione wanted to hear - or even what he really wanted to say. But she had forced the issue. Totally truthfully, he stated, “No, Hermione, I don't want to go out with you. That would seem triv….”

The unexpectedly negative answer slammed into Hermione's psyche and left her reeling. She felt her world coming undone again. After everything Harry had told her - in there - and here…. After his seeming baring of his soul that caused her to free herself from her own mental prison, he nevertheless did not want her that way. It was too much. She had to get away before she broke down altogether.

Abruptly she stood up. Putting on her bravest front she forced out, “I'm sorry, Harry, for putting you on the spot like that. I'll…. I'll just go now. I'm sorry that I misunderstood.”

“But Hermione,” Harry pleaded, “it's not like….”

He started moving as she pulled her hands away from his and prepared to depart. Momentarily unbalanced, Harry jammed his foot into the sandy gravel by the rock at which their relationship seemed foundering. Instead of steadying him, the gravel rolled, his foot skidded, and Harry clumsily slid down the rock. He ended up on all fours.

Tears visibly streaming from her eyes, Hermione turned to leave. “I'll just go now. I'm sorry I misunderstood.… It's just - I can't settle for that. I just need some … you.” Unable even to string a simple sentence together, she began walking briskly away.

Ironically, her own question had provided Harry an opportunity to drive her away far more effectively than his own elaborate, half-baked plan.

But he no longer wanted that - now that he could envision something else.

Harry did not even try getting up. “Hermione, please listen,” he called to her, his own voice cracking. He was ruining everything. He had to tell her the truth - finally - and let the chips fall where they may. “It's not what you think….”

Hermione already had her sights set on the Castle, when those all-too-familiar words reached her ears. In the pain of being rejected - rejected just when she had thought she could not be - she was doing it again.

She was replaying past mistakes. He made the same simple request when she slapped him and drove him away - and yet again, when she almost shut him out of her mind and condemned them both to death. Time and again, she had vowed never again to refuse to listen.

She stopped in her tracks.

Harry still struggled to articulate something. “Please…. It's just that - going out - that's not where either of us is, I think. I'm well past….”

She knew what would eventually come out. He would call her his sister; the mother he never knew; his guiding light; even his alter ego. He would profess some “other” kind of love … something placing her on an impossibly high pedestal. He would say something - anything - ruling out the primal romantic response she so craved from him.

Still, she immediately decided she owed him that much. If he were determined to break her heart, she might as well let him do it right, well, and proper. Willing herself to stay upright, if not composed, Hermione turned to face the emotional equivalent of a firing squad.

From all fours by the large rock, Harry saw the woman he cared more about than anyone in the world hesitate, stop and turn back - towards him.

`In for a penny; in for a pound,' he thought. `Plan B, it is.'

He pushed against the rock and brought himself partially upright. The cold, wet sand soaked through his knees, but did not try to stand. In a perverse sort of way, he was where he was supposed to be at this point in his life - a point often contemplated, but one he never thought possible to attain.

“All right, Harry, I'm listening,” Hermione said in an excessively even voice. Whilst she listened, she did not look. As a defensive mechanism, she squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

“It's just that - when you said dating,” Harry struggled for coherence. “That's to get to know someone better. That's … that was Cho … and Eliza. I've never seen any need to go out with you. I didn't know them. I know you … better than anybody…. I've known you since I was eleven.”

“I've known you equally long,” Hermione squeezed out. Harry's characteristic hemming and hawing only prolonged her agony. “I'm sorry that I mistook your brotherly feelings for….”

“No, Hermione!” he raised his voice for the first time. “It's not like that at all!”

“Then please enlighten me,” Hermione replied. She teetered on the jagged edge of emotional collapse as she felt all her “happily ever after” dreams shrivelling up and dying.

Harry's hand plunged into an inside pocket of his robes where he felt the locket he carried there. He had originally given it to Eliza - before sorting out his feelings. Tragedy allowed him to retrieve it, as if fate had granted him a do over. Within that locket was the decisive message his father and godfather had sent from beyond the grave.

That spectral message set a standard, and the girl before him met it. She not only came for him - she was still coming for him - even when his fears and guilt conspired to try driving her away. Now, that message, in that locket, gave Harry strength to continue; to do what he had to do.

“Please, Hermione, this is hard for me to say…,” he pleaded.

In a half-strangled whisper she replied, “I'm afraid it's even harder for me to hear.” Then she went silent.

“It's just that - after all that's happened between us - especially over the last few weeks, well, I don't want to go out with you….”

Anticipating the blow, Hermione screwed up her face.

Only one way remained. He felt helter-skelter - like being on a turnabout slide. He had tried running away from his deepest feelings, but Hermione had not let him, but had spun him around. Harry swallowed and summoned that Gryffindor courage he had denied but a short time before.

“…I don't need to know you better to know how I feel about you. I love you, and that's how it will be. I don't need to date you - I want to marry you, really.” Still on one sand-covered knee, he looked up at her with green, little-lost-puppy eyes.

“…I want to marry you….”

Those words reverberated, through Hermione's mind, dizzying her. Her heart felt so full that it might burst. Her stomach lurched like she had fallen through the vanishing step in the Gryffindor stair case.

“…I want to marry you….”

A maelstrom of emotions assaulted her - shock, disbelief, love, fear, relief, and hope all fought for primacy. Someone seemed to have Evanescoed her insides and replaced them with something very warm, very soft, and very light. Soon, that mythical someone added the Jelly-Legs Jinx. No longer able to stand Hermione took one step towards Harry, staggered, and abruptly fell to her knees in the middle of the dirt path to their hideaway.

“Oh, Harry,” she gasped, her face flush with intense emotion. “I - I had no idea! Not in a million years did I expect…. I'm flabbergasted. I don't know what to say….”

Harry suddenly felt cold and uncomfortable. What only moments ago seemed like the only thing he could possibly do - suddenly, that sense of cosmic righteousness was slipping through his fingers.

To be replaced by unfathomable dread.

What if he ended up like Viktor Krum?

Harry shuddered as his throat tightened and his tongue felt unnaturally thick and numb.

Their mutually maintained Platonic wall that cordoned their friendship off from - anything else - battered as it was, had finally been breached by his telling the whole truth. Not just broken, but shattered. It might be impossible to go back.

Would she recoil from what lay beyond? He had to know.

“Umm … you could - say yes,” Harry murmured haltingly.

Inside his robes, his right hand gripped the silver locket intensely. He wanted her to say `yes.' He needed her to say `yes' - more than anything else in his life up until this point.

In the battle amongst Hermione's emotions, disbelief briefly attained the upper hand. “You - you really mean it, Harry?” she asked in an unnaturally quavering voice. “I mean, we're so young….”

At least she had not turned him down.

With that, Harry felt an adrenaline surge. “I mean that more than anything I've ever said. I-I don't make a habit of asking people to marry me. Please, Hermione? Say you will. Now … later…, any time you want.”

For the time being, Hermione's doubts vanished, leaving only joy and love in their wake. Pushing herself back to her feet, she stood uneasily for just a moment before she launched herself at Harry.

He, too, was only just standing up. He caught her as she flew at him, and found himself sitting down heavily on the rock they had left only mere minutes before - only now with Hermione in his arms, sobbing joyous tears.

“Yes, Harry! Of course, yes! Always, yes. A thousand times yes…. I love you so much I don't believe it!”

She pulled him closer - and he, her - until they clung together as one. She had him in a death grip, her arms encircling him just below Harry's shoulders. Her head was burrowed in his neck, where he could feel her ragged breaths and hear her repeated murmurings.

“I love you…. I love you…. I love you….”

Her ear was very close to his lips. He started whispering to her. “Hermione, darling, I was a fool to think - it could happen any other way. I'm still scared to death. I'm not afraid to admit it … not to you. But right now, you've made me the happiest man in the world.”

He felt her response from her hands - rubbing and clutching his back.

No, he was wrong. She was just moving her hands upwards, into his hair.

She resolutely lifted her auburn eyes to meet his.

“Harry,” she purred at him. “That's enough talk. You may kiss the bride.”

Kiss…?

New warmth spread from where Harry cradled her head and shoulders against his. He looked back into her eyes, but she had closed them, anticipating his next move. Her lips were open slightly - enough that he could see the pink, moist tip of her tongue as it wet those lips.

Kiss…!

“And you damn well better,” she murmured.

It had happened. He had done it. Having planned precisely the opposite, Harry had ended up asking her to marry him.

And she had accepted!

In probably vain pursuit of her safety he would have surrendered everything that made him happy.

She had not let him. She refused to let him….

In her own way, she had come for him.

Again.

He felt the gentle pressure of her fingertips on the back of his neck - guiding him to her. Rational thought, all his worries and fears, took leave as he felt her soft breath on his lips. He let her lead him to a moment they both needed above all else.

Harry shifted forward - towards her. His newly bruised bum ached, but he ignored it. Stroking the back of her neck with his fingers, he closed his eyes and held his breath until he felt his lips brush the willing wetness of hers. He felt her relax as the last of her tension melted away.

He began with the tiniest suction, kissing her lightly and tentatively. The tip of his tongue only brushed against her own. He felt her sigh as she exhaled. Her breath tickled his tongue and curled around his lips, which still were little more than hovering expectantly against hers. She pressed her lips against his, and Harry lost himself in the feeling. Pleasant memories flooded his mind - when she agreed to come back…, almost snogging her in Hyde Park on the Serpentine…, the other night on the Astronomy Tower…, her first appearance on his doorstep, as if by magic….

Her fingers entangled in his dark hair, Hermione finished the job, urgently pulling him towards her. They eliminated the last barrier between them. Her body was soft and supple and seemed to flow over his. Her mouth was sweet and warm. He surrendered to the insistent pressure, kissing her more fully and more confidently, to the point where his glasses bumped against her nose. She cast some spell, and the offending item floated upwards and out of the way. He heard a soft splut as they landed a short distance away in the wet sand at the edge of the lake.

Harry paid his glasses no mind. He was utterly wrapped up with how remarkable - how magical - her teeth, her lips, and especially her tongue felt beneath and beside his. That obstacle removed, he instinctively realigned both their lips and plunged forward, deeper into the unknown depths of her welcoming caresses.

Together.

They kept snogging. It slowly dawned on him that - astounding as it might seem, Hermione was not the least bit shy about what she wanted. He drew her to him and held her tightly. Was it real? Had he actually done this?

Yes.

This was real, as real as it got. He was with Hermione. Kissing her, and she kissing him back. She kept a hand around his neck. He had one sliding from her knee to her mid thigh, beyond which he dared not go - yet. His other hand looped around her shoulder, gathering her up to where she felt like a second skin.

He had wanted this for so long. Had fantasised about it. Dreamt about it. In captivity, the thought of it - a hope against hope of their full reconciliation - helped fight off Dementors and overcome the Cruciatus.

Now it was actually happening.

It was brilliant; everything he had imagined, and more - because now it was real. If only it could go on forever….

But the snog session had to end, at least temporarily. He felt her draw ever so slightly away as she broke the seal between their lips. He did the same as the fresh air made his heart race. Needily, he filled his lungs with oxygen.

“That may be your most brilliant idea ever,” he whispered in her ear, in a voice ragged with emotion.

“Yours was even more brilliant,” she whispered back. His breath on her neck made her toes curl. “But since you like it….” She grabbed him and pulled him back to her. Moaning into his mouth, she pushed her tongue against his - and her entire body against his.

Entwined, they leaned backwards until he was flat on his back on the sandy rock. Her body pressed against his from head to toes. He became acutely aware of … well … the pressure of her breasts upon him. He cautiously opened his eyes as his hands slipped to her waist. It was wonderful, but were things spinning out of control?

He felt Hermione's hands leave his neck. She broke the kiss, propped herself up a few centimetres away, and gazed at him. His eyes flew open at the same time and met hers. Her soft brown hair tumbled all around his face, shutting out the rest of the world save a few diamond-like slivers of light. Her face was all he could see - needy, thoughtful, and familiar - warm, wet, and wonderful.

“Is this what you want, Harry?” She asked tenderly. “What you really want?”

“I've never - wanted anything - more in my life,” he returned in rasping gasps.

“Me too,” she answered, closing those hauntingly beautiful dark brown eyes. “Kiss me again.”

She lowered herself to him and he enthusiastically complied. Harry felt an adrenalin surge of self-assuredness. Finally he had done something right. The truth was undeniable. Together, they were so much more - to each other and to what they both had to do. Ecstatic, Harry hugged Hermione to him and let love and magic spill from him in waves, embracing and surrounding them both in warmth and adoration.

She made him whole…. She completed him…. For the first time in his life he felt the full measure of a power that a Dark wizard like Voldemort did not, and could never know. This was the power. Everything else he knew, everything else he could do - those were but tools in the hands of love. She would help him, somehow, find a way to fulfil the prophecy and allow him to live a life that, if not normal, might at least be long and happy.

With the tiniest `pop' of their lips Hermione broke their latest kiss. “Harry, what are you doing?” she whispered.

“Er … thinking.”

“Don't,” she told him. “Merlin knows we've enough of that to do, but just for once, stop and just enjoy the moment. It's been long enough in coming.”

“Ohhh,” he moaned. “I'll try.”

“That's good enough for me,” she said, smiling at him. A moment later, their lips locked again.

Long minutes later, contented with their efforts and basking in their feelings, the two lay side by side, gazing into each other's eyes. Hermione briefly glanced away and ran one hand purposefully down the thin sliver of sandstone that lay beneath and between them.

“Better now?” she asked.

“Far, far better than anything,” Harry sighed.

“No, silly, I meant the Cushioning Charm,” she giggled.

He reached out, touched her chin, and moved to caress her cheek with his fingertips. “Yes, that too,” he said dreamily.

More meaningful silence passed.

“Did you really mean that?” Hermione asked.

“Mean what?” Harry replied. “I'm sure I did….”

“That I was … better … than her?”

“Oh, Merlin, Hermione, there's no comparison,” Harry affirmed. “I love you. I can say that with everything I can muster. I never really loved Eliza, let alone Cho. Sometimes I thought so, but I was guessing because … nobody ever loved me, and I didn't … well, know what I was missing. I've never really loved anyone.… Can you forgive me for being such an idiot?”

Hermione smiled at him before answering. “Stop thinking so much. Let's just forgive each other everything that's gone before and start out fresh.”

Rolling onto him, she craned forward to kiss him again. He cupped her face between both his hands. She brought her hands forward, grasped his wrists, and let his chest bear her full weight. Her lips kissed their way across his forehead, then over his scar, to the tip of his nose, and finally to each corner of his mouth.

She lingered, enjoying the warm, soft feeling of his lips. Her eyes half closed, Hermione looked down to see Harry's awesome emerald eyes amorously staring back at her. His look reduced her insides to jelly. She parted Harry's lips, then withdrew; allowing Harry's pursuing tongue to chase hers. Of course, he caught her.

Of course, she wanted him to catch her.

With his tongue wrapping around hers, Hermione felt the urgent, almost liquid sensation of lust seeping through her nether regions, a hormonal surge the likes of which she had never before felt. Their breath quickened in the heat of passion as the rest of the world faded away - again - for a little while.

At length they broke apart. Hermione gasped as she sat up.

“Oh, my!”

Harry gazed past her at the waters of the nearby lake. Myopically, without his glasses, he could still see why she had reacted.

The formerly tattered autumnal remnants of water lilies were round and light green - and bore yellow and white flowers. The leaves of the surrounding trees, previously aflame in blazing colours, were restored to the cool green of late springtime. The evergreen shrubs that lined the pocket beach sported garlands of large purple blossoms, so bright almost as to glow from within. Overhead vines, nearby bushes, semi-aquatic plants - plants all about them were also a riot of blooming colours.

For perhaps ten metres all around, spring seemed to have returned.

“My word.… Luminescent rhododendron - in full bloom. Færies feed on the pollen. Harry, did, you…? Did you … do this?” Hermione asked in a voice tinged with amazement.

“Not me, I think - us,” Harry answered. He budged up next to her and put an arm around her waist. She snuggled into him.

“I could never do this,” Hermione stated.

“Me neither,” Harry replied. “It's regenerative elemental magic - earth magic. I saw Lao Kung do something similar, but only on a few plants at once. I never managed more than one before. It's us, not me.”

“It's the power,” Hermione observed. “Another manifestation…. You - we - have it. All we have to learn is to control it.” She rested her head on Harry's shoulder.

He turned towards her, and buried his face in her hair….

More time passed. Harry watched could see the elemental magic start to fade - reminding him that, no matter what he might want, it was September, not May. “I'm still scared,” he whispered to her.

“And I'm terrified,” Hermione agreed. “But I'm not letting anyone deprive us of the happiness we can find in each other. For however much time we have, we'll be together.”

Harry was unconvinced. “But what if I mess up?”

“Nobody's perfect,” Hermione reassured. “Just pick up and keep going.”

“But like you said, we're so young to be doing this,” he fretted.

“Harry, I know in my heart I'm ready for this,” Hermione told him, “but if you're not, I won't hold you to your proposal.”

“Oh, no, Hermione, it's not that,” Harry quickly responded. “It's just that - well half the neighbours on Privet Drive were divorced. And most of those couples now can't even stand the sight of one another. I-I-I fear for our friendship if this doesn't work out. I just can't bear to lose you if we go this route and things fall apart.”

“Harry, there's nothing you could do that could stop me from being your friend - I promise,” Hermione vowed. “If you want, I'll even make an Unbreakable Vow.”

“NO!” Harry burst out. “Nothing that could hurt you anymore, please! I-I-I trust you, Hermione.”

“Then please, Harry,” she continued, holding both of his hands in hers. “Please for once think about what could go right, instead of what could go wrong. Kiss me.”

He did, and the wonderful feeling returned. She was right. He had to trust someone. If not her, who?

Who, indeed.

They came up for air again, and this time she looked surprisingly - well -thoughtful.

“A penny for your thoughts, Hermione,” Harry suggested.

She reacted oddly, as if reluctant. “Oh - it's nothing, really…. I was just thinking.”

“You know, you told me not to do that,” he reminded her.

“It's silly, that's all,” she said with a shrug of her shoulders. “I just wish I had never known Viktor. Then you could have been my first….”

Harry flushed. Suddenly, he bore a rather large grudge against the Bulgarian. But wait…. That made no sense. Her testimony - he had read it. “But, Hermione! The unicorns. How could you have fooled…?”

Hermione gasped. “Oh, no, Harry. It's not like that at all. I'm sorry, that came out all wrong. I meant that you could have been my first kiss. I should have waited for you. I was just so flattered, and he was so - nice to me.”

Harry gulped. There was one thing he had never told her. Something from long ago. “Er … Hermione? Like I said before, no more lies. Remember?”

“Yes, Harry? What is it?” she replied curiously.

“Well, I was,” Harry confessed, reflexively running his hands through his hair.

“You were what?”

“Your first.”

Hermione was extremely confused now. “My first what?”

“Umm … your first kiss.”

“I wish. But you're not making sense, Harry,” she replied. “I assure you, I would have remembered that - and we would have saved ourselves quite a bit of grief.”

She looked at him. He was fretfully rubbing his feet in the sand, and not looking at her. He almost seemed ashamed of something. She stopped talking and waited for him to put whatever he was thinking into words.

“Er … that's because you weren't exactly awake when it hap … er … when I did it.”

“I don't care, Harry. Whatever it is, it's forgiven,” she told him in a low but serious voice. “All that's gone before is forgiven.”

“Well, it was when you were - Petrified - during Second Year,” he began, with an air of True Confessions. “I was at wit's end, and I still didn't understand how magic worked. I'd seen so much that only happened in fæiry stories that I thought…. I remembered the Sleeping Beauty story and, well, one evening when I was keeping you company and nobody else was about, I had this insane idea, and I had to try it out….”

“So you kissed me to see if maybe that would wake me up?” she prompted.

“Exactly, and I did give it my best shot,” he told her truthfully. “I had no idea what to do, but I tried hard enough - what with you being Petrified and all. But of course, it didn't work. I hope you're not too offended, because it wasn't right to do something like that. I didn't do it again, whilst you were, well you know, in that coma or whatever it was.”

Again, he seemed too embarrassed to look at her.

“Harry, it's nothing to be ashamed of. You meant well,” Hermione dismissed his concern. “C'mere.” She put both arms around him and cuddled up close.

“Yes it is,” he said, “I didn't have your permission.”

“No, it's not,” she cooed. “In fact I think it was rather - sweet. Now get over here, handsome prince, and kiss me again so I don't fall back asleep. You have permission now.”

She leaned into him, captured his lips and, without breaking the kiss, slowly edged Harry over until he was supine once again. Their closeness was delightful - and arousing. Her breasts pillowed against his chest. But Harry groaned as, despite Hermione's cushioning charm, something ground annoyingly into his left thigh.

The locket.

Harry broke the kiss and manœuvred them both to a sitting position.

“Umm … I didn't really plan this,” he admitted the obvious.

“Planning is overrated, sometimes,” she said softly. “Harry, you're at your best acting on impulse.” Her smile warmed his soul.

“Well, that means I don't have a ring,” he continued.

“I don't need another. I'm already wearing your ring, remember,” she murmured and held up her right hand. “In a sense, I've been wedded to you since I first put this on, the day after you were taken. I've never taken it off since, not even to wash.”

“It was the only thing you had.” He felt rather uncomfortable. He had never mentioned seeing her starkers whilst she healed. “Er … well, you know - after I almost killed you…. You were still wearing it.”

“Don't be embarrassed, Harry,” she told him. “I'm not. I'll just move it, see?”

With that she removed Harry's Auror's ring from her right hand and placed it on her left. “There, that's the way it should be,” she declared. “Better?” She kissed him on the cheek.

“Umm … well you deserve a real ring,” he said.

“I don't need anything from you but you,” she answered.

“Still, you deserve one. But for now I do have this.” He held up the silver, heart-shaped locket and handed it to her. “I've been meaning to give this to you, but the time was never quite right. First it was your mum, then - well then I started having the nightmares….”

She turned the finely crafted solid silver locket over in her hand. It felt distinctly warm to her touch. “Harry, this - this is beautiful. But I can't … you gave it to her, didn't you?” she questioned.

“I-I did,” he admitted, “when I thought I might be in love with her. I was confused. It's like - well, like fate returned it to me so I could give it to who I really loved all along. There's a message in it.”

Hermione unfastened the hasp, and the locket came open, revealing a thin parchment strip rolled up inside. She unravelled and read it. Then she looked at him with a surprised expression on her face.

“Harry, what's the meaning of this?” she asked in a more high-pitched voice than usual.

“That's - that's how I knew,” Harry told her. He kissed her forehead, and looked straight into her questioning eyes. “I was confused. There was you, and there was her. Then Tonks gave me what was left of my Dad's and Sirius' wands for my birthday. I-I-I asked them what to do. And they told me this. Tangible proof.”

“And you knew?” Hermione asked, wondering how deep this all went.

“Not right away,” he explained. “But when you were attacked, the night Bill died; I was ready to march into Hell for you. Then I realised it was you … only you, all the time. But we had our fight. I went to Eliza thinking I had lost you, and you know…. But even after all that, you came for me, just like it says there. When I got the locket back, I felt I had a second chance. So I've been meaning to give it to you - with the message - and so you'll know that I'll come for you, always.”

“You already have, Harry,” she said as she slipped the locket over her head.

“And I will again,” he vigorously affirmed. “Whenever necessary.”

“I know you will,” she responded, taking his hands again. “That's why I told you I wasn't afraid of anything Voldemort might do to me, because I know that, in the end, you'd stop him.”

“Hermione,” Harry said cautiously, looking into her positively shining eyes. “I only wish I were that strong.”

“You are, Harry, I'm sure of that,” she reaffirmed, taking his hand. “And even if you weren't … well … I'd go to my death believing it anyway, so it doesn't matter.”

“It does to me,” he told her honestly. “I couldn't take it….”

“I know,” she interrupted. “That's why we're in this together. Together we'll make sure it never comes to that. Now, kiss me and stop worrying about things we don't have to deal with right now.”

Hermione leaned towards him, and he towards her. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears. Again they made full body contact, and this time he needed no coaxing. He wrapped his arms around her and caressed her face in both his hands.

“Harry?” she whispered. “I want you to know something.”

“What more do I need to know?” he grunted.

“I love you.”

“Hermione.., I can't believe how you make me feel right now,” he responded. “I'm in awe. I don't deserve…. How can I measure up to a love like this? You came for me - you really did. I'm.…”

He could not go on. He would have started crying had she not seized that moment to kiss him deeply and to pull him atop herself. She sensed him on the verge of losing it - in a bad way - and she resolved to make him lose it, but in a good way.

She groaned into his mouth as spasms of desire shot through her from deep within. He groaned back as almost frantic caresses edged out his tears. Their motions quickly became less gentle, and more heated. She felt almost dizzy with passion - a passion bottled up within her for much, much too long. Almost (but not quite) involuntarily, she wriggled her hips beneath his. He made a guttural nose whilst deeply kissing her and clutched harder at her sides.

She wriggled again and slid her hands down the small of his back until they rested on his firm rear. She broke one side of their kiss and gasped out his name whilst squeezing him against her. His desire for her was unmistakable and manifest. Maybe this could be the moment she had been longing for - for months, if not years.

Harry backed off and drank in the look in her half-closed eyes. Elation took his breath away as the love filled those enticing, incredible eyes seemed to change colour with the light - now a sweet blend of honey and chocolate. He realised he wanted her … desired her … needed her.

But right as everything was, it was not righteous enough….

There was something she needed to know.

She brought up the subject first.

“Harry, about sex, I think that….”

“Hermione relax,” Harry groaned as he lifted himself off her. “I'm sorry, I just got carried away, I guess. Don't worry; I won't try to take advantage of you.”

Confusion shone in the girl's eyes. “What do you mean Harry? It's not like I'm being taken advantage of….”

“Not yet, maybe, but if you'd given me a few more minutes,” Harry interrupted. “I can wait though. You needn't worry about that for as long as you want.”

Hermione's confusion vanished; replaced by a smirk. “It's not like that at all, Harry. All I wanted to say was that I ought to renew the Cushioning Charm before we … er … proceeded.”

Harry looked cross-eyed as he comprehended what she meant.

“You mean - you want to…?”

“Want to?!?” Hermione echoed. “Harry, just a few minutes ago, didn't you ask me to marry you?”

“I sure did,” Harry responded, “well, sort of anyway….”

“And what did I do?” she asked rhetorically. “I didn't exactly send you packing, did I?”

“No,” Harry allowed. “You said you would. But that doesn't mean you have to….”

“But that's just it, isn't it?” she broke in again. She dropped her robes from one shoulder, revealing the plain, button-up-the-front, white school jumper underneath. “I said yes. So, whilst I don't have to, I can want to.”

“Er … so … what is it?” he stammered, totally flummoxed.

“`Yes,' that's it,” she declared, dropping her robes from her other shoulder. They pooled around her waist.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” she repeated. “Harry, what part of `yes' don't you understand? I want to do this.” With a come hither look in her eye, she started unbuttoning her blouse.

“Umm … Hermione,” Harry sputtered, “I guess - the part about surviving the, the act … er … intercourse-wise.”

“What about surviving the act?” Hermione asked distractedly as she unbuttoned the second button. “I won't….”

“That's what I guess I don't understand,” Harry tried to explain.

“Harry Potter, just for this once will you stop worrying about one or the other of us getting killed,” she replied, working on the third button. “Let's bloody well make use of the time we have together. You can't ask me to marry you and then turn it off like that. Abstinence isn't all it's cracked up to be, anyway. I've been abstinent all my life - not any more….”

Harry felt very warm all over. “But…. But….”

Hermione stopped asking and started instructing. “Intercourse-wise, we needn't wait any longer,” she copied Harry's unusual terminology. “That mist won't dissipate until I end the spell. We're quite private in here. Let's celebrate our engagement properly.”

Instead Harry did something entirely unexpected. He shouted, “ALAKAR! Show yourselves.”

Half hidden in brush at the opposite end of the glade was one greyish rounded boulder. A second lay mostly buried in sand along the path from which they had entered. A third could barely be seen underwater next to the fallen oak tree. Two more erratics were located amongst the trees, just within the area affected by their earth magic.

At Harry's command all of these boulders transformed into battle-ready goblin warriors. Each expectantly finger one sort of weaponry or another, awaiting Harry's next command. Having been urgently called out, they expected to have to fight something.

“Aiee!” Hermione squealed as she pulled her robes around herself.

Harry spoke the simple command for them to stand down. “Bashu!” The goblins vanished, once again replaced by innocent-looking grey stones.

Looking abashed, Harry explained, “Sorry, Hermione, but after all that's happened, when I'm outside the Castle - even on the grounds - they won't let me out of their sight.”

Hermione's ears went bright pink at the thought of what she had almost done. As soon as she had restored herself to presentability, she grinned at him weakly. “Thanks Harry. I guess - I got a little carried away there.”

“Forget it,” Harry replied. “You can be sure I'll never take advantage of you, no matter how out of control you might get. I've had practise.”

“Er … thanks Harry - I guess,” Hermione answered, a wry look on her face. “So what do we do now?”

“Well, I'm not keen on hiding that we're together, and it'd probably be futile to try,” he thought out loud. “I reckon Voldemort pretty much knows already. But I wouldn't tell anyone - except Ron - exactly how together we've gotten. I don't want to set a date or anything, not until we're out of school anyway. But I'm pretty sure that, when it's time, we'll know that.”

Hermione waited patiently for him to finish, but her fidgety feet would have given her away, had Harry been paying attention. “I think that's all fine and good, but what I meant was what are we going to do about sex? What do you want?”

Harry went silent for a long moment as her weighty questions hung over his heads.

“Don't you want me? It certainly seemed like you did,” she persisted when he failed to respond.

“More than anything - really,” Harry reaffirmed. “It's just, well I want the consent of my best friend….”

“You're…. You're not planning to ask Ron about this?” Hermione snorted, plainly scandalised at the thought.

“Oh, no,” Harry backtracked furiously. “That came out all wrong. I mean I wanted your consent.”

“Well, isn't it obvious you've got that?” Hermione exasperatedly replied.

“I've got the consent of Hermione my … fiancée,” Harry responded softly as his voice caught on the final word, a word that suddenly seemed so awesome to him. “But I feel that I've sort of overwhelmed you today. I want the consent of my best friend Hermione, the one who's so clever, and rational, and all.”

“What are you asking for, Harry?” Hermione answered, trying to make sense of his response. “You've got my heart; don't you think my mind will follow? Don't you think it already has?”

“That's what I'm hoping for,” he replied, taking her hand again. “What I'd like best is for you to cool off and analyse everything, like you do so well. Think everything through carefully, and if you still want to do this, we can work something out. I just…. I can't feel like I've stampeded you into anything.”

Hermione shook her head at him. “Poppyc…,” She would have thrown up her hands - if he had not been holding them. But seeing he was serious, she relented. “Oh, all right then. I've waited this long, I can wait a while longer. But I want to set a date. This is too important to let slide.”

“Er … okay,” Harry answered. “Like what kind of date. You're not thinking about doing it in Hogsmeade, are you?”

“Oh, no, Harry,” Hermione replied. She had not even considered that - actually entirely rational - option. “I meant a date certain … a deadline. How about the night of the Masked Ball? That's far enough off, we can plan something - suitably cosmic. And I'm assuming that you do want to go with me. You didn't ask anyone else whilst I was … gone, did you?”

“Not a chance,” Harry answered, thinking about how, even then, he had turned down both Fleur and Daphne. “It's a date, then.”

* * * *

Hours later, the glade was quiet as the sun slipped below the horizon. The new couple had long since departed, followed after a decent interval by their stony guardians. The stillness was broken only by a scratching sound amidst the sodden, tangled mass that was once the root system of the toppled oak tree.

The scrabbling stopped, and an animal's nose emerged from between two of the gnarled roots. It sniffed the air twice. Pushing forward, a pair of beady black eyes emerged.

All was quiet and calm in the gloaming. The last rays of the day cast a reddish glow across the tops of the tallest towers of Hogwarts Castle looming on the other side of the lake.

A single rodent - a rat with a silver paw - dropped with a splash into a few centimetres of water, scurried across the sand, and disappeared into the depths of the forest.

* * * *

Author's notes: Title chapter is a double entendre

Magical silence is used equivalently to radio silence

Sole surviving son is a colloquial term for someone who is entitled to military deferment or discharge under certain circumstances where a family member is killed in action

The “beck” in “beck and call” is an archaic short form for “beckon”

The alpine wildflowers included lupines

“Montana mist” is what happens when a small animal receives a large calibre gunshot

Færie to a foxfire - better than the tired “moth to a flame”

Many forms of Tarot reading do depend upon numerology

The Quidditch strategy is made up. I modeled it on the play of defensive backs in American football

In Saudi Arabia, and probably elsewhere in the Muslim world, women must walk a respectful distance behind their husbands

I don't know where the phrase “brief and shining moment” comes from, I'd guess the Arthurian legend, but I'm not sure

Rape, of course, cannot occur with consent

The Veritaserum is what Hermione got in the Room of Requirement

A sphere is completely round so spherical stupidity is stupid any way you look at it - from an insult coined by Fritz Zwicky

There's someone else who suffers from the premature Obliviation of a traumatic event

The paramour reference is from Chapter 11

The Franklin reverence is from Chapter 26

“Horrible … lest we become too fond of it” - Hermione's “killing” statement paraphrases a remark Robert E. Lee is said to have made about war

“Deep in the covers” is the cricket equivalent of “out of left field”

The “other outcome” will become clear

The situation room incident is from Chapter 17

The idea of using a lever to move the world dates back to Archimedes

Can't live with you - can't live without you, comes from Queen

The “all the pain you've ever felt” line is from “Shadows of the Night” by Pat Benatar

“In for a penny, in for a pound” - used first in Chapter 7, with an author's note that it would recur later. Well, here's later

A “helter-skelter” is a circular slide in England, hence the “slide” references in the Beatles song of that name

The from friend to fiancé without bothering to date sequence was the route taken by the smartest guy in my Princeton class

The evergreen shrubs are lilacs

Rhododendrons grow in Scotland, as they do near where I live

Harry's secret first kiss with Hermione petrified has been alluded to before. Here, he confesses it

Harry will remember his “whenever it's necessary” promise later, under trying circumstances

“How can I measure up to … after such a love….” From “Who Are You” by the Who

The “intercourse-wise” line is taken from a Dan Radcliffe interview

Text is modified slightly to introduce anti-gravity mist, as there were criticisms that Hermione was OOC starting to undress potentially in public

As first demonstrated in Chapter 35, goblins can turn into grey boulders at will

62

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47. Slugs And Beetles

Wherein Harry and Hermione's new status gradually becomes known; the Trio attends a Slug Club party and each learns interesting things; Ludo Bagman has a shocking experience; Harry fields several offers and learns some Veela history; and Hermione saves Ron from a major faux pas, gets a letter she doesn't read, and cuts a deal.

Thanks to Betas Mark Gardiner and Shane.

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

Chapter 47 - Slugs And Beetles

For Harry and Hermione the long, slow trek back to the Castle was like walking on air. They had done it. Against all odds, and facing down paralysing fear, they had managed to declare to each another that they were in love - in love so deeply that they hoped to spend the rest of their lives together, however long or short that time might be.

But Harry, behind his goofy I-can't-believe-what-just-happened smile, had an even more profound realisation. He had achieved something he had not thought possible.

Hermione got what she had always wanted - what she spent several weeks in single-minded pursuit - and what she left the Castle that very morning determined to fight for.

That was good.

Harry, however, expected to return to the Castle having achieved the polar opposite. He had intended to destroy their relationship - for what he believed were the best of reasons, but leaving an emotional train wreck nonetheless.

His expected result had not happened. Instead, he accomplished something he never seriously thought he could aspire to, let alone attain. Hermione simply did not let him drive her away. As unyielding as carborundum paper, her love for him ripped through his every pretence until finally connecting with similar feelings he had tried his level best to bury in the depths of his soul. The citadel of his heart was breached, the walls of his resistance fell, and finally he allowed himself to give, and to receive, romantic love.

That was better - infinitely better.

If he could so this, maybe he really could beat Voldemort after all.

But for the moment, it was time to let the rest of the world know the secret. Somewhat, anyway.

Somewhere during their leisurely walk back to the Castle, Hermione unconsciously let go of Harry's hand and slid her arm around his waist. He did the same. She leaned into him, her head coming partially to rest against his shoulder. It was instinctive, but once Harry comprehended what had happened, he thought back to that night in Hyde Park, on the Serpentine.

It seemed similar, except it was not at all the same.

That had been an act - mostly. This was real, so real it took both of their breath away.

Mercifully, the new couple met practically nobody they knew on their return to the Castle, even in the hallways. Zacharias Smith raised his eyebrows, but when met by the couple's inscrutable stares simply waved and said nothing.

A couple of third-year Ravenclaw girls saw them, smiled, and ran off in the opposite direction chattering excitedly.

And so it went, even in the Castle itself on this typical, early Term Sunday afternoon. Practically everyone above Third Year must have turned in early to their common rooms or the library to complete lengthy Monday assignments.

For once Harry - and especially Hermione - were not amongst the swotters.

Holding hands again, and looking dreamily at one another, the newly united couple approached the Gryffindor common room.

“This password really needs changing, doesn't it Harry?” Hermione remarked as they stopped at the portrait hole. “Far, far better thing.”

“I'm not sure about that,” Harry replied, being both at once less well-read, and more literal-minded than the author of that catchphrase.

The Fat Lady was dozing, so Hermione repeated the phrase more loudly.

“Far, far better thing.”

The Fat Lady stirred, “I don't know about that, thank goodness,” and began opening up. Finally focussing on the two of them, her eyes nearly jumped out of her lightly varnished head. “Oh my…, you didn't…!”

“Yes, we did,” Hermione answered cheerfully. Harry, still too enthralled with events to bother with coherent speech, simply nodded.

“Sir Cadogan won't believe this,” the Fat Lady bubbled. “He won't look good in my pink lady-in-waiting gown. He always thought your `Quest,' as he called it, would come first.”

“What pink gown? What `Quest'?” Hermione asked pointedly.

“Oh, silly me,” the Fat Lady chuckled. “Now that you've gone and done it, Sir Cadogan has to wear my gown for a week and whilst so attired visit every portrait in the Castle. He bet me that Harry here had a great quest - like his idol Don Quixote - and that the two of you would never get together until he completed it.”

“Oh,” Hermione replied blankly, not quite believing that the Castle's portraits had been laying odds on the possibility of their romance.

Interpreting her comment as interest, The Fat Lady continued. “I, of course, disagreed vehemently, because I've always seen more than a little of Guinevere in you, Hermione, and more than a little of Lancelot in you, Harry. I should know - I was there….”

“You were?” Hermione answered enthusiastically. “Was Mordred really as evil as the histories state…?”

Harry gently squeezed his fiancÃ©e's hand to signal that her intellectual curiosity for once would have to wait.

“Oh, but we really do need to be going on now,” she admitted.

“I'm sorry - but not about the two of you,” the Fat Lady commented jovially as she swung all the way open. “I never fancied wearing Sir Cadogan's awful, smelly armour.”

Still hand in hand, Harry stepped through the portrait hole into the common room, leading Hermione, who still looked back at the Fat Lady with raised eyebrows. “I can't believe that the portraits had a wager,” she muttered to herself.

Neville and Ginny, sitting tÃªte Ã tÃªte on the sofa in front of the fire with Ginny's Potions text between them, were the first to notice the returnees. His round face burst into a wide grin as he rose to greet them, hand outstretched towards Harry. For a long moment, Ginny looked rather bewildered. Then she, too, plastered a smile on her face so broad that it must have hurt and followed Neville to her feet.

“Harry, mate,” Neville greeted him. “Looks like congratulations are in order, it really does. I can't think of anyone more deserving - or who needs it more.” Neville firmly grasped Harry's free hand whilst also slapping him on the back. “And you too, Hermione. Congratulations, and bloody well done. Finally talked some sense into him, I see.”

“Yeah, Hermione,” Ginny echoed tremulously, “good show. It's so - nice - to see you paired up at last. And please, no more suicide missions on one another's behalf. Please…?” She gave Hermione a light tap of a kiss on the cheek

By now, most of the nearby Gryffindors had been diverted from their studies and intently regarded the pair, many whispering to their neighbours. Another large group - standing at the back of common room facing the other way - was still oblivious.

From that clot of Gryffindor witches and wizards, the pair heard a familiar voice. The King was holding court.

“…Coming right bloody at me, the both of them. They fake between themselves, I go left because that Izakoff bloke is better using his right hand, and something in his eyes tells me he's just not going to pass off. Just as it's launched at me, I see a big problem - Cho's gotten peeled away by a ruddy Bludger, and their Seeker's going for the Snitch. So not only do I block the shot, but I throw the Quaffle right at the Snitch. Damn if I didn't hit it too….”

During Ron's rodomontade of his derring-do in Elsinore, Harry tapped first one onlooker on the shoulder, and then another, seeking passage. Gradually the crowd about Ron parted, and the new couple saw their best friend sitting across a hard-back wooden chair that faced backwards, Quidditch action figures in both his hands, as he narrated some pivotal play. A half-forgotten chessboard lay before him, its pieces glaring and jumping up and down, trying to restore his attention.

Ron's attention, however, was focussed elsewhere.

“Harry! Mate! There you are,” the redhead called out. “Guess what! Great news! I just heard from Moose … er … Montague that Malfoy's no longer … on the … Slytherin…. Well I'll be bloody hexed - you did it….”

Having made their way through the single-file gap in the crowd, Harry had deftly stepped to one side, swung round his arm, and almost shyly Hermione hove into view, still clutching her fiancÃ©'s hand. She drew up next to Harry - very closely. Their hands broke contact and snaked unselfconsciously about each other's waists, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Hot damn!” Ron exclaimed as he rocketed to his feet. He toppled the chair in front of him; it upset the chessboard and scattered the furious chess pieces, sending them bouncing and squealing over the hardwood floor. “My two best mates finally got their act together!” The taller redhead gathered Harry and Hermione together in one crushing group hug.

“Thanks Ron,” Harry muttered before his voice trailed off into contented silence. At the moment, he hardly even cared about being squashed.

“Great work, you guys,” Ron half-whispered in their ears, as he embraced the pair. “Especially you, Hermione. You got him to see the light. Not to go all noble - and just as blinking miserable….”

“Thanks Ron,” Hermione whispered back. “Your support means so much, you wouldn't believe it.”

“I believe it,” Ron replied.

Then, just as quickly as he had embraced his best friends, Ron backed away. Addressing the gawking crowd he loudly declared. “I think this calls for a full scale PAR-TEE!”

A general murmur of agreement rose from most of Gryffindors present. Only the “giggle girl” contingent, clustered about Lavender Brown and Romilda Vane, remained stoutly silent.

“Seamus, I know you've got at least a case of Butterbeer and, I hope, more stashed away somewhere in the Tower. Now seems a good time to put it to use.”

“I'm on it,” the sandy haired boy replied, grinning. Finnegan was always good for a party.

“Colin, any way you and Dennis could hook up Dean's Wizard Wireless to the D.A. Central Station's speakers? I think we could use a spot of loud music tonight as well.”

The two Creeveys looked at each other, winked, and Colin replied, “Piece of cake!”

“Awesome,” Ron replied enthusiastically. “On the way back from dinner, I'll drop by the kitchens and get the house-elves to send up a few trays of biscuits and other treats. It's not every day that my two best mates get together.”

Hermione reluctantly burst Ron's bubble. “I'm sorry Ron, but we really can't. And neither can you, for that matter. There's a prior commitment….”

Beside her, Harry nodded.

“Bloody Hell!” Ron blustered. “What could be more important than…?” His eyes narrowed in comprehension. “Dammit! Bloody Slughorn's bloody club.”

“I'd award you five points, but it would reek of favouritism,” Hermione replied.

“So? What's wrong with a little favouritism?” Ron answered. “Bloody Snape never cared.”

“Some role model you've chosen,” she shot back acidly. “That's why I'm still a Prefect and you're not.” She regretted saying that almost as soon as the words left her mouth.

“Can't you give it a rest?” Ron reacted furiously, “I've apologised to Harry here, and he's okay. What's your problem? Oh, blimey - and can't you just blow old Slug off, just this once? I will if you will….”

It was just like old times, Harry thought. Ron and Hermione bickering. He would remain aloof as long as he could.

“Ron, he's a teacher,” Hermione responded hotly. “You can't just ignore him like you do me.”

“Sure I can,” Ron cut across her, “I've got the Prince on my side. Oh shite…. Anyway, just forget the whole thing, I'll go….”

If Ron thought by that by giving in, he could distract Hermione from what he'd just let slip, he was underestimating the girl rightly considered the cleverest witch of her age. Not only that, his own sister chose that precise moment to sabotage him.

“And he won't let me borrow his Princie-Poo either,” Ginny chimed in. “The git.”

“Ginny, you're a menace,” Ron began arguing with his sister.

If she had not caught on before, Hermione now knew something was up. `What's this `Prince' business?' she Legilimenced Harry.

Caught unawares, as usual, by his fiancÃ©e's mode of communication, he squeezed her hand hard enough that Hermione winced. Once Harry grasped that her statement had not been made aloud, he relaxed - somewhat. He returned her thought-wave, `It happened whilst you were, you know, out. Professor McGonagall made Ron take Potions. He didn't have a book, and Slughorn let him pick from some used ones. He got one with all sorts of notes by a prior owner who called himself the `Half-blood Prince.''

Hermione found the idea ludicrous and snorted aloud. `You mean he's revising from notes, and he doesn't even know whose they are? Hah!'

`Don't laugh,' Harry told her seriously. `Dead useful those notes are. Ron's been doing rather splendidly in Potions as of late. He might have gotten Slughorn's invite even if he weren't on the Order of Merlin list.'

“Ron?” Harry spoke up. “Hermione's right, I can't skive off the Slug Club this time. I've promised Slughorn I'd show, and you should too.”

“Awwww,” Ron moaned. “Why'd you go and do that Harry?”

“I owe him.” Harry admitted. “It's his quid pro quo.”

That raised Hermione's eyebrows even further. `What's this all about, Harry?' she Legilimenced to him.

`Later,' he put her off. Seeing her frown, he added, `I promise.'

* * * *

Forsaking their usual informal Sunday evening attire, Harry and Hermione set out for the Slug Club dressed in freshly pressed school robes. Hand in hand, they descended one of the Castle's many mobile stone staircases only to hear rapid-fire footsteps behind them.

“Oi, mates, wait up!” Ron yelped as he came skittering to a halt beside them. “I've decided to go after all.”

“So Cho's loosened your leash a notch?” Hermione asked with a smirk.

“Well, she's still not happy about it,” Ron admitted, “but sometimes a wizard's gotta do what a wizard's gotta do.”

“Well, then, come along, mate,” Harry invited.

Hermione finally asked Harry the question that had stayed on the tip of her tongue since he put her off before dinner. “So what's this mysterious debt you owe Professor Slughorn all of a sudden? I mean, you hardly even know him, and his reputation's hardly promising.”

“Umm…. You wouldn't be here without him,” Harry told her quietly. “He helped me figure out the meaning of that - chemical formula you left for me.”

“What's a chemical formula?” Ron asked.

“It's - sort of like, well, how Muggles do Potions,” Hermione explained.

Ron accepted the explanation. He never understood Muggles anyway, so this latest oddity fazed him not at all.

“I'll never really like Slughorn, but he figured out what that meant, and without your little … er … jolt, I might have been willing to leave things to Dumbledore.”

“He never would have gotten through,” Hermione sighed.

“I know,” Harry slowly confirmed as he reached around to kiss her gently on the lips.

“I'm still here, remember?” Ron remarked at this public show of affection. “At least get a room.”

`Some day soon, Harry,' Hermione Legilimenced, causing his eyes to go wide.

Hermione led the two boys to the Ceremonial Library, where this evening's Slug Club party was being held. Cautiously, she opened one of the two oaken double doors and the three of them slid inside. The shimmering chandeliers overhead were turned down about halfway, and food odours - some quite delectable and others distinctly not - filled the air.

A mix of students and adults largely filled the large room. Circulating amongst the attendees, several house-elves carried trays of savouries. These elves were crisply dressed in starched white pillowcases bearing the Hogwarts crest.

Harry noticed Professor Slughorn a few feet from the door. He was shaking hands with Neville and Ginny, who had arrived only a short time before. The professor spied the new pair, too. Indeed, Slughorn had been keeping one anxious eye on the door since the arrival of the first invited guests a half an hour previous. At the sight of Harry and his friends, the portly professor fairly lurched in their direction.

“Harry m'boy!” Slughorn greeted them heartily as he scuttled over, sparkles of light from the overhead chandeliers glistening off his shiny bald head. “Excellent…. Good to see you. The first of many such get-togethers, I hope.”

“It's good to see you too, sir,” Harry more or less mumbled noncommittally.

After shaking hands with Harry, the professor turned to his friends. “And Hermione Granger - the cleverest witch at Hogwarts, I've been told. Now, I'll get a chance to judge for m'self.”

“A wild exaggeration…,” she began to reply, but found it hard to slip a word in edgewise once the avuncular professor got started.

“…You gave us quite a scare there. I was just happy that I could play some small part in bringing matters to a successful conclusion.”

As Professor Slughorn bore down on her, Hermione instinctively moved closer to Harry. Slughorn soon took note of their intertwined fingers.

“…And now you two are an item, I gather,” the old man switched gears. “Such wonderful news, and so appropriate. I'm truly flattered that you've chosen my little soirÃ©e for your first outing together. Let there be many more.”

Ron gaped. He had never before heard anyone actually use “soirÃ©e” in ordinary conversation.

For their parts, Harry and Hermione both went beet red. Oblivious, Professor Slughorn turned to the third member of the Trio.

“And Ronald Weasley, how's my newest Potions prodigy doing?” the man thrust a fat hand in Ron's direction. Instantly swelling with pride, Ron shook it firmly. “A top drawer Quidditch player as well - captain of the interscholastic champions - and an Order of Merlin,” Slughorn continued. “Perhaps the finest Weasley I've yet to teach.”

Just as Ron was becoming misty-eyed in the glare of his professor's praise, he heard a stage whisper over his shoulder, “…now that's damning with faint praise if I've ever heard it.”

Scowling, Ron whipped his head around to see Blaise Zabini glaring back at him in a similar fashion.

“Ah, Blaise, play nice now,” Slughorn tutted. “You all know Blaise Zabini, I'm sure. Your year.”

At this, Harry and Hermione both also regarded the lanky Slytherin. He was tall, dark, and arrogant. His tawny skin, high cheekbones and slightly slanting eyes reminded Hermione of another prodigy - that Yank whose picture had graced the covers of several of her father's golf magazines.

Zabini, for his part, displayed no reaction, not even a sneer. He detested Gryffindors and especially Mudbloods. After blankly staring at the Trio for a bit, he turned back to the conversation he was having with the Head Girl, Beth Dunstan.

“His mother's quite prominent - an heiress seven times over and a big supporter of both Rufus and Cornelius,” Slughorn continued, as if that would impress Harry. “And Miss Dunstan? Her father's ambassador to the Russian Ministry.”

The trio feigned interest as Slughorn continued inventorying the students present. “Neville Longbottom and Ginny Weasley, you know of course … so when Luna Lovegood shows up, we'll have a complete set of our Order of Merlin Winners present. By the window, with his back turned, is Head Boy Eddie Carmichael. His father is a member of the Wizengamot, and his mother inherited the largest custom robe-making shop in Britain.”

“Over by the fruit table is Roger Davies. His father is landlord to half the shops on Diagon Alley. I'm sure you know the young lady he's entertaining at the moment….”

Harry and Ron both stared in that direction. Roger was talking easily with Fleur Delacour and with a tall, dark-haired older wizard with a pencil moustache. That wizard's ramrod straight bearing, sharply pressed blue-grey robes, and unusual beret-style headgear cocked to one side all screamed “military.”

“Over there, taking advantage of our extensive wine list, is another of our Seventh Years, Cormac McLaggen of your House. I serve with his Uncle Tiberius on the Potions Regulation Board. Tiberius was a Slug Club member in his time.”

Hearing Professor Slughorn mention his name, McLaggen glanced up and tipped his wineglass at Harry. Harry returned a half-hearted acknowledging wave, as did Hermione. Ron muttered “berk” under his breath.

Continuing to play host, Slughorn introduced the other students he had invited.

“This is Melinda Bobbin. Her family owns quite a number of apothecaries, both in Britain and on the Continent.”

“Ah, yes, Marcus Belby. His Uncle Damocles invented Wolfsbane Potion, and was awarded a Third Class Order of Merlin for that.”

“You probably know Susan Bones. Her mother was highly placed in Ministry Law Enforcement, but she died … a pity. Her uncle won an Order of Merlin Second Class - also unfortunately posthumously.”

“And we can't forget Cassius Blake. His father was almost drummed out of Slytherin for consorting with Muggles, but inasmuch as he inherited the Gulbenkian oil concession rights, he had enough Galleons to sort things out.”

Of the various names Slughorn mentioned, only Belby's connection to Wolfsbane Potion was of any interest - and that only to Hermione. The Trio were ready for any excuse to escape from Slughorn, but he prattled on and on and on. Having finished all his student invitees, he started running through his adult guest list, much like a big game hunter recollecting his kills.

“…The gentleman in the blue robes is Artemus Sandpiper - owner of the Tutshill Tornadoes….”

“…Hi'iaka Kupaianaha - I hope I said that right - is the lovely witch in white. She's with the Polynesian Confederation of Covens. She's treating with your father, Ron, about the Seventh Pacific Basin Magical Cooperation Gathering.”

“I assume you know Professor Emeritus LinnÃ¦us Tofty. He requested an invitation, so of course I couldn't refuse someone so senior … and someone who will be judging your N.E.W.T.s….”

“…Roscoe Rabatin, owner of the Nimbus Racing Broom Company, is the wizard with the long sideburns….”

“…and also Husqvarna Flodden of Cadbury's…. Responsible for your Chocolate FrogÂ® card, Harry….”

How much longer Slughorn would have carried on is anybody's guess, had he not been bulldozed by a powerfully built blonde wizard in flamboyant yellow robes. “Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports,” Slughorn blurted as Bagman almost shoved him aside. Ignoring Hermione altogether, Bagman vigorously pumped Ron's hand whilst gushing about his summer Quidditch performance.

“Jolly good show indeed! Took home the championship for Hogwarts - and as captain, too! That means the international team will visit Hogwarts in the spring. We need to discuss details. You'll be Keeping, of course, and this one here….”

Bagman turned towards Harry.

“…I assume you'll be Seeking since old Umbridge's ban is no more, eh?”

Bagman grasped Harry's hand to give it the same enthusiastic shake he had given Ron, but as he did so, something resembling an electric current shot through Harry's arm.

Bagman released Harry's hand as if it were on fire. “Oh…. Well, righto,” Bagman squeaked. He threw an arm around Ron and led the redhead off. “Now about the game, Ron, I suppose you'll be needing some time for everyone to train together….”

Even though Harry was at a loss over what had just happened, he and Hermione used Bagman's providential interruption to escape from their Potions professor's clutches. They might have been better off staying put. They had not even made it to the buffet tables before being buttonholed by Rabatin. He spent ten minutes trying to convince Harry - and secondarily Hermione, once he adduced they were together - to switch the Potter Trust from using Firebolts to a new Nimbus product, the 2XXX. Harry was steadfastly noncommittal, because the man's offer of concessional pricing meant nothing to him. In the end, he agreed only to accept a sample prototype.

Extracting themselves again, they finally made their way to the buffet.

“Well!” remarked Hermione as she summoned a plate, “Slughorn can sure get the house-elves to go the extra kilometre for him. Look at this spread.”

Harry at once saw that Hermione was right. The Slug Club was exquisitely catered. There was an entire Pembroke table devoted just to fruits. There were candied fruits, mostly pineapples, as Slughorn's favourite, but also strawberries, raspberries, and kiwi fruits - the last not at all being standard Hogwarts fare - and kiwis were not alone in that distinction….

Hermione's eyes went wide. “Oh look, bananas,” she said. “I've never seen bananas at Hogwarts before.” Greedily she peeled one and took a bite. “Ack … too hard,” she complained. “These must have been Transfigured; they taste like they're still green.”

Harry could not have cared less about bananas - until Hermione started peeling. He started going pink even before she winked at him before taking her first bite. Suddenly, he was acutely aware of his rather impure thoughts. After all, they did have an October 31 date to … ahem. Harry's throat went dry, and he made to turn away and grab a handful of savouries to avoid embarrassing the both of them. She wouldn't, would she? He had to stop thinking - about that. Eliza never - did that. Only Cho had ever - done that, and certainly not to him. About what he knew, he would never tell a soul (or at least not Ron).

Consequently, Harry was most definitely not watching when Hermione slyly slipped a couple of the yellow fruits into one of the pockets of her robes.

Reaching the next table, Harry looked askance at the devilled egg halves with some sort of bluish pudding in it. “Er … Hermione, what's this?” he asked, uncertain whether to add one of them to his plate.

“That's Kraken caviar,” she told him. “There's regular beluga here as well,” she added, pointing to some slabs of smoked salmon. The dollops on top looked to Harry like some sort of blackish goo - like motor oil gone quite bad. “No thanks,” he muttered. He did try the cold pheasant and pÃ¢tÃ© de foie gras entier though.

Hermione did not follow his example. Instead she harrumphed something about cruelty to ducks.

They moved on to the next table, loaded down with more substantial fare. One tray was piled high with basted fire crab legs, about the size and shape of chicken drumsticks - except bright red. Beside it was a silver mini-cauldron suspended above a bluebell flame full of greenish brown gravy ladled over marinated chunks of dragonburger skewered on toothpicks. Next to that were some cheese wheels that gradually changed colour, and another cheese that gave off odd-smelling orange smoke. Last and least was a wicker basket full of hard-crusted dinner rolls covered with those nasty little seeds that got stuck between your teeth.

Hermione, who was rather more open-minded in matters gustatory, sampled almost everything - except for the smoking cheese. When she caught up to Harry, he was suspiciously examining some sort of deep red, leather-bound folder. “What is it Harry?” she asked. “Can't make up your mind?”

“No, more like I can't find anything that I particularly like,” he answered distractedly, because he spotted Slughorn waddling towards him again.

“You know what that is, don't you?” Hermione asked rhetorically. “A wine list.”

“I know what a wine list is,” Harry replied, somewhat annoyed at her patronising tone. “It's just, I'm looking….”

“Seeking a good wine, m'boy?” Slughorn asked cheerily as he wrested the wine list from Harry's rather limp fingers. “Here, let me help you.” The professor took a quick look at the food on both Harry's and Hermione's plates.

“I think I know just the ticket. It's not generally known, because Hogwarts is an educational institution, but the Castle's cave has something for practically everyone. My illustrious predecessor Phineas saw to that.”

Harry stood stock still and said nothing. Hermione bit her tongue at the mention of Phineas Nigellus.

“Yes, I think for the young lady who seems to have a little of everything on her plate - how about a 1993 vintage Bourg Lachamps Chardonnay? That's a Concours Gold Medal winner.” Slughorn touched his wand to the wine list and a bottle - and two long stemmed wine glasses - appeared.

He turned to Harry. “And for the gentleman, who is favouring the savouries to the sweets this evening, I'd suggest the ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls oak aged sauvignon blanc.”

He started to repeat the process with the wand and the wine list when Harry interrupted. “Sorry, but I'm a non-drinker,” he said firmly. “And I really think we need to mingle more.” Harry picked up his plate, turned his back on Slughorn, and stalked off.

“Er … what he said,” Hermione quickly told Slughorn and set off in pursuit of Harry.

They had barely had time to start eating when Professor Tofty interrupted them, asking for Hermione. Harry could see worry lines crossing his fiancÃ©e's ordinarily flawless forehead as she excused herself.

Harry had a pretty good idea what that conversation would concern. He was less worried than she was - as his faith in Hermione's academic abilities was virtually unlimited.

Alone and at loose ends, Harry drifted off to the far wall, away from most of the other guests. He lazily regarded the glass-encased documents displayed on the wall. He had just located an original of the Goblin Treaty with his own handwritten amendment when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Bonsoir `Arry,” came the intoxicating female voice. “As zee man of zee hour, you should not be alone … yes?”

“Evening, Fleur,” Harry said evenly, without turning around. “What do you want?”

“I want to see zee end of zees Voldemort of yours, and hees Death Eaters,” she practically whispered into his ear. “All of my other wants and needs are secondary. And congratulations - I `ave seen zee two of you….”

He turned to face her. “No hard feelings then,” he said before noticing that she was accompanied by the militaristic looking wizard he had seen before.

“Non. Eet was meant to be,” Fleur said with a sigh. “Bill told me about zat. Ooh! Wheech reminds me….”

Looking sad, Fleur searched for something in her robes until she gave up, drew her wand and mumbled “Accio” followed by something in French that Harry did not quite catch. A couple of folded pieces of parchment flew into her hands.

“Zees ees for you,” she told Harry. “I put zees togezzer before - before Bill died.” She halted and wiped a tear from her eye. “Eet was supposed to help you weeth your … issues with `Ermione. I doubt you need eet any longer, but eef eet can be of any use….”

She handed the folded up square of parchment to Harry, who mechanically took it and gave it a look. She had written a series of questions inquiring into aspects of his romantic feelings about Hermione.

“Er … thanks Fleur,” he said, not quite sure what to make of this unexpected gift.

“You're welcome,” she turned to her companion, who had been waiting patiently throughout their prior exchange. “Arry, zees ees Lieutenant-Colonel Luc Dassault of our Auror Corps. `E ees responsible for zee fraternal relations weeth zee British Ministry.”

The man clicked his heels and snapped off a crisp salute. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Potter,” the man began, before switching effortlessly to clipped, almost unaccented English. “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, I apologise for the intrusion, but I asked our lovely scholastic liaison to arrange an introduction as soon as possible.”

Fleur blushed, and Harry could almost feel the heat.

“Er…. It's no bother, really,” Harry replied, at a loss as to the man's intentions.

The Frenchman continued. “I understand that you recently spent a good deal of time training with the English Auror Corps.”

“That's right,” Harry readily admitted.

“We âˆ’ my government âˆ’ would like to offer you a similar opportunity … to train with our Gendarmerie Magicale's elite unit this coming summer, our Groupe d'Intervention. As allies in this war, we think it prudent to become acquainted with your skills, and vice versa.”

Harry was taken by surprise at the unexpected offer, and was not sure how to respond. “I'm very flattered, and I-I think I'd like to. But I really need to talk this over….”

“Given your Headmaster's expressed views concerning magical cooperation, I'm sure….”

Fleur cut him off. “Luc, I don't theenk zat's what `e meant.”

Fleur was quite right, as Harry was already Legilimencing, `Hermione, can you come over here?'

`In a minute,' she returned. `I'm getting some news that affects us both.'

`So am I,' Harry replied.

“There's more,” Lieutenant-Colonel Dassault resumed. “We are aware of your admirable interest in - enhancing - the Defence curriculum at Hogwarts. We would be grateful if during your time with us you would review the Defence curriculum for Beauxbatons and suggest improvements.”

Harry looked at Fleur. This time she gave him an acknowledging nod. She had previously shared with him her scathing assessment of the quality of DADA instruction at her alma mater.

“…There could be an … opportunity,” the Frenchman continued, “as our upper level Defence instructor is 98 years old, and we have a mandatory retirement age of 100.”

Harry blinked. Unless he had missed something, he had just been offered the DADA instructor's position at Beauxbatons upon his graduation.

If he lived that long.

“Er … I'm honoured, sir,” Harry parried. “But, with the war and all - I can't really think that far ahead.”

“I understand completely,” the Frenchman answered. “When the time comes - another reason that you would be most qualified.”

Having made his intended offers, Lieutenant-Colonel Dassault promptly changed the subject. “Ah … the treaty,” he said, regarding the document now displayed on the adjacent wall. “You have indeed put us to the test.”

“Yes, indeed!” Fleur broke in. “Merci `Arry!” She impetuously, but chastely, kissed both of Harry's cheeks.

“Umm … how so?” he asked blankly. Fleur was intoxicating even whilst holding her Veela nature in check. He was much relieved that Hermione had not yet returned. He had yet to mention the little Fleur incident to her.

“We French tend to view ourselves as rather more … progressive … than our English counterparts across La Manche,” the man explained. “After all, we abolished our monarchy, declared the Rights of Man, and we don't play poodle to les amÃ©ricains. However, in this respect âˆ’ the rights of other creatures âˆ’ you induced your stodgy English Ministry to steal a march on us.”

“Remember, `Arry, I'm no pureblood eezer,” Fleur interrupted. “Now my own Ministry ees actually seeking Veela support for zee war. Veela are no longer outcasts - or pleasing curiosities. We have value too….”

“Well, I'm happy for the help of all English and French Veela,” Harry declared before Fleur stopped him.

“Zere are no nateeve Eenglish or French Veela, `Arry,” she informed him.

“But…. You…?”

“My grandmuzzer, she was a refugee een zee Great War,” she explained. “She fled zee destruction of zee northern Veela community by zee Germans and zee Russians, and from zee Russian revolution. She met my grandfazzer in a camp.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't know,” Harry replied, his face reddening.

“Don't be.” Fleur answered, tossing her bounteous blonde curls. “`E was giving assistance. `E was of a very reech family. But zee Veela, we are from zee east, zee southern Veela in zee Balkans, and zee northern Veela from Veela Novus, in zee Baltics âˆ’ you may know eet as Vilnius.”

Harry did not know it as anything. He had never heard any Veela history before. It was not taught in History of Magic - at least not when he had been awake. Fleur's information raised an old question in his mind. “Fleur, are there male Veela?”

“Zere are men weeth Veela powers,” she told him, “but zey are not called Veela. Zey are not really called anything.”

“Except `players,'” the Lieutenant Colonel added.

Fleur ignored him. “Sometimes men with zose powers are called incubi,” she said. “Zey tend to marry weetheen ourselves, as zees powers can cause problems. Your king âˆ’ `Enri what, huitiÃ¨me I theenk, `ad Veela powers. So did Cliodna of Petra before we were expelled from zat part of the world. Zee Muggles called her Cleopatra. Before that, zee princess 'Elona…. 'Er keednapping - for reasons amoureux - started a war eenvolving both zee ancient Ã†gean Muggle and magical communities zat lasted for decades….”

“Harry, there you are!” an always appreciated voice squealed behind him. Harry turned and a beaming Hermione bustled over and threw both arms around his neck. “I did it! And so did you!”

“Did what?” Harry asked, her infectious grin spreading to his face.

Fleur gave the lieutenant colonel's sleeve a tug and they discreetly took their leave.

“I aced Astronomy!” she told him excitedly.

“That's wonderful Hermione,” he affirmed to her as they embraced. “Not that there was ever much doubt.”

“Oh, listen to you,” she grinned whilst stroking his cheek softly, her tenderness almost buckling his knees. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mister Potter.”

She leaned in, and he waited expectantly for a kiss that never came. Instead Hermione whispered breathlessly in his ear. “I broke the record!” She was so excited that Harry thought she might jump into his arms at any moment, any onlookers be damned.

He placed both of his hands on her shoulders to calm her down. “What did you get?” he asked with increasing anticipation.

“I got…. With the ten points extra credit, I scored 106 - good enough to win the O+, and it broke Riddle's record by a full half point! Not only that, the comet gets my name - if you can believe it! …Along with some Muggle named Shoemaker. I got precedence though. They say it's expected to be a naked eye comet in less than a month. Everybody in the world should be able to see it!”

“You deserve it, Hermione,” Harry affirmed fervently. “You're brilliant - always have been.” He gave her lips a light brush with his, all the while squeezing her shoulders.

Suddenly, Hermione got that I-just-remembered-something look in her eyes. “Oh, I'm horrible…. LinnÃ¦us told me that you passed too.” She pulled an envelope with the crest of the Testing Authority out of her robes and thrust it at Harry.

“Who's LinnÃ¦us?” Harry asked.

“Oh, Professor Tofty,” she told him, her ears going a bit pink.

“So now you're on a first name basis with one of our N.E.W.T. examiners?” Harry asked distractedly as he managed to break the magical seal on the envelope. Pulling out the parchment inside Harry grinned when he saw he achieved a 91 - good for an O-.

“Umm … that's sort of the idea of this sort of get-together, isn't it?” she replied. “My parents call this sort of thing networking.”

Harry could hardly care less about that. But he did care deeply about something else. “Hermione, you're so happy, I don't believe it. Not too long ago that you were terrified over doing what you've just done.”

She paused before answering, eyes bright as she mulled her answer. “You're right, Harry, about everything. I was terrified. Now, I'm overjoyed. It's just that - in between then and now - something profound happened….” Her gaze caressed his green eyes.

The eleven-year-old denizen of a cupboard under the stairs put in an appearance when Harry asked, “What happened?”

“Why you did, silly,” she said, surprised he had not guessed. She smiled warmly as she closed the gap between them. “We're together now, more than before. So much more…. If that doesn't make me Voldemort's target, then nothing could - and now I couldn't care less. I only care about being with you….”

Almost second nature, Hermione had flicked out her wand during her declaration. When she finished speaking, she moved her wand in a silent corkscrew motion. Barely waiting to return her wand to its wrist holster, with a squeal, she flew to him. She covered Harry's almost gaping mouth with her own as her fingers entangled in his already messy hair. Her tongue sought his as she attempted to kiss him into insensibility.

She almost did.

“Mmmmm…,” he hummed after breaking the kiss after quite a few ecstatic seconds. He whispered, “We shouldn't be doing this, here anyway.”

Hermione brought his forehead towards hers until they barely touched. “Don't worry about being disturbed,” she confided whilst slipping her arms around him within his robes. “What would you rather do, Harry? You know I'm only waiting because you wanted to….”

By now, the two had pivoted so Harry could see what spell Hermione had cast over the entrance to the row in the library stacks they occupied. He recognised once again the twinkling golden mist from the third task of the Triwizard Tournament. “We really should stop, Hermione,” he sighed. “Somebody could get a really nasty surprise.”

“Humpf,” she gave an exasperated sigh. With one last searing kiss, she cooed, “Oh, all right spoilsport…. Later, then.”

She ended the spell and, holding Harry's hand tightly, led the way back to the main part of the library. Harry felt her draw up short. Hermione's rather dreamy expression had abruptly hardened.

“What is it?” he wondered. His eyes followed her stare towards the next set of stacks to where a quite single-minded Cormac McLaggen was leaning over - and extremely close to - an obviously uncomfortable young lady,

“That's … that Polynesian witch with the unpronounceable last name,” Harry hissed in Hermione's ear.

“She's Hawaiian,” Hermione whispered back, “and her name's just long - not unpronounceable. Once you get the hang of a couple of simple rules, it's easy. Like humuhumunukunukuapua'a.”

Just as she had intended, Harry was wrong-footed. “Gesundheit…. Er … what the Hell was that, Hermione?”

“A fish,” she replied briskly. “Now shouldn't we indulge your `saving people thing' just a bit, before something untoward happens?”

“Yes, let's,” he responded with a wink.

“Oh, Cormac!” Hermione called out in the most artificially syrupy voice she could muster. “Can we borrow your friend for a bit? We have some … er … Polynesian Confederation matters we need to discuss.”

At the sound of Hermione's voice, McLaggen straightened up and retreated from the rather annoyed woman. He gave Hermione a sceptical look making clear he did not believe a word she was saying.

Hermione flipped her hair back so McLaggen could see her Prefect badge. Her serious expression informed him she did not care whether he believed her or not.

McLaggen took due note of Harry's presence. He knew perfectly well who would come off second best - in more ways than one - in any confrontation with the pair of Order of Merlin Winners.

“Sure,” the larger boy grunted, and quickly took his leave.

Hermione smiled at the somewhat flustered Hawaiian. “Hermione Granger, we've been introduced,” she said cheerily, just touching the woman's arm with her fingertips. “You rather looked like you'd enjoy some different company.”

“Mahalo,” the woman replied warmly. “Honestly, some people seem to think that just because they're friendly with the Minister for Magic, they can take any liberties they want.”

“And some people don't,” Harry declared. “I wouldn't have minded hexing him in the least.”

“Nor would I,” the woman replied in kind. “He was very close to being on the receiving end of something called `Pele's Revenge' as it was, but as a diplomat, I try to be diplomatic. Oh, I'm Hi'iaka Kupaianaha, and you, of course need no introduction.”

Harry smiled wryly, “Nevertheless, Miss … er … ma'am, I'm Harry Potter, and I'm pleased to meet you. Glad to be of help.”

He slipped his hand back into Hermione's and turned to leave the woman in peace.

“Oh, Mister Potter,” she called after him. “I-I really did want to chat with you about something … er … diplomatic.”

The two turned to face her again. “Please, call me Harry.” He gave the woman his full attention.

A diplomat the young woman was - but not very experienced. Her right hand revealingly clutched at the left sleeve of her robes as she addressed the famous young wizard.

“Mister … er … Harry, on behalf of my confederation, I would like to invite you to our Pacific Magical Gathering planned for this June.” It did not, however, escape the astute woman's attention how closely Harry stood next to Hermione and how tenderly they held hands. “The invitation extends, of course, to Miss Granger as well,” she ad libbed.

Once again Harry received an offer that caught him completely unawares. “Umm … I guess…. I'm not sure what to say,” he stammered.

Hermione squeezed his hand reassuringly. She answered, “We're quite flattered, but we need to know exactly when and where.”

“Of course,” Miss Kupaianaha responded. “The exact dates are still being worked out. One reason I'm here is to avoid conflicts with the Hogwarts schedule so your Headmaster might be able to attend. Several of our covens still respond to your Ministry's influence. The Gathering is always held in a central location, Honopu on the island of Kauai. It's the largest magical community in Polynesia and it's so well hidden that the Muggles call it the `Valley of the Lost Tribe.' …But we're still there.”

“What do you think, Hermione?” Harry asked his new fiancÃ©e. His eyes betrayed both wariness and interest. “I know you've told me about Hawaii before - that it's a paradise.” He slid closer to Hermione as he spoke, and his hand went around her waist.

Watching the pair interact, the Polynesian diplomat had what she thought was a bright idea.

“We also organise a side trip to Moloka'i for interested couples,” she offered. “To the site of one of the Pacific's most powerful magical objects….”

That was just the kind of thing calculated to pique Hermione's incessant intellectual curiosity. “Ooh, what's that?” she asked with obvious interest.

“That would be our Phallic Rock,” she told her. “We organise a special overnight trip from each Gathering for couples seeking….”

Hermione quickly cut the woman off. “Oh, that's quite all right,” she replied in an overly loud, rather high pitched voice. As she spoke, she let go of Harry's hand and practically jumped away from him.

“I'm terribly sorry,” the young diplomat apologised. “I was being presumptuous. Anyway, I do hope you'll consider attending. You can either send me an owl at the consulate, or let me know through your Headmaster. Aloha.” Still looking mortified, the woman flitted away.

“What was that about?” Harry asked Hermione, who was also looking rather muddled at the moment.

`I'm familiar with that particular talisman,' Hermione replied, switching to Legilimency. `What kind of magic do you think a phallic rock possesses?'

Harry looked at her oddly, surprised as much by her sudden shift to silent communication as he was stumped by her question. `Umm … I wouldn't know without a dictionary,' he replied. `Don't remember that one from class.'

`Oh, Harry,' she silently sighed. `The Phallic Rock is shaped like - well - like a penis….' She paused as Harry went quite pink. `…It's a powerful aid to conception if one … er … a couple makes love on it.'

He regarded her sceptically.

`Don't ask,' she hastened. `If you saw a picture of it, you'd understand the mechanics. She was asking us if we'd want to try for a baby. I'm not anywhere ready for that…. Not at all.'

“S-S-Same here,” Harry agreed with relief. He did so aloud.

`Be quiet,' she Legilimenced back.

`Sorry,' Harry immediately said silently. Something nonetheless struck him as odd. `But, Hermione, you know - the other day - you seemed so ready to … well, you know. But since I was almost as surprised at … what I did … as you were…. Were you … er … protected?'

One look at the expression on Hermione's face and Harry almost cringed. `Umm … well … no…,' she admitted truthfully. `But when you proposed when I - I was on the verge of giving up hope. Well, you were so sweet. And it came to me all over again how head over heels in love with you I was. That hasn't changed, by the way. I just wanted you so badly. That hasn't changed either, Harry Potter….'

`But, Hermione, that would have been risky,' Harry reminded her.

Putting her hands on those delightful hips of hers, Hermione drew herself up to full height as she answered. `I know, but I'm fully capable of dealing with that consequence,' she told him confidently. `I've got my internship with Poppy after all. I could get some of Snape's potion whenever I need it - if I needed it. It's not particularly appetising, I gather, but quite effective at ending a pregnancy. But you're quite right. Objectively, it would have been an exceptionally stupid thing to do. But I love you so much, Harry. You can't expect me to be objective, especially when you've just asked me to marry you.'

`Er … I guess not,' Harry tentatively agreed. Even though he had broached the subject, he felt he had received a bit too much information, so he switched topics. `We … we haven't talked about it much … especially after, well … what happened…. But I'm still worried about Ron being with Cho.'

`That's really none of our business, Harry,' Hermione cautioned. `They seem happy.'

“I don't know,' Harry Legilimenced back. `She seems to encourage him being reckless. And it's such a huge secret. And - well - in one of my dreams Cedric asked me to watch out for her.'

Hermione almost blurted something aloud at this news. `What! What dream was this?'

`I hadn't gotten a chance to tell you, but when I got hit on the head at the D.A. meeting, I met - I guess, they'd be memories of some sort - of my parents, Sirius, Bill, Eliza, and Cedric. They encouraged me to be with you. But I didn't want to listen to them.'

`Theirs would have been good advice to follow, Harry,' she told him.

`I almost did, but for the fact that they were all dead,' Harry explained. `Then I had pretty much the same dream again, but you - you were there too - dead. That's when I decided we couldn't. But you wouldn't let me go that route.'

Hermione almost snogged him again - right in public. He looked so happy and sad at the same time. `Well, I think the first thing we need to do is be absolutely sure we're right.'

`Oh, I'm sure, now,' Harry affirmed.

`I am too,' she responded warmly, `but I meant about Cho. Her tattoos were quite - distinctive. One of them resembled a family symbol I think I saw in a Hong Kong museum. Before we do anything, we need to confirm that we have the right person. That, and if they're temporary they probably don't mean anything.'

`I thought tattoos were permanent,' Harry offered.

`Not everything is what it seems,' she cautioned, `especially that type.'

`How would you know?' he asked. `It's not like you have any tattoos. Umm … do you?'

Hermione gave him an impertinent look. `Of course not,' she Legilimenced sharply. One doesn't have to actually do something to know how it's done, after all.'

She fully intended to demonstrate that principle in a few weeks' time.

But not tonight.

`To confirm our suspicions, I think we need to involve our favorite Ravenclaw,' she went on. `We need a girl in the same dorm who could accidentally pop in at an opportune moment.'

Harry guarded this secret more closely than the prophecy. He had not shared it with anyone except Hermione. “You want to involve Luna?” he chirped aloud.

“Hush, Harry,” Hermione hissed.

“Oi, mates! There you are,” Ron's exuberant voice called out. “What about Looney? Haven't seen her. Did she ever turn up?”

“Oh, nothing, Ron,” Hermione replied nervously. “We were just wondering the same thing, that's all.”

Ron did not give it another thought. He had other news. “Guess what, Harry!” he said in an excited stage whisper. “Ludo introduced me to the owner of the Tutshill Tornadoes, the best team in the league!”

“I thought you followed the Cannons,” Hermione observed.

“Oh, I do, but … Cho says - well he told me I'm definitely good enough to play pro after Hogwarts. Said I should engage an agent. Ludo's brother's one, and he offered to get us together. I won't have to work in the bloody Ministry after all! Oi, I'll take that….”

Ron reached out, relieved a passing house-elf of an entire tray of mini-wursts wrapped in bacon, and started shovelling them into his mouth.

“Finally, something worth eating,” he said as used his teeth to pull five of the minis off their toothpick holders at the same time. “All night, it's just been green olives wrapped in salami, cheese squares with bits of walnut stuck to them, and other stuff no self-respecting wizard would eat.”

Harry, who had had an encounter with a mushroom dipped in what tasted like some sort of Paint Stripping Potion, thought his friend had a point.

“…and that blue jam. Ugh. Worst marmalade I've ever tasted. Ruined a perfectly good sticky roll, it did.”

“That was Kraken caviar, Ron,” Hermione told him, “not a sweet.”

Ron wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Yuck! Fish eggs…. Anyway, I'd have to keep quiet about it. Wouldn't want to lose my amateur status before graduation.”

“That's - that's great, Ron,” Harry told his friend, more enthusiastically than he felt.

“Not only that, our Hogwarts combined team will definitely play the international all stars in June, after all the end of Term exams. Krum's on that team! You'll finally get to go against him head to head.”

Hermione said nothing as she shifted her weight from one foot to another uneasily. She had recently broken off all communication with Viktor, and was not looking forward to possibly seeing him again. He had, after all, once asked her to marry him. How would he react to her - current situation? Would he try to knock Harry off his broom?

“I've done that already,” Harry remarked, “in the Triwizard Tournament.”

“But not at Seeker, you haven't,” Ron reminded him. “It'll be brilliant! You've got to catch the Snitch! Otherwise we'll probably get clobbered.”

Hermione remembered something. “Is Harry even on the team?”

“Of course he is,” Ron replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “I'm the captain. I pick the team!”

“So you'll replace the Seeker you had over the summer?” she asked.

Harry's eyebrows shot up. He grasped the implications of Hermione's question moments before Ron did.

“Bloody right!” Ron plowed ahead. “Harry's the best, we all know that. Much better than … er … Cho….” Ron's voice trailed off as he figured out he would have to choose between Harry, his best mate, and the girl with whom he was currently - mating.

“Ah, the responsibilities of captaincy,” Hermione remarked waspishly.

“I can be responsible, I just don't have to be perfect all the time,” Ron responded, rising to her bait.

“Perfect is one thing, passing is another,” she shot back. “You really need to try to do better in Transfiguration.”

“Just because Slughorn says I'm doing bloody better than you in Potions, you just can't stand it,” Ron replied hotly.

“That's because you're cheating, using that book,” she bickered back at him.

“It's not cheating, and just what all do you think you know about that anyway, Miss Know It All?”

It was Harry's turn to shift his feet anxiously.

“It's rather obvious, Ron, to anybody but our host here. Now about the last Transfiguration assignment….”

“McGonagall didn't have the sense to pick me as House Captain, even with Harry's recommendation, so I don't care what she says,” Ron declared hotly. “She can get stuffed.”

Hermione was scandalised. “You really shouldn't say things about the staff that you don't mean, especially in public.”

“Public, schmublic,” Ron replied testily. “These people are here to see us tonight, not her - in case you haven't figured that out. Old tight-face isn't even….”

Harry's eyes started going wide. “Umm … I really agree with Hermione, Ron,” he said.

“Well, since you've gotten together, that's no surprise,” Ron complained. “Bloody two against one…. Owww!”

Hermione stomped on Ron's foot - hard.

“Miss Granger, I'm surprised at you,” came a reproachful voice from over Ron's right shoulder. Recognising it, Ron's whirled around, his face turning chalky.

“…That will be five points from Gryffindor, for physical assault, and I'll see you outside,” Professor McGonagall declared in a voice that brooked no quibbling. She turned on her heel and marched out, a visibly chastened Hermione scuttling in her wake.

Before she left, Hermione gave Ron a furious look.

Once they were outside, Hermione waited for the other shoe to fall. How ironic that she should get a detention for saving Ron from a far worse fate.

“Which night, Professor?” she asked apprehensively.

“Tonight,” the older woman responded. “The Headmaster has determined that, whilst we've put this off long enough, we can't very well put it off any longer.”

“I'm sorry?” Hermione asked perplexedly. “Aren't I getting a detention?”

Professor McGonagall waved off the thought. “Oh, pish-posh. Of course not. I just needed to collect you, and that seemed like the simplest way to go about it. You'll get the five points back in the next class. There are two things I need to address. The first is this note that was just delivered for you….”

With that Professor McGonagall produced some post. Hermione easily recognised the handwriting. It was from Tonks - although her penmanship looked shakier than normal. Without bothering to open it just then, she stuck the letter in her pocket.

Professor McGonagall nodded when Hermione was finished. “The other matter I need to discuss with you is Rita Skeeter.”

“I really think Harry should be here too,” Hermione resisted. “Anything concerning that cow affects him at least as much as me.”

“Miss Granger, you know that would not be wise,” Professor McGonagall tutted. “Potter is simply too emotional to handle Skeeter. He'd either kill her in a rage or else be taken in by her phony apologies. Besides, he has no plan. I believe you do - you're always planning. Were it otherwise, Potter wouldn't be here. So no, this should not involve him.”

“I'm sorry, Professor but it does,” Hermione responded in a respectful, yet firm manner. “Both of us nearly died - more than once - because we kept secrets from each other. I won't do that again. We're together now … and I won't let anything drive us apart.”

“You have my congratulations on that,” McGonagall responded, her face showing just a trace of a smile. “But you're sure there's nothing I can do to change your mind? Potter and Skeeter are just - too volatile a combination.”

“There's nothing … sorry,” Hermione reaffirmed. “I have to follow my heart on this one.”

“Very well,” the Head of House sniffed. “I'll fetch Potter, and we can discuss this.”

“Thanks for respecting my wishes,” she answered, as Professor McGonagall turned back to the ceremonial library. “I do have a plan.”

* * * *

Her surroundings had been the same, precisely the same, for who knew how long. The stone walls, uniform brownish grey in their blankness, never changed. The same pale white light illuminated them, constantly - 24 hours a day, whatever a day might be. She kipped on the same barely adequate mattress, covered with identical plain white sheets. She used the same unadorned metal basin, charmed not to overflow, to provide water to drink, to wash herself, and to wash her clothes and bedsheets. A single bar crossed near the ceiling from which she hung her washing, her single towel, and her solitary serviette.

That was it. She knew nothing else. She could not even tell how the air circulated in this place - although it did.

Actually, she had one other thing, two if she were being precise. Two buttons served as her sole means of communication with the outside world. When she had exiled to this Merlinforsaken place - days, weeks, months ago, the monotony made her entirely unsure - Argus Filch had instructed her how to use them.

Press the green one, and food will appear. Ten minutes later, anything left uneaten would disappear - along with the plates, cutlery, and so on. Best to eat fast. The food was always identical - bangers and mash, raw carrots and celery, a glass of pumpkin juice, and three biscuits. She could have as much as she wanted. Any time after the prior meal had vanished, she could press the green button again.

Press the red button, and a toilet would appear. It carried charms similar to the basin. It would remain as long as she sat on it. Then it would disappear within thirty seconds or so. She had no way to count.

That was it.

Since Mr. Filch had left, evidently taking the door to the outside with him, she had seen nobody and heard nothing. She was entombed alive.

And nobody knew where she was. She had seen to that herself before coming to the Castle on that terrible day. It was her first visit there since being found out over a year before by that insufferably clever Granger girl.

And now, Granger had caught her again - on the cusp of a huge story.

Acutely aware that recidivism would incur much more severe punishment, Rita had covered her tracks minutely. She was freelance - on her own. She had concealed her sources, and her intentions, from anyone and everyone.

It would have been her biggest scoop ever. Something had happened to Granger - something catastrophic. And more recently, something had caused Potter to vanish again. So her sources said. The two events had to be related. She knew it. And unlike every other reporter in creation, she knew how to go about finding out what.

Except that the Granger girl had evidently recognised her.

As a result, she might never see the outside of this cell.

But one alternative would be even worse. The present surroundings were positively idyllic compared to Azkaban.

Several soft popping noises - the first sound she had not made since her captivity began - made Rita Skeeter sit up straight on her bed.

The door had reappeared, and it was opening.

With a flutter of wings, a medium-sized orange and brown patterned owl flew into the cell, circled it twice, and landed on the overhead bar, knocking Rita's serviette to the floor. The bird eyed her with its large, unblinking eyes.

Then in she walked - her worst nightmare.

“Hermione Granger.”

“Rita Skeeter. Allow me to introduce Athena, my familiar. She finds beetles delicious.”

“Charmed,” the older woman replied, hardly charmed at all. “I'd say sit anywhere, but I haven't a chair.”

“No problem,” the girl responded. In the blink of an eye, she produced a wand and silently conjured a chair. “Norwegian wood,” Hermione remarked as she inspected her handiwork.

“Oh, very good,” Skeeter remarked. “Always the cleverest one of….”

“I try to be good at everything I do,” Hermione answered evenly.

“How nice to see you again,” Skeeter continued, tossing her stringy blonde hair to one side.

“There may not be another time,” Hermione said through a false smile as she sat down. “That's what I'm here to decide.”

“So you've become my judge, jury, and executioner, now,” the older woman sneered, dropping the false pretence of civility.

Hermione would not be baited. “Something similar,” she answered laconically. “Two of three - not bad. Seriously, you're not that far off. I hold Harry's proxy, and Dumbledore's likely to defer to my assessment. That is, whether there's anything here worth salvaging. Or whether you belong in Azkaban….”

The older woman tried the silent treatment - hoping to project confidence that the young witch's threats meant nothing to her.

“…I'd say you're looking at fifteen years for second offence defiant trespass on the Hogwarts grounds, invasion of privacy, and being an illegal Animagus. Then you'd have to be Distransmutated to destroy your Animagus ability. I hear that can be quite painful.”

Skeeter arched her eyebrows at the girl. “Oh, honey, you must think I'm stupid. The last thing you or your Headmaster wants is a trial, where everything I've seen becomes public.”

“I know you're stupid,” Hermione haughtily hissed back. “First, you sneak in here without leaving word with anyone who might care about you. Then you get caught - amongst a horde of witnesses to what you've done - one of whom just happens to be a master Obliviator. You honestly don't think that you'll ever be permitted to profit in the slightest from your little escapade?”

“You wouldn't dare Obliviate me,” Skeeter growled back. Hermione, however, could tell from the look in the trash reporter's eyes that she'd scored points in that exchange. “You'd get caught.”

“That's rich,” Hermione laughed harshly, “you presuming to tell anyone what he or she shouldn't dare be doing. That's why I'm here, and not Harry. They're afraid he might take pity on you. They know I won't.”

“So look who's all of a sudden become the ice queen,” Skeeter said with a sneer. “It doesn't become you.”

“You have no idea what I've had to become,” Hermione said before catching herself. “I suppose you saw we had goblins helping us. At my word, you can simply be handed over to them. Then you'd really just disappear. I'm told their goblin prisons make Azkaban look like Club Med….”

“You wouldn't,” Skeeter replied. “You're not evil enough. And even if you were, your better half wouldn't let you.”

“Don't drag Harry into this, you insufferable bitch,” Hermione finally exploded. “I think I should just use this on you and be done with it.” Hermione reached into her robes and fished out a large glass phial full of foul-looking brownish-gold potion. The translucent mixture bubbled as she shook it in the face of the older woman.

“See this? Well I suppose you know that I'm the Hogwarts Centres of Excellence Scholar for this Term. Ever since I caught you out, I've been hard at work coming up with a potion vile enough to be suitable for you. This is Babble Breath Broth. It makes you speak uncontrollable gibberish, and it's prion based. Just like that Muggle mad cow, it eventually causes insanity by eating holes in your brain. In the end, you can no longer control your vital organs. Then you die, slowly but surely, in your own shite. And there's no antidote.”

“What a lovely set of options you've presented,” Skeeter observed. “Still, I can't believe they've sent you just so I can choose my means of execution … a waste of your talents….”

“That's the first intelligent thing you've said in this conversation,” Hermione archly observed. “What I've been showing you are the sticks. You haven't shown much interest in the carrots.”

“Well, consider me all ears, now,” the older woman said less harshly. She pushed her awful rhinestone glasses down her nose to see Hermione better. “After all, I do believe you said something about a deal before our lovely Albus shut you up.”

Hermione's voice went deadly serious. “All right, but I'm only saying this once. It's a take it or leave it proposition. We've dealt before to our mutual benefit. You collaborated with us last year. We could do it again, but only after you do something very concrete to restore the trust you've thrown away with your latest escapade.”

“You'd be willing to tell me the story of what's really gone on at the Castle since the Death Eaters took Potter?” Skeeter asked, scarcely believing her ears.

“Not everything - but plenty,” Hermione reiterated. “Another exclusive, yes. But only the way we want it told, and only under very strict preconditions. There. You wanted a carrot. That's it.”

“No it isn't,” Skeeter answered, almost salivating at the prospect. “Not quite. What's this precondition you've been hinting at?”

Hermione moved in for the kill. “You must swear an Unbreakable Vow - not just to Harry, but to me - pledging that you'll never write anything concerning either Harry or myself without both of our prior consents. Rest assured, if you ever broke the Vow, I would waste no time in invoking it.”

“An Unbreakable Vow,” Skeeter repeated, as much to herself as anything. “You can do that?”

“Dumbledore can - and will,” Hermione told the woman. “He might want you to swear another one, to him, to stay away from Hogwarts in your beetle form, but that's between you two. As far as I'm concerned, it's simple. You agree, and Harry and I will forget you were ever here. You get not only your freedom, but also the biggest story of your career. We're assured that the story comes out exactly how we want it, and we get peace of mind that we never have to worry about anything you write ever again.”

“And if I don't agree?” the reporter petulantly asked.

“I don't think you even want to consider going there,” Hermione told the witch. “Right now I'm inclined to petrify you and to pour this potion down your throat. You'd be a gibbering idiot to turn this deal down.”

“All right, I'll do it,” Rita Skeeter surrendered. It was the only way to get ahead at the moment. She was a Slytherin, after all.

“Fine,” Hermione replied, her face deliberately devoid of all emotion. “I'll see you in the Headmaster's office in twenty minutes.”

* * * *

It was well after midnight. Harry and Hermione were walking hand in hand back to Gryffindor Tower from Dumbledore's office - Rita Skeeter's Unbreakable Vow now firmly in place. Hermione had just finished giving her fiancÃ© a point-by-point description of how she had “convinced” the obnoxious reporter to “see the light.”

Just before reaching the Fat Lady, Hermione pulled the phial of brown liquid from her robes and showed it to Harry. “This is what I threatened that cow with,” she remarked. Then she removed the stopper.

Drinking deeply from it, she turned to the love of her life, grinning at him just as widely as he was at her.

“You know, Harry, there are advantages to being Muggle-born,” she said, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. “Sometimes things really do go better with Coke.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Carborundum paper is British for sand paper

The Serpentine is a reference to what happened in Ch. 21

Hermione (and the Fat Lady) know the Tale of Two Cities context of “far, far better thing.” Harry doesn't

The idea of classmates, or worse staff, wagering on romantic matters always struck me as tacky. The portraits doing it, on the other hand, strikes me as humorous

I have the Fat Lady dating from Arthurian times

Ginny is not happy

Ron has news that Malfoy's not playing Quidditch

The Ceremonial Library is where Harry and Hermione had their prep session with Umbridge's prosecutor in Ch. 8

The other referenced prodigy is Tiger Woods, who was beginning to sweep the golf world before him in 1996

Zabini's family history matches canon, as does McLaggen's. The others are mostly made up

Calouste Gulbenkian had a concession that gave him 5% of oil revenues from anywhere in the old Ottoman Empire - which included Iraq, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and the UAE; this reference will figure again later

In Hawaiian legend, Hi'iaka was the first hula dancer, and had many amourous adventures. Kupaianaha is a Hawaiian volcano

LinnÃ¦us was a scientist who developed the current naming conventions for various species

Harry's already dealt with Husqvarna Flodden

Bagman's shocking experience will eventually be explained

The prototype Nimbus 2XXX will eventually come in handy

Hermione will put the bananas to good use

PatÃ© is produced by nastily overfeeding ducks

The wine descriptions are accurate, except about Blackwalls

Harry and Hermione will have some fun with Fleur's questions

Dassault is French aircraft manufacturer

The Groupe d'Intervention is a French special forces unit

La Manche is what the French call the English Channel, since they would never admit it was English

Playing “poodle” is a reference to how the Brits are seen as doing the American's bidding like a pet dog

I've never seen much Veela history in fanfics, so I made some up

Vilnius is the capital of Lithuania

The Veela history includes references to Henry VIII, Cleopatra VII, and Helen of Troy

Gene Shoemaker was a well-known comet finder before his 1997 death

A humuhumunukunukuapua'a really is a Hawaiian fish

There were several British colonies in Polynesia

Honopu Valley on Kauai is known as the “Valley of the Lost Tribe.” It is inaccessible and reachable only by boat or (as I did in my younger days) by swimming from the end of Kalalau Beach

There is a Phallic Rock on Moloka'i Island

I've made the rules about Quidditch players engaging agents similar to the American NCAA

Hermione kept Ron from saying something about McGonagall that he would not have wanted her to hear

The contents of Tonks' letter will be revealed in the next chapter

The “haven't a chair” line is from the Beatles' Norwegian Wood, hence the back and forth

Club Med is a fancy resort chain

Prions cause mad cow disease

That's right - the “potion” was really just Coke

6

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch47 slugs and beetles.doc 10/01/06

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48. All Time Best

Wherein the Dark Lord gets too angry for his own good, Harry learns bad news; Hermione learns good news; Harry and Hermione make a spectacle of themselves; Ron and Harry have a brotherly chat; Harry's year is tested; Mad-Eye has some advice; Neville awards points; Hermione learns something important; Shak teaches wandless magic; Slughorn has a contest; Ron and the Prince form a winning combination; Malfoy confronts Ron; and Death Eaters commit murder most foul.

Thanks to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Janshi.

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

Chapter 48 - All Time Best

The Dark Lord was disappointed - very disappointed. “Wormtail … Wormtail … Wormtail…. What am I to do with you? I give you a mission for which you are uniquely well suited. I even deign to provide you with special training. And yet you fail….”

“My Lord! The werewolf - I beat him,” Pettigrew pleaded.

“SILENCE!” Lord Voldemort roared. “Speak only when I give you permission! CRUCIO!!”

The ex-Marauder squealed in agony as the Cruciatus Curse made him feel like his blood boiled in his veins. After seconds that seemed like hours, the Dark Lord ended the curse.

“Did you kill Lupin?” the Dark Lord demanded.

“N-N-No, but I beat him….”

“I have Death Eaters, not Death Beaters, you abject, pitiful failure!” the Dark Lord roared. “He will recover - he's a werewolf. What can I do? I task you to find the Potters' bodies. All you tell me is that they have vanished. I order you at least to record their magical signatures. You can't even complete that poor substitute. CRUCIO!!”

Again the minuscule, balding wizard's face contorted in agony as his nerve endings writhed as if bathed in battery acid. The Dark Lord waited even longer, this time, before ending the curse.

On his hands and knees, panting heavily, and barely aware of his surroundings, Wormtail choked out, “Master. I made - a discovery…. The boy, and the Mudblood, are together…. They're….”

The Dark Lord purpled in rage. “Silence, you pathetic bumbler! Was your mission to go frolicking through Hogwarts? I have other ways to get whatever I want from under Dumbledore's nose! Next time, tell me something I haven't already read in the Prophet! CRUCIO!!”

Cast adrift for a third time on an ocean of raging agony, Peter Pettigrew went into convulsions before lapsing into unconsciousness. The Dark Lord took his frustration at the rat Animagus' deficient performance one step up the chain.

“SNAPE!”

Uneasily, the former Hogwarts Potions master stepped forward, dropped to his knees and kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robes. “Yes, My Lord.”

“As you recall, I placed this runt of a wizard in your hands to try to make something useful out of him,” Lord Voldemort hissed.

“You did, indeed,” Snape answered.

“You have quite evidently failed,” the Dark Lord remonstrated. “You have been too soft. He remains undisciplined.”

“I will endeavor to be stricter.”

As the Dark Lord pointed his wand at him, Snape knew what was coming. He took it without flinching.

“CRUCIO!!”

As rigid and unfeeling as he was, even Snape was no match for his Master's Cruciatus. Within seconds he, too, was screaming aloud and rolling on the floor as it seemed like every nerve in his body had been ripped out and replaced with red-hot barbed wire. The last thing he saw before being overwhelmed by the all-encompassing wave of pain was Bellatrix Lestrange leering at him.

Lazily, the Dark Lord ended his latest curse. “Now go,” he spat, “and take your worthless charge with you.”

With alacrity Snape did precisely as ordered. He enervated Pettigrew, gave him a kick in the backside, and left his Master's presence as fast as possible without seeming to be in undue haste.

As they were leaving, Pettigrew shuddered with a sudden realisation. His fate was sealed.

“Keep moving, damn you,” Snape sneered at him under his breath.

Pettigrew kept moving. He could do nothing else.

But he understood that the secret he still held, he could never reveal to any Death Eater under any circumstances. He had just withheld information - that Potter and Granger were not just together, but in fact secretly engaged to be married - from the Dark Lord. Granted, Lord Voldemort had not been inclined to hear what he had wanted to say, but that did not matter.

If he ever learned, the Dark Lord would not hear of any excuses. He would only remember the failure of his servant to tell him the whole truth. The Dark Lord would consider it treason.

There was only one punishment for treason - slow, lingering, and gruesome death. He had seen the Dark Lord cut other unfortunate followers literally to bits for transgressions far less serious than his. He did not wish to follow in those footsteps. Peter Pettigrew was a weak, snivelling excuse for a wizard, and he knew that.

That was how he had become a Death Eater.

But neither was he stupid.

Whenever he could, Pettigrew had observed the Dark Lord's behaviour - literally for months. The details he neither knew nor wanted to know, but he his intuition was that what he had just withheld from his Master was somehow linked to the first prophecy. What he knew for certain was that the Master spent great deal of time ruminating over precisely that prognostication.

Lord Voldemort could never know that Peter Pettigrew had kept this information from him.

Or else the betrayer of the Potters would die. Pettigrew had spent most of his life simply trying to avoid dying. In that, at least, he had been successful.

* * * *

Hermione was up early. She had to be. Distracted by the unavoidable business with Rita Skeeter, and then by her attraction to Harry's magnetic presence, she had forgotten about the letter from Tonks. She rediscovered it only when getting ready for bed.

What she read made her jaw drop. She kicked herself for not remembering earlier.

She would have to tell Harry.

It would not be pleasant.

Thus, when Harry trundled down the stairs from his dormitory the next morning, almost immediately he found himself face-to-face with his new fiancée - and she was as nervous as he could remember.

“We need to talk,” she said, “in private.”

Harry thought he had resolved those sorts of issues yesterday. His face fell. He had said he wanted his “best friend's” consent. Had she thought it over and thought better of their being together?

Hermione knew the worried look on her fiancé's face. `You're right, it's bad news,' she Legilimenced him.

“You … you changed your mind?” he mumbled out loud. “I was afraid it was too good to be true.”

Hermione's breath caught in her throat and her stomach lurched as she saw Harry's forlorn face and dull, lifeless eyes. “Oh, Merlin, not that!” Hermione squealed. “Don't you ever think that for one minute….”

She grabbed him by the arm and practically pulled Harry to the back of the common room. She Alohamoraed an inconspicuous door between the girls and boys stairways and hustled Harry inside. It was the linen closet for the dormitories, not even two metres square. A couple of surprised house-elves gave simultaneous squeaks before vanishing.

Without pausing even to lock or soundproof the door, Hermione grabbed Harry by the tie and gave him as vigorous a kiss as she could muster.

When she surfaced for air, Hermione started in. “Never think that thought again….” Then she heard a soft thud behind them. She yanked out her wand and cast, “Atramentum.” A stream of dark liquid splattered through and about the keyhole in the door. They heard someone yelp, “Ack, my eye,” on the other side.

“Honestly,” she said, shaking her head. “Can't they leave us be for one minute?”

Hermione quickly performed charms that locked the door and Imperturbed the room.

“It's Remus,” she told him. “I received a note from Tonks. He was on some sort of stake-out for the Order. Death Eaters ambushed him. They think Pettigrew was involved, but they don't….”

She saw unmistakable signs of fear in Harry's eyes, and realised how often he had been on the receiving end of even worse news. She had to cut to the chase. “He's not dead, but he's badly hurt.”

She could almost sense Harry pulling himself together at the news that Lupin still lived. “I need to see him, then,” were the first words out of his mouth.

“Tonks' note says you can't,” Hermione stated as she handed him the folded-up piece of parchment. “He's not conscious. They had to take him somewhere secret. St. Mungo's doesn't admit werewolves….”

That last bit of information induced Harry's furious look.

“Harry, you know I agree with you.… At least they have him safe and stable, but you're just too high profile,” Hermione continued as Harry followed along, reading the note. “The effort to get you there would risk Remus' security, and there's nothing you could do at this point anyway. It's not at all like my situation. This is not your fault….”

Harry sighed. For once, he had to agree. He knew that Remus Lupin regularly risked his life chasing Voldemort's finances for the Order. “All right then,” he agreed. With a semi-smile on his face, he added. “So, are you up for some more snogging?”

“Harry,” she half-heartedly protested. “We really do have to get to breakfast, you know.”

But she made no immediate move to undo her previous spells.

* * * *

The beginning to their first school day as a declared (if not yet altogether official) couple was tumultuous, but not altogether unexpected. Escorted by Ron and a phalanx of supportive Gryffindors, Harry and Hermione rather bashfully made their way to the Great Hall for breakfast.

So far, so good.

So far did not last for so long.

The morning's post began trickling in. Several owls, all bearing identical Gringotts insignia, descended on several of the Gryffindors - including Hermione and Ron - but without a corresponding owl for Harry. He feigned disinterest until he saw his two best friends exchanging concerned glances. Harry was so busy watching Hermione that he never noticed Neville and Ginny both receiving similar letters.

None of them noticed another Gringotts owl landing at the Ravenclaw table.

And nobody bothered with the unfamiliar bird - not even an owl - that parked itself in front of Draco Malfoy.

When Ron saw Harry staring, he responded with an almost imperceptible nod. Harry could stand it no longer. “So whatcha got?” he asked Ron calmly.

“Umm…,” Ron fell into a confused and uncomfortable silence.

“Umm…, just an….” The discomfort in Hermione's voice was manifest, but ultimately she could not allow herself to keep a secret from her fiancé. `Oh, Harry, it's a summons to the formal reading of Sirius' will this Saturday,' she Legilimenced to him.

Ron looked back and forth between the couple, aware that something had transpired between them, but not sure what.

Harry mouthed, `Sirius' at him, and Ron nodded.

“Don't worry, then,” Harry dismissed things with artificial cheeriness. “My mail's being screened. I'm sure I'll get mine soon enough. Saturday, eh?”

His friends nodded, and Harry let them go back to reading their post. A very short time later another swarm of delivery owls brought copies of the morning's Daily Prophet to the paper's numerous Hogwarts subscribers.

With his friends thus distracted, Harry was amongst the first to notice the edition's banner headline.

DARK LORD DETHRONED BY MUGGLE-BORN

GRANGER SETS NEW ALL-TIME O.W.L. MARK

Hermione remained preoccupied by her Gringotts letter and was oblivious as eye after eye - and not just at the Gryffindor table - turned in her direction. Simultaneously, a buzz of tense conversation spread across the Great Hall.

`Hermione,' Harry Legilimenced. There was no immediate response.

“Ehm … Hermione,” he said aloud. That got her attention.

“I think you need to see this,” he told her quietly, and he showed her the headline.

“Oh … damn,” she fretted as she comprehended what had happened. “Let me see that.” Harry handed her the paper.

“Bloody Hell, that was subtle of them!” Ron blurted with considerably more fire in his voice.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear…,” Hermione muttered as she read the article. “He'll only be goaded into more killing. No good can come of announcing it like this.”

She may have been right - but at the same time she was wrong.

Soon all of conversation in the Great Hall stopped as Deputy Headmistress McGonagall strode to the high table's lectern and cleared her throat audibly. Whilst breakfast announcements were fairly common, they usually involved some professor's last-minute course change. For the Headmaster or the Deputy Headmaster to speak at the morning meal was rare. The last such instance had been the revelation of Harry's return to Hogwarts.

“I do not often comment on stories appearing in the press,” McGonagall began earnestly, “especially at our morning meal. But this instance warrants an exception. For once the Prophet has not exaggerated the import of recent events. The recent Astronomy retake results were released yesterday evening. Both as a member of the Hogwarts staff and as Head of Gryffindor House, it gives me great pleasure to announce that one of our own, Miss Hermione Granger, achieved sufficiently excellent marks to carry her to the apex of academic history. Her total O.W.L.-averaged marks are indeed the highest ever - and the previous holder of that record was indeed Thomas Riddle, Hogwarts class of 1945, who is now known as He Who Must Not Be Named.”

Minerva McGonagall looked down from the lectern at Hermione. The Deputy Headmistress sported the broadest smile that anyone in her audience could ever recall her displaying during her tenure.

“Splendid. Very well done indeed.”

Professor McGonagall's words faded away, leaving for a moment resounding silence in the Great Hall. Then, from the Ravenclaw table, came the sound of applause. Soon the applause spread to Gryffindor and Hufflepuff and began building to a crescendo. Even Daphne Greengrass and a smattering of other Slytherins joined in - although the majority of those bearing green and silver insignia remained stonily silent.

`Stand up, Hermione,' Harry Legilimenced to the stunned girl sitting next to him, `you've earned every bit of this.'

Weak at the knees, and with silent tears streaming down her face, Hermione reluctantly complied. For a few seconds that felt like forever, she stood there acknowledging the ovation from both the staff and students of the school. Just when she felt that she was about to keel over from emotion, she felt Harry's presence by her side.

“Hold onto me,” she whispered to him, her voice cracking. “I'm afraid I'll faint.”

She felt one of his strong, warm arms slide around her waist, steadying her - and drawing her quite close to him. His other hand resolutely held hers. At that moment, she knew what she was going to do.

The situation reminded her of when Harry had burnt down the Auror Situation Room. She had been woozy then, and Harry had held her close - perhaps even closer than now - to support her. She had considered kissing him. She had wanted to kiss him. But because of the audience, she had not.

Hermione now knew that, if she had acted then, Harry's own suppressed feelings would have surfaced. Almost two months of horror, pain, and misery could have been avoided.

She would not let a second chance pass her by.

“Harry,” she said breathlessly. “Look at me.”

As her beaming fiancé turned towards her, she reached her free hand around and brought it to the back of his neck.

Then she snogged him - properly - in front of everyone in the Great Hall. His eyes widened in shock, but in an instant Harry's feelings for her overcame his inherent shyness, and he started to kiss her back. There they stood, pressed into one another and holding on for dear life.

The applause only grew louder - and especially raucous at the Gryffindor table - as the other students comprehended what the two were doing. Whistles and shouted comments soon contributed to the general din. For the moment, however, Harry and Hermione ignored everything save each other.

Their public display of affection cost them each five House Points (Professor McGonagall was in a charitable mood), but it was well worth it. Not only had they disclosed their romance to the world with appropriate panache, but it saved them both the burden of having to explain their new relationship repeatedly.

As they exited the Great Hall, Ron sidled up to the hand-holding couple. “Well, mates, I guess you won't have to worry about this one at least.” He pointed to a small story on page two of the Prophet that they had missed in all the excitement. The headline read, Has the Chosen One Chosen? Beneath it was a short story - without byline - describing “persistent rumours out of Hogwarts” that the two of them were romantically linked.

“No, I guess we won't,” Hermione remarked with a sigh. “But it was worth it.”

Harry had the morning off from classes, whilst Hermione's more crowded academic schedule began with Arithmancy. After walking her to Professor Vector's hexagonally shaped classroom located at the base of the Astronomy Tower, Harry and Ron were left at loose ends.

Harry had planned to revise for his Arithmancy for Poets class the next day, but his resolve faded as he fell into easy conversation with his best mate. At length they found themselves in one of the Castle's numerous interior courtyards. Ron draped himself over a bench in the sunlit corner of the square, and Harry slouched next to his friend.

“Harry, when we get back to the Tower, remind me I've got something I've been meaning to give you back,” Ron told him.

“What's that?” Harry asked lazily.

“Your Firebolt,” Ron replied. “It's not like I need it for Quidditch anymore, now that you've supplied the whole bloody school. I don't even need it for a personal broom, now that that Rabatin bloke's going to send me one of his new Nimbus 2XXXs.”

“He offered me one of those, too,” Harry informed his friend. “Wants me to change the Hogwarts teams over to his brand. I told him I'd think about it.”

“All he asked me for was an endorsement if I liked how the broom flew,” Ron explained. “Sort of boggles the mind, don't it? Imagine anyone buying anything on my say so.”

“You're pretty damn good at Quidditch,” Harry reminded. “I suppose that figures into it.”

“Bloody right I am,” Ron agreed, his chest swelling with pride. “I am the King. Anyway, I thought you'd want your Firebolt back no matter what, considering who gave it to you, but I decided not to bring it up whilst … well, you know.”

“Not a bad idea, actually,” Harry sighed as he recalled those dark days. “After what I'd done to Hermione, and really I didn't need a reminder of how I'd gotten him killed too.”

“She didn't die, Harry,” Ron reminded him. “You saved her, and now you get your reward.”

“She saved me first,” Harry added. “She came for me exactly when I thought everything was hopeless….” Harry's voice trailed off as his eyes took on a faraway look.

“That's what she does, alright,” Ron allowed. “It was brilliant the way she figured everything out. Brilliant - but scary. I was convinced she was dead.”

“I still can't believe she loves me,” Harry said whilst shaking his head. “I don't deserve her, you know. She shouldn't have to put up with all the aggravation - all of the danger.”

“You told me not too long ago that she'd hex me if she heard what I said about her,” Ron reminded his friend. “I'd say you're moving foursquare into that same territory.”

“You're right, Ron. I've already been down that road, and she wouldn't hear of it,” Harry admitted as he lapsed into companionable silence.

After the pause had persisted for some time, Ron again said vaguely, “So, you and Hermione, eh? Long time coming, I figure.”

“Yup, me and Hermione … I like the sound of that,” Harry cracked a half smile.

“She doesn't have any brothers and sisters, does she?” Ron asked after another pregnant pause.

“Nope, she's an only child,” Harry stated. “I thought you knew that.”

“Just checking. I suppose a best friend's gonna have to do then,” Ron remarked, drawing himself up from his sprawl and regarding Harry more closely. “I'd have expected nothing less from you if our roles were reversed…. Hah!” he scoffed. “Like that was ever possible.”

“You'd expect what about what?” Harry inquired as uncertainty crossed his face. He was unsure what Ron was on about.

“Harry,” Ron said, now looking unblinkingly at his friend. “I reckoned I would be delivering this message to you sooner or later, so I've been thinking about it. Until last year, though, I didn't think it would be on behalf of Hermione.”

“What message is that?” Harry asked.

“The message a big brother is supposed to give someone like you,” Ron replied flatly. “Which was how I reckoned I'd be delivering it, actually. You've just told me how much you know Hermione loves you. The more important question is, are you sure that you love her just as much?”

“With all my heart,” Harry willingly confirmed. “I've never had anyone else to love, you know that - well - not really…. Not who lived, anyway.”

“I'm not so sure,” Ron countered, “but that's really not important anymore - only Hermione is. I know what you'll be doing, at the end of the day, because I did it too not so long ago. I just want you to know that, if you hurt her, you'll have to answer to me.”

Harry gave Ron a surprised look. The look he got back was deadly serious.

“Big brothers have to lay down the law to their sisters' boyfriends,” Ron continued. “Hermione doesn't have one, so I'll just have to do. If you shag her and leave her, I want you to know that prophecy or no prophecy, I'll come after you. She's my best friend too, and if you hurt her, I swear I'll hurt you twice as bad. I'd expect no less from you if it was me.”

“Ron, I'd never…. You have to believe me,” Harry spluttered.

“You'd better not.” Then he added, “Ginny would be after you too, and if you know better, you'd rather me pound you than end up on the receiving end of some of her hexes.”

“Neither of you has anything to worry about,” Harry reassured. “All I want to do is spend the rest of my life with her - however much time that might be.”

That declaration drew a reaction from Ron. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he retreated. “All I wanted to make sure was that you're serious. I wasn't talking about bloody forever and ever. We're not that old. We're not supposed to be thinking that way.”

“Well, I am,” Harry replied, with a new, determined look in his eye. “I can't see anyone else ever making me feel the way she does. She's saved my life I don't know how many times. She's damn well earned the right to spend as much of my life with me as she wants.”

Ron gave Harry a quizzical look. “Harry, is there something more here - still - than meets the eye? Do you have anything more you need to tell me?”

“So what if there is?” Harry shot back. “I know we're young. She's told me that herself. But Voldemort's sort of forced me to grow up faster than normal - forced all of us actually. Yes, Ron, there really….”

Ron cut across Harry. “You've … you … you declared for her, didn't you?”

Harry fought through the interruption, until he heard what Ron had said. “That's right Ron, I…. What's this `declared' business?”

“It's what you rich wizards do,” Ron started explaining, “formally declaring their intention to court girls that they fancy like you just said. A declaration means that, unless something drastically doesn't work out, their intentions are serious, and everything, including marriage, is on the table. It's usually not done until Seventh Year, though. But you've never really let age stop you before now. Why should girls be any different from Seeking or the Triwizard Tournament, I reckon?”

Harry had been on the verge of telling Ron about their engagement, but when he heard Ron's description, he decided to leave well enough alone. “I'd never heard about that, but I'd say that's about right” he allowed. “A declaration it was, then….” The statement was true, but hardly complete.

“Well, you leapfrogged me again,” Ron responded, not quite looking Harry in the eye. “Muggle raised or not, you certainly have everything else it takes to declare for Hermione. I just hope I get the chance someday - with Cho, I mean.”

The mention of Cho caused Harry to take a deep breath, but Ron never noticed. “Hell, you're still light years ahead of me,” Harry told his friend. “I mean, we haven't done anything yet - only snogged.”

“Yeah, but that'll change soon enough, mate, I'm sure,” Ron affirmed, shaking his head. “You've got what it takes, and her parents are Muggles anyway. I don't have the Galleons it would take to get away declaring for Cho - especially since she's a year ahead and all. I just hope I get up the nerve some day. It'd have to be the luckiest day of my life to pull something like that off.”

Harry got an idea. “Don't tell Hermione this yet, because I haven't,” he began in an air of confidence. “But I'm thinking about asking her about getting matching tattoos - you know - sort of to symbolise how long we expect to be together….”

Of course, Harry never had the slightest intention of doing that - but he hoped Ron might take that bait.

He did.

“I dunno, Harry. You might be surprised. Cho's got a couple of tattoos. Shocked me the first time I saw them. They're not exactly in plain sight, you know.”

“Oi, too much information,” Harry mock protested. Actually, he had just learnt exactly what he wanted to know.

“Eh, not to worry,” Ron shrugged. “One of them's family - she told me that. The other one - I dunno. Come to think of it, maybe it's something to do with Cedric. Merlin knows, you never got far enough.”

“That's quite enough, Ron,” Harry said bracingly, feigning annoyance. “Anyway, I need to get moving. Hermione's Advanced Arithmancy class will be over soon, and we want to do some revising.”

Harry said this without a trace of levity, causing Ron to raise his eyebrows.

“You really mean that, don't you?” Ron asked him.

“Umm - yeah, I think so,” Harry answered in all seriousness.

“Dammit, Harry, you're supposed to corrupt her, not the other way around,” Ron told his friend. “She's always been weird that way, but you…. Actually intending to study with a girlfriend - a declared one at that. She's a bad influence on you.”

* * * *

After lunch, double Transfiguration held yet more surprises. Professor McGonagall collected everyone's four-foot essays on the six most prominent stumbling blocks to performing cross-kingdom Transfiguration. But the practical lesson did not follow. Instead of going over the details of turning butterflies into buttercups and then into butterscotch, the professor announced that there would be a slight change in the course plan.

“Class, you may put away your copies of Transfiguration of Living Things,” she told them. “Given the situation - outside the walls - the Headmaster has asked that I invert the lesson plan a bit. Instead of waiting until much later in the Term, we are going to test all of you for possible Animagus potential today. Don't be surprised or offended if you fail to show such attributes. It is really quite rare. There have only been seven Ministry-registered Animagi this century, and you are looking at one of them.”

With that, Professor McGonagall transformed herself into a tabby cat and back again.

“What you just saw is an Animagus transformation. An Animagus transformation must not be confused with ordinary human to animal Transfiguration. Ordinary Transfiguration is non-specific. It changes the subject not only into an animal's form, but also leaves the subject with an animal's brain. Thus for any of you individually, ordinary human to animal Transfiguration is a one-way ticket. Transfigure yourself into an animal and you won't have the intellect to Retransfigure yourself. Once Transfigured, any wizard loses the capacity for intelligent action. An Animagus, on the other hand, retains a large portion of human mental capacity whilst in animal form. This is highly advanced magic, based upon uncommon inherent talents.”

“As you just saw, the Animagus transformation is a form of wandless magic. Rather than directing magic outward, the Animagus focusses his or her magic inward - bringing about a shift in one's own shape. As with Apparition, there is no incantation. It is, however, possible to force an Animagus to retransform involuntarily into his or her original form. The caster in such a case must already be familiar with the Animagus' animal shape, as the spell has no effect upon ordinary animals, magical or otherwise. That spell, however, is post-N.E.W.T. magic and is not part of the Hogwarts curriculum, so don't expect to be learning it.”

“Also an Animagus' human form often translates into a similar animal form. For example, my feline form retains markings around the eyes that correspond to my own spectacles. Look closely.”

Professor McGonagall transformed again, but more slowly this time, to allow her students time to observe.

“A skilled Animagus can transform whilst retaining clothing, spectacles, and so forth. The great majority of you, perhaps even all, will not exhibit any such ability. Nonetheless we must remain careful. As with Apparition, accidents are frequent among inexperienced Animagi, and these can involve loss of or damage to clothing. Thus, we are splitting the class by sex. All of the witches will come with me, whilst you wizards will stay here and be reviewed by former Professor Moody, whom I have enlisted to assist in this evaluation.”

Hermione and the other girls were whisked away to an ordinarily vacant classroom down the hall. But before Harry could reseat himself with Ron and the other Gryffindors, Mad-Eye Moody stumped into view.

“You're crazy,” Draco Malfoy stated flatly.

“True enough, but I'm on Hogwarts grounds fer the moment, so yeh've nothing ta worry yer fuzzy blond head on that score,” Mad-Eye answered with a touch of threat in his voice. “And yeh of all people can't dispute my experience in human ta animal transformations.”

Moody obviously knew all about his imposter's ferret incident. His response neatly shut up Malfoy and quelled any other doubters.

What followed was boring.

Due to the school's privacy concerns, only one person could be tested at a time. None of the students were supposed to learn of the Animagus tendencies of their classmates. Thus everyone else sat around doing nothing as one by one they were called into yet another room and tested.

After lolling about with Ron and muttering about the real or perceived sins of the Slytherins for the better part of an hour, Harry was called into the actual examination room.

As soon as he closed the door, Mad-Eye said with a satisfied sigh, “Finally, I get ta the real reason for this charade. Here, Harry, let me coat yer arm with this Polyzooate Potion.”

“What do you mean, charade?” Harry asked suspiciously.

“I mean the only real reason fer conducting all these tests now is ta `discover' yer ability. Then Dumbledore has excuse he needs ta tip yeh fer proper Animagus training,” Mad-Eye explained. “Yeh heard McGonagall. Animagus ability is rare … not as rare as the Ministry's register would lead yeh ta believe, but rare enough. Beyond yer benefit, Dumbledore wants ta test Granger - and we need ta know that there ain't nobody else walking about this Castle with hidden Animagus abilities. Constant vigilance, yeh know. Summat like that could jeopardise the security of the school. Now, here, gimme yer arm.”

Harry complied but not without asking the key question. “What does Hermione have to do with this?”

“We're not positive,” Moody replied in a deliberately even voice. “But her Healers think there's a chance that the Sacrifice of the Phoenix that saved her life might have manifested in this way. We don't know fer sure, at least not yet. I'm sure she'll tell yeh whatever she finds out, now that yeh're - together - I'm sorry, Harry….”

“Sorry for what?” the boy asked.

“Remus told me afore he got hurt … Hell, he was supposed ta do this afore he came out second best in his latest encounter with the Deaters, on account of his knowing more about this sorta transformation. He said he used my example when he told yeh not ta do what yeh went ahead and did anyway. Anyways, I don't think….”

“What happened to Remus?” Harry could not help but asking, whilst they were on this subject.

“The Order wants it kept quiet,” Mad-Eye began, “but as yer guardian, I thinks yeh have the right ta know. Briefly, he was caught unawares whilst hoping ta catch some Deaters sniffing about what had been yer parents' graves. From his injuries, we're pretty sure bloody Wormtail was one of `em.”

“Shite,” Harry spat. “If I hadn't pushed Dumbledore with my damn questions, this would never….”

“Put a cork in it,” Mad-Eye interrupted forcefully. “Yeh only learnt summat that should never have been hid from yeh in the first place. Besides, that wasn't about yeh, anyway.”

“It wasn't?” Harry gulped. “But they were my….”

“They were his best friends, and don't yeh ferget that,” Mad-Eye cut Harry off. “Friendship's bloody important. Remus did what he did fer them, not fer yeh. I'd wager yeh'd do the same if they'd killed yer mates. I don't want ta see yeh moping about feeling guilty fer his sake. I'm just relieved I don't have more ta feel guilty about myself.”

“How so?” Harry asked.

Mad-Eye smiled a twisted half smile, happy that he had steered the conversation to where he wanted it. “Yeh must think Remus gave yeh horrible advice last week,” the old man continued. “And yer probably right about that. Yeh don't want ta use me as an example fer yer own life, Harry. My choices t'ain't so good. Neither are his, when yeh think about it. He should never have presumed ta advise yeh on summat he didn't know beans about. In any event, yeh did just the opposite. And that's all fer the good. It's one of the most significant steps that a person can take.”

“Actually, I didn't think that advice was bad at all,” Harry responded. “I was set to follow it….”

“Ain't that a fine kettle of fish,” Mad-Eye growled. “But….”

“Hermione thought it was rubbish, though,” Harry quickly added, “and in the end her opinion won out. She can be - very persuasive.”

“Harry, sometimes I wish I could've been more like yeh,” Mad-Eye replied, his own eyes looking uncharacteristically weary. “But life's life.” Then he got back to business. “Well let's get this over with, then.”

“Just what are you going to do to me?” Harry asked, warily if not wearily.

“Same as with everyone else. This Polyzooate Potion…,” he pointed to a bubbling cauldron full of a sludgy substance that looked even less appetising than Polyjuice Potion, “…will facilitate self-Transfiguration inta any animal form that yeh can become. We know yeh can do it - yeh've been diagnosed. With yeh, we first want ta suss out exactly what yeh can become and how easily yeh can do it, if yeh can, in a non-emergency situation. Since yeh already know how ta Apparate, fortunately everything's easier.”

“Why?” Harry asked.

“Well, with Apparition, yeh more or less will yerself from place ta place ta place. An Animagus transformation ain't all that much different. Yeh're just willing yerself from form ta form. I heard tell from Remus that Sirius was always a natural, but yer father and that bleeding rat never really got the hang of it 'till they learnt Apparition.”

Throughout his explanation, Mad-Eye used a brush to coat Harry's bare left arm with the glutinous potion. When he was done, he told Harry, “Now, I want yeh ta concentrate on yer arm, like yeh would fer Apparition, but instead of trying ta change yer location, try just as hard ta change the form.”

Harry bore down and concentrated. At first nothing happened - except for beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Mad-Eye applied a little more of the potion and gave the boy a mirror with which to concentrate on his reflection. The next time it happened. Harry's arm started to shimmer. Then brownish gold hair sprouted all along its length. The form began to shift. The mirror dropped from his hand and shattered on the floor.

From the effort, Harry let out a huge groan. At that moment his left arm completely transformed into a large paw sporting sharp, retractable claws.

“I don't believe it!” Harry cried. “I did it!”

“Yeh damn sure did!” Mad-Eye echoed, his magical eye almost whirling about in its socket. “Unless I miss my guess, yer Animagus form's that of a Golden Griffin. That's more than appropriate. Another name fer the Golden Griffin is `Gryffin d'or' - which English has corrupted from the French.”

“You really mean that?” Harry replied breathlessly, hardly believing his ears.

“I'd never have yeh on about summat like this,” Mad-Eye replied earnestly. “Humour's really not my long suit. Anyways, the complete form would be the body of a lion, with the same colour fur yeh're showing right now, the head of an eagle, and bright red wings…. Not exactly the best form fer fighting, but yeh run what yeh brung, I figure. I'm told the only thing yeh haven't transformed yet is the head. Thus, I can't say this result was unexpected.”

“It's sure unexpected to me,” Harry stated, his head still spinning. He was a Golden Griffin - a true Gryffindor. “What now?”

“Yeh get training with Professor McGonagall,” Mad-Eye told him. “Whenever and whatever yeh and she agree upon. And don't worry about time. I sure yeh've already got a rather full plate. I'm just as sure McGonagall will be quite happy to let yeh use a Time-Turner given yer schedule. Learn yer form, but don't fall too in love with it. Remember, yeh'll be pretty damn conspicuous when yer like that.”

Whilst students were free to go after their tests were complete, Harry waited for Hermione. Whilst he waited, Neville returned from his session with Mad-Eye. “How'd it go?” Harry asked him.

“Complete waste of time and effort,” Neville replied, rolling his eyes. “I could have told them ahead of time I had no Animagus talents whatever.”

“Plants rather than animals, eh?” Harry replied.

“About right,” Neville said tersely. “How about you?”

“Umm, I don't know if I'm supposed to talk about it,” Harry answered.

“I'll take that as a yes,” Neville said with a nod. “I've heard tell that your dad was one. Just remember, much is expected from those to whom much is given. I hope you hung the banner I gave you someplace proper. Now give me that rucksack of books behind you, will you?”

“Sure,” Harry answered whilst turning to get it. “Here you go.”

He hefted the heavy rucksack to Neville, who grunted as he shouldered it. “Thanks, Harry - and, by the way, forty points to Gryffindor for assisting a Prefect.”

“What!?” Harry said in an amazed voice, “I didn't do anything worth forty points. I don't want you to get in troub….”

“Oh, yes you did,” Neville said whilst silencing Harry's protest. “Just not right now. Remember, I promised you the points - and I try always to keep my promises.” Neville winked at Harry and departed.

All alone in the waiting room, it took Harry a while before figuring out what Neville had done, and why.

By the time Hermione returned to Professor McGonagall's classroom, Harry was practically bursting at the seams.

“Hermione, guess what…?” he started before he really focussed on her expression. Her robes were poorly fastened. A green T-shirt with the slogan “Well-behaved women rarely make history” showed through the gaps. She was plainly and visibly troubled. “Er … what is it?” he continued in a much gentler tone of voice.

She slumped into his arms in the otherwise deserted classroom. “Oh, Merlin, Harry, I'm not sure - what I am - anymore.”

He whispered in her ear, his breath brushing her now not-so-bushy brown hair. “You're what I want, that's what - no matter what.” He pulled her into a fierce hug, which she promptly converted into a needy kiss.

Matters progressed until they were sufficiently wrapped up with one another as not to hear the door behind them open and Professor McGonagall emerge. “Mister Potter! Miss Granger! Unless you wish to lose more House Points for public displays of affection, I'd strongly suggest that you adjourn to a more private locale.”

Red faced, the two broke apart and, holding hands only, set out for Gryffindor Tower.

“I don't believe her,” Hermione huffily declared.

“Just ignore it,” Harry advised. “That's what you always tell me. She could have been worse. At least she warned us before deducting points.”

“Warned us?” Hermione replied, her eyebrows arched. “She didn't warn us. She didn't even tell us to stop - not really. Effectively, she told us to get a room. That's what I don't believe.”

Harry said nothing in return. But replaying what had happened, he convinced himself that - once again - Hermione was right.

Hermione, though, was something else - still upset. Harry waited until they returned to Gryffindor Tower before trying to learn why. Fortunately the common room was deserted. Their housemates were still in class, and nobody else who had finished Animagus testing had returned to the Tower.

“What's wrong, Hermione? What happened?” he asked as soon as they were seated in the sofa nearest the fire.

“I'm … I'm something, but even McGonagall isn't sure what,” she declared.

Harry moved around behind his fiancée and wrapped his arms around her. “What kind of something?”

“A … a phoenix, but not an Animagus, per se,” she recounted shakily. “The potion worked and produced phoenix feathers on my arm, but not gradually - the way it should if it was identifying Animagus ability. Instead, the transformation was instantaneous. It's not an Animagus reaction; it's more like I have an alter ego, almost a Doppelgänger, without anything evil. When Fawkes became part of me, our identities more or less merged. At least that's what Professor McGonagall thinks, but even she's working with little more than speculation.”

“So … you're a phoenix, you're saying?” Harry asked.

“Sort of,” she admitted. Tears came to her eyes. “Oh, Harry, can you even think about loving someone who's - part animal.”

Once again he found himself whispering in her ear. “Hermione, I just learned I'm a Golden Griffin Animagus. That almost makes me part animal too. Trust me; this only makes you even more extraordinary in my eyes. Frankly, I think I can't not love you.”

Startled, she gave him a raised eyebrows sort of look. “Oh, very smooth, Harry. You're catching on. Sometimes, I don't know what I did to deserve you. I must have been very, very good in some previous life.”

“Trust me, you're very good in this one,” Harry answered.

“Even better, Harry,” Hermione said appraisingly. “That one's enough to deserve a kiss”.

He needed no more prompting. He released her. She turned around. Their lips met in a soft, languorous joining. Neither of them tried to push it any further, since someone could walk in at any time. For the moment, they lost themselves in each other, creating a mutual refuge from the rest of the world.

Then, abruptly, Harry pulled away, a haunted gleam in his eye.

“What is it, Harry?” Hermione asked, disconcerted by his sudden movement and mood swing.

Harry put his hands on both her shoulders and looked her straight in the eye, a very serious - almost sombre - expression on his face. He said urgently, “Hermione, I know you try to excel at everything, but I want, I need, you to work really hard with McGonagall at mastering that phoenix transformation…. As hard as you've ever worked at anything in your life.”

“Of course I will, Harry,” she replied taken rather aback, “you know I always do. But what's the urgency? I'd expect you to do the same.”

“No, this is different,” he whispered, “so different, it's a matter of life and death. In the Ministry - after you were almost killed - I went looking for Lestrange to avenge her murdering Sirius. I found her, but Voldemort turned up too. I would have died, except Dumbledore took over and duelled Voldemort to keep him from killing me. Voldemort shot all sorts of Killing Curses at Dumbledore. One would have gotten him, except it was intercepted by Fawkes!”

Hermione expected more, but Harry's breathless narrative ceased.

“And…?” she prompted him to continue.

“Don't you see?” Harry responded. “Fawkes got hit by a Killing Curse!”

“And…?” Hermione repeated, before a look of shocked comprehension spread over her own face. She answered her own question. “And Fawkes didn't die….”

“Yes! That's it, Hermione!” Harry almost shouted. “That curse forced Fawkes through a burning, but he didn't die. And in your phoenix form, I'll bet that Avada Kedavra couldn't kill you either!” At that point Harry's tone lowered distinctly, and he was only half looking at her. “I need you to live, Hermione - more than anything in the world. That's why I want you to master the transformation … learn everything McGonagall can teach you. It could … probably will, some day, save your life. If it saves your life, it probably keeps me from setting myself off again.”

“You sound really sure about this,” Hermione observed. “In that case I absolutely, positively will!” With that, they embraced, rocking back and forth silently, until eventually Hermione spoke. “It's not … not McGonagall though,” she mumbled.

“Huh?” Harry mumbled back.

“It's not Professor McGonagall who'll be teaching me,” Hermione repeated. “It's Dumbledore. It's not Animagus training - it's more like phoenix training, and the Headmaster knows more about phoenixes than anyone.”

“True, but I don't trust him very much,” Harry replied flatly. “Not after everything that's happened.”

“I still think he has your best interests at heart,” Hermione indicated, “but also his own agenda. We just have to make sure to tell each other what he's up to, and confirm what he's up to when we can.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Harry replied slowly. “Trust but verify - I heard that someplace…. Oh, and Hermione, I want you to keep the Invisibility Cloak you borrowed whilst I was missing. It's something else I really want you to have. I know it's saved my life before.”

“But … didn't you lose your other one when you were kidnapped?” Hermione asked hesitantly. “However much I need it, you need it more.”

“I'm getting a new one through the Twins,” Harry told her. “They keep asking me to visit their new Hogsmeade shop - for pay. I keep telling them no. We finally agreed that they could replace my Invisibility Cloak rather than pay me. Merlin knows, I don't need anymore Galleons.”

* * * *

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had double Defence every Tuesday after lunch. Promptly at one in the afternoon, Shak came bustling into the defence classroom.

“All right class, wands out and books away,” he told them. “Today's a practical session. Probably one of the most practical lessons you'll ever have. Everyone, away from your desks.”

The sounds of chairs scraping across the floor followed as the entire class complied. With a wave of his wand Shak vanished all of the furniture in the room.

“Professor?” Hermione said as she raised her hand. Shak nodded to her. “You Vanished my books.”

“You'll get them back at the end of class,” he brushed her off. Turning to the class as a whole, he continued, “Now, last week I discussed with you several techniques for performing silent magic. Some of you got it,” he cast a glance at Harry and Hermione, standing next to one another off to one side. “Some of you made progress,” his eyes passed to Draco Malfoy, leaning in the opposite corner. “Some of you did not,” his gaze found Su Li, who uncharacteristically had not done very well at all.

“Well, for our next unit, we're going to try something that requires the same basic skills, but uses them in a different way - that's wandless magic. Magic can be done both wandlessly and silently….” Shak stopped talking, extended his arm, and levitated his desk for a moment.

“Mister Potter, would you step forward?” Shak asked, and Harry did.

“Please cast any standard level three or less jinx at me … you can use your wand - and please do so aloud,” he instructed.

Harry thought for a moment.

“Any time you like, Potter,” Shak needled.

“Vaproso!” Harry called out, making a sweeping motion with his wand.

The jet of hot steam shot towards Shak, but billowed away as the professor silently moved his hand in a recognisable motion.

“I just demonstrated a wandless, silent Protego Charm,” Shak lectured. “My hope is that all of you - since you've chosen to take N.E.W.T.-level Defence - will be able to perform a similar spell by the end of the Term. Anyway, you should use the same concentration techniques I discussed previously, but in a different fashion. Instead of a wand, you concentrate on focussing your magic so that it flows directly from a body part. That's most commonly the hands, but need not be….”

Abruptly, Shak brought his right fist up to his sternum and incanted “Fluvius!” A stream of water shot from his right elbow and would have drenched Hermione, except she silently conjured a brolly and with it deflected the rather damp results of the professor's magic.

“Five points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger,” Shak responded. “The rest of you should know that these two took summer schooling of sorts in Defence and are thus considerably more advanced. I don't expect you to do such things yourselves - yet - but you would do well to pay attention to their technique. I understand that they've established an after-hours Defence Association, and I encourage all of you to participate.”

“As I was saying,” Shak continued as he paced about the room, “wandless magic can be done with various parts of the anatomy - the more angled the better, closer to a wand. The most common, besides the hands, are the toes, knees, heels, teeth, penis, breasts, nose, top of the head….”

As soon as Shak mentioned certain - more intimate - parts of the male and female anatomy, twitters and chuckles began rising from his audience. Even Harry and Hermione could not help going a bit pink about the ears.

Shak had no reticence about such supposedly delicate matters. He was one of the best Aurors the Ministry had. He had trained three years with the toughest Yank hit wizards at their base near Paducah, Kentucky. Shak did not pull his punches, not whilst teaching anyway.

So when the giggling persisted, Shak addressed the issue head on. “Yes, that's what I said, penis and breasts. Every year I'm told a couple of knuckleheads in the N.E.W.T. track Defence class try to make trouble with - inappropriate - wandless magic during this unit. Well, I don't want there to be any doubt, ladies and gentlemen, that if that happens in my class, it won't be tolerated. You should all know, right now, that anything of that sort … well, it's a very good way to lose your house a hundred points.”

Almost everyone gasped. Nobody could recall anyone losing a hundred House Points for a single infraction - not Harry, not even the Twins, had done that.

“That's what I said, one hundred points - and that's for a first offence. I won't have such indiscipline in my class. Nor is that all. I will also inform the responsible Head of House of anyone who engages in inappropriate forms of wandless magic. Finally, should there be a second offence, the miscreant will be expelled from this course and recorded as having received Troll marks. Do I make myself clear?”

The question prompted generalised mumbling punctuated by a few affirmative utterances.

“I can't hear you!” Shak roared.

The professor had plainly reverted to his senior Auror persona. Harry and Hermione, having been on the receiving end of similar - if not as extended - tirades during their training, knew what to do.

“Sir, yes sir!” they shouted back. It was something Shak had picked up from the Yanks.

“That's better,” Shak said in a more conversational tone of voice. “Now put your wands away and pair up. We'll give this the same go we did with silent spell casting last week.”

Harry and Hermione reflexively moved towards each other, but Shak intervened. “No,” he told them, “not this time. I'd rather you pair with someone else - someone you might be able to help. Potter, why don't you work with Mister Weasley? Granger, you can take your pick…. Actually, why don't you pair with Miss Greengrass? Her own house seems to be rather ignoring her.”

Progress that day was slow, but progress was evident. Ron responded better to working without a wand than to working without incantations. Even if in his enthusiasm he seemed to imitate a bad Muggle martial arts film on occasion, he showed none of the face-purpling frustration that silent magic had produced. Before class ended, he had managed to generate magic with his bare hands on several occasions.

Daphne also progressed admirably. With training, Hermione thought she might be the best in the class save herself and Harry. Hermione felt ambivalent about that, since she did not like how the long and lean Slytherin beauty watched Harry when she believed Hermione's attention was elsewhere.

Double Potions followed hard on the heels of double Defence. Professor Slughorn waddled into the classroom with a small stoppered phial of gold-coloured potion in his beefy hand.

“As you no doubt recall from our first lesson three weeks ago, this curious little liquid is Felix Felicis Potion. Does anyone care to review what it does?”

Instantly, Hermione's hand shot up, for once beating Ron's.

“Ah, yes, Miss Granger,” Professor Slughorn recognised her. “Since you missed the initial class, I'll let you have the first shot.”

“Felix Felicis is a restricted use potion with potentially dangerous long-term effects,” she recited. “An overdose produces recklessness and foolhardy overconfidence. In proper doses, however, it's very valuable. It's essentially luck distilled into potion form. Its formula supposedly prompts the dissolution and more favorable reconstitution of the Thread of Life, as that concept is used in Greek magic, from which this potion is derived.”

“Oho!” exclaimed Professor Slughorn. “Ten points to Gryffindor for the best description of Felix Felicis that I have ever heard in any class.”

From his seat, Draco Malfoy scowled at the Muggle-born witch. He had offered a definition of Felix Felicis in the earlier class - after Potter had been called away. Now she had topped it by a wide margin.

“That is precisely correct,” Professor Slughorn continued. “To simplify a bit, I call it `liquid luck,' and in this bottle is enough to provide a user with twelve of the most remarkable hours that he or she has ever had the pleasure of passing. I have distilled the cauldron full you saw simmering on the first day of class, so this concentrate is far purer and more powerful than that larger batch. Now, Miss Granger mentioned that Felix Felicis is a restricted potion. Can anyone enlighten us as to the nature of the restrictions?”

Both Ron's and Hermione's hands went up along with several others.

“Ah, Miss Greengrass, I'll give you a chance for the points this time.”

“For reasons that need no lengthy explanation,” she began with what Hermione considered a subtle dig, “Felix Felicis is banned during examinations of all sorts, from political elections and the like, and cannot be used whilst playing organised sports, such as Quidditch. That's an automatic red card. On the other hand, historically it was quite highly prized by troops expecting to do battle. Caesar's Tenth Legion is rumoured to have imbibed regularly.”

“I knew that,” Hermione muttered to herself.

“Excellent, Miss Greengrass, take five points,” Professor Slughorn intoned. “Now, it just so happens that today this phial is being offered as a prize. We have studied long enough, and the time has come to try our hands at a truly complex potion. Whoever's potion most closely approximates the proper formulation, or in the event of a tie, is submitted first, will win the opportunity for a perfectly enchanted afternoon and evening - or morning and afternoon for those who don't consider early rising incompatible with good luck.”

At the mention of that kind of potion as a payoff, everyone in the class sat up a little straighter and paid the professor their undivided attention.

“Please turn to page twenty five of The Joy of Potions,” Professor Slughorn told them. “For a shot at this phial of what could quite figuratively be considered spun gold, you have to make the complex healing potion, Skele-Gro. Many of you, particularly our Quidditch players, are familiar with its effects, but do you know how to brew it? Now we'll find out. You have the rest of the double period, or however much of it as you require.”

“Shite,” Harry whispered upon reaching the right place in the book. The instructions comprised almost two and a half pages. There appeared to be twenty ingredients.

Everyone's competitive juices were flowing strongly - motivated by the major prize now at stake. Malfoy furiously pulled ingredients from his potions kit. Ron fairly trotted to Slughorn's Potions cabinet to score some rarer items that his second-hand potions kit lacked. Hermione determinedly laid out all of the necessary hardware - her cauldron, flasks, a multi-loop condensation coil, and several other pieces - and ensured they were spotless. When finished, she utilised her Apparicium chez spell. With it, she deftly summoned everything she needed from the Potions cabinet without ever leaving her desk.

Ron, however, entirely ignored the “by the book” formulation found in Joy in favour of shortcuts scribbled by the Half-Blood Prince - not only in the margins, but in this instance extending to actual cross-outs in the text as well. The book called for the potion to be started in a cauldron-full of distilled water. The Prince, however, called for the base solution of two pounds of fine white tallow. Bone, after all, was not soluble in water.

From past experience, Ron trusted the Prince. Four blocks of tallow went into his cauldron, which he heated some seventy degrees hotter than the book recommended, due to tallow's higher boiling point.

Hermione perceived almost immediately what Ron was doing. “That's cheating, Ron,” she hissed.

“No it isn't,” Ron confidently shot back. “I'll let you use my book too - if you want. But you're just so stubborn, always a slave to the ruddy author.”

“I am nobody's slave,” Hermione replied vehemently. “But I do believe in following the rules, Mister ex-Prefect!”

Ron purpled and almost dropped his powdered bicorn. Fortunately, before he could respond in kind, Padma Patil demanded quiet so everyone else could go about their work.

Harry had out his silver mallet and was preparing to tenderise his newt tails before mixing them with planarian stem cell extract. Under the Half-Blood Prince's influence, Ron wasn't tenderising his ingredients at all. He simply chopped them into smaller chunks with a silver-bladed knife. Then, instead of adding the newt tails before the extract, he reversed the process and added the planarian extract first.

After that he mixed the cubed newt tails with tryptophan paste and added that combination to his cauldron. He magicked the fire underneath up a couple of notches and set the now bright blue liquid boiling vigourously.

“What are you on about, Ron?” Harry asked him. “Tryptophan paste isn't even in the ingredient list.”

“Tryptophan acts as a catalyst, according to my man the Prince,” Ron replied airily. “Trouble is, it's soluble in water, so you can't get it out, and it would eventually ruin your results. Mine's a lipid-based potion - at least that what the Prince calls it. The tryptophan's only soluble at the higher temperature. Now, watch this!”

Ron turned down the flame and cast a Cooling Charm over his cauldron. A brownish scum almost immediately appeared on the surface. Ron grabbed a ladle and skimmed it off. “There,” he pronounced in a triumphant whisper that only his two best friends could hear. “No more tryptophan. It took me five minutes the Prince's way. It will take you at least fifteen.”

Sure enough, Ron's potion was the deep opaque indigo blue that the instructions specified was ideal after the planarian extract was entirely absorbed. Harry knew he was at least ten minutes behind Ron. Looking at Hermione's potion, he could tell that she was too.

They shot through the next several ingredients, adding salamander blood and Mandrake juice. Instead of cutting up and then crushing the Mandrake root as the book's instructions decreed, Ron found that passage crossed out and, in the margin, replaced by the following:

Wrap intact Mandrake root around wand, squeeze whilst pulling towards cut end.

Yields twice as much juice twice as quickly

Ron happily followed the Prince once again. He wrapped the entire mandrake root around his wand several times. His Squeezing Spell, followed by a good swift yank, had juice pouring out the cut end of the root like a miniature fire hose. As the Prince had promised, this technique was not only much quicker than laborious chopping, but yielded nearly twice as much juice.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron - along with half the rest of the class - jumped at a whooshing noise behind them. Apparently Blaise Zabini had started reading over Ron's shoulder and imitating some of his unorthodox steps. Unfortunately, he had missed the Prince's opening instruction to use tallow rather than water. As a result, Zabini heated his potion far too high and some of his ingredients had not fully dissolved. In a blue-green cloud of slightly sweet smelling steam, the remainder of Zabini's potion explosively boiled away. Remaining was a gooey black tar coating the bottom of his cauldron, and an irredeemably ruined potion.

Ron continued to sail along following the Prince's scribbled interlineations. He added crushed cowry shells, moonstone sand, and a cup of 95% vinegar solution. His potion turned lime green. Only then did he add seven litres of distilled water. When the water was added, the melted tallow floated to the surface, where once again Ron skimmed it off and threw it away. Once the final ingredients were added, the end result was a perfect milky blue solution, looking almost like liquid bone.

Enviously, Harry regarded Ron's concoction. He had had more experience than just about anyone with Skele-Gro. The almost turquoise shade of Ron's steaming sludge was exactly like what he had been required to choke down on many occasions.

“Just like old Rubens Winikus makes,” Ron cocksurely chirped as he ladled the stuff out of his cauldron and poured it into a large beaker. Harry regarded his own potion glumly. He had done something wrong, and it had turned a rather sickly orange - a colour not proper at any stage of the preparation.

He took a sidelong glance at Hermione. Ron's potion was not the only thing steaming. Whilst she looked preoccupied, he could tell she quite cognizant of what Ron had done, and did not like even a little. Hermione stood rigidly - her hair straying from the bun she had put it in to keep it out of the way - as she frantically cut her mandrake roots in precisely the fashion prescribed by Joy of Potions. She chopped her roots quite audibly, and rather harder than necessary. Hermione's potion was predictably perfect, but would require at least ten more minutes to complete.

Following Professor Slughorn's instructions, Ron jauntily carried his beaker to the instructor's desk at the front and centre of the room, placed it in the wire container provided for finished potions, and aimed his wand at the large signal gong the professor had left nearby. Grinning at nobody in particular, he uttered a Punching Hex, and the gong sounded loudly. Then Ron returned to his seat.

Presently, Professor Slughorn's office door opened and he bounced back into the room, looking pleased. “So someone actually finished the potion?” he asked rhetorically. “…And with fifteen minutes to spare, no less. Well, well, well…. Shall we have a look?”

He pulled out Ron's full beaker of would-be Skele-Gro and gave it a visual once-over.

“Looks quite good,” Professor Slughorn commented, “quite good indeed. Just like my good friend Rubens brews. Still, the proof will be in the testing, eh? Before I bring out the test subjects, does anyone else want to enter the competition - assuming this entry is unsuccessful…?”

Several of the students, including Hermione, and Draco Malfoy, raised their hands. Harry did not. Rather than steaming, like Ron's did, Harry's own attempt met with a bad end. It had started belching copious amounts of thick black smoke, and he had been forced to douse it with Freezing Charm. Hermione had not offered him assistance - a measure of how hard she was concentrating on her own work.

Soon enough, Hermione finished her effort. It looked just like Ron's potion. Hard on her heels was Malfoy with what also looked like a successful offering. Su Li, Padma Patil, Terry Boot, and Ernie McMillan, in that order, also submitted their potions.

Whilst the stragglers finished, Professor Slughorn vanished into the ingredients closet and returned wheeling a trolley bearing several rather badly off rats. “The proof is in the potion, I always say,” he said cheerily. “All of these rats suffer from serious, multi-vertebral fractures. I will be applying each of these potion samples to one of the rats. Any potion that doesn't work is, of course, disqualified. Among the qualifying entries - assuming there are any - the earliest submitted will earn its brewer our little friend Felix here.”

Once again he waved the gold-filled phial in front of the class, in the way one would tempt a Kneazle with catnip.

“Test results will be announced at our next session on Friday. Class dismissed.”

Ron and Harry walked out together, with a stonily disapproving Hermione trailing several strides behind them.

“So if you win, what do you think you'll use your liquid luck for?” Harry asked his friend. Harry always had more disregard for the rules than his fiancée could muster. “We've got that match with Slytherin coming up.”

“Not on your life,” Ron protested. “I'm plenty good enough at Quidditch not to waste a potion like that on being just a bit better. Besides, you heard the lesson. That stuff can't be used to influence either athletic competitions or examinations. That would be cheating, and I'd never do that….”

“Oh spare us your sanctimonious shite, Weasel,” came Draco Malfoy's angry voice from beside them.

“Go away, pathetic Death Eater spawn,” Ron spat back at the Slytherin. “Couldn't buy your way onto the team this year with your daddy locked away, could you?”

“Sod Quidditch,” Malfoy continued. “If even you can do it, it's not worth doing, anyway. But I've never cheated on anything academic - not like you just did…!”

“And who asked you anyway?” Ron reacted furiously, rounding on the blonde Slytherin. Harry grabbed Ron's arm to prevent his friend from going for his wand.

“He's not worth it - to either of you,” Hermione hissed whilst moving into place next to Harry. Secretly, for once in her life, she agreed with Malfoy.

“Well, I'm going to tell you anyway,” Malfoy hissed. “I can see getting topped by the perfect Mudblood. I just hope I'm there when the Dark Lord gives her what's coming to her….”

Hermione seized Harry's right arm with both hands to keep him from flicking his wand into the obnoxious Slytherin's face. `No, Harry,' she Legilimenced to him. `You MUST stay calm - remember.'

On the other side, Ron growled, “You're ten pounds of troll dung in a five pound pouch.”

“…I can even see getting beat by Potty, who at least scraped up an `O' somehow, even if he didn't show me anything today,” an utterly undeterred Malfoy went on. “But by the Weasel? Don't make me laugh. You could never find your cauldron with both hands before. Hell, I bet you can't even spell `Skele-Gro,' let alone brew it. There's no way you could do what you did in there without cheating like there's no tomorrow.”

“Well you've certainly a rather high opinion of yourself,” Hermione intervened. “As if you had anything left to wager with….”

At that telling reminder of his reduced circumstances, Malfoy's haughty demeanor crumpled. “Damn you, Mudblood,” he muttered. “At least I took the O-plus O.W.L. in Potions last term, not you…. Not any of you.”

The Slytherin stalked off in high dudgeon.

* * * *

The young witch clutched her cape tightly around her neck against a raw nighttime breeze. She was preoccupied as she fumbled for her wand to lock up the side door at Flourish and Blots. It has been another disappointing evening, despite the extended hours. She had just been informed that, due to slow sales, she would be let go at the end of the month.

She never saw the four black-cloaked figures lurking in the shadows - until it was too late. A strong hand gripped her shoulder and spun her partly around.

“What! Who are…? Ummph.”

The man's other hand covered her mouth and she felt a wand poke her in the side.

“Imperio!”

Her struggles ceased instantly.

A short while later, five people entered the deserted front room of the Leaky Cauldron from the Diagon Alley entrance. Four were unremarkable witches or wizards, and the fifth was a dark-haired younger witch with a placid looking eyes.

Tom was tending the bar as usual when the guests arrived. His business was slow, as was now the norm, and he welcomed the prospect of serving a party of five. “What can I getcha?” he asked, addressing the group generally.

“We'd like five butterbeers, and a room for the night,” the dark-haired witch said evenly.

“Jess one room fer the lot o' yeh?” Tom asked as he opened the case that held the Leaky Cauldron's room keys.

“Yes, we won't all be spending the night,” the tallest of the others said. “Harry Potter stayed here once, I heard, is that right?”

“Sure is,” Tom said proudly. “Three years ago. Put `im up in Room Eleven - the best room I've got. Yeh want that one?”

“Yes,” his guest said in a colourless voice. “That would be … quite appropriate. Stupefy! Oh, yes - and Obliviate!”

“What was the Memory Charm for?” asked one of the accomplices.

“Nothing at the moment,” the leader replied knowingly. “But it should be a good diversion.”

The bald, toothless bartender crumpled to the floor. One of the others uttered a quick set of spells that drew the shades and cloaked the building in a Concealment Charm that made the Leaky Cauldron appear closed to anyone who happened by.

The four others ended their Incognitus Charms. The air fluttered a bit and the visages of Bellatrix Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, and Alecto and Amycus Carrow came into focus.

“You two stay here and make sure we're not disturbed,” Lestrange ordered the Carrows. “As I said, we won't be long.” She picked up the quill lying on the bar and put it to the Leaky Cauldron's ledger. “Don't forget to sign in,” she told Dolohov.

Dolohov took the room key from the unconscious man's hand, and the two Death Eaters and their latest victim ascended the stairs.

Stopping outside the door with the brass eleven on it, Lestrange spoke, “Niño, this part of it was your idea. Have your way with her, but don't take too long. Our Master demands complete success.”

“Relax,” the grizzled Death Eater assured his superior. “I've been planning this part of it for weeks. It will be - a pleasure….”

“I'm sure,” Lestrange replied. Whilst the plot was her idea, she had assigned, for obvious reasons, the actual act to Dolohov. The Dark Lord had recommended it, as it gave her more time to prepare. “Well, get it over with. It's your specialty.”

With an evil smile, Dolohov replied, “My dear Bella, murder is not just a messy necessity, it's an art form.”

“Your art is merely prologue, my dear Niño,” Lestrange responded knowingly.

Dolohov and the witch whose mind was controlled by the Unforgivable Curse entered the room. Lestrange heard the door lock, and cast a strong Silencing Charm over the room. Before she did, however, she slipped a pair of Extendable Ears under the door.

Even Lestrange winced when she heard the dull thud and splattering sound from the spell that ended it. Less than two minutes later, Dolohov unlocked the door and slipped out. Wiping his hands on a handkerchief already streaked with crimson, he told her. “Your turn. You've still got plenty to work with.”

“My turn indeed,” she echoed him. “If you're going to get your jollies from this kind of thing, the least you could do is perform the necessary Transfigurations yourself. But yours aren't worth a damn.”

“With skills like mine, I don't have to be,” a self-satisfied Dolohov grinned evilly. “The Dark Lord approved. That's why we're here. He even let me have his precious souvenir.”

The superior attitude manifested by someone she considered an ignorant tool grated. Lestrange was used to being the Death Eater closest to the Master. Thus, she retorted, “The souvenir is trivial. Master's plans are far greater than that.”

“Hunh,” Dolohov predictably replied. “What are you on about?”

Lestrange theatrically raised her eyebrows and, with a superior air of her own, answered, “Well, if the Dark Lord hasn't informed you, he must have his reasons. You'll find out when he so chooses.”

As a loyal Death Eater he had no response. Lestrange flashed a wicked smile as she reached into her robes and produced a silver dagger. “Not as much fun,” she added to her prior comment, “but I'll get mine when we return to the Master.”

Lestrange took care to lock the door and seal the room. There was more afoot than the bloodthirsty Dolohov could possibly comprehend. Before preparing the girl's remains for what the rest of her team thought of as the main event, she carefully laid the dagger on the corpse.

That done, she took pure white chalk, specially charmed by her Master for the occasion, and marked the paths of the four winds - exactly as instructed. Then she conjured the ghostly symbols that the Dark Lord had taught her. One for each point of the winds: an ankh for the South, an omega for the West, a pentacle for the North, and a taijitu for the East.

The preliminaries completed, Lestrange stood straddling the corpse and began a long Latin incantation, “Tantum per nex est principatus super nex….”

As she finished, the dagger started to spin. She felt a frisson, cold and sharp, pass through her mind. It felt like a slicing winter wind, but with no pain. As quickly as it came, it was over. The dagger stopped spinning and was still.

Lestrange gave her head a violent shake to clear the cobwebs. It would get easier; the Dark Lord had told her. The first time was the most difficult.

Methodically, she eliminated any sign - physical or magical - of what she had just done.

Her first task complete, she went to work on the Transfiguration. Tonight, the dagger would serve two purposes. In short order Lestrange completed the grisliest (if less important) part of her mission.

Ten minutes later, the four Death Eaters stepped into the Leaky Cauldron's courtyard, but rather than slip back into Diagon Alley, Lestrange pointed her wand skyward.

“Morsmordre!”

They Disapparated.

* * * *

Author's notes: Atramentum uses the Latin word for ink

Sirius is meddling from beyond the grave

Hermione's prediction comes true later in the chapter

Applause for an academic achievement appropriately starts with the Ravenclaws

The small Prophet story was what Voldemort read before Wormtail started telling him about H/Hr

____ for Poets is a class for the non-mathematically inclined. I took “Physics for Poets,” at Princeton

Ron got benefits out of the Slug Club too

Ron once expected to be giving Harry “the talk” on Ginny's behalf

Declarations - some insight into formal wizard romantic practices

That day, when it comes, may well be the luckiest day of Ron's life, but how he expected or intended

Harry would never get a tattoo. It just isn't him

Harry studies harder since realizing the extent of his powers, and Hermione is rubbing off on him

Cross-kingdom Transfiguration are from plant to animal or vice versa

Seven registered 20th Century animagi is canon

Polyzooate means multiple animals

The French derivation of Gryffindor is real. Harry as a Golden Griffin Animagus isn't unique, but still appropriate

Run whatcha brung is a relatively informal sort of all-comers auto racing

A golden Griffin, is an unwieldy form for dueling Death Eaters. It's best as a matter of surprise

From Chapter 22 we know Neville has a pretty good idea of the prophecy

Neville promised Harry points in Chapter 41 if he rescued Hermione

Another real-life T-shirt slogan, try Northern Sun

Hermione's altered state will eventually come in handy

That phoenixes survive the Killing Curse is canon

Trust but verify is from the Cold War

The Invisibility Cloak will come in handy in Hogsmeade

Body parts most like wands are best for wandless magic

I think the largest penalty in canon for any one infraction was 50 points

Shak trained with Yank hit wizards at Fort Campbell

“Sir, yes sir” is what recruits are supposed to say to American drill seargents

A more detailed explanation of Felix Felicis

Daphne, a Slytherin, is perfectly capable of biting the hand that got her into the D.A.

A red card is an expulsion, usually in soccer/football

The Tenth Legion was Julius Caesar's best unit for most of his military campaigns

Multi-loop condensation coils are used to distill liquids

My own embellishments to the HBP potion competition

Planarians regenerate if cut into little pieces through their unique stem cells

Tryptophan is an amino acid sold as a dietary supplement

For the milky blue liquid, think glacial runoff

In canon, Rubens Winikus invented Skele-Gro

Ten pounds of shit in a five pound bag is an American insult

Can't find your own ass with both hands is another insult

Draco's skill in potions comes in handy for him

The Death Eaters are not signing their own names to the register

Dolohov thinks this mission is important for one reason, Lestrange for another

The souvenir is identified in the next chapter

Taijitu = yin/yang symbol

Unless you know Latin, Lestrange's spell will stay mysterious for some time

51

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch48 all time best.doc 10/16/06

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49. Deception And Duelling

Wherein the true depths of Death Eater depravity is revealed; Dumbledore solves the case; Harry learns of new responsibility; Harry and Hermione get hexed; the D.A. central station is a big hit; Quidditch practice is disrupted; Ron wins; Hermione is insulted; Harry and Hermione duel and snog afterwards.

Thanks to betas Mark Gardiner and Shane.

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

Chapter 49 - Deception And Duelling

Even at the ungodly hour of three in the morning, the Minister's awful news drove all thought of sleep from Minerva McGonagall's mind.

“…Death Eater attack at the Leaky Cauldron. Hermione Granger is dead. We have her body. Harry Potter is missing.”

“But … how?” she protested reflexively. “They're supposed to be in the Castle. Why, I saw them earlier today.”

“At present, I see no profit to speculating as to the deceaseds' motivations for choosing to spend the night together at the Leaky Cauldron,” Minister Scrimgeour's voice rumbled through the flames of the Deputy Headmistress' Floo connection. “I'm sure that those for whom such speculation is stock in trade will do so. Right now, the critical question is whether they were merely Death Eater targets of opportunity, or if this attack portends worse - a more general assault as when Potter was last taken. This Ministry, for once, is unwilling to take chances. I am treating this as a harbinger unless and until events prove otherwise. I strongly suggest you do the same.”

Professor McGonagall's face went paler and paler as the Minister spoke.

“Very well … that is the - prudent course,” McGonagall replied tentatively, still reeling from the news. “We enhanced our own procedures over the holiday as part of our general security upgrade. I shall put them into effect.”

“Where's Dumbledore?” the Minister asked with an air of inevitability. “I'd best consult with him about where we go from here.”

“The Headmaster is - travelling,” McGonagall replied, as she Summoned her heavy night robes. “I shall contact him immediately with the news and relay your request. I am sure he will respond directly.”

“Thank you,” Scrimgeour answered, “and … I'm deeply sorry for Hogwarts' loss. I'll keep you informed as best as wizardly possible.”

“I shall as well,” McGonagall answered numbly, “and your condolences are very much appreciated.”

As the Minister's head disappeared from the flames, Professor McGonagall opened “the Snitch,” as the Headmaster's operational manual of Hogwarts security protocols was known. Symbolic of highest responsibility for Hogwarts Castle, it hovered by her, masked by a Concealment Charm, whenever Dumbledore's absence left her in overall charge.

There they were - a row of small glass jars full of various coloured vapours. She pulled out the one labeled Plan 2-B, number two, for the highest security level short of actual attack; and letter B, for staff assignments to be implemented when she, rather than Dumbledore, was in command.

With no time to spare for grief or anger, the Deputy Headmistress unscrewed the jar. A bit of the crimson mist began spilling over the edges. She thrust her wand into the jar and incanted, “Operandi.” Immediately the entire contents of the jar flash boiled. The expanding cloud filled the room in an instant and from there billowed inexorably through the entire Castle, and ultimately, the grounds.

Professor McGonagall was responsible for the safety of everyone in the school. She had to act quickly, calmly, and decisively - without distracting emotions. Those could be given free reign later. For now, time was of the essence.

Within minutes, the security warding dictated by Plan 2-B would sever normal transportation and communication links between the Castle and the rest of the world. McGonagall immediately sent an emergency Patronus to Headmaster Dumbledore, informing him of the terrible developments and relaying the Minister's request for a meeting. Through Order channels she sent a second, shorter message to Mad-Eye Moody, Harry's guardian, informing him of what she knew about Harry's latest disappearance. Finally, she dispatched fast owls to two non-wizards entitled to know what had happened - to the goblin King Ragnok, care of Gringotts, and to Hermione's mother in Australia, with the grim news of her daughter's death.

Those steps taken, McGonagall sent up a shower of red signal sparks over the Castle to notify the goblin legions residing in and about the Forbidden Forest to deploy in battle formation in anticipation of a possible attack. From the Snitch's indicators she confirmed that, indeed, the wards had increased to maximum power. Then she listened as the Castle's internal Floo network blared with Plan 2-B's automatic call of all Hogwarts staff to general quarters:

ALL STAFF ASSUME BATTLE-READY POSITIONS IN ACCORDANCE WITH PLAN 2-B. A DEATH EATER ATTACK ON THE CASTLE IS FEARED, BUT NOT UNDERWAY. SECURE THE HOUSES. ARM THE N.E.W.T.-LEVEL STUDENTS, LOCK DOWN THE YOUNGER ONES, AND STAND GUARD. FURTHER INFORMATION WILL FOLLOW.

To ensure nobody would mistake the potential gravity of the situation, Professor McGonagall appended to the standard message:

THIS IS NO DRILL.

Those steps taken, McGonagall made her way to the Headmaster's office to take up her command - and to brood over what had just happened. Only at this point did she mentally reprimand the spirit of the deceased girl. `You were supposed to be the clever one, but you let your desires rule you,' she admonished. `Now your love for that lad has cost you your life. Why, oh why, do you think I let you keep that key?'

* * * *

The scene outside the Leaky Cauldron was chaotic. A code red alert, warning of the likelihood of aggressive Death Eater activity, had issued for all of magical London. Despite that - or perhaps because of it - a large crowd of witches and wizards massed just beyond the perimeter established by Department of Magical Law Enforcement personnel about the crime scene. Inside, a full squad of Aurors conducted their investigation.

Reporters for the Prophet and other magical publications had pushed their way to the front of the queue. They bombarded all who came or went with questions. Although none of the Ministry personnel dignified such inquiries with a response, the mere subjects of these unanswered inquiries were enough to spark wild rumours that quickly spread far and wide.

“Auror, was this really a Death Eater attack, or a murder-suicide?”

“Madame, is it true that Miss Granger was killed whilst in the act with Mister Potter?”

“Lieutenant, was Miss Granger executed by Death Eaters because of her O.W.L. marks?”

“Sir, is Potter really missing, or did the attack drive him violently insane?”

The Aurors were not far along in their investigation when their activities were interrupted by a deliberately over-loud Apparition “pop.” In an instant, a dozen wands were trained on the newcomer, whose appearance had overridden an impressive array of Ministry anti-Apparition wards.

“Dumbledore!”

“Indeed,” the Headmaster responded to the first Auror who acknowledged his presence. “Now, please explain to me exactly what happened here.” His hardened blue eyes - not a trace of a twinkle - surveyed the discomforting scene. The investigation was in full swing, and matters had yet to be tidied up.

“Not so fast,” the Auror in charge growled, his wand still firmly drawn. “Tell me something that only Albus Dumbledore would know.”

“Very well,” the Headmaster agreed evenly. “Your devotion to security is admirable. Thus, I find your appearance quite a bit more professional tonight than the last time we met - when you were wearing the Dursleys' letterbox on your head.”

Dumbledore turned to another of the Aurors whose wand was also trained on him. “And you, Jason, had your fondness for polka dot boxers revealed during the same events in Surrey. Now, can we get down to business?”

“With all due respect, sir,” reproached the Auror in charge of the investigation, “shouldn't you leave this extremely unfortunate matter in the hands of our experienced detectives?”

“Ordinarily I would be more than happy to do just that,” Dumbledore replied in a dignified voice, “but I find the murder and disappearance of two of my highest profile students about as far from the ordinary as I can imagine.”

“True enough,” the Auror responded noncommittally. “Why don't you start, then, with the question of what they were doing here when they should have been at Hogwarts?”

“A troubling question, indeed, and I do intend to turn to it,” the Headmaster concurred. “But that inquiry, if the reports are to be believed, all too likely concerns something in the nature of water under the bridge. I would rather start with some simple questions of my own.”

“Oh, have it your way, then,” the Auror conceded. The Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot plainly was not about to be denied, and would, if necessary, pull whatever rank required to stick his overly large nose into their investigation. “Ask away.”

“First, how do you know it was them?” Dumbledore asked.

“Hard to miss, since they both signed the register,” the Auror in charge replied.

“Really? May I have a look?” the Headmaster immediately followed-up.

“Certainly,” the Auror agreed, gesturing towards the nearby counter where an old red leather-bound innkeeper's register lay open.

Dumbledore perused the book quickly. “Harry Potter” and “Hermione J. Granger” were the last signatures that appeared - they were hard to miss, being signed in ever-changing magical ink. He instantly recognised Harry's signature, identical in every way to the boy's execution of the highly publicised Goblin Treaty codicil. Hermione's less distinctive signature also appeared to be in order.

With all eyes on the Headmaster, everyone knew it was not a good sign when his face fell. Looking up again, he inquired, “You have confirmation of this? What does Tom have to say?”

“Tom doesn't remember anything,” another Auror chimed in, answering the second question first. “Of course, that's to be expected since he was Memory Charmed. It appears distinctly in our Legilimency. Typical Deater M.O. to leave that sort of calling card. Obviously, they wiped away all memory of their victims' presence here. All Tom remembers is four unidentifiable wizards accompanied by a younger woman. In all likelihood, that group were all Deaters in disguise.”

“Surely you must have more than this,” Dumbledore persisted.

“Of course,” the Auror in charge answered, his voice tensing in response to what sounded like implied criticism of his investigation. “As we reported, the boy is missing. We're quite certain because we found these upstairs.”

From a robe pocket, the Auror produced a pair of spectacles that perfectly matched what Harry customarily wore. He handed them to Dumbledore.

The Headmaster perused this physical evidence with interest, tapping the lenses with the butt end of his wand. Both legs of the glasses looked bent - rather worse for wear.

“So there was a struggle, then,” Dumbledore asked.

“Actually, no - we don't think so anyway,” was the reply. “The room was not terribly disarranged. No overt signs of a struggle.”

“No overt signs of a struggle?” Dumbledore echoed. “Does that seem strange to you? You are all familiar, I am sure, with what Mister Potter did to your Situation Room not very long ago?”

“That surprised us, too,” another Auror admitted. “So we tested the grease lodged underneath the eyepieces. Our analysis was conclusive. Both the Muggle DNA and the magical signature matched up perfectly with Potter's records from his training with us. These are his, all right. No doubt about that.”

Dumbledore sighed audibly. “And her?” he said softly.

“We have the corpse,” the Auror in charge answered bluntly. “Physically, it's a perfect match. She looks just like her photo from the other day in the Prophet - except, of course, that picture moves whilst she does not - any longer, that is…. And, well….”

The commanding Auror's voice trailed away. There was a distinct look of anguish on his face.

“And?” Dumbledore persisted.

The Auror nodded his head in the direction of the stairs, giving the Headmaster a wordless sign to follow.

When they were both halfway up the stairs and out of earshot of the various ground floor hangers on, the Auror answered previous question. “We haven't released the details yet, but the body … well, it was - mutilated. Ritual murder, it appears….”

Dumbledore winced. His worst fears were coming to pass. “Was it … similar to the previous attacks on Mister Potter's acquaintances?”

“In part, yes,” the Auror answered, “but in addition to the lightning bolt in the forehead, a numeric sequence, one-zero-four-six, was carved in her abdomen after death with a sharp instrument. As of now, we're not sure what this means….”

“I'm afraid I do,” Dumbledore replied, shaking his head sadly. “Miss Granger's overall O.W.L. average - the one that exceeded Riddle-Voldemort's score - was 104.6.”

Even the Auror commander flinched at that use of the taboo name. “I see,” he commiserated. “Then I suppose it was - fortunate - that she was already deceased before being butchered in that fashion.”

“Cause of death, then?” the Headmaster asked quickly. He dearly wished to conclude this line of inquiry as quickly as possible.

“Reductor Curse to the head,” was the answer.

The Headmaster blanched again. “May she rest in peace,” he intoned. “At least she did not suffer overly. Wait a minute…. I thought you said you made a visual identification.”

“I did,” said the Auror, climbing further up the stairs.

Dumbledore followed him.

“But a Reductor to the head,” he pointed out. “That would not leave much to identify, would it?”

“In this case there was,” the Auror commander replied with transparent discomfort. His voice quavered as he warned the Headmaster, “However, it's not as simple as that. I - I think you need to see the body. But … but you must steel yourself.”

Room Eleven - the scene of the crime - had been magically sealed. The junior Auror guarding the door stiffened and rose at the approaching figure of the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot.

“I really don't think you want to see this,” the guard told the Headmaster.

“Undoubtedly you speak the truth,” Dumbledore replied grimly. “But the nature of the responsibilities I bear requires that I do what I must, rather than what I please.”

The Headmaster had barely entered the room when, staring blindly back at him, he saw the lifeless face of the girl he had often called “the most remarkable witch of her age.” From her nude form, his eyes quickly passed to a distinctive crater on the far wall.

One glance at the circular spatter of blood, brain, and bits of bone surrounding the crater told Dumbledore all he thought he needed to know about the circumstances of Hermione's death. Only a Reductor Curse - administered at point-blank range - produced that sort of pattern. It meant that, behind her vacant expression, there was very little left.

He was facing another closed-casket funeral.

The Headmaster kneaded his forehead with his good hand as he turned away from the gory scene. He knew all too well what Death Eaters were capable of, and this was every bit as awful as he had feared.

Shaking his head at the gratuitous cruelty of it all, he took a deep breath. Then he half-heartedly asked the accompanying Auror, “So she died with a wand rammed down her throat?”

The commanding Auror audibly inhaled. “Er … actually not. Worse than that, we think. Our field talisman testing, it showed … something else…on the wall there. Another form of bodily….”

“No!” Dumbledore exclaimed. “You cannot mean…?”

The Auror's masklike face told Dumbledore the horrible truth without need for words - but eventually he answered the Headmaster's question.

“We believe it was wandless,” he reported, willing his voice to remain professional. “This was rape, as well as murder. They've made a horrible example of her.”

Reality was even more awful than Dumbledore had feared. “And there are no signs of resistance?” he asked again, truly puzzled.

“None, I'm afraid,” was the response.

“Did you find either of their wands?” the Headmaster asked.

He received the same answer. “Negative. I suppose He Who Must Not Be Named was collecting souvenirs.”

Dumbledore could hardly think straight as he slowly descended the stairs. His mind was racing to make sense of this senseless slaughter. Both of the victims could throw off an Imperius, and Harry had been taught - successfully, he was told - how to resist even the Cruciatus Curse.

Had the young man been forced to watch that gruesome execution?

He doubted it. The Headmaster knew Harry well enough to be certain of one thing: It was inconceivable that Harry would have stood by and let that be done to her. Rather, he would have violently resisted, to the point of his own death.

And probably - almost certainly - much more than that.

How was it that Diagon Alley, and indeed all of central London, still remained standing? Had Harry's Occlumency improved that much in such a short time? Had the Death Eaters somehow broken the boy's spirit before taking him to Voldemort? How could Harry have allowed Hermione of all people to be simultaneously sexually violated and murdered in such a fashion?

Knowing more about Harry's capabilities than the Aurors, Dumbledore could think of no acceptable explanation for what he had just seen.

Back on the ground floor, the Headmaster was almost as perplexed as he was angry - and he was incandescently angry. “Merlin! This just does not add up,” he growled to himself as he prepared to leave for Hogwarts. “Even he was not this reckless - and she certainly was not. They had so many other alternatives. To come all this way, and then to advertise it like this….”

He slammed his one usable fist down on the innkeeper's register, from which his two students' garish final signatures practically leered at him.

“This is just not right,” He declared loudly enough for everyone in the room to cast furtive glances in his direction. Under these circumstances, it would not do to gawk openly at Albus Dumbledore.

In frustration, as much as anything else, the Headmaster put his good hand over the two colour-changing signatures, as if he could not bear viewing them any longer. He cast a final wandless spell

“Reveal your secret,” he commanded.

At first nothing happened. Then the magical ink began to writhe and curl about itself, changing shape before Dumbledore's only half-believing eyes.

“Over here!” the Headmaster called out as the transformation finished.

A half dozen Aurors converged on him as he forcefully gestured to the newly reconstituted signatures. Instead of his students' names, they now read:

“Bellatrix Lestrange”

“Antonin Dolohov”

“They did not sign this. Almost certainly they were never here at all,” Dumbledore declared hotly. “It just did not add up. If they were trysting, neither would have advertised their presence like that,” the old man lectured anyone within earshot, as the nature of the Death Eaters' ruse became clear to him. “Nor does she use her middle initial…. And let me check those spectacles again.”

A simple scan with the Headmaster's wand revealed - ordinary optical glass.

“Gentlemen, these are Mister Potter's old glasses - not the pair he has worn since his return,” the Headmaster announced. “I believe we have all been played for fools. And for once, I could not be more relieved, except for the unfortunate young lady upstairs, whoever she was.”

* * * *

Harry and the rest of the Gryffindors were jolted out of bed in the wee hours of the morning by an alarm that sounded like a howler monkey subjected to the Cruciatus Curse.

“What the bloody Hell is that?” Harry moaned as he tumbled through the bed curtains into the dormitory.

“That's the new school alarm system,” Neville sleepily answered, rubbing his eyes with his fists and looking for his trousers. “They told us Prefects about it on the train - but you weren't there. And it went off when … oh, well, you weren't here then either.”

That was all so bloody enlightening.

Harry decided not to bother changing out of his pyjamas. He threw his robes over them and fumbled with their fastenings. “When was that?” he asked, only half listening.

Neville gulped, now fully awake and realising to what he had referred. “Er … The day the magic waves hit and … Hermione almost died.”

Harry said nothing, but Neville could almost feel his friend's muscles tense.

“Oh, damn!” Neville added. “I bet you don't know, then - unless Dumbledore's told you. You've been chosen as Gryffindor security liaison. You're supposed to be telling us what to do in all this. Assuming it's real, that means you're in charge of all the House's Prefects.”

“Oh, shite!” Harry reacted. So Dumbledore had acted upon his occasional gripes about never being made a Prefect. When push came to shove, the Headmaster had placed him in command of the Gryffindor Prefects in emergencies. He just wished that someone - Dumbledore or McGonagall - had thought to tell him before they were in the middle of just such a damn emergency.

That meant he had no time to naff about. Disregarding the rules and using magic, he dressed as quickly as he could. Harry then tore down the stairs, the alarm still screaming in his ears. Only a few of his housemates had beaten him to the common room, none of them girls.

Almost tripping over his robes in haste, Harry launched himself at the D.A. central station. He had barely finished the spell that activated it when Hermione came down the stairs. Like Harry had originally intended, she had simply thrown robes over her nightclothes. Unlike Harry, she had a bit more tidying to deal with - her flowing hair was loosely tied back by a bit of paisley print ribbon that must have been lying around.

“Harry! What's happening?” she asked the moment she saw him.

“Dunno,” Harry grunted whilst frantically trying to reach somebody in either Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. “All I know is it's some sort of emergency and all of a sudden I'm supposed to be in charge of everyone in Gryffindor. I have no idea what to do. I'm going to cock this up for sure.”

Harry finally raised Hannah Abbot. She was every bit in the dark as everyone else - except she informed Harry that her House's security liaison, Zach Smith, was already discussing deployments with the Sixth and Seventh Years. After that, she could not talk any longer.

A few seconds later, the portal to the Common Room swung open and Kingsley Shacklebolt entered, yelling, “Listen up! Listen up Gryffindors! That alarm's telling us to be ready to defend against a possible Deater attack at any time. Nothing's actually hit us yet, though. I'm here because Professor McGonagall is in charge of the Castle with Dumbledore away….”

Shak perused a sheet of parchment in his left hand. “Now let's see…. Who's supposed to be in charge? Potter - should have guessed.” The Defence professor's gaze flashed across the growing knot of Gryffindors until resting on Harry, who was still seated at the D.A. central station.

“Potter!” Shak barked. “What's your deployment scheme for the N.E.W.T. levels?”

“Er … I'm afraid I don't have one, sir,” Harry responded in a rather small, cast-down voice. “I didn't know about this assignment until a few minutes ago.”

“It was announced whilst he was being held by the Death Eaters,” Hermione broke in, defending Harry. “And he wasn't told….”

“That's right,” Neville added. “The Prefects were informed on the train, and I for one haven't heard any more about it.”

Geoff Hooper, the Gryffindor Seventh-Year Prefect, concurred. “Nor I.”

“Oh bollocks,” Shak snorted upon hearing the news. “Well, we can't do anything about that now, can we? So we'll just have to invent something. My notes say that Gryffindor is responsible for the back wall of the Castle, from this tower over to and including the Astronomy Tower. Unfortunately, I'm new here, and I'm not that familiar with the layout of the Castle….”

Hermione piped up. “I know what to do…!”

“No surprise there,” Romilda Vane snarked.

“…In the D.A. central station, there's a map,” she continued, ignoring the interruption. “I loaded the floor plan from the …er … from a map I found.”

“What's this `central station'?” Shak asked. He was both intrigued and worried - he was responsible for Gryffindor; his House had to make up a lot of lost ground and, it appeared, poor communication.

“Over here,” Dennis Creevey called out, moving next to where the still seated Harry. “It's something like a Muggle computer, but assembled mostly from magical parts.”

Shak followed. As Colin and Hermione scanned for the file containing the schematic of the Castle that Colin had extracted from the Marauders' Map, the Auror-turned-professor exclaimed, “Merlin's beard, this is - amazing.”

Less than five minutes later the file had been located, and several pages of parchment were in the process of being duplicated. Shak had taken the first print out - a map of the Astronomy Tower - to one of the study tables and was marking it up with a quill when Professor McGonagall's magically amplified voice boomed through the Castle.

HERE IS AN UPDATE ON THE SITUATION. WE ARE IN A LEVEL 2 LOCKDOWN. WE FEAR POSSIBLE ATTACK AT ANY TIME BECAUSE OF A SERIOUS DEATH EATER STRIKE THAT TOOK PLACE EARLIER THIS EVENING IN DIAGON ALLEY. THE AUROR CORPS HAS INFORMED ME THAT TWO OF OUR STUDENTS WERE THE TARGETS OF THAT ATTACK. IT IS MY DISTRESSING OBLIGATION TO INFORM YOU THAT MISS HERMIONE GRANGER HAS BEEN REPORTED KILLED IN THAT ATTACK, AND MISTER HARRY POTTER IS ONCE AGAIN REPORTED AS MISSING….

As Professor McGonagall's announcement progressed, all colour left Hermione's face. “As you can see, rumours of my death are….”

Upon hearing the supposed casualty list, Harry simultaneously exclaimed, “What the Hell? Nobody's….”

Neither had a chance to finish their sentences.

Almost instantaneously Shak had his wand drawn. Touching it with his ring, he silently incanted, `Petrificus Totalus.' Two jets of magic emerged from his wand at the same time, striking Harry and Hermione both. Those two toppled over without another sound.

Pandemonium erupted in Gryffindor Tower. “Bloody Hell!” Ron roared upon seeing Shak attack his friends. “Stupefy!”

Ginny was also quick on the draw, firing one of her Bat Bogey hexes at the man. Others followed their lead.

Shak, however, had not been an Auror captain for nothing. Both spells bounced off the Shield Charm he routinely used for protection. Ron's spell ricocheted into one of the portraits that adorned the walls of the Common Room, and Burdock Muldoon, a former Gryffindor Head Boy who became Chief of the Wizards' Council in the Fifteenth Century, keeled over in his frame. Ginny's curse bounced into the crowd and felled an unfortunate First Year, Mark Evans. More deflected curses brought shouts and shrieks as students frantically ducked out of the way.

“Silencio!” Shak's magically fortified voice roared, drowning out not only the noise from the students, but also the end of Professor McGonagall's announcement.

“I had no choice but to use a Full Body Bind because, given the announcement, they're probably Death Eaters in disguise,” he explained himself. “I fervently hope not, but there's no telling what they might have done with their covers blown. Everyone stay where you are, and I'll get to the bottom of this.”

Shak said all this as he made his way to where Harry and Hermione lay motionless on the common room floor. Most of the onlooking Gryffindors had their wands drawn. Some of those wands pointed at Shak, others at Harry and Hermione.

“Muffliato,” Shak incanted, not bothering with silent magic.

Addressing Harry first he said, “Laddie, if you're Harry Potter, then you'll understand that I bound you because, under the circumstances, you might be a Death Eater substituted for the real Harry. On the count of three, I'm going to release your head only from the Bind. You should be ready to tell me something about myself that only the real Harry Potter would know.”

Shak made a corkscrewing motion with his wand, and Harry felt his jaw free up. The first words out of his mouth were, “Shak, you did the right thing. Early in the summer, whilst Hermione was in Hong Kong, you came by to visit me in Little Whinging. My relatives were rude to you, and I got angry and used magic on my Uncle. You Obliviated him. Unless you've told someone, I don't think anyone else knows about that.”

Shak sighed and relaxed as a huge wave of relief washed over him. It was likely that the whole bleeding alert was a mistake.

He ended the Muffling Charm. Another twist of his wand and Harry was freed from the Full Body Bind as well. Shak leaned over, extended a hand, and pulled the boy to his feet - and into an energetic bear hug.

In the background, Harry heard cheers and spontaneous applause from his housemates.

“Thank Merlin it's you!” Shak exclaimed in a voice shaking with emotion. “I don't know what we would've done if that announcement were true! Now, you can do Granger. I'll leave the two of you alone if you'd rather.”

“Me?” Harry wondered aloud.

“I'm not sure I know anything sufficiently private to ask her, actually, and I'm sure you do. And since it's … well … of a private nature, the incantation for the spell I just cast is Muffliato, and the wand movement is like this.” As Shak demonstrated, he told Harry. “It's an Order, not an Auror spell, and it puts a buzz in everyone's ears so you can talk without being overheard.”

“Okay,” Harry replied. He cast the Muffling Charm aloud, and gave Shak an affirmative hand signal. Shak then repeated the process of releasing Hermione's head from the immobilisation.

“Tell me something about myself that nobody else knows,” Harry asked her.

She smiled at him. “That's easy. You're my fiancé.”

Even though Harry never had any serious doubt that Hermione was actually with him in Gryffindor Tower - and not lying dead somewhere in Diagon Alley - hearing her speak those confirmatory words brought greater solace than he could put into words. That tiny, horrific shred of doubt fled from his mind. A broad, unfocussed grin creased his face.

“Harry,” she said. “I still can't move.”

He grimaced. “Oh, sorry about that,” he apologised whilst giving Shak two thumbs up.

The Defence professor ended the Bind, and Harry immediately helped Hermione to her feet - and past that as he gathered her firmly into his arms. His emotion getting the better of him, Harry gave her a kiss that would have cost the House another ten points had Professor McGonagall been present.

That almost happened.

Before the two now-accounted-for students had even finished their embrace, Shak fired off an urgent Patronus to the Deputy Headmistress.

Harry and Hermione were still accepting the good wishes of their housemates when the common room fireplace blazed green and out hurried Professor McGonagall. Even though the pair's affections remained quite demonstrative, she was in no mood to dock points.

To the contrary, upon seeing them safe and sound, she burst out, “Thank Merlin, there's still some justice in this world!” She stepped up to Hermione, and paused as if unsure of herself. Then Professor McGonagall said, “oh, bother,” and gave Hermione a big hug of her own in front of the astonished House. “I thought you were dead,” she declared with more emotion than she had probably ever shown in the presence of a student.

Breaking the embrace and regaining some of her stoic composure, Professor McGonagall declared. “Now I must regrettably be off. I have to inform the Headmaster and the Ministry, and call off this alert before the Death Eaters learn even more about our planning - and then deal with the inevitable fallout.”

“Before you do, Minerva,” Shak intervened, “have you seen this?” He gestured in the direction of the D.A. central station.

“I'm aware of it. I approved its installation,” she responded distractedly. All she really wanted was to end the craziness that had so disturbed this night.

“Well, do you know what the students are able to do with it?” Shak continued. “There's a floor plan for the entire Castle in here, amongst other things. They can communicate between Houses. They can access the Muggle Internet.”

“So why are you telling me this?” Professor McGonagall answered impatiently.

“I think we should get one - maybe more - for the Order,” Shak declared.

“Fine. Take it up with Albus the next time you see him,” she waved him off. “I really must be going.”

Soon after Professor McGonagall departed, the all clear sounded throughout the Castle. Shak, who watched raptly as the Creeveys put the central station through all of its paces, took his own leave. Although most of the Gryffindors drifted off to bed even before the all clear, Harry and Hermione still sat on a House sofa near the fire clinging to one another. Even the thought of Hermione's death at the hands of Death Eaters made Harry needy and on edge. All he wanted was his fiancée's presence close to him.

Before they headed off to bed, the Creeveys anxiously approached the couple. “Er … Harry? We need to talk to you.”

“Whatever it is, the answer's yes,” Harry told them. “You saved my arse with that machine.”

“Umm … it's about money….”

“The answer's still yes,” Harry reiterated. “Just tell me what you need.”

“You heard Professor Shacklebolt,” Dennis began to explain. “Well, he's not the only one. We can't make enough of these fast enough, even using the Room of Requirement for assembly. The one we just delivered to Ravenclaw took almost a week. We were hoping you would … er … stake us, and that your lawyer friend would help us incorporate. We've some other ideas too … Hermione knows about them….”

“It's true, Harry,” Hermione told him. “They've received quite a few orders for their central stations - more than they can possibly fill by themselves. They were using an abandoned classroom that they'd found, so I showed them how to use the Room. But there's only the two of them.”

Harry nodded. He summoned one of Blackie Howe's cards from upstairs and gave it to Colin. “Here. Talk to him first. Whatever you need, he can get, but he can also help you figure out what you'll need. I don't officially own any of the money until this weekend, anyway, so get yourselves organised and let's talk about things after that.”

* * * *

The rest of the week passed comparatively uneventfully, save the lurid, half-speculative stories in the Prophet about the Death Eaters' idea of a prank, the outlines of which, of course, were quite public. Hermione wrote a long, emotional letter to her mother, emphathising over how she must have felt during that hour-long interval between Professor McGonagall's initial and then corrective owl posts.

Harry and Hermione had a tension-filled meeting after classes on Wednesday with Professors McGonagall and Shacklebolt to discuss security changes. The Ministry, the Order, and Hogwarts were all making modifications, since their responses to the contrived emergency had undoubtedly provided the Dark forces with a preview of their crisis planning.

At that meeting, they also learnt the particulars of the hoax directed at Hermione. The gory details served as something of a test of Harry's Occlumency powers. He passed that test largely because Hermione held his hand (and at one point practically sat in his lap) in front of the professors. The attack was a vivid reminder - if one were needed - of Hermione's likely fate should she ever actually fall into Death Eater hands.

Harry's overlooked role as Gryffindor security liaison was also addressed. Everyone found it worrisome that such a matter could have fallen through the cracks, particularly since Harry was the only one of the four House liaisons not both a Seventh Year and a Prefect.

The weekly Gryffindor Quidditch practice was marred by a row that ultimately involved almost the whole team. An errant Bludger crashed into the Gryffindor bench. That was hardly unusual, but this strike happened to wipe out the team's entire supply of liquid refreshment. Cormac McLaggen was waiting for a go in goal, not doing much whilst Ron trained with the first string. Katie Bell therefore directed him to get more drink from the Castle. McLaggen bridled at being “drafted as a house-elf” and rather rudely suggested to the Captain that Jazzy do it because she was the “least senior member of the team.”

Jazzy, however, was a hundred metres in the air as Harry trained her in the finer points of Seeking. Words were passed. The words became insults, which begat a full-scale shouting match.

McLaggen ended up getting the drinks after Katie threatened to kick him off the team.

The long-term solution, however, involved the usual team stalwarts. Harry accepted an assignment to arrange a constant supply of snacks during practice under the auspices of his favorite house-elf. Ron and Ginny agreed to assume similar responsibility for the team's water supply. They could get virtually indestructible containers from the Burrow - casks that had withstood even Fred and George's worst.

Friday's Potions class brought the entirely expected announcement from Professor Slughorn that Ron's brewing had passed with flying colours, thus winning him the Felix Felicis Potion. Unfortunately, the redhead chose to be a bit of a blowhard about it, lording his success over Harry and especially over Hermione. His superior airs particularly wound her up - since she considered (as Ron well knew) use of the Half-Blood Prince to be nothing less than academic misconduct.

Harry did not view Ron's actions as negatively as did Hermione - mostly because he could hardly care less. Harry's lack of interest in Hermione's latest bickering with Ron meant that she did not receive the moral support she expected from her significant other. She let Harry know about that as soon as Ron was out of earshot.

As a result, all three were rather put out with one another when they arrived at the Room of Requirement for the evening's meeting of the D.A.

Hermione instantly reassumed her role of organiser. She had an announcement to make.

“Everyone, please listen. I doubt any of you has failed to notice the problems we've had recently. There are just too many of us - not enough room to swing a cat. There are evidently limits to the magical capacity of even the Room of Requirement. In order to train effectively, and especially to duel, we simply need more square metres per person. Thus, we've no alternative to splitting the D.A. into two sections….”

She halted as a number of D.A. members groaned. Others, however, nodded in agreement.

“To minimise everyone else's inconvenience, we've decided put the other class on Tuesdays, since Wednesday is Gryffindor's day on the Pitch. That way, Harry and Ron can continue to lead the Friday sessions. I'll handle the Tuesday session, along with Neville. I've put revised sign-up sheets on the table by the door so everyone can choose. Like I said, this is purely due to space problems. I encourage all of you to split yourselves evenly. If not, I'll have to split you myself, and I'd much rather let you choose….”

“Umm … no disrespect intended, but I'd really prefer to train with Harry,” Zach Smith commented. “After all, the Prophet reported that he scored the highest Defence marks on the O.W.L.s.”

“Looks like I'm stuck with you, since there's a conflict with my study group,” Hannah Abbott addressed Hermione. “At least I can watch our House team train.”

Similar comments followed, most of them vaguely derogatory of Hermione's relative skill in Defence, dismissive of her teaching ability, or both. Soon she was visibly fuming. Hermione was not accustomed to having her competence disparaged in any Hogwarts subject - and certainly not by members of a group she had co-founded.

Like an open book, Harry read the emotions in her face. `You're upset, Hermione,' he Legilimenced. `What do you want to do about this?'

`They're not going to switch to my session,' she return-Legilimenced him. `I'll have to divide them myself, and everyone I'm teaching will wish they had you instead of me.'

`Well, you just need to convince them that you're every bit as good as I am in Defence,' he replied.

`Like that will ever happen,' Hermione ruefully admitted. `You are better, Harry. You have to be. But I'm pretty damn good myself. I think I need to prove myself. We need to duel, Harry. I have to show everyone I can hold my own.'

“Duel?” Harry gulped as he said this out loud. Switching back to Legilimency, he continued, `I don't want to fight you, Hermione - anything but.'

`I don't relish duelling you either, especially because I don't like losing, but I think that's the only way to convince them - if anything will,' Hermione replied. `You know I'm right about this.'

Harry silently nodded his agreement. Hermione, after all, was usually right.

In a loud voice that everyone in the Room could hear, Hermione declared, “I challenge you to a duel, Harry. Just like with the Aurors over the summer. No set length or format. Last person standing wins. All in save Unforgivables and Lesson 128.” Silently she added, `and no you-know-whatting either, if you know what's good for you.'

Harry was startled. He had agreed, of course, but had not thought through the ramifications of what his nod might mean. Having been publicly challenged, however, he had no choice but to accept. “All right, Hermione,” he declared. “Everyone else out of the way! Stand over there against the wall and stay out of the line of fire.”

He turned to face Hermione, calling out, “En garde!”

“Oww!” Before Harry had even finished, Hermione launched a Hornetentious Hex at him. Enough stinging insects slipped in before Harry converted to a Protego Charm effective against physical objects that Hermione was able to cast a second unanswered spell whilst he was distracted.

Several bystanding D.A. members broke out in laughter. “Mate,” Ron told him. “There's a big sign stuck to your arse that says `kick me.'”

Harry reached around and yanked off the piece of parchment. Its bright red lettering began to swirl and before he knew it, a pair of lips formed.

“Bffffft!” The lips rewarded Harry with a loud raspberry.

“Two, love, to me,” he heard her call out.

That second spell was not at all what Harry expected. Before he could retaliate with any hex of his own, Hermione had conjured a dense fog and vanished. All he heard through the fog was her voice ringing out with yet more magic, “Vox deflectus!”

He could no longer tell from what direction she was speaking.

A quite wadded ball of parchment fell from Harry's hand. “All right, Hermione, have it your way, then. I'm coming after you,” Harry growled into the fog.

Her disembodied voice replied, “It's about time.”

Harry silently heated up the nearby atmosphere to burn off the fog. Before that spell had done its work, he heard Hermione again, her voice everywhere and nowhere at the same time. She addressed the Room of Requirement itself. “I want the Alhambra,” she shouted.

All of a sudden Harry found himself in a completely unfamiliar place - a large room, with polished deep red marble floors, filled with a maze of identical circular white marble pillars topped by red and white striped archways. These were set rank upon rank and row upon row, as far as he could see. The seeing was not the best, as the only light came from flickering bronze oil lamps suspended from the almost seven-metre-high ceiling.

“All right, Hermione,” he called out to wherever she was. “You can choose the playing field. But I want you to know - no more mister nice guy. I'm going to come after you wherever you are.”

“You'd better,” her oddly ethereal voice responded, “I meant what I said about anything goes. You'd better try to beat me, or mark my words, I'll beat you.”

Harry thought he saw a mirror appear - one of Hermione's favorite tricks. Changing his shield to deflect magic, he waited and heard her call out, “Expelliarmus.” At once he saw the flash of light out of the corner of his eye. The angry red spell ricocheted off the conjured mirror and right at Harry.

There was no surprise at all. For some reason, she was not bothering with silent magic and saying all her spells aloud. So she tipped her hand.

The forewarning allowed Harry to revise his Protego shield so that it easily stopped Hermione's spell.

Just as he did so, she said something else that was lost in the crash of her magic against his shield.

Harry dropped the Protego and returned fire with a silently cast Blasting Curse that he bounced off the mirror. He also drew his backup wand and sent a Sneezing Hex at the spot he had seen the original flash of light originate. Harry had no illusion that Hermione had stayed in one place and would be found by either of these spells, but he was tired of playing defence. The Blasting Curse in particular made a satisfying explosion when it hit one of the pillars. Harry distinctly heard its pieces crash to the ground.

Then, from an entirely different direction, Harry was set upon by a flock of ravens. “Protego physica!” He restored his protection against physical objects, and then expanded the shield to force the ravens away. Once they were gone, he ducked out of the way, and took his shield off. Using Protego to block physical objects had an unfortunate side effect of impeding outgoing magic. Once free of that, Harry had no trouble Vanishing the annoying birds.

As their squawks ceased, Harry could distinctly hear Hermione laughing at him.

He decided to use stealth. It was frustrating being put on the defensive by her absurdly simple spells - especially when she was not bothering to conceal anything with silent magic. He circled his wand overhead and extinguished all of the oil lamps at once. Everything was plunged into darkness. As his eyes adjusted, the distant outlines of moonlit windows at the edges of the space came into view.

Now, how to track down Hermione? Following her voice was not an option. Harry considered using an Audibilising Charm that would amplify her heartbeat, but realised that he had an audience. All the onlooking D.A. members' heartbeats would be similarly affected, overwhelming any signal he would receive from her.

He sent a Tracking Charm after her instead. Almost as soon as he did so, however, he was rocked by a Punching Hex that Hermione returned along the magical pathway created by his own charm. He winced - and not merely from the blow. He had invented this technique himself during their summer training, as an innovative way of thwarting Tracking Charms. Hermione had just given him a dose of his own medicine.

Then he had an idea. Resorting to elemental magic, Harry silently cast an Aquas Charm. Instantly the floor of the entire room was covered with a couple centimetres of water. Keeping his ears peeled, he soon heard his quarry go splish-splashing along through the water. He charged after her, his wand drawn and ready.

Finally he got a look at her. He fired off a Stunner, but she had ducked behind one of the ubiquitous pillars. She changed directions, and returned fire with a spell that sent bolts of very bright light all around. It seemed to have no other purpose but to blind him - which it did.

He heard her splashing and took off after her again. Through the noise of his own splashing, he heard her utter “Frigidio!” Harry quickly reconjured his original shield charm, but Hermione appeared to have missed badly.

After a couple more bounding steps, however, Harry felt his feet hit a patch of wet ice. “Yaaah!” Harry screeched as he flipped arse over elbow. He tumbled off the edge of the slab of ice and fell face first into the shallow puddle covering the rest of the floor, thoroughly soaking himself.

She fired another Disarming Charm at him, which he barely blocked.

As he shook the water out of his face, he heard Hermione scurrying nearby. Harry called out Lumos, and spotted her not ten metres away. She shouted “Immobilus!” but he met her spell with a Babbling Curse of his own. Since for some reason she was avoiding silent magic, he was able to parry his spell directly against hers.

The two opposing spells, one yellow and the other blue, collided in a green flash and careened off one another at crazy angles. Harry's slammed into the roof, disintegrating a piece of the intricately carved stone ceiling. Hermione's chipped some stone off one of the pillars.

Either not noticing or not caring that he was tracking her splashes, Hermione ran off again. Harry fired a couple of Stunners but each time she ducked behind a pillar at the last second. Feeling stymied, Harry let loose with a brilliant blue Reductor Curse that tore one of the offending pillars apart - chunks of stone flew in every direction.

Harry's hopes rose as he heard Hermione recite the Transfiguration spells that converted several of the stone fragments into stout wooden logs, which she stacked into a redoubt. At long last, it appeared that she was going to stand her ground.

If she did that, he was confident he would win.

“So, you're finally going to stand and fight,” he called out to her. He noticed he was panting from all the exertion.

“That's for me to know, and you to find out - chump!” she replied in a mocking tone of voice.

Hermione appeared to be following the same strategy she had beaten him in one of their summer Auror training duels. Gingerly, Harry tried to flank her, all the while watching for that spell cutting manœuvre she had employed so effectively on that prior occasion. He was startled when the spell that left her mouth was not even a combat spell.

“Alkalicious!” she incanted loudly. A flash of bright yellow light illuminated the room and Harry could hear a soft hiss as tiny bits of white powder fell into the shallow water all around him.

“What are you playing at?” he screamed out, as he heard her go splashing off again. She had abandoned her log fort before Harry could get a clean shot at her.

In a fit of pique, he blew it to smithereens.

If Harry had not known better, he would have thought Hermione had gone daft. She had not even bothered to defend her fortification. Instead, she had cast a survival spell - one that conjured salt.

Who cares about salt?

When Hermione ignored his annoyed question, Harry decided he needed a little help to track the fugitive girl down. Using his knowledge of magical syntax, he extrapolated from one of the “interesting enchantments” he learnt over the summer. With a wave of his wand, he Transfigured two of the larger remnants of her abandoned log fortress into a pair of animated wooden wolves. He commanded them to capture her, hold her, but not hurt her.

With loud howls, his latest creations bounded off in search of their quarry.

The howls, however, concealed Hermione's latest feint. The moment she heard the first howl, she conjured a Muggle rubber raft under her feet. That done, she pointed her wand in Harry's direction and uttered, “Electrify!”

A strong charge of electricity surged at the speed of light through the now salty water. Harry's body jerked wildly as he received a short, sharp shock. To avoid the possibility of another, he performed Mobilicorpus on himself and levitated his own body out of the water.

That spell not only avoided his being zapped again - just in the nick of time - it also gave Harry a better perspective. He located his furtive fiancée by following the bluish-white glow of her Electrification Hex back to its source.

Line of sight, however, runs in two directions. She had noticed him even before he spotted her. In the brief moment he saw her, she had her wand pointed at him.

“Inverso!”

Instantly - just like Professor Snape in the greasy git's Pensieve the previous year - Harry was upside down and struggling to keep from revealing his shorts to a large audience of D.A. members.

His embarrassment only lasted a few seconds. He heard Hermione squeal as his two wooden wolves set upon her. He had done something right.

Or not. To deal with the wolves, Hermione had to end her Inversion Curse hastily, which dumped Harry unceremoniously into the no longer electrified water. Between the wolves' howls and his splash, Harry did not follow very much of Hermione's defence against his wooden creations. At one point he heard her cast what sounded like a Knot Tying Charm - and something else as well, a Sticking Charm of some sort.

He shook his head … but then heard more splashing. Daft or not, his fiancée had somehow escaped from the pair of wolves - at least temporarily.

He sprinted around a pillar and, “oof!” found himself knocked half-silly and on the floor again. Looking up he saw a still vibrating barrier of mosquito netting that Hermione had strung across the passage at just the right height to catch him in the face.

“Expelliarmus,” Hermione fired a hex at him. By taking abrupt evasive measures, Harry just managed to avoid being disarmed, but he crashed his knee into the pillar in the process.

As he rubbed his throbbing knee, Harry was now really getting agitated. This supposed duel - it was like trying to hex smoke. He felt like he was fighting shadows - shine a light on them, and they retreat - but the moment the light goes off, the shadows come back.

He wanted to end this once and for all. All these spells he was casting - and all his running and evasive movements - were tiring. He knew the direction in which she (pursued by the wooden wolves) had fled.

Harry was pretty positive that, after what she had been through, Hermione was probably not very fond of fire - especially fire of the inextinguishable variety. He was uncomfortable that things had come to this, but she had been quite explicit that this was an “anything goes” duel.

Carefully, he set himself, trained his wand and incanted, very calmly and deliberately.

“Hellas Infernum.”

Although far less violent than his prior use of the same curse, a stream of Greek Fire, burning robustly, emerged from Harry's wand and alighted on the surface of the shallow water. Resorting again to elemental magic, Harry generated a stiff wind that fanned the flames and sent the carpet of fire flowing in Hermione's direction. The semi-liquid substance rapidly spread out, and soon Hermione was being pursued, not only by wooden wolves, but by an expanding sheet of fire.

Then he waited for her to give up and ask him to rescue her.

It was impossible for her not to see the approaching conflagration. She tried to avoid it, but he kept manœuvring it after her. Whilst it had been simple enough to disguise her voice, an Echoing Charm that could do the same for physical sounds was much more complicated - N.E.W.T. Level or a little above.

That was more potent magic than she was willing to use in this duel.

She had managed to dispose of Harry's wolves neatly enough, but dealing with fire would be incomparably harder.

She was being relentlessly backed into a corner. She could not go through the flames, nor did it seem around them. There was only one way to go - up. Realising that Harry undoubtedly could neither see nor hear her through the flames, Hermione magicked all of the oil and other material out of one of the now entirely superfluous overhead lamps. She avoided Harry's fire by Levitating herself into the large bowl where the lamp had been.

Her weight caused her new perch to swing precariously. Casting an Immobilising Curse on the lamp, she hoped she could ride Harry's spell out - and maybe lie in wait to use some surprise spell that might just end the duel in her favour.

It was not one of her better ideas.

In effect, she treed herself. It did not take long before Hermione knew that her position was rapidly becoming untenable. She had overlooked something very simple and very basic.

Heat rises.

In short order she concluded that she could not possibly stay in this location with the intense flames now moving below her. The heat and smoke rising from the fire were rapidly making the ceiling area uninhabitable. It was getting extremely hard to breathe.

On the plus side, she suspected that Harry had no idea where she was.

She devised a new plan.

That plan began with a Bubblehead Charm Hermione performed on herself. Inside of the charm she added plenty of oxygen. Trusting that Harry could neither see nor hear her through the fire, she improvised. The Fluvius Charm was the simplest way to create liquid - but she was not interested in creating anything as ordinary as more water. Instead, she used principles of spell syntax to create a spell that probably had never been cast before.

If this failed, then she probably had no choice but to give up the duel - she did not want to do that.

The advancing fire was now well beyond her. Pointing her wand at the water that lay beyond the edge of the fire, she shouted “Fluvius Azote!” A torrent of frigid liquid nitrogen shot from her wand and spilled onto the puddled water, instantly freezing it and spreading out over the flat surface of the ice. She carried on until liquid nitrogen pooled on the ice for at least a half-dozen metres around.

Using a Switching Spell, she substituted the thin sheet of liquid nitrogen for the thin puddle of water that underlay Harry's onslaught of Greek Fire.

The effect of the liquid nitrogen was practically instantaneous. Not only was it extremely cold - some negative 200° centigrade - but it was essentially incombustible. The liquid flashed into gaseous nitrogen. Its evaporation drew heat away from the Greek Fire at the same time that the gas itself deprived the fire of oxygen. In the blink of an eye, the fire underneath her went out.

Hermione's spell worked even faster than she had hoped - almost too fast. She still had to escape from Harry, who shot a Disarming Charm at her. It just missed as she conjured a Muggle steel-cable death slide with apparatus, and glided safely over what was left of the flames.

Immediately upon her feet again touching terra firma, Hermione vanished what little liquid nitrogen remained. “Sinous Aquae!” She conjured a wave that sent the remaining flames back at Harry.

Being on the opposite side of the conflagration meant that Harry again could not follow what Hermione was doing. He soon found out when he saw his own Greek Fire come washing back at him.

Cursing her ingenuity, he employed the same Fire-fighting charms he had seen the Aurors use at the Ministry to extinguish the same kind of fire. For good measure, he evaporated the water he had created. Hermione had to be somewhere in the back corner of the room; that was for certain.

Although he tried to be stealthy in his movements, that proved exceedingly difficult, as the salt residue from Hermione's prior spell crunched under his feet. He heard an unusual noise and advanced upon it.

“Shite!” he exclaimed as he got close enough to make out the source of the sound in the again almost pitch-black room.

Beneath one of the innumerable archways, and hopelessly entangled about one of the innumerable pillars, were his two wooden wolves, growling helplessly. A stout cord of rope magically tied their tails together, and the wolves had wound themselves around and around the pillar until they could barely move. Nor could they even howl anymore. Hermione had seen to that. Their mouths were full of splinters. She had forced chunks of a shattered pillar so far down each beast's mouth that neither could possibly remove it.

Hermione was lurking behind a nearby pillar.

“Psoriasea!”

She cast an Itching Jinx on Harry whilst his back was turned. The spell bounced off Harry's shield as he whirled around.

She was toying with him!

Growling, he started after her again, but she cast another spell over her shoulder.

Harry ran headlong into a small twinkling cloud of golden mist her last spell had left behind. Suddenly, it was the Third Triwizard Task all over again. He felt the disorienting reversal of above and below. Harry of course knew what to do, and he quickly did it - but in the interim Hermione had snuck off yet again.

It was like trying to duel a wraith. She just would not let him get a good, straight shot at her. He was fortunate there was no time limit. As his Cousin Dudley would say, she was undoubtedly ahead on points.

Harry heard the crunch of Hermione's salt under foot. That gave him another idea. Transfiguring the salt residue to sand, Harry then tried again to end the duel through the overwhelming application of his powerful elemental magic. He sent a howling sandstorm in her direction

He very nearly succeeded. She was immediately pummeled by a one-hundred-plus-kilometre-per-hour wind that was also choked with sand. The driven sand raised welts on her skin and forced her to keep her eyes tightly shut. To avoid being blown into the open where she would come within range of Harry's powerful magic, Hermione had to conjure another rope, tie it around one of the pillars and simply hold on against the buffeting for dear life.

He might not have caught her with any of his spells, but for all intents and purposes Harry had managed to create an environment that made it almost impossible for her to continue the duel.

The only problem with that strategy was Hermione's ability to change the environment.

“I want the Forbidden Forest,” she yelled through the cloth wrapped around her mouth to keep sand out. The Room of Requirement responded, and the Alhambra (or what was left of it) shimmered and fell away.

Replacing it was a shadowy outdoor scene of huge trees dimly lit by a full moon. With this change of scenery, the violent sandstorm spawned by Harry's elemental magic vanished. The air became still, damp, and cool - a late September night in northern Scotland.

Instantly as the scene set, Hermione ducked behind one of the huge, mossy trees - its leaves already half gone with the advance of autumn.

Harry's immediate reaction to the change of scenery was to obtain better illumination. His wand erupted with a blazing white firework that stayed suspended in mid air. With sufficient light, he intended to locate Hermione and press the duel.

If anything, Harry's spell backfired. Long before he was able to spot Hermione, the shadows his magical flare cast told her about where he must be. Once certain she would not run headlong into him, she hastened down a path deeper into the forest.

Harry heard a rustle as she ran through some underbrush and followed at a trot. Neither had gone far when he called, “Dammit, Hermione, stop! It's not safe. Don't you know where you're going?”

“Don't tell me how to conduct my side of our duel,” she retorted over her shoulder. Far from halting, she picked up the pace.

Practically shaking with ire, Harry fired two strong Severing Charms and two large trees fell across the path, one in front of and one behind Hermione. He had used the same sequence when he thought he was fighting Death Eaters at Kew.

“Duel or no duel, you don't want to meet Aragog and his family,” Harry lectured. “Their signs are all around. Look at the silk in the bushes.”

“As if trying to drop trees on me was safe,” Hermione shouted back sarcastically whilst remaining hidden. Still, it did her good to rest a bit. She had a cramp coming on.

Harry noted that, with the change of scenery to the Forbidden Forest, the spell that disguised her voice had dissipated. Now he could tell the direction of her voice. He suspected that she did not know that had happened, since things sounded no different to her.

But Harry could see was her wandtip glowing - and he braced himself. Once again he was nonplussed by her choice of spells.

“Hymenoepimecis maximus!”

A dozen giant wasps emerged from her wand. With a second wave of her wand, she set them flying in Harry's direction.

“Shite!” Harry exclaimed as the outsized insects bore down on him. He blew one out of the sky with a Blasting Curse. With that, the others seemed to veer away. They circled once and then buzzed off in the general direction from whence they came, vanishing in the gloom.

“Stupefy!” From behind the fallen tree, Hermione fired another Stunner at him, followed almost immediately by Expelliarmus. Both hexes bounced harmlessly off his shield, but the barrage reminded him forcefully that she was continuing the duel.

Harry dearly wanted to end it. He was more than a little chagrined at how long things had gone on, to say nothing of being tired of fighting his fiancée. He would much rather be snogging - or even revising together.

He concentrated. With a sharp upward wand stroke and the incantation Ultrasonicus, Harry unleashed a magical sonic boom. It was more than just a loud noise. As his spell expanded in all directions, it drastically increased atmospheric pressure.

Harry winced as he heard her squeal in pain. Her ears must have been in great agony from the pressure wave for her to betray her position.

Then he unleashed the second phase of the combination he hoped would finally conclude the duel. He was conjuring with earth elemental magic….

On the other side of the massive tree trunk, Hermione still writhed in the dirt, although the pain in her ears had mercifully started to recede. For the first time since the duel had begun, she was afraid that no matter what she might do, she would lose to him in the end. Still, she thought that she had held out long enough that, even in defeat, at least some of the onlooking D.A. members would view her as a worthy instructor.

Her chief hope now was for her wasps to come through. She had hoped to be much closer before performing the spell that conjured them, but Harry had stopped her. Otherwise, very few options remained open.

Suddenly those options decreased again.

Hermione had just staggered to her feet when she felt an odd sensation around them. Looking down it seemed the very earth was moving. By the time her mind deciphered what her eyes were seeing, she could no longer move.

“Devil's Snare,” she gasped. If she failed to act quickly, it would bind her tight. Then, Harry would not only beat her in the duel, but would also have to come to her rescue.

Hermione wanted at least to avoid that ignominy. She cast two quick spells. The first conjured a jar of the same bluebell flames she had used to defeat this menace way back in First Year. The second spell conjured a large block of granite. She jumped atop it as soon as the flames caused the Snare to shrink back and free her legs.

That magic removed the immediate danger, but still she was quite stuck. Whilst protecting her from the Snare, the flames were a beacon proclaiming her location to Harry. Certain that he was even now stalking her, she tried squinting over the tree trunk to see where he might be.

“Ooh!” she squeaked, as she felt something brush against her legs from behind. She threw her hands up in surrender, certain that Harry had finally caught her.

Whatever it was nuzzled against her bare ankles again. It certainly did not feel like one of Harry's nuzzles.

Hermione whirled around and beheld - “Minnie!” She whispered excitedly as she came face to face with the unicorn foal she had befriended weeks earlier. “Look out! The Snare!” she warned - as if the animal could understand anything she was saying.

The juvenile unicorn did not respond. Instead of acting frightened, Minnie lazily lowered her head, and took a large nibble of the delicious greenery that, less than a minute before, had been threatening to engulf Hermione.

Devil's Snare was not only defenceless against grazing unicorns - it was delicious. The once aggressive plant shrank away as fast and as far as it could.

Thinking quickly, Hermione uttered a gentle Sticking Charm and affixed the bowl of dancing blue flames to Minnie's horn. The young animal had no fear of the girl and stood placidly whilst she worked her magic.

“You're a lifesaver, Minnie,” Hermione whispered. “Too bad I don't think we'll ever be able to meet like this again.” She gave the animal a soft slap on the flank, and it cantered off.

Minnie had no sooner reached the end of the fallen tree when Hermione heard a disturbance amongst its branches. Harry hurtled over them, having Transfigured the soles of his shoes into high-impact plastic. He let out a yelp as he almost impaled himself on the unicorn's first line of defence.

With a triumphant “ha!” Hermione clambered over the tree trunk in precisely the direction from which Harry had just come. He tried to squeeze off a spell, but Hermione doused Harry with a handful of Instant Darkness Powder, temporarily blinding him. She sprinted back down the same path she had come. Behind her a sightless Harry struggled to hold off a rather agitated mother unicorn whilst also trying to extricate himself from what remained of his own conjured Devil's Snare.

Then Hermione noticed a soft rumble that she felt as much as heard. The sound grew rapidly in intensity.

Hermione pointed her wand at a nearby tree branch and incanted “Scanderus!” A long metal spring shot from her wand and coiled around the branch. She recoiled the spring and had just finished vaulting onto the safety of the branch when Harry bounded into view.

“Incarcerous,” he bellowed, sending thick ropes at her.

Hermione countered with a Slashing Hex, and the ropes fell away, sliced in two. Looking behind Harry, her eyes went wide, and she shouted, “Harry! Look out!”

Harry pirouetted to face the source of the rumbling, which quickly amplified into an all-encompassing roar. He could hardly believe it as dozens of titanic spiders, each at least the size of a minibus, burst from the underbrush. At full tilt they ran madly towards him across a wide front - pursued by Hermione's wasps.

In the background, where the rest of the D.A. members were observing, Ron let out an audible squeal. He had never liked spiders.

“Quiet!” Hermione demanded of the audience.

“What the Hell?!” Harry blurted, his voice rising an octave in three syllables.

As the stampeding spiders bore down on him, Harry desperately incanted “Excavato!” Dirt exploded in all directions as his Excavating Charm blasted away the earth beneath him. Not a second too soon, he more or less fell into the hole he had dug, as the herd of panicked Acromantulæ swarmed over him. One of the gigantic arachnids stumbled into the hole, a hairy leg the size of a railroad tie missing Harry by centimetres. With an earthshaking crash it lost its balance and fell, its shattered leg kicking dirt all over Harry. Crippled, the huge spider rolled to a stop ten metres away - and was immediately beset by the loudly buzzing wasps.

Poking his head out of the hole and observing the scene, it occurred to Harry that Hermione's wasps were parasites - one of the few natural enemies of Acromantulæ.

Hermione had known what she was doing after all.

Speak of the Devil. As the spider stampede faded into the distance, Hermione jumped out of the tree incanting, “Fluvius.” A jet of water immediately cascaded over Harry as she ran by, only a few metres in front of him. He ineffectually lunged at her, slipping and sliding in the now slime-covered bottom of his pit. For a moment - long enough for Hermione again to put distance between them - Harry wallowed this way and that as he futilely sought traction in his now filthy mud hole.

Regaining his wits, Harry levitated himself. Then he cast a strong Drying Charm. Finally he scourgified himself and, once again, set off in hot pursuit.

At least this time he was chasing her back towards the Castle.

Harry got an idea. `Devolvus!' Silently he arced a spell over the top of where she had to be. A bluish-white ball of magic soared through the air and landed in a burst of sparks on the path in front of Hermione.

She came to a screeching halt as the ground where Harry's spell struck began undulating as if it were alive. The surface tore itself free of the supporting earth. The path itself began rolling up like a carpet - coming straight at her.

She turned and saw Harry, in the moonlight, watching her from under a large oak tree. He was breathing heavily with all his efforts, but there was a smile on his face nonetheless. His wand was out, and trained on the path behind her.

Not sure what he was going to do next, she hurled herself to one side, face first into some bushes, as the rolled up surface of the path rumbled by. For a bit it blocked him from getting a clear shot at her. Taking advantage, she pointed her wand, not at Harry, but at the tree above him.

“Bombardo!” An electric orange jet of magic jetted towards the tree, illuminating it.

All the leaves that remained in the tree Transfigured into marble-sized steel ball bearings. They instantly fell off and began pelting Harry, who once again had to change his shield from one that stopped only magic to one that stopped physical objects as well. That done, he Retransfigured the ball bearings into tiny helium-filled balloons, which floated harmlessly away.

Hermione used his pause to change scenery once again. “I want the Hogwarts library!” she declared.

“Your favorite place,” she heard Harry mutter as the landscape around them both again shimmered and transformed. “Now will you show yourself and fight? I'm getting bloody tired of this.”

“Only on my terms, not yours,” she replied. “Damn,” she muttered to herself. There was that twinge again.

“Multiplicitus!”

Suddenly multiple images of Hermione surrounded Harry in the main reading room. He could not help but pause. He thought he had never seen her more beautiful.

Her robes were torn and disheveled. Her hair was a mess and flying away everywhere. Her face was flushed, and bore a few minor cuts and scrapes from the bushes she had thrown herself into. Her pouty lips opened slightly as she breathed heavily through her mouth. And her eyes - her eyes were sparkling and bright.

She was oh so very much alive. She was actually having fun!

“The first principle of guerilla warfare,” her multiple images began lecturing, “is the innovative application of asymmetrical force in tactically appropriate situations. The stronger opponent must never be permitted to dictate the rules of engagement. That's what I'm doing to Harry. I can't cause a sonic boom or roll up the ground like he can….”

Unlike the rest of the D.A., Harry was not just a passive listener. He silently performed a Tracking Charm, and then placed another charm on his own glasses so they would ignore her false images.

Turnabout was fair play.

`Apis,' he mentally incanted. With a sense of satisfaction, he watched her own eyes go big as an entire shelf of books changed into a swarm of bees. He sent them buzzing after her.

She ducked into the next row of the stacks. “Liliaceous,” he heard her utter. Flowers erupted all around. Harry's bees ceased their attack - much favouring the blossoms' nectar.

He continued to track her. `Vaproso,' he thought, and sent a cloud of scalding steam after her.

“Frigidio,” he heard her counter.

“Specularis totalus!” Harry cast a spell in Hermione's direction, and instantly all the surfaces around her became mirrors. Then he cut a Stunner ten ways and sent it after the first spell.

In the split second between the two spells, Hermione converted the outside of her own robes into mirrors as well and pulled them over her head.

Over the next few seconds, much of the library lit up like a flashing red strobe light as multiple Stunners bounced this way and that off of one reflective surface after another. The barrage effectively immobilised both combatants.

“Rumpære!” Hermione's Percussive Charm shattered most of the mirrors. The torrent of ricocheting Stunners rapidly dissipated.

“Dammit Hermione, let's end this one way or another!” Harry shouted. “We're not fighting a war, we're duelling.” He sent a Blasting Curse through a bookcase.

She ducked it and scurried through a study section. “Phosphære Inverso.”

Suddenly, Harry's red Gryffindor tie appeared pale green. His ordinarily brown wand was light blue. His skin appeared a dark blackish-violet. It was all very disconcerting.

“Finite,” he said out loud, ending the spell.

He chased her back towards the main reading area.

“Accio!” she sent a Summoning Charm in his general direction, but it seemed to miss badly.

“You're getting tired too,” Harry puffed as he called to her. “Let's just call it…. Ouch!” Suddenly books were pummeling him - summoned by her on a path that went right through where he was.

Harry dropped to the ground to avoid the books.

He heard Hermione utter a Banishing Charm that would send the books right back at him again. He changed his shield charm back to one that stopped physical objects, but not before he sent out a Pushing Hex in the direction where he thought she was hiding. That hex toppled over the entire stack of books that blocked his view. That stack crashed into the next, and then the next - setting off a domino effect that left a good part of the library in ruins.

If Harry thought that wreaking destruction amongst her beloved books could draw Hermione out before she was ready, he had another thought coming.

Harry soon learnt that she had escaped that hex as well. He heard her cast a Bubblehead Charm - around him. As far as he could tell, that charm did nothing whatever to him.

She followed with one of her bizarre spell selections.

“Nitroxyl!”

Sure, she was raised by dentists - but a charm used during magical tooth extraction? That was daft. The spell was not even intended for duelling. They had learnt it during their field healing lesson.

Harry responded instantly. “Omnius Leviosa!” he called out aloud whilst waving his wand broadly over his head.

Everything on the affected side of the library began floating to the ceiling - except for Hermione. Because the Leviosa group of spells only worked on inanimate objects, he hoped that his spell would deprive her of places to hide.

“Tarentellegra!” she responded. Enough of that spell made it through his shield that he started involuntarily tap dancing.

Harry answered by dropping the ceiling all around him, knowing that his shield protected him against physical objects.

Hermione dove under one of the fallen bookcases to protect herself.

`A priori!'

Harry silently performed the restorative spell. Instantaneously the library went back to the way it was before they had started using it as a duelling ground.

Hermione was now lying exposed on the floor. He sent a Dizzying Jinx her way. She rolled away, but that hex still winged her and left her feeling woozy.

“Lumos maximus,” she called out. A flash of light burst from her wand, temporarily blinding Harry as Hermione jumped behind one of the library's large reading tables.

“Another variant on asymmetric force…,” he heard her start to lecture again.

He tried to magic the table out of the way, but she had a solid Anchoring Charm on it from the opposite direction.

“…is what the Muggles call rope a dope,” she groaned. Then, all at once, she released the Anchoring Charm and the table flew at Harry. She was on her feet as he ducked it.

“Incarcerous.”

Suddenly Harry was wrapped in large ropes.

He expanded his shield, bursting the ropes around him into pieces.

For some reason, though, Harry now felt quite strange - increasingly dizzy and disoriented. Then it came to him what she must have done some five spells before. She used that healing spell to expose him to nitrous oxide! Ever since, whilst she distracted him with spells, he had been breathing a laughing gas mixture.

He ended his shield and broke her Bubblehead Charm in one motion.

She was behind him, casting the Disarming Spell. Now it was his turn to dodge. Groggily, he ducked behind a tall davenport reading desk bolted to the floor. He heard a dull thud as Hermione's spell knocked a large book, Vander Ark's Lexicon Encyclopædia of Spells, off of the davenport and onto the floor.

“Multiplicitus!”

He was again surrounded by multiple images of her.

`Merlin, she's beautiful,' he thought.

`I'll remember that after the duel,' she Legilimenced back at him, `and remind me to thank you properly.' Unfortunately there would be a limit….

“But only after the duel,” she warned him aloud. Harry did a double take as suddenly all of her images were brandishing a large wooden stick, easily as long as she was tall.

Before he could banish the false images, she charged him.

He pointed his wand at some of her doppelgangers, but the real Hermione smacked his hands with the quarterstaff before he could get any spell off.

He grabbed at her, but she spun out of his grasp. Her right foot caught him just below his left ear as she flashed by, making him see stars.

“You never had … the Aurors' hand to hand … combat training,” she puffed, breathing heavily. “You were already captured … by the Death Eaters.”

With that, she tried to flip Harry with a judo move. Whilst she managed to unbalance him, Hermione could not generate enough force to topple him. As he tried to spin away himself, his right arm struck her solidly in the side.

“The Aurors … also taught me … how to take a punch,” she grunted as they grappled.

Some force flowing from him, like an electrical shock, forced her to let go of him, but as she pushed Harry away, she sought to trip him with her quarterstaff, slipping it between his legs.

Harry kicked out at her, trying to return the tripping favour.

Hermione saw an opening. With her wand behind her back, she used her only silent spell of the day. From across the room she Summoned another of the library's sturdy oaken study tables. It flew at the two of them.

She stomped on Harry's instep. He reflexively released her, and she ducked down and out of the way. As she ducked, she thrust her quarterstaff under the nearby reading desk.

She was just an instant too slow.

When Hermione suddenly dropped out of Harry's field of vision, all he could see was the onrushing study table.

“Reducto!” he shouted. A loud explosion ensued, blasting the table into several pieces.

The bottom portion of the reading table struck Hermione painfully in the hip, sending her sprawling atop her quarterstaff.

Even after being blasted with the Reductor, the flying chunks of the reading table remained substantial. Several pieces smacked solidly into Harry, knocking him off balance. Both Harry and the sections of the table crashed to the floor.

Harry's left foot, however, stayed lodged firmly beneath Hermione's quarterstaff, with her fallen on top of it, holding it down. He felt - and heard - successive pops as both bones in his leg fractured just above the ankle. His leg exploding in pain, Harry collapsed to the floor.

Hermione felt him fall over her and land heavily. Even before all of the pieces of the table had stopped clattering across the library floor, she was back on her feet, although distinctly favouring her left hip.

Sprawled on the floor, Harry looked up at her with one hand gripping his wand. “Hermione, I think….”

“Expelliarmus!” she yelled. Her spell hit him flush in his unshielded chest.

Harry's wand flew into Hermione's hand.

She was shocked. She could not believe it. She had actually won the duel.

Her Disarming Spell drove Harry back into the floor, and he struck the back of his head. Black flowers began to obscure his vision. From a combination of pain, shock, and exhaustion, he passed out.

“I want the D.A. Room of Requirement,” Hermione declared. Then she doubled over, hands on her knees, as she tried to catch her breath. Her own midsection felt awful - cramped, bruised, battered, and no doubt bloody.

For the last time, Hermione's surroundings shimmered as the Room regained its original form. She could see dozens of D.A. members, still pressed against the far wall.

“Everybody can come over now,” she panted to them. “It's over….”

Then she added, “Harry, you okay…?”

Hermione was immediately swarmed by a crowd of very impressed Hogwarts students, from whom voluble expressions congratulations emanated.

“Bravo, Hermione!”

“I can't believe you actually beat him.”

“Good show, Mrs. Peel.”

“That was bloody amazing, Hermione!”

After she caught her breath, she began explaining to everyone what she had done.

“It's rather obvious that Harry's … much more powerful than I can ever hope to be,” she began. “In a straight up duel, I wouldn't have a chance. But I won … anyway. How? I beat him using almost all orally cast spells … nothing silent … nothing any of you couldn't learn…. So, if you think you can be Harry … and do that kind of magic … take his session…. But if you want to learn how to survive against somebody much stronger….”

“Bloody Hell,” Ron exclaimed.

“What is it?”

“Hermione, look at Harry!” Daphne directed.

Hermione whirled around. Harry's left foot was hanging from his leg at an extremely odd and unnatural angle. Blood had started pouring freely from his trouser leg and pooling on the floor. He was pale and breathing rapidly.

“Oh Circe's knickers!” she screamed. “Harry, what did I do? Why didn't I check? I'm so stupid…. Please, somebody get Madame Pomfrey up here right away!”

Hermione sunk to Harry's side and lifted his robe far enough to see blood pouring from two deep gashes where the jagged ends of his broken leg bones had penetrated through his skin.

Reflexively she began trying to heal him, first casting a Cooling Charm to constrict the local blood vessels. As she worked, her hands became soaked in his blood. This was one part of Harry she never wanted to touch. His blood belonged inside him - not obscenely splattered all over the Room's floor.

Neville managed a wobbly communication Patronus. Ginny and Luna headed for a nearby fireplace.

“Here Hermione,” Ron frantically shoved various plasters at her. “These just popped up. Maybe you can use them to stop the bleeding - or at least slow it down….”

* * * *

Madame Pomfrey bustled into Harry's curtained off recovery area at the back of the Hospital Wing. She caught a brief glimpse of her patient and his girlfriend in a clinch before the two of them moved apart upon becoming aware of her presence. “You two,” she tutted. “If you spent any more time here, I'd have to charge you rent.”

“And you Mister Potter, I don't want you to be getting any ideas about breaking your ankle - actually leg - again.”

“Why would I do that?” Harry asked weakly, whilst Hermione went even pinker in the background.

“Because except for cleaning herself up, Miss Granger has not left you alone for a minute since you arrived here,” the head nurse replied with a straight face. “And she can't seem to keep her hands off you. Now let me check you out.”

The nurse fussed over Harry's healing leg. She duly noted that Harry winced several times as she prodded him. It had been a very bad compound and comminuted break.

“I don't suppose I can convince you to stay overnight, whilst the Skele-Gro takes full effect?” she asked Harry.

“No, not with all I have to do tomorrow and next,” Harry objected.

“Very well,” Madame Pomfrey sighed. “I have no medical reason to keep you. I want you to stay off of it tonight, and it should be all better by morning. To take no chances, I'm going to wrap it tightly in a Mandrake-soaked plaster. Leave that on until tomorrow. You can use these crutches for the evening.”

The nurse pointed her wand at a pair of ebonywood crutches. They hopped to attention, and then bounced over to Harry's bedside of their own accord.

“These are Healer Huckleberry's Self-Walking Crutches,” she explained. “Since you're partly healed already, these will do for now. You can return them in the morning.”

Soon Harry and Hermione were headed down the Third Floor corridor in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. She had to trot to keep up with him, because Harry was determined to find out how fast he could make the self-walking crutches go.

“Harry, slow down!” Hermione finally called out in frustration. “It's not like we have to get anywhere in such a great hurry, you know. With the rest of the D.A. session cancelled due to your injury, we're still about a half-hour to the good.”

“To the good of what?” Harry asked irascibly as he came to a halt. “By now everyone in the Castle knows what happened - my own girl friend broke my leg in a duel. And I stuck on crutches. I'm going to be useless until tomorrow, since I'm not in good working order.”

“I hardly think you're useless,” she said softly, as she put both arms around his neck and leaned into him, making his crutches start to vibrate with anticipation. “And I could tell in the Hospital Wing that, despite what I did to your leg, the rest of you still works just fine.”

With that she kissed him. His arms reflexively started to go around her waist, but when he let go of the crutches, Harry almost toppled over. That forced them to break the kiss and give some thought to logistics.

“Whatever you say, I'm pants at anything standing up,” he admitted.

“True enough. And we need someplace more private,” she added. “I don't want us be a constant public spectacle like Ron and Cho, or Lavender and her flavour of the month. Once was enough. We could go back to the Room.”

“Anywhere but there, please,” Harry vetoed. “After all that duelling in there, I think I'd be rather distracted - and not in a good way. You proved your point, by the way….”

Hermione leaned back into him as she thought. “The Common Room is definitely too crowded. I'd lose points being in your dormitory. There's the Library, but I don't want to risk getting thrown out by Madame Pince, with all the work we have to do.”

She was slowly tipping Harry off balance again, and his crutches compensated by gliding backwards until coming to rest against the wall. “Umm…. I suppose there is right here,” he commented, reaching out for her again, “and right now….”

“I suppose there is,” Hermione echoed, reaching up to capture his lips again.

“I say, you two,” Ernie Macmillan's overly formal voice called out. “I'd really rather not, but as I do have patrolling responsibility for this evening, you'll have to desist or I'll be forced to take away points.”

“Go away, Ernie,” Hermione groaned, “or I'll figure out how to dock points from you.”

“Really now chaps, I must insist,” Ernie persisted. “At least get a room somewhere. You're both role models you know.”

They chose to give in to the pompous Prefect and move along. Once they were alone again, and on their way to Gryffindor tower, Harry muttered, “That little wanker. He needs a good pranking, I think. I'm going to talk to Fred and George before the next Hogsmeade weekend…. I've still got that certificate from them. Anyway, enough of that - I know what I want to do.”

“Bravo, Harry,” she responded, “and to think that I could hardly have been more forward….” But should she have been?

“You know, I think I'd like to go through Fleur's questions with you,” he revealed.

“Whose questions?” Hermione asked, hardly believing her ears. Did she have to draw him a picture?

“Fleur's,” Harry repeated. “You see, during the summer, when I was so confused about - well, us - I had a heart-to-heart with Bill, and he brought in Fleur as sort of an … I don't know, a romance consultant, I guess….”

“You guess,” Hermione said uncomfortably, wondering just how much Fleur knew about their relationship. Even though she and Harry were now engaged, Fleur was back at Hogwarts. Fleur was so - well, Fleur - that Hermione could not help but regard the part-Veela as some sort of rival for Harry's affections. That woman had, after all, been quite forward around Harry after his speech in France.

“So what questions are these?” Hermione asked.

“Questions about you, mostly,” Harry replied immediately. “What words I'd use to describe you. What presents I'd want to give you. What songs I associate with you. That kind of thing. I think it would be - well, romantic - to answer them together, since I never got the chance before we worked things out for ourselves, I guess.”

He gave her that little half grin he reserved for when he was trying to be sweet - the one that made her resistance melt away like ice in sunshine. Hermione mentally relaxed. Fleur had only posed the questions, after all. She never got Harry's answers. Now Harry was offering to share those answers with her. That could be fun. Maybe more than that.

Maybe she would draw him a picture. But, dammit, why right now?

“Harry, I think that's a great idea. It could be … interesting. And as I was saying, I think I know just the place.”

“Where's that?” he asked, intrigued.

“That's for me to know, and you to find out,” she answered coyly, repeating a line from their duel. “It's a place you should see, anyway.”

“Umm … okay,” Harry responded uncertainly to her non-answer. “But I have to go back to the Tower first. That's where the questions are, and I wouldn't want just to summon them. The door to the Common Room's probably closed, and when I last looked, it was raining outside.”

“That's fine. I need to get stuff from my dormitory, too,” Hermione agreed.

“Constant vigilance,” Hermione said to the Fat Lady - informing Harry of the new password.

As they entered the Common Room, both of them thought the same thing, `This could be fun.' Hermione's thoughts, however, were somewhat tempered by the reality of her present situation.

* * * *

Author's notes: The “snitch” is the equivalent of the “football,” carrying nuclear weapons codes, that accompanies the American president

The “this is no drill” language was used during the Pearl Harbor attack

Eventually, the key's use will become clear

M.O. is law enforcement speak for modus operandi or method of operation

The Death Eaters' murder method is a variant of a murder that was thwarted in Dan Brown's Angles and Demons

Actually Voldemort left, rather than collected, a souvenir

The howler monkey is reputed to be the loudest land mammal

Zach Smith's year is unclear in canon. I have him in the year ahead of Harry

The “rumors of my death” line is from Mark Twain

Muldoon is mentioned in Fantastic Beasts

Muffliato originated with Snape, so I'm assuming the Order knows it

Installation of the Order's computers will have an important consequence

The new Quidditch division of labor will have consequences

Silently, Hermione warned Harry not to use the Orgasimos Hex

Two, love is tennis scoring

I got “short, sharp, shock” from Pink Floyd's “Us and Them, on Dark Side of the Moon - but it actually derives from Gilbert & Sullivan's Mikado

The description of the Alhambra, a Hispano-Moorish palace in Granada, is as accurate as I can make it

There are different Protego shields, depending upon whether magic or solid objects are being defended against

The use of the Punching Hex is from chapter 20

At various times during the dual Harry resorts to all four forms of standard elemental magic

Alkalai is Latin for salt

Pure water has no dissolved electrolyctic ions, and thus does not conduct electricity; salt water conducts electricity very well

Being able to cast mosquito netting will come in handy

Azote is an archaic name for nitrogen; liquid nitrogen will behave as described

A death slide is British for a zip line

Being ahead on points is a boxing term

The date of this duel, September 27, 1996, is a full moon

A Hymenoepimecis wasp is a spider parasite

A sonic boom behaves as described

Earth elemental magic conjures and affects plants

High impact plastic is used to make super balls

Guerilla warfare is all about asymetrical force

Phosphære Inverso makes one see the opposite color. I got the idea from a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon

Dentists use nitrous oxide, or laughing gas, as an anesthetic; technically nitroxyl is a related compound; essentially Hermione drugged Harry a bit

“Rope a dope” is a boxing strategy for letting a stronger opponent tire himself out through overexertion; Muhammad Ali named the technique and used is regularly

Hermione trained with the quarterstaff in Chapter 30

Steve Vander Ark started the Harry Potter Lexicon

Mrs. Peel is a character from the old TV show The Avengers

Some elements of the later part of this chapter - Hermione breaking Harry's leg and the bit about blood at the end are influenced by Lori's Paradigm of Uncertainty trilogy

61

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch49 deception and duelling.doc 11/12/06

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50. Rather More Than Twenty Questions

Smut alert. Harry and Hermione have a sexual encounter in this chapter. Wherein Harry and Hermione discuss their duel, find a hidden place and go through Fleur's questions; Harry makes snap financial decisions; Harry learns a rule of thumb, and there is an encounter.

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

Thanks to betas Mark Gardiner and Shane.

Chapter 50 - Rather More Than Twenty Questions

Harry's self-walking crutches were marvelous on level hallways, but left something to be desired on Hogwarts' many staircases. By the time Hermione guided him to the third floor corridor, Harry was already beginning to wonder about how long they had before curfew.

“Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, Hermione,” he suggested to her. “Maybe I'm just through for the evening - beaten too thoroughly for my own good.”

He saw her face start crumpling with guilt. “Oh, Merlin, I'm sorry, Harry. Was it too much….? You'd have beaten me three times over except for the Apparition simulations. We can do it again … without those … and I'm sure you'd do worse to me than I did to you.”

Harry stopped, looked around, and spotted a nearby classroom that, not surprisingly, was vacant in the evening. He turned his crutches in that direction and, with a look, bade her to follow. As they entered, the room lit up. Harry left the door partly open.

“What is it Harry?” Hermione asked. With the door ajar, Harry could not have intended to start their snog session early.

Or did he?

He drew her as close as his crutches permitted and kissed her tenderly on the cheek. “I don't want to do worse to you. That was my problem - I never did. Although my head was duelling, my heart wasn't. I did try to win … I'd promised you that, but at the same time I just couldn't…. I hope you're not furious. You were splendid … really….”

Hermione sighed and allowed herself to melt into his arms. Everybody else would think she'd won, but she knew the truth. “I'm sorry … it was a horrible idea. I should have just divided the D.A. up arbitrarily, and if they didn't want me, to Hell with them, let them quit….” She went on, critiquing all her decisions, especially changing the environment, and finding every one wanting.

Harry patiently waited out her rant. “No, no, and no,” he told her gently as his fingers swept tears from her cheek. “I could have refused to duel you, and I should have if I couldn't keep up my end of it. We couldn't leave half the D.A. feeling separate and unequal. We don't want people to quit. We couldn't Apparate, so changing the environment was the next best thing….”

Hermione still was having none of it. “I should have declared myself the loser, the first time. In formal duelling, Disapparation means disqualification. But since skilled Apparaters can give chase, I thought we should continue….”

“They can?” Harry showed genuine surprise.

She cocked her head. “You didn't read all the assigned material for our Auror Apparition training, did you?”

“Umm … no,” he admitted, “too many other things going on.”

“Well, according to the manual, some wizards are good enough at Apparating that, if they act quickly enough, they can follow somebody who Disapparates. The Room's magical powers imitated that. When I changed environments, it was as if I tried to escape and you chased me down.”

The odd, quizzical look Harry gave her told her everything she needed to know.

“I … I guess I should have made that clearer, shouldn't I?” she commented. “It looked like a strength, didn't it - when it really I was conceding my weakness…?”

Harry leaned heavily on his crutches since his freshly rehealed leg still ached. “I didn't think to stop it, so I can't complain. That last bit though….”

“Oh, Harry, I'm sorry I broke your leg,” she cried. “I feel awful about that.”

Harry was thoughtful. “Don't be. It's over, and I'm okay….” Looking down at his crutches, he added, “…more or less.”

“No you're not,” she corrected. “And everyone's going to think I was just dreadful to you.”

“Eh … that has its advantages,” Harry brushed it off.

“I hardly see how,” Hermione declared. “Now they'll see me as some sort of crazy Amazon or something…. Somebody who broke her boyfriend's leg to win a stupid duel.”

“Let them think what they want,” Harry dismissed her concerns. “I know better, and I don't care what anyone else thinks. Frankly, I'm right chuffed for Malfoy and his ilk to worry about what you're capable of.”

Hermione smiled. “Okay, then, we'll just leave them to it…. And we really ought to be going on.” She flashed what she hoped was a seductive look.

That did not work very well, because Harry replied, “Are you sure it wouldn't be best just to call it a night?”

Not to be put off, Hermione gave Harry a kiss on the cheek, ending with her biting his ear.

“Ow! What was that for?” he yelped.

“For being unromantic,” she reproached him. “Harry, I'm positive that before this night is through, you'll agree with me that this is a splendid idea. Let's go….”

They set out again. Hermione walked fast, but Harry's magical crutches could outpace her.

“…But, if McGonagall can't find us, she might call out the Order after what happened the other day,” he pointed out as they rounded another corner.

“Won't happen,” she told him confidently. “I've let Ron know. With Cho away at her Chinese magic studies, he was at loose ends.”

Harry stopped in his tracks so quickly that Hermione almost bowled him over. “What?! I thought we were trying for a little quiet time together.”

“And some snogging,” Hermione broke in, “at least.”

“And you told Ron where to find us? Snogging only makes it worse,” Harry went on. “He or somebody he told could come bursting in at any time….”

“Relax, Harry,” Hermione chided, “I only told him how to find us - not where.” She hiked up her robes and pulled a D.A. mirror from the back pocket of her jeans. “He's been with Cho enough not to bother asking where we'll be. He can just use this to reach us. It's an insurance policy to prevent anyone from thinking we've been kidnapped again. I don't fancy having that kind of attention, and I'll wager you don't either.”

“Not after the last time - never again.” Satisfied with her explanation, Harry refocussed on another concern. “Even thought it's Friday night, I don't know if we'll have time for this. I really don't want to be rushed.”

“I know, Harry,” Hermione sighed. Sounding a little shy, she suggested, “We have so little time to ourselves - I thought it might be fun to … er … explore each other a bit.” She was almost to door she wanted. “Do you have your Invisibility Cloak?”

Harry grinned. His perfect Prefect was prepared to violate school rules if necessary. He yanked the Cloak from his inside pocket. “I don't leave home without it - or the Map,” he told her.

“Priceless,” she replied. She stopped at a thick, wooden door.

“Well, we're here,” she told him. “We may need your Cloak to get back, at least you might. Since I'm a Prefect, I can be out after hours - on official business, of course. You can be my invisible escort, if necessary.” After giving him a look that suggested his Cloak probably would come in handy, she fumbled in her own robes for something.

“What are you after?”

“Don't you know where we are?” she dodged his question whilst slipping something into her right hand.

“Umm … looks vaguely familiar,” Harry commented, equally vaguely, “but I can't place it.” He looked hopefully at her.

“Finite.” The object in her hand promptly expanded into her violin.

“Once upon a time, this door led to the Philosopher's Stone,” she reminded him. “Behind it I also found the books with the spells I needed to get you back from the Death Eaters. Fluffy stood guard both times.”

“Alohomora.”

The door's lock clicked. Hermione readied her violin as Harry cautiously pushed the door inward. There was no sign of any beast.

Harry lit his wand, but pulled up short before reaching the trap door. “I'm not sure I can do this with my leg,” he warned.

“No, not that way, this way,” she corrected him. Hermione resized and stowed her violin, lit her wand as well, and set off down the hall, Harry trailing behind. She cracked open the last door on the left. As before, it was unlocked.

By uncertain wandlight, they moved into a room that, as before, was chockablock with shrouded, ghostly looking furniture.

“You found…?”

“Shhhh,” Hermione hissed at Harry as she gestured for quiet. “Surveillius revelato.”

`You're paranoid,' Harry commented telepathically.

“You never can be too careful,” Hermione replied aloud. “It's clean.”

“So this is where you found what you needed to save me?” Harry said in mock disbelief as he regarded the rather disheveled surroundings. “What is all this stuff, anyway?” he wondered as he reached for the sheet that covered the most prominent nearby objects.

“No, Harry! Not that one!” Hermione called to him urgently.

Harry dropped the sheet like it was on fire. Perplexed, he turned to her. “Are we safe here? What am I missing?”

Although it was uncomfortable, she had to tell him. “Er … I know that the Mirror of Erised is under there. I - well, I encountered it whilst looking for the missing books.”

Harry's eyebrows instantly shot up at the unexpected information. “I know you,” he chose his words carefully, “so I know you looked. What did the Mirror show you?”

“My greatest desire, of course,” she answered coyly.

He persisted. “And that was?”

“Enough to confirm that I had to find you, even with all the risks,” she told him. “You've already made part of it come true.”

“I have?” Harry replied reflexively. Upon further review - particularly after a cross look flickered across Hermione's face - he added. “So you saw yourself as Mrs. Potter?”

“I didn't say that,” Hermione responded.

The answer confused and somewhat disappointed Harry. “Then we must not be thinking along the same lines,” he muttered.

“Oh, we sure are,” she told him as she tilted her head to kiss the tip of his nose. “The mirror showed us married - only you're making assumptions. I'm not planning to change my name. I don't think women should have to do that … unless men do it too.”

Harry brightened instantly at her explanation. “Thank Merlin, that was it - because I think I'd see the same thing in the Mirror right now. I don't care about names. Hell, if not for your miserable father, I'd take your name if it would get you to say `yes.'”

“All you ever had to do was ask - and mean it,” Hermione answered with a soulful look in her eyes.

Her look reminded Harry, “What's part hasn't come true?” he inquired.

“Hasn't come true, yet,” she clarified whilst slowly moving towards him. “You can probably guess - the mirror showed us, well, making love.”

Harry grinned and gulped at the same time. She was had a finger on his chest. “I should have guessed,” he conceded.

In a soft, throaty voice, she told him, “I could have let you guess, but I wanted to tell you. After all, it's part and parcel of my greatest desire my last time here. Much better than pornos, I suspect….”

Harry's self-walking crutches had slowly inched backwards as Hermione invaded his personal space. Now, he felt pressure on his calves and ankles as he reached the end of the free floor space.

His head swivelled halfway around. He was centimetres away from another, even larger, sheet-covered object. “What's this?” he asked reflexively.

“I'm not a hundred percent sure….” She put her arms on his shoulders, around his neck. “From some markings I saw earlier, I think it was Professor Binns' before he died. I suppose a ghost doesn't need a bed.”

A bed.

And they were here, alone.

And Hermione had just told him her deepest desire.

Managing at once to sound hopeful and fearful, Harry asked, “You wouldn't be thinking about advancing that date for - well - you know…?”

Hermione's eyes widened. She appeared flustered, as if unprepared for a rather obvious question, under the circumstances. “Er…. No, Harry. Not tonight anyway…. You're - you're not ready yet. A compound, spiral fracture, with a Mandrake plaster, and you can't put any undue pressure on it. And I haven't taken the necessary … er … precautions. They need a couple of days to, well, be sufficiently reliable.”

Something about her parade of excuses seemed a little off, but her uneasiness was manifest. Whatever her reasons, he certainly would not pursue anything she did not want.

Harry remembered how Ron had once confidentially told him just to ask. Ron was wrong, Harry concluded. No surprise there. Hermione was different from the rest. That was why Harry loved her.

“Not to worry,” Harry retreated. “I'm not trying to pressure you at all. Like I said before, I can wait….”

Hermione seemed almost as taken aback by that as with his original question. “Oh, I'd be happy to advance the date, Harry,” she declared hastily. “Just not tonight, that's all.”

Then she took a deep breath and calmed down. With a slight giggle, she added. “I've other plans for tonight.” She moved her hands to his chest and stepped forward as if to kiss him again.

But instead, she gave him a slow but firm push backwards. Unable to put much weight on his injured leg, Harry quickly toppled over. His crutches skidded forwards as he flopped backwards and sprawled on the bed behind him. Harry's fall carried him through the linen sheet acting as a dustcover. The sheet billowed inward, pulled loose, and fluttered down with him. When Harry came to rest, he was flat on his back - completely enveloped in the sheet.

He felt the mattress dip.

Almost immediately Hermione straddled him.

Swishing and flopping noises told Harry she was discarding her bulky school robes.

“AAAAGH!” he yelped as she started tickling him mercilessly.

“I thought we'd have a little fun tonight,” she declared happily as her fingers continued tormenting him.

“Fun?! That should be the fourth Unforgivable Curse.” Harry growled whilst trying to retaliate in kind. But between the cocooning sheet, his bum leg, and Hermione's weight pinning the sheet around him, he found himself highly constricted.

“So, call the Ministry on me,” she snickered as she targeted the sides of his chest, just below his armpits. That was her own worst spot, so she guessed it also might be his. “I've got you now!”

“We'll see about that,” Harry loudly protested a second time. “Evanesco.” Harry's wandless magic succeeded, and the sheet vanished entirely. Suddenly freed, Harry's arms flew to Hermione's midsection as he flipped her over. Pressing his advantage, he rolled atop her. She opened her arms, and tickling was soon forgotten. Their hands found each other's shoulders - then their necks - and entwined in the other's hair.

Even under optimal circumstances Harry's hair was difficult to control. Soon it was hopeless.

Then again, these were better than the best of circumstances.

The wait was over. Their lips found one another, and all thoughts of anything beyond their each other promptly vanished. Making little, half-choked humming noises each time their mouths adjusted position, they snogged with a passion that dwarfed the heat of their duel earlier in the evening.

She tasted vaguely sweet.

He tasted decidedly antiseptic, from potions consumed in the Hospital Wing.

He ran his hands over her jeans, wishing she had worn something shorter. He so wanted to slide his hands along her marvelous legs. They had been oh so very proper with one another for so long.

It was time to change all that.

After several minutes of bliss, Hermione came up for air. Snuggling next to Harry, she returned his glasses (which she had removed for snogging purposes) and asked, “Now, tell me about this list of questions you wanted to share. Or was that just an excuse - like wanting to show me your etchings?”

He was perplexed. “What etchings?” I don't have any.”

“That's the point,” Hermione winked at him.

“Oh. Well, in that case…,” Harry drawled, “it was supposed to be a secret, but seeing that everyone else who figured in getting Fleur to write them … was ….”

Thoughts of death brought Harry crashing back to Earth. He shuddered and seemed reluctant to go on. Hermione immediately felt like the most wicked witch at Hogwarts for asking the question.

She reached over and began stroking his hair. Looking straight in his eyes, she told him, “Harry, I'm sorry. That was appalling of me. If you don't feel like discussing it, then you don't have to….”

Harry halted her attempted apology. “No,” he began, “if we're - we're to be married, eventually; you need to know me, everything, even what's unpleasant or embarrassing. It started when I was thought you didn't want me, and obviously Eliza did.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione gasped. “If I hadn't said those stupid things, then that poor thing wouldn't have died. I didn't like her - jealousy of course - but I never wished that fate on her….”

Harry cut her short again. “Oh, Hermione, stop acting like me - I'm the one with the market cornered on guilt, you know.”

“You don't…. All right, Harry,” Hermione sniffed. “Tell me about the list, then.”

“Well, I was really confused,” he began. “Between how I panicked when I thought Dolohov had killed you, and then my reaction to your letter about being withdrawn from Hogwarts, I had pretty much convinced myself that I was in love with you….”

“And then I unconvinced you,” Hermione chimed in ruefully.

“Well - yeah, really,” Harry admitted. “But I shouldn't have been put off so easily. It's just, you see, I'd cocked up when I had such feelings before, so I was afraid I'd ruin our friendship. And then … she happened. I had no idea what I wanted anymore, or who wanted me, so I was floundering about. And Bill, he noticed. He was good at that.”

“I wish I'd been as good at noticing as he was,” she sniffed.

“Doesn't really matter any more, does it?” Harry replied. “What's done is done, and what's not, isn't.”

“We're not done yet, I guess,” she followed, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

Harry slid a hand over hers. “Us? We've barely even started. Anyway, he took me out to the spot - the first time I saw where I proposed to you - and we had a long talk about both you and Eliza. I admitted to him that, if I had the choice, it would be you.”

Hermione put her arms around his chest and burrowed into him. “Well, you've got me now,” she said. “Just like you wanted.”

“That I do,” Harry sighed, stroking her hair. “But not exactly how I wanted.”

“What more do you want, Harry?” she asked uncertainly.

“I - I didn't want anyone to die,” he answered softly. “Especially her. It's just not fair that Eliza's dead because I couldn't figure out what I really wanted.”

“Or because I couldn't decide what I really wanted,” Hermione echoed. He looked at her askance as she continued. “Harry, I know you. No matter what I … what anyone says, you'll still feel guilty. It's part of who you are. You think you have to save everyone all the time. It can be foolish, but it's also the noblest part of your nature. And because it's in your nature, it's one of the things I love about you….”

He continued gazing at her, not sure where her little speech would wind up, but not really caring either - with the warm feeling welling up from deep inside him.

“…But being in love means sharing, and that means I'm going to share your guilt. Anything you think you didn't do, I can just as easily imagine some way how I kept you from doing it. Remember, all you saw that night was the attack in her flat….”

“Well, that's exactly what it was - and it was quite enough,” Harry resisted wherever logic she was weaving.

“…It was much more, actually … much more,” she continued. “From my perspective, it was an attack on Muggle London - and it killed thousands. That's what's on my head. So anytime you start feeling guilty, remember it's even worse for me, because I saw a lot more people dying. I saw people buried in flaming debris….”

“But, Hermione…,” Harry protested.

“But, Hermione, nothing,” she cut him off. “Competitive guilt just makes us all guilty. You've suffered alone for too long. Truce, remember?”

“Yeah, truce,” Harry agreed.

Saying nothing further, Hermione leaned over, took his glasses off, and kissed him again. Her chest leaning into his, each felt the other's heart beating as they fought their guilt with the other's caresses. Her hands found his face, cupped his cheeks and lifted his mouth to hers. Their kisses became hot, urgent, and deep. Pushing aside her prissy-stickler-for-the-rules persona, she left demeanor and decorum behind. Hermione moaned as her arms once again encircled his neck and her fingers found his hair. She was kissing him; kissing him in ways that only a short time ago she only could have imagined in her most daring, fanciful, and naughty dreams….

Or in the Mirror of Erised.

She took care with Harry's leg, which meant watching her positioning. She was flushed and breathing heavily when she broke the kiss. “Let's see those questions,” she said.

Harry rolled over and pulled them out of his own discarded robes. Unfolding a couple of pages of parchment he took a look at the first question - or tried to. “Umm … I need my glasses back if I'm to read this….”

“I'd Summon them if they weren't in plain sight,” she said as she handed them to him yet again.

“Oh, this one's gonna be hard.”

“Go on, I'm sure you can do it,” Hermione encouraged.

“Well, okay,” Harry agreed. “It's in several parts. Here goes. `What's the difference between want, need, infatuation, and love?'”

They looked at one another; wondering more about Fleur's thought processes than anything else.

“Well, go ahead, you first,” she prompted. “They're directed to you, you know.”

“Want, to me, that's mostly about, well, sex,” Harry began; somewhat amazed that he used that word around her without flinching (much). “It's how I am when I want to be with someone physically … like right now, actually….”

Hermione blushed. Once again, she wished she were ready, but things were what they were, and altering them with magic could cause worse problems.

“…It's a desire that really isn't from the mind, but rather from….” He looked down at himself briefly and then continued. “It's how I wanted Eliza that last night - once I thought I'd lost you. Rationally, I knew I shouldn't. I knew I didn't feel the same for her that she did about me. But I wasn't thinking, not with my brain anyway. I just wanted her so much at that moment that I put such thoughts aside.”

“Need? Well that's more of a longing. It's feeling that if someone's not there, I'll be lonely. For example, I needed you, and knew it, well before I could identify any other feeling. It's like when Dobby hid all my letters after First Year. I, I needed you - I was so lonely. But it was much more emotional than it was sexual. Back then, I probably needed Ron at least as much.”

“Infatuation, that's easy,” Harry said. “In a way it's like love - maybe even more distracting. But it's from afar. That was Cho. She was much better from a distance than up close. I thought about her almost constantly for more than a year. As long as I was afraid to talk to her, I thought she was perfect. But when she started wanting me around, and I sort of dated her … well, in person she wasn't nearly as perfect as the image I'd had of her. I liked her better before we kissed than after.”

“Love's sort of the flip side of that. It's when everything is best when you're … when I'm with that person,” he looked deeply into her eyes, fathomless in the half light. “Like right now. That person's you. I was never infatuated with you. I never felt light-headed around you. Nervous, yes, usually because I'd bollixed something up. But mostly, when I've been around you - for a long time now - I've just felt like … like I belonged, I guess.”

He gave Hermione a meaningful look, which she returned for an unnervingly long moment until breaking off and looking down. “Er … how about you?” he asked.

“I don't think I'd answer this one very well,” she admitted. “I don't see them all as categorically different. Except for infatuation. I don't know that one at all. I've never been infatuated….”

“What about Gilderoy Lockhart?” Harry broke in.

That stopped Hermione in her tracks.

First she looked thoughtful.

Then she smiled.

Then she smirked.

Then she started laughing. “Oh, Merlin, yes…. You're right. So much has happened since then; I completely forgot that plonker. Did you know I kept something he signed for months? Not only that, I slept with his get well card under my pillow. I guess you're right.”

“I successfully corrected Hermione Granger,” Harry declared. “I'll remember this night forever.”

“Maybe, but not for that, I hope,” she intimated. “Anyway, I've never been infatuated - with anybody my own age- not with you, not with Viktor, not with anyone.”

“And the other things?” Harry reminded.

To me, the others - want, need, and love - are all interconnected, maybe because I've never experienced them separately.”

Harry was unsure of what she meant. “So you and Viktor…?”

“Not at all, Harry,” Hermione cut off that tangent. “Viktor wanted, needed, and may even have loved me, but I never felt any of that. I suppose I felt, well, flattered more than anything. He had this outsized persona - all those Quidditch accomplishments, and Durmstrang champion on top of that - that I was far more gratified for his interest in me than I was ever actually interested in him … since you weren't interested at the time.”

“Then what do you mean about never experiencing them separately?” Harry pressed.

“I mean you, Harry,” Hermione answered, pressing her forefinger into his chest. “We've known each other since before I was old enough to have those feelings at all. I knew you too well ever to be infatuated, but then … maybe even that first time you went to face Voldemort…. Well, I started wanting you, needing you, and loving you all at the same time. It was slow, and it was tentative, but then we rescued Sirius together, with the Time-Turner and Buckbeak. After that, all you ever had to do was say the word.”

“But I never did,” Harry admitted.

“But you never did,” Hermione echoed, “not until five and a half days ago. So I've never had any of those feelings for anyone else - not romantically. I've just never experienced them separately.”

Harry smiled as she finished her explanation. “I love you,” he whispered. “I just wish I hadn't been so thick. I've wasted who knows how much of whatever time we've got together.” He touched his forehead to hers and lightly kissed her.

“But if you weren't that way, you wouldn't be you,” Hermione told him. “In no small measure, it's what keeps you so casually wonderful.”

“What is?”

“That you can't see just how wonderful you really are, that's what,” Hermione explained.

“Okay, next question,” Harry said, choking up slightly at her more than satisfactory answer. Squinting at the parchment in the half-light, he read, “When did you fall in love with her? Why?”

Harry cringed. “Oh, Merlin, let's see if I can remember back that far.”

She squeezed his hand.

“I suppose it depends on whether `falling' means the process or the landing,” he mused. “You mentioned a pretty good starting point, Sirius' rescue. I probably took the plunge then, but I wasn't aware. I was so … infatuated is the word … with Cho for more than a year after that. Damn, I never realised I was actually falling for you, and hard. I never thought how you were the one - the only one - who never doubted me when my name came out of that goblet. I finally got over Cho when I chose you over her, and she dumped me. At the Ministry, you were almost killed, and later almost taken away from me. Then, I knew that my feelings towards you went far beyond friendly. But even then I couldn't stop falling, nor figure out how deep I'd already gone….”

Harry trailed off, obviously embarrassed. “…I'm just so … well, it's hard to express….”

Hermione squeezed his hand again, bidding him to continue. “Go on, I promise I will never think less of you,” she whispered in his ear.

He swallowed and continued, “It was a couple of days before she died - the day before the Reims speech, actually, that everything finally became clear. I'm not proud of this, but Eliza confessed that when the Death Eaters attacked the night … night that … that Bill died … she knew she loved me. She said fearing I would die made her understand. Then it hit me. I'd felt that way, too, at exactly that time - but about you. When you lit up my ring, I went crazy. You were all that mattered, the only thing. I would have done anything to get to you, and I almost did. Well, that's when I knew, but I was with her….”

“Oh my,” Hermione gasped as she realised what had happened. “You felt love … for me?”

“Absolutely,” Harry reaffirmed, nodding his head for emphasis. “A rare moment of blinding clarity for me. I just had to avoid hurting her. But then I learnt about, well, Cho, and I buggered everything up.”

“No you didn't, Harry,” Hermione told him fervently. “I cocked everything up, because I felt your love through our affinity - except I thought you'd fallen in love with her.” She slowly shook her head as it hit her how wrongly she had interpreted his disembodied feelings. “I thought you loved her, and I basically gave up. I was in despair. I thought I'd lost the only person I'd ever really cared about that way. That's why I asked Dumbledore to sever the link.”

“Hermione, lighten up … please,” Harry told her. “I can't forgive you any more than I already do. Now it's your turn. When did you start caring about me `that way'?”

“Like I've already said, by the end of Third Year, I knew. From then on, it always bothered me when you'd look at Cho the way I wished you'd look at me. It bothered me that Ron asked me to the ball - tardy that he was - but you never did. And it bothered me with Eliza most of all, because I blamed myself. But you had to find it within yourself. I would never risk our friendship by throwing myself at you. I was too … too … scared, probably. But for me, I knew where I stood when I had my arms around you on Buckbeak's back. How long I'd actually loved you before, without knowing what to call it, I have no idea. Hell, love at first sight? Maybe. But that's when I stopped denying it to myself.”

With Hermione stroking his hair thoughtfully, Harry raised the parchment again. “The next question on the list is, `Have you ever been in love with anyone else'?”

“That's easy,” Harry continued. “No. Now that I know how love actually feels, I'm confident I never felt this way for Cho. That was infatuation. And whilst I liked Eliza - and surely lusted after her at times - I never felt an emotional bond to her like I feel with you. You're just the glue that holds me together. How about kissing me again?”

Hermione happily obliged. After a minute or so in hazy ecstasy, they parted and he looked at her. She nodded.

“Easy here, too - probably even easier,” she stated. “The answer's no. Nothing even close. If I'd felt for Viktor even half of what I feel for you, I'm sure I'd have jumped at the chance to marry him.”

“Thank Merlin you didn't,” Harry commented.

“Yes, thank Merlin,” she agreed.

“Here's an odd one,” Harry went on. “It asks, `Is love something that just happens? Or do you have to work at it'?”

“Well, I'm sure Fleur thinks it's something that just happens, but I'm not so sure,” Hermione allowed. “I know for certain that it's something to work at. I think we've both proven that. Even after we were both one hundred percent sure how we felt - and even me having that blasted link to you - we still messed everything up so badly. Yes, love definitely takes work, at least for us, or else any number of terrible things can happen.”

“But I thought you just said it might have been love at first sight,” Harry observed, a questioning look on his face.

“I did,” she admitted. “That's why I say I'm not sure. If it weren't for that, I'd be sure that love never just happens. For me anyway, it's so hard because it's something that's so entirely beyond logic.”

“I know love just happens,” Harry rather disagreed. “It happened with Eliza. She never intended to fall in love with me. But with you, no, I know it didn't `just happen,' not on my side anyway. With you - love topped off a whole bunch of feelings that went all the way back to when that troll was about, and I grabbed Ron and set out to find you.”

“It was you, then,” she interrupted. “I always suspected….”

“No, it was the both of us,” Harry reiterated. “Ron was there every step of the way, and he knocked out the troll.”

“But you took the initiative,” she added. “If you'd waited for him to think of it, I'd be dead.”

“Well … yeah,” he admitted. “But that's sort of the point. There's always been something different about you. Something that stirred what you've called my `saving people thing.' Something that meant I couldn't ignore you even if I'd wanted to - and those times you'd nag us, I really wished I could have.”

“I hope that, looking back, you understand I only do that because I care about you,” she reminded him.

“Oh, sure,” Harry admitted. “I know that. I even knew it at the time … well, most of the time anyway. But that doesn't mean I had to like it. But I agree on the more important part - love takes lots and lots of work to get right, or at least for me to make it right when I mess it up.”

“You have made it right, though - spectacularly,” she sighed happily as she leaned into him with the intent (ultimately successful) of getting him to put his arm around her.

“Next question,” he went on. “Oh, sod it, here's a more difficult one, `I've been told there's an issue with money. What is it, and what do you think you can do about it'?”

“It's no longer a problem,” Hermione declared strongly. “That was one of the many things that I decided to chuck whilst you were gone. I had to separate what mattered from what shouldn't. It doesn't matter any more. It really doesn't. I know you'll be the same Harry I fell in love with whether you have as little as when I first met you, or as much as you will after tomorrow.”

“You know all about that,” Harry began to answer. “More than I ever wanted you to know - at least whilst I was alive, anyway. I'm sorry you had to find out like that, but you're the only one I could trust to break up the Black Estate once and for all.”

“Well, I hope that now, you'll do that job yourself, so it never falls to me,” Hermione sighed. “You had a pretty good idea what you wanted done if you'd died. Don't you have better ideas for dealing with this yourself?”

“Not really,” Harry admitted. “I spoke to Blackie Howe about it, and he said, whilst I could move the money around any way I chose, the estate - the land - was entailed and it was virtually impossible to sell. I hate it. I really do. But I'm stuck.”

Harry noticed that, as he was speaking, Hermione began chewing on her lower lip - denoting that she was thinking hard. That usually meant an idea was forming in her head. This time was no exception.

This was one of many things he adored about her. He dropped his arm from her shoulder to around her waist.

“There might be something you could do,” she offered tentatively.

“And how do you know that?” Harry asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Well, when I was trying to save you, I assigned myself the legal section of the library, amongst other things. It was a complete waste, but I figured that wizards are a relatively litigious lot - as you're well aware - so maybe somewhere an affinity of sorts might have figured in a case. That was rubbish, but I do remember coming across a reference to foreclosure against an entailed estate.”

“You do!?” Harry exclaimed. “Well, what is it?”

“I'm afraid I don't remember anything more … except that it involved your friends, the goblins,” she told him. “You see, it wasn't about affinities - and I hadn't learnt of your will yet - so I paid it very little attention. If it didn't help get you back, it was of no use to me.”

Harry sighed, deflated at a potential lost opportunity.

“But, I'll bet I can find it again before tomorrow's meeting with the goblins,” she added.

His face brightened again. “That would be great, Hermione.”

“Now the other thing about your money,” she added. “Has Dennis ever told you about his odd financial ideas? Before we got you back, he offered to help with financial planning when it looked like I might inherit your estate.”

She cast her eyes down as she recalled that very troubling time.

“I don't think so. What's this about?” Harry asked.

“It was mostly about Muggle computer stocks in America,” Hermione recalled.

Harry looked puzzled. “What good are those?”

“Well, he made it sound logical, but rather much of a flutter,” Hermione described. “Apparently, the Muggles are all bothered about an old shortcut that now could bollix their computers when the year 2000 comes. They have to spend lots of money fixing this, all before the millennium. Dennis thinks computer stocks are a good investment until then - with all this demand…. And after that, he said he'd sell almost immediately.”

She looked at him, uncertain as to what Harry might say. “Hell, I suppose that'd be okay,” Harry agreed. “Blackie will be disappointed though. He's been angling to place that business himself. Who knows, Dennis might even be right.”

“You know he's absolutely loyal and would never cheat you,” Hermione reminded him. “And since you don't really want the money….”

“…Now there's an understatement,” Harry said starkly, talking over her.

“Oh, and there's something else he mentioned later on,” Hermione added.

Harry rolled his eyes. “What more could there be?”

“It was something he spotted whilst reading. Something about buying the rights to some half-made Muggle cinema movie,” she explained. “It's over budget, and the current backers think it's too long. The director disagrees, and as a result Dennis thinks the rights could be bought cheap. He tends to agree with the director….”

“What's the movie about?” Harry cut in.

“That's what worries me,” Hermione continued, “it's a love story, supposedly, but also about a sinking ship … the Titanic….”

“Romeo and Juliet on a boat? Nah, I'll pass on that,” Harry decided. “Me and motion pictures - that's just too far fetched. Anyway, I'm tired of talking about money. It's bloody boring. Next question.”

Harry picked up Fleur's parchment and read, “`What does her name signify to you'?”

“You know, I never thought about that much,” he admitted. “I suppose some sort of pretty flower, since Hermione sort of rhymes with `anemone,' which is a flower. What does your name mean anyway?”

He loved to hear her talk because she knew so much about so many things. Here was another opportunity for him just to lay back and listen.

“Well, `Hermione' dates from Greek mythology,” she told him. “She was the only daughter of Helen of Troy - before she went to Troy - and was the object of a rather sorry fight amongst some suitors. But I wasn't named for her, not directly anyway. Mum is a LaFayette by birth, and I'm named after the ship `Hermione' that took the Marquis de LaFayette to America to help the Yank revolutionaries. That's sort of ironic, since almost all my ancestors, except the Marquis himself, ended up in Britain as émigrés after the French Revolution and the Terror.”

Harry was impressed. “I - I never knew any of that. I'm sorry. I hate to think what a run-of-the mill name like `Harry' might signify.”

“Let me answer that,” Hermione requested. “I think that `Harry' is just right. If it matters, your name's shared by some pretty famous people. The current Prince Harry, of course; but also Henry the Fifth and Harry Hotspur from Shakespeare; Harry Truman, who was an American president. He dropped the bomb on Japan. There's also Harry Houdini, Harry Belafonte … even Bing Crosby was originally named Harry….”

“And some guy changed his name from `Harry' to `Bing'?” Harry asked sceptically.

“That's right,” Hermione confirmed. Harry had no reason to doubt his know-it-all fiancée.

“Well, if somebody named me `Bing,” I think I'd change my name to `Harry',” Harry declared. “Bing? Give me a break - he must have really hated being Harry.”

That put Hermione on the defensive. “Well, I think he was dumb. Harry's a perfectly fine name. To me it signifies someone down-to-earth who never puts on airs - regardless of money or fame. `Harry' is also solid. Someone who's not flighty and not just a fair weather friend. My `Harry' is always there, through good times and bad. He's someone who, no matter how long his reach, keeps his feet firmly on the ground. Someone who knows who his friends are. Someone unique, but not stuck up about it. Someone altogether worthy of all the love I can possibly give….”

Harry was stunned. She had made the mundane seem almost lyrical. “Hermione, I can't conceivably deserve you,” he whispered in her ear.

“If you believe that, then Goyle's a genius by comparison,” Hermione countered. She moved forward and ran her index finger along his scar, suddenly thoughtful. “Really, Harry, a lot of things happened to you that you don't deserve - I glad I'm one on the plus side. Now come here and kiss me again.”

Hermione did not wait for Harry to move. She rolled over to him and captured his lips. They felt each other's hot breath on their cheeks, as their lips and tongues met. She wiggled just a bit, because another part of her felt Harry's obvious desire - a desire he would probably try to deny if asked about it outright.

She wanted him badly, too, and she entertained not just second, but third thoughts over deciding to wait. But tonight had become a problem - during that stupid duel, no less. Their first time, if not perfect, at least had to be as uncomplicated as she could make it. That was not how she was tonight.

After they came up for air, they went through more of Fleur's questions: What they thought about when they thought of each other; whether they ever thought that way about anyone else; their best features, and their worst; what they most liked to talk about, and the least; what they found most rewarding about the other.

At some point, Harry ceded control of the list to Hermione. “Oh, here's one that's pretty obvious for you, but I'm sure that you'll have no idea of my answer. `What single song best personifies her? Why?' You rescued me with `It's All Too Much,' after all.”

Harry looked thoughtfully at his fiancée. “That was then, but not now. That song makes me think of you, certainly, but I chose it because I needed something that would also make you think of me thinking of you…. If I'm making any sense here.”

“Yes, I think you are,” Hermione prompted. “I had to know it was you. Go on.”

“I chose All Too Much as much because I thought - prayed almost - that you'd recognise it as something I knew about you. But it's not actually you. You don't have blonde hair and blue eyes, for one thing. And it's a rather extravagant. Now, after we've, well, you know, gotten together. There's another Beatles song that is closer to how I feel now.”

Harry cleared his throat, and did something he hardly ever did. He sang - or rather tried to.

“Something in the way she moves….”

A radiant smile spread across Hermione's face, as she recognised the song almost immediately.

“…Attracts me like no other lover. Something in the way she woos me. I don't want to leave her now. You know I believe….”

At that point his voice cracked under the strain of falsetto, and Harry began hacking so badly, he had to stop and clear his throat. Embarrassed at his own presumption, he shook his head. “Well, you know how it goes, I'm sure. I think `Something' better describes my feelings about you since you've said `yes'.”

“That's beautiful, Harry,” a still glowing Hermione replied. “Here, let me help you.” She flipped out her wand and laid it gently against Harry's throat. “Sinatrus,” she incanted. “Now try again.”

Harry did, and whilst the words were the same - the voice certainly was not. Obviously distracted, he carried on until finally he could take it no more. “`…I don't need no other lover. Something in her style that shows me….' Whoa, Hermione what did you do to me? I sound great, but that's not me!”

She laughed and ended the spell. “Well I guess Old Green Eyes isn't back after all,” she remarked. “How about a different voice?” She laid her wand against his throat again.

“Umm … I'm not at all sure how I feel about this, Hermione,” Harry told her.

“Just once more,” she inveigled him. “Bonorus.”

Harry started singing again from the beginning, but had performed only a few bars before Hermione dissolved in laughter.

“No - definitely not the right voice for that song,” she giggled. “Too disconcerting…. Finite.”

“What are you doing?” Harry asked perplexedly.

“Just playing with magical syntax, that's all,” Hermione answered. “I wasn't sure it would work - or even that I'd channel the proper Sinatra - but since Sonorus amplifies ones own voice, I suspected that something related, incanted in the same manner, could have a parallel effect. I made you sound, first, like Sinatra, Frank, that is … so there must also be an intent element. Then I had you singing like Bono. Sinatra could definitely cover `Something,' but it's just not Bono's style.”

Seeing that Harry's sceptical look remained, she asked what was wrong.

“Umm … I know who Bono is, but who's this Sinatra bloke?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Harry, I was being presumptuous,” Hermione apologised. “He's a Yank singer, pretty famous, but probably before your relatives' time, and certainly before yours. Frank Sinatra was one of the few good things Daddy picked up from his time in America.”

Harry concluded he could hardly care less, so he brought the conversation back to the original point. “Well, that's my song for you, Hermione. What's yours?”

“It's not nearly as famous a song as yours,” she told him, a tad nervously. She was even less the singer than Harry. “I doubt you know it. It's certainly not your relatives' style, and Dudley - whilst he's been better this year, but I doubt he listens to women singers much.” She was stalling, and she knew it.

“Okay, but there has to be something out there that you think fits me.”

“Oh it is,” she confirmed. “Some of the lyrics seem so appropriate….”

He continued to watch as she squirmed. “Go on,” he prompted. “I embarrassed myself for you - again - so you can do the same. After all, we've both done lots worse.”

“All right, then,” Hermione gave in, her voice quavering. “Please, just - don't laugh.”

She pointed her wand at her own throat and spoke the spell in a similar fashion. “Benetrus.” Then she screwed up her courage and started singing.

“…You said, `Oh girl, it's a cold world, when you keep it all to yourself.' I said, `You can't hide on the inside all the pain you've ever felt.' Ransom my heart, but baby don't look back. `Cause we've got nobody else…. We're running with the shadows of the night….”

Although she had almost refused to sing altogether, when she heard her transformed voice, Hermione quickly gained confidence, and unlike Harry, she carried the song through to the end.

“…Midnight angel, won't you say you will?”

“Merlin, Hermione, that's an amazing spell,” Harry gushed when she was done. “You normally can't sing a lick.”

“Well, thank you, Harry,” Hermione responded with a dark look to a truly backhanded compliment. “It's nothing, really, just a magical sort of karaoke….”

“Kara who?”

“Doesn't matter. It's just a Japanese word for artificial singing,” Hermione told him. “Now my point is that the song speaks to me about you, since you're the all-time champ at bottling up your pain, and neither of us have anyone else in our lives anymore. I listened to my Benetar CDs quite a bit over the summer whilst I was wrecking our relationship.”

“Hermione, don't….”

“Please, Harry,” she mumbled, on the edge of tears. “Just…. Just never - never `let me down' - easy or any other way. I love you so very much….”

“I can't find words for how much I love you,” he murmured. He enfolded her in his arms and started kissing her forehead and cheeks.

He picked up the parchment after it fell from her hands and read off a few more questions. They discussed “dream” movie roles - or rather she did, since Harry had only been to the cinema a couple of times in his life. For herself, Hermione favoured Katharine Hepburn in “African Queen.” For him, she allowed that he “would make an awesome Atticus Finch.”

They also discussed what flowers they reminded each other of. He reminded her of sweet water lily; he would forever associate her with luminescent rhododendron.

“Okay,” he said. “`If you could only give her one gift, what would it be?' That's easy. I want to give you what I still kick myself for not doing already. That's a real ring. I mean - what kind of berk proposes marriage with no ring?”

“The only kind I'd say `yes' to,” she replied. “You were so honest, so unrehearsed, that I couldn't possibly refuse, even though we're so awfully young.”

“We've had to grow up too fast. Still, I don't think I ever felt older than the moment I asked,” Harry allowed.

“Well, we're younger than that now, don't you think?” she answered. “Still, I don't need another ring. I was already wearing your ring, and I still am.” She flashed her (once his) Auror's ring at him.

“I mean a real I'm-in-love-with-you-and-want-everybody-to-know ring,” Harry persisted. “Not something you ended up with by accident.”

“It was no accident, Harry,” she said in a low, soft voice, whilst giving him another of those looks. “Tonks deliberately saved it and gave it to me as your partner. We both thought you dead. But then, I kept it once I realised you weren't.”

“That doesn't change that I need to get you a real ring,” he of the one-track mind declared.

She took his hand, “Harry, don't. This is good enough - really. I don't like the way the miners are treated anyway.”

Harry grimaced at her interposition of social conscience. “But there must be something,” he protested.

“Maybe,” she allowed, “but it's nothing we have to deal with now. It's something for the future - just like what I most want to give you.”

“Which is?” he prompted.

“Well, what do you think?” she parried.

“Might it be something we're planning to do in the near future?” he queried suggestively.

In spite of herself, Hermione blushed. “Well, no … not exactly. Although they're not entirely unrelated. Remember what you saw when you first looked in the Mirror? Your family. That's what I want to give you someday - a real family. After you've done what you have to do, and we're older, more mature, and more established…. Of all the things I you to have, that's what ultimately I need to give you the most.”

“Merlin, I'm so glad I asked you to marry me,” Harry choked out. Tears formed in his eyes as he nuzzled her neck through her curly, brown hair. “You're why I have to beat him - not only should, but must.”

Wrapping her arms around him, she leaned over to make herself more accessible. She saw the parchment lying beside him. She noticed they had just finished the last question on the first page. She moved her hand and the parchment floated into it. Letting the first page fall away, she squinted at the second.

“Oh, my,” she squeaked. “I should have to count on Fleur.”

“What is it?” Harry responded to her comment.

“It's just page two,” she answered. “It's rather more - explicit.”

That got his attention. He drew a bit back from her, asking, “Let me see.”

Retrieving the parchment, he recited, “`Can you and she be publicly affectionate?' That's not too hard - not now. I used to worry that anything of the sort would encourage Voldemort to go after you. But since you beat his O.W.L. marks, he's after you anyway. So … no, I no longer have any problem kissing you, holding hands, whatever, in public. And I don't even miss the House Points.”

“I pretty much agree,” Hermione added. “Just you be reasonable. No borderline lewd behavior - in public, that is. If anyone tells us to `get a room,' we should.”

“That's fine,” Harry concurred. “I wouldn't want you to feel - well, dirty, or anything. Nothing like Cho….”

A shocked look came over Hermione's face.

“…Cho and Ron, I mean,” he backtracked, grasping what she must think he'd meant. “It's just - I wouldn't go feeling you up in the hallway like he sometimes does her. I think we'd both be embarrassed.”

“I know we would,” she added. “Now what?”

“`Have you ever kissed her? How did that make you feel?'” Harry read. “Now that's not hard. Every time I've kissed you, it's been wonderful, and I know how stupid was I to wait so long to do it. I don't think I'll ever get tired of it.”

“Right in one, Harry,” she agreed before physically demonstrating her answer. His glasses came off again. As she moved her lips over his, he understood how much had changed. She was no longer the least bit shy with him. He ran his hands over her back, pulling her against him very tightly. He felt exhilarated, yet unworthy, having to convince himself that this was real. He was with Hermione. He was kissing her, and she was kissing him. The most fantastic girl in the world actually wanted him. He wondered some sort of charm could replace breathing - at least temporarily - because this was better.

Knowing none, he came up for air and dove back in. Relaxing, he stretched out fully next to her. She responded by moulding herself to him along his entire length, wrapping her top leg over his and rocking gently against him. A twinge reminded him that his injury was still there, so he readjusted. He rolled over with her in his arms so she was on top of him and her weight more evenly distributed. He got a mouthful of her hair for his troubles, but ignored it as just another part of her to kiss.

Even when it was frizzy, he liked her hair. With it now straighter and softer to the touch, he positively adored it. His hands moved into it further and became hopelessly tangled. That produced a yanking sensation at the sides of both their mouths which finally brought them to a halt. He noticed her smiling at him as he sorted out her hair from his teeth. He supposed he was smiling too.

“Oh … that was wonderful,” he told her.

“Wasn't it though,” she said slyly. “I wonder if that helps with the next question.”

“Merlin, I hope so,” he panted. “Let's see what it is.”

Hermione knowingly nodded her head as he fished the slightly crumpled parchment from beneath himself and read. “'When you…'?” he stopped abruptly.

“Please continue, Harry,” she prompted, with a bit of a giggle.

“Er … `When you … masturbate, do you think of her'?” he sputtered out.

“Well, do you?” she repeated in a low voice, her hand lazily stroking his hip not far from the part of him to which the question pertained.

“The truth?” he asked.

“The truth,” she replied,

“Umm … for the longest time, never,” he confessed, not knowing whether she would approve his answer. “You were my friend, and it seemed - well, disrespectful - to fantasise about you in that way. Then, for a bit, at the end of last Term and into the summer, I couldn't help myself and did. But then we messed things up, and Eliza came along. She basically took over my naughty thoughts. Then you were hurt, and you went right back on the pedestal again. Since then, it's been mostly Fleur.”

“Fl - Fleur?” Hermione asked worriedly. Of all the girls he could have mentioned - Cho, Parvati, Lavender, even Ginny - Fleur brought out Hermione's worst insecurities. Whilst others (first, Cho, and later, Ginny) had caused flutters because they shared Harry's interest in Quidditch, and were much prettier, none of them (save perhaps Ginny with her Order of Merlin), had accomplishments remotely rivalling Hermione's.

But Fleur? She had been a Triwizard Champion, the best at her entire school. And she was impossibly beautiful.

Harry was plainly awkward about the entire subject, but he answered her question. “Yeah, back in Fourth Year, at first, because I was around her so much - so for a while I put Fleur on a pedestal, too. Not as high as you. That wasn't possible, but up there. That stopped when Fleur left, and then she was with Bill. But lately she's actually been interested in me, mostly as revenge for Voldemort killing Bill, I think. Whilst you were … you know … she even asked me to the Masked Ball.”

An icy feeling shot through Hermione's heart. Harry had never asked her outright to the Ball. She had just sort of assumed. What if she were wrong?

In a brittle voice, she asked, “And did you accept?”

Harry's jaw dropped, as much from her fearful tone as the question itself. “Of course not,” he told her. “What kind of cad do you think I am?”

“I'm not sure how to answer that,” she replied, relieved about the Ball, but still worried about Fleur. “Anyway, what are you going to do about it?”

Harry gulped, and Hermione realised her question had been rather vague. “Well, at some point, I thought you and I were going to - well, you know - make love….” He had a wonderfully cute, hopeful-but-embarrassed look on his face.

“Don't worry about that, Harry,” she responded warmly. “Everything will happen naturally. Actually, I meant what do you want to do about the Ball?”

He looked less embarrassed and more hopeful. “Er … I sort of assumed you would go with me - we sort of discussed it when you agreed to marry me and all.”

“Actually, we talked more about sex,” she said, grinning at him. “It's just - it's always good to ask.”

“Right,” he nodded. “Then, will you go to the Masked Ball with me?”

“Of course, Harry, I wouldn't have it any other way,” she squeezed his hand. “It's just - I guess Fleur intimidates me a bit, that's all. She's so beautiful…,”

“Like you,” Harry added.

“…so talented…,”

“Like you.”

“…and so Veela.”

“But you're brilliant, and that's more important,” Harry said forcefully. “So, what about you?”

“What about me?” Hermione echoed him.

“What about your answer to the question?” he smirked. “You made me tell you about all my naughty fantasies, so I want to hear yours.”

“That's simple,” she responded evenly, although her pink cheeks gave her away. “You, and only you. As long as I've known how to do it - and been so inclined - you're the only one I've ever wanted in that way. And that's the truth. Next question.”

“Not even Viktor?”

“No,” Hermione answered immediately. “It was a conscious decision. I was afraid of being emotionally confused.”

“Okay,” Harry was pleased to move on. “`Have you had more sexual activity with her than anyone else?' If not, why not'?”

“Well, that's certainly some question,” Hermione observed. “Obviously Fleur knew about Eliza - no doubt second-hand from you telling Bill. I'm afraid my answers will be very boring if the rest of the questions are like this. I haven't done anything with anyone … yet.”

“Yeah, I read your testimony about the unicorn,” Harry chimed in. “That was brilliant.”

“Actually, you made that same unicorn's acquaintance earlier this evening,” Hermione informed him.

“And almost got myself skewered for my trouble,” he chuckled.

“So my basic answer to that question is `no,' since it's impossible for that to be less than zero. So how about….”

A buzzing noise interrupted her. Harry whipped out his wand with one hand and pulled the sheet over them both with the other. Then, keeping his wand trained on the door, he grabbed the Marauders' Map out of his trouser pocket, turning the pocket inside out in his haste.

A second buzz sounded.

“Wait, Harry,” Hermione whispered. “I think it's my mirror.” She reached above the compartments built into the headboard. “Yup, that's it exactly. I set it on `vibrate'.” Soon the mirror vibrated again, buzzing loudly as it jiggled atop the headboard.

“Who could be trying to reach us?”

“Why Ron, of course,” Hermione answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be interrupted during an intimate tête-à-tête. “He's the only one who knows we're out of the dormitory. Good thing we're fully dressed.”

She could hear Harry's abrupt inhalation at her last remark. “Good” was a relative term.

“Hi, Ron,” Hermione said cheerily.

“Hi lovebirds. Hope I haven't interrupted anything….”

“No, Ron,” Hermione said with less bounce to her voice. “What's up?”

“You are,” Ron replied. “I just wanted you to know - in case you'd lost track of time - that it's after curfew. You're in the clear though. Nobody's the wiser.”

“What do they think?” Hermione asked.

“Well, everybody thinks Pomfrey sent Harry straight to bed,” Ron recounted, “and your story's that you swapped patrolling assignments with Hannah Abbott. I'm not entirely sure Neville believes me, but I've let him know he's better off not looking into it.”

“Thanks, Ron,” Hermione told him,” and you can be sure that the next time I catch you and Cho - I won't.”

“Anyway, I'll let you get back to it,” Ron closed. “Be good. If you can't be good, be safe. And if you can't be safe, don't name it after me.”

“Ronald Weasley!” she squealed at him, but he was already gone.

“So, he really thinks we're shagging?” Harry asked her.

“I don't know what he thinks,” Hermione mused. “I know that's what he thinks he and Cho would be doing if they were in our shoes. Speaking of shagging….”

Harry tensed.

“…What's your answer to the question? I know you didn't do that, but you must have done something. What I felt through the affinity couldn't have been that far off that often.”

The cause of Harry's tension changed immediately, but hardly lessened. She had just asked him for details of three of the most stressful - and the last one, terrifying - experiences of his life. Still, if they were to be married, she had a right to know his secrets, especially his sexual secrets.

So he told her everything - as much as he understood, anyway - about his sexual encounters with Eliza. The first one was just embarrassing. Eliza had wanted him, had touched him, and had all-too-quickly driven him beyond his minimal, sixteen-year-old-boy's staying power. Having messed everything up, even the best efforts of Eliza's skilled hands could not recover him. He mentioned the mental block that had developed.

“…And no matter how much of her fiddling about after that, she couldn't get me back,” he revealed. “I know I felt badly out of sorts. What she was doing, it just felt wrong for some reason - not bad, but inappropriate. I couldn't perform after that. And when it looked like she was going to resort to, well, other things. The Fifth Element in me - I didn't know what it was back then - it became defensive, and I started to glow.”

“I certainly hope you wouldn't have blown her up just because you weren't ready to have sex with her,” Hermione observed. “If that happens with me, please, just tell me you're not in the mood.”

“That's the funny thing about it,” Harry shook his head. “While I can't say what would have happened if she hadn't backed off, I'm not at all concerned about you. I don't think it could ever get that far. I'm not even sure I could….” His voice faded to a mumble as his expression went blank. “Hermione, I honestly think it was you.”

“What did I do?” she snorted. “I wasn't even there. I was at home feeling miserable.”

“No, I mean that even then something in me wanted you - I knew without knowing it that it should be you, not her,” he meandered. “It wasn't right because it wasn't you. But I'm with you now….”

He said no more as she leaned over, plucked his glasses off of his nose, and kissed him again. He responded in kind, his hands on her shoulders, drawing her in, kissing her back - so fervently that her spine seemed to be turning to jelly.

Hermione did not want to move, or even think. His hands were on her back pressing hard and kneading her shoulder blades intensely. Pressed against his chest, she noticed through her breasts the steady thumping of his heart. Her tongue whipped across the hardness of his teeth and worked his lower lip. She felt her own heart keeping time with his.

Harry broke their kiss first. “Bloody brilliant idea, as always,” he murmured, his voice so deep with a desire that, had it been other than this wretched day, it would have induced her instant surrender.

He initiated the next kiss. It started gentle, but after he heard the sound she made into his throat, he pursued her with an ardor that left Hermione unable - or at least unwilling - to form any conscious thought beyond how he made her feel. Gone were earlier sweet and antiseptic flavours. Both now tasted of salt, sweat, and heat.

Hermione pulled back, took one look at his half-focussed eyes, and dove back in. He relaxed, sinking into her warmth. In the heat of the moment and the bliss of her touch, he left behind the worries that came with being Harry Potter. Her tongue curled out of his mouth and fluttered down his cheek to his neck.

He felt an increasing sense of urgency in his privates. “Oh, Hermione,” he gasped. The lava-like desire welling up inside him began pouring forth. It melted through those icy barriers of fear and uncertainty that held him in thrall since his bout of Death Eater-induced coitus interruptus.

With Hermione, he need not be afraid any more.

With Hermione, he need not be self-conscious any more.

Pulling his mouth away from hers, he told her the truth. “I never deliberately let Eliza get to me like this. You need to know. Except when she caught me by surprise, I never actually did anything with her - just to her. That second time, I wanted you, not her. I let her teach me to pleasure her, but that was to keep her from doing me. I swear that's the truth. Only after I thought I'd lost you, was I ready for her. And fate intervened before … that happened.”

That poor girl was killed, and Harry brutalised, so it was nothing to be happy about. Still, Hermione could not help but be pleased with how little he had done with Eliza - far less than she suspected. It also meant she could do something give him a first time tonight, after all. “Let go of it, Harry,” she urged. “Let me love you like I want to. Let me make up for the duel.”

Burying her face in the base of Harry's neck, she flicked her tongue over his throat's warm, slightly scratchy (he had not shaved since morning) skin. He turned and she felt his hot breath across her cheek. There was hunger in her now -prickly, throbbing hunger for him. Whether she would act on it was no longer a question - only how.

From everything Harry had revealed tonight, and from his previous scattered comments about sex - she knew the poor boy was thoroughly traumatised. His three prior sexual experiences had all been disastrous. His own eagerness ruined the first, along with some unresolved issues, probably involving her. Harry's midstream epiphany he was with the wrong woman spoilt the second, leading to a bizarre episode of orgasmic keepaway could only have confused him even more. His third time had simply been unspeakable, beginning in desolation and ending in death and disappearance.

Was it any wonder Harry was hesitant about anything sexual? She should consider herself lucky he did not run away screaming at the mere mention of it. Whatever of that nature would happen, she would need to initiate.

She raised herself to a half-sitting position and looked into his amazingly green eyes. “I love you, Harry. Please let me in. I promise I'll make your dreams come true.”

“You know … I'm likely to be rubbish,” he panted.

“I'm sure you'll be just fine,” she reassured, deliberately running her hand over the bulge in his trousers - a first for her.

He let out a long, low groan.

“Is that a yes?” she asked again, having received no firm answer to her first question - although he seemed plenty firm enough.

“Umm … yes, Hermione,” Harry finally let himself to believe she really wanted to do this - right now and right here. “If it's what you really want, well I'd like it too, a lot, actually … you've no idea how much.”

She felt breathtakingly bold. “I think I do, lover. Don't doubt one minute I feel the same.” She unbuckled and unzipped his trousers.

“Harry, I want to touch you. Is that okay?” she asked him, her voice only quavering slightly.

He reached out and took her hand in his. They locked eyes; his intense gaze boring into her. “Is this…? Is it really what you want?” he asked huskily. “Would you want this even if you hadn't broken my leg?”

“Harry, I've wanted this since the day you proposed, and before,” she told him as honestly as she knew how. “I wish we could go the whole way, but we can't tonight. Please, just take of me what I can give - please?”

“I love you, Hermione,” he responded, a faraway grin spreading across his face. “I don't deserve any of you - not like this.”

“You deserve everything, Harry,” she reassured him, “everything I can give you, and more.”

He gasped as her hand went all the way into his pants. “Everything's all right, Harry,” she went on. “I'm a consenting adult, now. For once, don't worry about a thing.” Her fingers slid the length of his shaft, causing him to twitch with excitement. Harry felt warm and smooth, the surface almost velvety. Willing herself to be brave, Hermione shifted him to the palm of her hand, and closed her fingers around him. He fit snugly into her grasp.

He would undoubtedly fit snugly somewhere else. But not tonight - for that everything had to be perfect, and tonight was not.

She stroked him a couple of times. “Be careful, Hermione,” he warned in strangled tones through clenched teeth. “I don't want to ruin things with you like I did before.”

She stopped her motion and sighed. “You can't ruin things with me - I love you and don't care. Whatever happens, happens. Just relax and enjoy yourself, for once.”

She started stroking him again, loosening her grip. Whilst anything he did would be fine with her, she understood he might be bothered. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel he had failed her.

He made little huffing noises in time with her ministrations. That was good.

She whispered, “I'm going to take them off now.” Harry uttered an indistinct “okay.” When he felt a slight tug around the waist, he tried lifting himself to assist. A nasty twinge shot through injured leg and Harry dropped himself heavily back down. “I'm sorry, Hermione, it just hurts too much.”

“Since, it's my own doing, maybe I can make that all better,” Hermione suggestively replied. “Just lean back and relax.” Continuing to pump him lightly with her left hand, she slipped her wand into her right and let it rest lightly on his calf. “Accio trousers,” she said softly. Harry's trousers slipped down of their own accord until the waistband grazed the tip of her wand.

“Oh,” Harry shivered. “That was nice.”

“Actually, quite naughty,” she murmured. He held his breath as she reinserted a couple of fingers beneath the elastic of his undershorts. “Wouldn't want anything to get caught,” she whispered. “Accio boxers.” His boxers joined his trousers at the tip of her wand, leaving him completely and gloriously exposed to her for the first time.

“Now that's nice,” Hermione declared. “The Full Potter at last.”

Almost instantly, Harry was self-conscious. He felt like he was posing for Playwitch. He always considered himself rather scrawny, anyway - not anything that would interest a girl like Hermione.

Harry had never been more wrong in his life.

Hermione leaned back on her haunches to remove first, his socks (he had kicked off his trainers long before), and then the clothing she had summoned, taking care to leave his Mandrake plaster in place. She shifted back a bit, to get a better look of him - naked from the waist down. As her eyes lingered on his hips, Harry caught their unmistakable look of desire. It brought him to attention once more.

“May I touch you again?” she asked.

“Just be careful,” Harry hissed as he exhaled. “You can guess how much you excite me, so if you keep this up….”

She sniggered, and he stopped short.

“What was that for?” he asked.

“Just - just the way that came out,” she laughed again. “I have to say you're keeping it up quite smartly yourself, Mister Potter.”

“Umm … don't know,” he responded. “Like you said, you've nothing to compare it with.”

“True enough,” she replied, “but don't think I'm totally ignorant. I'd say you easily satisfy the `Rule of Thumb'.” She squeezed him again - enough to make him jump (and ooze) just a bit.

“Ooooh,” he groaned. “What's that - and how do you know?” he asked with his eyes glinting in surprise. Who was this secret Hermione Granger he was about to discover?

Hermione grinned as she lay down closer to him. “It's from a women's magazine on subscription for Daddy's dental surgery - the kind that lay about for years before eventually falling apart. But if Daddy ever read that one though, he'd have cancelled immediately. Anyway, the `Rule of Thumb' estimates if your lover is the right size for you. Do you really want to hear this?”

“Sure,” he said, chuckling a bit to himself. “Just like you to conduct research.”

“As I've said before, I try to do everything well,” she huffed, “and this is no exception. The `Rule of Thumb' for length is like this. Take one hand … here….”

He twitched as she firmly grasped the base of his member.

“…and put the other hand here.” She added her other hand. It rested lightly above the first, leaving both her hands wrapped firmly around him.

“Good rule,” was all Harry could muster.

“If you can't see the tip, then, he'd be on the small side,” she instructed. “Umm … I guess you can tell, that's not your problem.”

Harry grinned - he could tell just by feel that she was right. Finally, one problem he did not have.

“Anyway, since your bell end's quite visible,” she continued, “the rule adds the top joint of the thumb….”

Hermione removed her bottom hand, brought it up, and rested her thumb, pointing outward like a hitchhiker's, atop of her remaining hand. Harry craned his head forward and saw that his tip was just about even with the tip of her thumb.

“What does that mean?” he asked her.

“It matches you almost exactly. Basically, you're just right for me.” She gave him a squeeze. “A bit shy of the high end of just right - any longer and according to the magazine I'd have to ask you to be careful.”

Hermione smiled. The “Rule of Thumb,” beyond building his confidence, was also dampening their anticipation enough to relieve excess tension. Her little lecture was relaxing him and her as well. Since she was in uncharted territory (where he had had problems), that was a very good thing.

“That's length,” she continued. “Now thickness should vary between where the nails of my two longest fingers meet my thumb's first joint - on the small side - to where my thumbnail meets the end of my two longest fingers….”

For emphasis, she squeezed him a couple more times.

“Once again you're right within the Goldilocks range - neither too small nor too big….”

“I love you,” Harry moaned as she carried on. He held her loosely about the waist.

Hermione's right hand found his left. She raised it to her bosom and pressed it against her. He throbbed in response. So he would last, she kept her movements slow.

“You can take this off me,” she told him.

“Oh, Merlin,” he groaned. From a supine position, he fumbled ineffectually with the buttons on her blouse. She lowered herself to be more accessible

“You may use magic if you'd like,” she encouraged. “You won't violate the no-magic-in-the-hallways rule here.”

Concentrating, Harry made a chopping motion with his hand. Hermione's blouse fell open up from top to bottom, revealing a filmy ivory-white brassiere.

“Oh my, you're awesome … just beautiful,” Harry gurgled.

“I'll bet you say that to any girl who shows you her tits,” she laughed, whilst trying to keep herself from shaking - both with excitement and uncertainty.

“Maybe, but I've too little experience to say,” Harry answered. “Don't care to find out, either.” He ran his free hand through the cleft between her breasts. Hermione lost her battle and began shivering with intensity.

“Cold?” he asked.”

“More like excited,” she admitted - her perky points emphasising her words. “Clasp's in the front, by the way.”

Harry's eyes went big again. “You mean…?”

“Of course.” Without another word, she lifted her hand to his. Clutching his fingers in hers, she showed how to unfasten the simple clip. Her bra sprang aside to reveal ample but hardly excessive breasts, their nipples dark in the half-light of the canopied bed.

“I'm a quick learner,” Harry grinned. “That's one lesson I'll only need once.”

“I'll hold you to that,” she said with a knowing wink. “And to these, too.”

She let go long enough for him to sweep her loose clothing off her shoulders. For an uncertain moment her still-buttoned sleeves obstructed matters. A quick spell or two resolved that problem.

“Go ahead, then,” she purred, “I want you to.”

Uncertainly, he cupped her breasts. Even a light touch raised exquisite goosepimples all over Hermione's upper body. She lowered herself towards him.

She ground herself into his hands whilst cooing, “They won't break. Just don't pinch.”

It occurred to him to do something more. Meeting her halfway, he ran his tongue along one breast, and the other. Then he kissed them properly. Her nipples were just shy of the size of those little cooking marshmallows he had occasionally nicked from his aunt - but no marshmallow in the world ever tasted so sweet.

Hermione went boneless as he followed one luxurious kiss with another. He - and she - shared the same thought - `Merlin, that feels so wonderful.'

Harry continued until Hermione tired of supporting her own weight. She let out a squeak, then a groan, and lowered herself until resting partially across his chest. Her breasts pillowed against Harry's ribs.

She reached for him, stroking faster. She wondered if she had drawn the process out too long.

“I want to please you, Harry,” she whispered in his ear. “You can stop fighting it.”

She felt his body stiffen, as he began moving in time with her rhythm. “Oh Hermione - if you don't stop I'm going to….”

He felt the mattress shift and squeak with her shifting weight.

“Oh, Hermione, what do you think you're…. Aaaahhh!!”

He almost fainted with rapture as he felt her warmth and wetness surround him. Her lips slid along the top of his shaft as her tongue simultaneously slid around the bottom, all the way to the base. This wave of new friction - of her upon him - drove him rapidly to, and then over, the edge. His ability to think coherently vanished, followed almost immediately by his muscular control.

It was the best twenty seconds or so of his life.

“H-e-r-m-i-i-i-o-o-o-n-n-n-e-e-e!!” he cried, delirious with ecstasy.

As he bucked, she held on tight.

Spastically he jerked towards her as waves of pleasure, each more intense than the last, washed uncontrollably over him. Little white dots meandered across his field of vision. Reflexively he reached for her - wanting only to caress the source of his remarkable, almost unimaginable feeling.

As he started coming down, the first thing he noticed was her batting his arms away. Hearing her grunt in protest, he immediately drew back.

Panting roughly, Harry comprehended what had just happened. “Hermione - love - you didn't have to … to do that…!”

He felt her draw back; her breath was as ragged as his. She made some guttural sounds, clearing her throat, before responding forthrightly, “But I wanted to. It was for you.”

He reached for her again. This time she easily slid into his arms, telling him once again in hushed tones how she loved him more than anything - telling him she had done what she had wanted, exactly when and how she wanted.

In exhausted, spent silence he held her against him as tightly as he dared, savouring her scent and feeling her heart pound beneath her silky, smooth breasts. He wished he could just dissolve into her. What had just happened was amazing … mind-blowing … and more than a little disconcerting.

“Hermione, are you okay … with that…?” he whispered. His right hand absent-mindedly rubbed between her shoulder blades.

“Of course,” she answered. “I love you. I wanted to be your first - at something - tonight. You, you don't have a problem with it, do you?”

“You were … everything, Hermione….” His voice faded, and she knew he was thinking about something - something he either did not want to say, or had difficulty putting into words.

“What is it, Harry?” she asked gently. “Really…?”

She felt him draw a breath and let it out. “It's just - that didn't - didn't feel … well, degrading, did it?”

Exactly as she had suspected.

“Nobody can make me feel degraded without my consent, Harry,” she told him, softly but firmly. “Least of all, you. You said so yourself. You have me on such a high pedestal that I think you're just surprised that I could be so - well, whatever….”

“Whatever, what, Hermione?” he asked lazily.

“Why … slutty, or some such, don't you think?” she giggled at him.

“See, you said it yourself,” he observed pointedly. Before Hermione did … it, Harry was only familiarity with … that … had been Bill's book, Cho's Internet portfolio, and momentary exposure to other wizard and Muggle pornos.

“Only for you, Harry,” she let him know. “You're the only one who gets to see all of me, unguarded - including when I want you more than anything.”

“But even Eliza…,” he protested.

“Only because you wouldn't let her, I'm sure,” Hermione talked over him. “Bloody noble Harry Potter and all. With me, you won't get away with that so easily.”

“But you pushed me away at the end,” he observed.

She clutched him tighter as she replied, “Only because you - it's…. Well, it can be a bit hard to breathe, and I'll admit some of it's rather … er … an acquired taste. I just don't want to be constrained, that's all.”

“But it doesn't do anything for you,” he blurted, midway between a question and a statement.

She stretched out her arms; her fingers remaining firmly intertwined behind his neck, and looked Harry straight in his emerald eyes. “Don't give me that. It does everything. You have no how idea how empowering it feels - to have you at my mercy like that … to know that I - the misfit bookworm that pretty girls make fun of - can make you feel that way.”

He sighed and smiled dreamily. “I love you,” he mouthed. Even in bed, she was intense. As if magnetised, he drifted towards her.

“That's right. Kiss me,” she said, and did just that.

He fell easily into her embrace - her lusty lips - her magnificent mouth. As he surrendered himself again, he became aware of the somewhat strange, slightly off-putting taste - him mixed together with her own distinctive flavour. It was new, and different.

It was he. It was she. It was both of them together.

Together.

Together from now on.

Not long ago, she had asked what part of `yes' he had not understood.

Now, he understood.

Harry redoubled his efforts, ravaging her teeth, her tongue, her lips - everything his own tongue could reach. Warmth return to his core, warmth she had generated, and drawn off, not long before. He slid his hands along her back, bringing her closer. He knew what he wanted to do. He reached his hand down … for her.

He felt her tense as he reached that something damp and fiery between her legs. He would do what Eliza had taught him. He could pleas her. Just as he was about to begin, he found felt Hermione's hand, block him, trying to push him away.

`Not tonight, please, Harry,' she Legilimenced as her kisses stayed intense - giving every bit as much as she got on that front.

`But I want …,' he responded similarly. `I want you to feel as wonderful as you made me feel, if that's possible.'

Her head was spinning - something inside her shouting to give herself to him - but she could not. `I want it too, but not tonight, please. I'm just…. I'd gross you out.'

Surprised, Harry broke the kiss, looked longingly into her wide, chocolaty eyes, and saw her uncertainty and hesitancy.

“You won't gross me out, I promise,” he reassured, stroking her cheek. “This I've done before. It's the only sexy thing I really know how to do. I love you, and I want to make you feel at least something like what you just made me feel.”

“I did that for love, not for a quid pro quo,” she replied tartly.

“So, let me do the same for the same reason,” he pleaded. “Please? I want to make you feel as brilliant as you just did me….”

“So do I, Harry, but just not tonight,” she repeated. “I want it to be … perfect … for our first. I'm too afraid right now that I'll put you off.”

“Don't be silly, Hermione,” he floundered, genuinely perplexed at her continued hesitation. “It can't, it's you….”

“It's not me the way I want to be,” she responded. “I'll be better, I promise.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand,” he shook his head.

“Don't be a git, Harry,” she sighed. “Do I have to spell it out for you?”

Still bewildered, he replied “I am a git, you know. I've proven that over and over.”

“You're my git, though.”

“Try me, then.”

“Oh, all right,” she gave in. “It's that time of the month, Harry.”

“What time? It's twenty-seven September…. Oh - that's what…. Sorry, Hermione. I am a git.”

She turned off the death glare and told him, “I just hope next month it'll be over before Halloween.”

“But, you're the cleverest witch I know,” he reminded her. He reached out and caressed her neck until her captivating breasts drew his hand slowly found down. “Surely there's a spell, or a potion, or something?”

“Yes, there certainly are, but those they all have knock on effects, especially at my age,” she explained. “Being female isn't something I can turn off at will with no consequences.”

“I'm sorry, Hermione,” Harry apologised as he rolled over - he noticed his leg no longer hurt - another of her miracles. “I wouldn't want you to mess yourself up in any way.”

“Harry, I'd do it for you - gladly,” she gazed into his eyes and brushed his cheek. “Except the literature, well, there's a possible adverse fertility effect, and even occasional use can worsen PMT symptoms. I don't think you'd want that. I haven't ever really felt like I've had PMT.”

Harry was nonplussed. The only time he had heard that mentioned before was something Ron said. “What's that anyway? Ron thought you had it all the time.”

Hermione glowered. “That's short for `pre-menstrual tension,' Harry, and whilst Ronald Weasley can't have it, he is a bloody carrier. He's quite accomplished at setting both me and Ginny off. I'm just glad Cho can stand him. But I won't go there. Believe me, Harry; you don't want to see me with PMT.”

With that warning, Harry retreated. He still had questions, but the answers seemed less than pleasant. “No, I guess I wouldn't. But even so, I'm still willing to give it a go if you are.”

“I'm sorry, Harry, I'm not - at least not the first time,” she resisted. “Tonight was my amends for forcing an unwanted duel on you and then hurting you atop all that. You can allow me that, can't you? I promise I'll be even better with more practice.”

Harry started to repeat the standard male spiel. “You know I'd never make you do anything you don't…. Er … what do you mean, `practice'?”

“Umm … I practised, Harry,” she confessed. “I want to be good - for you - so I do what I always do, research and practise.”

Harry was astounded at the thought. “But I thought you said you'd never…?”

“With a banana, Harry,” the exasperation bubbled in her voice. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“Oh, Merlin, now I'm jealous of a ruddy piece of fruit,” he remarked with a yet another chuckle. Still, that latest factoid produced decidedly mixed feelings. Had she actually practised - that - for him?

“Stop pulling my leg, Harry.”

“Well, you're not letting me pull anything else, it seems.”

“Shut up, Harry,” she giggled as she pounced on him to enforce her order. They hungrily went at each other one more time.

“Are you sure there's nothing I can do - for you?” he asked her with an almost pleading look in his eyes. “My leg seems all better, so you needn't worry about that.”

Silence. She was thinking. A sly smile came to her face.

She was, and remained, the cleverest witch of her age, and she had come upon an idea.

His mention of duelling was all she needed to crystallise it.

“But I think there is, Harry,” she gasped, trying not to wriggle with anticipation. “I think it's time you showed me the appropriate use of that Orgasimos Charm.”

“But Dumbledore said it's addictive,” Harry informed her. With Hermione, after all, it was no one-night stand.

“Dumbledore's a bullshit artist,” Hermione responded bluntly. “I'm studying pretty advanced healing with Madam Pomfrey, so don't you think I'd have checked that one out?”

“Umm … yeah, that makes sense,” he agreed.

“OK, then trust me, it's not addictive, it won't make you go blind, nor will you grow additional, unwanted hair,” she rattled on. “So get out your wand - your other wand - and get over here.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Separate and unequal was used to describe segregated schools in America

The breaking Harry's leg is a reworking of something from Lori's “Show That Never Ends” fic

“Don't leave home without it” and “priceless” are taken from credit card commercials

Hermione's encounter with the mirror took place in Chapter 33

I don't think Hermione would change her name after getting married, so she won't be in this fic

A compound spiral fracture accurately describes the fracture Harry suffered at the end of Chapter 49

“Plaster is British for “band-aid”

Asking to “show” someone “my etchings” is a rather cheesy pick-up line

The talk with Bill occurred in Chapter 19

The nature of Hermione's hesitation becomes clear towards the end of the chapter

Harry's epiphany took place in Chapter 26

In canon, Harry initiated what turned into the troll rescue in PS/SS

Hermione's idea about the Black Estate will be revealed in the next chapter

Dennis' Y2K idea will make Harry a great deal of money. So would his movie idea, since the film was “Titanic.” That movie had the indicated problems

The description of “Hermione” is accurate. The Lafayette connection is how I chose her mother's name

The information about the various people named “Harry” is also accurate

Frank Sinatra, who did a version of “Something,” said it was the best love song ever written

There's a line in “All Too Much” about blonde hair and blue eyes

Old Green Eyes is a play on Old Blue Eyes, a Sinatra nickname

There's also a Nancy Sinatra

Hermione favors “Shadows of the Night,” by Pat Benetar

Atticus Finch is the lawyer character from “To Kill A Mockingbird”

Resolution of the ring issue will lead to a disconcerting discovery

“We're younger than that now” is a Bob Dylan line from “My Back Pages”

The problem of too much hair in the mouth while kissing is personal experience

The buzzing mirror is like my Blackberry

The “Be good…..” line is an old joke

Fiddling about is from the Who's “Tommy”

Naughty and nice are Christmas carol references

“Full Potter” is a take off on “Full Monte,” I've seen it used mostly with respect to Dan Radcliffe's nude scene in Equus. Lori apparently also used it

The “Rule of Thumb” is entirely made up, but it's the kind of thing one could see reading about in Cosmo

Neither Harry nor Hermione have extraordinary sexual physiologies

Goldilocks reference is to “just right”

This sexual encounter follows the pattern in E. Sheldon's Transmahora Tablets, but only the pattern

The “nobody can make … without my consent” comes from something similar about inferiority attributed to Eleanor Roosevelt

Unfortunately, Hermione's period had started earlier in the evening - I'm cruel, I know

The “not have … but is a carrier” is from a line about ulcers

In America PMT is known as “PMS”

Ron's PMT comment was in Chapter 25

Hermione picked up the banana at the Slug Club party

Going blind and growing hair are two old wive's tales about masturbation

31

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch50 rather more than twenty questions.doc 12/25/06

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51. Padfoot's Legacy

Wherein Hermione goes to the library and accepts self-defense training, Captain Katie drops a problem in Harry's lap, everyone goes to Gringotts for the reading of Sirius' will, Sirius' bequests cause problems for Harry, Harry and Hermione cause problems for the goblins, Rita Skeeter causes problems for Harry and Hermione; Harry gets tested, Luna agrees to help, and a date is set.

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

Thanks to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and new beta Mathiasgranger.

Chapter 51 - Padfoot's Legacy

Perhaps males respond differently to endorphins - or maybe Harry's response was simply differently than Hermione's. Whatever the hypothesis, when they awoke the next day - or more accurately, later the same day - the pair presented a night-and-day contrast.

After escorting a rather weak-in-the-knees Hermione back to Gryffindor Tower at about three in the morning (thank Merlin for the Marauders' Map), Harry had flopped into bed hoping for a few hours' sleep. He neglected his Occlumency. That was usually a recipe for disaster, but not this time. For once in his life, he had wonderful dreams.

Undoubtedly, his wonderful dreams were the product of last evening's even more amazing experience. Hermione had undressed him to just this side of starkers, and then she had done … THAT … to him. Not only that, she was just this side of starkers too, something Harry swore he would never forget as long as he lived. She had let him touch her even where she was not naked - albeit only very lightly. She enthusiastically let him perform the Orgasimos Charm on her several times….

Harry slept through his alarm for a good fifteen minutes. His poor clock was red in the face when Ron and Neville more or less dragged him out of bed. Ron gave Harry one of those looks - but chose to say nothing. After all, Neville was present.

Despite taking (more like being been forcibly administered) a cold shower - whilst still in his pyjamas - Harry remained in a pleasant, fuzzy semi-conscious state.

Ordinarily, Harry tended to be cranky in the morning. Those were the hours that so often brought calamitous news. Today, he was most uncharacteristically relaxed whilst eating breakfast at the Gryffindor table. He had momentous, if predictable, things to look forward to today.

For the moment, Harry was perfectly content just to sit back and reflect upon the previous evening's activities.

He was in love, and all he really wanted was to be with her again.

From the goofy look on Harry's face, Ron thought he knew exactly what went on. He could sympathise, having been in the same position not all that long ago. `That's bloody well worth a broke leg,' he thought to himself.

Hermione, for her part, woke up refreshed and feeling altogether renewed. Harry's spellwork had been everything she could have hoped for - only a spare pair of knickers short of perfect (and she was a witch, after all). That would not be a problem the next time.

The next time….

`Stop thinking like that….' Her wanton thoughts sometimes made her feel like … like … well, like someone she would not recognized before Harry had come to save her. Since when had she gotten so … infernally randy?

The point was moot. She could no more stop such thoughts than she could stop the march of time - even less, actually (she was a witch, after all). Already eagerly anticipating that next time, Hermione felt warm and prickly feelings deep inside.

But for now she had things to do and places to go.

Practically bursting with energy, Hermione quickly got dressed and made her way to the library. She had promised last night to find something for Harry - and now she would find it. All she had to do was retrace her steps from before and track down the legal reference she remembered.

She had friends in the library - mostly hardbound, but some tightly rolled - that would tell her things they did not seem inclined to tell others. This particular foray took less than an hour.

Harry, Ron, and several other Gryffindors were still in the Great Hall when she arrived for her own hurried breakfast. Hermione plopped herself down so close to Harry that any closer would have been in his lap. With a knowing smile, she Legilimenced, `I found what I remembered seeing during my research. I think it will be helpful.'

`Great,' Harry thought back to her. `I can't wait to see the look on Blackie Howe's face when he finds out that you know magical law better than he. You'll probably get a job offer….'

She stopped him cold with her serious tone. `You will do nothing of the sort, Harry. The last person in the world … well, maybe not quite that bad…. Anyway, you don't want to say a word about this to anyone, certainly not until we've had a chance to discuss this with your goblin friends. Maybe not even then.'

Harry trusted his fiancée implicitly on this kind of issue. `Okay, Hermione,' he agreed. “Mum's the word.”

“Whose mum?” Ron asked casually whilst working his way through a pile of bangers, bannocks, kippers, and toast with red currant marmalade.

“Umm….” Harry belatedly realised he had said his last aloud.

“Mine,” Hermione jumped in. “And you really don't want to know.”

“Got that right,” Ron mumbled with his mouth full. “Your problem, Harry.”

Tonks and Professor Flitwick arrived to take Harry, Hermione, and several other invited guests to Gringotts for the formal reading of Sirius' will - the final step in the prolonged inheritance process. After that, all the titles, deeds, certificates, keys and other indicia of ownership of Black family assets would magically update themselves in Harry's favour.

Ron was present, looking a bit out of sorts. Ginny had received an invitation, as had Neville. So, of course, had Hermione. Others, including Blackie Howe, would be joining them at Gringotts.

Since Bill's death, Professor Flitwick had stepped into the role of the Order's informal liaison to the goblins - for second-level matters insufficiently important to involve their principals (Harry, being one) personally. The diminutive part-goblin took Harry aside to explain the protocol for this latest event. It seemed like everything the goblins did had some ceremonial aspect to it.

Hermione took a couple of steps in Harry's direction before a gently placed hand on her shoulder halted her.

“Hermione, can I have a word?” It was Tonks.

“Sure,” she agreed. “What do you want?”

“Not here,” Tonks whispered conspiratorially. With a bob of her head, she indicated for Hermione to follow her, which the girl did, towards the staff anteroom behind the Head Table.

Before entering Hermione recalled security and required Tonks to demonstrate her bona fides. The Auror did so, with some quick appearance changes that only a Metamorphmagus could manage.

They soon reached an out-of-the-way alcove where they could speak privately.

“I've heard from the dead woman's relatives,” she told Hermione. “They appreciate the offer, but it's a no go. They don't want either the complications or the possible publicity that would come with your attendance. They have accepted Harry's offer to cover the funeral expenses, though.”

“I can't really blame them,” Hermione said resignedly. “It was a horrible way to die, Imperius or not, and I can see them just wanting it over. I'll pass the message along to Harry.”

“All right. It sounds like you've been told the details of exactly what transpired,” Tonks carried on. “There was some thought to keep the more … umm … disturbing details away from you.”

Hermione confirmed it. “We both know. Harry insisted. He says it helps motivate him, but I'm not so sure.”

Tonks' face screwed up a bit as she pondered Hermione's comment. “I can't say that's a bad idea - as long as Harry can keep himself under control.”

“I think that's a big part of why he insisted,” Hermione replied. “He's doing it to test his control. So far, so good.”

“Well, along those lines, I've spoken with Mad-Eye, Shak, and Minerva,” Tonks told her. “It's not something we relish doing, but we're agreed that, if you want to learn, we can teach you some wandless magic that would be useful in … er … that scenario.”

“What do you mean, Tonks?” Hermione asked, her voice tinged with concern.

“That's … that's plainly the sort of thing that the Death Eaters have planned should you ever fall into their hands. It's a horrible way to die - and unnecessary,” Tonks explained, her intense eyes boring into Hermione's. “I agree with Mad-Eye that it's better to go down fighting, even if disarmed. If you're game, I'm ready to show you how to do it.”

“Oh,” Hermione said with greater focus. “Mad-Eye's idea I suppose?”

“No, mine,” Tonks answered. “Mad-Eye wholeheartedly approves, though, and he had some additional suggestions along these lines, as I thought he might.”

“And you had to get Professor McGonagall's approval?” Hermione continued.

Tonks offered a thin smile. “She's your Head of House - and Dumbledore's too busy. Also, I had to run this by Shak, because it's the sort of magic that would ordinarily get you expelled from his Defence class. He's not happy about it, but he agreed. There aren't that many good alternatives.”

“I'll learn it,” Hermione agreed. “But I'm not keeping anything from Harry.”

“I wouldn't ask you to. Just … nothing kinky, okay?”

Harry finished with Professor Flitwick and wandered about the Great Hall, wondering where Hermione was off to. He was intercepted by a concerned Katie Bell. “Harry, I need to talk with you about the team,” she told him.

“Sure, what's up?” Harry asked.

“Only the latest crisis with Jazzy,” she told him. “I hope she won't be more trouble than she's worth, but Professor McGonagall spoke to me about her yesterday.”

“What's wrong?” Harry asked. “Is she in trouble?”

“It seems that she's failing Herbology,” Katie informed him. “You know that's no longer allowed in Gryffindor House. If she can't keep up with her studies, McGonagall will drop her from the team. McGonagall's wanted to impose more academic discipline on Quidditch for years, but until now she's been afraid that Snape would flunk our players deliberately if she put in that kind of rule….”

“What do I have to do with this?” Harry interrupted.

“Well, I tried to talk to her about it, and I couldn't get anywhere,” Katie explained with a cross look on her face.

“And?”

“And I think only you might be able to get to the bottom of what's going on and help her,” Katie said. “She doesn't really associate with anybody. She's absolutely the biggest loner in the whole house. I think you talk to her more than anyone else.”

“Yeah,” Harry had to agree, “but only at practice, actually, to teach her Seeker moves. She's really interested in that, but I have no idea what else might be going on.”

“Well, do you think you can at least try to find out?” Katie requested.

“I'll give it a go,” Harry reluctantly agreed, “but no guarantees.”

Hermione found her way back into the Great Hall. Tonks had gone to confirm the last-minute transportation arrangements with Gringotts. Seeing Harry having a chat with Katie, Hermione took a few steps in that direction before being intercepted by Ginny.

“Well, congratulations, Hermione,” Ginny offered cryptically. She was grinning, but her cheeks lacked the dimple ordinarily present when she smiled.

Something about the younger girl put Hermione on her guard. “Umm … thanks. Did something happen that I don't know about?”

“Doubt it,” Ginny replied, cocking an eye at her. “Surely, you haven't forgotten already. Congratulations about last night.”

Hermione could feel the blood rising in her face. She was going to hex Ron into a hundred little pieces if he had told Ginny, of all people, about her extracurricular activities with Harry. “I-I-I'm … not sure….”

“…I heard that almost all of Hufflepuff is going to sign up for your D.A. session,” Ginny added after a pregnant pause. “Brilliant the way you were able to handle Harry.”

Hermione visibly relaxed. Ron had not spilled their naughty little secrets after all. “That's wonderful, Ginny! Thanks for letting me know. How did you find that out?”

“From the Hippogriff's mouth,” the redhead began, and then paused, “Hannah Abbott told me - last night, when we ran into each other on patrol. Look, there's Neville. I'll see you there, then. Oh…, and enjoy yourself.”

Hermione stood there, and watched her friend saunter off. Was there more going on than met the eye?

Before she had any more time to consider Ginny's remarks, Professor Flitwick announced that all those attending the reading of the will needed to assemble at the Castle's central Floo connection in the foyer beside the main entrance.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron, minded by Tonks and Mad-Eye, all made their way to the Hogwarts main Floo. There they waited for Professor Flitwick to return from reconnoitering the link to Gringotts. When Neville and Ginny appeared maybe fifteen seconds later, Harry was somewhat surprised to see them.

“Here, I've got yours, Harry,” Tonks told him. “Gringotts didn't trust this one to the owl post.” Tonks pulled out a letter sealed with a large dollop of white wax into which the Gringotts seal was impressed. It was addressed to him in Sirius' sloppy and angular handwriting.

She then turned to the others. As a security measure, Tonks required everyone intending to attend the reading of the will to present his or her testamentary letter. In another surprise for Harry, not only Ron and Hermione, but Neville and Ginny, produced sealed letters similarly addressed in the same script.

Harry was even more surprised to see Tonks herself produce such an envelope. “I'm standing in for Remus,” she said sadly. “It's that time of the month, and he can't be here himself.”

It struck Harry how much the meaning of that phrase differed in respect of Remus, as opposed to Hermione.

“Tonks, I'm sorry,” Harry declared when she was finished. “I should have thought it through. Of course, Sirius would have remembered his best living friend. I should never have scheduled the reading for a full moon.”

“Harry, it's all right - really,” Tonks answered with a tragic smile. “Remus had very mixed feelings about all this anyway. It would have been very hard on….”

“Umm … Tonks,” Hermione interrupted. “I couldn't help but notice the different coloured seals.”

Harry looked and quickly saw that, as usual, Hermione had been more observant than the rest. His, Tonks', and Neville's envelopes all bore white seals. Ron's had a red seal. Hermione's was sealed twice, in both red and yellow wax. Ginny's had a single yellow seal.

“I have no idea,” Tonks answered. “Do you know, Harry?”

“I'm as clueless as you,” he replied.

“We'll just have to ask the goblins,” Tonks concluded.

When the group exited the public Floo opposite Gringotts, Harry thought there were rather more witches and wizards on the street than at the height of last summer's Voldemort scare. His dramatic escape from the Death Eaters had been portrayed in the Prophet as a great victory, and the populace seemed somewhat less frightened.

The passers-by saw him too, and in no time autograph seekers and would-be Harry hangers-on were milling about, circling like sharks.

“Back off!” Mad-Eye ordered. “Nothing ta see here. Just a few Order of Merlin winners crossing the street, that's all.”

For some reason, that warning did not seem to help.

Somebody (a female, Harry hoped) tossed a pair of knickers at him over the heads of the others. Mad-Eye shredded it with a spell whilst it was still in midair.

With the ancient Auror's fierce countenance alone proving insufficient to part the gathering crowd, a bit of escalation was called for. Mad-Eye let loose with a couple of noisy Distraction Hexes. Tonks administered Harry a quick Disillusioning Charm before any of the onlookers figured out what was going on. Taking advantage of the confusion, Sirius Black's various beneficiaries ran for it, and were able to achieve the sanctuary of Gringotts without any more delays.

At first the pair of goblins guarding the main entrance appeared to be moving to stop them - but Harry had missed Professor Flitwick's sign. They merely requested a pause. With a low grinding noise, Gringotts' massive four-metre square bronze doors swung fully open. Harry's group was to use the bank's ceremonial main entrance, rather than the ordinary business one. As with the Ashrak, opening Gringotts' main doors allowed the goblins to display their respect for these welcome guests.

A fairly thin (by their standards) goblin met Harry and his companions at the door. “Welcome, Impratraxis,” he greeted. “Glaksosmit I am, for Gringotts Director of Wizard Estate Matters - at your service. In readiness al is, I believe. Indeed, more than we expected, we have found. Nothing adeemed as we had thought. Administered in accordance with Mister Black's wishes everything will be.”

Harry muttered out a gradnuk, and the senior goblin continued. “And these? The other beneficiaries, I assume?”

Harry hesitated, because he frankly was not sure. His friends had envelopes similar to his own, but he had not opened his - and they had different coloured seals.

“That's correct,” a voice intervened. Harry turned and saw Blackie Howe striding up beside him, spotlessly dressed in one of his 500-Galleon pinstriped robes. “Sorry, I'm late, Harry,” the solicitor apologised. “Bit of a crisis with the Floo from the Continent, I'm afraid, but I believe it's been set right.”

“Very well,” Glaksosmit continued. “Before we begin, please, your envelopes and your wands you need to me present.”

Everyone complied, and the goblins used their own magic to check each wizard's identity against his or her wand. All was in order until he reached Tonks. “What is this?” he muttered with surprise, as the envelope she had (which was addressed to Remus) did not match her wand. “Perhaps, a proxy?”

“That's right,” Tonks stated. “Remus Lupin, the beneficiary, is a werewolf and this is the day of the full moon.”

The werewolf aspect did not bother the goblin in the least, but the proxy did. “My apologies but proxies, by advance request only they must be arranged. I'm afraid that I cannot….”

Harry stepped in. “If Remus wants her here, then I want her here. It's all right - arbit aras balam. I know them both and I'll vouch for them.”

It might have been most irregular, but Glaksosmit was not about to overrule the wishes of a goblin prince, certainly not on the day that this prince was also going to become the largest shareholder (and depositor) of Gringotts Bank.

“So be it shall, then. So ordered has Impratraxis,” he backed down with a nervous grimace that revealed his pointed teeth. Reviewing the envelopes against his list he wiggled his long ears just a bit before asking. “And Miss Chang, where is she?”

Harry was taken completely by surprise. “You mean Cho Chang?” he asked.

“She's not coming, mate,” Ron spoke from behind in a not altogether pleasant tone of voice. “She can't come, and I didn't particularly want her here. I don't know what Sirius is playing at, but I've got her envelope.”

Ron pulled out another parchment envelope bearing a yellow seal just like Ginny's and presented it to Glaksosmit.

“Sirius could have a right strange sense of humour, but if there's anything real to this, I'll handle it for her,” Ron finished.

The goblin looked to Harry for guidance. Harry nodded, so Glaksosmit allowed Ron's more-or-less proxy to stand as well. It was much less irregular, since Ron had his own envelope and was to be admitted anyway.

“Asak, Impratraxis Potter,” another more familiar goblin greeted Harry as he joined the group.

“Bladvak,” Harry responded. “Asak to you as well. I didn't expect to see you today.”

Bladvak was momentarily struck speechless. Harry's greeting was - not appropriate - not from royalty to a goblin commoner. He looked to Glaksosmit, who shrugged. “Then … why not, know I do not,” Bladvak finally replied. “After all, your representative I am for the royal inheritance to be audited. My understanding is that both your and my request it is our handiwork to complete.”

Harry trusted Bladvak more than probably any goblin short of the royal family itself. Thus, he asked, “What do the different colour seals mean?”

“The seals?” Bladvak again looked to his superior goblin, who nodded. “Signifies an absolute bequest, white does. Signifies an absolute bequest subject to ademption, red does. Signifies a conditional bequest, yellow does.”

“Er … what's ademption?” Harry asked, almost wishing he set aside time to meet with Blackie Howe beforehand - almost.

Bladvak was obliged to answer any question put to him by a member of the royal family, but he looked anxiously to Glaksosmit, upon whose turf Harry was leading him to tread.

Hermione squeezed Harry's hand. A nod of her head directed Harry's attention in to the goblins' interaction. He immediately noticed Bladvak looking a little embarrassed, and Glaksosmit looking a bit impatient.

“Umm … forget it…. Shall we go, then?” Harry prompted the head-goblin-in-charge. “…And get this over with,” he added, mostly to himself.

Whilst Hermione, through Legilimency, explained to Harry that ademption was what happened to bequests that failed if specifically designated property was no longer in the estate, the goblins led everyone through Gringotts' mazelike private galleries. The group passed through sundry doorways and hallways until finally they were ushered into a large, well appointed room with a massive central conference table. Smaller tables against the walls offered considerable wizard food and drink along with virtually unrecognisable goblin refreshments.

This room was lit, goblin-style, by large milky-white crystals like Harry had seen during the Ashrak. These fit snuggly into shiny brass brackets bolted to the walls at regular intervals. Their soft, almost natural light set the sheen from varnished wood panels and polished marble flooring almost to glowing. Fancy inlaid foldable wooden stools with plaid-covered cushions were provided for the wizard guests. The goblins in attendance brought along personalised sitting rocks - polished stone blocks in various colours, their top sides featuring individually carved depressions that exactly fitted each owner's rear end.

For all its size, the centre table did not dominate the room. A floor-to-ceiling goblin mirror at the room's far end overshadowed everything else, even while making the space seem twice as large as it really was.

Festooning the walls were scores of crystal covered cabinets, each displaying a single rather jagged looking circular object. They seemed to be weapons - small ones - of some sort. Harry asked his hosts what they were.

“Impratraxis, Asterliks for hunting Chyropts, they are,” Glaksosmit explained. “Tradition it is, among us. Hunted are they by every male goblin, some better than others.” He moved to one of the frames, motioned his bony fingers at the glass (at least Harry assumed it was glass), and the cover opened without being touched.

Glaksosmit removed the object. It approximated the size and thickness of a circular saw blade, but with considerably more intricate and irregular serrations. Nor was it flat; rather his Asterlik sported four distinct grooves and a gracefully curved surface. “Mine, this is,” he said in a low voice to Harry. “Perhaps escaped one has, from through the mirror?”

Glaksosmit inspected the room intently, particularly the corners where the walls and ceiling joined. Harry noticed him shifting the Asterlik so it perched with the four fingers of his right hand fitting precisely in the device's four corresponding grooves. The goblin squinted, gave a toothy smile, and….

With Harry watching closely, Glaksosmit's right threw the Asterlisk with a whip-like overhand motion. It produced a whirring sound as it arced through the air. Against the opposite wall Harry briefly saw a flutter, and a swerve. The streaking Asterlik matched that final swerve at exactly the same moment. The Asterlik cut through the fluttering object. With a high-pitched shriek, it exploded in a red-orange-red flash of light. Barely an instant later, the Asterlik embedded itself in the far wall with a “thwack.” Firmly embedded, it vibrated slightly

His attention focussed entirely on Glaksosmit's actions and their aftermath, Harry had not noticed Bladvak and several other goblins following suit. As several of the Hogwarts students dove under the table, several more Asterliks hissed through the air. Some produced similar small explosions, some not.

Then silence - punctuated only by coins being slapped onto the table and slid between various goblins.

More gold was directed towards Glaksosmit than any other.

After pocketing his winnings, he summoned his Asterlik with a wave of his hand. The other goblins were doing the same. Magically, the room's wood paneling repaired itself, and the gouges left by the Asterliks vanished.

Glaksosmit looked Harry straight in the eye, as if sizing him up. “Impratraxis, with Asterlik, hunt very well do I,” he said with a conspiratorial nod. He scrutinised the other goblins around the room. “Krak,” he commanded and then let loose a fast sentence of Gobbledegook. All the goblins returned their Asterliks to the wall cabinets.

Save Mad-Eye Moody, all the non-goblins in the room were either frightened or (as with Hermione) simply surprised - depending upon how comfortable they were with goblins. “What was that all about?” Harry asked Glaksosmit.

“Of Chryopts clear now the room is, Impratraxis,” the goblin replied. “Magical creatures, like bats or small Harpies,” he added, seeing Harry's questioning look. “An underground race we are. Hunted them forever we have …. But to business!”

A few more instructions in Gobbledegook, and goblins started scrambling. Several, Bladvak included, passed through the mirror. Its reflective surface rippled slightly as goblins disappeared behind its silvery boundary. Beside Harry, Hermione observed everything, fascinated with the unusual goings on.

The mirror quivered again as Bladvak reappeared, carrying a silver tray upon which rested a small cask of some sort. The cask was covered in that grey fabric the goblins fancied. Next to it was a twisted piece of metal with a handle on one end.

Bladvak seated himself at the head table, to the left of Glaksosmit, who took the centre chair. On the side opposite, another goblin produced a shiny, jet black shaft, finely pointed on one end, which he set on a piece of parchment.

“In Impratraxis' name, quiet, please,” Glaksosmit intoned, and the room went silent. He nodded to the goblin on his right (the audience's left) who passed his hand over the shaft. It sprung to attention, hovering expectantly.

“On the record at fiz-lit Amanplat, resturlak da Krasmol - that is ten forty-five on twenty-eight September, 1996, wizard time….”

When he spoke, the ebony shaft began scratching away on the parchment. Glaksosmit stared at it a moment, then whispered something to the goblin evidently managing the recording device. That goblin promptly grabbed the device in mid air, and twisted the top of it. Scowling at the parchment, he wadded up the sheet and tossed it through the mirror.

“Begin again, will we,” Glaksosmit said with some annoyance creeping into his voice. “This time with proceedings in English recorded, not Gobbledegook.”

“On the record at fiz-rop Amanplat, resturlak da Krasmol - that is ten forty-six on twenty-eight September, 1996, wizard time. Gathered here are we for the reading of Testamentary Instrument No. 95-365, the last will and testament of Sirius Pepys Black. Previously void, retroactively revalidated this instrument is by repudiation of Mister Black's conviction, upon formal motion by the Minister of Magic, Wizengamot approved on twenty-nine August, 1996, by vote of 27-7 with a number of abstentions.”

“By order of the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, postponed this reading was pending the final judgment closing In Re: Black Probate Contest, No. 89-35, and Malfoy v. Potter, No. 96-113, which judgment was entered twenty-two September, 1996.”

“The document if you would….”

Bladvak opened the cask. He removed not only a piece of parchment rolled up and tied with a green ribbon, but also a small canister resembling a medicine bottle. Silently, he handed them both to Glaksosmit.

The senior goblin made a hand motion that caused the ribbon to unravel and the parchment to unroll. He held the bottle up and gave it a curious stare.

“Happened did unusual things, when Mister Black's conviction the Ministry formally repudiated,” Glaksosmit began. “Mister Black, it seems, not quite as impecunious was he as believed had we. Of an unincorporated entity the hidden owner was he. Registered had he this `Alpha Astra,' in the name of `John Oliver Wilson.' Non-existent this Wilson was, the name suspect now we as a collage of the middle names of certain of Mister Black's boyhood friends.”

`Oliver was your father's middle name,' Hermione Legilimenced to Harry as the goblin continued with his introductory speech.

“…Certain assets this Alpha Astra had, which upon Mister Black's rehabilitation, to his estate automatically linked….”

`How do you know that?' Harry Legilimenced back. `I only found that out from his gravestone, whilst you were….'

“…Part of it now are they. With them, more understandable Mister Black's will is….”

Ignoring that worrisome memory, Hermione told him, `It was engraved on the Head Boy trophy.'

“…This, the Alpha Astra account also contained,” Glaksosmit pointed to the phial in his hand, “which examined have we. In it his own will reads Mister Black….”

Everyone in the room gasped. The goblins had kept this fact a secret - even from Harry.

With no further ado, the goblin placed the stoppered bottle on the table in front of him. Grasping it with his clawed left hand, Glaksosmit grasped the oddly shaped tool with his right. The thing looked like a cross between an ice pick and a corkscrew. In one fluid motion Glaksosmit plunged the thin point of the blade into the stopper. Pulling back on the blade, he removed the stopper with a “pop”.

With a soft hissing noise, a translucent, vaguely glowing cloud of bluish steam emerged. This cloud flowed forward and settled into the open space between the goblin high table and the onlooking audience. It resolved into the image of Sirius Black, dressed in nondescript brown robes. Harry and Hermione both instantly recognised him as sitting at the davenport in the library at Grimmauld Place.

Sirius had a document - presumably the same parchment that now lay in front of Glaksosmit - in his hands. Before reading from it, he looked straight at the audience. The haunted look in Harry' godfather's eyes was instantly recognisable. Sirius often wore that same look during his initial encounters with Harry.

“Umm … Harry, I'm sure you're out there. I can't say, of course, how I died, but if you're seeing this, it means that Dumbledore's little plan didn't work. That's because, if it had, one of the first things I'd have done is prepare a new will in proper Black family style…. Too bad, but don't blame him, he at least tried. And don't blame yourself either. However I died, I'm sure it was my own bloody fault. I never was much good at looking before I leapt. Now, let's get this over with….”

Sirius' image looked down at a document and began reading. Glaksosmit followed along to ensure that everything on the parchment was identical.

“Ahem…. On this, the eighteenth day of October, 1995, I Sirius Pepys Black, being of sound mind and body….”

He looked up and straight at the audience.

“Now that may be debatable,” he offered as an aside, adding a mirthless chuckle. “…Do hereby declare that this document is my last will and testament. In executing this document, I hereby revoke all prior wills and codicils… Like I had any…. I declare that I am not married and that I have no children or other blood heirs. In accordance with my wishes, my property is to be distributed as hereunder:”

“To my cousins Bellatrix and Narcissa….”

At the mention of these Death Eater (or equivalent) relatives, Harry tensed. Hermione squeezed his hand. Glaksosmit had that blade of his touched to the parchment to keep his place. He never looked up.

“…I leave nothing at all. I mention them specifically herein to notify the world of that fact. To my cousin Andromeda I also leave nothing - not by choice but because under Wizard Law the actions of my father preclude it, and everything of value that I have came directly or indirectly from him. Sorry, but I can't help it.”

“In the event that I am murdered, I hereby set aside the sum of 50,000 Galleons as a reward to anyone - with the exception of the other beneficiaries hereto, who need no such incentive - who comes forward with information leading to the arrest and conviction of my killers.”

“To my one remaining dearest friend, Remus John Lupin, I hereby bequeath a life estate interest in the Tindhólmur summit cottage/clubhouse that the Marauders built in the Faroe Islands. You know where that is. After Mister Lupin's death, the Tindhólmur cottage shall revert to Harry James Potter, my godson, and son of my other dearest friend, James Oliver Potter, and his wife Lily Evans Potter, both deceased - except as follows:”

Sirius looked up from the page and addressed the audience again.

“Remus, I know what you go through every month, but I dearly hope that you find it in yourself to qualify for the following bequest.”

“In the event that Remus Lupin were to marry and have issue of his own, said Tindhólmur cottage shall pass after his death to such spouse and issue in fee and in perpetuity…. Merlin, I hate this formbook bumpf and guff.”

The audience - except for Tonks - tittered. That last bit plainly was not in the document either.

“To my traitorous ex-friend, Peter Wilson Pettigrew, I leave nothing except this warning - remember you owe a Wizard Debt to my godson - and this request to my godson. If Peter satisfies his Wizard Debt, show him mercy, for that is the good that is in you….”

Then Sirius looked up again.

“And if he doesn't, Harry, you be damn sure to kill him right properly for your godfather and your parents.”

“Now back to the will…. The remainder and residue of my estate, including all real, personal, and intangible property, I hereby leave to my godson, Harry James Potter, in fee and in perpetuity, with the following exceptions.”

“In the event that my godson predeceases me … Merlin forbid … I name the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry as the contingent beneficiary of the residuum of my estate, as so stated in the preceding paragraph.”

“Assuming I have any money left, I bequeath to Hermione Jane Granger, and Ronald Bilius Weasley, who have been my godson's greatest friends for as long as I have known them, the sum of ten thousand Galleons each. I make this bequest, with the hope, prayer, and expectation that they will remain his friends for the duration.”

“Neville Pupp Longbottom is in my godson's House and was born less than twenty-four hours previous to him. I am certain that he has a role to play in all this. Therefore, I bequeath to him the one significant magical artifact that I own - the Staff of Asclepius. If he can keep bloody serpents away from it, the Staff is pretty cool…. It accentuates the owner's most magical quality, as it did for me. I could never have had my way with as many witches without it.”

Sirius cracked a sly grin as he finished his extra-documentary aside. The smile ran away from his face as he raised his head again, looking relatively grim.

“Harry, I'm making this final bequest because, like it or not, you're going to be a wizard of consequence. You're a Potter - the only heir to the line - and the Potter name is amongst the first rank of wizarding families in Britain. I don't want you to be trapped, like most other wizards of high station … I count myself in that category … by the dowry system that is still so damnably prevalent in our society.”

“Rather, I want you to be free to follow your heart … like James did - to the initial dismay of his parents, I might add. That worked out in the end, but not without a great deal of grief. I'm not at liberty to tell you where Lily's dowry came from, except that it wasn't me.”

“When the time comes, I don't want wizard conventions to force you to limit your horizons in any way. Nor do I want your eventual wife placed in an awkward or uncomfortable situation. Therefore, whilst this last bequest is not to you, at least not now, it's for you…. And, with that introduction, here goes….”

Sirius' eyes went back to the document. Glaksosmit, who had been reading ahead, dropped the blade he had been using.

“Finally, I bequeath the amount of 100,000 Galleons to the witch that my godson falls in love with and chooses to marry - said sum to constitute that witch's dowry so that my godson, like his father, can marry for love and for no other consideration. At the present time, not knowing who that witch will be, but having knowledge of some likely candidates, said bequest is to be placed in trust for the current benefit, jointly, of Miss Cho Chang, Miss Hermione Jane Granger, and Miss Ginevra Molly Weasley, such as the case may be, with distribution to abide future events, as hereinabove stated.”

Harry could feel Hermione's hand tighten around his as Sirius finished this last bequest. She was hardly the only one who gasped. Whether meaning to or not, Sirius had effectively placed a bounty on Harry's head (or heart) that any witch in England - no matter what ethnicity (Cho), ancestry (Hermione), or financial status (Ginny) - was now free to pursue.

Not only that, Sirius had publicly handicapped those he saw as the three frontrunners in that sweepstakes.

That idea had undoubtedly seemed all well and good at the time to Sirius - who notoriously and admittedly had played the field when Harry's age. Nor had his handicapping been all that far off - as of October, 1995. At that point, almost a year previous, Harry and everyone else were still very much in flux as to matters of the heart.

Back then, he and Cho had still been circling.

But now, Harry was secretly engaged to Hermione; Ron was very much involved with Cho; and Ginny had recently paired off with Neville - although Harry had no solid information how far that last relationship had progressed.

Not only that, but of that six, everybody except Cho had been in the same room to hear Sirius' bequest announced.

And not only that - as Sirius had been totally wrong about another thing, the success of Dumbledore's plan - his estate contained the funds to pay every Galleon of that bequest. Indeed, the estate had enough money to finance it ten thousand times over.

Hearing Sirius' final bequest unloosed all of these thoughts, which went flying around inside Harry's brain careening into each other and generally unsettling his mental landscape.

As a result, Harry did not even hear Sirius name him as executor, or recite the obligatory tax, in terrorem and other clauses that completed his will. The next thing Harry knew, everybody seemed to be descending upon him.

Blackie Howe wanted to talk about investments, now that Harry was the legal owner of the Black Estate, and a conservator, since he was still underage.

Mad-Eye wanted to discuss dealing with the inevitable publicity that would attend his becoming the legal owner of the Black Estate.

Glaksosmit wanted to escort Harry to his new Gringotts vault, full of Black family treasures.

Bladvak wanted to update Harry concerning the status of the proceedings under the Malfoy confession of judgment.

Tonks wanted to learn what this Marauder cottage was all about, and Harry had no clue. He did not know where Tindhólmur - or even the Faroe Islands - were.

Hermione was hissing in his ear to remember that they needed to speak to the goblins - alone.

Even with Hermione's able assistance, Harry felt he was at the eye of a storm being buffeted this way and that. He was trying to get Mad-Eye to talk to Blackie about serving as conservator and also about putting together some sort of press release - when Harry felt himself being grabbed roughly from behind and spun around by his right shoulder.

Almost stumbling, Harry whirled around to find himself face to face with … Ron.

Ron's purpled complexion had him looking like he was about to explode - or else fall apart altogether. Having rather rudely seized Harry's full attention, the redhead now seemed to be having difficulty putting his thoughts into words.

“Just … just you … stay away from Cho, okay!” Ron spluttered.

“Umm … sure Ron, whatever you say,” Harry tried to mollify his plainly agitated friend.

“I mean…. You've already got the one you want, don't you?” Ron continued. “You don't need to prove….”

“I've nothing to prove, Ron,” Harry replied, not sure where Ron was going.

“…To prove your manhood by taking Cho away from me, too.”

As Ron's jealous rage became obvious, Hermione intervened. “Ron! First of all, I was never yours for Harry to take. Don't flatter yourself. More to the point, I hardly think that you need to worry about Harry….”

“…Hell, Hermione, all this should bother you even more than me!” Ron cut across.

“Ron, you don't…,” Harry tried to get a word in edgewise. His words were unnecessary, though, because Hermione was on the case - defending him.

“Well, unlike you, I trust Harry!” Hermione fired back. “It's something you'd be very well advised to try.”

Ron deflated under Hermione's verbal assault. He turned back to Harry. “Well, you … you just stay away from her, okay?” he said before turning and storming off.

“No problem, Ron,” Harry muttered after the retreating figure. “Can you believe that?” Harry groaned to nobody in particular.

“Don't worry about it, mate, he'll come around,” Harry heard from his other side. Turning in that direction, he saw Neville's roundish face regarding him evenly. “He's just afraid that he'll come off second best to you again. I trust you to know what you really want….”

“Hey, thanks for the vote of confidence, Nev,” Harry sighed.

“No problem,” the russet-haired boy replied.

“Yeah, Nev's right,” Ginny said from Neville's arm. “You just need to know what you really want, Harry.”

That conversation ended because Hermione had rounded up Bladvak and brought him over to speak to Harry.

“We need to speak to you … in private,” she whispered into the goblin's ear as she finished extracting Harry from his prior chat.

Bladvak looked around, trying to find Glaksosmit, but the superior goblin looked to be deep in negotiations with Blackie Howe and Mad-Eye, so after a moment's hesitation, he directed, “This way,” and led them to the mirror's surface.

“Impratraxis, her hand please take,” Bladvak directed. Then they effortlessly passed through the shimmering surface - and into a different world.

From the wood-panelled elegance of Gringotts' formal testamentary reading room, the three of them entered a cave-like tunnel with a smooth granite-paved floor. As Bladvak led them down this corridor, Hermione looked over her shoulder at the reflective surface that now shone behind them. It had been her first experience with goblin transport.

Bladvak led them to a fairly spacious room with stone block furniture. “My humble office, Impratraxis. For you what can do I? And you … umm. How you to address, quite uncertain, I'm afraid.”

“I'm Hermione Granger,” she told the uncomfortable goblin. “I'm also Harry's girlfriend,” she added, and with that gave her fiancé a peck on the cheek.

“A problem is that,” Bladvak continued, “Umm … Granger Miss. In our language, a `girlfriend' an Impratraxis has not. Not translate, does it.”

“Well, what do I have, then?” Harry asked, interested in how a goblin viewed both his, and her, stations.

“Impratraxis, `savini' there is. A formal consort that references,” Bladvak replied. “Also, `quastri' there is. A … less formal role, that means - merely a concubine. Princes … what want they, get they.”

“Then, why don't you just call me Hermione?” Hermione asked him. “That's what I am, really, Harry's Hermione.”

“But no title of address … umm … Hermione,” Bladvak tried to make her understand. “Disrespectful ordinarily that is - in our language.”

“Then how about Hermione Hermione?” she offered. “We're not as formal as a consort, and nowhere near as unequal as a concubine, so if it's something you've never seen before, then just name me after me.”

“All right, Hermione Hermione,” the goblin conceded. “Now enough small talk is this. What to tell me need you?”

Harry opened his mouth, but realised that he lacked sufficient details to explain what needed to be explained. All he knew is that a possible way existed to break the entailment of the Château Blackwalls estate, and thus eventually to sell it off and be done with it. “Er … Hermione, why don't you explain this? It's your idea, after all.”

“As you know, Harry wants to liquidate the Black Estate once and for all,” Hermione jumped in, speaking rather quickly. “The real property's the hard bit, because it's entailed under wizard law. So it's not like we can just ring up an estate agent and sell it. But I think I found a way around that. I read a reference to a provision in the treaty that ended the last Goblin War - at least that's what we wizards call it - that Gringotts had the right to foreclose on wizard estates that were in arrears on loans to the bank, notwithstanding entailment under wizard law. If that's the case, then it would be possible….”

“No, Hermione Hermione, not possible that is,” Bladvak pronounced, needing to hear no more.

“But why?” Hermione persisted. “The provision in the treaty - I saw the exact language quoted. It seemed quite clear in giving Gringotts that right.”

“Indeed does it,” Bladvak agreed. “Unfortunately, become a dead letter has it.”

“You mean that Gringotts has the power to foreclose on wizard estates, but chooses not to use it?” Harry jumped in.

“No, Impratraxis, that not mean I,” Bladvak tried to explain. He looked extremely uncomfortable. “Not by choice is it, but rather because early on, informed were we - not even a year had been ratified the treaty - that power if exercised did we, retaliate would the wizards by entirely out of Gringotts voting us. Why that is the Malfoy estate, for example, in your name, as the wizard debt holder, foreclose must we, even though far more money to Gringotts owe the Malfoys than to you. Of many, perhaps most, great wizard estates true that is.”

“Does mine?”

“From Gringotts, never borrowed did the Blacks,” Bladvak replied tersely, seeking to end the discussion of what was a most dangerous topic.

“No, I meant my real parents, the Potters,” Harry clarified.

“Matters not, does it,” the goblin answered evasively. “Until majority authority over those accounts have you not.”

“But did the Potters owe Gringotts any money?” Harry persisted. “I want to know.”

Bladvak had to answer the direct question. “Yes. In arrears since 1980, Potters are.”

“That's when Voldemort killed Harry's parents,” Hermione pointed out. Bladvak visibly shrank upon hearing that - afraid he had offended Harry.

Before Bladvak could do something like prostrating himself, Harry instructed him, “Please arrange to have all Potter debts to Gringotts paid in full, from the Black accounts if need be.”

“But … Impratraxis, royal accounts charge Gringotts does not,” the flustered goblin reminded.

“The debt isn't mine,” Harry pointed out. “So that shouldn't be a problem. I don't want to owe Gringotts anything if something comes of Hermione's idea.”

That brought matters back to the uncomfortable subject that Bladvak had been trying to avoid.

“Since Harry controls the blocking share,” Hermione began laying out her idea, “the threat to goblin control of Gringotts doesn't exist anymore, as a practical matter.”

“Hermione Hermione, if seriously suggesting something are you, then the wrong office this is,” Bladvak declared. “Speak to Aksistar Klamdok, should you.”

“I met him once,” Hermione mentioned to both of them. “He's in charge of the entire bank. I doubt he'd have time to meet with us.”

“For this - and you - time Klamdok will make,” Bladvak assured her. “In today is he believe I. `Banker's hours' keep not we goblins. But of foreclosure speaking, documents have I that to sign Impratraxis needs.”

“What are these?” Harry asked.

“Impratraxis, force Malfoy Manor foreclosure will these,” Bladvak answered with a harsh chuckle that bared his teeth. “Delay no longer can they. Within two weeks, Malfoy Manor - what remains of it - yours will be.”

“You know, Harry, if not for those Death Eaters holding you prisoner there, I'd ask you not to do this,” Hermione commented. “The last thing you need is still more wizard property.”

“If not for what those bastards threatened to do to you, I might be persuadable to let it drop,” Harry more-or-less agreed. “But not now. It doesn't hurt that I've finally a chance to wipe that bloody smirk from that punk Malfoy's face for good.”

* * * *

The pair who returned to Hogwarts late that afternoon had been chastened. No, Hermione had not been mistaken about goblin foreclosure rights. Quite the opposite. Hermione was dead on target. But her target was so portentous, and her approach so audacious, as to lie well beyond even Harry's grasp, at least at present. Klamdok had gone pale (if a goblin can go pale) upon hearing Hermione's proposal.

Her plan was nothing less than a main strike against the foundations of wizard society. “Bolshevism,” Klamdok had called it, although not without admiration.

Her plan was also simply too dire to be considered seriously. If what Hermione had in mind ever came about, it promised to work a revolution in goblin-wizard relations - a revolution that the existing wizard power structure would not allow as long as they had the means to prevent it.

Klamdok produced a chart, so highly confidential that the Director of all Gringotts felt obliged to fish it out personally from a vault down the hall. That chart meticulously listed all of the great wizard families' indebtedness to Gringotts. For over three hundred years, wizards had borrowed from the bank with virtual impunity, ostensibly pledging their land, but with knowledge that wizard solidarity rendered those pledges unenforceable. Even the Dumbledore family was on the list. The Potters were too.

If Harry's blocking shares permitted a successful goblin foreclosure against even one piece of indentured property, the entire wizard upper caste would quite justifiably feel threatened. Ironically, he could not even set that precedent against himself, since the Blacks were one of very few families that had not ridden on this gravy train. Their extreme pure-blood prejudices - their disdain for goblins as “inferior” - kept them borrowing any significant sum from Gringotts.

Even Harry was not in a position to challenge the whole of wizard society in this fashion - especially since the pure-blood faction could easily (and correctly) portray him as being led astray by a wet-behind-the-ears, Muggle-born radical. Klamdok predicted ominously that the Wizengamot would simply invoke the Decree for Justifiable Confiscation to seize, or invalidate, Harry's Gringotts shares as “presenting a threat to wizardkind.” The political fulcrum for such a dramatic attack upon the underpinnings of pure-blood wealth and power simply was not there.

Not yet, anyway.

If Harry succeeded as the “Chosen One,” and destroyed Voldemort, however, all bets would be off. Then, and only then - in conjunction with the Gablankansta's essential contributions to such a victory - might the chance arise to change the nature of society so fundamentally.

Pending victory, Harry and Hermione needed to keep their radical idea a secret. They could not breathe a word of it to anyone - not even Blackie Howe.

Especially not Blackie Howe, Klamdok cautioned. He represented the legal interests of many families that would be adversely affected should the goblins finally be able to seize landed estates to cover debts.

Mum was indeed the word for the day.

* * * *

Another word of immediate import was “homework.” The couple had a lot of it, and much of Sunday would undoubtedly be lost to Harry's interview with Rita Skeeter. Hermione would not consider leaving Harry alone with that woman.

All work - Potions essays, Rune translations, a practical Transfiguration project, and more - meant no play. In particular, their workloads precluded any significant secret dalliances, however much they both might desire another round of sexual diversion.

Thus Harry and Hermione were somewhat out of sorts as they trudged to the Hogwarts Ceremonial Library where they would be meeting Rita Skeeter for a noontime interview. Lunch was served, but neither student was particularly hungry - much to Dobby's disappointment.

Hermione had prepped Harry for most of the morning, since to let that woman interview him cold would be courting disaster. She also made sure that they arrived at the library a fashionable ten minutes late.

Rita Skeeter had arrived, and was starting to fume from having to cool her heels. Hermione noticed this and could not help but smile.

“Well, well, well - if it isn't Mister Money and Miss Brains,” Rita greeted them acidly. “What a coincidence…. I take the Vow, and somehow, the very next day, you two pull off a public display of affection before the entire student body that would be worthy of a good fifteen column inches.”

“So what?” Harry dismissed her complaint. He now knew better than to take anything this woman said at face value.

“So - every other reporter was free to write whatever they pleased, from any source - or no source at all - except yours truly,” Rita spat. “If it were anyone but you, little Miss Defarge, I might call it coincidence. With you, I consider it attempted murder - but I resisted.”

“Actually, this particular instance was coincidental,” Hermione shot back. “But thanks for the idea. Knitting's a valuable skill.”

Harry gave her an odd look, but addressed himself to the reporter. “The benefits were enough that you chose the Vow, and so was the punishment. You made the choice to spy, after all.”

Rita tired rapidly of small talk - especially with this cheeky pair, and moreso because she was not accomplishing by it. “Speaking of benefit, let's get started, shall we? I haven't got all day.”

The three settled uneasily around a table, Harry and Hermione on one side and Rita on the other. The reporter pulled out her trusty Quick Quotes Quill, which seemed practically to be vibrating in anticipation.

“Wait a minute,” commanded Hermione. “Make sure that thing's set on `verbatim'.”

“Aw, Hermione,” Harry pleaded, “at least let her use `correct grammar'. That is, unless you want me to come off sounding like a prat what with my umms, ers, and all.”

Hermione relented, and the interview proceeded.

“All right,” Rita began with a sly smile on her face. “First question: What were you doing in Muggle London when you were abducted?”

Harry and Hermione had spent much of the morning debating how to answer just this inquiry. At first, Harry planned simply to refuse to answer at all, as was his right. Hermione eventually convinced him that it was pointless to conceal Eliza's involvement - if not her intentions. The intensity of the Muggles' investigation virtually assured that they had already linked her to what had happened. Harry had to admit that, from everything he knew, Eliza had never hidden her identity from either wizards or Muggles. Thus, they went over at some length what to say, and not to say, about the late Eliza Brookings.

“No names are going in the article,” Harry instructed, “but I'll tell you on background….”

“Background?” Rita repeated, a faked tone of surprise in her voice.

“Yes, background,” Hermione interjected. “I assume you know what that is.”

“Quite,” Rita answered. “I'm just surprised that he does…. Oh, don't bother….”

“Go ahead, Harry,” Hermione told him.

“Anyway I was meeting with a woman, Eliza Brookings, who said she had information I should know about Voldemort.”

Harry hoped his rather blunt usage of the feared name would throw Rita off the scent - but he did not know the persistent reporter well enough. Instead, he (Hermione, too) was taken aback by the unconcealed flash of eagerness that crossed Rita's face.

“Well, well, well,” she tutted. “It didn't take long for this plot to thicken, did it? And just what were the two of you discussing at her flat?”

He had not told Rita their meeting's location. The reporter was plainly as prepared as they were.

“As I said, Eliza … she had some information about Voldemort that she thought I should know,” Harry repeated, not commenting on Rita's titbit. Now, though, he sat straight up, almost as if at attention. “I wasn't sure if I wanted to go. Eventually, I decided to. There was an ambush. She was killed by the Death Eaters - three of them - and I was stunned and taken away.”

Rita's eyebrows went up at the mention of Eliza's name and stayed peaked throughout his answer. After flashing a knowing look that prompted Hermione to Legilimence, `Be careful,' Rita pounced.

“That's not what she said - at least so I've been told,” Rita commented.

“Who said?” Hermione jumped in, unable to restrain herself once Rita made that comment.

“Why, Eliza Brookings herself, that's who,” Rita said in a voice dripping with artificial syrupy sweetness. Ignoring Hermione and addressing Harry, she added, “Her story was that you and she were having an affair.”

Harry went red in the face, and his shoulders slumped. He thought that the only living souls (besides himself and Hermione) who could possibly know about that were a couple of Death Eaters - maybe - if they were not incinerated in Harry's explosive escape.

`It's your story, and you stick to it,' Hermione Legilimenced another instruction. She quickly added, `I've told no one - although Tonks guessed.' Aloud she addressed Rita, “If you want this to continue, you had best explain where this story came from, because it's not so.”

Harry added, “She wanted to, but we didn't. She must have anticipated something that didn't happen - or more likely said something that someone took the wrong way. Your sources haven't exactly been all that accurate about me in the past, you know.”

“All right, all right,” Rita retreated. “So it isn't the best of sources. Some Death Eater spy caught up in the Ministry manhunt after the battle at Malfoy Manor told the Aurors that you and this Eliza were carrying on.”

“And they believed a Death Eater?” Hermione asked rhetorically. “It seems like a tall tale told by someone who'd try anything to avoid Azkaban. It wouldn't be the first time.”

To Harry she silently added, `See. Stick to your guns. Don't let her throw you.'

But Rita did not give up that easily - and she had done her homework. “Her story had some plausibility. This spy, somebody named Lucy, I think, had reason to know. She was Miss Brookings' supervisor and, she claims, mentor when she worked as a transcriptionist.”

Harry nodded to Hermione, and then took the lead. “Eliza was the transcriptionist when I testified at a hearing about Dolores Umbridge. I learnt that she also worked on the Black Estate litigation. At the time, I'd just discovered I was a possible heir. I met her a couple of times about that - to find out what I was getting into. That's all. Anything else was her reading more into things than I intended.”

Hermione had to bite her tongue to keep a neutral expression. She had never heard Harry sound more convincing whilst dissembling, and he came through precisely when it was most needed.

From all appearances, Rita seemed to buy it as well. “All right,” she nodded, and was ready to move on.

This time, Harry stopped her. His eyes were blazing. “Now you wait a second. Tell me what you know about this Death Eater spy,” he demanded. “This `Lucy' probably has a lot of blood on her hands.”

“I thought this was my interview,” Rita retorted.

Harry was implacable. “Not when my life was at risk,” he said coldly. “I want to know because I think that woman helped set me up.”

“I only know what my contacts tell me,” Rita prefaced. “Lucy whatever-her-name-is was a low-level spy whose identity turned up after Dumbledore and Voldemort, see, I can say it, too, fought it out at Malfoy Manor. Nothing unusual about her - for a spy, I mean - except she insists that you were giving that Brookings woman a good seeing to.”

Harry's ears once again went brilliantly pink. “If that's a question,” he said coldly. “I did not have sex with that woman, if that's what you're implying.”

“I can verify that if you're up for it,” Rita shot back. “We investigative reporters have our ways, of course. This can all be cleared up with the Veritavirtuous Charm….”

“The what?” Hermione broke in.

“Just what I said, dear,” Rita replied with the satisfaction of finally one-upping the little bossy-bits who had thwarted her twice. “Just like your unicorn stunt, except it only works on boys. Tsk, tsk, tsk…. It seems like there's finally a spell that Miss Know-It-All here hasn't heard of.”

Harry was still somewhat in shock. “Umm … Hermione. … If you like … I….”

Glaring at Rita, Hermione took charge. “No, I don't like. But if it will shut you up about this once and for all, go ahead with whatever it is.”

Then she turned to Harry. “I trust you.”

Hermione knew it was a calculated risk, but she believed Harry.

They took a break for Hermione to explain to Harry exactly what was being proposed. It was less dramatic than - but not much different from - the trap she had set for Malfoy with the unicorn. Harry was reticent, but went along. He knew that spell could vindicate him. There was, finally, at least one benefit to their having waited.

Rita performed the charm - which was indeed a staple of a wizard gossip reporter's grotty trade. A white light emerged from her wand and encircled him. It turned ivory, almost cream, but stayed in the whitish range.

“Ah, yes … a technical virgin,” Rita confirmed. “Lucy was having the Aurors on after all. But it appears as if you've done almost everything else.”

`I'll cover this for you, Harry,' Hermione Legilimenced.

“If it weren't for the Vow,” Hermione cut across, almost as pink in the ears as Harry - and getting pinker by the second. “You'd have seen the bum's rush long ago. Don't assume anything about Harry, especially after those recent events you were bitching about.”

“On that, I'm not doubting you for a second, my dear,” Rita replied sarcastically.

But at this point, Hermione had moved on to something far more important than sex. She turned to him. “Harry, you're right. It all fits. That Lucy woman probably helped those Death Eaters kidnap you.”

“Well, for once in my life I was ahead of you,” Harry answered grimly.

“Well, what do you know - I do believe that great minds think alike,” Rita commented pointedly.

“I always suspected that the Death Eaters' timing was too good to be an accident,” Harry said. “And whilst they had me, I had a lot of time to mull over such things. The invitation, and then the raid…. She doesn't know it yet, but by being a blabbermouth, I think this Lucy has just punched her ticket for a one-way visit from a Dementor….”

To Hermione he Legilimenced, `There's more I didn't tell you. I overheard the Death Eaters. They had Eliza under an Imperius that last time.'

“…She must have helped set me up, and that means she helped kill not only Eliza but also thousands of Muggles,” Harry finished, “and there may not be any others left.”

After establishing their preferred version of events for the kidnapping itself, the interview went considerably more smoothly for the pair. Harry described being kept in captivity for weeks by three Death Eaters, but never encountering Voldemort himself. He had no first hand knowledge even of where he was being kept. Only afterwards, from Dumbledore and others, did he learn it had been Malfoy Manor. He described waking up in a sea cave, and then again on the mountain path. Rita had no firm grasp of the topography of the Killiechonate area, so Harry was able to omit the spontaneous Animagus transformations.

Hermione described her flight across London on the night of the fire, and how she found only his wand. She told of going to Hogwarts afterwards, but omitted her nervous breakdown. She explained how she had acquired a (now broken) affinity with Harry in the Ministry fight, and proudly recounted how she had gathered her friends together to search for some way of reaching him. She superficially explained the spells she had used, since the details went entirely over Rita's head, and would have meant little to the expected readers. Tactfully omitting her conflict with Dumbledore and McGonagall, Hermione jumped to her Healing efforts at the battle of Malfoy Manor.

The next sticky part was how to explain the explosion that had wrecked the Allt a Mhuilinn Valley. There could, of course, be no mention of the Fifth Element, given its proscribed status. The explanation they used was simply vague. Neither of them had any real explanation.

“Now, Harry, what do you know about that huge explosion that you mysteriously survived?” Rita asked. “It was plainly magical, since it was felt by every witch and warlock in Great Britain. And from what I've been able to gather, it killed everything for kilometres around - except you.”

“Not much, really,” he answered feebly. “I've told everything to the authorities. I'd been on the verge of giving out with Death Eaters all about, cursing me - then Hermione came. Somehow that helped - for a while. Then You Know Who….”

“That's Voldemort,” Hermione broke in, deliberately using the Dark Lord's name, “and I want you to use it in the story - no euphemisms.”

Rita flinched at that directive, but said nothing because Harry was still narrating.

“…Voldemort somehow got into my head. He's a terribly strong Legilimens, even from a distance. I was trying to expel him, to protect Hermione. And at some point right about the same time the goblins started their attack on the Death Eaters…. I don't know the exact sequence, but I felt terrible pain and burning, and I passed out. That was probably the explosion, but I don't know whether it came from something Voldemort did, what the goblins did, or even something else. All I've been told is that nobody can really put a finger on what happened. It must have gotten into me somehow because - through me - it, it hurt Hermione.”

At that point, Harry had to stop and resort to his Occlumency, so Hermione took over the description.

“The magic worked, and my consciousness … er … it was in Harry's mind….”

“That's too big a word for our readers,” Rita interjected. “How about, `soul'?” she offered. “That seems appropriate.”

“I don't know,” Hermione pondered the word. “I've never believed in that kind of thing. I suppose, though, if you make clear to the readers that you're using the word without any religious connotations.”

“Certainly,” agreed Rita.

“Well, then my … my soul … was in, or at least connected to, Harry's mind. I saw what he was seeing,” Hermione explained. “It didn't amount to much - just some foggy scenery and those Death Eaters cursing him - but then Voldemort broke into Harry's mind. I thought he was going to come after me, but before he got the chance, I felt the worst pain I had ever felt in my life. I'm assuming that's from the explosion, but nobody's quite sure. At that point I lost consciousness and stayed out until Harry came for me over a week later.”

Harry then took the story to its logical conclusion. He told of waking up in the hands of the goblins at their royal palace. Without much need to improve upon the actual facts, he described his own travails from that point to when he used Chinese Legilimency to enter Hermione's mind and rescue her from her self confinement. He refrained from delving too deeply into his feelings - and Rita, knowing that anything along those lines would never get into the story in any event, did not press for details. It was also getting rather late in the day.

* * * *

Hermione tried her best to appear nonchalant as she strode down the Charms Corridor to the unused classroom at the far end. She had discussed the general outlines this latest plan with Harry, but not the details. She was not expecting any serious problem, but if anything happened she did not want Harry involved in any way - some things just should not involve boys.

She cracked open the door and slid in.

“Good afternoon, Hermione,” a rather placid and self-possessed voice greeted her, “plotting again, I suppose…. Well, how can I help you this time? I just hope it's less involved than what you wanted last.”

“Not nearly,” Hermione responded, regarding with some interest the long-haired witch whom she found sitting in a lotus position on top of a table near the centre of the little-used room. “Thanks for coming, Luna.”

“Well, you said it was important,” the blondish Ravenclaw replied as she unfolded herself and slid off of the table to her feet. “What do you have in mind?”

“Harry and I are still worried about Cho Chang - about those extracurricular activities I told you about earlier. We need information on what she's doing and why….”

“Well, from what you've told me, I'd say that what she's doing is fairly clear,” Luna replied bluntly. “Why are you interested in this, anyway?”

“We're worried about Ron, frankly,” Hermione admitted. “We're quite concerned he's going to get hurt, badly, by what's going on.”

A vague smile came to the girl's face before Hermione was even halfway through. “Fine,” Luna declared. “What do you want me to do?”

“Well, that's one of the problems,” Hermione explained in somewhat embarrassed fashion. “First we have to be absolutely sure it's her. She has some tattoos in the Internet pictures, but we don't know if they're real. Harry confirmed from Ron that Cho has tattoos, but we need to match them up.”

“Where exactly are these tattoos?” Luna got right to the point.

“That's the thing,” Hermione answered. “They're not exactly visible to mixed company….”

“No problem,” Luna interrupted. “None of us Ravenclaws … the girls anyway - I wouldn't know about the boys - are particularly shy in the showers. Cho least of all. She flaunts what she's got, which is plenty enough.”

“Thanks, Luna, you're a real friend,” Hermione said, gratified that Luna had agreed to help without much persuading. She pulled some papers from an inside pocket in her robes. “These are the Internet pictures. I've cropped them to make them … er … less explicit. They show the tattoos we think she has…. Commit them to memory, and then burn them, or something.”

“So what exactly are you asking me to do?” Luna inquired. “Take more pictures? Wizard cameras are rather bulky and noticeable - particularly in a shower.”

“Not at all,” Hermione explained. “All you need do is observe carefully. Harry has a Pensieve and both of us can use it. We can compare your memories with what's available on the Muggle Internet.”

“Sounds easy enough,” Luna commented whilst stuffing the pictures into her own pockets. “Harry knows about this, right?”

“He knows what you're being asked to do,” Hermione replied. “The details of it, he's left to me. You know how shy he can be about such things.”

* * * *

Harry and Hermione were returning from the Great Hall after dinner, their ordeal - fulfilling their part of the bargain with Rita Skeeter - behind them. Feeling rather tentative, Harry broached a subject he had hardly been able to ignore since they had last been together … alone.

“Umm … Hermione?” Harry began. “How are you … umm … feeling?”

“I'm feeling fine, Harry,” she answered. “If I seem a little peaky, that's surely due to overexposure to Rita.”

“Well, I was wondering if … well, you know…?” Harry cursed himself. One would think that, by now, he would be comfortable raising this sort of question with her of all people.

“I'm afraid I don't know,” Hermione replied, telltale confusion visible on her face. “You'll have to be a little less elliptical.”

“I was wondering if you're over … well, your … your time of the month?” Having finally forced out the question, Harry sighed deeply.

Hermione gave him one of those looks that asked, `And just how did you ever get into Gryffindor?' “Why no, I've several more days, yet,” she answered, knowing instantaneously what he was really asking after.

“Then … well … er … what are you doing after that?” he asked, both hopeful and still somewhat scared of the whole thing.

“Who knows? Probably studying, unfortunately,” Hermione sighed. “We both have our transformation sessions tonight, remember? You do your griffin thing with Professor McGonagall, and I have phoenix practice with Dumbledore. Later in the week, there's the D.A…, now twice a week. And you have Quidditch, maybe even extra practices, since the match is coming up. I wish I could get a Time-Turner again….”

Her answer instantly deflated Harry, who had - of course - put those various commitments quite to one side. It was difficult for him to think straight when sex was the subject, especially sex with Hermione. Maybe he was just thinking with the wrong head.

“Sorry, I forgot,” he muttered as he picked up the pace.

“Not half as sorry as I am,” Hermione replied, almost rushing to keep up with him. “Slow down, Harry!”

At that, the boy came to a complete halt so abruptly that Hermione had to spin to avoid running into him.

“Harry, you know we have to be responsible about this,” she reproached.

“Why? Nobody else seems to be,” Harry grumbled with aggravated tone to his voice. “I mean, look at Ron. He doesn't give a damn about anything but Cho, and he doesn't care who knows it.”

“That's true enough about Ron,” Hermione answered slowly. “But is his really the example you want to follow? Maybe he doesn't give a damn about anything else because he doesn't have anything else to give a damn about. That's not you - and it never has been.”

After a pause, she added, “Besides, next year we're likely to be Heads. Being scandalous is about the only way we could bugger that. We don't have to be chaste, but we do have to be circumspect.”

Harry looked at her. She eyed him seriously, a slight pout on her face. He thought she was beautiful - well, all the time, but especially whilst she was being serious. That was when she showed the essence of her Hermioneness.

“That's not you, either,” he remarked. “You give a damn about everything.”

“Only because I have you, Harry,” she replied so softly he had to strain to hear her. “Not too long ago, I didn't give a damn about anything at all, even my life - because I thought I'd lost you. If I care about things as much as you say, it's only because I care about you even more.”

She looked up at him. He looked down at her. That was enough looking. Both of them moved to kiss the other. This time they got away with it. Nobody docked points - or even demanded they get a room.

“We just have to be responsible, Harry,” she told him when they broke apart. “That's who we are. The staff gave us extra heavy assignments this weekend because it's a Hogsmeade Weekend Saturday next. With Sirius' will, Rita's interview, and now the Animagus training, we haven't anywhere near enough time yet to get all that homework done. So that wipes out today and, I'm afraid, tomorrow too.”

“Shite,” Harry groaned, but he did not contradict her.

“…Tuesday, I have my first D.A. meeting,” Hermione continued, “Wednesday you have Quidditch, and Thursday you have your D.A. meeting…. What about Friday?”

Harry brightened at the thought. “I think it's free,” he grinned. “One free day out of five - with only homework to worry about…. We've sure come a long way since First Year, haven't we?”

“We certainly have, Harry,” Hermione replied with a thoughtful smile. However, she was thinking about what she was scheduling, not homework. “Let's make it a date, then,” she added.

Harry instantly agreed. Thus, a defining moment on their path to adulthood was set. They had a time, now what about a place?

“Just you leave that to me, Harry,” Hermione promised. “I swear you won't be disappointed.”

“With you, I'm sure I'll never be disappointed,” he replied.

It was going to be a long week.

But the wait would be worth it. Both of them believed that.

* * * *

Author's notes: Endorphins are naturally produced chemicals that resemble opioids and produce pleasurable sensations. Some say they are released during orgasms

The magic Hermione's offered would put Lorena Bobbit to shame

Professor McGonagall's no failure rule will have unforeseen consequences

Ginny's mention of Hannah Abbot - recall Ron's cover story for Hermione from the previous chapter

With Ginny, there's always more going on than meets the eye

“Head goblin in charge” is a play on an American phrase that goes by the initials of HNIC

Chrypot is a made up name for a batlike creature that haunts the caverns in which goblins reside

An asterlik is something like a throwing star

Sirius has no canon middle name, so I made one up. Samuel Pepys was a famous British diarist, civil servant, and member of the Royal Society

The names and numbers of the legal proceedings are plausible. Dates correspond to events in the story

The stoppered bottle is of a type that has been used before in this story

“Astra” means “star,” and in astronomy “alpha” is the designation of the brightest star in a constellation. Sirius is the brightest star in the sky and is the alpha star in the constellation Canis Major

Of the Marauders, only Remus has a canon middle name, John. The other two are made up

Sirius' will includes all the normal legalese required of such instruments

Tindhólmur is a real place in the Faroes. It is a rather dramatic location

The remainder clause is how Harry inherits the entire Black Estate

According to the Lexicon, JKR once intended that Neville's last name be “Pupp.” I've made it his middle name, since he doesn't have one in canon

Asclepius is a Greek mythological healer. The Rod of Asclepius is traditionally depicted with a snake wrapped around it

Eventually Neville will use the staff to good effect

“Smile ran away from his face” is a line from Billy Joel's “Piano Man”

Eventually, I might tell you where Lily got the dowry she needed to marry James

Harry not needing to speak because Hermione is defending him, inspired by the line in The Band's “Up on Cripple Creek”

Hermione met Klamdok in Ch. 32, when it was feared that Harry was dead

“Bankers' hours” means a light work schedule, since it used to be that banks were only open 5 days a week between 10 and 4

Through foreclosure, Harry puts the screws to Malfoy

A column-inch is one inch of a standard newsprint column. Fifteen column inches is a rather long story

Madame Defarge was the brains behind the revolution in Dickens' “Tale of Two Cities.” Like Hermione, she knitted

Background is information told to a reporter for his/her benefit only, and not to go into any published article. It can be substantive, or someone's name, including the source

Harry repeats the Bill Clinton “I did not have sex with that woman” line. So, is he lying? If not, then neither was Bill

47

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 1/27/2007

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52. Hogsmeade Helter Skelter

Wherein Harry and Hermione have a rough week; Hermione refuses a request that Harry suggested; Jazzy reveals a secret; Ginny gets angry; Luna publishes; Hermione swots a new topic and has an encounter with Cho; Harry visits the Twins' shop and is shown some new products; there is a fortuitous accident; and Harry does some spying, makes a purchase, and impresses the goblins

Thanks to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

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

Chapter 52 - Hogsmeade Helter Skelter

Harry's most annoying alarm clock tore him from peaceful slumber, but for once did not risk a thorough hexing. This was no ordinary day, but a Hogsmeade weekend. Nor would the evening be ordinary, unless another last-minute snafu threw a spanner in the works. He looked forward to a night he would remember forever.

First times were like that.

Viewing matters more prosaically, today's Hogsmeade Saturday was also the fag end of another long, frustrating week. On Monday, Harry was true to his promises and revised -harder than he would have thought possible before this year. Distractions were minimal, with Hermione otherwise engaged until quite late. She attended one of her evening “Hogwarts Institution of Excellence” sessions with Madame Pomfrey, then attended to unspecified “other things.”

Tuesday brought more of the same. Harry studied alone whilst Hermione led her first separate D.A. session in the Room of Requirement. Harry's absence was planned. They agreed that Hermione's authority as instructor would be enhanced if Harry took a miss.

Unfortunately, two consecutive nights without Hermione's presence left Harry in something of a foul mood. By the time she returned - all bubbly with word that enough students chose her session that involuntary assignments would not be necessary - Harry was rather short with her. It was their first lovers' quarrel, before they had technically (in body, if not in soul) even become lovers.

His grumblings of being slighted in favor of her pursuit of “miscellaneous medicinal magic” were proven quite mistaken, much to Harry's chagrin. Hermione was not supposed to tell anyone, so as not to engender false hopes, but she made an exception for Harry. She was working on one of magic's true Holy Grails - devising something that went beyond Wolfsbane and actually prevented werewolf transformations. Upon hearing the truth, Harry instantly apologised. He knew full well how much such a breakthrough would help Remus (and many others).

Harry spent the rest of the week kicking himself for jealous insensitivity.

On Wednesday Harry was the one who was out of pocket - Quidditch practice.

It was not a good practice.

Actually, it was an awful practice.

At Captain Katie's express request, Harry confronted Jazzy about her academic problems in Herbology. Not surprisingly, trying to extract the truth from Jazzy was like pulling dragon's teeth with zircon encrusted tweezers. The problem turned out to be frustratingly familiar - Slytherins. She had Herbology with them, and they persecuted her mercilessly.

Anti-Muslim whisperings were only the beginning. They also did things like sabotage her homework, fill her gloves with Bubotuber pus, and slip Venomous Tentacula cuttings into her textbook. Due to the harassment, Jazzy was unable to complete assignments, and had difficulty paying attention in class.

Jazzy was her typical stoic (stubborn) self. Even to Harry, she admitted what was happening only when informed that it endangered her spot on the Gryffindor team. She wanted none of Harry's proposed intercession with Professor Sprout - and extracted a promise that he would not grass to the staff about her issues. Jazzy was not inclined to accept help from anyone.

Still, by the end of their conversation, Harry had devised a two-pronged plan. First, he would talk to Neville, because his promise to Jazzy carefully excluded the possibility of somebody else alerting Professor Sprout to the problem. Second, he would talk to Fred and George this weekend. They were creative, and they owed him a favour, since he was permitting them advertise his appearance.

Harry's difficulties with Jazzy were child's play compared to the explosion from Mount Ginevra when she, too, was called aside by Captain Katie and informed that her academic problems - Potions, this time - threatened her position with the team. Ginny stormed off and promptly sparked a ferocious row with her brother, after he again refused to let her borrow the Half-Blood Prince's annotated guide to Potions. When she threatened to reveal the Prince to Professor Slughorn, Ron drew his wand, and they almost duelled right there on the pitch.

This brouhaha had unfortunate consequences for Harry. The team was extremely on edge and performed horribly during the practice. Captain Katie was furious and punished the team in truest Oliver Wood style. She scheduled an extra practice (“as long as it takes to prove you're ready”) for Friday, starting half an hour after the end of the last classes and continuing until she saw fit to stop.

That happened to be the only evening of the week when both he and Hermione were free, and Harry saw his vision of their romantic interlude evaporating before his eyes. He could hardly seek an exemption with the excuse that he was planning to shag his girlfriend that evening.

Harry's recent tiff with Hermione only heightened the situation's irony. He had complained about her unavailability, and on a night that they had nothing in particular planned. Now the shoe fit very uncomfortably on the other foot. Friday was the night they had planned for “it” to happen, and now he had to beg off.

Fortunately, Hermione proved quite a bit more understanding than Harry had been earlier. She chose to downplay it - saying she had some “other things” she needed to finish,. Harry was too relieved at her better-than-anticipated reaction to enquire after those. They agreed to push back their plans a day.

Friday proved to be trying anyway. That day meant double Potions. Potions meant Ron. He had been about as prickly as the average Skrewt ever since the reading of Sirius' will.

Dealing with Ron in Potions necessarily meant another encounter with the Half-Blood Prince. Predictably, that caused more bickering between Harry's two best friends, which forced Harry into the sticky role of peacemaker. This particular fight was a little odd. Although Hermione disapproved of Ron's availing himself of the Prince on principle, at times she sounded almost as if trying to goad Ron into allowing Ginny do exactly what Hermione called cheating when Ron did it.

Before Potions, Hermione had retreated to the library during their free morning period. Harry used some of that time to discuss arrangements with Slamdor, the commander of the goblin guard assigned to protect him. Harry had no idea where Hermione planned to stage their “enchanted evening,” as they had taken to calling it. Wherever it turned out to be, he planned on having the goblins ensure that they were not interrupted.

On the Hogsmeade morning, Harry took more pain than usual over his appearance - and not because of Hermione. He fondly believed that she would find him handsome in a house-elf tea cozy. Rather, he had promised the Twins a pre-announced appearance at their new Hogsmeade shop. Harry had regrets about this agreement, but was not about to go back on his promise.

Harry no sooner slid into his now-accustomed spot next to Hermione at the Gryffindor table when he saw Luna making her way towards them from Ravenclaw side of the Hall. She had a huge, almost beatific, smile on her face and a far-away look in her eyes.

“Watch out, mate,” Ron whispered from his other side. “That one looks even more mental than usual.”

Ron was not quiet enough, and his comment drew a huffy-sounding rebuke from Hermione. That might have started another ping-pong bickering match - with Harry as the net - had Luna not broken their concentration.

“I refused to read it until it was put to bed,” she informed the two of them jubilantly, whilst shooting Ron a rather strange look (which he returned in kind) - “but now that I've seen it, I must say I'm quite honoured, and touched. Daddy would have been so proud that I had a hand in it….”

Harry was nonplussed, hardly an unusual state of affairs when Luna was involved. He looked to Hermione. Uncharacteristically, her eyes also held a questioning look. Before Hermione had to admit that she had no idea what Luna was talking about, the blonde girl thrust at them a first edition of this week's Quibbler, which was set to go on sale that morning.

The tabloid's multi-lined banner headline practically jumped off the page:

TO HELL AND BACK:

THE TRUE STORY OF

THE KIDNAPPING

AND RESCUE OF

HARRY POTTER

Beneath the headline, the entire front page was a collage of photographs. The right edge of the page featured a vertical photograph of a standing Harry - nothing out of the ordinary - in his Hogwarts robes. A similar photograph of Hermione adorned the left side. In between, beneath the superimposed screaming headlines, were public-domain photographs of the great London fire and a shot of the half-ruined Malfoy Manor following Dumbledore's unsuccessful rescue attempt. The story was, of course, by-lined “Rita Skeeter.”

Inside, extending over the better part of six pages and exceeding 5000 words, appeared their approved version of the story. “When … when did that get finished?” Harry asked blankly.

“Why, last night, of course,” Luna replied as though that was exactly what Harry wanted to know. “I deliberately kept myself out of it of course - given our acquaintance….”

“Friendship,” corrected Hermione.

“…but I did ask Electra, my new managing editor, to show me the final proofs,” Luna continued as if not hearing Hermione at all. “It's absolutely wonderful…. The story of the year! The additional circulation should carry us over and, with luck, pay for Electra's salary.”

Without warning, Luna leaned forward and planted a messy kiss on Hermione's cheek.

“And such an accurate story, too,” she added, giving the rather surprised girl a wink.

Then Luna turned to Ron, “Oh, Ronald, please do remember to thank your brothers the next time you see them. The circulation desk tells me that they advance ordered 500 copies.”

She puckered her lips to repeat her action for Ron, but he recoiled as if about to be cursed. Luna stopped. “I'll just save it for Fred and George, then. You're not ready to appreciate it.”

Finally, she looked back to Harry, who was half hiding behind Hermione. “I'll leave it to her,” she grinned, “but thank you so very much, Harry, for bringing her back.”

Then, just as she had come, Luna serenely wandered away towards the Hall's main entrance.

“But … that's not what I meant…,” Harry muttered weakly after her retreating form.

`I think I can tell you,' Hermione Legilimenced, catching Harry by surprise as she often did when starting a silent conversation.

`This was part of all the stuff you were doing over the past few days,' Harry stated, anticipating her answer.

`Exactly,' Hermione confirmed. `Rita owled the rough copy late Monday afternoon. I revised it that evening and returned it via Athena. At the same time, I submitted a second copy to the Headmaster for another set of eyes, to ensure that I was didn't give anything away in terms of security. The next draft arrived Wednesday night, and I received Dumbledore's blessing that same evening. I added my final changes whilst you taught the D.A. on Thursday.'

`I assume that the Quibbler was your idea, too?' Harry wondered.

`She really needs the money, Harry,' Hermione told him. `She had to hire somebody to do what her father used to do for nothing. Besides, the Quibbler helped us when you needed it last year, so it was only right to return the favour. Both Luna and Rita make more money this way - since I'm sure they'll sell reprint rights to the Prophet.'

`But why doesn't she just ask me?' Harry complained. `I've got more ruddy Galleons than I know what to do with anyway. I'd much rather give some to her than let Dennis take flutters in that Yank Quasnack.'

`That's NASDAQ,' Hermione reflexively corrected. `And think about it. She can't ask you for any without compromising the Quibbler's journalistic integrity.'

Harry gave her a questioning look. `Journalistic integrity? This is the Quibbler, remember? Heliopath sightings. Fudge dining on goblin steaks. Sirius playing for the Weird Sisters.'

`True,' Hermione had to concede, `but for placing this kind of story….'

All conversation, oral and otherwise, abruptly ceased as Hagrid made the announcement that Filch was now ready to process Hogsmeade permission slips at the main entrance. Harry and Hermione rose and followed the crowd that immediately began moving in that direction.

At last, Harry had no worries about permission slips. He had his signed by Mad-Eye. Hermione had one signed by her mum - although being of age, Hermione technically no longer needed it.

As they queued up for Filch, Harry spotted a familiar face scanning the crowd of students - someone who could only be looking for him. Harry waved, and caught his attention. The uniformed goblin quickly made his way over.

“Asak, Impratraxis,” he said.

“Asakisim,” Harry replied - having learned the proper method for goblin royalty to greet their retainers. “Please also meet Hermione Granger, since I know you've been watching her for a while….”

“Watching me,” Hermione said, sounding affronted. “Whatever for?”

“Hermione, this is Slamdor,” Harry introduced. “He is the commanding officer of the goblin guard … er … for me.”

“Savini Hermione,” Slamdor uttered. He restrained himself, having learnt that not only did the usual goblin prostration ritual displease this particular prince, but also tended to attract unwanted attention from Harry's fellow students.

“To speak privately, I request,” Slamdor asked.

Harry looked about. Finding someplace private meant sacrificing their place in the queue. Given how thoroughly Filch seemed to be inspecting everyone with what looked like a borrowed Gringotts Probity Probe, doing that would mean another half hour's wait. The alternative technically would violate the no magic in the halls rule … but some rules were made to be broken.

Harry drew both Ron and Hermione in close, and with his arms around them, incanted, “Muffliato.”

“Harry, you really shouldn't…,” Hermione admonished.

“Oh, lay off him. I think it's brilliant, really,” Ron came to Harry's defence.

“No choice,” Harry sided with Ron. “Not if I wanted the goblins to deploy without gathering moss before we get out of here.” Turning back to Slamdor, Harry continued, “Hermione told me she doesn't want to go to 3W's grand reopening and be gawked at like some caged animal, so I'll be going there alone.”

“No you won't, mate,” Ron broke in, “I'll make that trip with you. I wouldn't miss it for the world. Besides, if things get at all out of control, you'll need someone watching your back.”

Harry knew he should be grateful for his friend's assistance, but a little voice in the back of his mind asked whether Ron just liked the attention he would get escorting Harry into what was certain to be the Twins' madhouse.

“But what about Cho?” Hermione asked, as if sensing Harry's hesitation.

“Oh, she'll be along later…,” Ron replied airily.

Harry wondered whether Cho's absence was really Ron playing “keep away” as he had threatened last week in Gringotts.

“…Some `girl stuff' she has to do. When she tells me that, all I bother to say is `yes, dear.' I know she'll make it up to me later,” Ron continued, giving Harry a wink. Then he gave Hermione the needle. “She's got reservations for us this afternoon at the Revolving Door….”

“Oh, really,” Hermione took the bait with a snort. The Revolving Door was the seediest of the various Hogsmeade inns - the only one known for renting rooms by the hour. “Won't they be checking your papers?”

“Not mine,” Ron said cheerfully, ignoring Hermione's hauteur. “All they care about there is whether the girl's of age - not the guy.”

“Ahem,” Slamdor softly but pointedly cleared his throat to remind everyone of his presence - and of the original purpose for this conversation. “Impratraxis, to and from Hogsmeade walking will you be, or in a Hogwarts carriages riding?”

“Weather's nice,” Harry observed. “So we'll walk - unless something I don't know about yet comes up.”

“And, for deployment, Savini Hermione will be where whilst at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes you are?” Slamdor asked

Slightly reluctantly, Hermione answered, “I think I'll drop by a bookstore….”

“That figures,” quipped Ron.

“…one I haven't visited before, Samson's Option.”

“Isn't that one rather dodgy?” Ron asked. “Lavender calls it an `alternative bookstore.' I don't think you'd catch Cho dead in a place like that.”

“I don't know. Like I said, I've never been inside that one, and you're right - its offerings have a reputation for being a little … off,” Hermione answered testily. “But with what we're facing, I think I need to consider all the options. Besides, what would Lavender know about bookstores, anyway? Unless they sell comics … or Divination….”

“That's over on the other street, right?” Harry asked.

Hermione nodded.

“I'll come meet you there, when I'm done, then,” Harry told her. “Then we can visit that temporary shop set up for the ball - to get you a costume. Seamus said that they've even got a wax museum that we can tour for ideas.”

“Then, what are you going to be mate?” Ron asked, picking up on Harry's statement that they would be shopping only for Hermione.

“Oh, he's got a Knight of the Realm uniform that's incredibly dashing,” Hermione answered enthusiastically for Harry. “I saw him wear it in France during the holidays, and I suggested that he wear it again. I'm sure it will leave me weak at the knees.”

Ron was about to tell them of his costume ideas when they finally reached the front of the queue. Slamdor was about to hurry off to deploy his troops, but something seemed odd as Harry was having trouble communicating with Filch. The Squib seemed to be getting angrier by the second and was furiously waving that probe of his.

It looked like Filch might strike Harry or Hermione with the almost metre long probe. With a hissing sound, a metal object neatly severed the probe a few centimetres above Filch's hands. As the severed end clattered to the floor, Slamdor summoned his Asterlik. Filch looked furiously at the goblin, who responded by baring his teeth in a threatening manner.

“Now look what you've done!” Filch shrieked at Harry. “Why don't you just bloody answer? That confounded buzz….”

“Oops,” Harry realised. He ended the Muffliato Charm.

“Sorry,” he apologised to a less-than-mollified Filch. “I'll arrange for Gringotts to get you a new probe.”

“So that's it, is it?” Filch growled. “One of your goblin hangers-on assaults me, and all I get is a replacement probe. Such cheek would never have been tolerated under Madam Umbridge.”

Any mention of that vile woman riled Harry, even though she was dead. “Well, are you going to check our passes or not?” he said impatiently.

“I've half a mind not to let the lot of you go - pass or no pass,” Filch snarled.

“You can't do that. Everything's in order,” Hermione snipped at him, making sure that her Prefect's badge was plainly visible.

“I know,” Filch grumbled. “And basically that's the problem. Dumbledore's letting the inmates run the asylum.”

Eyes flashing mutinously, the angry Squib collected and reviewed the Trio's passes. They were indeed in order. More forceful than necessary Filch gave each pass a tic mark with his quill, causing ink to bleed through.

“Now be off! All of you! Before I change my mind,” he growled at them.

The sunlit morning was a seasonably cool. As the three walked lazily along the road to Hogsmeade, Harry pointed out the disguised goblins discreetly stationed all along their route. For a while, Harry's two companions amused themselves by picking the grey boulders lying unobtrusively in the fields and under the trees, but that soon got old.

“So, Harry,” Ron asked, “do you think Katie's mental enough to order extra practices the whole time between now and the Slytherin match?”

“When did she say that?” Harry replied. This possibility was news to him.

“Oh … you probably weren't there,” Ron remembered. “She threatened the Beaters with extra practices, but come to think of it, you were off somewhere showing that crazy Jazzy girl something.”

Hermione groaned. “Extra Quidditch practices … aargh! That means that every week's going to be as hectic as this past.”

“I'm sorry, Hermione … really,” Harry attempted to comfort her. “And I'm sorry I ever got upset with you about the things you had to do - that was stupid of me.”

Harry's apology piqued Ron's interest. “Bloody Hell, mate, what happened?” he asked.

“I got shirty with her about not spending enough time with me,” Harry got out, before Hermione hastily Legilimenced him.

`Please, don't go telling him about our private issues.'

It was too late.

“You two really need to let me give you the grand tour of Hogwarts' broom closets and other private, out-of-the-way places,” Ron began regaling them, as Hermione cringed. “But just you remember that a Gryffindor or Ravenclaw necktie on the doorknob means go find someplace else….”

“Ronald!” Hermione reproached. “You really should stop airing your dirty knickers in public. What would Cho think?”

“There's nothing dirty about her knickers,” Ron returned. “She takes them off first….” The redhead dissolved in laughter at his own attempt at humour, whilst Hermione glared at him.

In frustration she turned to Harry. “Well, at least you should be proud of me,” she harped. “I actually turned down a request so I wouldn't be spending even less time with you.”

“I like the sound of that,” Harry replied. “What did they try to get you to do this time?”

“Not `they',” Hermione explained. “It was Ginny.”

“What did she want?” Harry had to ask.

“She wanted me to tutor her in Potions,” Hermione revealed. “I considered it, but it would have to be in the evening. I wasn't going to give away my most precious time,” she said, slipping her hand into his, “which is whatever I can spend with you. I told her that all the professors participate in Hogwarts' peer group tutoring programme. Ginny can just sign up with Slughorn. I can't do everything for everybody … not enough hours in the day….”

Harry glanced nervously towards Ron, but for once he supported Hermione's decision, although not for the best reasons.

“You did the right thing,” the redhead readily agreed. “I'm finally better than her at something, and she can't stand it.”

“Well, that's another point,” Hermione replied tartly. “I mentioned that, and you wouldn't believe the tirade I got back from her. Why don't you let your own sister use the Prince? That would solve….”

“Hell no!” Ron protested. “Ever since I can remember, it's been one thing or another - she just has to prove she's cleverer than her older brother. I must have pulled her hair too much when I was five, or something…. You should've seen the way she rubbed my nose in it when she got that bloody badge. Well, now the Flobberworm's turned and she's gone all mental. Why should I lend her my favourite book just so she can catch up to me? Let's see how she likes it when they threaten to take her badge away….”

Ron was clearly in the mood to rant at length about Ginny always trying to show him up academically. That was no surprise, since he had good cause. What was surprising was how Harry looked like he had just eaten something unpleasant.

Hermione Legilimenced him. `Harry, what's wrong?'

`It's nothing, Hermione,' he Legilimenced back, `nothing at all.'

`It clearly isn't nothing, Harry,' Hermione shot back.

`I'm sorry, Hermione,' Harry confessed. `The Ginny business is sort of my fault.'

`How could Ginny failing Potions possibly be your fault?' Hermione asked.

`Not that,' Harry corrected. `It's just … well, I sort of.… Well, she was really upset about maybe losing her spot on the team, and I suggested … umm … that she ask you for help.'

`Oh,' Hermione replied, now understanding Harry's apology. `And did you talk with her before or after….'

`After,' Harry hastily answered. `That's why I feel so dumb. One minute, I'm upset because you don't have enough time for me, and the next I'm suggesting you help Ginny. I'm sorry.'

Harry was so contrite that Hermione could hardly stay cross with him. `Don't worry,' she Legilimenced - sooner or later Ron would stop ranting about Ginny's real or imagined slights and realise that his friends were having their own private conversation - `nobody is always consistent. Do you want me to help Ginny with Potions or not?'

Harry paused just a bit before telling her, `No, actually not. I think you did the right thing. It sounds like the school's got this covered.'

At the first fork in the road after entering Hogsmeade, Harry and Ron turned left, along with the great majority of their cohorts, and walked down what would become the High Street - towards Honeydukes, Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes (having its “Grand Reopening,” an advert on the signpost at the junction announced), the Three Broomsticks and the village's other “popular” establishments.

Hermione took the road less travelled - past the Hogs Head tavern and the Revolving Door Inn, off to Samson's Option. She knew it was down this way a bit, somewhere before the cross road that led to the Shrieking Shack. At least that's what she had overheard Vicky Frobisher telling Lavender not too long ago….

After all, nobody would think of actually telling her - Prefect and notorious swot that she was. Ron was spot on about the unusual nature of Samson's wares. But even he did not know the half of it. Unless he and Cho had really unusual pillow talk, that is. Samson's, after all, catered exclusively to witches. Quite randy witches.

Finally she spotted the sign in front of the shop. The image was partially obscured by one of the Ministry's now rather tattered purple warning posters. The sign showed a muscular man, clad only in a loincloth, with both arms raised over his head. Those arms supported a horizontal witch, also scantily clad, who was lazily reading a book.

This was the place.

Even though she had no objective reason to feel guilty about anything, Hermione entered the shop, she felt she must be blushing furiously. She reminded herself that she was of age, and that the Twins' shop placed far more items on Filch's forbidden list than Samson's ever had.

Slipping hurriedly inside, she heard a high pitch whine when she closed the door. Mounted on the inside of the door she saw a small cage holding one rather bored færie. Hermione casually examined some of the magical skin creams and other witch cosmetics on racks near the door before a shop assistant greeted her.

“May I help you?” the woman - whose nametag read “Marian” - asked.

“Yes, the den please,” Hermione requested. “I have about two hours.”

“I'll need to see your wand, of course,” Marian said.

“Of course,” Hermione agreed as she gave her wrist a flick.

Marian was duly impressed that this customer wore an Auror-style wrist holster, and knew how to use it. She scuttled away to an adjacent room. Hermione's eyes turned to examining some “sale items” - mostly involving autoerotica - heaped into … a black swing hanging from the ceiling that….

Well, it was utterly unlike any swing Hermione had ever seen before, but with Harry, she might not be adverse to trying it out.

Soon Marian returned. “Very well - you're legal,” she told Hermione. “That will be six Sickles, plus any purchases.”

Hermione pulled out her coin purse and counted out the silver. “Which way?” she asked.

“Back there,” Marian replied, pointing towards the rear of the shop.

As Hermione looked on, what had been an ordinary stucco wall started to shimmer. A doorway fluttered into existence, topped by a sign that read, “Delilah's Den.” Instead of a door, the entrance was hung with scores of strands of colourful beads, enough effectively to obscure what lay beyond. Her furious blush returned at the quite explicit pattern in the beads.

As Hermione started for the door, Marian called after her, in hushed tones, “Good luck, Ms. Granger, we're rooting for you, too.”

No wowsers here. Delilah's Den carried the largest selection of witch-oriented sex manuals and similar literature in Scotland - or so claimed an advert on the wall inside the large, well appointed room.

Hermione came to this place for the same reason she went to any other bookstore or library - to learn. She was more in love with Harry Potter than she could have believed possible a year ago. She would be making love with him for the first time - probably that very night, and in any event, soon. It would mark a new departure in their always evolving relationship; one that she was determined would be the beginning of something better.

A not particularly philosophical sort, Hermione shared her father's attitude that philosophy was useless and theology worse. She did not, however, lack a creed by which she lived her life. One thing she knew for sure was she would do anything for Harry. The motto she followed was to be the best - or as close to that as humanly possible - at anything she did.

Thus, she made perfection her norm - and tried for better in special situations. This was the epitome of a special situation

Creed and need coalesced. So Hermione would spend the next couple of hours learning as much about sex - its techniques, magic, and maybe even its ethics - as she possibly could.

She had been called a boring bookworm (although rarely to her face) enough times in her life. Harry was going to find out - not that he had suggested any such thing lately - that a bookworm could be the complete opposite of boring.

The both of them had been in the papers enough lately that Hermione was relieved to find the room unoccupied. Her classmates were not a problem. She was the only one old enough to gain entry. But privacy was precisely why she had come early. She anticipated, correctly, that this establishment had little or no “morning crowd.”

Whilst most of the Den's books and other paraphernalia were for sale, the place was also a reading room for those too penurious or, like Hermione, to unwilling to take forbidden items back to the Castle. Her Sickles had bought her two hours of revising time. Not wanting to waste a minute of it, she quickly began scanning the shelves.

`That looks interesting,' Hermione mused as she slid out a copy of Beyond Fornication Under Consent of the King. It was subtitled “A User's Guide to Sexual Practices Banned as Witchcraft by Muggle Henry VIII.” Working quickly she collected some other likely-titled tomes and retired to the farthest back reaches of the room, where she found a comfy looking chair next to a small end table.

To make doubly sure that she would not be disturbed, Hermione pulled out the Invisibility Cloak Harry had loaned her and vanished under it. To keep her safe, he had provided her with a 1000-Galleon Cloak. Harry would eventually appreciate the irony in her first use of the Cloak.

She intended that he would appreciate it very, very much….

Before Hogwarts, Hermione's existence had been rather sheltered. Her father had been a strong Conservative Party backer, especially (and ironically) of John Major's abortive “Back to Basics” and “return to Victorian values” campaigns from a few years back. Despite their abysmal failure - half the cabinet enmeshed in scandal - a good bit of her non-magical upbringing reflected just such parental attitudes. Hence, Hermione had thought herself quite bold, just to nick a banana for practice…. Reading these books, she realised she had barely scratched the surface….

…Anne Boleyn was probably no witch, but some of the “sortileges” by which she supposedly bewitched the King sounded quite enchanting indeed...

…Seven different contraceptive charms worked on females, and three potions. Male contraception consisted of three charms, one potion, and a jinx (the last usually being involuntary)….

…A thirteenth use of dragon's blood existed that Dumbledore had not discovered - in a fertility potion to induce birth of a male heir….

…The Orgasimos Charm could be performed wandlessly with the male's organ....

…It could also be performed, with somewhat more difficulty, by either sex using the tongue or the teeth….

…A wizard around Harry's age could expect two, or conceivably three, orgasms in an evening. Extensive use of magic might raise the total to four. By contrast, a witch of the same age had no limit whatever - short of physical exhaustion….

…A properly charmed wand should not vibrate at more than ten times a second. Anything faster could not be individually sensed and simply overloaded the relevant nerve endings....

…Any vibrating spell performed with a wand could also be cast on one's tongue, although it made speech quite difficult. Failure to pronounce the “at” in “vibratio” could lead to nasty infections….

…On the subject of tongues, a less extreme version of the charm that the Twins embedded in their Ton-Tongue Toffees had another, quite scandalous, use….

…The Simultaneity Charm could be used to coordinate climaxes….

…Antoine Crewkerne formulated a magical lubricant, called “Superfluid Transdermal Potion.” It was too effective. Deleting the magical ingredients and abbreviating the name, he sold the remaining formula to Muggles, who still use it in motorcars….

…Climbing flight with the female in front was recommended for sex on a broom. Other positions or flight orientations ran the risk of extremely adverse results….

…Like most of the clitoris, a goodly part of the male organ extended beneath the skin. This part was just as sensitive as the visible equipment….

…Another, supposedly “Tantric” (if done wandlessly and silently) way of going about things was for the male to lie still following penetration whilst successively casting and removing the Engorgio Charm on his organ….

…There was a dual form of the Bubblehead Charm, useful for underwater sexual activity….

…Several charms, including Wingardium Leviosa, made it possible to perform sex in midair. This was not recommended for beginners, as loss of concentration could make for a rather painful (or worse) landing….

…It was possible to mix lovers' magic during sex, but the resultant blurring of individual identities made it advisable to wait until marriage….

…Two different charms, both involving Transfiguration, were available to reconstruct a female's virginity, but repeated use caused a build up of scar tissue….

…Most ordinary spells doubled or better in strength if performed at the moment of orgasm. Results were erratic, however….

Hermione filed these - and many other - useful titbits of carnally-oriented knowledge away for future reference in her library-like mind. At their last … session … Harry had professed his jealousy of Hermione's banana. At their next, she intended to make the banana jealous of him.

There were few interruptions. Only a couple of witches entered whilst she was there, and only Karen Bundy, a Seventh-Year Ravenclaw, did she know by sight. Thus, nothing interfered with Hermione's voracious reading.

At least until it was almost time for Hermione to leave.

She was just finishing reading (and being puzzled by) several chapters of the wizard version of Aleister Crowley's Energised Enthusiasm, when the bead curtain rattled and Cho Chang slid through. The Ravenclaw seemed uncharacteristically anxious and out of sorts.

Hermione, hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak, at first tried ignoring her. That was extremely difficult, as merely being in the same room with that … that harlot … put Hermione extremely on edge. Cho had (albeit unintentionally) caused so much of her and Harry's recent suffering. But after finding herself rereading the same paragraph about male erogenous zones (there being, according to this author, precisely one) for the third time, she finally gave up and watched.

Cho was full of fidgety energy. She bustled to a shelf, selected a volume, sat down, read a bit, and then repeated the process all over again. Rather more often than Hermione thought normal, Cho's hand reflexively sought her lower torso.

Cho frequented the medical section. She couldn't be, could she?

If she were, was it really Ron's?

Even if not, would she tell him it was?

Originally, Hermione's intent had been to wait Cho out unseen. But as she sat there, under the Cloak, spying on the witch who had her other best friend wrapped around her finger, she felt compelled act. To do exactly what, she was not quite sure.

When Cho next moved to the shelves, and thus turned her back, Hermione removed the Cloak and pretended to read.

Cho returned to her own chair with her latest book - taken from the same spot as the others - and saw she had company.

“Eek! Hermione Granger!” she squeaked, her voice an octave or more higher than its usual sultry, contralto. “What are you doing here?”

“Why reading, of course,” Hermione replied evenly.

“Oh, sorry, I knew that,” Cho said, still quite muddled. “But you … here?”

“I'm here, yes,” Hermione answered, hoping that the less she said, the more Cho might reveal. That strategy failed, as Cho soon righted herself.

“But this is…. Oh, I get it…. Well congratulations are in order, I suppose,” she said more coolly. “You're evidently taking your relationship with Harry to the next level.”

“Thank you,” Hermione responded, her mind working furiously. “Should I be congratulating you as well, then?”

“Oh, Ronnie and I have been together,” she batted a knowing eyelash, “that way for quite some time. I'm surprised he didn't tell you. He's not particularly discreet…. Naughty lad, that.”

Hermione suppressed a laugh at Cho's reference to sexual discretion. She rose and approached the shelves whilst still formulating her next move. “Umm … you wouldn't know where the books on contraception are?” she asked, feigning anxiety.

“Third aisle, on the left,” Cho responded smartly. “At least two shelves worth on the side nearest the door. They're quite good.”

Hermione moved in that direction, thinking to herself, `She can't be pregnant, then.' She opened a tome she had already read. Contraception was the first subject she had researched. `Why else would she be consulting medical information?'

Time to bring their little charade to a conclusion.

Hermione exited the shelves, still holding the book. It would make a good shield if Cho tried hexing her. Instead of taking her seat, she retraced Cho's steps and took note of the titles surrounding the space vacated by the book Cho was reading.

“You know, Cho, I've never pried into Ron's affairs, but he is one of my oldest and best friends” Hermione spoke carefully. She could see Cho stiffen at the mention of Ron's name. “Why are you consulting a book on magically-induced sexual disorders?”

“Why I …. That's none of your business, Granger,” Cho answered icily, no longer bothering to conceal the tension building between them.

“Oh, I'm afraid it is my business,” Hermione pressed. “Like I said, Ron's a very good friend….”

“You've never been interested in him. Ron said so himself,” Cho hissed. “What we do is none of your concern.”

“If you infect him with any sort of STD,” Hermione sternly warned, “you'll wish you'd never met him. I'll make certain of that.”

“You'll make certain of nothing,” Cho retorted hotly. “I'd never, ever do that to Ronnie. I'm very careful of him. From what Ronnie said, though, you'd do well to be careful of Harry….”

Hermione purpled, not sure with whom she was currently angrier - at Cho for casting aspersions on Harry, or at Ron for blabbing to Cho something she supposed Harry had told his best mate in confidence.

Despite her anger, Hermione was aware that the dog had not barked. Cho had not denied the assumption inherent in her earlier statement.

“I'm not worried about Harry,” she stoutly declared. “Whatever Ron told you - he didn't know what he was talking about … no surprise there.”

“I rather think I should be going, then,” Cho said dismissively, shutting her book with a thud. “Enjoy Harry. Even without the 100,000 Galleons, you two always deserved each other.”

With that dig, Cho gathered her things and stood. Now Hermione could see the lettering on the spine of the book - Hubert Huddleston's Compleat Handbook of Sexual Enchantments and Related Magical Maladies.

“Well what is it, then, if not that?” Hermione called after the retreating witch, “I study healing. Maybe I could help.”

“For the third time, it's none of your business,” Cho growled as she reached the beaded curtain. “And you're the last person in the world I'd discuss such things with, anyway.”

As Cho left, Hermione could not resist giving the screw one last turn. “If you can't find what you want here,” she informed her deliberately, “you can always try things like WebMD on the Muggle Internet. There's a connection on the new central station system that Ravenclaw just got for the D.A. Any Muggle-born can show you how to use it.”

When she mentioned the Internet, Hermione could almost feel Cho shiver.

Her encounter with Cho thoroughly upset Hermione for the rest of her time at Delilah's Den. She could absorb only so much of this … material … at one sitting anyway. Shortly after Cho departed, Hermione had had enough. Putting the books away, she gingerly examined the other items offered for sale.

She had no use for the various “hands on” products - especially those bearing the “Weasleys' Wanton Witches” trademark. `It seems the Twins are expanding their market,' she mused. `No telling what their products might actually do.'

She had contented herself with low tech before, and now with Harry … now there was even less reason to upgrade.

The lingerie - that was another story. Samson's Option carried any number of costumes that, simply by sight, made her feel randy. All the major trademarks were represented: Witches' Wonderworks, Lover's Touch, Playwitch, Playwizard, and more. She even noticed Muggle wear, such as Victoria's Secret, Ann Summers, and Knickerbox.

After a few minutes of looking, Hermione selected something she considered appropriate for the occasion. She hoped it would be four Galleons well spent.

* * * *

Freed from Hermione's sometimes oppressive correctness, Harry and Ron trudged along the road to Hogsmeade. Ron was the first to break the silence.

“Umm … Harry? I need…. Well, I want to, anyway….”

“Want to what?”

“I … I want to apologise for going off on you the other day. I was being a jealous prat,” Ron finally spit it out.

Surprised Harry might have been, but shocked he was not. He rather thought Ron had gone too far at Gringotts. “Well, all right then,” he responded tersely. “But you had to know I'm over Cho.”

“I know,” Ron confessed, “I was more worried, actually, about Cho being over you….”

“Then shouldn't you really be talking to her, not me?” Harry carefully responded, mulling how quickly to let his friend off the hook.

“I did,” he admitted. “She got madder at me than Hermione did. Asked me what the Hell I thought she was, she did. Remember that old joke I told you about haggling over the price…?”

“Not that I want to,” Harry answered. He was getting uncomfortable and to get it over was ready to let Ron slide.

“…Well she thought that's how I was thinking of her,” Ron said with a chuckle. “That's not what I meant….”

“Could have fooled me,” Harry replied unsympathetically. “You acted like Cho would throw you over for my money. That's not true, and you know it….”

“Yeah, I know, but there's one thing I just don't get,” Ron continued. Harry was afraid that Ron, with two feet firmly already implanted in his mouth, would go for the hat-trick. “Why don't you two just announce that you've declared for her and be done with it? It's no secret from You Know Who anymore, so why not just let all these witches know that … well … that this race is run?”

Ron actually had a rather good question.

“Mostly to keep her from being hassled, or worse,” Harry stated honestly enough. “But you've a point. Things have changed. I'll ask Hermione about that.”

From there, the conversation descended to less serious matters. They joked about Filch's comeuppance. They discussed strategy for the upcoming Slytherin Quidditch match - a subject that extended all the way into Hogsmeade. Upon reaching the Three Broomsticks, Harry realised he had no idea where he was going.

“Where are Fred and George's new premises?” Harry inquired.

“'Spect Zonko's old place,” Ron guessed. “I know they were trying to buy it. They said old Zonk didn't want to go through another war, what with all the money he lost the first time. But they weren't telling me much at the end there….”

“Knowing them, it won't be hard to find,” Harry observed.

“No doubt about that,” Ron agreed.

They were right. As they turned the bend on Hogsmeade's High Street, the latest branch of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was impossible to miss. Zonko's old premises no longer bore any resemblance to the prior establishment. The building - formerly fire engine red - was repainted international orange, fluorescent green, and sky blue. Whilst 3W's Diagon Alley location sported stripes, this shop was patterned in lizards crawling all over the building.

So it appeared when Harry and Ron first set eyes on the place. But as they approached, the lizards began to change, metamorphosing into a hexagonal pattern, equally garish but quite different.

The shop bore the Twins' usual “Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes” sign in half-metre-high red lettering. Harry swallowed hard because above that the Twins had mounted a three-by-one metre banner reading “Grand Reopening.” Attached was a large picture of Harry's face and the words “Harry Potter Personal Appearance” beneath his picture. The banner was tied to a large sphere resembling a multi-coloured beach ball.

“I don't think I'm going to like this,” Harry muttered, as the shop's exterior design turned into a honeycomb with bees on it.

“Oh come on, mate, it'll be fun,” Ron tried cheering him up. “It's Gred and Forge, innit? Anything they've cooked up is bound to be hilarious.”

“I dunno,” Harry shook his head. “All I'm sure of is whatever they've planned is bound to make them money.”

The honeybees on the outside of the 3W shop were becoming butterflies when a small crowd of people, watched over by a number of Aurors, spotted the two and started to applaud.

“Umm … Ron…,” Harry responded uncertainly.

“Take it from the King - just smile and wave,” Ron told him. Harry looked at his friend and saw him doing just that. Harry put on his best fake smile and managed a small wave of his own.

As the butterflies were morphed into what some sort of fish, Fred Weasley emerged from the shop, attracted by the noise outside. Customarily, he was overdressed in a loud dragon skin suit - this one in bright blue with even brighter green pockets and orange buttons and trim, so that it matched the shop's décor. Seeing Harry, he bolted towards him.

“Harry! Old buddy. Old mate. Old pal,” he beamed. “Great of you to come - and masterful timing too!” Fred clapped Harry heartily on the back. “Hard on the heels of your Quibbler tell-all. I didn't realise how great a businessman you really are….”

Entirely ignored by his older brother, Ron scowled.

Fred turned to the shop, where the fish were in the process of turning into birds, and yelled to his twin, who had stuck his head out the door, “It's him. Let `er rip!”

The birds were transforming into some different type of birds - still the gaudy combination of orange, green, and blue - when a thunderous burst of bright yellow fireworks went off over the shop. A line fell away and the large beach-ball shaped object (filled with some lighter-than-air gas) shot skyward until restrained a hundred metres up by another cord. The poster bearing Harry's likeness rose with it. To Harry's dismay, it seemed to enlarge as it climbed.

“Lit the blue touch paper!” George yelled over the din. He wore an identically horrible suit, except he was now thoroughly dusted with what looked like grey ash.

“Did you forget to retire?” Fred retorted. He shepherded Harry inside whilst the birds resolved into some cubic pattern.

The shop was already packed with students and others drawn by the Twins' publicity. To part the crowd, Fred facetiously yelled, “Make way! Make way for the heir of Gryffindor! Seriously fanciable wizard coming through!” Harry allowed himself to be led to the rear of the store where George stood next to a podium decorated with a greatly enlarged likeness of Harry's Quibbler cover. With a fake wand shaped like a rubber croquet mallet, he was still beating the ash from his suit jacket.

On sight, he flipped the rather droopy device aside. “The man of the hour!” George exclaimed whilst enthusiastically shaking Harry's hand. “Returned from the edge of death - not once, but twice. Why don't you say a few words?” He pointed Harry the way to the podium. As a very red-faced Harry passed, George slipped him a note.

Harry read it behind the podium. It said, “Sorry about all this. With everything that's happened to you lately, it got out of hand. Hope you can muddle through. We have cool stuff to show you.”

Harry nervously cleared his throat, “I'm really, really glad to be back,” he began, having no idea what he would say. “Nobody can doubt now that Voldemort's back….”

An audible hiss came from the crowd when he used the Dark wizard's name.

“…And get used to that. Say his name. If you're too scared to do that, he's won half the battle already. We can beat him, after all. Look what he threw at me, and I came back anyway….”

Receiving a smattering of applause, Harry was surprised to feel as confident as he did. After Fudge threw him to the press, and then having wowing a much tougher crowd in France, Harry began to believe he could actually do this.

“I won't say much about that. You can read about it in the Quibbler….”

George raised his hands and interrupted, “We have autographed copies - five hundred of them….”

Harry's head whipped around at George's casual fraud. He knew he had never signed anything - but then George never specified who had signed these autographs.

“…They're a Galleon apiece by themselves, but free with any purchase of ten Galleons or more.” Then George stopped yelling and nodded at Harry to go on.

“Umm…. That's George Weasley,” Harry continued after a bit of a hitch. “He and Fred own this place. It's the best joke shop in all Hogsmeade….”

“It's the only joke shop in Hogsmeade,” somebody called out. The crowd laughed.

“True,” Harry replied, relaxing again, “but still, it's the best. Anyway, I know first hand how good their pranks can be. We'll need that. There's a war on, and we'll see some dark days ahead, I'm sure. We have to keep our spirits up, and for that, a sense of humour's essential….”

Within reach was a carousel of fake wands. Harry reached out and grabbed one. It let out a squeak and turned into a rubber rat. Holding it by the tail, without warning Harry swung it and smacked George in the back of the head.

“Hey!” the startled twin yowled as he jumped forward almost a metre. The pocket of his jacked caught in a countertop display of booby-trapped sweets and something called “Sweet Sixteen Additive.” The entire display crashed to the ground.

“That's for shoving me up here in front of everybody with no warning,” Harry joked as the crowd howled with laughter. “You're lucky it was only a whack with a rubber rat. If Hermione were here, she'd have hexed you long before.”

Fred had worked his way to the front of the crowd. In the spirit of things he asked Harry in a loud voice, “Well, where is this girl who saved the Boy Who Lived's arse anyway?”

Harry was not about to tell the truth. “That's not for me to say. I'm not my … er … girlfriend's keeper,” he replied. Addressing the crowd again, Harry added. “Anyway, like I was saying. Buy lots of these berks' stuff, because it's really good. But make sure you don't take any of it to the Castle…. There, now I won't get in any more trouble with Filch.”

Again the crowd laughed, knowing full well that Harry neither meant for them to obey his last request nor intended to honour it himself.

“And remember,” Harry closed. “Inter-house unity is key, and wizard relations Muggles and with every thinking magical creature. Don't forget, the goblins saved me as much as Hermione. Now go have some fun. I've said enough.”

Harry tried to stand down, but for almost half an hour he had to suffer through an impromptu receiving line. A surprisingly large number of both Hogwarts students and local residents wanted to shake his hand, pat him on the back, or offer an encouraging word.

Ron stood by to him throughout. He certainly liked the concept of celebrity better than Harry. Seamus caused the only untoward incident. He shook hands with Harry whilst wearing odd-looking gloves that shimmered with multicoloured diffraction patterns. Seconds later, Ron burst out, “What the Hell…?”

“What?” Harry reacted, all eyes were on him again, and some of the youngest onlookers pointing.

“You're bloody glowing,” he said. “Rainbow stripes all over your face, hands, and Merlin knows where else.”

A couple metres away, Seamus almost doubled over in laughter at his prank.

“Finite,” George muttered. “Sorry about that, but you've just seen how our Gaudy Gloves still work even when inside out.”

Fred had the last laugh. He surreptitiously used a Switching Spell to replace Seamus' ordinary belt with another 3W product. This one, set for fifteen minutes, vanished a split second after the wearer's trousers grew by a half-dozen sizes.

As the crowd finally thinned, Harry felt George grab his shoulder and whisper in his ear, “Follow me. You've never had a real tour. Come see the stuff we really want to show you.” He led Harry through a set of batwing swinging doors into a half-lit and totally deserted back room.

“What about Fred?” Harry questioned.

“Somebody has to mind the store, especially with all those customers you've attracted,” George replied. “We drew straws, and I won.”

Harry was impressed by the quantity of merchandise - much of which he could not identify. He asked, “What exactly is this place?” The walls, where not obscured by labeled cartons, were painted flat black. Light was provided by hundreds of tiny dots, stuck randomly to the walls.

It was a bit like stepping into a planetarium - not that the Dursleys had ever taken him to one.

“This is the adult section. No joking here,” George said in atypically subdued fashion. “I don't know if anyone's told you, but we're now armourers to the Order, so we've developed more serious products. It started with last year's Shield Hats. They were a lark, but you can't believe how they sold. Turns out, a lot of wizards' Defence skills are totally rubbish. So we expanded that into an entire line - shield cloaks, shield socks, shield trousers - even a shield athletic supporter.”

“Whoa, that's brilliant,” Harry admired, “and just what the market needed, too. I'll bet you made piles….”

“Thousands of Galleons profit,” George confirmed smugly. “The Ministry's our biggest customer now. They've bought hundreds. That's where the real money is - Private Tender Ministry contracts.”

Maybe the Twins were being dodgy, but Harry kept his doubts to himself. Rather, he requested, “Before we go all serious, I want to redeem that certificate you gave me for my birthday….”

“A prank idea!” George enthusiastically cut in. “Bloody brilliant! Just tell me who and how. Maybe I should get Fred after all….”

“No, don't bother. You can tell him later. I want this kept as closely as possible because I'm trying to help someone who's rather prickly.” Harry told George about Jazzy being harassed by Slytherins during Herbology.

When Harry finished, George thought for a bit, until cracking an evil smile. “I've got some ideas. Let me talk to Fred, and we should be able to have something suitably devious prepared in a week or so. You'll have to send Hedwig, though. Filch has banned all our delivery owls from the Castle.”

“How will I know, then?” Harry asked.

“We'll have Verity send you a post owl,” George replied. “The Owl Post office is just down the street. Anyway, please, take a look around. We really want to know what you think.”

Harry did. Some items he recognised, like several Invisibility Cloaks, a box of Fanged Frisbees in military camouflage colours, and what looked like charmed riot police transparent shields. The oddest thing in the room - at least the oddest thing that stood out - was the light sources themselves.

“Well, for starters, what are these?” Harry wanted to know, gingerly touching a finger to one of tiny lights. He felt nothing.

“Clarion Crystals,” George answered proudly. “They produce cold light, like fireflies, only magical - and they'll stay lit for days. These have Sticking Charms on them, but you can get them plain, too. Here, have some….”

George cracked open the top of a Muggle 55-gallon drum, and the light almost blinded Harry. Wielding a scoop like old man Honeydukes used for bulk Bertie Botts Beans, he poured a glistening pile of the luminous grains into a velvet drawstring bag and handed them to Harry.

“These could come in handy,” he told Harry. “Toss a handful on the floor of a dark room, same as with Floo Powder, and the place lights right up. They'll counteract that Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder we're also selling.”

“Speaking of what you're selling, what's that `Sweet Sixteen Additive' I saw out there?” Harry asked.

“Well,” George answered as he steered Harry towards another corner. “Truth be told, that's a stab at making something, actually, a little more legal.”

Harry knew the Twins well. He gave George a sceptical look.

“Remember when we nearly got booted from your party for trying to spike the punch with vodka?” George continued as Harry nodded. “The wizard age for drink is sixteen, so rather than risk Azkaban, we've made this punch additive that only buzzes of age wizards - like you….”

“I don't drink,” Harry flatly stated.

“Then it doesn't matter,” George dismissed the diversion with a wave of his hand. “Take a look at these instead.”

A glass display case against the far wall contained mysterious looking silvery objects, vaguely resembling the spindly devices Dumbledore kept in his office. Harry's gaze followed George's gesture.

“Those are Spyders,” he told him.

“What do they do?”

“Spy on Dark Wizards, of course,” George answered. “With their legs retracted, they're right tiny, and can hide easily in crevasses, or even in the ceiling. Set loose, they can cross a room of this size in a matter of seconds. They come with optional equipment - cameras, eye-scanners, visual sensors, razor-sharp blades, and soon we hope aura detectors. We're also experimenting with having them carry nasty hexes on one-way missions.”

“What if they're captured?” Harry asked. “I'd hate to have them coming after me.”

“They don't leave our shop until they're charmed only to obey the purchaser or a preset list of trusted wizards,” George reassured. “After that's done, you programme them for each mission and activate with a simple Ennervate. Once turned on, though, you can't stop them until they've completed their mission - short of blasting them to pieces.”

“They must cost an arm and a leg,” Harry remarked. “That's some really intricate magic.”

“We sell them for twenty Galleons apiece, with bulk discounts for the Order and the Ministry. Here, have a couple,” George offered, reaching into the case.

“Ouch!” he yowled. “Bloody Hell! It bit me! Stupefy! I've told Fred he has to make sure these are thoroughly wiped before putting a demonstrator back in here.”

Shaking a couple of the Spyders to make sure they were inert, George tossed them to Harry.

“Umm … how much do I owe you for all this?” Harry asked. He had plenty of gold, but not with him, and he doubted that 3W could process a BoE credit card.

George looked at him like he had sprouted antlers - large, fuzzy, pink ones.

“Your gold is no good here. If you think we would take your money after all you've done for us, and for everybody, you're even more daft than we've figured you for. Anything and everything we have is yours, within reason of course.”

“Look, I've got loads more Galleons than you,” Harry protested. “I'm sure everybody knows that….”

“But not when you staked us. We'd never have gotten off the ground without you, mate,” George explained. “That's settled. For you, everything is a comp.”

Harry knew when he was beat, so he turned back to examining the Twins' other wares. “What do these do?” he asked.

“These are Pocket Pensieves,” George said proudly. “They only hold one memory, so make sure it's a good one. With the accompanying charm booklet, you can customise them into almost any shape or colour you want. We sell these for twenty Galleons a pop. Here, have one.” He dropped the top one from the stack into Harry's bag.

“And these?” Harry asked, looking at a stack of greyish-green discs slightly larger than Galleon coins.

“Those are Shocking Pinks,” George answered. “A bit like Muggle land mines, but not as deadly. Scatter them about, and anyone or anything that steps on one lights up bright pink. In the dark, they'd be visible for almost a kilometre.”

This went on for quite some time, as George showed Harry one outstanding creation after another. Finally, he led Harry through the shop's back door and into a walled courtyard. From the noise, Harry could tell that it abutted the High Street.

On blocks against the front wall were several large chunks of what looked like wood, stone, and metal. Behind them, befitting a target range, was stout rope netting. The netting looked rather worse for wear, with odd-shaped holes where the rope looked like it was melted away.

Harry squinted at all this apparatus. “What's all this?” Scattered on the ground were bits of similar wood, stone, and metal.

“Our best experimental weapon yet,” George hinted. “But still strictly experimental. We're still working out the best delivery system, and we'd like your views after you try out what we have so far.”

“First, what is it?” Harry asked warily as he eyed the large chunks - some distinctly deformed - that dominated the courtyard. The Twins' reputation preceded them.

“Oh, those are just the targets,” George corrected. “Here are the weapons.” He popped a box open and removed a large burlap bag filled with brightly coloured globules wrapped in what Harry swore looked like….

“Water balloons, these are,” George confirmed. “Only in reverse….”

“Reverse water balloons?” Harry echoed, even more sceptical than before.

“Exactly,” George confirmed. “Reverse water balloons. Have you ever heard of an Alkahest?”

Harry wracked his brains, trying to remember if he had ever come across such a thing in DADA, Potions, Charms, or any other class in his five plus years at Hogwarts. He came up empty.

“Can't say that I have,” he admitted.

“Not to worry,” George said with a smile. “Alkahests have been mostly rubbish because they're pretty much a universal solvent. Dissolve damn near anything solid - as long as it's not alive. Basically an Alkahest turns everything into water, least anything any Potions Master had ever tested.”

“So what's holding the Alkahest now?” Harry curiously inquired.

“That's just it,” George confided his secret. “Almost too bloody simple, it was. Ordinary Muggle balloons made from synthetic rubber, Neoprene, I think, but who cares? These Muggle synthetics are so unlike anything natural that Alkahests don't affect them.”

“So, what good are they?” Harry asked bluntly.

“What good are they?” George repeated almost sarcastically. “They melt through all kinds of stuff, that's what.”

“Okay, I'll give it a go,” Harry assented, assuming George had brought him for that reason. He picked up a balloon, which sloshed back and forth in his hand. “I don't think I'll do well just tossing it.”

“That's the question,” George allowed, “What's the best delivery system, so we've got several alternatives we'd like to have you check out. We've got this….”

George produced the biggest hand catapult Harry had ever seen - even bigger than Dudley's - out of another chest next to the balloons.

“…And we've got this….”

He pulled out a long scooplike object. Harry looked at him questioningly, so George slipped a cord around his wrist and hefted it.

“Never seen anything like that before,” Harry commented.

“I hadn't either, to tell the truth,” George admitted. “Mad-Eye recommended it. He'd seen blokes hurling things pretty far with these on a mission to the Pyrenees ages ago. I put this handle on it back here for better control.”

“Anything Mad-Eye saw is probably ages ago,” Harry quipped.

“True,” George said. “And last but not least, I've got this….”

His last option was a couple of pieces of cord with a solid-looking pocket between them.

“My sentimental favourite,” George mentioned whilst fitting a balloon. He started swinging it in a circle over his head. “David beat Goliath with one of these….” He released the sling, but the Alkahest-filled balloon sailed off in an entirely unintended angle, bursting against the side wall of the shop. The bricks started flowing like hot, cinnamon coloured wax. “But I'm just George, not David,” he chuckled. “I can't hit the bloody broad side of a Castle with it. That's why we need your expert opinion.”

For the next twenty minutes or so, Harry practiced with the slingshot, the xistera, and the sling. His aim was best with the hand catapult, but merely because it was the only one of the three Harry had ever used before. Harry melted a lot of netting about the targets (George accioed in a steady string of replacements), but he dissolved a lot of metal, wood and stone targets, too - particularly in his later attempts.

Whilst Harry played with the equipment, George repaired the gaping hole that his errant shot had left in the side wall of the shop.

“George, I think I like this best,” Harry told the twin as he placed another balloon in the xistera. “The hand catapult takes too long to aim and fire, and I'm almost as bad as you with that sling.”

Harry moved quickly to his left and, with a straight overhand motion launched one of the Reverse Water Balloons squarely into what remained of the centre wooden target.

“It could use more of an indentation here, to hold the balloon better,” he added as he slipped in a bright yellow balloon.

George used his wand to extract the last few balloons from the burlap bag. He casually asked Harry, “Can I ask you something about what's happening at Hogwarts?”

“Sure,” Harry replied whilst lining up his next target. “Anything you want.”

“Well, Mum's fretting about Ron not writing or Flooing nearly as much as before,” George continued. “I'm wondering if he's too involved with that Cho Chang. What's your opinion of her? You went out with her once.”

Harry had just gone into his windup when George mentioned Cho. Suddenly he felt like someone had grabbed him by windpipe and squeezed. No way in Hell could he answer George's question honestly. Harry knew that, without Hermione's help, he was pants as a liar.

He tried to stop the xistera, but all he managed was to slow himself down. As a result, Harry launched the balloon, flopping like a demented top, in a high lazy arc. It cleared the netting altogether, and for a couple of agonising moments Harry thought it would clear the courtyard wall and hit who knows what on the High Street beyond.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief, when the canary yellow projectile splattered against the wall a little below the top.

Like the targets, the stone wall melted almost instantaneously, leaving a cavern-like opening. Harry was about to apologise to George when - what the fubb? - he saw Draco Malfoy's unmistakable platinum blond head bob past. With the Slytherin was a sprite of a man with thatch-coloured hair.

“Bloody Hell,” George hissed behind Harry, Cho being all but forgotten. “What in blazes is he doing here?”

“Malfoy couldn't take Durmstrang,” Harry told George. “He came crawling back to Dumbledore, who took him back…. Big mistake, if you….”

George interrupted, “I don't mean Malfoy; I mean Caractacus Burke. He hardly ever leaves his shop these days, and I've never seen him in Hogsmeade before.”

Both moved closer to the hole to spy on the pair as they walked down the street.

“You mean as in `Borgin & Burkes'?” Harry asked.

“Only one I know of,” George whispered.

That bought raised eyebrows from Harry. “How would you know?”

“With our business,” George hissed, “we're often enough looking for dodgy stuff - particularly ingredients. I'd much rather deal with Borgin, though … the son, the old man's dead. Burke's almost surely a Death Eater.”

“What's he doing with Malfoy, then?” Harry asked in an equally low voice.

“A very good question, Harry,” George breathed into his ear as the subjects of the conversation retreated down the street. “Has Burke been in touch with Malfoy? His bird's very distinctive - not an owl - reddish-brown, actually, with a neck like a snake and a beak like a dagger.”

“Malfoy did get a rather strange post earlier this week,” Harry recalled. “George! Can I borrow one of those Invisibility Cloaks and a set of Extendable Ears?”

Instantly comprehending what Harry was going to do, George Summoned the requested items right away. He handed them to Harry as he crawled through the irregular hole the balloon left in the wall. “Happy hunting, mate - but stay out of any more traps. Malfoy's a twit, but Burke, he could be dangerous.”

Fortunately Burke was an old man, because Harry had a lot of ground to make up, whilst staying both quiet and under the Cloak. After remembering to cast a Silencing Charm on his own feet, Harry at least had one less thing to worry about.

Harry's quarry turned down a side street Harry had never taken before, shaded by large, old trees ablaze in fall foliage. The street was quietly residential and quite deserted.

He was now alone with two likely Death Eaters. They paused and - there it was again - the bird George had described mere minutes before. It was the same that had visited Malfoy at Hogwarts, and it certainly looked evil enough. Burke was untying something from its leg, but before Harry could creep close enough for a good look, Burke gave whatever it was to Malfoy. The Slytherin boy quickly pocketed it, and the two moved on.

Whilst watching the bird fly off, it occurred to Harry that if the goblins, the Order, or Dumbledore ever found out the risk he was running, they would be furious. Hermione would probably not be happy with him, either.

Another worry was the Extendable Ears. They were not designed for eavesdropping on moving targets. Only by banishing the Ears into overhanging tree branches Harry could even catch snippets of their conversation.

He heard Burke's voice. “…set it up?”

“It's done exactly how it's supposed to be,” Malfoy answered whatever question had been asked.

“Well I've done my part, and it went off without a hitch,” Burke responded. “Finally that accursed thing's out of my shop. Good bloody riddance.”

“Then there's nothing more either of us need do for the time being,” Malfoy said with relief.

“True enough. Still you need to plan how to make exactly the right impression,” Burke responded quietly. “Now we can't naff about. It wouldn't do to keep him waiting.”

The two picked up their pace.

“And how's the work coming?” Malfoy asked.

“There are always delays, you know,” Burke responded. “Supplies and labour are no problem, but the Ministry's requiring changes in the new ward structure, and….”

Silently Harry cursed as they moved beyond the range of the Extendable Ears.

As quickly as he could without being detected, Harry Summoned the ears silently - thanks to his silent spell-casting training. Just as silently he Banished them into another tree just in front of his targets.

“…he need for another meeting, anyway?” Malfoy whispered, sounding rather peeved.

“He didn't say, and I didn't ask,” Burke replied. “You can - if you want.”

“No … thanks…. Do you think it's good or bad?” Malfoy continued, now sounding apprehensive.

“Good, I think,” Burke answered. “My guess is there's an addition to your … engagement. That's an honour.”

“The only honour I need is more concrete and immediate,” Malfoy commented. “Look is this about Hogwarts….?”

Harry groaned inwardly as again they passed from range. He quickly Summoned the Ears and Banished them again. `Bollocks,' he thought as this try came up rather short.

“…back at Hogwarts?” Burke asked

“Hah! Like I give a damn about her. She's a Mudblood. She'll always be an insignificant piece of rubbish no matter what she does. Why the Dark Lord cares so….”

They passed from range again. Harry repeated the process and this time was rewarded with an excellent cast. The Ears zoomed into an old oak tree that Malfoy and Burke were just approaching.

“…can fix it?” Malfoy was saying.

“I'll do everything possible,” Burke answered. “But I'll need to see it. Can you bring it in? All my tools are at the shop.”

“It's where it is, and it has to stay,” Malfoy said with finality. Harry was in luck, his quarry stopped beneath the tree.

Harry saw Burke touch a rather shaky hand to the younger boy's arm, and Malfoy yank his arm away. “Well, without seeing it, this sure won't be a soft touch….”

“I don't care,” Malfoy hissed. “It must be done. To keep your attention focused on the task at hand, I'll have a … family friend … drop by every now and then for status reports. I'm sure you know Fenrir Greyback.”

That name brought an unmistakable look of fear to the eyes of a wizard whom George had just told Harry could be dangerous in his own right.

“That really won't be necessary…,” Burke protested feebly.

“That's not for you to decide,” Malfoy threatened. “This is my chance. You Know Who placed me there, and I'm not about to fail…. You will keep the other one safe won't you?”

“Certainly,” the older man replied very nervously. “But wouldn't it be better for me just to send it….”

“No, it wouldn't,” Malfoy almost snarled as he cut the older man off. “I'm not prepared to bring it back, just yet. Filch has one of those damned probes.”

“Very well,” Burke acceded.

“Just make damn sure you don't sell it,” Malfoy warned. “I'd definitely have to report that as sabotage.”

“Certainly not,” Burke agreed. “Shouldn't we be going? It wouldn't do to be late.”

“There's nobody about,” Malfoy remarked after looking straight through Harry. “Here's as good as anyplace, I suppose.”

“At least let's move out of the street,” Burke recommended, as he guided Draco behind the trunk of the massive oak.

By the time Harry had moved enough to spy them again, it was too late. He heard Burke ask, “Sidealong, then?” and Malfoy answered, “Yeah, I'm to be a good little boy as far as the Ministry's concerned.”

With a distinct “pop,” they were gone.

Harry decided it was high time he did the same. Leery of revealing his underage Apparition ability, he had only limited options. Willing himself back to the Twins' courtyard, he Apparated for the first time since his fateful final visit to Eliza's flat.

Even though rusty, Harry hit almost the exact spot he wanted - the grassy site of his earlier practice. He made rather more noise than usual, giving George quite a start.

“Blimey,” he yelped. “Harry…. I'm right relieved to see you again, I tell you. I shouldn't have let you go alone. Five more minutes and I would have called….”

George stopped talking when he realised Harry was paying him no mind. Rather, the boy stood there, holding his arms away from his body. Harry was gazing at himself in a rather dumbfounded way. It was as if he had seen his own reflection in a mirror for the first time in quite a long while.

Harry looked like he felt, amazed. He had never felt so good - or at least felt less bad - following Apparition. True, it was still like being squeezed through a very long tube. But that was all. He had avoided the usual, almost crushing sense of crowding. That sensation, by far, had always been the most unpleasant aspect of Apparition (save the one time he unwisely Apparated with a full bladder). Nor did he have the usual post-Apparition headache.

Finally he heard George, “Yeah, I'm all right … sort of…,” he vaguely answered.

“Well, what did you find out?” George moved on.

That changed the subject. “That git is up to no good, I know it,” Harry growled. “He and Burke went to some meeting. Apparated away. I'll bet anything he's with Death Eaters right now. I don't know what, but he's part of some plot involving Hogwarts.”

George was dubious. He discounted any plot on the rationale that, if Draco were that untrustworthy, Dumbledore would never have allowed him to return to Hogwarts.

Harry almost started an argument, but with a mild dose of Occlumency managed to hold his tongue.

Glancing at his watch (a present from Ginny), Harry realised that he really needed to be getting on. His little frolic and detour after Draco had expended all the time he had left himself for the Twins' shop, and then some. Worse, his espionage raised far more questions than it answered.

George let Harry keep the Invisibility Cloak - actually, let him keep anything and everything he wanted. The Cloak was dead handy as Harry threaded his way to the exit through the Twins' gaggle of customers. As he left, the shop's always changing exterior sported a chessboard with pieces. They were metamorphosing into a regular checkerboard as Harry turned his back on it for the last time.

Stripping off the Twins' more confining Invisibility Cloak once he left the crowd behind, Harry trotted past Honeydukes and the Owl Post Office towards the Three Broomsticks. Turning left he took a side street and came to what was once an old barn. It bore a sign “Fizzlips & Schwinn Wax Museum & Fantasy Souvenir Shop.” A broad porch fronting the large building opened onto the street. In porch swing hanging from the roof Harry saw Hermione lazily rocking back and forth, her nose buried in a book.

She faced away from him. Harry draped the Cloak back over himself and quietly approached.

“Hi Hermione,” he whispered as with one motion he slid into the swing next to her and pushed the Cloak off of himself. “Revising again? I thought we'd agreed this was your day off….”

“What else should I do whilst waiting for you?” Hermione asked coyly. “If my Arithmancy's done, it's one less thing to distract me from you later on, don't you think?”

“Can't disagree,” Harry agreed as he nuzzled Hermione's. “How can you even read that, though? I couldn't say what language it's in.”

“Oh, because you're not in the class, the Translation Charm doesn't work for you,” Hermione replied. “The language is Farsi, but it's written in Arabic. This is the original Arithmancic work….”

“Umm … Impratraxis … sir?”

It was Slamdor. Harry and Hermione instantly stopped their conversation to determine what he wanted.

“Your plans after this place, may I know?” he requested. “To deploy my iziz I need.”

“I dunno,” Harry paused. He asked Hermione. “Care to visit Madam Puddifoot's, milady?”

“Ugh!” Hermione groaned as her nose crinkled. “Call me that revolting name again, and you'll have to find something else to do this evening, Harry Dear. Nor am I the least bit interested in returning to that scene of the crime, just to be gawked at. The Three Broomsticks is much more to my taste.”

“Yeah, alright,” Harry answered, suitably chastened. “Maybe we can find with Ron and Cho.”

Whilst Cho was probably the last person Hermione wanted to meet right about now, she realised that the chance of that happening was rather small. “Oh, I doubt that. They've undoubtedly retired to the Revolving Door by now.”

Harry grinned at her, “Not a bad idea, don't you think?”

Hermione returned a knowing grin of her own, “Yes … later.” She added using Legilimency, `It's almost time, Luv.'

Turning to Slamdor, Harry told him, “After here, be at the Three Broomsticks, and then go back to the Castle.”

“Walk, you will?” the goblin commander asked.

Harry looked to Hermione, who nodded, “Weather's good, why not?” he said.

Slamdor thought a bit, and then responded, “Outside, my iziz will wait. I will follow you, but at a respectful distance.”

“You didn't do that at the Twins' shop,” Harry observed.

“Much more crowded it was - and to be reputable the proprietors were known,” Slamdor explained.

Hermione could not help herself. She giggled.

“What's so funny?” Harry asked.

“It's just … I've never heard the Twins described as `reputable' before,” she answered. “They'd probably be appalled.”

The only entrance to the costume shop was through the wax museum, which cost three Sickles each. The ticket taker was reluctant to admit a goblin, but stopped resisting when Harry angrily slapped down a Galleon and said “keep the change and buy yourself a Firebolt.” A sign at the door stated, “All period piece costumes available for sale in our souvenir shop.”

For the next quarter hour or so, the couple strolled past numerous staged scenes, both magical and Muggle. One room had row upon row of dolls, dressed as almost every famous witch and wizard in European history. On display were Veelas dancing, banshees screaming, and a vampire in a count's outfit straight out of a Bela Lugosi movie. Several different Quidditch teams were portrayed, as were Aurors, Hit Wizards, Hippogriff racers, dragon tamers, Dementors, and - Albus Dumbledore in robes that seemed to be filtered through a prism. One window even had a placard mentioning Death Eaters and Lord Voldemort, but it was empty.

Muggles were also well represented. On display was a tuxedoed James Bond at a baccarat table with a lady in a sparkling silver evening gown. Another exhibit showed three American cowboys playing cards at a saloon, whilst watching dancing girls. Other windows sported Muggle kings, queens, and knights in shining armour, as well as pirates, prostitutes, cave men, and football stars.

Harry was more than a little concerned that he might just come face-to-face with his own likeness. Fortunately that did not happen. The exhibits looked like they had not been updated since before he was born.

A subtle sense of age and decay hung over everything. Visible dust covered most of the figures. The backgrounds were faded and often exposed the supports holding them up. The lighting was generally poor, as if the charms needed renewing. The corridors, whilst clear, had a musty smell that suggested they had not been cleaned recently.

“That's what I want, Harry,” Hermione chose definitively. Harry had been looking the other way, at a depiction of overdressed ladies at a fancy “Gone With The Wind” party (or so a little placard stated). He turned to see what had captured her fancy.

She had found a depiction of a goblin royal family. Harry - undoubtedly the only person in Hogsmeade who had actually seen the goblin royal family - was impressed. The costumes were remarkably accurate. The costumes looked much more realistic than the wax goblins wearing them.

“You're a goblin prince,” Hermione pointed out. “I want to go as a goblin princess.”

“Great idea, Hermione,” Harry agreed. “Let's get to the souvenir shop.”

At the shop they discovered soon enough that the whole wax museum concept was a sham - specifically, a tax dodge. Clothing stores had to pay the full 17.5% value added tax to Wizland Revenue. Museums, however, were classified as “educational” institutions and their gift shops were tax exempt. Here, the supposed museum “gift shop” was larger than the “museum” itself.

Hermione was disappointed in the costumes. Whilst several goblin princess costumes were available, their material seemed distinctly inferior to the display in the museum itself. The display costume was made partially from green dragon hide, or something similar. The rack of cheap imitations was entirely of thick green velvet, which Hermione complained made her look “frumpy.” They were hemmed much lower than what was in the museum - and were much looser fitting as well.

Hermione was in the fitting room with her third attempt when Slamdor asked to speak to Harry - outside. The goblin was grimacing enough that his pointed teeth were quite visible. Harry now knew that was a sign of agitation. He Legilimenced to Hermione that he was `stepping outside for a moment.'

“Those costumes … an insult are they,” Slamdor declared angrily. “Nothing like what Imprexii would wear. Pathetic … cheap … imitation … degrading…. I wish of assistance could I be.”

“But that's what Hermione has her heart set on wearing to the ball,” Harry protested. “Could I get a goblin tailor to help with alterations?”

Slamdor's grimace showed even more teeth. “Impossible. To handling such a travesty would stoop no tailor of ours. If earlier I had known, arranged for Savini to receive….”

“Savini?” Harry looked puzzled.

“Your consort,” Slamdor replied. “An original obtained could we….”

“'Consort' is a little much,” Harry corrected. “It's not like we're married or anything.”

“So sorry, am I,” Slamdor apologised, instantly prostrating himself. “Described in my orders so was she.”

“Anyor,” Harry commanded. Every time a goblin did that, it embarrassed him immensely. Even with no witnesses.

“You can get Hermione an original princess' dress from your nation?” Harry asked when Slamdor was standing again.

“Many apologies,” Slamdor said. “Too late now is it. From Basilisk skin made are they. Into armour, forged has been it all, with the Voldemort war breaking out. Exceedingly rare, is it. At least two months….”

Harry experienced a eureka moment. “I can get you Basilisk skin right away!” Harry exclaimed. “I know where a fifteen-metre one is.”

An excited look came to Slamdor's eyes. “To kill it a special battalion send we will. Command it, perhaps can I. Then cured, must it be. Tear will fresh Basilisk skin….”

“It's been dead for over three years,” Harry explained.

“Then possible would it be,” Slamdor replied with more enthusiasm than Harry had ever heard from a goblin. “Killed who did?”

“Me,” Harry said flatly.

Slamdor looked at Harry as if the lad had just declared himself to be Elvis Presley. “Many apologies Impratraxis,” he said, carefully choosing his words. “But maturity not reached would you - even under goblin law.”

Harry quickly told Slamdor about his encounter with the Basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets at the age of twelve. Hearing the tale, Slamdor had to restrain himself from prostrating himself again.

“A solo kill. Truly, a warrior of greatness, you are,” he told Harry. “Worthy of Impatok Rakazag himself. Please, get Savini … er … your, umm Hermione….”

“Oh, go ahead and use it then,” Harry capitulated.

“Please, if Savini Hermione from this … place can you, go can we.”

“You don't want to go back inside, do you,” Harry observed. It was more a statement than a question.

“Begging the Impratraxis' pardon, but no,” Slamdor replied. “In same building with the plunder, wish not I to be.”

“Plunder?” Harry asked. “What plunder?”

“In museum, the original state dress of our royal family there is. The placard, states it that after the Battle of Grim's Graves seized were these. One of our nation's worst humiliations was it.”

“When was that?” Harry asked, wishing Hermione were there to conceal his ignorance.

“By your calendar, 1437,” Slamdor answered.

“All right, stay here,” Harry told the goblin. “I'm getting Hermione.”

Harry rushed back inside the gift shop. Fortunately, Hermione had emerged from the fitting room in another of the “princess wraps,” as she called them. She was no happier with it than any of the others.

Seeing Harry, she asked him, “Do you think this makes me look fat…?”

“Forget it, Hermione,” Harry cut across her. “We're not staying.”

“Why not?” Hermione asked, sounding annoyed at not being consulted about whatever Harry was so obviously set upon doing.

“The goblins will custom one of those for you,” Harry told her. “We just have to take them to the Chamber of Secrets….”

“Are you out of your mind?” Hermione cut across him. “The Chamber….”

“…Is where the Basilisk skin they need is located,” Harry finished the sentence for her.

“Oh … that's excellent,” Hermione said more cheerily. “Can I talk to them first? I have some alterations in mind.”

“Not until you get out of that and we get out of here,” Harry told her.

“Why not?” Hermione asked, this time genuinely confused.

“Because they don't want to be near those goblin costumes in the museum…. Apparently we wizards stole them after some battle,” Harry explained.

“Yes, the Battle of Grim's Graves,” Hermione responded, as Harry gawked. Seeing his look, she continued, “If you'd read the placards, you'd have known too. That was during the Roseleaf Goblin Rebellion. Wizard forces ambushed a large goblin force and almost totally scattered it. The goblins fled and their king barely escaped capture. His entire train was overrun and looted.”

“And even today, they're not very happy about it,” Harry added. “They call it `plunder.'”

“I can see why they would,” Hermione allowed.

“Excuse me, but are you planning on buying anything?” the shop assistant asked. “You've been here for quite some time, and I've other customers to wait upon.”

The pair looked around and saw several other Hogwarts students standing around, having just emerged from the museum entrance.

“Er … no we're not…,” Harry began, before Hermione grabbed him by the sleeve. She pointed in the direction of the museum.

Harry looked uncertain, so she Legilimenced to him, `Why don't you buy the `plunder'?'

`Why don't I what…?' he Legilimenced back, before appreciating her idea. “That's bloody brilliant!” he almost yelled out loud, startling everyone else, who had not heard anything.

Hermione smiled and left to change into her regular clothing. Harry approached the shop assistant.

“How much do you want for the goblin costumes?” he asked whilst gesturing at the Museum entrance.

At first, the shop assistant did not understand. “Well, the one your witch friend was wearing, that's 35 Galleons before alterations,” he replied.

“Sod that,” Harry responded. “I mean the costumes actually in the museum. How much do you want?”

“Oh, those,” the slightly intimidated assistant responded. “I'm afraid they're not for sale.”

“I didn't ask if they were for sale,” Harry persisted. “I asked how much you want. Do you know who I am?”

Harry played his fame card only rarely. This was one of those times.

The shop assistant finally took a good look at Harry, and Harry could see signs of recognition spread across his face. “I'm afraid I have to summon the proprietor, Mister Potter,” the assistant said. He scuttled to the main sales counter, touched his wand to a cylindrical object, and said, “Mister Schwinn to the front, please.” The same statement boomed throughout the building.

Hermione was out of the fitting room before an older wizard, dressed in nondescript blue robes, appeared. Except for a pair of peacock feathers jutting from his hat, nobody would have given him a second glance. He had a whispered conversation with the sales assistant. Harry was digging in his pockets for his set of Invisible Ears when the conversation ceased and Mr. Schwinn approached him.

“Mister Potter, the exhibits are not exposed for sale. We'd lose our tax exemption if we started selling off the contents of the museum,” he explained.

“I'll give you ten thousand Galleons for the four goblin costumes,” Harry said, ignoring what he had just been told. He also used just a touch of Legilimency.

His brush with the man's mind told Harry that Mr. Schwinn was both interested and dubious.

“I'm afraid I couldn't,” Schwinn replied. “I'd lose as much in taxes over the course of the year.”

“One hundred thousand Galleons, then,” Harry upped his bid.

`Slow down, Harry,' Hermione Legilimenced. `You're bidding against yourself.'

“These are personally significant heirlooms,” Schwinn continued. “They've been in the family for centuries. Several Schwinns fought in the Roseleaf War….”

“Well, why don't you tell me what you want for them, then,” Harry said earnestly - trying but failing to heed Hermione's admonition.

“I should really contact my lawyer, first,” Schwinn told the insistent boy. He knew from the Daily Prophet that Harry was good for any figure that could be coaxed from him.

“We'll consult them later,” Harry persisted. He intended to do this for the goblins - and he would do it right now - before he next saw Slamdor.

“The museum, it's an essential part of your business, isn't it?” Hermione broke in.

“Yes it is,” Schwinn affirmed in his most grave voice.

“Well, what has it been appraised for?” Hermione bore in. “Surely you know that.”

Schwinn knew, of course. He knew it was substantially less than the hundred thousand Galleons already on the table.

Hermione thought so too.

“The appraisal is not the point,” Schwinn responded. “I'm a businessman. I've been a businessman all my life. And I'm not ready to retire.”

“One hundred thousand Galleons is a rather substantial offer,” Hermione remonstrated. “Don't you think you ought to at least talk to your partner?”

“Joachim Fizzlips is dead ten years,” Schwinn responded. “Merlin rest his soul. I've bought him out.”

In a sense, Hermione had overplayed her hand, since the possibility of another player perhaps more amenable to Harry's proposal evaporated. But it was useful information nonetheless, since they now knew no absent principal had to be consulted.

“Look, you like gambling, I think,” Harry broke in again. “I see it in the museum, with Bond in the gambling house, card players, Hippogriff racers and the like….”

“Yes, I might,” Schwinn admitted. “I've been know to fancy a flutter or two….”

“Well how would you like to run a gambling house for a living?” Harry said.

“Harry! What are you talking about?” Hermione asked.

“I've inherited all or most of some seaside mountain casino in I think southern France,” Harry told her. “I haven't the slightest interest in gambling.”

“Umm…,” Schwinn observed, “I don't think there are any mountains in southern France - by the sea, that is.”

“I was told that I've inherited a casino by the Mediterranean,” Harry responded to the scepticism. “Maybe it's not in France. It's Monte something or other….”

“Monte Carlo?” Hermione's jaw dropped. “That's - that's in Monaco, which isn't really France.”

“Monte Carlo?” Schwinn echoed, desperately suppressing the urge to shout.

“That's it, Monte Carlo,” Harry confirmed. A little more Legilimency confirmed that the man was now very interested.

`That's easily worth one hundred times more than this dump,' Hermione Legilimenced.

`Don't care,' Harry Legilimenced back. `I've no attachment to it. It was probably bought with slave money anyway. And for once I can spend some money doing something that feels right.'

`You're really wonderful,' Hermione responded, giving him her blessing. `You know that, don't you?'

By the way Harry grinned at her, Schwinn knew that something had passed between them. He wisely kept his mouth shut.

`You'll find out tonight,' Harry replied - ending their silent conversation.

Harry turned back to Schwinn, “Look, I own or control the magical side of that Monte Carlo place. I'll swap it with you, straight up, for this place - but I want those goblin outfits, and any other goblin stuff from the same source; and I want it right now.”

Schwinn's price had been found. “Well, I see that you've….”

“Yes or no?” Harry demanded.

“…made me an offer I can't refuse,” the older man finished.

“Bring out the stuff, and we'll shake on it to make a binding magical contract,” Harry told him.

“With alacrity,” Mr. Schwinn said excitedly. He grabbed his sales assistant and made for the museum entrance - the other would-be customers being quite ignored.

“And one other thing,” Harry called after them.

Schwinn stopped in his tracks. “What is that?”

“You stay here and run this place until the Hogwarts ball is over.”

“Absolutely,” Schwinn instantly agreed.

Ten minutes later, Harry was walking out the door with four sets of historic royal goblin clothing, plus a couple of shields, some swords, and miscellaneous jewelry. He also had the business card of Schwinn's solicitor. Harry would be sending Hedwig to Blackie Howe that evening with instructions to formalise a contract that reflected the transaction.

“Slamdor!” Harry bellowed when he reached the street. An amazed looking goblin approached.

“This is for you to return to the Goblin Nation,” Harry told him.

“Impratraxis,” was the only word out of his mouth before, instructions to the contrary be damned, he prostrated himself before his prince - who had just redeemed the Nation.

“Anyor - please, this is heavy,” Harry protested. “It resists … enchantments….”

Slamdor scrambled to feet, summoned his troops, and they each took a share of what signified the end of a half-millennium-old indignity to their Nation.

When Harry told Slamdor that he had surrendered his interest in a casino to redeem the goblins' centuries-old loss, he received a sly grin in return, and the comment, “Worry not, Impratraxis. Repaid, shall be you. In full. Excellent gamblers, are we goblins.”

Needless to say, the trip to the Three Broomsticks was forgotten as Harry and his goblin caravan returned to Hogwarts. To prove good faith, Harry had agreed to keep the four royal outfits at the Castle, and not turn them over to the goblins until a formal contract with Schwinn was completed. Harry - and thus, the goblins - could have the miscellaneous materials immediately.

On the road back, Harry and Hermione completed a conversation with Slamdor about how to get goblins into the Chamber of Secrets so they could carve up the Basilisk carcass. In addition to Hermione's ball costume, Slamdor talked of preparing goblin-forged armour for them both, and possibly others, depending upon the amount of usable Basilisk skin. Slamdor retreated to discus logistics with his second, and Harry remembered an important question he wanted to ask Hermione.

`Hermione?' he Legilimenced, `is there any reason left not to announce our engagement … at least as a declaration?'

She, not Harry, usually initiated Legilimenced conversations. The subject matter doubly surprised her. Hermione turned to face him so quickly that she almost lost her footing on the somewhat muddy road.

`Announce our engagement? I thought you didn't want to,' she responded. Her heart was beating wildly at the thought - but not, as before, with happiness.

`I was afraid of you being a target,' he admitted. `But after what the Death Eaters just did, I … well, I don't think that's much of a reason anymore. What do you think…?'

`Harry, as much as I'd love to, we need to wait until you're of age,' Hermione told him.

That surprised Harry. `Why?' was all he mustered. More was plainly at issue than met his eye.

`Because you're an underage orphan with more than enough property to attract attention,' Hermione informed him. `I ran across that the other day, in my legal research. An estate the size of Blackwalls requires full Ministry's approval, not just Mad-Eye's. I'd rather not give them another opportunity to….'

All of a sudden a scream rang out ahead. Harry and Hermione saw Katie Bell hovering almost two metres off the ground with a friend of hers frantically grabbing one of her ankles to keep her from floating away. Katie's hair flowed all around her head as if in a great wind - although the day was calm. Her eyes were wide with fear.

“Katie!” Harry and Hermione yelled simultaneously, as they pelted off after her. The poor girl screamed and screamed again.

Harry leapt and caught Katie's other ankle. Hermione drew her wand and let loose with “Arachneortia!” A milky white jet of spider's silk erupted from her wand and stuck to Katie's midsection. Just as Hermione joined in the effort to reel Katie in, whatever was affecting her changed, and she flopped to the ground, landing heavily on both Harry and Katie's friend, Leanne Blyth.

Whilst now returned to the law of gravity, poor Katie still screamed and jerked. Harry had never seen anything like it … except the Cruciatus Curse.

If that were the case, and it lasted too long…. Well, Neville's parents were a terrible example of what could happen.

Nobody else was in the immediate vicinity.

“Go to the Castle and get help!” Harry ordered the goblins. Slamdor immediately ran his fingers up his forearms. Blue light appeared on his fingertips. He pointed them at the bundles of royal clothes four of his men carried. Instantly, the bundles were suspended in mid air.

“Kasamak!” he yelled at them. In the blink of an eye, the four changed into the now familiar grey boulders, and shot off across the adjoining fields at a high rate of speed, smashing through the hedgerows and rolling directly towards the castle.

“Petrificus Totalus,” Hermione incanted, and Katie stopped writhing. Katie's breathing was unaffected because she was still trying to scream. Her eyes remained wide with fear and pain.

Harry knelt beside her and cupped his hands very close to Katie's neck. “I don't know if this will work,” he told the onlooking Hermione. “Suturc.” Harry concentrated. If Katie were under the Cruciatus or something like it, this might well help.

It did seem to help. Hermione, after briefly giving Harry an odd “what was that” look, felt Katie's arm. Her musculature was no longer stiff and unyielding, as if straining against the restraints of the Petrificus.

How long Harry kept at it neither knew, although Leanne later said it was about ten minutes.

“Oi!” they finally heard in the distance. “Where are yeh?” Huffing and puffing around a bend in the road, led by a bouncing, rolling grey boulder, came Hagrid - red in the face from running all the way from Hogwarts. Following close behind was one of the school's Thestral-drawn carriages, its baseboards spattered in mud, and its windows cracked from a furious part-drive, part-flight along the uneven and occasionally muddy road.

Leanne and Hermione jumped up and ran towards Hagrid.

“Wha' `appened?” the gigantic groundskeeper called to them.

“Katie's been cursed,” Hermione shouted back.

“Something horrible's happened to her,” Leanne wailed. “I haven't any idea what….”

Hagrid was no longer listening. He took one look at Katie, scooped her up, and deposited her into the carriage. “To the `Ospital Wing!” he roared. He gave the Thestral a mighty slap on its hindquarters. It soared into the sky in the direction of the Castle.

Hagrid interrogated Leanne, who explained that it had something to do with a partially opened package now lying, forgotten, by the side of the lane. Hagrid reached for it.

“Don't touch that!” Hermione yelled. Hagrid stopped.

“Whatever that is, it probably cursed Katie,” she said. She pointed her wand at a remnant piece of spider silk also lying in the road. “Accio.” Then she asked Harry, “Will you freeze the water I'm going to pour on that package?”

Harry nodded. Hermione incanted “Aqueous,” and a stream of water emerged from her wand.

Harry extended his hand and, using elemental magic, lowered the temperature of the package and its immediate vicinity to well below freezing. Once ice covered the package, Hermione dropped the string of spider silk on it. They cooperated to add more ice until Hermione was satisfied. She ended her spell and picked up what was now a substantial ball of ice attached to the spider silk thread. She wound the silk into a loop and handed it to Hagrid.

“I think the Headmaster needs to see this as soon as possible,” she told Hagrid.

“Right yeh are, `Ermione,” he said, “an' thanks.”

Hagrid turned around and ran off the way he came.

Hermione turned her attention to Katie's stricken friend. “Leanne, I know how you feel. If you've read the Quibbler story, you know I felt that way myself when Harry was kidnapped. You have to tell me as much as you can about what happened.”

* * * *

Author's notes: “Centre of Excellence” plays on UK governmental educational policy

The Wolfsbane research doesn't bear fruit until seventh year

Zircon encrusted tweezers is from Frank Zappa's “Montana”

Refusal to help Ginny will have ramifications

Guests don't sleep in inns that rent rooms by the hour

“Samson's Option” is drawn from, but unrelated to, Israeli nuclear strategy

The necktie signal will recur

My daughter is a peer tutor at her school

“High Street” is a Britishism referring to any main market street

Wowser = censorious intermeddler

Philosophy useless/theology worse is from Dire Straits “Industrial Disease”

Perfection/norm and better/special was Louis Brandeis' expectations of his law clerks

Fornication Under Consent of the King = f**k

Witchcraft myth about Anne Boelyn do exist

“Back to Basics,” and “return to Victorian values,” were late-John Major political ploys, derailed by his and his cabinet's mistress scandals - this care of beta MarkGardiner

Wandless, silent magic has obvious sexual uses

The ten times a second tactile limit seems accurate

Vibrio bacteria cause diseases like cholera and food poisoning

Crewkerne is a town in Somerset

Superfluid Transdermal Potion = STP, the Racers' Edge

Tantric sex tends to be prolonged and less orgasmic

“Titbits” is British for “tidbits”

Aleister Crowley wrote about sexual magic in “Energized Enthusiasm”

STD = sexually transmitted disease

Ann Summers and Knickerbox were British sex shops. After 1996 they merged

Ron told a “haggling over the price” joke in Chapter 25

A hat-trick in cricket means retiring three batters in a row unassisted

The constantly changing décor of the Twins' Hogsmeade shop is from M.C. Escher's Metamorphose

Blue touch paper is British for a fuse

Fred's “make way” phrase parodies the Heir of Slytherin line in CoS

Sweet Sixteen Additive appears again, as do several other of the Twins' new products

Batwing swinging doors are “saloon” doors

What the Brits call “private tender” Americans call “non-bid”

55-gallon drum is a standard size so I did not use metric

Spyders are like the searching device in “Minority Report”

Harry BoE card goes back to Chapter 13

“Comp” is short for complimentary. Casinos give comps to high rollers

“Alkahest” is from alchemy, with properties exactly as described

A hand catapult is a slingshot

Xisteras are used in jai alai, a Basque sport. The Pyrenees is a Basque region

Burke's odd bird (a purple heron) later appears at Hogwarts

Burke's “work” will become important

Fizzlips is entirely made up; Schwinn is a brand of bicycle

The Farsi/Arabic text is the “al-Jabr” book mentioned in Chapter 11

Hermione reacts to “milady” the same way I do to fics using such stilted forms of address

I learned “keep the change” along with “buy yourself a hog” - that is, a Harley motorcycle

Albus Dumbledore in rainbow garb seems appropriate

A 17.5% VAT is standard in Britain; Wizland Revenue = Inland Revenue

Grim's Graves is a place in Thetford, England

Harry avoids the unwinnable “does this make me look fat?” question

Chapter 10 mentioned the Black interest in Monte Carlo

Although technically independent, Monaco is semi-controlled by France

The offer that can't be refused is from “The Godfather”

Goblin skill at gambling ensures that Harry won't lose much money in the transaction

19

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 3/10/2007

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53. Two Notes In Harmony

CAUTION TO READERS - THIS CHAPTER INCLUDES SEVERAL SCENES OF A SEXUAL NATURE. Whether this chapter is R or NC-17 is a matter of some contention. To avoid upsetting anyone, I have placed specific sex warnings around several passages in this chapter. If you choose to read those parts, please do not be offended, as I have tried to warn you.

Wherein Harry and Hermione finally consummate their relationship and learn a number of unexpected things about each other, and Fleur witnesses something strange.

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

Thanks to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, Mathiasgranger, and Waffle_Iron.

Chapter 53 - Two Notes in Harmony

Harry's and Hermione's next few hours were spent rather uncomfortably in and around Professor McGonagall's office as the Deputy Headmistress tried to understand how: (1) Katie Bell acquired what was obviously a cursed necklace, and (2) managed to come into contact with it.

A steady stream of visitors - Hogwarts staff members, the Head Boy and Girl, Aurors, house elves (including Dobby) - moved constantly in and out of McGonagall's office. The three teens - Harry, Hermione, and Leanne - each had to tell their stories several times over. This was not particularly difficult for Harry and Hermione, since their involvement was entirely fortuitous. But for Leanne, who was with Katie almost all day and was one of her best friends, the experience was both harrowing and excruciating.

Except possibly Katie, who was hardly in condition to talk, nobody had a clue about the provenance of the necklace. Leanne knew only that Katie met someone (Katie never said who) in the Three Broomsticks loo, who had persuaded her to deliver it to someone at Hogwarts (again, Katie never said who) as a “surprise.”

From the beginning, Leanne worried that the request was dodgy. Katie nonchalantly shrugged off those concerns. Her peculiar furtiveness and generally odd behaviour provoked an argument whilst the pair were walking back to Hogwarts. The argument escalated to a shoving match when Leanne attempted to grab the necklace (wrapped in brown butcher paper) from her friend to examine it. The paper had torn, and when Katie touched the necklace - everything started to happen.

Leanne had been quite fortunate - and knew it. If she had succeeded in prising the mystery package away from Katie, she, not Katie, would be on her way to St. Mungo's on an emergent basis right about now.

The general consensus thought that someone had placed Katie under the Imperius Curse and given her the necklace. Nobody had any firm idea concerning the perpetrator. Harry knew only that he could rule out his favourite suspect in all things nefarious. Draco Malfoy had been nowhere in the vicinity.

That fact, however, Harry had to keep to himself. Too many people (and goblins) would be appalled at his lone, spur-of-the-moment trip to eavesdrop on suspected Death Eaters.

The above description of events was far more organised and logical than Leanne's telling. Getting a coherent story from Katie's distraught friend took far longer than it might have. Leanne repeatedly broke down under a combination of guilt and pressure. Harry and Hermione, with ample experience in this sort of thing, spent much time trying to keep Leanne on, or return her to, an even keel. Hermione, being of the same gender, proved particularly valuable in coaxing out the whole story - or as much as Leanne knew.

For his part, Harry frequently felt like a fifth wheel. He also had other things to do. On several occasions he was about to demand to be excused, but Hermione silenced him with either a look or a Legilimenced message.

Eventually, as the afternoon passed into evening, even Hermione's patience was exhausted. When Professor McGonagall's clock chimed seven, she finally put her foot down, and demanded to see the woman privately.

“Look,” she told the Deputy Headmistress, “I've been a good sport about this, since it's been painfully obvious for the past hour that we're serving no purpose beyond Leanne's moral support. But at this point, I simply must insist on leaving. I've things that I need to do, and now I'm afraid I'll have to miss dinner to do them. I'm sure Harry feels the same way. He's let me know as much.”

“Don't worry about dinner,” McGonagall told her, “I'll have the house-elves bring something up for you both.”

“It's not that,” an increasingly frustrated Hermione replied. “Like I said, I've other things that I simply must attend to - personal things - that are more important than dinner. Unless you've something specific for me to do right away, I really have to be excused. Leanne's parents should be here shortly anyway.”

Her favourite student did not act this way without good reason. Reluctantly, Professor McGonagall allowed Hermione to leave.

When Harry realised that Hermione had been excused, he immediately demanded his own release. He told his Head of House that he had to write a letter to Blackie Howe to effectuate an agreement he had made concluded with Schwinn that was “important” to his goblin connexions.

Left unmentioned was Harry's need to discuss the evening's arrangements with Slamdor.

The Deputy Headmistress suspected that Harry was being economical with the truth, but having no basis for challenging him, excused Harry as well.

After seeing Hermione off with a peck on her cheek (and a promise of more later), Harry made for the Gryffindor common room. There, he scratched out detailed instructions for Howe, telling him to contact Schwinn's solicitor to arrange a swap of Harry's interest in the Monte Carlo casino for Schwinn's nondescript traveling wax museum. To preclude any questions about the blatantly unequal nature of the transaction, Harry vaguely told Howe that this transaction was essential to “important goblin business” and left it at that.

Using his manmak, Harry arranged a final preparatory meeting with Slamdor in the landing just outside the Gryffindor portrait hole. The goblin had two full squads at the ready to ensure the couple's protection and, equally critical, their privacy. But Slamdor could not start making good on that pledge until Harry divulged where the tryst in question was to occur. Slamdor, immersed in the goblins' rigidly male-dominated culture, was incredulous at Harry's leaving the choice of locations to Hermione.

Retreating across the landing until outside the Fat Lady's hearing, Slamdor requested, “Impratraxis, inspect should we the location selected for your … appointment. Be prudent should we.”

“I haven't selected anything,” Harry revealed. “Hermione has a secret place picked out….”

“Arrangements, to the woman … left you?” Slamdor asked. His ears pointed almost vertically and twitched in surprise. He was as close to insubordination as a loyal inferior goblin would approach.

“I trust her on this,” Harry divulged.

Still highly sceptical, Slamdor said nothing for a long moment. Finally, “Trust, but verify,” he advised. “With us come to need you not, but reconnoiter should we - for our own deployment, if nothing else.”

“Well, I don't know where it is,” Harry admitted. “She hasn't told me yet.”

“But … but…. Arrangements, how to be made will they? Our positions…. Where to deploy will know we?” Slamdor stammered anxiously.

“Look, we'll just play this by ear,” Harry calmly instructed. “Like you said earlier, this is a-a … umm … appointment, not a campaign. Forget arrangements - all I need is Hermione and I'm happy. I'm one hundred percent sure it's in the Castle somewhere. How much time do you need to deploy?”

“Allow for … arrangements really should you,” Slamdor persisted.

“Well, there's probably not time, and frankly I'm already uncomfortable with how much planning's going into this. I'd always thought this sort of thing would be more … er … spontaneous,” Harry told the goblin, betraying emotion for the first time. “But I accept why it can't,” he added.

“As wish you, Impratraxis,” Slamdor gave up. “More than about five minutes require should we not.”

“Once I know, how can I tell you?” Harry asked. “Or will you just follow me around like you've been doing?”

Slamdor furrowed his brow. “Not work well indoors, unfortunately does not our camouflage,” he said. “In Hogwarts hallways not routinely are left large rocks. Rather than following, summon us can you. If you will, your manmak to mine please touch.”

Fortunately, Harry had not removed his signet ring after returning from Hogsmeade. He did as requested.

“Now locating magic of your choice please use, whilst your wand touch to both of our manmakod,” Slamdor instructed. “And your wand, for four seconds hold in place.”

“Umm… okay,” Harry agreed. He used the simplest Locating Charm he knew from his Auror training. “Locatur!” Harry felt magic flow into his hand.

“Successful was that,” Slamdor pronounced. “For the next four hours, locate you can I when on your own manmak that spell repeat you.”

“Great,” Harry grinned.

“Please, to give us as much notice as can you,” Slamdor requested. “Any arrangements - good would be they.”

“Okay,” Harry promised, “but no guarantees. I think Hermione wants to surprise me.”

* * * *

“This way,” Hermione beckoned to Harry whilst leading him through another darkened corridor.

The girl had entirely missed dinner, and she was hungry. But her cravings this evening did not involve food.

Earlier, she had waited through two of the longest hours of her life. The Contraceptive Potion she had contrived to “borrow” from Madame Pomfrey's stores needed two hours after administration to be effective, and for best results (or, more properly, lack thereof) should be taken on an empty stomach.

The moment those two hours were up - Hermione went looking for Harry.

Now they were together, under Harry's Invisibility Cloak, and very near their objective. He had not planned using the Cloak, at least not on the trip to wherever they were going, but Peeves had taken undue interest in them. Presciently, Harry had brought the Cloak, and it proved invaluable in evading the obnoxiously nosy poltergeist.

Their destination was a surprise, and Harry (good sport that he was) allowed himself to be surprised.

“If we take these stairs, I think….”

“Shite!” Harry cursed as he looked at the Marauder's Map, “It's Filch, coming this way!”

“In here!” Hermione hissed, grabbing Harry's arm and pulling him through the first (fortunately unlocked) doorway she saw. They found themselves in what looked like a storeroom for old textbooks.

Hermione had the door closed and magically locked behind them just as the caretaker's footsteps became audible.

She Legilimenced, `While we're waiting…'

Harry startled Hermione by gathering her up and kissing her hungrily. `I know, you want to snog,' he returned silently, as they listened for Filch.

`I do … but could I ask you a question first?' Hermione thought back.

`Anything for you,' Harry reassured her, and took a step back.

`What spell did you use on Katie after she was cursed?' she asked. `I'd never heard it before, and it seemed to work.'

`Just like Hermione,' Harry thought (to himself). Always curious about new spells. Then he almost smacked himself in the forehead - and would have had the click-clack of Mrs. Norris' little cat claws not been right outside the door.

`Hermione, that's the spell … I promised you,' he responded rather sheepishly.

`What spell that you promised me? I don't follow,' Hermione tentatively asked.

`It's Suturc,' Harry told an intrigued Hermione, `what I told you about when … when I came for you…. You remember - I learnt it when you thought they were teaching me Lesson 128. Not only is it a countercurse to Cruciatus, but it helps against Dementors, too.'

`Sounds dead useful,' Hermione observed.

`Saved my sanity, if not my life, more than once,' Harry agreed. `I want you to see Dumbledore. Don't take no for an answer. I'll talk to him if you want.'

`No, I'll do it,' she assured him. She had regular phoenix lessons with the Headmaster, now. `But not tonight. We've much better things to do … and your map's showing Filch headed the other way.'

They entered a part of the Castle where Harry had rarely ventured. But he trusted Hermione - trusted her more than anyone in the world. They crept down the shadowy hallway, sandwiched rather more closely together under the Cloak than perhaps necessary, until she motioned him to stop.

“Not far now,” she whispered, as they turned into what looked like a close corridor.

“Is this the only way in?” Harry whispered back.

“Yes, they're all arranged in culs de sac,” Hermione explained.

Harry persisted, “And the others?”

“On this entry, all unoccupied,” she reassured.

“Good.” Harry stopped, but Hermione kept moving. She pulled the Cloak pulled halfway off him before noticing. He was dropping what looked like large, nondescript buttons on the floor.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Hermione hissed in a stage whisper.

“Giving us a little added security,” he told her.

“I'm afraid to ask,” she said.

Harry replied with a grin, “Then don't.”

A ways further down the hall, she halted. Harry more or less blundered into her, but she expected it. Reaching back and catching him by the robes, she prevented him from drawing back. Slowly she backed her bum into him, grinding against Harry in a manner calculated to get a rise out of him.

It felt so wonderfully wanton.

“We're here, Harry,” she breathlessly whispered. Hermione produced a large golden key from the back pocket of those enticingly tight jeans she wore underneath her robes. Without hesitation or fumbling, she slipped it into the lock of an ancient oaken door and gave it a full turn. Plainly, she was accustomed to both this key and this lock - whilst he had never seen either.

Wait a minute…. He had seen this key - or one very much like it - the night of the Astronomy redo exam. Hermione had shown it to him just before they….

Damn that Mad-Eye Moody.

Harry knew Hermione. Evidently she had planned ahead that the deed - when to be done - would be done in the room this key accessed. She must have intended for it to be that night….

Damn that Mad-Eye Moody!

What was it about birthdays and sex?

The door opened silently, and the two of them slid into the dark room.

Without prompting, the flat's magical lighting illuminated a rectangular room containing a large polished wooden table.

“Colloportus,” Harry spelled, locking and sealing the door through which they had just passed.

“Surveillus Revelato,” Hermione incanted sotto voce.

Nothing glowed. The room was free of clandestine monitoring devices.

“This is the place, I gather,” Harry stated, his anticipation building.

“Yes, this is the place,” Hermione echoed, giving him an enticing look. She cast a Silencing Spell on the door, just for good measure.

Harry tore his eyes away from her face. “Okay, then,” he said in as businesslike a tone as he could manage. “Let me get necessary rubbish out of the way.”

Hermione knew he meant the personal security bumf and guff that his status demanded. As she watched, Harry plucked his goblin signet ring from his shirt pocket and placed it snugly on his right hand ring finger. Touching it with his wand, he uttered a Locating Charm. Now the goblins - responsible for his safety at Hogwarts - knew exactly where he was. They would not intrude.

Critically, they would ensure that nobody else did, either.

Hermione was tired of feeling constrained. She had never bothered fastening shut her heavy school robes before they left Gryffindor tower under the Cloak. Having anticipated this night for so long, she hoped to show herself off to him without looking foolish.

Those robes had been hot - and so was she. Her skin glistened with an oh-so-light sweat as she discarded those now unnecessary garments onto the large, empty table.

Hermione need not have worried.

To Harry she looked stunning - even more than usual - in a pair of Muggle form-fitting black jeans and a baby-blue snug T-shirt bearing the words, “DNA helicase unzips your genes.”

“What do you think?” she asked, referring to the room she had selected.

“Nice, but as long as you're in it,” Harry replied, “I'd be happy in a broom closet.”

Plain truth, he rapidly found out, worked better with girls - this one anyway - than all Dudley's fancy pick-up lines put together. The embrace he received would have driven his cousin mad with jealousy.

“Well … we're here, Harry - finally,” she declared with a sigh. “Now kiss me before I go crazy.”

Needing no prompting, Harry instantly obeyed - dropping his own robes to the floor and scooping her into his arms. He proceeded to demonstrate that, contrary to Ron's aspersions, he did know how to find Hermione's tonsils.

He had learnt something over the summer.

In his arms, she squirmed. Her gasp, when he grabbed a handful of her bum, passed from her mouth into his. When his other hand joined the first, she shifted her weight onto him and attacked his tongue with her lips. In her passion she could not resist rubbing herself against him. Those delicious sensations only caused her to kiss him harder.

After a bit, they broke apart, panting. Hermione shimmied up onto the table whilst Harry steadied himself with a hand against the wall. She eyed him, wondering if he could smell how aroused she was.

Pheromones were not Harry's strong suit, but seeing how relaxed she was, Harry asked, “You know this place. Is this where you stayed when you were … trying to find me?”

“Yes, Harry,” she confirmed. “We all stayed here. All these doors open into private bedchambers. Mine's the one on the far left-hand side. Do you fancy seeing it?”

“I fancy seeing you in it,” Harry replied suggestively, “all of you.”

She could have creamed then and there. “That's a promise,” Hermione winked at him. “The sooner, the….”

Hermione had already hopped off the table and was halfway to her door when - both of them heard it - scrabbling and clinking noises from inside that same room. It sounded like someone, or something, was moving things about in a great rush.

Harry leapt in front of Hermione, his wand already drawn. He demanded, in a firm but calm voice, “I know you're in there. Stop what you're doing and come out, slowly.”

Harry Legilimenced to Hermione, `Make for the door. If this gets violent, go get help.'

`I'm not leaving you, Harry, not now,' Hermione refused. `I don't need to get help. I can fight, too.'

`Hermione…,' Harry's thoughts came through petulantly as he kept his eyes, and his wand, on the door. `If one of us has to fight, you know that I'm….'

By sticking her D.A. mirror under his nose, she managed to bring him up short. She could send a distress call if needed.

The door creaked ever-so-slowly open and out stepped….

“Dobby!” Harry and Hermione cried at the same instant.

When the frightened and bewildered elf saw both of their wands trained on him, his eyes bugged out even further than normal.

“Oooh, I is so bad!” Dobby wailed. “I should never be listening to him!” The elf looked this way and that for something with which to punish himself. Finding nothing, he started bashing his head into the corner of the doorframe with sickening thuds.

Taking one look at Hermione's almost nauseated expression, Harry barked out, “Dobby, stop this instant. I forbid you from punishing yourself ever again.”

Harry tried to avoid direct commands, mostly for Hermione's benefit. This time, he thought his fiancÃ©e would be more upset by Dobby carrying on than by his calling upon the elf's subservience to halt his self-destructive tendencies.

Dobby did as told. He worked for Harry now.

“Tell me, who did you listen to?” Harry asked, whilst stowing his wand. Ironically, he had pulled his wand on the one being in the Castle less likely than Hermione to attack him.

“Me being stupid,” Dobby wailed. “Me was listening to that Slamdor with all his plans for things being nice for you and Miz Myown. Now me be ruining everything!” Harry gave the elf a stern look when he seemed on the verge of reverting to head banging.

“What did Slamdor tell you to do?” Harry persisted.

“He was saying that you and your miss … you was finally being together tonight,” Dobby's words tumbled from his mouth. “You'd be telling him, he says, and he's a-promising to tell me where you's being. I'm being making everything special…. But no sooner than him telling me this, you's being here - and Dobby's being caught and ruining it all….”

Prevented from punishing himself, the forlorn elf began wailing instead.

Hermione could hold her tongue no longer, even though Dobby technically worked for Harry, not her. “Dobby - listen to me - how long would you need to make everything `nice' the way you had in mind?”

Harry looked her, smiled, and nodded.

“Oh, me be working fast. Me's being skilled,” Dobby sounded decidedly more upbeat fashion. “Me's needing maybe five minutes, no more … but me was having less than thirty seconds, and that's not enough….”

“Well, Dobby,” Harry took over, “I'm sure Hermione and I can somehow keep ourselves occupied for five minutes. Why don't you go ahead and finish the job. Just knock twice on the door when you're done.”

“Oh, yessir!” Dobby squealed, almost jumping up and down with sudden glee. “Me's be working quick. You'll be a-liking it - very much!”

“But Dobby…?” Harry questioned him.

Dobby stopped in his tracks. “Yes, Harry Potter, sir.”

“You're working entirely for me now, right?” Harry wanted to be sure.

“One hundred and ten percent, yessir,” the elf chirped.

“Then not a word of this to anyone,” Harry firmly instructed. “Not to the other elves, not to any of my friends, not to Slamdor, and especially not to Dumbledore or McGonagall. Can I count on you?”

“Absolutely, sir,” Dobby affirmed. “My lips being sealed.”

The considerably happier elf scuttled back into Hermione's bedroom, the door shutting by itself behind him. Harry turned to Hermione. “Would you like me to keep you occupied?” he inveigled.

“Can't think of anything I'd rather do, or you do,” Hermione agreed. Her slightly opened lips pursed in anticipation.

Harry's grinning expression became at once more serious and dreamier. He slid one arm around her, leaned in, and caressed her cheek with his other hand. “Just now, like with Dobby…. I'm constantly amazed at how wonderful you are,” he whispered.

Hermione rubbed his hand with hers and whispered, “Kiss me now, Harry.”

He complied gladly, immediately capturing her mouth with his. They wobbled a bit before he steadied her against the side of the huge conference table at which she had slaved for so many days to make this night possible.

Leaving balance to Harry, Hermione threw both her arms around his head and neck. She pushed her lips into his whilst her venturesome tongue invaded. Their mouths fully engaged. Harry's free arm crooked behind Hermione until he was cradling her head. Her tongue danced in little circles all over Harry's mouth and lips.

Harry deepened the kiss, his hip coming into contact with the table alongside her. With the table as leverage, he slowly and gently tipped them both over until they lay side by side, with their feet hanging off the edge.

This position proved too awkward for serious necking, so Harry broke the kiss with a chuckling, “oops.” They rolled fully onto the table, with Hermione ending up mostly on top of Harry. “Would you care to do the honours?” he asked her. “Your Cushioning Charms work better than mine.”

She was all too happy to oblige.

Then she dove back into him. As they snogged, Hermione's hands found their way to Harry's shoulders. His hands in turn found their way to her T-shirt. He worked it loose from the waistband of her jeans and began, with some difficulty, to move it upwards. It tickled a bit, and Hermione responded by kissing him even more vigorously. She drew up her knees, creating more room between their chests for Harry to explore.

But her knees jabbed him a bit, so Harry drew back, sucked in another breath, and buried his face in her neck. The feel of his tongue and his breath on the wet spots left by his kisses made her even more delightfully ticklish. She slid halfway off him and in the same motion slipped one of her hands inside his shirt, finally making skin on skin contact of her own.

Harry was ticklish, too. Feeling her light touch on his stomach, he gave one of her ears a slight nip. Hermione gasped, and he crushed his lips into hers again. By then, he had managed to push her T-shirt above her brassiere. He traced its outline and came to rest atop her breast, cupping it.

At this point, Harry stopped and paid close attention to Hermione's reaction. She could tell by his pause that he was implicitly seeking her consent to continue.

“Harry?” she murmured in a low voice. “What about Dobby?”

“He's got Winky,” he replied in a soft breathy whisper. “That leaves you for me.”

“Oh, you're incorrigible,” she snorted.

“I'd rather be inside of your bedroom,” he answered, giving her breast a gentle squeeze. “I wonder how much longer….”

She tugged on his arm. “You can go lower, Harry. I'm really….”

Clunk! Clunk!

“Well there you are,” Hermione reacted immediately.

“No, I don't think….”

Clunk! Clunk! Clunk! Clunk!

In a flash, Harry disengaged from Hermione, whirled around, and sat up on the table, wand (the magic kind) out, staring towards the sounds. They had not come from the back bedroom, where Dobby was toiling. Instead the sounds originated in the opposite direction - from outside the front door.

“Damn … seems like we've got more visitors,” Harry hissed with a scowl. His clothes were in some disarray.

Listening intently, the two remained still for a moment - save Hermione's hands, which clutched his hips. Reflexively she kneaded both sides of his waist. She ached to reach around for his fly, but before she mustered the initiative Harry had other ideas.

“I should check,” he told her. She reluctantly released him, and with a little leg kick, he hopped off the table. His wandtip glowing, Harry tiptoed to the entrance of the flat. He performed a three-way combination spell that unsealed the door, unlocked it, and caused it to open inwards just a bit.

The hallway remained perfectly still, but instead of being completely dark, something pink glowed off to his right

Extending his wand hand as far from himself as he could, Harry stretched his arm to the opening in the doorway. “Lumos.”

Again, nothing. At least nobody fired any spells at the light from his wand.

`Cover me,' he Legilimenced to Hermione as he crept out the door.

“As much as you want - later,” she double entendred back at him, aloud.

Harry had barely stepped beyond the threshold when, all of a sudden, his foot contacted something heavy and solid. He tripped, and nearly turfed himself.

Regaining his balance, Harry looked down. He had stubbed his toe on a good sized, nearly round, grey boulder.

Right next to it was another, almost identical stone.

And another … and another. Looking up the hallway, Harry saw one outlier - much different from the rest. That one glowed bright pink.

Clonk, Clonk.

A different sound brought Harry's attention back inside.

“It's Dobby's signal,” Hermione told him. “Is anything out there?”

“Yeah … I think I just stumbled on our guard for the evening,” Harry muttered. He retreated inside and shut the door.

“Well, let's go, then” she beckoned. Her face bore the same, wonderfully wanton look Harry remembered from before - immediately after he had proposed marriage. “We've already waited far too long for this.”

Harry forgot all about his throbbing toe. His heart jumped into his throat in response to the desire in her gaze and her voice. “Not much longer now,” he almost whispered as he moved towards her.

“Alohomora.” She stood by the open door to the room that had been her bedroom throughout her search for him and bade him enter first. Harry had no idea, but Hermione knew at once that her old room was transformed into a quite different place.

The most immediate difference was in lighting. The illumination was not at all what it once was. During her search for Harry, Hermione's bedroom had been brutally functional - nothing but steady white, featureless light. Now the light was soft, yellowish, and flickering, its source being several candelabra set in wall sconces.

The room also had an altogether different shape. Before, it had been decidedly rectangular - about twice as deep as wide - and small. Now the floorspace was almost square, and considerably bigger.

The bed was to one side. Straight ahead was something altogether new - a small table, flanked by matching chairs, both trimmed in red and gold. Atop the table another silver candelabrum illuminated a marvelous spread that Dobby had prepared.

“He must have known we hadn't eaten,” Hermione remarked. “This isn't at all like when I was here before the term started. This is altogether … more luxurious.”

“I'll say,” Harry agreed. “Even the Great Hall doesn't compare to this.”

Truer words had never been spoken

Harry and Hermione were amazed by the opulence of it all. Dobby had outdone himself.

The entrÃ©e was oysters on the half shell, bathed in a white crÃ¨me sauce.

The main course was a tenderloin roast with a mustard and peppercorn sauce.

In the centre of the table, around the candelabrum, was a collection of small wicker baskets filled with fruits and vegetables - figs, red Jamaican bananas, glazed pineapple chunks (Slughorn's favourite, she recalled), fragrant black truffles, baby carrots, strawberries, almonds, and pomegranates. Several dips accompanied these delicacies: sweet honey, spicy ginger, enchanting vanilla, and of course smooth milk chocolate kept liquid over a bluebell flame.

For dessert, Dobby had chosen a full meringue pavlova topped with whipped cream and bits of lilikoi, and additional chocolate-covered items, cashews and clementine slices, all charmed to stay chilled.

Speaking of chilling, beside the table was a bottle in a standing silver bucket full of ice. Hermione suspected it was alcoholic, meaning that Harry would refuse to touch a drop of it. Dobby meant well, of course, but the elf could not know everything….

Fortunately, Dobby had also left a crystal decanter of ice water on the table.

“Merlin, I can use something to restore my energy,” Hermione declared as she approached the table. “You must be starved too….”

Hermione plopped into the nearest chair before noticing that Harry had not followed. Instead he was gawking, open-mouthed, at the window, the colour rapidly leaving his face.

“Harry, come sit down. It's just the window,” she called to him. “Try these oysters - they're rumoured to be an aphrodisiac.”

The trouble was, for Harry, the spacious, three-sided oriel window was not only another window. Far from it…. He had seen this window somewhere…. In his dreams….

No. He had seen it in his worst nightmares.

In a strangled whisper, Harry uttered. “Hermione…. We - we can't … stay here….”

“Of course we can,” she immediately disagreed. “We just got here. You've got your goblins. Dobby will warn off the other elves. We can stay here as long as we wish without being disturbed.”

“No. It's the window,” Harry repeated, making little sense to her. “You could die. I've had a premonition … I've seen this before….”

The meal forgotten, Hermione rushed to Harry's side. “It's just a window, Harry,” she urged. “Whatever you saw, I'm sure it's just coincidental. I slept next to this window every night for more than a fortnight. Nothing ever happened.”

“…One of the dreams that - that almost … drove me away from you,” Harry tried to explain. “We were going to make love, and Death Eaters broke through the window. They were going to … to kill you. It was like … like what had happened with …er … before….”

Now Hermione was getting alarmed. “Harry, you had a nightmare. It's over. I'm alive, and we're together. We're under heavy guard. Nothing's going to happen.”

“But … it was just like….” Harry's voice trailed off. He shook his head vigorously, trying, but failing, to shake those terrible images.

“Harry, what you're feeling is called `transference',” Hermione told him. “You've unconsciously redirected your guilt about Eliza's death to me under the influence of similar circumstances. You can't let what happened rule you, Harry. You'll … you'll die a virgin.”

“I'm sorry, Hermione, I don't think I can concentrate as long as we're by this window,” Harry moaned. “I'll keep seeing Death Eaters bursting through….”

“Harry, Merlin knows how many goblins are out there,” Hermione protested. “Nobody could force their way in if they wanted to - which nobody does.”

“I don't know where the goblins are,” Harry replied. “They deploy how they want to.”

“We'll see.” With that, Hermione strode purposefully to the window, threw it open and spoke, in a voice just shy of a shout, “Alakar!” Harry had used the same command the day he proposed.

She let out an audible gasp when, after a couple of seconds, Slamdor's head swung into view - upside down, as if he were clinging from the overhanging roof, which he was. “You called, Savini,” he addressed her, as if nothing were unusual about his hanging head down by his clawed feet twenty metres or more above the ground.

“I - umm - Harry and I…. We were wondering what more precautions you could take to enhance the security of this window.” Hermione requested.

“What can be done, shall see I,” Slamdor responded slowly. He motioned with his right arm, and in an instant he held a large set of window bars constructed with goblin-forged steel.

“That brings back memories,” Harry commented.

“Harry, if it's too close to what the Death Eaters did to you, I'll have him try something else,” Hermione replied.

In the background Slamdor grimaced and swore in Gobbledegook as he struggled to attach the bars to the Castle's magically resistant walls.

“It's not that,” Harry told her. “No, this reminds me of the Dursleys caging me in during the summer before Second Year.”

“They WHAT?” Hermione asked archly, her voice rising. Harry never talked much about his treatment by his relatives, and neither he nor Ron had ever told Hermione about this incident.

Loud clanging sounded outside.

“Er … they barred my window and locked my door trying to keep me from going back to Hogwarts,” Harry revealed.

“Those … those … cretins!” she blurted angrily. “They were so awful to you. They'd better hope they never….”

“Dammit, work won't this,” Slamdor swore, this time in stilted, goblin-style English. “If advance notice had I, have made arrangements could I …. But now - too - strong - the - charms.” With each word the goblin shoved futilely at the bars with his shoulder.

“Isn't there anything you can do?” Hermione pleaded. She saw her perfect evening slipping away - a victim of Harry's mental demons.

“Yes. Standard goblin entry/blocking magic - nothing extraordinary,” Slamdor answered.

“Go ahead,” Hermione almost begged. Something was better than nothing, and perhaps this something, together with her own persuasive powers, would be enough.

With a wave of his hand, Slamdor shut and locked the windowpanes. Then he said something in Gobbledegook that was barely audible through the leaded glass. In an instant, the three panes of the oriel window vanished - totally obscured by the sort of mirrored surface that the goblins favoured.

Harry and Hermione saw only their own reflected faces. Instead of a window, the oriel now resembled the triptych mirror in Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

They heard another brief bout of clanging from the other side, and then nothing.

“Better?” Hermione asked Harry.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, as he calmed down. “Between it looking different, and knowing the goblins are out there, I think I'll be all right…. Hey, wait a minute…. You don't think they can see in, do you … like in the Situation Room?”

“Harry, now you're really getting paranoid,” Hermione scolded. “You're, you know, like royalty to them. There's no way….”

“I suppose you're right,” Harry agreed. “And after that latest spot of bother, I really am hungry.”

The couple nibbled some of this and some of that, but once they took the edge off of their hunger, they began distracting each other. Hermione Transfigured her sensible two-toned penny loafers into slippers. She promptly slid them off and began playing footsie with Harry under the table. Harry grabbed at her, and with his Seeker's reflexes caught hold of the cuff on her jeans. He started pulling, and she felt herself being dragged off her chair.

“Harry, let go of me!” Hermione mock protested - wiggling all the way.

“Not a chance,” Harry refused. “You'll just start up again. I know you.”

“I can't help it, I think you're sexy,” Hermione responded as she grabbed the seat of her chair to stop Harry from dragging her along any further.

Her resistance only encouraged Harry. He reached his left hand under the table and, whilst maintaining his grip with the right, began tickling the exposed underside of her foot. That drew even more protests, giggling, and squirming.

Unbeknownst to Harry, Hermione had flicked her wand into her hand. Holding firmly onto the table with her off hand, she stealthily aimed her wand at the cloth by which Harry was restraining her.

“Harry, stop!” she said one last time - her latest protest being as half-hearted as the rest.

“No,” Harry refused, laughing almost as hard as Hermione. “Now I've got you right where I want you.”

“Diffindo,” Hermione incanted.

With a ripping sound, the cuff on her jeans split completely free. Suddenly with nothing solid to hold onto, Harry careened over backwards in his chair with a loud yelp. The same Seeker's reflexes prevented any significant injury, except to his pride. Harry found himself sitting awkwardly on the floor whilst Hermione almost doubled over in laughter.

Two could play at that game. Harry's own wand flicked into his hand. “Accio Hermione's jeans,” Harry retaliated.

Hermione's jeans undulated. With an unzipping noise they did what was necessary to comply with Harry's summons. In little more than the blink of an eye Harry was holding Hermione's trousers.

Suddenly seated in nothing but rather damp knickers, Hermione let out a shriek as she realised what had happened.

“I can't help it either, I think you're sexy, too,” Harry replied with a smirk.

And indeed he did. From where he sat - on the floor atop the back of his overturned chair - he had a wonderful view of her from the waist on down. Hermione had gloriously long legs … so bloody touchable, that he would be in bedlam unless he had them wrapped around him soon.

But even better than her legs … those knickers she wore - they were light years away from the generic white cotton under things of their last encounter. THESE KNICKERS were shockingly scarlet with equally bright gold trim. What's more they were filmy, almost translucent. His eyes could be playing tricks, but he thought her knickers looked rather darker right where … well, where they should look like that if less than entirely opaque.

And were they … wet…?

“Merlin, Hermione,” Harry croaked, his throat suddenly parched. “I'm sorry. I didn't realise you were dressed like that.”

“Don't be sorry,” Hermione replied in an overtly randy voice. “I'm surely not….”

Harry gulped. The moment of truth was surely approaching.

“…In fact, one good spell deserves another.” Without further warning she incanted, “Accio Harry's trousers.”

Similar fluctuations and unzipping sounds ensued. Hermione anticipated that in another instant she would be holding Harry' trousers, just as he was holding hers.

Not so fast.

Hermione's arousal had interfered with her better judgment. She had overlooked one minor detail - unlike her, Harry still wore his shoes.

“Whoa!” Harry exclaimed as his runaway trousers darted towards Hermione. When they met resistance from his shoes, his trousers first flipped inside out. “EEEyaaahh! Hermione!” Harry squawked as this happened. Still snagged on his heels, they began dragging him, and soon his chair (with which they became entangled), inexorably towards her.

“Oh my,” she squealed, once she appreciated what had gone wrong. “Finite.”

She bolted from her seat, and got down on all fours, crawling the last couple metres to reach him. “I'm sorry. Are you okay?” she trilled in a high pitched, worried voice.

“I'll live,” he grunted. “But … I just realised something.”

“What?”

“You're entirely too far away from me,” he uttered whilst reaching his hand towards her.

Hermione grasped it, and he pulled her to where he was still sprawled on the floor. His hands found her shoulders and her hands entwined in his hair. Their lips met and he pulled her onto him forcefully enough that she made a little “umph” sound. She tasted of pomegranate and chocolate covered strawberries. He tasted of pavlova, whipped cream and passion fruit. He ran his hands down her back, still covered by her T-shirt. Reaching the hem, they moved to her glorious bare skin below. No more than a couple of strokes with his fingernails had goosepimples bursting all over her midsection.

Hermione groaned … or moaned … or made some sort of noise from deep in her throat. Never breaking their kiss, she drew her arms back slightly and cupped his face in both of her hands. The same movement also ground her scarlet-clad nether region into his rapidly stiffening counterpart.

Her knickers were most definitively moist. He wondered if just vanishing them would be too forward - along with his own pants, of course - before long, they might not be so dry either.

Harry's turn came to close his eyes and make unintelligible sounds. His breath fluttered over her smooth cheek as his fingers traced their way down to those alluring knickers. Once reaching them, he traced the dividing line between the roundness of her legs and the flat of her tummy. Harry grabbed her buttocks cheeks with each hand, finding them a perfect fit. He squeezed and felt her clutch him in return. Not only were Hermione's knickers scanty, they were silky smooth.

With Harry's hands all over her bum, Hermione felt her insides going soft, like paraffin wax in the summer sun. Less divinely, she also became acutely aware of her shin jabbing into the side of Harry's chair. That would not do.

Her cheeks, both upper and lower, were flushed by the time their lips parted. “I think it's time that we moved this to the bed,” she purred.

“Okay,” Harry instantly agreed. Awkwardly, he tried to stand, but his topsy-turvy trousers caught in the overturned chair. He sat back down heavily.

Ever helpful, Hermione tried untying his stubborn shoes. She had little luck, and less patience, with knotted laces hidden by inside out jeans. Out came her wand. “Nodus solvere!” From then on, she had little trouble divesting a most helpful Harry of shoes, trousers - and for good measure, socks. Unlike her carefully selected knickers, his boxers were utterly pedestrian.

She grasped his hand. With their fingers intertwined, she shyly led him to what had once been her bed.

Not any longer - and not just because it would now be their bed.

More than the rest of Hermione's old room, the bed was radically transformed. Throughout her prior stay, it had been an austere institutional single, simply bedecked with practical white cotton bed linen and a sensible blue wool duvet.

No longer.

Their waiting bed was fully twice the size of Hermione's formerly functional single and was made for anything but sleep. A luxuriant pile of cushions of eclectic sizes, shapes, and textures replaced her single feather pillow. Nary a plain white pillowcase was to be found. Instead of her old, nearly threadbare blue duvet was a rich wine-coloured comforter. Beneath it, silky amber sheets peaked out from the edges. All was in Gryffindor colours, right down to the dust ruffle.

Hermione blushed again. Dobby's redecoration of the bedclothes unintentionally approximated her knickers. They might even clash - but no bother. She did not expect to be wearing them much longer.

As they reached the bed, Hermione felt Harry hesitate. He stopped and squeezed her hand. She turned to face him.

“Umm … Hermione?” he spoke in that endearing tone of voice he used when trying to be extra earnest about something. “Before we go any … further, I think I should … er … I need to ask, will you…?”

A warm smile filled her face. She anticipated his question. “You don't have to ask, Harry. Implicitly, you already have, and I said `yes'.”

“Please, Hermione,” he continued. “I really think I should, just so everything's clear. I wouldn't ever want to that guy that you wanted to stop, but I didn't….”

Hermione bit back a reply, and let Harry finish.

Harry did - in his own fashion. “…Anyway, Hermione, will you … make - make love with me tonight? Please?”

Here was another reason she found Harry so wonderful. He was the kindest person (at least to her) she had ever known. Even his phrasing - “with” rather than “to” - was so gentle. His lovemaking would be cooperative, not domineering.

Theirs would be a partnership, in the fullest sense of the word.

Before replying, Hermione drew her wand. Whilst an uncomprehending Harry watched, she symbolically locked the door and Imperturbed the room. Then she slipped off her holster, sheathed her wand, and placed it on the nightstand next to the bed.

Hermione had her own little speech prepared. “Mum once told me; don't lock the door until I'm sure. Well, Harry, I'm sure - absolutely. Of course I'll make love with you tonight. There's nothing I'd rather do. But I frankly don't believe what you just said. I couldn't believe it and still be in love with you.”

“I love you too … er … what don't you believe?” Harry changed course in mid-sentence.

“I don't believe you'd ever carry on after I asked you not to,” she told him. “If I ever said `no' to anything, I know you'd stop, no matter how far we'd gotten. It's part of who you are, and it's why I trust you so very much….”

“That's another reason I love you,” he sighed happily. “You have more faith in me than I do in myself.”

The more he looked at her, the more gobsmacked he became. And with Harry in nothing but underwear and a shirt, his desires were altogether evident to her, tented in his boxers.

She returned those urges every bit as fully, if not as visibly. Only a tiny spot discoloured his boxers; but her dampness extended…. For a moment she wished she'd bought them crotchless, but that thought fled when Harry tried saying something coherent.

“Hermione … your knickers…. I mean - I didn't know.… Not the last time…. Since when have you had … er … something like that, it's…?” Harry struggled to give voice to this particular thought.

He was already close to dumbstruck at the sight of her - and much more remained to be seen. Hermione smiled her knowing smile, and once Harry lapsed into embarrassed silence, she finished what she supposed was his thought, “You mean something so … sexy?”

“Well … yeah,” Harry admitted. “I know how thick I can be, but that's more what I'd expect Lavender, or maybe Romilda, to wear. You've always been so….”

Hermione faked a pout. “Boring, you mean?”

“More like sensible,” Harry tacked. “But … that, too, I suppose.”

She let him off the hook. “You know me too well, Harry. I only bought them this morning at Samson's Option. They're Lover's Touchâ„¢ Evanescing Lingerie. I'm glad - relieved actually - that you like them. I worried they might be too much.”

“Like them? I love…. What's this evanescing thing?” Harry wondered out loud. “You - you mean that they'll vanish or something…?”

A most intriguing concept.

Hermione slinked to him, entwined her arms around Harry's neck, and fixed his eyes with hers. His hands found her waist. “Close, but not exactly…. They'll need some help from my lover's touch,” she whispered in his ear. She shimmied against him, and pushed Harry's hands down to cup her glorious bum again. Parts of her felt like they were on fire.

“Mmmm-hmm?” he contentedly grunted.

“Ten minutes' exposure to light activates the charm,” Hermione breathlessly explained. “After that, they're supposed to disintegrate at your touch.”

She pulled out of his embrace, took two steps back, and whirled around like a model at the end of a runway. “See?”

Harry gawked. His handprints were plainly visible on each side of Hermione's buttocks, standing out as oases of her creamy skin against the scarlet of the remaining the silky fabric.

Harry was again reduced to indistinct, guttural sounds. “Wow,” he gasped in appreciation. Once she faced him again, he noticed another creamy place - a vertical streak of her enticing flesh running up the right side of her … well, front. Those degradable knickers must also carry an Adhesion Charm, Harry concluded. Otherwise the right half surely would have fallen off.

Another most intriguing thought.

“Not just my hands, then?” he asked, whilst watching her watching him ogle her.

“Anything,” she replied, repressing a telltale giggle. “Just direct contact with you. Any part of you will do. By the way, they're also flavoured. According to the description, the red is strawberry, and the gold, tangerine. You'll have to tell me how they taste.”

Hermione sat the bed, without any false, leg-crossed modesty. Instead, she lay back - in a decidedly, and intentionally, immodest fashion. Although supine, she could still see him, barely, betwixt her breasts. She gave him a come-hither look and raised her feet to wiggle her toes at him.

“Now what are you waiting for? I'm lonely over here,” she both asked and declared.

Harry was transfixed. Although wanting desperately to go to her, a warm wet fog descended over his brain.

“I dunno, waiting to wake up from this dream, I guess,” Harry replied vaguely. “This … it's just too good to be real…. I'm not this lucky.”

“Well you're getting lucky tonight,” she told him. “Now, c'mere…. She reached to where her knickers narrowed. Finding the edge, she nudged the scarlet fabric aside so Harry see the delights awaiting him beneath. “I need you, Harry … you've no idea how badly….”

In the constantly changing candlelight, her revealed treasures seemed to glisten. Harry's knees were so wobbly that after one step towards her, but staggered and nearly fell.

“Oh honestly,” Hermoine huffed. Springing up, comparatively lithe and catlike, she took his hands and led him to their bed. “Now you need to get this shirt off right away,” she breathed. “My knickers have entirely too much of a head start; my bra needs to catch up.”

Reaching down, Harry grasped the hem of her blue T-shirt, and with her active encouragement pulled it over her head. Simultaneously, she did the same to him, not bothering with his front buttons.

The net result was their shirts became quite intertwined - precisely what Hermione intended.

Before Harry realised her intentions, her arms had passed over his head and down behind his waist. With their shirtsleeves and arms hopelessly entangled, they were so close that Hermione could ravage his mouth with impunity.

Which she gladly did.

In semi-darkness their eyes locked, Harry emerald eyes melting her heart. Her own intense look more than matched his desires. Leaning in, Hermione started kissing his chest. She left a cool, damp trail as she licked and lapped her way to his mouth. Reaching it, she claimed it. Tasting him and feeling his heat, delectable shivers shot up and down her spine.

Responding to the shivers, she drew one leg up and wrapped it around his waist. One of his hands instinctively rose to support her, and she pressed into him. Harry felt the bedclothes against the back of his knee. Then, as before, he toppled onto the bed. Unlike the last time, she went along for the ride, since their otherwise useless shirts still bound them tightly together.

Kissing … touching … writhing against each other and against the constraining fabric, the pair rolled together on the bed.

“…I love you….”

“…I need you….”

“…I want you….”

“…I'm here….”

“…Have your way with me tonight….”

“…That feels wonderful…. Ouch….”

“…Damn shirts….”

“…Don't stop now….”

“…Evanesco shirts….”

“…We'll need those later….”

“…We'll worry about them later….”

“…Well, now that you've done it, put your wand down somewhere….”

Applying a Sticking Charm to his double-wand holster, Harry tossed it gently. It adhered to the wall maybe a metre above the bed.

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He nibbled at her neck and nearby sensitive places. She tried pushing down the only garment he was still wearing with one of her feet.

“…Your bra does taste like strawberries….”

“…At … least … you … wore … boxers … rather … than … briefs. There….”

“…Most of your knickers are gone by now too….”

“…Good…. Oooh, do that again….”

“…There…?”

“…Oh, Merlin, yes….”

“…You're practically dripping….”

“…Well, what are you going to do about it…?”

“…I could start with this….”

“…Ooooaaah. Just don't … stop with that….”

“…You mean this…?”

“…Absolutely…. Faster, Harry….”

Harry's fingers nudged at her dewy flesh, searching out her most sensitive spots. They touched and titillated; and lingered and loved. He sought to care for his most magical of creatures - to know all of her that was knowable. He wanted to hear every sound she uttered, feel every movement she made, see every wonderful sign she gave of feeling as rapturous as he did. It was sorcery as much as it was foreplay.

Measuring his progress by how raggedly she breathed, Harry applied rotation to her most sensitive and inflamed spot. Hermione surprised herself with the low mewling sound she made. She tensed, relaxed, and tensed again.

Her motions only encouraged Harry to go faster and harder - and then slower and gentler. He carried on until something exploded inside of her. With a scream, and a lurch, Hermione went rocketing over the top.

Unsure, Harry continued until he felt her hand gently but firmly squeeze his to tell him he was done - for the moment.

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For the next long moment, Hermione lay still, holding Harry's hand nestled amongst her folds. Her chest heaving as she returned to earth, she was utterly content and utterly open to him.

“Harry, that was … unbelievable,” she gasped. Then with a sigh she snuggled into him. They lazily caressed one another whilst recharging their batteries. Nothing but the sound of their gradually normalising breathing was audible.

Eventually, Hermione's left hand released his and glided downwards, tracing spiral patterns first on his chest, then his stomach, and finally below his navel. By the time she recovered from her more than serviceable first climax, her fingers had found him. She slid their tips along his full length. He was in full upright and locked position.

“Oh, Hermione,” Harry rumbled, otherwise lying boneless with her in his arms.

“Thanks for letting me do it … undressing you,” she whispered in his ear whilst starting to stroke him more purposefully. “That was incredibly sexy … even more than last time.”

“Luv, you know you can do anything you want,” Harry replied lazily. He was in love with her; and beyond caring about anything else. “Aaahh … I'd say you have no idea what that does to me - except I know you do….”

Hermione smiled. “Bloody well right, I do.” Without letting go of him, she slowly extracted herself from his embrace. She bent over to where….

This time the bananas were going to be jealous.

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Harry felt her hand - the one not already gloriously accounted for - sliding down the side of his chest. The mattress flexed as her weight shifted.

Whoa!

Hermione was making her intentions blatantly obvious - a tongue in the navel is not exactly a discreet way of going about things.

He knew what he wanted to do, too. Two can play that game … very well.

He felt the tickling sensation as her long hair draped over his other head, then a drip of saliva. At that, he slipped both hands around her waist and pulled her back to sitting. Rubbing his hands all over her bum, raising goosepimples everywhere, he asked her, “You did it first before. Let me go first this time?”

“Au contraire, I've already started.” At his sigh, she shot him a libidinous look over her shoulder, raised herself to her haunches, and decided, “I think this time we'd be best together.”

Hermione swung a leg over to straddle him. She enthusiastically returned to what she had been doing before his interruption.

Harry thought he had died and gone to heaven - for the first time in his life he entertained the possibility that a righteous God might exist after all.

He had done many naughty things with Eliza, but he had never, ever had a view like this. Hermione was now practically all he could see. She was definitely all he wanted to look at.

So he looked … and noticed a few remnant shreds of her erstwhile knickers in the vicinity. The telltale sensations from his other end demonstrated that Hermione was zealously pursuing her part of the togetherness bargain.

With the indescribable feelings rocketing through him, Harry ceased admiring the scenery, pulled her close, and went to work - his first objective being the extirpation of those remaining bits of strawberry and tangerine flavoured fabric.

Her pursuit of his happiness generated feelings even more intense than last time. Briefly, Harry's rational mind hesitated, remembering what else he anticipated doing this evening. But it felt too good. He surrendered control to altogether more basic instincts.

Harry gave entirely as much as he received. He matched her rhythm, stroke for stroke and slurp for slurp. `Swish and flick,' he reminded himself. The closer he approached his own peak, the more furiously he pursued her.

She was doing wonderful things to him. Before entirely taking leave of conscious thought, he realised she had found something very useful - indeed exquisite - for her hands to do. Before her touch showed him, Harry never realized how far his erection extended into his body.

After tonight, he would never forget it.

He lost himself to her … yet won at the same time. Losing never felt so good.

As his own pleasure ebbed, Harry's universe was reduced to little more than the delicious apex of the living arch Hermione extended so wantonly over him. Over and over, he swept his tongue across her captivating keystone bud, hungrily sampling the full range of taste; her tip so sweet, her sides salty, tart deeper in.

He had learnt well how to do this, even with things topsy turvy. He plunged forward, licked his way upwards in one motion, and at the apex - swish and flick.

Harry could hear, almost feel, her involuntary squeals, squeaks, and murmurs. He sensed subtle pressure changes from his jaw to his forehead as Hermione rocked against him in time with the rhythm he set. He must be doing something awfully right.

`Go, Hermione!' he Legilimenced.

Her multitasking ability gradually ebbed as she approached wherever it was that he was taking her.

She released his spent organ, having licked him clean. Down beneath, her lovely kneading slowed and stopped.

Instead she rose up, her hands pushing against his knees for support,. Her rocking back and forth grew more frantic as the sensations he generated overtook her.

Concentrating on him and him only, she thrust herself into his tongue ever more forcefully as her back arched.

Her rubbery legs slowly collapsed on either side of him, as she opened herself to him ever wider.

Harry was slowly succumbing to all the physical exertion. The less she supported herself, the harder breathing was for him. Fatigue set into his jaw. Still he kept on. Hermione had done wonderful - fabulous - things for him. He would return the favor in full.

Finally, he sensed a distinct shudder emanating from deep within. She let loose with a rumbling groan that he felt more than he heard. He grabbed her bum and pulled her towards him. Harry extended his tongue as far and as firmly as he could. Shaking his head vigorously back and forth, he pushed everything - mouth, lips, tongue - against her most sensitive points.

She bucked almost like he had earlier. Her groans grew louder and higher in pitch until ended with her indistinctly shouting his name. As he took another deep breath, she was THERE - wherever her personal heaven might be. She was magnificent. She was glorious….

Suddenly the fruits of her ecstasy were all over him - in his eyes; up his nose. Harry could not see. Breathing seemed impossible. Something went down the wrong way. For a frantic instant he wondered if he might even be drowning. What a way to go….

Harry could not help it. He started coughing - hard. To the extent he thought at all, he put his effort in trying not to do anything worse.

* * * *

This time, it worked. When she felt Harry start twitching and thrusting, she knew exactly what it meant. Rather than draw back, like the last time, she followed the advice she had read that morning. Holding her breath, she took him as far in as he went. That way, when he came, she was not jostled, nor did she ever feel like choking.

But everything has a price. She missed his taste and the feel in her mouth. No book learning necessary - she loved him and wanted him in every way.

Gloriously, she had him now.

In every way.

Rational thought soon faded. Maestro Harry picked up the pace again, plucking her body like a string. His tongue's wonderful movements were driving her far into unknown territory. Already he had brought her to a perfectly marvelous peak - the kind that, had she done it to herself, would have left her more than content.

What she felt now was something else entirely.

All his slipping, sliding, wiggling, and probing brought were producing transcendent feelings. Like ripples on a pond they emerged from his touch. Like waves on the sea they flowed through the length and breadth of her body until crashing into her brain's pleasure centres with the force of roiling breakers.

She had never felt anything like it before. Her diddling was puny compared to the pleasure generated by the newfound power of their love.

Nor was she controlling those feelings. For the first time, she was ceding control of her ecstasy to another - and she loved him for it.

`Go Hermione,' she heard him Legilimence. At least she thought it was Legilimency. In this mental state it was hard to know.

She found, and followed, the rhythm of his motion.

The rhythm built. Each stroke brought another charge of liquid electricity that left the nerve endings all over her body quivering. She altogether ceased trying to guide anything. Locking her elbows straight and relaxing into him, Hermione passively accepted the delights Harry offered.

He had already had her writhing in a state of penultimate passion. But something even more intense was pooling within her - growing, throbbing, and aching to be released. Finally she reached critical mass.

She topped out as the bottom dropped out. A breathtaking sensation shot through her, a rush like the long first drop of a roller coaster - only this trip, this rush, lasted considerably longer. From its epicenter at her core, waves of warmth spread to the farthest reaches of her body. Without even knowing, Hermione let out a low rumbling groan - and then one higher, and higher, until she screamed his name.

The warm waves tingled and seemingly bounced off her skin - from the inside. In an instant, Hermione's entire body shown with sweat. The reversed waves pulsed back through her body to concentrate from whence they had come.

And so did she crest.

With a final, radiant explosion of pleasure, she released all the remaining tension within her. Hermione's arms gave out, and she collapsed on top of Harry, where she lay gasping, and basking the beginnings of an afterglow that promised to be as peaceful as the previous minutes had been intense

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Until she heard him start coughing.

The first hack might have been a figment of her imagination. She was anything but coherent. His second cough commanded her attention. The third one propelled her to action. She immediately rolled off him.

Hermione was dismayed. “Harry, are you all right?” His continuing coughs answered that question well enough.

She reached out to hold his head up. He looked like a drowned rat, and the sheets around him were soaked.

“Oh dear! Harry! Did I … have an accident?” she blurted. She cursed herself for getting completely carried away and somehow hurting him.

Blessedly, his coughing quickly subsided.

A torrent of apologies followed, “Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry! I'm mortified that I'd do something like this to you … and on our first time. You must be revolted….” She reached for her wand.

Harry was okay. He broke into a nervous smile. “Luv, that was no accident.” He wiped his face with one hand and took a whiff. “Smells like you … lovely.”

He gave his hand a quick flick with his tongue. “Tastes like you too - tastes great by the way.”

“But you're more fulfilling,” Hermione countered with a gentle grin.

“Tastes great,” Harry reiterated.

“More fulfilling,” Hermione insisted.

“Well, you still tasted great,” Harry persisted. “But that was just a bit too much all at once, when I wasn't expecting it.”

“I suppose we can both be right,” Hermione conceded. “But what on Earth happened?” Obviously, she had missed something in her research that morning.

“No idea,” Harry answered. “But now that I know, I wouldn't mind chancing it again sometime,” he said, grinning.

“You really mean that?” she asked. “You don't have to … if I grossed you out.”

Still lying down, Harry slid his arms around her inviting, naked torso. “I mean it absolutely. I was just startled, and a bit got in my lungs.”

She still looked uncertain. Glancing at her nearby wand, she looked at him, “Do you want me to Scourgify you?”

Harry pondered the offer, then shook his head. “Nah, just the sheets. I'd rather you kiss me instead.”

She did, then leaned back just enough to speak. “That's the two of us mingled together,” she observed. “I like it that way.” Soon they found themselves cuddling side by side enjoying the afterglow. Harry was flat on his back with Hermione's head resting on his shoulder. She traced aimless designs around his navel.

Harry turned and gave her a quick, artificially noisy peck on her nose.

An evil grin flashed over Hermione's face. In one motion she bent over, gave his nose a very sloppy lick and bit it just hard enough to hang on. `Gotcha,' she Legilimenced.

“You!” Harry yelped as he tried backing away. “You're gonna get it now!” he declared as he pulled his nose free. He received another wet lick on the way out.

He grabbed her to retaliate in kind. Shrieking and laughing, they wrestled one another in the sheets, their tongues attacking each others' noses. Both their noses were thoroughly wet - and their owners almost gasping with laughter - by the time Harry managed to pin Hermione beneath him. “What now?” he asked whilst still slightly out of breath. He kissed each of her breasts.

“Why, the main event, of course,” Hermione pointed out. For emphasis, she started wiggling her hips against his.

“But I already…. You made me - ” Harry stammered. “Are you sure?”

“Of course I am,” Hermione said seriously. “You're sixteen, not sixty. I'm sure you have a couple more where that came from. All I did was put up a speed bump to slow you down a bit.”

“And here I was planning to apologise for giving in to you,” Harry snarked as a sly expression crossed his face. “And what about you?”

“What about me, what?” Hermione played along.

Harry grinned, “How much more do you have where that came from?”

“I'm good till totally knackered,” she told him with a touch of pride in her voice. “There's no numerical limit.”

Harry gave her ear a little lick, “Then I've got my work cut out for me.”

“Best get started, then.”

With long and languid strokes, Hermione began running her right hand down his far side from the middle of his ribcage to beyond the point of his hip. “You've nothing to apologise for, Harry ... believe me. I'm sorry for making sport of you before, with that urologist comment. That wasn't your problem. From the other night, I gathered that you just needed me to take the edge off. Now, I don't think you'll have anything to worry about.”

All Harry could do was gawk. Without prompting, she had done wonderful things to him - things that he would not have dreamed of asking for. “You mean that … you did that … like, for therapeutic reasons?” he asked.

“Sort of,” she told him. “I wanted to anyway, but I chose the order for a reason.”

“I'm sure I'm going to need more therapy,” Harry replied.

“Unlike the National Health Service, you won't have to queue up,” Hermione smirked.

“Okay, I'm at the front of the queue. Now what?” Harry asked, whilst gazing at her with half-focussed eyes.

She rolled over. Presenting him with her bare back, she instructed, “You may start by giving me a back rub.”

“At your service, my dear,” Harry readily assented. He partiallly spooned her with the lower half of his body, but left enough room for both his arms (mostly his left, which was on top) to scratch, rub, and knead her fine, smooth skin.

Before too long he had the bright idea to run the back of his hand up the center of her spine whilst ever so gently raking it with his fingernails.

All of the tiny, barely visible hairs on her back stood at attention. Hermione let out a contented grunt, pulled her knees up, ground her bum into him. The rest of her followed.

A now-familiar sensation shot through her.

Until the other night, Hermione would not have believed that having Harry's bare body pressing against hers would feel so amazing, so cozy and slippery - and just a tad ticklish where his hair, barely thicker than dandelion fluff, was beginning to sprout from his stomach and chest. Slowly she began rocking back and forth, especially her bum.

He whispered in her ear, “You were right. I think I'm going to be just fine.” Then he closed the space between their torsos and started nibbling the nape of her neck.

She could feel how fine he was. “You've said it yourself….” She shuddered from his spellbinding touch. “…I'm always right.”

“Thank Merlin for that.” Now too close to rub her back, Harry stroked her side instead - his touch emphasising every one of her curves. She cuddled against him happily, the warm, solid evidence of her correctness rubbing against her backside.

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“Harry,” she spoke in a breathy voice. “Just below my bum, my legs … they sort of curve inwards, a little away from each other. Do you know where I'm talking about?”

“Sure do,” he rumbled whilst continuing to stroke her side and run his tongue along her neck. “I had a stunning view not very long ago.”

“Well, I want you to slide … yourself … right there, and then keep doing what you're doing.”

Following her instructions, he readjusted himself - and instantly was most glad that he did. It soon became quite apparent that Harry would not be having any … urological … problems that evening.

Harry ran his hands all over her, from Hermione's breasts to her knees. His toes joined in, sliding under her feet. She was startled that the soles of her feet had become erogenous zones - but pleased nonetheless.

Within minutes, Harry and Hermione were both insanely excited. Her body physically begged for him as intimately he moved alongside her. Her heat caressed his firmness each time it slid by - as far forward as he could manage, then as far back as he would chance - each cycle producing a barely audible squelch. His top hand alternated between cupping her breasts and stroking her bum. His lower hand clutched the curve of her waist through the space between it and the mattress.

She was as close to surrounding him as possible without actually drawing him inside. His sensitised bell end tingled with every thrust. Their juices commingled, leaving the entire area warm, slippery, and wonderful.

Hermione was intensely aware of Harry's position. He slid back and forth only centimetres from where she craved him, easily close enough to restimulate her to prickly passion.

It was time, she decided. Hermione reached down and made ready to guide him home.

Harry groaned her name as she touched him. Once he realised her intentions, he pulled back a bit. It was not quite how he imagined that moment.

Sensing his resistance, she let go.

“Hermione, could I … the first time … I'd really like to see you,” he murmured.

“Harry - lover - whatever you want, I'm happy to do,” she cooed back.

She shifted, and Harry expected he would see her looking up at him expectantly. But she kept turning. The next thing he knew, she had straddled him again.

“Do you see me well enough, now?” she asked.

Harry could only gurgle an inarticulate reply. Speech was difficult with both her hands cupping him and grinding him against herself.

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Hermione noticed that she could see her reflection quite clearly in the charm that the goblins had cast on the oriel window. Equally distinct was the shadow that she cast over Harry.

“No, I rather think not,” she decided, speaking half to Harry and half to herself. “Accio wand.” That bit of wandless magic was perfect. Harry did not know what Hermione was planning - although he was quite sure he would like anything she did.

Keeping one hand around Harry's most exuberant manhood, she pointed her wand at the sheets below him. “Lumos transcendÃ¦re,” she incanted. For a moment, the spell looked like an ordinary Lumos. Then a small glowing orb separated from her wandtip and glided towards the sheets, expanding and becoming and more diffuse. The bedclothes absorbed it, and instantly began emitting their own pale white light.

When Hermione had first climbed atop him, she appeared to Harry mostly as a silhouette in the uncertain candlelight. Now her every inch glistened as if in full moonlight. He could see her as clearly as possible without his glasses.

“That's dead useful,” Harry complimented. “I'd wager you've been practising.”

“You'd win that bet,” she admitted. “I try to be good at whatever I do.”

“Good” hardly began to describe her. Hermione was not done. “Specularis totalus!” She used a spell Harry had cast against her during their recent duel. Instantly every surface in the room - except their bodies - gleamed with mirror-like reflectivity. The walls, the ceiling, the furniture, and even the sheets glittered with reflected images, although the bedclothes remained exactly as soft and silky as before.

Her spell's eye-popping effect surprised even Hermione. Reflecting back and forth endlessly the mirrored surfaces created multiple likenesses that extended into infinity in all directions. Everywhere he looked, he could see her, and she, him.

“Well, seeing me shouldn't be a problem now,” she observed dryly as she Banished her wand to the (hardly visible) bedside table. The tender look in her eye disappeared; replaced by the pursed-lip expression she wore when concentrating. “You know what?” she continued. “You ain't seen nothing yet.”

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A roaring in his ears began as Harry felt her fingers close around him and shift him into position under her. Ignoring the multitude of comparatively pallid reflections, he gazed at her intently, trying to lock this moment into his memory forever. He was going to make love with this girl - not of his dreams, anymore - but of his present and future. Harry took a deep breath.

He let out a low moan as she began enveloping him, but stopped as he saw a frown mar her beautiful features. Her other movements slowed. She seemed to quiver atop him, leaving him just short of her barrier.

“Is … is something wrong, Hermione?” he asked tenderly, his hands stroking her thighs.

“This is … supposed to hurt,” she answered in a remarkably tiny voice. “I-I-I thought … that I wanted to … to control it. I don't know that I want to do that anymore.”

Harry drew back. “Do you want me … on top?” he offered.

“No,” Hermione said in the same small voice. “I just want you … to help, somehow. To understand….”

“I do understand,” he assured, whilst she accustomed herself to his intrusion. Tantalisingly, she slid a bit further around him, not even as far as before.

Their eyes locked.

“C'mere and kiss me, then,” Harry invited. He extended his arms. She leaned forward, and again he felt the touch of her virginity. Harry gave her a quick kiss, as her hair fell across his face and shoulders, tickling them. He felt her breasts upon him, and behind them, Hermione's fast, shallow breathing. She was still tentative.

Barely moving his lips back from hers he whispered. “Ready? Remember, I love you….”

“I could never forget that,” she replied in a voice that sent shivers up his spine.

Harry captured her mouth again, kissing her deeply. He repeated his earlier telepathic message, `Go, Hermione.' She reached out and clutched his hand. He moved up; she moved down; and the deed was done. She made a small sound - a chirp, barely a squeak - as he made her his.

As Harry felt Hermione flex her hips forward to surround him completely, he also received a jolt of sharp stinging pain. In the agony of her ecstasy, she had bitten the side of his tongue.

At the metallic taste of blood, she pulled her lips away and began to say something. “Don't you dare apologize,” he shushed her. “If I had to hurt you, I should share that, too.”

In the sheets' soft glow, Harry could see Hermione's hips molded seamlessly against him. Her face broke into an absolutely enthralling expression. It resembled the euphoric mien she wore after he had told her that the prophecy was not his death sentence.

Harry's stinging tongue in no way reduced his need for her. Had it, Hermione surely would have noticed, as she was committing to memory the nonpareil sensation of being filled for that one and only first time. He was completing her, rising up within her, until he touched her heart and lifted her soul. Her body grasped him tightly and strove to draw him to her completely.

Her teared-up eyes betrayed intense emotion, although she was not crying - unless shedding tears of happiness….

“Go, Hermione,” he repeated out loud.

She did, and as she did, he began moving in harmony with every rhythm she set - stroke for stroke - providing an equal and opposite reaction to each of her actions. He danced inside her as she led him higher, as they now moved as one.

Her long hair swayed in the glow of the sheets, and her breasts bobbed invitingly mere centimetres from his face. Harry's hands found them instinctively, but that placement disrupted their cadence. Soon his hands returned to her hips.

Her hips now joined to his, the lovers pleasured each other.

Hermione leaned closer and closer to Harry, her pelvis angling to best receive him and her back arched with rising frenzy. She strove towards another mind-quaking climax. That same throbbing, liquid pleasure was back - overcoming her - washing hotly over her, collecting all around his presence, set to explode once more.

He concentrated on her whilst her hair swished back and forth across his chest. Intermixed with pleasure was an occasional remnant of discomfort, as her lost virginity rubbed slightly raw against him. But beyond any physical feeling, what struck him most about her was the joy of it all. She displayed an utterly wild, totally unself-conscious look of ethereal rapture. It lit up her face from within.

Joy.

Everything had been worth it! Weeks of pain and tribulation paled to insignificance. After the longest time, she was finally realising her greatest desire. The mirrors about them could just as well have been the Mirror of Erised. It did not matter at this climactic moment. The images would have been identical.

“Go, Harry!” she squealed as they got close. “Go-oh-o-oh-o-oh-o…!” She began moaning in cadence with their mutual rhythm.

Her hair whipped into a tangled mess as she pressed further onto him. Harry felt her shift forward and slip her toes between his knees. He strained to keep pace with her increasingly fast and furious movements. She was ready to erupt. He could sense it.

Hermione started clenching around him. She throbbed, as did he. Some ecstatic sound escaped her mouth, which might have been his name. Her thighs pounded furiously on him. Her pleasure burst all over them both. His essence, her heart, his soul, and her psyche merged in a single glorious union.

In their bliss, they paid no attention to a pinkish beginning to blossom about them.

Harry crashed headlong towards his own apogee. Straining to match her increasingly frenetic pace, he thrust - up, up, up … possessing her as much as humanly possible.

He carried on, oblivious to the gathering roseate halo now reflecting endlessly off the shimmering surfaces that surrounded them.

Harry let loose a primal scream of his own as he powered to a mind-shattering finish. His eyes closed. His head thrashed back and forth in triumph.

Transfixed by their mutual pleasure, neither noticed as the pink glow crescendoed in an intense ruby flash, jointly emitted by and from the two of them.

â†‘â†‘â†‘ WARNING â†‘â†‘â†‘ CONTAINS â†‘â†‘â†‘ SEX â†‘â†‘â†‘

Loud crashing, ripping noises followed the flash by a split second. Hermione's Mirror Charm collapsed. The silvered surfaces that surrounded them shattered into millions of tiny pieces and vanished. Refulgent flashes of light, as innumerable as the stars, passed before - or possibly behind - their eyes. Basic instinct triumphed as the couple surrendered their higher intellect to the waves of pleasure rumbling through them both.

This time, the “afterglow” was more than rhetorical.

When Harry next became conscious of anything beyond exhausted satiety, Hermione lay prone atop him with her breasts pillowed on his chest. Some sort of tapping sounded to his right. He turned his head in that direction. The oriel window was no longer. It had blown out. Not a pane survived in its now twisted and jagged frames.

The source of the tapping became apparent. The window was near enough for Harry to see reasonably well without his glasses. The flat sides of several goblin-forged blades banged against the defenestrated metal, whilst the goblins kept themselves discreetly out of sight.

Harry stroked her hair. “Hermione, lover, we need to get up,” he said quietly.

“I need … tissues,” Hermione mumbled in a tranquil, almost incoherent voice.

She withdrew her toes from between his knees. Her legs flopped down on either side of where he still filled her. “What the…?” she groaned more edgily. “Harry, put us down.”

“What?”

“We have to get down before I can get up,” she said in a voice now fully her own.

Harry twisted around. He was shocked to see them floating in midair, fully a metre above the bed. His grasp of this seemed to break whatever magic caused it, and the pair tumbled back to earth. Hermione managed to twist herself free just in time to avoid inflicting a most painful injury upon Harry.

She seized a box of tissues from the headboard and pulled the sheets around herself, whilst Harry dealt with his goblin guards.

Deciding that he had to ignore, for once, being starkers, Harry called out, “Alakar,” in a nearly normal voice. Several bob-eared heads reluctantly hove into view, including Slamdor's.

“Impratraxis, well are you, trust do I?” Slamdor asked a question that, even for a goblin, was not much of a question.

“Yes, very,” Harry answered. “Can you tell me what happened here?”

“Tell you, can I, only that failed has our blocking charm,” Slamdor recounted. “Smashed through by a swathe of rose-coloured magic, was it - and then gone … pulverised. Powerful your magic indeed is, for that to do. Existed, a weak point must have.”

Immediately, Harry was concerned. “Hermione, I didn't … hurt you … at the end there, did I?”

“Good heavens no, Harry,” she reassured from underneath the wine coloured comforter. “Whatever happened just then didn't hurt me in the slightest. All I feel is tired.”

“Thank Merlin,” Harry sighed, relieved that whatever his magic had wrought (he assumed it was his), it had not injured her. What he might have done - to himself - had she been harmed, he never had to consider.

Harry continued his discussion with the goblins.

“Harry, you should get dressed,” Hermione told him urgently. She began Summoning her own widely scattered clothes. “I really think we ought to be getting back.”

“Why?” Harry groused. “Don't you want more of Dobby's treats?”

“I would love to cover your bits with chocolate sauce and lick it off,” Hermione flirted, “but unfortunately we haven't time. Anything powerful enough to obliterate a window like that is bound to draw attention.”

“Savini, worry not of your privacy being disturbed,” Slamdor reassured her.

“Unfortunately that's not the issue,” Hermione persisted. She hastily Transfigured a lace pillowcase into a passable replacement for the shirt that Harry had vanished previously. “Even if - especially if - your goblins bar Filch, or worse one of the staff, from entering, it will be all too obvious what we've been doing. I really don't want to get into trouble with Headmaster Dumbledore or Professor McGonagall over this.”

Harry agreed that she had a point. He gathered up his things as well, and within five minutes both were ready, if not particularly willing, to leave. Harry could tell from the Marauder's Map that Hermione was right, as several persons, including Filch, were advancing in their direction.

Fortunately, the goblins had alerted Dobby. He had popped into the flat's main room, and was rapping on the door. Hermione let the elf in and instructed, “I need you to put everything back how it was very, very quickly.”

“Yes Miz Myown!” he chirped brightly. “I'm trusting both Mistress and Master is all right?”

“Quite all right, Dobby,” Hermione confirmed with a smile. “Everything is wonderful.”

“Impratraxis,” Slamdor addressed Harry rather nervously as Hermione dealt with Dobby. “The sheets, may have we?”

“They're undoubtedly quite soiled,” Harry responded. “What good are they?”

“Please Impratraxis,” Slamdor persisted. “Followed goblin tradition should be. As a prince, your coming of age is to Impatok Ragnok of importance. In the eyes of our law, establish will the sheets … that … that of the status she has assumed worthy she is.”

“Harry, we have to go,” Hermione impatiently reminded him. “Just let them have their customs.”

Harry found something off about the entire request, but rather than object, for once he it go. The Map showed Filch less than twenty metres away, and entering their corridor.

He turned and followed Hermione out of the window, where the goblins had helpfully constructed a temporary ladder leading to another window three storeys below. With Slamdor issuing commands to the goblin guard, the pair left behind a place that, from this evening forward, would always be enshrined in their memories.

* * * *

Sad eyes gazed across the extensive gardens that sloped away from the Castle and dropped steeply to the lake and to the Forbidden Forest beyond. The night was dark, clear, and moonless. Its darkness matched the melancholy inhabiting her soul.

Today was her birthday. She was twenty years old. It should have been the happiest day of her life - but instead it was one of the saddest. She was alone and far from home, a guest in a strange castle in a strange land. Only one living soul had any idea of the depth of her sorrow that night.

That person was the only one who thought to send her a birthday present. Poor Maman Appoline had trouble remembering her own name. A few friends from school had owled cards, and that kind Professor Flitwick had thought to have the house elves prepare her a one-serving cake. He meant well, but the cake was typical Hogwarts fare - too heavy and much too rich for her refined tastes.

But only one present.

Fleur Delacour sighed as she removed her sister Gabrielle's gift from the magical player that had just finished with it. Fleur had always been the responsible one, whilst Gabrielle assumed a more rebellious role. Her iconoclasm lately had involved fascination with various things Muggle. Hence the birthday present, a magical CD, entitled “Huis Clos.” It consisted mostly of torchy songs sung by Ã‰dith Piaf, a Muggle singer.

On the morning of the day that had ended with her life torn asunder, Fleur had confided in Gabrielle - she and Bill had set a date, she told her. They were to be married on Fleur's twentieth birthday - today. That very night, Bill and Papa had been murdered by Death Eaters.

And so she was here - and miserable - gazing out of a window under strange, strange skies.

Suddenly, she heard a loud ripping noise from somewhere outside. The next instant a brilliant streak of intensely pink light shot, she assumed, from somewhere in the Castle not terribly far to her left. Briefly the light pooled behind Hogwarts' powerful wards, revealing a bit of their hemispheric shape.

The next moment, the pink light penetrated the wards and shot off into infinity, returning everything to darkness.

Thud. Thud.

Something - something alive - leapt across her window, startling her and almost making her scream.

“Mon Dieu! Zut alors!” Her window was at least a dozen metres up.

Then it, too, was gone.

Whilst all this did not exactly add up to any sort of attack on the Castle - the magical beam was directed away from it - the security instructions issued to all Hogwarts staff were rigid. Anything out of the ordinary, particularly if on the grounds, must be reported up the chain of command. No exceptions.

This certainly qualified.

Fleur immediately called Professor Flitwick through the Floo as required. Then she drew her own wand and went to assist the investigation.

* * * *

Author's notes: As for the chapter title, I'm fine with H/Hr as “Harmony,” but I can do without the “Pumpkin Pie” concept. The latter will not be found in this fic

Draco, of course, can work through intermediaries

“Economical with the truth” stems from Edmund Burke, an 18th Century British reformer and supporter of American independence

Harry has no plans whatever for the premises he acquired. Someone else does

“Trust but verify” - the old Reagan-era arms control maxim

The goblins' lack of prior notice will have an unanticipated effect

The “-od” is a goblin plural form

Contraception - Hermione is too clever not to be responsible. Fics where she accidentally gets pregnant (including one I wrote) make me cringe, it is so out of character

A cul de sac or “close” is a dead end

The buttons Harry spread are courtesy of the Weasley twins, armorors to the Order

Professor McGonagall let Hermione keep the key

Helicase is an enzyme that separates DNA down the middle

Ron's tonsils comment was in Chapter 43

All of the foods Dobby served are thought to be aphrodisiacs

It's worth going to New Zealand just for the pavlova

Lilikoi is the Hawaiian term for passion fruit

The oriel window figured in the dream that began Chapter 44

Triptych mirrors are common in clothing stores

“Waist on down” from the Who's “Dreaming”

“Not expect to be wearing them much” - a line from “A League of Their Own”

Hermione's conversation with her mother occurred in Chapter 45

Harry had never thought of Hermione as a sexy lingerie sort of person

I don't know of any other fic that features disappearing knickers

“Applied rotation” is from Zappa's “Dinah-Moe Humm”

“Swish and flick” is the first wand stroke taught at Hogwarts

Hermione was massaging Harry's erected perineum during 69

Losing … winning, the concept from ABBA's “Waterloo”

Oops, female ejaculation. Congratulations, Harry, you did good

“Pluck her body like a string” from Jefferson Starship's “Miracles” - mentioned in Chapter 22

“Big dipper” is British for roller coster

“Tastes great … more fulfilling” - a spoof on the old Miller Lite beer commercials

Hermione's resort to mirrors is fortuitously important, as they focus, amplify and cohere the pair's magical energy

Hermione's perfectionist motto surfaces again

This is an accurate description of what someone would see if inside a completely mirrored cube

“You ain't seen nothing yet” - from BTO's song of the same name

“Dancing inside” - more from “Miracles”

Lasers were first created by firing light into a mirror-silvered ruby

Having not been present for Hermione's unicorn trick in Chapter 31, the goblins wish to confirm her erstwhile virginity

Ã‰dith Piaf is a real French singer; the rest about her is made up

“Huis Clos” is the title of a J.P. Sartre work, generally translated as “No Exit”

“Strange, strange skies,” is from “Moonlight Mile” by the Stones

61

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 4/6/2007

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54. Black, White, Silver and Gold

Wherein Wormtail, Dobby and some goblins get banished; Voldemort receives a report; Harry and Hermione face repercussions; Harry shares a badge with Ron; Ginny has real Remedial Potions; Hermione signs up herself and Harry; Ron has a complaint; Harry gets bad news from one goblin and good news from another; Hermione muses, and then panics; a Basilisk is no more; the D.A. finds a new home; and Malfoy receives a letter.

Thanks to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, Mathiasgranger.

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

Chapter 54 - Black, White, Silver & Gold

A quivering blob of black-clad flesh groveled before an angry Dark Lord. “Y-y-yes, master. I'll do it gladly,” he mumbled abjectly.

“Good. At least you might competently replace a house-elf,” Voldemort casually dismissed his loyal, if not very adequate, servant.

“I'll begin immediately,” he slavishly rasped. Keeping his eyes on the floor, he fumbles an attempt at kissing the hem of the Dark Lord's robes. The servility was genuine, but also an act - an act of pure desperation.

If for any reason - or no reason at all - Voldemort directed Legilimency at him, Wormtail knew he was as good as dead. He had withheld important information from the Dark Lord, not intentionally, but the result was the same. Intent and result were tantamount. Among Death Eaters, the penalty for such treason was agonising death.

“Then get out of my sight,” snapped the Master. Wormtail scrambled to obey as fast as possible.

Lord Voldemort's attention turned elsewhere. “Bella, come with me,” he ordered. “The rest of you are dismissed.”

Leading the way down a shadowy and rather dreary hallway, the Dark Lord remarked over his shoulder, “I received your owl. Do I understand correctly that your task has been completed?”

“That is correct, my Lord,” she replied.

They reached Lord Voldemort's private study. He ushered her in and bade her to sit. “Was your search successful?” he asked his most reliable follower.

“You were wise to order the search,” Lestrange replied before directly answering the question. “Two of them are missing.”

“Demonstrate what you did,” Voldemort hissed. Bad news - even from a trusted subordinate like Bellatrix Lestrange - always brought out the worst in the Dark Lord.

“What do you mean, Master?” Bellatrix asked, unsure of what Lord Voldemort had demanded of her.

“I must be certain. I provided you with devices. I taught you spells. Now prove to me that you were able to use all of them properly,” Voldemort demanded. “This is too important. To act upon your report, I must be certain that, unlike Lucius and the rest, you have not failed me through incompetence.”

“Yes Master, but I need another Detection Cube,” she requested. “I took only what I thought I would need.”

“Very well.” Voldemort nodded and twirled his wand. A shiny silver block, only a couple of centimetres square, popped out of a hiding place, zoomed across the room, and landed before Britain's most feared Dark witch. With the Dark Lord watching intently for any error, she performed the magic that activated it. Continuing, she went through the necessary sequence of spells. All were flawless.

“You have undoubtedly mastered the magic - unlike that pathetic piece of trash Wormtail,” the Dark Lord concluded. “I will accept your report. What of the ring?”

“I have no idea,” Bellatrix answered, “but I'm certain it's missing. I found the strongbox you described. It was in its proper hiding place - beneath the stile in the overgrown hedgerow opposite the ruined Gaunt house. But it was empty. Not only was the ring gone, but your protective wards were undetectable.”

“None whatsoever?” Voldemort asked. He frowned, his pale, scaly brow furrowing.

“Not a trace,” Lestrange confirmed. “I cast every one of your spells, but no magical signature remained. It was as if your wards never existed.”

“That is indeed troubling,” Voldemort responded. “This information, though unfortunate, is nevertheless valuable. We can assume that the existence of my Horcruxes has been discovered. Only one wizard in Britain is capable of defeating my wards so utterly. He must know, then, and it takes no particular intelligence to divine the likely source.”

“Dumbledore, my Lord?” Bellatrix asked.

“Precisely,” the Dark Lord confirmed, “but he is slipping. He may as well have left a calling card, with that residual evidence of his power. He should have restored my wards, despite that requiring use of Dark Arts. Now we know. I've suspected as much….”

“You have, my Lord?” Bellatrix questioned.

“Indeed,” the evil wizard hissed. “I've entertained the possibility since learning of his luring old Slughorn from retirement. I should have made a point of killing that fat tub of goo when I had the chance. He knows too much. I was indeed prudent to order your search….”

Voldemort paused, thinking hard. He chose to move on. “The other one missing, which is it?”

The witch responded instantly. “The other Slytherin object - you told me I should find a locket. It had disappeared from the cave.”

“And the wards?” Voldemort asked. He would never reveal it, but he worried he may have given Dumbledore too much of a head start.

“Intact and in place,” Lestrange told him. “I found a note where the locket should have been. Here it is.” The Dark witch handed a small piece of parchment to the Dark Lord. It read:

To the Dark Lord

I know that I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match you will be mortal once more.

R.H.B.

“Interesting … so we had another traitor amongst us,” Voldemort sneered. “I suspected as much. Fortunately, I found dear Mister Borgin out and killed him when I did. Whether he succeeded in his threat, I cannot say…. But he had very little time. He lived only about three weeks after I created that Horcrux.”

“Do you mean Rindelaub Borgin, my Lord?” Bellatrix asked.

“The same,” the Dark Lord replied. “His middle name was Helios. For unrelated reasons, I concluded he was untrustworthy and dispatched him. Now, it appears that his treason was more profound than I had believed….”

Again Voldemort paused, and then he cracked an evil smile, indeed. “I know….”

“Yes, Master….” Bellatrix interrupted. In most circumstances her impertinence would have earned her a Cruciatus, but the Dark Lord was too pleased with himself even to take notice.

“…I shall turn the situation to my best advantage,” he said, ignoring her and talking to himself, “and I think this information can be quite advantageous indeed.”

With that, the Dark Lord drew his wand, gave it a slight twist, and muttered a barely intelligible incantation. A pale yellow beam emerged from his wandtip, illuminating the treasonous note. Another half twist of the evil wizard's wand, and the light brightened and narrowed. Soon it was focused just on the “H” in the late Mr. Borgin's initials.

“A,” Voldemort pronounced. With Bellatrix looking on, he watched with satisfaction as the ink in the “H” in “R.H.B.” wriggled slightly and changed so the initials now read - “R.A.B.”

“Excellent,” the Dark Lord pronounced himself satisfied. “The note now appears written by a second traitor, Regulus Black, whose treason was unrelated to Borgin's. Now I can play with them…. At a time of my choosing, I can arrange to leak the location of the missing Horcrux and send Dumbledore and his followers on a wild Snidget chase…. Yes, it's brilliant.”

“What brilliance have you wrought, Master?” Bellatrix asked.

“A ruse - a decoy to use to my best advantage,” he told her. “I shall return to the cave and leave behind a false replacement. Whilst there, I shall augment the original wards, since I have become more skilled …. Whenever I so desire, Dumbledore's Order will learn of the supposed Horcrux. I can use it as a diversion. I can bait a trap, if need be…. Depending upon the circumstances, the information might even help unmask other spies in our midst.”

Bellatrix said one word in response, “Snape.”

“Perhaps, Bella,” the Dark Lord replied. “Or perhaps not. Only time will tell. Now what of the remaining Horcruxes?”

“I inspected the remains of your first Horcrux, the diary,” Bellatrix reported. “Lucius was correct. No live Horcrux remains. Because of the location, I could not investigate more closely - precisely as you anticipated….”

“Very well,” Voldemort dismissed the obstacle. “I have other avenues of confirmation. The Gryffindor Horcrux, then?”

“It appears intact at the location you gave me,” Bellatrix responded. “After verifying its being in no danger, I left it undisturbed, as you directed.”

“And nothing further at that location?” the Dark Lord asked.

“No, nothing,” Bellatrix confirmed, “and I conducted a most thorough search of the remnant structure and its surroundings - only the one positive magical signature was present.”

“It is gone, then,” Voldemort conceded. “Given what happened, I suppose that was to be expected. The Hufflepuff Horcrux, then,” he continued, hungry for knowledge. “Are the Muggles still as clueless as usual?”

“So it appears,” Bellatrix replied affirmatively, “even more, perhaps. The Hufflepuff cup remains on display in Glastonbury. Your Disorientation Charms continue operating flawlessly. The worthless fools think that it's some sort of relic, and keep it with others of its ilk. It remains hidden in plain sight.”

“No traitor has exposed it?” Voldemort asked.

“No, and that's hardly likely now, because the Muggles are on the verge of doing our work for us,” Lestrange revealed with a satisfied chuckle. “I acquired this whilst at the monastery performing the check.” She handed a glossy colour brochure to her master.

“Oh, how … perfect,” the Dark Lord commented when he finished reading. “The Muggles will have the cup quite out of even Dumbledore's reach for two years - on `ecumenical exchange' in Rome. Cached away by the Muggles…. You see, fortune smiles upon us….”

“But what if the Muggles detect something?” Bellatrix asked.

“Not those pathetic imbeciles,” Voldemort responded confidently. “Those charms are amongst my more inspired creations, and they obviously remain in fine working order if the Muggles think it's an important relic. They will persist another two years….”

“But … Rome?” Bellatrix repeated. “The Church is one of the few Muggle institutions with a respectable degree of magical knowledge….”

“Precisely,” Voldemort responded. “They'll be fooled by the enchantments and never will suspect a Horcrux - and the cup will be far away from anyone who might.”

“And the Ravenclaw Horcrux I could not check because of its location,” Bellatrix finished.

“I will have it confirmed in due course,” Voldemort replied. “Now Bella, you have done well and deserve to be rewarded….”

She smiled in anticipation.

“…but at this moment, I need you to send in Lucius.”

“Lucius, but why…?” Bellatrix went silent as he saw a stormy look come over her Lord's face.

“Because I happen to need his services, at the moment,” Voldemort growled. “He knows something you don't - the spells to activate and deactivate a Horcrux. He misused them in my absence. This time, he will use that skill properly or he and his entire family will die.”

* * * *

It was entirely too early in the morning for Harry Potter to find himself seated - rather uncomfortably - in the Headmaster's office. This summons had been particularly unwelcome, given Harry's wish to savour for a little while longer his still-fresh memories of the night before.

Sometimes, however, the Headmaster cannot be denied, and today was such a time. Harry had still been asleep, for once not setting an alarm, when Ron tapped on his bed curtains, bearing the beribboned notice that Dumbledore requested his presence ASAP.

So here he was, seated in a less-comfortable-than-usual chair in the Headmaster's office wondering where Dumbledore was. He did not have long to wait. A door behind the Headmaster's desk soundlessly opened and the old man appeared - and appeared quite concerned.

“Mister Potter, I called you here urgently so we could discuss last night's events….”

Harry knew he was in for it now. Mentally he catalogued his offences. Out long after curfew…. Having sex with another student…. Causing another magical emission….

“If you'd just let me explain,” he began, interrupting the Headmaster.

That was not a good idea.

“Mister Potter, I did not invite you here seeking your explanation,” Dumbledore firmly silenced the boy. “I have already interrogated the source. Before you react, you must understand what I have been told….”

Feeling a certain numbness radiating from his bits, Harry entertained the possibility that his situation was even worse than he had feared. Had the Headmaster already brought Hermione in?

“Anything you do, I want you to do it to….”

“Again, for the moment I ask you to remain quiet - please,” the Headmaster demanded brusquely. Harry went mum. Dumbledore, although outwardly calm, had to be furious to shut him up like this. Was he about to be expelled? A pity Snape was not still around to see it.

“I have already discussed this matter with the goblins involved,” Dumbledore began again.

Goblins? Involved?

“…Whatever hearsay you might add could only confuse matters,” the man went on. “I assume you are aware that a half dozen of your goblin guardians entered the Castle last night?”

Harry mutely nodded. Why the fixation on goblins?

“…Are you also aware that Miss Granger possesses a key to one of the visitor's flats from her time here whilst you were held by Death Eaters?”

Again Harry mutely nodded. Now Dumbledore was getting to the point.

“Well it seems that these goblins have been using that flat as some sort of makeshift armoury,” the Headmaster revealed.

“What?” Harry tried manfully to maintain an even expression. He had not expected to hear that.

Dumbledore continued. “The unauthorised keeping of weaponry anywhere in the Castle without knowledge of the Hogwarts staff - particularly myself - is a serious infraction of the rules, and for good reason….”

“Yes sir,” Harry reflexively agreed, for want of anything better. Now he was beyond confused.

“…Somehow one of these unknown goblin weapons discharged, striking another and setting off some sort of a chain reaction - at least so I have been told by Slamdor and his goblins,” Dumbledore went on. “A window was completely defenestrated, and the Castle's wards disrupted, because they are not designed to protect against outgoing magical discharges….”

“A goblin weapon, yes sir,” Harry dumbly repeated, as he struggled to fathom what he was hearing.

“…The house-elf, Dobby, who now answers to you rather than to me, was also present for some reason.” Dumbledore put another card on the table. “Dobby evidently tried to clean up the mess and conceal the goblin presence. He apparently has access to some of Fred and George Weasley's new products.”

“W-W-What happened?” Harry asked, somewhat relieved. The Headmaster's accusations, whilst serious, were nothing like he had been dreading. Where was his tryst with Hermione?

“Apparently, believing he was assisting you, Dobby endeavored to impede the staff's discovery and investigation of the events I just described. Consequently, Mister Filch was rendered a rather garish shade of fuchsia,” Dumbledore explained. “He has since largely recovered, but still appears as if overexposed to Muggle motor car fumes. I simply cannot have this, Mister Potter.”

“Umm…. Can't have what?” Harry wondered out loud.

“I cannot have - without the undermining of my authority - a cadre of persons in this Castle whose first loyalty is to you rather than to me,” Dumbledore told him. “I cannot discipline goblins, no matter how flagrantly they violate Hogwarts' rules, because I have no power over them. I cannot punish Dobby either, since he no longer regards me as his master. I have no other choice. As Headmaster, I must ask them to leave.”

Harry realised that, whilst Dumbledore apparently was unaware of his own nocturnal activities, there were other, at least equally serious, irons in the fire.

Harry sought to keep it that way. As useful as the goblins and Dobby could be, their importance paled by comparison to his relationship with Hermione. “Do … do you want me to tell them to go?” Harry offered.

“Precisely,” Dumbledore answered. “I do not wish any goblins within the Castle save in a dire emergency. I believe that the staff, with the assistance of the Castle's own enchantments, is well-equipped to handle anything short of a full-scale Death Eater attack. Nor do I want them routinely visible on the grounds. Your goblin bodyguards are welcome to guard you personally, and anyone else you see fit, off premises. But they must remain beyond the wards, no closer than the Forbidden Forest, whilst in the vicinity of the Castle itself. They cannot approach closer, absent permission from me.”

“Are you asking me to tell them that?” Harry inquired.

“Yes, since they will not accept such an order from me unless you concur,” Dumbledore responded.

“I'll do it,” Harry acceded, “but I have to ask for your permission, then … for a specific reason….”

Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. “Which is?” he asked.

“The goblins want to skin the Basilisk I killed and remove it from the Chamber,” Harry told him. “I just found this out yesterday, and I hadn't the chance to tell you yet.”

“What do they intend to do with it?” the Headmaster asked. Forging of armour was the only goblin use he knew for Basilisk hide.

“I asked them to make Hermione a goblin princess' costume for the ball,” Harry revealed. “I didn't even know that involved Basilisk hide before I saw such an outfit in Hogsmeade. When they told me, I said I knew where to find a Basilisk carcass - and everything went from there. I didn't ask for anything more than that - but there's a lot more Basilisk hide in the Chamber than Hermione could ever possibly wear.”

“I shall permit it, but I must have forewarning of their arrival,” the Headmaster told Harry. “I cannot command the goblins, but in my opinion, a gift of Basilisk hide to them would be of considerable value in further cementing our alliance.”

Harry decided to tell the Headmaster about his purchase and return of goblin artifacts taken as booty in the last Goblin War. Dumbledore was impressed at how Harry had handled the situation, and thereby acquired even greater standing in that community. He cautioned the boy to keep the matter to himself, however, as certain pureblood groups, such as the Sons of the Knights of the Goblin Rebellions, would object to the repatriation of material seized during what most wizards naturally considered a great victory.

Their conversation became less confrontational as Dumbledore ventured another topic. “Now, beyond the goblins, Dobby presents the same problem. I am afraid you must find him another home. He cannot stay here with his first loyalty now lying elsewhere.”

“Where? Dobby would hate being banished to Grimmauld Place with nobody else around. My relatives would never tolerate him,” Harry protested.

“Surely you can propose better ideas than those,” Dumbledore remarked reproachfully.

“Not unless you want me to….” Harry stopped. “Are you suggesting what I think you are?”

“Probably,” the Headmaster responded. “You need to mould your thinking to your changed circumstances. You are the proprietor of Blackwalls now, and you would do well to assert your authority over it. Dobby's presence would be an excellent first step.”

“All right, I'll designate him something like the new chief house-elf for the Château,” Harry agreed. “That'll keep him busy, too.”

“It will,” Dumbledore agreed, “but eventually you need to lay claim to the authority you possess yourself, and to do that your own presence will be essential.”

“You're right, but with school I'm not going there any time soon,” Harry said grudgingly. “I'll tell him today.”

“In that case, I see no reason to mete out any punishment to you, since this particular problem was created by your retainers acting of their own accord,” the Headmaster decided. Harry noticed a twinkle in his eye - almost conspiratorial - for the first time during this meeting.

“But….”

Harry felt his throat tighten.

“…let this be a lesson, Mister Potter,” the older man cautioned, “to listen before speaking. You may go now. I shall see you this evening for one of our special training sessions. However, I do believe Minerva wishes a word in her office about Gryffindor matters as soon as you are done here.”

As the door to Dumbledore's office closed behind Harry, a release of tension he had ignored throughout their meeting left him feeling not only warm but also flabby in the knees. Instead of facing possible expulsion from the school for violating a laundry list of rules, he had escaped personally unscathed. Only Dobby and the goblins - who must have colluded on the concocted story he had just heard from Dumbledore - would be suffering adverse consequences.

He approached Professor McGonagall's office. The door was closed, and Harry was momentarily hesitant. In a trice, that uncertainty vanished as the door opened and a rather concerned-looking Hermione stepped out - so deep in thought that she nearly ran into Harry.

`Look out, Hermione,' he Legilimenced to her.

“Oh! Harry!” she squeaked as she noticed his presence - extremely close to her. She readily allowed his arms to slide around her….

Then he had to stop himself. Oh, how things had changed. He could no longer separate thoughts of being in love with her, from thoughts of her as his lover.

`Everything okay?' he Legilimenced again. `Dumbledore wants the goblins and Dobby out of the castle, but didn't do anything to me. I don't think he knows what really happened.'

`Don't be so sure,' Hermione warned silently. `McGonagall took the key away from me, although she blamed the goblins, too.'

`Did she do anything to you?' Harry replied worriedly.

`No,' she answered, and then switched to normal speech. “Why are you here?”

“When the Headmaster finished with me, he directed me to Professor McGonagall,” Harry replied.

“That's odd,” Hermione remarked. “Professor McGonagall has just sent me to see the Headmaster. You don't think…?”

“Potter, please enter - and close the door after you,” a familiar voice demanded.

`Good cop, bad cop,' Harry Legilimenced. `I don't think they've got proof.' He stepped around his fiancée and prepared to face his Head of House.

`I'm not sure they're trying,' Hermione returned as she headed in the opposite direction.

Harry walked in and, responding to his Head of House's gesture, sat in the familiar small chair facing Professor McGonagall's cluttered desk.

She looked sternly at him and began, “Potter, recent events require me to reopen our earlier conversation. I assume you understand to what I refer.”

Harry had a pretty good idea what McGonagall meant. “I told the truth the first time,” he answered. “Her feelings for me are very much reciprocated - more than I can really express. I would….”

“I see I assumed incorrectly,” Professor McGonagall overrode him, “although that confirmation is certainly gratifying. I am discussing the Gryffindor Quidditch captaincy, Potter.”

“Oh.”

To Harry, their chat about Quidditch seemed so long ago and far away. It had not exactly been as salient as…. Damn! He almost let things slip again. Was this what Dumbledore had tried to tell him - to try listening before speaking?

“Yes, the captaincy,” McGonagall carried on, ignoring Harry's lack of response. “Unfortunately, Miss Bell's condition has not improved. While she is stable and resting comfortably, she has yet to regain consciousness. The Healers cannot offer a useful prognosis. That leaves the House team effectively without a captain. You are the obvious replacement.”

She placed a red and gold lion-shaped Quidditch Captain's badge on the desk between them and pushed it towards Harry.

From the moment Professor McGonagall raised the subject, Harry knew what was coming. Foreknowledge did not make his response any easier.

“I'm honoured that you've asked me,” Harry began, “but I can't….”

“You most certainly can,” McGonagall disagreed. “Despite everything going on, your classroom performance has never been better. Almost everyone on staff would echo my sentiments. Miss Granger is a good influence.”

“But with the D.A., Dumbledore's training, and now this Animagus business, I've even less time for anything new now than when I wrote you this summer,” Harry protested. “I'd just cock everything up. Seeker's the worst choice for captain, since I mostly just freelance…. I still think Ron is the logical choice, and if you'd just get past his stupid mistake, you'd agree.”

“Ronald Weasley turned his back upon a position of honour in this House,” McGonagall replied stiffly. “I shall not provide an opportunity for a repeat performance.”

“He was never good Prefect material,” Harry correctly pointed out. “But you know and I know that he'd never do anything to let the House Quidditch team down. I talk to him about Quidditch a lot. It's what he'd most like to do after Hogwarts. Can't you just let it go…?”

Professor McGonagall sighed, shook her head, and looked distractedly around her office before once again settling her eyes on Harry. “You leave me no choice. I'll make you co-captains,” she compromised. “If you turn that down, I'll just have to ask Miss Weasley….”

“You won't have to,” Harry did the same. “That I'll live with, but I want you to know that Ron will really be running things.”

“If Mister Weasley proves himself responsible, that shan't be a problem,” Professor McGonagall stated. With a wave of her wand, the badge of captaincy shuddered and broke in half. Both halves writhed on the desktop until, where there had been one badge, now there were identical twins.

* * * *

She sat, alone, in the dreary dungeon that was the Potions classroom. Slughorn had brightened it up a bit, but a dungeon was still a dungeon.

Obeying the instructions in the note she had received, she had set up two cauldrons. That done, she waited - making a rather desultory show of revising her Potions notes.

“Revising” was a charitable description. Truthfully, the Potions notes served more as a catalyst for her grumbling than anything else.

`…If she'd just helped me like Harry promised she would, I wouldn't be wasting a perfectly good Sunday morning in this stupid hole, waiting for some stupid peer tutor, who's, of course, late….'

`…Not only did she blow me off, but when I complained to Harry, he took her side and said he'd been wrong….'

`…He always takes her side, but she's his girlfriend now, so I guess he's supposed to….'

`Sigh.'

Ginny was too busy feeling sorry for herself to notice that, behind her, company had stealthily slipped into the classroom. Said company crept towards her silently until … only two rows of tables behind….

BANG!

He dropped a fifth-year Potions book flat on the table.

The girl nearly hit the ceiling. “What the…!?” She had her wand trained upon the unwelcome visitor before even finishing turning around.

“Well, well Weaselette….” his familiar voice drawled.

“Malfoy, if you try something - anything - you'll be wishing it's only the Bat Bogey Curse I used on you,” she hissed, a cold glint of hatred in her eyes.

“Shut it, Weaselette,” Draco Malfoy sneered at the redheaded witch. “Don't flatter yourself.”

Ginny clutched her wand even more tightly. Still, the tip trembled slightly. She was alone. She had told nobody where she was going - it was too embarrassing. Malfoy was a dangerous adversary, and almost certainly a Death Eater in training, if not in fact.

“What do you think you're doing here?” she demanded whilst keeping her wand pointed right between his eyes.

Malfoy only smirked. He made no move to draw a wand or otherwise defend himself. After what seemed like an eternity, he answered. “I suppose I'm here to teach you to become at least somewhat less worthless at brewing potions. Probably futile….”

“Stop having me on, I'm warning you,” she shot back. “Why would you think that I'd have anything to do with you, of all people?”

“I just told you to stop flattering yourself,” he repeated more emphatically. He picked the Potions book off the table so she could see he was serious. “When all the seventh-year tutors made their picks, you were the only pure-blood left. I have my standards, you know.”

It was a lie, of course, but it could have been true, and the Weasley girl would have no way of knowing the difference.

“What makes you think that I'd want to be tutored by you in anything, Ferretface?” she threw the words back at him.

“Because you're afraid of the Howler you'll get from your mum when McGonagall the Miserable pulls that Prefect badge from your shirt after you flunk Potions,” Malfoy said in an insufferably patronising voice. “And then there's….”

She decided to insult him right back, “Figjam.”

“What?”

“That stands for `fuck I'm good, just ask me',” she recited with a snide smile of her own on her face.

“Well, I am,” Draco retorted in his snarkiest voice. “I took the O-plus in Potions last term. Not even your precious Scarhead or his worthless swot of a Mudblood girlfriend beat me out. Now do you want tutoring, or do you just want to keep flunking Slughorn's class and being a disgrace to what's left of your pure-blood heritage?”

A pause.

Reluctantly, she nodded.

Half an hour later Ginny was, if not happy with Malfoy as her tutor, at least satisfied. He certainly knew his Potions. And whilst his teaching style was snide and sarcastic, well, she had survived several years of Snape. In fact, she had done better in Snape's classes than now, with that bloated excuse for a pig, Slughorn, teaching Potions.

Still, O.W.L.-standard Potions was hard work, and Ginny needed all the help she could get. She was stirring salamander blood into a Strengthening Solution when for some reason a bit of the mixture sloshed over the side of the cauldron. From there it spilt into the fire underneath, and the result was a plume of foul-smelling green smoke.

Tutor Malfoy had his wand out so fast; it was almost as though he anticipated something happening. He rolled his eyes at Ginny as he Vanished the mess.

“You simply must be steadier than that,” he criticised. He shook his head a bit, and then his pale face softened as he had an idea. He turned to his elegant (if by now slightly worn) rucksack and produced a shiny mahogany box about the size of a large textbook. A whispered incantation and half-hidden wand movement undid the hasp and opened the lid. Inside was a complicated looking silver instrument surrounded by well over a dozen separate and equally shiny components.

“What's that?” Ginny asked at the sight of the intricate apparatus.

“Surely you've seen Programmeable Cauldron Stirrer before,” Draco replied in the infuriatingly patronising tone he had mastered.

“Of course,” Ginny spat back at him, “just none so elaborate as all that.”

“Oh, I forgot,” Draco sneered. “Before that two-faced Scrimgeour decided to genuflect in the Muggle-lovers' direction, this probably cost more than your family's entire hovel.”

Ginny had had enough. “Screw you, Malfoy!” she shouted at him. “I don't need this! Fuck you and the broom you flew in on! I'd rather fail than endure one more minute of your foul mouth! But you can be damn sure McGonagall and Slughorn both will know exactly why I refuse to work with you any longer…!” With that she angrily started throwing her books and Potions kit in into her rucksack.

Draco was quite taken aback. He had stupidly overplayed his hand. “Weasley … stop it. They'll kick you off the Quidditch team too…. That was … too much, even for me. I don't want to make you leave….”

Ginny had finished zipping up her rucksack whilst Draco was blundering about. Hefting it to one shoulder, she stopped and looked at him strangely.

“Malfoy, what the Hell are you trying to do?” she asked. Still she kept her wand out and more or less trained on the blond boy.

“Trying is right, Weasley,” he squirmed uncomfortably. He could not let her walk out the door just yet - not without ruining himself in the process. “I'm … I'm … sorry. I went over the line….”

He was not looking at her as he said this.

Ginny would not have been more surprised if Voldemort had appeared playing the ukulele and singing “Tiptoe Through The Tulips.” “You … you just apologised,” she blurted out.

“Yeah, so what?” Draco responded, deflated but still rather surly. “Just don't tell anyone, okay? I'm … I'm not the same - not after the bloody Ministry took almost everything my family owned. I really need … er … the 500 Galleons the school pays for peer tutors.”

It was the best Draco could do on the spur of the moment - even if it gave the Weasley girl leverage over him, again, for the time being.

“So, you'll stop being so hateful?” she asked, not missing what had just happened.

“I'll try, anyway,” Draco replied. “Look - here, let me show you how to use this thing,” he said, gesturing towards the fancy cauldron stirrer. “I've got a spare that I'll lend you after you get the hang of this.”

Whilst still on her guard, Ginny relented. She would rather learn Potions from a penitent Draco Malfoy than go crawling back to the “Great Hermione, God Almighty” (as she called her in private) for help.

For the next half-hour Draco proved as good as his word. He was tolerably courteous as he instructed her on how to unfold and set up the three-legged contraption and how to connect and use the various attachments. There was even a beater that could do passable double duty making lattes.

After learning the spells that made the thing work, Ginny had to admit Draco's equipment was quite elegant. Only the cubical centrepiece on the very top seemed at all unwieldy. Even that had its benefits, after Draco showed her how to use it as an impromptu handle to hold the entire apparatus in place.

By the time Draco announced that it was time to clean up and move on, Ginny felt that she had made good progress - not to mention having taught Draco a lesson that she, anyway, would never forget.

He stayed behind to Scourgify the several cauldrons used during the lesson. As she was leaving, Draco turned to her and commented, “It's none of my business, but I'm surprised you settled. You never seemed like the type….”

Ginny regarded him with somewhat narrowed eyes as she demanded that he explain himself. “What do you mean, `settled'?” she asked warily.

“For Longbottom, that is,” Draco replied slowly. “I just don't like the idea of any pure-blood coming off second best to that manky Mudblood….”

“You're right,” Ginny cut him off coldly. “It is none of your business.”

With that the flame-haired young lady left the platinum blond Slytherin alone.

As soon as she was out of his sight, Draco angrily banished the remaining cauldrons, not bothering to clean them at all. “What I'd give to be able to Cruciate that Muggle-loving bint until her brains seep out of her ears,” he muttered to himself.

Not only was Draco miffed with his erstwhile pupil, but he was almost equally annoyed with himself. He had come very close to ruining everything. To salvage the situation he had been forced into abasement - to her. Even though largely self-inflicted, Malfoys were not among those who forgave slights easily.

Draco retreated into the walk-in ingredients closet. Closing the door, he sealed it with a Colloportus Charm. Then he pulled a penknife from his robes and flicked open the longest blade. He muttered an enchantment, and the blade briefly emitted yellowish-green phosphorescent light. He slipped the blade beneath the silver cube atop the cauldron stirrer.

With a soft but audible pop, the blade's protrusion broke the Sticking Charm that had affixed the cube. It fell off into Draco's waiting hand. He looked at the bottom and sighed deeply with relief.

There, in the centre of the cube's bottom side, was the persistent green dot his instructions had stated would indicate that he had succeeded in obtaining a usable reading. A reading of what, Draco did not know.

That was none of his business, either.

All that remained was to follow instructions. Those were to send an owl to Caractacus Burke using the codeword “Rosebud” to signify a successful result. Burke would send his purple heron to procure the device itself, suitably Transfigured. Then Draco might, or might not, receive further instructions.

Ginny also had a secret as she sped back towards Gryffindor Tower.

All the way back, she pondered Draco's last words. Had she really settled? Had she given up too easily?

It had not escaped her notice that Draco had seemed every bit as skilled at Potions as his braggadocio had proclaimed.

Squirreled away in Ginny's room was a purloined copy of some pages from Ron's book. Just what had possessed her to make those copies, she still could not say. But if the Half Blood Prince were to be believed….

Maybe she would not have to settle after all.

* * * *

Hermione waylaid Harry upon returning to Gryffindor Tower after her visit with the powers that be. She all but dragged him to her favourite swotting location - her out-of-the-way nook in the bowels of the Hogwarts Library. All the way there, she had gripped his hand, at times almost painfully hard.

When he arrived, Harry mused it would be an excellent place for a snog.

But not today.

Hermione was channeling her “worrywart in full worry” persona.

“Harry,” she whispered urgently. “I think we need to be very careful. There's something going on, and I don't know what it is.”

“I'll say,” Harry unsurprisingly agreed. “But I think we skated on this one. I was so sure Dumbledore was going to bust us for last night. But no, he didn't seem to have a clue. I got away with leaving the goblin guard in the forest and sending Dobby to Blackwalls. What did he want from you?”

“Nothing, as far as I could tell,” Hermione answered. It was a question worth pondering. “He just wanted to discuss what he called my `phoenix second nature.' Professor McGonagall, though, she made me give up that key to the flat…. Something about an accident involving the goblins. Dobby and Slamdor must have concocted some diversion. McGonagall mentioned some kind of fire.”

“It's amazing, but they don't seem to suspect a thing,” Harry commented.

“I wouldn't be so sure,” Hermione warned. “In fact, I'm not sure at all. Neither seemed the slightest bit interested in what we knew. I was so nervous, I was ready to confess all and throw myself on her mercy, but she didn't let me get a word in edgewise. It's almost like she didn't want to find out.”

“Let's not look a gift Hippogriff in the beak, then” Harry replied. He turned and gave her a heart-melting smile. “And you know what? I can't wait to do it again. You were wonderful….”

He leaned in and started kissing her.

Hermione let him, of course - reluctantly at first, but soon responding with equal ardor. Before letting things go too far, she asked him a question. “What did McGonagall want with you?”

“Oh, that,” Harry replied. He realised he had news he had forgotten to tell her. “She wants me to be temporary Gryffindor Quidditch Captain until Katie gets better….”

In the half-light, Harry did not notice Hermione's eyes light up.

“…But I told her I didn't want to. I'm pants at Quidditch strategy. I always ignored Oliver's squiggling arrows. I'm a loner. I told her to pick Ron instead….”

Harry likewise missed Hermione frown at his explanation.

“…But she insisted. So I finally agreed to be co-captain with Ron.”

The light was back in Hermione's eyes. “That's wonderful, Harry. Do you know what that means?”

“More work,” Harry complained, “but hopefully not too much more.”

“It's better than that,” Hermione told him. “Much better, I'd say.” She gave him one of those immodest looks that she saved for him only.

Harry perked up. “I'm listening,” he replied.

“That means you can use the Prefects' Bathroom,” Hermione informed him. “Quidditch Captains have the same rights to it as Prefects. I don't know if McGonagall even thought about that, but it's ironic - less that an hour after taking the visitor's flat key away from me, she gave us an even better place….”

Looking confused, Harry did not seem to be following.

“…for having sex, Harry.” She whispered in his ear.

That straightened him up. An expectant smile came to his lips, but after thinking about things, his bewildered look returned. “But I've got to believe that's against the rules,” he remarked.

“Oh, it certainly is,” Hermione quickly agreed. “First offence for being caught shagging in the Prefects' Bathroom is fifty House Points each. Second offense means you turn in your badge. But then … do you know how many infractions have been punished in the last 200 years?”

“No,” Harry replied, “and I'll bet that's not in Hogwarts: A History either.”

“Exactly zero,” Hermione answered her own question and ignored the rest. “And you know why?”

“Of course I don't,” Harry admitted. “I haven't been a Prefect.”

“Because of the `System.' Every Prefect who wants can be in on it,” Hermione revealed. “The Head Boy and Girl run it. Both parties have to have access rights, but once any Prefect is of age, all he or she has to do is ask one of the Heads for the Silver and Gold Charm….”

“But I'm not of age, yet,” Harry pointed out.

“Fortunately, only one of us has to be,” Hermione answered. “Not only that, the sign-up sheet has a hex on it. That's where my idea for the spell that nailed that sneak Edgecombe came from. Once we sign up, we're in. There's a diving board in there, you know. I wonder what kind of rhythms that could generate?” She eyed Harry with a very suggestive leer.

“Hermione!” Harry exclaimed. “I've seen it. Doing it on the diving board? That's about as … er … exposed as we could possibly get.”

“That's the beauty of the Silver and Gold Charm,” she told him. “The doorknob to the pool area in the Prefects' Bathroom is ordinarily silver. However, at any time between six and midnight, that charm can turn the doorknob gold. That signals everybody else that the Bathroom's … umm … in use by someone entitled to the Charm. In an emergency, any knock on the door gives whoever's inside five minutes to get decent.”

“What are we waiting for, then?” Harry said. “Let's go find Carmichael and sign up.”

“I'm willing,” assured Hermione, placing a steadying hand on his arm. “But we have to be careful.”

“Well, you've got your Potion, haven't you?” he murmured whilst nuzzling her neck. “And if there's anything I need do, just let me know.”

“No, it's not that,” Hermione fretted. “Last night, some things happened, and I don't know what they were. That bothers me….”

“…Yeah, I know you always want to know everything about everything,” Harry interrupted. “But don't worry, I wasn't really close to drowning, and I'll pay more attention next time.”

“Oh, silly you,” Hermione chortled whilst giving his arm an affectionate punch. “Although I am interested in figuring that out, I think you know full well what I'm talking about.”

“Umm-hmm,” Harry agreed as he manœuvred to kiss her again. “Some impressive magic broke through both your Mirror Charm and the goblins' shield at the same time.”

After coming up for air again, Hermione returned to her worry. “You know exactly when it happened - not before or after. That's why I think … the two of us together … I think we need to avoid that….”

“What!? Didn't you just say…?” Harry pulled back if he had been burnt. “It was great…. You were great…. We were great. I can't believe you don't want to do it again.”

“I don't mean not doing it again,” Hermione stood her ground. “I'm sorry it came out like that. I mean we … we just shouldn't peak at the same time. When it was just you, there was no problem … same when it was just me. It was only at the end we both simultaneously….”

Harry still looked at her rather mutinously. “Well, I guess that means ladies first, because you saw me. I … I think all of us blokes … when we're finished, we're pretty well … finished.”

“Well … from personal observation, I'd certainly say you're over your little problem.” The more-than-friendly squeeze she gave Harry's midsection, belied her mock air of clinical detachment. “If you want to do me first, well I'm not going to complain. But you're not going to get away with playing the martyr … not anymore.”

“I know … it's just - well, weird,” Harry mused. He seemed distracted by something philosophical. “It's … it's really like what Fleur said. Great power can be loosed by the act of love….”

When he looked back at Hermione, she was staring at him - open mouthed, wide-eyed, and pale. “Harry?” she asked slowly, “exactly why and when were you discussing sex with Fleur?”

Oops.

Fleur's abortive advance was in that accumulation of things that Harry had always meant to tell Hermione. But more important things kept taking precedence, and he had never gotten around to it. Until now, that is.

No more lies. Take a deep breath.

“It was whilst you were hurt, Hermione,” he revealed. “It started with her pulling me out of class. Then she told me about the Order of Merlin ceremony. Somehow that led to her telling me how much she wanted to `help' me…. The next thing I know, she's asking me if I want to go to the ball with her….”

“You said `no,' of course,” Hermione commented evenly.

“I said `no,' sure,” Harry confirmed. “But it wasn't all that easy. I got Veelaed, big time….”

Hermione gasped and clutched his hand.

“…And before I realised what was going on, she was acting like she wanted to take me out for a test drive there and then….”

Hermione's grip on Harry's hand tightened.

“But … she's staff…. And where was `there'?” Hermione asked, trying witchfully to conceal her deep discomfort. She knew that, compared to Fleur, she was as plain as unflavoured oatmeal.

“Her little office near the Charms classroom,” Harry recalled. “It might have been a storage room before - that is, if it was there at all….”

Hogwarts was like that. When another room was needed, it seemed to appear more or less by itself.

“…From class, she took me there, shut the door, and I don't know what might have happened if I hadn't figured out the Veela stuff just in time….”

“So, what did happen?” Hermione asked anxiously. Her grip on his hand remained just-this-side-of-painfully firm.

“I used Occlumency; she Veelaed even more; and I think I had one of my little accidents,” Harry recounted. “The power kind,” he added hastily. “She finally let go when I told her that you were all I wanted….”

Hermione's grip relaxed as she threw both arms around him. With heartfelt relief, she confessed, “Oh, Harry, I feel like kissing you right now!”

“Well, don't let me stop you,” he replied. For several minutes, he was not allowed - nor inclined - to say anything more.

When they broke apart, a more confident Hermione returned to her original subject. “So what was it that Fleur said about sex, exactly?”

“I can't give you exactly, because I wasn't exactly taking notes,” Harry prefaced. “But at some point, when she was trying to interest me, she mentioned something about it being possible for sex to generate really powerful magic.”

“After last night, I'm inclined to think she's right,” Hermione added. “For various reasons, I'm interested in finding out what Fleur knows.”

“Fine,” Harry agreed, “just come with me, will you? I don't relish talking about this with her alone.”

“I wouldn't have it any other way,” Hermione told him absolutely truthfully.

* * * *

It was late. With early classes the next day, Harry and Hermione were saying good night to one another when Ron stomped into Gryffindor tower, looking and acting upset about something.

Harry and Hermione had been training - Harry learning to assert Animagus powers with McGonagall, and Hermione acquainting herself with her inner phoenix courtesy of Dumbledore. With everything else going on that evening, they had not seen Ron. Harry had yet to tell him the news.

As they approached, Ron waved off Hermione and indicated a need to speak with Harry alone. Hermione was knackered, so she shrugged and gave Harry a peck on the cheek before disappearing up the staircase to the girls' dormitory.

Not interested in a public conversation, Ron more or less dragged Harry to the boys' dormitory and closeted them in his four-poster. Harry noted that it was decorated with quite a few rather skimpily dressed wizard photographs of Cho. The girl's images dove out of sight when Harry entered.

“What's the big deal?” Harry asked. Ron was so insistent about whatever it was that Harry waited with his own news.

“It's Hermione,” the redhead began. “I want you to tell….”

“Why didn't you tell Hermione yourself?” Harry cut in, annoyed.

“Because I didn't want another knock-down, drag-out row with her,” Ron declared. “I know she doesn't like Cho very much….”

“What about Cho?” Harry demanded. He was suddenly very much on edge.

“I don't bloody well know, and that's part of the problem,” Ron continued bluntly. “It took everything I had just to pry out of her that whatever's bothering her has something to do with Hermione.”

“Why bring us into it?” Harry resisted. “Why can't Cho just deal with Hermione?” He did not want to be in the middle of another conflict between his best friend and his now more-than-best friend.

“Because she can't; that's all I know,” Ron persisted, his voice rising. “I know Hermione's jealous - but that was way back in last term. She's blinking won that one, anyway. So why can't she just give it a rest?”

“Won what? Give what a rest?” Harry retorted; his own voice also rose.

“You, dammit,” Ron almost yelled. “All I want is you to keep Hermione away from Cho. I don't want another confrontation. I mean, I still like Hermione - as a friend - but don't push me on this…. Cho's really upset. She doesn't want to be the next Marietta.”

“All right, but I still think you should to talk to her about this yourself. You don't need me as your messenger,” Harry stood his ground.

“What I don't need is any more of her ruddy lectures,” Ron growled. “I don't need Hermione rubbing it in how she's all so superior….” Ron hissed the word. “…because she's got you and Cho doesn't. Cho's my bloody girlfriend, and Hermione's yours. But it's one Hell of a put down - of me - for her to be telling Cho that she wanted you first.”

“Hermione never wanted you first,” Harry spat back. “I thought you knew….”

“No, dammit, I meant that Cho wanted you first. You can let up yourself, thank you very much,” Ron replied testily.

“Being an ingrate doesn't become you,” Harry responded in kind.

“Oh really,” Ron scowled. For a second Harry even thought Ron might even pull his wand, but nothing happened. Instead, Ron continued testily, “And just what should I be grateful about? It's not like you gave up Cho for my sake. You didn't really have a choice….”

“I had a choice, and I made it,” Harry came down hard. “But you really ought to be grateful for this.” He extracted from his pocket one of the Gryffindor Quidditch captain badges Professor McGonagall had given him and tossed it in Ron's general direction.

Ron's eyes went wide even before he caught it.

“What the Hell?” Ron spluttered. “How did you…?”

“McGonagall called me in today,” Harry told him. “Katie's still in a bad way. Nobody knows exactly how she was cursed. The House needed a replacement captain, and she asked me to do it….”

“But then why are you giving this to me?” Ron uncomprehendingly answered. “She picked you - just like I knew she bloody well would. You can't just turn around and say I'm captain. It doesn't work that way.”

“No it doesn't, Ron,” Harry shot back. “And I don't either. I turned McGonagall down. I've got too damn many things to do, and a Seeker's not a good captain; you know that. I told her that you were the right choice.”

“So she went along with you?” Ron said. “I'm impressed.”

“No, she refused to make you captain,” Harry told him flatly. “…Said you were a quitter, she did. I told her you'd never quit on Quidditch. Finally, she compromised and made us co-captains - temporary co-captains, that is.” Harry produced the second badge from of his pocket. “But I told her you were going to be running the team….”

Ron's nasty mood vanished. “Well, don't that beat all!” he exclaimed. “Co-captains, the two of us. Share and share alike and all that. Finally, something just us can work on together.”

“That's about the shape of it,” Harry concurred.

“You know the captain has his own private room, don't you?” Ron half whispered as if revealing some great secret. Ron's improved attitude since being told he was co-captain was nothing short of amazing.

Harry considered Ron's point. “I never really paid it much mind, but Oliver and Angelina…. You're right. I never did see them around much before matches, until they were ready for their pep talks.”

“Well, captains do have their own quarters,” Ron continued. “Charlie told me about it once. I guess that means `tie on the old door handle,' eh mate?”

“What for,” Harry reacted. “I mean, we've changed together loads of times. It's no big deal.”

“Don't you get it? That's `Private Room,' with a capital `P',” Ron reiterated whilst shaking his head at his friend's fundamental cluelessness. “I'm talking about me and Cho, or you and Hermione. Just wrap your tie around the door handle, so you won't be disturbed, and I'll do the same.”

“Ron!” Harry shook his head in exasperation. “Don't you think about anything but sex?”

It was the Potter calling the Weasley black.

“Not if I can help it,” Ron responded. “But in honour of this….” He held up the captain's badge. “…I'll make sure to think about Quidditch.”

* * * *

The Headmaster was late. Harry, who was becoming more punctual - now that Hermione had taken it upon herself to monitor his schedule - cooled his heels. Not surprisingly his thoughts turned to his amazing fiancée.

What amazed him most was how effortless everything had suddenly become with her. One night of shared physical passion seemed to have transformed everything. Before, he had endured a host of difficulties (and worse) that would have discouraged almost anyone - and had almost defeated him several times. Before, he had needed to analyse his every move. Now, it seemed he almost could do no wrong. Or when he did, it no longer mattered as much.

Now, Hermione could barely keep her hands off him - and the vice was definitely versa. Lovemaking, once an almost unattainable concept, had become something that, if still not a regular occurrence, was almost constantly being planned, discussed, or thought about. Harry knew he wanted it. Hermione was, if anything, even more enthusiastic. Tuesday night had been a revelation - it was revealed that she did indeed want him every bit as much as he wanted her.

But not everything was peaches and cream. Earlier today, Harry had waited for Hermione on tenterhooks after she finished teaching her split session D.A. meeting in the Room of Requirement. He knew he had to make up if he wanted to make out.

They had managed a bit of a spat. He had gotten quite cross with her earlier, at lunch, when she pooh-poohed the sight of what he nicknamed the Evil Heron (after Hermione identified the species) either bringing something to Malfoy in the Great Hall or taking something from him.

Harry suffered a disadvantage. Because he did not fancy another lecture about running off looking for trouble, he could not tell her what he knew about that bird - his bit of impromptu spying on Malfoy in Hogsmeade. Stuck between a rock and a hard place, he had lost his temper.

Not a good thing.

He was in luck, however. She did not hold grudges - at least against him. Once Harry convinced himself to apologise, it was instantly accepted. It certainly helped that her session had gone well, and her overall mood was upbeat.

He even broke down and told her about his Hogsmeade adventure. Her resultant lecture was not nearly as severe as he had dreaded. Hermione wondered if Draco might somehow be in league with Cho. They both agreed to watch for contact between the two.

That was good.

The aftermath was even better - and a great testament to Hermione's efficient planning. Despite their tiff, she had still paid the necessary call upon Eddie Carmichael and obtained their after-hours access rights to the Prefects' Bathroom.

It was a measure of either the respect or the fear that Hermione engendered in the Head Boy that he had given them both access, without Harry having to do anything more than eventually stopping by and signing his name. The Head Boy knew, without having to be told, what - or more precisely, who - Hermione had in mind.

Harry had helped, albeit inadvertently. Carmichael knew Harry was entitled to Bathroom access because he had seen him wearing his badge, after more or less being coerced into it. Once Ron had his captain's badge, it stayed pinned to his chest. Nothing short of a fatal Severing Charm could have wrenched it away from his cold, dead fingers. Harry felt no similar urge, but once Professor McGonagall got wind - that took maybe half an hour - she all but forced Harry wear his. She would not permit anyone to think that Ron was sole captain.

It worked. Carmichael knew, and as a result Hermione had no trouble getting access, because Harry was entitled as well.

“Access” in this instance was thirty minutes of precious privacy. That ruled out the elaborate foreplay of their first time. But as they were both quite ready and quite randy, that was not a noticeable drawback. For good measure, Hermione had learnt a Topical Anæsthetic Charm from one of her Healer's manuals. She applied it to Harry, first, and then herself, to avoid the dreaded simultaneity. Neither fancied wrecking the Prefects' Bathroom in the same manner as the guest flat, and they were successful. No blinding pink flashes materialised….

Now if only he could end the cold war developing between his two best friends.

Hermione had somehow offended Cho. That, in turn, offended Ron. Hermione was offended, first that Ron enlisted Harry to keep her away from Cho - particularly that Ron lacked the stones to tell her himself. All the offence put Harry, once again, in the middle.

Harry never found out exactly what Hermione said to Cho. She told him vaguely it involved “girl stuff.” She was not inclined to volunteer anything more, so he did not press. He, of course, he played the traditional “stand by your woman” role - that went without saying - but for once, Harry was not positive his fiancée was entirely in the right.

“Good evening, Mister Potter. I apologise for my unavoidable tardiness….” Dumbledore had returned, putting an end to Harry's meanderings. “I have learned additional information about Tom Riddle that I wish to share with you.”

“Now?” Harry asked sceptically. He had been expecting to meet a crew of goblins intent upon rendering the remains of the Basilisk in the Chamber - not another of Dumbledore's private lessons.

“Not now, I am sorry, because our guests await,” the Headmaster answered. “But I would like to schedule another of our sessions, perhaps for Monday night.”

Harry agreed, but with reservations. Presently, his curiosity about Dumbledore's discovery could not match his interest in ensuring that Hermione obtained her chosen costume for the fast approaching masked ball. Soon Harry and the Headmaster were descending the moving spiral staircase leading to the Chamber of Secrets.

They halted at the gargoyle guarding the tower entrance. Slamdor was waiting. He led a contingent of a dozen goblins, most wielding boarding knives at least a metre long. Also present was Bladvak, looking somewhat misplaced in his formal civilian clothes. His presence was a complete surprise to Harry.

Bladvak was not happy. He was even more disgruntled than out of place.

Dumbledore had learnt a lesson about leaving Harry alone in Hogwarts with goblins who treated him as royalty. Thus, the Headmaster personally escorted the motley party to the Chamber of Secrets. When the stairs stopped moving, the goblins filed into the stairwell after the Headmaster and before Harry.

Immediately Bladvak fell back to talk to Harry in relative privacy.

In an undertone intended for Harry's ears only, the goblin mumbled, “Impratraxis, you I have failed, to say afraid am I….” Abruptly, Bladvak prostrated himself on the stairs. Fortunately they had yet to resume their downward movement.

Harry was caught by surprise. He stood stock still. Fortunately, the rest of the party following after Dumbledore had already disappeared from sight. He stammered, “Huh? Er … Anyor, please. What happened?”

Bladvak wearily climbed to his feet. A cast of defeat in his eye - the first time Harry had seen that look on a goblin face - he said, “Afraid that too long waited I.”

With a small jerk, the stairs restarted. Bladvak eyed the moving stone, as if contemplating whether to throw himself at Harry's feet again.

“Don't, please,” Harry intervened. “Just tell me exactly what's going on.”

“Malfoy Manor, seize cannot we.” The words were precise, but Bladvak's tone betrayed utter disgust. “The debt, satisfied has been it.”

Shocking news, indeed.

Harry asked the obvious question. “But where would somebody like Draco Malfoy get that kind of money - it's well over a million Galleons….”

“Bizarre is it, but true,” Bladvak muttered. “Came did it from … from the outside. Totally unexpected….”

“Who?”

“A wizard. By the name of Cassius Blake now goes he,” Bladvak answered, as the two slowly passed the point where the surrounding stone suddenly lightened. “Galleons has he, many of them, from old Muggle oil concessions … from Calouste Gulbenkian. Yesterday, at Gringotts with some document appears did he. Recited did it that to half the concession Abraxas Malfoy was entitled. More than enough, was it.”

“Who's Abraxas Malfoy?” Harry asked.

“Father of Lucius,” Bladvak responded. “Dead is he, of dragon pox believe I. This Cassius, half of his account to Malfoy to transfer wishes he. Summoned, am I because in Malfoy matters involved am I. For authenticity to check the document, offer I. Refuses, does he. No basis it to demand have I, so the transaction approve must I….”

It was all just too coincidental - that on the eve of being dispossessed, Draco all of a sudden came into a great sum of money. “Couldn't you demand that the document be tested?” Harry asked. “It all sounds dodgy to me.”

“Cassius Blake, disadvantaged, the only one was he,” Bladvak replied. “To test the document could require only he.”

“So what happened, then?”

“Honour must Gringotts the transfer order,” the goblin explained. “That was done. On the Malfoy account a lis pendens had we, upon being received the funds, activated was that order. Automatically satisfied, the debt of yours was. Richer are you….”

“As if I needed that,” Harry spat.

“…but free and clear now the Malfoy Wiltshire estate is.” Bladvak continued. “To Draco Malfoy, belongs now Malfoy Manor.”

“What about Lucius Malfoy?” Harry asked.

“A non-person, is he, at least the Bank's perspective is that,” Bladvak answered.

Harry persisted, “So all the orders against him…?”

“Mister Potter, please make your way to the Chamber at once,” Dumbledore's magically amplified voice swept through the stairwell.

Bladvak's news - unsettling as it was - had little immediacy. Harry had all the evidence he needed to be convinced of Draco Malfoy's Death Eater ties. The attempt to dispossess the Slytherin had been more of a grudge than necessity - more because he hated Draco Malfoy than for any other reason. Harry needed neither Malfoy Manor nor yet more cash. But, as long as Malfoy stayed away from him … him and Hermione, that is….

It was a subject for brooding rather than for action.

Together in silence, Harry and Bladvak exited the stairwell together. They passed through the short passageway, into the Chamber of Secrets, and encountered a clot of goblins talking amongst themselves. Dumbledore, acting as little more than a glorified chaperone, stood to one side. He studied the various reptilian bas-reliefs emblazoning the Chamber's walls.

Only when Bladvak almost involuntarily choked out, “my word,” did Harry realise that all was not routine.

Bladvak had stopped dead in his tracks and was regarding the Basilisk corpse with admiration bordering on awe. “Huge, was that Basilisk,” he commented. “Many centuries old, must have been it.”

With that Bladvak joined the goblins gathered around the massive, sickly green corpse. Holding blades taller than they were, the goblins chattered away in animated Gobbledygook, occasionally gesturing towards either the Basilisk or (respectfully) at Harry.

Presently, Bladvak brought another goblin to meet Harry. Evidently, he was introducing the commander of the rendering squad.

The unfamiliar goblin immediately threw himself at Harry's feet. Seeing their commander's action, the rest of the goblin rendering party followed suit.

Harry shook his head. This kind of behaviour got old in a hurry. “Anyor,” Harry demanded brusquely. “Now what's the problem?”

The goblins scrambled to their feet, and their commander told Harry, “Much larger and longer dead than anticipated we is this Basilisk. Impratraxis, a question to ask may I?”

“Umm … sure,” Harry replied. “As long as it's not anything personal.”

“Never so impertinent would be any of us,” the goblin averred. “It's just … youthful even now are you. When killed this Basilisk, how old were you?”

“Er … still twelve, yet,” Harry answered. “At the end of my second year at Hogwarts, since my birthday's during the holidays.”

The lead goblin looked shocked. After a moment's pause, he asked again. “Impratraxis, told have been I that by yourself this Basilisk you killed.”

“Not exactly,” Harry demurred, starting to feel embarrassed. “I was the only person fighting it, but I had help from Dumbledore's phoenix. It gave me Godric Gryffindor's sword, and I stabbed that thing in the head.”

At that, the goblins could not help but whisper amongst themselves, even though that was considered impolite.

“Impratraxis, lest disrespectful seem we,” the goblin commander replied, “please understand, rendering Basilisks for over sixty of your years have I. The largest ever seen, is this. More similar to our legends, is it. To slay it required would at least a dozen of us. But you … killed it did you - alone and with but a sword. Impatok Ragnok, a wise leader is he, you to have brought to us.”

Harry hardly felt disrespected. Other than the one he had killed, he had never seen any other Basilisk, so he had nothing to compare it to.

The goblins were an underground magical people. Whilst Basilisk encounters were not commonplace, that beast was a known risk against which goblins regularly took precautions.

Mostly from self defence, the goblins had long ago killed off most really large, really old Basilisks in the British Isles. Hogwarts Castle, with its magical defences and (in this case) its secret chambers, was one of very few places where goblins had never been. Hogwarts was one of the few places in Britain where a Basilisk could survive for many centuries.

Dispatching that monster single-handed had always been a big deal, even to Harry. Only now did he understand how truly big a deal it truly was.

The rest of the goblins kept finalising their preparations. Unfamiliar goblin magic made their boarding knives glow red and lengthen by another quarter metre. When they went to work, their magical blades cleaved the highly resistant Basilisk hide only with great difficulty. Had Harry had been so inclined, he could have significantly expanded his vocabulary of goblin curse words.

Harry gravitated to Dumbledore. Soon, however, his superficial chat with the Headmaster about the Ministry's political situation was interrupted by the only female goblin of the group.

“For intruding, please me forgive Impratraxis,” she spoke self-effacingly, “but the Sav… er … your … er … Hermione, where is she?”

“Studying,” Harry answered. “Why?”

“Her measurements to take need I,” the female goblin explained. “The mafaswele … er … princess' robes that are requested, she … er … Hermione…. Unusual, to us is her physique.”

This goblin had a point. Humans and goblins were much differently shaped. Harry's request for a set of formal princess robes to fit a human was undoubtedly unprecedented.

Unfortunately, Hogwarts' anti-Apparition restrictions reached the Chamber of Secrets. Salazar had not included a Floo.

Harry tried his mirror three times, to Dumbledore's bemusement, and had only his own reflection to show for his efforts. His mirror connection evidently could not penetrate what must be one hundred metres of solid rock. Finally, he conceded, “I'll have to fetch her.”

Harry turned to go, but Dumbledore put his good hand on the boy's shoulder. “That will not be necessary,” Dumbledore declared. “I shall take care of it.”

The aged mage made a circular motion with his good hand. A white cloud issued from it, materialised into a bird of some sort, shot off at high speed, and quickly disappeared.

“What…? What was that?” Harry asked, plainly impressed.

“My Patronus,” Dumbledore advised. “Patronuses can be utilised for communication. Your Patronus is by all accounts excellent, so I can teach you how to do that.”

“I thought your Patronus was a phoenix,” Harry commented. He knew what a phoenix Patronus looked like because Hermione now had one. Whatever Dumbledore conjured, it was not a phoenix.

“No longer,” Dumbledore sighed. “That was but a peacock. As I am no longer the possessor of a phoenix, I am no longer gifted with a phoenix Patronus.”

* * * *

Hermione was ensconced in her favorite studying haunt deep in the mustiest part of the Hogwarts library. Harry had an appointment with some goblins. She begged off because studying was more appetising (not to mention productive) than watching dissection of a huge carcass - even the Basilisk Harry had killed.

She was finally regaining the upper hand over her studies. Nevertheless, she remained concerned about her “Institution of Excellence” project. She had tried every additional ingredient that she could think of, but the Wolfsbane Potion seemed to have insurmountable inherent limitations. Whilst it counteracted the mental symptoms of a werewolf transformation, it could not prevent the transformation itself.

She tried thinking more outside the crypt. The hidebound Wizard World rarely sought interdisciplinary solutions - but Hermione brought Muggle sensibilities into play. Maybe the answer lay in combining Wolfsbane with either a Charm or some sort of Transfiguration. On the fringes of her memory lurked some story (quite likely false) about something ex-Professor Lockhart had tried…. It was a lead. She planned to research it….

Damn.

Unbidden thoughts began infiltrating her brain and distracting her from the matters at hand. Unbidden thoughts about the last time she was with Harry….

Damn.

Her first seventeen years had passed without any great need to partake of matters carnal. But now, that seemed all she wanted to think about. Harry was corrupting her.

Correction. He had corrupted her - thoroughly.

Last Tuesday, she had gotten the necessary permissions from Carmichael. Fortunately, she had the Head Boy thoroughly whipped - courtesy of some bootleg Baruffio's Brain Elixir during the prior Term. He was not inclined to be overly nosy.

But then she and Harry had had their brief spat. In her opinion, he was altogether unhealthily fixated on Draco Malfoy.

Harry had no basis for being that upset - just because some oddly coloured heron had collected something from the Slytherin during the lunch break. Worse, Harry could not even articulate his reasons. She told him he needed to pay attention to more important things. He had not appreciated that, had raised his voice to her, and then stomped off.

But later he apologised - he always did. When he told her the truth, she even agreed with him. If Malfoy indeed had anything to do with Cho, well…. In no time they were again swapping ideas and theories.

And makeup sex was wonderful….

Except for the diving board incident, which was not amongst her better ideas. Even with Harry's Stabilising Charm, the diving board proved uncomfortably narrow. In its natural state, the board was even worse, its rhythm too slow and its movements too large to be suitably erotic. And it was unstable. For their troubles, they were thoroughly dunked when they (with Hermione on top) bounced themselves right off the board.

But whilst the diving board had been a (back) flop, the inflatable water lilo Harry conjured once they hit water was an unqualified success. As they left the Prefect's Bathroom with naught but forty-five seconds to spare, their needs had been satisfied, if not satiated.

Had they not been required to turn in their Time-turners, it could have been even better.

Hermione wrenched her mind back to the here and now and completed her Ancient Runes assignment. She was putting finishing touches on the last of several sketches of Viking-era runes when her mind started wandering - back to the forbidden topic.

How much longer would Harry be?

How wonderful it would be if he snuck in under his Invisibility Cloak, slipped beneath this large oaken table groaning with her books, and gave her a thorough tongue lashing right where she needed it?

Yes, that would be nice.

A streaking flash of white light interrupted her dreamy, randy thoughts. Before she knew it, the flash was upon her. Before she could react, it vanished within her.

She could hear - maybe feel - Dumbledore's voice telling her, “Miss Granger, I need you to come to the Chamber of Secrets as soon as you can.”

When the voice in her head finished its message, Hermione realised that she knew exactly where she needed to go and how to get there. She even knew the password to get past the Headmaster's guardian gargoyle.

But she did not know why she was summoned.

She did know that Basilisks were dangerous. They had poisonous fangs and eyes that could kill at a glance.

“Harry!” she blurted to the silent shadowy shelves of books. “Oh, Merlin! He must be hurt somehow.”

Leaving her disorganized swotting materials behind, she practically sprinted out of the library.

* * * *

Dissection of the Basilisk corpse was well underway when the head goblin in charge presented Harry with a very unusual find. Basilisk venom was a powerfully magical, not to mention deadly, substance. Still, it could be conjured.

This was different - altogether different.

“Impratraxis, properly belongs to you does this,” the commander stated whilst proffering a transparent, hollowed out glass sphere containing a few grams of the precious substance. “Unassisted, with a blade shorter than ours, dispatched it did you.”

To Harry it resembled a prophecy sphere, except for the pinch of chartreuse coloured salt it contained.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Pure, crystallised Basilisk venom,” the goblin replied, displaying discomfort at being questioned.

“An extremely rare find, indeed,” Dumbledore interceded, “and quite propitious.”

The Headmaster then explained that crystallised Basilisk venom was to potions-making what meteorite iron was to Paleolithic man - a substance so vanishingly rare as to have almost incalculable value. Basilisk venom crystallised only in rare conditions. First, oxygen must be absent, or the venom deteriorated. Second, no physical disturbance must occur. Crystallisation was possible only if the venom was absolutely motionless for over a year (the longer, the better, as the crystals grew larger).

Even Dumbledore had overlooked this possibility. He knew Harry had been bitten and then had used a Basilisk fang to destroy the Riddle diary. Thus, the Headmaster assumed the all the monster's venom had been spent during its death throes.

Harry knew that only one fang struck anything - but not that the significance of that fact.

“…It is a powerful potion ingredient, but so extremely uncommon that almost no potions call for it. Horace is very interested in such items, which is fortunate because there is….”

Dumbledore paused. For several seconds, echoing footsteps had grown louder.

“Must be Hermione,” Harry offered.

…Except these footsteps fell very much faster than usual. Harry had moved only a couple of steps towards the entrance when Hermione burst into view.

She sprinted full tilt, her long auburn hair streaming unkempt behind her. Her robes were flung open so she could run, exposing her Muggle clothing beneath. Her face was flushed and her breath came in great gasps.

Most significantly, she was almost wide-eyed with fear.

“Where's Harry?” she screeched the instant she reached the Chamber. But before anyone could answer, she spotted him. Squealing something unintelligible, she launched herself at him. “Thank Merlin! I thought something horrible must have happened.”

Harry staggered under the weight of her embrace, but recovered to hold her almost as tightly as she did him. In his ear, Hermione whispered various phrases, all signifying relief. Everyone - especially the goblins - stood aside and gawked at the sight.

Dumbledore broke the onlookers' silence. “I am truly sorry,” he said. “I failed to think my message through. As you can tell, Mister Potter is perfectly well.”

Eventually, Hermione relaxed her grip and backed off a bit. Harry chuckled.

“What's so funny?” Hermione responded. “I thought you were … hurt.”

“It's just … your shirt,” Harry told her. Hermione was wearing a royal blue Muggle T-shirt bearing a slogan, in bright red letters, “I'm not bossy - I just know what you should be doing.”

Hermione looked around. “So this is the Chamber of Secrets,” she uttered, to nobody in particular. “It's huge. Much bigger than Reims - much bigger than anything I've ever seen, save when I was little…. My father took me to this building on one of his trips to America, in Florida. The Yanks built moon rockets in it.”

And so it was. The Chamber of Secrets easily exceeded 200 metres on its primary axis. It was close to half that in both width and height. Even the powerful light-emitting crystals that the goblins used to illuminate their work left the Chamber's ceiling largely shrouded in shadow. The space was hewn entirely from greyish, almost black, basalt. Its vertical walls were smooth enough, but not polished, only plain rock. Nothing grew in the ordinarily pitch black Chamber, no moss, no lichens, no anything.

How the Basilisk had sustained itself for so long was a mystery.

At the near end, Salazar Slytherin's gigantic likeness soared into the overhanging gloom. Semi-detached pillars - almost internal flying buttresses - punctuated the walls at regular intervals. These pillars bore unique designs, all incorporating some herpetological element, but each pillar being different.

A stream of water maybe a metre across and of unknown depth emerged from a semicircular, grated passageway at the far left of Slytherin's likeness. It flowed through a stone culvert behind a row of snake-shaped idols until vanishing from sight through an identical exit at the far end.

Without the obstacle of numerous stylised snake statues, the Chamber's main floor could have easily accommodated a Muggle football pitch - including all-seater stands.

The Chamber's mighty vastness dwarfed even the remains of the huge Basilisk.

The goblins paused their gory hacking of the Basilisk to bits. Dumbledore stood aside, thoughtfully silent. Harry, too, said nothing, preferring to wait and watch his fiancée take everything in.

For her part, Hermione allowed her vital signs to revert to normal after her frantic dash through the Castle. Her brain - previously numb with worry that something terrible had happened to Harry - gradually kicked back into gear. At first she regarded the Chamber with the same blank awe of a little girl's first view of the Grand Canyon. Soon enough, her blankness gave way to a more practised assessment of an unfamiliar, but potentially useful, location.

“Harry,” she said, ending her long pause, “we could teach the D.A. here - all of it at once.”

One thing that had always fascinated Harry about Hermione, even before he had any more-than-friendly feelings, was the way her mind worked. He would stand there watching her think, not knowing what would emerge - only knowing it would be something good.

He had no idea how good.

The swelling ranks of the D.A. outstripping the Room of Requirement's capacity had been a sore spot for weeks. Lack of space kept him from doing more than demonstrating certain truly sophisticated duelling techniques. Beyond that, things had become downright dangerous. Harry had almost been brained by a two-stone cobble.

After Harry's accident, the D.A. had gone to split sessions. Whilst safer, the split doubled the time they spent teaching the D.A. That precious time could better be used studying (or snogging).

“That's bloody brilliant!” Harry enthused after a moment's consideration. He turned to the Headmaster. “Is there any reason we can't train down here … sir?”

Dumbledore stroked his beard with his good hand. “The stairwell presents a security issue,” he began slowly, still pondering the question. “But, yes … with a few minor behavioral modifications to the guardian gargoyle, I think it could be arranged.”

“Thank you very much, Headmaster,” Hermione responded pertly. Harry just grinned. He felt he had just stumbled upon an extra night a week - the next best thing to a Time-Turner.

The goblins informed Hermione of the reason her presence had originally been requested. The female goblin took her measurements.

Harry stood off to one side discussing D.A. logistics with the Headmaster. He could see Hermione and the lady goblin having an increasingly animated conversation. From the looks of things, Hermione had many questions to ask.

When done, Hermione returned to Harry's side. She was still bubbling with ideas.

“You know, Harry, all this Basilisk hide is far more than could ever be necessary for my mafaswele - even if that weren't as … well, scanty….” She looked down demurely, not meeting Harry's (much less the Headmaster's) eyes.

Harry's attention was focused by her last word.

“Umm … what do you mean, Hermione?” he asked her.

“I just learnt from Meoli that the midriff section…. Well, it's detachable, and it's supposed to be worn that way - detached that is - in the presence of … you, actually. I'll tell you the details, later.” Some things Hermione was loathe to discuss in Dumbledore's presence. “But that's not the point, actually.”

“I I understand your main point quite well, Miss Granger,” the Headmaster responded in a reassuring manner calculated to put her at ease. “The question remains what to do with the vast majority of this Basilisk's hide that will remain after your request is fulfilled.”

“What do you have in mind?” Harry interjected. “I remember Moody saying something about preferring Basilisk-hide boots.”

“Alastor would certainly agree,” Dumbledore answered. “Basilisk hide is highly resistant to most magic - at least to our magic. Only the goblins seem to have perfected the techniques required to work it. They will undoubtedly demand their share as recompense. Well, perhaps not, as Mister Potter….”

“I expect they would give it to me if I asked,” Harry cut in. “But it wouldn't be right just to take it all.”

“Why not you find out, Harry?” Hermione prompted.

He did. “Estim marat porstu,” Harry said in his phrasebook Gobbledygook. The commander of the goblin rendering party approached.

“Quas baram ses-tov?” Harry asked.

“Klambak, am I, Impratraxis,” he replied. “Of service how can be I?”

“What are your plans for the rest of the Basilisk?” Harry asked.

“To outfit a skirmishing party hoping were we,” Klambak told Harry. “Useful would be the armour when the Death Eaters fight we. But unsure am I. Done can more be. Than anticipated much larger is this beast.”

“Would enough remain for a set of battle armour for Hermione?” Harry asked. Anything to keep her safe, he would do.

“Harry!” Hermione jumped in. “You know it's much more important that you protect yourself.” She turned to the goblin, “Klambak, I want you to make the best possible suit for Harry before you even think of anything or anyone else. I don't need a mafaswele. I can go to that silly ball as something else….”

The goblin paused before answering. He was unsure how to handle this most assertive human girl - especially after seeing her and his prince's embrace when she initially burst into the Chamber. “Umm … Hermione, is it believe I…. Worry not need you. Efficient are we. So large is this beast that will yield….” Two of his clawed fingers scratched the side of his cheek as he estimated. “…Believe I six suits - human-sized - of armour, produce from this behemoth can I….”

“I don't want you to shortchange yourselves,” Harry told him.

“Nor do I,” Klambak agreed. “But a very large creature is this. By far the biggest in my time of doing this.”

Harry turned to the Headmaster. “How many times can you do that Patronus thing? I'd really like to get Ron, Ginny, Neville, and Luna down here.”

* * * *

The blond-haired boy stalked through the Slytherin common room ignoring its occupants. They were less than useless. They all abandoned him when wheel seemed to turn and leave him penniless in the wake of the Ministry debacle. He had no use for fair weather friends.

Draco Malfoy entered his bedchamber, slid inside, and drew the heavy dark green velour curtains about him. He cast his best Imperturbable Charm. Then he opened his latest post.

It was from Burke, but that glorified shopkeeper was merely an intermediary.

Draco already knew he had pleased the Dark Lord. The prompt restoration of Malfoy Manor to its rightful heir proved that - more than any direct compliment. An Imperius Curse here; a skillfully forged document there. Child's play for Lord Voldemort.

Whilst much of his Wiltshire home remained a blackened ruin, at least it remained his. Despite paying off the pathetic Scarhead, Draco still had more than enough Galleons to restore it to its prior glory - except for the wards and the catacombs. The Ministry had placed restrictions on the property.

Those restrictions would be history once the Dark Lord prevailed. Of that Draco was certain.

But enough gloating. He had new marching orders. His razor-sharp dagger slit the envelope open.

Draco had no clue what that minuscule cube he had sent to Burke might have contained. His orders had been simple. Once the cube was activated, it could be touched by Ginny Weasley and no other. He accomplished that task easily enough, with a Sticking Charm and the cauldron autostir.

“Hmmmm….” The results must have been positive. His first instruction was to continue “tutoring” that Weasley bint.

Apparently she was seen as a useful tool in whatever scheme the Dark Lord was concocting. His instructions allowed him to “use the girl” however he saw fit, provided no harm came to her.

But they included more - much more.

“So - Potter and the Mudblood,” Draco muttered to himself. “I don't know what this is all about, but I don't bloody care. One thing is for certain. I'm going to enjoy myself doing this - in so many ways.”

Another talisman was also provided - with instructions how and where to use it.

Finally, as instructed, he burnt the letter.

* * * *

Author's notes: The Detection Cubes detect only one thing

Fat tub of goo - an insult hurled at baseball's all time highest average hitter, Terry Forster, by David Letterman

Rindelaub was the name of a Philly bakery; the character Rindelaub Borgin was first mentioned in Ch. 43

I've always thought “R.A.B.” was too simple; here it's complicated; generally, JKR's Voldemort is too much of a simpleton - using AK on Harry in the final duel, after it had already failed three straight times. I don't think Voldy would be such a one-trick pony

This fic has a true Gryffindor Horcrux

A cup kept by the Muggles as a relic at Glastonbury (a real place accurately described); some other loose ends start to weave together

So the cup goes to Rome; how might Harry retrieve it?

Dumbledore has to work hard to keep Harry from confessing something the headmaster would rather not know

A good school principal does not tolerate the threat to his authority that Harry was amassing

Filch encountered one of the Twins' “Shocking Pinks,” first introduced in Ch. 29; carbon monoxide poisoning tends to turn the skin pink

Harry's eventual visits to Blackwalls will be very important

Harry just can't keep from confessing. McGonagall has to shut him up, too

The conversation Harry referred to took place in Ch. 41

The referenced Quidditch conversation occurred in Ch. 24

Hermione's refusal, at Harry's behest, provides Draco's opening

“Figjam” was introduced in Ch. 44

Draco's O+ in potions was mentioned in Ch. 43

The ingredients for Strengthening Solution are canon

Malfoy sloshed the potion with magic

Ginny uses a version of the American phrase, fuck you and the horse you rode in on

Image of Voldemort as Tiny Tim

Ginny's issues with Hermione go beyond Harry

Rosebud is a Citizen Kane reference

The bird described in Ch. 52 was a purple heron, which are known to visit Britain

Quidditch captains having rights to the Prefects' Bathroom is canon

Harry's incident with Fleur was in Ch. 40

The incident with Carmichael is canon

A boarding knife is a whaler's tool

The Blake-Gulbenkian relationship was mentioned in Ch. 47; Gulbenkian was Armenian; Vasag is an Armenian name meaning “treacherous”

The operation of lis pendens is accurately described

Lockhart used the Homorphus Charm - or claimed to

Sex on a diving board is difficult, for all the reasons mentioned

A “lilo” is British for a plastic float

The crystallized Basilisk venom will eventually come in handy

NASA's Vehicular Assembly building was once the largest enclosed space in the world

The Chamber of Secrets solves the D.A.'s space problem

59

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 5/12/2007

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55. Lightspeed Times Itself

Wherein a plot is hatched, Harry and Dumbledore have a serious chat; Harry and Hermione have a light-hearted chat that turns serious; Hermione swots; the pair meet with Dumbledore in the Headmaster's private quarters; magical science is discussed; Hermione guesses Dumbledore's secrets; Harry gets a business update; Luna gets even; there's an incident during Quidditch practice, and Voldemort plots.

Thanks to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, Mathiasgranger.

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

Chapter 55 - Lightspeed Times Itself

Ginny's session had gone rather well. She had successfully brewed Invigoration Draught, a Babbling Beverage, and even Lotsa Laughter Lotion, a rather ticklish concoction. But below the surface, tension remained. Draco had struck a nerve - drawing a reflexive reaction greater than even Ginny herself had suspected.

Had she really settled? If so, did she care? If she did care, what good would it do now that Harry was with the one girl at Hogwarts who, Ginny had to admit, was as extraordinary in her way as Harry was in his? If Ginny wanted a chance, would it be ethical? Did she even care about ethics?

That last question stopped Ginny cold almost as soon as she had returned to her dormitory after the prior session. But that was then; this was now. Her ethical concerns began fading as soon as her next tutoring session began.

As per usual, Draco boasted of his prowess at Potions, but Ginny had to admit that his skill did back up his braggadocio. By itself that was a problem - it caused Ginny's mind to wander … to wander down the dangerous path of powerful, advanced potions that might just change her life.

Still, it amounted to little more than a naughty daydream. Draco had stayed mute on that subject, and the session was drawing to a close. Realistically, only enough time remained for one more potion.

Ginny certainly would not be the first to broach such a painful and forbidden topic.

But last time…. Last time, Draco raised the subject at the tail end of the session, when it was too late to do anything about it.

Part of her wished for the Slytherin just to keep his big, sarcastic, overbearing mouth shut. Her enduring crush on Harry Potter was one sleeping dragon that did not need tickling.

But another part of her, which waxed as the session progressed, almost begged him to bring it up. Unless he did, Ginny had no idea what she might do about it.

Finally, temptation came a-calling on little blond-haired and grey-eyed feet … or some such.

“Anyway,” Draco drawled, “we've only time to brew one more potion. I'll let you select.”

She couldn't resist tickling that dragon. “I - I think - I think I'd like to brew a love potion,” Ginny declared, mentally cursing her hesitancy.

Draco looked at her with all the casualness of a crocodile eyeing a herd of zebra. “A love potion? That's not even taught here - you don't need it for class. How about Felix Felicis? That often has the same result….”

Ginny cut him off. “I'm looking for love, not luck.”

Draco gave her an odd look. Then, leaning in and leering at her, he asked. “So, Reds, I suppose you did think about what I said the last time … about the Great Git?”

“What's brewing a love potion got to do with that?” Ginny protested, but not vehemently.

“You certainly don't need it for that Mister Ordinary M. Normal you're seeing now,” Draco scathingly assessed her current boyfriend.

Ginny retorted. “Neville's nice, and sweet, and reliable, and….”

“…and so bloody boring you could scream,” Draco finished the thought for her. Suddenly, things were going better than he could have hoped.

Ginny took another tack. “Neville's safe. I don't have the papers dragging my name through the mud. I don't need to hide anything from him.”

“Hah!” Draco snorted.

“Well it's true,” Ginny squealed.

“That's a lie, and you know it,” Draco called her out.

“No it's not. I can tell Neville anything,” Ginny persisted.

“Except you don't - not that I'm tutoring you in Potions - nor that you still have the hots for bloody Potter,” Draco ticked off.

“How would you know?” Ginny shot back.

“Think, will you?” Draco sneered down his nose. “Because neither your hotheaded buffoon of a brother, nor the uber-Gryffindor git of your dreams has come after me. Nor, for that matter, has Potter's Mudblooded harridan tried cursing you into the next century.”

“I'd like to see her try,” Ginny spat with a scowl.

“Don't make me laugh,” Draco chuckled sardonically. “She smacked me but good once, and nearly hexed me in front of my own lawyer at the Ministry over the summer. If you don't think she's territorial about the Great Git, you're fooling yourself.”

“I took you out, too, remember?” Ginny replied with her own chuckle. “I'm sure you haven't forgotten…. But who cares why I want it. Will you show me how?”

“Two answers,” Draco answered, keeping the prize just out of her reach. “No, and Hell no. You can't do it. You're not that good yet - if ever. You can't even brew that rubbish that your brothers sell….”

“Their love potions work,” Ginny objected strenuously. “I've seen the results.”

“Yeah, and so has everybody else,” Draco shook his head in disgust. “Their crap is as obvious as the day is long. Even the best Love Potions, like Amortentia, give themselves away with effects of one sort or another. Think about it. Suppose it worked, and Potter threw the Mudblood over for you. You can bet your bottom Galleon she'd investigate. And one thing nobody can deny, that bitch is damn clever. Hell, even if she let him go, the bloody press would be all over it. Once the Great Git found out he'd been love potioned, where would you be? And where would I be? Everybody knows you're not so hot at Potions. That's why you're here after all. They'd want my head on a platter, and I'm not chancing that.”

“So you won't help me?” Ginny pouted as Draco finished his rant.

“I didn't say that,” he danced back within range. “I told you before that seeing Potter sullying himself - and the Black fortune I should have had - with a Mudblood isn't what…. Well, I'd rather see him with a Pureblood like you. But I'm not taking any chances unless I know you have one.”

Ginny scowled and drew herself up to her full 1.6 metre height. “Just what's that supposed to mean,” she snarled.

“No knickers all in a twist, Reds, please,” Draco snorted. “I don't want anything from you, so don't get your hopes up. It's just … a love potion doesn't work - at least not well - unless it has something to work with. Bottom line, he has to want you, and frankly I don't know that he does.”

“Of course he wants me,” Ginny snarled. “Hell, I could even make you want me if I gave a damn about that.”

“Don't flatter yourself,” Draco deflected her last jab, dancing out of range again. “I eat with these hands. You know bloody well he's shagging the Mudblood….”

She shot Draco a dirty look and tossed her ruddy locks haughtily to one side. “And how would you know that, oh all-knowing one?”

Draco glared back. “Hell, if even I know she applied for the Silver and Gold charm, as a Prefect you have to know. No way she'd do that for anybody but him.”

Draco was right, and Ginny knew it. Her chest deflated; her eyes lowered; and she scuffed the floor with her foot. “So now what?”

Seeing Ginny wounded, Draco moved in for the kill. “Something much more basic - so basic even you can do it.”

The light reignited in Ginny's eyes. “What?”

“Start with Lust Powder.”

“Lust Powder?” Ginny questioningly echoed.

“That's what I said,” Draco confirmed, “and something to tell if you're getting a rise out of the Great Git. If Lust Powder doesn't work as a primer, you might as well forget about Love Potion.”

“What's this `something' you mentioned?” Ginny honed in, ignoring the rest.

Draco pulled a small, golden choker necklace from an inner pocket of his robes. “This little godsend has a charm that detects lust.”

“And why do you just happen to have that?” Ginny asked, backing away. She already had more experience with Malfoy souvenirs than she ever wanted. She was the last person in the world to say, “Never look a gift Thestral in the mouth” - at least if the gift had a Malfoy origin.

“Been in the family for years,” Draco responded shortly. “My father taught me the charm. It's how I know what girls I can get. Dead handy, that….”

Ginny snickered at the looks of it. “Why Draco, I never knew you had such a feminine side.”

Draco responded with an unpleasant sneer. “This version was for you. It's Transfigurable into just about any type of jewelry I want, which is how it passed Filch and his stupid Security Sensors.”

“So why don't you wear it for a while?” Ginny challenged.

Malfoy made a show of being surprised. “Umm … sure,” he haltingly agreed, “but not looking like this. Now listen closely.” Draco pointed his wand at the choker. “Think about what you want it to look like, and say, `Mutatis mutandi'.” Whilst incanting, he slowly spiraled his wand around the entire choker. Its outlines grew hazy and it morphed into a heavy silver chain with a green serpentine pendant.

“There - that's more like it.” Draco made a show of slipping that on inside his robes. He knew it could do nothing to him.

“So how does this Lust Powder work?” Ginny asked, finally convinced of Draco's bona fides.

“It's not that hard to make,” Draco explained, “but for obvious reasons it's not in the Hogwarts curriculum, so we won't actually make it here.” With a flourish, he pulled out a piece of parchment, pointed his wand at it, muttered something, and held it out to her. “Here's a list….”

“Why can't we make it here?” Ginny challenged.

“Read the ruddy list will you?” Draco shot back. “It's not particularly hard, but you need a swab of … well, let's just say you can't get it from your armpit….”

“Oh….” Ginny went both bright pink and silent.

“It's water soluble,” Draco continued, rattling off facts of interest. “The optimal dose on a normal-sized wizard like the Git is about two grams. The powder starts working about fifteen seconds after ingestion, but the less ingested, the longer it takes. A single dose lasts for about fifteen minutes - after that, you're on your own. Again, the less consumed the longer before it takes effect. It's rather a blunt instrument, I'll warn you, but dead effective. Just make sure you're in the vicinity, the closer the better, when he's under the influence, and that you're wearing this…”

He retrieved the charmed necklace from inside his robes and placed it gently on the table in front of Ginny.

“…If you've had success, believe me, you'll know.”

“And how am I supposed to do all that?” Ginny asked.

“I only tutor Potions,” Draco replied with a sly wink. “The rest is up to you.”

“And if it works?” Ginny asked again.

“Should you get him primed, we'll go from there,” was all Draco would say.

* * * *

Harry's meeting with Dumbledore had been quite revealing. First he learnt how Caractacus Burke - whom Harry had seen (but refrained from revealing) meeting Malfoy in Hogsmeade - had all but stolen the Slytherin locket from Voldemort's impecunious mother. Burke had paid the desperate woman all of ten Galleons for it. A Founder's relic like that was surely worth hundreds, if not thousands.

But even that information paled into insignificance compared to the snippet from the Headmaster's own memory. Harry and Dumbledore entered the Headmaster's Pensieve and watched Dumbledore's recollection of meeting the young Tom Riddle for the first time.

In some ways Harry was surprisingly like the young Voldemort. Neither knew their parents. Both grew up unloved. Neither understood he was magical until being invited to matriculate at Hogwarts. Harry had learnt he was a wizard from Hagrid. Riddle found out from the Headmaster himself - albeit before Dumbledore had attained that position.

What should have been an auspicious meeting was not. Even before appreciating that what he was doing was magic, Riddle had been misusing it - stealing things, threatening other children, hurting both people and animals.

Still, Dumbledore had acted to remove the boy from the grimly drab, or perhaps drably grim, surroundings of the only home the young Tom Riddle had ever known.

It was not easy feeling sorry for someone who had been out to kill you your entire life, but Harry almost accomplished that feat - the operative term being “almost.”

After exiting the Pensieve, they discussed Voldemort's childhood. How Riddle was very powerful for a wild talent. How Riddle was obsessed with not being ordinary - that being quite unlike Harry, who often craved the anonymity of ordinariness. How Riddle was a loner, friendless and quite content that way. Harry, by contrast, had almost immediately left his friendless days behind upon entering Hogwarts, and had not looked back.

“…And Mister Potter, you did observe, did you not, that even then Mister Riddle enjoyed keeping trophies.”

“Trophies, sir?” Harry replied, because he had not made the connexion at all.

“Yes, trophies,” Dumbledore explained patiently. “Tom Riddle, even then, collected things that reminded him of his power over others. To this day, I am afraid that he has not ceased of that habit.”

“You mean like he wanted the prophecy when he tricked us into going to the Ministry?” Harry asked. The prophecy was the one thing (besides Harry's death) that there could be no doubt Voldemort wanted.

“The prophecy was but a hoped-for means to an end. The trophies the adult Tom Riddle collects are ends in themselves…,” Dumbledore responded in his usual magisterial voice. But then he paused. “Actually, that is mistaken,” the Headmaster admitted. “The trophies are a means to an end as well - a far greater end indeed.”

“You know, I wouldn't feel as thick if you wouldn't assume I know everything you're talking about,” Harry commented sharply. “I'm not Hermione, after all.”

“I am talking about Horcruxes, Mister Potter,” Dumbledore stated with a finality that stopped the boy cold.

Dumbledore had mentioned these before, but then he had pleaded lack of information. “What about them, then?” Harry demanded.

No longer.

“I have conducted sufficient research that it is now time to begin acquainting you with them,” Dumbledore told Harry. “I promised I would. Now, I shall begin redeeming that promise.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, more respectfully. For once Dumbledore was offering him information rather than forcing him to pry it out.

“You see, a Horcrux is a very evil thing. It is a piece of a soul, but a piece that has been torn asunder by the vilest act of which man is capable - the deliberate taking of another's life, in short, cold-blooded murder.” Dumbledore began.

“I know Voldemort likes to kill. I've seen that,” Harry observed, “but why would he want to rip his own soul into pieces?”

“Fundamentally, because he is a coward,” the Headmaster answered, looking as grave as Harry could remember. “The sundering of the soul has one very beneficial effect, from the perspective of someone, such as Tom, who fears death above all else - in that such a splitting of the soul prevents the remainder from dying whilst any piece of it remains alive.”

“How can the soul remain alive if separated from the body?” Harry asked. “Surely you don't believe that rubbish about immortal souls that my relatives spouted every Sunday when they'd take a break from ordering me about … or worse.”

“I certainly do not entertain such `rubbish,' as you call it,” Dumbledore replied. “There is nothing immortal about Horcruxes. You should know, for I believe that you have already destroyed three of them.”

“I-I-I have?” Harry stammered. “How? How many does he have left?”

“One question at a time, please, Mister Potter,” Dumbledore held up his good hand. It was rare these days for the Headmaster to be able to reduce this boy to incoherence, and he secretly relished the moment. “I shall address the answerable one first. I believe that the first Horcrux Tom created, whilst still in school, was hidden a certain diary that you encountered in your Second Year. From your account, you dispatched it with a venom-laced Basilisk fang.”

“That was a bit of Voldemort?” Harry asked. “I thought it was some sort of magically enhanced memory.”

“I, too, so thought at the time - only I cannot plead the excuse of not knowing any better,” the Headmaster admitted. “So I confess to being the source of that misinformation. Only more recently have I realised that Tom's diary fit into a larger, more sinister pattern. I believe that it contained an activated Horcrux.”

“What do you mean, `activated'?” Harry asked, following in Dumbledore's mental footsteps.

“Horcruxes can, and typically are, kept in a form of stasis, when placed within inanimate objects, or if injured in some way,” the Headmaster patiently revealed. “But from every description of the Horcrux in the diary, it was in a most active state. Someone, or something, must have activated it. Those details are as yet beyond me.”

“Bloody Lucius Malfoy, I'd wager,” Harry muttered. “You said there were two others….”

“Undoubtedly more than two,” Dumbledore corrected. “But two that we know of … I believe that you destroyed them simultaneously when you first exercised the full force of your Fifth Element powers several weeks ago.”

“What?!” Harry became visibly agitated. “You don't mean to say that Hermione….?”

Dumbledore drew back. He had not meant, nor intended to mean, Harry's girlfriend. The Headmaster knew such a misimpression was the quickest way to a reprise of the event just mentioned.

“Not at all, Mister Potter,” Dumbledore hastened to answer. “I refer to me - and to you.”

That revelation stopped Harry in mid-angst. “Me and you?” he asked, his nose crinkled in curiosity and doubt.

“Yes, Mister Potter,” Dumbledore reiterated. “As I previously informed you, the ring that I had acquired - a Salazar Slytherin artifact - contained another of Tom's Horcruxes. It was dormant, but the power of your light magic destroyed it, leaving nothing behind save residual evil that damaged my hand. And….”

“What about me?” Harry demanded, an uncertain look on his face.

“I believe that you, personally, were the repository of another of Tom's Horcruxes, an active one; and that in the same explosion, it was destroyed - or rather that you destroyed it. I cannot say exactly how it was destroyed, because I have scarcely more comprehension of your Fifth Element powers than do you. But everything seems to fit….”

“What fits?” Harry bluntly pursued the topic.

Dumbledore sighed. “Here is what I currently believe…. Tom plainly intended to murder you that night, almost fifteen years ago. As I said, Horcruxes come into being courtesy of the soul-searing act of murder. My supposition - and it remains little more than speculation and coincidence - is that Tom had a prepared a Horcrux in anticipation of your death.”

“But I didn't die,” Harry pointed out; briefly breaking the train of the Headmaster's story.

“Indeed not,” Dumbledore agreed. “And instead it was Tom who was practically destroyed. Obviously, the anticipatory Horcrux had not yet been inactivated for storage in whatever vessel he had intended. His destruction somehow freed it, and the soul fragment, following a soul's natural affinity for something living, passed into you.”

“How?” Harry asked. “The murder he had planned … it didn't happen.”

As that question escaped Harry's lips, a pained expression spread across the Headmaster's face. Harry knew the answer - even before Dumbledore gave it.

“You forget,” the older man said, his aged eyes misting with sadness. “Other murders occurred that evening. More than enough evil was afoot that night to call that Horcrux into being.”

Harry could hardly believe he had been so stupid - and in front of Dumbledore no less. Having no desire to revisit that moment, he simply asked, “I understand; is there anything more I need to know … like how many of these are there?”

“That, I am afraid, I do not know - and it is of critical importance,” Dumbledore told the boy.

“Why?”

“Until we - for you will have all the assistance I can muster - can destroy these Horcruxes, you cannot fulfill the prophecy,” the Headmaster revealed. “As I said, Tom cannot be killed as long as his soul fragments remain. We must destroy them first, all of them, but unless we know how many exist, we cannot know when it is safe … no, that is not the right word … when it would be possible to send you up against what remains of Tom Riddle.”

“How can we possibly know?” Harry asked. “Voldemort probably hasn't told anyone - at least not anyone who'd tell us.”

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore answered. “But perhaps not. Like all magic, Horcrux making must be learned. They do not spring into existence full-blown like Athena from the head of Zeus. If we can reach Tom's teacher, we may be able to solve that mystery.”

“We?” Harry responded skeptically. “Why am I worth anything in figuring that out? Anybody who taught Voldemort would be way older than I am - if still alive at all.”

“Do not be so quick to denigrate your own worth, Mister Potter,” the Headmaster cautioned. “Your worth, monetary and otherwise, is quite substantial. I have a solid hypothesis as to our probable target - and you are better situated than I to make the necessary inroads.”

“I'm … I'm afraid I don't understand - again,” Harry protested less loudly.

“Nor should you,” Dumbledore reassured. “Let me tell you why I decided to coax Professor Slughorn out of retirement - and how I convinced him.”

With that, Dumbledore explained how, fifty years ago, Horace Slughorn was already an inveterate networker. Like Harry at present, his “prize catch” back then had been Tom Riddle. Riddle, however, had little use for connections or wheel-greasing. He did, however, value knowledge, and Slughorn had that in abundance. Slughorn, then around sixty, was already Head of Slytherin House. When a Seventh Year, Riddle convinced the older man to provide him private lessons in a variety of advanced topics, which Slughorn was only too pleased to do.

In his own youth, Slughorn had been fascinated by the Dark Arts and had engaged in rather extensive (and somewhat dodgy) studies. He had a stint as a graduate intern at Durmstrang (which then catered even more overtly to Dark Arts than now), and in Elsinore, where he completed an apprenticeship under Lisen Broh - a wizard who later went Dark and became Grindelwald's right hand man.

Harry's discovery (although unsuspected at the time) of a Horcrux in Riddle's Hogwarts-era diary strongly suggested to Dumbledore that the future Lord Voldemort learnt quite a bit about Horcruxes before graduating. The Headmaster believed that Slughorn was the only person on the Hogwarts staff with the background to impart such knowledge to Riddle.

Dumbledore could not get a straight answer from the once and again Potions professor about what transpired during those private training sessions in Riddle's final year. Slughorn developed an exaggerated (or perhaps justified) fear of Death Eaters during the first war. He resigned abruptly from the Hogwarts staff following the 1980-81 academic year - creating an opening for Snape - and thereafter kept a very low profile. Even with his relatively minor exposure to Slughorn, Harry had to agree that such behavior was uncharacteristic; against everything he knew of the Professor's nature.

Another unsolved Slughorn mystery was why he ever left Hogwarts. Their last communication, prior to the Headmaster's determined pursuit of the man earlier this year for the open Potions position (apparently Slughorn even Transfigured himself into a piece of furniture in an unsuccessful attempt to dodge Dumbledore), had been around Christmas of 1981. Slughorn left a brief note apologising for unspecified “errors in judgment” and declaring his retirement from public life. Dumbledore's follow-up notes had gone unanswered.

Christmas 1981, of course, was shortly after the murder of Harry's parents. Slughorn had greatly admired Lily Potter, and had predicted great things for Harry's mother.

Slughorn evidently expected great things from Harry as well. Dumbledore had shamelessly (by his own admission) used the prospect of teaching and getting to know Harry to inveigle the reclusive former professor from retirement.

“Horace, after all, is first and foremost a Potions master,” Dumbledore reminded Harry. “He responds exceedingly well to both flattery and bribery. Whilst you are not well versed in the former, I believe you recently acquired something that could be put to quite good use in the latter category….”

Harry bridled at the suggestion that he bribe Slughorn for information that he felt the professor should provide for nothing. “Like what?” he grumbled.

“A rare and valuable Potions ingredient,” Dumbledore replied evenly. “The other day, in the Chamber, the goblins gave you naturally crystallised Basilisk venom. That is worth more than its weight in gold - quite a bit more, actually. I do not know when any was last at Hogwarts; certainly not during my tenure as Headmaster. It is so rare, even the Room of Requirement cannot replicate it.”

Harry relaxed. Properly or not, he had an “easy come, easy go” attitude toward that bizarre and entirely unintended substance. Somehow a bribe seemed less of a bribe where the currency was something so exotic. He agreed that, one way or another, he would convince the Slughorn to tell him exactly what the old man had taught Voldemort about Horcruxes.

The last subject of the meeting, however, was the antithesis of “easy come, easy go.”

“There's one other thing,” Harry broached. Dumbledore winced. Harry had clearly learned to save his most problematic requests for last. “I'd like to see Professor Lupin. I've been told that he was hurt whilst on Order business, but not much more.”

A relatively straightforward, if impossible, request - the Headmaster relaxed. “I am truly sorry, but that is simply not possible at this time. You are correct in that Remus was badly hurt. He had an encounter with Mister Pettigrew….”

“You mean Wormtail beat Remus in a duel?” Harry interrupted to scoff. “That hardly seems possible. From what I've seen, he's a rather poor excuse for a wizard.”

“True enough,” Dumbledore went on, “but this poor excuse for a wizard also has a silver hand, and silver is quite poisonous to werewolves, whether or not in a transformed state. Remus was struck repeatedly about the face with it. He was temporarily blinded.”

“Then I have to see him,” Harry reiterated.

“I cannot allow it, for his safety. It would risk a breach of security when Remus is powerless to defend himself,” Dumbledore refused. “Mister Potter, think for a moment. St. Mungo's does not treat werewolves - certainly not long term. We have arranged for him to receive the best of care - I am sure you remember Parry - at an undisclosed location safe from attack by Death Eaters who would finish what Pettigrew started. You are well aware of the security entailed in moving you about the countryside. Be warned that, as best he can, Voldemort continues watching you. I do not wish to risk a possible breach by virtue of the attention you attract.”

“So now I'm too important to move about freely, anymore?” Harry grumbled.

“In a word, yes,” Dumbledore confirmed, looking down through his half-moon glasses. “I trust that, after all you have experienced, no further explication is required.”

“So I can't see him, then?” Harry mumbled in a defeated tone of voice.

“That is not what I said,” Dumbledore corrected. “His recovery proceeds apace. When Remus is well enough - and not a moment before, or after - I will arrange for the two of you to meet here, at Hogwarts. I do not know when might be, but it is a matter of weeks, not months.”

* * * *

One of a great many things Harry loved about Hermione is that she knew so much about … well; to him it seemed like everything. Just get her started, and she would prattle on seemingly forever, as long as he provided her with minimal encouragement.

That he knew how to do.

He loved to listen to her, and occasionally he even learnt something useful.

Harry was listening to more of Hermione's idle chatter by the lake during an all-too-rare free period on what promised to be the last truly pleasant day of the rapidly ebbing Scottish autumn.

They both shed their heavy outer robes to take advantage of the warn sunlight. Harry wore a white school uniform shirt, open at the collar. Hermione had on another of her T-shirts - this one reading, “Insufficiently advanced magic is indistinguishable from technology.”

Using their balled-up robes in lieu of a Cushioning Charm, Hermione leaned against a low dry-stone dike that extended from the rear of the greenhouse closest to the lake. Once, it marked a boundary for some outdoor garden. The garden having long fallen into disuse, the old dike now served as a backdrop for enjoying the lake's spectacular reflections of the surrounding mountains.

Harry sprawled on the grass with his head in Hermione's lap. Her hands mussed his already untamed hair. Harry was telling her about one of his lesser irons in the fire.

“…so I'd just finished explaining everything to Neville when you saw us down here. Neville's got the run of the greenhouses now. The Twins told me that any bigoted remark or action directed at Jazzy triggers their prank. Sure, it's not as good as Malfoy being chased by a Hippogriff in heat before the entire Sixth Year class, but right now I needed this….”

“But what does the prank do, Harry?” Hermione persisted.

“Well, I'm … umm … not really sure,” Harry confessed. “The Twins didn't exactly say, except that it wouldn't last more than twenty-four hours - and it wouldn't cause permanent injury.”

“Harry, you were supposed to tell them what to do, not the other way `round.” Hermione pouted.

“Sorry, but something needed to be done, and my creative juices just weren't flowing,” Harry offered in his own defence.

She looked at him - tense and defensive - and concluded that, whatever was in store for those nasty Slytherins, they had brought it on themselves. Besides, the Twins, whilst inveterate pranksters, were not malevolent…. Not often, anyway.

“Come here, you,” she dropped the subject with a laugh. “And let's see what I can do to get those juices flowing again.”

A little snogging later, the two lay side by side on the grass. Harry noticed her T-shirt. It gave him an idea for setting Hermione off on another of her flights of factuality.

“Umm … Hermione,” he began, “during the summer, when you were attacked at your father's surgery, you wore a T-shirt with some sort of … I don't know what you'd call it … a bunch of numbers and stuff on it….”

Hermione's brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of Harry's rather vague description.

“…It said, what part of that mess didn't you understand. I didn't understand any of it - obviously,” Harry continued.

A familiar look of comprehension came to her eyes. “Oh, that!” Hermione exclaimed. “That shirt had on it a set Navier-Stokes equations for fluid dynamics … using cylindrical coordinates. Basically they're used to calculate the movement of fluids, whether in liquid or gaseous form…. Dead useful they can be - to Muggles, anyway - for wind tunnels, weather modeling, magnetohydrodynamics, even cosmology….”

And so on and so on. Harry was treated to her lengthy exposition on the significance of what to him had been a bunch of incomprehensible numbers and symbols.

He loved it.

When Hermione started running out of steam, Harry had a pretty good idea how to wind her up again. “Wow, that sounds like it must be a really important equation - no surprise there.”

“More useful than important, I'd say,” Hermione responded. “It's just a dynamic equation, which is why it looks so complicated. Actually the more profound equations are considerably simpler, and thus wouldn't provide the visual effect necessary for that kind of T-shirt - intended as something of an insult, actually.”

“So, what's the most important equation of them all?” Harry asked. It was precisely the type of open-ended question guaranteed to serve a springboard to send Hermione into another orgy of explication.

“The most important?” Hermione asked, briefly taken aback. “Well, I confess that I've never really considered them in that way - trying to rank them…. There are several candidates I suppose. The universal gravitational equation would be one of them. The cosmological constant would be another. Then there's the Drake Equation, but that's really less of an equation than a parade of speculative variables. The most important of all? I suppose that would have to be the relativistic one that calculates the energy equivalent of mass….”

“What's that mean?” Harry replied lazily.

“It's very elegant and simple, really,” Hermione began, “but it states a profound truth, entirely unsuspected previously, about the interconvertability of mass and … and….” Suddenly she stopped, her mouth hung open, gaping. A faraway look was in her eyes.

Just as her silence led Harry to roll over for a look at her, she exclaimed, “Oh, by Merlin, it can't be…!” In an instant Hermione leapt to her feet and looked towards the Castle. “I've got to check this out!” she declared firmly.

Hermione's jumping up left Harry lying on the grass. He was moving much more slowly than his fiancée. “Check what out?” Harry asked. It was a genuine question.

“I have to go to the library,” Hermione responded in a clipped voice. “There's something I need to check into, and it can't wait, I'm afraid.” With that, she took off practically running towards Hogwarts.

“What?” Harry called after her.

“I'll let you know when I've a better idea,” she yelled over her shoulder. “That won't be too long, I promise.”

Then she was gone.

Harry knew better than to try to stop her. In her rush, she left her outer robes behind. Collecting them from the grass, Harry followed Hermione's path, albeit in much more measured fashion.

Throughout his Arithmancy for Poets class, the thought of what Hermione might be doing distracted Harry. Thus, he lost an easy chance for five house points when he confused Fibonacci numbers with Mersenne primes.

He hoped to see Hermione at lunch, but she was nowhere to be found. He supposed she required more research time, since she left only a half hour in advance of her own class.

Then - too late for him to do anything - Parvati had asked Harry where Hermione had been during her Muggle Studies seminar.

Hermione skipping Muggle Studies was one thing. It was something else entirely when Hermione to skived off Defence Against the Dark Arts after lunch. That was core curriculum. Ron thought so too. The two boys maintained a whispered conversation throughout the class, so that Professor Shacklebolt docked them both five points for not paying attention.

It could have been worse, but Harry was so far advanced in DADA that even whilst distracted he could perform any spell he might have to demonstrate.

He was suffering through the second hour of his Hermione-less double period of Defence when the big break came.

“…So the secret of casting an effective Shield Charm is proper anticipation of the type of magic that you're likely to be confronted with….”

Someone made hesitant-sounding knock on the door.

“…You may enter,” Professor Shacklebolt addressed whoever was at the door. “It's not cursed.”

The oaken classroom door creaked open and a very timorous-looking student entered. It was Barton Schell, a fourth-year Ravenclaw whom Harry knew only by sight - because Luna had once pointed him out as someone in her House “who had not been very mean” to her.

“State your business,” Shak demanded, annoyed that anyone so junior should be interrupting one of his N.E.W.T.-level courses.

“Umm … I have this note for Harry Potter, sir,” Schell responded, whilst pulling out a parchment roll encircled by one of Headmaster Dumbledore's distinctive purple and green ribbons.

“Is it from the Headmaster?” Shak asked.

“Yes, sir,” Schell answered.

“Then you may approach,” Shak allowed. Pointing to Harry, he added, “He's front and centre, here.”

“Umm … sir, I was told it was private,” Schell informed the formidable professor, whilst not budging from his place in the classroom doorway.

“Very well,” Shak said, with a visible scowl. With a wave of his hand, he sent Harry away. “Out with you, then, Mister Potter. Perhaps it's for the best. You've seemed distracted the entire time. If you don't make it back, the homework assignment is the chapter on Mirror Charms - and three feet of parchment on the most effective ways of employing them.”

Harry knew the answer to that one - but what he knew, he could not say.

With his classmates' homework-related groans sounding in his ears, Harry left the room with Barton Schell in tow.

“Well … here, umm … Mister Potter,” Schell droned as he handed over the scroll, “and thanks for teaching the Defence Association, I'm really learning a lot from … er … your girlfriend. I'll just be off now….”

“You don't have to leave,” Harry called after him.

“Yes, I do,” Schell replied over his shoulder whilst speeding away. “Dumbledore said private, and from the look in his eye, he meant it.”

The boy was gone as Harry removed the ribbon. To his surprise, the parchment was blank. That surprise lasted but a moment - until the Headmaster's familiar, if disembodied, voice began spilling out.

“Mister Potter, Miss Granger is in my office, having just provided the barest outline of a theory of considerable import. I would ask that you join us posthaste, but would you also be so good as to bring the Muggle electricity book that I assigned you over the summer. By the way, I am partial to Magictose Mist these days.”

Whatever Hermione had discovered was important enough that she took it straight to Dumbledore - despite their mutual misgivings about the Headmaster's occasionally dubious machinations - before even telling Harry about it.

And Dumbledore considered that same whatever to be of sufficient import to pull Harry out of class.

Harry took off towards Gryffindor tower at a dead run. With everyone's classes in session, he encountered nobody telling him to slow down. Breathing heavily, he reached his dormitory room.

As he flung open his trunk, it occurred to Harry that he had not looked through more than the uppermost layer since escaping from the Death Eaters. Beyond that, he did not even know who had packed it - although someone plainly had.

Thus, he had no idea where in the trunk to find the requested book, or even if it had been packed at all.

“Dammit, where are you?” Harry muttered as he flung things right and left. “I wish there was a damn unpacking charm….”

“What the Hell is this doing here?”

“This” was the Toshiba laptop the Dursleys had given him as a belated birthday present. Harry had never had a chance to use it.

“Probably ruined now,” he said with a frown, “with all the magic about.”

Gently he laid it aside. Underneath he found a box tied up with string. It bore a fancy gold and red label reading “Hoyo de Monterrey de José Gener Habana.” Taped to the box was a note written in what Harry recognised as his Aunt Petunia's handwriting. Obviously, his relatives had done at least some of the packing following his kidnapping.

Although the unexpected parcel was intriguing, it did not hold Harry's attention. After shoving that box aside, he finally saw what he sought, with pale green letters on a yellowish glossy background - “Electricity: Principles and Applications.”

Harry grabbed the book, whirled around, and started for the door. His first step, however, kicked the Toshiba. He stumbled, and nearly flopped headlong into Neville's bedchamber.

“Pack,” Harry commanded irritatedly, and everything cast about jumped up and flew back inside his trunk. A few seconds of clatter ended with the trunk lid closing with a satisfying thud.

Just as Harry was about to sprint off again, his Valkyrie - neatly stowed behind his trunk - caught his eye. Two could play at that game….

Harry arrived at Dumbledore's guardian gargoyle almost ready to laugh out loud. That look on Filch's face had been priceless when Harry had yelled, “Tell it to Dumbledore!” as he had zoomed past the cantankerous caretaker.

“Magictose Mist.”

The gargoyle stepped aside, and Harry flew up the stairs. He lurched to a stop outside the Headmaster's tower office, and hopped off the Valkyrie.

Needing only a couple of seconds to compose himself, he knocked on the door.

“Do come in, Mister Potter,” he heard Dumbledore invite him in.

Opening the door, Harry saw the Headmaster seated behind his sprawling wooden desk, scratching away with a quill.

“You may check the broom by the door, Mister Potter” the seemingly imperturbable Headmaster directed, not even looking up.

Harry did as asked, and at the same time spotted Hermione.

Ensconced in a squashy chintz armchair, she rose once Harry was announced and made her way towards him. Her initial appreciative smile (doubtless remembering her own in-castle Valkyrie ride) almost immediately gave way, as lines of concern and excitement competed for prominence. For a moment Harry thought she would fling herself at him.

At the last instant, Hermione seemed to recall where they were. She contented herself with grabbing Harry's free hand (the one not holding the electricity book) and pulling him towards Dumbledore's desk.

“Oh, Harry, I had this thought when we were chatting by the lake,” she went on. “Our discussion led me to think of something that might be key to understanding your nature. It's just that the Fifth….”

“Miss Granger, please,” Dumbledore cut her off as he stood up. “Need I remind you again, not here. This is too sensitive.”

“What's too sensitive?” Harry remarked sarcastically. “We did discuss the prophecy here.” Ever since Hermione had run off several hours previous, some big secret existed that he was not privy too - and he was tired of being left in the dark.

Hermione squeezed Harry's hand as a sign for him to be quiet. Her eyes darted to Dumbledore. “The balcony again?” she asked cautiously.

The Headmaster's eyes flicked around the room. He nodded his head as if making a decision, and took a step backwards.

“No,” he answered, “this way.” He made a sweeping motion with his left arm at the wall behind him. The wall contained a door - dark polished oak with a rounded top that peaked in Gothic style. Despite all his trips to this office, Harry had never before seen it.

As Dumbledore led the way, the two students heard the portraits murmuring about something “remarkable” or “unheard-of.” The door closed by itself when they had all passed through. A soft yellowish glow outlined the door and then expanded, rapidly rippling across the semicircular walls, the floor, and the ceiling.

Harry's and Hermione's eyes followed the golden ripple's passage around the room. When they looked back, the door had vanished.

“Welcome to the Headmaster's private chambers,” Dumbledore intoned. “As far as I know, you are the first students ever to have crossed that threshold. However, Miss Granger's theory is too sensitive to be discussed even before my predecessors, and the balcony, I am afraid, is too exposed to the elements.”

Through Dumbledore's window casements with their diamond-shaped leaded glass pattern, Harry could see that the weather was changing. The morning's sun dappled warmth had vanished. Dreary gray clouds had begun their advance whilst Harry was in the Great Hall. They now emptied their contents on the countryside.

In marked contrast to the weather, the Headmaster's quarters were comfortable - and eccentric. Dominating the large room was a massive Italian Renaissance-style four-poster with a featherbed divan and off-white muslin bedclothes partially hidden by an intricately woven wine-coloured duvet. Dumbledore's four-poster lacked the usual canopy and drapes. Instead the cornice seemed to be serving as a clothesline. It was draped with all manner of socks.

A large rosewood armoire stood against the wall opposite the windows. Atop it bubbled two rocket-shaped lava lamps almost a metre tall, one with turquoise wax moving through deep azure oil, the other featuring a bright yellow wax pulsing in crimson fluid (the Headmaster being a Gryffindor). Serious illumination came, not from those lamps, but from a wrought-iron and rock-crystal chandelier containing at least two hundred lit candles. The chandelier's variously coloured crystals - aquamarines, amethysts, citrines, topazes, rose quartzes and colourless - had no discernable pattern. It floated, seemingly unattached to anything, high up amongst the exposed Tudor-style rafters.

The remaining walls were chockablock with knick-knack shelves and pocked with sconces. The Sword of Godric Gryffindor was mounted high on one wall, along with other archaic weapons. The sconces were filled with all manner of trinkets, from cobalt-blue glass bottles, to Hopi Kachina dolls, to the Sorting Hat (which had been moved from Dumbledore's outer office).

Not a single wizard portrait graced the curved walls of this chamber. The only wall pictures were a couple of fluorescent, black velvet paintings - one of a Saguaro cactus, and the other of some dogs playing billiards. What wall space remained was filled with various banners and posters, including a red and black socialist realist image of Che Guevara smacked in the face by a coconut cream pie, and art deco posters of various European wizard resorts (including, they both noted, Monte Carlo).

A wet bar featuring a marble-topped soda and ice cream fountain took up one corner of the room. Across from it, in the other corner, was a spindle-legged writing desk strewn with parchment and quills.

The desk also bore the only images of actual people anywhere in the Headmaster's living quarters. There were two - both Muggle daguerreotypes. One depicted a woman in a long, light coloured dress with bobbed hair and soft, fetching features. The other, parts of which seemed oddly out of focus, was of a blond teenager, barely older than Harry, with unruly shoulder-length hair and dark eyes, both wild and intense.

Dumbledore sat on the bed, deep in thought. Then, suddenly aware of the two students standing nearby, he apologised with a start. “Oh, so sorry, allow me.” With a wave of his hand, two squashy armchairs appeared, with fabric matching the Headmaster's bedding.

For a moment, the silence seemed oppressive.

“Umm … who is the lady?” Harry asked, not knowing what else to say.

Dumbledore sighed, and for a moment looked even older than usual. “That, Mister Potter, was my wife, Muriel.”

“She's pretty,” he commented.

“She was, indeed,” the Headmaster responded, “and much, much more….”

“Her picture doesn't move,” Harry regarded the picture, rather than Dumbledore, who was starting to show signs of discomfort. “Was she a Muggle?”

“Hardly,” came the reply. “That photograph was from before the invention of wizard photography. Back then, techniques of magical impregnation were limited to pigments, and photography was thought a poor Muggle imitation.”

“And who was the boy?” Harry inquired of the second photograph. “Was that your son that you mentioned…?”

“No … and enough of that,” Dumbledore rather forcibly ended that conversation. “Miss Granger, would you care to present your hypothesis?”

Hermione stood up, her anxiety plainly visible. She started to say something, bit her lower lip, and started again.

“Umm … Headmaster, would it be possible to trouble you for a blackboard and some chalk?” she requested.

“Why certainly, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore agreed immediately. He waved his good hand, and the chair Hermione had used began pulsating. Within seconds it morphed into a wood-framed, free-standing chalkboard with a usable surface something less than a metre high and two broad. A tray at the base held an eraser and chalk in various colours and sizes.

Hermione selected a plain white piece and faced Harry.

“You see, Harry, the basic question has always been what is the Fifth Element … what are you?” As she spoke, she wrote “5E” on the board. “Now the other four ancient elements are, of course earth, water, air, and fire….” She added these words to the board's far left-hand side whilst reciting them. “They correspond roughly to the four recognised states of matter - solid, liquid, gas, and plasma.”

“That much, I've been told before,” Harry accepted, wondering where Hermione was going.

“I know, since I've told you that myself,” she concurred. “Now, each of these four elements, or states, has its own associated elemental magic,” she plowed ahead. “Indeed, you've been training yourself in these various types of elemental magic.”

Harry nodded.

“I've thought, and so has the Headmaster,” Hermione glanced at Dumbledore, “that whatever the Fifth Element is, it would be the equivalent of another state of matter. At one point, I thought that Bose-Einstein condensate might be it. So I was very interested when you attempted to freeze that helium balloon not too long ago. I wondered if you could create the condensate. You didn't….”

“So, at that point you ruled out the Bose-Einstein whatever?” Harry asked.

“I have … but then wasn't when I came to that conclusion,” Hermione replied. “The other possibility, which Headmaster Dumbledore suggested, was quark-gluon plasma. That had the advantage of being highly energetic - but unfortunately so energetic that nobody can really study it, not even the Muggles. Whatever properties quark-gluon plasma might have are basically theoretical. Also, unlike Bose-Einstein, it has never been connected to magic.”

“So the question remains, what's the relationship between the Fifth Element elemental powers that you seem to possess, so far largely uncontrolled, and the magic of the ordinary wizard….”

When she said “magic,” Hermione wrote the letter “m” on the board. The board then read:

5E m

“We know it's very powerful, whatever it is,” Hermione continued. “So to express the Fifth Element question mathematically, we have to divide your power by an unknown constant. Those are usually expressed algebraically with a k….”

She made more clacks as her chalk on the board. Hermione turned the existing symbols into an equation.

5E = m
k

She looked at the board and frowned. “This will just confuse things,” she grumbled. “That five is looks like part of the equation, instead of part of the variable….”

She moved to the board and erased the five. “Just think of your Fifth Element power as the `E',” Hermione told him.

“Whatever you say,” Harry replied. He still had no idea where this was going.

“From observation we know that the unknown constant, k, has to be quite a large, but how much we had no idea - until my Eureka moment earlier today….” Hermione paused, looking intently at the piece of chalk she rolled in the palm of her hand.

After a bit, Harry filled the silence. “So what does this equation mean, then?”

Hermione gave a weak smile and went on. “Well, using the multiplicative property of equality, we don't change anything by multiplying both sides by the unknown k. All that does is move the unknown to the other side, thus isolating the value of your Fifth Element magic on one side of the equality.”

Hermione made a few more marks and erasures, so that the board now read:

E = mk

“My epiphany has to do with the value of k,” Hermione explained. “I realised that I'd been barking up the wrong tree, conceptually, by viewing the Fifth Element as some exotic state of matter. Matter routinely converts into something else, and that conversion factor is both well known and quite large….”

With that, Hermione erased the k and replaced it with what she had concluded the conversion factor had to be.

E = mc^2

“That's it, I think,” she began summing up. “Just as matter converts into energy, so does ordinary magic convert to the Fifth Element. Your `E' is simply the ordinary wizard's `m' times the conversion factor. It's very large, because `c' represents the speed of light.”

“That's bloody big, alright,” Harry agreed. “It's the fastest thing there is. If I remember from primary, nothing can go faster.”

“That's correct, Harry,” Hermione told him, “and Einstein proved that too. I've spent the last several hours trying to sort all this out. Fortunately, the Library has some Muggle books, and I've been able to teach myself enough rudimentary relativity to figure out what's probably going on….”

Finally Harry cut over her. He had a simple question that he needed answered. “How many times more powerful is this Fifth Element business … I guess the `E' means me … than an ordinary wizard's magic?”

The Headmaster, silent until now and content to let Hermione explain her theory - intervened. “It is a very, very large number Mister Potter.”

“Well, what's the speed of light, then?” Harry asked.

“A shade under three hundred thousand kilometres a second,” Hermione told him.

“That is big,” Harry said, feeling rather stunned. “So you're telling me, if I could ever control this Fifth Element thing, I could be three hundred thousand times more powerful than an ordinary wizard?”

“No, I'm not, Harry,” Hermione responded, still looking uncomfortable.

Harry relaxed a bit and sighed. “Bloody glad to hear that,” he said. “That kind of power … well, it's really too much to be allowed.”

“Mister Potter … Harry … I had Miss Granger explain this to me whilst we waited for you, and I do not think you understand,” Dumbledore stepped in. “That's a square there.” The Headmaster had his wand out, pointed at the chalkboard. The superscripted 2 glowed bright red.

“That's a two,” Harry said flatly.

“It's a square,” corrected Hermione.

“I know what a square is,” Harry replied. “It's got four sides and all. That's a two.”

“Did you learn how to square numbers in primary school?” Hermione asked.

The question surprised Harry, and he responded with a blank look. “If I did, I don't think I remember,” he admitted. “I haven't had maths since fifth year in primary. That was ages ago, and wasn't exactly my top subject. That's why you have to help me so much with my Arithmancy for Poets homework.”

“A square is a number multiplied times itself,” Hermione told him.

“Lightspeed times itself,” came a hoarse cackle from above - causing Harry and Hermione (but not Dumbledore) to whirl about in surprise.

“What the…?”

“I knew somebody'd finally get it,” the Sorting Hat rasped.

“Get what?” Hermione asked.

“Milk.”

“What?” Harry and Hermione asked at the same time.

“Humour, like youth, is lost on the young,” the Hat groused. “Too soon old and too late smart….”

Dumbledore chuckled, whilst the pair of students stared at the Hat with almost identically perplexed expressions.

“What?”

“It's the reference in my annual song, of course” the Hat retorted sharply. “You, young lady, had more smarts stuffed in your head than anyone I'd encountered in many a year. Surely you knew….”

“Sorry to disappoint, but I missed the Sorting this year,” Hermione told the Hat.

“Oh, blast,” the Hat groused. “Potter, I knew you weren't there - and neither was the Headmaster. So much for being so bloody clever … humph.” The Sorting hat's rent rip of a mouth disappeared, and it slipped back into dormancy.

“Oh, great, now I've offended the Hat,” Hermione groaned.

“That is truly of no consequence,” Dumbledore reassured. “Now, if you please, the conversion factor Miss Granger referenced….”

Harry thought a bit. “Oh, Merlin,” he gasped. “How big is that, then?”

“It depends on what units,” Hermione qualified her answer, “but in metric, it's a bit less than ninety milliards.”

Harry sank deeply into the conjured armchair. “I can't even comprehend that,” he said. “I can't even count that high.”

“It's theoretical, of course,” Hermione prattled, “and nothing's close to one hundred percent efficient…. You're almost entirely untrained, and nowhere near your potential - one to maybe five percent efficiency, at most. In Muggle science, such power is attained only by annihilation of matter and antimatter. And Voldemort's no ordinary….”

“And I believe that, in magical terms, the Fifth Element works as does matter and its opposite - only in terms of dark matter yielding dark energy,” Dumbledore interrupted. He was standing now. “Miss Granger, you are truly brilliant.”

“I am?” she shrilled, not at all expecting (or feeling worthy of) the Headmaster's effusive compliment.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore answered, then turned to the boy and addressed him familiarly. “Harry, remember what we discussed the other night - how I believed you harboured a Horcrux due to your affinity with Voldemort and your Parselmouth ability, but somehow that changed?”

“Like I'd ever forget that,” Harry responded almost sarcastically.

“Tell me again, exactly what transpired in the moments before the explosion in the valley?” Dumbledore requested.

“I was in your mind,” Hermione prompted.

“That's right,” Harry agreed. “Hermione had just found me. I was surrounded by Death Eaters, but shielded from their curses. Then Voldemort was in my mind too. He figured out Hermione was there and wanted to hurt her. I tried to force him out….”

“Did you try very strenuously?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry looked askance at the Headmaster. “What do you think?” he spat. “It was Hermione he was after. She'd just come for me, like…. I tried harder than I'd probably tried to do anything in my life!”

“Precisely!” the Headmaster declared. A look of triumph was in his eyes, as at the end of Fourth Year, when Dumbledore realised that the blood magic behind Voldemort's return contained a fatal, prophecy-confirming flaw. “At that moment, you called upon the annihilative power of the Fifth Element. Indeed, you forced Voldemort from your mind. You destroyed - utterly - the Horcrux that you had been carrying since your first encounter. That has to be why your affinity no longer exists….”

“And why I'm no longer a Parselmouth?” Harry cut in.

“Correct. That explains why you are no longer a Parselmouth,” Dumbledore echoed.

“What! You're no longer a Parselmouth?” Hermione asked, sounding shocked. “You never told me that, Harry Potter!”

“Er … sorry Hermione,” Harry stammered. “It's just…. Well, with everything else that's been going on…. I just … umm … forgot….”

Hermione had her hands on her hips and her jaw jutting. “I thought you'd promised to tell me everything,” she began.

Even Dumbledore stayed silent as Hermione lit into Harry.

“I did, and I meant it,” Harry protested. “I just don't remember what `everything' is, that's all.”

“You're very lucky, Harry, that I love you,” Hermione admonished sternly.

“I know. I tell myself that every day,” Harry acknowledged.

Harry extended his hand and Hermione took it. How could she remain angry at him after a remark like that?

A few moments of somewhat awkward silence passed before Dumbledore sought to move things along. “Your book, Mister Potter. I requested you to bring it.”

Harry picked up the Muggle tome, previously lying forgotten in his chair.

“You will recall that I suggested you read the first, I believe, eight chapters over last summer.”

“I know,” Harry shrugged. “And I did. They were interesting and all, but I can't recall anything that would have helped understand this.” He gestured to the Hermione's equation still on the blackboard.

“In my ignorance, I directed you to the wrong material,” the Headmaster admitted. “I wanted you to become acquainted with the physics of ordinary magic, which I believe functions quite in the manner of Muggle electricity.”

“And I think you were right,” Hermione concurred. “The Muggle central nervous system generates electrical impulses to function. Magic operates similarly, except that, instead of normal electricity, magical impulses are charmonium mediated.”

“But as far as the Fifth Element is concerned,” Dumbledore moved the discussion forward, “I erred in limiting you to the general material on electricity. The exercise would have been much more useful had I included the later chapters - about nuclear power and beyond that, nuclear fusion.”

“I-I … I suppose that's right,” Hermione reluctantly concurred. “But before we go down that road, can we do anything to be sure?”

Dumbledore ruminated on that question, staring blankly through the windows at the misty rain. “I believe so,” he finally determined. “It will take some doing - and some assistance from my contacts in the Auror Corps. But the more ponder it, the more I believe that something confirmatory can be done.”

* * * *

Dumbledore left the room first. Harry dawdled, still coming to terms with the nature of the awesome power of the Fifth Element. `Lightspeed times itself….'

He turned, ready to grab Hermione's hand and depart. To his surprise, Hermione was no longer beside him. Once she Vanished the blackboard, she had gravitated towards the Headmaster's desk. Now she examined one of his daguerreotypes. Harry meandered over, curious, only to see her emit a muffled squeak and drop the picture frame. It clattered onto the desk.

“What's wr…?” he began, only to be cut off by the Headmaster himself.

“I trust you two are not becoming too comfortable. I realise my quarters are quite pleasant, but I would hate to keep you from your other obligations.” Harry could almost hear the wink in the old man's voice.

Hermione's voice shook as she answered. “N-no, Professor. We were just leaving.”

Harry shot her a quizzical glance as they re-entered the Headmaster's office. She offered no reply except a quick head shake and a whispered, “Later, Harry.”

Dumbledore smiled as they let themselves out, but Harry was too preoccupied with collecting his broom and Hermione's odd behavior really to notice.

Once they had descended the staircase and exited past the gargoyle, he turned to her. “What happened at the end, there? You had me worried.”

She flashed a genuine smile. “It's nothing serious, Harry. One of the pictures seemed familiar. I was just giving it a second look.” She paused, and her smile faltered. “It's strange though … I don't understand….”

Harry's arms embraced her protectively. “What is it?” Anything that Hermione could not understand; he doubted he could know better, but talking it out probably did no harm.

“Don't get upset, Harry,” she began tensely, “but the picture, that boy, on Dumbledore's desk…. I'm fairly certain it's Grindelwald. And I don't know why.”

“WHAT?” Harry's voice rose unintentionally in surprise. At the startled glances of several passing Second Years, he lowered his voice and continued, “I mean, how could that be? Dumbledore defeated him in 1945 - why keep a picture of him? Are you're sure?”

Harry's final question was little more than grasping at straws. Hermione was rarely wrong. Moreover, she rarely voiced an opinion, especially one so controversial, without being either virtually certain, or else very firm in her beliefs.

“Well, I'm not completely sure,” Hermione allowed. “I'd have to check in the library first, for one thing….”

Harry was decisive. “Well, let's do it together. We've no classes right now, so let me ditch this broom, and I'll meet you in the library.”

* * * *

Numbly, Harry stared at the stack Hermione had pulled from the shelves and piled hastily atop the table before them. “A Wizarding History of Empire-Building? Dark Mages of the Twentieth Century? Nurmengard: The Rise and Fall of the Dark Lord Grindelwald? Hermione, where do you find these things?”

“I did some extra research when I first came across the subject a couple of years ago - Bathilda Bagshot's work is hopelessly vague, I don't know why…. But A History of Magic is still probably the best place for you to start. Here.” She shoved the book at Harry whilst herself opening up Grindelwald: The Early Years. “I believe the section on Grindelwald's empire begins on page 1347….”

Harry started reading where instructed and was shocked at what he found. He poured over the pages, his horror slowly growing. The man had thrown his political opponents into “re-education” camps! How could Dumbledore possibly justify the picture on his desk? Of course, that only mattered if the picture was actually Grindelwald….

That slim hope was dashed when Hermione announced, “Here it is! Exactly the picture I remembered. A portrait of Grindelwald as a young man.” Pushing the stack aside to make room, she laid the book on the table with a slight thump. They both leaned forward.

The boy - no, man - depicted in the book was clearly the same as the picture on Dumbledore's desk, albeit slightly older. The two photographs shared the same intense dark eyes, same shoulder length light-coloured hair.

“So it's definitely him, then?” Harry asked. “Grindelwald.”

“Yes.” Hermione looked disappointed by the confirmation, as though she, too, had hoped to be proven wrong.

“So Dumbledore once knew Grindelwald….” Harry began.

“And - oh, Harry….” Hermione choked out a sob. “That isn't even the worst part….” Opening another book, she flipped through it, seeking a specific page. Slightly calmed, she read aloud, “One of Grindelwald's earliest victims, and indeed one of the few British victims in the mainly Continental war, was the young wife of the very wizard later to defeat him in a duel: Albus Dumbledore….”

“Indeed,” spoke a solemn voice behind them, making both Harry and Hermione jump. “It was entirely my fault….”

How long Dumbledore had been observing them, neither knew. At this moment, he seemed older and more tired than Harry had ever seen him.

“Professor Dumbledore!” Hermione squeaked. “We … we didn't expect to see you here.”

“Nor I you.” the Headmaster replied, with barely a trace of his usual humour. Sparing a cursory glance over Harry`s shoulder towards the portrait of a fourteenth-century Hogwarts headmaster hanging on the adjacent wall, he added, “Though the fuss in the library did feed my curiosity.”

Not happy with having their privacy disturbed, Harry asked directly, “Professor, why is a picture of Grindelwald on your desk?” His anger was smouldering. Dumbledore had made a show lately of being open with him, but was the old man reverting to his prior, secretive ways?

Hermione jumped in. “What Harry means, Professor, is that he's - we're both surprised that you'd have a picture of him given, well … everything….”

Ignoring these direct questions, at least temporarily, Dumbledore had one of his own. “I assume you deduced this, Miss Granger?” They both nodded. “Do you mind if I ask what sparked your interest in this topic?”

Hermione looked nervous and puzzled, but she answered, “Well, you see Professor, I was reading ahead in A History of Magic, back in Third Year…. I was actually trying to learn about Voldemort's first rise to power, and about Sirius, but I couldn't help but read what she'd written about Grindelwald. Ms. Bagshot was so vague and brief that I decided to read more, to figure out what she wasn't saying. That's how I learned about all this….”

To both Harry and Hermione's surprise, the Headmaster let out a soft chuckle. “I had always wondered when Bathilda's discomfort with the history of her great-nephew would come back to haunt me…. Frankly, I am rather surprised it took so long.”

Harry and Hermione shared a glance. Great-nephew? This time, Harry cut in. “Sir, do you mean that Bathilda Bagshot and Grindelwald were related?”

“Are related, Mister Potter. As both still live, the past tense is unnecessary,” confirmed Dumbledore, who, temporarily at least, seemed to regain some of his twinkle. He turned to Hermione. “Miss Granger, what do know you of Gel-, I mean Grindelwald's youth?”

“Only that he was expelled from Durmstrang during his Fifth Year, for reasons that are debated. After that, he drops off the record for many years,” she replied. “Pardon me, Professor, but where are you going with this?”

“Given the number of illegal and otherwise … illicit activities I know he engaged in, I hardly find that surprising.” Dumbledore paused before continuing. “During those years, it is frequently stated that he `traveled.' However he spent the latter part of those years, during the first few months, he stayed in Godric's Hollow - with Bathilda Bagshot's family, to be precise. We met through her.”

Dumbledore paused. Both Harry and Hermione regarded him expectantly. “You wish the full story, I suppose?”

`You think this is a good idea?' Harry Legilimenced to Hermione.

`It's the only way we'll ever understand. We might as well try,' she likewise responded.

When they nodded, Dumbledore sighed. “It is a long story … difficult…. I will not deny it to you, but you must allow an old man his comforts.” With a wave of his wand, he conjured another chintz armchair, and settled into it. After another pause, he commenced.

“For you to understand this story fully, I must begin with my family. I assume you both know of my brother?” When they nodded, he continued, “I had a sister as well … Ariana … younger than both of us. Very few know of this. She never attended Hogwarts….”

The Headmaster then related a sorrowful family tale - how one afternoon he had failed to watch his sister. She had wandered and been attacked by Muggle boys, probably for performing wild magic. Dumbledore's father, in a towering rage, found the attackers and used the Cruciatus on them and their families. That transgression saw him sentenced to Azkaban, where he died. Ariana never recovered, and her uncontrollable magical outbursts eventually killed their mum….

As Harry winced over the final revelation, all too reminiscent of his own control issues, Hermione had to ask, “Your sister … it's tragic. But does this relate to Grindelwald?”

“I am getting there, Miss Granger, I assure you,” Dumbledore said wearily. “After my father was sentenced to Azkaban, Mother fled to Godric's Hollow with the remains of her once-happy family. Bathilda Bagshot lived nearby, and through her, I met Gellert Grindelwald….”

Dumbledore's craggy face relaxed as he paused and stared into the distance - as if seeing through the intervening decades.

“I had just graduated from Hogwarts with some degree of academic achievement. Mum had just died. I grudgingly fulfilled my obligations as the eldest, but was loath to surrender my bright future to the care of a half-mad sister. I would gladly have fobbed that off on poor Aberforth.”

“At same time, Gel-, Grindelwald had been expelled from Durmstrang, and was living with Bathilda in Godric's Hollow. She appreciated my predicament, and hoped that someone close to my age might better console me. She had no idea just what she started….”

Again, that stare…. A sad trace of smile….

Hermione watched carefully.

“We spent every waking moment together, Gellert and I. He dreamed and schemed about a new Wizarding age. Repeal of the Statute. Wizard dominion over Muggles. And I supported him. Personally, he spoke of safety, perhaps treatment, for my sister…. I believed that only his vision could prevent Ariana's fate from happening to others. This lasted two months - before the whole house of cards came crashing down.”

No smile. Not anymore. But … something….

“I had never seen Gellert's cruelty until … then. That is not to say I was ignorant. I knew of it on some level - he had been expelled from Durmstrang, after all. But the subject was avoided. Our remarkable summer was coming to an end. Aberforth, who had cared for Ariana during my neglect, was to return to Hogwarts in a few days. I could no longer evade my responsibility for her.”

“As that day approached, Gellert mentioned my quandry with increasing frequency. He most likely intended this as a warning that our planning stage could not last forever, but I took it as an insult to my ability. I scoffed and informed him that I would be more than ready…. Ah … promises easily made and even more easily forgotten and broken….”

There it was. That - something - again….

Hermione wondered.

Dumbledore resumed. He sounded very tired, now, and sad.

“Not long after one such brush-off, Aberforth overheard us planning a tour of Europe, to begin our quest. He burst in, charging me with neglecting Ariana and breaking familial vows I could scarcely remember. I accused him of eavesdropping on things he could not possibly fathom. These recriminations escalated into a full-fledged argument. In a fury, Aberforth attacked Gellert.”

“Gellert had always been quick to anger, but this was beyond anything I had experienced. He cursed my brother - the Cruciatus Curse. I stood by useless, not certain whom to defend. When Gellert stopped, Aberforth staggered to his feet, and pretended he was beaten. After a few seconds, he pulled his wand, and a full duel began….”

Would the Headmaster be able to finish the tale without breaking down?

“Everyone's shouting roused Ariana. She wandered into the room. Finally, I threw myself into the mix, firing defensive spells everywhere, all the while begging Gellert not to inflict his anger on my family.”

“After seconds, maybe minutes - the timing remains uncertain - of flying spells, all this magic was too much for Ariana. A bright flash and a loud bang interrupted us. When the smoke cleared, my sister lay dead on the floor. Whether a spell hit her, or if her own magic caused it was never clear. Gellert fled before her body was even cool, leaving me and my brother to deal with the aftermath.”

“Aberforth never forgave me, and thus we remain estranged. But I blamed myself even more. I tried to forget everything … to pretend that summer never happened. After a year of mourning, I married Muriel. She was Muggle-born, and a year behind me at school. She knew nothing of my sister…. Or any of the rest….”

At this point, the elderly man ducked his head. Instead of crying, though, he hoarsely whispered. “I did not love her.”

“Professor?” Hermione asked, hesitantly rising, ready to offer comfort, but uncertain as to how. “What's wrong? What do you mean?”

Dumbledore paused for a few seconds, composing himself. “Marrying her, it provided family, some replacement for what I had lost. But more, it was my final a repudiation of those months - it forsook Gellert.”

“Because she was a Muggle-born?” Harry asked.

“No … Gellert never campaigned against Muggle-borns. That idea is purely Voldemort's fabrication. Gellert believed in wizarding supremacy, but never discriminated against magic based on birth.”

“Well, then what?” Harry was growing impatient with the circumlocutions - Dumbledore's hesitancy and his dodging major points.

“I am getting there, Mister Potter,” responded Dumbledore, now seeming nervous as well as grief stricken. “My marriage was not a rejection of Gellert's views. It rejected Gellert personally. I loved him….”

“Are you saying … that you're … gay?” Hermione gently, almost timidly, asked.

He seemed to relax at her friendly tone. “I suppose that would be the current lingo. Of course, no non-pejorative term existed when I was young. The closest was probably `invert,' and even that was rarely spoken. Such love dared not speak its name.”

“I can imagine!” Hermione jumped in, and the original purpose of the conversation was lost in a flurry of discussion concerning historical views of homosexuality. Harry let this latest Hermione fact-fest wash over him, marveling again at the breadth of her knowledge. He knew next to nothing about the topic, aside from typical disparaging remarks about “pansies,” “ponces,” and “poofters,” courtesy of Uncle Vernon and Dudley - and (he thought shamefully) some of his classmates … even occasionally his own locker room jibes….

He tuned back in just in time to hear “…and that's just the Muggles! I imagine it must have been harder for you; with the Wizarding world so conservative in general….”

Dumbledore nodded solemnly. “Indeed it was.”

Harry cut across, trying to return the others to the story's main thread. “I believe you told us you had married, Professor Dumbledore?”

“Ah, yes, the promised explanation,” the older man wheezed. “As I said, I married Muriel and tried to forget those two months altogether. I was moderately happy, and I loved her as much as I was able. Newly unburdened, I began my rise to prominence. News of me slowly reached the Continent, including news of my wife, and our new son.”

“Of course, this news reached Gellert. He was quick to anger, as mentioned, and also quite jealous. During our summer together, he had been jealous of my simple friendship with Elphias. You can barely imagine his rage upon learning about my wife.”

Harry felt Hermione, beside him, shiver almost imperceptibly.

“Whilst in Lorraine, visiting family, Muriel was abducted by Grindelwald sympathisers. They delivered her up, and he executed her personally. Some official explanation was offered, now long forgotten. During our final duel, he admitted he killed her solely because she was my wife. Thus, I killed her by marrying her, and to what end…?”

Dumbledore broke off, choking back sobs. Harry reached over and patted his arm awkwardly; crying headmasters being even worse than crying girls, he decided.

Given a few minutes pause, Dumbledore recovered enough to continue.

“Fortunately, my son had stayed with me in England. Whether Gellert would have sought to harm him, had nothing more happened, I shall never know.”

Hesitantly, as if afraid any interruption might end the conversation, Hermione asked “What … what was your son's name, Professor?”

“Percival, after my father. In all honesty, I had hoped for a daughter, to name in memory of Ariana. Percival hated Grindelwald for his mother's death, and grew to despise me for not avenging it. Over my protestations, once he was of age, he joined one of the volunteer brigades going to the Continent to fight Grindelwald's then burgeoning empire. There was, of course, no organized Ministry response to Gellert's aggression. It contented itself with his decision to leave Britain alone.”

“Perhaps Ministry support would have saved Percival and his doomed companions, or perhaps it would just have led to more deaths. Most of the deaths again lie at my doorstep. I delayed facing Gellert for far too long. His atrocities were known in Britain for years. Yet I still hesitated.”

“What was it? Did I fear his powers? Was I afraid I would lack the will to fight him? Was I pretending that all this did not flow from those utopian dreams we shared? Whatever the reason, I did not pursue him when I should have.”

Hastily, Harry reminded, “You did fight him though, Headmaster? You faced him. And you won.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore responded. “Year later, when I could dither no longer, I traveled to Nurmengard. Whatever my fears, they were invalid. If anything, he could not bear to face me.”

“What do you mean, sir?” Hermione asked.

“The battle was by no means easy. We were well matched magically, as in our youth. And whilst I was still young by Wizarding standards, I was not as spry as before. At one point, several hours in, he could have finished me. But when he saw me stumble, he faltered. Perhaps he could not bring himself to kill me. As a consequence of that unwillingness, I prevailed.”

“I know how that feels,” Harry sympathised, recalling his own duel with Hermione. “Sir … do you think you won because Grindelwald still loved you too much to end it?”

“I question calling it `love',” Dumbledore sighed. “But his residual feelings for me most assuredly saved my life, and because his defeat toppled his regime, the lives of many others. Then my love for him spared his life. The International Confederation of Wizards were prepared to execute him forthwith. Only my impassioned arguments for mercy convinced them to commute his sentence to life imprisonment in Nurmengard.”

“That's beautiful….” Hermione murmured softly. “But I'm still not sure, Professor, why you keep his picture on your desk.”

“The simplest explanation would be that I keep his picture for the same reason I keep Muriel's. But more than that, I retain it as a reminder of all that can come of love, both good and bad. Love can lead us to ignore that which matters most, but it is also the root of all mercy. That is the one thing Tom Riddle never has known and never will.”

Harry cut in. “And that's why he must never succeed.”

“I admire your sentiment, Harry,” replied Dumbledore, the twinkle back in his eye. “But there is more to it. That is why Tom can never succeed. And that is why I have such hope for you, and for all of our futures.”

* * * *

Harry strode briskly through the uncrowded corridor, the broad stone walls echoing his footsteps. He was going to the library to get a head start on his Charms homework - four rolls of parchment on how and why charms cast on plants differed from charms cast on animals. In keeping with his upper-year classes' more holistic approach towards magic, the assignment was jointly assigned with both Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures.

He was making the best of Hermione's afternoon meeting with Madam Pomfrey concerning her Healing research - and then wanting to squeeze in some violin practice. Harry reckoned he could have a couple of undisturbed study hours before having to report to the Pitch for Quidditch practice. He and Ron (especially Ron) were driving the team harder. Their first match, against Slytherin, loomed ever larger in everyone's consciousness.

Until recently the idea that swotting without Hermione could be more productive than with her would have been absurd. But now that they were a couple, her close presence, especially when they had privacy, was extremely distracting. Her increased amenability to distraction hardly helped matters.

Regardless of distractions, Hermione always seemed able complete her assignments. He ribbed her about using a Time-Turner - but she denied it, and he believed her.

Harry noticed the sound of a second pair of footsteps, behind him but gaining. He was poised to turn about when a familiar voice called out, “Harry, if you've a moment, could I have a word?”

Harry pulled up short. “Of course, Dennis,” he agreed. “No problem at all - what's on your mind?”

Now in his third year, Dennis Creevey was no longer the scrawny, near midget he had been as an ickle firstie. He had found his calling and knew whom to thank for that.

“I thought you'd like to know that it's really gonna happen,” Dennis said, excitedly bouncing on his heels.

Harry had too many things happening simultaneously in his life. Put on the spot, he was at a loss. “Umm … that's great, Dennis…. When?”

“According to Blackie Howe, the assembly plant should be up and running in about two weeks,” Dennis answered happily. “I'm so grateful that you agreed to stake us.”

Harry could barely believe it. A housemate younger than he was actually starting a business (regardless of the financing) large enough to need its own factory…. That was so far out of Harry's league, he scarcely knew what to say.

“Where's this factory?” Harry asked.

“Where everybody opens new plants,” Dennis told his backer. “In China … a place called Shenzhen. We found plenty of wizards around there willing and able to build these systems. Before, it was hopeless. We were so far behind our orders that we'd never have caught up.”

Harry regarded Dennis quizzically. “You mean there's really a wizard market for something I thought most would call a `Muggle trick?'”

“We thought the same thing, so we were caught by surprise,” Dennis explained. “More wizards than you'd think are curious about this Internet business. Arthur Weasley ordered one, of course. A lot of Ravenclaws believe these gadgets will help them with their studies. We've also had institutional customers. Professor McGonagall ordered one for Hogwarts. Remus Lupin bought two, but won't say who for - just that you'd want me to sell them….”

Harry knew immediately. The Order was going high tech.

“Just be careful in selling to Slytherins,” Harry quipped.

“No problems there,” Dennis returned. “That's the real `Muggle Tricks' crowd. We haven't made a single sale to a Snake, and that's one demographic I can do without.”

“Sounds great,” Harry praised. “Constant vigilance, you know.” He chanced one more question before moving along to the library - trying to sound like the attentive investor he was not. “So how much profit do you make on those things?”

“When it was just Colin and me, about five hundred Galleons worth of parts could make a machine we could easily sell for five thousand Galleons, but that didn't count our own labour,” Dennis calculated. “Now, we'll be paying the Chinese wizards and shipping costs via Industrial Floo - but we'll save loads on parts. All told, we expect net costs of around two thousand Galleons a unit, but we'll sell a lot more, so I'd say we'll probably clear a hundred thousand Galleons profit, on sales of maybe thirty-five units a year. That amortises the plant in three years. Then we can repay your principal balance; or pay dividends if you'd rather stay an investor….”

At that point Harry decided he'd heard enough. “Well that's brilliant, but I've got to go a-swotting for a while before Quidditch practice.”

* * * *

Elsewhere in the Castle, someone was hard at work finishing a rather disagreeable task. She had promised, so she would carry on until obtaining proper confirmation.

And confirmation was coming. On her last Hogsmeade visit, she spent a substantial fraction of her fairly tight funds buying a Pocket Pensieve. It was altogether more private and more flexible than the full-sized Pensieve originally offered for this task.

Privacy and flexibility were essential for this type of sleuthing. Luna Lovegood had been on the case for almost two weeks. Shower stalls and vanities were her primary theatres of operations - because Luna did not play Quidditch like her quarry, Cho Chang.

Pornography was altogether beneath witches. Luna was appalled at the thought that Cho would do something like that, with anyone. That she was cheating on Ron in the process made her blood positively boil.

Anyone who tolerated the nickname “Looney” with equanimity was slow to anger. Luna did not ordinarily get mad - she got even.

Luna had another advantage. She knew more about Muggle matters than even Hermione Granger might suspect. She learnt from her late father, who had willingly embraced Muggle ways to avoid dependence on a Ministry he considered untrustworthy.

So Xenophilius Lovegood had known what the Internet could do. He taught Luna. Now Luna put her skills to good use.

Hermione sought Luna's assistance primarily because she was in Ravenclaw. She provided scandalous material, which more than justified her suspicions that Cho had a lurid secret pursuit - unknown to her unsuspecting boyfriend. Hermione's printouts included universal resource locators.

In the middle of the night, Luna used the Ravenclaw D.A. central station, both to confirm Hermione's information and to assess the scope of the problem for herself.

Luna immediately concluded that that woman had no business being with Ronald Weasley.

All she had to do was prove it.

Finally, she thought she had that proof. She had managed a “coincidental” encounter with Cho in the Ravenclaw showers that morning. Thinking quickly, Luna dropped her slippery bar of soap and immediately stepped on it, producing a spectacular pratfall.

Looking like a klutz in front of a catty girl like Cho would be too much for some, but Luna was incapable of embarrassment.

Heedless of her nakedness, Cho rushed to assist Luna. Faking a twisted ankle, Luna managed an eyeful of various tattoos that did, or did not, festoon those parts of Cho's body that good little boys never got to see.

Now, several hours later, Luna could confirm the truth of Hermione's suspicions - notions that initially seemed bizarre even to one who had grown up around the Quibbler.

With the Pocket Pensieve, Luna cross-checked her memories against Hermione's Internet pictures. The round, intricate tattoo below Cho's navel, that her bikini panties just about bisected, was real. Luna had observed it (or parts of it) four times during her undercover assignment.

Everything else was temporary - and Cho's temporary tattoos changed every time she left the Castle for those weekend off-campus Sinic Magical Studies classes. That is, if she really attended such classes at all, an ever more doubtful proposition.

Luna had tried verifying that as well. By lucky accident, also during the Hogsmeade trip, Luna noticed that some of the Twins' Category 1 fireworks were from Macau, and carried Chinese writing. That evening, in the Common Room, with artificial insouciance, Luna had approached Cho and asked the older girl to translate the “directions.” The result was laughable for somebody supposedly studying the language intensively.

“This one,” Luna muttered, as she selected the single best visual memory of Cho's permanent tattoo and added it to the Pocket Pensieve. She would show it to Hermione as soon as possible.

And how to do that?

Luna concluded that Hermione would undoubtedly be watching the Gryffindor Quidditch practice - because Harry would be there. Come to think of it, Cho would likely be there, too; for similar reasons, if a different boyfriend.

Luna's eyes flashed dangerously.

The nerve of her to do this to poor Ronald. Somehow, she would get her comeuppance.

As Luna descended the tower staircase to the Ravenclaw common room, she detoured to the Seventh Years' lodgings. It was deserted.

Scowling at the mere thought of Cho, Luna left a calling card under the older girl's pillow.

“That will teach her,” Luna hissed.

Then she made her way to the Quidditch Pitch.

* * * *

Ron Weasley was dead tired. Despite temperatures barely into the teens, he felt sweat stinging his left eye as, breathing hard, he readied for the next assault. Flicking matted, stringy hair out of his face, he grimly assumed his accustomed position just in front of the middle goal mouth.

Practice had been surprisingly good, leading to Ron's immediate predicament. The Chasers were altogether exceeding expectations, demonstrating their ability to put the Quaffle by him with uncomfortable frequency.

Ginny, of course was spectacular. Everybody knew that, especially her.

Ron sighed whilst watching Ginny give her fellow Chasers a pep talk before their next run. It was a pain being Quidditch Captain with an uppity sister on the team. She constantly did things that almost, but not quite, usurped his authority - like those bloody headbands she conjured. Even Harry agreed to wear one, leaving him the last hold out.

But then, unlike that berk McLaggen, at least Ginny never complained about serving as team water girl…. Even after Dobby left.

Ginny's classmate, Demelza Robbins, was rapidly proving to be a topnotch find. And Dean Thomas … well, nobody could ask for more from a last-minute substitute.

Here they came again, with Ginny on point as usual. Even letting the Beaters have at them without opposition hardly slowed this bunch down.

Of course, that also meant that the Beaters….

Just as Ron girded for another scoring attempt, the Chasers scattered, their formation ruined by a pair of crimson-tinted streaks. As Demelza spun out of the way, she dropped the Quaffle.

Ron grinned. Harry and Jazzy were at it again. Harry was teaching the untamable Third Year the Wronski Feint and similar power diving moves. After reminding them of her spectacular tryout accident, Ron had agreed on the theory that “what does not kill you makes you stronger.”

That must have been their twentieth dive in the last half hour. Harry had to be getting pretty tired.

McLaggen gave Ron a shout.

Oops! Not good to let ones mind go walkabout on the Pitch. Ginny regrouped the chasers, and here they came again. Something about that look in his sister's eye … Ron always played hunches….

Thomas to Robbins to Weasley…. The other two Chasers criss-crossed in front of Ginny, hiding her, and the Quaffle, from view. Ginny was on him in an instant, but Ron had not allowed the others to distract him from his onrushing sister. Suddenly she soared straight up….

Despite all his preparation, Ron was almost knocked off his broom as Ginny barrel-rolled barely over his head - her streaming robes slapping his face and almost blinding him with his own unruly hair.

Goal!

As Ginny tilted her broom skywards, she had simply dropped her cargo into Dean's waiting hands. Entirely unopposed, he tossed Daisy Pennifold's finest invention through the unguarded left hoop.

“Maybe if you'd wear a Gryffindor headband, you could see what you were doing,” Ginny taunted as she flew around the back of the goalposts. McLaggen, hovering nearby on his broom waiting impatiently for some playing time, roared with laughter.

Ron had not fully recovered when Harry swooped through the scoring area, upside down this time, with Jazzy hot on his broomtail. Ron expected another feint until he heard Harry yell, “Game!” In his raised right hand, the Snitch's wings were fluttering.

That was enough for Ron. He blew his magically enhanced captain's whistle (ordered by owl post from Quality Quidditch Supplies the day he learnt of his captaincy, and only recently received), and shouted, “McLaggen, get in here!”

Ron flew to the team bench. He blew the whistle twice more - the agreed-upon signal for a captain's conference with Harry.

Quickly dismounting, Ron dropped to the damp, grassy ground. The air was cold enough to cloud Ron's breath in front of his face. “Accio Ron's water bottle.”

A two-litre bottle, red plastic with a black top (both charmed unbreakable) flew into his hand. The bottle - with his initials “RBW” engraved with what looked like real gold - had been Dobby's going-away present to the Gryffindor co-captains.

Ron was pleased that his DADA practice with wandless magic was paying dividends.

He had just begun sucking on the built-in self-Scourgifying straw when Harry landed with soft thud in the grass behind him. Ron summoned Harry's bottle - identical except for the monogram - and tossed it to his best mate.

Ron had been spot on in his call. Harry needed the break, too. “Thanks, mate,” the other Gryffindor co-captain panted before gratefully pulling on his straw.

“So what do you think?” Harry asked. “Will we kick Slytherin's arse or what?”

“Oh, Hell yeah!” Ron chortled as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, the bottle dutifully hovering before him in midair. “We'll absolutely flatten them. Moose is already whingeing how their Seeker's pants with Malfoy out. He's hoping to get by on their Chaser's strength - all Seventh Years, you know - but I'll put this group up against anyone.”

“Including you,” Harry teased, a grin on his face. “Ginny has your number right now.”

“Nah,” Ron joshed back. “I was just knackered - and from the looks of things, so were you.”

“Too right,” Harry admitted. “You don't think Montague's having you on, do you?” Awaiting Ron's answer, he slurped another big slug of Ginny's special mix of water and Invigoration Draught.

“Wouldn't put it past him,” Ron allowed. “But I've had Seamus spying on their practices - that's why he switched to Hermione's D.A. class, not so he could be with all the girls, although I'm sure the bloke doesn't mind that…. Anyway, Seamus reports that the Snakes are a really bad job this year, save their Chasers. Your idea to even up everyone's brooms took away their last advantage.”

“Good,” pronounced Harry. “Then, if we lead by one-fifty, I'm gonna put her in,” he said, referring to Jazzy.

“In a real game?” Ron challenged. “So soon?”

“Sure,” replied Harry coolly. “If she catches the Snitch - great. The girl needs to get her game experience right away. With everything going on, I can't guarantee I'll always be available.”

“Oh,” grunted Ron, disappointment on his face. “Oi, speaking of girls, there's your fan club.”

Ron was referring to Hermione, just been joined by Luna. Happily, Harry waved to his fiancée, typically with homework spread around her. From her apparel, she must have cast a Warming Charm over her immediate vicinity.

Engrossed in a conversation with Luna, she failed to notice him. `Hello, Hermione,' Harry Legilimenced, just as his straw started drawing air….

A shrill screech behind Harry shattered the moment, followed almost instantaneously by the nasty thud of iron impacting flesh.

Harry whirled around just in time to see Ginny wobbling on her broom, a Bludger falling away. She spun once, her hands released the Firebolt, and she also fell away.

Reacting before thinking, Harry leapt on his broom and pelted towards her. Behind him, if he had been listening, Harry would have heard Ron shout, “Arresto Momentum.”

It felt almost like when Hermione's Valkyrie had been sabotaged. Time seemed to slow down. Everything was very quiet; everything looked crystal clear. He seemed to be flying through some mental tunnel.

Harry focused solely on Ginny's falling form. Since she weighed much more than a Snitch, he had to time this catch just right…. He was close…. Power dive….

Whomp!

He flew into her, and the impact nearly jolted Harry off his broom. With the power dive - and Ron's spell slowing Ginny's descent - he overcompensated and the skewed forces spun him around crazily. But he somewhat clumsily collected her whilst managing to pull his Firebolt from its dive with his legs alone.

Then he sensed it.

Something large and scaly burst to life within him. His chest hitched tightly - as if barely holding the thing - underneath his robes, his trousers went tighter still. All Harry's blood seemed to exit his brain, and he operated entirely on base instinct.

He wanted her.

He wanted to take that arm wrapped tightly around her right thigh, move it upwards, and rip off her knickers - right then and there. Unbidden images came to mind … he and Ginny clenched sweatily in the Gryffindor Quidditch captain's office, a red and gold swath of cloth tied tightly about the locked doorknob.

On autopilot, Harry swooped to a perfect landing on the pitch. Seemingly of its own accord, Ginny's long hair wrapped itself around his neck and shoulders, further bewitching him. Her lips looked so inviting. Her red and gold Gryffindor headband had slipped down her neck, inviting an explore of what lay beneath. Within, the beast was roaring….

All about Harry, everything still seemed unnaturally quiet. In the background - a long way off - he could hear people shouting.

Then, from somewhere deep inside, Harry heard - almost felt - something else … a voice, sort of … telling him, `No, I don't think so….'

Before Harry knew it, a strong arm gripped his shoulder. More hands pulled at Ginny's semi-conscious form, hoisting her away from him.

A moment earlier and Harry might have fought back. But this voice was advising - `Stupid thing to do, actually.' Harry hesitated, uncertain. He felt Ron shake him and recognised his best mate's voice, “Whoa, Harry, great save there! You all right? You look a mite peaky.”

“You'd be pale, too….”

“Don't worry, Potter, I've got her now,” Cormac McLaggen grunted as he hauled Ginny away. Harry felt her hair sliding off his neck. The beast made a last, feeble protest, but Harry was too tired and shocked at everything to protest.

“Merlin, Harry, you were magnificent, as usual.” Harry turned and came face to face with Hermione. She looked at him with something approaching amazement etched on her face. “Your saving people thing is marvelous to behold. Here - you're still worked up from the effort. Let's get you some more water … oops, you finished this off … and get you settled.”

Tenderly, she led Harry, still shaking with excitement, to the Gryffindor bench and sat him firmly down. Taking her accustomed place beside him, Hermione had Harry pulled over sideways in less than a minute. His head was in her lap as she tenderly ran her fingers through his very sweaty hair. Over and over, she whispered for him to relax.

“I guess that's enough,” Ron declared. “Practice is over.”

Turning to Hermione, Ron made his first friendly comment in weeks, “Is there anything I can do for either of you?”

“Just save some dinner,” Hermione replied softly. “I think he's fallen asleep.”

Harry woke up after dark - his head still in Hermione's lap. Her arms encircled him in a warm, protective human necklace. The monster had vanished as quickly as it came. Hermione's soft touch was all he felt on his chest.

He reached up and gently grasped her hands in his. “Hermione….” he croaked. “You're … you're wonderful, you know that?”

“If you say so, Harry,” she cooed at him. “But you saved the day - always where you're needed, you are.”

Harry sighed. Looking into her face, he wondered how he could ever - even for an instant - have entertained the crazy idea of betraying her trust. Just thinking about the incident made him quite randy. “I think I need something else right about now,” he said in a low, soft voice he used only with her. “We need someplace private, very private, right away.”

Being Gryffindor co-captain had its benefits….

* * * *

“Dolohov!” the Dark Lord snapped. “Have you compiled the list of potential Muggle targets?”

“Yes, Master,” the Death Eater confirmed. He stepped forward, dropped to his knees, and kissed the hem of Lord Voldemort's robes.

“Very well,” hissed the Dark Lord as he clutched the proffered parchment in his long, pale fingers. “Now go, and chart the best attack routes.”

“Vaisey!” came his next summons. “Have you photographed the base and its environs?”

This Death Eater repeated his predecessor's show of subservience. “Yes, Master. I have both daytime and night shots, as ordered.”

“Good. You shall be rewarded once the operation proceeds as planned,” Lord Voldemort promised. “Prepare a second set for Ludo, then.”

“As you wish, it shall be done,” the group's most skilled photographer promised as he took his leave.

“Bagman!” the Dark Lord barked. “You shall take the set to our allies. Gather whatever operational thoughts and suggestions they might have, and return to me.”

“Consider it done,” the turncoat Department Head promised.

“Greyback!” Lord Voldemort demanded.

The werewolf stepped forwards and prostrated himself in front of his Alpha. He knew better than even to touch his master's robes. “Your orders, Master?”

“You will pay Caractacus a little visit,” the Dark Lord instructed. “He is supposedly making urgent repairs to something I own. I am beginning to doubt his alacrity. Do him no harm …, but remind him of his erstwhile partner's fate.”

“With pleasure,” growled the lycanth.

The Master gave one final command. “Lucius, come with me….”

* * * *

Author's notes: "Mr. Normal" is from Tommy - "We're Not Gonna Take It." "M." stands for "medium"

"Head on a platter" is Biblical, referring to the death of St. John the Baptist

"Mutadis mutandi" is Latin for "making necessary changes"

Activated Horcruxes are important

"Athena from the head of Zeus" is Greek mythology. Zeus swallowed Metis, who was pregnant with Athena. Athena developed and caused Zeus such pain that he had his head split with an axe, releasing Athena, full grown

Lisen Broh was introduced in Ch.11; it is an anagram of Niels Bohr

Lupin will return

Arthur C. Clark said "sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic." Hermione's T-shirt slogan reverses that

"Dry-stone dyke" is Scottish for a low stone wall

Navier-Stokes is a real equation, triply integrated, thus looking extremely complex. It is accurately described

Cylindrical coordinates are real. When used with Navier-Stokes, the result is truly impressive

The Drake equation estimates the prevalence of advanced extraterrestrials

Fibonacci numbers start with zero, one, and then adding the prior two for the next. Their mystical connotations were prominently featured in the DaVinci Code

Mersenne primes are in formula 2x-1, where the result is prime

Barton Schell is a combined name of Philadelphia lawyers who co-founded a firm

Harry already knows about effective Mirror Charms

"What he knew, he could not say" plays on a Beatles line from "She Came In Through The Bathroom Window"

An "ose" suffix denotes a sugar; "magictose" is magical sugar

The Dursleys sent the laptop to Hogwarts

"Hoyo de Monterrey de José Gener Habana" is a brand of Cuban cigar

Harry repeats Hermione's Ch. 34 Valkyrie ride through Hogwarts

In canon Dumbledore likes socks

Dumbledore has very eclectic tastes

My father collects blue glass bottles; my daughter likes Kachina dolls

Black velvet paintings with fluorescent colors are incredibly tacky

Che Guevara hit by a pie is a National Lampoon magazine cover

Bose-Einstein and quark-gluon are both unusual states of matter; quark-gluon was mentioned in Ch. 36

Unknown constants are often expressed as "k", and unknown variables, as "x"

The multiplication property of equality is used properly

This idea of the Fifth Element originally prompted me to write this fic

Lightspeed times itself - c^2 was in the hat's song in Ch. 34

The hat makes a "got milk" joke

The "too soon old" line is a Pennsylvania Dutch saying; I don't know where "youth is lost on the young" comes from

300,000 x 300,000 = 90,000,000,000; a milliard means "billion" in the USA

My daughter wrote the first draft of the Grindeldore scenes

"Portrait … as a young man," is from James Joyce

Gay Dumbledore is canon, I suppose

"Invert" is accurately used

"Love … not speak its name," from Alfred Douglas and Oscar Wilde

Percival's brigade recalls the Spanish Civil War Abraham Lincoln Brigades

Shenzhen is a special Chinese economic zone just north of Hong Kong

Firecrackers are Category 1 fireworks in Britain; most come from China

"Not kill you … makes stronger" - from Nietzsche's Twilight of the Idols

Pennifold invented the modern Quaffle

This voice had helped Harry before

70

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 10/23/2011

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56. Order Of Merlin

Wherein news is sold, made, and destroyed, Draco and Ginny get things they want, Harry gets more news than he bargained for, gets, tested, and is awarded the Order of Merlin; Harry, Hermione and Neville give speeches; Sirius is remembered; Death Eaters attack; Remus returns; and the Masked Ball goes forward without Neville.

Thanks to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

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

Chapter 56 - Order of Merlin

The big day started earlier for some people than for others.

For Luna Lovegood, it merely extended the day previous … and before that … and before that. Finally, at four-thirty in the morning the final arrangements were complete for publication and distribution of the Quibbler's next edition.

It promised to be the best-selling Quibbler ever. It contained the eagerly-awaited second installment of Rita Skeeter's exclusive. This edition told the “true story” of Harry's experience once freed from Death Eater captivity by the goblins and returned to Hogwarts. Not incidentally, this story put to rest the sundry nasty rumours set flying during Hermione's mum's brief custody battle.

For maximum impact (and sales), Luna was determined to release the story on the same day that Harry, Hermione and the rest of them received the Order of Merlin.

It was a tremendous amount of work, but she had no choice. The Quibbler was Luna's now. With her father dead, nobody else could run it. If anything were going to get done, she had to do it, and she had.

At polar opposite, Ron Weasley was sleeping in. He had taken advantage of his participant's pass to visit the Gryffindor team captain's room - with Cho, of course. Harry would probably be busy. This was another of his friend's extravaganzas. To be sure, Ron was careful that his house tie was firmly knotted about the doorknob.

The house-elves had not even started serving breakfast when a bleary-eyed Ginny Weasley trudged to the otherwise deserted Potions dungeon for another tutorial with the ever obnoxious but surprisingly useful Draco Malfoy. As tutor, it was Malfoy's prerogative to set lesson times. He had outdone himself this time. Ginny was not a morning person.

Soon enough, he had her brewing, first, Pepper-Up Potion and then a variant of Hiccupping Solution. Once again, it seemed like ages before their businesslike chats turned to the subject that he most wanted - and she most needed - to discuss.

Draco knew it was best never to seem overly eager.

“That's two stirs to the left,” Draco directed, watching Ginny's progress carefully. “Still, even a perfectly brewed Belch Powder isn't half the fun of the little toy I helped you concoct last time.”

“I suppose that's so,” Ginny replied noncommittally.

“Of course, you have to have the stones to use it in the first place,” Draco needled.

“I'll have you know that I did use it, and I believe it worked,” Ginny huffed.

“You believe it worked?” Draco repeated in a slightly mocking tone and with a deliberately raised eyebrow. The next few minutes would be among the most important of his life. “Believe me, that stuff's strong. I'd think you'd bloody well know if the git were ready to tear your clothes off.”

“Unfortunately, my plan to get knocked off my broom by a Bludger worked a little bit too well. The stupid thing knocked me unconscious,” Ginny explained annoyedly. “Still, judging from Harry's reaction afterwards, I'm convinced that the Lust Powder performed exactly as advertised. After all, you checked my brewing yourself….”

Draco grinned. “Well, maybe he is the necro type. Being around death so much, and all.”

“That's just gross,” Ginny retorted. “You're gross.”

“Me gross? I've never thrown my unconscious body at anybody I'd just dosed with Lust Powder,” Draco quipped once again. “But seriously, if you want my help in your little scheme, you need to level with me,” Draco lied through his teeth. “What makes you so sure?”

“Ever since that day, he's avoided me like the plague,” Ginny revealed.

“Riiiiiight,” Draco drawled sarcastically. “Now that's a Gryffindor's idea of progress, for you. Use it again, and maybe he'll emigrate all the way to America or some such. Then you'd really have accomplished what you're after.”

“You wouldn't know fidelity if you tripped over it,” Ginny shot back, “and you surely don't know Harry very well. That's just how I'd expect him to act after having what I'm sure he considered were extremely inappropriate feelings.”

“Were you wearing that necklace like you were supposed to?” Draco asked with carefully feigned disinterest.

“Transfigured, but yes,” Ginny answered. She pulled out what looked like a Gryffindor-coloured headband.

Draco nodded. This was good - crucial, even. “Well, do you want to confirm that his avoidance really means desire, or are you content just to wish that it does?”

“I don't think I need do anything,” Ginny told Draco. “I'm convinced.” She gave her hair a haughty flip.

“Have it your way then,” Draco answered with an exaggerated look of disgust. “But you can count me bloody well out.”

“But you said you'd help me…,” a disgruntled Ginny reminded the boy.

“If you recall, what I said was that I'd prefer that the Great, Order-Winning Git at least be with a pure-blood. That needn't be you, Reds. If I thought the girl could be a worthy Slytherin like Beth or Tracey, don't think I wouldn't drop you like a bloody hot potato. But I'm realistic, and I don't see that happening. So don't fool yourself that I'm doing this for you…. And let me be honest, I'm not doing it at all unless I'm sure that the risk I'm running - just by being in this room with you - has a chance of paying off. I'm sorry, but I'm just not as confident about this as you are.”

He turned on his heel.

“So good-bye. At least your brewing has improved.” Concealing all the tension and anxiety that he felt at that moment, Draco started to leave.

“Oh, all right,” Ginny surrendered, “do your bloody spell.”

Draco stopped in his tracks and allowed himself to breathe again. “That's better,” he conceded, “but you have to do it to yourself. It's nothing I can do.”

“What do you mean, do it myself?” Ginny asked peevishly.

Draco sat himself down behind the large black-marble topped brewing table with an audible thud. “Don't blame me. That's just how the bloody spell is cast. I didn't create it.”

“So I have to magic myself then,” Ginny confirmed. “And what happens if I mess it up?”

“Then we don't know if you got Potty's attention with that powder or not,” Draco restated what he thought was obvious. “You can just take the rest of it and out-Veela the blonde French bimbo for all I care. I think she's also after the Git, by the way.”

“Fleur's on staff,” Ginny huffed. “She's not allowed.”

Draco cocked his eyebrow. “So why should she pay any more attention to the rules than you do? You can go ahead with just your powder, but I can pretty much guarantee you that you'll get caught…. And then there'll be hell to pay.”

“All right, all right. What's the ruddy incantation?” Ginny asked. She was not going to fool herself. Whilst Hermione was tough competition, at least Ginny brought some unique advantages to that contest. Her strengths and those of the French witch were much the same - and she knew Fleur outclassed her.

“Well it goes like this - and pay careful attention. Solvo ut quod sileo intus….” He recited a lengthy Latin sentence, explaining that the necklace would change colour in accordance with how much lust it registered when Ginny had used the powder. Then Draco pulled out his wand and painstakingly demonstrated the proper wand movement. “Keep the tip of your wand at least twenty centimetres away from the necklace itself.”

But Ginny did something unexpected. She took the necklace off. Handing it to Draco, she demanded, “Now, you do it.”

“Do what?”

“The spell you just taught me. If you think I'm going to perform on myself an unknown spell that I just learnt from you without any precautions, you're crazy,” Ginny hissed at him suspiciously. “Put the necklace on, and perform that spell on yourself first.”

Draco gave her a very exasperated look. “One of these days, you'll finally trust me,” he grumbled. “Don't forget, I've given you chances to quit every step of the way.”

“Go on,” she demanded. She had her wand out, but not pointing at him - not yet.

“Oh, all right,” Draco gave in. “But no pictures of me with a girl's necklace around my neck. What will happen is there'll be a burst of magic. But since I haven't been around anyone indulging in Lust Powder with this thing on, my casting won't do anything to the necklace. Pay close attention and you'll see how it's done….”

With that, Draco braced himself and uttered the incantation. The burst of silver magic that shot from his wand knocked him backwards a couple of steps. After it dissipated, the necklace indeed appeared unaffected.

“Satisfied?” Draco smirked as he flopped his arms to his side in mock frustration. “Your turn.”

Ginny sighed. Once again, Draco had proven his bona fides. She took the necklace back and put it on.

Then, she pointed her own wand at herself and concentrated on reciting the magic exactly as instructed. Thus occupied, she did not see that Draco, instead of pocketing his wand, still held it by his side - in an odd, tip upwards position, pointed towards the necklace. Just as she completed the incantation, Draco performed his own silent incantation.

The powerful burst of silvery magic that emerged from Ginny's wand struck the necklace fully. Its momentum shoved Ginny backwards into the raised dais at the front of the classroom. Draco's much less noticeable wordless spell also struck home, but never registered, given the much stronger simultaneous impact of the unfamiliar spell she cast upon herself.

When Ginny's head stopped spinning, she noticed that the necklace had indeed changed colours. No longer shiny silver, the necklace now had the same pale turquoise hue as the Astronomy Tower's copper roof.

“Well, this time, I have to give it to you,” a self-satisfied Draco allowed. “It looks like you were right after all.”

* * * *

Harry, Hermione, and Neville Longbottom all received beribboned parchments summoning them to a meeting with the Headmaster at the cruelly early hour of 7:00 a.m. These summonses arrived the night before - brought by Professor McGonagall herself - about a half an hour before lights out. Virtually the entire house was in the common room to see it happen. Since he, Hermione, and Neville were the three student speakers at the upcoming Order of Merlin ceremony, Harry and everyone else naturally supposed that the summonses involved some sort of rehearsal.

Harry could almost feel Ron's scowl when he realised that Dumbledore had not summoned him, too. It scarcely mattered though; once Hermione was going, Ron would have stayed away unless attendance were mandatory.

Ron and Hermione were in the depths of a Cold War - worse than Third Year - and Harry could do nothing about it.

They had another big blow-up earlier in the week, concerning - what else - Cho. At least Ron, who precipitated it, had had the decency to confront Hermione when Harry was absent. It kept Harry from being caught in the middle.

But since then, Harry's two best friends could barely stand being in the same room.

Now, Harry was reminded of the ongoing feud as he dressed in the sixth year boys' dormitory. It felt strange leaving Ron behind. But leave he must. Ron had not been invited on this outing.

Hermione gave Harry a bright smile minutes later, when he slouched into the otherwise deserted common room, still straightening his tie.

“Geez, it's almost criminal how wide awake you are,” Harry remarked at the sight of her.

“Oh, honestly, what is it with men? Is it something congenital that you must have about more two hours of sleep than we do?” she replied tartly. “I assume Ronald's going to sleep until almost noon, again.”

She only called Ron Ronald when angry with him.

Harry almost replied with a quip about 2:00 a.m. feedings, but decided not to go there. “Eh, who cares about that,” he shrugged as Hermione inspected him to make sure his robes hung properly. “Let's go.”

Walking down the deserted tower staircase in the early morning silence, Harry asked her, “What's with you and Ron, anyway? Can't you lighten up on him?”

“Harry, we've been over this before, and you don't want to know,” Hermione responded. “Trust me, you don't.”

“But this latest has dragged on for almost a week,” Harry complained. “It's not right for my fi… er … girlfriend and my best mate constantly to shoot daggers at each other. Can't you…?”

“…And it will continue until Ronald apologises,” a very stiff sounding Hermione broke in.

“What did he do that was so terrible?” Harry asked plaintively.

“I told you already, you don't want to know,” Hermione repeated.

Harry stopped at the landing. Nobody, not even Peeves, was about. “Want to or not, if this goes on much longer, I think I need to know,” he pressed. “I don't want any sort of scene at today's investiture.”

“Ronald's the immature one, not I,” Hermione retorted. “I promise to behave myself…. Harry, just drop it. I don't want to come between you two being friends.”

“It won't,” Harry stated firmly. “I just want you to work things out like you've always done before - it's not the first time you've fought, you know.”

“I really don't think you want to hear this,” Hermione persisted.

Harry folded his arms over his chest. “Try me.”

With a sigh, Hermione yielded to her fiancé's will - no more lies. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, please.”

So Hermione told Harry how, whilst Harry was in one of his Animagus tête à têtes with Professor McGonagall, Ron had approached her in the library, seething at some imagined slight to Cho. They had adjourned to an empty classroom and had it out.

Ron had accused Hermione of harassing Cho twice, and ordered her to stay well away from his girlfriend. Hermione admitted to a confrontation with Cho in Hogsmeade. She promised Ron that would never happen again. She stoutly denied doing anything else.

Harry had never heard the details of what happened in Hogsmeade.

Now Hermione told him. “She came into the sex and sexuality section of Samson's Option and at first I thought she might be pregnant - but she obviously knew all about contraception. She chose some book about sexually related conditions and diseases, but when I asked her about it, she only said she was `careful.' I was shocked. She didn't even resist the implication that she was not exclusive with Ronald. That angered me, and I'm afraid I went a little overboard. I suggested that she check health sources on the Internet….”

“Big mistake,” Harry commiserated. “I can see why she's upset with you … and why she can't tell Ron why.”

“I know,” Hermione groaned, shaking her head at her own stupidity. “I was too angry for my own good. But that's all I ever did. I haven't so much as said `Hi' to her since. And I thought we'd hashed that one out. I told Ronald that - and I told him I didn't do anything to Cho after that. He didn't believe me, and he didn't want to hear my side of anything. He got shirty with me, and I hexed him.”

“Damn, what happened?” Harry asked.

Hermione smiled a tragic smile before answering. “Last chance,” she said.

“Go on,” Harry replied.

Hermione took a deep breath. “Oh well, here goes. Ronald said that despite my refusal to go out with him - because he wasn't you, he said - that I still couldn't let him be…. He accused me of `toying' with him. I told him that Cho was toying with him, not me, but I was never any more specific. I couldn't be. Then he swore at me…. Among other things, he called me a `meddling ball buster'….”

She heard Harry hiss audibly and saw his eyes fill with anger. “You asked…. It gets worse. He brought you into it.”

“Me?” Harry echoed, his voice starting to rise. “Why? I actually encouraged him to see Cho. For one thing, it kept him away from you.”

“Well, he's not thinking straight,” Hermione went on. “No surprise there. He accused me of secretly wanting the both of you … I believe he said `boffing' … me at the same time. I don't, Harry. I never have…..”

Harry's knuckles whitened as he gripped the knob on the classroom's door. His jaw muscles flexed from gritting his teeth. Hermione saw faint crackles of wild magic play around his unruly hair and between his fingertips.

“That's it!” Harry growled. A flick of the wrist and his wand was drawn. He started stalking back towards Gryffindor Tower - where Ron was still asleep.

“The Hell it is!” Hermione shrieked. She grabbed Harry's other arm with both hands and spun him around to face her. “You're staying right here until you calm down and admit you should never have asked me for details. Then we're going to comply with Dumbledore's summons.”

“Hermione, he all but called you a slut,” Harry grumbled. “And he deliberately did it when I wasn't there. Can you imagine the fight we'd have if I said anything like that about Cho? Which I've half a mind to tell him….”

“No, Harry! And I mean it!” Hermione howled. She put herself squarely between Harry and his intended destination. “This is exactly why I didn't want to tell you. You know better than I!” More calmly she added, “You of all people must maintain control.”

Her words were like a splash of cold water in his face. Since they became engaged, he had not had to use Occlumency. Harry inhaled deeply, and the magical tendrils dissipated.

Hermione grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him squarely on the lips. At first Harry did not reciprocate, but within seconds, resistance crumbled away. His hands went first to her waist and then cupped her rear….

“Meowr”

They jumped apart. Mrs. Norris was staring at them.

It was just as well. They had a meeting to attend.

“That was for being so angry at him on my behalf,” she whispered as she took his hand and started them both down the corridor. “Now I needn't be so upset myself.”

Harry was still visibly fuming. His eyes hard, he asked. “How did you hex him?”

“I was so angry, I went with the first thing that came to mind,” Hermione said. “I sent birds after him….”

“Birds?”

“Yes. Canaries, I think, but I'm not sure. It could have been something else. He ran from the room howling, with those birds in hot pursuit. That's the last time we spoke, and until he apologises, I won't be speaking to him again. But Harry….?”

She understood the harsh expression on her fiancé's face.

“What?”

“I don't want to ruin your friendship with Ronald,” she pleaded. “That's why I didn't want to tell you any of this. Will you promise me…?”

“Sorry but on this one, I can't promise anything,” Harry refused. Seeing her crestfallen face, he added, “but I'll do the best I can.”

“Your best has always been good enough for me,” she relaxed as she took his hand. “Now let's go find out what Dumbledore wants.”

Harry, Hermione, and Neville all assumed that the Headmaster had summoned them for last-minute preparation for the speeches they were to deliver at this afternoon's Order of Merlin investiture. Harry was speaking twice - once for the Order of Merlin winners and again in the ceremony eulogising Sirius. Hermione was speaking only during the Order of Merlin portion of the programme. Neville's short speech remembering war victims was something the Ministry insisted on adding to Sirius' eulogy, so that honouring the wrongly imprisoned man appeared less of a direct slap at prior Ministry actions than it was.

Revising their speeches, however, took all of ten minutes until the Headmaster pronounced himself satisfied.

“Now for the true reason I sent for you,” he began, giving Harry a sly wink. “Mister Potter recently asked for some way to measure his power surges - to verify a theory of Miss Granger's. I made inquiry of trusted sources within the Ministry, and received an affirmative response. However, it proved difficult to assemble the necessary equipment in a felicitous location without arousing the suspicions of those who might do us - especially Mister Potter - ill.”

Dumbledore then explained that all the additional security activity and other comings and goings that preparations for the Order of Merlin ceremony entailed had provided his contacts with the necessary cover. Thus, the greatly increased level of back-and-forth contact between the Ministry and Hogwarts had facilitated the movement of the right personnel and materiel into an appropriate location this morning.

“Come,” Dumbledore directed. “We have no time to lose if we are to return before being missed.”

“Excuse me, but why am I here?” asked Neville. “I have no clue what's going on.”

“Mister Longbottom, your presence is as essential to this exercise's success as anyone else's,” Dumbledore informed the boy. “You possess a memory that we need to ensure the likely success of the test. I say `likely' because no absolute guarantee of success exists in this sort of endeavour.”

The explanation did not satisfy Neville, but since the Headmaster wanted him to stay, he stayed.

As they descended the Headmaster's staircase, Harry briefly thought they were going to the Chamber of Secrets. Instead, they left the Castle through a side door, where Hagrid attended the largest Hogwarts carriage - drawn by four Thestrals - that Harry had ever seen. Harry was surprised but not shocked to find Professor Kingsley Shacklebolt already occupying one of the seats.

“Good morning, Harry,” the Defence professor greeted.

“Hi Shak,” Harry responded informally, since they were not in class. “What's your part in all this?”

“For once I can tell you,” Shak replied slowly. “The logistics of this operation are mine. We are taking you where you can be tested without risking a catastrophe.”

“That is…?”

“Well, the Ministry thinks we are operating an observation point on Eagle's Mere, but between you and me, it's not just the ceremony we'll be observing.”

They stopped talking as a number of other witches and wizards - presumably working for Dumbledore - piled in. the carriage passed through the Hogwarts anti-Apparition wards on its way to the deserted Hogsmeade train station. From there everyone except Neville Apparated to Eagle's Mere. Neville, who had yet to take an Apparition test, Side-Alonged with Shak.

Harry and Hermione thought about Side-Alonging, just to be together, but went separately after disagreeing about who should be the Alonger and who the Alongee.

Harry managed a (for him) rare steady landing. He gave Hermione, who arrived virtually simultaneously, a surprised look.

“What is it, Harry?” she predictably responded.

“Wow! That was … different,” Harry commented. He wore a bemused expression, as if something significant lay just beyond his mind's reach.

“What's different?” Hermione whispered with interest. “You've been Apparating for months now.”

“It felt different … better,” Harry described breathlessly. “Whilst I still felt squeezed and stretched, it didn't seem like being squashed in a phone box full of other people.”

“Well, you didn't Side-Along,” Hermione pointed out.

“Doesn't matter,” Harry replied. “It's always felt that way, whether Side-Alonging or by myself.”

Hermione thought for a bit. “Harry, when did you last Apparate? Have you done it…?”

“…Since I blew up the valley?” Harry finished for her. “I don't think so. The last time I was here I came by Thestral.”

Hermione looked concerned. “Do you think you might have been feeling…?”

“…Voldemort.” Harry concluded bluntly. “Yeah, I do.”

“Merlin, Harry, why didn't you say anything to anyone?” Hermione fretted.

“I didn't think to,” Harry admitted. “Because it always felt that way, I assumed it was normal - just like not seeing the blackboard seemed normal before I had glasses.”

`I think Dumbledore was on the mark about you having had a Horcrux inside you,' Hermione Legilimenced with a shudder.

“Over here, you two,” came Shak's booming voice from somewhere just over the ridgeline. Engrossed in their unsettling new discovery, they had not appreciated where they were. They followed Shak's voice.

“I don't believe this!” gawked Neville, who joined them.

“Oh, sweet Merlin, this is awesome!” Hermione exclaimed upon reaching the top and viewing the magnificent scene of Hogwarts Lake and Castle, far below.

“Sure is,” Harry agreed. “This view is why my parents wanted to be buried here.”

“So this is the spot,” Hermione mumbled to herself.

The view was also why the Ministry sought to have observers posted at this spot during the ceremony. Unfortunately, the three friends could enjoy the view only for a few moments before having to move on. On the far side of the crest, they stopped - confronted by a large concrete structure. From their angle, it looked like a half pyramid with one beveled edge pointing straight at them.

“Come around back,” an unknown voice directed. They passed through a ward of some sort, and the scene before them changed dramatically.

Now they were in the midst of a construction site. A half-dozen wizards, maybe more, cast one spell after another, digging holes, creating berms, forming concrete, shaping rebar - generally making a wreck of had been a virtually pristine alpine meadow. Harry recognised some of them - the ones who called themselves “Smith” and “Johnson” from the Department of Mysteries, Gaston Mannock of the Auror Office, and two Aurors who had served on the initial Board of Inquiry, Clifton Branstone, and Theodora Doddinghurst.

Hermione also knew Branstone, and went to have a chat. Harry noticed Paracelsus Huxley conversing with Dumbledore and strolled over to have some questions answered.

“What's all this about?” he asked them.

“We're planning to put to rest any doubts about the source of your mysterious power,” Hlr. Huxley told Harry. “Albus relayed your lady friend's hypothesis, and I devised what I believe is a definitive test.”

“Is it safe?” Harry asked.

“Nothing is ever totally safe,” Dumbledore answered. “Most of the work you see concerns safety precautions. Any test confirmatory of the Fifth Element must necessarily tap into that power, which carries a degree of risk. Everyone here is absolutely reliable - members of the Order and volunteers for this assignment. As extra security, they have agreed to be Obliviated once we finish.”

“But Hermione and Neville,” Harry pointed out. “I don't want them here if something might go wrong.”

Overhead a gigantic, hollow, horizontal shaft, poured from reinforced concrete, was being Levitated into place. The shaft glinted in the early morning sunlight, reflecting a series of flashes whilst being pivoted into place. It appeared to be lined on the inside with mirror bright Shield Charms.

“Mister Longbottom has something essential to contribute,” the Headmaster commented enigmatically. “As for Miss Granger, do you recall your summer reading concerning nuclear power?”

“Not sure,” Harry answered, wary of anything Dumbledore might want Hermione to do.

“Miss Granger needs to be present should anything go wrong,” the Headmaster informed Harry. “Indeed, her presence should greatly reduce the likelihood of any such accident. Should you, for whatever reason, to `go critical,' as it were, her function is to act as a control rod.”

“If something might happen, I don't want her here!” Harry replied more hotly.

“I believe that I have some say in this, Harry,” came Hermione's voice from behind. “Healer Huxley has just explained to me what's to happen and why, and I believe I need to be here - both for you and for myself.”

“But, Hermione….”

She was in front of him now, her hands on her hips. Looking him straight in the eye, she told him, “No buts, Harry, on this score, my mind's made up.”

“But you know what happened the last time.”

“So do you, and as long as I'm here, I'm confident you won't let it happen again.”

“There's nothing I can do to change your…?”

“…not on this one, Harry.”

By the time Harry and Hermione had worked out their differences, the rest of the huge apparatus had been enlarged, and installed. Harry peered through the newly erected, metre-wide and thick concrete crenel and saw the same old-fashioned copper steam boiler used in his first Auror test. Although Harry's memory was inexact, the device seemed enlarged several times over and placed several times farther away. Hermione, who was also tested on the boiler, was certain it had absorbed a substantial Engorgio charm.

Kingsley and “Smith” from the Department of Mysteries explained that they had deliberately chosen the same apparatus because, first, it was familiar and, second, because Harry had already been calibrated, which saved time. They fitted Harry with the same mysterious black box device used previously, placed him at exactly three times the former distance, and told him to use the exact same spell.

Headmaster Dumbledore reappeared, holding a phial of smoky memory. “I have returned Mister Longbottom to the castle,” he told Harry. “His presence is no longer required.” The Headmaster moved to the crenel, which, Harry now noticed had a round indentation in its base. Unlike the rest of the structure, which was raw concrete, this basin was finished in smooth off-white stone. When Dumbledore emptied the contents of the phial into it, Harry realised it was a pre-installed Penseive.

“How much time do we have?” the Headmaster asked someone Harry had never met. The middle-aged witch was operating what looked like a Foeglass hooked to a pair of large divining rods.

“Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen tops, before the island's wards must go back up,” she reported in businesslike fashion, never taking her eyes from the screen. “A Norwegian cruise ship is approaching from the northwest at about twelve knots, and a Yank submarine, San Juan class, I think, is moving essentially due south at a depth of about 100 metres. It's accelerating from twenty-seven knots.”

“Very well, let us begin, then,” Dumbledore said to everybody, and nobody, at the same time.

“Harry,” the Headmaster instructed, “on my count of three, please commence the Celsio spell through the crenel, aiming at the boiler, as at Auror Candidate School. Once your magic is focused, I shall cause an image you have never before seen to arise from the Pensieve. I anticipate that you will find it disturbing, as do I. I remind you, it is a mere memory, and not a present event. If your response to the image is what we expect, the power of your spell should involuntarily spike. The device on your hip will measure the spike's degree and duration.”

“Upon my signal, Miss Granger will instruct you to halt. From the recorded results, we should be able to extrapolate your magic's power curve. Our Department of Mysteries contingent believes that, if you graph exponentially, a power plot sufficiently along the line would be unique to the Fifth Element. In that event, we can be reasonably certain what we are dealing with.”

“What's this with extrapolating?” Harry asked, annoyed by the Headmaster's hypertechnical language. “I you must think I'm rather clever, but that's stretching it.”

“It's the maths,” Hermione whispered in his ear. “It means…. Well, taking your earlier test results, they want to add another point - today's test. An outlier involving the you-know-what would plot a particular pattern. They can check if that squared number we discussed before, is sufficiently large.”

Harry sighed deeply. He accepted the test's necessity, but really wished Hermione would leave for her own safety. Still, he understood her position. Not only had she deduced the likely (and if Hermione believed it, it was likely) nature of the Fifth Element, but she had the best chance of keeping him under control.

Following directions, he commenced Celsio. His magic was noticeably stronger, and he heard steam whistling from the boiler within seconds. Within the same few seconds, however, the boiler became a distant memory. An image rose before him, like some macabre heads-up display….

He saw Hermione, her bushy hair disheveled, lying on a plain white-sheeted bed. She wore her ordinary student uniform, without outer robes. Her face was almost as pale as her surroundings. She was absolutely still - fear clearly evident in her far-away looking eyes.

Suddenly her back arched as she screamed, “HARRY!!! DOOONNN'TTTTT BEEEEEEEAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!”

In a trice hot pink and violent violet flames engulfed Hermione's now writhing figure. Nearby objects that Harry had ignored in his focus on her detonated instantly, hurling jagged pieces in all directions….

Harry screamed, “Heerrmmiiiooooonnneeeeee!!!”

The red glow of Harry's magic, passing from his wand to the boiler, expanded volcanically into a roiling, fiery crimson, conic-shaped torrent almost too bright to look at.

“PROTEGO PHYSICA!” Dumbledore roared. “Now, Miss Granger!”

The boiler exploded with great force, violently disintegrating under the force of Harry's now almost unrecognisably powerful spell. Bits of its red-hot and razor-sharp shrapnel pelted the Headmaster's hastily cast Shield Charm.

“STOP, HARRY!!”

Hermione rushed forward, grabbed Harry and forced his wand arm upwards until it pointed into the gaping hole in the near end of the massive tube suspended overhead. “It's over, Harry!” she yelled at him. “STOP!”

As Hermione shoved his arm, Harry's fulminating magic scorched and scored the underside of the concrete structure until aimed into the provided-for opening. A brilliant bright red burst of indeterminate magic reflected off the internal mirrors and flared out the tube's end. Streaking towards the north-northwest, it instantaneously vanished over the horizon.

Then it was over.

Harry stood trembling in Hermione's arms - flushed, perspiring, and breathing heavily. Hlr. Huxley checked the boy's vital signs. Dumbledore cast an A Priori Charm to restore the boiler to as close to its prior condition as magically possible, given its present state.

Johnson from Mysteries stepped forward to remove the paperback book-sized monitor from Harry's side. He almost dropped it. The monitor was extremely hot to the touch.

A noticeably relieved Headmaster approached the pair.

“What now?” Harry asked.

“Our friends promise full results in a couple of days,” he told Harry whilst smoothing his beard with his injured hand. “But I suspect you can guess the diagnosis.”

* * * *

The six honourees anxiously cooled their heels in the Ceremonial Library awaiting their Flooed summons. Harry was resplendent in shining golden robes - worn by holders of the Order of Merlin second class. Ron, Hermione, and the rest were in the brilliantly purple robes of third class Order winners. Such robes were exclusive to formal Order of Merlin occasions.

Six heads turned as the green fire in the Floo flashed. Professor McGonagall's distinctive visage appeared in the fire. “It's time,” she said in her clipped brogue. “Please come through in the proper order.”

They lined up. Harry first, since the whole near-debacle-turned-mostly-triumph had been his idea. Ron was next. That position had been quite contentious, but eventually Hermione tired of him acting “childish” and allowed him the second spot.

Neville followed. Originally, Hermione had been third due to her successful ruse that turned the tables on Madam Umbridge. But after her latest fight with Ron, she decided she would rather sit elsewhere than beside him for what promised to be a long ceremony. Thus, Neville took his place between the two fallen-out friends.

As a measure of how frosty Hermione's relationship with Ron had become, she did not attempt to reclaim either of the two previous positions, even after the first rehearsal brought home to her that the new order of presentation was sex segregated - all the males being honoured before any of the females.

This time, she just did not care enough.

Thus, Hermione was fourth. Of all the participants, her situation was the most delicate. This time, she was not just ghost-writing for Harry. He might be lousy at composing speeches, but Reims and the D.A. revealed his natural gift at delivering them.

For the first time, Hermione was speaking for herself before a wizard audience. This audience would pay at least as close attention to her words as to Harry's. Many in profoundly conservative wizard society found her views on issues such as house-elves radical. She was the brilliant outsider, Muggle-born, and now romantically involved with an extremely rich and famous wizard. Her closeness to Harry, and thus to the inherent power of the confluence of the Black and Potter inheritances, made many in the audience uneasy.

Behind Hermione came the two younger witches. Ginny exemplified Weasley traits of hot-headedness and impulsivity. She had been essential to the enterprise being honoured, since she had led the Gryffindors' successful uprising against the Inquisitorial Squad.

Luna, looking bemused at the effort going into “proceedings in honour of an accident,” as she viewed matters, brought up the rear. Neither had a speaking part - no doubt to the Ministry's relief.

The six emerged into a generously proportioned white-walled marquee tent behind the awards box. Investitures of new members, technically being meetings of the Order of Merlin, were occasions for all prior Order winners to gather. Knowing that was one thing. First-hand exposure to a conclave of the true elite of British wizardry was quite another. Everywhere, they saw robes similar to their own - purple robes interspersed with occasional gold. Looking in the right place at the right time, they could catch a glimpse of a set of shimmering silver robes that befitted the sole holder of the Order of Merlin, first class.

Before soon-to-be peers could descend upon soon-to-be Order members, Professor McGonagall shepherded the six to a holding area. “Ronnie, dear! Ginny! Harry!” Molly Weasley gave suffocating hugs to all of the inductees, even Luna, whom Molly knew fairly well from years as almost neighbors.

Molly's hug for Hermione was noticeably less enthusiastic. Evidently, Ron mentioned his differences with Hermione to his mum.

“You look great,” Hermione offered diplomatically as the Weasley matriarch fussed over the six, adjusting the sleeves of Ron's robes, touching up Ginny's hair with little spells here and there, and making sure Neville knew where his Gran would be sitting.

“It's not every day that a mother has two children both inducted into the Order of Merlin, dear,” Molly replied with a smile that died before reaching her eyes.

`She does look better than any time since Bill died,' Hermione Legilimenced to Harry.

“Mum, you'd best finding your seat,” instructed another unmistakable voice. “I'll take over from here.” Looking terminally dapper in elegant Ministry formal robes, Percy Weasley strode into the holding area. His appearance, along with the steady emptying of the now mostly deserted marquee, signified the imminent commencement of the ceremony.

“Just follow me out,” Percy the Protocol Chief reminded Harry. “The rest of you, follow Harry. The seating is just as rehearsed, except for the fancy carpets and such. Oh, yes, and Harry - I trust this time you'll leave the autocue well enough alone….”

At first, Harry thought the last comment a joke - Percy's bureaucratic way of trying to relieve everyone's last-minute jitters. But the way the former Head Boy kept staring at Harry made him realise it was a serious request.

“Sure, no problem,” Harry eventually replied.

Percy's wand tip glowed yellow. “Let's get this broom in the air,” he said, and stepped through the front flaps of the marquee, the six inductees in tow.

A fanfare sounded. As Harry walked, blinking, into full daylight, he suppressed a gasp at the transformation of the Quidditch Pitch. Multicoloured ministry pennants flew everywhere against the plain white of a high overcast sky - typical of Scotland in late autumn. The Honours Box hung in midair from the goalposts nearest the Gryffindor locker room. At some three metres above ground level, the box was supported more by magic than the goals.

Making his way to his seat, Harry passed a low brocade-covered table where he saw the actual Order of Merlin medals for the first time. They lay in a row, one pure gold followed by five bright silver medallions.

Across the aisle, Harry saw Albus Dumbledore, the only living wearer of the Order of Merlin, First Class, a satisfied smile on the old man's face. The Headmaster sat resplendent in his glittering ceremonial robes, with the medal itself - fiery and prismatic - lying across his bosom. To avoid detracting from his students' accomplishment, Dumbledore had insisted upon receiving the bar for his own decoration (an almost unprecedented feat in itself) in a private ceremony several days earlier.

The ordinarily grassy pitch was completely covered with various carpets and slate-paved walkways. Atop them were dozens of arcing rows of seats to accommodate not just previously decorated Order winners, but dignitaries, family, friends, and the entire Hogwarts staff and student body. There was even a section - with correspondingly smaller chairs - for a contingent from the Goblin Nation. Whilst Dumbledore could require the goblins to stay away from the Castle under what passed for normal conditions, to bar them from this ceremony would have provoked a serious breach in the alliance.

Harry knew that, in many ways, Ron had always been jealous of him. As Harry took in the expansive crowd, with more wizards in one place than since the Quidditch World Cup, he could not help his own jealous feelings towards the redhead beside him. The relatives' seating area was crammed to bursting with Weasleys of every size and description. With two of their number ascending to one of Wizarding Britain's highest honours, every Weasley second cousin, nephew, aunt, and great uncle had come to witness the event.

Longbottoms were not as prolific as Weasleys, but still Neville had a fair number of blood relatives present.

So did Luna.

Harry, by contrast, had almost nobody. Mad-Eye Moody made his appearance, to be sure - seated by himself in his purple robes, with a third class Order medal (and a bar) hanging from his chest. Still, he was an appointed guardian. The only blood relative of Harry's in attendance was a great aunt who was quite barmy and needed to be watched, mostly by Hagrid, so she did not wander off. With Voldemort's decimation of the Potter clan in the First War, old Edna Potter was the only Potter relative mental enough to make her existence public.

Poor Hermione was even worse off. With her Muggle father a fugitive and her Muggle mother in Australia, her moment in the sun was attended by exactly nobody. The relatives' area provided for her as of right was embarrassingly deserted. Harry had never felt as sorry for Hermione as he did at that moment.

Then, at the last minute, a minor disturbance fluttered through the crowd. Witches and wizards were reacting as if something were not quite right.

The crowd parted, and Harry saw Dobby.

And Dobby was not alone. He and Winky led a contingent of Hogwarts and Blackwalls house-elves to Hermione's empty section. Together they filled all ten seats that represented the minimum relatives' allotment.

As that happened, Harry leaned forward and looked over at Hermione. Emotion was plainly visible in her face. This unexpected gesture of solidarity from the house-elves was causing her eyes to redden and tear. She looked at Harry and Legilimenced, `I love Dobby.' Harry nodded in agreement.

A second fanfare sounded, and the band, located just out of sight of those in the Honours Box, launched into Pride of Magic, the wizarding national anthem. Everyone - even Luna - stood until the last strains of the closing stanza had faded away.

The Headmaster was the first speaker. He strode confidently to the rostrum, but Harry could see more than a mere patina of age. He had to carry his notes solely in his left hand, as his blackened right one was essentially useless. And he used notes - a first. Harry could not remember a time Dumbledore had not spoken from memory.

Dumbledore offered another of his homilies about light and dark, right and wrong, and loyalty and friendship. It was standard fare, but still reasonably inspiring. His speech was unusual in only one respect. Dumbledore took care to refer to “Voldemort” and even “Tom Riddle” on a number of occasions - making many, even prior Order winners, wince. One of the first times he did so, the Headmaster turned and gave Harry just a bit of a wink. He was consciously clearing the way for future speakers to call Voldemort by his real name.

After Dumbledore came a number of Ministry dignitaries, all of whom seemed compelled to say more than a few words. The last of these was Minister Scrimgeour. Unlike Fudge (who was also in attendance), Scrimgeour was not much of a self-promoter. Harry had not known, until seeing the man rise, that Scrimgeour held the Order of Merlin, Second Class.

Minister Scrimgeour gave a characteristically fiery, if vague, oration about the importance of fighting Death Eaters wherever they might be found - so that never again would “volunteer heroes” such as Harry be forced to fight them inside institutions (such as the Ministry of Magic) where such evil had “no business showing its ugly face.”

Harry winced when the Minister, embellishing upon the first Quibbler story, also praised him for a “valiant fight against enormous odds” prior to his kidnapping. That had been a cover story - a totally invented engagement that served as a fictitious lead into his kidnapping and the consequent destruction of a goodly part of Muggle London.

The actual awards followed these sundry speeches. Minister Scrimgeour read aloud the bombastically-worded proclamation originally composed and announced by his predecessor. Then, starting with Harry, each of the six was called up individually to have the Minister personally drape the medal around his or her neck and to receive an outsized hug and pat on the back. Taking their cues from Harry's compliant lead, they all tried to maintain the dignity of the occasion.

All except Ron.

Walking back to his seat after receiving his medal, Ron stopped, raised his arms over his head, and gave his relatives and the Hogwarts student section a double thumbs up. His gesture prompted a loud ovation.

Each gave the Minister his photo opportunities - until the last.

Rather than put up with being pawed by the Minister, Luna stopped at arms length and held out her hand. For a long moment Scrimgeour looked at her as if her long hair - woven into beribboned pigtails for the occasion - had Transfigured into writhing snakes. Luna stood with her overly large eyes slightly crossed until Scrimgeour finally acquiesced and handed her the medal. Luna calmly placed it around her own neck and then offered her hand for the Minister to shake. Not wishing to create a scene, and lacking any other option, Minister Scrimgeour accepted the handshake.

Luna grinned broadly all the way back to her seat.

Once the medals had been distributed, Harry spoke. He largely stuck to the themes that he and Hermione had developed in Reims. Harry told the assembled crowd what he considered to be the truth. He had certainly not intended any heroics, and mostly had not intended anything at all. He journeyed to the Ministry under the false impression that someone he loved was endangered. He had tried his best to dissuade the others from accompanying him. They refused to stay behind, and thus were far more brave and selfless than he was.

The lesson of the Ministry was actually that Voldemort and his Death Eaters were anything but invincible. Harry had concluded that, aside from their ruthlessness, many Death Eaters were only marginally competent wizards. The Death Eaters' well-known atrocities were no strength - only an effort at using fear to conceal magical skills that were anything but overwhelming.

Harry finished with the sort of rhetorical flourish that Hermione so liked writing for him.

So as you see us today, don't wonder how we did it. Consider instead your own ability to do the same thing in similar circumstances, because you, each and every one of you, is capable. Your powers are greater than you think - just as mine turned out to be. The future is what we all make of it. Dark magic triumphs only when good wizards fear to oppose it. United, we cannot be defeated.

Thank you for listening.

Applause drowned out Harry's finishing words. It was not as overwhelming or unexpected as at Reims - much yelling and foot stomping amongst Weasley relations and Hogwarts students (other than Slytherins), but otherwise the reception was best described as “correct.” Then, again, after his performance en français, Harry now simply lived up to expectations rather than coming across as shockingly eloquent.

Hermione followed. She received a syrupy sweet introduction delivered by Charlotte Scrimgeour, the Minister's wife. Hermione stepped to the podium with butterflies the size of fruit bats beating away in her stomach.

Just so she would remember that he supported her, Harry cast a light Cheering Charm over her as she passed, and Legilimenced, `Show them what you're made of.'

She did precisely that.

When I left for the Ministry on a night that now seems so long ago, I had no idea that it would lead to anything like this. I didn't go because of `outstanding bravery' or `unparalleled courage' as it says on my certificate. No, I went because I was afraid. I was afraid that Harry was being tricked by Voldemort. I couldn't stop him, so I decided that if this would be the end, I would share his fate. Harry has a knack for eliciting this kind of self-sacrifice. I wasn't the only one who went.

The trap was worse than my worst fears. Once the Death Eaters surrounded us, I honestly expected that we would all die. The feeling of imminent death stayed with me until I awoke in the Hogwarts Hospital Wing the next morning. I was frankly surprised to be alive.

In between, I learnt just how much a witch can do after she meets her fate - as long as she refuses to accept it. Even though we all despaired of seeing the next day, we ignored our despair. Instead of accepting fate, we fought back. We learned an extraordinarily powerful lesson that evening. Nobody can make you surrender except yourself. Never give up, no matter how long the odds.

It was magic.

And magic is powerful.

As anyone can see from how many relatives I have attending this ceremony - that being none - all of my family are Muggles. My parents have no idea what I experienced that night at the Ministry, and if they did, they'd want to remove me from this world immediately.

They've tried before. I wouldn't let them.

That's because I am magical. Your world is my world now. How I came to be blessed with this gift, nobody can say. It's a question that both intrigues and terrifies my Muggle parents.

For magic is amazing, truly amazing.

Muggles like my parents perceive maybe 5% of the universe. Only we whom magic has graced can reach the rest of creation beyond any Muggle's grasp. That doesn't mean Muggles aren't clever. They know there's more out there than meets their eyes. They just don't know what. Magic is simply beyond most Muggles' comprehension.

Dimly aware of the magical power that swirls around all of us, the Muggles call it “dark” - Dark Matter. Dark Energy. Even quintessence … quinnnn-tessence….

Hermione took an unrehearsed pause, turned and gave Harry a quick glance. She returned to her prepared, thoroughly memorised text.

We know better. We're taught from our first year at Hogwarts that magic is neither light nor dark. The difference between Dark and Light magic is choice, not destiny. Our choices define us, not our ancestry. None of Hogwarts' four Houses is inherently evil; none is necessarily good. We are the sum of the choices that we make.

Which means, magic is also responsibility.

I made a choice when I went to the Ministry. I chose not the path of a hero. The Order of Merlin was the furthest thing from my mind. I made a choice to help my friends, especially Harry, who feared for someone he loved. I chose love.

Choices have consequences, often unknowable when the choice must be made. The memorial part of this programme is testament to that.

We all have choices to make. Even not choosing is a choice. I made a choice …, and I ended up here. Starting as a Muggle-born misfit, I find myself wearing the Order of Merlin. Sometimes I feel like I'm the luckiest witch on the face of the Earth.

Thank you for having me.

Hermione's speech received generous applause, although not as much as Harry's, or even the Minister's. Hers was a presentation to ponder, not a clarion call. Hermione - when speaking for herself - was that way. Rather than answers, she posed questions.

As Hermione was seated, the band struck up another tune, more sombre than the previous martial music. This was the transition to the memorial portion of the programme, and to the send off of Sirius Black that Harry (goaded by Remus Lupin) negotiated with the Ministry.

Neville would speak next, presenting a five-minute valedictory to his recently deceased, but much longer gone, parents. The Longbottoms represented the fallen of both the first and second Voldemort wars.

Barely seconds into the music Harry noticed the Headmaster, looking grave, move forward. He leant over the Minister's chair and began speaking in hushed tones. Not fifteen seconds later, he saw the interim Chief Auror, Dawlish (Harry did not know his first name), rush forward to join the two in conversation.

Something was definitely happening - something serious and (from the looks on their faces) unfortunate.

Harry rose to his feet and took two steps in their direction until Dumbledore emphatically waved him back. Harry returned to his seat, noticing anxious flutterings throughout the audience.

“What do you reckon?” Ron whispered to Harry - contributing his bit to the rising buzz of the crowd.

Not sure whether he would get to deliver his speech, Neville looked on, worry plain on his face.

“My guess is that the Death Eaters did something,” Harry speculated fatalistically. “Could we expect them just to let something like this happen without trying to disrupt it….”

Everyone went silent as Dumbledore stood up, his wand in his good hand. Instead of saying anything, the Headmaster conjured a Patronus. A pale peacock shot from his wand and headed out over the field.

“Oh bloody Hell,” Ron blurted, less quietly. “That looks like it's headed for Dad.”

“Harry,” hissed Ginny, who had crept up behind the boys, “go find out what's going on. I don't like this at all.”

Before Harry could move, however, the Minister took the podium. Dumbledore hurried back to the tent behind them and immediately vanished from sight.

“Witches and wizards in attendance, and everyone listening on WWN, I have just been informed of Death Eater activity in at least two locations in Britain. They have attacked the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, where I understand they were driven off with considerably heavier losses than they inflicted. They have also attacked Ottery St. Catchpole, where a pitched battle is now raging at the Weasley Compound….”

Harry, Ron, and Ginny jumped to their feet at that news, but were met by silvery Patroni - each in the form of a weasel and carrying an identical message: “You must stay here. Do not give You Know Who the satisfaction of stopping this ceremony. Charlie, the Twins and I, along with several of your uncles, aunts, and cousins will handle this.”

Thus commanded by Arthur Weasley, in a voice that brooked no opposition, the three sat back down. The Minister was still speaking.

“…stay here and complete this ceremony. All Aurors are called to general quarters and are to report in accordance with Emergency Mobilisation Plan Number Two. Headmaster Dumbledore will soon be lowering the Hogwarts Apparition barriers for exactly one minute to facilitate your exit. Anyone else who feels compelled to leave may do so at that time.”

No wizard commanded the goblins, however. A group of them shifted into their grey boulder shapes and bounded across the space between their section and the Honours Box. They rolled to a stop in a straight line immediately beneath the box - and stayed there - a line of defence, if needed.

A brilliant red light illuminated the uppermost tip of the Astronomy Tower.

“That's the signal,” Scrimgeour declared. “Apparate now or stay seated.”

Apparition pops resounded throughout the assembled crowd. The rest of the goblins disappeared, as well, into the ground through a mirror-like surface that vanished after them.

For a moment, Harry considered disobeying the elder Weasley's directive. His realisation that neither Ron nor Ginny could Apparate, combined with Hermione's definitive, `don't even think about it, Harry,' Legilimenced message, put a quick stop to that half-baked idea.

After some quick instructions to his deputies, the Minister strode determinedly towards the award winners.

“What now?” Harry asked him. All the others had the same thought.

“We shall continue,” Minister Scrimgeour gruffly announced. “I'll be damned if I'll give in to the Deaters. These proceedings will be completed, come Hell or high magic. Nothing short of Voldemort showing his ugly mug on this field will stop us. We will have to take things slightly out of order, however….”

“I don't need to speak,” Neville choked out. “We can keep things on schedule.”

“The hell you don't,” Scrimgeour growled back, looking more leonine than usual. “You've lost as much to those bastards as anyone here, so you're speaking for more than yourself. You'll just go after the flyby rather than before. That way the aerial squad can be on their way as quickly as possible to provide reinforcements as needed.”

The red light on the Astronomy Tower was extinguished, indicating that the Castle's wards had returned to full power.

“You six and me, stand together,” the Minister commanded. “We lost the Honour Guard to the mobilisation, so we'll just replace it ourselves. After the flyby, on my signal, three wand bursts - first red, then blue, then white.”

Scrimgeour sent his lion Patronus to the band leader, and almost immediately fanfares sounded. The first chords blended into another and then another as the band shifted from one fanfare to the next.

After less than a half-minute of this impromptu musical vamping for time, Minister Scrimgeour pointed his wand to the west and shot green sparks into the sky.

Sweeping in from the western horizon came the same grouping of broom riders that Harry recognised from the Longbottoms' funeral in August - only now numbering seven, rather than fourteen. As before, they approached at high speed and low altitude. As before their Valkyries trailed magical smoke representing the colours of the Muggle and Ministry flags.

This time, however, the manœuvre was different. At the precise moment that the formation passed over the assembled (if somewhat depleted) crowd, the “missing man” rider pulled his broom straight up and shot upwards at full speed. In his wake, he left a puff of dark green, almost black smoke. In almost no time, he was lost to sight.

At the same instant, the smoke trailing behind the remaining six fliers changed colour to intense scarlet. Each rider executed an intricate high-speed figure eight, passing twice through the much darker smoke in the centre. Then, their broom smoke extinguished, the six fliers sped away in six different directions. As they vanished, their bright red curlicues of smoke magically filled themselves in.

Thus, the fliers left behind a gigantic, stylised poppy hovering over the Quidditch Pitch. Magically held together, the smoky formation persisted despite a mild but steady breeze.

Even the least Muggle exposed wizard in the crowd understood that symbolism. Neville, for his part, was so overcome that he missed his cue. Hermione had to push him to his feet just in time to participate in the 21-wand salute offered by the Minister and the six Order of Merlin winners.

After Neville's stumbling beginning in the hastily improvised replacement honour guard, Hermione was concerned that he would have difficulty with his speech. She was pleasantly surprised. With the aid of the autocue, Neville fought his way through his five-minute paean to everyone who had died in the two Voldemort wars - especially his own parents.

Harry was half listening to what Neville was saying when, suddenly, Hermione was in his head. `Harry, I just had a thought, and I'm worried,' she Legilimenced.

`If it's about the Burrow, don't be,' Harry likewise replied. `I'm sure things are already under control, what with the number of Aurors who Apparated out of here.'

`I'm not worried about that, I'm worried about you,' she sent back. `What if the Death Eaters didn't plan on attacking Order headquarters…?'

`Of course they did. Both Dumbledore and Scrimgeour confirmed it,' Harry answered. He became momentarily distracted by Neville referring to James and Lily.

`I don't mean that,' Hermione persisted. `I mean, what if they thought they were attacking my house? The Death Eaters don't exactly include Muggle title searches in their planning.'

Harry answered, `If they attacked your house….'

`…They could be attacking yours as well,' she finished for him, `either Privet Drive or Grimmauld Place.'

`Grimmauld wouldn't be much of a loss, frankly,' Harry shrugged. `But I'll bring it up with Dumbledore before I start my speech about Sirius.'

That opportunity arrived soon enough, once Neville concluded his remarks and was seated. An amazed look played on Neville's face - as if he could not believe what he had just done.

Having memorised the programme, Harry rose, took a deep breath, and stepped forward. It was show time for him again.

Already, the Headmaster had returned from his brief detour to manipulate the Castle's wards. Harry turned to him and asked, “Hermione raised a serious point. What if the Death Eaters thought they were attacking her house, not Order Headquarters? Could they be attacking all six of us like they did over the Holidays?”

“Mister Potter, I had the same thought,” Dumbledore answered. “I have checked and confirmed that the blood magic protection….”

A whooshing noise overhead distracted Harry. Like a blur, the “missing man” flier shot downwards and back into everyone's sight, performing one of the longest Wronski Feints ever attempted. He pierced clean through the dark center of the smoky poppy that remained overhead. Trailing greenish smoke, he brought his speeding broom horizontal, flashed over the Honours Box, and flew through a tripwire extending between the Quidditch goalposts.

Harry realised that, with the delay caused by the Death Eater attack, he probably should have waited until after the fireworks display and musical memorial to Sirius before trying to speak.

With loud reports drowning out anything else, Harry turned to watch the show. He was not disappointed. Gigantic Roman candles spouted from the two outer goal posts. The left side shot a constant stream of red, white, and blue Muggle colours into the sky. The right side did the same with the remaining wizard colours - silver, black, gold, and green. Between the erupting fountains a huge white smoky membrane edged in black took shape. Already the first portrait was forming within it.

The description Harry had heard of the pyrotechnic display did not do it justice. Not until feeling a persistent tapping to the side of his head did Harry notice another small, gold-covered box hanging beneath a golden parachute - just like he received at the Longbottom funeral.

This time the note read, “Still got your back. Teach her to fly for me.” Again, it was signed “Mannock.”

Another loud boom burst from the display. An erupting tourbillion accompanied the dissolution of the joint portrait of Gideon and Fabian Prewett and its replacement with a collage of the Aurors killed in Cornwall on 14 July of this year.

And so it went. Framed by the continual bursts from the Roman candles that flanked them, portrait after portrait of Death Eater victims from both the first and second wars flashed before the onlooking crowd. Replacement of each portrait by the next included an aerial starburst of some sort.

Harry knew how it would end. After what seemed like an eternity, pyrotechnics ceased and the misty image of his godfather began to take shape on the screen.

As that happened, Harry's ears heard mournful bagpipe music - a song that he knew but could not name. At first he thought it was just in his head, complementing the ringing in his ears from all the loud fireworks. Gradually, Harry realised that, in fact, the music sounded from the field behind him. He turned and saw a lone kilted piper, his right leg supported by a self-walking crutch, limping across the grass. Hovering in midair, an object preceded the piper's slow but steady approach….

Harry had never been told exactly what the second musical interlude entailed. He assumed another presentation by the Ministry band.

His assumption had never been so wrong.

Harry's eyes almost popped out of his head when he recognised the piper.

“Remus,” slipped involuntarily from his lips.

And so it was. Remus Lupin, whom Harry had not seen in weeks, conducted his very public - yet also very private - memorial to Sirius. He wore full Highland piper's regalia, from the top of his diced glengarry bonnet down to the soles of his ghillie brogues.

Now Harry knew why everyone - even Hermione - had played dumb whenever he had inquired about this portion of the programme.

It was all Harry could do not to jump the rail and run to the side of the man whom he thought was still confined to some a secure sickroom. This was, however, a solemn occasion. Any childish display of emotions would spoil the memorial to Sirius that both of them, in their own way, had tried to make perfect.

So Harry stood there, transfixed, whilst the still obviously ailing lycanth worked the pipes to their fullest nine-note capabilities.

All too soon, the last wailing strains of “The Battle Is Over” droned across the hushed pitch. Leaving his pipes Levitated in midair, Remus reached into the burnished leather sporran that hung at his waist, and extracted a small container. He approached the other object hovering before him. Looking more closely, Harry recognised the same Pensieve in which he had experienced his godfather's memory of what had happened exactly fifteen years prior to this day.

The Pensieve still held the memories that Sirius had deposited shortly before he died.

Remus poured a powdery substance into the Pensieve.

Limping back two steps, Remus drew his wand. With a flash of magic, a fountain of fire leapt from the Pensieve. Sirius' last earthly remains were cremated in a puff of white smoke.

Heartbeats before this happened, Harry anticipated what Remus intended. Feverishly, Harry jumped to his feet and bade the rest of his five friends to follow. Still, they needed a seventh. Harry wheeled around, and his eyes fell on the Dumbledore.

Sirius might only be receiving the Order of Merlin Third Class, but Harry wanted him to have a send off worthy of the sacrifice his godfather had actually made.

Harry nodded to the Headmaster, wordlessly entreating him.

Just as wordlessly, Dumbledore nodded to Harry and stood.

“As before, but on my signal,” Harry called out. He then led the Headmaster and his five peers in another three-round, twenty-one wand salute - this time specifically in Sirius' memory.

By the time they had finished, Remus had regathered his bagpipes. A simple, yet appropriate melody of “Amazing Grace” filled the silence that otherwise fell across the assemblage.

The song gave Harry a needed pause to collect his thoughts and to prepare to speak. Remus' appearance and what had followed had wrung the full gamut of emotions from the boy - from transcendent joy to abject grief - and he needed to regain his mental footing.

Approaching the podium following the end of Remus' performance, Harry simply jettisoned his prepared remarks.

“Sirius Black was my godfather, but he was more than that,” he began. “He was the closest thing to a real father I've ever had. But he was even more. He was also the most courageous and determined person I've known. Although you've mostly read what's been written in the papers, I want to - I need to - tell you his story as I know it in my own words….”

Harry launched into a brief biography of Sirius Pepys Black, beginning with his befriending the other Marauders and continuing with sordid tale of betrayal and false imprisonment.

Harry recounted Sirius' escape from Azkaban, their reunion, and his two-year interlude as both a fugitive and father figure.

“…And that's how he died in battle - the way he would have wanted if given a choice,” Harry concluded. “Whether he was alive or dead when he fell through the Veil of Death, in a Ministry that would have executed him had it known, will always remain a mystery.”

“He died a hero, and for that Sirius is honoured here today. But to me, heroism is almost beside the point. For me, he remains the only man that I have ever been able to call `Dad.'”

With that, Harry sat down - his pulse pounding in his ears, and his mind otherwise a blank. His eulogy for Sirius garnered significantly greater applause than had his earlier speech on behalf of himself, but Harry barely heard anything. The Castle's strong wards were a good thing, because Harry was in no shape whatever to defend himself at that moment.

The remainder of the programme - primarily Kingsley's speech formally awarding the Order of Merlin to a man who had spent most of the last third of his life in Azkaban - passed in a blur.

* * * *

Neither had to inquire. It was understood. Once the Order of Merlin investiture concluded with yet another display of wizard pyrotechnics, Harry and Remus sought each other out in the marquee behind the now-deserted reviewing stand. It was a conversation in which “how are you?” was not just a formality.

“Frankly, I'm surprised Wormtail didn't kill me straight away,” Remus mused. “He certainly had the chance. Even as it was, things were touch and go. I got lucky. I couldn't have been out five minutes when the Aurors showed up.”

“There's that crutch,” Harry observed. “You're still limping.”

“The Healers say it'll heal,” Remus explained. “It's nerve damage. Just broken bones, and I'd have been back to scratch in a day or so, but old Wormy must have clipped me in the back with that hand of his. Broke my spine. That's why the Aurors' quick arrival was fortunate. If I'd been lying there another fifteen minutes, or worse if I'd come to and injured myself further, I'd now be paralysed for life.”

“And the eye patch?” Harry gestured at the other noticeable souvenir of Remus' Death Eater encounter.

“Permanent, I'm afraid,” Remus sighed. “Silver overexposure, I've been told. I can't say I'm surprised. He battered me pretty good about the face before I went down.”

“How bad is it?” Harry asked with genuine concern.

“I was as blind as a Dementor for the first week,” Remus recounted, shaking his head just a bit. “The Healers were good. They managed to save the right one completely. Wormtail was always better to his left. But the left one? It tests about twenty-one hundred right now, and they honestly don't think it'll ever improve to less than twenty-seventy.”

Harry exhaled audibly. “That's better than I thought, looking at you. Why wear that bloody thing, anyway? Glasses aren't all that bad. I've been stuck with them all my life….”

“Right,” Remus replied, looking amused. “A bespectacled werewolf. Now that's something that'd really go over well in lycanth circles. I can just hear Fenrir laughing now….”

Harry was taken slightly aback. “Well, it was just a thought.”

“I'm sure you meant nothing by it, but it's just … you don't know what it's like to be a werewolf, Harry. It's a very macho culture, and quite divided over Voldemort. When werewolves think about our side, they think of me first. I've got to maintain appearances.”

“I'm sorry, Remus,” Harry retreated. “I just feel…. Well, you didn't have to go watching over Mum's and Dad's gravesites….”

Remus snorted. “Bloody hell, I knew this would happen, Harry….”

“Then why didn't you call for backup? You know even Dumbledore couldn't have….”

“I don't mean I knew that,” Remus growled. “I'm not a bloody seer. I mean it's just like you to feel at fault for what happened. Don't add me to all that damned mental baggage you carry about. This wasn't about you! This was about my best friend, James Potter, and the woman he loved. I'd've done that even if you'd never been born.”

“If I'd never been born, you wouldn't have needed,” Harry replied, his voice as soft as his companion's had been loud.

“Oh, drop it, then,” Remus said, frustrated. “If you'd never been born, Voldemort might have taken over the first time around…. You gave us over a decade of peace.”

“I can't help it,” Harry admitted. “It's just the way I am.”

“No, it's the way you were made,” Remus replied, more in sorrow than anything else. “And that's what I don't like.”

Remus was right. Endless guilt did get tedious - and tendentious. So Harry changed the subject. “I-I didn't know you played bagpipes, or anything…. That was beautiful, thrilling even….”

“Don't be fooled, Harry,” Remus smiled with modesty. “It's not nearly as hard as it looks.”

“Oh, I don't know about that,” Harry continued. “Hermione plays. I've watched her practising. It's really hard to do that. Not that I would really know, though….”

Remus answered. “That's not what I mean, Harry. I'm sure what Hermione does is every bit as difficult as you say. She's Muggle-born, so I assume she does it the Muggle way. What I played was magically charmed. She'd probably call it cheating. Those pipes practically play themselves.”

“Really?” Harry asked, nearly gobsmacked with surprise. “I've never heard of such a thing.”

“No reason you would have, really,” Remus allowed. “You're Muggle-raised and what's more, not really the type … the musical type, that is. Rather, you're close to the top of your year. You're truly gifted at Defence. Hermione's your girlfriend….”

“And my best friend,” Harry added.

“Yes, and Ron's your other best friend. When you're not hanging with the Prefect crowd, you're hanging with the Quidditch crowd. I'm sure you never had much chance to become much acquainted with the musical types. Music's not in the Hogwarts lesson plan, so they're a mellower group, and less accomplished … at least by the standards you go by….”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. His curiosity was piqued.

“I needed something that takes the edge off all the stress that goes with my condition,” Remus revealed. “Dumbledore suggested music. There's a room in the dungeons, not too far from the Potions classroom, that's for use by those with musical interests. It has all sorts of magically charmed instruments. It's still available, because I used it to practice this bit yesterday and this morning.”

“So who's into music at Hogwarts these days, then?” Harry asked.

“I can't say for sure, since I had the place to myself,” Remus told him. “But the wardrobes against one of the walls - new since I graduated - had the names Dean Thomas, Seamus Finnigan, and Constance Marpeth from Gryffindor, Melinda Bobbin from Ravenclaw, the new Slytherin bloke, Van Lingle Park…. They're regulars, I reckon.”

“Umm…. Harry?”

Harry and Remus both turned towards the familiar voice. Neville Longbottom's face was positively ashen.

“What's up, Nev?” Harry asked. “You don't look too good.”

“I'm not entirely sure … not at all,” the anxious boy answered. “Something's up, but I don't expect to find out until I fetch you to the Headmaster's office. Dumbledore says it's urgent…. Sorry, Professor Lupin.”

“That's quite all right, Neville,” Remus told the boy. He would have pointed out that he was no longer a professor, but poor Neville looked so wound up that Remus never bothered. Nodding to Harry, Remus took his leave. “Run along where you're needed, Harry. I'll be in touch.”

Neville said little, but had an “I just can't wait to get this over with” look on his face. Thus, Harry hastily stripped off his fancy golden Order of Merlin robe and donned his ordinary black school attire.

“What's it this time?” he asked Neville.

“Don't rightly know,” Neville sighed. “The Headmaster said he wanted to tell us all at once. But I can tell it's bad … real bad….”

Harry fought off an anguished look. “Let's go, then.”

Because he was being trailed by a half-dozen grey boulders, Harry paused for a moment to dismiss the goblins. With the Castle's wards back to full strength, and with all these award winners still about, his continued safety was not in jeopardy.

Trying not to be too conspicuous, the two walked swiftly back to the Castle, doing their best to acknowledge congratulatory comments from unknowing well-wishers, whilst not allowing themselves to be drawn into any real conversations. As “men of the hour,” that was rather difficult.

Neville knew the password. The guardian gargoyle jumped aside. The next thing Harry knew, he was in Dumbledore's office and pinned by the old man's sorrowful gaze.

Harry was drawn to the squashy armchair where Hermione sat. He perched on the chair's arm and took her hand. Her worried look indicated that she knew no more about what was to be revealed than he did.

Dumbledore must have performed wandless magic because Hermione's chair expanded into a two-person chaise and Harry slid in next to her.

“Where are Ron and Ginny?” Harry asked.

“I dealt with them earlier,” the Headmaster answered, “as we already knew how this affected them.”

“Then, can you tell us, please?” rose Luna's unemotional voice from the opposite side of the room. She stared into space, ostentatiously twiddling her thumbs, and humming something that sounded like Amazing Grace played backwards.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore agreed. “Credit Miss Granger's prescience rather than mine. For those who do not know,” his eyes glanced to Neville and Luna, “the Order of the Phoenix is now based in what was once Miss Granger's home. When we received the news that Death Eaters had attacked both the Weasley residence and Order Headquarters, I suspected - as did Miss Granger - that there may be a pattern….”

“So it was an attack on us?” Hermione blurted out.

“…I immediately ordered a check on all residences associated with Mister Potter, given his prominence. All was quiet at his Muggle relatives' house, Grimmauld Place, and even the inherited properties he has never visited. Nothing.”

The Headmaster fixed his eyes upon Neville.

“Not until Augusta Apparated home after the ceremony, and unfortunately found no home to which to return, did we appreciate the full scope of this afternoon's Death Eater activity. As Miss Granger suspected, all six of Order winners were targeted in one way or another.”

“I … I need to go to Gran,” Neville stated. “She doesn't really have anyone else since Granddad passed. Uncle Algie's been rather out of sorts and isn't much help any longer. Can … can you arrange that?”

“Absolutely, Mister Longbottom,” the Headmaster immediately agreed. “Please see Minerva in her office. She will accompany you to provide security en route. You will be met by Aurors on site. Feel free to stay with Augusta as long as is necessary.”

Neville gathered his things and left.

Dumbledore turned next to Harry. Hermione had been rubbing his shoulders in a quite unsuccessful attempt to reduce his tension. He had received so much terrible news in his sixteen years….

“Who died this time?” Harry inquired in flat, despairing tones.

“Fortunately, nobody,” the Headmaster answered quickly.

“Thank Merlin….” Harry sighed loudly. He almost went limp, slumping against Hermione and partially disappearing into her arms, as Dumbledore explained what had happened.

“Your parents' blood protection still protects the Dursleys, even, it seems, when they are not at Privet Drive. Thus when Voldemort's minions arrived at your Uncle Vernon's office door, he survived with only moderate injuries. The Death Eaters appear to concentrate on causing as much property damage as possible. The Grunnings office block was demolished.”

“I assume that means the Quibbler is no more?” Luna chimed in. “After all, the Death Eaters were in Ottery.”

“Regrettably, that is correct,” the Headmaster addressed Luna. “We strongly suspect a coordinated strike. The party of Death Eaters that assaulted the Weasley Compound was operating in tandem. Once the engagement at the Burrow attracted our forces, a second group of Death Eaters paid a visit to your facilities as well. The Quibbler is a smoking ruin, I have been told. I am truly sorry but with the ceremony, we were undermanned….”

Luna acted totally unfazed by the loss. “All for the best in the best of all possible worlds,” she replied in her usual dreamy fashion. “They failed to intercept today's issue with the final part of Harry's story in it, and I had no idea how I was going to fill the next issue, anyway. Life goes on….”

Hermione spoke up. “Did I lose…?”

“Not that we're aware of, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore told her. “They appear to have attacked Order Headquarters believing it to be your residence. That mistake was to our advantage, as the attackers were essentially wiped out. We have contacted the Australian Ministry and verified that your mother is perfectly fine. We do not believe that Voldemort's people even know she left England. They are not, after all, followers of Muggle newspapers.”

“What happened to Ron and Ginny … the Weasleys?” Harry asked once the Headmaster had finished.

“A pitched battle ensued,” Dumbledore revealed. “Because all of the family, and so many Aurors, were at Hogwarts for the ceremony, the Ministry had only a skeleton crew of guards. The attack party nearly overwhelmed them, but ultimately our side held their own and saved part of the Weasleys' home from destruction. Most of the battle was fought in the new wing, which was reduced to rubble. The old Burrow, however, still stands. As for Mister and Miss … Ronald and Ginevra, their parents have instructed them to stay at Hogwarts.”

“What now?” Hermione asked. “Are you canceling the Masked Ball?”

“I am not so inclined,” the Headmaster stated. “I do not wish to give Tom that concession - especially given the effect such an action would have upon our French allies. The students at Beauxbatons have been anticipating this event for many weeks.”

“Oh goody!” Luna exclaimed, showing her first real emotion of the session, “I'll get to meet my date in person after all.”

“So the Ball will go on as scheduled, then?” Hermione repeated.

“Quite definitely,” Dumbledore reiterated. “The Ministry and the Order are already on high alert, and the Death Eaters know better than to attack the Castle. It is possible that the portal to Beauxbatons will open a bit late as the French take extra precautions on their end, but everything here will proceed as scheduled….”

The Headmaster paused, before finishing.

“…And I do believe that means I should excuse you so that you may prepare yourselves for the event.”

* * * *

Author's notes:

Ron's escapades won't always turn out this well

"Beth" is Beth Dunstan, a Seventh Year Slytherin (a "B. Dunstan" is canon)

"Solvo" means, among other things, "to release"

Copper turns pale greenish-blue when weathered

The encouragement Harry mentions began in Ch. 6

Hermione's canary attack on Ron was too good a concept to leave out

This is the same side door that Harry and Dumbledore used in Ch. 38, and that Snape used in Ch. 16

The sensation of being with others during Apparition was, mentioned several times since Ch. 4, was due to the presence of the Horcrux

Before I got glasses in second grade, I thought nothing of not being able to see the blackboard

Smith and Johnson are from Ch. 21, Mannock is from Ch. 32, Branstone and Doddinghurst are first mentioned in Ch. 5, Branston also precipitated the incident in Ch. 17, and was hurt in Ch. 34

A control rod in a nuclear reactor is used to prevent runaway chain reactions. Again, Hermione is being placed at risk to protect Harry

The original boiler test and the black box were in Ch. 5

San Juan class submarines are designed to be virtually undetectable underwater, and their speed is secret

The image is Neville's memory from Ch. 36 of Hermione being immolated in Harry's 5th Element outburst

Harry's redirected magical surge is not wasted

Percy refers to the autocue incident in Reims in Ch. 26

"Broom in the air" = "show on the road"

The last two sentences of Harry's speech are modifications of, first Edmund Burke's statement that evil triumphs when good men do nothing, and, second, the street slogan that the people united cannot be defeated

Hermione's "5% of the universe" statement is a reference to dark matter and dark energy. In cosmology, they're "dark" because they're undetectable, except for large-scale gravitational and spacetime effects

Quintessence is another current cosmological term for dark, or zero point, or vaccum energy. It literally means "fifth element," which Hermione just realized

Hermione's "avoidance of choice is a choice" reworks a line from Rush's "Free Will"

The "luckiest witch on the face of the earth" line is taken from Lou Gehrig's 1939 farewell address

The poppy is a traditional war remembrance symbol in Britain, dating from at least WWI

The Longbottom funeral was in Ch.25

A tourbillion is a large, round fireworks display

The bagpiper's description is accurate

Both Battle's Over and Amazing Grace are common bagpipe funeral songs

21-wand salute = a 21 gun (royal) salute is used on Remembrance Day

The music room will come up again

"All for the best … best of all possible worlds," is from Voltaire's "Candide"

55

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 8/11/2007

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57. The Masked Ball

Wherein the girls prepare for the ball, Hermione is disappointed, Harry needs help, Hermione is no longer disappointed, Harry gets a bit carried away, Hermione has a problem, Ginny is angry, Luna sees all, Ron faints at the sight of Cho, the ball is held, Luna and Harry confess, Ginny reacts, there are several incidents on the dance floor, Moody gives permission, and Harry and Hermione escape.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. Â§107. “Something,” Â©1969 George Harrison, Apple Records.

Chapter 57 - The Masked Ball

The girls in the Gryffindor sixth-year dormitory chattered ebulliently as they prepared for the Masked Ball. Lavender Brown was showing off a two-piece cave witch outfit made out of (probably) real fur. To Hermione she resembled something out of an old, bad Muggle movie she had once seen called “One Million Years BC.” Lavender had just finished passing about a photo of her date, Jim Dorny, a seventh-year Ravenclaw, in his supposedly matching cave wizard outfit. Hermione kept her opinions to herself - that he looked more like a troll than anyone Paleolithic.

Lavender's attention was primarily directed towards helping Parvati Patil master the complicated charms needed to coordinate all of the extra arms that her costume sported. Parvati was going to the ball as Shiva - an Indian god with as many arms as an octopus. Whilst somewhat sacrilegious to dress as a male deity, especially as was her own namesake's husband, Parvati shrugged that off. It was all make believe anyway. The magically animated arms wandering about Parvati held various objects, including a rather limp looking rubber cobra.

When Marona was not preoccupied with trying to distance herself from Parvati's damn fake cobra (snakes, especially poisonous ones, scared the daylights out of her), she fussed with Avvie's hair, trying to charm her now jet black curls so they flowed down her back but did not interfere with the set of goat horns that extended out five inches from either side just behind her forehead. Hanging in Avvie's bed chamber was a metallic blue, full length body stocking and matching cloak. She was going as the Lithuanian enchantress Jauterita, but still had to change out of her pastel pink silk wrap.

Marona's hair was already done up in exotic plaits coloured with yellow and red ochre. She was going as a pre-historic enchantress. Like Lavender, her costume put her physical assets on display - a tight fitting leather halter top vest and skirt, both sporting several centimetres of red fringe around the edges. Underneath she wore a flesh coloured body stocking that came complete with ivory navel jewelry.

Hermione ran a bit behind as she had struggled with deciphering the list of goblin charms that came with her princess outfit. Having only just now stepped out of the shower, she dried her hair with her wand whilst wrapped in a red and gold terrycloth bathrobe.

Her hair was one issue. Since goblins had essentially no hair, one option had been to go to the ball bald. That was a nonstarter, though. Harry really liked her long hair - and so did she - especially since her near-immolation required rejuvenated follicles, and those made her hair so much less bushy. She decided that to wear her hair absolutely straight and unadorned, which meant that it fell close to her waist. To keep it out of her eyes she used a black leather headband that emerged from her hair only across her forehead, where it sported a piece of light green jade cut in the shape of a pentacle.

But Hermione's hair was not really the problem. Looking at the others, and then at her costume laid out on her bed, Hermione wrinkled her nose. Compared to her dorm mates' quite flattering outfits (putting aside Parvati's extra appendages), this goblin clothing looked downright frumpy. The Basilisk hide dress had very little in the way of curves, and it dropped almost to her knees.

Not only that, it was a one-piece. Hermione distinctly remembered the goblin who measured her, Meoli she thought (the goblin's English had been poor), telling her that most, if not all, of the midriff was supposedly detachable. If it were, Hermione could not fathom how to detach it. The dress' only really distinctive features were some lace around the bodice and a high collar. Those were the only parts not fashioned from Basilisk hide - the fabric was also green, but with a metallic sheen.

Still, because she ordered it, Hermione was stuck. She sighed. Her knickers - which nobody would be seeing (except Harry if she, and he, were lucky) were by far the sexiest thing she had - the second pair in the package of Lover's Touchâ„¢ Evanescing Lingerie she had bought in Hogsmeade. At the moment, they were on the bed, hidden under her dress. Hermione debated which concealment spell to use so she could put them on without the other girls noticing.

Before she figured that out, there came a knock at the door.

“Can I come in?” asked a familiar, and obviously troubled, voice.

“It's unlocked, Ginny.” Lavender answered.

The door sprang open, and a very upset Ginny Weasley bustled into the room. Her costume was - no doubt about it - stunning. She was dressed as a wood nymph. Ginny's long, bouncy red hair was elaborately festooned with holly leaves, ferns, and two matching golden anthurium flowers. A delicate gold and lacquer chain shaped as a miniature strand of ivy circled her forehead and held her herbaceous tiara in place. A second chain, identical to the first, served as a necklace, and supported strands of faux emeralds and tourmalines.

The arrow-like shape of her necklace pointed towards Ginny's pronounced dÃ©colletage. Her low cut, form fitting gown was copper coloured, and its metallic sheen almost glowed. Its pattern of oak and maple leaves shimmered in the light. About thirty centimeters above the floor Ginny's gown dissolved into innumerable tendrils that swayed as she walked. Actually, her entire gown swayed since it had slits up both sides almost farther than was decent. The slits revealed green fishnet stockings, and below them colour-coordinated high-heeled sandals with individual straps for each toe.

As beautiful as she looked, mentally Ginny was a mess. Angry tears marred her mascara.

“Please listen to me,” she asked everybody and nobody at once. “I - I - I just have to vent.”

Taking the sixth-years' silence as assent, Ginny flopped herself down on Hermione's bed with enough force that the owner's carefully laid out outfit bounced and became disarranged.

“I'm going to be a bloody laughingstock,” the redhead declared loudly. “I mean, even Luna has a date to the ball.”

“But … but what about Neville?” Parvati inquired, the additional arms on her costume waving aimlessly behind her. “Surely, you made….”

“Neville?” Ginny angrily spat her boyfriend's name. “It just so happens that Neville took off and left me high and dry without so much as a `sorry about that.' Some date he turned out to be!”

“But Ginny,” Hermione intervened, “Neville's family home was attacked - just like yours. Surely you understand how much his family needs him right now.”

“Oh, stop defending him,” Ginny snapped back. “My family was attacked too, you know. You don't see me abandoning everything and everyone just to go running home to Mummy and Daddy, do you?”

Hermione tried reasoning. “That's because you have a great big supportive family. Neville doesn't. You saw that yourself. Speaking of your family, can't your brother help out as an escort at least?”

“Ron? Don't be daft, Hermione,” Ginny sniped with bitter laughter. “He doesn't pay attention to me anymore. Just like he ignores the rest of his family - and anyone else except that … that … slut of his.”

“Ginny!” came astonished gasps from the various onlookers. Hermione said nothing that would indicate how much closer to the truth the angry girl had struck than she could possibly know.

“Well it's true,” Ginny maintained. “All he really wants to do, besides play Quidditch and read his stupid Potions book, is find new and more creative ways to get his hands into Cho's bloody pants. And Merlin, how she encourages him! It's unseemly. You should see him strutting about down there in the common room in those animal skins of his - pretending to be some sort of ape man. Greystoke somebody or other, I think he said….”

“Oh, dear, Tarzan!” Hermione replied, successfully managing not to laugh - but just barely. “Please tell me Ron's going to be wearing something more than just a loincloth.”

“Honestly, Hermione, get your mind out of the gutter,” Lavender chided. “That's my job, after all.”

“Oh, yes, Ron's got a couple of furry capes to keep him decent,” Ginny pointed out. “But Circe only knows what that Chang woman will wear. Maybe she'll come as a succubus - that would be fitting.”

Again the onlookers gasped.

“Anyway, I don't know what more to say,” Hermione gently sympathised, trying to devise a mannered way of getting Ginny off of her bed so she could change. “You can sit with us if you like. Harry really doesn't like to dance all that much.”

Ginny got the hint and stood up. “Anyway, thanks, Hermione, but I might have to see who's left from Beauxbatons. They've got a…. Well….”

The girl's eyes fell on something that had bounced into view courtesy of her hard flop onto Hermione's bed.

“…My, my…. I think I know what Harry prefers to dancing.” Ginny held up Hermione's scarlet and orange fancy knickers.

“Oh, honestly, give me those,” Hermione huffed as she pulled the undergarment from Ginny's hands. Fortunately, Ginny did not have a very good grip on the somewhat flimsy item.

Regarding Hermione's rather formless green outfit, the younger girl remarked cattily, “I guess it doesn't matter what your costume is, Hermione. It doesn't seem that you plan to be wearing it very long.”

Hermione's hand reflexively rose to her blushing cheek. “That's really none of your business,” she responded stoutly. She was not one who kissed and told.

“I suppose not,” Ginny replied evenly. She no longer seemed distraught over Neville - which was not to say that she felt much better. Nevertheless, she made for the door. “See you at the ball,” she said vaguely to nobody in particular as she left.

Hermione's roommates were all watching her wondering what she would do next. Consciously biting her tongue, she chose to act as mundanely as possible. Silently, methodically, she pulled the blazingly colourful and blatantly sexual knickers up one leg and then the other. The goblin princess outfit followed in similar fashion.

Her purposeful attempt at being boring had the desired effect. Soon Hermione's roommates stopped paying attention to her and went back to prattling amongst themselves.

The goblin outfit lacked shoes, so Hermione Transfigured a pair of her school flats into something more fitting - black slippers with straps that criss-crossed at the ankle and wrapped around the back of her calves. They had no heels to speak of, since in one respect her conversation with Ginny had been misleading. Harry had discovered that he liked to dance more than the other girl knew. Ginny had been away at Quidditch camp over the summer holiday. She had missed Harry's birthday party.

Finally, only one thing was left. Hermione unfastened the felt bag that had been supplied with her outfit. Goblin instructions were often difficult to read, as their English language translations tended to be phrased rather backwards. Her instructions, however, made one thing certain - this bag's contents were intended to be added last to her ensemble.

Inside, Hermione found a delicate goblin-forged necklace of four separate golden strands braided together. Suspended from the necklace, a fiery opal hung like a pendulum. It sparkled with red, blue, yellow, and other highlights - every colour, it seemed, save the green of the Basilisk skin.

Rereading the goblin instructions, Hermione concluded that her “Prince,” not herself, was to fasten this about her neck. That action, the accompanying parchment told her, was essential to “energise the Charms.”

Almost before she had time to wonder where Harry was, he was there - or, at least his Patronus. As the streaking silver stag surged into her mind, she heard his voice, sounding peeved. “Hermione, can you help me? I think I've bollixed these Vestmentae spells somehow. My bloody baldric's tangled in my belt and I can't get them undone…. I'm in the same dressing room we used for the ceremony this morning….”

Hermione was out the door in under a minute, leaving her classmates to speculate about Harry's fancy Patronus magic.

Harry was, if anything, in even worse shape by the time Hermione knocked on the door. He had just discovered that he had managed to get his frog entangled as well, and was rather vocally displeased at this latest setback.

“Harry …. I know you're in there. I heard you cursing.”

“Hermione, I'm….”

“Alohomora,” Hermione incanted, letting herself in. “Oh…, maybe I should have asked if you were decent….”

The scene would have been laughable had Harry not looked so frustrated one moment and embarrassed the next. He was on his knees, clad only in a pair of boxers and a thin wife-beater T-shirt. He had his wand trained on his chain mail Knight-of-the-Realm robes, which lay on the floor in a shiny blue-grey heap. Wrapped haphazardly about those robes were a belt, a baldric, and a frog - all hopelessly jumbled. The broadsword that this equipment was supposed to support rested uselessly in its scabbard on a bench against the near wall.

Hermione's cheeks went pink at the sight - especially of a half-clothed Harry. “What on earth happened?” she gasped.

“I don't bloody know,” a very vexed Harry complained - quite red-faced himself. “I must not have packed the sword-related gear correctly the last time I had these robes out. I haven't worn this effing getup since Reims, and I didn't use a sword then. I'm afraid when I recast the Vestmentae spell, it must have been with the bloody belt and the bloody baldric tangled up, because I can't separate them now.”

“Why not just end the spell, then?” Hermione asked.

“Because I've no clue how to put on this stuff without it, that's why,” Harry grumbled. “Do you know how to mount a frog on a baldric?”

“I'm afraid I'm not that much of a know-it-all,” Hermione admitted. “What spells have you tried?”

“I've used the standard Disentangling Charm, but the Vestmentae spell was stronger,” Harry recounted. “Then I tried a Knot-Untying Charm, but that only works on ropes and things like that, and not on this kind of leatherwork. All the metal buckles fell off, and I had to reverse it. Then I had another not-so-bright idea. I Transfigured the baldric into water in hope that it might just flow away from the belt, but when I Retransfigured it, I realised I'd forgotten to move the frog out of the way, and now that's all snarled in this bloody mess, too.”

Hermione knelt down next to Harry and examined the morass. Her attempt at the Disentangling Charm fared no better than his. She ran her fingers along some of the entwined leather strips, confirming how twisted they had become. At least one of the pieces was now configured as a MÃ¶bius strip. That meant it had but one side, which might account for its peculiar reaction to magic.

She shivered when she felt Harry's hand on the nape of her neck. “Have any bright ideas?” the now calmer boy asked her.

“For dealing with this mess, no,” she said. “Why not forget about the sword altogether? You could just end the spell and remove the belt.”

“But what good is a knight without a sword?” Harry protested. “It won't be much of a costume without it.”

“Then join the club,” Hermione reacted. “I'm not too happy with how mine turned out either. I look like a frump.”

“Then you'll just be my frump,” Harry soothed her. He started to rub her neck underneath her hair. “If you dressed the way you had in fourth year, I probably couldn't string a sentence together. You know I'm pants at chatting up girls like Fleur.”

Hermione's cheeks flushed in remembrance of that night. “So you noticed more than you let on?”

“Umm…. Quite a bit more, actually,” Harry answered wistfully. “I was just … stupid….”

She leaned into him, relaxing with his touch. “No less than I…. Sometimes I think we've grown up so fast. Other times I think it … it took so damn long….”

Having Hermione cuddle him like that was enjoyable. “Well, I'm still pants at chatting up pretty girls…. Other than you, that is….”

“Well, maybe there's something to be said for that,” Hermione responded with a knowing smile. She turned back to the here and now. “But seriously, your robes are quite impressive enough, and I think you'd regret wearing a metre-long sword like that to the ball.”

“Why? What's wrong with it?” Harry asked.

“Because you'll be dancing,” Hermione explained whilst wobbling her head to take full advantage of Harry's dancing fingers on her neck. “You'd probably trip over it or else trip up someone else … like me…. And you'd best stop that if you want me to let you get dressed at all….”

Harry recalled when he stumbled over his sword during the Death Eater attack on the Ashrak. “You might be right, and that certainly makes virtue out of necessity. I guess I'll just leave the sword. It's not like it's Gryffindor's or anything….”

“You mean you were wearing the sword of Godric Gryffindor in that photo you sent me?” Hermione asked.

“None other,” Harry confirmed. “But this sword isn't it - just something I found in the Room of Requirement after my last D.A. session. I guess I can make do without it.”

That decided, they ended all the spells and extracted Harry's belt (along with his chain mail robes) without too much difficulty. Harry dressed promptly.

Hermione had never seen Harry in his Knight-of-the-Realm robes up close - except for a brief, uncomfortable moment in Reims when the aforementioned Fleur was hanging all over him (in Hermione's opinion, anyway). Something about shiny chain mail was just so overwhelmingly masculine…. To say nothing about the classic English heraldry - three stylised lions d'or on a solid red field - lacquered on his chest. It rather enhanced Harry's presence.

Enhanced? Hell, just looking at him left her rather weak in the knees - but not weak enough to stop Hermione from suggesting improvements.

“The belt, by itself, it's just not enough,” she commented shortly after he finished buckling it. “The chain mail just overpowers it. Here, take a look. Specularis.”

Hermione conjured a mirror on the adjacent wall.

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” Harry agreed. “It's just too small and not nearly bright enough…. I know. How about if we made it striped with the Ministry's colours?”

Hermione had no idea what might be the spell for that, but knowing how to add single colours, she improvised. One by one, she added bands to Harry's belt until she was done.

In the mirror, Harry regarded the result sceptically. “Umm … what do you think, Hermione?”

“Truthfully?”

“Yeah.”

“Yecch,” Hermione responded. “It's both too busy, and some of the colours clash.”

“How about just Gryffindor colours?” Harry offered. “I think they'd match the rest of it.”

“Sounds like an excellent idea,” Hermione agreed. In short order, she had his belt recoloured in the red-gold-red pattern of a Spanish flag. “And now, for the finishing touch….” Hermione twisted her wand, and Transfigured Harry's belt buckle into something more elaborate. It reminded Harry of the centrepiece of a boxing championship belt that his cousin Dudley once won. With a Duplicus Charm, Hermione emblazoned it with the same coat of arms that adorned Harry's robes.

Harry admired Hermione's handiwork. “That'll do quite nicely, I think.” He summoned his cape from its hook in the corner and draped it over the mail. The cape was cut from extremely dark - almost black - purple velvet and had bright yellow drawstrings.

“A cape, too,” Hermione remarked appreciatively. “I suppose I could transfigure the lions into a big yellow `S' if you'd like.”

“Nah,” Harry deadpanned after a moment's thought, giving no indication of knowing she had been making a joke. Hermione was poised to lecture him about Muggle comic book figures when his sly smile let her know that he was having her on. As much as he loved winding her up, this was not the time for another installment of the world according to Hermione.

Most immediately, they had to finalise their costumes.

Hermione opined that Harry's lemon yellow drawstrings clashed horribly with the gold in his belt and on his chest. Harry let her recolour them to match.

“Now, you need to do something for me,” Hermione told him as she fished the goblin necklace from its protective sack. “As best I can tell, the instructions say you have to fasten this around my neck.”

“I'd be delighted,” Harry grinned as she handed him the necklace. He admired it briefly (“that's really something”), before stepping behind her.

Hermione lifted her hair to give Harry access. His fingers' light touch about her shoulder and neck produced a bumper crop of goose pimples. It felt so divine that she wanted to melt into his arms….

After a bit of fumbling, Harry closed the clasp in the necklace.

Then it happened.

Almost at once, Harry's delicious touch yielded to other sensations that were decidedly odd. The entire dress began undulating almost as if the Basilisk skin were still alive. Hermione felt a sudden tightness that she ordinarily associated with the first moments of Apparition. The fabric about her waist seemed to roll against her midsection whilst pushing everything up from below. It tickled.

“Harry!” she squealed. “What did you do? What spell is this?”

Harry, of course, had only done what Hermione had asked. He remained mute whilst the goblin magic ran its course.

“Harry!” Hermione repeated, “What's going on?”

“Umm … I don't know, Hermione … but … wow!” was his belated reply.

When the bizarre feelings finally ceased after less than a minute (although it seemed much longer), Hermione turned to Harry.

His jaw was hanging open. If his eyes were any larger, he could have passed for a house elf. She shuddered at the unmistakable glint of lust in his eyes. That alone provided some idea what had just taken place.

“Harry, I don't think we have time,” Hermione protested weakly.

He was right next to her now. She felt his hands settle on either side of her waist - skin on skin just above her hips. “Take a look, Hermione,” he whispered in her ear as he spun her halfway around to face the mirror she had conjured earlier.

Hermione did a double take - no, a triple take.

Her image was nothing short of amazing. Even she thought she looked beautiful - which said something. She had no trouble at all understanding Harry's reaction.

The rather shapeless green dress she had been wearing was almost totally transformed. Now, it was a gown, like the image in the wax museum, only more dramatic. The hem that had ended at her knees, now extended all the way to the floor, and then some - although some sort of charm kept it from dragging. No longer loose fitting, it hugged, almost caressed, her shape. No more was it featureless and stolid. Instead, it was slit so far up her thighs on both sides that Hermione had another reason to appreciate the scanty size of her Lover's Touchâ„¢ knickers.

Above her waist, the former sleeves had disappeared entirely, leaving her arms bare. The metallic green lace around the bodice appeared unchanged, but the previously conservative neckline now plunged dramatically to a large clasp located strategically between her breasts. For propriety's sake she hoped it was brass. Knowing the goblins, it was more likely solid gold.

In the back, her once small collar had expanded dramatically, until its wingtips extended fully as wide as her shoulders. The top of the collar defined her rear neckline. Beneath her hair, it arced halfway down her back.

But more than that had caused the flare of Harry's basic instincts. Hermione had remembered correctly - most of her midriff was now quite exposed. From the base of the bosom clasp, her gown fell away on either side in a teardrop shape all the way to her hips. From there the cut-out area narrowed as Basilisk skin borders rejoined in a second v-shaped plunge that ended in a point almost ten centimeters below her now exposed navel. The curves of her midriff line essentially duplicated her neckline.

It was utterly unlike anything she had ever worn before. Never one to fret overly about her appearance, Hermione was almost thankful for her ordeal in August and September. It had cost her more than half a stone. She had never been overweight, but even the slightest amount of flab would have shown with this outfit. Fortunately, she had none.

For a moment, Hermione wondered how the whole thing could possibly hold together with so much abdominal exposure. But after taking a few steps, she could tell that the Basilisk hide's edges had more or less doubled over to provide a supportive elastic seam around all of the edges. The excess material had mostly moved upwards, where it now provided better support for her breasts than any brassiere she had ever worn.

The goblin seamstresses were geniuses.

Her bra was not only superfluous but visible in several places. Hermione promptly Vanished it.

The gold necklace that started all of this had undergone its own transformation. The chain was now twice as long - and twice as thin. The opal pendant's position now approximated her Order of Merlin medal. Instead of nestling in Hermione's cleavage, the golden chain cascaded over her breasts and the jewel hung freely at the base of her ribcage.

“Hermione, I've never seen anything like it,” Harry spluttered, his throat suddenly gone dry.

“I've never worn anything like it,” she responded, quite stunned herself. “What do you think of it?”

Holding up his index finger, Harry motioned, “Just one thing….”

He grasped the opal pendant and its golden chain. With some doing (and quite a few additional goose pimples on Hermione's part), he rearranged the chain so that it passed between her breasts and behind the clasp holding the upper part of her gown together. The opal ended up hanging nearly in the same place, but would not move about nearly as much.

“There, perfect,” he murmured. Any further verbal response was superfluous. Harry's arms went around her and he pulled her into a soul-searing kiss.

For an instant, his boldness surprised her. After all, he had made no significant amorous advances towards her in a week's time. Her momentary awkwardness soon passed, and she relaxed into his caress.

She ran her hands through Harry's hair as their tongues indulged one another. Then her lazily closed eyes popped open. Harry's hands were no longer around her midsection. Instead he had inserted them underneath the elastic bands supporting her midriff cut-out.

He was her prince. The goblin outfit seemingly understood that and offered as little resistance to his advances as Hermione herself did.

She clutched at him harder as she felt his hands slide around her hips. She felt hot and cold at the same time. Sweat glistened on Hermione's brow whilst wave upon wave of goose pimples crossed her bum as Harry's hands made their way southwards.

She gasped. Did he mean to do it right here in the changing room?

`What about the ball?' she Legilimenced to him.

`Let them start without us for once,' Harry sent back. `I'd much rather be with you.'

Sometimes abandoning rationality could be beneficial. Hermione concluded that this was such a time. She felt an ache deep within her. It had been just as long for her as for him. She needed him just as much.

Ironically, they had just struggled mightily to get all Harry's chain mail properly dressed. Now she clutched at him - trying to find some quick way of reversing the process.

Fresh from their successful campaign of conquest across her backside, Harry's hands now angled towards the source of her aching need. She squeed softly in anticipation, and positioned her arms around him. Once he started, she would no longer be able to support her own weight.

She needed him so badly. Blindly she thrust her hands towards him - as if, in her arousal, she could shred Damascus steel. Her right hand somehow found its way into an inside pocket of his cloak. It encountered something unexpected: some sort of folded paper.

`Harry, what's in your pocket?' she Legilimenced.

Harry had other things on his mind. His fingers twined her nether curls. `Marauders' Map, I suppose. I don't go anywhere without it. Oh, Merlin, Hermione, I need you so much right now.'

No way the object was the Marauders' Map. It was tied with a ribbon, the way the Headmaster sent messages. But at this particular moment, she was past caring about anything beyond Harry's and her own needs.

She broke their frantic caresses. “I really … need … to cast a … couple of spells,” she panted.

“Sure … precautions?” Harry groaned, impatient yet understanding. He started to extricate himself from that infernal chain mail by pulling it over his head.

“No, just a Cushioning….”

Suddenly two blurs of bluish-white light burst into the room and immediately found their targets. Dumbledore's irked voice boomed through their minds.

To him: “Mister Potter, where are you? We need you to open the ball. Everyone's waiting.”

To her: “Miss Granger, where are you? We need you to open the ball. Everyone's waiting.”

“Dammit!” Harry cursed. “I guess we can't right now.”

Hermione sighed loudly. She was just as deflated as Harry - albeit mentally rather than physically. As she stepped away to straighten up, she pulled the mystery document from Harry's inside pocket.

It was a letter, addressed to Harry, neatly bound with a yellow and white ribbon and sealed the old fashioned way with a yellow dollop of wax. Hermione recognised the crossed-key pattern of the seal - this was formal Vatican City correspondence.

But what could the Vatican possibly want with Harry?

“When did you get this, Harry?” Hermione asked. “It looks awfully official.”

“Oh, I remember,” Harry recalled. “I haven't worn this cape since Reims. One of the priests gave it to me when I was admitted into the cathedral. I haven't a clue what it is. I've never opened it.”

“You should, Harry,” Hermione replied tersely.

“I know, but now's not the time,” Harry grunted. “Bloody Dumbledore calls. Why don't you keep it, so I don't forget again?”

“But you have pockets and I don't,” Hermione protested.

“All right,” Harry conceded and took the letter back. He was about to return to the same pocket from whence it came when Hermione remembered something.

“Actually … no. Give it to me,” she said. Harry did, and watched with considerable interest - most, but not all, hormonally driven - as Hermione reached down, flipped over the front flap of her dramatically slit gown, and deftly slipped the letter into a pocket she found there.

Seeing Harry's curious stare, she told him. “The instructions mentioned a place for a concealed dagger, but I didn't pay it any mind. Apparently goblin princesses are expected to defend their honour to the death, and are quite capable of doing so.”

“I'll remember that,” Harry remarked dryly. “Now let's go get this over with.”

Harry took Hermione's hand and moved towards the door. They had not taken more than four steps when he heard her exclaim, “Oh, bollocks.” For Hermione that was rather strong language.

Harry stopped. “What is it, Hermione?” he asked worriedly.

“Look,” she said, pointing at something on the floor.

Harry looked and saw a scrap of something or other. It was very bright red, with orange edges in places.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Hermione moaned with a disgusted look on her face. “I wore my last pair of those knickers that disappear when you touch them. But I'm afraid I must have left them out too long in the light and they activated before I wanted.”

Harry gawked at her. “You mean….”

Hermione had her wand out. “Reparo,” she incanted.

Nothing happened.

“A priori,” she tried again.

Again nothing.

“I'm afraid so,” she told him. “They're irreparable - for commercial reasons, I suppose.”

“You … you … don't have any knickers on?” Harry asked incredulously.

“Not anymore, really. Only a couple of shreds left, thanks to your touch,” she replied. “Well, the show must go on.”

“What….? Wait a minute…, you can't,” Harry spluttered.

“Well I've nothing to work with to conjure a pair - I don't fancy wearing goblin felt, it's too scratchy. And I'm not about to use a Summoning Charm and have my knickers go flying through the halls for anyone to see,” she replied brusquely. “There's no choice, really….”

“So you're going to go…?”

“That's right, Harry,” she said with finality. “I'll just have to go commando.”

“You … you're serious about that aren't you?” he persisted.

“I see no choice at the moment,” she stood her ground. “It's not that big of a deal, anyway. You're the only one who'll know.”

Needless to say, Harry felt quite differently about this turn of events. But he knew better than to pick this particular fight with this particular person at this particular moment.

“Roger that,” Harry replied, using humour to mask his disquiet. “Regimental it is.”

“Later, Harry. Let's go. Our ruddy public is waiting.”

She smiled to herself as she led Harry out. `If Isadora could do this, so can I.'

* * * *

Since the Headmaster had sent two Patronuses, Harry and Hermione had the option of splitting up and pretending to arrive separately. Harry refused to consider it, acting like he did not want her out of his sight. Nor did Hermione see any point in concealing that they had been together.

They made their way to the Great Hall's antechamber so quickly that Hermione was thankful for wearing flats. She had no regrets in any case. She had seen herself in the mirror, and was almost as shocked at her attractiveness as Harry was. Heels of the sort Ginny had been wearing would have been overkill.

But making she swayed her hips properly was not.

Harry pulled her closer as they rounded the final corner and saw the queue in the Entrance Hall. Present were pirates and princesses, dragon-masters and duchesses, gangsters and goddesses, Quidditch stars and queens. There was even a Dementor. Almost all of the wizards and witches depicted in the Cadbury Chocolate Frogâ„¢ Card series were depicted, although (Harry noted thankfully) nobody else had come as Harry Potter.

A thoroughly cleaned up (and shifty looking) Hagrid was waiting for them, undoubtedly at the Headmaster's behest. Even Hagrid did a double-take when he saw the pair. “`Arry an' `Ermione!” he called out. “Yeh look great … er … the both of yeh. But `Ermione, them goblins outdid themselves, they did. Come along, though, yer late.”

With steadfast straight-on gazes they ignored any and all stares and whispers as they passed through the crowd in Hagrid's wake towards the massive - and closed - timber doors to the Great Hall itself. Hagrid then took his leave, muttering something about “carriages,” “horses,” and “mash whiskey.”

The pair arrived hand in hand, to a rather lukewarm reception. Ron's height and distinctively red hair ensured that he would be the first “boom-win” that Harry spotted. Also noticeable was a rather threadbare stuffed chimpanzee perched on Ron's shoulder that must have been as large as that roaring hat that Luna had once worn.

The poor chimp had seen better days. Its tail was bent, and it sported large bald spots on its head and its arse.

Ron saw the pair at almost the exact moment they laid eyes on him. Red-faced, he stared at Hermione as if not recognising her. When he did, his jaw dropped.

Only for an instant, however.

As the couple reached the front of the queue, Ron ignored Hermione and addressed himself to Harry. “It's about time,” Ron groused. “Where have you been?”

“Umm … that's none of your business, Ron,” Harry responded in a measured voice. “But there's one thing….”

“Bloody Hell it isn't,” Ron answered. “I'm starved, and you've made us wait for….”

Harry replied softly but firmly, “Ron, if you ever say anything like that about Hermione again, I won't be responsible for my actions.”

Ron purpled, and probably would have said something untoward, except Cho gave his arm a little yank. When Ron turned, she gave him a curious look about Harry's remark concerning Hermione. Thus distracted, Ron did not respond to Harry's challenge.

Hermione had tuned out Ron's peevish remarks. Her expression upon seeing Cho glued to his side must have mirrored Ron's reaction to her. Cho's costume was every bit as stunning and unique as hers - but in a decidedly darker way. She wore a skintight sleeveless shiny black body suit. It was spandex, accentuating her every curve, from her neck, to her bosom, to her hips. It ended about ten centimeters down her thighs. A filmy, smoky grey half-cape, also glittering in the light, hung from an elaborate black stand up collar that framed her heavily made up face. She had one arm around Ron, and the outer edge of her cape, hanging from a wrist clip, partially enveloped him.

At first Hermione thought Cho also wore a cherry-red bikini bottom over the body suit, but it gradually dawned on her that the hour-glass-shaped swath of colour was in fact integral to the design itself. The narrowest part of the hourglass fit right over…. Well, Hermione was not going to think about that.

Never very tall, Cho wore black platform slippers (if you could call them that) with three-inch heels and matching silver straps that wound all the way up her calves and thighs where garters attached them to the lower end of her body suit.

Cho had charmed her normally straight, jet black hair to form eight coiling tendrils that made corkscrewing motions as she moved.

None of that, however, would have prompted Hermione to gawk the way she did. Atop the black body suit spread an intricate open mesh contraption consisting of silver wire and ringlets. This outer “garment” was arranged in a spider web pattern with four interconnecting orbs. The spokes of the orbs came together over her breasts, navel and naughty bits.

Hermione had seen images of Cho wearing this silver costume before - minus the underlying body suit - in some of the “Liko Mee” Muggle photo sets she had accessed through the Internet. She was appalled at the girl's cheek. She found it unbelievable that Cho would even think of wearing something like that at Hogwarts.

Ron, of course, plainly did not mind a bit.

Someone else did mind, however.

Tearing her eyes from Cho, Hermione saw Luna staring at the arachnid-costumed girl, also with pronounced disapproval. But not just Luna - her entire costume - stared, that is. The Ravenclaw girl wore a sweeping triple layered long dress, each layer tie-dyed with irregular hemlines. The outer layer, which ended at her hips, was mostly maroon on top, but with pronounced green streaks towards the bottom. The second layer started out largely green, but melded into turquoise and blue as it ended just above the knees. The innermost layer was predominately blue, but changed to deep amber before stopping at Luna's ankles.

From a distance, each layer also appeared polka dotted. On closer examination each of the dozens of “dots” actually was an eye that blinked and focused independently. Each eye was different - some wide, some narrow; some with long lashes, others with almost none. Their colours ranged across the spectrum from deepest black-brown to Luna's own pale grayish-blue.

Similarly, her earrings and necklace featured disembodied eyeballs - this was Luna after all.

Luna was barefooted, with eye patterns tattooed on each ankle. Each of her toes was also painted to resemble an eye, so when Hermione looked at Luna's feet, they looked back at her. Luna's left big toe even gave the older girl a wink.

Hermione could sympathise with Luna's blind date, a French boy from Beauxbatons, who seemed more than a little unnerved by her eccentricities. He dressed in what passed for a Greek hoplite's uniform, decorated with some sort of animal-skin vest that exactly matched the colour and shininess of Hermione's bosom clasp.

Hermione wondered why so many of her cohorts had chosen animal furs as part of their costume of choice - the practice seemed so barbaric. She already had enough causes, though; much (if not most) of the wizarding community would say too many.

Taking pity on the poor boy (who had dropped his eyes once he saw Hermione looking at him), Hermione introduced herself, “Est-que je peux me presenter? Je suis Hermione Granger.”

He evidently knew exactly who she was. For a moment, he looked like he would faint away. Then he answered her in halting English. “I'm honoured. Je … I am Etienne Duvalier. I am come as Jason … of the Argo. I thought … we had agreed….”

Luna started laughing. Neither Hermione nor Etienne could understand what she found so hilarious. Finally, Luna explained, “Oh I'm sorry, it's probably my fault. I must have said `Argo' when I meant `Argus.'”

Last - and in her own mind, least - was Ginny. As before, she looked stunning in her wood nymph outfit. Her fiery red hair, however, framed her icy expression. No longer devastated, she simply looked angry. Her anger turned to astonishment when she saw Harry and Hermione, especially Hermione.

Next to Ginny, and transparently uncertain as to whether he should try to hold her hand, was a fourth year Hufflepuff whom Hermione knew vaguely from the D.A. His name was Julian Haldane, and Hermione was relatively certain that someone or other had plucked him from the stag line as Neville's stand.

`Poor Julian,' Hermione thought, `and poor Neville.' Ginny had a well-earned reputation for flightiness in romantic matters. Although keeping it to herself, Hermione wondered whether the day's events would cause the Weasley girl to take flight once more.

Tutting over their tardiness, Professor McGonagall shooed Harry and Hermione to the front of the queue. That proved difficult since blocking their path was Titania Prod, a seventh year Hufflepuff. She was clad in a pale yellow dress, at least as wide as it was tall, topped by a high, circular frilled collar that may have gone out of style before Nick had become Nearly Headless.

Titania had also done something to her ordinarily brunette hair. She had it all piled atop her head with a streak of platinum blonde running through it. In Hermione's opinion, she looked like a cross between Good Queen Bess and the Bride of Frankenstein - another thought that Hermione tactfully kept to herself.

The start for the masked ball was already late, but one more obstacle briefly threw Harry for a loop, Fleur Delacour. She wore an impossibly bright, impossibly sparkly full length gown - bare-shouldered, puffy-sleeved, and crinolined. Fleur seemed to float rather than walk.

When all was finally in readiness, the Headmaster waved his wand and announced, “I hereby declare that the first Hogwarts-Beauxbatons Masked Ball has commenced.”

Hermione looked around for Madame Maxime, as she thought it strange that the heads of both schools were not present for the opening. The Beauxbatons Headmistress was not there - as otherwise she would have been impossible to miss.

The doors creaked open, revealing the Great Hall as never before. At the hall's exact centre was a gigantic Jack-O'Lantern pumpkin, nearly three metres high and half again as wide, topped by a platform. Standing atop the platform, waving to Harry and the rest, was “Magic” Lee Jordan. He had been engaged (to the considerable consternation of certain better-known WWN disc jockeys) to act as DJ for the ball. To avoid unnecessary competition, both schools had agreed not to hire live bands.

Evidently, Lee also controlled the lighting, and he dialed it up a couple of notches. The usual overhead candles were gone. Rather, the walls themselves glowed.

That is, if they could be called walls at all.

Surrounding the Great Hall, from a height of ten metres, gushed what appeared to be surging torrents of water - except what should have been a thunderous deluge made no sound at all and disappeared from sight at floor level. The cascading cataracts silently poured downwards, obscuring anything and everything behind them. The illusion had the dance floor seemingly surrounded on all sides by the High Force, but without the spray, the wind, the noise, and the damp of a real waterfall.

As Harry, Hermione, and the rest of the Order of Merlin winners led everyone into the Hall, they were met by Hogwarts house-elves, who pressed what appeared to be plain white ceramic Venetian masks into each attendee's hands.

The Great Hall's sound system emitted a loud thumping noise.

Curious, Harry put the mask to his face and looked at Hermione through the eye holes. He saw nothing out of the ordinary, but heard Hermione give a little squee. She did the same, and a mask that had been pale and featureless now bore the face of a goblin.

A fanfare sounded, followed by another thump.

“What did you see that was so odd?” Harry asked Hermione.

“You … but in an armoured helmet like the suits near the trophy room,” she told him matter-of-factly.

A second fanfare sounded, but they also heard a disturbance behind them. Harry and Hermione whirled around and saw Ron lying unconscious on the floor, with Cho kneeling on one side of him and Luna on the other. That caused considerable confusion.

Repeated fanfares blared, and the trumpet blasts began to merge into an electronic rhythm.

Instinctively, Hermione moved to help Ron, but Harry caught her by the arm and held her back. “Best let me,” Harry told her. “Ron might not appreciate your help right now.”

Hermione nodded. Harry was right.

“What happened?” Harry called out as he reached his downed friend.

“I don't know,” wailed Cho. “We were having a lark with these masks and all of a sudden he sounded like he was being strangled. The next thing I know, he's limp on the floor. I didn't even touch him….”

“He's all right. He just fainted - from fright, I think,” Luna remarked. She had one hand planted flat on his chest. All the eyes on her gown, and those on her earrings and necklace, seemed to be examining Ron.

Harry remembered Hermione telling him that Luna was an empath. Realisation dawned. He put his own mask in front of his face and asked Cho. “What do you see?”

“A shiny metal knight's helmet,” she replied. “Why?”

“I don't know if Ron's told you, but he's had bad experiences with some pretty big spiders,” Harry told Cho, whilst trying to avoid staring at her rather visible curvature. “He's deathly afraid of them. Look at me through your mask.”

Still shaken, Cho complied. Harry saw the multiple eyes and clicking fangs of a large black spider. The fangs closely resembled the oddly shaped points on Cho's collar.

“That's what happened,” Harry confirmed. “These are charmed. If he doesn't see you looking through it again, you both should be all right.”

By then, Madame Pomfrey arrived and shooed Harry away. He returned straightaway to Hermione. She had started to sway with the compelling beat of the music.

“You look like you're ready to dance,” Harry observed.

“And you look like you're ready to join me,” Hermione countered.

They danced together, making up moves as they went along, for the remainder of that song. Towards the end, Hermione could not help commenting about how Harry was staring at her. “You're still thinking about it, aren't you?” she asked.

Harry warily replied, “Umm … I'm not sure what you mean.”

“Oh, I'm pretty sure you do, Harry,” she continued. “On this, I can read you like a book. You're still quite aware that I haven't any knickers.”

“Guilty as charged,” Harry confessed. “I just can't get that image out of my head. You should know that I'm not planning on letting anyone else near you.”

Hermione went rational on him. “Now, Harry you know that we have to be sociable tonight, with all our Beauxbatons guests here.”

“I suppose you're right, as usual,” Harry grudgingly conceded, “but I get you for all the slow songs. I'm not keen on anybody else learning our little secret.”

“Oh … fine then,” Hermione let him have his way, even though - and probably because - he was being delightfully irrational. “But what are you going to do about it?”

“What?”

“Your obsession,” Hermione specified. “We can't leave now, of course, because we're the centre of attention, and we'd be missed in an instant. But maybe later….”

“I'm on it,” Harry grinned.

“Not yet, you're not,” Hermione added suggestively.

Whilst they were talking, the initial song, which Lee identified as “Fanfare For The Common Man,” as interpreted by the Muggle band Emerson, Lake and Palmer, finished playing itself out. They stayed on the floor for the next number, introduced as “another fast one.” It was probably inevitable, but it turned out to be “Potter's Marauders.” Harry was much too self-conscious to dance to that, and in any event it brought out Dean Thomas and the other break dancers, just as it did at Harry's birthday party. Before it was over, Harry and Hermione were looking for a place to sit.

Around the edge of the dance floor, save in front of the main entrance, were rows of round tables that sat four comfortably. Each had a Halloween-themed design. Hermione stopped at a first-row table that had bats fluttering in the tablecloth. Harry motioned that he wanted to move farther back, but she Legilimenced him, `Most of the Beauxbatons guests will want to drop by. It would be rude to everyone else to make them deal with our traffic.'

Harry gave her a crooked smile and said aloud, “All right. Might as well get it over and done with.”

As the song ended, Lee Jordan announced, “That's a taste of what will come, but for the next half-hour, I'll be keeping it low and light whilst dinner is served.”

At almost that same moment, Ginny appeared out of the dissipating crowd and plopped herself down at the same table as Harry and Hermione. Harry flinched as she did so, but only Ginny noticed. Her airs were just as aggravated as before the ball's start. The unfortunate Hufflepuff she had paired with was nowhere in evidence.

“Umm … where's this dinner going to be served?” Harry asked nobody in particular. The tables had no plates, silverware, or other utensils.

“If you want to find the food, I'd say follow Ron,” Ginny remarked acidly.

Harry looked over the rapidly emptying dance floor and spotted Ron - sans the stuffed chimpanzee - striding purposefully towards the waterfall on what was ordinarily the Gryffindor side of the Great Hall. Effortlessly, he disappeared through the mirage of cascading water.

Ron was not alone. The food was evidently on the other side of the mirage.

“What do you think, Hermione?” Harry asked.

It was her turn to sigh, “All right.” It was quite obvious that Harry would not let her out of his sight if he could possibly help it.

“Don't let anyone take our spots, okay, Gin?”

The Hogwarts and Beauxbatons house elves had set up a buffet in the three-metre wide space behind the faux waterfall that ran the length of the Great Hall. Half of the fare was British, and the other French. The French cuisine was gaining considerably more attention (much to the annoyance of the Hogwarts elves).

Ron took advantage of the shorter queue on the Hogwarts side to load up on pork pies, pigs in blankets, honey bread, treacle tarts, and jam doughnuts.

Harry guided Hermione towards the Beauxbatons offerings.

A short while later, the pair were back at their table with plates full of French bread, endive salad, cheese soufflÃ©, filet mignon, escargot bouillabaisse (Hermione avoided telling Harry exactly what this was), congolais drenched in chocolate sauce, and because it was Halloween, pumpkin crÃªpes.

The buffet did not serve drinks, but a sign indicated that beverages were available on the opposite side of the Great Hall, near the staff entrance. By promising Harry that she would “stay right here,” Hermione finally coaxed him to leave her side for a couple of minutes and go get something to quench their thirst without dragging her along.

It took Harry longer than would have liked. At least a half-dozen Beauxbatons students gravitated to shake his hand and try making small talk. Finally, he passed through the waterfall on the other side. Several Hogwarts house-elves were starting to fill a huge punchbowl. Beside them, a rather bored Beauxbatons elf (they all wore sky blue fluffy towels) tended a large selection of bottled drinks. In a hurry, Harry grabbed the first thing he recognised - a couple of bottles of “Limonade” - which he took to mean lemonade in French.

“Oh, Harry, this is excellent!” Hermione enthused when, after a similarly interrupted return journey, he returned to their table. “I don't know how you knew, but I fell in love with this stuff when I was in France a couple of years ago.”

Harry was perplexed until he took a swig and realised that the stuff was hardly what he would call lemonade. “Luck, I guess … and maybe falling in love myself.”

“Are you flirting with me?” she replied.

“I'm trying.”

Behind them, unnoticed, Ginny suppressed a scowl.

Presciently, Hermione had placed a Warming Charm on Harry's dinner. Whilst they ate, the pair received a steady stream of French-speaking well-wishers. Harry and Hermione made small talk - in French - and they both politely declined invitations to dance.

Ginny had no such compunctions, and assiduously sought to fill her dance card. Still she was not pleased. Mostly she was taking Hermione's leavings - a new experience for her. Ginny had no idea how that girl's clothing had transformed from the stodgy dress Hermione had worn in the Gryffindor dormitory to the sleek, borderline risquÃ© serpent-skin gown she now had on.

For the first time in her life, Ginny was jealous of Hermione's appearance.

In due course mealtime concluded and “Magic” Lee Jordan began cranking up the volume again. Fortunately for Harry's psyche, Lee was prone to letting his audience know in advance whether the upcoming number was a “rocker” or “something for boogying down,” on the one hand, or was “bluesy” or would “slow the pace down,” on the other. The former outnumbered the latter by a little less than two to one.

Although professing exasperation with Harry's “obsessiveness,” Hermione was content to abide their agreement about the music. Thus, she saved all the slower “touch” songs for Harry. In short order, she was glad she did. Most of Harry's other dance partners were star-struck French girls inclined to ask him for an autograph (one actually did, much to Harry's dismay) - precisely the type he would ignore even if they stripped starkers in front of him. But every now and then bigger game was afoot.

Thus, the arrangement suited Hermione just fine when, less than half an hour into the dance portion of the evening, Fleur flounced over in her dazzling puffy white “good witch” outfit - all sparkling silver lamÃ© and white lace in just the right places (and extremely low cut as well). Eyeing Hermione's dress, she asked, “Versace?”

“No, goblin,” Hermione answered equally succinctly.

Fleur gave her a “you can't be serious” look and returned to her primary purpose, which was asking Harry to dance.

Hermione found it far preferable for Harry and Fleur to dance to “Police on My Back,” with the waterfalls around the hall blue and flashing.

That meant Hermione got her next turn when the waterfalls turned gauzy pastel sunset colours during the Shondells' “Crimson and Clover,” which followed.

Likewise, Hermione's blood pressure stayed in double digits when, shortly thereafter, Daphne Greengrass sought out Harry. The willowy Slytherin showed up resplendent in a skeleton costume that was anything but skeletal - drawing far too much attention (in Hermione's opinion) to regions near the sternum and pelvis. That Daphne drew “Whole Lotta Love” (drum solo and all), rather than the next song, “Stirring the Cauldron of Love,” struck Hermione as entirely appropriate.

Hermione much preferred her waterfalls glowing aquamarine than strobing intense scarlet, and she suspected that Daphne would have too.

It was her droit de seigness.

The upshot was that Harry found himself on his feet most of the time. He danced with Hermione during the slow songs, and some of the faster ones if nobody else had queued up. Other admirers, taking their turns, kept him busy most of the rest of the time.

Although hardly as active as Harry, Hermione did not lack for attention. When she consented to dance with another, however, Harry never seemed to be very far away. Obsessed he was, and obsessed he would remain.

Ginny sat with them, or more precisely with their chairs, most of the evening. With no date of her own, she was much less active. She did dance occasionally, mostly with Beauxbatons boys, at the beginning. But as the evening progressed, she grew progressively more morose and sullen - which tended to deter would-be partners. Ginny was all dressed up with no place to go, and felt it.

Hermione noticed how Ginny watched her and Harry on the dance floor. Always the clever one, she deduced why Ginny was acting as she was. Harry gave no clue if he was aware of anything at all amiss. If anything, he seemed to be ignoring Ginny to the maximum extent possible.

After dancing to “Vogue,” the pair called a time out. Staying away from the crowd around the now operational punchbowl, Harry and Hermione helped themselves to the last three bottles of Limonade.

They had barely started quenching their thirst after their return when Luna arrived to occupy in the one remaining empty chair. “So where's your date now?” Ginny asked Luna whilst nursing a Butterbeer.

“Oh, I suppose he found other things to do than dance with me,” Luna shrugged, unnerving Ginny just a bit with all the staring eyes. “He wasn't very mature, as it turned out. But then, maybe I'm not either….”

Harry wondered if “immature” was how Parvati viewed him at the Yule Ball, but he was not afforded any time to sit back and muse.

Luna was staring at Hermione, transparently eager to talk about something, but unwilling to speak in the presence of either a Weasley or a boy - Hermione was not sure which.

Hermione brokered the obvious solution. `Harry,' she Legilimenced, `why don't you go dance with Ginny? She's been waiting for you ask all evening.'

Harry's face flushed at Hermione's suggestion. He had, after all, been studiously avoiding Ginny, not just during the ball, but ever since encountering a monster in his own chest that day on the Quidditch pitch.

`Go ahead, Harry,' Hermione persisted. `I think Luna wants to speak with me - alone.'

Harry gulped. He knew he had been unfair to Ginny. Those were his improper feelings, after all. Waiting until hearing Lee preface the next song as “a light, snappy number,” he turned to Ginny and asked, “Er … would you like to dance?”

Just like that, Ginny's eyes lit up. By the time the first few notes of the “decades old but still groovy” (Lee Jordan's description) Eurovision winner “Waterloo” were wafting over the dance floor. The surrounding waterfalls were alight with the French tricolour. Most importantly, Hermione and Luna were alone.

Luna leaned into Hermione and whispered, “Did you see Cho's outfit?”

“How could I not?” Hermione replied. “More importantly, though, did you recognise it?”

“How could I not?” Luna echoed. “That's sort of what I wanted to talk about. I saw how Harry stopped you from assisting Ronald when he fainted. You and he … you're not on speaking terms right now, are you?”

“No, we're not,” Hermione hissed at the mention of that painful subject. “Now, what do you want?”

“It's about that, actually,” Luna continued. “I want to apologise.”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Hermione said dismissively. “It's Ronald's fault.”

“I don't think it is,” Luna confessed. “I think it's mine.”

Luna proceeded to tell Hermione how she had grown increasingly aggravated about Cho's extracurricular activities whilst investigating her fellow Ravenclaw's tattoos at Hermione's request. By the time Luna's mission was accomplished, in a fit of pique she deliberately left an incriminating photograph under Cho's pillow as “a shot across her overdeveloped bow.”

Once she deciphered the timing, Hermione realised that Luna's nasty little prank must have been the intimidation incident Ron had blamed on her. Not knowing, she had informed Ron that he was mental; Ron had done worse; and the Ron-Hermione Cold War had begun.

Meanwhile, Harry was pleasantly surprised that, whilst dancing with the now quite reanimated Ginny, his disquieting urges from before had not recurred.

Ginny was a very smooth and enthusiastic dancer.

In practically no time, Napoleon had surrendered and the song was over.

Both of them could see Hermione and Luna still deep in conversation.

“They're still at it,” Ginny announced enthusiastically. “How about another?”

“Umm….”

Harry hesitated until he heard Lee Jordan announce “another number to get you all hot and sweaty.”

“…Okay.”

Ginny really knew how to dance. Harry had learnt a few things over the summer, but when the girl with the long red hair started gyrating to the chorus of J. Geils “Flamethrower,” he had to admit he was beat. In his opinion, Neville had no idea what he was missing - however much he was needed at home.

In due time, even “Flamethrower” flamed out.

“Let's get something to drink, I'm parched,” she declared. Taking his hand, Ginny guided him through the waterfall near to where he recently obtained that Limonade he never had the chance to finish.

The grand scrum around the punchbowl persisted. “You wait here,” Ginny told Harry. “I'll get us both something to drink. I've plenty of experience at this, with six brothers.” Leaving Harry at the other end of the table, Ginny waded into the thirsty crowd.

Harry heard Lee crank up another fast song. He ducked his head through the imaginary waterfall that was flashing red and green to the beat of the Weird Sisters' “Battle of Avalon” and ascertained that Hermione and Luna were still talking.

He ascertained that nobody else had asked Hermione to dance.

Turning around, he nearly collided with Cormac McLaggen - wearing Viking robes and a horned helmet - who was hurrying back to wherever he came from with several glasses of punch. As Harry tried to steady himself, his left foot slid under the tartan-patterned tablecloth and knocked over something hollow. He regained his balance in time to see an empty bottle roll out the far end of the table.

Because the bottle bore a Weasley Wizard Wheezes logo, Harry picked it up. Its label read, “Sweet Sixteen Additive - Extra-Jumbo Size.” Harry shook his head. He had learnt from the horse's mouth (George's) exactly what that stuff was intended to do. Knowing the Twins, Harry had no doubt it would do that job very well.

It would affect him, because he was of age, but not Ginny.

After Eliza died, he had promised himself never to let his guard down that way again.

Scowling, he flung the bottle into a nearby bin.

Smiling, but looking a little flustered, Ginny eventually reemerged holding two large glasses of bright red punch. Confronted with Harry's unhappy expression, she hesitated briefly, but then offered him the glass in her right hand. “Here, Harry, drink up. You must be parched. I know I am after dancing like that.”

Harry took the glass reluctantly. “Umm … I'm not really all that thirsty after all.”

Now Ginny looked surprised. “But you said you were…. And I went to all that trouble. Go ahead, drink up and we can have another dance. It's perfectly all right.” She ostentatiously took a huge gulp from her own glass.

Harry felt guilty about her having braved that throng for naught, but a promise was a promise. A gap in the crowd opened as Moose Montague, dressed as some sort of medieval warlock, pushed his way out. “I don't think so. Sorry, Ginny.” With Seeker's reflexes, he dodged several steps to the punch bowl and emptied his untouched cup into it.

Ginny looked so badly disappointed, that when she muttered, “Well, at least I hope I've earned another dance for my trouble,” Harry readily agreed.

He got more than he bargained for. Harry had missed Lee's introduction whilst darting for the punch bowl. Now he found himself dancing with Ginny to Peter Gabriel's “In Your Eyes” - precisely the sort of slow song he had been saving for Hermione all evening.

Ginny's arms slithered around Harry's neck and she started swaying to the music. Reluctantly and awkwardly, Harry placed his hands woodenly on Ginny's waist. He started dancing in a manner that even Al Gore would have ridiculed as too stiff.

After a couple of minutes Ginny gave up in disgust. “You're not dancing, Harry,” she rebuked. “You're holding me like I'm a ticking time bomb, not like I'm one of your best friends. What makes me so repulsive to you?”

Seeing Ginny before him, angry and hurt, made Harry lower his head in shame.

She was absolutely right.

For over a week he had deliberately shut Ginny out. It was his fault, not hers, for the impure thoughts he had entertained about her. What had she done - except get knocked off her broom? She had not even been conscious. Come to think of it, he really ought to apologise….

“Umm … Ginny, you're right,” Harry struggled to explain. “It's not you, it's … well, me.”

Ginny went from furious to curious in less time than it took Harry to form a coherent sentence. She looked at him like his hair had suddenly turned blue.

“I didn't mean … er … to make you feel left out, or anything…. It's just that I don't trust … umm … me….” Harry was not doing very well, and he knew it.

“Harry, you're not making any sense,” Ginny replied impatiently.

“That's because I'm not,” Harry had to agree. He paused to regroup. “Oh, hell,” he snorted, grabbing her hand. “Come with me.”

He half led, half dragged her to the end wall of the Great Hall, where the staff table was ordinarily located.

“Where are we going?” Ginny protested.

“Someplace private,” Harry replied. “I need to explain myself.”

They passed through the illusory waterfall just as it began to change colour for the next song. This part was deserted.

“Look, Ginny, I….”

“All right, yeh two, there'll be no snoggin' back here!” barked a harsh, but familiar voice from Harry's right. He jumped back from Ginny, turned, and saw Mad-Eye Moody staring at him with his oscillating magical eye. The old Auror occupied a chair in front of a doorway that Harry knew well.

“Mad-Eye!” Harry exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

“Iff'n it ain't me ward Harry Potter,” Moody replied, training both eyes on Harry. “I could be asking yeh the same question…. An is that…?”

Moody just registered that Harry was with a girl other than Hermione.

“Merlin's bollocks! Jes what in blazes do yeh think yeh're doing?”

Ginny caught the implied premise of Moody's question before Harry did. “He's not doing a bloody thing,” she declared. “He just wanted somewhere private to talk.”

Moody looked suspiciously at them both. But then, Moody was a naturally suspicious person. “All right, then, talk. But don't try going where I can't see yeh….”

“Yes … Dad,” Harry replied huffily.

“And no snoggin',” Moody repeated pointedly.

Harry led Ginny along the wall until he thought he was beyond his guardian's earshot.

“Ginny, I don't want you thinking that you're disgusting, or that I think you are,” Harry began. “It's my problem, not yours.”

“And just what problem is that?” Ginny asked, regarding him almost as cautiously as Moody had.

“It's just…. Well, you remember that Quidditch practice when you were knocked unconscious?” Harry asked.

That question got Ginny's full attention. “I remember the practice, but I don't remember when I was unconscious - because I was unconscious,” Ginny answered snarkily.

“Well, umm … I didn't exactly ask that right, but what I'm trying to say is that, I caught you when you fell off your broom, and….” His voice trailed off.

Ginny had already believed that her Lust Powder worked. At that moment she knew for sure - a critical bit of information as she pondered her next move.

“And what, Harry?” she prompted, with as innocent an expression as she could muster under the circumstances.

“And … well … after I caught you, I couldn't help myself,” he explained as his brain seemed to go fuzzy on him. “You were so close, and I started having … improper thoughts about you.”

“Oh, really?” she gasped, feigning innocence.

“Please, I wouldn't lie about something like that,” Harry went on.

“So that's why you've been avoiding me like the plague ever since?” Ginny asked. “Because you're afraid you'll want to snog me?”

“I'm sorry about all this, but you're right,” Harry admitted. “I'm afraid I haven't been a very good friend and all….”

“Don't be sorry, Harry,” Ginny told him, cranking up her warmest smile. “Well, now that you've gathered the nerve to tell me this, what do you want to do about it?”

“Do about what?” Harry echoed. He had expected Ginny to be offended, but she hardly seemed that.

He was even more befuddled when she took his hand. “Us,” she said slowly, her eyes demurely downcast. “I don't think your feelings were at all improper, and I thought you might like to go somewhere a little more private and, well, explore them further….”

She moved very close to him. Harry felt like he'd just had a wardrobe malfunction - that the cooling charm on his chain mail armour had stopped working.

“But Ginny … you're … Neville. And I'm….”

“In case you haven't noticed, Neville's not here right now,” she said breathily putting her other hand on the red and yellow lacquered lions on his chest. “And you are….”

By now her eyes had raised and bore into his. Somewhere in Harry's fevered brain came the realisation that, unless he did something in the next few seconds, he would find himself violating his guardian's last directive to him.

Stammering, he pulled himself out of Ginny's clutches. “No, Gin. I can't … I won't do this. I've pro… promised Hermione, and, well, I love her. And you're with … won't betray Neville. All I wanted to do was apologise … don't want to lead you on…. Well, bye….”

Harry turned on his heel and positively fled through the glowing torrent, putting as much distance between them as quickly as he possibly could without calling undue attention to himself.

Her face a mask of fury and frustration, Ginny emerged soon after. Her roll of the dice had backfired and backfired badly. The sum of her romantic experience to that moment had taught her one thing - all men (maybe even Neville) were sluts. Now she had found at least one exception to that rule.

And her rotten luck was that this one exception just happened to be the man she had always wanted most.

Ginny kicked her foot bitterly at the floor. She was not just back to square zero - she was back to ground zero, with all her plans reduced to rubble.

“I had such high hopes for you when you went in there,” a familiar voice hissed into her ear.

Agitated, Ginny turned towards the voice, but jumped back when she found herself face to face with a looming Dementor. “Malfoy, don't do that again,” she warned.

“Couldn't resist,” he drawled. “So what happened this time with the Great Git?”

“He wanted to apologise to me for his supposedly `improper' feelings - and that's bloody all. I thought at first he was trying to gauge my interest. Fat chance. Slughorn would sooner fit through the eye of a needle….”

“Well, at least you know that the stuff works,” Draco observed, trying to lift her rather depressed spirits.

“I think your definition of `works' is rather different from mine,” she replied forlornly.

“Well, I warned you that it was a bit of a blunt instrument,” Draco reminded. “You didn't believe me.”

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” Ginny groaned, no longer even trying to resist his snide remarks. “I suppose this is probably curtains for me. I can only hope Harry has the grace not to tell Neville….”

From the depths of his Dementor costume, Malfoy gulped. This was not good. Not good at all. If the Weasley girl threw in the towel, he would suffer grave setback - one that just might knock the entire mission he had been assigned into a cocked hat.

Failure would have catastrophic consequences.

Unbeknownst to Ginny, Malfoy pulled out his wand and tapped it once against a talisman he kept with him at all times he might possibly meet the redheaded girl.

“…I mean what's the use. I've only embarrassed myself….”

Then her voice hitched just a bit. At that same moment, Malfoy (watching intently) saw a ruddy something briefly flash through - or perhaps it was behind - the girl's eyes. If not looking specifically for it, he surely would have missed it entirely.

“So, I've something I want to show you at our next Potions tutoring session,” she told him. “I'm sick and tired of blunt instruments….”

Malfoy relaxed. He could breath easy again. He had salvaged the situation - with the antithesis of a blunt instrument.

But at the same time, she aroused his curiosity. “And just what could you possibly have that you would want to show me about Potions?”

“That's for me to know and you to find out when I deign to tell you,” she shot back.

“All right then,” Malfoy retreated - although genuinely fascinated with what the mystery item might be. “And now I think we should try Plan B.”

“And just what is that?” Ginny demanded.

Malfoy whispered one word in her ear. “Jealousy.”

“That - I'm quite familiar with,” Ginny allowed, feeling sorry for herself again. “There's nothing like crazed jealousy to clear the mind.”

“Your words, Red, not mine,” Draco replied mysteriously. “Well, it's time for the Git Who Lived to get jealous of you, rather than the other way around.”

“Okay, how?” Ginny put the penny in the slot.

“May I have this dance?” Malfoy responded. He had to do it, although the thought of touching a Weasley (other than in anger) made Draco's skin crawl.

For his part, Harry had gone storming across the dance floor practically blinded by fierce emotions - shock, disbelief, and embarrassment chief amongst them. All he wanted was to apologise, and then Ginny made a most blatant pass at him…. She had been going to snog him…. She tried to get him to cheat on Hermione. Hermione! What could he possibly tell her…?

Then, just like that, her voice was in her head. `Don't do anything, Harry. I can handle this myself.'

Harry stopped in his tracks and, for the first time since emerging from behind the waterfall, took in his surroundings. Slow, soft music was playing, and Celine Dion was crooning in the background. The surrounding waterfall images had dimmed to almost as deep a purple as his cape.

There, on the dance floor, Hermione was with some bloke he did not recognise.

Brought up short by Hermione's Legilimenced command, Harry could only stare as that man's hand, which started at her waist - her bare waist - gradually drifted lower.

All night he had feared that exactly this would happen, and in a moment of weakness he had allowed Ginny to distract him. It would not be long now.

Harry wondered if he should just find somewhere to hide. If he had to stand there and watch much longer, he would spontaneously combust in agony and impotent rage. Nothing would be left of him but a pile of cinders for the house-elves to sweep into the dustbin.

But as to the combustion bit, Hermione got there first.

A crackling yellow glow flared about the offending fingers. As if slapped, they withdrew to a more legitimate (or as Harry viewed it, a less illegitimate) location.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. Hermione had been as good as her word.

Still, his glaring eyes did not leave the pair as he made his way to their table.

The song ended and Hermione made a point of bringing the not-so-gentleman to their table. Harry bit his tongue. “Harry, I'd like you to meet Guillaume MÃ©niÃ¨re. He's prÃ©fet en chef at Beauxbatons. That's their equivalent of Head Boy.”

Gritting his teeth, Harry shook hands. After all, this evening he was supposed to cement alliances, not cause international incidents. “Glad to meet you,” Harry lied, a faked grin clinging precariously to his face. “I'm Harry Potter, Hermione's boyfriend,” he added pointedly, as he ostentatiously slipped his other arm around her waist.

The tense conversation did not last long, and the MÃ©niÃ¨re boy took his leave. “You look rather peckish all of a sudden,” she remarked. “What happened to Ginny?”

“I got tired of dancing with her,” Harry said truthfully enough. “I left her somewhere out on the dance floor.”

“So would you like to dance some more with me?” Hermione helpfully suggested. Although she knew he would say yes, she was still full of nervous anticipation.

She was ready for the ball to be over - more than ready.

Harry nodded. “I never get tired of you,” he affirmed as she slid under his arm. Together they slinked back to the dance floor as Lee Jordan teed up “Syncopated Sorcery.” As they broke apart to face each other, Hermione produced her wand, lit it with pure white sparkling light, and held it over her head. Then she put it away.

“What was that for?” Harry inquired.

“You'll see,” she said mysteriously.

At the end of the song, Harry started for the tables, but Hermione held him back. The next number would be a slow song, Lee announced. Momentarily, the teased opening guitar notes of “Something” sprung from the sound system.

“They're playing our song,” Harry observed, “and you told them to, didn't you?”

Hermione nodded. “He owed me one,” she said. She put both arms around his neck and whispered in his ear, “Do have your Invisibility Cloak?”

“Always,” he whispered back. “That and the Map.”

“You'll be needing both,” she informed him as she began rocking back and forth in time to the Beatles' melody.

Harry reached for her hips, but Hermione requested, “First, throw the Cloak over us.”

Harry's expression changed to one of intrigue. He did as told, but when he started fussing with the Cloak, which did not cover anywhere near all of them, she told him to “leave it.”

“What now, then?” he asked curiously.

“This,” Hermione purred as she brought her lips to his.

Harry forgot about the world beyond the Cloak as she flicked her tongue around his lips and teeth. Who cared if people could see their feet, anyway? Feet were greatly overrated. His arms started for her hips again. This time she encouraged him.

“…Somewhere in her smile, she knows. That I don't need no other lover….”

Suitably encouraged, he slipped his arms inside the elastic bands surrounding her exposed midriff. His hands went around, then down, and soon he was massaging her bum whilst their kisses grew more and more feverish.

Finally she broke it. Breathily she gasped, “Merlin, Harry, please don't ask…. Because I'd probably let you….”

“You mean, right here?” Harry asked. “Don't worry, I wouldn't. Mad-Eye's around somewhere.”

“What does your guardian have to do with anything?” Hermione asked. She was still close enough that Harry could feel her words as well as hear them.

“His magical eye can see through this Cloak,” Harry said.

That was a mood changer. Harry had never mentioned this tidbit - acquired two years ago through first-hand experience - to her before. “You're sure about that?” she asked.

“Positive,” Harry replied.

“Damn. Well maybe there's another way out,” Hermione snipped. Her mental wheels beginning to turn, she lost interest in making out … for the moment.

“You want out?” Harry wondered.

“I want to sneak out of here with you, precisely,” Hermione made herself clear. “I might not obsess like you, but all this business about my knickers - or lack of them - has made me so randy I can hardly see straight. How about you, Mister Potter?”

He chuckled. “You really have to ask? Hermione, for most of this stupid ball, every time I've looked at you.… No knickers…. Well, I could bloody well pound nails without a hammer. You can check if you'd like.”

“I'll check later…. I believe you. Let's see that Map of yours, then,” she prompted.

He did not have to be asked twice. Since the song was over, they made their way back to their now unoccupied table, still partially covered by the Cloak. With alacrity, Harry produced the Map from the same pocket that had held the Cloak, said the incantation that activated it, and started taking a census.

“Dumbledore's back in his office,” Harry pointed out. “That's good, because he might be able to see through the Cloak, too. Let's see … in the staff quarters I see, Trelawney, Vector, Sinistra, and Hooch. No real surprises there. I've never thought of them as up for this sort of thing.”

“And there's Mad-Eye,” Hermione added, “guarding the right hand exit, and Asimov's on the left. Where's Hagrid? I haven't seen him since the ball started.”

Harry turned a couple of folds in the map. “There he is, in his hut…. And he's not alone….”

“Oh, my,” Hermione snickered. “To think how scandalised her students would be if they knew.”

“Anyway, I don't think we need worry about either of them any time soon,” Harry agreed, turning the map back to the more immediate vicinity. “Let's see, Professor McGonagall and Flitwick are….”

“Harry, I was thinking, with Professor Sinistra in her quarters … what's the Astronomy Tower look like?” Hermione wondered.

“Good idea,” Harry agreed, flipping the Map. “Nope, not so good an idea,” he quickly added after consulting the relevant portion. “Mannock's up there.”

More flipping.

“Damn, and Sprout's stationed in the corridor outside the Room of Requirement,” Harry pointed out.

“That'd be too clichÃ©d, anyway,” Hermione observed. “How about the Prefect's Bathroom?”

More flipping.

“Looks like our noble Head Boy has beaten us to it,” Harry recounted. “Along with somebody named CÃ©cile Trousseau. Do you want to dock him points?”

“No,” Hermione replied, giving no indication she'd understood he was joking. “I just want to be doing the same thing with you as soon as possible.”

“Well, Tonks is over there watching the elves' entrance, and Slughorn's in the Ceremonial Library, with a lot of folks with French names….”

“That must be where the portal to Beauxbatons is located,” Hermione surmised. “So, what do you think?”

Harry was pessimistic. “Unless we can somehow magically summon the Twins and have them set off a load of Dungbombs for a diversion, I don't think we're likely to get very far. Dumbledore's been thorough. He's got all the exits covered - and I saw Filch and Firenze … talk about an odd pairing … patrolling the grounds.”

Hermione's shoulders sank as she muttered, “darn it.”

“Can't hurt to ask then, can it?” Harry mused aloud.

“Ask whom about what?” Hermione asked.

“Mad-Eye, most likely - that is, unless you think Tonks is a better bet,” Harry went on. “They're not staff. We've got nothing to lose by being honest, so why not just ask one of them to let us out? The worst they can do is say no.”

“Just what are you planning on telling Mad-Eye that we're going to do, Mister Truthful?” Hermione asked pointedly.

Harry thought a bit. It would be rather touchy despite - and indeed, because of - Mad-Eye being his guardian. “As little as possible,” he replied, “but as much as necessary.”

“Oh, very well. I don't have a better idea, and if I don't get to have my way with you soon, I may well go mental,” Hermione told him bluntly. “Just … let me wait outside, okay? I'd really rather not hear what you're going to say.” She gave him a quick kiss.

“Right,” he agreed. He needed no more urging.

Harry checked the Map and verified Mad-Eye's location. Then he carefully closed it up. He pulled the Invisibility Cloak off them both and uttered a charm that made it fold itself away. Rising to his feet, he nodded to Hermione and gently took her hand. The look in his eyes said it all. Hermione would follow him anywhere.

Ignoring the dance music - and the dancers all about them - the pair crossed the Great Hall. Harry dropped her hand just before the threshold of the waterfall mirage.

“Wish me luck,” he said.

“I wish us both luck,” she replied. Then she added, “Right about now, don't you wish we'd stopped Ron from using that bloody book?”

Harry snickered, nodded, and ducked through the waterfall.

“Back again, Potter?” Mad-Eye queried the moment Harry came into view. Leaning back in his plain metal folding chair, the aged wizard looked not the least bit surprised to see Harry.

Because he was not.

“And yeh've the Granger girl waitin' right outside,” Mad-Eye continued, his magical, unnaturally blue eye whirling in its socket. “A right better choice than last time.”

Mad-Eye's knowledge threw Harry for a loop. His carefully cultivated sang froid evaporated.

“I … umm … wanted to ask for your help … er … no, your permission….”

“Ta do what?” the ex-Auror asked with arched eyebrows (what were left of them).

“Well, I … er … no, Hermione and I, we…. Well, we'd like to be … umm … together, and we don't think that we can unless you allow it….”

“Yer awfully young, Potter … Harry, the both of yeh. Am I ta understand that you're asking me ta let yeh…?”

A bright blue something flashed in Mad-Eye's ear.

“Merlin's balls!” the old man yelped as he leapt to his feet - well, foot, to be precise. “A fight on the dance floor!”

Moody brandished his wand.

As the one-legged Auror stumped past Harry, he turned and put a hand on the boy's shoulder. “If'n I had my druthers, I'd chat with yeh more `bout this. Yer young and it's a big step. But yeh've my blessin' no matter what yeh do. Better yer way than mine….”

Once Mad-Eye left, Harry poked his head through the waterfall and waved frantically for Hermione to come.

She was wide-eyed with interest. “What happened?” she asked. “Mad-Eye ran off….”

“He has to go break up a fight,” Harry told her, his voice transparently gleeful. “But he said it was okay.”

“So that's what all that racket is. You told him, then?” she continued. “I still have a hard time believing….”

“Yeah, he knew,” Harry declared. “Now let's go before somebody else comes along.” They left the Masked Ball behind under cover of a cacophonous dancehall brawl mixed with the raucous chorus to “You Shook Me All Night Long.”

He hoped they could live up to that song.

Hand in hand, they rushed through the back room where, two years before, Harry had faced down the first wave of detractors after his name came out of the Goblet of Fire. In no time they reached the back hallway.

Needing no prompting, Harry whipped out the Marauders' Map once again.

“Now let's see, where to…? What the Hell is going on over there?” Harry exclaimed, barely able to believe what the Map was showing.

Hermione was looking over his shoulder. “It looks like a mass break out. There are Lavender and Jim, and Romilda and Rodney, and Mandy and Justin….”

“Forget them,” Harry cut across her and pointed to the Map. “All the staff's headed over that way….” Tracing his finger along one of the corridors, he explained. “That means if we go this way, we're free.”

She gave him a squeeze in the backside. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

Throwing the Invisibility Cloak over themselves, they trotted off in the indicated direction. Down one hall, through an interconnected room, out a second corridor, and up a stairway that shifted whilst they were on it, they soon found their way to one of the Castle's interior courtyards.

“I know where we should go,” Hermione declared, and she brought them both to a halt. “If only I can remember how to get there….” Holding Harry close, she took a good look at the Map. “This way!”

Under the Cloak, the two burst diagonally across the courtyard. In front of them, looming darkly overhead, soared the North Tower. About half-way across, Hermione said breathlessly to Harry, “Wait a second.”

“Why? Somebody might see us out here in the open,” Harry complained.

“I promised you that I'd show you something,” she mentioned.

Harry smiled at her. “Let's get back inside. Then you can show me everything.”

Ignoring the innuendo, she answered, “This will only take an instant.” Hermione pulled on one side of the Cloak so that it came off their heads. She wrapped it around them tightly in the autumnal chill.

With one arm around Harry's shoulders Hermione pointed the other towards the heavens. “There,” she said triumphantly, “passing from Perseus and stretching through Auriga. That's it.”

Harry had to admire the diffuse, softly glowing streak. “So that's your discovery? I've never seen a comet before, meteors, yes, but never one of those. What's it called again?”

“Well, technically it's known as Comet C/1996S1, but everybody calls it Granger-Shoemaker,” she said proudly. “It's at magnitude 2.3, and that's about as bright as it'll get, since its perigee - when it was closest to us - was just yesterday.”

“Remarkable….” Harry murmured. His voice trailed off as he contemplated Hermione's heavenly discovery.

“Not really,” Hermione explained. “Several dozen new comets are discovered every year. Shoemaker alone has discovered quite a few….”

Harry talked over her. “No, you're remarkable….”

They gazed in silence at the comet Hermione had found for a few more moments, until Harry could no longer resist nibbling on her neck. He gave into temptation, Hermione responded in kind, and in no time they were kissing - nothing but their heads visible to anyone who might have been looking.

Thankfully, nobody was.

“Up … upstairs,” Hermione moaned as she broke their kiss. “Then we can do anything we want.”

Pulling the Invisibility Cloak back over them, they reentered the Castle almost directly beneath the tower.

Harry tried to study the Map.

“Now, up six floors,” Hermione instructed, as she began bounding up the first stair case. Harry leapt on after her, as it started to pivot to the right.

She could not see it, but Harry gave her a very suggestive look. “Are we headed where I think we're going?”

“That depends on where you think we're going,” she called over her shoulder.

“Someplace you didn't like very much before, I'd reckon,” he suggested.

“Right you are,” she said jauntily as they reached the top of that stairway and headed for the next. “I'm hoping to have happier memories once we've used it for what's most definitely not its intended purpose. Oh yes, and that's worth ten points for assisting a Prefect.”

“You can be such a wench,” Harry replied.

“What can I say? You bring out the best in me,” she shot back at him.

In due course they reached the sixth floor. They entered a familiar room, where they saw a familiar ladder leading to a familiar trapdoor. Catching her breath before their last climb, Hermione told Harry, “We don't want anybody thinking we've been taken again. I'm going to send a Patronus to Tonks telling her not to worry. I think you should do the same to Mad-Eye.”

“Good idea.”

For once, neither of them had any trouble finding a happy enough thought to conjure a Patronus.

That done, Hermione flipped out her wand from its wrist holster, pointed it at her hips and muttered, “Finite,”

Harry threw her a questioning look. “You haven't changed your mind about having children already, have you?”

“Oh, no!” Hermione answered in a startled voice. “Nothing like that. I just ended the spell I'd put on this gown. You don't think I was just trusting to chance all evening, do you?”

“I don't know what I was thinking,” Harry told her truthfully. “All I could think about was how bare you were under there around your tender bits. That's what I kept seeing all night long.”

“Well, I'll have you know that, as soon as we got situated, I performed a Proximity Sticking Charm. That kept this gown from ever going more than ten centimetres away from me. Didn't you notice that, even when I twirled, my gown never rode up at all?”

“Truthfully, no,” he admitted. “I was too busy imagining your bits.”

Almost squirming in anticipation, Hermione brought one hand to his face and whispered, “Ending my spell means you don't have to imagine any more. Let's go. I think you'll find everything quite to your liking.”

Giving him a kiss that was more like a lick, Hermione lit her wand and started up the ladder to the Divination classroom.

Harry did the same. Looking up as he followed close behind, he no longer had to imagine anything.

Pulling her head and shoulders through the trapdoor, Hermione gazed into the darkened classroom. Everything in the circular room was just as she had remembered it - the sweet-smelling odours, the squashy armchairs, and especially the pouffes.

Brandishing her wand, Hermione paused. For a moment she shivered with delightful sensations as Harry's arms reached around her from beneath. “Circe, it's about time,” she muttered before incanting, “Accio pouffes,” followed almost immediately by, “Accio cushions.”

She felt the soft wetness of Harry's tongue on the insides of her thighs. “Let me go, just for a moment,” she begged him. “Then I promise I won't ask you to stop again.”

All she heard back was, “Mmmmmmmmm” - but he did release his grip.

Almost mad with lust, Hermione clambered through the trapdoor and practically flung herself, face first, into the pile of cushions and pouffes she had created. Quivering with anticipation she flipped up the back of her gown all the way to the top of the slits on each side.

As he pulled himself through the trap door, Harry heard her muffled call, “Please, Harry, just get over here and do it! I need you so badly, I'm aching….”

Harry could not help but smile.

* * * *

Far below, in another part of the Castle, Mad-Eye Moody was putting his magical eye to good use, rousting the last escapees of the mass student breakout from their hiding places. He had been so occupied for quite some time. He had not finished pulling the two fighting boys off of one another when that breakout happened. Indeed, if Mad-Eye had not known the two fight participants so well, he might have thought the entire thing had been staged as a diversion.

“All right, yeh two,” Mad-Eye's battered face growled roughly at this latest terrified pair. “Get yerselves decent and get out of there, and yeh'll get off with only detentions.”

Just then, a streak of white sought him out and in the next instant disappeared inside his body.

He heard Harry's voice, “Mad-Eye, this is Harry. I'm with Hermione. We're safe, and somewhere inside the Castle. If you need to tell people this, you can, but please don't go looking for us.”

Moody's ravaged old face softened into a smile. `I guess that means that she said `yes',' he thought to himself. “Good fer the both of `em.”

* * * *

Author's notes: See Raquel Welch's two-piece fur outfit in “One Million Years BC”

Hindu mythology is accurate

Marona and Avalon are the “missing” Gryffindor girls, Marona had the rattlesnake boggart in PoA

Jauterita is accurately described

Marona is a composite crossover with Jean Auel's “Shelters of Stone”

Hermione's evanescing lingere disappeared in Chapter 53

The golden anthurium flower appeared in Chapter 20

Tarzan was lord of Greystoke

In one way, Ginny is prophetic

The “don't plan to be wearing it very long” line is by Mae Mordabito in “A League of Their Own”

Baldrics, frogs, and other broadsword equipment appeared in Chapter 14

Mobius strips have unusual properties making them hard to disentangle

Of all flags, Spain's best presents the Gryffindor color scheme

The “S” reference was to Superman

In medieval times, when chain mail was used, Damascus made the best steel

Harry's map statement parallels the American Express slogan

The contents of the Vatican letter will be revealed soon

The Isadora reference is to a similar situation in Erica Jong's “Fear of Flying.” If it seems that Hermione didn't try too hard to replace her knickers, that's true

The chimp represents Cheeta

The eyes on Luna's ankles are a nod to Lemony Snickett

Luna's date went as Jason, with a Golden Fleece

Julian Haldane combines Julian Huxley and J.B.S. Haldane, British scientists

Good Queen Bess is Queen Elizabeth I

Fleur's dressed as Glinda the Good Witch

I believe High Force is the largest British waterfall

“Fanfare for the Common Man” is by Aaron Copland, and covered by ELP

Potter's Marauders appeared in Chapter 22

Head-to-head, French cuisine beats British every time

“Droit de seigness” is a play on droit de seigneur

Partially identified songs: “Police on My Back” by the Clash; “Nottingham Lace” by Buckethead; “Vogue” by Madonna; “Waterloo” by ABBA; “Power of Love” by Celine Dion; “You Shook Me All Night Long” by AC/DC

Sweet Sixteen Additive appeared in Chapter 52; Harry will regret his curiosity

As Vice President, Al Gore was noted for extremely impassivity

The “eye of a needle” phrase is biblical and usually refers to camels

The “cocked hat” phrase comes from a difficult pin position in nine-pin bowling

What Ginny will show Malfoy is more interesting than she knows

“Crazed jealosy to clear the mind,” comes from a line from “My Best Friend's Wedding”

I took the name “MÃ©niÃ¨re” from a medical condition

In this pre-DH fic, I created Arthur C. Asimov as Muggle Studies professor, see Chapter 11

Hagrid is, of course, with Madame Maxim

This Mannock appeared in Chapter 32

The “bloody book” comment is about Ron winning Felix Felicis in Chapter 48

Mad-Eye thinks Harry's asking him something much more consequential

The blue flash resembles Bluetooth

Constellations are accurately placed, both date and time of night; comet numbering and naming notation are realistic

Eugene and Carolyn Shoemaker discovered many comets

They went to the Divination classroom

65

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 9/22/2007

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58. Accusations

Wherein Harry has a dream, grants a favor, and disproves an accusation; Harry and Hermione have a long talk and read a letter, he deals with a second accusation during Quidditch practice, Draco evaluates a potion, and the Dark Lord plots.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

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

Chapter 58 - Accusations

The first rays of the morning sun pierced the thin gauzy curtains drawn across the large bedroom window. A long rectangular glow fell across the sleeping occupants. Before long the same rays managed to pierce the eyelids of a dark haired boy. He lay there - on the edge of manhood, but already a man.

He blinked once, twice, and again whilst shaking off the residue of well-earned sleep. He was intensely conscious of an arm stretched across his bare chest and, nestled against him, the head and shoulders of feminine owner of that arm. Weeks ago, her love had made him a man.

Her scent infiltrated his nostrils as he recalled their latest night together. But to him, this morning was almost as magical. Finally, they has been able to forget about the forced-march routine - getting dressed, and skulking about Hogwarts Castle just when his entire body begged just to curl up with her and hold her as they both fell asleep.

At last, they not only made love - but slept together as well - all night long.

Contentedly, he cuddled her closer. That must have woken her up because he heard her questioning whisper, “Harry?”

“Hermione, love, you can sleep a while longer.”

“Harry, I know you're in there….”

“I know you're in here, too, Hermione,” he muttered groggily in response.

“Harry, are you going mental…?”

“If I am, being mental isn't half bad,” he sleepily pulled her towards him.

“Harry, if Hermione's in there, you'll be lucky to last the hour. I mean it. You'd best get her back where she belongs right fast. McGonagall's on the bloody warpath. She wants everyone downstairs in fifteen minutes….”

“What?!”

His delicious dream melted away faster than a chalk picture in a cloudburst - the gauzy, sunlight, the comfy bed, his sleeping companion … everything. Harry found himself, alone again, in his normal bed. Beyond the closed bed curtains, Ron was chortling.

Instead of his fiancée, Harry found himself cuddling his Knight-of-the-Realm chain mail robes from the night before.

Why would his robes remind him of Hermione?

Why, indeed. It came back to him in a rush. Hermione had been altogether too randy to wait for him to undress. Not that Harry complained. He just shoved all that chain mail (charmed feather-light) aside. Hermione had another of those little - incidents - she was prone to when extremely aroused. His robes were doused, and with that he had tossed them aside without bothering to Scourgify them. Otherwise occupied, he left his robes as is whilst sneaking back into Gryffindor tower, and into his bed….

“I'll be out shortly, Ron,” Harry answered, still somewhat sluggish. “I need to change my trousers.”

“I can wait,” Ron responded. “I need to ask a favour.”

Harry was not inclined to do Ron any favours. But soon enough he muttered, “Finite.” Opening the bed curtains, he stared blankly at Ron, who almost immediately broke into a grin.

With an ostentatious sniff, Ron levelled a tongue-in-cheek accusation. “I know that odour anywhere, mate. You did have Hermione in there at some point….”

“Ron, you're jumping to….”

“No worries, mate,” Ron continued. “I got some too. Bet you didn't know Cho had a little zipper … no, an unzipper … on that red bit of her costume. There's a broom closet….”

Harry clenched his teeth to avoid starting yet another argument. “Ron, I really don't need to hear about that….”

Ron continued on obliviously. “Well, I don't have the run of the Prefects' Bathroom like some….”

“Ron,” Harry cut across. “Don't ask, don't smell.” Then, he climbed out of bed and had a better look at his friend. “Er … what happened to you? Did some Red Caps have their way with your face?”

Harry noticed that Ron sported a striking shiner. His left eyelid was heavily bruised, with impressive streaks of yellow, purple, and indigo suffusing the black.

“Oh, that?” Ron grinned. Whispering conspiratorially he told Harry, “I mixed it up with Malfoy last night … on the dance floor. The berk was dancing with - with Ginny, can you believe it? He wouldn't stop, nor would she, so I shoved with my forearm. He took a poke at me, and then Cho hexed him. We had a right good donnybrook after that. Shak hit me with a week's detentions for it, but also tagged Malfoy - and Cho. Ginny got off, although in my opinion she really started it by not telling Malfoy to sod off. Too bad you weren't there…. But I guess all that bother gave you and Hermione cover, at least.”

“Ron, I'd really rather not discuss what Hermione and I did last night,” Harry warned.

“Oh, all right. Have it your way,” Ron merrily agreed. “But it's rather obvious, you know.” Then he lowered his voice again and produced a small phial that Harry immediately recognised. “Mate, I need your help. I really need you to hold this for me until I call for it. What are your plans for the Christmas hols?”

“I'm pretty sure I'll be staying at Blackwalls,” Harry answered. “The Dursleys would only try to wheedle me for money. And anyway, Dumbledore's been on me to `assert control,' as he puts it, over what I've inherited.”

“So, you're not coming by the Burrow, then?” Ron looked disappointed.

“Wherever I go … umm … she'll be with me, Ron,” Harry said awkwardly, realising he had yet to discuss plans with Hermione. “Why don't you set things right with her? I know what you said, by the way … and this `let's ignore each other' business is getting really old really fast.”

“Hermione needs to apologise,” Ron retorted, his ears going pink. “She did something to Cho - more than once - and it's bad enough Cho won't even tell me. She needs to apologise to Cho and accept us being together. Which gets me back to what I hope you'll do….”

“The Hell she does!” Harry confronted Ron. “You all but called her a slut to her face.”

Ron winced. Harry was right - and stubborn - especially when right. Sighing, he gave in. “Point, that…. Should never have said that, even for whatever she did…. Yeah, I guess I owe her an apology, but just for that…. And still, she should apologise to Cho. She's gone after her twice now….”

Harry kept his expression carefully neutral. This was progress. Ron was not usually the apologising type. “You apologise to her, and we'll see about anything else….”

“Okay, then, but until she actually apologises, it's for your sake not hers…. And I'm sorry for bringing you into it. Harry, I'm sorry for everything I said about you. I … I was out of control. There, I've done it - really. Now, can I tell you why I need that favour?”

“All right, Ron,” Harry muttered - hopeful, yet disappointed that again neither of his two best friends seemed inclined to reconcile their differences. He acquiesced in Ron's change of subject.

“Cho's invited me to her house over the hols,” Ron revealed in an excited whisper. “For the Chinese New Year - she wants me to meet her parents, Harry! I think this might be the moment I've been hoping for. But that's the problem….”

“What's the problem?” Harry asked, suppressing a variety of unpleasant facial expressions. He struggled to take everything in - and to mesh the new information with what he had learnt about Cho.

“Remember Bill with Fleur's parents…?” Ron began.

Harry gulped. Bill had been engaged to Fleur.

“Don't you think you should slow down a bit?” Harry cautioned. “Get to know her better, maybe? I mean, what do you know about her other than … er … what's physical…?”

Ron did not seem to hear him.

“Nah,” Ron continued on. “Bill was nervous as anything, what with us not having much money, and the different cultures. I'm the same way. Every time see myself talking to them about her, I feel like when I first played Quidditch for Gryffindor - worse even. That's why … when I get there … I want you to send me this….”

Once again, he held out the phial of Felix Felicis potion he had won not long before.

“Why not just take it with you?” Harry asked, wary of becoming an accomplice to something about which he had grave doubts.

“I don't want to be tempted to use it too soon,” Ron told Harry. “I gotta have it when it really counts. Besides, my parents, or especially Ginny, might find it. Ginny knows about it and doesn't like Cho very much … bloody jealous, I'd say. Once she finds out about the invitation, she might turn over my room to stop me….”

For once, Harry was tempted to agree with Ginny.

“Ron, I'm really not sure … you're so young,” Harry resisted - using nearly the same warning Hermione had given him.

“I'm older than you,” Ron reminded Harry, “and look who's already declared for Hermione. Cho's a full year older than her. Don't tell me I'm too young. You don't have a corner on maturity…. I won an Order of Merlin, too. Now, will you do it? You're the only one I really trust, you know.”

A pleading look on his face, Ron again held out the phial to Harry.

After a small sigh left his lips, Harry gritted his teeth. “I don't know, Ron, you can leave it here, but I need to think about it….”

Ron grimaced in disappointment. “You mean you want talk to Hermione….”

He regarded Ron stonily, not bothering to deny Ron's statement. “Look, Ron, you need to apologise to her.” If Ron wanted him to do something, well he wanted Ron to do something as well. Perhaps Ron would get that message.

Those two barely made it to the common room before an incensed Professor McGonagall stalked in. Her steely eyes betrayed more anger than anybody in Gryffindor House could remember. She peremptorily asked the Prefects if everyone was downstairs and shooed them upstairs to roust any stragglers. When the entire House was uncomfortably assembled, she let them have it:

“I have never been so surprised and disappointed … no, frankly, shocked … in all my days on the Hogwarts staff. To have our students, including my Gryffindors, bring shame upon Hogwarts in the presence of guests from another magical institution is appalling … something I never thought I would see. In my entire career, until last night, I had never ended any school event early due to student misbehaviour. And then we discover that the punchbowl had been … contaminated … not only with the Weasley Twins' alcohol potion, but with - Merlin help me - Lust Powder as well….”

Harry had not been paying particularly close attention to Professor McGonagall's rant because he did not view it as particularly pertinent to him. He knew she upset about Ron's fight, but he had already heard about that from the instigator. She was probably also going on about the odd mass escape attempt from the chaperoned Great Hall. He had not participated in that either, although it gave him and Hermione a most serendipitous diversion.

But her mention of Lust Powder refocussed Harry's attention at a stroke.

That had to be it.

He had been bothered - more than he let on to anyone, even (especially) to Hermione - about Ginny's advances to him the night before. He mentally replayed those events, worried about unintentionally having somehow encouraged her. He wondered what could have prompted her to be so forward.

Now he understood. He had seen Ginny drink the punch with his own two eyes….

Lust Powder. Plainly, Ginny had not been responsible for her actions. Harry scanned the common room unsuccessfully. She was hidden amongst the subdued crowd of Gryffindors. Ginny must be so mortified, Harry surmised, that she did not even want him to see her.

And what about Hermione? She had been unbelievably randy last night….

Meanwhile, in her crisp Scot burr, Professor McGonagall was continuing to lay down the law.

“…I don't know how other Houses intend to deal with this irresponsible conduct, but I shall not tolerate it. I will not allow the name Gryffindor to be besmirched in this fashion. All Gryffindor students fourth year and above are hereby prohibited from participating in any extracurricular activities until further notice….”

That announcement jolted Harry out of his own little speculative world.

Before he could process what that meant, a hand had shot up with a question.

The answer came immediately.

“…Yes, Miss Granger, that includes the so-called Defence Association…. And so nobody need ask, all Quidditch practices are suspended as well.”

Ron groaned audibly.

McGonagall rounded on him fiercely. “Mister Weasley…. Do not tempt me to break the rules myself. At this juncture, I find myself thinking that you might make a very good star-nosed mole.”

Ron went pallid at the mere thought.

But the worst was yet to come.

“Potter, come with me,” Professor McGonagall barked,

His head jerked up. His Head of House was glaring at him as if he were a Boggart or something equally loathsome.

Harry quickly surveyed the room. Hermione stood glued to the spot where she had asked her question, a horrified look on her face. He Legilimenced, `What's this about?'

`No clue,' she registered back to him. `Tell the truth if you have to….'

“Now, Potter,” Professor McGonagall declared imperiously.

The Deputy Headmistress was already sweeping out of the room, forcing Harry to hurry to keep up with her. Practically running, he caught her on the stairway. Dodging the trick stair, he drew even with her and puffed, “What happened?”

“My office,” came the terse reply. “Otherwise, I think you know.”

Only one thing could have happened, Harry quickly deduced. Either Mad-Eye or Tonks must have been deeply affronted by his and Hermione's infraction of the rules last night. One, or both, of them must have informed the “proper authorities.”

Harry silently trailed Professor McGonagall the rest of the way. He fervently hoped that both of them would escape with only lengthy detentions. Sadly, he contemplated a rather long dry spell in his budding physical relationship with his fiancée.

The door to Professor McGonagall's was ajar. It spontaneously opened all the way to admit the pair, and once they had entered it closed with a thud that symbolised finality.

Harry was surprised, and perturbed, to find that they were not alone. Seated along the walls - their presence obviously solicited in advance - were Professors Shacklebolt and Slughorn. Shak (although Harry would not now think of addressing him in that fashion) looked angry. Slughorn looked disappointed.

No chair was provided for Harry.

Professor McGonagall dropped into the seat behind her desk without any formalities. She shook her head in evident disgust. “All right, Potter,” she addressed him, her north-country intonation drenched with resignation. “I doubt I will ever understand why you behaved in such a fashion. But perhaps you should explain yourself.”

Harry remembered Hermione's last words. “Umm…. It was my fault … entirely. Hermione and I, well, we hadn't had significant time alone in too long. We - I - arranged something. I tried to be responsible … well, as much as that kind of thing ever could be…. I asked Mad-Eye, and he seemed okay. Once we got there, we also told….”

Harry's dropping the name of one of the most upstanding (purely figurative) Aurors alive set off Professor Shacklebolt. Livid, he interrupted Harry. “You mean to tell me that Alastor Moody approved of this? I hardly think that possible. You know, Mister Potter, we can have him here in very short order. I'm warning you; don't make this any worse than it already is.”

“I swear it,” Harry maintained, the tenor of his voice rising in anxiety. “He told me specifically, but he had to go. There was some sort of fight, he said. Then we were alone, and it looked like lots of people tried to get out…. It was a diversion….”

“So you pursued this as a diversion, Potter?” Professor McGonagall broke in, seething. At least temporarily, her need to get to the bottom of things overrode her wariness at prompting another of Harry's magical outbursts.

“Yes … er … no,” Harry answered, confused. “Everybody went one way. We went another, and then….”

“I am not the least bit interested in where you went,” Professor McGonagall again cut in. “I'm interested in why on earth you thought it worth disrupting an event attended by students from another school. We could have had an international incident.”

“We … I … just…. What?” Harry was thunderstruck into incoherence. She had just disclaimed any interest in his tryst with Hermione.

For a moment he just stared, uncomprehending, at his Head of House.

She glared furiously back at him.

Shak broke the silence. “Mister Potter,” he addressed the boy formally. “When the Deputy Headmistress asked you to explain yourself, what she wished was for you to explain this.”

He drew his wand with a flourish, and pointed it at an inconspicuously wrapped package leaning against the wall. The wrapping unravelled itself. A bottle leapt upward and landed perfectly upright on the edge of Professor McGonagall's desk.

“What…? I….” Harry babbled as he reached for the object.

It zoomed towards the ceiling.

“Do not touch it again,” Shak warned, as he kept his wand trained on the milky white bottle.

Harry instantly dropped his half outstretched arm.

“I assume you recognise this, Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, her eyes narrowed. “Now, the truth, if you please. Need I tell you how profoundly appalled I am? You were just awarded the Order of Merlin….”

Harry's eyes widened. “You think I added this to the punch?” Magic started to crackle between his fingertips.

“Mister Potter, control yourself. That's an order,” McGonagall demanded. “You can, and must, do so. The alternative is expulsion, because the day I allow any student to intimidate me is the day I will quit my position.”

The scintillations vanished as Harry clamped down on his emotions. However wrong everyone in the room might be about everything else, they had a point…. He was not about to expel himself from Hogwarts.

Taking a deep breath, Shak revealed some of what he knew. “A combination of this alcogenic potion and Lust Powder almost touched off an orgy at the Castle last night. A number of our Beauxbatons guests were caught up in the … festivities, if you will. This was undoubtedly the most serious breach of decorum at Hogwarts in quite some time - exceeding, due to its international aspect - any of the pranks committed by your business partners….”

Harry's jaw dropped. “You think I got this from the Twins…?”

“Where else…?” Professor McGonagall coldly interjected.

“…Listen carefully,” Shak instructed in his basso profondo voice. “I'm telling you that this incident was serious enough to demand a thorough investigation. That has occurred, so far discreetly. Some of my Auror colleagues arrived within the hour. This bottle was magically wiped clean, but just in case, we also employed Muggle means. It seems that an excellent set of fingerprints remained on this bottle. To be thorough, we ran them through both our records and the database at Scotland Yard. The Muggles found nothing, but we found a match - yours - from the records of your training over the summer….”

“But, I didn't….”

Shak brooked no excuses. “Let me finish, Mister Potter. We were startled, to say the least. So we continued our investigation with a couple of interviews to determine if you had any connexion to the producers of this potion. In short order, we became aware of a promise that you received as a gift from the proprietors of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes. It seems that they have agreed to help you conduct pranks at the Castle…. Well, it appears that you decided to outdo them….”

Harry could hold his tongue no longer. “I did not put anything into the punch,” he declared heatedly. “I swear it. You can give me Veritaserum if you think you have to.”

“Precisely why I am here,” Professor Slughorn spoke for the first time. He withdrew a small phial of the clear liquid from his ermine-lined green robes.

“So be it,” Professor McGonagall declared. “Tell me your story, if you have one, Potter, and we'll see how it matches what you have to say under the potion.”

“You don't believe me, do you?” Harry asked pointedly.

“I frankly do not know what, or whom, to believe at the moment,” the Deputy Headmistress replied. “I am told that Muggle fingerprinting is quite accurate - and that quite a full print taken, whatever that means.”

“I did touch that bottle,” Harry freely admitted. “I'd been dancing, and I was hot, sweaty, and thirsty. My partner went to get us both some drinks, and somebody bumped me. I almost fell, and my foot slid under the table as I tried to keep my balance - the one that held the punchbowl, the table, that is…. My foot knocked something over, and it turned out to be that bottle. I was curious and picked it up. Once I saw what it was, I binned it. Then I left. I never even drank any of the punch….”

“I sincerely hope your story is true, Potter,” Professor McGonagall said, not quite as harshly as before. Shak looked somewhat relieved but still extremely cautious.

Slughorn's face was unreadable as he measured out four drops - a very strong dose of the truth potion. Once Harry consumed it, Slughorn produced a talismanic crystal. He performed a spell, unknown to Harry, which caused the crystal to emit a bright white light. The colour confirmed that the potion had overcome Harry's ability to prevaricate.

Sure enough, Harry's story as it spilled forth under the influence of the truth potion matched his prior recounting of the previous night's events in all relevant respects.

Until the end of Professor McGonagall's questioning….

“…Mister Potter,” she pressed. “Once you were aware that the punch was spiked, why weren't you responsible enough to report it to one of the staff?”

“I probably should have,” Harry answered in his potion-induced monotone, “but I was distracted by my dance partner. After that, I forgot?”

“You forgot,” Professor McGonagall repeated archly. “How could you just forget?”

“I think … she was affected … by the Lust Powder,” Harry struggled to answer.

“You mean to tell me that you `arranged something,' as you described earlier, with Miss Granger despite her being under the influence of both Lust Powder and alcohol?” Professor McGonagall asked, in a rather shocked voice. “I am surprised and disappointed….”

Even under the deadening influence of Veritaserum, Harry started purpling at that accusation. “No!” Harry answered both truthfully and quite loudly.

The Deputy Headmistress was taken aback. Shak signalled her to desist, but she missed it. “Then what do you mean, Potter?”

Harry's face screwed up, but he was compelled to answer truthfully.

“I happened to be dancing with Ginny Weasley, not Hermione,” Harry choked out. He looked furious. “Do you have to ask any more questions? I believe I've established my innocence.”

“One more,” Shak broke in. “Did you have anything to do with the presence of Lust Powder in the punch?”

“No, sir.” Harry immediately spat out. “Now am I free to go?”

“You are, Potter,” Professor McGonagall allowed. There was no basis to keep him any longer.

Harry immediately spun to the door and stomped off in a fury. He did not even wait to ascertain that the Veritaserum had worn off.

“I'm sorry, Mister Potter,” Professor McGonagall added as Harry stormed out of sight.

“You bloody well should be.”

* * * *

Harry was distracted all through N.E.W.T.-level Care of Magical Creatures. That might not seem like much of a problem, since the session consisted primarily of plowing under the remnants of Hagrid's garden so that the soil would fertilise during the winter. The plow in question, however, was harnessed to a pair of Re'em, with each student being given a go.

Driving Re'em whilst distracted is most ill-advised. Dwelling upon his anger at his erstwhile interlocutors, Harry lost his balance and was nearly trampled by the golden-fleeced beasts.

Only through Hagrid's physical intervention did Harry escape serious injury. Unfortunately, Hagrid caught one of their brass horns in the buttocks for his trouble. That brought about an early end to the class.

“Harry, do you want to tell me what's gotten into you?” Hermione asked as she fell in beside him on the long walk back up to the Castle.

“Not really,” he grumbled as he trudged along, not even bothering to shrink his copy of Everything You Wanted to Know About Restricted Classification Beasts But Were Afraid to Ask.

“Let me correct that,” she replied to Harry's brush off. “Are you willing to tell me what's eating at you? You know it's unhealthy to bottle things up….”

“Oh, all right,” Harry allowed himself to be persuaded. “But you won't like it.”

“As if I thought I would - seeing how whatever it is has you feeling,” she went on. “Is it something that warrants, you know, a major talk?”

“You know what?” Harry answered. “I think so.”

“Then we're headed in the wrong direction,” Hermione declared as she took him by the arm and spun him around.

Within minutes they were at their special place on the far side of the lake. By then Harry had already recounted most of the events during his interrogation - even the bit about Ginny - and was finally getting to what really bothered him most.

“…and after that, I thought I'd proven that I hadn't had anything to do with it. But then McGonagall … McGonagall…,” Harry's voice trailed off as it often did when he was particularly embarrassed or upset about something.

“What did Professor McGonagall do?” Hermione prompted. “You can tell me.”

“She … that hag, accused me of drugging you not only with alcohol, but with Lust Powder when we went off together last night.” Harry spoke very quickly to get it all out before he emotionally shut himself down again.

The rebuke on the tip of Hermione's tongue for his insult toward their Head of House was instantly forgotten. “Harry, that's awful! You would never….”

“You … you weren't, were you?” Harry asked tentatively.

“I … what…?”

“That was … really what you wanted last night, wasn't it?” he asked again, his voice even softer. “I don't know ummfff….”

Harry's words ceased as Hermione leaned into him, pulled his face to hers with both hands and kissed him, hard - hard enough to drive away his insecurities, at least for a while. At first he tensed, but she heard his Magical Creatures textbook hit the sand with a dull thud. Hermione persisted, steadfastly holding her lips to his until finally he relented, relaxed, and opened his mouth to let her in.

At that moment she uttered an indistinct sigh from somewhere deep inside whilst deepening their kiss.

She made it count. Then she came up for air.

“Lust Potion only lasts a couple of hours, tops. Don't you ever think that it's not you I want,” Hermione whispered to Harry throatily. “And I want you right now.”

Harry already knew that, since during their kiss, one of her hands had gone on a very targeted walkabout.

“Right here?” Harry gasped.

“Why not,” Hermione replied, her eyes boring into his. “We've got two free periods and lunch ahead of us. And Dumbledore took away your pesky goblin entourage. All we need are Warming and Cushioning Charms.”

“But what if someone finds us?” Harry fretted.

“And what if they don't? That's something we can take care of, don't you think?” she pointed out as she pulled him closer.

“I suppose we can,” he had to agree. Without further ado he performed an Auror Location Charm that magnified the sound of every heartbeat in the vicinity.

Whilst Harry was confirming that they had only birds, squirrels, and the odd færie as witnesses, he heard her incant “Astranimbius.” At once, they were surrounded by a barrier of the now familiar twinkling mist.

Some time later, Harry and Hermione were lying next to one another, thoroughly satiated, with his cloak thrown over them both.

“I wish I could just go to sleep, for once,” he whispered to her, “rather than have to get up, get dressed, and carry on. I dreamt about that this morning….”

“That would be wonderful,” Hermione murmured, a contented look on her face. “Just to wake up lazily in your arms the following morning….”

“Great. You'll come with me to Blackwalls over Christmas, then?” Harry sprung his little trap.

“Harry! You tricked me!” Hermione squealed. “I haven't given that any thought….”

“Now there's a first,” Harry chortled.

“What? That I hadn't given something a thought?”

“No, that I managed to trick the clever one,” Harry responded.

“Don't expect to make it a habit, Potter,” Hermione replied in mock seriousness.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Harry told her. “So, will you come?”

“With lie-ins with you as the incentive, of course,” she agreed. “Not that I relish playing at Lady Black.”

“No more than I fancy being some lord,” Harry matched her. “Especially since Malfoy's been managing the place for the last decade or so. Dumbledore's on me to assert control over the estate, now that it's mine, but I don't look forward to it. I sent Dobby ahead to deal with the elves, but I suppose I have to deal with the wizards there myself.”

“Well, I'm sure they'll appreciate that you can sack anyone you like - or don't like,” Hermione observed.

“Umm … that's one reason I want you along,” Harry revealed, “for reinforcement. You're better at that, I've decided. I'd be more likely to curse someone, and then feel sorry about it….”

Hermione exhaled. “If that's why you really want me there, maybe I shouldn't, then. Harry, I really don't want to play your heavy…. Your Abominable No Woman….”

“No!” Harry stopped her. “I'll think of something else, then. The place is supposed to be huge…. Ron, maybe? Merlin knows, he's got enough brass….”

Hermione's expression went icy. “Harry, I don't think Ronald would want to be in the same place I am for anywhere near that long, given what's happened.”

“He told me he was going to apologise to you,” Harry indicated.

“In fact, he already did … partially, anyway,” Hermione revealed. “He did it just as we were leaving the Great Hall after breakfast, whilst you were being entertained by Professor McGonagall. It seemed contrived…. Did you put him up to it?”

Harry was a little surprised that Ron had acted so quickly. “Umm … sort of,” Harry confessed. “He knows he was wrong saying those things about you and me. Well, he also wanted something from me, and I pretty much told him I wouldn't do it unless he apoligised. I guess he must really want that favour….”

“What favour, Harry?” Hermione asked the obvious question.

“He wants me to keep the Felix Felicis potion he won. He's been invited to … umm, Cho's house … for the Chinese New Year, and he's afraid that either his parents or Ginny will take it from him….”

“He wants to use it while there, probably to convince Cho's parents to accept their relationship,” Hermione guessed.

That was close enough for present purposes. “Merlin, you're good,” Harry confirmed.

“As you'd best remember,” Hermione retorted. “Well, what do you think? Are you going to tell him the truth about Cho?”

Harry pondered the point.

“He'll pound me for sure if I tell him his girlfriend's a whore without evidence, and if I show him the evidence, he might hate me even more. He thinks that Cho's the one thing he's got that I don't,” Harry said glumly. “And what has she really done to hurt him…?”

“What has she done?” Hermione echoed him, but much more shrilly. “She's hiding something huge and horrible from him, that's what!”

“But think about it, Hermione,” Harry went on. “Is that really our business? I mean, I don't like it, and it's against my better judgment, but it's just Ron's love life. It's not like me stupidly convincing you to come with me to the Ministry last June.”

“It's not that different, Harry,” Hermione persisted. “Who knows what might have been different had I been able to stop you? You said it yourself … against my better judgment. Maybe we ought to trust that judgment for once?”

“That was a matter of life and death, Hermione,” Harry continued thinking out loud. “This is just boy-girl stuff…. Besides, I've been thinking, has Cho really done anything, I mean to Ron himself, to justify us digging into her private life like this? Are we really any more justified in what we're doing than Rita Skeeter was?”

“Harry, there's no comparison,” Hermione insisted.

“How?”

“Well, for one thing, the tripe Rita wrote was absolutely false. This is true,” Hermione pointed out.

“She claimed we were involved,” Harry pointed out. “That might have been premature, but not really wrong. You've told me that by then you'd already fancied me, and Merlin knows, if I hadn't been stupid, I'd have been fancying you too.”

That was not the answer Hermione wanted. “So what do you want to do? Just give it up?” she posed the stark alternative.

“I'd like to get things back on a more even keel with Ron, since he did apologise,” Harry maintained. “He'll just get mad again if he thinks he apologised for nothing.”

Hermione had to admit that Harry had a point. That was how Ron would think. “Well, I suppose we could wait,” she conceded grudgingly. “And see what happens. The Chinese New Year isn't for some time yet. Perhaps we could … yes! Plan B!”

Hermione's excitement level all of a sudden increased by an order of magnitude. She had obviously thought of something.

“What's Plan B?” Harry asked the obvious question.

“We wait. We have Cho's address - it's in the D.A. computer. If, when the Chinese New Year rolls around, we still feel a need to stop it, well, we can leave it up to Cho's parents….”

“Cho's parents? What do you mean?” Harry asked. Hermione's thought processes were too far ahead of his.

“We don't go through Ron at all. We owl the incriminating evidence to Cho's parents before Ron goes there, and let them deal with it,” Hermione proposed. “Surely, she hasn't told them about something like this…. They'll either be forced to tell Ron, cancel the visit, or both. And if by some off chance they do neither, well, then we know for sure that there's something seriously dodgy going on, and at that point, we'd be morally obligated to tell him.”

Harry gawked at his fiancée.

“Well, what do you think?” Hermione asked, once the silence had dragged on for too long.

“It's brilliant,” Harry answered, “and devious, too. To think that the Sorting Hat thought about putting me into Slytherin.”

“That's settled, then,” Hermione declared. “So Ron stays at the Burrow for now, but if things get better, maybe my presence won't scare him off. What about Ginny? Should we invite her?”

That question surprised him. “Ginny? After last night I'm surprised you'd even consider it. I don't think I really want to be in the same place as her for very long either.”

Hermione answered warmly. “I trust you, Harry. You've already explained that last night was just Lust Powder. That's not her fault. We shouldn't punish her for that … not that much, anyway.”

“Still, I just don't think it would be a good idea,” Harry answered. He had never told Hermione about his own moment of weakness in respect of the redheaded girl, and that was one battle he knew he preferred to fight on his own. “No Weasleys then. But I still need…. I know! The heaviest heavy I've got. And I don't think he's doing anything else these days….”

“Who?” Hermione asked. “Hagrid…?”

“Nah,” Harry sat up, screwed up his face, and growled, “Who'd ya think, Granger?”

“Mad-Eye!” she squealed. “And that was a spot-on imitation, Harry.”

“Actually, it's making a virtue of necessity,” he observed. “I doubt anybody can say `no' more convincingly than he can. And I don't suppose he'd let either of us go off by ourselves, anyway.”

“You're right,” Hermione conceded ruefully. “I suppose I ought to make arrangements with Tonks, then … But why not…? It's supposed to be such a big place. I can't see it seriously interfering with our privacy….”

Harry looked at his fiancée. “Hermione, you're on to something, I can tell. What is it?”

“Why don't we invite some other friends - those who, unlike Ron and Ginny, don't have anywhere else to go?” Hermione asked.

“Makes sense to me,” Harry agreed with the girl who was (almost) always right. “Luna must be one of those; since I don't think she had anyplace she wanted to go even before yesterday's attacks.”

“Neville, too, I'm afraid,” Hermione ticked off another name. “You didn't get to see this morning's Prophet, what with McGonagall and all, but from the story about the attacks it sounds like their old castle was pretty well levelled. I don't think they have the wherewithal to rebuild it….”

“I do,” Harry responded.

“Since when do you know about Longbottom family finances?” Hermione asked in surprise.

“Haven't a clue,” Harry reiterated, “but if they need money…, well, that I've got. Anyway, we'll burn that bridge when we come to it. If he's at loose ends, right now, I think inviting Neville would be excellent. The more of us, the less likely we'll face resistance from Malfoy's ex-minions.”

“That's true,” Hermione allowed. She shifted away. “Now we probably should at least be putting our clothes back on. I've brought that letter of yours, and that's probably not something to discuss whilst starkers like this.”

“I don't know,” Harry resisted. “I've got something else - something related - I need to ask you about, too.”

“Harry….” As much as she loved him, she was not inclined to lie around with him for hours naked. At least not outdoors - on Hogwarts grounds - in early November, no less.

Harry knew there were times when it was best just to go along. “Yes, dear.”

Whilst making himself presentable again, Harry brought up this other subject. “Hermione, the weekend after next, after the Slytherin Quidditch match - if they even let us play, that is - would you go with me to Gringotts to help me look over all the new stuff that's been put into my vault. It's not even the same number anymore. The goblins moved everything down to one of the single-digit vaults….”

“One of the really big ones,” Hermione replied, buttoning up her blouse. “Or so I'd suspect. Of course, I'll go. But I've something I want you to do too.”

Harry was thankful for small favours. He had feared Hermione would resist, and he really wanted her with him for that, since he had something special in mind. “Thanks,” he said in a low voice. “It is a big one - guarded by its own specially dedicated dragon. Whilst the goblins gave me some idea what's in it the last time, Dumbledore says I should see for myself.”

“Doing Dumbledore's bidding, now, are you?” Hermione asked sarcastically. Seeing the look on his face, she got serious again. “I really don't care all that much about what's in it, but I'll go with you, since that's what you want. Besides, if you ask them, I'd wager the goblins can find suitable accommodations so we're not in the open air like this.”

Harry caught her drift immediately. “Hermione, are you suggesting…?”

“Nope, demanding is more like it,” she replied whilst giving him one of those looks.

“You won't be disappointed, I promise,” Harry told her. “Damn.”

“What?” she asked. “You know I won't.”

“No, just that's twice in a row I bollixed up this shoelace,” he complained.

“There's a spell for that, you know,” she mentioned.

“Actually, I don't know, but I'm not surprised you do,” Harry replied.

She demonstrated, whilst cautioning him to be very precise with it, lest he tie his shoelaces together. They joked back and forth about her knowledge and his likely ability to perform the spell magically, until he asked her about what she wanted him to do.

“Well, I've been thinking…,” she began.

“No surprise there,” Harry interjected.

“Harry!” Hermione squealed as if insulted. “You make it sound like a bad thing.”

“Never. I didn't mean it that way,” he retreated. “I mean it's what you do, after all. There's nobody better….”

Hermione relented. “Well, now that you put it that way, I guess I won't hold it against you….”

“Just you, nothing else,” Harry commented.

Hermione looked confused. “Just me what?”

“Just hold yourself against me. That's all I need,” Harry provided the punch line, looking pleased with himself. Ron had once used that line, with much less success, with Madam Rosmerta.

“Enough, already,” Hermione protested. “Or else I'll never be able to explain this.” She did, however, move back within his reach.

“I'm sorry,” Harry half apologised. “So what's this latest, greatest thought of yours?”

“I don't know about `greatest',” Hermione said modestly, “but it goes back to when I was working through the E = mc^2 equation. It was tough to get the hang of all that relativity business in just a few hours, so I….”

“You kept at it, didn't you?” Harry anticipated.

“I suppose that's no surprise to you,” she confirmed, looking down.

“Oh, please, I know you that well, at least,” Harry had to agree. He put his hand on her back and started stroking her hair. “And you know how I get wrapped up in all these things you decide to learn. So tell me about this latest idea of yours.”

“Well, Einstein got involved in a great number of things, and I've discovered that something we'd thought about doing not too long ago is probably impossible….”

“What's that?” Harry had to ask. He had no idea where Hermione was going. “There's not too much that's impossible with magic, and I don't think we've talked about raising the dead.”

“Or travelling faster than light,” Hermione added. “But we did talk about freezing a helium balloon.”

That comment came at Harry from very, very deep in the covers. “Okay, I'm not sure I'm following here,” he said quite honestly.

“Helium doesn't freeze naturally,” Hermione explained. “The same force that powers magic keeps it liquid even at absolute zero, absent extraordinary pressure. Anyway, Einstein looked into that type of phenomena at one point….”

“What type of what?” Harry was still having a hard time following.

“What happens when something gets really, really cold,” Hermione told him. “Like that magic you showed the D.A. not too long ago. Anyway, there was a man named Bose….”

“…Who made my cousin Dudley's stereo…,” Harry interjected.

Hermione scowled. “Harry, this is serious! I do have a point here….”

“Okay, I'll shut up and listen.”

“It's about time,” she snipped. “Anyway, those two collaborated, and discovered that when something, like the air you played around with, gets really cold, it somehow condenses into a different state of … well, being … in which everything falls into the same phase and nothing in it can lose any more energy.”

“Now, hold that thought and recall what that happened when we trained together last summer. Remember when the Aurors shot Unforgiveables around under water? The Killing Curse produced a bunch of ice and lost most of its range. I wondered about that, but now I think that it must kill by taking out energy, and that's why the water froze. But what Einstein….”

“You're right, Hermione,” Harry broke in, finally with something useful to add. “That came up at the enquiry into what happened at the Ministry. I don't remember how, but somebody got to talking about curses, and mentioned that the Killing Curse kills by removing energy that's essential to life. Scary stuff…. Unblockable by magic….”

“Maybe not. That's where I'm going with this,” Hermione revealed.

“What?”

“Hear me out, Harry,” Hermione asked, whilst holding up a hand to quiet him. “This … really, really cold stuff … that they thought about. It's since been confirmed experimentally - it can't lose any more energy. Trying to remove energy only makes it bigger, by converting more ordinary atoms about the edges into that single-phase state. Given how the Killing Curse operates, I something in that extraordinarily cold state might even absorb the Curse, or at least deflect it.”

“Blocking the Killing Curse?” Harry asked, at once interested and sceptical.

“Yes,” Hermione emphasised. “And whilst you probably aren't powerful enough to overcome magic itself and freeze helium, from what you've already demonstrated, you might be powerful enough to cool down ordinary air…. You've already been playing at it. Maybe you can make things cold enough for this condensate stuff to show up. You'd probably have to isolate it magically.”

Harry felt that she was still talking well over his head. He heard the words and all, but it still did not make a lot of sense. “How would I even know if I'd done it?” Harry asked.

“No idea,” Hermione confessed. “I haven't even thought about what it might look like. The equations would make the one on my T-shirt look like child's play.”

“Well, I'll just have to practise,” Harry said. “That's what you want, isn't it?”

“It could save your life, Harry,” she replied softly.

“Okay, I'll see if I can work it in,” Harry decided. “That's it, right?”

“That's all I know - or think I know - about that, anyway,” Hermione confirmed.

It was time to change the subject before this Muggle physics stuff made his head swim away. “Now I have one. What's that mysterious letter all about?” Harry asked her.

“I don't know, since I haven't opened it,” she responded, just a little annoyed. “It was addressed to you, not me.” Whilst talking, she checked the pockets of her robe, until she found it. “Here it is, a bit worse for wear, but the seal's still intact.”

Harry cracked the yellow wax seal and unwound the striped white and yellow ribbon until the envelope fell open. Inside were two pages of fancily watermarked Muggle paper bearing a handwritten letter addressed to “Sir Harry Potter, Proprietor of Château Blackwalls.” Beneath the elaborately gilt seal of the “Praelaturæ Personalis Sanctæ Crucis et Operis Dei” (which alone filled most of the first page's top half), the letter set out a most unusual, and guarded, proposition - written in English:

It has come to our attention that you have succeeded to the Estate of the excommunicated heretic and blasphemer, Merak Black. As the first non-blood relative to exercise patrilineal primogeniture over said estate in nearly a millennium, an opening was thought appropriate. Therefore, on behalf of His Holiness, I hereby offer terms under which the reduplication of malediction shall cease, the perpetual excommunication and anathema of the Blacks shall lift, and the interdict pronounced upon all Black estates and fiefdoms shall terminate.

“What's all that mean?” Harry asked. Half of the words in the letter's first paragraph may as well have been written in Latin.

“I'm not sure, Harry,” Hermione answered. “This isn't exactly my field of interest. But from the sound of it, somebody in the Church really threw the book at Merak Black, whoever he was. I'm not sure what more they could have done to him. Do you know when he lived?”

“No idea,” Harry answered. “Do you remember him from the Black family tapestry at Grimmauld? Because I don't.”

“No, but that chart only goes back a couple of centuries,” Hermione recalled, “and Britain hasn't been Catholic for quite a bit longer than that.”

“What's being Catholic have to do with it?” Harry asked.

“Are you daft?” Hermione blurted, before she could stop herself.

“Probably, but you love me anyway,” Harry responded with a grin.

Hermione, however, was serious. “I'm sorry, Harry, but you're reading a letter concerning Catholic ecclesiastical punishments, written on Vatican-watermarked paper, sent by this Echevarría muckety-muck, on behalf of a Catholic Order powerful enough to presume to speak for the Pope himself, and you're wondering what being Catholic has to do with things? It just sort of boggles the mind.”

“Sorry, but I don't know any of this stuff,” Harry grumbled, feeling stupid. “It's not like either of us believe any of it anyway.”

Hermione responded, “That doesn't mean we should just ignore everything we don't believe. Enough other people do believe, and that means these folks might be powerful enough to help us or hurt us. Don't forget, the Church has been around forever. They, or at least some of them, know about magic. The Church was busy trying to burn witches and wizards long before there ever was an International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy.”

“So what are they trying to get me to do?” Harry asked.

“That would be the next page,” Hermione said absent-mindedly as she shuffled the pages.

As you are neither a member of the Communion, nor claim to be, His Holiness can be persuaded to dispense with the usual requirements of penitence, torment, satisfactio, and public reproof. All that need be resolved is the dispute's origin - the ancient records of Cypriot Templars, and in particular the sacrilegious “Gospel of Truth.” None of this material could be of significant value to you, particularly compared to the cessation of such a prolonged breach. Moreover, should we be incorrect, please be aware that our terms in this respect are subject to negotiation.

We await your earliest reply. If by owl post, you may address it directly to me in Rome, or if you prefer ordinary post, to Mgsr. Morrith care of Dunreath in Glasgow (we believe it to be the most proximate centre) will suffice.

Again, only your extraordinary accession to the patrimony of the Ancient House of Black enables this offer to be made, after more than six hundred years of breach.

The letter concluded with a somewhat ironic “Yours in Christ” followed by a largely illegible signature beginning with the letter “X”.

“Well, that was … unusual,” Hermione said after some thought. “Whatever else might be in play, some very high-ranking people in the Church are very interested in something called the `Gospel of Truth,' and have been for centuries, it appears. They evidently believe that it's part of your inheritance….”

“All the more reason to visit my new vault,” Harry pointed out.

“I suppose so,” Hermione agreed. “But we need to learn about this Merak Black, who, I gather, lived at least six hundred years ago….”

“Well, the other alternative is just to bin this,” Harry shrugged. “It all seems rather weird to me.”

“That's always an option,” Hermione averred. “But I don't think we should do that without a better handle on what this is all about. It might be in your vault, but it sounds more like a Muggle relic that the Blacks somehow acquired. After all, they pursued some pretty dodgy business.”

“Yeah, that's probably right,” Harry concurred. “The dodgy Muggle stuff wouldn't likely be at Gringotts - just the dodgy magical stuff.”

Hermione had already embarked on her next train of thought. “I wouldn't be surprised if those old records are at Blackwalls - and if not there, maybe at Grimmauld Place….” Hermione and Harry both blanched at that last thought.

“Whilst we're at it, maybe we should find out who this Cypriot Templars is, too, since the records they're after were originally his,” Harry suggested.

“I think that might be a `what' rather than a `who',” Hermione said with a thoughtful look. “Cypriot might refer to the island of Cyprus, and various organisations have called themselves Templars since at least the Crusades.”

“Should we even bother?” Harry asked again. “There's already more than enough on our plates.”

“I really can't say,” Hermione told him. “But why don't you ask Dumbledore the next time you have one of your sit downs with him? Perhaps he knows something about all this - and why the Roman Catholic Church and Merak Black evidently hated each other so much.”

* * * *

With most of his two free Friday morning periods consumed by his chat (and other more pleasurable activities) with Hermione, Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room shortly before lunch to finish his Potions essay on Fire Protection and Repelling potions. It was not difficult, as both he and Hermione had encountered such potions - courtesy of ex-professor Snape - as far back as First Year.

Harry completed it, but only barely. He succeeded only because he put the Muffliato Charm on himself to get some peace and quiet. A horde of chattering second and third years had returned early, and would not shut up about some bizarre magical incident that evidently cancelled the morning's Herbology lessons.

Harry refused to answer a single question during the entire double-period Potions class that afternoon. He remained incensed by the morning's false accusations, and since Professor Slughorn participated in that debacle, the portly Potions Master was on his boycott list.

His silence counted for naught, as Ron and Hermione staged another of their little duels for academic superiority. Ron's contributions were powered by the Half-Blood Prince, as the infamous Potions book was open on the desk they shared throughout the two hours. Hermione, who had taken to sitting several rows away, was an insufferable know-it-all, as usual.

Hermione then had a double period with Madame Pomfrey. Harry took advantage of the free time to hide in an unused classroom on the Castle's second storey, where he practised both elemental magic and his Animagus transformations.

Neither session went particularly well. He remained stuck in the same rut on his Animagus abilities. For over two weeks he fizzled at the same point. He could change his body, but not his head. This time, however, he encountered an additional problem. For no reason he could fathom, Harry could only squeeze out one wing at a time. If the left one emerged, the right one did not, and vice versa. Since the wings each spanned a good ten metres, that made for one very unbalanced (and human-headed) Golden Griffin.

Elemental magic was little better. He had conjured helium balloons to work with, but they remained frustratingly gaseous throughout his workout. Whilst he produced frigid whitish, pinkish, and bluish chunks of ice with relative ease, he was nowhere near the degree of cold that Hermione had indicated was necessary to generate this Bose-Einstein whatever.

After about a half-hour of failure, Harry gave up in disgust and decided to exercise his other, flashier elemental powers. That, while noisy, was altogether more satisfying.

Harry's diversion kept him busy, and by the time he glanced at the wristwatch Ginny had gotten him (which brought out a pang of regret - Ginny must be mortified about the Lust Powder), he had missed the bell denoting the end of regular classes.

Since McGonagall had effectively grounded the all the upper years of the House, Harry had very little to look forward to that evening - especially if his housemates were blaming him. At lunch he had sensed an undercurrent of reproach.

It was not to be.

Harry had barely finished closing the Fat Lady's portrait when Ron grabbed him by the arm and began virtually dragging him. “Where in blazes have you been, Harry? You're going to be late for the extra practice … and you bloody well called it….”

Harry regarded Ron as if he had gone daft. “But blinking McGonagall cancelled everything….”

“Didn't you hear the announcement?” Ron blurted, looking at Harry the same way. “She took everything back. Even said she'd made a mistake and whatchamacallit … prejudged … things. Everything's back on….”

Suddenly, Harry felt so much lighter. Professor McGonagall almost never admitted being wrong about anything, and this time she had.

Finally in good spirits, Harry jogged to the pitch with Ron - the two supposed co-captains - both late for their own extra practice.

“So, have you decided yet?” Ron returned to the favour he sought.

“Actually, yes,” Harry gave a fairly honest answer. “I've talked to Hermione. She told me you apologised. So I'll do it. After all, what are friends for?”

A happy, excited look spread over Ron's face - even lightening the bruised and puffy area around his eye. “Great!” he exclaimed. “Now let's have a kick-arse practice!”

Harry agreed wholeheartedly. He could really use a relatively peaceful period of intense physical exertion.

Things never seem to go as planned.

Instead of relaxation, Harry found himself flying into another buzz saw, in the person of one extremely aggravated Kashmiri third year.

He found Jazzy in one of her (bad) moods the moment he encountered her above the rest of their teammates on the pitch. Her performance in warm-up suicide drills was desultory. She finished several seconds behind Harry on the last leg to the opposite goal and back. But in practising dives she was just the opposite - flying every bit as recklessly as she had the first time Harry ever saw her.

Finally, he'd had enough.

“Jazzy, stop,” he barked in his best captain's voice. “What in blazes has gotten into you?”

She stopped, but scowled at him. “I could ask you the same damn thing, Potter.” She pulled out the Snitch he had given her, let it loose, and pelted after it.

“What…? Wait just a Mandrake-potting minute there….” He shot off after her. She was not really trying to stay away from him, so within moments he re-engaged. “What is going on?” he asked again.

“You know damn well what went on,” she almost shouted at him. “I told you not to do it, and you did it anyway….”

“What's gotten into everybody today, anyway?” he raised his own voice. “Did I miss the announcement? Who declared this `Let's Accuse Harry Day'?”

“Beats me,” she repeated dully. “Don't tell me you forgot already.”

“How would I know if I forgot it?” Harry retorted peevishly.

“Not here, then,” she replied, a little less malevolently. She pointed her broom skyward and drifted upwards. Harry followed. Soon they had to be scraping against the 200-metre ceiling of the Castle's wards.

She turned back to him. “I told you, with no ifs, ands, or buts, not to muck in my life. I can fight my own damn battles…. I always have. I don't need or want you as my `Great White Father' looking after me.”

Harry still looked puzzled. “Why don't you tell me what happened?”

“Don't tell me you don't know,” she hissed. “It wasn't spontaneous generation that had those two Slytherin arsewipes to be sporting burkas of their very own….”

Harry gawked. She was right. He did bear some responsibility for that - only some, but enough.

“…Right after they insulted me, it happened,” she went on. “Nobody else saw it, but me. Whatever hit them was hidden in the Mimbletonia.”

Harry could not help it - he had to smile at that one.

Jazzy saw that, too. “See! I knew you did it … damn you!”

Harry started to explain, “Jazzy, I didn't do it. That's not my field….”

“Well I sure didn't,” Jazzy cut him off. “Even Sprout let me off the hook. Far too advanced magic, she said. And it was; even Sprout couldn't finite it. If not you, then what? Put your girlfriend up to it? That must be it. `Advanced Magic' is practically her middle name!” Jazzy was shouting again.

“No…. No…. No…,” Harry repeated. “I commissioned it, though. That harassment was affecting your marks. I was afraid McGonagall would sack you from the team if nothing changed. Fred and George … er … the owners of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, they owed me a favour, so I asked them to invent a retaliatory prank. Then I asked Neville to hide it in the greenhouse when he got a chance….”

Jazzy drew her broom very close to his and pinned him with her glare. “Look, Harry, I know you meant well, but stop interfering, okay? I can look after myself. I don't need anyone or anything. I never have.”

“Nobody's an island,” Harry told her gently, refusing to rise to her bait. “I've felt the same way myself at times. I didn't have any parents either. I was wrong….” A thoughtful look crossed his face.

“Well, I'm not you,” she declared decisively. “Just … don't anymore, all right?”

“I can't promise that, but I'll consult you before I choose to do anything more,” Harry refused to give in. “By the way, what are you doing over the Christmas holiday? I can't believe you're going back to those relatives of yours after how they've treated you - and they don't celebrate Christmas, anyway.”

“Only Eid, but I wouldn't go back if they paid me,” she snarled reflexively. “Not with their takfir business. They can screw themselves. I'm staying put here…. What's it to you?”

“Umm … if you want, you can come to Blackwalls with me and Hermione. We're sort of staging an invasion, and we can use all the reinforcements we can get.”

Jazzy was pretty sharp. “You mean Blackwalls, as in Château Blackwalls - where the Potions ingredients come from?” she asked.

“Er … yeah,” Harry confirmed. “I sort of … own it now, and I don't trust the staff, since they've worked for the Malfoys for years.”

“So I heard…. I'll think about it,” she left him hanging. “Now we really should go practise.”

* * * *

For Harry, Friday night meant another D.A. meeting. But this one was different - or rather, different because it was the same way the D.A. used to be.

They were all together again. Dumbledore had finally given them permission to use the Chamber of Secrets - far and away the largest room in (or under) the Castle.

The Headmaster even graced the inaugural session with his august presence - sort of. He watched the group, now comprising almost all non-Slytherin upper year students - pass by on the downwardly rotating stairs. That probably involved password issues. The only easy access to the Chamber was down the same gargoyle-guarded stairs that led, in the opposite direction, to Dumbledore's office. Dumbledore had not foreseen that students would use the Chamber when he had the Hogwarts elves build the new passageway only two years before.

Unsurprisingly, Harry and Hermione led the procession. Not only were they the D.A.'s generally acknowledged leaders, but nobody else (save Ginny, who made herself scarce) had actually been in the Chamber before - and that had been thoroughly hushed up.

Seeing the Headmaster standing there, one of those vague, beatific smiles on his face, unsettled Harry. He was not at all sure how to act towards - or even feel about - the Headmaster. On the one hand, without at least Dumbledore's acquiescence, the investigation and the false accusation about his drugging Hermione to take advantage of her (nothing else was even remotely as insulting) could not have happened. On the other hand, Harry could not deny that the Headmaster allowed him quite a few liberties … use of the Chamber, for one.

Hermione felt Harry's hand tense in hers once he spotted Dumbledore. `Ignore him,' she Legilimenced. `That's over. Let it stay that way.'

Harry tried for a blank, unreadable expression. Hopefully, he would not have to speak to Dumbledore on this occasion. Things were still too raw.

It was not to be. As Harry passed by, Dumbledore told him in a half-whisper that “all had been secured,” and that he need not worry about the Chamber's condition. At that comment, Hermione threw a questioning glance Harry's way. He had a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face….

…That is, until his Harry's mouth went round in comprehension.

The Headmaster had just alluded to the hiding place of his parents' bodies. “Thanks,” he muttered.

Hermione, not knowing what had passed, made a mental note to ask Harry about the exchange when they were alone together.

The Chamber of Secrets required a long descent. For almost two minutes, the spiral staircase augured into the rock that underlay the Castle, carrying the students, in single file, ever farther downward. Bringing up the rear were Ron and Cho - who was still doing everything in her power to avoid Hermione. Just in front of them was Luna, humming absent-mindedly and tapping her wand on each layer of stonework lining the walls.

At the entrance to the Chamber, the arriving D.A. members could not help gawking. Necks craning, they clumped near the entrance, blocking those behind.

“Oi, up there,” Ron shouted from the rear. “Budge up, will you?” The crowd had backed up all the way to the stairs, forcing Ron and Cho to hop as descending steps disappeared underfoot. The only alternative would have placed Ron a lot closer to Luna than he wanted.

Eventually everyone filed in. Except for Harry and Hermione, the massive room was a new, overpowering, and somewhat unsettling experience. It was solid stone - hewn from solid rock - almost two hundred metres long and not quite half that across. Massive columns rose walls every dozen metres or so. They soared upwards, buttressing the walls, until disappearing into the unfathomable gloom that masked the ceiling. The magical lighting, although adequate, was set considerably lower than Harry's last visit to the Chamber with the goblin rendering crew.

Even though the Hogwarts house elves had removed centuries of dirt, grime, small animal bones, and other assorted detritus, the room still looked forbidding and half abandoned. On the walls, above the bottom five metres or so that the elves had cleaned, water streaks and nascent stalactites broke through layers of what looked like slimy black fungus. The entire place had a distinctly musty odour to it.

Nor was this the Room of Requirement. Anything the D.A. required had to be brought in. Hermione had had the foresight to coax some rudimentary furnishings from the house elves. Thus, a few tables and chairs, and a bookcase containing used copies of upper level DADA textbooks, stood in the middle of the massive space. The vastness of the Chamber made everything and everyone in it - save the colossal statute of Salazar Slytherin - look small.

Harry and Hermione stood together in front of a table that they intended to use as a platform, waiting for everyone to wander towards them.

“So how do you want to kick things off?” Hermione asked him.

“Did you finish disorientation spells in your section?” Harry answered with a question.

“Of course,” she sniffed, assuming a faux haughty air. “If we followed the Aurors' order, I believe restraint spells would be next.”

“I suppose,” Harry reacted noncommittally. “That is, unless you fancy another go at me.”

“Not on your life, Potter,” his fiancée shot back. “From now on, my goes at you are strictly private. I don't fancy doing that ever again…. Nor am I inclined to risk you bringing this place down about everyone's ears.”

“Restraint spells, it is then,” Harry agreed as he leapt atop the table. Hermione followed.

Harry cleared his voice to address the D.A. Then his countenance turned perplexed. `Where's Ginny?' he asked Hermione telepathically.

`Good question,' she answered in the same manner. `You don't suppose she dropped out, do you? We may have been rather insensitive. You know what happened to her here….'

* * * *

At that moment, the answer to Harry's question lay an indeterminate number of metres above the assembled D.A.

Draco Malfoy hummed contentedly as he puttered about the Potions dungeon double-checking that every piece of the apparatus was properly connected and charmed. Despite a few close calls, things again were proceeding better than expected. He had absorbed the recent odd twist to his mission in stride. The Weasley girl's amenability to his suggestions continued … even if her methods left something to be desired….

“Malfoy,” she complained as he turned to face her. “Why the hell did you schedule a session for this of all evenings…?”

Had he presumed too much?

“All the detentions didn't leave me much choice…. You'd rather me schedule a conflict with one of your Quidditch practices?” he drawled sarcastically. “I could, you know…. Peer tutor's privilege.”

“Seven of one, the most magical number of the other. Either way, I'd be missed,” she shot back. “People are going to start wondering, and you want this secret as much as I do.”

Draco dismissed that with a wave of his hand. “Let them wonder. Remember jealousy? Your troll of a brother couldn't restrain himself simply at the sight of us dancing at the ball.” He reflexively rubbed his right shoulder. It had taken the brunt of Ron's first punch the night before.

“Well, your restraint wasn't much either,” she told him coldly. “If you'd only laid off the magic, you wouldn't have all those detentions.”

“Wasn't my damn doing,” Draco continued, his lingering resentment stirring. “That damn Amazon of his started it. I only defended myself.”

“Bloody damn bitch….”

Despite unabated curiosity over the unnamed item Ginny had promised to show to him, Draco now exhibited considerable restraint. He wanted more of a buy-in from the Weasley girl - that she raise the matter first. That way would be easier on all concerned.

So he had Ginny brew a succession of fourth and fifth year potions. None was particularly simple, but their complexity was from technique rather than number of ingredients or brewing time. She was finishing a Clearing Concoction that could turn any wet non-magical surface transparent, when she could stand it no longer.

“How much more time do we have?” she asked impatiently. “You do remember that I want to show you something.”

Draco pursed his lips. “Yeah, come to think of it, I do recall you being cagy about something the other night,” he fibbed. “We've got about twenty minutes left. Then you can go find your bleeding D.A. if you're still game.”

“You'll have to tell me if that's enough,” she hissed whilst removing what seemed to be a piece of Hogwarts silverware from a robe pocket. “A priori,” she incanted and the spoon became three moderately sized pieces of parchment bearing both printing and handwriting.

“Well, you certainly don't need help in Transfiguration,” Draco commented.

“I'm not stupid - like my brother,” Ginny snipped.

“Agreed … on both counts,” Draco concurred, not wanting another argument to delay things. “So what's this, anyway?”

“These notes claim it's a recipe for the best Love Potion ever brewed,” Ginny revealed. “Supposedly, it's both personalised and undetectable….”

“Let me see that,” Draco demanded. He was all business, now that a mystery potion had surfaced.

With a flourish, Ginny deposited the parchments in Draco's outstretched hand.

Before reading the first word, Draco already struggled to keep a straight face.

Before reading the first word, Draco already knew, whatever this potion was, it would perform exactly as described.

Draco did not need to read anything to know this.

He recognised the handwriting - that was enough.

Of the three pages, one looked to have been copied from a book, lacking the jagged edges a torn out page would have. The other two pages were completely handwritten, over an area exactly the same size as the first. They were probably copies of notes made on blank pages from the beginning or end of a book. He turned the printed page over.

“This is from The Joy of Potions,” Draco could tell from a line at the very top of the page. “What are you doing with a sixth-year textbook…? Wait a minute….”

Draco examined the two printed pages carefully. “This is from your effing brother's book, isn't it? These notes…. That's how he's become a bloody Potions expert all of a sudden when before he couldn't spell `bezoar' if you spotted him the `be' and the `zo.' The bastard….”

“Wait!” Ginny cried. “You can't tell anyone. He could get expelled….”

“Charming thought,” Draco savoured. “I can hardly wait.”

This time Ginny positively screamed. “You can't!!” She aimed her wand at him just like that night the Gryffindors disarmed the Slytherins in Umbridge's office. “I'll Obliviate you if you don't promise to keep this secret!”

“Hah, like you know how,” he sneered, before suddenly stopping himself. Her inexperience was not necessarily a good thing.

“Like that matters,” she shouted back at him. “If I screw it up, so much the worse for you.”

“Now, now, now….”

The unexpected sound of Mr. Filch's characteristically scratchy voice prompted them to whirl around. They looked guiltily at the caretaker's unkempt hair, his sunken eyes, and his scraggly two-day-old whiskers and yellowish teeth.

“So much yelling it could have raised the dead,” Mr. Filch continued. “And just what's the problem? I ought turn you both in. Why Slytherin and Gryffindor in the….”

“I'm sorry, Mister Filch,” Draco hastily recovered. “And I'm sure Miss Weasley is as well. She asked me for help with Potions. As you know, Professor Slughorn has made this room available for peer tutoring….”

“Don't know nothing about that…,” the caretaker responded suspiciously, his eyes flicking around the room.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ginny saw Draco point his wand, was hidden from the Squib's view, at a chalice of Bulbadox powder in solution. The chalice floated downward until reaching the. Then it noiselessly tipped over and spilt most of its contents.

“…We were brewing a cure for boils so I could watch her technique….”

Draco gave his wand a slight jerk, and the remaining solution splashed all over his left foot and leg. Then he gently set the chalice on its side.

“…I've probably got boils all over my foot and leg by now.” Draco lifted the bottom of his robes, dripping with dark orange liquid, and showed them to Mr. Filch. He continued, sounding impressively apologetic. “Unfortunately, I got angry and said some things I shouldn't, and Miss Weasley, who isn't any squib - oops, sorry - in that department, did the same. We're almost done. I'll just go clean myself up, then and we'll finish. There'll be no more shouting, I promise.”

Mr. Filch's lips formed a self-satisfied grin as Draco described his predicament. “Well, I suppose you'd best clean that off … thoroughly, you understand. I don't want anything left to trouble myself with, all right? And if that's a velvet or silk robe, you'd best be quick about it. If left to dry, it'll ruin them. Even house-elves won't be able to mend it.” Mr. Filch turned to Ginny, and demanded, “And no more unpleasantness from you as well, is that clear?”

“Absolutely, Mister Filch,” Ginny simpered.

Mr. Filch turned away, shut the door, and was gone.

“Arsewipe squib,” Draco muttered, as Ginny made a very rude hand gesture in Mr. Filch's former direction.

Draco immediately Summoned a full cauldron of water. With Ginny's help he cleaned his dripping robes without risking any more of his body with the nasty boils that had erupted in the affected locations.

“Your bloody secret's safe with me,” Draco grumbled as he set to Healing the boils one by one. Each boil made a soft hiss as it disappeared and emitted a puff of orange smoke. The process was evidently painful. “If I'd wanted to expose your tosser of a brother … ow … all I had to do was hand your little secret over to … ow … Filch right then. The git would be out …ow … of here tomorrow for academic … ow … misconduct. You owe me one … ow … Weasley, and so does your … ow … brother.”

“Thank you, Draco,” Ginny said genuinely. “If I can, I'll help you out some day.”

“I'll keep that in … ow … mind,” Draco said, looking glum. “And don't worry; this isn't where the big bad Slytherin comes on to the helpless Gryffindor damsel. I know bloody well you're saving yourself for….”

“Just so you don't get any ideas,” Ginny replied, in a falsely light tone, “this Gryffindor girl isn't anybody's helpless damsel.”

Draco looked up from his boil removing and saw Ginny pointing her wand right between his eyes.

“Point taken,” he shrugged. “Although like I said, I've … ow … never been after that.”

“So how is it, then?” she asked the Slytherin.

“Not that bad,” Draco answered. “Just a few more to go. Ow. Hopefully none where I'd have to ask you to turn away….”

“I didn't mean that, I meant this potion,” Ginny rolled her eyes.

Draco regathered the three sheets. When Mister Filch interrupted, he had dropped them to the floor even before turning around. This time he examined them closely. The rest of his boils had vanished by the time he had finished.

“This is very complicated,” he observed as he looked through the instructions. “I thought it was impossible to manufacture love, but from the looks of this, I'd say one can get a damn sight closer than I thought possible. Some of the ingredients - the unicorn liver, and the dragon blood, are rather rare. His birthstone…. What's the git's birthday?”

“31 July,” Ginny told him. “And don't call him a git.”

“Ouch,” Draco replied. “That means we have to add powdered ruby, which can be extremely dear. A day later and it would have been much cheaper.”

“I've got money from my reward for helping capture your father, among others,” Ginny replied flatly.

“Don't worry about it - yet. Let me see what I can do,” Draco replied, repressing everything that might start another shouting match and bring Filch back.

“Anything else?” Ginny asked.

“Didn't you read this yourself?” Draco retorted, still somewhat annoyed at her reference to his father.

“Only the notes on the first page,” Ginny admitted. “The rest of it, well, I knew this was well beyond anything I could do.” She sought to flatter him without seeming obvious.

Draco continued reading. “I'd have to get a stainless steel cauldron and a natural loadstone weighing at least half a kilo. This other stuff…. I don't even know what this `Oxytocin' is…. These notes suggest something Muggle. And, the Ashwinder eggs have to be diluted three times in ammonia solution so that they won't set the whole thing on fire, or so this says. Whoever put this together went to a great deal of trouble,” he remarked, knowing exactly who the “whoever” was. “Oh, no….”

“What!” Ginny yelped. “What now!”

“Quiet,” Draco hissed. “You don't want Filch to come back.”

“Well, what is it?” Ginny whispered.

“The Ashwinder part of this potion can only be added to the rest during the first new moon after the winter solstice,” Draco reported. He reached into his robes and pulled out a pocket lunar table. “That'll be 2 January, next year.”

“So will it be ready then?” Ginny asked hopefully.

“Afraid not,” Draco told her. “After that, you have to personalise it, with … umm … something intimate of yours and something intimate of his…. That's your job, Reds. I'm not touching that one with a ten metre wand….”

“I'll see what I can do,” Ginny replied thoughtfully. “I don't know if he's coming to the Burrow this Christmas. Ron and Hermione have had something of a falling out, and Harry probably won't come as long as Ron's hostile…. How intimate is intimate?”

“Not sure. It doesn't say,” Draco answered vaguely. “I'll leave it to you, but I suspect the more intimate, the better. Once that's done, then it has to steep for two weeks….”

“So we're talking about mid-January now?” Ginny persisted.

“That's the earliest it could possibly be used,” Draco informed her. “After that, the longer you keep it close to you, the stronger it gets. The notes recommend a couple additional weeks if a rival's involved. Beyond that, effectiveness depends upon a number of considerations….”

“Such as her, isn't it,” Ginny scowled at the thought.

“Not exactly,” Draco cautioned. “One variable is how intimately it's kept - I assume I don't need to go into any details….”

“Nope,” she waved that one off. “I've had boyfriends before. I know what boys want.”

Draco shrugged. “All right, then. Also, given what else is going on, the potion must overcome whatever feelings he has for She Who Must Not Be Named. You tell me. How close do you think the two of them are?”

“Really close,” Ginny groaned. “I suppose I'm looking at least a month wearing the damn stuff like a bloody - nope, not exactly the right word - sanitary towel.”

Draco gave her a sly look. “No tampons yet, then?”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” she hissed, pointing her wand at his “family jewels.”

“Oh, spare me,” Draco groaned. “You started it, not me.”

“But you don't know when to stop,” Ginny complained, lowering her wand. “I doubt you have any idea what I'm up against.”

“Nor the slightest interest in finding out,” Draco responded, back on message. Beneath his robes, he touched his wand to the talisman. “Is this what you want to do? It's fiendishly complex, but if you do it right, it should work like a charm. It lasts for days between doses. There's no real antidote, save a full confession. It's colourless and odourless. It's specific to the both of you, and affects nobody else. It works as a liquid, a dust, or a mist. You don't even have to be present when he gets what's coming to him.”

“And the only real weakness is proximity, so as long as you stay close to him, you're golden.”

Come on, work with me, now…. He saw the momentary flash.

“Yes, this is what I want to do.”

* * * *

The pain and the pleasure…. They had long since merged and become one - a burning red fog that surrounded and infused the Dark witch's brain. She lay face down on the black satin sheets, her nude body covered with bloody streaks. It had just ended. Her blood oozed from every orifice, mixing with what he had left there.

All in all, she had never felt better in her life.

Even though there would be no more Cruciatus Curses that evening, Bellatrix Lestrange was, to the extent she could think at all, euphoric.

Her Master was back - all the way back.

And she could claim some credit for that. Probably a great deal, although he would never admit it.

“Yes, Bella, I believe I am ready,” the Dark Lord hissed, his reptilian voice betraying an exultant tone. He spoke with the same nearly nonexistent lips and the same quite existent tongue that had only a short time before been used on her.

She felt the mattress spring upwards as he stood. She heard the soft clicking sound and felt restraints fall away from her wrists and ankles at the command of the Dark Lord's wandless magic. She almost laughed at the bad pun that flashed through her still thoroughly addled mind … about how good he was with his wand, too.

She would not kill Snape after all - not for a while, anyway. His potions had their uses.

“I shall be able now to consummate this relationship … carry out my chore,” the Dark Lord carried on as he strutted about, still in the altogether, “and then I shall have the army that I need…. The army necessitated by our unfortunate failure on the Ides of July….”

“My Lord, I apoligise again for my more recent failure,” she grunted. “I have been rightly and justly punished.”

“Consider it over,” Lord Voldemort dismissed her apology. He pointed his wand at himself, “Scourgify…. Whilst the premature discovery prevented us from learning everything we had hoped about the enemy's deployment schemes, we learnt enough. That, and information just received from our allies - and soon to be partners - has already proven valuable. I can now set the date for the ceremony….”

The dark witch could not conceal her distaste for what would happen at that ceremony.

“…Bella, I know that expression. Do not think of it that way,” the Dark Lord hissed. For once, his words did not carry the intonation of a command.

“But that pathetic little wog bitch, she doesn't deserve you,” Lestrange hissed. “She has no will of her own. She has to be driven….”

“It doesn't matter,” the Dark Lord countered. “And you shall be rewarded as well - because the consequences of your failure shall serve the greater goal of our ultimate success!”

“A reward, Master, you are too kind to me,” Lestrange murmured submissively as she began healing some of the cuts and bruises that were the souvenirs of their activities.

“They will all be watching the Mudblood now,” the Dark Lord declared, “and him of course. Which only makes our task easier. While they guard the sine - and the cosine - we shall strike at the tangent…. And when it is over, you shall have him…, what's left.”

Bella stared at her master in shock. “A second one, My Lord? You are too good to me.”

“I know what I must do to seal the partnership. I know how that makes you feel,” Voldemort responded. “Any woman would feel that way. Consider it your recompense.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Harry will eventually live this dream

Ask/smell plays on the US military's “Don't ask, don't tell” policy

The timing of Cho's invitation becomes important

Hermione's we're too young line is from Chapter 46

Actually, Ginny might have been the last person to drink the punch and not encounter Lust Powder

A star nosed mole has to rank worse than a ferret

Harry was fingerprinted in Chapter 5

The Twins' promise occurred in Chapter 22

There's a Weasley Twin prank, but not what McGonagall thought it was

The same Veritaserum confirming spell was performed upon Hermione in Chapter 31

Harry tells what he believes is the truth, but in fact it's not true

Abominable No Woman is a play on Abominable Snowman

Hermione is altogether too charitable towards Ginny

Hold me against you is an old joke

The discussion of freezing helium is accurate

My big stereo has Bose speakers. The two Boses are not related

Bose-Einstein condensate exists, and has the attributes stated

The underwater training took place in Chapter 13, and the discussion of AK in Chapter 5

White and yellow are Vatican colors

The name of the Catholic organization is accurate, as are the names of the individuals and the locations in the letter (although possibly not as of 1996)

Merak is one of the Big Dipper (“Plough” to you Brits) pointer stars to the North Star (Polaris). It's the one farther away

The religious punishments are all real. They did throw the book at him

Templar religious orders go back many centuries.

Cyprus and the Templars go way back, and have a connection to Britain through Richard Lionheart

The Gospel of Truth will come into play later. It's mostly a Seventh Year issue

Suicide drills are a form of conditioning that involve running to one point, turning around and running back to the starting point, and then repeating the process with a number of points, each further from the start than the last. Quidditch players do the same thing on brooms

Spontaneous generation is an outmoded biological concept that “lower” forms of life appeared spontaneously from non-living material. This was most famously disproved by Pasteur

Eid is a Muslim holiday somewhat equivalent to Christmas, at least in terms of gift giving. In 1996-97 (1417, by the Islamic calendar), it occurred in February

Takfir is an Arabic term for accusing someone of apostasy

After Second Year, the Chamber of Secrets just sort of disappeared, until it reemerged (in surprisingly slapdash fashion) in Book 7. I always thought that something that impressive, after being discovered, would be used more

The bezoar joke about Ron, is normally told using “cat”

Bulbadox Powder is canon

Ruby is the birthstone for July. If Harry had been born a day later, his birthstone would have been peridot

A loadstone is a magnet; that will be important

Oxytocin is a human hormone. It brings on contractions in childbirth. It is also associated with lust, love, and monogamy in various experiments

Draco's tampon comment is a snarky reference to Ginny being a virgin

59

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 4/24/2012

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59. Quidditch Is Not A Cure All

Wherein Harry justifies Hermione's high opinion of him, the pair has a chat with Fleur, deal with pre-game hijinks, Harry makes a deal with Ron, Gryffindor swamps Slytherin, Harry is injured in an unfortunate post-game incident, and Hermione tries to make him feel better.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

We Are The Champions, Queen: Lyrics © 1977, F. Mercury; Why Is There Air? © 1964, W Cosby

Chapter 59 - Quidditch Is Not A Cure-All

He could not keep it up much longer - due to griffin Animagus training, if nothing else - but for now, Harry still maintained the façade of being angry with Professor McGonagall. Despite her tacit admission of error by restoring the entire House's privileges, she had not apologised personally to him or (as far as he knew) to Hermione for entertaining the suspicion that he, Harry, had tried to drug her, Hermione, into having sex.

The very idea still grated.

It was lunchtime. Harry occupied his usual spot in the middle of the Gryffindor table, fresh from a mostly free morning spent in the Room of Requirement practising rather strenuously for the afternoon's double period DADA. Hermione sat next to him, meaning that Ron was at the Ravenclaw table with Cho.

Hermione was finishing a round of cheese and pickle sandwiches, while Harry, having polished off a helping of cold meat and potato pie, reloaded with pineapple-topped honey-glazed gammon steak.

Professor McGonagall presided at the high table.

Harry was asking Dean Thomas to pass the pepper pot when he noticed his Head of House summon Colin Creevey. During their brief conversation Colin received some sort of envelope.

Harry had gone back to consuming the last couple of slices of his glazed ham, when he felt Colin tap him on the shoulder. “Got some post for you,” the boy informed him.

“Okay,” Harry muttered absently as he took the envelope.

“Oh, and by the way, we received word from China the other day,” Colin whispered in Harry's ear. “We'll beat the deadline we set for ourselves. First deliveries start sometime just after Christmas - we thought you'd want us to begin with the Order and the Aurors, so we are.”

“That's great, Colin,” Harry told the boy. “Who knows where this all might lead?”

“Anyway, since you staked us, we thought you should know,” Colin finished as he departed.

“Congratulations, Colin,” Harry called after him. “And tell Dennis the same.”

Harry returned his attention, such as it was, to the envelope he had just received. It was quite different from the usual post - it had not been carried by owl, or any other bird.

The letter had stamps on it.

“What the hell?” Harry muttered as he examined the letter more closely. The address started out typewritten, to him care of “Mrs. A. Figg,” but that bit had been crossed out. Underneath it somebody (maybe Mrs. Figg) had handwritten “H.S.o.W&W” and beneath that “London” with some postcode that he did not recognise - “SW1A 9 3/4AA.”

Harry showed it to Hermione, who had already started looking over his shoulder. “What do you make of…?”

Hermione interrupted immediately. “When did you start getting post through the Mah Moo Mee?”

At least he thought that was what she said.

“Pardon?”

Hermione broke it down for him. “That postcode … it's the number for the Magical-Muggle Mail Exchange, or MaMuME for short. That's how I've exchanged letters with my parents since I started here. I wonder who'd be writing to you through Muggle means…?”

“Well let's find out,” Harry replied as he ripped the letter open. “Umm … it's from Dudley….”

In five plus years at Hogwarts, Harry's communication with the Dursleys had been virtually nonexistent - and what little mail came from them, he had always received pre-opened.

But now that changed. Although Uncle Vernon had not been seriously injured in the recent Death Eater attack (no other casualties had mentioned, either), a large portion of the building that housed the Grunnings executive offices had been destroyed. The Obliviators had done their usual tidy job and modified the memories of every witness to the attack. The damage was attributed to their reliable standby, a “gas explosion.”

Only Dudley did not believe it. In a very roundabout way Dudley let Harry know that he suspected Death Eaters.

“Your cousin's rather cleverer than I would have thought,” Hermione commented upon reading the letter, “judging from what little I've seen, anyway.”

“Dudley's not dumb,” Harry responded.

“Oh, come on,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “He wants to be a boxer for heaven's sake.”

“Granted, boxing isn't exactly a career you'd choose - or me,” Harry conceded, “but even if he's a few bricks shy of a load, he deserves better than to be thrown to the Deaters once I turn seventeen. And he knows something's going to happen…. Look in his letter. He says he's `concerned about next July.' He knows something's up.”

“Well, what is going to happen?” Hermione asked earnestly. “You've told me some sort of blood protection kept you safe from Voldemort whilst you were with your relatives. But when you come of age, you're on your own…. Is anyone sparing a thought for the others…?”

“Dunno. Dudley's okay, though,” Harry commented listlessly. “I'll write him back. Tell him he's right. The Deaters can have the other two.”

“You don't really mean that, do you, Harry?” Hermione asked in that hushed voice she used when trying to cajole Harry into doing the right thing. “I mean, you've never thrown anyone to the wolves. It's not how you are….”

“That fat bastard beat me whenever he could. Humiliated me…. And he had the nerve to try sucking up when he found out that I wasn't the penniless little brat he thought,” Harry muttered. “And for all those years, she let him - when I was her sister's son….”

“But … but Dudley lives with them,” Hermione reminded him. “You can't very well help him without helping his parents.”

Harry paused. He sat there staring into space. Hermione let him be.

He was making up his mind, and she knew it. When push really came to shove, he rarely disappointed her. That was why, for one thing, she was wearing his ring on her left hand.

He did not disappoint this time either.

“All right,” Harry grumbled as he shook his head. “I'll talk to Dumbledore about it. I must be daft….”

“You're not daft,” Hermione said with an understated smile on her face. “You're being yourself. You really do try to save everyone you can.”

* * * *

Hermione thought it fortunate indeed that hers and Harry's Arithmancy classes were held in adjacent classrooms. As a practical matter Professor Vector was able to teach both classes - her N.E.W.T-level Analytic Arithmancy & Numerology seminar and his non-N.E.W.T. Arithmancy for Poets elective - simultaneously by passing back and forth through the two classrooms' shared internal doorway.

It was better than Binns going through the wall.

For now, though, contiguity was a good thing because she could keep an eye on Harry. They had an appointment during the free period after class, and Hermione was determined to ensure that Harry kept it.

They would finally talk to Fleur about her mysterious off-hand comments about sex affecting magic - that the act could amplify at least certain spells. However much Fleur's mere existence often sufficed to make Hermione feel inadequate in such matters, she had nevertheless agitated for this meeting.

She did for one simple reason. Hermione was sick and tired of having to hold back during sex - to time things so they never climaxed together. If some new sort of magic had to be mastered, then by Merlin she was the woman to master it.

For his part Harry, would have been plenty chuffed simply to sneak out and skive off the whole thing. He did not want to talk to Fleur about sex….

Hence the value - to Hermione - of the adjacent classrooms. Harry would find it very difficult to escape.

More like impossible.

Thus they were soon off to meet the visiting Charms intern in her tiny hole in the wall that passed for an office.

Harry remembered vividly what transpired his last time there. With Hermione present, at least that would not happen again.

At Hermione's insistence, Harry knocked.

“Entrez, s'il vous plaît.”

At Harry's insistence, Hermione entered first.

Fleur was casually dressed, or at least as “casual” as the term could ever be applied to the quarter-Veela's wardrobe. She had on her old sky blue Beauxbatons robes. Hermione acidly noticed that, whilst the French witch had “filled out some,” she seemed not to have altered her robes.

`If she thinks this could ever become a threesome,' Hermione told herself, `she's got another think coming,'

`What was that?' Harry Legilimenced back, sounding startled.

Hermione had intended that comment to be private. But Legilimenced communication had become entirely too second-nature.

`Nothing,' she thought back to Harry. Then, with a broader smile than the circumstances warranted, she quickly and precisely said to Fleur, “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us today. Given our relationship, thought it best to pursue the comments you've made about how sexual activity enhances magic.”

There … she made the inquiry sound academic. In that way, she had gotten it out without embarrassing herself - much.

“Oh, really?” Fleur responded suspiciously, “and just what would zose `ave been?”

Harry responded. “Umm … when we … that is, you and I … last spoke right here in your office. Don't you remember? And then at Slughorn's party….”

“I'm not sure zat I know what you're speaking of,” she said hesitantly. “Zeengs n'est what zey once were.”

Hermione thought she knew the reason for Fleur's reluctance. “Fleur, I know that everything involving … umm … well, especially now that everything between Beauxbatons and Hogwarts is being watched more … carefully … after what happened at the end of the ball. But we're not here to trap you or anything like that. Those same people … you must know, accused Harry of trying to drug me. We're not party to any inquest, official or not. We want to know what you meant because, well, we've been having problems….”

“Zen you are not `ere trying to send me back to France?” Fleur asked, seeming marginally friendlier. “Zee zuspeesion eez eentense, now zat `Arry eez not zee scapegoat … eespecially about zee Lust Powder. `Arry, you know zat I weesh to `elp you, zo I weel do my best to answer your questions.”

She looked at Harry with a tragic expression. Harry started feeling warm, like before, except this time it had nothing to do with her Veela powers. “Umm … thanks, Fleur….”

“Actually, they're as much if not more my questions,” Hermione interjected rather stiffly.

“Oui, and zey would be, would zey not?” Fleur responded to the girl whom she now accepted - grudgingly, but genuinely - as having won Harry's heart. “Don't worry `Ermione, you `ave nozzing to fear from moi. More zan anyzeeng, I weesh to see zee Dark Lord defeated. I `ave concluded some time ago zat `Arry ees key to zees. You are what `e wants, pas moi. I cannot truzfully deny zat I am eentrested in `Arry as a man, but I weel never act on zat as long as you two are togezzer. You can trust moi on zat, `Ermione.”

Hermione had not expected Fleur - or any woman, for that matter - to be so frank about … well, about Harry. She thus had a somewhat unexpected choice. She made it quickly and decisively.

“I trust you, Fleur,” she declared. “So what can you tell us about sexual amplification of magic? I think that's what you were talking about….”

Fleur had a ready answer. “Magic and sex, well zey go togezzer and yet zey do not. Using magic during sex happens all zee time, but zee results are … unpredictable because of zee powerful emotions. For example … and zee examples are many … magic during sex leads to excess. Such as weeshing for zee rose petals and zen sweeming in zem - or weeshing for mirrors and `aving zee entire room Transfigured. Or zere was one particularly unfortunate example I remember weez someone who weeshed for zee romantic candlelight….”

Both Harry and Hermione winced at the thought. Harry spoke first. “Hermione, is that what happened with you that time - what with the mirrors and all…?”

Hermione's face started flushing immediately. She had not intended to disclose details of that nature. She had wanted this conversation to focus more on amplification and on solving the major problem they had with synchronicity.

“No, Harry,” she finally mustered a response. “That was before we really got started, remember? You wanted to see me, so I conjured all those mirrors intentionally.”

“Well … that tout sounds razzer interesent, but not somezeeng you'd need to talk to moi about,” Fleur observed with an ever so slight touch of sarcasm in her voice.

With effort Hermione kept from rolling her eyes. “Actually, I'm more interested in the extent to which … er … lovemaking can amplify lovers' magic if they try to do something together….”

Now Fleur was intrigued. “You mean while in zee act itself?”

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed.

“Yes … eet `appens,” Fleur told them. “Eet can be très … extremely powerful, but also extremely erratic. People `ave died because of zees….”

“What?” Harry blurted, the surprise evident in his voice

“Oh, dear!” Hermione exclaimed, sounding even more shocked. “What did we almost do to ourselves?”

“Non, non,” Fleur spoke in calming tones, “not like zat. Eet ees usually directed outwards - I `ave never `erd of any couple keeling each ozzer. Zee problems, zey `ave arisen mostly when lovers `ave been surprised - usually een eencreemeenating seetuations…. A French Minister of Magic died zat way a leetle more zan a `undred years ago.”

“Please explain, then, because this could be serious,” Hermione requested, “Harry and I….”

“I don't want to do anything that would hurt Hermione,” Harry broke in. “I'd sooner give up … er … sex altogether….”

“Non, non, non,” Fleur reverted to her calming voice. “Zee Minister Laignel, `ees demise was teepical. `E suspected `ees wife of being unfaizful. Unfortunately, `e was correct. `E caught zem een zee act. Boz zee wife and `er lover shot Stunners at `eem while steell coupling. Zey `eet zee minister weez such force zat `e died instantly.”

“That's terrible,” Hermione commented.

“Yes, zey were to be put on trial for zeir lives,” Fleur continued, “but an eenspection of zeir wands confirmed zat zere story about only using Stunners was true. Zee ceercumstances confirmed what `ad `appened. Eet was not somezeeng zat zee Ministry wanted to be public, so zere was an agreed upon reduced sentence of ten years each een zee Bastille. So you see….”

“But I thought the Bastille was destroyed more than two hundred years ago,” Hermione interrupted.

“Well, zee Muggles zeenk so,” Fleur answered, “and I suppose you `aven't `ad French `Eestory of Magic. We - zee French wizard community - took advantage of zee confusion to make zee Bastille unplottable. We needed a better preeson ourselves.”

“Umm … actually, we're also interested in … er … what happens when we both … well, you know…. We've had problems when we've each tried hard to, well; get the other to … umm … that, at the same time.” When he finished, Harry wondered whether Fleur would even be able to understand what he had asked.

She had.

“You are no longer talking about seenergy zen, but `armony,” Fleur replied directly.

“What's … what about synergy?” Harry asked. “You mean like when two times two equals more than four?”

“Yes,” Hermione broke in to answer Harry's question. “Sometimes a whole lot more than four. But what do you mean by harmony?” she asked Fleur.

“You're right about zee seenergy,” Fleur began explaining. “Zat ees zee two lovers casting zee same spell at zee same time and doing eet weez more power zan eizzer of zem could muster apart. `Armony ees somewhat deefferent. I assume what you mean ees trying to pleasure `er to climax while she ees doing zee same to you?”

Fleur's question elicited agreement from both of them.

“Yes, exactly.”

“Umm … yeah.”

“Zat ees `armony, zen,” Fleur continued, “when zee both of you are doing related but not identical zeengs. Depending upon zee power of zee couple and zee strengz and nature of zere feelings for each ozzer, zee spontaneous magic zat zee `armonious actions produces can be substantial. Ees zees what's brought you here?”

“That's exactly it,” Harry answered quickly. “Does this spontaneous magic show up as pink?”

Hermione did not respond immediately. Rather, she sat there chewing reflexively on her lower lip and looking thoughtful. Fleur noticed.

“`Ermione?” the French witch prompted.

“Yes, that … and something else, too,” Harry's fiancée finally responded.

“Zee most common `armonic colour ees red, wheech eendicates lust,” Fleur answered. “Peenk ees zee colour for love razzer zan lust - alzough zey can combine een almost any shade.”

Since Fleur's information was proving quite useful, Hermione got to the point. “We … well we had something of an accident with it once … er … in the situation Harry described earlier…. Since then we've tried to avoid, well, simultaneous climaxes, actually.”

Fleur remembered something odd she had seen not too long before. “Accident, you say…. Zat ees unusual. Zee `armony, eet ees usually leetle more zan an annoyance at worst - and a useful eendicator of true feelings at best. I find eet `ard to believe zat somezeeng like zat could have scared eezzer of you. What `appened?”

Both of them started speaking at once.

“Well, it was my first time, and I really wanted….”

“I was on top and to block out … well that was because….”

“Sorry, after you….”

“No, why don't you tell it…?”

Finally, Harry seemed the less embarrassed of the two, so he explained what happened. “Hermione was awesome. I could see and feel her. I was holding back as much as I could, for her. There was this pink glow, and it got brighter and brighter. I ignored it … better things to do. I guess we both did. Then, I couldn't hold myself any longer, and neither could she. Almost immediately, there was this loud crash. Hermione's Mirror Charm … we told you about that … failed somehow. The pink glow went away almost immediately. We didn't realise it until a little later, because … well, you know, I'm sure. But whatever we'd done not only wrecked her charm, but blew out a window and a goblin-charmed grating that protected it.”

Fleur seemed almost awed by the description. “Comment…? Oh, my! You - you broke zee charm, and zee magic, eet was directed een … een a parteecular direction?”

“Yes,” confirmed Hermione, who had been silent throughout Harry's description. “I could see it better, I think. The pink glow seemed to swirl, probably because it was reflecting off all the mirrors. It got brighter and more intense until finally - when Harry stopped trying to be all so noble about things - it broke through what must have been the weak point in the charm and shot out the window…. I'm very worried about it happening again, if only because it calls attention to us.”

“You - you are très lucky,” Fleur told the couple. “Weez zee `elp of zee mirrors, and zee power of your magic and feelings for each ozzer, I believe you managed to seenchronise zee magic of zee mutual peak…. You created what ees called zee `Armonic Convergence.”

“Isn't that some sort of Muggle færie story?” Hermione asked.

“I know nozzing of zee Muggles, but een zee annals of wizard sexual practices, anyzeeng zat results in zee seenchronicity of zee spontaneous magic produced by `armoneeous love making ees called zee `Armonic Convergence.”

“How can we keep it from happening again … at least when we don't want it too?” Harry asked.

Fleur thought a bit. “I zeenk eet was zee mirrors zat eemposed external convergence,” she offered. “Unless you ultimately decide to meex your magic and seek eenternal convergence - somezeeng not to be tried unless married, avoidance of zee mirrors should keep eet from recurring.”

Both Harry and Hermione sighed in relief. At least they would not have to keep taking turns - which was not nearly as romantic as doing everything together.

“Merci, Fleur,” Harry said as he was ready to leave.

“`Ermione, you `ad somezeeng else you wanted to ask moi?” Fleur commented.

“Yes…. It's about, well…. Oh, bother, could I speak to you in private, Fleur?” she inquired.

“I'll just wait outside,” Harry offered.

“That won't be necessary, Harry,” Hermione told him. “Muffliato!”

Ordinarily she disapproved of that charm.

With his ears buzzing, Harry sat quietly as Hermione and Fleur discussed something that, transparently, Hermione had found distressing. As the two women spoke, Hermione's ears became almost blazingly pink, and the colour also infiltrated her cheeks.

The look on Fleur's face shifted from concern, to surprise, to intrigue, to sympathy - and to questioning, as she occasionally cast glances in his direction.

Hermione seemed unable to look at Harry at all.

Their private conversation must have lasted five minutes or more, through which Harry sat in increasingly uncomfortable silence.

As soon as Hermione ended the muffling spell, she told Harry. “I need to go. I'm sure I'll see you in a little while, Harry.” With that she quickly left Fleur's office.

“Hermione! Wait, I….”

“Attends, `Arry. Wait.” Fleur more or less demanded.

“There's something wrong with Hermione,” Harry protested as he rose to follow his fiancée. “I have to see what….”

“She wants moi to talk to you first,” Fleur told him. “I know exactly what `er problem ees - and eet eenvolves you.”

“Me?”

“Oui … you,” Fleur repeated. “Now, seet … please.”

Harry sat back down.

Fleur spoke slowly. She was not above being somewhat embarrassed herself. “Zees ees about somezeeng zat `appens when `Ermione…. Well, when she … `as a strong first climax … she told moi zat `er nectar, she expels eet weez some force and quantity. Do you know what I mean, `Arry?”

“Umm … yeah,” he replied. “But only the first time.”

“Only once?” Fleur looked at him with surprise. “She said eet `appens weez some regularity….”

“No … er … I mean yes,” Harry sputtered. “But she only does it the first time that she … well, you know…. She's right that it's happened a number of times. But why are we talking about this…?”

“`Ermione ees afraid zat you must zeenk eet's foul,” Fleur told him.

“I've never said … or thought that,” Harry protested. “I nearly….”

Harry stopped himself. There was no need to get into that level of detail.

He tried again. “Er … I had a bad reaction the first time, but that was only because I was surprised. Now that I'm ready for it, I rather like it, actually.”

“You do?” Fleur responded. “Zat's très good. You need to tell `er zat, `Arry.”

“Yes,” Harry reiterated. “It lets me know that I've done my job. It gets me randier because I can … well, start thinking about letting myself go, too….”

“Well, she's afraid you theenk eet's deesgusting,” Fleur revealed. “She says she's tried to stop eet, but can't.”

“No way,” Harry protested. “It's part of … well, her. And I love her … all of her.”

Fleur sighed, and smiled at Harry. “I know you do, I can tell. But you need to tell `er what you just told me.”

“I will,” he said as he got up to leave. “And thanks, Fleur.”

“You're quite welcome, `Arry,” Fleur replied, as she began tidying up her desk. “And she ees très fortunate.”

“So am I,” Harry said as he departed. “And I intend to keep it that way.”

* * * *

The morning of the long-awaited Gryffindor-Slytherin Quidditch match dawned clear and cold - excellent Quidditch weather. The morning meal was predictable, since Ron made the selection - steaks for the entire team, cooked as rare as possible.

Muggle-born Hermione, the dentists' child, immediately informed Harry, “You know, this training concept is woefully out-of-date. Muggle lads prefer lighter, higher energy fare like pasta or chicken. It was all the rage at last summer's Olympics. Why not have beans on toast, at least?”

Harry was not about to scotch Ron's plans, in part to keep the co-captains' united front in the face of their first baptism of fire. But mainly, he just preferred his red meat over Hermione's alternatives.

“Nah, Hermione, this is good,” he dismissed her idea. “It's what Oliver would do. We need the right mood as much as the right meal….” He turned towards the team's section of the House table.

“Honestly,” Hermione muttered as he left, “it's a miracle any of you ever get off the ground….”

The Gryffindor table was awash in red and gold. The Slytherins were equally ensconced in their house's silver and green.

The team, as had become traditional, clustered together at the far end of the house table - farthest from the high staff table and closest to the main exit. Hermione knew of no basis for the tradition, but she rather suspected it was to provide a bit more cover for any pre-game pranks.

And mischief there was. Both teams charmed bits of parchment - folded up Ministry of Magic memo style - to carry rude messages to their opponents.

Ginny, who must have learned from her mum, even sent a crude Howler to Kevin Harper, the Fifth Year who had replaced Draco Malfoy (for his part, nowhere to be seen) as Seeker for the Slytherins.

Harper refused to touch it. The Howler exploded and showered the Slytherin team with bits of red confetti, whilst a loud screeching voice cast aspersions on their collective manhood.

The staff rather famously tolerated this aspect of inter-house rivalry, but Hagrid finally put a stop to the exchange of projectiles once someone flung a wet-start firework into the Gryffindor team's pitcher of pumpkin juice - thoroughly soaking everyone, and even singeing Ron's eyebrows.

Harry tried regrowing Ron's eyebrows rather inexpertly. As a result they ended with upward twists at the end that, in Hermione's opinion, resembled the tips of Salvador Dali's mustache.

Hermione, of course, could have restored everything flawlessly - but there was the small matter of her ongoing Cold War with Ron. To respect team unity, she had reluctantly agreed that Harry, as acting co-captain, should sit with Ron and the rest of the team. She, meanwhile, would sit further down the table, away from the team.

Hermione, however, had not counted on Ron inviting Cho to sit with the Gryffindor team.

She was not the only one furious about this. Ginny was also extremely aggravated. From her perch, Hermione even suspected Ron's sister of helping guide the Slytherin firework on its incoming trajectory. Her Howler, after all, had precipitated that attack.

Hermione was tempted to retaliate by moving to the Ravenclaw table. Luna was there - seated in relatively splendid isolation - sporting her Gryffindor lion hat. But Hermione stopped herself. Her action might be misinterpreted and be reported to the press as evidence of some sort of a breach between herself and Harry.

Something else was also at work.

Hermione joined Neville, looking sulky and rather determinedly eating by himself at the opposite end of the Gryffindor table.

“Hi, Neville,” she greeted him tentatively as she slid into the seat across from him. Pushing her plate into position, she began filling it with kippers, toast with fine-cut orange marmalade, and a couple of poached eggs. “You okay?”

The answer to her question was obvious.

Neville barely looked at her whilst pushing bits of scrambled eggs about his plate through some dregs of Worcestershire sauce. Hermione was on the verge of asking Neville if he would rather be left alone, when he mumbled, “Not really.”

“Not really what?” Hermione followed, as Neville's lengthy silence had caused an uncharacteristic loss of her train of thought.

Neville turned to her with a tragic look festooning his round face. “Not really okay,” he reiterated. “The inevitable happened.”

Even though unsure, Hermione sent a consoling glance Neville's way - based simply on his doleful tone of voice. “The inevitable what, Neville? Is everything … everyone all right at home?”

Neville hastened to clarify, letting Hermione know that none of his family had been killed or even badly hurt in the latest Death Eater attack. “It's just … just that Ginny broke up with me,” he explained in that soft Lancastrian accent of his. “She said I was too boring…. I should have known it would never work….”

“I'm so sorry to hear that, Neville,” Hermione commiserated.

“Don't feel sorry for me,” Neville resisted. “Not like it was fault. It was … well, we never really recovered from my having to leave her alone for the ball. I couldn't help it, though. Gram needed me to help her cope right after the attack….”

“Just because it's not my fault doesn't mean I can't empathise,” Hermione replied sympathetically. “You sound so much like Harry saying that. He seems to think that fault and sympa….”

She stopped abruptly, noticing that Neville's face had - equally rapidly - begun flushing red. “What's wrong now?” she asked instead.

“It's just…. Sometimes it would be so much easier if I could just let myself hate Harry,” Neville sighed. Seeing Hermione's questioning expression, he continued. “Boring, am I? Well just who around here is the exact opposite of that? I dunno, Hermione. I'd be careful if I were you.”

At that, Hermione turned her head toward the team end of the table. Ginny was, sure enough, seated next to Harry. She hardly looked threatening, since she was more or less ignoring him and, instead, staring at Cho with transparent anger. Cho, of course, was all over Ron - who seemed oblivious (willfully or otherwise), to Ginny's ire.

“I trust Harry,” Hermione said forcefully.

After breakfast, Harry and Ron marched together over hoarfrost-flecked grass towards the Gryffindor team quarters. Ron was talkative, going over what he knew of the Slytherin team's strengths and weaknesses.

Mostly weaknesses.

“…Me and Moose, we got to know each other at Elsinore, you know,” Ron rambled. “He's a spot on passer, especially to his left, but he's not really a scorer….”

“…Vaisey's the only real scoring threat they've got, he says, and I believe him….”

“…Urquhart … their captain … he's a prick. Only got tipped because he's been on the team since his second year….”

“…Bletchley's decent at Keeper, but he won't get much help….”

“…Malfoy's replacement, that Harper bloke, is pathetic, I'm told. You shouldn't have much trouble catching the Snitch….”

“…Especially since Park and Marlowe, their Beaters - the ones who replaced Crabbe and Goyle in our year - are supposed to be downright awful….”

“…It was bloody brilliant, what you did, getting everyone to fly the same brooms. We'll kick their arse now….”

Harry mostly listened and, when prompted, uttered monosyllabic grunts of agreement. Nothing significant happened stood until they were changing into their uniforms in their shared captain's office.

“Harry, could I ask a big favour of you?” Ron broached a new subject.

Harry already had second thoughts about agreeing to Ron's prior request.

“Probably, but it depends,” he answered a little warily, as he pulled his house jumper over his head. “What do you want?”

Ron told him. “Well, if we do win, like we should, do you think you'd mind too much dressing out there with the rest of the team?”

“That's not a problem,” Harry agreed readily, “but why?”

“Well … you see … Cho - she's promised me a wee bit of a reward if we win, and this is the most private place that's available. What do you say?”

“Ron, she plays for another House,” Harry reminded him.

“I'll hide anything having to do with plays or strategy,” Ron promised, hastily banishing some notes lying loose on the desk. “She's promised to sneak in here early, before the match is over.”

“But you don't know when that'll be,” Harry stated the obvious.

“That'll be when you catch the Snitch,” Ron quipped. “Seriously, Cho'll handle it. She's motivated, after all.” Jocularly, he nudged Harry in the shoulder and gave him an leering wink. “Know what I mean…?”

“You're running quite a risk,” a rather put off Harry stated the obvious. He took a deep breath - here was a golden opportunity, maybe even an obligation. “Ron, there are some things you don't know….”

“And now's not the time to tell me,” Ron cut across insistently. “Not with Slytherin to play. Just this once, mate…. You can trust me, she's worth it.”

Harry was better at capturing Golden Snitches than golden opportunities.

He let loose an exasperated sigh as he considered his options. Finally Harry decided that, if Ron wanted to remain a willfully ignorant prat, so be it. “Okay, but on one condition….”

“What's that?” Ron asked with a rather forcibly casual air as he bent to put on his shin guards.

“I want you to set things right with Hermione,” Harry told him. “Once and for all … no half measures. This has dragged on for far too long. This morning she even stayed away from the team so that I could sit with you and the rest. And then you go and invite Cho, not even in our House, to sit with the team. That was over the top, and I'm sure she was upset.”

“I already did apologise,” Ron declared as he nearly dropped his second shin guard. “I told you I would, and I did.”

“I don't mean just for that,” Harry persisted. “I mean for the rest of it, too.”

“Umm … let me have the office after the game, and I'll think about it,” Ron said reluctantly. “She's the one who ought to apologise, though. Whatever she did to Cho really bothered her.”

“You mean, Cho hasn't told you what it was?” Harry asked slyly.

“No. Has Hermione told you?” Ron replied in kind.

At that Harry started to feel warm about the face. He had not expected Ron's response - but perhaps he should have. He did not want to lie to his friend, but Ron had already passed up the one opportunity he was going to get to learn the truth.

“She did, didn't she?” Ron deduced from Harry's silence. “Oi, let me help you with that….”

Harry extended his right arm so Ron could tighten his Re'em leather vambrace laces. “Ron, I really don't want to go into that - not with Slytherin to play,” Harry consciously echoed Ron. There would be no pre-game Armageddon. He fumbled with the fastening on his outer cape.

“That's all right, mate,” Ron replied surprisingly calmly. “But if you can't tell me - well, Hermione must have done something really dodgy. She should be apologising to Cho, I think.”

Harry disagreed. “That's a crock, Ron.” Maybe Hermione had been indiscreet, but it had been the truth. And what she did was out of concern over Ron's emotional well-being. “Mate, I'd really like you to be the one to end this,” he repeated, whilst pulling his headband (red, bearing hospitalised teammate Katie Bell's number 3 in bright yellow) into place.

“Harry, I don't make you choose between me and her,” Ron said seriously. “I know what shagging's all about, so I'm don't press my luck. But don't ask me to choose between you and Cho either. Same reason….”

Harry gave in. “Well you'll have to change the password again, then.”

Ron's smile told Harry that Ron knew he had won the round. “Already have. For today only, it's `Slytherin Sux' in honour of our opponent.” He pulled on his gloves.

“It's your funeral,” Harry commented over his shoulder as he left the captain's office.

Behind him, he heard Ron mutter, “Screw it, let's play Quidditch….”

It was time to break out the Firebolts. Co-Captain Ron handed Co-Captain Harry the key to the new broom cabinets dominating one wall of the Gryffindor clubhouse.

Beyond ten Firebolts per house, Harry's Quidditch trust donated elegant glass-doored cabinets for the brooms' safekeeping. Never would Bowtruckles gnaw these brooms looking for woodlice. To prevent cheating, the cabinets' security enchantments could detect performance-altering spells. Under Harry's equipment standardising rules, all Firebolts must be kept under lock and key at least twelve hours before a match.

The Firebolts distributed, Ron addressed the Gryffindor team, saying only, “All right, team. You're about to play Slytherin. For some of you, it's probably the most important thing you'll ever do in your entire life. Now let's go kick some arse.”

* * * *

After the initial kick off, in practically no time at all Harry realised how right Ron was. Without their artificial advantage in broom quality, this Slytherin team was not very good.

Although Harry had not created the Quidditch Trust with any intent to disadvantage Slytherin specifically, he gave himself a mental pat on the back for bringing that result about.

A roar rose from the crowd behind and beneath him. The cacophony dissolved into a spontaneous chorus of “Weasley Is Our King.” Harry turned and noted happily that the Gryffindor portion of the stands was singing.

With a couple of quick zigzag passes across the pitch, Harry started his search for the Snitch. He knew from experience that, if it failed to put in an appearance within the first few minutes, the Snitch would probably be elusive the entire game.

He heard the tell-tale crack of a Beater's bat striking a Bludger, and took quick evasive action - an inside loop. The hit was poor. The Bludger missed him by a good five metres.

The Slytherin Seeker, Kevin Harper, tracked Harry so clumsily through that manœuvre that Harry suspected the rookie could barely control the high-powered Firebolt he was riding. The Slytherin was not much of a threat to catch the Snitch - particularly since his idea of strategy was to mark Harry rather than even try looking for the Snitch itself.

More crowd noise drew Harry's attention back to the game. The Slytherin Chasers were gathering in attack formation. Harry grinned.

It was time for some fun….

Far below Harry, Hermione had settled somewhat nervously into a spot next to Neville and Luna. As long as Harry was playing, she would never willingly miss a Quidditch match - but she did not enjoy the games very much. She was always on pins and needles, beside herself with worry that Harry would again injure himself as he had all too many times before.

Thus, she kept her wand at ready inside her thick cold-weather robes.

The new announcer for this year's matches - at least those not involving Hufflepuff - was Zacharias Smith.

“…save by Weasley. I daresay he's improved over last year's rather patchy performances. The Gryffindor co-captain spent most of the summer holiday in Elsinore as Keeper for the Hogwarts team. As a member of that team, myself, I can attest to his progress….”

`Enough about you, already,' Hermione thought nastily. `Back to the game, if you please.'

It was almost as if he heard her.

“…10-nil Gryffindor. Slytherin on the attack. Montague with the Quaffle. Pass to Vaisey…. And it looks like Potter may have spotted the Snitch! He's diving towards the Gryffindor end, with Harper trailing in his wake. There he goes. Straight through the Slytherin formation. Urquhart veers out of the way, almost colliding with Vaisey, who loses control of the Quaffle….”

Hermione tensed up. It was probably another of those whatever feint things. To her, it always looked as if Harry would wind up as a grease spot on the frozen turf. If something happened…. Her wandtip expectantly poked from the sleeve of her heavy cloak.

“…Potter pulls up. Does he have the Snitch? No. Robbins scoops the Quaffle from the grass and heads the other way. I'm guessing that was just a feint by Potter to disrupt the Slytherin attack.”

Hermione remembered to breathe again.

“Robbins to Miss Ginny Weasley. The fiery redhead was also one of the highlights of the Elsinore summer camp - in more ways than one. Weasley fakes right and goes left. Whoa, look at that flying! Has the new Slytherin Beater, Van Lingle Park I think it is, completely turned around. Weasley to Thomas on the opposite side, and back to….”

“Look out! Park barely misses running into his own Seeker, Harper, who's trying to keep up with Potter and not managing much of job of it. Park flails rather wildly at a Bludger….”

Hermione, who had been following the action at the other end, nearer Harry, looked back downfield.

“…Ouch, that has to hurt. Got his own teammate, I'm afraid. Ginny Weasley behind the back to Robbins, who goes in for…. Oh, bloody Hell, look out! Vaisey's unbroomed….”

Park's futile attempt to launch a Bludger at Harry had gone worse than astray - striking his own Chaser squarely in the back of the head. Vaisey's unguided broom had wobbled forwards of its own accord for a few more seconds, until rolled and the unconscious Slytherin Chaser fell off. Vaisey plummeted head down towards the frozen, rock hard turf twenty metres below.

Almost everyone in the crowd, however, was following the play that turned into Gryffindor's second score. Everybody except Hermione….

Even before Smith mentioned it, Hermione had jumped onto the bench for a clean line of fire.

“Arresto Momentum”!

Hermione's aim was true. Vaisey's fall slowed abruptly, and he landed with a soft crunch in the brittle, frosted grass - unconscious, but alive.

A shrill whistle blew three times, as Madam Hooch shot red sparks in the air to signify an emergency time out.

Hermione sat down, breathing hard. Her hands, rock steady only moments before, now shook uncontrollably.

“Good show,” Neville complimented her, “even if he's a Slytherin.”

“Stupid bloodthirsty game,” she muttered in reply. “That could have been Harry.”

“What about me?”

Hermione's eyes jerked up. Hovering just above the outstretched hands of the crowd was Harry. His windblown hair stuck out in all directions, restrained only about the edges by his Katie Bell remembrance headband. He was regarding Hermione with a mixture of concern and pride glowing in his eyes.

“Harry!” she squeaked. At that moment, she longed for his touch. But that was impossible. He was risking a yellow card, just by leaving the field of play.

“That was you, wasn't it?” he asked.

“Afraid so,” she confirmed in a low voice that he could barely hear over the crowd noise.

“Looks like I'm not the only one with a `saving people thing' today - thank Merlin,” he told her. “You were….”

“Potter! Get back over here!” rang out Hooch's gravelly voice. “You've got three seconds or I'll award a penalty shot.”

What Harry thought would be a five- to ten-minute time out turned into almost half an hour.

First, Professor Slughorn interrupted things to award Hermione thirty house points for preventing much more serious injury to the unfortunate Vaisey.

But that delay was trivial compared to what came next. Slytherin, it seems, did not have a replacement Chaser. As a result, Adrian Pucey was called out of the stands to stand in for the Snakes. He had injured his back in an accident at a Finnish dragon reserve the previous August, and had elected to retire from Quidditch.

Not surprisingly Pucey was out of shape and out of practice.

Losing their best offensive player barely ten minutes into the match effectively extinguished what little spark the Slytherins had shown.

After the accident, Park appeared almost afraid to touch a Bludger. Eventually, Urquhart saw enough and replaced him with Erma Underwood, a fourth year. She became the first female Beater ever in Slytherin Quidditch.

But it was not a good day for making history - at least not if one wore the green and silver.

By the time the score reached 100-nil, Harry dropped the strategy he had worked out with Ron of using the Wronski Feint (or spur-of-the-moment variants) to disrupt the Slytherin Chasers. His own Chasers were doing just fine without the extra help, and Harper had stopped following him. At that point the only way Gryffindor could possibly lose was if Harper somehow found the Snitch whilst Harry was otherwise engaged.

By the time the score reached 180-10, even that remote possibility had evaporated. Harry searched diligently for the elusive Snitch, hoping to end what was rapidly becoming a rather ragged game. Ron - whose performance in goal was bordering on the otherworldly - had begun mock conducting the Gryffindor rooters in choruses of “Weasley Is Our King” after each save he made.

Ginny scored yet again as Harry completed another fruitless pass over the Pitch. He nearly tumbled headfirst over his broom handle as Harper broadsided him from below.

“Watch out, you berk,” Harry growled. He looked for a skinning foul, but Madam Hooch was watching a scrum for the Quaffle under the Slytherin goal where Pucey had fumbled a pass.

“I was, Mudblood lover,” Harper sneered back at him. “What are you going to do? Have her break my legs too?”

“Arsehole,” Harry returned the taunt, as he scanned the sky for the Snitch. “I'm perfectly capable of breaking your legs myself, if you keep this up.”

“You and what army, wuss?” Harper continued. “Dumbledore's Armpits?”

Another roar went up from the crowd as Gryffindor scored again, on a perfectly executed give and go between Ginny and Demelza.

“Are you ever going to put in that Paki half-n****r bint?” Harper taunted. “Or do you just keep her around to draw your water and polish your brooms?”

“She'll fly circles around you and kick your arse from every direction while she's at it,” Harry shot back.

“I'm so scared.”

In a cold fury, Harry executed another power dive, scattering the Slytherin Chasers and forcing Tristan Marlowe, the other Slytherin Beater, nearly into the turf to get out of Harry's way. Then Harry utilised his captain's prerogative and called a time out.

“What's that all about?” Ron asked as he floated down from goal.

“I've had it with that wanker, Harper,” Harry spat out the Slytherin's name. “Jazzy, get in there…. But watch out, Harper's looking for trouble.”

“He'll find it,” Jazzy hissed, the murderous look in her eye fully matching Harry's. Before stowing her wand in her things, she used it to make a small portion of her uniform temporarily transparent - revealing that she had taped enough extra padding around herself to block a charging Hippogriff. “They all think they can run me over - once.”

Over the next fifteen minutes, Jazzy succeeded in drawing no fewer than three fouls from Harper - and she converted all three of the penalty shots. Her fake just before the final shot, when she put her Firebolt into a deliberate stall, almost caused the Slytherin Keeper to fall off his broom in an unsuccessful attempt to switch directions. He ended up dangling from the bottom of the left goal mouth.

True to Harry's word, Jazzy flew circles around Harper … and she had even more of a knack than he for knowing when the referee's attention was diverted.

Unfortunately the Snitch remained stubbornly out of sight.

When the score reached 300-20, Ron cleared his bench, pulling himself in favour of Cormac McLaggen, putting in Rodney Taunton, the reserve Beater, and having Harry play out of position at Chaser so Dean Thomas could go to the Hospital Wing to have his right elbow looked at. Marlowe had smacked him squarely on the point with his bat whilst Hooch was in the process of calling yet another foul on Harper.

Ginny greeted him warmly. “Okay, Harry, let's see how good you are with this.” She called Demelza over. “Parkin's Pincer on whoever's out front of their goal. Harry, you'll be the last one with the Quaffle. Once I've cut through, I'll head for the centre ring…. Hit me with a lead pass….”

It almost worked.

Harry nearly knocked Montague down with his crossing movement. But he fumbled the Quaffle ever so briefly getting into position to throw. The lead pass was perfect, but Ginny was a metre or so too close to goal. She was called for haversacking and the goal was disallowed.

Another three-quarters of an hour passed after that “Air-Ginny” moment before Jazzy finally caught a glimpse of the Snitch and put Slytherin out of its misery.

The final score was 540-30.

Barely controlled chaos reigned in the Gryffindor clubhouse. In the background rock music blared, courtesy of WWN. Various team members were whooping and hollering. Comments about this play or that were yelled back and forth across the changing room. From the showers came a shriek, as Cormac reached over and turned Demelza's water ice cold whilst she was trying to wash her hair.

For a while only Dean was actually visible, as all of the others were still under their Obscuring Charms as they changed out of their generally rancid robes. The match - even though it was a rout from the first few minutes - had lasted almost five hours.

Harry took his time changing. He was dead knackered. Chaser was a much more physically demanding position than Seeker. The Chasers moved and ran some sort of play or another almost constantly.

And as Seeker, Harry had never had to play defence.

But he was also content. Gryffindor had won his first game as co-captain handily. Nobody had gotten seriously hurt (on his team, anyway), and Dean looked fully healed. Not only that, victory was a balm that seemed to heal all wounds. McLaggen thanked Harry for not sacking him from the team, and told him that, while he would probably never like Jazzy, she was a good Seeker and belonged on the team. Even Jazzy had opened up a bit. After she finished changing, she stayed on to chat easily with Richie Cooke about Seeker-Beater coordination.

Jazzy never chatted easily with anyone.

Of course, it helped that Harry had given her a great big hug in front of the assembled crowd when she had caught the Snitch.

Lee Jordan's familiar voice came over the Wizard Wireless. “…was `Which Witch Will It Be?' by the Four Elements. And this final - just in. Gryffindor beat Slytherin … YEAH!! … in Hogwarts Quidditch by a score of 540-30. That's the first 500-point victory margin since Hufflepuff beat Ravenclaw by 620-80 way back in 1976. Way to go lions! That calls for….”

The first chords of Queen's “We Are the Champions” boomed over the airwaves as half the team started singing, along.

I've paid my dues…. Time after time…. I've done my sentence….

Those who did not know the lyrics tried to silence the off-key crooning of those who did by throwing towels, kneepads or whatever else was lying around at the singers.

Laughing, Harry popped his own Obscurus and started buttoning up his shirt.

Just then Ginny walked in the door. She was still dressed in her uniform. She had a happy, almost dreamy look on her face.

Harry wondered whether she might have been snogging. Perhaps she had reconciled with Neville - but she had been avoiding him, and Neville had been moping around. One could hope, but frankly, Harry doubted it.

More importantly for present purposes, she was carrying a case of beer, which she propped on a stool in the centre of the room.

“Budvar for everyone! Finnegan's treat,” she yelled happily. Everyone started gathering around, jostling to get a bottle (or two) of the Muggle brew.

Everyone except Harry, that is.

But Ginny had not forgotten him.

She approached him, holding a bottle of Limonade in one hand and a bottle of the Czech beer in the other. She offered him the Limonade. “I know you don't drink, Harry. And I saw you downing these at the Ball. So I brought one for you.”

Harry was parched. Since breakfast, all he had had to drink had been “Hogwartsade” - a foul concoction tasting like orange Kool-Aid mixed in seawater - use of which was mandatory during all Quidditch matches (since Ravenclaw had been caught using Pepper-up Potion several decades ago, or so McLaggen had once said).

Harry put off the process of strapping on his wand and took the proffered beverage. “Thanks, Ginny,” he muttered gratefully, and took a large swig.

“I've saved a beer for Ron,” Ginny mentioned. “What's the password?”

“Slytherin Sux,” Harry said absently whilst distracted by desire to quench an almost overwhelming thirst.

“That they did,” Ginny said with a grin as she walked past him, the long-necked beer bottle held loosely in her hand.

Harry let Ginny pass by, but as he looked away, he saw Jazzy eying him enviously. He realised that, as a Muslim (if not a particularly devout one) - not to mention being underage - Jazzy did not drink either.

“Hey, Ginny,” he called out, wanting a Limonade for Jazzy. The wireless, however was blasting out the final crescendo from “We Are the Champions,” and she did not hear him.

Harry took a couple of steps in her direction, but one of his bare feet found a puddle on the wet floor. Steadying himself, Harry saw Ginny's hand go to the doorknob for the captain's office.

And he also saw, to his eternal mortification, a Gryffindor tie wrapped firmly around the doorknob's handle.

`Shite!' Harry thought. He bolted after Ginny.

He missed his mark by no more than a couple of seconds - but a couple of seconds was far too late.

There, in front of Ginny, Ron and Cho were frantically shagging. Cho wore not a stitch of clothing; and Ron only a single, very out of place, Gryffindor team sweat sock on his left foot. She was perched on the front of the captain's desk that occupied most of the floor space in the rather small room. Ron's backside partially hid Cho from view, as he pounded away relentlessly. From Ginny's place in the doorway, their angle left nothing whatever to the imagination.

Ginny stopped short, momentarily speechless. Harry, who had been hustling after her, skidded to an abrupt stop, centimetres from bowling her over.

Ginny's silence lasted only as long as it took her to comprehend the scene before her and to collect her thoughts.

All too soon, she lit into her wayward brother. “Ronald Weasley, you stupid sack of….”

Harry went for his wand - only to realise it was still with his things outside. Wandless, he incanted “Imperturbatus.” It seemed to work. Then he slammed shut the door and sealed it with a quick “Colloportus.” A squelching sound told him that had worked, too.

“…dragon dung…!!”

Ron's head whipped around, and once he saw the audience he had attracted, he instantly lost the physical ability to continue.

Cho groaned in frustration.

“Ginny! What the hell are you doing here!?” Then Ron saw Harry behind his sister. “Oi, are you mental? Why did you let her in?”

Harry, however, found himself speechless. That scaly, reptilian beast in his chest was back. The entire room reeked of raw sexual passion, and he was at most a foot away from Ginny - who was paying him no attention whatever.

As the monster thrashed within him, reducing his insides to quivering shreds, Harry quite lost the ability to speak coherently. All the blood that ordinarily maintained rational thought seemed to desert him and flow elsewhere. His brain felt cool and numb, while his other head went all hot and bothered.

Thus, Ron's angry, if somewhat out of breath, question came at Harry as if shouted from the other side of a vast, yawning canyon.

Harry never had to bother articulating an answer, because Ginny was ready for a go with her brother.

“I can't believe you, Ronald!” she tore into him viciously. “She's the Seeker for a different House, dammit, and you have her in our Captain's office, the both of you shagging each other senseless with the whole bloody team just outside that door!”

“That bloody door was closed and password protected until you had to open it!” Ron gave as good as he got.

Cho, however much she had been shagged, was anything but senseless. With not the least bit of concern over showing everything she possibly could to Ginny and Harry, she slid off the desk. In complete and glorious nudity, she defiantly faced down Ginny - and only incidentally, Harry.

Her movement attracted Ron's attention. “You wanna get dressed, Luv?” he asked her. “Not much sense staying around here with this harpy on the warpath….” Scowling at Harry, Ron added, “Some friend you turned out to be.”

Harry sucked in a breath, but not on account of Ron's rather accurate accusation. Instead, he was getting an eyeful of Cho - first-hand proof that she really did have a strategically located tattoo. He had been trying, as before, to tame the beast within. The scenery was not making things easy.

“No, Ron,” Cho cut him off. “If you want to leave, go ahead, but if your sister wants to exchange words, then so be it.”

Harry felt like he was bolted to the floor. Inches behind Ginny, he battled for control whilst the beast within continued to churn things up. What Ron had been doing with Cho a few moments before suddenly seemed like a very good idea. If he could just get Ginny to go along with it….

`Not a good idea,' the little voice within counselled.

Ron declined Cho's rhetorical invitation to leave. Rather he slouched against the far wall, giving everyone in the room the “Full Ronald.” From there, he looked on furiously whilst Cho - equally furiously - lit into Ginny.

Pulling her mussed up, almost waist-length black hair out of her face, Cho shot daggers at Ginny for a couple of seconds before telling her, in as haughty a voice as she could muster. “You can just get off your high Hippogriff and stay off … little sister…!”

Cho's expression was so evil and angry that Harry instinctively wanted to put his arms around Ginny to protect her from - something. He did not actually move a muscle, though, as the voice within told him, `If you start that, you might not be able to stop. Think about that.'

“…It's none of your goddamned business what Ronnie and I do behind closed doors…!”

“The hell it isn't!!” Ginny screamed back. “I'll not have you leading my brother astray like this. He can't see it, but I can! You've got him tied around your bloody finger like a bow, you - you…!”

“I'm a what?” Cho sneered.

The monster pushed back, roiling Harry's gut. `Leave it,' the silent voice directed. `If you do something stupid, like grope Ginny, you'll only turn that girl's wrath upon yourself.'

Harry knew what Cho was. Thus he (and the monster within) could not help but root for Ginny to win this catfight.

“I said, I'm a what?” Cho taunted, her voice going all screechy.

“You … you … scarlet woman!!” Ginny exploded.

“Like you'd have any clue…. You haven't the slightest chance of knowing what that even means!” Cho said in dangerous tones. “As if you've ever shagged anybody in your whole miserable life, you pathetic little…. Tell me. Until just now, had you even seen anybody shag before - even in pictures!?”

Ginny purpled with rage. Cho's spiteful words were all the more cutting for being unerringly on the mark. Ginny clenched the beer bottle originally intended for Ron so tightly that the cap was on the verge of popping off. “You shut your trap!” she demanded. “You've no right…!”

“Oh, I think I've every right in the world!” Cho hissed as she pressed what she sensed to be an advantage. “I've seen you traipsing around the Castle for over a year, teasing this boy and that - a little tongue here, a bit of a feel there. But you've left them all hanging…. That's why you can't keep any boyfriend for more than a month or two…. All bloody prick tease and no action at all…!”

Ginny's eyes bugged out in rage. “You have no idea what you're on about!!” she roared back.

The monster within Harry continued urging him to protect Ginny - to protect her, and then, when this fight was over, to find someplace private to disprove everything Cho was saying…. He finally found his voice. “Cho, given where you are and what you've been doing, I don't think….”

“Oh, and you're bloody Exhibit A, Harry,” Cho pounced. “You've shagged - that's for sure. You've put the pipe to your Hermione so thoroughly that sometimes it's all she can do to walk the next morning….”

Luckily, nobody in the room had a wand handy, because somebody (except maybe Ron, who was content to spectate) most surely would have used it. The monster in Harry's chest was rattling its cage with such force that Harry would have used his just to calm it down. At least that seemed to distract his Fifth Element magic from appearing.

His voice of reason had gone silent the moment Cho brought Hermione into things.

“You're a bloody slag!” Ginny squealed. “Just because I don't go banging my boyfriends in every broom closet and under every stairwell in the Castle…!”

“Now wait a minute, Ginevra!” Ron blurted, sensing that now his own conduct was being called into question.

“Hippogriff shit! You don't go banging any of your love-ya-and-leave-ya boyfriends anywhere at all!” Cho jeered at her. “You've got no more experience than a second year. That's the root of your bloody problem.”

Ginny was beside herself. “You presumptuous little slant-eyed bint!!” she screamed. “You have no way of knowing what I do or don't do!!”

His beast told Harry that, if even if Cho was right, he should simply take Ginny next door to the empty Ravenclaw Quidditch clubhouse - where they could rectify the situation.

The little voice was back, battered but not beaten, telling Harry, `No.' He seemed paralysed, rooted to the spot. Still, Ginny was so close to him….

“Oh, don't I now!?” Cho spat while giving Ginny a painfully patronising look. “You just call me names because you're too damn inexperienced to do anything yourself!”

“Just shut up, you … you … slut!!!” Ginny screamed.

“Look you little slut wannabe,” Cho kept on, “It's easy. I can tell just by how you walk that you've never been loosened up … ever. Weeks ago, Hermione passed by you like you were standing still - weeks ago…!”

The mention of Hermione tensed Harry up. Both the beast and the voice seemed to retreat. But it was only a fleeting mention.

“…Ronnie and I, we've been shagging for months. You're the odd girl out here. Hell, you're way behind Demelza, who lost hers last year. And Romilda's got such a head start on you, you'll never catch her in a million years. Even that loser Connie Marpeth….”

Finally, Ginny could take no more. She screamed an incoherent phrase that ended in “cunt” as she threw the beer bottle at Cho with all of her might. She followed by hurling herself at the woman she found the most hateful thing in the world at the moment.

Cho dodged the bottle, which exploded against the back wall. At the same time, she shouted something in Chinese that nobody understood, but sounded highly uncomplimentary.

She could not dodge Ginny, however. The enraged redhead slammed into Cho, putting an elbow into the older girl's shoulder and forcing her backwards. With her other hand, Ginny grabbed a fistful of Cho's hair and yanked - hard.

Cho screamed and retaliated by raking the right side of Ginny's face with her long fingernails, leaving slashes all the way from Ginny's ear to her chin. Cho ripped so hard at Ginny's cheek that two of her nails broke off.

The physical escalation bestirred Ron from bemused onlooker status. Cho handily winning an insult battle with his sister - something he never did - had all been jolly good. But an actual brawl was something else altogether. Grunting loudly, Ron wrapped both arms around Cho's nude midsection and tried pulling her away.

The sound of cloth ripping filled the air as Cho pulled at Ginny's jumper.

“Dammit Harry, grab ahold of Ginny…!” Ron shouted, as he struggled with his girlfriend. “…Get her out of here!” Ginny, bleeding profusely from facial lacerations, was beating Cho about the head with both her fists - not terribly effectively.

`Be careful.' The little voice seemed even smaller amongst the tumult.

His inner monster raucously urging him on, Harry followed Ron's lead - except he and Ginny were both fully clothed. He could feel Ginny struggling against his superior brute strength as he tried prising her away from Cho. With an unintelligible cry, Ginny tried to kick Cho with one of her Quidditch boots. She landed only a glancing blow.

As he forcibly dragged Ginny backwards, Harry was acutely aware that she was twisting and writhing - pressed against him from his thighs all the way to his shoulders. The beast in him knew that, if he just moved his left hand slightly upwards … or the other one a bit downwards … he would start to get some satisfaction….

Harry did neither of those things - a testament to his little voice almost screaming at him.

“LET ME GO, HARRY!!!” Ginny roared, her eyes flashing red as she clawed at Harry's encircling arms.

To move her farther from Cho, Harry pivoted and leaned backwards. He was able to lift a flailing Ginny completely off her feet.

Bad move.

Harry felt Ginny tense, then, “Oof!” Ginny's elbow landed a sharp blow to the pit of his stomach. Staggering, he tried to set her down.

“Aieee!” he screamed - painfully aware that he was barefoot whilst Ginny still wore her game boots.

She had just slammed her right foot down, hard, into Harry's unguarded instep.

Harry's grip was already loosening when, “WHAM!” Ginny bashed him squarely in the face with the back of her head. He felt his nose break as the impact jammed his glasses into his forehead. A flock of tiny bright lights migrated across Harry's field of vision. Instinctively, he let go of her altogether. His hands went to face, and….

“Whump!” Ginny finished him off with a solid kick to the most sensitive spot of his anatomy. The pain was tremendous. Sheets of excruciation ripped through Harry in all directions. He doubled over in agony, slumped to his knees, went incontinent, and vomited - all in the few seconds before unconsciousness mercifully took him.

* * * *

The next time Harry laid eyes on anything, he was staring at the overly familiar ceiling of the Hospital Wing. The first thing he did was groan.

“Oh, Harry,” he heard a familiar, if rather brittle, voice. An instant later he felt Hermione's hand slip into his as she started talking very fast. “Thank Merlin. I was waiting for you to change…. Then everything dissolved into shouting and confusion. Ginny burst out, cut up, and sprinted for the Castle like a scalded Kneazle. Then Ron hauled you out - he was barely dressed. Your face was a mess; blood all over. Oh, Merlin…. He screamed for Madam Pomfrey. It was awful. Then Hagrid ran over and hauled you away. I followed, but they wouldn't let me in here to help, even though I'm a trainee….”

Harry's memory of the run up to his injuries was hazy. He was quite unable to separate what he might actually have done from what he had only wanted to do. Harry watched Hermione closely - looking for any sign that he provoked Ginny by doing something improper.

“...I couldn't believe it. You'd made it through the entire match against Slytherin unhurt,” Hermione carried on, “but then, you still ended up like this….”

He detected no indication in Hermione's actions, voice, or demeanor that she was upset with him. Harry relaxed just a bit. By now he very much doubted that he had groped Ginny, or anything similar, but even if he had, at least nobody seemed to have told Hermione.

One thing for sure, he had to stay away from Ginny. He had almost done something very wrong.

Hermione prattled on. Talking was a stress reliever for her. It was dark out. She had probably been sitting by his bedside for hours.

“…found out why. It was the nature of your injuries.”

“How badly was I hurt?” Harry rasped, his voice sounding dry and far away. It seemed odd that, after being excluded, Hermione was now the only one about.

“Well, whilst it was never life threatening, in some ways it could have been almost as bad,” Hermione answered.

Harry's expression blanched.

“But it wasn't,” she hastily added. “Your nose was broken in two places. So was your foot. Your face was all cut and bruised. But the worst of it was … was … bilateral … oh Merlin, I don't even want to say it….”

“Everybody's going to think I'm some sort of a wimp,” Harry said with a sigh.

“We already do.” It was Vaisey's voice, from beyond the privacy curtain that separated the injured Slytherin Chaser's space from Harry's.

No, Hermione was not the only one about.

“You'd best zip it,” Hermione barked at him. “Don't make me wish I'd let you drop.” She flicked out her wand and cast a Silencing Charm. “That was dumb on my part,” she admitted to Harry.

“First you break my leg, and now Ginny breaks my … well, you know they'll talk,” Harry said with a mirthless laugh. “Just my luck.”

Hermione began crying silently and lowered her head to his chest. One of her hands clutched his, and the other absently traced circles against his side.

Once he felt her breathing normally again, Harry repeated the question.

This time she answered. “It was just like you said … you had… bilateral testicular rupture,” she rattled off the last three words very fast, before she lost her nerve. “Harry … if you had been a Muggle, you'd probably never be able to have children - ever - maybe not even sex. As it is, you have to leave that Healing Charm on until morning. You'll be getting a bit of a lie in.”

Harry said weakly, “I'm sorry, Hermione, I never should have….”

“Oh tosh, Harry, this can't possibly be your fault,” Hermione interrupted.

Harry was pleased to receive absolution, but confused. His confusion only grew as she continued.

“…No, this was all Cho's doing, taunting Ginny like that. Granted, you slipped up a bit giving Ginny the password, but they had no business using the captain's office for … for … scandalous purposes … right after a game….”

“Hermione, how do you know about this?” Harry asked. “Did you talk to Ron?”

“You know we don't talk anymore,” Hermione briskly replied. “I haven't seen him all evening. I assume he went off somewhere to finish his business with Cho. The post-victory party was the worst I've ever been to. You hurt. Ron who knows where. And Ginny locking herself up in her dormitory and refusing to come out. Half the team missing in action means not much to celebrate.”

“Then who did you talk to?” Harry asked. He hoped the wandless charms he had cast in the captain's office before everything happened had at least kept things somewhat private. If anyone else had been watching over his shoulder….

“Ginny,” Hermione answered as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“But you said….”

“Oh, Harry, you know better than anyone how hard it can be to hide away from me,” Hermione reminded him. “Remember last Christmas?”

Indeed he could. Then, he had convinced himself that he was possessed by Voldemort. He had avoided everyone, but Hermione (who had cut short a skiing vacation) had put a quick halt to that, barging in on him in the Grimmauld Place attic. She had always cared….

“Sooo … what did she tell you?” Harry asked as neutrally as he could. He could not fathom Hermione being so … unaffected … but if he had betrayed her, he would now find out for sure.

“She told me about you unwisely giving her the password….”

“That was an accident,” Harry cut across. “Really damn stupid on my part.”

“Be that as it may,” Hermione ploughed on. “Ginny wasn't so bright either. She told me she was just so angry and frustrated that she lost it. She'd taken some female self-defence lessons in Elsinore - and basically, she snapped and let you have it. And now she's mortified,” Hermione told him. “She can't believe she did that to you.”

“She was upset,” Harry said philosophically. “My grabbing her and pulling her away like that wasn't so great an idea, but once they started fighting, it was all I could think of. I'd left my wand outside - do you know where it is?”

“Dean collected your things,” Hermione reassured. “Your wand's here, and a change of clothes, including your shoes. Everything else should be in the tower.”

Back on track, Harry began again, “Still, Ginny did sort of start it - yelling at Ron like that, after she'd interrupted him … er … them….”

“I don't blame her,” Hermione countered. “Ginny was quite rightly upset about how the two of them were carrying on. Then Cho started taunting her about still being a virgin. I told Ginny that was nothing to be ashamed of - she isn't even sixteen. At her age, I had over a year and a half left. Not only that, we calculated it. At Ginny's age, Cho was probably a virgin, assuming Cedric was her first, which I suspect he was….”

“So you just pushed your way in, and suddenly the two of you got talking about sex?” Harry asked. He tried to sit up, but Hermione's hand on his chest stopped him.

“Stay down, Harry,” Hermione warned him. “You need to give those Healing Charms time to finish. They've several hours to work, yet. Oh, yes … and then in the morning, you have to rub this salve…,” she pointed to a small French Kilner jar full of some sort of light blue goo, “…on the `affected area.' That should do it … thank Merlin!”

Harry was about to ask something else about his medical care, but before he could, Hermione answered his previous question.

“And yes, Harry, that's about what happened. Once she got started, she really wanted to talk. She was thinking of resigning from the team, she was so upset. I told her to talk to you about that, and not to Ron….”

“Why me?” Harry protested. He really did not want to be talking privately to Ginny any time soon.

“Because Ron probably would tell her not to let the door hit her on the arse on the way out,” Hermione pointed out. “And that would hurt the team. You saw how well Ginny played today. She told me that she was even chatted up by a talent spotter for the Holyhead Harpies. You … well, I didn't think you would let her go that easily….”

Harry's gut clenched, but evidently Hermione meant nothing by that phrase.

“No. You're right. She's good,” Harry said monosyllabically. “But chatting about sex?”

“Like I said, Ginny was very upset, and wondering if there were something wrong with her,” Hermione explained. Breaking into a suggestive grin, Hermione continued, “I've been, well, reading a lot about that particular subject recently - because I want … I want to satisfy you….”

“Hermione, come kiss me,” Harry broke in. A gentle, longing embrace followed. When it ended, he added, “Sorry, but that's about as much as I have in me right about now.”

“Don't worry, you'll be fine by morning,” she replied.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“How do you think?”

“Er … library?”

“Well, duh,” Hermione smirked whilst theatrically rolling her eyes. “When I found out what had happened - and you know I wouldn't let it rest until I found out at least that much - you can imagine what was the first thing I wanted to know. Only after I'd finished with that, did I go back to the common room.”

“So, Ginny and you are fast friends now?” Harry asked.

“I don't know that I'd call it that,” Hermione answered. “Just say, I'm looking out for her a bit. I told her, that if she tried to compensate by going boy crazy because of what Cho said, she'd have to deal with me. But it's closer to my being a mentor rather than us being friends. We share certain interests, but that's also an issue…. I'm afraid that, well, we share certain interests.”

“Such as?” Harry asked.

Hermione rolled her eyes again, this time not in jest. “You really are that thick, aren't you?”

“Huh?” he wondered what prompted that. “What do…?”

“You, that's what,” Hermione said flatly.

“What's what?”

“The interest that I'm afraid we share, Harry,” Hermione told him. “I don't think she's as over you as she'd like everyone to believe.”

“Hermione, I didn't….”

“Of course not,” she cut him off. “You wouldn't. I trust you, Harry.”

“…And she has a bloody strange way of showing it,” Harry added.

“True, she could use some anger management,” Hermione agreed.

Harry was relieved. Obviously, he had not actually acted on any of his baser instincts stirred by his scalier alter ego. He was not about to give those instincts another chance. “No matter what, though, I'm not about to invite her to Blackwalls for the holiday.”

“I'm in agreement, there,” Hermione readily responded. “I trust her, too, but not that much. Enough of that,” she changed the subject. “Given what happened this afternoon, I assume you've something to add to our little project. So, was Luna right?”

“Luna?” Harry stared at Hermione. “What's Luna to do with anything?”

Hermione slumped her shoulders and looked ready either to smack either her own forehead, or Harry's. “Luna, as in what she discovered about Cho. I assume that you had a good look at Cho in the altogether. Well…?”

“Oi,” Harry groaned, shaking his head. “Luna's right, she does have a good sized circular shaped tattoo starting maybe five centimeters below her, umm, belly button.”

“Any other confirmation?” Hermione persisted.

“Er … what more am I to confirm?” Harry asked.

“Harry, just how closely did you look at those pictures of Cho that you showed me before … well you know…?” Hermione had to ask, but she remained extremely uncomfortable about that whole incident.

“Not all that much. Just seeing it was Cho pretty much knocked me for a loop,” Harry confessed. “I was never much for that kind of stuff anyway…. Seamus had some….”

“That's quite enough, Harry,” Hermione cut across. She took a deep breath. “Okay, does she shave?”

“Shave? Why?” Harry asked, looking genuinely perplexed. “She's a girl.”

Rather than rolling her eyes yet again, Hermione looked around. Confirming that nobody was watching them - and especially that the aforementioned Mr. Vaisey remained thoroughly behind that privacy curtain (and her Silencing Charm) - Hermione took his hand. Pressing it against herself, she hissed in his ear. “Did she shave here?”

Without Hermione leaning against him, Harry might have fallen out of bed. Once he composed himself, he confessed, “I-I don't know.”

“You don't remember whether she's shaved herself or not?” Hermione asked, instinctively keeping her voice low.

“Not really, no.”

“Do you remember how she was in the pictures?” Hermione followed up.

“Not really, no.”

“Well, I guess I'll strike that supposed fantasy off the list, then.”

* * * *

Author's notes: The magical computer delivery will be important

The postcode, SW1A 9 3/4AA, is a play on British government postcodes, with the wizard “9 3/4” substituted for the integers that differentiate the House of Commons, from the Palace, from Number 10 Downing, etc.

We know Hermione writes regularly to her Muggle parents, so there has to be some interface with the Muggle system. This is my take on that

“A few bricks shy of a load” is a synonym for dumb, but I first heard the phrase as a book title about the Pittsburgh Steelers

Analytic Arithmancy is a play on analytic geometry; Arithmancy for Poets is a play on a class I had at Princeton, titled “Physics for Poets”

The chat with Fleur is the beginning of the end for Voldemort

Nobody knows how the Lust Powder got into the punch; some had decided to suspect Fleur

Fleur's statement about not acting carries with it a converse position

Laignel was just a French name picked at random

Hermione's comment about the destruction of the Bastille is accurate

I think it's an apt definition of harmony

Harmonic convergence is actually a New Age time concept. I swiped the name but left the concept

Synchronicity is another whifty concept, this time lifted from Jung

Fleur engages in tutoiement in getting Harry to wait

Dali is a Spanish painter known for his upswept mustache, as well as his venality

Ron's nudge and wink to Harry is inspired by a Monty Python routine

“[Name of team] Sux is a standard American sporting insult. “Yankees,” “Boston,” and “Dallas” are the most popular fill-ins around here

A Bowtruckle will figure later on

Ron's “most important thing you'll ever do” line is lifted from a Yale coach's speech to his team before “The Game” against Harvard

“Van Lingle Park” is a combination of two names that share “Mungo” in common

Harper was referring to the incident where Hermione broke Harry's leg in a duel

“You and what army?” is juvenile name-calling

The give and go is a standard basketball play

Harper's final insult to Jazzy was the wizard variant on “hewers of wood and drawers of water,” a biblical phrase for servants

Parkin's Pincer is not detailed in canon, so I've made something up

Air Ginny = Air Jordan, but slam dunking is a foul in Quidditch

Since Quidditch locker rooms seem to be coed, I've added an Obscurus Charm to keep things decent

Budvar is beer from the Czech Republic, courtesy of Seamus Finnegan, who largely grew up Muggle

Hogwartsade is a play on Gatorade

The Ginny-Cho confrontation, with Ginny on the receiving end, is intentionally parallel to (if more raunchy than) the Ginny-Ron confrontation in HBP

Full Ronald plays on “full monte”

Ginny unloaded on Harry with classic SING - solar plexus, instep, nose, and groin

“The pain was tremendous,” is a line from “Hofstra,” an old Bill Cosby routine involving the same pain source

“Face was a mess” derives from Rebel, Rebel, by Bowie

French Kilner jars are resealable jars mostly used in canning in the UK

56

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 11/18/2007

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60. All That's Golden Does Not Glitter

Wherein Snape relives painful memories and tries to send warning, Hermione tends to Harry, McGonagall metes out punishment, Harry and Hermione visit Harry's new Gringotts vault, Harry plans a good surprise, but Hermione finds a bad one, they visit a goblin Xanadu, Ginny gets criticized, and one of Snape's efforts gets shot down.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

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

Chapter 60 - All That Is Golden Does Not Glitter

Under the watchful eye of his master, the black-robed man studiously reviewed the Quick-Quotes Quill-generated list. After finishing, he lowered the parchment to his side with a carefully nuanced expression, just short of a scowl.

“So, Severus, how long do you require to collect these ingredients?” the Dark Lord inquired, his expression being all the more menacing by its complete absence.

“My Lord, this is a most unusual mix,” Snape answered. “The loadstone; a magnetised cauldron.… Those will not be a problem. I have, perhaps, two thirds of this ingredient list on hand. But oxytocin is a Muggle substance, so procuring it requires … special measures. Unicorn liver, and dragon blood - at least the indicated type of dragon blood - are so uncommon that the only place I've seen them routinely kept is at Hogwarts. And powdered sea blue chalcedony … that's rare, expensive and has very limited uses. Not much good for the Galleon. Nor is it feasible to keep Ashwinder eggs about, since they are so flammable that they are typically kept submerged in a cauldron of tetrachloromethane, and we move about too often for that to be safe.”

“I didn't ask for excuses, Severus,” the Dark Lord spoke with frightening precision. “I demanded a schedule.”

“Ten days, My Lord. Perhaps two weeks if my sources are unlucky,” Snape quickly responded. “But, Master, would it not be preferable for me to prepare personally a potion of this degree of difficulty? You yourself have said that I am the best there is at brewing.”

Lord Voldemort pondered the suggestion. “You are correct in general, but as you know, I prefer to separate my operations so that, if one is … betrayed … the others may proceed.”

Snape paused at his Master's ominous mention of betrayal. “My involvement in any operation is your decision,” he continued. “All I wish is to ensure that a complex potion is brewed correctly so as to enhance the success of whatever you have planned….”

“Quite right,” the Dark Lord replied, “but I'm afraid not in this instance. After all, what would you know about brewing a Love Potion?” As the last few syllables escaped his pale lips, he rounded suddenly on Snape and fixed him with his eyes.

At the same instant Snape knew - knew that, somehow, Lord Voldemort was aware that he, Snape, had created this particular potion. To appear to resist the Dark Lord's Legilimency was a death sentence. Snape had no choice but to surrender the memory.

Snape briefly relived that moment as his recollection responded to the Dark Lord's summons. A disturbed and vengeful sixth-year version of himself squirrelled away in the wee hours of the morning - frantically working, alone by candlelight, in the recesses of an otherwise dark and deserted Hogwarts Potions dungeon.

The pieces of parchment strewn about, many crumpled into tiny, tight balls, were testament to his frustration. Surrounding the young man were various potions ingredients or combinations - some quite unusual. A huge Potions encyclopÃ¦dia lay open in front of the teenaged Snape. Every now and then, he scribbled something furiously with his quill.

In what amounted to a fit of spite, Severus Snape created the most subtle, most insidious Love Potion ever brewed. He intended to use it on the witch who had spurned him.

He had prepared it - once - and even tested it. As a result, the romance of “KateandSpence,” a pair of seventh years so thoroughly involved with one another that the entire Castle believed their marriage was inevitable, was destroyed by her infidelity with one of Snape's Slytherin roommates. The potion had worked, inducing a virtually irresistible sexual urge - precisely the effect Snape had sought to create.

But that turned out to be the only time the potion had ever been concocted. It had certain physical limitations … the ley lines…. And there was a moral issue….

For reasons both practical and philosophical, never fully sorted out, Snape could not bring himself to use his creation on its intended target. Now, caught up in his much Darker life, he had not given this particular potion any thought in many years. Snape had no use for romantic love any longer, or for potions that could mimic or manipulate that emotion.

“So - this supposedly `ultimate' Love Potion was your invention, after all,” Lord Voldemort pronounced when he was done.

“All you needed do is ask, Master,” Snape answered as evenly his gasping for breath permitted. “From the ingredients, I suspected that it might have been the one. That is why I offered my assistance.”

Lord Voldemort appeared almost to smile. “As well you should have. Mixing Oxytocin with Tinctura Nucis VomicÃ¦ as a catalysing agent under the influence of a magnetic field was a true stroke of genius…”

Snape allowed himself to breathe again.

“…but the presence of a Muggle picture of Lily Evans disturbs me.”

With that Lord Voldemort launched his second surprise Legilimency attack upon Severus Snape in less than a minute.

Again, Snape could only hope that his preparations - the one memory that Albus Dumbledore had helped him remove entirely - would save his life. He could not even attempt to resist the Master, not if he hoped to live.

The Dark Lord's power tore images loose from Snape's mental recesses. Flashbacks, at once taunting and tantalising, passed through the servile one's mind.

A tomboyish third-year Lily Evans in the Great Hall, being surreptitiously watched from three house tables away….

The same thing recurring a year later in the library - but with Lily recognising it for what it was. Her rising, approaching, and asking, “You've hardly said one word to me since we were sorted…. But if you're going to look at me that way, I might as well try making your reacquaintance. Remember me? I'm Lily Evans….” Snape looking like he could barely remember his own name….

Giving each other Potions tips….

A stolen kiss behind the greenhouses. Lily looking shocked, but not displeased….

Another kiss, only partially stolen this time, in the otherwise deserted Potions classroom….

An attempted visit with Lily over the summer holiday going awry as Snape hexes Petunia Evans….

A reconciliation, and another kiss, not at all stolen. Her giving him the picture….

Lily challenging Snape's stated desire not to be seen with her in public. Their argument. Her calling Snape a coward. Him calling her a Mudblood. Her slapping him and stalking off….

Snape attempting to apologise to Lily. Just when he might be making headway, feeling a harsh hand on his shoulder. The memory ending abruptly….

His cauldron in ruins before him, Snape watching as Professor Slughorn praises Lily's potion. From behind him, hearing James Potter's stage whisper boasting that he had sabotaged Snape's potion. Alongside, Peter Pettigrew sniggering….

Lily ordering James to stop hexing Snape….

Returning to London on the Hogwarts Express. Stumbling upon James and Lily in one of the compartments….

Deep into creating the ultimate Love Potion, a tired and haggard Snape stopping to contemplate Lily's picture….

Snape wadding up the Daily Prophet society page after reading about James Potter declaring for Lily….

Another issue of the Daily Prophet bursting into flame after Snape reads of their engagement. Joining the Death Eaters shortly thereafter….

The night Lily died, confronting her in Harry's nursery. His misdirected Stunner flashing by her. Her screaming, “You evil bastard!” Trying to Disapparate a bit too late, as she fires a Reductor at him. Her superior aim, and his getting hit in the leg just as he vanishes….

Finally the Dark Lord had seen enough. He terminated his Legilimency and an exhausted Snape fell to the floor.

“Interesting,” the Dark Lord hissed. “So she was the reason for your decision to serve me?”

“Yes, My Lord,” Snape mumbled from a kneeling position. “I would gladly have told you all, but you've always said you're not….”

“Interested in my followers' motives, as long as you give me complete obeisance,” Lord Voldemort finished. “Again, in general quite true…. But under the circumstances, an exception should probably have been made. A romance with the mother of the boy….”

The Dark Lord circled. Snape's breath caught in his throat. Was he a dead man?

“…And what of the memory that you cut off?” came the next question.

“I didn't. It was … Dumbledore,” Snape hastened to explain. He had no chance if the Dark Lord thought he had resisted. “The rest of the recollection no longer exists. For the sake of harmony within the Order, last year Dumbledore ordered me to purge my memory of confrontations with Sirius Black. I sent word of that to you at the time.”

“Yes…. Very well,” Voldemort replied slowly. He seemed to accept Snape's explanation. Then his ruddy eyes fixed upon him again. “But I don't recall inviting you along for the Godric's Hollow mission. Separate operations, you know. Why?”

“I thought I had missed a signal and was failing you,” Snape struggled. “When I found out … from Avery … there was no time to check. I made a split-second decision to serve you actively. So I went….”

Snape felt the Dark Lord's Legilimency rip into him again. A small, tightly concealed portion of his mind thought, `Now comes the ultimate test of Dumbledore's precautions.'

The memory now being extracted began with an upset and hurried Snape Apparating outside of the Potter house. The attack was already in progress. No sooner had he arrived than the protective wards surrounding the place fell. Voldemort was engaging James Potter at the front of the house. Through side windows Snape saw Lily rush upstairs to what he presumed was the nursery. Snape Apparated inside.

“Lily stop,” Snape's anguished voice rang out. “It's all over. The Dark Lord is here and will not be denied.”

Lily, who was beside Harry's crib, whirled around, her wandtip glowing and her eyes wide with surprise. Spotting him, her eyes narrowed and grew spiteful. After the slightest pause, Snape relived the memory of her cursing him. The scene ended with Snape, badly injured, collapsing after Apparating back outside.

“As you see, I attempted to assist by capturing Lily Potter,” Snape forced out. “However, I failed you. I was over-anxious and under-prepared. I deserve your punishment….”

“Nonsense,” the Dark Lord brushed his servant's mea culpa aside. “You made the attempt, and in the end it changed nothing. But, I confess as well. You were deliberately excluded from that mission, given your history with that Mudblood. Avery should not have let things slip…. Were he still with us, he would be punished. However, I suppose Bella was mistaken. You are dismissed.”

Suppressing all emotion, Snape nodded and turned to go.

“Wait.”

Snape stopped in his tracks. Was the Dark Lord playing with him again? Had the Headmaster's excellent, but imperfect, precautions failed? Was he yet again a dead man?

“To answer your original question,” Snape heard from behind his back. “No, you cannot brew your ultimate Love Potion, even though you undoubtedly could do it better. Again, it is not part of your assignment. Is that clear?”

“Absolutely, My Lord,” Snape replied without turning around.

“Then return to your assigned tasks,” he heard the Dark Lord order.

* * * *

Hermione downed a quick breakfast of marmalade toast and a ham-and-cheese omelette. Always solicitous of Harry's welfare, she collected some food for him. Confined by Madame Pomfrey to his dormitory room for a mandatory lie in, Harry's convalescence would not be complete until well after breakfast.

Still, that beat hell out of the alternative.

Taking informal roll as she left the Great Hall, Hermione ticked off Ron (sitting at the Ravenclaw table with Cho), along with Dean, and Seamus, who had just entered.

She completed her roll by greeting Neville in the common room, where he was only a few inches into their three-foot essay for Professor Flitwick on Orientation Charms. Both she and Harry had, of course, finished, since it largely duplicated one of their Auror lessons.

“Hi, Neville, we need to talk about Professor McGonagall's changes to the patrolling schedule,” she mentioned.

“Can it wait?” Neville replied in a pleading voice. “I'm going to be at least another two-and-a-half hours at this bloody essay.”

“No problem, Neville,” Hermione said with a smile. “No problem at all.”

Up the stairs she vanished, leaving Neville to his work.

“Harry?” she called out tentatively as she brought her breakfast offering into the sixth-year boys' dormitory.

“Hey, Hermione,” Harry replied sleepily. “It smells like you brought me some breakfast. Thanks.”

“Don't thank me yet,” she told him.

“Why?”

“Because you have to wait to eat,” Hermione reminded him. She flicked out her wand. “Temperatus.” She cast a Warming Charm on the plate and its contents.

Harry groaned and flopped back on his bed.

“First, you have to apply that,” she added, pointing to the bottle of bluish salve. “Thoroughly, over the entire affected area, remember? Madam Pomfrey's orders.”

“Oh … right,” Harry grudgingly agreed. He looked rather self conscious. “Er … do you want to stay for this?”

“Stay?” Hermione regarded at him with a tight little smile. “Well, since I am a Healer in training, I was rather hoping you'd let me do it.”

Sudden warmth spread throughout Harry's “affected area,” and the waistband on his pyjama bottoms grew rather tight. In the semidarkness, that odd smile of hers broadened into a sly grin. He choked out, “Oh hell yeah….”

Hermione climbed in and charmed the bed curtains shut. She picked up the jar whilst sliding under the sheets next to him. “Oh, goody,” she said theatrically. “Peppermint is one of the main ingredients.”

A bemused Harry asked, “You … you checked that out last night, didn't you?”

Hermione had already smeared the bluish salve on her hands. She waggled all her fingers at him suggestively. “So what if I did…? Now, go ahead, take those off….”

Some time later Hermione, having borrowed Harry's Invisibility Cloak, slipped down the stairs from the sixth-year boys' dormitory and into her own. From there she planned upon soon making a normal, unaffected appearance.

She had not counted on encountering Avvie, who was sorting out some star charts on her bed. So, Hermione diverted to the loo, rather than her sleeping quarters. She ignored the mirror's prurient comments whilst using old fashioned shampoo to remove peppermint remnants that had survived her Cleansing Charms.

In the future, she would keep her hair well away from Madam Pomfrey's salves.

As Hermione descended the stairs (with as much normalcy as she could muster) she witnessed a strange scene.

Ginny had evidently been lying in wait for Harry. Practically weeping with remorse, she rushed at him the moment he appeared.

“Oh, Merlin, Harry, I'm so sorry! I still can't believe I did that to you!” she wailed. “I don't know what came over me. I was just so angry that when you pulled me away like that I just snapped….”

Under the redhead's onslaught, Harry sought to retreat. “Ginny … I … uh….”

Ginny, however, seemed oblivious to Harry's reticence - hesitation that Hermione judged altogether understandable. Ginny had injured Harry in a peculiarly personal and private fashion.

Now, many of their housemates were looking on with keen interest, hoping to learn exactly what had upset Ginny.

And that girl was relentless. “Can you ever forgive me? Please don't kick me off the team! I'll serve water duty for the rest of the term, with no whingeing….”

Hermione knew that Ginny and her brother were not exactly on the best of terms even before this latest incident. Undoubtedly, Ron would be more than willing to get shot of Ginny - but he would need Harry's concurrence, as co-captain, to do that.

Being sacked from the team was probably Ginny's worst fear, Hermione surmised. As she made her way across the common room to rescue Harry - and hopefully to quiet Ginny's carrying on before she let slip something embarrassing.

Hermione never made it to Harry. Instead, the common room door flew open with a shriek from the Fat Lady, and in strode Professor McGonagall - an air of icy disdain on her face. She took one look at Harry and demanded, “Potter, come with me.”

Before the rest of the Gryffindors could relax, she declared, “I want the entire house Quidditch team assembled here by the time we get back,” she snipped, her voice as cold as her countenance.

That stifled Ginny more effectively than anything Hermione could possibly have done.

Without awaiting further orders, Neville and Romilda (who had also been enjoying the show) shot for the dormitory stairs to roust out any team members they could find. Several of their housemates bolted out the door to search the Great Hall, the library, and the remainder of the Castle if necessary. An angry Minerva McGonagall was not to be trifled with.

Professor McGonagall did not even bother taking Harry to her office. They entered the nearest vacant classroom. As his Head of House Imperturbed the door, Harry rather rebelliously asked, “What am I being accused of now?”

Suddenly expressionless, the professor stared down her spectacles at Harry. “Why nothing, Potter. I just have a few questions for you about the team.”

Harry relaxed just a bit.

Bad move.

“For example, I'd like an explanation of Cho Chang's presence in the Gryffindor team dressing room after yesterday's match - and of why she was fighting with Miss Weasley.”

Harry broke into a cold sweat. He was trapped. Somehow, Professor McGonagall knew everything.

“Umm … er … because I … er … made a mistake … I guess,” Harry finally choked out.

“Oh come now, Potter,” Professor McGonagall responded, in a voice relatively mild for her - when she was angry. “Give your elders some credit and stop the poppycock. As Deputy Headmistress I receive reports on all student admissions to the Hospital Wing. From that, it was hardly difficult to put two and two together, especially since the circumstances of your own injuries were fully disclosed. Thus I find it hard to believe that you bear any responsibility for what took place.”

“But if I hadn't let him, Ron wouldn't have done it,” Harry persisted. “He couldn't have.”

“No, I suppose he couldn't,” Professor McGonagall replied evenly. “But active and passive fault are quite different.”

Harry could guess the reason that McGonagall was making nice (for her) with him, and he did not like it one bit. “I'm not so sure about that,” he responded. Preemptively, he added, “And it really doesn't matter anyway, since I'll sooner quit the team than replace Ron as captain.”

Professor McGonagall visibly tensed. Her lips thinned, and she no longer minced words. “Potter, you know as well as I that what Mister Weasley did yesterday was a disgrace to Gryffindor House - and that this was hardly the first time he….”

“I know that Ron very nearly Kept a shut out against Slytherin, and that we won by over 500 points. Oliver Wood never did either of those things,” Harry resisted almost defiantly. “And I also know that, if I did what you want, Ron would never speak to me again…. I can't let that happen. It's just that Ron….”

“Mister Potter,” Professor McGonagall almost shrieked, “must you always go about tidying up Mister Weasley's messes? Think about house pride. For a Quidditch captain to entertain the opposite sex in the team's own office, and from another House….”

Again Harry cut off his Head of House. She could punish him all she liked; he was not going to do this. “I'm sorry, but friendship is more important than house pride,” he declared flatly. “Ron's sick, not right, and he has nothing else to keep him going.”

“I don't believe Mister Weasley is sick - except perhaps with lust,” Professor McGonagall dismissed the notion. “I want you as sole interim Quidditch captain.”

“I can't. I've neither time nor inclination. I'll resign from the team first,” Harry informed her. “You - you have no idea what happened to Ron in the Department of Mysteries. I only found out from the Unspeakables over the summer….”

Harry promptly told Professor McGonagall what he knew about Ron's encounter with the brain, or more specifically, how Ron became a target of the primary defence mechanism of Mystery Intelligence Unit Six.

Although somewhat mollified, Professor McGonagall was still not convinced. “I'm not sure I believe you, Potter,” she resisted, “and it's not an excuse for….”

“You didn't believe me the last time, either,” Harry replied hotly. “And what did you find out? I told the truth after all. You know, if you think I'm such a liar, maybe you should drop me from the team instead….”

A tense silence filled the room for several seconds as McGonagall mulled what to do.

Professor McGonagall backed down. “No, Potter, I think not.”

If she sacked Weasley, he might react in some even more self-destructive fashion, possibly jeopardizing his future. Nor did Potter need such a sideshow, particularly if the Headmaster's concerns over the boy's fate were accurate. More selfishly - if Potter quit, how many other team members might follow? Gryffindor might not even be able to field a team - let alone one capable of yesterday's demolition of arch-rival Slytherin.

With some reluctance (“he should get professional help, not sex therapy”) Professor McGonagall agreed not to dismiss Ron as captain.

Potter's loyalty to his friends, albeit rather misplaced on this occasion, was an excellent attribute in these dangerous times.

But that was the extent of her concession.

The entire team was assembled in the common room when Professor McGonagall returned, trailed by a rather wrung-out looking Harry Potter. Pausing only to shoo all non-team members out of earshot, she drew herself up to full height and launched into a diatribe.

“I understand that, following yesterday's match, a rather prolonged incident occurred in the Gryffindor team quarters - an incident casting shame upon both the team and upon this House. I shall not have it. If anything of the sort happens again, I will personally mete out a proper punishment, even if Gryffindor must forfeit the rest of the season. Do I make myself clear?”

A few grumbled assents were heard, along with a great deal more nervous shuffling of feet. The Head of House carried on.

“Ronald Weasley!”

The accused snapped to attention, his face approximating the colour of his hair.

“You were the instigator and primary offender. Your conduct is plainly unbecoming of a team Captain. Were a satisfactory replacement available…”

McGonagall turned her head and glared at Harry.

“…I would happily have sacked you. As it were, you are on probation. Any more incidents from you, Mister Weasley, and I mean infractions upon team discipline of any sort, you will be off the team, and perhaps expelled from this School. Further, you will serve detention with Mister Filch for the next two weeks.”

“Ginevra Weasley!”

Another red-haired head stiffened.

“Your role in this incident inflicted injuries upon two students - serious enough to send both to the Hospital Wing. Members of my House will not resort to low fisticuffs, or worse. You are therefore also on probation. You have detention, with me, for a week.”

“Harry Potter!”

Harry's attention fixed exclusively on McGonagall. He did not hear his teammates' surprised gasps. Nobody had thought he would receive any punishment.

“Without your acquiescence, none of this would have happened. You, too, failed in your responsibility as team Captain. Detention with Professor Slughorn for a week - but not next week, the week after.”

“Nor did any of the rest of you see fit to report anything to me or to any other member of the staff. As punishment for your complicit silence, all of you will report, at the crack of dawn on Saturday, a week hence, to Professor Hagrid. Under his supervision, you will muck out Hogwarts' stables and holding pens - without using magic.”

There was a pause. Was she finished?

No.

“Also, I am docking one hundred House Points for this incident.”

With that, Professor McGonagall turned her back upon her stunned audience and made for the portrait hole.

In anticipation, the Fat Lady moved as far out of the way as she could. But before she exited, Professor McGonagall turned and once again faced the now dispersing Gryffindor team. They regarded her suspiciously, wondering what additional blow was to fall.

“One final thing,” she declared. “You played an outstanding match against Slytherin, beating them more soundly than I can remember since I first came to Hogwarts as a little girl. I therefore award you all one hundred House Points.”

With that, she left.

* * * *

A shaken Severus Snape returned to his quarters. Using one of his aliases -Chipley Broome, manager of a licensed potions facility on the Isle of Wight - he prepared ingredients lists to send to several likely suppliers.

Snape had expected truly thought he would die during his last encounter with the Dark Lord. Dumbledore's precaution, taken years ago, had excised several memories from his mind with great precision. The Headmaster's work had been excellent, but not perfect.

Snape had seen the glitch, but providentially the Dark Lord had missed it.

When Snape's final encounter with Lily Potter began, minutes before her death, Harry's crib had been to Lily's left (from his perspective). When she had cursed him, however, the crib had been to her right. The patch job - although as good as it possibly could have been - thus was not seamless.

Although he now lacked any first-hand recollection, Snape knew what had transpired during the wiped-out memory. He had informed Lily that the Dark Lord meant to kill James and baby Harry, but was not interested in her. She had accused him of trading them for her. Not bothering to deny it, he had begged her to let him help her escape. He even offered to try to hide the baby. She refused to leave James, believing (not altogether wrongly) that Snape's motives were less than pure. Time ran out, and in desperation he had tried to stun her.

Back to the present.

The Dark Lord was not as perfect as his high opinion of himself. Voldemort had watched Snape's memory of Lily so intently that he missed the subtle background change. That diversion had saved Snape's life.

A shudder ran through his body. Giving his head a vigorous shake, Snape returned to the task at hand. He had to use regular owls. Both the Dark Lord and the intended recipient would be suspicious if he employed any form of concealment.

But Snape also had to alert Dumbledore to this new scheme afoot - one involving a powerful and virtually undetectable Love Potion that less than a handful of people even knew existed. Snape kicked himself for never telling the Headmaster about this potion, but it had been (he thought) ancient history - a dirty little secret, with a belatedly discovered flaw, that need never be revealed.

He had been wrong.

Somehow the recipe, which he had written down but twice, had fallen into the hands of the Dark Lord.

What could possibly have happened? Snape wracked his brain.

He had transcribed the formula onto parchment in a legible form. Then, realizing too late the spatial limitations of ley line interference, he binned it shortly after graduation. The original copy, hastily scribbled into the back of his Potions textbook during that fateful all night session, was irretrievably lost decades ago. That book had been in his possession through his last Potions class of Sixth Year. Then, he went to Budapest for a summer Potions apprenticeship (and to get away from home). Unpacking his things in that strange city, he noticed the book had gone missing. He never saw it again.

It could have been lost in the castle. It could have been lost on the way to Spinner's End, where he had stopped briefly before saying what turned out to be (he had not realised it at the time) his final farewell to his parents. It could have been lost at any of several of transit points across the continent.

But somewhere, someone possessed a copy of his handiwork. In his present straits, Snape could do nothing more Snape to investigate.

All he could do was try to warn the Order, despite their (and his) being watched by the Dark Lord's minions.

Snape did the best he could.

Inside the order he placed for potions ingredients with his best supplier, Scarpin's Potions for All Purposes, Snape enclosed a second sealed envelope. That envelope was addressed to Ambrosius Flume, owner of the Honeydukes, the Hogsmeade confectionery. Although not an Order member, Flume could be trusted to deliver a note to Dumbledore.

At the bottom of his potion ingredients order, Snape scrawled, to the recipient:

I have a second order to place, but unfortunately only one post owl at the moment. Kindly forward this owl on to the addressee herein, and charge the additional owl delivery fee to my account.

Snape could only hope that his warning got through.

* * * *

The appointment Harry and Hermione had made to visit Gringotts was upon them. That Harry would have to inspect his new, single-digit numbered vault was inevitable. Hermione would have quite preferred that Harry to go without her, but he had requested her presence.

Hermione would never refuse Harry, and did not. But she did demand her own concession in return.

Not only would they be entirely safe whilst in goblin custody, they would be away from Hogwarts and its prying eyes. For several hours, after finishing with his vault, they could have complete privacy.

She knew what she wanted to do with that private time.

A quid pro quo.

As her price for accompanying him, Hermione asked Harry to arrange for the goblins to provide get them with a secluded room.

Harry all but tripped over himself in his haste to agree.

Hermione let the matter drop. Harry could not. He had sporadic communication with the goblins about arrangements for a couple of weeks. Now the day had finally arrived.

The weather was foul, rainy, and raw, so Dumbledore provided a Hogwarts carriage to take the pair to Hogsmeade. Having been evicted from Hogwarts, the commander of Harry's goblin guard, Slamdor, had re-established some sort of headquarters there.

Ensconced in the carriage, surrounded by both heavy rain and heavy guard, Hermione could finally ask Harry the question that had puzzled her ever since Professor McGonagall had ordered everyone save Quidditch team members out of the common room.

“Whatever happened in there, Harry? Everyone looked so out of sorts afterwards, but nobody would say anything to anyone, except `team business'.”

Harry told her what transpired. After that he moaned. “It was terrible. Everybody thinks I grassed to McGonagall, but she already knew. Pomfrey not only passed along my version of events, but Ginny and Cho's stories were as well. I thought that kind of stuff was, well, private….”

“Afraid not, Harry,” Hermione replied sympathetically. “Hogwarts stands in loco parentis until you're seventeen. Remember what happened with my mum. Even afterwards, Madam Pomfrey is supposed to inform the staff about anything relevant to disciplinary matters - unless both students and parents sign an EU-compliant nonwaiver declaration.”

“Oh, great,” Harry muttered. “And how did the know-it-all, love of my life learn this?”

“It's in the first appendix to Hogwarts, A History, Harry,” she answered whilst burrowing under his arm and cuddling closer to him. “That's another reason you should finally sit down and read that book. Anyway, what are you going to do about things?”

“I'm not sure if I can do anything about it,” Harry muttered disgustedly. “Ron knows - McGonagall damn sure let him know - that he'd have been sacked as Captain if I'd been willing to take the job. You know how much he hates to feel in my debt. He's furious, especially since my slip up caused everything….”

“That's not true, Harry, and you know it,” Hermione disagreed. “Ron's problem is that he can't keep his hands off Cho, and for reasons that need no further discussion, that's perfectly all right with her. Even when he apologised to me for his own conduct, he still can't bear to hear anything about her.”

“So I've heard,” Harry commented with a scowl. “Ron told me. I'd been on him pretty hard to do that. Are you satisfied with it?”

“Well, sort of,” Hermione sighed. “He apologised for the nastier things he said about me. But he still won't let bygones be bygones unless I do the same to Cho. I told him I won't, and that he'd be better off reassessing their relationship. He stomped off again, but at least he didn't call me any more names.”

“Well, I guess that's progress,” Harry allowed.

“Not nearly enough,” Hermione responded with a sniff. “Anyway, enough of him. How are things on the other Weasley front?”

Harry made a face and shook his head. “Ginny's almost as bad, except that I think she's more embarrassed than hacked off. After McGonagall's team meeting, she couldn't even stand to be around me today - not that that's a bad thing.”

“I suppose not,” Hermione agreed. “Although I think the two of us agree about Ron's girlfriend.”

“Be thankful for small favours. I've got detention every day next week,” Harry glumly changed the subject.

That bothered Hermione the most of anything he said. Deep down, she was not unhappy that everyone … well, Ron, anyway … thought Harry had spilled the beans. Anything that might lead Ron to reconsider Cho was fine by her. But detention - that meant she would have even less time with Harry for a week.

“With whom?” Hermione asked.

“Damn suck-up Slughorn,” Harry grumbled, “and not this week, but next.”

“That's odd,” Hermione wondered. “Why wait? It's not like Slughorn's ever away from the Castle, since he's scared to death of He Who … Voldemort. Besides, it won't be that bad. As you said, he loves sucking up to you.”

“Dunno,” Harry sighed. “Don't much care, either.”

The carriage, with an escort of a half dozen bouncing boulders, was now rolling into Hogsmeade. Harry and Hermione gazed out the window, wondering where the goblins had their new headquarters.

“Bet it's the Shrieking Shack,” Harry guessed. “Nobody much goes there.”

“I doubt it,” Hermione disagreed. “Something tells me that your leathery friends are a bit more creative than that.”

As usual, Hermione was right. With a goblin at the reins, their carriage turned away from the direction of the Shrieking Shack and soon came to a halt in front of….

“Why this is the old wax museum,” Hermione realised as the carriage doors opened and a goblin with a footstool rushed forward to facilitate the debouche of the prince and his consort. Behind the goblin loomed a large rainshield - resembling an oversized brolly without a handle - moving towards the carriage, seemingly of its own accord.

“Sure is,” Harry agreed. “That makes sense. They I'd bought it, and when I didn't do anything with it, I guess they decided to move in.”

Ever the gentleman (when he tried), Harry let Hermione step out first. She swung a vaguely familiar beaded bag over her shoulder and exited, under shelter of the goblins' rainshield.

“Haven't seen you use that before,” Harry mentioned as he hopped down to the soggy turf after her.

“The bag? Oh, it was a birthday present from Su Li,” Hermione told him. “She's clever, but doesn't have many friends, so I got her a little gift last year. We so rarely go out that I don't have much chance….”

“Impratraxis! Savini! For out of the rain this way to get.”

Slamdor approached them at a trot from what used to be the entrance to the shop portion of the building. The alert goblin even remembered Harry's distaste for prostration rituals - no doubt helped by the muddiness of the turf.

The old, frequently vacant building on one of Hogsmeade's lesser side streets retained its unassuming exterior. Inside, however, it was completely redone, mostly as a goblin military barracks. Slamdor indicated that the premises also had a vastly enlarged cellar.

For once, Harry's dithering paid off. Despite Blackie Howe's persistent requests for instructions, he had never bothered to decide what to do with this place. He was pleased that the goblins had found a use for it.

Slamdor led the pair to His commander's quarters - a belowground suite of rooms much more elegantly furnished than the rest of the building. Slamdor opened a pair of French doors, and Harry and Hermione came face-to-face with one of the goblins' floor-to-ceiling transport mirrors.

Slamdor strode to the control sphere, rotated it this way and that, and bade them, “Enter, may you. Within Gringotts emerge will you.”

Harry and Hermione easily stepped through the shiny surface, which rippled as they passed. Otherwise, they felt nothing.

Goblin transportation was far superior to either the Floo or Apparition.

They emerged and were welcomed by Glaksosmit, who was responsible for all Gringotts' Wizard Estate matters and - if further indication of goblin esteem for Harry were necessary - by Klamdok, Managing Director of the entire bank.

“Asak, Harry Potter,” Klamdok greeted.

“Asakisim,” Harry replied. “This is more honour than I deserve. Surely you have more important business than showing us a new vault.”

“Every day hosting Impratraxis not in the habit are we,” Klamdok answered. “And to you Asakisim as well, Savini Hermione.”

Hermione joined in the introductions, as did Glaksosmit. Notwithstanding Klamdok's politesse, the Managing Director would not be participating in the actual vault visit. For one thing, he was old and fat, and might get in the way.

“To supervise signings and distribution only, good for am I,” Klamdok remarked.

“What's to sign or distribute?” Harry asked.

“New security directives to activate,” Klamdok explained. “Wishes of the Impratraxis to effectuate must I. Then the keys to distribute.” Klamdok snapped his sharp pointed fingers and a previously unnoticed goblin stepped forward from the shadows. He carried a folder of parchments, a pair of quills, and for Harry a platter of hot, semi-liquid sealing wax.

The papers were mostly routine, but one of them halted Hermione. “What does this language mean?” she asked pointedly.

“Provide to you an ownership interest in the entire account maintained by Impratraxis Potter at the Bank it does, and conversely that the same interest in the entirety of your account has he,” Klamdok explained.

“Entire and undivided?” Hermione followed.

“Correct,” Klamdok confirmed.

“But that's a marriage financial arrangement, isn't it?” Hermione pressed, worrying it the goblins somehow knew, or even if Harry had done something without telling her….

“Correct,” Klamdok repeated. His explanation assuaged Hermione's concerns. “By goblin magic does operate Gringotts security, and recognise not do we any category between Savini and courtesan or concubine as describe would you. By such persons impossible is complete access.”

“Right, they're quastri,” Hermione remembered.

Klamdok flinched just a bit. He had not anticipated Hermione knowing the Gobbledygook term.

Hermione turned to her secret fiancÃ©. “Are you comfortable with this, Harry?”

“As long as it doesn't get out and encourage Ministry interference, I've no problem,” he answered after some thought.

“Of that, no fear should have you,” Klamdok responded confidently. “Internal Gringotts security issue this is, on no formal document will appear will anything appear. More than any wizard or Muggle institution jealously our secrets guard we.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances and smiled. Then they signed the documents. When he finished, Harry leaned over and gave Hermione a little kiss. “It's only a matter of time,” he whispered in her ear.

With the documents executed, Klamdok motioned to Glaksosmit, and the latter produced two boxes each the size of a pen and pencil set. With a bow he presented one to each of them. “Ready are your keys. To activate, Impratraxis, please both of them take and touch simultaneously to your tladimax and your manmak.”

The boxes contained identical gleaming silver keys with three-sided pins. Lacking tumbler cuts, each side bore a unique pattern of circularly machined indentations. The keys' bows were inverted chevrons, but they had an odd colour scheme, that of a well-known Muggle flag.

“Why Germany?” Hermione asked in puzzlement.

“What Germany?” Glaksosmit responded, thrown by the question.

“Our keys are the colour of the German flag,” Hermione pointed out, “black, red and, I guess, gold.”

She heard the raspy sound of a goblin chuckle. “Nothing of the sort. Signifies merger of the House of Black with the colours of Gryffindor does this design.”

“Oops, I should have caught that,” was Hermione's embarrassed reply. “And a bit of Slytherin silver as well?”

“Too soft would be silver,” Glaksosmit corrected. “Solid goblin-forged iridium are these. Last forever and much more difficult to counterfeit.”

“Oh,” she said, again. She was wrong a second consecutive time, a rarity.

Harry performed the required identification-activation charm. That ended Klamdok's role. After assuring Harry that every function and every employee of Gringotts was at the service of the young couple, the senior goblin graciously took his leave.

As one goblin left, another approached. “This, also for you is,” Glaksosmit said, indicating a sheaf of official-looking papers he carried under one arm. “Should any questions have you.”

It was time to visit the vault.

Glaksosmit called on them to follow. “Impratraxis Potter and … er … Sav… Hermione Hermione, this way. In readiness everything is, with Impratraxis' directions in accordance.”

Sensing the goblin's uncertainty, Hermione set him at ease. “You may call me Savini like everyone else, Glaksosmit. It seems so much a goblin habit, that I've given up trying to change it.”

“Thank you, Savini. That is it,” the goblin responded as the party moved steadily towards a large door at the end of the hallway. “Most appropriate certainly is it, since came back confirmatory the tests.”

“What tests?” Hermione asked.

“Verified your purity did they,” Glaksosmit revealed. “From Slamdor's … er … evidence, as is traditional.”

“Oh Merlin, you mean you actually tested the sheets?” Hermione squealed, catching Harry's attention.

Harry now knew why he responded suspiciously to Slamdor's request that evening.

“As is tradition,” Glaksosmit confirmed. “With flying colours, passed you.”

“Why would you do that?” Harry broke in. “I didn't ask.” He was not happy. His goblin friends, it seemed, were as preoccupied with “purity” as the Wizengamot - judging by that transcript Dumbledore had recommended he read.

Sensing Harry's displeasure immediately, Glaksosmit prostrated himself. “Necessary to obey your instructions your vault to grant Savini access, Impratraxis,” he whimpered from his prone position.

“Anyor,” Harry demanded. “I'd say `please,' but I know that doesn't help with goblins.”

Glaksosmit scrambled to his feet.

“Go on, please,” Harry requested as the party started moving again.

“The charms available to protect the vaults, especially large ones like yours, ancient are they,” Glaksosmit explained. “Certain prerequisites require they. As was explained, your requests concerning Savini Hermione's access rights translated properly could only be in the context of the options allowed by our magic.”

“And with no effective option short of marriage, I had to pass some sort of marriage test?” Hermione broke in.

She was right this time.

“Correct, Savini,” Glaksosmit agreed, not knowing whether things were getting better or worse. “Old the spells are, as said I. Equally old is the test. Without it, impossible to provide the desired access was it.”

“I see,” said Harry evenly. “Does this mean that the Goblin Nation now regards us as husband and wife?” Harry was not sure whether he wanted the answer to be yes or no.

“No, Impratraxis, as has occurred no ceremony,” Glaksosmit explained. “But limited to Gringotts Bank security, that answer is yes.”

By now, they reached the door. “Special cart entrance?” Harry asked.

“No cart anymore, Impratraxis,” the goblin replied. “By private lift, are serviced the great vaults. Far more comfortable than carts are these - and more secure.” With exquisite timing the doors opened to reveal a spotless lift, with hardwood sides, a mirrored ceiling, and shiny, green marble flooring.

Glaksosmit continued. “In the future, from the main floor a lift may access you. Just your key to one of us show. Critical is your key. Observe.”

The goblin produced a third key. To their untrained eyes it appeared identical to what they had just received.

“The same as yours is this key, only not properly activated,” Glaksosmit explained as he inserted the key into the elevator's operating mechanism.

In an instant the floor simply vanished. Anyone in the elevator would have fallen to the bottom of the shaft.

Glaksosmit hastily removed the fake key and motioned Harry to insert his. He did, and the floor returned - just as solid as before.

“Had much longer waited I, automatically descend to the bottom would the car, and in boiling acid been immersed,” he explained. “Additional security in case of levitation - also the lift clean does keep it.”

An underling approached. Following the usual submissive gestures, he handed Glaksosmit several small metal instruments with black carved-stone handles. “What are those?” Harry asked.

“Albopitz,” was the reply. “But `Clankers' call them your kind. Dragons keep at bay when shake them you do.”

Glaksosmit gave his Clanker a vigorous shake. It made a surprisingly loud, high-pitched clanging sound, like a flock of fÃ¦ries banging on tiny anvils with tinier hammers.

“Ack,” Hermione groused about the racket. “Can we just get on with it, please?”

“A command is your wish,” agreed Glaksosmit.

Harry and Hermione made sure their goblin escort entered the lift before they got on. Only one button - the vault level - appeared on its control panel.

They emerged into much warmer air. “Dragon breath,” Glaksosmit announced cheerfully without being asked. “Its own dragon has each vault. This way is your vault,” he directed, pointing to a set of icons. Directional arrows pointed only to symbols. No other identifiers were present.

“Which one is mine?” Harry asked.

“Lightning bolt upon red and black background is your symbol,” Glaksosmit told him. “The prior symbol, a solid black square, replaces does it.”

Due to their size, these vaults were widely spaced. The goblin magic infusing everything recognised the pair as rightful owners. A glowing barrier followed them. That, along with occasional vigorous use of the Clankers, kept the guardian dragons for the intervening vaults well away from the party. Hermione could identify all the various species of dragons they passed until they reached Harry's vault.

There, the pair encountered something new - a two-headed, two-legged dragon, smaller, but quite high-strung in its behaviour. Its underbelly was tan, almost beige, but its upper scales were grey-green. It had black, batlike wings; intense yellow eyes; and a tail tipped with a red barb. When the dragon breathed, mist rather than smoke or fire emerged. Its tongue, flicking incessantly, was almost identical to, although smaller than, the tip of its tail.

“What's that?” they asked in unison, their Clankers raised in case it showed signs of aggression.

“Hmm,” Glaksosmit paused. “My department, not. Consult roster, let me.” The goblin pulled a device from beneath his waistcoat that resembled a three pronged divining rod. He placed it bodily against the nearby wall and turned it this way and that. He read the odd writing that appeared.

“Here says it, Wallachian Wyvern,” Glaksosmit told them. “Only recently has been possible them to train. By Charles Weasley achieved first was this feat. Him know you believe I.”

“Quite well,” Hermione chirped. She would have gone on about Charlie had Harry not inserted his key as indicated by Glaksosmit. A portion of the wall flickered and then dissolved like a mirage. What they saw inside stunned them both into silence.

Harry dropped his Clanker, but the sound it made did not register.

The vault was huge - more like a banquet hall than any bank vault either of them had ever seen. The entrance was offset to the right. On the left-hand side stretched row after row of multi-layered shelves, each a metre or more deep. They rose to a ceiling well over their heads.

The only comparable thing Harry had ever seen was the Hall of Prophecy.

To Hermione the expanse brought back memories of the great exhibition halls at Earls Court and Olympia where her parents had taken her to the Boat and Horse Shows.

The shelves groaned under the weight of huge brownish sacks of what both of them supposed was money. There were more sacks than they fancied ever counting.

There was a slow but steady clinking sound. “Compounding interest,” Glaksosmit replied when Hermione asked what that was.

On the near side of the vault, taking up no more than one-quarter of the total space, were miscellaneous desks stuffed with papers, cabinets full of knickknacks, armoires crammed with clothing, and display cases loaded with collectibles.

Interspersed amongst the furniture were just plain piles of stuff. One pile contained vases, flatware, and assorted dishes and other tableware. Another pile contained the mixed up components of several suits of armour. Some stacks were still covered with canvas - as if they had not been disturbed since being delivered, however many years ago that might have been.

Harry and Hermione finally had some idea of what a billion pounds (or at least a substantial fraction of that) might actually look like. At first, they simply walked around looking dazzled, but after a bit, they started asking questions.

“Is it Galleons in all of those bags?” Harry asked Glaksosmit after trying - and failing miserably - to count them.

“Yes, Impratraxis,” Glaksosmit answered quickly. “100,000 Galleons holds each bag. Of course, actually present are not all of the bags, as a lending institution is Gringotts. On loan are most deposited assets.”

“Well, which of those bags aren't really here?” Harry followed up.

“Sure of that will never be you,” Glaksosmit enigmatically replied.

“Huh?”

“As much as anywhere else, in your mind is the illusion,” the goblin continued. “Touch any bag may you. Feel it will you. Real will be it, relative to you.”

“How many of these bags are there, exactly?” Hermione asked.

Glaksosmit consulted a parchment-containing folder he pulled from under his arm. He thumbed through until finding what he sought. “Believe I, currently, one thousand, three hundred, and sixty one. On loan is the rest.”

“I've been looking around,” Hermione mentioned, “and whilst I've seen all sorts of armour, clothing, and assorted similar things, I'm surprised not to find any art - or any books.”

Harry gave her a knowing smile. It was so - Hermione - for her second question to be about books; he would have not have been surprised had it been her first.

Glaksosmit again shuffled through the parchments he carried. Extracting a couple, he told them, “Art, mostly in the ChÃ¢teau kept is it. At the ChÃ¢teau and in London both are books. See you, of houses mostly intact their contents. Moved to vaults have not they. Mostly of items that outlived their usefulness thought the Blacks, the inventory consists … such as these maps.” The goblin gestured towards a large, blocky wooden chest with dozens of wide and deep, but extremely low pull-out drawers.

Hermione stepped forward and randomly pulled open a drawer. “It's an old map, all right, but it's in Chinese.” Always fascinated by ancient documents, she opened another and another and another. “Finally, here's one that at least uses our alphabet,” she remarked, recognising a map of West Africa, with Portuguese place names.

Hermione recoiled and slid the drawer shut with authority. “Umm … how long have these maps been in here?”

Harry was rapidly losing interest in the maps as Glaksosmit rummaged through his folder of parchments again. Harry ambled towards the front of the vault, giving everything he passed a cursory once over. If he appeared to looking for something, he was.

“These maps … let's see … deposited here for safekeeping, in 1589 were they. Some dispute with the Muggle Crown was having the family. On our contemporaneous receipts, notations see I … `obsolete' and `traces of decaying magic.' More than that, cannot say I.”

“But why are so many of them Chinese … and of places like Patagonia?” Hermione asked as she moved away from what she considered a slaver's cache. “That makes no sense.”

All Glaksosmit could say was, “As good as mine, is your guess,” as he followed in Hermione's wake. She continued inspecting storage areas along the right-hand wall of the cavernous vault. The goblin changed course abruptly as he saw Harry beckoning to him. At the same time, Harry motioned for him not to tell Hermione.

Glaksosmit began easing away from Hermione, but at that moment she made to open an overstuffed armoire. It was full of garments that were no doubt the height of wizard fashion in the time of the Hundred Years War.

“Savini, please, not good idea in there to examine,” the goblin called out urgently.

She looked at him oddly.

His right index finger stabbed the air. “On the door,” he directed. “Says the note, `store in isolated area due to exposure to the Great Mortality'.”

There was indeed a note, Hermione noticed - but written in Gobbledygook.

She drew back, expecting to hear from the goblin whether this `Great Mortality' was what she suspected, but no follow-up was forthcoming. Instead, Glaksosmit had his back turned and was walking nonchalantly towards Harry. Her fiancÃ© was standing by a metal and glass display cabinet of some sort at the opposite end of the large room.

Resolving to be more careful, Hermione continued her own exploratory jaunt. If Harry found anything important, he would tell her. She trusted him to do that.

“My presence sought you, Impratraxis?” Glaksosmit inquired in a low voice as he approached.

Harry gestured to the large case next to him, “Is this … are these, what I wanted you to get together for me?”

“As commanded you,” Glaksosmit confirmed proudly. “Centuries of acquisitions, brought together and displayed, the Black family jewels.”

“But I … I thought there'd be more,” Harry remarked, with a twinge of disappointment creeping into his voice.

“But of course.” Glaksosmit withdrew a key-shaped object from a pocket in his goblin-grey vest. “Requested to maintain a modest appearance did you. That so little would have accumulated the Blacks did think you? For centuries the most efficient way wealth to transport was this.” The goblin placed the key on the cabinet next to what Harry gathered must be the corresponding keyhole. “When ready are you, Impratraxis.”

“You've had everything checked, haven't you?” Harry continued.

“Better than that,” Glaksosmit answered confidently. “For almost a week, on this project hard at work have been two of Gringotts' best Curse-Breakers. Remains does no magic at all. As if everything were Muggle, is it.”

Harry then breached the ordinary formality of goblin royalty. “Thanks,” Harry told the goblin. “Now I can do this right. Save the rest. Maybe it can be reworked to match whatever she picks.”

“…As wish you, Impratraxis,” the almost stunned goblin rotely responded. Royalty never thanked subordinates, save for gallantry in battle.

Hermione had almost made her way to the back of the vault. Interestingly, what had looked like disorganised piles of this and that had jumped apart at her approach. They resolved their clutter into, say, a table setting for one hundred, or sets of armour for five knights, or a finely appointed magic carpet with every piece of optional equipment imaginable. There was only one more pile to investigate before she reached the burlap (or goblin equivalent) covered stacks that lay against the rear wall.

`Hermione, could you come here?' Harry Legilimenced to her. `There's something I think you need to see.'

Urgency sounded in his thought. Had he found something horrible? Ledgers of slave transactions perhaps?

With some trepidation, she quickly went to him.

He was still standing beside the low metal and glass cabinet when she arrived. It appeared to be an assemblage of bejewelled necklaces and bracelets.

“What's wrong, Harry?” she voiced her concern. “We saw these when we came in. Is there something more that doesn't meet the eye?”

“You're right clever as always.” Harry grinned at her. “How did you know?”

He turned the key in the lock.

The cabinet quivered, flickered, and vibrated as if it were a mirage. One end shot out as the entire case Transfigured itself into three levels of glittering brass and cut glass display fixtures nearly ten metres long.

As shiny as the cabinets were, their contents put them to shame. There, resting on velvet as black as night, lay the entire Black collection of gemstones, mounted and unmounted. On display were dozens of diamond, pearl, and emerald necklaces, some with pendants and some with rows of stones. Even more bracelets were present, and row upon row of rings and earrings. Amongst them were tiaras, diadems, brooches, and anklets, and even more unusual pieces such as circlets, belly chains, and thigh bands. Some of the pieces, she did not even want to think about how intimately they were likely intended to be worn.

The gems themselves glistened with every colour of the rainbow. Green emeralds of all shades predominated - the Blacks were Slytherins, of course. But amongst the green dazzled the brilliant white and flashing yellow of diamonds, the vibrant reds and bright pinks of rubies, the intense blue of sapphires and lapis lazuli, the rainbows of opals and chalcedonies, and the deep purple of amethyst. In the lower cabinets lay piles of loose stones, organised by type and colour. Beginning with a pile of black pearls, these extended through the spectrum, and ended with an even larger pile of flawless diamonds at the opposite end. On the third layer, beneath those, were raw, uncut stones.

“Oh Merlin and Morgana,” Hermione gasped. “This is incredible. It's … it's the British Museum and Samuel's all lumped together. What can we possibly do with it all…?”

“You can pick, that's what,” Harry told her.

Hermione was still stunned by the opulence of it all. “Pick? Pick what?” she asked.

“Pick what you want for a wedding ring,” Harry smiled as he spoke the words. “Since I didn't know what I was doing, I've never given you a decent ring. Now I'm fixing that. Pick whatever you want to go in your ring and I'll ask the goblins to forge it. Anything you want, either as put together here or in some different grouping. Just tell me.”

“But I can't, Harry, these are so extravagant,” Hermione said, reeling. “It would be obvious to everyone.”

“Oh, yes you can. I've planned this with the goblins since Dumbledore first told me I needed to see the Black vault,” he revealed. “The goblins are the best magical forgers in the world. They'll add unbreakable Invisibility Charms, so that only you and I can see it - until we decide to change that.”

“But Harry, the miners….”

He talked over her. “Forget that. This stuff's mostly centuries old. Hermione, I'm not leaving here until you've picked a proper ring.” Then he sat down, Indian-legged on the floor.

“You're serious, aren't you?” Hermione looked down at him. A knowing smile began replacing her prior look of shock and awe.

“I've been working on this surprise for weeks,” Harry revealed with an almost embarrassed smile of his own. “What do you think?”

“Well … I did have an idea.” She gave in to his persistence.

“I thought you might,” Harry smiled more broadly. “After all, girls are supposed to think about stuff like this since … since, like forever, aren't they?”

“Oh tosh - listen to you, mister sexist,” Hermione chided. “I didn't think about this until….” She stopped, and put a hand over her mouth.

Harry waited. When the silence stretched too long, he asked, “Until what, Hermione?”

She smiled and shook her head. “Until I saw it in the Mirror of Erised,” she confessed.

Harry grinned even more broadly. “That's great. Maybe if I'd had a look at it, a lot of this year's nastiness could have been avoided…. Go on. Pick out your heart's desire.”

Hermione did. She chose two modest (compared to what she could have selected) blood red rubies from a set of earrings. To go between them, she selected a substantial blue-white diamond from amongst the loose stones on the second level. The three stones added up to maybe fifteen carats, twenty at the most.

Harry seemed disappointed. “Is that all you want?” he asked when she finished so quickly. “There are lots bigger ones, just in the rings. I don't want you holding back because….”

She could put her foot down too. “This is what I want, Harry. Now all we need is a gold band.”

“That should be easy enough,” Harry said brightly, forgetting about gems as he clambered to his feet.

But one thing missing from this display was gold. The Blacks were Slytherins, and silver was their colour. All the fittings in the entire cabinet were silver, or platinum, or some similar metal.

“We can just melt down a Galleon then,” Harry shrugged, slightly embarrassed that the trove he had the goblins display contained not a speck of gold.

“That won't work, Harry,” Hermione told him. “Ministry coinage is charmed to prevent counterfeiting. I discovered that whilst creating those coins for the D.A. I had to use a Protean Charm because everything else bounced off the Ministry mint's protections.”

Glaksosmit, who had been silent throughout Harry's little surprise, chimed in, “Not to worry. Here is gold aplenty. Muggle gold it is, so worry about no charms.”

The goblin shot off towards the rear of the vault. Hermione took advantage of the private moment. Wrapping her arms about Harry's neck, she whispered, “I was so overwhelmed just now that I think I forgot to tell you…. I think that your little surprise was really quite romantic….”

Her statement ended prematurely as Harry leaned over and brought his lips to hers. Hermione's eyes flickered closed as she brought one arm into his hair. A quiet series of clinks followed. She set the three gemstones on the glass of the nearby cabinet, temporarily out of mind.

Harry's heartbeat accelerated as he felt her embrace. His tongue flickered along her lips until, with one of her small mewling sounds, she granted him access. Grunting slightly, Harry began to surrender to the moment, his own hands trending lower, seeking out either side of her delectable bum….

Hermione teased him, “When we're done here, I've a surprise for you….”

Reality - Glaksosmit's shout - intruded. “Impratraxis, Savini, as I promised all is…!”

Their flushed, dreamy expressions of love fled in an instant. Instead they stared at what before had been three nondescript - albeit large - canvas-covered pallets.

The canvas was gone, revealing the gleam of more gold than either had imagined could exist in one place. Stack after stack of shining ingots merged into one another to create rectilinear forms as wide as a lorry and taller than they were. It was a horde worthy of an oriental despot….

And already hastening back was Glaksosmit, carrying an ingot in his leathery, clawed hands.

“As promised,” the middle-aged goblin puffed as he approached. “About nothing need worry Savini. More rings than could count you, enough to make is it!” Glaksosmit stopped short a few metres away, and composed himself to approach royalty properly. Bowing, he extended his arms to present the aureate block to Hermione.

“For you, Savini.”

With sort of a dazed smile, she reached for it. “Thank you, Glaksosmit. You really don't … ooh….”

Hermione almost dropped it. For its size, the gold bar was surprisingly heavy. Only about ten centimeters long and a quarter that tall; it weighed well over a kilo. She better appreciated how strong goblins were.

Recovering, Hermione ran her hands across the bevelled ingot. “Oh, Harry, it's so lustrous and…. Oh, God….”

This time she did drop it. Actually, Hermione essentially flung it away, as if it had suddenly Transfigured into something poisonous. The ingot fell with a dull thunk.

In over five years, through all manner of dangerous and stressful situations, Harry had never before heard Hermione invoke the Deity.

She turned to him, looking shattered.

Harry wondered what on earth could have happened. “What have we gotten ourselves into, Harry…?” she groaned, as tears started flowing freely down her cheeks. “What are we becoming…?”

Glaksosmit reached for the fallen metal, but Harry was quicker. “Accio bullion.”

Harry winced as the heavy, solid object smacked into his hands. He turned the bar over to see its widest face. Stamped into it, just beneath a row of what looked like repeated nines, he saw a stylised eagle, and in its claws….

A swastika.

With a clunk, the bar again dropped to the floor, just in front of a very confused Glaksosmit, who dove unsuccessfully at the last second attempting to catch it. Harry put his arms around a hunched over Hermione as he tried to make sense of it all. “Hermione, darling, you don't think, do you…?”

“Yes…. Read it, Harry,” she choked out.

“I … I don't read German,” he whispered back.

Glaksosmit was inquiring uncertainly, “Impratraxis? Savini…?”

“Nor do I,” she groaned, leaning heavily into him. “But I recognise one word….”

“…What can do I?” the bewildered goblin continued. “Good delivery bars are all these….”

“…Treblinka….”

Harry was not as well versed as Hermione. “Umm … I'm not sure I follow,” he muttered.

“…Papers documenting proper ownership have we….”

“It means death,” Hermione moaned in an undertone, “…death … extermination … genocide…. Oh, God….” She broke down again, sagging into his arms, weeping.

“…Nothing to be concerned….”

“Glaksosmit, be quiet, please!” Harry barked. Instantly the goblin went silent. Seeing the anguished look on Harry's face, he prostrated himself and stayed there, face firmly impressed into the vault floor.

“Hermione, we'll get to the bottom of this, I promise,” Harry reassured her whilst stroking her long, soft brown hair. “When you're ready … tell me what you think I need to know. Remember, I love you….”

It took a while, but as was inevitable, Hermione regained control. Harry's repeated whispering, “I love you,” in her ear helped.

Finally, he felt her muscles tense. Instead of leaning on Harry, she stood on her own two feet once again.

“Harry … I - I love you too, but … but we can't keep that.” Although tears glistened in her eyes, she spoke firmly, gesturing at the stacks of gold. “I had always thought…. Well, I thought that slave trading was the worst the Blacks could have done. I was wrong….”

She stopped and took several exaggerated deep breaths to calm herself again.

“Treblinka was a Nazi extermination camp,” she informed him. “Rumours have abounded, ever since the war ended, about Nazis hiding gold they stole from all the people they killed…. I think we've just found where a lot of it ended up.”

“Shite!” Harry muttered. “Goddamn you, Sirius! Why couldn't you have been like the rest of them…?”

Hermione's breath hitched audibly. “No, Harry, don't think that, please. I'm sure Sirius had no idea….”

“Doesn't matter,” Harry shook his head resignedly. “I wish I was never involved in this. It's one more damn thing that now I have to set right.”

Hermione warned, “Harry, if you start thinking this is somehow your fault…”

“Not my fault. Just my effing mess,” Harry grumbled. “You're right, Hermione, this isn't ours because it wasn't rightly theirs to start with. They can just dump it back where it came from….”

“No, Harry, that's not right either,” Hermione countered. “Now that we've found it, we have to give it back, as best we can.”

“But how, Hermione? I don't know anything about all this,” Harry protested. “I just want out.”

“I'm sorry, Harry. I want out, too, but it's not that simple,” Hermione said as she stroked his cheek. “But we can start finding things out.”

The know-it-all was back on her feet. Whilst Auror training taught Hermione to take a physical punch, being with Harry taught her to take an emotional one.

She addressed the still prone goblin gently but firmly. “Glaksosmit, we need some questions answered.”

The goblin scrambled to his feet, still confused about what had just happened. “For you anything can do I?” he squeaked.

“You said Gringotts has documentation for this Muggle gold. We need to see it. If it's not in English, we need a translator. I don't trust my spellwork on these types of documents.”

“Yes, immediately,” Glaksosmit agreed. He opened his file and pulled out a collection of goblin parchments and Muggle papers. He spread them out atop the cabinet, where obscured the glittering gemstones. A number of the papers were obviously in German. “A translator will need we. A moment….”

The goblin produced some sort of artefact - a key of sorts - but not at all like those Harry and Hermione had received. It twisted like a corkscrew. Glaksosmit inserted the key in a panel by the vault door and started speaking Gobbledygook. Other than “Impratraxis” and “Savini,” Harry could not follow the conversation. Neither side sounded very happy.

“A translator, shortly will have we,” Glaksosmit informed them through. “Until then, how of help can be I?”

“When and where did Gringotts acquire this gold?” Harry went straight to the point.

“Part of consolidation of Black family affairs in light of the legal proceedings,” Glaksosmit answered as he rummaged through his file. “Aha! Eighteen months ago from Swiss National Bank 5,344 kilos received Gringotts, and from Union Bank another 1779 kilos, for a total of 7,123 kilos, or a little more than seven tonnes.”

“And this was owned by the Blacks?” Hermione followed.

“Yes,” Glaksosmit confirmed, “Deposited for the account of Arcturus Black, was it - 17 May, 1945 in SNB and three days later in UBS. Legitimate appear transactions.”

“Did these Muggle banks know what this was?” Harry asked.

“`Gold bars' is all that say the records,” Glaksosmit answered whilst squinting at the fifty-year old Muggle documents. “However, precise is the bar count. To the nearest one fortieth of a troy ounce was weighed each bar. Also taken were assays. Impossible, would say I, that with so much testing to read and understand these markings in position was nobody. Knew the source must have Arcturus Black.”

At this point a klaxon briefly sounded. The translator had arrived. Glaksosmit introduced him as Alblak. Seeing Harry, he started to prostrate himself, but Glaksosmit stopped him. Alblak spent several minutes examining the German-language documents before nodding that he was finished.

Hermione asked the critical question, “Do the records indicate where Arcturus Black got the gold?”

Glaksosmit had anticipated this question, “Do not these - the English ones from the banks,” he told them.

“Sketchy are the German records,” Alblak began. “To sellers, Kaltenbrunner and Spacil refer they, no first names, but Muggles were they, as indicates the term `Muggel.' Recite that for their government they had proper custody do the documents. Occurred, in Oberbayern did the transaction, which would be Bavaria believe I.”

“What was it?” Harry asked.

“Sorry, am I. What was what?” Alblak responded to the vague question.

“What was the nature of the transaction?” Hermione clarified.

“Odd, for a wizard was it,” Alblak remarked. “In Muggle money was it, but with in Galleons a finder's fee. Paid in American dollars was the bulk, but also Spanish pesetas.”

“How much?” Harry asked

Alblak was a goblin banker through and through. “A good price received he,” the goblin stated admiringly. “Even at the low fixed American rate, at the time was worth that much gold … hmm…?” The goblin's eyes went out of focus as he did the calculations in his head. “…nearly nine million American dollars. For little more than one million American, plus a two-hundred thousand Galleon finder's fee, acquired it did Arcturus Black. Plus … now interesting is this….”

“What?” Hermione pressed.

“Notes in Arcturus Black's own handwriting see I,” Alblak revealed. “Was to the finder's fee … hmm … Gellert Grindelwald….”

Harry and Hermione exchanged dark glances. Before his defeat at Dumbledore's hands, the Dark wizard Grindelwald had acted as a soothsayer for Hitler himself.

Neither Alblak, nor Glaksosmit, looking over his shoulder, noticed their exchange. They were too busy reviewing the notes on the parchment.

“…Indicate also some unusual terms do the notations,” Alblak droned on. “Eight International Red Cross laissez-passer documents to Seville….”

“Safe conduct documents,” Hermione broke in.

“…and steamship tickets, also for eight, to Delta del Tigre.”

“Where's that?” Harry asked.

“Impratraxis, that not know I,” Alblak answered hesitantly. Glaksosmit's arm shot out, restraining the other goblin from prostrating himself again.

“Forgive me please, Impratraxis,” Glaksosmit added, “for also deficient of Muggle geography is my knowledge.”

Harry looked at Hermione, who shrugged. For once she did not know the answer either. Until…. “Wait,” she blurted. Into her beaded handbag she fished. A bit of rummaging, produced her D.A. mirror. “Dennis added some memory and helped me input some things that we thought might come in handy. One was a detailed map of the world.”

She tapped on the mirror a couple of times with her wand, dragging the tip across its face. Hermione squinted as she moved the image around. After a few seconds she announced, “It's in Uruguay.”

Harry's face was still blank. “Where's that?” he asked.

“Oh, sorry, it's in South America,” Hermione told everyone. “I think that means that part of the deal was to help those two, and probably their families, escape capture by the Allies.”

Glaksosmit and Alblak were not at all sure what was going on. To them the Muggle transaction was just a transaction, no matter how irregular - especially since the wizards seemed to have gotten the better of the deal. “To do, what are proposing you?”

Harry drew himself up and spoke with a commanding voice. “The men Arcturus Black dealt with were Nazis. They killed millions of people at places like Treblinka. I'm sure they stole all this gold from those people. We can't keep it. Those two didn't properly own it, so neither did the Blacks, and neither do I. We have to give it back … er … to somebody.”

“Who, Impratraxis?” asked Glaksosmit.

“I-I-I … don't know right now,” Harry confessed with a shake of his head. Turning to Hermione, he asked, “Well, I think this is a Dumbledore-level issue, don't you?”

Hermione paused before answering. “Actually not,” she allowed. “I'm not sure I trust him on this. He was involved in all that litigation over the Black Estate, and I wonder…. Dumbledore was so determined to keep the Black Estate out of Voldemort's hands. This is the kind of thing he might have decided to `forget' about telling us….”

Harry stiffened. That was exactly what Dumbledore might decide to do - especially once he had been kidnapped, and the Headmaster needed Hermione to keep the Black fortune in the “right” hands.

“Impratraxis, if too irregular was the transaction, the gold refine can we. Facilities to make it utterly untraceable have we,” Glaksosmit suggested, thinking that Harry and Hermione wanted their money laundering services. “A good price, we could get….”

“No,” Harry replied coldly, the force in his voice almost driving Glaksosmit again to prostrate himself in apology. “This is worse blood money than the rest of it. I don't need more money and wouldn't take it for this anyway. It's reparations. It needs to get back to proper hands.”

“Tell us who, and delivered will be it,” Glaksosmit submitted, even if, from a goblin perspective, the Prince's reasoning was inexplicable.

“I just don't know, that's the problem,” Harry responded ruefully. “I don't want to have to answer questions about this, but I can't just drop it off at Scotland Yard and say, `have at it.' I'd probably get arrested.”

Hermione squeezed Harry's arm. “I've got an idea,” she said, “and it might help down the road, too.”

She used one of her euphemisms for when Harry finally had to fulfill the prophecy. Hermione never stopped thinking about how to better Harry's chances.

“I'm not using this to buy anyone or anything,” Harry resisted, rather surprised at Hermione's presumed suggestion.

“Merlin knows I wouldn't ask you to,” Hermione promptly clarified. “But I think we should send that” - she pointed to the gold bar that had started it all, still firmly clutched in Glaksosmit's claws - “along with an note requesting help, to the Sisters of the Moon. They're supposedly powerful seers, even if I don't put much stock in Divination. But most importantly, they're Jewish Kabballists, so they'd probably be inclined to help with a Holocaust-related problem.”

“How to reach them, tell us and be done will it,” Glaksosmit pledged.

“I don't know,” Hermione admitted, “but I'll bet I can find out. After all, Ron knew about them, so they can't be all that secret.”

The Nazi gold affair put a damper on both Harry's and Hermione's desire to spend any more time in the vault than absolutely necessary.

In a couple of minutes Harry had directed his now even more eager-to-please hosts to inventory the Nazi gold and to sell or swap a loose gemstone or two from the cabinet to obtain untainted gold for what would eventually be Hermione's wedding band.

In only a couple of minutes more, Hermione showed the goblins how she wanted the three stones she had selected to be mounted on her ring.

Finally, Harry had the goblins copy some of the documentation concerning the gold - items that Hermione thought would be useful to study.

As they were leaving, Hermione asked to use the facilities. Glaksosmit disappeared for only a few seconds and returned with one of the minimal number of witches that Gringotts employed. She could show Hermione to a proper (that is, wizard usable) loo, since the goblin had no idea where that might be.

Watching Hermione walk away, chatting with the slightly shorter witch and once again rummaging through her beaded bag, Harry shook his head. He remembered what she had wanted to do after finishing with his vault. Unfortunately, the discovery of this even blacker secret of the Blacks was a mood breaker. Sighing, Harry could hardly blame her for just wanting to get back to Hogwarts.

Glaksosmit looked quizzically at Harry, asking if his presence were still needed. Harry thought not, and so the goblin took his leave - but not before vowing a full audit of the Muggle gold. Slamdor would be waiting for them in the main Gringotts lobby.

Damn the Blacks and all their evil business dealings, Harry thought. He almost wished he had never met Sirius. It was wrong, Harry knew, to blame Sirius for what his relatives had done before he was born, but still … making a profit from genocide…?

Absent-mindedly Harry kicked at the wall with his trainers. It had turned into a terrible day….

He heard Hermione's voice behind him, “Harry, stop moping around and come here. I need you to help me with something.”

From the lightness in her voice Harry knew that, despite what had happened, nothing serious was wrong - at least no more wrong than before.

He turned towards her. She had discarded her school robes for a green dress nearly as shapeless. “Hermione, why did you change your…?”

As she approached, his question answered itself.

“That's … that's your goblin outfit,” Harry stated the obvious.

“What's more appropriate for a goblin-hosted rendezvous?” Hermione replied with a sly smile. “Now come over here and energise these charms.”

Harry hesitated, “But … I thought … er … I didn't think….”

“I never thought I'd be telling anyone to stop thinking too much,” Hermione chided as she advanced on him. “But you're thinking too much.” She reached out and grabbed him by the wrist. She had the opal necklace in her hands, and she passed it to him as they embraced.

Hermione leaned in for what she intended to be the first of many kisses. Her hands moved lower whilst his moved higher, around her neck. As delicious as his fingers felt on the nape of her neck, she kept waiting for the even more ticklish sensation of the dress Transfiguring.

It never came. Finally, Harry broke the kiss. “Sorry,” he puffed, “I can't concentrate enough to make this work when I'm kissing you like that. All I want to do is snog.”

“Not a multitasker, are you?” Hermione whispered back to him, her own breath rather ragged.

“More like a one-track mind when we're together like this,” Harry corrected.

Hermione stopped distracting Harry and stayed more or less still. A suddenly more dexterous Harry got her clasp closed, and the goblin magic that infused Hermione's mafaswele began working once more.

The fabric rippled and tightened around her curves. Hermione's neckline dropped and her breasts rose. Her tantalising midriff came into view.

Harry could not help slipping his hands inside the wrapping of Hermione's most fetching packaging. She responded with a turn at wrapping her arms around his neck.

“Sorry,” she giggled as his roaming hands reached pay dirt of sorts, “only white cotton this time. I ran out of the fancy kind.”

“Doesn't matter,” he sighed as he rubbed the aforementioned white cotton. “I'm still trying to believe this is real. I felt sure you would be upset about what happened.”

Hermione drew back and looked him straight in the eye. “I am,” she said seriously, “but I'm not upset at you. As for you - I. Thought. You. Were. Magnificent.”

That gobsmacked Harry. “Me? How?”

“You didn't hesitate an instant in turning your back on more gold than either of us will see in a lifetime,” she told him. “Their offer to launder it all didn't tempt you at all. You've done a lot of things that make me proud, Harry Potter - risking your life and all that - but I don't think I've ever been prouder of you than at that moment you told them that you wouldn't think of profiting from genocide. Because you didn't even stop and think….”

“I've got an excellent conscience…,” Harry started to reply.

Hermione did not let him finish, “I've always known that,” she purred, “that's why I….”

“…and I'm looking at her.” Harry did not let her finish either.

At that, they stopped talking and started snogging again, there in the deserted hallway. The moment lasted until Hermione came up for air.

Grinding into him, she said impatiently, “Harry, your conscience is feeling rather naughty right now. I think we need to find Glaksosmit and that room we've been promised.”

Together they strode back to the main banking chamber, Hermione attracting slack-jawed looks from practically everyone - goblin or human - they passed. They hailed the first goblin they saw. Within minutes a much happier sounding supervisor of Harry's account once again led them through the maze of Gringotts' back hallways.

Their destination, at least at first, was familiar. They soon stood before another of the goblins' floor-to-ceiling transportation mirrors.

Stepping through, they arrived in some secluded hideaway. A retinue of several attendants, all clad in goblin grey with red trim, awaited them.

Anticipation rising, Harry and Hermione followed their hosts (although these particular goblins would not have described themselves as such) through several obsidian panelled corridors lit by large white crystals. The couple was surprised to find a stone dock fronted on an underground lake, rather than some sumptuously appointed room.

Two comfortable-looking seats - obviously meant for them - were on the dock. “Here must wait we,” one of their hosts told them. “Not long should be it. Study this may both you. Please rest. Need it will you….”

As the two of them settled in, each received identical cards of what seemed to be stiff paper. They bore lists of goblin commands and their English counterparts - such as “warmer,” “darker,” “end,” and “summon.”

Before having time to pose appropriate questions to their hosts, a small boat tillered by a goblin hove into view. Moving without any visible means of power, the boat eased to a stop next to the dock. The stern of the boat was quite wide enough to hold them, and smelled strongly of rose petals.

They boarded somewhat uncertainly, since neither had been in such a small boat since crossing the lake to Hogwarts to begin their very first year.

“Impratraxis, Savini … please … stay seated,” the boatgoblin requested urgently.

They did as instructed. With a low hum, the chairs moved forward and bore the pair into the boat without it even rocking.

“Take you there, shall I,” announced the boatgoblin as the vessel pulled gently away from the dock.

“Umm … where's there?” Harry asked.

“Retreat of Impratraxis,” the boatgoblin said with some surprise in his voice. “Requested by Savini, was it.”

“Wow!” Hermione commented breathlessly. “All I really asked for was a room.”

The dock disappeared behind them, and soon no vestiges of civilisation were apparent on the banks of the subterranean stream they navigated. Instead they floated through an underground cavern, surrounded by stalactites, stalagmites, fantastically twisted shapes, and equally fantastic shadows. Curtains of white, red, and rusty orange flowstone shimmered in the boat's headlight. Other speleothems cast weird shadows in the background.

“How long will this take?” Harry asked again.

“Time short to retreat. Like it will you,” the boatgoblin answered respectfully, yet mysteriously.

“What do these … commands, I guess … do?” Hermione inquired.

“Control of magic, permit they,” the boatgoblin tersely explained.

Allowing the couple more minutes of gawking at the marvelous natural cave sculpture, the boat slowed to a halt at a slip on the edge of the stream. A smooth path - the only man (goblin) made thing anywhere to be seen, snaked away into the shadows.

The boatgoblin cut the headlight as he came to a halt.

“Eek!” Hermione squealed, clutching Harry's hand as they were plunged into total darkness.

Not quite total darkness.

As their eyes adjusted to the gloom, the two of them gasped at what looked like a starry sky above them.

“But I thought we were far underground,” Harry goggled.

“So did I … and I'm having trouble making out any of the constellations,” Hermione echoed. Their chairs were once again levitating - carrying them to the path.

“Those aren't stars,” Hermione realised as they glided along. “The patterns are changing as we move. Those lights are much too close…. You know what…?”

“Okay, what?” Harry put the penny in the slot.

“I think they're cave glowworms,” Hermione told him with bated breath. “Thousands of them - almost enough for me to see my way.”

“Command to use,” the boatgoblin offered from the shadows.

“Umm … thomat,” Hermione incanted.

Immediately lights buried at ground level illuminated the path. The walkway t curled away through the large cave chamber towards a now-brightly lit room - or area - about fifty metres away.

“I guess that's the retreat,” Harry said understatedly. Turning to the boatgoblin, he asked, “Are you our guide?”

“No guide needed, Impratraxis,” the boatgoblin answered. “No further go I … your privacy to respect.”

Holding hands, and fairly shivering with anticipation, they trotted along the now well-lit path. Hermione shivered more than a little, since the cave's temperature was only about 13â—‹C. She was not warmly dressed, so Harry did the right thing and gave her his outer robe.

The path meandered towards the retreat past a series of rimstone pools, each one flowing into the next.

Reaching the retreat itself, they passed through some invisible ward - and the temperature suddenly became much more comfortable.

“Excellent,” Harry blurted. “Never doubt the goblins.”

Hermione replied, “How do you know what temperatures they prefer…? Merlin's uncle! What's that?”

“The bed, I think,” Harry replied, getting his first look at a roughly oval-shaped expanse of what appeared to be black velvet. Its long axis must have been four metres long.

“I'd guess they converted one of the pools into a waterbed,” Hermione observed. “Well, Harry Potter, what are you waiting for?”

Harry shot a mock-evil grin at her. “How much time do we have?”

“Close to three hours, Harry,” she answered. “Plenty of time for anything you could imagine.” Then she saw the look he was giving her. Hermione struck a saucy pose and responded, “Just what exactly do you have in mind, Mister?”

“Remember during our first time - you told me I could only get off a couple of times, but you had no limit short of being completely knackered?” Harry asked.

“I remember reading that, but whether I mentioned it, I don't recall,” Hermione responded cautiously. “I suppose I must have….”

“Well, how about finding out if that's right?” Harry suggested as he plucked his outer robes from her shoulders.

She nuzzled him. “Umm … sounds good. You know I have a weakness for original research. But, Harry….”

He had lifted her hair and was mouthing the back of her neck, raising goose pimples everywhere. “Hmmmmm?”

“Whose exhaustion? Yours or mine?” she half moaned at him.

Harry stopped for a moment, causing Hermione to pull him closer. “You know, that's a good question…. I guess we'll find out.”

“You're on, Potter.”

“Not yet, but I will be.”

* * * *

“You did what?” He looked at her incredulously.

“Stop smirking. I told you, I snapped,” she replied, her voice an angry hiss. “Right then, I'd quite forgotten about it. I was in a fight. I reacted to being grabbed … and I let him have it with the whole self defence bit.”

Draco Malfoy shook his head. Once again the redhead's impetuosity had set back his plan's progress, possibly severely. “Dammit, Reds, all you had to do was let him drag you away. The whole bloody situation reeked of sex. With Lust Powder in him, he'd have been lucky to get past the showers before he jumped you.”

“Oh, go ahead and laugh if you want,” Ginny growled at him. “You've probably never even been in a real, physical fight - you had those goons of yours for so long. I'll bet you have no idea what it's like being in the middle of something like that. Hell, even Hermione smacked the daylights out of you and got away with it.”

Draco purpled at her mention of that incident. “Hah! That Mudblood bitch. She got….” The blond boy caught himself just in time. However much he wanted to boast that his revenge had burnt that bint almost to a crisp, it was one secret he absolutely had to keep.

“She got what?” Ginny shot back into the verbal gap left by Draco's pause.

He hemmed and hawed. “She got…. She got … got Potter, that's what. And now you're cocking it up.”

Draco effectively deflated Ginny. She had been so appalled at her own actions that almost half the tutoring session elapsed before she told Draco what had really put Harry Potter in the Hospital Wing shortly after Gryffindor had given Slytherin its worst Quidditch spanking in anybody's memory. There had been rumours, of course, but they had centred on Hermione - not Ginny. One of the Slytherin players said he had overheard Hermione apologising by Harry's bedside. That was also secondhand, as Draco no longer gave a rat's arse about Quidditch.

He had more important fish to fry if he were to rescue the fortunes of the Malfoy name.

“You berk … I hate when you're right,” she muttered, remembering to keep her voice down in the Potions dungeon. Then she looked at him hopefully. “Have you made any progress with the ingredients?”

“As a matter of fact, I think I have,” Draco allowed, feeling a bit better about the enterprise. She had come around without him having to call for mental intervention. As long as her heart was in this…. Things would be so much easier. “Let it never be said that a Malfoy lacks connections. Some of those ingredients are rather hard to get, but now I've got a source for all of them.”

“How long?” she asked.

Another good sign.

After her latest debacle, this strong-willed Gryffindor finally seemed content to let him take the lead on matters of mutual interest. “A couple of weeks, tops,” he estimated. “After that's the brewing process. I've already told you it will take a while, and I'll arrange to do most of it in a secret location. In the meantime, I think you'd best stay away from him - that shouldn't be hard - and lay off the Lust Powder, if you've any left.”

“That's … that's probably the best thing to do,” she agreed. “He's probably quite content for me to make myself scarce after what happened.”

Success, he thought.

* * * *

The three men trudged across a misty and slowly darkening expanse of purple heather. The estate had promised them a bag of eight to twelve head a day, chiefly woodcock and grouse, but the actual yield had been far less.

They had been out since mid-morning, each sporting a new shotgun provided by the safari company that had arranged the holiday. The weather had steadily worsened over the course of the day, and the nearby peak of Cairn Gorm had long since fallen victim to the lowering clouds.

“What say we retire to the manor for some pints?” the tallest of the three asked his compatriots. “There doesn't seem to be much about this afternoon, and it'll be dusk soon.”

“Just a wee bit longer,” said the hunter in the green and orange vest. “Let's check out the gorse bushes by the stream.”

“All right,” grumbled the third man, slinging his shotgun over his shoulder, “but I've just about had it for today, too. Those pints sound bloody good. Maybe tomorrow we can get something driven. Damn sight easier that way. What the…?”

They heard a sudden disturbance in a nearby thicket. Something, possibly a predator, had put several grouse, and something larger, possibly the first pheasant they had seen the entire trip, aflight.

The three hunters instantly aimed. Three shotguns roared. At least one shot found its mark. A relatively large bird dropped from the sky.

Encouraged, the three hunters trotted in the direction of their kill.

“Blimey, that wasn't a pheasant, that was an owl,” the tall hunter said in a disgusted tone of voice.

“Aren't those on the protected list?” another asked.

“Bloody hell, I think you're right,” the first one replied. “Let's just get out of here. An effing perfect ending to a perfect day, I'd say.”

“It's got something around its leg,” the third hunter observed.

“All the more reason to get the hell out of here and retire,” said the first. “Probably a banded bird.”

Without a single backward look at the dying post owl, the Muggle party made its way hastily back the way it came.

“So waddya think…. Major again?”

“Not on your life…. Lacks bollocks … not like Maggie. Won't even go after those bloody terrorists wot torched London…. She'd have blown somebody to hell by now. This time, that new boy, Blair, for sure….”

* * * *

Author's notes: The potion's physical limitations become important, and apparent

Oxytocin is a powerful hormone with numerous medical uses

Sea blue chalcedony is a semiprecious stone

Tetrachloromethane is the British term for carbon tetrachloride; one of its uses is to prevent fires

The KateandSpence concept is a takeoff on Richandamy from the cartoon Zits

Tinctura nucis vomicÃ¦ is one of many traditional remedies for impotence

The fourth-year Lily scene is based on how Hillary met Bill Clinton

Snape has never liked being called cowardly

Active and passive fault are legal terms

The conversation with the Unspeakables occurred in Chapter 21

In canon, Scarpin invented a potion analysis technique

“In loco parentis” is another legal phrase, meaning “in the roll of parents”

The reference to the EU has to do with European Union medical privacy rules

Klamdok made his first appearance in Chapter 32

Joint ownership of the entirety of an estate is called “tenancy by the entireties,” and is a legal status available only to husband and wife

The goblin keys resemble, in shape, the vault keys in DaVinci Code

Iridium is a very hard metal

In Chapter 53, the goblins requested the sheets on the night H/Hr lost their virginities

The description of the Potter/Black vault's dragon matches that of a wyvern; Wallachia is a region in southern Romania

Earls Court and Olympia is a London exhibition hall

Harry and Hermione will encounter the Black family's art and books later

The Chinese maps are those of early-mid 15th century voyages that Chinese wizards passed to Black family mariners to prevent their destruction

Other maps arose from slave trading voyages

1589 refers to the dispute described in Chapter 10, leading to the Blacks' involvement in the Gunpowder Plot

The Great Mortality was a contemporaneous term for what is now called the Black Death

Before the development of banking, conversion to jewels was the most compact way to move wealth

The British Museum has a large gem collection; Samuel's is a major London jewelry store

Hermione's miners comment has to do with conditions in third-world mines

The stones Hermione chooses recreate the ring she saw in the Mirror of Erised in Chapter 33

Hermione's charming of Galleons struck me as a canon weak spot, given counterfeiting problems, so I've tried to address it

“Good delivery bar” is a term for properly assayed gold

As mentioned in Chapter 10, the Black Estate included seven tons of gold that had been in Swiss banks for 50 years

I wrote this chapter shortly after coming back fro New Zealand; hence the goblin name Alblak

The two Swiss banks have been involved in Holocaust assets litigation

According to the Black Family Tree, Arcturus Black was head of one of the main branches of the Black family at the end of WWII; his line died out

The timing names, and places in the transactions correspond to Internet accounts of missing Nazi gold

The fixed American rate for gold in 1945 was $35 an ounce

The D.A. mirror will come in handy later on

The glowworm cave is another New Zealand idea

Most caves have year-round temperatures around 13â—‹C

Cairn Gorm means the Muggle party was close to Hogwarts

The last lines mention the upcoming Muggle election

68

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 1/26/2008

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61. Uneasy Calm

Wherein Harry has a go with McGonagall, resolves that dispute, and performs a Switching Spell; Harry and Hermione visit with Firenze; Harry visits with Hagrid, has a musical interlude, gets initiated, clears the air with Ron, and has an encounter in the Forbidden Forest.

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

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

Chapter 61 - Uneasy Calm

As the term moved deeply into November, the relationships between the Trio, the six so-called “boomwins” (a term they expropriated as a badge of honour) and the Hogwarts student body gradually stabilised into a fragile state of equilibrium. Harry and Hermione stayed close as they continued sharing and exploring the wonders of young love. Far less often - because their mutual respect meant they did not fancy groping in broom cupboards - they also explored the wonders of young lust.

Ron moodily stayed away from both of them now. His grievance against Hermione was the same as always - she had unapologetically said or done something heinous to Cho, although exactly what, he would or could not say. His new grievance against Harry rubbed much rawer - not just due to recency, but because it struck directly at Ron's always fragile sense of self worth. Unfortunately, Professor McGonagall's rant in front of the entire team had made it quite clear to everyone that the only reason Ron was still co-captain, indeed, the only reason he remained on the team, was that Harry had insisted upon it.

Ronald Weasley simply hated feeling indebted to Harry Potter. Even more, the King hated that the whole of Gryffindor House, and inevitably the entire Hogwarts student body, knew full well that he was.

After the blow-up, both Harry and Hermione expected that they would be seeing more of Ginny. After all, Ginny obviously shared their view (if not their precise reasons) that Cho Chang was a very bad influence on Ron - and that was the crucial dividing line at the moment.

But for some reason that never happened. Ginny certainly was having nothing to do with Ron - the incandescent glares she shot her brother every time they encountered one another were proof enough of that. Still she avoided Harry, too. Hermione surmised that Ginny must be feeling guilty about how she had injured him, and thus was uncomfortable around anyone who had been eyewitness to her not-so-little meltdown.

Some good came out of the situation on Sunday evening, when Harry had his next Animagus training session with the Deputy Headmistress. That was not apparent at first, though. Indeed, Harry seemed to be regressing.

“Oh come now, Potter, you can do better than that,” Professor McGonagall briskly criticised his efforts. “You've done that hindquarters transformation several times before. You even did it as wild magic.”

“Well I can't seem to get it to happen now,” Harry complained. Agitated, he stood up. “You know what? Maybe we should just end this. I mean, what good is turning into a Griffin for fighting Voldemort anyway? It takes bang-on trust to learn something this complex, and you just don't trust me. And because of that, I'm having a right hard time trusting you!”

To say that Professor McGonagall was surprised by Harry's outburst would seriously understate her reaction.

“What?” she responded, her eyes narrowing. “Why, that's absurd, Potter. I wouldn't be spending my copious free time teaching you this if I thought you'd misuse it. I wouldn't have approved your extra training with….”

“Look, you just made me look like a grasser, and a sorry excuse for one at that, before the whole team. Before that, you suspected me of drugging Hermione so I could have my way with her. You took away my Goblin guard because you thought I'd misuse them. Worst of all, you kept Hermione's note a secret because you thought I needed more incentive to rescue her,” Harry rattled off his list of accumulated complaints.

Professor McGonagall was especially irked by the last of these accusations. “Mister Potter,” she said quite heatedly, some of her hair coming loose from its usual severe bun. “I shall address the first, if you wish. I have admitted I was wrong on the second. You should do the same concerning the third. But I give you my word that you had nothing whatever to do with my keeping Miss Granger's note confidential. I had more than enough confidence in you, it was….”

The deputy headmistress stopped abruptly. Harry Potter was not just any student, but he was a student nonetheless. There were certain subjects not appropriate for student ears.

“I'm sorry, Potter, that is not something I am at liberty to discuss. I had my reasons, and you were not one of them.” Then Professor McGonagall changed the subject. “As for the unfortunate incident at the ball, I have already informed the entire House that I was mistaken….”

Harry was not distracted. “Then…, it was Dumbledore, wasn't it?” he bored in.

“It is not proper to discuss the Headmaster with a student,” Professor McGonagall answered crisply.

Harry looked suddenly downcast. “He's the one who didn't trust me enough to save Hermione….”

With Harry moving full speed down the wrong track, Professor McGonagall thought she had to do something. “No, Potter, it wasn't like that at all,” she blurted. “It had nothing - nothing to do with you. I chose not to tell the Headmaster. That's all I'm going to say on that matter. But … I hadn't the slightest doubt whatever concerning you….”

“But…. But…,” Harry struggled. Then his jaw clenched - hard. “That son of a bitch….”

“Mister Potter - language!” McGonagall upbraided him. But she knew she had a more serious problem to deal with than swearing, or even Animagus training. “You are once again blowing things out of all proportion….”

“Sorry, but it's bloody hard for me to stay proportional about Hermione's life,” Harry pushed the deputy headmistress' words back into her face. “There's only one reason you wouldn't tell Dumbledore something like that. You thought that, once Hermione got me back, he'd be willing to let her go….”

“Oh, come now, Mister Potter!” Professor McGonagall answered in a shocked voice. “You know as well as I that the Headmaster not only saved Miss Granger's life himself, but did everything he could to help you do the same….”

Harry had to agree with everything Professor McGonagall said. He was starting to question his emotional reaction to what she had said earlier.

“…but nevertheless you are correct as to my intentions. I was indeed concerned that Headmaster Dumbledore might consider Miss Granger expendable. His motives are often … complex. I now believe that my precaution was unnecessary.”

“Well, that's good to know,” Harry said with a fair bit of snark.

At this point, the professor saw the opportunity to turn the tables. “Mister Potter, you have raised a matter of trust, specifically my trustworthiness. I'll have you know that throughout your disappearance, it was I who kept Miss Granger's safety paramount, moreso than even herself. She was quite cross with me at times for that….”

“I'll say,” Harry agreed, remembering some of the things Hermione had said about McGonagall.

“I trusted you completely to come through for Miss Granger, and you did,” she continued. “That's why … after the ball, I was utterly shocked when the evidence seemed to point to you. It seemed irrefutable, but turned out to be irrefutably wrong…. All I can say is I should have trusted you then as much as I did before…. But I am trusting you now.”

“Well, you did drop all the restrictions,” Harry allowed.

“Yes, even though the perpetrators go unpunished,” she said with a frown. “But more importantly, it is not my habit to reveal my differences with the Headmaster to students. I am trusting you to keep that to yourself.”

“Yes,” Harry began, but then he realised what he was saying. “But not from Hermione … no secrets from her….”

Silently he held out his arm, pulled back his robes and showed her the back of his right wrist - where the phrase “I must not tell lies” remained faintly visible.

At first Professor McGonagall drew back in shock, but her expression soon resolved into a tight, knowing smile. “Yes, not from her. Now, let me explain to you where you are right, and where you are mistaken, about the rest of it.”

Harry and McGonagall chatted for the rest of their allotted time, as both felt that resolving their differences was more important than one session of Animagus training. Slowly, and not without fits and starts, they aired their various grievances and either reached an understanding (goblins at Hogwarts), or else simply agreed to disagree (Ron remaining as Quidditch co-captain).

There were only a couple of minutes left when Harry remembered there was some matters he would like Professor McGonagall's help with - items that even the straight-laced professor would not find objectionable.

“Professor, there are some things I was meaning to ask you for help with,” he began cautiously. “But we weren't on good terms recently….”

“What is it, Potter?” Professor McGonagall prompted. “You know I cannot show favouritism, but if I can help, I will.”

“Umm … I could use some help with Hermione's Christmas present. I have this idea….”

“Do you really need my help with that?” the deputy headmistress said sceptically. “Your goblin friends would do anything for you, and they have more connexions of the sort you'd need than I.”

“Not for this,” Harry continued. “It's not magical, it's Muggle.”

Professor McGonagall's eyebrows shot up. “Muggle? And you think I'd provide worthwhile assistance with that? Perhaps you should ask Professor Asimov for help…. Or that Mister Howe of yours….”

“Actually, I don't think you're the most qualified for this, I know you are,” Harry persisted. “Howe can run errands, but only you can tell him where.”

Professor McGonagall allowed the corners of her mouth to turn upwards just the slightest bit at Harry's persistent flattery. “Then perhaps you had better explain just what you've got in mind,” she invited.

Harry did.

“Very well,” she agreed at the end of Harry's spiel. “But you used the plural earlier. Is there something else you're after.”

“Umm … yes,” Harry admitted. “It's a little different, and some people around here might object, but I don't think you will.”

“Well, what is it then?”

Harry told her.

“Unorthodox, indeed,” Professor McGonagall commented when he finished. “And you are quite correct; there are those, even at Hogwarts, who would object. But I think it can be arranged. Let me discuss it with Professor Asimov. Assuming I am successful, where would you like these items delivered?”

“To Château Blackwalls,” Harry responded.

* * * *

It was double Transfiguration, and the subject was advanced Switching Charms. Harry was seated next to Ron, and neither was particularly pleased about it. Professor McGonagall, however, used assigned seating in her classroom. Harry and Ron had paired up at the beginning of the year, when Hermione was injured - and that was that.

Professor McGonagall did not change assigned seats for reasons so trite as friends falling out, or even friends falling in love….

When she finally recovered from her ordeal, Hermione found herself in a seat next to Su Li. The Ravenclaw had been the odd person out, so upon Hermione's return, Su Li experienced the double-edged sword of Granger as a table mate: immediate access to her immense knowledge (something Ravenclaws did not underestimate), whilst at the same time being hopelessly overshadowed by a bona fide magical prodigy.

The idea was to hone Switching Spells using objects with similar attributes. Even for Ron, whose adeptness at Transfiguration usually left something to be desired, the lesson had gone swimmingly as long as the two objects' shared attribute was easy to discern.

Switching antlers with fangs was no problem - they were both sharp.

So was switching a pillow with a Pygmy Puff - they were both soft.

Switching a pair of glasses (Harry's) with a glass of water was a little more difficult - but once Ron realised that they shared the key attribute of, transparency, he was able to perform the switch.

Ron was able to switch a small fire with a cup of steaming Moroccan coffee once he grasped that both were hot. However, he failed to notice Professor McGonagall hovering.

“That took too long, Weasley,” she said in that condescending voice reserved for when she thought that a student should have figured something out more rapidly. “Try again. Here, have a doughnut.”

Ron gave the professor a confused look, accepted the doughnut from her, and promptly took a big bite out of it.

“No, Weasley!” she harped at him. “I didn't mean for you to eat it. I meant for you to switch it.”

She rapped him on the knuckles with her wand, causing him to drop the gooey remains of the jam doughnut. Another flick of her wand caused the remnant to vanish - and it was instantly replaced by another, intact, doughnut.

“Now, switch it,” she commanded as she swept away.

Ron looked at the doughnut like it might eat him, which would have been a neat but rather piquant reversal of fortunes. “Bloody Hell,” he whispered to Harry. “How am I supposed to switch this? The stupid coffee cup's not even round.”

Ron was right. The particular mug in front of Ron was shaped more like a triangle, with a rough likeness of Hogwarts and the phrase “Hogwarts Millennium 997-1997” decorating all three sides.

Ron groaned and tried a Switching Spell. It failed because the analogy was not there.

Ron tried and failed again, his face growing redder under the combined affects of mental exertion and sheer embarrassment.

All of a sudden, Harry sat up straight. `He needs to think of the holes,' Hermione's Legilimenced voice echoed in his head. Evidently she had been observing things from her seat near the back. `It's a rather basic topological problem. He won't listen to me, but he might listen to you. Count the number of holes….'

`A what problem?' Harry Legilimenced back to her. `Topo-who?'

`A topologic…. Oh, forget it,' Hermione Legilimenced back, sounding a bit put out. `Just … count the number of holes….'

Unfortunately, Hermione's hint went right by Harry. To him, her instructions were just about as clear as mud, but he tried anyway.

“Ron… - try looking for similarities … in the holes,” Harry said in a low and uncertain voice.

Ron gave Harry a rather sceptical look, and whispered. “Holes? What bloody holes? Sure, I see a hole in the doughnut, but the coffee cup doesn't leak one bit.”

“Well … umm…,” Harry floundered. “Maybe it's not that kind of hole. Take … like….” Harry spotted the strap he was using to keep his textbooks fastened together. It had two closely spaced rows of small holes that ran almost its entire length.

Ron was wearing a chain of some sort around his neck. It also had lots of holes, because it was made out of numerous links.

Harry thought it was worth a chance.

“…Holes like this,” Harry told Ron as he performed the Switching Spell.

It was flawless. In an instant, Ron was wearing Harry's strap around his neck and Ron's chain was lying loosely around Harry's books.

Except Ron's chain had a pendant around it - and that pendant contained a stylised Chinese design. The pattern resembled….

….Cho's tattoo, as stored in Luna's memory…

…Cho's tattoo, both Harry and Hermione had seen it on the Internet…

…the design in the carved stamp that Cho had given Harry for his birthday….

Harry could not help but gawk at it.

Ron could not help but notice Harry gawking. “Oi! Give that back!” Ron demanded in a voice loud enough for the entire class to hear.

Professor McGonagall certainly heard.

“If you can't keep your voice down, Weasley, I'll be forced to deduct points,” she threatened in the distinctive tone Hermione referred to as her `annoyed professor' voice. That was one step below `fear of God' in the hierarchy of Professor McGonagall voice inflections.

“Shut it, Ron,” Harry shushed. “I'll just switch it back, okay?”

And he did.

But no sooner than he did, the both of them were treated to a five-minute lecture from Professor McGonagall about single handled cups being no different from doughnuts in terms of their having only one hole - in the middle for the doughnut and in the handle for the cup. It was near the end of class, so Professor McGonagall ended her lecture by assigning Harry and Ron each a two-foot extra essay on the use of topology in Switching Spells.

Needless to say, neither Harry nor Ron was in a very good mood when Double Transfiguration ended.

Hermione fell in next to Harry, taking his hand. Ron took that as his signal to leave in a huff, as he still was not on ordinary speaking terms with Hermione.

Hermione began, “Well, I tried to tell you….”

“Don't you start on me, too,” Harry sighed, shaking his head.

“Oh, all right, I'll help you with that essay,” she backed off. “It's exactly what I was talking about.”

“Later,” Harry cut her off, as soon as he was sure Ron was out of earshot. “I need to get back to the dormitory as soon as possible. Did you see what Ron had around his neck?”

“Not very clearly, no,” Hermione admitted.

“His chain had on it another one of those Chinese-type symbols,” he told her. “Like Cho's tattoo. I need to get one of those Pocket Pensieves and put this memory in it while it's as fresh as possible….”

He pulled Hermione into an alcove out of the path of student traffic. “Muffliato.”

“Harry, what's got you so on edge?” Hermione asked.

“I want to compare that pendant to a couple of things,” Harry explained. “I wonder…. Do you think Cho could be trying to control Ron with that pendant?”

“I doubt it, Harry,” Hermione replied thoughtfully. “That would be extraordinarily risky. Besides, I think she has all the control she needs over Ron by virtue of her lack of virtue.”

“Something's going on and I don't know what it is,” Harry insisted. “She's invited Ron to her parents' house for Chinese New Year, and Ron wants me to send him that Felix Felicis potion for him to take while he's there….”

Hermione's eyebrows almost shot through the top of her head. “And you agreed to that?”

“Umm … yeah,” Harry admitted. “He's my friend, and he said I was the only one he trusted to do it….”

“You know what he's planning to do, don't you? At minimum, he's going to declare for Cho, and he might even be thinking of asking her to marry him,” Hermione surmised, her voice rising. “Ronald Weasley is not mature enough to do that.”

“He's older than I am, and I've been engaged to you for well over a month,” Harry replied.

“Age does not equal maturity, Harry,” Hermione replied huffily, “and you will recall that my only hesitation was precisely that - the both of us being too young.”

“Something you overcame, thank Merlin,” Harry said as he pulled her close.

“I could never turn you down, Harry,” Hermione said, giving him a little kiss. “Not once I made sure you were serious….”

“Sirius is dead, sorry to say,” Harry replied. “I'm just in love….”

With that, Harry snogged her properly.

When they came up for air, Harry was - despite the pun he had just made - quite serious.

“I gave Ron my word,” he said. “I won't go back unless there's a damn good reason. And now we have the New Year as a deadline, so we'll have to have this sorted out before we leave for the Holiday.”

“Actually, we've more time than that,” Hermione said, biting her lower lip. “I don't know exactly when Chinese New Year is this year, but I can find out….”

“You mean it's not the same?” Harry asked, looking rather clueless.

“No, it's not,” Hermione started to explain. “It's some sort of lunar thing, so it varies, but the Chinese New Year is always at least several weeks after the one we celebrate.”

“But that would mean Ron's going there after we get back from the Holiday,” Harry observed. “How could they do that?”

“I don't know,” Hermione admitted, “but her family - probably her father - undoubtedly has some influence with the school. After all Cho's got permission to leave the school on weekends for special courses in `Chinese magic,' which I'm willing to bet are being recorded in Amsterdam or some such.”

“At least we have a little more time, then,” Harry sighed. In reality, they were scarcely further along than when they had first begun suspecting Cho. Whatever she was doing, it did not seem to be harming Ron. “I'm tempted to send that potion ahead to Blackwalls, simply so Ron doesn't take it into his head to ask her sooner.”

Hermione had been thinking hard. “Whatever,” she said distractedly. “Actually, its not a bad idea. I'm going to have the Order send some stuff from my room at Headquarters along, too, if you don't mind….”

“What kind of stuff,” Harry asked, his curiosity piqued.

“Oh, just my pictures from Hong Kong,” Hermione told him. “You haven't seen them anyway, and I want you to. But also I want to take a closer look at some things….”

“And you think that's going to help us with this Cho business?” Harry wondered.

“Can't say for sure, but it might,” Hermione answered.

* * * *

Harry had risen early and had already spent a couple of hours in the Room of Requirement working on his training exercises. When he was finished, he could hardly wait to tell Hermione the good news. He found her, as usual, in their “spot” in the depths of the Library, checking both of their Arithmancy homework lessons - although she seemed to be daydreaming at the moment.

He pulled out his Invisibility Cloak and crept up behind her.

She jumped as his invisible arms went around her. “Harry! You could get hexed that way!” she squealed. “Sneaking up on me like that whilst I'm studying.”

“I'll take my chances,” he whispered in her ear. “You didn't seem all that studious right then, anyway.”

“Actually, I wasn't,” she conceded, putting down the quill she had been absentmindedly twirling. “I've just thought of something….”

“Something other than how you want me next to sneak up on you from under the table, then?” Harry slid both hands down to her hips and gave them a squeeze.

How had he known she had entertained almost that exact naughty thought? “Now there's a thought for late at night,” she allowed as she swung her hair aside so Harry could nibble on her neck a bit, “but not for now, unfortunately. Ooh….” She quivered as he gave her a little nip. “You're rather forward this morning.”

“I have something to tell you, too,” he went on as he licked the nape of Hermione's neck. “I did it. For the first time just a few minutes ago….”

“Did what?” Hermione asked. “And if you say something about sex, I may just hex you anyway. We have to finish this Arithmancy homework, after all.”

“More important than sex, anyway,” Harry indicated, backing away so she could turn around and face him.

“Wow! Now that's something for a male your age to say,” Hermione replied saucily. “Are you sure you're not Professor Binns under Polyjuice?”

“Stuff doesn't work on ghosts; you know that,” Harry replied. “Besides … sixteen.”

“Sixteen what?” Hermione asked archly.

“Sixteen times I got you off one way or another in that goblin cave. Now you know I'm not Professor Binns,” Harry answered. “And that's when I gave out, not you….”

“Harry! Not here. Besides I knew it was you from the way you nibbled my neck. Nobody else knows just how to do that,” Hermione carried on.

“I should hope not,” Harry grinned.

“Anyway, what's your news?” Hermione asked.

“What's yours?” Harry countered.

“You first - I have a feeling mine will take longer,” Hermione countered.

“Okay,” Harry gave in. “Whenever I can find the time, I've been working on this ever since we discussed that Bose-Einstein whatever it was. Every morning that I'm able to run in the Room, I set aside a quarter hour at least to work on the helium. I actually managed to liquefy it today.”

Hermione clapped her hands together in glee. “You did? Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Harry confirmed. “Damnedest stuff I ever saw. The balloon broke when it happened, and it flowed right up and over the edge of the cup I'd stuck the balloon in to hold it in place. It was that super … er … whatever you told me to look for….”

“Superfluidity,” Hermione corrected.

“Yeah, that's it,” Harry continued. “It flowed up and out until it got outside the area of my elemental magic, then, poof, it was gone.”

Hermione gave Harry a hug around his waist. “That's wonderful, Harry! I know you'll get there. Were you using three or four?”

“Three or four what?” Harry asked blankly. “Number of times you got me off?”

“Helium, of course,” Hermione replied prudishly. “Stay focussed, Harry.”

“Helium whats?” Harry persisted.

“Isotopes,” she replied. “Didn't you read that article I printed out for you from the Internet?”

“Umm….”

“You didn't, did you?”

“Not really,” Harry confessed. “You know me, I like just to do it first and then get you to explain what I've done.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione sighed. “It's important that you use four rather than three, since you're trying, ultimately, for the condensate. Not only that, you'll find it a bit easier, since four goes liquid at a little higher temperature. But anyway … great job, Harry - even though you probably made things harder on yourself. Keep practising, please?”

“Anything for you,” Harry replied. “You know that.”

Still sitting, she buried her head in his middle as she gave him a huge hug.

“And your news?” Harry asked, as he tried to avoid thinking about sex again.

“Oh, yes,” Hermione said as she sat up straight again. “Well, I've been thinking about the Sisters, and how we might be able to get in touch with them about the … you know….”

Both of them thought back to that swastika-imprinted gold bar that Harry had stashed in his trunk at the foot of his bed.

“…And, well, since their greatest strengths - or so I've read - lie in foretelling the future, like you saw in the Pensieve, I was thinking that maybe I should put aside my prejudices for once.”

“Prejudices about what?” Harry broke in.

“Well … Divination, actually,” Hermione replied. “We should go ask….”

“No, Hermione,” Harry cut across her. “I'm not having anything to do with bloody Trelawney. Not only is she a fraud, but she's too dependent upon Dumbledore after that run in with Umbridge last term….”

“Not Trelawney, you berk,” Hermione huffed, miffed at being cut off. “I mean Firenze - and from the course schedule that Madam Pince posted on the bulletin board, I believe he's got a free period around lunch, today, same as us.”

“But the headmaster's protecting him, too,” Harry observed. “He can't go back to the forest. They'd kill him, they would.”

“I don't think he'd tell if we asked him not to,” Hermione answered. “I've thought about that. He's more honest. If he couldn't accept our preconditions, he'd just refuse to help us.”

And so, Harry and Hermione found themselves, after their separate but simultaneous Arithmancy classes, walking cautiously down the ground floor corridor looking for the centaur's classroom. Having dropped Divination, Hermione had never been there. Harry was out of Divination, too, after failing to do better than “Poor” on his O.W.L. He had not set foot there since last term, and things tended to move about in the castle.

Harry reached what he supposed was the correct door and knocked. It opened by itself, and Harry could smell the fresh, outdoorsy smell of a forest - perpetually in late spring, it appeared - mixed with the fragrant odour of burning herbs.

Hermione quickly identified them as hyssop and cedar.

Having never seen Firenze's classroom before, Hermione was impressed at the green canopy of magnificent trees and the shafts of xanthous sunshine that cut between them. The sunlight illuminated curlicues of pungent smoke that rose from abalone shells placed at odd locations, seemingly throughout the room.

“Umm … Firenze, are you…?” Harry's call died in his throat as the shockingly blond and blue-eyed palomino centaur cantered down a path towards them.

“Ah, yes, Harry Potter,” the centaur spoke easily as he extended a hand. “And you must be Hermione Granger, the one who introduced Madam Umbridge to my tribe.”

“The same,” Hermione acknowledged. All centaurs had a certain regal presence about them, and she was briefly unsure whether she should curtsey. She felt the tug of Harry's hand on hers. Looking at him, she saw his subtle motion indicating that they should simply sit down, which they did on the cool and soft moss-covered floor.

Firenze, after trotting in a small circle in front of them, also sat - rear legs first and then his forelegs, until he was facing them from just a couple of metres away.

“Ah, yes, Venus is bright today,” Firenze said in his calm, almost monotone, voice. “It can even be perceived in daylight, if one knows where to look.” The centaur's upwardly raised arm indicated direction, but neither Harry nor Hermione could see anything through the dense branches.

“Please, lean back,” Firenze suggested. “Make yourself comfortable.”

As if on cue, the room dimmed, and through the trees, they were able to make out a whitish-yellow point of light that, unlike twinkling stars, shone steadily.

“Quite bright, indeed,” Firenze commented easily. “But as always the heavens move. One must take care that the red one not eclipse it. The stars speak to no man, but they speak to all….”

Harry shot Hermione a look. She had never been treated to the centaur's more metaphysical musings. He could tell that, instead of paying attention to anything having to do with Divination, she was calculating how to direct the conversation to the Sisters of the Moon.

Finally, she did.

“We've come because we need your help with a very serious matter,” Hermione intimated. “It's confidential, and if you can help us, we'd ask that you not tell Professor Dumbledore about it.”

“But the headmaster has a right to know about anything affecting his students,” Firenze resisted.

“It's not about me as a student,” Harry interjected, taking over from Hermione. “It has to do with my inheritance - nothing about my studies, or anything else I do here.”

“Go on,” Firenze directed. His palomino tail swished back and forth, an indication of his interest.

“I know that your form of Divination is rather … different … from what most of us humans do,” Harry continued. “That much, at least, I got out of your class.”

“Do not worry, young Potter,” Firenze replied easily. “Your strengths lie elsewhere.”

Harry went on. “Still, I was wondering, since it's all Divination of one sort or another, do you, you know, compare notes with other practitioners - of other forms of Divination, that is?”

“It is done,” Firenze answered opaquely. “I am not in the habit of swapping technical points with … humans, since they are more interested in the trivial pursuit of divining the fortunes of individuals, or mundane things such as sports or shares. That is truly nonsensical, since the skies look identical to all who exist under them. It is the broader currents of history and fate that I, and the rest of my kind, seek to comprehend. Such currents cannot be changed, except at the margin.”

“Well, we were hoping you might have some contacts with some humans,” Hermione offered. “It is just that we….”

“I would not sully myself to speak of such things with, say, Sibyll Trelawney,” Firenze talked over her. “Indeed, I do not even discuss the teachings of the stars with Headmaster Dumbledore, although he has inquired.”

“We're not talking about anybody in the castle, at least we don't think so,” Harry tried again. “We need to get in contact with a group of seers and I don't know what else, called the Sisters of the Moon.”

Instinctively, Firenze leaned back just a bit. His tail also bobbed into view. “Well, well, well … that is certainly … different,” he allowed. “The Sisters…. While they occasionally engage in soothsaying of a sort to which we do not stoop, they do practise the art on a … higher level … than most of your kind.”

“So you do know about them?” Hermione asked eagerly.

“I know of them,” Firenze corrected. “Within my herd, I was never privy to our exchanges with the Sisters of the Moon. You must go to Magorian. He holds the position of first amongst equals. He knows.”

“But the centaurs in the forest, they were ready to kill us the last time we were crazy enough to venture in there,” Harry protested.

“I'm afraid I might have insulted them,” Hermione added.

“You, Miss Granger are correct. As for the Sisters, I'm afraid that I have nothing more to say, since I know not of them except by reputation,” Firenze said calmly. “Magorian knows, and he, unlike me, owes nothing to Headmaster Dumbledore.”

“You're telling us to go there,” Harry said carefully. “By that, do you mean that you think they won't hurt us?”

“The heavens are always changing,” Firenze said obscurely, as he rose, first to his haunches and then to his feet, “as is the world. Things are not as they once were, nor will they be as they are now. If you seek the Sisters, and wish to avoid Dumbledore, you must entreat Magorian.”

With that, the centaur loped off, the interview obviously over.

“Magorian, eh,” Harry said glumly as he closed the classroom door. “Think I should do this one alone? After all, you were right - you did insult them….”

“Harry, you never have to do anything alone again,” Hermione responded with more emotion than he had expected. “That's the whole point, isn't it? That's one reason - one of many - why I said, `yes'.”

“But I think I may be better suited to this particular thing,” Harry persisted. “They might even like me better now, after the treaty bit with the sentient beings. Maybe that's what Firenze meant about things changing. Besides, I wouldn't want us both to get captured. Then there'd be nobody to go get help.”

“All right,” Hermione conceded reluctantly, “but do talk to Hagrid before you go gallivanting off into the Forbidden Forest. He knows more about them than anyone.”

* * * *

The weekend had arrived - and for once an off day included nothing Harry was required to do and nowhere he was required to go. He would have liked to spend this time snogging and chatting with Hermione, but the fates were cruel. His fiancée had to accompany Madam Pomfrey on a visit to St. Mungo's hospital in London.

Harry knew better than to pry, and understood only that the two were consulting with Healer Huxley and several other of the St. Mungo's staff, one of whom Harry supposed was probably Hippocrates Smethwyck.

Harry thought this because he knew Hermione was working on some, possibly breakthrough, treatment for lycanthropy.

As befitted the subject of Hermione's mission, Tonks had escorted the pair and was in charge of security for the trip. More than that, Harry was not privy, except that Hermione said she was going to insist upon taking a couple of Slamdor's goblins along.

Since Hermione had suggested it, Harry started out the morning by paying a visit to Hagrid. He found the half-giant (not that Hagrid was at all hard to spot) busily skinning a pile of dead ferrets. In a new pen about halfway between his cabin and the closest shore of the lake, Harry saw two unfamiliar Hippogriffs.

Harry knew through the grapevine that, after the incident at the Ministry and the ensuing disgrace of Lucius Malfoy, Hagrid had requested and received permission to return Hippogriffs to the Third Year and above Care of Magical Creatures curriculum.

“Hi, Hagrid!” Harry called out from about fifteen metres distance.

“`Arry!” Hagrid replied enthusiastically. With his bare hands, he yanked the fur off the ferret he had been gutting and tossed the pelt onto a pile next to one of his largest pumpkins. “What brings yeh down `ere … an' alone, too. Don' see yeh by yerself much anymore. `Ermione's allrigh' ain't she?”

“Oh, she's fine,” Harry answered. “She's just off with Pomfrey to St. Mungo's this morning, and I'm … well I had some time, so I thought I'd come see you.”

“Always `appy ta see yeh,” Hagrid welcomed. “Pull up a … pumpkin or somethin' an' `ave a seat.” Hagrid tossed the ferret carcass in the general direction of one of the Hippogriffs, which deftly caught it in its beak.

Harry looked around, and instead parked himself on the low stone fence surrounding the half-giant's garden. “ How's Aragog?” he asked.

Hagrid's face darkened. “On `is last legs, I'm afraid. Don' think there's anythin' anybody can do fer `im now. Jess a matter o' time….”

Hagrid's eyes started to tear up at the thought of the death of the elephantine arachnid. “Raised `im from an egg, I did….”

Hagrid pulled out a large blue and white polka-dotted handkerchief from a pocket in his moleskin coat, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose loudly.

Harry did not share such fond memories, since Aragog had once authorised his brood to eat him and Ron. But for a most timely automotive intervention, the pair probably would have met a most sticky end.

“Aragog's the king … or whatever … of the Acromantulæ, isn't he?” Harry asked hesitantly.

“More like `ead o' the family, but yeah, he's been in charge,” Hagrid answered morosely.

Harry had another question. “Who takes over when he dies, then?”

“Don' even wanna think `bout it,” Hagrid groaned. “I reckon the next level o' males will fight it out, an' the winner'l eat the losers. That's `ow it usually goes.”

“You told me once that Aragog kept his … er … family from killing people - or at least people who, unlike me, didn't go looking for trouble,” Harry remembered. “Will that end when he dies?”

“Damn … yer probably right come ta think o' that,” Hagrid shuddered. “Didn' think `bout that. Looks like there's goin' ta be another reason why the forest's forbidden.”

“What do they eat now?” Harry wondered.

“Jess `bout anythin' they can catch,” Hagrid told him. “Deer, rats an' other regular animals, mostly. Wolves an' dogs, too…. They'll take an injured Thestral iffn they can. They've even been known ta run off with centaur foals…. Won' touch unicorns, though.”

Harry saw his opening to discuss the main thing on his agenda with Hagrid. “The centaurs can't like that very much.”

“Spect they don',” Hagrid agreed. “That's another reason they don' like me much no more. Now that the colony's got a taste for `em, I can' stop `em. Even Aragog wouldn' listen to me `bout that.”

“If they start going after students, then we've got a big problem,” Harry pointed out. “Isn't there something we could do to, you know, get rid of them?”

Hagrid sighed. “After more'n fifty years? Doubt it. Too many o' `em now. It'd take an army ta drive `em out. There's jess too many. I `spose I wasn't all that bright getting' Aragog a mate - but `e whinged so bloody much…. The Ministry's gonna `ave me `ide yet.”

All of a sudden, Harry realised that he had the makings of a plan - and even before he had broached the main subject of his visit. It was time to do that.

“Hagrid, I need to talk to Magorian,” he revealed.

“Why'd yeh wanna do that?” Hagrid asked gruffly. “He's better'n most o' `em, but `e's still a bloody centaur. Struts sittin' down as well as standin' up, they all do. `Alf man an' `alf `orse's arse, I say.”

Harry had come up with an excuse on the walk down. He used it now. “I want to sound him out about maybe helping us out against Voldemort….”

“Don' you say that name `round me,” Hagrid recoiled. “No need ta do that.”

“…or at least to stay neutral,” Harry continued. “I was talking about it with Hermione, and she reminded me that the centaurs are covered by the equality clause I added to the goblin treaty.”

“That's a fine thing yeh did there, `Arry … a fine thing,” Hagrid replied, pulling out his hanky again. When done, he continued. “But I doubt the bloody centaurs are interested in bein' equal. They already think they's better'n us anyhows.”

“You may be right, Hagrid, but I think I ought to at least try,” Harry laid it on.

“Oh, all right,” Hagrid huffed. “But yeh oughta go alone. They don' like me much, nor `Ermione neither, I've `eard. No use exposin' anybody else. Yeh know which path ta take?”

“I figure it's the one you showed us that time we had detention with Malfoy, way back in first year,” Harry replied.

“Long time ago…,” Hagrid responded wistfully. “Yeah, that'll do. Iffn yeh keep on goin' past where we ran inta trouble that night, yeh'll reach a fork. Take the left fork. There's a clearing we've used fer parlays every now an' then over the years. Got white stones `round the edges. That's where Dumbledore got `em ta give up Umbridge rather than feed `er ta Aragog's kin. Use yer wand ta shoot up white sparks iffn they haven' spotted yeh already. Actually….”

“What, Hagrid?” Harry asked as the half-giant paused.

“Yeh probably oughtta go with `im,” Hagrid thought out loud. “That's the ticket.… The `Eadmaster's probably the best yeh could `ave with yeh iffn yer tryin' ta negotiate anythin' with that bunch o' nags….”

“Yeah, I'll make sure to do that. You can count on it,” Harry blatantly lied. “I'll take care of it.”

Once he got back from his chat with Hagrid, Harry decided it would be a good day to try to talk to Ron, since Cho was also away on one of her off-site “Chinese Magic” lessons - which probably had nothing to do with either Chinese or magic. After the “discussion” with Hermione, Harry thought he should make sure that Ron still wanted him to have custody of his phial of Felix Felicis potion. Maybe Ron would take it back….

The trouble was, Harry and Ron were not hanging out together very much anymore, and Harry did not know where Ron might be. He had started spending a lot more time with Seamus and Dean, but neither of them was anywhere to be found either.

Harry asked after Ron with whoever happened to be in the common room, but nobody had any idea except Romilda Vane.

“You might try the music dungeon,” she told Harry. “That's where Seamus and Dean might be anyway - I heard them talking about it. I might even drop by there, myself, later, once I get this Astronomy essay finished.”

“Er … where's that?” Harry asked. In over five years at Hogwarts, this was the first he had known that there even was a music dungeon.

“Oh, that's right,” Romilda said somewhat sarcastically. “You wouldn't have anything to do with magical instruments … no, she's too much of a purist for that.”

“Go put a cork in it, Rommy,” Harry complained. “I like music just fine, I just didn't think that Dumbledore did - at least not enough to put it on the curriculum.”

Romilda made a face in Harry's general direction, but softened at how cute he looked when confronted with a girl being difficult. “All right, Harry, just because it's you…. At the landing for the dungeon level, instead of turning right towards the Potions classroom and the Slytherin common room, you go left. Pass the house elves' quarters and the kitchens and turn right at the self portrait of Oswald the Amorphous. It's just down that hall. You can't miss it. If there's anybody there, you'll hear them.”

Harry gave her a brief smile. “Thanks, Rommy.”

“Ron's been hanging out there a lot recently,” she added brightly. “I play too, you know. If you can wait maybe forty-five minutes for this homework, I'll even take you there….”

She had started giving Harry this appraising look that made him feel nervous - as if he let her lead the way, there might be some detour. “Maybe some other time,” he said noncommittally, and he was off.

Sure enough, Romilda's directions were quite good. As Harry passed the self portrait - which Harry thought looked rather like the Dursley's bathroom mirror after someone had taken an overly long, hot shower - he could hear some interesting music quite unlike anything he'd ever heard before. It was rock and roll but not exactly….

It was also winding down.

“Stand up for your rights…. Get up, stand up…. Don't give up the fight….”

By the time Harry got to the door, the last chord had sounded. From the doorway, he saw Dean Thomas, his hair held up in what looked like a Gryffindor bandanna, but with a green streak in it, fiddling with a large electric guitar.

Seamus had a left-handed bass slung around his neck. He was facing the other way, laughing at some joke somebody had told.

A seventh-year Hufflepuff, Titania Prod, was barely visible behind a massive drum set.

Kevin Entwhistle from Ravenclaw was running his fingers up and down an enchanted keyboard.

Tabitha Moon, whom Harry knew only as a Hufflepuff Beater, was selecting another guitar from a selection of over a dozen that hung on the wall.

Even a Slytherin, Van Lingle Park, the off-beat Beater who had nearly killed one of his team-mates in the recently concluded match, was present. He had some brassy looking instrument hanging near his waist that Harry vaguely recognised, but couldn't name.

There were a couple of other people lounging around that Harry didn't know at all.

“Well, I'll be blowed,” Dean called out. “If it isn't the great one himself. Harry, welcome to our own private den of iniquity…. Are you lost or something?”

All eyes turned towards the interloper. “Umm … I was looking for Ron, actually. Somebody said he might be here - but I had no idea what `here' was.”

“This here's the music dungeon, mate,” Seamus told him. “Lots of us who ain't involved in saving the world and such like … well, we end up here, playing our favourite tunes.”

“Well … umm … it doesn't look like Ron's here,” Harry said haltingly, not sure whether he was welcome or not.

“Oh, you can stay. He might show up,” came a voice from an open door in the back of the room. There was a flush, and Harry realised it was a unisex loo. Marcus Belby stepped out. “You can slum with us for a bit, if you like….”

Harry was tempted, but afraid of making a fool of himself. “I-I-I don't know how to play anything….”

“But that's the beauty of it,” Dean told him. “The magic does all the work. We don't have to know anything at all about playing, except to keep our fingers moving….”

“And legs,” added Titania's laughing voice from deep within the drum set. Then she let loose with a fifteen-second riff.

“…Yeah, and legs,” Dean acknowledged. “Nice ones, there…. Anyway, the fun part's programming the music into the instruments' magic.”

“Umm … Okay, I'll try,” Harry agreed. “After I saw Remus … er … Professor Lupin, at the ceremony, I really was jealous of his being able to play.”

“Oh, Hell, he can't play a lick, either,” Seamus told Harry. “Those were magical pipes…. I think they're over there somewhere. He was in here beforehand, and we jammed some.”

“Something easy, then,” Harry suggested.

“Here, take my guitar,” Dean offered. “I could use a break anyway … been here since eight this morning. You right-wanded…?”

Dean showed Harry how to wear and hold the guitar. “Ready?” he asked.

“As ready as I'll ever be,” Harry replied nervously.

“On four, then,” Dean told everyone. “Fumeus in aequora.”

Somewhere to his left, Tabitha's drums began a light beat.

Then, suddenly Harry's hands started moving without his brain telling them to. The guitar was making slow, but recognisable chords. Harry could feel them vibrating though him….

Bom bom bom…, bom bom ba-dom…. Bom bom bom, bom bommm….

That went on for a bit, then Harry heard the sound of Seamus' bass joining in.

Then somebody, Harry wasn't sure who, started singing. “We all came out to Montreaux, on the Lake Geneva shoreline….”

Even though it was the first time he had ever played any musical instrument, save a recorder in primary, by the end of the song, Harry was almost bored with it. He did not have to do much except repeat the same set of notes over and over again….

“Well, you said simple, man,” Dean said, a smile creasing his dark brown face. “There's nothing simpler than `Smoke on the Water'.”

“Well, maybe something not quite so simple, then,” Harry talked back, feeling vaguely euphoric that - even with a huge amount of magical help - he had actually caused something to play recognisable music.

“One song in and he's already making bloody requests,” Van Lingle Park commented, and then let out a loud laugh.

“Oh, it's bloody all right,” Dean said jauntily. “It's not every day we get Harry Potter in concert, after all. Here, try this.”

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“Rhythm guitar,” Dean told him as he summoned over a solid black, somewhat smaller electric guitar. “I'm going give you something a little more complicated, but still not really hard. Just be ready, `cause you'll find yourself playing some rather strange lead ins. Let the magic flow through, and you'll be fine.”

He made some a couple of hand motions to the others in the room.

“Yeah, you'll like this one, Potter,” Van Lingle chuckled as he picked up yet another guitar. “Fits you.”

Harry had little time to be annoyed at what he supposed was some sort of dig, because Dean was counting down.

“Ready? One, two, three, four…. Celebritas.”

Now this was more interesting. While still a repetitive motion, it was more herky-jerky and complicated. At times his fingers felt like they were flying over the guitar strings. Several other instruments joined in, and Harry really felt like he was part of a band, now, rather than some sort of fixture.

Seamus sang this one, “Fame!” he sang and everyone else (except Harry) echoed him. “Makes a man take things over. Fame - fame - lets him loose, hard to swallow….”

The first of the odd rhythm guitar entries, hit him, and Harry lost track of the lyrics. The funky beat almost made him want to bounce up and down. Soon he was even joining in the one-word “fame” echoes. All too soon, it was over.

“That was cool,” Harry enthused when they finished. “What was it?”

“You never heard that before?” Kevin challenged him.

“No. It was good, but unless it was on my cousin's or my Aunt's play list, I never heard it before,” Harry explained.

“You, sir, have had a sorely subpar musical upbringing,” Kevin grinned at him. “That might have been the best thing ole Ziggy Stardust ever wrote.”

“Who?”

Everyone groaned.

“That's David Bowie for the newcomer. You wanna try something else?” Seamus offered. “Here, try this bass…. Umm, actually not, since you're not left hand.”

Somebody summoned a very large looking instrument with the longest neck Harry had ever seen. “That's a bass?” Harry asked.

“Bass … lead bass,” chimed in a boy wearing Hufflepuff colours whom Harry didn't know.

“Right, got that double-O seven?” Seamus joked.

“Think so,” Harry said a little uncertainly as Seamus showed him how to handle this monster.

“Another oldie but goodie, then?” Dean looked over the motley crew. “We'll only need three for this.”

“Don't you play anything recent?” Harry asked naively.

He was met with a chorus of boos.

“Techno sux.”

“It's for ickle firsties.”

“Disco killed rock and roll.”

“Nothing good since me pop pop went to school.”

“Actually that's not true.”

“Oh, yeah? Name one.”

“Two letters,” Seamus broke in. “U-2.”

“Oh, right.”

“Never insult the Irish.”

“But one of those was a number.”

“Oh, shut yer gob.”

“Anyway get your arses together, because we're ready to go over here,” Dean yelled over the general din. “Paranoius!”

Once again Harry's hands took off and a throbbing, lightning fast beat of six sets of short licks followed by two longer sets rocketed through his hands. By the second time through Harry gasped.

This song, he knew.

This song - was dangerous and depressing - if anything might set him off, this song could.

It was one of Dudley's favourites, and Harry had turned to it when he had thought all was lost - to expel an infection from his body that might otherwise have killed him.

But now - his life had been transformed. All was no longer lost.

“Finished with my woman `cause she couldn't help me with my mind….”

“Aaauugghh, finite!” Harry screamed out. His bass at once fell silent, which essentially killed the song, since the bass riffs carried it.

“Geeze, what was that for?” Seamus complained. “We were just getting rolling….”

“What's-a matter, Potter, couldn't handle it?” came a new voice from near the door. Romilda Vane, as promised, had arrived.

“It's just…. that song brings back … very bad memories,” Harry explained tersely, sounding a bit wrung out. “Memories so bad - that it's best I don't think about them….”

“Well, we'll just have to stay away from any more Black Sabbath, I guess,” Titania called out. “Break here. Rommy, you wanna take over?”

“Sure,” Romilda said. She banished her outer robes, which flew to one of the pegs by the door. Underneath she wore a tight scarlet halter top with a couple of glaringly orange spots approximately where her points were. She jumped in behind the drums. “Never had a chance to play with Potter before. Gotta keep him happy.”

Harry had already thought the dungeon rather warm. It seemed to be getting hotter.

“Well, I've an idea,” Dean let on. “We can use just about everybody on this one. Somebody convert the keyboards to chimes. We'll need that second guitar…. And grab those funky percussions…. I'll do vocals, since it's rap….”

“Rap? Yuck!” somebody protested.

“You'll like this one,” Dean promised. “Harry, nice funky bass riff for you.”

“One, two, three, four....” He screamed as loudly as he could. “Magnifice septimanus!”

It was the most entertaining song Harry had played yet - and it was quite long, too. The bass riff was lively, and Harry even started to let loose a bit, rather than just stand there rigidly and try to control the magic. He actually started to move with the music, walk around a little, move that big, long bass in time with the rhythm pounding in his chest.

The words were strange. It was a good thing that Dean was doing nothing but singing. It started out something about going to work - and hating it, but moved on to Hong Kong dollars, lobsters, cowboys, even Karl Marx and Socrates.

Harry was really into it when it ended.

“Look at him - moving to the grooving,” Romilda jibed appreciatively. “Maybe he doesn't have white man's disease after all….”

“Yeah, Harry … I didn't know you could let your hair down like that - too busy running with Dumbledore and counting those Galleons, I thought….” Titania echoed the sentiments. The girls were quicker with the compliments than the boys.

“I know,” Van Lingle said somewhat more snarkily. “Let's let Potter pick. Maybe he can even sing more than one bloody word.”

“Nope, can't sing to save my life,” Harry demurred to the last suggestion. “Not unless you know a spell” - `like Hermione had,' he thought. “I'd drive all the magic out of the room.”

“'Fraid not. But go ahead and pick, then,” the Slytherin persisted.

Harry thought. “Oh, all right, how about `Something,' by the Beatles?”

Non-starter. Once again, everybody groaned.

“Sorry, Potter,” Dean told him, “but if Sinatra can cover it, this crowd doesn't play it.”

Harry was instantly embarrassed. Just when he was starting to fit in, he had to do something that showed why, fundamentally, he did not. “Umm … how about `Gimme Shelter,' then.”

“Fine by me,” Dean concurred.

“Let's do it, then,” Van agreed. “Capital choice, Potter. I've got piano.”

“Potter, you should take lead rhythm for this one,” Kevin told him. “Don't worry about what that is - you'll see. It'll give a chance for a little solo action, if you're up to it.”

Harry was.

“I'll take the female vocals,” Romilda volunteered. “You sure you don't want to sing lead, Potter?”

“Positive.”

“Sufficio perfugium,” Dean incanted. From somewhere in the back the telltale percussion started.

That was even better than `Magnificent Seven,' because Harry's guitar was more essential to the song. As the various instruments joined in, it was like the players coming out, one after another, at the Quidditch World Cup.

Harry was exhilarated. He completely forgot about time, or looking for Ron. After `Gimme Shelter,' he picked up the odd brass instrument that Park had been playing when Harry first walked in. It was a saxophone. After Harry vetoed another Stones song, `Live With Me,' because of its lyrics, they played `Born to Run,' and Harry got his first true solo.

After that, Harry played lead guitar on `Where the Streets Have No Name' and a Beatles song the group deigned to play, `Helter Skelter.' Then he switched to piano for a song Dudley had called `Teenage Wasteland,' but this crowd called `Baba O'Riley.' He tried drums for `Smells Like Teen Spirit,' but found he liked making tunes rather than just noise. Harry went back to keyboards/synthesiser on `Won't Get Fooled Again.'

These blue-collar wizards were a Who crowd.

After quite a few songs were played, Harry finally gave voice to a peculiarity he noticed. “Why are these all Muggle songs?” he asked. “There's No Weird Sisters, no Warbeck…. My Muggle cousin could just as easily have picked these songs - not that he would have….”

Dean, who acted as the unofficial spokesperson for everyone, answered. “Well, the problem with the magical songs is that they're already composed for magical instruments. The real challenge here isn't the playing - the instruments do that. Like I said, it's enchanting the instruments to play the damn songs in the first place. That's why we always work with Muggle songs.”

Harry shrugged. He had no reason to doubt what Dean said. However much the others might play at catering to him, he was only a visitor here. Waiting for the others to decide what to do next, he jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He had long since discarded his robes as a casualty of the heat and exertion. The dungeon could definitely use better Cooling Charms.

Harry thought Dean was joking when he pulled an outrageous looking instrument - a guitar with two necks - off the wall and handed it to him. “Think you're up to something downright difficult, Potter.”

“How the Hell do you play something like this?” Harry asked, wiping the sweat from his brow as he looked at the thing.

“Beats me - the magic is what does it,” Dean said. “Go ahead, let's see what you've really got.”

“All right,” Harry took up the good-natured challenge and slipped on the double-necked guitar. “What are we going to do, now, then?”

“Oh, we'll just see what's taller - your shadow or your soul.”

Harry didn't get what that meant, but it elicited comments of “all right” and “let's rock” from the other witches and wizards present - and a scramble for the various other instruments.

“Scala ab ætherius.”

Even the beginning guitar notes, almost acoustic sounding, didn't seem like anything particularly special. His fingers had gone through a far more intricate set of motions with both `Gimme Shelter' and `Streets with No Name.'

But he figured out what was coming when Kevin started to sing, “There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold, and she's buying a stairway to heaven….”

He had heard this song before - a lot - on the Muggle radio…. And now he was going to play both guitar pieces.

It was a long song - a long and complicated song. By the time he was finally finished, Harry was more than ready for a break. With all the ribbing and back-and-forth, and the time it took to set up between songs, he had been playing for a couple of hours at least.

Or so he thought.

That was split second before he heard a familiar voice from down the hall. “That was very good - really. Before you start the next song can any of you tell me if you've seen…?”

Hermione strode into view.

“…Harry?”

“Hi, Hermione,” Harry said guiltily, the double-necked electric guitar around his neck seeming more monstrous by the second.

“Harry? That was … you … I was hearing?” she asked.

“Umm … yeah,” he admitted. “Partly.”

“You've been found out, mate.”

“All hail perfection plus.”

“Playtime's over.”

Hermione put her hands on her hips and faced this group. These were what she would call the “Hogwarts chronic underachievers” if she bothered to call them anything.

“Don't blame us, we're just the band,” Seamus tried to joke. He had never joked with Hermione before.

“Actually, I thought that was rather splendid,” she allowed with a semi-smile on her face.

Harry was amazed. “You … did … er … do?”

“Yes, you've wanted to play something at least since you heard Remus at Sirius' homegoing…. Well, maybe not that,” she added, gesturing in the direction of the double-necked guitar Harry was cradling, “but something that can let you be musical when you want.”

“Why don't you show her what you can do?” Kevin piped up.

“That's bang on; you've had plenty of practice by now,” Tabitha said from her place behind the keyboards.

Dean gave Seamus a look - and received a conspiratorial nod in return. “All right, then, I for one think Harry's up for it. Are you ready to play something for your best girl?”

“Umm … yeah,” Harry said, with his eyes partially glazed.

“Well, I know just the song,” Dean declared.

“Does it sound nice?” Harry asked.

“If you play it that way,” Dean responded. “You've got some leeway on this one.”

The other people in the room seemed to have an unspoken understanding about what was going to happen - something of which both Harry and Hermione were blissfully ignorant.

There was the usual jostling about as people chose their instruments. Harry, with his eyes only for Hermione (much to Romilda's disgust, as he had not noticed in the slightest how she had been covertly shrinking bits of her clothing for the past hour), did not pay attention as two of the others, in addition to him, selected guitars.

Dean took a bright red pointy looking guitar off the wall, hefted it a couple of times, and handed it to Harry.

Hermione looked on, content on one level, but suspicious on another. She had noticed Romilda - even if Harry had not.

“Play it pretty for Hermione, now,” Romilda called out sarcastically.

A moment later, Dean incanted, “Libera avis.”

The magic infused his fingers, and Harry found himself playing an almost achingly saccharine slide guitar.

Dean handled the singing. “If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me? For I must be travelling on, now, `cause there's too many places I've got to see….”

It was something of a sad song, and as it continued, Harry grew progressively less happy with the lyrics. He tried to compensate by playing with even more emotion. The result was less than satisfactory, as inspired by the magic his guitar almost seemed to be singing to Hermione.

But those bloody words.

“Bye, bye, it's been a sweet love….”

“Dean,” Harry stated clearly over the music. “I don't want to play this song - not for her. It's not right….”

Dean heard Harry. “Bloody Hell,” he muttered.

Unfortunately, Harry did not know the significance of `Free Bird' in the Music Dungeon.

Before Harry could do anything that would terminate the magic, Dean waved his wand in an up-and-over motion that modified the incantation, “Finale!”

Hermione shot Dean one of her “you can't possibly be serious” looks.

Dean ignored her, singing, “Lord help me, I can't cha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-nge!”

Harry thought his guitar had gone crazy.

If it was possible for guitars to stampede, that was what had happened. The magic at his fingertips suddenly had his fingers moving faster than they had ever moved before. He had certainly never cast a spell this fast.

His other hand flying across the frets, Harry was soon reduced to desperately trying to hold on to the bloody instrument with no idea what it was going to do next.

He caught a glimpse of Hermione, whose face betrayed not only concern, but more than a little bemusement, as his out-of-his-control fingers picked their way through an almost impossibly fast (and almost impossibly high) series of notes. No sooner than that cascade of music had passed, then one of the other musicians answered with a blue streak of his (or hers, it was impossible for Harry to look behind him) own.

And it seemed to go on that way forever.

Harry's wrists and hands started aching from extreme overexertion. His fingertips fairly cried out in pain as the strings tore at them every bit as much as his fingers tore through the music.

He was almost positive he would need some of Hermione's Healing Charms when this thing was finally over.

Harry was not even running on adrenaline now. He was hanging on through sheer bloody-mindedness. If the rest of this group could stand doing this, he was damn sure that he was not going to be the one slacker amongst them.

Just when it seemed like it could not get any worse, it did. His fingers felt like they were burning, and they charged through the music so fast that the individual notes were almost indistinguishable.

And then all of a sudden, it was over.

And somebody was laughing.

Harry was simply too knackered to care, but Hermione's face went pale.

The laughing grew louder. “Bloody Hell, I'm damn sorry I missed it!” came the voice. “Who'd you initiate this time…?”

Almost doubled over with mirth, Ron stumbled into the room. The first person he set eyes on was - Hermione.

She was leaning over the second person he laid eyes on - Harry, who was now on his knees under the weight of his exhaustion and the guitar.

Ron was astounded. “Bloody Hell! That was you, Harry? How long have you…?”

“Ronald, be quiet and help me get this thing off of him,” Hermione snapped as she tried to remove the strap that held the magical guitar from around Harry's neck.

Ron came over and easily lifted the instrument so Hermione could slip off the strap. Ron levitated the guitar away. Harry groaned in pain as Hermione first examined, and then started casting spells on, his torn and bleeding fingertips.

Ron was uncomfortable being around Hermione, especially when she was fussing over Harry the way she was. She could get very territorial about him…. In that respect, Hermione was little different from Cho.

Evidently, most of the other denizens of the Hogwarts music room agreed. They either found this a convenient time to take five, or at minimum gave Hermione a wide berth.

Once it was clear to Ron that Harry was coming around, he could hold himself back no longer. “Since when have you been coming down here?”

“I came down here this morning, Ron. I was looking for you,” Harry explained tetchily. “Rommy said you might be down here.”

Ron reflexively ran his left hand through his hair the way he did when agitated. “This morning! I don't believe it! I mean, it took more than two bloody weeks before they initiated me.”

“Well, it didn't help that you couldn't tell `Layla' from `Lola' when you started,” Dean snorted.

“Yeah, Harry at least showed some taste,” Seamus joined in, “sometimes, anyway.”

Ron was plainly frustrated - and jealous. “Dammit, Harry,” he blurted angrily. “Why do you have to do every bloody thing … effing better than me?”

Hermione looked like she was ready to explode, but Harry beat her to it. “Ron, I came here looking for you - and I still need to talk to you…. Now, and in private.”

Hermione put her hand on his shoulder. “Please, Hermione,” Harry asked. “I really need to talk to him alone…. I'll come find you afterwards.”

Hermione bit her lip and nodded.

Harry pushed himself to his feet, looked at Ron and made a silent gesture with his head indicating that he wanted the other boy to follow him.

A little while later, they had reached an empty classroom that was now about half filled up with piles of old desks and other furniture. No sooner had Ron followed Harry inside than Harry rounded on him.

“Ron, a few weeks ago you practically begged me to hold on to that Felix Felicis potion for you,” he began. “That was before all this crap - whatever went on between Hermione and Cho, the Quidditch problems, McGonagall - happened. Do you really want me to do this anymore? Do you really trust me anymore? Because right now I'm not sure you do.”

Harry had expected Ron to respond with fury. Instead Ron went thoughtful. After a few seconds, he answered. “No … it's not that I don't trust you. I still think that, if you tell me you'll do something, you'll do it. It's just that you - and her, too … her even more, actually - dammit you've just gotten to the point where you do everything better than me….”

So, it was the green-eyed monster again.

“Ron, it's not like I tried this morning,” Harry tried to tell the boy he still thought of as his best friend. “I was simply looking for you, and well … they invited me to play….”

“That's not the point,” Ron replied glumly. “You're Harry fricking Potter. Of course, they're going to invite you. All of us down there - we're a bunch of slackers, that's what we are. We're not Head material. We, well, except for me, don't stand a prayer of getting any Orders of Merlin, or any better than Es in our classes. We don't chat with Dumbledore or McGonagall. We don't make the Prophet…. The wizards you saw in there, Hell, they were tickled you'd even spend time with them.”

“Then why are you there?” Harry asked rather coldly.

“The truth?” Ron scowled. “It's because Hermione can't stand Cho, and won't admit that she's wrong in whatever she did to her … or anything. And I don't think you care much for her either - after she dropped you for me. Like I said, nothing I do is good enough…. And you think you've always got to save me, like with McGonagall and Quidditch the other day.”

Harry let the last dig go - it only confirmed what he'd thought was going on with that. “It's not that we look down on Cho,” he struggled with how to put this so what they knew did not come out. “It's just that we're worried, that there's more than meets the eye…. I mean, where is she now?”

Ron went rather red in the face at the inquiry. “If you bloody well must know, she takes a long-distance Portkey every Saturday morning to Soho, in London, where her father meets her to train under some traditional Chinese wizard. I saw her off this morning. It's arranged, between her dad and Flitwick - who was also there by the way - so you and Hermione can just stop worrying about me…. Now can you just drop this?”

“But, off-site training…?”

“I'm not all that happy about it either, okay?” Ron snorted. “But now that she's of age, her father requires training in traditional Chinese stuff that Hogwarts doesn't teach. Her father wouldn't send her here without it, and like it or not, Cho does what her father wants…. And that's why I want you to keep the potion. I'll need to get lucky on New Years if in person he's anything like how Cho talks about him.”

“So you still want me to do this?”

“I still want you to do this … because I know that if Hermione tries to get you not to do it, you'll at least have the decency to tell me first…. Now, Ginny…. That devious little harpy wouldn't think twice about nicking it from me and tossing it - or even using it for her own purposes,” Ron spat.

“Hermione's already said I shouldn't do this for you,” Harry revealed. “I told her I'd promised….”

“Well, there you are,” Ron immediately pounced. “That's why I trust you.”

* * * *

Harry and Hermione talked, which is why Harry found himself, early the next morning, treading through the melting slush left by an early season snow storm, on the familiar path that passed by Hagrid's hut on its way to the Forbidden Forest.

Actually, the pair did a lot more than talk, but what happens in the Prefects' Bathroom stays in the Prefects' bathroom. That's what the Silver and Gold Charm was for, after all….

One problem was that Hagrid was congenitally incapable of keeping a secret - even when he was sober. Firenze was stronger in that way, but less likely to feel any obligation to keep any secrets from his employer. If contact with the centaurs were to be made without the headmaster's involvement and interference, it was best to act sooner rather than later.

Following Hagrid's instructions, Harry entered the Forbidden Forest. Instead of heading straight back, the way Hermione had led Umbridge to her comeuppance, he took the wider path to the right that more or less parallelled the forest's edge. Moving more quickly now that there was less snow beneath the trees, he passed the low-lying glade where he and Hagrid (and Malfoy, but who cared about him) found a dead unicorn all those years ago.

Continuing on, he was soon in unfamiliar territory. Harry came to the fork Hagrid had mentioned, and took the left-side path this time - deeper into the forest. It was less of a path now than a narrow track. He had to push his way through brambles and past seasonally dead blackberry thickets. With the damp weather, it was quite boggy, making for slower going. Harry could not help but notice the numerous hoofprints that only made the mud worse for humans like him.

A familiar frisson went up Harry's spine. It was déjà vu. He once again felt that eerie sensation that out there, not very far away, hidden eyes were watching his every move. Thus, he tried to pick up his pace. While by no means acting deliberately noisy, as Hermione had last June, Harry was not particularly trying to be quiet either. He did not want his unseen audience thinking he was sneaking around.

What he was hoping was that the centaurs would let him reach the parlay point before showing themselves.

That was exactly what happened. The muddy path that had been too narrow to keep the underbrush from grabbing at him now opened into an equally muddy clearing - with light granite stones at approximately equal intervals all the way around it. Harry slogged to the largest of the stones. He pulled out his wand and shot a stream of white sparks into the air, as Hagrid had instructed. Then he placed his wand on the stone, stepped about a metre away from it, and waited.

He had not long to wait. Within thirty seconds two centaurs emerged into the clearing. While, they had each had arrows in their bows, their bowstrings were slack, and their bows were not aimed at Harry. The senior centaur, a gray-bodied specimen with a stony gaze, demanded, “What brings you into our forest, human?” Harry recognised him, and his deep but vaguely wheezy voice, from last June's encounter.

“I-I wish to speak to … Magorian about … er … matters of mutual interest,” Harry said, not sounding nearly as confident as he had hoped he would.

“A parlay? Why should we be interested in anything you have to say?” the gray centaur replied haughtily. “You are but a foal.”

“I'm not that young,” Harry protested without raising his voice. “And I speak not only for myself, but for another intelligent race like yourselves.” With that, Harry held out his hand so that the gray-coloured centaur could see his Manmak. Harry could tell by the look of comprehension in the centaur's eyes that he was familiar with what Harry displayed.

“Samar?” the other centaur, a younger brindled male with a full blond-streaked beard, spoke for the first time. “Could he be the human of whom the goblins speak?”

“Perhaps,” the gray centaur answered, whilst eyeing Harry more carefully, “However, I believe he is the one who trespassed last summer, along with that presumptuous girl and the obnoxious woman that I wanted to feed to the spiders….” Addressing Harry directly, the one called Samar demanded. “Are you, human?”

“Yes, that was me,” Harry quickly complied. “And your companion is probably also correct. The goblins conferred a prince's rank upon me over the summer after I saved their king's life….”

“Show me your mark, then, human,” Samar demanded in his characteristic harsh voice.

“I can't see it myself,” Harry admitted as he rolled up his sleeve. “But they cut the Tladimax right about here. That saved my life, too, one time over….”

“He is genuine,” Samar pronounced, returning his arrow to its quiver and slinging his metre-long bow over his shoulder. “You know, human, that we do not help your kind. We do not do your dirty work, as your foolish companion presumed the last time we met.”

With some difficulty, Harry let the slight towards Hermione pass. “Actually, I have a proposal to help you, all I need….”

“Silence,” Samar peremptorily cut Harry off. “Speak of this only to Magorian. Retrieve your wand and repeat the signal. I shall call for the parlay.”

With that Samar pulled from a sack around his waist what looked like a large, curved animal horn of some sort. It was intricately carved and had brass fittings on both ends. As Harry's wand erupted in a flare of white sparks for the second time, Samar put the horn to his lips and brought forth a loud, moaning blast that lasted for several seconds. He followed that with two shorter notes.

“Stay where you are,” he commanded upon finishing.

Less than a minute passed before the rumble of hooves could be heard. The sound grew louder and louder until a group of six centaurs, all obviously mature, galloped into view, pulling up as they entered the clearing. Harry immediately recognised Magorian - his magnificent chestnut body and his bronze-skinned human torso topped by long, black hair that flowed like a mane well down his back. The five others bore themselves in a similarly haughty fashion that suggested they were also elders in the herd.

“You have returned to the forest,” Magorian spoke, his booming, basso profondo voice radiating authority. “Yes, I recognise you, Harry Potter. You are now of more than one sentient race, or so I have been told….”

Wordlessly, Harry raised his arm and displayed his Tladimax to the centaur chieftan.

“Indeed, it is so….” Magorian said, his voice trailing into unexpressed thoughts. “Venus moves into conjunction with Mars, but which will you follow once the event ends?”

Harry had always been frustrated by centaur astrology.

“Am I permitted to speak?” Harry asked.

“As a human, only at my bidding,” Magorian chose his words carefully. “But as a prince of the goblins, you are free to address me as an equal.”

Thus encouraged, Harry began explaining himself. “Umm … I've only come here after talking to Hagrid and Firenze….”

“Not the best of references,” Magorian interrupted, distaste quite evident upon his wide, weather-beaten face. “Hagrid is at best a fool. Firenze is a traitor to this race. Do you wish to begin again?”

Harry could practically feel his face redden. “Umm … yes, if you don't mind.”

Magorian made a hand gesture to continue.

“I know that centaurs are very wise in the ways of the heavens,” Harry tried again. “And while I appreciate that you do not choose to use your knowledge in ways that humans comprehend, I understand that your herd, and I think probably you, Magorian, do have some contact with other intelligent beings who share your interests, if not necessarily your inclinations.”

“You speak obliquely,” Magorian observed accurately. “If you wish to parlay, parlay, then.”

Harry gulped. He had managed to sound a bit like Dumbledore at his worst. He decided to take the bicorn by the horns - perhaps, he thought, the centaurs would appreciate honesty.

“I need to speak to those known as the Sisters of the Moon about this,” Harry said directly, whilst pulling a piece of lightweight paper from his robes.

At the mention of the Sisters, Magorian's expression grew grave. The other centaur elders cast glances at one another that were at once knowing and uncertain.

“The Sisters, you say,” Magorian answered slowly, again taking care with what he said. “And what of them … of this?” he reached down and took hold of the paper Harry was offering.

“Are these some sort of unknown runes?” Magorian asked after squinting at the dark markings on the page.

“Sort of the Muggle equivalent,” Harry answered. “Those are markings from a Muggle gold bar. I have it in my room at Hogwarts Castle. My … er … a friend made a rubbing of them. I didn't want to bring the bar itself, because … well … I didn't want to be misunderstood as trying to bribe you somehow….”

At the mention of bribery, several of the centaurs snorted with annoyance, the steam from their breath visible in the cold, damp air. The noises stopped when Magorian raised a hand to indicate that Harry should be permitted to continue.

“…I've got lots more of them - those bars - with the goblins,” Harry went on. “It's all cursed, in a way. These symbols are sort of like runes left by the evil Muggles who stole the gold from its rightful owners many years ago. I was hoping the Sisters might know of a way to … well, make good on the theft, I guess….”

Magorian's brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed a bit. “Why should you or the Sisters care about any of this?”

“Because I inherited the gold, and I will not be party to such evil,” Harry declared. “And the Sisters? Because of history….”

Harry could not tell from Magorian's expression whether he was impressed by these motives or not. The centaur's ambiguous reply provided no clue, either.

“You have made a request of us,” Magorian observed. “As you should know, we do not ordinarily assist humans. You, however, have still not really parlayed. Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” Harry answered quickly. “I think Hagrid made a big mistake….”

“Hagrid has made many mistakes,” Magorian's acid voice cut across. “He is known for little else.”

“He brought the Acromantulæ to the forest,” Harry continued as the centaurs frowned at the mention. “And now he's told me that their leader, Aragog, is dying. Because Aragog respected….”

“Then it is as we suspected,” one of the other centaur elders, a blue roan with a pointed goatee, addressed Magorian. “The progenitor has not been leading their hunts, and the spiders have shown indiscipline.”

Harry waited until the centaurs finished their conversation, and then resumed. “As I was saying, because Aragog respected Hagrid, he stopped the spiders from hunting humans….”

“But not our foals!” Magorian angrily interjected, his voice booming through the clearing. His compatriots pawed the ground, their faces stormy in agreement.

“That's exactly my point,” Harry hastened to reply to the irate centaurs. “For years, your herd has been alone in having to deal with this. That's now going to change. The humans … er … we will now have the same problem. It's in our mutual self-interest to do something….”

“Hah!” Magorian snorted. “Your kind has foolishly done nothing whilst all along the herd has suffered. Now I am afraid you are too late. There are simply too many of them….”

“That's what Hagrid said too, when I raised this with him not long ago,” Harry hastened to agree with the agitated centaur. He was afraid that he would be silenced - or worse - before being able to make his proposal. “He said it would take an army to get rid of the Acromantulæ now….”

“Perhaps for the only time in his life, Hagrid was right,” Magorian replied testily. “I do not know what this has to do with anything. Perhaps you should….”

For once, Harry acted impolitely and cut off the imperious centaur. “And I can bring that army….”

“What?” The question was uttered simultaneously by several of the centaurs.

“…since I'm a goblin prince,” Harry finished.

“Are you proposing to send your goblin subjects against the Acromantulæ?” Magorian answered - for the first time betraying overt interest in what the young human might have to say.

“Yes,” Harry replied, “and not just to help you out, either. I know better than to think that you'd want human charity. I'm frankly afraid that, with Aragog gone, the Acromantulæ could easily be recruited by Voldemort. All he'd have to do is offer to feed them Muggles and Muggleborn wizards. I can't let that happen. I've confronted the spiders myself - their intelligence, if that's what it is, doesn't extend beyond their stomachs.”

“It is proposal … worthy of consideration,” Magorian answered noncommittally. “It will require consultation amongst the herd. When we have an answer, we shall let you know. Now you should go. Samar, will you and Pequod kindly escort the young Mister Potter to the edge of the forest?”

“But when will I hear back from you … and how?” Harry asked as the centaurs started to shoo him away.

“When the stars indicate it is propitious,” Magorian said, as he and his party vanished into the forest.

* * * *

Author's notes: Eventually Harry will appreciate how the griffin Animagus form helps in fighting Death Eaters

There's a very specific Muggle thing Harry wants to get Hermione, and McGonagall does have the best qualifications

As stated back in Ch. 11 - before canon named any Muggle Studies professor - my Muggle Studies professor is Arthur C. Asimov, a melding of Arthur C Clarke and Isaac Asimov, two of my favorite childhood authors. I've decided to leave it as is

The similarity between a doughnut and a coffee cup is a classic illustration of basic topology

In this story, Harry's seventh year is also Hogwarts' 1000th

Disparate New Year dates become important

Liquid helium is a superfluid, and behaves as described

The differences between helium 3 and 4 are accurate

The aromatic combination of hyssop and cedar dates back to at least the Old Testament

Venus can be seen in daylight, and would have been visible in the morning in Leo in 11/96

Like most divination, Firenze's comments can be interpreted in a number of ways

The Sisters of the Moon are described in Ch. 45

The treaty occurred in Ch. 14

Smethwyck is canon, a healer specializing in bites

I'm going with canon about Aragog dying, although I don't use it the same way

Sticky end is from Boris the Spider by the Who, not from genetics

I've thought of having a nearby Acromantula colony as a loose end in canon. I try to clean it up

Strut sitting down is the same insult used in Ch. 15

Romilda's jealosy of Hermione shows through a bit

Dean's headband is red, yellow and green - African liberation and/or Rasta colors

The left-handed bass is a salute to Paul McCartney

Titania Prod is not canon, but could be the daughter of the Prods in canon

Kevin Entwhistle is a semi-canon name, not to be confused with the Who's John Entwistle

Park is playing a saxophone

Smoke on the Water is a popular beginner's song

Ziggy Stardust = David Bowie

Seamus' “left hand” is a reference to the “played it left hand” line in Ziggy Stardust

Bass, lead bass = Bond, James Bond

The incident involving Paranoid occurred in the seaside cave in Ch. 35; an album containing it is mentioned in Ch. 25

“Moving to the grooving” is from “Play that Funky Music,” by Wild Cherry

“White Man's Disease” = lack of rhythm

Frank Sinatra, who did cover Something, said it was the greatest love song ever written

Taller … shadow … soul, is a line from Stairway to Heaven, by Led Zepplin

“Play it pretty for Hermione,” is a takeoff of “Play it pretty for Atlanta,” which is heard on a well-known live recording of Free Bird

Depending on which version they enchanted, the finale three-guitar duel in Free Bird could go on for ten minutes

The green-eyed monster is a Shakesperian (Othello) reference to jealousy

How much Cho does what her father wants will become apparent in coming chapters

Pequod is the name of the whaling ship in Moby Dick

6

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 2/23/2008

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62. Horrible Crosses

Wherein attention begins to shift to Château Blackwalls, an Achilles heel is discovered, Harry and Hermione learn more about Horcruxes, Harry reveals a secret, Hermione is not happy about it, Harry receives an assignment, the pair kiss and make up, Hermione has a request, Neville trains, and a secret is forgotten, but then recalled.

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

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

Chapter 62 - The Horrible Crosses

For almost sixty years Jerry McAllister, Hufflepuff Class of 1937, had been employed at Blackwalls in one capacity or another. He began as an intern, before even graduating Hogwarts. During the summer holidays before his seventh year, he had tended the Black family graveyard and helped manage the Château's house-elf breeding programme.

Thus, his Blackwalls career began concurrently with the proprietorship of an earlier Sirius Black - one who ruled the estate with an iron fist for over a quarter century, until his death in 1952.

Jerry soldiered on through the tumultuous but mercifully short regime of Arcturus Black, who had been rather barmy since a nasty Bludger strike to his head during a pickup Quidditch game in the 1930s. His harebrained schemes - from hiring hags to bring in the grape harvest, to trying to steal a march on the Muggles by putting a house-elf in orbit about the Earth in 1955 - produced what amounted to an intra-familial coup d'état.

Jerry had survived that, too - by backing the winning side, which meant Arcturus' son, Orion Black. Under Orion he was very well rewarded, receiving charge of all security arrangements for the Château and its environs. Short of estate manager, this responsibility was acknowledged as the most important posting at the estate.

Jerry worked hard and discharged his duties well. It was what Hufflepuffs do.

After Orion died of his stroke, things got dicier. Orion's bizarre will, combined with his sudden death, promised a long, uncertain interregnum. It took Jerry some time - almost a career-ending amount of time - to divine who would fill the power vacuum at the rudderless Black Estate. After some jockeying, the helm fell to Lucius Malfoy. Fortunately, Malfoy was temperamentally more of a caretaker, or at least did not fancy the role of a true proprietor. Slippery and arrogant though he was, even Lucius realized that was not his destiny.

In the end, the most Lucius would do was keep the seat of power warm for his son. Jerry had only met the son a handful of times - gaining just enough familiarity to despise him. The boy sorely lacked his father's savoir-faire, but possessed every bit of his arrogance. Jerry duly observed young Draco Malfoy's treatment of subordinates, and wanted no part of him.

The way things turned out, he never had to play that part. In that Jerry was lucky - but his luck was a residue of design.

Lucius Malfoy, it transpired, had sticky fingers. That surprised Jerry at first, as Malfoy's own gold was more than ample. Malfoy was more interested in untraceability than in the Galleons themselves. Responsible for security, Jerry knew where all Malfoy's bodies (figuratively and literally) were buried. He easily arranged Malfoy's covert access to the estate's substantial accounts.

Jerry made a point never to raise Lucius' finely honed suspicions by showing any interested in why he preferred to use Château funds - rather than the quite substantial Malfoy assets. The why was not important; not with Jerry keeping careful track of the who, the what, and the where.

After decades of serving Slytherin masters, Jerry had learnt always to look out for number one. He kept a top secret, and equally detailed, record of all Lucius Malfoy's defalcations: precisely numbers of Galleons, specific originating accounts, dates of payment, and if known, for what - or more frequently on whom - the money was spent.

His role as Lucius Malfoy's fixer won him a promotion, to majordomo of the entire estate - Jerry's lifelong goal.

His role as chronicler of Lucius Malfoy's peculations kept Jerry McAllister on top once the wheel turned, as he suspected it might. As Malfoy's fortunes went into irrevocable eclipse after the Ministry Incident, Jerry cooperated fully with the authorities. That helped. It mostly quashed their suppositions that he had colluded with Malfoy.

Jerry's meticulous records, added to other evidence the Ministry developed concerning high-level bribery, left the source of Malfoy's payoffs in little doubt. Quite a few heads rolled as a result. Others - up to and including the Minister himself - nearly did.

Far more unexpected, and far more useful to Jerry's career path, was the goblin investigation. Over the previous decade, Jerry constantly hypothecated about which claimant would ultimately succeed to the Blackwalls proprietorship. Getting that right was essential to any hope of continued job security. Historical portents were bleak. For more than two hundred years, the incumbent majordomo of Blackwalls had been sacked (or worse) during every change of proprietors.

In his wildest dreams, Jerry McAllister never considered the Boy Who Lived as a possible heir - not just that Harry Potter would win the prize, but that he was even in the scrum.

Something extraordinary had to happen for Jerry to break two centuries of adverse precedent. The goblin investigation offered precisely that.

The goblins were extremely interested in the same records. Jerry provided Bladvak and his Gringotts financial forensics group everything they asked for and more. “Loyalty to Blackwalls comes first,” he told them.

Lucius Malfoy was an interloper. When Jerry deduced that the goblins sought to prosecute a legal claim against the Malfoys personally over Lucius' defalcations, he showed them more than just the money. He demonstrated how Malfoy had diverted other assets - house-elf labour, rare potions ingredients, and a variety of magical and Muggle supplies purchased in Château Blackwalls' name - to Wiltshire for what must have been a major construction project at Malfoy Manor.

Jerry thought that, by going the extra mile, he had earned the goblins' trust - as much as they could ever trust a wizard.

Jerry very much looked forward to being Harry Potter's majordomo. They had more in common; he found out, than just the Château - or even a shared and abiding aversion to all things Malfoy.

From the goblins he learnt that Harry Potter was planning something that would set all the bodies in the Black family cemetery a-spinning. Potter intended to bring a Muggle-born witch to Château Blackwalls, if not as a bride, at least as something similar. At the news that “Toujours Pur” was circling the drain, Jerry McAllister almost did a back flip - which, at his age, could have been disastrous.

Harry Potter was not the only one in love with a Muggle-born witch.

Her name was Emmeline Puckle, and Jerry McAllister kept her in an apartment in one of the leafier suburbs of Manchester, the nearest significant city to the Château. Muggle money was no problem, as Jerry had sold off plots from his family's old farm at Ellesmere Circle to Muggle developers for some time - and now some of them were offering to buy the remainder for some sort of shopping mall. Jerry never stole from Blackwalls.

He had been in love with Emmie, and she him, for forty years. Unfortunately, the Black family took “Toujours Pur” seriously; for appearances sake he had married another Hufflepuff pureblood - a girl two years behind him at Hogwarts. That family stayed with him in the majordomo's quarters on the Château's grounds. He gave them his devotion, steadily, for decades.

He gave Emmie his passion, his desires, and his love - again for decades. She loved him back and appreciated Jerry's situation. Thus, she consented to be his mistress.

The Château's resources provided most things. The estate grew its own herbs, generated its own fuel, brewed its own potions, and thanks to the resourcefulness of its house- and field-elves, was largely self sufficient in everything else. Still, the anticipated coming of Harry Potter gave Jerry an excuse to get away for a day's shopping.

He had decided that Harry's sleeping quarters - the Château's Proprietor's Suite - could do with a change of scenery. Slytherin was out, finally, and Gryffindor in. Jerry took a trip to Diagon Alley to purchase new furnishings in red and gold decor. He did this, and sent them on ahead with a trusted house-elf, Pommy. He would undertake a legitimate visit for non-magical supplies to the ever-more-numerous Muggle shops near the ancestral farm, and by good fortune meet his lover.

Pommy would wait for him at a pre-arranged location a short distance beyond the Château's gates, allowing Jerry several hours in which to entertain Emmie. The assignation complete, he and Pommy would “return” from their shopping trip.

Jerry was walking fast. He was a bit behind schedule. Somewhat against his better judgment, he had let slip to Emmie his hope that Potter, unlike the Blacks, might tolerate an openly Muggle-born witch in the Château's employ. If the Granger girl ever did become the Proprietress, who knows…? Happily ever after could be in the cards.

Their celebration had run on a little too long, and now he needed to get back to reality.

He needed to find a secure place, in this overwhelmingly Muggle area, from which to Apparate. Jerry spotted a suitably deserted spot behind an old cotton mill that the Muggles had slated for demolition. He was in luck. Never the best Apparator, he took a few seconds to prepare himself….

“Expelliarmus,” sounded a familiar voice. Jerry's wand sailed directly into the hands of….

“Lucius,” Jerry gasped.

“Ah, yes…,” the silver-haired wizard drawled. “Jerry McAllister. I do trust you're doing well.” He strode forward, his wand held in a menacing position.

“Umm … quite well,” Jerry responded fearfully. Nothing that Lucius Malfoy wanted could be good for him.

“I'm so sorry to bother you, really,” Malfoy said; his voice plain that he was hardly sorry at all, “but there's a bit of a favour I need to ask of you….”

Lucius was invading his space, and Jerry was extremely nervous. The Dark wizard kept a viselike grip on Jerry's arm. “What is it Lucius…?”

“Not here,” Malfoy hissed. “I've someone whom I'm sure you're just dying to meet.” With that, Lucius Side-Along-Apparated them both away.

Jerry feared that he would arrive directly in the Dark Lord's presence. He was wrong, but not by much.

“If it isn't Jerry the Mac,” a sinister voice cackled. “Why, I haven't seen you in ages … not since I left home….”

Jerry broke out in a cold sweat. He fancied meeting few less than Lucius Malfoy, but Bella Black, now Lestrange, was one of them.

“Wha … What do you want?” Jerry opened, trying to be brave. “If you're going to kill me for protecting your family's interests after Lucius' arrest, then just be quick about it.”

“Why, Jerry, I don't want to kill you,” Bellatrix looked him over evilly, “and if I did…. Well, you know me. I would hardly be quick about it. All I have is a small request….”

“Don't ask me to compromise the Château,” he faced the rogue Black family member down, exhibiting far more courage than he felt. “I won't throw away sixty years….”

“Oh, we wouldn't dream of asking you to do anything like that.” Bella elongated several of her words in malign fashion. “All we want is a back door.”

“A back door?” Jerry answered hesitantly, “to what?”

“Why, to the Château's security systems, of course,” Lucius broke in to move things along. “You told me several times that you know every quirk of every ward on the property. Very boastful…. It would be simple for you to leave us a back door key. We have nothing in mind at present. We're not planning to bother precious Potter and his Mudblood maiden.”

“Why would I betray them for you?” Jerry spat, more forcefully this time. “You lost. Just kill me and be done with it.”

Bellatrix was getting impatient. Echoing their prisoner, she asked, “Why don't you just Imperius him and be done with it?”

“We've been over that,” Lucius snapped at her. “The Dark Lord agrees. An Imperius would be detected, and all would fail. We have to be … persuasive.” He flashed his own evil smile at Jerry before turning back to Bellatrix Lestrange. “And Bella, I've heard you can be quite persuasive.”

Malfoy retreated several steps as Bella slinked forward. “Speaking of Mudblood maidens, Jerry, we know all about yours….”

“No!” the prisoner gasped. “Don't do….”

“You don't, and we do.” She languorously ran the tip of her wand across Jerry's chest. “You read the Prophet, I'm sure. Remember, not too long ago, the story about the Granger girl? For a little while, everyone thought she'd been murdered….”

“…I read about that, yes,” Jerry admitted. He could felt trapped. He was a fool, an overambitious fool, for venturing into this. “They couldn't write about anything else for several days.”

“Indeed,” Bella replied in a low, nasty voice. “Do you recall the gory details about how she supposedly died…?”

Jerry knew what was coming. He had no escape.

“Umm … yes….”

“Well, the Ministry hushed it up,” Bella pushed. “Think of a death that's ten times worse. I know. I did it. And I could do it again … with pleasure.”

“Please … for the love of Merlin … don't….”

“In fact, I could be ten times worse than that,” Bella hissed, dragging the now glowing tip of her wand lazily along the man's neck. “Hmmmm, let's see now…. I have to say, however messily that witch died, at least it happened quickly. She was Imperiused after all…. She wasn't forced….”

“I'll do … whatever you want,” Jerry gave in.

“You certainly will,” Bella triumphantly smirked. “We know exactly who, and where, your little Emmie is. She's being watched. Even you must realise how we knew where to find you today. The slightest slip up and she'll wish she were dead - long before she dies….”

* * * *

The bright red wings of a phoenix flashed once more in the Headmaster's office. Fawkes, however, had not returned. The Sacrifice of the Phoenix was permanent. A phoenix is always a phoenix. But after its Sacrifice, its essence - its soul - inhabited and suffused through the being of another.

At that moment, this other was before Dumbledore.

“Very good, Miss Granger,” he praised. “Both of them at once. Excellent progress I must say.”

“You're just saying that to encourage me,” Hermione grumbled, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “Compared to what Harry's been able to do…. Just a couple of arms is pathetic. Why is it so blasted hard? I've done everything you've suggested - read every book, practised every spell.”

“Miss Granger,” Headmaster Dumbledore cautioned gravely, “if you seek to compare your situation to Mister Potter's, then you cannot but be disappointed. His Animagus abilities are inherent and subject to his will. Your magical connexion with Fawkes is neither - it is the result, frankly, of my act of desperation. Fawkes' essence remains independent and not subject to your bidding.”

“And Harry's is…?” Hermione questioned.

“Yes, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore confirmed. “Harry's griffin form is ultimately amenable to his control - once he learns how. Yours is in the nature of a negotiation. Fawkes will always be Fawkes, even though he is part of you.”

“If I can't control it, what good is it?” Hermione huffed in frustration.

“What good is a newborn baby?” the Headmaster answered rhetorically. “As your appendages currently illustrate, you and Fawkes' spirit are well on your way to a modus vivendi.”

“Is that the best I can hope for?” Hermione asked, still frustrated and dissatisfied.

“You cannot dictate to a phoenix,” Dumbledore confirmed. “If you practise with him, however…. If you cooperate - no collaborate - it is likely that he will consent to come when summoned. One day, that could quite conceivably save your life, as he has already.”

A few more repetitions and the allotted time for this training session was at an end. As Hermione exited, she thanked the Headmaster for his help in arranging her Ministry session not long before.

“You are quite welcome, Miss Granger,” he smiled at her. “I could hardly do less for you than for Mister Potter. I trust you found the Unspeakables' instruction satisfactory?”

“Indeed,” Hermione assured him. “Absolutely no nonsense. Just the way I like it.”

“Excellent,” Dumbledore remarked as he showed her out. “Let me assure you, the sentiment is mutual. After your graduation, if you are by chance interested….”

“No, I don't think so,” she demurred. “They'd make me keep too many secrets from Harry.”

That drew the Headmaster's appraising look. “Very well, and speaking of whom….”

Dumbledore advised Hermione that it would be useful if over the next hour or so she not become involved in anything that she would be unable to interrupt.

“Should I just wait for Harry, then?” she cut to the chase.

“No, I think not,” replied the Headmaster. “Best that you let him choose for himself is my inclination. You will be more appreciated that way. I know I would have been.”

* * * *

Harry arrived shortly after Hermione left. He was rather anxious, since Dumbledore had insisted that this special “training session” take place as scheduled and had not bothered concealing his sense of urgency.

“Good evening, Mister Potter,” the Headmaster intoned as the boy entered. A Pensieve, containing an already swirling memory, rested on Dumbledore's desk,. The Headmaster clutched a rather large old tome in his good arm. The book had dark cherry-red binding and Harry could see a gold Teutonic-style cross (although he would not have known to call it that at the time) embossed on its spine.

“Good evening, sir,” Harry began formally. “I see you're quite ready to begin…. In fact, you seem so ready that you're frankly making me nervous.”

“That is not intentional, I assure you,” Dumbledore reassured, looking no less grave than before. “But neither are you incorrect. I expect that this to be your most important session with me yet, and perhaps ever. In a sense, events have occurred conspired to force my hand - because they require me to show it.”

“Sorry, sir?” Harry stumbled. Once again, Dumbledore's indirect manner of speaking was getting the better of him.

“I should be sorry, for I am rambling,” the Headmaster admitted. “I believe that Voldemort now knows that we know about his Horcruxes.”

Harry gawked. “Are you certain?”

Dumbledore nodded. “I would be truly shocked if Tom were so remiss about something as important to him as his Horcruxes, and so dull as not to have appreciated so obvious a clue.”

Harry's head was spinning. “That's too many so's and as's. What? Why?” he asked almost blindly. The Pensieve, the book Dumbledore was holding, and now this revelation - all presumably had something to do with Horcruxes.

“To obtain information, it is sometimes necessary to yield information,” the Headmaster answered mysteriously.

“Obtain information?” Harry homed in on what seemed most important.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore responded, a slight twinkle in his eye. “We now have what I believe are solid leads on the locations of two more of Voldemort's Horcruxes.”

With this last unexpected disclosure, Harry sat down hard in the squashy chintz armchair that the Headmaster had pre-conjured for him. He took off his glasses and placed them on the chair's arm. He took a calming breath. Finally, Harry rubbed his eyes and cheeks vigorously. When finished, he looked up at the Headmaster. “Why don't you start this at the beginning and take it step by step?” he requested.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers in front of his face as he gave the request some thought. Nodding to himself, he intoned, “Very well…. To the Pensieve, then.”

Over the next twenty minutes, Harry learnt what Tom Riddle had done after graduating Hogwarts with what were then (and were still, if one only considered N.E.W.T.s) the highest marks in the history of the school.

His career choice was surprisingly mundane - boring even. Rather than going into magic for himself, or taking a fast track Ministry position, or a similar job at a major private concern like Gringotts, Tom Riddle went to work for Borgin and Burkes as a buyer. Riddle was successful, primarily because he cultivated a certain natural charisma.

Tom's exploitation of the openings he made for himself was scary. Once again, the budding Dark wizard kept trophies - only now they were Founders' relics. Even worse, death was Riddle's constant companion. Sometimes of the owners of objects that Riddle coveted died, as did the unfortunate Hepzibah Smith, a woman whose body shape closely resembled Professor Slughorn's. The Headmaster's Pensieve memories left little doubt that Riddle had killed her to obtain two items: (1) Hufflepuff's cup, a delicate golden chalice with badger-motif handles; and (2) Slytherin's locket, the same object that another memory had shown as belonging to the even more unfortunate Merope Gaunt.

At other times, death visited someone who crossed Riddle/Voldemort in some way. In this category fell one of his employers, Rindelaub Borgin, who made the mistake of confronting the maturing Dark wizard. He accused Riddle of appropriating to himself opportunities that belonged to the partnership as his employer. A short while later, he died after a short illness - one entirely consistent with iocane poisoning.

After exhausting the memories, the Headmaster and his quasi-apprentice discussed what they had experienced. “As you saw for yourself, Mister Potter, Tom Riddle coveted Founders' Relics. After Smith died, both of these objects disappeared. Hufflepuff's cup has not been seen since. I would have said the same thing about the locket….”

“…Except that I saw that locket, or one very much like it, at Grimmauld place last year,” Harry interrupted. “We considered it more accursed rubbish left over by the Black family. It might even still be there….”

“Regrettably, it is not,” Dumbledore contradicted him.

“How would you know?” Harry asked archly.

Dumbledore squinted his eyes shut, as if banishing a painful thought. “Because I checked Grimmauld thoroughly for Horcruxes just the other day. I remembered that locket as well….”

“When did you see it?” Harry asked. Dumbledore had most assuredly not been at Grimmauld Place on any day that Molly Weasley had dragooned Harry and his friends into the cleaning squad.

“Molly kept track of such things,” the Headmaster explained. “She trusted neither Mundungus nor the house-elf Kreacher with several of what we all considered to be Black family artifacts. She showed a number of items to me before consigning them to the basement rubbish bins. One was a locket that I now agree bears remarkable resemblance to what we saw in the memory we just experienced.”

“And it's not around anymore?” Harry asked glumly, already knowing the answer.

“I personally inspected every sack of rubbish remaining in the basement of Number Twelve,” Dumbledore told Harry, who could barely fathom the Chief Warlock as a ragpicker - especially with his bad hand. Seeing Harry's expression, the Headmaster hastened to add, “I view it as something of a penance for not taking such matters more seriously when some good might have come of it.”

“So it's gone, then?” Harry sullenly summarised.

“It is certainly no longer at Grimmauld Place,” Dumbledore confirmed. “If either of the chief suspects, Kreacher or Mundungus, were responsible, then the trail is quite cold. The elf is confirmed dead, and Mundungus almost certainly met a similar fate the night you were taken. As to anyone else … we have no idea….”

Harry scowled. “Another bloody waste of time.”

“True, but not completely,” Dumbledore responded with a shoulder shrug. “My recent visit to Grimmauld also allowed me to retrieve this….”

With that, the Headmaster flipped open the heavy, deep red volume that he set on the desk between them. Harry could see the title clearly now: The Crosses of Horror - from Salvation to Damnation.

“Is that … about Horcruxes?” Harry asked, a grimace crossing his face.

“Yes,” the Headmaster affirmed. “Whilst at Grimmauld, I recalled that Miss Granger had once come across a disturbingly Dark book about Necromancy. Given the Blacks' reputation, I thought it entirely possible that their library might also contain something about our current conundrum. Although I had to overcome some rather unusual wards to confirm my suspicions, I was indeed correct.”

Harry sounded uncertain. “You didn't leave…?”

“I restored the wards, of course,” Dumbledore clarified.

“If it's from the Black library, then, I guess that means … I own that book,” Harry pointed out.

“That is correct, Mister Potter,” Dumbledore responded directly. “However, given the subject matter, I am not at all certain that your claiming it would be advisable.”

His answer was obviously baited, but Harry took the bait anyway. “What's the problem?” he inquired.

“What this extremely Dark magic offers is quite alluring,” the Headmaster began, fixing Harry with a most serious gaze. “Tom Riddle certainly fell under its sway. Consider, for example, whether you would be tempted to use the occasion of the death of an enemy … say one of your kidnappers … to confer immunity from death upon yourself, or perhaps Miss Granger….”

Harry gulped. Dumbledore had a point. He had long since accepted the likelihood of his own life being forfeit. Hermione, was another matter altogether. His reluctance to expose her to such risks had caused Harry to do - or contemplate doing - things that were very foolish indeed.

Thinking of her reminded Harry of something else. “Speaking of Hermione,” Harry requested, “if this magic is as complex as I'm afraid it is, I'd really rather that she be here.”

“That can be arranged,” the Headmaster nodded. His Patronus was soon streaking away with the summons.

With Hermione's arrival, both Harry and Dumbledore were ready for their first real lesson about Horcruxes. The Horrible Cross, or crux horribilis, originated in Central Europe during late Roman times as a particularly violent response of pagan mages to early Christian proselytising. In response to the Christians' claim of eternal life through the death of Jesus, the pagans developed more practical means of using death to defeat death.

Like so much Dark magic, the Horrible Crosses utilised Necromancy. Back in the early days, such deaths were often convenient. Indeed, the victims were frequently the same Christian missionaries competing for converts with the far older pagan progenitors of this magic.

The first known casualty was a woman known only as Afra who met her fate near Augsburg in what is now the southern German state of Bavaria. That particular episode ended in magical failure because her several killers all sought to use the same death to achieve their own immortality.

They thus discovered a fundamental limitation to this magic. To this day, a Horcrux can only benefit one person.

The Horrible Crosses proved about as effective in forestalling Christianity's advance as anything else the pagans devised, which is to say not particularly. Their use did not remain confined to Central Germany for very long, however.

The Saxons brought the secrets of the Horrible Crosses with them when they invaded Britain in the Sixth Century. The pagans in Britain soon found themselves in the same adversarial relationship with Christian missionaries that plagued their continental forbearers. Soon the Dark magic, now known as Horrecruxis, or some variant, found employment across Britain. Some early wizards attempted to synthesise it with traditional Celtic pentacles - to little apparent effect.

Crosses they remained.

By the time of the Norman Conquest, Horcrux magic had largely taken its current form.

“I had not intended for either of you to learn of this very Dark Magic,” Dumbledore concluded his history lesson, “except that events have intervened. We have recently ascertained the approximate locations of what I believe are two of Tom's Horcruxes.”

Both of the students knew what that meant. It might be possible to destroy a considerable portion of Voldemort's hard won immortality in short order.

“That's wonderful news!” Hermione exclaimed. “How did you find this out?”

“It was, I believe, necessary to give information to obtain information,” Dumbledore replied oracularly.

For the second time the Headmaster used virtually the same opaque phraseology. “What's that supposed to mean?” Harry asked more suspiciously.

“It means that, unfortunately, the casting of the delicate tracking spells necessary to obtain the locations of Tom's other Horcruxes unavoidably tipped him off that we - or specifically I - was aware of his resort to this type of magic,” Dumbledore explained.

“How did that happen?” Hermione followed up, her face screwed up fretfully. Notwithstanding the Headmaster's presence, she reached out and took Harry's hand.

“Among other things, this book,” Dumbledore gestured to the tome in front of him, “explains various spells and objects that are capable of determining the locations of Horcruxes. But those spells are personal to the Horcrux's creator. I was, however, able to devise a derivative spell….”

“Derivative? In what sense?” Hermione broke in.

“Because Tom Riddle, and not I, created those Horcruxes, I could not cast any spell or enchant any object that would detect them directly,” Dumbledore told them in ever more self-satisfied tones. “I was, however, able to invent some magic that did the next best thing … that is, it could detect any Locating spell being used to detect the Horcruxes. Further stretching the boundaries of this type of magic, I was able to attach it to a Tracking Charm of my own….”

“What did that end up doing?” Hermione asked, now extremely intrigued by the complex magic.

“As I previously explained to Mister Potter,” Dumbledore said, nodding in Hermione's direction, “I had located a Horcrux near Little Hangleton - this ring….”

Dumbledore slipped a scorched looking gold object from the ring finger of his damaged hand and placed it on the desk. Its cracked stone was visible to his audience. “This ring was hidden in a container beneath some underbrush near the former residence of some of Tom's less than lovely relatives. It was also surrounded by powerful Concealment spells that I assume were originally cast by the man himself.”

“I had to defeat those Concealment spells in order to obtain the ring,” the Headmaster continued. “At the time I restored them. Thereafter, I studied the Horcrux concept more thoroughly. With the knowledge contained in this book, I recently returned and took down the Concealment spells entirely. Without a clear background I could not have cast my rather fragile derivative magic over the area.”

“Why?” Harry interjected. “You already had that Horcrux.”

“I suspected that, at some point, with the battle now joined, Tom would prudently undertake to confirm the status of his Horcruxes. Either he would use Locating spells himself, or more likely, he would enchant objects with such spells and entrust the mission to a trusted servant. I only knew where this one was, so I cast my derivative magic in that vicinity, taking care to make it undetectable. The delicacy of the magic made it imperative to eliminate magical interference by permanently removing Tom's Concealment spells.”

Hermione anticipated where this explanation was headed. “So the information you opted to exchange, so you could trace the use of Voldemort's Locating spell, whatever that was, was the fact that you had discovered this Horcrux.”

Harry turned away from the Headmaster, and openly gawked at Hermione.

She squeezed his hand and started to reply, but Dumbledore was quicker.

“Very good Miss Granger,” he retook control of the narrative. “Were this not so sensitive, I would award you points. I doubt anyone else in Britain is capable of defeating Tom's magic - at least this aspect - as completely as I could. It worked. His servant did indeed seek to locate the Horcrux. He … or should I say `she,' since I believe Bellatrix Lestrange performed the search … presumably reported the absence of Tom's Concealment spells to her master. Since Tom knows me all too well, my intervention and recovery of this ring is undoubtedly suspected.”

“But your Tracking spell worked, then,” Hermione prompted.

“It did indeed,” Dumbledore confirmed, although without the twinkle in his eye that ordinarily accompanied such news. “I learnt two valuable things. First, it revealed what type of Locating spell Tom was using. That was important, since several options were available. In this particular instance, Tom seems to have inactivated his Horcruxes, presumably so they are harder to detect. Second, I was able to trace Tom's servant's mission - not precisely, but well enough to determine where his agent used the Locating spell after leaving Little Hangleton….”

“So you know where Voldemort thinks his other Horcruxes are?” Harry broke in, quite excited by this news.

Dumbledore sighed. “I wish it were that simple. Because I knew only of a single Horcrux's location, I was at the mercy of whatever order Tom's agent chose to survey them. Unfortunately, my luck was not the best….”

Almost involuntarily, Harry thought of Ron hoarding Felix Felicis Potion for use in his declaration for Cho. A scowl marred his face.

Hermione noticed. “What's wrong, Harry?” she asked.

“I was hoping for better news about the Horcruxes,” Harry recovered deftly.

“Lamentably, for all my planning, I only determined the whereabouts of one additional Horcrux in this fashion,” the Headmaster admitted, his voice pained.

“Where?” Harry asked.

“I thought you said you'd found two,” Hermione commented at almost the same instant.

“Patience, please,” Dumbledore responded with raised hands, “and I shall explain everything. First things first. The Tracking Charm placed upon Tom's agent revealed only one additional use of Locating magic. Thus, I believe that one of Tom's Horcruxes is located somewhere within the environs of a town called Glastonbury in Somerset. I have set the Order searching for it - discreetly, of course - since we accomplished the detection slightly more than a fortnight ago. So far, I am sad to say, the search has been fruitless. There are quite a few ancient magical sites in that area that we have to check thoroughly.”

“Given the history of Horcruxes, that would seem like an ironic location,” Hermione commented. “That's supposedly where Christianity came to Britain and the first church was founded.”

“Magical pagan sites are equally plentiful in the vicinity,” the Headmaster countered. “We continue to search, but the presence of so many Muggles requires us to move slowly to avoid Muggle Vicinage Violations.”

“What about the second Horcrux?” Harry pressed, quite disappointed with the results of Dumbledore's idea of an information exchange.

“Ah, yes … the second Horcrux,” Dumbledore answered with a wistful air. “Once I had isolated the type of magic Tom was using, I took the reasonable precaution of updating Hogwarts' own wards. Tom had, after all, spent a great deal of….”

“You mean there's a Horcrux at Hogwarts?” Harry almost shouted. “And you haven't told anyone?”

“I plead guilty to that, but the timing was most unfortunate,” the Headmaster admitted. “I was away supervising the first few days of the Glastonbury search, and immediately upon my return, I had negotiations with Minister Scrimgeour. As a result, I was dilatory in adding Tom's Locating spell to the roster of magic that the wards detect.”

“I thought Filch was responsible for enforcing the no magic in the hallways rule,” Harry observed.

Hermione clucked, “Harry, this is hardly the time….”

“Mister Filch is in charge of detecting routine magic,” Dumbledore pointed out. “But he is a Squib, and more advanced magicks are more effectively exposed by modifying the wards. I was correct in that assessment - too correct, I fear. The wards had been less than fully calibrated, not even twelve hours had elapsed, when they detected the same spell that Tom's agent used both at Little Hangleton and at Glastonbury.”

“So what's the problem?” Harry persisted.

“The calibration was not complete; thus all we know is that the telltale spell was cast somewhere inside the Castle's walls,” Dumbledore unhappily revealed.

“So you haven't found out very much about that one either,” Hermione summed up everyone's disappointment.

“I wish it were not so, but you are correct,” the Headmaster admitted. “All the wards could to tell us at the time was that the spell was cast somewhere on the inside.”

“Inside of what?” Hermione asked pointedly.

“Inside of the wards,” Dumbledore specified.

“The wards,” Hermione repeated, “so even what you just said is overoptimistic. Since the wards cover the grounds as well, we don't even know if this Horcrux is within the Castle itself.”

The Headmaster gave a wry smile at his cleverest student, “Again, you are exactly correct.”

“Can we check for magical activity from the Horcrux itself?” Hermione asked, trying to salvage something. “I know that both Harry's and Ginny's Horcruxes manifested their presence in various magical ways.”

“A capital idea,” Dumbledore replied wearily, “but that has not and probably will not work. Another aspect of Tom's Locating spell is to place the Horcrux itself into stasis. We … I have utilised various forms of detection magic of my own. Whilst I unearthed quite a few hidden magical objects, particularly in the Room of Requirement, I have been quite unable to detect Tom's inactive Horcrux.”

Harry listened to the exchange between Hermione and the Headmaster with steadily increasing frustration. Finally, after Dumbledore's latest admission of futility, he could no longer suffer in silence. Slamming his free hand (the one not holding Hermione's) forcefully into the arm of the Headmaster's conjured chair, he exclaimed….

“Dammit, it's Malfoy!” he interrupted angrily. “It has to be! He's the bloody junior Death Eater in the Castle. He's the one….”

“Harry, you don't know that!” Hermione responded almost as forcefully. “If anyone in the Castle has reason to lay low and not make waves, it's he. His father's a fugitive right now. He's only here on sufferance….”

“No, Hermione. You're right about most things, but you're wrong on that,” Harry maintained stoutly. “I know what you don't. He's…. he's….”

Oops.

Harry's voice trailed off. Then, he seemed to look deep inside, centred himself, , and confessed the guilty secret he had been keeping from his fiancée for weeks.

“He's been meeting secretly with Caractacus Burke. Burke is Malfoy's contact with Voldemort and the Death Eaters. I know because I overheard them plotting during the last Hogsmeade weekend. I followed them….”

Hermione reacted exactly as Harry feared. “You went out stalking people you thought were Death Eaters? Who were you with?”

“Umm … nobody,” he admitted. “I was with George in his shop's back garden practising with the reverse water balloons. I-I … wasn't very good and I put a hole in the wall with one….”

“Reverse water balloons?” Dumbledore commented, intrigued.

Hermione was not about to be sidetracked, even by the Headmaster. “An alkahest,” she commented dismissively. “Go on, Harry….”

To get it over with, Harry did. “George spotted Malfoy with Burke - I didn't know who he was. They were walking away and didn't see me…. So I followed….”

“Were they actually as evil as you thought, you could have been ambushed and either kidnapped again or killed,” Hermione remonstrated hotly. “What were you thinking? Nothing could be worth that risk…. Not with those Horcruxes still out there….”

“Relax Hermione, nothing happened,” Harry protested. “They never saw me.”

“But they could have,” Hermione screeched. “And if you'd been taken because of a silly little frolic and detour, imagine how I would have felt!”

The Headmaster broke his silence again, finally coming to Harry's rescue - more or less. “Miss Granger, please. You do have a point, but you are overreacting. Nothing happened, and in my opinion, Mister Potter here is more than a match for either Mister Malfoy or Caractacus Burke in a duel.”

“But what if they'd been acting as bait?” Hermione vehemently responded.

“A remote possibility,” Dumbledore answered. “Those two may be many things, perhaps even Death Eaters, but neither is the type who would agree to serve as bait. Now, if Peter were involved, I might view it differently….”

Emboldened, Harry joined in. “Hermione, you have to let me take a chance now and then. You know - you've said it yourself. I'm best when I improvise.”

Hermione bit back a rather caustic comment.

The Headmaster intervened. “Mister Potter, as to the substance of Miss Granger's complaint, I am constrained to agree. Whilst your improvisations have at times been brilliant, at other times they have been quite costly - not in the least, to those about whom you care the most. The Order, and others, try very hard to maintain your safety. Please, try to refrain from any more foolish ventures….”

“I didn't do anything foolish!” Harry furiously stood his ground. “It was unplanned, sure, but not stupid. I used my Invisibility Cloak and some Extendable Ears. I was never closer than maybe ten metres from them.”

With grimace, a sigh, and a slump of her shoulders, Hermione finally gave in. “Okay, Harry. I guess I'll have to let you be you. So what did discover during your stint as an impromptu spy?”

“Malfoy has something set up, I don't know what,” Harry answered - implicitly accepting Hermione's concession. “I'm one hundred percent sure that Voldemort gave him some sort of job. From the context, I think he was about to meet Voldemort right then. Burke Side-Alonged him somewhere.”

“Do you have anything more specific?” Dumbledore asked. “What did Tom want Mister Malfoy to do?”

“No clue,” Harry had to concede. “There was something in Burke's shop, but it's been successfully moved somewhere else. Malfoy was trying to get Burke's help in fixing something, that's all I could hear. He might try to bring something he shouldn't into Hogwarts. He said something about Filch.”

“That would be Mister Filch,” Dumbledore corrected. “He is Hogwarts staff. I….”

“You've known this for weeks, and haven't told anyone?” Hermione bore in upon Harry.

Harry's ears got pink as he started answering. “I didn't think that … that there was … umm … anything … umm … all that important in what I'd learnt….”

He knew exactly what her response would be to that.

So did she.

“So you risked your life for nothing?” Hermione huffed, quite affronted.

“Well, you never know what you're going to find out unless you try,” Harry replied logically. “And whilst I hoped to learn more, what I found out convinces me that Malfoy's acting as Voldemort's agent at Hogwarts - and if somebody's planning to do anything with that Horcrux Voldemort has stashed somewhere at Hogwarts, it's him.”

But for the Headmaster Hermione would have prolonged the discussion. “Mister Potter, you may well be right. In any event, I believe it time for me to have a chat with Mister Malfoy. Let me handle this, please. Any threat to the well-being of this school is my responsibility.”

The Headmaster stared at Harry with his piercing blue eyes until, grudgingly, Harry nodded his assent.

“Now, as I am sure the two of you already understand, our most immediate problem with Tom's Horcruxes is not knowing how many of them are out there.”

Both teens nodded.

“A way exists, I believe, to acquire this crucial bit of information,” the Headmaster continued earnestly. “I have not been able to accomplish it. I believe, however, that you may have more luck, Mister Potter….”

Harry gasped audibly and involuntarily shook his head. “Me? How can you think I'd be more able than you?”

Dumbledore had a ready answer to that question. “That is precisely what I wish to tell you. I know who taught Tom Riddle about Horcruxes. There is one more memory I need to share with you this evening.”

With that, the Headmaster led them once again to his Pensieve, and soon all three of them were watching a fifty-year-old conversation between Tom Riddle and Horace Slughorn.

At least it seemed like a conversation.

The memory played only in disjointed fits and starts, some of which almost left the onlookers nauseous. At first, they saw the pair together with a number of other students. Then, after a vertiginous instant, the two were alone. They heard a disembodied warning from Slughorn. A rather hazy conversation between Tom and the professor followed, during which the nascent Voldemort inquired about Horcruxes. Another lurch occurred almost immediately, and what looked like a blast of steam obscured everything. When that cleared, the scene was grainy and prismatic - like a damaged old celluloid motion picture, Hermione thought. In a very short segment, Slughorn came into view, denied knowledge of Horcruxes and ordered Riddle from his office.

Neither Harry nor Hermione could remember Horace Slughorn showing that much anger about anything - ever.

“What was that?” Hermione asked as soon as it was over.

“That is, I believe, how a fabricated memory appears when rather ineptly prepared,” Dumbledore responded morosely. “Horace knows a great deal of magic, but Memory Charms and Obliviation were never amongst his better skills. I recently confronted him about the matters you and I discussed some weeks ago, and this is the result.”

“Why would he try to Memory Charm himself?” Harry asked pointedly.

“What did you discuss?” Hermione chimed in.

The Headmaster turned to Hermione, “I believe - although some of this is little better than speculation - that Horace is deeply ashamed about his inadvertent role in assisting Tom Riddle in his transformation into Lord Voldemort. Horace was Head of Slytherin House, and he thought of Tom as his prize catch. However that prize turned into a monster, causing the deaths of many people, including at least one person Horace thought of even more highly than Mister Riddle….”

“My mother,” Harry sulked. Hermione slipped her hand around his.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Dumbledore confirmed. “Horace resigned his position shortly thereafter and retired from public life. I suspect that her death shook him more profoundly than anything else Tom ever did. Which brings me full circle…. For that reason, I believe you, Harry, are best equipped to obtain from Horace the critical information about the number of Tom's Horcruxes. That would, of course, necessarily involve an admission on his part that he in fact assisted Tom.”

“You think he'll tell me because I'm Lily's son?” Harry asked skeptically.

“You may also need to tell him certain matters pertaining to Tom's ultimate defeat,” Dumbledore added obliquely, in deference to the audience that hung on the walls. “Not the whys and wherefores, but the simple fact. You can say, truthfully, that I told you. I know Horace fears that the Death Eaters mean to kill him. Thus he has reason for wanting you to succeed.”

Hermione had been watching the Headmaster suspiciously throughout this part of the conversation. Now she intervened. “There's more to it than that, isn't there?” she put the question directly.

Dumbledore paused, sighed, and continued. “True enough,” he admitted. “Mister Potter is well positioned in many ways. I have already told him that the Basilisk venom crystals may serve as a significant incentive.”

“You want Harry to bribe him for the information,” she said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Perhaps,” the aged wizard conceded. “The venom is only one of several possible incentives. If Mister Potter - and you, for that matter - were to agree to participate in the Slug Club more frequently, that also might help. Both of you are the type of rising stars that Horace lives to cultivate.”

“Harry, what do you think?” Hermione asked.

“I can't stand being fawned over the way he does,” Harry growled.

Both Hermione and the Headmaster looked at him with frowns on their faces.

“I'll think about it,” Harry allowed - very reluctantly.

“Very well,” Dumbledore pronounced, looking resigned. “As you know, your week of detention with Professor Slughorn starts tomorrow. That is no coincidence, as you no doubt now appreciate. Since Minerva determined that your role in the recent Gryffindor Quidditch spectacle required punishment….”

The colour Harry's face turned upon mention of that episode gave the Headmaster pause. “Yes, I know about that,” he reiterated. “And be that as it may, I strongly suggested that the resultant detention be served with Horace. The immediate future provides you with plenty of opportunity to succeed where I have failed.”

Dumbledore bore unpleasant tidings of another sort for Hermione. The Muggle Serious Fraud Office insisted that she testify before their inquiry into her father's illicit activities. She was not a target, but the bureaucratically thorough Muggles felt the need to ask her what she knew of her father's associates. Hence, the formal witness summons.

Hermione thought that New Scotland Yard must be grasping at straws, given how little she knew. Dumbledore concurred, but in the end, he could do little. It was a high-profile matter, so the Muggles insisted - and under the brand new Criminal Procedure & Investigation Act, they could compel her attendance.

However, given Hermione's studies, the Headmaster managed to postpone the event so that it would happen over the upcoming Christmas holidays.

They all agreed that Harry should stay well away from the inquiry. He was already uncomfortably within the attention of quite a few Muggles in connexion with his earlier kidnapping and escape.

Beyond Dumbledore asking a couple more questions about the Twins' reverse water balloons (they could generate excellent quicksand), nothing more of a substantive nature took place. Soon the joint “special training” session ended.

“What do you really think?” Hermione asked him as they headed back to Gryffindor Tower.

“That you shouldn't have gone off on me so hard about trailing Malfoy,” he told her bluntly. “Even Dumbledore's concerned enough to do something. Besides there's more. I'm sure Malfoy meant you when he wondered why Voldemort was interested in a … umm … you know, Mudblood….”

“Well aside from my topping his O.W.L. marks and my involvement with you, I can't imagine why the great and powerful Dark Lord would care about me in the slightest,” she sniffed, picking up her pace.

Harry followed close behind. “Hermione, be serious, because this is. Threats to you, real or not, are exactly what held me back long after I should have sorted out my feelings about you….”

Hermione stopped abruptly. Harry almost ran into her and ended up swinging her around with both arms as he managed to keep both of them from falling.

“You don't think I realise this is serious?” she asked rhetorically. “Why do you think I was shocked that you'd run off like that, chasing after would-be Death Eaters all by your lonesome. What if you'd made a dog's lunch of things…?”

“But I didn't.”

“But you could have,” Hermione retorted. “Remember, I've already thought that I felt you die - not once, but twice. I was fully ready to die myself after that last time. You wonder why I'm concerned that you might be taken from me again? And now it's not even possible for you to finish Voldemort because of these damned Horcruxes….”

“Hermione?” Harry spoke her name to get her attention.

Then he kissed her - hard.

By the time they came up for air, they were both ready to apologise. Hermione even suspended her “love means never having to say you're sorry” rule for the occasion.

That accomplished, they walked more slowly, arm in arm. Hermione was unconcerned about the time. She wore her Prefect badge, and Harry had the Headmaster's safe conduct in his back pocket.

“Are you going to do it, then?” she asked. “Bribe Slughorn, I mean?”

Harry nodded his head slowly. “Don't see what choice I have. It's a bloody race, now that Voldemort knows that Dumbledore knows…. I hope I don't have to out and out bribe him, though. But we have to know what we're dealing with, don't you think?”

Hermione shook her head. “Merlin knows I hate the idea. My father took bribes. The very thought disgusts me. But, Harry, I agree, and I'll do whatever you want. If you need to promise that I'll attend his little parties, I'll go. Actually, the last one wasn't all that bad - once we got away from our host, that is.”

They walked on in silence a little while longer.

“What about this Glasto-whatever?” Harry asked after turning another corner.

“Harry, I hope you're not thinking of sneaking off without security again,” Hermione cautioned. “Otherwise, I don't think we can do the slightest thing about it. If we went there, we'd have such a big retinue that it would inevitably attract Voldemort's attention. Wherever the Horcrux is, he'd move it.”

“I didn't mean it that way,” Harry replied. “I just don't know why Voldemort … well, why he'd pick a Muggle place at all.”

“Nor do I,” Hermione agreed. “All I know is that there's all this blather about the Holy Grail supposedly having been there….”

“What's that?” Harry asked. His relatives, whilst churchgoers, had never instructed Harry in much beyond the crucifixion and the resurrection.

Hermione knew little more. Religion was something that, on principle, she refused to have anything to do with. “Something with supposedly miraculous powers from Christ's last meal,” she told him. “I saw a movie about that once … it was some kind of cup - but I wouldn't put any stock in that, since the movie was a farce. They also launched a cow over a castle wall….”

“Riddle stole Hufflepuff's cup,” Harry reminded her.

“The cup's real. The grail's something make believe,” Hermione responded. “And we've no reason to think it's there, as opposed to anywhere else in Britain.”

“Any reason we should look for ourselves?” Harry asked thoughtfully.

Hermione thought about the idea. “I can't see any benefit in involving ourselves with that,” she opined. “Neither the Order nor Dumbledore has asked us to do anything, so I say let's let the Order handle that. After all, we'll have the principal residence of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black to put up with….”

Harry was set to agree with her and be done with it. Then she added, “but I am interested in going somewhere else.”

“Where?”

“I want to go back to Grimmauld Place,” she revealed.

“But Dumbledore said the locket's gone,” Harry pointed out.

“But the books aren't,” Hermione pointed out. “I want to find the book that I read part of - the one with the Necro spell that resurrected Voldemort. Molly was most upset when she saw me reading it, and she made Sirius move it some place where I couldn't go. But you're the master of the house now…. I want to find that book, and I want to explore the library generally to look for anything else that could help us. That's where Dumbledore got the book about Horcruxes, after all.”

“I don't like that idea,” Harry held back. “Talk about me doing something foolish…. Security's been breached. That's why the Order moved out. Who knows what we'd find?”

Hermione had a ready response. “I know, and how's that any different from the reason you went spying on Malfoy? Except with Grimmauld, we can take enough people with us to make sure there are no Death Eaters lurking about.”

“Umm … I just question whether it's safe, Hermione,” Harry persisted. “How about if I go, get the library open, and we have a bunch of house-elves or goblins or somebody bring the lot of it to Blackwalls.”

“I don't know, Harry. Some of that stuff's supposed to be really Dark,” Hermione fretted. “I don't think I'd want everything close by. How about a compromise? I'll use whatever security the Order wants. Just that one book. I won't turn this into a full-blown expedition. One book, and that one spell….”

Harry gave in to her. “All right, you can bring it up with the Order. If they approve, I'm all right with it, too.”

* * * *

Quite a commotion - albeit almost entirely quiet - was occurring behind the Hogwarts greenhouses. Trees waved back and forth. Vines curled and uncurled in rhythm. Despite the late November chill, grass, brambles and other underbrush grew wildly, and then with a “pop” retreated to their previous dormancy.

Professor Sprout watched the entire spectacle, the culmination of her contribution of a free period a week for several weeks.

“Very good, Neville,” she praised the boy as he inverted the staff he was using and pounded the ground twice with its finial.

The firefly-green light emitted by the finial ceased flashing and faded to a solid low glow.

Instantly everything stopped.

Breathing heavily and quite evidently exhausted, Neville pounded the staff on the ground again, this time giving it a quarter turn. The light vanished. All the writhing plants quickly retreated to normal.

The somewhat pudgy Herbology professor clapped her hands together. “Excellent, Neville, you're really getting the hang of it now. Same time next week?”

“Definitely,” was the round-faced boy's one-word reply. He was puffing hard and leaning heavily on the staff, catching his breath after a vigourous magical workout.

“Will you be here over the holiday?” Professor Sprout inquired.

“Afraid not,” Neville told her as his wind came back. “Harry's invited me to spend the holiday at Blackwalls.”

“Too bad,” the professor went on. “I was hoping for a chance to try you out with the Whomping Willow. You're starting to get comfortable with that thing.”

Professor Sprout stayed to open the greenhouses for the second year class she would shortly be teaching. As Neville trudged towards the Castle, he Transfigured the Staff of Asclepius into a long-handled hoe. If anyone asked, he had merely been working on his Herbology special project. He looked the part, too, sweaty and rather ripe.

`Some special project,' he thought. Ever since Sirius Black had bequeathed him this very powerful artefact, Neville had known that his magical quality it would accentuate would have something to do with plants. Almost immediately, he had approached his favourite professor.

The first time he had managed to activate the Staff, Neville had fainted. Its magic was powerful, and he was quite unused to it. His magic badly drained, Neville remained unconscious for almost two hours. Luckily, Professor Sprout had kept his secret. Otherwise, he feared that Professor McGonagall confiscate the Staff from him as too dangerous.

Neville's reasoning was different. Instead of danger, he thought it meant that he needed to work even harder.

Finding sufficient time had been difficult whilst he had been seeing Ginny….

That did it.

Thinking of her made Neville's entire body sag involuntarily. Boring, she had called him. He could live with that. What he could not stomach was Ginny's accusation that he paid insufficient attention to her. On that score, he had done everything possible. He almost worshipped that girl, then and still. Neville had tried his best to do - and even to be - everything she had wanted.

He even let her convince him deliberately to provoke Harry Potter. Neville counted himself fortunate to avoid injury.

Neville could not, however, escape the consequences of a Death Eater attack on the only home he knew. They had made a shambles of Gran's old castle. Physically, Gran emerged unharmed. However, Neville wondered if she would ever recover her prior self-confidence - the outlook that had made her the rock of his existence since the loss of his parents all those years ago.

When Gran needed him, he had to be there. For some reason, he had never successfully conveyed the magnitude of that need to Ginny. Neville's failure meant that she never forgave him for spending the night of the Masked Ball with Gran rather than her. Merlin knows he would infinitely rather have been with Ginny than where he ended up - trying to make sense out of the smoking ruin that had been his home.

The boy shook his head vigorously - as if that would banish this memory from his brain. He would have to get over her, just as before Ginny he had forced himself to abandon his feelings for Hermione.

Nevertheless, Neville was secretly delighted when Ginny, contrary to her prior practice, had not moved on to another boyfriend within days of their break-up. Aside from an obnoxious stray rumour or two about Malfoy - in which he put absolutely no stock - she seemed to be taking a breather, just like him.

`Just like me?' Neville thought to himself. `Rubbish. She's taking a breather. My situation? Nobody's interested in me like that, anyway. Who am I kidding…?'

After the break up, Neville had met religiously with Professor Sprout, exploring and expanding his magic through the Staff. Harry and Hermione would be so surprised. Next time…. Next time he would bring more to the table than the ability to poke somebody in the eye or feel accurately for a pulse.

Somehow, Neville knew that there would be a next time.

He therefore accepted Harry's invitation to Blackwalls. There, on that vast estate away from prying eyes, he would show them what he could induce plants to do with the Staff's assistance. There, he would also practise some of the more impressive spellwork that Professor Sprout had described, but that would be too noticeable to attempt on the Castle's grounds.

* * * *

For once, something turned out not as difficult as Harry had feared.

Over the first three nights of his detentions with Professor Slughorn, Harry essentially danced around the looming Horcrux issue whilst once again making the Professor's acquaintance. That, in and of itself, was easy, as Professor Slughorn was in an avuncular mood. He had Harry right where he thought he wanted him - as his quasi-captive audience.

Professor Slughorn did not realise that the reverse was also true.

The detentions were hardly oppressive. Professor Slughorn's assigned tasks were quite different from Professor Snape's preferred punishments of: (1) scouring baked-on glop from cauldrons (did so many truly disastrous Potions accidents actually happen, or did Snape create those messes deliberately?) without magic, or (2) preparing noxious potions ingredients. Instead of such dangerous drudgery, Slughorn had Harry help him take a comprehensive inventory of his stocks of Potions ingredients. All the while, he gave Harry pointers about the uses of each of the ingredients.

Harry could hardly complain. Had the professor not been so inclined, Harry would never have learnt about Farmer's reducer.

The first three days' objective was that Slughorn appreciate exactly how often and how elaborately Voldemort had targeted Harry since he had been at Hogwarts. On Monday, Harry described Voldemort's first incarnation as part of the late Professor Quirrell, but more importantly detailed his encounter with the Horcrux shade of Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets. Slughorn kept uncharacteristically quiet during the latter part of that tale.

He skipped Third Year entirely, and on Tuesday explained to Slughorn in excruciating detail the real events of the much-misconstrued end of the Triwizard Tournament - including his witness to Voldemort's return to corporeal form. Harry worked in some details about his mother's sacrifice and the botched Killing Curse that originally had disintegrated the Dark Wizard. It was prelude to some feigned speculation about how Voldemort had survived and ultimately regained a quasi-human form.

On Wednesday, Harry skipped Fifth Year as well, since its culminating events had been heavily, and accurately, publicised and needed no retelling. Instead, he brought up the attempt upon Hermione's life through broom sabotage, and he gave Slughorn the inside scoop - more even than he had told Rita Skeeter - about his kidnapping by and escape from the Death Eaters. Harry had just finished explaining how his explosive power had resulted in the destruction of not only his years-old link to Voldemort, but also of his Parseltongue abilities….

At that moment, the professor did something quite unexpected.

Professor Slughorn permitted Harry to leave early - indeed insisted upon it - cutting short the detention so Harry would not miss Gryffindor Quidditch practice.

The professor's abrupt actions made it plain enough that prompting him to volunteer anything would not work. Harry would have to use more direct methods. One thing he refused was mind-altering magic. First, it was unethical. Second, he did not really know how. Nor could it be guarantee that anything Slughorn might say under a Confundus Jinx would be accurate.

Hermione reinforced Harry's decision. She could (or chose to) provide no assurances that any means of attacking Slughorn's mind would be fruitful. Her disapproval of the very notion was so intense that she might not have told him if information so obtained was accurate - even if it were. Attacking a professor mentally was only a small cut above doing the same thing to one's own parents.

A frontal assault it would have to be.

Harry commenced said assault shortly after the two began the inventory of a secondary supply cabinet that Slughorn mostly used for his own stores. They were on the second shelf when the professor provided Harry with an opening.

“…So I've only got a half litre of patchouli oil?” Slughorn repeated what he thought Harry had told him.

“That's right.”

“I think Trelawney's been into my stock again, for those incense candles she uses in her N.E.W.T.-level courses,” Slughorn complained.

“I wouldn't know,” Harry said evenly, as he put the kiln-fired container back on the shelf. His arm brushed against a much smaller jar, causing it to wobble slightly.

“Watch that one, Harry,” the older man advised, pointing to the jar before it stopped moving. “That's quite dangerous, as you know.”

“Basilisk venom,” Harry eyeballed the label on the magically sealed container. “I assume you've put a serious Unbreakability Charm on it.”

“Of course,” Slughorn tutted. “I may be many things, but I'm not a fool. How much is there? Plenty, I hope - it's difficult to replace.”

“There's no scale on the bottle,” Harry said as he held it up to the light and estimated. “Looks like more than an ounce … maybe a jigger.”

“Good, that's plenty for anything I could possibly want to brew,” Slughorn told the boy.

“Professor, are the properties of crystallised venom any different from the liquid form?” Harry asked - innocently enough.

As expected, that question brought Slughorn up short. “I'm really not sure. I've never had any of the crystallised variety to experiment with in my entire career. I saw it demonstrated once … many more years ago than I care to count. The crystalline form did penetrate certain protective spells more efficiently - I believe that's because it's birefringent. The lattices are anisotropic and de-polarise the magic …. But there's none of that here, so it's all academic, as they say.”

Professor Slughorn chuckled a little nervously.

Harry was content to let that explanation sail right over his head, because his objective was different.

“It's not academic, actually,” Harry stated slowly and deliberately. “I came into a few grams of it recently. Remember that Basilisk I killed in the Chamber of Secrets? Well, the carcass stayed undisturbed for quite awhile afterwards - long enough for the venom in the one fang that missed me to crystallise.”

“Impressive, my dear boy,” Slughorn reacted cautiously. Too many of Harry's stories - especially from his second year, had hit close to home. “Worth far more than its weight in gold that is. Any plans for it?”

“That's why I was asking you, actually,” Harry went on. “I was hoping you might know how brittle the crystals were. I'm thinking of repointing a sword, or perhaps an arrow, with them.”

“I've absolutely no idea, Harry,” Slughorn admitted. “You've finally stumped me. It's probably too rare to have been tested for anything like that. Besides, why on Earth would you want to repoint swords? It seems like such a waste.”

Harry pounced on the open-ended question. “I'm afraid that, for whatever reason, I've been tasked with having to kill Lord Voldemort,” Harry revealed. “I don't know why it's me, but Dumbledore says I am. I believe him….”

Professor Slughorn was shocked. All of a sudden, the blather in the Prophet about Harry being “The Chosen One” was truer than he could possibly have imagined. This young man needed to learn so much…. A little advice could hardly hurt - and Slughorn lived to advise young men like Harry Potter.

“I'm not at all sure that you can kill him that way,” Slughorn advised.

“Oh, it's not for him - not directly, anyway,” Harry answered, homing in. “Voldemort made something … Dumbledore called it a Horcrux … whilst he was still at Hogwarts. I destroyed it with venom from that Basilisk's other fang. Hermione and I figure it had to be Voldemort's first effort, so doing in his later ones will likely be harder. I have some idea where two others might be. With the crystallised venom being stronger, I'm looking towards it as a method for destroying those….”

There. He'd put the H-word on the table. Now Harry would have to see how the old man would react.

Slughorn did not disappoint. His eyes looked like they might pop out of their sockets. His hands started shaking. For the first time in Harry's presence the older man seemed at a loss for words.

“Why…. Why you…?”

Harry felt an almost palpable flash of relief. Slughorn had not chosen to exercise the option represented by the false memory. The professor had not ordered him from the dungeon.

Harry circled back to an earlier subject, a very painful topic he had only touched on before, but one he knew to be Horace Slughorn's weak spot. He summoned all of his strength as an Occlumens to keep an unemotional, even resigned, air to his voice.

“Good question. Like I said, I'm not at all sure why I'm the one,” Harry answered the stricken man's question carefully. “I think … I'm almost sure enough to say, `I know,' … that it has to do with Mum. I don't know how much Dumbledore told you, but Mum died for me. She refused back away when Voldemort tried to kill me…. I know because I hear her screams from back then whenever a Dementor gets too close…. Voldemort killed her, but when he tried to kill me, her Blood Magic made his curse backfire…. And that's how I became the Boy Who Lived. At least Dumbledore thinks so, and I'm pretty convinced he's right.”

It had the ring of truth. Most of what Harry said even was true.

Slughorn knew it.

“Why…? Why … me?” he asked hesitantly, as if he already knew, and feared, the answer.

“Because somebody had to show Voldemort how to make a Horcrux, or several, when he was only Tom Riddle at Hogwarts,” Harry put it forthrightly. “The Headmaster thinks it's you - that it's why you quit teaching when you did, and why you were so afraid for your safety that you finally decided to come back. Hermione and I have been through the entire Hogwarts staff roster for Riddle's last couple of years, and you're the logical candidate….”

“I … I don't want anything to do with this…,” Slughorn stammered. “I'm afraid you'll have….”

“I don't want anything to do with trying to kill Voldemort when he can't be killed,” Harry cut him off. “But I've no choice, and I need to know what I'm up against. Look, I can make this worth your while. Do you want money? I doubt it. Do you want protection? I can get you a goblin guard if need be….”

“I don't want your money,” Slughorn spoke with finality. “Dumbledore already offered that, and other inducements, too. Then he tried tricking me, but all he got was a fake. Look … all I've ever wanted is to grease the wheels of Hogwarts' talented tenth …. Those who I think have something to contribute to our society. You-Know-Who was my worst mistake….”

“I suppose my mum wasn't far behind,” Harry returned the discussion to his own turf. At least he had diverted Slughorn before the old man told him to leave.

“Oh Merlin…. Your mother taught me something that it took me all too long to learn,” Slughorn replied sadly. “She taught me that a Muggle-born can do anything a pure-blood can do if given the chance. Unfortunately, You-Know-Who never learnt that….”

“No, he didn't,” Harry responded rather fiercely. “And that made me what I am today - an orphan somehow tasked with putting paid to that bloody bastard. And I'm not stupid. I know I've no chance unless I can find out what I'm up against … how many of those bloody Horcruxes there are out there….”

“Lily Evans should never have given my successor the time of day,” Slughorn commented, himself changing the subject. “Snape associated with the Death Eaters…. He brought Lily to their attention - not intentionally, but he did. Snape didn't kill her, but he made her a target….”

Harry knew that what Slughorn was saying was untrue. His mum had become Voldemort's target for an entirely different reason. But if Slughorn knew nothing of the prophecy, as seemed the case, Harry was not inclined to clue him in.

“Well, Snape's turned traitor a second time,” Harry hissed through clenched teeth. “I won't bother with him, unless I have to, and I really don't feel like duelling him if I can avoid it. But I can't avoid Voldemort. He's after me, and for some reason, I have to face him. I can't run away, and I won't…. But if by some miracle I really could finish him, then everyone would be better off - especially you, because you could finally stop feeling guilty over everything that Voldemort's done.”

“I need your help,” Harry pleaded. “I need to know what you told Voldemort about Horcruxes.”

“I … I can't help you,” Slughorn choked out, his white mustache drooping. “It's … it's gone….”

“What's gone?” Harry asked. “We can get it back, from anywhere.”

“I'm sorry, but the memory of whatever I told You-Know-Who is gone,” Slughorn shakily confessed. “For all his tricks, Dumbledore didn't find what he wanted to know. I had to give all that up to survive … shortly after You-Know-Who left Hogwarts.”

“Had to give up what?” Harry asked again, still puzzled. But his stomach was queasy. This turn of events was not what he had expected.

“All memory of what I presumably told You-Know-Who about Horcruxes,” Slughorn recounted, speaking very softly as tears began forming in his eyes. “He would have killed me then, but since I had helped him, and he thought I might be `useful' - I'm not sure how - he contented himself with having me thoroughly Obliviated.”

Harry sounded almost like he was in physical pain. “You mean, you let him do that to you?”

Slughorn nodded slowly. “I had no choice. It was be Obliviated or die. He and I, we're both Slytherins. I made the best deal I could. So the memories are gone…, not just those with You-Know-Who, but all the underlying learning about those horrible spells that I'd acquired during my studies….”

“How?” Harry blurted, thoroughly shaken at the turn of events.

“I'll never forget what happened,” a defeated-looking Slughorn croaked out dejectedly. “They left that much … to keep me terrified, I suppose. It was Walpurgis Night in 1949 - Thirty April - when I first received the ultimatum from You-Know-Who. Ironic, really, since Saint Walpurga was a Horcrux victim….”

He sighed, as his voice trailed off. “I guess they missed that one,” he remarked.

“Missed what?” Harry honed in.

“Missed that bit of Horcrux-related trivia,” Slughorn sighed. “They didn't miss much, though….”

“I don't think I follow,” Harry persisted.

“Either I had to give up all my memories of Horcrux-related magic above a very rudimentary level, and swear an Unbreakable Vow of secrecy, or I would be killed,” a now thoroughly deflated Slughorn continued. “I swore never to breathe a word to anyone about the magic I'd learnt. Not long after that, I met Roland Lestrange in Hogsmeade….”

“Who was he?” Harry wanted to know. The last name was familiar, but not the given one.

“He was an original Death Eater,” Slughorn responded, looking pained. “His son, Rodolphus married Bella Black. He - the father - was a skilled Obliviator, amongst his other talents. He was even a Slug Club member along with You-Know-Who whilst at Hogwarts.”

“Lestrange was nothing if not thorough. In addition to removing all my recollection of teaching anything about Horcruxes to You-Know-Who, he eliminated everything that I had told him in the first place. I suppose that didn't include Saint Walpurga, which is why that stray bit of knowledge escaped destruction. On the type of thing you're seeking….”

“Oh, I ….”

Slughorn continued without pausing for Harry to explain himself.

“… That is, the optimal number of Horcruxes that could be made - he wiped it all out….” Slughorn declared with finality.

Shaking his head, Professor Slughorn slowly waddled to a low cupboard against the wall of the Potions Dungeon. He pulled out a phial of clear liquid.

“After he thought he was done, Lestrange dosed me with this and, I presume, asked me quite a few things about Horcruxes,” he told Harry, gesturing to the phial. “Under Veritaserum I, of course, had to answer all his questions truthfully. It was like a search and destroy mission - only for my knowledge. By the time he was finished, I was quite the blank slate again. Back then, Death Eaters weren't even generally known … I guess I was one of the first loose ends they cleaned up. Because of the secrecy, when Lestrange was done, for good measure, I had to take the Vow never to reveal what had happened, or even that I'd met him.”

“How can you tell me, then?” Harry asked. “I thought that breaking such a vow was fatal.”

Slughorn shook his head slowly. “It would be, except that Roland died - killed by Dorcas Meadowes in a duel, I was told. When he died, the Vow expired with him. After that, for several months I was terrified that You-Know-Who would come for me - since he was never one to leave much to chance. It was my luck that he didn't get around to it in time.”

“What happened?” Harry wanted to know.

“You did,” Slughorn said, smiling ruefully. “You killed him, or so we thought. That gave me a long respite, for which I am grateful, but ever since he returned, You-Know-Who's been after me. I didn't fancy living out my life as a piece of household furniture, so after considerable soul searching, I accepted Dumbledore's invitation to return.”

Slughorn's explanation seemed to make sense, except for one thing. “If you were Obliviated, what were those memories you gave Dumbledore?” Harry asked.

“Oh those,” Slughorn answered, looking embarrassed. “Just my rather pathetic efforts at mental camouflage. I've tried to patch over some of the worst gaps by creating made-up memories, but memory modification was never my strong suit.”

Harry cocked his head and pointed to the Veritaserum in Slughorn's left hand. “Not that I think you're lying, but can I test you? Maybe what I need to know, Lestrange didn't find.”

“You're welcome to try, Harry,” Slughorn agreed fatalistically as he unstoppered the phial. “I want you to believe me, since I doubt Dumbledore ever will. Are you familiar with how to verify that I am under the influence?”

Harry's voice grew harsh. “You did it to me not very long ago, remember? Back when I was accused of drugging Hermione. So yes, I know quite well how to go about it. What I don't know is how the test itself works.”

“I take three drops - four if you wish,” Hogwarts' resident Potions master instructed. “Wait three minutes, point your wand at me, and incant, `Comprobo.' If it works, your wandtip will glow green. If I'm not entirely under the influence, it'll glow yellow. If there were no potion at all; say that this contains only distilled water, then your tip would glow red.”

“All right. Now I remember … this was mentioned in a Wizengamot trial transcript I once read,” Harry remembered. When Hermione had testified, she had submitted to the same test.

Slughorn self-administered the Veritaserum, and Harry performed the confirmatory spell. The professor was well under the potion's influence when Harry began asking questions. Even though he was tempted to ask any number of other questions, such as about his mum, Harry confined himself to the task at hand. After Slughorn answered several preliminary questions accurately, Harry turned to the critical matters Dumbledore had wanted him to find out.

“What is the maximum number of Horcruxes that a wizard can make before there's too little soul left to support life and magic?”

“I have no idea,” Slughorn said in the flat, unmodulated voice that typified Veritaserum possession. “More than one, I suppose.”

“What number did you tell Tom Riddle that he should not exceed?”

“I have no recollection whatever.”

“Did you discuss numbers of Horcruxes with Tom Riddle?”

“I can't remember at all.”

“Did you tell Tom Riddle that there was a maximum number of Horcruxes that he could not exceed without imperilling himself?”

“I can't recall.”

These questions went on for several minutes, as Harry tried out different permutations. Nothing escaped from Slughorn's lacuna of induced ignorance.

Soon the detention was almost over. Harry scowled as he concluded that he had no choice but to admit defeat. Notwithstanding everything Dumbledore had done to recruit Professor Slughorn, his memory of the critical events concerning Tom Riddle was totally nonexistent.

Downcast, Harry excused himself and trudged to the door.

He was just about to exit when Slughorn called after him.

“What is it, now?” Harry replied wearily. In his own way, he detested failure as much as Hermione did, and he had come up very short on one of the most important assignments of his life.

“All I want from you is to become a member of the Slug Club,” Slughorn said as he beckoned Harry through a door at the back of the classroom that led into his private inner office.

Harry followed. “Why should I do that?” He asked.

“Because if you survive, you'll certainly be in a position to help others, and others may be in a position to help you,” Slughorn answered, whilst crossing the light, airy, and large office.

It was a far cry from Snape's gloomy cavern. Harry had never seen a nicer staff office, save the Headmaster's. It was furnished with the overstuffed, Edwardian era furniture that the old man favoured. Various photos - all of Slughorn with various people - lined the walls.

“Umm … nice office,” Harry made small talk as he waited for whatever was to happen.

“The best staff office in the Castle … used to be Professor Merrythought's,” Slughorn answered drearily whilst crossing the room. “Another of Dumbledore's attempted bribes….”

Slughorn stopped and gazed thoughtfully at the wall behind his desk.

Harry started getting a bit antsy. His experiences with professors acting strangely had not been good.

“Have a seat,” Slughorn beckoned to Harry. He passed behind a desk awash in loose pieces of parchment, and began rummaging through the shelf at which he had been staring.

“What are you doing now?” Harry asked testily as he remained standing. He did not want to be kept late - especially by the dry hole that Slughorn had turned out to be.

“You were honest. It's a beneficial trait,” Slughorn hinted. “Unlike Dumbledore, you never sought to deceive me about what you were after and why. Trickery is not always preferable, whatever he may think.”

Horace Slughorn levitated a stack of papers and pulled a three-ring notebook from beneath. From between its battered black covers peeked age-yellowed parchments.

“I found this afterwards. Neither Dumbledore, nor Lestrange - nor you for that matter - asked all of the right questions,” the professor commented as he held out the notebook to Harry. “Nobody asked about source materials, and I've made it a point not to look inside this since I took the Vow with Lestrange back in `49.”

“What is it?” Harry asked hopefully as he took the notebook from the professor's pudgy hands.

“The notebook you are holding contains the notes from my apprenticeship with Herr Broh over sixty years ago,” Slughorn answered precisely. “I wouldn't show them to Dumbledore, but I'll give them to you. Whatever I once knew about Horcruxes, I learnt at Lisen Broh's knee. The answers to the questions you asked must be in there. If not, then I never knew those answers and could not have been the source of You-Know-Who's information.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said, stunned by the abrupt turn of fortune.

“You're welcome,” Slughorn replied. “Look for my invitation to the Slug Club's Christmas party, won't you. Oh yes, and tomorrow's detention is cancelled.”

Harry left, and Slughorn slumped into his swivelling desk chair. He wheeled around and stared at one of his office's many pictures - all memorialising past Slug Clubs. “Lily Evans,” he addressed it. “I'll do what I can to help your son. I owe you that much.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Blackwalls' proprietors are consistent with JKR's Black family tree

Arcturus Black is loosely based upon Nikita Khrushchev

“Luck is a residue of design” is a quote from Branch Rickey

JKR originally intended Puckle to be Hermione's last name; Emmeline is close to Emma

The land the Muggles were buying from Jerry McAllister became Trafford Centre

The house-elf, field-elf distinction is drawn from US slave society

“Pommy” is a slang (usually derogatory) term for Britons in the rest of the Commonwealth

Bellatrix is referring to the murder she helped commit in Chapter 49

The “of what use is a newborn baby” line is most often attributed to Benjamin Franklin, upon observing the the Montgolfier balloon ascent in 1783

A Teutonic cross is symmetrical with bars across each end

Iocane is a fictional poison used in the Princess Bride

Crux horribilis comes from the Linnean name for grizzly bear, ursus horribilis

St. Arfa is an early Christian martyr associated with Augsburg

Glastonbury is an actual town in southeast England, and the various statements about it are accurate

The Serious Fraud Office is a real British governmental office

In Britain, the Criminal Procedure & Investigation Act of 1996 governs the rights and obligations of underaged witnesses compelled to testify. Thanks to beta MarkGardiner for that one

“Love means never having to say you're sorry” comes from the movie “Love Story”

The cow/castle wall reference is to Monty Python and the Holy Grail

Can Hermione keep a promise to bring back only one book?

Farmer's reducer was the ingredient that allowed Harry to read Hermione's note in Chapter 41, after Slughorn, in the prior chapter, had told Harry what it did

The canon idea of Hermione wiping her own parents' minds blank always bothered me

Mentioning patchouli oil is a nod to my much wilder past

A jigger is approximately 1.5 fluid ounces, although it varies

Depending upon their internal structure, crystals can polarize of depolarize light

Slughorn's discussion of birefringence and anisotropy is accurate with respect to the effect upon polarized light

The “talented tenth” is W.E.B. Dubois' phrase to describe the educated elite

The death of St. Walpurga is considered a martyrdom, so I've made her a Horcrux victim. Walpurgis Night is 30 April, and on that date witches supposedly frolic with the Devil, as shown in the final scene in Disney's Fantasia”

In the Lexicon, there's an original Death Eater, first name unknown, named Lestrange

Also in the Lexicon, there's also an original Order member named Dorcas Meadowes who did something that made Voldemort go through the trouble of killing her personally. I've given him a reason

I've made Unbreakable Vows abate with the death of either party

Comprobo is Latin for “to confirm”

Hermione's testimony occurred in Chapter 31

Using Merrythought's office to bribe Slughorn is canon

45

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 2/26/2009

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63. Setting Up

Wherein Dumbledore has a chat with one of his students, the thoughts of several supporting characters on the eve of the Christmas holiday are examined, Harry and Hermione attend another Slug Club party, meet exotic, interesting people, and go on holiday to Château Blackwalls.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

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

Chapter 63 - Setting Up

The Headmaster's frown broke through as he gazed at the student he had called to his office. This was not the first warning he had given the boy.

“Mister Malfoy, I assume you recall our discussion of September last,” he began gravely. “I acceded to your wishes, supported by what remained of your family, that you return to Hogwarts. I had no obligation to do so - and, indeed, your re-enrollment was over considerable opposition, both within these walls and without.”

“I am aware of that, sir, and I am grateful,” Draco answered with deliberately downcast eyes.

“So I am sure you recall the one, and only, condition that I placed upon your return,” Dumbledore addressed the boy sternly.

“Of course,” Draco replied. A pause ensued as the Headmaster deliberately held his tongue. “…To keep my nose clean and no association with Death Eaters….”

“Quite,” Dumbledore added once Draco finished. “Thus it pains me greatly to learn, from a source whom I consider unimpeachable, that not only have you been corresponding with Caractacus Burke, but you met him personally during the last Hogsmeade Weekend.”

Draco was surprised but not shocked by the Headmaster's words. He was not such a naïf to believe that their association would stay secret, but he had not expected the discovery to occur so soon, or to be confronted with it so directly.

“I've known Mister Burke for years,” Draco immediately told Dumbledore. “Unlike almost everyone else, he didn't abandon my family after my father's disgrace. Yes, I met him in Hogsmeade, and also before I came back to Hogwarts. We've also owled each other regularly.”

“You are aware, are you not, that Mister Burke is most surely a Death Eater?” the Headmaster asked accusingly. Still, Draco was being surprisingly forthright in admitting his contacts with Burke.

“I wasn't aware of that,” Draco responded quickly - a technical truth. “…And in case you're wondering, neither am I.” With a flourish he shoved his robes' sleeves up to his shoulders and revealed his pale-skinned arms fully to Dumbledore. “No Dark Marks. If you have doubts, perform any spell you like. I have been keeping my nose clean as instructed.”

“That will not be necessary,” Dumbledore replied calmly. “My concern is your contact with Mister Burke.”

Malfoy was resistant, if not defiant. “As I said, he was one of the few wizards who always helped my family, despite everything. Surely you remember, better than I since you were there, that Malfoy Manor was practically destroyed in a fight with the Death Eaters.”

“True enough, but he is most certainly a Death Eater,” Dumbledore maintained, not allowing any diversion.

Draco now trotted out the alibi he and Burke had devised at the outset of their project - a cover story with the added advantage of being true.

“You don't know that, and I don't know that,” Draco parried. “But I do know this - he's acting as my building contractor at the moment….”

That answer was most unexpected. “Your what?”

“He's my building contractor,” Draco repeated. “The reason for that meeting, and why we're regularly in touch, is that he's taken on rebuilding Malfoy Manor after you and the Dark Lord combined to leave the place a smoking ruin.”

Dumbledore brought his good hand to his chin and thought for a moment. He had not anticipated any legitimate reason for those two to be collaborating because….

“Burke is a shopkeeper,” the Headmaster observed, looking down his nose at Draco. “He has utterly no qualifications to act as a building contractor….”

“He has one,” Draco cut in quickly. “He was willing to take on the job before any inheritance surfaced - when we couldn't say for sure we'd even be able to pay him. Not everything's been perfect; another reason for the rather close contact. But nobody else would help when my family really needed it, and I'm not going to cut him out now … unless you've proof he's a Death Eater.”

The Headmaster had no such conclusive proof, so he turned the tables. “Very well,” he said, “can you show me documentation, such as the bid sheet?”

“My lawyer holds all the relevant correspondence,” Malfoy replied. “I swear you'll get a copy over the holiday.”

“Very well, Mister Malfoy, you are excused,” Dumbledore ended the interview. If it were just the word of Harry Potter, the Chosen One, against Draco Malfoy, son of a fugitive Death Eater, that would be one thing. But Malfoy plus documentation, against just Harry's word … well, that was something else.

Draco Malfoy was already headed for the door, when he turned and asked. “You let Potter associate with Sirius Black, even whilst under Umbridge's probation last year. Why's that so different from me and Mister Burke?”

There were many differentiating reasons, but most involved information that Dumbledore would not trust with Draco Malfoy. The Headmaster responded with something rather basic. “Mister Potter never felt compelled to bare his arms to me to prove he was not a Death Eater.”

Draco left without another word.

Upon reaching the privacy of his Slytherin bedchamber, however, Draco nearly hyperventilated. He had pulled it off! The cover story had succeeded - well enough that the Headmaster had not even forbidden him from communicating with Burke.

But somebody was obviously watching him - probably more than one somebody.

He had to be very careful.

Thus, as he prepared the note directing his solicitor to send a copy of the Burke contract to Dumbledore, Draco realised something else. He badly needed to “adjust” the peer tutoring records, if he could - to erase his participation, and if possible Ginny's.

Fortunately Draco thought that would be rather simple. Professor Slughorn paid no attention to any student-to-student assistance not involving his Slug Club. He had posted the sign-up roster, made a perfunctory announcement, and as far as anyone knew nothing more. Not once had he asked after the tutors, and students requiring academic assistance were even further beneath that wizard's interest.

After that, he could go back to Malfoy Manor and engage in a little advanced potions brewing over the holiday. It was his best subject, and he had already been informed that most of the necessary ingredients were on hand.

* * * *

Neville Longbottom could not remember the last time he had so eagerly awaited the approaching midwinter holiday. Whilst he would never consciously call it such, the Death Eaters had almost done him a favour in reducing draughty old Longbottom Castle to rubble.

Maybe some day he could rebuild, but for now, good riddance.

It had always been rather isolated, and Gran seemed much happier having moved into an in-town villa in Upper Barnton with her second cousin Harfang. Gran's five house-elf staff had struggled to maintain the somewhat tumble-down castle. Things were much easier now.

Gran had a much better social network at the new place. With other outlets, she did not demand his company nearly as much.

Her improved situation helped assuage residual guilt, but things were much better than just that. Neville was thrilled to be invited to join Harry, Hermione (despite her now being Harry's girlfriend), and others members of Harry's emerging inner sanctum. They would accompany Harry on his inaugural visit to what Neville understood to be the extraordinarily opulent - not to mention vast - country estate, Château Blackwalls. The grounds were reputedly an order of magnitude larger than old Longbottom Castle, as was the building itself.

The place had been run by Lucius Malfoy for over a decade, so most of the staff were holdovers from that regime. Neville's and the others' presence had been requested to watch Harry's back and stiffen his spine in the event of unpleasant personnel changes.

Beyond fellowship and fortitude, Neville looked forward to working with Harry in the struggle against Voldemort. Before ever meeting Harry, Neville knew without ever being told that he never lived up - in his Gran's eyes - to the standards set by his now-departed Auror parents. That aura of insufficiency completely vanished after the Death Eater battle in the Department of Mysteries. For the first time Neville could remember, his actions received Gran's unreserved praise.

Neville also knew that all this talk about Harry being “The Chosen One” was more than just talk. The snippets he heard of the prophecy told him as much. The “Death or Glory” pennant that he gave Harry for his birthday was only the plainest manifestation of his belief. Harry's reaction to Neville's follow-up questions reconfirmed everything. If Harry needed a right-hand man, and Ron was not willing or up to the task, Neville was happy to step forward.

Neville owed his now deceased parents - and himself - that much.

But to step up to that particular wicket meant that Neville needed significant upgrades in Defence and duelling skills. Here was another reason he wanted to spend time at Blackwalls. Out there, amongst the fields and vineyards of the great estate, Neville hoped to make even more progress in developing his one generally recognised skill - magical dominion over plants.

Sirius Black had left to Neville the Staff of Asclepius, a magical object that accentuated its owner's most noteworthy magical abilities. For Neville, his best (he would say only) magical attribute doubtless lay in the field of Herbology. Literally the day after receiving the Staff, Neville had knocked on Professor Sprout's door and asked for her help in learning how to channel its powers.

The two of them had worked on that project ever since. But like the extra training Harry and Hermione had both enjoyed and endured, Neville had to study in private. That limited what he could attempt, and thus achieve. At Blackwalls it would be different. Neville could practise with an entire field, indeed an entire forest, if he felt up to it.

With a determined smile on his face, Neville picked up the Staff, smacked it audibly into his left hand, and packed the thing away in his trunk. On top of that he placed his Christmas gift for Harry and Hermione. Harry had money, and things, and Hermione. Neville would give of himself - he would offer to perform some difficult task, if they ever needed him.

* * * *

Luna Lovegood, ensconced in her Ravenclaw four-poster with the bed curtains drawn, was ecstatic over her upcoming trip to Blackwalls. Friends! She actually had friends. That was a dramatic change for a girl who had endured ridicule and worse, even within her own House, for her eccentric ways. Without friends at Hogwarts, Luna had cultivated her “loony” mannerisms in large part as a defence mechanism. Since the mainstream had turned her away again and again, she could - and had - returned the favour.

Inside her bed chamber, where nobody else could see, Luna had a secret. Three quarters of the way around the top - a metre tall and several metres long - was a half-finished poster she was in the process of creating. It had six portraits, hers and the other five Order of Merlin winners. She had completed her own, Harry's, and Hermione's likenesses. The others were sketched in outline, except for Ron, which she had placed centre and largest. That one she had yet to begin.

Luna's reticence stemmed from having a great deal of trouble figuring out what she could, and should, do about Ron.

Tonight, however, she was only adding some trim. She had found and adapted a new spell from a calligraphy text. Reciting the incantation, she pointed her wand at the banner. A gold striped jet of magic struck the surface of her creation, and a long, narrow, worm-like ribbon emerged. It proceeded to squiggle this way and that as it outlined the six portraits - repeating the same word over and over again - “friends” - in shiny gilt lettering.

“Tee-hee,” Luna giggled as she clapped her hands. She thought that spell had been brilliant, just like going to Blackwalls with Harry and the others would be.

That completed, Luna's face became more serious (for her). She had to finish Hermione's Christmas - no, Solstice - present.

Luna was convinced that something … something significant, had happened to Hermione that night she had lain on the gnomon-cenotaph and been charmed - cursed, whatever - to search for Harry. If it had, she wanted Hermione to be prepared.

Her family had always been Druids, for as long as anyone knew or had records. Any other affiliation was lost in the mists of deep time.

Part of that heritage was an incredibly old tome entitled, “The Compleat Druid: Spells & Rituals.” It had no author, and was at least seven hundred years old - before the coming of the Black Death, since no spells in the section on healing related to bubonic plague.

Luna was completing her memorisation of all the spells in this book. In that she was assisted by a Memory Quill. Hermione had given it to her during those frantic hours when Luna thought she would have to send Hermione on her journey after Harry - or, more likely, on her journey to the next great adventure. Over and over again, Luna wrote, circled, and deposited millennia of magical Druid heritage directly into her mind.

Then she would give the book to Hermione. If Luna were even close in her suspicion about the not-so-funny thing that had happened to that girl on her way to save Harry, Hermione would need this text far more than she. Luna had no idea when that suspicion would be confirmed or debunked - but preparation was essential.

Ever since the Roman conquest, all Druid daughters prepared themselves for that eventuality. Alone amongst them all, Luna might actually have to use that preparation.

* * * *

Jazeera al-Habiba, or “Jazzy” to everyone but Harry Potter, was profoundly conflicted as she burned incense in memory of her parents. Tomorrow she would depart Hogwarts for the place everyone called Blackwalls. Her quandary stemmed from the basic logic of her existence. Jazzy knew from hard personal experience that nobody ever did anything without a reason - without wanting a quid pro quo.

She could not figure out Harry Potter's reason, nor his presumed quid pro quo, for taking interest in her. He was everything she was not, and vice versa. He was wealthy almost beyond measure, famous to the point of having professors fawn over him, respected as the recipient (at age 16) of Wizard Britain's highest honour, an outstanding Quidditch player, and deeply involved with a woman who in her own way was as extraordinary as he was.

Jazzy was Harry's antithesis. She was so poor that even her badly-off relatives thought her a burden, viewed as something of a head case by her professors, looked down upon for both racial and religious reasons, a bench-warming Quidditch player with more brass than talent, and an immature third-year with a well-founded aversion to any emotional relationship with anybody of either sex.

What could somebody so rich, handsome, famous, and everything else want with her? It was certainly nothing carnal. He had a girlfriend to whom he was devoted, and should he ever stray - the resultant queue would include half the female population at Hogwarts, but not her. She was no more interested in him “that way” than he was in her.

He had everything. She had nothing. Her parents … had been … killed … when…. But Harry, he lost his parents at an even earlier age. So at least they had that in common.

And not just Harry … that Longbottom boy, too. The death of his parents was common knowledge.

And that weird - now that was the pot calling the cauldron black - Lovegood girl. She had lost her parents also. Her father's death had been mentioned in one of those Quibblers that printed the big story about Harry.

All orphans - everybody she knew who was invited to Blackwalls. Well, except Harry's girlfriend, and she was Muggle-born, so nobody in this bigoted wizard world even cared about her parents.

So that must be it. Harry was collecting people as … dare she say it, friends, who were orphans like himself. Jazzy could live with that - provided there was a really fast broom available for her to fly around the estate's environs, which she had heard were larger than Hogwarts' grounds.

That and as long as nobody expected her to give anybody any gifts. She had no money, and did not believe in Christmas anyway.

* * * *

Ginny Weasley was not looking forward to the Holidays. Harry was not coming to the Burrow. He was off with Hermione to that grand new estate he had inherited. She had not been invited, but then neither had Ron. So she was stuck with her obnoxious brother for three weeks - especially if her parents grounded her and Ron for that damned Quidditch incident.

It was just as well that Harry would be absent. Unlike Ron, Harry was not reliably oblivious to what was going on around him.

After the final Gryffindor Quidditch practice, she had stayed back, ostensibly to work out some new moves she had devised. Before she was done, everyone else had left - as intended. Once the house-elf assigned to the Gryffindor clubhouse appeared, she told it (she neither knew nor cared if it was male or female) she had been punished and had to clean the place herself. The subservient elf accepted the explanation without question. Ginny knew her domestic spells well, and had everything spotless in short order. But along the way, she managed to acquire Harry's sweaty … well … unmentionable. Harry's not being at the Burrow eliminated one thing that could go wrong.

If Ron stumbled on anything, he would just assume she was helping with the wash - but if she were forced to wash them to cover her tracks, it would be a disaster.

That is, if besotted baby Ronald paid attention to anything at all - except going to visit that scarlet girlfriend of his over the New Year. She was frankly shocked that Mum would let him go.

But Ron had put on the full-court whinge…. And the Changs were quite rich…. And Mum had finally let go the dream match with Hermione…. But Cho? Everything that woman did only caused Ginny to despise her more.

Ginny shuddered. Ron had never to her knowledge used that Felix Felicis Potion he had won. Was it possible that he was saving it…? Could he be planning to use it on that visit? Could he be planning to…?

She would not, could not, let that happen.

One fortunate knock-on effect from being little sister to so many brothers was that she knew all the Burrow's hiding places. She had to. Otherwise she would never have gotten what she wanted when she was younger.

And she knew how to get what she wanted.

As soon as she and Ron returned to the Burrow, she would find where Ron had that potion squirrelled away. If necessary, she would even toss his room.

At least Ginny agreed with Mum (or had, until Mum gave up) on one thing - Ron belonged with Hermione - if only to get Hermione away from Harry.

* * * *

Ronald Weasley stood next to his bed, feeling bored, and absently mindedly scratched himself.

Should he head down to the music room and try for a jam session with Seamus and Dean, or should he just turn in early? After all, he would have to pack tomorrow morning, or tonight, he supposed.

Harry and Neville would both be away for several hours at Slughorn's bloody Christmas party. He had an invitation, too, but She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would be there with Harry. Even though he had apologised to her - sort of - he really did not fancy being around her (and him, he had to admit) in a setting like that. Everybody in attendance would just be fawning on them.

Ron scratched himself again. Damn, he had been itchy down there ever since his last time with Cho, which was not (he grinned at the thought) very long ago. Somehow she had obtained a key to a vacant Staff Assistant's office. They had spent the better part of two hours….

That explained being tired enough to consider turning in early. Maybe it explained the itch, too. What was the punch line to that old joke? They had been at it hard enough and long enough to get second degree burns all over his….

It did feel sort of like burns did, but only after they had been healed.

Damn, she could be such a freak. Where did she learn to use Switching Charms like that…?

Come to think of it, a few days away from Cho might be nice, simply to get some rest…. He had fainted again during their lovemaking, and not long after she had cast that Switching Charm. It had been mind-blowing, and then she had added that bit of - what had she called it? Breathplay? Wow … at just the right moment.

He was getting randy again just thinking about it. A few days were one thing. Almost two weeks without her, until Chinese New Years Eve, was something else entirely. That was too long. He worried he would go insane from sex deprivation before seeing her again.

And he would be very bored.

For once he had no friends at the Burrow for the Holidays - nobody but Mum, Dad, and Ginny. Harry and Hermione were off to that place he had inherited - where they could shag whenever they wanted. He probably could have nagged Harry into taking him along, but intentionally decided not to. That would just have led to another fight with Hermione. He would lose, again. Everybody else would gang up on him, again.

Not that the Burrow promised to be any better. This would be the first Christmas without Bill. His death would hang like a dark cloud over the entire holiday. As the only Weasley brother at home, he would bear the full brunt. Charlie was away, as always, in Romania. Percy had a new flat in London, and might drop by, but not for very long. The Twins would definitely turn up for Christmas, but being in the retail trade, this was their busiest season.

Then again either he, Ginny, or both of them might be grounded over that incident after the Quidditch match….

So Ron would be home alone with Mum, Dad, and an obnoxious baby sister who was insanely jealous of his girlfriend.

If he had his way, though, Cho would be more than his girlfriend before the Holidays ended. That little phial of Felix Felicis that Harry was holding for him would see to that.

That's what he needed to make sure of.

Ron left a note on Harry's pillow to make sure to owl him the potion shortly before the Chinese New Year, when he would leave for three days with Cho's family.

* * * *

Cho Chang was terrified. Something awful was going to happen. She knew it, but she could not lift a finger to stop it. Her every move these days was dictated by that accursed Xiao Jing charmed tattoo. A product of several thousand years of Chinese magical evolution, it enforced filial piety - requiring the bearer to do everything that one's elders demanded. But if she had not accepted the Xiao Jing, she would never have been permitted to go to Hogwarts.

She had wanted that then. Now she wanted anything else - even a traditional woman's Chinese magical education - even foot binding. Anything was better than absolute parental control.

At least by her father.

And nobody on the Hogwarts staff had any idea. None of them was trained in Chinese magic.

The Xiao Jing was even worse than the unforgivable Imperius Curse. According to Professor Lupin, the Imperius produced a hazy mental state where the victim did not really understand what was happening. With the Xiao Jing she knew exactly what she was doing (if not why), but was simply powerless to stop herself or obstruct her father's will in any way. She could not act, not even speak, in opposition to it.

Her father adjusted it - strengthened it - every time she left the Castle for “Chinese Magic” lessons that were neither Chinese nor magical.

For months she had not been able to do anything remotely independent of her father's will - not since before those “lessons” began, when she had sent Harry her own family's seal as a birthday present, and (she hoped) as a clue.

She had known, even then, that something was not right. She had hoped that, maybe, Harry would save her. That was what he did.

Her ploy had quite obviously failed.

The target of whatever was going to happen, Cho was certain, would be Ron. She wanted to stop him - tell him to run away as fast and as far as he could from her - but instead she had invited him to her father's house for New Years (even though it was not). That had been the Xiao Jing talking. That spell, honed over millennia, was simply too strong for her to overcome. Nothing was more important than filial piety in traditional Chinese Magic.

Cho was terrified, as well, by what had occurred when she and Ron were last together. He had fainted, and not for the first time. But this time blood was all over - his blood. She had done something to him. Somehow, she was changing, too.

Where would it end?

Because of the Xiao Jing, she could not stop it. All she could do was clean everything up, heal him, and pretend nothing bad had happened. She blamed it on the breathplay, but that was yet another lie.

And now her back was acting up. It itched in places maddeningly hard for her to reach. It had reacted this way each of the last several times she had been with Ron.

* * * *

Draco Malfoy sometimes had trouble believing his own good fortune. He had converted what could have been - and in some ways was - a disastrous abduction of Harry Potter into a second chance for the Malfoy family to curry favour with the Dark Lord. Or at least it was after his Master had finished Cruciating him for his presumptuousness.

What began as a desperate attempt to save his father from the Dementor's Kiss had resulted in Draco surpassing his father, at least in the eyes of the only one whose opinion really mattered.

It might have been luck, but he was seen as competent - something most Death Eaters unfortunately were not, with the notable exception of his former Potions professor and mentor, Severus Snape.

Being competent meant that he attracted assignments - delicate assignments - delicate assignments for which he stood to be richly rewarded. At the moment Draco was working on two such assignments. He suspected they were related in some fashion, although he could not yet divine how. All he knew is that they both involved Hogwarts….

And he had already been richly rewarded. The Dark Lord had seen fit to arrange the funds that had rescued Malfoy Manor from the depredations of the Goblins and their wizard accomplice, the Git Who Lived.

Draco tried not to look gift Thestrals in the mouth, but even he would admit that his rewards so far seemed disproportionately high compared to what he had been ordered to do. He was tasked with finding some way to torpedo the romantic relationship between the aforesaid git and the insufferable Mudblood who had bested the Dark Lord's marks.

But why?

Why would the Dark Lord even care about a Mudblood? Draco had no idea, but the Dark Lord was insistent. Nobody, especially a supplicant like himself, asked questions. One took orders.

But he had been promised, and already received, far greater rewards for his incomplete work than had other Death Eaters who had tried killing the Mudblood outright. It was strange. At least he understood the value of infiltrating Death Eaters into Hogwarts - the other assignment he had received.

In any event, he was going home to Malfoy Manor. Parcels containing essential Potions ingredients and equipment awaited him. He would personally transfer them to Oceanix, the better to render them untraceable. At that isolated estate he would enjoy both the privacy and freedom to brew the Potion stock for that wildly complicated Love Potion that Snape had created many years ago - and that had somehow fallen into Ginny Weasley's hands.

Assuming the Weaslebitch did not lose her nerve over the holiday - a constant worry, even with the Master's influence - he would smuggle partially brewed bits of the potion back into Hogwarts. He had already figured out how. Woolen clothing could absorb his concoctions and be dried. The active ingredients remained impregnated in the absorbent wool. Once inside the school, Draco would soak some sweaters and socks (he would bring along a new wardrobe) with the right solvent to recreate the Potion stock on the inside of the Castle's wards.

As long as the mission was successful, the Dark Lord was indifferent to how Draco handled the Weaslebitch - as long as he did not kill her. He could seduce, drop, or toy with her as he chose. Draco cared nothing for that spitfire's questionable charms, so that narrowed the options to two. His choice would depend upon how things sorted out once the Great Git was dealt with. Until then, he would have to keep her both close and content.

The sooner the Dark Lord finished Potter the better - but until that happened he had to split Hogwarts' royal couple apart without appearing to do so. That plan revolved around Ginny Weasley.

* * * *

Having attended one of Professor Slughorn's Slug Club parties before, Harry and Hermione now knew what to expect. Perhaps a dozen favoured students would be attending, maybe more, since this time invitees were encouraged to bring dates. The students would, in turn, meet various witches and wizards selected, they assumed by Professor Slughorn, on the the professor's estimation that these contacts could be “helpful” to the chosen students' future careers.

With conversations well lubricated by fine food and drink - not to mention Slughorn's own fawning presence - mutually beneficial alliances would develop. And when Slug Club members graduated and achieved success, the unspoken assumption was that they would return as guests and similarly assist the next generation.

The whole situation made the pair more than a little uncomfortable, as it reeked of the kind of influence peddling and class discrimination that they - primarily Hermione, who worried about such things - thought contributed to the retrograde nature of Wizard society.

But it was a small price to pay for the information Harry had persuaded Slughorn to part with - and some people they met the last time had actually proven useful.

Dressed sharply in their best school robes, Harry and Hermione set off for the Ceremonial Library where the party was held. Professor Slughorn had hinted that their Order of Merlin dress robes would be appropriate, but they both believed that would be too ostentatious.

“I was hoping Ron would come with us,” Harry broached a touchy subject. “But when I mentioned that, of course, you were coming as my date, he still acted like he was under a Repelling Charm - suddenly found something else he had to do….”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well, he used the word `apologise' and my name in the same sentence, at least. But it was frightfully obvious that he was acting more from obligation than because he actually meant it. I knew it, and I think he knew I knew it.”

Harry shook his head. “So does that mean that you didn't accept it? I was hoping to get that mess with Cho behind us….”

“Well, of course I `accepted' it, Harry,” she talked over him. “I accepted it in precisely the spirit it was given. It's that he wanted me to apologise to her….”

It was obvious who “her” referred to.

Harry winced. “So you refused to apologise to Cho? And now we're back to square one?”

“No,” Hermione replied, “of course not. I told Ron that I would be happy to apologise to Cho, but that I wanted to speak to her in private so that we could, I believe the precise words I used were, `talk through our differences'.”

“And Cho never showed,” Harry half asked and half declared.

“Cho never showed,” Hermione confirmed. “As if that….”

“Hello, there,” came a familiar voice from behind. It was Luna - she was wearing her Order of Merlin robes, and earrings that looked, and smelled, like onions.

“Hi, Luna,” Hermione replied. “My but you're looking fancy tonight. Whom did you ask to the party, then?”

“Nobody, really,” Luna responded, with a blank look, as if the question were meaningless. “Maybe Neville will be there….”

“Umm … I believe Neville asked Melinda Bobbin - you know, from Hufflepuff,” Hermione informed Luna, who shrugged off the information.

“Melinda? When did that happen?” asked Harry. “I mean, I suppose she's nice and all….”

“I don't know that anything's happened,” Hermione responded. “They chatted at a previous Slug Club party that we didn't attend, and then after Ginny dumped Neville….”

“Why aren't you wearing your Order robes?” Luna changed the subject.

“Because we thought it would be too much showing off,” Harry answered for the both of them.

“But … Slughorn … he made it seem like it was … required,” Luna said with sort of a dazed look on her face.

“Nope,” Hermione added. “He wanted us to, but when we hesitated, he said it was fine just to wear these.”

“Oh dear,” Luna squeaked. “I'll meet you there, then.” She turned and hurried off (as much as Luna ever hurried) down a side corridor, her onion earrings bobbing up and down.

* * * *

Professor Slughorn was definitely from an older generation.

As usual he was at the door greeting the guests as they entered. Slughorn was at his most jovial when he saw Harry and Hermione arrive - as if always a little unsure whether they would, in fact, appear.

“Harry! Hermione! Glad you could make it,” the portly professor called to them as they reached the door. “I've tried to liven things up a bit this time, for you younger set. I've brought in a band, and there will be dancing….”

Harry and Hermione looked around. Part of the library had been cleared to create a dance floor and a band of sorts was playing - that is, if one liked Viennese waltz.

Harry knew less about waltzing than he did about the whereabouts of missing Horcruxes. `I took a bit of dance when I was little,' Hermione Legilimenced to him, `I'll try to help you if you want to try. Perhaps you'll do better than at the Yule Ball.'

“…I've invited quite a few people whom you'll find worthwhile to meet,” Slughorn continued, oblivious to Harry's distraction. “There's Clarence Younger, an attorney with Clifford Chance's wizard chamber. He has some ideas about property. The woman in the blue robes - the one looking over the wine list - is Kahina Cohen, who sells more crystal balls than anyone in Britain. Couldn't get a straight answer about her intentions. Practised in the art of deception, that one.”

“Could be interesting,” Hermione commented dryly as she tried to keep her eyes from glazing over.

Slughorn droned on. “Over by the fireplace is what's left of Leonora Ampersand, a ghost writer who's really a ghost. If you're interested in possibly writing your memoirs…. And by the window, talking to Professor Vector, is Manongia O Kaeaea, a representative of the Maori nation. I believe he's present to follow up on the invitation you received the last time you were here. And the rather short fellow by the bookshelves….”

It went on and on. Or at least it would have, but for Luna's providential arrival. She had turned her Order of Merlin robes inside out. Harry had never bothered to look, but apparently these robes were lined with pleated grey gabardine sewn at the seams with bright red thread. The inside-out pockets, which flopped about as Luna walked, were some sort of black, shiny material.

With Professor Slughorn momentarily distracted by Luna's peculiar sartorial style, Harry and Hermione stole away to the buffet table, where they helped themselves to a spread of fancy mixed nuts (not a peanut in sight), crisps and other munchies, together with a wide-ranging selection of cheeses and accompanying biscuits.

In the background, the magical string quartet Professor Slughorn had engaged began to earn their Galleons.

After a few minutes grazing, Harry felt Hermione's eyes on him. He turned to face her and … she was looking at him with a delightfully naughty smile on her face. “Umm … Hermione, you're thinking something devious, and I know it,” he said to her in a voice barely above a whisper.

“So what if I am?” she teased, swaying slightly to the classical music.

“So what if you are?” he played along.

She slipped her hand into his. “So what if we dance?”

“But … I can't dance to this,” Harry spluttered. “I don't know anything about waltzes.”

“Oh, yes you do,” Hermione corrected him. “You waltzed at the Yule Ball.”

Harry regarded her skeptically as she tugged on his hand. “I did? How can you remember that when I don't?”

She gave him a saucy half-smile. “Let's just say I was very jealous of Parvati.”

“You…. You were?” Harry asked blankly. “Even with Krum?”

“Haven't I already told you? I'd already fancied you on some level for quite a while,” she reminded him.

“And I was too stupid to notice,” Harry added.

Hermione dismissed Harry's admission. “You were a boy, and that came with the territory. But you notice now, so let it go…. Now let's dance. I let me lead; nobody will notice….”

Hermione led Harry out onto the dance floor, such as it was. She placed one of his hands on her waist, but before she took the other in her own, she flicked her wand from its holster and incanted, “Tarantridenquadrans. There, that should help.”

Harry might have wondered where Hermione learnt that mouthful of a spell, but he had other things on his mind. Suddenly, Harry's feet knew what to do - and just having Hermione in his arms…. He was not one to worry how she got there.

They slowly pirouetted, taking care in a constricted space they were sharing with several other twirling couples. After not saying much, Hermione leaned forward and whispered in Harry's ear, “Harry, I can't wait until tomorrow. I get goosepimples just thinking about it.”

“Yeah, I'm nervous, too,” Harry murmured back. “I'm so glad I've got you and the rest. Blackwalls has been under Malfoy control for so long … I might have to be a right bastard to people, and I don't like doing that.”

“I was talking about tomorrow night, you,” Hermione clarified whilst pinching his shoulder. “Not that we have to wait that long, mind you…. I just hate having to act like we're doing something wrong….”

“We're doing nothing wrong,” Harry told her. “You can't really think….”

“Oh, yes we are,” Hermione reminded. “You know as well as I that it's twenty House Points each, first offence, for any sex between students - and more for me, because you're still under age. I'm tired of immediately having to get up and leave - just when that's the last thing I want to do…. I want to cuddle….”

“Hmmmm … sounds good to me,” Harry thought about it. “Bring your broom, too. I have some interesting ideas of my own.”

“Harry, you know how I can get about flying….”

“Don't worry, Hermione,” Harry reassured. “I wouldn't do anything to make you uncomfortable … you know that. It's just, well, some things work better with two than one.”

Hermione suppressed a giggle.

Harry, looking at her intensely, realised that he could have been clearer, and had to stop dancing to keep from bursting out laughing.

`Well, that settles it,' Hermione switched to Legilimency. `I've got to drop by Samson's Option on our way to Blackwalls tomorrow - to replenish.'

The music ended, and the pair went in search of something to drink. They (at least Hermione) intended to dance some more, but it was not meant to be. In short order, Hermione was accosted by some wizard determined to pique her interest in possible post-graduate work at the Galdrar Institute of Reykjavík. Shortly thereafter, Harry found himself listening to a pitch for importing bulk amber from Latvia for use in magical modulation devices.

Eventually, Harry broke free from the various would-be hangers on. He noticed the man dressed in monotonously black Snape-style robes - the one whom Slughorn had described earlier as a Maori representative. The rather dark-complected wizard was nursing a glass of something, probably alcoholic. He was watching Harry out of one eye whilst pretending to be perusing the various documents displayed on the wall.

`At least he's not likely to try to sell me anything,' Harry thought, whilst making his way in that direction.

Harry had already committed himself when he noticed that the man's swarthy complexion was only partially due to ethnicity. Covering almost all of his face was the largest, most complicated tattoo Harry had ever seen.

This time, when it came to the introductory upward eye flick, Harry was not the only recipient. A worse problem was that Harry was pants when it came to remembering names, especially unusual ones.

“Evening, Mister … er … Man… er … Okan…. Um….”

“That's Manongia O Kaeaea,” the older man came to Harry's rescue. “And you, of course, are Harry Potter. Mister Potter, I've been asked by the Polynesian Confederation of Covens, of which I am the honorary Aotearoan representative, to pursue the invitation we first made some weeks ago. I'm afraid our initial representative might have been a wee bit … overenthusiastic, and might have scared you off….”

Harry knew what the man was getting at. That Hawaiian woman, Ms. Ku … something or other (he definitely was pants at this), had made a convincing case for attending next June's Pacific Magical Gathering - until she delved a bit too deeply into Harry's and Hermione's budding relationship. Her suggestion that Hermione might want magical help in getting pregnant had pretty well spooked the both of them.

Harry was not following the conversation well. Try as he might, he was distracted by the intricate patterns covering Mr. O Kaeaea's face. Evidently, the Maori was rather used to this, as he soon paused with his prepared speech and addressed the matter most immediately at hand.

“Yes, Mister Potter, it's real,” he commented.

“You mean … the tattoo?” Harry winced, embarrassed at being called for doing something he detested. “I'm sorry; I shouldn't have stared like that. I know how I hate it when people do it to me.”

“Not to worry,” O Kaeaea dismissed Harry's apology. “You are hardly the first, and you surely won't be the last.”

“Is it … magical?” Harry asked.

Since he was speaking to Harry Potter, the older man forced back any hint of sarcasm. “Yes,” he replied, “quite magical. Before the coming of the pakeha, the moko was the primary method of practising magic amongst the wizards of Aotearoa.”

“You mean your magic was wandless?” Harry asked, rather in awe of an entire society of wizards performing their magic wandlessly.

Mr. O Kaeaea thought some explanation was in order. “Yes, the traditional magic of Aotearoa, makutu, was conjured through our moko and activated primarily by means of tongue positioning, the tongue, of course, being quite close - although we used certain ritual dances as well, particularly in time of war. I could show you, but this is hardly the time or place for that.”

“So that tattoo … er … moko, is more than just magical, then?” Harry asked as he sought to digest the culture of this far-away society.

“Look closely,” O Kaeaea instructed, offering Harry a better look at his left cheek. “You will see that the pattern is hardly static - that's makutu.”

Harry looked closely, and sure enough, both the pattern and colours of Mr. O Kaeaea's moko fluctuated gradually.

The Maori continued, “It would change more quickly and dramatically were I required to perform powerful makutu - as if I were acting as, for instance, as tohunga rongoa. You see, making moko incorporates several of your branches of magic. It involves what you call Transfiguration, as the patterns must change as necessary. Then what you call Charms; they ensure that the mana, or magical force, is correctly cast. And you have Potions, as moko ingredients must be correctly collected and mixed. For example, the shiny blue pigments of various shades that make up most of my moko in its rest state are prepared by cooking Antipodean Opal-Eye scales for specified time periods over kauri fire.”

Harry was duly impressed. “Well, you remind me of my girlfriend Hermione in how much you know about this subject.”

“I have to make my living somehow,” Mr. O Kaeaea, replied with a smile. “After all, this post of coven representative is purely honorific - a reflection of Maori respect for my skills.”

“You…? You're a magical tatooer?” Harry asked. He looked more shocked than Mr. O Kaeaea thought was appropriate.

“I am tohunga-ta-moko, which your language would translate as `master tattooist',” he replied a bit warily. “My people view me as one of the best at my form of makutu.”

“So you know a lot about magical tattoos?” Harry asked, starting to feel warm, almost feverish.

“I know my culture, yes, but beyond that I have no great learning,” the Maori adept said slowly, as he tried to divine what Harry (to whom he was supposed to be issuing an invitation) was on about.

“Please wait,” Harry asked urgently. “I need to ask you something … that might be important.”

Harry turned and quickly spotted Hermione across the room. She was deep in conversation with a witch wearing black robes with orange trim. `Hermione, you wouldn't happen to have a picture of Cho's tattoos available, would you?' he Legilimenced.

He saw, first, her head first jerk. Then she whirled around and gawked at him. Harry knew she had understood his request.

`I'm serious,' Harry reiterated.

“Telepathy,” Mr. O Kaeaea commented. “You are every bit as impressive as I was led to believe, then.”

“You … you overheard me?” Harry asked, rather mortified. The subject of his question was quite confidential.

“No, you can relax, Harry,” the Maori adept answered gently. “I sensed. I know what you did, but I have no idea what you thought.”

In the meantime, Hermione had excused herself and, once hidden in the stacks of the ceremonial library, had rummaged through her beaded bag.

`You're in luck, Harry,' she returned his thought. `I have one picture - well a copy - that's pretty much non-suggestive. It's not the best, but it'll do in a pinch. Do you want it?'

`Yes, bring it over, please. I may have caught a break, for once,' Harry responded in kind.

“Something is obviously up,” Mr. O Kaeaea said knowingly, a hint of a smirk coming over his face. “Is this a good time to press you on the invitation for the gathering in Hawai'i this coming June?”

“It might be,” Harry replied enigmatically. “But you may do even better to postpone that until you see what I'm going to show you…. We could both be very much in your debt.”

By that time Hermione had bustled over.

“What's up, Harry?” she asked quickly. “And how do you do? I'm Hermione Granger,” she added to the stranger.

“Not here,” Harry whispered, as he led them into one of the library's stacks of books. Once there, he gave her a silent head signal.

Hermione responded by conjuring her new specialty - sparkling mist - to which Harry added a Muffliato. Silently, she handed the folded up piece of paper (not parchment) to Harry.

Harry opened it, and showed the picture of Cho's large circular tattoo to the now quite intrigued Maori tattooist. He looked at it.

“It's Chinese,” he pronounced.

They both looked at him expectantly.

He took another, much longer, look. Finally, he frowned, shook his head, and handed the paper back to Harry.

“I'm sorry, but anything more would be little better than speculation,” Mr. O Kaeaea shook his head. “This - Sinic tattooing - is so outside of my field that I wouldn't want to lead you astray by saying something that might not be accurate.”

“Say it anyway,” Harry persisted. “We understand that, but even `might' is a lot better than what we're going on so far.”

“What exactly are you trying to do?” the man asked.

“I'd love to tell you, but it's quite private,” Harry gently, but firmly, refused to answer. “We could really use your help, though.”

“Enough to come to Hawai'i?” he asked.

“I'd love to go to Hawai'i,” Hermione offered. Harry, his expression unreadable, said nothing further.

“Very well,” Mr. O Kaeaea agreed. “But first, you must appreciate that I've never even seen one of these in person. The professional scuttlebutt I've heard could well be completely off base. Old-fashioned Chinese parents are rumoured to use tattoos like this to control their children. I understand that Chinese culture takes respect for one's elders to something of an extreme. That's all I know - and it could be one hundred percent hooey. Like I said, I've never even seen one myself….”

The Maori wizard could not help notice the meaningful look Harry and Hermione exchanged.

“We seriously doubt you're full of hooey,” Hermione told him.

“Thanks very much,” Harry added, pumping the man's hand. “And here's the card of my lawyer. Please contact him to make arrangements for the trip.”

His mission accomplished, the Maori ambassador moved on, no doubt quite perplexed by the interests of his illustrious interlocutors.

As soon as they were alone, Harry and Hermione immediately fell into an urgent discussion of what to do next.

“Familial control?” groaned Harry. “I can't go through with my promise to Ron if she's being controlled.”

“Your promise to what?” Hermione hissed, gesturing to Harry to keep his voice down.

“You know … to help Ron with the Felix Felicis,” Harry reminded her.

“That wasn't exactly a capital idea to start with,” Hermione warned. “But I have my doubts about what we were just told. Not only is it admittedly uninformed, but…. I mean, you'd expect parents, if they're exercising control, to make their kids do pretty much the opposite of what Cho's been doing, wouldn't you? Merlin knows, if my parents had had that luxury, I wouldn't even be here now.”

Harry had a thoughtful look on his face. “Not everybody has your parents, Hermione …thankfully….”

“True, but that's not going to get us anywhere,” Hermione tried to keep Harry on track.

She succeeded even more than she expected.

“Well, Hermione…. Shite! That's it!” Harry could feel one of those moments of improvisational inspiration coming on - the kind that had saved Hermione's life more than once.

But also, the kind that had cost Sirius his.

Hermione knew the drill. “What exactly are you thinking of now, Harry Potter?”

“Now at least we know what questions to ask,” Harry blurted. “Luna's really good image that's in the Pocket Pensieve … we can send it to Lao Kung. I sure he can tell us what that is….”

It sounded like a good idea, indeed, but it was Hermione's job to try poking holes in it. “We don't know where he is … except that he's halfway around the world,” she reminded him.

“Hedwig can find anyone. She could find Sirius, even when the Aurors couldn't,” Harry answered confidently. “As for him being in China, it'll just take her a while. I trust Hedwig.”

“But you know how much Lao Kung is Dumbledore's man,” Hermione pointed out. “If we contact him about Cho, then the Headmaster will find out. Even if Dumbledore is discreet about things, he'll be obliged to do something…. After all, he is the Headmaster, and Cho is a student.”

Harry exhaled loudly. “If she's being controlled, then he ought to know,” he maintained. “And, you know, all this rubbish has gone on long enough. I think it's time to get this over with one way or another. I vote that we ask Lao Kung.”

“I do too, Harry,” Hermione agreed. “I frankly think it's a brilliant idea. I wish I'd thought of it. I just wanted to consider all of the ramifications before we went ahead.”

“Well, let's go, then. I've had enough of this party, anyway,” Harry declared.

He and Hermione had almost reached the door when someone's Legilimency stopped them both in their tracks. `You two, especially her, have been avoiding me all evening. I don't expect you to leave before we've had our chat.'

Harry's halted so abruptly that Hermione, who was looking over her shoulder for the source of the message, almost ran into him.

`Over here,' the telepathic voice repeated.

That voice came from an olive-complected witch, who could have been anywhere between thirty-five and who knows what. She stared straight at them - almost through them - from an ottoman adjacent to the now empty dance floor. The witch wore a great deal of makeup, which deflected attention from her rather prominent nose to her full lips. Her hair tumbled down the back of her flattering powder blue robes in copious, jet-black curls. In one hand she held a glass of pinkish rosé wine. Her other hand extended towards the pair, making a beckoning gesture with her middle finger.

Her fingernails were chiseled to sharp points. Painted white, they most closely resembled cat claws. The effect was decidedly intentional.

“That's the woman who sells crystal balls,” Hermione whispered in Harry's ear. “She's right, I have been avoiding her. You know what I think about Divination.”

Still, she exuded an almost … magnetic … presence when she chose to display it. Somewhat against their better judgment, Harry and Hermione decided to learn what this mysterious woman had to say.

Something about this woman's aura let her control her surroundings. Although Harry and Hermione had been plagued by gladhanders and well-wishers all evening, by sheer force of will she cleared the space about her as the two approached.

She obviously intended a private conversation.

“Okay, we're here,” Hermione spoke forcefully. She and Harry, who had palmed his wand, sat down on the chaise lounge opposite. “But it's only fair that you know we're not buying or selling anything.”

The woman regarded Hermione with an enigmatic smile. “Excellent, because I'm not selling or buying anything. My card….”

From thin air two business-card sized pieces of paper materialised in her outstretched hand.

Intrigued, both of them took the cards. Kahina Cohen did indeed deal in crystal balls. Her card included a wizard photo of a specimen, complete with swirling mist.

The pair looked up quizzically after reading her cards. Ms. Cohen had her wand in her lap, pointed non-threateningly. She incanted, “Lumos.”

Her wandtip glowed with intense violet light, but nobody besides Harry and Hermione seemed to notice.

“Please hold the card in front of your eyes, to block the light,” she directed.

Hermione understood and acted upon the command before Harry did. She gasped audibly as she comprehended what she saw.

What had appeared as a crystal ball now bore the distinctive maria pattern of the full moon - but superimposed over the now glowing sphere was a distinctive watermark of the Star of David, which repeated itself in a Moorish pattern throughout the card.

“You're … you're one of them,” Hermione practically whispered.

“Very perceptive. Just as advertised,” the woman spoke in equally low tones. Looking over at Harry, she caught his growing look of comprehension. To remove all doubt she winked at him and remarked, so only present company could hear, “Magorian sends his regards.”

Kahina's free hand moved to a front pocket in her robes. She withdrew a piece of parchment just enough so that Harry and Hermione could see what it was. “Now, about this…. I would be lying not to tell you that it strikes a deep chord with everyone in the organisation. But why us?”

Hermione started to mutter an explanation, but with a touch, Harry let her know that this explanation was his.

“You surely know that I've inherited the great bulk of the Black Estate. The goblins let me into the Black family's vault recently. I discovered hundreds … literally tonnes … of those. I was lucky, very lucky, that Hermione was with me because by myself I don't think I would have recognised them for what they were….”

“But why us?” Kahina Cohen repeated.

“I'm getting to that,” Harry promised. “From the goblins' records we tried to suss out how the Blacks ended up with all this Nazi gold. It turned out that Voldemort's predecessor as Dark Lord, Grindelwald, was the middle-man. That made me think of the Sisters, because, well Voldemort himself…. Well, I think I know why he killed Abigail Rosen. It was be….”

Kahina had been the very picture of self-confidence ever since they first laid eyes on her. With the mention of the martyred Abigail, all colour left her face. “You have proof?” she asked, and quickly followed with, “How do you know?”

Harry looked around. “Not here,” he declared.

Without anymore words spoken, all three of them rose and left the Slug Club party.

“Where, then?” Hermione asked as they strode down the main corridor past the darkened Great Hall.

Harry turned to Kahina. “Do you want to see the gold itself?”

“Yes, I would like that … very much,” she answered. “Anything that would help redeem the Shoah victims.”

“Good,” Harry replied, somewhat grimly. “Because I want you to have it. Even having it around weighs me down … mentally, anyway.”

At that, Hermione grabbed his hand. “Harry, you never told me,” she said. “You should … I want to help. You've been wonderful about it….”

His ears went pink with embarrassment. “I can handle it,” he declared.

“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” Kahina offered.

At the same time Hermione was telling Harry, “But you shouldn't have to, not alone.”

“Anyway,” Harry went on, anxious to put that discomfiting subject behind him. “That means we're going to my dormitory room.”

“Everyone will see us,” Hermione reminded him. “After all, it's the night before we all leave, it's past curfew, and except for Slughorn's party, there's nothing going on, not even homework.”

“Well, I've got the Cloak,” Harry reminded her.

“Forget about it,” Kahina insisted. “I can handle it. I know spells for that.”

As they reached the Fat Lady's portrait, she cast Notice-Me-Not Charms over all concerned.

Passing through the common room, nobody - not even Ginny, who was on the lookout for Harry and Hermione - paid attention to the nondescript trio who glided towards, and then up, the staircase to the sixth-year boys' sleeping quarters.

Fortunately, none of the other occupants was present. Hermione uttered a couple of spells to keep things that way.

After opening his trunk, Harry needed only a few seconds to locate an object wrapped in greaseproof paper. He undid a Fastening Charm, the paper fell away, and Harry was left holding a gleaming bar of gold.

“Here.” He uncomfortably handed the ingot to the older witch. “See if you agree with Hermione about what it is, but I have no doubt that she's right.”

Kahina took it, flipped it over, and her nose almost immediately wrinkled with disgust. She produced a wand, uttered a quick spell, and the stylised, swastika-clutching Nazi eagle melted into the bar. “That's enough of that,” she said forcefully. “You - she - is correct, as I fully expected from the rubbing I received. It's melted down gold, from things like wedding rings and dental work from the Shoah victims of the Treblinka concentration camp.”

“There are tonnes where this came from, over seven tones more, the goblins said,” Harry told her. “I don't want it. I've got enough things that give me nightmares. I don't need this….”

“And you own all of this?” she asked.

“As I said, I inherited it,” Harry responded precisely. “You must have read about it. It was in the papers….”

“Ordinarily, I don't concern myself with such things - who's rich and who's not,” Kahina said with a shake of her head. “Obviously, an exception is advisable.”

Hermione patted Harry on the arm. She pointed at her beaded bag. Harry nodded in agreement, so she opened the bag and produced copies of the goblins' documentation. “Here, these documents detail the transaction by which the Blacks acquired this gold from the Nazis. Grindelwald brokered a deal with some Muggle Nazis, getting the gold at a bargain price in exchange for helping them escape to South America.”

Kahina silently perused the documents for several minutes. Angrily, she vowed, “If they're still alive, we shall find them. And if we find them, they'll wish they were dead. Eichmann would prefer Jerusalem.”

“You can handle returning the gold to its rightful owners?” Harry asked after her.

“I'm afraid, that would be impossible after all these years,” Kahina answered ruefully. “The best we can do will be to arrange - somehow, it will require thought and discussion with my Sisters - for the gold to be `found' by trustworthy Muggles. The gold would then be distributed as appropriately as possible, and what can't be traced … probably most of it … will go to various Shoah victims' funds. You can't expect anything better that. Is that enough for you?”

Harry stole a glance at Hermione. She sighed and nodded to him. “It's loads better than me keeping it,” he affirmed.

“From what I know about you,” Kahina replied, “I trust that the goblins will do your bidding concerning this gold, even though surrendering it could cause a significant hit to Gringotts' finances.”

Harry confirmed the first part without offering any opinion about the second. He did not know how much the Sisters of the Moon knew about his relations with the goblins. “I'm confident that the goblins will do what I ask. If you would like them to do anything, just tell me what it is.”

“And Abigail Rosen…. You said you had information on her death,” Kahina reminded them. “I assume you know she was one of us … or else you wouldn't have mentioned her.”

Between them, Harry and Hermione told about the Pensieve memory and the Tarot reading it revealed. They explained how similar the reading was to the Grindelwald Reading associated with Adolph Hitler, and how Abigail abruptly fled from Tom Riddle's presence. They advanced their suspicions of Tom Riddle's romantic interest, and that he probably killed Abigail Rosen when she refused him.

All the while, Kahina's already olive face grew darker still, even through her thick makeup. By the end of the tale, she was transparently seething.

“Very well. I shall be in touch, Harry Potter,” Kahina Cohen promised. Gathering herself to leave, she carefully slipped the gold bar into a purse fastened to a belt inside her robes. Next to it hung a silver dagger every bit as long as the purse. “And my thanks to you as well, Hermione Granger. You have excellent instincts.”

After the departure of the Sisters of the Moon's representative, Harry and Hermione dallied a bit before Hermione vacated Harry's room and removed her privacy charms. Their brief snog session greatly tempted her to stay, but the holiday began tomorrow, so Harry's room mates need not be inconvenienced.

* * * *

21 December 1996, the day for Hogwarts students to leave for their three week Christmas/Solstice (depending upon one's religious inclinations) Holiday, had finally dawned. Most students took the Hogwarts Express south, but a small knot waited, instead, at the Castle's side gate at the terminal cul de sac of what became the road to Hogsmeade.

For the umpteenth time, Harry expressed his regrets to Ron and Ginny about not going to the Burrow. Molly issued an invitation to Christmas dinner, but Harry responded every bit as ambiguously as the invitation was worded. Until certain that not only he, but also Hermione, would be welcome, he would not commit to attending.

The Express left first. Once everyone else had gone, Harry enchanted his duffel bag - stuffed full of clothes, books, and various other things (such as WWW products) - to drift down the stairs to the common room. He followed with his broom. There, he waited for Hermione and Neville.

A couple of minutes later, Hermione's own duffel floated down and landed neatly next to Harry's. She followed almost immediately, her wand still pointing at the overgrown rucksack. In her other hand she carefully carried Athena in her cage.

Behind her, Crookshanks practically flowed down the stairs, his distinctive orange on top and white on the bottom tail held high.

“Where's Neville?” she asked.

“He'll be along any minute,” Harry explained. “He didn't get around to packing until last night, and he only has a regular trunk. Oh, where's your broom.”

“Oh, blast,” she growled. Drawing her wand, she pointed it the way she came, “Accio broom.”

The arrival of Hermione's Valkyrie was overshadowed by a loud thumping noise. Neville's only-partly-under-control trunk came bumping down the stairs, careened into the edge of the thick carpet that covered most of the common room and pushed the increasingly lumpy carpet before it until it flipped over and landed upside down on top of Harry's and Hermione's luggage.

Crookshanks shot for safety under a chesterfield, whilst at the last moment Hermione managed to Summon to safety the cage holding her loudly screeching owl.

“Oops, sorry about that,” a rather red-faced Neville apologised. “I've never done that spell before … obviously….”

“Well, you'll have three weeks to perfect it,” Hermione snipped at him.

“Have you seen Jazzy?” Harry asked her.

“No, but her room is three floors up. I'll go look,” Hermione quickly offered.

It was an excuse. Hermione already knew Jazzy's plans. What she needed, and had not had, was an excuse to sneak upstairs to the boys' dormitory, whilst everyone paid attention to Neville's ongoing struggle for supremacy over his balky trunk. Hermione slipped up the “wrong” staircase and promptly delved into Harry's trunk. He had given her blanket permission.

Pushing the Grunnings laptop aside, she found the box she sought, still tied with Muggle string. Until now, it had always been beside the point.

Now it was the point.

Hermione shrank it and slipped it inside her robes.

When Hermione reappeared, Neville was attempting to smooth out a rather rumpled carpet. “No sign of her,” Harry's fiancée reported, “but her bed's neatly made, and I didn't see any luggage. Maybe she's gone ahead….”

“Maybe she got cold feet,” Neville speculated.

“I doubt it,” Harry told him. “I could see her refusing the invitation, but she'd do that to my face. She wouldn't just go hide. Whatever else she is, she's not afraid of me or anybody.”

The Fat Lady gave a squeak as she swung open, revealing Professor McGonagall. “Potter, Granger, your departure is nigh,” she said briskly. “Longbottom, leave that alone. The house-elves will restore things better than you ever could. Come, gather your things and be off.”

Neville did better with his trunk in the Castle's wider corridors, and within minutes the three Gryffindors, their luggage, and their familiars, arrived at the side entrance. There they found Luna and Jazzy (she had indeed come down early by herself) chatting easily.

A few metres away stood the largest Thestral-drawn carriage Harry had ever seen. Eight Thestrals were in harness, arrayed in two rows of four. A coachman in Blackwalls livery - black lined with silver - sat in front, controlling several sets of reins.

“Well there yeh all are. I was wonderin' if yeh had decided ta start the Holidays early with a lie in.” Hermione's cheeks burned red at the implications of Mad-Eye Moody's greeting. The old Auror popped his head out of the spacious interior.

“Leave them alone, Alastor,” came Tonks' instant retort. She was still completely inside the carriage and not visible. “You're just jealous.”

“Aye, that I am,” Moody shot back. “I've told him, better his way than mine.”

Picking up the travellers' baggage like it was feather light, Hagrid loaded everything into the back of the carriage.

“Where do we go from here?” Harry asked his Guardian, who had undertaken to organise the trip from Hogwarts to Blackwalls.

“We're stayin' on the ground `till Hogsmeade,” Moody told him. “There we stop by Slamdor's headquarters ta meet yer goblin guard. Once that's over, we're airborne all the way ta Blackwalls. Obviously this is their - well, yers now - carriage. It's known ta the estate's wards, so we can land right on the grounds and not have ta waste time goin' overland from the Château's boundaries. Mind yeh, the place's charmed like Hogwarts' so's yeh won't see it in all its glory until yeh touch down.”

“In that case,” Hermione piped up, “since we'll be stopping in Hogsmeade anyway, I've an errand I'd like to run.”

“Fine,” Moody agreed, “but nobody's expectin' us ta be out an' about, so's I better go with yeh for security.”

“Umm … if you don't mind, I'd rather take Tonks,” Hermione told the gruff ex-Auror.

“Fine, have it yer way,” Mad-Eye replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. He turned and half smiled-half leered at Harry. “Looks like yer ladyfriend's got a surprise in store for yeh.”

* * * *

At the carriage's first stop in Hogsmeade, two visibly nervous Blackwalls footmen welcomed - if that was the word - a contingent of seven of what Slamdor described as his “most accomplished specialists.” One need not look much further than their weaponry, which drew plenty of sidelong glances, to grasp these goblins' relevant specialty.

Harry, aware that first impressions - even those of footmen - could be important, ostentatiously welcomed the goblins aboard and directed them to be seated rather than transform into boulders, as had been their initial inclination.

Harry found his own seat and waited for Hermione to return. On one hand, he was more than ready to get this show on the road - to begin the chore of exercising ownership of this great estate he had never seen.

On the other hand, he knew where Hermione was shopping and what she was planning to buy. So another part of him hoped she would take all the time necessary make perfect selections - and, of course, to make plenty of selections.

Whilst he waited, one of the two Blackwalls-livery-clad footmen stationed himself in close proximity to Harry's seat, a spotless white towel over his arm, ready to tend to his lord's every need.

“Would you care to sample some of the Château's finest, milord?” the man asked. “We have crêpes to break your fast - banana, cherry, chocolate and pumpkin. We also have….”

Harry turned and took his measure, “What's your name?” he asked slowly.

“Oscar, sir,” he answered. “Oscar Plimpton.”

“Well, I'm Harry, and I'm pleased to meet you, Oscar,” he replied whilst extending his hand. “Just `Harry', okay?”

The servant responded with a rather limp and hesitant handshake. “Yes, sir … Harry.”

`Worse than Dobby,' Harry thought, stifling a sigh. “Why don't you pass me a cherry crêpe and some of the Château's finest … pumpkin juice?” Harry spoke out loud. “And help yourself to whatever flavour crêpe strikes your fancy.”

“Harry, I'm back, now!” came Hermione's bright voice as she clambered into view, trying her best to evade the other footman. He was urgently attempting to assist the presumptive Proprietress of the Château - and she was having none of it.

Harry pecked her on the cheek, and she burrowed against his side, squirming impatiently until feeling his arm settle about her shoulders. She looked up into his intense gaze. “What is it?” she asked gaily.

Harry lowered his head to whisper in her ear. “You know what. Rumour has it that you delayed us all to do some shopping. Well, I don't see any shopping.”

Hermione lowered her eyes and gazed purposefully to her left, settling on her beaded bag. Harry's eyes followed. Quite deliberately she gave the bag a pat while hissing back. “Rumour has it I know Shrinking Charms … believe me, you won't be disappointed….”

She may have said more, but the ever anxious Oscar Plimpton chose that minute to approach. “Umm … excuse me … er … Harry, sir, madam…. Are you ready to depart?”

“Sure,” Harry agreed.

“Then please, strap in,” Oscar advised.

A tremendous jerk followed. Evidently, the footmen had not been as solicitous of their other passengers. Or perhaps they were simply terrified of goblins. Whatever the reason, five of the seven goblins lost their balance as the carriage took to the skies. Had he been so inclined, Harry could have improved his vocabulary of goblin expletives substantially.

Fortunately, the goblins were not alone, thus their rather prickly feelings towards wizards were not aggravated (much). Tonks also bounced into the aisle, her hair turning sickly green. Neville sailed over the back of his chair, and came to rest sprawled in rather undignified fashion in Luna's lap.

Frayed nerves were soon mended, though, by a combination of holiday good cheer and excellent victuals served by the carriage staff.

Harry quietly contemplated what lay before him. Short of combat, he was not temperamentally inclined to exert command - but he was expected to exercise control over a staff that, he had been told, had loyally served Lucius Malfoy for most of a decade. Striving to fortify himself mentally, Harry mostly gazed out the window and through the broken cloud cover at the earth below.

Hermione, attracted by both Harry and the view, craned her neck over his shoulder to see what she could see.

Oscar continued to hover. He slipped in behind them. “Sir … Harry, milady…. If I might…?”

Their puzzled looks vanished as Oscar tapped his wand on the back of the dual high backed chair that they occupied. The fixture immediately began pivoting towards the window. Simultaneously, the window expanded in size to accommodate them.

“Please … Harry…. You are Lord Black now, whether or not you choose to use the title,” Oscar explained. “And your friend … well, we know she is the presumptive Lady Black. Whatever you want, please ask. We, the domestic Château staff, have spent months preparing for your arrival. Please, allow us to do our jobs and serve you….”

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, but not words. “Okay, we'll do that,” he told Oscar. “But first, sit down and have a chat with us.”

For the next fifteen minutes Harry, with Hermione joining in, quizzed Oscar about Château Blackwalls. They learnt things like the Château and its extensive grounds ordinarily requiring a domestic staff of twenty witches and wizards, although currently with an unusually large number - three - of unfilled openings. House-elves served as scullery maids, grooms, and ordinarily coachmen. Because of the importance of the occasion, the stablemaster himself had assumed the role of coachman, hence the jerky ascent.

Somewhere between fifty to sixty house-elves were in the Château's service at any given time. Perhaps that number again was in training, with an eye towards being sold. The crops, vineyards, and grounds were tended by a horde of field-elves - Oscar was not sure how many - over a hundred. Most field-elves were not even named, at least not to any wizard's knowledge.

The Château was huge; with maybe two hundred rooms, depending upon the Proprietor's (that is, Harry's) inclinations at any given moment. Both ornamental and working gardens surrounded it. The base of the great house was old stone - from when such mansions were built to be defensible. A major rebuilding had occurred about a century ago, adding a turreted brick superstructure capped by a sharply sloping copper roof.

As Proprietor, anything Harry wanted, from a grand indoor swimming pool, to an arcade, to a croquet field, was either available or could be arranged by the staff on short notice. Also, as Proprietor, he (and anyone he keyed into the Château's wards) could practice whatever magic he wanted. His status overcame the usual Ministry restrictions on underaged magic - within the physical boundaries of his estate's demesne.

The Château contained most of the Black family's artwork. Oscar proudly mentioned a da Vinci, a Michelangelo, a Rembrandt, and more. Conversely, the Black family's library remained mostly at Grimmauld Place, once Orion and his wife aged and journeyed less frequently to the Château. Still, some works, largely Muggle and predominantly ancient, had stayed at the Château.

Oscar commented that Hermione's bookworm reputation (although he used the more proper term, bibliophile) had preceded her. The staff had some gift for her. Oscar would not, of course, reveal what it was - only that she would surely appreciate it, and certainly had never read it previously.

Critically, a majority of the staff were relieved to be out from under Lucius Malfoy's thumb. He was never viewed as a proper Proprietor, since the Château never belonged to him. Draco had been to the Château only a couple of times, and was viewed as cold, aloof, and arrogant.

Harry's response to that was, “Some things never change.”

None of the staff really knew what to make of Harry. His ascendancy was completely unexpected - except perhaps by the major domo. Hermione was a surprise bordering on shocking. No avowed Muggle-born had ever before set foot upon Blackwalls' grounds - let alone arrived as a possible Proprietress.

The major domo was a man named McAllister. Harry knew his name from records he had read during the inheritance process. Oscar told Harry that Mr. McAllister was a most likeable man - a Hufflepuff - who had been at the estate forever and who would exert himself fully to do Harry's bidding.

By then the carriage was clearly descending.

“Your arrival is almost upon us,” Oscar finished as he made for his proper place. “Remember who the coachman is, and prepare accordingly.”

Harry and Hermione pivoted the seat forward and checked that their seatbelts were securely fastened. This time Hermione enjoyed the window seat. They passed through spotty clouds towards a rather vacant landscape of oak and spruce forest pockmarked by apparently fallow and overgrown fields.

Neither was at all surprised by this.

With the Château and its grounds charmed like Hogwarts - unless and until the protective wards recognised the viewer, the property would appear ruined.

The wards would not recognise anyone arriving by air. For an aerial view of the great Château and its grounds in all their glory, Harry would have to ascend from those grounds.

Masses of ruined stone rushed by, surrounded by the swampy remains of a clogged up and overgrown moat.

With several thumps, the carriage set down.

Oscar was before them once again as the carriage slowed and was brought around. Almost theatrically, he bowed low. “I bid you welcome to Château Blackwalls, Proprietor Potter-Black and Mistress Granger.”

“Oh my word,” Harry heard Hermione gasp. “It looks like Alnwick Castle topped by the Château Frontenac.”

* * * *

Author's notes: In the 1400s, Upper Barnton is home to a giant named Hengist

Harfang is a Narnia giant reference and also means “snowy owl”

The Death or Glory pennant was given in Chapter 22

Neville's got of the staff occurred in Chapter 51

Neville's future promise will be important

The spells cast on Hermione occurred in Chapter 35, and are of critical importance

The use of “compleat” echoes the “Compleat Angler”

The “not so funny” line recalls the play “A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum”

Neville's and Luna's parents died in Chapter 23

Hogwarts uses house-elves in place of clubhouse attendants

“Full-court” comes from basketball

Cho's Switching Charms approximate the “plot” of “Deep Throat”

Breathplay is the erotic use of near asphyxiation

Filial piety is discussed in Chapter 29

Traditional Chinese foot binding crippled girls by preventing their feet from growing properly. Tiny feet were considered erotic

Almost too late, Cho's clue is understood

The date of Chinese New Year is very important

Draco's backstory is in Chapter 27

Rescue of Malfoy's inheritance from the goblins is mentioned in Chapter 54

Potion stock is like soup stock

The onion earrings recur

Melinda Bobbin is a Slug Club member

“Clarence Younger” combines Clarence Darrow and Irving Younger, two famous lawyers

Chance Clifford inverts Clifford Chance, a large UK law firm

Kahina was a Jewish female seer who resisted the Muslim conquest of North Africa

Kahina recalls the woman mentioned in the first and last verses of the Rolling Stones' “You Can't Always Get What You Want”

Manongia is just a Maori name. We went glowworm caving near Kaeaea

“Crisp” is British for potato chip in America, and a “biscuit” means a cracker

Tarantridenquadrans means “dance 3/4” which is waltz rhythm

Hermione visited Samson's Option in Chapter 52

Galdrar is Icelandic magic

Amber is found in the Baltic, as is Latvia

New Zealand's rugby team is the “All Black”

Maori have intricate facial tattoos

Aotearoa is Maori for New Zealand

Harry and Hermione will go to the Pacific gathering

Maori words: pakeha means white people, moko means the Maori tattoos, makutu is magic, tohunga rongoa is akin to a shaman, kauri is a tree native to New Zealand

I reference (without naming) the Maori haka dance

Kahina uses UV light

There are stars of David woven into Moorish patterns in Atlanta's Fox Theater

Shoah is Hebrew for the Holocaust

The Nazi gold is discussed in Chapter 60

Israel caught and executed Adolf Eichmann

The Tarot reading occurred in Chapter 45

Moody made that statement to Harry in Chapter 57

Oscar is picked from a hat; Plimpton references the author George Plimpton

The various servants' titles accurately reflect positions on the staff of a great estate

Field-elves are to house-elves as field slaves were to house slaves in the antebellum South

The gift is valuable, but not in the way intended

Alnwick Castle is a large castle in northern England; HP movie scenes were filmed there

The Château Frontenac is a large hotel in Quebec City

51

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 6/9/2008

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64. On Holiday

Wherein Harry takes charge of ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls, makes personnel decisions, Hermione gets a present and an unpleasant surprise, Draco replenishes, Harry and Hermione have some fun, go swimming, goblins come bearing gifts, Neville practices, Hermione and Luna explore and make a discovery.

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

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

Chapter 64 - On Holiday

Oscar led Harry and Hermione (preceded by two goblins) from the carriage. Having brought them forward, Oscar quickly joined the near end of one of two lines of identically liveried men (mostly) and women. The entire staff - wizards and witches - of ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls had turned out to greet the new Proprietor.

Harry was extremely ill at ease with this display. Instinctively, his hand found Hermione's. He had only taken a few steps - at best drawing even with the closer end of the lines - when all of the men in attendance bowed deeply. At the same moment, all the witches who had been waiting patiently in the lines appeared to be swooning.

“What the…?” Harry blurted as sought to assist the nearest of the suddenly stricken ladies, ignoring upper-class wizarding protocol. He felt a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Leave it, Potter,” he heard Mad-Eye whisper in his ear. “Nothing's wrong with `er. That's just a court curtsey.”

That sufficed to stop Harry in his tracks. He stood there, watching - waiting for whatever was supposed to happen next.

So did everyone else.

Before things became truly awkward, Hermione squeezed Harry's hand and Legilimenced, `You'd best acknowledge them, Harry, before someone really does keel over.'

With a slight start, Harry responded with a goblin-style half-bow.

At that, things started moving again - and quickly. Harry had devoted so much attention to the lines of ChÃ¢teau employees that he had quite missed their leader, who remained patiently standing, throughout, before the massive main gate and almost directly under the raised portcullis.

Jerry McAllister stepped briskly forward, crossed the drawbridge spanning the moat, and cheerily invited the new Proprietor and his guests inside. Most of the rest of the help dispersed, save those supervising the small swarm of house-elves - all dressed in identical (and identically ragged) black-stained burlap sacks tied around the middle with some sort of silver-coloured cincture - as they unloaded the carriage.

Dobby was nowhere to be seen.

After perfunctory introductions, all of Harry's guests, save Mad-Eye Moody, were “shown to their rooms” by some member of the ChÃ¢teau's domestic staff. Even Hermione did not resist temporary separation from Harry. What would happen next, she wanted no part of - to the extent she could avoid it, at least for now.

“All right, where do I go to get this done?” Harry asked firmly.

Everybody knew what “this” was.

“Traditionally, investiture of a new Proprietor's control over the ChÃ¢teau's magic occurs in the formal dining room, with every Black relative within six degrees of consanguinity in attendance,” Mister McAllister told Harry.

Harry made an unpleasant face. He had no interest in that family's reunion.

“But your guardian has explained your reticence and its basis,” he went on. “And I also appreciate that, in light of the unusual circumstances of your inheritance, you are not on particularly good terms with many Black family members who would ordinarily be invited. Thus, I have made alternative arrangements. Your ascension will occur in the Proprietor's map room, and will be quite private….”

Harry sighed with relief. “Lead the way.”

Soon Harry, Mad-Eye, Mr. McAllister, and another retainer named Astra Disley cracked open the door onto a relatively small but luxuriously appointed room. Oddly, for a “map room,” the space was dominated, not by maps, but rather by a large painting. It filled an entire wall - rather, it was the wall - being a full-colour depiction of a furious skirmish between several men on horseback, hacking at each other with swords, and struggling over some kind of flag. No magical combat was anywhere in evidence.

All of the maps and globes in the room were pushed to the walls and in some cases shrunk. In the centre, on an elevated platform, was a large, gilt, high-backed chair, almost a throne. And where it was not covered in glittering gold, it was bedecked in deep red and black lozenged velvet.

McAllister motioned for Harry to be seated, but Mad-Eye intervened, insisting upon checking both the chair and its surroundings. That inspection took several uncomfortable minutes, as Harry studiously avoided meeting McAllister's eyes. Eventually Mad-Eye grudgingly pronounced everything free from any malevolent magic.

“Can't be too careful,” Mad-Eye added gruffly. “Constant vigilance, yeh know.”

Relieved, Harry sat down as directed. “Now what?” he asked.

“Place your wand in the armrest insertion point,” McAllister encouraged. “Grasp both armrests with your bare hands. I'll place the key to the ChÃ¢teau - now primarily symbolic, though it still works - about your neck. When you're ready, I'll cast the Novus Erus spell, which causes the ChÃ¢teau's wards and other magic to accept you as our new Proprietor.”

Harry looked to Mad-Eye, who nodded that the procedure was acceptable from a security aspect. The old Auror kept his magical eye fixed on McAllister, and his wand drawn - just in case.

“I have two wands,” Harry pointed out.

“You aren't the first to have more than one,” McAllister took that news evenly. “Just place the first one in the insertion point. Then tap the butt of the second wand on the same armrest twice and a second insertion point will appear. That way, the wards will recognise both.”

Harry did as instructed. A second hole appeared in the right armrest (Harry was right-wanded), and in went his “backup” wand - a composite of his father's and Sirius' wands.

McAllister recited a long and complicated spell whilst waving his wand in a horizontal figure-eight (infinity symbol). His wandtip was aimed over Harry's head. When finished, he brought his wand straight down vigorously and pointed it directly at the key Harry wore about his neck. The key to the ChÃ¢teau glowed silver, then green (the Blacks were Slytherins). Finally, it flashed as Harry's body absorbed the magic. For a moment, Harry himself glowed. Then the magic faded away - draining into the special chair in which Harry sat.

Harry almost immediately noticed that the tips of both his wands were aglow. This glow quickly exploded into fountains, first of silver magic, and then of greenish magic. These releases spilled out in all directions, penetrated the walls, and were gone.

Harry began to rise, but McAllister signalled him to stay seated. In another ten seconds, a reverse wave of magic penetrated the walls, and, in reverse, was absorbed by Harry's two wands. The replay continued as the magic wave flowed into the chair, to reappear as a luminous haze surrounding Harry. Presently, the magical resonance found its home, once again, in the key to the ChÃ¢teau.

Ultimately, once the glow from the key had faded, McAllister pronounced, “There, you are now the accepted heir and Proprietor of the ChÃ¢teau….”

Harry's first words as Proprietor were unintentionally ungracious. “Can I get up now?”

“Aye, by all means, Your Lordship,” McAllister answered whilst bowing deeply. The attending woman, Astra, sank into another, even deeper, curtsey. “Now there is some traditional and other long overdue ChÃ¢teau business to attend to….”

“Such as can you all stop the bowing and curtseying?” Harry asked, not terribly pleased by yet another impediment to settling in for the holiday. “And I'd like not to have any more of those all staff greetings, for another thing.”

“That can be arranged,” McAllister said just a bit sourly. “But please understand that the staff appreciates those, since many rarely have any other opportunity to see their Proprietor.”

“Umm … okay,” Harry replied unconvincingly. He had simply reacted, but as usual something else arose that he had not considered. Life was complicated.

“To start, we await your instructions for setting the anti-Apparition wards,” McAllister turned to business. “That affects how all of us, including your guests, get around. The alignment that has proven most popular over the years is no Apparition within the ChÃ¢teau itself, but Apparition allowed on the grounds within the boundary wards.”

More complications. Harry was nonplussed. He looked to Mad-Eye, who returned a barely noticeable nod of approval. “That's okay, at least for now,” Harry approved.

“There is … umm … a serious staffing question, as well,” Astra added, a bit hesitantly. “We've three female domestic staff positions vacant. We're awaiting your instructions concerning the … er … hiring qualifications…. As to … their availability…, your wishes…?”

She looked like she was under a Nauseous Curse, and Harry had not followed her rather elliptical presentation.

“Well, if we're hiring someone, shouldn't she be available?” Harry responded. He felt a restraining arm on his shoulder. Of the people in the room, only Mad-Eye would presume to do that.

In a low voice, Harry's guardian muttered into Harry's ear. “Don't think that's what she means,” Mad-Eye told him. “Yeh're the Proprietor now. I think she means `available for yeh're pleasure….' That comes up with these great wizard estates, 'specially when - like yeh - the Proprietor is, ahem, unmarried….”

Harry grimaced. He did not want that - well, he did, but only with a certain witch whom he hoped was, even then, waiting for him upstairs. Instantly, he decided the less Hermione knew about that particular privilege, the better. “No,” he said firmly, but with quite pink ears. “There's no need for anyone on staff to be available to me - personally.”

“Yes, your Lordship,” Astra accepted his decision, then added. “A pity, though…. I reckon the positions'll be harder to fill.”

“An' just how do yeh go about assurin' their loyalty?” Mad Eye intervened again.

“Every new hire must swear an Unbreakable Vow, which I administer, not to compromise the security of the ChÃ¢teau and its inhabitants,” McAllister immediately responded.

A pause ensued as the two wizards sized each other up. Finally, Mad-Eye grunted, “Good enough … fer now. But I'll be wantin' ta review the wordin'.”

McAllister relaxed, believing he had passed Moody's test. Then he again addressed himself to Harry. “And, I have a few other things….”

* * * *

“Here you are, poppet, the Proprietress' private suite,” the housekeeper, Ima Hogg, spoke cheerfully as she opened the door. “I manage all the housemaids, so if you need anything, or heaven forbid you've any complaints, please call me immediately.”

She led her guest and her guest's goblin escort into a set of rooms every bit as sumptuously appointed as Hermione had expected. Her luggage, including her Valkyrie, floated in behind her to a perfect landing on the plush Sphinx re'em-hide rug that covered most of the open floorspace in the main room.

“By all means make yourself at home,” Ima continued. “To the right, you'll find a full bath with every convenience imaginable. To the left is an expandable closet that can handle everything you might have brought. Your personal house-elf should be along any moment….”

During that sentence, Ima's nostrils flared a bit, and Hermione detected something less than the good cheer that had suffused her guide's every word since Ima had taken charge of her. For some reason, Ima seemed irritated.

Hermione wondered. Was it possible that the ChÃ¢teau's head housekeeper secretly shared an aversion to house-elf subjugation?

Hermione turned on her own charm. “Thank you so much,” she gushed. “You've been more than kind.”

“Think nothing of it, dearie,” Ima chirped. “If you need one of the staff, send your Patronus, if you can. If not, pull the scarlet cord by the bed.” With that she turned to leave.

“Where's Harry staying?” Hermione asked after her.

“The new Proprietor? Why, in the ChÃ¢teau, I presume,” Ima answered in her lilting voice. That response was not helpful.

“I meant in what bedroom?” Hermione clarified.

“Why, I suppose in the Proprietor's suite,” Ima told her. “That's just opposite here.”

Hermione considered saying something about not needing her suite, but thought better of it. She sensed that attitudes and expectations were rather behind the times up here … by about a century, she estimated. The woman excused herself again, but just before she reached the door, Tonks' voice called from next to the bedchamber.

“What's this thing?”

Hermione and Ima turned as Tonks emerged, holding a battered looking book with a faded indigo ribbon in it.

“Oh, that,” Ima reacted almost dismissively. “I'm sorry, I forgot. Some of the staff chose a welcoming gift for you, Hermione - something from the Muggle side of the library….” Her cold emphasis on the word was unmistakable. “…We hope you like it. Your bibliophile reputation precedes you. The Proprietor was adamant that your pass-spell include full access to libraries and literary collections.” Ima excused herself and left.

Whatever the “Muggle” gift might be, Ms. Hogg's mannerisms made it quite clear that she barely tolerated the idea.

She probably did not support house-elf liberation either, Hermione supposed.

But other things were more pressing.

“Blimey!” Tonks exclaimed, shaking her head. “Your flat here is bigger than my whole house.” Laying the book down on the bed, she added, “Don't worry, it's not charmed or anything, and it does appear to be Muggle.”

“Pity I won't be using it much,” Hermione mused, speaking as much to herself as to Tonks.

“Don't judge a book by its cover … poppet,” the mousy-haired Auror replied, gleefully employing the housekeeper's pet name.

“I don't mean the book, I mean this suite,” Hermione shot back, giving her hair a half-petulant flip.

“And what's that supposed to mean?” Tonks jibed.

“Just that … I won't be sleeping alone this holiday,” Hermione declared forthrightly. “You're my bodyguard, and my friend, but not my minder - not any more.”

“Actually, I'm quite all right with it,” Tonks told her. “I was rather cross with Harry at times, before he came to his senses.”

“Well I'm glad….”

The two witches heard a scrabbling sound behind them. Auror instincts taking over, Tonks whirled, wand drawn.

“Dobby!” Hermione squealed - instantly recognizing the figure before them - and not coincidentally saving the poor elf from possible hexing at the hands of the young Auror.

“Miz Myown, I's being so glad to see a friendly face!” Dobby squealed. Undaunted by the wand still pointed at him, the elf rushed to Hermione and gave her a big hug about the knees.

Dobby burst into what passed for tears in house-elves.

“Dobby,” Hermione reacted with shock, “whatever it is, it's all right. Harry's here now.”

Mentioning Harry's name did not help matters. Dobby only wailed more loudly.

“Umm … I'll just be going along,” a somewhat embarrassed Tonks muttered. “Need to learn my way around this place.”

“No … wait,” Hermione requested. “It's not your fault. He's just this way…. I was meaning to ask you….”

Tonks cocked her head. This was unexpected.

“…You … you work with Professor … er … Remus for the Order, so maybe you'd know….”

Tonks mousy brown hair turned, if possible, mousier.

“…It's just, he's the last of Harry's father's friends, and…. Well, he's been making himself scarce lately - ever since Harry and I … umm … worked out our differences….”

Tonks' eyes seemed enlarged as Hermione explained herself. Hermione was uncharacteristically hesitant, and was difficult to hear over Dobby's wails.

The girl continued. “Harry told me that Remus gave him some rather poor advice about … about me. I'm worried that Remus thinks I bear a grudge. I don't. I don't want to come between the two of them…. Harry doesn't have much in the way of family.”

“Hermione, I'm sure you're okay on that score,” Tonks replied crisply. “Remus just has to work, that's all. The Order's been investigating connexions to Dark wizards in the Orient and…. Let's just say that's his current area of expertise. Rest assured, it has nothing to do with you.”

“You really mean that?” Hermione asked, feeling relieved. She had been bothered about this for some time.

“Absolutely,” Tonks reiterated. “I'm absolutely certain that our good friend Mister Lupin is not staying away because he gave Harry bad advice about women. Heck, he probably doesn't even realise that….”

Dobby seemed to be calming down, so Tonks tried again. “Anyway, you seem to have things quite in hand. I really need to unpack my own things. I'll be right around the corner….”

With that, Tonks left - rather hastily it seemed.

Hermione turned her attention to Dobby, who still hung rather limply from her legs. “Dobby, what's wrong? I'm sure whatever it is….”

“I … I is failing … failing Master Harry,” the house-elf choked out.

“I have a hard time believing that,” Hermione replied, reaching down to Dobby's shoulders.

At her touch, Dobby jumped back - all the way under Hermione's bed. “Miz Myown! You is not being supposed to touch us elves - except to punish….”

“I just thought you needed a hug,” she responded. “I'm sorry, but….”

“You's being a great and noble witch…. Keeper of my Master's heart. You's never to be sorry to Dobby.” He crept out. “Especially when Dobby's being such a failure….” Dobby plucked the old book from the edge of the bed and laws ready to start whacking himself over the head with it.

“Dobby, don't,” Hermione ordered. “Just tell me what the big problem is?”

Obeying, Dobby replaced the book. Then in a torrent of high-pitched, less than grammatical words, Dobby revealed how Harry had tasked him to go to Blackwalls and lay the groundwork for the ChÃ¢teau's elves' eventual freedom. He made no headway at all with the field elves, who were both stupid and subservient by breeding. But the elves resident in the ChÃ¢teau were little better. Now, most of them were hesitant even to associate with the bizarre newcomer - who wore clothes, spoke of things elves dared not imagine, and was supposedly following the equally bizarre (to their ears) wishes of the ChÃ¢teau's new Proprietor of the ChÃ¢teau.

Nor had Dobby received any encouragement or assistance from the ChÃ¢teau's staff. Ima Hogg, in particular had been unhelpful, dismissing Dobby's plea for help in teaching elf literacy under her authority with a curt “Whatever for?” Dobby thought that she and some other staff members were encouraging (and maybe instigating) the elves to shun him.

In short, Dobby's advocacy of house-elf freedom at the ChÃ¢teau had come a cropper, much like Hermione's similar effort backfired at Hogwarts. Dobby suspected that, as a consequence, he had been assigned to Hermione's service. Putting him with the newcomers removed an irritant from the ChÃ¢teau's house-elf society.

Hermione wondered how much Ms. Hogg really knew about her.

Not much, that was clear.

Hermione not only had to give Dobby a much-needed pep talk, but also to discuss with Harry what strategy and tactics would be necessary to bring enlightenment to the underclass at ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls.

But the first item on Hermione's agenda was acclimation to her new surroundings - and, as soon as feasible, to find Harry. Dobby, whatever his eccentricities, remained a cracker-jack house-elf. In less than five minutes he had all of her things squared away.

She asked him to find Harry and notify her as soon as Harry had completed whatever succession-related unpleasantness he was dealing with.

Once Dobby popped out, Hermione thought that drawing a bath would do her some good. Easier said than done; given the ChÃ¢teau's over-elaborate contraption. The tub had five different sizes, the largest approximately matching Hogwarts' Prefect's bathroom, but without the diving board (and presumably the Silver and Gold spell). After selecting a manageable size, she had to decipher the system of magical faucets, taps and valves, which put even the ritziest Riveria hotels to shame. Eventually, she had the tub filling with mint scented water.

Harry liked mint.

Hermione hoped that its cool, relaxing properties would generate the opposite reaction in her fiancÃ©.

Changing into the available white fluffy bathrobe (embroidered with the ChÃ¢teau's chambered nautilus insignia), Hermione took a look at her mystery Muggle gift. Intrigued by the Greek lettering on the spine, she cracked the massive old tome open to where the ribbon had been left.

Hermione gasped. The last thing in the world she expected to see was her own name - written in Classical Greek letters - jumping out at her. Before Hogwarts, although Hermione attended a rigorous public junior school, in typical English fashion it had not bothered even with French, let alone including Classical Greek or Latin in the mandatory curriculum. But at her father's insistence, Hermione had received private tuition in those languages, as well as basic French. Not only could she participate fully in family holidays to ancient sites, but she would also have a head start for a career in the law or, even better, following them into medicine.

Whilst her facility with these languages had atrophied through years of disuse, Hermione still knew enough to recognise her name.

And, once she put her mind to it, quite a few other things came flowing back.

It was immediately obvious that this was an extraordinarily old book - a quick command to “Reveal Your Secrets” showed at least two still-active Preservative Charms of archaic provenance. This “Hermione” was some sort of play, in the classical style. Its pages were papyrus, not parchment, and had no top or bottom margins, which meant that the pages were actually cut-up and bound sections of what had once been a scroll.

Intrigued, Hermione closed the book and took a close look at the lettering on the spine, “ÎŸÎ»Î¿ÎºÎ»Î®Ï�Ï‰ÏƒÎ· ÎÏ�Î³Ï‰Î½ Ï„Î¿Ï… Î£Î¿Ï†Î¿ÎºÎ»Î®.” “Sweet Circe,” she gasped as she deciphered the words. Immediately she flipped the front cover open. “I can't possibly keep this,” she whispered to herself as she scanned a rudimentary table of contents with over one hundred entries - of which her name appeared on the forty-seventh line. “This is priceless.”

Hermione knew one thing for sure. She really, really wanted to spend some time in the Muggle portion of the ChÃ¢teau's library.

Her head still spinning, Hermione heard the clanging of a set of chimes. For an instant, she thought she had a visitor, but the signal merely indicated that the tub had finished filling. The water was magically maintained at the precise temperature she had set.

Hermione had enjoyed less than ten minutes' languid soaking, when Dobby popped into her suite much more loudly than normal. Tentatively, the elf rapped on the door to the bath. “Miz Myown,” he called out in his high, little voice, “Master Harry, he's being on the way to see you. I's sorry for so little warning, but Harry, he sent me on an errand…. And I couldn't refuse….”

Hermione smiled. If Harry were coming to see her right now, there were worse ways to greet him than in a big fluffy bathrobe - with nothing underneath. She stepped out of the tub, cleansed, refreshed, and smelling distinctly of mint, and dismissed the unseen Dobby. “Dobby, you've done everything you can do. Don't even think of punishing yourself on my behalf. You can go, I'll handle this.”

Dobby left, again noisily so Hermione knew he was gone. Deliberately trying for “sexy,” Hermione sauntered into her bedroom swaying her hips in exaggerated fashion. She tied her robe loosely about her waist with a simple twist - no knot either needed or intended.

She wished Harry would hurry up and arrive, but a watched door never opens. Hermione had waited for this moment - when they could stay together after the deed however long they wanted - for almost as long as she had been intimate with Harry.

A low grinding, noise from behind made the short hairs on the back of Hermione's neck stand on end. As she whirled around, wand in hand, her robe fell completely open. The dormer windows, and their views over the Pennines, had disappeared, along with the sumptuous wall coverings that surrounded them. Only a solid stone wall remained. Backing up until she bumped into the doorframe leading to the bathroom, Hermione felt her heart thump against her ribcage.

With a series of dull bangs, the wall began rolling itself up - like the Leaky Cauldron entrance to Diagon Alley, only these were half-metre-square stone blocks, not bricks. “Finite,” Hermione incanted, but her spell had no effect on the ChÃ¢teau's magic.

Hermione shrieked as she tied her robe about herself as tightly as possible - easier said than done whilst still gripping her wand. Through the enlarging gap, she heard a familiar voice, Harry's, calling, “Hermione, are you in there? It's me.”

“Of course it's me,” Hermione yelled back, quite annoyed - more at the circumstances than at Harry personally. “You were expecting Lady Diana?”

“If I find Lady Di, I'll be disappointed,” Harry shouted back over the din from the still retreating wall.

“If you're trying to flirt,” Hermione continued their rather loud conversation, “then I sincerely hope you are alone.”

“Umm … actually, I'm not,” came Harry's reply.

Hermione dove for the bedchamber and pulled the curtains about her, not even bothering with magic. With only her head emergent, she bellowed, “Then you bloody better stop this right now! Honestly! What were you thinking? Barging into my room when you had company…!”

She heard Harry saying something indistinct over the wall's clatter. Then, as abruptly is it had started, the noise stopped.

“Sorry, Hermione,” Harry began once silence had returned. “It's just … well, I just learnt from the staff that they'd put us in separate rooms … umm … not exactly rooms, but you know…. I didn't want that, and Emil here, he showed how to get the ChÃ¢teau's magic to change those arrangements. I didn't realise the result is the complete merger of our quarters.”

Hermione could barely keep from giggling. The explanation was so … well … so Harry. Once again, he had been wrongfooted by magic that had unexpected consequences. She called out, “You're forgiven, Harry. Does this mean that you're through with estate business - at least for the day?”

She could hear the relief in his voice as he confirmed, “Yeah, that's done for now.” Then Harry instructed the staff with him (at least two, and maybe more) to make themselves scarce.

“That's good,” Hermione responded as she let loose the curtains she had hidden behind.

“I know,” Harry replied in kind. “I am really sorry, you know.”

“Don't be sorry … I just want to spent the rest of the evening, alone, with you,” Hermione stated as she climbed out of bed and approached the irregular, five-metre wide passage between the ChÃ¢teau's adjacent Proprietor's and Proprietress' suites, remembering to move her hips with what she hoped was fluid grace.

“So do I,” Harry echoed, his eyes fixed on her hips. “Alone - for as long as we want.”

“Amen,” Hermione murmured, stepping through the open space in the wall. As she did, she let her robe flutter to the floor, and continued on, to Harry, without it.

* * * *

The sun rises late in mid-December in northern England. But today, the new Proprietor (technically Baron) of Blackwalls (and technically hereditary Lord of the Manor of Blackpool, as well) and his lady were still asleep as the first pallid rays of midwinter sunlight shone across the immense suite - a suite that had been considerably enlarged the previous evening.

The new Proprietor lay flat on his back mostly covered in a red satin sheet, and nothing else. By his side - or rather, draped over his side - lay the woman expected to become Proprietress of the great estate. Equally clad in nothing save the bedsheets, she snoozed, one cheek resting on his chest and her long brown hair splayed out in all directions.

Perhaps it was the light, or perhaps merely chance combined with inevitability. Whatever the cause, the young Proprietor's eyes fluttered reluctantly open. He needed a moment to recall where he was - and a while longer to believe it.

It was hard to believe, since a mere six months ago he had been marooned in a Muggle hellhole, alone, friendless … godfatherless….

And now? He had just had the best night of his life.

For sure.

The first time was hard, fast, and practically uncontrollable. He had messed up, again, in trying to consolidate their rooms - without telling (or even asking) her first.

But she forgave him his trespasses.

Merlin, had she!

She had emerged, striding determinedly towards him, wearing nary a stitch of clothing. Well, except for a pair of fuzzy pink slippers….

And she had looked him straight in the eye throughout her approach - no false modesty for Hermione. For weeks, they had yearned for this night; to be alone together for as long as they desired. Both knew what they wanted. They had discussed it frequently, and thought about it constantly.

It had been worth the wait - truly amazing.

It is hard for anything - let alone an intimate encounter - to live up to so much anticipation. But their lovemaking had been exactly that, every minute and every bit of it.

Harry owned the place, so finally they were unconcerned with the return of the (if not feared, then at least bothersome) pink glow that had forced them to stagger their pleasures since that memorable first night.

Not this time. Harry was Proprietor of all 167 (or so it was said) rooms in ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls.

Make that 166, at least for the duration.

They had quite enough rooms. If they wrecked one - or even two - bedrooms, they could move to another whilst those were repaired. Having four score and some house-elves, all eager to impress, at one's beck and call did have its advantages, even if Hermione would never admit it out loud.

So they had quite deliberately driven each other to ecstasy simultaneously - more than once.

Sex was truly nature's way of telling humankind that we are loved and supposed to be happy.

Even better - almost - their worries turned out to be groundless. With no mirrors to reflect and amplify their magical emissions, the glow had managed itself. Instead of an explosion, the two had found equilibrium.

And eventually equilibrium shaded into afterglow.

They never left their room that night, not even to look after their guests. For once Harry and Hermione allowed themselves to be totally, utterly, and decadently selfish.

They had ordered in - prime rib for Harry and tuna steak for Hermione. They never bothered to get dressed again, although Hermione did retrieve the robe she'd left pooled on the floor in her room … no, side of the room. She wore it only when Dobby popped by to present their dinner, and only for Dobby's sake.

Harry did eventually finish the job of converting the Proprietor's and Proprietress' suites into one large chamber. Almost a century had passed since the ChÃ¢teau's Proprietor had last been youthful enough, and sufficiently inclined, to share the same bed routinely with the Proprietress.

Too often, Black family marriages had been for status, not love. Sharing a bed with one's spouse was usually just to provide a son or two - an heir and a spare - to continue the line.

The necessary magic still worked, but after such a long hiatus its operation had been rather creaky.

These two neither had nor needed any long hiatus.

After dinner - and following a joint cool-down in Harry's walk-in shower that was anything but cool - they took pleasure in each other a second time. That time was long, leisurely, and somewhat silly. Hermione dipped into her bag of Samson's Option goodies, and Summoned the whole bag to Harry's side of the now quite huge room.

What had been his side of the room was now neither his nor hers, but theirs.

Eventually they had drifted off to sleep in each other's arms - but only after a couple of hours of playing around with Lovers Touchâ„¢ “Ebb and Flow” knickers; an always-full canister of pressurised whipped cream that changed colours (and flavours); a tube of scent-shifting massage lotion; and last but not least a charmed, self-bouncing trampoline that fit snugly over their mattress.

A few hours later he had awoken once again, with his body pressed along the length of hers. They fit together perfectly - so perfectly that, without any particular effort on either of their parts, Harry was once again outrageously in the mood.

But she had been sound asleep.

So for about three-quarters of an hour, he had gone about awakening her as slowly and gently as possible. Harry used his fingers, his lips, and his manhood slowly but surely to shift her dreams in erotic directions. Ultimately, he had roused - and aroused - her. Throwing her top leg over his hip, she had backed into him. Then he had spent an exquisite amount of time “over the target” whilst she moved against him. Finally, after nearly driving each other crazy, Hermione had shifted position just enough….

What followed was the most gentle and extended lovemaking either of them had ever experienced.

Especially for her. Harry presumed he was tapped out, so he gave his all for Hermione. Whilst physically expressing his love for her, he had discovered an unknown and untapped reservoir of strength.

When it was over, Harry had suggested that, whenever they were really sleeping together and unlikely to be disturbed, he saw no reason to wear any clothes at all. Hermione had readily agreed….

Returning to the present, Harry reckoned that the first time had been for passion, the second time for fun, and the third time for love.

Sure, Voldemort was still out there. Sure, Harry had to exert control over an estate with evil antecedents. Sure, he had to cope with prejudice against Muggle-born and Muggle-raised wizards.

But for once in his life, Harry thought - whilst aimlessly caressing Hermione's sleeping form with one hand - things genuinely seemed to be looking up. For the time being, all was well.

* * * *

Blub, blub, blub, blub … Pfffoof!

In one furious boiling moment, the out-of-control potion exploded into a dark scarlet cloud of steam - spraying hot droplets in all directions.

“Bloodly hell!” the frustrated wizard swore as he jumped back in an altogether unsuccessful effort to prevent his wand hand from being scalded.

“Why did he have to make this formula so damn complicated?” he continued, the frustration oozing from his voice. “That's three times, now.”

Quite put out, but grimly determined, he Vanished the mess and prepared the ingredients for another try.

“Oh, Merlin's balls, that was the last of the ruby dust,” Draco Malfoy drawled angrily. He had more, but given how dear that particular ingredient was, he kept it elsewhere, in a protected location.

Oceanix, being his mother's property, was less secure. Draco did not employ the staff. But it had the advantage of remoteness. Out of the Ministry's sight it was - and also out of mind.

Malfoy Manor had its disadvantages. Half was a construction zone. And it all was now watched by the Aurors - not the erstwhile sluggards from the Escheats Office. Its major advantages were its wards (or what were left after the latest Ministry restrictions) and a staff that responded to him as lord of the estate. The Manor was a better place to conceal extremely valuable materials.

“But that doesn't make any sense,” Draco mused aloud. “Snape was as poor as a Weasley when he was in school. Where would he get the Galleons for powdered ruby, no matter how powerful that made a Love Potion? It's just not….”

Draco's flaxen eyebrows almost retreated into his forehead as it came to him. “Father said he'd `bought' a number of Death Eaters whilst still at Hogwarts,” he mouthed to his audience of none. “I'll bet he bought Snape.”

He had no idea whom Snape might have fancied enough at Hogwarts to turn Death Eater for. Nor could Draco have cared less. Leverage was leverage. Father kept careful records and, once the Malfoy patrimony had passed, Draco knew where they were. As soon as possible, without raising suspicion, he would check and see what he could learn about Snape.

Leverage was leverage.

For now, it appeared that when Snape was bought, at least he stayed bought.

Maybe, Draco wondered, he should adopt his father's tactics. Crabbe and Goyle, for all their failings, had been dead useful ….

But that was for the future. For the present, he needed more powdered ruby. And he remembered a couple of potions apparatus at the Manor that might assist in what was proving to be an extremely tricky brewing job.

Because of the Ministry presence, Draco could not Apparate, since he was still underage. To avoid other inconvenient questions, he dared not take one of Oceanix's Thestrals. Floo powder it would have to be.

Minutes later, Draco staggered out of a familiar fireplace, and into a cloud of fly ash and construction grit. Sneezing and coughing at the same time, he recalled why he hated traveling by Floo.

It was mid-morning. Burke should be there, playing at being a building contractor. Pulling the first wizard he met away from whatever he was doing, Draco sent him after Burke bearing a summons to meet.

Soon enough, the man turned up. He never forgot the hand that fed him (at the moment). Draco surprised him. “I'd like to inspect the work in the master's bedroom,” He told Burke.

“But … but the work in that area was finished weeks ago - at your request,” Burke whinged. “You've already seen it. There's nothing, really, to inspect.”

The man had not understood. “Well, I have a few more items on the tick list,” Draco drawled, hoping for a recovery.

A fierce glare added to innocuous words produced the desired reaction, and soon the two of them, in silence, headed for that location. Reaching the master's bedroom, Draco signalled for silence. For his own part he chattered irrelevantly about imaginary faults in the plastering or the household enchantments. He produced an old key, which almost immediately Transfigured itself into a ring - yet another of the paternal bequests that mattered only if he retained Malfoy Manor.

Which he had.

Expertly, Draco waved his hand, wearing the ring, before a blank wall. It rippled and a hidden wall safe appeared. Draco inserted the ring's stone into a matching indentation in the safe and, almost magnetically, the door swung open as he removed his hand. Still mouthing construction-related inanities, Draco reached in, and pulled out a rack that was full of pouches, phials, and other containers for potions ingredients.

He selected what he needed, slipped them inside his robes, and after only a few seconds the wall in the master's bedroom was once again featureless.

“Now we need to discuss some of the work on the back lawn,” he told Burke.

A few minutes later, a cold, drizzling rain falling, they stood uncomfortably in a brown-black swathe of mucky, disturbed earth. The locale was inauspicious, but all the disruption - magical and otherwise - ensured that it was a place, unlike Malfoy Manor itself, free from ubiquitous Ministry surveillance.

“So that's where the stuff goes,” Burke remarked when, at last, they could speak freely.

“That's where it goes,” Draco echoed. “That's how a Vanishing Cabinet works - and I was quite pleased that you were able to make it work, provided the right incentives….”

Burke's incipient smile fled with the reminder of the threat the boy had once made to arrange a visit from Fenrir Greyback if repairs to the magical device had not succeeded. “So, maybe a little something extra in the next progress payment, then?” he grumbled.

“We'll see,” Draco responded vaguely. “That'll depend on the success of the potion.”

“I hope you get to use it, then,” Burke replied, equally vaguely.

“And why wouldn't I?” Draco retorted. “The Dark Lord himself wanted this … although Merlin knows why. It's always puzzled me why he'd give this precedence over what I'd call the more important mission. Perhaps you can enlighten me?”

“I've told you before, I don't know why he wants Potter away from that Mudblood,” Burke growled. “But he does … or at least did.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Draco almost snarled. He hated it when Burke toyed with him.

“Apparently, he has something big planned that might toss everything we've been doing into a cocked hat,” Burke answered warily.

“Well … tell me,” Draco pursued the evasive wizard.

“Unfortunately, I don't know. I just suspect it,” Burke continued. “We're not in that loop. You know how the Dark Lord compartmentalises.”

“Then what the bloody hell do you know?” a frustrated Draco grumbled.

“That your lovely aunt can't keep her blinking flapper shut,” Burke revealed. “She's close to the Dark Lord and loves to lord that over all of us.”

“Damn drama queen,” Draco muttered. “What did she say this time?”

“Not much, only that she's working on something that might trump everything. She seemed quite serious. Although she only brought it up to taunt me … and also you.”

“Nothing of substance, of course,” Draco commented.

“Of course,” Burke confirmed. “Only she seemed excited - as if whatever this thing is, it'll happen soon.”

* * * *

“Anything you really want to do today?” Harry asked Hermione when they finally decided they ought to get out of bed.

“Are you up for a swim?” she asked. “I studied the map of the ChÃ¢teau yesterday, and it has an indoor pool.”

“Sounds good,” Harry agreed. He studied a breakfast menu Dobby must have left sometime that night. “Do you want to invite the others?”

“Maybe later,” Hermione answered adding a lecherous smile. “I'd like to try it first with you - alone.”

She had Harry's undivided attention. “Something I should know about?” he asked.

She nodded towards her “bag of tricks.” “I realised I needed some new bathing costumes whilst shopping yesterday. I'm not keen on showing off that much to the rest.”

“An excellent reason,” Harry agreed.

His fiancÃ©e, however, was determined to be coy about the bathing costumes. She insisted that the “unveiling” wait until they were at the pool.

Trying not to be a rude host, Harry had arranged to go flying with Jazzy later in the afternoon, before the midwinter's darkness fell. Similarly, Hermione had invited Luna to investigate the ChÃ¢teau's literary holdings. Neville had begged off from either activity. He had independently arranged a tour of the ChÃ¢teau's greenhouses.

A little before noon Harry and Hermione - wearing identical ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls bathrobes - arrived at what was designated “indoor pool” on the map. Stepping inside, both had the same reaction. “What on earth is that?”

The door opened into a very large, almost empty room, easily four high-ceilinged floors in height and equally spacious across. Except no pool - anywhere - was to be seen.

Not only was water not in evidence, but the room lacked even a basin for holding it. Lying on the floor was a circular deck that might well surround a pool - if it had something to surround. The deck featured folding chairs, towels, and other pool accoutrements.

Fortunately it also had a sign reading, “Caution: Entire party must be on deck before activating pool.”

Beside the sign was a set of magical controls.

Hermione took a look, shot Harry a sly glance, and announced, “I'm game if you are.”

“And you say I'm the fearless one,” Harry gladly went along. Moving to the controls, Harry saw several differently shaped “configurations.” The knob was set for the circle. That matched the shape of the deck, so Harry decided to leave things as they were.

The console had a red dot describe as “Activus natatus.” Harry tapped it with his wand.

Something immediately began hissing. All along the inner edge of the deck a cloud of bluish magic arose. It swirled and formed as large a sphere as the quite large room could accommodate. Valves appeared in the ceiling and, with a whoosh, water poured in. The torrent flooded the sphere, and as it filled, the bluish glow faded, leaving nothing but water - a transparent (if still somewhat bluish) sphere suspended by magic between the floor, the ceiling, and the walls.

“Whoa,” Harry exclaimed, as the deck began to rise as the magical sphere filled. Halfway up, the deck stopped. Its edges fit snugly around the centre of the hovering sphere.

“Umm … I guess that's a pool,” Harry commented, eyeing the watery sphere warily. “But how do we swim?”

Hermione probed the sphere's surface. Her hand penetrated easily, meeting no more resistance than with a normal body of water. She withdrew it, and her hand was ordinarily wet. Looking squarely at Harry, she remarked, “I suspect we just jump in.”

With that, she let slip the robe she had been wearing since emerging from the bathroom back at their suite. That gave Harry an eyeful of what Hermione was wearing….

… Or not wearing.

“B-b-bloody hell, H-H-Hermione,” Harry stuttered. “I at least thought you'd be wearing … well, something.”

Solely for Harry's benefit, Hermione saucily spun around on one foot - and nearly lost her balance.

“But I am, Harry,” she laughed at his beet red expression.

Harry begged to differ. “What is it then? A costume visible to everyone except me?” That was an interesting thought.

“No, silly,” Hermione squealed as she tossed her head. She considered twirling again, but thought better of it. “Take a closer look.”

“I'd love to,” Harry replied huskily. Instantly, she was in his arms.

Sure enough, he found a bathing costume. Upon closer inspection, it adequately covered her naughty bits. It was not even all that racy, except that it magically assumed the exact colour of the skin beneath. It was extremely difficult for Harry to tell the difference, except none of Hermione's … well, fine details … were visible.

Harry gave Hermione a big, sloppy kiss. Then he let go, shouted, “Last one in's a smelly troll,” and dove head first through the side of the sphere.

Hermione let out a shriek and followed, only a step behind.

They had never experienced swimming like this before. Up or down meant nothing - only in and out. Dense objects sank to the centre of the sphere, and buoyant objects (like Harry and Hermione) floated outward to its surrounding surface. Momentum mattered much more than in an ordinary pool. Had they been inclined to exercise, they could have swum “laps” in the same direction forever, never having to turn around.

But the two teens were far more interested in fun than exercise. After several minutes frolicking, they broke out the pool toys - most notably a floating diving board from which they dove into the pool at what an earthbound observer would have considered impossible angles. Magic superseded gravity; from the diving board “down” was towards the water.

Splash!

Harry shot out of the water and landed somewhat awkwardly on the deck.

Splash!

Before Harry could recover his balance, Hermione followed and knocked him to the floor of the deck.

They laughed themselves out - Harry in his rather minute Speedo, and Hermione in her perfectly camouflaged flesh-tone bikini. “How about a Bubblehead Charm?” Hermione suggested as they untangled and stood up. “I'd like to try swimming through the middle to the other side.”

Harry was amenable. “Good idea, tonight we'll come back with some Gillyweed and try something more….”

A familiar voice followed a barely audible pop, and. “Harry Potter, sir, there's being goblins wanting to see you. They have…. Miz Myown…!”

Dobby never finished that sentence. With a louder bang than they had ever heard from the diminutive house-elf, he popped out.

“Oh, dear,” Hermione cried as she grabbed for her robe. “Poor Dobby! He must be so embarrassed.”

Harry dove back into the water and swam to the bottom. From there, he pulled himself out and could touch the floor of the room. That overcame one aspect of the magic, and he managed to stand on solid ground again. Taking an alternative route, Hermione descended the rope ladder that hung from the deck to the floor. It was unnaturally stable, considering that it extended at an oblique angle that would have done M.C. Escher proud.

Neither had quite finished, when the door creaked halfway open. Dobby's fingers were just visible and there was a soft pounding sound.

“Harry Potter, sir, [thud] Miz Myown [thud],” Dobby whined in a pleading voice. “If youse could please be presentable. [Thud] There's being goblins [thud] at the gate…,” [Thud]

Hermione realised seconds before Harry what was happening. “Dobby, stop punishing yourself this instant! You didn't see what you thought, and even if you had, you didn't do anything wrong.”

The pounding stopped. Trembling, Dobby edged back into view, as if afraid of what he might encounter. Seeing Hermione in her robe, and that she and Harry were well more than arms-length apart, the elf spoke more confidently. “The Goblins…. They's being wanting to see Harry Potter, and they's not taking no for an answer.”

“Then we'd better find out what they want,” Harry said resignedly. “Invite them in and tell them we'll be down right away.”

A few minutes later, fully and appropriately dressed, Harry and Hermione descended the formal black marble staircase to the ChÃ¢teau's main foyer to greet a party of seven goblins, all dressed in grey travelling clothing. They were chatting with the goblins in Harry's personal guard, and none seemed bothered by the delay.

Hermione hung back. The goblins were primarily Harry's bailiwick.

After a nervous pause - none of the newly-arrived goblins would speak first - Harry addressed himself to the head of his guard. “Slamdor, what's going on?”

Slamdor (after bowing, but not prostrating himself) cheerfully undertook to make the introductions. “Good afternoon, Impratraxis. Head of our visiting party is Klambak. Met once you, told me has he. At Hogwarts.”

A light bulb went off in Harry's head. He turned to Klambak,

“I remember … you commanded the Basilisk rendering party.”

“Honoured that remember me do you, Impratraxis, am I,” Klambak responded. He also successfully fought the urge to prostrate himself before royalty in the usual goblin fashion. “And Savini as well. For any inconvenience apologise we. Is finished our promise to you, so come have we….”

That last bit of information left Harry at a momentary loss, but Hermione aided him with a telegraphed thought. `I think he means the Basilisk skin armour you asked for.'

“You mean the Basilisk skin armour is finished?” Harry more or less echoed.

“Yes, precisely, Impratraxis,” Klambak confirmed.

Klambak turned to his small entourage and barked some orders in Gobbledygook. Two large crates were brought in and opened. Reverently, Klambak reached in, and presented Harry and Hermione with two sets of goblin-forged armour, its surface covered with shiny, dark green Basilisk scales.

“Savini?” Klambak interjected nervously as Hermione examined hers. “In advance apologise must I. Arise do any imperfections because for a … female, such a thing crafted never before have we. Fight not in our nation do females.”

“I'm certain you did superbly,” Hermione replied soothingly, as she examined the suit. “Harry, do you want to try these on?”

“Sounds like a good idea to me.”

“Honoured as a squire in your service would be I,” Klambak offered.

A few minutes later, Harry emerged, his leathery armour feeling stiff. His next task was to help Hermione. Not one female goblin squire existed, and none of the goblins present presumed to offer such intimate service to their Prince's mate.

Most of the delay in fulfilling Harry's request was due to its unique nature as to Hermione, Ginny, and Luna. Goblin society did not conceive of woman warriors. Their armourers had no experience in matching female specifications.

The result looked rather like male armour, except with what resembled a long skirt instead of male leggings.

As they reemerged, Harry told her, “Okay, hit me with your best shot.”

“Harry, what are you saying?” Hermione blurted, frankly aghast. “You can't be serious.”

“Of course I am,” he insisted. “We won't know that this armour works unless we try it out. I'd rather find anything wrong with the goblins still here to fix it.”

“Could it be that, because goblin-forged armour is reputedly the best in the world, and because you're a prince of theirs, maybe they've forged the best of the best,” Hermione sniffed.

Hermione was probably right, but Harry needed to be sure. “We need to confirm for ourselves,” he persisted. “We need to know not only that this stuff works, but to feel it work - so we're ready when the time comes…. Densaugeo.”

Harry essentially tricked Hermione. Whilst chatting, he flicked out his wand but kept it hidden. Then, without warning, he cursed her with a relatively harmless fourth year spell.

“Harry!” Hermione shrieked. Here evasive manœuvres were belated, but the spell vanished harmlessly into the armour.

“Now, hit me with something,” Harry repeated.

“Harry, I don't want…. There are people about,” protested Hermione.

“They're staff and goblins. They won't intervene,” Harry dismissed. “Incarcerous.”

Hermione was ready this time, but Harry had cut the spell four ways. One of them caught her, but again the spell ineffectually bounced off her armour.

“Harry, stop it,” Hermione demanded sternly. “You know what happened the last time we duelled. I broke your leg and felt horrible about that for days.”

“If that's how you feel horrible,” he made a reference only she would understand, “then I love you that way.” He may have been teasing, but his wand was also pointing at her again. Without doing anything to conceal it, he began to cast another spell.

Hermione was practically forced to defend herself. “Impedimenta!” she incanted.

Her spell bounced off Harry's armour.

“Great, now you've gotten started,” Harry said happily. His wand motion had been a feint - to get Hermione to react - and it had been successful.

“Conjunctivus remax!” he cried.

“Scintillius!” she parried.

“Relashio!” A red jet from Harry's wand pushed Hermione backwards but once again her armour repelled it.

“Harry!” she shouted impatiently - followed by, “Accio wand!”

Harry whirled halfway around, but did not bother to dodge. Hermione's spell hit him squarely, and completely ineffectually, in the back. He reversed direction. “Confrigo!” he spelled.

Hermione jumped out of the way, as a large marble vase full of tropical flowers exploded behind her. “Harry, that was a dangerous spell,” she reproached. “Expelliarmus!”

Harry merely threw his arms wide, letting her disarming spell hit him full in the chest. It also had no effect. “Come on, Hermione, you can do better than that,” he baited her.

“Concresus varo!” he shot one of several variants of the Jelly-Legs Jinx at her. It caught her in the right knee, but also did nothing. “Folliculus inverso!” he tried again.

“Two in a row isn't fair duelling,” Hermione complained, once she rolled over to face him, having unsuccessfully tried to dodge the second spell. “And that was a Lesson 128 spell.”

“Death Eaters don't fight fair, Hermione. C'mon, we have to make sure this stuff works,” Harry pleaded. “Now have at it.”

“Merlin, Harry, it's not like we have an appointment to duel Voldemort next week,” Hermione replied hotly. “Look at this. We're wrecking the foyer…. Petrificus totalus.”

The immobilizing spell glanced off the armour on Harry's leg. He called to her again, “You're not testing me hard enough. Use something a Death Eater might.… Reducto!”

Hermione dove out of the way, but was sideswiped because Harry split the spell five ways. Her armour protected her as plaster exploded all about. Angry, now, she came up firing, “Me `chi ba bchad pa!”

She likewise cut her spell five ways. Arcs of purple fire slashed through the air. “Yeeaaahhh!” Harry yelled as three of them sizzled across various parts of his armour, chipping at its now not-so-shiny scaled covering. “Jeez, Hermione, I didn't know you knew that one…”

“Since it created our affinity, I had to learn it,” Hermione puffed. She was getting tired of duelling. “You know I would have learnt Avada itself if I'd had too…. Now, are we quite finished?”

Harry seemed to relax. “Well, I suppose that … Electrify!” In an instant Harry sunk into a classic dueller's stance. Hermione, slow to react, could not dodge a miniature lightning bolt rocketing straight at her. Her armour absorbed it with no problem.

“That was one of yours from our duel, as I recall,” Harry observed tartly.

“You little sneak!” she snarled. “Have it your way, then…. Multiplicitus!” Suddenly twenty-five images of Hermione surrounded him. “Orgasimos!” she cried without giving him time to think.

Twenty-five Hermiones cut that spell twenty-five ways. Twenty four were, of course, figments of her magic. But there was no way Harry could possibly pick out the fake spells from the blizzard of light that came at him. But he counted on his armour to protect him.

Harry was almost right.

But one of the spells caught Harry in the neck, just under the clear Basilisk cornea visor he was wearing. Harry collapsed in a wave of indescribable, yet now familiar pleasure.

In an instant Hermione pounced. She pushed up Harry's visor and with her still glowing wandtip poked him in the neck hard enough to leave a bruise. “And as I recall, that was yours from an earlier duel,” she hissed. “I think we've demonstrated quite sufficiently that the goblins' armour is as advertised.”

She stood and turned to go. “And I'm going to freshen up. See you….”

“Oh, bravo! Well played.”

The familiar voice stopped Hermione in her tracks. “Luna!” Hermione flipped up her plaster dusted visor. Luna was clutching the balustrade of the upper floor balcony, gazing down into the now thoroughly wrecked room.

“Yeah, the armour's grand, isn't it? You've a set as well,” Hermione called. Then she grimaced, noticing the much shorter Jazzy also standing nearby.

“Actually, I meant the spell,” Luna said airily. “One of your extras gave me a … rather interesting … experience.”

She wasn't the only one. Four members of the ChÃ¢teau staff, two goblins, and a stray house-elf were also recovering. The pair had drawn quite an audience for their little test.

After that test, if anyone on the staff still disparaged Hermione's heritage, he or she kept quiet about it. From that display, nobody could doubt her magical abilities.

But Hermione had her own amends to make. “Jazzy, I'm sorry, but we only have….”

“Save it,” the Sufi witch cut over her elder. “Nothing I've done merits something like that. Good show, though. Glad you play for our side. Oh, and Harry…. Don't forget our fly this afternoon. There's an old pitch around the back.”

Then, gritting her teeth to restrain her trembling jaw, Jazzy left.

Hermione was not leaving yet. With goblin help, she showed Luna sort out her set of armour. As Hermione finished, Harry was at her side.

“Hermione, I apologise for working you up like that, but we did give the armour a fair test….”

She turned to Harry, who seemed none the worse for wear. “Apology accepted, but you could have chosen a better locale.”

Harry regarded the debris and the spell-pocked walls of the ChÃ¢teau's formal entryway. “S'pose you're right. But can't do anything about that now … well, except this….”

“A priori!”

Harry concentrated and magic began flowing from him in waves. Before the astonished eyes of the goblins, many of the staff, and the less astonished but no less appreciative Hermione, he caused everything in the room to right itself.

“Now you've tired me out, too,” he panted when done. Let's get something to eat. Then we ought to find Neville, so he can try his on, too.”

Somewhat later an unusually harsh, mechanical sound disturbed the ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls carriage house. Harry had decided to kill two birds with one stone. He wanted to ride Sirius' old motorcycle (which Hagrid had delivered to the ChÃ¢teau following Harry's inheritance), and he wanted to find Neville.

To entice Hermione into coming along - he was competing with the ChÃ¢teau's library - Harry had agreed to use the motorbike in sidecar mode.

Soon they were cruising at about 100 metres. “Estus,” Hermione incanted. It was quite cold in Lancashire in the latter half of December.

“Look there,” Harry pointed to an overgrown field with telltale hoops at either end. “That's the old Quidditch Pitch Jazzy mentioned. I think I'll have it redone before summer.”

Hermione was scanning the barren winter landscape for signs of Neville. The fields were fallow. The vines and trees were bare. The earth below was muted in shades of grey and brown. “That's fine, Harry…. It's yours to do what you will.”

“By the end of the summer holiday, I'm hoping to change that,” Harry said in a low voice - barely audible over the motorbike's rumble.

Hermione gave him a quizzical look. “I don't see how else it could be,” she said. “You hold it free and clear. You won't even have a guardian much longer….”

“For the same reason, I'm hoping then to have a wife,” Harry countered, giving her a meaningful look.

Hermione no longer needed a warming charm. Quite ignoring their location, she threw herself at Harry and enveloped him in a fierce hug. The motorbike wobbled a bit, but she never noticed.

“When did you become so romantic?” she asked once she finished kissing him thoroughly and retreated (mostly) to the side car.

Harry took her question seriously. “Since you, I guess,” he told her. “Before you I was awful with girls…. Probably still am.”

She smiled at him. “I should be thankful, I guess.” Her sharp eyes spotted something - an unusual patch of green in an otherwise drab environment - off to their left. “Look there,” she said, pointing.

“If it's green, it might be Neville,” Harry agreed. He banked the bike in that direction.

“Umm … Harry?” she inquired with a naughty gleam in her eye. “Do you we might be able, well, to do it up here some time?”

“You mean, it it?” Harry asked.

Hermione nodded her head. “I was thinking, maybe, in an Invisibility Cloak slung beneath the bike….”

Harry looked straight down, under the bike. “That wouldn't work very well,” he estimated.

“Why not?” Hermione said tightly, betraying a degree of insult. “You told me you almost did it with her…. Why not me? I'm sure we could arrange it so we wouldn't have to look down.”

“It's not that,” Harry hastened to say. “It's more like looking up. You didn't see what I saw in the carriage house. The bike leaks a bit of oil.”

“Eeeuuuww,” Hermione reacted.

“But remember, I asked you specifically to bring your broom,” Harry grinned. “With one on either side, nothing will drip on us. And we'd be more spread out … not like being inside a great sack.”

“My, my, my,” Hermione replied. “You sound like you've thought this out.”

“I don't believe it!” Harry mocked being surprised.

“Don't believe what?” Hermione sounded a bit put off.

“I finally thought of something before you,” Harry declared.

“That's because you were using your other head,” Hermione shot back.

“Sometimes it has better ideas….”

“Hey! That is Neville!” Hermione interrupted, changing the subject.

Harry put the bike in steep descent.

Neville was practicing with the Staff of Asclepius. An entire vineyard, which should have been in winter hibernation, looked like mid-summer. Beyond that, the vines swayed back and forth in time with his staff.

Neville must have been concentrating very hard, because he seemed genuinely surprised - and a bit red-faced - when Harry landed the bike and rolled to a stop nearby.

Hermione leapt from the sidecar as Harry shut off the motorbike's various charms. “Neville, that's really impressive!” she bubbled. “So this is what the Staff lets you do.”

“Umm … some of it,” Neville replied modestly. “I can use the Staff to animate plants….”

“But on such a large scale,” Hermione continued. “Have you been hiding what you can do from us?”

“Actually, you're right,” Neville told that girl who was so often right. “The next time something happens, I don't want to be so useless. Pom … Professor Sprout's been helping me. But it's hard to, well, expand my abilities at Hogwarts with everyone about….”

“Why be so secretive?” Harry asked, as he walked over to Hermione and slipped his hand into hers. “I think it's great. You should demonstrate at the next D.A. meeting. That would show people they can do things, too.”

“Harry,” Hermione said in a way that told him he should choose his words more carefully, “Neville can do….”

Neville shook his head with a resigned little smile. “He's right, you know. You guys do so much stuff…. I'm not insulted. I'm just trying to do my part.”

“And it's a very good part,” Hermione added. “What else can you do?”

“I've learnt to make plants - most of them, anyway - be obstructive,” he told them.

“You mean, like, trip people up?” Harry followed.

“Yeah,” Neville confirmed. “These vines here, I'm farthest along with them. Watch.”

Neville made a motion with the Staff, and a couple of the grape vines reached out to Harry and started curling tightly around his arm.

“Yow!” he yelped at the sensation of being restrained. Pulling his arm away did not good. Instinctively Harry flicked out his wand. He was about to fire off a Severing Charm when Neville shifted the Staff in the other way and the vines retreated.

“Works only with vines, though,” Neville admitted. “And some trees. But with barley, or wildflowers, things like that, the best I can do is animate them so they'd get in your way. What I'm trying to do is this….”

He twirled the Staff like a drum major. The grape vines rippled and began to change. For a bit, some of them Transfigured into something lower, leafier, and Hermione thought, decidedly deadlier than a source of alcoholic beverages.

Only for an instant.

POP!

With a sputtering sound, the grape vines returned to their prior state - as Neville fell heavily on his backside.

“Neville!” both Harry and Hermione called out. They dropped down beside him. Harry was about was about to hoist the heavily breathing and somewhat disoriented boy to his feet. With a firm hand to Harry's thigh, Hermione stopped him.

“Neville, are you okay?” Hermione asked gently. Expertly, she put her other hand to his neck to feel for his pulse. It was light and fast, signifying exhaustion.

“He'll be all right,” she reassured Harry.

She was, once again, right. When Neville finished shaking the cobwebs out of his head, she asked him what he had done.

“It's … It's something Pom wanted me to practice…. Getting them to change species … to something that might be more … useful…,” he panted. “I'm not all that … good at it, yet … obviously….” His voice trailed off as he stared at the Staff, whilst shaking his head. “But I'll keep trying.”

“Neville?” Hermione asked cautiously. “What transformation were you attempting? I thought I saw Devil's Snare for an instant.”

“That's it, Hermione,” Neville affirmed.

“But … why that?” Hermione wondered, seeming somewhat disappointed in the choice.

“It could be protective,” he said. “I'm trying to be useful.”

Harry squeezed his shoulder. “You are, Nev. Don't ever doubt that…. And, speaking of protection, we came looking for you because the goblins just brought that Basilisk skin armour they measured you for….”

That brought Neville to his feet. “Great,” he said. “I guess I ought to be heading back anyway.”

“You can ride with us, Nev,” Harry offered. “Be much quicker. You must be forty-five minutes away by foot, you can't Apparate yet, and I forgot to bring a Portkey.”

“I could make one,” Hermione offered, “but I'm a bit out of practice.”

Neville regarded the sleek Gus Kuhn Norton suspiciously. “I've never ridden anything like … like that.”

“You take the sidecar, then,” Hermione offered. “I'll ride pillion behind Harry.”

“What … what sidecar?” Neville asked.

“Show him, Harry,” Hermione beckoned.

Harry revved up the motorbike, and turned a switch. Once again, the bike grew a sidecar.

* * * *

The - she would have called herself their servant - led the two young ladies through corridors that reeked of disuse. The old-style torches, supported by angular supports bearing the ChÃ¢teau's distinctive chambered nautilus motif, provided mostly adequate light. The Everlasting Candles the two visitors brought were an excellent supplement.

The place was musty - the stale smell once a space was closed off for months, if not years, at a time.

“Here's where I go, milady,” the liveried witch came to a halt. “The Muggle portion of the Black library has been kept here for the last several hundred years.”

“How did you find it?” Hermione asked her. “Annie, isn't it?”

“Oh, that wasn't hard at all, milady,” the witch known only as Annie told the de facto Proprietress of the ChÃ¢teau. “The Muggle section is listed quite plainly on all the maps. It's just … the family had such pure-blood prejudice so many generations that nobody bothers with it….”

“And you're different,” Luna chimed in.

Annie appeared to be debating something with herself. She brought her forefinger to her lips in the universal symbol for quiet. “I've never told anyone, but I'm a Mudblood, milady,” Annie whispered, unhesitatingly mouthing the slur as if it were ingrained. “I've hidden it all these years. I don't know why I was even hired, except I'm really good at Charms. Anyway, nobody's minded my going there as it's on my own time. And then … it was so amazing and improbable….”

“What was?” Hermione asked.

Luna touched Hermione's wrist. “If you thought about it, I'm sure it would come to you.”

Hermione felt the empath's power flow through her - and she knew.

“Milady, it's because….” Annie wanted to say it first. “…because all of a sudden, we've a new Muggle-raised Proprietor, and the … I shouldn't make assumptions … you're Muggle-born, like me, milady - and I knew you like books, since you wanted a comprehensive library ticket. I knew the play from my reading, that's why I chose it.”

“And everyone let you make that decision?” Hermione asked, as she lowered the candle she was carrying. It seemed odd.

“Nobody cared strongly enough to veto it, and … again, it's not my place, milady.” Annie drew up short again, looking nervous.

Hermione thought she knew why, but thought better of saying so. She returned to her original question. “Do you know what you gave me?”

“It's a book of plays, milady,” Annie answered, not sounding at all evasive. “And, forgive me, but your name's … er … distinctive, and since it matched the title…. It's in a foreign language, but I know a Translating Charm that works.”

“It's rather more than that,” Hermione told her - and Luna, too. “You haven't had a classical education, I gather?”

“No, milady, my father worked in the pits - until they closed,” Annie revealed. “Mum did odd jobs when she worked at all. No money for that…”

“The play named `Hermione' is by Sophocles, and you gave me his complete works,” Hermione stated.

Still, Annie betrayed no sign of recognition.

“I'm sorry, milady, I know the name but vaguely,” she confessed. “I know only that I like to read what's in there.”

“I have a cousin named Sophocles,” Luna added. “He liked to pull my hair when he was little. Oww!”

Her Everlasting Candle dripped a bit of hot everlasting wax on Luna's right hand.

“Well, I was more fortunate, I suppose,” Hermione stated what was already obvious. “Sophocles was a famous ancient Greek playwright. He wrote over a hundred plays, but only Oedipus the King, Oedipus Colonus, Ajax, Antigone, Electra, and two others have survived. Seven - that's all that's left. In Muggle culture, that is. What you gave me is priceless … or beyond value is a better description.”

None of this registered particularly with Annie. Perhaps she was too far removed from Muggle culture to appreciate it. Having brought the two visiting witches to the collection, she begged off. “Anyway, I need to be going. I wish you luck, milady.”

Hermione watched the woman leave, and shook her head.

Luna stood there, not paying much attention to anything. The blond Ravenclaw set her candle down, reached up to her right ear, removed one of her earrings - and suddenly ate it.

Hermione looked rather cross-wise at her companion. “Luna, did you just do what I thought you did?”

“That depends,” the inscrutable girl answered. “What do you think I did?”

“Did you just eat one of your earrings?” Hermione asked pointedly.

“Yes, and it was quite good,” Luna affirmed, whilst chomping away as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“But … but aren't those Gurdyroots?” Hermione continued. “They're supposed to be really foul - like horseradish boiled in angostura, only worse.”

“Actually, they're just onions,” Luna replied with a vacant smile. “Although, now that you mention it, I really must try Gurdyroots some time.”

“Onions?” Hermione asked as if hardly believing her ears. “That's all?”

Luna was rarely so mundane.

“Well…,” she murmured, as if thinking hard. “They're mini-Vidalias, actually … quite sweet, you know…. And only a rather modest Sticking Charm is involved.”

“Luna, they're onions,” Hermione repeated.

“Most Vidalias are,” Luna deadpanned. She removed the onion from her remaining earring and offered it to Hermione. “Here, you can have the other….”

“Umm … thanks, but no thanks,” Hermione demurred, not entirely convinced it was not a Gurdyroot.

“Have it your way,” Luna shrugged. She popped the other one in her mouth. “They're my favourites, now - much better than radishes.”

“I'm sure of that,” Hermione made conversation. “You wore something similar the other day.”

“Umm hmm,” Luna responded vaguely, trying not to talk with her mouth full.

With Luna having a snack, Hermione took an apricot granola bar from her bag and joined in. When done, Hermione carefully Vanished any crumbs. They turned to the matter at hand.

“We're probably the first people to review this seriously fashion in hundreds of years,” Hermione told Luna. “Why don't I look through the shelves and you write down what I say I've found….”

“You don't need me, then,” Luna commented. She pulled a Quik Quotes Quill from her robes.

“Sorry, I forgot,” Hermione apologised. “I lapsed into Muggle mode. Just call out titles and authors, then. If there's anything in a language you can't read, let me know.”

That happened frequently. Luna spoke only English, Celtic (including Keltoi), FÃ¦rie, and a smattering of French.

Most volumes were in Latin or Greek, but hieroglyphs were common enough that Hermione suspected that much of the collection must have originated from Egypt. Interspersed, in no particular order, were texts in old Arabic, Middle German, and Maltese - none of which either witch could read.

It was a treasure hunt in every sense of the word.

Extant titles comprised the great bulk of the collection, but Hermione catalogued about a dozen works - mostly bound copies of cut up scrolls - by Aristotle that she was unfamiliar with. Luna found an equally antiquated copy of aphorisms attributed to Julius Caesar. Other works followed: Eratosthenes' book on cartography, a philosophical work by Anaxagoras, Euclid's Porisms, two of Pliny's missing histories, one of Strabo's, a set of about forty of Aeschylus' plays, and another batch of Menander's. Hermione also came across various religious texts that, being a confirmed atheist, she placed little stock in. The most notable were several volumes by Simon Magus (whom Luna claimed had links to the Druids).

These were just the works Hermione could recognise. Many other ancient texts either bore no titles or were too damaged to be identified.

“Oh, look at this!” Hermione cried, at her most exciting find as by anything she had discovered so far. “It's an astronomical work by Hypatia!”

“I thought she was a witch,” Luna remarked.

“She was, at least we think so,” Hermione agreed. “It's difficult to know because almost everyone was a wild talent back then. I don't know that any magical schools existed so long ago.”

Hermione looked through the book - it was in Greek like most works of that time - enough to grasp what the book was about. She closed it reverently and was about to replace it when Luna stopped her.

“Before you do, you might want to check what that is.”

Luna, standing and well to a seated Hermione's left, had a much better view of the end of the old bookshelf. The Hypatia text was the shelf's end tome.

Hermione squirmed around to examine what Luna mentioned. “Looks interesting. Good catch, Luna. How far back do these go?”

“Lumos,” Luna lit her wand to supply better light. Out of the shadows emerged several sets of red dots painted on the bookshelf's inner wall - each set enclosed in a square. The first square was empty. The next one had one dot, as did the square that. Its successor doubled, to two. After that, the dots quickly multiplied, to three, then five, and then eight. The adjacent squares, and their patterns, looked vaguely like dominoes.

The final square had no dots, only a single small hole, deep enough to remain in shadow despite Luna's wand light.

“What's that all about?” Luna asked. “You're the one taking Analytic Arithmancy & Numerology.”

“I don't know. I hadn't thought about it….” Hermione s voice trailed off. Holding her Everlasting Candle close whilst staring, she contemplated the pattern. “I know!” Hermione announced with a squeal. She removed a couple more volumes from the shelf, enlarging the space. “Take these!”

Luna did.

Soon Hermione had emptied about a quarter of the shelf. Putting her candle at floor level for best illumination, she doused her wand and inserted it into the hole, a snug fit. She pushed it in as far as it would go, about ten centimetres.

It made an audible click when it could go no further.

Hermione repeated the process and heard another click.

She did it again, repeating herself eleven more times. After the final click, Hermione declared, “Now, let's see what that does…. I hope that….”

A loud clunk resonated behind them, then a grinding sound - stone on stone - similar to the moving wall between her and Harry's bedrooms. Luna whirled about, wand at the ready. It was still lit and shone like a search light. Hermione yanked hers from the hole in the shelf so quickly she felt it flex, but did no lasting damage.

By then, Luna's wand light illuminated a newly visible crawlspace in the opposite wall, about a metre square. It went on for some distance, with no end in sight.

Hermione cautiously approached the entrance, her candle in one hand and her wand, its tip glowing brightly, in the other. The tunnel extended for maybe ten metres to access some sort of chamber. In that room's shadows, Hermione thought she saw something large, square, and solid - a box of some sort.

“What do you think?” Hermione asked Luna, her own eyes shining with the thrill of discovery.

“Shouldn't we get Harry?” Luna asked flatly.

“Logically, yes,” Hermione agreed after thinking. “But … it might turn out to be nothing, and he'd probably rather practise his Quidditch moves. Besides, we found this. We're competent to do something on our own, this once.”

“So be it,” Luna pronounced. “But I should go first.”

“Why?” Hermione huffed.

“Because if something in there kills me, nobody would care much,” Luna said airily - discussing her possible death in an oddly detached and clinical fashion. “If anything happened to you, I honestly don't know what Harry would do, and I wouldn't want to find out.”

“You … you think it might be booby-trapped?” Hermione asked, now alarmed at her own would-be recklessness.

“And you don't? Somebody took a great deal of trouble to hide whatever is in there,” Luna replied, still sounding clinical and detached. “I wouldn't put it past them.”

“Good point,” Hermione agreed, her eyes carefully examining the passage, and their surroundings. “Let use some of these, for starters.”

Hermione's candlelight illuminated some old boards lying in a corner, perhaps leftovers from constructing the bookshelves.

They stacked six boards at the entrance. Hermione aimed her wand and incanted, “Mobiliambulato.”

The boards sprung to life, paired off, and walked down the low corridor. Sure enough, before they passed halfway through, a large wooden gate slammed shut across the tunnel. With a loud crash, it crushed the leading pair of boards, and smashed itself in the process. The ancient gate shattered on impact with the opposite wall.

The remaining boards easily strode through gaping holes in the thoroughly rotted gate, but a clatter sounded a couple of seconds later - the noise wood made when dropped a considerable distance onto a hard surface.

On their hands and knees, with their candles hovering in front, Luna and Hermione cautiously approached the gate. The floor was dry, dusty, and dirty. As they reached the splintered obstacle, Hermione noticed something embedded in the wall.

“It's another square with a wand hole,” she observed, motioning her candle closer with her wand. She thought a bit, and inserted her wand in the hole, which seemed identical to that in the bookshelf. She heard an identical click. Hermione moved her wand in and out until producing a total of twenty-one clicks. She stopped and waited.

With a loud creak, a hidden counterweight attempted to slide the gate aside, but the timeworn wooden structure was too damaged. It broke in half, leaving a large piece lying haphazardly in the corridor.

Something else also happened.

Two dull thuds further in drew their attention. Their wand light revealed two large stones partially covering a deep pit. A cloud of disturbed dust was still visible from when the stones dropped into place.

“What did you do?” Luna whispered.

“Put the key in the lock, it appears,” Hermione answered dryly. The pair had no reason to whisper, but did anyway.

By candle and wand light, they advanced cautiously, but encountered no more traps - only the stalest air either of them had ever breathed. Hermione was tempted to refresh the air magically, but feared she might damage whatever was inside the dull turquoise-green crypt they were approaching. That was the only sizable thing in the otherwise featureless, stone-walled cubicle.

Hermione carefully examined the crypt. It, too, had Greek letters and various symbols - runic, but not runes - worked into it.

“It looks like an address, or maybe directions,” Hermione observed as she ran her fingers over the somewhat corroded metal surface. “That set here, Î‘Î¼Î¼ÏŒÏ‡Ï‰ÏƒÏ„Î¿Ï‚, references the old city of Famagusta.”

“Where's that?”

“Don't know for certain. It's not in any magical history. I expect somewhere in Greece, or maybe one of the islands … Crete perhaps?”

Stepping back, Hermione opened the crypt with a simple spell. Inside she saw a jumble of religious artefacts, including a menorah, all copper from the blue-green colour. Hermione Levitated these out. Underneath, wrapped in deteriorated leather covers, were pages of some sort, all with writing on them.

“Reveal your secrets,” Hermione spelled, before disturbing anything further.

The incantation exposed several overlapping Preservative Charms of very ancient pedigree, probably dating back to Roman times. One leather covered folio was much more elaborately worked than the rest. It bore a title in both Greek and another language she did not recognise. The Greek inscription read: Î· Î±Î»Î®Î¸ÎµÎ¹Î± Î³Î¹Î± Ï„Î¿ ÏƒÏ„Î±Ï…Ï�ÏŒ.

“What's it mean?” Luna whispered as Hermione gently Levitated the folio, until it rested atop the cover for the crypt.

“The two main words are `truth' and `cross',” Hermione told her. “Also a preposition that could be translated various ways - and a couple o articles. Don't touch….”

Hermione's last words brought Luna up short. She threw Hermione a puzzled look.

“I don't recognise these Preservative Charms - unlike those out there,” she told her. “It's possible that the grease on our fingertips might damage what's here.”

Hermione preferred to manipulate the pages magically. Circumspectly she turned the papyrus pages with her wand as Luna held both their candles.

“Jesus Christ,” Hermione sighed after she had been reading for a few minutes.

“What's wrong?” Luna asked.

“No, that's what I'm reading about. It purports to describe how he grew up - things like that. I'm wondering….”

She skipped to the end, meticulously turning over all but the last few pages.

“Hmmmm.”

She flipped back a couple of pages and read raptly.

Somewhat bored at being relegated to a mere source of illumination, instead of support, Luna discovered something interesting in the two incomprehensible languages. She saw cross-outs and interlineations, but only in the language that Hermione declared was not Greek.

“Oh, my!” Hermione gasped.

“What?”

“Later. Sorry”

…

“Whoa!”

“What?”

“Later.”

…

“Shite!”

“What is it, Hermione?”

“Later.”

Luna set down the candles. “Look, I'm right bored, Hermione. Either tell me why we need to keep doing this, or I'm ready to leave. You're not being fair to me.”

“You're right.” Hermione gave her wand a twist. The folio closed, and Hermione magicked it carefully back into the crypt. She assiduously replaced the various artefacts as she told Luna what she had read.

“Okay, I was mostly done anyway. It's a religious text, purporting to tell another version - what it calls the `true' version of the life of Jesus. But … it's much, much different than anything I've ever heard before….”

“Like how?” Luna asked. “Was he a Heliopath or something? That would explain a lot.”

“No, nothing that … er … unusual,” Hermione suppressed a slight chuckle. “But he didn't die on any cross, according to this.”

“Really? Who did then?”

“He was crucified all right, but didn't die. It was staged. He had taken a potion, perhaps the Draught of Living Death. - I recognised a description of Sopophorous Beans.”

“So Jesus Christ was a wizard, then? That makes sense.”

“No, he wasn't. He was a great philosopher and apparently very charismatic.”

“Well, somebody magical had to brew that potion.”

“There was. Judas Iscariot was a wizard. He was trained somewhere, probably Egypt. He orchestrated Jesus' apparent miracles, but then….”

“They had a falling out?” Luna offered.

“No,” Hermione answered quickly. “Jesus … well, he fell in love and didn't want to do the prophet thing anymore.”

“Mary Magdelene,” Luna pronounced confidently, “even I've heard about that.”

“No, actually,” Hermione contradicted. “Ironically, Mary Magdelene ruined their plans. That woman was Mary Beth somebody or other. Anyway, Jesus tried to fake his death so he could escape with Mary Beth to Petra and live happily ever after. Judas, since he could perform miracles, would take over the sect - a Jewish sect, by the way, not a new religion. But after Judas sneaked into the tomb and gave Jesus the potion antidote, Mary Magdelene and her friends surprised them. Judas Stunned them, and Jesus made good his escape…. Apparently the whole resurrection thing was simply a mistake.”

“Okay, but something else must also have gone wrong, because Judas obviously didn't take over the Church,” Luna observed presciently.

“Judas was a lousy prophet. He became as arrogant as Draco Malfoy. Within a year Peter led some sort of revolt, caught Judas unawares, and killed him. Peter led the sect towards a whole new religion, and the rest is history.”

“And if anybody were to make known this `Truth about the Cross,' or whatever it's called…,” Luna did not finish her sentence.

“Luna, you are not going to publish this in the Quibbler!” Hermione instinctively told her firmly, it slipping her mind that the publication was essentially extinct. “Not only might it overturn the foundation Christianity, but this work refers so often to magic - it undoubtedly would violate the International Statute of Secrecy.”

“Can't blame me for thinking,” Luna replied dreamily.

“Luna, listen to me,” Hermione spoke with deadly seriousness. “Not a word to anyone. If that's a problem, tell me now, and I'll Obliviate you. It's a recent memory. I'm good enough to do that.”

“No need.” Luna took Hermione's arm and let her feel her honesty. “Not a word. I'm a Druid. Basically, it's not my concern.”

“Thank you, Luna,” Hermione breathed as she hugged the younger girl. “You're a great friend.”

“As are you,” Luna returned. “And did you see what I saw?”

“I can't answer unless you tell me,” Hermione replied. She Summoned the remaining loose boards and made ready to leave.

“Somebody made additions and cross-outs,” Luna mentioned.

“Yes, and all in the same hand, and accompanied by the same cartouche. Whoever it was, and I have my suspicions, wasn't literate in Greek, and made corrections in the language he could read.”

“Or she,” Luna added helpfully.

“I'm a signature collector,” Hermione told Luna. “I'm ninety-nine percent sure that's a man's handwriting, and a rather aged hand at that.”

“And your suspicions?” Luna added.

“This is just too big,” Hermione spoke in a hushed voice. “I'd rather not say until I do a little more research.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Court curtseys are extremely deep, prolonged, and occasionally suggestive

Six degrees of consanguinity would be to the second cousin, or a first cousin twice removed. It's the traditional legal limit for conflicts of interest due to blood relationship

The maproom painting is the da Vinci referred to in Ch. 63, the Battle of Anghiari

Novus Erus - literally “new master”

The privilege is also called droit de seigneur

There was actually someone named Ima Hogg - the daughter of Texas governor Jim Hogg

There are Deerhurst dragons in English mythology

There are house-elves and field-elves, just like there were house and field slaves in the American South

The ChÃ¢teau's insignia will become important

The Greek letters spell out “Complete works of Sophocles” including the play “Hermione,” of which only fragments are known

The Pennines are a low mountain range running through Lancashire

Sex/nature's way - Benjamin Franklin once said this about beer; I think it is a more appropriate description of sex

Heir/spare - said about Charles and Di's two sons

All was well, the closing words of the infamous epilogue

A tick list used for this purpose, is called a punch list in the USA

Think one of M.C. Escher's stairway drawings

The Basilisk armor will come in handy

Folliculus inverso is the incantation for the inverted baldness spell mentioned in Ch. 14

The Tibetan language spell was the Dark Fire of Tu-Fan

Estus is a warming spell

The Devil's Snare transfiguration will come in handy

The reference to the closed pits is from the Who's “The Dirty Jobs”

The discussion of Sophocles' works is accurate

Vidalias are sweet onions grown in my original home state of Georgia

The episode with Luna's edible earrings will have an odd consequence

Keltoi was first mentioned in Ch. 39

The mention of hieroglyphs and Hypatia implies the origin of most of the collection

All of the ancient books are know to have existed but have been lost over time

There is a simple, and famous, pattern to the numbers in the squares

The crypt is made of copper, which oxidizes to a turquoise color

Famagusta is not in Crete

This aspect of the plot was inspired, but not at all like, the recent discovery of the Gospel of Judas

Mary Beth = Mary of Bethany

This particular gospel is Apocrypha - very deep Apocrypha

Recall the letter Harry received in Ch. 26 and that he finally opened in Ch. 58

63

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 8/3/2008

Document created with wvWare/wvWare version 1.2.7

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65. Visitations

Wherein Harry and Hermione discuss religion, kick an issue upstairs, Harry talks politics, two odd ones just talk, Hermione is questioned, runs errands, and finds what she wants, Hermione confesses to Harry, Luna sees a sign, the rat comes back, and Harry agrees to an outing.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

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

Chapter 65 - Visitations

Hermione lapsed into silence, having finished her overly exhaustive description of the most significant of several ancient manuscripts that she and Luna had discovered in a secret room off of the Château's long-disused Muggle library.

Harry was also silent. Hermione's exegesis was largely beyond his rudimentary religious background. Years of magical exposure meant he doubted that anything was truly supernatural. His scepticism was strongly reinforced by the Dursleys' abject failure to practice anything approaching the denatured Anglicanism that they preached - even putting aside their starving, beating, and heaping mental abuse on him.

So Harry was much more impressed with Hermione's other finds. “You really found books by Aristotle, Archimedes, and people like that … books that are lost everywhere else?”

“Yes, Harry, but back to my main point, I think this `Truth of the Cross,' or however it translates, might be the `Gospel of Truth' mentioned in that strange letter you received.” Hermione could be quite persistent.

And Harry was nothing if not obstinate. “Why should you, or anybody, care so much? It's all made up; that's what you just said.”

“We used to think magic was made up,” Hermione reminded him.

“Yeah,” conceded Harry, “but that's exactly why it's kept secret. Use a bit of magic to wow the Muggles, and they'll believe anything. A little hocus pocus, a lot of hokum, and boom, in comes money and up go cathedrals.”

“That's what you and think, but six hundred years ago, saying that you could get burned at the stake, or worse,” Hermione declared.

“What could be worse than being burnt alive - for a Muggle that is?” Harry quickly added, hoping to avoid being lectured about Wendelin the Weird.

He received a reminder of a different sort. “Not much … I speak from personal experience….”

Harry shuddered at the thought.

“…Although some might say the Church's punishment of the Black family was more cruel.”

“Umm … sorry, but why care so much about that old book?” Harry returned to the heart of the matter. From hard experience he knew that, if Hermione thought something important, usually it was.

“Because that `old book' purports to be - and, who knows, might just be - autobiographical … written by Jesus Christ himself,” Hermione whispered. “Complete with his handwritten corrections. Think what that might mean.”

“That he wasn't born in a manger like on the telly?” Harry asked. “So they might have to cancel Christmas?”

“More like they might have to cancel Christianity,” Hermione corrected, looking at Harry seriously. “Think about it. If this story's true, then Jesus wasn't divine; stayed a Jew; his miracles were staged by a mediocre wizard; the crucifixion was a hoax; the resurrection a botched elopement; and to top it all off, St. Peter wasn't his intended successor.”

“Okay….”

“Well, after all that, what's left of both Christian dogma and the Church's legitimacy?” Hermione rattled on. “No wonder the Church did what it did - or that even now, after all these centuries, it still wants this book.”

“To do what?” Harry asked bluntly.

“Either to discredit it, or failing that, to destroy it, I'm sure,” Hermione predicted.

“Then I'm binning that letter,” Harry declared. “I can't be a party to that….”

Her hand on his arm stopped Harry cold. “Don't do anything rash. For one thing, it's apparent that the Church, or at some people in it, know more than we'd thought about you and the Blacks.”

Hermione surprised him. “How so?” Harry asked.

Hermione reversed his question. “Well, when that letter arrived in Reims, your inheritance wasn't exactly public knowledge, was it?”

Harry thought about it. Hermione was right. The Reims speech in mid-August seemed so long ago; before his kidnapping. So much had been different. For one thing, his kidnapping precluded him from appearing at the Wizengamot hearing concerning the Black inheritance - where Hermione acknowledged her love for him in open court.

Hermione's question silenced Harry for quite some time. His expression showed that he was thinking hard. Finally an odd little smile crossed his face. He turned, and without saying anything further, took her face in his hands and gave her a gentle, lingering kiss.

“You're right. They had to know,” he whispered in her ear afterwards. “What do you think?”

Hermione's warm, fuzzy feeling from Harry's kiss vanished. “I-I don't know…. This is way, way over our heads. Did you tell Dumbledore about the letter?”

“Nope. Didn't get around to it with everything else going on,” Harry admitted, a bit sheepishly. “But he has to know something. He was there when I received it.”

“Well, now there's good reason to tell him - about all of this,” Hermione proposed. “I know he's not totally trustworthy, but this is big, Harry. Too big for us. Nobody would really know how to deal with this….”

* * * *

Along with a parting kiss, Hermione told Harry, “See you when I get back. Besides, you'd rather have that kind of meeting without a notoriously radical Muggle-born - present.”

Accompanied by Tonks and several goblins, Hermione was headed for London. She would meet with a D'Israeli, Braddock lawyer and sit through what promised to be her rather boring testimony before the inquest into her father's misdeeds. She was unconcerned because, as one short prep session at the Château made quite clear, Hermione knew nothing whatsoever about the topics of the inquest.

Hermione also planned last-minute Christmas shopping, sandwiched around a routine trip to the Ministry's Apparition Test Centre. She was now of age and could obtain an ordinary Apparition licence.

Harry stayed behind largely because Professor Shacklebolt wanted to meet and discuss politics - specifically, Harry presumed, Shak's upcoming electoral campaign for Minister of Magic.

Hermione was barely gone ten minutes when the Floo flared. Garbed in Hogwarts professor's robes, Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped from the fireplace at the kitchen end of the Château's formal dining hall.

One of the staff showed the visitor to the Map Room where, with the overblown trappings of proprietorship safely back in storage, Harry awaited his visitor in what was said to be the Château's most secure room.

“Mister Potter, the new Baron of Blackwalls,” Kingsley boomed out as he set eyes on the wizard who, at Hogwarts, remained his ostensible (and actual) student. His tone, a little too hale and hearty for the occasion, betrayed a fair degree of ongoing tension.

“Professor,” Harry acknowledged, likewise a bit stiffly. “You wanted a private meeting. Is something wrong?”

“Please, call me Shak,” Kingsley tried breaking the ice. “I'd like to get us back on a first-name basis after that monumental cock-up about the ball…. And always when the Order is concerned, yes, there's something the matter. But first, is this room secure?”

“The Château's most sensitive business is transacted here,” Harry told the man, passing over the recent investiture ceremony. “I'm told it's the best I have.”

“Good enough that a staff mostly hired by Lucius Malfoy won't try listening in?” Shak cautioned.

“I ran Surveillius Revelato,” Harry countered. “It was clean.”

“Humour me, please,” the once and (perhaps) future Auror requested. He performed a couple of sophisticated spells Harry did not know. From the gist of the incantations, these were plainly privacy charms.

“All right … Shak,” Harry said afterwards. “What's going on now?”

Shak began. “Politics, of course - developments I'd rather you learnt from me, given our previous discussions on the subject.”

Harry remained sceptical. “Sensitive enough that you'd rather not involve Hermione?”

“Face it Harry,” Shak responded without pretense, “in some circles, she's an issue. Let's avoid making her more of one, okay?”

“She's okay with it,” Harry minced words, leaving out any details. “So what's the scoop?”

“I'm sure you remember what Dumbledore and I told you earlier,” Shak took care to drop the Headmaster's name. “We were anticipating a political campaign for control of the Ministry this spring. We expected Scrimgeour to be the candidate of the pure-blood supremacy faction. Since he'd never been elected to anything, and was quite the blowhard, we thought we could take him in an election. Our best chance since the last war, we thought. Those Death Eater attacks - especially the one on London - repulsed a goodly portion of an electorate that's ordinarily swayed by pure-blood superiority arguments.”

Harry scowled at the notion that any good could come from Death Eater attacks, but offered no direct comment. Instead, he tried speeding things along. “Yeah, I'm aware that you'll be our side's candidate, and Hermione's willing to lay low so she won't do more harm than good. So when's the election?”

“That's why I wanted to see you,” Shak answered. “We won't have one. Things have changed.”

“Why? Weren't there enough Death Eater attacks?” Harry let loose the pointed comment that had been swirling around his brain.

Shak either missed or ignored Harry's sarcasm. “Quite enough, actually. And the last one - well, that sealed things. Frankly, Scrimgeour's been better than we'd hoped for, and his vigorous response to the latest attacks causes us … Dumbledore, really … to reconsider demanding an election. Inevitably that would cause disunity in the face of the enemy and, equally bad, we're no longer as sure that we'd win.”

Harry went from apathetic to animated in about five seconds.

“You're … we're … giving up? Without a fight?” he spluttered, as the jagged thought of surrender stuck in his craw.

“Not at all,” Shak reassured. “It's politics. When we give something, we gain something.”

“And that is?”

“Scrimgeour retaining direct control over the Auror Corps to ensure full cooperation and coordination with the Order against Voldemort, for starters,” Shak explained. “He's agreed to formal Ministry ratification of the goblin treaty, with the backing of his faction in the Wizengamot…. We never thought we'd get that.”

“His supporters will let that happen?” Harry inquired, his eyebrows rising. “But I thought they were the worst….”

“Some yes, some no,” Shak hastened to clarify. “That will undoubtedly force a clean break between Scrimgeour and the ultra pure-blood faction. He knows that. But he's been losing their support anyway, which is why he was ready to bargain. We even obtained something specifically for you in the deal.”

“I don't need anything,” Harry declared, sounding affronted.

“They've agreed to a commission to re-examine marital property laws,” Shak whispered in Harry's ear. “We expect it would recommend reforms not only involving the dowry question, but inheritance restrictions on Muggle-borns as well….”

Harry recoiled. “Muggle-borns? You mean…?”

“Quite,” Shak confirmed before the question even escaped Harry's lips. “You really can't pretend that Miss Granger's presence here, and in general simply being with you, has gone unnoticed by the Minister. He has many faults, but he's always been politically attuned.”

As Harry assimilated that information, another point evaded him. “What inheritance laws are you talking about?”

“Surely your Mister Howe has discussed this?” Shak responded in an incredulous yet condescending way that unfortunately only raised Harry's hackles. “I understand that a will of yours is floating about, although the goblins won't let a soul know what's in it.”

“I wrote that bloody will myself,” Harry replied curtly. “I used Blackie's form book, nothing more.”

Shak paused, waiting to see if Harry would divulge any of the will's terms. When it became clear that he would not, Shak continued.

“Well, at present there are restrictions on what and how much property Muggle-borns can inherit directly from pure-bloods - or from half-bloods like you,” Shak told Harry pointedly. “I don't claim to know all the details, but the theory is to require more socialisation. All restricted property must be held in trust for the children…. That's why you have trusts, Harry. Your mother was a Muggle-born.”

Harry's brow furrowed as he tried thinking back. “I don't think that's how Dumbledore explained it….”

They talked for quite some time about inheritance and other implications of the arrangement being reached between the Dumbledore/Order faction and Scrimgeour's faction. Finally, Shak arrived at the real reason for his call.

“…and that explains the seven votes against you in the Wizengamot. The Council's probably worse. They initially backed Scrimgeour as more competent than Fudge, but he hasn't disavowed the goblin treaty and has continued purging Death Eater sympathisers from the Ministry. They think that the purge is, if not aimed at them, at least affecting them disproportionately - and we both know that's true. They're on the verge of an open break anyway….”

“So the thought is to beat them to the punch?” Harry concluded.

“Pretty much,” Shak confirmed. “They're coalescing behind the new DMLE Head, a wizard named Thicknesse … apt name, that. Thicknesse has tried to interfere with the Auror Corps' relations with the Order. That's why Rufus' direct control is part of our little surprise.”

“So what do you think about all this?” Harry asked Shak.

The dark-skinned wizard sighed. “Truthfully, I'm not particularly happy. Forgive me, it's not that I don't like teaching, but at heart I'll always be an Auror, not a professor.” A wistful cast came to his face. “I resigned from the Corps and accepted this job thinking it was a temporary expedient because the Order needed me to stand for Minister. Now it looks like all that is for naught….”

“Dumbledore has a strange way of rewarding his supporters, doesn't he?” Harry remarked impassively.

“He does indeed,” Shak agreed. “But it's all for the best, I think. I can't blame him for wanting to avoid a divisive election with all this Death Eater activity going on. So, are you in?”

Harry had almost felt sorry for Kinglsey Shacklebolt until that question. “What do you mean, `in?'” he parried, trying to keep his expression neutral.

“We want you on board with this deal,” Shak told him. “We can't have you - or Hermione - treating Minister Scrimgeour worse than, say, Fudge. You're a public figure, like it or not. Not only are you an Order of Merlin winner, but because it's Second Class, after your seventeenth birthday, that puts you in the Wizengamot. Particularly as to the goblin treaty, it may be necessary for you to speak out publicly. It is in all our interests…,” Shak deliberately emphasised, “…to ensure that you're a party to all this.”

Shak stopped speaking and eyed Harry keenly.

Harry deliberated. Now he wished he had not acceded so easily to Hermione's absence. She was much better attuned to all this political malarkey - because she cared more. He missed her sage advice.

But appreciating her own radical image, she had deliberately distanced herself. Obviously, her thoughts had coincided with the Order's. There would be rumours regardless - that she manipulated Harry politically - and she did not want to add weight to them.

Unstated, but nevertheless clear, was Hermione's willingness to hold her tongue, at least in public. That was a considerable sacrifice for her. A traitorous bit of his mind wondered what her price for acquiescence might be.

“I doubt it'll matter as much as you think, but I'll give it a go,” Harry concurred.

“Excellent,” Shak intoned. “I can't really blame you for being less than enthusiastic. I'm not either. Now, does that fireplace work?”

Harry flicked out his wand. “Incendio.” Flames crackled merrily. “Yeah,” Harry said.

“I meant as a Floo,” Shak clarified.

Harry went a bit pink in the face. “Oh…. For security reasons, not unless I activate it with my wand,” he said.

“Well then, if you please,” Shak explicitly requested. “The Minister's waiting.”

“Waiting? Where?” Harry yipped as realisation of what Shak meant sank in.

“In his office, of course,” Shak answered, as calmly as if discussing the six variants of the Protego Charm.

“No,” Harry said firmly. “I'm not going to do that. Even for the sake of…. I don't care enough about inheritance, anyway. Why should I? I'd be dead….”

“Harry, the Minister would very much like to make your acquaintance…. To work through details of what you're willing and unwilling do,” Shak persisted, almost pleading.

“I'm sure he would,” Harry stood firm, his eyes straying to the intricate battle scene filling the opposite wall - to the horsemen struggling over the pennant. “But you remember what happened the last time - you were there….”

“A much different situation, and a much different Minister,” Shak pointed out.

“…We had a friendly enough conversation, and then without warning, he chucked me in front of a bunch of reporters. No thanks; I can't risk that again. If he wants to see me, he can come here,” Harry finished on a decisive note.

“I'll see what I can do,” Shak replied, briskly pocketing the concession. “Now, if you can activate the Floo, I'll talk to the Minister and see what we can work out….”

His face suddenly feeling very warm, Harry mechanically complied. No sooner had the older man vanished in a swirl of green flame than Harry muttered, “Oh, shite,” to himself. “What am I getting into now?” In trying to fend off meeting Scrimgeour, he ended up agreeing to it - only at the Château instead of the Ministry.

If Scrimgeour were as anxious as Shak implied to seal a political deal, then Harry was fairly certain that the Minister would swallow his pride and visit the Château.

What had Dumbledore once said about a mountain and Mohammed?

More importantly, what could Harry do now?

Then it came to him. What, indeed….

The Château's grounds were too extensive, and its location too far in the back of beyond, for a Patronus to be worth much as a communication tool. But Harry had been told in this very room that he could summon his staff from just about anywhere with it. That also meant….

“Expecto patronum.”

It took longer than Harry expected, but soon eventually the fireplace flames parted and Shak's face reappeared. “The Minister will see you momentarily,” he related. “May we Floo in?”

Tempting though refusal of that request might be, that would be both impolitic and impolite. “Yeah,” he agreed, making his disgruntlement clear.

The Floo flared - twice. First Shak and then Minister Scrimgeour, dressed in deep blue robes and carrying a walking stick, made their appearances.

The Minister was every inch the politician. “Mister Potter,” he addressed Harry, his voice low but much mellow than when giving a speech. “I was hoping to make your acquaintance…. I've wanted to meet you for quite some time. Did you….?”

Everyone heard a scraping noise behind Harry, chair legs dragged across the finely polished oak floor, and then a familiar thunk.

The Minister's mien and body both stiffened. “Alastor,” he acknowledged warily.

“Rufus,” Mad-Eye Moody replied in kind. “Always a pleasure. I see yeh're usin' the stick today.”

Plainly, this meeting was anything but a pleasure for his guardian - or for the Minister.

“Neither of us is as young as we once were,” the Minister warily addressed Moody. “Keeping up appearances can be exhausting. This was intended to be a private….”

“Quite,” growled Moody.

The Minister quickly returned his attention to Harry. “I was surprised … by the company,” he began. “I have hoped to meet you since I gained office. But Dumbledore … until we came to an arrangement…. He always had some excuse….”

“I'm a minor,” Harry replied carefully, as Scrimgeour watched closely. “I'm not legally allowed to do much on my own. And Dumbledore, well he's….”

“Yes, I know,” the Minister cut over. “I've heard … you're Dumbledore's man through and through. Well, Albus and I….”

Harry returned the favour, since he was not party to any of the Headmaster's arrangements. “I think you'll find that I'm just my own man now. I certainly respect the Headmaster and what he's done for me, but we don't always see eye to eye. So please sit down and tell me what you have in mind….”

All four parked themselves in the map room's comfortable leather chairs and began discussing matters. Most words were the Minister's, as he provided a lengthy and - even Mad-Eye had to admit - accurate assessment of the current political situation. The primary complicating factor was Pius Thicknesse, successor to the late Amelia Bones' position as head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

“…Well, Thicknesse is a frightful conservative, a real last-ditcher,” Scrimgeour went on (not mentioning that he had been one himself until recently). “He knows little about Muggles and doesn't like even that. His refusal to cooperate fully with the Muggle investigation of the London incident failed utterly to account for their political needs. That was, I believe, a major factor in the Muggles' demand to interview you, Harry.”

“Are you implying that was by design?” Harry asked angrily.

“That, I don't know,” the Minister equivocated. In the background, Mad-Eye snorted his disagreement. “But his obstructive behavior certainly aggravated matters. I've had to remove him from the Muggleworthy Excuse Committee - good thing, too, given that latest incident….”

Knowing the truth, Harry kept his views to himself, as did the Minister, whose wandering eyes happened upon the painting. “Nice work,” the Minister resorted to small talk. “Who's the artist?”

“A Muggle-born wizard,” Harry responded. “Someone Thicknesse probably wouldn't deign to talk to. Da Vinci they tell me…. I'm glad I haven't met him….”

“Oh, I suspect that you, and even moreso your ladyfriend, would have gotten on famously with the wizard Leonardo,” the Minister replied, continuing the chitchat. He had also made a point, signalling his awareness of Harry's and Hermione's relationship, with all the implications it held.

“I meant this Thicknesse chap.” Harry was blunt; he had received the message loud and clear.

“Oh, you met him, briefly,” Shak chimed in.

“Bloody bastard tried ta sabotage yeh, that's what they mean,” Mad-Eye added more forcefully.

“Sorry, but could you explain, please,” Harry turned to the ancient Auror.

“That day yeh blew out the window in the Situation Room,” Mad-Eye specified. “Pius was one o' yer little audience. I'd heard he'd be there. One reason I kept my own score…. No friend o' yers, nor o' the Order….”

“Ah yes, the Order…,” the Minister started and stopped. “And we're coordinating with the Order…. It's another point of agreement, an important one….”

The Minister glanced at Shak, as if seeking confirmation. Shak nodded his silent approval.

“Jes' what's goin' on here?” Mad-Eye demanded to know, his magical eye twitching. “I know that look o' yers, Rufus. There's somethin' yer not sayin'.”

“True enough,” the Minister answered immediately. “And I suppose you should know, even though it's quite secret. I intend that our working together will be mutually beneficial…. I know Harry's the primary investor in that company the Creevey brothers have started. And we're prepared to ensure its success.”

“Who's we?” Harry asked.

“My Ministry,” Scrimgeour responded frankly, “and the Order. We've tested their computaters, and they seem to work. I promised better communication and coordination … and that's precisely what we'll do…. Both the Ministry and the Order have ordered Creevey computaters….”

“That's `computers,'” Shak corrected. But the Minister was on a roll.

“…and we'll use them to improve, first, our communication, and then our coordination. We're starting with the Auror Corps, one major reason for my keeping control…. Damn, I wish Robards had more backbone….”

“Wait a minute,” Mad-Eye interrupted. “Yeh mean yer going ta replace our existin' system, fer both the Aurors and the Order, with somethin' new based on these Creevey gadgets?”

“That's what I said, wasn't it?” the Minister retorted.

“That's creatin' a security risk, I think,” Mad-Eye shook his head, as Harry sat back, content to let his guardian take the lead.

“Any change that shuts down and replaces our basic communication equipment and spellwork involves some risk,” Scrimgeour replied stoutly. “We're aware of that, and so is Dumbledore. We're taking every step to minimise that risk.”

Kingsley intervened. “Alastor, the Minister is right on this one. You've been complaining about the coordination between us and … well, us, for years. We're finally getting it. That's what this deal will do. Let the man explain, for once, without jumping down his throat.”

“All right. Go ahead and do it,” Mad-Eye conceded with visible ill grace. His unnaturally blue eye ceased its wild gyrations and for once went still.

“As I said, progress always carries some risk, particularly with all the Death Eater activity we've seen since the London incident,” the Minister gratefully pursued the opening he was given. “What I'm about to tell is still under wraps and is not to leave this room. Understood?”

“Yessir,” Harry answered immediately, pleased to be taken into such confidence - after all, Dumbledore had not told him a thing.

“Fine,” Mad-Eye assented, less willingly. “I assume Albus knows.”

“Yes, understand that parts of this plan have been batted about for weeks,” the Minister explained. “After the confusion with … well, Mister Potter … the hoax involving your ladyfriend,” he tip-toed around that delicate subject, “we decided that our existing system was neither fast nor accurate enough. The Order suggested that we try a - compu-ter - system that had become popular at Hogwarts. We did, and it passed our preliminary tests….”

“As … Alastor … has pointed out,” the Minister used Moody's given name with obvious distaste, “replacing our communications system will entail some risk no matter how it is done. We have decided to do it all at once, and in as much confidence as possible, to minimise that risk. We've selected New Years Eve, when much of the community is partying, to do this. Shortly after midnight a brief interruption in communication will occur as both the Order and the Ministry swap out their systems….”

“But unless yeh've changed somethin' lately, the Ministry's communication system is integrated. That'll take down other things as well,” Mad-Eye critiqued.

“Indeed,” the Minister acknowledged. “I was getting to that. We've been rejiggering things where possible. For example, the wards for both the Ministry building and the Salisbury Auror headquarters are now independent…. But you're right. Some larger systems must also be shut down - most notably the Floo Network and our Apparition monitoring.”

“That's a damn lot goin' down t'gether,” Mad-Eye pointed out the obvious. “And there's no way in hell that Voldemort's spies won't know.”

To his credit Scrimgeour neither flinched nor objected at hearing the Dark Lord's name. Calmly he replied. “Undoubtedly, that's true. But I see risk either way. If we did it piecemeal, then we give the Deaters more opportunities.”

“A thorough Ministry housecleaning would help,” Harry commented.

“Of course … that's ongoing,” Scrimgeour answered unctuously. “That's one reason for this overall arrangement. My pure-blood supporters think the ongoing investigations target them. Indeed, we're turning the changeover into an opportunity to expose more Deater sympathizers.”

Mad-Eye's full attention followed. His magical eye fixed the Minister with an unblinking stare. “Oh, really? Just what do yeh have in the works?”

“I won't divulge details … for security reasons,” the Minister answered, yanking his long-time critic's chain a bit about his recent noisy resignation. “Suffice it to say that we've varied in certain aspects our internal announcements describing what will happen. We have spies, too. Depending on what details get leaked to the other side, we hope to discover who did it - or at least what unit's been compromised.”

“Not a bad plan,” Mad-Eye had to admit. “But it's still just makin' the best of a bad situation.”

“Well there you are,” Scrimgeour pronounced with finality. “Couldn't have said it better myself. The thought is to do it once, right, and be done with it. We'll cancel all Auror leaves and spread them over Britain, to keep watch and be ready to respond to any incidents. The same alert status will apply to all Ministry personnel who've passed the Civil Defence testing instituted after London. In addition, we're inviting general participation in anti-Apparition ward testing during the period of vulnerability. We announced that yesterday…. People are being encouraged to have their parties and stay over.”

Harry could not help nodding his head as Scrimgeour ticked off the various precautions the Ministry was taking. He looked to his guardian for his reaction.

“Well, yeh do seem ta be atop it,” Mad-Eye conceded grudgingly. “But I think the Portkey Office should distribute pre-prepared Portkeys just ta be on the safe side - in case yeh need Aurors ta get quickly ta places like the Ministry … or Hogwarts, places like that….” Then the craggy old man turned his attention elsewhere. “Harry, what about the Château? We'll be pretty much on our own fer a bit, here in the remote country.”

“Well, between you, me, Hermione, Tonks, a bunch of goblins, the wizard staff, and all the Château's warding, I think we can handle anything short of a full-scale Death Eater attack, don't you?” Harry calculated. “But if you think that's not enough….”

“I'll talk to the Order about reinforcements,” Shak interjected. “Ordinarily, I'd say you'd be fine, but being who you are, I'd rather take the extra step… and we'll make some Portkeys.”

“Remember ta set `em so yeh can use `em,” Mad-Eye reminded. “Fer all these places. The Portkeys won't be able ta get through anti-Apparition wards, yeh know.”

“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” Harry said, frowning. “I once took a Portkey that, whilst not standard issue, went right through Hogwarts' wards.”

That conversation never advanced very far.

“Very well, then,” the Minister took his leave. “Unless I'm quite mistaken, we have general agreement that my Ministry's arrangements with professors Dumbledore and Shacklebolt are satisfactory. Let's see to working out the details, shall we…?”

* * * *

Luna Lovegood liked long walks. Rain or shine did not matter; she just liked walking, with naught but her thoughts for company. With no structure to her time at the Château, she had plenty of opportunities to indulge herself.

It was raining - not hard; just enough to draw mist from the cold ground so that the clouds and the air became one, grey and swirling. It resembled walking through a dream. That was exactly how she preferred it.

How she reached where she did, she could not say. Nor could she say how she returned, but she always did. It was like that, being an Empath.

Today, her walkabout led to a small stream, a crust of ice lingering along its edges. The nights brought hard frosts, and the daylight was neither long enough nor strong enough to melt everything away.

Real snow had only fallen once since their arrival, and it was almost all gone. A White Christmas was unlikely.

Luna turned and meandered downstream. More trees grew near its banks - the last remnants of a once-great forest that had been cleared for farming centuries ago.

Druids were a forest people. Very few forests were left in Britain, and very few Druids.

The remaining trees were tall, dark, misty - and mysterious - just like the Forbidden Forest would have been if only five metres wide.

She sat on the cold damp soil, and let herself feel the rain. It was no bother. If she started shivering, she could incant a Warming Charm easily enough.

Luna heard something, a short and sharp sound, in the distance. It might have been a gunshot, but then she had never heard a gunshot - except once - the time she had almost been killed, and her father had died.

Death had never been particularly frightened Luna. Both of her parents had died in her presence. If it were her time to die, then she would. Death was inevitable.

There it was again.

She pulled herself to her feet and wandered off in the direction of the sound. Luna was a fatalist, but was not foolish about it. She enhanced the mistiness of the day a bit so she would be hard to see, except about her face.

She had not moved far before she heard it again.

“BLAM!”

Luna continued, but she drew her wand. She might be loony, but not stupid.

As the stream devolved into a rivulet, the trees along the bank thinned at the base of a hill.

Luna reached the moss-covered trunk of a large, leafless elm. No sooner had her hand touched its soft, cool surface then it happened again. A blue jet of light shot out almost as if she had cast it herself.

At the receiving end, one of numerous stones scattered across the windswept meadow exploded with a loud report.

This time, however, Luna knew what had happened.

And soon it happened again. “Reducto!” incanted a familiar voice.

As another stone blew apart, Luna looked up and saw Jazzy's misty outline perched on a thick branch not quite ten metres overhead.

Luna rubbed her hands together. She Transfigured her shoes so that five-centimetre spikes emerged from the soles. Up the tree she climbed.

“BLAM!” Jazzy had just detonated another stone when Luna reached her level.

“Good afternoon,” Luna intoned languidly. “Fancy meeting … urgh….”

Jazzy had been in her own little world. She nearly fell out of the tree at the sound of a voice behind her. But her reflexes took over instantly. One hand grabbed at the intruder's robes. Her other hand clutched her wand.

Luna countered, and grabbed Jazzy's wrist in time to deflect any curse. The younger girl's raging emotions almost burned a hole in Luna's empathetic brain.

At the same moment Jazzy realised whom she was grappling with.

“Luna!”

“Jazzy, I do believe….”

“Sorry, but I'm not used to being surprised like that.”

“…you are more upset than I could possibly have imagined.”

Jazzy recoiled, “What? How could you be so bloody presumptuous?”

Shrugging her shoulders, Luna responded, as if commenting on the dreary weather, “I'm an Empath. I feel other people's emotions.”

Jazzy scowled and was silent. So was Luna.

Finally, Jazzy grumbled, “This is all a fantasy.”

“Yes, magic is like that,” Luna replied vaguely.

“No, I meant this,” Jazzy repeated, her hand waving from one horizon to the other. “It's just too good to be true. I'll be prepared for when it ends, however it ends.”

“What if it doesn't end?” Luna inquired in her enigmatic voice.

“It always does,” Jazzy scoffed. “At least I'm using my time to be as ready as I can be.”

“Ready for what?” Luna reacted lazily to Jazzy's statement.

Luna had barely finished asking when Jazzy had her wand out again, “Reducto!” The spell flashed, and another stone down below was blown to bits. “Ready for my life,” Jazzy answered. “I'm sorry, but it's not pretty. Not like this fantasy.”

Luna conspicuously pinched herself. “Seems real to me,” she commented.

“Hah!” Jazzy laughed bitterly. “So why, then? Why are we here anyway?”

Luna looked thoughtful. “Umm … I suppose that's up to us…. My guess is we're put here to interact with the great forces of nature and magic, to try leaving the world in better shape when we're done than when we….”

“Oh, stop it with the meaning of life, already,” Jazzy cut Luna off impatiently. “I meant why are we - you and me - here at this place? Harry and his girl, well that's obvious. And Longbottom's in his year and in his House. But what about us? We're the odd ones out….”

“Oh, I don't think that's a hard one,” Luna replied unflappably.

“Then please enlighten this poor Paki over here,” Jazzy snorted.

“Harry's an orphan, and in one way or another, so are you, me, and everyone else he's invited,” Luna rambled. “I think that's what's at work here.”

Jazzy scowled again, her already rather swarthy features darkening further. “Pity. That's what it is, pity. I don't care to be pitied.”

“And you won't be,” Luna pronounced as she put her arm on the younger girl's shoulder. She felt telltale vibrations of self-pity, surrounded by rage and hurt, “at least not by them. I prefer to view it as empathy rather than pity.”

Luna sounded almost condescending, and Jazzy pulled away. “Pity … empathy … excuse me but I can't see much difference.”

“One's a gift, the other must be earned,” Luna said imperturbably.

“And gifts…. That'll be the last straw, won't it,” Jazzy spat.

“I'm afraid I don't follow,” Luna responded as a perplexed expression crossed her face.

“Christmas gift giving,” Jazzy declared. “I know for sure that, despite what I've told them, Harry and Hermione will give me something outrageously expensive that I can't possibly match. Well, I won't stand for it!” Jazzy was seriously worked up now. “I'll leave if they do that!”

“And where would you go?” Luna asked sceptically. “I thought you said you didn't….”

“I'd sooner go back to my relatives' hell hole,” Jazzy declared. “That's why I'm practicing…. Diffindo!” The Severing Charm struck a tree on the opposite side of the stony clearing. A large branch dropped noisily to the ground.

“Poor tree…. You could interview for a tree trimmer's position,” Luna commented dryly. “We'll just have to see, I suppose.”

“Yeah, I guess we'll see,” Jazzy replied hotly, “whether there's any difference between empathy and pity after all.”

* * * *

The Muggle inquiry into her father's activities lasted about as long as Hermione expected. That was not to say that it went as well as she had hoped. Leaving, her mind raced with possibilities she had not previously imagined.

How, in Merlin's name had that name come up?

How, in Merlin's name had she managed to keep a straight face when that name came up?

The inquiry's first three quarters were quite routine - fully as boring as Hermione had hoped. They conducted a rather thorough review of everything she knew about her father's activities as chair of the BDA's senior representative on the Dental Advisory Group, which was next to nothing. The expensively-retained lawyer acting for the Serious Fraud Office's committee of inquiry showed interest in respect of odd jobs Hermione had performed at the old surgery. He was disappointed to learn that they concerned only patient records and inventory. Her father had an accountant, now a cooperating witness, keep his books.

So it went, with “I don't know” following “I don't know.” At the end - just to be “thorough,” the questioner said - Hermione was asked if she knew anyone on a list of names. Of the first ten, the only one she had ever heard of was Peter Brooke, which was hardly surprising, since he was the MP of their constituency and her father was a major Tory fundraiser.

Then, it happened.

“…Never heard of her either.”

“Vernon Dursley.”

“Beg pardon?” It was all Hermione could do to keep her wits about her. How could Harry's tosser of an uncle possibly have had anything to do with her father?

“Vernon Dursley,” the interviewer repeated. “A known business associate of your father.”

“The name … it sounds familiar,” Hermione answered carefully. “Could you provide a description? That might help.”

Her questioner shared a rather pleased look with his assistant, who instantly plucked a folder from a cardboard box at their feet and shoved it in front of him.

“Absolutely ... glad to,” responded the now very accommodating interrogator. “Mid-forties. A little under six foot. Frightfully overweight. Salt and pepper hair. Walrus moustache.” Leafing through the contents of the folder he plucked something out and slid it across the conference table. “Here's a photo, if that might help.”

It was definitely Harry's uncle.

Hermione had absolutely no idea how that man fit into her father's bizarre secret life, but she would be damned before involving Harry in all this - even tangentially. Still, she did not want to lie, and she had to know….

“I'm not sure that I've ever seen this man with my father, but the name is familiar,” she answered as truthfully as she could. “Is he mixed up in all this?”

“We believe so,” the would-be questioner answered. His exchange of glances with the aide convinced Hermione that the SFO suffered from a shortage of proof. “He's director of sales for Grunnings….”

So that was it. “Grunnings? The drill maker?”

“Yes, that's the one,” her questioner quickly replied, his voice almost gleeful. “What can you tell me about him and your father?”

“About him and my father, nothing, I'm afraid,” Hermione answered truthfully as her interlocutor's expression deflated before her eyes. “But from the inventories I kept, and from cleaning the equipment, the surgery had many Grunnings drills. I don't think my father used anything else….”

It was not much, but at least it was something. “The inventory records you prepared, would they reflect the particulars of the transactions?”

“If I'm remembering correctly, yes,” Hermione answered. “However, I believe all those records were burnt in the fire….”

More long-faced looks from the questioner. “Can you think of anything else concerning Dursley's dealings with your father … anything at all?”

Hermione made a production of furrowing her brow and reviewing her memories closely. But the answer to that question was, and would always be, “No.”

But her answers to other, unasked questions were anything but nugatory. Most saliently, Harry had a laptop stowed in his trunk with a Grunnings inventory tag on it. Given how often she had rooted through his belongings, she had noticed it on several occasions - most recently as she spirited from his trunk what she intended to make into Harry's Christmas present.

After the interview, Tonks instantly sensed that Hermione was worried about something. The young Auror had the discretion to keep mum until they were out of Muggle earshot - not easy to do anywhere near Paddington Station.

“Okay, what is it?” Tonks asked as soon as they were alone. “You always bite your lower lip when something's up.”

“I'm not entirely sure,” Hermione made a frustrated grimace. “But somehow Harry's dreadful uncle is involved with bribing my father - I'm sure of it.”

“You mean the one what called me a hooligan and said I needed a bath?” Tonks goggled. “Bloody well deserves whatever he gets, that one does.”

“That's him,” Hermione readily agreed. Although this particular incident was news, it was entirely in character. “He deserves it, but Harry doesn't. The Muggles already have too much going on with him, and I won't complicate things further.”

“So you didn't tell them?” Tonks guessed.

“That silk didn't exactly ask … so I saw no reason to trouble him with that particular information,” Hermione confirmed. “But they seemed so desperate for anything about Dursley…, I wonder….”

“That fat bastard better watch out,” Tonks commented, seeing Hermione's expression harden.

“Quite,” Hermione mumbled. Then she looked the other way. Her hand shot up, “Taxi!”

Once the black cab brought them to Lower Holloway - after an unsettling ride featuring the driver's speculation about the cause of the recent “great fire” - Hermione's shopping spree took less than an hour. Tonks had steeled herself for the difficult task of protecting her charge amongst hordes of holiday shoppers in Oxford and Regent Streets, but here they were off the Holloway Road, of all places.

However short, Hermione's trip was also unusual. A lot of that was going around.

“What are you planning to do with all this?” Tonks asked dubiously once the Muggles had carted the last of her purchases to a loading dock at the rear of a non-descript brick building.

“Why, enchant it, of course,” Hermione replied evasively, as she looked around. “Tell me whether the Muggles inside have gone, will you?”

“You can buy all the books you want,” Tonks reminded her. “Why go binding them, too?” She peered through the wee window in a door painted battleship grey. “They're gone.”

“Reducio,” Hermione spelled. A rather large pile instantly became rather small. She slipped everything she had bought into her beaded handbag. “Because the best gifts of all are homemade, that's why.”

“It must be nice,” Tonks remarked a couple minutes later, as they strolled to the Caledonian Road Tube stop, “not having to bother with Underage Magic restrictions any longer.” On either side, a number of boulders rolled along of their own accord, just off the edge of the pavement.

“Oh, I've had an exemption for long enough, I hardly even think of that,” Hermione brushed off the remark. “But, really, that's our next stop.”

It took longer to reach the Ministry building by means of Muggle transport than it did for Hermione to obtain her Apparition Licence once she finally arrived.

While Hermione was being tested, Tonks twiddled her thumbs (and dropped her wand in the process) whilst cooling her heels in the Level Six waiting room.

Bored with the wait, she Summoned a Ministry pamphlet from a display pocket on a nearby table. It was purple, the same shade as the posters plastered all over Diagon Alley, and entitled “Make It A Night.” After a few seconds' perusal, Tonks muttered to herself, “Oh blast, what's going on, now?”

Soon enough Hermione traipsed through the batwing swinging doors from the Apparition Test Centre, all smiles for once and flashing a new Apparition Licence with her likeness (actually, looking something like a hag) on it.

“Well, congratulations, my dear,” Tonks welcomed her. “Not that I expected anything less….”

“Easy as pumpkin pie, actually,” a quite pleased Hermione remarked airily.

“Pumpkin pie isn't that easy,” Tonks returned. “What address did you give for the licence?”

That was a bit of a problem.

“I debated using Hogwarts, but that's not really home,” Hermione told her minder. “I wanted to use the Château, but not without Harry's approval. Imagine the brouhaha if Witch Weekly or some such rag got their grubby paws on something like that. Eventually I settled for Order Headquarters, since I used to live there. It's odd, but I guess you can call me homeless at the moment.”

“Well, where to now, homeless one?” Tonks asked semi-sarcastically. “Homeless people should be so lucky. Back to that hundred-room castle that you don't call home?”

“No, just out - for now,” Hermione directed, giving Tonks a `let's not discuss that here' look.

Whilst waiting for the lift, Tonks handed Hermione the Ministry pamphlet. “What do you make of this?”

The lift arrived and clattered to a halt. Hermione read the pamphlet as the lift rose to Level B, which included the entrance to Muggle London.

“Has the Floo Network Authority lost its collective mind?” Hermione let loose when they were alone. “I mean, this must be the most harebrained scheme imaginable - closing the Floo Network on New Years' Eve. I'm glad we're not going anywhere….”

“But at least they're encouraging everyone to ensure their anti-Apparition wards are in order,” Tonks pointed out. “And the New Year is the worst night for Splinching, with all the Firewhiskey and the like.”

“That's precisely what's so stupid about it,” Hermione protested. “If they wanted to reduce Splinchings, the worst thing is close the Floo Network and virtually force everyone to Apparate with wards up everywhere.”

They reached the street. Somehow the goblins knew where Hermione was going almost before she did, because they were waiting for her.

“Okay, where next?” Tonks asked her charge. “More Christmas shopping?” She did not look forward to visiting the West End and all the last-minute, pre-holiday madness.

Hermione looked at the Auror conspiratorially. “Actually not. We're doing something that I've been meaning to for quite some time. Acting on the spur of the moment will avoid calling attention to ourselves…. I want to go to Grimmauld Place.”

“Grimmauld? Why there…? The Order left nothing behind,” Tonks went on, saying whatever popped into her head. “And besides, it's not secure, not after Narcissa and that traitorous house-elf. We can't be sure who might get in.”

“Surely the Order watches the place,” Hermione responded with a raised eyebrow. “I can't believe we wouldn't know if Death Eaters were frequenting Grimmauld.”

“Someone makes the rounds at least weekly,” Tonks had to admit. “We warded the inner perimeter with Intrusion Charms when we vacated.”

“Has there ever been a problem?” Hermione persisted.

“Our sources tell us that the other side still watches Grimmauld occasionally,” Tonks revealed. “One of the charms was tripped a couple of months ago, but we found nothing. The place is deteriorating. It was probably Doxies, or spiders, or some other infestation….”

“Well there you are,” Hermione pronounced. “I want to go, then. There's what? Four goblins, in addition to the two of us…. And we'll have the advantage of surprise. The Order would turn this into a huge production that would surely be noticed….”

“But why, Hermione?” Tonks asked in exasperation. “Why now? What's the big deal?”

Hermione was hesitant.

“You're obviously hiding something,” Tonks observed.

“I need to consult a book I found there,” Hermione admitted.

“I need a little more than that before I can go along with this,” Tonks looked at her sternly. “I'm your assigned bodyguard, not just your friend. My job is to keep you from gallivanting off into possible danger. I let you once, when Harry was taken, and both of us nearly died.”

“Then, danger wasn't possible, it was certain,” Hermione began arguing, but she knew that Tonks would not budge. “All right, I've been told by someone very close to Dumbledore to keep this a secret,” she revealed grudgingly. “It involves what happened to Harry at the end of the Triwizard Tournament. I was reading a book….”

“How shocking,” Tonks could not resist interjecting.

Hermione ignored her crack. She wanted to get this done.

“…Anyway, two summers ago, I was at Grimmauld, before the Order had fetched Harry,” she ploughed ahead.

“But I thought it involved….”

“It does, but I didn't know it then. Now listen,” she demanded curtly. “It was a Dark book. Somebody had left it out, I don't know who, maybe even Sirius himself. It was about death and magic. I only skimmed it because, well, I felt guilty even looking in it. Molly caught me and took it away. She screamed at Sirius and told him to keep it locked up. I never saw it again….”

“So what's the big deal?” Tonks asked, still not convinced.

“I only recently learnt what happened to Harry that night, and I remember that spell - which, if you don't know, I'm not telling. Thinking back, I'm sure it was described in that book. There were some very vivid parts….”

“And you're certain…?”

“As much as I can be,” Hermione reiterated, unconsciously biting her lower lip. “And now I've a pass to all Black libraries. I know Grimmauld has a restricted one. Dumbledore once mentioned it to Snape…. He wasn't at all pleased I'd overheard.”

“I can imagine,” Tonks replied dryly.

“So will you help me do this?” Hermione returned to the main point. “I'm looking for one specific book. I don't recall the title, but I remember what it looked like. We'll be in and out very quickly - before anybody could have time to react.”

“Oh, all right,” Tonks gave in. “With the Deaters' manpower problems, it's not like they'd waste anyone naffing about Grimmauld on the off chance somebody interesting might show up. Let's discuss this with the goblins.”

The goblins liked Hermione's idea even less than Tonks, probably due to lack of familiarity with the building. But given who Hermione was, they felt obligated to go along with her wishes.

And her mind was made up.

A few minutes later, Hermione's first trip as a licenced Apparator brought her and Tonks to a location they both remembered near the Tufnell Park Tube stop, ironically quite close to the Holloway Road, where they'd been not long ago. It was a short walk to Grimmauld Place, through a once genteel neighborhood now gone to seed.

Their mere thoughts about the dreary four-storey row house brought it fluttering into sight, magically shouldering aside Muggle-occupied (if occupied at all) dwellings on either side.

They hurried inside. Hermione raised the gas lights. A dull thud prompted Tonks' cursing and a loud clatter. A couple of old snake-handled brollies and the hollowed-out troll leg that had held them rolled across the hardwood floor.

Hermione might have laughed at the sight of her Auror bodyguard hopping on one foot whilst struggling to cast Episkey on the great toe of her other. In the background, Hermione heard a couple of goblins sniggering.

But Hermione knew what would happen next - and did not have to wait long.

With a screech worse than a Hippogriff receiving a Bulbadox Powder enema, the voice of the black-clad, painted image of Walburga Black blasted through the ground floor.

“Not again! The most arrogant of Mudbloods! And that mutant freak of Mudblood miscarriage! But what's this? Filthy, bob-eared eternal enemies of all wizardkind! All sullying the ancestral abode of the Blacks…!”

Although the pugnacious portrait looked a little worse for wear, she had lost none of her ability to spew an unending stream of loathsome, bigoted bile.

Except this audience was not inclined to let the insults pass unavenged. As the screaming started, Hermione's goblin escort resumed their ordinary form - and four pairs of clawed hands reached for some very sharp steel.

“Will you just shut it!” Hermione screamed back at the portrait, pointing her wand.

Something unexpected happened. If not obeying, the obnoxious portrait at least responded.

“Oh, Merlin's mum! The Mudblood's got a Proprietor's pass! What is the world coming to!?! Toujours pur…. Toujours pur!”

Walburga Black burst into inconsolable (not that anyone tried) tears. Her emotional collapse change allowed Tonks to yank the curtain shut - thankfully the vacating Order had left that in place. Hermione was surprised that the angry young Auror accomplished that without ripping the curtain rods from the wall.

Even through the barrier, the old woman's wails bemoaning the fate of the Blacks were still audible. Hermione finished the job with an Imperturbable Charm on the curtain.

“Well so much for stealth,” Tonks spat, annoyed at her own clumsiness. “That set off alarms, I'm sure…. Hurry on now, we'd at least like to keep the element of surprise.”

“The library's most likely on the first floor,” Hermione guessed as she headed for the stairs. “After Molly handed Sirius the book she took from me, we were in the drawing room, and he walked away from the staircase.”

Two goblins, taking their cues from Hermione's movement, bolted in front of her and up to the landing above. The other two, chattering in high-pitched Gobbledegook, went storming down the entrance hall in pursuit of something - Hermione thought she had seen several dinner-plate sized spiders in that general direction.

The wallpaper the Order had so painstakingly installed in the first floor drawing room already showed signs of wear, water damage, and possibly vandalism. Puffskeins fled from Hermione and hid under the furniture. Doxies buzzed in the walls and behind heavy, tattered curtains.

Tonks followed right behind, her wand drawn. “All right genius girl … where is it?” Her stage whisper carried the bite of sarcasm.

Hermione tried orienting herself - striving to remember the direction Sirius had disappeared almost two years ago.

“Dammit,” she muttered. “I need Sirius's library.”

At her words, a humming sound arose, something altogether different from Doxy buzz or the mewling of frightened Puffskiens. Hermione followed the sound down a side hallway to an archway she had never before seen.

An eerie, radium green glow outlined the archway.

Quickly, Hermione produced the Black library pass she had received, at Harry's direction, from the Château's staff. It glowed with the same colour.

“Bloody hell, what's that?” Tonks shouted the moment she entered the hallway, having trailed Hermione by several metres.

“I'm sure it's the Black library,” Hermione a self-satisfied replied. “It's almost calling to me.”

“Well you stand back, then,” Tonks ordered. “This sure this wasn't here when the Order was. I'm going first.”

“I reckon it was,” Hermione replied, “only none of us - nobody save Sirius - could see it then.” She stood aside to let Tonks pass. The Auror strode forward through the arch….

…And promptly plowed headlong into some sort of ward. Tonks bounced backwards with a shriek, lost her balance, and fell to the floor, her wand clattering away.

A deep, disembodied voice sounded from inside the archway, “Knave, stand back. None pass, save Black.”

“That means only I can go through,” Hermione told Tonks. “I guess your mum's disinheritance means you're not recognised.”

“I don't like this at all,” Tonks shot back, as she daubed at the bloody nose she received courtesy of the quite solid, if invisible, ward. “My crazy Auntie Bella could be back there.”

“I doubt it,” Hermione disagreed. “Surely our alarms would have detected someone like her.” Before Tonks could stop her, Hermione walked through the archway.

“Lumos.”

Surely enough, Bellatrix was absent. Nothing was there - save a rather small room, stuffed with books mostly bearing extremely dodgy titles.

“I'm all right, Tonks, and you too, Wydawayk,” Hermione called to the Auror and the leader of her goblin guard. “Only books are in here.”

Hermione's nostrils flared. The place smelt musty and old. The Order obviously had not touched to it. Its wards, effective against sentient beings, evidently did not repel vermin. An odour of animal urine, pungent but not overpowering, permeated the place. Her quick Air-Freshening Charm almost, but not quite, masked it.

Hermione sought a large, deep green book with the word “Death” in its title. Beyond that, she was on her own.

“Hermione, we need to get moving, if we don't want to meet somebody from the Order,” Tonks called out, her voice sounding frustrated.

Hermione did not have much time. All the katzenjammer with the portrait downstairs must have set off the Order's intruder alarms.

Hermione's eyes flashed across the shelves. Titles like Sorcerers of Death's Construction and Magick Most Evile leered from all sides. Given what she remembered from that book, she was sure this was the right place.

She spotted a greenish book on a middle shelf. Wary of touching it - or anything in this extremely dodgy room - Hermione cast a spell to scatter the sheen of dust and lint.

“Pulsus.”

Wrong book - only Vadim Aspinwall's 1001 Tastiest Recipes for Poisonous Fungi.

Hermione's heart pounded faster. She was racing against time, and time was winning. Finally, she thought of something. With a couple of exceptions, none of these books had been disturbed, probably for decades. All were covered with dust.

And dust….

“Can you speed it up, Hermione?” Tonks called again.

She had encountered the spell in one of countless books she had read whilst trying to rescue Harry from the Death Eaters. Then, she dismissed it as parlour-trick magic.

“Fluorescio!”

The white gleam of Hermione's wandtip instantly changed to deep purple. All around Hermione, in the ultraviolet light, dust-covered books on the shelves began glowing pale white.

With very few exceptions - less than a dozen.

Hermione hit paydirt on her fourth try. From a couple dozen centimetres' distance, she could read gilt lettering that emitted a pinkish glow, Life Unto Death & Death Unto Life: Adventures in Practical Necromancy, by Hecate Digitalis.

It was exactly as she remembered it.

And Sirius had, intentionally or otherwise, helped by shoving it into the shelves upside down.

Hermione Summoned the book. She handled it gingerly, although two years ago it had no dangerous charms. Flopping into a chair, she placed the book on the adjacent reading table and opened it carefully. The black reading ribbon was still in place, so the spell must be before that point.

“If we don't leave in five minutes, we'll be explaining ourselves to Harry and Mad-Eye pretty damn soon,” Tonks reminded her - rather loudly - from the hallway.

Hermione knew a page-flipping spell keyed to particular words but had never used it on multiple words simultaneously. With no other choice Hermione improvised, adding “red, “white,” and “blue” to the same incantation.

The pages fluttered. The first occurrence was incorrect, as was the second.

But her third time was the charm. The page was entitled, “Horcrux-mediated spell to rejoin body and soul.”

It matched both what Hermione recollection and Harry's description of how Voldemort had obtained a new body.

“Coming!” she yelled at Tonks. Hermione Transfigured her wand so, instead of being round, it resembled a Muggle ruler. With one hand flat against the opposite page, she firmly pressed the straightedge as close to the book's spine as possible.

She ripped out the two pages containing the evil spell. Although an awful crime for a bibliophile, it was not her first offence.

Hermione banished the book to its place - taking care that it was right side up. She was still folding the purloined pages as she passed back through the ward.

There she met a quite agitated Tonks, her ordinarily (at least recently) lifeless brown hair a forest of orange-tipped spikes.

“You certainly took your sweet time, Miss Granger,” Tonks griped. “Now let's get out of here.”

They rushed downstairs. Tonks used an Auror Track-Covering Charm to eliminate their footprints. As they stormed into the ground floor landing, Walburga Black began screaming at them again - having somehow thrown off Hermione's earlier spell. Angrily, Tonks produced a wand Hermione had never seen. Tonks' deftly placed Severing Charm separated all of the preserved house-elf heads from their mounts on the wall.

“Tonks! What are you doing?” Hermione upbraided her. “Just because those were house-elves doesn't justify desecrating them.”

“More track covering,” Tonks hissed back at her. “Now go! Apparate back to Diagon Alley. I'll catch up!”

For once, Hermione did as she was told.

* * * *

Back at the Château Hermione made herself scarce, working on Harry's Christmas present. With Hermione otherwise occupied, Harry played five-on-five pickup Quidditch on the old pitch behind the Château. The goals had been sufficiently repaired to be passable.

He and Jazzy faced off as Seekers. Neville (reluctantly) played Beater for one team, and Luna (erratically) played Chaser for the other. Château staff filled the remaining slots. The game was inconclusive, given the North Country's brief winter daylight - and the pitch's lack of lighting. The score was 40-30, Jazzy's team in the lead, when everyone agreed to call it quits.

Harry wanted to talk to Hermione about his session with Shak and the Minister of Magic. She, however, was not nearly as interested in telling him about her day. Hermione avoided describing much of anything before the group took dinner in the Château's version of the Great Hall.

The meal was accompanied, as it always was, with some account - levity being attempted - of the days' events. Hermione contributed an account of how the unfortunate wizard ahead of her flunked his Apparition test. His Apparition was acceptable, but he had not mastered the apparel problem. On the first try, he left behind his hat. On his second, his shoes (blue suede, size thirteen). His nerves evidently worsened, because on his third (and last) try he left all his clothes behind.

A negative result was both preordained and appropriate.

Hermione finished with a blow-by-blow account of her own test.

Her friends followed.

Luna was concluding a hilarious, but fairly pointless, tale about an experiment she had conducted in the Château's back garden involving different species of swallows, coconuts, an airspeed detector, and a rather misdirected Supersensory Charm.

Just as the diners dissolved into laughter, a rather grim-faced Jerry McAllister strode in and whispered something into Harry's ear.

Harry's features paled, and his expression went as serious as death.

“I'll be back as soon as I can,” Harry spoke to nobody in particular. Then he focussed on Hermione. “I need to talk to you when I get back.” Harry and Jerry left together, talking in low tones.

Not long after, on that unsettling note, dinner broke up.

Hermione returned to the Proprietor's Suite to prepare for the remainder of the evening - and something special she had planned. If not worried over the emergency that had befallen Harry (had a Death Eater attack occurred?), Hermione might have been annoyed at playing the stereotypical role of woman waiting in the bedroom for her man.

Predictably she found some reading material to distract her.

She did have other concerns.

After about half an hour Hermione heard Harry's distinctive cadence in the hallway, along with the pitter patter of considerably tinier feet.

“…Yes, Harry Potter sir, we's being on it right away,” promised a familiar voice. “And I apologises for it's not being done before….”

“Now Dobby, no punishments,” Harry insisted. “Not for you; not for any other elves. And make sure that you use real volunteers. I don't want this being a command from me. That won't send the right message.”

“Absolutely, Harry Potter, sir.”

Harry's form came into view just as Dobby vanished with a pop like an overripe Bubotuber pod.

“What's going on, Harry?” Hermione asked immediately, as she rose to greet him properly. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

“We don't think so anymore,” Harry calmed as he took her into his arms, “but we weren't sure for a while. It seems there was a break-in … at Grimmauld Place.”

“Oh dear,” Hermione's hand went to her face, but she was certain that her cheeks' guilty flush would give her away.

Harry did not seem to notice.

“Unfortunately, Sirius' delegation of security to the Order was never changed after the Order moved out. And the Order wasn't exactly prompt in investigating the alarm, so whoever broke in made good their escape. Fortunately, nothing appears taken, and not much damaged….”

“Damaged? What happened?” Hermione had to know. She remembered Tonks hanging back and then being quite tightlipped about what she had done.

“Just petty vandalism,” Harry explained with a half smile. “The intruders had an unpleasant experience with a most unpleasant portrait - I'm sure you remember…. In retaliation, they bombarded it with all those house-elf heads that had been mounted in the stairwell. Before anyone put a stop to it, the heads were almost smashed into mush, and dear Walburga was unconscious, beaten black and blue. Couldn't have happened to a nicer portrait. Anyway, we think it must have been mackers….”

“Mackers?” Hermione repeated questioningly.

“Yeah, I didn't know about them, either,” Harry answered. “Seems to be the new thing for younger wizards with nothing better to do - to penetrate wards and other magical security measures on a lark - just to prove they can do it. I wonder how they got…?”

“It was us, Harry,” Hermione confessed. She did not want Harry worrying over this. With the main mission accomplished, keeping it a secret - at least from Harry - was no longer very important.

She hated keeping secrets from him.

“What was us?” Harry responded absently, before carrying on his train of thought. “Anyway, we're back to where we were, and security will be getting a top-to-bottom overhaul. And I'm finally having it thoroughly….”

“Harry, that break-in,” Hermione tried again. “Tonks and I, we did it.”

“What?” Harry regarded her doubtfully. “I would never have guessed you in a million years…. What with the elf head trick, brilliant by the way, but why?”

“This is why,” Hermione revealed all - specifically two pages of parchment.

“Hermione, why?” Harry echoed himself. “If you'd wanted to go there…. I could have arranged to go with you. You know about….”

“You and a full security detail, complete with Aurors and everything,” Hermione reacted. “Just read the blasted thing and you'll understand.”

Harry did. His eyes went wide and his skin, if anything, attained even paler carborundum-paper shade than originally, at the dinner table.

“This…. This is what he - Voldemort - tried to do to me, and to himself, at the old Riddle House,” Harry spluttered.

“Right, and this is the specific spell. Remember how Professor McGonagall reacted when we breathed even a partially unguarded word about Necromancy? Well, that's this - a cross between Necromancy and Blood Magic. And it didn't work correctly - because you had to die to finalise the spell. Either that or sacrifice what sounds like a Horcrux.”

Harry was beyond shocked. “And you went to Grimmauld to find this? How….”

“You're not thinking, Harry,” Hermione pressed. “When you finally told me what happened that night, I must have told you that I remembered reading something Dark that described this spell. That was at Grimmauld - when I was there with Ron - before the Order collected you….”

“And you wanted to….”

Hermione immediately confirmed. “Ever since that moment, yes. I've been trying to figure out how to go to Grimmauld without creating a big security fuss, and alert everyone that something unusual was afoot. So today, Tonks, I, and a few goblins did it…. Element of surprise and all that….”

“So, Tonks knows,” Harry deduced. “And you and she planned this….”

“Tonks knows only that I wanted something important from the Grimmauld library,” Hermione explained. “The goblins know even less, since they don't tend to ask questions. I planned this myself. It's one reason I wanted that Proprietor's library pass, since I assumed, correctly, that it covered Grimmauld.”

“But the Blacks … a lot of them are Death Eaters,” Harry replied, even more upset than before. “What if you'd…?”

“I didn't, Harry. Nobody was there at all,” Hermione insisted. “Yes, I sacrificed a bit of security for a lot of secrecy. And it worked. Now we know exactly what magic is holding Voldemort together, and nobody's the wiser….”

Harry's voice cracked as he interrupted. “But, you could have been taken…. I could have lost you….”

“You didn't, Harry,” Hermione maintained. “And I took precautions. I had Tonks and four goblins.”

“I-I have … to make you understand,” Harry's voice quavered. “If Lestrange had been there … or Dolohov…,” he shuddered. “I'm pretty good now, but that's the one thing that could still make me … lose it.”

“Harry,” Hermione spoke more gently, taking his hand. “It's okay. Nothing happened.”

“You have to be careful,” Harry softly pleaded. He struggled a bit with his composure. “If not for your own sake, then for mine…. You being hurt … being killed … and I'm not there … well, that still gives me nightmares….”

“Harry, it was a calculated risk,” Hermione forced back some emotion of her own. “Everything we do, almost, is a calculated risk. The Ministry….”

“We went there together. Can't you take your risks with me … please?” Harry requested with an intensity that belied his low tones. “You - I need you more than I need … that….” He motioned towards the now discarded pages. “I can't lose you again…. Not like that. I love you so much, I honestly don't know what I'd do … without you.”

“Oh, Harry,” her expression lightened from frankly concerned to transparently tender, “I'm sorry. I'll try not to do it again. Now, c'mere.” She slithered onto the bed, bidding him to follow. “I know what I'd like to do with you…. Let's put all that love to work, doing something useful….”

After a good three quarters of an hour - very good, indeed - they emerged from their bedroom.

But when they did, Hermione emerged Levitating several large tomes. They descended to the first floor and ensconced themselves in a sitting room just off the main hallway.

Cuddling together in a loveseat, Hermione asked Harry, “Okay, which do you want to see first, the letters or the photos?”

“I don't know,” Harry predictably responded. “The purpose is for me to learn more about you, so whichever best accomplishes that, I guess.”

“I'd say, start with the letters, then….”

For most of the next hour, Hermione took Harry on a tour of her voluminous correspondence to (and also from) her parents. Shortly before everything with them had gone to hell, they had actually taken the trouble to compile them into a book.

Hermione had just showed Harry an exchange of letters during third year, mostly bemoaning her fights with Ron over Crookshanks, when she noticed a distinctive far away look in Harry's eyes.

“What is it, Harry? Is there something wrong?” Hermione asked innocently, although she could guess what was going on.

Harry raked his hands through his already thoroughly mussed hair. “It's just…. Well, I don't know how much more I can take, all at one sitting. You were so close to your parents, and then along I came and ruined it….”

“You ruined nothing, Harry,” she countered as her voice rose. “Drop the guilt. They're my past, but you're my future….”

“Assuming I have any….” Harry started, then stopped. He did now, he realised, and she was sitting right next to him. “No, that's not it,” he shifted nervously. “I guess I'm … well, jealous, actually….”

That was more like it.

“Well, I guess we could call a halt,” Hermione acceded. “But you might want to read about Buckbeak's appeal. They even offered to engage counsel.”

Harry could do without that, since even now his guilt meter rose whenever that topic came up. He could never live down how he had basically left Hermione to fend for herself. Even Ron had helped her more.

“Not tonight, I think,” Harry mumbled. “What's in those?” He pointed to some other volumes Hermione had gathered.

“Muggle photos,” she replied, “mostly of various trips.”

“Let's look at those for a while.”

Hermione started with the most recent volume. Soon they were leafing through pictures of her ill-fated trip to Hong Kong.

“…And look at this one,” she pointed whilst flipping a page. “I was so depressed, and then … so shocked at the sight, I almost ran across six lanes of traffic. But I didn't, so I had to make do with this picture….”

Their conversation halted as someone shuffled down the hallway in their direction, humming what sounded like “Birdhouse in Your Soul.”

“Hi, Luna!” Hermione called out. “What has you wandering this way? Most of the fun stuff's in the other wing. Even Jazzy concedes that the three-dimensional Quidditch pinball machines are cool.”

“Maybe, but fun is what fun is.” Luna waltzed over and sat on the arm of their loveseat. “You haven't by any chance seen a swallow flying by - European, that is? I think it got loose in the Château somewhere….”

“No, I can't say that we have,” Harry answered.

“No worry then,” Luna smiled as she craned her neck to see what the pair had been reading. “They feed on Bundimun, you know. Keeps infestations down. Oh goodie…!”

“Oh, goodie, what?” Hermione reacted. Sometimes Luna's unalloyed weirdness could be grating - like now, when Hermione was trying to focus on Harry.

“…You've found what the tattoo really is. So what is it?”

“So what is what?” Hermione answered impatiently.

“That right there,” Luna pointed to the picture Hermione had just showed to Harry. “That's the same design as Cho's mysterious tattoo…. And isn't that … Percival?”

They both cried out, “What!?” in unison. Hermione quickly Transfigured her empty pumpkin juice glass into a magnifying glass for a better look.

“I assumed it was some sort of mandala,” she said whilst squinting at the intricate design on a Chinese-language sign just above the slightly out of focus image of Percy Weasley.

“I do believe you're right!” Hermione declared after another minute's study. “But what's it doing hanging over a door in Hong Kong? That doesn't make sense…. Do you have your Pocket Pensieve with you?”

“Nope,” Luna shook her head. “That's one thing I didn't think I'd need. I didn't bring my entire trunk - not like some people.”

“Wait a minute,” Harry blurted as he stood up. “I've got an idea. Stay right here….”

He Disapparated. Proprietor's privilege. The anti-Apparition wards did not apply to him.

In a couple of minutes, he returned, popping back into existence. In his hand he held an oddly shaped, pastel-green box about three centimetres square by five times that long.

“What's that, Harry?” Hermione asked, as Luna simply stared.

“I'll show you.” He pulled out a golden-yellow object shaped like a stick of butter. Harry pointed his wand at the thing, opened his mouth, but stopped. Slightly red-faced, he paused to read a small scrap of parchment from the box. “Vermilius,” Harry incanted, and the rounded end of the block turned bright red-orange.

Pleased with himself for getting the spell right, Harry looked around. The two girls stared expectantly at him.

Oops, he had forgotten something rather basic. “Umm … Hermione, could you Transfigure that serviette into a regular piece of parchment?”

Hermione obliged, and Harry immediately pressed the chop into it.

“There,” he grunted. “Now, how does that compare to the other one?”

Hermione put her trusty magnifying glass to work, as Luna squinted over her shoulder. “Looks identical,” was her judgment, “except for the colour, of course.”

“What does it mean, Harry?” Luna questioned.

“Cho sent me this for my birthday,” Harry explained as he brandished the chop in one hand and his wand in the other. “Why, I don't know. But her note says it's her family's sign. That means, first, that whatever building Percy's entering in this picture is run by the Changs, and second, supposing Luna's right, that makes Cho's tattoo some sort of family symbol - which fits with what that guy from New Zealand told us….”

“What guy from New Zealand?” Luna queried.

“Somebody who knew something about tattoos,” Hermione answered. “I'm afraid I don't have any of the pictures, and there's no connectivity here….”

“That settles it,” Harry declared. “I'm getting one of Dennis' stations for this place.”

“Wait a minute!” Luna exclaimed. “I do have one of the photos … if not the Pensieve!”

“Well, don't wait a minute!” Hermione urged. “Go get it!”

Luna ran off. Only then did Harry and Hermione notice that the girl's earrings emitted red and green flashes as they bounced around.

“What do you think?” Hermione asked urgently.

“If she's right … and Luna usually is about such things, then we have to ask Lao Kung what this is all about,” Harry replied, stony faced.

“But … we've already tried to reach him; it's been almost a week; and Hedwig still isn't back,” Hermione remarked in return. “I hope she's okay.”

“I hope so, too, but this time I'm not thinking Hedwig,” Harry let on. “At this point I'm thinking international fast owl.”

Hermione immediately questioned him. “But we don't have…. Or do we…?”

“Hermione, one thing I'm learning is that the Château has lots of useful things.”

“All right then,” Hermione agreed. “You mean like the billiards room.”

“I haven't been there yet,” Harry admitted.

“Well, I have, and I challenge you to a frame or two.”

“Umm … I don't know, Hermione,” Harry said coyly. “You're quite brilliant at that, as I remember.”

“Well…. I thought we might wager a few articles of clothing, just to make it interesting,” Hermione suggested.

“You're on….”

* * * *

The old house stood empty - again - for at least two hours. A large spider scuttled from a hole behind a kitchen cupboard where two stones, never an exact fit, had gradually separated. Behind it, from the same hole, came the tentative, sniffing nose of a rodent - a brown rat.

That alone was strange, because these dinner-plate spiders usually ate rats and other small mammals. But not this rat.

This rat had a silver paw - a paw that could snap off their legs, smash their exoskeletons, and turn predator into prey.

This rat had thus established itself at the top of the food chain in Grimmauld Place for some time.

Until today.

Today, for only the second time since a thoroughly disgusted Snape had banished him to Grimmauld Place “to stand watch and be a little less than useless,” the house had seen visitors - wizard visitors.

The first time it had been Dumbledore, and the rat had hidden as far away as possible. This time was much different.

Whiskers quivering, the rat's exquisitely sensitive olfactory facilities processed many scents in the redolent air of the decrepit old house. Superimposed over the usual mélange of animal infestations and dead house-elf odours were a number of new ones, both frightening and fascinating.

The freshest scents belonged to two unknown wizards. They had presumably come searching for the others, since the previous visitors had used magic and triggered the house's magical alarms. The old house was under some sort of surveillance, even though no longer used for anything, as far as the rat could determine.

He knew that they - that is, whoever was watching the house - would come if the alarm went off. It had happened to him, once, shortly after starting this assignment.

It would not happen a second time. He was well hidden by the time those two arrived.

The rat skittered about the ground floor rooms, sniffing as he went.

From the pattern of their scents, those two gits left just as clueless as they arrived.

Now the first group … they were different.

They had startled him - and those goblins had done worse.

Two of those strange-smelling creatures had charged down the main corridor straight at him. But luck was with him. He barely escaped into a nearby hole.

It was more than just luck - the rat had learnt during his sojourn the location of every rat hole and roach passage in the infested old building.

The goblins were not even after him. The spiders he had been stalking when so rudely interrupted evidently doubled as goblin delicacies.

Whether goblins ate rats, he had no desire to find out.

Another scent was vaguely familiar - a witch he had encountered a couple of times during clashes between Death Eaters and the Order … or was it the Aurors? That one had the unnerving ability to change her appearance at will. But he knew one important thing about her recent activities….

She often acted as bodyguard for the girl….

And the girl was there. He knew her scent anywhere. He had first encountered it before the Dark Lord had returned - whilst still a pathetic pet in the Weasley household.

Her damn cat had tried to eat him more than once. She had also been present when Potter had saved his life. Potter was a fool.

She was Harry Potter's friend. Check that. He knew now that she was far more than a friend. The Dark Lord knew too, and was surprisingly paranoid about the girl. His Master had ordered him to kill her, and by sabotaging here broom, he very nearly had….

But he had failed, one of a string of failures that put him here - not entirely involuntarily - because he had failed in more ways than even his Master knew.

He knew that the girl was now the Boy Who Lived's fiancée. And he had not told the Dark Lord….

But what brought her to Grimmauld?

Sniffing her scent intently, he followed her trail around the ground floor, past the stench of rotting house-elf flesh, and up the stairs to the first floor. Nose to the ancient carpet, he followed the scent more-or-less blindly until….

The rat let out a loud squeak as he smacked said nose, hard, against something invisible.

He encountered the ward to the Black's restricted library.

How had the girl managed to enter?

Another squeak - not in pain, this time, but in recognition.

She was engaged to the Proprietor of the Black Estate.

Whatever brought the girl to Grimmauld was behind that ward.

Peter Pettigrew was not a rat for nothing.

The rat scampered away, skirred around a corner, ducked into a mouldy bedroom that the Order had never cleaned up, slipped under the bed….

…and darted through a rat hole.

Rats had excellent night vision.

Frightened Doxies and mundane cockroaches alike scattered before the oncoming rodent as he charged this way and that through the maze of tunnels that vermin had created over the last dozen years.

Soon he slowed and cautiously poked his nose through a crack where, over time, the top of a bookcase had pulled a few centimeters away from the wall.

Her scent was strong here.

The rat wriggled behind the bookcase until he found the gnawed-through opening near the bottom. With a series of squeaky grunts, he pushed the book that blocked the hole forward until it fell to the floor.

Sniffing frantically, the rat dropped the remaining third of a metre to the floor.

Onto a chair he jumped. Yes, she had been here. Her scent was pronounced in the seat of the chair - and he could smell just a bit of the boy, too. So, they were intimate…. He had expected no less. This generation did not know what it was to wait.

From the chair he leapt to the nearby table.

The musty odour meant she had been reading a book, but which one?

He raised his sensitive nose in the air.

The girl had handled several books, but the most distinct odour came from one of the shelves to his left, and fairly high up.

Rats were not built for climbing, but he struggled up the shelving anyway. He could not transform - not yet - because the human nose was far less acute.

He probably damaged a few books, but with claws, teeth, and tail, he clambered upwards.

Just when he doubted his ability, the rat reached a shelf where, at last, the girl's odour was no longer above him. He edged his way along the shelf until he sniffed out the book the girl had evidently been reading.

He climbed to the top of the tome. Grabbing the shelf above with his magical silver paw, he braced himself and kicked wildly at the book with his back paws.

Shredded bits of parchment filled the air as he slowly pushed the book outwards. Suddenly it began to tip. The rat lost his balance as both he and the book crashed to the floor.

Recovering quickly from the metre-plus fall, the rodent snuffled all about the large book. The girl's scent was strong, but more pronounced in some places than others. Using his nose and his paws, the rat turned pages this way and that until he stumbled upon the most intense odour.

A rat could go no further - as a rat.

He could not read. In his Animagus form, his less-complex rat brain lacked that capacity.

To return to his human form required magic.

Using magic would set off the alarm - something he had learnt from hard experience.

But for some reason, the girl who held the Boy Who Lived's heart had ventured all the way to this library to look at this book. That information might just redeem him in his Master's eyes. It was worth the risk.

He transformed. The magical alarm sounded.

Peter Pettigrew rapidly committed the name of the book to memory. Then he looked for the precise pages. He was surprised, but not shocked, to see two pages - four sides of print - had been removed.

“A priori,” he incanted, returning the library to its prior state.

A shiver ran down his spine.

He could not remember which book he had pushed out to gain access to the room.

Wormtail started to panic…. Then he remembered that the passage could be accessed from the top of the rightmost bookshelf. Huffing and puffing, he hoisted himself to the top - or close enough to it.

He transformed.

Then he jumped into the narrow space behind the bookcase. He bashed and battered himself on the way down, but made good his escape.

If the Dark Lord had a copy of the same book, then he would be able to determine what the girl had been interested in.

The rat was confident that he did.

* * * *

Harry Potter nearly hit the ceiling when Mad-Eye brought word of the Order's latest proposal.

“Tomorrow…? You want us to attract the Deaters' attention deliberately?”

“Yeh got that right, son,” Mad-Eye retorted. “Yeh're the one who just agreed ta help out the Ministry, after all….”

“And what, exactly, is their great plan?” Harry responded sarcastically.

“Last minute Christmas shoppin', fer starters - then playin' at being tourists fer the rest of the day,” Mad-Eye told him. “The first's ta attract attention. The second's the real plan…. We've been tryin' ta get a look inta a few magical places in Glastonbury fer some time now, ta look fer whatever Voldemort's hidden in the area, but there's always been Deaters about. We're hoping they'll come fer a look at yeh. Then we can sneak in and check the area out….”

Harry thought for a bit. “This comes straight from Dumbledore, doesn't it?” he asked.

“Yep,” Moody confirmed. “He's convinced there's somethin' about. Won't say what, so I figure it's important…. Says he's discussed it with yeh two, though, so I'm assumin' yeh know what this is all about.”

“And you don't?” Harry asked his guardian.

“Nope,” Mad-Eye growled back. “If it's on a need ta know basis and I don't need ta know. I can live with that…. Yeh should try it some time.”

“Well … okay, but just me, all right?” Harry reluctantly agreed. “I won't have Hermione used as bait for any reason.”

“Fer the last time, okay?” Mad-Eye spat back. “Ain't nobody bein' used as bait. Yeh'll all be well guarded … very well guarded … too blasted well guarded, in fact. That's part of the deal ta attract everyone's attention. We're gonna stop traffic and everythin'. Yeh'll be more headache ta everybody than the bloody PM.”

“If she agrees, then all right,” Harry grudgingly went along. “But I'm not letting her out of my sight.”

Mad-Eye snorted. “And how are yeh gonna Christmas shop fer each other, then?”

“I have her present,” Harry maintained. “And she's mentioned that she has mine, too.”

The aged Auror threw up his hands. “Oh, all right … have it yer bloody way, then….”

“…And the others don't come unless they really want to,” Harry added another condition.

“Oh, they will, Harry,” Mad-Eye told him as he cracked his first, rather grotesque smile of the conversation. “I've already asked `em … not about the mission, exactly, but whether they'd fancy a visit ta civilisation. An' they do. Big as this place is … it's so isolated that cabin fever's settin' in. Can't say that I blame `em….”

“Fine,” Harry pronounced, rather annoyed that his guardian had to some degree gone behind his back. “Got everything planned, I see. I suppose you even know where Hermione is, then….”

His grin got so large as to expose all of Mad-Eye's teeth - not a pleasant sight. “As a matter of fact I do, my boy,” he said gaily, or at least as close to gaily as the crusty old man ever came. “Just got done talkin' 'bout this with her. She told me she'd be in the billiard room, an' I should send yeh there when I'm done….”

“Well, you're done,” Harry declared. Then he turned on his heel and left - in great hurry.

Mad-Eye could only smile as he reflected upon pocketing balls and chalking cues.

* * * *

Author's notes: In canon, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed Muggle burnings

The church punishments are described in Ch. 58

The Sheriff of Nottingham - played by Alan Rickman - canceled Christmas in “Prince of Thieves”

Kicking the question upstairs to Dumbledore will have adverse consequences

Harry-Hermione is being politicized in various ways

For background on wizard marriage laws, see Ch.10

I introduce some backstory about Pius Thicknesse from DH

In Ch. 5 Minister Fudge tricked Harry into having a press conference

There is an apocryphal (not in the Quran) story that Muhammed, after unsuccessfully calling upon a mountain to come to him, conceded that he would have to go to the mountain instead; supposedly it originates with Francis Bacon, thought to be a wizard by some

My Harry is not Dumbledore's man

In British parlance “last-ditchers” were early 20th century Tory peers, who derailed reform legislation until the House of Lords was neutered in 1911

“The latest incident” Scrimgeour refers to is the explosion in the valley, passed off as a comet strike by the Muggleworthy Excuse Committee

The Situation Room incident was in Ch. 17

The shutdown required for computer installation will be very significant

BDA = British Dental Association; the advisory group actually exists

Peter Brooke in fact represented Knightsbridge in Parliament during the relevant period

Grunnings in my fic makes dental drills

The fire in the Granger dental office occurred in Ch. 23

The incident between Uncle Vernon and Tonks occurred in Ch. 5

The London place names are all real and, I've been assured, geographically accurate

“Make it a night” is a Philadelphia tourism slogan

Wizard pictures for Apparition licenses are no more flattering that Muggle drivers' license photos

The book Hermione needs is first discussed in Ch. 9

In Britain the ground floor and first floor are different levels

“Sorcerers of death's construction” is a phrase from Black Sabbath's “War Pigs”

Aspinwall is my wife's grandmother's maiden name

The effects of the black (UV) light are accurately described

Hecate is a minor Greek goddess

Digitalis is either an herbally based poison or a drug, depending on the amount used

In CoS, Hermione tore out a book page describing a Basilisk

“Blue Suede Shoes” is an old rock and roll classic by Carl Perkins

Luna's experiment involving swallows and coconuts is from Monte Python and the Holy Grail

“Mackers” are magical versions of hackers

McGonagall's reaction was in Ch. 13

Hermione is deliberately stoking Harry's jealousy with the albums

“Birdhouse in Your Soul” is by They Might Be Giants; Luna would like their music

Luna's discovery is important in the chain of events unraveling Cho's secret

A mandala is a Buddhist prayer pattern

Cho Chang's gift to Harry occurred in Ch. 23

That goblins eat spiders will later be fortunate

65

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 9/21/2008

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66. Happy Christmas

Wherein Harry and Hermione are disturbed, and go Christmas shopping; Voldemort gets a message and gives orders; Harry and friends tour Glastonbury; Hermione makes another discovery; Christmas is celebrated; and Lao Kung writes back

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner and Shane.

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

Chapter 66 - Happy Christmas

Luckily, the Anti-Rip charms on the baize were regularly reinforced….

Diligently performing her appointed rounds, the house-elf nudged the door to the billiards room open and started to slip inside, cleaning under the door jamb as she went. Her expression went curious when the door struck something. The very orderly elf tutted as she saw the red-striped 13-ball bump to a halt on the thick carpet.

But what stopped the ball's roll was even more disturbing - a red and black C-string, and a right skimpy one at that.

The elf frowned. Why were various items of apparel - mostly, but not entirely, human female clothing - scattered all about the room?

The answer was not long in coming. There, atop a Cushioning-Charmed pool table, resplendent in the altogether was the Young Master and….

Oh, dear. Nothing like this had occurred in the Château within the memory of any living elf.

With a tiny little yelp, the quite perturbed elf vanished.

As Young Master's personal house-elf, and now the newly designated (if not yet comfortable) head house-elf, this new report put Dobby in a significant quandary.

Someone, somehow, had to wake up the great Harry Potter and Miz Myown, and soon. They were the centrepieces of a most overblown and most recently scheduled outing. It would not befit their positions to be late for their own extravaganza.

But after the incident with them at the pool, Dobby was certain that he was not the elf for that job.

But how? But who?

The answer was not long in coming.

The Head Elf's wide eyes protruded even more than usual, as he broke into a knowing, open-mouthed smile. “To wake Harry Potter and his miss, that will work,” he declared to a couple of onlooking elves. They stared uncomprehendingly as Dobby popped off.

Shortly thereafter, an amused Luna Lovegood waltzed into the billiards room loudly singing “It's the End of the World as We Know It” - with modified lyrics known only to her.

She stopped singing abruptly, with the words “Ludo Bagman.” Inside the room, things had not changed appreciably since the cleaning elf's hasty exit.

The pair, totally starkers, slept soundly atop the main pool table - its green baize resembling a featherbed instead of slate. Hermione's slightly bent legs molded about Harry's sides. He spooned her, and Hermione's torso, topped by nothing save her unconscious smile, rested comfortably within his encircling arms.

Luna believed they were probably - technically speaking - still in the act.

“Looks like fun,” she breathed to herself. “Too bad that all things must pass.”

“Accio Hermione's clothes!” Luna incanted. From all four points various garments soared to her. “My, My,” she giggled. “She sported more layers than an Eskimo on walkabout….”

Hermione stirred a bit - but only a bit - as Harry reflexively held her closer.

“Well, here goes nothing,” Luna giggled again. She held her wand high. “Tocsinnini!”

A loud ringing, buzzing, rattling clamour - combining every irritating noise ever emitted by an alarm clock - sounded through the room.

The cacophony blasted the hitherto placid bodies on the pool table back to consciousness. They began flailing wildly. Hermione grabbed her wand from beneath the nose of the side cushion, and rose up. “Silencio!” Her burst of magic hit the end of Luna's wand quite precisely, calling a halt to caterwauling.

Luna appreciated just how skilled a dueller Hermione had become. “Five seconds after arousal from deep sleep. Very good.”

Hermione could do without such ill-timed praise. “Luna! What in the name of Circe are you up to?” she screeched.

Luna's sing-song voice responded, “Get up, get out, you lazy louts, get into your working clothes….”

“That would be difficult, I'm afraid,” Hermione huffed sarcastically, “as you already seem to have collected everything.”

“So I have,” Luna answered, playing Hermione's discomfiture for all it was worth.

Without his glasses, Harry could only guess where his clothes were. His hands firmly around Hermione's waist, Harry kept her strategically positioned between himself and the intruder. He broke in, “Luna, do you mind?”

“Nope, not at all,” Luna responded.

Harry continued, “Look, I'm naked here….”

“All right, I will. Hmmm … let's see….” Luna made a big production of checking Harry out. “I do believe you're right.”

“Lu-na!” Harry raised his voice. “This isn't funny.”

“That … well, you're quite mistaken,” she replied, bringing a hand to her mouth in an unsuccessful attempt to stifle her laughter.

Hermione had enough, “Accio my clothes,” she incanted. At least two dozen items streamed from one young lady to the other.

“There certainly were a lot of them,” Luna commented. “Why so many separate things…? I mean, leggings and fishnets?”

“Well, it was necessary. We were having a round of … strip pool … er … in reverse.”

“Hermione!” Harry protested.

“…Why a C-string?” Luna went on. “Oh, I get it….”

“It's about time,” Hermione groaned.

“Look, we need to get dressed,” Harry demanded, frustration leaking into his voice.

“Well, why do you think I'm here?” Luna stood her ground.

“At this point, I really don't care,” Hermione retorted. She was also frustrated. She had her clothes, but could not put them on as long as Harry needed her as a human shield.

“Supposedly, femininity works best…. Oh, goodie!” Luna exclaimed. “What a great idea!” she spoke quite loudly to herself. She ran from the room without bothering to look back.

“Finally,” Harry groaned. He let her loose and fumbled about for his clothing - where had Hermione Banished his jeans last night, anyway? Resorting to magic, he retrieved them from the horns of a stuffed bicorn head mounted above the (untouched) whiskey cabinet.

Hermione fumbled through the items of clothing seized from Luna. She left most of them on a chair but covered herself with a red scoop-necked top adorned with “Binge Thinker” in gold letters.

“Next time, I'll use a Colloportus that doesn't wear off,” she swore.

* * * *

The field-elves managing the Thestrals were beginning to get restless (as were the Thestrals) when Harry and Hermione finally arrived - late for their own production. The rest were already there: Neville, Luna, Tonks, Mad-Eye, even Jazzy had been persuaded to come along, although she attended quite sullenly.

Much of their delayed entrance was attributable to their lie in after the previous evening's extracurricular activities. But not all.

A fluffy, feathery visitor was also at fault. The pair were about to depart the Proprietor's suite when Pigwidgeon appeared from out of nowhere, madly banging into the leaded window like a bee in a jam jar.

The overenthusiastic owl bore a note from Ron. That note remained in Harry's hand all the way to the Château's entrance. Beside him, Hermione was still tutting.

Hey mate!

So what's it like to have more money than Merlin? I could get used to that. Hope you're being allowed to.

Here at the Burrow, it's boring without you around. There's no point even in taking the Mickey out of little sister. She's grounded for her bit in putting you in the Hospital Wing after the Slytherin match.

I didn't. Hah. Hah.

No idea why. Fred and George suspect I got off because Mum and Dad did something similar as Hogwarts students and got away with it. It's too much information, but whatever. It beats being grounded any day.

I just have to de-gnome the back garden every day.

I'll give you your Christmas present when we're back at Hogwarts. Can't have it confiscated like your Firebolt.

Don't forget - Chinese New Year. You promised.

Ron

The carriage's first stop was Diagon Alley, ostensibly for Christmas shopping. Jazzy had no money but had no use for Harry's, or anyone else's, charity.

In that respect, she was worse than Ron.

The eight Thestrals that propelled the Château's most magnificent carriage were chomping at the bit, ready to depart. Driving them were two house-elves in nothing but worn out rucksacks with cutout holes, also sporting Blackwalls' black and silver chambered nautilus patterned insignia. “Got the regular drivers back,” Moody had told Harry, “since today's landings will be trickier.”

Moody climbed atop the carriage where, of course, he was riding shot-wand.

Tonks handed out Château Blackwalls debit cards to the soon-to-be performers. Jazzy scowled, taking hers with a thumb and one finger, as if it were a Flesh-Eating Slug newly dead from infectious Scrofungulus.

“Don't look at it that way,” Tonks hissed at her. “You're not enriching yourself. It's for Christmas presents.”

“I don't believe in Christmas,” Jazzy shot back.

“Well, whatever you do believe in,” Tonks shrugged.

Jazzy did not believe in much of anything.

The landing in London was indeed tricky. Whilst the Cloaking Charm worked perfectly, that spell had been in use for more than three hundred years - long before the Muggles invented radar. To avoid radar, the carriage swung to the East, away from the westbound flight path for jets ascending from Heathrow Airport. Further incidents with 747s were strictly forbidden.

The carriage's approach was exceedingly low, skimming over grimy industrial estates bounded by the Thames, and banking sharply only a few score metres above London chimney tops.

And over places that lacked even chimney tops.

For the first time, Harry witnessed the massive destruction wrought by the fire that occasioned his kidnapping - scores of square blocks burnt to the ground. The Muggles had removed most of the debris, so what remained was a charred wasteland, unnervingly close to Whitehall and the City.

Pale-faced and nauseous, Harry turned to Hermione. “I had no idea … it was … that bad,” he choked out.

“I know,” she murmured, her hand rising to stroke his face. “I didn't want to tell you. I saw … saw it, too much of it, the night it all happened. You're aware that I wanted to die that night. Well, now you've some idea why….”

“Landing shortly,” Tonks announced loudly from behind them - their dolorous conversation thus interrupted by the only other person in the world who knew how close Hermione had come to death that night.

As the carriage descended into Diagon Alley, Harry noticed that it had acquired an escort. Several broom riding Aurors, their maroon robes flapping in the breeze, circled the much larger carriage in the same rotational pattern Harry had first noticed whilst making his initial visit to Grimmauld Place.

Harry was uncertain exactly where they would land. The goblins swore that things were well in hand, but Harry he had never seen anyplace in or around Gringotts large enough, long enough, and flat enough for landing a carriage of this size. Harry had his answer when the carriage tilted into its final approach, affording him a view of Gringotts and its surrounding alleyways.

The bank was unmistakable, dominating everything in the vicinity and glowing brilliantly white in the low early morning sun. However, the bank's right side was rippling, as were the adjacent smaller shops - as far as Madam Malkin's. A greensward flickered into being as the buildings parted. The magic reminded Harry of the enchantments at Grimmauld Place.

The greensward continued expanding. As the scene slipped from Harry's view, a pair of massive wrought iron gates began wheeling open.

The carriage lurched as the Thestrals made a hard right turn. Hermione's fingernails dug into Harry's wrist as the landscape rose to meet them - first even with the surrounding rooftops and then closer still. Dodgy Knockturn Alley shops flashed by as the vehicle hurtled down the way, now only a metre or two in the air.

The carriage rumbled loudly and bounced as it set down on the Diagon Alley cobbles. For an instant, Harry saw Aurors blocking traffic - but in the blink of an eye, the carriage shot by them, through the gates, and rolled to a halt in a substantial, well-manicured field.

“The bloody Eagle has landed,” Hermione groaned breathily, finally allowing herself to exhale.

A goblin delegation, led by Glaksosmit, greeted Harry as everyone disembarked. Also on hand was a large contingent of Aurors, and a few Hit Wizards.

Harry quickly took the senior goblin aside.

“Do you have it?”

“Yes, Impratraxis,” Glaksosmit confirmed. “Than betray you on such a matter, die rather would I.”

The goblin's hand shot out. Harry covered it with his own, and the transfer was complete.

Mad-Eye chatted with someone who was probably in charge of the Ministry side of things. Harry, withdrawing his hand from inside his robes, was increasingly impatient.

Moody's face broke into a twisted smile as his ward approached. “Harry! Come meet my namesake…. Harry Potter, here's Alastor Gumboil. Since this is a mixed operation, the Minister convinced Robards ta put him in charge of this train wreck….”

Gumboil, a tall, stiff-backed wizard, wore the solid black robes of a Hit Wizard. With a face like a dropped meat pie, a shiny bald head, and an arresting handlebar mustache, Gumboil was plainly another graduate of the Mad-Eye Moody school of hard knocks - no doubt why the two hit it off well.

“Well, if you're good enough for Mad-Eye, you're good enough for me,” Harry greeted as they shook hands.

Gumboil discreetly cast some sort of Notice-Me-Not Charm.

“So here's the deal,” Gumboil told Harry in low tones as various Ministry bureaucrats, Aurors, goblins, and other milled about. “You and your friends split up for what we're calling last-minute Christmas shopping. You all will be well and conspicuously guarded. That will attract plenty of attention, but the Deaters won't try anything here - they'll just watch. In a couple of hours, Miss Granger….”

“You may call me Hermione,” Hermione spoke up from the spot she had taken just behind and beside Harry.

“…Hermione … will find the Glasto pamphlets available at the Terrortours Travel Agency…. That's all been arranged. It's less than an hour's flight by carriage.”

“And then what?” Harry asked.

“A known Deater sympathiser works the midday shift at Terrortours,” Gumboil explained. “He'll get the word out, I'm sure. Once you're there - still heavily guarded, of course - we need you to spend maybe four hours touring. Nothing attracts Deater attention like Harry Potter, it seems.”

“So it seems,” Harry echoed ruefully. “Right Death Eater magnet, I am.”

“Anyway,” Gumboil continued, giving his mustache a twist. “For those four hours you can do whatever you please, as long as you stay away from the Tor….”

“The what?” Hermione asked.

“Glastonbury Tor,” Gumboil continued. “We think the … you-know-what might be located in the catacombs under Glastonbury Tor. We're looking to insert a search crew whilst you've got the Deaters distracted….”

“So what do we do?” Harry interjected.

“Anything you like,” the grizzled Hit Wizard repeated. “Visit the Merlin monument. See the Glasto hawthorns in bloom. View the reputed Avalon burial site of Arthur and Guinevere. Go Muggle and take in the Grail Collection at the church in town - Christmas Eve, should be lovely….”

“Well, shouldn't we be getting on with it,” Hermione broke in, her voice and face rather tense. “The group is getting antsy….”

In short order everyone was ready (more or less) to embark upon their respective Christmas shopping sprees. Hermione sidled over to Harry. “Umm … do you still need to get my present?” she asked.

“Hardly,” Harry replied with the confidence of truth. “That's been handled for some time. How about you? Are you shopping for me?”

“Nope, that's handled, too,” Hermione answered briskly. “Who are you shopping for, then?”

“Ron and Ginny, primarily,” Harry declared.

“I want to get something for Ginny, too,” Hermione agreed, “but with all that's happened, I'm not exchanging gifts with Ronald this year.”

“Mine can be from the both of us, then,” Harry offered.

“Okay, but let's do it together,” Hermione accepted.

Harry was relieved. “My sentiments exactly.”

“Well, `Arry,” came a familiar voice from behind. “Are yeh ready ta get on with this?”

“Hagrid!” both Harry and Hermione yelped in unison.

The half giant wore heavy, cross-pleated dragonskin pants and coat - protective gear just short of armour. Riding on one shoulder was the same massive cross-bow Harry remembered from years earlier. Hagrid's other hand held the incongruous pink umbrella that concealed his original wand.

“That's me,” he said with a broad smile. “Yer bodyguard at yer service. Helluva change from when I first met yeh.”

Accompanied by Hagrid, some goblins and - at more of a distance - several Aurors, Harry and Hermione threaded their way through gawking onlookers. Their first destination was Quality Quidditch Supplies.

Quidditch was Ron's greatest passion - save one possible female exception - but neither Harry nor Hermione were currently in the mood to discuss her.

Inside the shop, they sought at first to be inconspicuous. That was useless (just as the Ministry had hoped), with everyone stopping to watch the pair's progress.

Ron was not in need of a broom at the moment, and the Chudley Cannons match robes that formerly graced the showcase window were gone. After fifteen minutes of shopping, Harry and Hermione settled on a three-dimensional Quidditch strategy board.

“Well, that's different,” Hermione remarked when Harry uttered the activation spell for the board.

She was (as usual) right.

The board was about a metre long and shaped like a Quidditch pitch, complete with properly sized goal posts. Aside from the height of the goals, Quidditch pitches had no standardised dimensions, so the board could be adapted for length and width. Several sets of dimensions came pre-installed, including those for the pitches at Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and (at least rumoured) Durmstrang.

A quite star-struck shop assistant helped Harry activate the Charms. A miniature Quidditch team appeared, in red (a charm controlled team colour selection) and then an opposing team clad in monotonous brown.

With Hermione looking on, trying to conceal her rapidly waning interest, Harry created a couple of formations. He pronounced himself satisfied, handed his BoE debit card to the assistant, and instructed him to ship it to the Burrow ASAP. He followed the assistant to what passed for a cash register. He was completing that transaction - when he saw it….

To one side was a bright blue object, looking rather like a giant robin's egg, set vertically on the wide end, except for the open door.

“What's that?” Harry asked.

“It's a Snitch search simulator,” answered a second shop assistant, whose name card read “Tess.” “Would you like to give it a go?”

“Sure, why not?”

Harry eased through the doorway and looked about. A diffuse soft light permeated the smooth, featureless, interior. A metre-long section of broomstick lay on the floor.

After pulling the oval hatch shut behind him, Harry heard the faint buzz of magic. Before any command was uttered, the bit of broomstick leapt smartly to mounting height.

Not quite knowing what to expect, Harry climbed on.

He noticed a timer on the broomstick's tip. A disembodied female voice instructed. “You will now select amongst various Quidditch environments. In each lurks a Golden Snitch. Upon spotting the Snitch, point your wand and incant, `Ispyro.' Each time you hit the target, the timer resets. Ten seconds later another scenario will start. To end the simulation, simply say, `Down.'”

The first simulation, blindingly sunny, surrounded Harry, as if swallowed by an IMAX cinema. Instinct took over and Harry manœuvred the broomstick just like a real broom. He needed 24.7 seconds to spot and target the simulated Snitch. That put him in the 97th percentile for - well, for something.

Harry spent a quarter of an hour searching for make-believe Snitches through virtual environments running the gamut from “Driving Rain” to “Solar Eclipse.” Reluctantly, he set the broomstick down.

Exiting the simulator, he found Hermione waiting for him. Her face was impassive, but her foot tapped impatiently.

“You must have liked it,” she remarked - raising a question that Tess the sales assistant (who stood aside) would not have dared to ask so bluntly.

“Actually, yes,” Harry readily admitted. “It's great Seeker practice for spotting the Snitch. And not just for me. If I bought it and took it back to the Château, I could….”

“Don't even think about it,” a frowning Hermione cut across. “You know what Jazzy said. Give her something like that, and she'll never speak to you - or me - again.”

Harry cleared his throat. “As I was saying,” he resumed, “I could bring it to the Château and probably get Jazzy to use it. After the holiday, I'll install it in the Gryffindor clubhouse. I mean, the Potter Trust equalised brooms … not everything.”

Hermione gave him a sly smile. “You're getting better, Harry. I like the way you're thinking.”

“And I like the way you're … well, you know….” Harry switched to telepathy. `Maybe we could get a room or something….'

`Later, Harry,' Hermione replied with mock sternness. `We're here because we have a job to do.'

But the wink she ended with offered hope for later.

“Right,” Harry muttered. He turned to Tess, said, “I'll take it,” and pulled out his BoE card once more. With a questioning look, she took it. This one had obviously never seen anything like it.

Harry turned back to Hermione. “I think the goblins ought to make more of these - like the Muggles - they're right more convenient than gold.”

“They'd listen to you,” Hermione reminded him.

“Well, maybe I will, then,” Harry mused. “Oh, and I need to find something for Ginny.”

Harry started back down the aisle towards the back of the store.

Hermione weighed her options. That conversation with Neville gave her pause. But on the other side of the balance, Ginny had to be hurting. She was grounded at the Burrow with only Ron to keep her company. Dear Ronald, as emotionally shallow as he was, would hardly be lending Ginny a sympathetic ear. On his best days empathy had never been Ron's strong point. And Ron and Ginny were hardly optimal at the moment.

Beyond all that, as Hermione had told Neville that day - she trusted Harry.

That, more than anything, decided the issue.

“Harry,” she called after him and started in his direction. He turned and looked at her quizzically. “Not here.”

“Not here, what?”

“You shouldn't buy your gift for Ginny here.”

“Why not?”

Hermione spelled it out. “She'd appreciate it more if you gave something going beyond Quidditch.”

“You think … really?”

“Really, Harry. Trust me on this,” Hermione reassured. “Right now, Quidditch would only bring back rather painful memories - probably for the both of you.”

“Oh,” Harry paused. “You really think so?”

“I know so.”

Hermione took Harry's hand and led him from Quality Quidditch Supplies, taking care to collect his card on the way to the Alley.

Hagrid was waiting outside. “Where ta now, `Arry?” he greeted the pair.

He cast a sideways glance at Hermione. This was her adventure. “Twilfit & Tatting's,” she declared after a moment's hesitation. “That is, unless you'd rather pay a visit to Madam Primpernelle's.”

Harry was familiar with that shop's incredibly girly adverts in the Prophet. “No, that's quite all right.”

“Then we'd bes' be off,” Hagrid declared. “It's not late - not exactly - but it's no longer early either. Yeh was in there long time, `Arry. Find summat interesting?”

Hermione slowly led Harry down Diagon Alley - and thus moved the whole cavalcade of Aurors, goblins, and other hangers on - whilst Harry told Hagrid about the Quidditch-related items he had bought.

Soon they reached the entrance to an upscale wizard clothing shop. Its exterior was mostly brick with stone corners, vaguely reminiscent of Hermione's Muggle home in Knightsbridge, except for large display windows and a kitschy entrance. That doorway - shaped like a keyhole, with its top curving to an exaggerated point - looked like something out of an Algerian Kasbah … or else a bordello. It was extravagantly gilt, except for the proprietors' names, which stood out in jade green against the shiny gold background.

Stepping across the threshold, the pair thought they were the only customers. After a noticeable delay an elegantly dressed sales assistant glided into view from the men's side of the store.

“Dreadfully sorry,” he began. “That shouldn't have happened. We had an important customer, but someone….”

The man's eyes took the glance upwards that Harry knew all too well.

“…Harry Potter,” he drawled. “I am proud and humbled to be at your service. What may I do for you?”

The man must have set off some kind of signal, because within fifteen seconds at least five other T&T staff members circled about the pair.

“I'd like to see something in the … umm … ladies department,” Harry replied, his statement bearing the inflection of a question.

“Why not start with the accessories?” Hermione came to his rescue. “Harry's looking for a last-minute Christmas gift for a friend at Hogwarts.”

Harry, with Hermione's guidance, browsed T&T's collection of feminine accessories. They were followed, and at times surrounded, by a gaggle of sales assistants. Whilst the shop's employees sought to be helpful, at times they were simply too helpful.

Harry looked first through handbags, but Hermione vetoed all of his ideas. There were watches, but very few witches at Hogwarts wore them. Most were also more expensive than Harry wanted to spend. He was conflicted about this, but did not want Ginny to get the wrong idea from something either extravagant or personal.

For the same reason he ultimately vetoed the rainbow-coloured leggings with adjustable Warming and Cooling Charms built in.

He did not even pause for the rest of the hosiery department.

Maybe for Hermione, but she liked selecting her own lingerie.

Harry liked that too.

Finally, looking at outerwear, Harry found something he liked.

“What about this?” he asked Hermione, running his hands over a pastel green and burnt orange shawl. It looked shimmery, but felt woolen. At the moment, he trusted her judgment concerning Ginny more than his own.

“It's pretty enough,” Hermione commented, “and I like the style. It's multi-coloured but muted - not garish like those leggings that somehow captivated you before. The knotted beads at the ends are a nice touch. What's the fabric?”

A hovering sales assistant happily provided the requested information. “These shawls are a silk-puffskein fur blend, 60-40. The silk provides the shimmer and the fur the texture. The colours are natural, dyed from a variety of autumn-leaf extracts.”

“The sign says they're charmed,” Harry followed, gesturing to a small piece of parchment affixed to the rack holding the shawls - apparently with a Sticking Charm. “What's the charm?”

A second sales assistant spoke up before the first could begin. “There are several,” he said. “These come with all your standard Self-Cleansing Charms, and also Drying and Warming Charms. But beyond that, these carry a Class IV Protective Object classification because each is imbued with a functioning Shield Charm to ward off minor to moderate hexes and jinxes….”

“That's similar to the Twins' Shield Gloves,” Hermione observed. “Only this is much more stylish.”

“I would hope so,” sniffed the assistant, whose tag read “Sydney.” He had patiently waited for Hermione to finish. “In a pinch, the baubles knitted into the embroidery at either end are Bezoars.”

“What do you think?” Harry asked Hermione.

“I think it's both pretty and practical,” she advised.

“Fine, I'll take it,” Harry decided.

Soon the pair were back on the Diagon Alley pavement. “To the travel agency then?” Harry asked his fiancée.

“Almost, but I need to make one brief stop,” she replied as she hid her face from a photographer who undoubtedly was acting for some publication. “I need to go to Flourish and Blotts.”

“What for?” Harry asked, his arm raised as the flash went off.

“Why, I need to get my own gift for Ginny,” she told him with a smile on her face.

“And what might that be?” he asked.

“I promised myself I'd get her a book on anger management,” she replied. “I don't want her doing that again - to you or anyone else.”

* * * *

As they walked off, another wizard was paying for his purchases at Twilfit & Tatting's. “That will be five hundred Galleons, Mister Malfoy,” the cashier intoned. “I trust you'll find your new robes satisfactory.”

“Worth every Knut, I'm sure,” the platinum-haired teen agreed with a smirk.

`Just like these,' the young Malfoy patriarch thought to himself as he exited, patting the inside pocket of his robes, in which a set of Extendable Ears resided.

At first, Draco had been offended by the sales assistants' abandonment once Potter and his Mudblood had turned up. But that left him free to watch the reflections of his rivals discreetly in a changing mirror for the duration of their visit - as well as to eavesdrop with the trusty WWW product.

Draco was pleased that Harry Potter was getting Ginny Weasley any Christmas gift, after what had happened. He was beyond pleased that the gift was not some Merlin-forsaken Quidditch toy, but something that at least hinted that Potter viewed the Weaselette (remember, never to her face, he reminded himself) as something other than just part of the Hogwarts scenery.

She would be over the moon. Draco, more than anyone else, knew how Ginny Weasley really felt about Potter.

He would use any leverage he could get to ensure the success of his assignment - one of them, anyway - from the Dark Lord.

For that he would be richly rewarded.

Draco Malfoy's step had extra bounce as he turned into Knockturn Alley.

* * * *

Harry and Hermione blew into Terrortours like a hurricane coming ashore - that was part of the plan. “Merlin, we need someplace to get away once the Hogwarts term is over!” Harry exclaimed.

The sales assistant on duty, suspected (to the Order) Death Eater sympathiser Philander Tweed, barely had time to turn around before finding himself face-to-face with The Boy Who Lived. As shock turned into recognition, he cracked his best smile at his latest customers.

“Our Bermuda Triangle tour is quite popular,” he fawned over the wizard who stood number one on the Dark Lord's Most Wanted List. “Ten shipwrecks in seven days.”

“No, I think we're looking for something a little more out of the way - and less hectic. We want just want to be alone, together, I think,” Harry said, squeezing Hermione's hand as he finished his pre-thought-out peroration.

“Perhaps, then, I could interest you in our fogbound package to Zaire's Mountains of the Moon,” Mr. Tweed shifted gears, “with accommodations in Rwenzori Castle, excellent trekking on Streeler-cleared tracks, lessons in Watutsi magic, and a visit to the world's only Nundu preserve. Take a brochure from the rack there - as many as you like. Perhaps your … elves … can help you.”

As Harry turned to the rack, his goblin escorts glared at Tweed - their way of keeping an eye on the reputed Death Eater sympathiser. Because of the perceived risk, they had insisted on entering the shop, rather than remaining outside, as they had previously.

Harry made a show of looking thoughtful, and grabbed a few brochures from the rack, almost at random: a magical mystery tour of enchanted gardens in Babylonia; an Uluru walkabout whilst learning some of the oldest conjuring in creation, an endangered tribal magic expedition into interior New Guinea; Turnback Canyon magical kayak trips in the Yukon, water skiing behind Kelpies in the Ispir Gorge, with a side visit to magical sites in Cappadocia; dragon boat races, with real dragons, at several places near Hong Kong….

After one look at the Thailand brochure, Harry quickly put it back before Hermione saw it.

“Oh, look at this, Harry!” came Hermione's mock-excited voice from behind him. “And it's still going on tonight!”

Harry turned, and sure enough Hermione was clutching a Glastonbury winter festival brochure from the countertop. Enthusiasm almost poured from the glint her eyes.

Damn, she could be a good actress - but last year had already proven that.

Now, if only he could play his part half as well.

“Is that what you want to do, Luv?” he began. “It can be my early Christmas gift to you.”

“Yes, I'd like that very much,” she replied. “I've never been to the Merlin Magical Preserve. Look, a Celtic zodiac walk through the marsh, winter-blooming hawthorns and ever-blooming roses, an enchanted well, ley lines on the tor, magical, or at least spiritually, charged ruins - even a Muggle chapel where the Holy Grail once supposedly resided.”

“So when must we leave to see all this?” Harry asked her with a chuckle.

“Oh dear! According to this schedule we'd have to get the carriage off within twenty minutes to be there in time for the complete walk,” Hermione moaned. “And we have to collect everyone.”

“Let's go, then,” Harry answered urgently. He told Mr. Tweed, “Thanks for the tips, but unfortunately we've got to run. We'll be back sometime.”

The two were as good as their word, practically running out the door. Once safely away, with a crack, they Disapparated.

Less than a moment later they appeared at the Apparition site just behind the carriage. They were a bit late. The others were already there.

“Do you think he fell for it?” Hermione asked, barely suppressing a giggle.

“We'll find out when we get there,” Harry responded accurately. “You were very good, though.”

“I try to be good at anything I do.”

* * * *

The urgent note still clutched in his long pale fingers, he stared out the window and into infinity, ignoring the wintery landscape. The Dark Lord was re-evaluating his plans.

The vacant stare became hard. He had made up his mind.

“My Lord. You summoned me,” Severus Snape's silky voice intoned as he bent to kiss the hem of his Master's robes. “How can I serve you?”

“Rise,” commanded Lord Voldemort. “For I am pleased. It seems that our most humble of servants has actually made himself useful.”

“Indeed,” the dark haired man responded vaguely, hopeful of something more illuminating from his Master.

He was not disappointed.

“Yes, Wormtail has provided me with most useful information. He sent me this note.” The Dark Lord handed the scrap of enchanted parchment to his underling.

My Lord:

I was instructed to inform you of anything unusual.

The Mudblood Granger was just here - at 12 Grimmauld Place. She must have had Potter's permission to use the library, because she went through the wards. She seemed in a hurry. She tore pages 745-49 out of the book, Life Unto Death & Death Unto Life.

Your faithful servant

Peter Pettigrew

Snape looked up when he finished reading. “My Lord, is that…?”

He never finished. “Yes, it is,” Voldemort cut him off. “Behold.”

The Dark Lord gestured to a reading desk where the aforementioned tome lay - opened to the indicated pages. Snape took one look … and prayed his Occlumency skills would be equal to the task. That girl was once again dabbling most unwisely in things she did not understand.

“Indeed, this is potentially serious,” he said evenly. “Do you wish your potions bolstered in any way, my Lord?”

“Not at this time,” Voldemort dismissed the offer. His eyes fastened on Snape's. Probing, he encountered nothing out of the ordinary. “Take this note and see that Wormtail receives it in the ordinary course.” His extended hand held a sealed black envelope.

“Indeed,” Snape murmured as he took proffered letter. Now, he was disappointed. No further information was forthcoming. Snape knew this intentional - he was not to be privy to Wormtail's instructions. By specifying the “ordinary course,” the Dark Lord had indirectly ordered Snape not to deliver the instructions personally.

“You may go,” Lord Voldemort dismissed Snape.

Snape had barely departed when the Dark Lord summoned another long-time servant.

“Lucius,” Lord Voldemort hissed at his henchman after the formalities of submission were complete. “You shall visit our Sinic compatriots. I want ten wizards - with pursuit capability - added to the group assigned to target Blackwalls. These ten … their only function is to apprehend the Mudblood Hermione Granger.” The Dark Lord paused for emphasis. “They are to kill her immediately. Dead, not alive. No waiting; no formalities…. And bring the body to me for verification.”

“It shall be done, My Lord,” the elder Malfoy declared. “May I inquire as to the change in plans? You no longer seek to use the Mudblood's death to break the boy?”

“That was my preference, but I no longer wish to chance any delay,” Voldemort deigned to answer. “Despite her blood status, as an enemy, she is not to be underestimated. She is too dangerous to be allowed any opportunity to escape.”

* * * *

Less than an hour after the incident at Terrortours, the Blackwalls carriage rolled to a halt in a field near the base of Glastonbury Tor. Whilst the Muggles thought it only a hill, the Tor was really (according to Mad-Eye) an ancient earthen pyramid, second only in age and magical significance to Stonehenge itself amongst British archæological sites. It was laced throughout with various tunnels, rooms, and vertical shafts.

Like Stonehenge, the Glastonbury Tor was a powerful centre of ancient magical activity. Its peak - the precise top of the pyramid - had long since deteriorated and been covered with the soil and accumulated detritus of several millennia. It was the convergence point of several ley lines. According to Ministry geomancers, the most powerful ley connected the Tor with Hogwarts, and the second most powerful to the great stone circle.

Still, the Tor was only their first, and most hurried, stop.

Death Eater activity had repeatedly been detected in the catacombs beneath the Tor. Thus, Dumbledore suspected that somewhere within lay an elusive Horcrux - one that was a target of Bellatrix Lestrange's surreptitiously detected spellwork.

Before the Ministry could enter and search the catacombs, the Death Eaters had to be lured away from their lair - by something.

Harry's visit to Glastonbury was that something, and the trip to the Tor served as the opening gambit. A visit by Harry and Hermione, who topped Voldemort's most-wanted list should, first, attract the attention of the Death Eater guards known to be in the vicinity and, second, draw them away as Harry's party went elsewhere in the locale.

Like bees to honey, or iron filings to a magnet.

Once that happened, a volunteer squad of Order members and trusted Unspeakables stood ready to search for, locate, and ideally seize the Horcrux.

Thus Harry and company made a quick trip to the remains of the old church atop the Tor. At least it was quick until they reached the top. The exposed ley line intersection positively thrummed with magic. They could all feel it - even the goblin guards were affected.

Luna inadvertently walked right into it. As an Empath, she was almost overcome. She broke out in a sweat and seemed either on the verge of fainting, or on the verge of orgasm, it was hard to tell which.

Finally, whilst the rest still debated, Jazzy solved the problem the old-fashioned way: She heaved the partially incapacitated Ravenclaw right across her shoulders and hauled Luna, almost boneless but not actively resisting, down the Tor.

Jazzy was small and wiry - and a lot stronger than anyone had given her credit.

A short time later, with Luna recovered from what she called “magical overload,” the party reached the stop labeled as Scorpio on the “Zodiac Tour” outside of town. The Tour was a series of established Portkey stops in the Merlin Magical Preserve. These were maintained by the Ministry Parks Commission for the magically restored Glastonbury Zodiac. Concealment Charms kept the restoration from Muggle sight, but most Zodiac features were plainly visible - although not as much after nightfall.

Harry and Hermione walked, hand in hand, along the Scorpion's stinger - a mossy path covered with worn flagstones. Suddenly Mad-Eye stumped up to them. Not wishing to attract attention, he leant between them and whispered, “It worked. Yeh're being marked. Deaters following yeh, `bout sixty metres at four o'clock. Don't worry `bout `em though. Yer well protected. So's everybody else. Keep it up. They left only one behind, and we stunned the bastard…. Give us another couple hours, and we'll be done.”

Harry and Hermione nodded in agreement and kept walking. As Moody limped off, Harry flicked his wand into a ready position. Protectively, he put his left arm around Hermione's waist. “Nice as the scenery is,” he muttered, “I'll be right chuffed for this to be over.”

After everyone had completed as much of the Zodiac Tour as he or she wanted, Neville led a visit to the winter-flowering hawthorn grove. The grove's keeper knew Professor Sprout personally. He let Neville pick a punnet of fresh petals to take back. The others contented themselves with dried petals, available for three Sickles a packet. Winter flowering hawthorn petals were a prized active ingredient for several Calming Draughts.

They visited, but did not tramp, due to the cold, some much older restored tracks on the east side of the town. Whilst there, everyone made a wish at an old well that Hermione told Harry was once visited by Jesus Christ - at least if that manuscript she had found at the Château were to be believed.

Harry did not want to believe it.

Everyone was getting hungry. Gumboil provided everyone with Portkeys, and they hopped back into town. Harry's guests decided to go Muggle so, whilst Luna took Neville and Jazzy into a nearby fish and chip shop, Hermione led Harry to the local Prêt à Manger café for some sandwiches, soup and (to Harry's disgust) endive coffee. For the first time in his life, Harry helped himself to a knickerbocker glory. He even one-upped his Cousin Dudley, topping his with multi-coloured hundreds-and-thousands.

Hermione tutted, but could not refuse Harry this pleasure, knowing now how much he had suffered at the hands of his horrid relatives. Between the cold and being a dentists' daughter, she passed on any frozen sugary sweets.

Harry was still licking syrup from his fingers when they came upon Muggles queued outside an old stone church. They had about forty-five minutes to kill. “What's going on?” Harry asked Hermione.

“Not sure, let me check.” From her beaded bag, Hermione produced one of the Glastonbury pamphlets from Terrortours. She studied it, muttered, “Oh blast,” and stuffed it back in her bag. Rooting around a bit longer, she produced a Rough Guide for Southeastern England.

She finished as they had reached the tail of the queue. “It seems we've stumbled upon the site of the Grail Collection,” Hermione explained as she looked up from the travel guide. “I suppose we could queue up to see that. I've heard about it since I was a small child, but my parents were never much interested - Glasto is too `New Age' for them.”

She switched to Legilimency. `A couple of Glasto myths are in that “Cross” manuscript.'

It had been a long day, and Harry's feet were tired. He really did not want to go elsewhere. They were quite protected. Several grey boulders lay in nearby weeds, and behind Concealment Charms Aurors and Hit Wizards crouched in the church's bell tower. “Fine,” he acquiesced. “The others won't wander far, I'm sure.”

The line moved slowly. Harry was bored. Hermione was cold and not about to risk an MVV (Muggle Vicinage Violation) for a Warming Charm. With her cuddled close, Harry asked her to tell him more about the Grail Collection. That was deliberate. He loved to listen to Hermione talk about things - almost anything.

It worked, and she started rattling off the various myths about Jesus, Joseph of Arimathaea, Glastonbury, and the Holy Grail. Soon she was discussing the collection itself.

A Muggle standing directly ahead of them in the queue overheard her. “My, my, you know so much. It breaks my heart to tell you that you'll be disappointed….”

“Oh, dear, what do you mean?” Hermione asked the middle aged woman, who wore a heavy wine-coloured cloth coat with a leopard-skin pillbox hat. “I hope it's not going to close before we get there.”

“Oh no, it's just that the Grail Collection's not here right now. It's on tour, I believe,” the woman said. “Oh, and I'm Mildred, by the way.”

“I'm Hermione, and this is my boyfriend Harry,” Hermione reciprocated, while bobbing into an abbreviated curtsey. “But if the collection's away, what's this impressive queue all about?”

“There's been a swap,” Mildred told her. “I guess you're not from around here.”

“True,” Harry offered.

“We've packed the Grail Collection off to Rome,” Mildred revealed. “In return we've received a collection of relics ordinarily kept in the Lateran and other museums. You know, bits of the True Cross, St. Francis Xavier's right arm, St. Sebastian's head, the shirt in which St. Thomas Aquinas was martyred, bless his soul, the skull of St. Valentine, the Apostle Thomas' finger, papal spleens … that sort of thing. And all with authentics.”

Her description sounded more than a little yucky to Harry.

“Are you sure you want to see this, Hermione?” he asked.

They had nearly reached the front of the queue. She debated the point. “Well, seeing as how we've gotten this far….”

“Oh, you should,” Mildred counseled warmly, resting her gloved hand lightly on Hermione's arm. “It's all new and quite famous. That's why we've a queue. When the Grail Collection's back in three years, it'll be old hat again, and you'll be able to waltz right in.”

They agreed to stay and to pay three pounds apiece for their tickets.

The new collection of relics - whilst suitably hallowed - was not all that large. It took the pair less than fifteen minutes to see everything there was to see. Since Mildred insisted on crossing herself and laying hands on each display cabinet, they soon left her behind.

Emerging from the stifling hot display rooms, Hermione dallied a bit in the adjacent gift shop, leafing through a coffee table book. Passing the last few minutes of time, Harry absent-mindedly flipped through various souvenir videos.

He was surprised to find something that he had heard of. He turned to Hermione. “Look at this, it's Monty Python's….”

His words died in his mouth. Hermione's face went chalky white as she let out a high-pitched grunt.

“Hermione, what's wrong?” he asked urgently.

His fiancée shut the book she was holding with thud. `Not here, Harry,' she Legilimenced. Switching to audible tones, she continued. “We really do need to be getting back, Harry, but I want to buy this book.”

Harry looked at her peculiarly. “You do? But you looked like you saw….”

“Later, Harry,” she insistently cut him off.

Whilst Harry and his friends had all had a passingly good time, glum faces were in evidence when everyone regathered at the Château's carriage. Two of the glummest belonged to Mad-Eye Moody and Alastor Gumboil.

Noticing their expressions, Harry ambled over. “What happened?” he asked seriously. “Did the Deaters thwart the search?”

“Worse,” Mad-Eye growled.

Harry grew very worried very fast. “Oh, shite, don't tell me….”

“No, nobody got killed,” Gumboil hastily clarified. “We got in … and out with no problems. It's just, we came up entirely empty.”

“Yeh did everything yeh could,” Mad-Eye seconded. “The Deaters couldn't get enough o' yeh. Shadowed yeh the whole bloody time. Our team Stunned the one that they left behind, and we searched the whole place top ta bottom. Found some interesting things yeh needn't worry about, but no Horcrux, we're sure o' that. We've already searched everywhere else we could think of, so we're at a loss.”

“So this whole evening was….”

Gumboil cut across him. “An effing waste of time and resources, that's what.”

“Feh,” Mad-Eye commented. “I wouldn't go that far. At least we learnt that the Deaters have something up, although we can't say what.”

“Er … what to you mean, `up',” Harry asked warily. “Like you said, they can't get enough of me.”

“Muffliato,” Gumboil incanted, so none save the three of them could hear.

“We don't know, but from what we saw in there, the Deaters are up to something,” Gumboil revealed. “They're stockpiling equipment. No idea why. It's enough for a big operation. More than that, you don't need to know, since dealing with this is our job.”

“I know one thing, though,” Mad-Eye added. “I'm sure yeh can handle yerselves, but I'm gonna talk ta the Order about getting yeh some reinforcements next week whilst the systems are down.”

Harry's face thus wore a worried look when he dropped into his seat next to Hermione. “You don't look happy,” she observed.

“I'm not,” Harry stated the obvious. “They didn't find a damn thing….”

“And they searched thoroughly?” Hermione asked, although she already knew the answer.

“Mad-Eye said we gave them more than enough time,” Harry relayed dejectedly, “but there wasn't anything Horcrux-infested there. They've looked everywhere else, but nothing. It's back to square zero. They have no idea where the damn thing could be….”

“That's a crying shame,” Hermione commiserated as looked into Harry's sad eyes. “I do, though.”

“You do what?” Harry replied automatically, not sure what Hermione meant, if she meant anything.

She lost no time in enlightening him. “I … I think I know … where the Horcrux is…. Er … or ….”

“You what?” Harry blurted, altogether too loudly. The carriage was just going airborne, but half its occupants turned away from the darkened landscape. They looked at the Proprietor and his ladyfriend quizzically.

She did not answer. Instead, Hermione stared sternly at him whilst shaking her head furiously.

`Oops,' Harry reverted to telepathy. `You think you know where the missing Horcrux is?'

Hermione nodded and indicated that he should calm down and settle all the way into his seat. By then, only Luna was still watching the pair.

Shaking her head at the Ravenclaw, she mouthed to her, `No, it's not that.' Luna smiled and turned away.

Hermione pulled the curtains closed around the Proprietor's designated seats. Just to be sure, she Imperturbed them from the inside.

“What was that all about?” Harry asked aloud, but barely audibly.

“After your little outburst,” Hermione replied in similar fashion, “I had to reassure Luna that I'm not pregnant.”

That threw Harry for a loop - precisely what Hermione intended. Before his breathing had returned to normal, she fished through her beaded bag and pulled out a large book. She showed him the title:

“Two Millennia of Treasures: The Glastonbury Grail Collection.”

Harry was tempted to comment, but Hermione's intense look as she leafed through the pages shut him up. Hermione found what she was looking for, and showed Harry the glossy Muggle picture.

It showed several fancy drinking vessels of one form or another: a bejeweled demitasse, an elegant two-handled silver chalice, an elabourately etched copper cannikin - and amongst them a gold goblet with black onyx trim and two badger-shaped handles.

Hermione's finger pointed unerringly to the last. She Legilimenced, `just after our Horcrux session with the Headmaster, you mentioned that Voldemort stole Hufflepuff's Cup when he was still Tom Riddle. Could that be it?'

Harry very calmly replied, `Hermione, I know that's it … I've seen it.'

Predictably, Hermione inquired how he could be so certain. Harry explained what he had seen in Dumbledore's Pensieve, just before she had joined them for the aforesaid Horcrux session.

`Well, it all fits, then,' Hermione summed up once Harry finished. `The Headmaster's Detecting Charm was accurate. The cup, almost certainly containing a Horcrux, was indeed at Glastonbury - only not where we thought. Voldemort hid it in plain sight, where we would never think to look, amongst the Muggles. And now it's out of the country….'

`That lady said it's going to be in Rome for three years,' Harry added.

`Mildred said it's in Rome and won't be back for three years,' Hermione corrected. `We don't know if it'll stay in Rome all that time.'

“Hermione, you're brilliant,” Harry told her aloud. “The bookworm strikes again.” Then, a purposeful glint was in his eye, and he started to get up.

“Where do you think you're going?” Hermione asked.

“To tell Mad-Eye, of course,” Harry answered matter-of-factly.

“It's really outside his jurisdiction,” Hermione cautioned as she laid a restraining hand on his arm. “If it's where we think it is, that's an international issue - and one also involving Muggles.”

“So what do you think we should do?” Harry asked her. “Mister Weasley…?”

“I think this is a Dumbledore-level issue,” Hermione told Harry.

“That's the second time you've told me that in the last couple of days,” Harry recalled.

“It's just that … we have to be careful, Harry,” she sighed, snuggling into him. “We're meddling in things we don't fully understand. Our focus needs to stay on Voldemort.”

“Can we forget him for just a bit?” Harry groaned. “It's almost Christmas.”

The scene outside the carriage's windows was changing. They had entered foul weather. Snowflakes swirled and danced, obscuring whatever lay beyond.

“I suppose,” Hermione agreed, turning her attention to him. “How about something we both understand…. Kiss me.”

Harry's eyes went big. “Merlin, you're brilliant,” he breathed. He leant over and complied. One thing quickly led to another, and the other news he had learnt from their minders that evening completely slipped his mind.

* * * *

Christmas morning - or “Alban Arthan,” as Luna preferred - began late at the Château's northern latitude. Dawn was in progress when Harry and Hermione tumbled out of bed. For the third time in a week they, or rather their Harmonic Convergence, had made a mess of their surroundings. By now, however, the Château's elves had learnt proper corrective spells. Temporary quarters were no longer required when they were truly ready to retire for the evening.

Not once had Harry experienced nightmares after experiencing the Convergence.

For centuries the Black family - to the extent they were anything - had been non-practicing Pagans. When Harry inquired, he discovered that the Château's stores contained no Christmas decorations. To avoid overburdening the staff and the elves with yet another major task, he decided to celebrate Christmas, not in the main hall, but in the more cozy confines of the Proprietor's Map Room.

Thus, the Proprietor's desk and most of other furniture (save several comfortable chairs) had been moved to one side or shrunk, making room for a single, finely decorated Christmas tree. Under and around the tree was an array of Christmas presents.

A scrumptious breakfast feast, the gift of the staff to the Proprietor, was held in the main hall. The diners could choose between honey basted gammon, rashers, or finnan haddie. Dried apricots, sultanas, and cranberries were provided, as well as chips and crisps. A wide selection of desserts were available, including pavlova (Harry's new favourite) and fæiry cakes frosted with caster sugar (Hermione's favourite - when inclined to give into that type of temptation).

Their appetites sated, Harry, Hermione, their guests, and their bodyguards (Mad-Eye and Tonks) filed into the Map Room. They were distracted by a score or more of brightly coloured balloons floating about. When burst, the balloons dissolved entirely, leaving behind either Christmas crackers or a burst of magical snow.

Hermione had never seen this room before. She was fascinated by the battle scene that covered an entire wall.

“Harry, who's the artist?” she asked him.

“Leonardo da Vinci, I'm told,” Harry answered distractedly, as he yanked the string on one end of a large blue and yellow candystriped cracker. With a loud bang, it blew apart, sending Bertie Botts' Every Flavoured Beans flying everywhere.

Whilst everyone else was laughed and Summoned what they hoped were their favourite flavours, Hermione slipped out the door, where a manservant, Alfred Ziff, stood watch.

“Excuse me, but do you know the name of this fresco?”

“No, milady.”

“Can you find out?”

“Absolutely, milady. I'll inquire of the curator.”

Frivolity with the Christmas crackers' contents continued unabated. Jazzy was now wearing a butterfly headdress and holding a purple plastic trident. Neville was blowing pink and purple bubbles. Tonks had lit sparklers in her hair. Harry sported a Viking helmet and was draped in a Roman toga. Luna was playing paddleball whilst wearing glasses with spiral-coloured lenses. Only Mad-Eye had not indulged himself.

“Where in the world did all this come from?” Hermione asked happily.

“Presents from Fred and George,” Harry replied. “There was a card. Where'd you go?”

“I had a question for the staff,” Hermione told him.

“And what was the answer?” Harry went on.

“He didn't know, but would find out,” Hermione answered.

It was time for gifts. Hermione had assigned the order: Luna first, followed by Jazzy, Neville, herself, and finally Harry. Fearing that Harry's gifts might overshadow the others, she left him for last. The same logic would have placed Jazzy first, but Hermione was afraid she would be embarrassed by leading off.

Being of the strongly held view that nothing embarrassed Luna, Hermione selected her for first.

Luna skipped up to the tree, glanced around, and selected a fairly large box, wrapped in blue paper across which white snowflakes were falling. Handing it to Hermione, she introduced, “It's been in the family for generations, but right now, I think you need it more.”

Puzzled, Hermione opened it. It was a very old, leather-bound book, its cover completely devoid of writing. Opening the frontispiece, Hermione saw several ancient runes, which she translated as, The Compleat Druid: Spells & Rituals.

“I can't accept this,” she protested, turning to Luna.

“Oh, yes you can,” Luna resisted. “I've already memorised it anyway.”

“How could you possibly do that?” Hermione skeptically replied.

“Using the Memory Quill you gave me ages ago,” Luna chirped.

Her argument defeated, Hermione gave up and accepted the book.

Luna was already fishing out her second gift, to Harry. It was long and skinny and wrapped in blinding orange and purple op art paper.

Harry opened it and discovered a necklace with two eyeballs on it.

“They started as earrings - you saw them at the ball - but I didn't think you'd wear those,” Luna explained. “They'll augment your regular vision.”

“Er … thanks, Luna,” Harry said. Truthfully, wearing a necklace did not enthuse him either. Still, to humour the girl, he put it on, removing his Viking helmet to do so.

Luna was not humoured. “No, not like that,” she told him as she approached. “You wear it like this.” In one motion she turned the necklace back to front.

Patting him lightly on the back, Luna declared, “There, you literally have eyes in the back of your head.”

He did. Harry could see Hermione giggling behind him - although only in black and white.

“And for you, Neville,” Luna began once more. She handed him a small cube-shaped object.

Inside, Neville found, “a post Remembrall,” he read from the box. “Once I enchant it properly, it will notify me when I'm expecting letters from up to ten different people. Thanks Luna.”

“And Jazzy, I know you said don't buy you anything, so I made this.” Luna handed the girl a piece of smoked glass about the size of a compact.

Jazzy took it from her suspiciously. “What is it?” she asked.

“It's an Empath's mirror,” Luna explained. “It's supposed to show your aura instead of your face, but I'm not that good … yet.”

“And everybody gets one of these!” Luna declared. From under her robes she pulled out a stack of T-shirts and began tossing them to everyone.

Hermione went red-faced when she read the slogan: “For Best Results, Femininity Should Be Regularly FulFILLED.”

Understanding took a bit to sink in (except for Neville, who stayed oblivious), but when it did, red faces abounded

Hermione's insight was confirmed - it was impossible to embarrass Luna Lovegood. But that girl had such a knack for embarrassing everyone else. She could never settle for something tamer, say “slippery when wet.”

Before Jazzy could go next, Tonks stepped forward. “I don't know the lot of you, but I have come to know Harry and Hermione. So I got both of them something. Hermione, here's yours.”

Dutifully, Hermione took the flat package, wrapped in plain butcher block paper, and opened it. “A Sneakoscope,” she declared.

“Don't leave home without it,” the young Auror instructed.

“That's just what I got Ronald,” Luna interjected.

“Doubt he'll follow instructions … and for you, Harry,” Tonks offered him a small rectangular package.

“You really didn't have to do this,” Harry told her as he took it.

“I did, because I promised,” Tonks replied.

He unwrapped it. It was a book - a Muggle book.

Harry just stared at it. Then he looked at Tonks. “What exactly did you promise, anyway?”

Tonks' hair turned vaguely green, from its usual mousy brown.

“I promised you that day at the water park that I would introduce you to Captain Rafer Hoxworth,” Tonks recalled. “And now I have.”

“It's actually a very good book, Harry,” Hermione counseled. “Historical fiction was my favourite before I got my letter.”

For a second time, Harry was about to turn the floor over to Jazzy when Mad-Eye stumped forward. “Before this thing goes any further, I want ta give yeh this.”

Harry felt a lump in his throat. Not only was this unexpected, but he had not gotten a gift for his guardian. “Umm … okay.”

With no further proem, Mad-Eye thrust an unwrapped book towards Harry, who had no choice but to take it. It was as copy of Alfred Bragge's Coming Of Age: Twenty Readings For Young Wizards.

Harry was temporarily speechless. “I….”

“No need ta thank me, Potter,” Mad-Eye intervened. “It's from Dumbledore.”

True to her word, Jazzy did not have much in the way of gifts to give. Harry and Hermione got Endangerment Buttons, which if pressed into a fold in the ear would give off an alarm if the other were endangered. Neville got a spray can of Devil's Snare repellant. She had no gift for Luna, so Jazzy decided to return that T-shirt, being of the opinion that “it fits you better than me.”

Next Neville rose, looking rather unsure of himself. He told Jazzy that he had “taken you at your word,” and did not have a gift for her. He told her he was sorry, and she replied that he had no reason to be.

Luna received inverted sandals, which she immediately put on.

“Ooh, this feels so good!” Luna remarked after taking a couple of steps. “It's like I'm walking barefoot on short-mown grass.” With that, she started skipping around the room.

A cautions knock sounded on the door. Harry went to answer it. It was Mr. Ziff, for Hermione.

She stepped out and, less than a minute later, stepped back in again, an amazed look on her face. Whilst Neville searched for his next present, Harry went to her.

“I can't believe this place,” she told him, shaking her head.

“What now?”

“That painting,” Hermione said with a sigh. “It's a da Vinci that went missing long ago - and it's in flawless condition. It's priceless.”

Anticlimax.

“Thanks Hermione, I learnt that the other day,” Harry informed her. Hermione did not look happy.

Neville was waiting for their private conversation to end. `We'll discuss this later,' she told Harry silently, disappointed at not discovering the fact.

“Hermione … well, I got this … well made it … hybridised it, that is, for you,” Neville said haltingly. Then he levitated over to her a gift-wrapped potted plant.

Hermione opened it, prepared to be amazed.

“Why, thank you, Neville, it's … it's….”

Instead the gift had left her perplexed.

“It's a hybrid of the bird of paradise flower and the Golden Anthurium,” Neville came to her rescue. “They're the two prettiest flowers in the world, in my opinion.”

Separately, that may well be true, but when the two were crossed, the whole was less than the sum of its parts. The poor thing looked like a bird of paradise spray-painted gold.

Harry had been even more difficult to shop for than Hermione. “What can you give somebody who can already buy just about anything?” Neville described his dilemma. No answer to that question had been forthcoming.

So he decided to give of himself.

“Umm … Harry, I couldn't think of any gift that you couldn't do better getting yourself,” Neville told his host. “So, for Christmas, I promise that I will do something that you need me to do - even if I don't want to do it. Basically, I owe you one, and you can decide how and when to collect.”

“Neville, I can't accept a promise like that,” Harry protested in a quiet manner. “You have no idea, because I don't, what I might end up asking you to do.”

“It doesn't matter, Harry; I trust your judgment,” Neville earnestly replied. “Besides … you have Hermione … to help you.”

Hermione's turn was next. Now, things would start to get interesting.

But for Luna, not quite yet. “Harry and I got you something jointly. And we've agreed that he should be the one to give it to you,” Hermione told her.

“And, Jazzy, I know you said no gifts, but I think what you really meant was not to spend any money,” Hermione spoke as she looked at the extremely tense younger girl. “So I got you something that not only doesn't cost anything, but I don't need it anymore, and you do.”

With that, she handed Jazzy a small box wrapped in what looked like fresh green leaves and tied with a bow cut from Flitterbloom tendrils.

Reluctantly, Jazzy took the gift and used a Severing Charm to open it. It turned out to be…. “These, are … your handwritten notes,” Jazzy observed.

“Yes, for Third-Year Herbology, to be precise,” Hermione told her. “Both Harry and Neville thought you could use them. I know they won't do me any good any longer.”

Jazzy's complexion was hard, but her lips trembled and her eyes were watering. “Hermione, thank you very much…. This is … the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me….”

`At least for the time being,' Hermione Legilimenced to Harry.

Neville was next. Hermione got him a book on animated - and animating - plants. Hermione also gave Tonks, whom she thought was seriously depressed about something, a book of poetry by Kahil Gibran.

But all this paled when it was time for Hermione to give a gift to the only man in her life. She had no lengthy speech prepared. The gift would rise or fall on its own merits. She handed Harry a box no larger and no heavier than the one she had just given Neville. Even the wrapping paper had been specially prepared - duplicates of photographs of Harry's family copied from the picture book that Hagrid had given him years ago.

“Colin helped with the pictures,” Hermione offered as Harry diligently looked for the seam in the wrapping paper. This was one gift that needed to be opened without doing great damage to the gift wrap.

Hermione watched his reactions carefully. The determined look in Harry's eyes softened when he found the seam and inserted his wand to undo her intentionally weak Sticking Charm. The concealing paper fell away, revealing the two bound volumes. His questioning gaze turned to one of amazement as he took in the gilt lettering on the books' spines.

He turned to her, clutching her gift to him tightly. He was almost at a loss at what to say. “How did you…? Where did you…? This is … unbelievable…. I had no idea these even existed.”

“Well, you gave me permission to go rooting around your trunk, and I certainly did that enough,” Hermione responded. “I found the letters … your mum's correspondence, in a cigar box.”

“But I … I didn't do anything,” a still dazed Harry said to her. “If I'd known, you'd be the first person I'd have told.”

“I'm sure of that, Harry,” Hermione said approvingly. “For these, you have your dear Aunt Petunia to thank.”

“What?” Harry said, sounding duly shocked. “Aunt Petunia? She never did anything for me.”

“Well at some point … maybe when you turned up missing and were thought dead … she put her sister's correspondence, mostly with her, in your trunk. I noticed whilst you were gone, and pledged to myself that, assuming we both made it, I'd organise them and make a gift of them to you.”

“Well, you've succeeded beyond your, or at least my, wildest dreams,” Harry told her. “Even if they're just with … that, my aunt, well, I've never had letters … not like you.”

“That's why I thought this would be the best gift I could give,” Hermione revealed. “I saw your reaction to the letters from my parents. You said you were jealous. Now you don't have to be.”

Harry smiled and came to her. “I suppose I don't.” He gave her a kiss that, while starting small, showed considerable promise for growth.

Neville summed things up with his comment, made loud enough for the pair to hear, “I'd tell them to get a room, but he owns this one.”

At that, Hermione stepped back. “Harry, it's your turn now,” she breathily reminded him.

“All right.” Harry turned to Mad-Eye Moody, who slouched silently behind the tree, as if keeping watch on his ward's largely hidden left flank. “Do you have the certificates?”

Obviously knowing what was coming, Harry's guardian cracked what passed for a smile. “Got `em right here … already countersigned.” He pulled up a trouser cuff. Rolled about his wooden were leg two official-looking pieces of parchment bearing matching gold seals and black ribbons. A quick spell flattened them out nicely.

“Tonks,” Harry began, “this one's for you.” He laid the parchment on the desk, pushed against the far wall. Pulling a quill from the pot, Harry signed his name to the mystery document.

“As the new Proprietor of Château Blackwalls and Seigneur of the Blacks, it is my pleasure to revoke the disowning of your mother, Andromeda Black-Tonks. That extends to you and any eventual heirs.”

Before Harry had even finished his little speech, Tonks' brown, mousy hair had gone bubblegum pink with self-evident shock. It had literally been months since Harry or Hermione had seen her so vibrant.

“Me!? A Black? I can scarcely believe it!”

“It's an injustice I'm able to correct, so by Merlin, I'm correcting it,” Harry declared.

“The injustice wasn't just to me,” Tonks reminded him.

“No matter,” Harry told her. “You saved Hermione's life after I'd let her down badly. There's no way I can repay that debt, but I can do this.”

“Can I invite Mum over to see all this?” the young Auror requested.

Harry readily agreed. “Certainly, but the point is you don't have to ask. It's a matter of your right.”

“She'll faint when she hears the news,” Tonks continued.

“It's to her benefit, too,” Hermione reminded. “We can't change the sexist inheritance laws, but now that she's a Black, when you get married, your dowry will be taken care….”

Hermione's voice abruptly trailed off because, at the mere mention of marriage, Tonks' hair abruptly returned to its prior, nondescript state. While no emotion showed in her face, due to her being both an Auror and a Metamorphmagus, her hair was a dead giveaway.

“I'm sorry I brought that up,” Hermione apologised. “If you'd like to Floo your Mum and tell her the news, feel free.”

Tonks decided to do just that - immediately. As she turned and all but fled the room, Hermione Legilimenced to Harry, `I was stupid to raise that, but now I'm sure that her depression is romantically related.'

Harry nodded and, somewhat embarrassed at how that gift had turned out, moved quickly onto the next.

When he said her name, Jazzy's whole body stiffened. She fixed her eyes almost defiantly on him. She had made her wishes extremely clear - she did not want Christmas presents. She did not want to feel indebted, to anyone. Granted, Hermione had evaded her dictates, with a gift that had cost nothing, but Harry….

He was different. Harry had just inherited an inconceivable amount of money. She did not trust him to do the same.

A bit of uncertainty filtered into her glare as she watched Harry sign the second of the two parchments his guardian had been hiding. Then he turned to her and declared, “Jazzy, from what you've told me, I gather that you'd rather not have to stay with those relatives you've been living with since your parents died….”

Jazzy gave a contemptuous snort upon hearing that transparently obvious observation.

“…I can sympathise with that, believe me…. Thus as Proprietor of the Blacks, it is my pleasure to confer upon you the right of sanctuary in Château Blackwalls. You will always be welcome here. If you wish, you needn't spend another day with your relatives ever again….”

Jazzy almost fainted.

Her legs having turned to jelly beneath her, Jazzy did not even attempt to stand. Somehow she kept a straight face as Harry leant towards her and held out the certificate that made it official.

Feeling warm all over, Jazzy extended her own arm and tentatively touched, and then grasped, the rolled up parchment.

“Th … Thank you,” she managed to utter through lips that suddenly felt parched.

She need never see those blasted relatives again - people who had beat her, called her every nasty name in the Arab language, and on one occasion violated her in the most personal of ways.

She need never see them again.

It was another gift that, in accordance with her expressed wishes, cost nothing. Yet this gift, in her estimation, was priceless - beyond measure.

Silently, Jazzy vowed to herself that somehow, she knew not how, she would find a way to make this up to him.

Harry's next gift was for Dobby - and it was a far cry from the gaudy socks that represented the sum of his previous gift-giving to the tenaciously loyal house-elf.

Instead, he gave the gift of work. Harry charged Dobby with a task that, if done properly, would reinforce the elf's nominal position as head elf of the Château.

Harry informed Dobby, “Hermione and I have been thinking about this. We want you to supervise the complete rebuild of the Grimmauld house. Except for Sirius' room, I want the whole place gutted and modernised. I want no trace of the prior inhabitants. You get to select which elves help do this work and which don't. I'll talk to the house-elves personally tomorrow, to emphasise how important this project is to me.”

“Harry Potter, oh great and kind sir,” Dobby squealed. “They's all be wanting to help with the Master's bestest project. We elves, we's all being wanting to please the master.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” Harry replied as a sly grin crossed his face. “Remember what I said - no trace of Orion, Walpurga, and the other Black ancestors. Part of this task is to discover which elves are really loyal to me. If they're loyal to me, they'll do what you say. And those are the ones you, and I, want closest to us….”

Dobby's eyes became wider and bulged even further as he comprehended Harry's instructions. “Oh, thank you great sir. Harry Potter is the wisest and most clev….”

At the sight of Harry's raised hand, Dobby immediately went silent. “For that, don't thank me,” Harry told the excited elf, “thank Hermione.”

Neville was next, and now Harry found that he had overreached in his generosity. The boy was more than pleased to accept Harry's gift of an Auror-style invisible wand wrist holster for his new wand - especially once Mad-Eye confirmed that Neville's late parents had used exactly the same model during their Auror careers.

But Neville outright refused Harry's other gift, which he found wrapped inside the invisible holster. It was a card from the Beamish Bewitched Building Company, a magical contracting outfit. Affixed was Harry's note informing Neville to do whatever he wanted to rebuild his gran's castle from the damage of the recent Death Eater attack.

Neville's round face suddenly became serious. “I can't possibly accept this, Harry….”

“Yes you can,” Harry insisted. “They're reliable … come highly recommended by the goblins.”

“It's nothing like that, Harry,” Neville insisted stoutly. “This is just too much….”

Harry cut across, protesting, “But I've got so much, it doesn't matter….”

“It does matter,” Neville raised his voice. “It matters to me. That's my inheritance we're talking about. Some things a wizard must do for himself, and this is one of them. This crosses the line - it's charity, not a gift. I can't have you pay for the entire rebuilding. It's not right.”

Harry backed down and took the card back. His Muggle upbringing (and Hermione's, too) meant that he still did not fully understand how pure-blooded wizards viewed the world - especially family real estate.

He hoped to avoid similar problems with Luna.

But Luna's outlook on life differed from most witches.

He handed Luna a thin package wrapped in ordinary Muggle Christmas paper. “Luna, this is from the two of us - and Dennis helped, too. We hope you'll want to use it. It's Muggle, actually. And those are just the instructions, because it's not really a thing … well, it's more of a cyberthing….”

Harry's non-explanatory explanation only piqued Luna's curiosity. She tore the paper off and found - more paper - with its title being an incomprehensible string of letters.

“I'm sorry … what is this?” Luna asked rather blankly - even for her.

“Umm, it's registration for what that Muggles call a `website',” Harry replied uncertainly. “I don't know much more than that. Dennis thought it might be a safer way for you to be … you know … creative, than re-starting the Quibbler.”

“Well, I can't really make anything of this except it says `Onion',” Luna observed. She turned the page upside down, which had often helped with the Quibbler.

“That's the name of the website,” Hermione took up where Harry had left off. “We knew how much the Quibbler meant to you, and thought that there must be a way for you to keep doing that. Dennis suggested the Internet. He put together a list of what he called `alternative news' websites, and we picked this one. Your earrings inspired us.”

“You mean I can create my own newspaper on this Internet thingy?” Luna asked, as her face broke into a broad, dreamy smile.

“That's it exactly,” Harry told her, grateful for Hermione's more coherent explanation. He understood all this Internet business little better than Luna. “If you want, you can even rename the site `The Quibbler'.”

Luna thought about that for a bit. “No thanks. This name is … appropriate.”

“Well, great,” Harry exclaimed happily. He had worried that this idea, which originated with Dennis Creevey, might be too weird, even for Luna.

Hermione explained, “The Creeveys contributed one of their Creevputers, so you can access the site from Hogwarts.” Seeing Luna's questioning look, she added, “The Onion's run by Muggles, so you'll probably want to include Muggle stuff…. But, since the Internet's not exactly a thing, you can access it magically without damage. Dennis is going back to Hogwarts early to install it for you in the Ravenclaw common room.”

Luna impetuously grabbed them both in a joint hug. “Thank you. This sounds like such great fun.”

For once, Luna felt only positive emotions.

Luna had some technical questions for Hermione. Harry Summoned his final gift silently. Like Luna's it was fairly small - and flat. The magical wrapping paper featured dark silver chains undulating on a black background.

His prefatory comments about Hermione's gift were brief. “This is Muggle too. I hope you like it. Professor McGonagall helped.”

That seemed odd. “But, you just said it was Muggle. How could she help with that?” Hermione posed a seemingly obvious question.

Harry tried to answer. “She helped by … umm…. Just go ahead and open it. You'll see.” He realised that any real answer would be a dead give-away.

Hermione shrugged and turned her attention to the parcel, which only weighed a few ounces. She found the paper's seam and poked it with her wand to end Harry's Sticking Charm. The gift clanked like the sound of chains falling away.

“Be careful,” Harry warned. “It has a Preservative Charm, but it's pretty old.”

Hermione opened the aged leather case. “Oh my…,” she gasped. “It's … I suppose, an original of the Slavery Abolition Act as introduced in Parliament in 1833.”

“It is, but it's more than that,” Harry prompted, trying but largely failing to sound mysterious.

She examined the inside cover, which bore an inscription in badly tarnished silver lettering. She paraphrased as she read, “It's a presentation from Henry Brougham and Charles somebody Sutton to … oh, my … William Wilberforce…. One of my heroes!”

Unable to contain herself, Hermione began bobbing up and down on the balls of her feet. She looked gleefully at Harry. “It's wonderful, Harry!” If not for what she was holding, she would have launched herself into his arms.

“Er … thanks, but there's supposed to be more,” Harry mentioned cautiously as he positioned himself at his fiancée's side. “Can you flip through it?”

“Hmmm.” Hermione carefully turned four pages of archaic typeset until she reached the last page, and saw it…. “I don't believe it! It's signed by Wilberforce himself!”

She was almost hopping with excitement. Harry slipped an arm around her to hold her steady, leaned in, and gave her a kiss. Some of their friends began applauding.

When the kiss broke, she whispered to him, “You have no idea how much I love you right now.”

`Don't be so sure,' he Legilimenced back.

That was the last gift. The gathering broke up to take their respective gifts back to their rooms and to prepare for another scrumptious Blackwalls Christmas meal. Harry handed Hermione a letter from Blackie Howe that described the circumstances of the document Harry had (through Howe's agency) purchased for her. Beneath Howe's firm's fancy letterhead it read:

Dear Miss Granger:

I am writing this letter at the behest of my client, Harry Potter, to explain the provenance of a document that I understand is to be a gift to you.

The document in question is a presentation copy of the 1833 Act for the Abolition of Slavery as it passed Third Reading in the House of Commons. The copy was one of several presented by the Speaker and the Lord Chancellor to Mr. William Wilberforce. As Mister Wilberforce passed away a few days later, this signed copy is believed to be unique.

I wish to thank Deputy Headmistress McGonagall for her assistance. As curator of the Hogwarts documents collection, she became aware of a selection of abolitionist materials being exposed for bid at Sotheby's in late November. Acting on behalf of Mister Potter, and bidding anonymously, I was fortunate to obtain this document.

Very Truly Yours,

D'Israeli, Braddock & Pickle

By: Blackstone Howe

A Partner

* * * *

Much later, Harry and Hermione burst into the Proprietor's suite, each wrapped in silver garlands with minds of their own. They jumped onto the bed, laughing. Hermione reached over, plucked a red and white fuzzy Santa Claus hat off Harry's head, and smacked him across the face with it.

As she did, artificial snow flew everywhere.

“That, Mister Potter, is for your joke comparing me to Professor McGonagall,” Hermione complained mock-seriously.

“Oh, yeah? Well, this is for reciting the `Fresh Pickled Toad' poem at dinner,” Harry rolled his shrieking fiancée over on the mattress and started tickling.

They carried on, Harry tickling (but not too vigourously), and Hermione struggling (but not too hard) to escape. They became entangled in the sheets and halted with him on his knees facing her, and she somewhat pinned with her legs wrapped around his midsection.

He looked into her flushed face as she stared back, panting from the exertion.

“Are you by any chance thinking what I'm thinking?” he wondered suggestively as he released her arms.

“Undoubtedly,” she responded, then took hold of his shirt with both hands and tried to pull it over his head. “Let's see if we can wreck the room again … with another Harmonic Convergence.”

They were divesting each other of their clothing when a tapping noise at the window interrupted.

“What's that?”

“It's Hedwig!”

Indeed it was - looking quite windblown, scrawny, and all around worse for wear, Harry's white-winged familiar swooped into the room once Harry discovered how to work the crank that opened the rather large (and magic resistant) leaded window.

“She must be exhausted,” Hermione observed worriedly as Hedwig landed rather Errol-like on the bed. “I'm going to get her some water. I wish we had some owl treats.”

Harry called Dobby. In only a few seconds the ever-loyal elf had popped off to the Château's owlery.

“Good girl. We'll get you fed and watered,” Harry stroked Hedwig's back with one hand whilst removing the message she carried with the other.

Hermione returned with a plate of water and set it on a nearby night stand. Hedwig pounced on it thirstily.

“What does the note say?” Hermione asked eagerly. Finally - some answers about Cho Chang.

“Can't tell, it's in Chinese,” Harry replied, shaking his head.

“I know a translating spell,” Hermione declared as she whipped out her wand.

That surprised Harry. “Since when?”

“You have no idea how much read trying to figure out how to find you when the Death Eaters had you.” Pointing her wand at Lao Kung's note, Hermione incanted, “Reddito ex sinicæ ut britannæ.”

The note's markings squiggled and transformed from Chinese characters into something more legible - but not entirely.

“I still can't read this,” Harry complained.

Looking over his shoulder, Hermione declared, “It's backwards. He must have deliberately inverted his Chinese.”

“Seems like a lot of trouble,” Harry commented.

“Maybe that means this is important,” Hermione replied quickly. “I'll get a mirror. “Accio mirror.”

A popping sound emanated from the adjacent bathroom. One of several large mirrors pulled itself free from the wall in response to Hermione's spell and hurtled towards her.

“Aieee!”

The mirror nearly decapitated Dobby, who had just popped back in with a tray of food for Hedwig. The poor elf ducked just in time, sending the sterling silver tray and its contents flying.

Greedily, Hedwig hopped to the floor and began gobbling up the treats where they lay.

“That's all right, Dobby. You needn't clean it up,” Harry told the elf. “And sorry about that.”

Dobby was more interested in Hermione sitting on the bed holding the mirror that had almost done him in. “Does Harry Potter and Miz Myown need Dobby's help?”

“Not at the moment, but maybe later,” Hermione answered.

As Dobby popped away, Hermione lit her wand to provide more light and held Lao Kung's note up to the mirror.

“Oh, dear,” Hermione fretted after a few seconds of reading, “this is worse than I thought.”

This time Harry squinted over Hermione's shoulder. “What does it say?”

“Cho's tattoo … it's something called a Xiao Jing. Through it her parents, specifically her father, can control her - absolutely - to whatever degree he wants.”

“Why?”

“According to Lao Kung, it's ancient Chinese magic. He calls it `filial piety.' Chinese society is much more closely regimented than ours. Chinese children are raised with far more emphasis on correct social interactions, particularly in respect of their parents. Children are expected to obey their parents, and this tattoo is a way of enforcing obedience - particularly when young Chinese wizards or witches are away from direct parental supervision.”

“Like Cho being at Hogwarts,” Harry remarked.

“Correct,” Hermione confirmed, “like Cho being at Hogwarts.”

“That settles it,” Harry growled. “There's no way I'm letting Ron go to Cho's house for Chinese New Years if she's being controlled - even by her parents.”

“Especially by her parents,” Hermione seconded. “That's essentially what Lao Kung recommends. He says it's very serious, a Hogwarts student subject to external control, and that you - we - should bring this to Dumbledore's attention at our first opportunity.”

“When did you say Chinese New Years was this year?” Harry asked.

“Let's see,” Hermione opened the night stand on which Hedwig's now abandoned water dish lay and pulled out her D.A. mirror from Hogwarts.

“That won't work here,” Harry advised. “No connectivity, remember?”

“Remember, it does have internal memory,” Hermione reminded him. “And one thing that's in here is a calendar…. Chinese New Year starts 7 February.”

“I'll go see Dumbledore as soon as we get back to Hogwarts, then,” Harry declared firmly. “And I'm going to tell Ron….”

“Good for you,” Hermione interjected. “This has gone on far too long.”

“…Do you think I should tell him before or after I've talked to Dumbledore?”

Almost immediately Hermione answered, “After. I doubt he'll take this very well, and I don't want him to turn on you. I'd recommend doing it with Dumbledore present.”

“Good thought,” Harry agreed. “He's stronger than Ginny, and look what she did to me.”

“Don't remind me.”

“Does Lao Kung say anything else?” Harry budged up closer to the mirror trying to read for himself.

“Yes,” Hermione said as she snuggled closer. “He also received your fast owl. He says that image you sent - that would be Cho's tattoo - raises `troubling questions' for him regarding `certain Chinese matters.' That's really not very helpful…. He's telling you not to concern yourself with those `at this time.' Apparently he plans to make some inquiries with the Chinese Ministry. He says he'll be back to you as soon as he has something more definite.”

Harry was a little annoyed, too. He expected Lao Kung to be more forthright with him. That annoyance touched his voice as he asked, “Anything else?”

“Yes, a second page.” Hermione slipped the back page up so she could read it in the mirror. “Not much, though. He praises Hedwig's persistence…. Says he's not in good health and thus not easy to locate.”

“That's it?”

“That's it. His signature stamp is next.”

Hermione Banished the mirror and put Lao Kung's letter and her own smaller mirror back in the night stand drawer.

Turning back to Harry, she saw him sigh and shake his head.

“What is it?”

“I was just thinking,” Harry answered. “Poor Ron.”

“Yes,” Hermione commiserated, “Poor Ron.” Then she began crawling across the bed to Harry on her hands and knees. “But not poor you. As I recall, we've got a room to wreck.”

He loved that look in her eye - pure unadulterated desire.

“Capital idea. Time for some O-rated sex.” Harry gave his wand a wave, extinguishing all the lights except for moonlight flooding in through the windows.

“O-rated?” Hermione said in puzzlement.

“Yes, look.”

Hermione turned around. All she could see in the darkness were Hedwig's large, luminous eyes.

* * * *

Author's notes: The first line is beta Mark Gardiner's

“End of the World…,” is by R.E.M. Its lyrics mention people with the initials “L.B.” - thus Ludo Bagman

“All Things Must Pass” is by George Harrison

“Tocsinini” combines tocsin, an alarm, and Toscanini, a conductor

“Get up, get out” is the chorus of a traditional song

Riding shot-wand is like riding shotgun, next to the carriage driver

“Eagle has landed” is from the Apollo 11 moon landing

The Lexicon's Diagon Alley map is my model

Glaxosmit's item will appear in the next chapter

Glastonbury Tor is real, as are hawthorns, the abbey, and the well; but not the Merlin monument, burial site or Grail collection

Ron got a new broom in Ch. 48

A prolate spheroid is the shape of a rugby football

For the disembodied female voice, think automated telephone systems

The conversation with Neville was in Ch. 59

Hermione's advice about Ginny comes back to haunt her

WWW sells shield gloves

Philander Tweed combines 19th Century American political names

Mountains of the Moon/Rwenzori are real; the magical items are associated with Africa

Other tours: “Magical Mystery Tour” is a nod to the Beatles' album of that name; Babylon's hanging gardens were one of the seven wonders of the ancient world; Uluru is aboriginal for Ayer's Rock Australia; New Guinea has many endangered tribal languages; Ispur and Capadoccia are in Turkey; Turnback Canyon white water would destroy non-magical kayaks; dragon boats are found in East Asia; Thailand is notorious for sex tours

Zodiac-shaped features exist near Glastonbury

Jesus and the Holy Grail are associated with Glastonbury

Ley lines are from geomancy

Heaved … right across … shoulders, from the Stones' “Honky Tonk Woman”

Rough Guides are UK tourist guidebooks

MVVs are made up, see Ch. 2

The cloth coat (Nixon, Checkers speech) and pillbox hat (Jackie Kennedy) are US political symbols; the leopard skin is from Dylan

These relics are found in Rome

Alban Arthan is the Druid solstice festival

See Ch. 59 for the Harmonic Convergence

Foreshadowing: Luna's gift to Hermione; Tonks' comment about Ron; Neville's gift to Harry

Tonks' promise to Harry was in Ch. 13; it concerns Michener's “Hawai'i”

See Ch. 63 for da Vinci and the Battle of Anghiari

Neville's gift to Hermione is like the “future claim” in Earth's Children, it also becomes important

See Chs. 29-30 regarding Lily Potter's letters; Harry being jealous in Ch. 65 built up the gift

Luna owns The Onion - that explains a lot

Hermione's a signature collector (ch.8); she invoked Wilberforce in Ch. 7 about house-elf slavery; Harry saw a Wilberforce book in Hermione's mind (Ch. 42); he got McGonagall's help in Ch. 61

Historical details concerning Wilberforce are accurate

Both Howe's introduction to the rare manuscript market and data in Hermione's mirror will come in handy

Da Vinci used reversed writing like Lao Kung

The 1997 date of Chinese New Years is correct

How Hermione handled Lao Kung's letter is important

65

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67. Not Chinese New Year

Wherein things become clear at last, reconnaissance is carried out, a rescue is planned, a question is asked and answered, and Harry and his friends follow a signal to a rendezvous with destiny

Merry Christmas - here's a new chapter. I've said before that I'm writing this fic for my daughter. She was 12 when I started. She's now 18, and off to college (Pomona) soon. She writes her own fanfics on Fanfiction.net under the alias “Shally-wa.” One of hers, “Sleigh Ride,” is set in the Fifth Element universe. I've referred to her story in this chapter. Please go to FFN and read and review her story; you'll make both of us happy.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

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

Chapter 67 - Not Chinese New Year

Hermione by his side on the ChÃ¢teau's broad front lawn, Harry smiled broadly whilst waving good-bye to Andromeda and Ted Tonks. The newly reinstated member of the Black family and her Muggle husband had spent the last five days reacquainting themselves with a place she had not seen in a quarter of a century and he had seen exactly once - and nearly not lived to tell of it.

The presence of her parents had been just the ticket for Tonks. She seemed emotionally recharged after spending almost a week with them at the ChÃ¢teau. Her hair, a window to her real emotions, was now something besides mousy brown almost half the time.

For the moment, it had reverted to brown.

This time, though, everyone knew why. Tonks' parents' time at the ChÃ¢teau was over, at least for now. They had plans - Muggle plans - for New Years Eve, and thus their idyll was at an end.

Likewise almost over was the holiday for Harry and his friends.

It had been a good week, Harry thought.

Jazzy had become quite familiar with the Snitch search simulator. Secure that Harry had purchased it “for the team,” she literally spent hours inside - in her own little world of her, a broom, a Golden Snitch, and perhaps an ice storm or a cyclone.

And Neville … the previous day he finally consented to show everyone some of the magic he had been diligently practising. His demonstration had involved a fallow pasture, the Staff of Asclepius (as expected), and an expanse of grass that, Neville managed to convince was really Mimbulus mimbletonia.

But now, everyone but Neville (who intended to spend the rest of the holiday with his Gran) would depart for Hogwarts in a couple of days. Hermione's timetable drove everything. Her Healer training followed a different schedule from the usual Hogwarts classes. She had a half-term exam on three, January - two days before any other classes resumed. She wanted a full day of revising, without interruptions.

Of course, Harry insisted on returning to the Castle with her.

Harry's presence virtually guaranteed interruptions - but of a sort Hermione did not mind much (if at all). Harry could be very persuasive. She had actually been revising quite a bit over the past week.…

Harry's … um … persuasive powers had kept the ChÃ¢teau's staff quite busy repairing windows, rehanging pictures, reshelving books, and the like, following his and Hermione's nocturnal (and otherwise) encounters with Harmonic Convergence.

During much of the brief, pari-Solstice daylight, Harry contented himself with flying, running (pronouncing himself fully recovered from the muscular atrophy he suffered in Death Eater captivity), and trying to master the advanced magicks he was practising.

He needed the practice.

His Animagus transformations had barely advanced - but neither had Hermione's. Many more lessons with Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore, respectively, would be required before their efforts would produce anything worthwhile, at least (in Harry's case) through conscious effort.

But Harry was making somewhat more progress in channelling the Fifth Element non-destructively. Whilst still not particularly useful, exercises such as creating ten-metre piles of cotton balls, or making streams flow backwards, at least were less dangerous than uncontrolled and explosive magical emissions.

Somewhat better, but still needing work, were Harry's “cryogenic experiments” - the term Hermione used to describing attempts at powering Cooling Charms with (presumably) the Fifth Element. Freezing helium was still beyond him, but at least Harry could induce superfluidity on a regular basis.

Nor had he managed to create that mysterious condensate, at least Harry thought not. The condensate presented the additional problem that nobody - that is to say, not even Hermione - knew what the stuff should look like. He might succeed and never know he had.

Occlumency was the brightest spot. Dumbledore would pose the ultimate test, but Harry's defenses had become strong enough to exclude Hermione totally (when he tried). He could also resist Mad-Eye, who was not only more experienced but played rougher. His cranky guardian provoked Harry to experiment with more … robust … forms of mental defense than Harry could bring himself to practise with Hermione.

Speaking of whom…. She was overtly seeking his attention. Her expression was almost severe - she rather reminded him of Professor McGonagall - so Harry knew what was coming. He had dithered long enough on his recent promise to her, and now was the moment of truth.

`Harry, you've been dilly dallying all week,' she Legilimenced to him. `It's time we sat down and figured this out, as painful as it'll be….'

With a grimace, he nodded to her, turned on his heel, and passed under the ChÃ¢teau's massive portcullis. It would indeed be painful, but she implicitly held out the promise of something more worthwhile when it was over….

This time for sure.

This chore completed, things would improve - a lot. He felt his back pocket. Securely inside was something that Harry hoped would make for a Happy New Year indeed. He had decided against giving it on Christmas. New Years was a more future-oriented time.

Should all go well, and it should, Harry expected that, with a couple of hot brooms, an Invisibility Cloak, and some stout Warming Charms, the couple would welcome the New Year with a Harmonic Convergence best not attempted indoors.

They entered the Proprietor's Suite. Hermione led Harry to the cozy study to the left of their bedroom. They sat across from each other, a spindly-legged table in between.

“Now, Harry, we really need to plan what exactly to tell Professor Dumbledore about Cho,” she lectured. “I've let you put it off, but we can't wait any longer. We'll be returning to Hogwarts soon.”

“I know,” Harry responded glumly. “But when I think about it, telling Dumbledore anything finishes with me telling him everything … about what we learnt, how, and then our … er … argument … just before I was kidnapped…. He's too damn clever. I really don't want….”

“Well, we just won't get into that,” Hermione declared querulously. “I'll come with you. I'm not afraid to tell him, `None of your business.' He doesn't need to know everything, even if he asks. What's important isn't that, but Cho being controlled and forced by her parents to carry on the way she has. That's all that matters.”

“But we still don't know exactly what `carry on' is,” Harry resisted. “Now your other plan….”

“My other plan is no longer feasible,” Hermione briskly cut across. “Lao Kung's note shoved that into a cocked hat. That plan presumed that her parents would put a stop to things once they knew. But the tattoo means it's their own doing. So things are even worse than we thought. Cho's probably at least as much a victim in all this as Ron…. I feel terrible for her now. We've been quite cruel when what she really needed was help.”

“I doubt that Ron thinks he's a victim,” Harry pointed out.

Hermione sniffed at that thought. “Who cares? You and I both know that dear Ronald isn't thinking with the right head and hasn't for quite some time. The question is what we can, and should, do about it. I think we shouldn't tell Dumbledore any unnecessary details - as long as you don't mind my taking some heat for all this.”

“What do you have in mind?” Harry inquired. To him it sounded like Hermione was formulating yet another scheme.

She was.

“Why don't we just say that this all started with a tip from your Muggle cousin? That has the advantage of being true,” Hermione half asked and half told him.

“Okay, but then comes the part I really don't want to tell anyone,” Harry pointed out.

“So skip it.” Hermione raised her hand to her chin whilst thinking things through. “All that happened was you told me about Dudley and that fake name - that Liko Mee. I'll take it from there. I'll say that before the Order took over my house, I ran some computer searches and found the little nasties in question, but never had a chance to tell you. After you were rescued, we did what we did….”

Harry smiled for the first time since entering the room. “That sounds like a rather clever plan,” he told her.

“…Only I don't want to involve Luna in all this,” Hermione kept talking. “I'll take all the blame. She's has quite enough of her own issues not to need anything more.”

Harry seized the opportunity for an answer to a nagging question. “I suppose that's what those private sessions you've been having are about?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Hermione responded quite quickly.

“What then?” Harry persisted.

She told him. “It started with her wanting me to teach her about all this website business. There's no connectivity here, so Luna's frustrated that she can't start with her little Onion online news service. Beyond that is her Christmas gift to me … Druidic magic. It's eerie stuff. She's been trying to teach me, but I'm not very adept with ancient Keltoi enchantments. She's insistent, so I humour her and keep trying. That's mostly what we're doing now, since I've passed along every bit of what little I know about websites. I think we're done for now … nothing more till back at the Castle, thankfully.”

Harry shook his head. “I don't know what's worse - Dumbledore bombarding me with Occlumency and details about Voldemort, or Luna talking your head off about Druids. I know it's part of who she is, but jeez, they lost to the Romans two thousand years ago. Umm … what are you looking for…?”

Hermione had started bustling about. “A quill and some parchment,” she quickly replied. “We'd best return to the matter at hand. I'd like to write out exactly what we're going to tell Dumbledore.”

Quite some time later, a burgeoning collection of crumpled balls of parchment on the floor was mute testament to the devil being in the details. Each of their stabs at the truth - but less than the whole truth - came a cropper at one point or another. The frustration both felt was palpable.

“I give up,” Harry growled, throwing down his quill in disgust. Greeted by Hermione's scathing glance, he hastily added: “For now, that is. I think I need to reread Lao Kung's note.”

“Might not be a bad idea,” Hermione sighed. “I'll get it - I need a loo break anyway. Meet me by the vanity. Those mirrors should make our reading easier. It has a ready light source.”

Harry did as told, and very shortly Hermione approached with the two-page note. She cast her Translating Charm and started reading aloud.

Harry jotted down the translation. But it was awkward. After a couple of sentences, whilst reflexively squeezing his aching hand, he let go of the second page.

Deftly Hermione grabbed it. “You dropped this,” she stated the obvious.

“Doesn't matter, practically nothing on it,” Harry said dismissively. “What's the next sentence?”

Hermione barely heard him, she had inhaled so loudly. “Look!” she said sharply.

Harry did. At the very bottom of the second page, almost lost in the ornate marginal design, were some stray letters that, had things been different, neither would have given a second thought.

But things were not different - very much not different.

Those otherwise meaningless letters held deep meaning indeed.

K_3[Fe(CN)6]

“Farmer's reducer!” Harry blurted out in immediate recognition.

Hermione simultaneously did the same, “Potassium ferricyanide!”

“Harry,” she quickly added, “did you show Lao Kung my … well … I considered it a … suicide note.”

Reluctantly, Harry tried recalling that depressing and jumbled time. “Yes, I think I did…. Yes…. He had to know why I needed … Chinese Legilimency for … to go in - after you.” It was barely more than a whisper.

Impulsively, Harry's arm slipped around her. He pulled her close and looked sadly into her eyes. “Hermione, I don't….”

“I'm oh so glad you did, Harry,” she responded in kind. “But let's worry about the present right now. Why did Lao Kung decide to imitate me? Do you have any of the stuff handy here or on the grounds?”

“No idea!” Harry answered. He jumped up.

In his haste, he almost tipped the vanity, but Hermione was quick with a Stabilising Charm.

Harry bolted for the pull-cord that summoned the ChÃ¢teau staff. “I'm sure going to find out ASAP,” he told her.

Minutes later, Harry had set the staff a-scramble with an all-points bulletin for Farmer's Reducer - the free-for-all encouraged by a 500-Galleon reward to whoever first brought Harry what he was after.

That done, Hermione summoned Dobby. When she was finished, the house-elves were enlisted in the hunt.

For the next hour or so, ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls was the site of chaotic scenes. Staff and elves alike all but stumbled over one another in frenzied pursuit of an obscure chemical. It was enough that the Proprietor and his mistress suddenly wanted it very badly - on the eve of a two-day Gringotts Holiday, no less - although both their need and urgency remained bafflingly obscure to those in the hunt.

Indeed, to some longer-serving staff members and elves, the burst of inexplicable and apparently madcap activity prompted comparisons with Arcturus Black's reign as Proprietor. Quite barmy he had been, and prone to similar fits of enigmatic mania. Still, given his much grimmer successors, most memories of Arcturus' time were relatively fond.

Ultimately, the elves won out, but not by much.

Just before the clock struck nine, Dobby, exhilarated with triumph, popped loudly into the Proprietor's Suite. By his side was very bashful little elf neither Harry nor Hermione had ever noticed before.

“We's got what you's being wanting, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby proudly announced with little pretense of servility. The other elf goggled as Dobby grabbed the large frosted glass bottle from his limp hands and thrust it at Harry. The distinctive reddish colour confirmed that the contents were exactly what the label stated.

“Thank you, Dobby.” Harry grinned as he took the bottle.

“No sir, no sir,” Dobby blurted. “It's not me. This elf here be a-finding it - in an old work shed, long abandoned…. He's being who deserves credit.”

The extremely shy subject of Dobby's praise probably would have popped off straightaway, had Dobby allowed it. Hermione smiled at the youngish elf and asked, in her gentlest voice, “What is your name?”

“I-I's being Blonny, Mistress,” the little elf squeaked.

“And what do you do?” she followed, trying to put the fidgety elf at ease.

“I's … mostly being a riddler, ma'am,” came the reply.

“That's rich,” Harry chortled. “Tell us one of your riddles, then.”

At that request, the poor thing nearly fainted. “I-I-I…. Master Black, sir, I's … I's being working in the caves….”

Hermione flashed Harry a dissatisfied glare. `He works in your champagnery, Harry,' she Legilimenced. `Let me handle this, please?'

Turning back to the almost petrified elf, she showed him the bottle. “Blonny, you have done very well. I am most pleased. Can you tell me where you found this?”

“Yes, ma'am,” was the very high-pitched response.

Hermione waited, but heard only silence. The frightened elf was acting very, very literally. “Where did you find it, then?” she asked again.

“In … in the old picture place. Nobody's being using it, ma'am,” Blonny answered.

“Why was it in the picture place?” Hermione asked.

“I's been told that … before the magic boxes … they's a-used it to make pictures, ma'am,” Blonny shook like a leaf under Hermione's questioning. “…Pictures that's not moving,” the elf added, “if such a thing's being real….”

Hermione accepted the explanation and let the plainly overawed Blonny leave. Recalling Dobby's complaints about the ChÃ¢teau house-elves' retrograde mindset, she did not even bother offering the monetary reward. That little elf probably would have fainted - and undoubtedly would have refused it after being revived.

Dobby promised a more suitable form of recompense for Blonny.

Hermione asked Dobby to stay and help prepare the chemical solution she and Harry needed. Dobby had just trotted into the nearby master bathroom when the suite's main door opened and Annie slipped in. Seeing Harry and Hermione together, she dropped into her best court curtsey.

Harry rolled his eyes. He would never be comfortable receiving such treatment, whether from goblins, humans, or elves. “Umm … please rise and …er … state your business,” he spoke to the still bowed witch.

“Milord, Milady,” Annie addressed them. “I have what you requested.” She produced a clear bottle full of bright red Farmer's Reducer and a silver spreading tool that went with it.

“Thank you, Annie,” Hermione responded brightly. “Where did you find it? You've beaten the rest of the staff.”

Annie smiled a 500-Galleon smile. “It was in the same library that I showed you earlier, Milady. A note said it makes some of the fainter texts easier to read.”

“Yes, palimpsests,” Hermione received the bottle from Annie. At that moment, Dobby returned, levitating before him the other bottle, a cup of solution, and a damp rag.

Annie's face fell. “I see I didn't beat everyone, Milady,” she sighed, using a short curtsey this time. “I'll be going now.”

“Wait!” Harry blurted. “We both know the elves don't accept rewards. That was only for the staff. You found this first, so you deserve it.” He scratched a couple of sentences on a stray piece of parchment, signed it, and gave it to Annie. “Take this to Jerry, and claim your reward.”

“Oh, thank you Milord,” Annie said sincerely. “This will mean so much to my family. And Milord…?”

Hermione looked closely at the young lady. Her face wore a troubled expression.

Harry nodded for her to continue.

She did. “Milord … I'm not asking to know anything…. But whatever you're doing … be careful whom you tell…. Not everyone's to be trusted…. I shan't say any more.”

“Thank you for what you did say, Annie,” Hermione broke in. “No matter what you might suspect, please don't tell anyone what we're doing….”

“Not at all,” Annie agreed breathlessly, and let herself out.

“What was that all about?” Harry wondered after they were alone again.

“I told you about Annie,” Hermione explained. “She gave me the Sophocles manuscript and showed me the library. She's a closeted Muggle-born, probably the only one on the staff. It's likely that she knew about certain other uses of Farmer's Reducer…. She's just told us not to trust the staff with this secret.” She pointed to Lao Kung's note.

“I've heard the same from Mad-Eye,” Harry replied in a whisper. “Too many worked too long for Malfoy.”

“The elves is being loyal,” Dobby hastened to reassure. “They's being passive, but loyal. I has a crew a-working on Grimmauld tonight - like you wanted. It's being Blonny's reward.”

“Thanks, Dobby,” Harry told the one house-elf he trusted above all others. He took the chemical soaked cloth in his right hand.

Dobby looked ready to pop off, but Hermione told him, “Stay.”

Dobby said nothing, but looked at her curiously.

“Loyalty, Dobby,” Hermione explained. “We trust you and want you here. We don't know what we might have to do. Could you find Dumbledore if necessary?”

“I's not knowing where the Headmaster's being,” Dobby stated. “And I was `pecting to boss the Grimmauld elves…. But I does whatever you wants.”

By then Harry was applying the cloth to the blank second page of Lao Kung's note, below the wizard's chop.

Sure enough, with a few pats emerged the same network of blue lines that Hermione's note had burned forever into Harry's memory. It gradually resolved into characters - vaguely Chinese, but much simpler than Lao Kung's usually intricate calligraphy.

“What the heck is that?” Harry asked Hermione.

“Oracle Bones script, I think,” Hermione said. “We learnt just enough to recognize it in Ancient Runes, no more. It's extremely old Chinese writing, usually for Divination.”

Harry looked uncertain after her mention of their mutual least favourite subject. “Will your translating spell work on this?”

She shrugged. “I doubt Lao Kung would send us a secret message that we couldn't read.” Hermione performed the Translating Charm she had put to good use during Harry's disappearance.

The characters shimmered and shifted to a westernised text, but nothing Harry could decipher. “Is this written backwards, too?” he asked, looking rather put out.

Hermione held the transformed text in front of the vanity's lighted mirrors. “Yes, but it's also Latin,” Hermione pronounced. “This script is so old that I guess it doesn't have a direct English translation.”

“Are you going to translate, so I can read it?” Harry asked.

“I would, but my charm isn't perfect,” Hermione told him. “Since I can read Latin, I thought I'd rather not lose anything more in translation.”

So she read.

The more Hermione read, the more amazed and disturbed they both became.

Harry:

I regret the additional security, but it is essential. This Xiao Jing is of the White Lotus Triad, China's most powerful Dark magic society. Their infiltration of our society dwarfs that of the Death Eaters in yours. Because the Triad's tentacles reach widely, this letter could be intercepted - putting you in extreme danger. Thus, I imitate Lady Granger.

The tattoo: the design is limited to the highest levels of the White Lotus. They are as ruthless as Voldemort. Its sharp outlines connote active and recent use. Watch yourself. Not even a wizard of your power should cross the White Lotus.

Go to the authorities immediately - to Dumbledore, if a Hogwarts student is involved. Otherwise, tell a trusted Auror.

I cannot leave this to you. It is too serious. I will try contacting Dumbledore myself. However, I am not well, and you may reach him faster.

Do not delay.

“Dumbledore!” they yelped in unison the moment Hermione finished.

“How?” Harry asked frantically.

“Is the Floo Network still operational?” Hermione asked rhetorically. Glancing at the clock, she frowned and answered her own question. “It's after eleven, I doubt it.” Still, she tossed Floo Powder into the Proprietor's private Floo.

Nothing.

“Can we Apparate?” Hermione asked breathlessly.

“Even if we could Apparate all the way to Hogwarts, the ChÃ¢teau's Anti-Apparition wards will be activating. And we can't Apparate into Hogwarts, anyway. We'd be stranded,” Harry answered.

“Yes, I knew that,” Hermione admitted. “How silly of me … not thinking straight….”

Harry did not even bother to rag on Hermione for her slip up. `“We have Hedwig and Athena,” he remembered.

“But Hedwig's pretty tired,” Hermione fretted. “Is she up to it?”

Harry's eyes brightened. “Actually, I've got better,” he reminded her. “The ChÃ¢teau's international fast post owls.”

“Let's go!”

The pair bolted from the Proprietor's Suite and raced towards the ChÃ¢teau's owlery.

“Hold it right there, yeh two,” a familiar voice brought them up short. “There's something dodgy going on, and I wanna know what. Yeh should know better than this.”

“Mad-Eye!” Harry yelled. He grabbed the aged Auror by the arm so roughly that the older man almost lost his balance. “In here!”

They all but dragged Moody into the nearest room. Harry had barely finished performing Silencing and other Charms when Moody asked angrily, “What the Hell do yeh think yer doing? Yeh got some sorta secret message din't yeh?” The ex-Auror's bright blue magical eye spun nearly out of its socket.

Colour drained from two younger faces. “How did you know?” Harry asked.

“I lived through the first war,” Moody reminded them smugly, his magical eye slowing to what passed for normal. “I worked with resistance groups. I know what the hell Farmer's reducer is fer. But yeh two, yeh go askin' fer it, willy-nilly ta the entire blasted staff. Yeh can't trust `em, I tell yeh.”

Hermione fully appreciated Moody's relentless paranoia, but she weighed Annie's warning and Harry's comment. Maybe Mad-Eye was right. “I hope you have very good grounds to back that up, Mad-Eye,” she countered.

“The bloody best!” Moody retorted almost contemptuously. Lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper - despite two Silencing Charms and sundry other magic securing the room's only door - he revealed, “Whilst yeh've been lollygaggin,' I've been doin' what guardians are s'posed ta do … that's guard. I've inspected all the bloody wards, and not just from some remote location. Boots on the bloody ground, I've done….”

“Yes,” probed Hermione, prompting the older man to get to the point.

“I wasn't gonna tell yeh `till back at Hogwarts,” Moody continued, “but some sonovawitch inserted a secret back door inta the intent-ta-harm wards. Really well hidden…. Iffn I hadn't gone lookin' at each segment individual-like, I never woulda found it.”

Harry and Hermione scowled in unison. Their remnant trust in the staff vanished with this stark confirmation of Annie's warning. “What does it do?” Harry asked angrily.

“Whoever did this could…,” Moody lowered voice, “let Deaters inta the ChÃ¢teau with nobody bein' the wiser. I can't remove it without touchin' off the wards and lettin' `em know, but I covered the breach with a counter spell. Yeh two young `uns won't trigger anything now, but anybody else…. Well let's say I used my imagination and leave it at that.”

“So you think the staff has a traitor?” Hermione asked bluntly.

“More `n one, I reckon,” Moody replied gruffly. “That ward breach was new … less'n a year old. Any of `em coulda done it. Maybe the whole worthless lot of `em's traitors. Wouldn't trust `em, Harry. Not as far as I can throw this ChÃ¢teau. So don't go broadcastin' that yeh've been receivin' secret messages.”

“Where is it?” Harry wanted to know.

Instead of answering, Moody dug into his robes, producing a tattered piece of parchment. “Here, I drew a map,” he showed them. “I don't think yeh know the boundaries well enough fer me ta describe it accurately fer yeh.”

Harry snatched the parchment, took a quick look and agreed that Mad-Eye was right. He stuffed it in his pocket, which it now shared with that prior surprise - now quite forgotten. “Thanks … er … Dad.” Harry stumbled on the newfangled (for him) phrase. “And we've got news for you, as well.”

They told Mad-Eye everything they had learnt about Cho, Ron, and the tattoo.

Moody was sceptical, to say the least.

“Yer tellin' me that this Cho Chang is controlled by these White Lotus Triad fellers, and they're makin' her do Muggle pornos? An atop all that, these Triads are makin' her seduce yer friend Ron?”

“Umm…. That's right,” Harry shakily confirmed. Mad-Eye's summation of the story they had pieced together sounded considerably less plausible than when they had thought of it themselves.

“Sounds crazy ta me,” Mad-Eye declared abruptly. “What proof yeh got?”

“We sent a picture of Cho's tattoo to Dumbledore's friend, Kung Meng-tse, and he just told us about the Triads and that we should contact the Headmaster immediately,” Hermione told Moody. “Would you like to see that?”

Moody was amenable, so they returned to the Proprietor's Suite. Unfortunately, Moody did not read Latin, let alone Oracle Bones Chinese, so that letter proved “the square root of sod all” to him. Hermione's oral translation remained the only confirmation.

But Moody, who did not trust many people, did trust Harry and Hermione.

“Yeh mean this is the same wizard Dumbledore brought in ta help yeh rescue Hermione last September?” Mad-Eye asked Harry.

“Exactly!” Harry exclaimed. “I'll take all the Veritaserum you want!”

“All right, all right…, that's not necessary,” Moody retreated, shaking his head. “I'll contact Dumbledore fer yeh.”

He raised his sleeve, revealing a copper band encircling upper arm, and made some motions with his wand.

Nothing happened.

“Merlin's whiskers!” Moody swore.

Mad-Eye repeated the process.

Again nothing.

“Merlin's bollocks,” Moody swore even more vehemently.

He resorted to a couple of other communications devices (so Harry and Hermione supposed). More colourful swearing ensued.

Moody angrily threw all the artefacts to the floor. “Dammit, they've already shut down the system!” Moody cursed. “That bloody changeover ta yer friends' blasted gadgets is goin' on. Well it looks like yeh….”

Boom! Boom! BOOM!!

Three reports, each louder than the last, rattled the windows.

“Get down!” Moody screamed as he shoved the pair to the floor. The room plunged into darkness as the old Auror's Deluminator snuffed out every source of light. He crawled forward, warning, “We're under attack.”

Crackling sounds followed the explosions. Bright light flooded through the windows.

From the floor, Harry and Hermione flicked out their own wands. They watched anxiously as Moody's shadowed form slouched towards the window. His magical eye left its socket altogether and crept to the windowsill. Whatever was out there was still producing staccato, popping sounds.

When the pair looked for themselves, they relaxed for the first time since translating Lao Kung's letter.

The sky above the ChÃ¢teau's front garden was indeed alight - but with a huge pyrotechnic display.

Brilliant sodium-yellow light spelled “NEW YEAR.” Above and below, formed by equally bright rubidium flare, were the words “Happy” and “Harry” - except that the Ps switched to Rs, and vice versa. The fiery words read, alternatively, “Happy NEW YEAR Harry” and “Harry NEW YEAR Happy.” This text was surrounded by an ever-changing constellation of smaller Catherine Wheels and starbursts.

By now Mad-Eye was leaning from the open window, looking for somebody to hex. Harry shouted, “Mad-Eye! Stop! We haven't been attacked! I think we've got guests!” He sheathed his wand and made for the door. It was easy to find, even without interior lights, with the pyrotechnic glare lighting the room.

From the hallway Harry heard quite a commotion on the ground floor. With stomps and squeaks, wet boots jostled and slid across the polished marble of the ChÃ¢teau's grand entryway.

“Oi! That's not a friendly welcome!” one upset - and well-known - voice squawked. “We're on your side!”

The response was unintelligible.

Another equally upset voice echoed. “Even for a goblin, it isn't!”

“I wouldn't talk to them that way,” a rather put-out sounding Tonks cautioned.

Jerry McAllister's strained words echoed that warning. “You're quite fortunate you weren't Transfigured into pond scum after that stunt you pulled….”

Harry quickened his pace, moving towards the main staircase.

“Where's your hospitality?”

“Where are your manners?”

Reaching the top of the stairs, Harry called out, “Fred! George!”

The scuffling participants on the ground floor looked up. Whilst the staff bowed or curtseyed, several goblins, hearing his greeting to the two wizards they were manhandling, immediately prostrated themselves.

“Anyor!” Harry shouted to them to stop.

“To the rescue, just in time,” Fred commented, his relief evident to all. “The man's specialty….”

George matched Fred quip for a quip. “We've been making the acquaintance of your incredibly convivial staff.”

“With any more of their acquaintance, we'd probably be replacing our bits,” Fred followed.

“That is, if we could find them,” George replied.

Harry broke into their back and forth. “What are you doing…?”

“Not so bloody fast, yeh goofy gits!” Moody's cross words exploded from behind Harry. His harsh tone caused Harry's goblin guards to bare their teeth and brandish their weapons at the speaker.

“Afer we go any further, I want ta know some somethin' from yeh two that proves who yeh really are.”

“As if the New Years' version of our Deflagration Deluxe isn't good enough?” George protested theatrically. “We customised it for Harry.”

“Harry's been our partner for well over a year,” Fred rose to Moody's challenge.

“We pranked him utterly to get him to his surprise birthday party,” George offered a split second later.

“Not good enough!” Moody roared, his eye spinning. “Not tonight anyway. Too many others know those answers.”

With a crowd of staff and goblins looking on uncertainly, Tonks leapt into the breach. “I posted to you two just the other day. What did I tell you about Harry?”

Harry and Moody looked peculiarly at Tonks. Not even they knew the answer to that question.

Fred began, “You told us…,” then he cracked a mischievous smile, “…well, right after you finished enlightening us with all of his and Hermione's naughty goings-on, you told us he was practising with the balloons and the xistera, and was bloody good at it….”

Harry gasped. He had been practising, though not a lot, and Tonks had watched several times. But what was she doing - telling the Twins, of all people, about his sexcapades with his fiancÃ©e? He was embarrassed and Hermione would be furious….

“I did not!” Tonks all but shrieked. Looking up the stairs towards Harry, her hair sprouting orange curlicues, she protested, “Harry, now they're pranking me. Don't believe them.” Turning back to the Twins, she brandished her wand threateningly. “And what did you hooligans write back?”

George answered this time. “I challenged Harry to a match, because I've been practising too … got everything we need right outside….” He shot a sideways glance at Fred. “Oh, and then, I challenged Harry to another test of skill. Me and Angelina against him and Hermione, to…. Aaargh!”

George never finished that sentence as Tonks' wand flashed and both he and Fred started blowing bubbles - soap bubbles.

“It's them,” Tonks declared. “And I didn't, Harry….”

Hermione was now standing just behind Harry. “I don't doubt that,” she reassured her long-time minder, “but why were you exchanging post with those two lowlifes?”

“These lowlifes … well, I sought reinforcements for tonight, with the changeover and all,” Tonks told him.

“And the Order sent us these berks,” Moody tartly summed up.

“That's us …. Pffblt....” George confirmed, still reacting to having his mouth involuntarily washed out with soap. “The bloody cavalry to the rescue, us.”

“All the Order could spare,” Fred picked up. “All the rest are scattered about Britain, keeping the bloody peace during the changeover. We're bearing belated Christmas presents, but they're still outside where we were ambushed.”

“I'll be back, pronto,” Moody told Harry. He limped off towards the ChÃ¢teau's owlery.

As Harry's direction the staff levitated inside what presumably was a selection of the Twins' finest Wizard Wheezes. All the while he had to listen to George's boasts about embarrassing Harry's in the upcoming xistera contest, and to Fred's chortling over the fireworks display. They had ignited it without warning in retaliation for their forced flight beginning at the ChÃ¢teau's property line, courtesy of the great estate's extensive anti-Apparition wards.

`Harry, come up. We haven't time,' Hermione's voice resonated in his mind. He turned and saw her serious expression. She jerked her head with a partial twist to indicate that he should follow her up the stairs. `Bring them,' she added.

Her message was clear. It was time to enlist the Twins.

“Fred, George, could I speak to you privately upstairs?” Harry said, cutting off their jolly stories.

They immediately agreed, and the four started off.

“Tonks, could you come, too?” Hermione added. To the remaining onlookers amongst the staff she suggested, “We'll be back soon enough. Isn't it time to commence the New Years' festivities?”

That was the year's biggest party. The staff needed no further encouragement.

Harry led the small group into the Proprietor's Suite. Tonks uttered some protective charms after they entered. Fred and George could not help commenting on the grand and opulent lifestyle (or, at least, room) Harry and Hermione had fallen into.

“Bloody hell, look at this place,” Fred exclaimed whilst gawking exaggeratedly.

“What do you want?” George carried on. “Us jesters to yuk it up for the king and queen?”

“This is serious,” Harry brought them up short. “It's about Ron. Something dodgy's going on….”

“I doubt it,” Fred insisted. “Ronniekins doesn't have a dodgy bone in his body right about now, I reckon.”

“Finally let out to play after being cooped up at the Burrow for a fortnight,” George commented with a snicker.

“No, seriously, this is about Cho Chang,” Harry forced himself to continue.

“So's this,” Fred shot back.

“What's that?” Tonks whirled around. Her wand was out in a flash. Again, she stared out the window.

“Not us,” Fred demurred. “We only set off one Deflagration Deluxe.”

“One a night, that is,” George couldn't help but add.

“No, that,” Tonks followed. “Lumos!”

They heard a persistent soft bashing against one of the leaded windows, as if the light had attracted an overly large moth. But it was the dead of winter, and so were all local flying insects.

“That's no moth - that's an owl!” Hermione declared.

Tonks hastened to the windows. She struggled a bit until she recognised the problem. “Sorry about that,” she muttered and ended her own Sealing Charm. The bird shot in, hooting like a demented oboe and flying like a pinball hexed with Tarantallegra.

“It's Pig…. That means it's from Ron,” George pointed out.

As the crazed bird flitted this way and that, Harry glimpsed flashes of red in the owl's fleeting form. Suddenly straightening his course, Pig flew full speed directly at Harry.

“Impedimenta!” Hermione shrieked.

Just before slamming into the invisible barrier Pigwidgeon attempted to swerve. He bounced off and cart-wheeled three times in an arc passing directly over Harry's head. The hard spin flung off the owl's burden as, with a loud squawk, Pigwidgeon flopped headlong into the gold satin curtains that (tonight, anyway) hung about the pair's bedchamber.

Harry was watching the crackbrained little owl's progress when, “Look out, Harry…!”

Tonks' shout shifted Harry' attention to what the owl had more or less dropped at his feet.

He caught but a brief glance at the smoking red envelope before it blew open with a loud bang.

Ron's angry, profane voice boomed out, filling the large room.

“YOU BLOODY LIAR! YOU PROMISED TO SEND THE EFFING POTION! I REMINDED YOU TWICE - CHINESE NEW YEAR, DAMMIT - AND STILL YOU DIDN'T! I WISH YOU'D AT LEAST HAD THE DECENCY TO RETURN IT WHEN YOU GOT TOO BLEEDING COWARDLY TO KEEP YOUR WORD. BUT NO! YOU HAD TO SABOTAGE ME! I KNOW SHE BLOODY WELL PUT YOU UP TO THIS!! ALWAYS DEVIOUS, THAT ONE!! YOU'RE FRIGGING WHIPPED!! WELL, TO HELL WITH YOU BOTH!! I'LL DO THIS MYSELF!!!”

Its message delivered, the fiery red envelope exploded, showering Harry and the rest with bits of scarlet confetti that smelled of sulphur.

Harry's reaction, besides the severe ringing in his ears, was one of shock and surprise.

Hermione's was one of shock and realisation. She rounded on Fred and George, who were still sniggering at their younger brother's ill-timed Howler. Addressing them, she demanded, “Where exactly is Ron right this minute?”

Utterly misreading female body language, Fred responded, “If I had to guess…. I'd say ickle Ronniekins is probably enjoying the delectable Miss Chang right about now.”

George paid a bit better attention. “Left earlier this evening for a Chinese New Year celebration, he did…. Probably that Howler was the last thing he managed before….”

“What Chinese New Year?!” Harry almost shouted. “Do you even know when that is?” Free magic crackled between Harry's fingertips.

George was baffled at Harry's agitation. “New Year is New Year, innit?”

“Bullshite…!”

The door to the Proprietor's Suite flew open, and Mad-Eye Moody stumped into the room. After one look at what was going on, he loudly ordered, “Harry, calm down!”

“Oh, dear, oh dear,” Hermione fretted. “Ron's at the Changs', despite our not-so-stellar efforts. The sod; he didn't know that Chinese New Year isn't for several more weeks…. We all need some answers here.”

“Yeah, right,” echoed Fred. “Ditto for the rest of us. So how about starting with whatever set Brother Ronald off on you so badly?”

“And be quick about it,” Tonks demanded. “Thanks to this changeover, we're pretty much stuck here by ourselves.”

Not waiting for Harry, Hermione leapt into an explanation of what they knew about Cho Chang. Harry, his face growing redder by the moment, pointed his wand at a night table beside the main bedchamber, and incanted, “Accio Ron's potion.”

A drawer opened and a small package, wrapped in grey goblin velour, zoomed unerringly into his hand.

“Ron's Howler was about this,” Harry interrupted. “It's Felix Felicis potion. He won it in class. He intended to use whilst asking Cho to marry him. That's why he was going.”

“Sonofawitch,” Moody spat.

“Marry?” Hermione repeated archly. “You didn't tell me that!”

“Umm … he specifically asked me not to,” Harry confessed. “I didn't think that….”

“No, I guess you didn't,” a rather steamed Hermione cut him off.

“Well doesn't that just suck,” George shook his head.

“No, we just suck,” Fred redirected his brother's words. “What do we do now?”

“First, I want those two,” Tonks gestured at Harry and Hermione, “to tell us everything they know about this.”

Putting aside their own tiff, they did.

“…and we'd just finished telling Mad-Eye when those two showed up,” Harry finished. “There, now you know everything we do. What now?”

Moody looked thoughtful. “I think we need ta pay the Changs a quick visit - not you lot, Tonks and me, we're fully-trained Aurors….”

“But what about all those White Lotus Triads Lao Kung was warning them about?” Tonks reminded the older man.

“Can't be helped, I'm afraid,” Moody said, shaking his head. “We're cut off from the Corps during this stupid changeover. I've sent out every fast owl in the owlery - Dumbledore, McGonagall, Shacklebolt, and more - but it ain't likely ta help now….”

His whizzing magical eye came to rest on the Twins.

“Yeh two … get the hell ta the Burrow as fast as yeh can on those brooms of yers. Raise the alarm and get reinforcements as fast as possible ta…. Umm … where do the Changs live, anyway?”

“You can't just order us away like that,” Fred protested.

“I can and I will,” Moody growled. “This is serious Auror business, and we don't even know where the hell ta go.”

“We're members of the Order, and our orders are to stay here and help guard Harry and Hermione,” George stood his ground.

“They're right about that,” Tonks commented.

“I'll bloody compromise, then,” Moody grumbled, looking like he was savouring a full mouthful of earwax-flavoured Bertie Botts beans. “One of yeh can stay. One can go. Now choose….”

“I … I think I know where the Changs live,” Hermione interjected into the adults' argument.

“What?”

“How?”

“When were you ever there?”

“Accio D.A. Mirror,” Hermione incanted. Her quick glance at Harry let him know she had deliberately imitated him. The night table drawer on her side of the bed popped open like his had. A bulky hand mirror shot into her outstretched hand.

“I collected information on everyone who joined our reformed D.A., including home addresses - in case we needed to be in touch over a holiday,” she remarked with some sense of irony. “I had Colin input that list into the mirror. Let me see….”

Everyone else - the Twins, the two Aurors, the impatient guard goblins waiting in the background - went quiet as Hermione's fingers flashed across the mirror, summoning the desired information.

Finally, she sighed in relief. “There. The Changs live at … er … in Blaennant Manor, Pantllefrith. Except I have no idea where that is.”

“That's `cause yer Muggle-born,” Moody told her. “Pantllefrith's a warded wizard community in the Third Wor … er … Wales - fer those who really, really like privacy.”

“And now, we'll go have a talk with the Changs, I think,” Moody declared peremptorily. “Tonks, get yer broom, and let's go,” he ordered, as if Tonks were still his trainee.

“Now wait a bloody minute!” George protested.

“Yeah, he's our brother,” Fred chimed in. “Prat though he undoubtedly is.”

“To be heard as well wish I,” Slamdor, the commander of Harry's goblin guard spoke up for the first time in the conversation.

Moody gathered himself up to what was left of his full height. For once, both his eyes focussed on the same thing at the same time - the goblin captain. Trying to be as intimidating as possible, he growled, “Sorry, this is Auror business.”

Slamdor did not retreat in the slightest. “Failed Impratraxis to rescue did the Aurors.” He spat on the floor for emphasis. “Failed goblin nation to alert did the Aurors. If fight is it, fight do we. Army have we. A half of your hours … anywhere in Britain can be we.”

“If it comes ta that, then yeah,” Moody retreated towards reasonableness. “But not `till we know what we're dealin' with. We're in reconnaissance, not battle mode.”

“And what about us?” George butted in. “We're Order, after all.”

“And what about us?” Harry echoed. “We figured this out - and he's our best friend.”

Moody looked around. “Tonks, are yeh with me on this?”

The more junior Auror nodded, her hair glinting gun-metal blue. Throughout the discussion, her hair had gradually, but steadily, darkened and hardened until it was now almost as solid as a helmet. “We're trained to do this. You lot, save possibly our goblin friends, are not.”

The goblins, at least, were somewhat mollified. As they possessed the most visible weaponry, that was fine from Moody's standpoint. “Righto,” he grunted. “Give us one of yer men, then,” he spoke to Slamdor. “He can Side-Along with us. The rest of yeh needs ta protect Harry and the rest whilst we check things out.”

“A plan,” Slamdor pronounced, after briefly mulling things over. “What skills prefer you?”

“But we want….”

“Hermione, this isn't about what you want,” chided Tonks. “Let us have our look see. You and Harry are only basic Apparators. We're talking over two hundred kilometres, and you've never seen the place.” She turned to the others. “Fred, George … one of you needs to fly to the Burrow and alert your family that Ron may be in trouble. Once this blasted changeover is done, if it's necessary, your father can get the word out as quickly as anyone. The other should stay here and do what the Order assigned … without letting on to the staff that anything's amiss.”

Just as Tonks faced down Hermione, Moody did Harry. “Harry, one way or another, we'll settle this as fast as we can. I'm tellin' yeh, what yeh need ta do is play yer Proprietor role with the staff's New Year's party. Dress up and go down there. We'll be back ta yeh as soon as wizardly possible.”

Moody returned to the Slamdor's question. “English fluency's probably most critical, plus some way of bein' tracked. If we need yer army, it'll need ta know where ta go.”

The leader of the goblin squad nodded. “Roxtar,” he ordered. “With them go. Homing ring activate ….”

“Wait a minute!” Moody held up an arm. “Homing signal? Just who can track that?”

“If Triads mean you, then no,” Slamdor told him firmly. “Never tracked goblin signals have not wizards. One reason defeat us cannot you.”

Moody magical eye was turning somersaults again. He looked ready to make some remark about exactly who had won the last goblin rebellion, but bit it back. “All right,” he agreed stiffly. “But can yer army follow this signal if necessary?”

“Yes, of course,” Slamdor confirmed.

“Then let's get the hell out of here!” Moody urged. “Time's a wasting. Well fly ta the edge of the ChÃ¢teau's anti-Apparition wards, and go from there. Blaennant Manor's in a valley. We can Apparate ta the hill behind it.”

Moody threw open the sash to the Proprietor's Suite's largest window. He and Tonks leaned way out and summoned their brooms, taking care that the brooms arrived via the ChÃ¢teau's exterior so they would not be seen by a less-than-trustworthy staff.

Brooms in hand, the pair of Aurors were gone in five minutes, as long as needed to instruct Roxtar in very rudimentary broom riding - holding on to Mad-Eye Moody's robes for dear life.

As the Aurors had vanished into the chill night, Fred and George began sorting through the “goodies” they had brought, in case an actual rescue were necessary.

Hermione told Harry, “I think it's time to alert the others … hope for the best, but plan for the worst, and all that.”

“Fine,” Harry agreed, “but leave Jazzy out of this. She's only a third year, and we don't have Basilisk armour for her. She's not ready to fight adult wizards, if it comes to that. And tell the rest to bring along their armour, just in case.”

Hermione went searching for Neville and Luna, whilst Harry - grumbling all the way - threw on dress robes and strode downstairs to preside over a party thrown for a staff he now believed was shot through with Malfoy-loyal traitors.

* * * *

He was cold. Only once in his life had he felt so cold - and that had only been some intelligence unit's defensive reaction, or so they told him. He had never really believed them. That felt so horribly lifelike.

So did this.

And this was really real. And he was really cold. His chain-link restraints were cold. The damp stone wall at his back was cold. Even the air was cold, for Ronald Weasley was stripped naked. If he could see, he supposed his breath would be visible.

But Ronald Weasley could not even see.

Wherever he was hanging was pitch black. Black as night. Black as coal. Black as Cho Chang's endless, boundless, curveless hair.

Even now, the thought of her could make part of him stir.

Not long ago, she had greeted him, utterly beguiling in yellow silk brocaded robes. The ominously silent family retainers who had escorted him inside the Changs' palatial home seemingly vanished, and she was her usual, wanton self. She wore nothing under those robes, and for good reason.

At that point he had thought, `To hell with that stupid potion.'

He had been on the cusp of losing himself to her, when….

Angry voices spouting a language he did not understand….

Flashes of spellfire….

Pain….

Being roughly trussed up like a trapped game animal and hauled through seemingly endless corridors….

Hundreds of identically red-clad wizards - their robes bearing identical white flowery patterns….

Dozens of Death Eaters….

It had all been horrifying.

But most horrifying to Ronald Weasley was how, when they had forced him away from her, Cho made not the slightest objection. She had not made a sound - nor the slightest movement of protest - as they were separated. She passively stood and watched as they hauled him away.

Ron's deepest insecurities, his worst fears, now gripped him. What did Cho truly want with him? Who was she, really? What could a girl like her see in a guy like him?

Was Cho's soul as black as his current surroundings?

Ron was now in dire need of that potion - but bloody, fracking Harry had it, along with every other desirable thing anybody could possibly want in the world. Hermione, who once topped Ron's “desirable things” category, undoubtedly had put Harry up to it.

Their final betrayal meant his luck had just about run out.

Yet another cold shiver of fear shot through him. Ron thrashed, straining against a bar behind him that pinned his shoulders. He kicked wildly at chains that more loosely bound his legs. All that accomplished was to cause the chains to tighten until Ron could no longer move.

He felt a sticky substance oozing down the side of his right foot.

Ron was trapped, and could do nothing about it.

Finally, something creaked in the darkness. Ron was suddenly blinded by dazzling white light. He almost screamed in shock.

“Well, well, well … wittle Wonniekins,” sneered the faked falsetto facsimile of a feminine voice. “Aren't we in twouble now?”

Ron hardly cared. “Arrrgh, fuck you!” he roared at the taunting voice behind the wandlight.

“Not my department,” the voice sneered, all traces of false levity vanishing. The witch lowered her wand….

Ron had seen her once before - that night in the Department of Mysteries. Her dark raven tresses framed a face that, but for overuse of blood-red lipstick and those maniacally burning eyes, might have once been beautiful….

Before a decade in Azkaban.

Bellatrix Lestrange leered at Ron.

He was powerless, even to preserve his modesty.

“Yes, I suppose you'll do quite nicely,” she mocked, smiling in the same sort of smile that cats give to mice. “Let's see…. I've been told that your Boggart is a spider. How fitting…. Death by the Yellow Widow - how quaint.”

She Transfigured her wand into a short rider's crop and flicked it at him. Ron's affected bits quivered in response.

“Appropriate, I think. It is rather spider-like, isn't it…? Welcome to my parlour says the spider to the fly….” Bellatrix cackled.

Ron knew she was mental … quite a few beans short of a bag. Not all of the Dark witch was there, anymore.

But enough of her was.

She whirled violently. “Severus,” she commanded. “Show it to me. I want to see exactly why this one is so dreadfully afraid of spiders.”

Ron shuddered. So Snape was also involved. Figures.

One of at least two masked Death Eaters behind Bellatrix raised his wand. “Petrificus cranius,” he incanted in his loathsome voice. Ron's head instantly froze in place.

Snape's fathomless eyes tore into Ron's psyche, searching….

He quickly located his mnemonic quarry: the most recent of Ron's several unhappy encounters with aggressive arachnids - real, or in this case, magically imprinted. This had been the stuff of many a nightmare - created that horrible night in the Department of Mysteries.

The skilled Legilimens drew the memory out, so the witch, less adept, could also see it.

The two sets of eyes viewing Ron's memory saw him screaming and thrashing, stuck fast on the strands of a huge spider's web. Unsuccessfully, he attempted to beat off several hairy eight-legged beasts, each smelling of dank sewage sludge. Occasionally, Ron's flailing drove them back, but they persisted - crawling, almost slithering over him, dragging their engorged abdomens across his body. An obscene, milky white substance squirted from a half-dozen orifices. The goo congealed into shiny threads that soon enough bound him fast.

Around and around went the spiders, each pass trapping him ever more firmly. Gradually, Gulliver-like, Ron lost his ability to resist and eventually even to move.

Altogether paralysed, Ron heard a faint clicking, growing in intensity. Ron felt the web dip as something heavy climbed aboard. His two blue eyes bugged out as they gazed into a half dozen unblinking dark brown orbs staring back at him.

Those eyes came closer and closer; bringing with them the overpowering stench of an abattoir. Ron could feel the beast's bristles rubbing across first the exposed parts of his arms and finally his face. Ron vomited uncontrollably as he felt sharp mandibles closing around his neck. A pause - then pressure; they sliced easily through his flesh.

Drawing his last breath, Ron screamed in helpless terror…. Then he knew no more.

“Enervate!”

Ron groaned.

“Aguamenti!”

A jet of near-freezing water rudely returned Ron Weasley to full consciousness. His tiny hope of awakening back in his bed at the Burrow was immediately dashed.

“Oh, very nice,” the evil witch gloated in raspy tones. “Being eaten by a spider…. Don't know how you survived that one. Did Potty rescue you?”

Ron had no response.

“No matter,” she continued. “One of death's little ironies. Yours won't be much different. But not through the neck, of course….”

She flicked him again with her wand/crop.

“But there…. Imagine, all the skin gone … dissolved away, I'm told. Your blood flows out, and she absorbs it. But it won't stop there. To finish, she'll need more. Her fluids seep into you, sapping strength from your muscles, minerals from your bones, and finally even what passes for sense from your pathetic little brain.”

She struck him hard with her crop.

“A pity I won't get to see it,” Bellatrix rambled. “But then again, I'd rather not, given what comes after. I've better things to do. When my work is done, my Master promises what's left of you to me. And when I'm through with what's left of you … well, maybe I'll send the leftovers to your notorious friend and his little Whore-mione…. That is, if they've still alive…. Which I doubt.”

Ron could barely breathe. Whatever was going to happen involved much more than he. What, he had no idea - except some woman … Cho? … would be killing him most messily.

“Snape! Give him the potion,” Bellatrix commanded.

Ron came to a decision. They would have to kill him here and now. He would not drink whatever they had concocted for him.

At least he could choose how he would die.

Behind his ivory Death Eater mask, Snape's eyes widened in comprehension. Not privy to the details, he finally understood why the Dark Lord had summoned him earlier that evening, ordered an odd array of potions, and gave him a Portkey to points unknown - this point unknown.

The first potion, an Elixir of Practically Permanent Priapism, was intended for Weasley. It promised his death and her transformation. Like a grotesque butterfly, after the metamorphosis, a succubus would be at her most fertile. Not ten minutes earlier, the Dark Lord had informed Snape that Cho Chang was the eldest daughter of the hereditary Mountain Master of the White Lotus Triad.

The second potion was for her, to ensure proper direction of said fertility. So, presumably, was Snape's own brew of Love Potion.

Therefore, the third, and last, potion must be for the Dark Lord himself.

The audacity of the Dark Lord's plot reverberated in Snape's brain as he stepped towards Ron. As to this boy, unlike Potter, he had no instructions from the Headmaster.

“You'll have to kill me first,” Ron hissed through gritted teeth.

“Spare me your stupid histrionics,” Snape sneered at the naked, shivering, redheaded boy chained tightly to the wall. “With one Imperius you would be on your knees begging for this potion like a dog. But then, what's the humour in that? You won't be drinking anything….”

Ron's mouth dropped in shock at the size of the hypodermic needle that Snape produced.

Again, his screams rent the dank, dirty air of the Changs' prison.

* * * *

Almost immediately, the advantages and disadvantages of bringing a goblin on this mission became starkly apparent. Seconds after Apparating to the crest of Pantllefrith Ridge - before Tonks and Moody were even fully oriented - Roxtar levelled his short, evil-looking cross-bow and fired. The bolt sizzled through the darkness and found its mark, making a sound like a rock heaved in a mudhole.

Not ten metres away, a red-robed wizard dropped like a stone. The robes looked Chinese, but not even Moody's magical eye could confirm, since the wizard (if that was what he was) had no facial features left.

“Looking this way was he,” Roxtar whispered. “Now, no alarm can sound he.”

Tonks rolled her eyes. Not even a minute into the mission, and already one corpse to explain. At minimum, that meant a great deal of Auror paperwork. Use of deadly force almost always did.

Moody shook his head - undoubtedly thinking similar thoughts. “Exat osteous,” he incanted in the tired whisper of someone who knew this spell all too well. The corpse became a bone. Moody picked it up. He would dispose of it as soon as convenient.

“There another … and there … and there,” Roxtar rattled off.

Moody's eye spun rapidly this way and that, but still could not see what the goblin did. The Aurors now understood that goblins, being a largely underground race, could see in the dark - utilising different wavelengths of the electromagnetic spectrum than could humans.

“Stay here, cannot we,” Roxtar pronounced. He crossed his arms, so his tladimax touched a leather wristband worn on his opposite arm. “Karpasinat,” he incanted.

“What d'yeh do now?” an extremely paranoid Moody asked. With this many unfriendly wizards about, he feared trouble … delay … in getting their bearings and thus accomplishing the mission.

“Cloaking magic of Gablankansta,” Roxtar said tersely. “Where go we?”

“Yeh mean, I can do magic and not be detected?” Moody followed up.

“If cloak not penetrated, then yes,” Roxtar told him.

“Glad yer along, then,” Moody grunted appreciatively. He performed a Four Points spell on the Chang compound. Guided by Roxtar, they pushed along some animal-made crease in the ridge's dense, snow-covered undergrowth.

Goblin cloaking magic was indeed a godsend. The three passed within ten metres of another two identically garbed guards - close enough for Moody and Tonks to see them clearly - without either guard being the wiser.

Icy branches clawed at their robes as the party pushed through a copse of low, windswept trees. They reached the exposed edge of a steep slope.

“Merlin's bits and Circe's tits,” Moody could not help swear at the scene below. “What in hell have we gotten inta?”

Down below, feverish activity was occurring in the Chang compound's back garden. At least two dozen masked, black-robed Death Eaters - all wearing discordant red armbands - mingled with an equal number of, presumably, White Lotus Triads. The triads wore red robes embroidered with some pale-coloured pattern.

Wizards at several tables were distributing unknown equipment.

Tonks and Moody whipped out their Auror Omnioculars.

“I count fifty-nine,” Tonks muttered. “Thirty-one black; twenty-eight red…. Wait a minute, what's going on near that building…?”

“That red one's not like the rest,” Moody observed. “Look at `im.”

“Alat santar,” Roxtar incanted. “Step up,” he told the humans.

The goblin cloaking shield was extending under their feet. It pushed against Tonks' heels before she paid attention. With muffled protest, she toppled heavily on her bum - but also onto the shield.

“What the…?” Moody growled as he felt the same pressure. Peg leg and all, though he was still more coordinated than his partner, and stepped onto the invisible charm..

“Down will go we,” Roxtar explained his actions. The goblin cloaking shield morphed into a bubble of sorts and began floating down the vertiginous slope.

Tonks uttered an excited whisper. “Look there!”

One red-cloaked figure stood out from the others - lacking the patterned weave that their Omnioculars resolved into white flowers. That one was causing a disruption, sending another red-robed figure staggering backwards. Then the discordant one began grappling with a black robed Death Eater.

Another of the black robes pointed a wand and yelled, “Crucio!” loudly enough for the hidden onlookers to hear. Immediately the odd, red-robed figure fell down screaming - also loudly enough to be heard over the intervening distance.

“Bastard … I'd know that voice anywhere,” Moody swore. “Lucius bloody Malfoy.”

“Some of them are disappearing,” Tonks commented in a concerned voice, as she squinted through the Omnioculars.

“Red hair,” Roxtar declared, pointing to the figure writhing on the ground.

The Cruciated wizard, during his agonised contortions, had partially thrown off his obscuring red cloak. Ronald Weasley's ruddy locks were plainly visible.

“Our duty should do we,” Roxtar declared. The goblin understood their mission as rescuing Ron. While his ferocity was substantial, the odds of an immediate attack succeeding were not.

“Wait,” Moody all but ordered, blocking Roxtar with his arm. “We can't possibly get there fast enough. Look at all those wands trained on him. They'd kill him before we'd ever cross their outer wards.”

Roxtar let loose a hiss of disapproval, but did not attempt to end or exit his cloaking magic.

“There goes another group,” Tonks observed. “Gone. Wait a bit more and our odds could improve a lot.”

It was not to be.

The black-robed figure that was Lucius Malfoy must have cast another spell - because Weasley went limp. Two Death Eaters and two red-robed Triads bundled him up. They flopped their captive on a table, took what had to be a Portkey from the seated Death Eater, and promptly vanished.

“Blasted Portkeys,” Moody spat as his magical eye drooped. “Now we don't know where in blazes he's gone.”

They reached the base of the hill, a jumble of fallen rocks and tree snags choked with snowdrifts. Still under cover of goblin magic, the three spies picked their way forward. Their opponents at in the Chang compound were dispersing quickly to parts unknown.

They crept close enough to get a good view of the table where the Portkeys were distributed. Only a few were left.

“Take them can we,” Roxtar urged. He bared his teeth at the squad of remaining Death Eaters, now only a dozen or so metres away.

“What about their buddies back on the hill?” Tonks asked, mindful of possible reinforcements.

Roxtar turned and gazed intently at the scarp behind them. After several seconds, he stated, “In sight is nobody. Probably also have gone they.”

Moody's mood brightened, as it often did when a course of action - especially violent action - was decided. “Get ready, then,” Moody growled. “Wait till there's only one or two of `em left … that's enough.”

Luck was with them. The Death Eater distributing the Portkeys was seated with his back to the warded boundary of the Chang compound.

“Don't kill him if yeh don't have ta,” Moody ordered. “On my count o' three….”

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three!”

Roxtar did something that made the perimeter of his cloaking magic to collide violently with the compound's security wards. With a fiercely blue-white spark of raw, arcing magic, they were breached.

“Stupefy!” Tonks and Moody roared simultaneously. Angry red jets flashed from their wands, felling the lone remaining Death Eater before he or she had time even to turn around. Their target slumped to the ground, leaving a single Portkey on the table, ready for immediate use - a badly cracked white and blue porcelain bowl.

Tonks wrapped the insensate Death Eater in a Full Body Bind. She stepped back and delivered a solid kick to the side of his head.

“Nah, only iffn he's conscious,” Moody instructed. “No point ta it otherwise.”

Psychological advantage was not Tonks' intent. The kick dislodged the man's mask.

“Recognise `im?” Moody asked.

“Yes, in a wanted poster,” Tonks hissed as she strained to recall. “I believe he's Fosdick Napier, a Deater spy in the Ministry who's been missing for a while.”

“Should go!” Roxtar interrupted impatiently.

“You can't go,” Tonks declared. The goblin's face contorted into an expression of extreme disagreement, just shy of rage. “Nor you,” she told the aged ex-Auror. His ravaged face showed the cast as his disgruntled goblin compatriot.

Moody blurted out, “Whaddyehmean…?” before his voice trailed off. “…Oh, I see,” he added dejectedly. His magical eye drooped.

“Go!” the goblin repeated.

“Nah,” Moody grumbled, disgust fairly dripping from his voice. “She's right - watch….”

Tonks' face slowly but surely changed - until it precisely mirrored the fallen Death Eater.

“Iffn either of us used that Portkey,” Moody explained to the still resistant goblin, “we'd be spotted and killed straightaway … no benefit ta anybody, that. Tonks can change herself ta match `im. She'll fool the Deaters.”

“But I doubt I'll come back,” Tonks cautioned. “I'll bet anything it's a one-way Portkey. Who knows what I might have to do to keep my cover once I get…. I know!” Turning to the goblin, she requested, as nicely as she could. “May I borrow your homing ring? That way Slamdor - and your army - can find me.”

Roxtar stared at her - first resentfully, then thoughtfully, and finally resignedly - until he made a momentous decision.

“Is goblin magic,” he replied at last. “Doubt for you will work. To track me need you….”

“Damn!” Tonks exclaimed.

But Roxtar was not finished. “More important than Roxtar is mission,” he muttered. “Correct are you … a chance only have you….”

Reaching over his shoulder Roxtar unsheathed a sharp dirk from a scabbard lashed across his back. Then he produced a rag of goblin grey material. Before either Tonks or Moody grasped his intent, the dirk flashed, slicing off the goblin's own finger - the one bearing the ring.

Holding the rag against the stump of his ring finger, Roxtar offered the severed digit, still dripping blood, to Tonks. “Take. Now will work. Find enemy will you. Bring army shall we.”

Tonks stripped off Napier's robes, put on his mask, grabbed the Portkey, and vanished.

“And this, this … say you … berk, what?” Roxtar asked, pointing his bloody dirk at the limp Death Eater.

“Nah, no need ta kill `im.” Moody took a quick look around. “Mobilicorpus.” Without another word, the bound Death Eater rose until Moody dumped him headfirst down one of the Changs' chimneys.

“Let's go,” Moody called to the goblin, who had just gained his considerable respect. “Time's a wastin'.”

* * * *

Hermione followed Harry's directions. She sought out Neville and Luna and brought them quietly to the Proprietor's Suite. But try as she might, she could not meet his other request.

Jazzy was with Luna. She interrupted the two making plans for “another” (Hermione did not bother asking) sleigh ride. Despite telling the younger girl point blank that her presence was not desired, Hermione could not dissuade Jazzy. Luna was no help - because she thought Jazzy could help.

Thus one more set of ears than Harry wanted listened as Hermione explained, yet again, what they believed had happened to Ron.

“…And nobody knows Harry like I do. Beyond doubt I am certain that if Ron really is in trouble, Harry will react the way he normally does….”

“And invent some way to blame himself for Ron's predicament?” Neville suggested.

“…True enough,” Hermione had to concede. “But I'm serious. Remember Sirius Black? This is the same thing. Harry thought Death Eaters had Sirius. He was so determined to save him that we couldn't even slow him down … and we ended up going along for the ride.”

“So you think he'll do it again?” Luna asked - but not really as a question.

“Think? You know and I know he'll do it again,” Hermione sighed. “That's the whole point. He spent what, a few weeks with Sirius? He's known Ron more than five years. Ron's his first and best friend….”

“Don't sell yourself short, Hermione,” Neville cautioned.

“I'm not … I'm not exactly just a friend anymore,” Hermione pointed out. “But that matters, too. If Harry goes, I go … and since you lot came the last time, it's only fair to let you opt in, or out, this time around.”

Once finished, Hermione took stock of her audience. Luna was visibly upset. Oftimes whifty, the look on her face was as serious as Hermione had ever seen. Luna's glower would have done Narcissa Malfoy proud - as if rancid Snorkack droppings were under Luna's nose.

“If Ronald needs rescuing, then I'm damn well in,” Luna stated in a voice entirely free of her usual detached manner. She did not ask whether anyone else, even Hermione, was going. “But I need to get some things. I'll be back. Don't leave without me….”

Neville, by contrast, looked like he had taken an Engorgement Charm full in the face - and tried washing it away with Farmer's reducer, he was so flushed. Unlike Luna, Neville knew nothing of the history between Ron and Cho.

“If Harry needs help, then I'll help him,” Neville declared, whether with courage or vainglory nobody (not even himself) could tell.

Jazzy was hardest to read. Despite her youth, the Third-Year was - when she chose - quite skilled in concealing her emotions. The notion of Cho being in thrall of her parents and forced into degradation did not shock someone who had grown up in Jazzy's circumstances. Jazzy did not give a tinker's damn about Cho Chang, but did care, deeply, about being excluded if Harry and Hermione needed help.

Jazzy quickly scanned the room. Neville was distracted. Luna was … well, Luna, and had wandered off somewhere. The goblins, the only other beings in the room, were engaged, no engrossed, in some game of chance - for high stakes, from the looks of it.

“Hermione, could you come here for a moment? I'd like to show you something,” Jazzy asked in the sweetest voice she could muster. The older girl returned a “what are you on about” look, but came over to have a look.

Quick as a cobra striking, Jazzy grabbed the crook of Hermione's right arm, unbalanced the surprised witch, and spun her around - so that Hermione flopped more or less into Jazzy's lap. An instant later, eyes bugging out and barely able to breathe, Hermione found herself with the Third-Year's glowing gold razor blade held at her throat.

The next moment - before either a shocked Hermione or equally startled goblins could react, Jazzy withdrew the blade and placed it in Hermione's hand.

“I don't even know if I'm welcome,” Jazzy muttered, letting Hermione loose, “but if a fight's to be had, I can pull my own weight. Never in my life, did anybody do anything nice for me before Harry … and you, too.… I don't want to be left out…. I can't … not if I'm ever to have a hope of squaring things with either of you….”

Still flustered, Hermione tried to respond, “Jazzy, I don't think that….”

“…Not to mention, I can fly rings around anyone here, except Harry,” Jazzy added.

“Well I…. Harry will decide,” Hermione finally left it.

She may have said more, except for Slamdor's sudden interruption.

“Jumped again, have they. Where….? Yes. Salisbury Plain.”

As Slamdor made this pronouncement, Hermione almost forgot to breathe. When the goblin finished, she exhaled so loudly that Neville - who moments earlier had been ready to protect her from Jazzy - flashed her an odd look … a look almost as odd how Luna was regarding Slamdor. But Luna had cornered the market on strange expressions.

Relieved, Hermione slumped into a nearby chair. “That's … that's the Aurors' new operational headquarters,” she explained breathlessly, more to herself than anybody else in the room. “That must be it…. Whatever's going on, they've cleared it up, and they've stopped by to give a report to the Aurors.”

She closed her eyes and sighed loudly. “Thank Merlin.”

Her respite was brief.

Like a lightning bolt - the proverbial blue streak - a wolverine-shaped Patronus burst through the wall, hurtled straight at Hermione and disappeared within her. Instantly she heard the rough voice of Mad-Eye Moody reviving her darkest fears. “Weasley's been captured by Deaters. Lots of `em. It's worse'n we thought.”

“Oh, Merlin, why did I let it drag on so long!” she burst out. Silently berating herself for going soft since turning Harry's Firebolt over to Professor McGonagall in third year, she pointed her wand at her closet, “Accio goblin armour.”

Four sets of green-tinged, goblin forged, Basilisk-skin armour - hers, Harry's and outfits made for Ginny and (ironically) Ron - marched through the closet door and landed deftly on the bed.

Hermione picked up a set, examined it, and tossed it in Jazzy's direction. “Sorry, it's a bit on the large size for you; it was tailored for Ginny.”

Jazzy could hardly believe it. “You mean I can go?”

“I mean I won't be stopping you,” Hermione replied grimly. “Even though your little stunt didn't win you any points, what you said about flying is quite true. But you've still got to convince….”

Speak of the devil.

A commotion at the door brought Harry, followed closely by George, into the room. Harry nearly bowled over Neville, who was leaving to get his own Basilisk-hide outfit and trusted neither his Summoning Charm nor the ChÃ¢teau's staff.

Another commotion arose on the side opposite. Moody's aggressive Alohomora nearly tore one of the windows from its magically reinforced hinges. He flew in - with Roxtar, but without Tonks.

Moody and the goblin both jumped off the broom before it stopped moving. Moody, his magical eye fully confirming his nickname, was immediately besieged by Harry, Hermione, and the others. The goblins gathered around Roxtar and reached a decision much more quickly. In almost no time, a grey boulder had bounded out of the sixth-storey window left open by Moody's spell.

“What was that all about?” Harry queried of Slamdor.

“Wager lost he,” Slamdor explained. “Go for help does he - our army to raise. Not get to fight, won't he…. And Impratraxis, what now do we?”

Moody promptly described what his reconnaissance party had seen and done. Harry's agitation grew with the telling. His free magic had returned, visible between his fingers, when his guardian was finished.

“I have to go after him,” Harry hissed through gritted teeth. “I was stupid - we all were - to let this go on this long. Don't try to stop….”

“Harry…,” Hermione's cautionary voice sounded. But Moody beat her to the punch.

“Zip it, Potter,” Moody gnarred. “Who said anythin' `bout stoppin' yeh? Tonks is in there, yeh see? I've sent Aurors ta almost certain death, but I've sworn never to leave any livin' soul o' mine behind … doesn't happen. Yeh need ta get….”

“Okay, then,” Harry acknowledged.

“…them goblins too. If they're all like that Roxtar fella, we've got a chance.”

Judging by the murmur from the goblin side of the room, Moody just won himself several new friends.

Harry nodded and turned to the rest. “That settles it. Mad-Eye, the goblins, and I have a job to do. I'd like for….”

“Don't even think about finishing that sentence,” George interrupted, wand in hand. “He might be a git…. Hell, he is a git. But he's still my brother….”

“Harry, look at us,” Neville's voice rose from the doorway.

Harry's eyes darted from one to the next, paying attention to those other than Moody and the goblins for the first time since he burst into the room.

Neville, red-faced, had on a hastily donned suit of goblin-forged armour, which he obviously had never worn before. His hands clutched the Staff of Asclepius.

Jazzy, almost swimming in a Basilisk-hide jumper at least two sizes too large, glared at Harry, an almost dead-on imitation of Ron - Ron's eyes used to burn that way when Molly excluded him from Order business.

Luna, also dressed in goblin armour, was ignoring him. She read from a couple of scraps of parchment. Every now and then she stopped and glanced at Hermione.

Hermione!

Harry turned towards his fiancÃ©e. Anguish haunted him. In her hands, she held her own armour and the Auror's belt from their training. “Hermione, I don't think….”

“Actually, this time your problem's quite the opposite,” she coolly replied. “Can I speak with you - alone…?”

He gulped. “Yeah … sure.”

“…and don't neglect your own armour, we haven't much time.”

Harry grabbed his own set of green, scaly garb from the bed and, fearing the worst, followed her into the little study. Before Hermione closed the door behind them, she had a few words for the rest. “George, the last set was Ron's. I'm sure under the circumstances he won't mind you making use of it. And Mad-Eye, please make plans. You've surely done more of this sort of thing than the rest of us put together.”

As Hermione closed the door, they heard Luna saying, “Neville … come here and let me help you get those fastenings right….”

Hermione muttered a few spells to ensure privacy, set her jaw, and turned to have this out. “I'm going with you,” she declared, hands on her hips, daring him to disagree.

He did.

“Hermione, you can't…. Everyone else, that's different,” he pleaded with her. “If something happened to you, I'd either blow that whole place up and kill us all, or else I'd shut down, be worthless, and let everyone else die…. Either way, everyone here dies.”

“And I'd be any better?” she responded precisely. “You forget, Harry, I've already thought you were dead. Twice. I'd go catatonic, or worse. We're better together than apart, you know that….”

“But Hermione, if I blew…!”

“I know, you'd kill everyone,” she sniffed. “But you're better now … more focussed. I've seen that, too. And don't forget, I'm also better. I know many more curses than Luna or Neville, let alone that nutters Jazzy girl. Maybe if there were more of us, but the odds are bad enough already. You can't afford to leave me behind … and besides, I won't let you.”

Arms folded tightly across her shoulders, she glared at him. Harry's hands dug deep into his pockets. His eyes also flashed - she was outright forbidding him - but deep down he knew she was right. Also, their argument was wasting precious time.

He felt something hard, and not Ron's stupid potion. Harry pulled it out.

“Umm … Hermione?” he addressed her, his tongue so thick he almost choked. “If the worst happens…. I at least want you to … to wear this whilst we're both still here….”

Then, like a marionette with one string cut, he dropped to one knee and offered her the ring he had commissioned from the goblins - containing the stones she had selected from Harry's vault. “I still want to marry you, Hermione. Maybe with this, we'll both have a bit more will to live tonight.”

“Harry!” Eyes wide, Hermione slipped on the ring. Eyes shimmering with unshed tears, she told him, “There's so much I'd like to say and do right now. I love you, but there's just no time. We have to finish this.”

She took his hand with both of her own and hauled him to his feet. “Oh, by the way, yes…. If you were so thick as to have any doubt.” Her lips brushed his cheek in a quick, chaste kiss that promised more - not so chaste - when the current crisis was over. “I will marry you,” she whispered.

That goofy grin of Harry's made an appearance for an instant, before he pulled back, shook himself, and turned to the task at hand.

“Ixks,” Harry incanted, putting his right hand over her left.

“Sorry?”

“A goblin charm to conceal the ring,” Harry explained. “Someday….”

“Your next birthday,” she told him. “Give you something to look forward to.”

“You're what I look forward to.”

They put their game faces on. “Let's get ready, then,” Harry rumbled.

Hermione had a head start and finished first. Stiffly, having never tried walking whilst encased in goblin armour, she entered the main room.

“Harry will be along in a moment,” she told everyone in a clipped, all-business voice. “We're all going. Mad-Eye, what have you devised, and George, where's Fred?”

“He's off to the Burrow like Harry wanted,” George confirmed. “We decided I'd stay because I can use these.” He grabbed a reverse water balloon from a sack at his feet. “In here's everything we brought that can knock something down or blow someone up.”

Impatiently waiting until George finished, Moody told Hermione, “First, we need Thestrals. We can't Apparate. None of yeh've been there, and yer not skilled enough ta do it stealthily anyhow.”

“What about brooms?” Hermione asked.

Moody scoffed. “Except for the two o' yers, the rest aren't fast enough fer cross-country, and goblins just aren't broom riders. If yeh don't believe me, ask Roxtar. He nearly fell off twice, just betwixt the wards and here.”

“True,” Slamdor spoke up. “Underground, travel we, but nearby no portals. Something more solid need we.”

“How about my motorbike?” Harry spoke. He emerged from the study in full goblin armour. All heads turned to him. “It's almost as fast, and several goblins can fit in the sidecar.”

“Fergotten that … excellent,” Moody pronounced. “Where is it?”

Harry gave a sly smile. “Right here.” He ended a couple of charms and a miniature model expanded into Sirius' sleek Gus Kuhn Norton, its black and red finish gleaming.

“Oh goody, let me see!” Luna exclaimed.

Whilst Harry restored the bike, Hermione summoned their personal house-elf.

Dobby arrived almost immediately. His ordinarily bulging eyes nearly popped from his head at what he found - six goblin-armoured wizards (although George, built differently than Ron, simply plastered the trousers over his with a Sticking Charm), six goblins literally bristling with weaponry, and Mad-Eye Moody - looking even fiercer than usual.

“Wh-wh-what is I to do for you, Miz Myone?” Dobby squeaked through chattering teeth. “I's been being at Grimmauld….”

“Please bring us one named Annie,” Hermione told the elf.

“But Hermione!”

“She's trustworthy, Harry,” Hermione dismissed his complaint. To Dobby she instructed, “Make it appear that Harry is displeased with her.”

“What are you doing?”

“She can help us,” Hermione told him. “She'll know how to get us the Thestrals.”

Mad-Eye protested. “I can do that….”

“Not as well,” Hermione cut him off.

Dobby popped off.

“So, who's riding what?” Harry asked as he mounted the Gus Kuhn Norton. He groaned. The new armour was quite stiff on his legs.

“Impratraxis, might I?” Slamdor requested.

“Might what?” Harry replied as he bent his leg over the bike.

“Make more comfortable.”

Harry grunted consent. Slamdor touched his Tladimax to Harry's armour. “Leshtal.”

Instantly Harry's armour relaxed. It molded itself to him, until it fit as seamlessly and effortlessly as a second skin.

“See? We should've read the directions,” Hermione huffed. “It's like the spell on my dress. Can you fix mine, too?” she asked the goblin.

“Of course, Savini.”

By the time everyone (except Luna, who had followed the instructions) had his or her armour adjusted, Dobby had collected a very anxious and upset Annie.

The intimidating sight of Harry in full goblin armour could make her feel worse. Nevertheless, she dropped into her deepest curtsey. “Milord, I deeply regret having offended you.”

“Relax, nothing's wrong,” Harry promptly dispelled the ruse. “Hermione thinks you can get us to the Thestrals without anyone being the wiser.”

Annie nodded. “Umm ... I know where they're kept….” She cracked a slight smile. “…with the New Years party going on…. Yes, but we must go outside.”

“Will you ride with us?” Harry Summoned his Valkyrie.

Astounded by an offer to ride pillion with this most unorthodox Proprietor and his lady, Annie of course agreed. Two Valkyries, one carrying Hermione and Annie, the other Harry and Moody, shot from the window and into the night.

New Year's Eve was the only night when, traditionally, the staff could dip into the ChÃ¢teau's wine cellars and liquor cabinets as much as they pleased. That proved fortunate. Harry's party did not encounter a sober soul on the way to the Thestral paddock and back. Mad-Eye expertly harnessed several of the beasts together and flew back on the lead animal.

Harry banked hard and zoomed in through the open window. His re-asked question, “Who's riding what?” died on his lips. The others had squared things away in his absence.

Astride the Gus Kuhn Norton, her blond hair streaming over Basilisk skin, Luna looked like a cross between a Rolls-Royce hood ornament and biker moll Barbie. She smiled in a most satisfied way whilst busying herself with the controls. Jazzy - looking much less content - rode pillion. Even though firmly on the ground, she clutched Luna's midsection in a death grip. Slamdor and the two other goblins shoehorned into the sidecar looked almost as uncomfortable as Jazzy.

“Luna, you can't….”

“Oh yes I can, Harry,” she brought him up short. “This bike's tricked out by Trafficante and Trollope's Wizard Workshop. They did Daddy's Ducati Monster. This is a bit bigger, but the magical controls are identical.”

Moody shut down Harry's protest. “Leave it. It's fer the best. Yeh should ride yer broom.”

The motley caravan was quickly organised: Luna, as described. Harry, riding his Valkyrie with Moody pillion; Hermione, riding her Valkyrie solo, to perform essential directional spells without being jostled; George, sharing a Thestral with one of the goblins; and Neville, sharing his Thestral with the final two goblins. A third Thestral served as a pack animal. It carried the animals' feedbags from the paddock - and more importantly, George's bag of Weasley Wizard Wheezes tricks. Nobody had been keen to ride with that rather volatile mix.

“Sorry we can't say where we're going,” Harry told Annie as they left. His parting orders were, “Don't tell anyone we've left, and keep the rest of the staff away from here as long as you can. Tell them we're trying for the Convergence again.”

“Harry Potter, sir, is I being with you or a going back to Grimmauld?” Dobby asked almost plaintively. Dobby plainly wanted to participate, but still too much the elf to make a direct request.

“Harry, we should bring Dobby with us,” Hermione spoke up. “He fought well at Malfoy Manor.”

“We need all the fight we can,” Moody added.

Harry agreed. “Help Neville,” he instructed the elf.

Dobby clambered aboard the last Thestral.

* * * *

Under a last quarter moon, the incongruous gaggle of would-be rescuers streaked southwards through the frigid January night - towards an encounter with whatever wizards had taken Ron hostage.

The lights of Manchester sliding by, Moody leant forwards and told Harry, “At this rate, we'll be there in `bout a half hour. Yer bike won't go no faster with the sidecar extended. Hermione can get us there, but we needs ta reconnoiter…. Anything ta improve our chances.”

Harry agreed. He Legilimenced Hermione, `We're going ahead to scout. Let's activate our Auror rings. But whether or not I'm back, turn it off once you pass Swindon. I love you. We'll get through this.'

`I'm won't tell you not to be a hero, Harry,' Hermione thought back. `But don't be a fool either. Someone does want to be your wife.'

Moody, of course, heard none of their exchange. His first inkling the surge as Harry's Valkyrie rocketed even higher and faster into the night.

“There's two ways ta do this, Potter,” Moody's ragged voice rasped in Harry's ear. “On the deck, low and fast, or high and away. Since we don't know exactly where they are, I'd recommend the latter … and the higher we stay, the less likely we'll trip any of the Deaters' wards.”

Harry agreed. They climbed and the freezing air grew even colder, taxing the broom's Warming Charms to the limit. Harry carefully judged the altitude - as soon as he felt difficulty breathing, he levelled off, and then dropped a couple hundred metres.

“How do we do this?” Harry asked, concern heavy in his voice. “Can we do this? Suppose we find a hundred Deaters. How can a dozen of us fight those odds?”

“We'll have a chance,” Moody told him. “Those goblins, they've ways of concealin' themselves that we wizards can't detect. We keep the element of surprise as long as we can. Go fer yer friend Ron. Use some misdirection - cut spells, multiple images, that kinda thing. Take out their brooms. Maybe we'll bet a diversion from Tonks. Try ta force the other Deaters ta back off. Get in an' out as fast as possible. Don't worry about winnin'….”

“What if we run into Voldemort himself?” Harry continued.

“We might,” Moody told him frankly. “With this big an operation, I'd not be surprised ta find `im personally leadin' it.”

“How can we fight him, too?”

“Harry, if it's really Voldemort, then we really wanna wait fer yer goblin friends and their army. With them we might be able ta take `im.”

“But if they don't come?”

“Yeh'll just have ta fight `im yerself,” Moody advised flatly. “I won't sugar coat it. Yeh'll hafta do it. Nobody else; not even me, has a chance ta give `im a go like yeh, what with sharin' the same wand. That, and pray yeh get lucky.”

Neither mentioned the obvious fact - Voldemort could kill Harry, but Harry could not kill Voldemort.

They flew the last few minutes in brooding silence. Grimly Harry pulled something from his cloak and put it around his neck.

“Hope that works,” Moody commented with a slight chuckle. “Can use every edge.”

“Luna's pretty good when she tries,” Harry replied.

The weather, although frigid, was mostly clear - which helped.

“Why not alert the Auror headquarters?” Harry asked as they reached Salisbury Plain. “We can use all the help we can get.”

“I've considered it,” Moody rumbled. “But we'd have ta land, since the Anti-Apparition wards are up. There's no communication yet … I've tried. I'd send out a Patronus from here, but I hafta have a recipient, and I don't know who's there. Only a skeleton crew, ta work the changeover…. Everybody else's spread all over ta keep the peace…. Didn't that turn inta a bunch of bollocks?”

They reached the homing signal marking the Auror headquarters. Moody pulled out a couple of devices from his robes and handed one to Harry.

“Dragon lens spyglass,” Moody grunted. “It's Fred's. George gave it ta me. We'll work our way outward from here in concentric circles, until….”

“Look! Over there!” Harry called, squinting through his spyglass. “Bright lights! Orange glow! See … near that road. Doesn't look like anything Muggle to me.”

Moody popped open his Auror Omnioculars and took a look. They lacked the spyglass' resolution, but accommodated both eyes, so he saw better with it.

“Don't know what party we're crashin,' but it's gonna be a big one,” the ex-Auror pronounced as he shut the Omnioculars after a brief look. “They're in the circle.”

Harry drove the Valkyrie upward until breathing again became difficult. He took two quick passes directly over the main Stonehenge nemeton, nestled incongruously near a Muggle intersection.

Details were scarce, as the mysterious magical activities created an obscuring mist overhead. A few things were apparent. Seating - about fifty metres of temporary grandstands - was atop the outer set of stone lintels on the circle's southwest side. The grandstands were still largely empty. Near the centre of the circle something glowed orange - occasionally flaring brightly. It might have been a large fire.

Two, possibly three, large pale objects - possibly tents - were to the northeast, near the main entrance to the circle. Nothing more could be made out.

Harry was dumbfounded. “What do you think?” he asked the older man.

“Land ta the northwest,” Moody advised - already preparing for what might be the last battle of his long career. “Looks weakest there. Iffn we cross the banks and sneak ta the pits under the goblins' cloak, maybe we can surprise `em when the goblin army shows up.”

* * * *

That was the plan.

The Thestrals, and everything else not immediately essential, were left behind - hidden behind an unrestored barrow on the opposite side of A303.

The road itself was deserted; the Death Eaters must have Muggle Repelling Charms in place.

They were not expecting wizard visitors.

Fortunately, the goblins' Cloaking magic was as every bit as effective as hoped. The tiny expeditionary force approached the circle unbeknownst to those within.

There they waited, half-hidden in what amounted to an ancient ditch. They squinted through the stone arches at preparations being made only a few dozen metres away.

Stonehenge was not, as Muggles saw it, a half collapsed ruin of ancient, weather-beaten stones. The same enchantments protecting Hogwarts Castle from Muggle eyes likewise guarded the circle. Since its 1623 restoration by the Ministry, in cooperation with the Gwrtheyrn Society of Brython, the Stonehenge Nemeton included an intact compliment of thirty lintels atop thirty standing stones - within which five trilithons stood watch.

Now, all that magnificent stone made it difficult for Harry's little band to determine what was actually going on within.

They now knew that the bright orange light was not from a fire. It marked a portal terminus. Every time the orange glow flared, the group's chances of success grew slimmer, because another group of red-clad wizards would emerge and make its way to the southwest side's now filling grandstands.

“Damn, there it goes again,” Hermione muttered as she squinted through the spyglass she shared with Harry.

She reached across the cramped space to the redhead putting finishing spells on another of his creations and gave him a poke. “George, may I have one of those?” Hermione requested.

“Yeah, but be careful.” He took one from the row he had been assembling in front of their barrow. “Don't underestimate a Suicide Spyder,” he warned. “These little buggers pack quite a wallop. You could….”

Hermione leaned in and asked, “Can you set it for impact?”

“Sure, but then you're not….”

“I'm going to carry it, George,” Hermione whispered.

George winced. “Please don't drop it,” was his obvious reminder. His sceptical look continued, then George cocked his head in Harry's direction. Hermione slowly shook her head.

“That's how he is,” George whispered. “Don't you be that way. When that thing starts clicking a mile a minute, get the hell rid of it, okay.”

Hermione nodded.

“Have you spotted Tonks?” Harry hissed to Moody, who also surveilled the scene.

“Not yet, but she doesn't know ta look for us,” Moody grunted back. “Good thing, that.”

“Where's this damn army?” Harry grumbled mutinously.

His comment was not for Slamdor's ears, but with everyone in very close quarters, the goblin heard.

“Please, patience, Impratraxis. Come will we,” the goblin captain offered reassurances. But Harry only voiced a worry Slamdor himself entertained. “The ChÃ¢teau, so large its grounds, and no splixi near there have we. Go far must MÄ�ktrax. By now, close should be he.”

`That's another half hour,' Harry Legilimenced to Hermione. `I hope we….'

From inside the nemeton a loud gong sounded - once, twice, three times.

“Something's happening,” Neville mumbled.

“Well, duh,” Jazzy grumbled back, “and can you stop standing on my cuff?”

“They're coming out of the tent,” Hermione began narrating. “Two Deaters, two Triads, and somebody in the middle in plain red…. Oh, dear, that's Ron, I think….”

The red-robed figure struggled. His four handlers dragged him forward and threw him atop on a large stone catafalque. Spells were cast, and as in the Wizengamot chamber, golden chains slithered upwards and bound the unfortunate redhead hand and foot.

One of the wizards shot a spell that vanished the Ron's robes altogether.

He lay there, naked, on the cold slab facing the black sky.

“Looks like he's some sorta sacrifice,” came Moody's stark observation. “What kind of Dark magic is this?” He omitted Ron's precise condition, supposing that Hermione could also see what pointed skyward.

“Harry, I don't know if we can wait much longer,” Hermione fretted. “We'd better get ready.”

Through the necklace, Harry saw Luna behind him. “Are you ready to do the rescuing?” he asked of her.

“Or die trying,” she reaffirmed.

“Here, then.” He pulled out his Invisibility Cloak and tossed it to the Ravenclaw.

Moody regarded the exchange impassively. He reached into his cloak, pulled out a penknife and handed it to her. “Use this ta cut loose those chains.”

More wizards emerged from the tent. “There's … there's Cho,” Hermione seethed. “And … oh Merlin … I think that's … that's Voldemort.”

His worst fear confirmed, Harry felt chilled, as if the temperature suddenly dropped twenty degrees. Odds were high that this was his last evening on this planet.

“Where are the goblins?”

“Be here will we, patience.”

“I think it's time,” Harry pronounced. He removed his travelling cloak, revealing his Basilisk-skin armour. Using both hands to keep steady, he dug into one of the cloak's pockets and produced Ron's phial of Felix Felicis. “We need all the luck we can get,” he told the little group. “Everybody, take a sip. There's not much, but a little goes a long way. There's about twelve hours worth in here.”

“Not me,” Moody immediately declined. “This is my job, not yers, Potter. The rest of yeh are amateurs. It's for yeh ta drink…. But here, this'll help. It's an Auto-Allotting Chalice.”

Mad-Eye fumbled with a compartment in his Auror's belt. He wrenched it open and handed Harry a small cup. His magical eye passed over everyone in the barrow.

The goblins shook their heads - they doubted a human potion would do anything but poison them. Doubting the potion's efficacy for house-elves, Dobby also demurred.

“Then set it ta six,” Moody told Harry.

“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear … shite!” Hermione finally cursed.

Everyone's attention - except for Harry, who was pouring - returned to the nemeton.

“Hermione?” Harry asked with an anguished expression on his face. “What's going on?”

“It's Cho. She's … she doesn't have feet anymore … only hooves,” Hermione breathed hard.

“Cloven hooves,” Moody spat out, “and look there, on `er back….”

Using wickedly curved fingernails, almost the length of her hand, Cho flicked off her red robe. She stood, as naked as the day she was born, looking at Ron - and waiting - waiting for some signal from whichever red-robed wizard was her father.

Harry put his hand on Hermione's shoulder. “Here, take this and drink. Then pass it on.”

Hermione accepted the chalice. She was ready to drink when something prompted her to check the settings.

Harry had set it to five.

She reset it to six - so a portion of the Felix Felicis would be left for Harry once everyone else imbibed. Hermione was about to give Harry and his insanely self-sacrificial attitude a piece of her mind when he reported, “It looks like she has baby butterfly wings.… Fresh from a cocoon, like in primary science class.”

“That's because she's a Succubus,” Luna observed, “or will be.” She seized the chalice Hermione offered, drank her share, and quickly passed it to Jazzy. “She needs Ronnie's blood to grow full wings. She'll mount him, and their union … will dissolve him from inside out…. He'll be left a dry husk.” With every word, Luna's voice grew more agitated.

“Jazzy, you and George take my broom,” Hermione more or less ordered. “You'll have to leave it in maintenance mode, but even so, it's what you do best - not I.”

Jazzy drank from the chalice, passed it along to George, and took Hermione's broom.

“Hermione,” Harry protested. “You should….”

“Don't say one word to me,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I know exactly what you did.”

A wizard in red robes inlaid with white flowers stepped forward and spoke to Cho. Her first steps towards Ron's catafalque seemed uncertain. Perhaps she was unused to hooves. She approached Ron, and after a moment's pause, raked her scythelike nails across his face.

“Are you ready, Neville?” Harry asked.

“Ready as I'll ever be,” he groaned as he downed his portion from the chalice. He passed it back to Harry, who regarded it suspiciously.

“Drink it, Harry,” Hermione ordered. “Now.”

He took one look at the expression on her face. “Yes, dear,” he said, and promptly drank every remaining drop. Harry looked at Slamdor, who nodded back.

“I sure hope your army shows up,” he told the goblin.

“Harry! Do something … please!” Luna begged.

“Let's go,” Harry kicked off his Valkyrie. “Voldemort's mine.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Cryogenics is the scientific term for experiments with extreme cold

Unpressurized helium cannot freeze, remaining liquid even at absolute zero

Liko Mee was introduced in Ch. 26

Keltoi = ancient Celtic tongue

Farmers reducer was introduced in Ch. 40

“Gringotts holiday = “bank holiday”; Scots take off both 1 and 2 January

Riddling removes sediment from champagne; riddlers work rotating champagne bottles

Farmer's reducer was used in darkrooms to process pictures

Palimpsests are written on pages that had prior text scraped off, usually incompletely, making them hard to read

Oracle bones script is the oldest (>3000 years old) form of Chinese written language

The White Lotus Triad (a real triad) is introduced in Ch. 36; Xiao Jing (filial piety) in Ch. 29

In this fic, the Deluminator is not a unique object

Moody has the equivalent of an extendible eye

All elements mentioned in the fireworks burn in the indicated colors; rubidium burns red, hence the element's name

The xistera, a jai alai scoop, was introduced in Ch. 52

Jesters … king and queen, from Don McLean's “American Pie”

As mentioned in the notes to Ch. 61, the date of Chinese New Years became important

Hermione's D.A. signup forms, mentioned in Ch. 35, asked for the addresses of the members

Blaennant and Pantllefrith are real places in Wales

In the UK, Wales is sometimes referred to as the “Third World”

Black as night/coal, is from the Stones' “Paint It Black”

The spider scene is what Ron saw when attacked by the brain

Priapism is an erection that doesn't end

“Mountain master” is the leader of a triad

Snape was wrong about the love potion

Chinese porcelain is frequently blue on white background

The conversation about kicking an unconscious Death Eater, has to do with the Rafer Hoxworth mention in Ch. 13

Fosdick Napier is mentioned in Ch. 33

The Luna/Jazzy sleigh ride is a nod to my daughter's fanfic (see Author's notes before chapter)

The Auror's operational base is near the Auror's cemetery in Ch. 25 is located

Harry had gotten the ring in Ch. 66 from Glaksosmit just after the carriage landed at Gringotts

The warning against using Sirius' motorbike in side-car mode goes by the boards

The RR hood ornament figured in Ch 14

A decade ago there actually was Harley Barbie in biker leather

Trafficante was a mobster, and Trollope a writer

Luna had to learn somewhere, the Ducati Monster's another major specialty brand

Dobby's choice will have consequences

“Harry don't be a hero” figured several times between Chs. 22 and 41

On the deck is aviator-speak for flying just above the ground

Omnioculars in this fic work like opera glasses

This is why Stonehenge rates mention in the fic's summary

The general organization of Stonehenge is accurate

A303 is the main highway leading past Stonehenge

“Brython” is a Celtic variant of “Britain”; Gwrtheyrn was a mythic Welsh ruler of the early post-Roman period - married to Rowena; legends associate the death of Gwrtheyrn with the construction of Stonehenge (which, in reality, is millennia older)

Spyders were introduced in Ch. 52; they are based on the surveillance drones in “Minority Report”

“Splixi” are the goblin mirror portals; MÄ�ktrax is the goblin who lost the bet and had to go for help

Most elementary schoolers see butterflies emerge from cocoons

Sometimes the best response is just “Yes, dear.”

71

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 1/10/2009

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68. The Battle Of Stonehenge

Wherein a burglary occurs, Harry's group fights a much larger opposing force, the Aurors are caught by surprise, battle is joined, the goblin army arrives, and considerable mayhem ensues.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

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

Chapter 68 - The Battle Of Stonehenge

Hunched over against the cold, a pasty-faced balding man slipped between a mound of rubbish and an abandoned lorry into the ill-lit London alley. Rubbing his hands together, he cursed his luck.

Why had the Dark Lord insisted upon waiting?

Delay had only made his task much more difficult.

Elves were inside the old place now, refurbishing it, eliminating rot and decay. This was no slapdash job by the Order of the Phoenix. No, these elves were professionals at home repair.

Their work made it more and more difficult for him to enter, and move around in, the old house.

Only one of his warrens of narrow tunnels remained, behind the old chunk of concrete that lay at his feet.

Crouched in the darkness of the alleyway, he paused. Finally, it came - the renowned toll of Big Ben by the river, and multiple replies of Muggle fireworks heralding the New Year. The rest of society, Muggle and Wizard alike, would celebrate. This wizard would not be joining them.

He had a job to do, a difficult and dangerous spell to cast.

And woe be to any elf, or anything else, who got in his way.

In an instant, the wizard was no more. Instead, a rat with a silver paw skittered behind the concrete and ducked out of sight.

* * * *

Once Harry soared skyward, he touched his backup wand against his original wand and aimed the Valkyrie downward into the stone circle. Courtesy of the eyes in the back of his head, he could see Death Eaters arrayed near the edges. He had achieved surprise. The Death Eaters' spell fire was directed into the circle, where Harry watched his friends and allies scurry about in groups that distinctly belied their true paltry number.

Time to lay some thunder down. “Puff the Magic Dragon,” he roared. A Reductor Curse, cut twenty ways, hit the smooth, grassy surface like an artillery barrage, blasting craters through the thin turf and into the underlying bedrock marl. Now, courtesy of this slice of the Somme transferred to Wiltshire, his pitifully small band had places to hide.

The roar of those reports ringing in his ears, Harry urged his Valkyrie into overdrive. He threw it into a tight loop. G-forces tugged uncomfortably at his Basilisk-skin boots and impaired his vision. As grayed-out sky, and then earth, and then sky again tumbled in front of (and behind) him, he caught a last clear glimpse of the figures in the circle - literally dozens of Hermiones and Moodies rushing into the field of battle.

Lower now than the height of stones ringing the great nemeton, he first checked Ron. With Cho - or whatever she now was - sprawled on the ground nearby, his friend was out of immediate danger, and therefore Luna's responsibility. Protected by the broom's powerful Protego and Furtim magicks, Harry took dead aim on the mass of red and black garbed wizards.

If he were lucky, they would not know what hit them, and he might get a second pass before they understood they were dealing with a broom rider. His grey-out lifted as he peered through the Valkyrie's sighting device.

“Expelliarmus!”

“Stupefy!”

“Regurgito!”

“Reducto!”

“Diffindo!”

“Incarcerous!”

“Osteo Pulvisæ!”

His Valkyrie's triple-core ordnance cut loose with spell after spell, cut multiple ways.

But to survive much longer, Harry could not let the enemy become airborne. The Death Eaters had erected several tents. One of them must be for broom storage. But which one?

The Death Eaters answered Harry's question. After his first fusillade, several broke away. They all directed their wands at the same tent - probably to perform Summoning Charms.

Astride his Valkyrie, turning so sharply that his stabilizer bars vibrated, Harry was faster. “Hellas Infernum!” The instant he brought the broom about, three bursts of Greek fire burst forth, and the tent in question erupted in flame.

High speed forced Harry to duck beneath the trailing end of his own fiery stream. He cut his next spell five ways. “Confringo!” Two of the blasts demolished the already blazing tent and blasted flaming debris in all directions. Harry instinctively ducked. A chunk of fiery flotsam exploded off his shield as he swooshed by, barely ten metres above ground. He had been right. As the burning debris scattered, Harry identified charred remnants of broom twigs.

Just like that, he was beyond them. Again pulling serious Gs, Harry hurtled upwards through the night sky. The ground - lit by fires he had started - reappeared from over Harry's right shoulder as he corkscrewed back into level flight. His stomach muscles unclenched, and Harry breathed deeply, trying to clear his head and restore normal sight.

One objective accomplished. Now all Harry had to do was to keep Voldemort and his minions busy whilst the others rescued Ron.

The rest of the Blasting Curse, and more that followed, tore great holes in the line of Death Eaters and Triads and ripped through other tents staked out behind them. But it was impossible to pick out Voldemort in the chaotic crowd.

Only he could possibly keep Voldemort at bay.

Easily dodging the wild volley of returning curses, Harry made another tight turn and lined up his broomsight for another run. Behind him, the figures still scurried.

Harry needed to engage Voldemort himself - immediately. Briefly, he considered dropping the Furtim Charm and letting the Dark Wizard see him - it would divert him from the rest, Harry thought.

He did not.

Instead, Harry recalled what Hermione had said on the trip down - the difference between heroism and foolhardiness. She had almost begged him not to embark upon the latter.

He decided to concentrate his curses on the area around the big snake. Nagini would not stray far from her master, Harry surmised.

Harry swept through his third pass, hurling more curses when … suddenly Voldemort made it easy for him. A brilliant fan of intense yellow magic - at least eight beams - shot from one spot to several parts of the stone circle, slicing it into sections. Harry had learnt about something similar months before, in Auror training. He had forgotten the spell's name, but each beam was deadly. It effectively cleaved any given area into separate pieces.

From Harry's ærial observation point, those beams converged in one place, and that focal point became Harry's primary target. He fired off another volley of curses and almost immediately was rewarded by tell-tale clangs as his spells battered Voldemort's shield. The yellow beams quivered with the impacts, proving that Harry was having an effect. His confidence swelled….

…Until Voldemort's broad fan of magic did more than jiggle in time with incoming spells.

It jerked upward and shot into the sky - searching for him.

And as eight, ten, or more - G-force-related vision issues precluded an accurate count - beams of deadly yellow magic swept the heavens, sooner or later, probably sooner, one would find him - Furtim or no Furtim.

Harry was not surprised. Anticipating direct engagement, he had deliberately powered his Valkyrie through his “backup” wand - the combination of Sirius' and his father's wands. Just for Voldemort, he kept his original wand, the brother of Voldemort's wand, at the ready.

He drew it now.

Approaching one of the yellow beams, Harry took matters into his own hands. He pirouetted the broom and, using the broomsight for a decidedly unorthodox purpose, set a collision course. Just as he was about to make contact….

“Expelliarmus!”

Harry's ruddy burst of magic crashed into the yellow beam. The two spells vibrated and then merged fully. Harry heard Phoenix song, and knew from hard experience that his and Voldemort's magic had connected. The red and yellow pulses of opposing magic coalesced, and from their melding emerged the brilliant deep gold of Priori Incantatem.

The result differed little from the Little Hangleton graveyard 18 months earlier - with one critical difference: the two opposing wizards were now much, much farther apart….

Like an insect impaled on a pin, the colliding magic all but froze Harry and his broom in place - suspended by the strength of opposing forces. As before, the brilliantly gold magical beam separated and splintered, except sheer distance prevented the spreading threads from doubling back and enveloping the combatants. Instead of a cage, scores of amber beams arced sideways, shooting into infinity. The result resembled a gigantic, golden spider's web in the sky.

Voldemort had to know who he was fighting now - and Harry had accomplished that without compromising his Furtim.

Harry angled his Valkyrie into position and, with his other wand, fired off another flurry of curses - directly at Voldemort. They streaked in tightly parallel to the line of their conjoined spells. “Confringo!” “Transubustantiare inverso!” “Reducto!” With grim satisfaction Harry saw Voldemort having to dodge, as curses crashed all about the Dark wizard and bounced off his shield.

A different sort of flash lit the less precise rear images he was seeing through Luna's necklace. Something had happened.

Abruptly, Voldemort broke his connection and aborted their magical tug of war. His Death Eaters fired a volley of curses, but none came close because Voldemort's unexpected release sent Harry slingshotting upwards into the dark night.

As Harry regained control, he heard a scream. “Hermione!” he gasped. Pulling the Valkyrie into a stall, he flipped it over - but for some reason had trouble locating the ground.

He heard the scream again - now behind him. But the necklace showed nothing.

Harry veered again and … saw nothing. Why the blackout? Since his Voldemort duel had ended his G forces had been mild.

Squinting, he noticed the inferno of the Death Eater tent refracted in his glasses. Could it possibly be raining?

No - tiny ice crystals were frosting his lenses, and growing.

The screaming grew louder, and then the penny dropped.

It was in his mind.

But not….

Dementors! Hundreds of them - swirling all about him. Everything turning inky black. His mother's voice, moments before her death, rang in his ears.

Fighting against enveloping darkness, Harry could not tell which way was up and had no time to check. Dementors swooped in from all sides, attacking his mind. His Valkyrie's shields were useless against a mental assault by soul-sucking vermin allied with Voldemort.

“Suturc!” He incanted. Easing back on his broom whilst keeping his hands properly positioned, Harry gathered his remaining wits about him. He concentrated as strongly as physically possible - to the point of obsession - on the most joyous moment he could recollect.

Not when he first made love with Hermione - not even when she agreed to his amateurish marriage proposal. Harry's fulcrum was his journey to the centre of her mind. She had agreed to return with him, and thus to return to life itself.

That image firmly in place, Harry abandoned the defensive spell and clenched the broomstick's handle as hard as he could. Like St. Elmo's fire, blue-white free magic sparked about his fingertips and (although Harry could not see) crackled at the connections of the Valkyrie's stabiliser bars.

Aiming his free wand at the nearest cluster of Dementors, he roared, “Expecto Patronum!!”

The result was unlike anything Harry ever experienced - and not just his spell's jolting recoil. Prongs emerged, but this Patronus was beyond comparison. Instead of the previous brilliant silvery-white stag, the image that now burst forth was as burnished as the golden lightning Harry had once conjured at Privet Drive. This golden hart was no mere cloudy spectre. If Harry's previous efforts had been corporeal, this version was all-the-way real. It looked, for all the world, solid.

And Prongs was - nothing else could describe it - royally pissed.

Surrounded by a sky full of Dementors, Harry had no time to admire, contemplate, or even consider, his accomplishment. Instinctively, he rolled his Valkyrie into an evasive spiral to evade another cluster of the fœtid creatures.

At the same time, Prongs charged the nearest Dementor, impaling it on twelve-point antlers. The phantom emitted a high-pitched, inhuman shriek, exploded in a cloud of soot, and vanished. In quick succession, four other Dementors met identical fates before Prongs even finished circling Harry. Defenceless before Harry's gold-coloured Patronus, the Dementors fell back in confusion.

As the surrounding shroud broke up, Harry saw other Patronuses fending off the huge flock of Dementors - a silver-white ox, phoenix, and wolverine, all hard at work repulsing the evil creatures. Above them all, Harry's golden blur relentlessly pursued Dementors and destroyed them on contact.

Harry's clearing vision revealed other scenes. Along a wide front, Death Eaters began advancing across the Stonehenge circle - led by a conjured sheet of roiling fire. Harry watched in helpless horror as a surge of flames broke free from the mass, assumed a Manticore's form, and lunged forward towards another fountain of fire that guttered near the centre of the circle.

Hermione's phoenix Patronus was in that area.

Before Harry could react, let alone go charging to the rescue, a cloud of mist enveloped the fiery form, thoroughly extinguishing it.

Any respite was temporary. The rebuff only enraged the conflagration further. More fiery phantasms began budding off.

What was that damn spell she had used? Harry wracked his brain.

It came to him. Drawing himself around to face the inferno, Harry dove straight at the red coal carpet. He again urged maximum effect from the triple-cored Valkyrie, as at the last moment, he pulled its handle up. “Fluvius Azote!” he roared. A torrent of liquid nitrogen spewed forth, dousing the inferno and leaving naught but dark cinders in its hissing wake.

But not for long.

Pivoting again, Harry provided the Death Eaters a taste of their own medicine. “Hellas Infernum!” His own variety of unquenchable fire rained down upon the advancing enemy.

Through the necklace he tried, fruitlessly, to locate Hermione behind him.

Ominously, for the first time, both Harry and his broom showed signs of fatigue. Harry was breathing heavily, as he had during toward the end of his duel with Hermione. With everything that had happened, he had not eaten since lunchtime, and he felt it now. His Valkyrie was also flagging. All the surges of magic had taken their toll. A red warning light flashed, indicating overheating in the left stabiliser.

Harry pulled up. With Voldemort's forces in momentary retreat, he paused to look for Ron.

Nothing. Ron's disappearance was an excellent development.

Harry heard several pops and cracks behind him, merging into a great crash. Through the necklace, he saw that the grandstand packed with Voldemort's Chinese allies had tipped over backwards.

Another excellent development.

Hope surged within him.

It was time for Phase II. `Hermione,' he Legilimenced, focussing on the where she was likely to be within the increasingly battered nemeton. `Ron's nowhere in sight. Luna must have him. Let's go. I'm going to give the….'

From below and behind, Harry never saw it coming. Some sort of Heat Seeking Jinx crashed into the Valkyrie's shields and lit him up like a phoenix on burning day.

“Eeyaah!”

He searched frantically for some sort of dousing spell. But it was too late….

Right behind streaked at least five unblockable Avada Kedavras - all launched at his now visible position. Harry pushed his broomstick into a power dive, but at that moment that the curses vanished … dropped from sight, just as if….

Without warning, the silhouette of a gigantic winged creature lit up in ghastly green light….

But Harry's blind dive took him directly into the path of more deadly incoming spellfire - a trailing curse left unblocked by whatever had just sacrificed itself.

At the last instant, purely by instinct Harry rolled the broom. He heard - and felt - a jolting pressure wave as the curse blasted his left stabiliser. Shrapnel torn loose from the impact ripped into his lower leg. Although Basilisk hide was virtually impenetrable, the flesh that lay beneath was quite compressible.

Harry screamed - this time in pain.

* * * *

“Multiplicitus,” Hermione incanted as she ran headlong into yet another of Harry's battles from which she knew, all too well, she might not emerge alive.

She heard praise in Moody's gravelly voice beside her. “Capital idea, Granger. Multipli….”

She never heard him finish.

At that moment the ground in front of her erupted. Over a dozen powerful Reductors transformed the smooth, well-maintained turf into a pitted and cratered wasteland.

That seemed like another capital idea - until, “Protego physica!” Hermione was almost upended by the shower of dirt, shattered rock, and bits of grass the explosions unleashed.

At least she, Moody, and accompanying goblins now had cover.

They needed it.

Curses were flying thickly. Several, including at least one Unforgivable, passed within a metre of Hermione as she dove head first into the nearest, still smoking pit Harry had blasted in the marl bedrock.

Catching her breath, she clutched the Suicide Spyder she had wheedled from George. She saw light above her. Distinctive blood-red crossing patterns of International Auror Assist signals glowed overhead. Moody had called for help from the nearby Auror station.

The ground shook again. Explosions tore through the Death Eater ranks to her left. Hermione gathered herself and darted for the next impromptu foxhole.

Her first mission was to prevent the odds they faced from lengthening further. She had to destroy the portal that was bringing the Triad wizards to Stonehenge.

She did reach her destination.

A blindingly yellow chain shot across Hermione's intended path, stopping her short. It crashed into one of the trilithons and stuck fast, vibrating with an evil hum. Completely exposed to Death Eater spellfire, and with no other choice, Hermione lunged for the turf, keeping only the Spyder off the ground.

She winced at a loud, angry buzzing sound. One of their number had just learnt the hard way that these chains were fatal to the touch. Aurors - and presumably Death Eaters - used them to divide and conquer opponents. With a momentary twinge of guilt, Hermione found herself desperately wishing that the casualty was a goblin. Everyone else on the mission she knew too well….

She had to do something. Here, she was a sitting (actually lying) Diricawl. The Auror lesson compared these chains to Muggle electrical fences. Maybe….

“Liliaceous,” she spelled. A three-metre stretch of chain Transfigured into a floral lei. The magic maintaining the chain instantly shorted out. It vanished.

Before Voldemort, or whoever, could recast the curse, Hermione charged through the gap and hurled herself into the next crevasse.

Only one glaring chain separated her from her goal. She was ready to cast again when, in a trice, the target jumped skyward and out of her way. At almost the same moment, Hermione saw the portal glow and sputter with sparks - almost a huge Goblet of Fire replica spitting out Harry's name.

But instead of a parchment bit, five wizards clad in red and white patterned robes emerged.

These reinforcements had no chance. “Impedimenta!” “Glacialis terra!” “Apis!” Spells erupted from her wand in quick succession.

Hermione was not alone. She heard Moody hurling curses, and what she supposed were goblin war cries. Their bodies exploding in blood, the unfortunate Triads slumped and fell to the ground, with nary a chance to draw their wands.

Even more unfortunately, from Hermione's perspective, her spellfire betrayed her position. A deadly rain of curses, including multiple Avada Kedavras, pelted the vicinity - ripping more holes in the turf and shattering ancient stone.

Whatever her other strengths, Hermione threw like a girl. She had to use magic and had only one shot. Her current angle was almost impossible, and she needed to get considerably closer. But the portal was a good fifteen metres away, with no possible respite from the Death Eater fusillade - nothing save bodies newly strewn across the landscape.

That would have to do.

Hermione cut a Mobilicorpus five ways. Working quickly, she stacked the bodies - alive or dead, she did not care - like cordwood.

“Accio!” The five-corpse-high stack of bodies parked itself next to her. This was it. Hermione set the Suicide Spyder to explode on impact. Shielded by her enemies' bodies, she made for the portal itself.

Again the sky lit up, but Hermione was far too focussed to pay it any mind.

Racing, her heart in her throat, she could hear dull thuds as Death Eater curses crashed into her fleshy barricade. The Spyder clicked like mad as she closed on her goal.

But one of her opponents either got smart or got lucky - a deadly green Killing Curse shot underneath her protection and came within centimetres of sending her to the same fate as Achilles. It blew apart the ground beneath Hermione, hurling her into the air.

Shocked at abruptly being airborne, Hermione lost her grip on the Suicide Spyder.

If that landed nearby, she could never survive the resultant explosion.

Careening through the air, Hermione had only one option. Her wrist holster meant her wand was always at the ready. “Depulso!”

Hermione's true aim surprised even herself. Her Banishing Charm hit the Spyder flush, and sent it whirling away - straight into the portal's maw.

A tremendous explosion ensued, although Hermione barely heard as a hard landing left her breathless. Seeing stars, she thought she also heard screams. The bomb Hermione hurled irreparably disrupted whatever magic animated the portal. Orange and crimson flames shot fully ten metres into the air - accompanied by the nauseating and all-too-familiar smell of burning flesh.

At once amazed and repulsed at her feat, Hermione crawled several metres - behind a large lintel stone that had fallen from its time-immemorial perch. Gasping for breath, she fought to convince herself that all this killing was for the greater good.

Part one accomplished, Hermione's next task was to hold the Death Eaters and the Triads at bay until Harry signalled that Ron had been rescued.

After that, she had to get the hell out any way she could.

Trading curses with the Death Eaters around Voldemort - Hermione watched with no little awe as Harry bombarded them from the air - from the corner of her eye, she also kept watch for the thousand or more Chinese wizards that Neville, George, and Jazzy were tasked with stopping.

If they broke through, she was a goner. She had no chance against those numbers.

They were not breaking through. That was good.

Something else was amiss.

It was getting very cold that first night of 1997. Too cold.

Dementors!

Suddenly all about; their rasping, laboured breaths were appallingly evident. Their numbers were too many to count - far more than she had ever seen in one place. Compared to this crowd, the pack that nearly killed her at the end of third year could not even raise a quorum.

Nor was Hermione the same. She was older, and more importantly, incomparably better trained.

The night of her third-year Dementor encounter was also, whilst riding on Buckbeak, when she first grasped her true feelings for Harry. Now she knew that Harry shared those feelings….

That was exactly what she needed.

“Expecto Patronum!”

The tip of Hermione's wand practically sizzled as, brilliantly white, her rejuvenated phoenix Patronus burst forth, flying at full speed. Its dizzying path of concentric circles forced the Dementors back.

Still, they were too many. Even her vigourous Patronus could not restore the stars and the moon.

Hermione felt trapped in an underground cavern.

Would the Dementors make way for an attack by their Death Eater allies?

By the light of her Patronus, and with a wary eye on the circling Dementors, Hermione fortified her position as best she could by converting stone fragments into logs - just as when she had duelled Harry.

That was for sport; this was for keeps.

Suddenly a streak of - something - gold rent the surrounding gloom. Never had Hermione seen Dementors act utterly terrified.

In an instant the golden streak had passed, and hurtled away, in hot pursuit of its prey.

The Dementors retreated like a spent cloudbank, but Death Eaters brought forth another, even more dire, threat.

A curtain of fire - twisting, boiling gouts of flame leapt into the sky. This latest assault called forth awful memories of the firestorm that occasioned Harry's kidnapping.

This time, she could neither outrun nor outfly it.

Suddenly, a wooden redoubt seemed spectacularly inappropriate.

This was no ordinary fire. Directly in front, a tongue of flame mutated, taking the blazing form of a Manticore.

“Fiendfyre!” Hermione gasped, correctly discerning what she faced.

As the burning Manticore broke loose to hurl itself upon her, Hermione remembered how, once before, she quenched what had seemed unquenchable.

“Fluvius Azote!” she cried. A blast of liquid nitrogen spewed from her wand. It swept forward, its intense cold generating a fogbank to match the fiery beast.

The spell's combined boreal frigidity and utter incombustibility more than matched the Fiendfyre's initial advance. The conflagrant Manticore guttered to a few expiring cinders.

This fire, however, had a life of its own. Instead of a single flaming monster, three more budded off - a bunyip, a kraken, and what appeared to be coalescing into a nundu.

How many times could Hermione repeat her spellwork before being overwhelmed?

Determined not to go down without a fight, she raised her wand.

Before she could repeat the magic, she heard a booming echo.

From high in the sky - from Harry's concealed broom - fell a huge torrent of the same liquefied gas. The Fiendfyre, like the Dementors before it, passed from being a threat to being an example.

The battle's goal devolved into preventing the Death Eaters from advancing until Harry, from his aerial vantage, determined that Ron had been spirited away. Then would come his signal to retreat.

Grimly, Hermione contributed her share to the curses flying back and forth. In addition to Harry's overhead volleys, her field of fire was supported by Moody - who, shortly before, had loudly announced his successful destruction of the last anti-Apparition ward generators - and two, maybe three, goblins. All the while, a part of Hermione's mind fervently hoped that Neville, with Jazzy's questionable help, could keep at bay the throng of Chinese wizards behind her.

A thrill of hope jolted Hermione when, finally, Harry contacted her. `Ron's nowhere in sight. Luna must have him. Let's go. I'm going to give the…. Eeyaah!'

Hearing his scream, Hermione's eyes shot skyward. She saw Harry for the first time since she sprinted into the circle. A half dozen evil green Killing Curses had crashed into the silhouette of something unidentifiable, but very large.

But reflected in the light was something smaller - diving - into the path of yet another AK. A last instant course correction ….

It was not quite enough. Her own scream tore from Hermione's throat as a chartreuse explosion erupted at the intersection of Harry's path and the lowest of the curses - almost directly overhead. At any moment she expected to hear the sickening of Harry's lifeless corpse falling to earth.

It was over. She could not even breathe….

The broken body of some leather-winged creature, as big as the Knight Bus, smashed into the ground near the centre of the stone circle.

The lesser sound of a Boy Who No Longer Lived hitting the turf never came.

Somehow, miraculously, he must have survived - either by skill or the grace of the Felix Felicis Potion.

But … she received no evacuation order. Harry must be injured somehow, she thought. He could not give the sign because the Death Eaters would spot him….

She had to do it.

Hermione stepped forward and raised her wand to the sky to signal everyone - whoever was left alive - to get out any way possible.

Her own incantation mixed with foreign-sounding words.

“Aieeee,” she screamed as a mulberry-hued bolt of light scored her upraised wrist, just above the sleeve of her Basilisk hide doublet. Her hand instantly went numb, and Hermione dropped her wand. She barely noticed as the spell zagged back and slashed harmlessly across her armoured chest.

“Avada Kedavra!” she heard. Unable to react, she fully expected to die, but the spell went low and instead blasted apart one side of her little log fort.

“Expelliarmus!” The latest spell threw Hermione backwards until she collided painfully with the back wall of her fort.

Semi-conscious and unable to move, or even feel, her wand hand, Hermione could only gawk as a hooded Death Eater tromped into view. A bright light blinded her.

“Well, well, well … Mudblood Granger,” a low, strongly accented voice rumbled. “Potter's jizz jar…. No wand, I see. Incarcerous!”

She felt tight bindings encircling her arms.

“Hah! The Dark Lord will be much pleased.” As the Death Eater removed his mask, his blindingly bright wandlight briefly left her face.

Antonin Dolohov!

“I'd hoped to meet you tonight,” he half sneered. “But someone crashed our party, and I thought I'd have to postpone our little date….”

Madness danced in his eyes - and in his harsh laughter - as he raised his wand again. Hermione could damn well predict what he would do next. She cupped the one hand that still responded….

`Suturc,' she incanted silently.

“Crucio!” Dolohov roared.

Even Basilisk hide offered no protection from the Unforgivable Curse. Hermione's back arched as it struck her. With only one operable hand, whilst the protective spell worked, it could not completely protect her. Her right arm and leg felt as if dipped in boiling acid. She screamed and thrashed. All she could see was Dolohov's twisted grimace as he laughed whilst torturing her.

Nor could she Legilimence Harry - assuming he could hear. Just to maintain Suturc's protection of her brain and perhaps two-thirds of her body required every ounce of concentration that the injured girl could muster.

Fwump!

Both Dolohov's curse and his laughter abruptly stopped as, to Hermione's shock, something like a saw blade ripped through his left shoulder, nearly taking it off. Bits of the Death Eater's blood and bone splattered her.

Dolohov staggered unsteadily as blood gushed from his wound. Unfortunately for Hermione, he was right-wanded. “He wants … you dead,” Dolohov groaned as he raised his wand once more. “Avada … Ked….”

With her mind and her entire left side protected by Suturc, Hermione was quicker than the gravely injured Death Eater.

“Expelliarmus!” In a rude gesture, she pointed her left hand's middle finger at the Death Eater and hoped for the best.

She got it. Shak's wandless magic training paid off with her life. The blast of her magic overcame the already weakened Dolohov. He careened backward as his wand spiralled into her left hand like a railroad spike drawn to an electromagnet.

A circular blade just missed the man's collapsing body as Hermione incanted, first “Petrificus Totalus,” to incapacitate the Death Eater, and then “Finite,” to free herself.

Further movement came from that same area, along with more loud reports in the background. Hermione wearily prepared for another go, but her off-hand retained little strength and her right hand was useless.

Instead, a goblin hurdled both the remains of the log fortress and the downed Death Eater to land beside her. “Savini, my humblest apologies,” he said with a bow. “To help, allow me. Like him … will to the death you defend. Stop red wizards.”

Perhaps “him” meant Harry, but Hermione had more immediate problems…. She could crawl (to stand risked being a target), but her bluish and swollen wand hand supported no weight. She used a couple Healing Charms, but nothing she knew had any noticeable effect on spell damage from the Dark Tibetan spell.

“My … my wand…,” she pointed to where it had fallen - before Dolohov's Disarming spell. More explosions rumbled behind them.

The goblin interrupted an incantation he had begun performing in Gobbledygook. He immediately retrieved Hermione's wand. Bowing low, he handed it to her. “Savini.”

The goblin was missing a finger. “Roxtar,” Hermione responded.

His eyes lit up; he had not expected her recognition.

With her left hand, Hermione pressed her wand against her injured right hand, and fired off a volley of green sparks.

“Assist, may I?” Roxtar asked.

“Please,” Hermione consented.

Abruptly, Harry's frantic voice sounded in her head, `Hermione, what was that for? Why didn't you leave on my signal? Just … get out! I can't hold off the Triads much longer! Neville's down! Get out!'

Oblivious to the unspoken conversation, Roxtar produced some sort of roll of bandages from a kitbag. He began binding Hermione's wand to her incapacitated wand hand.

`Harry, I don't know if I can,' Hermione told him frankly. `I'm hurt and Roxtar is with me. He promises to stay. Save yourself … you know why.'

`No way in hell, Hermione! Where are you?' Harry Legilimenced back. `I'm coming…. What's that?'

“Ulululululu….”

At once, the night air filled with a crescendo of trilling shrieks - produced by a multitude of voices. The sound came from the direction of the explosions.

The moment he heard the sound, Roxtar was on his feet. He let out a responsive shout. “Ulululululu….”

“Now, win we,” he told Hermione, the toothy grimace that passed for a goblin smile filling his face.

The goblin army had arrived.

* * * *

“Stupefy!” Luna shouted before beginning her sprint. Her angry crimson Stunner slammed into the nascent succubus just as she bent over Ron to administer a horrific kiss intended to commence a Dark dance of death.

Cho flopped forward, bounced off the stone to which Ron was shackled, fell to the ground, and lay still. Watching with satisfaction, Luna threw on Harry's Invisibility Cloak and ran as fast as she could towards Ron.

Unlike the others, busy blowing things up in the great nemeton - a necessary sacrilege under the circumstances - Luna's mission demanded next to no magic at all. Any spell would likely be noticed by nearby Death Eaters. Should they detect her, Luna was certainly overmatched.

Luna both heard and felt the explosions behind her. Their impact shook the very ground. Harry could be awesome when he pushed himself, and he was obviously pushing himself to the limit.

Charging forward, Luna saw more explosions - now thinning the ranks of the Death Eaters and Triads gathered nearly dead ahead.

She was within a dozen metres of Ron when a golden bolt of - something - came almost straight at her from off to her right. Luna flung herself to the ground to avoid a flying chain, bright enough to hurt her eyes. It flashed by, missing her by less than two metres.

Oh, Merlin, she must have been seen! Luna froze, awaiting more spellfire.

None followed. Cautiously, she rose to her feet.

Another identical, incandescently yellow chain angled off well to her left.

The Death Eaters' attention was elsewhere - presumably on Harry.

Luna resumed her advance towards Ron, her way unimpeded. Providentially, the chains effectively blocked anyone on either side from trying to stop her.

She slid past Cho's crumpled body. Revenge would have been so satisfying, but now was not the time. The would-be agent of Ron's death posed no threat. Even her awful fingernails had been shattered.

Luna dipped behind the stone altar. She was near enough to hear Ron's muffled sounds of panic as explosions sounded and curses flashed overhead.

She checked - two shackles on this side. Cautiously, she crept around to assess the other side - the side exposed to the Death Eaters. Just as she did, all the yellow chains crossing the field broke free and rose rapidly overhead.

Although concealed by Harry's Cloak, Luna worried about one of the masked Death Eaters staring at her. She shrunk back, and just as a huge golden spider web formation unfolded across the sky, she heard a curse hurled in her direction.

“Sectumsempra.” An arc of silver magic lashed at the block of stone an instant after Luna had dived behind it for shelter.

Could that one see through an Invisibility Cloak?

She cowered, unsure, until additional flashes of spellfire, punctuated by loud noises, led her to peer around the stone. A vividly gold strand of magic extended from the wand of a tall, thin wizard - it could only be Voldemort. He wielded a shield to deflect a withering array of incoming spells. Chaos was all about him. Sparks flew. Ricochets churned up the dirt and hurled bodies through the air.

Even assuming that Death Eater had detected her, he or she was certainly otherwise occupied now. Under the Cloak and with Moody's penknife in her hand, Luna crept around to pick the locks on Ron's manacles.

Not necessary.

The chains were neatly split. Some spell - probably the one hurled at her - had somehow cleaved them cleanly in two.

Thanking the Felix Felicis, Luna crawled back to the sheltered side and began picking the intact locks. Concentration was difficult - her frigid fingers felt fat and unwieldy. Ron moaned. She thought she heard her father's scream, followed by two noisy blasts….

For some reason, Luna looked up. Two gigantic Dementors hovered only a couple metres overhead. Luna had never been so close to those foul creatures in her life - well, maybe once.

They ignored her, feeding instead on Ron. He thrashed spasmodically. Half-choked screams struggled to emerge from his throat. The Dementors were positively gorging on the poor boy's terror.

Luna could cast a Patronus, but only at the risk of giving herself away. She still had one locked manacle left. Being an empath, however, gave her another option. Maybe she could drive them away in a different fashion.

Reaching up, Luna grabbed Ron by the ankle. She willed that he feel positive emotions - hope, rescue, redemption … love. She risked giving herself away in another sense, but c'est la vie.

Before she could tell if her efforts were succeeding, a huge, painfully bright fireball of bright gold light whizzed by so closely that she could feel the breeze. It sounded like an enormous flock of mosquitoes had descended, the whine was so loud.

With two noisy blasts, just like that, the Dementors were gone, leaving behind only bits of soot.

No longer anywhere near as cold, Luna made quick work of Ron's remaining bindings.

She tossed the Invisibility Cloak over him.

“Ronald … come … now … rescuing you,” she whispered urgently in his ear.

The redhead's skin was so pale every freckle looked black. His face was bloody from Cho's deep scratches, and his blue eyes were wide, wild, and unseeing. “Dead…? Angel…?” he mumbled.

“This way…,” she tried again. But her voice trailed off as she heard the distinctive clicks close by.

She could identify it was without seeing it. George had discussed his little toys whilst winding them up.

“Ronald, come here,” she grunted, grabbing him with both arms and yanking - hard.

“Hey … what…?” he squealed as toppled over the side. As Ron fell heavily onto Luna, the entire area shook. The Suicide Spyder blew itself up - shredding to pieces two Disillusioned Death Eaters whose approach Luna had neglected to notice.

The explosion's force cracked the altar in three places and blew its dolerite capstone clean away. That barely cleared Ron and Luna before landing with a dull thump a couple of metres away.

“No wonder you couldn't move,” Luna hissed as she crawled out from under him. “Completely starkers and freezing half to death…. Ooh! Except for there….”

Ron was still fully under the effects of Snape's malignant injection.

Still not willing to risk using magic, Luna grappled him onto her shoulders. “Have to get you … out of here,” she whispered, as she tried manœuvring the much larger boy into a fireman's carry position. At the same time she struggled to keep them both hidden by the Invisibility Cloak.

“H-H-Harry…?” Ron gurgled, his teeth chattering. “Help me….”

“No, Luna,” she sighed. Finally, she finally managed to manhandle him into a carriable position.

“Loooooney,” he moaned. “'M c-c-cold….”

“Uhnnnh,” Luna exhaled as she staggered to her feet, hunched over, with Ron's fourteen-stone dead weight across her back. As she began labouring across open ground, thankfully someone (she assumed Harry) launched another barrage at the people responsible for this.

Not so thankfully, carrying Ron in this fashion was not only tiring, but very distracting. If she moved her head at all to her left, her face was flush against a very prominent, and even more inappropriate, part of Ronald Weasley's anatomy. If she turned the other way, her nose and cheek would be bloodied from the fresh gashes the succubus had gouged in Ron's pallid features.

“Let's get you … out of here … so we can warm you up,” Luna panted as she lumbered slowly along.

“Loooooney … waaarrrmm.”

It seemed like forever, but finally she moved him far enough away to chance using magic. She set him down. “Mobilicorpus.”

Looking back, she saw a vivid, yellow-green explosion erupt over the nemeton.

“Great Druantia,” she sighed. “There must be some way to stop this.”

* * * *

“Are you ready?” she pointedly asked the infuriating redhead, having already mounted the broom. “We don't have all night.”

“Almost,” he grunted. “There….” The last of George's Suicide Spyders scuttled away, clicking softly.

Jazzy felt the broom dip as he shimmied on behind her. “Ready. Let's see what you've got,” he almost taunted her.

She kicked off the Valkyrie with such force that, but for his seatbelt, George would have gone arse over tit.

“Whoa, easy there, I'm on your side,” George complained.

“We'll see about that,” Jazzy grumbled. She made a wide turn to line up with the grandstands.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Jazzy growled. “You've got those stone-eating balloons of yours at the ready?”

“Locked and loaded,” George replied jauntily. “There's a full gross in this bag.”

Then George fired off a spell, “Earschplittenloudenboomer!”

“What the hell was that for?” Jazzy barked at him. “I thought we'd agreed - magical silence until we're on them.”

“Nothing wrong with a little Caterwauling Charm as a diversion,” George shot back at her. “Loosen up, will you?”

Jazzy lined up the Valkyrie for their first pass. As it was Hermione's broom, all she could work with were speed and manœuvre. In maintenance mode, neither the broom's stealth, nor its protective charms, nor even its broomsight, was operational.

“We're coming in low, hot … and thanks to you, loud,” she told George. “Fire away as you like.” Silently, she hoped that her former Gryffindor housemate was as good with that balloon launcher as he bragged.

Goosing the Valkyrie to full power, Jazzy brought it in less than ten metres from the back of the grandstands. She could see Neville's handiwork. All entrances were blocked by huge, and thoroughly thorny, Sentinel Rosebushes. Ordinarily, they stopped knights in shining armour well enough; perhaps they could also stop Triads.

Streaking past the rear of the stands, she could barely hear George's grunts over the Caterwauling Charm as he hurled the alkahest balloons with his scoop.

They completed the pass without a single opposing spell hitting them, or even coming particularly close.

But George's accuracy had not exactly set the world on fire. The grandstands still stood - a bit droopy in spots - but essentially intact.

“You told us you knew how to use that thing!” a furious Jazzy upbraided him.

“I damn well do!” George snarked back, as if his manhood were being questioned. “Just not whilst going so bloody fast that I can barely see.”

“All right … another run, then,” she challenged him. “I'll try to take it slower.”

“I'm with you, Madame Butterfly,” George smirked.

She wanted to dump him off the broom.

Aiming their second pass, she could see the Triads becoming much better organised. `Must have gotten their orders,' Jazzy thought resignedly. The Chinese wizards were hacking at and cursing the rosebushes whilst starting to conjure alternative exits.

Some had also spotted the broom. This pass would draw more incoming spellfire.

But she had promised the git behind her that she would slow down.

She did, but what this run lacked in speed, it more than made up in evasive manœuvre. She heard George cursing, even before they were done. It could not have gone well.

It had not.

Only one minor part of the grandstands had collapsed. All that had accomplished was provide the Triads an alternative means of egress from the stands and down to the ground.

“What happened this time?” Jazzy snarled, as they left the grandstand behind and made another wide turn

“Every time I had things lined up, you'd swerve this way or that like some bloody nutter,” George groused. “You're making me dizzy, Jazzy.”

“Just how did you learn to use that thing, anyway?” she asked acidly.

“With both damn feet on the ground, the way a bloke's supposed to,” George protested.

“With both feet on the ground,” Jazzy echoed sarcastically. “I suppose I could set you down the next time…. You wouldn't last five minutes, though.”

“I suppose you've a better idea,” George asked bitterly.

Both knew that, unless they improved a lot - and quickly, the Triads would inevitably overwhelm Neville and his field of Devil's Snare. The first few red-robed wizards out of the stands were already probing.

Jazzy shot back hotly, “Well, you know what you can.…”

Then it came to her.

“As a matter of fact, I do,” she told him. “Let me do the aiming.”

“What!?”

“You heard me,” she demanded as she positioned the broom for a third pass. “I'll provide all the momentum and direction. Forget the scoop. You just toss those balloons straight up in the air when I say so.”

“What!?”

“Just do it, dammit,” she ordered. Jazzy's new course has the broom hurtling straight at the giant stones upon which the grandstands were anchored.

“Get ready,” Jazzy shouted. She illuminated the Valkyrie's headlamp.

An ancient, mossy slab of bluestone loomed. George thought, for sure, they would be smashed like bugs on the Valkyrie's windscreen.

“Now!”

George had barely let go of the alkahest filled balloon when the broom lurched crazily. They avoided colliding with the first standing stone by what seemed like centimetres.

“Now!” Jazzy screamed again.

George released another balloon. Again Jazzy swerved. The balloon's momentum took it flush into the huge block of dolerite.

“Now!” There were no breaks to be had.

Another splat; another swerve.

“Now!”

George heard something go crashing down behind him. Breathing hard, he tried to forgot everything else and just keep the alkahest-filled balloons coming.

“Now!”

Come to think of it, flying directly beneath the grandstands had advantages - like keeping the Triads from firing spells at them….

“Now!”

Whoops. An evil-looking streak of cerulean magic sizzled by. It was so close that George, bedazzled, almost fumbled the balloon. It was so close that both thought it might have set their hair alight. The curse buried itself in the underside of the grandstand.

“Now!”

Check that … nobody could curse them - except those Triads already on the ground.

“Now!”

Completing the pass, Jazzy jammed her wand, controlling the Valkyrie, to full throttle. Jumping forward at maximum power, the broom zoomed from under the end of the grandstand and catapulted vertically towards the heavens.

Jazzy pulled the broom into an inside loop. They looked up - or down - as the entire grandstand finished toppling over backwards into a heap of melted stone, shattered wood, and maybe a thousand upended (or worse) Triads.

“Damn,” George sighed, as he could at last think of more than the next balloon. “You really do fly like a maniac. I thought Harry was exaggerating…. Shite! Dementors! Hundreds of them!”

Sure enough, they had entered a swarm of more of those creatures than they could count. Their utterly black shapes seemed to absorb the light from the broom's headlamp.

“Can you conjure a Patronus?” Jazzy anxiously inquired.

George blanched. “Do I look like Harry to you?”

“Then our only hope is to outrun them,” Jazzy decided.

And she did. Again, Jazzy pushed her wand forward to the breaking point. In no time she and George had left the Dementors far behind.

“All right, now what do we do?” George gasped once Jazzy finally slowed down. “Go for help?”

“Where?” Jazzy almost sneered. “There's an Auror base only a couple of klicks from Stonehenge. If they aren't responding to Moody's signals, why would we have any better luck…? Don't know about you, but I'm going right back in there - hot and low, and if you favour me with another of those charms, loud.”

Jazzy was tiny. Almost two of her fit into armour fitted for Ginny (in no way hefty herself). But George, who outweighed her by a good six stone, was almost shocked by her raw determination. He took a deep breath. “All right, another run then - in front of the stands.” He grabbed another handful of the Reverse Water Balloons. “All I need do is hit the ground this time. They'll make excellent quicksand. Even better than a bog.”

“With gravity, you can handle it,” Jazzy commented as she made ready for another pass, this time without the headlamp. “Then what?”

George did not usually think that far ahead. “Umm…. I guess you could drop me by the barrow where we started. I have more tricks stashed there….”

Jazzy nodded. She knew only one speed that night. As fast as the Valkyrie left, it returned. But in the interim, the Dementors had been put to flight by a golden stag, the likes of which neither the witch nor the wizard had ever seen.

Several Patronuses also stood guard - Hermione's phoenix, Moody's wolverine, and Neville's ox.

Neville's was a problem.

It had given his location away.

For crucial minutes, with only a couple of goblin snipers to keep him company, Neville had kept all those Triads at bay - with magical plants conjured or animated by the Staff of Asclepius. But once Neville's Patronus emerged, a thousand wizards relentlessly strafed his position - a blast hole at the base of one of the nemeton's trilithons - until the trilithon itself collapsed and buried him beneath a pile of shattered stone.

Dropping off George with a terse, “You ought to check that right ear,” Jazzy reappeared over Stonehenge not thirty seconds after Neville's resistance ceased. She made up for a limited repertoire of curses with breakneck broom ærobatics - but without protective charms it was only a matter of time….

“Expelliarmus!” “Stupefy!” “Furnunculus!” “Impedimenta!” Jazzy peppered the advancing Triads whilst weaving crazily amongst a hail of curses. Eventually, she zigged when she should have zagged….

Blam!

Another of the brilliantly blue curses that had nearly interrupted her balloon run hit her squarely between the Valkyrie's right stabiliser bar and tail twigs. But for being only three metres off the ground when disaster struck, she might have recovered. Instead, the sudden power imbalance veered her hard right. She overcompensated with damaged steering, rolled, and ploughed into the turf.

Just before impact, Jazzy yanked her wand from the Valkyrie's control mechanism. In maintenance mode, that activated the broom's Ejection Charm, and she was thrown clear of the crash.

Jazzy bounced twice and slid to a halt. Her armour had prevented serious injuries, but she had barely staggered to her feet when her wand hand was grabbed from behind.

Jerked roughly around, Jazzy found herself face to face with a large, somewhat overweight red-robed Triad. He jabbed his wand into Jazzy's ribs violently enough that she felt something crack and incanted something in Chinese.

The curse bounced harmlessly off her armour. That stuff really worked.

The wizard snorted. He was holding her too far away for Jazzy to do anything else, so she spat in his face - not just any spit, but distinctly acidic saliva.

It was a little urchin's curse; something she had learnt years ago.

“Yeaah!” the massive wizard screeched as he tried wiping the corrosive liquid from his flabby cheek. Grimacing, he stopped attempting magic. Using his weight, he instead started choking the life out of her.

One massive hand slipped around Jazzy's throat, lifting her completely off her feet. As the Triad's fingers tightened, Jazzy's free hand went to her mouth.

Quicker than a scorpion's sting she whipped out the enchanted razor blade she carried at all times. Back and forth she slashed at the man's face, neck and arm.

The Triad, completely surprised by such a ferocious attack from such a featherweight, growled something in Chinese and tried hurling her to the ground.

Jazzy reversed roles and grabbed the man's arm, which required dropping her magical blade. Using his arm as her fulcrum, she lashed out with her Basilisk hide boots and landed a solid kick to the man's most sensitive spot. As he began doubling over, Jazzy wrenched the Triad's wand from his bleeding hand and shoved it into his eye with all her might.

Howling in pain, the Triad released Jazzy's wand arm. She dropped to the ground but two of his ham-handed fingers still gripped the collar of her armour.

Jazzy pointed her wand at his face. “Perfringo!” The Penetration Charm, taught to Second-Years as a spell for mundane tasks like pounding nails without a hammer, drove the man's wand through his brain.

It hit something vital. The massive Triad abruptly went limp and dropped like a stone - blood and cerebrospinal fluid pouring from his ruined eye. He fell directly atop Jazzy.

The dying man's weight bent her knee inward. One after another the tendons and ligaments holding her joint together snapped. Jazzy's ruined knee throbbed as she crashed to the ground, squashed by the much larger man's body.

All about, the Triads advanced. She stopped struggling. It was useless. She was crippled - suitable only for the Dark wizards' target practice.

It was time to concentrate on survival. As a small child she had lived through a communal attack in Kashmir in much the same way - only this wizard was not her mother.

She reached into her mouth, knowing where her razor would rematerialise once she let it go.

Grasping the blade firmly, she filleted the corpse from neck to navel. She felt - and smelled - blood and guts pour over her. It became quite easy for her to look just as dead as he was.

Flaccid, she waited for the Triads to pass by.

She was still waiting when the goblins attacked the Triads from the rear.

* * * *

It was over - all over, save the pain. His left shoulder was crushed beneath one of the huge blocks of stone that had toppled on him. The Staff was gone, smashed to pieces. Already entombed, Neville Longbottom waited for death.

He had fought well, but his best was not enough. In the end he was overwhelmed.

But not at first.

The Triads' attention had been elsewhere as he and Dobby sprinted around the perimeter of Stonehenge and dove into a still-smoking crater gouged by one of Harry's spells. A looming trilithon - a chunk of which later mangled his shoulder - provided good cover. He could see most of the Triads. Most of them could not see him.

Dobby added some elfin version of a Notice-Me-Not Charm.

Thus concealed, Neville set to his impossible task of repulsing a thousand or more Chinese Triads.

From his fortunate vantage point, he had detected the Triads' brooms piled beneath the grandstands on his side. Had they been on the other side, he would never have seen them. His first use of the Staff covered the brooms with a fast growing vine that, when attacked, behaved like a nest of cobras. As far as he knew, no Triad ever got off the ground that night.

At that thought, Neville smiled. Now, even smiling hurt. Some nearby flash briefly illuminated his resting place through a small gap between collapsed stones. He had no idea what supported the slab that seemed balanced but a few centimetres above his chest. If that thing shifted, he would not have time to bleed to death from his shattered shoulder.

A distant crash reminded Neville of his ultimate fate this night. His Sentinel Rosebushes had successfully blocked the Triads' egress from the grandstand - thanks to their Hydra-like qualities. Cut one piece off, and three times as many thorny stems regrew.

They held back the Triads until their grandstand started disintegrating. Holes and debris piles created random passages for them to climb down - escape routes that Neville could not see.

He was surprised that the rosebushes did as well as they had. Any self-respecting Herbologist knew they could be cursed, if not cut.

First backup was a field of Devil's Snare. Neville's timing had been lucky. He had barely finished conjuring the Snare when the entire grandstand toppled over backwards.

That memory drew a satisfied grunt, which hurt worse than his smile. He tried numbing his shattered shoulder. Nothing. Neville was never worth a damn at wandless magic

The Snare was his last good memory.

He had expected to watch Triads emerging from the collapsed grandstand only to be engulfed by the Snare. Instead, he had seen nothing. A cloud of Dementors settled over Stonehenge. Neville had learnt to conjure his Patronus. It sufficed to hold the soul-devouring creatures at bay.

Something drove them away - certainly not his modest effort. A speeding golden … something … had exploded the vile things on contact.

From his perspective, that had worked too well. The Dementors fled before his own Patronus could dissipate, giving away his position. The Triads finally discovered his hiding place.

Their resultant broadside left Neville with no option except hunkering down and hoping to ride out the bombardment. The crater Harry's random spellwork had gouged was a poor defensive position. Any retreat would have exposed him fully to the enemy. He had been trapped in his bunker.

Volley after volley of curses chipped away at the trilithon. Its first rockfall providentially created a ground-level parapet, blocking spellfire aimed straight at him. Peeking through a cleft, Neville could see Triads overcoming the Devil's Snare with Gubraithian Fire.

He fell back upon his second back up plan.

Venomous Tentacula.

He barely finished conjuring when another segment of the trilithon gave way. Dobby cast some shield that saved him from immediate death. Unfortunately, the massive bluestone slid off the shield and shattered his Staff before rolling away. Neville barely had time to dive back into the original crater. He never saw how the Tentacula performed.

The barrage of Triad curses never abated, and within a couple of minutes the entire trilithon crashed down….

So here he was,

An eerie howl - thousands of voices - filled the air. Were the Triads charging?

Another explosion rocked the area. The low-hanging stones above him creaked. A small cascade of dirt and pebbles hit him square in the face. Pinned, Neville could only try to spit the grit from his mouth.

Time lost its meaning. The sounds of battle faded. The pain in Neville's shoulder faded. He was thirsty, his throat dry and not just from the grit and dust; he recognized onsetting signs of possibly fatal blood loss. He seemed to be floating. Neville thought of his parents and their fate all those years ago. He urged death to find him before the Death Eaters did.

He had failed his friends - he knew it.

* * * *

Being caught unawares in a double game was extremely dangerous. Severus Snape tried strenuously to avoid it.

Tonight was an exception.

When the Dark Lord ordered three sexually oriented potions - hard upon his demanding the ingredients for Snape's ultra-sophisticated Love Potion - Snape had assumed that a Death Eater revel was in the offing, or perhaps the Dark Lord would officiate some arranged Death Eater marriages.

Both events had occurred during the First War. Lord Voldemort saw value in boosting the Dark side's morale.

Snape had sorely underestimated his Master's ambition.

The truth surfaced when Snape was called to a strange location to administer an unusual potion to a prisoner. He also learnt shocking news - the father of a current Hogwarts student was the master of an ancient underground Chinese magical society.

And more.

Triad leadership was inherited.

And more.

The Dark Lord and the elder Chang had agreed to join forces - permanently. The vehicle was a dynastic marriage. Lord Voldemort would marry Cho Chang under traditional Chinese rites.

And even more.

The wedding would be attended by the massed membership of both the White Lotus Triad and the Death Eaters. Immediate consummation would occur, using the Y-chromosome-favouring Fertility and Virility Potions that Snape had prepared. The Chang girl had no brothers. Under the marriage contract, a male Voldemort-Chang heir would eventually lead both British Death Eaters and the Chinese White Lotus Triad.

And so much more.

The Dark Lord would not take the trouble of assembling so many Death Eaters and Triads for a mere ceremony. With the Ministry's forces scattered and their communications disrupted, a grand opportunity existed. What was the Dark Lord's planned main thrust? Not being in that loop, Snape could only guess.

His guess was catastrophic.

But even if he guessed correctly, Snape could not warn anyone. He brought only those potions with him from Spinner's End - nothing else.

What of the unfortunate Ronald Weasley? He was a victim of the Dark Lord's imperfect bodily restoration, an imperfection created when Potter had inconveniently avoided death in that Little Hangleton graveyard.

Weasley would die because Potter had lived. Any irony was drowned in the Dark Lord's malevolent intent. He would drown the Boy Who Lived's spirit in a sea of guilt.

That goal converged with necessity arising from the Dark Lord's imperfect form. Bluntly speaking, Lord Voldemort's gun was almost empty. Conception was a challenge.

The solution was for Cho Chang to become as Dark as the Dark Lord - to match him. Only a Dark wizard could impregnate a succubus, but with sufficient Darkness conception was not difficult. Lord Voldemort possessed Darkness in great abundance.

The Dark Lord's flawed resurrection, courtesy of Potter's survival, required the Chang girl's metamorphosis into a succubus. That plan, Snape belatedly learnt - had been underway for many months.

Thus Snape's present predicament - standing in the first rank of Death Eaters in Stonehenge's great circle. Snape kept the Fertility Potion that the succubus Chang would consume once she had finished consuming whatever she required from the unfortunate Weasley.

The Headmaster left no instructions concerning Weasley, so Snape eschewed grand, futile gestures. Snape's resistance was passive. He did not interrupt the Dark Lord's busy schedule to discuss potion-related knock-on effects. Rather, Snape was content to provide a bookmarked tome - delivered personally to the Dark Lord's tent at a point when the occupant was absent and preoccupied.

Thus it went unsaid that Snape's Love Potion, not being Dark, might interfere with Cho Chang's succubial transformation. Nor did the Dark Lord learn that the Virility Potion, by focussing an inordinate amount of the user's magic on one particular function, temporarily reduced other aspects of magical effectiveness - such as duelling. Snape simply left the book, relevant passages duly marked, in the empty tent.

As a double agent, Snape covered his tracks well.

Snape could only hope that, once the Dark Lord and his newlywed Dark Lady were otherwise engaged, he could slip beyond the anti-Apparition wards, escape, and try to raise an alarm. Snape was a uniquely poor prospect for such an effort and knew it. Everyone he might try to warn - save the Headmaster - considered Snape a spy and a traitor.

Such was the plight of a double agent.

Hogwarts - Dumbledore - was Snape's only chance to avoid being cursed on sight.

Snape noted another worrisome detail. Lestrange, Dolohov, and the elder Malfoy were conspicuous by their absence. They must have good reason.

Snape averted his eyes from the scene at the altar. What was about to happen to Weasley, he would not wish on his worst enemy - not even Potter - James Potter.

Abruptly, the ground shook. Before Snape's eyes the entire centre of the nemeton erupted in bolts of magic, a score of explosions, and torrents of dirt and fractured rock. Then flaring spells shot into the sky, forming familiar Auror Assist signals.

Death Eater and Triad alike scrambled for defensive positions. As the landscape cleared, several dozen unknown, and presumably hostile, wizards could be seen scurrying about.

The assembled Dark forces had just began throwing curses when a hail of incoming spells tore through their number, forcing Snape and everyone nearby to dive for cover.

The spells came from the sky, but Snape saw nothing. Raising his head and his wand, he frantically looked about. Had the Aurors somehow discovered an operation that had even eluded him?

Despite the signals no Aurors appeared.

Whoever was attacking, Snape duly noted, had achieved significant surprise and made the most of it. The broom storage tent exploded in flames. The Dark forces were essentially grounded.

Snape had barely appreciated this development when the unseen attacker sent another salvo of incoming spells at the Death Eaters' position. The Dark Lord responded with a curse to split the attackers apart. Mr. Chang began screaming instructions to his Triads in Chinese.

This round landed close enough that - helped by a nasty patch of ice - it knocked Snape off his feet. Whilst being bowled over, Snape managed to spill the Fertility Potion. No heir would be conceived tonight.

That reminded him….

The Chang girl was nowhere to be seen.

No, wait, she had collapsed in a heap.

Weasley remained chained to the altar intended as his deathbed.

Lord Voldemort raised his sectioning spell - literally. It rose into the heavens as the Dark Lord searched for the camouflaged ærial attacker.

Where were the Triads? Their numbers should crush these opponents, who apparently numbered at most a few dozen - less if (as Snape suspected) they were using duplication spells.

Something happened in the sky. One of the Dark Lord's yellowish chains noticeably transformed, now a brilliant gold. It quivered for a moment in midair before dramatically shattering in all directions, fanning out across the sky.

The display resembled what some of the others had…. Potter!

Snape had learnt from Dumbledore about the wand cores shared by Potter and the Dark Lord - before even Potter himself knew.

Only Potter's wand could create what Snape was seeing.

If that were Potter, then there would be no Aurors. The Corps would never permit the sort of craziness now being exhibited overhead.

And if it were Potter….

Snape spun around so fast that he almost slipped again on the obnoxious ice.

Weasley!

Potter meant to rescue the redhead. That dunderhead would concentrate on saving his friend to the exclusion of all else. He probably had no idea what he was encountering.

Another explosion rocked the nemeton.

His compatriots were all distracted, engaged in a fierce firefight with - presumably - Potter. Maybe he could be useful….

Snape aimed his wand. “Sectumsempra!”

If Weasley did have a hidden rescuer about, Snape could make that job fifty percent easier.

Snape returned to the thick of the fight. Potter was pelting the Dark Lord and everyone in the vicinity with curses. Snape also saw something new. Lord Voldemort was visibly labouring under the onslaught.

The Dark Lord must have already taken his potion.

Snape sneered. Potter had always been luckier than he was good - and that luck seemed to be holding.

With a huge vermillion fireball and the sound of a thunderclap, the portal that most of the Triads used for transportation disintegrated. `They're stranded now,' Snape thought. `They'll fight to the death.'

Voldemort called down the Dementors. For a stomach-clenching minute, Snape thought that their numbers would decide the battle.

Until Potter did something so bizarre that even Snape knew of no precedent.

He generated something - it looked like a persistent golden Patronus - which promptly set about tearing the army of Dementors to shreds.

That latest setback sent the Dark Lord into a rage. He screamed out another wave of Killing Curses. Then, breathing hard, he whirled to face Snape.

Had the Dark Lord sensed his treason? Not for the first time, Snape braced for death at the hands of his Master.

Angrily Lord Voldemort seized Snape by the arm. He forced up his sleeve and touched his wand to Snape's Dark Mark.

“While a failed attempt on the Ministry may set me back,” Voldemort hissed at the former Potions Master, “that pales in comparison to killing Potter, or even his Mudblood, tonight.”

Despite excruciating pain, Snape was relieved. The doomsday scenario was averted. The Ministry would not be assaulted. Lord Voldemort was recalling his remaining Death Eaters from their jumping off points.

* * * *

Two inert, maroon-robed bodies rotated slowly, their heads downward. They were totally unconscious - oblivious to the harsh white light and even to their captors' almost nonchalant curses.

“Defodio!” incanted the almost bored witch seated between them. The amber-tinged hex sliced a Sickle-sized chunk of flesh from the leg of the body on her right. Blood dribbled from the fresh wound, down the man's leg, out of sight beneath his robes. There, it joined streams from a half-dozen similar wounds. Eventually it trickled into his already gory hair, forming droplets that joined the spreading crimson patch on the floor.

A loud noise came from the next room, followed by the sound of breaking glass. The witch turned her thickly-lidded eyes that way. “Niño, I thought you'd be done by now,” she criticised.

“Found more of this bloody stuff than I expected,” a wizard's gravelly voice answered. “This room wasn't empty after all … Concealment Charm.”

Another loud bang and crash followed.

“Then hurry,” she ordered impatiently. “Our master wants everything possibly useful to their resistance destroyed. There's not much time left. Our new, slant-eyed relatives,” she scowled at the term, “will be here shortly.”

That mere thought put Bellatrix Lestrange in particularly bad temper. She screamed “Seco!” From the body on the left, a thumb dropped to the floor.

That spell produced a muffled gasp of terror. The Dark witch stood up. She towered over a small boy, confined in an even smaller cast-iron cage that forced him to all fours.

She pointed her wand at him - right between his frightened eyes. Her hard expression softened into an evil smile. “Crucio!”

The boy's high pitch screams filled the adjacent underground passageways.

Finally, she stopped.

“No one can hear you scream - except us,” Lestrange gloated. “All the Aurors in here are like those two … or worse. Crucio!”

“That's for bringing Muggle-inspired rubbish into our world,” she barked at him. “I could curse you until your brains run out your ears - your friend Longbottom knows.”

She stopped again.

“But if I did, who would remember that your stupidity made everything possible?” she sneered. “Yes … gave us everything we needed … even the exact hour - the exact minute - for us to act. Maybe we should give you a medal … a meddling Mudblood medallion….”

She cackled at her own joke.

Time passed. The crimson pools beneath the suspended wizards expanded. Lestrange grew ever more annoyed, as she brooded over what she knew was happening that very moment in Stonehenge.

To clear her mind, Bellatrix Lestrange needed a good battle - killing was just what the Healer ordered. Testily, she wondered where her promised Triad minions were.

Dolohov emerged, covered with dust and shattered glass. “Didn't think I'd finish in time,” he grumbled. “Where are they? I can't wait to chase that Mudblood.” He pulled out his pocket watch and peered at its nine hands - one for each circle of hell - impatiently.

“Anyway, I'm going to check on….”

Both Dark wizards clutched their left arms. Dolohov groaned, “What the fuck…?”

“Seems there's been a slight change of plans,” Lestrange scowled - her Dark Mark also burning. “He wants us back at Stonehenge … just where I don't bloody well need to be.”

“Avada Kedavra!” she howled. She split the Unforgivable two ways, the green light disappearing into both suspended bodies. She ended the spell that suspended them, and they plopped to the floor in a bloody lump.

She turned to the caged boy.

“That was just to make sure,” she sniggered. “Regrettably, we must be going, but we have the small, quite small, problem of what to do with you….”

An evil gleam came to her eyes.

“Ferrulious,” she incanted. A large pile of wooden sticks appeared. Lestrange banished them through a wide doorway with blasted-away doors. With her wand she arranged the sticks around several large, partially assembled pieces of equipment.

“Catena.”

A chain, its end glowing red, appeared directly above the pile, affixed to the ceiling.

“Mobiliarca.”

The cage drifted through the air. Its terrified inhabitant blubbering, “Please…. Don't … do anything. I didn't mean….”

“Shut it!” the witch imperiously commanded. “Some sorry excuse you are for a Gryffindor.”

The boy purpled, and did as directed - but if looks could kill, the witch would have dropped dead.

The bars of the cage clattered against the chain's glowing end. It slithered around the cage's top bar and bound it fast.

“We'd best be going, Bella,” Dolohov cautioned. “He doesn't like us to be late … really doesn't like it….”

She turned to him. “Would you like to do the honours?”

“Certainly,” he agreed. “Inflammare!”

The spell set the pile of wood alight. Tongues of orange flame crackled noisily.

The boy shrieked once fire appeared immediately beneath, but no longer beseeched the Dark wizards' questionable mercies.

“This kills two Snidgets with one stone,” Bella laughed. “The same fire cooks both you and your contraption.”

The two Dark wizards Disapparated.

* * * *

Molly had just won her third straight round of Exploding Snap. Arthur's ears were still ringing when he heard a disturbance outside.

“Ginny, stay back,” he ordered, drawing his wand. Turning to the Auror peering through the drawn drapes, he asked, “Alphonse, what's going on?”

“An intruder of some sort, sir,” was the reply. “No spellfire it seems, but the guards don't know what to make of him. He looks like one of…. Oh! He just turned Edgar pink!”

Arthur Weasley shot out of his seat faster than if pranked by one of his sons' Fanged Whoopee Cushions, with the rest of his family right behind him.

“That's Fred!” Arthur shouted. “Let him go! He's my son! What are you doing here? You're supposed to be with George at the Château.”

After identifying himself with the original source of the joke shop's funding, Fred spilled what he knew. Each statement seemed more incredible than the last.

Chinese New Year was not really for another two weeks.

Ron had walked into a trap at Cho Chang's house. He was a Death Eater prisoner.

The Death Eaters were up to something at Stonehenge.

Nobody could communicate with anyone else.

George, along with Harry, Hermione, and several others had gone to Stonehenge try to rescue Ron.

Before Fred was done with his breathless recitation, they knew that one alternative was closed. “Dammit! Bloody Auror and Ministry system's still down,” Alphonse Mannock spat.

“The Order's signal went through, though,” Molly screeched. “Yes … Minerva … there's serious trouble! We need everyone, especially Dumbledore. Here, I've got Fred. He'll explain!”

“I'm outta here,” Mannock declared. “The action's at Stonehenge. I'll gather anyone I can muster on the way.” He pulled something from his robes, resized it, and….

Ginny saw a really, really wicked broom - just like the one Hermione neither used nor would lend to her.

“I want to go!” she declared.

“No!” Arthur, Molly, and Fred replied in unison.

Molly looked like she might kill Mannock herself and save the Death Eaters the trouble. The flyer answered Ginny, “Can't. My Valkyrie's charms don't know you.”

Ten seconds later, Mannock was gone.

And Fred was done with McGonagall. “Shite!” he shouted.

…And received no parental reprimand. “What now?” Molly demanded.

“Dumbledore's not around,” Fred groaned. “He's off to bloody China. What if Harry's group runs right into Voldemort?”

* * * *

What, indeed?

Once again Hermione was alone - sitting with her back against the far wall of her damaged fort - her wounded wand arm resting on a block of stone. Her wand, lashed to a spell-damaged hand that could no longer grip it, pointed at the hole blasted in the wall, a hole partially blocked by Dolohov's petrified body. Hermione's off hand clenched his captured wand.

If the Death Eaters found her, Hermione vowed to take as many with her as possible, using what she remembered from Lesson 128. Grimly, she recited from memory the incantation for the Entrail-Expelling Curse.

Still, Hermione hoped that her contemplated last stand would not be necessary. The goblin army was approaching, and she could hear the sounds of increased fighting. Hermione had all but ordered Harry to do his duty, command that army, and stop worrying about her. Maybe the goblins would reach her before the Death Eaters. She had told Roxtar to stop babysitting her and to rejoin the fight.

Looking out for herself, for good measure Hermione had cast Cave Inimicum on her surroundings.

Now she waited.

From her vantage point, most of what Hermione could see was sky. For what must have been the third time, something gold streaked overhead. Were her injuries so severe that she was hallucinating? That looked almost like Harry's stag.

A stray curse landed nearby; its crimson glow briefly cast shadows.

She was tired - very tired.

On the verge of lapsing into semi-consciousness, Hermione was taken completely by surprise when, from nowhere, an invisible hand closed around her left foot.

Reflexively she kicked at it. Hermione's further response was to try aiming her wand at the intruder. Before she could position her damaged arm, she stopped - halted by the flood of hope and relief that flowed from the hand.

“Luna!” Hermione gasped in disbelief. “What are you doing here? You risked me redecorating this place with your guts - and where's Ron?”

“Ronnie is safe,” Luna smiled enigmatically as she slipped off the Invisibility Cloak. “As safe as he can be. He's in Harry's motorbike, under Dreamless Sleep Potion, with all the bike's charms active. Right now, you need me more.”

An incoming spell blasted the trilithon behind them, showering them with chips of stone.

“You're hurt,” Hermione blurted, seeing Luna's blood-smeared face and hands.

“Doesn't matter. You can stop this,” Luna commented portentously.

“I'm sorry, but I'm not in any shape to leave,” Hermione replied with a sigh. She raised her arm and showed Luna her injured hand.

“I mean you have the power to stop … this…,” Luna responded more emphatically, spreading her arms wide.

Hermione's eyebrows rose. “You mean … the battle?” she asked sceptically.

“Yes, I believe you do,” Luna intoned. Her hand found Hermione's wounded forearm. Luna winced at the pain she sensed. “There's a spell, a Druid spell.”

“Then, you'd better do it,” Hermione sighed heavily. “You know them better than I.”

A nearly spent goblin cross-bow bolt smacked into the top log with a twanging sound.

“I don't have the power to use it, but I think you do,” Luna insisted. “I'll help you.”

“Luna, what are you on about?” Hermione protested. “What you're saying is crazy. I don't know…. Eek!”

A pervasive buzzing sound announced an invasion by a nasty horde of biting insects. Hermione vainly tried smacking them away, but they attacked her fingers, leaving bloody slashes.

Luna threw the Invisibility Cloak over them both. Hermione, regaining her senses, followed with a Protego. Realising that the ferocious grasshoppers could not get through Basilisk hide, Hermione and Luna scraped the remaining yellow and black coloured bugs from their hands and from each other's faces. Finally, they crushed the stragglers that had worked their way under their armour's trouser cuffs.

Luna did most of the work, because Hermione was effectively one armed.

The blonde looked befuddled. “What's all this?” she asked Hermione.

“You're the magical creature expert, or so I thought.”

“Magical? Hmmm … they did vanish when we smashed them, didn't they?” Luna peered one of the many examples crawling on the outside of the Cloak. “They look like carnivorous locusts to me.”

Hermione made a most unpleasant face. The air was thick with the things. Was this swarm enough to drive off a goblin army? From History of Magic she recalled how a swarm of angry hornets had once helped Andros the Invincible repulse a goblin attack. Professor Binns thought it might be a myth, but….

“All right, Luna, let's do it,” Hermione decided.

“Do what?” the other girl asked. She poked at the locusts on the other side of the Cloak with her wand.

“Whatever spell you thought might put paid to all this.” As Hermione spoke, a whistling sound, followed by a loud bang, brought home that the battle still raged.

“Oh … yes,” Luna turned away from her creature fascination. “We must go to the centre of the great circle. Do you remember how to Search?”

“What…? Out there? Search?” Hermione spluttered. “What is this all about?”

“Hermione … do you trust me?” Luna asked as she laid hands on both of the other girl's shoulders. She was empathising again. Hermione felt a sense of desperate trust - almost blind faith - flowing into her.

“Why … yes, of course…,” she told Luna.

“There's too much … to explain,” Luna spoke in that strange, disembodied voice she sometimes used. “Afterwards, once you've seen - assuming I'm right - it will be easier….”

That gave Hermione pause. “Luna … are you sure about this…?”

“One can never be certain,” the other girl answered ambiguously. “I believe that this spell will end the battle … if you can do it. The goblins have forced the Dark forces to use the nemeton as a bulwark.”

They heard an explosive whooshing sound followed by bright orange light. Hermione recognized that as more Fiendfyre - although not aimed in their direction.

“Okay, Luna.”

Under cover of the Cloak - and a modified Protego that allowed for slow movement - the pair crept beyond the confines of Hermione's Cave Inimicum. Luna led the way, taking Hermione's injured hand in hers, more as a palliative than any serious attempt at Healing. The Ravenclaw had an almost preternatural sense of where to go.

She was also right about the course of the battle. The swarm of locusts seemed to be abating, at least inside the stone circle. All about them, Hermione and Luna could see Death Eaters and Triads, using the nemeton as a barricade, trading curses with unseen adversaries.

“There,” Hermione whispered. “Dressed in red … Voldemort.”

She was right. Directing his forces from near the ruined altar, and occasionally firing deadly curses of his own, stood the Dark Lord himself, dressed in rather badly disarranged crimson robes.

“This way,” Luna hissed. They ducked behind the large carcass of that downed quetzalcoatlus. The manmak-covered arm of a dead goblin protruded from beneath. Still, the creature's large limp wings provided some cover.

“Here,” Luna pronounced. “This is the spot.”

Hermione looked around. It was hard to tell from behind enemy lines, but she sensed that the goblins were still winning. Bodies of dead and wounded Dark wizards were strewn about, both red and black. Incoming goblin fire was slowly reducing the stone arches to rubble. Stonehenge now looked quite like its Muggle pictures.

Angry voices to her left caused Hermione to extend her wand arm. She saw Mad-Eye Moody in a furious duel with … was that Bellatrix Lestrange?

“Don't, you'll only give us away. Let him do what he does best.” Hermione felt Luna tugging at her sleeve, indicating that they ought to lie down.

“Now, you need to Search, for the gnomon-cenotaph … the blue stone upon which you were … you started your Search for Harry….”

This instruction made no sense to Hermione, but none of Luna's current weirdness did. Uncharacteristically, Hermione was acting solely on faith. “Search … for the stone itself?” Hermione echoed.

“The stone, for its magic,” Luna clarified. “It's a very powerful magical object, and you're familiar with its signature….”

`And it once resided here,' Luna thought to herself, not sharing this fact with Hermione. Explanation would come afterwards.

“And then?” Hermione continued, needing to know what to expect.

“I will recite the spell as your … oath helper,” Luna went on. Whilst Luna spoke, her eyes went out of focus. Hermione felt a combination of trust and faith flowing from the other girl. “It's a long spell - in Keltoi. After every line I'll pause for you to repeat it. You will draw on the magic of the stone….”

“What do I do with my wand?” Hermione broke in. “I can't move my hand.”

“The spell is intended to be wandless,” Luna reassured. “But I suppose … pointing at the ground couldn't hurt.”

“At the ground?”

“Yes,” Luna reiterated. “Please, Hermione, we need to finish….”

A large explosion nearby added an exclamation point to Luna's plea.

“All right.”

“The spell may have mental effects, like Searching,” Luna spoke quickly. “Just listen for my voice and repeat. If you are succeeding, your hands may start glowing the colour of the stone. Just keep repeating after me. If it works, you'll know. You'll sense it.”

Hermione grunted her assent.

Luna grabbed Hermione about both shoulders and found a position where she could whisper in the older girl's ear.

“Now Search.”

To use her Empath abilities to their fullest, Luna brought as much of herself into contact with Hermione as she could. She felt Hermione's mental surges as her most capable friend concentrated on searching for the gnomon-cenotaph, just as she had once searched for Harry.

Luna felt a sensation of motion, of hurtling down a long tube, of flying, of darting in and out of clouds….

Hermione was the Searcher again. Luna could feel it. Luna was now the older girl's only link to outside world - until she found….

Luna felt something else … something both familiar and powerful. This was the same magical surge energy Luna had felt when Hermione had successfully undergone the Psycho Patefacius spell in the Founders' Chamber. Then, it had dropped Luna to her knees. Now it was a signal to commence.

“Hermione, repeat after me,” Luna directed. “Dado chan'ar choestwit am byth, fami chan'ar fur-fa-fennaut, d'ata am buro `cha bllwc….”

She did.

Luna had to complete fully twenty verses of this ancient spell. It was not intended for battlefield conditions. But again, the great Stonehenge nemeton had not been invaded in this fashion in almost two millennia.

As each sing-song verse was spoken and repeated, Luna could sense the magic surrounding them grow stronger. After the seventh verse, she began seeing a blue glow emanating from Hermione's undamaged left hand and from the edge of the angry gash that sliced across her other wrist.

Luna almost faltered at the tenth verse. A couple of curses struck very nearby. One sliced through the leathery wing of the dead beast that provided them some modicum of cover. The breeze kicked up by the two-metre high membrane toppling over momentarily distracted her.

Although Luna hesitated, Hermione did not. Luna exhaled with relief as Hermione repeated the words strongly, omitting her pauses. The intensity of the blue glow grew with each verse.

By the fifteenth verse, Luna had to grit her teeth at burning pain from her lower left leg. It felt like…. She glanced down. The corner of the Invisibility Cloak had been blown back, exposing the better part of her lower legs. Locusts had landed and had obviously crawled under her armour to chew on her leg.

Luna could not move - could not do anything to stop the pain or rearrange the Cloak - without disrupting Hermione's concentration, and thus the spell. It was working. Her suspicions were true….

Almost imperceptibly, Luna shifted her feet to push down Hermione's pant legs - to protect The One from the locusts. Luna called upon an ability that had saved her life once before and separated her mind from her body. Her legs were now unnecessary.

Hermione had just finished her repetition of the eighteenth verse when Luna heard loud voices and several spells being hurled. She recognised Harry's voice, but not his spell. She could sense the presence of strong magic - whether Harry's or Hermione's was unclear.

The other spells she knew all too well.

There was no turning back. They had to finish the spell.

Or would they be finished first?

Suddenly, Luna felt very, very cold.

* * * *

The goblin flyers vanished into the night. Harry looked down at his now-bandaged leg. He was very, very lucky to be alive. A third goblin flyer was not - because of him. That one had deliberately flown into the path of the Killing Curses.

Goblins were like that. Another did the same thing for Ragnok the night of the ill-fated Ashrak.

Harry cautiously tested his broom. The left stabiliser bar was out entirely, and its back half gone. That was the source of the splinters that had injured his leg, even through the Basilisk hide trousers.

A couple of centimetres either way, and the one unblocked Killing Curse would have done him in.

Harry had to steer the wounded Valkyrie hard to the right just to keep it flying straight. Manœuvres to the left side were out of the question. Power was down, and that meant choosing between the broom's concealment and shield charms. He chose to keep Furtim.

And he was tired. The goblins shared some hardtack and pemmican to take the edge off his hunger, but Harry had not eaten anything else in well over twelve hours. He had been expending his magic at a terrific rate.

The goblin army had arrived, only minutes behind the flyers. Hermione had demanded that he assume the command inherent in his goblin status.

He humoured Hermione because she sounded as bad as he felt. Harry had no serious intention of commanding the goblins. He would only bollix things up, since he did not know anything about fighting pitched battles.

Harry just did the fighting.

So he would keep fighting his battle, and let the goblins fight theirs.

With Ron evidently rescued, Harry's battle was now to keep Death Eaters away from Hermione and everyone else who had followed him into harm's way yet again.

Perched on his partly disabled broom, Harry fired such spells as he could manage whilst watching the battle unfold beneath and behind him. Several thousand goblins surged forward across largely open terrain and collided violently with a considerably smaller number of Triads and Death Eaters.

Under that onslaught, the Triads retreated behind the ruined grandstand. From there, they broke the goblins' initial charge. Spells and projectiles criss-crossed thickly, as each side bloodied the other. Individually, the Triads seemed to pack more firepower - but there were four or five times as many goblins.

The goblins, pushing their numerical advantage, suspended the frontal assault and sought to outflank the Dark forces in either direction.

The Dark forces responded by fortifying Stonehenge circle.

Harry thought he saw a weak spot in the rear, where some sort of road entered. If he could keep the Death Eaters away from that gap, the goblins could get in.

But that meant passing directly over Voldemort and the wizard with him - presumably Mr. Chang - who was directing the Triads.

That never happened.

The Chinese wizard had his wand drawn, and Harry flew right into the path of the spell. He heard the whistling of millions of tiny wings, and then….

“Aaauuugh!”

Harry was being battered by the bodies of countless flying insects. The swarm was so thick that it pushed his broom to one side. The bugs splattered against his windscreen in such numbers that, within seconds, he could not see anything in front of him except dying yellowish grasshoppers.

By the thousands they collided with Harry as well.

Those that survived impact tried to eat him.

Harry's face, his hands, and his calves burned with the pain of thousands of tiny pincers tearing at his skin. They were crawling under his glasses - he had to close his eyes. Taking one last look at the Valkyrie's instruments Harry jammed the broom not only hard right, but straight up.

He turned off the windscreen and relied on his seat belt.

Hurtling straight up, Harry soon exited the swarm of flesh-eating locusts, which was not even directed at him. Even at half power, the Valkyrie had more than enough climbing speed to generate one-hundred plus kilometer winds that blew off all but a few of the obnoxious insects.

Well above the swarm, Harry quickly exterminated the few locusts that remained. Once dead they vanished. These locusts were a magical creation.

Harry wanted to heal some of the myriad minor cuts and bites he had suffered. But when he bent down to start with his throbbing calves….

He saw the same locust swarm falling upon the goblin army - in numbers that made it difficult even to see the goblins from this vantage point so high above the fray. The goblins' wavering ranks and almost random spell fire indicated that the carnivorous insects were taking their toll.

For some reason, the Triads seemed to be immune. They were advancing.

Why did the goblins not protect…? Then Harry remembered - he might have failed his History of Magic O.W.L., but he would never forget Dumbledore's criticism.

Goblin magic did not include protective shields.

But in their duel, Hermione had….

In a flash, Harry knew what to do, but it meant re-entering the swarm - unshielded.

“Transenna Culicidæ!” he incanted as he waved his wand around himself.

Harry could feel the spell working.

Immediately he put his battered broom into as much of a power dive as he dared. To conserve the Valkyrie's dwindling resources, he turned off its Concealment Charm.

Harry wanted the goblins to see and recognise him. Nominally, he was their commander. He hoped to rally them with what he was going to do.

Before long insects again began impacting his windscreen - Harry felt them, too - but now they could not reach his skin.

Harry swooped in low, shielded but unconcealed, and began firing the same spell, right and left, using both his broom's remaining ordnance and his own wand.

“Transenna Culicidæ!” “Transenna Culicidæ!”

Mosquito netting spewed out all over the battlefield. Behind him, through the necklace, he saw it covering one goblin unit after another. It did not take them long to figure out what to do with it. Goblins with their ears half eaten away or their arms full of gashes scrambled for the netting's protection from the carnivorous insects.

Between Harry's evasive manœuvres and his purely defensive spellwork, the Triads had no idea what was happening. Other than a few curses he easily dodged with rightward rolls, they did nothing to stop him.

Harry could see the goblins regrouping and reforming their lines, now with the means of keeping themselves free of the swarm.

Over and over again Harry repeated the spell. Conjuring great quantities of the simple stuff was ridiculously easy. It was rope-a-dope all over again. Using a simple spell to defeat powerful magic. It was just like Hermione….

Hermione! She was still in there, somewhere.

With one final effort, Harry produced enough netting to cover a Quidditch pitch. “Sonorous,” Harry cast the spell on his own throat. He called out to the reforming goblin units, some of which still wavered under the combined attack of the locusts and the Triads. “You say I'm your general, well follow me! Spraska arad!”

With that, Harry pushed his broom upward. Completely for effect, because he had to conserve power, he fired a volley of otherwise harmless green sparks at the Triads. He lurched forward. Back over the circle, he turned the Furtim back on, the Sonorous off, and prepared to resume his vigil.

He hoped he had at least kept the goblins fighting - from the looks of things through the eyeball necklace, he had.

Harry spotted Mr. Chang floating across the ruined nemeton less than a metre above the ground, oblivious to Harry's presence - a target of opportunity. He squinted into the broomsight. “Bombardo!” Harry roared. He missed, but not by much. The Chinese wizard went sprawling.

Buoyed by that success, Harry searched for more chances to make a difference. He did not have far to look.

An intense duel was being fought behind the lines - between what appeared to be two black clad Death Eaters. Harry swooped low for a look and almost immediately identified one of them as Bellatrix Lestrange. Her duelling style was indelibly fixed in Harry's memory.

That was good enough for Harry. Any enemy of Lestrange was a friend of his.

Taking advantage of his concealment, Harry swooped in low and let her have it with a Bone Breaker Hex, then a Blood Boiling Hex, followed by his favourite, Expelliarmus.

Harry was running mostly on adrenalin, and forgot that his Valkyrie had a constant leftward yaw. As a result, all his spells again missed.

But they sent Lestrange scurrying for cover nonetheless, a good thing for her opponent, who was limping badly. As Harry passed by, he saw the dueller's hair flash fluorescent orange - only one witch, to his knowledge, could do that.

Harry carefully brought his broom around, intending to give Tonks more support, but during the turn he saw something through the necklace that banished the young Auror's predicament from his brain.

Partially hidden by the shattered remains of the goblin flyer who had saved Harry's life, was a woman's leg clad in Basilisk-hide armour.

Hermione's leg.

With nothing attached to it.

Harry's heart dropped. Why had Hermione left the protection of her own spells and managed…? Hopelessness rose inside him. She could never have survived losing that much….

No.

Yes!

A right turn and a close pass took Harry from the depths of despair to the brink of euphoria. Hermione was not blown to bits. Upon closer examination he saw two legs, not one. She and Luna were mostly hidden, yet alarmingly partially visible, under his Invisibility Cloak.

Why no longer mattered. Harry had to protect them.

The necklace again helped. Through it, Harry saw a volley of curses approaching. He dodged them with another abrupt dodge to the right, simply by ending any effort to control the Valkyrie.

He regained control with difficulty. Now, his overworked right stabiliser bar was now smoking. A warning light proclaimed that his Furtim was failing, fading in and out.

A Killing Curse shot by, and Harry saw Voldemort stepping from the shadows - another one-on-one duel in the offing, with Harry's Valkyrie now much worse for wear. A werewolf who had just received the Dark Lord's orders shot away on all fours - fortunately not in Hermione's direction. Voldemort still had his giant snake slithering at his side.

No - check that - Voldemort was starting to fly, and not with a broom!

Harry had never seen any wizard do that, not even Dumbledore. Instinctively, he sighted and let loose a pair of Disarming Charms in Voldemort's direction. The Dark wizard parried them. “Impedimenta!” Harry watched disbelievingly as the force of his spell appeared to push Voldemort back to the ground.

Had he just shot Voldemort down?

Even if down, the evil wizard was by no means out.

And Harry was in even more trouble. He was now visible to the Death Eaters and Triads on the ground. His effort to keep Voldemort away from Hermione was impeded by having to dodge increasingly frequent, if not particularly well aimed, curses.

One reason for their poor aim was suppressing fire being added on his behalf by several more goblin flyers.

Harry's apparent advantage over Voldemort was a mirage. The Death Eater leader allowed returned to earth voluntarily after seeing something during his brief time aloft. He decided to rid himself of Harry's distraction

Harry was low enough and close enough to hear the unfamiliar curse he used. “Adaugeo ala Opressus!”

Almost instantly, Harry was bowled over by a shock wave that, due to its size, was impossible to avoid and, due to its power, was impossible to resist. He flipped through three unplanned backward somersaults before colliding solidly with the lintel of the one trilithon inside the nemeton not yet destroyed in the now hours-long battle.

Once again, Harry was lucky. Under the pressure of Voldemort's shockwave, he had completely lost control of his broom. Without a seatbelt, he would have been thrown fatally to the ground. Harry might have crashed anyway, but the angle of his collision with the stone popped him back into the air.

Staggered, more than a little surprised at finding himself still airborne, Harry pushed the wobbling, barely functional Valkyrie upward. Bleeding from a ruptured eardrum, he strained to ignore pain spreading throughout his hip. The impact was hard enough to shred his life-saving seatbelt and, from the popping sounds Harry heard, break several bones in that area.

Fortunately, Voldemort's attention was no longer on Harry.

Unfortunately, the Dark Lord's attention - and wand - was now trained on Hermione's partially uncovered form.

Through the one eye that remained attached to the backwards-facing necklace Harry saw that Bellatrix Lestrange, having tag-teamed with Fenrir Greyback, was poised to join Voldemort's party.

As Harry realised what the scene unfolding before him meant, an adrenalin rush cleared the cobwebs from his brain. Even if he threw himself in front of Voldemort's curse, he could not also block the second Unforgivable that Lestrange was preparing to utter.

He had no choice. The Valkyrie's broomsight had been ripped away. Ignoring his hip - which was going numb anyway - Harry yanked his hybrid wand free from the failing Valkyrie. He pointed them both at a space just behind Hermione's prone and stationary form. Summoning every shred of magical strength and concentration that remained, he screamed, “Frigidio Maximus!!”

This spell was invisible. Success or failure would abide the outcome. Harry felt his magic surge as darkness closed in. With his last magical energy draining into his spell, Harry willed himself to stay conscious until he saw the evil green of Voldemort's Killing Curse disappear into a small cloud of fog surrounding a spot of unfathomable darkness. The last thing he saw was the same curse re-emerge - deflected precisely along the path provided by Lestrange's ruddy Cruciatus.

Was it finished? Was he?

With a trace of a smile on his face, Harry fainted and toppled from his drifting broom.

* * * *

Author's notes: Lay thunder down - from Roger Daltry's “Under A Raging Moon”

Harry used the Puff the Magic Dragon spell at Kew Gardens in Ch. 23 when he thought Death Eaters were attacking

Actually Salisbury Plain is chalk, not marl. Artistic license

The Somme was the site of two bloody WWI battles; Wiltshire is where Stonehenge is located

Shove into overdrive - from Kenny Loggins' “Danger Zone”

The Valkyrie's ordnance was detailed in Ch. 12

Hellas Infernum was introduced in Ch 17

Pulling Gs is a pilot's term for maneuvers generating gravity-like force; clenching the stomach muscles is a way of compensating

Harry got the second wand in Ch. 40

Suturc was introduced in Ch. 21; Harry learned its anti-Dementor qualities in Ch. 31

St. Elmo's fire is a natural static electrical discharge often seen in storms at sea

The golden lightning was in Ch. 11

12-point antlers means a big buck

“Red coal carpet” is from the Stone's “Gimme Shelter”

Fluvius Azote was one of Hermione's dueling spells in Ch. 49

Liliaceous was introduced in Ch. 23

Achilles was killed by a poisoned arrow to the tendon that bears his name

When Hermione absorbed Fawkes in Ch. 36, it altered her Patronus

Hermione's encounter with the firestorm was in Ch. 28

A bunyip is a mythical Australian beast

An Asterlisk, introduced in Ch. 51, felled Dolohov

There is no canon description of Sectumsempra, so I created one

The Dementors caused Luna to hear her father's last moments, as mentioned in Ch. 23

The fireman's carry is a rescue carry position

Druantia is the chief Druid goddess

The Caterwauling Charm doesn't have a canon incantation, so I created one; it's actually the title of a Steppenwolf song

The Sentinal Rosebush is modeled on Disney's old Sleeping Beauty thornbushes

Madame Butterfly is a helpless woman character in a Puccini opera

The mad broom flight through the standing stones is based upon the forest chase scene in Return of the Jedi

Jazzy's blade is introduced in Ch. 40

Snape errs in his guess about the purpose of the love potion

The nine circles of Hell are from Dante. The watch is appropriate for Dolohov this night

Alphonse Mannock was the flight instructor in Ch. 12

Hermione's would be last stand is patterned after Jim Bowie's at the Alamo

“Upon which you were” - Luna almost gives something away

Oath helpers were historical antecedents to lawyers

Keltoi is ancestral Celtic language

How Luna's separation of mind and body previously saved her life is described in Ch. 24

The Ashrak is in Ch. 14

The goblin discussion with Dumbledore occurred in Ch. 4

The netting spell is another of Hermione's from the duel in Ch. 49

Harry's two-line speech to rally the goblins is modeled on Napoleon at Lodi

75

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69. What Price Victory?

Wherein the Battle of Hogwarts is ended, Hermione tends to the survivors, secret meetings are held, medical treatment is rendered, Harry and Hermione both learn what their victory cost, Ron apologises, and everyone finally gets some sleep.

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

Chapter 69 - What Price Victory?

More than anything, using the Killing Curse gave Lord Voldemort intense pleasure. Few executions promised more fulfillment than the green jet of fatal magic with which he would dispatch the mudblooded Hermione Granger.

“Avada Kedavra!”

As his wand flashed emerald, the Dark Lord's red eyes filled with sadistic glee, anticipating how this act would shatter his nemesis. But before any gloating could escape his lips, Voldemort's triumphant expectations turned to ashes - and then became incalculably worse.

The Dark Lord's aim was true, and his curse pulsed directly at the girl's exposed body. It mattered not one bit that she wore unusual armour. The Killing Curse was unblockable.

But so was Harry Potter, to the Dark Lord's chagrin. At the last second, the pesky Boy Who Still Lived bellowed, of all things, a Freezing Charm.

Voldemort's green bolt of death disappeared into - into nothing - into absolute blackness.

Snarling, deprived of an intensely personal victory, the Dark Lord was ready to give Potter a dose of the same deadly medicine when….

Following the path of least resistance, his delayed and deflected Killing Curse emerged from whatever limbo it had entered.

Energy draining spells like Avada Kedavra travel by siphoning energy from the environment they traverse. Potter's inexplicable magic had blocked a second curse, Bellatrix Lestrange's Cruciatus simultaneously cast at the Mudblood.

Potter's magic created an energy vacuum. Following the only available energy source, the Killing Curse traced the path of the Cruciatus and zoomed right up Lestrange's wand….

An anguished, “Bella!” ripped from Voldemort's throat as the Dark witch keeled over. She did not exactly die - their precautions protected against that - but before his eyes, her body began disintegrating.

Years ago a deflected Killing Curse had similarly destroyed his.

Lord Voldemort took two steps in her direction, thought better of it, and, “Depulso!” banished Nagini to the location of Lestrange's rapidly evaporating body.

By then, the Dark Lord had other worries.

The Granger girl and someone else - two bodies in a tight embrace - began emitting brilliant blue-white light. Light pressure from the powerful glow elevated the Invisibility Cloak covering them almost a metre into the air.

Before Voldemort could react with a new curse, this effulgent gleam burst its earthly bounds. Incandescent shafts of blazing magic streaked to all points of the compass, one for each of the thirty sarsen stones demarcating the great circle. Ricocheting upward from each, the magical beams soared into the heavens like dozens of skyrockets touched off at once.

Darkness fled before the dazzling display. It lit the nemeton more brightly than high noon. The cold January night persisted only as a shrinking black dot where, at the zenith, the luminous tower of magic still opened to the heavens.

Squinting across a suddenly opalescent landscape, the Dark Lord saw Nagini coiled in the small steaming swamp that marked the final resting place of Bellatrix Lestrange's natural-born body. Surrounded by unfamiliar magic, Voldemort could only hope that Nagini had enough time to collect Bella's unearthly remains. Quickly he summoned his familiar. Now to deal with that Mudblood….

Now was never - Voldemort's time at Stonehenge expired.

A rapidly intensifying whistling noise from overhead interrupted the Dark Lord's murderous thoughts. He looked up.

Voldemort did nothing further within the Druids' great stone circle.

Reaching an apex, the thirty arcing jets had merged at a single, glowing mass. From there, nearly a kilometre's height, gravity reversed the magic's skyward surge. Its iridescent leading edge plummeted to earth with increasing speed. All gaps had disappeared - leaving no escape.

Voldemort had no time to squeeze off another curse.

Sometimes even the most powerful Dark Lord in a century has to duck and cover.

Lord Voldemort closed his eyes and howled as the blue-white magical avalanche crashed to earth and penetrated deeply into Stonehenge's bedrock marl.

When he next opened his eyes, the Dark Lord found himself deposited rather unceremoniously on his backside, returned to a place he had never expected to see again - the underground dungeon from which he had departed for Stonehenge not more than five hours ago.

* * * *

It was dark - dark and quiet - when her return to sensibility marked the end of Hermione's latest magical odyssey. The battle that once raged appeared over. Fighting had ceased. The battlefield was as still as death. Only a strong, metallic scent of ozone remained as the residuum of powerful magic. She was…. No, she was not. She felt….

“Luna!” Hermione whispered urgently. Such tranquility could easily be a trap. Were Death Eaters still about? “Luna, what's going on … what happened?” Hermione shifted towards the girl who had guided her through an incantation that had achieved something - something big.

Luna's laboured, wheezing response raised more questions than it answered. “You … cleansed … the evil…. Banished it from….”

The blonde went no further. Her eyes, already glassy, rolled upwards as consciousness departed. Luna's body, which had seemed unnaturally rigid, relaxed and yielded. Her breathing was fast and shallow.

“Luna!” Hermione squeaked louder. Disregarding any Death Eater threat - they seemed no longer in evidence - she grasped Luna by the shoulders….

….And almost shoved her wand down the poor girl's throat.

“My word,” Hermione muttered as she assessed her own condition. “I can use it again.” Her wounded right hand no longer felt numb and swollen. She could flex it….

Hermione frantically ripped off the goblin plasters. Her hand still looked injured, at least on the surface. A nasty, painful slash, like a fresh burn, stretched halfway across her wrist. But she could make a fist, and whilst that hurt, it was endurable. Her hand was no longer darkened and discoloured like Dumbledore's.

“Lumos.” Lighting her wand, Hermione placed her other hand to her friend's forehead. Luna felt cold and clammy. Her already pale skin had taken on a worrisome bluish tinge. The Ravenclaw's flaccid tongue lolled from the side of her mouth.

Hermione had enough Healer training to recognise the symptoms of old-fashioned shock. Forgetting her surroundings, she focussed on her friend's plight. She gently levitated Luna's legs slightly above her head.

That made the reason for Luna's perilous condition painfully apparent.

Her right leg was mangled; nothing else could describe it. Much of Luna's calf muscle was missing, jaggedly stripped away. The edge of this gaping, raw mess peeked from Luna's trouser leg. In pallid wandlight, Hermione saw thick, gooey blood oozing. Gore drenched the inside of Luna's armour. More of the same puddled on the ground - plainly dangerous blood loss.

For a moment, Hermione tried pushing Luna's Basilisk-hide trousers up, but they would not budge. Oh, Merlin! What to do? She knew a spell to remove them, but that would rip loose clotted blood and cause more bleeding. Luna felt so cold….

Pressure and hope were the only avenues.

Hermione seized the old plaster that had once bound her own wrist and began wrapping it around Luna's affected leg, beginning where it started to feel … not right.

It was much too small. What now?

Hermione began shaking. After surviving the fight, was Luna about to die in the post-battle calm?

Think, dammit.

It came back. Are you or are you not a witch?

Stop panicking - you can do this!

Hermione calmed down and began thinking things through rationally. For a witch, the first problem was easily solved. “Elongus! Engorgio!” The plaster more than doubled in length and width. “Ferula!” She conjured a wooden stick to serve as a splint. “En circule!” She set the plaster wrapping itself tightly about both the splint and Luna's ravaged leg.

Having done what she could to stop Luna's bleeding and to stabilise her condition, Hermione went to her belt. Thankfully, it was still in place and intact after all the furious goings on. The last time Hermione had worn her Auror's belt into battle; she had been a field Healer. She hoped that supplies might remain in the belt's magical recesses.

Yes!

Luck - from her prior neglect to empty the belt's contents - was still with her.

From one of the pouches, Hermione withdrew a single precious phial of Phoenix Tear Extract. Luna's wounds were beyond her capacity to heal, but the extract would at least help maintain life. Using both hands, Hermione worked the girl's jaw open and poured in a tiny amount - this was strong stuff. She massaged Luna's throat, to induce swallowing

It seemed to work, but something else seemed rather off….

Her surroundings were well lit - much more brightly than her puny wandtip could manage. Nor was this light the same colour as her paltry and distracted efforts.

Hermione rolled over. She came face to face with a full-grown - maybe more than full grown - stag. Less than a metre distant, it lay placidly on the tattered grass, glowing brilliantly gold. It had been waiting patiently for Hermione to finish with Luna.

Nestled between the animal's? image's? Patronus'? substantial legs and resting firmly, if not comfortably, on its side was….

Harry!

In the somewhat harsh, sodium-yellow-like illumination, Harry looked downright frightful.

Innumerable small cuts and gashes marred his face and hands. Blood trickled from one of his ears. Large plasters of uncertain provenance heavily swaddled his lower left leg. And his right leg…. Oh, Merlin! It hung loosely from Harry's side at a crazy angle that even a master contortionist like Tonks could not have managed safely.

Harry was unconscious - dead to the world - which in his condition might be considered a blessing.

Once again, Hermione repressed incipient shivers of panic that tickled at the edges of her mind. `A Healer's work is never done,' she repeated to calm herself.

This was different; this was Harry.

The battle was, for all intents and purposes over, but he could yet die. After all they had overcome, she could still lose him. Forget the last battle. Another one needed fighting. This time, she had to be the strong one - for him.

Swallowing hard, Hermione reckoned that Luna was as well as she could be. Forget Death Eaters, too. If any were still about, she doubted that whatever this - thing - was would be acting so calmly. It seemed quite protective of Harry.

Cautiously, as gingerly as she had approached any Hippogriff, Hermione crept towards Harry. Hoping the … Patronus, she supposed … would recognise a pacific gesture, Hermione stowed her wand and held her palms flat out in front of her.

If of a mind, this glowing Patronus-stag could do a great deal of damage. Its antlers were more impressive than any of her father's hunting trophies. Fluttering from those antlers, like tiny flags in the cold night air, were bits of shredded black fabric.

As calmly as she could, Hermione soothed, “That's it … let me help him….”

Slowly, tentatively, she edged closer. She froze as the stag's head bobbed towards her outstretched hands - and licked the tips of her fingers. The Patronus-stag turned its head and licked Harry's cheek.

Clearly, the stag wanted her to come to Harry.

A relieved sigh passed her lips.

Now moving confidently, Hermione settled on her haunches next to Harry. He did not feel cold, but he was deeply unconscious. His eyes did not react to light. His right leg and hip looked awful…. Beneath a discoloured patch in his armour, on his hip where most of the Basilisk scales had been scraped loose, Harry's flesh felt swollen and altogether too soft and pliable. Suppressing a shudder, Hermione concluded he must have broken every major bone in that area.

Under her breath Hermione cursed her lack of skill. Tentatively she employed diagnostic spells from her classes with Madam Pomfrey - which now seemed painfully rudimentary - spells she had learnt, but not fully revised.

The third spell told her something she needed to know. Beyond all his physical injuries, Harry had somehow overloaded his magic. That explained his mental state. He was not just unconscious, but in magical shutdown as well.

Harry was so exhausted he could no longer tap the zero-point energy field that permeated everything - and powered every wizard's magic….

Finally, something Hermione did know how to treat. A basic use of Phoenix Tear Extract was to restore a wizard's lost connection to the all-encompassing magical forces of the cosmos.

Again opening her precious phial, Hermione measured another dose of Phoenix Tear Extract and opened Harry's mouth. She trickled it down his throat and again used tracheal massage to get him to swallow. Assuming the extract worked, Harry still had more than enough non-magical issues to send him to the grave.

The thigh and hip have a lot of space. If sharp edges of even one of Harry's broken bones sliced one of the major vessels in that area - she recited to herself the abdominal aorta, inferior vena cava, femoral artery, femoral vein - he would bleed to death internally with nary a drop touching the ground.

That was not yet the case. Harry was still alive.

But if it happened, she would be helpless.

Nothing from her Healer training to date could stop internal blood loss on that scale. Even a splint would not help. His femur was too badly shattered for her even to try realign its jagged fragments. Removing them was utterly beyond her capability.

The stag's head bobbed whilst Hermione was working Harry's throat. She looked up to find the animal staring intently over her shoulder, its pricked ears straight up. It was listening to, or for, something.

Hermione cocked her head, stared into the darkness, and listened. She heard it too. Someone, somewhere in the darkness was calling out a name…. Could it be Tonks, trying to find Mad-Eye?

At least somebody else was alive.

Whoever it was would have to wait. Harry needed her more.

She had no choice but to stabilise Harry immediately. At any moment, something else could happen. Just looking at him, Hermione could tell something already was. The golden Patronus-stag was starting to fade away - not all at once, but the antlers, feet, and tail were all markedly less visible. The beast's colour was becoming concentrated, pooling where Harry lay in contact with it. It was as if….

Yes! Harry was reconnecting with the magic around him. Evidently, he was reabsorbing the magical essence of what Hermione now knew had to be a remarkable Patronus - sufficiently unusual that none of her copious reading ever referenced anything like it.

She drew her wand and touched it to Harry's mangled hip. Concentrating, she dragged the tip around the region of greatest concern until she had outlined the entire area. Then she incanted, “Petrificus Ceteris.”

Nothing happened - but nothing was supposed to. Her spell simply froze everything in whatever place it was, so Harry could be moved, if necessary, without making his physical situation worse. But every treatment carried its own risks. If that spell were not removed soon, blood deprivation in the affected area could cause irreparable damage. In the worst case scenario, gangrene could take his leg. Given the alternative, even that was the lesser of two evils.

Unlike Luna, Harry had not gone into regular, non-magical shock. Hermione intended to keep it that way. The injuries he did have were bad enough.

Beyond Harry, Luna, and the slowly evaporating Patronus, all Hermione knew at the moment was that Death Eaters were conspicuous by their absence. Perhaps the goblins had put them to flight. For now, she did not care, as long as they stayed gone. She had two severely wounded people to care for and was hardly unscathed herself.

To be useful - Hermione always tried to be useful - she set to healing Harry's visible cuts.

Her isolation was brief.

Before she had finished with Harry's face, a familiar spell lit up the night. Overhead, Hermione saw the same Auror Assist signal that Mad-Eye used at the battle's start.

Backing slowly away from Harry, to avoid upsetting the steadily dwindling, but still substantial, gold-coloured Patronus, Hermione pointed her wand skyward and responded in kind.

A second crimson cross lit up the sky over Stonehenge.

That triggered everything.

Almost immediately the sound she had heard before - a coordinated shriek of innumerable voices - arose again.

“Ulululululu…!”

The goblins had been poised beyond the stone circle's perimeter - wary of whatever magic, quite probably hers, had concluded the battle. Whatever unknown Druid spell Luna had induced her to perform not only had struck the goblin army dumb but also stopped it in its tracks.

Until now.

Until the goblins recognised wizard activity, and therefore wizards, still present inside the circle.

Immediately, the goblin army resumed storming Stonehenge - now unopposed - since every single Death Eater and Triad defender had vanished, leaving only their dead behind. Goblins in their thousands swarmed across the vacant field of battle.

Suddenly victorious, the goblin warriors commenced their traditional practice of plundering everything in sight. That mostly meant stripping the corpses on the deserted battlefield. More fortunate units found themselves looting the abandoned tents of Voldemort's minions. Others rooted through the collapsed grandstand.

Soon the onrushing goblins encountered Hermione and her two charges.

Hermione did the only thing she could. Drawing herself up to full height, she faced the horde. Her wand crackled with magic, but she kept it pointed at the ground. Grimly, she set her jaw. For Harry, she had faced down Death Eaters. Now she would face down goblins, if necessary.

Fortunately - and fortune smiled with abnormal frequency upon her and her compatriots that night - things did not get that far.

The goblin infantry pulled up short. They were facing a witch clad in what was plainly goblin-forged Basilisk hide armour of the sort worn only by elite warriors. The focus of hundreds of pairs of intense goblin eyes, Hermione stood her ground resolutely and (outwardly) unafraid. A very long moment passed before the goblins noticed Harry Potter - their Prince and now their Deliverer of Victory - lying at her feet, his head on what appeared to be a golden pillow.

“Savini,” a familiar goblin voice rasped. Roxtar took two steps forward, dropped to his knees, and then onto his face.

Simultaneously, as if cut down by a great invisible scythe, every goblin in sight fell prostrate before her and their unconscious prince.

The goblins were thus positioned when, suddenly, they had company.

With a flash like a Muggle short circuit, a most windblown wizard popped into existence astride a broom that - to Hermione - was very familiar.

Throughout her goblin encounter, Hermione had kept her wand lowered to prevent any misimpression of hostile intent. At this unexpected intrusion, she instantly assumed a dueller's crouch. Likewise, the goblins hastily scrambled to their feet, welcoming the intruder with aggressive glances and threatening gestures. Indeed, a couple goblin bolts were cast at the wizard, but bounced harmlessly off his invisible shield.

Recognising the visitor, Hermione tersely ordered, “Stop!”

“Mannock, thank Merlin, somebody from the Ministry finally shows up! Where are the Aurors? The Hit Wizards? Anyone? I need help - please! They're hurt badly.” She gestured at the Harry's and Luna's unmoving bodies.

Reaching Stonehenge after a frantic flight, Mannock had expected - even hoped - to throw himself into a huge firefight against the Death Eaters. But excepting some jumpy goblins, things seemed calm enough.

Wary of the crowd of bellicose - if also exhausted and (all too often) wounded - goblins surrounding Hermione, Mannock addressed her whilst catching his breath. “Came from the Burrow…. Fred Weasley alerted us … said Deaters captured his brother…. Said you bunch of damn fools went to the rescue…. There's more on the way … but I outflew `em, it seems. Once I saw … Apparated the last klick or so…. Are you safe?”

“I seem to be….”

“She's safe,” another wizard's voice rang out.

Accompanied by the senior goblin officer, General Barduk, Kingsley Shacklebolt strode forward. Others trailed only a couple of steps behind….

“Professor Shacklebolt! Professor Flitwick! Oh, Merlin, Poppy!” Hermione greeted her relief frantically. “Thank Circe you're here! We need help! Harry's terribly hurt. Luna, too, and I don't know where the others are!”

Madam Pomfrey took one look at the pair at Hermione's feet and concluded that Harry was much worse off than Luna. “I'll have to conduct a field deboning,” she pronounced. “Otherwise, it won't be safe to move him….”

“I ... umm … cast Petrificus Ceteris on his...,” Hermione advised nervously, worried that she might have done something wrong. Much more than a N.E.W.T. grade rode on her efforts.

“How long ago?” Pomfrey's response was clipped, all business.

“Five … maybe ten minutes.”

Pomfrey nodded. “Good enough. Now please stand back and give me room.”

As the Hogwarts charge nurse went right to work, the others all started talking at once.

“….no idea what's going on…?”

“…afraid we'd find you all dead….”

“…not from Hogwarts, the wards were disrupted….”

“…who else is with you; are they alive…?”

“…and Mad-Eye, and Neville and George and….”

“…she's frantic. She'll be here soon, I'm sure….”

With everyone else on more familiar and better terms with Hermione, Mannock was being ignored. “Ahem, Miss Granger,” he said loudly. “If you don't mind, then, I'll be off to check on Auror Headquarters…. Don't think you need me here.”

“Oh, by all means,” she said to the Valkyrie-riding wizard, before her attention was again diverted.

Several goblins approached. This crew had been pillaging the Death Eater tents. They carried several red and white banners emblazoned with Chinese characters. The banners were on poles, and skewered atop each pole was a bloody, severed head with oriental features. Their prior owners were undoubtedly were recently deceased Triads.

“Oh, my,” Hermione squeaked. “Do you have to use their heads as decorations?”

“Savini,” General Barduk replied in a business-like manner. “If tell us can where you to be found is this Voldemort, gladly all these spoils to him return would we.”

“Oh,” she quailed at the thought. Such a gesture would be seen, and was undoubtedly intended, as a direct insult to the Dark wizard - practically daring him to attack again.

The goblins laid their gory souvenirs at Harry's feet.

Another pair of goblins unceremoniously dumped before Hermione the naked body of … Cho Chang. Although breathing, the woman had been stunned and then dragged halfway across the Stonehenge circle. Her feet were now cloven hooves. Battered and shriveled pinkish wings hung loosely from her back. A foul-smelling red and black burn marred her abdomen, completely obliterating the tattoo that had held her in thrall for so long.

“Does live this one,” one of the goblin braves informed Hermione. “No others … dead all.”

General Barduk stepped forward. He yanked a long, pointed dirk from his shoulder holster. Holding the dagger over his head with both hands, the growling goblin declared, “Succubus… To live we suffer not.”

“No!” Hermione screamed, as everyone else fell silent. “In Harry's name, I forbid it.”

General Barduk froze in mid-stroke. The blade's ivory handle firmly grasped in his clawed fingers, he regarded the Basilisk-clad consort of the Prince with considerable scepticism.

“She's every bit as much a victim as….”

POP!

Hermione whirled around to find a very tired and anxious looking Dumbledore. He had Apparated not ten metres away, side-alonging Remus Lupin. The Apparition-averse werewolf looked frantic rather than sick.

“Thanks be to Merlin,” the Headmaster wheezed. “I feared we would be too late. What has happened?”

“Victory,” declared General Barduk, sheathing his dirk. The goblin commander addressed his troops in Gobbledegook. Hundreds of goblins had gathered atop Stonehenge's broken and half-collapsed stones. They responded with a loud undulating cheer and noisily banged their weapons together.

Hermione did not know what General Barduk had said, but heard Harry's title distinctly mentioned least twice in the short address.

“Where are Tonks and Mad-Eye?” Remus urgently demanded. His yellowish eyes glanced this way and that and his nose urgently sniffed the air.

“No idea,” Hermione replied sadly. “I might have heard Tonks behind me, but they, Neville, Jazzy, and George are all unaccounted for. Oh, Merlin, did they all die? What did we lead them into?”

Her composure rapidly crumbling as her epinephrine ebbed, Hermione released a great sob. She dropped heavily to a sitting position, close to Madam Pomfrey, who was still trying to heal Harry's many injuries.

Lupin growled, “Dammit!” and bolted away, to begin a personal search for the missing.

The Headmaster watched him go. “I concur that locating the rest should be our first order of business,” he pronounced. “General Barduk, are your troops in condition to undertake a search and bring anyone you find - alive or dead - back here?”

General Barduk hesitated. He had known Dumbledore longer than any other wizard, but the Headmaster lacked authority to give such an order. Instead, the goblin officer looked to Hermione, whose head was still buried in her hands.

Almost embarrassed, the goblin general cautiously approached the distraught girl.

“Uhh … Savini,” he spoke softly as the clawtips reluctantly touched Hermione's arm. “For the rest … shall search we?”

Hermione's breath hitched as she realised the goblin general considered her to be Harry's second. Fighting back her tears, she nodded and choked out: “Yes.”

Even now, she had to be strong - for the both of them.

The general barked the command for a general search. Goblin braves began scrambling in all directions.

With the search underway, Dumbledore turned to other urgent business. “And how is our Mister Potter?” he inquired.

“Not good,” Madame Pomfrey responded from Harry's side. “He needs, I suppose, the Hospital Wing immediately - who knows where else is safe. His pelvis and right leg require immediate and complete reboning. Miss Lovegood and Miss Chang also require prompt attention, and Miss Granger has obvious spell damage to her right wrist. Albus, can you assist with this, and obtain the services of a Healer who's actually reboned a pelvis before…?”

“Certainly,” Dumbledore agreed. He carefully Levitated Harry. “He seems too badly injured to Apparate. My dear Barduk, may I borrow one of your fliers for Mister Potter? And Kingsley, can you please side-along Miss Granger to Hogwarts…?”

“No. I'm … I'm not leaving until everyone I came with is accounted for,” Hermione tremulously, but firmly, announced. “Harry wouldn't if he were in my shoes.”

The Headmaster might have tried to convince her otherwise, but at that moment Molly and Arthur Weasley Apparated in. Dumbledore could only attend to so many things at once. Understanding what had happened…. Harry's injuries … and Luna's…. The mystery of Cho Chang…. Goblins occupying Stonehenge….

Relatively speaking, trying to convince a very headstrong, emotionally fragile, and comparatively not badly injured witch to leave this place - where she had surely earned another Order of Merlin - ranked quite low in the hierarchy of matters that currently demanded the Headmaster's attention.

Hermione was, again, true to her word.

* * * *

The cold winter gale howled. Icy spindrift and stinging pellets of airborne salt blasted the shoreline, ripped from the raging waves that crashed against the rocky coast.

To the east, the inky blackness of the long midwinter night began its fade to deepest purple, heralding the eventual dawn of the new day. Presently, the third-quarter moon, high overhead, shown brightly through scudding, broken clouds. In its pale light, the natural ramparts, cresting one-hundred fifty metres or more above the roiling sea, shone ghostly white. Beyond the surf, a Muggle lighthouse rhythmically pierced the darkness.

But the Muggles' efforts seemed trite to the solitary soul waiting at the base of the forbidding cliffs. To brace himself against the whipping wind, he leaned against a half-rusted-out railing that protruded from an eroded concrete breakwater. Clad completely in black, he stared out to sea - alone on a lee shore with his wintry thoughts.

As a wizard, he could easily have parried the wind-driven ice and salt that battered his face. He chose otherwise. A Warming Charm would have countered the subfreezing gusts, but he was content to expose himself to the elements. His mood was as icy as the weather. His only concession to the environment was a Protego shield against occasional chunks of flint that the elements tore from the overhanging escarpment and gravity sent crashing randomly to the rocks below.

Finally, he heard a resounding CRACK completely unlike any rockfall.

“Albus,” the gaunt, black-haired man greeted the arrival without turning his head. “I see my message reached you.”

“Severus,” the white-haired newcomer put a hand on his agent's back. “It did indeed. Against the chance that you remained behind, I checked thoroughly. Why the haste?”

“The Dark Lord suffered a significant defeat tonight,” came the reply. “His disarray provided … an opportunity.”

“A propitious occasion, indeed,” Dumbledore agreed. “But at my age, I require more inviting accommodations.”

“Inside, then?” Snape shrugged. He turned and silently cast a spell. A battered cast-iron plate moved to one side with an earsplitting screech as it slid across the rock. The pair entered one of the many tunnels that honeycombed Beachy Head's seemingly solid mass.

Safely inside, the two men lit their wands and conjured furniture of their choice. “Why such a dramatic setting, Severus?” The Headmaster broke the silence.

Snape could (or would) not repress a sneer as he answered, “The Ministry's surveillance of Apparition is deficient. It ends at the top of the cliffs, not at the base. We will be undetected here.”

“Ah yes,” Dumbledore acknowledged, running his good hand through his beard. “Another of the Ministry's security failings. And what of Tom Riddle?”

“He lives, that is all I can deduce with confidence,” Snape divulged. He pulled back his sleeve. “My Dark Mark is intact, not faded as before. Where he is now, I do not know. Everyone vanished.”

“Vanished?” echoed the Headmaster.

“Correct … gone, at least from Stonehenge. Does Potter have the slightest idea what he bumbled into tonight?” Snape asked bluntly, foregoing further pleasantries.

“As he has yet to regain consciousness from his injuries, I rather doubt it,” the Headmaster replied. “Perhaps you could enlighten me. All manner of wild rumours are circulating.”

“I shall tell you what I know, and then what I suspect,” Snape began, a typically testy look screwed firmly onto his face.

“Excellent,” Dumbledore agreed. “At this point all I know with certainty is that, somehow, Mister Potter and a few friends fought a thousand or more Death Eaters and Triad wizards and ultimately emerged victorious.”

“Nonsense,” Snape sneered. “The goblins defeated them, not Potter.”

“The goblins would disagree,” the Headmaster corrected. “Indeed, they do. What little I know comes primarily from goblin sources.”

“Potter fell off his broom,” countered Snape. “Whatever happened - whatever vanished hundreds of Dark minions whilst leaving me behind - he could not possibly have done it.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore sighed, as perplexed as Snape. “Perhaps you should begin at the beginning.”

“Perhaps I should,” Snape agreed. “The gathering that Potter and company encountered was supposed to be the Dark Lord's wedding party.”

A pause. Staring down his half-moon glasses, Dumbledore gave the former professor an appraising look. “Tom? Marriage? You are sure?”

“Absolutely. I personally brewed potions to support the consummation.”

“Potions?” Dumbledore's eyebrows rose further.

“Yes, potions,” Snape repeated as if it were obvious. “He needed potions, but in the end the Dark Lord would have outsmarted himself.”

Intrigued, the Headmaster asked, “How so?”

“The Love Potion he requested would have cancelled out the Fertility Potion, thus aborting, so to speak, the purpose of the entire enterprise.”

“And that was?” Dumbledore prompted.

“Purely dynastic, of course,” Snape sneered. “The Dark Lord, particularly in his condition, could hardly consummate a marriage in the same fashion as anyone else.”

“No, I suppose not,” the Headmaster agreed. “So who was the lucky lady?”

“One of your current students, Cho Chang,” Snape revealed archly, “as a succubus. Ronald Weasley was to play the victim necessary to complete that process. Chang…. I assume she is dead now.”

“You assume wrongly, Severus,” Dumbledore chided. “She survived.”

Snape's eyebrows rose in scepticism. “The goblins did not kill her?”

“Evidently not,” the Headmaster answered. “I have her at the Castle.”

“I strongly recommend isolating her for at least forty-eight hours, until she regains responsibility for … her actions,” Snape declared, looking more than usually disagreeable.

“Most assuredly she will remain in seclusion much longer,” Dumbledore assured. “You seem rather familiar with this potion - which, by the way, Madame Pomfrey did not detect when she took the girl away.”

“It was … a failed experiment,” Snape chose his words carefully, “designed to be undetectable. But no Love Potion is perfect. It had … other failings - inexplicable locational limitations … and libidinal issues upon withdrawal.”

This time Dumbledore's eyebrows rose. “This was your devel…?”

“For reasons already known to you,” Snape quickly cut the Headmaster off. “But I did not discover these failings initially. When I did, I binned the entire project.”

“Am I correct to assume that had you succeeded, Mister Potter would never have been conceived?” the Headmaster inquired elliptically.

Snape looked pained. “Must we again regurgitate this?” he growled. “It was a failed, abandoned experiment. I tried telling you when I realised it could be relevant. Did you not get my owl?”

“No, I certainly knew nothing of your extracurricular activity,” Dumbledore answered. “My immediate concern is how much potion does Voldemort retain?”

“From the quantity of ingredients I was ordered to obtain, little or none,” Snape answered, looking somewhat less disgruntled. “He could brew enough for one person, and a bit extra, but nothing more. I'll find a better way to inform you if the Dark Lord requests more ingredients.”

“Very well, back to the event Mister Potter prevented,” Dumbledore commented, content to let the prior subject drop.

“Potter and that `Dumbledore's Army' of his, Weasley, and now Chang…. I'd recommend a bit stricter supervision of … student extracurricular activities.” Snape made no attempt to disguise the disapproval spilling savagely from his lips.

A very weary Hogwarts Headmaster kneaded his brow with his one capable hand. “You are right; I suspected as much….”

“Then pray tell, why didn't you prevent it?” Snape hissed.

“My suspicions were belated,” Dumbledore confessed. “I failed Miss Chang, then - and the rest as well. As students in my charge, none should have had to experience such a thing. Once I received Mister Potter's owl, I feared I would be too late, and I was.”

“Indeed, you were,” Snape nastily agreed. “Throughout the battle I expected you to appear and save Potter's hide as before. Where could you have been, if even Apparition were too slow?”

Dumbledore fumed. “In Tabriz. Ironically, I was travelling to China to meet about this very thing, when a Blackwalls international fast owl intercepted us.”

“Us?” Snape's eyebrows arched.

“Remus had encountered the wand prints of the White Lotus Triad previously, whilst investigating Tom's finances. Somehow Mister Potter obtained information concerning Mister Chang, and contacted my friend Kung Meng-tse, who concluded that Mister Chang is that triad's overlord. Lao Kung is too ill to travel, so we took advantage of the holiday to visit him.” Anguish showed in the Headmaster's eyes. “Some advantage that turned out to be.”

“Such irony,” Snape added with a bitter laugh. “Without Granger's help, Potter couldn't think his way through a first-year logic problem. Now, the same discovery that loosed Potter to play hero again left you unable to rescue him.”

“That was no play, Severus - he was a genuine hero tonight, they all were.” Dumbledore spoke in a tone that told Snape he was on thin ice. “But simply put, if we had all been paying better attention, we could well have prevented this.”

“I find that questionable,” Snape disagreed. “The Dark Lord kept this event quite confidential. Even I was mistaken about the reason for the potions he demanded until earlier this evening. The full scope of his ambitions is still not entirely clear.”

“But if the wedding was to be a dynastic arrangement,” Dumbledore sought confirmation. “Why a succubus?”

“As we've discussed, the Dark Lord's original return was botched when Potter survived that ritual,” Snape recounted sourly. “Among other things his fertility is questionable. Conversely, succubi are quite fecund after one of their blood feasts.”

“That is contrary to popular conceptions,” Dumbledore cautioned.

“It is,” Snape concurred, “but the popular view is false, as succubical instincts are more cannibalistic than maternalistic. With sufficiently Dark mates, they breed readily, which I believe my potions were intended to exploit. With Love and Fertility Potions for her, and a double dose of the latter for him, I've no doubt that the Dark Lord intended to conceive an heir tonight. But this particular Love Potion had contraceptive properties. Thank Merlin he failed, and evil did not beget evil.”

“Merlin is long dead,” the Headmaster reminded. “Mister Potter's band and a goblin army accomplished the feat.”

Snape's lips quivered at yet another mention of that name, but he did not comment. “I've told you what I know. What I suspect is worse. I believe, from several opportunistic Legilimency efforts and from the initial absence of Lestrange and certain others, that the Dark Lord intended a takeover of the Ministry itself - a putsch.”

Dumbledore nodded. “That, I can confirm,” he said very gravely. “I have not told anyone, lest panic ensue, but Tom came appallingly close to succeeding. Shortly after my belated arrival, a distress signal arose from the Salisbury Auror facility. With matters well in hand at Stonehenge, I answered that call. Everyone in the building, the entire changeover squad, had been massacred, save Colin Creevey. Floo connexions into the Ministry, but not from it, were wide open, presumably to facilitate entry by intruders. But we found only one Death Eater - the seriously injured Antonin Dolohov.”

“Dolohov? Are you certain?” a transparently disbelieving Snape inquired.

“I saw him myself, yes,” Dumbledore declared.

“Because he wasn't at Stonehenge, I suspected something greater was being planned,” Snape indicated. “But the Dark Lord used my Mark during the battle to recall those who were missing. Afterwards, I personally saw Dolohov, as well as Malfoy, Lestrange, and Greyback, join the battle….”

“Interesting,” Dumbledore murmured, his expression thoughtful. “It did seem odd. Dolohov's injuries were consistent with goblin, not Auror weaponry, and there was far too little blood about his body to account for his very serious injuries.”

“His interrogation should prove interesting,” Snape observed.

“Quite,” the Headmaster affirmed. “I have … umm … acquiesced in his extraordinary rendition to goblin custody. His suspected involvement in quite a number of misdeeds will be….” Dumbledore stopped in midsentence. His Order shoulder amulet had gone off. He cocked his head towards the affected shoulder, and his expression went from quizzical to pale over the course of a short conversation.

“I am sorry, Severus, I must be off,” the Headmaster declared. “I have to attend to yet another crisis.”

“What now?” Snape asked; disappointment evident in his voice.

“Whilst all this was going on, it appears that someone has burnt Grimmauld Place to the ground,” Dumbledore revealed, “…with Fiendfyre.”

* * * *

Draco Malfoy had always slept soundly at Malfoy Manor. Now being Lord of the manor, with its wards and other security apparatus at his command, only accentuated that tendency.

He was having a relatively pleasant dream, for once, about Daphne Greengrass, some chocolate candles, a pair of silver hand-cuffs, and a very large pool of….

CRACK!!

Draco awoke with a start. “What the…? Father! What are you…?”

Lucius Malfoy, looking distinctly tired and disoriented, had just Apparated in, popping into existence at the foot of his son's palatial four-poster bed.

“Whilst you fill my shoes admirably,” Lucius drawled, “the wards still recognise me. As I certainly mean you no harm, they allowed me entrance.”

Draco bounded out of bed to greet the man he had not really met (except briefly, in custody) since the last spring holiday. It was awkward. “Father, I'm just … glad to see you … finally….”

Lucius ignored his son's proffered hand, took a great step forward and enveloped him in a warm embrace. “You've … done very well, my son,” he said, choking with emotion. “Very well, indeed….”

Malfoys never cried. Draco no longer even knew how. The elder had driven that rule home to the younger since - since before Draco could remember. But if either of them could have gone teary-eyed, they would have, on the occasion of this reunion.

Lucius seemed to have aged ten years. The ravages of Azkaban did that to a man. For the next several minutes Lucius praised Draco's actions as he understood them - working his way into the Dark Lord's confidence, saving the family's fortune, rebuilding the Manor. Draco had done everything the older man could not do whilst a fugitive from the Ministry. “How did you manage it?” he closed.

Whilst Lucius was his father, that question trenched upon secret matters between Draco and the Dark Lord. If the Dark Lord had not seen fit to take Lucius into his confidence, it would be dangersome for Draco to let anything slip. He demurred with a smile, “You'd be the first to tell me not to answer. If the Dark Lord wanted you to know, he'd have told you. And what brings you here … tonight?”

“Chaos,” was Lucius' terse reply. His son's look of incomprehension made that answer all the more satisfying. “Both sides are in chaos at the moment, the Ministry and the Death Eaters. Tonight, the Ministry was very nearly overthrown. The Dark Lord played them for fools. If all had gone as planned, the Ministry would have been ours by sunrise, and I could have returned here in broad daylight.”

With every word, Draco eyes grew wider. He knew that the Dark Lord compartmentalised - that plenty was afoot amongst the Death Eaters that he, Draco, knew nothing about. But something this huge? “What … what was supposed to happen?” he stammered.

That question was met by Lucius' thoughtful expression, and then a sly grin.

“I see I'm the first to tell you. If the Dark Lord meant for you to know, I suppose he would have cut you in,” Lucius quoted his son's words back to him. “What you need to know is that the operative word is `almost.' Suffice it to say that Potter and a mob of goblins tossed a Bludger into the works. I don't know the beginning, because my mission was different, but after spending more time than is preferable with a smelly, uncouth werewolf, we were re-summoned by the Dark Lord.”

“Summoned?” Draco mouthed dispassionately. “You mean you weren't with him?”

“No, I was assigned a special mission; awaiting a signal which never came. I returned when called, and fought alongside the Dark Lord until … something happened, and I was involuntarily cast back to where I'd been. We were in shock. Such magic is unknown. So taking advantage of the chaos, I decided to come here - to give you a warning.”

Draco's face creased into a frown. “What warning would that be? Certainly, nothing can be traced to my wand.”

“The Ministry are fools,” Lucius scoffed. “You need be on guard for the Dark Lord. Tonight's debacle … he has nobody to blame but himself - save Potter, goblin rabble, and Merlin knows what that ended it all. You need to watch yourself. The Dark Lord was already far too fixated upon Potter than was wise, and I can only imagine how he will react. I shall not inquire as to your role, but be on guard; plainly you're his inside man at Hogwarts….”

“I'll not hear of this, Father,” Draco interrupted testily. “Loyalty to the Dark Lord is paramount….”

“You're a Malfoy,” Lucius declared, his voice regaining its patrician tone of old. “First and foremost, and I'll not have you forget it.” Draco lapsed into silence, so Lucius continued lecturing. “You must see that you're not sacrificed on some fool's errand of revenge against Potter at the Castle. If the Dark Lord requires cannon fodder, let him use Crabbe, Goyle, or Nott….”

“They're all dead,” Draco informed his father. “I used them as cannon fodder,” he emphasised, “in order to win your release from Azkaban.” That Lucius' freedom had been achieved by playing the Dark Lord and Dumbledore against one another went unspoken. Loyalty was a limited resource.

Lucius would not be diverted. “Well, use someone, anyone else - perhaps that Parkinson cow who's lusted after the Malfoy name practically since she could walk.”

“Don't worry on that score,” Draco reassured. “I'm covering my tracks.”

“Good,” the long-time Death Eater pronounced. “See that you keep at it.”

* * * *

“…Well, son, you're fading out. You've survived again, it seems. Do try to be more careful, won't you?”

“I'll try, Dad, but like Dumbledore says, I have to go with what's right over what's easy.”

“I'm very proud of you, Harry; we all are.”

“I love you too, Mum.”

“Thanks again, Harry. I'll always be in your debt - and so will Cho.”

“Cedric, you're dead because of me. You owe me nothing….”

“Only a wizard debt….”

And so, Harry Potter returned to the land of the living.

A faint groan heralded his re-emergence, and a largely failed attempt to move - unsuccessful save a twitch in his right arm.

It was enough. He felt his hand being squeezed in response.

“Oh, Harry … thank Merlin! You've made it!” relief was almost tangible in that familiar voice.

His eyes fluttered open, and Harry stared into the most beautiful dark russet orbs he could imagine. Everything else was hazy, muddled by his still faltering consciousness, but those eyes - they blazed with unmistakable clarity.

“Hermione,” he tried, not sure whether he could speak. “Are we alive?”

Feeling her hands cup his face, Harry realised he was supine, looking up at her. Her hair tickled his chin. “Yes, we are,” she confirmed emphatically. “It still astounds me - but yes.”

He started to ask, “Where are…?”

She answered before he finished. “The Hospital Wing; look around.”

“I don't want … to look anywhere else, just yet,” he mumbled, drinking in her soft, affection-filled features.

“Oh….”

She lowered her lips to his and kissed him. It commenced tentatively, as if she worried he would break. But soon she poured the full measure of her pent up emotions into their kiss. The doubts and fears of the past several hours resolved. Her tormented bedside vigil, hoping, almost praying, that he would come back to her, had ended.

Harry responded as best he could. His head slowly rocking back and forth, he found his own solace. He had been so afraid she would die. Clumsily, he raised the one arm he could move and rested it on her heaving shoulders, slowly caressing her.

For Hermione, it was a moment of pure bliss, until he froze abruptly. Harry's his breath whistled tensely between his teeth. She backed away and immediately saw dread in his eyes.

“Hermione,” he whispered. “Please, the truth…. Am I … am I … paralysed? I can't … feel anything … down there.”

He was serious.

“Oh, Merlin, no, Harry. You were very badly hurt. Your pelvis and right femur are being reboned. Healer Huxley Charmed you, to keep you still and because the regrowth is very uncomfortable. You won't be able to move or … um … anything else for the rest of today, at least.”

“Bugger,” Harry sighed wearily. “You seemed interested.”

“Extremely,” she confirmed, kissing him again to demonstrate her desire. “Survival may be the ultimate aphrodisiac. But rules are rules,” she matched his sigh. “And Healer Huxley knows what he's doing.”

Harry looked up at her, smiling again, his relief unmistakable. “Then, I guess I'm going to be okay.”

Hermione treated his statement as a question. “I can't answer that, but Healer Huxley can, and I'm sure he's monitoring your talismans. I'll get him for you….”

But before Hermione could turn away, Harry grasped her hand, silently asking her to stay. His serious, haunted look had returned. “Before … before you go…,” he began haltingly, “I need to know…. Did we rescue Ron?”

Hermione's smile telegraphed her answer. “Yes, Luna managed to haul him out before he suffered any permanent injuries. He's here, with his family.”

“So he's okay, then?” Harry asked hopefully.

“Minor, reversible potions damage only,” Hermione explained. “And quite a fright, of course.”

“How minor?” Harry followed, fixated on Ron's condition.

“Umm … his problem is pretty much the opposite of yours,” Hermione told him. To ensure Harry understood, she gently cupped his insensate organ through the sheets and his hospital robes.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Damn, I never thought envy him over something like that.”

Hermione shook her head. “Well, he was going to mate a succubus….”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I was pretty lame. But if I could, there's something I would want right about now.”

“You and me both,” Hermione agreed. Grasping his near hand, she placed it intimately. “I could really use some entirely mindless pleasure - just not to have to think about things.”

Harry groaned, his face falling as he drew back his arm. “Oh, Merlin - we lost someone, didn't we…? More…?”

He looked ready to cry, or worse. Hermione retrieved his hand. Comforting him as best she could, she nodded.

“Was it … Neville?” Harry asked, afraid of the answer. “He vanished early on.”

“No,” Hermione replied almost before Harry finished. Relieved to convey a bit of good news before disclosing the inevitable, she told him, “Neville was buried in rubble, but Dobby was with him and saved him from being crushed to death. He's here, too, having a shoulder reboned and reconstructed.”

Harry almost seemed not to hear. “I should never have let Jazzy convince me to let her come….”

Harry was quickly plummeting into one of his self-blaming moods. “No, Harry, it was Mad-Eye,” she cut off further speculation. “A Death Eater took out his good leg with some Blasting Curse, and then somebody AKed him.”

Shaking his head slowly, Harry dragged his hand to his forehead. Down came his Occlumency shields. His voice thick, Harry mourned his guardian's passing. “Dammit!” Harry cursed. “I should never have let him fight without any potion…. Tonks, too….?”

“Dammit, yourself, Harry!” Hermione raised her voice for the first time. “You didn't let Mad-Eye do anything. You couldn't. You answered to him; he certainly took no orders from you. He bloody well refused that potion! I won't have you blaming yourself for Mad-Eye Moody dying the way he always wanted - in battle….” Then she added, “And Tonks … she's not dead….”

Harry could tell from both the tenor of Hermione's voice and the look in her eyes that, whilst not dead, Tonks was hardly unscathed. “What happened to her?” he tremulously asked.

Hermione shook her head. “Harry, if you're just going to blame yourself for what happened to trained Aurors whose job is to fight Death Eaters, then somebody else can tell you. I'll just go get….”

“No, Hermione, you're right.” Harry refused to let go of her hand, pinning it to his cheek. In a moment, he started breathing more easily. “It isn't my fault, and I'd rather have you tell me….”

Hermione had doubts whether to believe that herself - let alone whether Harry believed it - but he wanted her to stay, so she would. “Werewolf bites, bad ones,” she told him. “We assume Greyback, because the moon wasn't full. She's with Remus right now…. And two of the goblins who came along also died.”

“Who?”

“You don't know them very well, I think. Azdak and Fozfor were their names. Every one of our group was hurt to some degree, but the rest survived. Here, see my wrist,” she showed Harry her now largely healed wound. “Fortunately, nothing else permanent … well, except for George. He lost most of an ear…. And then there's Cho.”

Harry's eyes blinked in frank disbelief. “We saved … Cho?”

“She's every bit the victim Ron was,” Hermione briskly replied. “I'm sure of it. They can reverse most of her partial succubus metamorphosis, but her feet are probably lost causes.”

“How do…?”

That question was interrupted by the rustling of the privacy curtain. “Hermione, is Harry awake in there? His talismans suggest he is. He really should be seen….”

It was Hlr. Huxley.

And he was right.

Harry's injuries, although no longer life-threatening, were extensive, serious, and required close medical attention. Pelvic reboning was tricky and uncommon and took longer to heal than Harry's prior treatments.

With a deflated, “yes,” Hermione bowed to the inevitable. Alone time with Harry was not to be - until Merlin knew when.

In bustled the Healer with an offhand, “Glad to see I'm not interrupting anything,” quip that fell quite flat. He plopped his black leather bag at the foot of Harry's bed. Out came a large blue crystal mounted on an ebonywood handle. Carefully, he passed it over Harry from head to foot, moving particularly slowly over the area of the reboning. All the while, he good-naturedly lectured his patient.

“Harry, I'm removing the Paraplegius so I can continue the examination,” Hlr. Huxley explained. “Try to not move when I do, please.”

“I'll try,” Harry consented. “You scared me … I thought I'd been paralysed.”

“Well, Harry, all things considered, it could have been worse,” Hlr. Huxley commented. “A quarter turn in the wrong direction and you'd never walk again. Indeed, you're most fortunate still to be with us. Fractures like yours…. They frequently sever blood vessels large enough to bleed out before the fastest emergency Healing - but you hit whatever you hit at just the right angle to avoid fatal hemorrhage.”

“All of us … at least those with a chance of recovering … took Felix Felicis,” Harry wearily pointed out.

“So your ladyfriend informed me,” Hlr. Huxley answered in the same non-judgmental vein. “Good stuff, that….” He pulled out a second crystal - this one orange, with a solid gold handle on either side - and began another pass. “Putting that aside, you and that other girl….”

“Luna Lovegood,” Hermione offered.

“…were both damn lucky that this one had the presence of mind to pack some Phoenix Tear Extract….”

Hermione blinked. Presence of mind? Was that some kind of joke? Absence of mind was closer to the truth. The Extract was left over from that bollixed rescue mission. With everything else that had happened - her search for Harry, and then nearly dying - she had forgotten its existence, pure and simple.

“…since you managed - again - to overtax your magic to the point of losing contact with the Field. As we've already discussed, you're bloody powerful - but not that powerful….”

Hlr. Huxley put his probe away and flicked his wand. A multicoloured ribbon emerged from the tip. “Speaking of magic; now for a MAT scan….” The Healer spread the ribbon on the bedsheet at Harry's feet, produced something resembling a Foeglass, and twiddled a couple of its dials. With the device tuned, the Healer flicked his wand again. Of its own accord, the ribbon rolled slowly upwards, undulating and moulding itself to Harry's bodily contours as it flowed over him.

“…What did you do this time?” Hlr. Huxley inquired, keeping his eyes on the screen. “From all accounts, it was most impressive….”

Hermione's ears perked up. She would like to know what happened, too.

“It was … Voldemort,” Harry began slowly, “and…. Oh, Hermione! I did it! It worked!!” Like throwing a switch, he had become most excited.

“I said, don't move,” Hlr. Huxley warned, laying his hand heavily on the boy's left shoulder.

“Did what, Harry?” Hermione really wanted to know.

“The Bose-Einstein stuff,” Harry enthusiastically explained. “I made it … to save you from Voldemort's Killing Curse. It worked!”

This was news - great news - to Hermione. “When? How?”

Harry paused and readied himself. Much of his memory was unpleasant. “You and, I guess, Luna were … hiding under an Invisibility Cloak, but it came partially off. Voldemort saw you, and Lestrange, too, at the same time. I couldn't get to you, so with no other option, I used the spell I'd been practising. It was that, or well….” Harry paused again.

The alternative would have vapourised not only Voldemort and Hermione both, but all of Stonehenge together with several surrounding kilometres.

“And it really worked?” Hermione eagerly asked, until she realised how stupid that sounded. “I mean, of course, it worked. I'm here, aren't I?”

“I wasn't sure, but I had to try,” Harry declared. “I cast it just after Voldemort slammed me into one of those big stones - that's what broke everything down there. Something turned aside the Killing Curse he shot at you. It must have been the Bose-Einstein stuff. I was lucky, too, since Lestrange used a Cruciatus rather than another AK….”

Hermione jumped in, shocked. “Lucky? You're saying you created enough condensate to stop a Killing Curse whilst also fending off a Cruciatus? Harry, that's amazing! That probably took as much energy as … well, what happened before.”

Harry did not follow. “Umm … I guess so. But the Cruciatus, it's weaker, I think….”

Hermione warmed to the subject, whilst Hlr. Huxley stayed silent, concluding the MAT scan with the multi-coloured ribbon producing images on the screen. “The Cruciatus isn't at all like the Killing Curse,” she pointed out. “The AK kills by removing energy; shutting down respiration. Bose-Einstein condensate doesn't have any energy left to remove, so an AK only increases the size of the condensate. But the Cruciatus is the opposite. It imparts energy, lots of it, to stimulate every pain receptor in your body. To create … to remove enough energy to keep the condensate at essentially absolute zero even with a Cruciatus adding energy - why you must have used as much power as … the last time. No wonder you exhausted yourself.”

“We already knew Harry was remarkable,” Hlr. Huxley broke his silence. “It's not easy to talk over my head, but you've been doing so since this condensate stuff came up. How about a simple question? What does it look like?”

Harry eyed Hermione quizzically. She responded with a shoulder shrug. “Umm … I don't remember it looking like anything at all,” Harry admitted. “I saw just the AK disappearing and then deflecting at an odd angle…. In between was totally black.”

“That's not surprising,” Hermione suggested. “Since this condensate has no energy, it hasn't any light to emit or reflect….”

“That would make it black, all right,” Hlr. Huxley observed. “But Poppy and Filius saw how it ended - anything but black, that. You needn't be so modest, Harry, at least amongst present company….”

“But I didn't see it end,” Harry denied. “The last thing I saw was the AK stopped. Then I passed out.”

“What did they see?” Hermione asked. “I didn't see it either.”

“Poppy described a white magic eruption, painfully bright to look at. It went so high she couldn't see the top….” Hlr. Huxley extended his hands above his head for emphasis.

Harry gave Hermione a more pointed, less quizzical look, which Hlr. Huxley, involved with answering the question, missed.

“…Filius said he nearly fell over backwards. Brilliantly white magic shot up like the Eiffel Tower, only brighter and much taller. Great shock and awe … impressive enough to deter the entire goblin army from a battle - and they do love their battles. The goblins weren't sure at first that anything could have survived. They likened it to what happened the last time you escaped the Death Eaters … only more controlled….”

Harry heard all this, but was no closer to understanding than before.

`Do you have any idea what he's on about?' Hermione felt Harry Legilimence to her.

`Not really,' she silently answered. `Some suspicions … but I'd best try to find out.'

`You'd best. I know it wasn't me.'

“…After the thing collapsed back onto itself, the goblins weren't sure what to do until they concluded wizards were still inside. They charged in and found Hermione tending you and the Lovegood girl.”

Hlr. Huxley finished his vivid description standing and stayed on his feet. “Harry, the magical examination indicates you're well on the road to recovery. The MAT scan shows all fractures mending and cessation of internal bleeding. To determine when you can get out of bed, I need to check your physical condition.” He started to lower the sheet covering Harry, but hesitated with Hermione present.

“Harry, do you mind, with her here?”

“No, it's not like….”

“Actually, now would be an excellent time to get some other things done,” Hermione interjected hastily. “Tell me when it's over, and I'll be back.” She strode to the exit flap in the privacy barrier. Reaching it, she turned around, and Legilimenced, in her most prim and proper voice, `After all, I can do without any more sexual frustration.'

* * * *

Hermione slipped noiselessly through another privacy barrier. Her brown eyes immediately met the occupant's silvery ones. “I expected to see you before too long,” Luna remarked lazily. “Oh, and thanks for binding me up out there. I'm told I might otherwise have lost the leg.”

That slowed Hermione. “Oh, you're welcome … I hadn't heard that….”

But Hermione would not be denied when she needed information. She produced her wand and both sealed and Imperturbed Luna's sick room.

“Luna, I need to know exactly what….”

“Aren't you forgetting something?” Luna's sing-song voice interrupted.

“Oh, I suppose so,” Hermione replied thoughtfully. “Surveillius revelato.” Nothing glowed. The area was clean. “Wait a minute…. How did you know I knew that spell?”

“I didn't…. I guessed.” Luna responded with a knowing laugh. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“Then presumably you also know why I'm here,” Hermione bore in.

“Of course,” Luna replied, her expression turning serious. “You want to know how you ended the Battle of Stonehenge.”

“How I ended…?” Hermione spluttered. “You can't be serious. Luna, what was that spell?”

“It was an ancient Druid spell - maybe three thousand years old. It's a ritual used to cleanse evil, or Dark magic if you will, from our nemetons….”

“And Stonehenge was a Druid temple,” Hermione added. To that extent, she now knew where this was going.

“Stonehenge was, and is, the greatest Druid temple - in England anyway,” Luna corrected.

“But why me?” Hermione pressed. “Wait, you needed my searching ability, to connect you to the blue stone, that gnomon-cenotaph, I think you called it that night.”

“That, but not just that, actually,” Luna corrected. “I didn't connect to anything. You did. It had to be you. Whilst I knew the spell, I couldn't do it. Only you, because only you could command the stone's power. It was once Stonehenge's altar.”

The more Luna explained, the less Hermione felt she knew. Luna's discussion created so many questions that Hermione was unsure where to begin. Luna just smiled, no doubt amused at the perplexed expression on her friend's face.

Hermione opted to start with something she thought safe.

“But why would you know ancient spells you couldn't perform?”

“Almost two thousand years of Druid tradition,” Luna answered. “The Romans, they conquered us because … well, for a lot of reasons, but the immediate cause was their killing our High Priestess and all her attendants. We selected another High Priestess, but before we could consecrate her properly, the Roman army swept over us. We were leaderless. We had no trained virgins….”

“Virgins? What does that have to do with anything?” Hermione interrupted. “I don't see where this is going.” She wished her question had been more precise.

“Please be patient, I'm getting there,” Luna hushed her. “The attendants must be virgins, as purity is essential to consecration. They must also offer the spells, so they must know them. For lack of proper attendants, we were defeated….”

“So?” Hermione asked in her annoyed voice. “You mean like Japanese miko?”

“Uh … I can't say. But amongst the Druids, it was thus decreed that all female Druid children should learn the spells,” Luna went on. “So we could act as proper attendants on a moment's notice, if the need arose. That's why I knew….”

Regardless of her question, Hermione was not getting a useful answer. Luna could be as elliptical as Dumbledore.

“Then why couldn't you use it?” Hermione tried to get back to something concrete. “I mean, you're still … umm … aren't you…?”

Luna laughed a lovely tinkling little laugh. “I'm still a virgin, if that's what you're asking. But virginity alone doesn't mean I can wield that spell. I can't order a cleansing of the great Stonehenge nemeton. I'm just the attendant….”

The penny dropped. Hermione was stunned. “But I'm not…. I can't be…. I-I don't believe in any god, let alone dozens. I'm not even a Druid, for goodness sake, or a virgin.”

“You were when it counted. Now it doesn't matter,” Luna declared with finality. “The magic, the Dynion Mwyn, flows through you. Last night you proved it.”

“But … why?” Hermione gave up.

“When you needed to find Harry, you had me learn that set of spells. One of them, the Psycho Patefacius, originally had another use. In original Keltoi, it was our consecration spell for Druid High Priestesses….”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Hermione demanded.

“It didn't seem to matter,” Luna shrugged. “I didn't know if the Latin translation would have the same effect, and in any event, a High Priestess couldn't be properly consecrated, except on the gnomon-cenotaph, which had gone missing many centuries earlier.”

“Then we go to the Founder's Chamber, and there it is,” Hermione reminded her. “Why not tell me then?”

Luna cocked her head, eyeing Hermione sceptically. “That's not a serious question.”

Hermione briefly returned a hard stare, until sighing and averting her eyes. “You're right. In that situation such a distraction might have been fatal. It certainly would have disrupted my search for Harry. I can't blame you for keeping mum.”

“Actually, I was so amazed just to see the great blue stone, that until Dumbledore recited the spell, I'd quite forgotten,” Luna admitted. “After that, you were searching, and then you almost died…. No proper occasion occurred. And until recently, even with proper sanctification, you couldn't exercise the powers of the office, in which you would act as mother of our tribe….”

“You would have to put it that way,” Hermione groaned, her face dropping into her hands. “I didn't seek this out….”

“And Harry didn't seek out Voldemort,” Luna reminded. “It happened. Face it, you're Aima now. Don't be so upset; we Druids aren't so bad - we don't require celibacy…. Besides, the position allowed you to end the battle and defeat the Death Eaters, without you, Harry … or me for that matter, getting killed.”

“Actually, we almost did get killed,” Hermione pointed out. Then she told Luna about Harry and the Bose-Einstein condensate.

“Well, that was pretty impressive,” Luna agreed upon learning that Harry had been able to deflect the Killing Curse.

“I gather we were too,” Hermione commented dryly. “What exactly did that spell of yours do?”

“I've no idea,” Luna conceded in her usual airy fashion. “It's never done much in the ceremonies I've seen. But I doubt our little local nemeton ever accumulated very much evil that needed expelling.”

“Are you saying…?”

“Yes, Hermione, I think - in fact I'm sure - the gnomon-cenotaph provided the spell you cast with however much magic the cleansing task required. That's why you had to search for the stone first. It's England's strongest magical object. The only alternative might have been Harry….”

“He nearly exhausted his magic as it was,” Hermione informed her. “So I suppose this was better.”

“So whilst I don't know what the cleansing spell did, it had to expel Voldemort and a thousand or so other Dark wizards, not to mention whatever assorted evil Stonehenge accumulated since it's last cleansing … the detritus of almost two thousand….”

Luna stopped. One of the assortment of medical talismans on the table beside her bed had started clattering and flashing green light. Luna tapped it with her wand.

“Miss Lovegood, please tell Hermione that Harry's physical examination is over,” Hlr. Huxley's rather jovial voice warbled through the crystal. “If she wants to return, he would like to see her.”

Hermione looked around. All her spellwork seemed intact. “How did he know?” she wondered aloud.

“Well, in some ways you are fairly predictable,” Luna commented.

* * * *

Although pleased to know that Harry's physical exam had gone swimmingly, Hermione was quite concerned about Hlr. Huxley being so sure she was with Luna that he had not bothered to ask. What would it mean if Luna's information, assuming it were true, became generally known?

How could she - a thoroughgoing atheist - be the first properly consecrated Druid High Priestess since the Roman conquest?

Preposterous!

But she had no other halfway plausible explanation for the from-all-accounts spectacular magical outpouring that undeniably ended the Battle of Stonehenge. And a spell targeting evil made sense - not a single living Death Eater was left within the circle - and the Dark injury to her hand was also healed in the process.

Another piece of data was unearthed - literally - when the goblins dug Neville from his rubble-filled hole. Much of the mottled marl that underlay Stonehenge had turned white, that is, to chalk. The very bedrock seemed to be cleansed.

She had to tell Harry. But how?

Walking, deep in thought, Hermione was oblivious to a familiar face trying to attract her attention. When subtlety failed, a more direct approach was taken.

“Hermione, please wait.” A tug on her hand brought the troubled witch to an abrupt halt. Rounding, she found herself face-to-face with Ginny Weasley.

“Ginny! How did you get here?” Hermione wondered.

“Floo…. The whole family's here, looking after Ron … and our new hero George,” she added with an exaggerated smirk. “But how are you - and Harry - doing, since once again you're the biggest heroes of the piece?”

Hermione preferred get back to Harry, so she tried to keep it short. “We were both hurt, Harry worse than I, but we survived and rescued Ron, so I guess we're okay. Now, I'd really….”

Suddenly Ginny turned quite serious, “Then, can you step in here - just for a moment?”

“Umm … what's in there?” Hermione asked, rather reluctant. Now was her chance for free time with Harry. If that did not happen soon, she would fall asleep. Hermione had been awake for almost twenty-four hours and was running on epinephrine fumes.

“Ron,” Ginny revealed. “And finally he's ready to apologise for being such a complete git for so long.”

A crooked smile on her face, Hermione consented. Ron was the reason for all of the night's craziness. “All right,” she agreed, “but are you sure?”

“As sure as I ever can be about Ron,” Ginny smirked again, whilst nodding her head.

Hermione pushed aside the flap in the privacy barrier and slipped inside. Ron, wearing the nondescript white robes of a Hospital Wing patient, sat on the edge of his bed. His long legs draped over the near side. His dangling feet grazed the polished wood floor but bore no weight. Ron's wary expression suggested he was not sure they could.

Seeing Hermione, his face brightened immediately. In his eyes was a look of resigned gratitude.

“Hermione … thanks,” Ron mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. “I - I … didn't really deserve … what you did … you and Harry….”

“Ron, nobody deserved what the Death Eaters planned to do to you,” Hermione responded as tears again welled in her eyes. “C'mere,” she drew him into a - gentle, for her - hug. It gradually into as full an embrace as possible when one participant is sitting down. Mercifully, Ron's potion injury had been successfully treated.

“Thanks,” Ron rumbled once Hermione drew back. “I needed that.” He took a deep breath. “Hermione …. I really need to tell you that….”

“Ron,” Hermione interrupted, “Can you walk?”

Silently opening and closing his mouth, Ron perplexedly blinked a couple of times. “Umm … I guess … haven't really tried. But Hermione, I want you to know….”

“Let's try, then,” Hermione instructed whilst again braking Ron's train of thought. “Harry can't move yet, and he deserves to hear this, too.”

Ron smiled. Hermione knew exactly what he had in mind - and he, her. Apologies did not come easily to him, and she intended to spare him the necessity of doing it twice. Not that he would have minded…. Given the alternative, he would have done it a hundred times over.

Ginny, who had given those two their privacy, was surprised to see them emerge from Ron's sickroom. Unsteady on his feet, Ron draped one arm heavily over Hermione's shoulder. She extended one of hers around his waist, helping keep him upright. “We're going to see Harry,” Hermione told Ron's sister. “Could you open the flap for us, please?”

Ginny mutely nodded and moved to do as asked. She frowned a bit when the others were unable to see. The Trio was being reunited, and she knew she would be excluded. Why invite her? She had nothing to do with Ron's rescue.

Ginny was absolutely correct. Ron closed the curtain to Harry's space in his sister's face.

“Harry, look who I found!” Hermione called as she entered, not knowing if her fiancé was asleep.

“Ron!” Harry rasped as loudly as he could, which was not very. Any regret at the demise of Hlr. Huxley's promised “alone time” with Hermione evaporated immediately when Harry realised who was hanging onto her.

Hermione manœuvred Ron into a chair next to the head of Harry's bed and then sat herself on the bed's edge. Quickly Harry's hand found hers.

“Ron, are you all right?” Harry asked in a quiet voice.

“I still don't believe you, Harry,” Ron weakly replied. “You're lying there, too beat up to move, after saving me from as sticky an end as could be imagined … and you're asking after me?”

“It's better than worrying about what could have happened to any of us,” Harry sighed. “And you still haven't answered my question. How the hell are you, mate?”

“I'm sorry, Harry, that's what I am,” Ron answered. He needed to do this, and he needed to do this now. “Hell, Harry, you were right about her. I was wrong. I was a right prat about it for months…. And still you came after me! Oh Merlin, I was going to die!” The redhead was close to tears. Harry had never seen him cry.

“Ron….”

“I don't deserve friends like this! I don't deserve … anything….”

Harry found his face getting extremely warm. He was as embarrassed as he could ever remember. However much he had abstractly wanted Ron to apologise, now that it was actually happening Harry realised that he really did not need, or even want, to hear it.

Lying flat on his back, Harry could do relatively little about his emotionally overwrought best male friend.

Yes, after all that had happened, Ron was still that.

But now Hermione had become so much more.

Hermione noticed Harry's discomfort, although Ron was too caught up in the moment to appreciate or recognise it.

“…let her destroy our trust completely…. Dammit, Harry, I love you, man…!”

“Ron, that's enough, I think,” Hermione intervened. “I'm sure Harry understands. It was as rough for you as it was….”

Hermione attracted Ron's attention, but Ron was still determined to apologise, so he started in on her.

“And you, Hermione, I treated worse than Harry,” Ron whinged. “You were right all along about Cho, and I gave you nothing but grief. You even tried to stop her, and all I did was hate you for it.”

“Ron, you needn't do this,” Hermione told him. “You've already apologised to me - twice.”

“Yes, I do,” Ron contradicted, “because before I didn't really mean what I said … either time. I only did it because Harry wouldn't do what I wanted unless I….” His voice trailed off, and a ghost of a smile replaced the stricken look on his face.

“I hope you put it to good use,” Ron commented, seemingly randomly.

Hermione anticipated what Ron was about. “We did. I doubt any of us would have survived without it - least of all Harry … whom I practically had to force to drink his share….” She cast a pointed look at the boy lying in bed beside her.

“Bloody good on you, then,” Ron agreed. Realisation that at least he had contributed something to his own rescue - even if most unwillingly - buoyed his spirits. “And I apologise, as well, for the Howler. I was a berk to the bloody end … well almost the bloody end….”

“Ron, without that Howler, we never would have known you were at Cho's,” Hermione told him.

“Thought it was going to be … Chinese New Year,” Harry added from his supine position. “Thought we had more time….”

“Well, I'm just happy as hell you figured everything out,” Ron added, still oblivious to the timing issue. “I'm so … well, amazed … that I'm even still here.”

“Frankly, when I look back at that … all those Death Eaters and Triads, I'm amazed any of us are….”

“Umm … what's a Triad?” Ron asked, his face blank.

Hermione realised that Ron knew nothing of the machinations that had almost caused his death. “Triads … well, they're Chinese Dark wizards, at least these were. Cho's father led a gang of Triads, and he was cementing an alliance….”

“Thank Merlin I'll never see her lying little face again,” a vehement Ron Weasley broke in. “That bloody tart … and a succubus…. I didn't know they actually existed. I thought Mum made up all that rot to scare us into being careful. Well, Mum was right after all, and I'm not sure when I'll ever be ready for that again, even if….”

Ron abruptly shut his mouth. He had almost let slip something he had been thinking, but had not revealed to anyone. He could not even express how he felt about that himself - or if he wanted anyone at all, present company excepted.

But Hermione heard - just barely. As Ron verged on saying too much, Hermione felt a shiver of angst. She had said too little. Not only was Ron unaware, so was Harry. She had no choice, and further delay would only make the revelation all the more explosive.

“Ron, I'm afraid that's not going to happen,” Hermione told him, grasping the horns of the charging bull.

“What's not going to happen?” Ron asked. “Hasn't everything already….”

“That you'll never see Cho again,” she continued. “She's here - at Hogwarts.”

“Why the hell is she here?” Ron spluttered. “If she's alive, she belongs in Azkaban.”

“Cho … at Hogwarts…?” Harry was as thunderstruck as Ron - if incapable of being as vociferous about it.

“She's here because no place else was safe,” Hermione stoutly maintained. “She was being controlled. She's as much a victim as you are, Ron.”

Ron's face reddened so much that his hair looked drab by comparison. “You … you … brought that … that THING back to Hogwarts?!?” Ron yelled as loudly as his physical condition permitted. He tried to stand but, still too weak, sank back into his chair.

Energised by the looming row with Ron, Hermione popped to her feet, arms firmly on her hips, and her hair streaming around her face. She angrily defended her decision. “In case you've forgotten, Ronald Weasley, that thing just happens to be your girlfriend whom you've been madly shagging for the last six months. You would have been quite pleased to declare by for her now…!!”

Ron was having none of it. “In case you've forgotten, Hermione, that disgusting thing would happily have killed me a few hours ago … quite content to suck out my insides out until I was nothing but some dried up mummy! Succubi are evil, Hermione. Out and out evil!”

“Cho was not evil!” Hermione denied. “I thought that, too, but now I know better. Voldemort and her own father were using her as a means…!”

She stopped abruptly, at the feel of Harry's hand tugging on her sleeve.

She looked into Harry's troubled eyes. “How … how do you know she's not evil?” he asked.

Hermione gulped. Any answer involved what she had just learnt from Luna. “I know … because the spell … the spell that ended the battle … it was … it was a cleansing spell. Its purpose was to cleanse Stonehenge of evil. It left no Death Eaters inside the circle, nor Triads - just dead bodies. But the spell left her behind, minus the tattoo.”

“You did that?” Ron's expression quickly blanked into awestruck. “George said the last thing … he didn't know what to call it … that came from inside the circle was unbelievable - the most impressive magic he'd ever seen. He'd buy….”

“George?” Harry repeated the name as a question.

“Oh, he's about,” Ron explained. “Lost most of an ear, but otherwise he's typical George. He told me the goblins had just chased off the last Death Eaters who'd been after him when everything inside the circle just blew up…. Shot straight up higher than he could see….”

“I see,” Harry echoed. He turned his head towards Hermione, who looked uncomfortable.

Ron followed up before Harry could.

“Fine, but how does all that involve that … that thing…?” Ron was so disgusted that he could not bear even to utter Cho's name.

“Isn't it obvious?” Hermione responded, still on the edge of anger. “Cho hadn't died, and she remained, inside the circle, after it ended. That means Cho wasn't evil - she couldn't have been. She was being used … forced to do things against her will. I don't know for how long, but I'd wager quite a long time….”

Ron's grimace grew with every word she spoke. “Control…? You … you … mean that was … never her? Never…?” By the end, he sounded like a squeaky door hinge

Hermione had tried to be nice, but some things just could not be sugarcoated. “Harry and I … we always suspected something was off. Cho's parents - her father, really - controlled her with traditional Chinese magic … that round tattoo. It enforced her obedience. They called it filial piety….”

Looking like he was ready to explode, Ron interjected, “So, you're telling me it was all faked? That she never gave a damn about me?”

“You'll have to ask her,” Hermione briskly advised. “I have no idea….”

Had he not still been recovering from his ordeal, Ron might have thrown something, or at least tried putting his fist through a nearby object. His face beet red, Ron slumped in his chair, seemingly unable to speak more than disjointed mutterings that sounded highly uncomplimentary, not just to Cho but to anything and everything Chinese.

Hermione was almost ready to try again when the curtain drew back and Hlr. Huxley's bearded face appeared.

“There you are, Mister Weasley. Your sister thought you were probably in here. It's time I examined you. If all goes well, I might be able to release you - subject to light duty instructions….”

“Oh, all right,” Ron grumbled, as he weakly struggled to his feet.

Hlr. Huxley's smile vanished as he reached to steady the boy. He had expected a far more positive response. Usually patients viewed imminent release from the Hospital Wing as good news.

Hlr. Huxley shot a questioning glance first at Harry and then Hermione. Harry's expression was blank, but Hermione sadly shook her head.

Ron's red-faced spluttering had drawn all of Hermione's attention, but their exchange had raised questions in Harry's mind as well. Once the redhead was escorted away, Harry took his fiancée's hand. “What's this about some cleansing spell getting rid of the Death Eaters? How did you even know to do that?”

Hermione's countenance crumbled. “Oh, Merlin, Harry, it's…. I'll tell you all about it, Harry, I have to. But can it wait … a little bit? I don't want to think anymore right now. It just feels … the walls are closing in…. I'm so knackered….”

Harry pulled her hand to his mouth and gave it a kiss. “Of course, Luv. I need to remember that you're the only one who's kept going ever since the battle. Umm … what you mentioned before…. Why Healer Huxley offered us privacy. Do you want to? It might be a bit awkward, but I've been thinking. If you hand me my wand, I'll try that special Engorgement Charm the Twins use for their Ton-Tongue Toffees … the one that worked so well when we were guests of the Goblins. I'm probably not up to wandless magic right now….”

Hermione's tears stopped flowing as he spoke. She gave him a warm, if wan, smile. She appreciated his offer to pleasure her when she was in no position to reciprocate. “And you would, wouldn't you…? Even though I can't do anything for you.”

“You saved my life … again … and Ron's,” Harry responded. “You don't have to do anything. I love you. It's not a trade….”

Harry studied her carefully in the strange shadows cast by the glow of various healing talismans and charms. Her normally soft and straight hair was stringy, and her face pale - except around the eyes. Those eyes, ordinarily brilliant, were now the colour of faded mud, and scarcely visible within the surrounding shadows. Her normally tight skin almost drooped from her high cheekbones, and her jaw was slack.

Not watching him, Hermione started to disrobe. Taking a deep breath, she uttered a spell that Transfigured the bedknobs at the head of Harry's brass bedstead into a pair of grab bars.

Harry realised she had not slept in over a full day - which included what had to be the most strenuous, fatiguing hours of her life.

“Umm … or would you just like to sleep, Hermione,” he inquired tenderly.

She looked at him gratefully. “Could I? I don't think I've ever been so tired.”

“It was always for you, Hermione, not me.” Harry answered. “If you don't want, I can wait.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Hermione yawned. “To regain full strength, you'll need to exercise that reboned pelvis of yours vigorously….” She shed the rest of her clothes and crawled into bed next to him.

* * * *

Hlr. Huxley made his final rounds of the morning, before retiring to the Hogwarts guest quarters for some well-deserved rest. Everyone in his care was out of danger. George Weasley had already been released. Potter and Longbottom would need additional bed rest to complete complicated rebonings, but both were assured of full recoveries.

Whatever malignant magic had resided in Chang's tattoo appeared to have burnt itself out. His Severing Charms had easily amputated her incipient succubus wings, since full metamorphosis had never occurred. Only her feet had suffered permanent damage. They would always be somewhat hoof shaped. It was too soon to tell how much.

Even so, Hlr. Huxley expected everyone to vacate the Hospital Wing before the student body returned at the end of the holiday. But it was a close thing; the Castle's meagre blood supply was all but exhausted. He had mentioned the shortage to the Granger girl, and she promised to discuss ideas for replenishment with Madam Pomfrey.

Those with less severe injuries would probably be released on the morrow. Lovegood's half-eaten calf was regenerating nicely, as were the tendons in the Muslim girl's blown-out knee. Ron Weasley probably could have left with George, but he seemed in poor spirits, so Hlr. Huxley kept him overnight, hoping that more rest, combined with his family's moral support, could do some good.

Granger was free to leave whenever she wanted. Only her desire to be with Potter, not any medical reason, was keeping her.

Hlr. Huxley stopped abruptly as he turned the corner behind Potter's area.

A white-sheeted mattress protruded through the curtain. On it rested a pair of feet - female feet.

This was quite irregular.

He circled to the front and poked his head through the curtain.

Harry was sleeping soundly, in exactly the same position he had been in. But next to him, on an identical bed oriented at a right angle, was the unmistakable, and unmistakably unclothed, form of Hermione Granger. Her head nestled comfortably in the crook of Harry's shoulder whilst the rest of her stretched away - towards and through the curtain.

Hlr. Huxley nodded slightly as he magicked a sheet over her. This was most irregular - but on another level not irregular in the slightest.

The Healer checked that all the talismans and other spells monitoring Harry's condition were in proper working order. Then he closed the curtains and placed a “Do Not Disturb Except In Emergency” sign on the entrance.

`Let them sleep,' he thought as he departed. `Dumbledore will speak to them both soon enough. They have no idea of the fallout from defeating a Death Eater putsch.'

* * * *

Author's notes: The nature of the Killing Curse was revealed in Ch. 5

Canon tells us what happens when a deflected Killing Curse strikes a Horcrux-protected body

Hermione used standard shock treatment procedures

Zero-point energy - Chs. 9 & 55 provide scientific framework for magic

There are different degrees of petrification spells; it's not all or nothing

The invisible scythe recalls crowd behavior during Pope John-Paul II's first return to Poland

Astronomical details are accurate for January 1, 1997

The details of Beachy Head are as accurate as I can make them

Tabriz is about halfway between Britain and eastern China

Snape is mistaken about Voldemort's use of some of the potions

The flaws in Snape's Love Potion are important

“Extraordinary rendition” is a euphemism for turning a prisoner over to someone less squeamish about torture

I substituted “Bludger” for “spanner” in Lucius' quote

Ron's fright is significant - in a good way

The significance of Bose-Einstein condensate was introduced in Ch. 58

More learn-less know is from the Beatles' “All Too Much,” which previously figured in Ch. 42

Miko are Shinto versions of Vestal Virgins

Dynion Mwyn is ancient Celtic magic

Luna recognized the consecration spell at the time, in Ch. 35

Aima is another term for a priestess

Conversion of brownish marl to white chalk (both forms of calcium deposits) implies cleaning

Sticky end is from “Boris the Spider” by the Who

“I love you, man” - could be from a movie by the same name, but I remember it from a beer commercial

Filial piety was introduced in Ch. 29

53

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70. Escape Proves Impossible

Wherein Harry has another quite unexpected brush with death, gets a check up; Harry and Hermione have a long talk with Dumbledore; Harry has a request for Shak, and speaks to the goblin army; and Cho is interrogated

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

Chapter 70 - Escape Proves Impossible

“Unh … unh … unh … aaahhharrrryyyyy!!!” Hermione's back arched backwards. Her long hair flew in all directions as her head whipped wildly from side to side. She lost herself in ecstasy.

Harry's supportive hands clutched her heaving buttocks, leaving Hermione free to thrust herself for all she was worth against their other point of contact.

One moment her arms tightly gripped the grab bars to maintain her position. On one side she pumped her right calf and foot into the mattress, seeking purchase. On the other, her foot pistoned the floor - seeking release.

Just when it could not get any better, it did….

“Ha-a-a-a-a-a-rrrrrrriiiieeeeeee!!! Ooooh!”

A white-hot burst of pleasure fried every synapse in Hermione's body. At last, the throes of primal passion swept away all the terror and tragedy of her previous twenty-four hours.

Thus Hermione finally found release - blessed release from all she had endured since regaining consciousness on the Stonehenge battlefield. It was everything she had hoped for, and then some. A cleansing for the id.

From that apex she floated blissfully downhill, into afterglow.

The perfect antidote to the Cruciatus….

Release was everything. In short order Hermione went utterly boneless - her body collapsing upon his - utterly spent, utterly sated. She was out of breath, her heart pounded madly … and her brain was reduced to quivering mush. Soulgasm….

`Merlin, he needs to lock that up in Gringotts…,' she thought giddily. `That tongue is too damn precious. But then I wouldn't….'

“Umpf … umpf …umminee…,” Harry mumbled from somewhere nearby.

Her thoughts drifted serenely downstream.

But only temporarily.

“Ouch! Harry!”

To get her attention, Harry pinched her arse. Hermione popped up as if hit by a Stinging Hex.

Harry's reasons were obvious.

“Oh, I'm so sorry,” she squealed as she slid to one side. “You must have had a frightful time breathing.”

He remained stuck fast to the bed from mid-shoulders down.

“Urmineee … pleeezz….”

“Oh, Merlin, I'm awful,” Hermione gasped. She slid off the bed altogether, next to the side table. Plucking her wand from amidst empty potion phials and assorted medical monitoring equipment, she pointed it at Harry and incanted, “Finite.”

With a slight hiss, his tongue retracted to ordinary size. Almost immediately, his hiss became a chuckle.

“What's so funny now?” Hermione asked, wishing that her return to reality had been more gradual. Starkers, her long hair a tangled mess, she was totally unconcerned about her appearance. With her left hand she rubbed at the spot on her bum Harry had pinched.

He met her eyes. “It's just … the thought of surviving - surviving Voldemort and all of his supporters…,” he answered, an odd little grin coming over his supine, and soaked, face. “But then dying … suffocated on my own engorged tongue - and under you. You'd sure have had some explaining to do….”

Hermione caught Harry's contagious, quirky smile. “Yes, I suppose I would.” With exaggerated hand movements, she imitated herself informing Dumbledore. “I'm terribly sorry, Headmaster, about the prophecy and all, but I have reason to believe that he died happy….” She went no further before breaking into uncontrollable laughter.

Trying manfully to keep a straight face, Harry offered, “Well, you can come over here and kiss me. That'll make it all better….”

“I do believe that would,” Hermione forced out. Leaning over Harry's bed until her feet barely touched the floor, she moved in. Harry closed his eyes and opened his mouth in anticipation.

She was struck by his resemblance to a baby bird.

She lowered her face to his….

“That'll have to do, you two.”

Hermione jumped back as a scratchy, but familiar, voice sounded from a speaker box somewhere in Harry's screened-off private quarters. “I need to check on Harry's progress, and you, Miss Granger, have already been cleared. Don't you have a Healing mid-term to study for?”

“Postponed, actually, due to extenuating circumstances,” Hermione told him smugly. “A few hundred Death Eaters got in the way.”

At that, the tinny voice paused. “Quite…. In any event, Albus wants to speak to Harry, and I can't hold him off much longer.”

“Oh, all right,” Harry sighed, rolling his eyes. “Give us a couple of minutes.”

“Roger that.”

Even before Harry's brief conversation with Hlr. Huxley had ended, the ever-efficient Hermione had Summoned her clothes, and made herself presentable. She did the same for Harry, Scourgifying him and his bed.

Harry reached rather limply towards her. “Hermione,” he murmured. “Please stay. How much do you want to tell him about what happened last night? I could fake it and claim it was all my doing, if you want….”

Hermione had already considered and rejected that option. “I don't think that can work. Remember the witnesses. George, two goblins, and I'll wager Tonks saw you fall.… Besides, you can't lie worth a damn, and you know it. I'll stay; just let me tell that part. I don't want to talk about the Druid business,” she worried. “I don't know how I feel about that yet.”

* * * *

Harry and Hermione quickly learned that Hlr. Huxley put no particular store in most Hogwarts rules governing student conduct - at least as such rules applied to the two of them. In particular, he ignored rules that, in ordinary circumstances, would have punished the encounter that had just occurred.

Hlr. Huxley considered Hogwarts to be out of term. More importantly Harry and Hermione had repeatedly shouldered adult responsibilities - fully earning them the privileges of adulthood.

Implicitly, Hlr. Huxley let it be known - during an examination that resulted in Harry being released from his restraints into the relative freedom of a wheelchair - that he had expected, and thoroughly approved, something in the nature of the couple's recent tryst.

“She's been bearing the weight of the world,” Hlr. Huxley waved off any apology. “She needed relaxation. I feared she might snap.”

Dumbledore, however, was another story. He was Headmaster.

Hlr. Huxley was nearly done explaining how serious a procedure field pelvic deboning was when, as promised, Dumbledore appeared. The Headmaster had company, a goblin general in tow - someone Harry vaguely recognised.

His eyes twinkling, Dumbledore thrust out his good hand. “Good afternoon, Mister Potter. Let me be the first, but certainly not the last, to congratulate you on last night's accomplishments.”

Whilst the Headmaster directed similar plaudits to Hermione, Hlr. Huxley gave Harry his final medical instructions. “You'll be fine, Potter, but between your dual femoral/pelvic deboning, and last night's extreme magical expenditure, I'm putting you on calcium supplements until further notice….” That completed, the Healer took his leave.

Without further pretence, Dumbledore conjured a squashy chintz armchair for himself and a goblin sitting stone for his companion. He sat down, but the goblin general remained standing.

The Headmaster gestured towards the goblin. “You have met General Barduk before,” he reminded Harry. “His forces rescued you yesterday….”

Harry and Hermione noticed, unlike Dumbledore, how the goblin general seethed at that introduction - his ears twitched and he bared his pointed teeth. Still, General Barduk said nothing.

“…Together, your group and the goblin army inflicted a significant defeat on Voldemort and derailed his plans. I am here, first, to commend that endeavor, and second to explain the true magnitude of your accomplishment….”

“It really wasn't all that great,” Harry interrupted modestly, his hands picking at his hospital gown. “We didn't find out about Ron until the last minute. With the changeover, we couldn't raise anyone, so we had no choice. If not for the goblins, we'd all be dead ….”

To the extent goblins have the ability to go purple, Barduk did. “NO!!” he cried out. Then, recognising his transgression, the grizzled goblin commander flopped to the floor, prostrate at Harry's feet.

Harry, caught off guard by both the goblin's outburst and submission, stared insensibly from his wheelchair for a long moment. Grasping the situation, he eventually commanded, “Anyor,” followed by an entirely justified question, “What's going on?”

Barduk slowly regained his feet. “Impratraxis … Chastised deserve I. Inexcusable was my conduct….”

Harry could do without an extended goblin apology. “Please, just answer my question.”

General Barduk visibly relaxed, as he was no fan of ritual abasement either - especially his own. “Impratraxis, the truth … told not is it. Command, did not I. In command always is Impratraxis. Rescue, did not we. Rescued did Impratraxis. Defeated would have been we, and nearly were. Being devoured were we. Eaten alive. Know do I that in ten of your minutes necessary would have been retreat. That far from infamy was I….”

“But brought shields, did Impratraxis. The locusts to stop…. Then urged us onward. Fought the Death Eaters did gablansk-inim. But too slowly. Great power summoned Impratraxis. With white magic, removed the enemy did Impratraxis himself…. Awesome….”

That was the goblin perspective.

Unsurprisingly, they associated with Harry the final eruption that banished the Death Eaters - having seen his power (or, at least, its immediate aftermath) in Allt a Mhuilinn. Nor was that viewpoint spurious. From the perspective of an army beset by carnivorous locusts, Harry had indeed rescued them, by providing a means to fend off the ravenous insects.

And by age-old goblin tradition, a prince of the royal blood - when present - always commanded the goblin army.

Since the Ashrak, Harry was such a prince.

Dumbledore found General Barduk's description of events at least as interesting any intelligence learnt from Harry or Hermione. The Headmaster already knew full well that Harry had not been in condition to perform whatever magic had driven the Death Eaters from Stonehenge. What had done that was still unknown….

The roster of possible suspects was slim. Had it been the goblins' doing, they would have reveled in a victory over such a large force of wizards.

“So you think I won the battle?” Harry asked, blinking. He was flabbergasted at this insight into the goblin mindset.

The goblin drew himself up to his full height. “Think not … know,” General Barduk replied firmly but respectfully.

Dumbledore had observed the exchange in silence. Now, he broke in, “This is all fascinating. With Mister Potter out of danger from his wounds, I would be most interested in his perspective on events. The Ministry will certainly conduct a thorough inquiry, and I am eager to share my thoughts. It may well differ significantly….”

After his outburst, General Barduk considered his goblin viewpoint quite sufficient. A former quartermaster, the general's first request was for materiel. “Impratraxis, if upon your generosity might presume I….”

A goblin general behaving as a supplicant startled Harry. He flinched, causing General Barduk to pause. Almost instantly, Harry recovered, and nodded for the goblin to continue.

“Your magic … the shields. Could undamaged ones obtain we?” General Barduk entreated. “As a below ground nation, to us new is this. Added to our kit, should be it…. Whatever the price, pay will we,.”

`He only wants Muggle mosquito netting,' Hermione Legilimenced. `That's as easy as the nearest Robert Dyas.'

Harry nodded. “Don't worry about paying,” he assured the general. “The stuff's downright cheap. It's Muggle. In fact, I know…. How much do you want?”

The goblin's brow wrinkled in thought. “Enough, a pashkak - a regiment - to equip. And a bit more to test. Would suffice about one hundred of your metres. Many thanks, Impratraxis.”

Confined to his wheelchair, Harry shuffled his feet until the goblin finished. “I know you don't want to hear it, but I need to thank you,” he replied earnestly. “Without you, we were alone.”

He turned to Dumbledore. “Is Dobby recovered?”

“Yes … I believe so,” the Headmaster answered slowly. “The final say is, of course, Parry's, but Dobby was pestering me not long ago, wanting to see you.”

His expression serious, Harry gave Dumbledore a message to relay. “Send Dobby to go to the Château with a message for Gerry McAllister. He has Muggle contacts and should be able to get exactly what the goblins want - quite quickly.”

Hermione ruffled Harry's hair. “He'll be right quick to do anything you want,” she added. “He can't be very comfortable right now, knowing that we left Blackwalls without telling him.” To that last statement, she appended a sly smile.

The Headmaster's eyebrows rose a bit, but he kept his peace.

“Go, should I,” General Barduk announced, buttoning his cloak. “Alitserat must be prepared, consult with Impatok, since difficult shall be it….”

The term was unfamiliar. Harry glanced at Hermione. She shrugged. He looked towards the Headmaster, finding another blank expression.

“What's alitserat?” Harry had to ask.

General Barduk stopped, his cloak not fastened smartly. “Impratraxis, goblin tradition is it. My apologies. Only after alitserat disband does victorious army,” he explained - but only partially.

“Okay, what goes on?” Harry persisted.

“Graskii … er … decorations bestowed by commander,” was the answer. “And praise. Sometimes mutual congratulations, if warranted. Slaphadorii … er … translators will this time be needed…. Commander am not I. To take my leave will permit you?” The goblin awaited his dismissal.

“Um … yeah,” Harry answered reflexively. Only after the general had marched out, and Harry caught Hermione's concerned look, did he realise the import of Barduk's final words.

“I have to distribute medals to the goblin army,” Harry muttered. His slumped shoulders emphasised his lack of enthusiasm for that task. “Wonderful.”

“More than three thousand goblins are bivouacked on the Castle's lawn,” Dumbledore mentioned less-than-casually. “All those not requiring hospitalisation….” The Headmaster paused, inhaled, and continued. “Regrettably, I need them gone before the term recommences. They are not under my authority, and the current situation makes quite a mockery of my no-goblins-on-the-grounds rule.”

“Harry, I'm sure any leaving speech can be quite short,” Hermione reassured. With a knowing smile, she added, “and for you it's hardly a tough crowd. You heard Barduk. They're convinced you rescued them, not the other way round.”

Flashing a pale imitation of a smile, Dumbledore moved on. “Well, with that decided, we can address last night's events.” His air grew magisterial as he began lecturing. “Granted, Harry, you are new to this, but the simple fact remains that you are Proprietor of Château Blackwalls. Whilst I question neither your sentiment nor the ultimate result, it remains the case that eschewing Blackwalls' available resources exposed you and those with you to unnecessary danger. Your staff knew nothing of your whereabouts. You left them in something of a tizzy. They were frantic. They tried contacting just about everyone….”

“But … but they were untrustworthy,” Harry broke in, trying but failing to rise from his wheelchair.

“They've worked for Lucius Malfoy for the last decade!” Hermione chimed in, her voice rising in indignation. Given the end result, she hardly felt deserving of the Headmaster's reproof.

Raising the palm of his good hand for quiet, Dumbledore overrode their protests. “The actions of the Blackwalls' staff last night were hardly untrustworthy. They attempted to contact various authorities, all legitimate … even trying to reach the goblins. They persisted, and once communication was restored, they reached Minerva at Hogwarts. She was on the Floo when Fred Weasley reached the Castle by broom….”

This was news. It gave them both pause.

“…Later that night, I gather, the Blackwalls staff, despite their Proprietor having vanished, clashed with and repulsed several Death Eaters.”

“What…?” Harry abruptly straightened, gripping the wheelchair's armrests. “Death Eaters? At Blackwalls…?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore answered emphatically, pressing his advantage. “Four or five we believe. The descriptions are fragmentary, but one was almost certainly Fenrir Greyback. A werewolf was reported, and the moon was well past full.”

“Umm … Mad-Eye didn't trust the staff,” Hermione explained, the pit of her stomach churned at having to mention Harry's deceased guardian. “Surely, he had his reasons, but now we'll never know.”

`I know why,' Harry Legilimenced. Narrowing his eyes, he asked Dumbledore, “Were these Death Eaters inside or outside the Château's grounds?”

Dumbledore's face went carefully blank under Harry's intense gaze. “That, I cannot say. When Mister McAllister was here not long ago, we had more pressing matters to discuss.”

“McAllister was here?” Harry asked. “Why?”

“Yes, which is another reason I concur in his essential trustworthiness,” the Headmaster stated. He rose and began pacing the room. “The Castle remained in its second-highest state of readiness, the only operational Floo connexion being in my office. My fireplace is charmed to refuse entrance to anyone harbouring malevolent intent….”

“Why would he want to come here?” Hermione interrupted, returning Dumbledore to Harry's pending question.

“He had additional news,” Dumbledore responded vaguely from a spot near the foot of Harry's bed.

Harry winced. “What kind of news?” he asked dully. Hermione knew that tone. It was a voice of resignation.

The Headmaster did too. “Unfortunate news, I am afraid.” Dumbledore took his time, moving back to his chair and sitting down. “Do you really want to know right now? You have all too much on your plate as it is.”

“You've reminded me of a simple fact - I'm the bloody Proprietor,” Harry threw Dumbledore's recent words back at their author. “Ignorance isn't bliss.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore acceded, as he tugged his beard with his good hand. “Mister McAllister brought news that, simultaneously with events at Stonehenge, the Grimmauld Place house burnt, effectively to the ground….”

Harry was physically weaker than he would admit, so this news struck with great force. “What? I don't believe…. How do….?” he babbled, his voice not much more than a house-elf's squeak.

“Calm yourself,” Hermione soothed. She conjured a cool, damp cloth and daubed his forehead. Looking at an hourglass mounted above the head of Harry's bed, she reminded, “You need your midday potions anyway.” Bustling to a nearby table, she tapped her wand twice on the front left corner. Three cups of potion appeared out of thin air, one with cool mist flowing down its sides. “Yes, indeed,” the Healer-in-Training said to herself.

Once Harry consumed his potions, the Headmaster provided a detailed explanation of the demise of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. A fierce fire had started shortly after midnight - within minutes of the New Year. As the Black's long-time City residence, the house had been protected by Infumium Alarms and several active Fire-Fighting Charms. The alarm pattern suggested an origination point on the second floor, probably in the library.

The Fire-Fighting Charms persisted for several hours, but the changeover had shut down magical transportation and communication. The repeated alarms brought no response. The Château's staff complied strictly with the Ministry's dictates. The Proprietor was not available to countermand them or to send a firefighting crew to Grimmauld.

At that observation, Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Finally, around three in the morning, the charms collapsed. Within minutes the fire consumed the Unplottable and Fidelius Charms that had concealed the structure from Muggle eyes. Fully involved in flames, Number Twelve Grimmauld Place popped Muggle into view - only moments before the roof caved in.

The London Fire Brigade responded belatedly, but its efforts accomplished little beyond preventing the fire's spread to adjacent buildings. By five in the morning, only smoking rubble marked the location of the once five-storey house.

“…And we believe it was arson,” Dumbledore summed up, having finished relating everything he knew.

Although not particularly surprised, Harry shook his head at that news. “Death Eaters?”

“In all likelihood,” the Headmaster answered. “Concededly, we cannot be entirely certain, but use of Fiendfyre is certainly consistent with their methods.”

Hermione had gravitated to sitting on the side of Harry's bed. “The Death Eaters at Stonehenge used that,” she pointed out, nervously re-crossing her legs.

“How did Muggles stop Fiendfyre?” Harry wanted to know. He appended, “And what happens now that they know about Number Twelve?”

“Both good questions,” Dumbledore admitted. He paused and watched a pair of moths circling a ceiling lamp whilst formulating his response. “I shall answer them in order. Fortunately Fiendfyre is self-limiting. Once ignited, it feeds on magic, but once magical fuel, as it were, is consumed, it reverts to ordinary fire. Thus, the Muggles could contain the conflagration within the magical bounds of Number Twelve until it finally burnt itself out.”

A fretful look crossed Hermione's face as Dumbledore continued. “Beyond that, the sudden reappearance of Number Twelve will undoubtedly raise questions, including as to its ownership and tax status. But that need not concern you….”

“But like you said, I'm the Proprietor,” Harry reminded the Headmaster.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore agreed. Looking Harry full in the face, he added, “Any Proprietor worthy of the title delegates such matters. Between Mister Howe and the goblins, I'm sure those matters can be dealt with…. If the Blacks, as is likely, ignored the Inland Revenue, such matters can be rectified.”

Hermione spoke up, her voice troubled. “Headmaster, if it burnt out before wizards arrived on the scene, how does anyone know about the Fiendfyre?”

Dumbledore drew a great breath. “One of the Château's house-elves gave us a description before it … um … she died … of burns. It could be nothing else.”

“Oh, Merlin….”

“Dammit. And I left them leaderless….!”

Without warning a “pop” reverberated - loud enough to set one's ears ringing. A sudden squall, hot to the touch, blew in all directions, momentarily extending to horizontal all of the curtains surrounding Harry's sick room. As if carried by the gust, Hermione toppled over backwards onto Harry's bed.

Suffering from intense tinnitus, Harry vaguely heard the Headmaster demanding, “Harry, control yourself!”

He did. For the first time since before the holiday Harry clamped the constraints of Occlumency across his mind. All the pressure - all the demands - had finally cracked the emotional ramparts he fashioned to control the Fifth Element.

All because of guilt. Guilt over house-elves.

What must Hermione think?

Harry was the Proprietor. He had tasked the house-elves with refurbishing Grimmauld Place. But on that fatal night, he had deprived the elves of their leader; because Harry had needed Dobby's help more than he thought the other elves did.

Only a free elf can use magic against a wizard - against whoever had set the fire.

And only a free elf could have known when blind loyalty to Blackwalls - to Harry as Proprietor - should yield to the better part of valour.

Healer klaxons were blaring; Harry knew the sound well enough. Dumbledore muttered some incantation, and some of the load lifted. It had to be a Cheering Charm.

Not a moment too soon. Within moments Hlr. Huxley was at the entrance, warning quite loudly, “Now see here, Albus, I can't have you upsetting my patients. If you can't behave yourself, I'll have to ask you to leave.”

It may or may not have been intended as a joke.

Harry did not have time to care, once glanced aside and saw Hermione sprawled on the bed, with Hlr. Huxley examining her.

He tried to pivot his wheelchair towards the bed, but found himself immobilised. The chair's rubber tyres had briefly melted, rehardened, and now stuck fast to the floor. “Hermione, are you all right?” he cried, pushing harder at the chair.

His efforts made the chair's frame creak and groan ominously, until Harry noticed the steady rise and fall of Hermione's chest. “Are you okay?” he asked again, sounding much less worried.

“She'll be fine,” Hlr. Huxley reassured. “Some sort of transient … umm … hypereuphoric event. Now all of you, please stay calm. I have other patients to attend to.” Again, he left.

“Ah … yes, I'm quite fine,” Hermione haltingly answered. She was fully conscious. “Whew.” She rose slowly, her hair windblown, her cheeks flushed, with an enigmatic half-smile on her face. “Everything seems functional.” She briefly shook her head to refocus on matters at hand. “Harry, you need to stop….”

“Sorry about that,” Harry interrupted glumly. He slapped the right armrest with his hand. “It's just … when I left those elves without Dobby, I as good as killed them. He was the only one who could have resisted or known when….”

Harry's guilt-laden words sparked a harsh reaction from Hermione. “Harry, just stop it,” she snapped, as Dumbledore tactfully held his peace. “The elves' death proves nothing of the sort. Some arsonist Death Eater was one hundred percent to blame. You needed Dobby. We all did. Without him, we're all probably dead. Neville for sure. What we need are more free elves. We - hell, you - have to do more about that. Now, if you excuse me, I need to visit the facilities.”

Following her little rant, Hermione was on her feet and heading for the exit.

“I'll be back,” she promised as she left.

Harry turned to the Headmaster, “Can I really free my house-elves? When I mentioned it to the staff, they thought I was joking. Once they realised I was serious, they said the elves would refuse … that they would find it insulting and scandalous - like Winky did here at Hogwarts.”

The twinkle returned to the aged wizard's eyes. Running the fingers of his good hand through his ample beard, the Headmaster pondered the question.

“Upon my hiring Dobby, I offered freedom to any elf at Hogwarts who so desired,” he revealed. “Not a single elf bound to the Castle accepted my offer. As Winky demonstrated, such is the shame of freedom to their way of thinking.”

“Your situation, I fear, is worse, since the atmosphere I have tried to cultivate at Hogwarts is surely much more liberal on that subject than at Château Blackwalls. I confess I have accomplished little, but to best it, you will have to push your elves. Your staff's comments are perceptive. If you do this - and I fully understand Miss Granger's persuasiveness and persistence - you should consider prodding them with a carrot rather than a stick….”

Harry nodded noncommittally, “I'll see if I can come up with something.”

Enigmatically Dumbledore allowed, “It would be pretty to think so.”

The Headmaster had additional news about happenings at the Château after Harry's group had departed. Dumbledore described a rather confused and increasingly desperate search. Practically every owl the Château had was dispatched. Owls sent to the Auror Corps caused a temporary diversion of two squads to the Château, when the real battles were elsewhere.

The conversation turned to the Grimmauld fire. Details were sketchy, but the communications embargo had plainly severed contact between the country and city residences of the House of Black during the critical period.

The timing, Dumbledore surmised, could not have been coincidental.

Hermione returned. She looked and acted essentially (perhaps excessively) normal as the Headmaster described how the Grimmauld elves salvaged as much of the furnishings as possible. A large cache of items, including the entire contents of Sirius' room, were Apparated - or whatever it was that the elves did - from Grimmauld to the Château.

An elf dying from burns accompanied that material.

“…I am intimately familiar with the Grimmauld Place wards,” Dumbledore continued rather morosely. “The Blacks employed every security measure known to wizard-kind, and then some…. Thus a large-scale transfer would not have been impossible until the fire had destroyed the vast majority of that spellwork. Probably the elves assembled what they could on the roof, and made their move shortly before it collapsed….”

“How can you be sure?” Harry asked.

“I cannot offer certainty, but Muggle incident reports recount a roof collapse within moments of the house becoming visible,” Dumbledore explained patiently. “Visibility would only occur once the Fiendfyre consumed the outermost wards. The elves had very little time.”

“I hope the Château staff at least had the decency to provide medical treatment,” Hermione acerbically commented, wringing her hands. “That's the least they could do.”

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. “Unfortunately, the Château was on highest security alert - given your disappearance,” he told them. “Anti-Apparition wards prevented the shipment from entering the grounds.”

“But wouldn't the elf pass through?” Hermione asked, worrying her hands all the more.

“Regrettably, no,” Dumbledore responded. “It … er … she could not Apparate under her own power. She was deflected along with the furniture to the edge of the Château's wards.”

“But you said she was found alive,” Hermione pressed.

“Indeed,” the Headmaster hastened to explain. “The wards' large repulsion raised the Château's alarms. A heavily armed staff squadron, along with several elves, investigated. That led to their encountered with the Death Eaters, including the werewolf Greyback.”

“Inside or outside of the wards?” Harry asked, glowering. It was almost the verbatim question he had asked earlier.

“Again, I cannot…,” Dumbledore began, but his expression brightened as he mulled the point. “Come to think of it … that would logically place them outside the wards. Their account timed the Death Eater confrontation after discovery of the dying elf, which would be beyond the wards. The Death Eaters evidently had little fight left, and after trading some inconclusive curses, they fled.”

“Wait a minute,” Hermione interjected. “Greyback had to come from Stonehenge. He bit Tonks, right? I know she was at Stonehenge.”

“Yes … quite,” the Headmaster agreed. At last he could turn the conversation to the most perplexing aspect of what was already being denominated, inside the Ministry and without, as the Battle of Stonehenge. Choosing his words carefully, Dumbledore answered, “Fenrir must have departed for Château Blackwalls in a great hurry. As werewolves find it difficult, if not impossible, to Apparate, that leaves a question of the greatest gravity. What ended the Battle? The Ministry is at a loss, as am I, I must admit.”

To the older man's carefully concealed consternation, Harry cut in, before Hermione could respond. “Just before the end, I faced Voldemort,” Harry offered, “and Hermione's right, Greyback was present. I could tell. He runs all hunched over-like.”

To get at the truth, the Headmaster had to surmount Harry's well-meaning, but inconvenient, intervention. “Before you regained consciousness, I interviewed some of the others. George Weasley stated in no uncertain terms that you had fallen off your broom before the final … eruption, or whatever, that apparently removed the Death Eaters and Triads.”

“Umm … well, you see…,” Harry stammered. His desire to protect Hermione from scrutiny was stymied by his stark awareness of how little he knew about how the battle finished.

The Headmaster pressed, his urgent gaze making Harry avert his eyes. “I have not been able to speak to Tonks personally, but I know, second-hand, that she confirms this sequence. She fell prey to Greyback because your fall distracted her. Had events not promptly interrupted the resultant unequal struggle, it is unlikely she would still be with us.”

`Harry, let me handle this,' Hermione Legilimenced urgently. `You still can't lie worth a damn. Just follow my lead.'

“Headmaster, I doubt Harry knows what happened,” she intervened, making an effort to sound calm. “I do.”

Dumbledore rewarded her with his warmest, eye-twinkling smile. That was precisely what he had suspected. “Very well,” he replied crisply. Turning back to Harry, he requested, “Can you carry the tale to the last event you remember? Miss Granger can pick up from there.”

He hoped that, once Harry finished with what he knew, they would both be more comfortable with Hermione explaining the mystery.

Harry had seen Hermione exposed and in danger. “She and Luna were under my Invisibility Cloak, but part of it had come off.”

He described the resulting duel with Voldemort himself, despite Harry's exhaustion and badly damaged broom. Ignoring her “Harry, you shouldn't have,” reproach, Harry confessed surprise, approaching shock, when he was able to push Voldemort back to earth with only an Impediment Jinx after the Dark wizard had started to fly (something Harry had not known any wizard could do).

Dumbledore looked intrigued. He suggested that perhaps the Dark Lord was just as knackered as Harry.

Or maybe not.

“If he was tired, Voldemort sure got over it fast.” The Dark wizard was still capable of blasting Harry with an overwhelmingly powerful shock wave that sent him spinning out of control and smashed him into something hard. That collision broke the bones in Harry's leg and hip.

Hermione let out an anguished groan.

“I almost gave up,” Harry admitted with a similarly pained expression. “But I wasn't the only one who'd seen Hermione. Voldemort and Lestrange had, too. They were both ready to curse her, and I wasn't close enough to get in their way….”

“Is that when you lost consciousness?” Dumbledore asked, looking most concerned.

“No, I put everything I had left into conjuring that Bose-Einstein condensate,” Harry corrected. “I'd never done it. I was certain Voldemort would try to kill her, and I was right. Yes, the Killing Curse is unblockable, but Hermione and I had been over this. Bose-Einstein is essentially an energy vacuum. It might stop an AK by leaving nothing for the curse to remove. That wasn't exactly right, but obviously Hermione survived anyway…. Then I passed out.”

Dumbledore stood, looking somewhat bewildered. “I profess myself confused,” the Headmaster stated whilst walking in a tight circle. “You were wrong, but it worked anyway?”

“I don't understand it either,” Harry admitted. “But I had to block two curses at once. Lestrange was there, too, remember? I guess the energy from her Cruciatus was just what that AK needed. Voldemort's curse wasn't stopped, but bounced off - that way….”

With his index finger Harry traced an angle in the air.

“…It never hit Hermione…. Neither did. That's the last bit I saw. Then, I woke up here.”

Dumbledore stopped pacing. He regarded Harry carefully. “Do you mean that Tom's Killing Curse deflected towards Lestrange?” he immediately inquired.

“In her direction - probably,” Harry answered. “But I was so tired … everything hurt. I passed out, so I'm not sure.”

“Do you think Harry killed her?” Hermione asked at once.

“I bloody well hope so,” Harry growled.

“That would be icing on the cake,” the Headmaster allowed, ignoring Harry's comment. “But it remains a hypothetical possibility - nothing more.” Focussing again on Harry, he asked one final question. “What is the next thing you remember?”

Harry pushed his left hand through his unruly hair. “Nothing, until I woke up here. Hermione says I fell off my broom, but I don't remember that at all.”

Dumbledore turned to Hermione expectantly. “Miss Granger, what can you add? This is terribly important. Things are very confused. Did the Death Eaters Disapparate, or did something else happen?”

Hermione did not answer those questions, at least not right away. Instead, she turned to Harry. “I believe your own Patronus saved you. Just after the battle ended - and I doubt the Death Eaters Disapparated - it brought you to me. You were on its back.”

Harry's eyes widened at this new information. “It was…? But I only conjured one - ages before that. It was different….”

“Well, something, something yellowish … gold coloured, flew around during most of the battle, chasing after Dementors. I never got a good look at it. But a stag, definitely, brought you to me once the battle ended. As it protected you even after you went unconscious, I believe it was your Patronus. If it didn't catch you when you fell off your broom, I don't know what did.” She looked to Harry.

He shrugged. “Well, I guess it did look a little off,” Harry conceded. “But, well … a lot of things were going on, like trying to avoid getting killed. Still, if….” He turned to the Headmaster, “Can you sort this out? Does anything make sense to you?”

Dumbledore dropped into his chair, thinking. After pausing to examine his wand, he spoke, “I have never heard of a persistent Patronus - whatever colour. However, I have no basis for doubting Miss Granger's account, as you unquestionably fell off your broom and, equally unquestionably, you have survived.”

“But what do you think happened?” Harry persisted, anxiously puffing out his cheeks - the worry evident in his voice.

Dumbledore quickly cast several soundproofing charms.

“I surmise, which is all I can do, that you are gradually harnessing your Fifth Element power, Harry,” was the answer. “Growing into it, as it were. First the condensate, and now this unusual Patronus - instead of destructive bursts of raw magic, you now can channel this power to reinforce spells that you intend to cast. Whilst some results can be, shall we say, unpredictable, at least they appear to be constructive.”

“I haven't tried to do this,” Harry insisted.

“You are but sixteen,” the Headmaster reminded. “It is unquestionably a maturation process. Conscious control is a probable next step along this continuum….”

A pause followed, which made Hermione uncomfortable.

With good reason.

Dumbledore turned around and fixed his eyes upon her. “Whilst what happened at Stonehenge has become clearer, there remains what you - or you and Miss Lovegood - did that ended the battle. The goblins are evidently mistaken….”

Hermione had expected this question sooner or later, despite doing her best to put it off. “I'm not entirely sure myself,” she answered accurately, if not altogether truthfully, “but I'll tell you what I know. I'm a little scared, honestly.”

“From the descriptions I know of, that may well be prudent,” Dumbledore allowed wryly. “Let us start with this. With Harry's involvement ruled out, how could you generate so powerful a spell? Not to denigrate your abilities in the slightest, but given the sheer quantity of magic, I have to suspect some extraneous power source.”

Hermione nodded. “There was, and frankly, that was Luna's idea,” she admitted. “We tapped the blue stone in the Founders' Chamber … I didn't know it was once at Stonehenge. Luna did. She suggested I search for it….”

“And you found it?” Dumbledore asked a question that was not really a question, under the circumstances.

“Having searched from it, reversing the process and searching for it wasn't hard,” Hermione answered readily. Harry could tell she was tense. Her right hand, which had intermittently rested on his left shoulder since she began sitting on his bed, now gripped him tightly.

“It's a very powerful magical object, after…. I don't need to tell you that. Luna knew an old spell she said cleansed evil…. We had no idea what would happen. I thought if we were lucky, it might prevent their use of Unforgivable Curses, and thus help the goblin army win. In no way did I expect it would - make all of them vanish. So much magic passing through me … I think I passed out, too. I woke up to silence.”

“I can't add anything,” Harry added. “I don't even remember falling off my broom. Then … here at Hogwarts.”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, massaging his bearded chin, as he digested the new information. “That would explain some things, Miss … er … Hermione. Upon my return, I learnt of some sort of transient disruption of the Castle's wards. Professor McGonagall reacted by placing the school on high alert - and reacted cautiously when Fred Weasley turned up. Thus, she sent only Poppy and a couple of the staff to your aid.”

Hermione's nose crinkled in annoyance. “I wondered why she didn't come herself; and that puny Hogwarts rescue party … only three staff members did seem rather anæmic. Now, at least I know the reason.”

“Why would Miss Lovegood suggest a spell that cleansed evil?” Dumbledore inquired, eager to explore the point of most interest.

Hermione's lips pursed into a funny rounded shape, making her appear as if pondering the question, but Harry knew it signified nervousness. “Desperation, I suppose,” she ended the pregnant pause. She kept the Druid angle of events well hidden. “Luna had Ron out of harm's way. Harry was obviously flagging. The goblins seemed stymied, and the others were missing. She found me, and I was badly hurt. We rolled the dice … and came up midnight.”

“Midnight?” Dumbledore asked quizzically. “It had to be considerably later than that.”

“Midnight - as in twelve,” Hermione tried to explain. “My parents once took me to Monte Carlo…. Oh, sod the analogy, I meant we got lucky….”

Harry briefly wondered if the Granger family had patronised the Black family's casino, but put the thought aside.

“You were indeed,” the Headmaster agreed. Deep in thought, he was plainly analysing her every word.

Hermione's last comment caused Harry to recollect something fundamental - something that might help keep Hermione's secret. He leaned forward in his chair, breaking her grip on his shoulder. “Hermione just reminded me. We had a phial of Felix Felicis, the one Ron won in Potions class. We all used it … that is, except for Tonks and M-M-Mad-Eye….”

“Harry, it's all right - they refused, remember?” Hermione comforted her fiancé as she rubbed his back. “That's how he would have wanted to go…. In a major defeat of the Death Eaters, okay?”

“I'll be fine, Hermione,” Harry affirmed after a long moment. “Just …. It's still too raw, that's all.”

The Headmaster used the interlude to collect his thoughts about the point Harry had just asserted. “Felix Felicis … I see. I am certain that played a role in the outcome. Indeed, I think your luck compounded itself….”

“What does that mean?” Hermione asked, looking up from her kneading of Harry's shoulders.

Dumbledore smiled. “It means you were doubly fortunate. You undoubtedly surprised the Dark forces. How did you acquire Mister Weasley's potion?”

Harry has not expected that question. “He gave it to me … umm … to keep for him.”

“In confidence, I presume?” the Headmaster clarified. “I, for one, was not aware it had changed hands.”

“Yes, he … er….” Harry bit the bullet and explained. “Ron wanted to use it, I think, to declare for Cho … or maybe more. Obviously, he didn't want Cho to know that. I only told Hermione.”

“That worked to your distinct advantage,” Dumbledore heartily observed, whilst smiling broadly. “If any of the Death Eaters had known you possessed Felix Felicis, that potion could easily have been nullified. A counteractant became widely available during the first Voldemort war.”

“I didn't know that,” Hermione responded, sounding affronted. “Professor Slughorn never mentioned that in Potions class … nor did the book.”

“Not surprising,” Dumbledore commented. “Professor Slughorn is rather slothful. He uses the same lesson plan, and the same book, as when he last taught. To mention that shortcoming would also have reduced the perceived value of his prize…. But enough of that. I should not be airing to students my curriculum disputes with the staff.”

“So, still, the potion helped?” Harry repeated. Hermione's touch on his back had become noticeably rougher. She was upset about not knowing something she should have….

“Undoubtedly,” Dumbledore confirmed. “Felix Felicis may have influenced your choice of the spell that concluded the battle.”

Hermione seized an opportunity both to move on and ask a nagging question. “What could that spell have done? Did I kill them, expel them, or what?”

The Headmaster's answer also intrigued Harry.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers, as well as his injured hand permitted, weighing his answer. He opted for the truth. “All existing evidence - from several sources - indicates that the spell essentially cast them out; returning them to their points of origin.”

“You're sure?” Harry butted in. “Even Voldemort? Where did they come from?”

“We cannot be certain, particularly about Tom, at this point,” the Headmaster divulged. “The magic of Stonehenge is among the most ancient anywhere; its origins lost to prehistory. Nobody knows for sure exactly what ancient curses, charms, and other magicks lay dormant, awaiting activation by the right spell. We do know this. The Chang complex was stoutly defended by a large number of Death Eaters and Triads. Only within the last hour or so did the Ministry finally overcome the last resistance. So large a number of defenders could only have come from Stonehenge. Also telling was the capture of Antonin Dolohov….”

“He … he, I know was at Stonehenge,” Hermione interrupted. “He cursed me, with the Dark Fire of Tu Fan.” She showed them her scarred wrist. “Then, he Cruciated me, and would have killed me, except Roxtar - a goblin - took him down.”

“He was known to favour that spell,” Dumbledore remarked. “I further believe he was obsessed with you, as he played a role in your recent hoaxed murder….”

Harry tensed, grabbing the armrests of the wheelchair. Hermione shivered visibly. The Headmaster saw them.

“Neither of you need worry,” he reassured. “Dolohov cannot hurt Miss Granger, or anyone, now. He is dead.”

“Dead?” Harry echoed as he released the armrests. “I thought you said he was captured.”

“Dolohov was captured, badly injured, at the Salisbury Plain Auror station,” Dumbledore explained from his own chair. “One of his shoulders was nearly amputated by a goblin Asterlik. But the goblins had not set foot in that locale, and his blood loss far exceeded what we found in his vicinity at the station. He could not have been injured there….”

“He wasn't,” Hermione firmly confirmed. “I saw everything. But for that goblin blade, he would have killed me.”

Harry reached out, took Hermione's hand, and kissed it.

Dumbledore eyed them sagely. “Dolohov was known to be at the Auror station earlier that evening - with Bellatrix Lestrange - so your information only strengthens our hypothesis.”

Things were not adding up for Hermione. “Whilst I was waiting for Neville to turn up, Professor Shacklebolt told an arriving Auror team that every Auror in the station had been murdered. How would anyone know Dolohov had been there?”

“All true,” the Headmaster confirmed, shaking his head sadly at the thought of all those deaths, “but incomplete. The sole survivor was your fellow student, Colin Creevey.”

Hermione gasped. “Is Colin all right?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore hastened to add. “Rather traumatised, but physically unharmed. He has provided an eyewitness report. Lestrange and several Death Eaters ambushed the Auror's Salisbury changeover team. In short order, they killed all the Aurors. The Death Eaters seemed to be expecting reinforcements, but were themselves eventually called away. Less than an hour later they returned - minus Lestrange. They were utterly disoriented, as they failed to notice Mister Creevey, although he was in plain sight. They immediately Disapparated for parts unknown. That is, all save Dolohov, who was too badly injured to move.”

“Thus Dolohov was captured; the only live prisoner taken in the entire battle. I decided to let the goblins question him, a regrettable error on my part. He hid an encapsulated Reductor Curse in his mouth - essentially a suicide pill. He blew himself to bits, unfortunately along with a half-dozen goblins. But I assure you, he is most thoroughly deceased.”

Harry and Hermione instinctively recoiled at Dumbledore's graphic imagery, but overall they were relieved to be rid of this particular Death Eater.

The pause presented Hermione an opportunity to move matters away from her spell that had, apparently, removed the Death Eaters from Stonehenge. “Have you had a chance to review the Horcrux information Harry retrieved from Professor Slughorn?” she asked, a serious expression on her face. She leaned back on Harry's bed, studying the Headmaster.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore confirmed, looking up at the hourglass. “I must reiterate my pleasure that you heeded my advice and did not peruse that material yourselves. You, in particular, Miss Granger - I am quite aware of your drive to understand everything possible about magic. But Professor Slughorn's Horcrux notes were every bit as Dark as I feared.”

“Well…,” Hermione demurred, “Making Horcruxes, unlike Felix Felicis, is something that repulses me. My only concern is Voldemort's bottom line.”

“His bottom line?” Harry echoed, his inflection converting her statement into a question.

“How many Horcruxes we have to find,” Hermione explicated. She had discovered an empty phial in the sheets. Banishing it to the end table, she asked. “Professor, what do Professor Slughorn's notes state about how many Horcruxes Voldemort could make?”

“The magic number, according the Horace's materials, is seven.” Dumbledore declared. “Arithmancy teaches that seven….”

“…is the most powerful magical number, yes, I know.” Hermione anticipated the point. The answer was still incomplete. She asked, “Seven Horcruxes or seven soul pieces?”

“An excellent question,” the Headmaster responded, looking anything but pleased. “Unfortunately, I have nowhere near as good an answer. The formulæ in Horace's notes are unclear and could be interpreted either way….”

“You mean we could be dealing with six, or seven, possible Horcruxes?” Harry jumped in.

“Correct,” Dumbledore conceded. In frustration, he flicked a stray bit of lint from his chair with his good hand. “The notes are ambiguous and capable of both readings - the word used, `phenomena,' could mean either. Perhaps it is a less-than-precise translation from some other language, although the original tongue is never stated.”

“Damn,” Harry cursed disappointedly, “I was hoping we might at least be over half way.”

Dumbledore's expression perked up. “That suggests to me that, in addition to defeating the Death Eaters, you also destroyed another Horcrux?” he inquired.

“We haven't destroyed, or even found, anything,” Hermione quickly deflated that hope. “But we may have located another one.”

Here was unexpected, and positive, news. Dumbledore only knew that the Order's recent Horcrux efforts had come up empty.

The two explained to the Headmaster how they had hoped to see the Glastonbury Grail Collection but had been disappointed instead to find “bits and pieces of various saints,” as Harry indelicately put it. Finding the whole thing somewhat nauseating, Hermione, always the bookworm, had wandered into the gift shop and leafed through a picture book. One of the vessels in the Grail collection was the Hufflepuff Cup, Harry was sure of it. The book was at the Château. They would get it and show Dumbledore.

Where was the collection - and thus the Cup - now?

“A swap brought all those relics to Glastonbury,” Hermione answered. “In return, the Grail Collection's been shipped off to Rome. A sign on the wall said it's at the Pinacoteca, a Vatican art museum, for three years. We haven't told anybody, because we think, with it being an international issue … and involving the Muggles … you'd know best how to handle it….”

A major development. The Headmaster rocked back in his chair, rubbing his forefinger across his chin. “Well….”

Before he went any farther, Harry cut in. “I think I know what to do about it, now.”

“You do?” Dumbledore asked, sounding quite intrigued. Hermione also looked fascinated, but knowing how Harry's bright ideas worked in practice, her fascination was tinged with apprehension.

“Yeah,” Harry turned to look at her. “Hermione, why didn't you mention that the Horcrux was at the Vatican?”

“I thought I had,” Hermione replied, a bit defensively.

“If you did, I didn't catch it,” Harry let it go by. “I only caught Rome. And that's different. You said it was a swap. Maybe we could arrange another.”

“Another what?” Dumbledore asked, leaning forward, just beating Hermione to the same question.

For the first time, Harry rose from the magic-scorched wheelchair he was occupying. “Remember that bloke who claimed to speak for the Pope - who wrote the letter I received in Reims?”

“Y-Yes,” Hermione answered, somewhat hesitantly.

“I saw you take delivery,” Dumbledore commented briskly to encourage Harry to continue. “What did the letter say?”

“I'd wanted to discuss this with you, but with everything else that was going on, I never did,” Harry explained. “The letter discussed a so-called the Gospel of Truth. They, the Church I guess, thought the Blacks had it. They wanted it, and did nasty things to the Blacks when one of them….”

“Merak Black,” Hermione interjected.

“Anyway, him,” Harry continued. “The letter offered to drop all that rot if only I gave it to them. I was ready to bin the letter, but Hermione found something at the Château that she thinks might actually be that Gospel of Truth. Anyway, the Church has something we want … well; we've got something they want, too. So maybe you could arrange a swap…?”

“No!” Hermione's voice rang through the room. Both Harry, who sat rather heavily in his chair, and the Headmaster turned to the suddenly quite angry girl, who had heaved herself off the bed and onto her feet.

In a trice she planted herself in front of Harry, hands squarely on her hips. “We can't, Harry - not even for a Horcrux,” she pleaded. “We would be accomplices to the destruction of history. I've read that so-called gospel. It's like the Rosetta Stone, written in two languages - one's Greek; the other I can't read but I suspect it's Aramaic….”

“Hermione, we've been over this,” Harry argued. “I wasn't all that keen on it either, but that was before the Horcrux. If we don't destroy….”

“Harry, that … that document could well be in Jesus Christ's own handwriting - unique in the world,” Hermione insisted. “If that's so, if the Church ever gets their hands on it, they will destroy it. I'm certain. It undercuts everything they're about….”

Hermione was waxing emotional. Her negative reaction had Harry on edge. The Headmaster intervened to lower the temperature. “Perhaps you should tell me more about this document and how you came to find it,” Dumbledore requested.

Words tumbled from Hermione's mouth describing her expedition with Luna. Looking through the library of old Muggle books, many otherwise lost to history…. Finding the lock to the hidden chamber…. Deciphering the numeric pattern to open it…. Avoiding the booby-trap in the tunnel and thereby confirming the pattern…. Encountering the aged copper crypt….

“…and the Blacks must have acquired it through trade with the Eastern Mediterranean. The markings were from Famagusta, in Greece…”

“That's from Cyprus, although it was Greek at the time,” Dumbledore corrected. He had not commented since Hermione begun.

Hermione looked, if possible, even more stricken.

Harry knew why and jumped in. “The letter … it mentioned Cyprus…. If … I could just remember what.”

Hermione's rage burnt itself out with this latest information - replaced by smoldering embers of fatalism. “It referenced Cypriot Templars,” she said dully as she tugged her hair. Any doubt that the Vatican letter sought the manuscript she had found had evaporated. “That is what they want.” She slumped against the side of the bed.

“And what, exactly, was that?” Dumbledore asked gently.

Hermione took a deep breath. Patiently, she explained the story line of the supposed “gospel.” Jesus' missing adolescence…. His meeting the wizard Judas…. Their collaboratively staged “miracles”…. Jesus falling in love and wanting to retire from the prophet business…. The staged crucifixion…. The botched elopement that was mistaken for a resurrection…. The supremacy struggle between Judas and Peter…. The author's stated intent, years later, to set the record straight….

When she finished, Harry maintained, “I still think getting that Horcrux is more important.”

Hermione disagreed, but her vehemence had dissipated. “Harry, this is too important to be destroyed, and they will … it's, it's history.”

“I cannot help agreeing with you both,” Dumbledore announced as he rose. “We need not do anything irrevocable today. Let me make some discreet inquiries concerning the Cup, but without mentioning the document. Some in the Curia are familiar with our world.”

“But what about the document?” Harry inquired. “Should we move it?”

“I doubt it,” Dumbledore advised. “It is in a safe location, and as Miss Granger indicated is protected by Preservative Charms. The fewer who know, the better, and moving it might attract questions. Further, the simple swap you envision is probably infeasible. The Cup does not belong to either us or the Church.”

“So do nothing, then?” Harry sought clarification.

“I would recommend ruling out a hoax,” Dumbledore cautioned. “Many writings of this sort are.”

“I know how to approach that,” Hermione chimed in, sounding grateful not to have been overruled on the spot.

Harry looked at her curiously.

`Later,' she Legilimenced.

And so it was agreed.

* * * *

The Christmas Holiday drew towards its inevitable close. A return to Château Blackwalls required preparation - considering how they had departed. In their mad dash for Stonehenge, Harry, Hermione, and friends had left all of their belongings behind. Hermione especially desired to retrieve certain books, especially the Muggle tome purchased in Glastonbury.

The responsibilities of proprietorship weighed on Harry. He wanted to meet the Château's house-elves face-to-face - particularly after three of them had perished in the Fiendfyre that destroyed Grimmauld Place.

Less desired, but even more pressing, was confronting Mr. McAllister on the security issues identified by the late Mad-Eye Moody. Unless those issues were resolved to Harry's satisfaction, he would have to sack McAllister and name a replacement. With Mad-Eye gone, he had asked Shak about active or retired Aurors who were both trustworthy and capable of handling the responsibility. Desdemona Proudfoot and Jack Savage were the two most highly recommended.

Château security was not even the primary reason Harry had turned to Shak. Moody's death vacated Harry's guardianship. Although Harry was less than a year shy of majority, the Ministry's rules were unchanged. Emancipated minor wizards were not allowed - especially someone with Harry Potter's profile and portfolio.

It was not a post for the faint-hearted. Mad-Eye was Harry's third guardian to meet a violent demise at Death Eater hands in under a year. Nonetheless, would-be volunteers for the post abounded. Involving both a political figure and an heir to great wealth, Harry's guardianship attracted considerable attention attraction, despite its occupational hazards.

Not in a million years would Harry submit to direct control by the Ministry of Magic.

Thus, Harry had another request of Shak during their meeting.

“Thanks for the recs, Shak,” Harry said without looking up, scribbling “Clement Birkenshaw,” the last of five names his DADA professor had provided.

“Glad I could help,” Shak replied with a wave of his hand. “Think nothing of it. I hope McAllister isn't dirty, though. We're fellow Hufflepuffs, and he always seemed a reasonable chap to me….”

“Umm … Shak, there's another thing,” Harry began nervously - as he always was at times like this. “Mad-Eye died….” Harry swallowed hard, and tried to maintain composure as tears pricked at his eyelids.

Shak probably anticipated what was coming, but did nothing to encourage it. Once the boy's pause extended to the point of awkwardness, he filled the silence with. “I'm aware of that, yes. He was one of the finest Aurors I've ever known. Rather on the paranoid side though.”

“Rather … there's an understatement for you….” Harry paused.

“Given his work, some degree of paranoia was probably healthy,” Shak commented.

“His was above and beyond the call of duty,” Harry responded.

“As was everything about Mad-Eye.”

Finally Harry stopped hemming and hawing. “Shak, you know the Ministry's rules as well as anyone. I'm underage so I must have an adult guardian. If I don't select anyone, somebody will be appointed.”

“I understand that Rufus himself has extended an offer,” Shak remarked evenly, not offering an opinion one way or the other.

Harry grimaced, “Yes, I've received the Minister's post - `graciously' offering to replace Mad-Eye. I'd sooner ask a troll…. Shak, will you do it…?”

The request was expected; Harry's bluntness was not. “What? I'm no troll.”

Harry ignored Shak's attempted levity. “I need a guardian I trust. I trust you. Will you do it?” Harry repeated in rapid-fire staccato.

Shak was dubious, but not for reasons of personal safety. “Harry, I'm flattered, but you must realise the excruciatingly awkward position this puts me in.”

Harry did not, but was not keen to admit it. “A little. I figure you're still after Scrimgeour's job, but I'll help you with that - whenever and however you want.”

“That's not really it, Harry,” Shak told the boy. “I'm your professor so it would have an appearance of impropriety. You surely deserve an Outstanding in Defence, but it wouldn't look right for your guardian to award it. Politics also enters into things. I'm sure we'd see letters to the Prophet arguing that I should resign from the Hogwarts staff.”

Harry felt his face warm as Shak spoke. “So you won't do it, then,” he glumly accepted. He had known much rejection in his young life, but familiarity did not make a new episode any easier.

“I didn't say that, Harry.” Shak stood up, walked around the table, and put one of his large hands on Harry's back. “Just, I'd rather you tip someone else. Your request … it complicates what the Order wants me to do. But I won't leave you in the lurch. You have a several-week grace period. Talk this over with others - with Hermione and Dumbledore at least. If, by the deadline, you still prefer me, I'll do it, and damn any criticism.”

Harry smiled wanly at Shak. With a simple, “bye,” he left to prepare for his next ordeal. Harry was feeling too down on himself to confess to Shak that he had already consulted Hermione. She had not only predicted Shak's reaction, she had identified the exact reasons for his reluctance to accept.

But Gryffindors go forward.

Despite having been through the drill several times, Harry still viscerally disliked public speaking. Once again, he had no choice. Traditionally, a victorious goblin army did not decamp until receiving its commander's congratulations for a job well done.

Several thousand goblins continued to occupy large parts of Hogwarts' spacious grounds. The Headmaster's strenuously expressed wishes were to have things back to normal before the students returned; an event now less than forty-eight hours away. Thus, Harry prepared a few words to express his gratitude to the goblin army.

The situation was unusually delicate. Harry believed, as did everyone who followed him to Stonehenge, that the goblin army's intervention had been decisive, and had saved them all from almost certain death. But the goblins held quite the opposite view. They were convinced that Harry had won the battle and saved them. They had been on the verge of being eaten alive by a ravenous swarm of carnivorous locusts conjured by Cho Chang's father. Harry had swooped down on his broom and draped them in protective mosquito netting. The turnaround was unlike anything previously seen in the long span of goblin military history.

Hermione wheeled Harry to the speaker's platform in his refurbished wheelchair. That was partly to show the goblin veterans, many suffering permanent injuries of their own, that Harry had not escaped unscathed. Partly it was to conserve Harry's strength.

He spoke from a magically reconfigured platform at the rear wall of the Hospital Wing. Gone were the high, narrow windows where a few months earlier Harry and Hermione had collaborated to capture Rita Skeeter. Now the windows were lower and wider, and they framed a brand-new balcony.

The goblins had installed their own magical sound system on that balcony. It not only amplified Harry's voice, but translated his words into Gobbledygook. The translation was imperfect - the system was an improvised goblin artefact. Goblins had never needed to translate anything wizards had said into their own language, except painstakingly by hand.

Hermione propelled Harry into the sunlight. The austere speaker's platform was simply a block of stone nestled beside the balcony's railing flanked on either side by inverted cones - resembling hollowed out dragon tail spikes attached to glowing chains. Recalling the Ashrak battle, Harry reassured Hermione that goblins chains served many purposes, not just as restraints.

He took a calming breath and rose to his feet. As he did, she uttered a breathless, “Look!”

Across the windswept wintry landscape, from the Castle's shadow most of the way to the lake, clumps of goblins gathered outside the brownish-green circular structures they used for tents. Many bore visible battle wounds - including missing various extremities, in whole or part.

Above the goblin tents, fluttering in a stiff northerly breeze, were banners of the various goblin cantons from which the soldiery hailed.

Below those banners, atop every tent, was something new. Affixed to almost every flagpole of the assembled goblin army (except those topped by severed heads of deceased Death Eaters) were squares of Muggle mosquito netting. A new goblin battle standard had been created in honour of their Stonehenge victory.

It was also a massive show of goblin support for Harry.

Angar goblansk-inim kanskala!

To begin, Harry uttered the traditional goblin victory slogan.

The goblins responded with a crescendo of sound, thoroughly disquieting to wizards unfamiliar with it. “Ulululululu….”

The goblin battle cry enveloped Hogwarts. Harry raised his arms, a gesture that revealed his tladimax - carved in his forearm by King Ragnok himself at a memorable Ashrak, doubtlessly attended by many of these warriors.

Silence returned.

I've talked with our field commander. We have a respectful difference of opinion. He says I rescued you, and thus assured our victory. I told him you rescued me, and thus assured our victory.

I'm confident we can work this out.

We both rescued each other.

And so we assured that we all emerged victorious.

“Ulululululu….”

Another pause - Harry waited until he could be heard.

In victory, we now return to our homes and our everyday lives. We go knowing that what we have done, and the valour of our actions, will be celebrated in our histories, wizard and goblin, for far longer than any of us will live.

We've won a critical battle.

But we have yet to win the war.

After that, we must also win the peace, so we can live in harmony and equality. Secure in the knowledge that what binds us together is stronger than what would divide us.

“Ulululululu….” Harry stepped back, again, until the chanting died down.

To that end, shall every goblin, and every wizard do his - and her - duty. In that way we shall ultimately emerge victorious.

Thank you, and while I bid you fond farewell, we shall meet again in celebration.

Somewhat light-headed, Harry stepped carefully off the platform, wobbled to the wheelchair Hermione was holding for him, and sat down heavily before she could help. He was not as recovered as he had thought - no, hoped.

“Ulululululu….”

One final time goblin war cries resounded. Harry sat still, breathing heavily, until they died down - being followed by unmistakable sounds of an army breaking camp for the last time.

“Are you all right?” Hermione hissed.

“I am now,” Harry puffed. “If I'd spoken much longer I might have fainted.”

“Well … brevity is the soul of wit. You were excellent - again,” Hermione told him whilst wheeling him back inside. She stopped walking and languorously began running her fingers through his hair. She sighed. “Speaking of breaking camp, I need to get going so we can have a final hurrah at the Château before the holidays end. Healer Huxley wants to conduct your discharge examination, and that's probably wise. I'm sure he'll arrive straightaway.”

She kissed him on the cheek and left.

Harry heard shuffling footsteps behind him. It was not a gait associated with Healer Huxley.

“Well, what did you think?” he asked the approaching wizard.

“Wise words, Mister Potter,” Dumbledore complimented. “I particularly thank you for requesting the goblins to vacate the premises before the students return. Are up to walking with me? I have news.”

“Healer Huxley wants to examine me,” Harry replied.

“I know, I have spoken with Parry,” Dumbledore answered. “This should not take long, but I thought you should be the first to know - although, all things considered, it is hardly a surprise.”

It was pointless putting the Headmaster off, particularly on his home turf. Harry stood and tested himself. “All right then, I suppose I can use the exercise.”

“As can I.”

They left the Hospital Wing and padded slowly down the corridor towards the Trophy Room - an aging wizard and a recuperating one. “Should I get Hermione?” Harry asked.

“The Ministry asked that I inform you. You may certainly tell her yourself,” the Headmaster responded with a wink. “I am to tell you that there will be Orders of Merlin for all. Congratulations - and well earned. You and Miss Granger are gazetted for Second Class, since the Ministry believes, as do I, that Miss Granger's magic brought about Voldemort's forcible departure. Third class for the rest, who did not engage him directly.”

“Even Jazzy?” Harry sought clarification.

“Yes,” Dumbledore confirmed, eyes twinkling. “I told them not to try shaving Doxies … that not honouring all who risked their lives would create counterproductive friction with you and Miss Granger. Alastor shall receive his third, such decoration posthumously.”

They turned the corner and heard a clanking sound. Suits of armour on both sides had come to attention, their weapons smartly in front of them.

“At ease,” Dumbledore commanded.

The creaks and squeaks of armour resuming normal position could not mask the Headmaster's cough.

“Are you all right?” Harry inquired. For all Dumbledore's abilities, he was well into life's autumn.

“Just … I should have used a Sonorus,” the Headmaster responded.

“Are the goblins also getting Orders of Merlin?” Harry wondered, having just finished addressing their bivouacked army.

“Goblins would not accept Ministry awards,” the Headmaster explained. “They shall be fêted in their nation's customary fashion, at the upcoming alitserat. As their technical commanding officer, of course, it is your duty to confer those awards.”

“Fine, for the goblins, I'll do it,” Harry affirmed. “But that's all. We don't need another big Ministry ceremony. It distracts the Aurors, and last time the Deaters took the opportunity to stage attacks.”

Dumbledore looked relieved. “You have nothing to worry about on that score. The Ministry intends to keep these awards as low-key as possible.”

“Really?” Harry scoffed. “They never have before….”

“The Ministry has never before come so close to overthrow, at least not in my lifetime,” Dumbledore countered. “The Death Eaters had seized the Salisbury Plain Auror centre. The Floo to the Ministry was wide open. Had the ceremony you interrupted been completed, Voldemort undoubtedly would have launched a full-scale assault. With Ministry resources dispersed, that assault could well have succeeded. Whilst Minister Scrimgeour is grateful for your intervention and believes that decorations are in order, he is not anxious to remind the public just how close a thing this really was.”

“It was stupid to shut everything down at once,” Harry muttered.

“In retrospect, but the decision had some merit at the time,” Dumbledore gently disagreed. “Simultaneous installation minimized the inevitable window of vulnerability - even as it also deepened it. Unfortunately, the security of the operation was badly compromised.”

“An Auror traitor?” Harry partially asked and stated.

“Perhaps,” the Headmaster said as he came to a halt. “At least as likely, though, is a Triad infiltration of the Chinese operation of your friends, the Creeveys. Please recommend that they engage a full-time security consultant…. Come, I believe it is time to head back…. We both have things to do.”

* * * *

The girl raised her head when, suddenly, the yellowish glow of chain-link woven into the walls of her cubicle ceased. Her small, world-weary smile greeted the tall, familiar wizard who entered. That smile vanished when she saw him followed by a strange, maroon-robed witch.

“Miss Chang,” Dumbledore began sternly, “I assume you are cognizant of the gravity of your situation.”

“I was to kill Ronnie to become a succubus, marry He Who Must Not Be Named, and bear his child and heir,” she droned flatly and unemotionally. “Yes, I'm fully aware of what's happened…, and what could happen. Is she…?”

Ignoring her question, the Headmaster again addressed Cho. “You have also told me repeatedly that you had no choice in the matter, is that correct?”

“Yes, I know it sounds crazy, but I couldn't stop myself…. I couldn't even tell anyone what was happening,” Cho said pleadingly. “It's traditional Chinese magic - my parents, my father, controlled me…. Oh, what's the use? She's an Auror, isn't she? She's here to give me to the Dementors.”

“That remains to be seen,” Dumbledore replied evenly, betraying no emotion. “Your story has received corroboration, so no precipitate action will ensue. This is Matilda Campbell. You are correct. She is an Auror, specialising in Veritaserum interrogation. You did well enough in Potions. I trust you are familiar with it?”

“Yes,” Cho answered quickly, her voice unsteady. Amazingly, someone, somewhere supported her. Someone actually believed her!

“Ms. Campbell will ask you some questions,” the Headmaster instructed. “From your responses, the Ministry and I shall evaluate your compulsion defence. If other aspects of our investigation confirm the magical aspects of your alibi, it would be difficult to distinguish your case from those involving the Imperius Curse.”

Cho's eyes went wide at the implications. Ever since she awoke and found herself inexplicably in Hogwarts' Hospital Wing, Cho had been resigned to facing Azkaban and the Dementors. Any time a wizard entered, she feared the worst - that she had a date that would end with a Dementor's Kiss.

Cho could barely walk - a legacy of her near metamorphosis into a succubus.

“I shall take my leave,” Dumbledore remarked as he turned to go. “I anticipate your inquisition touching upon extremely personal and sensitive subjects.”

He was almost out the door when Cho called after him. “Wait…. Can I…? Can you at least tell me who out there thinks I'm telling the truth?”

The Headmaster halted. He gazed at the ceiling as he weighed responding. Finally, he chose. “Yes, Miss Chang. I think I shall…. Miss Granger so informed me and offered substantial circumstantial proof that you had been under compulsion for quite some time….”

“Granger?” Cho blurted. “I did everything I could…. Why would she of all people believe…?”

Dumbledore departed without elucidating.

“Miss Chang,” the Auror interrupted the girl's muddled reaction. “You must drink this. Swallow it all without stopping….”

Cho did as told; consuming what appeared to be a goblet of pumpkin juice. Obviously, it contained Veritaserum. The Auror methodically assembled an Autoquill device to record Cho's answers. When finished, she confirmed via crystal that her subject was fully under the truth potion's influence. A few general questions confirmed the crystal's readings and allowed fine tuning of the Autoquill's volume settings.

Ms. Campbell cut to the chase.

“Miss Chang, you have made statements that your actions of late, particularly those involving Mister Ronald Weasley and the Death Eaters, were not taken of your own volition. Is that right?”

“Yes, I've said that, and it's true.”

“Please explain the nature of the magical compulsion.”

“Xiao Jing.” Cho answered in the monotonous tone of Veritaserum-controlled speech. “An ancient Chinese charm, dating to the Oracle Bones period. How it's cast, I don't know. Until you're a parent, it apparently can't be learnt. But it controls - absolutely. It enforces filial piety, a child's duty to honour and obey one's parents. It's worse than Imperius, since with Xiao Jing you don't lose yourself. I knew and understood everything I was doing and that most of it was wrong, horribly wrong. But I couldn't stop myself. I couldn't even betray what I felt. So I betrayed … everyone….”

“How did this come about?”

“A tattoo ensures control.”

“May I?”

“It's gone now - burnt away, somehow, at Stonehenge.”

Mentally noting Cho's inability to corroborate certain photographs, the interrogator probed. “How did this alleged tattoo come about?”

“I was tattooed when I first went to Hogwarts. Otherwise Yan fu … umm … my father would not have let me attend. He's always been sceptical of foreign influences - even though he's been in England a long time.”

“Your father's been controlling you since you started at Hogwarts? What's that? Six….”

“No,” Cho cut her off with a truthful answer. “Yan fu only activated the charm last year, at least as far as I know.”

“What caused that change?”

“I'm not sure because I was never told, but I think it involved my choice of boyfriends….”

“Isn't it the same the world over?” the Auror commented, interrupting Cho's narrative and causing confusion in her Veritaserum-controlled mind.

“I don't know how to answer that.”

“Oh, that wasn't meant as a question,” the Auror clarified. “I'll watch myself better. What caused your father to activate the charm?”

“Yan fu did not like Cedric and called him uncomplimentary names. I thought it was because he was not Han … er … Chinese. But once Cedric died…. I began having feelings for Harry Potter. His interest in me had been transparently obvious for some time. Earlier, when I was with Cedric, Potter had asked me to the Yule Ball. But when Potter finally got his chance, he was already moving on…. Yan fu, however much he disapproved of Cedric, was pleased for me to be with Harry. So it wasn't racial.”

“Yan fu was quite upset when I ended it. It was a charade, except Potter was clueless. He's a boy, so I shouldn't be surprised. Potter was attracted to me, but his heart, I'm afraid, always belonged to someone else. When I couldn't stand that any longer, Yan fu came to the school, personally. He'd never set foot in the place before. He told me I was a fool, and as his only child, I had to put the family first. Then he activated the Xiao Jing charm.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand,” the Auror commented. “If your father activated the charm, and wanted you to pursue Harry Potter, where did Ronald Weasley come from?”

Even under Veritaserum, Cho sighed. “It takes two to tango. Our supposed relationship centred around a secret student defence group….”

The Auror nodded. “Dumbledore's Army, I believe it's called.”

“Yes, but my best friend, Marietta, who attended meetings with me, was compromised, and she exposed the group. That reflected poorly on me, and Potter grew distant. He had that confrontation with He Who Must Not Be Named in the Ministry and ended up more famous than ever. Everyone fawned over him. Yan fu ordered me to make amends. Potter ignored me. Yan fu decided I needed to be able to use my … well, my femininity … to better advantage. He increased the potency of the Xiao Jing charm and took me to Amsterdam.”

“What did you do in Amsterdam?”

“Yan fu arranged for me to `train myself' by acting in Muggle sex movies - pornos.”

“And he did that … to you … so you could attract, who was it? Potter or Weasley at that time?”

“Ronnie. Yan fu originally intended me to seduce Potter. That was clear enough. Looking back, once he learnt that Potter had asked me to the ball, Yan fu plotted for me to lure Potter into some sort of trap, so he could turn Potter over to He Who Must Not Be Named. He wanted sort of alliance. But that failed. Then I received an invitation to play Quidditch in a holiday camp of sorts in Denmark. Ronnie was one of the others to be invited.”

“That's how Ronald Weasley came into the picture?”

“Yes.”

“And you went along with this?”

“I couldn't help it. It's impossible to fight the Xiao Jing and remain sane,” Cho explained yet again. “I tried reasoning with Yan fu. I mentioned that Ronnie was interested in Hermione Granger. Yan fu was not swayed by that. He told me I was blind; that Granger sabotaged my dating Potter because she wanted him for herself. To that extent, Yan fu was evidently right.”

“I tried another excuse; that making Muggle pornos was foolish. Ronnie was the jealous type. But Yan fu dismissed the Weasleys as `swamp wizards' - that they wouldn't know the Internet from a rusty cauldron. He was right. Ronnie, at least, never had a clue….”

“But someone did?”

“Granger. I don't know how, because she's not at all the type, but somehow she knew. One day we encountered each other alone in Hogsmeade. She had hooked up with Potter by then but still tried to warn me off Ronnie. She never exactly said it, but I'm convinced that she knew about the pornos.”

“The warning had no effect, then?”

“It couldn't. I had no free will. I reported it to Yan fu. He ordered me to do everything to split Ronnie from the other two - especially from Granger. I don't know how or why she believes me now, but I know her … she'll lord this over me the rest of my life.”

“Umm … we're getting a little far afield,” the investigating Auror interceded. “Back to the point. So you seduced Ronald Weasley.”

“I did. At the Quidditch camp - he was Hogwarts' starting Keeper and I was the starting Seeker. That meant lots of time together. I showed interest in him, and he … well you know what they say about Nifflers and gold. It was almost pathetically easy.”

“How did you perceive his motivations?”

“Basically, to have as much sex in as many different ways as humanly possible. I mean, Ronnie had been a virgin…”

“Miss Chang, must I up your dosage?”

“No … sorry. It's just…. Well, Ronnie saw me as something even his best friend The Boy Who Lived couldn't get. I never told him what really happened. He repressed a great deal of jealousy towards Potter. Ronnie told me he'd failed at winning over Granger. And then Potter and Granger … that much is public. But Ronnie…, with his temper, he was an open book. At the end I suspect he wanted to declare for me, maybe more - but now we'll never know.”

“And yourself, were you a virgin?”

“No. Cedric was my first. But Ronnie thought I was. After Cedric died, one of the first things I was required through the Xiao Jing charm was to take Virginity Restoring Potion. That's not exactly Dark, but dodgy. It works. But I don't think Ronnie cared much about that. He just loved sex. He wasn't very skilled in the beginning, but he was always very enthusiastic.”

“Did you continue to act under compulsion throughout your relationship with Ronald Weasley?”

“In most ways, yes. But at some points, I don't think so.”

“You'd best explain. It's critical to your compulsion defence.”

“Throughout the relationship, I travelled with Yan fu to Amsterdam to make pornos. That was always compelled. Whilst the sex was excellent, I could never have done that willingly. But he was training me, I'm now sure, to become a succubus. Several of my … umm … co-stars died during my training. But with Ronnie, I sometimes had relations with him without feeling any compulsion. It helped him so much, and eventually I did grow fond of him.”

“How did sex with Mister Weasley - I'm assuming that's what you meant - help him?”

“Yes that's what I meant. To be blunt, I was shagging Ronnie whenever we could. It helped him avoid horrific nightmares. He'd been the victim of some sort of attack - I think in the Ministry, but he didn't like talking about it. His nightmares were awful: about dying, about being eaten by Acromantulæ, about being betrayed, especially by Potter and Granger, who were his best friends. He said repeatedly that after we shagged he could sleep more soundly.”

“He had nightmares about betrayal.” The Auror repeated. “Don't you find that rather ironic?”

“Yes … but I felt…. I was a puppet on a string. Betrayal … Ronnie was once interested in Granger, though that didn't get very far, if at all. But in one recurring nightmare it had. They were together, maybe married, and she ruined him by having some sort of affair with Potter. Ronnie called it his `Locomotive Breath' nightmare. He named his dreams.”

“What did Mister Weasley mean by that?”

“I'm not sure. Maybe he woke up panting. Maybe it involved the Hogwarts Express, where he, Potter, and Granger first met. Or it might.… I don't know.”

“All right. When did you learn what lay in store for Mister Weasley?”

“I had suspicions…. I was trying to sort things out when I had that confrontation with Granger. But I couldn't stop. Our sex became more dangerous. Ronnie fainted a couple of times. The last time…. It was horrible. Something inside me sliced him up pretty badly. He passed out. I healed him. But those were just premonitions.”

“I only learnt for certain once I came home to Wales for the winter holiday. Yan fu took me into his business study. He'd never let me in there, or even Jia mu … umm … my mother. He informed me that he wasn't really in the import-export business as I'd always believed. Instead, he was hereditary leader; he called it `Mountain Master,' of the White Lotus Triad. I was to enter an arranged marriage to He Who Must Not Be Named. Our heir would rule over both the Triad and the Death Eaters, effecting a merger. Yan fu wanted access to money He Who Must Not Be Named had stashed in banks in China. The Death Eaters needed more manpower, which the Triad could supply.”

“What did becoming a succubus have to do with any of this?”

“I'm sure I wasn't told everything, but He Who Must Not Be Named was so thoroughly Dark that he could not successfully mate - that is, father children - with a normal witch. It had to be Dark Creature. Why a succubus rather than, say, a harpy, I don't know. I would become a succubus. Immediately after….”

Even under Veritaserum, Cho could not keep from shuddering at the thought.

“…feeding, succubi are very fertile, but I was had to drink a potion, just to be sure. We were to marry, in a Chinese ceremony, to satisfy the Triad. Then we would mate and hopefully produce an heir to unite the Triad and the Death Eaters. But first, I had to … Kill Ronnie…. Oh, Merlin.”

“Why Ronald Weasley?”

“I don't know. Yan fu never said. I think it was because Ronnie was a friend of Potter's. With all the brouhaha about The Chosen One, I think Ronnie was a bargaining chip Yan fu used in arranging things with He Who Must Not be Named. We were both pawns in a greater game - Ronnie more than I.”

“Let's talk about that `greater game' as you call it. What do you know about Death Eaters and Triads?”

“Little. I'd never seen either before the holiday. After my last lecture from Yan fu, I was not permitted outside the house, so I don't know what went on outside. In the house, I saw hundreds of Triads and maybe two dozen Death Eaters. I know nothing of their plans.”

“You stayed at the compound in Wales, then. How did you get to Stonehenge?”

“I remained in Pantllefrith until New Years' Night. I met Ronnie at the Floo, and took him to my bedroom. We were starting to shag when he was seized. I didn't see him again until Stonehenge. When it was time, I was escorted to a Triad portal. On the other end was a tent. The tent was at Stonehenge. It was dark. I don't know any more than that.”

“What was supposed to happen?”

“I was supposed to mount … Ronnie….” Cho choked up, again. “Can I have … some water?”

“Surely. Would pumpkin juice do?”

“Yes.”

“You know I'll have to add a maintenance dose?”

“Doesn't matter, does it?”

Several minutes passed whilst Cho composed herself and slaked her thirst.

“You were about to tell me what was planned.”

“Ronnie would be…. I don't know. Anyway, he would be there in a suitable state for me to shag him. I would … feed on his fluids until he was … dead and drained. A metamorphosis would occur - as you can tell, some of it did. My wings would unfurl, and the usual horns. I would become a succubus.”

“Then I would return to the tent. I would receive more Virginity Restoring Potion. I would wear a traditional Chinese red wedding dress and exchange vows with He Who Must Not Be Named. We would have sex. I would return to Pantllefrith for confirmation of pregnancy. That's all I know.”

“What did happen?”

“I prepared as required. My eyes were fully blue, and my feet had changed, too. I left the tent. I saw Ronnie chained to a large stone. He was … ready. I slipped off the robe I was wearing and made ready to mount him. I knelt to kiss him with that hideous forked tongue…. Suddenly I heard a lot of noise. Some spell hit me from behind. I never saw it coming. I woke up here.”

“Have you been promised anything in return for your interview today?”

“No.”

“Is there anything else you would like to say?”

“I … I never wanted to hurt anyone, least of all Ronnie. But the tattoo…. It's gone, thank Merlin. I hate Yan fu … my father. I hate what I've become. But I don't think I deserve to die for what I couldn't stop.”

* * * *

Author's notes: The calcium supplements will figure later on

Robert Dyas is a British chain of garden stores

The London Fire Brigade is accurately mentioned

Inland Revenue collects property taxes in the UK

Harry thought repairing Grimmauld would be an incentive to the elves; it became a deathtrap

Hermione's enigmatic smile suggests how she responded to that small outburst

“…pretty to think so” is the closing line from Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. Dumbledore is skeptical that Harry can accomplish anything with the elves

The presence of Death Eaters near the Château after the battle indicates the nature of Hermione's spell.

Bose-Einstein condensate was introduced in Ch. 55

Midnight is a gambling term for rolling two sixes in craps

There has to be a reason that Felix Felicis potion isn't more common, so I've provided one

The Dark Fire of Tu Fan was introduced in Ch. 5

Dolohov's last act was to be a suicide bomber

The distinction between seven Horcruxes and seven soul pieces will be important

The events in Glastonbury are in Ch. 66

Harry received the Vatican letter in Ch. 26, but didn't get around to reading it until Ch. 58

Before the Rosetta Stone was discovered in 1799, Egyptian hieroglyphs had not been translated

An ironic, but probably true, assessment of what the Church would do

The Château's security issues will be important

I've made Shak a Hufflepuff

The “degree of paranoia” line is a nod to Lori's Paradigm of Uncertainty series

The capture of Rita Skeeter was in Ch. 43

Hermione's experience with magical chains is from the Death Eater trial in Ch. 32

The ties that bind line paraphrases the Narcotics Anonymous Little White Book

The “do his duty” line paraphrases Admiral Nelson's signal prior to Trafalgar

Brevity the soul of wit is from Hamlet

Gazetting is a British term for announcing military decorations

Harry will get to give out medals to the goblins - and more

Xiao Jing, or filial piety, was introduced in Ch. 29

The Oracle Bones period dates from the late Shang Dynasty over 3,000 years ago

Cho's “amends” letter to Harry occurred in Ch. 4

Cho's evaluation of Hermione's motives is correct, as Hermione discussed in Ch. 45

“Swamp wizard” is a take off of “Swamp Yankee” - an American insult

Cho's Hogsmeade encounter with Hermione occurred in Ch. 52

“Locomotive Breath nightmare” refers to the Jethro Tull song - particularly the “all-time winner”/”all-time loser” dichotomy and the line about “his woman and his best friend in bed and having fun”; Ron would know the words through his time in the Music Room

62

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71. Going Back

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

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

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

Chapter 71 - Going Back

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My Fiendfyre should have swept the field….”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unless….

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

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

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

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

Lord Voldemort was remorseless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Umm … it's just … Dumbledore said….”

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

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

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

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

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

* * * *

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

Harry and Hermione quickly shed their heavy travelling robes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” Harry responded as removed the scroll.

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

“Unh-hunh.”

“…The phial contains a dose of Veritaserum….”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir, I'm a Hufflepuff,” McAllister began.

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

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

“Emmie Puckle,” Harry answered. It was logical.

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

“Thanks to me?” Harry echoed rather stupidly

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two?” Harry asked, intrigued at this information.

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

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

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

“What did you do?” Harry asked the obvious question.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry was a bit taken aback. “Judgment in what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry made up his mind. “Do it, then.”

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

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

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

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

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

The scroll burst into flames and was gone moments later.

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

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

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

“I suppose I ought to talk to them,” Harry agreed.

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

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

“Aye, sir,” McAllister withdrew his protest.

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

* * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hermione….”

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

“So what did you choose?”

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

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

“Yup.”

“Bathing costumes?”

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

“Ditto.”

“Dobby will stand watch, right?”

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

“You! You know what I mean.”

“I sure do, and I can't wait.”

“So let's go, then.”

“Yes, let's.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir! Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby practically squealed.

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

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

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

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

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

“You mean a Möbius strip?” she quickly asked.

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

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

“The what?” He cocked his head.

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

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

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

“What's on that one?” Harry asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it, Harry?”

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

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

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

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

“Abso-bloody-lutely.”

She divided the gelatinous mass and tossed half to Harry. “Catch.”

Harry utilised Seeker reflexes to pluck a less-substantial-than-expected share of the Gillyweed from midair. Hermione gobbled up her half and started chewing furiously.

A bit put off by Hermione's old-fashioned garb, Harry was tentative. “Well, don't you think … umm … we should…?”

He never finished his thought - it being interrupted by big, sloppy, open-mouthed, Gillyweed-juice-drooling kiss from his fiancée.

Breaking that kiss, she said breathily, “We certainly should…. Last one in's a spoilt Ashwinder egg.” Her now-visible gills gasping in the air, Hermione took two quick steps and dove headfirst through the pyramidal wall of water.

The flow of cool water restored Hermione's equilibrium. Swimming effortlessly with webbed feet and hands, Hermione spun until she had an unobstructed view of Harry, and he of her.

Caught flat-footed, Harry could only watch the ripples die away.

Before his eyes, a most amazing thing happened. Hermione's Edwardian bathing costume faded away - entirely.

Her voice was in his head. `It's a Peppermint Panties® outfit, Harry. Dissolves in water, leaving only a fresh, minty flavour….'

Harry's higher thought faculties shut down as his blood rushed elsewhere.

Gnawing furiously on his helping of Gillyweed, Harry hopped on one foot whilst struggling to divest himself of his suddenly all-too-confining Speedos. “Oh, bloody Hell - Evanesco!” Wandless magic was dead useful.

Drifting lazily in the water, accustoming herself to her lungs' new function as fish maws, Hermione heard the splash from Harry's dive.

Underwater, speech was harder than telepathy. `Open your legs and close your eyes, and you will get a big surprise….'

Fresh and minty, indeed.

Hermione readily complied, but with webbed fingers, grabbing the back of her knees was the limit of her flexibility. Wandless magic, however, was wonderful.

“Animadverto iam!”

With no wand to attract it, Hermione's magic - a Notice-Me-Now Charm - flowed instead to her great toes.

`Whoa,' she heard Harry Legilimence. `You think I need landing lights?'

`I hope not; we've yet to take off.'

`Requesting clearance for take off.'

`Cleared, you are.'

Harry went to radio silence. Hermione's entire body quivered in anticipation - particularly her most sensitive….

Ooh, was that him, or just her own hyperactive imagination?

She felt it again. Oh, Merlin! That was him. He had charmed his tongue again.

His Gillyweed-extended hands grasped her buttocks, pulling her onto him.

Hermione simultaneously felt burning hot and bracingly cold - in the same spots. Reaching down, she grabbed fistfuls of his wild, floating hair and hung on for dear life.

It was indescribable….

Some indefinite time later, following however many roller coaster highs, Hermione decided that she wanted him.

`You're amazing, Harry, but now it's my turn. I owe you one, after all.'

`That's not why I do this.'

`Me neither…. Now c'mere.'

Weightlessness was wonderful - more wonderful than peppermint. Not even having to pause in his own ministrations, Harry let Hermione pivot him about until….

He inhaled water at her lips' familiar touch. Her hands caressed his backside. Without ado, she took him in - enveloped him. Oh, yes…. He must have been extraordinarily good in some prior life to deserve this - to deserve her.

Mighty Morgaine, he felt more than mandibular muscles nearing his navel. What was she doing now?

She was humming….

Oh … sweet … aaahhhhh….

He was putty in her … umm … hands. If, after she started that, he lasted a minute, that would be plenty.

It was only the end of the beginning.

Their allotted time passed in a blur. Six available degrees of freedom dramatically expanded the range of possible positions. Nevermore would either view the Starfish and Stick as merely a Quidditch move.

Weightlessness, however, had its disadvantages. With naught to push off and little save each other to grab, most of the newfound exotic positions required more exertion than the two lovers anticipated. The phrase “full body workout” took on a new secondary meeting.

Harry knew that Hermione was brilliant - that went almost without saying. When she solved their latest little problem, his high regard burgeoned into awe.

Hermione was knackered. Without gravity, pushing and pulling both required effort. Since her workout scheduling had been lax, it was bloody tiring.

Reflexively, she exhaled a great breath. Breathing by gills, that was wholly unnecessary. Except….

…With her lungs acting as fish maws, that great breath cost her buoyancy. Since the pair were topsy-turvy at that moment, she pulled away from Harry - a most inopportune development.

Against that movement, Hermione overcompensated.

“Ow!”

She heard Harry's yelp even underwater.

She Legilimenced, `Oh, I'm sorry, Harry.'

`I think I'm bent.'

`Dear, dear … traumatic Peyronie's.'

`What does paying Ron have to do with anything…? That hurt.'

`No I meant…. Harry I've an idea!' The timbre to Hermione's voice abruptly jumped with this Eureka moment. `First, let's get you back where you belong….'

That was easily accomplished. Harry's yelp had been largely anticipatory, dampening his ardor only a bit.

`Now, on my count of two,' she instructed. `On two, breathe out - with your lungs, I mean. One, two….'

Ooooh… They both felt it.

It was outstanding.

In short order, they discovered how to substitute buoyancy for gravity during submarine erotic acrobatics - or so Hermione described it. Before long, they advanced past counting, and were communicating rhythmically on more fundamental levels.

All too soon, their time expired. The squealing of a klaxon signified that their precious hour was over.

They emerged, gasping but well satisfied, just as their gills receded.

“That was … wow … Hermione,” an appreciative Harry gasped as he struggled onto the deck. His next remark, however, did in any hopes of recommencing festivities on solid ground. “But why such small portions, Hermione? We could have gone longer….”

“No, we couldn't, Harry,” his fiancée's clinically informed him. “Gillyweed isn't safe for use more than once every couple of weeks. It's strong stuff with potentially serious knock-on effects. Any more and we'd be risking things. That's why I lowered the amount.”

“What kind of effects?” Harry wanted to know.

“If used to excess, Gillyweed's effects can take many hours - even days - to resolve. We could be trapped in this pool … like fish in a barrel, really … for that long. That's why I reduced how much we chewed. Even so, we were only on the cusp of safe use.”

Having a pre-Healer for a partner certainly had its advantages - but she could be rather much of a killjoy.

So, it was back to business, the “business” being Harry's address to the house-elves. Hermione could handle most of the planning, but Harry as Proprietor had to undertake the great bulk of the actual presentation.

This speech caused him more anxiety than did his earlier oration to thousands of armed goblins.

That speech followed goblin tradition - this one would attempt to overturn centuries of elfin practice.

Thus, upon leaving the cavernous Proprietor's Suite for the last time, Harry sought comfort in confirmation.

“The plaque is prepared?”

“Yes, Mister McAllister has it,” she responded.

“Dobby's okay with his role?”

“I daresay he's as tense as you are,” Hermione informed him. “Especially about the bit with me. But he'll do anything for you.”

“You're all right with this, too?”

“I think it's the best thing to do,” Hermione allowed. “It's not an Unforgiveable, after all.”

“And McAllister knows where we'll do this?”

Hermione responded with a low, but audible chuckle. “He does now,” she continued. “When I first raised it, he admitted he hadn't visited the elves' quarters in fifty years. Wizards just don't go there, it seems. But he's discovered how to get there, and he says he's made arrangements for it to be presentable….”

“Presentable?”

“He told me the place reeked,” Hermione explained. “Probably some of the elves aren't much better than old Kreacher about keeping their own quarters clean. At the mere mention of you visiting, I'll bet they cleaned everything quite smartly.”

At her mention of the traitorous elf responsible for Sirius' death, Harry made a rude face, but the present day intervened. “There's Jerry now,” he pointed as they descended the grand staircase.

Sure enough, the newly reconfirmed majordomo stood at the foot of the stairs. Dobby was with him.

“Jerry, are you ready?” Harry greeted. “Sorry we're late. We.…”

Hermione glared at him.

“…Umm … we got distracted…. Lost track of time,” Harry finished rather vaguely.

“Think nothing of it,” Jerry replied with an air of studied neutrality. Noting Hermione's reaction, he started leading the way. “Everything's as ready as it can be. But before we get to that, I've something you wanted.”

Jerry produced a small silver box, maybe two centimetres cubed. He popped it open and handed it to Harry.

Harry took a look inside, as Hermione craned her neck for a peek. Glimmering against a black velvet background were two flawless blood-red garnets. Compared to most precious stones he had seen in the Black family collection, these were tiny - less than three millimetres across, each weighing no more than a carat.

“You did it, already?” Harry asked.

“Aye, charmed `em meself,” Jerry confirmed. “I know the wards better than anyone.”

“What's this all about?” Hermione asked. It was news to her.

“I'm setting a trap….”

Jerry sharply cut off his boss. “Not here.” Providentially, they were just passing the Map Room. Jerry motioned them inside.

“Harry, what are you doing?” Hermione repeated.

“I would've told you on the trip home,” Harry replied a bit defensively. “Jerry just told me. Death Eaters forced him to compromise the wards. He was under duress….”

“Duress … Harry, why is he still here…?” Hermione was nearly incandescent.

Harry looked straight at her. “I know how he feels, Hermione. I'd have done it, too, to save your life.”

“What!?”

“Long story, but no longer meaning much,” Harry quickly continued. “Whilst we fought Death Eaters at Stonehenge, he helped her escape. Then he immediately told me everything. The wards contain a trap door of sorts that only Lestrange or Malfoy, Lucius that is, can access. But they don't know we know. These garnets … will … umm … just what will they do?” He turned to McAllister.

“If Bellatrix Lestrange passes through, the stone on the right will warm up, not dangerously, but enough that it will be unmistakable,” Jerry detailed. “With Malfoy, same thing, only it's the one on the left. I recommend wearing them on the underside of jewelry. A ring, watch, or bracelet … or else some sort of piercing. That is, if you're so inclined….”

Harry rolled his eyes at that last suggestion.

“Harry, what are you trying to do?” Hermione bored in. “Why haven't you fixed the wards?”

“Like I said, they don't know we know,” Harry reiterated. “All the Château's wards and other defences respond to me. If I have to fight them anywhere, let it be here - with the benefit of surprise. It's a trap….”

“But for whom, Harry?” Hermione remonstrated. “You - and I - aren't the only ones here. What about the staff and the house-elves? They could be captured, or caught in the cross-fire. Death Eaters won't hesitate to torture or kill them if it serves their purpose. To maintain surprise, you couldn't tell them. They're sitting ducks. You can't do this….”

“I have to do this, Hermione,” Harry resisted. “Bellatrix Lestrange killed Sirius. Malfoy - he would have happily killed you at the Ministry. And … well, you know….”

Hermione would not let the matter drop. “And we can't guarantee our luck will hold next time. Who knows how outnumbered we may be? The elves might not do what we want.”

McAllister had been quite content to stay out of the “discussion” between the Proprietor and the (de facto) Proprietress. “What you need is an escape hatch,” he chimed in. “That can be arranged.”

“What do you mean, `escape hatch'?” Harry quickly asked.

“Something like those bomb shelters Muggles used to build,” McAllister answered. He saw Hermione giving him a strange look. “I - I fell in love with a Muggle. That's how I know,” he said quietly.

“I see,” she grumbled, barely mollified. “How's this idea supposed to work?”

“The same spellwork powering these garnets is easily adapted to sound an alarm here,” Jerry described his idea. “I can drill the staff - and the elves - on evacuation procedures, for other emergencies, of course. Given how far away the breach would be….”

Listening to Jerry, Harry had an idea. “I think we can do better,” he cut over him. “Forget a shelter. It can be an exit - one I'd be installing eventually.”

“What sort of exit?” Hermione asked sceptically.

“Underground - to the goblins,” Harry proposed. “Slamdor would insist on one eventually….”

An even more inspired look appeared on Harry's face.

“…And it's also a route here for goblin reinforcements,” Hermione finished.

“Brilliant,” Jerry intoned. If the Prophet's accounts of the Battle of Stonehenge were halfway accurate, they're plainly fierce fighters.

“Harry Potter, sir? Miz Myown?” Dobby spoke for the first time since Harry and Hermione arrived.

Harry looked down attentively. “Yes, Dobby?”

“If what we's being doing works, house-elves won't be needing to `vacuate,” he pointed out. “We's could fight, too.”

“That's right, Dobby,” Hermione encouraged. “So we should get on with it.” She turned on her heel and came face to face with the room's wall-sized painting.

Hermione came to an abrupt halt. “I … don't … believe … it,” she mumbled.

“Hermione, are you all right?” Harry hastened to her side.

“That painting … it's….”

“The Château's Leonardo,” McAllister specified, pride evident in his voice.

“But … the Muggles - this has been missing for centuries,” Hermione continued as her composure returned.

“True enough,” McAllister confirmed, “as with most of our Muggle collection.”

Hermione looked rather askance at him. “The Rembrandt?”

“Storm on the Sea of Galilee, of course.”

“The Michelangelo?”

“This one's twin, of course,” McAllister replied with a bit of a smile.

Hermione's brow furrowed. “Of course, the Battle of Cascina to go with the Battle of Anghiari…. But why have the Blacks stolen Muggle art work?”

“The Blacks have done no such thing,” McAllister huffed. “We rescued them. The buffoon who owned that palazzo…. He would have ruined them both. The thieves who stole Storm - they had no idea how to preserve art. It would have rotted.”

Rather to Harry's surprise, Hermione relented. The artwork, although significant, was not her intended focus. “I should be thanking you, then.” She strode from the room, the others following.

“Which way to the elves?” Harry asked when everyone was in the hall.

“With the no inside Apparition rule it's a bit roundabout for us wizards. The only passage large enough for us is the delivery entrance,” McAllister explained. “I'll lead.”

“Dobby, why don't you go ahead,” Hermione told the elf. “It's best for everyone to have fair warning.”

“A very good thing, indeed,” Dobby bobbed his head. He quickly vanished.

The Château's immaculate walls and polished floors grew progressively less immaculate and polished. McAllister led the pair through a green baize door, past the (human) staff quarters, the kitchen, the laundry…. Proprietors visited these areas of the Château once a century, if that.

“Once again, I apologise for the conditions, but there's no other entrance,” McAllister puffed. “Elfin tunnels are far worse - hands and knees only.”

They rounded a corner. The walls were now bare brick and occasional stone. The narrow corridor led to a large space, perhaps double the ground floor at Harry's uncle's house. That this room was at the very base of the Château was evident from four massive stone pillars that pierced the elves' dwelling space.

Despite an obvious effort to cleanse the place for an event as rare as a Proprietor's visit, the elves' best efforts could not remove the unmistakable odour of generations of close-quartered living. The noisome combination of cleaning fluid and sweat reminded him forcefully of Dudley's old gym.

More than any stink, the elves made a strong impression. Their sheer numbers were startling. Elves were everywhere. They perched upon rough wooden benches and piled atop equally crude tables shoved against the walls to give their august visitors space. Other elves poked their heads from rows of dingy cubbyholes that, fronted by threadbare curtains, passed for the elves' “private” quarters.

These niches - some inhabited by entire elfin families - disgusted Harry even more than Hermione. Even from a distance these quarters were plainly smaller than the cupboard he had called home during most of his first eleven years of life.

All told, Harry saw dozens - no, scores - of elves. If Hogwarts employed Britain's largest staff of house-elves, as Hermione once discovered, then Château Blackwalls must run a close second.

Most elves were “dressed” in the Château's uniform of blackish burlap sacks (in varying states of disrepair) tied about the middle with silver cinctures. Some elves, whom neither Harry nor Hermione had seen before, wore considerably less. Younger elfin children wore nothing. News of the Proprietor's visit had plainly spread far and wide. Interspersed amongst the diminutive house-elves were a number of physically larger but more rudely dressed field-elves - although they were not specifically invited.

Harry squeezed Hermione's and stepped forward, whilst she deliberately held back.

He was about to address a crowd, the vast majority of whom viewed themselves as chattel, as Harry's property, and nothing more. Harry's speech, and actions, would be viewed by many, wizard and elf alike, as radical - even revolutionary.

But Hermione felt strongly, and Harry agreed, that it must be done.

“I'm Harry Potter,” he began gently. “As you know, I'm the new Proprietor of Château Blackwalls. You work for me. I'm here to talk to you about what's happened over the last few days, and why things can't be how they've been….”

Harry stopped and motioned for McAllister to bring out a large, flat object wrapped in the same burlap that the Château issued ordinary elves in lieu of clothes. Harry leaned this mystery parcel prominently against his legs and continued speaking.

“The other night three incredibly brave house-elves, Crikey, Phrumpy and Blonny, died when the Black city house, at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, in London, burnt down. That same night, as I'm sure you know, I left here secretly to fight a bunch of Death Eaters. To help, I took your new head house-elf, Dobby, with me. Dobby…?”

Harry beckoned with one hand. On cue, the gaudily garbed free elf stepped forward and stood at Harry's side. Both knew that Dobby was considered odd - if not bizarre - by most of the assembled house-elves (and likewise by the bulk of the wizard staff). Dobby's authority would be critical in what was to follow.

“These two events, my Death Eater fight and Grimmauld's destruction, are related,” Harry told everyone bluntly. “The three elves who died in my service were among the best working at the Château. Dobby hand-picked them, with my approval, to work on my most important new project, to restore Grimmauld Place, after over a decade's neglect, to a place I'd want to live in, if necessary.”

Pausing for effect, and then sighing with real emotion, Harry continued. “But that project's beside the point. Grimmauld's gone. Crikey, Phrumpy and Blonny acted heroically and saved most of the furnishings. They literally gave their lives for a rundown house that mattered only because I said so. And for what? To lie in that barren, nameless plot where you bury your kin? As the new Proprietor, I think not - their sacrifice deserves remembrance.”

Harry's wand leapt to his hand. With a quick Severing Charm the black burlap covering the mystery item fell away.

“For their valour, I'm honouring Crikey, Phrumpy and Blonny today as the first three recipients of the Blackwalls Special Services Award, to be permanently commemorated by this plaque.” Harry gestured at a gadrooned oval-shaped plaque of shimmering silver mounted on a rectangular slab of richly polished walnut. Altogether it was nearly a metre long and about half that tall.

“This tea tray was salvaged from the fire at Grimmauld Place,” Harry explained. “It's mounted on the top of a desk they also rescued. There's space for many more of these gold name plates … honours that I hope won't be won so dearly. Jerry…. Hermione….”

With Jerry's help, Harry hefted the plaque to one of the few prominent blank spaces on the wall. Deliberately avoiding magic, Harry used a large, U-shaped hand drill to bore four good-sized holes in the bare brick for mounting the plaque. He fit four even larger screws through the desktop and drove them into the holes. Only after the plaque was securely attached the hard way did Harry add a solid Sticking Charm.

If not for the relentless scrape of metal against brick, one could hear a pin drop throughout Harry's exertion.

“Jerry, please clean it up,” Harry puffed when finally finished. The Château's majordomo produced a rag and some polish. He removed both fingerprints and brick dust from the plaque.

As McAllister worked, Harry caught his breath. Then he declared, “From now on it's the majordomo's personal duty to come down here every six months and to clean this plaque properly. That way the wizard staff will remember what they owe to your efforts. If that doesn't happen, I want to know, and I expect you to tell me. That's an order.”

Driving screws into brick with naught save hand tools was hard work, particularly in the hot and sticky air in the elves' quarters. Borrowing a serviette from Hermione, Harry mopped his brow and wiped off sweat that was dribbling down the inside of his glasses' lenses.

“Now for the main reason I want to talk to you directly. I was away fighting Death Eaters when Grimmauld burnt. As I've mentioned, those two events were doubtlessly related. Fiendfyre destroyed Grimmauld, and only Death Eaters can do that. As brave as Crikey, Phrumpy and Blonny were, they couldn't lift a finger to stop them. Why? Because bound elves can't use magic against wizards - any wizards.”

“Dobby would have been at Grimmauld, except he came with me to help fight Death Eaters,” Harry explained, beginning the most delicate part of his presentation. “He did so gladly. With one of my friends, Dobby held almost a thousand Death Eaters at bay for half an hour. If Dobby weren't there, I would have been killed. It's that simple.”

After briefly locking eyes with Dobby's adoring orbs, Harry refocussed on his audience. “There's more. We also know that Death Eaters were near the Château that night. We suspect, but can't prove, that they intended to attack. It might happen again. You know, as I know, that I'm a Death Eater target, as are Hermione and the rest of my friends. Seeing Dobby in action has convinced me that I am better served by free elves who can use magic to fight Death Eaters than by bound elves who can't. Dobby, if you will….”

With no overt warning, Harry whirled around, his wand pointed straight at Hermione. “Incarcerous!” he yelled.

Ropes streamed from his wand, but before they could immobilise Hermione, Dobby made a sweeping motion with his arms. A burst of elfin magic swept the ropes aside and jolted Harry hard enough to plant him roughly on his bum.

Dobby's use of magic against the Proprietor himself caused noticeable grumbling amongst the assembled house-elves. Some even began advancing on Dobby.

“Stop,” Harry commanded. “Dobby did exactly what I wanted. If I were a Death Eater and he weren't free … well, Hermione would have been kidnapped - and not one of you could have lifted a finger to stop it.”

Summing up, Harry told the elves, “Because of the Death Eater threat, I need free elves to help protect me and my friends. Every one of you would better serve me free than bound. Now, Dobby….”

The free elf waved his arms again, in a different motion. A whooshing sound followed, and in flew a large box. Dobby controlled it with his right hand and landed it on the floor while his left-handed motion simultaneously brought a table forward. Benches atop the table swayed, causing several seated elves to jump off. The table came to rest immediately below the just-mounted plaque.

Another silent motion from Dobby and the box burst open. Dozens of identical black outfits, cut from finer cloth than burlap, floated from the box and folded themselves neatly on the table. Soon the table displayed shirts, trousers, jumpers, and socks, all trimmed with silver.

As Dobby worked, Harry suddenly Legilimenced Hermione, `I just had an idea … how to make this work. Follow my lead … but be ready to catch Dobby if he faints.'

`What is it?' Hermione responded in kind.

`Something Dumbledore told me whilst you were still in Hong Kong,' Harry replied ambiguously. `No time. I hope this works.'

Dobby finished. At the sight of clothes, the elfin audience predictably recoiled.

Harry stepped forward again. “There are enough clothes here for every one of you. But as much as I would like you all to accept them, this is strictly voluntary. I can't force freedom on anybody. Freedom's hard work. To make up your own mind, without somebody like me telling you what to do. That's not easy. But I believe that hard working elves can handle freedom, and I want free elves.”

As Harry anticipated, the crowd of elves remained dubious, with much whispering and head shaking. Whilst elves certainly aspired to hard work, untold generations of elfin tradition considered clothes a mark of dismissal and disgrace. More was needed to convince them than just the word of a callow and unfamiliar Proprietor.

And, thanks to a timely thought, Harry had something more to offer.

“I promise you all that, I intend no punishment, regardless of your choice. All free elves will always be welcome at the Château, but I won't force clothes on anybody. Accepting clothes only makes you more versatile and more useful in my service.”

Harry turned to Dobby, who had slunk into the shadows at the chilly reception being given the offer of freedom. “Dobby, please come here.”

Hesitantly, the elf approached the Proprietor.

Harry kneeled down until he could look Dobby straight in the eye. “As my head house-elf, I offer you an Unbreakable Vow that no house-elf, free or bound, will be discharged from my service due to acceptance, or refusal, of these clothes.”

Utter, stunned silence engulfed the house-elves' quarters. Never had a wizard offered such a vow to a lowly elf - let alone the Proprietor of a great estate such as Château Blackwalls. The vast majority of house-elves were bound. One could no more swear an Unbreakable Vow to a bound elf than one could offer such an oath to one's kitchen sink.

But Dobby was a free, sentient being - and that made all the difference.

“Jerry, will you do the honours? Neither of us knows the spell.”

Dobby almost swooned upon realising that Harry was serious. Even Jerry McAllister stumbled a bit over his own feet when Harry summoned him to act as Bonder.

Harry took Dobby's hand. McAllister drew his wand and gently laid it across their clasped hands. He was transparently confused. The majordomo had never administered a vow quite like what he was now called upon to perform.

“Isn't there an activating incantation?” Harry asked curiously.

“Umm … no, not at least the way I've always done it.” McAllister said throatily, still disbelieving what was happening. “I presume it's a matter of intent.”

Fortunately, Hermione stepped in. From her beaded bag she produced a quill and parchment. After scribbling frantically, she handed the results to McAllister.

Having no better idea, McAllister read verbatim what Hermione had written. “Do you, Harry Potter, as Proprietor of Château Blackwalls, agree that no elf who accepts the clothes you have offered shall be discharged from your service or otherwise punished, solely on account of that elf's action?”

“I agree,” Harry spoke clearly, whilst smiling at Hermione for her quick thinking.

“Dobby?” McAllister queried the other party to the vow.

The poor elf was dumbstruck.

“Say you accept,” Hermione prompted.

“I … I accept,” Dobby chirped, birdlike.

McAllister's wand vibrated slightly as it excreted an intensely crimson flame resembling a red-hot wire. The flame snaked around Harry's, and then Dobby's, joined hands.

Before the spell came to a halt, Hermione was already scratching her quill across another piece of parchment. Again, she passed it to McAllister.

McAllister continued rote recitation. “Do you, Harry Potter, as Proprietor of Château Blackwalls, agree that no elf who refuses the clothes you have offered shall be discharged from service to Château Blackwalls or otherwise punished, solely on account of that elf's action?”

Harry's voice again rang out. “I agree.”

Dobby's hesitant, “I accept,” this time came without prompting.

Another tongue of red fire snaked from McAllister's wand. It wrapped itself about the first.

Somewhat to everyone's surprise, Hermione continued writing.

McAllister read, “Do you, Dobby, as head house-elf of Château Blackwalls, agree to teach any elf who accepts the clothes being offered how to use its … er … his or her magic to protect the Château and its inhabitants from Death Eaters and other unwelcome wizards?”

“I - I do agree,” Dobby answered more firmly.

“I accept,” Harry immediately followed.

A third identical string of flame emerged. It flowed in the opposite direction, from Dobby's hand to entwine Harry's.

Hermione placed her hand on McAllister's shoulder, signalling that the vow was complete. He raised his wand. With contact broken, the intertwined red streaks sunk into the two participants' bodies and vanished.

The dramatic ceremony over, Harry drew himself to full height. “There, I hope you all will eventually accept freedom and the hard work and benefits it brings. You can't be punished either way. But I've one more thing….”

Hermione stepped forward to address the elves. “It's now 1997, not 1897 or 1797. Things are more complicated now, so we need all elves to be educated. You can't do your jobs adequately without knowing how to read.”

Many of the elves started to fidget.

Hermione reached into her bag again and withdrew a small box.

“Finite.” Freed from a Shrinking Spell, the box expanded instantaneously and fell to the floor with a thud. Hermione opened it and pulled out a couple of thin books. “These are primary form textbooks. With these you will learn to read and write. We want every elf above age eight to have a set….”

Harry stepped to her side and rested his hand on the books Hermione was holding. “I want to be absolutely clear. Reading and writing are being required. You will be tested by Ms. Hogg. Anyone who doesn't learn will be relieved of duty and not allowed to do anything but study. Any refusal to become literate is reason for dismissal - clothes or no clothes.”

“Jerry, please distribute the textbooks.” Harry turned to Hermione, “Let's go. We're done here - for the time being.”

* * * *

By Harry's standards, this dream was outstanding. The locale was tropical and the setting sensual. Even when not nightmarish, Harry's nocturnal sojourns usually ended with him late or lost - sometimes even naked. Not now. He was with Hermione, and surely not lost. If he was starkers (difficult to tell), he was definitely having fun.

Another wave of pleasure flowed through him - then the image of gathering coconuts on a beach - then another surge….

Eventually one of the pulses was strong enough to rouse him.

It was quite dark. He was at the Château….

Wow! He felt a fingernail trace the length of his manhood.

“Hermione! What are you doing?”

“Watching you sleep … at first,” she responded alluringly. “You seemed so serene - so much younger - I saw the boy I first fell in love with.” Her forefinger followed its prior path. Harry inhaled with a hiss.

Their agreement never to wear clothes when sleeping together had never looked better. “So this is what you do in the middle of the night? Watch me sleep and try to give me wet dreams?”

“Maybe,” Hermione smiled. “You hardly need encouragement….” For emphasis, she again employed her forefinger.

“Well, consider me encouraged,” Harry whispered, squinting towards her voice in darkness. “What do you want to do?”

The sheets rustled. One of Hermione's long, creamy legs looped over his waist. She flexed it, firmly, pulling them together. Simultaneously, her opposite leg slithered between his.

The next thing Harry knew, he was cozily nestled against her incredibly warm, incredibly slick, incredibly splayed cleft.

“Hermione!”

“Just you relax,” she purred. He felt her hand on top of him, and gentle pressure. She had him firmly sandwiched against herself. “I know what I want to do.”

“Relax? You've made me about as unrelaxed humanly possible.”

“The rest of you can relax. Him? He's perfect just the way he is. Mmmmm.”

Hermione's near foot rested on his hip. Her opposite hand stroked him, rubbing the top and pressing the underside of his firmness against her moist softness. She - the rest of her - began rocking to some rhythm in her head.

“Mmmmmmmm.”

Relaxation be damned.

Harry could not be more aware….

Hermione was using him to get herself off.

Like everything else, she went about this quite competently.

Considerately aware of Hermione's needs, Harry could feel her exquisite, firm little nubble sliding beneath him. Whilst she set the pace, Harry could still flex himself at appropriate moments in her cadence.

From her squeals and the way her breath hitched, Harry knew she appreciated it.

Time slowed. Hermione's slippery nectar gradually coated him. In a fog of lust, she rocked and he rolled. Harry wondered when she would insert….

She never did.

Instead, Hermione's pace quickened as her moans deepened. When she switched to mouth breathing, Harry knew she was approaching her peak.

Harry had to admit, her using him in such an erotic fashion was a right turn on - for him.

Prickling sensations told him he was close.

Rotating slightly, he propped himself up. “Umm … Hermione, if we don't….”

“Naaah…. Harrreeee!” Her near arm flailed, grabbing his and yanking it towards her. Unbalanced, Harry flopped again on his side. She shoved his hand onto her heaving breast.

`Whatever turns you on,' he thought as Hermione pulled his hand firmly against her chest. This new pressure point let her undulate even more vigorously below him while her top hand slid pistoned even more frantically along his length.

Hermione's back arched. “Hunh … hunnh … hunnnh … Harrreeeeeeeee!!!”

The last thing Harry noticed, before his primal instincts asserted complete control and followed her over the edge, was her spritzes tickling his base and bedewing his hips.

Moments later, Harry joined her. Had he climaxed any harder, his gonads would have been deposited on Hermione's midriff.

They drifted, utterly spent, for some splendid interval. Eventually, Harry opened his eyes he saw them surrounded by a lambent fuchsia mist.

“Ummm, Hermione, what was that?”

His lover seemed to chortle. “Technically, I … mmmm … nice shot, Harry.”

“What?” He turned towards her. In the soft pink glow, he saw her thoroughly decorated with … him. It was almost enough for a feeble Incarcerous Curse. Smiling, she delicately wiped her chin clean with her thumb - and licked it off.

“Hermione, I'm sorry.”

“Oh phooey, Harry. Can't I enjoy your taste? You constantly tell me you like mine?”

“But it's all over….”

“Besides I once read that it's an excellent skin conditioner.” Hermione sat up and began kneading herself, using Harry's essence as body lotion.

Harry brain blanked. Impossibly - so soon - he felt himself stir down below. Transfixed, he could only mouth his prior question. “…What - what was that?”

“Technically, I'd call it mutual masturbation utilising one another's genitalia.”

Finishing with her breasts, Hermione worked her way down to her waist. Harry remained tongue-tied.

“Uh … right … but why?”

“Must there always be a reason?”

“Well, no, but with you … you usually have one….”

She sighed. “Oh, all right. For your ears only…. Truthfully, I've wanted to try that for years. It's a fantasy since summer after my third year. I imagined you'd be so much better than spells like Aquapulsis or Vibratio. It's back to Hogwarts tomorrow, so with you lying there, prepositioned, so to speak, I decided - finally - to give you a try.”

She rubbed the last of him into her thighs.

Harry felt rather unnerved. Hermione had been schlicking to him for years. He felt a bit stupid, too; being oblivious for so long.

“So … umm … how was it?”

“Definitely exceeds expectations,” Hermione grinned. “Definitely.”

“Oh really?” Harry came back. “I thought it was outstanding.”

“Well … I've been spoiled,” Hermione admitted, lowering her eyes. “I'm no longer thirteen, or even sixteen. I'm a woman now, and frankly I like it better with you inside.”

“If you're willing help a bit, maybe that can be arranged.”

* * * *

The Floo at the recently reconstructed “New Burrow” flared. A clearly agitated Molly Weasley stepped into the otherwise deserted dwelling, not bothering to charm the soot from her travelling robes. Moments later, a fiercely scowling Ginny Weasley followed suit.

“I simply can't believe that Dumbledore would even consider letting that awful Chang creature stay at Hogwarts after what she tried to do to poor Ronnie,” the older woman raged. “I'd think that attempted murder of a department head's son would merit a one-way trip to Azkaban … or at least expulsion and breaking that witch's wand into tiny pieces!”

“Mum, calm yourself. It is possible that she was possessed,” Ginny pointed out. “I should know. It happened to me, remember? Whilst I can't stand that little bint, Dumbledore usually has good reasons.”

“But what about poor Ronnie?!” Molly cried. “To have that happen to him … and from a girl we thought might be….” She stopped talking abruptly, before she said too much.

Too late.

“Might be what?” Ginny pounced. “Was dear Ronald going to declare for her or something? Is that why you grounded me, but not him - when their shagging each other's brains out really caused everything?”

“Ginevra Weasley!” Molly screeched. “I'll not have such language in this house - much directed at me. One more similar outburst and you'll stay grounded.”

“But that's the real reason, isn't it?” Ginny pressed, albeit refraining from further vulgarities. “Why ground me for the whole holiday, and not him? He started it.”

“We've been over this before,” Molly countered testily. “Ronnie showed appallingly bad judgment, but no more. You, however, put two people into the Hospital Wing. That merited, and received, harsher punishment.” Turning her back on her daughter, she marched down the corridor into what remained of the original Burrow.

Trailing along behind, Ginny pointed out what she thought was obvious. “You don't deny it, though. You let Ron go to Chang's because you thought he might declare for her. That's what I expected, too….”

“He's too young,” Molly retorted over her shoulder.

“Not for Chang, he isn't,” Ginny contradicted. “She's only a year ahead and very popular - before all this.”

Entering the old living room, Molly Weasley heaved a great sigh and plopped heavily in her favourite chair. She shook her head at the situation's absurdity and looked her rebellious daughter up and down. “You're old enough, I suppose…. All right, I admit it. I've borne seven children; already buried one. You and Ronnie will leave school in a couple of years. What do I do then? I've no grandchildren - and no prospects. It's just … Weasley men, well, they're clueless about witches.”

Most of her fight fled Ginny upon seeing her mum this way. She lowered herself to the chesterfield opposite. “That's not true … Bill sure wasn't. He proposed to Fleur.”

Molly winced. Thinking about her recently deceased eldest son was still painful. The words seemed to stick in her throat. After an overly long pause she muttered, “Merlin protect his soul. But that Fleur…. I've no doubt whatever that she `helped' Bill along. She's Veela, you know. Before her … Bill … he was never serious about any witch, despite abundant opportunity.”

“But getting married so young isn't the fashion anymore,” Ginny argued, blatantly contradicting herself in hope of avoiding another “birds and bees” lecture.

Having bigger fish to fry, Molly let the discrepancy pass. “Oh, yes it is - for good, tradition-minded wizards. Oliver Wood is married. Alicia Spinnet is engaged, as is Ward Connerly … and Destin Sizemore. I've received notices by owl post. But those Muggle influences…. All sex, sex, sex, and no commitment. I don't know what our world's coming to….”

“But isn't Percy…?” Ginny tried unsuccessfully to derail the coming Molly Weasley rant.

Bad choice of references.

“Percy hasn't taken one concrete step to make an honest woman out of that Clearwater girl,” Molly snipped. “They're living together…. What do the Muggles call that? `Friends with benefits,' I think. And Charlie? Not a thing. It's been years, and the clock still has him `travelling.' He has no `home' of his own and no family plans. The Twins - always `working' and never `at home' unless they're here. Again, no commitments of their own. I'm not an empty nest kind of witch. I just wanted to help Ronnie along….”

Molly Weasley burst into guilt-ridden tears.

Now Ginny had to comfort her distraught mum. “But think of it. You've had seven children. Certainly Dad was one Weasley male who can't be called clueless about women….”

“Ginny….” Molly started speaking, stopped, and then decided to continue. “I'll tell you a secret,” she winked conspiratorially, “woman to woman - Weasley to Weasley - Prewett to Prewett, you might say. Arthur was even more lost around witches than Charlie on his worst days. I led him every step of the way, the poor dear. He was so shy.”

“Daddy's not shy, just naturally reserved,” Ginny maintained, standing up for her father.

“Then, it was shyness,” Molly had an almost girlish smile on her face. “Believe me, I'm sure. And I guess … well, you're old enough to know.” Molly's tone abruptly became both serious and hushed. “I didn't exactly tell the whole truth, years ago, when I mentioned making a Love Potion as a girl. The truth is, and I haven't told this to any of you, but that Love Potion was for Arthur - to give him courage enough to kiss me.”

Ginny was astounded. “Love Potion?” she gasped.

“Only once,” Molly hastily added. “That was all it took. Arthur just needed a little nudge to focus his attention properly. After he finally noticed me - that way - everything else was, as they say, history.” A far away smile crossed this mother of seven's face as she remembered how the two of them had been at the beginning.

“But … does he know?” Ginny had to ask. She was trying to come to grips with this notion. Her parents' marriage - thus her very being - owed to a Love Potion?

“Oh, yes,” Molly answered primly. “I couldn't keep something like that secret forever. It wouldn't have been fair to him. I told him ages ago - way before you were born - just after I learnt I was pregnant with Bill. He didn't mind. He'd known for months that he needed a push in the right direction. And Ronnie … of all my sons, he reminds me most of Arthur. So don't be too upset….”

“Then … not grounding him was your way of encouraging him and Chang?” Ginny sought to close the loop - and to avoid more information about her parents' love life.

Molly returned a wry smile that rapidly faded. “Unfortunately, yes, my dear. I'm afraid my meddling turned out miserably - even worse than trying to interest him in Hermione…. And that was hard to top.”

“You tried to match Ron with Hermione?” Ginny was amused. She had often suspected this, but never expected an opportunity to confirm it directly.

“For most of last summer, at Grimmauld,” Molly admitted whilst shaking her head at her futility. “I made sure he read Twelve Fail-Safe Ways to Charm Witches. Then, I arranged for her to arrive before … ah, early, to prevent distractions. They had more than enough time alone together. Try as I might, nothing he or I could do generated any sparks. I suppose they were just too different…. She with all that Muggle background, and he with none.”

“I suppose,” Ginny commented noncommittally. She had trouble being objective about Hermione, when that girl was far and away the greatest obstacle to her own eventual happiness.

“Yes, it was just too much of a stretch, especially with the kerfuffle over You-Know-Who's return.” Molly looked up with a pensive cast to her face. “Ron, like Arthur, needs the guidance of a strong woman. But there are limits, I suppose. That Hermione, I think she was just too much for him.”

“I suppose,” Ginny repeated her rote answer. With the Hogwarts Express leaving the next morning, she yearned for the privacy of her own room. That is, before….

“…And you, my dear daughter, that's the least of your problems.”

Too late. Mum turned the conversation in a most unwanted direction.

“What problem?” Ginny answered defensively, feeling like a cornered Doxy at Grimmauld Place.

“Ability to get boys to do what you want - you have that in abundance,” Molly told her. “But I think you go through your boyfriends a bit too heedlessly. Last year there was that Corner, Dean Thomas, and somewhere in there, I believe someone named Goldstein….”

Ginny was unnerved by how much Mum knew about her love life. “Only for a couple of weeks,” she protested about the last. “He said his parents didn't approve, so I cut him loose as a bad job.”

“That's what I mean,” Molly tutted, shaking her head in disapproval. “Then you took up with someone else without as much as a decent interval.”

“Mo - ther,” Ginny groaned in frustration. “I don't want to discuss my ex-boyfriends. They're over and done with…. I really should go to my room and pack.” She stood up, hoping to end the conversation.

Undeterred, Molly followed Ginny down the hall, taking full advantage of this rare moment, the two Weasley women together at the Burrow with nobody else about. “And good riddance to them. Now your most recent beau - that Neville Longbottom - he's another cauldron-full of Shrake altogether. A fine Gryffindor, not snobbish despite his old wizarding family…. War hero parents. He may be a keeper. You've made an excellent match, there.”

“Muuuuum!” Ginny almost howled. “Can't you leave well enough alone?”

“You're my only daughter, Ginevra. You will benefit from my experience and perspective,” Molly replied peremptorily.

“Sod Neville. I broke up with him,” Ginny snapped, to shut Mum up.

“Oh, my,” Molly fretted. “Whatever for? I can't believe that a boy like him would try pushing things too far, too fast.”

“Hardly, Mum,” Ginny answered as her face reddened. “He was boring, plain and simple. And he didn't pay me enough attention…. That clingy family of his. Now, may I go?”

Molly Weasley gazed appraisingly at her daughter. “Boring? That boring boy already has one Order of Merlin to his credit, with a second on the way - I'm sure of it. You can't do much better than that.”

Tired of her mum's prying, Ginny erupted with an angry response. “Oh yes, I can. He's not the only one!”

Molly reacted as if punched in the gut. “Oh, Morgana! That's it! You've never moved past your crush on Harry, have you?”

Ginny's face reddened - how had she managed this? “What's so wrong with that?” she spat. “I think he likes me … like that.”

“I wouldn't be so confident, dear,” Molly cautioned.

“But what about his Christmas present?” Ginny yowled. “If I were nothing more than Ronnie's little sister, he would have given me some Quidditch knick-knack. He didn't. He got me a beautiful shawl - a protective shawl.”

Molly was not impressed. “I'm afraid you're reading too much into that….”

A red haze descended on Ginny. She reached her breaking point over this most sensitive of subjects. Eyes flashing, she cut across Molly. “Why can't I have a chance? Hermione doesn't own him, for Circe's sake - he's not her bloody property!” Ginny screeched. “They're not married or anything! Maybe I can love him better! I'm your daughter! Don't I have a right to try?”

Molly Weasley had never seen such an outburst from her daughter. She could feel magic flowing from the girl. That had never happened before, except for Harry, and the display frankly made Molly anxious. Ginny's magic felt … odd, but not for any reason Molly could understand.

Molly uncharacteristically backed down - something she would have never done from any of her sons.

“Of course you do, if it's what you truly want,” Molly responded sympathetically. “And you're my flesh and blood; I'll support your decision. But as your mum, I' don't want to see you terribly unhappy. Just look at what you're up against. Come with me….”

Molly walked Ginny back to the old living room. She pointed to the Weasley clock, a relic of the family's less prosperous past. Years ago, Arthur had added hands for both Harry and Hermione. At first Harry's hand read “Visiting” when he came to the Burrow and “Home” when he was at Privet Drive. But in Harry's fourth year, that had irrevocably shifted, and the Burrow had become Harry's true “Home.”

Recently, Molly had noticed, the calibration of the clock's hands had changed again.

Harry was not at the Burrow, but with Hermione at Château Blackwalls.

The clock's hands read “Home” for the both of them.

Ginny's jaw trembled as she realised what the clock revealed about the location of Harry's - and now Hermione's - home. Blinking, she looked back and forth between Mum and the clock face. “AAUUGGHH!!” she wailed as she turned and rushed to her room.

Molly wisely let her go. She had not intended to deter her daughter as much as to help Ginny appreciate the odds she faced.

In that Molly Weasley succeeded, but not in the manner intended.

In her old upstairs room - the one she had occupied since first learning the name “Harry Potter” - Ginny lay on her childhood bed with the door firmly shut and magically sealed. She wept, but as she did, Ginny furiously vowed not to sell herself short, regardless of her mum's view.

“If Mum can do it, so can I. I'll bloody well show her…. I can do this.”

Beneath her blouse, the necklace Ginny wore emitted a barely audible hum.

* * * *

Author's notes: Bellatrix Lestrange is in the same position that Voldemort was prior to the end of GoF, and for essentially the same reasons

Homunculus - an approximation of human form

Plenty of clues now to what Hermione's and Luna's spell did

Killiechonate Castle was introduced in Ch. 33

Voldemort's observations are accurate, but not his conclusion; Snape will pay

Candace will have her wish

Voldemort doesn't have a Patronus in canon, so I created one

To Healer Huxley phoenix tear extract is like the AMEX card, don't go anywhere without it, and to him, Hermione doesn't seem to

Elapids are the snake family including cobras. The kudzu reacted like a spitting cobra. Kudzu grows very fast and dense, being from Georgia, I know

At Stonehenge, Harry did in the DEs' brooms, and Neville the Triads'

There will be more about Dobby and the Order of Merlin

McAllister's affair with a Muggle was mentioned when he first was, in Ch. 62

An insight into the chaos that reigned in the Château after Harry went missing

A glance at the faked spin the Ministry put on the Battle of Stonehenge

The line about truth is by Oscar Wilde

The goblin confusion about Hermione refers to an incident in Ch. 52

They don't have Lucius' whereabouts exactly right

A frolic and detour is when an employee does his own thing on the employer's time

The Jazzy incident was in Ch. 40

Tiny garnet inclusions are the oldest surviving rocks on Earth

Harry's not going to be a dull proprietor

What is called “Murphy's Law” in the U.S. is called Sod's law in Britain

Hermione's don't expect to be wearing for long line is from “A League of Their Own”

The Emmaline Vance reference is to something in Ch. 15

As a Möbius strip has only one side, a water one would be excellent for exercise swimming

A tetrahedron is accurately described

Polywater is a theoretical linkage of multiple water molecules

Heavy water has #2 hydrogen instead of the usual single proton

I do not use alcohol as a plot device in this fic; none of the main characters drink

Gills do not sustain life in unoxygenated water

Nightcrawlers are earthworms

Peppermint Panties is a play on the Peanuts character

The concept for the “Notice-Me-Now Charm comes from Ch. 4 of “The Python Defense” by canoncansodoff

End of the beginning is a Churchill quote

The six degrees of freedom are the three axes and rotation about each one

Peyronie's disease involves just what Harry complained about

There has to be a reason Gillyweed isn't more commonly used; I invented one

The garnet ends up in an unexpected place

No pierced or tattooed Harry in this story either - just invisible goblin scars

A goblin entrance to the Château will prove useful

The three artworks mentioned, by daVinci, Michaelangelo, and Rembrandt are lost in the manners described

Blonny found the Farmer's Reducer in Ch. 67

The discussion with Dumbledore about Unbreakable Vows occurred in Ch. 4

The Unbreakable Vow procedure accords with canon

Harry gave Ima Hogg responsibility for elf literacy as a loyalty test

The Molly-Ginny talk embellishes the love potion reference in PoA Ch. 5

Molly's R/Hr encouragement is another view of what Hermione discussed in Ch. 7

A shrake is a type of canon fish

Ginny invokes the Christmas gift that Hermione picked out

58

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 9/13/2009

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72. A Storm Brewing

Wherein, Hermione prefers being awake to dreaming, Shak interrogates Harry and his friends, Ginny learns a new potion, Harry receives owl post, Ron practices for Quidditch, Harry gets a replacement, Jazzy shows off, Harry and Hermione give a demonstration, and there is an emergency.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger and Staples701.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Chapter 72 - Storm Brewing

It was a long, surprisingly frustrating dream.

Dream state Hermione absolutely had to be somewhere at Hogwarts - but the reason and locale kept changing. First, she had a D.A. meeting with Harry either in the Room of Requirement or the Chamber of Secrets, the venue was fuzzy….

Then, inscrutably, she bustled to the main courtyard for the Gobstones Club's tournament finals, a late spring event…. But … she could care less about Gobstones.

That scene dissolved into another, and off she sped again. Now, she tried to find the annual O.W.L. and Older Muggle Studies Non-Magical Bake-Off (held about the same time). Where was that course's classroom and hallway?

Turned around again, subliminal Hermione rushed to see the Headmaster, but his office kept jumping from tower to tower….

She almost jumped out of her robes at the feel of something on her back. Fortunately she was not having a starkers-in-public dream. Hermione whirled about and found Dobby - wearing seven of her knit caps. To get her attention, he had poked her with a wand.

When did elves get wands?

Following Dobby's directions, Hermione's dream self traversed another seemingly endless corridor. But urgency began draining away, and things turned hazy. Somehow, she displeased Dobby - the elf raked his wand along her side.

That sent shivers down her spine.

Tingling, she looked around, but Dobby (no longer at Hogwarts, except in her dream), was fading away.

Two strokes this time - one betwixt the shoulder blades, the other, scratchier, along her side. Goose pimples rocketed from armpit to kneepit.

Like powdered moonstone through a sieve her dream trickled away…. Groggily, Hermione recognised the Château's huge Proprietor's bedroom.

Those delicious sensations?

Harry had been scratching … rubbing … caressing her back as they lay together on the satin sheets.

Turnabout was definitely fair play.

Harry had awoken early, peckish. Watching Hermione sleep, he indulged his erotic fantasies. She had been in charge the last time. Now it was his turn….

He spooned her. The fingertips of one hand fluttered lightly along her shoulders, neck and the small of her back. His other hand stroked her side in motion that emphasised her curves, producing rapturous sensations from her shoulders to mid-thigh. At full extension, Harry's hand lazily flipped over, and the tips of his fingernails trailed up the length of Hermione's spine.

Then he started over.

The tension was exquisite, and she felt divine.

Why bother moving when Nirvana came knocking? Hermione stayed still. Surely Harry was aware. Surely he noticed her change in breathing as she awoke.

She maintained the pretence of sleep. Harry was content to scratch her back in that heavenly - and intensely arousing - manner. Her desire for him mounted as shivers from his stroking coursed to her thighs and pooled at their apex.

Oh, Merlin, that euphoric jolt surged to her core! Seeking him, Hermione started rolling over, but found Harry's soft touches suddenly becoming firm, gently holding her in place.

Okay, he wanted her passive; she would let him lead … as he let her lead before. The mattress dipped slightly as Harry readjusted. She did the same - drawing in her knees to offer more of her bum for him to fondle.

Harry took full advantage. His hands continued their circular motion, fingertips and fingernails alternating across her sensitive skin. Hermione's world shrank to Harry's magical fingers and their electrifying sensations.

Another dip, and she felt him - the “him” part of him - at her thighs, pressing gently, then backing off, as he rocked beside her.

Circe! She wanted, no needed, him.

Hermione began to hook her leg over him, so he would have unfettered access to her most tingly spot.

Again, he stopped her. His delightful touch firmed and held her in place.

Harry had never wanted her totally still before. She granted his wish, knowing her favour would be returned many times over.

True to form, he began giving her what she wanted - excruciatingly slowly.

Up and down; back and forth; round and round, his fingers danced across her sensitive skin - back, buttocks, side, thighs - and once she let her arms go limp - her bosom as well.

Oh gods - in his hands her entire body was one huge erogenous zone.

And Harry's aroused state slithered rhythmically across her bits, slipping and sliding ever more easily. As before, his arousal joined hers. He now slid freely beside, but not quite within, her aching flesh. All the while his wonderful hands maintained their wonderful motions … oh, wonderful Harry….

His angle shifted ever so slightly, and - all that is holy! - his sleek tip split her petals and plunged into her depths.

Hermione gasped, her breath ragged. His ministrations had left her on a hair trigger without her even knowing. Instinctively, her back arched into him, as his intimacy released a chain reaction. All her tension, all her arousal, broke loose as one. Her whole body tensed, shuddered, and released as nature's greatest pleasures ran their heavenly course.

Only vaguely conscious, Hermione felt herself rolling over. Before she could fret over ruining the sheets, the mattress bounced and Harry's hot breath tickled her now not-quite-so-hair trigger. Her brain registered that, for the first time, Harry had inverted their usual positions … a first because she had hesitated….

This time she was beyond caring. In ecstasy as he devoured her, she wanted to please him every bit as much. `Now, Harry, please,' she Legilimenced whilst taking him in.

Magic was wonderful. Especially the spell that kept her breathing easily.

Magic was wonderful. Harry cast that divine charm on his tongue….

En route to their shared cataclysmic climax, Harry matched Hermione - rapture for rapture - using every tool at his command.

Their last morning at the Château would be most memorable, indeed.

* * * *

By themselves this time, Harry and Hermione returned to Hogwarts much more modestly than they had left. Aside from a couple of goblin guards and the liveried house-elf driver, the only other occupants of their one-Thestral mini-carriage were a couple of international fast owls.

Harry, correctly, anticipated the need to send some messages.

One went almost without saying. The so-called “guinea pig” - a second ancient manuscript from the newly-discovered crypt beneath Château Blackwalls - went winging to Blackie Howe with instructions to test its authenticity. No expense was to be spared - not that Howe would. He was a solicitor, first and foremost.

Also on the agenda was house-elf liberation, Hermione's personal passion. Loose ends from the assembly in the Château's elf dormitory had to be addressed. Hermione suggested physical improvements to the elves' living quarters. The same spells that enlarged magical cars, tents, and trunks could expand the elves' pathetic little cubbyholes.

Overshadowing even that was Harry's spur-of-the-moment, improvised Unbreakable Vow. Dobby's personality was too - different, weird, whatever - for the Château's traditionalist house-elves. Harry needed to enhance Dobby's authority.

He also needed to convince the Château Blackwalls house-elves that, contrary to generations of deep-seated belief, an offer of clothes from this Proprietor was not an ignominious dismissal.

Whilst sweating and straining to drive screws into solid brick, Harry had recalled something critical. According to Dumbledore, a wizard-goblin Unbreakable Vow had ended the last Goblin Rebellion.

If it worked with goblins, presumably the Vow could be performed with other sentient beings - at least those not in bondage. Unlike every other house-elf at the Château, Dobby was free. So Harry went with his gut. It could have blown up in his face, but had not.

Hopefully the Vow - along with the ceremony - would induce at least some house-elves to transcend æons of superstition and accept freedom. He need not convince them all; not even a majority. A dozen or two was enough for a combat-ready unit to protect the Château against Death Eater attacks.

Hermione thought that idea brilliant - the antithesis of Harry's choice to entrust the house-elf literacy program to Ima Hogg. Not brilliant, that. Hermione suspected Hogg of opposing any form of house-elf freedom.

She was surprised when Harry readily agreed.

Hermione nearly choked on her pumpkin juice when Harry explained that he had deliberately assigned Hogg that task as a loyalty test. If she slacked off, and the elves failed the literacy testing materials that accompanied the textbooks, he would be giving her the sack.

“How … how Slytherin of you.… I wish I'd thought of it,” Hermione observed with a satisfied smile.

“I guess being a Black has some influence after….” Harry stopped short at Slamdor's approach.

Slamdor paused, waiting until Harry acknowledged him. With a soft, frustrated audible only to Hermione, Harry did. “Yes, Slamdor - greetings.”

“Fealty offer I. Impratraxis, speak freely may I?” the goblin requested.

“Of course….” Before anything else escaped Harry's mouth, the goblin prostrated himself.

Hermione's eyes widened. Harry acted confused. “Umm … anyor.”

Slamdor scrambled to his feet, his expression - strangely - was quite frankly happy. “Impratraxis, promoted have been I. New division, rapid response, lead will I, under your command….”

Harry's eyes lit up. “Bloody brilliant!” he exclaimed. “How did that happen?”

“Our Stonehenge response, displeased were the lanaman … our general staff. Too slow were we - fortunate were you….”

Slamdor had that square in the gold.

“…But no more. Special unit to create am I. Death Eaters to fight - with you.”

“Who replaces you?” Hermione intervened. Slamdor's prior command was the goblin unit responsible for Harry's - and her - personal safety.

Slamdor smiled another toothy grin. “Will be led by your guard, Roxtar the Lost-Finger. But again, and soon, shall meet we.”

Roxtar's role in the Battle of Stonehenge had earned him an individualised honorific - a vaunted distinction shared with predecessors like Eargit the Ugly and Urg the Unclean. Roxtar's moniker was rather more complimentary than those distinguished forebearers.

Harry was gratified at the recognition Roxtar and Slamdor received for battlefield valour. They had earned a just reward. Self interest also factored; other elite goblin braves would doubtless vie to serve in his vanguard. The constant threats endangering Harry and his friends offered goblin guards ample opportunity to prove mettle in battle. For a warrior race, no higher calling existed.

So Harry responded, “Congratulations, Slamdor, sagatak. Before you leave, can you handle something for me - it won't take long.”

For a brief instant, Slamdor regarded Harry strangely, before realising his own impertinence. “Is my command, your wish,” he croaked.

“It'll help with those bothersome delays,” Harry added.

Goblin ears pointed in Harry's direction. Slamdor's interest rose several levels.

“I would like a mirror portal … a splixii I think it's called … built somewhere in the Château's basement,” Harry requested. “It must be where my staff can reach it in an emergency - and goblins, too, of course, coming the other way.”

“How many?” Slamdor asked.

Harry considered that. “No more than thirty or forty,” he estimated.

Slamdor's strange look returned, and lingered. “Thirty or forty?” he questioned.

“Not counting house-elves,” Harry quickly clarified, with Hermione looking over his shoulder.

Utter confusion replaced Slamdor's strange look. “What? Talking of same thing are not we.”

“I want my staff able to escape if the Château is attacked,” Harry hastened to specify.

“Number of splixii seek you, trying to learn, am I” Slamdor reciprocated, “so your order to complete can I.”

“Oops. Just one,” Harry clarified, wondering where they had parted ways. “As long as it's easy to find.”

“One splixat, then,” Slamdor confirmed.

Harry understood that the confusion arose from his using a plural when he meant the singular. His Gobbledygook plainly needed improvement before he could even consider giving a speech in that language. But for now, that did not matter.

“Great,” he said. “That's why I have this Château owl.”

Until he reached Hogwarts, Harry wrote out instructions to Jerry McAllister detailing preparations for evacuating the staff to goblin territory in event of emergency.

* * * *

As the Hogwarts term recommenced, the depths of January heralded truly horrendous weather. Biting northeasterlies brought snow more days than not, and when not drove the mercury far into negative territory. In London heavy snow brought the Muggle bus system to a halt more effectively than the Blitz - and almost as effectively as a drivers' strike.

In some perverse pact with the climate gods, the school's professors piled mounds of homework upon their snowed-in charges.

Harry's and Hermione's return to the Castle and its familiar pedagogical routine brought the return of petty frustrations - with a vengeance.

- McGonagall ordered a three-foot essay on the skeletal changes involved in Transfiguring vertebrates into invertebrates, and back - without even the prospect of practise on a certain blond-haired Slytherin.

- Hagrid, with outdoors, hands-on classes snowed out, assigned extensive reading on creatures like Nundus, Chimæraæ, and Krakens, too dangerous for even him to bring to Hogwarts.

- Not to be outdone, Slughorn required half a roll on Unction of Gekosetæ, a useful potion that, if applied to clothing or skin, allowed users to climb walls and even hang from the ceiling. To Hermione's disgust, the unicorn hair Ron suggested (courtesy of the Prince) proved better at catalysing the potion than the textbook's examples of ivy or lavender.

- Flitwick ploughed ahead with first, two-feet on Memory-Enhancing charms; how to cast them on persons, objects (such as Remembralls) or as wards or fields. Gravitational magic followed - another two-footer on hydroambulation: balancing weight against surface tension whilst accounting for dynamic factors such as wind. Practical examination was deferred until the lake thawed.

- Flitwick heaped a second pile on Harry in Domestic Magic - charming dishes and cutlery. That always looked easy when Molly Weasley did it. Looks could be deceiving.

- Hermione's Arithmancy class was no better. She churned out five feet to explain how polar coordinates could improve the accuracy of Locating spells, particularly at high latitudes.

Harry also had to contend with Dumbledore. The Term had barely started when the Headmaster conducted another “special” lesson. Harry experienced yet another Pensieve memory - Tom Riddle's second visit to the Gaunt house, more bleak and run down than ever. By the end, the Slytherin ring had been stolen and the last of the Gaunts sentenced to life in Azkaban; framed for murdering Voldemort's Muggle father and grandfather.

Defence Against the Dark Arts recommenced as onerously as any other class, with extensive reading on curse deflection through fortification. A rigorous practical lesson, coordinating spellfire using enfilade and defilade principles, was set for the second Thursday after the students returned.

Heavy snow did not deter Professor Shacklebolt. Rather, it provided building material.

On the previous Monday, Shak had sent a Patronus to Harry summoning him to his office Tuesday during Harry's first free period. Harry, Hermione, and Ron speculated endlessly about this mystery meeting, but reality hardly measured up to the hype.

Shak glanced up from his office desk when Harry arrived. “Shut the door. I'll Charm the room,” he directed in a flat and business-like manner.

With Locking and Silencing Charms in place, Shak placed both hands on his desk, looked straight at Harry, and revealed, “As part of its inquiry into the events of New Years Eve, the Ministry wants to interview you, Harry.”

Harry stiffened. “That's not a good idea. The last time, the Ministry leaked like a sieve. What's to prevent everything I say from going straight to the Death Eaters? We're better off just letting Voldemort guess what happened.”

“My sentiments exactly - and although he say so publicly, the Minister's as well.”

Harry was displeased. “So why are we doing this?”

“There has to be an inquiry. Rules are rules, and Thicknesse knows them. But you put your finger on it - we're doing this, not him.”

That grabbed Harry's attention. “What do you mean, we?”

Shak stared him down with a look brooking no opposition. “I mean you, me, and Alastor Gumboil will have a nice chat here at Hogwarts. Thicknesse can't dictate who does the interview, or where, so to hell with him. To be doubly sure of keeping things under control, I've decided to make it a teachable moment.”

“I … I don't know about that,” Harry tried to resist. “Who's going to be teaching what?”

Shak glowered, darker than even his ordinary ebony complexion. “Here's what'll happen. I want this over with quickly - and properly. Understand that if … certain persons … can't get at you, they might come after your friends. I'm going to turn the next Defence class into a demonstration of Auror procedure….”

“But Malfoy and the other Slytherin death nibblers will be there!” Harry protested.

Shak's chuckle sounded like distant thunder. “Got that covered. Attendance will be optional - open only to those interested in possibly joining the Corps. Attendees have to sign an official orientation sheet, and the magic on those…. Well, let's just say that the hex your lady friend laid on Edgecombe last year pales by comparison.”

The idea sounded more plausible, but Harry still wondered. “What about the press?”

“That won't be a problem,” Shak reassured, “not this time. The Ministry doesn't want publicity, and you and I both know that what the Ministry doesn't want covered, the Prophet doesn't cover. The Minister's got Cuffe's balls in his robe pocket.”

And so, Thursday afternoon's Double Defence session became something quite unusual. Maybe half the class shuffled into the classroom - Auror service in wartime was not a particularly popular career choice.

The attendees found two tables at the front of the room, each covered with plain white tablecloths. Professor Shacklebolt occupied one table with a wizard unknown to the audience - Alastor Gumboil, tall, as bald as Skak, sporting a jet black handlebar moustache. Facing them were Harry, Hermione, and Neville. All three knew Gumboil from their Glastonbury outing.

Only two Slytherins were in attendance - Daphne Greengrass, a trustworthy D.A. member, and Tristan Marlowe, one of the recent replacements for the House's three vanished Sixth-Years. He was rumoured to be at loggerheads with most of his House.

Intrigue grew as, just before Shak gavelled the proceedings to order, the Headmaster slipped in, George Weasley with him. George came forward, but Dumbledore remained at the very back of the room, where he conjured a chintz armchair and silently took a seat.

“George!” Ron called from the audience. “You're looking well … if not good.”

“I can't hear you,” George chirped. He cupped his hand about the ear that no longer was.

Ron riposted, “Then maybe you need the extendable version.”

“To think I lost it rescuing you, you daft prat,” George replied, his tone good-natured.

With the commotion, Harry, Hermione, and Neville turned in time to greet George, who was typically all smiles - but with a plaster where his right ear should be.

Hermione conjured another of the rather uncomfortable straight-backed wooden chairs the “witnesses” were occupying, as Harry asked. “What brings you back here?”

“Well you know how it is,” George cracked, “ear today, gone tomorrow.”

“So is that a new Three-W product - expendable ears?” Hermione returned in kind.

“Not sure there's any market in that,” George shot back. “At least I haven't heard of any lately.”

Hermione giggled. Harry joined moments later. Finally, Neville, who knew the Twins only slightly, dissolved in laughter.

“Bit slow on the uptake, eh, Nev?” George went on. “Well, don't worry. At least now, you can tell us apart….”

“And now you resemble Vincent Van Gogh,” Hermione allowed. Her stab at humour fell flat, as George responded with an uncomprehending look. Knowledge of Muggle culture was not a Weasley strong suit.

George's suit, however, was quite strong - on the eyes. In Gryffindor colours, red and gold stripes, its chevron pattern repeated “WWW.” Recovering from Hermione's failed quip, he turned to his audience and asked, “Know any good ear jokes? They're worth a ten percent discount at the shop….”

“If we could get started,” Shak dryly talked over the ebullient redhead. Since this was primarily an Auror inquest, he took the lead. Gumboil was quite content to let him.

Shak opened his dragon-skin briefcase, and removed a stack of papers. “Dididio!” He waved his wand, and the papers leapt apart and soared across the room. One for each student, they landed neatly on each occupied desk. “Now, you can follow along,” Shak directed. “This is a standard debriefing outline for Aurors returned from a mission involving Death Eater confrontation.”

Shak had chatted ahead of time with all three student interviewees so they understood what was coming. Hermione and Neville had outvoted Harry, agreeing that he should do most of the talking.

Although Shak could conduct such an interview from memory, he paused and consulted his copy. “First, Auror … er … Mister Potter, what was the objective of the mission?”

“To rescue Ron Weasley, sir,” Harry responded.

“Nothing else?” Gumboil followed.

“No, sir,” Harry reiterated. “All we wanted was to get in, get Ron, and get out. But the Death Eaters had other ideas.”

“I'll wager they did,” Shak snorted. “All right, then. Next category. Intelligence.”

“None, sir,” Harry had to admit.

Shak was incredulous. “None? Surely you knew something. At least the reason for going to Stonehenge … didn't you?”

“I know it sounds crazy, sir, but we didn't know where we were going until we got there,” Harry responded rather plaintively. “That's just how it is with me, I guess. We sure didn't know what we'd find when we got there….”

Hermione jumped in. “Nobody expected the Spanish Inquisition, sir … that is, encountering Voldemort and a thousand of his closest friends….”

An incredulous look passed between Shak and Gumboil. Harry and his youthful followers had dealt a bigger defeat to more Death Eaters than the Aurors ever accomplished, but … they went into battle blind? “How did you know where to go, then?” Gumboil demanded.

Harry, with help from Hermione, explained how Mad-Eye Moody led a small search party to Cho Chang's house, discovered it swarming with Death Eaters, and used a captured Death Eater Portkey to send a disguised Tonks ahead to an unknown destination - with a ring on a goblin's amputated finger serving as a tracking device.

By the time this description was complete, Shak had to force himself to maintain professional deportment. It would not do to smack himself on the forehead in public.

“I suppose your answer to the next item, planning, will be the same as before - that is to say, none?” Shak cross-examined after hearing more than enough.

“Well, sir, we did have to plan to leave the Château unnoticed,” Harry allowed. “But as for fighting Death Eaters, you'd be spot on. We made that up as we went along.”

“We'll get to that. But for now … you actually planned for the - what - eight of you to sneak away from the score or more of staff, employed by you, and even more house-elves, which again were bound to serve you loyally?” Shak asked with frank disbelief edging into his voice. “Were you trying to get yourselves killed?”

“No, sir, it was Mad-Eye's idea, and he wasn't trying to get anyone killed - at least not on our side,” Harry answered as directly as he could.

“Nobody but himself,” Gumboil interjected. Their shocked looks - especially from Harry and Hermione - told the Hit Wizard that he'd overstepped. He had forgotten the deceased Auror's relationship with the boy.

“I'm sorry, Mister Potter, that was uncalled for,” Gumboil retreated, worrying his moustache.

“Actually, sir, it wasn't,” Hermione spoke up. “Objectively, we were extremely stupid - foregoing all those resources. But there were good reasons for it. That was Mad-Eye's advice. He may have been paranoid, but he was right enough, often enough, that we went along. Ron's life was at stake….”

Shak was concerned. “Auror Moody's advice…?”

“…Is private in nature and is being addressed … sir,” Hermione forcefully ended that line of inquiry.

Shak and Gumboil both looked at Harry.

“Gentlemen, she's right. I've dealt with that,” Harry confirmed, and said no more.

Silence reigned as the Board of Enquiry and the witnesses took each other's measure.

“All right, then, since that's not to the Ministry's interest, we'll continue,” Shak retreated, as Gumboil nodded. “Resources. Both Wizard and materiel. What did you have handy to accomplish your mission?”

Between them, the four rattled off the names of eight wizards and six goblins who travelled to Stonehenge. Hermione made sure to mention Dobby. They described motley means of transport - emphasising the two Valkyries, since they figured in the battle. Neville described the now-splintered Staff of Asclepius.

George hit his stride. “We had with us about a dozen Suicide Spyders - you know, the ones that blow things up? Been trying to interest you blokes in a Private Tender for months. Well, Stonehenge was proof positive that they work famously in battlefield conditions. We also brought along a gross of something new, reverse water balloons….”

“Reverse water balloons?” Gumboil repeated, looking intrigued. “What are those?”

“Bog standard Muggle balloons filled with alkahest,” George happily informed the enquiry. “Brilliant, really. Alkahest turns anything that isn't alive into water, so the problem's always been how to package the stuff. The answer turns out to be Muggle latex. The balloons melted the stones that supported the grandstands where Voldemort's Chinese pals were. We could give you excellent terms….”

George's blatant sales pitch even began embarrassing Harry, so he broke in. “I also brought a phial of Felix Felicis - the stuff Ron won in Potions. He'd given it to me in secret to hold for him….”

“Thanks, Harry,” Ron called from the audience. “Inspired use of it, really.”

“I have to agree with him,” Gumboil concurred. “Mister Weasley, Ronald that is, may I pose a question to you?”

Ron was visibly hesitant to get involved. “Umm…. Sure, I guess….”

“Did you request Mister Potter to take possession of your Felix Felicis in strict confidence?”

“Did I ask Harry to keep mum on it, you mean?” Ron rephrased the question. Then he answered. “I sure did. I reckon only Hermione knew - they don't keep secrets … er … from each other, that is.”

“Then all I can say is you were truly lucky, all of you,” Shak declared solemnly.

“What do mean, sir?” Harry asked, inverting the roles of questioned and questioner.

But not entirely.

“Harry, I think the professor's referencing the fact that an effective antidote to Felix Felicis has existed for about two decades,” Hermione spoke up. “Had the Death Eaters known that you had the potion, instead of Ron, they might have had that antidote on hand. Snape could surely have brewed it. It's not particularly difficult to make. That's one reason that Aurors, such as Moody and Tonks, don't use the stuff.”

The enquiry turned to strategy and tactics. The strategy was simple. Use the element of surprise to get in and rescue Ron - then pray they could get out again. If Plan A failed, hunker down and hope the goblin army arrived before it was too late.

Ultimately Plan B worked, although even that proved a very close run thing.

Harry and Neville pointed out that, in terms of tactics, eliminating enemy brooms (and, for Triads, other flying objects) was the first priority. They used different methods - Harry launched a barrage of fiery spells from his triple-cored Valkyrie whilst Neville used noxious vines. Both were effective: No Death Eaters took to the skies during the entire battle.

Harry's mission was to engage Voldemort and generally try to hold back the Death Eaters, so the others could get to Ron and then make good an escape.

The Board had a series of rather technical questions about flying manœuvres, spellfire, broom-handling, and similar subjects - directed mostly but not entirely to Harry.

The Death Eaters had some sort of portal. It was still discharging Triads from who knows where when the attack began. Hermione's objective was to shut down the portal, employing (as the Twins ensured everyone knew) a Suicide Spyder. To accomplish that, her primary tactic was making multiple copies of herself with a Duplicating Charm. Moody did the same, she recounted. His mission had been, first, to send up Auror assist signals seeking help from the nearby Salisbury Auror headquarters; next, to take down the Death Eaters' anti-Apparition wards; and after that to cause as much general havoc amongst the enemy as possible.

George recounted his mission to collapse the grandstand atop the stone circle where most of the Triads were located, so as to incapacitate as many of them as possible. It had not gone as planned.

“…I was pants. Couldn't hit a bloody thing with those balloons from the back of a broom. Hadn't anticipated flying. After two passes didn't accomplish squat, that crazy witch told me just toss them up and she'd do all the work. That's when I lost my bloody ear….”

“I'll have to ask Miss Granger if she agrees with that characterisation,” Shak remarked, amusement at George's account showing on his face.

“I had nothing to do with that, sir,” Hermione demurred. “By then I was pinned down inside the circle trading curses with Death Eaters.”

“I'm sorry, I must be confused,” Gumboil intervened. “Mister Weasley, exactly what were you flying and with whom?”

“Her name's Jazzy, that's all I know,” George answered. “We flew Hermione's broom. Right wicked it was. Too bad it got wrecked, but with all those Dark wizards, that probably couldn't be helped.”

“What about the broom's protective charms?” the Hit Wizard followed up.

“Didn't - couldn't - use them,” George admitted. “Everything coming at us, we had to dodge. Speed and manœuverability, that's all we had. That Jazzy, she's an out and out maniac, but she sure can fly. I can't fly like that alone, and she did it whilst carting me about.”

“Miss Granger, why didn't you use your broom?” Shak asked. “It would have been much safer.” Shak and Gumboil both expressed surprise that Hermione would turn her Valkyrie over to Jazzy (who, as a Third Year, was not present in the classroom).

“Because, sir, I'm a terrible flyer,” Hermione answered, pained to admit failure at anything. “Even with all the charms, I couldn't have managed what they did and I knew it. I'm best at cursing Death Eaters with my feet firmly planted on the ground, thank you very much.”

The questioning concerned the Dementors. Harry described his unusual, persistent Patronus. Shak and Gumboil had no better idea Harry what might have caused it. The next peril they had overcome - Fiendfyre - was a different story.

“…Once the Dementors had to retreat, Voldemort tried clearing the circle with Fiendfyre,” Harry expounded. “He was mostly after Hermione. She fought off the first bit of it, but there was a lot more. When the Fiendfyre was about to come after her again, I put it out with a Fluvius Azote spell.”

The questioners looked at Harry blankly. Gumboil asked, “What was that spell again?”

The incantation is “Fluvius Azote,” Harry repeated.

“Never heard of that,” Shak commented.

“Probably because I only invented it a couple of months ago,” Hermione hastened to add. “A linguistic extension of the usual Fluvius spell.”

“Yes, by the usual conventions, `fluvius' refers to water,” Gumboil agreed. “But `azote,' that's a new one.”

Hermione shook her head. “With all due respect, sir, `fluvius' simply means a liquid. Water, being most common, is simply a default. `Azote' is a term Healers use to invoke various nitro-based charms. Liquid nitrogen is extremely cold and burns not at all. It's extremely effective at putting out fires. I've used it to extinguish Greek fire, and that even burns under water.”

“I only tried it because I'd seen Hermione's results,” Harry admitted, thinking how she had used it during their duel in the Room of Requirement.

Shak and Gumboil looked intrigued. “Do either of you know what Fiendfyre is?” Gumboil asked.

“Heard of it, sir, nothing more,” Harry answered. “I don't recall it from my summer's training.” He instinctively looked to Hermione.

“Not exactly, sir,” she added. “It's intense magical fire, and its origins are, I believe, obscure. I know the Death Eaters burned … umm … use it, and it's hard to put out.”

“Fiendfyre actually burns magic,” Shak explained. “Ordinary extinguishing spells are useless, as adding magic only makes things worse. It wasn't covered in your training because, frankly, there's little to cover. The only countermeasure is to isolate it from magic and let it burn itself out. But that wouldn't work at Stonehenge. The more magical the place, the fiercer it burns. And Stonehenge is strongly magical….”

“Then why did my spell work?” Harry asked. “I certainly used magic … er … sir.”

“Probably because your magic conjured a non-magical substance,” Gumboil speculated. “One that, as mentioned, is extremely effective at putting out fires…. But without seeing it work, I can't be sure.”

Shak paused for a bit and remarked. “An effective means of combatting Fiendfyre would be useful, very useful indeed, to have ….”

“Sir, I'm sure I could show you some time,” Harry offered.

“I'm sure you can,” Shak implicitly accepted. “What happened next?”

“Ron was gone, so I reckoned Luna had rescued him. I tried to signal everyone to get out, but I got hit - my broom that is - by an AK,” Harry recounted as evenly as he could.

“I thought he was dead,” Hermione added morosely. “I expected to follow, so I fortified myself - to take as many with me as I could. That's when Dolohov nearly killed me. Roxtar rescued me….” A broad, satisfied smile spread across her face. “…and the goblin army finally arrived.”

“I was buried by then, sir,” Neville said, shaking his head. “I didn't see that or anything else.”

“Very well, Mister Longbottom,” Gumboil replied. “You may be excused. We thank you for your cooperation.” Neville quickly stood and retreated to the ranks of the student observers.

“We, Jazzy and I, used up the left over Reverse Water Balloons making as much quicksand as we could,” George gave his vantage. “Then left me where we started. I had more gadgets - Hydra-Headed squibs packed with Clarion Crystals - brilliant for night warfare. Helped the goblins find….”

“Yes, we're aware that your ordnance is excellent,” Gumboil remarked sharply in a let's-move-this-along voice. “What was this … umm … Jazzy witch's mission?”

George frowned. “Mission? You mean what was Jazzy supposed to do next? She didn't say. She's a bloody third year, see? She just went out and attacked the lot of them, until finally she got cursed…. I thought she'd died. Wouldn't surprise me if she intended to.”

Shak looked unhappy. “May I remind you we're discussing strategy and tactics? The goblin army had arrived. I assumed that changed your approach to the Deaters.”

“Sir, I just wanted everyone out,” Harry sighed. “I was trying to keep Death Eaters away from Hermione. I didn't know where anyone else was. Then the Triad leader - Chang, but I didn't know that - he conjured up a huge swarm of meat-eating bugs….”

“They were locusts,” Hermione corrected. “They nearly ate Luna's leg.”

“Lovegood? I thought she'd gone off with Ronald Weasley,” Shak interrupted.

“She came back, sir. I was so surprised, I nearly cursed her,” Hermione recalled with a slight smile. Taking a deep breath, she continued. “Luna suggested the cleansing spell. As you mentioned, Stonehenge is extremely magical. I thought it might disable the Death Eaters or something. I had no idea….”

That was true enough, but not enough truth.

Shak followed up. “Please explain exactly how this cleansing spell operated….”

The distinguished wizard at the rear of the room rose. “I think we know quite enough on that subject,” Dumbledore pronounced with finality. “It is redundant of my own investigation, which I shall happily share with the inquest - in private.”

Hermione relaxed visibly. Uncharacteristically, Harry spoke up and drew attention to himself. “Sir, tactics…. After I escaped, those bugs attacked the goblins, which I guess was the point. From History of Magic, I knew goblins couldn't cast Shield Charms…. But I could conjure the next best thing - netting. So I flew all about covering every goblin I could reach with netting. With my broom damaged by the AK, it was the best I could do. That's a tactic, I guess.”

“A helluva good one, I'd say,” Gumboil agreed.

“Then, I urged them to fight, so I could hardly do less myself. I flew out ahead….” Harry regarded the witch beside him. “Hermione was still out there…. Oh, something you definitely need to know, Voldemort can fly - without a broom or anything.”

Disgust flashed over Harry's face at the audible gasps his use of the Dark wizard's name prompted, even from an audience of possible Auror recruits.

“Did you see this yourself?” Shak immediately asked.

“Yes, sir, it was at the end - just after I finished with the goblins,” Harry responded quickly. “He flew towards me. We started to duel, our second go, but he broke it off. Voldemort went back down. Then…. Well, he hit me with something I couldn't see, but it felt like a brick wall. I lost control and ran into something … really hard. That's when I broke my leg. I'm guessing he saw Hermione, because he went after her straightaway. I'm glad he didn't wait, because I was nearly falling off my broom. That's when I created the condensate.”

“What condensate?” Gumboil immediately asked, taking the words from Shak's mouth.

Harry started to answer, “Sir, it's something that happens when I charm the air to get really cold….”

“Ahem…,” Dumbledore intervened again. If the condensate became public knowledge, it would prompt uncomfortable questions. “This is another delicate matter previously looked into. I am available to assist the enquiry in this respect.”

Both Harry and Hermione lost consciousness shortly after the last events they related, bringing the session to a close - once George treated the room to a flabbergasting account of the magic touched off by Hermione's final spell.

“So what's the verdict, sir?” Harry asked at the end.

“My professional opinion is that you created an effective strategy on the fly against an unexpected and overwhelming enemy force,” Shak pronounced. “I'm recommending that some of your tactics be studied in the Ministry's War College.”

“Personally, I think the lot of you were madder than Martin Miggs,” Gumboil added.

DADA being their last class of the day, Harry and Hermione stayed behind chatting with the enquiry board members, mostly about press coverage of the Ministry's actions on the night in question. Stepping into the corridor, they were intercepted by a visibly anxious Daphne Greengrass.

“Could I have a word?” she mumbled barely audibly. “In private. I've interesting news for you.”

They followed the willowy Slytherin blonde to a vacant classroom next to the stairs leading to Professor Trelawney's tower classroom. “What is it?” Hermione hissed as Harry cast a Muffliato.

“I've a note from my Aunt Lili. She says I'm to help you - basically do anything you tell me to,” Daphne revealed, her tone midway between sour and suggestive. “She wants me to give you this.”

From her robes, she produced a visibly enchanted letter.

Hermione's outstretched arm blocked Harry from accepting the unorthodox post. “What's this all about?” she asked suspiciously. “Who's Lili?”

“Lili's my aunt, and the most powerful witch I've ever met. What does she want with you? Hell if I know.” Daphne answered scathingly. “I'm a go between. With Aunt Lili, its no questions asked. She always has her reasons….”

“Bit like Dumbledore, I'd reckon,” Harry said dryly.

“A bit,” Daphne allowed. “Don't know or care to know her business with you, but she's not Dark, so this isn't a concealed Portkey or anything. She can be pretty scary, though, so watch yourselves.”

Reassured, Hermione dropped her opposition, and Harry took the letter. The moment it touched his fingers, its surrounding enchantments vanished.

“Umm … well, I'll be off,” Daphne muttered, not wanting additional involvement with the happy couple. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Harry's expression grew serious as he scanned the letter.

“What is it now?” Hermione asked, intrigued.

Harry pulled her close and whispered in her ear. “It's from the Sisters of the Moon - about the gold. A lady named Lilithu - no surname - wants to meet. There are instructions.”

* * * *

He was already there, with the day's ingredients laid out, when she arrived. “That was damn short notice,” she groused. She deposited her rucksack with a thud on the adjoining table. “And why are those creeps Spott and Cambo out there?”

“One at a time Reds,” Malfoy drawled. “Smed and Preston are guarding against any more Squib interruptions - with Vince and Greg gone, I needed replacements. They won't bother you, unless I wanted them to.”

“I've shared DADA with them for five years,” Ginny scoffed. “They're okay for target practice, nothing more.”

Draco shook his head. “Maybe, maybe not. And I couldn't help the scheduling. The announcement that today's Defence class was optional only happened yesterday. You didn't have a class, so why are you complaining?”

“I had a Quidditch practice right afterwards that I had to skive off,” Ginny responded. “This better be good.”

“Wait a minute,” Draco eyed her suspiciously. “Quidditch isn't scheduled this early, and unless they've changed something, this isn't even your practise day.”

Ginny flipped her hair haughtily. “Not Gryffindor practice. I had to miss the first session for the all-school picked team. I'm one of the Chasers.”

“Bully for you,” Draco allowed, somewhat churlishly. “That's your tosser brother's team, isn't it? What excuse did you give him?”

“Excuse?” Ginny bristled. “I told the truth. I had remedial Potions - I just didn't mention you.”

“And that's part of the problem,” Draco grumbled.

“What problem?” Ginny shot back defensively. “Like you deserve mention.”

“We'll get to that,” Draco put her off. “But first, the sixty-four thousand Galleon question. Do you want to go ahead with this?” Unseen, Draco's left hand rubbed the talisman that `prompted' the girl to answer properly.

“Yes - of course,” she huffed. “We've been over all this. Over the holiday…. The more I think about it, the more I think she probably enchanted him herself.”

“Oh, really?” This was new, and anything to keep the girl motivated was good news. “And why would our favourite resident genius need that?” he responded sarcastically. “She led the Great Git by the nose for years before starting to lead him by something else….”

“Oh, shut it, ferret,” Ginny shot back. “Durmstrang hadn't even rejected you yet, so you wouldn't know.”

Draco seethed inwardly at that insult. He dared point out its inaccuracy. Besides, here was a rare opportunity, his first, to hear what things had been like on the other side. “Do tell, then.”

“The Opening Feast…. An attempt to rescue Harry failed - from your own stupid Manor, I'm sure you know now….”

“Yeah, I know. They bloody well wrecked it,” Draco growled in the most authentic show of anger he could muster. “Both effing sides. So, go on….”

He gave the talisman inside his robes a little rub.

Ginny did. “Well, Dumbledore was desperate - we all were - and Hermione somehow convinced the Headmaster to try a bunch of really complicated spells she cooked up with Luna Lovegood. Hermione took centre stage, of course. Dumbledore used a big blue stone in a basement dungeon that nobody, even her, knew about. These spells sent her off to search for Harry, so we were told.”

“To search for the Great Git?” Draco was, frankly, shocked. He had never heard of such magic - far more complex than anything he had ever tried. Now he knew why everything had gone to hell.

“Everybody who saw what happened said so,” she told him briskly. “But I don't know. Looking back, I wonder if she slipped some sort of Love Charm or something into all those spells. Because … well, she found him just before nearly getting herself killed - and since he returned, he's been absolutely fixated on her. He hardly looks at me. Before, I know he played the field a bit.”

Draco knew as well - another off-limits subject - so he led Ginny somewhere else. “Well, thanks for filling me in. But you're right, if she's enchanted him, then evening the playing field with a little Love Potion is only right. And it just so happens, I have some right here.”

Draco placed three small phials of clear liquid on the countertop.

“You did it!” Ginny almost shrieked. She practically bounced on her toes in anticipation.

“Keep it down, Reds,” Draco admonished. “Of course I did - first new moon after solstice, remember? This is what it looks like.” He held it in front of one of the Potions dungeon's sconced torches. The transparent potion shimmered and glistened with the fire of liquid diamond.

“How did you sneak it past Filch?” she asked.

“Filch is a pitiful Squib,” Malfoy scoffed arrogantly. “I soaked my socks and other woolens in it and let them dry out. He never even looked at them. Of course, I diverted him with some forbidden items in my trunk so poorly hidden that even he could find them. What I didn't want him to find, he didn't.”

He pushed the phials temptingly across the table. “There's enough for six doses here. Now it's up to you to personalise it. Again, the more, well, close to you, the better….”

“Don't you worry, I've got that covered,” Ginny tossed off that reassurance with another toss of her long red hair. “Don't forget, we share the same Quidditch clubhouse.”

Draco made a nauseous face. “Believe me; I'm not worrying about that. I don't even want to know. Remember, the longer you keep it close to you … anyway, I don't think I have to repeat myself.”

“No, you don't. I'm going to take at least six weeks, maybe more. I want this to work, so it must be as strong and as personalised as possible.” Carefully, she picked up the phials and slipped them inside her robes.

“I hope six full doses is enough, but if you need more, I have additional potion stock. I' might need your help to finalise it, though.”

“What would you need me to do?” Ginny asked cautiously.

“Maybe nothing. Maybe stand watch as I put the finishing touches on the new batch, but only if I can't use Spott and Cambo. Now that I control the Malfoy family fortune, I rather suspect they'll be available.”

“That's how you Slytherins are,” Ginny commented acerbically, “kiss you when you're up, kick you when you're down.”

“At least we know where we stand,” he unkindly responded. “We're predictable - and we do get kissed.”

Ginny scowled. His comment hit a little too close to home. “So, what's all this for?” she changed the subject, referring to the potions ingredients Draco had assembled.

“Remember - part two of the problem, as I mentioned earlier,” Draco responded chillingly.

“And that is?” Ginny bade him continue.

Draco put it as bluntly as he could. “Think about it, Reds. She's nothing if not clever. If she not only figured out how to enchant him, but tricked Dumbledore to do it for her…. Well, you figure it out. Will she sit idly by and let you take away the Great Git? I don't.”

Ginny's eyes narrowed at Draco's snide tone, she could not deny the implicit threat Hermione posed. “Just what exactly are you proposing?” she asked cautiously.

“Well, if Granger takes it into her head to look for potions, she's clever enough … it won't be hard for her to find them, and then to find first you and then me,” Draco shrugged. “The key is preemptive action … to stop her from deciding to look in the first place. So what you see here are the ingredients for the Draught of Despair.”

“Ugh…. You mean we not only have to dose him, but her, too?” Ginny asked, her face a picture of dismay. “How you think I could do that? She won't exactly be my best pal, you know, when I waltz up to her and say, `Here, let me freshen up your pumpkin juice a bit….'”

“It doesn't work that way,” Draco snapped.

“You're damn right it doesn't,” Ginny continued.

Draco shook his head firmly. “No, I meant the bloody potion. The Draught of Despair isn't like that.” He put out his hands, palms down, for emphasis. “I know the dynamic as well as you. That's why I've chosen the Draught. It's keyed to an event, not to a person.”

Ginny remained sceptical, arms tightly crossed over her chest. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“I thought you only sought peer tutoring in practical Potions,” Draco reacted insultingly. “If you don't know that answer to that, you need theoretical help too….”

“Spare me your snide comments,” Ginny growled, not at all amused. “You can't come close to Snape's wit and wisdom, no matter how hard you try. Just answer the question.”

Draco took a deep breath. “All right. Lots of potions, the majority, are keyed to one thing or another. Some, like Ageing Potions, are keyed to particular times. That limits their use to certain periods. Others, like Love Potions, are keyed to people. That likewise limits their use. Still others key to particular events….”

“And this Draught of Despair?” Ginny cut him off impatiently.

“Keys to an event,” Draco finished. “That's why it's not necessary to keep dosing the Mudblood….”

“I've told you I don't like you using that word around me,” Ginny upbraided.

“Very well then. Let's get started.” Draco motioned her to take the knife and start cutting up pangolin spleens to mix into a small, already bubbling cauldron of Essence of Glumbumble.

For the rest of the session Draco supervised Ginny's preparation of the Draught of Despair - everything from armadillo bile to ground Hellebore and ebony root. Draco knew his Potions. The end result was perfect: a fathomless black liquid, syrupy like molten licorice, but with absolutely no sheen. From any angle, properly brewed Draught of Despair reflected no light.

Pure, unadulterated nocturne for the soul - that was the Draught of Despair.

Whilst Ginny brewed, Draco instructed her in the Draught's notorious, and nefarious, means of operation. An event-keyed potion obviously needed an event. The event had to match the desired result. The Draught of Despair required a traumatic event capable of triggering the user's despondency.

That gave even Ginny pause. She did not hate Hermione - their relationship was far too complicated for anything so black and white. But for the Draught to stop Hermione from investigating, the traumatic event had to sever her relationship with Harry. Harry's and Hermione's eventual break-up would have to be messy indeed.

Exactly how to bring that about?

Draco ostentatiously left that task entirely to Ginny's ingenuity. Still, the Draught of Despair's modus operandi did set a deadline of sorts, albeit not strictly time based. With the Love Potion formula from Ron's book, Ginny had time. That potion operated cumulatively, so the longer the exposure, the better. Her “chemistry” with Harry would only improve over time.

The Draught of Despair was different. Once ingested, there was at most a one-week window of opportunity. Without a traumatic during that period, Hermione's despair would be triggered.

Worse, the Draught was not well tolerated. Exposure rapidly built up resistance, especially in wizards of high magical potential. Whilst Hermione fell a bit shy of Harry, she was nonetheless quite high on the scale. Ginny had quite convincing evidence. As a D.A. member, she had been eyewitness to Hermione besting Harry in their notorious duel in the Room of Requirement.

Thus, if Ginny failed to take Harry away within the week of dosing Hermione with Draught of Despair, a second attempt would require at least a double dose - with less chance of success. There could be no third try.

As she left the Potions dungeon, Ginny thought the obscurity of the Draught of Despair was appropriate. Its finicky nature almost outweighed its functionality - except for very limited uses - such as the precise use Ginny was contemplating.

She now had two objectives. First she had to cure Draco's six doses of Love Potion for maximum effectiveness. Whilst uncomfortable at times, that task was at least within her control. Her second assignment, with a far greater degree of difficulty, was to plot out and then execute a hostile takeover of Harry Potter's affections.

* * * *

The morning owl post was a fixture of breakfast at Hogwarts. The Creevey brothers prescreened almost all of Harry's mail, but occasionally some enterprising soul - or owl - slipped by. A barred owl bearing Daily Prophet livery appeared wing its way to Hermione. No surprise, since she took the paper despite its past libelous efforts.

At the last moment, the liveried owl swerved and thudded to a halt in front of Harry. From the small size of the owl's burden, it obviously bore a letter rather than today's edition.

Cautiously, he undid the fastenings. Accepting a rasher from Hermione, the bird flew off.

“Oh jolly,” Harry snorted sarcastically upon reading his unexpected post. “It's from my favourite person in the whole bloody world.”

Dear Mr. Potter,

Several sources have informed me that the Ministry's version of the events of last New Years Eve and Day is less than truthful. Are the Ministry taking credit for a victory more properly belonging to you and your supporters? However, the constraints under which I operate require approval from you and Granger before I can publish.

Surely no love is lost between you and the current Ministry. I would be more than pleased to convey to our readers your unvarnished perspective on the Battle of Stonehenge and what prompted it. The truth should, and will, come out.

I would suggest an interview and other arrangements along the lines of last October's successful collaboration except, of course, with the Quibbler out of business, I'm back to working for the Prophet.

Yours very truly,

Rita Skeeter

Reading over Harry's shoulder, Hermione commented, “This Ministry exposé far would be more justified than that drivel she wrote about the World Cup.”

“But I can't,” Harry reminded. “I promised both Dumbledore and Scrimgeour that I wouldn't reveal how close a thing that was, for the sake of `morale.' She'll have to find other sources.”

“She's scared, Harry, and rightfully so,” Hermione suggested. “I made that Vow pretty broad. If it has anything to do with either of us, she needs our go ahead.”

Harry chuckled at the obnoxious reporter's dilemma. “Serves her right.” He started crumpling the parchment, but Hermione's hand on his arm stopped him.

“Not just yet,” she cautioned. “She's desperate. She'll write whatever we want. That might yet come in handy….”

* * * *

Ron Weasley was finally in his element.

That element was Quidditch.

The second practice for the Hogwarts picked nine (seven starters and two reserves) had just begun. At the end of the term, Ron's team would fly against barnstorming Quidditch all-stars, led by Viktor Krum - generally regarded as the best Seeker in the world.

Even with Katie Bell hospitalised at St. Mungo's, the all-school team had a definite Gryffindor cast. Ron started at Keeper and captained the team. Ginny was a Chaser. Harry had replaced the disgraced and still-under-investigation Cho Chang at Seeker.

Reflecting Slytherin's decline in the new, equal-broom era, only Chaser Moose Montague made the team from that house. Adrian Pucey, another Slytherin veteran of Elsinore, was out, having sustained a dragon-related injury later the same summer.

Balancing out the Snakes' decline were the improved fortunes of Ravenclaw (until the Chang affair), and especially Hufflepuff. Whilst Ravenclaw had narrowly beaten the Badgers on St. Andrews Day 260-240, that win a fluke. The Snitch flew up Cho's sleeve during a driving rainstorm. It took Cho five minutes to realise that she had the thing. Before that lucky catch, Hufflepuff had been well ahead on points.

With Chang a candidate for expulsion, and her emergency replacement Stephen Cornfoot not nearly as skilled, Hufflepuff was now the clearly superior team.

Elsinore participant Zach Smith led the picked nine's Hufflepuff contingent and held down the third starting Chaser's spot. He was joined by starting Beater Tabitha Moon and reserve Beater Harold Dingle.

Ravenclaw's representatives were starting Beater Samuel Toke and reserve Chaser Zebulon Bradley. Both flew the same positions on the Elsinore team.

“All right everybody, listen up,” Ron called the team to order. “We've less than six months to build a team that won't be squashed like a Chizpurfle under a cannonball. Ginny, take the Chasers and run some drills…. Oh, and thanks for the drink, but the house-elves can do that from now on - since this is my team.”

“Oh, no bother, Ronniekins,” Ginny answered light-heartedly. “Really, it isn't. I just whip up a little more when I do it for Gryffindor.”

“You sure?” Ron considered it a menial task.

“Ronald, you and Hermione are just back on speaking terms,” she dropped the smile and eyed him seriously. “Don't press your luck with anything that might oppress her precious elves.”

Ron frowned, thinking. “Okay, then.”

Ginny led the Chasers away, a Quaffle under each of her arms. Ron addressed the rest of the team.

“Tabby, can you organise drills for the Beaters?” Ron requested. “I'll try to get some of my mates for us to scrimmage against next time.”

“Sure, but don't expect any House secrets,” Tabitha responded grudgingly. “We have to play you Gryffindor lot yet - and it'll probably be for the Cup.”

“I expected, or at least hoped, for more cooperation,” Ron responded slowly. “I'd rather not get absolutely flattened by Krum's team. They beat the Woollongong Warriors by over 300 points in their last match - and they're pro. If we're not a team, we can't hope to compete. I'll teach everyone our moves if you'll do the same.”

“I dunno….”

“I'll wager Hermione could enchant another sign-up sheet,” Harry offered. “After what happened to Marietta Edgecombe, I doubt that anybody on the team would cheat.”

“She did that?” Tabitha gawked, looking both impressed and a touch frightened. “I wouldn't want to cross her….”

“Of course, this time, perhaps she'd change `Sneak' to `Snitch' - to be a bit more literal,” Ron chuckled. “Brilliant idea, Harry.”

Tabitha and the other two Beaters slowly flew away, chatting amongst themselves in animated whispers. Ron and Harry supposed they were discussing the merits of cooperating. Quidditch players were born competitors - they did not fancy anyone embarrassing them, even the great Viktor Krum.

Ron turned to Harry, “Well, just like the old days, eh mate? Before I went all funny in the head. Friends again?”

Harry was taken a bit aback. “We've never stopped … what do you mean being `funny in the head'?”

Mental I was,” Ron told him, becoming abruptly more serious. “That damn brain attack, the Healers told me. It left me paranoid, with terrible nightmares - dying in all these gruesome ways, like being eaten by spiders. Sometimes you and Hermione were killed, too. But not anymore….”

Harry, who had turned serious when Ron did, brightened considerably. “You mean you're cured - that's awesome!” He gave Ron a huge, almost Hermione-like hug. He hadn't been this friendly with Ron in quite some time.

Ron rapped his knuckles on his Firebolt handle. “Cured - knock on wood - I'm won't go that far, yet, for fear of jinxing everything, but I'm getting there. I've been nightmare free since you guys rescued me; not a one, not even about what Cho did.”

“None at all?”

“Not about that,” Ron confirmed jauntily. “I occasionally dream about Cho - but not the bad things. Not at all. Sometimes I have to Scourgify the sheets, if you know what I mean. I think that was one reason I liked being with her….”

“I can imagine,” Harry smirked.

Ron looked at Harry, and almost burst out laughing. “Oh, yeah, that too, but that's not what I meant - at least not now.”

“Then what?”

“My nightmares. What I said before was true. Being with Cho kept them away - sometimes they'd stop completely, at least for a while.”

“Nifty self-medication,” Harry commented dryly. “But watch those knock on effects.”

“Yeah, right,” Ron replied, shaking his head. “The only witch that'll have me turns out to be a succubus in training.”

“Nah, that's not true,” Harry told his best mate.

“Is so!” Ron reacted loudly. “She damn well was a succubus - I saw….!”

“I agree,” Harry cut him off. “That's not what I meant….”

Ron gaped. “Then what do you…?”

“Rule number one Shak taught me at last summer's Auror training,” Harry cut over Ron again. “Be aware of your surroundings.”

“Wha…. What are you saying, then?” Ron asked, blinking.

“Such as behind you,” Harry pointed. “Your Chasers want you to Keep against them.”

Ron turned around and, sure enough, Zach and Ginny were waving at him. They had been motioning for Ron's attention for the better part of a minute.

Ron hastily mounted his Firebolt. “So what'll you do?”

“Practise some of my fancier rolls and feints, I reckon,” Harry replied, raking one hand through his unruly hair. It stuck out in all directions above his headband. “Since these aren't closed practices, I suppose I need somebody to train against.”

“You could ask Jazzy,” Ron recommended from only two metres aloft. “I'll bet she'd jump at the chance.”

“Capital idea,” Harry agreed. “I'll have to ask her.”

Ron grinned evilly, “No, I'll do it….”

Harry frowned. Jazzy hardly knew Ron, and was very suspicious of all strangers. “No, you'd better….”

“Oi, Jazzy!!” Ron yelled at the top of his lungs. “Grab a broom and have a go with Harry! He could use a good thrashing!!”

It was Harry's turn to whirl around. Whilst the all-Hogwarts team practices were indeed public, the stands were virtually empty. One of the few attendees, however, was Jazzy, who would rather be a loner in peace in the long shadows beside the pitch than deal with her housemates back in the common room.

“Be aware of your surroundings, Harry,” Ron roared as he flew away towards the goalposts.

Sure enough, Jazzy was more than willing to scrimmage against Harry - and she never backed down an inch. Having received a great deal of Quidditch, and specifically Seeker, instruction from him, she put it to good use. In short, she made the rest of his practice miserable.

The first time they squared off, she blocked Harry. From there, she fouled him at every turn. Unlike their first encounter, she was now proficient with the Firebolt and no longer fooled by a Wronski Feint.

“Aahh! That was blurting!” Harry protested as Jazzy again pushed him from the Snitch. This time, she slammed their forebrooms together, using the Firebolt's slight curvature to hook his broom with hers.

“Only if there's a referee about to call it,” Jazzy replied shortly. “For the last time, quit complaining. Krum weighs twice as much as me….”

Her voice trailed off when she heard a short loud BANG. It resembled an appearance by the Knight Bus, or to Muggle ears, a gunshot.

Harry brought his broom around. A uniformed wizard stood by the poles supporting the near-side stands. His wand glowed with a powerful Illuminating Charm. When Harry turned in his direction, the Wizard waved his wand.

“About time to call it quits anyway,” Harry told Jazzy as he descended.

In the wizard's glaring wandlight, Harry recognised a Ministry flight wing uniform. Behind him, covered by a tarpaulin, something rather large hovered maybe a metre off the ground.

“Mannock!” Harry shouted when near enough to identify the mystery man. “Haven't seen you in a while. What brings you here?”

Their handshake turned into a back-slapping hug.

“Congratulations, Harry,” Mannock cheerfully responded. “Not as long as you think. You wouldn't recall the last time I saw yeh….”

“That's because?”

“You were out cold and barely breathing,” Mannock informed him. “You were sprawled on the Stonehenge battlefield with Healers working on yeh. Still, that was a damn sight better than Auror headquarters. The Deaters turned it into a bloody charnel house.”

Harry winced. He had heard some of what happened there from Dennis, but nothing so blunt. “So you were first on the scene?”

“Pretty much,” Mannock grunted, not wanting to dredge those memouries. “I found your friend locked in a cage. They…. He was lucky to be alive. Anyway, enough of that. I've got replacements for yeh.”

“Replacements…?” Harry started before deducing what Mannock meant. He looked at the still-covered object in the background. It was just the right length to be a Valkyrie or two.

“New brooms for the both of yeh,” Mannock announced. “They're just like the old ones. We analysed the battle damage, trying to improve the design, but nothing.”

“You couldn't figure out how to fix anything?” Harry asked.

“Nah. As for yeh, what do we say? Don't fly into any more Killing Curses? Hell, you know that. What happened to yours was obvious,” Mannock rattled off his response. “The other one, what happened confuses us no end. All-over spell damage suggests total failure of the Valkyrie's defences, but how? Couldn't suss that out - no shorts or anything like that. It's just amazing that Granger survived.”

“Hermione didn't fly that night,” Harry told Mannock, who obviously had not seen the record of the recent enquiry. “She wasn't good enough to fly it in battle, and she knew it.”

“Aha, that would explain it,” Mannock observed gruffly. “Shields never turned on. Damn simplest answer is, as usual, correct. Occam's bloody razor. So who was the lucky one?”

“That would be me,” Jazzy interrupted. She moved - literally and figuratively - out from Harry's shadow.

“Blimey,” Mannock let slip as he saw how young Jazzy was. “You went against all those Deaters with no shields - nothing but the broom's flying? Granted, it's a Valkyrie, but…. I'm sorry, I don't believe it.”

Wrong thing to say. Jazzy visibly fumed at his comment.

Harry would have hell to pay unless he thought of something. Jazzy had been insulted, and when insulted she was most unpredictable.

He stepped around Mannock and fisted one of the new Valkyries. Ignoring the man's protests, he said, “Here,” and thrust the broom towards the angry witch. “Why don't you show him? Just stay inside the Castle's wards … oh, and use the running lights so he can see you….”

Harry saw her gritted teeth relax - replaced by a hard glint in her eyes and a smile on her face - a right evil one, that.

“You're on.” Without another word, she hopped on the broom and, lights blazing, flat-hatted full tilt for the far goal posts. Just before colliding with them, she shoved the Valkyrie straight up. In a flash, she climbed the goalpost, circling it tightly as she rose. Reaching the top, she pulled back on the broom again, and whipped through the goal mouth - upside down.

She did all this whilst accelerating to nearly three hundred klicks.

“Merlin's bollocks!” Mannock exclaimed. “That girl … she's crazy. She'll kill herself!”

“Mental is right,” a familiar voice added. Wondering what was keeping Harry, Ron had returned to the pitch.

“Right in one,” Harry concurred, “but not the other. Mental? Maybe. But she won't kill herself. She's that good … better than I was at her age….”

Harry had an idea - a bloody inspired one.

Ron ducked as Jazzy flashed by, headed towards the Castle. Her intent was obvious - all those turrets and towers made the best obstacle course around.

Ron gawked after the hellion.

Harry's eyes met Mannock's. “Do you think you could…?”

“I'll see what I can do,” he instantly agreed. “No promises, though. This is the Ministry I'm dealing with.”

* * * *

The D.A. shuffled into the Chamber of Secrets and learnt they had guests. One was Shak, the group's official sponsor now that the D.A. was a sanctioned club. His presence was not unprecedented - just unusual.

In addition two Aurors were in attendance. Harry did not know them. One was rather short, a stocky middle-aged witch. The other was younger, a wizard with shiny, flowing dark hair. Harry thought that the witch, Yura Pratt, rather resembled a pillar box in her maroon robes. As much as she was stolid and stationary, the other Auror, Exton Gwyce, was fidgety and constantly in motion.

Harry and Hermione also knew - no, not “knew,” but had met - the fourth attendee. Her surname was Jackson.

She was an Unspeakable.

“What brings you here?” Harry asked the black-robed witch.

“Observing,” was her typically enigmatic reply.

“What's to see?” Hermione tried another tack.

“A demonstration of a new approach to Fiendfyre; so we're told,” she answered a bit more openly. “I'm to observe that.”

Unspeakables never saw - they observed.

Harry recalled something else. “Well, you were right about Ron.”

“Who's Ron?” Jackson responded blankly. The soles of her black patent leather shoes clicked on the stone corridor leading to the Chamber.

“One of my best friends,” Harry told her. “Tall, red hair. He's here tonight.”

“How was I right?” Jackson either did not recognise the description or was not letting on if she did.

“He was attacked by that brain thingie last June,” Harry told her - finding himself giving, rather than getting information. “That caused him horrible nightmares. But after his fright from nearly being killed at Stonehenge, he's shot of them. At least he thinks so.”

“Is that right?” Jackson said evenly. “Glad to hear it…. Well, look at that - it should be enough, I think….”

They had entered the Chamber of Secrets.

In the massive stone space, encircled by two rows of humming silver bollards, was a farrago - more junk and rubbish than Harry had ever seen in one place at Hogwarts. A gaggle of house-elves, still lurking in a nearby alcove, had evidently collected it.

Harry looked over the pile. Parchment was the largest component - stacks and stacks, including a fair number of Hogwarts examination booklets. Mixed in were a huge number - probably thousands - of damaged and discarded books. Magical photos also lay about. Visible at the edge of the pile was one of a witch and wizard in a compromising position, still frantically trying to cover up.

The pile contained old clothes, cloaks, shoes, hats, robes, and even ladies' knickers. The legs of a stuffed Mountain Troll protruded from the mass. That troll must have stood four metres high. One of its knees rested on a polished wooden door of some sort, torn from an armoire. Other smashed up furniture was scattered about: old beds, chair cushions, pouffes, a stove-in cabinet or two, and what looked like miscellaneous Potions equipment. Bottles and phials - some empty, and some stoppered and full of what might still be nasty potions - were strewn amongst copies of old newspapers. Plenty of Quibblers were included, Harry noted, most with his picture on them.

Various bits of crockery were sprinkled throughout, some recognisable as from the Hogwarts kitchens. Gobs of mouldy food added their unpleasant odour. He saw old bones, too, including a skeletal Quintaped. Pure garbage further seasoned the distasteful mess - cauldrons half full of congealed substances, large egg shells that could not have been avian in origin, all remnants of who knows how many unsuccessful Potions experiments.

The contents of Filch's confiscated items bin must also have been dumped in, as the mélange included joke shop items - empty cartons with the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes logo, a Fanged Frisbee or two, miscellaneous fireworks, even a winged catapult split neatly in half. There was a statue, missing a leg, and a couple of busts, the nearer one visibly cracked. Bent and damaged weapons protruded, staves, rusty swords, dirks, knives, even a bloodstained battle axe fit for the likes of Hagrid.

Some items might even have been valuable. Harry saw several wands, some broken, some not - and a coin purse or two. An occasional gemstone glistened, as did the odd gold or silver item, most bent beyond recognition. Parts of suits of armour, some shiny, others quite dull and dented, lay amongst the massive hodge-podge.

Everyone milled about - waiting for Harry or Hermione to take charge. Harry ambled over to Shak. “What's all this?” he asked, genuinely perplexed. Hermione echoed the sentiment, and very little confused her.

“You mean the rubbish pile?” Shak replied. “That's for your Fiendfyre demonstration. The elves gathered it. I'd say they took the opportunity to empty out several rooms full of accumulated trash. Not a bad idea, if you ask me.”

A block of stone was in place for the demonstration. Harry hoisted himself atop it and addressed the D.A. “Okay, everybody. In case you haven't heard, we've pushed the first-aid and blood typing session with Madam Pomfrey back a week. Professor Shacklebolt requested that we take up fire starting and extinguishing spells. That's also why the visitors are here. We'll be covering important stuff tonight….”

Ron asked the question on everyone's minds. “Is that why there's all this rubbish?”

“Yeah,” Harry answered. “We needed something to burn, and Headmaster Dumbledore gave us this.”

With the refuse mountain looming behind them, Harry and Hermione began the lesson. Before the D.A. had only touched on fire. This time they methodically covered every fire-related spell they knew. They started small, conjuring bluebell flames - a skill Hermione mastered in first year. They proceeded through Incendio, which lit fireplaces, Flambus, Flagrate, the Incandens Charm, the Flagrante Curse, and finally Inflammare. With each demonstration, the conjured fire grew fiercer and more dangerous.

“This next spell, most of you probably won't master,” Harry admitted. He made his way to a raised stone platform close to the Chamber's wall. The house-elves huddled nearby. “But you need to recognise it. If anybody uses it, it's Disapparition time. It's almost impossible to put this stuff out unless you're a trained firewizard.”

On three sides the platform was surrounded by one of the bigger water-filled channels that snaked about the edges of the Chamber. The channel vanished into shadowy catacombs on either side. The fourth side was the mossy stone wall of the Chamber. It rose overhead until also fading into shadow.

At the edge of the channel, Harry turned and faced that wall. “Hellas Infernum!” he bellowed. The burst of liquid fire from his wand splattered against the opposite wall. Fire instantly engulfed nearly the entire platform. The intense heat forced Harry to step back, despite being on the other side of a metre or more of water.

The fire, burning as fiercely as ever, began flowing from the platform into the water. Small, burning fingerlets quickly spread into a sheet of flame.

To keep matters from getting out of hand, Harry made a couple of small motions with his left (non-wand) hand, invoking minor elemental magic. A soft breeze blew the floating fire back upon itself.

“Note the acrid smell,” Hermione told the crowd. “This is called Greek fire. It's a mixture of jellied petrol and various chemicals, some of which act as oxidants and support the fire. As you can see, Greek fire floats atop water. However, because of the mixed-in oxidant it can even burn under water.”

“'Oly dooley!” came an incredulous voice from the crowd. “You sure you're not pushing pork pie? I mean, fire that burns under water? I'd like you to give that a burl.”

“I'm sure they will, Mack,” Neville replied from near the front of the crowd. Unlike the Aussie Ravenclaw, he had absolute faith in whatever Hermione said. Still, that improbable sight would be something to see.

A bit crossly Harry announced, “That can be arranged. First, let's put this out. Hermione, care to do the honours?”

The Greek fire continued burning fiercely. The water beneath even started steaming. Hermione nodded. “Everybody back - at least five metres,” she warned. “It could get a little hard to breathe.” She turned her wand on the conflagration and incanted, “Fluvius Azote!”

A sheet of intensely cold liquid shot from her wand. It fell upon the fire like a foggy cloak. With a hiss and a whoosh, the brilliant flames disappeared, leaving behind only blackened stone and a chill mist. Where the clear fluid struck water, several centimetres of ice instantly froze.

Harry and Hermione cast Bubblehead Charms on themselves. Pure nitrogen was not dangerous (it comprised three quarters of the atmosphere), but in large quantities it could be suffocating.

Satisfied that the fire was indeed out, Harry dialled up his elemental magic several notches and blew the foggy mist into the catacomb, where it would gradually dissipate.

“What was that?” the male Auror, Exton, spoke for almost everyone.

“You'll see,” Harry answered, betraying very little. “We'll be demonstrating this again.”

“Could everybody come over here?” Hermione prompted. She stood beside the Chamber's largest pool - where a basilisk carcass had slowly rotted for several years. Thanks to a crew of goblins, the pool was now completely cleared.

Once the D.A. again clustered about, Harry dipped his wandtip beneath the water's surface. “Hellas Infernum!” he spelled a second time, somewhat less loudly. A stream of flame, not nearly as large as before, flashed into the depths of the pool. The bright firelight seemed to dance, its glare refracted and softened by the intervening water.

As the crowd watched, the underwater fire gradually floated towards the surface, as Greek fire was somewhat less dense than the surrounding water. Well before it emerged, bubbles of steam roiled the surface of the pool.

After Harry or Hermione demonstrated each spell, they encouraged the D.A. to practise what they had just seen. As expected, conjuring Greek fire was beyond the skill level of most Hogwarts students. After a quarter hour, only Neville, Daphne Greengrass, Zach Smith, and possibly Ginny (nobody had watched closely; hers might have been a bit that floated away from a previously conjured patch) had succeeded.

It was time for the grand finale. “Now we're going to demonstrate Fiendfyre,” Harry spoke loudly. He clambered back onto the metre-high block of stone. “More precisely, since neither of us can conjure that, we're going to demonstrate a new method we've discovered to put it out.”

A murmur went through the crowd. Those familiar with Fiendfyre let the others know that Harry's statement was impossible.

Throughout the lesson the elves had kept to themselves. At Harry's mention of Fiendfyre, they stepped forward and stationed themselves at regular intervals around the massive rubbish pile.

Two elves stood near Hermione, in front of the stone serving as Harry's podium. They seemed nervous and out of sorts.

Harry continued describing the upcoming test. As gently as she could, Hermione spoke to the elves. “Excuse me, but where did all this rubbish come from?”

“Oh,” the closer of the elves squeaked. “The one who … er … Harry Potter's Miss. We's a been wanting to clean out the room - well, it comes and goes - for ages. When Master Dumbledore told us you'd be wanting junk we….”

Unexpectedly, the elf burst into tears. But it was just cleaning…. Elves liked cleaning.

This bizarre behaviour took Hermione aback. She attempted to comfort the poor thing.

“I'm so sorry,” she whispered, trying not to disturb Harry's explanation of what would happen with Fiendfyre. “What's wrong? Maybe I can help.”

“Sorry Miss, you can't be a helping,” the other elf interrupted as he tried shushing his partner. “It's being elfin business…. We's a dealing with our Master. It's not being anything for student witches and wizards to go a meddling….”

It was passing strange, but Harry's talk was concluding, and these elves were stubborn. Typically they fell all over themselves to do anything she wished. Hermione dropped the awkward topic, at least for now.

“Why are you here, then?” she changed the subject.

A quick answer followed. “We's being told that you's to use the fire of the fiend,” the second elf answered. “We's being here so it stays under control.”

Harry had finished explaining how liquid nitrogen - the Fluvius Azote spell - could extinguish even Fiendfyre. Now Shak, who could actually conjure the evil flames, was speaking.

“Fiendfyre is a Dark wizard's tool,” he boomed, “and rightly so. Fiendfyre consumes active magic. Once started, it burns uncontrollably until all the active magic within reach is gone. Or so we thought. Our current techniques for combatting Fiendfyre are rudimentary. Basically, we abandon and cordon off the immediate area to isolate it from other magic. Then we wait until the Fiendfyre burns itself out.”

“You see the double row of bollards,” he waved his hand in the direction of the rubbish pile. “The zone between them is a magical vacuum, and the bollards themselves are hardened. That's how we'll contain the Fiendfyre as it burns all this rubbish.”

“Only, we hope it doesn't quite burn everything,” Shak continued. “Mister Potter and Miss Granger have assured me that the spell you saw them use to extinguish the Greek fire also works on Fiendfyre. It's a new spell - an adaptation of Fluvius, used forever to conjure water, but making something we've never thought of. Unlike Muggles, we wizards haven't thought to liquefy the air we breathe. It's one way in which the Muggles have outstripped us. It's an example of how Muggle concepts can advance the practice of magic.”

A few in the crowd scoffed at that.

“We begin.” The rows of silver bollards went silent.

Not keen to teach anybody, even Harry and Hermione, Dark magic, Shak cast a Muffliato about himself. He slipped just inside the inner bollards and performed the complicated magic that created Fiendfyre. In under thirty seconds, the rubbish pile was alight.

Shak jumped back as the Fiendfyre spread. The bollards resumed humming.

The roiling conflagration began generating Fiendfyre's distinctive animal forms. Those shot outward in all directions - until reaching the surrounding vacuum of non-magical space. The fiery gryphons, bunyips, and manticores dissipated upon contacting that barrier.

With the entire accumulation aflame, Shak turned to the two students. “Your show,” he told them, smiling. Dropping the smile, he added, “I hope this works.”

“We fully expect it will,” Harry answered confidently. “I did it alone at Stonehenge. Now, it's the two of us - a stone block on each side.”

Harry jogged off to the other side of the rapidly incinerating rubbish heap. Hermione climbed atop the near stone Shak had just vacated. She unsheathed her wand - and waited.

And waited.

Nothing happened. A concerned look crossed her face. She concentrated hard, but no magic followed.

Shak clambered up beside her. “Something wrong?” he breathed.

“Yes, I can't hear Harry,” she complained. “We need to coordinate….”

Harry came jogging back around. He motioned, and she jumped down, after waving off Shak. This was a private conversation.

“What's wrong?” she asked immediately.

“The telepathy,” he told her. “I can't hear you. Could you hear me?”

“No,” she responded, adding silently, `and that's very strange.'

“What's strange?” Harry wanted to know.

“It worked now,” she answered. “I switched to telepathy at the end.”

“Oh, really,” Harry cocked his head. “Let me try.” `I'm getting randy; we need to get away,' he Legilimenced.

`Me too,' she agreed. `I've got it….'

`A place we can go?' he asked hopefully.

`No, I'll think more about that,' she demurred. `I mean why it works now. It must be that magical vacuum in between us….'

“Why?” Harry switched back to normal speech.

“Ordinary sound waves can't travel in a vacuum,” Hermione pointed out. “I'll bet a magical vacuum does the same to our telepathy.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed almost instantly. “I learnt about sound in Muggle Studies. That has to be right.”

“So what do you want to do?” Hermione asked.

“Get Ron,” Harry decided after a moment. “He can give us both a visual cue.”

The two of them sought out their once and reconfirmed friend. He was only too happy to help - and thus play a role in of would have to be an impressive demonstration, given the amount of Fiendfyre now that the rubbish pile was fully involved.

Harry and Hermione returned to their respective stones. Ron stood halfway in around, where both could see him. Raising his wand, Ron performed a series of Encoloured Lumos spells - first yellow, then green, and finally red.

When Ron's flashed red, both Harry and Hermione screamed at the tops of their lungs, “FLUVIUS AZOTE!!!”

Their wands simultaneously spewed wide swathes of liquid nitrogen - Harry's larger than Hermione's. Hissing, instantly freezing water vapour in the intervening air, the two layers collided just about directly over the Fiendfyre. The cryogenic fluid splattered in all directions, with most falling directly into the fiery rubble and refrigerating its entire expanse. Liquid nitrogen being entirely nonmagical, it traversed the magical vacuum without obstruction.

With a huge whoosh, a bang, and a powerful outward wind, more than a tonne of the liquid evaporated essentially simultaneously.

The inherent frigidity of the liquefied gas, aided by evaporation's heat absorptive process, deprived the Fiendfyre of the heat required to burn. Simultaneously a smothering layer of unburnable nitrogen blanketed the smouldering ashes, depriving anything still hot enough to burn of the oxygen required for combustion.

When the smoke, fog, and steam cleared, the Fiendfyre was out. Harry used elemental magic to create a vortex wind to confine most of the now gaseous nitrogen within the bollards.

Her aspect of the demonstration completed, Hermione stood down. Less powerful than Harry, she had performed some heavy-duty magic. She was tired, and wanted only to relax. As she had invented the spell just successfully exhibited, she felt entitled to a reward of the sort they had recently discussed.

The Unspeakable Jackson clapped Hermione on the back. “Jolly good,” she congratulated the younger witch. “A significant advance, that was. When you graduate….” Someone in the crowd started applauding, and in an instant everybody was clapping. The ovation drowned out whatever more Jackson planned to say.

The pair had completed an impressive presentation of heretofore largely unknown and untried magic. Conducting this test in public only raised the stakes - magnifying both success and failure.

Harry came running over, his face alight with exhilaration. “We did it!” he exclaimed. He scooped her into a great hug - of the sort she usually gave him - and twirled her around.

`I know what I want to do now,' he Legilimenced. `As soon as we can get some privacy.'

`And I think I know where,' she returned breathlessly. `There's a place called Library Off-Site Storage.'

`It's a date.'

“As soon as we dismiss the D.A.,” he confirmed. Then Harry noticed that the applause had stopped.

Every head in the crowd turned towards the approaching figure of Albus Dumbledore. He had his wand out.

Hermione broke free. “Headmaster, we did it….”

She never completed the statement, as Dumbledore's grave expression silenced her.

His good hand pointed his wand at his own throat. He incanted, “Sonorous.” Drawing himself to his full, impressive height, the Hogwarts Headmaster announced, in a voice that commanded obeisance, “Everyone must return to your Houses immediately. The Castle is in lockdown until further notice. Murder has been committed tonight within these walls, and the perpetrator is still at large.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Something in the dream will soon loom large; I like to hide clues in plain sight

A reader suggested that Harry ought to improve the elves' living quarters, and after thinking about, I agree

Dumbledore's discussion of vows and Goblin rebellions was in Ch. 4

Goblin names are canon

Roxtar's finger incident occurred in Ch. 67

In Gobbledegook “i” is the plural form of a noun ending in “at”

The London snow reference is from a story I about a snowstorm in February, 2009

Gekosetæ refers to the tiny hairs that enable geckos to climb walls

Flitwick was teaching charms for walking on water

Polar coordinates are a type of math I learned in calculus at Princeton, and promptly forgot

Enfilade and defilade dictated the construction of fortresses for centuries

As head of MLE, Thicknesse runs all investigations

The relationship between the Prophet and the Ministry will cause complications

Harry knows Gumboil from Ch. 66; Gumboil has a Dali moustache

Van Gogh famously cut off most of one of his ears

Shak's spell is from “dididi” - Latin for “didtribute”

The Spanish Inquisition is more Muggle humor, a Monty Python line

See Ch. 67 for the run up to the Battle of Stonehenge

The origin of the Staff is described in Ch. 51

Suicide Spyders and reverse water balloons were introduced in Ch. 52

A Private Tender is a non-bid government contract

Since Felix Felicis isn't used more often, there needs to be a reason why. This is my explanation

Hermione's Duplicating Charm here is the basis of a similar spell used in Ch. 9 of Hermione Granger & The Goblet of Fire, which I beta

Hermione invented Fluvius Azote in Ch 49

Clarion Crystals wers also introduced in Ch. 52

Goblin inability to make Shield Charms was mentioned in Ch. 4

The mosquito netting was also used in Ch. 49

The “personally I think you're mad” line was borrowed from HP and the Paradigm of Uncertainty

Daphne will take advantage of relation to her aunt later

The gold in question was discovered in Ch. 60

Spott and Cambo are Slytherin Fifth Years

The new moon/solstice combination was mentioned in Ch. 58

Kiss when up/kick when down; adapted from Don Henley's “Dirty Laundry”

The Draught of Despair covers review questions about how Hermione could let Ginny get away with her plot

Rita will come in useful on more than one occasion

“Picked nine” is a baseball term

St. Andrew's Day is a Scottish holiday on November 30

“Be aware of your surroundings,” was something I taught my daughter, for whom this fic is written

Occam's razor is a scientific concept meaning simple (often non-supernatural) explanations are preferred

Harry met Jackson in Ch. 21, Hermione later when she also learned Suturc around Ch. 60

The description indicates where all the rubbish came from

Greek fire was introduced in Ch. 17; the description is accurate

From Years of Rebellion, I've borrowed “The One Who Knits” as an elf description of Hermione

A bunyip is an Australian magical beast, associated with Fiendfyre in Ch. 68

There is no sound in the vacuum of space, I've applied the same principle to magical telepathy and a vacuum devoid of magic

Ron's spell somewhat resembles a drag race Christmas tree

The demonstration produced a career opportunity for Hermione

63

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73. Just An Elf

Wherein, the murder victim is revealed, the Trio speculates, Harry meets a unique witch, consults counsel, attends to assorted business, and medicates, H/Hr visit the Room but are interrupted, Cho receives good news, and Draco accomplishes something.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Chapter 73 - Just An Elf

Professor McGonagall remained tight-lipped all the way to the Gryffindor common room. She clipped, “When everyone's safe,” to the obvious question that lingered - spoken or not - on everyone's lips. Between the palpable sense of danger in the Headmaster's initial announcement and mysteriousness of their Head of House's taciturnity, none of the Gryffindors dawdled.

Almost instinctively, Hermione moved to the front of the procession, her wand drawn. Those they encountered saw a younger version of her Head of House, as the two witches walked together, grimly, side by side.

Equally instinctively, Harry protectively brought up the rear, guarding against any attack from that quarter. Ron was with him.

“What do you reckon?” the redhead whispered, his nerves obvious. “Think some bloke finally did in Trelawney?”

“Doubt it,” Harry returned with a minimum of words, his attention fixed on the path behind them. “If staff, they probably wouldn't move us. We'd have to kip in the Chamber.”

Ron made an unpleasant face. “No thanks. Is there even a loo down there…? So you think a student then?”

“More likely,” Harry replied. He briefly walked backwards whilst the end of the line passed the Headmaster's gargoyle - apparently it was only an obstacle to entry, not exit.

The D.A. members entered the broad seventh floor corridor.

Ron shuddered. “A Gryffindor d'you think? Some ickle firstie where he shouldn't be … with all the Prefects training with the D.A.?”

As if on cue, they met a string of younger Gryffindors and Ravenclaws being escorted to their common rooms by Madams Pince and Pomfrey. They milled about until Professor McGonagall herded the Gryffindors into her group and excused the D.A. Ravenclaws to continue to their own tower. Shak took charge of the rest and led them away.

Nobody seemed missing, nor did McGonagall call a roll.

Harry turned back to Ron. They picked up where they left off. “You mean somebody imitating us? But not as lucky?”

Ron had no answer. They had been exceedingly lucky.

The line moved forward again. In their self-appointed roles as rear guard, Ron and Harry waited as everyone climbed the stairs to Gryffindor common room.

The tension lifted as Harry saw Ron try a gander up Patty Stimpson's robes. He responded by trying to trip Ron.

“Oi! Watch out there!”

“I was.”

Whatever had happened, they would learn soon enough.

The returning Gryffindors swarmed into their common room. As soon as the Fat Lady swung shut, Professor McGonagall was besieged with questions.

“…Are we under attack…?”

“…Did someone really do in Professor Trelawney…?”

“…Is the killer still loose inside the Castle…?”

“…Did they kill anybody from Gryffindor…?”

“…Are we in that security mode we practised…?”

“…Can I Floo my mum…?”

Professor McGonagall raised both arms. “Quiet. Quiet! Don't make me silence you with magic, like children.”

The clamour abated until Professor McGonagall could hear herself speak. “As the Headmaster stated, a murder has been committed in Hogwarts Castle. A house-elf collecting rubbish to be burnt in the Fiendfyre demonstration was slain by a Killing Curse. Why, we do not know. Nor by whom, since we show no record of any ward crossing during the relevant time period. We are taking necessary precautions.”

Hearing Professor McGonagall's information, the roomful of Gryffindors visibly relaxed. Cormac McLaggen voiced relief most of his housemates felt. “So all this fuss? It's not really about anybody being killed? Just a house-elf?”

With Hermione still standing nearby, Professor McGonagall could almost feel the burning anger, her wand twitching, ready to hex the older boy. Before responding to McLaggen, the Deputy Headmistress put one hand heavily on Hermione's shoulder - a not-so-subtle signal to hold her tongue - that the Professor would handle it.

“An elf. That is correct, Mister McLaggen - although we can dispense with the editorialising,” she answered icily. “Murder is murder, and the victim was acting in the service of this school.”

“How do you know it was a Killing Curse?” Leanne Blyth asked. She, at least, was worried, as befitted her own brush with the curse that hospitalised Katie Bell.

“The body was outwardly uninjured, and we detected no signs of a struggle,” McGonagall responded. “I remind everyone that any Unforgiveable Curse is punishable by life imprisonment in Azkaban. No exceptions save Aurors in wartime. Anyone using a Killing Curse on an elf could turn the same spell on any of us. We are all threatened by a killer who remains at large.”

“So, whoever did this hasn't been found?” Geoff Hooper, Gryffindor's remaining Seventh Year Prefect, spoke up.

McGonagall nodded. “As I said, the culprit is at large, and we believe resident in the Castle.” A visible frisson of fear arose amongst the more anxious students.

“Will everyone's wands be tested for Unforgiveables?” a now reasonably calm Hermione asked from alongside.

“That would be standard procedure, except the culprit did not use his or her wand,” Professor McGonagall explained. “The wand in question was thrown down a staircase along with the elf's body. It tests positive, but unfortunately was registered to a student who graduated Hogwarts in 1953.”

“1953?” Vicki Frobisher repeated. “What's such an old wand doing at the Castle?”

“I'm not sure I'm supposed to release such details, at least not yet,” McGonagall hesitated. After a short pause, whilst she seemed to make up her mind, she continued. “Be that as it may, since most of you are in Mister Potter's and Miss Granger's defence group, you might as well know. You are familiar with the Room of Requirement….”

Almost every member of the three oldest years nodded affirmatively.

“Amongst other uses, that room has served as a dumping ground, if you will, for both Hogwarts students and staff. Over the centuries, it amassed a wide variety of magical rubbish. When the defence group required such an accumulation, the Headmaster seized the opportunity to have the elves tidy up this iteration of the Room. The murdered elf was assisting this clean-up. The wand used to murder it … er … him was abandoned, we assume, for unknown reasons several decades ago….”

Professor McGonagall stayed to answer questions, but interest rapidly waned. Once the victim's species was known, the students' overwhelming worry over personal safety melted away - as did the audience. While most did not hold (or at least express) McLaggen's bluntly dismissive attitude towards house-elves, involvement of “just an elf” did rob the event of its prior import.

Everyone was confined to the common room for the rest of the evening. Harry, Hermione, and Ron huddled in a secluded spot by the wall behind the D.A. central station.

“What do you reckon?” Ron asked the others. “I'd wager a Galleon against a Knut that Malfoy could've done it. A death nibbler like him surely knows how to AK something.”

“An attribute no doubt shared by most Slytherins his year or higher,” Hermione pointed out. “The first question is why anybody would kill an elf cleaning up a rubbish pile?”

“Something in the pile?” Harry guessed.

“Or perhaps the poor elf surprised the culprit doing something dodgy in the Room,” Hermione thought out loud.

“You think we could find anything in the Room?” Ron wondered.

“I rather doubt it,” Hermione shook her head. “The elves are nothing if not thorough. Anything left in the Room, was almost surely consumed by the Fiendfyre.”

“How about … could it have been one of those … umm … you know, Horcrux thingies?” Ron's sentence ended in a whisper.

“Shhhhh!” Hermione hushed anyway. “Doubt it. Dumbledore's not that dumb. Surely, he'd have devoted special attention to the room- wouldn't he…?” Her own concerns were clear.

“Wouldn't hurt to ask, though,” Harry pointed out. “That's something that somebody would kill over.”

Talk turned to another subject - the note Harry received from (he supposed) Lilithu somebody or other on behalf of the Sisters of the Moon. Harry cast a Muffliato Charm so they could talk without being overheard.

Ron's jaw dropped. Harry's contacts with the Sisters and the seven tonnes of death camp gold were news to him. Those events transpired whilst he was on the outs with the rest of the Trio over Cho Chang.

“You mean you want to give all that gold to some Muggles? What's it, a million Galleons? Just because those snazzy Muggles who sold it to the Blacks got it dodgy from other Muggles?” Ron asked in astonishment. “The goblins must think you're really mental now.”

Hermione was beyond fuming. “That's `Nazi,' not `snazzy,' and they weren't just dodgy - they killed people to get that gold….”

“Well, so did He-Who-Must-Not….”

“Ron!” Harry admonished harshly.

“…All right, V-V-Voldemort, then,” Ron conceded. “But when Harry beat him before, nobody made anybody give back anything - and he killed people, too - and they were wizards.”

“Ronald, do you have any idea what the Nazis were?” Hermione asked, pointedly using Ron's full given name.

“Hitler's bunch of German Muggles,” Ron promptly answered, looking pleased to know the answer. “They sided with Grindelwald, because of that reading, I reckon. His reading helped them start the Muggle part of the war, and take over most of the Continent - that is until Dumbledore and … I guess Churchill, stopped them…. But that doesn't involve Harry. He wasn't even born then.”

“They killed millions in their camps,” Hermione declared, oozing annoyance, her arms tight across her chest.

“V-V-Voldemort would, too, I'm sure - if he had the chance Grindelwald did,” Ron countered.

“But he hasn't, not yet,” Hermione hissed, her voice starting to rise. “Hitler's Nazis did - and that's the whole point….”

Harry stepped between them to prevent a full-blown row.

“The point is that I inherited that gold. The Nazis stole it from all those people they killed and sold it to Sirius' ancestors,” Harry spelled out, firmly but more politely than Hermione. “Because it wasn't theirs to sell, it's not mine to keep.”

Even though Ron thought Harry daft - giving away that much gold - the finality in Harry's voice indicated he would not be moved. “Righto, then. Go to it. But putting it in a mine…?”

“That's what the letter said.” Harry added. “And that's where the goblins come in, I think.”

* * * *

Hermione and Harry were furious with Dumbledore. Their meeting with the Headmaster had just ended - and they seethed at his announcement, more like a ukase, that the Minister had flatly refused to consider an Order of Merlin for Dobby.

“Bloody berks, the lot of them,” Harry grumbled as they trudged back to the Gryffindor common room. “Maybe we shouldn't go.”

Hermione found that foolish. She reminded him that the Second Class decoration she was due to receive would put her into the Wizard Council - membership was a perk of the award.

Harry remained recalcitrant. Whilst arguing with him, Hermione had a thought. “You know, I think now might be the time to respond to Rita's letter….”

“Hell yeah,” Harry instantly agreed. “Everyone should know how badly they bollixed everything up….”

“No, Harry, you promised,” Hermione explained her idea. “But Rita will publish anything she can get. Nothing in your promise to the Minister precludes our publicising how brave Dobby was that night, and the other elves at Grimmauld. For good measure, we can announce our literacy project for the Château's elves.”

After some persuading, Harry finally consented. Hermione's plan was targeted precisely against the Ministry's obstinance over house-elves, without risking a total breach.

They arranged with Rita Skeeter that the Prophet's publication of the story would coincide with the date of the Order of Merlin ceremony.

* * * *

Double Potions. Last year, those words would have been amongst the most stressful in Harry's vocabulary, at least within Hogwarts Castle's metes and bounds.

This year, with Professor Slughorn replacing Professor Snape, the worst part of Double Potions was his fiancée's and best mate's constant sniping over that “Half-Blood Prince” book.

Their gibes continued in full force. Ron now sat by himself, partly due to Hermione's criticism; but equally because of his own egotism. In this class Ron could shine, so he chose to sit front and centre to be the centre of attention. In Potions, Ron was a gunner.

Fashionably late as usual, Professor Slughorn waddled into the dungeon. The Potions master's adjoining office, Harry knew, far exceeded the grubby hole in the wall Snape had favoured. Everyone was already seated when the Professor appeared.

“Good afternoon, students,” the fat, fur-clad wizard began. Regarding the stacked rolls of parchment deposited in the large wire tray by his lectern, he added, “If anybody out there hasn't turned in the essay on superoxide dismutase in higher-order transmutative potions, do so now or forever hold your piece.”

As Slughorn still chuckled over own attempted wit, Terry Boot bustled forward, all apologies for being late, and deposited his roll atop all the others.

Snape would have taken points. Slughorn shrugged. The professor continued, “Now, to business. Today, you'll get a chance to meld the practical with….”

A loud “Yaaah!” interrupted the lecture, followed by a thud as Boot went sprawling into the table shared by Hufflepuffs Hannah Abbott and Megan Jones.

“Damn you Malfoy!” Boot swore as he picked himself up.

From his usual table at the end of the second row, Draco Malfoy matched Boot glare for glare. The Slytherin sat with one leg ostentatiously slung into the aisle. Boot had obviously tripped over Malfoy's outstretched leg.

“Maybe next time you'll watch where you're going,” Malfoy sneered. “Looby.” Slowly, he reached down and rubbed his leg where Boot had made contact. The blond boy let his wand slide into his hand so the Ravenclaw could see it.

“Now, now, you two. Let's not have any more of that,” Slughorn declared firmly as he moved to regain control of the situation. Snape would have docked plenty of points - from Boot. Slughorn lacked his predecessor's hair-trigger urge to punish.

Whilst (for the moment) no further words passed between the Ravenclaw and the Slytherin, the looks they exchanged meant their encounter was far from finished.

“As I was saying, today we'll put your practical skills to the test with a rather difficult transmutative Potion,” Slughorn began again. “We'll - no, you - will brew the Elixir of Evolution … sometimes also referred to as the Darwin's Draught.”

Harry looked blankly at Hermione. He doubted this was in their assigned reading.

As Slughorn described this potion in greater detail, Ron located it in the index of his book. He furiously leafed to the right place and began reading.

After a thorough explanation of the properties and effects of the Elixir, Slughorn asked. “This is the first Polypotion that you've encountered in your N.E.W.T. Potion studies, but certainly not the last. Can anybody tell me what the term `Polypotion' connotes?”

Ron's hand went up. Several of the Prince's marginal notes on already-studies potions had indicated that they could be improved by converting them to Polypotions.

Hermione also had her hand raised, but to her frustration Ron's front-and-centre position prevailed.

“Ah, yes, Mister Weasley,” the professor acknowledged him with a grin. “Very well. Tell us about Polypotions for five points.”

“A Polypotion isn't just made from ingredients, like Aconite or some such,” Ron answered confidently. “A Polypotion includes at least one other potion, and usually more. This one, here. Darwin's Draught is made with both Everlasting Elixir and an Aging Potion - and other ingredients, of course….”

He received the five points.

Silently, Hermione fumed.

Slughorn waved his wand. The formula for the Elixir of Evolution appeared on the board - or rather three similar, but distinct, formulæ.

One version included cockatrice beak dissolved in a weak alkahest. Another required powdered seacow pelvis bone. The third called for the complete dried skin of a double-ended newt.

“These three variants,” Slughorn continued, “correspond to three of the four major accepted examples of evolutionary taxonomy. The fourth - development of invisibility amongst Diricawls - is no longer on the curriculum due to persistent complaints from the Castle's gamekeepers concerning difficulties in keeping track of beasts that can't be seen.”

Harry doubted that Hagrid would ever complain of any creature that came under his tender care.

“Now, everyone, take out your wands and hold them high over your heads.” Slughorn gazed expectantly at his class.

Harry and Hermione shared other perplexed looks, but did as directed.

“Scintillius!” Slughorn's wand strobed brightly with glowing magic. Momentarily, that glow separated into primary colours - red, blue, and yellow.

“Intrasecto!” Slughorn thrust his wand in the direction of the seated students. Dozens of fine strands of magic, glowing alternately red, blue, and yellow, burst forth, connecting with the tip of each student's wand. Everyone's wandtip strobed in concert, changing colour with the strands joined to Slughorn's wand.

“Electus!” The strands and strobing colours abruptly vanished, leaving each student's wandtip glowing with the final colour that cycled through. Harry's glowed yellow; Hermione's blue.

“Please examine your wands,” Slughorn directed. “Record the colour of your tip before it fades. The colours establish which variant of the Elixir of Evolution you are to brew.” Slughorn placed his own wand on the lectern. At a silent motion of the professor's hand, it Transfigured into a quill and began scribbling away. “That's a list of all your assignments,” he added, “so only brew your variant - if you want credit, that is.”

Professor Slughorn clapped his hands. The door to the Potions storeroom swung open, and several rather anxious (unused to appearing before so many wizards) Hogwarts house-elves wheeled out three carts. The first bore a large tankful of silvery Ramora fingerlings. The second cart was a brazier on wheels. Bright orange salamanders scurried about its bed of hot coals. The last cart was a cage containing a number of horned toads.

“Those of you whose wandtips glowed red will brew variant `a' of the Elixir. If properly prepared, it will grow legs on the fish,” Slughorn explained. “If your wandtip glowed yellow, you will brew variant `b', which should induce the salamanders to sprout scales. Those with the blue wandtips are assigned variant `c'. Correctly brewed, the horned toads will grow feathers….”

Draco raised his hand, and Slughorn called on him. “Professor, we've no monkeys,” he pointed out. “Why not try to turn one of them into one of us? That's what this is all about, isn't it?”

Whilst Malfoy was not nearly as thick with Slughorn as with Shape, neither Harry nor Hermione could ever recall him acting as insolently towards a Slytherin Head of House.

“Mister Malfoy,” Slughorn addressed him coldly. “Conducting such experiments on humans has been forbidden for fifty years, since the post-Grindelwald reforms. Surely you know that.”

“I'm sorry, sir,” Malfoy responded unctuously, exaggerating every word. “I forgot. I suppose the best outcome would be to turn a Mudblood like Boot there into a house-elf. That would be an improv….”

“You bloody pipsqueak!”

Boot and Harry were on their feet in an instant. Terry sent his chair slamming into the table behind with a resounding crash. His wand pointed menacingly at Malfoy as they traded insults. Other wands were out, too. Hermione grabbed Harry's wand arm, hoping to prevent him from anything that, however justified, he might live to regret.

“Ten points from Slytherin, Mister Malfoy,” Slughorn ordered, seeking to manage the chaos. “Unless you cease and desist, future punishment will be worse.”

The only thing in Malfoy's favour at the moment was that he had not drawn his wand. If others cast first, magically speaking, it would be difficult only to discipline Malfoy.

“Yes, sir,” Malfoy seemed to back down - except for the smirk he sent Terry Boot's way.

That momentarily defused the situation, as Boot practically obligated to follow suit. Harry, with no reason to push things further than Malfoy's chosen target, reluctantly stood down as well.

Slughorn's prefatory remarks - about testing procedures, multi-potion brewing, and the origin of Darwin's Draught - were almost concluded when a familiar hand shot up.

“Yes, Miss Granger,” the professor recognised her.

“I'm curious why it's called `Darwin's Draught',” Hermione began. “After all, whichever variant we're brewing, the potion is to change our beasts in a desired way, isn't it?”

“Of course,” Slughorn agreed readily. “That's the purpose of the exercise. If the result were merely random change, I couldn't assign marks, for one thing. I don't understand what you're getting at.”

“What I'm getting at,” Hermione bore in, “is that random change is precisely the core of Darwin's theory. This assignment is directed. These potions shouldn't be named for Darwin; but rather LaMarck, since he championed conscious adaptations….”

A familiar, and quite unwelcome, voice interrupted. “Like wizards care what Muggles think. Consider yourself honoured we named it for any Muggle at all.”

“Mister Malfoy, that will be quite enough,” Slughorn again strove to restore calm. “Another five points from Slytherin. I'm not playing here.”

Turning to Hermione, the professor commented. “Unfortunately, Mister Malfoy was essentially correct. Wizards generally haven't paid much attention to Muggle science, often to our detriment. This is such a time, as I've never heard of that other fellow. The only logic behind the potion's name is Darwin's association with anything involving with evolution.”

Finished with Hermione's question, Slughorn declared, “Enough talk. Let's get started.” He drew his wand and unlocked the necessary Potions supply cabinets. Then the portly professor waddled back to his office.

This time, a more Snape-like display from Slughorn may have been preferable.

The queue for ingredients commenced orderly enough. Harry, Hermione, and Ron, being near the front, quickly gathered what their instructions called for. They heard a crash whilst setting up their respective stations.

A tray full of potions ingredients hit the ground.

“So Boot, as clumsy as you're stupid, I see?”

“You pushed me, you little Snake bastard!”

“Are you questioning my ancestry, you Mudblooded scum….?”

“Why you….!”

Almost before the rest of the class could to back away, both protagonists had wands drawn.

“Protego!”

“Tarantallegra!”

First round to Malfoy, who easily blocked Boot's jinx.

“Protego reversis!”

“Incarcerous!”

Second round to Boot, as Malfoy found himself tied with ropes from his own spell. Boot, thinking he had the upper hand, unwisely relaxed.

“Amanurensis!”

An evil-smelling, dark-coloured substance shot from Malfoy's wand, thoroughly dousing the Ravenclaw's robes and everything in the vicinity.

“You disgusting son of a witch!” a dripping Boot howled; his face screwing up in fury. “Emballement!”

That D.A. hex conjured ball bearings under Malfoy's feet. Malfoy started slipping and sliding as Boot cancelled Malfoy's spell. Spurning magic, he slammed Malfoy with a hockey-style shoulder check. Malfoy went flying backwards, crashing into the table next to Ron's. It tipped over and sent its contents onto the floor, adding to the burgeoning mess.

After ramming Malfoy, Boot fell victim to his own conjured ball bearings. He promptly fell flat on his face.

His face purple with rage, Malfoy ended Boot's spell and aimed his wand at his downed opponent. Hermione intervened. Her wand slashed through the air. “Impedimenta!”

As usual, she was quicker than her peers - but this time only fractionally. A hail of spellfire ensued, almost all directed at the obnoxious Slytherin, whom almost everyone considered the aggressor.

Hermione's quick timing also proved to be bad timing. Just as Hermione cast, the door to Slughorn's office flew open and the puffing professor rushed back in. He saw her stop Malfoy cold, making him a sitting duck for the fusillade that followed.

“Miss Granger,” he yelped, “I'm surprised at you; a Prefect. Ten points from Gryffindor, and two detentions to be served as directed by your Head of House.”

Before Hermione could protest her intentions, the Potions master's practiced nose caught a whiff of something exceedingly rancid. Slughorn looked at his feet.

Appalled at the stinking mess in his classroom, he demanded, “What in Merlin's name has been going on here?”

It took a while to sort matters out. The combination of hexes and jinxes (some quite creative) left Malfoy virtually unrecognisable, not to mention incapable of answering Slughorn's questions. Eventually, it became clear that Malfoy was not only the aggressor, but also responsible conjuring the raw sewage that coated the floor and ruined an expensive array of potions ingredients.

The more he learnt of the incident, the more affronted Professor Slughorn became at the behaviour of a member of his own House.

Unlike the others, whose punishments he was content to leave to their respective Heads of House, Malfoy was his responsibility.

Professor Slughorn was ill inclined to be lenient. Malfoy was a better student than this - as indicated by both Snape's notes and the boy's O.W.L.s. His conduct had all the hallmarks of a deliberate challenge to his authority.

Having taught the father - who never received a Slug Club invitation - Slughorn was all too familiar with Malfoy arrogance.

“Draco Malfoy!” he barked. “Fifty more points from Slytherin for starting the fight and using disgusting magic. You also have two weeks detention - with Argus Filch.”

To force a Slytherin to do a Squib's bidding was the ultimate punishment in terms of pure-blood esteem. In his prior term as Slytherin Head of House, Slughorn had never had the need to use it.

But this Malfoy differed from any other student he had ever taught.

* * * *

After excessive preparation, Harry was finally on his way to Hogsmeade - on a Saturday other than a scheduled Hogsmeade weekend. Harry he was quite displeased with this excursion, at least the way it turned out.

Invoking the spectre of favouritism, the Headmaster had only reluctantly allowed the outing. But Dumbledore had promised not to interfere with Harry's need to attend to legitimate outside interests. Having foisted the Black Estate on Harry, who had never wanted it to start with; it was the least he could do.

Harry cooperated by trying to schedule as much into the trip as was wizardly possible. He coordinated with not just the goblins (who were inclined to do his bidding), not just Blackie Howe (who was well paid to do his bidding), and not just Jerry McAllister (whose job was to do his bidding) - but also with the Sisters of the Moon.

Then Dumbledore moved the bloody goal hoops.

The Headmaster decided that only Harry could go; Hermione could not. His justification for this belated restriction was that the trip solely involved Harry's interests. Harry dared not contradict Dumbledore by disclosing their big secret. To allow Hermione to go with Harry, the Headmaster had declared with insufferable airiness, risked admixture of business and pleasure altogether beyond the bounds of Hogwarts' rules.

Most insufferably, Dumbledore was one hundred percent correct.

How was the Headmaster's assessment of the situation spot on? The goblins had installed a splixat in the basement of their Hogsmeade headquarters. Amongst other planning with the goblins, Harry and Hermione had arranged for a certain glow worm cavern getaway to be at their disposal.

Dumbledore's decree called a halt to that.

So Harry travelled alone - well, not exactly, since he was with Hogwarts professor (Shak) and a crew of goblins. But he felt alone, without Hermione. With the trip now all business, Harry just wanted it aft of his stabilizers as quickly as possible.

The carriage ride seemed to take forever, but finally reached the former wax museum/costume shop, now given over to goblin use. As Harry arrived, a number of goblins, Glaksosmit and Bladvak amongst them, approached.

To prevent a scene, Harry yelled out “Anyor!” before even alighting from the one-Thestral Hogwarts carriage.

Shak was right behind. “Something's off,” he whispered in Harry's ear.

Shak was right to be concerned. Although their crossbows and other armaments remained sheathed, Harry sensed at once that the goblins were on edge. Why became clear as soon as Glaksosmit drew near enough to speak in a normal tone of voice.

“First with the wand-bearer witch should meet you, Request do we,” he importuned. “Wait can we and the others.”

His entreaty startled Harry. Goblins were not inclined to defer to humans, whether wizards or Muggles. Moreover, Harry's Gobbledygook phrasebook explained that “wand-bearer” referred, albeit somewhat insulting, to a witch or wizard thought particularly powerful. Something, or more properly someone, had thrown this band of goblins for a loop - even within their own headquarters.

Harry sought silent guidance from Shak, but the professor was as equally confounded. Shrugging his shoulders, Harry indicated for Shak to stay put. Harry would sort out the goblins.

The goblins urged Harry inside, holding themselves back. Entering the room, Harry thought it strangely shadowed. At an odd tinkling, Harry's ears perked. The surroundings brightened noticeably as someone rose from a chair in the far corner. “And so I finally meet the remarkable Mister Potter,” a throaty woman's voice sounded.

Harry found himself face to face with a bespectacled middle-aged, possibly older, witch with piercing green eyes much like his. There the similarities ended. Her long dark blond/light brown hair (depending on the light) curled at the edges. Mostly it hung her back in two well-defined tresses, one over each shoulder. Intertwined red and gold filigrees held her hair in place.

This witch had dispensed with her heavy winter travelling robes. She wore a solid black dress with gauzy sleeves that revealed her arms. Harry's eyes were drawn - resistance was futile - to her peek-a-boo décolletage, a circular flash of skin below a high, black collar that parted her two tresses. That collar uncannily resembled Hermione's goblin crafted ball gown.

Now was not the time to dwell on Hermione.

The witch before him had a silver charm nestled in her cleavage. It depicted a winged creature - a bat or maybe a bird - grasping a pentacle in its claws. A single, deep purple amethyst crystal hung from the pentacle's base. From top to bottom it measured fifteen centimetres.

Looking immaculately frightful, she offered Harry her hand.

Harry was nonplussed, but some Beauxbatons girls had made similar gestures at the Ball. He reached with his own and took hers.

The witch bobbed a slight curtsey, which resumed the soft metallic resonance. “Enchantée,” she uttered as their hands touched.

Harry felt the thrum of strong magic and a distinct sense of being inspected. “Umm … the same,” he mumbled, not looking her in the eye. He readied his Occlumency shields in case she tried Legilimency.

The witch displayed no aggressive intent. As she withdrew her hand, Harry released it. Looking up, he caught the slightest glimpse of what seemed an uncertain appraisal.

Betraying nothing; she turned to one side and twirled two of her fingers. From them emerged a green, glowing phosphorescent cloud. When it dissipated, a polished wooden table and two beige-cushioned chairs occupied previously empty space. She sat on one side of the table, and bade Harry to take the other chair.

When she sat, the chiming returned. Harry noticed that the gold filigrees in her hair were actually gold chains. They ended in a half dozen highly stylised golden discs with runic red inlays - shaped in the phases of the moon. They hung freely, so whenever the witch moved they gently collided, producing the harmonious effect.

“I am Lilithu Mandelbrot, Imperatrix of the Sisters of the Moon,” she introduced herself. “I understand that you wish to redeem the Shoahgelt. Your choice is most admirable … and wise.”

“And I'm Harry….”

“I already said I know of you,” she cut him off. “Now, about the gold; I assume you've read my note?” The witch languidly lifted a fingertip. Another bit of green glowing smoke emerged. She conjured herself a cup of tea.

Harry had not been treated so curtly since Potions with Snape. He appreciated why the goblins wanted to get shot of Lilithu as quickly as possible.

“Yeah, I read it,” he answered warily. “You want all seven tonnes of the gold moved to the bottom of some mine, although your note didn't say exactly where. You didn't want it melted down; instead you want the German markings intact.”

“Yes, I did so instruct,” Lilithu nodded, sipping her tea. “I have continued to ponder the question of where. I have decided upon Bäckenalm, a range in southern Bavaria near the Geiselstein. I know of an abandoned mine some two kilometres east-north east of a Muggle hiker's road, on the north side of the ridge….”

She stopped, set down her tea, and regarded Harry sharply through her black-edged (squarish, not round) glasses. Baffled, Harry returned her gaze.

“Why aren't you writing things down?” Lilithu asked archly. “Do you really expect just to commit it to memory?”

“Er…. Oh,” Harry flinched at the criticism. “Okay.” But he had no quill or other writing implement and realised that he did not know how to conjure one.

Lilithu seemed ill-inclined to offer assistance. She did nothing save taking another sip of tea, eying him with practiced apathy.

“Umm … let me get a goblin to take notes.” Harry quickly rose and left the room. Outside, he was not surprised to encounter Shak, Glaksosmit and several goblins lurking just on the door's far side. Understandably, they tried to monitor what was happening - the goblins had custody of the gold. Equally understandably, they wanted as little to do with Lilithu Mandelbrot as possible.

They scrambled backwards as Harry entered, silently pleading that he not reveal their presence. Harry nodded and walked by, gesturing for them to follow him.

They did, into a nearby room.

“How are things going?” Shak asked.

“I'll be right chuffed when this is over,” Harry sighed, not really answering. He turned to the goblins.

“I need one of you to assist by taking notes,” Harry asked without preamble. “She's giving detailed instructions about what to do with the gold, and I need to get this right. Since most of this falls to you, I'd like one of you to do it…. Sorry.”

“At your command are we,” affirmed Glaksosmit. “Do it, should I, as at the bank most senior am I.”

Bladvak was also willing to act as scrivener, but Harry chose Glaksosmit. He would know if anything being proposed would pose insuperable problems for Gringotts.

Returning, Harry found that Lilithu had Transfigured her chair into a more comfortable chaise lounge. Her tea finished, she was smoking a favoured cigarette through a long ivory holder. She blew a smoke ring over her head. It joined a half-dozen others, circling and shaped like phases of the moon - like the bangles hanging from her hair.

Those bangles tinkled merrily as she sat up straight. “I'm pleased to see you return with one of your leathery friends. You are wise…. Back to business, then?” She casually tossed the cigarette holder and its still lit contents over her shoulder. They vanished before hitting the floor.

“Yeah,” Harry grunted. Like the goblins, he was quite ready to see the back of her.

“As I was saying, two klicks east northeast of the end of the Geiselstein Muggle road….” The goblin's writing instrument, an ebony shaft familiar to Harry from the reading of Sirius' will, scratched away on a piece of parchment. “Just on the north side of Bäckenalm ridge - the nearest town of any size is Buching - is a Muggle lead mine abandoned for almost two hundred years. When I indicate that all is in readiness, the gold is to be delivered to the mine's lower level. I warn you to be careful. My sources say not only is this part of the mine flooded, but the water is thoroughly contaminated with lead, arsenic, and cadmium salts.”

Even Glaksosmit flinched.

“Why there?” Harry asked. “Look, we're doing you a big favour here….”

“A favour indeed,” Lilithu spoke crisply as she glared at Harry. Her glasses, or perhaps her eyes, seemed to darken.

Green sparks crackled betwixt her fingertips, reminding Harry of his own displays. Pleasant or no, this witch was not to be trifled with.

“The Shoah victims shall be redeemed,” she declared. “You proved your worth by stepping forward; however, the matter is out of your hands. Your cooperation is useful and desired, but in any event the Shoahgelt shall be returned.”

Glaksosmit had edged forward throughout the witch's declaration. “Threats make you?” he interjected in goblin cadence.

“I keep promises,” Lilithu responded, idly examining her own fingers. “I do not make threats - as both Eichmann and Mengele discovered to their sorrow.” As those two names, neither recognizable to Harry, passed the woman's lips, her fingernails morphed into shiny metal blades. Lazily she scraped these miniature bayonets across the table. Their razor-sharp edges drew little wooden curlicues from the surface.

“Back to you and the gold,” she continued her monologue as her fingernails gradually reverted to normal. “I have chosen that Circe-forsaken location because for a half century, Muggles have searched almost every other plausible place. It shall appear that the Nazis cached the gold, rather than selling it to the black-hearted Blacks. This way raises fewer questions, I assure you.”

“Oh, okay,” Harry damped down any confrontation. When she deigned to explain her plan, it made sense. Tonnes of missing gold would attract many official and unofficial treasure seekers.

“With the method resolved, timing is the next issue,” the witch went on. “We are not yet ready. The Muggles who sold the gold are dead … such a pity…. We shall create the necessary documentation so that this ruse appears plausible to the Muggles. We are as bound by the Secrecy Statute as are you. Once these preparations are complete, we shall make contact with trustworthy Muggles. We have previously collaborated with them on similar matters, although not on this scale.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed. “When will it be…?”

Glaksosmit tugged the sleeve of Harry's robes, indicating a desire to speak confidentially.

“One minute,” Harry told Lilithu. Ignoring her displeasure, he followed the goblin out the same doorway as before.

“Karpasinat!” Glaksosmit incanted the goblin cloaking charm, ensuring privacy from the powerful witch. “Impratraxis, obey you shall we, however, a poor impression has made she. Reluctance may there be, amongst particularly splixatisii … builders of splixii that is … as present is a poisoning danger. That attend you strongly recommend, do I.”

Harry sought clarification. “You want me to go to Bavaria with the gold?”

“As between us, option only has Impratraxis. To obey is my role,” Glaksosmit clarified. “To increase the likelihood of success - without friction - would your presence.”

“You mean if I go, things would proceed more smoothly?” Harry translated.

“Correct, Impratraxis.”

“Then I'll go,” Harry decided.

The caucus broke up, and Harry returned to face Lilithu. She was surprised, but not resistant to the request.

“It's a lot of gold,” she agreed. “That's why I'm here. If your goblin friends think your presence ensures we're not stealing it, we've no problem. For us, Shoahgelt is a sacred trust….” Her voice trailed off in thought. “Very well. Expect it to take two days. The concealment magicks are somewhat complicated.”

With miracles like Sidealong Apparition, and Portkeys, Harry had not expected to be away from Hogwarts overnight.

“Please make it a weekend,” Harry told the witch. “Dumbledore won't like it….”

“It's not Dumbledore's decision,” Lilithu brusquely dismissed that concern. “I shall arrange a suitable weekend and deal with him - personally.”

The thought of this imperious witch going toe-to-toe with the peremptory Headmaster amused Harry. He smiled for the first time during the meeting. Dumbledore's recent edict still galled him. “Can I bring Hermione?”

Lilithu returned a knowing smile. “Ah, yes, the girl. My niece has mentioned her - a formidable witch, I am told…. But no Seer, pity.” She paused, thinking, then rose from the chaise, her golden adornments making their usual melody. “If everything goes smoothly, we shall accede to your request for female accompaniment.”

“Umm…. Where would we stay?” Harry asked one last question.

“The Sisters will provide accommodations suitable for the occasion,” she declared. “Neither you nor Witch Granger will be disappointed. I believe we are in agreement. If you - you or the Gringotts staff - need to contact me, my niece Daphne can relay messages.”

“All right,” Harry continued more or less by instinct. “Anything else?”

“Yes, your reward,” Lilithu intoned. “Do you trust that one?” she gestured towards Glaksosmit.

Harry did not hesitate. “I do.”

“Very well.” Theatrically, she put her hands together. Within seconds, she entered a self-induced trance. Her green eyes shone phosphorescence similar to her previous magic. When she spoke, it was in low monotone, quite unlike her usual voice - and quite like Professor Trelawney's when she predicted Pettigrew's escape during Harry's third year.

“MORTAL DANGER AGAIN APPROACHES. YOUR OWN COUNSEL MUST YOU KEEP. THOSE WHO WATCH ARE WATCHED. THOSE WHO KNOW ARE KNOWN. DEATH AWAITS THE ENDANGERED SHOULD THE DANGER BE REVEALED. ONLY A JOINED ONE MAY JOIN YOU. NO MORE.”

Finished, Lilithu Mandelbrot dropped heavily onto the chaise. She landed somewhat sideways, and Harry noticed how her rear neckline plunged even more markedly than her décolletage. Her bangles had barely stopped resonating when she shook her head forcefully and emerged from the trance.

Harry gawked. “You … you can predict whenever you want?”

Lilithu stood. Imperiously, she answered, “The Sisters are Seers. I could not lead them were I not. I assume I provided you with something.”

Harry's next comment slipped out, unbidden, “You don't know?”

“Of course not,” she spat as if gravely insulted. “True Sight is not conscious. True Seers are never privy the Sight's revelations. Good day, sir,” she addressed Harry. “And to you as well,” she acknowledged the goblin as an afterthought.

The meeting over, she transformed into a huge owl and flew off - with nary a sound beyond a farewell clink from her golden bangles.

“Wand bearer,” Glaksosmit grumbled as she departed.

Harry, preoccupied with the Seer's prophecy, did not fully catch the comment. “What was that?” he asked.

“Er … arrogant seems she,” the goblin rephrased.

“Arrogant doesn't begin to capture it,” Harry agreed. “She makes Lockhart seem modest, and Snape seem civil. I'm glad Hermione wasn't here. She wouldn't have liked her.”

A grimace-like expression, the goblin equivalent of a smile, crossed Glaksosmit's face. “Wise is Impratraxis.”

“Don't know about that,” Harry demurred, as Hermione's absence was most emphatically not his doing. “Maybe I was dumb to want her to come to Bavaria. But what about…?” Harry stopped himself. Given the terms of this latest prophecy (if indeed it were such), it should not be discussed lightly.

The goblin looked to Harry, awaiting his command.

Harry sighed. “Anyway, who's next?”

“Your choice,” Glaksosmit deferred, “the barrister Howe or the employee McAllister.”

“Might as well be Howe,” Harry shrugged. “Keeping him waiting costs me Galleons.”

“As command you,” Bladvak murmured. He left and quickly returned with the D'Israeli Braddock partner in tow.

“Good to see you again, Harry,” the barrister brightly glad-handed his underaged client. “Your professor just confirmed what my sources tell me - that you've put the Ministry even deeper in your debt. However you did it, congratulations on Merlin number two, and the next time you see George, please give him my congratulations, as well.”

Good lawyers remember all of their clients.

That the Battle of Stonehenge had brought Harry and his friends another round of Orders of Merlin was most emphatically not public knowledge. The Ministry wanted neither the public nor the Death Eaters to appreciate just how close matters had come to disaster.

Blackie Howe obviously had excellent Ministry contacts. Harry could only hope his Muggle sources were equally useful.

They sat down. “So the book Hermione gave you, what have you learnt? Is it real?”

“Truthfully, it's so bloody real, I was almost arrested.” Howe revealed, cheerfully enough.

“What?”

“I took the book to the same Muggle contact I'd used for the Wilberforce purchase,” Howe recounted. “A week later, he rang up saying he needed to meet in person - that it was important. I agreed, and bloody hell, found two detectives from the Yard waiting for me. They accused me of trafficking in stolen antiquities.”

“Oh, Merlin, I had no idea,” Harry interjected remorsefully.

“Not your fault,” Howe continued. “The Muggles were almost as confused. They had no idea I was a wizard, so I continued the charade - to draw them out. That book is a major religious text written by Basil somebody or other in the Second Century A.D. It was later suppressed as heretical. Nobody's seen an actual copy since then, and what's known is from hostile descriptions. The Muggles, understandably, wondered how I obtained it.”

“What did you tell them?” Harry inquired. He had not expected an old book Hermione had randomly chosen from some crypt he had never seen could cause so much trouble.

“Why, nothing, of course,” Howe answered smoothly. “All we needed to know was that those Muggles wouldn't have gone to such trouble over a fake. Then I Stunned the three of them. Your book's back in my office safe.”

“But isn't the Ministry upset?” Harry asked, concerned over unexpected fallout. This was supposed to be a routine research assignment for his lawyer. “It's bad enough to Stun Muggles, but from New Scotland Yard?”

“Compared to the stunt you and Dumbledore pulled at Chequers over the summer, I doubt it,” Howe reminded Harry. “Seriously, initially it was a bit of a bother with the Improper Use of Magic Office, but once they confirmed that I acted on your behalf, they were quite content to let bygones be bygones.”

“Glad to hear it,” Harry said with relief.

“All in a day's work, Harry,” Howe grinned. “From the Muggles' reaction, I have every reason to believe that the text you provided was authentic. Do you need anything further?”

“Can't say right now,” Harry told him. “I don't see anymore legal problems. I need to talk to Dumbledore.”

“Very well, should I prepare a final bill on the matter?”

“Yes.”

Gerry McAllister arrived hard on the heels of the Magic Circle solicitor.

“How are things at the Château?” Harry greeted warmly.

“About what you'd expect,” he informed Harry. “What I can control is as it should be. What I can't, isn't.”

“Please be more specific,” Harry pressed.

“The wards are revised as you directed,” McAllister specified. “The alarm overlay was removed and replaced with the charms we discussed. If either Malfoy or Lestrange cross the barrier, we'll both be notified immediately.”

Harry suddenly felt embarrassed. He had done nothing with the silent alarm garnets he had requested precisely to receive that notice.

“Excellent,” Harry praised. “Now I'm on the spot. I still need to get the garnets mounted.”

“That would be helpful,” McAllister concurred. “If we're building a trap, we'd best be able to spring it.”

Oblique criticism, but criticism nonetheless. McAllister did not dwell, quickly moving to another issue. “I've tried to keep it baited.”

“Keep what baited.”

“Our trap.”

“Oh, that. What did you do?” Harry had to ask.

“I animated a mannequin charmed to look like Emma,” he whispered. “It gets up, watches Muggle television all day, and once a week goes for groceries. It's not much, but it's enough to fool the Death Eaters who stop by occasionally to check on her.”

Harry did not catch on immediately. “What's the point?”

“It baits our trap,” McAllister explained. “It maintains the status quo. I don't want them suspecting any changes to that back door in the wards. They need to think they still have their hostage to fortune.”

Mulling it over, Harry shot the Château panjandrum a sly smile. “Good thinking.” He asked after another aspect of the plan. “How's the staff escape plan coming?”

“The staff's been informed. Pamphlets have been distributed. Routes are marked - including emergency signalling if ordinary magic fails. Everything's close enough that I think it's time you have this….”

McAllister reached inside his robes and withdrew a rolled up parchment tied with a black and silver Château Blackwalls ribbon.

Harry took the document. “What's this?”

“An enchanted map of the Château and its grounds,” McAllister was pleased to tell Harry. “All Proprietors have one. I would have given it to you in December, but with the new emergency plan, I held back to add the goblins' new tunnel. You might need to find that some day.”

“I hope not,” Harry replied, but with his history, it was preferable to err on the safe side. “How do I turn it off?”

“It doesn't need any incantation,” Jerry responded. “As a security measure, in case of loss or theft, it simply stops working outside the Château's grounds.”

Pocketing the map, Harry remembered how a disguised Death Eater once relieved him of the Marauders' Map. “All right. I see the value of that. As for the goblin tunnel, have you practiced any escapes?”

“Would like to,” McAllister answered forthrightly, “but I haven't scheduled any drills yet because I'm not sure how to coordinate with the goblin side….”

“No time like the present to suss that out,” Harry declared. Striding to the door, he found several goblins, including Bladvak, engaged in some game of chance. “I need a progress report on the splixat at Château Blackwalls,” Harry announced.

“Immediately,” Bladvak answered. He took two running steps and converted to his boulder form whilst in midair. He rolled through the corridor and down the stairwell at the far end.

Harry returned. McAllister instinctively rose, but Harry gestured for him to stay seated. “We'll have an answer quite shortly, I'm sure,” Harry told him as he sat back down. “How's the loyalty programme proceeding?”

“It's been announced,” McAllister reported. “I offered six months severance pay, no questions asked, for anyone uncomfortable with taking renewed vows. I've had three takers so far, and the grace period has another week to go.”

“Ima Hogg?”

“Not amongst those, but I doubt she'll last,” McAllister answered with a twinkle in his eye. He did not much like that witch. “She's hardly enthusiastic about house-elf literacy. I doubt many elves will hit their progress points. I expect she'll be eligible for the sack before the Hogwarts term ends.”

Harry grimaced and shook his head. “Too bad, I'd much rather the elves learn their ABCs than have to sack anyone. But if so…. What about outright emancipation?”

McAllister shook his head, sounding dissatisfied. “Dobby reports we've had four sign ups - all by more junior elves. That's good in that they'll be better fighters, but unfortunate because their example doesn't hold nearly the sway as would more senior elves' throwing in. Dobby says he's heard shouting … umm … vocal disagreements over the proposal in the elves' quarters.”

Harry sighed cheerlessly. Hermione would be disappointed by the low response rate. “Well, it's a start. Tell Dobby, first, thanks from me for doing this; and second, I want him to start training the volunteers. Battle-ready elves are part of our trap, if any Death Eaters are foolish enough to use that back door they made you install.”

“I could always close it, if you'd rather,” McAllister offered. “The worst they can do now is have a go at killing me.”

“No, let's leave it and move forward,” Harry told him. “The Proprietor is now a Gryffindor.”

“That's the next item on my tick list, sir,” McAllister shifted gears. “Redecoration of the Château and its grounds reflecting that fact is well underway.”

“What fact?”

“That for the first time in Merlin knows how long the Proprietor is a Gryffindor, not a Slytherin,” McAllister told him proudly. “The place needed renovating anyway. The furnishings and utilities are mostly a century old - the Floos can't handle more than six at a time. But I'm also replacing all specifically Slytherin accoutrements with colours and items that'll make you feel more at home. I've started with the Proprietor's Suite.” McAllister could not help smiling as he delivered this news.

“That's excellent,” Harry thanked him, “but could it be too much change, too quickly?”

“Aye, it's change, but it's another test of staff loyalty,” McAllister informed his boss. “The elves you honoured rescued the contents of your godfather's room at the Grimmauld house, and one of your friend's comments tipped me off to an excellent estate sale….”

“Who did that?” Harry asked, expecting it was Hermione.

“Mister Longbottom mentioned a ground-up renovation of Longbottom Castle, and that most of its current contents were set for auction,” McAllister proudly divulged. “I obtained an excellent likeness of Godric Gryffindor for your suite, large enough to do it justice, even in your preferred combined form. Now, about the….”

Several thumps interrupted the next line of inquiry. Two grey boulders bounced into the room. One was Bladvak. The other goblin Harry did not know. The unknown goblin went directly from boulder form to prostrate before Harry.

“Anyor,” Harry sighed.

The goblin sprung to his feet.

“My apologies, Impratraxis, for incomplete being the splixat.” If goblins whinged, they would sound like this one.

“I'm not displeased,” Harry soothed. Perhaps, because he knew Bladvak better than other goblins, he had been too sharp in his criticism. “The Château's preparations are hardly complete. I'm simply interested in where things stand. But first, what's your name.”

“Nokfar, am I,” the goblin answered. “Completed is all tunnelling and entrance work, as well as splixat frame. From the wards benefitted have we ….”

McAllister stiffened beside Harry. The Proprietor asked, “What about the wards?”

“More than two of your metres below ground extend do not they,” Nokfar reported. “Truly deep digging did not require the splixat. Another of your weeks, take did not it.”

Both men relaxed, as no other serious ward problem had presented itself.

“And you will add goblin wards to the splixat?” Harry asked a question to which the only answer could be “yes.”

“Absolutely,” Nokfar promised.

“So what's left to do?” Harry continued questioning.

“Item of critical path is gamblad - the membrane,” Nokfar continued his report. “Unusual for many wizards to pass through is it - raised are security issues. Necessary is not only the spellwork, but also secure location.”

Harry asked deliberately gently, “Well, Nokfar, when will things be operational?”

Nokfar grimaced. “In two weeks, gamblad am promised I. Two days for installation required. By then of learning where may go entering wizards hopeful, am I.”

“That should work,” Harry decided. Fortunately, the Death Eaters were hardly ready to mount an attack in that time frame.

* * * *

It felt almost like third year. Harry returned to the Castle at suppertime. He slipped largely unnoticed into the Great Hall, and made a beeline for Ron. Harry was almost upon the redhead before realising that Ron had company.

Ron's sister sat to his left, and they were deep in conversation. She had a quill and a serviette, which meant that they were diagramming Quidditch plays - plays for Ron to run on his simulator - his Christmas gift from Harry.

Christmas seemed so long ago.

Harry also saw Ginny wearing a certain scarf….

Harry slid into the vacant seat on Ron's near side before either Weasley noticed.

“Harry!” Ron blurted. “Check this out. Ginny wants you to be an obstruction for our Bull's Horns Attack Formation. If you dive from the left, that lets our right-hand Chaser circle back for an easy goal….”

They talked easily about various Quidditch strategies as Harry tucked into an old reliable - bangers and mash.

Harry was on his second goblet of pumpkin juice before talk turned to other topics, such as his Hogsmeade business trip.

“So what did you and your goblin mates cook up?” Ron asked casually.

“An escape portal connecting with the Château's sub-basement,” Harry told them as he dug into his robes. He had a less-than-pleasant chore.

“Oh, I wish I could have seen it,” Ginny sighed dreamily. “The pictures make it seem almost as big as Hogwarts.”

“Not at all,” Harry carried on, unstopping a brownish glass bottle. “It's just storage down there, except for some Muggle books that almost nobody….”

“No, silly, not the sub-basement; I meant the whole Château,” Ginny squealed. “Mum grounded me, and I've never seen it.”

“Me needer,” Ron agreed through a mouthful of mash. “Bud den you woudda nod hab da rescue me.” He reached for his own goblet.

“Frankly, I'd be right chuffed to leave the rescue business once and for all,” Harry commented as he shook the bottle. “The portal makes it easier….” He went quiet as a large white pill, the size of an old ten-pee coin, popped out, unexpectedly followed by a second. The second bounced off Harry's hand as he closed it about the first. The loose pill hit the edge of his plate, and bounded off.

“Blast it!”

Wham!

With Seeker's reflexes, Harry's free trapped the escaping pill against the table.

Ginny prattled about the reputed wonders of Château Blackwalls. “The gardens are supposed to be like a færieland in the…. Eek! What was that?”

“Bloody, runaway pill,” Harry grunted. He lifted his hand.

It was smashed into five pieces.

“That's some pill,” Ron observed. “At least to swallow. You should have seen….”

“You need calcium supplements?” Ginny broke in.

“Madam Pomfrey ordered me,” Harry shrugged. Making a face, he left the shattered tablet for the elves and grabbed his pumpkin juice to wash down the other.

“Yuck, Pomfrey's pills are nasty,” Ginny declared, wrinkling her nose in disgust. “Unless you fancy munching chalk.”

“Story of my life, I guess.” Harry grumbled, as he prepared to down the large pill.

“Try one of mine,” Ginny invited. “They're flavoured.” She handed him a beige, egg-shaped tablet from a white phial with a blue label and took one herself.

Harry gawked a bit. “You take these? You haven't been reboned lately.”

“No, thank Merlin,” Ginny returned. “But Mum swears by them - girl stuff.”

Harry popped it. “Tastes loads better, but still chews like chalk.”

“Then swallow; don't chew…. Take it; they're all the same dose,” Ginny tossed him the entire phial. “I can get more at Madam Puddifoot's.”

That origin almost caused Harry to return it. But Hermione plopped down across the table, and mere pills were forgotten.

“How was your meeting with the head Sister?” she casually enquired.

“Probably best that you weren't there,” Harry told her. “She was quite full of herself.”

“Who's this?” Ginny asked, having no idea what the two were discussing.

“Harry had to meet with the…,” Hermione paused before continuing, “the leader of the Sisters of the Moon.”

That news provoked a strong reaction from Ginny. “Harry! Eeew! That's … well, let's just say, she'd probably rather meet Hermione - but you'd rather she not. I need to start that Potions paper….”

Ginny departed before Hermione could retort.

Presently, a contingent of Seventh Years - Geoff Hooper, Cormac McLaggen, and Ken Towler - commandeered some nearby seats and commenced a sarcastic discussion of the feminine attributes (or purported lack thereof) of certain seventh year girls. They were particularly derogatory towards the departed Hufflepuff, Eloise Midgen.

Harry scowled. `Rendezvous in the Room in thirty minutes?' He Legilimenced Hermione, who was bridling at the newcomers, whilst whispering the same message in Ron's ear. Both nodded.

Harry slipped into the Room five minutes early, but not early enough to beat Hermione. She was double-checking her Runes homework. “So what happened?” she asked.

“Wait till Ron gets here,” Harry slowed her down. “I'd rather tell the story once. But she was a nightmare…. Bossier than….”

“Yes, Harry?”

“Umm … well, worse than you've ever been, that's for sure,” he said nervously.

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

A quarter hour later, Ron was still nowhere in sight. Harry and Hermione had exhausted their supply of small talk.

“Well, do you want to … well, you know, snog?” He queried hopefully.

“What if Ron walks in?” Hermione fretted.

“What if he doesn't?” Harry parried. “It's been a while - maybe he was waylaid by some Quidditch argument.”

Harry detected movement out of the corner of his eye. Wand instantly in hand, he whipped his head around and saw - a Gryffindor-red privacy curtain that had not existed the moment before.

“Well, this is the Room of Requirement,” Hermione reminded him. “Would you like the first go…?”

They disappeared behind the curtain. For a few minutes only the rustle of clothing and sharpened breathing could be heard.

“Oh, Harry … right there…!” Ensconced behind the curtain, the pair were just starting to get serious when….

“Oi, you two! Sorry I'm late.”

“So much for number thirty-six,” Hermione grumbled.

“Wha … you keep count?”

“Not now,” she hissed, putting Harry off.

“What's your excuse?” Hermione called out testily, as she readjusted her clothing to make herself presentable. “Quidditch, I suppose?”

“Better,” Ron chortled.

“This has got to be good,” Harry commented. He finished dressing first and stepped around the screen. “So what happened? Did you find a new girlfriend or something?”

“Nah, mate, I've been scared straight, at least for now,” Ron answered jauntily. “I ran into Seamus whilst leaving the common room. He told me that Malfoy was serving a detention cleaning the ground floor suits of armour without magic. So thought I'd supervise a bit. You know, `Hey, Malfoy, you missed a spot'.”

“Damn, I wish I'd seen that,” Harry remarked jovially.

“Harry, that's not nice,” Hermione chided gently as she, too, exited the privacy curtain. It promptly disappeared, taking their comfy little loveseat with it.

“Neither is Malfoy,” Harry resisted.

“Anyway, great fun, that,” Ron reiterated. “Sorry about losing track of time. Colin's got some photos, I think. Maybe Luna can post them on that Onion of hers.”

“I hope she doesn't,” Hermione tried throwing cold water on Ron's idea. “Nothing to be gained by humiliating him.”

“But it's Malfoy!” Ron protested.

“Doesn't matter,” Hermione snipped. Turning to Harry, she encouraged a change of subject. “Ron's here, so what happened at this meeting I couldn't attend?”

Harry told them everything. It was like old times between the Trio. True, Ron got a bit jealous at the two of them travelling to Bavaria together, but he essentially shared his sister's attitude towards the Sisters of the Moon. Molly Weasley had used the Sisters as bogeymen with Ginny to frighten her onto the straight and narrow, just like she had used - irony of ironies - succubi for the same reason with Ron.

In any event, Ron had no interest in visiting an abandoned, badly polluted Muggle lead mine in the wilds of southern Bavaria, wherever that was. He pronounced himself content to mind the fort, so to speak.

Then Harry dropped the bombshell - a new piece of prophecy.

“Bloody Hell!” Ron exclaimed when Harry had finished reading Glaksosmit's notes. “You mean she does it whenever she wants?”

“Only when she has something to say, Ron,” Hermione intervened. “Great Seers have that ability; Cassandra reputedly did, and Nostradamus, too. Only the middling ones like Trelawney can't control it and flop about where anybody might overhear.”

“Forget that,” Harry tried to move things along. “What do you think it means?”

“That you'll be in mortal danger again,” Ron pronounced.

“Like I need another prophecy for that,” Harry grumbled. “What do you make of the rest of it?”

“Dunno,” offered Ron. “That you can't tell people, that's for sure. Except you'll still tell us, right? We're your best mates - the joined ones, I reckon.” He pulled a chocolate biscuit from somewhere inside his robes and took a bite.

Harry really wanted to hear from Hermione. She had a different take. “Ron, I don't know about that…. You, maybe, but I don't know about me.”

“What? Of course I'll tell you,” Harry protested. “You're the one - no offence, Ron - who helps me figure out this kind of stuff.”

“None taken,” Ron interjected, as he chewed. “I'd say the same thing.”

“No, Harry,” Hermione insisted. “Think about the words. What if I'm this `watcher,' or this person who `knows?' It's vague enough, I could be.”

“That's Dumbledore, innit?” Ron offered.

Harry ignored him. “But you've always talked down Divination, Hermione. Woolly, I think you called it. Nothing but guesswork….”

“That's because Trelawney, and even Firenze…, what they do is codswallop. But the Sisters of the Moon are different. Remember what you saw in the Pensieve? About Abigail Rosen and her reading for Tom Riddle? She was just a new Sister initiate. That Lilithu may be a bitch on wheels, but I think she's the real article.”

“So you don't want me to tell you when mortal danger next comes my way?” Harry asked, still incredulous.

“What about me? I know stuff, too.” Ron started to protest.

“Not like she does, especially after everything she did this summer,” Harry pointed out.

“He does have a point….”

“Alright, I admit it,” Ron gave in. “I'd rather you be able to tell me - that way I get to go with you, according to that.”

“Now, Ron, don't get too far ahead of yourself,” Hermione cautioned. She was not about to be left behind. “`Joined' can mean more than one thing, and Harry and I….”

“But you said so yourself, not a minute ago….”

“What I mean,” Hermione reiterated, modulating herself to stay calm, “is that Harry must be very careful whom he tells. You're right that it could very well be - most likely probably is - Dumbledore. But everything depends on context. Like all prophecies, this one's vague and may be read different ways. Whenever this `mortal danger' rears its ugly head, you need to sit down and figure out who's in danger….”

“That's easy. Voldemort's after me,” Harry responded morbidly.

“True, but it might not be direct,” Hermione pointed out. “After all, Ron was in mortal danger not long ago….”

“I'll say,” Ron agreed. “And I still have scratch marks to prove it.”

“…And I nearly died before that,” she continued. “So it could be anyone close to you….”

“If it's Uncle Vernon, I think I'll tell everyone,” Harry joked.

“If you didn't, I would,” Hermione agreed. At some point she had to share what she had learnt about Harry's uncle, but nothing about that awful Muggle was high on her agenda.

“If it's Malfoy, I'm going on WWN,” Ron joked in the same vein. “About the only person we can safely rule out would be Dumbledore.”

“Actually, he's at least as likely as I to be the known knower or watched watcher,” Hermione contradicted.

“I meant the one in mortal danger,” Ron bit back. “Probably hasn't been there or done that since he finished off Grindelwald.”

“You just have to be careful, Harry,” Hermione reminded.

“What else is new?”

“What I mean is you may not be able to tell me,” Hermione insisted. “You might have to figure it out your….” She grimaced at how awful that sounded and did not finish.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Well you have to admit, mate, she's got a point.”

“I admit it,” Harry said testily. “It's just that….”

“What did the goblins say?” Hermione interposed a question

She successfully changed the subject.

They spent the next half hour - until the impending curfew - discussing changes at the Château (Ron wanted to see it, a welcome indicator of reduced jealousy) and Mr. Howe's Muggle misadventure. The Muggle archive was also news to Ron, who started understanding just how much he had missed whilst his dalliance with Cho sundered him from his mates.

Like Harry, once Ron grasped the possibility of trading the so-called Gospel of Truth for a Horcrux fortuitously in the Church's possession, he favoured the deal. “Bloody hell, Hermione, you don't believe a word of it, so why care at all?”

“Because I believe that truth should triumph over lies, just as good should triumph over evil,” she declared stoutly. “I just don't need fictitious hellfire and damnation to scare me into acting on my beliefs.”

Even though he opposed her in this particular argument, Harry was never prouder of his fiancée than at that moment.

* * * *

The room was silent save for a quill scratching across parchment and the rustle of turning pages. The girl was studying.

Charms, Transfiguration, Runes - even Defence, she studied. It provided an activity, but more than that, it gave her purpose. It gave her hope. It connected her however tenuously to the rest of the world.

Even if only book learning.

Books were all she had, and she felt lucky to have them.

The return of her books was a sign - she might have something to look forward to besides imminent death.

Cho Chang had lived with the threat of imminent death ever since awakening in this room weeks ago - exactly how long was uncertain, since day and night had lost their meaning. All she knew, from her bodily rhythm, was that no more than a month had passed.

In all this time, she had seen exactly two visitors.

One was a Ministry interrogator.

The other was Professor Flitwick, her Head of House. He returned her books. He also informed her how close a thing her survival had been, at several junctures.

The goblins would happily have butchered her on the Stonehenge battlefield. Of all people, Hermione Granger had interceded on her behalf.

Before another day's time, the Minister of Magic would have just as happily consigned her to the Dementors straightaway. Albus Dumbledore had scotched that idea. His reforms required a trial before anyone could be kissed or sent to Azkaban.

The last elephant in the room was whether she would be tried as a Death Eater accomplice - for attempted murder of Ronald Weasley, and perhaps more.

Then Professor Flitwick handed back her seventh year spellbooks. The opposite possibility was her release. Everything depended on whether the mind-controlling effects of her now-destroyed tattoo were considered the equivalent of the Imperius Curse.

That question required study and consultation. The Ministry lacked the necessary expertise in this form of ancient Chinese domestic magic. Immigrant wizards could help, but after the New Years incident, the Ministry was wary (if not absolutely paranoid) of Triad infiltration.

Thus, she had to wait. And whilst she waited, she studied - and had ever since Professor Flitwick's visit.

On this day - or night - several soft popping noises interrupted her monotony. Ordinarily nothing in the cell made noise, save her. Cho tensed. From two prior episodes, she knew what to expect.

The cell's vanishing door reappeared. Almost immediately it opened.

What news would she receive? Would she be on trial for her life?

Cho tottered to her feet. The Healers had reversed most of the physical changes caused by her near-miss succubus metamorphosis, but her toes had gone missing permanently.

Two sharply contrasting wizards entered - the tall, richly bearded Headmaster, followed by the diminutive, part-goblin Professor Flitwick. The sight of her Head of House let Cho to breathe again.

Seeing Cho hobble, Dumbledore bade her be seated. “Please … not on our account. We are here because we have news….”

As if that were not obvious.

“…Upon full consideration, the Ministry has concluded, first, that you acted under compulsion. That establishes an absence of scienter for your actions. Second, it has further been determined that, with the source of your magical compulsion destroyed, you are not a recidivism threat.”

Cho shook with relief. “They … they believed me then? I couldn't even prove … that it existed….”

“The evidence was ample,” the Headmaster continued. “The Ministry could corroborate certain aspects of your story by review of Muggle sources of … ahem … information. Upon additional magical confirmation, Rufus himself halted the prosecution.”

Cho was shocked. The Ministry was notorious for ignoring Muggle culture. But an unpleasant conversation from months before sprung to her mind. “Who? Who knew … Granger?”

“Initially,” Professor Flitwick confirmed. “She learnt of your Muggle `activities,' so to speak, apparently through computaters. The crucial confirmation, however, was in our House,” Flitwick revealed. “A critical record of your tattoo was captured by Luna Lovegood in a Pocket Pensieve.”

Cho was shocked that Lovegood cared about such things, yet alone had cached such a memory. She wasn't … that way? Or maybe, being Looney, she was.

But that was for later.

For now, the question was, “What happens next?”

Smiling; his eyes twinkling for the first time since the conversation began, the Headmaster slipped his unburnt hand into his robes. “I believe this belongs to you.”

“My wand!” Cho exclaimed, clutching it to her breast. “I never thought I'd see it again. Where did you find it?”

“I do not know whom to credit,” Dumbledore replied. “It was discovered in a search of your house following your parents' flight to China. The Ministry confiscated it, expecting it to contain evidence against you, but nothing incriminating turned up. With the decision not to prosecute, they had no basis for keeping it.”

“Does that mean I'm free to go?” Cho asked hesitantly.

“If you wish, yes,” the Headmaster confirmed. “You are of age, and your parents' actions abdicated any authority over you….”

“That was my father,” Cho corrected. “My mother? It's just … well, the traditional Chinese way for women.”

“In any event,” Dumbledore harrumphed, “by fleeing the country they have forfeited their parental rights. But I wish to make clear; you are also free to stay, that is, to continue matriculating at Hogwarts. Now, I regret, I must really be going. Filius has the details.”

Dumbledore bowed slightly, turned, and was gone.

Cho looked to Professor Flitwick. Even seated she was a head taller than her Head of House. She bubbled, “I can't believe this is happening. I can really stay and graduate?”

“Yes, and I hope you will,” he answered immediately.

“I shall,” Cho instantly decided. “I've nowhere else to go, anyway.”

“Excellent,” Flitwick accepted her decision. “I anticipated as much. I took the liberty of scheduling an appointment for you with Poppy later this morning.”

“Whatever for?” the girl asked.

“An orthotic consultation,” Flitwick revealed with a hint of a smile. “With proper magical orthoses, you should be able to walk, if not normally, at least well enough to get by.”

She looked at him oddly. “You knew?”

“I hoped,” he replied. “I expected the Ministry to throw in. They didn't want the publicity, and between the probable witness list and the likelihood of acquittal, I thought Rufus, and even Thicknesse, would take the easy way out.”

“Witness list?” Cho seemed puzzled. She had given little thought to defending herself.

“Any defender with bottle would have called both Mister Potter and Miss Granger to testify on your behalf,” Flitwick remarked. “He Who Must Not Be Named and your father, well, their plan was thwarted more by luck than by design. The Ministry does not wish having that dwelt upon. Your trial would have done just that.”

Cho nodded, understanding that her freedom was due as much to her inconvenience as to her innocence. “The Headmaster said you had `details' for me?”

Flitwick drew himself up. “Not many. You are on probation, of course.”

Cho bowed her head. “I understand.”

“Criminal probation; not Hogwarts probation, mind you.”

Cho nodded her head.

“You have, of course, some make-up work….”

“I've been studying.”

“…I thought you would. And no Quidditch or other extracurricular activities.”

She sighed. “That will sink our Cup chances. But if that's what it takes….”

“It's not vindictive. The major restriction is for you to have nothing to do with Ronald Weasley….”

“Of course.”

“…Harry Potter, and Hermione Granger. The extracurricular ban is a way of enforcing that. Now in respect of Miss Lovegood….”

* * * *

This moment was worth all those long days of humiliation. He must have mucked out three-quarters of the moat. Filch made him scrub the floor of Slughorn's classroom on his hands and knees - with a toothbrush. He had polished every suit of armour on the Ground Floor by hand and in public, enduring hoots from everyone - even members of his own House.

That bloody Squib even set him against the Weasley memorial bog, with no better luck than anyone else.

For tonight's detention, Draco Malfoy's task was to shine every trophy in the trophy case, again with no magic, of course. He had two third-year companions, a Hufflepuff and a Ravenclaw. They had brawled the other day after Care of Magical Creatures, and Hagrid had consigned them to Filch.

Trophy shining was a punishment reserved for younger, immature students. But so was detention with Filch. For that reason Draco had deliberately acted immaturely - first provoking that duel with Terry Boot, and then employing a Fertilising Charm he had picked up at Oceanix.

To make this night possible, Draco had needed to disgust his own Head of House. Only a sufficiently revolted Professor Slughorn would decide to take him down a peg by ordering detentions with Filch.

Then he had bitched and moaned enough that Filch - amongst his other degrading assignments - assigned him the juvenile task of trophy polishing.

Access to that trophy cabinet was essential. His wellbeing - perhaps his life - depended on it.

He could not afford another cock-up like that a couple of weeks ago in the Room of Requirement - a cock-up that transformed a triumph into a near disaster.

With the not overly competent assistance of Caractacus Burke, he had struggled for much too long to repair a derelict Vanishing Cabinet located in the Room's rubbish bin configuration. He had discovered the thing fortuitously at the end of the previous year. After Umbridge disappeared, he had been in dire need of someplace to dispose incriminating Inquisitorial Squad paraphernalia. The Room had provided that iteration.

Amidst piles of flotsam and jetsam, had been a broken down ebony wood cabinet topped by an off-centre peak. It bore a distinctive gilt snake-like pattern inlaid with greenish mother-of-pearl.

How distinctive?

Distinctive enough that he recalled the same pattern on a similar piece of furniture last seen in Borgin & Burke's over three years earlier.

In his first meeting after hiring Burke to rebuild Malfoy Manor, he had mentioned this tidbit to him. Burke had made this news known in Death Eater circles. Within a week he received an edict from the Dark Lord that he and Burke were to mend it.

Shortly before the Christmas holiday, after several months of futility, Draco had managed to restore the cabinet's transmit function, at least for small animals. The receiver function stubbornly refused to operate until just a few weeks ago.

He had chosen an auspicious evening. Potter was conducting another of his Defence Club lessons. Those were no longer held in the Room, so if Draco could finish his business in the meantime; he would not encounter any nosy Gryffindors.

Everything began swimmingly. Finally, he had solved the receipt problem. The fix was replacing some frayed wand core material that edged the door frame. Almost immediately, he had received an unfamiliar object, a Parseltongue Translator. It contained new orders from the Dark Lord. He also received a shiny gold medallion bearing a half-dozen ancient runes edged with lapis lazuli.

Draco had never read runes particularly well.

That triumph led, even Draco admitted, to recklessness. Engrossed in the workings of the Parseltongue Translator, he had not noticed until too late a team of house-elves entering the Room.

He was trapped. This crew had chosen this of all nights to tidy up the Room's unholy mess. Hiding behind the cabinet, Draco hoped that the elves found too much rubbish to cart away in one trip.

He was almost right.

Almost was not nearly good enough.

The last elf, working considerably more slowly than the rest, latched onto his precious cabinet.

Draco had no choice but the Killing Curse. He pulled it off because: (1) the laggard elf was alone, (2) Draco had enough aptitude with the Curse to work it using a stray wand someone had abandoned, and (3) the Room was off the Castle's spell detection grid - a factoid he had gleaned from tracking down Potter's illicit group the year before.

It was just a bloody elf, but he had no time to waste. The other elves would surely return any minute to complete their job. Draco shrank the cabinet to pocket size. He dragged the dead elf's body to the nearest stairwell and tossed it over the side. Then he beat a hasty retreat to the Slytherin common room.

Ensconced in his Imperturbed bedchamber, Draco nearly lost his eardrums to Parseltongue before mastering the Translator.

The Dark Lord's instructions were crystal clear….

…Which was why Draco found himself in detention with Filch, charged (along with two third years not worthy of his attention) with polishing trophies without using magic.

“I'll handle the top two rows,” Draco informed the pair as soon as Filch departed. “You midgets can take the rest. You stay out of my way, and I'll not bother you - understood?”

Neither of the third years, least of all the junior Hufflepuff, was inclined to dispute the orders of a much more capable son of a convicted Death Eater.

One by one Draco polished the trophies until they shone like new.

The fourth trophy was the important one - the Ravenclaw Medal.

“Unh, unh, unh….”

Grunting rhythmically, as if polishing with all his might, Draco produced an almost identical version of the Medal from inside his waistband. He continued his charade whilst slipping the real Ravenclaw Medal into the same hiding place.

Then he resumed polishing for real.

The faked copy deviated from the original in one small respect. The original Ravenclaw Medal bore the name of that Mudblood bint - undoubtedly she was the Medal's current recipient. The Dark Lord's copy had no name on it.

That minor detail was soon forgotten. Draco's excitement grew over the next hour and a half. He had successfully managed the switch. He merely had to finish the remainder of the detention without incident.

Mission accomplished.

Back in the Slytherin dungeon, Draco was grimly triumphant. He had completed the latest of the Dark Lord's orders. He had stolen the Ravenclaw Medal.

Now he had to get it to his Master.

Easier said than done.

His instructions were simple - use the Vanishing Cabinet to send the thing to Burke at his shop.

But the cabinet was quite large. He had kept it shrunken ever since removing it from the Room of Requirement. It could not operate in that shrunken state.

He would have to resize the cabinet. But when? But where? With something that large, hiding it at full size would be extremely difficult.

He also had to test it first. It absolutely had to work properly after spending weeks in a shrunken state. The Dark Lord badly wanted the Ravenclaw Medal. Draco could not risk the sort of limbo that engulfed Moose Montague last year.

Not if Draco wanted to keep living.

Fulfilling the next part of the Dark Lord's instructions would require considerable thought and discretion.

Perhaps it would be best to have Burke ask Lord Voldemort himself.

* * * *

Author's notes: In Ch. 5, Harry silenced the wizard press corps with magic

Absent Katie Bell is the other Gryffindor Seventh Year Prefect

“Aft of stabilizers” is from rocketry, but equally applicable to Harry's Valkyrie

Lilithu is a variant of Lilith, a witch or she-demon in Jewish mythology

Ch. 45 has the relationship between the Grindelwald Reading and Hitler

Ch. 7 discusses Second Class Order of Merlin and a Wizard Council seat

Something unexpected will occur at the Order of Merlin ceremony

Metes and bounds are property lines

A gunner is a student looking to be called on; I was one in law school

Harry visited Slughorn's office in Ch. 62

Superoxide dismutase is a powerful antioxidant that protects DNA from mutation

Slughorn's scintillation spell is a fancy random selection method

All three Elixir of Evolution variants correspond to known evolutionary advances

Grindelwald engaged in Nazi-style human magical experimentation

Hermione accurately describes the difference between Darwinism and LaMarckism

Malfoy conjured liquid manure

The glowworm cave appeared in Ch. 60

The wax museum appeared in Ch. 52

Lilithu's hair color, and visual magic is from after Lamina (a variant of the same name) in Stardust

Lilithu's clothing and hairstyle is loosely patterned after Bayonetta (minus the guns)

“Immaculately frightful” is from Dylan's Desolation Row

Mandelbrot was a mathematician who popularlized fractals

Shoahgelt = gold stolen from Shoah victims

The German place names and locations are accurate

Lilithu refers to Adolf Eichmann and Josef Mengele

Suitable accommodations are indeed nearby

Prophecies are always important

The Wilberforce purchase was revealed in Ch. 66

Basilides' “Exegetica” caused Howe's adventure

The Chequers incident was in Ch. 39

Harry will mount the garnets after a traumatic event

That those one cares are hostages to fortune is from Francis Bacon

The map of the Château will come in handy

McAllister underestimates the Death Eaters

New portraits at the Château is a good idea

A “critical path” item can delay an entire project

“Ten-pee” means a large sized pre-decimal 10-penny coin

Harry's pills look like Necco wafers; Ginny's like Cialis

Ginny takes calcium supplements for PMS

Ginny's dislike of the Sisters' perceived lesbianism has consequences

In canon, Eloise Midgen's parents withdrew her at the beginning of Year Six

Hermione keeping count will recur

The Luna-Onion connection arose in Ch. 66

Cassandra is a Greek mythological seer, doomed never to be believed

Nostradamus is a historical figure reputed to be a seer

Ch. 45 discusses Abigail Rosen's reading

The discussion of the new prophecy is loaded with irony

Hermione nails it on “joined,” but not at all how she thinks

Scienter is legalese for evil intent

Ch. 52 has the unpleasant Cho/Hermione conversation

Cho speculates whether Luna is gay

Oceanix is the Malfoy country estate, see Ch. 27

The Parseltongue Translator has more than one use

Winning the Ravenclaw Medal will cause problems for Hermione

39

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74. Ceremonies

Wherein Harry gets a report from the Creeveys, Quidditch is postponed, Harry plans for his relatives, Hermione sends a note, an engagement and an inheritance are revealed, Orders of Merlin are awarded, an incident occurs, Harry gets the cold shoulder, Hermione has an unwanted meeting, and Harry and Hermione receive awards from the goblins.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Mathiasgranger, Shane, and new beta Mike P.

Chapter 74 - Ceremonies

Study time in Gryffindor Tower.

Along with the rest of their House, Harry and Hermione were hard at work. They scribbled out charts and directions for their N.E.W.T.-Level Charms projects. To no-one's surprise, Hermione's paper mountain towered over Harry's molehill.

Hermione was not in a position to help Harry with his coursework, because they were working on different projects. Individualised projects, no two the same, were a hallmark of Professor Flitwick's advanced courses.

Hermione's project attempted to address her borderline acrophobia. She had selected Ã¦rotecture - the art of building castles in the air. Just a sixth year, Hermione was designing a modest castle, more of a bungalow in the air than anything resembling Warwick or Caernarvon.

Harry's chosen assignment was much more prosaic - tunnelling. He had goblin connexions, and their being mostly underground, Harry thought that mastery of Tunnelling Charms might someday prove useful.

Someday seemed quite far in the future. Tunnelling Charms proved considerably more complex and difficult than Harry anticipated. Various types of rock required separate spells - granite, slate, and chalk were much different, not to mention clay, sand, and salt. Nor did Harry need to impress the goblins further, as the fast-approaching Alitserat reminded him. He would be participating in a traditional goblin victory jubilee, his role much greater than a nominal army commander. The goblins remained thoroughly convinced that his actions had won the bloody battle.

This bloody (in more ways than one) battle was the goblin army's most significant engagement since the last rebellion, over three centuries ago. Their festival promised to be just as memorable.

But for now Harry needed to sort out these blasted Tunnelling Charms.

Hermione breezed through the initial stage of her multi-part project. Whilst things would get harder, she had always excelled with Levitating Charms - from the outset of her magical education.

An unexpected interruption broke her concentration.

“Hermione, could you help me with this Arithmancy problem? I've done everything but hex myself to get the required value, and I can't derive it. I need it for the next step, but what I get looks awful, with a square root and two variables….”

Jazzy's request was highly unusual. As a rule, she did not seek anyone's assistance. But being tipped for an Order of Merlin could do wonders for one's confidence.

Hermione lowered her book. “All right, but the same rule as with Harry here….”

“Don't worry, I'm not about to snog either of you,” Jazzy replied cheekily.

“Good thing, that,” Harry deadpanned without looking up. His sketch bore striking similarity to a computer game Dudley once played for a couple of days before binning it in frustration.

“I meant I'm not solving your problem for you,” Hermione clarified.

“Yeah, only Ron gets that,” Harry added.

“Careful, if you want snogging tonight,” Jazzy smirked.

Hermione, in her element, ignored Harry's barb. “Anyway, let me see….” Hermione reached for the younger girl's parchment. “Oh….”

Hermione remembered the problem distinctly from her third-year Arithmancy class.

“Call it whatever you like and proceed,” Hermione tersely instructed.

“What?” Jazzy squeaked. “But I need it to….”

“Just what I said,” Hermione repeated. “I don't care what you think it is. It doesn't matter. Call it the number of angels that can dance on the head of a pin. Just move on….”

“It's necessary to have this value for the next step,” Jazzy maintained, bristling at the merest hint of a brush-off.

“I just told you, denominate it anything you like,” Hermione reiterated. “That's as much as I'll tell you. The rest, you can do yourself.”

“But….”

“Go ahead, try it,” Hermione directed, trying not to seem cruel. “It will work out … trust me.”

Jazzy, looking perplexed but determined, nodded her head and departed.

“Weren't you rather hard on her?” Harry remarked. “She doesn't ask for help very often. That was a compliment from her.”

“I gave her precisely the help she requested,” Hermione sniffed. “My directions were straightforward. If she follows them, she'll get the answer. If not … well, I'm not doing anyone else's homework for them.”

Harry looked archly at his fiancÃ©e. “That was help?”

“Yes,” Hermione answered audibly before switching to Legilimency. `I took that course, and I vividly remember that problem. That truly nasty-looking term…. It cancels out in a step or two and goes away.'

`She'll love you for that,' Harry chuckled silently.

`She'll probably end up hating me,' Hermione sent, leaving Harry guessing if she were joking.

`Why would she hate you?' Harry retorted. `I never would have thought to do that.'

`That's the point. Very few - almost none - solve that problem,' Hermione patiently explained. `She'll hate me once Professor Vector hauls her up in front of the entire class to demonstrate how she figured it out. She's nowhere as used to that as I was….'

“Hey, lovebirds!”

Ron ambled over. He had obviously finished his Wizard Government assignment. “Either of you up to being humiliated in Wizard Chess?”

Harry gave Hermione his `I'm really swamped' expression. Looking back, she nodded. Without words, they had come to terms.

“I'll play you, Ron,” Hermione agreed, ready to sacrifice herself for her fiancÃ©. “I'm pretty well along with the first part of my project.”

`You owe me another one,' she Legilimenced to Harry.

“Scary,” Ron commented. With Hermione scowling, he hastily added. “Not that you're way ahead of us. That's normal. I mean how the two of you … you know … do that.”

True to his word, Ron methodically dismantled Hermione's strategies and tactics for the next forty-five minutes whilst Harry struggled with various Tunnelling Charms. Every so often bouts of loud clattering disturbed the chess players' concentration, which offered Hermione's embattled and besieged pieces an opportunity to hide under nearby seat cushions.

Every time something got bollixed, Harry cursed silently, detected by Hermione's Legilimency.

One notable misadventure saw Harry's wands attacking each other - not behaving in the least as intended. He was having severe synchronicity problems. By the time Colin Creevey slunk up to him, Harry was rereading a Charms book from the library for the third time.

“Umm … Harry, could I talk to you … er … in private?” Colin asked haltingly, looking anxious. Although necessary, this conversation was not desired.

Harry cast a sideways glance at Hermione, seated but facing away. Ron had dismantled her supposed Sicilian Defence and just claimed some important piece, judging from his seated back-and-forth dance.

“Yeah, sure,” Harry muttered, and followed Colin upstairs to the boys' dormitory. He thought it odd that Colin passed his own year's room and continued to the third years' quarters - until finding Colin's brother Dennis waiting there by himself.

“Umm … what's up? Gonna give me your company's annual report?” Harry spoke casually, but was concerned by the Creeveys' long faces.

“That's … actually … what we wanted to discuss,” Dennis squeaked. “Since you've staked us.”

“Harry, we've talked this over,” Colin spoke bravely. “We think - we know - we're over our heads. We ought to give the company to you. Most likely, you'll want to shutter it. It was probably a mistake to mix magic with Muggle computers like this.”

“You can't mean that,” Harry protested. “I mean, your Creveputers … they're almost miraculous.”

“You won't think that once we're done…. Actually, they almost killed you … and Dennis.” Colin's new information disturbed Harry.

“I know that the stuff your computers can do is invaluable,” Harry retorted, still surprised at the news. “We couldn't have rescued Ron without it … wouldn't have known where he was….”

“Harry … it was an ambush,” Dennis spoke up. “The really crazy one … the one called `Bella,' I think….”

Harry's jaw clinched. “I gather you met Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“Sort of,” Dennis grumbled. “Tall, black hair, black robes - enjoys killing people…. Would have killed me….”

Harry had never heard exactly what had befallen Dennis that night. What little he knew sounded traumatic. “What happened to you?”

“It was a bloody - hah, some adjective - ambush, like I said,” Dennis explained. “I was with the Aurors' technical team. We were swapping out the old system in their Wiltshire headquarters and installing ours. We were well into it, but nowhere near done…. Merlin … it was a massacre…. They were only techs. The fighters weren't … awful….”

Dennis crumpled.

Harry laid a hand on the younger boy's shoulder. “Dennis, you don't have to tell me this.”

“You won't understand if he doesn't,” Colin intervened.

“He's - he's right,” Dennis mumbled, trying to pull together. “I was the only survivor, and she tried to b-b-burn me alive. I'm here only because we'd done the installation by the book. She hated our joining of magical and Muggle stuff…. Set up this bonfire; hung me over it in a … a cage; set it alight…. Then she and her crew left me to roast…. Oh God….”

“But you didn't,” Harry reminded.

“The first rule of installing major electronic systems,” Colin carried on as Dennis again tried composing himself. “Activate the safety features first so if anything goes wrong, you don't lose everything. Our really big model - that the Ministry, the school, and the Order bought - generates so much heat that the manual requires casting regular and emergency Cooling Charms first.”

“We made them do it,” Dennis restarted. “The techs didn't want to. They didn't like being out of touch and wanted to start with the communications link. I insisted…. They were right. When attacked, we couldn't call for help….”

Harry thought Dennis would lose it again. He was only third year. He had never encountered Death Eaters before, let alone a maniac like Lestrange.

Dennis recovered by himself. “They left just after touching off the bonfire. Didn't know what would happen. Not fifteen seconds after they Disapparated, the heat tripped the emergency Cooling Charm, and no more fire. I was trapped in total darkness for what seemed like hours. At one point they came back, but only to hide one of their wounded, I guess. They paid me no mind and Disapparated again almost immediately. Not much later, real Aurors finally showed up and let me out.”

As Dennis finished, Harry's face was drawn. Harry had also gone through Hell. Everyone had, but at least Harry's group could fight back. “I'm sorry all that happened,” he commiserated. “But to me, it proves you build good products. It saved your life….”

“You haven't heard the worst,” Dennis groaned. “That Bella … whilst building the bonfire, she told me they knew exactly when and where to attack thanks to information from us - that maybe she should give me a medal….”

Dennis started shaking again, so his brother stepped in. “I know what happened from here. Lestrange gloated that our security was breached. Blackie Howe engaged a corporate security firm, and now it's worse than we thought. We hired a Chinese wizard, Johnny Bao, to run transport and shipping at our Shenzhen factory. He's gone missing. He must have been either a Triad or in league with them. We suspect that he tipped them what we shipped to the Ministry, when it was to arrive, and where.”

“Really?” Harry said, looking as suspicious as he sounded.

“Just the other day, Shak called us in,” Dennis took up the narration. “It wasn't school-related like we thought. He'd received DMLE information … parchments and such from the Chang place. Bao was a Triad, not White Lotus, but with a smaller group called `14K.' Bao was paid handsomely - over thirty thousand pounds in gold - for our delivery details. He even put some Chinese Tracking Charm that the Ministry couldn't detect on the shipments. He's now vanished; word is he might be in Macau.”

Harry was seething - at himself for not connecting the dots. He knew full well that the Creeveys had moved their assembly to China. They had told him ages ago. The minute he learnt of the involvement of Chinese Triads in … everything … he should have at least warned them.

But like an idiot, he had forgotten all about the Creeveys - and the reason for magical communication being shut down across Britain last New Years Eve.

His omissions were worse.

Harry had known about contacts between Death Eaters and Chinese wizards for much longer. He'd had that dream … and Chinese mercenaries in Death Eater ranks had been confirmed since the first night of attacks. Hermione's father had shot one - probably the last worthwhile thing that sod had ever done.

It made sense. Whilst the prejudiced and bigoted British wizarding community shunned Muggles, why should that attitude persist everywhere else? Especially amongst criminals, magical-Muggle ties would be stronger.

Harry smacked his forehead with his right hand. “Dammit!”

“We're sorry, Harry!” Dennis pleaded. “That's why we want you to take the whole lot of it. We're just a couple of geeks in way over our….”

“That's not what I mean!” Harry roared - silencing the pair instantly. “I'm the git here, not you. I bloody well knew about the Death Eaters' Chinese links. I knew where your shop was. I just never put two and two together. I all but hung you out to dry.”

The Creevey brothers looked at each other and nodded. “Don't blame yourself, Harry,” Colin stated. “The security breach was ours, not yours. But for you, who knows what might have happened. We're not competent to do this.”

“Well, I'm sure not,” Harry turned on the older Creevey. “I don't have the time, I wouldn't know how to run it, and it wouldn't be right. This was your invention, and you should benefit….”

“We don't want it any longer,” Dennis stood up to Harry - probably for the first time ever.

“Well, I need you to want it,” Harry focussed on the one with reputed financial acumen. “See how the Death Eaters reacted? They're really threatened. They can't deal with Muggle technology. Whatever brings magical and Muggle together hurts them, and what hurts them helps us. I need you to keep at this.”

“Are you sure, Harry?” Dennis inquired, surprised at his vehemence.

“Yes - just remember that the Death Eaters will try to destroy anything we build,” Harry declared. “Whatever you need for security, Blackie Howe will help you get it. And from now on, ship anything sensitive through Remus and the Order. Can you do that?”

Colin spoke for both brothers. “For you, we will.”

* * * *

Snow falls in Scotland in late January.

A lot.

His early alarm still ringing in his ears, Ron stared at the darkened landscape - or lack of same.

“See anything?” Harry groaned from his bedclothes, asking the silhouette in the window. His own alarm whined in the background.

This long day demanded an early start.

“Can't see any light in Ravenclaw Tower, and they always leave their common room lit,” Ron stage whispered, being considerate of three roommates still trying to sleep. “Hell, I can't even see the ground. They'll have to call off the match if this keeps up.”

Saturday, January 24, 1997 was the date for the Ravenclaw-Slytherin Quidditch match. The Ministry had chosen the same date to confer Orders of Merlin on honour the victors of the Battle of Stonehenge. Quidditch was notoriously unpredictable. Matches could be five minutes or five days, but such extremes rarely occurred at the scholastic level. Matches longer than five hours' duration were highly unusual.

The Ministry scheduled the Order of Merlin ceremony for five in the afternoon. That forced the start time for the midwinter Quidditch match forward from 10:30 to 8:30 - well into what was normally breakfast. Worse, the match would start in total darkness. Nobody liked playing under the blinding glare and odd shadows of Artificial Lighting Charms. For Seekers, lights meant that the Snitch could escape merely by flying out of the lit area.

Since none of the Ravenclaw team - and certainly no Slytherin - was attending the awards ceremony, the Ministry's announcement did not endear Harry to either house.

The sparse attendance was because (to Harry's great relief) this ceremony was small - not the spectacle the Ministry had concocted the first time. Minister Scrimgeour, whilst profoundly thankful for the thwarting of Death Eater sneak attack, was hardly keen on more scrutiny of how narrowly disaster had been averted. That near miss hardly fit the pledges of aggressive action against Dark wizards that fuelled the Minister's rise.

Nor, Harry suspected, would the Minister enjoy the house-elf story that would headline today's Prophet. The entire wizarding world would learn of Dobby's bravery at Stonehenge, the devotion of elves who died at Grimmauld Place, and that house-elves at ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls - the largest private agglomeration in Britain - were learning to read and write at the Proprietor's express orders.

To Harry and Hermione, this story was the perfect backdrop for the Order of Merlin ceremony.

Such thoughts were far away at the moment. Not much postponed a Quidditch match - except the total whiteout blizzard raging outside.

Ron flopped back inside his bed hangings. His snores were soon audible.

Harry envied Ron's ability to sleep, but he had become so acclimated to early rising that sleep evaded him.

Throwing an old robe over his pyjamas, Harry shuffled downstairs. Maybe the Muggle Internet connexion on the D.A. Central Station would have a weather forecast.

After a false start, he found a Scottish report complete with fancy colour radar images like the Dursleys watched on their telly at Privet Drive. The blue across the screen meant the furious snowstorm would rage at least five more hours. The match could not possibly commence as scheduled. With the Ministry event hard on its heels, a postponement was a certainty.

Harry was ready for another go at sleep when a familiar voice called his name. An equally awake Hermione appeared at the foot of the girls' stairway.

“Hi, Harry,” she hailed, “what's got you up?”

“I needed to check the weather.”

“Awful, isn't it?”

“Yeah,” Harry had to agree. “They'll have to call off Quidditch, so I suppose the Order of Merlin ceremony will start early. No reason for all those Ministry swells to work later on a Saturday than they have to…. Umm … Hermione, what's with that look?”

“You're going through with it, aren't you?” she asked, her expression serious.

“The moment the Minister refused Dobby, I promised,” he reminded her.

“I know you did, but you don't really want to, do you?” Hermione pressed.

“I do lots of things I don't want to,” Harry maintained stoically. “I'll do this.”

Hermione did not enjoy adding to Harry's burden of unwanted tasks. “If you don't want to, tell me, and I'll do it.”

“That, I don't want.” Harry reiterated. “You know it'll cause problems with the pure-blood crowd. I'd rather those problems fall on my head than yours.”

“Harry….”

“You do have a reputation, you know,” he smiled at her. “They can't mess with me nearly as much - not after the goblins saved their sorry arses.”

Hermione sighed and gave in. “Oh, all right … I do want the Second Class.”

“And if you did that, you'd never get another chance at anything that would put you automatically in the Wizengamot,” Harry teased lightly, with things now settled. “You'd have to drown Voldemort in the Brethren's Fountain in front of the entire Auror Corps and dump his body on the Minister's desk to get a second shot.”

“I'll leave that to you, thank you very much,” Hermione replied with a nervous titter. She veered towards the serious side. “Umm … did you use your invitations?”

That subject was touchy - for both of them. Attendance at this Order of Merlin ceremony was by invitation only. Harry was notoriously without close relatives, and Hermione was now in virtually the same situation. So were the other orphans, Neville, Luna, and Jazzy. None was likely to use their full allotment of four invitations.

“I tried, believe it or not,” Harry revealed. “But Dumbledore said Lao Kung died of his cancer….”

“I'm so sorry,” Hermione commiserated; her hand on Harry's shoulder.

“Don't be,” Harry told her. “According to Dumbledore, Sefu was more than ready, with how badly the Death Eaters hurt him. He also said that Lao Kung was very pleased with the results of his final project - me.”

Hermione kissed the crown of his head. “That's nice, but still … it's too bad. He'd be really proud - I am,” she tried comforting him, but for once he did not seem to need it.

“Anyway, if everyone I invited had come, I'd have used all the invites,” Harry went on, “but Uncle Vernon's still the biggest Muggle git ever born. Aunt Petunia was tempted, but between Vernon and Hogwarts being `Lily's place,' in the end she chickened out. I think Dudders is coming, though.”

Hermione shuddered. “I don't like him,” she declared. “Every time we met over the summer, he leered at me like I was a piece of meat.”

“That was before … well, you know,” Harry pointed out. He squeezed Hermione's hand. “He's not that bad a chap; not any more. A bit of a chav, sure, but he won't bother you now that we're together. If I'm wrong, we can figure out what to Transfigure him into.”

“A pig would be suitable,” Hermione sniffed.

“Not creative enough,” Harry frowned. “Fred and George would be disappointed.”

“A sonic hedgehog, then,” she offered.

“A what?”

“It's a gene,” Hermione told him. “Actually, that's inappropriate, since it organises the brain.”

“Hmmm,” Harry mused, wondering if this was a good time for one of Hermione's scientific talk fests.

That possibility went by the boards. “How about a ring-tailed kappa?” she offered.

“Too dignified,” Harry smirked. “Dudley trying to impress you would be more like … well, how about ten kilos of troll dung?”

“In a five kilo sack,” Hermione added.

“Now, we're getting close,” Harry prolonged the joke. “How about a troll toilet?”

“That's it,” Hermione decided. “He's your cousin, so how about a hairy potty?”

“Ouch,” Harry winced at her pun. “Fair enough. If Dudley takes any liberties, a furry loo he will be. And now … about liberties….”

Harry leaned in and gave Hermione a kiss, which she returned.

Liberties were limited to mild snogging. Neither sought to go further in the middle of the Gryffindor common room. Eventually, Hermione's brow furrowed. “Harry, who was your fourth invitee?”

Harry looked rather self conscious. “Well, you know the Minister urged me to invite the French Minister for Magic - to foster `fraternal ties' and all….”

“You didn't, did you?” Hermione replied sceptically. “You don't even know him.”

“Nah,” Harry returned. “I'm not Slughorn. But that started me thinking…. So in the end I invited Fleur. I know her, and she's Beauxbatons' liaison. She doesn't have full staff privileges, so I doubt she could come without being invited.”

“Fleur? She could have wheedled an invite from the Ministry, being the liaison,” Hermione lectured.

That made Harry a bit uncomfortable. “Well, she seemed pleased enough to get the invitation.”

“Who wouldn't? To be invited by the man of the hour personally,” Hermione reminded him.

“For starters - my aunt and uncle,” Harry reminded her.

“Just watch yourself, that's all I'll say,” Hermione spoke more seriously whilst squeezing his hand. “You know she's interested in you.”

“And you know - and she knows - that she has no chance. I have who I want,” Harry declared. He bent in to kiss her again, well aware of her insecurities.

After another kiss in the still deserted Gryffindor common room, Harry inquired, “So, who are your guests - your mum?”

Hermione updated him. “We thought about that, but in the end, with the security issues raised by her returning to England, and the demands of her start-up practice, she's better off staying where she is….” Her voice faded, reflecting conflicted emotions.

“So, no guests, then?”

Hermione brightened. “I didn't say that - not at all.”

“So, who?”

“Beth Dunstan, Ed Carmichael … and Ginny,” Hermione revealed.

“Why them?”

“Ginny was part of a deal with George,” Hermione explained. “He had to ask Fred, of course, and his mum - leaving Ron and Ginny. Since he also wanted to invite his girlfriend, Angelina, I agreed to invite either Ginny or Ron. Ginny had seemed a bit jealous lately, so I took her.”

“I would have invited Ron!” Harry protested.

“You were still holding slots for relatives who turned you down,” she reminded. “Anyway, I'm sure Ginny wishes she hadn't given our last great adventure a miss - even though we almost got killed - so I thought I'd have her as my guest.”

“But you don't really know the Heads very well,” Harry accurately commented.

“Nope,” Hermione admitted with a crafty smile. “Happy Valentine's Day.”

Her statement was totally unexpected. “You … what Valentine's Day?” Harry immediately asked.

“It's called quid pro quo,” Hermione told him. “After all, they run the System.”

Harry was still at sea. “What … oh, that System….”

Hermione pulled Harry towards her. “Yes, that one. I have Silver and Gold Charm reservations on Valentine's Day for nine p.m. - prime time. Ordinarily one of the Heads would claim that, or else another seventh year. It's ours for a couple of invitations I wasn't likely to use anyway.”

He gathered her in his arms. “Hermione, I like the way you think….”

“Ahem.”

They jumped apart and gawked at the fireplace, where a familiar head appeared amongst the flames.

“Ah, Mister Potter, Miss Granger … just who I was hoping to find. I trust I was not interrupting anything….”

“Of course not, Headmaster,” Harry answered, his voice belying his words. “We were just comparing our guest lists.”

“Excellent,” Dumbledore replied, cheerily ignoring Harry's tone. “I am announcing the postponement of today's Quidditch match until next week, when I trust the Snitch will be visible if perched on the end of one's broomstick. As a result the Ministry is advancing the Order of Merlin Ceremony by three hours, to two o'clock this afternoon.”

“Doesn't surprise me,” Harry said, still peeved.

“Nor I, frankly,” the Headmaster agreed. “I trust you will inform your House?”

“Of course,” Hermione cut in, to keep Harry from saying anything rude. “And you'll inform our invitees, I trust. Harry has at least one Muggle guest.”

“Indeed, I shall,” Dumbledore affirmed. “And I saw today's Prophet. I must say, whilst your cause is righteous, it is not wise to provoke the Ministry in that fashion….”

Cheekily, Harry replied, “Well, I recall someone once telling me to choose what was right over what was easy.”

The Headmaster rolled his eyes - a neat trick in a fireplace. “True enough, but one must also fight one's battles judiciously. Please remember, the Ministry is not our enemy,” he added as their Floo conversation ended.

“Well,” Hermione shifted gears crisply. “If you hurry, I believe you can have breakfast and then perhaps an hour to ourselves in that Room.”

“Again, I like the way you think, but what about you? No breakfast?” Harry inquired curiously.

“I need to write a letter,” she told him.

“I assume it's personal,” Harry sort of asked.

“That's correct. It's something I realised I need to do … if you don't mind.”

“That's okay,” Harry smiled. “I'd want to tell my parents about it, too, if I could.”

Harry left for the Great Hall, and Hermione did not seek to correct him.

* * * *

Harry's worries about his cousin being late due to the advance in scheduling proved unfounded. If anything, Dudley was early, courtesy of the ChÃ¢teau's house-elves' promptitude. Not quite sure what to do with him, Ministry security had the Muggle cool his heels in Hogwarts' antechamber until Harry arrived to vouch for his bona fides.

“Dudley! Glad you could make it,” Harry exclaimed once he spotted his rather broad-beamed cousin. Hermione followed, doing her best to be unobtrusive.

Dudley was goggling well before Harry arrived, resplendent in bright gold Order of Merlin Second Class robes. “Harry!” he responded, jumping to his feet. “I can't believe this place! This is a school?”

“A magical school,” Harry reminded.

“That's for sure,” Dudley concurred. “It looked like a lousy pile of rubble, and then - BOOM - all of a sudden here was this castle, like something out of King Arthur….” An awkward pause followed as Dudley thought. “I mean … it isn't, is it?”

“Isn't what?” Harry asked.

“This isn't King Arthur's old Camelot, is it?” his cousin clarified.

“Nope, not old enough, although some of the portraits may be,” Harry answered. He felt Hermione slip beside him and take his hand. “You remember Hermione, I'm sure?”

Although her purple robes were completely foreign, recognition flared in Dudley's eyes. “Sure do.” He offered his hand most properly, with none of the leering Hermione had feared. “Congratulations, Hermione.”

She shook hands. “You're welcome,” she answered. “I don't what Harry's told you, but this award is for something quite dangerous. It's really Harry you should congratulate. He did much more than I did.”

Dudley waited patiently for her to finish. “All true, I'm sure, but my congratulations were for landing this bloke.” He poked Harry in the side.

Harry he dodged away. Hermione Legilimenced him, `Does he know what happened?'

`Not at all,' Harry quickly replied in kind.

`Lucky for him,' Hermione observed. They both kept quiet and still until….

Splash. Splash.

“Oi … what the hell?” Dudley yelped as two water balloons drenched him.

“Fat Muggles make easy targets!” sing-songed an annoyingly familiar voice

“Peeves! Get out of here!” Hermione yelled - secretly relishing the timely attack.

“Transenna CulicidÃ¦!” Harry ineffectively shot mosquito netting after the now fleeing poltergeist.

He turned to his cousin. “Sorry about that, he's uncontrollable.”

“Who's uncontrollable? Can we go someplace where the roof doesn't leak?” Dudley requested.

“You didn't see or hear that?” Hermione asked, innocently enough.

“See what? All I know is I'm bloody well soaked,” Dudley complained, “but you seem peeved.”

“Well, I can take care of that,” Hermione replied. “Dessicatus.”

“Wow, that's cool!” a dry and mollified Dudley thanked Hermione.

Harry pointed to a portrait on the opposite wall. “Dudley, describe that painting.”

“One of your kind, in blue robes with stars, looking rather bored, I'd say,” the Muggle answered.

Currently, the portrait's walrus-mustached occupant was half bent over laughing at Dudley's drenching. Old Constantine Widdershins evidently enjoyed his Muggle baiting.

“I don't think he can see magic,” Hermione commented.

“Oh,” Dudley remarked, eying his surroundings suspiciously. “Then can we go someplace private? That's sort of why I came … to talk with you. She can come if she likes. If you trust her, so do I.”

Hermione, shrugging off being described as `she', took them to the nearest private place she knew - the stairway to Dumbledore's office. Receiving the password, the guardian gargoyle stood aside, and the two wizards led Dudley onto the slowly rotating staircase. Hermione trotted a little ways downwards against the flow of stairs. The others followed.

“Surveillius revelato!” Hermione checked their surroundings and pronounced them clean.

“So what's so important that you risked a trip all the way to Hogwarts in the teeth of a howling blizzard?” Harry asked.

Dudley downplayed any trouble, “Eh, with those elf thingies, the trip wasn't half bad.” Then he got to the point. “But … well, I think you were right about that Oblivitation bit wearing off. I remember practically everything about that attack now. It was definitely those masked death guys who did it….”

Hermione looked scandalised. “Harry, I know you're on better terms with your cousin, but did you actually help him overcome a Ministry Obliviation?”

“Not exactly,” Harry responded, somewhat annoyed at being criticised in Dudley's presence. “The spell was already failing - causing nightmares. He knew I had them and came to me for help.”

“The proper help would be to arrange a re-Obliviation,” Hermione reminded Harry of the rules.

“Umm … he offered me that,” Dudley entered the fray reluctantly, not sure if he would be caught in some sort of cross-fire. “He said it was that, or the truth. I chose the truth. Why's that such a problem?”

Quite justly, Dudley was not known as a deep thinker, but that question brought the most brilliant witch of her age up short.

“It's not, actually,” she conceded. “In fact, I hope I'd make the same choice. It's just - well the laws we wizards have…. Your knowing anything puts Harry at risk for allowing it. When that happens, I react….”

“I see. I meant it when I congratulated you,” Dudley chuckled. He turned to face Harry. “And congratulations to you, too. You absolutely need a bird like her if you're going to do in that nutter….”

Both were rather taken aback. Harry hoped his cousin would shut it before saying something stupid. Fortunately, he did.

“…and that's why I'm here. How likely is that nutter to come after my folks?”

Harry looked guiltily at Hermione, both knowing that - in Uncle Vernon's case - Voldemort already had.

“The same magic, and what it is I'm not sure, protecting me at Privet Drive also protects you,” Harry reminded his cousin.

“Yeah, but not other places- like me at the gym. Then there's my dad's work accident. They called that a gas explosion, too….” Dudley watched the magical pair closely as he spoke. Seeing no shock in their expressions, he assumed he had his answer, so he pressed on.

“…And Mum tells me that whatever this protective magic is, it ends when you turn seventeen.”

Harry looked to Hermione. For once she had no ready answer. Looking worried and conflicted, she avoided his eyes. He took a deep breath. He always hated being lied to.

The Golden Rule….

“Dudley, you're right,” he told his Muggle cousin. “I've thought about asking Dumbledore about this, but I screwed up. Things happened - like what caused your invitation. I don't know what, if any, planning they've done….”

“Harry, please,” Dudley pleaded in a voice totally new to Harry. “I know we've fucked up. We didn't treat you very well….”

“Quite the understatement,” Hermione interrupted acidly - visions of cupboards under stairs weighing on her mind.

Harry silenced her with a disapproving look.

“No, she's spot on,” Dudley acknowledged. “I can't even fit in that cupboard - Hell, cage - where you were kept. We were all horrid; Dad the worst of the lot. But do we all deserve to die for it?”

“No, you don't,” Harry answered thoughtfully.

`Harry, don't commit to anything,' Hermione warned through Legilimency. `There's more here than you know. I'm certain.'

Unaware of the girl's intervention, Dudley kept going. “I was wondering. Your kind is good at this sort of thing. Could we go underground…?”

They regarded him suspiciously. How could Dudley know about Harry and the goblins?

“You know, like in cinema, get new identities. Move us somewhere - away from Surrey; maybe even away from England - like that witness protection programme stuff on the telly. If that Bumblebore of yours could manage whatever's protected the house for so long, he ought to be able to hide us out somewhere … don't you think?”

Harry had difficulty following Dudley's request. His cousin not only talked fast, but also stream-of-consciousness. When the flow of words finally ceased, Harry was not sure what to say. At least nothing required foisting the Dursleys on the Goblin Nation, which might have taxed even their fealty.

Something could probably be arranged. According to the Headmaster, Professor Slughorn had used magical disguises - even concealing himself as furniture. Harry was a bit perplexed when Hermione answered.

“You could be on to something,” she told Dudley. “We'll make inquiry. So that's why you're here?”

“Umm … yeah,” the Muggle boy stumbled, a bit surprised at speaking to her rather than him. “Dad still doesn't want to be within a hundred klicks of your kind, and Mum … I think she just didn't want to come to this place…. Too bad. Even if I can't see half of it, sure beats hell out of Smeltings.”

They left the stairwell and brought Dudley back to the Great Hall. Visitors were starting to trickle in.

`Let's talk,' Harry Legilimenced to Hermione.

“I'll be right with you,” she promised. “I need a word with your cousin.”

“No hexing, please,” Harry joked to cover his uncertainty. What would Hermione want with Dudley?

Harry warily moved off as Hermione addressed the large boy. “Dudley, I have a letter for your father,” she said solemnly.

“Umm … okay,” he replied every bit as stupidly as Hermione anticipated. “But why? Why would you want anything to do with him?”

She stifled a sarcastic laugh. “Good question, but you wouldn't like the answer. Right now, his most recent `generosity' concerns me. I wasn't really expecting it.”

“He's an arse, sometimes,” Dudley admitted. “But he….”

“Drop `sometimes', and we'll agree on something,” Hermione cracked.

Her attempt at humour went over the Muggle's head. “Umm … I guess, but it's legit, I'm sure. Once he learnt Harry's rich, he tried to treat him better, the git.”

“This goes beyond anything fake,” Hermione said stiffly. “Anyway, everything's in the letter - including why Harry's kept the gift, even though he can't use it here. Just make sure your father knows this note is from me, Hermione Granger,” she spoke slowly, emphasizing her surname. “Lest you forget, the envelope has a return address. Can you do that?”

“Umm … sure,” Harry's cousin replied gormlessly. “Anything for you and Harry.”

“Thanks, Dudley,” she broke off in chipper fashion. “Maybe I'll see you after the ceremony…. And don't you try opening it - you'll just give yourself a nasty shock.”

As soon they were alone, Harry and Hermione ducked into the nearest private place. “Muffliato.”

“You know something; I'm sure of it,” Harry immediately challenged her. “What's up?”

“Why ask if you already know?” she saucily replied.

That slowed him down, but only momentarily. “What? Er…. You have some sort of idea about this?”

“True,” she allowed. “But before I tell you, why would you help them? They abused you for years … did awful things. Why, Harry? Why? Why them?”

Her emotional response did not dissuade Harry. “Yeah, everything you say's true. I shouldn't care, but I do…. It's just … I don't think I should leave anybody, even them, to the mercy of the Death Eaters…. Not if I can help it, anyway.”

“Harry, I love you,” Hermione gasped before kissing him - hard but briefly. “It's who you are…. You'll save anyone, even them, after they've wronged you so.”

Harry slowly recovered from her kiss. “Umm … yeah, I guess…. But you've still got some idea.”

“Yes, I'd been afraid for my own family,” Hermione told him. “That is, before my father ran for it and my mum moved to Australia on her own. Not long ago, I was quite worried that they could be Death Eater targets.”

“I know you; you had some plan to hide them, didn't you?” Harry realised.

“I considered having Professor Shacklebolt Obliviate them,” Hermione admitted. “He's excellent at that kind of thing - I'm nowhere near qualified to do something that complex. If they couldn't remember me, I thought they could receive new identities and be sent far away, until … well, until the war's over or forever, if things didn't work out….”

“You'd do that to your own parents?” Harry asked sceptically.

“To keep them safe, yes,” Hermione declared. “I'd do whatever necessary. I'd send them somewhere English speaking. Australia, New Zealand, British Columbia, maybe … even someplace like Fiji. They don't need it now. But Dudley…. You'd think the Order would have plans, but if so, they're well hidden.”

“So you think we should have the lot of them Obliviated?” Harry went on.

Hermione gazed thoughtfully into the distance before answering. “Well, not Dudley, unless he wants. He's already had that choice. But the other two? They've been horrible to you. Their need to hide is your opportunity to be rid of them. Nor are they exactly chuffed to be related to you. Wouldn't everyone be better off?”

Harry pondered that. “Do you mean they'd be better off without me? Or me without them?”

“My guess is both. After what they've done to you, there's no reason for you to arrange that they live out their days in the lap of undeserved luxury. This world has plenty of lousy spots to live in.”

“Like Somalia, perhaps, or maybe Uganda,” Harry suggested.

“No, why torture them? You're better than that,” Hermione demurred. “Revenge isn't the reason. I meant lousy, but safe. You heard Dudley. If they want to go underground, I know the perfect cupboard-under-the-stairs place for that.”

“Where?”

Hermione cracked a sly smile. “Someplace safe, but just as desolate as they made your life.”

“Where?”

“Coober Pedy.”

* * * *

The Great Hall was filling rapidly. Hermione initiated a conversation with the two Heads, soon joined by Professor McGonagall. Harry participated in desultory fashion until Shak tapped him on the shoulder and discreetly pointed to the entrance. The Goblin Nation delegation had arrived.

Harry approached the three goblins, Chamberlain Yastrop, representing the state; General Barduk, proxy for the army; and Director Klamdok, on behalf of Gringotts Bank. They greeted Harry warmly as he personally ushered them to seats in the front row

Returning to the foyer, Harry had just attracted Hermione's attention when he saw a familiar cloak. “Remus!” he yelped. Numerous heads turned, as Harry was the man of the hour. “You made it!”

The last of the Marauders turned towards Harry. He looked awful - exhausted, hollow-eyed, haggard - despite being cleaned up and dressed up for the august occasion.

“Are … are you all right?” Harry gasped Remus' appearance stopped him in his tracks.

“Tough question, that,” Remus answered weakly. “Don't usually go out in public less than two days after … well, you know….”

“Two days after…?”

Harry avoided sticking his foot in his mouth when Hermione Legilimenced from behind. `The full moon, Harry - the first since the battle….'

Hermione's warning stopped Harry just short of his target.

Closing the remaining gap, he whispered. “Tonks … did she…?”

Remus Lupin smiled a sad little smile as he turned to face Harry fully. A slighter figure, still heavily cloaked against the blizzard outside, hove into view. Dropping her hood, Tonks stood there looking every bit as exhausted and wan as her escort - except for her hair, which flared bubble-gum pink.

“Yes,” she said.

Harry's face fell at the news.

“And yes,” Remus echoed. He raised Tonks' hand, which Harry had not noticed him holding, to his lips, and kissed it.

“Oh, come now,” she encouraged, “you can do better than that on the occasion of our announcement.” Tonks left hand rose to stroke Remus' cheek. She gave him a proper kiss - proper for a public place.

Harry was too stunned to move or speak. A huge smile lit his face, and he felt unusually warm….

“Congratulations!!” he heard Hermione squeal. She brushed by Harry and launched herself into the surprised couple's collective arms. They staggered beneath the full-scale Hermione hug. It was a bit much for two weres so soon after a full moon.

“When did it happen?” Hermione excitedly inquired. “When did he do it?”

Only then did Harry notice the engagement ring on Tonks' left hand.

Remus spoke first. “When I found her on the battlefield … all ripped to shreds. I vowed that, if she lived, I wouldn't cock this up again…. That was before I knew what had happened. Then it was … like fate. I had no more excuses. I couldn't deny fate - deny her - any longer….”

“Greyback did it,” Tonks took up the narrative. “I was duelling Lestrange when he attacked me from behind. I tried fending him off, but he was too strong. He kept biting. I weakened…. He would kill me, I was sure. Then I thought I'd died - so much bright light…. I don't remember anything after that until I woke up the next day at an Order safe house…. I still don't know where. Remus was there, holding my hand…. I'd never managed to have him do that for more than a few seconds.”

“But when did he ask you?” Hermione asked breathlessly.

“Yesterday,” they both said, and then, “sorry,” for talking over the other.

“All right, I'll tell it,” Remus chuckled. “I suspected the … well, most people would say `the worst,' all along. One reason, ironically, was the rapid healing of her injuries. That's what we do. Weres are quick healers.”

“So are Metamorphmagi,” Tonks reminded him.

“After denying it much too long, I finally confessed what I felt for her - not just to her, but to myself. That happened about two weeks ago. Tonks had been … umm … clear about where she stood for quite some time….”

“This git thought he was protecting me by staying away,” Tonks interjected.

“Well, I know how that feels,” Harry murmured sympathetically. Hermione squeezed his hand.

“I informed him that with two of us and only one of Greyback, we've improved the odds,” Tonks related. Her voice remained weak - she was only two days removed from her first turning - but her vibrant rainbow hair revealed her true attitude.

“Point, that,” Lupin conceded. “When I saw her at Stonehenge, I knew that, if it happened, I had to follow my heart - no more excuses - just like you, Harry. I like to think I would have anyway, but the full moon was the occasion. Besides, a Metamorphmagus werewolf could be very interesting. Have you ever seen a bright purple…? Umm….”

As Remus went silent, Harry felt an all-too-familiar hand slide onto his shoulder. “Headmaster Dumbledore,” Harry uttered before even turning around. He encountered not only the Headmaster, but the Minister for Magic himself, both looking rather sombre.

“I am truly sorry to intrude - and my congratulations as well - but I need to borrow Mister Potter to discuss a matter of some urgency,” Dumbledore informed everyone.

`You didn't tell them?' Harry frantically Legilimenced Hermione.

`Certainly not,' she likewise replied, slightly affronted he would think such. `Perhaps it's the Prophet story.'

`But how…?' Harry's silent communication merged with frantic thoughts flooding his brain. The Ministry's final word was only the other day. They had never breathed a word to a soul - not even their fellow Boomwin Twos. It was a secret…. What if they ordered him not to…? Would the entire ceremony blow up…?

Harry was on autopilot as the two men guided him to a quiet corner.

“Mister Potter, this has to do with the ceremony,” Scrimgeour began sourly.

Harry clenched his jaw to appear as determined as possible. He had promised Hermione….

“A slight change in plans is called for….”

Harry searched for the right admixture of defiance and regret.

“We want you to accept Alastor Moody's award as next of kin,” the Minister finished, not mentioning house-elves.

Harry's jaw dropped. His fight or flight instinct, thoroughly stranded, simply vanished - leaving him distinctly light-headed.

It was not close to what he expected.

“Umm … why?” he delayed, trying to regain an even keel whilst giving nothing away.

Fortunately, Dumbledore played fair - no Legilimency. Harry's Occlumency might not have been up to snuff.

“As I'm sure you're aware,” Scrimgeour proceeded ponderously. “Auror Moody was extremely private. He had been known to take rather extreme measures to ensure his security….”

Harry finally relaxed enough to engage. “I've heard about his exploding dustbins.”

“Against his more recent measures, I'd consider those quaint,” the Minister commented dryly. “For at least a year, perhaps longer, Moody protected his residence with extremely advanced magic. Essentially, he cast his house into an enchanted bolthole of some sort. It shifted locations at least daily and was only accessible from secret Floo stops known to nobody else. Several weeks after his death, Moody's house finally stopped hopping about long enough for a team of Aurors and Unspeakables to inactivate its other defences. Inside, amongst his personal effects, was his last will and testament.”

“Oh … crap,” Harry groaned, oblivious to swearing in front of the Minister. “Not again. Somebody else killed on my behalf decides to leave every bloody thing to me….”

Dumbledore's hand squeezed his shoulder. “I beseech you to think otherwise. Alastor, I assure you, viewed his selection as your guardian as a great honour. He lost his family decades ago when his siblings regrettably perished in 1918.”

“The Great War?” Harry asked, showing some knowledge of Muggle history.

“No, Dark Legion remnants in Spain concocted a deadly strain of influenza that killed wizards and Muggles indiscriminately,” the Headmaster replied, demonstrating that the boy's historical knowledge remained deficient.

“Oh.”

“He never married,” Dumbledore continued. “Until your decision, Alastor was alone for many years. You gave him something he could call family.”

Harry thought of his own alleged “family,” but decided any comment about the Dursleys would be rude. The Headmaster, misreading the emotion that danced across Harry's visage, hastened to add, “The estate is minimal - one nominally stationary bit of property. No accounts to speak of, as Alastor donated everything above subsistence to the Order. He had a small but interesting library, and some quite useful Dark Detectors….”

“What about his funeral?” Harry asked to change the subject.

“He left strict instructions,” Dumbledore revealed. “He wanted no ceremony, as it would provide Death Eaters with an attack opportunity. He dictated immediate cremation and that his ashes be scattered in some beautiful place.”

Harry was surprisingly miffed at being excluded. “Where?”

“That, he did not specify; leaving it to you as next of kin,” the Headmaster explained. “You may have his ashes at any time.”

“Whatever…. Moody did what he did,” Minister Scrimgeour rumbled impatiently, having had enough of Dumbledore rambling. “Will you accept his decoration? It's his second bar, placing him in quite exclusive company.”

With the question put that way, Harry could give only one answer.

* * * *

At the ceremony, Harry and Hermione shared the staff table (bedecked in Ministry colours) with the other award winners, the Minister, and Dumbledore. Rows of the same chairs used at the Masked Ball stretched across the Great Hall's floor, replacing the house tables. The award winners' guests filled the front several rows. Quite a few Weasleys attended, including - Harry noticed - Ginny in her shawl. Neville also had a couple of relatives. Some Hogwarts students, fortunate enough to wheedle invitations, observed. Assembled behind the invited guests were Order of Merlin holders. Order laureates could attend all inductions.

For this low-key ceremony, only a few dozen prior Order holders braved the blizzard. They comprised about half of the audience. Many prior recipients still had qualms about Harry, and especially Hermione.

With the hall only partially full, large banners alternating between Ministry and Hogwarts house colours formed a backdrop. The ceiling reflected the featureless white-out outside.

Minister Scrimgeour officiated. All the honourees could receive their decorations directly from the Minister, or from a chosen designee.

Harry, representing Mad-Eye, went first. With the Minister and Moody not on the best of terms, Scrimgeour displayed unexpected tact and had drafted Professor Shacklebolt to perform the honours for the crusty deceased Auror.

Tonks followed. She chose to receive her award directly from the Minister. The buzz in the hall and the expressions of several prior award holders reminded Hermione of another important point. Order of Merlin recognition of a werewolf was also unprecedented, and judging from the reaction in the hall, not particularly appreciated.

That buzz abated as the Minister recited the magnitude of Tonks' heroism from the official communiquÃ© that accompanied the award.

George Weasley was next. After declaring his intent to have Fred do the honours, he relented (or maybe was joking all along) and accepted the decoration from his father.

The recitation of George's accomplishments whetted the crowd's anticipation of the next award. Jazzy designated no presenter, just as she had invited no guests. Rather, as the Minister read the official description of her piloting an unprotected - save for speed and manœuvre - broom against a thousand Dark wizards, she stepped to the award table and placed the ribbon bearing the gleaming medal about her own neck.

Another disapproving undertone filled the room. Jazzy, used to opprobrium, ignored it. She returned to her seat of honour with a defiant glare in her eyes.

Then came Luna. As a prior Order winner, she wore the purple robes of her Third Class rank. A tall, relatively old wizard clad in unadorned ivory-white robes conferred the medal upon her. Harry and Hermione only vaguely remembered him. He was introduced as the Senior Druid of Luna's nemeton.

Hermione's foreboding rose as the man delivered his prepared remarks. He described Luna's involvement in “cleansing infinite evil from the great circle” and “summoning forth lost power.” Whilst oblique, the Senior Druid's words left Hermione certain that he knew, or at least suspected, precisely what had happened.

Returning to his seat, the white-robed Druid stared unblinkingly at Hermione.

Hermione knew that Luna would insist that she speak to this man after the ceremony.

As Neville's moment began, Hermione Legilimenced Harry, `Luna's senior knows. I'm sure he wants to meet me. I could strangle her.'

`Inevitable, don't you think,' Harry replied silently. `What do you want to do?'

`Learn how to resign,' she answered. `I'm no Druid. You're going ahead, right?'

`Hermione, I promised I would,' came Harry's reply. `I told the truth.'

Neville had chosen the Minister to bestow his laurels - a bar on his prior Third Class Order.

The entire hall - Harry and Hermione foremost amongst them - were shocked when, instead of taking his seat, Neville turned and faced the crowd. “Dobby, can you come here, to me?” the boy requested.

The house-elf was present, of course - to receive a made-for-the-occasion award for special services to wizardkind, or whatever the Ministry had invented.

“Dobby?” Neville repeated, his voice quavering just a bit.

The elf seemed paralysed, entirely uncertain what to do.

Harry raised his voice, “Dobby, please obey Neville,” he commanded.

The Minister purpled.

Dobby could never refuse Harry Potter. With a CRACK, the elf popped to Neville's side.

Neville extracted his original Order medal from his robes. “Dobby, I don't deserve this award; you do,” Neville spoke, his voice suddenly firm and unwavering. The audience began whispering furiously. “I couldn't have done a thing without your shields….”

Harry's jaw dropped, as did Hermione's. Their plans had been secret. Neville was acting independently.

“…I would have died without you. You deserve this as much as anyone - more than I….”

Spreading the medal's ribbon, Neville bent over to place it around the trembling elf's neck.

Scrimgeour moved forward to intervene; to put a stop to the impromptu recognition. “Now see here….”

Harry shot to his feet. He practically shouted. “I agree with Neville!”

Instantly, Hermione joined him - and did shout. “I ALSO AGREE WITH NEVILLE!”

The protest stopped Scrimgeour in his tracks.

Luna rose. “I concur!”

Tonks followed, and then Jazzy, as each of the honourees announced support of Neville's decision to confer his Order of Merlin upon a lowly house-elf. Unexpectedly, another voice joined. “I applaud the young man's initiative.” Headmaster Dumbledore, his silver robes adding his prestige as the only living recipient of a First Class Order, had risen. He clapped his good hand against his withered one - wincing every time they came together.

As one, the Order of Merlin inductees cheered whilst Neville draped the ribbon around Dobby's scrawny neck. A few of the audience, such as Fleur, started applauding - but very few. A majority of the specifically invited guests clapped, ranging from the Senior Druid's and goblin representatives' enthusiastic ovation, to the elder Weasleys' rather lukewarm joinder.

The Minister, humiliated publicly, sat down in stony silence. Like a missing front tooth, his sitting was in stark contrast to the rest of the High Table.

The Minister's view was shared by probably 95% of the Order of Merlin laureates in the hall.

Dobby would have happily disappeared into the crowd, or altogether, but Neville guided him towards the High Table. Neville would have taken the elf in his lap but, from thin air, an additional chair appeared.

Hermione, sitting next to Harry, whispered. “I believe, in their own way, Hogwarts' elves just registered their opinion.”

Neville having stolen their thunder, Harry's and Hermione's awards occurred without drama. They did regret agreeing to accept their distinctions directly from the Minister. Scrimgeour achieved his photo opportunity, and the pair shared an extremely cold shoulder.

Of course, some pure-bloods would have argued that the Minister should not have proceeded at all, because Harry and Hermione supported that house-elf “travesty.”

Little did they know.

During Hermione's ceremony her purple robes recoloured to burnished gold when the Second Class medal touched her chest.

Harry's ceremony was notable for receiving a bar - a repeat Second Class award. Although Harry was the only speaker on the programme, his speech was not very notable. He had been upstaged thoroughly by Neville's actions.

The speech was not one of Harry's better efforts, partially due to extenuating circumstances.

I stand here today amazed … that I stand here at all. I also stand in awe of everyone's bravery and loyalty. Words cannot express my gratitude for, and admiration of, the honourees' deeds.

That was supposedly an applause line. Harry started clapping for the other recipients. Besides the Headmaster, Fleur, and the invited guests, practically nobody (least of all Minister Scrimgeour) joined. Harry's face flushed with embarrassment, but he continued.

None of us could foresee what we would encounter when we left the security of Blackwalls that evening. I just wanted to rescue Ron - Ron Weasley, in the front row here. His presence means we succeeded

Theoretically another applause line - for Ron more than for mostly - but except for the High Table, and the best efforts of everyone surnamed “Weasley,” the room remained notably silent.

Even after we knew what we faced - over a thousand Dark wizards led by Voldemort himself, we all carried on. I speak for us all when I say that none of us expected to survive. I know I did not.

I can't say enough about wizards who fight against impossible odds. The citations say “conspicuous gallantry” and “pre-eminent bravery,” but don't begin to describe what my friends did.

Remember Mad-Eye, dying how he wanted, battling against the Dark forces.

A fair amount of applause. Many of the laureates had served with him.

Tonks, going alone into nobody-knew-what so we'd know where to go later.

Virtual silence, outside of the High Table. Most of the crowd held her werewolf status against her.

Neville and Dobby, holding a multitude at bay for a critical half hour.

The Minister continued his frosty silence. Even though Neville's parents were well thought of, he had just become the face of the house-elf heresy.

Jazzy and George, attacking that same multitude with an unshielded broom.

Applause from the High Table and the Weasleys. Jazzy had no guests.

Luna, armed only with an Invisibility Cloak, running the gauntlet to rescue Ron.

She was associated with the Quibbler. Enough said.

Hermione, looking death in the eye to stop enemy reinforcements, and then coming through once I was too exhausted.

Between her blood status and persistent vocal association with house-elf heresy, Hermione was probably less acceptable than Neville - but her gold robes signified she would be joining the Wizengamot.

Those are the names on the programme, and they all deserve recognition. But other names cannot go unmentioned - names like Slamdor, Roxtar, Tubifor, SelfÅ�n, Azdak, and Fozfor. Everything we did, or might have done, would have been for naught without the goblin army coming to our aid when our own forces could not. We lost Mad-Eye; the goblins lost hundreds.

“Ulululululu….” The goblins responded, but the audience mostly followed the Minister's polite applause.

Given the odds, I can't believe that anybody followed me. I can never repay my debt to those who did. Thank you one and all.

Harry sat down another smattering of applause. He still fumed as the programme ended. Hermione deeply desired to leave with Harry, but the goblin delegation wanted to meet with him. Hermione gazed fondly after her fiancÃ© as she accepted congratulations from various Weasleys.

She hoped to talk to Neville. He had been magnificent.

She did not particularly relish talking to Luna. But Luna was determined to accost her. “Congratulations, Hermione,” Luna called, showing little of her usual airiness. “I have someone who very much wants to meet you - in private.”

“Yes?” Hermione answered rather reluctantly, meeting the gentle gaze of the blue-eyed, silver-haired man standing beside Luna.

“This is Loxos Dromit, Senior Druid of my nemeton, and its elector to the Brythonic College of Covens,” Luna continued.

“My pleasure,” Hermione responded untruthfully, offering her hand.

“The pleasure is mine,” Dromit answered as he heartily took her hand. “You, on the other hand, are suspicious and rather frightened. You should not be….”

They made small talk as Hermione led them to the deserted anteroom behind the High Table. Between the weather and the unnerving tensions revealed during the ceremony, practically all the other attendees headed the other way - to the Hogwarts Floo and home.

“We can talk here,” Hermione indicated after Surveillius revelato revealed no eavesdroppers. “I assume you know, then … and that it's true.”

“I felt it,” Dromit admitted. “I'm sure many did. I dared not believe it, as the ancient magicks are … so ancient.” He regarded Hermione peacefully. “Any possibility, though, compelled inquiry. Then I learnt of Stonehenge, and matters moved from possibility to probability. I was prepared to be convinced when Luna came to me…. Now I know you are truly Brenhines o yr Coedwig, the returned medium of the Dynion Mwyn….”

He started to bow, and Hermione feared that he would act like the goblins did towards Harry. She could not abide that. “Stop, please!”

He did - instantly. “Have I offended you?”

Hermione could barely answer. “Just … don't,” she shook her head vigorously. “I won't be worshipped. For goodness sake, I'm not even Druid. I don't believe in any god, let alone dozens.”

“Fear not,” Dromit spoke calmly. “It matters not. You were consecrated on the stone, and had the stone rejected you, you would not have lived. You have proven yourself. You can channel the stone's power. Let no one tell you that you are not Brenhines o yr Coedwig - least of all yourself.”

“Those are just words - concepts,” Hermione resisted mightily. “There's no hard evidence that I did anything at all.”

“There is hard evidence - the hardest,” Dromit overrode her resistance. “I've been to Stonehenge, following the battle. I know.”

Notwithstanding the transparent rhetorical trap, Hermione was interested. “What do you know?” she asked.

“All the marl underlying the nemeton was cleansed,” Dromit maintained. “Instead of marl, it is chalk - white chalk of great purity. How far your cleansing penetrated the bedrock I cannot say. But the power of your magic is undeniable. I say again, do not doubt that you are truly Brenhines o yr Coedwig.”

“That's the problem,” Hermione declared. “I don't want it. I'm not a high priestess. I'd be lousy, since I don't believe any of it. Why not Luna? I'll see that you - or whoever you want - can access the stone to consecrate someone else. I only did that to save Harry.”

“I'm sorry, Hermione,” Luna apologised, looking downcast.

“What? Why?”

“Luna tells me you are a genius,” Dromit observed. “Surely you can grasp her apology.”

Hermione bowed to the inevitable. “Umm … it's a lifetime job, I presume.”

Dromit nodded. “Until death or magical incapacity. The office is ancient. Periodic elections were not held in Druid Brython 2000 years ago - older than that, since even then the office was venerable.”

Hermione tried stubbornness. “And should I refuse?”

“All Druid adepts felt it,” Dromit informed her. “This is too huge - the first proper Brenhines o yr Coedwig since the Romans - to be ignored. If I fail, other more desperate delegations will follow, beseeching you to accept. I assure you, the position's demands are not rigorous. They cannot approach what you have already experienced using the stone.”

Hermione smiled bitterly. “No choice, then?”

“Not unless you prefer constant visits from others, only more inclined to treat you as the goblins treat your Harry.”

Hermione heaved a great sigh. “All right…. I'll give it serious consideration,” she promised neutrally. “What do you need, and when?”

The answer was refreshing, and indicative of his earlier promise. “We'd like your answer before the Gathering of the Groves on the June solstice. By then, we hope to have Stonehenge restored to a semblance of its former self. You would re-consecrate the nemeton. Since you had a hand in its destruction, I think that's only fair….”

* * * *

A thick blanket of snow precluded running, so Harry performed calisthenics in the deserted Gryffindor common room. “…forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight…”

Maybe he heard something; maybe he sensed her in the predawn gloom, but Harry knew Hermione had entered the room.

He stopped at fifty.

She smiled whilst blatantly ogling him. “My, my, aren't we fit this morning?”

“Finite.” His chin-up bar Retransfigured into someone's leftover quill. “I usually do a hundred,” he commented. He noticed the sizeable bundle of parchment she carried. “What's that?”

Hermione uncertainly scanned the area for something unusual.

“Under your arm,” he clarified.

She relaxed. “Oh, The Sunday Prophet. I don't usually take it, because all the extra print doesn't mean any extra news. But I collected a copy from the honour box by the staff room. I wanted to read the coverage of yesterday's ceremony…. Given what happened.”

“And?”

“They're downplaying everything,” Hermione reported, her face falling. “The lead story is the Auror Corps announcing their own eight Orders of Merlin, matching ours, of course.”

“For what?” Harry scoffed. “They never showed until everything was over.”

“Says here that one's posthumous for valour defending the Wiltshire Auror Headquarters,” Hermione said whilst scanning the article. “The other seven involve what they're now calling the `Battle of Pantllefrith.' That happened later that night, after our battle ended.”

Harry shrugged. Aurors had fought an engagement at the Changs' compound, although not involving Voldemort. “Anyone we know?”

“No...,” Hermione answered, scanning the rest of the article. “Wait, yes, Andy Carluke, one of our summer instructors, gets a Third Class…. Also, your friend Mannock will get his second. He did seem rather smug when I saw him at our event.”

“Whatever,” Harry waved that off. “What's the Prophet saying about us - about Neville?”

“Nothing … nothing at all unusual,” she told him in a disbelieving voice. “Not a bloody thing about Neville, except his getting an award. The whole story must have been copied rote from a pre-prepared Ministry press release. `Before an invited audience, the heroes of last New Years' Battle of Stonehenge were awarded…' and so on and so forth. Not a word about Dobby. Not a word about anything out of the ordinary….” The parchments rustled as she thumbed to an inside page. “Oh, and you'll love this, `The ceremony ended when the Light forces' leader, Harry Potter, fresh from' blah, blah, blah `gave a well-received address to the small crowd of mostly prior award winners.'”

Harry's face darkened into a scowl. “Well-received? Shite! That was excruciating. I should have thrown down my notes and walked off.”

Hermione sat beside him. “No, did the right thing,” she caressed his cheek. “Sometimes grinning and bearing it is the better part of valour - something I've learnt the hard way. I'm sorry you went through that, but it was a valuable learning experience.”

“How?” Harry grumped. “Having to stand there and watch a bunch of old fogies ignore everything we did and sit on their hands? They didn't even clap much for Mad-Eye, and he died.”

“Exactly right,” Hermione agreed. Her hand left his cheek and aimlessly stroked his arm. “It's a useful reminder of the full extent of wizard racism. They're not our friends, Harry. They're allies of convenience. Nor is it just house-elves, although Dobby certainly bore the brunt. Those Order laureates weren't even well disposed towards the goblins - it showed.”

“I'll say,” Harry sighed ruefully. “After the ceremony the goblins revoked their invitation that a Ministry representative attend today's Alitserat. Tit for tat.”

“So that's why Percy was shooting daggers at you yesterday,” Hermione realised.

“He probably thinks I suggested it,” Harry replied. “He thinks that way - wizards driving everything. He's wrong. The goblins saw the Minister insult me and decided to invite Neville instead. They only asked to be sure I approved, and of course I did. Better Neville than Percy any day.”

“Well bravo for them and bravo for you,” Hermione cheered. “I think that deserves a kiss, Mister Potter….”

She leaned into him, ready to make good on that promise.

“But you haven't heard the best part,” Harry stopped her with his words. “They're making the cave available afterwards. That's because … well, I found out more about the Alitserat - it's not like an Ashrak. It's … umm….”

“Umm, what, Harry?” Hermione asked when he hesitated, noticing his flushed face.

“The entire victorious army attends, with their wives or girlfriends. A huge feast follows the awards and the army's formal demobilisation. After that … maybe I didn't understand it exactly, but it sounds like an orgy - a mass celebratory mating.”

* * * *

Escorted by MÄ�ktrax, who assumed command of Harry's personal guard with Slamdor and Roxtar promoted, the party of four “wand bearers” - Flitwick, Harry, Hermione, and Neville - emerged through a goblin splixat into what they expected would be Gringotts.

They were surprised to find themselves outdoors, beside the bank.

Stepping into the chill, Harry and the rest met a double row of goblin warriors, dressed in their finest greys and standing at attention, with their various weapons pointed skyward.

The wizards paused, uncertain.

“Please, Impratraxis, Savini, come,” MÄ�ktrax beckoned. “To front go we.”

Professor Flitwick caught the drift first. “Yes, we enter through the great bronze doors. Harry, the goblins wish to honour our party. You should lead.”

The snow (much less in London) was cleared from the entrance, and a grey and red striped carpet laid across the cobbles. Harry led his friends to Diagon Alley where - sure enough - the great bronze doors stood wide open.

Behind him, Harry heard Flitwick take a deep breath.

Atop of the stairs, leading the goblin welcoming party, stood Crown Prince Maragnok, accompanied the three high-ranking goblins who had attended yesterday's event at Hogwarts.

The party enjoyed the goblins' mind-boggling hospitality. Neville had never entered the goblin realm, and Hermione only briefly.

Thus they gawked, Neville more openly than Hermione, at the goblins' display for their honoured guests. The awe Harry experienced when he attended the Ashrak last August was back.

Harry's friends were not alone. Many goblins did double-takes. In keeping with Alitserat tradition, Harry and his friends all wore the same goblin-forged Basilisk-skin armour as during the Battle of Stonehenge.

The issues that armour raised with the goblins approximated the house-elf question amongst wizards.

In the Goblin Nation, women did not fight. The sight of Hermione in full warrior garb was unprecedented. Without a word, Hermione cut an even more radical figure amongst the goblins than she had yesterday in publicly supporting a house-elf for the Order of Merlin.

Hermione knew exactly what she was doing. Just as house-elves were oppressed in wizard society, so were goblin females. To her, both phenomena were indistinguishable, as was her adverse reaction. She was confident of Harry's support.

Still, nothing could have prepared her - or Neville, or Professor Flitwick - for the grandeur of the goblins' ceremonial cavern.

Passing through the gold-chain curtain on what amounted to a self-propelled throne, resplendent in gilt and brocade, Hermione was amazed. Harry had, of course, described the chamber, but his words could not do it justice.

It was, by some margin, the largest enclosed space she had ever seen - at least twice the size of the Chamber of Secrets. It exceeded even the Yanks' moon-rocket building she had visited with her parents as a child.

Nor was this space bare and Spartan like the Americans' structure. As Harry had described, it resembled the inside of a great tent, its grey fabric supported by dozens of gigantic gold chains extending in a starburst formation from the massive overhead lights.

The floor near the stage was packed. The entire victorious goblin army was present.

`Sweet Circe, Harry,' she Legilimenced. `I know you said it was huge, but I had no idea….'

`It's even bigger than before,' he responded. `Look to your right.'

At first, she thought Harry meant the grandstands, where mostly women sat - the mates, she understood, of those who fought.

But Harry's arm pointed further up.

Above and beyond the upper (currently empty) grandstands yawned a large antechamber of sorts. Silver railing rimmed its mouth, and a number of goblins, so far away as to appear tiny, stood behind it. Whilst smoothed out and partially decorated with more gold chains and cloth, that space was out of place. It interrupted the chamber's otherwise rough symmetry, and forced to either side the gold chains otherwise extending from the centre of the ceiling.

`That's the chunk the Death Eaters broke loose?' Hermione asked, already suspecting the answer.

`That's where it came from, yes,' Harry confirmed.

`You kept something that large from falling?' she went on.

`Umm … Dumbledore helped … a lot,' he again confirmed.

`No wonder he suspected … you know what…,' she speculated, unwilling to speak the phrase, even silently.

`Yeah, but none of that blasted mercury this time….'

With a slight bump, the line of moving chairs halted. They exited, and Hermione heard a roar from the crowd as the assembled warriors caught sight of Harry.

Time for some theatre. Hermione moved quickly to Harry's side. He waved Neville over. The boy, invited too recently to know about their prearrangement, hesitated but did what Harry wanted. Standing between them, Harry grasped their hands firmly and raised their arms as high over his head as he could.

That prompted another roar, but as the wave of sound subsided, a tittering buzz persisted - not much different from the Order of Merlin crowd at yesterday's ceremony.

They split up. A goblin escort led Harry to a polished cube of jet black obsidian three times his height. Surmounting it was the speaker's platform where Harry would award various decorations. Impatok Ragnok, the Crown Prince, and other goblin dignitaries were already seated.

Another goblin led Neville and Professor Flitwick to a visitor's box otherwise filled entirely with goblins. From their colourful robes, Flitwick supposed they represented the various goblin cantons of Britain.

A third goblin led Hermione around what looked like, of all things, a wok - if a wok could be five metres across. The silvery metal had scorch marks.

Neville and the professor may have appeared out of place, but to her group, Hermione seemed almost as if from another planet. She was to sit with Impateki Runasa, Imprexii Imuna and Karanata, and other women of the goblin court. They wore their best goblin finery. Hermione, by contrast, was clad in the Basilisk skin armour of a goblin berserker - armour that, whilst diligently cleaned up, bore obvious battle scars.

Hermione would receive one of the higher goblin awards - with several goblin braves who had distinguished themselves in battle. Despite passive resistance, Harry had prevailed. Hermione's battle commendation was the Goblin Nation's first ever conferred upon any female.

Unlike Minister Scrimgeour, the goblins would do almost anything Harry wanted. He was not only a prince, but also the Victor of the Battle of Stonehenge. Harry had informed General Barduk in no uncertain terms that Hermione had devised the mosquito-netting spell that had turned the tide of battle….

BOOM boom-boom. BOOM boom-boom. BOOM boom-boom.

With reverberations from great drums, the Alitserat ceremony commenced.

Loud inhuman screeches from the opposite side had Hermione cocking her head. On far stage left rested a half-dozen goblin fliers - with their mounts. The drumming startled the great leather-winged beasts, but their riders soon soothed them.

Hermione's initial reaction was what are they doing here? Then she recalled Harry's account of the Death Eater attack on the Ashrak. Squinting at the ceiling, she spotted at least a dozen goblins, no doubt specially detailed, dizzyingly perched by the lighting fixtures at the very top of the hall.

The throbbing in Hermione's head, however, was not from vertigo. The goblin drums pounded out a driving, constantly changing, double four time rhythm. Very soon….

A peal from something approximating trumpets burst forth. Hermione looked for the musicians but saw only several large glowing crystals next to the central flowstone pillar. The crystals flared again, and she realised that the hundreds of crystals provided the music that accompanied the drumbeat rhythms.

The curtain at stage right drew back. Dozens of goblin honourees entered, marching to the rhythms. Accompanying them were … were they not goblins, Hermione would have called them “break dancers.” They performed their choreography with blades flashing in either hand.

The honourees were smartly dressed in their home cantons' uniforms. They carried various red and black standards….

No, those were not banners.

As the soon-to-be decorated goblins approached, Hermione recognised their hoisted cargo as trophies captured during the Battle of Stonehenge - red and white banners with Chinese characters, black Death Eater robes, red Triad robes, various brooms, and wizard wands tied up with string.

At least they left those ghastly severed heads on spikes behind.

The award winners strutted past. They formed two single file rows that passed on either side of the huge silvery bowl. To a goblin, they hurled the spoils of war into the basin.

Their ranks reformed before the obsidian platform. Vibrating crystals emitted another brassy burst. The award winners halted and stood at rigid attention in a perfectly rectangular formation.

A blinding white spotlight illuminated them. Seconds later, all other lights in the cavern went dark.

Another piercing spotlight, this one pencil thin, found Harry on the speaker's platform. Its light was like nothing Hermione had ever seen. In contrast to the limelight white that bathed the goblin honourees, the light shining on Harry was silvery, even greyish. Bathed in it, Harry practically sparkled.

A flame - real fire - flickered from a different angle. Harry fumbled with a goblin crossbow to little effect. A nearby goblin tried to assist him with the unfamiliar weapon, but the flame went out.

Instead, Harry drew his wand.

“Enflagrate!”

The silver bowl filled with booty from the Battle of Stonehenge burst into intense orange flames.

With the fire holding crowd's attention drawn, nobody noticed Harry touch his wand to his own throat.

“ULULULULULU!!” boomed Harry's magically fortified voice.

Virtually every goblin in the chamber responded in kind - “ULULULULULU!!” The battle cry rolled through the huge space.

Not even BerlitzMagical taught Gobbledygook, so Harry's brief speech thanking the army for its service, saluting its valour, and commemorating its victory was translated and amplified for the audience's benefit.

Hermione's Gobbledygook was nearly as bad as Harry's. She could not follow much of what he said, the syntax was so different.

The goblins seemed to like it, responding several times with loud cheers.

The award of decorations followed Harry's speech. Roxtar was the only name she recognised in the first group that ascended to the spotlit honour box. Roxtar's deeds - chopping off his own finger so the army knew where to go, and then combat throughout the desperate fight (including cutting down Dolohov to save her life) - were such that Hermione surmised that the highest acts of valour, meriting the most important medals, were awarded first.

The Alitserat was surprisingly informal, given the presence of the Nation's sovereign and his entire court. The audience was grouped by canton, and each award winner wore his canton's colours. Every award brought raucous cheering from the winner's hometown crowd. The cantons competed good-naturedly to generate the most deafening applause, the most elaborate chants, or the loudest clanks from banging their weapons together.

The awards were lengthy. Many warriors had distinguished themselves in combat, and victory had a thousand fathers. The goblin army had not fought such an engagement - against a large number of wizards - in several centuries.

Listening to an extended ceremony conducted in a language she did not understand, Hermione became bored.

Protocol demanded that she project outward attentiveness. At all times she was undoubtedly being watched, since she was a human, a female, and wearing goblin armour - something unheard of.

Finally, she heard her own name, “Hermione Granger,” announced from the podium.

Hermione knew she would receive some sort of award near the end of the ceremony, shortly before the feast. Beyond that, the goblins played things close to the vest. All she knew, because it initially offended her, was that she was the only human - besides Harry - accorded goblin “status.” That “status,” stemming from her relationship with Harry, allowed Hermione to receive a goblin military decoration.

It was a singular honour. No female, let alone a human female, had ever won a martial award from the Gablankansta.

From the cavern's topmost reaches, a floodlight found Hermione. With all eyes on her spotlit figure, she gracefully exited the court ladies' box and made for the even more brilliantly illuminated platform. Reaching the top of the stairs, she found herself sharing a three-metre-square space with Impatok Ragnok, his imperial chamberlain, General Barduk, a goblin translator, a couple of goblin gofers, and - of course - Harry.

Visibly sweating from almost an hour in the spotlight, Harry was still doing the honours. “Hermione … er Miss Hermione Granger, for exceptional bravery in single-handedly destroying the enemy's reinforcement capability, and also your remarkable spell casting to banish the enemy….”

The goblin translator repeated Harry's every word in Gobbledygook for the goblin audience could follow. At the mention of “banishing” the enemy, the translator's voice noticeably hitched. Hermione looked around. Almost every goblin, save General Barduk and the King himself, wore surprised expressions.

Harry had deliberately kept Hermione's pivotal role a secret - even from most goblins. Now, equally intentionally, he revealed it to the entire goblin army.

“…I am pleased to award the Rank of Distinction, First Class, the highest award the Nation can bestow on a non-citizen.”

A goblin aide handed Harry a grey ribbon that supported a strikingly white heptagon inlaid with shiny goblin runes, probably made of platinum or palladium. Its centre was a stylised knot, symbolising unity.

Her forehead beading with perspiration from the hot lights, Hermione bent forward at the waist as Harry placed the decoration about her neck. The goblin crowd responded with a tremendous cheer complete with the clanking of goblin steel.

In return, she curtseyed slightly. She turned to leave the honour box.

“Savini … semlit….”

The voice was Ragnok's, gravelly and low.

Chamberlain Yastrop quickly translated, “Impatok, stay you wishes he.”

Hermione pivoted to face the goblin sovereign.

The old king's face displayed the toothy grimace she now knew was a goblin's smile.

“Yam rimikat,” he said.

“Surprise can I, as well,” Yastrop translated.

The King motioned, and a retainer produced an object about a half-metre long and otherwise fairly narrow. It was symmetrical in one dimension and curved in another. The object was encased in goblin grey, save for small golden rivets along the edges.

Impatok Ragnok stood.

“Semat,” he commanded Harry.

“Kneel, he wishes,” Yastrop whispered close to Harry's ear.

The goblin crowd, heretofore boisterous and raucous, fell silent. The celebration assumed a more solemn cast.

Harry hesitated, not sure how “kneel” translated from Gobbledygook. He dropped slowly to both knees and extended his hands. He had seen goblins prostrate themselves often enough.

“No. Knees only,” Yastrop hissed in Harry's ear.

Impatok Ragnok made another motion. The goblin translator surrendered the amulet connected to the goblin public address system.

“Ramsus akadak Impratraxis Potter….”

As he spoke, Ragnok reached for the object. Hermione recognised a scabbard - sized for a human but otherwise similar to goblin armament.

With a metallic “schliiiiiiiing,” Ragnok withdrew from the scabbard a goblin dirk almost the size of a scimitar. Patterned red gemstones and shining black onyx glinted from the hilt. Save for its gleaming silver cutting edge, the nastily curved blade was ivory white. The tip positively sparkled. From its size, the dirk had to be custom claw-crafted for Harry. No goblin could wield such a blade comfortably. Ragnok needed both hands just to heft it.

For Harry's and Hermione's benefit, the translator began interpreting Ragnok's Gobbledegook into English.

“Righteous warrior Prince Potter, to victory most glorious the Goblin Nation led hast thou. Far from honourific was your command. But for your actions beaten would have been the Nation. Most worthy have proven you. Pleased is Ragnok. Passed has more than a millennium since so honoured has been one not of our birth. Truly, in the Sempiternal League belong you, in the histories of the Nation forever to walk. So be it.”

King Ragnok tapped the dirk once on Harry's right shoulder, once on Harry's left, and once atop his head. He slid the bowed blade into the scabbard, and, with both hands, personally presented the dirk to Harry, pommel first.

The goblin King nodded to his adopted human son.

Harry grasped the grip.

“Aynor.” King Ragnok bade him

With the glittering dirk in hand, Harry rose. So did the goblin crowd, roaring their approval.

The adulation embarrassed Harry almost as much as induction into the Sempiternal League - whatever that was - honoured him.

“Time is it, for the ceremony to close you,” Yastrop almost yelled at Harry through the din.

Harry felt relieved, and not just to be done with the hot lights. He was back on programme and knew what he was supposed to do. He raised both hands, one holding the dirk, over his head. All that remained was the command that officially prorogued the goblin army.

Then it struck him … the grip, the quillons - felt familiar in his hand….

Harry waivered. The goblins waited expectantly.

Finally, Harry forced out, “Melchikor!”

He intended a bellow, but his call to liberty emerged rather raggedly.

A goblin retainer offered a goblet of water, which Harry gratefully emptied. He was parched, but thirst was secondary.

At Harry's command, returning the army to civilian status, the side doors flew open and goblin caterers wheeled in table after table groaning with unfamiliar food and drink. The goblin warriors, famished after the protracted ceremony, practically dove into the repast.

Harry and Hermione were not much tempted. Goblin cuisine consisted altogether too much of large insects, arachnids, and other invertebrates for human taste.

More rasping and banging arose as stairs unfolded at the rear of the chamber. The soldiers' mates were now permitted to rejoin their loved ones.

Which they did, enthusiastically.

Harry and Hermione had been warned that the next phase of the Alitserat could get rather … out of control. The honour box began emptying, with Impatok Ragnok leading the way - straight to his Queen, Runasa.

Yastrop came to their rescue. “Impratraxis, Savini, please follow me. Prepared are your accommodations.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged knowing looks. The princely glow worm cave retreat awaited - for their private version of what goblin warriors and their mates were beginning to share.

Harry sheathed the dirk in its scabbard, primarily to get it out of the way. Yastrop led them through increasingly rowdy festivities to the leather chairs that had brought them to the cavern.

Unfortunately, the chairs sat only one, and could not be magically enlarged.

Fortunately, Hermione found Harry's lap most inviting.

“Hermione,” Harry rumbled before the chairs began moving. “The grip of this thing feels so much like the sword of Gryffindor. It's uncanny.”

“No, Impratraxis, better is it,” Yastrop commented.

Startled, Hermione almost fell out of Harry's lap.

“My humblest apologies,” Yastrop murmured, prepared to prostrate himself.

Harry put a stop to that. “Don't … please.”

“Only a change of clothes to bring meant I,” Yastrop explained. “Perhaps, your armour's damage, might repair our armourers?”

Yastrop made a good point. Their Basilisk skin armour bore all the dings and chinks collected during the Battle of Stonehenge.

“That will be fine, Yastrop,” Hermione answered for them both. “Can you have them picked up outside the Retreat?”

“Of course,” Yastrop agreed.

Harry was curious. “Yastrop, how is mine `better' than the sword of Gryffindor?”

“Basilisk fang fashioned - undamaged from yours,” Yastrop disclosed. “Largest in existence and with loaded venom in its diamond tip. More capable than anything to Godric the Gryphon given.”

Harry turned the glinting blade over in his hands. “And this edge?”

“Vorpal steel has this one, Impratraxis,” Yastrop explained, “Not invented when the sword awarded the Gryphon forged we.”

“What's vorpal steel?” Harry followed.

“Happy you to show, but get moving may we?” Yastrop requested.

“Sure,” Harry nodded.

Yastrop moved to the chair in front and sat down. He reached underneath and swivelled it around. Then he raised his arm, signalling someone unseen.

The chairs lurched into motion.

“Your inherent righteousness, vorpal steel, during battle calls forth. And is practical also. With something like your Transfiguration magic is imbued,” Yastrop explained. “If point would you….”

Harry did.

“Now this ristrop…. I'm sorry, word for this blade in your language know not I,” Yastrop admitted.

“It's probably closest to a scimitar,” Hermione offered.

Harry gave her an odd look.

“We worked with knives and swords in one of the Auror sessions after you were kidnapped,” Hermione clarified.

“Scimitar then,” Yastrop continued. “For fighting single combat is excellent, but suppose instead thick ropes to cut wish you … or say this restraint.”

Yastrop reached underneath and yanked out the male portion of a goblin seatbelt. He extracted the female half from Harry's seat and fastened them together.

“Into the scimitar, please to channel your desire.”

“Okay,” Harry agreed as he concentrated on the seatbelt connecting the two chairs.

The silvery edge of his blade shimmered and reformed into a scissors.

“Whoa!” Harry exclaimed, examining the reconfigured blade.

“Vorpal steel,” Yastrop stated, sounding quite pleased with himself. “Rare and difficult to forge. Some five hundred of your years ago invent did we.”

“So goblins did give Godric Gryffindor his sword,” Hermione jumped in. “Why?”

“Gablankansta, not us,” Yastrop corrected. “Long ago, when existed fewer humans, more stansir … er … above ground went we. Even Impatok. Wizard brigands, and Muggle Norsemen, ambush did they, Ragnuk the First and imperial family. Stolen everything, perhaps even kill Impatok might have they, except appeared the Gryphon and with our guards drove them off. Alliance proposed we, and to confirm, sword awarded we.”

“Godric Gryffindor was allied with you?” Harry goggled.

“Not last, did it,” Yastrop spoke, shaking his head. “In with wrong crowd, fell he. When founded Hogwarts, did they, willing to participate were we. Others would not allow. Them chose he … over us. Ended badly, did it. Ever since our separate ways, have gone we. Believe many of us that the sword to obtain our Impatok enchanted the Gryphon.”

“So Godric….”

With a bump, the chairs came to a halt.

“Arrived have we,” Yastrop declared, changing the subject. “Path to retreat is before you. Please communicate, if more than three hours wish you. Dumbledore to return you then wants he. But control does your word, not his.”

Harry looked suggestively at Hermione. “Well, I'm ready to get out of this.”

“Beat you to it!” she immediately replied. Hermione took off running down the path to the brightly lit Retreat - leaving Harry to sort out the scissored dirk before he could pursue her.

* * * *

Author's notes: Hermione's mastery of Levitation Charms goes back to Wingardium Leviosa

Dudley once played “Pipes”

Jazzy's Arithmancy problem is like something that happened to me in 10th grade

The dream reference is to what happened in Ch. 4

Hermione's father shot a Death Eater in Ch. 23

Macau, a former Portuguese colony with peculiar governance, is a notorious site for shady dealings

Lao Kung dies of pancreatic cancer, a quick killer

The sonic hedgehog gene exists, and was named after a videogame

The “hairy potty” line originates with the Captain Underpants series

The “system” was introduced in Ch. 54

A shot at the idea of Hermione being able to Obliviate her parents; otherwise everybody would be Obliviating everyone

Cooper Pedy, in the Australian outback, is where people literally live underground in abandoned opal mines

The moon phase matches the date

Lupin referenced his prior problems with Tonks in Ch. 45

Dumbledore refers to the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918

Harry and Hermione met the senior Druid at Luna's father's funeral in Ch. 25

Harry promised Hermione to do essentially what Neville did

Loxos is “oblique” in Greek; Dromit is a random English place name

Brythonic is a term for Celtic languages in Britain

Brenhines o yr Coedwig = a Druidic term for a witch queen

Dynion Mwyn = Celtic Druid/magical tradition

Marl and chalk are both forms of calcium carbonate common in England

Luna recognized a Druid consecration spell among the spells Hermione used to find Harry in Ch. 35

Gathering of the Groves is an annual Druid meeting

With my daughter attending Pomona, there will be more “47” references in the story

Hermione feels the same about Sunday papers as I do

The private goblin cave appeared previously in Ch. 60

Hermione's memory is of NASA's Vehicular Assembly Building at Cape Canaveral

The descriptions of the goblins' gathering cavern is consistent with Ch. 14

Hermione used the mosquito netting spell in the duel in Ch. 49

Harry used BerlitzMagical to learn French in Ch. 25

Victory has a thousand fathers is part of a quote from John F. Kennedy

The Sempiternal League is something of a goblin warrior's hall of fame

Vorpal is a nonsense word from Lewis Caroll's Jabberwocky describing a sword; I've added its properties

The Godric Gryffindor backstory is not canon, but is a plausible interpretation

68

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 3/20/2010

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75. The St. Valentine's Day Mess

Wherein Harry gets a new guardian and a dressing down, a Quidditch match is played, Draco takes chances, Filch gets KOed, Harry receives post, Hagrid teaches, Ron's appetite gets him into trouble, as does Slughorn's thirst, Hermione thinks quickly, Valentine's night is celebrated, and Voldemort reverses himself.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, Mathiasgranger, Staples701, and new beta Smogonskarm.

Chapter 75 - The St. Valentine's Day Mess

“Depulso!” With a clatter, several piles of coloured wooden blocks skittered across the hard floor.

“Excellent, Seamus,” Shak's praise carried a hint of self-satisfaction. “See, you're quite capable of cutting a spell five ways and hitting your targets.”

Turning to the rest of the class, the DADA professor inquired, “I believe Seamus was our last. Have I missed anybody - has anyone not practised multiple spell cutting today?” Nobody raised a hand. “Very good. We're adjourned. Next session, be prepared to do it again - only silently. Oh, and Mister Potter, could I have word…?”

Noting Harry's wary expression, Shak reassured his star student. “Don't worry. Since I dismissed class early, you won't be late for Potions.”

“Umm, okay,” Harry responded tentatively. He glanced at Hermione, waiting by the door, her expression unreadable.

“Just you, this time, please,” Shak added, indicating that her presence was not desired.

“See you in Potions, then,” she said evenly and disappeared down the corridor. Harry knew she would expect a full report later.

Shak knew she would get one.

He led the way through the rear classroom door that led to his private office. That his office was really two storeys down and on the Castle's opposite side was irrelevant, as the magical doorway was a perk of teaching Defence.

Shak sat behind his desk and nodded towards a chair. Harry seated himself uncertainly. He had no idea what the professor's intent was.

Shak dispensed with prefatory small talk. “Well, Harry, have you found anyone else?”

“Who else, sir?” Harry floundered. “Why should I be looking for someone?”

“One reason would be that I asked you,” Shak countered dryly, as Harry was being obtuse. “Time is short. Now that you've played the Minister for a fool, he's not likely to leave you without adult supervision much longer. Either you act, or I'm sure he'll select your guardian within a fortnight.”

Harry had to confess. He had made zero progress on the guardian front since their last chat. Acceptable candidates did not exactly abound.

“Well, I considered Tonks, but I guess she's not a possibility for the same reason as Professor Lupin,” Harry observed.

“That's true, but she wouldn't have qualified anyway,” Shak frowned. “The operative phrase is `adult supervision.' She's a good Auror, but she's too young and flighty for such an ongoing responsibility. She'd never pass the Ministry's muster; certainly not now….”

“Then I guess you're the one … if you'll do it,” Harry reiterated.

“I've pondered this quite a bit,” Shak told the boy. “I'm still concerned about an appearance of impropriety, as I'm also your instructor. To make this work, I need you to sit for your Defence N.E.W.T. at the end of the term. The N.E.W.T. will independently corroborate the Outstanding you'll surely earn from me.”

“I can do that?”

“Certainly. It's not encouraged, but allowed,” Shak reassured. “I'll offer the option to everyone, but you're the only one really ready, save perhaps your ladyfriend. It's bloody obvious that you're well past N.E.W.T. level. That's one….”

“There's more?”

“For this to work, yes,” Shak spoke decisively. “We need some ground rules. I can't be a guardian in the traditional sense, since you're of age in a few months. I'm not Bill - Merlin rest his soul. He didn't have much luck ordering you about, anyway. So I won't give you orders, and have things go all pear-shaped when you don't obey. Other than signing the necessary papers, I'm basically here to give you advice … when you need it.”

“That sounds fair,” Harry cautiously accepted. “People like Howe and McAllister can do much of the routine stuff. Advice sounds about right.”

“I won't ask that you always accept my advice, either,” Shak ploughed ahead. “Fair enough?”

“Sounds good,” Harry replied. This arrangement seemed better than expected.

“But I expect, at minimum, for you to be honest and open with me. That's the only way I can offer you any advice in a timely fashion. After that, it's your call - fair enough?”

“Yeah, that should be okay,” Harry nodded, although puzzled at Shak's rather stilted affect.

Shak veered from vague generalities to excruciatingly specifics. “I especially don't want to be blindsided by the type of stunt you pulled at the Order of Merlin ceremony. Granted, the gesture was smashing, but you need to consider the consequences of the Minister's public humiliation - not to mention alienating so many influential wizards. Now we're back to square one.”

With Harry's assent to his guardianship in hand, Shak was determined to provide an earful of advice - albeit retroactive - before any paperwork was completed.

“We're not back to square one,” Harry spluttered defensively. “The Ministry can never again pretend that house-elves can't fight for themselves.”

“Never underestimate the Ministry's capacity for self-delusion,” Shak cut across. “Last year should have made that crystal clear. Nothing will happen on that front unless and until Voldemort is defeated. You need to understand what's really going on….”

Harry bridled at being patronised. “All right, what is really going on?” he querulously echoed.

Shak ignored Harry's peevishness. “As I hope you're already aware, Voldemort's sympathisers have hamstrung the Ministry since … well, since before Voldemort returned in the flesh. One of the worst - and certainly the most highly placed - of Voldemort's fellow-travellers is Pius Thicknesse. We, that is the Order, have been trying to have him sacked from his command in the Auror Corps literally for years. Rufus had finally agreed to do it. The Aurors' lethargic New Years Eve performance clinched it….”

Harry knew what Shak's punch-line would be. “And then along we came and cocked all that up,” he added resignedly.

“Too right,” Shak continued without missing a beat. “With Thicknesse out, we could have reorganised the Auror Corps so it wasn't constantly working at cross-purposes. Now, we not only still have Thicknesse mucking things up, and no hope of Rufus doing us any favours, but you've alienated many of the most highly decorated Aurors. I've already heard rumbles that continued gridlock is better than courting house-elf rebellion.”

“What?” protested Harry disbelievingly. “Who said anything about house-elf rebellion, even assuming they were so inclined, which they certainly aren't?”

Shak waved away his new ward's objections. “With your Muggle upbringing, Harry - you and her both - you simply don't realise how most wizards view house-elves.”

“There, you're wrong,” Harry retorted, stung by Shak's dismissive reference to `her'. “They treat them like slaves.”

“Precisely,” Shak intoned.

That wrong-footed Harry. “Precisely what?”

“Precisely why most wizards fear even the infinitesimal possibility of house-elf rebellion.” Shak turned Harry's argument around. “Wizards aren't that stupid, Harry. Anybody who's owned elves for generations appreciates their powerful magic. Now imagine your own family living on some rural estate - say four or five wizards amongst four or five times as many elves. Were the elves ever to rebel, those wizards are dead in their beds, plain and simple. That's how slave rebellions, Muggle or magical, have always gone…. Anyway, your elf escapade stirred up fears…. Adding literacy training doesn't help.”

“Bollocks,” Harry angrily shot back. “None of that has anything to do with inciting rebellion. It was about Dobby's bravery receiving proper recognition.”

Shak almost physically had to restrain his eyeballs from rolling. “Look, Harry…. Like I said, you don't have to take my advice. But I've worked with these people all my adult life, and I know how they think. Why else could you hear a Sickle drop during your speech? You scared them, Harry. I don't believe at all you meant to, but you did, and now we have to live with the consequences.”

* * * *

Ron woke up with the sun (not that he awoke early, given Hogwarts' Highland location) on the fine winter's day of February 1, 1997. “All right!” he exclaimed loudly, seeing nary a cloud in the sky. Large icicles outside the window, and patches of bare ground mottling what had been featureless white, told him that the weather had warmed.

Close to perfect Quidditch weather.

Harry had already been up for several hours, Ron knew. Odds were Harry was somewhere with Hermione - probably revising rather than snogging. The mental discipline necessary to have that one as a girlfriend was beyond Ron, but seemed to suit his friend. Of course, with all Harry's responsibilities….

Ron had responsibilities, too, if altogether less earthshaking than Harry's. That reminded him…. He reached under his bed and grabbed his Christmas present from Harry. Ron regularly used his Quidditch strategy board to outline new plays for Gryffindor, but his intent today was different. Ron might not be particularly scrupulous in his studies, but Quidditch was different. He had read the strategy board's instruction scroll end to end - twice.

Thus, Ron knew that his strategy board featured both an Omniocular port and replay capability. Ron decided to record most of the upcoming match, whenever Hufflepuff had the Quaffle. Not only would he do this, but he recruited Harry, Luna and Dean to do the same from different perspectives. Before Gryffindor played Hufflepuff, Ron would re-enact the `Puffs' plays on his strategy board, and devise the best defensive formations to stop them.

Hufflepuff had emerged as the surprise challenger to Gryffindor Quidditch supremacy. Harry's Quidditch trust had scrambled the previous natural order of things. With broom power equalized amongst all House teams, Slytherin had been exposed for the talentless ponces (except for Moose) they were. Remove the advantage conferred by the best brooms money could buy, and the head ponce of all, Draco bloody Malfoy, quit altogether rather than face public embarrassment in a fair test of skill.

Sometimes Harry could be as brilliant as Hermione - in far more important subjects!

Replacing Galleon-based brooms with competition based on genuine talent brought Ravenclaw, and especially Hufflepuff, to the fore. It turned out that the `Puffs were damn good. The Ravens probably could not keep pace, since they were left with a rookie Seeker.

That bloody Thing Chang had been banned from Quidditch.

Ron would have preferred that the Thing be consigned to Azkaban where she belonged. For reasons he and Hermione could debate all week, that had not happened. Still, Ron found some vindication in Dumbledore's activities ban. At least his ordeal had achieved something….

…Two things, actually. Putting Chang aside (as he sincerely intended to keep doing), the horrible recurrent nightmares caused by his stupid brain encounter at the Ministry were gone. Since his New Year's Eve close brush with death, Ron had not experienced a single one. Before then, they had haunted him almost nightly.

Ron wandered to the Great Hall for breakfast. Eventually Harry and Hermione appeared. Sure enough - they had been in the Room of Requirement. Sure enough - they had been revising, not snogging. Mostly.

Harry's regimen included work outs, what with too much snow about to permit morning outdoor runs. `Why run unless necessary?' Ron thought. Anyway, that was Harry. He had also revised his Charms project on tunneling and practised some of Dumbledore's Occlumency techniques.

Hermione was shiftier, but Ron gathered that she, too, was heavily invested in advanced training. No surprise, really. Hermione's extra work, however, went beyond Healing to include mysterious Defence and Transfiguration techniques that she was unwilling to discuss with anyone save Harry.

Ron's long-held suspicion about them keeping secrets from him was fact. Yet, he did not fret much about it, leaving such emoting behind. Their secrets had saved his life once, and probably would again.

What now mattered was the fast approaching Quidditch match. Yes, Harry had brought his Omnioculars without having to be reminded. He would mark the Seekers, since it takes one to know one. Ron would follow the action around the Slytherin goals. Dean would do the same for the `Puffs' hoops.

Ron had weighed having Harry ask Hermione to be a fourth watcher - what with the “Trio” tradition. Even though her Quidditch enthusiasm was conspicuous by its absence … and like the Half-Blood Prince she might consider his scheme cheating … she would do it for Harry. But hand-in-hand with Hermione's lukewarm attitude went a lack of appreciation for the finer points of the game. She would not anticipate the play, and the viewing would suffer.

Ron also doubted that Hermione would suffer sitting through a Quidditch match that did not feature Harry. She never had before.

No; best to have Luna do it.

Soon they all trooped to the Hogwarts Pitch.

For the first time ever, Hagrid's Blast-Ended Skrewts justified their existence. He had used them to clear a decent path through the remaining snow.

Bundled against the cold and blinking in the low, bright sunlight, Ron was practically skipping. It was nearly time for Quidditch. Even if only spectating, he was helping the team he co-captained.

Who knows? Maybe Luna would let him have a go with that new oversized badger bonnet she had worn to breakfast. It was brilliant. She had enchanted it to growl in time with everybody else's cheering.

Who could possibly not like Quidditch?

* * * *

Who indeed?

The cheers accompanying the team introductions were a faint whisper in the Castle's second storey. With a creak even less audible than the sounds of the match outside, the door to a little-used broom closet opened.

It closed again - as nobody entered.

In dreary half-light, Draco Malfoy's image shimmered into view as he shed an Invisibility Cloak. His pointy face sneered. He turned up his nose at the all-too-familiar odours of Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess-Remover, Wizard Blizzard Wipes, Pesternomi Pest Preclusion Potion, Self-Bleaching Mops, and other assorted cleaning materials. If he never saw that bloody Squib Filch again, it would be too soon.

Since receiving his latest orders from the Dark Lord, Draco had planned for this moment - plotting to complete the next step of a fiendishly complex task he still did not fully understand.

As part of his plan, he brought his broom - the same Nimbus he once used for Quidditch.

Malfoy deliberately wore his shabbiest robes - the same set he used whilst suffering two weeks of humiliating but necessary detentions with Mr. Filch.

From within them he withdrew a monogrammed 3-ounce sterling silver hip flask. He tried not to contemplate the flavour of its contents. The other day he had filled the flask with something having both the light-brown mottled colour and goopy consistency of week-old sewage sludge - appropriate, considering the source.

A wretched grimace marred Draco's face as, hoping not to vomit; he tipped the flask back and, with a groan, swallowed the stuff in one huge gulp.

Essence of Filch tasted as foul as the original's appearance suggested.

The disgusting aftertaste had barely registered before a noxious churning sensation unsettled his stomach. Radiating outward, it felt worse than anything Draco had previously experienced. Overpowering discomfort forced him to sit before he fell down. The agony must have lasted ten minutes.

But it was worth it - in a manner of speaking.

His nausea subsiding, Draco viewed his reflection on the side of the silver flask. Staring back was a perfect replica of … Argus Filch.

Gathering miscellaneous cleaning equipment, he exited the closet and quickly crossed the corridor to the loo on the side opposite. Grinning, he Spellotaped a borrowed “Closed for Cleaning” sign in Filch's scrawl to the door.

`No magic,' he reminded himself. `Filch is a sorry Squib.'

He entered a gloomy, depressing girls' lavatory. After reconfirming his Filch transformation in a cracked and blotched mirror, Draco looked around. Not spotting anything - or anyone - Draco noisily discarded his burden of buckets and mops.

Nothing happened.

“Obnoxious dead things,” he rasped in Filch's wheezing voice. “Why can't they leave us alone for everybody's good?”

Loudly he banged on a couple of worn stall doors whilst shrieking his annoyance.

The commotion eventually had the desired effect. Fluttering from a pipe-filled crawl space beneath the stalls, a pellucid Moaning Myrtle appeared.

“Why are you here again?” she asked grumpily.

A few days earlier, Draco had served a detention cleaning this very loo under Filch's watchful eye. Filch had unrelentingly insulted the resident ghost until she made herself scarce. Then he had gloated that Draco could “clean out the rest of the filth in peace.”

Filch was no fonder of students' ghosts than of the Castle's living and breathing students.

Draco had taken due note.

“There's been a complaint,” he lied, “about bespectacled dead things cavorting with vermin. Now I have to do it all over. Why don't you flush yourself down a toilet?”

Immediately offended at being reminded she was dead, Myrtle huffed, “Why don't you?”

“Because I live here, and you don't,” Draco deliberately insulted her again. “Now shoo. There's some dinny Quidditch match. How about botherin' them?”

Myrtle started sniffling. “Is … is Harry Potter playing?” she asked.

“Don't know and don't care,” Draco spat, maintaining his Filch impersonation. He needed to drive her away quickly. “Besides he's got a girlfriend - a live one - who's even uglier than you are dead….”

That did it. Moaning Myrtle burst into tears. Miserably, she shot into the u-bend of the nearest toilet, screaming, “You horrible, horrible person.” All the toilets erupted in unison as she exited, sending a sheet of water spreading across the floor.

For good measure, Draco flushed the toilet through which Myrtle had vanished. With any luck, she would haunt the Giant Squid for a while. Before the gurgling ceased, he hustled to the door, peered out, and confirmed that the corridor was vacant.

A distant roar indicated that something had happened in the Quidditch match. Fortunately, it was neither loud enough nor long enough to be somebody catching the Snitch.

Not bothering with his Invisibility Cloak, Draco rushed across the hall and retrieved his broom. Returning, he jammed the doorstop under the bathroom door from the inside. He would have preferred Colloportus but was not about to give himself away using magic.

Stepping to the set of old, chipped porcelain sinks that dominated the centre of the rundown lavatory, he examined the taps, as his instructions specified. On the third one, he found an etching of a tiny centimetre-long snake.

Draco activated the Parseltongue Translator the Dark Lord had sent him the first - and, he hoped, not the last - time he had successfully used the Vanishing Cabinet. Originally, it had been a security measure. The Translator enabled the Dark Lord to send Draco instructions in Parseltongue, which practically nobody could understand.

But the Translator worked both ways - as the Dark Lord informed Draco when recent developments required modification of their plans.

After that near disaster in the Room of Requirement, the Dark Lord issued new instructions that informed Draco of another place with plenty of space for storage and use of the Vanishing Cabinet, now that the Room was too dangerous (and clean) to use.

Draco performed a spell that reversed the Parseltongue Translator's neutron polarity. “Open for the Heir of Slytherin,” he repeated the phrase dictated by Lord Voldemort.

Glowing Slytherin green, the tap responded with an answering hiss. Then, as Draco watched, it rotated seven times. He jumped back as a low grating noise overwhelmed the hiss. Stone scraped against stone as first the basin sank out of sight, and then the entire floor-to-almost-ceiling bathroom fixture folded upon itself and retreated.

It reminded Draco of the bricks falling away at the Leaky Cauldron entrance to Diagon Alley.

When the movement ceased, Draco found himself staring into the gaping end of a great pipe - an abyss that according to the Dark Lord's directions led ultimately to Salazar Slytherin's own Chamber of Secrets.

However, the Chamber itself might be unsafe. Potter and his acolytes had occupied it after Dumbledore had built a new, more usable entrance.

The old tunnel into the Chamber was another matter.

The Dark Lord's instructions revealed that this tunnel, Salazar's own, was unknown to the Castle's security wards and charms. Only Parseltongue speakers had access. Draco personally knew that Potter had that ability, but for obvious reasons Potter preferred Dumbledore's alternate route to the Chamber. The old tunnel was safe for Draco to store and use the Vanishing Cabinet.

Today's task was to do precisely that.

Mounting his Nimbus, he flew into the pipe's throat.

Everything was pitch black, something the Dark Lord had not mentioned, and Draco had not anticipated. Almost immediately he flew hard into the pipe's side with a stinging bump to his face. He gave up flying and simply slid instead. The pipe descended steeply, so it was easy enough - until the side of the pipe suddenly fell away where Draco had been bracing himself. He tipped sidewise with the sudden loss of support.

The gap was merely the joining of another pipe, which Draco slid quickly by. His shoulder smacked painfully into the joint corner, and the impact spun him completely around.

Blindly hurtling backwards down the pipe, Draco flailed about vainly seeking purchase. That only made things worse. Soon he was tumbling arse over tit through the Stygian pipe, tangled up in his robes.

“Auuuuuuurrrgh!!” he screamed as he banged this way and that, using his hands to shield his face. Draco's abject terror ended only when he bounced out the end of the pipe and sprawled to a stop on a muddy stone floor. Moments later, his Nimbus clattered to a halt next to him.

When he ceased hyperventilating, Draco reached for his wand. Thankfully, it remained snugly in the little wand-pocket inside his robes.

“Lumos!” his shaky voice - Filch's voice - echoed down the tunnel, dripping water being the only other sound. He was far below even the Castle's deepest dungeons. He reckoned he must be beyond the range of its magic detectors.

Equally thankfully, his broom had survived his extended pratfall intact. Without it, Draco would have to chance Dumbledore's gargoyle to leave. If the Headmaster's stone guardian required an exit password, Draco had no idea what it might be.

Still, Draco held his breath until verifying that the shrunken Vanishing Cabinet remained undamaged, nestled in a customized cushioned case. If he failed the Dark Lord, he would certainly lose everything, up to and including his life.

Somewhat dizzy and not trusting his flying skills in the confined space, Draco walked. In the cold, humid atmosphere his breath fogged his wandlight. He picked his way through the deathly quiet and totally deserted tunnel. Shallow puddles covering most of the rough stone floor almost changed his mind about flying. Water soaked through his shoes and socks, chilling his feet.

The farther Draco walked, the more he ached. His misadventure in the pipe had doubtless inflicted an impressive array of bruises, but his self-Healing skills were rudimentary.

He came upon remnants of a huge shed snake's skin. `What the Hell is that?' He shuddered.

But Draco continued, more fearful of the Dark Lord's wrath.

He passed a point where the ceiling had partially collapsed. Someone - or something - had cleared a gap through the rockfall, so he could proceed. Just past the remaining rubble, a tipped-over slab from the wall had fallen in a way that created a level space elevated well above the tunnel's wet floor.

Here was as good a place as any to set up shop.

Draco gently placed the shrunken Vanishing Cabinet on the raised stone.

“Finite!”

Almost instantly, the large, black, oddly-shaped armoire ballooned to its full, two-metre height.

“Shite,” Draco grumbled. The cabinet was turned backwards with its entrance facing the wall. He painstakingly Levitated and rotated it. Quickly, he opened the double doors.

Just as carefully Draco removed an emerald velveteen drawstring pouch from his robes. Usually used to carry Draco's Galleons, what the pouch now held was far more valuable than any currency….

He removed the Ravenclaw Medal. He had filched it from under Filch's nose - Draco chuckled at the unintentional pun - a bit more than a week earlier.

The Dark Lord demanded it. Who knows why? Draco knew better than to ask such questions.

Gingerly he placed the Medal, and a Parseltongue recording for the Dark Lord, in the cabinet and closed the door. He activated the cabinet and waited.

Minutes passed.

Draco was getting jumpy. He only had a half-an-hour or so left in his Polyjuiced incarnation as Argus Filch.

Finally, he heard a soft scraping noise. The Vanishing Cabinet's C-shaped lock, previously opening to the left, now opened to the right.

Draco had received his return post. He could not fathom the Dark Lord's fixation on Mudblooded Granger and her romance with Scarhead Potter, but his Master's interest was undeniably real. Draco's role was to obey and not ask questions. Whatever Draco requested to further his plot to end that relationship, Lord Voldemort provided

This was no exception.

He rolled one of the objects in his hand. It resembled a Remembrall - but with a twist. It was inflatable and could be Charmed to stimulate specific memories.

It and a new set of Parseltongue instructions went into his pouch.

Now to get out of here before either his disguise or the Quidditch match ended.

“Minimise!”

Draco shrank the Vanishing Cabinet to its prior diminutive size. He briefly considered caching it in the rockfall, but that would commit him to return the next time he had to use it. Draco did not want to foreclose his options. He returned the shrunken cabinet to its protective case and stashed the package inside his robes.

He Scourgified himself and his robes. The assorted grime and slime he had accumulated was excessive, even for Filch.

With time trickling away, Draco had no choice. Mounting his Nimbus, he cried “Lumos maximus!” and flew carefully back to the pipe entrance that was his escape from this eerie, unsettling place. He slowed as he entered the mouth of the pipe, but with his wand brightly lit, Draco could fly through it, albeit slowly.

This time he saw the pipe's twists and turns, and smaller pipes splitting off in various directions. He traversed a particularly large junction near what he hoped was the upper end of the pipe. That, he supposed, had caused his accident on the way down.

Finally, the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel! Draco released a great sigh of relief as he left the ever more constricting tube. The dingy lavatory had never looked so good….

Until Draco saw someone he had no desire to see … ever again.

The real Argus Filch.

Water from Moaning Myrtle's demonstrative exit had overflowed onto the tile floor. Eventually some of it seeped under the door and into the hallway, where it attracted the attention of Mrs. Norris, Filch's cat, and thus Filch himself.

The Squib immediately knew something was amiss. The sign on the door was his, but he had not stuck it there. The door would not open. That could mean magic, but Filch noticed the door jamb's protruding tip. Kicking at the jamb and putting his shoulder to the door, Filch worked it open.

He burst through, expecting to find student-initiated perfidy within.

At first he saw only a nonsensical collection of random cleaning materials, and no miscreants - until encountering something completely beyond his experience…. The entire group of sinks that occupied the centre of the lavatory…. They were … flattened … like an accordion….

Before Filch could react, a broom rider burst from the depths where the sinks normally stood. Startled, he did not get a good look at the culprit until….

Merlin's balls! Draco could not believe his bad luck. Of anybody in the Castle, he had to meet the one whose appearance he had borrowed - the only person who would know absolutely that he was an imposter (aside from Filch's inability to fly a broom).

But he had come prepared.

Filch started to shriek imprecations as Draco dug into an inside pocket, turned, and gave the annoying Squib a snoot full of…

Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder.

It worked, but before the disguised Slytherin could to settle on his next move the blinded Hogwarts caretaker stumbled into the wide open pipe leading to the Chamber and dropped from sight. The man's howls gradually faded as he descended.

Exasperated, Draco landed his Nimbus with a splash on the sodden floor. He needed to think. The last minute's completely unanticipated events had tossed a Bludger in the works. He had been so close to complete success. Now, this accidental encounter with that stupid Squib threatened everything.

He briefly toyed with the simply closing up the passage.

That option, whilst satisfying, was too dangerous.

Squib or no, Filch going missing would raise a stink that dwarfed the death of a lowly elf. Dumbledore would surely call in the Aurors if the long-time Hogwarts caretaker disappeared.

No, he had to retrieve Filch, however unpleasant that task undoubtedly would be.

Fortunately he had maintained magical silence. Draco had never ended the bright Illuminating Charm that helped him fly through the pipe.

Cursing his wretched luck, Draco hopped back on his Nimbus. Back down the pipe he flew as fast as possible short of outrunning his strongest wandlight.

Filch lay slumped in the muck, groaning, near the end of the pipe. Draco had determined exactly what to do.

“Confundo!” he roared. The spell struck the crumpled Squib squarely. Filch flopped forward, face first in ooze. Draco grabbed him firmly by the collar of his ancient brown tweed coat.

The old man was filthy mess - proper payback for all those detentions. But Draco knew better than to leave such incriminating evidence. Reluctantly, he Scourgified Filch.

The next minutes passed very slowly indeed, as Draco dragged the man relatively gently up the seemingly endless pipe.

Finally, that was over.

Dumping the softly moaning Filch in a stall, Draco hurriedly dismounted and extinguished his wand. Through his Translator, he commanded the pipe to close.

As the fixtures restored themselves to their normal decrepitude, he half dragged, half carried the semi-conscious Filch out of the stall.

Looking down, Draco was horrified to see his own manicured fingers.

The Polyjuice was wearing off.

He hefted the Squib near one of the sinks, and viciously slammed the side of Filch's head into the corner of the porcelain. Draco let him drop to the floor, bleeding and unconscious. He drew his wand and ended the Confundus Charm.

It looked like an accident. Unfortunately, Filch had simply slipped in the water and bashed his head.

As his last act, Draco he filled a couple of buckets with water and spilt them to cover his tracks.

Outside, Draco crossed Mrs. Norris' path and received a piercing feline gaze.

Ignoring the cat, Draco mounted his broom. Reprising the Potterless Conspiracy, he concealed himself beneath his Invisibility Cloak, and fled.

Mission accomplished - barely.

* * * *

Hufflepuff prevailed over a scrappy Slytherin squad by an uninspiring 410-240 score. Vaisey played an outstanding match for the Snakes, whilst Cadwallader had an off day for the `Puffs. For a three-plus hour game, the score was relatively low, and the play unusually ragged. The continuing ineptitude of Slytherin's rookie Seeker ruined the green and silver's chances. Less than an hour into the match he muffed an easy, game-winning chance for the Snitch that, in Harry's expert opinion, even Malfoy would have made. Unlike the Gryffindor blowout, the rest of the team had kept Slytherin in the game.

When word circulated that a bathroom sink had knocked Filch unconscious, most students were ready to award the sink a medal for special services to the school. Moaning Myrtle agreed. Responding to Professor McGonagall's inquiry if the ghost had noticed anything amiss, Myrtle burst into a nearly ten-minute tirade against Filch's rudeness.

Everything from Filch's injuries diagnosed by Madam Pomfrey, to the cleaning equipment left in the bathroom, to the origin of the mess - gleefully recounted by Myrtle - supported Filch being the victim of an unfortunate accident. His ravings about seeing himself flying about the loo on a broom were easily discounted. They were a figment of Filch's head injury, combined with his loathing his Squib status.

Still, given the incident's location and Filch's claim of a large hole, Dumbledore took no chances. Professor McGonagall was even more insistent. Together, they spent hours checking every nook and cranny of the Chamber of Secrets for any sort of disturbance, finding none. The Headmaster could do little about Myrtle's bathroom. Once Harry lost the ability, nobody in the Castle could speak Parseltongue.

At least Dumbledore knew of none.

Just in case, the Headmaster took certain steps. Parseltongue could neither be faked nor taught. Either someone had that natural ability, or not.

The Slytherin Head of House came puffing into Dumbledore's tower office. “Horace,” Dumbledore greeted him warmly. “How went the inquiry?”

“About as well, or as poorly, as could be expected,” Professor Slughorn wearily replied. Unbidden, he helped himself to several lemon drops from the crystal bowl on the Headmaster's desk. “He knew exactly what my tests were intended to reveal.”

“Whatever else he may be, young Mister Malfoy is hardly stupid,” Dumbledore mused. “I take it the results were negative?”

“Utterly and completely,” Slughorn confirmed. “Whatever else he may be, Draco is no Parselmouth. His arrogance remains, however, so the negative results did not forestall his unsolicited advice on the subject.”

“Which was?”

“His quite snide opinion was that I was wasting both my time and his…. That if I wanted someone with Parseltongue ability, I should test Harry Potter. Is that true, Albus?”

“It was,” Dumbledore explained. “In his second year, I am told that Mister Potter used Parseltongue to great effect whilst duelling Mister Malfoy. Recently, though, his ability seems to have vanished - a good thing, I believe.”

“Agreed,” Slughorn concurred. “Regardless, I informed Draco that Mister Potter was none of his, or our, concern. Potter was conspicuously present throughout the Quidditch match, whereas Draco was not.”

“Did that elicit any response?”

“None suggesting anything mendacious in his version of events. Attendance at Quidditch matches is certainly not mandatory.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore dismissed Professor Slughorn with a resigned wave of his good hand. “Everything seems to points to Argus having had an accident.”

* * * *

By Valentine's Day almost all the remaining snow had fallen victim to an extended stretch of raw, cold rain. Even more than a metre of snow, unremitting blustery dankness made being outdoors unpleasant.

Magic was little help. Students lacked enthusiasm for rainball fights - except once. Despite a steady grey drizzle, Hagrid dragooned his fifth years into taking his latest collection of Blast-Ended Skrewts for a walk. Hagrid's fourth year class had rebelled and refused to have anything to do with the Skrewts. Ron found that conclusive evidence that the current fourth years had more gumption (and common sense) than his own year.

This judgmental deficiency persisted. Harry and the rest of the advanced class did the job - and finished soaked and covered in mud. The Skrewts had walked them, not the other way around. Hence, a spontaneous rainball fight, improving both the class' mood and appearance.

Later, Harry and Hermione were again rather upset at Ron over - no surprise - more of what they considered cheating during Potions. Rather than follow the rules during an exercise brewing antidotes, Ron had simply handed Slughorn a bezoar as the class ended. To their surprise, Slughorn found Ron's latest antics amusing and awarded him ten House Points. Going “by the book,” neither Harry nor Hermione had even finished.

They did not appreciate Ron's shortcut. Ron had not appreciated their criticism. Consequently, Ron had kept more or less to himself for the past several days.

Today was Valentine's Day - that evening Harry and Hermione had ninety reserved minutes of prime private time in the Prefect's Bathroom.

The day might have begun with a morning quickie, but being serious students (at least Hermione - Harry was distractible), they postponed pleasure until after completing their early morning training.

Which was too late.

The door to the Room of Requirement opened and in strode Kingsley Shacklebolt. “I thought I might find you here, since you certainly weren't at breakfast.”

Harry remained somewhat sceptical about how Shak would handle being his guardian. “Why, were you looking for me?” he asked suspiciously.

“Frankly, no,” Shak unhesitatingly replied. “Merlin knows the last thing I'm inclined to meddle with is your sex life….”

Hermione blushed furiously as Harry stood open-mouthed.

“…but with your defence group and the like, far too many people know about this Room nowadays. We have to maintain the Hogwarts rules, so one staff member was delegated to watch this place at all times today.”

“Oh well,” Hermione shrugged. “We were just about done here, anyway.”

Shak regarded them knowingly. “I repeat - you're not my concern. You've earned the right to be treated as adults. But if you're truly finished, make sure not to skip breakfast.”

For a second time Shak had gone out of his way to mention the meal currently being served in the Great Hall.

“Why?” both asked in unison.

Shak hesitated. “Nothing bad, but you'd best see for yourselves - it's something of a surprise.”

Needless to say, they would have Apparated to the Great Hall, had that been possible. They made their way down at a fast trot, taking advantage of hidden passageways learnt from the Map - even though they did not have it with them.

After their detour, Harry and Hermione arrived not at the Great Hall's main doors, but at the back foyer. The same route - in reverse - had been their escape from the Masked Ball.

The curious, largely female crowd at the end of the Gryffindor table did not notice the pair until they were practically upon them.

“Hi, what's going on?” Harry asked innocently enough.

The crowd drew back, leaving Harry with a clear path to … oh my!

Boxes of Valentine candy were stacked almost a metre high. Some boxes were elaborately wrapped, changing colour or shape. Others were plain and rectangular, mostly in white, red, or pink. One particularly bawdy package had a blinking, quite graphic, “Eat me” sign that rotated anti-clockwise around its edges.

The presents appeared to be mostly chocolates: Chocoballs, cocoa cashews, charlottes with various magical and non-magical stuffings, Fudge Flies, Whistling Covertures, Talking Truffles, blackberry coffee creams, walnut marzipans, Færie Florentines, and candied cherries vermicelli.

Harry took notice because he certainly had a sweet tooth; not as insatiable as Ron's, but definitely set off by the confectionary assortment awaiting him.

Whilst Harry drooled, Hermione's approach was more practical.

Grabbing his near hand to ensure it did not venture too near the delectable spread, she directed, “Harry, don't touch anything until we find out what's going on.” Addressing the assorted bystanders, she demanded, “Where did all of this come from?”

“You should have seen it, it was impressive,” Demelza Robbins piped up.

“Teen Witch Weekly had a contest,” Lavender informed them.

“Scores of owls,” Patty Stimson added.

“All bringing Valentine's sweets for Harry,” Lisa Turpin explained what this all had to do with the pile of boxes on the table.

“Oh, Merlin….”

Harry's hand went to his forehead. “Just like my bloody birthday,” he groaned.

“…Sweets from every witch in Britain I haven't put off, I suppose,” Hermione growled, looking territorial. Suspiciously, she regarded the mass of Valentine's candy.

“Oh, there's more,” Luna commented airily. “Once that stack was started, quite a few classmates decided to take advantage….”

“Luna, that was not advisable,” Hermione lectured. “You should have stopped them. Consuming any of this, before thorough testing, was foolhardy, if not downright dangerous. You know what the Twins have been….”

Luna started giggling even before Hermione paused. “Oh, no, I don't mean they ate anything; I meant they contributed….”

“She's right, you know,” Daphne Greengrass drawled as she slithered forward. Without hesitation, she plucked a round pink box decorated with a lighted minute hand proceeding clockwise. “Those of us in the other Houses took advantage - not knowing what else to do…. Raspberry cream filled truffles, here.”

Daphne started to hand the box to Harry, but at the last moment, turned and instead presented it to Hermione, with an exaggerated bow. “You'll be testing them for Love Potions I'm sure. I assure you it's Muggle - completely clean.”

Surprised, Hermione instinctively accepted the proffered box. She watched the slinky Slytherin blonde as she retreated with the walk women use when they want the opposite sex to stare after them.

Snapping out it, Hermione turned to look at Harry. She was relieved to find his eyes solely upon her. “Umm … what now? They do look good enough to eat.”

“Daphne's right, they should be tested,” Hermione responded, blinking. “But there's no time now. We've got Care in only twenty minutes, and I don't want to miss it. Hagrid will want to atone for the last class' fiasco.”

“We can stash them in my dorm room, for a little bit,” suggested Harry. “We have two free periods after Care to suss all this out.”

“Good idea. Wingardium Leviosa!” Hermione levitated the entire batch of Valentine's sweets, and they set out for Gryffindor Tower, ignoring the crowd of classmates. Some complained that the pair refused to share goodies they could not possibly consume themselves. Others muttered that Harry did not thank them personally for their gifts.

As soon as they were out of anyone's earshot, Harry asked, “You know spells to detect Love Potions?”

“The junk Fred and George sell, of course,” Hermione answered disdainfully. “They even sell detection instructions themselves - separately and for an additional fee, of course. I'm no fool. I of all people know how fanciable you truly are.”

Harry's mirthful response seemed forced and short-lived. “But, you heard them. I don't think my admirers are a bunch of Fourth Year Romildas. What if somebody dosed these with something like Amortentia?”

“Amortentia's hardly undetectable,” Hermione sniffed. “The necessary spells are toward the back of our current Potions book. But if you'd rather, I wouldn't object to binning the lot,” she offered.

Harry stopped to give it some thought. “Nah, seems like a bloody waste. I can almost taste those Færie Florentines.”

“Well, then let's hurry, or we'll be late for class.”

Short of time, they haphazardly left the boxes of sweets beside Harry's bed. Several other tins of chocolates were already there. One was from Ginny. Another was from Romilda Vane.

“Make a point of checking that one,” Harry joked.

“I absolutely intend to check them all,” Hermione responded, not joking one iota.

“Should I lock the door?” Harry queried on the way out. Despite their hurry, they were almost certainly late for class. Almost mocking their tardiness, the common room was entirely deserted.

“I doubt your dorm mates would appreciate being locked out,” Hermione reminded him.

As they suspected, Interesting Magical Creatures was outstanding. Although not admitting anything, Hagrid plainly had thought better of his last lesson featuring Blast-Ended Skrewts and mud. As awful as that that class had been, this one was just as splendid. It was outdoors - like all of Hagrid's upper level sessions - but a large canvas tarpaulin protected everyone from the elements.

This lesson concerned phoenixes. Hagrid had collected four different species. Harry and Hermione instantly recognised a bright red bird like Fawkes, but the Fire Phoenix was not alone. Successive perches displayed an ice blue Water Phoenix, an iridescent green Earth Phoenix, and rarest of all, a glittering white Air Phoenix. Hagrid's instruction about the four elemental phoenixes was fascinating, and the class positively whizzed by. In no time the hour - 55 minutes, since they were a bit late - was over.

Harry and Hermione spent fifteen minutes afterwards chatting with Hagrid and helping him feed the phoenixes, which would be flying away before the sun set. Hagrid confessed to pulling some significant strings, with Dumbledore's help, to get four different phoenixes to agree to spend even one day at Hogwarts.

Hagrid was flabbergasted, and Hermione embarrassed, when the Fire Phoenix hopped onto her shoulder and started nuzzling her hair. She almost told the half-giant how Dumbledore had saved her life, but decided that, if the Headmaster had not mentioned it, confidentiality was best - Hagrid was not very adept at keeping secrets.

Returning to Hogwarts, their breath puffing tiny white clouds, they chatted. “Too bad Ron had to miss that,” Harry remarked. “Where do you think he was, anyway?”

“No idea,” Hermione snipped. “After that bezoar business I hardly care. I mean, with Cho he was misled, but his cheating in Potions is deliberate.”

“Well, I must admit, he does study that book,” Harry pointed out more charitably. “We have Potions this afternoon, so he might have skived off to revise with the Prince.”

Hermione shot Harry one of her best “not bloody likely” looks but said nothing. Ron was his friend - and hers too if she thought about it - and that was not about to change.

It did not.

They returned to the Gryffindor common room. Hermione was dead set upon casting the spells that would determine which of Harry's sweets were spiked with Love Potions. Harry hoped she would hurry up. He was hungry for some of those scrumptious items.

Hermione felt rather inadequate. Here she was, his fiancée, and she had not given him any Valentine's sweets at all. She was a dentists' daughter, and such potentially teeth-rotting delights were beyond her experience.

Of course, tonight she would give him plenty else. She did not have a Samson's Option owl order catalogue, but the Château Blackwalls staff - at least someone Hermione trusted - had been happy to make a discreet purchasing trip to Hogsmeade on her behalf.

Their first inkling of a problem was when they ran into Dean on the dormitory stairs.

That is, they almost literally ran into him.

Dean was distracted, looking backwards over his shoulder.

“Oof…”

“Sorry.”

“Umm, excuse me!”

“Oh, Harry … Hermione. Be careful up there … he's in a right state.”

“Who's in a right state?” Hermione had the presence of mind to ask.

Dean stared at them as if they were the world's densest people. “Why, I mean Ron. I think he's run mental. You of all people should know better than to leave that many sweets where he could find them.”

“Oh, shite!”

Ignoring Dean's smirk, Harry bolted up the stairs. Hermione followed close behind.

They burst into the room and came face to face with Ron - although not exactly.

Face to arse was more like it.

Muttering incoherently, Ron was crawling about on all fours. Boxes of chocolates were scattered across the floor. Most were uneaten, but enough had been consumed that little crinkly wrappers dotted the carpet.

“I can't stand it,” Ron yowled. On hands and knees, he lurched hard to his right, lost his balance, and fell face first into a box of what looked like chocolate truffles.

“Aaarrrghhh!” Ron pushed himself up. With his left hand he stuffed a handful of caramels from another box into his mouth.

“Ron!” Hermione shrieked. “Stop, please!”

Harry echoed, “Ron, you've got to lay off. Some of those are doubtless potioned. We haven't checked them yet.”

“Harry, Hermione,” Ron mumbled. “I don't believe it.”

“We're here,” Hermione jumped in. “We're ready to help.”

Ron flopped onto his back; a grotesque imitation of a stranded turtle, except his face was more ashen than scaly.

“Nothing can help,” Ron moaned. “She doesn't even know I exist.”

With considerable trepidation Hermione followed up. “Who doesn't know you exist?”

Harry knelt by his friend, looking into Ron's unfocussed eyes. “Ron, you've got to realise….”

“I'm in love with Desiderata Coterel,” he wailed. “She doesn't even know who I am…. No, wait….”

Harry looked to Hermione with questioning eyes. She shrugged, resigned to whatever happened next.

Abruptly, Ron rolled over and stuffed his right hand into an open box of mint white chocolate bark. In one motion he crammed the fistful into his mouth. “No, I'm in lub wid M'chelle Glamorgan!” Ron gurgled through very nasty looking teeth.

“Ron, stop eating this stuff,” Harry demanded. “We think a lot of it's doused with Love Potions.”

“Oh Merlin, I'm in love with Megan Jones….”

Harry and Hermione stiffened. Someone they knew. Hermione's eyes narrowed as Harry received a warning glance, should he be tempted. His skittish reaction promised nothing would happen.

Ron continued, his rants about various ladies interrupted by mouthfuls of suspicious sweets. `What can we do, Harry?' Hermione Legilimenced. `He's under the influence of conflicting Love Potions. I haven't covered this in Healing, but it can't be a good thing.'

“Ron, for the last time, stop!” Harry raised his voice - to no avail. Ron groaned something about Romilda Vane. Whilst confirming one of Harry's suspicions, it hardly improved the immediate situation.

In the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione drawing her wand. Her determined expression he knew only too well - her “I wish I didn't have to do this” look.

`No, don't,' Harry silently dissuaded. `Let me. I don't want him angry with you again.'

`Well, do something quickly,' she warned. `What if Ginny gave you a dosed batch?'

`Eew, I don't think….' He paused. He doubted Ginny would, even in jest. But that incident at the ball introduced an element of doubt.

Whilst Hermione waited for Harry to act, Ron went careening for another box….

Harry flicked out his wand. “Nauseo!” he spelled grimly.

Ron immediately vomited. The choking tang of half digested chocolates filled the air - and the carpet - almost instantly.

`I would have just stunned him,' Hermione commented mentally.

`Probably a better idea,' Harry agreed. `But at least some of it won't affect him - better out than in.'

“No, just…. Oh, bother…. Purify.” Hermione fixed the most immediate issue.

The odour, at least, vanished. But Ron still retched - and he had nothing left to expel.

“We need help,” Hermione stated the obvious. She pointed her wand towards the door. “Expecto Patronum!” Her phoenix Patronus streaked out the door. “We have to get Ron to a professional.” From her eyes, Harry knew Hermione was preparing to take charge.

“How'd you do that?” Harry gawked.

“Long story,” Hermione responded. “I'll tell you later. Let's deal with Ron.”

Speaking of which.

The none-too-happy redhead was trying to stand, whilst mumbling alternatively, “Why'd you do that?” and “Got to find Angie….”

Whoever Angie was.

Hermione tried manœuvring Ron to a chair, explaining in her gentlest tone of voice (ordinarily reserved for Harry) that he was in thrall of incompatible potions and that they would take him to Professor Slughorn right away.

Then a red-faced Neville Longbottom charged into the room. On his heels followed an equally out of breath Ginny Weasley.

“What's going on?” the first newcomer immediately asked.

“What did dear brother do now?” the other snarked.

Hermione, who had called for Neville, was surprised to see Ginny. “Neville, we need your help to take Ron…” She continued trying to wrestle the much larger boy into the chair. “…to see Professor Slughorn right away. He's suffering from potion-induced polycharmancy and is in a bad way…..”

“I need to tell Valerie I love her…,” Ron rasped in the background.

“Ginny … umm … while we … could you clean up this mess?”

“I've got to tell Roxanne I need her….”

“Oh no…,” Ginny growled furiously. “I'll do plenty lots for dear Ronald, but I'm not cleaning up a boy's dormitory full of vomit and toxic chocolates….”

Her protests did not set well with Hermione. She in full “take charge” mode, and had not sent for the youngest Weasley in the first place.

“Ginny, I hardly think….”

“No, Hermione, that's fine,” Neville defused things. “I let slip that your message concerned Ron. She can go. I'll tidy up here. It's better that way.”

Before Neville had finished, Ginny was at Ron's side. “Come on, Ron. Get up. We've got to get you to….”

She turned to Hermione. “Where do we take him?”

“Since it's a Potions problem, I was thinking Professor Slughorn,” Hermione replied. She would have preferred not saying anything out loud, given Ron's state.

“I don't want to see Slughorn!” Ron bellowed. Belligerently, he pushed Ginny aside. She slipped, stumbled on one end of her shawl, and took a spill that scattered more Valentine's sweets across the floor. “I just want to tell Amanda I love her….” Ron swayed uneasily on his feet.

Furious, Ginny rose with her wand drawn, but Hermione was quicker.

“Mobilicorpus Inverso!” she incanted. Instantly, Ron was jolted upwards, dangling arse over tit in midair by his left foot.

“What the hell d'you think you're doing?” Ron screeched. “Put me down!”

“Get a grip, Ron!” Harry yelled. “What the hell were you thinking, getting into my Valentine's stuff? I cached them up here for a reason, you know!”

“I wanna give some to Desiderata,” Ron moaned.

“I don't think….”

“She's in Professor Slughorn's office,” Hermione cut across, “waiting for you.”

“Hermione….”

“Really?” Ron gasped, a demented smile cracking his face - looking like an equally demented frown, as he was upside down.

“Yes, Professor Slughorn offers special classes for former Slug Club members on Fridays,” Hermione lied effortlessly.

“D'you think Michelle will be there?” Ron asked hopefully.

“I don't know where else she'd be,” Hermione answered sweetly.

Neville had to pinch himself to keep from bursting out laughing.

“Well, let's go then. Time's a wasting,” Harry chimed in.

“Valerie'll be there, too,” added Ginny, getting into the swing of things.

“Cool,” Ron murmured, much more relaxed. “Umm … Hermione, you'll have to let me down.”

Dumping Ron on his head would only aggravate matters. Resisting temptation, Hermione ended the Inverso before lowering him gently to the floor.

Ron took three giant steps towards the exit. He regarded his reflection warily in the full-length mirror on the inside of the dormitory door. Brownish remnants of smashed Valentine's chocolates streaked and blotched his robes. His hands were coated with an unholy mix of Turkish Delight, coconut clusters, creamy caramels and other indistinguishable sweetness. Thin streams of goo dribbled from his mouth in various directions.

“Umm … do I look okay?” Ron asked uncertainly.

“I think you're just smashing,” Ginny replied evilly. “We all know that girls just love chocolate on Valentine's Day….”

Hermione was not so malicious. “I don't think so,” she intervened. “Scourgify!”

`Harry, make sure the way is clear,' she Legilimenced.

Harry stepped in front and shooed away any and all suspicious female occupants of the common room - including, especially, Romilda Vane.

His task was informative. Harry announced to everyone that Ron had gotten into his Valentine's gifts and had run raving mad. Whoever made herself scarce, instead of watching the show, immediately became a suspect.

Harry ran interference all the way to Slughorn's office. “Out of way! Out of the way! Make way for the heir of chocolate. Seriously besotted wizard coming through!”

He had learnt something from the Twins.

Reaching the stone stairway leading to the Potions dungeon, Harry raced ahead. He burst into Professor Slughorn's private office. It looked unchanged from his last visit, when he had cajoled the portly professor into turning over his Horcrux notes. Fortunately, the incumbent was present, fortifying himself for his upcoming classes with a cut glass goblet of some light amber liquid.

The mustachioed man greeted Harry slightly less jovially than usual. “Ah, Harry, m'boy. What can … what brings you here?”

“Professor, it's Ron. He needs help,” Harry spoke breathlessly.

“Oh ho! I highly doubt that,” Slughorn retorted. “Excellent work he's been doing. I hardly think….”

“No, Professor, it's not that,” Harry explained. “By mistake he got into … er … some Valentine's chocolates dosed with Love Potions. I'd take him to Madame Pomfrey, but I'd like to avoid … well, you know, the stuff's supposed to be banned….”

“Surely for Ronald, being an exemplary potioneer, it would be child's play to….”

Harry could hear Ron's voice down the hall - getting louder, “Where's Megan? Where's Amanda?”

Slughorn also heard. “Oh, dear, multiple love potions, eh?” he said knowingly. “How many?”

“Er … dunno,” Harry answered quietly. “From the all the names, I'd say at least a half dozen. Umm … to get him here, I had to lie … that you were teaching those girls extra Potions.”

“Do you know who the ladies are?” Slughorn asked quickly. He grabbed a black bag and his key to the potions ingredient cabinet. “Love Potions can have synergistic effects, you know. The more different strains, the greater the disorientation….”

Harry thought that explained a lot. He could hear Hermione and Ginny struggling to restrain Ron as they entered the Potions class room.

“Let me see Michelle…! Where's he hiding Valerie!?”

“The only two I recognize are Megan Jones and Romilda Vane,” Harry reported, eyeing the door that led to the Potions classroom. “A lot of sweets came by owl this morning.”

“Make sure he stays out there, then,” a suddenly serious Professor Slughorn told Harry. “I need to fetch a couple more things. I'll be out in a few seconds.”

Harry heard a crash as one of the potions tables overturned.

“Where are they, Harry?” Ron cried drunkenly. “You promised!”

“Umm … Professor Slughorn's getting Desiderata ready,” Harry played for time. “This was rather sudden, after all.”

“I can't help it, I'm in luuurrrvvv!” Ron moaned rapturously.

Harry relaxed visibly as he heard, “Ah, Ronald, m'boy,” from behind him. “Let's get you ready, now.”

Ronald's head wobbled as conflicting love potions sought dominance in his mind. “Michelle, Roxanne … Romilda!”

Ron spun around and escaped from Hermione's and Ginny's grasp. “Oh!” He stepped into a collapsible cauldron, which promptly collapsed. Ron took a purler but, feeling no pain, popped back to his feet.

“She didn't see that, did she?”

“No, no, no,” Professor Slughorn reassured him. “They're tidying themselves up - Potions can be a messy business, you know.”

“Umm … okay.”

“Speaking of messy business, you could use some freshening yourself,” Slughorn continued unctuously. “Please drink this.” He handed Ron a particoloured potion. “You want to look your best, you know.”

“Umm … right-o.” Asking no further questions, Ron tipped back the oddly-hued potion and drank it down.

“Oo-oo-oh,” he moaned deeply. Ron's normally blue eyes looked like a kaleidoscope.

“And now this one,” Slughorn handed Ron a second potion that could have been distilled water - except for white tendrils floating over the surface. “It's a special brew of Wit-Sharpening Potion….”

“Great!” Before the professor had even finished, Ron gulped it down in one swallow.

“And finally….” Professor Slughorn displayed a solid black potion, with the hue and consistency of molten liquorice. The professor gave Ron an appraising look. From his potions bag, Slughorn selected a couple of pinches of a sparkling gold powder and sprinkled them into the phial. He swirled it to and fro until the particles were thoroughly mixed and the potion looked like liquefied cat's eye.

“There, that should do it,” Slughorn pronounced. “As soon as you're done, I'll see whether the girls are ready.”

“Aaaahhhh….” Ron took it greedily and practically sucked the phial dry. Professor Slughorn gave a “be ready” signal to the others.

“That was….” Ron's eyes suddenly spun white in their sockets, and his body went bonelessly limp. Harry and Hermione, alerted, caught him before hit the ground.

“Quick! Get him in here,” Slughorn directed, the social climber's voice replaced by a professional's tone. Harry and Hermione began dragging Ron by the shoulders into the professor's office.

“Honestly, you are wizards,” Ginny smirked. “Mobilicorpus.”

She floated Ron onto a large ottoman in Professor Slughorn's inner office.

“He should be fine. This takes about five minutes,” the professor declared. “It counteracts all standard-grade Love Potions, provided it's administered within twenty-four hours.”

It did indeed.

Soon Ron began stirring. He belched loudly. “Aaaahh, I needed that….” He looked about and saw Harry, Hermione, Ginny, and Professor Slughorn - all regarding him with great interest. “Oh, Merlin.” Ron looked confused. Then he looked embarrassed. Finally, he looked downright horrified.

“Feeling normal again?” Harry asked him, behind a knowing grin. “Let that be a lesson about eating unknown sweets, then.”

“I-I … didn't do anything … did I?” Ron groaned. He put his face in his hands.

“Aside from puking your guts all over the dormitory floor, you mean?” Ginny replied waspishly.

“No, we kept you from anyone who might have sent those potioned chocolates.”

Ron was still shaking. “Merlin, it could have been Chang!” He never used Cho's first name anymore.

“I highly doubt that,” Hermione snapped. “Her deal to avoid Azkaban requires her to stay well away from all of us - especially you.”

“Relax, relax,” Professor Slughorn soothed. “You've all been through a harrowing experience, especially my prodigy Ronald here….”

`Hermione, please don't,' Harry Legilimenced.

Hermione's face reddened, but she said nothing.

“…You need something to take the edge off.” Professor Slughorn rose and waddled to a nearby oak and glass cabinet. Its upper doors opened of their own accord as he approached. “Harry, m'boy, I know you don't imbibe, so how about pure pineapple juice - fresh crushed?”

“Sounds good, sir,” Harry quite happily agreed.

The professor produced an impressive silver carafe - pre-chilled, judging by the visible condensation. He measured out a healthy serving of the yellow, pulpy liquid, poured into fancy, ornamented crystal stemware.

“Miss Weasley, I'm constrained to offer you only something non-alcoholic….”

“Ice water will be fine, please,” she specified. Even though she would have refused, it was insulting not to have the choice.

“Miss Granger, could I interest you in Château Blackwalls oak-matured mead?”

“No, thank you, sir,” Hermione demurred. “Not with your class coming up. I'll have what he's having,” she replied with a pointed glance in Harry's direction.

“Very well,” Slughorn readily acceded. He measured out an identical second serving of pineapple juice into a second gold-lipped goblet. “But you, Ronald m'boy, deserve something a bit stronger, given what you've been through….”

They heard glass bottles clinking. “Some of this oak-matured mead will do your nerves a world of good. I just received it the other day - tribute from a Slug Club member, no doubt….”

Ron looked perplexed at the professor's generosity. “Sure … but you don't mind that we have your class this afternoon?”

“Think nothing of it,” Slughorn answered jovially as he Levitated two more identical glasses from the lower cabinet. “I shan't call on you unless you raise your hand - but in return you should be able to handle an extra assignment….”

Ron blanched. Hermione looked smug.

“…Yes, I think a three-footer on Love Potions and their antidotes is the ticket.”

That Professor Slughorn was still pouring was a good thing - he missed the aggravated glare Ron shot his way.

Ron's face returned to studied neutrality by the time the professor finished. A stack of parchment shifted itself aside to make room for a Hogwarts gold tray bearing five identical goblets.

“A toast … to success, in all its forms!” Professor Slughorn proposed. “Cheers!”

With an obligatory clink of their glasses, they all partook deeply of their chosen beverages.

Convinced that oak-matured mead - especially as cured by the elves at Château Blackwalls - was not to be trifled with, Hermione tried to end the celebration. “Well, I do think we need to be going to lunch. Good to get some food into…. Oh, sweet Circe…!”

Something was terribly wrong - far worse than anything Ron had previously endured.

Crashes of shattered crystal announced the immediate plight of Ron and the professor. As if felled by Unforgivables, both slumped to the floor within seconds, convulsing uncontrollably.

“Oh, my God, do something!” Ginny screamed. “They're dying!”

Ginny was right.

With their eyes rolled back in their heads, spittle drooling from grotesquely misshapen lips, and faces turning an inhuman shade of greyish blue, neither appeared long for this world.

Harry leapt blindly into action, ripping apart Professor Slughorn's potions bag looking for something … anything. “Dammit, isn't there any antidote…?”

Hermione remembered something. “Ginny, is that the shawl Harry gave you?”

“Yes, but who cares?” Ginny's panic threatened to become contagious. “Help them, please!”

Hermione lunged, bumping the shrieking redhead aside as she grabbed both ends of her shawl at the same time. With her dominant right hand, Hermione tore off one of the baubles and jammed it down Ron's throat.

Left-handed she was less successful. All she accomplished was stuffing a goodly portion of Ginny's shawl into Professor Slughorn's gaping mouth. Growling in frustration, Hermione yanked it out. She sawed off one of the baubles using the professor's own teeth. As soon as it fell free, she shoved it down his throat.

Both men's symptoms began abating.

“What was that all about?” Harry asked, gawking.

Panting, Hermione replied, “I helped you buy that shawl, remember? These embroidered little baubles are Bezoars.”

Briefly surprised, Ginny quickly recovered her composure. She tossed some of Professor Slughorn's Floo powder into his office fireplace. “Madam Pomfrey!” she called.

Needless to say, that afternoon's Advanced Potions lesson was cancelled.

* * * *

The door to the deserted fifth floor classroom opened cautiously and … nothing emerged.

One nothing whispered to the other all along the corridor. “Harry, we don't have to use the Cloak for this?” a light-hearted female voice trilled. “We're not only before curfew, but also I'm a Prefect, if you've forgotten.”

“Believe me, I haven't forgotten,” the male companion voice purred. “It's just … I like the intrigue. Better to have it when nobody's looking ... when we're on the run a bit….”

“Well, I can do without so much daily drama,” she smirked. “Tonight, for once, we don't have to look over our shoulders. See….” She pointed to the doorknob. “…Silver, just like it's supposed to be. Because those two wanted to see an Order induction, we've an hour and a half of prime time - on Valentine's night, no less.”

“Time to get going, then.”

They slipped inside, and Hermione performed the Silver and Gold Charm.

“Circe, I can't believe we've gone over two weeks,” Hermione panted. “If you're not as randy as I am, I'm afraid I'll have to start without you.” Her school robes puddled on the floor.

Harry smiled. “Not a chance. Thinking about this carried me through that never-ending interview about what happened with Slughorn. That's the thing with plans. Whenever you make them….”

“…Something unexpected comes along to upset them,” Hermione finished his thought. “Von Moltke said something similar over a century ago. He was….”

“Not now,” Harry whispered as he, too, started to undress.

“Don't jinx anything,” Hermione gave a sly wink. Very deliberately she lowered her beaded bag, bent over, opened it, and began rummaging. She positioned herself so that Harry had a glorious view of her … assets.

She held Harry's entire interest. He sidled over, lifted her classroom-issue blue skirt and ran his hands over her plain white cotton panty covered fanny.

“Hhmmmm,” she hummed in pleasure. “Don't distract me too much…,” she breathed in what she hoped was a sultry undertone. “Sorry. No time to change before, with all the excitement….”

Harry carried on more intently, raising goosepimples tracing the outlines of her knickers with his fingernails. “I'm fine,” he tried for his own bedroom voice. “I've what I….”

“There - finally!” Hermione yipped. She yanked a large Samson's Option sack from her bag. It flopped out and landed on the mosaic, ceramic tiled floor. Simultaneously, a harsh clattering sound startled them. Something white and cylindrical rolled across the floor.

Harry Summoned it. “What's this?” he asked. After examining it, he added, “Or should that be, when did you start taking the same calcium supplements I do?”

Hermione sighed at the inopportune interruption. “Actually, those are yours, Harry. Ginny bought them, and gave them to me earlier today, but I wanted to check them first.”

“But if they're from Ginny, why'd she give them to you?” Harry wondered.

“She thought I'd be paranoid … after what happened … if she gave them to you, and she's right. Let me check them, please?”

Hermione seemed on edge, so Harry acquiesced. “Sure, whatever you want….”

Finally, he could kiss her. They started easily enough, but when Harry heard the calcium tablets rattle across the floor again, he knew he had her undivided attention.

Her arms draped about his neck as she lazed against him, her breath mixing with his. Harry' responded by burying his hands in her hair. As their kiss deepened, his fingers drifted lower, undoing the fastenings of, first, her blouse, and then her skirt until he had her pressed against him.

“Umm … Harry” she moaned, leaning away just a bit. “If we go much longer, I won't have the wits about me to change….”

“Who says I want you to change?”

“I do,” she murmured enticingly. “I know what's in that bag, and you don't.” Bending back, Hermione twisted herself, lifting her breasts upwards so they presented Harry with a most pleasing target.

His right hand trailed upwards, across her flat midriff, his fingers trailing goosepimples as his they brushed the skin beneath her now loosely hanging jumper. She felt the elastic release as he popped open her bra.

His lips interfered again with Hermione's plans. The way Harry kissed her made her just want to give in and not think about anything.

But thinking was Hermione's second nature. She tried one last time to follow the scenario she had plotted methodically for a week. As Harry began removing her remaining clothing - except, oddly, her shoes and cable-knit knee socks - Hermione reached into her goody bag and displayed a couple of lingerie outfits still on hangers.

Flirtatiously, she directed, “Take a look at these, Harry.”

He goggled.

An extremely sheer silver and … rainbow … camisole-fringe-skirt contraption hung from Hermione's right hand. The dazzling outfit consisted entirely of fiery rutile bits maybe a half-centimetre across. Each was faceted so the slightest light produced brilliant prismatic effects. Criss-crossing strands of silvery metal held together the teddy- if that was the verb. Strings of more flashing rutiles passed for a matching mid-thigh “skirt,” except each strand hung freely from a silvery elastic waistband.

Her other selection was the polar opposite. The hanger in Hermione's left hand bore jet black cami-knickers, combining see-through mesh with strategically placed bits of black satin. Equally black faux fur decorated the seams - save one. A double lining of pillar-box red fur emphasised the opening of her most erogenous location.

Starkers above the knees, Hermione held the two hangers close on either side, the better for him to imagine her wearing them. “Which do you like best, Harry?” she asked breathlessly.

Harry recovered from momentary speechlessness. “Umm … the middle one, only saddle shoes won't do for the bath.”

“Harry … I'm trying to be sexy here.”

“And doing a smashing job of it, believe me.”

Hermione's arms drooped, and the lingerie brushed the tiled floor. “Are you serious?”

“Very,” he affirmed. “We haven't been together in two bloody weeks. All that other stuff's nice, and I'm sure we'll use it eventually. But right now, all I want is you.”

Harry slipped off his trousers and pants, providing visual confirmation of his veracity.

She tossed the outfits back in the bag. “Oh, Harry, I love you….”

He closed the distance between them. “Same here, but I'm so lousy with words I'd rather show you.”

For the rest of their allotted time, he did.

* * * *

All was in readiness. The Dark Lord tasked his Death Eaters with various missions that occupied them until he was done - save three: Walden Macnair, Lucius Malfoy, and the slippery but currently indispensable Severus Snape. Also in attendance were Bella and her nursemaid Candace.

Every time Lord Voldemort had visited Bella since the Stonehenge disaster, two questions came to mind: first, had his form really been so awful when he was similarly afflicted and, second, how could he restore Bella, as much as possible?

First things first. Stonehenge had also exposed the Dark Lord's weakness, at least to himself. Relying upon ancient and vague instructions, he had sliced his soul one time too many. Before he could try resurrecting her, he had to fortify himself.

Today, Lord Voldemort would do just that.

He had researched everything minutely. The spell for reversing a Horcrux's avulsion of the soul absent true remorse was only obscure due to European arrogance. Unlike his Dark - or light - predecessors, Lord Voldemort had not limited his studies to South and East Asian magicks. Had he been so blinkered, dear departed Dolohov would never have learnt that Tibetan spell he once used so effectively.

Other important magicks included that of Turkic peoples of Central Asia, for one. Whilst still a mere Riddle of a man, he had travelled to Transoxiania and steeped himself in its abstruse, but powerful, magical tradition.

The Serindian magicks were firmly rooted in the bloody history of the region. To save their skins, the mages of Khorasan conjured the Donation of Timur in deference to a mighty Muggle ruler. One of the Donation's incantations effected a spiritual reconstitution of the caster's essence upon the caster's solemn promise to spare the life of someone he had previously intended to kill.

Lord Voldemort had translated and modified this Transoxianian thaumaturgy and now intended to use it to rejoin the eighth part of his soul to his body.

“None of you may enter for the next hour and a half,” the Dark Lord instructed his skeleton crew. “Once time has expired, if I have not issued new instructions, then you, Severus, alone shall enter. You will find my orders for you upon my desk.”

The Dark Lord shut the door in their faces and magically sealed it. He moved about the shrouded chamber positioning various talismans in precisely the reverse order from the creation of the soon-to-be-merged Horcrux - the ankh to the north, the omega to the east, the pentacle to the south, and the taijitu to the west….

One minor loose end remained.

Actually, as loose ends go, it was hardly minor.

Lord Voldemort was running a great risk to restore his power. The quid pro quo for his anticipated karmic reunion remained unresolved. From casting the spell, he had precisely seven months, seven days, and seven hours to consummate the transaction by sparing the life of a person he currently intended to kill.

Should the incantation's requirements not be fulfilled within the allotted time, the joining would forcibly lapse. The opposing magicks' internal force would propel both remaining soul fragments from his body.

Should that happen, he would die - notwithstanding all the other Horcruxes.

The Dark Lord pondered his choice as he uttered the magic that brought the joining into being….

“Animus, dominus, reliquat….”

To ensure compatibility with his prior Horcruxes, Voldemort had rendered the spell's original Turkic incantations into Latin.

Who must he let live?

Absolutely not Potter. The prophecy precluded that. Necessarily, one must die at the hand of the other. The entire point of the exercise was to ensure that Potter died and he survived.

Dumbledore?

Hardly. To spare him at this juncture would only confirm the old man's undeserved reputation as the only wizard he, Lord Voldemort, actually feared. He agreed with Snape that Dumbledore was the puppeteer to Potter's puppet. The scheme to end the Headmaster's tenure on this earth would be pursued to its conclusion.

The Minister?

Rufus Scrimgeour was proving altogether too much an obstacle to the Dark Lord's plans in various ways, both large and small. His drive to rid the Ministry of Death Eater influence had signed that fool's death warrant. If he survived the inevitable takeover, Scrimgeour would become the opposition's prime rallying point.

The Mudblood?

Muggle spawn was ordinarily too insignificant to warrant his attention, but her importance to Potter mandated death, the sooner the better - killing her would demoralise him. The alternative interpretation of the Reading also figured…. Finally, Mudblood or no, the power she had accessed at Stonehenge was alarming.

The Sidekick?

Weasley had been but an opportunistic target. After Stonehenge, his death was of no consequence. He could be dispensed with, but sparing this one carried unique risks. The Donation required nullification of present intent to kill. Did that boy even qualify, given the Dark Lord's present ambivalence?

Others?

He had unsuccessfully ordered assassination of the goblin ruler. But did a subhuman count? The same applied to the werewolf. The Dark Lord had no specific intent to kill any of his followers - even Snape. Aurors? Moody was dead. Any others would be collateral damage. Shacklebolt? A mere soldier in a transient role. Longbottom? Nothing but a pawn. Long ago he had marked Potter, not that sorry excuse for a pure-blood wizard.

The Dark Lord's dilemma persisted as he lay on the dais he had prepared for himself. He opened his robes and hefted the same bejewelled rondel he had used to create his first two Horcruxes. With a steady hand he pierced his own skin and made a shallow cut from the top of his sternum almost to his navel.

Done with the rondel, Voldemort he removed the extra Horcrux from a dragonhide pouch. His industrious servant had retrieved it from Hogwarts. Drawing his wand, he conjured a tiny black fragment of cosmic void using the Khorasan spell. He nudged this point of darkness directly over the bleeding wound on his otherwise alabaster chest.

Another incantation and the edges of the inky fissure he had rent in the time-space continuum crackled with an orange, crackling flame.

The prefatory magic complete, the Dark Lord seized the Ravenclaw Medal that had held one of his Horcruxes for all these years. He would cast it into the eternal void, where it would disintegrate and release his soul fragment to rejoin and merge with that remaining within him.

As Voldemort clutched the medal, he could not help but read its inscription: “Hermione Granger, 1996, 104.6, All Time Best.”

That reminder at first enraged the Dark Lord. He uttered a demonic growl and drew his arm back to heave the disc into infinity - to be rid of it forever. Then he caught himself.

On second thought….

His mouth broke into a hideous parody of a grin.

Could he kill two birds with one stone? He - a half-blood - had, prior to the inscribed event, been the all time best. Could he wreak vengeance for this historic slight whilst also solving his other pressing problem?

A new plot forming in his malevolent mind, Lord Voldemort lobbed the medal into nihility's awaiting maw.

* * * *

Author's notes: Canon does not mention accelerated N.E.W.T.s, but I see no inherent problem doing so

The Thicknesse discussion is a reminder that all actions, however justified, have consequences

The feared house-elf rebellion relies on what commonly happened when slaves rebelled

The prospective cure for Ron's nightmares was discussed in Ch. 21

“Reversed the neutron polarity” is a variant of a Dr. Who phrase

Lumos maximus was introduced in Ch. 49

The Potterless Conspiracy culminated with Harry's kidnapping in Ch. 27

“Mission accomplished” was George Bush's infamous phrase about Iraq

Harry noticed his lost Parseltongue ability in Ch. 38

“Eat me” is, among other things, a Lewis Carrol reference

Desiderata was Charlemagne's first wife; Coterel is an old British name, associated with a gang of highwaymen who may have been the source of the Robin Hood legend

Glamorgan is a Welsh county

Other miscellaneous female names are from song titles: Michelle (Beatles), Angie (Rolling Stones), Valerie (Winwood), Roxanne (Police), and Amanda (Boston)

Better out than in is from Shrek

Polycharmancy = polypharmacy, the influence of multiple drugs

Cat's eye is a semiprecious stone, black with gold filigrees

“I'll have what he's having” is a play on a line from “When Harry Met Sally”

The Bezoars knitted into Ginny's shawl were mentioned in Ch. 66

“Better … looking … on the run,” a modified line from “Bootleg” by Creedence Clearwater Revival

The system by which they use the Prefects' Bathroom is described in Ch. 54

Helmuth Von Moltke, a Prussian general, remarked that no battle plan ever survived contact with the enemy

Rutiles are extremely light refractive

Transoxiania is the area between two now largely diverted rivers that once fed into the Aral Sea; almost all the water is now used for irrigation; the associated names and places are accurate

57

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76. French Toast

Wherein a medical consultation occurs, an important announcement is made, advanced magic is performed, Voldemort continues plotting and unleashes a surprise, a potion is brewed, Ginny figures something out, Quidditch practice is disrupted, Luna asks a question, Hermione is frustrated, Dumbledore receives disturbing messages, Death Eaters attack, and everyone attempts to deal with the aftermath.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, Mathiasgranger, and Staples701.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Chapter 76 - French Toast

The knock on the door found the Headmaster catching up on voluminous, mostly routine correspondence. The caller was expected. Albus Dumbledore knew full well who was coming and the purpose of his visit.

The aged wizard sighed audibly, put aside his papers, and stood. He waved his good hand towards the sound and invited, “Enter. It is not locked.”

Healer Huxley bustled in, a folder under his arm and a concerned look on his face.

“Parry,” Dumbledore greeted, extending the only hand that now mattered. “You said it was urgent….”

“Albus!” The Healer responded, more emotionally than professionally. “Albus.” Ignoring the proffered handshake, Parry threw his free hand around the older man's back and pulled the Headmaster into an emotional hug. “I'm so sorry….”

Once released, the Headmaster stepped back and regarded his personal Healer of more than half a century through his half-moon glasses.

“I presume the news is bad, then.” His voice held no trace of dread.

“An understatement, I regret, Albus,” Hlr. Huxley confirmed with a stiff upper lip. “Your supposition was accurate. The evil poisoning your system is progressive and unstoppable. You must have destroyed a particularly evil Horcrux. Nothing else could account for the development of your condition.”

“It had to be done,” Dumbledore pronounced. “I would do it again. What is my prognosis?”

Hlr. Huxley answered starkly, “Fourteen months, maybe sixteen at most, and that assumes a treatment regimen I doubt you'd seriously consider. You'd have to surrender your Hogwarts duties at once and you'd be largely bedridden thereafter.”

The Headmaster cocked his head. “My life has been long and productive. I see no need to prolong it unnecessarily. When I took that risk, I was prepared for the next great adventure. The alternative, then?”

The Healer's face screwed up in helpless rictus. “With certain palliative Potions, you could sustain five, perhaps six more months maximum as an active wizard. Beyond that, the end would be quick. I cannot guarantee it would be painless.” The mental cost of his message was writ large on Parry's face.

“With my history, I fear pain even less than death,” Dumbledore remarked, his eye settling upon certain photographs. “I am prepared to begin the treatment you described immediately. A pity, though….”

“No, a tragedy,” Hlr. Huxley disagreed.

“Not my death, which is unavoidable in the best of circumstances,” the Headmaster corrected. “The pity is I cannot guide Mister Potter to the conclusion of his destiny. He will have to finish things with Tom without me.”

“So you plan on telling him,” the Healer fished.

“Oh, no, perish the thought,” Dumbledore dismissively waved his one good hand. “The boy's capacity for guilt rivals his capacity for good. He would react to my fate as he did to Miss Granger's. As you know, she was injured in the same event. My demise is my own doing, and shall remain that way. I shall inform him by letter delivered after the fact.”

“Very well…. Engorgio!” At Hlr. Huxley's spell, an object the size of a chocolate éclair expanded into a valise full of potions. Dumbledore nodded towards a wall cabinet and, with a twitch of Hlr. Huxley's wand, the phials and jars loaded themselves neatly and orderly onto the shelves.

Back at his desk, Dumbledore sighed. “Another pity is the things I promised to do that cannot possibly be completed within my lifetime. As I learned … far too often … ancient, entrenched bureaucracies simply do not move that quickly - particularly upon matters of great import.”

* * * *

`Blast it, where is she?' Harry stewed. He and Hermione had trained together as usual in the Room earlier that morning. After her hexes put him through his paces on a balance beam, he needed a shower and was ready to leave. She had stayed behind to “finish up” some research.

He wondered what she could possibly be finishing, since they had parted over an hour before. With breakfast nearly over, Hermione was still absent.

Granted, this was Hogwarts. Sure, she had been in the Room of Requirement. Absolutely, she was a superbly capable witch. Certainly, she could have sent him a Patronus or something. But still, what if…?

Harry's personal experience with the Castle's imperfect security generated a cold tug of anxiety whenever Hermione was unaccounted for, which by now she most certainly was. Any more delay, and she would either miss breakfast or - worse - be late for Arithmancy. The latter was unheard of, and the mere thought would send his fiancée into conniptions.

Harry kept his fears to himself whilst chatting with Ron and Ginny about the practice schedule for the so-called “Hogwarts all-stars” selected Quidditch team. With inter-House matches upcoming, arranging additional sessions could get complicated.

“…and next week, because the `Puffs have added an extra practice - to prep for us, I suppose - I've only been able to schedule Monday late and Friday early, as soon as classes end,” Ron rattled on. “Whoa! What's this about? Look at that … I guess Fleur's got something to say.”

Academically related announcements were commonplace as the morning meal wound down. Fleur was not a professor, so the beautiful but lowly intern's (technically an adjunct professor) appearance was a rare sight at the morning podium.

And mostly welcome … to some, anyway. The boys paid rapt attention.

Ginny groaned audibly. Fleur had a way of bewitching the male population - moreso Ron than Harry - whether intended or not. As to Fleur's intent, Ginny was agnostic.

“Attention, s'il vous plait,” the French blonde began, over the buzz of conversation in the Great Hall. “I `ave an announcement. We `ave now finalised zee arrangements for zee retours dance at Beauxbatons. On behalf of `Ogwarts, I `ave challenged mes former classmates at the Palais to stage an equally … unique event….”

The hall grew silent.

“Beauxbatons shall `old eets alliance dance on zee equinox - zee twenty second of Mars … er … March. Zee theme ees medieval, zee fourteenth century or zerabouts. To strike a blow for egalité, zees dance weel be pour la choix aux femmes….”

Fleur moved back towards her seat.

“Oh great, another bloody dance,” Ron grumbled beside Harry. “Who am I going to ask…?”

After Professor Flitwick stopped by for a few words, Fleur stepped back to the podium. “I am sorry; by zat I meant for zees dance, zee ladies may ask zee gentlemen….”

Ron quipped, “Well, that solves that, I guess….”

Harry felt himself under acute feminine observation. Even Ginny was regarding him pensively. “Dammit, Hermione, where are you?” Harry muttered uncomfortably.

His question barely asked - Harry received a most unexpected answer. From the direction of the Great Hall's entrance, he heard her voice. “Expecto patronum publicus!”

Harry turned to see Hermione's distinctive phoenix Patronus soaring towards him. Instinctively, he braced himself, even though he knew from experience that, physically at least, the impact was minuscule. Indeed, no impact occurred.

Instead, Hermione's brilliantly silver phoenix drew up short - and bowed.

Formalities complete, it delivered its message. “My dear Mister Potter, Miss Hermione Granger formally wishes to inform you that your presence is desired at whatever function Fleur has announced.”

Harry's eyes - and those of everyone else in the Hall - turned to the entrance where Hermione stood, having just arrived.

He rose. She strode swiftly towards him, but a higher authority intervened.

“Miss Granger!” Professor Flitwick's high, reedy voice brought her to an abrupt standstill. “It's undoubtedly true that, like the no-public-displays-of-affection rule, the prohibition against using magic in the Great Hall is honoured mostly in the breach, but now you've just gone too far. Let this pass, and we may as well abolish the rule. Ten points from Gryffindor.”

Her ears burning, Hermione trundled to her usual seat beside Harry. She was not accustomed to losing House points, with Snape having shown his true colours and departed.

Thus, her attention lagged as Professor Flitwick continued. “Dunston, Frobisher, Buckingham … and anyone else in my Seventh-Year seminar on magical information transfer…. That is how a properly cast Communications Patronus looks. Save the end. We do not teach the public variant, as it is post-N.E.W.T….”

“Where have you been? I was starting to get concerned….” Harry asked as Hermione slumped into her seat.

“Miss Granger!” Evidently Flitwick was not finished with her.

Flushed with embarrassment, she stood with her head respectfully bowed, as was customary. Flitwick was probably her second favourite teacher.

“Fifteen points to Gryffindor for a remarkable display of magical aptitude.”

Her knees buckling in relief, Hermione collapsed into Harry's arms, a broad smile on her face.

“Blimey, Hermione, don't tempt him,” Ron hissed from across the table. “Flitwick just mentioned the PDOA rule….”

“Umm … thanks for heading off any awkward invitations, Hermione,” Harry responded, as he helped sort her out. “But where were you?”

She offered a rather tired smile, and wordlessly fished something from her beaded bag.

With an audible “plonk,” she plopped a milky white bottle on the table. Grimacing, she told him, “These are those pills from Ginny. You can have them. I tested them thoroughly and they're clean.”

Harry deftly scooped up the bottle, like the Seeker he was. It fit in his hand, although not snugly, given its girth.

Harry began reading the label “Magi-Cal. Keeping witches fit and flying, both before and after….” He turned to Ginny on his right, opposite Hermione. She had been pretending not to listen. “Umm … before and after what?”

“Harry!” Hermione intervened. “You needn't worry. It's nothing that could happen to you.” Her finality stopped Harry in his tracks. She could explain menopause to him privately, were Harry so bold as to ask.

Hermione leaned around Harry to address Ginny. “Thanks, Gin, for indulging my paranoia. It's just … after those chocolates…. I'm glad you let me check, and if you didn't hear before, they're clean - but I suppose you knew that.”

Ginny smiled and replied. “Sure, Hermione, no problem. I'd probably do the same, in your position….”

Hermione turned back to Harry for details about what, exactly, she had just invited him to. She had missed Fleur's first announcement. Arriving just in time for the sequel, she had neither looked - nor listened - before she leapt.

Thus, she missed it, along with Harry, Neville and nearly everyone. Once Hermione resumed her conversation with Harry Ginny kept smiling at her. But the smile's character changed. The likes of that smile Ron had seen but once before - in a very Dark room on New Year's Eve.

* * * *

Arms tightly crossed, the Dark Lord paced his balcony in the gathering dusk, stopping to watch Thestrals swooping above the treetops of the dense surrounding forest.

He was thinking, and more clearly than at any time since the Stonehenge debacle. He had concluded that Horcrux reversal was a good idea, despite its unfortunate counter-obligation that he had not yet decided how to discharge.

Now that he was thinking clearly, Voldemort plotted. The Malfoy whelp had exceeded his expectations. He had, on short notice, obtained the Ravenclaw Medal Horcrux and spirited it from Hogwarts, under the overly-large nose of that Muggle-Loving fool.

The boy's other mission was also proceeding, albeit slowly. The Dark Lord accepted a measure of responsibility. He only wanted Potter and that Mudblood separated. From what he knew of Potter, he doubted the boy would be so foolish as to start a family so soon. Should he be so stupid, this Mudblooded hindrance was at least clever. She would handle contraception, even should the boy not.

Since Stonehenge, circumstances had changed. That mission was no longer open-ended. The Dark Lord would set a deadline - a reasonable, but early deadline.

Somehow, Malfoy would meet it. The boy was sufficiently incentivised.

Now Voldemort faced another decision. Was Malfoy ready for front line Death Eater duty? The Dark Lord was of two minds. Events had proven Malfoy's value at Hogwarts, particularly now that Severus was summoned to his service. Remove Malfoy, and his interests within the Castle would surely suffer.

Adrian Pucey, Pansy Parkinson, or Millicent Bullstrode would be willing enough replacements, but their ability was - to be charitable - suspect. Led by any of them, active operations at Hogwarts would probably fail. The Dark Lord had suffered too many failures - and too many fools - recently.

But except for Potter, Hogwarts no longer loomed so large on the Dark Lord's agenda. Voldemort aimed to control the world - or at least Britain - and capable Death Eaters were much more useful. After Stonehenge, and the failure of the Triad alliance of convenience, far fewer of his followers fell into that category. Recovery from that defeat required something spectacular, probably several spectaculars, to obtain the recruits needed to restore his numbers.

He had plans for that.

But Malfoy's contemplated assignment would inevitably end the boy's Hogwarts tenure, barring the off chance that his Death Eaters managed a complete triumph in the interim. After Stonehenge, that off chance was truly remote.

Lord Voldemort ultimately opted for that route with Draco Malfoy. He would determine exactly how effective a Death Eater Lucius' son could be.

Decision made, he strode purposely to the door. A large, magic-resistant deadbolt slid open with a clack. He ordered the Death Eater on guard duty, “Send in Severus Snape.”

Elsewhere in the same building, the ex-Hogwarts Potions-master oscillated between being pleased and worried. The Dark Lord's spirits had recently improved and were better than at any time since the Stonehenge fiasco. Lord Voldemort must not have been particularly keen on his Chinese entente and the power sharing such an arrangement portended.

The Dark Lord was not about sharing anything. Certain necessary compromises had caused - how to put this - domestic discord amongst the Dark Lord's most devoted followers.

Snape being Snape, he settled on worry.

He was wise.

He rose at a knock on the door.

“The Master'll see yeh now,” Alecto Carrow leered. “Wouldn't keep `im waiting iffn yeh know what's good fer yeh.”

Without further word, Snape slipped on his billowing cloak and left. He would not dignify that grotesque Scots bint with a response. Who did she think she was? He had worked with the Dark Lord since that sorry excuse for a witch was in nappies.

Two quick knocks on the door - then one slow - signalled his presence to the Dark Lord.

Touching the knob, Snape felt the door's wards lift. The Dark Lord allowed him entry.

Snape dropped to his knees and ritually kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robes. He had no idea what his “Master” wanted. That, he knew, was intentional. The Dark Lord preferred to keep his followers guessing.

“I have a new assignment for you.”

“Excellent. How may I serve my Master?”

“As you know, I sequester my operations to ensure that no traitor can threaten my entire organisation,” the Dark Lord mused out loud.

“Indeed, my Lord,” Snape answered evenly. With Bella at Voldemort's right hand, Snape had been the target of this strategy repeatedly.

“After considerable thought, I will extend your role into another aspect of my operations,” he revealed.

“I am most flattered, My Lord,” Snape sycophantically uttered.

“I am planning…. Legilimens!”

Without warning, the Dark Lord's psychic powers plumbed Snape's mind. Unless Snape passed this final loyalty test, Voldemort could not trust him with such an important enterprise. The images the Dark Lord captured were reassuring, mostly showing the Potions-master diligently pursuing this or that project. Amongst them, though, was something peculiar - Snape entering a darkened tent with a large book. The walls of the tent were … red.

Voldemort slowed the cavalcade and examined this discordant memory. He abruptly withdrew from Snape's mind, and the greasy haired wizard slumped to the floor.

“Why were you skulking about my tent that night?” he demanded ominously. “And what book did you sneak into it?”

Snape gasped. “Master…. It was … all I could do…. The potions … I thought … you should know … their effects….”

“You stole into my tent,” Voldemort repeated menacingly. “Why not simply tell me?”

Recovering, Snape regathered his wits. “You summoned me on short notice,” he carefully explained. “You were understandably busy, and I inadequate. When I supplied the potions, I hadn't been there five minutes, and I forgot…. I hadn't grasped the circumstances…. When I remembered, you were with the Chinese. Since we were not planning a fight, not immediately…, I thought an annotated book….”

The Dark Lord caught Snape's qualifying language. “Stop right there,” he demanded. “What do you mean, a fight? Explain yourself.”

Snape tried. “The potions you requested - especially the Fertility Potion - exact a cost….”

“What cost?” Voldemort's focus was as sharp as his Legilimency.

“Under the Fertility Potion, a portion of your magical power is devoted - diverted - to the task at hand … until it is completed….”

The Dark Lord interrupted again, “I was subpar during that battle because of your potions?!?” he thundered. “CRUCIO!!”

Snape had borne the Dark Lord's Unforgivable numerous times, but never like this. As he writhed in a fire that seemingly burned him from inside out, the small part of him that remained rational was convinced that he had gone too far and was about to die.

He was wrong.

Unexpectedly, the excruciating curse lifted. Voldemort's blazing eyes bore down at Snape's limp form. “How long did your potions have that effect?”

Barely coherent, and barely audible, Snape answered. “It's all there … in the book….” He pointed feebly towards a nearby shelf and collapsed in exhaustion - awaiting his own death.

With a twist of his wand, Lord Voldemort summoned his copy of Moste Potente Potions. He recognised it as the same book Snape had delivered to his tent, carefully marked, last New Year's Eve. The pain of realisation struck home as he read. Disregarding possible knock-on effects, he had selected the strongest Fertility Potion. It redirected up to a third of the user's magical energy to reproductive success. The effect lasted for twenty-four hours, or until a reproductive act occurred, and then gradually dissipated.

That explained his feebleness during the battle - why Potter could deflect his Killing Curse, leading to….

“Aarrgghh!” the Dark Lord could contain himself no longer. “I failed.… I … I wasted a seventh of myself! The rejoining was for naught…!”

Wrathfully, he turned his wand on Snape's prostrate form, intent upon doing away with the worse-than-useless scum. But before he uttered the fatal words, it came to him….

The solution, to the extent one existed, to his problems.

He needed to restore Bella, but not so perfectly that her form was superior to himself. And, whatever the reason, he did feel better since the reunion.

He needed to assure the loyalty of two of his most competent followers - one old and one new - and dispose of them if they failed.

He needed absolute assurance that his new interpretation of Abigail Rosen's reading, which had been haunting him for months, could never came to pass.

He needed to spare the life of someone whom, at the moment he reversed his soul split, he intended to kill.

And after Stonehenge, he needed a demonstration to the magical world that he was still Lord Voldemort - the most feared and most powerful Dark wizard of the age.

Most of all, as always, he needed to destroy Harry Potter - so he could finally be done with him.

Instead of casting the Killing Curse on Snape, he uttered, “Ennervate!”

Snape's body twitched. The man groaned.

“Get up,” the Dark Lord demanded. “Whilst your stupidity cost me dearly, you will be allowed to redeem yourself.”

Snape had not been unconscious - merely utterly spent between Cruciation and fatalism. “How may I serve you?” he rasped robotically whilst staggering to his feet.

“Instead of killing you for your failings, I shall be merciful. Instead, as I said, I have decided to expand your role.”

“Yes, my Lord,”

“Albus Dumbledore has lived too long. I want him dead,” he declared, ignoring his words' import. “The populace believes that I fear him. After Stonehenge, that must be rectified, or my own position may be in peril.”

“You are going to kill…?”

An evil smile spread across Voldemort's face. “No, Draco Malfoy is,” he hissed drawing out the name of Snape's protégé. “Should he not, you are to kill them both.”

Snape was mortified, but the master actor kept it to himself. “My Lord?” was all he uttered.

“You heard me,” the Dark Lord spoke with finality. “You are the only one privy to this fact.”

The implication was obvious. Should Voldemort detect any preparations or countermeasures by the Headmaster, Snape would be exposed as a traitor.

“How shall I proceed?”

“Do nothing overt until ordered,” Voldemort directed. “You know Hogwarts better than anyone here. When appropriate, you will lead an invasion party. You can have the Carrows, Gibbon, Mulciber, Selwynn, Rowle, and perhaps others. I'll also give you Greyback and Nagini for their more unusual skills. I have made some progress with the Dementors, and I shall try to provide you with some of their services, but do not count on it.”

“When, my Lord?” Snape asked. His mind reeled. He was being told to carry out Albus Dumbledore's murder, using his favourite student as the weapon.

“Begin planning immediately,” Voldemort commanded. “You will know the date when I tell you. Do not expect much notice.”

The interview was over.

Obviously dismissed, Snape stumbled towards the exit. The Dark Lord's voice brought him up short one final time.

“Fail me, Severus, and your end will be even more painful, and even more final.” The glare from his Master's burning red slits was terrifyingly intense.

Escaping the Dark Lord's presence, Snape was profoundly conflicted. He had just been tasked with the death of the man to whom he owed his life - and of the spymaster to whom he reported. He was to lead Draco in commission of irredeemable evil. But through Lord Voldemort's rare indiscretion, he had also learnt critical information that Dumbledore had literally pleaded with him to discover.

He could only place himself once again at the Headmaster's mercy.

Once Snape had left, Voldemort turned to the Death Eater standing watch, “Get me Ludo Bagman.”

* * * *

Behind schedule, Draco Malfoy was using his wand to fasten the buckles of his never-scuff patent leather shoes - epitomising the term “well-heeled.” He paused as a wizard's shadow darkened his door.

“M'boy, this is for you. I apologise for its delay whilst I was … indisposed.” Somewhat awkwardly, his Head of House handed Malfoy an already-opened letter.

Nodding, Draco took it. Without looking, he knew it was from his contractor Caractacus Burke.

“That's all right,” Draco mumbled, although it was anything but. Lately he had been proceeding blindly and did not care for that at all.

“I'm pleased that things seem to be improving for you, at least on the home front.” With that, the portly professor turned to leave.

“Oh, professor,” Malfoy hesitantly called after him. “I want to … apologise too, for how I behaved in class that day…. I acted like an unthinking Mudblood picking that fight. I got what I deserved. I'm sorry, and it won't happen again.”

Horace Slughorn's expression brightened. He never expected an apology from the haughty blond. This Malfoy took after his father. “That's quite all right, Draco. You've been under a lot of pressure with your father's situation. Your Potions work remains excellent, although young Weasley is giving you a run for your money. Apology accepted; think nothing more of it….”

“It's just my mum. She's out of sorts….”

“So I've heard,” Slughorn sympathised. “Anyway, I'll leave you to it. Things to do, you know. People to meet….”

Once Slughorn departed, Draco Malfoy smiled as widely as his perpetually sneering face allowed. The cause was the first paragraph of the letter, which purported to summarise the status of the construction at Malfoy Manor: “Financial arrangements for Phase III of the work are complete.”

Decoded, that meant that the Dark Lord must be pleased with Draco's latest efforts, since another installment of “Gulbenkian inheritance money” was released - enough to complete reconstruction and to allow Mum to move back home where she belonged.

It was completely encrypted, of course. Since Draco's meeting with the Headmaster, all his correspondence with Burke, in or out of Hogwarts, was censored. His post was diverted through Professor Slughorn, Dumbledore's delegate to review everything.

The code keyed on the list of budget items in each letter. It was cumbersome, but Draco could live with it. Censorship was not why he wanted Slughorn neutralised….

No, that request involved Slughorn's oversight - loose though it was - of peer tutoring for Potions.

Draco finished reading his post whilst walking through the Castle's dungeon-level corridors. He found it on the second page, under “Remove and Replace Overgrown Greenery.” Transposing some digits in the columns marked “Budgeted” and “Actual” and….

Shite.

Burke had responded to Draco's request, indicating that Death Eaters would try poisoning Professor Slughorn.

The effort described in the delayed letter had failed. Everyone in the Castle knew that Slughorn had suddenly taken gravely ill. He had recovered, but details of what had transpired were still secret. Rumours, originating with the Gryffindors, were that Slughorn had somehow been poisoned.

That explained something else - his professor's odd demeanour whilst giving him the letter. Slughorn's dominant hand, his wand hand, stayed in his cloak. Plainly, Slughorn knew he had been the target of foul play and was extremely suspicious of those he mistrusted, definitely including Draco Malfoy.

Draco would have no second chance. Slughorn's overweening paranoia rendered another attempt impractical, if not impossible. Critically, that meant Draco's record of “service” as Ginny Weasley's Potions peer tutor could not be expunged with Slughorn still alive.

The die was thus cast.

Draco took a deep breath. It was now very likely would never finish his Hogwarts education, at least under the school's current management. He would obey the Dark Lord's wishes, but beneath his contemptuous exterior, Draco Malfoy was not one to underestimate Hermione Granger.

Yes, the redheaded bint would brew the Draught of Despair to perfection, but Draco did not delude himself. Even the Draught's malign influence, he did not think, would shut down the Mudblood forever. Sooner or later, something would happen that, notwithstanding black potion-induced despair, would spur Granger's suspicions that her precious Potter had been tampered with - and that a potion was the likely culprit. She was clever enough that Draco did not believe that even the best Draught of Despair could keep her at bay forever, once the Weaselette snatched the Great Git.

More plausibly, he hoped that a potioned Potter would find Weasley's undeniable physical charms sufficient, and that the girl could tie the Git up, down, or whatever, before the day of reckoning. Hell, the bint could get herself pregnant for all he cared.

But unless the Mudblood, or Potter, were eliminated - either eventuality being well above his junior Death Eater pay grade - at some point things would unravel, and Weasley's use of a complex Love Potion would out. Even if he Obliviated her (messy, but probably within his capacity, given his unconcern for her future) nobody would believe she could do that without help.

With the peer tutor records intact, everything would point to him - holder of his year's O+ O.W.L. in the subject.

In that eventuality Draco was prepared to flee, but had not yet broached that issue with the Dark Lord's agents. His next letter would. Responding to Burke, he would add a new line item to the budget - “Upgrade Emergency Exits and Ward Escape Spellwork to Code.”

But for now, he had to prepare the room for the second brewing cycle that would complete the Draught of Despair.

Ginny Weasley arrived at the hastily called Potions session with her mood almost as dark as Draco's. As her footsteps echoed along the deserted corridor, she muttered, “This is crazy.” She had repeated that phrase a dozen times since witnessing that display in the Great Hall. “Why did I think I could do this?”

Why, indeed?

Ginny cracked the door to the unfamiliar dungeon - the Potions classroom was unavailable for some reason - and rolled her eyes at Draco and the elaborate Potions apparatus he had almost completed assembling.

Without even looking up - he was manipulating some tubing into a figure-eight coil with his wand - Malfoy remarked sarcastically, “Glad you could make it.”

“More notice would have helped,” Ginny tossed back. “Muggle Studies ran over. It took me five minutes to Scourgify all the gunk on my robes after stupid Sally Simpson blew up something called a `double boiler.' Such a lovely first day of Muggle cooking.”

“Why bother with that sad sack subject?” Draco haughtily dismissed the topic. “Magic is far superior in every way to anything those pathetic Muggles could devise.”

“I'm not saying you're wrong, but Daddy thinks it's something I should know,” Ginny answered defensively. “Besides, it's a soft option. The only homework is reading. Not like all this….” She gestured dejectedly at Draco's complex Potions equipment.

He could guess why the redhead was demoralised. “Oh come on, Reds,” he encouraged, whilst giving the talisman a rub. “You're not half bad, now, at this. You have a superb peer tutor,” he added with a smirk.

“Oh, screw yourself, Malfoy,” Ginny snapped. “What makes you think I can do this? How can I compete with magic the likes of that? It's too bloody soon….”

Not an eyewitness, Draco had heard plenty about Granger's dramatic Great Hall entrance from Cambo and Spott, the Fifth-Years who were his replacements for Crabbe and Goyle. “No matter what she does, she'll always be a Mudblood. You're the Pure-blood - don't forget that, and don't let your Muggle-loving parents convince you otherwise.”

“Lovely thought, but I doubt you can do what she did. I can't even conjure a Patronus for more than a few seconds, let alone make it do tricks like that,” she whinged. “Now she's going to a second ball with him….”

“…And with the Potion I suspect you're keeping all too close to yourself even now,” he shot a piercing glance towards her sex that seemed to undress her, “he'll spend all his time at the bloody Beauxbatons ball watching you….”

There it was - that ever-so-slight flash of red behind her eyes.

“Yeah, right,” Ginny scoffed, “in my dowdy Fourteenth Century floor-length dress….”

“But less dowdy than anyone else,” he reminded. “And who are you taking, anyway? No, don't even think about asking me….”

“Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy,” she growled. “You wouldn't want Ron to break your nose again - that was the highlight of my night the last time.”

Draco retreated, struggling to damp down his fury at that memory. “No, I mean it, we must plan this. I don't doubt that the potion will work. Who are you taking?”

Ginny tossed her vivid hair. “If you must know, nobody here. I'm signing up to pair with one of those French boys. I do have to be available, don't I?”

Draco relaxed; at least she was taking things seriously. “Nice idea. Couldn't have done better myself. Still, poor Big-bottom will be so disappointed,” he insulted her former boyfriend. “That witch's option might yet be a good thing. Anyway, buck up and let's get started.”

Ginny rummaged through her rucksack. “I did get plenty of her hair, as you wanted.” She dropped a plump Ziploc bag on the tabletop. “She threw out an old pair of shoes the other day. I Tergeoed them and they yielded Merlin knows what.” Ginny laid a stoppered phial next to the baggie. “Finally, I was lucky, if you call it that….” With a disgusted look, Ginny dangled a bog-roll-wrapped object by its white string. “The right time of the month.”

She looked evilly at Draco. “Here, catch!”

“Not on your bloody life!” Malfoy yelped. Dodging the unmentionable missile, he nearly upset part of his laboriously constructed equipment. “I wouldn't touch that manky Mudblood's blood for all the Galleons in Gringotts.”

Still, he levitated it onto the table next to the other raw materials. He knew - and she knew - that it was key. Better feedstock for the Draught of Despair did not exist, particularly for this particular intended use.

Draco got down to business. “We made the base the last time. Now, to keep Granger from using something like that Patronus on you, or anyone….” For the next three-quarters of an hour he put the Gryffindor redhead through her brewing paces, making sure she did everything perfectly.

However, Draco needed more than just perfect potions. He needed a date certain so he could keep dancing on the Dark Lord's tightrope. The exact date was negotiable, but setting one was not.

“So how is the … other potion coming along?” Draco asked over their bubbling cauldron, feigning insouciance.

“I said … I need more time.” Ginny answered testily. “I'm constantly playing catch up here. You think I like waddling around like I'm constantly on my period?”

Draco grimaced at the mere thought.

“Oh, stuff it, Malfoy…. If you can't handle the truth, shove off.”

“It's just… it sounds uncomfortable.”

“Well it feels even worse,” Ginny bitched. “But I'm doing it. With what I'm facing; it must be the strongest possible.”

“That's the spirit,” Draco urged, patting the talisman inside his robes. “So have you tested it at all yet?” He peered into the ewer beneath the dripping coil. “Lumos! Excellent … this is inky black - just like it's supposed to….”

“Great,” Ginny responded with a rather forced smile. “Tests … at a subclinical dose, yes,” she revealed. “Seems to have worked. I basically challenged Hermione to do her worst….”

Draco frowned.

“…That's why she was late to the Great Hall. In small doses, at least, I've confirmed that it's quite as undetectable as advertised.”

Draco was appalled. “I think it's bloody stupid tipping your hand,” he upbraided her.

“You're a bloody poor excuse for a Slytherin,” she stropped, not backing down an inch. “That was what one calls a feint. You played Quidditch, not particularly well, I'll grant you….”

“Hey!”

“…Maybe you've heard of them. They're misdirection plays.”

“Oh-kay,” Draco backed off.

“When it's ready, that's not how I'll give it to him,” Ginny hinted. “At least not at first….”

“So when, then?” Draco pressed. That was critical.

“I don't know; I'm scared,” Ginny confessed.

“Not much of a Gryffindor, then,” Draco matched her earlier jibe. He had suspected as much. He faced the nearly completed Draught of Despair - cover for his hand rubbing the talisman.

That was unnecessary.

“I know,” Ginny blurted, sounding rather less miserable. “That's the ticket…. I just figured out how to get this,” she pointed at the Draught of Despair, which almost filled the ewer, “where it needs to go. She told me her parents are Muggle tooth healers. She's never liked sweets….”

“So?” Draco responded tensely. He was confused, but definitely interested. He poured some of the evil-looking Draught into a beaker. In its pure form, not infused into anything else, the Draught of Despair was a misty, heavy, and entirely opaque ebony-coloured gas - a miasma in every sense of the word.

“So, you needn't know anything more,” she delighted in keeping him guessing. “But Muggle Studies isn't so worthless after all.”

“You'll have a week at most,” Draco reminded her.

“I won't need a week,” Ginny curtly informed him, a sly grin crossing her face as the final penny dropped. “We've a Quidditch match only a couple of days later. Harry always hides out in the Gryffindor locker room after catching the Snitch. He hates triumphal entrances into our after-match parties. He's really shy like that … adorable.”

Draco tried hard not to gag.

* * * *

“Hah!” Ron squawked, batting away his sister's inverted shot on goal. They had always been competitive - being the two youngest of seven siblings ensured that - but their ordinarily good-natured Quidditch rivalry only intensified as Ron became “the King” in goal and Ginny “Magic” as Gryffindor's point Chaser. “Takes more than just tossing from topsy turvy to throw me off, Sis.”

“You'll see plenty more where that came from!” Ginny taunted whilst flitting behind the goal mouths. She soared off to Ron's right.

“Come on; look sharp!” Ron bellowed as the Gryffindor Chasers and Beaters were slow regrouping. “Let's show a little…. Aaahh!” A spurt of water drenched the back of his neck. Whilst the winter's snow was receding, an unexpected outdoor shower was still most unwelcome in the chilly late February air.

Ron spun towards his assailant, and raised his hand just in time to catch his co-captain's water bottle. “You insubordinate little….”

“I wouldn't finish that sentence if I were you,” Ginny retorted. She had Harry's co-captain's bottle trained on Ron. “This one has more ammo.”

Ron knew he was outgunned. “Can I help it if Keeping's more strenuous than Seeking?” he smirked. “And only a captain can call time out.”

“Well, I'll call one, then,” Harry intervened from the side opposite where he had been lurking. “And if you want strenuous, try holding off Jazzy all practice. Not a dull moment, that…. Thanks,” he added as Ginny tossed him his refreshment.

Ginny flashed Harry her most demure smile. “I didn't want a time out,” she rejected Ron's original accusation. “Bloody Quaffle's gone off somewhere.” Pointing her Firebolt downwards, she moved towards a still snow choked copse of trees and bushes in the general direction where Ron had deflected her last throw. A frustrated Ron and a bemused Harry trailed behind.

“Dammit! That's the third time this practice,” Ron complained whilst searching half-heartedly. “We don't have another right now, so we have to find this one….”

“Find what?” came a familiar voice in an unfamiliar locale. Hermione did not frequent Quidditch practices in cold weather, using that time to practise both violin and Healing.

“Well, it's the Goddess Athena herself come down to mix with mere mortals,” Ron greeted her. He had been teasing her in this gentle fashion since word had spread that, in addition to her usual seemingly effortless (to all but herself) academic prowess in her N.E.W.T. classes, she had outdone herself in her postponed Healing examination.

Ginny turned away, to hide her jealousy of a girl who seemingly had everything.

“Well, you two will probably be a bit more mortal in the coming weeks,” Hermione teased back, refusing to rise to Ron's bait.

“What do I have to do with this?” Harry chimed in, interested in what his fiancée might know.

`Everything, my dear,' Hermione Legilimenced to him - extending her first word luxuriously. She quickly came to the point. “I just learnt from Madam Pomfrey. Katie is out of her coma and conscious. The Healers at St. Mungo's believe she will recover fully, probably before the end of the Term, and maybe in time to finish the season. She may have to repeat Seventh Year for academic reasons….”

Hermione continued, but Ron tuned her out. He was profoundly conflicted. He should be overjoyed to have Katie back. If at one hundred percent, she was far superior to her replacement, Dean Thomas. But the “temporary” position of acting co-captain was Ron's only distinction - thanks to…. Everything returned to bloody Chang, it seemed.

Harry would easily give his up, Ron realised. He had been reluctant to assume the co-captaincy in the first place. But Ron - without his Quidditch position, he was merely plain old Ron.

By the time Ron refocused, the conversation had moved on. Harry and Hermione were discussing the errant Quaffle problem.

“…house-elves are usually responsible for properly magicking Quidditch equipment, since they're not affiliated with any house….”

“Or improperly magicking them,” Harry added, recalling an incident from second year.

“So you don't think the `Puffs have gone Slytherin on us and are sabotaging our practice Quaffles?” Ginny interjected.

“I doubt it,” Hermione dismissed the idea. “Although, since they're only practice Quaffles, we might be able to add a magical overlay ourselves, but I'd talk to the elves first.”

“Since when do you know all about Quidditch?” Ginny asked sceptically. “It's not really your thing, you know.”

“I didn't claim it was,” Hermione responded, sounding a little hurt. “But I do know the elves better than anyone.” Turning to Ron, she invited, “If I can borrow a couple of sets of practice Quaffles, I'll try having their magic tweaked so they stop going missing. Maybe it can be done before the next Gryffindor practice.”

* * * *

Ron was mildly aggravated as he browsed the Hogwarts library's unfamiliar depths. “Where's that stupid Quidditch section?” he muttered. “Hermione said it was back here, and she's never wrong about stuff like that….”

“Aha!” He spotted the likeness of an old-fashioned snidget on the spine of a tome one row over, opposite a broad alcove.

Making a beeline for his objective, Ron ignored the alcove itself.

“Why hello, Ronald.” The voice stopped the redhead in his tracks. “What brings you by this way?”

“Umm … hi, Luna,” Ron answered tentatively. “Hermione told me the advanced Quidditch section was over here, and I needed some books for my class….”

“Why, of course it is,” Luna replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “That was in your assignment when Harry was missing.”

Ron gave her a well-you've-caught-me smile. She was spot on. “Yeah, but I never actually entered the stacks,” he admitted. “I had that sphere do all the fetching. I never went further into the library than the card catalogue.”

“Speaking of spheres,” Luna effortlessly moved the conversation, “since you're here, you can explain exactly what type spells you want cast on these Quaffles - Hermione mentioned something about retrieval problems.”

Ron noticed something at the table other than Luna. A half-dozen Gryffindor practice Quaffles were lined up along the table's left side. On her side, Luna was ensconced in a nest built of technical Quidditch-related books.

“But I thought…. Hermione said that the elves…. Hey, you're not even in Gryffindor!” Ron spluttered. Everything about Luna seemed to confuse him.

Luna stifled a laugh. She beckoned him to the chair beside her, saying delphically, “Relax, Ronald, and all shall be revealed.”

Only Luna routinely used Ron's full given name. Intrigued, he pivoted the proffered chair and sat on it backwards, with the wooden back separating them. “Okay, this has to be good,” he commented. “I'm ready, I guess.”

“But still you're not relaxed,” Luna observed - correctly. She casually placed one hand atop of Ron's chair, where it brushed his exposed left forearm.

For a moment, Ron seemed transfixed; then he jolted backwards. “Whoa, Luna, what was that?” he asked, gawking.

Luna's silver-grey eyes widened more than usual. Unblinkingly, she apologised - sort of. “I'm sorry, Ronald. Hasn't Harry or Hermione mentioned that I'm an Empath?”

Ron's eyes momentarily went nearly as large as Luna's. “Nope, they sure didn't,” he uttered uncomprehendingly. “What's that?”

His open-ended question drew an open-ended answer. “A number of things,” she responded mysteriously. “Most significantly, I'm a vessel for emotions. I can feel yours, and vice versa I can allow you to feel mine. It's called empathy.”

“That's why … why you knew I wasn't, well, relaxed,” Ron deduced, as he struggled with what had just happened.

Luna could no longer help herself and had to giggle. “Well, that was quite obvious without being an Empath. But yes, I did try to relax you so you wouldn't be so guarded. Everything's easily explained. The elves wouldn't apply special charms to Quidditch equipment for any specific house - they saw it as violating their neutrality. Hermione asked if I wanted to try some new magic. Since you wanted it done, I said of course….”

“Luna?” Ron truncated her Quidditch-related explanation. While asking the question, he had gradually tuned out her explanation - instead pondering other, infinitely more profound recollections. “You said you could feel my emotions…. What am I feeling now?”

Luna responded in her usual dreamy fashion. “I'm sorry, but empathy doesn't work that way. I'd have to touch you, and after the way you reacted the last time….”

“Umm … I was startled, that's all,” Ron answered slowly. “But I'm … er … not … I won't react that way again….” The same arm she had touched earlier flopped off the chair back towards her.

“You mean?”

“Yeah, you can do it again if you like, now that I know what to expect.”

Luna did. After a few seconds' analysis, she hesitantly diagnosed, “I … you…. I sense … gratitude….” Her face gradually flowered into a smile. “But these Quaffles - please it's nothing, it was just….”

“You rescued me … that night, didn't you?” he inquired, although pretty sure of the answer.

“Why, yes, of course,” Luna allowed, feeling both flattered and self-conscious. “I'm sure Harry, Hermione, and the rest told you all about what we did at Stonehenge. We were … glad to do it … really … all of us.” Flushed to the ears with embarrassment, Luna removed her hand.

Ron immediately missed the sensation.

“They told me what they did, yeah,” Ron shrugged. “They didn't say much about what you did - only generalities. I don't think they know. I think you … umm … empathicated me that night, or whatever….”

Luna chose her words carefully. “Er … well, because of extenuating circumstances….” Ron was quite correct. She had indeed been circumspect in what she had told the others about rescuing Ron.

“I'm not upset,” Ron tried putting her at ease. “Far from it. After all that … horror…. I'd never felt so, well, dead. I was lost. Then you did that - whatever. That's when I finally felt hope….”

For once, their usual roles reversed. Ron had a - dare it be called - dreamy expression and inflexion. Luna was dumbstruck. Again he moved his arm forward, inviting her touch.

Luna chose to avoid it, fearful that her own special power might betray too much, too soon.

“You saved me,” Ron blurted out. He fell quiet, and Luna likewise kept her peace. Soon enough Ron filled the silence. “You know, I never thanked you for that…. So, I guess I'm a git.”

He turned and faced her almost formally. “Thanks for that, Luna. You, all of them…. You're not even in my House. And you … I think you did that more than once….”

Ron was trying to reach through the jumble of his potion-addled memory of that New Year's from Hell, but it was no use. The pieces would not come together. He could recall only feelings, not events - not a bad thing given what he had been through. Although he could not put a finger on anything specific, not everything that night had been uniformly horrible.

Luna filled the silence. “The empathy … it's not something I can turn on or off on command,” she tried explaining herself. “You were … well, not exactly clothed….” She blushed furiously again, causing Ron to follow suit. “To survive, I had to carry you and stay hidden under Harry's cloak. It was rather … er … cozy. Then, so you'd be safe, I hid you away in a motorbike's sidecar. Fitting you in that was … umm … a challenge of its own - but I did what was required….”

Ron took a deep breath. “Luna, thanks again,” he declared. He regarded her as if seeing something entirely new and unexpected. “You know? All that time I spent with … she-who-must-not-be-named…. She … umm … never did anything for me nearly as….” Ron fumbled for the right word. “…vital to me….”

Ron was rather ambiguous - his context and language did not quite jibe - but it occurred to Luna that Hermione might just be right (not unusual). Having been traumatised, Ron might not be ready to think along romantic lines without encouragement.

“You're more than welcome, Ronald,” she responded even more distractedly than usual. “I guess that the Ravenclaw scuttlebutt about you is accurate.”

Ron looked lost. He did not follow, nor had she expected he would. “Er … what exactly are your housemates saying about me?” He wanted to know.

“That you're not about to be tripping the light fantastic with our fallen angel, Miss Chang, at the Beauxbatons dance,” Luna let on.

Ron purpled at being reminded of his quondam girlfriend. “Bloody Hell, no way!” he almost exploded, ignoring the risk of Madame Pince expelling him from the library for rowdiness. “I think Dumbledore's going senile just letting her stay on, but the one absolute condition for that was that she stays damn well out of my way.”

“We thought as much,” Luna intoned whilst playing lazily with a strand of her flaxen hair. “Somebody else, then, for sure … probably some Gryffindor….” She trailed off, having framed neither a question nor a declaration.

“Nah,” Ron tossed off casually. “Lavender Brown asked, but after what happened, I'm not ready - at least for a while…. I might not even go. I don't speak French.”

“That's too bad….”

“Not really,” Ron talked across her. “Hermione speaks it fluently, and Harry speaks some.”

“That's not what I meant,” Luna persisted. “I meant sorry for me. I sort of thought, if you didn't have other plans … I mean … you might like to go with me….”

“Huh?” Ron blinked. “You're asking me to the dance? Like on a date?”

“Only if you want to,” Luna demurred. “It is ladies' choice, though….”

Pause. Another silence - this one unusually tense, at least for Luna.

“Yeah, I think I'd like that,” Ron finally said thoughtfully. “I think I might like that a lot….”

* * * *

“Urrgh! This is so frustrating!” Hermione carped. Her latest effort was as unsatisfactory as her previous half-dozen. Scowling at a full-length mirror, she saw an ungainly chimæra with the legs, left side, and left wing of a brilliantly scarlet phoenix. But the rest remained in Hermione's familiar human form.

“You are still striving for dominance, however unconsciously. You cannot succeed by overpowering Fawkes' spirit with the force of your own will,” observed the Headmaster from his seat behind his desk. “I reiterate: this transformation is a negotiation, not a competition. You find this is particularly difficult, as you are so adept at prevailing in your usual manner.”

“But my usual manner is what I'm best at,” Hermione protested.

“Precisely,” Dumbledore pounced, his eyes twinkling.

“Precisely what?” she countered. Then she, too, pounced. “Precisely what you're doing with - or should I say to - Harry?”

Dumbledore recoiled. “I assure you, Miss Granger, I design and intend both of your sessions to be of maximum benefit.”

“Benefit to whom?” Hermione asked aggressively. “I know about your sessions with Harry. It's mostly using your Pensieve to go over bits of Tom Riddle's pre-Voldemort years. You're not teaching him anything. You're not training him to use his … umm … special gifts. I want to know - is something going on that you're still not telling us?”

She had been composing that speech ever since Harry told her of his last session involving some meeting between Morfin Gaunt and Voldemort. Hermione stood glaring at the Headmaster, her hands firmly on her hips - or, more accurately, one wing-tip brushing a haunch.

Dumbledore sensed, correctly, that her outburst was a proxy for Harry's sentiments. “Miss Granger, I am an old man, and unfortunately, aging apace.” He showed his withered and burnt hand. “I can only teach Mister Potter what I know. I have no experience with powers of his nature….”

“You could teach him how to duel,” she insisted. “Play to his strengths for once. He says you're an awesome dueller. He saw you at the Ministry….”

Dumbledore sighed and slowly shook his head. “Sound and fury signifying relatively little, I am afraid. My duelling on that occasion was not particularly stellar. Do not forget, I failed to prevent Tom from attacking Mister Potter. I did not end his possession - he did. Regrettably, I have only deteriorated further since then.”

“Then tactics … strategy?” Hermione demanded. “If you can't do, then teach. All these memories … what's the point?”

“They inform Mister Potter of his adversary's nature,” Dumbledore replied more forcefully. “Yes, he needs the training you advocate. I have done my best to provide it. I have engaged the best, and most trustworthy, instructors available - Sefu Kung, Alastor, Kingsley, even Miss Tonks. I shall tell you a closely held secret; if and how you divulge it to Mister Potter is within your discretion….”

“Another secret,” Hermione said flatly. “You promised….”

“I did, but events rendered this one irrelevant,” the Headmaster explained. “At one time, indeed most of last year, I had despaired and entertained the possibility that Mister Potter would become a sacrificial lamb….”

“NO!” Hermione howled. “I won't permit that, no more than I'd let you try turning him Dark.”

“Agreed … one hundred percent,” Dumbledore placated the furious young witch. “That was before Mister Potter's powers began maturing - before he destroyed what I believe was a Horcrux he carried behind his scar. As you know, Voldemort's Horcruxes provide him functional immortality. I did not, and despite considerable additional research, still do not know how to remove a Horcrux from anything living without killing the host. I feared that Mister … make that Harry, would have to die to fulfill the prophecy.”

Hermione went from furious to downcast. “I can't truthfully say I never considered the same horrible possibility … but you swear you don't believe it anymore?”

“An Unbreakable Vow if you wish,” Dumbledore confirmed.

“No, that's not necessary … this time,” she declined. “I guess Harry saved himself with his power - doing what none of us could.”

The Headmaster smiled. “Not for the last time, I am sure. Likewise, you may well save yourself, once you master this transition.”

Having said her piece, Hermione allowed the conversation to drift from Harry. “But I hardly feel anything,” she huffed, waving her single wing. “You tell me to touch its … his soul. I can't seem to find it. I'm wondering if anything's there.”

Dumbledore regarded her sagely. “He is there, I assure you. You would not be alive today were that not the case…. I would….”

The Headmaster's prematurely ended another soliloquy on the peculiar nature of the phoenix transformation. A spindly silver device on a side table by the window chattered to life.

Hermione silently ended her halfway phoenix transformation as Dumbledore listened to the clicks, clacks, and clanks with great interest. Before Hermione's natural curiosity resurfaced, he remarked. “It appears I am receiving a most important message.”

“I should call it a night, then,” Hermione offered and reached for her rucksack. “Anything must be more important than my rather inept efforts.”

Dumbledore halted her with a hand signal. Only the chattering device could be heard until he intoned, “Not yet. This mode of communication is understood by only a select few wizards. I believe this message may be of concern to you.”

Hermione sat down, as did the Headmaster, and they waited for the message to finish. When the device fell silent, Dumbledore hastened to it. Commenting, “I have a reader,” he unrolled some shiny metal foil wrapped around the device and removed it with a carefully cast Severing Charm.

“Please wait. I shall return very soon,” Dumbledore requested. He stepped through the door leading to his private chamber.

Upon re-entry, the Headmaster looked pale, gaunt, and grave. Hermione expected him to announce that someone she knew had died.

She was mistaken. The news - at least what Dumbledore told her - was good.

The message came, directly or indirectly, from a spy amongst the Death Eaters. Hermione knew not to ask who, how, or why. The Headmaster trusted the information, and that was good enough for her, at least for the moment.

“It seems that Tom confronted the same uncertainty we did in respect of the optimal number of Horcruxes … presuming such a thing exists,” Dumbledore revealed. “My source states that he chose the higher number, and set his bedrock Cleaving Spell for seven slices - that is seven individual Horcruxes and an eighth piece for Tom himself.”

It was Greek to Hermione. “Bedrock spell? I'm afraid I don't understand….”

“Thank you again, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore replied unexpectedly. “You refrained from involving yourself in very Dark magic. `Bedrock cleaving' refers to fundamental magical incantations required by any attempt at multiple Horcruxes. They ensure that each Horcrux contains an approximately equal portion of the caster's - in this case Tom Riddle's - soul.”

Hermione was, as always, a quick study. “Otherwise, the first Horcrux would be half of a soul; the second, a quarter; the third, an eighth; and so on,” she deduced.

“Correct,” the Headmaster confirmed. “I presume you also know that this number was what Mister Potter could not learn from Professor Slughorn.”

“Your correspondent knows it, then?” Hermione asked with growing excitement. “That's great news….”

From Dumbledore's reaction, the news seemed less favourable.

“Nothing more than a deduction through negative implication,” the Headmaster explained. “The circumstances provide strong guarantees of accuracy. Apparently, Tom recently concluded that he set the initial bedrock number too high. The key fact is that he recently reversed one of his Horcruxes and reunited it with what remains of his soul….”

Hermione goggled. “He can do that?”

“Evidently,” Dumbledore answered dryly. “The message states that it was done - not how. I do not know, nor care to know, such magic.”

“So, of the seven Horcruxes Voldemort made, he's rejoined one, Harry's destroyed two - the diary and the one in him - and you've destroyed the one in the ring,” Hermione ticked off. “That leaves three more….”

“Your logic seems ineluctable,” the Headmaster agreed. “Please feel free to tell Mister Potter what we have discussed, but preferably no one else.”

Despite remaining stymied with her phoenix transformation, Hermione left that session with Dumbledore reasonably upbeat. The number of Horcruxes left to be destroyed was at last known.

Still, she fretted. Something major had gone unsaid. Something else in that message disturbed Headmaster Dumbledore greatly, but not anything he intended to reveal.

* * * *

Eight Death Eaters huddled in a forest clearing - unsure where they were, let alone what they were to do.

“Where the hell are we?” an earlier arrival asked the most recent newcomer.

“You think I know?” the newcomer spat. “Do I look like Snape?”

“I asked that old bat where we were going, but he claimed not to know - that the Master was keeping secrets,” a third chimed in. “Still, truth and Snape have only passing acquaintance….”

“When he gave me my Portkey, he told me it was a highest order secret,” a thoroughly disgruntled witch interjected. “Said to bring my best broom, and I'd find out when the Dark Lord was good and ready to tell us.”

“When will he get here, then?” queried the original speaker. “He's late. That's unlike him.”

Another black-robed, masked wizard abruptly whooshed into being and landed with a thud.

“Yaxley!” the others exclaimed. “You too? Where's Snape?”

“Yup, me too,” Sulla Yaxley answered haughtily. “And forget Snape. I'm running this part of the operation….”

That announcement instantly gained everyone's full attention. Most had assumed that Snape would lead.

“… I suppose that's news to you all,” Yaxley continued gruffly.

“Hell, our location would be news to us,” came a snide reply.

“Hmmm,” Yaxley pondered. “The Dark Lord is taking extraordinary security measures. I didn't know whom I'd be commanding, or the nature of the mission, and you don't know where you've been sent…. Anyway, look sharp. Time for a roll call….”

He withdrew an envelope from his robes, extracted one of several sheets of parchment, and began reading.

“Carrow, Amycus?”

“That's me.”

“Byrd?”

“Over here.”

“Fitzwarlock?”

“Here.”

“Gibbon?”

“Same.”

“Rastaban?”

“Present.”

“Mulciber?”

“Yeah, I'm here.”

“Paxman?”

“Here.”

“Rowle?”

“Yo.”

Yaxley reached into his envelope and extracted another sheet - bearing an intact black wax seal. “Well, we're all present and accounted for. Everyone learns at the same time what we're to do. My orders were not to read this until I had you all together….”

Silence fell as Yaxley read. Even an overcast sky could not conceal the Death Eater's widening eyes.

“Merlin's bloody bits,” the unit's commander muttered when finished. “The Dark Lord himself is involved in this raid. He really wants a splash with this one….”

“Where is our Master?” Paxman spoke up.

“I doubt we'll see him - and we don't want to, because that would mean that we've screwed this up….”

That quieted everyone.

“Okay, listen up. To answer your first question, it seems we're in France; in something the Muggles call the Peygros Forest. Beyond that ridge, maybe a kilometre away, is Beauxbatons. We have a half an hour to walk to the top - no magic.”

“Then we wait….”

Yaxley turned the envelope upside down. A Galleon dropped out.

“This Galleon has a Protean Charm. It'll signal me when the Beauxbatons wards are sabotaged. Then we fly. We should find a Quidditch match in progress….”

“So we attack the Frenchie students? Just like that?” Rowle asked, not looking terribly happy.

“Eventually, yes. But only when this coin shows the attack signal,” Yaxley answered. “We're to attack the players and the crowd. Students, staff, anybody. Unforgivables are allowed, but we're the sideshow - one big feint.”

Murmurs of disbelief arose. Yaxley knew no such indiscipline would have occurred in the good old days… or even before that damned Scottish explosion. His Lord's hold on his followers was showing signs of strain.

“The Dark Lord is the main event,” Yaxley snapped, determined to maintain discipline. “We keep the crowd pinned down on the pitch until the Master's signal - green sparks - from the direction of Beauxbatons palace. Then, we stampede the crowd towards the sparks. We continue until … well, it doesn't say exactly, but the Dark Lord's orders are that we'll know it when we see it…. But not to look too closely.”

“Wow, must be something big,” the witch, Fitzwarlock, goggled.

“After what's happened, we need a big score,” Yaxley concurred. “Anyway, one more restriction - no Dark Marks….”

More grumbling.

“That's because the Dark Lord's Dark Mark is our signal to break off, scatter, and use these Portkeys to get back to Britain,” Yaxley barked. “No screw ups.”

Yaxley pulled out a small box, ended his Shrinking Charm, and opened it.

“Leave `em all wrapped up until you're ready to use,” he cautioned. “The Master has gone to great lengths to ensure our success. You don't want to face his wrath by cocking up everything with a prematurely activated return Portkey.”

“Any questions?”

“What'll the Dark Lord be doing?” Rowle spoke up.

“The Dark Lord keeps his own confidences,” Yaxley stonewalled. He wondered if Rowle would last much longer in service. “I know only that he has trusted servants with him and plans something that requires his personal attention and skills.”

“Any other questions?”

Nobody made a sound. Neither Yaxley's tone nor expression was inviting. One by one, the nine Death Eaters selected Portkeys from Yaxley's box, Rowle receiving a fierce glare with his. Then, single file, they followed a narrow, but distinct, trail to the spine of the ridge that overlooked the Palais de Beauxbatons.

In the distance, the distinctive U-shaped palace glistened, its magic evident despite cloudy weather. To the left, meaning north, was the school's Quidditch pitch. It was too far to tell what was going on, but the stands looked full.

“All right, there's the first signal,” Yaxley announced, looking at the Galleon. “Disillusion yourselves. Fly into the bottom of the low clouds, end the charm, and regroup directly over Beauxbatons….”

Perhaps ten minutes later, the nine Death Eaters were in place, clustered about ten metres inside the base of the cloud cover. They had a hazy glimpse of the scenery below.

Their pre-attack nerves were tangible. Stonehenge had been a disaster. This attack was to prove to the wizarding world that the Death Eaters remained a powerful force to be reckoned with. “All right, listen up,” Yaxley growled. “See that fogbank - I'll bet that's him, maybe with some Dementors. Standard ambush; surround and attack formation. I'll take the spot closest to the school. When I get the signal, I'll vacate that position and fly straight to the opposite side. That's your cue to break ranks and let them flee back towards the school … and the Dark Lord….”

It felt like the old times - anticipation and exhilaration with a frisson of fear. Yaxley lived for days like this.

In a few minutes, the attack signal came. “All right, masks on! Let's go!” Yaxley cried as he pointed his broomstick almost straight down.

* * * *

Fourth-year Beauxbatons student Appoline Deschutes was cheering the Aquitaine-Ile de France samedi Quidditch match with friend and fellow Aquitaine house member Candice LeMelle. Their first inkling of something amiss was a green magical streak striking their House's Seeker. He fell some fifty metres to the Pitch - stone, cold dead.

Shrieks and yells arose all about them. More spells, some deadly, some not, streaked into the crowd. Explosions detonated. Parts of the Quidditch grandstands collapsed. Other sections burst into flame.

To prevent teams from hexing one another - one serious incident had threatened litigation - Beauxbatons Quidditch players were banned from carrying wands during matches. The players were sitting ducks, and several died in the attack's opening salvo. The rest scattered, some fleeing towards the Palace, others swooping to their teams' benches searching futilely for their team's trainers, who kept their wands during the contest, but the trainers had fled.

Heedless of their own safety, staff members bounded into the Pitch, voices magically enhanced, commanding shocked and frightened students to hide under the stands or use Excavating Charms to dig holes. Somebody even took to the air on an abandoned broom - the Hogwarts liaison - an upperclassman whispered. Whoever it was took out one of the Death Eaters before herself being cursed.

Several of the staff, including Madame Maxime, returned fire, hurling curses at marauding Death Eaters. But the attackers' brooms were too nimble. None of the defenders' curses hit home.

The attack seemed to go on forever and to come from everywhere. Appoline and Candice, their robes torn and dirty after jumping through a hole blasted in the stands, lay trembling in the mud.

A seventh year from Normandie/Bretagne House shouted, “Venez, venez!” The pair ran to several upperclassmen digging traversed trenches towards the school. Spellfire crashing constantly about them, the terrified pair huddled as low in the muddy earthworks as possible.

Finally, adults started yelling, “Courez!! Fuyez!!”

All around Appoline and Candice, fellow students and even some staff began racing pell-mell to the Palais. The two girls pelted blindly in the same general direction. Goaded by exploding spellfire behind them, everyone ran faster and faster. Anyone losing balance risked a trampling.

Suddenly, the crowd ahead stopped, their sprint for safety coming to a screeching halt. Unable to stop, the two girls skidded into the rear of the immobile mass. Those behind them were in the same predicament. They shoved into Appoline and Candice, and everyone feared being crushed.

Desperate just to breathe, the pair clawed their way forward and upward. Struggling against everyone else, they popped over the top of someone who had ceased moving. They gasped the precious, life-giving air.

“Mon dieu!” Candice gasped. “Voyez ça.”

It was the last thing she ever did.

“Non! Candice, non!” Appoline screamed as she dove into the mass of people after catching a fleeting glimpse of the monster's backside. “C'est un Basilic!!”

* * * *

Ron enjoyed his birthday. It fell on a weekend this year. That meant no classes. Instead, he could celebrate with one of his favourite things - Quidditch. That morning he scrimmaged for three hours with his “Hogwarts Picked Nine” squad. Ron held no illusions that this team could beat a professional all-star team featuring Viktor Krum at Seeker, he intended to put up a good fight. The Head of Department of Magical Games and Sports himself had told Ron at one of Slughorn's parties that the Ministry would be enlarging the Hogwarts stands to accommodate an overflow crowd.

The afternoon had been something of a non-stop birthday party, with just Harry, Hermione, and at times little sister Ginny.

Probably best of all, Ron expected a more private birthday celebration that evening with Luna. Since Luna asked him to the Beauxbatons ball, he started viewing the Ravenclaw fifth year in an entirely different light.

“Blimey, Harry, thanks,” Ron grinned whilst lounging in a common room chair. “Season passes to the Cannons….”

For Harry, getting Ron a gift was a tightrope walk - too little, and he risked devaluing what Ron's friendship meant to him; too much, and Ron's innate abhorrence of “charity” would kick in….

He had worked the balancing act to perfection.

“Good seats, too,” Harry indicated. “Centre-field, top box, third row - a pair of them…. But you'll have to concoct excuses to get away during the Term.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Ron groaned. “We're cooped up more than ever. I wonder how long this one's gonna last….”

Ron was complaining about the Grade Three shelter in place the Headmaster had declared. It thwarted their plan for a “trio party” in the Room of Requirement. Although Grade Three was the lowest security, it kept students in their common rooms. Ron fretted because his rendezvous with Luna meant leaving the Gryffindor common room.

The Grade Three put Ron on edge for another reason. He did not know why it was imposed, but Harry and Hermione had. The Ministry needed to finish the communications changeover aborted by the New Years Death Eater attacks. With the old system removed but the new one unfinished, Minister Scrimgeour had been forced to run a jerry-rigged, stopgap system through Hogwarts, where installation was complete.

That arrangement suited neither the Ministry nor the Headmaster.

The Ministry's second go at finishing installation was today. Unlike the last time, which left the Ministry within a hairsbreadth of disaster, the installation crew was now heavily guarded. Squads of Aurors stood on alert at strategic spots throughout the country. The Ministry even accepted a “fraternal” offer of “reinforcements” from the French Ministry - several Auror squads and Groupe d'Intervention special forces. To free up additional resources, the Ministry requested that all who could tighten their own security.

Hogwarts responded with a Grade Three shelter in place. As Gryffindor security liaison, Harry was informed of both what was happening and why. A mere defrocked (by request) Prefect, Ron had known nothing. His ignorance was yet another reminder that, however much Harry and Hermione called them a trio, one trio member was definitely more junior.

Ron shook off pangs of jealousy as Hermione offered her present. She had used cloud wrapping - sky blue paper with constantly changing cloud patterns. Ron barely noticed the paper in his haste to discover the contents. “Wow, Hermione! A Paracelsus-Level Potions Kit! That has just about every ingredient I could conceivably need.”

“It has an automatic restocking agreement with Scarpin's Potions for All Purposes. You'll need to activate that. They advertised a two-day owl-post turnaround….”

Ron regarded her questioningly, “But why, Hermione? I know your opinion of me and the Prince. This isn't some sort of trick….”

“Ron,” Harry started to intervene.

“No, Ron, consider this a peace offering,” Hermione defended herself. “I've decided to stop criticising you about that. Go ahead and use the Prince whenever you want - your choice. I'm not going to aggravate myself or you over that any longer.”

Ginny waited patiently to give Ron her present. When she rose, her robes briefly fell part way open. Harry could not help but notice her much shorter dress than Hermione's more conservative taste allowed.

He shook his head violently. Fortunately everyone's attention was on Ginny and Ron. He should not think such thoughts about her. This was nothing like those episodes before Christmas, thank Merlin - but he realised he had been unusually aware of her presence all morning, even during Quidditch practice. He needed to be careful….

Ginny had just given Ron a cologne set, including a bottle that emitted an overpoweringly sugary scent reminding Hermione of a Muggle bakery running full tilt, when the school alarms went off. A blaring announcement declared that, effective immediately, the Grade Three shelter in place was elevated to the same imminent attack alert imposed during the hoaxed September Death Eater attack on Harry and Hermione.

Everyone scrambled.

Fortunately - especially for Harry - he was now infinitely better prepared for his security liaison role. He leapt for the Gryffindor Central Station, and had a map of the Castle available almost before he finished barking out initial assignments.

“Hooper! You and … umm … McLaggen, here's your moment, I guess. Are you up for it?”

Katie Bell, the other Seventh-Year prefect, was still at St. Mungo's.

“You got it!” McLaggen piped up, petty animosities shelved in the heat of the moment.

“Take all the D.A. members in your year and defend the west battlements, where we're most vulnerable….”

The seventh years moved out immediately.

“Hermione and Neville, take the sixth years, and … Ginny and Rodney, take your fifth years with them. Spread out along the south parapets and link up with the Ravenclaws.”

Hermione pecked Harry quickly on the cheek and headed for the portrait hole where eighteen other Gryffindors were assembling.

“Ron, Colin, hold up!” Harry waited until they halted, then turned to those remaining behind.

“I want every other Gryffindor with D.A. stationed at the windows of our tower. If attacked, show those bastards what you've learnt. Jazzy, since nobody else has actually fought Death Eaters, you're in charge.”

Soon only Harry, Ron, Colin, and a pack of frightened first and second years remained. “Ron, I want you and Colin manning this thing,” he gestured towards the Central Station. “If attacked, I want all you firsties and seconds under your beds,” Harry ordered. “There's a silver patch at the base of each headboard. Tap it three times with your wand. That activates a combination Protego and Concealment Charm that will keep you safe.”

Finished issuing orders, Harry strode to the base of the dormitory stairs. “Ron, can you come up here a minute?” he asked. Ron followed Harry up the stairs.

“What are you going to do?” the redhead inquired.

“What I do best,” Harry hefted his Valkyrie from underneath his bed. “My assignment is to fly coverage. This is the best combat broom in the Castle, no contest, and you know Hermione's no flier.”

“I am, though,” Ron replied defensively.

“I know,” Harry agreed. He stepped forward and put his hand on the taller boy's shoulder, drawing him closer.

“Ron, if we're really attacked, I want you with me. Colin can handle the inside stuff, but short of that I want you directing our strategy.”

“Thanks, Harry,” Ron nodded. He went for his Firebolt. “Might be tough keeping up with you, if what Hermione said about that thing is true….”

“Oh, it's true,” Harry smiled. Then he brandished his wand and incanted, “Accio Hermione's broom!”

Within seconds, Hermione's Valkyrie soared into Harry's hand. “That I can even hold this means it's in what's called `maintenance mode'….” Harry gave Ron an extremely brief lesson a Valkyrie's workings.

An hour passed. Harry rode circuit after circuit over the Castle, staying just within the wards. With Hogwarts' wards in full defensive configuration, accidental contact would not be a good thing. Shak and Professor Vector likewise rode lookout in bright midday March sunshine.

Harry upped the Valkyrie's Iffendus glass to maximum power. He was determined to spot any Death Eaters before they found him.

Harry was apprehensive when Shak truncated his pass and joined him. “Harry, I just heard from Dumbledore on my Order shoulder amulet. Go to his office. He has news.”

Nodding assent, Harry pointed towards the Castle. He flew the Valkyrie directly through the Headmaster's tower window … and was stunned to find both Hermione and Arthur Weasley waiting - along with an extremely concerned Dumbledore.

“It must be bad,” Harry commented grimly as he dismounting.

“Unfortunately, Harry, you're spot on,” Mr. Weasley replied tersely. “Have a seat, please.”

“Death Eaters attacked today,” Dumbledore began without his usual circumlocutions, “a most successful attack - upon Beauxbatons.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione moaned. Instinctively she moved to perch herself on the arm of Harry's chair.

Harry set his jaw. “How bad was it?”

Mr. Weasley flicked his wand. Harry's chair widened a bit and Hermione slid down next to him. “Bad enough to dispense with the usual school rules for now.”

“The fatality count we have received is fifty-nine students, eight staff, along with the school's gamekeeper, chief caretaker, and at least a half-dozen elves,” the Headmaster recounted. “Others were injured - the Headmistress, Madame Maxime, amongst them. Fearing possible reprise, I placed the Castle on full alert. With the Ministry fully mobilised, I believe any threat of imminent attack on Hogwarts has passed.”

“What happened?”

“Details are sketchy, but it appears that Death Eaters somehow breached Beauxbatons' wards during a Quidditch match,” Dumbledore explained sadly. “Most casualties, however, were caused by a Basilisk. As such creatures are only controlled by Parseltongue; we strongly suspect that Voldemort himself led the attack.”

“That's horrible,” cried Hermione. “But why call us here to specially to learn of it?”

“It's going to create an international incident, I'm afraid,” Mr. Weasley told her. “Rumours are already rife that this assault was retribution for your recent defeat of the Death Eaters at Stonehenge….”

“I understand from Miss Delacour that you, Mister Potter, have an invitation of sorts to train with French Aurors this summer,” Dumbledore addressed Harry. “After your speech in Reims, your reputation….”

The Headmaster's implication was, for once, rather plain. “You want me to commit to that,” Harry glumly cut the old man off.

It was not a question.

“As Head of the department responsible for international relations, I'm formally requesting that you do so,” Mr. Weasley pronounced. “Casualties of this magnitude will inevitably encourage the defeatist element - those who would cut us loose. We'd like you to support our French alliance.”

Harry nodded. “Then I'd best talk to Fleur.”

“Unfortunately, that is not possible - at least at the moment,” the Headmaster sadly shook his head. “Miss Delacour resigned her position here upon learning of her alma mater's calamity. She will be assuming the suddenly vacant Charms position. She asked me to relay your decision directly to a Colonel Dassault.”

Harry turned to Hermione. “What do you think?”

“That's rather sudden, but I understand why,” she began.

“I am certain the French Ministry will make whatever arrangements you require,” Dumbledore hastened to add.

“How long would my training last?” Harry asked.

“Again, I am sure that the French will be flexible. I was planning to ask you two to substitute for me at the June Pacific Magical Gathering. If willing, you could commence immediately thereafter,” then the Headmaster played his trump card. “In that case, I see no reason for you to stay with the Dursleys at all this summer.

“I'll do it,” Harry instantly agreed.

* * * *

Author's notes: At the end of GoF, Voldemort discussed quick, painless death

See Ch. 55 for the photos in the Headmaster's office

Dumbledore leaves significant unfinished business for H/Hr in book 7

Adjunct professor is the lowest academic rank

In America, the ladies choice is called “Sadie Hawkins,” after a L'il Abner cartoon character

After Fawkes merged with Hermione (Ch. 36), her Patronus changed from otter to phoenix

As in canon, Snape's true allegiance is not known to Harry or Hermione

Flitwick addresses 7th Years Victoria Frobisher (Gryffindor), Beth Dunston (Slytherin), and Rhiannon Buckingham (Ravenclaw)

With his experience with sexual subterfuge, Ron will be the most suspicious

A separate cell structure is typical of terrorist/subversive organizations

Snape's use of the book was mentioned in Ch. 68

Voldemort now has an extra soul split to utilize

The Rosen reading is in Ch. 45

The origin of “well heeled” is accurate

The Gulbenkian inheritance was introduced in Ch. 47

The Malfoy/Dumbledore meeting occurred in Ch. 63

Harry discovered Draco's connection to Burke in Ch. 52

The line about underestimating Hermione comes from Ch. 8 of Paracelsus' excellent fic “Coming Back Late”

Draco's O+ in Potions was mentioned in Ch. 27

“Code,” as in building code, is a typical construction requirement

Muggle cooking will be important

Ron's “King” nickname is canon; Ginny got “Magic” in Ch. 29

Ginny deriding Hermione's Quidditch knowledge is canon

In Ch. 68, Luna used empathy to fight a Dementor off Ron

With Ron potioned, fitting him into a sidecar took some manipulation

“Sound and fury” is a line from Macbeth

Hermione paraphrases the jibe, “Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.”

Dumbledore does not know everything about Horcruxes

The allusion to Hermione saving herself is foreshadowing

Few wizards know Morse Code

Something must anchor soul fragments in Horcruxes

Canon mentions a Lysander Yaxley; Plutarch famously compared Lysander and Sulla

“Fitz” is a British name prefix connoting “bastard child (usually son) of”

Paxman is a random British name plucked from Tony Blair's autobiography

The Lexicon places Beauxbatons in southern France; the Peygos Forest is a short distance north of Cannes

Deschutes is a river in Oregon

Beauxbatons' house names are unknown; I've used regions in France

Traverse trenches are angled, to minimize effects of artillery bombardment

French imperatives: Venez = Come!; Courez = Run!; Fuyez = Flee!; Voyez = Look!

Given Ron's birthday, the Death Eater attack was on March 1

“Picked nine” is a 19th Century baseball term for an all-star team

Hogwarts shelter in place directives are mentioned in Ch. 37

The Groupe d'Intervention is mentioned in Ch. 47

Snape (Ch. 60) and Hermione use the same potion ingredients supplier

Hermione's carte blanche for Ron to use the Prince for “anything” will become ironic

That hoax occurred in Ch. 49

Rodney Taunton is the Fifth Year Gryffindor male Prefect

Jazzy, the outcast, gets a command assignment

I invented the younger students' protection

This Accio will recur

Valkyrie Maintenance Mode and Iffendus glass were explained in Ch. 12

Col. Dassault's invitation is in Ch. 47

For plot reasons, Fleur must leave Hogwarts' staff and return to Beauxbatons

The Gathering will become significant

51

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 7/18/2010

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77. The Politics Of Basilisks

Wherein effects of the Basilisk attack on Beauxbatons ripple through Britain and France, Hagrid makes a request, a political thrust is met with a feint, a secret is no more, Rita writes a story, Ginny is protected, the D.A. trains, the goblins plan, Malfoy has an accident, Harry and the Ministry eye each other, and Dumbledore fails to dissuade Harry.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, Mathiasgranger, Staples701, and Mike P.

Chapter 77 - The Politics of Basilisks

For weeks the Death Eater massacre at Hogwarts' French sister school cast a pall over everything. Frivolity was the first casualty. Within days, the Mediæval-themed ball Fleur Delacour had announced was called off - although the French bravely, and a bit defiantly, insisted the event was merely “postponed” to some uncertain future date, rather than cancelled outright.

Any large-scale international get-together at Beauxbatons seemed remote, at best, as the massacre's shock waves roiled the political landscape across the Channel. Outwardly, the French Ministry reacted as Dumbledore and the Order hoped - forming a joint national unity government. That proved as unwieldy as it was unsteady.

The private dispatches reaching Arthur Weasley's desk (and promptly leaked to Shak and the Order) recounted more disconcerting developments. The political situation in Paris was even more unstable than it appeared. A significant faction in the French Fifth Estate viewed the Voldemort war as l'affaire de La Perfide Albion. The lesson these dissidents learnt from the Beauxbatons massacre, as with the prior Delacour attack, was forthrightly isolationist - both were consequences of unwise French meddling in internecine English quarrels.

This neutralist faction would leave magical England to its fate. But it had a problem - the country's most visible and popular symbol of the war against Voldemort was a French-speaking English boy who had wowed the cream of Gallic magical society in Reims not very many months ago.

And Harry Potter would be summering in France. This announcement was made in Paris, within a week of the massacre, to much fanfare (although the British Ministry tried to downplay it). The French Ministry trumpeted that Harry would train with France's most elite Aurors. The story led the news on Le Monde Magical.

The French investigation into the massacre was typically loud and typically public. That enquiry almost immediately confirmed the sabotage of Beauxbatons' wards. Within twenty-four hours of the attack, the school's Ancient Runes professor took her own life, leaving a note claiming she was Imperiused. The suicide made that claim impossible to confirm.

The French investigation's search for blame soon targeted the location for the spells controlling Beauxbatons' wards. With twenty-twenty hindsight, the enquiry concluded these were too easy to access. Although the critical spellwork was situate in a supposedly secure interior chamber, that room abutted a public corridor.

Despite this arrangement being incident-free for over three centuries, the enquiry's report criticised the school's headmistress, Madame Maxime, for not “instituting enhanced security measures” once the French declared war against Voldemort. Madame Maxime presented an easy target, lying petrified in Beauxbatons' infirmary, utterly unable to respond.

Whatever the merit of those charges, Madame Maxime's heroic and selfless behaviour during the Death Eater attack could not be gainsaid. Otherwise, her actions would almost certainly have earned her the Ordre Nationale de la Pucelle, if not the class of Chevalier in the Légion du Nostradamus.

Someone, perhaps Voldemort, had exterminated the school's Gallic cockerels. Without roosters, she used fire - Muggle fire, as it was safer than Fiendfyre - to drive the Basilisk hard against the Palais' three-storey walls. She intended to crush, or at least immobilise the beast, by collapsing on it part of the building.

She never learnt that her desperate gambit succeeded. Quite effectively, she fuelled the fire with conjured petrol. At the same time Madame Maxime uttered the Reductor Curse that brought the wall down upon the cornered Basilisk, she glanced around her makeshift shield to check her aim - just enough to catch a reflected glimpse of the beast's deadly eyeballs in a pool of the flammable liquid.

She had not moved a muscle since.

As a result, someone else also felt increasingly desperate.

At the Headmaster's strong urging, Harry devoted a couple of D.A. meetings (better attended than ever) for instruction about dangerous, Class XXXXX magical creatures - not only Basilisks, but Nundus, Manticores, Lethifolds, Acromantulæ, Chimæræ, and even the most fearsome dragon breeds. Harry and Hermione knew plenty about dragons, too much (they claimed) about overgrown spiders, a bit about Lethifolds, and no more about the other beasts than what anyone could read in a book.

Logic dictated a guest lecturer - Hagrid. Dumbledore approved, so, the genial half-giant happily obliged, once a logistical problem was finessed. Hagrid was too large for the narrow passages leading to the Chamber of Secrets, so he held his sessions in the Room of Requirement. With D.A. attendance greatly exceeding his sparsely subscribed N.E.W.T.-Level Care of Magical Creatures course, Hagrid was quite pleased to have a larger audience.

After a session about evading Quintapeds (treacle mixed with oatmeal both distracted and impeded them), Hagrid sidled up to Harry and Hermione, who had remained for an hour of Transfiguration revision before curfew. Hagrid was never one for hiding emotion, and his transparently worried behavior convinced the pair that studying was not the most important thing that needed doing.

The half-giant anxiously twisted a handkerchief nearly the size of a bath towel until it frayed. “Er … 'Arry? Yeh, know I don' ask yeh fer much, usual-like? But ri'bout now, I could use a spotta 'elp….”

Hermione beat Harry out of the traps. “Hagrid, what's happened?” she fretted.

“It's not … not fer me, really,” Hagrid chuntered. “It's fer … well, yeh know Olympe an' she's jes lyin' there petrified an' all…. I'm afraid they wanna do 'er the way ol' Dippet an' them did me….”

Harry was puzzled. “Hagrid, what do you mean…?”

Mentally, Hermione lapped him. “You mean her as a scapegoat…? For the Beauxbatons attack?”

She caught Hagrid flat-footed. “Well … yeah.”

“That's not right,” Harry declared. “How can we help?”

“They're tryin' what they used on 'Ermione,” Hagrid explained. “That Mandrake stuff. But yeh know 'ow long that'll take. I asked Sprout, an' she sez it won' be ready fer weeks, mebbe months. Jes like then. But she sez there's summat else … that they couldna do before….”

“Just tell us what you need,” Hermione prompted.

“What I's 'opin' yeh could get some Mandrake, outta season-like, but that's kinda rare, yeh see,” Hagrid jitterishly requested. “Mandrake's really 'ard ter grow, 'cept when it's s'posed ta…. Tends ter get 'em all weepy an' such, outta sorts an' all.… That's dangerous.”

He blew his nose loudly in his handkerchief.

“Hagrid, relax, whatever it costs, I'll pay,” Harry tried to keep Hagrid calm and focused. “The goblins will take care of it.”

“It t'aint jes money,” Hagrid fretted. “I'm sure Dumbledore'd authorise 'Ogwarts fer that. It's getting' it. Outta season Mandrake's not grown in France. The only place in Europe is 'ere … it's yer place, 'Arry - Château Blackwalls….”

“Oh,” Harry responded, caught flat footed himself. “Well, then, sure….”

Hagrid smiled broadly, looking relieved. “Thanks, 'Arry. Yeh know the last time, back when…. Anyway, Dumbledore tried gettin' some then, but nothin' ever 'appened….”

“You mean, in second year, I didn't have to be petrified so long?” Hermione demanded. “Missing all those classes … and Harry having to fight the Basilisk alone?” It was hard to tell which of those offences agitated her most.

Hagrid's brow furrowed. “S'pect that's right….”

“But, why?” Harry hissed. “How could Dumbledore not….”

“'Member 'Arry, who was in charge….”

“Lucius effing Malfoy,” Harry growled through clenched teeth, ignoring Hermione's automatic reproof for bad language. “He ran the Château then, and whilst he couldn't outright say no, I'm sure he managed to delay things….”

Hagrid went on. “I 'eard Sprout gripin' like…”

The Herbology professor's complaints had to wait. The door opened and the Head Boy, Eddie Carmichael, stepped in. Not chuffed to act as message runner, he approached Harry with the news, “Dumbledore wants to see you in his office as soon as possible….”

* * * *

The genesis of Harry's summons was another repercussion of the Beauxbatons massacre.

Aftereffects from the French slaughter reverberated north of the Channel. British Basilisk sightings skyrocketed, badly overburdening the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Virtually all such sightings were, and remained, unconfirmed. Ultimately, the Department stopped responding - unless the complainant was particularly well connected.

Ministry ineffectiveness at assuaging mounting public anxiety encouraged the usual cast of charlatans. Phony talismans abounded, as did dangerously ineffective Basilisk shields. The Office for the Detection and Confiscation of Counterfeit Defensive Spells and Protective Objects raided one operation selling Omnioculars treated with only an Anti-Glare Charm as supposedly safe for viewing Basilisks.

Several ex-Aurors and former Hit Wizards entered the suddenly lucrative business of private Basilisk protection - with varying degrees of competence. On those exceedingly rare occasions when anyone actually encountered a Basilisk, casualties were not uncommon.

As Hagrid's lectures stressed, Basilisks ordinarily were quite reclusive. Increasing the number of wizards searching for Basilisks had the entirely predictable effect of increasing the number of real - and imagined - Basilisk encounters. Press coverage of such incidents, reflecting intense public interest, was expectably overblown.

With money to be made, goblins were more than happy to sell their services as Basilisk hunters. Their reputations soared following some almost off-hand comments attributed (truthfully, for once) to Harry and Hermione in Rita Skeeter's article about some of the things that preceded the Battle of Stonehenge.

Of course, politicians had to get into the act.

The Wizengamot passed a flurry of laws outlawing almost anything involving the raising or breeding Basilisks - and most other 5X creatures besides dragons - the new crimes being punishable by the Dementor's Kiss.

The Thicknesse faction capitalised on the hysteria with a move calculated to place their highest profile adversary - Albus Dumbledore - in an extremely bad light.

That gambit played out differently from what they anticipated.

Before the Beauxbatons massacre, nobody had probed particularly closely into an incident at Hogwarts several years previous. Only the Board of Governors had been informed, and even they had not received many details. That incident had involved the petrifaction of several students and Hogwarts staff.

Petrifaction was not a common magical occurrence.

Madame Maxime's unfortunate case demonstrated that one cause of petrifaction was a reflected view of a Basilisk's deadly eyes.

The Hogwarts Board were sworn to maintain confidentiality of information received in their official capacity. Rumours swirled that a Basilisk had been involved.

In a suitably sombre speech before the Wizengamot, Thicknesse demanded “the truth” and promised to ascertain “whether there is, or was, a Basilisk situation” at Hogwarts that “threatened our children with the same horror” since visited upon the French.

The spectre of a Basilisk at Hogwarts - with the Beauxbatons débacle haunting everyone and everything - forced Minister Scrimgeour's hand.

Hence, Harry's urgent summons from Dumbledore.

“Godiva praline,” Harry recited the latest password. He took the rotating stairs two at a time.

Halfway to the Headmaster's office a piercing, harsh screech brought Harry to a standstill. It sounded like a banshee having her hair pulled out by the roots.

`What in Merlin's name was that?' Harry asked himself whilst more cautiously finishing his ascent of the revolving staircase.

From the landing outside the office door, he heard it again - some sort of bird - grating, raucous, and above all, loud. If Harry had not been privy to Fawkes' actual fate, he might have thought someone was trying to strangle Dumbledore's phoenix.

He stood uncertainly on the landing, wondering if he should enter, when the Headmaster's office door opened and out stepped … that young Polynesian lady who had invited him to some Hawaiian meeting over the summer holidays.

She was holding - a chicken? This was no ordinary fowl like those that formerly inhabited the Burrow's gardens. This bird was bright orange on top, black underneath, with long black tailfeathers and a blazing red crop. It, he, looked rather unhappy, probably due to being magically restrained.

“Oh, aloha, Harry … Mister Potter,” she flashed her warm smile. “I'm sorry I kept you waiting.”

“Oh, you haven't,” Harry responded mechanically, if truthfully. “I just got here … sorry, but I've completely forgotten….”

“That's quite all right, it's Hi'iaka Kupaianaha,” she reintroduced herself. “I was just leaving. Don't let me keep you….”

The bird interrupted with another vociferous cock-a-doodle-doo - almost enough to set Harry's ears ringing. Too late, he clapped his hands over them.

“What the heck is that?” he asked curtly.

“Moa,” was her one-word reply - just short of no reply at all.

“More what?” Harry reasked.

“No, mo-ah,” she clarified, drawing out the word. “They are junglefowl native to my homeland. When I heard … about what happened. I thought they might help. So does your headmaster - if they can survive the winter.”

“But why?” Harry wondered aloud. “They're certainly colourful, but any noisier and nobody could sleep.”

Dumbledore appeared in the doorway, looking bemused. “Ah, Mister Potter. That is precisely the point. With the clamour to combat the Basilisk threat, one should not discount the most basic precautions….”

Recognition flashed in Harry's eyes. “A rooster - its crow is fatal to those things - and hearing that one, I can see why.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore confirmed, his eyes devoid of their usual twinkle. “And Miss Kupaianaha has thoughtfully offered to supply this feral species, which are quite low maintenance, provided they acclimate.”

“I'll let you know the results, Headmaster,” she promised, taking her leave. “And, Harry, I hope also to see you this summer.”

“In any event…. Enter,” the Headmaster beckoned. “Your punctuality is appreciated, if not always reciprocated.”

Harry's experience was that urgent summonses from Dumbledore did not usually herald good tidings. “What's going on? Has there been another attack?” he asked without pretence as he entered the Headmaster's office. He took the seat that Dumbledore conjured.

“In a manner of speaking,” the Headmaster responded. He sat heavily behind his desk. Seeing Harry flinch, he added, “I am not referring to Death Eater activity, and nobody is in mortal danger.”

“So what happened?”

“A very foolish man unfortunately did a most foolish thing,” Dumbledore began, “and we shall have to live with the consequences. A mutual enemy believes he has discovered how to do us … or at least me, severe reputational injury. His scheme is doomed to fail, but that failure will not be without cost.”

Harry was puzzled - and suspicious. “Why call me, if it's directed against you?”

“Because,” the Headmaster sighed, “whilst the plot seeks to weaken me, you will primarily bear the residuum of its failure.”

Harry's head sank into his hands. “Oh, bollocks. You'd best explain what's going on.”

“Precisely why you are here,” Dumbledore affirmed. “I assume that you know of Pius Thicknesse?”

Harry blanched. What little he knew about the DMLE head, he had learnt during Shak's recent lecture - not one of his more pleasant experiences. Mercifully, the Headmaster did not reiterate Shak's criticisms. “Head of Law Enforcement,” Harry answered tersely. “No friend of ours, I gather.”

“Certainly no friend,” Dumbledore echoed. “Especially of mine. Our differences are longstanding. He particularly resents what he views as the Order's `infiltration' of the Auror Corps. He sees us - quite rightly, I might add - undermining his authority. He was also one of the last holdouts against the goblin alliance.”

Engaged, if not pleased, Harry encouraged the Headmaster to get to the point. “So what's he planning to do?”

“Pius seeks to turn the current Basilisk hysteria to his advantage and to undercut me,” Dumbledore explained. “He knows, of course, of the petrifactions in your second year; and believes, correctly, that a Basilisk was involved. He is ignorant of how that situation was, in fact, resolved. He believes that I swept everything under the rug, and suspects that the creature remains alive somewhere within Hogwarts' environs. He proposes a public….”

“Damn that Lucius Malfoy,” Harry growled, anticipating where the Headmaster was going. “How could you have allowed him on the Governing Board in the first place?”

Dumbledore smiled indulgently despite the display of impertinence. “This episode cannot, I am afraid, be laid at Mister Malfoy's doorstep,” he responded. “The Board are magically obligated to maintain the secrecy of anything learnt in their official capacity. Otherwise, the matter surely would not have remained as obscure as it has. I am afraid Pius' source is rather more prosaic….”

Harry would not let the Headmaster off the hook so easily. “Well, then. Who?”

“My contacts tell me that Pius prevailed upon a young Auror, Wynda MacFusty, who was Head Girl that year. Threatened with losing her job, she confirmed that a Basilisk had been loosed within the Castle.” Seeing Harry's face clouding, Dumbledore hastened to add, “She reported this to me as soon as she could, so we know what Pius does not….”

“And that is?” Harry pursued.

“As I alluded, Pius is unaware that the Basilisk was killed,” Dumbledore revealed. “Obviously, he does not know how that was accomplished. Pius mistakenly suspects that I simply confined it somewhere in the bowels of the Castle…. He intends to exploit the Beauxbatons disaster to demand my resignation for risking a similar catastrophe at Hogwarts.”

Harry exhaled forlornly whilst shaking his head. Except once, when Terry Boot had put him on the spot last year in the Hogs Head, Harry had kept all that mum. The Headmaster's drift was clear. “It's all going to come out, isn't it?” he inquired apprehensively.

“I have been summoned to testify before the Wizengamot in public session, which will occur within the month. Whilst Pius will merely make himself appear ridiculous, given the beast's destruction, you can imagine what disclosure of your single-handed dispatch of a twenty-metre Basilisk will do for your reputation.”

“Like I need another title like `Basilisk Slayer',” Harry groaned. “will I be called, too?”

“Not unless you so desire, because….”

“Hell, no!” Harry almost exploded.

“Very well,” Dumbledore acceded. “After the latest Order of Merlin ceremony, I cannot imagine Pius wishing to provide you a platform for augmenting your stature still further. I could arrange something through our faction, since you could not be….”

“NO!” Harry raised his voice. “The last thing I want is more bloody fame! Even in Hogwarts, people whisper behind my back, and witches try Love Potions to chat me up. Merlin knows what would happen after that.”

The Headmaster readily agreed. “True enough. But such are unintended consequences. Your testimony, I can prevent. Disclosure of what actually happened, I cannot. I tell you this frankly so you can prepare yourself.”

Harry felt as if the walls were closing in. He badly wanted to flee.

That arse Thicknesse! His little ploy would surely backfire, but Harry had quite enough of being “The Boy Who Lived,” let alone “The Chosen One.” With Basilisk paranoia sweeping the country, the revelation that he had killed one - a really big one - at age twelve with naught but a sword … would somebody try to deify him next?

He had to find Hermione. She would know what to do.

He bolted for the door. If he stayed, he would obsess. If he obsessed, Harry feared, for the first time in months, he would need Occlumency to avoid an uncontrolled magical discharge.

“Mister Potter - before you go, I need to discuss something else briefly,” Dumbledore called to him.

Harry almost hyperventilated. Where he was, and with whom, had slipped his mind.

He paused and regarded the Headmaster warily.

“In light of what has happened, I would like to inform the Wizengamot that future events, such as Quidditch matches, will be guarded by goblins,” Dumbledore requested. “I know this was not my prior position, but the requirements of the times warrant a change.”

“Umm … okay.” Harry muttered. “Do you want me to ask them for you?”

“That will be quite alright,” the Headmaster replied. “I am on reasonably good terms with them. I only wished to ascertain that you had no objection.”

* * * *

Harry found himself facing a task only marginally less distasteful than the adulation that would surely have followed an indiscriminate disclosure of the events of his first visit to the Chamber of Secrets.

He was to be interviewed by Rita Skeeter, in Shak's outer office, loaned for the occasion by Harry's professor/guardian. Beside him strode Hermione, equally grim-faced at the prospect of several hours closeted with the notorious scandalmonger.

How this came about was a long story.

Hermione's immediate reaction upon hearing the Headmaster's news was that no way in hell would they permit an enemy like Pius Thicknesse to maintain the initiative on something like this.

Instead, they would steal his thunder. At best, they might block him from going forward altogether. Even at worst, they could beat their adversary to the punch. Hermione considered but discarded a confidential approach. Trust was lacking. No matter what they tried, Thicknesse would probably demand more proof than Harry was willing to reveal.

Control was something else a preemptive strike through Skeeter promised. Harry could decide, on his terms, what to reveal and what he preferred to remain secret.

Skeeter was anything but trustworthy. However, with Hermione's Unbreakable Vow providing the stick, and another huge scoop providing the carrot, her bona fides were much less important.

Still, their first conversation went poorly. They had barely outlined Harry's Basilisk encounter when Rita unleashed her customary sarcasm. Perhaps unwisely, Hermione had not included Rita's behaviour in their presence within the scope of the Vow.

“My, my, my,” she snickered. “How romantic … risking your all for the little girl in mortal peril. No wonder she's crushed on you for years….”

“How did you know that?” Harry reacted sharply.

“Oh, I know plenty that I never bothered to write up,” Rita cackled. “Malfoy, Parkinson, Nott, Zabini…. They're more observant than you might think. Although you two started circling during the Triwizard, Mister Potter was still besotted by that Chinese wench….”

“Don't call her that,” Hermione warned. “Her name is Cho.”

“Cho Chang, then,” Rita disdainfully repeated. “She was footnote material at the time. But sources in my old house identified maybe a half-dozen of the Castle's witches as quite upset over losing the Potter sweepstakes. I buzzed around, and checked them out…. The Littlest Weasley was so distressed she didn't know what to do….”

Harry's interest was oddly piqued. “What did she do?”

“Oh, nothing except sulk,” Rita airily waved her hand. “Totally, utterly typical - and totally, utterly boring. Nothing worth writing about there….”

Having dismissed Ginny Weasley, Rita asked a question that punctured the pair's misconceptions that their brilliant little plan might be painless.

“So what do you have in the way of proof?” she leered.

“Proof? You didn't need proof to write your other stories,” Hermione reacted, affronted.

Rita looked down her nose at the precocious child. “Yes, but those stories were written just to write them,” she explained as if addressing a dullard. “The public was interested, and that was that. This one has an ulterior motive. Thicknesse is neither a fool, nor a pushover. If he thinks you can't back up this story with proof, he'll demand it.”

“To hell with him, then,” Harry resisted.

Hermione put a calming hand on Harry's arm. “You want to deter him if you can,” she reminded.

Rita sneered beneath her bright pink Far Side glasses. “He'll have an easy time of it - casting you as an attention seeker trying to take advantage of a tragedy. You're an easy target, Harry. I've done it myself quite successfully….” She smirked whilst delivering those bon mots.

“Well…,” Harry backtracked. “I still have some the skin. You mentioned our armour in the Stonehenge story. It came from the Basilisk I killed.”

“Not enough,” Rita dismissed. “We can't prove it came from your beast. I … hell, you … need evidence of the actual event.”

Harry pondered some more. “Evidence then - I suppose there's Veritaseru….”

“No, Harry!” Hermione forcefully intervened. “Not unless we receive questions in advance … and I do the asking. She's getting a huge story, here.”

Rita's blond curls bobbed as she suppressed a laugh. “I'd be willing, no problem there. But you shouldn't pick a fight with someone who brews Veritaserum by the barrel. Don't be naïve. Whatever proof you show me, Thicknesse will demand at least as much … and he might muster enough votes in the Wizengamot to force you to produce it. Plenty of wizards see you two as a threat and wouldn't mind taking you down a peg….”

“No Veritaserum, then,” Harry decided. “No way I'm letting anybody use that when they could ask anything ….”

The need for evidence was disconcerting. Harry had plenty he did not want public.

“How about a Pensieve, then,” Hermione dropped her prearranged hint. “That's how you testified against Umbridge. Pensieve evidence can't be forged or altered - remember how dismally Professor Slughorn's falsification attempt failed. But memories can be selected, and in carefully choosing exactly what memories to use, we can control what people see.”

“And you're a skilled memory extractor in addition to everything else?” Rita questioned Hermione archly. Massaging Pensieve memories might be beyond her skill, but Rita readily grasped the idea.

“No,” she admitted. “But I'll learn if I have to. It's been done to me, so I know the routine.”

First they required a Pensieve. That was solved easily enough. One fire call to Jerry McAllister and a delivery owl was winging its way to the Castle with one formerly belonging to Sirius Black.

Still remaining - as Skeeter had pointed out - was finding someone who could extract the necessary memories with the necessary precision.

Despite her brave words, Hermione had great qualms doing anything that might affect Harry's psyche. Instead, they sought out someone they felt they could trust - not Dumbledore, who was anything but disinterested - but Harry's new guardian, Kingsley Shacklebolt.

Shak was both willing and able. Precise retrieval of memories for a Pensieve was close to targeting them for erasure through Obliviation. Shak could not alter memories, but after years in the Order, he could crop them with great exactitude.

Most wizards thought Pensieve memories were inviolate, completely tamper-proof, but that was inaccurate. While memories could not be fabricated - as Slughorn learnt to his sorrow - they could be divided into pieces, and reordered and excised. Dumbledore had done so for Snape, and he had deputised Kingsley Shacklebolt to master the art, should other Order members require similar assistance.

Problem one was Harry's loss of Parseltongue ability. That skill had been public knowledge since Harry's second year, but he kept its recent absence quiet, given its probable relationship to one of Voldemort's Horcruxes. Having used it to enter the Chamber posed no problem, but the earlier memory from Myrtle's bathroom was a tougher nut.

Ron and Gilderoy Lockhart were in that memory.

Lockhart did not matter, since his memory was gone. Any explanation consistent with his condition would suffice.

Ron was another matter.

So Harry asked him.

“That's what I said, Ron,” Harry repeated. “That Ministry arse intends to use the Chamber episode for his own ends. I can't stop that from happening. Do you want into the story or out?”

In that choice stirred powerful, contradictory emotions. Abstractly, Ron craved public attention, but his true role was embarrassing - his broken wand, no Galleons to replace it, and letting Lockhart steal even that. He could become a public figure all right - a laughingstock.

“No, mate, I'd rather give it a miss,” Ron demurred. “What did I do? Get caught off guard and then stuck behind that cave in. Keep me out of it if you can. Say I waited up top, or something.”

Harry did just that. Shak parsed the memory of Harry's opening the pipe so the first sequence ended when he declared he was going in. A second sequence began with Harry shoving Lockhart into the pipe and jumping in himself. Harry never saw Ron follow him in.

Lockhart received kid glove treatment. Shak spliced events so it appeared that a shed Basilisk skin had spooked the pathetic professor into an over-enthusiastic effort at self defense. Harry had not seen the resultant roof collapse, and something falling on Lockhart's head could have caused that idiot's injuries.

Harry's remaining problem was much more difficult.

What to do about Ginny Weasley? She could not be ignored. Throughout the long, climactic memory Shak extracted - beginning with the Tom Riddle wraith revealing he was Voldemort and ending with the Basilisk's death - Ginny lay inert and in plain sight. That the great snake had not crushed her was a miracle.

Harry's problem with that memory was a microcosm of his life.

Ginny Weasley was increasingly difficult for him to ignore. Her image crept unbidden into his thoughts at night, even into his dreams. It was nothing like the occasional, but intense, urges he had felt earlier. These were more diffuse but nonetheless disconcerting for their serenity - and their frequency.

Harry's response was avoidance. Maybe having as little to do with Ginny Weasley as possible would make everything go away. Since they shared no classes, this worked most of the time - except for Quidditch. They were teammates on both the Gryffindor and the Hogwarts all-star teams. With the weather slowly improving that meant more shared Quidditch practices.

Whilst practising, Harry could isolate himself in his own little world - him and the Snitch - and let Ron run the scrimmages. Even then Harry could see Ginny, her brilliant red hair streaming behind as she executed some daredevil manœuvre; flying how he loved to fly.

Why did she wear a headband with his number seven on it?

Such thoughts were distracting, and Harry found himself progressively more distracted.

He also found himself speculating what she looked like in the team shower … not using the Obscurus Charm whereby both sexes shared the only facility equipped with magical plumbing…. Was her hair as red…?

Such thoughts, during practice, caused close calls with Bludgers and late starts for the Snitch. Occasionally Jazzy would flash him a distinctly admonitory look, as if saying, `Get your head back in the game'.

Avoiding Ginny was also impossible in respect of his (their) second-year Basilisk encounter. Harry was convinced, and Hermione agreed, that no good could come of publicly revealing that the Basilisk incident originated with Ginny's possession by Voldemort - a fact presently known to no more than a dozen wizards.

Others, like the Hogwarts governors, had never received any details. To them, she was solely a victim. Dumbledore had strategically Obliviated certain persons, including Madam Pomfrey and Hagrid - with consent, of course - to spare the girl any public stigma. Lucius Malfoy…? Maybe Dumbledore had taken care of him, or perhaps Voldemort, but he was in no position to comment.

In the paranoia now gripping the Wizard World, full disclosure would pillory Ginny in the press now even more than originally, when the Headmaster first decided to keep things under wraps.

How the hotheaded young Weasley would react to the renewed threat of becoming a pariah throughout magical Britain was anybody's guess. Harry, painfully aware of Ginny's temper, quite expected an unpleasant encounter.

Hermione cautioned Harry not to forget politics. The benefits of secrecy only redoubled, with Arthur Weasley now much more prominent. Head of the Department for International Magical Cooperation, he was the Order's highest-ranking Ministry member.

Thicknesse, obsessed with Order “infiltration” of the Ministry, would surely use Arthur's daughter's role in the Basilisk incident to attack Mr. Weasley and attempt to bludgeon him into resigning.

Beyond that, Arthur's department was the chief liaison with the French. A very public scandal concerning his daughter's possession by the same Dark Wizard both countries were allied against would be a disaster - even without the Basilisk-related aspects, which risked the same catastrophe so recently befallen the French.

Thus the memories Shak plucked from Harry's mind were finely pruned to avoid any suggestion of possession. The Voldemort phantasm now came across as more of an independent actor, abetted by some accomplice in the Castle. Although Harry would decline to speculate about that (nonexistent) wizard's identity, he had no objection to Skeeter aiming her inimitable talent for innuendo in Snape's direction.

The ruined diary was not kept secret. Harry assumed that Lucius Malfoy ultimately returned it to Voldemort in about the same condition Harry used it to free Dobby.

Before finalising anything, Harry had to explain everything to Ginny face to face. She enthusiastically accepted his invitation to discuss “something important” in the Room of Requirement before one of their D.A. sessions. Ginny's mood deflated upon arrival - at the precise moment Hermione greeted them as they entered the Room.

Hermione was stirring the Pensieve when Ginny entered, and thereby missed the interaction. That suited Harry perfectly, as he hoped not to cause Hermione unnecessary grief over stupid hormonal urges that would never amount to anything - precisely why he was otherwise doing his level best to avoid Ginny.

Except Quidditch, and on the pitch, Harry was confident he was effectively chaperoned by his co-captain - who was also Ginny's very protective older brother.

To say Ginny was surprised by what Harry and Hermione were planning was an understatement. In the aftermath of Voldemort's possession, she had been so extremely weak. To spare her further trauma, she never received a detailed description of what happened in the Chamber of Secrets after she lost consciousness.

Ginny had known that, somehow, Harry had killed a Basilisk and dispatched Riddle's spectre. She was gobsmacked to see him slay that monster with only broadsword - and then nearly die - in the Pensieved memory Shak had harvested.

“Gods, Harry!” she shrieked when they resurfaced. “You killed it by yourself! Even I can hardly believe how heroic you were! And it bit you! How did you - how did we - survive?”

Harry wearily regarded the excited redhead. “First, I wasn't alone. I was a goner without Fawkes. He brought the sword and blinded the Basilisk. Otherwise, I was a snack.”

“But you were dying!” Ginny went on. “How could anyone survive a Basilisk bite?”

Hermione tried to calm things. “Did you look closely at the end? Fawkes was crying - right on Harry's wound. Phoenix tears are probably the strongest healing agent in the world. That cured him.”

“But … Tom,” Ginny kept babbling. “What happened to him?” The girl shuddered. After four years, she still recalled the sensation of being possessed.

“Ginny, please calm down,” Hermione said soothingly.

“Someday, I'll tell you everything,” Harry promised, “but we deliberately ended the memory exactly then. You don't want to know why now, lest one of Thicknesse's crowd tries to force it out of you. Let's just say that Tom … vanished after the Basilisk was killed.”

“Ginny, we want to keep you out of the cross-hairs,” Hermione jumped in. “We wouldn't do this if we had any choice. You do read the Prophet, don't you?”

Ginny's adrenaline rush abruptly ended, as she had the distinct impression that Hermione was talking down to her. “Yes, of course…. Sure I do.”

“Then, I'm sure you saw Pius Thicknesse recent demand that Dumbledore explain the petrifactions,” Hermione lectured. “We're going public to preempt him. We want to keep the whole business with the diary and your encounters with Tom Riddle secret. None of that was in Harry's memory - intentionally.”

Ginny blushed to her ears. She was grateful and resentful at the same time. Hermione was spot on that airing that bit of Weasley dirty laundry in public would be disastrous, and not just for her. But Harry and Hermione had concocted this scheme without so much as a by your leave and were presenting her with a take-it-or-leave-it proposition.

Of course, she bought in. Harry wanted her to.

The more Ginny considered the sanitised story of Harry bravely racing to her rescue (they told her Ron had asked out) - both the Basilisk and the Dark Lord be damned - the more the idea grew on her. Harry must have had feelings for her even then, in her first year. Perhaps her execrable singing valentine had served its purpose - unbeknownst to her.

Then Harry got involved with others, first Cho Chang, the Two and Only, and then the Great Hermione, God Almighty.

If he used to feel that way about her, Ginny knew of no reason he could not be induced to feel that way again. All she needed was a chance - like her mum had - to show Harry what was right in front of him.

“I can't tell you how much I appreciate what you're doing … both of you,” Ginny spoke rather too brightly once the entire plan was explained. She gave Hermione a rather stiff hug.

“And Harry, thanks for showing me exactly what happened - you were incredibly brave … and sweet, too.”

In Hermione's full view, Ginny leaned in and gave Harry a very chaste, but slightly lingering, kiss on the cheek. Then she turned and left the Room of Requirement.

“Umm … that went well - I think,” Harry commented, unsure how to construe what had just happened. He was restrained, yet relieved. No monster arose within his chest, despite the circumstances.

“Yes, I think so, too,” Hermione guardedly agreed. “Not too much so, hopefully. I suppose we should be getting back.”

“Umm … Luv, do you think we could stay a while - just the two of us?” Harry tried for a seductive tone of voice. He really, really needed Hermione physically at that moment, to cast out his improper thoughts.

Or better still, to channel them productively.

She processed his request against everything else going on in their lives. “Yeah, I'd like that…,” Hermione smiled, “I'd like that a lot. It's been too long….”

They embraced, became one, and for the next hour gave no further thought to the outside world.

* * * *

However much Harry might have liked to ignore the world, wizardkind beyond the Castle's walls was not yet (if ever) done with him. Harry's next interruption was as Harry and Hermione were finishing what, until then, had been a rather productive D.A. meeting.

The session started with Hagrid lecturing on Nundus. Beyond the obvious, “Avoid 'em, that's what,” Hagrid had practical advice for anyone unlucky enough to encounter that extremely dangerous beast.

“Yeh can't do anythin' 'cept try'n hold 'em off,” the Creatures instructor warned. “'Cause o' their breath bein' poisonous 'n all, I recommend this spell. It creates a whole bunch o' soapsuds….”

Hagrid still did not use an ordinary wand. He preferred his familiar brolly. It symbolised both his unjust persecution as a half-giant, and his refusal to stop doing magic.

But his brolly was not an intact wand, and sometimes the bits inside it reacted unpredictably.

Like right now.

“Saponoro maximus!”

Hagrid's spell worked - after a fashion. Instead of the intended cloud of suds spewing from the tip of his brolly, the ribs popped open and he was nearly buried by a torrent blasting backwards from the entire inside canopy. Had Hagrid not been so large, the blizzard of soapsuds probably would have knocked him over.

With a few choice epithets, Hagrid forced the brolly shut, ending his self-inundation. Covered from head to foot in brilliant white, he resembled an overly large snow man.

Growling from beneath the bubbles, he told the assembled D.A., “Well, yeh get the idea, anyways.”

The second half of the D.A. meeting, moved to the Chamber, was practical. Harry and Hermione drilled everyone in Auror spells that propelled small objects at high speeds. With the Aurors, they had practised with nails and similar sharp objects. To teach these skills without any attendant carnage, Hermione persuaded Professor McGonagall to Transfigure several boxes of marbles into harmless globes containing chalk dust in the colours of the four Hogwarts Houses.

Daphne Greengrass' contribution was the Face Fogging Charm - a useful spell to conceal where one looked, so that opponents could not anticipate the user's next move.

Then Harry and Hermione taught everyone the spell of the evening, the Kineticus Charm.

Mayhem ensued. Matters became rather over-competitive in the Chamber of Secrets. The session ended with everyone and everything covered in multi-coloured chalk dust, including the two instructors.

House colours, thought by Harry and Hermione as merely a nice touch, touched off inter-House warfare. D.A. members rapidly tired of casting chalk marbles at set targets. Soon they began aiming them at each other. A Hufflepuff squarely struck Mandy Bocklehurst. Inaccurately identifying Ernie McMillan as the culprit, she stalked him and from a concealed location, chalked him right over the heart.

McMillan retaliated, but instead hit Seamus Finnegan.

Then it was off to the races, with House-specific bands hunting one another. Participants began Disillusioning themselves, or if not knowing how, conjuring various obstacles throughout the Chamber.

Harry and Hermione might have put a stop to it, but Professor Flitwick, their advisor for the evening, thought that some controlled chaos made good practice for real life battle situations. He urged them not to intervene.

Flitwick prevailed - until, almost simultaneously, somebody popped the both of them.

Whap! “Ouch!” Reddish chalk powder covered Hermione's left hip.

Pop! “Yow!” Greenish chalk powder blossomed on Harry's right arm.

Both of them decided - this means war.

They soon discovered what others had already figured out. Chalk dust in the eyes was very unpleasant. Protego Charms, although effective, impeded return fire, since chalk dust, a non-magical substance, could not penetrate the charm, inbound or outbound. Harry tried enlarging his glasses, but the dragon ambergris lenses proved impervious to all magic he knew. Finally, he forgot about special eye protection and chanced it.

Hermione had similar problems. She first tried Tranfiguring a water glass (elves now provided some minimal refreshments) into a snorkeling mask like she used on the Riviera as a kid, but had little peripheral vision. After Padma Patil caught her squarely in the side of the neck, Hermione switched to a Bubblehead Charm. Designed for underwater use, in regular air the Bubblehead's exaggerated refraction produced equally lousy peripheral vision. Roger Davies snuck too close, and winged her left breast. Frustrated, Hermione added an Aquavisio Charm. Those two charms adequately cancelled each other, and Hermione successfully had her revenge - and more.

Harry and Hermione soon found each other. Then they partnered with Neville, and later added Ron and Luna to form a small platoon….

When the klaxon sounded to end the meeting, both the Chamber and the participants were a mess - liberally coated in multicolour chalk dust. Hermione recommended that they all turn Hagrid's soapsuds spell on themselves, so Filch would not go apoplectic at chalk dust tracked all over the Castle.

Most of the D.A. departed. House-elves popped in to tidy up the Chamber. Hermione insisted on helping them. Harry and a few others stayed to discuss the session.

“Whilst Hagrid certainly has a valid point that soapsuds can block poisonous Nundu breath, I think we can do better,” Flitwick opined.

“Certainly could use a better delivery mechanism,” Harry quipped.

“I'd be happy to research that topic,” Daphne Greengrass offered. “It fits in well with my Charms project, which involves camouflage.”

“Excellent,” Flitwick squeaked.

“In that case, be sure to investigate polyurethane,” Dennis Creevey recommended.

“And surfactants,” Colin added.

“Poly-who? Surfa-what?” Daphne asked incredulously. “What could you two know about this?” she dismissively addressed the two pre-O.W.L. Muggleborns. Despite her best efforts, sometimes her Slytherin prejudices showed through.

“If you want better, stronger foam, Muggles use polyurethane all the time,” Dennis maintained. “It starts foamy, but solidifies. It doesn't vanish like Hagrid's soapsuds.”

“Surfactants are foaming agents,” Colin added. “Muggles aren't stupid. They don't have magic, so they've had to learn these things.”

“Well, maybe,” Daphne retreated. “I'll see.” She sashayed off, pursuing Professor Flitwick, as Hermione came back, looking for Harry. Uncharacteristically, Colin and Dennis stayed put.

“Hi, you two, what do you want?” Hermione hailed them brightly.

They looked nervous.

“Umm … we needed to talk to Harry … about business,” Dennis told her. “Sorry.”

“Never good news, it seems,” Harry quipped. “So how many more Galleons do you need?”

“It's not money, Harry,” Colin denied. “Not really.”

“For that we'd just talk to Mister Howe, and not bother you,” Dennis added.

“We've decided to close the Hong Kong plant,” Colin revealed. “You really riled up the Triads. Our security consultant said they'll try to sabotage us for sure.”

Harry winced guiltily. He always seemed to turn his friends into targets. “Sorry about that. What do you want to do?”

“Umm … bring it back onshore,” Dennis began explaining. “We need to keep a closer eye on things, and as for cost … well, the demand curve isn't as price sensitive as we'd thought.”

“That means we don't need Chinese labour for cost reasons,” Colin clarified. His brother tended to lapse into jargon when discussing business matters.

“Fortunately, things are booming throughout Hong Kong,” Dennis continued. “So we're not selling the plant at a loss - that's why it's not a money issue.”

“What do you need, then?” Hermione tried moving them along. With all the chalk dust, she fancied a shower, and less than an hour remained before curfew. Too much chat and she would shower alone.

“You're standing in it, actually,” Colin obscurely replied.

“What? Chalk dust?”

“No, after what's happened, we most need a safe place to make these things,” Dennis shed some light. “Nothing's safer than Hogwarts, and the Chamber - well, it's not regularly used for anything as far as we can tell. It's big enough. I was hoping we could … er … set up shop here.”

Harry looked gobsmacked. Hermione intervened. “You're asking the wrong people, Dennis. This space belongs to Hogwarts, not Harry. You'd best contact the Headmaster.”

“We're going to, Harry, believe me,” Colin broke in. “But you're tight with him….”

Harry winced. “Tight,” was not how he would describe his relationship with the Headmaster - Dumbledore would doubtlessly agree.

“…We hardly know him. We wanted you on our side before….”

“Won't work,” Hermione declared flatly in her I'm-absolutely-certain voice.

Dennis yelped, “What do you mean?”

“You couldn't get … workwizards, I guess … in and out of here,” Hermione spoke. Her hands on her hips, Hermione spoke in that know-it-all “lecture” tone Harry knew only too well.

“There's only one way in,” she pointed at the stairs. “Well, technically two, but the other's even less practical. How many wizards would you employ?”

“Umm … I guess … about the same as … about thirty,” Dennis stuttered, quailing under her intense scrutiny.

“I can't see any way Dumbledore would allow thirty wizards, not subject to his authority, come traipsing through the Hogwarts wards every day - especially during the Term,” Hermione declared. “You said it yourself, employees can be, and have been, infiltrated by our enemies. That was bad enough in China; it would be catastrophic here. Even if Dumbledore were so inclined, we have the Board of Governors.”

Harry followed her explication with sinking feelings. She was right, of course, but at some point she simply made the rubble bounce.

“Enough!” he intervened.

Hermione immediately fell silent, viewing Harry more with surprise than anger.

“Hermione's right. Not here. But talk to Blackie Howe. I've got more properties than I can keep straight. Work with him and choose something. You have a security consultant, and I have a major domo. Between them, something will work out. If necessary, I'll lease you a place at the Château. It's well warded.”

The Creeveys went from feeling, and looking, stupid to a state of elation in a matter of seconds.

“All right, Harry!” Colin said. The two boys scampered off.

Finally alone, Hermione turned to Harry. “Too much?”

“A little,” he conceded.

“Sorry,” she allowed, not wanting to look him in the eye.

“It happens,” he murmured, reaching for her hand. “I can shower in ten minutes, if you can,” he added.

“Race you.”

* * * *

Bladvak enjoyed working for Harry Potter. Impratraxis Potter was due unflinching, absolute loyalty as a prince of the royal blood. Beyond that, Harry Potter actively involved him in his affairs. Even when Bladvak viewed his efforts as failures, Harry Potter did not share that opinion.

Thus, he valued Harry Potter's opinion - and Savini was reputed have surpassing intellect - so he, Bladvak, was more than willing to extend himself on behalf of the Impratraxis and Savini even in tasks that might be dangerous.

Bladvak was not the only goblin sharing this view. He would not (probably) have presumed to act absent tacit approval of his ultimate superior at Gringotts, Director Klamdok. Bladvak understood implicitly that, for now, he was on his own. Plausible deniability was one price of the goblin equivalent of a wink and a nod.

Should his preparations be noticed before coming to fruition - at a time Gringotts might be adversely impacted - Bladvak's head would be on the proverbial chopping block.

In the ways of his race, in dire enough circumstances, that could be more than a metaphor. Bladvak knew and accepted that.

The Ashrak traitors proved that. Exposed when they suddenly vanished from the Stonehenge battlefield, bits of them were still nailed to the walls of the Ashrak cavern. At the beginning, they had not been dead.

Fortunately, their demise escaped the notice of Impratraxis Potter and his consort, who did not share goblin sensibilities. Why, Savini had even questioned something as tame and well-accepted as hoisting enemy heads on canton banners. Impratraxis and Savini, after all, were not truly goblins, so allowances needed to be made.

But enough of that.

Bladvak could keep a secret - even from them - if the greater needs of Gringotts and the Gablankansta required it.

This did.

To restore foreclosure rights that were the Nation's proper due under the original treaty, the initial precedent had to be stealthy - a very small point of a very sharp spear. The test property must not only have significant and longstanding arrearages, but must also lack an owner who might raise a squawk. In addition, it must be small enough not to attract attention.

To ensure the strictest confidence, Bladvak performed all necessary research himself - from initial review of Gringotts' books and records to the final on-site visit. As a seasoned debt collector, Bladvak possessed both investigational resources and the skills to employ them correctly.

A proper walk through was essential. Book research, however thorough, could not substitute for claws on the ground - evaluating every prospect personally. The first property looked ideal on parchment, but his visit told him otherwise. Whilst suitably overgrown and abandoned, that parcel was adjacent to a great estate, owned by the Parkinson family, Bladvak later learned, and they used this neighboring piece for some rather nefarious activities.

The next property, deeded to an undoubtedly long-dead witch by the name of Simmons, also had hidden, fatal drawbacks. Muggles were constructing a major new roadway less than fifty metres away. With Muggle development imminent, that property would assume too high a profile.

Bladvak also visited the old Wilkes tract in North Yorkshire. It also seemed perfect on parchment - obscure, abandoned, not too large, and no payments for decades on a Gringotts mortgage far larger, with accumulated interest, than the land could possibly be worth. But on walk through, something was off; unnerving even a goblin not much inclined to upset. He dispatched a specialised squad. They reported the presence of significant Dark magic. Further investigation determined that the last Wilkes had been a Death Eater.

The acreage he would visit tonight seemed just as promising as the Wilkes parcel. It was abandoned; its last record owner some sort of lunatic who died in wizard prison. The place was obscure - so much so that Bladvak had almost detoured to West Sussex, before determining the actual location to be Hope-Under-Dinmore, Herefordshire. It was small, under twenty acres.

Most importantly, the property's mortgage had been in default for almost a century. The last payment Gringotts had received was in 1938 from a prior owner, one Marvolo Gaunt.

Bladvak hoped he would finally find precisely the property he sought - some odd lot nobody had heard of or would care about. With it he would establish a precedent for foreclosures, now that the Potter blocking shares protected Gringotts.

* * * *

Double Transfiguration. Depending on the lesson, it could be as easy as Herbology or as vexing as Potions with Snape on a bad day. Today tended toward the difficult side. The N.E.W.T.-Level class were practising cross-animations with higher animals, mammals and birds. Professor McGonagall demonstrated the concept dramatically at the lesson's outset - Transfiguring an ibex Hagrid had somehow procured into an ibis and back again.

The students' assigned tasks were considerably more modest - mice into magpies, shrews into shrikes. The lesson's final assignment was to Transfigure an owl (borrowed from Hogwarts' post owl parliament) into an otter.

Harry worked with Ron, as Professor McGonagall did not allow “involved” couples to pair together in her class. “Hermione would know this,” Ron complained as he consulted Transfiguration of Living Things for the proper wand movement for owls.

“A pity we're only doing theoretical work this year on humans … or what passes for that,” Harry heard Malfoy hiss from the row behind. “I could turn the Mudblood into a Flobberworm and the world would be better off.”

Harry engaged him without bothering to turn around. “See those stoats up there?” Harry muttered, loudly enough that Malfoy heard. “Well, say `hello' to your new reflection - I'll do Mad-Eye one better….”

“Weasel's got that covered,” Malfoy sneered whilst leaning closer. “Such a pity that Moody won't be around to see it.”

“You son of a witch,” Harry growled back. Concentrating, he made a hand motion. His bit of silent, wandless magic caused all of the legs of Malfoy's desk fall off.

“Aaah!” Malfoy yelped as he toppled into Harry.

Harry grabbed at Malfoy's robes, trying to wrestle him to the floor.

Ron whirled about and tried to push Harry aside, so he could have a go, too. He slipped and succeeded only in pulling Harry backwards.

“Harry, stop!” Hermione called from across the room. “You know he's not worth it.”

“I'll not have hooliganism in my classroom!” Professor McGonagall angrily declared. “Ten points from both Gryffindor and Slytherin. Any more and I'll assign detentions…. And five points to Gryffindor for Mister Weasley's attempt to break things up.”

Saying nothing, Ron gave McGonagall a crossways glance. That had not been his intent. He just wanted a clear shot at Malfoy.

Harry shoved Malfoy away, hoping the Slytherin would trip over his collapsed desk. He succeeded, but the fall dislodged something inside Malfoy's robes. It dropped just as Malfoy flipped backwards, and the blond's foot kicked a large envelope across the room. The package slammed into the leg of Justin Finch-Fletchley's chair and broke open.

“Potter, detention!” Professor McGonagall barked.

“It was an accident,” Ron protested, although it was anything but.

“What in Merlin's name is this?” Justin blurted, looking at a several sheets of parchment bearing rather precise patterns of lines and boxes. “Some of … they're moving.”

“That's mine!” Malfoy yelled, showing his wand. “Give it back before I hex you!”

“Detention for you as well, Malfoy,” McGonagall declared. “I'll not have wands drawn on other students in this class. Let me see that, Finch-Fletchley.”

“It's nobody's business,” Malfoy protested as loudly as he could without risking multiple detentions. “Besides Professor Slughorn's already cleared it.”

“I'll see about that.” Professor McGonagall looked down her nose at Malfoy as she accepted the pages from Justin.

“This is Paneruditius Parchment,” she snipped after a quick glance. “It's not prohibited, but perhaps should be. Explain, Mister Malfoy.”

The Slytherin purpled, but maintained a cold and calm voice. “Could I do that in private, please, Professor?”

McGonagall's steely eyes raked the young man. She nodded. “Very well. This way. Class, continue the exercise. Potter and Weasley, see me after class.”

The rest of the class gaping, Professor McGonagall led Malfoy through the rear door into her private office.

As soon as the door shut, Professor McGonagall demanded, “Explain yourself.” She had her wand out, hanging by her side.

“Umm … I'd rather not have the class, and thus the entire school, know my mail's being searched on Headmaster's orders,” Malfoy replied glumly. “It's not good, being thought untrustworthy because of my father….”

The professor's expression was unmoved.

“I still see no reason for drawing your wand in anger, Malfoy,” she criticised. “I am quite aware of your situation. Now what are these?” She held up the large parchments.

“Those are the construction blueprints for Malfoy Manor, professor,” Malfoy explained. “It's difficult supervising from a distance. These help me follow what the hired wizards are doing. Like I said, my Head of House has already reviewed them.”

“A reasonable enough explanation; but under the circumstances … to be sure.” She pointed her wand at the parchment.

“Reveal your secrets.”

Malfoy held his breath. Fifteen very long seconds elapsed.

Nothing happened.

“Very well.” Professor McGonagall nodded. “Such parchment has been a source of great mischief in the past - well before your time, but I have a long memory. You may leave. You will finish the Transfiguration exercise during your detention.”

Returning to the classroom, McGonagall was surprised. The desks were shoved against the walls, and in the room's centre stood something resembling a Muggle above-ground swimming pool with two mini-slides. A dozen otters cavorted in the water.

McGonagall smiled tightly. “An excellent display. But why is the rest of this necessary?”

“Professor,” began Susan Bones, “we had to keep them Transfigured until you returned, but they wouldn't keep still. It seemed a shame to cage them, so Hermione devised this.”

An otter splashed loudly down one of the slides, creating a wave that sloshed over the side.

Professor McGonagall turned to Hermione. “What prompted this, Granger?”

“Everyone wanted full marks, so we had to keep the otters. I've always liked otters. At Muggle zoos, they're kept in places like this, not cages. It seemed cruel not to, so I Transfigured a few of the desks.”

“Five points to all four Houses for excellent completion of a difficult assignment,” McGonagall announced. “And two extra points to Gryffindor for the nice bit of Transfiguration to keep the otters happy whilst I was otherwise engaged. Class dismissed.”

As the class left, Professor McGonagall turned her wand this way and that, Retransfiguring the otters into owls, opening the windows so they could fly to the owlery, reversing Hermione's conjuring, and generally restoring the Transfiguration classroom to its prior, pristine state.

“Wow.”

Surprised, McGonagall turned, and saw Harry and Ron waiting by the doorway.

“Umm … you did tell us to stay after class, professor,” Harry addressed her respectfully.

“So I did,” the professor recalled. “I'm sorry; it slipped my mind. Come.”

She led them through the same door she had taken Malfoy. Assuming her usual place behind her desk, she commanded, “Sit.”

Harry and Ron looked around the office, then at each other. Obediently, they sat on the floor.

“What are you doing?” Professor McGonagall immediately asked - a moment before realising what the two boys already knew.

“Potter, Weasley, I am indeed sorry. I'm having the elves repair the furniture. Please stand. Cathedrus!” She pointed her wand at two end tables. These turned into unadorned wooden chairs, and hopped forward. The two sat in proper fashion.

“Potter, I'm surprised at your behaviour. I won't tolerate scuffling in class,” she upbraided him. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“Malfoy insulted Hermione, Professor,” Harry complained. “He was also gloating over Mad-Eye's death.”

“Oh, pish-posh, Potter,” McGonagall responded. “Malfoy is angry and jealous. He is no threat to you or Miss Granger. You have already beaten him, have you not?”

“I … I guess so,” Harry answered, assuming she meant the Black Estate will contest.

“Then I want you to ignore him. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“Your detention then,” McGonagall continued. “It will be served with Kingsley. Contact him and arrange a time. I will request that he train you most vigorously for an evening.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“And you, Weasley….”

Ron suddenly sat up straight.

“Unlike Mister Potter, you held your temper admirably,” McGonagall addressed him. “You are showing improvement. I am pleased. I have also followed the progress of both the Gryffindor and the chosen Quidditch teams. Again, I am impressed with your diligence.”

“Umm … thanks, Professor.”

“Therefore, I am lifting your close probationary status effective immediately,” she told him. “Please stand so I can cancel your Tracking Spell.”

Smiling broadly, Ron rose, and McGonagall incanted her “Finite.”

“Assuming you keep yourself free of trouble, I will end your probation entirely at the end of the Term. For now, your basic status is unchanged. You remain one serious incident from expulsion - understood?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Harry rose, expecting to be dismissed. He was premature.

“Finally, I have news for both of you. The worst is over for Miss Bell. She is recovering nicely at St. Mungo's and will return to Hogwarts in a few weeks. Whilst she will not be well enough to play Quidditch this year, when she returns she will resume her captaincy.”

Harry looked relieved; Ron sullen.

“Mister Weasley, is there a problem?”

“Not really … does this mean that I … er … we lose our privileges? You know … the key to the clubhouse, use of the Prefects' bathroom … that kind of thing?”

Professor McGonagall frowned. The last thing she wanted, and the last thing Katie Bell needed, was for her return to injure team morale. “I suppose I can compromise,” she said, adding by a long-suffering sigh. “You remain captain of the Hogwarts picked team, by Ludo's appointment, so I believe it proper for you to retain your privileges. Potter, however, will revert to his prior status.”

“Thanks, Professor!” Ron said even more enthusiastically than before.

Whilst Ron exulted, McGonagall fixed Harry with a stare.

She winked.

He returned it.

* * * *

The weather thawed as daylight lengthened, but Harry's relations with the Ministry did not. They remained, if not in deep freeze, in a sort of wary stasis. After the house-elf disrupted Order of Merlin ceremony, almost nobody in the Ministry, from Rufus Scrimgeour on down, was inclined to do Harry Potter any favours.

The fate of Harry's request that Jazzy, an Order of Merlin winner, be issued a Valkyrie exemplified that unhelpful attitude. Her performance on Hermione's broom at Stonehenge - despite a mismatch that forced her to fly entirely without shielding - indisputably established her competence, despite her young age.

It was not to be.

After considerable delay, some faceless clerk in the Flight Wing office sent Harry a note that his request was denied for “security considerations.” Apparently, Jazzy had failed a “background check.” Her family's “adherence” to “the traditions and laws of the English Ministry” could not be verified. In other words, because she lacked pure-blood genealogy, and came from Kashmir, she could not be trusted with a Valkyrie - despite being the youngest Order of Merlin laureate since that award had assumed its current form in 1648.

The denial angered Harry more than Jazzy - or even Hermione. Jazzy trusted nobody outside her small coterie of friends, and certainly not the Ministry. Muggle-born Hermione was all too familiar with the Ministry's pervasive pure-blood biases, both great and small. Harry had still possessed a thin sliver of hope that the Wizard establishment was redeemable. When trodden on, that provoked an emotional reaction.

The previous year, he had laid waste to the Headmaster's office. Now older and wiser, Harry simply seethed. His decision to counter Thicknesse - whose hand he saw in the slight to Jazzy - was cemented.

Whilst the Ministry would not do Harry any favours, neither did it move against him. A few Wizengamot hotheads, egged on by traditionalist propagandists in the Prophet and elsewhere, demanded action against Harry's literacy and liberty initiatives at the Château.

Both programmes became public in late March after Harry sacked Ima Hogg. The elf literacy program had not progressed as he had hoped. Jerry McAllister confirmed that it languished largely because Hogg was (as both Harry and Hermione suspected) ill-inclined to push the issue with reticent elves, because she opposed improvements in house-elf status, or even living conditions.

Harry sacked her straightaway. With Jerry's help, he hired a Squib by the name of Gretchen Sklary, who previously taught kindergarten and Year One in Leeds. A reading enthusiast, Gretchen solemnly promised to spare no energy or expense to have all of the house-elves literate by September next.

Harry offered Ima Hogg more-than-fair severance - to his embarrassment, more than he was paying Gretchen - if Hogg would go quietly and stay that way. To his surprise, she refused, and went straight to the press.

Of course, Harry forbade a peeved Rita Skeeter from having any contact with his traitorous ex-employee. She complied with a great show of reluctance. Other reporters predictably stepped into the breech - followed by commentators - followed by screamers.

But that was all.

Despite Ministry pique at Harry (and Hermione) over the events of the Order of Merlin ceremony - nobody, it seems, believed that Neville was bold enough to act independently - no official retaliation ensued. Pricklish or not, Harry's formal relations with the Ministry stayed the same. The Minister ignored fringe demands to reopen the Black inheritance.

Harry knew full well what had happened. He had caused it. Through Shak as an intermediary, he informed Minister Scrimgeour that he would maintain his peace concerning the circumstances of the Battle of Stonehenge. The Ministry could continue to claim partial credit for the victory even though it had, in truth, been caught unawares (or worse). Any retaliation for how Harry chose to treat the Château's house-elves, and Harry would tell the world exactly how close Voldemort had come to violently overthrowing the Ministry.

Harry had witnesses … physical evidence … and an entire goblin army to back up his version of what happened.

Harry thus learned to appreciate the practice of realpolitik.

So, a standoff. The Ministry had long pursued a hands-off policy towards house-elf matters at the great wizard estates that employed - rather, owned - the vast majority of elves. That autonomy justified Ministry inaction when the Malfoys or the Blacks mistreated their chattel, or even killed them. It enabled the wall-mounted elf heads at Grimmauld Place.

Jujitsu-like, tradition could be wielded against tradition. Harry interposed the same noninterference principle to prevent interference with his efforts as Proprietor of Château Blackwalls to liberate the same elves his predecessors held in bondage.

Turnabout was fair play.

Other influences were also at work.

Rita made sure Hermione knew of the reporter's rebuff of several unofficial attempts to generate negative publicity against both her and Harry. Rita knew where her interests, if not necessarily her loyalty, lay. Her reaction went beyond simply spurning the overtures. She actively, if surreptitiously, hindered efforts to induce other reporters to draft assorted scandalous and salacious stories.

Otherwise, Rita busily polished the Basilisk story. She quite rightly viewed it as the biggest scoop of her career.

The Headmaster also had his sources.

Less than three days before Dumbledore was due to give public testimony before the Wizengamot, sitting as a committee of the whole, Harry received a summons to the old man's office.

Hermione was not so summoned. Harry was on his own.

“I understand that you have quite a surprise on tap prior to my Wizengamot appearance,” the Headmaster remarked, dispensing with his usual circumlocutions, save the ritual offer of a lemon drop.

Dumbledore's sudden straight-forwardness caught Harry off-guard, as probably intended. “I don't know … er … how did you … you know about that?”

“As you know, Rita is banned from the Castle, save when supervised,” the Headmaster pointed out.

“But I … er … we were `supervising' her, if that's what you call it,” Harry countered, none too happy at being found out. “She never left our sight.”

“Ah … but she left the room I had assigned for the purpose of your interview,” Dumbledore responded, his eye twinkling. “When we released her, I took the precaution of requesting that the staff be alert to her possible presence, in both human and insect form. I gave the same instructions to our resident ghosts.”

The Headmaster having relapsed into periphrasis, Harry saw where he was going before he finished. “Bloody Moaning Myrtle grassed on us,” Harry groaned.

Dumbledore's eyebrows went up. “Did you request that she not?”

“Umm … no,” Harry had to admit. “Didn't think of it, really. But how did you know what we're doing? Er … you do know, don't you?”

For a moment, Harry worried that he had let the Headmaster suss him out on a guess.

“Please, Mister Potter, give someone besides Miss Granger credit for intelligence,” Dumbledore began, his twinkling eyes now annoying Harry to no end. “Given the subject of my summons, and your reaction, it was but a small deductive leap when Myrtle reported that you two, and Rita, were examining a certain plumbing fixture in her bathroom. Obviously, you were explaining how you originally entered the Chamber of Secrets.”

A pause, heavily pregnant, ensued. The two mutely stared at one another.

Finally, Harry broke the silence. “Are you going to try and stop me?”

“No … but I would request that you not proceed,” Dumbledore earnestly replied. “You have no reason to make yourself a lightning rod over this. I am quite capable of handling myself before the Wizengamot.”

“This isn't about me,” Harry reacted. “I'm toast anyway. I killed the bloody thing; no way around that. But I don't want Ron, and especially Ginny, dragged into this mess…. You know they will be.”

“I know that Pius and his supporters will so attempt, wittingly or otherwise,” Dumbledore answered Harry's question. “You have no more ability to keep Miss Weasley's identity a secret than I do.”

“Once they know what happened, they won't want to call me,” Harry cited the Headmaster's own words back to him.

“True, they will not,” Dumbledore agreed. “But how do you propose avoiding Miss Weasley's role? Please, tell me you have not concocted the biggest lie Rita has ever published.”

“No lies,” Harry insisted. Emphatically, he thrust his right wrist under the Headmaster's nose, his “I must not tell lies” scar plainly, if faintly, visible. “I'm admitting I went down there after Volde … Riddle took Ginny. I'm avoiding only her possession. I shaved the memories I showed Rita so she knows only that Ginny was there when I fought the Basilisk.”

That turned the tables. “Memories? Dear me, you used a Pensieve? When did you learn that magic?”

“I didn't,” Harry readily revealed. “Shak … er … Professor Shacklebolt did it for me. He's great with that kind of thing.”

“Indeed he is,” Dumbledore ruefully agreed. The Auror's appointment as Harry's guardian was producing unintended consequences. “So what is the gist of your story?”

Harry previewed the upcoming bombshell article - slated to run in two days. Exactly how the Chamber had been opened, and Ginny Weasley abducted, was a mystery, but Harry's ostensible guess blamed closet Voldemort supporters within the Castle. The story was heavy with aspersions implicating ex-Professor Snape and Lucius Malfoy, both of whom were conveniently fugitives.

The Headmaster winced at Harry's false accusations against Snape, but said nothing. Certain things remained too sensitive to reveal, even to Harry.

Harry's Parseltongue ability was public knowledge, so discovery of the Basilisk and the hidden entrance to the Chamber was essentially accurate. Ginny was portrayed as an innocent victim - the cause of her selection unknown - speculation being that the Weasleys were targeted as “blood traitors” and conveniently had so many children at Hogwarts.

Ron aided the discovery, but Harry's story left him in Moaning Myrtle's bathroom - to get help if Harry did not return in an hour. Harry explained how they dealt with Professor Lockhart, who in another serendipitous coincidence, lacked any memory to contradict that, or any other, aspect of the story.

The Pensieve memories supporting Harry's story were carefully sculpted to avoid Ginny's possession. The Riddle diary and its destruction were omitted. When Harry killed the Basilisk, Riddle shade, or whatever it was, either vanished or fled.

Dumbledore nodded, asked an occasional clarifying question, but was generally left Harry to explain what the Skeeter article would contain without interruption.

“…So that's pretty much it,” Harry concluded. “What do you think?”

“Truly a masterpiece of story-telling,” the Headmaster concluded. “It may well succeed. With the Kingsley providing the Aurors with your supporting memories simultaneously with publication, I doubt Pius or his allies would seek to ask any more of you. Public opinion would not permit it.”

“Yeah,” Harry grimaced. “Because I'll be even more of a damn hero than I am already.”

“Every bit of that status being truly and justly earned,” the Headmaster responded. “Still, I repeat my request. Please do not do this. You will trigger a chain of events that cannot be foreseen. You would be entering the political fray prematurely. Your public choosing of sides will make enemies that you need not make.”

“You'd have to mention Ginny's possession,” Harry returned to first principles. “Think what that would do to her - and to her father.”

A half-smile appeared beneath the Headmaster's beard. “Noble intentions, indeed…. And no doubt selflessly directed. But have no fear; my testimony shall not mention Miss Weasley's possession any more than would your newspaper story. I have given Arthur and Molly my word.”

“But they'll ask you,” Harry resisted. “You'll be under oath. You'd have to lie. I don't want that either.”

“Truth is always preferable to lies,” Dumbledore maintained serenely. “I shall not lie. I shall invoke teacher-student confidentiality.”

That stopped Harry cold. “But … what's that? A right lot of things have come out that shouldn't have, I reckon…. Snape for one. He made sure the whole Castle knew I was taking Remedial bloody Potions.”

“Severus was a special case, I regret to say,” the Headmaster sighed. “But you are correct - teacher-student confidentiality is a fiction. The Board of Governors would not permit that.”

“Then … what are you doing?” Harry said, nonplussed. “It sounds like you're just going to refuse to answer their questions.”

“Essentially, correct,” Dumbledore admitted. “I would ask permission to use your name as an excuse at times….”

“Of course,” Harry's voice hitched. “But couldn't they … oh, I don't know, sack you again, like last year?”

“I suppose they could,” the Headmaster admitted. “If convicted of contempt of the Wizengamot, I could no longer hold this position. But to pursue contempt charges, they would have to recall me yet again … with your exploits already public. That would be an event of low probability - our adversaries would incur a substantial political price.”

“No!” Harry declared. “If your plan's just to stare them down, you're risking getting sacked again. I won't take that risk. I'm going ahead with my story.”

Dumbledore had been lounging in his swivel chair. Looking surprised, he swung forward, so quickly that his pointed purple hat flopped onto his desk in front of him. “Your expression of loyalty is most gratifying, and rather unexpected. But I am already an old man, and I am certain….”

“No,” Harry repeated, cutting the “old man” off. “You have no idea what it was like for me - for all of us - last year after you left. Look what happened!” For a second time, Harry showed Dumbledore the lasting scar from Umbridge's blood quills. “I don't want … I can't go through that again…. I need to feel … safe at Hogwarts so I can learn what I have to and do what I must. Call it loyalty, if you want, or call it self interest, but I'm not risking your position here if I can possibly avoid it….”

The Headmaster looked both flattered and frustrated. “I cannot persuade you otherwise, then?”

“Not unless you could keep the Weasleys out of this without jeopardising your own position,” Harry stood firm. “I haven't heard that.”

“Regrettably, you will not,” Dumbledore conceded, his eyes boring into Harry's.

“Don't try anything,” Harry warned, turning his own eyes away and readying his Occlumency.

“That was never my intent,” the Headmaster demurred. “I simply have one final question. Why, in the larger scheme of things, do you care what happens to the Weasleys?”

Harry almost fell out of his chair.

“They're my friends! I guess it's what Hermione calls my `saving people thing.' Ginny suffered a lot,” Harry stumbled into an explanation. “Bloody Voldemort possessed her for months. I went through that for just a few minutes, and it's horrible,” Harry remembered. “To have her name dragged through the mud to score political points against her dad - so soon after what happened to Ron … and Bill…. She was, and still is, targeted because of me … they all were actually … the Weasleys.”

Regarding Harry quizzically, Dumbledore remarked, “I recall an incident in the Gryffindor Quidditch quarters. She put you and … another … into the Hospital Wing. And Molly with her Howlers … is this truly your fight?”

Harry felt warmth in his face. “You don't know Ginny like I do,” he rejected the Headmaster's insinuations. “Like me sometimes she reacts in ways that she later regrets….”

“Indeed, as now, I fear,” Dumbledore ostensibly agreed.

“…and we don't need Arthur distracted, with the situation in France,” Harry added.

Dumbledore steepled his fingers. “The political point you make is well taken…. So there is no deterring you.”

“For the third time, no,” Harry reacted badly. “Is there anything more? I'd like to study for Potions tomorrow.”

“I suppose not,” the Headmaster ended the discussion. “Just a bit of advice. As the Muggles say, `fasten your seat belt,' you are in for a bumpy ride, and the ultimate destination is far from clear.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Unity governments tend to be unstable

The Fifth Estate is the French magical parliament

“La Perfide Albion” is an uncomplimentary French view of England, dating at least to the Hundred Years War

Harry's Reims adventure was in Ch. 26

The war declaration was in Ch. 29

The French magical awards correspond to the L'Ordre nationale du Mérite and the Légion d'honneur; “Pucelle” (Maid) being a name for Joan of Arc

The rooster is a French national symbol

Had there been no house-elf incident at the Order of Merlin ceremony, Scrimgeour would have fired Thicknesse. What goes around comes around

In canon, it seems that Harry's second year Basilisk encounter was quite effectively hushed up

The Hawaiian character was introduced in Ch. 47

Moa are colorful chickens brought to Hawai'i by the Polynesians; their crows are quite loud, as any visitor to Kauai's Kokee area can attest

The goblin guards figure later on

Rita's vow was in Ch. 47

Far Side was a cartoon in which women often wore outlandish glasses

Rita's “don't pick a fight” line originally referred to the press, which bought ink by the barrel

Harry's Pensieve testimony against Umbridge was in Ch. 8

Slughorn's failed attempt at faking memories occurred in Ch. 62

Snape's finely trimmed memory of Lily's death is mentioned in Ch. 60

Compared to the Lust Powder's effects, the Prince's love potion is mild

Ginny's headband was created in Ch. 29

With Arthur's ministry position, Ginny's concealed possession from CoS could create a huge political scandal

Harry assumes, rightly, that Voldemort knew about the diary's fate; he does not know that his destruction of the diary caused the Horcrux to wind up inside Ginny

The controlled Horcrux is insufficiently active to feel like possession; Ginny will eventually recognize the feeling again

“Two and Only” - a reference to an ample bust - was a nickname Bob Hope coined for Jane Russell

The Auror spells were first taught in Ch. 9

Daphne will make good use of her Face Fogging Charm

The Kineticus Charm was used in Ch. 14

Things degenerated into magical paintball

Dragon ambergris was introduced in Ch. 23

Polyurethane and surfactants are accurately described

Demand curves and price sensitivity are elementary economic concepts

Unmasking the goblin was another consequence of Hermione's Druid spell

The idea behind Bladvak's task was broached in Ch. 51

Claws are the goblin analog to “boots on the ground”

Harry's blocking shares were revealed in Ch. 14

Bladvak gets more than he bargained for

Paneruditius Parchment dates from Ch. 20

Malfoy Manor was partially destroyed in Ch. 33, as Malfoy escaped

Hermione's always liked otters, especially with a “P” in front

The Malfoy not a threat comment is ironic

Ron's probationary status will become important

Ima Hogg will be back

The Quidditch incident was in Ch. 59

51

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 11/23/2013

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78. Unjust Desserts

Wherein the Prophet publishes, Harry endures, has unusual pillow talk, and learns how business works, an old friend returns, an exhibition opens, Hermione's idea is adopted, Malfoy finishes, Hermione's party wins, and dinner is served.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, Mathiasgranger, Staples701, and Mike P.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Chapter 78 - Unjust Desserts

The Prophet imposed an unprecedented embargo on Rita's bylined story about Harry Potter in the Chamber of Secrets. The paper's proofs were imbued with a powerful Confundus Charm. Not even the presswizards knew what the lead story and several inside pages recounted. Only Barnabus Cuffe, the Prophet's chief editor, and Rita herself had more than the vaguest idea of the story's explosive contents. In an extraordinary and occasionally tense collaboration, Hermione edited Rita's story, whilst Luna handled typesetting and liaised with the Prophet on production matters.

Ultimately, these elaborate precautions were in vain. Harry's wild ride almost stalled in the starting blocks.

Perhaps the extreme security measures themselves drew unwanted attention, as the cover-up so often gives the game away. Maybe something else was in play. None of Harry's coterie ever determined what happened.

The night before the story was to hit the wizarding alleys, Harry received several frantic omails from Cuffe. Minister Scrimgeour had somehow learnt the outlines of what would appear in tomorrow's Prophet, probably through the same contacts who usually cultivated him. Politely, but insistently, the Minister demanded a command Pensieve performance of Harry's memories supporting Skeeter's latest scoop. Forgoing direct infringement on press freedom, Scrimgeour issued only a “hold until confirmed” request - not the dreaded D-Notice ukase.

A quick huddle with Hermione yielded a verdict. They had to comply. At best, they would convince the Minister. Every viewer of Harry's long Pensieve memory - Hermione, Ron, Ginny, Rita, and Shak - agreed: Harry's battle against the Basilisk, pitting a second year with a sword (and a phoenix) against that twenty-metre monster, was nothing short of amazing.

Harry sped to Shak's second storey office, puffing noticeably when Shak bade him enter. “Something wrong, Harry? You look out of breath.”

“Yeah … it is, and I am,” Harry panted. “Slight change of plans. Somehow Scrimgeour found out. We have to owl him my Pensieved memories before he'll let the Prophet publish. He has Cuffe in his back pocket.”

Shak snorted. “That's charitable … just that wimp's bits. Still, this presents a problem. You're too late. As we arranged, I sent my Auror contact your memories maybe forty-five minutes ago. They're in transit, and I doubt anybody can forward them quickly enough….”

“Bollocks! I thought Dim-Lee owls were faster than that,” Harry complained.

“True, but my contact's out of pocket for a while,” Shak admitted. “Bloody rotten timing, but I can't change it now.”

“Out of pocket?” Harry echoed grumpily. “You're sure you trust this person?”

“Absolutely,” Shak reaffirmed. After a pause, he told Harry. “It's Tonks - and don't worry; everything's well and securely packaged. She can drop it all she likes. It's just … she checked in. She's … well, on a date tonight, and they're going Muggle. They'll be incommunicado most of the evening.”

Harry grasped at straws. “Did you make a copy?”

“Can't. After being withdrawn, memories can't be copied,” Shak informed him. “A good thing, if you think about it. I can take a fresh one, if you'll wait ten minutes.”

“Just one?” Harry asked. “Not the whole set?”

“Shaving everything again to your precise specifications would take too long,” Shak shook his head. “Besides, if the one doesn't convince him, the others won't.”

“Hell, that's right.”

Half an hour later, a fresh recollection of Harry's duel to the death with Salazar Slytherin's Basilisk was winging its way directly to the Minister. Shak knew Scrimgeour's private owl address, so they cut Cuffe out of the loop. Why speak any more to that oily rag…?

Then they waited.

The Prophet needed a go-ahead by two in the morning to finish its press run in time for the morning owls. Harry and Hermione maintained a lonely vigil in the Gryffindor common room. The rest of their House obliviously revised for another week of classes.

At ten minutes to midnight came a tell-tale tapping from the window opposite. Geoffrey Hooper, the seventh year male prefect, opened the window before Harry could react. A large barn owl with distinctive Ministry insignia almost knocked Hooper over. The owl perched on the back of Harry's chair.

All eyes on him, Harry swiftly undid the cylindrical package. The Minister's personal reply came wrapped around Harry's returned memory.

`What is it?' Hermione Legilimenced, all too aware of their housemates' scrutiny.

Harry ripped open the Minister's note. His eyes shot up as he read. Silently, he handed it to Hermione.

Potter:

This absolutely should be published. I had no idea.

Rufus Scrimgeour

Minister for Magic

Hermione threw her arms around Harry, who looked conflicted. `I know you'll hate the next couple of weeks, but the alternative's worse.'

Taking a deep breath, Harry nodded grimly. `Let me square this away.'

She released him, and he walked towards his dorm room.

“Whoa, wait a minute…,” a voice called. Harry turned. It was Cormac McLaggen. “You can't just leave after that bit. A Ministry owl? What's up? More boom-win stuff?”

“No, but we can't say anything tonight,” Hermione answered as frankly as possible. “You'll find out tomorrow.”

Tomorrow came soon enough.

Harry rose early, as usual. He decided that, today, he would switch his normal routine. Instead of his physical workout and defence practice, followed by breakfast in the Great Hall, he would eat breakfast first and be done with the Hall before the delivery owls arrived with the morning's Prophet. Technically, he would be before breakfast time, but the Castle elves were most accommodating of early risers.

He was about to leave when Hermione entered the common room, dressed for her workout.

“Where are you going, Harry?” she immediately inquired. “It's a bit early for those robes.”

“I'm getting some early rashers and such,” Harry confessed. “That way I'll avoid the morning post.”

“You can't avoid it for long, you know.”

Harry flashed a crooked smile. “I know, but it's one less breakfast disturbed by all this.”

“I'll join you,” Hermione agreed. Eating in the Great Hall before the crack of dawn wearing Muggle workout togs was no problem.

The inevitable could not be delayed. Word spread fast. By the time Herbology started, the whispers and pointing were too pronounced to be ignored. Professor Sprout ended class five minutes early so Harry could to autograph copies of the Prophet story - one apiece, strictly enforced.

Harry was mobbed at lunch, but with plenty of warning, he took everything, if not exactly in stride, then with stoic resignation. He entered the Great Hall to applause from almost everyone - even some Slytherins. Forget their mascot - the Snakes favoured self-preservation and were equally shaken by rumours of sharing the Castle with one of the same creatures that caused so much carnage in France.

Harry's fellow Gryffindors largely prevented him from being besieged by wizards from other Houses - so they could monopolise him. His lunchtime passed in the midst of a Gryffindor scrum. Harry answered one question after another about discovering, finding, and finally besting an almost twenty-metre Basilisk in a life-or-death struggle in the vast chamber where the D.A. now trained.

Hermione stayed gamely at his side, resisting everyone trying to worm closer to the once-again man of the hour. She listened carefully to the questions, and their Legilimenced conversations kept Harry from bollixing any critical details.

That it matched the frenzy that engulfed Harry after the Minister's Order of Merlin announcement last June became painfully apparent before lunch ended.

Harry was stoically autographing more copies of the Prophet, and explaining Professor Lockhart's injury a second time for latecomers when he heard Seamus exclaim, “Blimey, look at that…. Incoming!”

Before anyone could react, a pair of lacy orange knickers floated in. As if guided by a personalised Location Charm, they landed squarely on the back of Harry's head.

Neither Harry nor Hermione could spot the culprit through the crowd. If anybody saw the culprit, nobody told the unhappy couple.

That incident tempted Harry to resume using his Invisibility Cloak. But Hermione pointed out that he had “asked for it” in deciding that, on the whole, the least bad option was to preempt Thicknesse's political ploy.

Harry carried on. After enduring another evening as the centre of attention in the Gryffindor common room, he slunk off to bed. But even in the privacy of his four-poster, Harry could not entirely escape his enhanced notoriety.

Too wrung out even to change into pyjamas, Harry flopped face-first into the mattress.

“If even half what I've heard is true, you had a most remarkable adventure indeed,” chuckled a voice from behind.

Startled, Harry flipped over, and with one motion his wand was out and trained on….

“Forsooth - calm down - it wasn't my Basilisk,” spoke Godric Gryffindor. His portrait still hung from the thick bedclothes at the foot of Harry's bed.

Harry was not pleased. “Wha…? How did you know?” Even the Founder's portrait was taking undue interest in his affairs.

“Oh, I was flitting about as I often do, from one portrait to the next … good taste your McAllister has, by the way. Three of me grace various places in that altogether excessive pile you call home….”

“Jerry has a free hand with that,” Harry commented blandly, waiting for the uncharacteristically loquacious portrait's explanation.

“It so happens that from one of my vantage points, I heard some of your staff chatting about an extraordinary story in the Prophet … yes, I know what the Prophet is … involving the Proprietor - such a nice title, that - and, of all things, a Basilisk at Hogwarts.”

“So I wafted to another of my likenesses, in your quite well-stocked reading room. Sure enough, a copy of the Prophet was duly laid out for any guest that might happen by - a well trained and most hospitable staff you have - and sure enough, headline and the story….”

“Are true,” Harry groaned, wanting dearly to go to sleep. “What about you, anyway? If half the things we've learnt about you are true, you've probably done worse.”

“Certainly, half the things are true,” Godric puffed with pride. “But one thing I've never been credited with is teaching what I gather is now named `Care of Magical Creatures.' In my day that class was `Gegælen Orcnéas' in the old language, meaning roughly `Enchanted Monsters and Beasts.' Nope, that was always Salazar's forté, and after reading about that Basilisk at Hogwarts - I had to ask you. I'd heard rumours, you see….”

“So you want to know what really happened?” Harry cut over the founder of his House.

Godric frowned. “Indeed, but you would not know.”

That crossed up Harry. “Well, I was there, wasn't I?”

“Afraid not, dear boy; I was,” Godric answered, his eyes flashing. “Whilst your story is undoubtedly fascinating, I'm much more interested in what my dear colleague Sally was really up to.”

“Sally?”

“That's what we three called Salazar when angry with him, although - except for me - not to his face,” Godric chortled. “That blasted Gryffindor courage, you know.”

Harry nearly laughed out loud. “I'll have to remember that one.”

“You see, the rest of us, Rowena, Helga, and I, suspected for ages that Lord Slytherin, as he liked to call himself, was up to no good. Not only was he unduly drawn to Black Magic - what is now euphemistically called `Dark Arts' - he had a disturbing penchant for dangerous beasts. Our first truly major argument concerned precisely that; his misadventure with a Manticore that left several students dead.”

Harry was certain that Professor Binns had never taught that in History of Magic. “I thought you fell out because he only wanted pure-bloods to attend Hogwarts,” Harry responded.

“Oh, Sally, he had no use for Muggles,” Godric agreed. “But he was no pure-blood supremacist - not as you use the term. Remember, those Saxon times were rather chaotic. We wizards were scattered about. Most of the first Hogwarts students were wild talents, either Muggle-born or children of wizards not known to us. We even erroneously admitted an occasional Squib. That led to the Sorting Hat; created to ensure that everyone we took was in fact magical.”

“So Salazar Slytherin didn't want to keep Muggle-borns out?” Harry was dumbfounded.

“Quite the opposite,” Godric contended. “He didn't respect Muggles, but took magic where he found it. Our biggest row - why he eventually left - was his proposal to remove Muggle-borns permanently from their non-magical parents and immerse them totally in the Wizard community … to become pure-bloods, as quickly as possible.”

Harry blanched. What was worse? However much as disliked Hermione's gold-digging parents, simply seizing their daughter would not be right either.

Godric continued. “He wanted to house Muggle-borns at Hogwarts year round - the Castle was much smaller then. We refused to authorise the additional construction his proposal would have required. I've always suspected that he went ahead anyway, without telling the rest of us. I'd be very interested in someday seeing the chamber where you had your adventure. That would be just like him - to storm out and leave some half-built secret dormitory infested with dangerous beasts.”

* * * *

The next day brought more of the same. Harry answered more questions from his Housemates early, but once they began trickling off, he thought things might be improving.

No such luck.

The Gryffindors' satiation left the path clear member of other Houses - who knew Harry less well. They had even more questions.

Professor Slughorn ended Double Potions a quarter hour early and kept Harry behind. As one of the few who had heard about Harry's Basilisk encounter beforehand - Harry told the broad outlines to the Potions master whilst trying to learn about Horcruxes - Slughorn now wanted to know every detail.

The professor was disappointed to learn of the goblins' rendering of the Basilisk. Despite prior protestations, Slughorn was not above a little bribery - or “collaboration,” as he called it - when the stakes were less life threatening than the pursuit of Horcruxes.

After more than an hour, Harry managed to escape the Potions master's velvet clutches. He was headed back to Gryffindor tower at a fast trot when he heard a long absent voice call his name. In disbelief, he turned around.

He had heard correctly.

Lumbering towards him, assisted by all-too-familiar self-walking crutches, was Katie Bell.

“Katie! You're back!” Harry exulted - forgetting for a moment all the Basilisk-related folderol. “How are you feeling?”

“I'm recovering,” she allowed. “First, I need to thank you, and Hermione, if she's around. My Healers told me that curse would have been fatal if not promptly treated. They still don't know what you did, but it certainly helped.”

“Umm … that wasn't me, that was Hermione - mostly,” Harry modestly admitted. For the moment, he'd had quite enough of life debts and people thinking him a hero.

“Why doesn't that surprise me?” Katie half smirked.

Harry was relieved at Katie's ability to make light of the horror she had suffered. “So, are you ready to resume your captaincy? Is that why you're looking for me?” Unlike Ron, Harry would be quite content to let one of his many responsibilities go.

“That can wait till the next practice,” Katie demurred. “I just returned, and met with Professor McGonagall. She asked me to give you this message from Dumbledore….”

She fumbled a bit in her robes whilst leaning on her crutches to stay upright. Harry caught her arm before she started swaying dangerously.

“Thanks, Harry…. Here it is.” She handed him a scroll bound with one of the Headmaster's distinctive ribbons. As he released her crutch to accept it, Katie leaned into Harry's personal space.

Slightly breathlessly, she asked him, “Harry, do you think I could see it?”

Harry gulped. Katie had indicated her amorous interest some time ago, but had backed off once Hermione's consciousness was restored.

“…Your memory, I mean” she responded when he did not react. “Silly….”

Harry remained distracted. “Umm … memory of what?”

“Killing that Basilisk,” she clarified. “The Prophet says you had a copy of the memory extracted. I figure my watching it bother you less than answering all my questions. You've surely explained everything a hundred times over already.”

Harry's answer was simple - or was it? “I sent it to … that's brilliant….” His voice trailed off as an idea struck him.

Now Katie was confused. “What's brilliant?”

“You - you're right; I'd much rather watch that memory than question me about it. And you know what? I'll make sure you're first in line…. I've gotta go!”

An oddly excited Harry hurried off, leaving a perplexed Katie behind.

For the first time since the Basilisk story had broken, Harry used his Invisibility Cloak to avoid being stopped in the halls. He intended to be prompt for his meeting with the Headmaster. Harry now had an agenda item for the meeting, so why annoy the old man with tardiness?

Harry did not have to knock. The door to Dumbledore's office opened of its own accord, to the sound of the Headmaster's voice, “Mister Potter, please come in. Right on time, I see. I had feared….”

Harry entered whilst shedding the Cloak.

“So, you are resorting to extraordinary measures to avoid your many admirers,” Dumbledore observed, his eyes twinkling only slightly. “I feared as much. Trust me; it would be worse outside these walls. Have you inquired of Mister Creevey - Colin, that is - about your post? I understand it is voluminous … exceeding even the correspondence following last June's adventure at the Ministry. Fortunately, I understand the reaction this time around to be almost uniformly favourable.”

“Well, sir, I reckon that, whilst Death Eaters have supporters, pure Basilisk fans are rather rare,” Harry deadpanned.

“True enough, Mister Potter, true enough. As you undoubtedly suspect, I have a reason for summoning you this afternoon.”

“I assume so,” Harry answered blankly. The Headmaster would say whatever he intended. This time, more than one person's proposals would be discussed.

“I have just returned from an overly long meeting with Minister Scrimgeour; his head of DMLE, Mister Thicknesse; Arthur, who offered interesting insights on French politics; and Waldo Copperfield, counsel to the Wizengamot. We addressed Mister Thicknesse's demand that I testify concerning the purported presence of a Basilisk at Hogwarts. All four gentlemen have had an opportunity to review your memory of your battle with that beast.”

“A good thing, I hope,” Harry measured his response. “I know it convinced Scrimgeour to let the Prophet publish.”

“Minister Scrimgeour,” Dumbledore corrected. “One does well not to make rudeness a habit.”

“And you…” Harry almost responded by being rude to the Headmaster, but caught himself. He took one for the team. “…need to tell me what happened at your meeting.”

The Headmaster smiled. He had good news. “I told them that, compared to your memories, I could offer next to no first-hand information … that my testimony would be rank hearsay, as all I know about Hogwarts' erstwhile Basilisk derives from what you, and to a lesser extent Miss Granger, have said. As I have studiously avoided viewing your memories, I suggested that they discuss matters with you….”

Harry stiffened. Absolutely the last thing he wanted was questioning under Veritaserum in a very public venue like the Wizengamot.

“…Knowing, of course, that they would decline,” he added. “Mister Thicknesse gains no political advantage from providing you still more favourable publicity.”

Harry relaxed. “So it's over,” he exhaled, “and my idea worked, after all.”

“Not quite,” Dumbledore cautioned. “I am directed to prepare a report, by the end of the Term, on precautions to prevent any recurrence. Those measures include a suitable public entrance for Salazar's Chamber, testing all students for Parseltongue ability, and the like. Over the summer a Ministry team will inspect the Chamber and ensure that it remains Basilisk-free. The Aurors will provide your Pensieved memory of dispatching the beast to any member of the Wizengamot who wishes to view it. Which leaves you….”

Again Harry tensed. “What do they want from me?”

“Nothing more than you already agreed,” the Headmaster breezily reassured. “Spending a portion of your summer in France training with their best Aurors.”

“Fine,” Harry quickly assented. “That's reasonable. I also like your idea to make a Pensieve available to the Wizengamot. I've has enough of everybody here asking me about what happened. I'd like to arrange something similar at Hogwarts. I have the second copy of my memory - the one I sent … Minister Scrimgeour….”

“And voilà, common courtesy is not taxing,” Dumbledore commented without immediately answering the question. “Which reminds me…. The Minister was not explicit, with Mister Thicknesse present, but I believe his seeing your memory has nudged him back across the line into our camp - notwithstanding the contretemps with Dobby. I would prefer that he stay on our side if at all possible.”

“Fine,” grunted Harry. “You don't believe me, but I didn't plan that either.”

“Very well,” the Headmaster responded noncommittally. “Do you have any further questions?”

Dumbledore meant questions about Thickness' retreat, but Harry saw his opening. The original dilemma was solved, but Harry's personal mess remained to be tidied. “Yeah, like I said, I'm still being hounded by everybody about what happened. The way you handled the Wizengamot sounds brilliant. Shak took the memory a second time for the Minister, and he returned it. Can we set up a Pensieve here?”

The Headmaster was briefly silenced. Quizzically, he stared down his half-moon glasses at Harry. “Are matters really that bad, Mister Potter?”

“Worse,” Harry maintained. “It's not just the students; it's the staff, too.”

“Really?” Dumbledore remarked with a frown, displeased that Hogwarts professors would behave in that fashion. “Should I have a chat with anyone?”

Harry need only second to decline. “No, that would probably just … well, you know. I'd rather everyone see for themselves….”

Harry's request was unorthodox, but so was his situation. “I am agreeable, but there must, of course, be supervision. Let me see who….”

“The goblins,” Harry interjected. “They're back at the Castle, guarding against something that doesn't even exist. They can keep order. It's something useful they can do.”

Dumbledore nodded, his good hand stroking his beard. “Yes, I believe that could work. You will instruct them, I assume, to refrain from lethal force.”

“I'll make sure they don't hurt anyone,” Harry agreed.

“Very well, you may return to your studies,” the Headmaster dismissed him.

“There's one more thing….”

Dumbledore sat up straight, wondering what was next.

“That gospel book we found at the Château…. I'm convinced it's not a fake,” Harry revealed. “We had another book from the same source checked. It was real - and rare enough that the Muggles tried to arrest Blackie Howe just for having it. What have your Church contacts said about using it to get back that Horcrux?”

The Headmaster had made inquiry; notifying his sources about the possibility of a deal. The Vatican, however, was notoriously slow and discreet - particularly about something as potentially explosive as the reappearance of the Gospel of Truth after so many centuries. Any response awaited precisely this sort of confirmation of authenticity.

The wheels of the godly ground slowly, and Dumbledore had now learnt that his own time was very limited. His medical condition was a closely guarded secret, save for one trusted confidante. That subject could upset almost everything - including the boy before him.

Such a deal could not possibly be completed in his remaining days, but Dumbledore could not tell that to Harry.

“I have initiated matters,” the Headmaster wheezed, sounding old and feeling older. “But that ancient organisation is encrusted with bureaucracy. I shall tell them of this development and keep you informed. I shall update you by the end of the Term….”

* * * *

And so, it came to pass that part of the Ceremonial Library was set aside for a public Pensieve (Harry's rather than Dumbledore's) constantly guarded by between two and four goblins, depending on time of day. Creating a true exhibition, the Headmaster contributed the Sword of Gryffindor, Harry's Special Award for Services to the School, the Basilisk fang that had pierced Harry's arm, and the school robes - cleaned, but never mended - that Harry had worn that fateful night.

Over the next few days, almost everyone in the Castle viewed Harry's edited memory of rescuing Ginny from the deadly beast. Not a few, mostly female, were repeat visitors. Harry uncomfortably found himself receiving dreamy witches' looks in classes, in Castle corridors, and even during D.A. meetings.

Quite a few witches were jealous of Ginny. True, she almost died (quite a drawback), and her only role in Harry's memory was inert - lying unconscious on the Chamber's stone floor as the huge King of Serpents crashed about, miraculously not being crushed.

But she was the catalyst. Her abduction inspired Harry to the incredible heights of heroism on display to anybody in the Castle willing to brave the queue.

That was romantic….

Ginny thought so, too. But her part grew old in a hurry. Soon she was almost as sick and tired as Harry of answering questions about everything. Part of her frustration, of course, was constantly telling lies to avoid revealing her possession by the diary.

Even worse, more damaging to her self-esteem, was the unspoken predicate to many questions - what had gone wrong? That is, why had she never been Harry's girlfriend, and why had she lost out to the witch who was?

Ginny had no answer - not that she could state aloud. But at least she had a viable plan to address that problem.

Which was more than the rest of the Castle's distaff population could claim.

* * * *

Another midweek day drew to a close. Harry's waking hours had been filled by an early morning workout with Hermione, then classes, lunch, more classes, homework, a Quidditch practice, and a couple spectacular losses to Ron at Wizard Chess as a nightcap.

He kissed Hermione good night and made his way to the sixth year boys' dormitory. Pulling back the bed curtains to get his toilet kit, he thought he heard, “Ahem,” in Godric Gryffindor's voice. A quick glance at the Founder's portrait showed nothing. The frame appeared empty, save possibly one corner of the man's ermine-bedecked robes.

Finding nothing amiss, Harry went about his business.

He slipped into his comfy bed, closed the hangings, and dove between the sheets. Only then did Harry hear a very feminine giggle.

That voice was not Hermione's.

In less than the blink of an eye, Harry's wand was in his hand. “Lumos!” He found himself staring into the bold, chocolaty eyes and long frizzy mane of Romilda Vane. Sitting cross-legged with his bedcovers over only part of her ample legs, she wore a gauzy white nightgown and from all appearances little else. Her apricot brassiere was clearly visible beneath the gown. He was thankful she wore one at all….

“Rommy! What the hell!” Harry burst out. “Imperturbus!”

“Why thank you, Harry, you saved me a spell,” Romilda replied saucily.

“Wha - what are you doing in my bed?” he gasped.

“Anything you want, Harry,” she answered in an overly sultry voice. Tossing aside her small share of the covers, she leaned forward and started crawling towards him on all fours. “To break the ice, could I get my knickers back?” You see, I've run out…. See?”

Romilda rocked backwards to sit up. Her nightgown rode back, and she flashed Harry right good and proper. Obviously, she was not wearing knickers that matched her bra - or any knickers at all.

Harry was dumbfounded.

“You can even put them back on me … after we're done….” With that she pounced, sprawling him backwards into his pillow.

Taken by surprise and verging on panic, Harry did the only thing he could. He could feel his wand, the holly one, poking against her thigh. “Petrificus totalus!” he incanted.

Instantly she went rigid. “I'm sorry, Rommy, but you and everyone else know I'm taken. I can't stop your looking, but you can't touch.”

“Mobilicorpus!”

Harry opened the bed curtains and thankfully saw nobody. He floated her outside, and ended his spells, dumping her on the floor. Before Romilda could react, Harry ducked behind his hangings and fortified them - sealing himself in by giving the curtains the strongest Sticking Charm he knew.

There.

He had successfully defused a potentially messy situation with minimal fuss and bother. Tomorrow, Hedwig would visit the would-be groupie, returning her missing knickers - and delivering a note promising that, provided she kept her distance, he would not tell Hermione.

Harry would keep that promise - just as not long before when his Household Magic partner for the Muggle bake-off, Padma Patil, informed him forthrightly that, should he want, she would do “anything in the Kama Sutra” with him. He had, of course, declined, and the sensible Ravenclaw readily agreed to a “forget I ever said that” resolution.

Telling Hermione about such incidents - when they amounted to nothing - seemed needlessly cruel. She had more than enough to be going on with, being inextricably enmeshed in his complex life. Driving her paranoid about his affections seemed … just wrong.

* * * *

After the Vane incident, things passed for normal for a couple of days, until Professor McGonagall button-holed Harry at lunch. She stiffly told him that he “had visitors.”

Harry had two free periods before double Defence Against the Dark Arts. He intended to work on his Charms project. His Tunneling Charms were improving, but too slowly.

Who could possibly want to see him, now? And how had they….

It had to be….

“Goblins?” Harry asked his Head of House.

“No. Dropouts.”

“What…? Umm … you mean Fred and George?”

“None other.”

So much for Charms. “Where are they?”

McGonagall sniffed. “Like everyone else, they seem interested in your encounter with Slytherin's Basilisk. I had them escorted to the Ceremonial Library.”

Harry arrived to find the Twins thoroughly immersed in the Pensieve. They had probably bribed their way to the front of the queue with products from their shop. A couple of younger students behind them had all-too-obviously sampled Canary Creams. Others were passing time playing Reusable Hangman, and one young witch was Burbling - blowing randomly coloured bubbles that burst with quite off-colour remarks. The only upperclassman present, Hufflepuff Dristine O'Connell, distractedly leafed through one of the Twins' “adult” catalogues.

The goblin guards looked furious. They were supposed to preserve order. The Twins' mission in life seemed to be preserving disorder. Once again they succeeded.

Dristine looked up and smiled as Harry entered. “Oh, hello, Harry…. Come to see your own memory?”

“Nope,” Harry replied. Gesturing at the Twins lemon-yellow pantsed backsides, he smirked. “I'm here for those berks. Supposedly they're here to see me.”

“Seeing you they most certainly are,” she smirked, tossing her shoulder length brown hair. “Since they could be a while…. Tell me, how do you think I'd look in this?”

She turned the catalogue towards him, but before Harry caught a gander at whatever outlandish (this was the Twins, after all) lingerie had caught her eye, a loud “WHOOP!” announced that the Twins were finished.

Two ginger-haired heads erupted from the Pensieve.

“Merlin's bits and Morgana's tits!” George sputtered. “I was going to take the mickey out of dear Ronald for being a wimp, but not now - even if I still had both ears.”

“Little Ginevra ought to thank….” Fred spotted Harry staring. They wore matching bright yellow robes trimmed in red fox fur. “Harry! Our most esteemed partner….” He signaled George.

“More esteemed than ever.”

The two steered Harry towards a deserted part of the library.

“If any more esteemed, you'd be named Minister for Magic by acclamation.”

“Even if you'd make us free our house-elves.”

“We'd have to own house-elves before we could free them.”

“Right. That could be arranged.”

They reached the same library stacks where Harry had nearly hexed Cormac McLaggen not too long ago.

“Fred, George … to what do I owe the honour of your….”

“Honour?” Fred mocked-cried. “It's all ours….”

George echoed. “My dear Harry; the honour's all ours….”

“Unless you've kept your head under a rock since the Prophet ran dear Rita's story….”

“Whatever you did to turn her, by the way - good work.”

Fred withdrew a velveteen drawstring bag from his robes. It resembled what wealthy wizards used to carry their Galleons, only larger.

Seeing it, Harry asked, “What's this about?”

“Why business, of course,” Fred turned serious. “What do you think of this?” He produced a plastic object, maybe ten centimetres long, and handed it to Harry.

It was a human figurine, apparently made from Muggle plastic. Some rudimentary charm made its right arm swing wildly when poked in the stomach.

“This is a fail,” Harry commented sullenly, as he handed it back. “Try again.”

Fred made no move to take it back. “Look more closely,” he urged.

Harry did. From black traced glasses, to green paint daubed eyes, to a floppy silver “sword” injection moulded to the right hand, the figurine was a crude facsimile of Harry in the Chamber of Secrets.

“No!” Harry exclaimed, loud enough to turn heads in the queue on the opposite side of the library. “This is tacky. I won't have anything to do with it.”

George threw up a bog standard Privacy Charm. “Excellent,” he agreed affably. “I expected you'd say that.”

“What?” Harry spluttered. “You don't understand. Don't sell this - full stop. It's tacky. It's cheap. It's degrading. Mostly you have good ideas, but this isn't. You're my partners, and you can't sell my likeness without my permission…. I refuse.”

Confronted with Harry's torrent of criticism, the Twins' expressions remained steadfastly neutral as they waited patiently for him to finish.

“Just how I thought he'd react,” Fred commented. “We can make him feel, if not think.”

“Bloody brilliant rant, if I do say so myself,” George observed.

“Pushed precisely the right buttons,” Fred continued.

Still incensed, Harry simply gawked.

“Couldn't have hoped for a better response,” George kept on. “My ear is still ringing.” That might have been literally true. George sported a bright blue version of WWW's trademark Extendable Ears customised for single ear use.

“What are you on about?” Harry growled in frustration. “Can't you two take no for an answer?”

“Probably not,” Fred allowed. “But we haven't asked for anything, yet.”

“Only because I didn't give you the chance,” Harry groaned, weary of their banter.

George took the kitsch action figure from Harry. “Should we be merciful?” he asked Fred.

“I think so,” Fred replied. “This has gone on long enough.”

“Damn right it has,” Harry grumbled.

“You see,” George began, affecting a preposterously faked professorial air, “we bought this a couple of hours ago from a Diagon Alley street vendor, perhaps thirty paces from our shop….”

“Cost us all of two Sickles,” Fred added.

“Two Sickles rather well spent, I'd say,” George went on. “We have nothing to do with this.” Turning the figurine upside down, he ostentatiously examined one of its feet. “Made in Indonesia,” George recited.

Harry's eyes flashed angrier than before. “You mean they're selling this … this rubbish … supposedly of me? On the street? Now? Without my permission?”

“Yes, yes, yes, and it sure looks that way. Let's face it, there's a market for you right now,” Fred replied. “That's business. Where there's demand, there'll be supply.”

“Not if my bleeding lawyers have anything to say about it, there won't!” Harry proclaimed in a voice that tested the privacy spell. “First thing when I leave here, I'll send Hedwig with a message for Blackie Howe to put a stop to this nonsense.”

“You do that, Harry,” George encouraged, hopeful that any competition would become enmeshed in litigation. “But before you go, may we show you our ideas for a complete line of - dare I say it, classy - Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets merchandise.”

“We haven't completed the spellwork, because for accuracy we needed some guidance from your memory,” Fred pointed out. “Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes only sells first class products.”

“Quality could be our fourth `W',” George declared proudly.

“Quality doesn't start with a `W',” Harry pointed out.

“Well, it should.”

For a half hour the Twins discussed various ideas for “Harry Potter products” with the extremely reluctant namesake (and possessor of his right of publicity). Many proposals were shot down. Harry did consent, grudgingly, to what the entrepreneurs promised would be a much “classier” model of him, crafted from the same magical material as Wizard Chess figures. It would only be marketed in a set including a Basilisk and a phoenix - not sold separately.

Harry also assented - after the Twins showed him another pirated version they had bought - to a poster depicting his dispatch of the serpent with the Sword of Gryffindor. He vetoed their first portrayal, however.

“I didn't ride bloody Fawkes,” Harry protested. “I was below, not above that thing. This makes me look like Saint whazits … umm … George, I think … killing some stupid dragon. Who did this anyway…?”

“We commissioned the drawing from Dean Thomas,” Fred revealed. “Ginny said he could sketch, and for once she was right.”

“He can, but he's never seen a Basilisk,” Harry complained. “You've seen it. It's nothing like a dragon. Basilisks don't have wings or legs. They're more like giant cobras with that hood and all. Saint George, I'm not.”

“Charlie would say you're a damn sight better,” George cracked a smile. “I might have the bloke's name, but according to big brother, Mister Saint G simply had good church publicists.”

“What?” Harry asked open-mouthed.

“To hear Charlie tell it, George our patron fellow was canonised just for doing in an immature Welsh Green,” Fred broke in. “That Horntail you fought in the Triwizard was ten times more dangerous. To it, Saint George would have been crunchy and good tasting with ketchup.”

“Well, whatever,” Harry ended the tangent. “All that happened in the Chamber was the thing lunged at me, and I made a lucky strike - so no dragon-Basilisk.”

“If you say so, Harry.”

Harry was much more forthcoming with the accessories. To the oohs and ahs of the lucky few happening to be in the queue, Harry removed the Sword of Gryffindor from the wall above the Pensieve and let Fred and George examine it. They promised only to make replicas in three-quarters size, with a Permanent Dulling Charm on the blade.

George had in mind an even smaller joke version with a blade that, like one of their Twins' fake wands, would morph into a limp miniature Basilisk.

Ah, yes, the Basilisk. For that, the Twins had great plans - fangs, hats, masks, models, quills, even - Fred suggested - a faux Basilisk-skin toilet seat.

Fred may or may not have been serious.

Although he vetoed the last, Harry generally could hardly care less. The Twins could take whatever liberties they chose with the King of Serpents. Basilisks were nothing to be trifled with, but the blind, primal terror engulfing the magical world since the Beauxbatons attack was too much. If the Twins' humour could lift the current atmosphere of unreasoning fear - great.

Turning Basilisks into laughing stocks might do the trick.

Fawkes was different. The Twins promised respectful depictions of the Headmaster's departed (as far as they knew) phoenix.

One final matter had to be resolved.

“I don't want anything calling attention to Ginny,” Harry demanded. “She's suffered enough over this.”

“Wouldn't hear of it,” George quickly agreed. “She might hex off my other ear.”

“C'mon, Harry,” Fred added. “She's our own sister. We play pranks, but nothing that would really hurt her - that we reserve for Malfoy….”

“Okay,” Harry relented. “What about Tom Riddle? He's also in the memory. You haven't said anything about Voldemort.”

“Umm … we're probably pushing it with U-No-Poo,” Fred allowed. “We don't mind fighting him ourselves….”

“Especially with Ministry private tenders coming our way,” George interjected.

“…But it's bad for business if the public thinks our shop could be attacked at any moment,” Fred explained. “Can't be scaring off customers. Bad puns are one thing, screwing with somebody's actual likeness…? Hell, that's what wound you up, Harry.”

“But that didn't stop you two from coming here to ask,” Harry observed.

“You might get mad and sic solicitors on us,” George acknowledged. “But you wouldn't try to blow up our shop - it's your investment, too.”

“Besides, what could be scarier than Voldemort's solicitors?” Fred added. “Think of what they might demand in royalties.”

Harry gave in. “Your call,” he shrugged.

* * * *

Several days later, Harry stayed to help Hagrid corral an escaped Pooka. By the time he and the other volunteers had finally caught the piebald, goat-headed pony, Harry was quite late for lunch.

Jogging back to the Castle, he saw Hermione and Ginny sitting together on a stone bench in the same walled garden where Rita Skeeter spied on Hagrid during the Yule Ball. Harry considered interrupting, but hunger won out, so he continued inside.

Besides, why not let them complete whatever they were discussing?

Hermione laughed at something Ginny said.

That was nice, Harry thought as he hurried by.

Ginny had been distant from Hermione for months, since Hermione had declined to help her with Potions - so Hermione could spend more time with him. The incident in the Quidditch clubhouse, when Ginny had put him in the Hospital Wing, had done nothing to mend things.

Ditto his not inviting Ginny to the Château for Christmas - even for a visit. That was wholly his fault, but knowing Ginny, she probably suspected that Hermione had influenced that decision.

Maybe those two were mending things now.

He would let them.

Halfway through lunch, Harry was explaining differences between Basilisks and dragons to Dean and Seamus when Hermione wandered into the Great Hall, immersed in some magazine.

Spotting Harry, Hermione strode over, stuffing the magazine in her beaded bag. Harry budged up to make room, and she plopped down beside him.

“What's up?”

“Discussing magical creatures with this lot,” Harry answered.

“You finally caught that Pooka, then?” Hermione remarked easily. “I waited for a while, but I was getting cold.” She addressed her plate, “Cheese salad.”

A jumble of lettuce, cucumber, cherry tomatoes, pieces of mature cheddar, and cottage cheese appeared.

“Blimey,” Dean remarked, “she's not living like a fighting cock, is she? That's rabbit food.”

“Well, I happen to like `rabbit food',” Hermione retorted. She turned to her meal, and ignored her two housemates.

Harry knew enough to say nothing, even if her choice was rather spare. For a dentist's daughter, Hermione could put away her victuals. She almost always had meat, even if usually white - not the red he and most wizards preferred.

Seamus importuned Harry, “Well I hope she'll let you visit our bake-off station. Dean and I - we're doing Tex-Mex, and our baby back ribs, well, they'll be to die for.”

Hermione refused to rise to the bait. “Harry can eat whatever he wants at the bake-off … as long as he exercises it off with me….”

“Whoo-ee, Harry!” Dean burst out. “That's a date - sounds like.”

“Dean…! Oh, my….” Hermione realised she should have been more precise.

Not that she was averse to concept, but she generally did make those preferences public.

Harry rescued her - sort of. “Piss off, you berks,” he growled, although grinning as he said it. He, too, found his fiancée's rare faux pas amusing.

The two wizards, still laughing, cleared out.

Harry changed the subject. “So what were you and Ginny talking about earlier?”

Hermione did not miss a trick. “What? Did you see us? Why didn't you come over? It was no secret.”

“I was too hungry to wait,” Harry admitted. “Besides, you two looked cozy. I didn't want to interrupt.”

“She wanted advice,” Hermione mentioned.

Harry's eyebrows shot up.

“No, nothing like that,” she leered back. “Get your mind out of the gutter. It was about food.”

“Food?”

“Yes, food … and I suppose that may be a reason for my lunch today.”

“You'll have to explain that,” Harry prompted. “Ginny eats like a Weasley, you know that.”

“Well she doing something different for the bake-off,” Hermione revealed with a touch of superiority seeping into her voice. “Ginny asked for my help. Knowing my parents are both dentists, she thought, correctly, that I might know some … lighter … fare she could prepare.”

Pleased at their evident reconciliation, Harry was intrigued. “So what did Hermione the Muggle dentists' daughter suggest?”

“Why, Japanese, of course,” she answered. “It's the healthiest cuisine in the world. That's why they live longer than anybody else. I gave Ginny lots of suggestions.”

“Like what?”

Hermione warmed to the subject. “Sushi, sashimi with wasabi, tofu, onigiri, edamame, green tea, miso soup, pork tempura, maybe some others. And of course, mochi for dessert. It was a long conversation. She took notes.”

“Umm … sushi? That's like raw fish, innit?” Harry asked. Sushi was one item on Hermione's list he recognized.

“That's right, Harry,” Hermione confirmed, pleased that Harry was at least conversant with the topic.

Her pleasure was short lived.

His nose crinkled with an expression that recalled the savoury flavour of Polyjuice Potion seasoned with Slytherin. “Eew, sorry but it's nothing I fancy eating. What about the rest?”

Hermione painstakingly described each item. “Sashimi is more raw seafood, mostly fish, with a spicy sauce - so you probably wouldn't like that either. Tofu is bean curd mixed with congealed soy milk and chopped into cubes. Onigiri is flavoured rice wrapped and cooked in seaweed. Edamame are unripe soybeans boiled in sea water….”

And so on.

“…I'm sure you'll like mochi. It's fruit-flavoured rice cake, dusted with powdered sugar. It can be stuffed with ice cream.”

Harry, who loved listening to Hermione prattle on about anything and everything, patiently waited for her to finish.

When she did, he disappointed her. “That sounds good, but the rest of it, no thanks. I'll stick with keema and curry.”

She sighed - this sigh one she inherited from her parents. As dentists they often struggled with their patients' unhealthy eating habits … and wizards were worse than Muggles. “So that's what you and Padma are planning?”

Besides fifth year and more advanced Muggle Studies, Harry's Domestic Magic classmates were amongst the few allowed to participate in the annual no-magic-allowed bake off.

Harry brightened. “Yup. Our plan is for a lamb curry - she's choosing the precise flavourings - keema samosa, that's minced beef-filled dough, and mango flavored milk shakes. I do the Muggle cooking; I've lots of experience. She knows the right spices.”

With mock gravity, Hermione remarked, “Okay, as long as she's bringing no other spices to the table.”

To her surprise Harry blushed to his ears. “Umm … we've had that out. I told her no - I'm spoken for….”

“What?” Hermione squeaked. “Padma? Ravenclaw Padma?”

“It's crazy,” Harry admitted. “It's not just her. It's almost all of them. I just keep saying no.”

Hermione was incensed, but essentially helpless. “Well, I would never….” For once, words failed her.

“I know you wouldn't,” Harry tried comforting her. “But the rest … they're not you … which ….” Harry's voice trailed off leaving the thought uncompleted.

“Which what?” Hermione fretted.

Harry gave her a serious look. “Which … which is why Padma and the rest don't have a chance.”

Harry received a bone-crunching hug in the middle of the Great Hall. “Merlin, I do love you. Go cook Padma's spices, then.”

Harry kissed the top of head. “At least we'll beat Ginny,” he smirked.

Hermione stuck out her tongue at him, “Not if I can help it.” She tried finishing her cheese platter, chewed for a while, but could not bear ignoring him, even though he had insulted her gustatory preferences. “Anyway, as I was saying, talking with Ginny about healthier foods made me feel guilty, and I just….”

Suddenly her eyes went wide. Abruptly she switched to Legilimenced telepathy.

`I forgot. The o-post brought the new Samson's Option - plain brown wrapper and all….' She was digging in her handbag and after some fumbling retrieved the publication Harry had seen her perusing earlier.

Harry had appreciated her prior Samson's Option picks. Like the evanescent knickers…. Yes, especially those….

She flipped pages until coming to a folded corner. `Here - how do you think I'd look in that?” Keeping the catalogue literally under the table, she passed it to him.

Harry's could not believe the outfit Hermione selected. The knickers were black, lacy, sported a matching ebony fringe - and they were crotchless.

That was not what drew his attention. The matching teddy was practically transparent, save a couple oddly cock-eyed fastenings towards the bottom. A solid black elastic strap held it together. The strap curved upwards to fasten at the back. It continued in front and circled perfectly around both breasts.

Covering each areola was a magical equivalent pastie, emerald green, in the shape of an iris - his iris.

The combined effect closely resembled Harry's eyes and, using a little imagination, his glasses. The fringed black knickers added….

Merlin! What would they think of next? The effect was entirely intentional, as the caption for the outfit was, “Your boy can really live - and so can you.”

`No, Hermione,' he forcefully Legilimenced. `I want to make love with you, not with me.'

`That can be arranged,' Hermione quickly countered. `That was a joke, by the way.'

`I hope so. Keep the catalogue. If you find anything that really interests you, let me know and I'll order it,' Harry offered.

Hermione switched to normal communication. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I must complete my rounds.”

“Rounds? Rounds about what?” Harry asked. This sounded like Hermione's latest recent personal frolic and detour.

“Politics,” Hermione told him. “I'm trying to meet with every Muggle-born in the Castle.”

“Why?” Harry inquired. “I was raised Muggle-born. You know that. Why not talk to me about this `politics' thing.”

“Okay, there's an election coming up,” she explained. “We're not old enough to vote, but people like Colin's and Dean's parents are, as are some of the Seventh Years. I'm trying to get everyone to vote for New Labour. I have forms for applying for postal votes - only for those I think are favourable, of course. I haven't talked to you because, frankly, I think that the Dursleys are a lost cause.”

* * * *

Draco Malfoy's evening had been frustrating. Whilst he considered himself the best of his year - and maybe more - in Potions, in Charms he was little better than average. He was now struggling with a most intricate set of Locating and Mapping Charms. His substantial ego had taken a substantive beating.

The fiasco began shortly after delivery - a series of provocations and accidents was almost disastrous. Professor McGonagall tested the magical defences of the final piece of his puzzle before he had a chance. Failure would surely have landed him in Azkaban.

Failure was not an option. The Dark Lord, or whoever cast the security spellwork, had met the challenge.

Then, for weeks, to calibrate the Charms, Draco had to spend all too much of his all-too-limited free time skulking in pursuit of various targets. Other, broader ways to accomplish these aims existed, but he could not master the necessary magic. Not trusting his own abilities, Draco fell back on the simpler, one-by-one approach.

Not that he needed, or wanted, the entire Castle. Hufflepuffs, save Susan Bones, were irrelevant, and precious few Ravenclaws merited his attention. Slytherins were easy enough, since he shared the dormitory and common room.

But Gryffindors were both critical and difficult. Fortunately, he shared several classes with Potter, his Mudblood, and his sidekick - and he tutored the Weaselette in Potions. But others, especially in lower years, were a challenge. More than once he was accurately accused of stalking his targets. Relying on his legendary arrogance, Draco managed to convince his quarry otherwise.

“You wish, Creevey,” Malfoy sneered in the crowded corridor. “Your insignificance is exceeded only by your ineptitude.”

“Get out of my way, pathetic wog stray,” Malfoy ridiculed Jazzy upon being challenged. “So you might catch a Snitch. Still, Potter shouldn't let you off your short leash. It could be dangerous … for you.”

The staff posed even more daunting obstacles. Those teaching his classes were not problems, nor was Pomfrey, but the rest proved difficult. Three weeks were necessary for enough proximity to add the Headmaster to the collection. Worse, Malfoy could not shake the feeling that Dumbledore sensed that something was amiss.

Malfoy persevered, and eventually collected everybody he considered worth collecting.

Finally, it was time to test the finished product. Success would mean that he possessed all the kit needed for the first, and undoubtedly easier, of the two tasks the Dark Lord had assigned him.

Accomplish both and his reward would be great - not only the rest of the Gulbenkian funds, but also Malfoy Manor and other Malfoy properties completely repaired, rendered unplottable, and protected by a Fidelius Charm cast by the Dark Lord himself.

Here goes….

“Only power and those too weak to seek it,” Malfoy incanted.

He watched the blueprints of Malfoy Manor begin twisting about, collapsing and then unfolding in an entirely new pattern. As the parchment finished its transformation, Draco Malfoy's face broke into an evil grin. Before him was a map of Hogwarts Castle - with the locations of everyone he wanted to keep tabs on - with one exception.

Since receiving the Paneruditius Parchment from Caractacus Burke, Malfoy had not been invited to the Headmaster's office. He had no opportunity to map that tower.

Dumbledore was nowhere to be found in the rest of the Castle, so Malfoy assumed he was in his quarters atop the Castle's tallest tower. The omission was worrisome, but unavoidable.

On the plus side, Malfoy had accessed the Room of Requirement. As expected, it was packed with persons of interest. Today was Friday, and Potter's Defence Association was meeting. Checking attendance, he scowled at Daphne Greengrass' dot. Malfoy had suspected that she had joined the enemy. Now he had confirmation.

Another evil grin spread across his face. When the Dark Lord triumphed, Malfoy vowed that Greengrass would pay for her apostasy to the ideals of Salazar Slytherin - and for rejecting his advances. With Voldemort ascendant, Greengrass would survive only by submitting to him in every way that Pansy Parkinson ever did, and then some.

“Darkness managed,” Draco gleefully directed. The parchment returned to its prior, innocuous state.

He was ready. Step one required only the coup de grâce - for the Weaselette to manage her hostile takeover of Harry Potter.

* * * *

During a visit to what remained of Bellatrix Lestrange, and her nurse, the Dark Lord learnt that the Death Eaters he had summoned had arrived. The Master swept into the anteroom where his two followers, still in their travelling cloaks, immediately dropped to their knees. They ritually demonstrated fealty by kissing the hem of Voldemort's robe.

“Rise, Ludo,” the Dark Lord bade the older of the two. “Have you adjusted the schedule to conform to my wishes?”

“Yes, my Lord,” the Ministry's Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports reported. “As directed, I arranged for the six June date. We made it appear as a favour to the Hogwarts side - a delay to push matters beyond the school's O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s.”

Ludo Bagman stopped speaking, hoping for some scrap of information that might explain his Master's insistence on a postponement until shortly after the new moon. None was forthcoming. The Dark Lord simply ordered, “Follow me,” and led them to a larger, equally poorly lit, room.

“You have done well,” Lord Voldemort pronounced without preface. “Now introduce me to my man on the inside.”

Hearing himself referenced, the other Death Eater, who had kept silent throughout, hesitantly stepped forward. Mocking a World Cup announcement, Bagman introduced, “My Lord, I give you Mervyn Troy.”

“Present yourself,” the Dark Lord ordered.

Troy shoved up his left sleeve revealing the Dark Mark. “I am sworn to obey you, My Lord. Please enlighten me concerning your wishes.”

“Have you been amply rewarded?” Voldemort inquired.

“I have. I thank you my Lord. I am now part owner of the Kenmare Kestrels,” Troy revealed. “I shall earn my keep however my Lord sees fit.”

“You will have the opportunity,” Voldemort responded knowingly. “Perform successfully and I will see that you become majority owner.”

“You have but to command me,” Troy replied immediately.

“Did you Imperius him?” the Dark Lord asked.

“Indeed, I have,” Troy confirmed. “I ordered him to do as you directed.”

“His reaction?”

“He is weak. The curse is barely noticeable - as you thought it might be,” Troy reported with satisfaction. “His submission is complete. He responds as if there were no spell. To confirm he was Imperiused, I tried it a second time and it failed, indicating the persistence of the original curse.”

“The Imperius Curse so behaves when the subject must do what is already desired,” the Dark Lord recited lazily. “You performed it properly. Have there been any other effects?”

“Since I cursed him, he seems distracted and depressed. His play has suffered, and our coach has disciplined him,” Troy continued. “There have been a couple of off-pitch incidents with … I suppose … Quidditch groupies. Those have been hushed up, but the team is concerned. He never behaved that way before, despite ample opportunity….”

The Dark Lord walked away whilst Troy kept speaking. He stared out the window in a calculating way, observing nothing in particular.

“We cannot have that,” Voldemort abruptly declared. “You will end the curse. Nothing can attract undue attention. His play is but a means to an end, but his reputation must remain unsullied if my plan is to succeed. I shall address this myself.”

“Immediately, my Lord, it will be done,” Troy readily agreed. To curse him like that had left him doubting those instructions. “Should I tend to this now?”

“Not yet,” the Dark Lord refused to dismiss him. “Will you be positioned to curse him again should I require?”

“Yes,” Troy answered. “I see him at every team practice, several times a week.”

“Excellent. His reaction to your curse betrays his weakness. His feelings are unmistakable. In due time you will be instructed how I wish to exploit them. Until then, you are to lay low and do nothing to attract attention.”

Troy bowed. “It will be done, my Lord.” He was unsure if he was being dismissed.

“Now about the match,” the Dark Lord changed the subject. “I have something for you.” Unsheathing his wand, he pointed if at the open door. “Accio broom!”

Momentarily, a Firebolt soared into the room, halting before Lord Voldemort. Except for peripherals like team trim, it was identical to the broom Troy rode in competition.

“This is your mount for the Hogwarts match,” the Master ordered. “It is specially charmed. Pay attention. Scindus!” With a loud crack the broom's handle splintered. The tip fell away, leaving a lopsided, but jagged and razor-sharp remnant.

“A priori.” The broom's pieces flew back into place and seamlessly knitted themselves together. “This will be your personal contribution to the match,” the Dark Lord hissed.

“Yes, my Lord,” Troy instantly agreed. “How does my Master wish me to use it?”

“During the Hogwarts match, you will use this spell and run the opposing Keeper through,” Lord Voldemort ordered. “Make it appear an unfortunate accident - a defect in construction. The precise timing and circumstances are at your discretion.”

Troy gulped. He had played Quidditch his entire adult life. He fancied himself something of a student of the game. He could not recall such a gory incident in the entire history of the sport - save perhaps the mid-match Killarney dragon attack in 1499. “Yes, my Lord.”

Ludo Bagman said nothing, but looked queasy. Mayhem at the match would require a feigned investigation.

“Make no mistake. Succeed and you shall be rewarded.” The Dark Lord stopped, scowled at nothing in particular, and reached to a nearby shelf. He extricated a small box, carved from solid onyx. His wandless hand gesture conjured a long pair of tweezers.

“The accident can be your excuse to retire as a player,” he continued whilst busying himself. “That should do it.”

Without explaining his actions, Voldemort levitated the box to a nearby tabletop. With a mumbled Unlocking Charm, he slid the top aside. He carefully dipped the tweezers inside and extracted a black, scaly, wiggling … something.

“But should you fail….” The Dark Lord dangled the squirming creature at Troy's eye level. “Behold a Tartaran Flobberworm. These require some testing, and I assure you, you do not wish to join that experiment. One of these curled about your brainstem for the rest of your life is not something you would find desirable. You could not even put yourself out of your misery.”

* * * *

Hogwarts offered Harry and Hermione relatively few opportunities for carnal decadence. Ordinarily their breakfasts were well earned. Haunted by the prophecy, driven by it, they adhered rigorously to a strenuous morning regimen of training in the Room of Requirement.

But this morning - the day after May Day - was a rare exception.

By mutual consent, they slept in. Given the prior day's long journey into night, they could hardly have done otherwise.

Magic, indeed the entire Wizarding World, had little to do with it.

Hermione spent May Day itself in a state of very nervous anticipation. Although all indications were favourable, in such matters she remained a confirmed pessimist. Everything had gone pear-shaped before. Backing a party that had never held the majority in ones lifetime (not counting en ventre sa mère), made sceptical detachment more than a luxury; it was a necessity.

Extremely clever girls tended towards political idealism, and Hermione Granger was no exception. The more aware she appreciated her parents' - especially her father's - ceaselessly striving lifestyle, the more repulsed she became.

This drift from her parents' materialism only accelerated once Hermione went to Hogwarts.

Events of the past summer made her political estrangement irreparable. Hermione learnt that her father had used his chairmanship of the Dental Advisory Group to solicit millions in bribes. That position came courtesy of the Iron Lady.

Thus, election night found Hermione on pins and needles. She commandeered the Gryffindor D.A. Central Station - the only reliable Internet connection available.

Afraid of a nasty reaction to yet another loss, she asked Harry for privacy, and requested the same from the rest of her House.

Harry obliged. He had no more love for Muggle politics than the wizarding variety. The current P.M. had tried to arrest him at their only meeting. Also, the Dursleys were Tories. Those were two good reasons to hope they lost. More importantly, he preferred not having to comfort a distraught Hermione.

Not that night.

Neither her separation nor her anxieties lasted long. The tone was set early, by a Tory loss in Birmingham Edgbaston, and the projected swing to Labour predicted a landslide. Within two hours of the polls closing, Labour was up by more than one hundred seats, with the Tories mired in single digits. Ecstatic, she fetched Harry to watch the rest with her.

They witnessed an electoral wipeout. Deep Tory blue constituencies - Hove, Harrow, and Hastings; Worcester and Crawley - went Labour red that night. Only lack of personal vindication kept the night from being perfect. Regrettably, but probably inevitably, the Cities of London and Westminster and the Surrey boroughs (Harry did not know the Dursleys' precise constituency) remained in Conservative hands.

Hermione stayed glued to the results until after two in the morning, when the ultimate Tory humiliation, Michael Portillo losing his seat in Enfield, was confirmed. Even then, she was far too keyed up to sleep.

Some very late night rule breaking ensued. The Marauders' Map showed Filch awake and engaged in some project in the seventh floor main corridor. That ruled out the Room. After more false starts, the two again ended up in the Divination classroom where, aided by stout Silencing Charms, they expended Hermione's excess energy atop a pile of pouffes and cushions.

They finally made it to their Gryffindor dormitory beds sometime past three in the morning.

* * * *

“Wake up, mate!” Ron was shouting. “You'll miss brekkie.”

“Don't care,” Harry moaned as he burrowed under his pillow. “Would rather sleep than eat. I'll make it up at the bake-off this afternoon.”

“Not if I eat it all first,” Ron threatened.

“It's cheating to eat your own,” Harry groaned.

“Who says I'm gonna?” Ron grumbled.

“Not me. Now let me sleep.”

Luckily Hagrid cancelled upper level Care of Magical Creatures classes for the day. With fair weather predicted - sunny with a high in the mid teens - the non-magical bake-off would take place on the Castle's front lawn at the base of the hill. This location was far enough the Castle that only simple wards were needed to protect the Muggle equipment.

That spot was too close to his hut for Hagrid's liking, and not because he disliked the food.

The half-giant always ate his fill. But the same might be said for many of the creatures for his upper level classes - if given the chance. The enticing odours might attract their unwanted attention. He locked them away for the duration.

The cancellation meant that Harry, Hermione and several classmates had no classes until after lunch.

At lunch, Hermione jubilantly informed Harry that New Labour would win over 450 seats - a crushing majority.

After Double Potions, Harry went with Padma to organise their curry extravaganza - to prepare about twenty kilos of rice, various meats, and of course intricate spices.

Hermione had no qualifying class (either Muggle Studies or an upper level “domestic” class), so she could only be a “guest judge.” That meant eating the food, which suited her perfectly. Her afternoon Healing lesson ended at five, just in time for the bnake-off's start.

Hermione enjoyed the same status as everyone not entered in the bake-off - almost all of the Slytherins, the Castle staff, and the Hogsmeade merchants who underwrote the expenses of the competition. Whilst the Snakes did not sully themselves with Muggle means, they had no compunction against partaking of the delicious results.

The rules were simple. Contestants could prepare anything they liked, as long as: (1) they used no magic, and (2) the courses were not on the regular Hogwarts menu (too much potential for cheating). In practice, that excluded most traditional English offerings, and the bake-off became a carnival of epicurean delights from around the world.

Hermione encountered that carnival as the vernal sun's slanting rays, shining through the Forbidden Forest's boughs of budding leaves, dappled the newly greening fields that sloped from the Castle towards the lake.

Competitors arrayed beneath red and white candy-striped pavilions were already dishing out their wares. Pungent wood smoke from numerous cooking fires drifted up and away.

“Oi, Hermione, come try some of our barbecued baby back ribs!” Seamus Finnigan called to her. “We've also four-alarm chili.”

“Your tender palate would be better served by our boeuf bourguignon,” Titania Prod urged. “Or perhaps some nice, cool vichyssoise?”

Ron - all the Weasleys took Muggle Studies - wanted her to sample his fried chicken, cheesy grits, collard greens and black-eyed peas.

Her friend Su Li and her housemate Sabrina Fawcett sought to tempt Hermione with loads of Chinese dishes garnished with cashew, broccoli, and water chestnut.

Hermione also needed to save room for dessert. Justin Finch-Fletchley had let slip in Potions that his planned Kiwi pavlova confection would be almost a metre high. But Justin had a direct competitor, Ann Derek of Ravenclaw, who promised a “full Savoy Truffle menu” of desserts.

Happily, Hermione dipped in and out of the queues in front of the student tables. Most of all she was looking for…. “Harry, there you are!”

Indeed he was, wearing a white apron already sporting green and yellow curry stains. He was the front man, Hermione noted wryly. Padma stayed back, tending the numerous pots and saucepans, whilst Harry's celebrity attracted crowds.

That arrangement suited Hermione just fine. Better that than the undue proximity she observed between Mandy Brocklehurst and Stephen Cornfoot in the adjacent booth. Closer than peas and carrots, indeed.

“Go ahead and load me up,” she told him when she reached the fore of probably the longest queue.

“What do you want?” he asked. “We've got rogan josh, keema mutter, tandoori chicken, and gobi masala, if you're going veggie.”

“Well, what's best?”

“I recommend the lamb.”

“Then I'll start with that.”

Hermione visited several others who hailed her. She carried her heaping plate to picnic tables that had been conjured for the occasion. The injunction against resort to magic extended only to food, and no further.

She spotted Luna and Neville and slid into the bench across from them.

They chattered happily about the D.A., her coping with Harry's various moods, Luna's Internet adventures with the Onion, and yesterday's Muggle elections, of which Neville was totally ignorant.

Gradually the lines thinned and the tables grew more crowded. Many younger witches and wizards turned the event into a true spring picnic - sitting on the grass eating from conjured picnic blankets.

“Oh my, that doesn't look good,” Luna remarked. She and Neville faced the pavilions. Hermione looked the other way, towards the Castle.

“Looks good enough to me,” Neville chuckled. “Almost enough to make me to feel sorry for her - but not quite.”

Properly waiting until she finished chewing the last meat from one of Seamus' ribs, Hermione wanted to know, “Who are you talking about?”

“Ginny, the littlest Weasley, isn't very popular right now,” Neville replied in an overly self-satisfied tone. “Nobody's even looked at whatever she's offering in ten minutes, let alone sampled any.”

Hermione whirled around. Sure enough, Ginny stood completely alone in the second farthest left booth. Her partner for the event, Demelza Robbins, had suffered a Potions accident and was still recuperating. Ginny was on her own.

She stood staring into the distance with a painfully faked smile plastered to her face. In front of her were numerous trays of nicely arranged, but practically untouched, items.

“What's she serving anyway?” Neville asked nobody in particular. He had not ventured anywhere near his ex-girlfriend.

“Japanese, I think,” Luna commented. “I'm not much of a fan of raw fish, and seaweed - unless it's boiled thoroughly in fresh water, that's a magnet for Nargles.”

“Japanese?” Neville responded sceptically. “I had that once, with Gram. We couldn't stand it. Not only don't they cook the fish, but it comes with yucky white jelly that doesn't taste like anything. Gram liked the wine, though….”

Hermione had heard enough. “Oh dear, what have I done?” she squeaked. Leaving her half-eaten plate behind, she made a bee-line for the redhead's deserted pavilion.

“Oh, Ginny, I'm sorry! You must be mortified!” Hermione exclaimed when within shouting distance. “I guess nobody here likes Japanese.”

Ginny must have walled herself off mentally, because she did not immediately respond.

When finally focussing on Hermione's regretful approach, Ginny almost burst into tears. “Oh, gods, Hermione, I've never been this embarrassed. I'm going to finish last for sure.”

“That'll be on merit,” a sneering Draco Malfoy sauntered by. He had obviously overheard their conversation. “I can't believe even Muggles stomach that garbage.”

At that scathing critique, Ginny did burst into tears.

“I'll have you know, that the Japanese have the longest average life span of any people on earth!” Hermione almost yelled at the pure-blood supremacist.

“Spare me!” he replied theatrically. “All I know about Muggle Japs is that they kill themselves a lot. Looking at that dross, I know why.” Laughing, he moved off leaving the pair of Gryffindors spluttering.

“This is horrible,” Ginny wailed.

“No, it's not,” Hermione sternly disagreed. “It's just … an acquired taste.”

“That nobody's acquired,” Ginny bawled. “You see what they eat. It's not this.”

Hermione set her jaw. “Well you won't finish last if I can help it. Fill me up a plate.”

“Umm … what do you want?” Ginny sniffed, trying to regain control of her emotions.

“I don't care,” the older girl declared. “It all looks good. I'll be back for seconds - with some friends.”

Ginny loaded up Hermione's plate with rice cakes and tofu cubes galore. “These are the appetisers. You can come back for the sushi and sashimi,” she said.

Hermione did just that. Unfortunately, she failed to entice her friends, save the Creevey brothers, into sampling the subtle joys of Japanese cuisine - at least Ginny's, which inexplicably omitted the tempura and teriyaki she had recommended.

Ron told her that, with so much better food available, he would not waste valuable stomach space. To her dismay, Harry outright refused to have anything to do with raw fish and boiled beans.

Hermione stalked away from her fiancé in a huff.

Feeling guilty that her ideas had caused Ginny public humiliation, she managed to down four full plates of the girl's cooking.

It was to no avail. Ginny did finish last - measured both by quantity consumed and number of “judges” served.

Back in the common room once the event was over, Hermione had words with both Harry and Ron about their lack of support for Ginny's efforts. Hermione was more Catholic than the Pope. Blaming herself for suggesting Japanese food, Hermione's lingering upset seemed to exceed even Ginny's.

In any event, the exchange of harsh words changed nobody's mind. Giving up the fight, Hermione abruptly went to bed in a bad mood and feeling vaguely sick to her stomach.

She hoped that Harry would regret the argument and send someone to ask after her. Harry was sweet that way. He never let unpleasantness between them simmer overnight.

This time, she was disappointed.

She fell asleep nursing her discontent and wondering whether something in all that Japanese food might have disagreed with her even more than her friends had earlier.

* * * *

Author's notes: “Harry's wild ride” is a play on the Mr. Toad book

A D-Notice is a UK prior restraint on publication

Alleys = streets

Dim-Lee = DMLE = Department of Magical Law Enforcement

Ten minutes to midnight evokes the doomsday clock of the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists

There's more to the Godric Gryffindor conversation than an excuse for nicknaming the Slytherin statue in the Chamber “Long Tall Sally”

Old Anglo-Saxon courtesy of beta Coulsdon Eagle

Some Founder backstory

Copperfield prosecuted Umbridge in Ch. 8

The fate of the Gospel of Truth is a Seventh Year matter

The “wheels of the Gods” phrase is of ancient, but uncertain, origin

The Kama Sutra is an ancient Indian sex manual

Dristine O'Connell is patterned after a local candidate whose campaign issues were witchcraft and masturbation

Preserving disorder is part of a Mayor Daley quote

Injection molding is a common way of making plastic objects

Full stop = period

Make feel but not think parallels a line from Jethro Tull's “Thick as a Brick”

I went looking for fanart about the Basilisk, and some of what I found brought St. George to mind

My wife thinks that Basilisks should look like giant cobra because elapids are extremely poisonous

I can't say where the “meddle with dragons” line originated. I thought it was Monty Python, but that doesn't seem right

The Pooka is from Celtic myth - one of the few such creatures JKR didn't use

Hermione turned down Ginny's offer in Ch. 52. Had Hermione accepted, Draco would not have been Ginny's Potions tutor

The Quidditch incident was in Ch. 59

Live like a fighting cock is a Britishism for having the best of everything

Descriptions of Japanese and Indian food at various points are accurate

Not liking seafood, I don't care much for Japanese food much - except I love mochi

Proxy votes are absentee ballots

Hermione knows the Dursleys are involved with the Tories

The Gulbenkian funds were mentioned in Ch. 47

Malfoy's activating phrase is a quote from Book 1

If the Marauders could make a map, so can others

Paneruditus Parchment was mentioned in Chs. 20 and 33

Ludo Bagman is a Death Eater, and a bag man; he effected the funds transfer that frustrated the Order in Ch. 1

The new moon becomes important

Mervyn was the first name of a California lieutenant governor

The Kenmare Kestrels are a Quidditch team

This feature of the Imperius is discussed in Ch. 16

The Imperius is one means; bribery is another

Voldemort wants to deal with Ron as well

Troy is not the intended victim of the Tartaran Flobberworm

All the details about the May 1, 1997 election that brought Tony Blair to power are accurate

Hermione had been conceived, but not born, the last time Labour held the majority

The bribery scheme is described in Ch. 32

Iron Lady = Margaret Thatcher

The attempted arrest was in Ch. 39

Red is associated with Labour in the UK, and blue with the Tories

Their first use of the Divination classroom was in Ch. 57

Four-alarm chili fits with their Tex-Mex

Pavlova is best thing about New Zealand food

“Savoy Truffle” is a Beatles song reciting a list of desserts

The peas and carrots line is from Forrest Gump

As discussed in Ch. 66, Harry bought Luna the Onion as a Christmas present

Japanese wine is sake

Ginny omitted the dishes that westerners like most

29

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 11/7/2010

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79. Fire And Ice

Wherein apologies are made, soup is served, Ron is impulsive, Draco plays puppeteer, another player emerges, Quidditch injuries occur, Harry catches the Snitch and the snatch, and vice versa, Hermione is traumatized and takes it out on some furniture, and Ron does something he shouldn't.

CAUTION: Aspects of this chapter may be disturbing to obligate Harmonians. I only ask that you be patient. The interlude will last no longer (and actually is a day or two shorter) than in HBP itself, and Harmony will prevail in the end.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Chapter 79 - Fire And Ice

BRAAAAT. BRAAAAT. BRAAAAT.

Ugh! Harry tossed back his sheets and moved sluggishly to pound his alarm clock into submission. He had slept miserably - and too little.

The damn thing was not there.

BRAAAAT. BRAAAAT. BRAAAAT.

Where was it? Somewhere above him.

Damn.

Finally a memory poked through his woolly head.

Oh yeah…. Quidditch match today.

Last night, Harry had enchanted his clock with that special Quidditch day charm Hermione invented over a year ago. When its alarm sounded, the clock Transfigured into a pallid version of a Golden Snitch and started buzzing about his bed chamber.

BRAAAAT. BRAAAAT. BRAAAAT.

Harry nearly regretted having a brilliant fiancée.

Now to catch it. Harry opened his eyes and fumbled for his glasses, placing them infirmly on his nose.

Spotting his target, Harry pounced. The Snitch-like clock dodged. Harry lunged again, but the clock/Snitch zipped tantalisingly beyond his reach.

It flitted low and Harry dove for it. Got it….! But….

Oops.

Harry tumbled through his bed curtains and landed hard on the floor - in the dark.

Just what he needed, a broken elbow or something on the morning of the most important match of the year!

“Will you turn that bleeding thing off?” That was Ron.

“Go back to sleep, dammit, it's friggin' Saturday!” That was Seamus.

Harry routinely took the precaution of Imperturbing his bed, but he was no longer in it. Sheepishly he slipped back behind its spelled curtains.

It was Saturday. He had set the alarm insanely early. Was he trying to exhaust himself before the most important Quidditch match of the year?

No.

Leave that to Albus Dumbledore.

The Headmaster had exquisite timing. Not two minutes after Hermione ended their disputation over the cosmically important topic of Ginny Weasley's unsuccessful foray into Japanese cuisine by storming off to bed, the Gryffindor common room was the scene of an even more unusual event.

The Headmaster's head appeared amongst the fireplace's flaring coals - a first insofar as anyone present knew - with a personal request that Harry to join him in his office without delay. When he wished to meet with students, Dumbledore typically sent a scroll neatly tied with one of his violet and green ribbons.

Not this time. The Headmaster would not publicly reveal the subject that warranted Harry's immediate presence. Harry assumed that something of great import was involved.

Instead of finding suitable rapprochement with Hermione, Harry instead went speeding off - his mind brimming with foreboding thoughts - to meet with Dumbledore.

Important matters were discussed, but nothing, Harry grumbled, sufficient to warrant that extraordinary summons.

Dumbledore had another scrap of Pensieved memory - his own - of Tom Riddle in the unusual role of supplicant, seeking but not obtaining the Hogwarts Defence professor's position. Whilst interesting, the Headmaster could access his own memories at any time.

Dumbledore also revealed a possible Horcrux discovery, but it seemed little more than rumour. Again, that news hardly required immediate attention. Harry accepted the Headmaster's invitation to join him on an expedition should the lead pan out. That conversation could have been accomplished the next day - or the next week.

From the Headmaster's last bit of news, Harry believed he now knew someone capable of rattling Dumbledore's imperturbability. The old man had made the acquaintance of the inestimable Lilithu Mandelbrot, Imperatrix of the Sisters of the Moon.

“A most redoubtable individual,” he had called her. They evidently discussed Harry's travelling to Bavaria to dispose of the Blacks' Nazi gold. It would occur on Muttertag - the German Mothers' Day - 11 May - next week.

Yes, Harry could stay overnight. In shared custody of the Sisters and the goblins, he would be perfectly safe.

And yes, Hermione could accompany him. The Headmaster offered none of his previous blather about mixing business with pleasure.

And no, Harry neither confirmed nor denied if the remarkable Ms. Mandelbrot had favoured him with additional prophecy. Unless otherwise instructed, any information would stay private between Harry and the powerful witch. It would not do to betray her secrets.

Dumbledore probed no further. If the Headmaster could ever truly be intimidated, Lilithu had accomplished the feat.

Shaking his head, Harry collected his toilet bag and ambled to the loo. His night had not been miserable because the Headmaster kept him late.

No, it was his unfinished business with his fiancée.

Ron perversely enjoyed arguing with Hermione. Harry did not. “Just being mental, that one,” Ron had waved off Hermione's precipitate exit. “I mean, it isn't even bothering Ginny much. Why should Hermione get her knickers in a knot?”

“I guess it's the principle of the thing, Ron,” Harry half-heartedly defended her.

Things had not progressed beyond that before the Headmaster's summons.

Harry had not resolved things with Hermione before bed.

He stared into the mirror; a gaunt visage stared back irritably.

The mirror observed, “You'd best fix whatever's eating you.”

For once, Harry agreed with commentary passing through the looking glass, although only a grunt passed his lips.

His first order of business was to apologise to Hermione. Sure, she had been strident and not very tolerant of other people's opinions - particularly his. But Hermione was Hermione. That her delivery needed work did not mean she was wrong.

Hermione was very rarely wrong.

As the Room admitted him, Harry heard Hermione's violin. She typically arrived first and practised before their workouts to clear her mind.

Hermione's vantage point purposefully included the door. Upon seeing Harry, she carefully set her violin down and purposefully approached him.

Harry began reciting his prepared mental script. “Hermione, before I say anything … mmpf….”

She lunged her final steps, wrapped him in a vigourous hug, and kissed him hard.

When she stopped, Hermione gave Harry no chance to slip a word in edgewise. “Oh, Harry, I'm such a hag! I don't know what came over me! It's just … the Japanese was my idea, and I so wanted it to work, so I went all wobbly when you and Ron … and well, everybody, didn't like it! Why Ginny went with takoyaki and unagi instead of teriyaki and tempura, I don't know. But I'm sorry. That's her fault, not mine, and certainly not … mmpf….”

Harry returned the favour - kissing her soundly to bring her rambling apology to a close both premature and overdue. Once she stopped resisting and started enjoying herself, Harry made his own amends.

Gently, he lifted his lips from hers and substituted his forefinger.

“None of that's important, Hermione. What matters is you needed my support and I didn't give it. That was wrong, and I should have been more sympathetic. For that, I'm sorry.”

Hermione could barely believe what she heard. “But … I wasn't just wrong, I was loudly wrong. Why should I expect your sympathy?”

Harry answered simply, “Because I'm your fiancé. It's the job description. You're the most brilliant person I've ever met, so even if you're wrong, I should….”

Her lips crashed into his again. All was certainly forgiven.

Whoever said, “Love is never having to say you're sorry,” did not know very much about love.

Their impromptu, vertical snogging session lasted several minutes.

Harry's hands drifted lower. “Hermione, maybe we could…?” Their surroundings - the Room of Requirement - fluttered just a bit.

Hermione demurred. “Really, Harry, I'd love to, but if you slept as badly as I last night, you should save your energy for the match. With the team short-handed, you have to be at the top of your game.”

She had a point - both about his lack of rest and the team - but he did not want to admit it. “Not even make up sex?” he whinged.

Her smile was soft, but her voice firm. “Not even for that. Making up shouldn't become an excuse for us arguing in the first place. I especially wouldn't want someone like Ron claiming that I hurt your performance today….”

“Aww … Hermione….”

“You couldn't hide it if you tried - your expression's always a dead giveaway. Let me do some planning, and I'll arrange something for tonight,” she promised. “Number 48 can celebrate you catching the Snitch and winning the Cup.”

With her promised reward, Harry gave in. “Do you really keep count?”

“I can't help it,” she admitted. “It's just how I am. You just have to take the bad with the good.”

“Nothing bad about it, believe me,” Harry told her. “Care for some light sparring?” he flipped his wand into his hand. “To sharpen me up - for the match - but not to tire me out.”

* * * *

Captain Katie specifically requested a “team only” breakfast because the team was so shorthanded (including her injury) that some members might play out of position. New player combinations, and even some new plays, had to be discussed. An underdog's “us against the world” mentality needed cultivating. With the Cup at stake, the rest of Gryffindor House - even (especially) the players' romantic interests - respected Katie's request for the team to bond in peace.

Almost the entire Gryffindor team were already bonding in earnest when Harry arrived in the Great Hall. The Chasers, or what passed for Chasers after the latest injury, were huddled with Katie Bell, formerly of their number. Katie's near-fatal injuries from that cursed necklace had finished both her year, and her career, as a player.

One Chaser down. Timing was the only silver lining to Katie's injury. Harry and Ron, the interim captains, did not have to rush to press Dean Thomas into Katie's starting role.

Demelza Robbins' injury was much less severe, but its timing was abysmal. She would quickly recover from her Potions accident, but for several days, including the Cup showdown with Hufflepuff, her webbed and scaly hands could not effectively grasp a broom. Two Chasers down.

Cormac McLaggen was the only short-notice substitute with any practice time as Chaser. He was better than nothing, but nothing could give him a run for his money. McLaggen was primarily a reserve Beater and Keeper, since his large, blocky build was better suited for those positions. Worse, his knowledge of Chaser plays and formations was rudimentary at best.

The team's Beaters were also revising tactics when Harry entered. Only Jazzy noticed his approach. Harry seemed edgy as he dropped into the seat beside his reserve. Skewering several Salisbury steaks lathered in gravy, he absently told her, “I've just talked with Ron. He'll be here momentarily. Be ready. If anybody else gets hurt, I could be switched to Chaser and you'd be in to Seek.”

They chatted strategy for a bit - neither had a high opinion of Steven Summerby, the Hufflepuff Seeker - but Harry's attention was elsewhere. He watched the Chasers' scrum with interest whilst uneaten steaks cooled on his plate. He was transparently waiting for something.

Gathering her self-walking crutches, Katie rose, and the Chasers' buzz of conversation paused. That brought Harry to his feet - an apology on his lips.

“Umm … Ginny? I want to say `sorry' about how I acted yesterday. Hermione was right. I shouldn't have left you hanging. Japanese food can't be all that bad….”

Ginny's open-mouthed expression was one of frank disbelief.

“…In fact, if you have any, I'll try some right now - so … no hard feelings.”

From blank and dumbfounded, Ginny's aspect blossomed into a smile so brilliant that it looked like Christmas, Halloween, and her birthday had all come at once. At first, she could barely speak, but after closing her gaping mouth, she recovered. “Why, of course, Harry. Thank you. I'm not…. Yes, I have some leftover miso soup I could….”

She fell silent as Ron loomed over Harry's right shoulder. His features were flushed and his face at war with itself. Ron worried his hair with his right hand a nervous mannerism.

Had he somehow found her out?

“Ginny … I, umm…. I think I should apologise too,” he stammered.

Ginny let herself relax, until Ron went further. He could not help competing with Harry - however hopeless his efforts might be.

“It doesn't help much now, but I'll eat your Japanese stuff too…. Like Harry said, you needed us yesterday, and I didn't do squat.”

Her prior sunny expression clouded over.

Merlin, what could she do now? All the raw fish was binned; along with that other rubbish she could hardly stand even though she prepared it….

“Thanks, Ron, but you really don't have to do that,” she tried.

Her brother was not dissuadable. “Bollocks, Gin. If Harry's gonna do it, I oughtta too.”

Inwardly, Ginny winced. With Ron insistent, she had only one option to keep the unexpected opportunity that had just presented itself.

“Okay, Ron,” she agreed. “If you insist, I have a little takoyaki left. Hermione seemed to like it.”

“Sure,” Ron off-handedly. “How bad could it be?” He much preferred discussing Quidditch, with their match in a couple hours. It was probably best that Hermione was not around to warn about rehashed seafood and digestion.

“Then, I'd best be going.” In a flash Ginny trotted out of the Great Hall before Katie and the other Chasers could protest. With a Billiwig in her bonnet, she was hard to stop.

Contrary thoughts swirling in her head, Ginny double-timed towards Gryffindor Tower.

“Hey, Reds. What's cooking?”

Ginny almost took flight without a broom. Her long red hair wrapped around her neck as she pirouetted, ending with her wand pointed straight between Draco Malfoy's grey - and at the moment quite wide - eyes.

“Phew!” she exhaled whilst pocketing her wand. “I didn't think you could possibly find me that fast. It isn't even a minute since I pressed my button. I hadn't looked for you, yet.”

Draco kept his map a secret. “I was on my way to breakfast when your signal came,” he lied effortlessly. “So I didn't have very far to intercept you.”

It was a rational explanation, and Ginny accepted it. “I'm going to need more potion,” she informed him. “I just had a golden opportunity practically fall into my lap.” As quickly as she could, she explained the situation to Draco.

As Ginny talked, Draco's hopes rose. They had fleshed out plans a couple of days previous, when he gave her one of the four communication and rendezvous buttons he received through Burke (Cambo and Spott had the others). Ginny had laid out her scheme to dose the Mudblood with the Draught of Despair. He had recommended she check the library for other Japanese recipes even less appetising than the dross recommended by their unsuspecting victim.

He also agreed to prevent unwitting interference from Weasley's bake-off partner, Demelza Robbins, a task easy enough to accomplish. Pretending to restore himself to Slughorn's good graces, Draco volunteered for scut work around the dungeon. He arranged a relatively harmless potions accident, contaminating certain ingredients for the Fifth Years' next class with ground Ashwinder egg, and giving Weasley a bit extra for Robbins. The Weaselette used too much, though, and Robbins' Gillyweed concentrate exploded - leaving the girl with webbed and scaly hands for several days.

That knocked Robbins out of the match. Weasley had been furious, but it was her own damn fault. The blow to Gryffindor's Quidditch fortunes was just foam on the Butterbeer.

At the same meeting they developed contingency plans for the week-long window that the Draught provided. They both preferred a scenario that included Quidditch. It seemed more natural than, say, waylaying Harry Potter in the Room of Requirement.

Ginny's chance to have their target ingest an extra dollop of the Half-Blood Prince's special Love Potion shortly before everything went into motion was extra incentive to make the most of this unexpected opportunity.

“It just so happens I've been a busy boy, and here's some more,” Draco smirked as he produced another two phials. “It needs curing, but not as long once you've dosed him with the really strong stuff. I'll be making more, but for Salazar's sake don't waste it.”

“I won't,” Ginny assured. “I'll just add a half-teaspoon or so to the soup I have. Then I'll be really frugal.”

“Once you've succeeded, frugal him all you want,” Draco joked. “But I'd strongly recommend treating just the tofu and other solid bits, if you're short on your best stuff. Then use Attractivus.”

“That's a baby's spell,” Ginny dismissed the idea.

“Precisely,” Draco shot back. “You don't know how much he'll eat. With that spell, the bits you want will be attracted to his spoon - I assume you're planning to provide the spoon.”

“Why, of course,” Ginny managed to scoff, having not thought of that in the slightest.

“I also caught the other prop you wanted,” Draco told her. “Stunned and Incarceroused, it's stashed in that big chest where Gryffindor keeps its practice equipment. By the time the match's done, it should be awake and plenty angry, so be careful.”

“Don't worry on my account,” Ginny replied. “I will be.”

“Anyway, get on with it,” Draco sent Ginny on her way. “Afterwards, if you get him first, let me know. If I have to move the Great Git along, I'll signal you. He'll suddenly remember needing to clear out his gear, like you mentioned.”

Ginny hurried. Within fifteen minutes she was in and out of an entirely deserted Gryffindor Tower.

Appearing far calmer than she felt, Ginny sashayed back into the Great Hall, smiling broadly. She spotted Hermione, who had returned from wherever she spent her early mornings - usually with Harry, no doubt.

Suppressing an unpleasant expression, Ginny flashed Hermione her smile, hoping it appeared genuine. `They apologised,' she mouthed at the older girl whilst almost skipping to the Quidditch team's end of the table. She held up a soup container and another, foil-wrapped package so Hermione could see it.

Despite Hermione's obvious interest - Japanese food had been her idea - Ginny knew she was in the clear. Hermione was such a stickler for propriety that, short of a life-or-death emergency, she would respect Katie's desire for a team-only Quidditch breakfast.

She turned her smile on Harry, who had risen from his seat. “Here you are, Harry - the last of the miso soup.” Ginny handed him a Warming-Charmed bowl with the handle of an oriental style soup spoon protruding from a Muggle plastic cover.

Her smile waned as she turned to Ron. She held thrust a foil-wrapped container his direction, half hoping that he would refuse. Its six takoyaki pieces were all she had left. They had not been intended for him.

Ron snatched it anyway, determined to follow Harry.

Both wizards tucked in as Ginny dropped into a seat beside injured Demelza Robbins. Ginny just wanted this over - so she could do something comfortable - like playing Quidditch.

Ron spoilt it. “Eggh,” he managed through heavy chewing noises, what is this stuff?”

Ginny sighed. One last time, she tried dissuading her headstrong brother. “Octopus balls,” she spoke the unvarnished truth.

“Ugh,” Ron exclaimed, his face displaying most unapologetic contortions. “I didn't even know they had balls.”

“No, Ron, not that kind….” She shut up as her brother ignored her, looking to Harry, calmly spooning soup and trying not entirely successfully to keep from laughing at Ron's predicament.

“To hell with it,” Ron growled. For a moment Ginny let herself hope he would toss the remainder. Instead he grabbed a tureen of gravy and lathered the contents heavily over the takoyaki. Ron inhaled the rest of his octopus - balls or whatever - with barely a bite.

If Harry could do it; so could he.

* * * *

A Face Fogging Charm is an excellent addition to any dueller's repertoire. In a multi-wizard duel, it prevented opponents from reading one's eyes to know who was being targeted.

It had other uses, too - more mundane and more frequent.

During surveillance, a Face Fogging Charm prevents someone from appreciating that he or she is being observed.

Daphne Greengrass had employed Face Fogging Charms very frequently of late in her ongoing surveillance of Harry Potter.

Her mission began several weeks ago upon receipt of a terse note from her Aunt Lilithu, dated the very day she met Harry in Hogsmeade. Something was off about Harry's aura, Aunt Lilithu had written. Her aunt was an experienced aura reader. Viewing Harry's had convinced Lilithu that he was probably under the influence of some sort of Love Potion.

Her Aunt's observation was unaccompanied by any instructions. Lilithu had been content to trust Daphne's discretion in deciding how to use this information.

Daphne responded by watching Harry whenever she could.

This spying had nothing to do with Harry's aura. Daphne could not detect, let alone read, anybody's aura. Aura reading was a discipline so far post-N.E.W.T. that it might not even qualify as Divination. Instead, Daphne watched Harry Potter - specifically his interactions with anyone female.

Her first, most obvious, target had been Hermione Granger. She was Harry's current girlfriend and undeniably clever enough to brew any Love Potion known to wizardkind. Her choice was hardly groundless. The Prophet had broached similar suspicions quite strenuously back in fourth year.

For two weeks Daphne had scrutinised Harry, and even more so Hermione, like a hawk - or more aptly, a snake.

If only she could catch Hermione Granger in the act of dosing Harry. The Muggle-born would surely be expelled. Not incidentally, that scenario would position Daphne perfectly to pursue her own interest in the aforementioned Mister Potter.

After being shut up for so many years with Muggles, Harry's grasp of the intricacies of wizard society was woefully weak. With his new station - and a reputation that seemed to soar to new heights almost monthly - Harry badly needed a proper witch to assist him navigate the numerous potential social pitfalls he would encounter.

Daphne was Slytherin enough to believe herself exactly fitted for that role, whilst sufficiently un-Slytherin to shrug off the blood prejudices Harry despised.

Muggle-born or no, Hermione Granger was an impressive witch. She was not to be crossed lightly. Paired with Harry Potter, she was virtually unassailable.

Unassailable unless caught in the act.

Despite her best efforts, Daphne Greengrass failed miserably. Hermione Granger seemed purer than Cæsar's whole bloody family - not a trace of impropriety. Over those two weeks, Daphne was compelled to accept what her (fogged over) eyes told her time and again.

Harry's and Hermione's relationship was 100% genuine. Those two were in love with one another without pretense, and certainly without chemical enhancement. To a Slytherin like Daphne, watching them was so sweet as to be nauseating and so ingenuous as to be downright boring.

Daphne's eyes told her one thing, but Aunt Lilithu had told her another. Daphne chose to believe her formidable Aunt. If Granger were not plying Potter with Love Potion - and she was too clever to waste time on something so blatantly unnecessary - who else could it be?

And why?

Harry and Hermione's relationship needed no assistance from Love Potion. But if a witch with ulterior motives were using such a potion on Harry, said witch certainly was not having much luck.

After another week of studious observation, Daphne settled on Ginny Weasley as her prime suspect. That girl certainly had a motive. She had worn romantic interest towards Harry on her sleeve almost since she began at Hogwarts. Weasley was hardly alone in that respect - rumours swirled around that Vane bint - but Weasley stood out in Daphne's mind as one of the few also possessed of opportunity.

How much of an opportunity remained to be seen.

Daphne noticed Ginny supplying Harry with calcium supplements. Ginny was hardly the only girl using them.

Could that be it? When motivated, Daphne was no slouch in the library. She researched every Love Potion she could find. The verdict: No Love Potion was effective in the tiny daily doses administrable via a calcium pill.

No other observations in the Great Hall or the halls of Hogwarts answered Daphne's questions. Luna Lovegood was after Harry's friend, not him. Nobody else had sufficient access, at least publicly.

Unlike Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley, Daphne Greengrass was not a Quidditch player. She thought playing that game was stupid and dangerous.

She could observe though. Daphne's powers of observation made her a standout in Astronomy, the most observationally centered school subjects.

Professor Sinistra had started a project updating the Castle's sunrise and sunset charts. Almost five centuries had passed since their last revision. Daphne signed up - for a month's worth of sunset observations.

These observations were standardized - each taken from the same vantage point on the Astronomy Tower.

The Astronomy Tower overlooked, among many other things, the Quidditch pitch.

At dusk in the late Highlands spring, the various house Quidditch teams concluded their practices.

To calibrate Professor Sinistra's instruments properly took close to an hour. Daphne could be most meticulous when the occasion required.

It did, and so she was. Three of the four house teams delegated practice refreshments either to non-playing managers or the lowliest of substitutes. But one team's refreshments came courtesy of a star player, someone skilled enough to attract attention from professional talent spotters.

That team was Gryffindor, and the player was Ginny Weasley.

Despite all Daphne's observations, things did not add up. The ointment had a major fly - questions with no plausible answers.

If Ginny Weasley wanted Harry Potter so much she would dose him with Love Potion…?

If that girl would chance the wrath of a very powerful rival who had famously broken said Mr. Potter's leg in a duel witnessed by the entire D.A…?

Why in Merlin's name was Ginny Weasley also secretly trysting with Harry Potter's worst sworn enemy?

Too many coincidences - over a month of observations - convinced Daphne that Ginny was surreptitiously seeing Draco Malfoy. Entirely too frequently to be accidental, both went missing at the same time.

Things simply did not make sense.

Daphne was still mulling this conundrum when a golden opportunity appeared. Following an emotional exchange with Harry, Ginny Weasley fled the Great Hall. A short time later, she returned with something Harry immediately began eating.

Daphne had no appetite for crossing Hermione Granger, but Ginny Weasley was another story. If Ginny did the heavy lifting, Daphne would happily compete with her - especially with hard evidence of Ginny's perfidy to show Harry.

Daphne was Slytherin to the core.

Dumbledore came by a short time later and led Harry away somewhere.

Here was Daphne's chance. In short order the Gryffindor Quidditch breakfast broke up. Once it did - before any elves could tidy things - Daphne cast a Notice Me Not Charm on herself and strode past the Gryffindor table.

She exited the Great Hall holding the remnants of Harry's soup, intent upon testing that for every Love Potion known to wizardkind.

* * * *

The last Quidditch match of the season - Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff for the Cup. If that was not enough to get a Quidditch player's juices flowing, nothing was.

So it was with Harry.

Or not.

On one hand, Harry could barely wait to kick off. On the other, he felt a wave of nostalgia. Katie Bell's swan song - a “win this for me, because I can't” speech - reinforced it, particularly since Harry almost missed her speech and was frantically dressing for the match whilst his captain spoke.

His crazy schedule raised Harry's nostalgia for a younger, less complicated time. He had been happily engrossed in Quidditch discussions with Ginny and the rest, slurping his soup, when conversation faded away. Following his teammates' eyes, Harry turned and….

“A good morning for Quidditch, so it appears.”

“So it appears, Headmaster,” Harry answered coolly, sensing the end of his brief idyll.

It was.

“Miss Bell, might I borrow Mister Potter?” the Headmaster went through the formality of asking Captain Katie.

“Certainly, we were almost done anyway,” Katie deferred breathlessly to Dumbledore. In that one sentence she spoke more words to the Headmaster than during her entire time at Hogwarts.

With an exaggerated sigh that betrayed his pique, Harry wordlessly rose and trailed after the Headmaster.

They reached what Harry sometimes called the “Goblet of Fire Memorial Alcove.” Dumbledore turned, “I apologise for the interruption, but as you Gryffindor security liaison are I require your assistance in security matters pertaining to the match.”

“You didn't say it would interfere with Quidditch,” Harry grumbled.

“At the time, I did not believe it would,” Dumbledore conceded. “But after the Beauxbatons débacle, surely you understand our concerns - which, you should know, are shared by everyone from Rufus on down. I had to parry suggestions to cancel your match altogether. It is the first major match conducted by any school in Europe since that disaster.”

When put that way, Harry had little choice but to agree. “All right, let's do it.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore started moving again, and Harry resumed following. “Our consultations will conclude before the match. First, is a meeting with your fellow liaisons and the Aurors. I have seconded Mister Hooper to act in your stead during the match. More importantly, you will be meeting with the goblins….”

“Goblins?” Focused on the match, Harry had quite forgotten about them.

“They are here in force, Mister Potter,” the Headmaster continued. “Due to wizard sensibilities and lack of interest in Quidditch, they will remain in the background. They insist, however, upon your approving their deployments, as they view you as their senior commander on site….”

Hermione also attended the goblin meeting. She was his logical second should their help be needed.

The two security meetings consumed all Harry's time before the match. He left appreciating the weight of his current responsibilities - that playing Quidditch would never be “just Quidditch” again - not for him.

Hence Harry's nostalgia.

Win or lose, Gryffindor's season would be over. A few of them - he, Ron, Ginny, and some from the other Houses - would continue. They had a match against what Ron, their captain, called the “Krum all-stars.”

That reminded Harry. Since he was no longer captain, he should remove his stuff…. But for most of the Gryffindor team, today was the end.

Almost missing his captain's soliloquy brought everything home to Harry. This match could be his last for Gryffindor. Quidditch consumed a huge amount of time. With all his new responsibilities, he might not have that time next year. Eliza, rest her soul, had warned him about that….

“All right team; let's powder the `Puffs!”

Nostalgia or no, it was time to play Quidditch.

It was good Quidditch weather: temperature in the mid-to-high teens, a mix of sun and clouds, breezy but not blustery.

Harry shot up and almost immediately commenced his search for the Snitch.

Harry soon ascertained that Hufflepuff's Seeker was not much to worry about. A few dives and feints convinced him that Summerby would catch the Snitch only if Harry handed it to him.

The Snitch, however, was proving most elusive.

Whilst evaluating Summerby, Harry became painfully aware of something else - unless he caught the Snitch, Gryffindor was likely to lose the match.

With Demelza with injuries, and Katie unable to play, the brilliant set of Chasers that began Gryffindor's season was reduced to one - Ginny Weasley. Whilst the best of the lot, her moves often leaving her opponents (and Harry) mesmerised, Dean was little better than average. McLaggen, forced to play an unfamiliar position, was predictably horrid. In the match's first fifteen minutes, he repeatedly dropped the Quaffle, resulting in four turnovers to Hufflepuff before Harry stopped counting. As a unit, Hufflepuff's experienced Chaser trio of Smith, Cadwallader, and Hopkins outclassed Gryffindor's patched together lineup.

Still, with decent Beaters and Harry flying rings around Summerby, Gryffindor were still the favourite to win if Ron would Keep goal at his usual, nearly professional level.

Unfortunately, Ron was having a very off day. He had not been more tentative since mid-fifth year - seemingly afraid to extend himself for those spectacular saves that, all this year, he had made look routine.

Hufflepuff, ironically the greatest beneficiary of Harry's donation that equalised broom quality for all houses, led 40-20 after those first fifteen minutes.

Harry concluded he needed to do more than fly by Ron and yell encouragement.

Captain Katie noticed it too. She quickly called timeout. Telling Harry to try bucking up Ron, she took McLaggen aside and informed him that, if both Ron's and his subpar play continued, she might swap their positions, since McLaggen was the team's reserve Keeper, and Ron had helped create most of the Chasers' plays.

She withheld this possibility from Ron. From last year's bitter experience, Katie knew that Ron's confidence issues tended to feed on themselves.

Harry took advantage of the break to slake his thirst whilst trying everything he could think of - short of feeding Ron some Felix Felicis - to wheedle better play out of his best mate.

It seemed to help a little.

The match see-sawed inconclusively for the next half hour, with the score reaching 80-70 Hufflepuff. With the Snitch still nowhere in evidence, Harry spotted an opportunity and dove through Hufflepuff's Chasers, disrupting them and forcing a bad pass. Pulling up just before ground, he scanned the sky for the Snitch, but instead saw Ginny waving. She wanted to try the obstruction play they had practised.

Harry was game. He trailed her to the right hand side, trying to concentrate on the upcoming play, rather than on Ginny. She was rather distracting, particularly when followed closely.

Ginny gave the signal. Harry shot forward; they criss-crossed with less than two metres separation. Cadwallader, who had been marking Ginny, had to swerve violently to avoid colliding with Harry, and a Blatching foul, as the Gryffindor had the interior path. On cue, Dean flipped the Quaffle to an unguarded Ginny, who fired it through the 'Puffs' left goal to tie the game.

Harry exchanged hasty high fives with Ginny and Dean (McLaggen did not know the play and was only a decoy) before soaring skyward for another futile check on the Snitch. It was nowhere to be seen, but whilst searching Harry missed Zach Smith, the Hufflepuff captain, upbraiding his Beaters.

Harry was still fruitlessly searching when one of his Beaters, Richie Cooke, flew by, vigourously gesturing downwards.

For a blood-chilling second, Harry thought he had missed the Snitch, but Cooke had a message from Ginny. She wanted to run another play. Giving the heavens another quick scan, and spotting no telltale golden glint, Harry swooped in.

In seconds he was following Ginny on another run, this time only a metre or so above the grass. Suddenly, Ginny was knocked off course by a Bludger that shot in from their right. It hit her broomstick, barely missing her thigh.

Harry was incensed. Where were Gryffindor's Beaters? That brought home a drawback of these tactics. When Harry flew with the Chasers, nothing remained to distract opposing Beaters. His presence in the formation gave the 'Puffs more targets and left his mates with less room to manœuvre.

Harry was thinking too much and not paying enough attention. The next instant his right elbow erupted in fiery pain as a second Bludger caught Harry squarely on the point. He veered sideways from the line of play as his entire arm went numb.

Flying too low to compensate in time, Harry's right foot dug into the grass, flipping him over and slamming him hard into the turf. His left shoulder bore the brunt of the crash. He rolled over several times before tumbling to a halt.

Woozy from impact, Harry staggered to his feet the moment he stopped rolling, hoping by force of will to deny any serious injury. Unfortunately, that bit of grandstanding only confirmed the opposite. The dull throb in his left shoulder became excruciating when Harry tried raising his arm in a futile attempt to call his broom. Abandoning all pretense, Harry clumsily grabbed the shoulder with his still somewhat benumbed right hand, and trudged for the bench.

Katie immediately called an injury timeout and waved Jazzy into the game.

Ron flew in from his Keeper position. “Gotcha, mate,” he grunted as he hauled Harry on his broom and flew him slowly to the sideline. Ginny followed with Harry's broom. Katie finally had Ron swap positions with Cormac McLaggen, since Ron at least knew the Chasers' plays.

Injury timeouts were not even recognised in professional Quidditch. Under intramural rules they were limited to thirty seconds.

Harry sat slumped morosely on the Gryffindor bench, an otherwise superfluous Gryffindor foul weather cape draped loosely over him. Breathing heavily, he sucked away on his (no longer accurate) captain's water bottle. Katie approached, discarded her crutches, and bent down to face him, her hand lightly on his arm.

“Mind if I take a look?” she asked. “I'm pre-Healer.”

Harry winced, but agreed.

She reached for his left shoulder.

“Aaawwk! That hurts!” Harry yelped as she started manipulating it.

He hissed, but otherwise held his tongue, as Katie's probing fingers traced his pain.

“It's dislocated,” she diagnosed within a few seconds. “Go get yourself Healed by Pomfrey. She's right behind us, in the first row. I think she assumes you'll get hurt….”

“Don't want to … not till the match's over,” Harry resisted.

“You can't play with that,” she told him. “Your day is done.”

Harry gritted his teeth. “Maybe, maybe not. If I go to Pomfrey, I'm disqualified. I can't return, no matter what. We've no more substitutes. I don't want to cause a Gryffindor forfeit.”

“We'll play short-handed rather than forfeit,” Katie tried reassuring him.

“We'll lose,” Harry replied flatly, standing (technically sitting) his ground. “They're too good.”

“At least let me fix you up a bit,” Katie offered. “Just what's allowed on the sidelines.”

Harry gratefully agreed to whatever first aid Katie could manage. She patched him up for about ten minutes. First she wrapped Harry's shoulder tightly in magical self-slicing trainer's tape. Atop that Katie added a Muggle HypaCool for his bum shoulder and a magical heating pad on his opposite elbow.

McLaggen was, on this day, marginally superior to Ron in goal, and Ron was an improvement over McLaggen at Chaser. However, the other Gryffindors deflated after Harry's injury. Ginny seemed particularly dispirited, no doubt blaming herself for involving Harry with the Chasers' plays.

With all the Gryffindor team's other problems, it really needed Ginny at the top of her game. She was not, and over the next half hour Hufflepuff slowly pulled ahead on points.

Overhead, Jazzy and Steven Summerby battled each other. Harry's injury emboldened the Hufflepuff Seeker to take greater liberties with his replacement. As always, Jazzy responded to aggression on the Quidditch pitch (as elsewhere) with greater aggression.

All their bumping and Firebolt chicken games were a sideshow until the Snitch deigned to show itself. After another forty minutes, with the score favouring Hufflepuff 240-170, the elusive object at last made an appearance.

Jazzy saw it first, a split second before Summerby. The Snitch was on his side of the pitch, near the west stands, mostly occupied by Hufflepuff supporters. Neck and neck, the two streaked towards the Snitch, which fluttered erratically away from them. Summerby jostled the much smaller Jazzy and threw an elbow. The intense Kashmiri, not backing down an iota, ducked it. Hunched flat on her broom, Jazzy inched ahead. Her broom bore less weight and could fly slightly faster.

Sensing he was losing the race, Summerby tried cutting Jazzy off. As Jazzy attempted to fly over him, their slightly curved Firebolt broom sticks hooked at exactly the wrong angle, sending both out of control.

The Snitch flitted merrily away as Jazzy and Summerby slammed full tilt into the front of the west grandstands and fell to the turf with an ominous thud.

If Harry's accident was bad, this was worse. Neither Seeker was moving.

Madam Hooch, the referee, called another injury timeout - this one mandatory. That put both Seekers automatically out of the game, which changed nothing since neither was in any condition to continue. Already, Madam Pomfrey was running towards them.

Harry made a snap decision that would have done Oliver Wood proud.

Before Captain Katie could devise a response to this latest crisis, Harry tapped her on the shoulder. “Can you tape my left arm to my broom?”

“What!?!” Katie squawked unbelievingly. “You can't play one-handed.”

“There isn't anybody else,” he accurately replied. “I don't know the Hufflepuff reserve, but whoever it is must be worse than Summerby - and he wasn't very good.”

Katie shook her head at Harry's insistence, but had no choice. It was either send Harry in one-armed or play short-handed - with no Seeker. With Hufflepuff already relentlessly moving ahead on points, the latter option was the moral equivalent of a forfeit.

“All right, Harry,” she reluctantly agreed. “I hope neither of us lives to regret this.”

Ten minutes later, Katie had used up almost all her remaining trainer's tape. Three rolls thoroughly covered Harry's left arm, from his shoulder to his fingertips. His hand was triple-taped to his Firebolt's broomstick in a death grip.

Madam Pomfrey escorted both downed Seekers off the field on Self-levitating stretchers. Whilst working on Harry, Katie received word that Jazzy had a concussion and two broken arms. Summerby was in even worse shape, with dangerous back injuries as well as a concussion. In that sense only, Jazzy had won.

Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and the teams kicked off. Harry staggered at the beginning, almost flipping upside down, but soon got the hang of flying with but one functional arm.

The Hufflepuff reserve Seeker, Virginia Valentine, had never played a minute in an actual match. Even in practice, she served mostly as a stand-in Chaser.

Mostly to test the limits of his own mobility, Harry tried a couple of fancier moves. He then made a run at the Hufflepuff. Her consistently tentative response indicated that she was utterly in awe of his reputation. If Harry could simply locate the Snitch, he was very likely to beat her to it.

The Snitch continued its elusive ways.

Time was not Gryffindor's ally.

An hour passed, and Hufflepuff's unscathed front line of experienced Chasers inexorably pulled further ahead. The score ballooned to 370-240 - a 130-point margin for the yellow and black. Harry's left arm ached and itched beneath its impermeable coating of trainer's tape. The sun slid steadily towards the northwest as shadows began advancing across the Pitch.

Then he saw it - a gold flash a few dozen metres to the left of the Hufflepuff goal hoops. Valentine was between him and the Snitch, but completely oblivious to it.

Harry dove almost straight down, slightly away from the Snitch's position. Valentine followed, but Harry flipped into a descending Immelman turn. Suddenly he was flying in the opposite direction, his damaged shoulder throbbing from the strain of the turn. By the time Valentine righted herself, Harry was rushing headlong towards the Snitch. This time it did not disappear.

Harry had the inside angle, but it hardly mattered. He concentrated so intensely on the Snitch that free magic crackled blue-white between the fingers on his right hand. That show alone intimidated his inexperienced competition. At the last second the Snitch veered left, but Harry was ready. He pulled up, flipped upside down, and caught the Snitch in his right hand.

Gryffindor won the Cup 390-370.

That final move nearly removed Harry's arm from its socket. With his body inverted, the trainer's tape binding his left hand to his broomstick carried his upper body's full weight.

Without magic, Harry managed to approximate the sensations of the Cruciatus Curse more closely than he thought possible.

Barely aware of his surroundings through a haze of pain, Harry floated to the ground, slumped over his broom. One hand clutched the Snitch whilst the other remained bound to the handle. But for his teammates' alert actions, he would have been mobbed by a horde of Gryffindor supporters doing their best Lindbergh-at-Le-Bourget stampede.

Ron led a charge of broom riders to protect Harry. Landing just before their winning Seeker would have been swarmed by jubilant fans, the Gryffindor team had to link brooms to hold back the surge.

Ginny tried helping the exhausted and injured man of the moment to his feet, but Harry could barely move with his hand stuck fast to his broom. Unwilling to risk a Diffindo with Harry's fingertips covered in tape; she did something she had wanted - under different circumstances - to do for a long time.

She bucked Harry as far forward on his Firebolt as he could comfortably go and slid on the broom behind him. Awkwardly, she kicked off. Keeping one hand firmly around Harry's waist to prevent further damage to his shoulder, she slowly flew him over the surrounding crowd straight to the Hospital Wing.

Whilst airborne with Harry, Ginny noticed a disheveled Hermione fighting through the mob to where she thought Harry was. If her luck held, Ginny thought, Hermione would not be doing such a thing again.

* * * *

Temperamentally, Draco Malfoy was a strutter, not a skulker. But his Master was impatient for results, so today he did what was necessary. If all went well, he would have favourable results to report.

All was not going well. From this morning's apex - when the Weaselette brought news of her opportunity to slip the Great Git an extra dose - everything had been downhill. Unanticipated complexities overwhelmed his hopes of a simple, single-target afternoon.

Sod's law was more than a Muggle concept.

The worst was Potty getting himself injured. For once Draco had hoped, vainly, that the Git would ignore all that rah-rah Quidditch blather. No chance, and with the Mudblood watching, his heroics were particularly nerve-wracking.

If the wrong traumatic event triggered her Draught of Despair, the entire plan would collapse - irreparably.

The worst did not happen - thanks to the Great Git's theatrics after hitting the turf. But if Scarhead did not catch the Snitch, he might not pull his usual hiding-out-in-the-Quidditch-clubhouse routine that they were counting on. According to Weasley, Potty hated the house party adulation he always received as winning Seeker.

The Draught of Despair's one-week window mandated their most promising scheme - Quidditch. Essential to that scheme was the Great Git's following his usual post-game pattern. His detour to the Hospital Wing required improvisation.

At least Scarhead caught the Snitch - the first time Draco had ever rooted for that result. Then it was straight to the Hospital Wing, where Potty had been ever since.

So Draco skulked in an empty classroom just down the hall, Disillusioned, staring at dots on his map of the Castle.

His own moment in the limelight was imminent. The Mudblood had finally left, meaning Potty was just about Healed. She had fallen in with Finnegan, Blyth, and Brown, no doubt the Gryffindor “Quidditch booster” group - every House had one. Boosters consisted mostly of boyfriends, girlfriends and hangers-on who organised after-match parties when their teams won.

Pansy used to do that for him.

However much a planner Pansy was, Potter's Mudblood was undoubtedly ten times worse. Surely, she had some surprise - of a private nature - planned for the Great Git later that evening. She would be itching to get him alone to tell him about it.

That hunch drove Draco's second Remembrall.

When the dot marked “Luna Lovegood” joined the Mudblood's group, Draco's suspicions were confirmed. His map had shown him interesting things about his foes - such as Looney recently spending a great deal of quality time alone with the Gryffindor Keeper.

Lovegood, indeed.

His button flashed green. The Weaselette was in place and signalling her readiness - now to get the Git to the Gryffindor clubhouse. Then, he would wait half an hour before sending along the Mudblood. To accomplish all that, Draco charmed two inflatable Remembralls, the remaining two kept in reserve in case of accidents. He only had to puncture them somewhere in the vicinity of their intended targets.

He knew exactly where Scarhead was, and the Remembrall would remind him.

Now, it was time - if not to strut - at least for Draco to perform. He ended his Disillusionment.

“Diffindo,” Draco sliced the palm of his left hand with the spell, giving himself an obvious reason to visit the Hospital Wing.

* * * *

Harry's shoulder looked and felt fine, but he needed to satisfy himself that he was well and truly Healed. As the acid test, he stood and windmilled his right arm as hard as he could, whilst recounting for the recently Ennervated Jazzy the match's twists and turns after her early and unfortunate departure. She faced a longer confinement, with compound fractures to both arms, a concussion, and severe facial lacerations, the consequences of flying full tilt into the grandstand's façade.

“…and the 'Puffs' replacement had no playing experience at all….”

The door to the Hospital Wing creaked open, and in walked Draco Malfoy, his left hand bleeding profusely. He was obviously - perhaps too obviously - in distress.

“Madam Pomfrey!” Malfoy wailed. “I need Pomfrey. I've been hurt!”

“Get in line. You'll find no sympathy here,” Steve Summerby ragged the former Slytherin Seeker. Summerby was recovering from his own concussion, a shattered scapula, and several burst vertebræ. “This place is for really injured wizards, not you Malfoy … tis but a flesh wound.”

Scowling, the haughty Slytherin returned the insult. “The day I need sympathy from a pathetic powder 'Puff is the day I'll kill myself. Madam Pomfrey, please!”

“Don't hold back on my account….”

“Shut it, all of you!” Intervention came from the on-duty pre-Healer, Emmanuelle Elphick, a seventh-year Hufflepuff. “Madam Pomfrey's getting more Skele-Gro at the main Floo. You'll have to make do with me. Now, what happened to you?”

“I was practising spellwork with my mates,” Draco explained, “and one of them messed up.”

Elphick Tergeoed away the blood on Malfoy's injured hand. His palm had quite a slice.

“A likely story,” Harry quipped, not caring whether it was likely or not.

“You've got your bloody D.A.” Draco sniped. “I've got mine.”

“Draco's arseholes,” Jazzy jumped in. “`D.A.' can mean different….”

“You'll go far, bint. The sooner you start, the better…. OWWWWW!” Draco screeched and stomped his foot when Elphick probed his cut rather more vigourously than perhaps necessary. His exclamation drowned out the simultaneous soft “pop” from his overstressed Remembrall.

“What a wimp,” Summerby commented loud enough to be sure Malfoy heard. “It's amazing anybody thought he could ever play Quidditch.”

Draco glared at the Hufflepuff but restrained himself, as Elphick Healed his nasty gash.

“Well, I'm all Healed, so I think I'll be off,” Harry announced. “I've stuff to clean out of the Captain's office, since I'm not captain anymore.”

Jazzy rolled her eyes. Harry was just making excuses. He would avoid the House post-match party as long as possible. She knew he detested being fawned over after winning a match, but by making himself scarce, Harry only ensured that everybody fawned that much harder once he finally arrived.

Harry was obviously planning to hide out. If he took too long, the House would just send Hermione to collect him. That always worked.

Excuses or no, Harry trotted to the Gryffindor clubhouse.

He itched.

Harry looked forward to changing into his own clothes. When the team brought him to the Hospital Wing, Ron thoughtfully conjured Harry new underclothes to replace his rather ripe set from the almost five-hour match. Ron saved Harry the embarrassment of having to ask before a crowd of people, but his conjuring was not the best.

The clubhouse door was unlocked; not unusual for a match day, but the lock seemed broken. That could be a security problem….

Security … yet another thing on his to-do list. As their technical commander, Harry had to dismiss the goblins who guarded the match. They would not leave without his say so.

So many responsibilities.

Next year, would he even have time to play Gryffindor? Or had he just finished his last Quidditch match?

Distracted by six - no five, since fourth year had none - years of Quidditch memories, Harry changed and began packing his gear in desultory fashion.

His mind wandered to a quite recent Quidditch memory. That moment just before his most recent injury … flying in tandem with Ginny, her ruddy tresses streaming behind her - towards him - like a welcoming carpet. He was jealous….

No, he should not be thinking that. He had a post-match party to endure.

Everyone in the House would be waiting to tell him how….

Actually, not everyone. He heard someone still in the shower. Harry was grateful his privacy was not disturbed….

“EEEEEEEEKK!”

Shite! That scream? It sounded like Ginny!

Hastily snatching his wand from the Captain's desk, Harry bolted out the office door.

“EEEEEEEEKK!” Ginny screamed again. “NO! GET AWAY!”

Harry tore around the corner into the showers. Sliding to a halt on the wet tile floor, Harry spotted a thoroughly riled, foot-tall Bowtruckle, clicking madly, advancing on an Obscurused person he presumed was Ginny Weasley.

The thing jumped at Ginny. Harry fired - “Stupefy!” - but the Bowtruckle dodged. Fortunately, that meant it missed Ginny.

The Bowtruckle kicked off the back wall, launching itself straight at its attacker's face. Harry raised his arm in time, but suffered received forearm slashes from the beast's sharp talons and fangs.

“AAHHHH!” Harry yelled, as he flung the thing away. The Bowtruckle flipped into the main clubhouse and skittered for the door. Harry aimed again.

“Reduc...!” He never completed his incantation as the thoroughly terrified little creature shoved the door open and fled.

“Pesky little bugger.” Harry resheathed his wand and turned to the nasty bleeding gashes on his arm. “Damn….”

“Oh, Harry, thank you. You saved me again.” The grey blob that was Ginny approached from the showers. “Where could that horrid thing came from?”

“Door won't lock,” Harry commented. “Saving's hardly what I would call….”

“Oh, dear, you're hurt,” Ginny exclaimed, noticing his arm. “Here, let me….”

Ginny quickly reached into her locker for her wand.

Harry extended his arm and felt Ginny's soft touch. “Episkey! There. All better.”

His arm felt warm and wonderful - especially where Ginny held it. Instead of letting go, her hand slid upwards. “Umm…. Thanks Ginny. That was….”

POP!

“Ginny!”

Not two feet away from him, she ended her Obscurus Charm. There she stood - starkers - her long fiery red hair dripping from her shower.

Ginny breathed, “When I've needed you, you've always been there for me….”

Before Harry could react, she closed the narrow gap between them. Ginny had every bit the magnificent, lithe body Harry had imagined on those occasions - more frequent of late - when he thought about how she would look naked. From her head, down to her…. Oh, my!

“…I think it's time I'm there for you.” In a single graceful motion, she wrapped one arm around Harry's neck, the other about his waist, and pulled her lips to his.

`I shouldn't be…,' Harry's mind frantically tried to process what the rest of him was feeling.

`This isn't what I….'

“And I need you, too,” she murmured into his mouth.

`This is seriously … oh Merlin … wonderful….'

“Nobody else is here, Harry. You know you want it.”

He should flee, like he did at the ball. He should Banish her to the opposite end of the clubhouse. He should do something, anything, to put a stop to this….

But something inside held him back.

Harry's will, capable of defeating the Imperius when properly motivated, never slipped into gear, or perhaps pointed him in a different direction.

Harry relaxed. A red curtain of intense lust descended and eclipsed his higher mental faculties.

Ginny was right; he did want it.

This time, Harry went with the flow.

* * * *

Ron, Seamus, and the rest headed for the kitchens to nick food and drink for what would surely be a raucous after-match party celebrating yet another Quidditch Cup. Hermione begged off, having other plans for later that evening.

She had the L.O.S.S. room ready.

Although Professor Binns had no further use for his bed, that did not make it useless - not at all.

Dumbledore's new directive, post-Beauxbatons massacre, about goblins in the Castle was rather vague. Was the school “in session” during a Quidditch weekend? Maybe Harry could ask a couple of goblins to stay behind and provide their cloaking magic.

Speaking of Harry….

Hermione wondered if he was in the common room. The post-match party could not really start without the Seeker of the hour. Exiting L.O.S.S.'s little cul de sac hallway, Hermione tried raising Harry on her D.A. mirror.

No luck. He probably left it in his dormitory rather than take it to the match. She tried Ron and Luna with no better results. They might have theirs shut off. Whilst they had made no public announcement, Hermione knew from Luna that they were seeing each other.

Finally she contacted Neville whilst walking down a side corridor.

No, Harry was not back.

Typical Harry.

Reaching the corner with the main third floor hallway, Hermione heard footsteps. Turning the corner, she tensed as she saw Draco Malfoy striding towards her. Her hand was flexed, ready to flick her wand from its holster at the slightest provocation, but Malfoy passed quietly, without a word, not even the usual insult.

Like so much background noise, in a minute Draco's passage was forgotten.

Hermione remembered something else far more important.

Before reaching the staircase, Hermione had a plan. She had not informed Harry of this evening's preparations. Almost surely, he was dawdling in the Gryffindor clubhouse.

She would have to retrieve him.

A lovely Scottish May sunset painted the sky turquoise and pink as Hermione reached her destination. She pushed open the unlocked clubhouse door, calling out, “Harry, I know you're in there, I'm coming…. Erk….”

Confronted with her worst nightmare, Hermione's words died in her throat. No, this was worse than her worst nightmare, because she would never have dreamt Harry would do such a thing.

Harry, wearing nothing below the waist, stared straight at her, his mouth gaping in surprise and shock. He was upright, leaning against the back row of lockers. His face blushed spectacularly red, remnants of his prior bliss fading rapidly as his glazed eyes attempted to focus.

For a long moment, Hermione stood there, dumbfounded, her hand frozen on the doorknob, silhouetted in the gathering gloom.

“Hermione, I'm….”

On her haunches in front of him, was Ginny Weasley, naked as the day she was born. Her long hair flowed chaotically down her back almost brushing the floor. The back of her head bobbed rhythmically. Hermione did not need every gory detail to know exactly what she was doing. Hermione was no stranger to the act, but never … such a submissive….

Hermione's heart dropped leadenly. “Harry!!” she wailed. “What are…?” She stopped abruptly, feeling physically ill. Not since the London fire, had Hermione felt the ominous thrum of spontaneous magic. She must escape!

Without further word, she turned on her heel. After one step, she heard….

“Hermione….”

Her name on his lips drew Hermione up short. Forcing down her gorge, she turned back to the awful sight. Ginny had not even bothered stopping.

Steeling herself with a deep breath, Hermione uttered the only thing that popped into her head. “I promised you a chance to explain anything.”

Silence.

Tears glistened at the corners of Hermione's eyes. “I'm waiting.”

Damn that Ginny Weasley. Could she at least give it a rest?

Harry was barely coherent. “I…. You see…. Umm. I ... don't have any….”

That was it. This relationship ended, not with a whimper, but with a bang.

“You bloody BASTARD!!”

Hurt, rage - and despair - collided in Hermione's mind. She slammed the door as she howled an anguished cry that would have done the wildest Banshee proud.

Through the window, a blazing orange flash briefly overpowered the clubhouse lights, and was gone.

Ginny finally paused. She looked up with soulful brown eyes. “Don't worry about anything, you're with me.” Then she redoubled her previous efforts.

Harry was hers. Her worst fear - a powerful, even deadly, curse to the back of her head - never came. Ginny proved herself right. With enough nerve, almost anything was possible.

Outside, in the fading light, Hermione had managed a half dozen staggering steps before falling to her knees, bursting into tears, and setting loose a burst of fiery, spontaneous magic that scorched everything within several metres.

Sobbing uncontrollably, she looked back. Her last, forlorn hope shrivelled up and died. The door stayed closed. Harry did not come for her.

Hermione's urge to flee this awful spot - to escape, somehow, those ugly almost Dementor-like feelings - reasserted itself. Picking herself up, she screamed again, this time in pure despair.

She ran all the way to the Castle, needing to erase what she had seen, to numb what she was feeling. Her first choice was physical debility.

Up the hill she streaked, then across the Castle's wide side lawn.

She burst through the doors from which she had emerged but a short time before - in such a different mood.

She sprinted through the Castle ignoring, or more accurately oblivious to, stares from everyone she encountered.

The hallways, then the stairs, echoed Hermione's racing footsteps. Reaching the staircase to the Gryffindor common room she cursed herself for being in the best physical shape of her life. Again, it was Harry's fault. Dur to their training, she could not even pass out from sheer exhaustion.

Oh, Circe, the party!!

Behind that door, the entire House awaitied her return with their victorious Seeker. How could she tell everybody what just happened - where their bloody, sodding Seeker really was, and who with? How could she tell anybody?

Hermione was wrong. The whole House was not beyond that door.

Hearing chatter behind her, Hermione turned and saw, just starting up the stairs, Lavender, Parvati, and Romilda Vane. Hermione was not in the mood to encounter anyone, but those three insufferable gossips were at the absolute bottom of any list she might make.

She was trapped, like a rat surrounded by Kneazles.

Like a cornered rat, Hermione bolted. “Lions rule, snakes drool!” she yelled out the current puerile password. She burst through the portrait hole so forcefully that the Fat Lady yelped and fell over backwards. Hermione tried for the privacy of her dormitory, hoping to push through the celebratory crowd before anyone could react.

No such luck. Seamus, Dean, and Ken Towler (somehow they always managed scrounge up something alky) were operating an open bar a few metres inside the entrance, and Hermione nearly piled into that great oaf McLaggen.

“What the hell?”

“Hermione, what in Merlin's name happened?”

She looked an absolute fright - half out of breath, robes askew, and her face beet red.

Hermione spun around, recovered her bearings, and encountered the next obstacle between her and the stairway to the girls' dormitory.

Somebody had persuaded the elves to prepare a great cake celebrating five years of Gryffindor Quidditch supremacy. It rested on a large table in the middle of the common room. The cake's centre was hollow, hiding a stool or some such on which perched the Quidditch Cup. Decorating the top of the cake, all about the Cup, were the Twins' Crystal Confetti Candles.

Beside the cake, occupying one of the common room's red comfortable chairs, was Katie Bell, the House's disabled Quidditch Captain. She was chatting with Leanne Blyth and Marona Zelandowicz when a frantic Hermione pelted into view. At the disturbance, they all looked up.

“Hermione, we're ready to cut the cake,” Katie said. Where's Harry? What the…?”

Hermione had her wand out, and aimed at the cake. “Ignitius!” she incanted, and all the candles - a proud 3W product - exploded simultaneously, blasting confetti and multi-coloured sparks everywhere.

The suddenly erupting cake distracted everyone, and Hermione swerved in the opposite direction, making for the staircase and desperately sought solitude.

Hermione's misery, and miserable luck, continued.

A crowd of jubilant House Quidditch fans barred the girls' stairs. In their midst stood Ron and the two Beaters, Richie Cooke and Jimmy Peakes. All three were regaling their fans with tales of Quidditch derring-do - and in Ron's case, excuses for missed saves. Now, they were jostling to see what was happening to the cake.

Ron stepped out front. “Hermione, what's that all about? Where's Harry? Hermione…!”

The irony was too much. Losing a battle to silence herself, Hermione angrily shouted back, “Why don't you ask your own frigging sister!?”

Unable to reach her dormitory, Hermione lurched rightward and fled up the stairs to the boys' dormitory.

“Hermione!” Ron called again, before giving chase. Close behind trailed Luna and Neville.

“Stay the hell away!” she yelled over her shoulder.

Pursued by her best remaining friends, Hermione took the tower stairs two at a time. With no destination to run to, Hermione was just running. Chance - a hot-and-heavy snog session between Geoff Hooper and Patty Stimson blocking the landing to the uppermost, seventh year floor - made Hermione's choice for her.

She darted into the sixth year boys' bedroom.

Ron bounded after her and nearly drew back a nub.

“Diffindo!” she cursed, and Ron dropped to dodge a Cutting Curse that sizzled into Dean's bed curtains, ripping them cleanly in half. “Stay away from me! I'm warning you! A-huhk! Huhk! A-huhk! Urrhk!” Hermione had finally had too much. A coughing fit overcame her.

“Ron, get back!” Luna ordered. “I've seen this before. I'll handle it - with Neville. Guard the door and don't let anybody up until we sort this out.”

Ron gawked incredulously at his girl friend. “But she's my best friend. I need to know what's happening, too. I think she said something about Ginny…!”

Hermione, still coughing heavily, clung to one of Neville's bedposts simply to stay upright.

Luna fished something from her robes and tossed it to Ron.

Ron reached out and caught a set of Extendable Ears.

“Now go bar the door,” Luna repeated, in a no-nonsense voice she rarely used.

“But what about Neville?” Ron protested.

“You're bigger and stronger than he is,” Luna shot back.

Ron's chest swelled a bit with pride. Luna had a point.

“Now go!”

Ron went - a good thing because half the House had followed them up the stairs, several of their heads intruding.

BANG! POW!

“Back off!” Ron ordered, brandishing his wand to give off loud, but harmless, blasts accompanied by bright flashes. “Nothing to see here. Outside you go!”

Ron forced the crowd into the stairwell and slammed the door. Almost at once the Extendable Ears slithered past the sill.

Meanwhile, Luna conjured a paper bag and informed Hermione that, as in the “Goodbye Gryffindor” incident, she was hyperventilating. Most of the fight had vanished from the distraught girl. Soon Hermione sat on Neville's bed, leaning on Luna, and softly sobbing.

Under gentle, but repeated questioning about what had gone wrong and what had happened with Harry, Hermione finally opened up.

“He's … with Ginny. I saw it with my own eyes…. I couldn't believe it…. How could he….?”

“Well, we'll just go get him,” Neville offered.

“NO!” Hermione shrieked. “I mean he's with her, with her, dammit…. The backstabbing slut….”

Their eyes bugged out - Luna's more than normal - as they realised what Hermione was saying.

“You mean Harry's cheated on you…?”

“With Ginny…?”

Nodding miserably, Hermione started wailing louder.

It took a couple more minutes to coax Hermione into saying anything more. She was bitter. “I'll bet, they're probably shagging each other's brains out by now.” Haltingly, but more coherently as her breathing returned to normal, Hermione recounted the sorry tale how she encountered Harry and Ginny in flagrante delicto - because Hermione hoped to tell Harry about her preparations for similar activity (now out of the question) later the same evening.

She described the state of those two, how no doubt existed over what they were doing, and most tellingly - she had offered Harry a chance to say something, anything, to excuse his behavior. He admitted he had no excuse.

She had turned and fled in tears, but had tripped and fallen before getting very far. She had suffered a magical accident - her own uncontrolled charmonic emission.

He must have seen, heard, or felt it, but had not come for her. He stayed with Ginny Weasley - in Ginny's … embrace, such as it was.

Hermione warmed to her predicament. “I didn't ask for that,” she spat, her depression blossoming into rage. “A simple fling would have been fine, if that's all he wanted. I only wanted what he could give….”

She stood abruptly, and paced to the dormitory window. The last glimmers of daylight tinted the horizon. Somewhere out there, Harry and Ginny were enjoying one another.

“I didn't ask for forever,” she sighed. “Sure I was overjoyed when offered, but we're so young. So damn, bloody young….” Hermione turned from the window and found herself facing Harry's bed.

“If not mature enough to keep that commitment,” Hermione muttered to nobody in particular, “he should never have offered it.”

Nearby, sitting stock-still on Neville's bed, Luna stared mutely, alongside Neville. When Neville started to respond, Luna put her index finger firmly across his lips.

“But he did, and like a fool, I said `yes,' despite my better judgment,” she growled. Hermione's audience could practically feel her incandescent anger.

Better rage, Luna thought, than bottling everything up. If Hermione lashes out, maybe she will clear her system. As an empath, Luna had some feeling for auras, and something about Hermione's seemed off. She again motioned for Neville to stay quiet.

From Hermione's words, Luna concluded that the relationship that just exploded in her best female friend's face had been more than the Ravenclaw had ever dared hope.

Hermione did not disappoint.

“I wanted to believe,” Hermione mused. “Hell, I did believe. I'm having a devil of a time not believing….”

She stared stonily at Harry's close-curtained four-poster bed. “You know, we did it there,” she hissed, her wand drawn and its tip flashing dangerously.

“More than once, in fact. Once….”

Hermione's wand flashed with her diagonal slash.

A spell both Neville and Luna recognised as a silent Diffindo cut across Harry's bed, dropping a piece of the bed curtain.

“Twice…!”

Her wand sliced the air in the opposite direction. The spell's second iteration sliced into Harry's thankfully vacant bed, partly splitting one of its bedposts.

“Three times…!”

Hermione's third Diffindo scarred Harry's cornice, splintering the fascia and causing the canopy to sag.

“And our first time, in that flat where I laboured so long - sharing the suite with effing Ginny Weasley - trying to save your sorry arse…. Four!” Hermione's curse split the headboard asunder, scattering Harry's toilet kit. “Because you, of all people, wanted to wait.”

Within seconds, Hermione was at it again.

“…All those times in the Château, including in the pool - five!” Another slash and one entire side of the hangings fell away.

“And in the pool again - with the bloody landing lights - six!” Hermione shifted position until the only the wall was behind Harry's now rather worse-for wear bedstead. Another piece of the curtains fell, and with an audible yelp, Godric Gryffindor abandoned his post for some other portrait not under siege.

“And in the Proprietor's Suite - every morning and night, and occasionally other times….”

And so on, and so forth.

To Luna's and Neville's increasing amazement, Hermione proceeded to list every time and place she and Harry had made love, all the while reducing Harry's four-poster bed to a shattered collection of rags and splintered wood.

Neville would never look at a Muggle snooker table again without blushing.

Only once did they intervene - when Neville rescued the “Death or Glory” cavalry pennant. Hermione made no move to stop him. She appreciated the pennant's personal value to Neville, not to mention its historical significance.

Neville now wished he could somehow rescind his gift. Anybody who could do what Harry just did to Hermione - and in that manner - he no longer thought worthy.

It was, however, an unconditional transfer.

By the end, Hermione was visibly flagging. “…And finally, our last time, just two nights ago, in the Divination tower classroom…. Forty-seven!”

The sole bit of Harry's bed remaining upright at the conclusion of Hermione's outburst was a chunk of scored and mutilated headboard, and only because the house-elves had affixed it solidly to the wall.

Hermione's next move left her friends even more shocked and appalled.

“It's over, Harry Potter,” Hermione addressed harsh words at the absent author of her current heartache. “Do you hear me … over!” With a grunt, she tugged something from her left hand and tossed it on the bed.

The goblin-forged ring Harry had given Hermione was charmed to be invisible on her finger, but the charm ceased when she removed it. The gold ring, set with three gemstones (two 5-carat rubies on either side of a 25-carat diamond) glittered where both Luna and Neville could see it. That extravagant souvenir of the Black estate completely overshadowed Harry's Auror partner's ring, which likewise lay, discarded, on the remains of his bed.

“My word, Hermione, that's some rock you're tossing away,” Luna commented before thinking better of it.

“Screw it! I don't want it anymore,” she replied coldly. “I promised to remain his friend, but that's all from now on - and even that'll be plenty hard. I never thought Harry would….”

Neville stood, his face grim. “Hermione are you saying that you and Harry were…?”

Tears returned to Hermione's eyes as she mutely nodded.

“…and that two-timing bastard still did that?” Neville, normally placid in almost all situations, looked absolutely livid. “I'll kill him! That's the ancient wizard penalty for adultery, anyway….”

“Oh, Merlin, no!” Hermione loudly and immediately responded. “Not that, we were only … engaged.” Nervously, she tossed a stray strip of Harry's thoroughly sliced bed linens over the rings to conceal them from casual discovery. “But … please don't tell…. Oh, Hell, did Ron…?”

Whilst Hermione was revealing her greatest former secret, Luna had moved towards the door.

“Hermione, Ron's not out here anymore,” Luna reported, “just the loose end of my Extendable Ears.”

“Oh, bollocks!” Hermione exclaimed. “You don't think…?”

“I don't think, I know,” Luna cut across Hermione. “Ron's promised me to have…. Ha-ha-ha. Ron asked Harry to give him a `brother's talk' on my behalf,” she revealed. “Ron said he did the same for you with Harry and threatened mayhem if he….”

“Damn everything to Hades!” Hermione swore, catching the other two by surprise. “He's on bloody probation. If Ron gets into another fight, for any reason, he'll probably be expelled!”

Swept with a new sense of purpose, Hermione dashed out the door and down the stairs, with Neville and Luna once again in hot pursuit.

The rest of the House had been milling about in the common room, not sure whether to party, pack things in, or start searching for Harry and Ginny, neither of whom were anywhere to be found.

They stared bewildered as first Hermione, and then Neville and Luna, rushed down the stairs and for the portrait hole.

“Where's Ron!” Hermione demanded from the bystanding crowd.

“You don't want to find him right now,” Dean Thomas told her. “He left maybe fifteen minutes ago, and he was not a happy flier.”

“That stupid, chivalrous sod!” Hermione exclaimed, and plunged through the portrait hole - sending the Fat Lady sprawling once again.

Prefect Geoff Hooper stepped forward. “What in Merlin's name is going on? It's getting close to curfew.”

Transparently falsely, Neville answered, “Nothing, nothing at all.” He and Luna piled through the portrait hole after Hermione - followed by half the House.

Hermione heard the commotion on the stairs. Drawing herself up, she turned and told the rest of Gryffindor House, “Everyone stay here. That's an order. I'm not kidding. The goblins are under orders to detain anyone outside the Castle, save the three of us - and I remind you that goblin custody isn't known for its creature comforts.”

Every word she uttered was a lie, but Hermione delivered them quite convincingly.

* * * *

Ronald Weasley was furious, but it was a cold fury. He was a man on a mission. That mission was to beat the living magic out of Harry sodding Potter.

Harry Potter - whom Ron had been pleased to call his best mate until a few minutes ago - had cheated on Hermione Granger with his own baby sister.

Hermione Granger was the most amazing girl - no, woman - Ron had ever met in his life. Harry had cast her aside like yesterday's Prophet for to rut with Ginny, a bloody fan-girl. Sure, Ginny had lots of good points, although Ron was hard-pressed to remember them at present, but her overt fawning (and lusting) over the Boy Who Lived was not one of them.

“Bigger and stronger” Ron had done what his girlfriend and Neville had wanted, because it would help Hermione. Hermione had been in a right state - close to her outright psychotic break over the summer. She needed help, and Ron knew he was pants at comforting Hermione when she was like this.

He would only say something stupid and make things worse. That was the story of his life in respect of Hermione Granger.

So he had barred the door. He had shoved half the House - even poor Seamus and Dean, who lived in the dormitory room Ron guarded - down the stairs. Ron threatened to hex anyone loitering in the stairwell. Ron knew his share of nasty curses from the D.A. and elsewhere. Nobody tried anything. He must have looked like he meant it.

He did.

Now, he would try some of those nasty curses on Harry sodding Potter.

Already upset with whatever had devastated Hermione, Ron had listened intently to her conversation with Luna and Neville. He eventually understood that Harry Potter had cheated on Hermione with his baby sister!

Potter had been an utter cad, doing it when and where Hermione could catch them in the very act.

From what he heard, Potter did not even pretend he was sorry.

When he first learnt that Harry and Hermione were together, Ron sat Harry down for the “big brother” talk. He had to settle for that role, so Ron played it to the hilt. In true big brother style, he threatened to thrash Harry if he ever hurt Hermione.

Honestly, he had trusted Harry and never expected to have to redeem that promise. But Harry had betrayed them both - cheating on Hermione … with his baby sister!

When due to the unfathomable workings of her great brain, Hermione started listing every time she and Harry had shagged, Ron had had enough. He threw Luna's Extendable Ears to the floor in disgust and stormed down the stairs.

His housemates were in a tizzy. They asked if anything had happened to Harry - had he somehow been hurt again; to which Ron had replied, “Not yet.”

He declared that, no, Harry was not missing, nor was Ginny, and that he - Ron - knew where they were and would bring them back. He did not add, “unharmed.”

He told everyone that, no, he desired no help, and that anybody trying to go with him would only delay matters.

So, fists and wand ready, Ron sought out an unscheduled rendezvous with Harry sodding Potter. He started running, but in the dark, had to slow down. Nor did he want to be tired and out of breath when he arrived.

What in Merlin's name could Potter be thinking? He already had everything anybody could want.

Ron always thought, and sometimes even vocalised, that compared to the Great Harry Potter, everything he owned was rubbish.

Harry was the “Boy Who Lived,” even the bloody “Chosen One.” Ron was … not.

Harry was the Gryffindor security liaison so when it counted, he could order Prefects about. Ron was no longer a Prefect, having yielded the position, he thought, to Harry.

Harry was rich beyond anything reasonable. In comparison, anything Ron had, even after his father's big promotion, was insignificant.

Harry had two second-class Orders of Merlin, compared to Ron's one third-class. Whilst earning his second, Harry had rescued….

That also rankled Ron. Harry always seemed to by rescuing people. Last time, he had to be rescued … because of Chang. But Chang would never have happened but for Hermione turning him down flat … because of Harry sodding Potter.

Hell, Hermione even turned down Viktor Krum for Harry sodding Potter.

And Potter had betrayed her … shattered her … binned the best thing ever to walk into either of their lives.

All so he could shag my baby sister!

Reaching the Gryffindor Quidditch clubhouse, Ronald Weasley had worked himself into a towering rage. Predictably, the lights were still on.

Some bleeding fool had left the practice bin wide open. Ron reached inside and felt the satisfying heft of a Beater's bat. Somebody was going to take a beating tonight.

He could hear them - those sounds he knew from being with Chang. Merlin! Those two lacked even the elementary sense to use a Silencing Charm.

Or even to lock the bloody door.

Ron violently shoved the front door open, its glass window shattering when it slammed against the wall.

If Ronald Weasley had not been in a blind fury when he burst into the room, the scene would have scarred his retinas for life.

“PETRIFICUS TOTALUS!!” he roared. The bolt from his wand struck Ginny squarely between her perky bouncy tits - tits that nobody else had any business seeing.

The hex worked instantly. Ginny's legs snapped together. Harry howled with pain, as Ginny toppled, and rolled helplessly away.

“DEPULSO!!” Ron's next spell slammed into Harry, sending the already pain-addled sod crashing into a row of empty lockers. Disarming proved unnecessary because Harry had not reholstered his wand.

Harry hit the lockers with, to Ron, a gratifying thud, and slid to the floor. He was barely conscious and in agony from his fortuitous injury from Ron hexing Ginny.

“Bugger you, you bloody bastard!” Ron screamed. He advanced on Harry and aimed the hardest kick he could muster. Harry rolled sideways at the last instant, and caught Ron's foot in the arse. The blow slammed Harry noisily into the lockers once again, upsetting the bright blue Snitch search simulator. It rolled wobbily across the floor.

“Ron … I….”

“Don't say a bloody word, you git!” Ron growled. “Just fucking fight!” Reaching down, he grabbed Harry by the hair with his left hand, and clocked him in the face with the Beater's bat.

Harry's unbreakable glasses (yes, he had kept them on, even with Ginny) partially cushioned the blow, but he saw stars, and blood began seeping from a half dozen facial abrasions.

“Fight back, you fucking piece of shit!” His wrath unabated, Ron grabbed Harry under his arm, swung him 360, and flung the lighter boy into the cabinets where the Firebolts were stored. Two of their glass doors fell to pieces on impact, and a broom dropped out. Harry grabbed it, whilst Ron paused to catch his breath.

“AAAAAHH!” Ron charged with the Beater's bat, intent upon further havoc. Ron's pause had let Harry recover some of his senses. He parried Ron's bat with the broom handle, and rolled out of the way.

This time Ron crashed into a wall.

Harry staggered to his feet, bloody, battered and bruised, but at least upright.

“Look, Ron, I don't want to fight…. I guess I deserve this….”

“You don't have a bloody choice!” Ron hurled the Beater's bat at Harry, and drew his wand.

Harry tried dodging, but clumsily. The bat struck his hip only a few inches from his dangling manhood.

Ron kept taunting. “Maybe you should have thought about that before cheating on Hermione with my baby sister! Hornetentious!”

Harry's skin felt the stings of a dozen angry hornets.

“Owww! So that's what's going on?”

“You bleedin' reckon?” Ron sneered. “I swore I'd kick your ruddy arse if you hurt her! Flambus!”

A fire hex was serious magic. Harry dodged more quickly, and was only slightly singed. He slide-stepped away from Ron and towards the Captain's office, where his clothes were. Where was…?

Harry nearly tripped over Ginny's rigid body. “Look Ron, at least let Ginny out. This is between us, not her….”

“Fuck her - you sure were!” Ron was tired of his whingeing. “Langlock!” But Ron stumbled a bit on a loose shoe just as he fired the spell. His incantation nearly hit the defenceless Ginny, missing her by centimetres.

“Stop it, Ron!” Harry raised his voice. “I said I don't want to fight.”

“Then don't, you pathetic berk,” Ron spat. “Either way, I'm fighting you!” Ron charged again and grabbed at the broom. Whilst they wrestled over it, Ron kneed Harry in the stomach and shoved him and the broom against the broom cupboards and their broken doors' sharp glass.

“Accio wand!” Harry performed that spell, of course, wandlessly. His holly wand shot into his hand from a bench on the opposite side of the room.

“Pugilicus!” Ron got Harry with a Punching Hex. Harry staggered.

“You … don't want … to duel me,” Harry panted his warning. “The Aurors … taught me … really nasty spells. You can't even begin….”

“Screw you, Potter,” Ron howled. “Then squash me into a frigging grease spot. Like you did to Hermione - with my baby sister! Nauseo!”

Harry blocked Ron's latest hex. “I'm warning you….”

“Harry Fracking Potter, thinks he knows every bloody curse…!” Ron pointed his wand away from Harry. For a moment Harry relaxed, thinking he had finally gotten through.

“Kinitecus!” Ron swept his wand across entire back of the clubhouse. Everything not nailed down - every discarded Quidditch pad, every half-empty drink bottle, every bit of stray trash strewn on that side of the messy, post-match clubhouse - Ron put it in motion and hurled it at Harry.

“Protego physica!” Harry hastily erected a protective shield against physical objects, so at least the Snitch simulator bounced off. Still, he was pelted by most of the first wave of rubbish.

Until then, Harry had avoided pointing his wand at Ron. Almost knee-deep in refuse, he felt he had little choice.

“Look, Ron, you need to stop! Somebody's going to turn up looking for us,” he pleaded. “Look at me! I'm already thoroughly thrashed. This can't go on….”

It sounded to Ron like he was being condescended - talked down to by the Boy Who Cheated On Hermione With My Baby Sister. “You effing bastard! You think you can just walk away after what you did?! Think again! You're a stuck up git! Think you can walk all over everybody! The great rich famous fucking Harry Potter!!”

“Santorini!” Ron cast a surprise spell at Harry. A stream of frothy offal squirted from his wand, but splashed harmlessly off Harry's shield.

“Ron, you can't duel me.”

“The hell I can't!!”

Ron was plainly working himself into a fresh fury.

Harry felt he had no choice. He reluctantly aimed his wand.

“Orgas…!”

For once, Ron was quicker.

“SECTUMSEMPRA!!”

Harry did not recognise or react to Ron's unfamiliar incantation. His Protego - cast shielding only against physical objects - offered no protection.

The curse stuck Harry broadside, from mid-thigh across the opposite shoulder; narrowly missing his exposed bits.

Ron's eyes went wide as Harry keeled over and collapsed.

He had no better idea than Harry what the spell would do. All the Half-Blood Prince had written was, “For enemies.”

Suddenly, a familiar voice shouted from behind. “Ron, don't! You're on probation. You'll be expelled!” A frantic Hermione Granger charged into the room.

“Oh … Merlin! What on Earth did you do?”

* * * *

Author's notes: Haven't involved Harry's alarm clock in a while

The arrangements for Bavaria will change significantly

Through the Looking Glass is a Lewis Carroll novel

Ginny's Japanese substitutions achieved their goal

Wrong/loud wrong is a saying from my youth

The love/sorry phrase was from “Love Story”

In Lori's Paradigm of Uncertainty Series, H/Hr kept count of their “I love yous”

Takoyaki is accurately described

The buttons will come back to haunt our conspirators

The Draught requires a traumatic event to gel it occur within a week

The potion Draco will make has unexpected consequences

Daphne's Face Fogging Charm was mentioned in Ch. 77

Critically, the HBP/Snape Love Potion is not know to wizardkind

The phrase “purer than Caesar's wife” is from Plutarch

Yes, I know Gryffindor-Ravenclaw is usually the last match

The concept of a mute swan singing one time just before dying is Greek, and factually incorrect

This is the room off the Great Hall Harry entered immediately after his name emerged from the Goblet of Fire

The goblins' presence is key to the following chapter

The Eliza conversation was in Ch. 10

A HypaCool is a chemical cold pack

The “moral equivalent” is from Gerry Ford's “Moral Equivalent of War” abbreviated MEOW

Harry learned the Immelman turn in Ch. 12

Charles Lindberg landed at Paris' Le Bourget field after his 1927 trans-Atlantic flight, and was almost mobbed by admirers who toppled fences a headlong rush

Sod's law = Murphy's law

In the prior chapter, Malfoy made a version of the Marauders' Map

Boosters in the US are college alumni who pay for access to their old school's teams

Draco got the inflatable Remembrals in Ch. 75

Tis but a flesh wound is from the Monty Python Black Knight sequence in “Holy Grail”

Elphick is from a famous wizard card; Emanuelle is a semi-porn franchise

The Obscuro Charm is how witches and wizards share the same Quidditch clubhouse

At the ball (Ch. 57), Harry avoided drinking the Lust Potion

The L.O.S.S. room was discovered in Ch. 32

Goblin cloaking magic was introduced in Ch. 67

Hermione's prior spontaneous magical emission was in Ch. 28

Hermione regretted letting Harry explain about the Cho Chang porn in Ch. 26, and in Ch. 42 vowed never to do that again

Whimper/bang is a line from T.S. Eliot's “Hollow Men”

Ginny's “nerve” thought repeats her statement in OOP Ch. 29

A rat was surrounded by Kneazles in Ch. 46

The Twins' candles debuted in Ch. 22

Drawing back a nub means losing (usually) fingers

Luna helped Hermione with hyperventilation in Ch. 22

En flagrante was mentioned in Ch. 10

Charmonium is discussed in Ch. 9

Hermione had voiced “too young” worries in Ch. 46, when Harry proposed

The 47 is for my daughter at Pomona College

The damage done to the Gryffindor portrait will have consequences

The snooker incident was in Ch. 66

Harry will wear Neville's pennant (given in Ch. 22) in the story's final battle

Hermione received the diamond ring in Ch. 67; the Auror ring goes back to Ch. 5

Ron's “talk” with Harry was in Ch. 48

Langlock is a precursor

Santorini is a Greek island; the spell conjures santorum, a gross substance

Harry was going to use Orgasimos on Ron

As the Half-Blood Prince in this fic, Ron gets to use Sectumsempra

65

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80. When Friends Fall Out

Wherein an emergency is handled and a letter addressed, announcements and arrangements are made, homework is done, punishment is meted out, other actors join the mix, goblins calculate, Voldemort plots, and an author is chosen.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Chapter 80 - When Friends Fall Out

“Oh … Merlin! What on earth did you do?”

Ron had no good answer for Hermione. He was still in the mutely contemplating his wand stage - trying to puzzle out the same question. The book had never failed him before, but this was very different….

When Ron failed to respond, Hermione bypassed him - her inquiry was largely rhetorical, anyway.

The scene Hermione faced was even more disturbing than her last visit, which took some doing. Harry lay crumpled in a pile of rubbish - like a broken manikin dumped for the dustmen. Stark naked, unconscious, his face and body battered and bruised, Harry still clutched his wand in one hand and a team Firebolt in the other.

All that paled against a great bleeding gash disfiguring Harry's body from his right hip to his left shoulder.

“Oh Gods…. Immaculatous!” Instantly, the trash strewn about Harry took flight and soared into the Gryffindor clubhouse's several rubbish bins. The Snitch simulator, a bit worse for wear, hopped back into its mount. Hermione had learnt cleaning from the best - Molly Weasley. “Tergeo!” She tried cleansing his wound.

Pointing her wand at Harry's injuries, Hermione shouted one incantation after another. “Finite! Finite incantatem!! Ennervate!! Episkey!” Unlike her domestic magic, none had the slightest effect on Harry or his gaping wound.

Increasingly frantic, she turned to Ron, “You cast it; maybe you have to end it….” When he hesitated, she almost screamed at him, “DO IT!!”

Ron echoed Hermione's repertoire of spell enders, with no greater success. The book was light in that area.

“For goodness' sake, Ron,” Hermione, a hair's-breadth from panic, shrieked after his repeated failures, “get the team's first aid kit, now!”

Ron started to move, but hesitated and asked over his shoulder, “Shouldn't we call Madam Pomfrey?”

“Diffindo! Diffindo! Diffindo!” Hermione directed the same spell that had dismantled Harry's four-poster at her own robes, slicing them to pieces she could use to apply direct pressure to Harry's massive gash. “Honestly, Ron, do you want to be expelled? You're already on probation from your last fight. Anything she learns goes straight to Dumbledore and McGonagall - you know that!”

Ron hustled off. Hermione managed to prise Harry's hand from the Firebolt.

“A priori! Reversus incantatem! Nihilo incantatem! Terminium!” Hermione tried less common incantations for ending spells, looking for something, anything, to reverse Ron's unknown spell. “Tergeo!”

In a few seconds, Ron brought the team's kit. After today's multiple-injury match, it was a mess, which the elves had yet to replenish. Almost no heavy duty tape or anything else usable, such as large bandages, remained. Looking around frantically, Hermione spotted a certain someone - still paralysed - lying against the lockers behind a bench.

“Ennervate!”

The red-headed witch moaned and started to move.

Still kneeling beside Harry, Hermione glared at her all-too-successful rival through narrowed eyes. Coldly she ordered, “Ginevra Weasley, if you hope to have Harry for more than the last hour, do exactly what I say. Get me all the clean towels you can find - NOW! MOVE!”

With grim satisfaction Hermione noted how quickly Ron's younger sister scuttled away.

Unless Hermione somehow managed to staunch Harry's hemorrhaging, that satisfaction would be cold comfort indeed.

“Tergeo!”

Turning to Ron, whilst also struggling to Spellotape conjured bandages over Harry's still freely bleeding wounds, Hermione demanded, “Ron - tell me every damned thing you know about that blasted spell.”

“It's called Sectumsempra, and it's used against enemies,” he responded.

She waited, expecting him to continue. When Ron volunteered nothing more, she bore in. “That's not very helpful, Ronald. What's it supposed to do?”

“Cut people, I guess,” Ron replied dully.

“Tergeo! Well, it bloody worked! That's obvious … from the etymology,” she snarked whilst pressing another jerry-rigged plaster into the angry slash at Harry's hip. “`Sectum' means to cut, and `sempra' typically means always - like Rictumsempra. Now, how do you end it?”

“Don't know - thought you knew that.”

“What's the counter-curse?”

“Don't know.”

“How long do its effects last?”

“Don't know.”

“How strong is it?”

“Don't know.”

“Thanks for the help, Ron,” Hermione snapped, her nerves frayed beyond civility. “On the last, I have some idea….”

Although she knelt and Ron loomed over her, Hermione totally dominated their conversation. Grabbing the Firebolt, now lying next to Harry, she thrust it at Ron. “Look at the handle. See how your curse scored it. That was no student's curse. You could have killed him - you may yet. Tergeo!”

Almost robotically, Ron took the proffered broom. The enamel, magically enhanced to protect against nicks and chips during rough Quidditch matches, was gouged clean through into the wood, almost to the core. “Umm … I guess.”

Hermione could scarcely believe what she heard. Whilst her plasters slowed Harry's blood loss, they could not stop it. “Ronald, you mean to tell me that in fighting Harry, you used a curse you didn't know what it did or how powerful it was?”

Ron blushed to his toes. “Umm … I guess….” With Harry bleeding out before his eyes, he seemed in a daze - barely able to comprehend the enormity of his action and helpless to undo it.

“Where in Merlin's name did you learn it?” Hermione howled in frustration as she replaced yet another plaster soaked through with Harry's blood.

“Tergeo!”

Ron paused. Before he could answer, Neville and Luna pelted into the room.

“Merlin's ghost!” Neville exclaimed, seeing Harry unconscious on the floor, bleeding profusely despite numerous bandages. “What the hell happened here?”

Instead of adding to the confusion, Luna quietly began disposing of bloodstained material.

At the welcome sight of reinforcements, a plan gelled in Hermione's mind.

“Neville, you were at the pre-match Prefects' meeting,” Hermione urgently addressed him. “Do you remember where Dumbledore said the goblins were encamped?”

“Yeah, I definitely do…. Oh my….” He gawked.

Ron glared.

Ginny Weasley stepped carefully into the room, carrying a stack of white towels piled high enough to prevent her from seeing in front. “This is as many as I could carry…. Where do you want them?”

“Put them here, next to Harry.” Hermione tapped a spot beside her whilst continuing her struggle to staunch the flow of his magic-resistant wounds. “Tergeo!” Before Ginny could act, Hermione yanked a towel from the girl's load and started to use it. She stopped and gave it a sniff. “Wait! Are you sure they're sterilised? ”

“They're clean,” Ginny answered, obviously annoyed. “That's what you asked for. I don't know how to sterilise anything. I'm not in Healing.”

“If you're serious about Harry, you'd be well advised to learn,” Hermione hissed, resentment seeping into her voice as surely as Harry's blood seeped through her inadequate bandages. “Hold still, then. I'll do it.”

Hermione pointed her wand at the pile of towels in Ginny's arms. A fleeting thought of retribution against the traitorous Weasley witch entered Hermione's brain. Whilst she had never attempted a certain Lesson 128 hex, it could supposedly sterilise much more than just towels.

But at this juncture hexing Ginny would only worsen the confusion and delay - with Harry in serious condition. It was beneath her. Hermione was not that cold-blooded.

“Æsepticus!” Hermione incanted. “All right, leave them here…. And for heaven's sake, Ginny, put on your clothes. You're distracting Neville.”

Ginny dropped the towels where she was told and skittered off.

Neville did concentrate better without Ginny's bits on display. Hermione motioned for Luna to take over keeping direct pressure on Harry's wounds. She stood to talk to Neville.

“Neville, the goblin commander is named Slamdor. Use my name. Tell him to come at once and bring every Healer he has. Tell him Harry's been hurt and -” She stopped for a moment, pained at what she would say next. “- Savini wants, no needs, them right away.”

“I'm on it.” Neville obeyed without question. He turned and ran out the door.

“Ron, you need to go, right now.” Hermione told him sternly.

“Go where?” he asked.

“Just get out!”

“Get out?”

“Get … back to the Castle,” she ordered. “The goblins are your last chance to avoid expulsion. They have good Healers and won't tell anybody anything that Harry and I ask them not to. But when they learn you cursed Harry, they might do worse to you. So you'd best not be here when they come. Tell everyone - oh, hell - that goblins surrounded the clubhouse, which they will, and are protecting Harry's and Ginny's … privacy. Tell them I'm in seclusion … which I will be when done here.”

Ron had seen enough of the goblins to believe Hermione's every word. He hurried for the door….

She stopped him cold with a direct question.

“Ron, did you learn Sectumsempra from the Half-Blood Prince?”

He stiffened. “Umm … yeah.”

Hermione took no pleasure in her suspicions being proven right. “Listen to me, Ronald, I'm only saying this once,” she growled. “I know you did this for me and my honour, and for that I'm grateful. But just look at Harry - that book is dangerous.”

“Bollocks, Hermione,” Ron snapped back. “Not this again…. You just can't stand being second best in anything.”

Hermione saw red. Instantly, she was almost as angry at Ron as with Ginny and Harry. Had her wand not been monitoring Harry's vital signs, she might have sent a hex or two Ron's way. “Don't dare accuse me of that, Ronald!” she replied hotly. “That's trivial! Look at what you've done, dammit! Don't you see? It's Dark. That was a Death Eater curse! Your Prince was almost certainly a Death Eater! You don't - really don't - want anybody wondering about you….”

Ron stood there stupidly, but at least stopped resisting.

“…And unless you turn that awful book over right away, I'll personally tell McGonagall what you did,” Hermione threatened. “Am I quite clear?”

She heard Ron's breath hitch from across the room. “Yeah, absolutely.” He gave in.

“Now get going, before the goblins get here.”

Ron took off running.

Ginny wandered back into the room - demurely dressed at last. “Shouldn't I go for Madam Pomfrey?”

Hermione's eyes flashed. “Not unless you fancy explaining to your mum exactly why Ron was expelled,” she spat. “Just … just don't - just … don't….”

Hermione refocussed on Harry, Luna, and more serious matters. “Any luck?” she asked.

“Very little, I'm sorry,” Luna answered. “This is quite resistant to everything I've tried….”

“Same here,” Hermione sighed.

“…I think - whatever Ronald did, he used Dark magic.” Luna stated flatly.

“What! How do you know?” Hermione shivered at the thought. Screaming that at Ron was primarily hyperbole - for emphasis. But if Luna were right….

If Ron's spell were truly Dark, he had no future at Hogwarts. Not only was using such magic against another student an expulsion-mandatory offence - regardless of probation - but Dark magic lacerations took forever to heal. Hermione recalled the injuries she suffered from Dolohov's curse at the Ministry. It would be impossible to keep Harry's wounds hidden from the authorities.

“I'm an empath,” Luna reminded her. “I feel darkness when I touch him near the cut. I'm not very good yet, but this is obvious. You need….”

Agitated, Hermione cut across her. “That settles it. I want you to get that blasted book from Ronald tomorrow and bring it directly to me. It's a menace.”

“Okay, but I think you should….”

WHAM!! BAM!!

The door splintered. Ginny shrieked and fled into the captain's office as four grey granite boulders smashed the (unlocked) front door, rolled to a halt, and transformed into four extremely jittery goblins. Slamdor was first; followed by a vaguely familiar senior goblin. The two others were obviously Healers. One goblin Healer darted for Harry, shooing Luna aside. The other kicked the rest of the door out of the way and stood by, waiting.

After a few seconds, a trolley of sorts, laden with goblin Healing equipment, floated into the room. More goblin Healers entered, swarming around Harry. Feeling useless and in the way, Hermione led Luna outside into the evening air. She welcomed the chance to breathe again and not to stare down at the boy - no, the man - whose infidelity could still cost everyone far more than a wrecked relationship.

Behind them, in the darkness, they could hear goblins deploying - surrounding the Gryffindor Quidditch clubhouse just as Hermione predicted.

Hermione approached the nearest goblin and addressed him with an air of command she did not feel. “I need your help for a moment.”

“Uh … Savini. Of course.”

“I need to find my way back once I'm beyond your Cloaking spells.”

The nervous goblin, not used to serving royalty (or close to it), carefully led Hermione and Luna beyond the perimeter.

“I need to try something,” Hermione told Luna. “Assuming the goblins can stop Harry's bleeding, he'll need quite a bit of Blood Replenishing Potion. As Madam Pomfrey's Institution of Excellence official pre-Healing designate, I'm keyed into the Hospital Wing's supply charms, so I think this will work. Be ready to help me catch….”

Hermione turned towards the Castle, pointed her wand and incanted, “Apparecium Hogwarts Hospital Wing, Blood Replenishing Potion.”

For a long, agonising moment Hermione wondered whether her spell had worked. She found out the hard way. From the nocturne, a substantial carton slammed squarely into Hermione's chest, nearly knocking her down. Recovering, she quickly opened it and found a dozen single-dose ampoules of Blood Replenishing Potion packed securely in the same ærogel that had cushioned her in the Founders' Chamber.

“Think that will be enough?” Luna commented on Hermione's Summoned trove.

Too intensely focussed to catch her friend's try at humour, Hermione replied, “Circe, I hope so. I don't think there's any more.”

“Really, Hermione, that's plenty.”

D'you think?” The Institution of Excellence official pre-Healing designate asked the Ravenclaw fifth year.

“If you aren't sure, I certainly can't help you.”

“It will have to do.” Hermione sighed. She Transfigured a bit of brown paper packing tape from the carton into a piece of parchment, produced a quill, and started scribbling. “Once the goblins stabilise Harry, he'll need some of this, and I'm sure it's not in their apothecary,” she nervously babbled. “I won't to be there, so Ginny will just have to follow….”

“Savini?” inquired the other senior goblin, who was approaching her. Hermione did not immediately recognise him. “Humble apologies, but interrupt may I?”

“Sure, no problem.” Hermione instantly gave him her full attention. “How is Harry?”

“Most humble apologies, Savini,” the goblin repeated himself. “Impratraxis cannot cure we. Most certainly with Dark wizard magic cursed was he. Our experience beyond it is.”

Hearing the goblin's words, Hermione felt her world falling apart. Having just lost Harry as her lover, she was now facing the prospect of losing him altogether. If Harry died, expulsion was the least of Ron's worries. With untoward ends now looming for both of her best friends, she started shaking. Her breathing became fast and shallow. She found it impossible to speak.

“Savini?” The unfortunate goblin had no idea what to do.

Beside her, though, was a friend who had helped Hermione through a similar crisis. “Hermione?” Luna asked firmly. She took the shocked girl's hand, flinched at the emotions she felt, and whispered something in Hermione's ear.

“What!?”

Luna whispered something else, so that the confused goblin did not overhear.

“Oh, Circe! Are you sure? Only me?”

“If he's right, and it's Dark magic, then yes. It's probably the position's major function.”

Hermione's tremors abruptly ceased. Her revised mission was inescapable. To become the official pre-Healing designee, Hermione had accepted the Healer's Oath from Madam Pomfrey. Provided it was safe, those simple words: “Above all, I shall preserve life and health,” demanded that she respond - the patient's identity was immaterial.

Even Dolohov….

Even Ginny….

Hermione turned to the goblin. “Are you…? I'm sorry I don't know your name.”

“Kamarak am I.” He identified himself. “In Dumbledore's office met, we did when the Dark wizard's Pensieve as tribute brought we.”

“How certain are you that Harry was cursed with Dark magic?”

“My field is it,” the goblin answered more confidently. “Wizard Dark magic, trained am I to recognise and combat, but in goblin … physiology only. Against risk of Dark wizard attack, attended today's match did I. But Impratraxis … physically not goblin is he. Detect, but not help can I.”

Kamarak was fidgeting. Hermione suspected he was on the verge of prostrating himself, something she found personally repulsive. “Anyor!” she directed, averting that possibility.

Hermione took a deep breath and looked to Luna. Their eyes locked, until Hermione nodded. “Very well, then. Take me to Harry, please. I can't see through your Cloaking spells.”

Wordlessly Kamarak complied. Taking Hermione's hand, he led her, and she Luna, back inside. With a few words in Gobbledegook, Kamarak split the crowd about the goblin trolley where Harry rested.

He looked little better than before. The goblins had practically mummified him in self-rolling tape, but their plasters were as ineffective as hers. Blood oozed through in many places. What she could see of his skin had a porcelain bluish cast.

Hermione looked at Luna as if to say, `Now, what?'

“We must remove as much of the wrappings as possible - consistent with keeping his bleeding controlled. Skin to skin contact is essential,” the blond Ravenclaw instructed.

Hermione blanched. After his betrayal, she was ill-inclined to touch Harry more than she had already. But with no other choice, she directed the goblin Healers to strip off all Harry's bindings except those atop his body's awful diagonal wound.

They complied, after receiving a confirmatory nod from Kamarak.

“No!” she squeaked when they reached his crotch. “Just leave those covered.”

Luna agreed.

Leaning over Harry, Hermione gulped. She placed one hand on his chest, and laid the other on his abdomen, with that hideous gash, constantly dribbling blood, between them. She looked at Luna.

“You know the first part,” Luna replied calmly. “Search for the Stone. Since it's quite close, that shouldn't be hard.”

Luna was right. Closing her eyes, Hermione connected almost immediately. Feeling the thrumming ambient energy, she hesitated.

Luna practically read her mind. “Don't worry. You'll draw off only as much power as the cleansing requires. Consider the source.”

Hermione did. Ron had acted angrily and vengefully, but he was not evil.

“Now, repeat after me, and feel yourself drawing it out - but not to you - away from all of us.” Luna began incanting a complex spell, in ancient Keltoi, of which Hermione understood not a word.

Hermione could follow directions just as competently as could give them. In the semidarkness of the clubhouse, her hands soon began emitting the same blue glow as at Stonehenge - only with much lower intensity.

Save the two witches' words, the onlooking goblins' silence was deafening.

As Hermione continued reciting the foreign words, the bluish glow spread to Harry's injury, lighting up the remnant goblin bandages from below. A distinct hiss began, and the white goblin bandages gradually discoloured as they caught whatever Hermione's magic expelled.

The hissing continued after the incantation was complete. The moment it stopped, Kamarak sprung into action before Hermione could ask Luna what to do next. He shot forward, stripped off Harry's bandages, and stuffed them into a tube he had at the ready.

He spouted orders in Gobbledegook. The goblin Healers rushed forward with their salves and fresh plasters, almost knocking Hermione out of the way.

“It's done,” Luna told her.

Hermione retreated, uncertain what else to do. She felt a pair of eyes almost burning a hole in her back. She turned to Ginny, staring at her, halfway screened by the door to the captain's office.

Hermione's eyes hardened. Her voice turned frostier than her best Freezing Charm. She eyed the girl who had violated every concept of romantic ethics that Hermione lived by. “He should have broken up with me first,” Hermione declared. “Then it wouldn't … hurt so much.” Despite her best efforts, her voice betrayed her.

Hermione drew her wand. Ginny cringed, but revenge was not on the menu. Hermione simply Summoned the carton of Blood Replenishing Potion from beside the door.

“He'll need this,” she clipped. “I've written some basic instructions for you to follow. Once he's recovered, you two are to stay here all night. Do what you please, but the price of my peace is that neither of you darken the Castle's doors until morning….”

She would have said more, but Karamak interrupted. “Savini - come … please…”

Harry was conscious. His wound, now completely slathered in goblin ointments, no longer bled as far as Hermione could tell.

“Hermione,” he rasped. “I'm … sorry that it….”

“No, Harry,” Hermione interrupted. She willed herself not to break down - not in front of the goblins - never in Ginny's presence. “You had your chance to explain. You didn't even try. As least you ... that was honest. Tell it to Ginny. Don't start with me….”

Hermione turned on her heel.

“Savini…?” Slamdor started uncertainly.

“I'm not Savini any more!” Hermione shrieked as the dam burst.

She fled Harry's presence. He was no longer hers. He had betrayed her with that … that scarlet woman. For a second occasion this wretched evening, she ran for the Castle. This time, in tears, Hermione's stamina failed. A two-by-four sized stitch in her side forced her to a walk. Luna caught her.

“Hermione … you're a mess,” she puffed. “Do you really want to go in there, just now?”

“I'm sure … I don't,” Hermione panted, utterly winded. “That's why … I'm not…. I'm not going back to … Gryffindor Tower … tonight.”

Luna accepted that instantly. “Do you want company?”

“NO!” Hermione shouted before calming down. “I'll … I'll be okay - I promise. Just make sure you get that accursed book from Ron.”

* * * *

Hermione was not ready to face her house mates just yet. She felt torn into tiny pieces. She wanted nobody's sympathy - real or feigned. Even less did she think she could sleep listening to Lavender and Parvati gloat over her comeuppance, or worse, hearing them plot to steal Harry for themselves.

Nor did she want “consoling” - if that were the word - from Professor McGonagall or, worse Headmaster Dumbledore. They would be nosy, and in her current state, Hermione was afraid she would let something slip that could lead to Ron's expulsion.

She trod Hogwarts' deserted corridors to the only sure sanctuary she knew - the Room of Requirement.

Mechanically, Hermione retraced her steps the required three times. The Room's door appeared. She entered - and stopped.

Tonight, the room provided her … an unadorned cloister, virtually cubical, its floor, walls, and ceiling uniformly covered with white padding. It resembled the training compartment where the Unspeakables taught her the Suturc spell.

The Room read minds - becoming whatever a user required most. Its inanimate Legilimency judged that Hermione's greatest need was a padded cell. Without entering, she gawked at the quarters being offered.

Was she really a threat to harm herself?

Not long ago, she had been prepared to die at the thought of losing Harry. But was this the same?

Hardly.

Then, she believed Harry was dead, and was absolutely convinced of her culpability in that event. Now … well, even Hermione could not plausibly blame herself for what just happened. She was miserable, even desperate - but suicidal?

No.

The Room fluttered. Simple furniture appeared in Hermione's custom-magicked padded cell.

Still, she was extremely depressed. Harry had promised her … forever … and reneged - without even the decency of breaking things off before moving on. Her scheme to prevent Ron's expulsion had all too many moving parts and could fail for any number of reasons, most notably Ron's tendency to incriminate himself.

If she tried bottling up all these emotions, she might explode.

Hermione needed an outlet. After having a good cry, she spent this very first, very black night of the rest of her life writing to her mum in Australia. With everything else, Hermione had been dreadfully remiss in family correspondence. Beyond the catharsis, the letter helped organise her mind and obligated her to consider her suddenly changed circumstances in a more-or-less rational manner.

The Room flickered again, providing a stand-up writing desk complete with quill and parchment.

Hermione shut the door firmly behind her. The end result, the product of a night of tears and fears, was her longest letter since writing to her parents in first year, before she had any friends to distract her.

Dear Mum:

Since I haven't written since my last explaining how reports of my death were exaggerated, I think you should be the first to know that Harry and I are no longer romantically involved. It happened earlier today, and caught me totally by surprise. I truly thought he was happy and satisfied with me.

Apparently not.

The gory details are of no consequence, except to me. Suffice it to say, Harry is now seeing another witch, Ginny Weasley. Ginny's mother sent Harry that memorable Howler (the loud letter) the night Harry visited our house. You met her parents, briefly, on one of your trips to Diagon Alley. I don't recall if you met Ginny or not. She is very pretty, very athletic, and extremely ruthless - everything I am not.

Whilst I am devastated by what happened, I don't regret my relationship with Harry, or that he was my first. Yes, I did exactly what I told you, within a month of our talk. My only regret is being naïve and taking to heart promises from a sixteen-year-old boy who had never before known love. His love was too immature, too inexperienced, for him to know what conscience is.

I would have been happy just dating for a while, but he offered more. Like a fool, I believed him. I let my expectations run wild. Again, the Bard probably put it best:

Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises; and oft it hits
Where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.

I can't blame Harry, not really. Only because we flew so high does coming back to earth hurt so much. I hope I served him well. I hope whatever road he chooses, Harry ultimately finds happiness, righteousness, and truth. He deserves it; I mean that. In the fullness of time, when he's built his ladder to the stars, I hope he'll regard his dalliance with me with fondness.

Pain or no pain, I'm staying friends with Harry. He was my best friend before we became involved, and I hope that once I've had time to heal, he'll remain so. We promised each other that at the outset, and it's one promise I believe we both intend to keep. Realistically, anything else would be foolish. He's still the number one target of that mad Dark wizard Voldemort.

As you well know, I'm right behind Harry in Voldemort's sights. I'm sorry you found out the hard way, but my Ordinary Wizarding Level marks were the highest ever recorded, and I broke Voldemort's record. I'm sure he plans to make good on my hoaxed killing. Thus, no matter where our personal lives lead, Harry's and my fates remain inextricably linked to the outcome of the war. Neither of us can have a secure future until that war is won.

However much it hurts, I will be carrying on here. You needn't worry about money. Between my school prizes, and the awards that accompany the Order of Merlin (I won a second not too long ago - don't ask), I should have plenty enough to get by without having to rely on Harry. I won't be a burden, I promise. I can and will make my own way in life.

Anyway, look on the bright side - I think that for the foreseeable future, Harry has sufficiently queered the pitch (in more ways than one) against my getting involved in any other romantic relationship. You can be thankful for that, and eventually I might even feel the same way.

But for the present, I'll be grieving for what was, what might have been, and what now will never be.

Your loving daughter,

Hermione Jane

Hermione was adding the finishing touches to her letter's final draft as dawn broke. Rather than lose Athena for however it took to fly to Perth and back, Hermione chose a school owl and addressed her post to Remus Lupin. He would tender her letter to the Muggle post because, upon due consideration, Hermione was loathe to risk Death Eater interception of post addressed to Mum. Best to do it the Muggle way.

* * * *

As confused as the strange quasi-Quidditch Cup party had been - unattended by two of Gryffindor's seven starters, and only belatedly by a third - the next morning was even worse. Gryffindor House woke up short 125 House Points and two prefects, more or less.

The portraits alerted Professor McGonagall to a strange tale being spun by Ronald Weasley, after he showed up alone almost an hour after curfew. She dispatched Hagrid to the Gryffindor Quidditch clubhouse to reconnoiter.

Hagrid could not even locate the place, which was goblin Cloaked. The two goblins he encountered were most unhelpful. When Hagrid persisted with questions, they simply turned into boulders.

Faced with deliberate misuse of Harry's goblin connexions to facilitate blatant rule breaking, McGonagall ordered the Fat Lady to notify her immediately when the miscreants returned to Gryffindor Tower - no matter what time that might be.

That time turned out to be a little before six the following Sunday morning.

Technically, intentional flaunting of the rules involving use of magic that frustrated the staff's authority over student conduct was an expellable offence. Thus, Professor McGonagall considered the punishment she meted out to be lenient.

Those on the receiving end begged to differ.

Harry and Ginny lost fifty House Points each. To underscore her disapproval of their actions, she added a week of detentions - on alternating days - with Mr. Filch. Ginny also lost her Prefect position, all but guaranteeing a Howler (if not worse) from her mum.

That unpleasantness dealt with, Professor McGonagall returned to her quarters only to have another portrait - this one from her office - notify her that one Hermione Granger was in attendance. Frustrated about her lost sleep, McGonagall retraced her steps to deal with this development.

Their conversation was not at all what she expected. Instead of a distraught Hermione needing consolation, Professor McGonagall encountered a contrite girl admitting that she, too, had broken curfew and been out all night. Hermione's excuse was her need to come to terms with what had happened without being pestered by meddling housemates.

Nor did Hermione provide any opportunity for McGonagall's meddling. She deflected the professor's attempts to discover just how this unexpected and appalling breach in her relationship with Harry had occurred. Hermione offered no excuses, so Professor McGonagall had no choice. She docked her 25 House Points, placed her on probation as a Prefect, and imposed three detentions with a staff member of Hermione's choice.

When the girl chose Professor Vector over her, it was clear that she intended to keep her peace concerning recent events.

* * * *

Still recovering from probably the wildest non-Voldemort night of his life, Harry shrugged off Professor McGonagall's lecture and wandered into his dormitory, looking for a kip. He flopped into his bed. Something was peculiar - out of place - or more correctly, too much in place. Sleepily, he rubbed the back of his neck, whiles trying to put his finger on the oddity.

On one side, he heard Ron's faint snores. Ron had drawn his hangings tightly but not bothered soundproofing them.

On the other side…. “You're lucky the elves work fast.”

Harry turned with a jerk and came face-to-face with Neville.

“Wha…?”

“Too bad they fixed almost everything,” Neville's dull monotone continued. “My choice would've been to let you find it exactly how Hermione left it.”

“Neville, what are you on about?”

“What d'you think?” Neville snorted. “You just about destroyed her. She came up here and returned your bed the favour. Forty seven Diffindos - counted very precisely - Hermione-style. She reduced it to rubbish.”

“Oh.”

“But the elves fixed it, mostly,” he droned. “'Cept the painting. They had to send that out … and this….”

He handed Harry the pennant.

“Thanks, Nev.”

“I don't want your bloody thanks,” Neville spat. “I'd take this back if I could. You don't deserve it. I thought you were better than that….”

“Than what?” Harry remained more confused than angered by Neville's insults.

“Why, Harry?”

“Why, what?”

“Don't play dumb,” Neville said more sharply. “You may be an idiot, but you're not stupid. Why'd you do that to Hermione … and to Ginny?”

“Geez, Neville…,” Harry tried to articulate. “I can't help it. You know how it is; I fell in love with Ginny … and out of love with Hermione, I guess. Can't help who I fall in love with, you know…?”

“No, I don't know.” Neville's voice turned icy. “I hope I never do. But I know bloody well that anybody can help who they do or don't shag whilst supposedly being with somebody else.”

“Neville, I….”

“And … Hermione … bloody hell,” Neville continued, his voice rising as he had his say. “Merlin, she nearly died for you - I was there, and now you treat her like dirt. You're not the Harry Potter I thought I knew. You hurt her, Harry, badly … and mark my words; you'll hurt Ginny, too, before this is finished.”

“You're mental. I love….”

“Oh yes, you will,” Neville pressed on. “Ginny can't handle you. Even after what you did, Hermione saved your ungrateful arse. Ginny was at sea….”

“But … but that's not what love is about….”

“Don't talk to me about goddamn love!” Neville almost shouted. “You wouldn't know love if it hexed you in the arse!” Neville yanked his hangings closed - forcibly ending the conversation.

“Well, hell….” Harry retreated to his own excessively orderly chamber. As he leaned back to yank off his shoes, something sharp dug into his hand.

“Ouch!” With a glance, the source was all too apparent.

Beyond wrecking his bed, Hermione had returned his ring - and her Auror partner ring.

“Bloody hell … guess I should have expected that,” Harry mumbled.

Harry absently turned the glittering, three-stone ring over in his hand. He was not about to give it to Ginny. No way would he make that mistake a second time…. Since Hermione did not want it, he should probably return it to the goblins.

Speaking of goblins….

Hermione's Auror partner ring seemed a proper size - and he had delayed too long doing something with those garnets keyed to Château Blackwalls' wards.

The goblins could fix things.

Making sure, Harry whipped off his shirt and tested his idea.

Close enough. He would write Bladvak, the goblin he knew best.

* * * *

Deducted points, detentions, even loss of her Prefect position - nothing dimmed Ginny's elation. She finally achieved her longstanding ambition of attracting Harry Potter into a relationship. For years she had saved herself for this moment, and it was worth it. She was now a woman, courtesy of her life-long love, and nothing else mattered.

True, it had been chemically induced, but Ginny was confident that, after a decent interval, the Love Potion would become superfluous, just as with Mum and Dad.

For now, Ginny stayed glued to Harry's side, both in the Gryffindor common room and in Great Hall at meals. Harry, seemingly dazed at the turn of events, or maybe just pixilated from lack of sleep, was inclined to accede to whatever Ginny wanted.

What Ginny wanted was an appropriate announcement of their new relationship to the school, and eventually to the wizarding world - something with enough panache to match her soaring feelings.

She considered re-enacting how Harry and Hermione revealed their relationship - snogging in the Great Hall in front of the entire school.

That was hardly original, and she would be copying Hermione.

Never that. Not any more.

Also, Professor McGonagall regarded them sternly from the High Table. Undoubtedly she would not be as charitable as she was before. Ginny's bile rose. McGonagall always favoured Hermione over her. Her own Head of House had not, and would not, support her being with Harry.

Come to think of it, nobody had - save Draco for his own bigoted reasons.

She would have to devise some other avenue to announce her relationship with Harry; something not susceptible to punishment - or sabotage.

Ginny was running out of ideas when she discovered that Hermione - of all people - also had that well in hand.

Ginny's D.A. mirror vibrated, as did Harry's, both announcing receipt of a message.

Hermione was the sender. The notification was entirely businesslike:

All D.A. members:

If not known before, you now know that Harry has a romantic relationship with Ginny Weasley, and consequently is no longer in such with myself. I wish to assure you that these developments will have no adverse effect on the D.A. Harry and I remain friends, and I intend to continue carrying out my role with the D.A. in the same fashion as before.

Hermione Granger

`Typical Hermione,' Ginny thought.

Correctly.

Hermione had take refuge in rationalism. Her note was short, to the point, addressed precisely what she intended, and that only. It contained no histrionics and cast no aspersions. Plainly, Hermione gave the appearance of taking everything in stride - that since Harry had moved on, so would she.

Ginny knew Hermione better than most. She knew Hermione could scheme with the best. She had watched Hermione outsmart and wrong-foot Cho Chang when Hogwarts' quondam most popular girl once had designs upon Harry.

Either Hermione was feigning her rationalist approach, or she had given up. Ginny hoped for the latter. The Draught of Despair was a powerful potion, and despite being an annoying prima donna, Draco knew potions very well.

She still needed to watch her back.

At least the in-Castle announcement was completed. A large majority of Hogwarts' higher forms were in the D.A. - even a few Slytherins - so news that Harry was her boyfriend would soon percolate downwards and outwards.

The wider community was another matter. She would tell Mum, but what about everyone else?

When Harry and Hermione became a couple, it had been front-page news on the Prophet and many other publications. Ginny had even been asked to comment.

An interview with that loathsome Skeeter cow would turn Ginny's stomach. Besides, the Headmaster had banned Skeeter from the Castle.

Giving the situation additional thought, Ginny realised that there were other, more palatable, alternatives.

* * * *

Hermione's message to the D.A. effectively notified all four houses of Harry's new romantic preferences.

No recipient of her message was more surprised than Daphne Greengrass, the least Dark (and second most blonde) Slytherin.

That she was shocked was an understatement.

From prolonged exercise of well-honed observational skills, Daphne strongly suspected Ginny Weasley of dosing Harry Potter with some sort of Love Potion.

Being as Slytherin as she was, Daphne was content for her to carry on. Daphne would have numerous opportunities for revealing her discovery - after Weasley induced Harry to stray from the straight and narrow.

But first, her discovery needed confirmation. In hot pursuit, Daphne had spent several hours in the main potions laboratory yesterday. With almost everyone else distracted by a silly Quidditch match, she had few interruptions.

Only one, actually.

That creep Malfoy dropped by when Daphne was almost finished, acting as contented as a Kneazle in cream. He tried drawing her back into his orbit, as he had with Cambo, Spott, and quite a few other housemates since his remarkable (and probably Dark-induced) financial rehabilitation. She, however, wanted none of it. She had tasted freedom, and liked it. Besides, Daphne could do much better than that arrogant twerp.

Still, Draco Malfoy had little to do with her leaving the laboratory annoyed and frustrated.

Contrary to everything she had seen and suspected, Weasley was not dosing Harry with Love Potion. Check that, she had not dosed this particular soup with any Love Potion that her - or her aunt's - Detection Spells were able to detect.

Whether Weasley was, or was not, using Love Potion on Harry was irrelevant if Daphne could not prove it. That had been the plan.

The plan had failed.

Daphne promptly convinced herself that her idea had been rubbish from day one. Love Potion or no, Harry was not about to be separated from Hermione - now or any time soon.

That was Saturday.

So Daphne thought until, the very next day, she received that fateful mirror message - from Hermione herself - that Harry and Weasley were now the hottest item at Hogwarts.

To call Daphne Greengrass astonished was yet another understatement. Right at the Slytherin table, in public, she almost lost her legendary cool. She barely stopped herself from marching up to the happy couple and demanding that Weasley confess how she did it.

Instead Daphne sat and fumed. Weasley offered nothing of value to Harry. By contrast, she had so much - family Auror connexions, a nose for power, the inter-House cooperation thing, and, even saying so herself, the Castle's best combination of brains and beauty, save perhaps the witch Harry had just tossed aside.

Besides all that, Daphne was just plain bored. Being with Harry would be so complex and exciting; just thinking about it gave her tingly feelings deep inside.

She needed a backup plan.

But first, it helped to have chits to call in. The more the better.

* * * *

Ginny could call in chits, too.

After breakfast, she whisked Harry away for another snog session. In its hot and heavy midst, she asked how they should handle the inevitable press attention their relationship would draw - with him being the Basilisk Slayer, Proprietor of Château Blackwalls, and all the rest.

She was beyond relief when he revealed that they would never suffer the tender mercies of Rita Skeeter. Still, the reason for escaping that cow's clutches was unnerving. Skeeter had been - somewhere between forced and tricked - to swear an Unbreakable Vow to Hermione never to write anything about either her or Harry without both of their consents.

Neither Harry nor Hermione would ever speak to Skeeter about anything personal.

Ginny was again reminded of being a bystander to so much of Harry's life. Her protection against Skeeter was purely secondary to yet another of Hermione's accomplishments.

Involuntarily, Ginny once again found herself praying that the Draught of Despair would be strong enough.

In her anxiety, Ginny almost forgot why she had broached this subject. It was hardly uppermost in her mind when alone with her new lover (odd that he did not know the location of the best broom closets), but Harry was not remotely like any other boy in the Castle.

“Harry, I think I know how to do this … you know, about us … in the right way without having to go through it over and over again.”

Harry grunted, “Sure, Ginny, whatever you want. As long as it's one and done.”

“Whilst the Death Eaters had you, I entered a contest co-sponsored by Teen Witches' Weekly,” she revealed. “When I won, I met a wizard there named Ernie Wilmot. I'll bet I could get them to interview us - once. That way, everyone would know, and we won't have to keep answering questions.”

Harry abhorred press interviews - not surprising since his media exposure was mostly courtesy of the infamous Rita. But if he could handle Rita, Harry assumed he could handle just about anything.

Doing this only once did have its advantages.

He authorised Ginny to use her connexion, to see if Teen Witches' Weekly would be interested in a joint interview (Harry was not doing any interview alone) on the matter of his new romantic relationship.

He imposed only one caveat - no questions about Hermione. Otherwise, he would walk out. Harry meant that literally.

Whenever he thought about it, that being as little as possible, Harry was ashamed of how that relationship had ended. He had lost control, and Hermione arrived at precisely the wrong moment…. Harry felt like a cad. He agreed he should have ended things with her before carrying on with Ginny.

Harry could not change things, but he could avoid having to talk about it.

Not talking did not mean not feeling - or thinking - thinking about how he acted, and how he wished he had acted. Harry had no answer why things had spiraled so, at least none he was comfortable with….

To say that Teen Witches' Weekly was interested in the proposed interview, notwithstanding Harry's precondition, would be an understatement on the order of saying that Snape needed better hair care products or that Voldemort (or Snape) had anger management issues.

Ginny sent the inquiry, via Hedwig, to TWW on Sunday afternoon.

In less than twenty-four hours, TWW's most experienced interviewer, Dorian White, met the pair in the Hogwarts Ceremonial Library for the interview.

Before the first question was asked Harry checked the interviewer's Quick-Quotes Quill settings. He had learnt the hard way from his experiences with Rita Skeeter. Harry gruffly insisted that the quill be on “verbatim.” Ginny was of quite a different mind. She cheerfully allowed Mr. White to record her answers in “embellish” mode.

The interview took two hours - every minute until Ginny's first detention. For her it was fun and games. She could finally tell the world about her years-old infatuation with Harry Potter and how, at long last, her childhood dreams had come true. She even “confessed” - her word - to the “fresh pickled toads” incident his second year. Ginny was so voluble about her feelings for Harry, and how she had (and had not) acted on them over the years, that Mr. White wondered if his poor quill could actually embellish her words.

The interviewer religiously obeyed Harry's stricture not to mention Hermione, but he could not possibly anticipate all the nuances of his questions. Even a simple inquiry, “When did you first feel attracted to her?” caused Harry significant issues, because of certain feelings he remembered - whilst still engaged to Hermione.

He had kept that from Hermione, because (he thought) he could handle it, and it would only upset her. In retrospect, everything looked different. Now, he could only interpret those episodes as the first stirrings of feelings for Ginny. Those feelings led him to her, did they not?

Such issues ate at Harry's self-confidence and self-esteem. As the interview progressed, Harry's answers - always shorter than Ginny's - became ever terser. Whenever possible, he simply agreed with Ginny's response.

As the interview closed, Mr. White complimented Harry on being the “strong, silent type,” and observed how obviously “opposites attracted.”

Harry diplomatically kept his “sod off” response to himself. Thank Merlin he only had to undergo this once.

After the interview, Harry returned to the Gryffindor common room whilst Ginny had to serve her first detention with Filch. Harry had a welcome Tuesday morning free period, but with nothing else to do, he began revising his copy of Arithmancy Made Easy. After about fifteen minutes, Harry had once again convicted Albert Hawking of false advertising.

Maths had never been Harry's strong suit.

The only logical solution? In her note to the D.A., Hermione averred that she intended to stay his friend. She would not lie about something like that….

Swallowing his pride, Harry slunk towards the table Hermione and Neville occupied. Almost everyone in the common room had at least one eye on this first public post-break up encounter between the two former lovers.

Sadly for gossip-mongers, it was anticlimactic.

“Umm … Hermione…? Thanks for your … I guess, message to the D.A.” Harry tentatively addressed his ex. “Sorry to bother you … but do you … could you explain how to do these Chaldean method divisions … they're in base twelve … I think….”

As Hermione went pale, Neville went purple. He interposed himself between the sundered pair. “Merlin, Harry, haven't you done enough to her? Just shove off … ask Ginny to help you.” He spat Harry's new (and his old) girlfriend's name like an undeleted expletive.

Harry's eyes narrowed at the implicit challenge. “Neville, I didn't ask you….”

Hermione quickly righted herself. “Neville, don't,” she interrupted calmly. “It's not worth it.”

“Harry, I'm sorry but … it's just too soon,” she addressed her betrayer for the first time since the chaotic scene in Gryffindor's Quidditch clubhouse. “I need some time … and some space.”

“But Hermione, I thought you said….”

Harry used to find Hermione worrying her bottom lip brilliant. Now she was just scary. “Don't tell me what I said,” she hissed. “I will, but I just … don't want you around at the moment. We've too much baggage.”

Neville again sought to intervene. “You ought to shove off….”

She laid a steady hand on Neville's wrist. “No, Nev, don't. Look, Harry, I'll go this far. Once you've completed your assignment, if you send it with Hedwig, I'll review and comment tomorrow morning before you have your class…. Oh, and remember to drop nine.”

“Umm … okay, Hermione.” Harry started turning away.

“I'm sorry, that's the best I can do right now.”

“Hermione…,” Neville spoke sharply, but Harry anticipated what he was going to say.

“Nev's right,” he sighed. “You have no reason to be sorry. I do….”

Hermione had no desire to jab that raw wound. “Don't, Harry, not here….”

“All right, but I guess all this means you're not coming to Bavaria this weekend.”

Hermione's eyes flashed, as Harry shifted seamlessly from apology to obligation. “If that's meant as a question, it's in extremely bad taste - and you just answered it. That would be a spectacularly poor idea. You'll have to find someone else for companionship.” Her eyes hardened to brown chips of ice.

Harry did as told. Once Ginny returned from detention, and had a quick shower, Harry drew her to the common room's most secluded corner - behind the D.A. Central Station. Ginny wet her lips, expecting a snog session, but instead Harry incanted, “Muffliato!”

“Harry, what's going on?” she asked, rather wide-eyed.

“Umm … I've got something to ask,” he began.

She flashed him a come hither look, thinking he was propositioning her. “You know I'll do whatever you want, Harry.”

“Great. Will you come with me to Bavaria next weekend?”

“What's this all about, Harry?”

“Something I've promised to do,” he explained. “Some of the Black family gold, they got in really … well, evil … ways from some Nazi Muggles. I've arranged to return it, and I have to meet with the Sisters of the Moon and the goblins next weekend. Hermione was going to go, but she won't now … for obvious reasons….”

As Harry made his request, colour progressively left Ginny's face. Finally, she had enough. “Harry, I'd really rather not,” she told him. “The goblins, well, I don't know them much, but the Sisters…. Harry, they're…. Well, I thought you wanted me to do you some new way, but the Sisters, they'd rather do me than you. I'm not into that, and I hope you're not either….”

Molly Weasley had thoroughly poisoned both Ginny's and Ron's mental wells with rumours about the Sisters' sexual practices.

“No, Ginny,” Harry tried convincing her, “this is strictly business. I'm acting as middle man between the goblins and the Sisters because they both trust me more than they trust each other.”

Ginny's visceral distaste for the Sisters sent shivers up her spine. “Please, Harry, don't make me do this. I'll do anything you want when you get back, but please don't make me go. They're powerful. I'm afraid that they might try to get me alone….”

“Ginny, they wouldn't. I'd be there. And the goblins….”

Ginny started to cry. His first request of her was for this! He forced her to deny him, to let him down. It was so unfair!

Harry could handle many things, but not crying girls - especially crying girlfriends. He gave in. “Ginny, don't. I'll go by myself then. Let me tell the Sisters.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Ginny cooed, her tears disappearing as swiftly as they once threatened to flow. “I'll finish my Muggle Studies assignment - something about their National Health Service - whilst you're away, and do lots of revising for my O.W.L.s.” She leaned in close and whispered in his ear. “When you're back, I'll have plenty of time for you. If you get those goblins to teach you that Cloaking magic that worked so well on the Gryffindor clubhouse, we won't have to worry about getting caught.”

* * * *

Other interested parties reacted. Within a day, Shak summoned Harry to his DADA office. Harry arrived not sure what to expect.

Shak put aside the third-year essays he had been marking, and gestured, “Sit down, son.”

His tone of voice left Harry suddenly very sure what to expect.

He sat down.

Wearing his most serious expression, Shak began, “I've received disturbing information from reliable sources concerning your conduct after the last Quidditch match - specifically that you spent the night in the Gryffindor clubhouse in the company of one Ginevra Weasley. Is that correct?”

Harry protested immediately. “Shak, I thought you said when you decided to be my guardian that my sex life wasn't your concern. You raised that yourself.”

“Alright, let me rephrase the question,” Shak replied magisterially. “I am told that you had your goblin guards prevent the Hogwarts staff from interfering with your decision to stay out all night in violation of curfew - regardless of what you were doing. Correct?”

“Umm … when put that way … yes.” Harry had to admit.

“Harry, you know better than that,” Shak admonished. “I don't care what you were doing - I really don't - but I'm disappointed in your flaunting the rules. You know that much is required from those to whom much is given.”

“I … I've heard that,” Harry mumbled whilst paying undue attention to a stray curse mark on the front of Shak's desk.

“You can't behave that way,” Shak declared. “You're too high profile to be permitted that kind of latitude, even were we so inclined.”

“I didn't,” Harry replied glumly. “I lost a bunch of House Points, and have a week of detentions…. Ginny does too.”

“Theoretically, you could have been expelled…,” Shak informed Harry bluntly. Then he switched gears. “Look, I don't enjoy berating you. When I was young and irresponsible, I made similar mistakes, except I didn't have a goblin army assisting my follies. Sometimes I - and you - just didn't think. So I have a proposal. I've talked to your Head of House.”

“Better you than me, right now.”

“If you think you've disappointed me, try to imagine how Minerva … Professor McGonagall feels right now,” Shak shut Harry up. “But for now, she's consented to forego detentions with Filch….”

“Thanks, Shak.” Harry dreaded the senseless drudgery of mucking out the Castle moat or polishing trophies.

“Don't thank me yet,” Shak warned. “Instead, you'll take training sessions with me. Your time is too valuable to waste cleaning latrines with Muggle toothbrushes, or whatever else Filch might devise. I'm warning you, I'll work you harder than Filch - but it'll be productive.”

“Doesn't matter,” Harry spoke as soon as Shak finished. “I don't mind hard work if I'm accomplishing something.”

“I wish … no forget that…. Let's shake on it,” Shak offered. “But it'll be a binding magical contract. No backing out.”

They did - then Harry remembered something. “What about Ginny?”

“Sorry,” Shak answered in a voice not sounding sorry at all. “I only have one exemption.”

At lunch, Hermione and Neville, Harry's usual tablemates quite ostentatiously ignored him. Ron briefly shot daggers at him before making himself extremely scarce. Harry and Ginny wound up sitting with some of Ginny's friends, her fellow Chaser Demelza Robbins, Kelly Comerford, and Jessica Carmichael.

Working through a mince pie, Harry noticed an unsmiling Professor McGonagall descend from the High Table, striding briskly in his direction. To his surprise, the Deputy Headmistress had no business with him. Instead she addressed Ginny with exaggerated formality. “Miss Weasley, due to the unusual volume of your morning post, I took the precaution of having our house-elves sort it. That which passed inspection is being delivered to your dormitory.”

“Umm … thanks, professor.”

“Standard procedure, Weasley.” McGonagall shrugged. “Should this persist, however, I shall expect you to make alternate arrangements - as did Potter and Granger.” Her message delivered, McGonagall stalked away.

Back in her dorm, Ginny inspected the neatly stacked piles of mail the elves had left on her bed. Her correspondents were mostly pure-blooded witches congratulating her for getting Harry into a “proper match” or something similar. A few were critical, usually jealous. According to Harry anything truly dangerous would have been removed and binned.

Ginny flushed red as she perused the Weasleys' Wanton Witches catalogue the twins had sent along, probably as a joke. The more she looked, the more she found items that would hopefully tempt Harry.

But Ginny feared repercussions - even blackmail - if her brothers knew she purchased this sort of merchandise. An alternative might be that Hogsmeade store she occasionally overheard Rommy discuss with her older friends….

“Oh.” Ginny squeaked when she found a large envelope addressed in her mum's hand. Ginny felt both relieved and worried - relieved that Mum sent a letter rather than a Howler, but worried about what she had to say.

Gaining Harry meant losing her Prefect's position. Ginny had vivid memories of Mum's reaction when Ron resigned his.

Taking a deep breath, Ginny slit the envelope and withdrew a letter memorialising her mum's opinions. Whilst Dad also signed, it was obviously Mum's creation.

Ginny,

Right now we don't know whether to congratulate you or ground you. Why didn't you tell us yourself? This morning we received your Head of House's owl informing us that for “serious misconduct,” you were sacked as a Prefect. Merlin, what have you done? The letter did not say, but you surely must have broken major rules.

Molly was ready to send you a Howler, followed by a personal visit, to uncover what had happened and to ensure that it never happened again. Then, with no warning, we receive this morning's Prophet, and our jaws drop. The lead article is that you and Harry suddenly have become an item. Are these two things related?

Don't think either of us isn't well aware that you've fancied Harry for years. We are so happy for you. He's been a friend and more to you, and us, for years. We will never forget how he saved you when everything seemed hopeless - and others in our family, including Arthur and Ron. Whatever the two of you want, rest assured you have our blessing.

So even if whatever happened cost you a Prefect's badge, if necessary to bring you and Harry together, I'm sure we'll live with it. We just hope that the two of you were careful not to hurt Hermione. She's been part of this family for years, and we would prefer that to continue.

Love and kisses to our lovely daughter and her intended boyfriend.

Mum and Dad

`That wasn't so bad,' Ginny thought as she put her parents' (mostly Mum's) letter aside.

She heard a faint rustling noise and saw the envelope squirming. Carefully, she lifted it, edgewise between the palms of her hands. Leery of what might still be inside, she squeezed the envelope to widen the opening. With a gentle shake, a second folded piece of parchment fell onto the bed. It read simply, “Read Me.”

Wary of paper that could move, Ginny prodded it with her wand. The parchment unfolded and lay quietly, blank and unmoving. It seemed harmless, so Ginny picked it up.

Immediately, words began forming - a private note to her from Mum:

Ginevra:

This is all so sudden! I hope you didn't throw yourself at Harry like some scarlet woman. I pray that I raised you better than that.

Ginny smirked. Mum had no idea how modern witches behaved. Half the witches in Gryffindor would have done the same, or worse, given the chance. Rommy was quite open about it. Lavender's Silencing Charms whilst gossiping with Parvati were not as robust as either witch thought. She had overheard Katie scheming as well.

Even more, I hope you didn't do what we discussed when you were last home. For good reason, those items are easy to detect, so if anyone bothered checking, the consequences could be severe.

Ginny smirked again. She had that covered. She used no ordinary Love Potion. Even Malfoy had immediately been impressed by its stealth and power.

I'm not particularly proud of what I did, but your situation is nothing like mine. Arthur was simply clueless. He wasn't seeing any other witch. Harry was, and you should already know that Hermione is not one to trifle with. If you did anything underhanded, she'll find you out - I guarantee it.

Ginny scowled. Her own mum was praising her rival. Anyway, she had that covered, too. The Draught of Despair, triggered in sufficiently traumatic fashion, would paralyse her. That part of her plan had worked perfectly. Hermione had run away - had given up. She could tell from her note to the D.A. It was evident in that girl's eyes, every time Hermione saw her and Harry together.

So for now, I'm reserving judgment. But one more thing, daughter of mine, remember I told Arthur the truth before anything irreversible occurred. If you've done anything - anything at all - that you would not want to see on the front page of the Prophet, you'd best tell him, too. This is not just motherly advice. Arthur has a high-profile position, and I don't have to remind you about Harry.

Angrily, Ginny drew her wand. “Incendio!” Her mum's note flared, and was gone. Who was she to offer such advice? Their situations could not differ more. Harry Potter - the Harry Potter - could not be compared with her dad in his seventh year. Unlike Mum, Harry had been the love of her life for as long as she could remember. She would tell Harry, sure, but only once the threats to their relationship had been eliminated.

“Ginny? Is everything all right in there?”

Damn. It was her roommate Connie Marpeth. She must have smelt that burning letter. Ginny kicked herself for not being more discreet.

“Yeah, I'm fine,” she answered. “I've got all this post…. Just an aggravating note from some jealous hag.”

* * * *

Klamdok scowled as underlings brought the requested dossiers. The mere sight of them meant bad news - threatening his plans for finally collecting the overdue debts owed to Gringotts. Recent events were troubling … quite troubling, indeed.

The largest dossier was bound in ochre coloured leather. Ochre meant a longstanding arrearage; precisely what he had dared hope to eliminate.

What hath Impratraxis wrought?

Klamdok thought the world of the Impratraxis. Eyewitness to the Ashrak attack, he considered this human's unique investiture entirely deserved. The returning warriors' recent tales of Impratraxis' snatching victory from defeat at Stonehenge only cemented Klamdok's admiration. The Impratraxis' mature handling of the Black Estate, his testamentary provisions benefitting the Gablankansta, and his effort to eliminate the Potter family's ancestral debts to Gringotts - everything confirmed the Impratraxis as trustworthy and steadfast.

But this recent romantic development…?

Granted, Impratraxis was not in line for the throne; he would have to marry a goblin…. Hmmm … an Illyrian realm Imprexi was rumoured to have certain characteristics pleasing to….

Enough speculation.

For the first time, Klamdok doubted Impratraxis' actions. Sav … rather, Jistiri (the goblin term for “ex”) Hermione, with her Muggle background, was a natural ally against the pure-blood deadbeats. Her actions, especially her willingness to abide Impratraxis' testamentary intent, reinforced Klamdok's view. And what of Impratraxis' comment at the Alitserat? Could his Jistiri have somehow induced the Stonehenge battle's spectacular denouement?

Jistiri was a powerful witch. Her latest accomplishment was saving Impratraxis' life, despite being scorned. Reports indicated she defeated a Dark curse that Gablankansta Healers had been powerless to stop.

Why, then, had Impratraxis moved on? And so suddenly? It created uncertainty at a very delicate time.

This new girl…. Klamdok needed a reason to trust her. He had none.

Klamdok opened the top dossier. Ginevra Weasley. Gryffindor, like Jistiri Hermione. Presumably brave; she received an Order of Merlin in connexion with the Ministry affray. Somewhat above average student. Good at Charms and Defence; average at Transfiguration; below average at Potions. No other marks worth mentioning. Athletic. Played on same Quidditch team as Impratraxis.

Not bad…. But compared to Sav … Jistiri Hermione, Klamdok saw nothing explaining Impratraxis' abrupt change of heart.

A picture. Now here was a possible clue. This Ginny was indeed pretty in the way humans viewed beauty … perhaps too lithe and thin than optimal for procreation, but human views on such subjects were impenetrable. She held that advantage over the Jistiri.

Klamdok read the next report.

Hmm…. This was disconcerting. Corner, Cornfoot, Thomas, Longbottom…. The girl was quite free with her favours, and not as discreet, and perhaps not as clever, as she thought she was.

Klamdok growled, literally. The latest addendum mentioned Draco Malfoy as a possible dalliance. That name was an Asterlik in his craw. The Malfoys took as much advantage of Gringotts as any wizarding family.

“Quastri….” Klamdok muttered. Was she why Impratraxis sought to learn goblin Cloaking?

He turned to the second, thicker dossier - an ochre-bound summary of the Weasley family line. The green stripe across the bottom, being relatively rare, piqued Klamdok's interest. That meant, although significantly behind on repayment, this debtor family had recently made some effort to repay principal.

So, these Weasleys exhibited more merit than most wizards with Gringotts mortgages. Was it the late William's doing? Such repayments would certainly have increased his advancement opportunities at the bank.

He opened the Weasley dossier.

They were an old pure-blood family - more fecund than most. Dissipation through multiple inheritances could be one reason they had fallen on hard times.

The arrearages originated with one Roland Weasley, well over a century ago. He participated in building the magical railroad line from London to Hogsmeade. Success generated plans to construct other lines, and Mr. Weasley mortgaged his property to the hilt. None proved financially viable, given the British Isles' relatively small magical population.

No repayments were forthcoming for over a century.

Within the last year, the situation changed. The Ministry promoted Arthur Weasley to department head. He recommenced 500-Galleon monthly repayments. These barely dented the outstanding debt, but meant something. About six months ago, a more substantial one-time payment - 10,000 Galleons - was made against principal by Fred and George Weasley, with an “in memoriam” notation, presumably for William.

Klamdok remembered those two Weasleys. They were twins, and more importantly, Impratraxis' business partners.

Hope, perhaps.

Despite hopeful signs, the fundamental conflict of interest remained. With Arthur Weasley now a high political appointee, he could be even more susceptible to pressure from the deadbeat pure-bloods.

Thankfully, Klamdok's wink-and-nod arrangement with Bladvak gave Gringotts plausible deniability. Bladvak could be trusted to find an appropriate property for setting a precedent. If anything happened, Bladvak would unhesitatingly assume the role of sacrificial Chyropt - and would eventually be well compensated.

Klamdok also trusted Impratraxis to protect Gringotts. Jistiri Hermione had conceived the original plan.

This new girl was not Jistiri Hermione. That was troubling.

Klamdok would wait and see. Perhaps this Ginny would prove a passing fancy. Impratraxis, he was bound to obey. The word of royalty was law.

But obeisance, like most things, was a matter of degree.

Klamdok would wait. Gringotts would not be proactive. For the moment, Impratraxis' extant financial arrangements favoured Jistiri Hermione. Gringotts was content for matters to remain that way.

Should Impratraxis seek a change, Gringotts, of course, would obey. Anything less would be treason.

Klamdok could ensure than nobody - at least no goblin - would suggest any such thing to Impratraxis.

* * * *

Professeur des Charmes Fleur Delacour was a no-nonsense instructor. When she noticed two fifth-year girls giggling about something at their shared desk, she promptly confiscated it and docked five House Points each - even though the double period had only five minutes left, and those two had finished and handed in their assignments.

Not surprisingly, the offending material was Hebdomadaire de Jeunes Sorcières, the new French-language version of an English gossip-mongering tabloid Fleur had occasionally seen at Hogwarts. That rag was bad enough in English. If anything, it plumbed new depths in French. To snatch market share from established French competitors, it lowered its already minimal content standards.

Fleur was binning the thing when “Harry Potter” in a screaming headline caught her eye. It was no warmed over Basilisk story. Tutting turned to frank disbelief when the article delivered exactly what its headline promised - an exclusive joint interview featuring the aforementioned Basilisk-conquering wizard and his “nouvelle petite amie,” Ginny Weasley.

“Je ne peux pas le croire,” Fleur muttered. She had up-close-and-personal familiarity with Harry and Hermione's relationship: first as Bill's consultant, then as Hermione's would-be rival after - her lips trembled - Bill's death, and finally as the girl's quasi-mentor, following Fleur's realistic assessment of her own prospects.

Incredibly, the story seemed true. The interview was rife with Ginny's lengthy effusions of being hopelessly in love with Harry Potter for as long as she could remember. Bill used to joke about precisely that. Harry's laconic confirmations of his recent feelings for Ginny also bore the ring of truth.

If false, this story promised to become the mother of all libel litigation.

Something monumental must have happened. Professing concern for Hermione's “privacy,” neither mentioned how Harry's prior romantic relationship had ended. Other Hogwarts students - not merely anonymous sources - confirmed the basic, shocking fact that Harry and Hermione were history.

Rather than discarding the fish wrapper, Fleur showed it to Alicia Spinnett, still Hogwarts' representative at Beauxbatons despite incapacitating curse injuries suffered during the Basilisk attack. With a couple of Floo conversations, everything was confirmed.

That tipped the balance.

Fleur respected Hermione. She was in awe of her intellect - everyone was. But even more, Fleur admired the girl's pluck. She had seen Hermione best Harry in a duel, despite having but a fraction of his power. She had witnessed her dogged determination when Death Eaters kidnapped Harry. She had heard about Hermione's role in the Battle of Stonehenge, once again her fighting and overcoming impossible odds.

Harry featured prominently, sometimes exclusively, in all these incidents.

Now, somehow, Harry was involved with Ginny Weasley.

Fleur barely knew, and did not respect, Ginny. She was simply the baby of Bill's six siblings. Nor had Ginny been friendly when Fleur visited Bill's home. “Phlegm” was decidedly not a term of endearment.

The story portrayed Ginny as vivacious and athletic, also describing her as beautiful.

Fleur snorted. Beauty was something she knew about.

Beauty? Fleur would put hers against anyone's. She was incomparably more beautiful than Hermione. Hermione had not bested her with beauty, but with other qualities - attributes that earned Fleur's abiding respect and reluctant fealty.

Since returning to Beauxbatons following the Basilisk attack, Fleur had sought something to bolster the school's shattered morale - something to begin the arduous process of restoring her alma mater's tarnished self-esteem and reputation.

From the beginning she had questioned the precipitous cancellation of the return ball. The staff - not the Headmistress, who was incapacitated - reached that decision within hours of the attack. A postponement was certainly justified. But outright cancellation?

To Fleur, it was an implicit admission that Beauxbatons' attackers had won.

Fleur could rationalise with the best.

She had assumed the Charms position at Beauxbatons' express request. She could have taught Defence, had she desired, using what she had learnt from Harry Potter's group. Olympe would listen to her recommendations.

Once the ball brought Harry to France, Fleur would handle the rest. Her implicit agreement not to pursue Harry Potter was solely with Hermione. She had no such understanding with Ginny Weasley.

A new game was afoot.

* * * *

“Caractacus? Yes, send him in,” Lord Voldemort agreed, when the arrival of this faithful servant was announced. Moments later the graying Borgin and Burkes proprietor was ushered in.

“You may leave us,” the Dark Lord commanded the others.

After the obligatory abasements, Caractacus Burke divulged his news. “I have word from Draco Malfoy. He reports success in his latest project. Potter and the Mudblood have separated. I know no details, but I presume the little blood traitor and their potion brewed from your ingredients did the job.”

“Yes, I have read the Prophet's version of these events,” Voldemort hissed, his face bearing an evil grin. “That threat appears well countered - for the moment. Now I shall undertake a … permanent solution to that problem.”

“How may I serve you, my Lord?”

“Other than continuing to act as go-between, you need not trouble yourself with this particular endeavour any further,” the Dark Lord dismissed his offer. He was re-compartmentalising. “You and young Malfoy have done well. I shall release another quarter of the gold as - shall we say - a progress payment. You may keep your usual ten percent. Tell Malfoy that the remaining quarter, and concealment of his ancestral home, await successful completion of his mission's final objective.”

“Any operational instructions, my Lord?” Burke asked.

Voldemort ran his fingers along his chin in thought. “Tell him the new moon in June. Further instructions will follow in the usual way. You are excused.”

Once the door clicked closed, the Dark Lord went to work. His first raven was to Ludo Bagman. Ludo was to alert Troy that Operation Endgame was a go. With the match rescheduled, everything was in place. Troy was to act, at his discretion, upon a suitable opportunity within the next week.

He called for Lucius, who was to create the diversion that would keep Potter busy and out of pocket. Given the main event's unavoidable location, the boy's attention must be kept focused elsewhere - until it was too late.

Lord Voldemort had an enchanted object that would prompt the Muggle-Loving Fool to enlist Potter as his cat's-paw. He handed it to his long-time henchman and told him the location - explaining how it was conveniently accessible only at new or full moon.

All must be in readiness before the new moon in June.

Then the Dark Lord brought in Snape. The former Hogwarts professor would lead the strike force that would assist Draco. For reasons kept secret until everything was over, Snape was to believe that his and Draco's mission was the evening's main event. In truth, it was merely another, more elaborate, diversion.

Lord Voldemort himself planned every detail of the true main event. He would simultaneously restore his most faithful servant and ensure that what young Malfoy had rent asunder would never, ever be re-established. Success would forever nullify one possible outcome of Abigail's unfortunate reading, and would also render Malfoy's continued presence at Hogwarts unnecessary. Ultimately, success would usher in the emotional obliteration of the Boy Who Had Lived Far Too Long.

His red eyes glinted in anticipation. With luck, he could manœuvre Potter into being required personally to end the pitiful life of that overly clever Mudblood. The choice would be her - or a piece of him. Her death would be the only solution.

Either her death would undo Potter, or her continued life would ensure his death.

* * * *

A busy day began what promised to be a busy week. He had consulted about a perplexing case of a wizard grown allergic to his own wand. He had also conducted the first set of grand rounds that occasioned the reopening of the Janus Thickey Ward to ordinary medical use. Its elaborate re-warding, prompted by that Death Eater invasion, had required several months. After the rounds were finished, he had a long list of patient consultations.

Not until well past three in the afternoon, could Chief Healer Paracelsus Huxley take sanctuary in his office, dictate his notes, plan his schedule for the rest of the week, peruse the latest Healing journals, and sketch out the presentation he would give this Friday before the European Paranormal Healers' Society annual convention in Majorca on long-term consequences of artefact accidents. That speech and the wands-out breakout sessions that followed would satisfy most of his annual Continuing Healing Education requirement.

Hlr. Huxley had just opened the current edition of Annals of Clinical Healing when he heard tapping at his window pane. He performed the usual incantation, and an unfamiliar Aluco tawny owl fluttered in, bearing a substantial package. This was odd. His post was usually processed by the St. Mungo's repository.

This package was marked “Personal & Confidential.” Practising his own version of constant vigilance, Hlr. Huxley thoroughly inspected the delivery for curses or other potentially dangerous magic before unburdening the increasingly impatient owl. For her troubles, he fed the owl the remainder of his lunchtime muffin.

He noted the intriguing return address. His first reaction being, `Harry Potter is a fool' - followed immediately by, `What she could want?' “A summer intern's post if I'm terribly lucky,” he amusedly answered his own question. Hlr. Huxley had not exaggerated, much, in his earlier willingness to hire her immediately; the Devil take the N.E.W.T.s.

No such luck.

Hermione Granger was not applying for a Healer trainee's position - or any other position. Instead, she had sent a battered and worse-for-wear copy of his namesake's tome, The Joy of Potions.

Perplexed, he perused the note that accompanied the book.

Dear Healer Huxley:

I trust you are well and I apologise for my interruption. I have enclosed a heavily annotated copy of Paraselcus' Joy of Potions. I am concerned because some of these annotations involve Dark magic and spells (see the example on page 157).

However, the great majority of the annotations appear to be superior methods of brewing potions discussed in the text. So I am loath to destroy this book altogether.

Your evaluation is undoubtedly superior to mine. With your prestige and wizarding connexions, I am sure you could arrange for publication of an updated version of Joy - minus the darker aspects of this unknown wizard's ideas.

Again, I apologise for burdening you with this, but I trust no other wizard to do the right thing.

Hermione Granger

“I'll be damned,” Hlr. Huxley muttered. He flipped through the first couple of chapters. Every so often he remarked, “that should work,” “I wish I'd thought of that,” or simply “wow!” Turning to page 157, he examined the spell that worried Hermione. “Sectum…!” He stopped. Without completing the curse, he knew she was correct. The leftward wand motion was sufficient confirmation.

Closing the cover, Hlr. Huxley exhaled. Assuming the rest of the book was similar, it contained more than enough material to justify a revised edition - if not a completely new work. That unknown Dark wizard was possibly the best instinctive Potions brewer he had ever encountered.

Hlr. Huxley flipped through his planner. As befitting one of the most distinguished Healers in the British Isles - and all Europe - his schedule was full to bursting. He had no time to redraft one of wizardkind's most venerable Potions treatises.

`I could engage one of the younger Healers,' he thought. That was how he completed his latest article, “A Case Study of the Sacrifice of the Phoenix Used to Counteract Magical Spontaneous Combustion,” which should be ready for peer review in a couple of months - provided he obtained the necessary consents.

All roads led back to Hermione Granger.

Why not this one? Merlin knows, Hlr. Huxley needed no more accolades to burnish an already stellar career.

With a knowing smile, Hlr. Huxley swivelled his chair to an oak paneled cupboard behind his desk. He slid in the book and closed the door. It would be safe until an appropriate author was found - an up and coming Healer, unquestionably brilliant, but who could use the cachet of authorship of a definitive work on one of magic's central subjects, perhaps to overcome a disadvantageous blood background.

Turnabout - Hlr. Huxley believed - was definitely fair play.

* * * *

Author's notes: Title is from a Guess Who song

Lesson 128 was taught in Ch. 13

The institution of excellence program was introduced in Ch. 8

This all-purpose Apparecium charm was introduced in Ch. 7

Hermione used aerogel in Ch. 35

Luna similarly assisted Hermione in Ch. 32

At the story's end, Hermione will confront the worst consequence of her oath

Hermione met Kamarak in Ch. 45

Keltoi was introduced in Ch. 39

Hermione learned Suturc in Ch. 60

The “explode” line recalls OOP Ch. 21

Reports of my death … exaggerated - is from Mark Twain

Molly's howler was in Ch. 18

Hermione's talk with her mother was in Ch. 45

The Shakespeare quote is from Helena's speech in “All's Well That Ends Well”

The “not blame' paragraph in the letter contains phrases from Dylan/Stewart's “Forever Young”

The promise to stay friends, which will loom large, occurred in Ch. 46

My Hermione is the “Jane,” rather than the “Jean” version

The damage to Harry's painting will become important

What Harry does with the returned rings is also important

“Decent interval” originally referred to a lag between the US leaving Vietnam and the Viet Cong taking over

Daphne, and her aunt, are far from finished

Skeeter's Unbreakable Vow occurred in Ch. 47

The Teen Witches' Weekly contest is described in Ch. 32

Dorian White is a play on Dorian Gray, the Oscar Wilde character

The notion that opposites attract is not only stupid, but a recipe for romantic disaster

Harry's textbooks are set out in Ch. 11

Chaldean mathematics was actually sexagesimal

Undeleted expletive is a Watergate reference

Chaldean (Babylonian) Arithmancy omits the number nine

Harry's mastery of goblin Cloaking magic comes in handy

“Much is required … much is given” - Luke 12:48 - Biblical support for taxing the rich

“Young and irresponsible” - George Bush's excuse for drinking and draft dodging

Nazis made Jews clean latrines with toothbrushes

The Hogsmeade store is Samson's Option, from Ch. 52

Ron's resignation was the occasion for Molly's Howler in Ch. 18

“Read me” recalls Alice in Lewis Carrol's “Through The Looking Glass”

“What hath God wrought” (Numbers 23:23) were the first words sent in Morse Code

The Ashrak attack was in Ch. 14

Gablankansta = goblin nation

The Alitserat, and Harry's comments, were in Ch. 74

Quastri - not a complimentary term - is defined in Ch. 51

Hermione's incendiary suggestion is in Ch. 51

“Mother of all…” a Saddam Hussein quote

The Harry-Hermione duel was in Ch. 49

Ginny's unfriendliness toward Fleur is canon

Progress payments are common in construction - the claimed relationship between Draco and Caractacus Burke

The new moon in June is very important

Abigail Rosen's reading is detailed in Ch. 45

The Death Eater attack on St. Mungos' occurred in Ch. 23

Continuing healing education parallels continuing medical education

Hlr. Huxley mentioned his interest in taking Hermione on staff in Ch. 36

Hlr. Huxley's putting the HBP away ensures that nobody looks through it until too late

The case study involves Dumbledore's Ch. 36 saving of Hermione's life

29

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81. International Relations

Wherein Hermione tries to cope, an announcement is made, invitations are accepted or not, promises are more or less kept, an unexpected proposal trumps an unexpected encounter, and Harry frets while picking stocks and gets some pointed counsel.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

Chapter 81 - International Relations

Lord Voldemort's ambitions extended so far beyond sowing dissention amongst the original Ministry Six that the thought never crossed his mind. Had that been his objective, the Dark Lord could scarcely have achieved a more thorough disintegration of Potter's team.

The target of Harry's and Ginny's spectacular betrayal - the keystone of the Six's structure - reacted defensively. Hermione raised the sturdiest emotional redoubts her shattered spirit could muster. True to her promises, she maintained correct, if prickly, social relations with Harry. They cooperated on matters of mutual interest, as did deGaulle with NATO, but Hermione assiduously maintained her independent force de frappe.

That force primarily targeted Ginny, towards whom Hermione was icily formal. Hermione never resorted to massive retaliation, however, upsetting various betting pools and disappointing certain juvenile males. In social situations Hermione mostly sat with Neville (in the Gryffindor common room) or Luna (in the Great Hall). In group settings Hermione gravitated towards the mostly Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff contingent that chose her D.A. training section after her victory in her epic and, by now, almost legendary duel with Harry.

Hermione increasingly avoided social situations altogether. Instead, she gave her inner swot free reign. She had a well-deserved reputation for hitting the books before “that” happened, and with Harry no longer on her schedule, Hermione doubled down academically. Before the first week of the rest of her life was over, her twenty-five lost House Points were a distant memory, and she was well on her way to redeeming the remaining Gryffindor deficit. Her efforts had the not altogether unintended effect of cementing her support within the House.

Hermione would isolate herself in her customary library hideaway. She also frequented the Room of Requirement - after she and Harry coordinated schedules to avoid being alone together. Less frequently she visited other known private locations.

Ostracism by the other Boomwins left Harry and Ginny with plenty of time to get to know each other better. Goblin Cloaking magic facilitated mightily, but as hard as Harry tried….

The new couple interacted primarily with Gryffindors in Ginny's year and the largely male contingent who trained with Harry in the D.A. Like Hermione, the pair revised a lot. O.W.L.s staring Ginny in the face left her no choice. Harry had an upcoming Defence N.E.W.T., but he revised mostly as a self-defence mechanism. Hermione shared most of his classes, and - her mien driven, yet icily detached - she was more than pleased to show him up academically.

Ron conspicuously avoided both contingents. The third member of the erstwhile Trio nursed grudges against almost everybody. Contact with Harry and Ginny was almost non-existent - save on the Quidditch pitch. There, as captain of the Hogwarts picked nine, Ron managed to suppress (barely) his anger for the good of the team. He was no keener than anyone else to suffer embarrassment by Krum and his all-stars a few weeks hence. Ron still managed an occasional petty slight, such as assigning Ginny the same quasi-house-elf tasks that she performed for the Gryffindor team.

Away from the Pitch, Ron avoided Harry and Ginny like the plague, staying far away from them in D.A. meetings and instead associating with Seamus, Dean, and their music dungeon crowd. When he desired female company, Luna continued to make herself available - although even there Ron found frustration and limitations.

Ron also stood apart, albeit not quite as far, from Hermione and Neville. Sure, he was grateful that she kept him from being expelled, and for saving Harry's life - that too - although he less readily admitted that. But how she went about it…. Every step of the process seemed designed to demonstrate Hermione's bloody superiority.

From Ron's after-the-fact perspective, fighting Harry was primarily to avenge a serious slight to Hermione's honour, but she barely acknowledged her valourous defender. Worse, once events spiraled out of control, Hermione had taken unfair advantage of his vulnerability to relieve him of the Prince's Potions book, making a mockery of her assurances on his birthday.

Ron tried compensating for his lost Prince in a most unexpected - from him - way: knuckling down and revising for Potions as diligently as he could. It remained a hopeless contest. With no reservoir of knowledge, and without rigorous academic skills, Ron simply could not keep pace with the hyper-swot Hermione. As she regularly demonstrated her academic superiority in class, Ron could feel Professor Slughorn's high regard inexorably ebbing.

Luna tried remaining friends with everyone, except Harry. Uniquely, he had gratuitously inflicted terrible emotional distress upon Hermione; despite the hard façade she showed the world. Luna practically worshipped the ground beneath Hermione's feet - literally, as Luna acted as acolyte to Hermione's Druid High Priestess - however reluctantly the Gryffindor embraced that role. To Luna's regret, Hermione preferred bearing the burden of her sorrow alone; the blonde feared the morose brunette was walling herself away.

Otherwise, Luna made some romantic progress with Ron, although he was often too moody to reciprocate fully. She tried keeping lines of communication open to Neville and Ginny, but absent the Trio, she and the introspective boy had little in common. Luna shared even fewer interests with the high-flying Ginny Weasley. For Ron's benefit, she tried reaching out. But Ginny blew off Luna's invitation to join a Ravenclaw O.W.L. revision group - not that Luna followed up very diligently. Ginny was hardly guiltless, as it took two to tango.

Typically, Neville Longbottom kept his feelings to himself. His heart of hearts secretly carried torches for both Ginny and Hermione. In one fell swoop, Harry had doubly injured him, whilst reinforcing feelings of hopeless inadequacy. Neville's heart ached at Hermione being cast aside, and Harry's new relationship with Ginny rubbed salt in a much more raw and recent wound. Hermione remained his unattainable ideal - especially after the beating Ginny had given his ego.

And Harry was … well, Harry.

Neville opted for avoiding conflict. He found comfort in the greenhouses. Plants, at least, would not offend his sense of honour.

These dynamics operated Friday evening in the Great Hall. Harry was at one end of the Gryffindor table, discussing Defence over treacle tart. He tried to ignore the barely concealed hero worship from his fourth and fifth year audience. Ginny was glued to him, almost sitting in his lap, her leg neatly hooked around his ankle. Beneath the table, her near hand took liberties that, if the staff had noticed, would have cost Gryffindor points.

Halfway down the table, Ron sat with some Quidditch and musically inclined mates. Luna, ever hopeful, stationed herself nearby, but Ron was more interested in complaining about Professor McGonagall. Although the Tutshill Tornadoes' owner had sent two tickets to the upcoming grudge match with Ballycastle, he was forbidden from leaving the Castle to attend.

Neville sat by himself at the opposite end of the table. Eating slowly, he kept company with a copy of Magical Mediterranean Water-Plants and Their Properties, studying Dodecanese Island pomegranates and their uses in Olympian ambrosia.

Hermione was not in the Hall. She had eaten and run.

All conversation quieted as Headmaster Dumbledore strode to the High Table's podium. “Your attention please,” he began, eyes twinkling. “I have unexpected good tidings this evening. I just received word from our Beauxbatons liaison that, contrary to prior indications, the interscholastic ball was merely postponed, not cancelled, as feared….”

Although security was important following the Basilisk attack, Dumbledore's ensuing discussion of such matters fell on deaf ears. The students turned to more immediate and consequential concerns - who would take whom to the ball?

“…It will take place a week from tomorrow at the Palais. Both Ministries are working in tandem on security measures….”

Ginny immediately turned to Harry, who nodded his assent. Nearby girls faked swooning as he received a kiss and a strategic squeeze under the table that promised further rewards - another try for whatever Harry sought.

“…Due to changed circumstances, no themed costumes are expected. Formal robes will suffice….”

Prior to the Basilisk attack, Luna had asked Ron to the original Beauxbatons ball. At word of the resurrected event, Luna clutched his arm. Ron seemed to respond in kind, but may only have been steadying himself, as Dean and Seamus nearly bowled him over in haste to beat the other to invite Lavender Brown. With the ball little more than a week away, time did not permit extended courtships.

Thus Neville barely had time to react before finding himself face to face with Marona's estimable endowments. A double Order of Merlin winner before attaining majority, as well as a pure-blood scion, Neville's actual prospects greatly exceeded his opinion of them. Almost before he knew it, the boy Voldemort had declined to mark was off the market.

“…Ahem, there is more….”

Headmaster Dumbledore found himself in the unusual position of being ignored.

The Supreme Mugwump's voice failed to carry its usual weight on occasions such as this.

“Sonorus!”

“If I might again have your attention,” the Headmaster's amplified voice filled the Hall. “I have additional news of interest. Time is, of course, short. So you may properly prepare for the Beauxbatons ball, I am authorising a Hogsmeade day tomorrow for all students fourth year and up, and for anyone younger receiving an invitation. As before, for those interested in partnering with a Beauxbatons student, there will….”

Ginny positively bubbled at the prospect of new dress robes - “green, to match your eyes” - until catching the faraway look on Harry's face. “Harry, what is it? Oh….”

“I won't be here tomorrow, remember?” he reminded. “I'm off to bloody Bavaria with the goblins and the Sisters.”

“Can't it wait until after the ball?” Ginny pleaded. “You need robes, too. When will you get them?”

“Umm … I don't think standing up the Sisters on short notice is a good idea,” Harry replied after a moment's thought. “I'd rather get that - and them - behind me, since it was Hermione's idea….”

Ginny's reflex scowl at mention of that name marred her pretty features.

“…I'm also meeting Jerry McAllister, who runs the Château, and my lawyer on Sunday when I get back. I'm sure they can get me some new dress robes.”

Ginny visibly brightened. “Where - at the Château? I've never seen it. Maybe I can go with you?” Expectation burned brightly in her eyes.

“Now that's an idea,” Harry agreed. “We're meeting at the goblins' Hogsmeade headquarters.”

Suddenly the weekend appeared less onerous for the Boy-Who-Lived.

“Let's have our own private Hogsmeade outing,” Ginny purred as they cuddled closer. “Nobody can find us under that goblin charm of yours.”

Elsewhere at the Gryffindor table, Dumbledore's announcements had resurfaced less-than-happy memories of less-than-calm exchanges. Without even waiting for afters, indicative of his seriousness, Ron rose - determined not to make the same mistake twice.

“Where are you off to?” Luna inquired dreamily, extending her hand.

Ron remained out of reach. “Hermione's not here,” Ron answered tersely. “She deserves to know.” Then he was gone, taking Luna's dreams with him.

Hermione was easy to find. Her usual spot at the back of the library was notorious to friend and foe alike. She had carefully selected this out-of-the way place - close to the Transfiguration and Charms sections and with but one route of egress not blocked by the Restricted Section. Hermione's hard-won unrestricted pass to that otherwise forbidden territory, meant that, if worst came to worst, she could not be taken by surprise.

She was not expecting visitors on a Friday evening. Even the most studious Ravenclaws skived off before a weekend. But Hermione, no longer desired time off. Free time provided time to reflect, and her reflection did not please her. Her eyes, mirrors to her soul, were deadened by emotions that she kept as far inside as she could. A mountainous workload was her way of burying her pain.

“Oi, Hermione, you back there?”

Ron?

Startled, Hermione set aside her well-thumbed copy of Belby's Expert's Guide to the Physiognomic Characteristics of Magical Fowl. Quizzically, she peered through a crenellation in her battlements of books. Was she hearing things? Ron was at the bottom of her list of anyone likely to frequent the library - especially now.

“There's news!”

Nope. No hallucination.

“Back here, Ron,” she called, lighting her wandtip as a beacon. Since Luna had delivered her that Half-Blood Prince book, Hermione barely spoke two sentences a day to the grudge-holding redhead.

Unbidden, Ron Levitated books out of the chair beside Hermione and plopped down.

“You'll never guess what Dumbledore told us at dinner,” he announced breathlessly.

Hermione said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“Aren't you gonna guess?” he asked, once her pause became awkward.

“Ron, you just said I couldn't, so why try?” Hermione flatly declined to play his game, whatever it was.

She sighed as Ron gaped. “Okay, what happened?”

“Umm … the Beauxbatons ball is back on again…. It's a week from tomorrow,” Ron revealed.

That news could hardly be less welcome. The last thing Hermione's fragile psyche needed was bearing silent witness to her own humiliation as the French fawned over Harry-the-Basilisk-Killer and his new, improved girlfriend. Hermione forced herself to remain calm. “Wonderful. Well, I'm sure you'll have a marvelous time.”

Her unenthusiastic answer perplexed Ron. He ploughed ahead. “Well, who do you think you'll go with?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Ron, I have no idea. Obviously, since this just happened, nobody's asked me yet - as if anyone would.” `Who, indeed,' she thought, `would ask a Muggle-born know-it-all just publicly dumped by You-Know-Him?'

“Great!” Ron chirped, more cheerily than Hermione thought appropriate. “How about going with me?”

“What?” Hermione was aghast. “But you're … at least you've been snogging Luna!”

Unfortunately for Ron, Luna kissed and told - at least told Hermione.

Misreading her shock as surprise, Ron jumped in with the other foot. “I haven't asked her to the ball…. Last time, you told me that you didn't care to be asked as a last resort, and I don't blame you. So I'm making damn sure not to….”

“Ron, you're with Luna!”

“But you're Hermione, Hermione.” Ron stated the obvious as if it were not. “Luna's just … well, you're amazing. I've always thought that. With you single again….”

Ron was proposing to chuck Luna aside, just as Harry had her - if she offered the slightest encouragement. Ron Weasley may be dense, but Hermione Granger was not. She could almost feel her cheeks flush.

“Ronald,” she used his full given name, “we had this conversation before - before fifth year - when I first told you I wasn't interested in that kind of relationship.”

Ron's ears went as pink as Hermione's cheeks. “But - but that was when you were after Harry - and Vicky was still sniffing around. Harry's decided he'd rather shag my bloody sister, and I reckon Krum's moved on, too….”

“Ronald, do not do this,” Hermione warned. “I didn't put you off because of Harry or Viktor.” That was not entirely true; nor entirely false.

Ron's face flushed along with his ears. “Dammit, Hermione! Why can't I have a chance?”

“Ronald, this isn't about you; this is about me!” Hermione screeched, her façade of emotional indifference crumbling. “I've been hurt … really hurt. I don't want another relationship right now, okay? I've had enough pain for awhile. I'm not the type of person who can easily move on.”

Surprised by the vehemence of her refusal, Ron started to back down - until the implication of her final sentence pushed him entirely over the edge. “Merlin! I don't effing believe it!” he exploded. “You're still in love with Harry-bloody-Potter. He drops you like a used Portkey to shag my sister … you're so pathetic…!”

“RONALD!” Hermione leapt to her feet, her wand pointed squarely at his chest. “You need to grow up! Until you do, shut up before I shut you up!”

BANG!!

They both jumped back at the sound of a loud report accompanied by a brilliant flash.

“Ten points from Gryffindor!” yelled an irate Madam Pince. “Weasley, out - now - before it's twenty! I do not tolerate personal rows in my library.”

Throwing up his hands in silent frustration, Ron turned on his heel and stormed out.

“And you, Miss Granger…,” the Head Librarian turned on Hermione. “Doubtless you were provoked, but it takes two to row. If you can't keep your … personal issues … from disrupting my library, I'll be forced to revoke your special privileges. Is that clear?”

Despite Hermione's best efforts, she felt her lower jaw from trembling. “Yes, ma'am,” she acknowledged, before asking plaintively, “Can you please Silencio me?”

Madame Pince complied with her rather odd request. Moments later, Hermione Granger dissolved in tears.

Some time later, following a good cry, Hermione wandered the Castle's halls, headed reluctantly in the general direction of Gryffindor Tower. She dreaded resumption - in public - of her row with Ron.

Her mind replayed Ron's angry accusations, over and over.

Had Ron, in unguarded fury, spoken the truth?

Shades of sappy Whitney Houston songs! Was she still in love with Harry, despite his two-timing with that … scarlet-haired woman?

Perhaps she could find out.

* * * *

As scheduled, Harry left Hogwarts for his overnight Bavarian expedition with the Sisters of the Moon early the next (Saturday) morning. Never greatly enthused with spending time in an abandoned Muggle lead mine with that arrogant Lilithu and her fellow sorceresses, Harry departed doubly annoyed.

Dumbledore had turned him down flat. Harry sought permission to meet Ginny in Hogsmeade on Sunday, upon his return from Germany, so they could shop for dress robes together. It was only fair, Harry had contended, since this prior commitment was forcing him to miss the hastily scheduled Hogsmeade Saturday.

Harry and the Headmaster had not seen eye-to-eye. Dumbledore insisted upon the same businesslike approach to Harry's latest Hogsmeade venture as with his first meeting with Lilithu.

That meant no girlfriends. Just as Hermione had been barred from the first Hogsmeade meeting, so was Ginny this time. With increased security after the Basilisk attack, only good reasons - such as dealings with potential allies, Auror business, and parentally required education not available at Hogwarts - permitted students to leave the Castle grounds except during school sanctioned events.

A solemn Shak accompanied a steaming Harry to the goblins' Hogsmeade outpost; a sullen, overcast sky reflecting their moods. At the Castle's winged boar gate, their seemingly self-propelled carriage received an escort - a half-dozen grey boulders bounding across the landscape.

On their way to town, Shak helped Harry revise the Order's dossier concerning the Sisters of the Moon. Contrary to steady Weasley family calumny, the Sisters at most swung both ways - or perhaps not at all. Their sexual proclivities were largely sublimated to Kabbalistic pursuits.

The Sisters' history stretched more than a millennium back to Jewish communities in Babylonia and Persia during late antiquity. More recently - and more relevantly - they increasingly concerned themselves with Muggle affairs after the attempted Nazi genocide. They employed their powers in Nazi-hunting and, apropos of the current exercise, restoration of Jewish property looted during the Shoah. Less certain were other rumoured interventions, such as ensuring uncanny accuracy of Israeli air strikes during a Muggle war in 1967, and pursuit of anti-Semitic terrorists, from Munich to Uganda.

Shak returned to the Castle after bequeathing Harry to goblin custody. Bladvak was the senior Gringotts' representative. Seeing none of the hoard that was the object of their trip, Harry turned to the goblin. “Bladvak, where's the Nazi gold I'm supposed to return?”

“Thought best to the mine directly to send,” the goblin answered. “Very valuable are seven of your tonnes of gold. More secure are fewer transport stops. At the mine a temporary splixat built have we.”

“Good idea,” Harry agreed. “Before we leave, could I ask you something confidentially?”

“Impratraxis' confidences keep do I,” Bladvak declared, that being answer enough.

“I was thinking of a request - to the Nation - but I don't want to be too much bother. I know I'm not really a goblin prince….”

“Impratraxis are and always shall be you,” Bladvak emphatically disagreed. “No bother have been you. To Gablankansta, brought much glory have you.”

Harry stepped back, surprised by the goblin's vehemence. “Umm … okay, then what do you think about this? I've sort of promised the centaurs….”

“Spphh,” Bladvak spat on the floor at the mention of these creatures. “Useless bystanders…. Arrogant more even than wizards.”

“Well, they helped arrange this trip,” Harry explained.

“To change your mind time still is there. Losing this gold avoid still can you,” Bladvak advised. “Something like this would suggest centaurs.”

“That's not what I meant,” Harry quickly clarified. “To get them to be go-betweens, I promised to help the centaurs rid the Forbidden Forest of an out-of-control Acromantulæ infestation.”

Bladvak looked inscrutable, saying nothing.

“Umm … what do you think?” he asked to break the unexpected silence.

“This word … Acromantulæ, know not I,” the goblin admitted. “To happen what want you?”

“Acromantulæ are giant spiders, some as big as Hogwarts carriages,” Harry explained. “By now, hundreds of them are in the forest….”

He halted when Bladvak broke into a, toothy goblin version of a smile. “Big game hunting,” the goblin uttered, once realising that his Impratraxis had stopped speaking.

“What?”

“An eight-legs hunt propose you,” Bladvak declared with evident relish. “Great sport - not at all bother.”

“You think the Nation would be willing to do it?” Harry had difficulty believing his good fortune.

“Most pleased will be the Nation,” Bladvak confirmed eagerly. “In over two of your centuries no major aboveground hunt have we. And giant eight-legs … properly prepared, most tasty are they. A magnificent feast prepare shall we. Only one thing, please promise Bladvak….”

“This is great!” Harry exclaimed. What he thought a chore - a dangerous chore - the goblins evidently considered a safari, something on par with Quidditch.

Beyond helping Harry refine his ideas, Bladvak requested only the honour of presenting Harry's proposal to the Nation. The sheer number of Acromantulæ would require a substantial force. Mustering a sufficient cadre of volunteers would pose no problems. The goblin warrior caste would oversubscribe this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to exercise their bravery and skill - akin to the Battle of Stonehenge.

Logistical considerations inherent in the size of this undertaking would require deferring the event until the summer, so Hogwarts students would not be underfoot. Bladvak assured Harry that the Nation's agreement would be a formality. Harry was ready to propose the hunt to the Headmaster at the earliest opportunity.

His morale boosted, Harry was now prepared to take that splixat to Bavaria. Bladvak bade him wait a moment. “Something for you have I,” he grunted and disappeared into the next room.

Bladvak emerged with a fanged smile. He produced a small package bound up in grey goblin fabric. Harry opened it and found … two rings - his Auror partner's ring and the bejewelled ring he had given Hermione, with the gems rotated to the inside.

“As did request you,” the goblin commented.

Harry had not requested anything like this. He expected the bejewelled ring to be consigned to his vault and never seen again. He thought he had asked that both garnets be installed on the one Auror ring. But Bladvak's confidence caused Harry to take a closer look.

Goblin goldsmiths had worked one garnet into the band of each ring.

On the diamond and ruby ring, opposite the offset stones, was one deep red garnet, embedded firmly in the golden band. Similar goblin workmanship inserted the other garnet into his Auror partner's ring precisely obverse to his name.

Harry's request had been garbled, and one of McAllister's charmed garnets inserted into the wrong ring.

“Umm … I think there's been a mistake. I wanted both on the one ring - the Auror ring.” Harry explained, hesitant to be too critical.

Bladvak was apologetic, but could do little about the unfortunate error. Excessive reworking could destroy the charms placed on the garnets. Harry recognised that, set separately, the garnets were easier to distinguish. Also, having gems on the inside of one ring made it much easier to remove. The stones were easy to grasp, and Bladvak showed Harry an easy incantation to restore them to their original position, should he ever desire.

Harry decided to leave the rings as they were. They readily nestled atop each other. With the Auror ring on top, Bladvak was correct - the other ring's gemstones simplified both insertion and removal. He needed to wear these continually, since the garnet-sensitive alarms could be triggered at any time, and Death Eaters were not exactly nine-to-five types.

Bladvak took his leave, and finally, the Bavarian aspect of Harry's adventure was upon him. Harry looked forward to it being over, so he could return to the still-fresh charms of his still-new girlfriend. He slung his rucksack with a change of clothes over his shoulder and passed through the splixat.

* * * *

Damp.

More than anything, Harry would never forget the sticky wetness of caching Nazi gold in that old Bavarian lead mine. It was damp outside. Low, pewter-coloured skies that drizzled constantly obscured the Geiselstein and the other supposedly magnificent peaks of the Bäckenalm.

Germany seemed every bit as dull and dreary as the British believed.

Spring greenery - fresh leaves of alders, birches, willows, and oaks - dripped incessantly on the two dozen goblins and four Sisters who, with Harry, were to move over seven tonnes of swastika-inscribed Nazi gold into an old mineshaft abandoned for two centuries.

The mountainside's wooded slope angled at almost forty degrees where the mine's portal punctured it. The old miners' road - used when Bavaria was an independent electorate of the Holy Roman Empire - had mostly eroded away. Access, however, was not the primary problem. The goblins erected a splixat five metres from the adit, and the Sisters Apparated in.

Level ground was more the issue.

The gradient at the splixat could not accommodate the large goblin pallets that brought the gold from Gringotts. Levitating that much gold for that many hours was strenuous, even for witches of the Sisters' calibre. It could also denude the immediate area of its tree cover, inviting unwanted Muggle scrutiny. Spells like A priori worked poorly on living things, and ordinary magic could not accelerate the growth of non-magical (or even many magical) plants.

Only earth elemental magic - Harry's magic - accomplished what was needed. The more the operation disturbed the forest, the more spellwork Harry performed. As luck would have it, of all elemental magicks, Harry's earth magic was rustiest. Neville might have helped, but was not inclined to do Harry any favours since his ruptured relationship with Hermione.

Hermione.

Inexplicable thoughts of his former fiancée began distracting Harry. He first noticed them within thirty minutes of his arrival, whilst everyone was evaluating the mechanics of moving the gold from the goblin pallets to the mine's adit.

With each passing hour, the swirl of memories and fantasies in Harry's mind became less restrained. Increasingly, he recalled Hermione during their forty-seven special shared occasions. Unable to shake these images, Harry spent much of the day as one randy bloke.

For some reason, he still wanted Hermione.

Oddly, he hardly thought about Ginny.

One of the Sisters - Harry thought her name was Devorah - was demonstrating him the Aging Charm they would use on the replicated 1940s Muggle crates that would contain the gold.

She had long curly hair….

Like a Portkey, the charm would activate at a predetermined time - exactly twenty-four hours later - well after they were done.

While black, her hair was bouncy and bushy like before….

The charm would age the crates and the faked Nazi documentation. It was accurate to a fault, modifying the carbon 14 ratio in a carefully calculated manner.

Were those Muggle jeans under her robes…?

The witch's resemblance to Hermione, though hardly exact, brought Harry uncomfortably close inappropriate behaviour. He had to do something to prevent anything untoward. Lilithu's Sisters were not to be trifled with.

Harry's decided to try sweating out his naughty thoughts. To the Sisters' surprise, and somewhat to the goblin miners' chagrin, he plunged into the physical labour of stashing seven tonnes of gold inside the ancient mine.

Whilst the surrounding Bavarian forest was damp, the mine itself was positively dripping - and dangerous. Abandoned for at least two centuries, the adit's ancient wooden roof cribs, where present at all, had largely rotted clean through. Numerous minor roof falls littered the floor.

That is, until the goblin tommyknockers went to work. Save for a couple of Gringotts accountants, the entire goblin contingent hailed from their mining cantons. Commanded by their shift boss, Brikwal, they skillfully conjured the necessary longwall roof supports.

But expandable stack pipes, self-screwing bolts, and interlocking charms restrained rock, not water. From incessant drips wetting his hair, to tiny rivulets dribbling down slimy rock faces, Harry reckoned that almost as much water percolated through the mountainside as flowed over it. The mineshaft's quartzite and schist host rock was rent by innumerable fissures - most microscopic, but some quite visible when pointed out by experienced pitgoblins.

All this water either seeped through or tricked across the muddy floor of the gloomy adit.

Until reaching the water table.

The adit's passageway drove straight into the mountainside - wide enough for metre-wide mine cars attended on either side, tall enough for a horse and rider, and old enough that the cast iron topped wooden cart rails had long since crumbled into nothing. After maybe fifteen metres, a drift split off on either side.

To the right the drift ascended at about ten degrees, following the slope of a vein that petered out in less than thirty metres. To the left, it descended, at the same ten degree angle, following the same vein. Neither drift matched the size of the adit. These were barely a metre wide, except when mediæval miners dug stopes where the vein was particularly rich.

The left-side drift's extent was unknown because after about ten metres, it was flooded. This flooding - far from being an insuperable obstacle - was crucial to the Sisters' plan. Magic would pump the water out. The Muggle crates of gold would be cached in the once-submerged drift. The gold would then be submerged again once the Aging Charm was complete.

The goblins had to make all this happen.

The waterlogged lower drift ran roughly parallel to the mountainside. After a couple more weeks, the Sisters - with no further need to involve Harry or the goblins - would cause a landslide. The slide would create a “natural” fissure that would drain off the water in the drift.

The Sisters would ensure that someone trustworthy “discovered” the once submerged gold. Its Nazi origins would be obvious from the markings on the bars. Legal proceedings would be commenced to have the gold treated as reparations to Shoah victims.

In theory, it was a great plan.

In practice, it was a lousy plan - from the perspective of pitgoblins trying to put the gold where the Sisters wanted it.

The Sisters could handle conjuring the Muggle crates and packing them with gold and fake papers. But actually entering the mine was left to the miners. Harry was both a goblin prince and eager to avoid any incident with the Sisters. Soon he was in the mine, rather to Brikwal's dismay.

Upholding their cantons' reputations, these goblins were superb pitmen. But this peculiar form of reverse mining - putting gold into the ground - taxed their skills to the fullest. Their artefacts easily expelled the water, but whilst Brikwal would have happily sent the water spilling down the hillside, the Sisters insisted upon storing it in unsubmerged parts of the mine for reuse. That the mine appear as undisturbed as possible was critical.

The water being disturbed was toxic - loaded with lead, cadmium, zinc, molybdenum, and strontium salts accumulated over many decades of disuse. The Sisters cared little about the local environment - Bavaria had spawned the Nazis - but pollution would kill the trees and goodness knows what else. Nothing could be allowed to attract unwanted, premature attention from Muggles.

It took strong magic to hold back that much water, poisonous or not. Harry was as powerful as anyone present, and he practised water elemental magic. He taxed himself mightily confining as much water as possible in the upper drift. The goblins grudgingly stored the rest on their side of the splixat - because Harry requested it.

The air in the once submerged drift was fœtid; its floor moreso. Expecting as much, the pitgoblins brought ventilating artefacts that Harry occasionally augmented with air elemental magic. At Brikwal's strong recommendation, Harry added a Bubblehead Charm to avoid breathing anything harmful.

Brownish black muck, deeper than the length of Harry's wand and more poisonous than the evacuated water, coated the floor of the drift. Again the pitgoblins were prepared. They unveiled an ingenious bevelled device that chugged along the floor, scooped up the slop, heated it, and expelled it forcefully from either side. Having the consistency of thick mud, the ejected material stuck fast to the walls. When the area was resubmerged, the sediment would loosen and slide back down to the floor.

No magic was perfect, even that of experienced goblin miners. The heat and steam created sauna-like conditions in the close-quartered drift. The workers fell into a routine. After three metres' progress, Brikwal shut down the artefacts so Harry could recirculate the air.

After several hours' labour, the grime-soaked pitgoblins rested whilst Brikwal conferred with his Gringotts counterparts. Harry was in the mine's mouth Scourgifying himself with moderate success when Brikwal returned from the splixat. “Impratraxis, good is the news, the next - ” he paused to translate goblin measurements into something Harry could understand, “ - eight of your metres, deeply stoped are they. Enough to fit all the gold should be they.”

Harry was well pleased to learn of a light at the end of the not-at-all proverbial tunnel. This filthy job - the Dursleys' worst chores could not compare - was nearly over, and the much easier task of loading in the gold could commence.

Sod's law prevailed.

Barely a third of the way through the widest excavation so far, the pitgoblins' gunk-removing devices began uttering loud grinding noises. Objects more solid than sludge clattered off the walls.

Brikwal was shutting down the goblins' artefacts, when Harry spotted one such object. In the beam of one of the pitgoblins' headlamps, it appeared as a light coloured spot against a background of dark sludge. “Accio!” Harry found himself holding a large, mud-encrusted bone - half a human pelvis. Repelled, he tossed it aside.

The pitgoblins duplicated Harry's grisly discovery, also unearthing the cause of the mine's abandonment. Their headlamps began sweeping across the chamber's roof, soon finding what they sought.

When several pitgoblins simultaneously pointed upwards, Harry saw it, too - a black gash in the ceiling, a passage to somewhere, almost a metre wide.

After an impromptu miners' conference, Brikwal reluctantly approached Harry. Without warning, he prostrated himself on the muck-free but still squalid looking floor. It must have been a signal, because every pitgoblin followed suit.

Caught by surprise, Harry spluttered, “What the…? No, don't…. Crap. ANYOR!”

As the pitboss rose to his feet, Harry remained off balance. “What the heck is going on?” he demanded.

The words barely left Harry's mouth before he worried that Brikwal would do another face-first flop.

“No - anyor. Please, just tell me what happened.”

“Impratraxis,” the grizzled, mud-caked goblin pleaded, “if command do you, continue of course will we. But beseech you, to retreat do we. Here died many pitmen … Muggles. To dig over the dead is not…. Is … extremely.… Proper words of your language know not I … bad fortune, but much worse.”

Harry learnt that the pitgoblins were superstitious.

Harry saw no visible ghosts. “I would never force you to do something like that,” Harry told the assembled pitgoblins. “But what happened?”

Brikwal directed his head lamp towards the hole. He barked a command in Gobbledegook, and another pitgoblin did something that cleansed part of the chamber. Something new glistened in the light.

“Crystals … galena,” Brikwal pointed. “Good ore. Vein being stoped - dug out - when broke through, did they. Scored that hole's edges did a flood of water. Drowned did they all.”

Harry shivered. “Okay, let's back off and regroup.”

The pitgoblins took careful measurements of the drift between the death chamber and the water table. At the mine's mouth, the miner and banker goblins again conferred - this time over parchments.

The verdict - no matter how closely the crates were packed, they remained almost ten cubic metres shy of enough space to fit everything in the flooded portion of the mine, given the crude Muggle containers.

The alternatives were either to convince Lilithu and the Sisters to leave some gold exposed in the dry (less wet) part of the mine, or to bring proper excavating equipment from the goblin mining cantons. Knowing Lilithu, the former was unpleasant and probably futile. The latter would cost several hours, meaning they would still be moving gold well after dark.

“Let me try,” Harry asked. “I've been learning some Tunnelling Charms.” From a prince, his offer was hardly optional for the pitgoblins.

Reluctantly, they acceded - he was their Prince - but only after a thorough dowsing of every wall in the drift. They carefully selected the spot unlikely to reprise the Muggles' fatal mistake.

Backing off a good five metres and casting Protego physica to deflect flying rock splinters, Harry brandished both his wands and set them spinning. “Encavernous!” he incanted. A purple cone of magic emerged from the propeller-like wands and slowly advanced on the targeted rock face, which the goblins had cleared of partly dried sludge from their prior efforts.

The racket was tremendous. Shrapnel-like shards flew everywhere, with many clinking off Harry's shield.

Harry felt a tug on the sleeve of his sodden and dirty robes. It was Brikwal. The goblin pitboss offered suggestions to improve Harry's tunnelling technique. His first was totally non-magical - explaining how Harry could use the rock's grain to his advantage. Tunnelling with the grain broke loose more rock with less magical effort.

Brikwal also had magical suggestions. Harry's whirling wands resembled the blades of goblin mining machines. He showed Harry methods to coordinate wandspeed that harmonised their magical oscillations. Even better than breaking the rock into more regular pieces, this method made the process much quieter. Finally, adding a stream of water reduced dust and (not a problem here) would prevent fires.

Harry's Charms project never required using a Tunnelling Charm for more than ten minutes. This excavation lasted a bit more than an hour - not good by pitgoblin standards, but far faster than transporting goblin hard-rock mining artefacts to this isolated Bavarian mountainside.

The pitgoblins disguised Harry's work with the same copious slime that coated the walls of the recently drained passage.

Harry was hot, sweaty, dirty, and above all tired when it was time to move the gold. With echoes of Tunnelling Charms ringing in his head, he was content to watch. The Sisters and the goblins were content to let him. Perched on a Cushioning Charmed boulder, he let the steady drizzle cool his head, soak his robes, and rinse away some of the accumulated grime from working all day in an abandoned lead mine.

He was so knackered that, for the moment, he quite lost interest in sex. Harry even forgot that he had originally entered the mine to distract himself from that subject.

Dusk was beginning to steal away the forest's green before anyone spoke to Harry. The speaker was Lilithu Mandelbrot, gliding over to take charge of his transition.

Her ear-splitting whistle jolted Harry from semi-slumber. Scrambling to his feet, Harry slipped on muddy gravel, and he almost fell down. She called out, “Wake up, Harry Potter! We're finally done, and I can't leave too soon.” Harry reacted quickly enough to catch his rucksack, propelled by a Banishing Charm, before it hit him flush in the face.

“That will never do,” she declared. “Even I can't get you past the front gates looking like that. Lose those grubby things and change into whatever you brought.” With a sweep of Lilithu's wand, a red and white candy-striped, Brighton-style tent sprang into existence - where Harry could change privately.

Harry willingly complied. He dressed in the nice school robes he intended for tomorrow's meeting with Blackie Howe and Jerry McAllister in Hogsmeade. As for today's clothes - Harry was tempted just to Banish them. They were soiled with Merlin knows what from that mine. He doubted even Hogwarts' house-elves could get them clean.

They could use a good soaking in kerosene … followed by Inflammare.

But his clothes were too damp to burn, and leaving wizard robes where Muggles might find them was never a good idea, so Harry shrank the rancid things and stuffed them into a conjured plastic bag.

“Do hurry, Potter,” Lilithu raised her voice. “You've fifteen seconds before that little beach cabana disappears.”

She meant it. The improbable, candy-striped tent vanished whilst Harry was tidying up his trainers. He had Transfigured them into the boots he wore in the mine - and it showed.

Under Lilithu's direction, Harry spent ten minutes restoring the surroundings with earth elemental magic.

“Finally,” Lilithu pronounced herself satisfied. “Can your goblin friends travel by Portkey?”

Harry had no idea. He turned to Brikwal, who shook his head.

“Very well,” Lilithu looked down her nose at the pitgoblin. “I had hoped to keep the extent of my hospitality a surprise until we arrived. Kindly advise the guard for your Prince Potter to meet us at the gatehouse of Schloss Neuschwanstein.”

She handed Harry an ivory cigarette holder with a yellowed crack down one side. Feeling the now familiar tug at his navel, Harry vanished.

* * * *

The Portkey deposited Harry in a semicircular Muggle stone plaza. He was patting himself down, whilst gawking at a magnificent portcullis far exceeding anything at Château Blackwalls, when a slight pop announced Lilithu's Apparition.

“I apologise for this rather plebian arrival, Potter,” she stated, not sounding terribly apologetic. “I hoped you could Apparate in, but the intermediate stop is clouded over.”

She turned and strode towards the massive gate. Harry followed. A brief chill denoted passage through some ward, presumably concealing their arrival point from Muggles.

Heedless of a departing busload of Muggle tourists, Lilithu simultaneously produced a pair of Patronuses shaped as falcons. She sent them disappearing through the high stone wall. Harry caught up to her and was briefly befuddled.

Hermione would have insisted upon “Patroni”….

“Snap out of it, Potter,” she snipped, sounding vaguely Snape-like. “That was only a Muggle-level Area Confundus. It shouldn't affect you like that.”

Harry shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and saw Lilithu's wand pointing at him. He almost drew his own, before she added, more kindly, “Let me freshen you up a bit.”

A silent spell flashed, and Harry felt his clothes crawling about, reminiscent of his experience with wizard tailors. Looking down, he saw that his robes were now starched and pressed. Lilithu had added Gryffindor trim to his sleeves and a Blackwalls crest adorning his left breast.

“There, now you're at least marginally presentable.”

The portcullis creaked and slid jerkily upwards, giving Harry his first view of the courtyard within - and of the soaring limestone structure beyond. Brightly illuminated by Muggle lighting, the white stone tower practically glowed against the blackening sky. It more closely resembled a giant Muggle moon rocket than any castle Harry had ever seen, including Hogwarts.

A gilt carriage, drawn by a pure white Thestral, approached.

“I promised you suitable accommodations,” she remarked. “I have you booked in what an hotelier would call the `Tower Suite' - I assume you can deduce where it is. The Muggles think it was built just for show. You will shortly learn how wrong they are.”

The carriage arrived, driven by a house-elf wearing tea towel patterned in white and sky-blue lozenges. Its gilded doors opened of their own accord, revealing a plush magenta interior.

“Mister Potter, here I must take my leave,” Lilithu told him without her usual hauteur. “I wish to thank you for doing the right thing, without hesitation, even though you were wholly innocent, and it cost you a great deal. You are worthy. As Imperatrix of the Sisters of the Moon, I hereby acknowledge our indebtedness.”

She offered her gloved hand, and Harry started to kiss it, as before. Instead Lilithu gave him a firm handshake. When he released her hand, she Apparated away.

Harry never noticed her satisfied smile.

* * * *

The grey-haired bellman showing Harry to the magical tower suite explained that Bavaria's Mad King Ludwig was not really mental. Rather, Ludwig appreciated magic and freely consorted with wizards, something no other reigning Western European monarch had done publicly since magic fell out of favour early in the Renaissance (after poor conduct by certain Borgia Popes and their relatives). Wizard architects helped design the Schloss Neuschwanstein, including Harry's accommodations, which were considerably larger inside than they appeared from outside.

Harry had never spent the night in a posh hotel - or any hotel, save the Leaky Cauldron. That wretched Hut-on-the-Rock where Uncle Vernon fled whilst trying to avoid his attending Hogwarts did not rate even that appellation.

Posh, this certainly was.

The castle's Floo connexion had built-in padding for comfortable fire-calling. The wireless featured surround sound, and channels from five different countries. The room service menu - courtesy of the castle's house-elves - was ten pages long.

Personalised service?

Everything in the suite automatically translated to English, since Harry knew not a word of German, let alone the local Alpenbairisch. The well-stocked wet bar was completely non-alcoholic because Harry did not imbibe.

The furnishings were classic late Victorian - lush, abundant, and cluttered - all carved hardwood and plush velvet padding. The deep pile carpets were so thick that Harry almost tripped twice before tossing his shoes and going barefoot. The bed, an ornately carved four-poster with gauzy hangings, was the largest Harry had ever seen, save the goblins' irregularly shaped waterbed he had shared with….

Dammit, there she was again, unbidden.

The wall paintings hardly helped him forget, with Baroque-style couples in various stages of undress.

No. He had ruined that….

More than food, drink, sleep, or even sex, Harry most craved getting rid of the grime from the mine. No Cleansing Charm could compete with a hot shower and a good soak.

Again, the tower suite's facilities were outstanding. The thoroughly lavish bathroom included a glass-walled, walk-in shower that merged seamlessly with a nineteenth century version of a Jacuzzi - the Prefects' Bathroom at Hogwarts in miniature.

Taking full advantage of a selection of soaps and shampoos, Harry showered for fifteen minutes, thoroughly steaming the glass. He rarely removed his wand holster, even to bathe, but made an exception. After scrubbing away every trace of Bavarian mining filth, Harry sank up to his neck in the tub with all the jets on maximum. Now that all that toil in the mine was done, it was worth it…. This was the life….

Too bad he was alone. The tub was more than roomy enough for two. Ginny would certainly have loved this.

Harry shook his head.

No, Ginny detested the Sisters and had shown little interest in the goblins. She could have come, but declined.

Thinking of Ginny reminded him…. Might as well get it over with, since almost a week had elapsed, and he was already starkers. Retrieving his wand, he pointed it at himself. “Embry-no!”

Ron's forcible coitus interruptus had one benefit. It prevented wrenching uncertainty. From then on, Harry assumed responsibility for contraception. Ginny was passionate, but not as meticulous as … as Hermione.

Dammit.

This trip - the repatriation of the ill-gotten Nazi gold - was entirely Hermione's doing. She should be here.

But then again, no. He had completely buggered that relationship.

It hardly mattered now. Grand accommodations or no, he was alone tonight.

Feeling at once randy, lonely, and empty, Harry left the bath and dried himself with the suite's incredibly soft and fluffy towels. Finished, he shrugged on an equally soft and fluffy bathrobe bearing Neuschwanstein's blue and white crest.

At loose ends, Harry wandered back into the bedroom. He ran his fingers through his still damp hair. Time for some food…. Then maybe a wank. He could certainly use….

“Well, it's about time. I was getting lonely.”

Harry's head spun around so quickly he almost lost his balance. “Wha…? How the Hell? Daphne! What are you doing here?”

Lying on her side on the huge bed, her identical bathrobe revealing a great deal of her long, lean legs, was Daphne Greengrass. “Why, waiting for you, of course.”

Harry could barely believe the blonde Slytherin was real. “But … how could you get in?”

Sitting up, letting her robe hang as loosely as Harry's, she answered his question precisely. “First, I had a key, courtesy of your … umm … travel agent. Second, these wards only exclude those with malicious intent. Third, I left my wand with your goblin friends.”

“You, you, came wandless?” he gawked.

“Merlin, I hope not,” Daphne giggled as she tossed her flaxen hair. “I reckon as long as you've got yours, that's enough.”

“But Dumbledore … how could you get away from Hogwarts?”

“If anybody asks, just say I was on Auror business.”

“But why?”

Daphne sighed. “Aside from the obvious, you mean? Well, you've been so wrapped up in that Gryffindor mystique that you can't take a hint - and I've dropped more than a few. You have the Gryffindor angle right well covered by yourself. Where you're headed, though, having some Slytherin around you would help enormously … and you'll find I'm the best. My Aunt Lilithu will vouch for me.”

Harry tried thinking of something complimentary. “Umm … speaking of Gryffindor, you've more than a little of that in you … slipping in here like….”

“I'd like that, too.”

“Like what?”

“More than a little Gryffindor in me,” Daphne shamelessly flirted. She turned, giving Harry a better view.

“You - you mean you came all this way just to … umm … shag me?”

“I wouldn't say `just,' but if love is a drug, maybe a free sample will help you get addicted,” she purred.

Harry said nothing.

Daphne verged on sarcasm. “Circe, Harry, it's evident how much you want to.”

Indeed it was. Harry's robe hung open, and his desire was quite plain to see - even if he denied it, which he did not … not exactly. His body wanted to love the one he was with. Harry's mind was conflicted.

Hermione would hate him for this.

But Hermione already hated him … for good reason.

Ginny would hate him for this.

Meh.

“But … I'm not … in love with you.”

Harry's resistance proved futile and fleeting.

“Respect me, and shag me. The rest will take care of itself.” Daphne slid off the bed, leaving her fluffy robe behind, confirming that her collar and cuffs matched perfectly. Approaching Harry, she reached out, took hold of his - evidence - and led him back to the suite's commodious bed.

* * * *

Harry Potter usually did not have pleasant dreams. This night was an exception.

Home was where the heart was. Harry finally had a home of his own, a bed of his own and a woman - who might not take kindly to the characterisation - of his own. This home was neither the Château's ostentatious pile; nor Grimmauld Place's dreary leftover; nor Hogwarts Castle's ancient monument; and certainly not that Muggle hellhole on Privet Drive. He was in a secluded bungalow beside of a small mountain lake, a million miles from the rest of the Wizarding World.

Voldemort was but a distant, unpleasant memory. Here Harry could escape fame, fortune, and responsibilities, lay down his burdens, and simply live.

He cuddled his partner close under white, linen sheets, wrapping himself around her and feeling her long silky hair tickling his face.

Their wedding was a few weeks ago - a small, private affair in an exotic locale - without preachers, fancy white dresses and black robes, guest lists, or receptions - just a mutual affirmation of a love strong and persistent enough to overcome every obstacle that the world put in their way.

Here, when they were both ready, they would create the one thing Harry still wanted more than anything else, now that he was with her - a family of their own.

Pulling her close, Harry whispered in her ear….

* * * *

Morning was breaking. A light sleeper, Daphne's eyes fluttered open as sunlight leaked around the edges of thick curtains drawn across the suite's windows. Today's weather would be much nicer…. Too bad they would be leaving shortly…. Somewhere in this place was a most romantic artificial grotto.

Harry was behind her, still asleep; his body spooned in skin-to-skin contact from the tips of her toes to the top of her head. He would be ready for another round before they had to depart. Daphne wriggled her hips - definitely Harry would be up for it; he already was.

She felt an odd scratching sensation in the small of her back that took several seconds was to identify. Harry was not one she would have pegged as partial to navel jewellry, but there you were. She would keep quiet about it, but the stones were rather impressive.

Daphne used the interlude to assess her current situation as dispassionately as possible. Yesterday, her aunt's Patronus brought confirmation that, no, Harry's aura no longer betrayed any measurable Love Potion influence.

So Daphne could make her play for Harry without worrying about extraneous magical interference. So far, the state of that play confirmed Lilithu's assessment, and had progressed about as well as could be expected.

Better, in some ways; not as well in others.

In particular, better in respect of Ginevra Weasley. For someone only a week or so into a new relationship, Harry seemed remarkably unconcerned about the fiery redhead and her reaction. Daphne expected considerably more resistance and was prepared to accept failure, if it came to that. If Harry had chucked her out, Daphne would have left peaceably.

She knew - without needing Mum's constant reminders since the Triwizard Tournament - that Harry would likely become the richest and most influential wizard of their generation. As a Slytherin, and the acknowledged most beautiful witch of her year in any House, Daphne would not let the chance of a lifetime pass without playing her best hand.

She had. Harry frankly acknowledged that he was not in love with her, and the feeling was mutual. But Daphne knew that feelings could change.

They were good fits.

Harry had great inherited wealth and greater inherent power, but he was Muggle raised and naïve about so many things. Daphne was barely middle class by Slytherin standards - with a cauldron-maker father and a mid-level Auror mother - but she was steeped in wizard tradition and pure-blood culture. She could guide Harry through political and social minefields, enabling him to achieve everything his considerable talents could attain.

Provided Harry survived Voldemort, anything was possible, including the Minister's position atop the greasy pole. She could assist. His gratitude, leavened with undeniable physical attraction, could engender more profound feelings.

But not everything was sweetness and light.

Something had been off last night. Harry was solicitous and even rather skilled in bed. Unlike her prior partners, mostly concerned with their own physical gratification, Harry tended in the opposite direction. He seemed to hold back, waiting for - even striving for - something more than they were experiencing. At one point he mumbled about some “convergence.” After they finished, Harry asked if she had seen “any pink.”

Daphne knew nothing about convergences and certainly saw no pink, unless he made some obscure anatomical reference. Harry seemed resigned - a troubling development.

Also troubling was today's schedule. Daphne convinced Harry to shop together for new formal robes for the Beauxbatons ball - implying they would go together, although that was never explicitly acknowledged.

It seemed easy - too damned easy - for Harry to toss Ginny Weasley over for her. Things too good to be true usually were. What had Harry seen in Weasley that had possessed him to leave Hermione Granger?

That made no sense.

Harry vetoed shopping in the Paris wizard district. He feared being recognised and mobbed by fawning French magicals, whom he believed (with reason) were even more Basilisk-obsessed than in Britain. She vetoed Hogsmeade, ostensibly for insufficient selection, but really because she wanted to prove her usefulness, which required less familiar surroundings.

Daphne suggested the wizard side of Harrods, in London, where her family had shopped for dearer items since she could remember. Harry readily agreed, but surprised her by knowing that Harrods' Hogsmeade Collection even existed.

So much for navigating him through uncharted waters.

After that, Harry had business someplace in Hogsmeade; he was vague as to what and where. He was meeting a lawyer and someone she gathered was his Château Blackwalls estate manager. Daphne half hoped for Harry to invite her, but he never asked. Hesitant to be viewed as prying, she agreed to wait at Hogwarts - where they would announce Harry's latest shift in romantic allegiance.

Most troubling was something Harry did totally unconsciously. He felt so good cuddling her whilst he slept - until he whispered another woman's name as he kissed her neck.

No, not Ginny Weasley.

In making her play for Harry, Daphne thought she could handle redheaded Quidditch players.

Triple firsts were something else altogether.

* * * *

This trip to Harrods was much simpler than Harry's last. Schloss Neuschwanstein retained a rare international Floo connexion unhindered by complications such as travel documents, customs duties, or inspections - a relic of the Schloss having been sovereign territory when the spells activating its Floo were originally cast.

In fifteen minutes, the Schloss' wizard concierge made arrangements at Harrods and returned the pair's minimal luggage directly to Hogwarts. The goblins needed another half-hour for security matters, giving Daphne and Harry ample time for an escalating snog session.

Thereafter, Harry and Daphne Flooed directly into the Hogsmeade Shop annex, neatly slipped between the ground and lower ground floors on the Basil Street side.

Before leaving Neuschwanstein, Harry cast a Notice-Me-Not Charm on himself, somewhat disappointing Daphne, who would have been right chuffed at being seen in public with Harry Potter.

She recovered with aplomb, realising Harry could not actually buy dress robes whilst under that charm. To save him unwanted attention, immediately upon arrival she enrolled him in the By Appointment personal shopping programme.

With nothing arranged in advance, the programme meant an hour's wait. They shopped for Daphne's ball dress first. Witches have well-deserved reputations for taking their time shopping, which Daphne exemplified. She spent almost the full hour selecting an elegant, and modest, floor-length gown that, depending on lighting and the Charms on the fabric, could be considered greyish silver or silver-grey. She had it trimmed in green - not only were these Slytherin's colours, but the green matched Harry's eyes.

To Daphne's credit, she unhesitatingly insisted on paying for everything herself.

At the appointed hour, they punctually met the assigned staffer, whose badge read Laurence, in the Warlock's section. To say Laurence was surprised to be attending Harry Potter was an understatement, but he recovered like the professional he was.

Harry initially favoured something in basic black, but Daphne prevailed on him to use a bit more daring fashion sense, hitting home with her comment that Harry looked too much like Malfoy. Harry chose royal blue dress robes that she thought were particularly handsome from the Swatch and Draper signature collection. These robes seemed to glow from within - reminiscent of magical flames Harry had seen in the Department of Mysteries' circular foyer. He had them decorated with a green trim matching Daphne's.

After Harry added some shirts and accessories to his tab, Laurence carefully Levitated Harry's purchases to a dedicated register for By Appointment clients. Already pondering his upcoming meetings in Hogsmeade, Harry handed over his BoE card to pay for his purchases.

Everyone was surprised when the register began emitting a quiet trilling noise.

Harry, in particular, was annoyed. “Oh, bollocks. That card's good, I'm sure of it.”

“It's not that, Mister Potter, sir,” Laurence hastened to assure his esteemed customer whilst struggling to determine the fault. This signal was unique in his experience. A button on the register has started blinking light orange and yellow. He pressed it. The purchase total on the machine's LED screen disappeared, replaced by a scrolling message.

It was no fault.

“Oh, my!” Laurence muttered. “This is new on me.”

Across the screen crept the words. “THE PROPRIETOR HAS A MESSAGE FOR THIS CUSTOMER - PLEASE STAND BY.”

“This shouldn't take long, but evidently Mister Fayed has something important for you, Mister Potter,” Laurence offered an apology. He waved his wand, and a silver tea-trolley began rolling towards them. “Could I offer you tea and scones - or a toddy, perhaps?”

Harry declined the second offer. He was still lathering his scone with raspberry jam and clotted cream when a large barred owl, in Harrods livery, landed atop the register. Laurence took a wax-embossed letter from its talons.

The kaolin white envelope read simply Rt. Hon. Harry Potter, O.M.2(2), Baron of Blackwalls. It bore no return address, only a fancy embossed coat of arms, framed by two white ermine-spotted griffins with gilt wings, and a bunch of other stuff - white shells, a red and gold jeweled crown, and a Latin inscription saying something about God.

Harry flipped it over, thinking maybe that Echevarría bloke had replied to him instead of Dumbledore. He saw bold print above the gold and black wax seal:

EXTREMELY PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL

Suddenly very aware of Daphne - a Slytherin - looking over his shoulder, Harry requested, “Umm … Daphne, do you mind? I don't know what this is about. I wouldn't want to put you in danger.”

Not wanting to be seen as prying - yet - Daphne backed off. “Okay, but remember, if some wizard's trying to suck up, I can probably help devise a response that would be most … beneficial.”

Cautiously, worried that the envelope might hold some sort of elaborate trick - or even a disguised Portkey - Harry split the seal with his wand. He inched the parchment partially from the envelope. It was blank, undoubtedly still more security.

“Since your boss vouches for this, why don't you touch it - just to be sure?” Harry offered the envelope to the Harrods' staffer.

Laurence did, with no noticeable result.

Harry finally followed suit.

As the sender's name flickered into view he could not help himself. “Merlin's balls!” he spluttered. Not reading any further, he shoved the letter back in the envelope.

Daphne immediately moved to his side. “What is it, Harry?” she asked in a concerned voice.

Harry shook his head. “Damn, why does everything have to happen to me?”

“Can I help?” she persisted, “in any way at all?”

“Doubt it,” he muttered. “This doesn't seem to have much to do with magic.”

“What are you going to do now?”

“Talk to Dumbledore the minute I get back to the Castle,” Harry declared as he jammed the mysterious missive into his robes. “Speaking of which, I guess we're done here.”

The letter troubled Daphne - but not nearly as much as it seemed to upset Harry. More worrisome, from her perspective, was the Hogsmeade meeting to which she was not invited. Slytherin to the core, Daphne wanted to strike immediately and announce Harry's changed romantic allegiance the moment they returned.

Instead she had to return to the Castle alone and wait.

* * * *

From Harrods, Harry and Daphne proceeded to Diagon Alley. Duly impressed by the deference Harry received from the ordinarily imposing Gringotts goblins, Daphne was escorted to Hogwarts, ostensibly having finished “Auror business” for her mum.

Harry took the Gringotts splixat to Hogsmeade, site of two scheduled business meetings. He arrived rather on edge, due to the unexpected communiqué received at Harrods. He grew progressively moreso, the longer the Hogsmeade meetings dragged on - for completely different reasons.

Harry arrived only to find an apologetic note from Blackie Howe. Due to unspecified problems with his “financial presentation,” he was running late. Harry could easily see Jerry McAllister first, but was still brassed off.

The house-elf literacy project remained equal parts progress and problems. “With Gretchen working really hard, about sixty percent of our elves now hit their literacy progress points. That's double from before we sacked that wretched Ima Hogg.”

“I still can't believe she went to the Prophet,” Harry grumbled.

“She certainly took your money first,” Jerry agreed angrily. “Still, after making her big splash, she's dropped out of sight recently. I couldn't owl her last payment, and I'm hardly inclined to go searching.”

“If I never see her again, it'll be too soon,” Harry concurred, his irritation showing. “Still, I was hoping for better than sixty percent by now.”

“Something happened we hadn't anticipated,” Jerry explained. “There's a split amongst the elves. Our Head Elf sets a good example, but I've heard that a number of other senior elves actively oppose literacy.”

“Oh, why?” Harry groaned in dismay.

“I was shocked. Dobby says they think it threatens their status,” Jerry recounted. “Having mulled it over, I understand their perspective. The senior elves … they've spent their lives mastering complex jobs. With all the elves illiterate, their mastery monopolises that knowledge, and the power and prestige coming with it. Once any elf can read an instruction book … poof … the masters' skills aren't exclusive anymore, nor is their status amongst the other elves.”

“Crap, I never thought of that,” Harry admitted, which really meant that a certain ex-fiancée had not. Kneading his scar with one hand, he asked, “Is it getting so disruptive that I'll have to step in?”

“If you mean, are the senior elves holding back, I'd say no,” Jerry answered. “Two of the chief resisters, Rocky and Snarkie, have at the same time gone beyond the call of duty in assisting the Hogwarts elves repair a certain portrait of Godric Gryffindor that unfortunately suffered severe spell damage….”

Harry winced uncomfortably. He knew exactly what portrait, and what spell damage, Jerry meant. Maybe the elves had not disclosed the origin of their project.

“…But don't worry, Dumbledore's lending you his own Godric portrait for your bed chamber until previous occupant is patched up….”

No such luck.

“…Those two specialise in these sorts of repairs, as they should with the Château having three Godrics of its own.”

Harry squirmed a bit in his chair, but said nothing further. Jerry's report meandered into more mundane matters.

The vineyards were yielding a fine new year's crop.

Similarly, the greenhouses were producing a cornucopia of exotic and profitable potions ingredients.

The goblins had thoroughly searched the Château and grounds for any trace of Basilisk infestation, and pronounced everything absolutely clean.

Eight elves had accepted emancipation, none of them senior. Dobby was attempting to train them to defend the Château even against wizards, but overcoming centuries of ingrained reticence against using their magic in that fashion was extremely difficult.

Demand for out of season Mandrake had skyrocketed. An entire greenhouse was devoted to this product.

The Château's splixat was completed, and the staff had conducted several emergency preparation drills, just in case. Harry received goblin instructions, for his eyes only, how to operate the splixat's controls.

This year's champagne was shaping up as an excellent vintage.

Harry found it increasingly difficult to maintain even a veneer of interest in Jerry's report. Inside he was wracked by guilt - guilt over his dalliance with Daphne in the otherworldly environment of Neuschwanstein's tower suite.

Finally, he could restrain himself no longer. “Dammit! I've been such a bloody git!” Harry cursed as he angrily smacked his knee.

His outburst took Jerry completely aback. “Mister Potter … Harry, I assure you that your stewardship has been….”

“It's not that,” Harry anguished. “I've - I've cheated … on my girlfriend.”

Jerry brightened. Maybe he could assist in righting what he viewed as a nearly historic wrong. “Mister Potter, I'm certain the situation is salvable. I bear witness myself. Just tell the truth about how you feel. I have no doubt that Miss Granger will be….”

“No, dammit!” Harry emphatically cut him off. “I'm not with her anymore. I mean I've cheated on Ginny! I feel so bloody stupid!”

Jerry stopped in his tracks. He had never met Miss Weasley, and knew only what was printed in the Prophet and other publications. She had never been to the Château.

“Sir, truth and sincere regrets are all I can recommend....”

A loud knock on the door interrupted them. An unseen goblin announced. “Impratraxis, arrived has the lawyer Howe.”

The solicitor's arrival was a splash of water in Harry's face. Pulling himself together, he thanked Jerry for running the Château in his absence and dismissed him. Harry drained a tall glass of ice water and took several deep breaths before receiving Blackie Howe.

For his part, Blackie was profoundly contrite for his tardiness. Dennis Creevey's start-up recommendations primarily involved esoteric American technology companies, and Howe had been chasing information until the last moment. He updated Harry on the Black Estate's financial rebalancing. Its liquid assets were now placed ninety percent in mutual funds indexed to the performance of the American NASDAQ bourse….

An assistant wheeled in and began unpacking several boxes of papers.

“…According to plan, these assets stay invested until the advent of the so-called `Y2K' moment. Anticipating a temporary slump in demand for technology products in the new millennium, we'll liquidate that position over the month of January, 2000. It's risky to be so undiversified, but I understand that given the provenance of the Black Estate's assets, risk is not your concern. Now, as for the remaining ten percent, voilà….”

Blackie turned, and proudly displayed a score of colour-coordinated binders, all carefully tabbed and organised by subjects like “business plan,” “financials,” “SWOT analysis,” and “suggested level of investment.”

He turned to his client. “Harry, it's been a frantic last few weeks, but we've finally assembled full prospectuses and other essential data for every company on Dennis Creevey's list. We've been working like house-elves on this.”

“I thank you for that,” Harry replied, not feeling terribly enthusiastic. He wondered where Blackie's presentation was leading.

“Now, it's time for your executive decisions,” Blackie told him. “Your brand new venture capital fund has about fifty million United States dollars, so I'd recommend picking no more than seven, so the start-up funds invested in each will purchase a significant share of each company's equity….”

Harry's mind was already wandering - to his upcoming confrontation with Ginny. He had decided that his only responsible course was to tell the truth and beg her forgiveness.

Would she forgive him? Hermione had not been particularly forgiving.

Then, she had learnt of his change of heart rather rudely.

He hoped to do better with Ginny - he loved her.

“…So I'll leave you to it,” Blackie finished his presentation. “Here's a tick sheet with each of company names, next to which you can add an investment amount. If you'd rather, we'll propose investing equal shares in your selections.”

He handed Harry the sheet. His mind a virtual blank, Harry took it instinctively.

“I'll be outside, then, if you have any questions.”

When the door clicked shut, Harry found himself alone with a table full of binders bursting with corporate financial information. Not knowing where to start, he opened the closest binder and started pouring through a business plan for something called “Pets.com.”

In under five minutes, Harry's eyes were glazing over worse than during any History of Magic lesson he ever attended. He had virtually no idea what any of this meant, something he doubted any amount of Blackie Howe's explanation could change.

He needed Hermione - badly. She could make sense of this, or at least would have a plan to figure things out.

Harry had nothing. Hermione was neither available, nor inclined, to help.

Nineteen more identically labelled three-ring binders practically leered at him from their precise arrangement on the table.

Harry had only one option.

He did not really care if he made or lost money, right? He was playing with the Black Estate's slave-trading-created money.

So the companies he picked did not really matter. If he lost 100% of his investment - even Hermione would be proud of him.

Harry reverted to tried and true methods learnt during several years of Divination.

He decided to pick the companies with the strangest sounding names.

Stock picking - it was Divination by another name, anyway.

He mumbled to himself, “Let's see…. Here's one called `Google'. That has to be the funniest one here…. This `Drkoop.com', that's pretty weird, too…. Oh, and here's a third one, something called `Yahoo.' I guess I think words with double O's sound the weirdest. Let's see whether there are any others….”

In only half an hour, Harry was finished, flipping a Galleon for his last selection, Syzygy Technologies. Blackie Howe stood as Harry cracked open the door.

“Ah, Harry, you have a question?”

“No, actually, I'm done.”

“Really? That was expeditious. I'd set aside the entire afternoon for this.”

“Well, I'm just a quick study, I guess. Here's my list.” Harry held out the completed tick sheet. “I really have no opinions about amounts. What do you recommend?”

Howe was pleased to be consulted. “With start-up technologies? I think we should aim for between a third and forty percent of equity. The way this works is we get paid back when, and if - it's a big if - the companies go public. We either sell out, or convert to a non-voting preferred stock that entitles you to a share of the profits….”

Harry's eyes were glazing again.

Finally, Blackie finished. “Anyway, we've completed my agenda for today - although the disposition of close to two hundred million Galleons is quite enough for one afternoon. Before I go, is there anything else about which you'd like to consult?”

Harry almost dismissed him. He really wanted to get back to the Castle and try making amends with Ginny. He dreaded what Daphne might be doing in his absence. She was breathtakingly beautiful, but just as breathtakingly Slytherin. He regretted everything….

But something had come up - the letter he received at Harrods was almost burning a hole in his pocket. Howe worked in both worlds. Maybe he would know what to do.

“Umm … actually, yes. I got this today … offering an `alliance' of sorts, and it's so huge, at least potentially, that I'm not sure what to.” Harry handed the letter to Howe.

Without hesitation, Blackie pulled out the letter. “Harry, there's nothing on this.”

“Oh, that's right, it's charmed,” Harry remembered. “I have to touch it for the writing to appear.” Harry reached out and gingerly put his thumb and forefinger on one of the bottom corners.

Blackie Howe's eyebrows shot upwards, almost disappearing in his elegantly coiffed fringe. Harry's correspondent possessed the best-known name in Britain, if not the world.

Howe studied the letter intently, rereading it twice, before releasing it to Harry. He leaned back in his chair, took a breath, collected his thoughts, and spoke, “Harry, before I don my Barrister's wig, let me offer advice as a friend who's seen plenty in my years on this planet….”

“Umm … okay.”

“I know you're far more mature than your age,” he began. “I think that's why, since I've known you - and even before - you've been attracted to older women. First, Miss Chang, or so I gather from Mister Black's will. Then there was Eliza what's her name, and after that Hermione Granger….”

“Brookings.” Harry's voice was devoid of emotion.

“What?”

“Eliza Brookings. She has, had, a name; that's it.” Harry shifted uneasily in his seat, remembering a young woman whose life he had not merely ruined, but ended.

“I stand corrected,” Howe replied dryly. “But, my advice is, please leave things at that. This one's out of bounds. Cuckolding a man who'll one day be the King of England is not a good idea.”

“What!?” Harry responded incredulously. “Nothing in this letter suggests anything … like that.”

“There needn't be,” Howe maintained. “Just because the public sides with her, doesn't mean she's blameless in all this. She has her appetites, and if she decides she wants you, she will let you know it.”

“She's old enough to be my mother,” Harry maintained.

“Hufflepuff, class of 1979, to be exact,” Howe told him. “She was one year behind your mother.”

“See?”

“Harry, consider this,” Howe continued. “She's a witch, but she's been immersed - she might say trapped - in the Muggle world since early 1981, and even before. You're probably the first wizard she's encountered, as a wizard, in some sixteen years. Beyond that, you're both extremely rich and extremely powerful … a hero several times over.”

“She already has a rich and powerful boyfriend,” Harry protested, who's mentioned in the letter.”

“Before that, she had a richer and more powerful husband,” Howe replied. “Granted, he was a cad, so most of our kind who follow this detest him. But remember, she didn't let that stop her either. Let's face it; you're not hard to look at. Maybe she'll be all business, as her letter suggests, but reading between the lines, all the red flags are there - waving in the breeze.”

Harry crossed his arms. “I still don't believe it. Maybe she wants back into the wizard world to help defeat Voldemort, like she says.”

Howe said nothing at first, instead writing a note to himself. As he stood up, he slipped the note into a pocket of his pinstriped robes. “I'm going to send you a magical CD of a Muggle movie, called `The Graduate.' I think you'll find it instructive.”

Harry exhaled audibly, sounding annoyed. He already felt extremely guilty over actual transgressions, and he was loathe to contemplate hypothetical infidelities that had not yet happened, and probably never would. “Fine. Now tell me what you think about this professionally.”

Howe instantly became as formal as Harry. “All right. Unfortunately, as a solicitor, I must advise you to seek new counsel for this matter. I'm conflicted out. You see, since its inception, my firm has represented the Spencer/Marlboroughs in both magical and Muggle affairs. As much as handling the creation of the alliance that Lady Diana is proposing would be a professional coup, I simply can't.”

That was not the answer Harry expected. It left him uncomfortably at loose ends. “Can you advise me anything, then?”

“Talk to Dumbledore,” Howe responded with frustration creeping into his voice - midwifing this proposal would crown any attorney's career, magical or Muggle. “He originally introduced you to me. He can recommend someone else for this matter.”

* * * *

Author's notes: a "force de frappe" was France's independent nuclear capability after Charles DeGaule withdrew from NATO's military command

Massive retaliation is another nuclear war concept

The H/Hr duel was in Ch. 49

First day … of your life, is a drug detox slogan

"Boomwin" started as an insult in Ch. 37, but the order winners coopted it

Harry can't duplicate certain sexual goals with Ginny

Menial Quidditch jobs help Ginny keep dosing Harry

The music dungeon was introduced in Ch. 56

Luna's reasons for not going as far as Ron wants will be rewarded

Ron met the Tutshill owner at the Ch. 47 Slug Club party

Harmonic Convergence is beyond Harry's reach

Eyes/mirror/soul dates to Cicero

Hermione's textbook choice is more significant than Neville's

The Houston reference is to "I Will Always Love You"

Munich refers to the Olympic attack; Uganda to the Entebbe mission

The German place names are real, as is the Bavarian history

My British beta provided the shot at Germany

Mining terms are accurate

Tommyknockers are goblin miners

The Aging Charm would figure in a seventh year fic

Carbon 14 dating calculates age in organic items such as paper

Pollution is typical of old lead mines

Galena is high quality lead ore

Echoes … ringing in his head - from Bob Seger's "Turn the Page"

Harry's changing tent would fit in at Brighton

Soaking in kerosene, then burning, is an old joke

Schloss Neuschwanstein inspired Disney's castles

White and sky blue lozenges are in Ludwig's Wittelsbach coat of arms; they can be seen on BMWs

A Waldorf tower suite is in my "Bat" fic

King Ludwig is an historical figure

Borgia family popes from the 1400-1500s supposedly used dark magic

Alpenbairisch is a southern Bavarian German dialect

The waterbed scene was in Ch. 60

Seminudity was common in Baroque Renaissasnce art

"Embry-no" comes from George Carlin

But then again no is from Elton John's "Your Song"

Only later does Harry learn that his vague randy feelings stem from the Love Potion

Daphne's mother is one of Harry's Auror trainers, starting in Ch. 6

Pandiesboxx used similar Slytherin/Gryffindor sexual innuendo in "All Roads Lead Back"

Love as a drug is a Roxy Music song

Collars and cuffs matching is a James Bond line from "Diamonds Are Forever"

Neuschwanstein has an artificial grotto

Harry went to Harrods in Ch. 16; it has by appointment shopping

Harry got a BoE card in Ch. 13

Harrod's owner is accurately identified

Harry's baronetcy is from Ch. 10

The letter's heraldry is accurate

Echevarria was introduced in Ch. 26

Ima Hogg will reappear

Dumbledore's portrait loan has consequences

NASDAQ was around 1400 in early 1997, and around 4000 in January, for a 350% return

SWOT means "strengths, weaknesses, opportunities, and threats"

All companies were start-ups around then

Investing often resembles Divination

The Lady Di aspect is for seventh year, but hints started in Ch. 5

"The Graduate" - Mrs. Robinson

54

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82. The Beauxbatons Ball

Wherein Daphne is discarded, Hermione swots and considers her future, Harry seeks advice, Flitwick fails, Harry is mobbed, Ginny overdoes it, Harry seeks refuge, Fleur tries to provide it, and Hermione stays at Hogwarts.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Chapter 82 - The Beauxbatons Ball

True to his guilt-ridden words, Harry immediately confessed his indiscretions. Ginny's resultant emotional explosion could have singed the scales off a Ukrainian Ironbelly, and her shrieks of betrayal would have done any banshee proud. Harry's replacement Godric Gryffindor portrait soon concluded that he “hadn't signed up for this” and decamped for more congenial (or at least quieter) surroundings.

Harry had no such soft option. Unfortunately for his ears, but to the chagrin of the Castle's gossip-mongers, he had imbued his bed hangings with the strongest Imperturbable Charm that he could muster. Then he told Ginny the unvarnished truth.

Ginny, under the impression that Harry had invited her to his bed for more pleasurable purposes, shifted from shock to shouting with virtually no in between. Using language certainly not learnt at Molly's knee - unless the Weasley matriarch moonlighted as a fishwife - she called him every name in the book. His apology was so abject, and his guilt so transparently genuine, that Ginny eventually forgave him.

Her forgiveness was inevitable.

Ginny had invested a great deal of herself in simply attracting Harry. Most of her other friendships were ruined. She had forced herself to collaborate with that odious, smirking Malfoy ponce. Dumping Harry, however justifiably, would leave her far worse off than before. Besides, Harry was not just another beau - he was inimitable Boy Who Lived - the object of her fantasies ever since she had been old enough to fantasise.

So she tolerated behaviour from him that, from all prior boyfriends, would have earned a Dear John letter written in blood - their own.

Besides, breaking up with Harry over Daphne's dalliance would only reward the loathsome Slytherin. Ginny had no doubt that result was exactly what Daphne intended. If Ginny sent Harry away, it would be straight into Daphne's comforting embrace.

Even though Harry missed her anvil-sized hints that maybe he should take a knee, Ginny readily allowed him back into her good graces. Soon Ginny had come full circle - to the reason she originally followed Harry up the dormitory stairs. She wanted to prove to Harry that anything Daphne could do, she could do better.

How much better, Ginny was unsure. The evident failure of her supposedly “ultimate” Love Potion was worrisome. Harry's peculiar inquiry about “noticing any pink” bothered her too. Her pink bits were undeniably pink! What more was Harry looking for?

Ginny forgave Harry but most emphatically not Daphne. Their next encounter, in the Great Hall, promised to be monumental.

No one was let down, at least initially.

“You backstabbing, cold-blooded little harlot,” Ginny hissed at the willowy Slytherin when they met the next morning just outside the Great Hall during the breakfast rush. “I turn my back for a minute, and you're all over Harry trying to steal my wizard!”

Given Harry's no-show, Daphne had expected something of this sort ever since she returned to the Castle. She pinned Ginny with a practised, haughty stare. “More like you abandoned him, I reckon,” she replied equally cattily. “Last time I looked, you didn't own Harry - no more than Granger. He's not your house-elf.”

“Damn straight,” Ginny retorted, her voice gradually rising as other students stopped and milled about, watching the free show. “Harry chose me. I'll bet you had your auntie-poo enchant him for you…..”

Daphne bristled. Face reddening, she snarled, “What a load of bollocks! My Merlin-given natural charms were more than sufficient, thank you very much! You're hardly one to talk. The Sisters told….”

Daphne stopped abruptly. Hogwarts had many pretty witches - she was confronting one - but one of her outstanding plusses in respect of Harry Potter was her discretion. His rapid return to the ginger harridan's side only solidified Daphne's belief that potions or other magicks must be implicated, despite her utter failure of proof. Burning her bridges absolutely was a very un-Slytherin thing to do. She would not air dirty linen in public.

Rather that escalate matters, Daphne shut them down. “I have nothing more to say to you … you're a waste of my time, not to mention a crashing bore,” she dismissed Ginny contemptuously. Turning on her sleek heel, with poise Ginny could only dream of, Daphne stalked into the Great Hall with nary a backward glance. Her leisurely strut was itself a provocation - a dare to the Gryffindor to go ahead and hex her in the back.

Ginny knew she was on probation every bit as much as Daphne did. The redhead kept her wand sheathed, but unleashed an increasingly jejune verbal assault. She shouted at the retreating blonde, “If you even sneeze in Harry's direction I'll have a lot more than words for you … bitchy witchy!” Incandescently angry, Ginny was determined to have the last word. “This isn't over … I'll deal with you at the D.A!”

“Forget that, darling,” Daphne drawled over her shoulder. “If that's how you see the D.A., I quit.”

“Good riddance!”

With one minor - and one major - victory over the Slytherin slag, Ginny was left stewing before a lot of students who, with Greengrass leaving the arena, suddenly found they had other places to be.

* * * *

Daphne's instincts were, as usual, spot on. The Prophet had several amateur stringers at Hogwarts, ensuring that the next day's paper featured a vivid account of the spat. Besides factual details, the story presented rampant speculation over what may, or may not, have prompted the quarrel, and who was at fault.

Daphne delivered her “No bloody comment,” so frostily that the next day's newsprint nearly froze where that quotation ran.

Nor was she the only potential source refusing to be interviewed. Sighing, Hermione put down the paper. She had been owled by a Prophet reporter hoping she would dish. Whilst Hermione had no doubt, from Ginny's reaction, that something serious - likely salacious - had transpired between Harry and the blonde Slytherin, Hermione declined to contribute her tuppence worth for public attribution. The reporter's owl left empty-handed, or rather, empty-legged.

She should not have cared, but did. Harry was Ginny's problem now, but still Hermione could not bring herself to ignore her ex altogether. She could - no, would - never feel indifferent about Harry.

The situation at least gave Hermione a sort of grim satisfaction. All men, even Harry, were sluts, given sufficient temptation. But Hermione had kept him - despite considerable temptation - to herself for more than eight months. Although Ginny was far prettier, she had barely kept Harry on the straight and narrow for eight days.

This petty point brought Hermione no joy at all. She remained bereft.

Harry, at least the Harry Hermione thought she had known, was better than that. For literally months, he had resisted that Brookings witch's charms. Her advances had been at least as strenuous - when Harry was unattached - but he had not succumbed because on some subconscious level he knew where his true emotions lay.

Or so he said.

Darkly, Hermione contemplated if Harry might be a bigger cad than she still allowed herself to believe. All she had was his word….

No, she had that spell Rita Skeeter had performed, whatever it was. It had proved Harry's veracity - a rare instance of truth reinforcing Skeeter's stock-in-trade.

Rita's result had convinced Hermione that Harry was the most sexually honest person anyone could hope to fall in love with. He could not lie worth a damn.

How could everything change so quickly … and so much for the worse? Harry was almost like a stranger, not at all who she thought he was. She would not put it past Daphne to…. Oh, to hell with it. Harry was no longer her problem, he was Ginny's. He was….

The situation was too depressing to think about. If she wanted her ideal Harry….

Aarrgh!

Hermione chose to bury herself in her studies. Her research did not lie to her; use her; leave her….

Hmmm…. The first in vitro results of the silver colloid solution were promising. If this worked, it would be a huge breakthrough. Thinking outside the magical envelope as only a Muggle-born could, Hermione was experimenting with Muggle chemotherapy - a treatment with its roots in Paracelsus - every medicine can be a poison; the dose makes the difference.

In late April she had exposed colloid-infused Petri dish cultures to strong, lens-focussed moonlight. Several cultures showed none of the characteristic transformations - even at 50X magnification. But the therapeutic range was narrow. Higher doses killed cells outright; a fatal drawback. Lower doses evinced minimal effectiveness; only slightly less of a problem.

After trials with nitrate and sulfadiazine, she wanted to test Muggle proteinised versions, formulation that included larger, metallic doses. Hermione smirked at the irony. Muggle uses of the stuff were worthless, scientifically bogus, and often dangerous - but when employed against certain magical maladies, the potential benefit could be enormous.

Maybe she should check the catalytic role of selenomethionine….

Her self-inking quill scratching away, Hermione revised her April results. If the May results were as good, Madam Pomfrey would contact St. Mungo's about in vivo studies and perhaps broach the possibility of clinical trials with the Beast Division (how she hated that name) of the Magical Creatures Department. Madam Pomfrey was quite supportive. Such ground-breaking research was precisely why Hermione had been selected as the first fellow of the Hogwarts Institution of Excellence programme.

St. Mungo's….

Hermione's stream of conscious thought process began contemplating what might happen after the term ended. Her summer prospects were a blessed positive in her lonely life. Paracelsus Huxley had proposed a “research internship” at the wizard hospital. His terms were so vague, the prestigious Healer seemed content to let Hermione study essentially whatever she liked.

And she had other offers. Achieving modern history's highest O.W.L. scores generated some interest, just not the interest she craved.

The goblins offered her a summer position at Gringotts. She could write her own ticket - legal, finance, wizard, Muggle - her choice. She would have the opportunity to learn Gobbledegook from real goblins, a rare privilege. The last wizard offered that privilege was a young Albus Dumbledore, before his Grindelwald dalliance cost him their trust.

The Unspeakables were also interested. They broached their own “research fellowship,” which was, of course, classified. The catch was that she either agreed to join their office permanently or she would have to be Obliviated. As a sweetener, they promised to teach her the Homorphus Charm, fiendishly difficult post-N.E.W.T. magic that might prove critical to success of her current research project.

Now Professor Flitwick had asked to see her this afternoon. She suspected he would dangle an opportunity to stay at the Castle over the holiday. Of the other offers, only the goblins had included a secure place to stay. If she worked at St. Mungo's….

“Um … hi Hermione,” an all-too-familiar voice cut through her thoughts.

“Harry,” she answered through clenched teeth. “What brings you here?”

“…Well, I was wondering….” Harry swallowed nervously. “You see, I hope you meant it, back when you said … um … that you'd still, at least … stay my friend,” Harry started awkwardly.

Projecting more calm than she felt, Hermione remained intimidatingly mute whilst Harry fumbled.

“It seems, well, I've got a problem … no, more like a situation, and Dumbledore's not around these days - probably chasing down something more of Voldemort's….”

Being no closer to knowing what Harry wanted than when he started, Hermione binned her silent treatment. “I'm hardly an adequate substitute for the Headmaster, Harry. If something's up with Voldemort, wouldn't you be better off talking to Shak? He's also your….”

“This isn't just about Voldemort….”

She shot Harry a pointed look. “Just about Voldemort?” Hermione repeated sceptically.

Harry continued his attempted explanation. “…At least not entirely, and it's Muggle, too, and you know more about Muggle stuff than practically anybody…”

“Harry, Blackie Howe could….”

“No, he can't,” Harry stopped her. “I asked … some sort of conflict.”

“Then, what?” Hermione's increasing exasperation finally burst through. Harry's tongue-tied tendencies were no longer so endearing.

No.

Do not go there.

“Oh, hell,” Harry gave up. He pulled an envelope from his robes and poked it at her. “It's this.”

Warily, Hermione took the proffered letter, carefully not touching Harry's hand. Instinctively worrying her lower lip, she noted a fancy, unfamiliar coat of arms on the front. Indelible gold and black blotches on the back meant the correspondent used magical sealing wax. Harry's expression was inscrutable as she unfolded fancy, watermarked Muggle paper….

“There's nothing on this,” she stated sharply, wondering if this was some dumb trick.

“Oh, sorry,” Harry apologised almost bashfully. Carefully avoiding her hand, as she had his, he pinched a corner.

Writing duly appeared. Hermione's eyes followed the instantaneously revealed text.

She gawked. Her eyes went wide. Hermione's mouth pursed to a little “o” shape and remained frozen until she finished. Her unfaltering grip and steady hands were a testament to her fortitude, as she carefully refolded the correspondence and returned it to its envelope.

“This could be huge, Harry.” Hermione restated the obvious. “The alliance she's offering…. The Muggles could enter the fight against Voldemort. I only hope she knows what she's getting herself, and perhaps Britain, into.”

“What do you mean?”

“Voldemort not only hates Muggles, but fears their superior numbers,” Hermione reminded Harry. “That first prophecy - the reading from Voldemort's pensieve - its most straightforward meaning is exactly this kind of thing … Muggles joining with like-minded wizards to destroy his Dark ambitions. He won't let such a thing pass…. She's not with the Firm anymore. I hope she appreciates not having the same level of security she used to….”

Harry responded to what he thought was her point. “You think I should tell her `no,' then … for her own safety?” he asked, somewhat alarmed at the thought.

“No, I don't,” Hermione clarified. “It's just a concern. I doubt danger deters her any more than you. Birds of a feather, I suppose….”

She sighed, but Harry's intense gaze bade her continue.

“No, but if she helps make the new P.M. take this seriously, then it's worth it,” Hermione thought out loud. “I know they didn't impress you at Chequers, but if they knew what to expect - the Muggles, I mean. Blair may see things differently from Major. If we eased up on secrecy somewhat…. I'd say there's real synergistic potential….”

“Do you think she really means … she nicknamed her son for me?” Harry squeaked, as always uneasy with his fame. That bit of her letter still astounded him.

“I don't know what lying would gain her,” Hermione sniffed. “The timing's plausible, and although Henry's a solid royal name, we haven't seen a Harry or Hal since the last king Henry. From what I know, which isn't much, she had precious little choice. Even a witch doesn't turn down a proposal from the Prince of Wales. Still, Voldemort's blood purity … she had to be terrified he would come after her or her family. Then, poof, the Dark menace is gone, along with the threat to her as yet unborn children, and you did it. She probably didn't have much say in naming the first one, but having more leeway with the spare…. Like I said, it's plausible.”

“What do you make of all this business about AIDS, land mines, and so on?” Harry asked. “That's pretty Muggle, isn't it?”

“Yes, of course,” Hermione confirmed. “That's her quid pro quo. She helps us with Voldemort; you help in her various Muggle causes. She's famous for them, and you - well, is there any better way to spend all that money that you never wanted in the first place…?” Her voice trailed off, and Hermione stared vaguely into the distance.

Once a few moments dragged by, Harry filled the silence. “Do you think I should … tell…? I'm sorry, I shouldn't bother you with….”

“With what, Harry?” Hermione pounced. “I said I'd stay your friend, and I meant it, although it's hard….”

“Sorry, I didn't think….”

“It's okay.” Her eyes and tone told different stories.

With a helpless look, Harry shrugged. “Do you think I should tell … umm … Ginny?” He had tried hard not to ask, but Hermione had insisted.

Hermione's cheeks reddened as if slapped, but otherwise she concealed the depth of her upset.

“I'm really sorry, Hermione,” Harry backtracked. “I've wanted to tell you how much I wish I hadn't buggered up….”

“No, Harry, don't,” Hermione forcefully shut him down. “Brutal truth was best. To answer your question - it depends on how serious you are about Ginny.”

“What?”

“Well, once you've defeated Voldemort, if you want to spend your life and your money supporting Lady Di's pet charities, I strongly suspect she would happily accommodate you.”

“Why do you assume that's what I want?” Harry grumbled.

“Why do you assume that's not what she wants?” Hermione stuck to her guns.

“Because … well she seems to have a perfectly proper, and properly aged, boyfriend,” Harry pointed out.

“Harry, she had the future King of England,” Hermione acerbically observed. “That hardly slowed her down when she wanted someone else. She chewed up and spat out Hewitt, Will Carling, and that poor heart surgeon - or so they say…. What would stop her if she decides that now she wants you?”

Harry was peevish. “Well, what if I don't want her?”

“Then you'd best tell Ginny everything - and be very careful, Harry, because between your magic, your money, and your mystique, I'd be quite surprised if, somewhere along the way, our dear Lady doesn't try at least to take you out for a test drive … and that's all I'll say on this subject. Goodbye, Harry,” she firmly ended their conversation.

Harry had the good grace to leave when asked.

Hermione was thus spared the embarrassment of Harry seeing her break down in bitter tears.

* * * *

Professor Flitwick was diligently marking third-year test papers when he heard the soft rap on his door. It cracked open, revealing a sliver of Hermione Granger's somewhat bleary face.

“Ah, yes, Miss Granger - do come in. I apologise; I lost track of time, with all these exams … I without an assistant, you see….” Professor Flitwick seemed unusually distracted.

Hermione moved to seat herself in one of the chairs customarily used by students. “It doesn't matter,” she shrugged with a voice that she hoped sounded self assured. “Whatever revisions are necessary, I'm more than happy to make.”

Professor Flitwick let out a squeak and nearly toppled off the books piled in his chair. “Oh, no, Miss Granger, let's clear that up now. Your project is exemplary as always, and so much more involved than … charms for making new flavours of ice cream sundaes….”

Hermione blushed. Professors (other than Snape, she recalled) did not ordinarily disparage anyone's work to other students, but Hermione knew he meant Lavender's independent work.

Briefly Hermione thought Professor Flitwick might really have fallen, when his head vanished behind his massive desk. Soon she heard the diminutive professor's quiet footfalls.

Curious, but not nervous, Hermione watched Flitwick trot towards her. The professor's hand waved, and another identical chair popped into existence beside Hermione. He hopped into it.

“Miss Granger,” the professor cleared his throat, “I asked for this appointment, not as your Charms Professor, but because I'm Head of Ravenclaw House….”

Now this was a surprise. “But I'm not in Ravenclaw, even if sometimes I think I ought to be.”

“Well, you're not alone,” Professor Flitwick chuckled as he sought a lighter air. “But what the Hat chooses, goes. Anyway, I'm here … and this is where it gets a bit sticky, I suppose … on behalf of two of my most accomplished seventh years….”

Hermione's face grew quizzical. “On behalf of?” she interrupted. She rarely spoke over a professor, but that was not Flitwick's current role.

“Yes, I'll understand if you think this is a bit abrupt, because, well, it is,” Professor Flitwick ploughed ahead. “But until recently, neither of my students could contemplate such a thing.”

Hermione restrained herself from being impolite. Uncharacteristically, Professor Flitwick was as long-winded as Dumbledore. She contented herself with asking, “Contemplate what?”

“You … that is, your availability,” Professor Flitwick reached the heart of the matter as Hermione suppressed a gasp. “I thought … everyone did, that you and Mister Potter - you were entirely spoken for, and that was that….”

“You mean you're here because somebody's interested in me?” Hermione could not keep the shock from her voice.

“Not anyone, Miss Granger,” his speech improved as hers deteriorated, “Mister Davies and Mister Carmichael are two of my finest students. I hope I can convince you at least to hear them out. Either of them….”

“But, why … and why, now?” Hermione lost all compunction about interrupting.

“Miss Granger, whatever your self-image after … well … I assure you, you are a most accomplished witch, and - please excuse my frankness - are regarded as desirable amongst your peers. Your O.W.L.s, remarkable, no historic, and two orders of Merlin…. I can only believe that Mister Potter was a fool….”

Were she thinking logically, Hermione would have understood. So many witches and wizards graduated Hogwarts with their romantic lives already set.

For once logic was the furthest thing from her mind.

“But I barely know either of them … and I'm Muggle-born,” she resisted, fighting back tears. Her great romance had barely ended - she needed a chance to be herself, to learn who she was, for awhile … no-one else. Despite long lives, too many classmates rushed into adulthood.

Harry certainly had, although the prophecy was undoubtedly an extenuating circumstance.

“I assure you that neither,” Flitwick switched to first names, “Neither Roger nor Edward care anything about blood status. Ravenclaw is the most meritocratic house. I daresay you'll find more obsession with ancestry amongst Gryffindors.”

“But there … there are two of them,” Hermione pointed out. “What's going on?”

Professor Flitwick regarded her quizzically. “Why, you would choose, of course. Both approached hours apart. With Mister Potter.…” he paused delicately “…out of the picture … they expressed interest in initiating a courtship, but as you said, neither knew you. They asked me to act as intermediary. I suppose I'm not very good. I've never done this before.”

Hermione's head was spinning. Suitors? Her? Nobody save Harry had ever…. No, that was wrong. Ron once expressed…. She frowned. How could she have forgotten Victor, who proposed…? And she had long suspected that Neville….

Okay, so maybe she was less repulsive to the opposite sex than she had convinced herself.

“It's not you,” she told Professor Flitwick. “It's me not being prepared for the message.”

“I understand fully,” Flitwick sympathised. “It's not often that a witch receives news of intent to declare - let alone two.”

“De - Declare!?”

“Of course,” the professor stated firmly. “I had long chats with both. I refused to intervene until I was one hundred percent certain that their intentions were both serious and honourable. They are - and both have excellent prospects. Edward, of course, is Head Boy. He is particularly keen mind on Arithmancy, and has accepted a management trainee position at Ipswich and Strougler's, the magical world's largest maker of Dark Detectors. Roger, as you probably know, stands to inherit a considerable fortune, including property in Diagon Alley. From your time with Potter, I'm sure you wouldn't object to that. Either would be overjoyed to escort you to the Beauxbatons ball….”

Professor Flitwick continued describing the felicitous financial attributes of his House's two sterling candidates for Hermione's affections, but she had stopped listening.

`Did I hear right?' Hermione thought. `He thinks I was attracted to Harry's wealth. He doesn't know me at all. That, more than anything, kept me away from Harry for so long. If he's that wrong about me, so are these two boys. They have no idea what makes me tick. No! This is too fast, and too soon. They'll want a formal declaration before graduation - less than a month away. What then? A marriage commitment before my seventh year?'

Hermione almost choked.

`I'm not in love … I doubt I ever could be … with either. I'd be a trophy. This would be a bigger disaster than being with Harry…. Hell, being with Harry wasn't a disaster…. Not being with him is….'

“I'm sorry, Professor, I can't do this,” Hermione blurted, bringing Flitwick's recounting of Carmichael's academic accomplishments to an abrupt halt.

“I'm sorry?”

“I'm just … not ready,” Hermione tried to avoid explaining. “I feel I'm being rushed. It's too soon. I'd mess it all up, and make everyone miserable. I need time….”

“Can't you please give them a chance? What about the ball … try that, at least,” Flitwick pleaded.

“NO!” Hermione almost screamed. Then she gulped. She had never, ever yelled at a professor before - not even Snape. “I'm sorry; it's too much, too soon. I'm not ready to move on, yet…. I'd hate myself….”

Hermione bolted for the door. She still had desires, but they no longer resembled her life's harsh reality. Her mental wounds were festering, not healing.

* * * *

Ginny shivered with excitement. Finally her færie tale dreams - one of them - were coming true. Tonight she and Harry were emerging from all the goblin concealments. Hiding was over. They were attending the Beauxbatons ball, together, the way she had always imagined it.

She was determined to make it a night to remember. To be one hundred percent sure, she added a double dose of potion to Harry's water bottle at this morning's team practise. Earlier, she had risked a chat with Ron, who remained furious at her. She demanded this additional practise, because she “didn't want to be embarrassed” by what she now called - along with almost everyone else - the “Viktor Krum all stars.”

The elves provided fancy triptych mirrors for each girls' dormitory room to help ball goers dress. Ginny happily twirled in her nearly skin-tight ball gown as her friend Kelly applied a charm for erasing panty lines. She learnt it from a magazine that would scandalise both of their mums.

The gown was green, of course - to match Harry's eyes. To avoid any Slytherin connotations, especially after that incident with She-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless, Ginny had added abundant bright trim in Gryffindor colours.

Ginny's first hint that the ball would be less than the mythic experience she envisioned came before she even stopped twirling.

With the Scottish weather warming, the girls kept their windows open for last minute owls, mostly bearing corsages from their dates (Harry's magnificent lilac concoction unfortunately clashed with her dress). Ginny almost hopped out of her neatly concealed knickers when a wobbly owl hurtled past her and, in a shower of feathers, collided with her mirror reflection.

She recognised Errol as the semiconscious bird flopped to the floor. Ginny squeamishly removed a message from his spasming leg, expecting a letter from Mum. Instead, the post bore her father's distinctly angular handwriting.

My dearest Ginny:

I'm sure you are eagerly anticipating the Beauxbatons Ball and your upcoming Quidditch match. I trust you will acquit yourself admirably at both. I'm writing you and Ron to emphasise that this has become no ordinary ball. The French Minister for Magic and several other dignitaries will be attending - all because of your date. Understand that demands on Harry's time will be more than you'd prefer. Please accept this with grace.

You need to appreciate the symbolic importance attached to this event, coming so soon after the great tragedy that Beauxbatons and our French allies suffered. Whilst you should rightly be flattered that Harry single-handedly killed a Basilisk to save your life, at present that incident also resonates quite strongly with the French, due to their recent unfortunate experiences with such creatures.

Please be on your best behaviour - a message I am also sending your brother. You two remain on probation from prior incidents, and a repeat - for any reason - would disserve both our country and our cause, as the French political situation is unsettled at the moment.

Your loving father,

Arthur

Ginny had visualised her first major event as the Boy Who Lived's consort as a stage on which she would shine - as she knew she could. She had not expected to be under microscopic scrutiny.

No matter what might happen, Dad - serving as Head of the Department of International Cooperation - was ordering her to hold her tongue and turn the other cheek.

She would be measured all night. Could she perform with as much aplomb as the woman Harry had invited to the Ball before its postponement?

No pressure.

Harry awaited her at the base of the stairs. He looked so handsome Ginny almost swooned - until she realised his brand new royal blue dress robes with silver trim had almost certainly been selected by a serious, and seriously evil, rival for Harry's affections.

Ordinarily, Ginny would have insisted that he change, or at least Transfigure his robes to a different colour scheme. Not now. Harry had to be at the top of his game. Coming closer, she could see tension in the set of his jaw.

It was time to turn the other cheek, and probably not for the last time.

The measuring began almost immediately.

They were still in the Castle when Professor Shacklebolt pulled Ginny aside. “You can't be wearing that to this ball - not to Beauxbatons of all places,” he hissed in a deadly serious whisper once he had them alone in a convenient niche.

“But the green matches Harry's eyes, and the rest are Gryffindor colours,” she protested.

“Be that as it may,” the Jamaican-born former Auror dismissed her objections. “Green, red, and yellow are also the colours of the African liberation movement….”

Seeing Ginny's uncomprehending stare, Shak added. “That movement toppled the French colonial empire in Africa - around when the French Minister and his senior staff would have been assuming their first responsible positions. You can't insult them like that….”

Oh.

Somehow, Ginny felt, Hermione would have avoided such a faux pas.

Shak informed her that the green could stay, but not the trim. Ginny settled for lavender frills that at least matched her corsage.

That bumpy, or grumpy, start deepened with Ginny sensing ambivalence in Harry's goblin escort's attitude towards her. She could cite nothing overt - goblins were more discreet than that. Rather, unless required to do otherwise, they essentially ignored her. In stark contrast, the goblins took pains to anticipate anything and everything Harry might desire.

But once Harry and Ginny passed through the portal to Beauxbatons, she left all negative thoughts behind. The French palais truly did resemble a palace. Everywhere, it seemed, floor to very-high ceiling windows welcomed the setting sun's rays. The airiness of the school's broad corridors and arched doorways was the antithesis of Hogwarts' solid, stolid stone construction.

Beauxbatons' whitewashed interior walls and extensive use of pastel colours reinforced this contrast. By comparison Hogwarts Castle was positively dour. The cavernous sunken Beauxbatons ballroom provided more of the same, with mirrored walls creating a sense of infinite space. Massive yet delicate crystalline chandeliers - dozens of them - completed the scene, resembling brilliant inverted wedding cakes.

Their entrance to the shimmering ballroom was everything Ginny could have dreamt. The couple's names were announced bilingually. As they presented themselves at the top of the wide pink marble staircase a fanfare sounded, then came an eruption of flashing lights as every wizard camera in the room focussed on the pair.

Clutching Harry's arm tightly, Ginny descended the stairs. She was in heaven - the belle of the ball escorted by her own Prince Charming. At long last she was living her dream. In a joyous fog, Ginny almost floated towards the welcoming crowd.

That was the last time all evening Ginny felt even remotely that way. The welcoming crowd was not welcoming her.

At the base of the stairs they were swarmed. Ginny had a brief opportunity to perform her best curtsey for the French Minister and the school's Hagrid-sized Headmistress. Then she was buffeted and bumped as a horde of French swells, very few resembling students, competed for Harry's attention. Less than a minute later, Ginny had been separated from her famous date and relegated to the company of overly made up and overly coiffed French witches - any one of whom Ginny was convinced would have jumped at the chance to run off with her Harry.

This predatory crew was not even decent company. Ginny spoke no French, and when her new-found companions deigned to speak English, they mouthed vapid platitudes and inconsequential chatter. More disconcerting, her foreign interlocutors frequently turned to one another and start jabbering away incomprehensibly in their native tongue.

They were probably talking about her. A cold sense of being condescended soon enveloped Ginny.

She wanted, above all, to be at Harry's side, but the crush around him only grew worse. Forcing her way through that throng meant at minimum considerable pushing and shoving, and more likely a few well-placed hexes.

Her father's recent admonition came to the fore - she must not make a scene. The shaky Anglo-French entente might hang in the balance.

Appalled at her treatment - and that Harry had not come after her - Ginny eventually slouched to the sidelines. Buffets stood at either end of the ballroom, but she would have to brave another scrum, and maybe lose track of Harry altogether….

…To get real food.

The attentive Beauxbatons wait-staff - genuine humans, not servile house-elves - liveried in chalky blue and gold, circulated throughout the ballroom. They offered many hors d'œurves, but Ginny wrinkled her nose at some, and found most others woefully undernourishing

But the flutes of bubbly champagne….

Beauxbatons served the real thing, not any faux, magically suppressed, never-do-anything facsimile.

A major difference between Hogwarts and Beauxbatons was lack of any minimum dinking age at the Palais. At the first proffer of a tall glass filled with pale yellow liquid, Ginny was shocked.

The second time it was offered, Ginny was pleased.

After the third time, Ginny - thus fortified - sought out her Hogwarts friends.

She found Connie Marpeth and Rommy Vane socializing with their dates, but no sooner had Ginny Summoned herself a chair, someone announced something in that baffling language. Loud music commenced almost immediately.

Ginny fruitlessly sought Harry, but his mostly French admirers still monopolised him. Her so-called friends, eager to dance, abandoned her.

At least the champagne bubbles tickling her throat felt nice.

The rest of the evening flowed in something of a blur.

Harry eventually must have insisted on finding her. She had long considered her brother Percy a git and a toady, but Ginny was never happier to see his face when, through the whirl of dancers, he appeared - leading Harry to her.

Ginny leapt at the chance to dance with Harry. But whilst her mind was willing, her body was surprisingly clumsy. Her pratfall leaving her seat nearly sent both of them sprawling. Once on the floor she stumbled, stepped on Harry's feet, and was constantly on the edge of looking foolish. Finally, during a long, slow song, Ginny fell asleep whilst draped over Harry.

Other girls were almost constantly trying to cut in. Ginny rapidly tired of her graceless and maladroit efforts at dancing, so Harry led her to a table off the dance floor. Bowing to the inevitable, Ginny conceded that, provided Harry changed partners every song - and solemnly swore never, ever to dance with a certain Slytherin whose gown matched his - she was content to watch from the wings.

Champagne kept Ginny company whilst Harry played the leading role fate assigned him. She had enough good sense to keep out of trouble.

Trouble certainly did try.

Ginny almost hexed some nasty Irishman whose name she did not catch. He introduced himself as a Chaser for the team that Hogwarts would soon play and made several snide comments about how badly his teammates would defeat her team. Krum, he claimed, would not even try for the Snitch until his team was at least 350 points to the good. The swaggering, soon-to-be opponent boasted that only an hour would be needed to amass the requisite score.

Despite her Dad's injunction, Ginny's half-sloshed hand was on her wand (in a thigh holster as thoroughly camouflaged as her knickers) when Harry magically reappeared and ordered the berk to bugger off.

Harry seemed upset and apologised for not paying more attention to her. He complained that everyone at the ball was trying to shake his hand, ask him about Basilisks, or thank him for agreeing to French Auror training over the summer holiday.

That last only depressed Ginny, reminding reminded her that she was underage. Her parents would never consent to her spending unchaperoned weeks with Harry in France. Harry had not decided where he would stay, although he had plenty of housing offers. He joked they were from the parents of half the witches at Beauxbatons.

Somehow, Ginny did not find Harry's stab at humour amusing.

Even less amusing was Harry's blunt demand that she stop drinking champagne. Before Ginny could compose a response, Harry grumbled about his “work never being done” and again turned back to the dance floor. Presently, she spotted him with another of those awful, condescending French witches.

Mutinously, Ginny downed the remainder of her latest flute on one gulp. Shortly thereafter she concluded, urgently, that she best find a loo and freshen up.

Staggering for the nearest exit, Ginny encountered someone looking for all the world like a silver angel.

“Can I `elp you?” Fleur Delacour solicitously enquired.

Fleur was about the only non-Hogwarts person Ginny recognised. Ginny was intensely aware that throughout the evening the dazzling French witch had not been dancing with, or otherwise fawning over, Harry.

Instead, Fleur had been acting the proper hostess, hovering in the background and keeping Harry's dance card moving. Ginny had seen her enforcing the “one dance” rule - precluding any of Harry's all-to-numerous female admirers, French or British, from lingering.

“I have to pee,” Ginny mumbled, her words noticeably slurred. “I thank I drink … I think I drank too much champagne.”

“Zen we agree,” Fleur responded. “`Ere, let me show you zee staff WC.”

Once the pair of witches, one gliding the other stumbling, reached the bathroom, Ginny needed more than merely to empty her bladder.

The contents of her stomach decided it was time to run for the exits.

Fleur helped Ginny clean up. “I zeenk you should lie down a beet,” she recommended.

With the room spinning about endlessly, Ginny found much merit in Fleur's suggestion. How it happened, Ginny hardly knew, but she soon felt the welcome downy softness of a French featherbed mattress.

“Aaaah,” she exhaled. Humming to herself - futilely trying to stop the rotational sensation she felt even when flat on her back, Ginny did not hear the softly-spoken French incantation….

“Endormi.”

Instantly asleep, Ginny was oblivious to the next spell, “Colix porti.”

* * * *

At the explosion of lights, Harry's grip on Ginny's arm tightened. Although both Shak and Percy Weasley (Dumbledore was conspicuous by his absence) told him his arrival at Beauxbatons would cause quite a stir, he was still shocked to confront the situation first-hand.

Once down the stairs, Harry and Ginny were engulfed by a mob of amiable and admiring French magicals. In no time, Madame Maxime formally presented Harry to the French Minister, M. Constantanon. According to protocol, Harry introduced Ginny, shook hands with the Minister, and declared how delighted he was to return to France, and see Beauxbatons.

Like most diplomatic niceties, it was a lie.

Decorum quickly vanished. A seemingly endless flow of French-speaking wizards and witches jostled Harry this way and that. They pawed at his hands, patted him on the back, tried posing for pictures, and offered hastily composed praise concerning Voldemort, Basilisks, and even Harry's date.

Whilst Harry had followed a helpful hint from Hermione a few days earlier - using his Aural Pensieve to brush up on his French - he had a terrible time following the rushed conversations.

When someone mentioned his date, Harry made an effort, if not to retrieve, at least to locate Ginny. From within this mass of surrounding humanity that was easier said than done. After some doing, he managed to catch a glimpse of her, almost obscured behind Madame Maxime's considerable left hip.

He saw Ginny chatting seemingly amicably with several, he supposed, French ministry wives. She looked tolerant enough, if perhaps bored.

Harry thought she would far prefer calm and boring to the alternative intense glad-handing he had to endure.

The chaotic scrum eventually became an impromptu receiving line conducted by the French minister. Harry tried staying close to the manifestly rejuvenated Beauxbatons Headmistress - a way of mutely signalling his support - but his effort was futile. Harry also tried responding to half-understood pleasantries in his own rusty French. As far as he could tell he committed no glaring faux pas.

That was the objective - as debated with Shak and Percy and as explained in Arthur Weasley's detailed, four-page post - to finish the evening with the anti-Voldemort Entente Cordiale preserved and hopefully enhanced.

Dutifully, Harry plastered on his social smile and did his best to make nice even to people who spoke too fast to follow or who overenthusiastically thumped his back or kissed his cheeks.

One conversation Harry understood all too well. The current French Maréchal reminded Harry how his predecessor, Fleur's father, perished in a Death Eater attack. The Maréchal sought to finalise arrangements for Harry's exchange visit for Groupe d'Intervention training over the summer holiday.

Under Shak's prodding, Harry had given this commitment some thought. He proposed to arrive at the Groupe's headquarters outside Limoges following recuperation from an abrupt time change. He would start the Monday after returning from the Pacific Magical Gathering that Dumbledore had also urged that he attend.

Harry did not know if Hermione would still go to Hawai'i. Dumbledore had also invited her….

The Maréchal turned to Harry's curriculum whilst training with the Groupe. Harry opted for all the offensive magic he could learn, and something the Maréchal called “enfortission” - loosely translated as “mental toughening.” Even after Stonehenge, Harry still feared losing control of his elemental powers in the heat of battle. He remembered how they had surged when … Hermione … had been endangered.

He had avoided catastrophe then by focussing intently on a critical spell. Harry knew he had to stay focussed.

Harry refused outright to consider Unforgiveable training. The French ministry licenced Groupe members to kill, double-nought-like. Harry simply could not be the cold-blooded killer that mastery of the Killing Curse required. With difficulty he accepted his performing magic that could result in death - as the Ashrak and Stonehenge (his Scottish outburst being pure loss of control) demonstrated - but Harry refused to cultivate specific intent to kill.

When Harry finished discussing matters with the Maréchal, food was being served. Numerous French delicacies - largely unrecognizable, but tasting mostly gummy, creamy, or rubbery - were pressed into his hands. Harry maintained his good humour until being offered sliced seiche with caviar topping. He could see what this was and refused it, a bit too brusquely.

Harry was munching pâté-covered Melba toast with members of the French counterpart to the Department of Mysteries when the music started. A nearby witch immediately asked him to dance.

Before he knew it, Harry was being passed between various older witches whom he assumed - they all spoke breathlessly fast - were Ministry personnel, wives, or - knowing the French - “official” mistresses.

Madame Maxime thoughtfully rescued him. Harry told the Headmistress he had had enough. She nodded and made a show of asking him to dance. Using her bulk to great advantage, she cleared a path through the swirling couples towards almost the only familiar face in the room (save Fleur Delacour occasionally flitting about, managing the ball) and deposited him with Percy Weasley. Harry immediately buttonholed the Ministry protocol chief whilst fending off yet another overly squeezy French witch old enough to be Percy's mum.

“You will take me to Ginny, now,” Harry demanded. As the ball progressed, Harry felt that same vaguely peckish, rather randy feeling he remembered from his recent trip to Bavaria. What then happened….

Apropos of that experience, Shak had specifically warned against crossing such a line at Beauxbatons. Whilst Harry would certainly encounter many willing (and discreet) witches, the potential for trouble was high, especially with Ginny present….

Only with Ginny could Harry legitimately alleviate this licentious feeling in some secluded Palais hideaway.

But … where was Hermione…?

Don't think about that - stay focussed.

Percy had more good news. First, the French Minister and his entourage would be leaving in less than five minutes, leaving the remainder of the ball “to the kids.” Second, yes, he would happily escort Harry to Ginny and prevent his being waylaid in the process. Percy was concerned about her. Ginny was consuming more champagne than Percy thought wise. Could Harry put a stop to that?

Percy thought - and Harry agreed - that those two spending time together was an altogether splendid idea.

Whether it would be quality time remained to be seen.

Harry was equally happy to dance with Ginny, and eventually more, but her ecstatic greeting turned into a lurch into his midsection. Had he not caught her under the armpits, Ginny would have face planted ingloriously into the Beauxbatons ballroom's ebony and butternut parquet dance floor.

In Harry's arms, Ginny stabilised, but she was in no shape to dance - or much else. Through two songs, Harry essentially dragged his stumbling partner about the dance floor. Throughout Wonderful Tonight, Ginny just draped herself around Harry's neck. That area ached noticeably before the song was over.

If dancing were difficult, the thought of shagging Ginny - or any other girl - in her inebriated condition was a definite turn off. Assisting Ginny back to her table, Harry told her that, in his opinion, she should neither dance, nor drink, any more this evening.

Before his lecture was done, a pert French brunette witch bravely asked Harry to dance. Resigned, Ginny told him, “All right, dance then, but no more than once.”

It would hardly do if the Boy Who Lived of the hour were unavailable through no fault of his own.

Harry danced for over an hour, taking turns with one young witch after another, some French, others from Hogwarts. Surprisingly, the Beauxbatons witches knew as much about his second-year Basilisk encounter as his schoolmates. No matter how knowledgeable, though, none of Harry's partners managed a second round. If they tried, the Beauxbatons hostess, Fleur, sent another eager member of the queue to Harry's rescue.

Occasionally, Harry chanced a glance at Ginny. True to her word, she stayed put. Unfortunately, she was not as diffident when the ever-attentive Beauxbatons wait staff continued plying her with champagne.

Seeing that, Harry's face reddened. He would put a stop to it. He was about to have words with Fleur, when there came a less-than-gentle tap on his shoulder. Harry turned to find himself face to face with someone familiar - yet … not….

“Ver ist Her-my-oh-nee?”

Harry had not spoken to Viktor Krum in nearly two years - his last words being a hex in the Third Task's maze whilst Viktor had been under the Imperius Curse.

“Viktor?” Harry responded. “I'm surprised. What brings you here?”

“Team match in Paris,” Viktor grunted. He was not to be diverted. “I vont to know vere ist Her-my-oh-nee?”

Harry had no good answer. “Umm … dunno. Haven't seen her all night.”

That was true. Harry had occasionally espied Ron and Luna - and ignored them as resolutely as they did him. The third member of the erstwhile Trio had not made an appearance all evening.

Viktor scowled - almost sneered - at Harry's ignorance. His expression of utter disdain, so at odds with everyone else's attitude, raised Harry's hackles. “What's it to you?” he dismissed the surly Bulgarian.

Viktor refused to be brushed off. “I vont to ask her qvestion, and she hasn't answered my letters,” the testy Bulgar persisted. “Not that it's any of your business now.”

“Really?” Angered by the Bulgarian's implication, Harry could not resist twisting the verbal blade. “I'm sure the answer's still, `no'.”

Viktor's countenance darkened. “Maybe vot vas then is not now - thanks to your foolishness,” he returned Harry's volley. “I at least had courage to ask.”

Only everyone's repeated admonitions to avoid incidents at all costs kept Harry from flying at Krum like a werewolf at a rival pissing on his territory. In his anger, he barely kept from betraying a secret that almost surely would caused Viktor to become the aggressor. “No is still no. When I…. I ought to go….”

“Da … go bock to your … little girlfriend,” Viktor growled in his ominous Terminator-sounding voice. Under his breath the rival Seeker muttered some Bulgarian imprecation that sounded extremely insulting. Finally, he threatened, “Ve vill crush you, at Hogvarts…. I vill knock you off broom.” Viktor turned on his heel and with near military precision marched off.

Harry had the good sense to hold his tongue. Searching out Ginny, he saw her conversing with a stranger. Ginny looked tense, and the wizard's robes bore insignia resembling Viktor's. Harry ran the interloper off, but Ginny was not particularly pleased when he again told her to lay off the bubbly.

Retreating to the dance floor and his distaff admirers, Harry mechanically worked through several more songs - the last one by Piaf, about regretting nothing, but seemingly everything, captured his wistful, almost melancholy mood perfectly.

Whilst Harry felt intangible emptiness in his soul … his bladder felt precisely the opposite. After emerging from the loo, Harry could not bring himself to re-enter the glittering ballroom - when his spirits felt so … whatever the opposite of “glittering” was.

Harry retreated to the semi-darkness of an outdoor pergola. The night air in late May was warm and inviting - everything … in there … was not.

Harry noticed the grey boulder nestled not quite behind a nearby potted plant. He nodded to a French Auror guarding the area - security was extremely tight. Harry strode to the railing and looked across the Palais' manicured grounds. He breathed the bouquet of spring blooming roses, lilacs, and marigolds. It looked so peaceful in the pale moonlight.

What was he doing here?

What was he doing at all?

He wanted to shag Ginny, he supposed, but not like this. She was too drunk to be a satisfactory partner. But did he really want her? Hanging over his entire evening, like a dolorous fugue in the background, was Hermione's spectral image … even though, as far as he knew, she had not attended the ball.

Why was she…?

He had to stay focussed.

Could he sneak out somehow and return to Hogwarts?

Slim chance of that. He was tonight's star attraction - having the lead role in this cage. Even now, people were probably looking for him. Harry had not brought his Invisibility Cloak, although goblin Cloaking magic could do in a pinch.

“`Arry? Ees zat you?”

He turned, and saw Fleur wafting to him, looking positively ethereal with her impossibly blond hair and her silvery gown shining in the nearly full moon.

With heartfelt warmth Harry greeted her. “Hi, Fleur, nice ball. I suppose you've been in charge of this.”

“Zank you, `Arry,” Fleur batted her eyelashes at the compliment. “But eef eet ees zo good, why are you out `ere?”

“Too much of a good thing, I guess,” Harry shrugged with a wry smile. “Are they already asking after me?”

“Non.”

“Then how did you know to look for me?”

Fleur smiled. “Part of being een charge … I `ave access to zee Palais' map. I saw your mark and decided to check. Would you razzer be left alone?”

The night seemed a bit warmer - the perfumed air in the lilac-wreathed pergola a little sweeter. He recognised the sensation as low-dose Veela allure, but in his current state Harry chose not to care.

“Not really,” Harry sighed, “I want…. I'm just tired of being passed around.”

What he really wanted, Harry was certain was not possible.

“Eh, vrai,” Fleur sighed alongside. “I'm sorry `Arry. Maybe I should `ave warned you myself what eet would be like…. Perhaps, eenstead, you would like a tour of zee Palais avec moi…. You know, zee defence position, eet can be yours eef you want.”

“Sounds good,” Harry shrugged, not sure whether he meant the tour or the DADA job.

“Zees way, zen,” Fleur directed, taking Harry by the hand. “I weell start weez our Deefense classroom and office.”

* * * *

Fleur throbbed with nervous anticipation. She had strongly advocated pressing onward with the Beauxbatons ball in the face of the Basilisk tragedy. Scattered criticism of it being “disrespectful” of the dead circulated, below the surface, in some Beauxbatons alumni circles. Fortunately, Madame Maxime - after being revived by out-of-season Mandrake sent from Hogwarts - was on her side. She agreed that school morale, even the honour of the nation, required that Beauxbatons press forward from the massacre.

The stakes, already high, rose further when Minister Constantanon expressed a desire to attend. His ministry was irrevocably tied to the anti-Voldemort alliance with the English. In France, Harry Potter symbolised that alliance.

The Minister was also demonstrating his support for Beauxbatons' somewhat beleaguered Headmistress.

The revelation, in the wake of the Basilisk-caused massacre, that Harry - at age twelve - had dispatched a Basilisk with a broadsword only increased the Boy Who Lived's already substantial cachet.

His presence on French soil became an irresistible magnet for politicians, celebrity seekers, and hangers on of all stripes.

With the Headmistress weak from her ordeal and busy with the Fifth Estate's investigation, it fell to Fleur to balance outside social pressures with the need to ensure a proper and entertaining evening for the students of both schools.

Only a fraction of Fleur's nerves were professionally related.

Should all go according to plan, she would lay her own claim to Harry Potter's heart tonight.

When Fleur left Hogwarts to assume the suddenly vacant Beauxbatons Charms professorship, she never expected to have that chance.

Then, Harry seemed enchanted by a woman - in no sense merely a girl - whom Fleur respected, and more importantly whom Fleur conceded that Harry loved. Somehow something had happened. Even now, Fleur could not fathom what had transpired.

Amazingly, Harry had cast Hermione Granger aside, by all accounts quite abruptly. He was now on the arm of Ginny Weasley, a girl Fleur hardly knew.

Her brief contact with the Weasley girl had not been endearing.

On a couple of occasions, whilst dating Bill, Fleur had encountered Ginny. At Harry's dreadfully dreary town house, Ginny had been reserved and stand-offish. She had seemed threatened by her beauty and Veela heritage. That had been a year ago Christmas.

Bill had brought Fleur by the Burrow during the Easter holiday. In her own environment, Ginny had been downright catty. Fleur overheard her conversing with Ronald, the next youngest of the Weasley brood. Ginny had described her (Fleur) with an unfamiliar word. Bill had been helping her with English, so she had asked him.

The word meant spit.

After that, Fleur had simply ignored Ginny Weasley - a relatively simple task. Whilst Fleur's relationship with Bill deepened, his younger sister had been away playing Quidditch.

Then Bill died - killed at her family estate in Ambazac. Fleur's last trip to the Burrow had been for Bill's funeral. There, if looks could have killed, Ginny's would have been an Unforgiveable. Ginny hero-worshipped her eldest brother nearly as much as she did Harry. Ginny plainly blamed her for Bill's death at the hand of the Death Eaters.

No, Fleur did not like Ginny Weasley, and the feeling was mutual.

Nor was there respect. How the littlest Weasley had managed to win Harry where she, Fleur, had failed was a mystery - and a state of affairs Fleur would not let continue.

Fleur knew she was prettier than Ginny Weasley. She also considered herself cleverer. Fleur had not only graduated second academically in her Beauxbatons class but been her school's Triwizard representative. From her time as adjunct Charms Professor at Hogwarts, Fleur knew Ginny had no academic distinction beyond Prefect, a one-in-five chance. Ginny was better at flying and Quidditch - worth something, given that Harry played. But in every other skill Harry needed to defeat Voldemort and his Death Eaters, Fleur believed she far outclassed the Weasley girl.

That last was the most important. More than anything in her life, Fleur wanted revenge against the brutal murderer of the two men she cared about most - Bill and Papa.

Everything Fleur learnt about Harry confirmed and reconfirmed her belief that he - more than Dumbledore, any Auror, indeed more than any witch or wizard - was fated to be the instrument of Voldemort's destruction. Harry, however, could not do it alone. Even if not in love with Harry now, Fleur convinced herself that she could grow to love him.

With that love, and with her undeniable magical and other skills, Fleur was determined to assist Harry in doing what he had to do.

Only one other was equally - perhaps better - suited than she for that role.

Harry was not with Hermione any longer.

It was Fleur's turn.

Fleur prepared by both action and omission. She made no particular effort to warn Harry that the Minister would attend the ball and what that would entail. Harry, Fleur supposed, was now used to such things.

Ginny, she hoped, would not be.

A “concession” Fleur extracted from her Ministry further increased interest amongst the Beauxbatons student body. Mentioning similar English press accounts, Fleur persuaded her Ministry to borrow Harry's pensieve memory of killing the Basilisk from the English Aurors.

The week before the ball, that memory debuted at Beauxbatons.

Harry's memory was a huge hit. Everyone thanked Fleur.

Fleur also devised several schemes to sideline Ginny Weasley during her planned seduction of Harry Potter.

Ultimately, no intricate plotting was necessary.

Ginny proved overly fond of Beauxbatons champagne.

As Fleur anticipated, she was equally unprepared for the crush surrounding Harry. The redhead exiled herself to a table from which she sullenly watched others monopolize Harry. Ginny initially seemed surprised even to be offered champagne, but after one refusal her ennui set in.

Ginny accepted the next proffered glass.

And the next - and so on.

As the Palais' Charms Professor, Fleur had also cast the charms that kept the champagne at precisely 7.5 degrees. Her Chilling Charm, when synergised with another charm of her creation, did more.

Noticing Ginny's amenability to champagne - and doubting, from her visits to the Burrow, that she had much experience, Fleur flounced into action.

Taking care not to interact with Harry, Fleur wafted past Ginny's table and cast a covert Périmètre Charm across the wait staff's route. This charm gave the staff instant knowledge when Ginny (anyone within the boundary) wanted her glass “refreshed.”

It also activated the Chilling Charm's secondary function - adding precisely two drops of Enjoyment Elixir to each flute of bubbly. The Elixir was the antithesis of the infamous Hogwarts Lust-Powder-in-the-punch incident. The tiny dose did not change the drink's taste, or alter anyone's basic inclinations. It merely provided positive reinforcement for what Fleur's target already wanted to do.

The charm was spatially limited. Others at the ball might occasionally imbibe an enhanced drink when happening to be near Ginny Weasley, but every flute she lifted was thus fortified.

From a safe distance, never approaching Ginny, Fleur watched Harry's girlfriend drink herself into a stupor.

As Fleur suspected, Harry eventually tired of constant attention. Headmistress Maxime helped him escape the crowd. Not long afterwards the Minister's party departed. Fleur's simple but effective plan then worked to perfection as Harry tried dancing with Ginny. She was too inebriated to do anything more than hold on.

After only a couple of songs, Harry gave that up as a bad job.

Beauxbatons' admiring students would have mobbed Harry just as their parents had earlier - except Fleur undertook to manage the queue to give everyone a chance, if willing to wait for a dance with Harry. Nobody, however, received more than one turn.

Harry and Ginny both appreciated Fleur playing the proper host. The only fly in the ointment was a crew of travelling Quidditch players who had wangled a last-minute invite through the Ministry.

Unknown to Fleur, who was indifferent to the sport, they were to play Harry's Hogwarts team in a couple of weeks. Injecting sports rivalry into the mix complicated matters. Several visiting players - including Viktor Krum, who should have known better, acted boorishly. Fleur strove her best to defuse potentially awkward situations, the most volatile being Ginny's older brother Ronald.

Fleur expected Ronald to make a fool of himself, but that boy's taste in partners had improved. His date - a blonde woman unknown to Fleur - prevailed on Ron to call it a night and leave before the fiery redhead did anything stupid.

Presently, Ginny stood and started weaving unsteadily towards one of the ballroom's exits. Phase two began.

Fleur intercepted Ginny near the door. Her luck held as Ginny needed a bathroom break. Fleur guided Ginny to the right place, as Ginny thanked her for disciplining the Beauxbatons witch population in respect of Harry.

Accepting the younger girl's thanks, Fleur had to marvel at her naïvety.

If only she knew.

Continuing to make Fleur's task easy, Ginny promptly threw up in the ladies' room. As Fleur helped tidy her up, Ginny confessed this was her first time drinking a significant amount of anything alcoholic. Fleur proposed that she sleep it off, and in her woozy state, Ginny readily agreed.

Fleur never mentioned Anti-Alcohol Potions or Sobering Charms that could alleviate her situation almost instantly, and Ginny never thought to ask.

With Sleeping and Door-Locking Charms, Fleur had Ginny hors de combat in a matter of minutes.

She returned to the ballroom, ready to collect Harry.

Zut Alors!

He had left.

She knew Harry would never abandon a damsel in distress - his rescuing Gabrielle two years ago proved that. Worst case scenario - he might be looking for his lost drunken girlfriend.

As quickly as she dared without attracting attention, Fleur ducked through a side door. Reaching a painting, she tapped the foot of the ballerina on the far left. The secret passageway behind the painting led to the Palais' new command center, where Fleur consulted a comprehensive map of the building and the grounds. To her immense relief, Harry was in the back pergola, alone except for one of the omnipresent guards.

Fleur suspected Harry had had his fill of the ball, crowds, stifling protocol, and (with luck) his inebriated date. She had used minimal Veela allure all night - for greasing the social wheels and keeping the ball running smoothly, but not enough to attract extraneous and unwelcome male attention.

Stepping into the pergola, she flexed her allure to maybe three out of ten. She wanted to attract a certain male's attention, but not threaten him. Harry's pushback had caused failure of her prior overture.

She invited him on a private tour of the Palais.

Harry willingly accepted.

First Fleur escorted him to the Defence classroom and its adjoining office. Embarrassingly, Beauxbatons' facilities were not of Hogwarts quality. The classroom was rather barren and space for practical training was substandard. The professor's office was musty and cluttered with the antique devices of Beauxbatons' equally antique instructor. Quickly, without betraying too much chagrin, she moved Harry onwards.

They were near Fleur's own Beauxbatons house, Burgundy-Lorraine, so she decided to show off its common room. Aside from more windows and lighter background colours, it rather resembled its Gryffindor counterpart. However, the residents - forty-seven first, second, and third years too young to attend the ball - were visibly in awe of Harry, which made him uncomfortable.

Fleur had overlooked that complication. Asserting her academic persona, she forbade autograph seeking and extracted Harry from his juvenile admirers in less than ten minutes.

Avoiding the other houses, she showed Harry upper form classrooms for the four major subjects. Beauxbatons' Potions facility particularly impressed Harry. It featured gilt floor-to-ceiling windows that actually opened and separate brewing stations with Muggle-style ventilation hoods. In a brewing accident, each hood's charmed fan activated automatically.

Harry confirmed that the Potions classroom at Hogwarts was a dreary dungeon with poor circulation.

Passing from room to room, Fleur slowly augmented her Veela allure. Far from objecting, Harry he grew more attentive to her descriptions.

Fleur's Charms classroom, consciously modelled after Professor Flitwick's, was last on the tour. Aside from being larger, as befitting Beauxbatons' greater enrollment, it would have fit neatly in Hogwarts.

They exited through Fleur's office, decorated with feminine, but not frilly, chalky blue furnishings and numerous pictures of herself, her sister, and her family. Pride of place went to two gilt frames where her father and fiancé still lived.

Fleur confirmed that, like Hogwarts, her office and the Charms classroom shared a door but did not actually adjoin. Harry noticed moonlight streaming through the windows at different angles.

“`Arry, I regret zat I cannot show you notre Queeditch Peech,” Fleur mentioned with pain in her voice. “Eet ees being reconstructed to eencrease eets secureety. You should see zee faculty apartments, to `elp you evaluate the Deefence offer zat I'm sure weell follow your defeat of Voldemort.”

Harry smiled wryly and rolled his eyes a bit. “Never count our Fwoopers before they hatch. That's a big if….”

“`Our?' Why zank you, `Arry. I have absolute faith zat you weell prevail, and I weell do everyzeeng een my power to `elp … zee souls of Beell and Papa demand no less.”

With that declaration, Fleur took Harry's hand and led him down the moonlit hall. His single “Thanks, Fleur,” drew a squeeze of her hand.

Through free association, staff housing shifted to housing generally, which in turn led to where Harry would stay whilst training with the Groupe d'Intervention.

“`Arry, `ave you decided where tu … you weell stay zees summer when you train with zee Groupe?” she asked whilst slowing her pace. Her allure rose again.

“I've hardly given it a thought,” Harry confessed.

Fleur looked at him sharply. “Perhaps you should.”

“That didn't stop just about everybody I met tonight from offering to put me up,” he added, exaggerating only somewhat. “That is, everybody with a daughter near my age….”

“Well, what deed you expect, `Arry? You are quite rightly een demand,” Fleur stated an obvious fact.

“A little less demand would be quite alright, thanks.”

“`Arry, `ave you ever wondered `ow eet ees zat zee Groupe, such an élite force, ees `eadquartered een a proveencial town like Limoges?” Fleur asked.

“Before tonight, I didn't know,” Harry admitted. “Bet you know the story, I can tell….”

“I do,” Fleur sighed.

Harry squeezed her hand. “I'll listen, if you want to tell it.”

“Merci, `Arry. After zee Greendelwald war - and zee great Muggle war - our Ministry thought we `ad been too soft, too deefensive. Papa, `e `ad fought in zee Resistance…. Zee Eenglish, zey staged raids weez zeir special services, and against Greendelwald avec a magical equeevalent of zee Muggle double-zero agents. `E decided to do zem one better…. Before `e became Maréchal, zee Group was `ees unit; Papa created it. Eet ees based in Limoges because zat was très conveenient for `eem.”

“Okay,” Harry amiably interrupted, “but how does that affect my situation?”

“`E chose Limoges because our family estate ees less than twenty keelometres away. Zere ees steell a working Floo connexion between Papa's study and zee Groupe commandant's office….”

“Fleur, are you suggesting…?”

“I would like you to stay weez me,” Fleur requested, barely looking at him. “Eet ees conveenient for you, and I weell feel safer weez you zere…. I `ave not spent zee night since Beell and Papa were murdered, and I `ave to get over zees…. Eet ees my eenheritance.”

Intentionally, or not, Fleur's Veela allure spiked with the invitation.

She stopped in her tracks, bringing a rather bedazzled Harry to a halt. Fleur produced her wand from … somewhere … in her silvery gown, which to Harry seemed even more form-fitting than before.

“A sample Beauxbatons faculty flat,” Fleur explained, her voice low. She tapped her wand on the doorknob. It glowed faintly yellow. “Alohomora.”

The flat lit automatically as Fleur entered, Harry in tow. “`Arry, I `ope you accept my `ospitality. Eet comes weez many benefeets.”

The air grew thick with Veela magic. Harry wavered. “Umm … I'm thinking…. Such as…?”

“Zee première benefeet … c'est moi,” Fleur whispered. She stepped forward, slipped one hand behind Harry's neck and drew him into a toe-curling kiss.

With Fleur's breasts pillowed deliciously against his chest, Harry's mind began wilting, whilst other parts of him did just the opposite.

Gasping for breath, Harry came up for air. The minute part of his brain still capable of reason prompted him to mutter. “But … Ginny….”

Fleur released him and stepped back. Harry nearly toppled over from the vertiginous aftereffects of their kiss. Her glittering gown accentuated her magnificent figure's every curve.

“Geenny?” Fleur spat the name through pouty lips. “She ees safe - sleeping off `er stupor alcoholique. She ees not worzy of you, and you know eet…. I am. Argentilleaux!” she incanted.

Instantly, the flat's unobtrusive white light became a silvery gleam bathing every square centimetre in a sparkly glow - every bit save Fleur's gown.

Interacting with the pearly light, Fleur's lustrous gown all but disappeared.

“Fleur….” Harry's jaw dropped. She needed no spells to erase panty lines. Every bit of her was visible, from her dusky points displayed on firm, ample breasts, to the dramatic curves of her waist, to the cardioid tuft of golden hair adorning her cleft. She was impossible not to ogle - as she right well knew.

Responding to Harry's obvious desire, she clasped his hand and breathlessly professed, “I believe zat only through love weell you destroy zee sorcier malin Voldemort. Come, let me show you….” Fleur whispered.

Fleur led Harry into her bedroom. Her gown reappeared when she entered the silvery light's shadow. She dropped his hand, lifted her bouncy blonde hair and requested. “Unzeep moi s'il te plaît.”

Harry's hands trembled as he complied. Even his uncertain touch sent goose pimples rocketing all over Fleur's bare back.

Her shimmering dress fluttered to the floor. Fleur faced Harry and began returning the favour. Her hands likewise quivered in anticipation.

“`Arry, first I weell show you what we call zee French arts,” Fleur purred. “Zen we can conteenue een search of zee `Armonic Convergence.” Fleur was virtually certain Harry knew what that was - she had seen irrefutable evidence.

The atmosphere in Fleur's boudoir thrummed with musky Veela allure. Harry, his mind awash in a warm stream of lust, surrendered to these feelings. Daphne had been enthralling. Fleur was all that and more. He trusted her motives.

“Miroit absolût,” Fleur incanted. Everything in the room, save its two occupants, instantly became reflective. Harry gulped. It was just like….

Fleur toppled Harry onto her impossibly soft yet supportive mattress and pounced. Well-placed charms vanished their remaining clothes, and she was as good as her words.

Everywhere the mirrors reflected Fleur's perfect female form. It was just like….

Until Harry attempted to articulate what he was feeling.

“Aaah, aaah, aaaaaaahh, Hermiiiooooneeee…!! OOOWWW!”

All the pleasure suddenly ceased - replaced by pain so intense that it threw everything inside him into hard reverse.

Harry's eyes flew open. For one panic-stricken moment, he feared she had bitten him.

She had only squeezed really, really hard. Ominously, she now gripped him with what looked more like talons than fingers. Her face was no longer the ideal of female pulchritude. Her platinum hair and pale skin had merged and plumed. Her fierce expression resembled a harpy eagle.

Veela rage.

But only for a moment.

Veela despair.

Before Harry could react; before his brain could process his manhood's endangered position; Fleur's familiar features returned - except for the melancholy cast of her face.

She spoke, her voice with laden with resignation. “`Arry, I do not compete for seelver medals dans l'amour … not when zee gold ees not even een play.” She let go of him. “You know me bezzer zan zat. I do not settle for second best.”

The Veela beauty had mentioned no names, but Harry knew precisely of what - and about whom - she spoke. Unbidden thoughts had been wandering through his brain almost from the moment he arrived at Beauxbatons. They finally burst through in what was almost a moment of passion.

He had failed to stay focussed.

Harry's tongue felt thick as he conceded she was spot on. “I'm sorry, Fleur.”

“Not `alf as sorry as moi,” she replied with a sigh. “Allons-y, zen. When you are dressed, vraiment, we need to deescus what just `appened, and what steell needs to `appen.”

* * * *

Thump.

The solitary figure hunched over a cluttered table hidden in the rear of the Hogwarts library closed the heavy, leather-bound volume with a sigh. That was enough theoretical research for now.

The moon would be full in only a couple of days. Her apparatus was as ready as it could be. All the revising in the world was useless without practical results. Healing was not string theory.

Frowning, Hermione Granger dug into a pocket and withdrew a carefully folded piece of parchment. She had postponed her decision as long as she could.

Her choices were due tomorrow. That deadline was firm.

A quick “Displia,” and her quill was poised over the fateful form. Her first choice was easy. Arithmancy terrorised most of the Hogwarts student body but was a snap to her logical mind. The Hogwarts Arithmancy curriculum had nothing left to teach her. She jotted a tick mark in the appropriate box.

She also selected Charms. Pride of place, if nothing else, demanded selection of at least one of the big four. Charms had always been the easiest - as recently confirmed by her airborne cottage. Professor Flitwick had awarded her Charms project full marks and then some. Its complexity was an entirely different magnitude from, say, creating self-tickling gloves or bowties fashioned from a couple spigots of flowing water. Even Harry's new, improved Tunnelling Charms paled by comparison.

As one of the big four, Charms matched Defence. Adding Arithmancy, she would outdo Harry - pride of place.

When Hermione broached her plan to Professor Flitwick, he heartily endorsed it, his only regret being loss of his most talented student.

Should she choose more? Her conversation with Professor McGonagall had been similar, except Hermione felt that she had more Transfiguration techniques still to learn. Nonetheless, Hermione had little doubt she could achieve passable, if not necessarily year-leading, marks in every subject she was taking - Potions, DADA, Runes … whatever.

If she took all her N.E.W.T.s now, she would be obligated to leave Hogwarts a year early. That would end her constant contact with Harry. Would distance alone reduce her constant heartache? Would the incessant depression she felt ever since … the incident … would it ever end…?

She wanted to be her own witch, but could she?

She could start her Healing career immediately. Healer Huxley had been more than chuffed to agree to her one condition - teaching her the Homorphus Charm - when she had chosen to summer at St. Mungo's.

The Unspeakables … the persona they projected to the outside world put her off, and the prospect of Obliviation was a deal breaker.

The goblins? They were too much under Harry's influence. She had to emerge from his shadow.

Harry.

Taking all of her N.E.W.T.s now would separate her from Harry. She would leave; he would stay.

No. Not yet, anyway.

Hermione had promised him, and herself, that whatever happened between them romantically, she would at least remain his friend. She never made promises without intending to keep them, even if their romance had broken in totally unanticipated fashion. Leaving Hogwarts early - contemplated solely because of Harry - would be a most unfriendly act, no matter how amply justified.

Harry still needed her to defeat Voldemort and survive. The last year, indeed the whole time she had known him, left no doubt on that score. He would try, with or without her - that was certain. Her absence dramatically increased Harry's odds of dying in the attempt.

If she let that happen, she was no friend at all.

Sighing again, Hermione dropped her quill and refolded the parchment. Two N.E.W.T.s were enough. Harry was only taking one.

For all her dithering, the outcome was predestined.

Ron was right. She was pathetic. She was still in love with Harry and probably always would be.

Returning from the drop-off box outside Professor McGonagall's office, Hermione's lone footsteps echoed in the Castle's deserted corridors.

Time to prove it again.

The usual curfew confined the lower years to their common rooms. No other Prefects were about. Hermione Granger - winner of two Orders of Merlin and achiever of the best O.W.L. scores in modern history - was not attending the Beauxbatons ball. She would not be one more face in a crowd witnessing Ginny's triumph. It was one thing to stomach the girl crawling all over Harry at Hogwarts. In the Castle, she could avoid their coupling by leaving the scene.

But the ball was all about coupling. Beyond Ginny's parading about on Harry's arm all evening, breaking her heart all over again, Hermione would only inflict her misery upon anyone unfortunate enough to be her date.

After the debacle with Ron, that would be cruel. So Hermione managed to preempt anyone else from asking her to the ball. Neville and several Ravenclaws might have taken a chance, but she allowed nobody the opportunity.

Hermione simply wanted to be alone with her thoughts, dreams, and desires, however forlorn they might be.

She heard someone coming, and her naturally bossy Prefect instincts took over. Wand out, she turned the corner. “What are you doing out after…?”

A shocked Cho Chang nearly cowered in Hermione's wandlight. She immediately mumbled, “Sorry to bother you.” Without another word Cho turned and tottered off in the opposite direction.

Cho had accidentally dropped something. Recognising it, Hermione called after the retreating Ravenclaw. “Wait…. Cho, you'll need this for your N.E.W.T.s.” Cho's shoulders visibly slumped as the Chinese girl realised she had lost her sign-up sheet.

Warily, Cho approached. “Thanks … I know I can't have anything to do with the three of you - I could get expelled, even sent to Azkaban.”

“Only if we object,” Hermione instinctively corrected before adding, more sympathetically, “And I'm not objecting.”

“Oh, I didn't know that,” Cho reacted with somewhat more warmth.

“Well, they were supposed to tell you,” Hermione stated, looking dissatisfied. She had never intended to ostracise Cho completely.

“Your orders, I gather,” Cho accurately guessed. Hermione nodded, and Cho added, “Whatever. That's why I never personally thanked you. I'm told you gave the evidence that saved me from a Dementor's Kiss for … you know….” She hung her head in shame. “Thanks for not condemning me.”

“Umm … I knew you weren't evil, Cho,” Hermione honestly answered. “I can't say much, because I don't fully understand, but an evil banishing spell I used at Stonehenge left you behind. It only burnt away that awful tattoo of yours.”

Looking into the distance, Cho admitted, “Yes, the Xiao Jing. That's how they … my father controlled me, you know.”

“Yes … I know,” Hermione revealed. “We'd sussed that out before we went after Ron. Finding him, and you, was the hard part.”

“I'd have thought the hard part came after,” Cho commented.

“Well, yes, there was … all that,” Hermione readily agreed. “But I wasn't talking about….”

“But, how could anyone figure that out?” Cho groped for understanding. “Ron didn't even … none of them … knew even when Chinese New Years was. And that was easy by comparison….”

Hermione weighed how much to trust Cho. For months - ever since her release from her parents' thrall, Cho had seemed genuinely repentant. “We knew a brilliant Chinese wizard, he's dead now, and we had a spy in your House.”

“Oh,” Cho gave a surprised yelp. “That must be Luna. She was acting strangely - more than usual.”

Hermione was instantly on her guard, afraid she had said too much. “I shouldn't say, but you should know - the terms of your release apply to everyone who fought at Stonehenge, not just the three of us,” she warned.

“Merlin forbid, no,” Cho replied, catching Hermione's drift. “I'd only want to thank her, too. You think I wanted to be You Know Who's bride or bear his bloody heir? To be a succubus? I'm certain he'd have killed me or turned me out the moment my usefulness ended. Right after childbirth, probably…. Actually, I totally misread Luna. I thought she was butch.”

Hermione smiled wryly, given Luna's current dalliance. “Nope, little chance of that, I suppose. She's with….”

“Ron, I know.” A melancholy, distant look glinted in Cho's eye. “You know, being controlled and all that was horrible, but being with Ron - I actually enjoyed him after I got used to…. Oh, I'm sorry….”

“For what?” Hermione was perplexed.

“You were interested in him, once,” Cho answered shyly. “Umm … Ron told me….”

Hermione instantly switched from perplexed to affronted. “I'm afraid Ronald has an overly high opinion of himself. I've never wanted him other than as a dear friend. There's only been….” Afraid of bursting into tears, Hermione paused to restore her stiff upper lip. “…Harry.”

Cho sighed, and laid a sympathetic hand on Hermione's shoulder. “Welcome to the club.”

Hermione stiffened. “What club?”

“Harry's ex-girlfriend club,” Cho laughed bitterly. “I'm the charter member. Now I've got company. You can be….”

She stopped as Hermione's expression hardened. “With all due respect, I rather think that Ronald isn't alone in self flattery. I would hardly put your brief time….”

Cho knew she had overstepped her bounds and backpedalled furiously. “Hermione, I'm sorry. That was a really lame attempted joke. I should have known it's still too soon for you … to make light of something like that….”

Hermione choked back something unintelligible. She doubted she wanted this sort of discussion with Cho, of all people.

“…You're spot on, too. I was only infatuated with Harry. I was … a wreck after Cedric was … was….” Cho failed to finish the sentence. Weeping, she sat down heavily on the cold stone floor.

Hermione, with some idea how it felt to lose a first love in cruel fashion, bent down and gently massaged Cho's shoulders. Cho tried shrugging her off. “Just … leave me alone…. I'll get over it….”

To her credit, Hermione ignored that request and sat alongside the weeping Ravenclaw. Cho would never get over Cedric's death - any more than Hermione thought she would ever truly put Harry's betrayal behind her….

Soon, Hermione, as well, was having a good cry.

“When they killed … Cedric … I think they killed … part of me…,” Cho sniffled after a while. “It's ruined my life….”

“I've considered leaving Hogwarts … the whole wizarding world … because of … what's happened,” Hermione commiserated.

“He still comes to me,” Cho murmured. “Not frequently, but when I've been knocked unconscious somehow…. I think dead loved ones do that … at least magical ones….”

That possibility made Hermione feel a bit raw. She had never lost a magical loved one - let alone a lover - in such a permanent fashion. “If you say so….”

“He came to me … we had a long chat … whilst I was Stunned at Stonehenge,” Cho went on, unburdening herself. “He told me he had talked to Harry … maybe when that cobble fell on him, I don't know. He asked Harry to help me…. He was such a wonderful person … and Harry, too, I'm sure….”

As Cho lapsed into more bittersweet tears, Hermione began comparing their situation. Cho had abruptly lost her first, greatest love, courtesy of Voldemort's Death Eaters. She had lost someone similar in Harry - but at least he still lived. She could talk to him; help him; be around him.

Poor Cho. For all her self-pity, Hermione realised matters could be worse.

Before Cho's interruption, Hermione had been on her way to visit the Harry she loved. It was dangerous, but it helped keep her sane when she felt so lonely and defeated, seeing him hold Ginny's hand, and more, all day long.

Maybe it would make Cho happier, too.

“Would you like to come with me?” she asked her odd sister in sorrow. “I was going where I could … er … think about … experience happier times…. I think it might do you some good.”

Cho looked at Hermione blankly before shrugging, “Okay, I could hardly do worse than right now.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Gryffindor's replacement portrait is mentioned for a reason

Malfoy is definitely worse

A "Dear John" letter is a breakup notice

Taking a knee here has nothing to do with sports, but means a proposal of marriage

The "pink" is the approach of a Harmonic Convergence

Daphne is for Daphne. Don't expect altruism from a Slytherin

Rita's spell was in Ch. 51

Silver colloid is mentioned in my "Bat" fic

The Paracelsus theory is accurate

The discussion of proteinized silver is accurate

Selenomethionine is a dietary supplement containing selenium; Selene is another name for the Moon

The first prophecy was in Ch. 45

"The Firm" is a nickname for the Royal Family

The consequences of the alliance would be for a Seventh Year fic

The Chequers incident was in Ch. 39

Harry/Prince Harry, the timing fits

Since Henry VIII, no prince named "Henry" has gone by "Harry"

Lady Di's charitable interests are accurate

All three are Lady Di's admitted or alleged lovers

The "test drive" line is from Lori's "Paradigm of Uncertainty" fic

Fleur had been Flitwick's assistant

Being herself and no one else is from Carly Simon's "That's the Way I Always Heard it Should Be"

Krum's proposal was first mentioned in Ch. 7

Courtship declarations were first mentioned in Ch. 44

Ed Carmichael as Head Boy goes back to Ch. 34

Davies' fortune was first mentioned in Ch. 20

Mental wounds not healing is from Ozzy Osbourne's "Crazy Train"

Goblin concealments will help Harry

"Kelly" is Kelly Comerford, mentioned in Ch. 80

Red, yellow, and green, originally from Ethiopia (the only uncolonized part of Africa) form the flag of Guinea, the first French colony to declare independence; the same colors are used by Jamaican Rastas

Mervyn Troy is the obnoxious Irishman

Constantanon is "not constant"

The Aural Pensieve was introduced in Ch. 5

Franco-British treaties in 1844 and 1904 are called "Entente Cordiale"

The Death Eater attack on the Delacours occurred in Ch. 23

"Double nought" is a reference to 00 James Bond-type agents

Seiche is squid

Harry learned of Krum's marriage proposal to Hermione in Ch. 7

The Terminator reference is to Arnold's "I'll be bock" line

The Piaf song is "Je Ne Regrette Rien"

"Glittering ballroom" is from the Who's "5:15"

Lead role in the cage - from Pink Floyd's very aptly named "Wish You Were Here"

The out-of-season Mandrake came from Château Blackwalls

The Fifth Estate is the French magical parliament

Spit = phlegm

7.5 degrees centigrade is the ideal temperature for champagne

The Lust Potion in the punch was in Ch. 57

Beauxbatons houses are named after French provinces

French place names are accurate

Oral sex is called the "French arts"

Hermione used mirrors in Ch. 53

A harpy eagle is a South American raptor with whitish feathers

String theory is widely criticized as untestable

Harry's Tunnelling Charms will come in handy

Xiao Jing was introduced in Ch. 29

The cobblestone incident was in Ch. 44

The nature of Hermione's "visits" will become clear in the next chapter

62

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83. Karma Is A Witch, And A Wizard

Wherein Fleur is discarded, Dumbledore finds a clue, Hermione's downward emotional spiral continues, Voldemort prepares, goblins make a mistake, Luna stages an intervention, Hermione has nightmares, Harry and Hermione take N.E.W.T.s early, Hermione makes a discovery and meets a not-so-secret admirer.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, and Mathiasgranger, and welcome to new beta Chris Backus.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. Â§107.

Chapter 83 - Karma Is A Witch, And A Wizard

Harry was angry and disappointed. His incandescent anger arose from a betrayal of trust. His disappointment targeted another whom, whilst rather less trustworthy, had at least retained Harry's respect.

Harry's anger targeted the part-Veela Fleur Delacour. Her deliberate seduction effort at the Beauxbatons ball was wrong enough. But afterwards she tried - and very nearly accomplished - something far, far worse.

Undoubtedly he had been addled by her Veela powers. He must also have been affected by her Mirror Charm unearthing powerful memories - that must be it. For whatever reason, in the throes of passion he lost track of who was doing what to whom (specifically, to him).

A momentary lapse, quite understandable under the circumstances - Harry convinced himself.

Fleur's attempted seduction had shaded into a far more insidious, impromptu psychotherapy session. Somehow, Fleur had had talked Harry into admitting that he was still in love with Hermione. Not Ginny - Hermione.

He actually believed that ill-founded notion.

Fleur went even further, convincing him to talk things out with Hermione - at Hogwarts - since Hermione had not attended the ball. Thank Merlin she had not, or he might have made an even greater arse of himself before the night had ended.

Was Fleur still plotting to separate him from Ginny, so she could try yet again?

Harry remembered that, after a rocky start, Fleur and Hermione had reached a dÃ©tente. Another possibility was Fleur attempting to repair his relationship with Hermione as a favour to a friend.

Or had she?

If Fleur was assisting Hermione, why the initial seduction attempt? Things did not add up. After returning to Hogwarts Harry decided not to care. Women could be so inscrutable.

Of course he loved Ginny. He reaffirmed that to himself several times.

His romance with Hermione was over. Whilst regretting how that ended, he was with Ginny now, and only that mattered. Hermione was his friend. She had promised to stay a friend and kept her word. Ginny was his all-consuming passion.

More repetitions.

After escaping Fleur and her Veela allure, the verities in Harry's life returned. He had stumbled back to the Castle, a sleepy and almost boneless Ginny Weasley in tow. His true emotions flooded back.

The Room of Requirement provided a Sobering Potion. A quick Scourgify removed the resultant sick. Harry turned to find an expansive, refreshingly crisp and clean bed. By dawn's early light his relationship with Ginny was again right as rain - their less-than-satisfactory Beauxbatons experience behind them, if not altogether forgotten.

This time he was able to tell Ginny, more-or-less truthfully, that he had not fallen for anyone's feminine wiles.

Ginny had been horrified to learn of Fleur's attempt to entice Harry - doubly so because of Fleur's convinced her to sleep off that drunken stupor. News of Harry's successful repulse of Fleur's seduction, details being unnecessary, turned Ginny's mood from resentful to vindictively euphoric.

Take that, Fleur.

Harry reaped rich carnal rewards. He knew enough to keep the specifics of Fleur's failure to himself. Fleur would not volunteer news of her romantic and sexual defeat, least of all to Ginny.

Dumbledore was an entirely different matter.

A scroll from the Headmaster lay atop Harry's undisturbed sheets when, well after breakfast, he tardily returned to his own bedchamber.

Harry read it and learnt that another of Voldemort's Horcruxes had been located, no details forthcoming. In the Headmaster's inimitable style, he - “invited” was too weak, but “ordered” was too strong - Harry on a recovery expedition.

So far so good. Practical Horcrux searching experience was something Harry hoped to obtain sooner or later.

“Sooner” was the rub. The timing was abysmal, and in Harry's opinion this sort of sacrifice warranted the courtesy of a face-to-face request.

Dumbledore's note firmly stated that timing was non-negotiable.

The mission would occur late the night before the big Quidditch match for which Harry, Ginny, and the entire team had been practising for weeks. Not only was Hogwarts pride riding on a credible showing, but it had become a grudge match. Harry's encounter with Krum at Beauxbatons made competition intensely personal.

Dumbledore's mission threatened their preparation. Tide-driven timing could not be altered. Dumbledore's magic could not outdo King Cnut. Nor, Harry assumed, could his. The Horcrux was apparently secreted in a magical chamber reachable only via a sea cave that Voldemort discovered whilst still Tom Riddle. Access was supposedly impossible - barred by wards to collapse the entire structure if triggered by magic powerful enough to hold back the roiling sea.

Except Voldemort had slightly miscalculated. At low spring tide the sea retreated enough that, for a few hours, it could be restrained by spellwork not strong enough to trip Voldemort's wards. That opportunity existed but once a fortnight - the next being the evening before the Quidditch match.

Dumbledore could not possibly have overlooked that detail, unmentioned in the Headmaster's note.

Even the Headmaster could not say what traps they might encounter. Assuming he returned in one piece from Dumbledore's mission, Harry would be playing Quidditch with minimal rest. He opponent was a vindictive and fired-up Viktor Krum, the world's best Seeker.

Ginny would skin him alive for jeopardising the team's chances. Next to Harry, and perhaps revising for her fast-approaching O.W.L.s, Quidditch was her highest priority.

As team captain, Ron would probably be even more upset. But Ron would have no advance notice. They were no longer on speaking terms.

Ever since learning about Horcruxes, Harry had thirsted for exactly the direct action against Voldemort that Dumbledore now offered. Unfortunately this opportunity's drawbacks were of almost equal magnitude.

* * * *

Hermione Granger was depressed - she had never been more profoundly depressed. Her mood was blacker than when her parents had pulled her out of Hogwarts, and then she had been suicidal. In retrospect, her parents had a point. Maybe she should have rejoined the Muggle world. It certainly would have been safer. Her life would not have been at risk so often … and for what?

Would she have fallen so low without her hopes having been raised so high - only to be crushed so cruelly by one she adored?

The question was unanswerable. From any vantage point blame for her latest devastation fell on Fleur Delacour. She had considered the Frenchwoman a friend, but no friend would have what she did.

Sighing for the umpteenth time, Hermione dug into her robes and extracted a now thoroughly dog-eared piece of parchment.

Fleur's letter had arrived the morning after the ball. It contained a story that seemed bizarre enough at the time - bizarre yet wonderful. Now it was almost surely a deliberate hoax.

“Displia.” She reread it one last time.

Chere Hermione:

I must confess. The moment I discovered to shock and dismay that you and Harry were finis, I fully intended to make him mine. If you could not have him, I saw no reason not to try, as my arrangement with you was purely personal.

I missed you tonight at the Palais ball. I suppose it was for the best. I honestly cannot predict your reaction. Harry and his date? The less said, the better. Their incompatibility was painfully obvious. He was the centre of attention, and wished he were not. She sat there drinking our champagne, wishing to be the centre of attention.

It was facile to get Harry suitably en seule. I shall spare you the details. I could have - I intended to - have my way with him. He was interested; unlike when with you. But in circumstances that precluded any lie, Harry's words convinced me that he still loves you.

My honneur did not let me continue. Instead, we had an intense chat. I believe he spoke the truth. It took doing, but I convinced him that he must tell you himself. He promised to do this at once after returning to Hogwarts.

Whilst you must feel crushed by Harry's treatment, I know you love him. Have hope.

Fleur

Yet again Hermione crumpled Fleur's note in her fist.

How could she have believed, even for a second, Fleur's strange tale?

Everything in that letter was a cruel lie. Why would Fleur use her that way? What could possibly justify such an awful prank?

Her hopes had soared giddily after receiving Fleur's owl. She rushed to her dormitory to freshen up and make herself presentable for Harry. She would consider his explanation. She probably would have forgiven him.

Nothing.

Harry had not spoken to her - about that or virtually anything else - since the ball. Instead, he spent even more time with Ginny. He even started studying with her. After their split, revising was one thing Harry still did with her.

Hermione sighed. Now, she was not even useful for that.

She silently cursed her correspondent. Something had evidently happened at the Beauxbatons ball, but nothing that brought Harry closer to her. Had Fleur somehow seduced Harry and convinced him to blame her for his indiscretion?

It made some sense. Ginny's possessiveness had soared, as in the wake of Harry's transient dalliance with Daphne. Hermione could tell Harry was on a very short leash, which explained his revision schedule.

Why would Fleur want to protect Ginny - and so strangely?

Was Fleur trying to induce her to intrude into Harry's and Ginny's relationship, so Fleur could step in and pick up the pieces?

If Fleur was trying to psyche her out, she was succeeding. Hermione was too devastated to consider retaliating.

Nothing made sense. The only certainty was Harry's utter lack of inclination, since the ball, to speak to her about anything remotely personal. Seeing was believing. Harry remained every bit as infatuated with Ginny as before. They spent almost every free moment together.

Something else equally certain - she must stop obsessing over Harry. He had plainly and painfully (for her) moved on.

Hermione stood on shaky legs. She badly needed to clear her head. Her first of two N.E.W.T.s was less than a week away, and she needed to focus on revising.

She had to get this over with first - only not in her favourite library haunt.

She went to her other favourite place of late.

A few minutes later, with the door firmly sealed, Hermione retrieved Fleur's wadded note from her robes.

“Incendio!”

The parchment flared fiercely, but briefly, as it was reduced to ashes. She ground the remnants of Fleur's missive underfoot.

“Evanesco!”

Even the ashes were gone. Enough about that.

Slumping on the musty old bed, surrounded by the usual pale, ghostly outlines, Hermione examined her latest mysterious correspondence. A familiar owl had delivered it this morning, an owl known only to her - not to Harry, Ron, or anyone else at the Castle.

She had crammed this post into her robes without a second glance. She lied to Harry and Ron whilst returning to their common room - that the correspondence involved her summer plans.

Not this summer.

Events from two summers ago resurfaced when she laid eyes on that regal Eurasian owl for the first time in almost a year.

The owl belonged to Viktor Krum. He had finally violated her injunction against further correspondence.

Hermione was now very interested in what Viktor had to say.

* * * *

Slitted, blood-red eyes flashed as the tall thin wizard stalked the stone corridor, hardly making a sound. The morning meeting was a success. The two team leaders accepted their sealed orders and promptly retired to separate quarters - deliberately isolated from one another, and the world - to prepare for their missions.

Lord Voldemort had particularly enjoyed the brief flash of confusion on the face of the ordinarily imperturbable Severus Snape, as the Potions-master realised that simultaneous, multiple operations were planned. Snape obeyed and was bundled off to an undisclosed location to review his orders and devise necessary tactics.

Snape was competent but perhaps not trustworthy. Bella had not trusted him, so the Dark Lord ensured that Snape would have nothing to do with her restoration. Even assuming Snape were otherwise trustworthy, his rivalry with Bella must not become a complication.

Both mission leaders - soon joined by their teams - would be quarantined absolutely from each other, and from any opportunity for treasonous leaks, between now and the zero hour. Only he, Lord Voldemort, would know what all his minions were doing, when, where, and why.

A twisted smile on his lips, the Dark Lord was content, even pleased, with how matters were rounding into shape.

Everything for the main event was ready. He had specific plans for Potter. Indeed, one of the other major missions' primary goals was to occupy the pesky boy, although none of the Death Eaters tasked with that mission knew that.

The false Horcrux created by the traitorous (and duly dispatched) Borgin had been subtly altered. Voldemort personally sequestered it in a seaside cave that might, with luck, entomb Potter and Dumbledore both.

Voldemort had known for months of Dumbledore's pursuit of his Horcruxes. He had suspected as much since being restored to his body - the moment a grovelling Lucius Malfoy returned the remains of his diary.

Unwilling to leave anything so important to chance, he dispatched Bella to recheck each Horcrux's whereabouts. Ever since, the Dark Lord believed the advantage was his. He knew what was safe and what was missing. His enemies' searchers did not.

Forewarned, the Dark Lord took care to be forearmed. He set a trap, surrounding the false Horcrux with extensive protections - blood wards, inferi, poison - more than sufficient to kill any intruder. He intentionally repeated prior spellwork for the outer magical wards, spellwork he knew Dumbledore could identify. Just as deliberately, he left those outer wards slightly underpowered and under-camouflaged. For Potter and Dumbledore to die inside the cave, they first had to enter.

Equally critical, his enemies' attempt had to be at a predictable time. Nothing was more predictable than the tides. He chose a cave near Exmoor that was tidally inaccessible save at the Bristol Channel's peak low.

Having set the stage, Lord Voldemort left clues to the false Horcrux's location where Dumbledore was likely to find them.

A week ago lookouts reported that Dumbledore had made the hoped-for discovery. Time would tell if the Muggle-Loving Fool took the bait, but even if not, Lord Voldemort had a back-up plan - a second-level diversion - to make doubly certain that nothing would interfere with the evening's main objective.

That second level was the second reason the Dark Lord was pleased. His primary Hogwarts operative had reported a string of successes. Another piece of the puzzle was falling neatly into place.

His Death Eaters could now infiltrate Hogwarts Castle. The devices functioned better than anticipated, as the Parseltongue Translator worked in both directions. His operative's felicitous discovery provided access to - and more importantly from - one of Lord Voldemort's most important discoveries as a Hogwarts student.

His Hogwarts squad was tasked to kill, first, Albus Dumbledore and then Horace Slughorn. Even if Potter's infernal luck held, and the boy escaped the cave with his life (with or without Dumbledore) almost a score of Death Eaters would be waiting should he return to Hogwarts. Their orders, beyond the double murder, were to create as much mayhem as possible at Hogwarts for as long as possible.

Lord Voldemort rubbed his hands in anticipation. Ultimately, both the false Horcrux and the Hogwarts Castle attack were diversions. Those were to ensure that the main stroke - unknown even to his other teams - would be unopposed. This plot's beauty was exploiting a critical chink in his opponent's armour, created months ago and for entirely different reasons. Only once they were sequestered would he even tell his own Death Eaters. The Dark Lord expected that surprise would be total.

The secret passage remained intact. Voldemort, trusting nobody with Bella incapacitated, had recently inspected it personally. “Strategic surprise,” he muttered with what passed for a grin. Lucius, for once, delivered as promised. His soon-to-be victims had not overhauled their wards.

A recent recruit provided information, revealing evacuation plans, a goblin tunnel, and outrageous abominations such as freed house-elves acting as - he scarcely believed it, even from the likes of Potter - guards for wizard families.

In all ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls' defensive planning, conspicuously absent was any move to repair or reinforce its wards. The recruit's information indicated that the paranoid interferer Mad-Eye Moody had thoroughly tested them shortly before being put out of his misery.

Since then? Nothing.

With the other side fatally distracted, his truest follower would rejuvenate at zero hour, through recapitulation of the Dark Lord's own resurrection. Although avoiding the entire process would have been preferable, Bella following in his footsteps had a certain logic, as she had also followed his path to functional immortality.

Thanks to his most recent brilliant idea, the same restorative process would provide the avenue for suitably dispatching Potter's Mudblooded paramour - permanently. Although conflicting with his philosophy of pure-blood supremacy, this latest twist simply had too much recommending it.

His own revivification had been suboptimal, due to that whelp Potter. Hence the Dark Lord required Snape's potions to function effectively. Sentiment aside, Lord Voldemort must remain supreme. Could he continue as Lord, were Bella restored more perfectly than her Master?

The Mudblood solved that problem. Her involvement ensured that, no matter what, he would remain supreme amongst the Death Eaters.

His choice dovetailed with practicality. The Horcrux-mediated spell was sex specific, and what other female had been a greater enemy? Her two Orders of Merlin proved it. The Mudblood sealed her own fate by identifying the exact spell in which she would soon be an unwilling participant.

Poetic justice, the Dark Lord gloated.

Last New Year, he had tasked an entire team to eliminate the Mudblood. Unfortunate events had precluded any real opportunity.

Since then, both the times and the Dark Lord's requirements shifted. With careful recruiting, and judiciously applied Unforgiveables, this most pesky of Mudbloods became more useful. She would be appropriately chastised, but no longer killed outright, at least not by him.

The Dark Lord shook his head. He must concede, grudgingly but sincerely, one point to the Muggle-loving Fool Dumbledore. Fates worse than death did exist - at least for some. The Mudblood would become one of them.

The Dark Lord took a few moments of introspection.

His evil smile returned. Depending on how much the boy's mentor had disclosed, perhaps Potter could be manœuvred into having to kill the Mudblood himself. Unless someone did, victory belonged to him and his Death Eaters.

He intended to win anyway.

Ruining his most dangerous adversary made victory all the easier.

It would depend on his enemies' view of the little gift he planned to bestow. Understanding fully its significance, he intended to capitalize upon fate's unsought opportunity. At a stroke, he would put paid to one possible prophecy, destroy Harry Potter's morale, and substantially up his odds of successfully concluding the other more important prophecy.

Severus was well versed in Potter's guilt complexes. Such intelligence was another reason he tolerated the Potions-master's slippery tendencies. Traitor or no, the man had uses. The Dark Lord would exploit his insights into Potter's mindset.

It could be ridiculously easy.

These layered plots would expose his most faithful servant at Hogwarts at the moment he consummated his plans for Bella - and the Mudblood. That servant's departure would reveal to Potter the sordid truth. The insipid, potion-based charade of the youngest Blood Traitor would dissolve.

Potter would learn - too late - about everything…. Not just the littlest Weasley's deceptions, but the Mudblood's tragic fate.

With Dumbledore dead, and his support system shattered, Potter might even seek him out to end his misery.

Triumph was so delicious Lord Voldemort could practically taste it.

The Dark Lord sat at his writing desk. He had something unexpected to address - a letter from legal counsel.

Since the Ministry's failed attempt to sequester his assets, the Dark Lord had shunned personal oversight of his ancestral properties. He delegated such matters to the discrete hands of Solomon Mensong - with discretion on all but the most serious issues.

The Riddle origin of the great bulk of his property was a most uncomfortable detail. The Dark Lord did not wish to sully himself - or raise questions amongst his minions - with Muggle matters.

The Dark Lord also tasked Mensong with following his destitute wizard bloodline. Except for Horcrux caching, that property was worthless. The hovel that spawned his pathetic, Muggle-loving mother was a waste of time.

Even that had failed. Bella's recheck found no Horcrux, with Dumbledore the likely culprit. Had the Dark Lord given any thought to his ancestral premises, he would have ordered Mensong to abandon them.

With better things to do, that never crossed Lord Voldemort's mind.

Mensong had owled with peculiar news. Almost unnoticed, an ex parte writ of debt proceeding had been filed against the old Gaunt property in the Ministry's common pleas court.

Why would anybody do such a thing?

Who would care?

According to Mensong, the only debt encumbering the property was a centuries-old Gringotts mortgage.

Goblin mortgages were never enforced, were they? Wizards had long ago brought the treacherous goblins to heel on such matters, based upon….

The Dark Lord's red eyes almost popped out of his reconstituted skull.

Not any longer … not necessarily….

The perfidious goblins - Potter's goblins - were scheming against pure-blood power. The Black Estate! Potter must have inherited enough Gringotts equity to block the retaliatory threat that had kept those pip-squeak animals at bay.

Protected by Potter, the Gringotts mortgage holders were plotting to move against wizard indebtedness.

This was political and financial Erumpment horn, and the goblins knew it. With the threadbare old Gaunt homestead they were starting small, seeking to set stealthy precedents against pure-blooded debtors.

This stroke of fortune confirmed the Dark Lord's faith in his lucky star - his destiny to prevail. Of all the inconspicuous, debt-ridden holdings in wizard Britain the goblins' test case belonged to his family.

Whipping out his favorite black ostrich plume quill, Voldemort composed new instructions for his trusted counsel to investigate, confirm, gather evidence - but offer no legal opposition.

Above all, he was to keep the matter confidential. Potter's goblins would receive all the rope needed to hang themselves.

This goblin duplicity - ostensibly posing as Ministry allies against his Death Eaters - would destroy the backing Dumbledore's faction had garnered in the Wizengamot. Matters need only be revealed at the proper moment.

Almost every pure-blood family, regardless of political orientation, would be beggared if the Goblins ever collected the massive wizard debts accrued since the end of the last goblin rebellion.

The backlash would surely be explosive. Potter's support would evaporate when his role as the goblins' enabler was exposed. He might well face direct retaliation.

By then, Potter could turn to neither the Muggle-Loving Fool nor the unnervingly clever Mudblood.

Voldemort watched as the great black shag bearing his return post disappeared in the darkness. At moments like this he wished Bella were available to help him celebrate.

Soon enough, she would be.

* * * *

Luna Lovegood worried about Hermione Granger. The girl looked wrung out, her aura tinged with something dark and opaque. Luna could not read auras - a far too advanced skill - but could sense them. Hermione's seemed more morose and depressed even than at the nadir of last summer's search for Harry.

Hermione, who never set much store in her appearance, took that dearth of attention to new extremes. She could not be sleeping well, and Luna feared Hermione was over-indulging her innate workaholic tendencies. Far too frequently of late, she spotted her friend in the library swotting late into the evening.

It was one way to avoid them in the Gryffindor common room, Luna supposed.

Then, a most unexpected housemate brought Luna most unexpected news. She came away convinced that Hermione's reaction to recent events had spun out of control.

Serious intervention was required.

As in the summer, Luna volunteered herself. Hermione was one of her precious few friends. Beyond that, Luna could not permit the slow self-destruction of the Brenhines o yr Coedwig.

Hermione was now usually absent from breakfast, unlike Harry, who took early breakfast in the Great Hall more frequently than ever. Most mornings he sat alone; sometimes joined by Dean and Seamus. They were becoming Harry's new best mates, with Ron and Neville refusing to associate with him.

Ginny? Ginny was never a morning person, and nothing - even Harry - seemed to change that.

This morning, armed with new, first-hand information, Luna acted. After fruitlessly searching for Hermione, Luna set a treasonous course - treason for a Hermione stalwart.

Steeling herself, Luna sought parlay with the enemy.

She approached Harry in the Great Hall. “Harry, do you know where Hermione is? I need to ask her something … important about … Transfiguration, and I can't find her anywhere….”

Harry noticed Luna barely looking at him, indicating likely mendacity. So what? The Ravenclaw was one of those punishing him for the sin of changing girl friends. “I thought she'd have told you,” he grumbled. “We've split morning use of the Room of Requirement. She takes the first hour before classes, and me the second. Why not look for her there?”

“I did, both of the last two days,” Luna responded, trying to match Harry's deliberately icy tone word for word. “She hasn't been there.”

“Then I don't know bugger all,” he told her. “Hermione doesn't report her whereabouts to me. She's her own person.”

“Harry, it's important,” Luna pleaded, dropping what had been, from the outset, a poor pretense of cool detachment.

Harry stopped pretending to eat. He stayed mute for agonisingly long seconds before tossing down his serviette in an exaggerated display of pique. “All right, then. Follow me.” He stalked briskly from the Great Hall with Luna at his heels.

Harry motioned Luna inside the first empty room they came across. “Colloportus,” he spelled, closing and locking the door, the latter somewhat to Luna's distress. Harry must realise she was not Daphne Greengrass.

Her concerns eased when Harry produced the Marauder's Map. He flipped the Map this way and that before finally spotting Hermione. That was a relief. Luna's agitation was contagious. Harry still numbered his ex amongst his friends, despite their current relationship best being described as “correct.”

“There she is,” Harry pointed, his tension ebbing. He showed Hermione's dot to Luna. “That room's used for Library Off Site Storage. She's been revising for her N.E.W.T.s almost nonstop, so she probably needed some book.”

Unlike Harry, Luna knew exactly what was in that room. Hermione had showed her whilst they collaborated to rescue Harry from Death Eater captivity. Hermione had risked her life for him … and this was how he repaid her.

“Thanks, Harry,” Luna replied, keeping her response civil. “I hope you're right.” Having violated the Hermione supporters' embargo long enough, and Harry's company being increasingly unpalatable, Luna promptly left.

Luna rose with the next sunrise. Quick visits to the Great Hall and the Room of Requirement were unavailing. After waiting fifteen minutes, Luna departed. To comply with the Castle's no-magic-in-the-halls rule, Luna Disillusioned herself before exiting the Room.

As stealthily as she could, Luna slipped into the side hallway outside the L.O.S.S. room. The door was ajar. Luna silently magicked it open a bit further. She saw Hermione sitting cross legged on the floor, seemingly transfixed.

Hermione appeared entirely unaware of Luna's disguised presence, so the girl slipped inside. Within seconds it was painfully obvious that Hermione was not studying any library books.

“Hermione, that's really not advisable,” Luna firmly declared as she ended her Disillusionment. “You know full well the Mirror of Erised's capabilities.”

“Aaaack!” Hermione nearly hit the ceiling. “Luna, you surprised me!” she squealed.

“I could say the same about you,” Luna replied as she yanked the dustsheet over the Mirror. “Why have you started using the Mirror of Erised?”

“It's not…. I've only…. I don't…. I do take precautions,” Hermione babbled, pointing at something strapped to her wrist. Accepting that she was well and truly caught out, Hermione stopped and composed herself. Looking at the floor, she responded sadly. “Must you ask the obvious?”

“The Mirror provides neither knowledge nor truth,” Luna recited, “merely your most desperate desire.”

Not surprisingly, Hermione burst into tears. Luna sat next to Hermione and held her, letting her Empath abilities take over as Hermione sobbed.

Luna was appalled at the depth of Hermione's depression and the instability of her emotions. Luna wondered, if she should feel that way, would she have the strength even to lie down?

Eventually the tears stopped. “I can't help it,” Hermione gave up and confessed. “I keep hoping for a change. Logically, I want it to change. But nothing does…. I'm an idiot … a fool … I still love him. I can't help it.”

“You're certainly no idiot, nor a fool,” Luna reassured Hermione, tacitly overlooking her other words. “Although doing this,” Luna gestured at the Mirror, “is most assuredly idiotic. You could become addicted - it could kill you - you know that.”

“I - I said I take precautions,” Hermione resisted, displaying her right wrist. “That's a timed, short-range Portkey. It works fine within the Castle's wards. I'm very careful. I only allow myself an hour.”

“But for how long, Hermione?” Luna challenged her.

“Always … never more than an hour,” Hermione repeated. “I can't use the Room for training when Harry has it.”

“It's an hour you could be sleeping,” Luna shot back. “Look at you, you're….”

“I don't want more sleep,” Hermione cut her off.

“You need it,” Luna persisted. “Have you used a real mirror lately?”

“It's … it's … the dreams,” Hermione finally admitted. “I can't….”

“What dreams?” Luna demanded immediately. This was more than she had suspected.

“I have to stay Harry's friend,” Hermione mumbled tangentially. “I promised if we broke up, I'd stay his friend. I think can live without his love if I must, but I'd die without his friendship. And he might, too….”

Aghast, Luna pressed. “You see this in your dreams? You have to confront this, Hermione, it's not right. Something's the matter, I'm sure. Ron agrees.”

“NO!” Hermione almost screamed.

WHAM! The door slammed shut, driven by the older girl's wandless, wordless, almost instinctive magic. Luna retreated at the noise, but nothing else - nothing else physical - happened.

“You can't get involved!” Hermione screeched. “You know what will happen! You saw what happened! Harry's chosen, and I will not interfere. He's a guy. He'd only get mad. Coming from me it would be worse. I'd lose him forever! I can't bear that!”

“What do you mean worse?” Luna argued. “What could be worse than this? You're pining away before the Mirror of Erised, for Merlin's sake! You could die.”

“You saw it with your own boyfriend, Luna,” Hermione reminded. “When he was with Cho we interfered. He blew up at me. You wouldn't believe what hateful things he said and did. We couldn't stand being in the same room! We STOPPED EVEN TALKING!!”

She seemed gripped by an irrational, emotional fear. “Hermione….” Luna tried to back off.

“Harry would be a hundred times worse! My motives are suspect - even to me. After all, I wasn't Ron's ex-girlfriend trying to break up his shiny new relationship….”

“I'm not sure Ron saw it like that,” Luna tried interrupting, but her observation fell on deaf ears.

“…And Ron, he just got mad,” Hermione carried on. “Harry, you know how he is. He bottles things inside until he loses it and explodes. He could … he could tell me he never wants to SPEAK TO ME AGAIN!!”

Hermione verged upon hysteria. Luna again tried calming her. “Hermione, Hermione,” she reached out and took her friend's hand.

Luna went green and nearly spewed. Before had been bad. This sensation was much worse. Hermione felt depressed beyond Luna's imagination. She was past depression - in the throes of abject despair. She might even be suicidal.

Luna knew how that felt. For days, after her mother died, she refused to get out of bed. Yet Ron and Neville both mentioned how hard Hermione was driving herself. The evidence - the ruby red jewels - was available to anyone scrutinising the House Point competition. Almost every Ravenclaw did. Hermione was garnering more points for Gryffindor than ever.

“Hermione,” Luna pressed. “What is in these dreams?”

“I see exactly what I said!” Hermione wailed. “I do what you just recommended. I comment about how strange it is … him and Ginny…. Or somebody else does for me. He ignores me. I persist, and finally he explodes, and orders me away. Sometimes Voldemort kills him. Sometimes he survives. One way or another we stop speaking - forever. Why, last night….”

Hermione hesitated. “Go on,” Luna encouraged.

“I dreamt that I … we … we had a terrible fight,” Hermione murmured, her anger wringing itself out, leaving only blank-eyed despair behind. “He told me if I couldn't accept his being with Ginny, not to speak to him again, ever …. I didn't, and he didn't. Years later, I have no idea how many, I had settled. I must have married Ron….”

Luna regarded her oddly. “My Ronald?”

Guilt immediately wracked Hermione. “Oh, Circe, Luna, I'm sorry…. I'm not after Ron. Really, I'm not. When he tried, I told him, no…. Oh, Merlin…. I'm so sorry! I should go drown myself in the lake or something….”

“No, Hermione,” Luna implored. She reached out to restrain her friend physically, to keep Hermione from leaving - knowing the emotions she would encounter. “It's okay. I know. Ron admitted it to me….”

Hermione looked dumbstruck. “He did?” she asked.

“Yes, when he re-asked me to the Beauxbatons ball,” Luna told her. “I could sense something wasn't right, and he admitted trying to ask you.”

“At least one of us hasn't been involved with a liar, then,” Hermione snipped. “I really should go.”

“Wait! At least finish with the dream,” Luna implored. “I promise not to do anything … hostile … to Harry and Ginny, unless you want.”

Hermione stopped. “Promise? Really?”

“I mean it,” Luna reiterated.

Hermione sighed and plopped back on the floor. “Oh all right. Then, years later … like I said, I had somehow married Ron. We had several children. We were at, I think, King's Cross…. Yes, that's it; we were sending our youngest to Hogwarts. It's getting hazy. Harry was there, with Ginny, quite content with his own kids. Somebody else, too. I think…. Somebody he doesn't….”

“Doesn't what?” Luna sought to keep Hermione on track.

“Doesn't like…. Yes, that's it … it was Malfoy,” Hermione recalled the dream. “Anyway, he and Ron seemed pleasant enough. I don't remember much else, but that doesn't matter. The ending was the same - it always is. Harry never said a word to me…. He wasn't mean; he simply acted as if I weren't there. I mean, I think he even acknowledged Malfoy! Malfoy! And not a word for me! Not one! I can't live that way!!”

“Hermione…?”

Once started, Hermione was unstoppable until stopping herself.

“No, I can't! I know I'm pathetic, but I need him in my life, even if only as a friend. If that's all that's left for me, then I'll settle for scraps from his table. He has to defeat Voldemort, Luna, and love is how to do it. He's not in love with me anymore so it has to be Ginny, I guess…. Or Merlin knows who, but somebody. He has to find love to have any chance. I can't let my inability to get over him ruin everything. It could kill him!”

“So you won't do anything about all this?” Luna asked with a sinking feeling. “It could kill you.”

“Maybe I'll ask Pomfrey for Dreamless Sleep Potion,” Hermione conceded, “but trying to break up Harry and Ginny, no. Whatever they have is between them. And you won't either, right?”

Hermione's eyes bore into her friend.

Luna looked put out but nodded. “I promise, and you know I keep my promises,” she replied resignedly.

The next day Luna took breakfast early in the Great Hall. Ron was with her, looking rather sleepy. Harry was absent.

Hermione stormed over. “Luna!” she yelled, swiveling some other early risers' heads in their direction. “I told you not to interfere, dammit. Did you….?”

Ron rose between the two girls. “Yes, she did, and I told her it was the right thing. Now calm down….”

It had been months since Ron had taken such a tone with Hermione. Ordinarily, things would have escalated rapidly into a row, but for once his resolute attitude had the desired effect. Rather than screaming, Hermione replied with a curt, “You told,” and a cold stare.

Before responding Luna cast a Muffliato. Magic in the Great Hall was allowed. “I only promised no interference with you know what. I never promised I wouldn't help you.” She declared without remorse. “Yes, I told Professor McGonagall. I assume she had it moved?”

Hermione deflated entirely. “Yes, it's gone. I suppose you're right.”

“Now you're even,” Ron quipped.

Some fire returned to Hermione's cheeks. “Just what does that mean, Ronald?”

“I seem to remember a certain know-it-all once doing something similar with certain Firebolt,” Ron continued. “Now, you're on the receiving end, so you're even.”

“That was between me and Harry,” Hermione protested.

“I didn't say you and Harry were even,” Ron pointed out. “Between you … well, only you two can decide if things are ever even.”

* * * *

N.E.W.T.s.

Nastily. Exhausting. Wizard. Tests.

Every year, the week before fifth years sat for O.W.L.s, the Examinations Authority administered the N.E.W.T.s. It endeavored mightily to ensure that its tests lived up to their name. Every degree candidate in Britain - witch or wizard, Hogwarts or not - took them.

The big four: Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, and Defence, were always held in the afternoon and always in the same order, from Tuesday through Friday. Each N.E.W.T. was a grueling six-hour combination of theoretical and practical exercises commencing precisely at one in the afternoon and ending, just as precisely, at seven that evening.

N.E.W.T.s for all other subjects were in the mornings, and their order varied. Those lasted three or four hours, depending on subject, between eight in the morning and noon.

All, that is, except Astronomy, the peculiar subject. The two-hour Astronomy theoretical was always on Monday afternoon, between four and six. Given clear weather, the practical was that evening, beginning 11:30 p.m. Should the weather be foul, a possibility at these latitudes even in late May, candidates had to return the first clear night thereafter, no matter what other N.E.W.T.s they might have taken that day.

Given these examinations' rigor - twice as long as the corresponding O.W.L. and far more difficult - no degree candidate ordinarily took more than five, or at the outside six, N.E.W.T.s. Auror applicants, facing very stringent employment requirements, typically sat for the “big four” and nothing else. Any witch or wizard ambitious enough to endure more than that was probably looking to a career in Healing or the Department of Mysteries.

In recent years - unlike the O.W.L.s - all N.E.W.T.-level testing was conducted at the Examinations Authority's premises at County Hall Island. But earlier in the year Death Eaters demolished the place due largely to Hermione's impertinently outscoring Tom Riddle on her O.W.L.s. The destroyed premises had reflected the Authority's desire for a more merit-based system. Before the Authority acquired that large facility, most N.E.W.T.s were at Hogwarts.

Many wizards had felt, with some justification, that holding examinations at the Castle gave Hogwarts' students a “home court” advantage. Not that they really needed it, since Hogwarts was by far the most prestigious magical school in the British Isles.

In any event, after prolonged dithering the Ministry approached the Muggle government and came away with County Hall Island. Only the Astronomy N.E.W.T. remained at Hogwarts - its superior seeing conditions could not be denied. Even on that score, some in the Wizengamot sought a neutral facility in a corner of a Welsh dragon preserve.

The Muggles received nothing. It was an even swap.

County Hall Island was now a smoking ruin - another of the all too frequent “gas explosions.” The Examinations Authority was ambivalent about rebuilding. Hogwarts was again the only place that could handle the number of examination candidates, with one exception.

The Auror Corps volunteered to conduct the Defence tests in their London facility. In every other respect, the N.E.W.T.s reverted to a system familiar to James and Lily Potter.

Rumours abounded that the Anti-Cheating Charm on the sky blue N.E.W.T. booklets was more than that - that it magically altered test questions to concentrate on whatever aspects of the subject the unfortunate examinee knew least well. Maybe that rumour was false, but it reflected both the difficulty of the examinations and the paranoia of the examinees.

Rumour or no, Hermione's first N.E.W.T., Arithmancy, on Tuesday morning, 27 May, was neither particularly nasty nor exhausting. Arithmancy, even including Numerology, involved a manageable number of axioms, postulates, and formulÃ¦. Hermione had long since learnt and mastered them all.

The Ministry's invigilators escorted Hermione and dozens of other candidates into rows of precisely separated seats. Once the examination began, invigilating was unnecessary. The Anti-Cheating Charm created a private cubicle for each examinee - totally isolated from everyone else.

Hermione ripped through the questions, completing everything with time to spare, according to her timing hourglass. The final question, combining graphing and writing, was allotted a full third of the three-hour limit. The task was to plot the angles and forces for ley lines associated with a particular magical location in England. Hermione was assigned Hogwarts Castle - for all she knew, every examinee received a different place.

Hogwarts was undoubtedly the most complex location.

She tapped the blank parchment with her wand, and an outline map of the British Isles appeared with Hogwarts already marked. Hermione went to work, adding Hogsmeade, Godric's Hollow, the northern tip of Loch Ness, the Isles of Skye and Mann, Ballycastle, Holyhead, and Pantllefrith.

The more she plotted angles and distances on her map, the more Hermione was intrigued. A greater relationship existed than met the eye, she was certain. She could not quite put her finger on it.

She added the two major ley line junctions of southern England - Glastonbury, and of course, Stonehenge. They also fit the pattern, even more profoundly.

In her head - no calculators allowed - she figured the first derivative of the lengths of the ley lines as related to the size of their angles. It was….

Eureka! The rate of change between the distances and the angles clustered closely about the Golden Mean.

To explore the emerging pattern, Hermione switched on the fly from ordinary latitude and longitude to polar coordinates centred on Hogwarts. A Muggle invention, polar coordinates were not taught in Arithmancy, but Hermione had learnt them…. No, she would not go there. Harry would not ruin this day.

Hermione was pursuing a new mathemagical relationship not mentioned in any book she had ever read, even Hogwarts: A History.

Polar coordinates simplified the maths immensely. Onto her map she sketched the familiar chambered nautilus spiral connecting the various points - just like torch sconces at…. No. Stay focussed.

The spiral began more or less to the east, with Hogsmeade, and swung north anticlockwise to collect the other nearby Scottish locales. It swept across the Isle of Skye and through Northern Ireland before turning eastward again through Wales, Somerset, and Salisbury before disappearing into the English Channel.

Her discovery: The primary ley lines affecting Hogwarts all related to one another along the Golden Mean. Hermione could not even begin to fathom the implications in the time left in her N.E.W.T. examination. Nobody had apparently noted this relationship before - ever.

Her hand trembling in anticipation, Hermione went beyond what the examiners required and added the strongest French origin point for ley lines that affected England - Rouen, where occupying English troops once executed the great witch Jeanne d'Arc.

It also fit - within the margin of error of her unassisted mental calculations.

Still something looked odd. The “phi” she had calculated - the line about which her golden spiral spiraled - was cockeyed. It almost pointed north, but not quite. How elegant it would be for the phi she had discovered to parallel the Prime Meridian of Greenwich.

Hermione's data spoilt the elegance of her theory.

Or not.

“Point me!” Hermione incanted. The reason for the Four-Point Spell was to cause one's wand to behave as a compass.

Grabbing her quill once again, Hermione jotted down her latest discovery, completing her answer.

Hermione did not know whether her discovery had practical consequences, but she planned to tell the Headmaster at her earliest convenience. It might explain certain peculiarities of Hogwarts Castle.

That convenience came quite early. Hermione's use of the Four-Point Spell was unusual, and attracted the invigilators' attention. Due to her unusual status as the first pre-seventh-year ever to attempt the Arithmancy N.E.W.T., the invigilators had Professor Vector accompany them.

They encountered a very excited Hermione Granger, her examination paper completed fifteen minutes early.

“Miss Granger, the invigilators detected you using the Four-Point Spell,” Professor Vector went right to the point. “For the subject matter, that is highly unorthodox. It isn't forbidden, but you can understand why we must ensure that no underhanded magic is being performed.”

“I'll tell you, but only you,” Hermione declared. “I won't chance the security of the Castle.”

Professor Vector looked perplexed. She dismissed the two invigilators. As the resident professor of the subject in question, that was her prerogative.

“What is going on, Miss Granger?” Professor Vector asked once they were alone. “Why did you use that spell?”

“The proofs are in my calculations on the exam paper,” Hermione explained quickly. “I've sketched how all the ley lines affecting Hogwarts are related through the Golden Mean. I don't know what that could mean, but I'm worried it could affect the Castle's wards.”

“Interesting…,” the ordinarily unfathomable Vector allowed. “But the spell?”

“It helped me learn something more. My Golden Mean's base line was close to true north, but off a bit. I had an inkling what the deviation might reflect. I used the spell because compasses don't point to true north, but rather to magnetic north.”

“Yes, a bit less than ten degrees difference in these parts,” Professor Vector agreed. “So…?”

“With my wand as a compass, I proved that this difference, the magnetic declination at Hogwarts, is precisely the angle that my phi line deviates from true north,” Hermione revealed.

“Assuming you're correct….” Professor Vector's thought process started to move through the gears.

“Believe me, I am,” a normally respectful Hermione interrupted.

“…that means that Hogwarts' ley lines are synchronous with the earth's magnetic field….”

“Yes, implying that local magnetic variations would react strongly with anything at Hogwarts dependent upon those ley lines,” an impatient Hermione finished. “Do you know whether that would affect the Castle's wards?”

“No, but I can see why we would be well advised to bring this to the Headmaster's attention,” Professor Vector agreed.

The ensuing conversation with the Headmaster was reassuring. Hogwarts wards were powered solely by magical means and not subject to electro-magnetic manipulation. The Hogwarts environment, however, had always disrupted Muggle electronics rather more than other magical locales, and Hermione's discovery might finally explain why.

As had Hermione's comet discovery during her Astronomy O.W.L., her novel deductions about Hogwarts' ley lines prompted a flurry of confirmatory activity. Ultimately, her discovery would be validated, which yielded Arithmancy marks similar to her earlier achievement in Astronomy.

In the short term, the back-and-forth reduced her last-minute study time for Charms - inexorably scheduled for the next morning.

Whilst Arithmancy demonstrated the power of Hermione's focussed intellect, Charms starkly laid bare the depths of her ongoing personal despair.

With only minor glitches due to the sheer scope of the subject, Hermione completed the three-hour written examination - administered under similar conditions in the Great Hall - in extremely good stead. The practical side took place in either the Chamber of Secrets or the Room of Requirement, by random selection.

Hermione drew the Room, with all its looming personal history. Still, she performed better than anyone else in her group of ten examinees - which included D.A. members Roger Davies (who stayed well away from her), Vickie Frobisher, and Geoffrey Hooper, as well as Head Girl Beth Dunston - until the review board called her forward for what nobody expected would be a particularly difficult demonstration.

“Miss Granger, please demonstrate Expecto patronum publicus.”

That should have been easy. She had performed an advanced version of the Communications Patronus before entire Great Hall only a few weeks before….

…Her Patronus had been deployed to ask Harry to the Beauxbatons Ball.

Harry ultimately attended that ball with Ginny.

Hermione had not gone at all.

Gamely, Hermione drew her wand and attempted to cast the called-for spell. “Ex … Expecto Patronus….”

Nothing happened. Not even a wisp of shapeless silvery mist emerged from the tip of Hermione's wand. Maintaining her composure despite a sudden crushing feeling of doom, Hermione stood inertly before the board, her wand pointing impotently into space.

“Miss Granger, if you'd like to retry at the end of the group….”

She knew at once what had happened.

The positive force of the Patronus Charm was fuelled by powerfully happy thoughts or memories

Hermione could not muster the requisite happy thoughts or memories. Such thoughts had pertained to Harry, and Harry was no longer hers. She had no personal happiness worth mentioning. The Mirror of Erised confirmed its reputation, providing her with neither wisdom nor truth. Everything it showed her was a lie - a forlorn fantasy.

Desperately she turned to academics, a tried and true source of accomplishment. Again she drew a blank. What good were such achievements? She would be useful, always useful, but nothing more. She was a tool, maybe even a weapon, but never coveted for her own sake. Had Harry not shown that? She had helped him escape any number of tight spots great and small, but for what?

So he could discard her and take up with someone else at the first opportunity.

Her thoughts spiralled downwards - dreams had turned to nightmares. Her life's gates seemed closed. Hermione's burnt out confusion convinced her that nobody she cared about cared about her. Happiness was an illusion….

Hermione's wand arm fell slackly to her side. “No sir, a second try wouldn't make any difference.”

To the group's astonishment Hermione sat down, taking a zero on that part of the exercise.

She had taught that spell to the D.A.

No longer.

* * * *

Ignorant of Hermione's Charms mishap, Harry plodded towards his own examination, preparing for his DADA N.E.W.T on Friday. Hermione was not about to tell Harry that her Patronus had deserted her, or why. He had moved on; she would not confess her inability to do the same.

Thus, within twenty-four hours Hermione was back to what she did best - being useful - useful to Harry.

Unwittingly, he approached her almost immediately when Hermione returned to Hogwarts following her Charms fiasco (relatively speaking - only an E in the practical, but an overall O due to spectacular essays).

“Hermione?” Fortunately she was facing away, allowing a precious moment to erase the wrung out, haunted look from her face.

“What is it, Harry?”

“Well … now that you're done, I was wondering if, tomorrow, you could help me practise for my Defence N.E.W.T. Shak excused me from class to revise, and from what everybody's said about your Arithmancy exam I'll bet Vector would let you skive off….”

That news travelled fast. Several students had seen Professor Vector and the invigilators approach Hermione's cell towards her N.E.W.T.'s end. To protect Hermione's academic reputation the Professor had released a statement that, far from being in any trouble, Hermione had made some sort of discovery.

“…That would leave History as the only class left - and we both know how worthless Binns' lectures are….” Finishing his request, Harry looked hopefully at Hermione.

Friends help friends. Hermione always helped Harry revise before - usually more than he wanted. Now, instead of her nagging, he was asking.

She would not, however, risk being stood up.

“I'd be happy to, Harry,” Hermione answered cautiously. “You're being responsible … but are you sure that no other commitments will interfere?”

“You mean … like Ginny?” Harry sensed where she was going.

“Well … yes,” Hermione confirmed.

“She's gone frantic, with her O.W.L.s next week,” Harry replied with a slight smirk. “The only one she's confident about is Defence. She's yanking her hair out about Potions. So I'm sure … as much as I can be, anyway … that she'll be quite busy with her own revising tomorrow.”

“That's not a problem for her?” Hermione had to ask.

Harry misunderstood completely. “A huge one, actually….”

“Then, I probably shouldn't….”

“… if she does poorly…. What? What makes a difference to you?”

“I don't intend to do to Ginny what she did to me,” Hermione snipped.

Harry went red in the face. “Sorry, that's not what I meant at all. Ginny's only problem is with her O.W.L.s,” he hastily explained. “Not you - or even with you helping me. She trusts me with you. Now, if you were Daphne….”

Hermione broke in. “Harry, shouldn't you quit whilst you're ahead?”

For once, Harry did.

She suppressed a mournful sigh. She could not, would not, let him down. “Yes, I'll help you.”

Harry proved admirably serious about revising. He met Hermione bright and early the next (Thursday) morning in the Room of Requirement. He intended to spend all day studying Defence-related spell casting.

Thinking ahead - presumptuously but accurately - he had obtained Shak's permission for Hermione to miss class to help him. The quid pro quo? Hermione had to cover that day's exercise in specialised Shielding Charms with Harry.

They had thoroughly studied those Charms in summer Auror training - as Shak well knew - so it was effectively no requirement at all.

Harry's plan for revising differed significantly from Hermione's.

Hermione's swotting habits consisted of first, identifying precisely the material to be mastered. Second, assessing her preparedness, she would prioritise the material. Third, and finally, she would methodically revise everything in order from beginning to end - repeating the process as many times as necessary.

Harry approached his Defence N.E.W.T. the way he fought - extemporaneously.

He wanted another duel with Hermione, a reprise of their September exhibition for the D.A. - only longer. He pleaded that he learnt Defence techniques much more effectively through improvisation than by Hermione's disciplined methods.

She could not argue with Harry's results. Besides, it was his N.E.W.T.; what right did she have to tell him how to prepare?

Reluctantly, she agreed.

It was a disaster.

During their prior duel in the Room of Requirement, she had something to fight for. This time, she had nothing. Their “duel” amounted to little more than his using her for target practice, and it showed.

Three times within the first half-hour, Harry's powerful spellwork knocked Hermione silly. After the third time, when she was blasted backwards off a barren bluff into deep water - almost drowning before Harry rescued her - she finally gave up.

“Harry … I just can't do this,” she confessed sadly. “It's not the same. If we keep this up, I'll end up in the Hospital Wing, or worse…. Revenge for breaking your leg, I suppose.”

The Room spontaneously provided them with absurdly out of place armchairs on a windswept moor.

“Awww, Hermione,” Harry tried offering her relief. “Take a head start or something. I'm sure you'll improve once you get warmed up. How about I lay off the Elemental Magic?”

“Then you're pulling your punches, Harry,” Hermione told him. “Death Eaters won't. What would Mad-Eye have thought…?”

Harry grimaced hearing his deceased guardian's name. “He'd say that any fight worth fighting is worth giving your all - or some such, but probably more colourful.”

“That's right,” Hermione pounced. “So that means duelling with me right now would be worse than useless - especially since I'd wager Galleons to gobstones that Mad-Eye's colleagues will be judging your N.E.W.T.”

“How do you figure…?”

“Well, since the Aurors are hosting the examination, it stands to reason….” Hermione's voice trailed off, but Harry knew enough not to interrupt. The “I'm coming up with something” expression on Hermione's face was as clear as her T-shirt slogan, “Karma is a witch.”

“Harry, do you still have your Aural Pensieve?” she suddenly asked.

“Er … yeah, I should,” he answered, somewhat mystified. “I wasn't exactly around at the end of the holidays to give it back.”

“Then that's how you should revise,” Hermione declared. Drawing her wand, she incanted, “Apparecium, chez Harry Aural Pensieve!”

They waited, but nothing happened.

“Umm … Hermione, Hogwarts isn't really my home now,” Harry observed, once their wait grew too long and the silence too heavy.

“Oh, right, the ChÃ¢teau,” Hermione remembered, chiding herself for forgetting the place where….

“Let me try,” Harry intervened. “Accio Harry's Aural Pensieve!”

Harry barely finished the incantation when, with a loud “POP,” his Aural Pensieve appeared at his feet.

“Wow!” Hermione exclaimed with unfeigned admiration. “That was some Summoning Charm, Mister. Where'd you learn that?”

“McGonagall and Shak - during all those detentions,” Harry confessed. “They're trying to channel my you-know-what power into something useful … especially since I … well, I've been pants at Animagus training lately. Can't seem to manage it.”

Hermione sighed at Harry's revelation, which mirrored her own lack of progress. “Were only Dumbledore as creative with me…. Maybe I'd do better, at least at something.”

Harry had no answer. “Umm … sure, I guess…. Well, how do we do this? Do you have yours?”

“No, goodie two-shoes Hermione returned hers to the Aurors,” she admitted ruefully. “So we've only one. But as I recall, each chapter had exam questions. I can quiz you on every chapter we were taught, and on everything we taught ourselves … except Chapter 128, of course.”

“Of course,” Harry echoed, acceding to Hermione's plan of action.

Using test material available on Harry's Aural Pensieve, Hermione combined the roles of taskmaster, teacher, and occasionally Socratic questioner. For hours Harry demonstrated Auror spells as Hermione meticulously marched him through each chapter's revision questions. Anything he did not remember, they reviewed on the Aural Pensieve.

They paused only for lunch - and then dinner.

In the end Hermione even agreed to skip History of Magic.

By the time they finished, shortly before curfew, Hermione had put Harry through his paces twice for all sixty-two chapters on their summer Auror curriculum, and once through everything else (another forty-seven, in whole or in part) that she judged relevant.

The rest was up to Harry.

The following day, Friday, 30 May, found Hermione ensconced in her usual library hideaway. Having finished Friday classes, and an extra-credit Healing assignment, she was coping Su Li's notes from yesterday's History of Magic class. Su was the only other class member Hermione trusted to compile reasonably adequate notes.

Hearing a familiar rushing noise, Hermione looked up, to see the approaching bright streak. The silver stag disappeared within her, leaving its telltale tingling signature.

Someone could still conjure a Patronus.

Harry's almost breathless voice echoed in her mind.

“Hermione! It was brilliant!

You were brilliant…! Sussed them right out, you did.

That's all they did … took questions from Auror training, I mean. Nothing - not a single thing - on the test we hadn't covered. Not one during the whole bloody six hours!

Everybody was there, the Minister, even bloody Thicknesse. He left quickly enough, since I wasn't cocking up …. It was in the Situation Room … not just me, everybody, with the window open this time….

Anyway, I just finished. Shak's waiting outside…. We'll be Flooing, I think.

Somehow, I knew you'd be in the library. Please stay. I want to tell you all about it.

You're the greatest, Hermione.”

Communications Patronuses supposedly could not deliver long range messages (London Auror headquarters was more than 600 kilometres from Hogwarts), but Harry's power, particularly when angry or excited, tended to transcend normal magical limits.

Exhilarated at Harry's exhilaration, Hermione stayed put as he requested.

Harry did not come.

She waited through dinner, growing ever more morose at Harry's absence.

With curfew approaching a distraught and angry Hermione shoved her things in her beaded bag and made for the Heads' Suite. She had Prefect patrolling duty this evening.

Paired with Hannah Abbott, Hermione said little to the well endowed Hufflepuff beyond the minimum necessitated by patrolling. Hermione's thunderous countenance was a clear “No Trespassing” sign.

Their patrol was completely and boringly routine. Hermione had no opportunity to vent her frustrations on unfortunate curfew-breakers.

The Prefect patrol ended at three a.m. By then Hermione had relaxed enough to converse with Hannah on academic topics. As Hermione and Hannah checked in, another team, Geoff Hooper and Zach Smith, were leaving. Those two cackled over catching curfew breakers in a compromising position after noticing intimate apparel slipping through a crack under a door.

Hermione could care less, but Hannah peeked at the log book that recorded disciplinary actions. “Looks like Gryffindor lost some points,” she observed smugly. “Ginny leading Harry astray … again. Those two sure looked inseparable all…. Hermione…!”

Feeling like she had been slapped, Hermione turned on her heel and, ignoring Hannah's calls, ran until reaching the Fat Lady. She hurtled up the stairs to the sanctuary of her bed. Ripping the curtains closed, she barely had time to utter an Imperturbable Charm before a torrent of tears came.

Harry had stood her up again - for Ginny, again - without even the decency of notification. She could not believe it! What had happened to Harry? When had he become so cruel?

Hermione cried herself out. As the black night faded to a cold, grey dawn, she sullenly reached pulled out a letter from her headboard. It had bothered her for over a week.

Hermione finally reached a decision. Putting quill to parchment she scratched out a reply to Viktor Krum. Yes - provided she could obtain permission from the Deputy Headmistress (quite likely) - she would meet Viktor in Hogsmeade the day before the big match, as he proposed.

She could not have the man she loved, so she would take a chance with a man who loved her.

* * * *

Harry felt like a low-life scum - a very lucky low life scum.

Hermione had been a great friend and helped him practise for his Defence N.E.W.T. Her methods … it was like she read the examiners' minds. As a result, he was sure he had achieved an Outstanding.

He had promised to discuss the examination with Hermione when he returned. Hermione liked test post-mortems. Ordinarily Harry did not, but he would make an exception.

Ginny had other plans. Ginny's plans prevailed.

One thing led to another - and to a third-storey broom closet.

After the main event, Ginny could not locate an article of clothing she had tosses aside. She used Lumos, and Harry cancelled the goblin Cloaking magic to assist her search.

She noticed something else.

“Harry, what's that shiny thing in your belly button?”

Oops. Harry had good reason for the thirty-plus carats of gemstones in his navel, since the ring was linked to ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls security. However, it also had a certain woman's name inscribed - not Ginny's.

The ring was itself protected by goblin Cloaking magic, which Harry usually employed religiously. Something during his N.E.W.T. - involving quite a few unusual spells - must have dislodged it.

Harry did not look forward to explaining. Nor was he a good liar.

“Well … the ChÃ¢teau has a security system, and if there's an attack when I'm not there….”

A loud knock interrupted Harry's telling. “Open up. Prefects. We know you're in there.”

Harry gave in to the inevitable. “All right, let us get presentable,” he stated in a firm voice. A much softer “Ixks,” followed, and the telltale ring vanished.

Harry removed the Auror ring that nestled on top and showed it to Ginny. “See, this garnet is charmed to connect to the ChÃ¢teau. Now, we can't keep them waiting or we'll lose even more points.”

Ginny reluctantly ended her futile search.

Two Prefects greeted them when they emerged - one of them twirling an unmentionable item on the tip of his wand.

* * * *

Learning of Hermione's intent, Ron predictably exploded. The old “fraternising with the enemy” vitriol spewed out. Hermione told him to take a running jump and go straight to hell.

She was sick of Ronald Weasley's endless font of jealousy. This time he objected to Hermione bestowing greater favour on an international Quidditch star who had fancied her for years than on his readiness to ditch his girlfriend the moment Hermione was unexpectedly single.

Ron had been consistently tetchy since she rejected his dubious advance. As if she would betray Luna! She owed Ron nothing, and so informed him in most forceful terms.

Harry was different. He almost seemed remorseful. When she told him Professor McGonagall had permitted her to see Viktor in Hogsmeade, he was apologetic for failing to discuss the N.E.W.T. with her. Ginny had waited for him at the Hogwarts main Floo and proposed nicking food from the kitchens - the elves would never turn them away. One proposition led to another, and before he knew it curfew had passed and their goblin Concealment magic had expired….

Harry teetered on the verge of objecting to her date, but never quite did. Thus she never had the opportunity to tell him to go to hell, too - although a large part of her would have relished the chance. What had he done for her lately, save make her life miserable?

Regardless of anything he uttered during unguarded moments, Harry had unquestionably moved on. Hermione gravely doubted that she could ever truly do the same - at least until Voldemort was defeated and Harry no longer needed her help. Still, she owed it to herself, and to Viktor, to try.

At minimum she owed Viktor the truth. She had treated him very poorly. He had done nothing save honestly express his feelings. She had abruptly ceased their correspondence when she concluded that it contributed to Harry's reluctance to view her as more than a friend. She had put Viktor off, unconvincingly, claiming an age issue.

Viktor was no fool. He had sussed out her reasons - his post humbly requesting to see her again said as much. Even had he not, his timing was obvious. He had respected her injunction against writing until, and only until, the well-publicised collapse of her relationship with Harry.

Or maybe Viktor really was a fool. His letter made his intentions quite plain. He wrote that his stint playing professional Quidditch post-Durmstrang had not eroded his feelings for her one iota. Those feelings led to a marriage proposal marriage when Hermione was only fifteen years old.

Viktor rather resembled Harry - more than either of them would care to admit. Fame and fortune had a price. For both, that price included suspecting the motives of any new potential romantic involvement. Harry responded by hooking up with Ginny, who not only owed him a life debt, but had worshipped him for even longer.

Viktor's letter took a similar approach with Hermione. Ironically, by turning him down flat - twice - she had established her bona fides. Other woman rarely refused his advances.

Viktor also shared something quite profound with Hermione - they both wanted someone out of reach. She had not returned his feelings before and she doubted she could now.

As always Viktor was the perfect gentleman. His date request was tentative and not at all overreaching. He suggested only a late lunch - and their date would occur in a public place, Madame Rosmerta's Hogsmeade dining room.

He and his teammates were staying nearby - in a large private home provided by the Department of Magical Games and Sports. He did not propose any party or a late-night assignation. He would still be in training; their date preceded the big game.

His request was also well timed in a way Viktor could not have known. Hermione dearly needed some distraction from her back-breaking academic routine.

After her precedent-stretching decision to stand for two N.E.W.T.s in her sixth year, Hermione endured one more week of intense work. The final week of classes included a public demonstration of her Charms project, presenting her last progress report to Madam Pomfrey in Healing, and preparation for end-of-term examinations in Potions, Transfiguration, Defence, and Herbology. Only Arithmancy (Professor Vector agreed to give Hermione whatever marks she achieved on her N.E.W.T.) and Magical Creatures (Hagrid did not give sixth-year exams) provided respite.

Viktor provided a much-appreciated hiatus from revising for a few hours.

Hogwarts students rarely ventured into Hogsmeade save on designated weekends - even less often for purely social reasons. But Hermione was no ordinary student, nor was Viktor Krum a run-of-the-mill swain. Hermione departed the Castle slightly before two in the afternoon. Paranoia over recent Death Eater attacks remained high, so Professor McGonagall required Hermione to take Auror Tonks along as a minder. Harry offered a goblin escort, but Hermione declined.

She wore conservative navy robes over a matching Muggle pantsuit - robes acquired as casual wear for ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls. Somewhat nervously she patted them down as she and Tonks stepped into a Hogwarts Thestral-drawn carriage.

“Don't worry,” Tonks reassured. “It's not like you've never had a date before.”

“You're wrong about that,” Hermione disagreed. “A date is for getting to know someone. I never….” She almost lost her composure. “Oh, Merlin, I've got to stop, or I'll go to pieces.… Viktor will think I'm pathetic.”

“I doubt that,” Tonks attempted to console her charge. “If he doesn't appreciate what you've been through, I daresay your first date with him will be your last.”

Although constraining her sniffles, Hermione could not help feeling sorry for herself … and for Viktor. Whatever the Bulgarian did, he could achieve no more than second best in her heart. That was unfair to a man like him.

Hermione said little more until they reached Rosmerta's. Hogsmeade was crowded, but not like a student weekend. Rather, it was flush with adult visitors, mostly Hogwarts alumni arriving early for tomorrow's epic challenge match.

Passing a clot of wizards, Hermione spotted a blond man in gaudy black and lemon robes. Ludo Bagman, the former Wimbourne Wasp, was already holding forth on the upcoming match - undoubtedly including his role in it. The department head probably had the attention of every reporter in town. Better him than her, Hermione thought.

Having not considered the number of spectators the match would draw, Hermione was relieved that her carriage rolled past unnoticed. Her fourth-year dalliance with Viktor had drawn considerable publicity - not much positive. She had little stomach for a reprise.

Viktor had promised their date would be confidential. He seemed to have delivered.

Hermione and Tonks disembarked once the carriage stopped at Rosmerta's. The Three Broomsticks looked nothing like it did when catering to a student clientele. The bar was shrunken and the tables enlarged. It was configured as a sit-down restaurant.

“Good luck,” Tonks whispered in Hermione's ear as she squeezed her hand. Hermione let the Auror enter first and scope out the surroundings. Tonks altered her appearance until she resembled a young Professor McGonagall. Hermione received the all-clear signal as Tonks had stationed herself inconspicuously at a table near the kitchen entrance, half hidden by a potted plant.

Viktor had yet to arrive.

Hermione chose a table in the opposite corner from Tonks, away from the window and any prying eyes.

A crowd-harried Viktor Krum arrived within five minutes. He wore a military-style cloak drawn tightly despite warm weather. He spotted Hermione, and as he removed his reflective sun glasses, a tentative smile crossed his usually phlegmatic face.

He shook the cloak from his shoulders revealing immaculate formal robes suitable for one of Arthur Weasley's state dinners. To casual observers Viktor appeared suave and sophisticated.

Hermione was an unusually experienced Viktor Krum watcher. Body language betrayed Viktor as being as anxious as when he had proposed - meaning only slightly less sphinx-like than usual.

Hermione's breath caught as she realised that she still made Viktor react that way. Viktor remained an enigma - she never understood what he, one of the most desirable wizards on the continent, saw in her.

Such thoughts disappeared when he reached her table. Viktor clicked his heels and bowed at the waist. “Her-mi-o-nee,” he pronounced her name with practiced care.

Flattered by his impeccable central European manners, she rose and offered her hand. “Viktor, how wonderful to see you again after all this time.”

He took her hand and gave it a noticeable kiss. “Her-mi-o-nee,” he repeated. “The pleasure - is truly all mine.”

He sat down in the chair opposite.

As casually as he could, Viktor began an obviously oft-rehearsed speech. “Her-mi-o-nee, it has been almost two years since ve ver last together. I have tried moving on as you advised. I have since seen much of the vizarding vorld, but I have not met anyone who could make me move on. I am more convinced than ever that my first impression vas correct.”

Viktor paused, perhaps expecting Hermione to interrupt. He was pleased that she did not - that she took seriously what he had to say. Perhaps he had a chance after all. Obtaining that chance from her would be harder than getting this chance from his new boss.

“So I risked your displeasure by writing. I vas never sure vot I had done to displease you, but I could not stay avay…. If you ver really annoyed, I suppose you vould not be here….”

“Viktor, I'm sure everything you say is true,” Hermione got to the point. “But you haven't mentioned Harry. I'm sure you know that I stopped corresponding because of my relationship with him. I'm just as sure that my breakup figured in this meeting. Your timing is pretty obvious to me - as I'm sure mine was to you.”

Viktor's nerves showed through his faÃ§ade. “Und … and you're not angry vit me?”

Hermione was almost as nervous as Viktor, but concealed it less well. “No … no more than you must be angry with me. I assume you want to see if there's still a spark between us.”

Her response gave Viktor hope. At least she did not reject him outright. “If my letter vas not clear enough, let me be clear now. Vot you call `spark' has alvays been there for me. I need to know if there is spark now in you.”

“That's what I thought, Viktor,” Hermione confirmed. “I won't lie. What I had with Harry was intense … very intense. I may never feel like that again, but I came, didn't I?”

What prompted her to conceal her former engagement to Harry, Hermione did not know, but she did. She offered a perfectly rational interpretation that was even partially true. “I'm also two years older, so I'm less intimidated by you than before.”

“Hah,” Viktor laughed for the first time since entering. “You ver never intimidated by me. That is one reason I vas attracted….”

“I was, too,” Hermione maintained. “You were so much older and more famous than I back then. I would have been equally intimidated by Harry….”

She stopped abruptly, leaving the name hanging. If she talked too much about Harry, Viktor might suspect the truth and bail out.

Soon Viktor filled the conversational void. “Potter … feh. Potter could not intimidate you either. Probably the reverse. I told him to his face that he vas a fool.”

“What!?” Hermione jerked upright. She had never heard about this. “When did you do that? Why?”

“I vas guest at Beauxbatons ball,” Viktor revealed. “Our team vas playing the French. I vent looking for you … to tell you in person vot I said in letter. I saw him and I asked vhere you ver. He vas not happy. He insulted me. I insulted him. In Bulgaria I vould have challenged him to a duel….”

“That would not be a good idea, Viktor,” Hermione warned. “Harry is really, really good at duelling.”

“Dah,” Viktor acknowledged, “I know. And ve ver not in Bulgaria. He should never have treated you like that. He traded down - she looked drunk. Vas stupid - for him. Lucky for me.”

“What did Harry say to you?” Hermione asked, not knowing if she would like the answer.

“He told me that I vas the fool,” Viktor almost growled. “You obviously told him about my proposal. He told me that your answer vould still be no.”

Hermione was incensed. Harry might well be right. She was certainly not planning marriage anytime soon. But Harry had no right to say that. “He … he was being a jerk,” she said coldly. “He has no more right to presume anything about me.”

Viktor was unhappy to see Hermione's anger rise, even directed elsewhere. He knew that his life, and hers, depended on her reaction to what he next had to do. He hoped she could forgive. “Umm … Her-Mi-o-Nee, I…. Vell, vhen you accepted, I began thinking…. Vot I'm trying to say….”

“Viktor … don't be too presumptuous,” Hermione admonished, worried that he would strike well before the iron was hot.

Viktor grunted and decided to tell her straight away. “I have something for you.”

Hermione's breath hitched as he reached into his robes. Surely, he was not so stupid as to propose again, then and there. She was relieved when he removed a box shaped more like a wand. Its wine-coloured velvet exterior screamed “jewellery,” but at least not a ring.

“Viktor, I hope you weren't extravagant,” Hermione cautioned. “You know me better than that.”

“Don't vorry, Her-mi-o-nee,” Viktor answered softly. “I vould not insult you by trying to buy you. Is more sentimental than valuable.”

Hermione accepted the proffered container. Opening it she smiled. “Why that's a Snitch. You made me a necklace from a Golden Snitch. How very … Viktor … of you.”

“Is the Snitch that I caught ven ve lost the Vorld Cup two years ago,” Viktor sprung his surprise.

Hermione's hand went to her bosom. “Oh, Viktor, I couldn't possibly take this, it's too important….”

“You can,” Viktor's strong voice talked over her. “I vill play for the Cup again. I vill catch another Snitch and vin next time. This is for you. You are more important right now…. Maybe someday I catch you, too…?”

“We'll see about that,” she coyly parried his last remark.

“Dah, ve'll see,” Viktor echoed. “Vould you….? Vould you like to try it on?”

Hermione blushed. While it was probably inappropriate to attend tomorrow's match wearing such a bauble - considering the source - she saw no harm in wearing it here. “Why … yes, I think so.”

Viktor stood and walked around the table to stand beside her. He reached down and grasped the necklace, letting the Snitch hang free. “Please lift your hair, Her-mi-o-nee,” he requested. She did. He moved behind her and brought his other hand around.

Hermione wondered if she should be feeling all tingly. Had Harry been holding her, she would have. All she felt was a chill from the wings of the Snitch vibrating against the skin of her neck.

“That tickles,” she half-complained as she reached up to reposition the snitch.

“Oh…!”

Hermione felt a tug behind her navel as she vanished into thin air.

Viktor followed immediately; a loud BANG heralding his hasty Disapparation.

“What in Hades!?!” Tonks screamed as she lunged from her hidey-hole, wand drawn. She caught her foot on the table leg, went sprawling, and toppled the table and two chairs.

Once Tonks extracted herself, it was far too late for pursuit Apparition. Hermione Granger and Viktor Krum had vanished to points unknown.

* * * *

Author's notes:

Note Harry's changing locations

Dawn's early light is from the “Star Spangled Banner”

By legend King Cnut (“Canute”) unsuccessfully ordered the tide to halt

Hermione's suicidal phase was described in Ch. 7

“Undisclosed location” was a Cheney favorite

The altered Horcrux happened in Ch. 54

Exmoor is on the Bristol Channel, which has the largest tides in Britain

The flesh blood and bone that resurrected Voldemort were all male, so I made the converse true

The alternative prophecy was mentioned in Ch 42

Mensong conducted Hermione's cross-examination in Ch. 31

Voldemort is right about the Gaunt property

Hitler also believed in a lucky star

Voldemort used a black shag to deliver his message to Malfoy in Ch. 35

Hermione and Luna first visited L.O.S.S. in Ch. 33; it hasn't changed much

The notion of drowning oneself in the lake comes from Pandiesboxx's sadly unfinished “All Roads Lead Back”

Hermione's dream is, of course, the movie version of the Epilogue

The destruction of County Hall Island occurred in Ch. 44

My law school's examination booklets had sky blue covers

The Golden Mean (â‰ˆ1.62) is also generated by the Fibonacci sequence Hermione used to find the secret chamber in Ch. 64; it has numerous practical and mystical connotations

Spiral patterns calculate more simply in polar coordinates

Hermione used a spiral search pattern when looking for Harry in Ch. 35

The difference between true and magnetic north in Scotland is accurate

Hermione discovered the comet in Ch. 43

Dreams/nightmares, burnt out confusion, gates of life closed - all from “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath by Black Sabbath

Cold gray dawn is from the Rolling Stones' “Shine a Light”

Hermione's decision to cease writing to Viktor occurred in Ch. 7

As discussed in Ch. 46, Harry proposed to Hermione without ever dating her

58

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84. For Her

Wherein Hermione suffers indignities at the hands of persons other than Krum; Harry sits through a useless meeting; extracts a promise from Ron; Krum is manipulated; Hermione finds out what's going on, which is bad enough, but not worse; Ginny finds out what's going on, which is worse; Harry finds out what's going on, which is good enough, and getting better; Neville gets a task; and Harry finds Ron and Luna.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, Mathiasgranger, and Chris Backus.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Chapter 84 - For Her

Hermione lurched into a nondescript room in an unknown location. Disoriented and unprepared, she tumbled to the floor, ripping the knees of her pantsuit, soiling her elegant robes, and sending the necklace-Portkey booby trap flying. A shuffling sound behind her indicated she had company.

Hermione flicked her wand from her holster, vowing to curse first and ask questions later.

She never had a chance to do either. “Stupefy!” The Stunner hit her squarely in the back, and she knew no more.

“Damn worthless Mudblood bint,” a masked Death Eater swore. “Better to curse her proper and be done with it. Still, the Dark Lord must have his reasons.”

After seizing Hermione's wand, the Death Eater viciously kicked her defenceless body - at the precise moment Viktor Krum arrived with a loud Apparition pop. Seeing the Death Eater, his supposed ally, abusing Hermione's sprawled and crumpled form sparked incandescent fury.

“Smyrtnozhadni laina!” he yelled, brandishing his wand menacingly. “The Dark Lord promised her to me, alive, vell, for the rest of my life….”

“Petrificus totalus!” The Death Eater dropped the enraged Bulgarian in his tracks. “Now listen, yeh stupid berk,” he snarled with unconcealed contempt. “I only stunned the bitch, and that? That's nuffink ta what she deserves. She's a bleedin' menace, she is. Now are yeh gonna keep yer head and not cock things up?”

Viktor, prone on the floor, could not respond, but once the colour drained from his face - and the Death Eater relieved him of his wand - the spell was ended.

“Only … Stunned…?” Viktor asked calmly, if disbelievingly.

“Yeah, and yer damn lucky,” the Death Eater snarled. “The Dark Lord don' negotiate `bout nuffink … or so's I thought. Meybee he's a secret Quidditch fan.”

Having regained his unflappable façade, Viktor ignored the man to gather Hermione's limp form tenderly in his arms. “Vell, let's go,” he directed, in his command voice. “I have fulfilled my part of the bargain….”

Turning his back, Viktor started out of the room.

Viktor Krum might be more significant in the great scheme of things, but to a Death Eater, he was only a novice initiate. Even though unqualified to take his N.E.W.T.s, the other Death Eater out-ranked Krum - with two full years of faithful service under his mask.

“Bloody hell,” he grumbled. “I ain't gonna let this newbie…. The Dark Lord wants that girl, bad. Yer not gonna screw that up.” He pointed his wand at the Bulgarian's back. “Don't care who yeh are, yeh ain't gonna get that girl away from us…. Imperio!”

* * * *

Harry was done - finally done. That morning had been the last of his year-end proficiency tests, Defence, a soft option for him. His participation was a formality, to avoid appearance of favouritism. Shak had already told Harry that he would score whatever the Aurors gave him on his N.E.W.T.

Hogwarts finishing tests spanned a large range. Hagrid's was absurdly easy. Not much for grading anything, he asked every student to choose a creature to discuss for five minutes. Professor McGonagall's rigorous examination was the other extreme. It simulated the Transfiguration N.E.W.T., right down to the individual cubicles, which contained some two dozen objects (some caged) to be Transfigured into two dozen other objects (some also in cages).

Nor did every professor administer proficiency tests. Professor Flitwick substituted his individual projects. In Domestic Magic, Harry's skills had been measured through the Bake-Off.

All testing was now in Harry's rear view mirror. He had much to look forward to. The long-awaited international Quidditch All-Star match was tomorrow. Since trading insults with Viktor Krum at the Beauxbatons Ball, Harry's honour demanded that he turn in a strong performance.

Since he was going head-to-head with Krum, Harry needed to be fresh for the match - both for the team and for himself.

That presented a problem.

This evening, during the new moon, every other member of the team would be blissfully asleep. Harry would be with the Headmaster on a most inauspiciously timed Horcrux hunt. Granted, unlike Quidditch, finding and destroying Voldemort's Horcruxes was a life and death matter - his life or death. Still, Harry wondered if, to make his life easier, perhaps one or another of these events could have been put off.

Horcrux searching could last most of the night - particularly if they found something, and it had wards … or anything, knowing Voldemort. Harry needed a lie in, for as long as possible and as close to the Headmaster's task as possible.

For that lie in to help much, Harry had to be tired. For that, Harry had a girlfriend - a very randy girlfriend who had deliberately deprived them both for a whole damn week - Ginny had decreed that she needed something to look forward to after finishing her O.W.L.s.

Harry estimated Ginny was just beginning her Defence O.W.L. She had promised that, when done, she would find him and - between goblin Cloaking magic, an Imperturbable Charm, and Professor Binns' old bed - shag him into next week. After that, he could sleep as long as he could. Food was no worry. She promised him dinner in bed.

That lay in the future. Presently, Harry sought a head start in becoming knackered with Dean, Seamus, and the usual crew in the Music Room. They assured him they knew just the music that could help.

With the last notes of “Enter Sandman” fading away, Harry asked Kevin Entwistle, “Those last three; they were by those Metallicans, right?”

“Nah,” the long-haired Ravenclaw Muggle-born replied. “That first one, about not taking it anymore, was by Twisted Sister.”

“All right, folks,” Seamus interrupted, “get ready for `Hallowed Be Thy Name' - on my count of four….”

He never reached four.

BANG!! With a loud report and a brilliant white flash, a spell flung the door open.

A very serious Professor Shacklebolt strode into the room. “Hold up there!” he commanded. Spotting his quarry, he lightened up. “Damn, that garbage is loud enough to raise the dead. Don't you know any reggae?”

“Wicked,” Seamus smirked. “Change of plans. Like the man suggested, let's switch to `Metal Health'.”

“That doesn't sound like reggae,” Harry cracked.

Shak's face hardened. He looked tempted to squeeze off another noisy spell. “Not you, Harry, outside….”

“Umm….” Harry hesitated.

“Now!” Shak ordered. “This is serious. The Headmaster wants you in his office, pronto.”

“But I'm not due to….”

“Now means now, Potter,” Shak growled.

With more experience in worrisome developments than he cared to remember, Harry wordlessly handed the enchanted ebony Epiphone Apparition guitar he had been playing to Dean. “What's happening?” he asked Shak in a concerned voice.

“Not here,” Shak answered with finality. “Come with me.”

Shak led Harry briskly down the corridor. “You're more like your father than you know,” Shak tried making conversation. “According to Remus, before your mother put a halt to it, the Marauders frequented that room quite a bit….”

“Is that so?” Harry remarked evenly. Shak's mood relaxing attempts were an unmitigated failure; Harry could sense underlying tension oozing from every pore.

“According to Remus, James sang lead in a group the Marauders formed,” Shak continued as they walked. “Merlin knows why they called it `Black Oak Azkaban,' since the island has no trees….”

“Umm … Shak?”

They were now passing the Potions dungeon. Shak stopped, turned and faced the boy.

Harry's anxiety had risen with each step they took. “Now, will you please tell me what's going on?” he asked.

Putting a finger to his lips, Shak drew his wand. “Muffliato.” He revealed, with all the calm he could summon. “Granger's missing and unaccounted for.”

“WHAT?!?” Harry's strangled voice could have belonged to Arnold, Ginny's Pygmy Puff.

Instantly, any chance of a non-stressful precursor to Harry's Horcrux hunt and tomorrow's big match vanished.

“Calm down,” Shak ordered forcefully. “Don't assume foul play. She was with Viktor Krum. They imitated your trick over the summer and gave her minder the slip. We're having a meeting A-S-A-P in the Headmaster's office. Your attendance is not optional, but unfortunately you reek. Hold still. Scourgify!”

Hermione. The Headmaster … and Horcruxes tonight. Just what Harry needed….

Harry's head still spun as Shak led him to Dumbledore's gargoyle guardian. Hermione? Evading her minder to spend private time with anybody - let alone Krum? That just seemed … off. “Gobstoppers!” As the gargoyle stood aside, Shak motioned for Harry to ascend and turned away.

“Aren't you coming?” Harry asked incredulously. With Hermione missing, the former Auror and current DADA professor had to be up to his elbows in the investigation.

“Later,” the professor answered tersely. Noting Harry's troubled expression, he added, “Tonks was her minder. She's pretty distraught. She's in my office, and I have to take her memory of the event. I'll be along later.” Shak hurried off.

Troubled and uncertain, Harry slipped into the Headmaster's office through the oddly open door. The normal arrangement, dominated by Dumbledore's desk was gone. The Headmaster sat at the small table usually occupied by his silvery gadgets. A Quick-Quotes Quill stood perched over a basket full of parchment. The contraption resembled the communicator Dumbledore had provided at Privet Drive last summer - seemingly an eternity ago.

A semicircle of the Headmaster's distinctive chintz armchairs, some unoccupied, filled the rest of the office. A soft buzz of conversation died away as Harry entered.

Besides the Headmaster, Professor McGonagall was present from the Hogwarts staff. Two other students, Ron and Su Li, attended. Ron glowered menacingly at Harry, who wondered what they, especially the Ravenclaw, could possibly add. From the Ministry Harry recognized the mustachioed Alastor Gumboil, a Hit Wizard trusted by the Order.

Representing the Ministry in a different capacity was Ludo Bagman, Head of Magical Sports, present undoubtedly because of Krum's reported involvement.

The outer door shut of its own accord.

“We may as well begin,” Dumbledore wheezed as the quill beside him sprung to life. “Others will arrive presently. What we know for certain is that Miss Granger is missing, but not alone. Thus foul play is but one possibility.”

Professor McGonagall added, “I have searched Miss Granger's personal effects and found Mister Krum's letter inviting her to meet him in Hogsmeade. His romantic intent is readily apparent.”

“I assumed as much when I permitted their meeting,” the Headmaster commented, displeasure colouring his voice.

“I cannot speak to Miss Granger sharing those intentions,” the Deputy Headmistress continued, likewise unhappy, “as I also discovered a certain historical document under Miss Granger's pillow … a document I previously helped obtain….”

Harry instantly knew what Professor McGonagall meant, which further depressed his spirits.

“…Be that as it may,” Mr. Bagman spoke for the first time. “We mustn't overdo this, certainly not yet, with tomorrow's very high profile match. Can't have this splashed on the front page of the Prophet. Surely, we've no reason to disrupt all our plans because one of the players chose to relieve some pre-match tension with a willing witch - particularly when they're both of age….”

Harry seethed. Bagman's description did not fit the Hermione he knew. But did he know her anymore?

“Umm … I doubt Hermione would cross to the other side,” Ron half-heartedly came defended their friend. “And she's definitely not the type to go off by herself like that….”

Dumbledore raised his hand to quiet the participants. “Ludo, perhaps events will vindicate you, but she is not any `willing witch.' Miss Granger is also a prime Death Eater target - as she most certainly knows. Thus, it behoves us to ascertain her whereabouts as soon as possible. Rest assured I desire publicity no more than you.”

He turned to the meeting's most silent participant.

“Now Miss Li, this year you have become one of Miss Granger's close friends. I was hoping you might have some insight - anything - into Miss Granger's intentions when she met Mister Krum today.”

With all eyes on her, Su stammered, “I'm … I'm really not sure. We were mostly friends in class - I mean, we studied together. She only started hanging out, I guess … over the last few weeks…. Can I have some water, please?”

Dumbledore waved his hand, and a tall silver pitcher of iced water appeared. A frosted glass popped into existence next to it. After the pitcher poured itself, the glass floated to Su Li's outstretched hand.

Following a big sip, she continued, “She looked forward, I guess. She mentioned Viktor Krum only a couple of times. Had it been me, I wouldn't have talked about anything else…. Hermione, she's been down for weeks. She didn't even go to the ball.”

“If she had, Krum could have told her in person,” Harry grumbled. “I sure told him.”

Su Li did not respond to his comment. “She did want to see what Krum wanted. I think she was trying to … well, get over…. But she didn't seem that serious. She certainly didn't suggest that she wanted to go off … and carry on. She's … she's a very private person these days…. That's all I know.”

It was obvious Su Li had no more useful information. Dumbledore spoke, “Thank you, Miss Li, for contributing. I do believe….”

The Headmaster's concentration was broken. “Ah, yes. Please enter.” His office door swung open by itself. Professor Flitwick arrived, accompanied by Luna Lovegood and a Department of Magical Education invigilator. Luna had come directly from her ongoing Defence O.W.L.

“Now see here, Dumbledore,” a red-faced Ludo Bagman protested. “The more people you involve, the less likely we can keep this - from everything I've heard, quite innocent dalliance - under wraps. I mean, Lovegood is a well-known … I mean, the Quibbler, for Merlin's sake!”

“Oh, I quite agree, Ludo,” the Headmaster disarmed him. “Miss Li, you are excused. And you….”

“Dorothy Gale. Pleased to meet you, sir.”

“…Please wait outside. Ludo is correct, this is highly confidential. I shall soon have Miss Lovegood back to her O.W.L.”

As the invigilator exited, Luna looked around, noting the various participants. “This is about Hermione, isn't it?” she insightfully asked the Headmaster.

“Yes,” answered Dumbledore, not batting an eye at Luna's deduction.

“Then, Mister Bagman, you needn't worry, I would never do anything that cast Hermione in a bad light,” Luna affirmed.

“I never mentioned any a `bad light',” Bagman spluttered. “Really, this is Viktor Krum we're talking about, here. I suspect jealousy would be a worse problem….”

“She wouldn't do any such thing,” Harry forcefully disagreed. “Not Hermione. Not now. I'm worried that she's in trouble whilst we're wasting our time yapping.”

“Who can say?” Luna stared Harry down. “Something's been off about Hermione's aura for a while. It's been dark - not evil, just depressed. It may have preceded Harry dropping her….”

Now, that was in the open. Ron glared at Harry. Luna's expression was unreadable, and her anodyne voice lacked the sharp barb of reproach.

Luna had more to say. “I don't know who, besides Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, know this, but Hermione has been seeking comfort in the Mirror of Erised, although fully knowing the consequences.”

Harry gawked. Ron's glare grew harder. Bagman looked thoughtful. Dumbledore's lack of reaction indicated that he already knew.

“The issue with the Mirror has been addressed, and the object secured,” Professor McGonagall intervened peremptorily. “Again, I thank you for alerting us, but can you speak to Miss Granger's interest in Mister Krum?”

“Hermione's been out of sorts - withdrawn - since her relationship with Harry ended,” Luna pronounced, not looking at Harry, at least initially. “She received post from Viktor Krum. She decided to try - to see whether she could want what he did, because … well, she said she knew needed to get over you, Harry … I'm sorry to say.”

By the end, she was giving Harry a both-barrels stare with her abnormally large eyes. She seemed to look right through him.

Harry squirmed uncomfortably under Luna's gaze, which everyone else in the room soon followed. Although something unpleasant bubbled inside, Harry kept his peace.

“I don't know her plans,” Luna continued, ending the uncomfortable pause. “I doubt she's the type just to go off and shag him … or anyone….”

Wispy voice notwithstanding, Luna could be exceeding blunt at times.

“…But a couple years ago Viktor did ask her to marry him. I suppose it's possible he asked a second time. She may….”

Mr. Bagman's jaw dropped. After recovering, he interrupted, “What? But he's the world's best Quidditch player … and he … his lineage goes back centuries.”

Harry exploded. “I wish that nobody gave a flying fuck about Krum's bloody lineage!”

“Potter, language!” sliced Professor McGonagall's icy voice. Her equally icy stare, however, focussed on Ludo Bagman.

“Now there, Mister Potter,” added Dumbledore, in calming tones. “Please restrain yourself, or I shall have to ask you to leave.” He repeated the same warning. “Mister Bagman, the same goes for you.”

Harry reflexively looked to Ron for support, but he received only an evil eye, followed by a reproachful question. “You knew, didn't you?”

Harry replied softly, “Yes, she told me last summer when we started getting together. She turned him down…. I think that she stopped even corresponding….”

“Ah, yes, enter,” Dumbledore interrupted as he magically sensed someone on the landing. The door swung open to reveal Kingsley Shacklebolt, looking thoughtful, and Nymphadora Tonks, her hair a forest of red spikes, indicative of upset or self-loathing - probably both.

“Miss Lovegood, have you anything else to add?” Professor McGonagall wrapped up. “Then we will get you back to your O.W.L.”

“Knowing Hermione, I find it unlikely that she'd disappear for a tryst,” Luna summed up, acting oblivious to the new visitors. “But she hasn't been right lately, so I can't say anything with confidence. Hermione needs some love in her life right now, and if Viktor Krum offered, perhaps she decided to take a chance.”

Luna stood and practically wafted from the room without waiting to be excused. At the threshold she turned to wave toodles to a blushing Ron with her fingers.

The Headmaster was back to business before the door had even shut. “Miss Tonks, please enlighten us - to the extent possible.”

Tonks provided a somewhat defensive description of events; beginning with meeting Hermione outside the Great Hall. At the Three Broomsticks, she selected a fairly distant table. Nursing a Butterbeer, she respected the couple's privacy whilst providing security for Hermione's “date” with Viktor Krum.

She mostly watched the door, viewing her assignment as protecting against external threats - not against one another.

“He gave her some kind of present, a necklace,” Tonks recounted, “with a gold bauble. I didn't get a good look at it. It could have been a Snitch - it was about that size. They seemed to be getting on just fine, better than fine, actually. She asked him to put it on her, and stood up to face the other way. Krum went to her side of the table. He was in the way. I couldn't see. Whatever he said, I couldn't hear. He fastened the thing about her neck and then, in the blink of an eye, she disappeared.”

“Just like that?” Dumbledore queried.

“Yup, we witches are funny that way,” Tonks growled, her hair spikes growing longer. “I'm thinking a Portkey. Maybe the necklace; perhaps something else, I can't be sure … tried to give them privacy. I didn't hear any Apparition pop, and I don't think she knows silent Apparition. Krum vanished a split second later, before I could do anything. I heard him Apparate. I jumped up, but hooked a bloody table leg, and that was that….”

Dumbledore looked thoughtful, saying nothing.

Ludo Bagman filled the silence. “I think that explains it precisely,” he pronounced authoritatively. “He gave her jewelry, probably Quidditch related. She gave him herself. She likes her Quidditch stars, and she's hardly alone. It happens routinely….”

Chaos ensued.

Harry's wand was in his hand as he leapt up. “YOU FAT BLOODY HAS-BEEN! You….”

Tonks did the same, but lost her grip on her wand. It went spinning across Dumbledore's office floor guttering purple and green sparks.

Across the room, Bagman flew to his feet, also showing his wand. “YOU'VE NEVER PLAYED PROFESSIONAL…!”

“SHUT UP!” Harry roared, surprising even himself. “You're clueless! You don't know Hermione … even if you tripped over her. Hermione isn't ROUTINE! She's not like anyone else…!”

Ron was just as livid as Harry. He clutched his chair's armrests in a death grip, gritting his teeth, and forcing himself to stay still.

Although not adding her voice to the cacophony, Professor McGonagall shot daggers at the flustered Ministry official.

“ENOUGH!!” Dumbledore silenced the burgeoning feud. With a swing of his good arm, the Headmaster conjured a invisible pressure wave that inexorably forced the two main disputants, still incensed, back into their seats.

Breathing heavily from the exertion, he chastised the miscreants. “Mister Potter, I repeat, you must control yourself.”

Harry reluctantly held his tongue, as Dumbledore addressed the other side of the outburst. “And Mister Bagman, your position is quite clear. It may even have merit, but I ask you, as well, to refrain from further explication. It is essential that we have all the facts. Forcing Mister Potter … underground, if you may … would be in no one's interest….” Emphasising the point, he stared at the department head over his half-moon glasses.

The Headmaster's implicit reference to Harry's goblin connexions had the desired effect. Bagman paled, ceased struggling, and sank scowling into his chair. Having no alternative, Harry followed suit, still trembling with fury.

Sighing, the Headmaster turned to the other professors. “Kingsley, having now witnessed the event via Pensieve, what can you add to Tonks' description?”

“Nothing much,” he reported. “Her description is the Pensieve version. Both were facing away when everything happened. Having seen it myself, I concur that the necklace was a Portkey. I can't say if Miss Granger knew when she touched it. Krum certainly knew.”

“Very well,” Dumbledore acknowledged, slowly nodding his head. “The fundamental conundrum remains. We must continue to synthesise all relevant facts. Mister Weasley, as one of Miss Granger's best friends, please offer your insights as to her intentions.”

“Damn,” Ron began, sounding as frustrated as he looked. “Honestly, we haven't spoken in several days - not since just after the Transfiguration test. She tried to compare notes, but we figured out that Mc … umm, Professor McGonagall didn't give everybody the same questions.”

“Correct, Mister Weasley,” Professor McGonagall interrupted. “My examination precisely follows the procedures in the official N.E.W.T.”

“Anyway, we pretty much had a fight,” Ron admitted rather sheepishly. “She told me she was going to see Krum, and I sort of went off on her…. I was … well, I said things about fraternising with the enemy, being disloyal to the school - you know, stupid crap. She didn't back down an inch, not her…. Defended him as different from the other Durmstrangers. Hell, she may really be interested in him … sure isn't in me….”

“That may be important,” Dumbledore commented. “Do you have any basis for that belief?”

Ron blushed shame-facedly. With all eyes on him, he took a deep breath. “Okay … for her…. Yeah, right after the Beauxbatons Ball was … you know, when we found out it was back on and all. Well, I asked Hermione to go with me….” He glared at Harry, who was staring at Ron in shock. “…I didn't wanna wait too long, this time. But she turned me down. I accused her of still fancying Harry … yeah, Harry, you,” Ron addressed Harry directly. “She didn't even bloody deny it. Anyway, whatever she's doing with Krum is to try to get over you….”

“Very well,” the Headmaster once again intervened, before anything set Harry off again. “It seems I misjudged the import. Mister Weasley, do you have anything more?”

“No, I guess not,” Ron replied.

“Then you may be excused.”

“Actually, I'd like to stay, if I could,” Ron requested. “I'll be good, I promise. I want to hear what Harry has to say for himself.”

“I will leave that decision to Mister Potter,” the Headmaster demurred. “Mister Potter?”

“Umm … yeah … Ron can stay,” Harry answered, annoyed (as was Ron) at having to ratify Ron's presence. “I've nothing that I won't say in front of everyone. I'm not waiting until my girlfriend's left before admitting that I tried to cheat on her….”

Only his just-made promise to the Headmaster kept a furious Ron in check. He nearly threw back that Luna had not caught him shagging his best friend's sister! With effort, he merely hissed, “She knows. I told Luna….”

“And?”

“She said it was something I needed to get out of my system.”

Dumbledore pinned Ron with a stern look for even these understated comments. “All right. Mister Potter, when did you last speak with Miss Granger?”

“This morning,” Harry stated. “Before Shak's … Professor Shacklebolt's Defence test, she wished me luck - saying that I hardly needed it. I did the same … and I wished her luck with … with Krum.”

“So you knew about her `date,' if you will,” the Headmaster probed.

“Yeah, she told me, I guess, shortly after she decided to do it,” Harry grumbled, but told the truth. “Ron's right, she said she went ahead to try getting over me.”

“Was that today?”

“Umm … no; back when she first told me.”

“Did she elaborate anything that might reveal her intentions?” the Headmaster cut to the chase.

“Nothing, really. She looked ready to cry, so I stopped talking about it.” Harry had to pause. “About Krum, I wasn't surprised, even the first time, that she was seeing him. I had words with Krum at the Beauxbatons Ball. He asked me if I knew where she was. I had this sense that he wanted to ask her out. It rubbed me the wrong way….”

“Why was that, Mister Potter?”

Harry massaged his forehead. He did not have a good answer to that question. “Not sure, really. I was out of sorts at the ball, especially near the end, after being on display for all the French all night.” He opted not to reveal Fleur's underhand attempt to foist Hermione on him. “I don't … I don't dislike Hermione. Far from it. In fact, I'm still really protective of her. That's why this whole thing sets me off. This isn't like Hermione. If she's in danger….”

“That is precisely what we seek to determine, Mister Potter,” Dumbledore jumped in, to forestall another incendiary comment from Ludo Bagman. “Please tell us anything you can about Mister Krum's intentions, as you perceived them.”

“He still wants to date her, I'm sure,” Harry confirmed. “But something's off. Yeah, Krum once asked her to marry him, but she told me he was always a gentleman about it. That's why … it makes no sense for them to pop off just like that to, well, to have … umm … well, you know. That's not like her. She certainly wasn't that way with me….”

“Well you were different, weren't you?” Tonks asked heatedly. Without waiting for an answer, she lit into Harry. “You were her first, and she loved you - probably still does, I think Ronald's spot on. She's stubborn that way. But you're right, too. I just can't believe this is a tryst. She didn't have the air of anticipation I associate with that sort of thing. It all seemed innocent enough….”

“But she could get away if she wanted,” Harry commented. “I'm sure of it. She's really good with magic…. I know … I … did it myself once … to see … see Eliza…. Dammit, I can't have that happen again….”

Harry resorted to Occlumency to avoid losing his composure.

“In any event,” the Headmaster sought to keep things moving. “Did Miss Granger say anything else about Mister Krum - recently, if not today?”

“Umm … when she first mentioned getting a letter from Krum, I asked if she trusted him. She said she did. I told her I wouldn't screw up her life any more than I already had…. I sort of encouraged her to, you know, see him. Dammit, you don't think that berk would try anything … she didn't want…?”

“Doubt it, but if he did, Krum would get far more than he bargained for,” Tonks answered Harry's question with guilt-tinged relish. “I trained her in advanced sexual self-protection techniques. She could leave him permanently unable ever to … umm … function properly again.”

Tonks brought her right hand down in a savage chopping motion.

“I certainly hope not….”

“Now there, Ludo,” Dumbledore intervened again. “Anything else, Mister Potter?”

“Not that I can think of. I'd like to stay, too, though.”

“Very well, on the strict condition that you remain calm.” The Headmaster's stare was intense. “Perhaps some insight will come to you.”

Harry dropped his Occlumency shields for Dumbledore's benefit and nodded his assent.

The Headmaster shifted his attention. “Now, Mister Bagman, please tell us what you know about Viktor Krum.”

“He's probably the best Quidditch player in the world right now,” Bagman replied. “It's an honour for England that he's returning to play against Hogwarts' finest. That took some negotiating, I can tell you. I don't want his reputation besmirched because he … I didn't know the background … The prior history. Although, I frankly don't know what a player of his calibre would see in her….”

“Excuse me, Mister Bagman,” Professor McGonagall interrupted icily. “Perhaps he sees that Miss Granger is, in all likelihood, the cleverest witch of this century.”

“I doubt that's it,” Bagman dismissed her comment. “He's a Quidditch player. I was one myself; I know how we think…. And besides, he's from Durmstrang, remember? Her kind can't even go there.”

The room's temperature dropped precipitously at the slur on Hermione's blood status. Ron bit his tongue. Harry toyed with Dumbledore's idea of putting a goblin bounty on the man's head.

Bagman charged on, but for once provided useful information. “I do know of a couple of recent incidents that were hushed up, about Krum and, well, groupies. I've seen the pictures. I must say, they looked a lot like her - Miss Granger - medium build, brown eyes and big hair. Also, he asked me for the World Cup snitch. I obtained it. He told me he wanted to make a gift of it. That kind of gift would turn any witch's head, and now I know whose. In retrospect, perhaps I shouldn't have allowed it.”

“I've also played a fair bit,” Harry calmly interrupted. “Were this anybody but Hermione, I would agree. But I know her better than anyone. She's not like anybody else. I doubt any present would turn her head - not that way.”

Ron could no longer resist. “If she's not like anyone else,” he blurted, “why'd you bloody dump her like that?”

Harry's eyes flashed, but he did not rise to the bait. Before anyone could chastise Ron, Harry had an idea. Ignoring the slight, he asked Ron, “Can you check the Burrow, and see where Hermione's hand points on the Weasley clock? If not on `Mortal Peril,' then we could at least rule out the worst.”

“There's a thought,” Bagman readily agreed, but in the next breath shot the idea down. “Unfortunately, it's impossible. Arthur's in Brussels, meeting the Bulgarian minister. Tomorrow morning, he's escorting the Minister to the match. That's another reason to keep this quiet; we don't want an international incident. But to finish the thought, Arthur was taking Molly with him. So nobody's at the Burrow, and last time I looked, the Weasleys don't have elves to look after things.”

“Brilliant idea, Harry,” the Headmaster ignored Bagman. “I shall have someone at the Burrow within five minutes,” Dumbledore declared. He nodded to Tonks, who leapt from her seat, eager to do something, anything, to redeem herself.

Ron looked troubled - beyond troubled, almost nauseous. “I don't think it'll work even if someone's about. I … umm … after my last fight with Hermione, I … umm … sort of, asked Mum to replace her hand with one for Luna. Maybe they haven't gotten around to it, though….”

Harry slumped in his chair, his face in his hands, saying nothing. He was out of ideas.

Tonks slumped by the door. Silence reigned.

Dumbledore eventually filled it. “Well, if everyone has had their say, I should report that I have also been concerned about Miss Granger's disposition. I see her approximately weekly for … personal training. She has been distressed and unanimated. Her work has … I suppose it has not progressed as I would expect for someone with her well-known talents. I only wish I had known some of these details. I would have made more diligent inquiry.”

“So what do we do?” Harry asked, looking for guidance. “Hermione's still missing.”

“At this point, having no clue to Miss Granger's whereabouts, I believe our only alternative is to intensify our search,” Dumbledore recommended. “Ludo, if you wish this kept quiet, locating these two is our paramount goal. Will you interrogate everyone on the team and arrange to search all likely locations at once?”

“Will do,” Ludo agreed hastily. “I'll start with Mister Troy, the captain, and Krum's best friend on the team. The resources of my department will be deployed immediately.” He hopped up, looking quite relieved. “Good day, sir. May we meet tomorrow under better circumstances.”

He did not escape scot-free. “Wait,” Dumbledore directed, “Filius, please accompany Ludo to the visitors' quarters. Conduct a thorough examination of Mister Krum's possessions. Please report anything of the slightest value to our search to me immediately.”

“Very well,” Bagman acceded, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Come along then; we've jobs to do.”

“Alastor and Kingsley,” the Headmaster turned his attention elsewhere, “kindly mobilise some absolutely trustworthy Aurors and Hit Wizards. Start with lodging houses likely known to Quidditch players and also check less reputable sources for possible clues. Tonks, to the extent we have sources … on the other side … whose discretion we can rely upon, see if they know anything suggestive of foul play - and do check the Burrow, just to be sure.” Those three rushed out of the office, intent upon their assigned tasks.

Only staff and students remained.

Dumbledore turned to Harry, who had progressed from steaming over the slights to Hermione to steaming over the meeting's inconclusive results. “Mister Potter, I did not wish to say it in Ludo's presence, but involving your goblin friends would be useful. Beyond a thorough search of Hogsmeade and its environs, a Gringotts review of both parties' recent financial histories may prove enlightening. Otherwise, I shall see you tonight, if not before.”

Harry's sinking feeling was back. “That's all, sir?”

“I am afraid so,” the Headmaster replied, looking pained. “Oh, whilst it is a long shot, please do check with Padfoot, Prongs, and the rest, just in case.” He winked at Harry.

Harry nodded. Dumbledore had done him something of a favour not revealing his possession of the Marauders' Map to the rest of the staff.

Unhappy with himself for having nothing better to suggest, Harry felt worse as the meeting broke up than before it started. At least the Headmaster attempted no private chat. Discussion of his own conduct would only add to Harry's foreboding over the recent turn of events.

His escape attempt was no more successful than Ludo Bagman's.

The Deputy Headmistress halted Ron and Harry in Dumbledore's landing. Her face stony, she admonished, “I trust that neither of you will do anything rash. The situation is extremely delicate, and I will not allow damage to either Miss Granger's or Mister Krum's reputations without just cause. Am I clear?”

“Umm … yes, ma'am,” Ron responded.

Harry grunted something unintelligible.

“Mister Potter?”

“What?”

“Am I clear?”

“As Veritaserum, Professor.”

“Very well.”

The instant am opening presented itself, Ron bolted down the stairs, Harry in hot pursuit.

Neither stopped before passing Dumbledore's guardian gargoyle. “Ron, wait, dammit,” Harry puffed, as the two entered the largely empty hallway.

“What do you want?” Ron barked testily, his red face nearly matching his hair. “The only thing I've to say to you is knock bloody Krum off his broom tomorrow - captain's orders.”

Harry ignored the directive. “Dammit, why didn't you back me up? You know Hermione. You had to think Bagman was full of shite, too, but except that once….”

Ron made an unpleasant face, but at least kept talking. “Well, Harry, some of us can afford to piss off people like Bagman, but unfortunately I can't,” he added brutally.

Harry's response started off sounding as if Ron had just kicked him in a most strategic location. “What?! This is Hermione we're talking about! She doesn't just run off to shag somebody, not even bloody Krum!”

A couple of Hufflepuff fifth-year girls cast questioning looks over their shoulders as they passed by.

“At least take it inside,” Ron hissed. He pulled Harry into a vacant classroom. Its only occupant, a house-elf cleaning out desks for the summer, squeaked and popped away.

Ron and Harry had barely spoken for weeks. Harry half expected Ron to start screaming insults, or even to try cursing him again. A totally unexpected, subdued Ron failed to meet Harry's eyes.

“Yeah, about Hermione … I know,” Ron mumbled. “It's also my career at stake. You've probably forgotten, if you ever cared, but at that Slug Club meeting, Bagman said he'd help me get a professional Quidditch tryout. I expect he could just as easily prevent that … if I got on his bad side….”

Harry could hardly believe his ears. “Ron … what's more important? This is Hermione we're talking about.”

“Don't Hermione me. You've no right…. Besides, I bloody well know that,” Ron shot back, his ongoing issues with Harry rapidly overcoming shame at his own timidity. “But what effing good would it do? You heard the same crap in there that I did. Nobody has a clue…. Dammit.”

Ron looked like he wanted to hit something.

“What if it's really Death Eaters?” Harry interrupted. “What then?”

Ron looked like he wanted to hit Harry.

Ron hit him with words instead. “Then I hope you can bloody well live with yourself,” he sneered. “You probably know better than me what's likely to happen…. It's too goddamn late, anyway. If it's really Death Eaters, then whatever's gonna happen is happening right frigging now. You'd better pray it's not … because if it is…. Hell! We'd need a miracle…. Harry?”

The air in that deserted Hogwarts classroom grew chilly - downright frosty. The lights flickered. Rounding on Harry, Ron saw him slumped at a desk. He was partially bent over, elbows on the desktop, both hands on his forehead, breathing hard.

Still, At least Harry did not seem dangerous; no glowing, ambient magic arced between his fingertips. Harry eyes bore a distant stare - Occlumency, Ron recognised - a strong dose. Ron's nostrils flared at a strange smell, sickeningly sweet, like burnt candy floss.

“Harry?”

“A miracle,” Harry finally spoke, his deadly serious tone pinning Ron in place. “If I get it … are you in?”

“In … in for what?” Ron was surprised and somewhat scared, at Harry's inflection, his question, and his smouldering green eyes.

“Friendship,” Harry replied, looking determined. “No different than Stonehenge, really.”

The penny dropped. “Why not tell Dumbledore, or your goblin pals?” Ron resisted. “That would be loads safer - for everybody.”

“Safe? Like hell,” Harry retorted. “Death Eaters mean mortal danger, and not just the Burrow's blasted clock. Remember that new prophecy - the one we talked about from that Lilithu? It's in play. Dumbledore's the `Watcher'; has to be. Tell him, and Hermione's as good as dead. Same with the goblins, I'm afraid.”

“Because of that prophecy … you think Dumbledore's being watched?” Ron asked, astonished.

“Yeah, that's about it, innit?” Harry answered, displeased at Ron for having forgotten something so important. “Beyond that … shite!”

“What?”

Harry's answer seemed a non sequitur, “Voldemort's Horcruxes. Dumbledore and I are searching for one tonight. That's bothered me the moment I heard about Hermione. Seems too bloody convenient….”

Ron bit back the bile that rose at this latest reaffirmation of Harry's special status. “Why not just postpone the damn thing?”

“Can't,” Harry revealed. “Tonight's low spring tide … and Dumbledore says that's important … must be near the ocean or something. But … if the Watcher's being watched….”

“Bet the whole thing's a trap,” Ron caught on. “Damn straight.”

“But unless we go, whoever's watching Dumbledore will know we know … and they'd kill Hermione. I have a very bad feeling about this.”

“Bloody zugzwang,” Ron growled.

“What?” Harry focused on Ron. Unlike Hermione, Ron rarely used unfamiliar words.

“Wizard Chess - usually how you end up,” Ron explained. “I make you move, but every move stinks. Dunno why, but that's `zugzwang'. If you're right, then we're all screwed.” Angry and perplexed, Ron lapsed into silence.

“So, are you in? Trap or no?” Harry reiterated his original point. “She's told me she'd die believing I'd save her. If somehow we get that miracle…. The moment I know where to go, that's what I'm doing. You can come, or stay. Your call.”

Ron looked thoughtful; then sighed. “Yeah, I'm in…. But for her, not you. If you hadn't shagged my baby sister, none of this crap would've happened.”

* * * *

Harry's next several hours were fidgety and most uncomfortable. He felt he was waiting for something terrible and inevitable. That became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Least fulfilled was Ginny Weasley - she of the “no shagging during O.W.L.s” ukase. It had made a virtue of necessity, given her accident.

Kelly's scandalous magazine discussed not just panty lines, but what lay beneath. An article about waxes caught her fancy; something Harry might like. She decided to give that a go….

But Ginny had no wax, and knew no spell to conjure some.

She recalled seeing blue sealing wax in the Domestic Magic classroom.

Bad, bad move.

Sealing wax was much thicker than the magazine's recommended paraffin. It required more heat, and hurt so much going on and coming off.

Pain wound up the least of her problems.

Magical sealing wax stained whatever it touched.

Ginny's homemade Brazilian wax job left her blue - blue morpho butterfly blue.

She felt ridiculous. Help from Madam Pomfrey was out of the question. Nor could she possibly tap her mum's deep knowledge of domestic spells. A library book provided a “household cleaning” solution, but it would take a week.

Thus, the true reason for Ginny's insistence on week-long celibacy: bright blue bald bits.

Now, that week was over, as was her problem. At precisely four in the afternoon - released from O.W.L. purgatory - she shot out of the Great Hall, randy as hell looking for Harry. Thanks largely to Harry's goblin concealments, she intended, in her own words, “to get shagged rotten.”

Things hardly turned out as she hoped.

She tried everything imaginable, even offering herself in ways she found distasteful. Nothing could shake Harry's melancholy and get him into the mood. Something major - something bad - plainly preoccupied him.

What a time for Harry to make the physically unable to perform list! Although something was plainly wrong, Harry was tight-lipped. With great effort, she pried it out of him.

“I'm sorry, Harry, really,” Ginny apologised mournfully. Lifting her head above the edge of Professor Binns' former bed, she sat up and let her wooziness clear. “I shouldn't have deprived you all week - you've been wanking. That has to be it….”

Harry grimaced, almost scowled. “No, not at all … not even close.”

“Then what?” Ginny pouted, her frustration boiling over. “I'm your girlfriend. You're supposed to tell me things…. I can't believe I'm suddenly so ugly that you don't want to shag anymore….” Tears glistened in her eyes.

Harry hated trying to comfort crying women. “No, Ginny, it's not like that. This has nothing to do with you, nothing at all. It's….”

“It's what, Harry? Please, can't tell me? Please?”

“It's … complicated, and you won't like it.”

“Doesn't matter,” Ginny replied. “To be in love, we have to get over things like this. I want to help….” She moved closer; to cuddle him and perhaps try again to resuscitate his libido.

“Okay,” Harry finally gave in. “It's … it's Hermione. She's missing. Nobody knows where she is. They're keeping it quiet. She had a lunch date with Viktor Krum. They vanished and haven't come back. Some people think they went off … to carry on….”

Ginny's heart nearly stopped when Harry mentioned Hermione. Was everything falling apart? As Harry continued, she quickly recovered. No, he was not still in love with her….

“Shouldn't you just be happy for Hermione? Her timing's hurtful, with Krum, and the match tomorrow….”

“No, I don't believe that,” Harry interrupted, sounding hurt. “I know her. She's not that type….”

“But it's Krum,” Ginny insisted. “You have to admit, he'd be quite a catch. And a couple of years ago, he did ask her….”

“NO!” Harry raised his voice, silencing her. “I wish I could think that, but I can't.”

“Then what?” Ginny squawked, not appreciating Harry's tone. “Don't go all Ron on me, claiming Krum's evil or something….”

“Okay, I won't,” Harry hissed, shifting to the opposite end of the bed. “But … I don't know…. I've no proof; not the slightest clue where she might be, but … it's just not like her.”

Ginny changed her tack. “Harry, if you're so worried, talk to somebody who can do something. Let's go see Dumbledore….”

“Already did,” Harry revealed, sounding even more downcast. “Met with him, and others, for a whole useless hour during your O.W.L. Nobody has any bloody idea … except to keep it a secret….”

“Then, haven't you done all you could?” Ginny reassured whilst wriggling towards him. “Don't beat yourself up. She's her own person, Harry. She's not your responsibility, not anym….”

Harry jumped to his feet, an unfamiliar (to Ginny) burning in his green eyes. “She's still my friend, Ginny.” Harry declared, his voice flat and dangerous. “As much as Ron…. Look, I'm just not peckish … sorry. Accio clothes! I think I should try to sleep in my own bed. I'll be seeing Dumbledore again, you know….”

Ah yes - the Headmaster's mysterious mission - so top secret that Harry would not even disclose what it was, let alone take her along. “All right, Luv,” she gave up miserably, utterly defeated. “Just, just … don't do anything dangerous. I need you in one piece for the match, you know … and afterwards…. I'll bring up dinner, like I promised. Don't you worry about that.”

With sexual failure added to his accumulated baggage, Harry fled to his comparatively inviting four-poster before Ginny finished dressing. He craved a few hours sleep - a respite from the unpleasant feelings banging painfully about inside his skull.

That was not to be either. He had no Dreamless Sleep Potion.

Hermione - his mind could not escape that woman. Her sound, the sound of danger, haunted him. Unstoppable worries of Hermione in trouble and needing him to come for her drove sleep away. With slumber about to prevail, his unconscious generated premonitions of Death Eaters doing terrible, unspeakable things to her - shocking him awake.

He was almost nostalgic for his old connexion to Voldemort. At least he might have some idea what to do.

More than two tense, tossing hours passed behind Harry's darkened bed curtains. He needed sleep; dreaded sleep; and dreaded even more that, inevitably, he had to get up and face the real world - with everything as bad as before … if not worse….

Youch!!

A painful sensation jolted him to full wakefulness.

The garnets - both of them - burned fiercely in their settings.

* * * *

Although not knowing where she was, Hermione concluded from fresher smelling air that she had been moved. No longer blindfolded, she still could not see. Whether from a Blinding Hex, or maybe Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder, made no difference. Without her wand, and with her hands securely tied behind her, she was helpless.

Since falling victim to Krum's disguised Portkey, Hermione had been repeatedly Stunned. It could have been worse; she had not been tortured. Her brief conscious moments had confirmed that, yes, she was being held by black-robed, silver-masked Death Eaters.

Stout magical ropes bound Hermione tightly to a chair. After a few minutes, the chair's intricately carved bumps and indentations were exquisitely uncomfortable, and a nasty bruise on her left hip did not help matters. The chair's very ostentation was suggestive. The Portkey's destination had been threadbare; her current location was probably the dungeon of some old pure-blooded manor house - maybe even Viktor Krum's castle.

Whilst the conjured ropes held her fast, they had some benefits. They absorbed most of the last Stunner directed at her. Otherwise, she would not be awake.

To Hermione, the greatest mystery was that she lived at all. Since that Death Eater hoax early in the Term, she assumed she was marked for death - very messy death. After Stonehenge, Tonks had confirmed from Auror sources that Voldemort's minions had standing orders to kill her as quickly and unceremoniously as possible.

Why was she still alive?

Was she bait - a lure for Harry? Or were more cards in play? Harry was supposed to hunt a Horcrux tonight. Was her abduction intended to prevent that? Were Death Eaters trying to beat Harry to the low tide and move the Horcrux to safe-keeping?

Her head throbbed with unanswered questions - most prominently would she live through this very dark night?

* * * *

Red eyes glinting, Lord Voldemort slid his long, pale fingers across the desk's fine, almost lustrous French walnut surface. From here Proprietors of Château Blackwalls ran this fief. He traced the roughness of a still warm curse scar. “Pity, such damage, but minor, all things considered…. Lucius, report!”

A masked Death Eater in the erstwhile Proprietor's office stepped forward almost jauntily. For once, he had almost entirely good news for his Master.

“We control the Château fully, and all the grounds that concern us. We achieved total surprise. Instead of fighting for their new Proprietor,” Malfoy sneered the word, “almost all the staff fled through an escape tunnel that, we believe, leads to goblin territory. Their escape was….”

“Lucius,” the Dark Lord snapped at his lieutenant, “does not a mass escape suggest that surprise was less than total? And the goblins … won't they now oppose us?”

“My Lord, I cannot, of course, be certain, but we've captured Potter's second. He claims to be a sympathiser,” Malfoy explained himself. “He appeared to be sabotaging the Château's wards for our benefit…. He showed one of my men a logbook. Potter ordered evacuation drills almost daily since that tunnel was completed almost a month ago. Their preparedness, that is to flee, does not bespeak failure of our effort.”

“Very well, and the goblins?” the Dark Lord pressed.

“Potter's second states that the goblins will not enter Château grounds without express authorisation. That matches intelligence we've received from multiple sources. My understanding is that Potter is otherwise engaged this evening and unavailable to approve such an incursion.”

“Your understanding is correct,” Lord Voldemort confirmed with satisfaction. Nobody, save himself, knew all the pieces of tonight's puzzle.

“As a precaution, we rendered the tunnel impassible with liberal use of the Magmacious Curse, and for good measure collapsed its last hundred metres.”

“Very well, what of Potter's supposed elven army?” the Dark Lord scoffed at the concept. “Not much in evidence, it appears.”

“Rumours of Potter's manumitting house-elves and training them to fight wizards appear quite overstated,” Malfoy reported. “We encountered no such thing. Even so, Ima Hogg and her team are carrying out your orders. Every elf's magic is being bonded as directed. Many Château elves misperceive Hogg as still working for Potter, facilitating our efforts. Indeed, I even hope to recapture a stray elf of my own….”

The Dark Lord waved Malfoy off. “Yaxley,” he barked. “Are the necessary preparations underway?”

“Yes, My Lord,” the high-ranking Death Eater answered. “Candace and Pettigrew are preparing the grounds and themselves, as directed.”

The Dark Lord scowled. “Is Pettigrew being supervised?”

“Umm … no, My Lord, he said knew the workings for the necessary spells from experience, better than any of our men.”

“That may be true,” Lord Voldemort replied slowly, “but Pettigrew is a bumbler. I'd best personally supervise him. Our somewhat irksome new recruit, how did he perform his assignment?”

“Krum, My Lord?”

Voldemort nodded.

“He obeyed orders immediately and well,” Yaxley evaluated. “Whilst rather a prima donna, he is undoubtedly useful. His power exceeds most of your servants, and his instincts are good. He personally captured Potter's second - incapacitating him before he could disable all of the wards. Somewhat troubling, though, is Krum not inflicting lasting injury. His reluctance to use … more forceful … measures suggests distaste for ordinary Death Eater practices … and how we keep potential waiverers in line.”

“Then you must train him more vigourously,” Voldemort chuckled. “Make that your personal project…. Now, bring in Potter's slippery second, I wish to evaluate him.”

Within moments, an Apparition pop heralded the arrival of Jerry McAllister and his Death Eater captor. Patricia Byrd, a Beauxbatons mission veteran, shoved the lightly bound man forward. He half knelt, half fell at Lord Voldemort's feet. Despite his hands bound behind his back, he clumsily tried kissing his new master's robes. “My Lord….”

“You were captured whilst attempting to destroy the wards,” Voldemort declared ominously. “Explain yourself.”

“Ever since I created the wards' back door … for Lucius and Bella, I have expected something … something like this,” McAllister answered. “When an unscheduled evacuation sounded, instead of fleeing with the rest, I immediately sought to disable wards that might stop your forces … the Unplottablility function, Cave Inimicum, Anti-Apparition…. I wasn't finished when I was Stunned….”

“Yes,” the Dark Lord smiled. “Wouldn't want the Château to vanish, now would we? Rise - Lucius and Bella have informed me of your efforts….”

With palpable relief, McAllister struggled to his feet.

“Yes … let me see your Mudblooded bitch - Legilimens!”

“AAAEEEE!” McAllister screamed as Voldemort's powerful Legilimency tore at his mind. The Dark Lord was quick. In under a minute, he hurled McAllister's limp body backwards. “As I suspected,” Voldemort sneered. “He is a liar. Lucius! Did you not know that his Mudblood was spirited from the country - to the wilds of British Columbia - after Stonehenge?”

Malfoy was dumbfounded. With all that had happened, he had never bothered to recheck that. “No My Lord, I had the integrity of McAllister's secret entrance, the one we used successfully tonight, checked on a weekly basis. It was always intact….”

“Silence, you fool!” Voldemort roared. “This development suggests that we may be compromised. I want guards posted and fliers overhead.” The Dark Lord pointed menacingly at McAllister, who was groaning and trying to crawl. “I may yet order my faithful, competent servants to pay a visit to Comox, wherever that is. It may be that Potter's second is a double crosser. Lock him up, but do not kill him - not yet - he may still be useful….”

A disturbance outside the door distracted everyone. One of the raised voices was drearily familiar.

“Apparently our troublesome recruit remains troubled,” the Dark Lord hissed. Then he commanded, “Let Krum in.”

McAllister was shoved aside. An upset Viktor Krum entered, breathing heavily, his cheeks and ears ruddy. A rather stiff-necked Lucius Malfoy ushered him into Lord Voldemort's presence.

“My Lord,” Krum clicked his boots, knelt, and woodenly kissed the hem of the Dark Lord's robes. Then he waited, tensely, for permission to rise.

Shaking his head, the Dark Lord muttered, “Krum, Krum, Krum…. What am I to do with you? Rise…. You served me well - bringing me Potter's former Mudblood. You fought well, I am told. But you cause trouble within the ranks…. State your case.”

“Da, my Lord,” Krum began. “I caught that man,” he pointed at McAllister, “before he could destroy the vards.”

“So I have heard,” Lord Voldemort shrugged. “I have other things to do. What is your problem?”

“If my Master pleases, some others - who isn't important - have said that Her-my-o-nee is to be…. Vell, that vhat vill happen tonight vill destroy her mind … that she vill be left … a vegetable. I tell them, no, my Master promises, but they insist. I tell them, ve have arrangement, and they are liars. They taunt me about Her-my-o-nee, so I come to see you, my Lord, to prove they are liars….”

The Dark Lord paused before answering. Krum had kept the key part of their bargain and brought him the Mudblood. More generally, the world-famous Quidditch star promised to be highly useful; particularly in assisting Ludo Bagman.

But Krum had just demonstrated that, whatever fealty he professed to the cause, his first loyalty lay elsewhere. That was troubling; very troubling. Treason would never be tolerated.

“I promised you that Potter's former Mudblood is yours for the rest of your two lives,” the Dark Lord carefully stated. “I keep my commitments and reward loyal followers richly. What I require of her tonight will neither kill her nor, as you put it, `turn her into a vegetable.' In fact, she has not been harmed….”

Lord Voldemort paused for effect, and then ordered, “Bring Potter's Mudblood ex to me, now.”

Instantly responsive to the Dark Lord's command, two Death Eaters - including one of Krum's unnamed tormentors - shot out the door at a dead run.

Within two minutes, the fireplace flared green, heralding their return with Hermione in tow. Roughly, but not brutally, they hustled the disoriented girl into Lord Voldemort's presence. Heavily bound by magical ropes, and still blinded, Hermione staggered into Lucius Malfoy, who haughtily pushed her away. For good measure, he deliberately tripped her with his snake-headed cane.

Hermione fell in a heap almost at Viktor's feet and lay still, perfectly conscious, but afraid of what awaited her at the hands of the unseen Dark wizards all about her.

Far back in the room, pinned against the Château's da Vinci by two Death Eaters, Jerry McAllister nearly went limp when Hermione appeared. The intrusion must have signalled Harry. He had deliberately distracted Voldemort's Legilimency in the hope - so far realised - that the Dark Lord would not search further. More than ever, Jerry realised that everything depended on Harry.

“Release her bindings,” the Dark Lord hissed.

A Death Eater uttered, “Finite.” The ropes restraining Hermione vanished.

“Don't vorry, Her-My-O-Nee,” Krum tried reassuring her. He gently slipped an arm under her shoulder and lifted Hermione to her feet. “Vith me, you vill be safe.”

“Safe?” Hermione screeched. “Are you stupid as well as phony? You brought me here!” Still sightless, she reared back and struck out blindly towards Krum's voice. Krum easily dodged her roundhouse right. Hermione spun around and nearly fell. To keep her standing, and to prevent further assault, Viktor caught her from behind and pinned her arms to her side, firmly but not painfully.

Dispensing with any request for the spell's caster to act, Lord Voldemort casually waved his wand. “Finite.”

Vision abruptly restored, Hermione found herself face to face with Voldemort for the first time. Although Harry had described similar encounters, nothing had prepared her for the terrifying experience.

Hermione was utterly convinced she was going to die. Any word could be her last.

She would have screamed, but Hermione's voice betrayed her. “Y-y-you,” emerged in a hoarse whisper. Averting her eyes to avoid Voldemort's notorious Legilimency; she resumed struggling against Krum's iron grip - sufficiently abusing his shins that the ordinarily stoic Bulgarian winced.

The Dark Lord noticed.

“Proof positive, my dear Viktor,” the Dark Lord pronounced sarcastically. “I keep my promises. That Mudblood is alive, well, and evidently not at all pleased with her circumstances.” The last remark prompted grim laughter from the onlooking Death Eaters.

Voldemort began strutting about, taunting his captive as a cat plays with a mouse. “But I, as your Master, am both bountiful and merciful. I promised you could have her, and you shall…. With my compliments….”

“Evanesco!”

Instantaneously, Hermione's clothes vanished; leaving her completely exposed before a roomful of leering Death Eaters.

Viktor was shocked enough to release her. Dropping into a crouch, futilely trying for modesty with her hands, Hermione screamed, “YOU INCONCEIVABLE BAS…!!”

Jamming his wand into Hermione's side, Viktor roared, “SCHLAFENZEE!”

The naked girl slumped bonelessly in Viktor's arms, sound asleep, her insult to the Dark Lord uncompleted.

“No. No. No.” the Dark Lord chided the Bulgarian. “That was far too lenient for so spirited a Mudblood. You merely removed her will - you did not crush it. That will not do. Finite!” Voldemort ended Krum's Sleeping Charm. “You must break her….”

Terrified or no, Hermione had to protest. “He'll never....”

The Dark Lord's eyes gleamed as he cast, “Paraphilius!”

“Ummgh. Ummgh.” A black rubber ball gag materialised in Hermione's mouth, reducing her speech to dull grunts.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Hermione went stiff as a board. Had Viktor not supported her, she would have toppled over helplessly.

“Now - your turn. Finite.” The ball gag vanished. Krum felt Hermione squirming again.

“Vot?”

The Dark Lord was implacable. “You heard me. Chastise her as severely as such Mudblood conduct warrants.”

Mechanically, Krum obeyed. Within seconds Hermione was again incapacitated - but not before biting one of Krum's fingers that wandered too close to her mouth. She drew blood.

“You have an hour, Viktor, to enjoy my hospitality, before I require your Mudblood's services,” the Master informed his recently recruited minion. “Further proving my benevolence, I am placing the Proprietor's bedroom at your disposal. Have your way with her. Use Quadrastraintus if she causes further problems. Now go! Lord Voldemort commands it!”

Noticing a Château elf, presumably suitably bonded, cowering in a corner, Lord Voldemort ordered, “You, elf, show him the way.”

Viktor Krum did not need to be told twice. Rapidly, without appearing to panic, Krum hoisted Hermione's immobile form across his shoulders, vainly attempting to preserve her decency.

Krum scowled at the purpling bruise on her side.

Scrutinising the departing Bulgarian, Lord Voldemort again drew his wand. “And you shall have her - in every way…,” the Dark Lord muttered, an evil smile crossing his lips as he aimed. “Imperio!”

The Unforgiveable hit Krum squarely in the back. He did not respond, as if he never felt it - typical of one ordered to do what he already desired.

“Byrd,” Lord Voldemort commanded once Krum was beyond earshot. “Go to Hogg immediately. I want a trustworthy elf dispatched to the Proprietor's bedroom. For the next hour the elf is to observe everything, but do nothing. Then it is to provide me with a full report. I shall be outdoors, supervising preparations for this evening's festivities.”

“Yes my Lord,” Byrd instantly agreed.

“I repeat - under no circumstances is the elf to make its presence known to either of those two. I simply wish to know what transpires.”

“Now, I have more important things to do.”

* * * *

Her body might be paralysed, but Hermione's mind was anything but. It reeled from multiple shocks. She had survived Voldemort's malign presence….

Krum was a Death Eater, and had deliberately kidnapped her….

She was Voldemort's prize for Krum….

Krum was Imperiused….

Oh Merlin! She was about to be raped … in the Proprietor's bedroom….

What the hell?

She was at Château Blackwalls….

Why…?

Proof positive, whatever Voldemort planned was directed against Harry…. Could she somehow contact him…?

Would he come after her…?

Would he even care…?

To avoid sinking into black depths of despair when she most needed all her wits, Hermione concentrated on her most immediate problem - Viktor Krum. Tonks had trained her, thoroughly and well, in wandless magic for incapacitating and even emasculating a would-be rapist. She had to pick the right moment, but once she dispatched Krum she would worry about everything else.

Bouncing rigidly on Krum's shoulder towards the Proprietor's Suite, Hermione revised Tonks' defensive magic. It was her only hope.

Stiff as a board, Hermione heard, but could not see, Krum firmly close the vast bedroom's door. “Imperturbatus!” he incanted. Something he kicked aside rattled across the floor.

Krum dipped. With a rustle he pulled back a sheet. The scene before Hermione's immobile eyes spun dizzyingly. Surprisingly gently, Krum laid her on the bed and instantly pulled the sheet over her. Staring at the ceiling, she saw unmistakable magical vandalism, starting with the four-poster, which had lost its canopy. The walls, the ceiling, the artwork - all defaced with ugly, black curse marks.

Hearing Krum's footsteps, Hermione braced herself.

“Her-My-O-Nee, I am more sorry than I can express,” Krum spoke, and amazingly, his voice carried a ring of truth. “I vish to end…. Ahk - po diavolite…. Finite!”

The ball gag vanished.

“That disgusting thing….”

Still paralysed, Hermione shuddered internally when Krum's shadow fell over her. His wand was drawn. She readied her protective magic….

Krum merely made a circling motion about her head.

Without warning, he uttered two spells. “Finite! Petrificus ceteris!” He cast too quickly for Hermione react in between.

The result resembled something Shak once did to Harry. She could speak and move her head, but nothing else.

“Vere in here do you….?”

“I'm warning you, Krum,” Hermione growled, her teeth tightly clenched. “You'd better kill me first, because if you try raping me….”

“…keep any clothes?”

“…I'll take…. Clothes?”

“Da. Clothes. If you haven't noticed, you need something to vear.”

Hermione maintained her guard. “Like hell. Fat chance. You're planning to rape me. Don't think I'll give….”

“I vould never rape you, Her-My-O-Nee. Votever the Dark Lord might say. I vould sooner kill myself.”

Hermione could hardly believe her ears. “What?! Have you learnt to throw off the Imperius?”

“Ne, Her-My-O-Nee … I only vish I vere that capable. Is much simpler,” Krum said, sounding disgusted at himself. “Is why I have not released you. I vos already under Imperius - the Dark Lord, I don't think he knows. Now vere are any clothes?”

Hermione allowed herself a hope that, at least, she did not face imminent sexual violation. “I left some in the closet to the right of the bed, if they're not ransacked.”

“I go look.”

Even if not a rapist, Viktor was still Imperiused, so Hermione maintained her defensive posture. “Imperiused to do what?” she demanded, not sure if any answer would be believable.

“I cannot let you escape,” Viktor answered. “I vould help if I could, because I'm convinced my bargain vith the Dark Lord is horrible mistake.”

Hermione's expression hardened with Viktor's reference to her deliberate kidnapping. Playing for time, she sought an opening. To escape, she had to surprise the Bulgarian. If she could just reach the Château's labyrinthine interior - she knew virtually foolproof hiding places. “You'd better have a damn good explanation,” she warned.

“Da, but … please, Her-My-O-Nee, first, clothes. I am uncomfortable … this offends my sense of … decency.”

“Decency?” Hermione snorted. “Right, but, giving me to Death Eaters doesn't?”

Viktor flinched. “True enough.” He raised his wand. An alarmed look passed over Hermione's face, prompting him to add. “Ne, nothing bad. I am only ending rest of the spell.”

First, he guarded himself with a dual Protego against both magic and physical objects. The shield blocked any outgoing magic, preventing Hermione from being cursed. Uttering “Finite,” he ended the partial Petrificus.

Viktor moved toward the closet looking for suitable clothing. “What was that for?” Hermione attempted conversation.

Viktor flashed a crooked smile. “I am Imperiused, not stupid. I am your greatest admirer, Her-My-O-Nee. You are brilliant. Should you know vandless magic along vith everything else, you attack ven my back is turned. I vould do, vere I you.”

“You'd deserve it,” Hermione grumbled, neither confirming nor denying knowledge of wandless magic.

“Regrettably, I know,” Viktor grunted. “In other vays, I am most stupid….”

Since total nudity hindered any escape, Hermione did not bolt. She studied her surroundings as Viktor foraged in the thoroughly disordered closet. Death Eaters had looted anything of value, and destroyed much that they left behind. Jagged glass shards gaped from leaded windows, furniture was smashed, carpets slashed, and poor Godric's portrait used for target practice. The ruined windows probably remained locked, and were four storeys up. She had no wand. An Imperiused Viktor, whilst preferable a rapist, remained untrustworthy. A guard was probably right outside the door.

The Bulgarian emerged. Draped over his left arm were one of her school robes, a pair of loose fitting khaki pants, and a blue t-shirt of Star Wars armoured walkers mounting each other saying “Make Love, Not War.” Viktor's right hand held, rather gingerly, two pairs of grey-green Auror-issue knickers, beige knee socks, and a pair of black patent leather shoes which, although not hers, might fit decently.

Hermione could have wept with relief seeing those particular undergarments, but her poker face would do an East End card shark proud. With them on, her honour would no longer be at Viktor Krum's mercy.

Not that he seemed very threatening. He seemed embarrassed by her Transfiguration of one set of knickers into a passable brassiere.

After dressing beneath the sheet, Hermione anxiously turned towards an equally nervous Krum, “Did Voldemort really mean that, due to your arrangement, whatever it is, he won't kill me. I can't believe it….”

Krum, still under his Protego, settled into the only chair sufficiently intact to support his weight. On the bed, Hermione warily faced him.

“Da,” Krum began. “The Dark Lord is powerful. Somehow, he knows almost everything. Barely a month ago - vith your rift vith Potter still news - he personally surprised me in Braga, vere ve had played exhibition. I thought I vas dead. Instead, he Legilimenced me … looked into my heart. He saw my dreams, my fears, my desires … and that I still love you.”

“Pfbbt,” Hermione expressed her disbelief.

“That … that is true. Everything in my letter, truth … absolutely. You are so different….”

“Spare me, Viktor,” Hermione interrupted. “Before, I might have been interested. Now I'm just repulsed. I'm sure you know why.”

His shoulders slumped, although his Protego remained, glowing faintly blue-white. “Da, I am as much fool as Potter. Anyvay, the Dark Lord promised that anything and everything vas possible. He knew, somehow, about … Prague … when I vas vith … you'd call them `groupies.' It vas only because their looks … they remind me of … umm … you. He knew that.”

“Instead of killing me, he offered proposition - one he promised vould save your life … the only vay, he said. If you stayed vith Potter, the Dark Lord swore you vould die as prime enemy before I ever saw you again. If you did nothing, same outcome, as an undesirable Mud… er … Muggle-born. The only vay you vould live, he said vas vith me.”

“I had vanted that for years … believe that, if nothing else, and vith your death the only alternative…. It vas offer I could not refuse. I only had to bring you to him - for this one night - then you vere safe, and mine, forever.”

If Krum hoped for Hermione's sympathy, he was grossly mistaken. She was incensed. “So you and Voldemort - made this little deal, hoping I'd never know? Don't I get my say? Maybe I'd rather die, on my own terms….”

She broke off her rant. Hermione's eyebrows shot up - she put two and two together … and this time came up with five.

“So that's it,” she hissed dangerously, her eyes glinting. “Why you went to the Beauxbatons ball … to tidy things up with Harry. To have him connive in your little scheme…. You and he conspiring to decide my future, behind my back! Well … I don't appreciate…. Oppugno!”

Krum already assumed she knew wandless magic. Hermione was giving nothing away. She hoped that, perhaps, Krum's shield was not as robust as it appeared.

She learnt otherwise. The conjured starlings bounced harmlessly off Viktor's Protego and dissipated, merely startling him.

“No! That's wrong,” Krum protested. “I only vent to ball to find you. I vanted to ask you personally to come on, vell, today's date. I said nothing to him, only asking vere ver you…. I svear I vas not making arrangement. Potter is stupid.”

“No, he's not,” Hermione disagreed.

“Yes, he is. He gave you up. That vas stupid.” Krum spoke softly, hanging his head.

Hermione had no response, nor any desire to discuss Harry with the traitorous Krum.

She chanced another subject. “So, I imagine that the guard outside our door wonders why I haven't been screaming.”

Viktor's expression turned glassy-eyed. “I vish I could answer, but no. That information might help you escape.”

She could see the Imperius in his eyes. Viktor was truthful about that. Nothing she did could enlist his help. His shield was too strong for her wandless magic, and he would not drop it. Any escape attempt must be postponed … so Hermione tried learning what she could about later.

“Then, what does Voldemort have in store for me,” she asked. “That won't help me escape.” She pinned him with her patented glare. “You owe me that much.”

“Is big secret,” Krum answered. “Nobody at my Death Eater level knows. And I'm … not exactly close vith the rest. They … they're jealous of my special arrangement vith the Dark Lord. I did hear one rumour, rather odd … probably wrong.”

Hermione thought she might learn something useful - if only Death Eater scuttlebutt. “What?” she prodded.

“I overhear one telling another that ve're here because this is ancestral home of Bella Lestrange.”

“Lestrange? But since Stonehenge, nobody's even…. Oh, Merlin…!”

Should what Krum just said be true, the Dark Lord had lied to him from the onset. To perform that spell correctly, she - the enemy - had to die at its conclusion. Hermione had read that in black and white.

* * * *

Harry yanked out both rings before the burning garnets did lasting damage to his navel. His thumbs confirmed the worst. Both alarms had tripped essentially simultaneously.

Death Eaters had invaded the Château, with both Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange in their midst.

Could this relate to Hermione's disappearance? Harry's logical mind could deduce no relationship between Hermione, or Krum, and anything at the Château. Hermione had visited only as his guest, during their now-ended relationship. Krum had never set foot there - and never would as long as Harry was Proprietor.

Harry's instinctive heart jumped to the opposite conclusion. Hermione had disappeared on the same day that Death Eaters invaded the Château. Nothing else mattered. The timing was too close for coincidence.

These events had to be connected … somehow.

Tonight he was going to hunt Horcruxes with the Headmaster. That was probably connected, too.

Wait a minute…. Harry had a map of the Château - like the Marauder's map. McAllister had sent it.

Where in Hades was it when he needed it?

Harry tore into his trunk, tossing its contents about. A couple frantic minutes' rooting produced the map. He uttered the default pass-phrase (having not bothered to personalise it) provided by McAllister. “I solemnly swear I am Harry Potter, the Proprietor of Blackwalls.”

The map unfolded. The Château's boundaries appeared … and nothing else.

“Damn,” Harry swore. He remembered that the map functioned only when physically within the Château's grounds, a privacy feature, according to McAllister. Disgusted, he tossed the useless map aside.

What else could he do? Sending McAllister an owl took too long. If the Death Eaters had taken over, an owl would be counterproductive, endangering his wily majordomo.

If his gut were right - Harry trusted his instincts - he could only approach Ron, not Dumbledore or the goblins, without risking Hermione's life.

So Lilithu's prophecy foretold. He had never encountered a more powerful seer. Harry and Hermione had debated its meaning, and had jointly reached that, their best conclusion.

He could not Floo. Dumbledore would know.

Flying a broom would take almost as long as an owl, and his appointment with Dumbledore was now fast approaching.

Even if his Patronus could travel that distance (doubtful), it was too noticeable.

He could not bear doing nothing - not with Hermione's life at stake.

Harry was about to pull his hair out.

“Damn, damn, damn, damn.”

Suddenly, an idea. “House-elves!” he nearly shouted. Elves came when their - he loathed the term - masters demanded. “Dobby!” he called in a firm voice.

Then he waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Nothing.

Dobby did not appear. Increasingly frantic, Harry tried again, “Blonny!” That name hardly escaped his mouth when, ruefully, Harry recalled that this elf was dead.

Embarrassed and disgusted, Harry flopped on his bed. Try as he might, he could not remember any living Château elf's name save Dobby - not even last December's carriage driver.

“Zippy! Tippy! Willy!” He shouted random names with no success.

Breathing fast, Harry entertained increasingly desperate thoughts. Should he say to hell with everything and simply fly his Valkyrie to the Château? Should he say to hell with the Sisters' prophecy and tell Dumbledore?

Was Hermione - at this very moment - dying at the hands of Death Eaters? Why at the Château?

Harry had no clue what to do. Vigorously he shook his head, trying to rattle his brain back into decent thinking mode, when his eyes fell on….

…The uninhabited frame of Godric Gryffindor's replacement portrait.

Portraits! Likenesses in magical portraits can travel between them almost instantly, and at practically any distance. After McAllister's redecorating, the Château had at least three Gryffindor portraits.

Unless the Death Eaters destroyed them.

Dumbledore had showed him a spell last summer to summon a portrait's resident.

Dammit! Harry could not remember that, either.

Some sort of powder had been involved and should still be in his trunk. The Twins swore that they collected all his belongings from Privet Drive after Harry's Death Eater kidnapping - even what was under that loose floorboard. Surely, they would have collected the powder.

Again Harry lunged for his trunk. Rummaging was too slow. He inverted it and dumped its contents on the floor.

In the mess, he found only a silver tin of Floo powder.

Harry was almost despairing when something possessed him to open it. Inside was a note, in his own handwriting, containing precisely what he sought.

Finally, something went right.

“Aparecium portratus!” he loudly incanted.

Using his wand, Harry torched rather more Floo powder than recommended. He needed to get the Founder's immediate attention. Moments later, he heard a sneeze, and then another. A less than pleased Godric Gryffindor shuffled into view, a hanky to his nose.

“All right, all ready,” the image complained. “I thought I told you, use just a pinch…. I rue the day Helga invented that awful concoction. My allergies haven't been the same since….”

“Umm … sorry, sir,” Harry tried sounding humble, “but it's an emergency, and you might have to tell Dumbledore, whether I want to or not, and I've … we've … other things to worry about.” The Sister's prophecy meant he couldn't tell even Gryffindor about his fears for Hermione.

The Founder's reproachful look vanished. “Of course, I'll help,” replied Gryffindor, “but you'll have to see the Headmaster. I can't get to Dumbledore.”

Harry could not believe that. “You can't…?”

“Can't,” the Founder repeated. “I don't hang in the Headmaster's office any longer, and he wards against anyone not in his office's portraits. Surely you understand Dumbledore doesn't wants meetings interrupted by Sir Cadogan's latest quest, or by some idiot chased by a stampeding Erumpment? I'm not there any longer, and I can't enter if I wanted to.”

Harry reckoned he would see the Headmaster soon enough. He explained to Gryffindor why he believed the Château had been invaded by Death Eaters. He asked, and Godric agreed, to visit his likenesses in the Château and report anything he found.

The next ten minutes were amongst the longest of Harry's life. Every passing second gave Death Eaters more time to kill or torture his staff, for Merlin knows what purpose. He hoped McAllister's evacuation plans worked as well in practice as in theory. He would call in the goblins if necessary….

Looming over everything, pushed uncomfortably into the background for a moment, was Hermione's continuing disappearance - now several hours old.

To keep himself busy, Harry righted his trunk and half-heartedly began tidying up. He found the Endangerment Buttons that were Jazzy's Christmas present. With the Auror Partner Rings, he had never used them, and then forgotten their existence. Unsure if Jazzy had pre-Charmed them, he shoved one in his ear - it whined plaintively….

Finally, looking rather windblown, Godric Gryffindor reappeared. “Death Eaters, alright,” he declared without preamble. “Quite a few, inside the Château and probably more outside….”

“And the staff?” Harry immediately asked.

“One captured, I gather - and another dead, I'm afraid, although more casualties are possible because artwork isn't everywhere, particularly in dungeons….”

“Who?” Harry demanded, even more rapidly.

“Your McAllister is captured,” the Founder answered; looking like he wanted to change the subject. “The deceased, I don't know. She was in what looked like a classroom - stuck fast to the wall with quills piercing her vitals….”

“Oh, shite!” Harry yelped and sat heavily on the bed. “I hired a teacher, for the elves…. A Squib….”

Gryffindor interrupted. “Would it matter that I saw your former lover, Miss Granger, in the…?”

“WHAT?!?” came Harry's high pitched screech, which would have done Renata Tebaldi proud. “Oh, Merlin! You can't tell anybody - anyone, I warn you … I beg you….”

The Sisters' prophecy predicted death - he was sure it meant Hermione, now - if this information became known.

A portrait was not, technically, a person. At last with proof that Hermione was in Death Eater clutches, Harry took no chances.

“You have my word….”

“What did you see? Was she alive? Was she being tortured?” Harry's questions tumbled after one another like circus clowns from a Swatchmobile. “Accio basilisk armour!”

A green suit of goblin-made vestments burst from the partly-filled trunk and nearly knocked Harry over.

“Take a deep breath, Mister Potter,” Godric commanded the frantic young man. “She was only talking. Just one other person in the room…. He spoke heavily accented English … Slavic I suppose….”

“Krum!” Harry exploded. “I'm going!” he decided on the spot - as if he gave himself any choice. “You, just stay here. Don't say a word…!”

Gryffindor could barely get a word in edgewise. “The wards…. They're unstable … malfunctioning…. I was almost trapped….”

Harry pulled shut the bedclothes, cutting off the portrait. His brain raced whilst his body stumbled. He had his wands….

He spotted his goblin Sempiternal League dirk protruding from his chaotic trunk…. At least he knew where something was.

Brooms! The Valkyrie! He yanked his from under his bed. The best way to travel, but with Ron…. “Accio Hermione's broom!”

He overdid it. One instant, nothing; the next - POW! - her broom was hovering in front of him. Cautiously he touched it.

Thank Merlin! Maintenance mode. He propped Hermione's broom beside his.

The Cloak! Where was his Invisibility Cloak? Probably under his pillow.

Should get dressed first!

Harry hurriedly stripped to his underclothes. He began donning armour not worn since the Alitserat. It was stiff. With one-half of his trousers on, Harry leaned over to pull up the other leg. It caught on itself….

“Dammit!” Harry cursed. He pulled harder, balancing on one leg. Was there a spell…?

“Harry, what on earth is going on?!”

Hearing Ginny's plaintive voice, Harry spun around. His non-pivot foot collided with something solid - the gift computer from his relatives. Clumsily, Harry fell to his knees.

Looking up he saw his girlfriend, levitating a golden tray of food, courtesy of the elves.

Harry was half dressed - in scaly green armour. The floor was strewn with the contents of Harry's nearly emptied trunk. Two impressive brooms and an equally striking short sword leaned against Ron's bed. Harry's own bedclothes were closed.

Ginny was not stupid. The penny dropped almost immediately.

“Don't, Harry,” she warned.

“Don't what?” Harry answered curtly. He resumed tugging on his pants leg.

“You're going haring after Hermione,” Ginny declared, skipping even the pretext of a question. “Somehow you've learnt something….”

The Sisters' prophecy loomed. “I … I can't answer that,” Harry rebuffed her. Finally getting his trousers on, Harry started on the doublet.

“Don't do this, Harry,” Ginny insisted. “Tell Dumbledore, dammit, you'll see him soon enough. Don't go gallivanting by yourself again. She's not your girlfriend anymore - I am. I want you to stay with me. Have some dinner….”

“Don't tell me what to do,” Harry answered grimly, his voice a warning. His hands continued fumbling with the rather impliable fabric's inner fastenings. Deep inside him, Harry noticed an uncomfortable, bubbling heat.

“Harry, please,” Ginny whined. “Look at you! You're obviously expecting a battle or something, but you insist on going by yourself. You could get killed!”

Ginny was right. Harry knew he had a death wish. He had said as much to Ron earlier. Now, he realised he did not care.

“Ginny, don't,” Harry repeated with some force, suddenly feeling rather unwell. “You don't understand….”

“Then tell me, so I can understand!” Ginny reacted furiously. “Tell me why you'd rather risk your bloody life haring after her than staying here with me?”

Harry's insides felt like they were melting. With effort he controlled himself. He could not afford being sick now. “I … I can't tell you about that…. It's … it's secret. It has to be.” Weary of arguing, he turned away. Whatever he was feeling, he had to heal himself. No time to lose…. His fingers felt huge and numb, but he kept trying to fasten his shirt.

Ginny did not offer to help. “A secret - from me - about her?” She continued reciting her litany of reasons why he should stop and stay.

Harry closed his eyes, hard, trying to shut her out. His head hummed like it was vibrating. He did succeed in shutting out his sense of smell, and did not notice the distinct odour of burnt candyfloss. “Please, Ginny, don't interfere ... not now. Don't….”

If Ginny noticed anything, she had more important things on her mind. “Don't interfere?” Ginny echoed scathingly. “I'm your girlfriend; it's my right. If you won't stay, take me with you. I can fight….”

After getting together with Ginny, Harry had consciously decided not to tell her about Horcruxes or prophecies - to keep her safe. Unlike Hermione, she never insisted on knowing everything, until now.

Now he was stuck.

Harry could not tell Ginny why she was wrong, and why Hermione's very life hung in the balance.

“…I'll get my armour. I've never worn it….”

His head was pounding. Harry croaked, “No Ginny … don't….”

Ginny's temper flared. “Why Harry, why? I want to go! I know you'd take her; take me! You … you have to let her go! She's not your responsibility anymore…. You're only responsible for me, now, so take me! She lives her own….”

Finally, she noticed something beyond Harry's stubbornness at work - it resembled smoke.

“That smells like … crème brulée? Harry, talk to me! What's happening…?”

Throughout Ginny's rant, Harry willed himself not to react. The effort of forcing his magic inward finally made him dizzy.

His brain throbbed rhythmically.

His heart raced.

Harry felt like he was about to burst.

Sticky sweat poured off his body, fouling his armour. His headache was enough to split his skull. He mumbled, “Ron … went for … to save….”

Harry dropped to his knees. He did not know what, but something was sizzling - audibly and visibly.

It was Harry.

Seeing Harry on all fours, exuding visibly smoky vapour, Ginny went frantic. “Harry! What's wrong! You're steaming! That sickening sweet smell! You need to be in bed!”

Ignoring the billowing stench of carbonised sugar, Ginny lunged for Harry. “You're too sick to go anywhere! Let me help!”

She moved to grab him, but Harry's strangled scream stopped her in her tracks. A crackling arc of yellowish magic emerged from the sludge brown haze surrounding him. Upon contact, Ginny was flung bodily across the room. She flopped clumsily against Seamus' bed curtains and slid to the floor.

“Harry!” she gasped. “What did you just do…? Should I get Pomfrey? You're ill.”

“No,” Harry groaned, still on all fours. His head pounded. His insides churned as if they were boiling. It was just like….

“Aaaargh!”

He threw up. He convulsed. He sweated profusely - it reeked like the smoke.

Ginny screamed and tried again to reach him. The yellowish magic surrounding Harry swelled instinctively in her direction, pinning her firmly against the side of Seamus' bed.

Coincidentally, Harry's his head was clearing rapidly - wonderfully. Swaying slightly, he regained his feet. “Ginny, just go,” he ordered.

“What? You can't…!”

Harry switched to command voice, leaving no room for argument. “I can, and I will. This doesn't involve you, so just … go away. You don't understand. I'll do anything for her, even if she were just my friend….”

“Harry…? Bwaaaah!” Bawling, Ginny ran from the room.

He ignored her, not even watching her exit. Something about Ginny was off - very wrong indeed - but it would have to wait.

His focus - now crystal clear - was entirely elsewhere. Critically, he had Hermione to rescue.

But he was filthy. Beneath his Invisibility Cloak, his body odour would be a dead giveaway. “Scourgify! Scourgify! Scourgify!”

Suddenly freed of distractions, Harry relentlessly cleaned his armour and sealed it properly, activating its goblin charms. He rechecked his dual wand holster. When he grasped the pommel of the Sempiternal dirk, it glowed. Seemingly magnetised, its scabbard stuck fast to Harry's hip.

Needing to grab his Invisibility Cloak Harry pulled his bed curtains open. Gryffindor's image acknowledged him. “Off to battle, I see … Gryffindors forward!”

Stirred by the Founder's words, Harry saluted his House's namesake. His gaze caught the pennant mounted just below the portrait. Its slogan seemed apt.

“As good a time as any,” Harry told himself.

He summoned Neville's gift; he would wear it into battle.

Harry was still tying it about his head, over his armour, when an angry voice challenged him. “Potter, you arsehole, what did you do to her?”

An incensed Neville Longbottom strode into the room, wand out, fists clenched, spoiling for a fight.

“I told you, you'd hurt…. Shite!”

Neville was not prepared to duel an opponent wearing full Basilisk-skin armour, armed with a goblin blade, and sporting Neville's own gift - that “Death or Glory” bandana - wrapped around his head kamikaze style.

Neville's aggression dissipated at the striking sight. “What the hell, Harry? What's this about?”

“I can't tell you,” Harry tried ignoring Neville. He was more concerned with storing his Cloak. “Look, I'll fight you later over Ginny if you want. Now, I'm busy.”

“This … this is about Hermione, isn't it?” Neville shut Harry up.

“Umm … you know about that?”

“She's been gone all day, and Dumbledore mentioned it at dinner,” Neville pointed out. “From the looks of you, it's a lot worse than he….”

“I can't say anything,” Harry reiterated, brushing Neville off.

That reignited Neville's anger. “I'm surprised you even care. What did you say to Ginny?”

“Later. Just go away, dammit,” Harry growled. “It's none of your business.”

“The hell it isn't,” Neville would not be deterred. “You've hurt both girls I've ever cared about….”

“Neville, just get out!”

“No! If you're going after Hermione, I want to come! You promised….”

“You can't! Not this time!”

Neville collected himself and showed his wand - ironically, a gift from Harry. “You're leaving with me or over me. Your bloody choice.”

While Lilithu's prophecy applied to both Neville and Ginny, Harry had another option with Neville. “Then I have no choice…,” Harry began ominously. “You owe me a promise, Nev…. And I'm calling it, now.”

Neville expected some nasty spell - not that. “What?”

“At Christmas…. You made a future promise,” Harry reminded Neville. “Well I'm invoking it now. Get out of my way.”

Neville fumed with impotent rage. “What a miserable waste of a promise…. Making me sit on my arse with Hermione's in danger … and don't bother denying it, you wouldn't be….”

“Not a waste,” Harry silenced him. “I need you to do something else….”

Neville's initial protest resonated with Harry, who would have reacted similarly. Neville had proved his worth, and Harry had a job for him - something important.

Neville was disgusted - with the situation, with Harry, with himself for ever giving Harry the promise. “What?” he scoffed. “Keep your bloody bed warm.”

“No! Listen, dammit. I'm supposed to meet Dumbledore at ten, sharp, to … well to find something essential for us ever to have any chance of killing Voldemort. Something … well he's immortal as long as it exists….”

Neville's eyes went big. “You mean, a Horcrux?”

Taken aback - really aback - Harry asked, “You know about those?”

“Not much, but one of my ancestors, maybe six hundred years ago, supposedly made one, but got caught. The Ministry beheaded him after the Horcrux - if it really was one - was destroyed,” Neville revealed.

Harry had lots of questions, but time was a-wasting. “Well, Voldemort's made several, and believe me they're real.”

“Okay, I'll….”

“Before you agree, I'm warning you, this could be a worse ambush than the Ministry. I think somebody's monitoring Dumbledore. I'm worried, if this Horcrux hunt doesn't go on as planned … well, like you said, I'm dressed this way for a reason.”

Neville sighed. “So it might not be a Horcrux at all?”

Harry shrugged, offering the unvarnished truth. “Can't say. Dumbledore is convinced he's found one. It has to be tonight because of the tides - low spring. Look, if you'd rather not….”

POP!!

Neville and Harry both trained their wands on the unexpected sound, but faced only two house-elves. One almost immediately popped away, leaving only….

“DOBBY!” Harry exclaimed.

“Dobby is being so sorry, oh great Harry Potter, sir,” the elf wailed. “Death Eaters being in the Château. Staff's being gone. Bad wizards being binding elf magic … a-making elves to be hunting Dobby, and stopping me from answering your call….”

Done apologising, Dobby grabbed the heaviest thing within reach - the Dursleys' unfortunate computer - to drop on his own head.

“No!” Harry ordered.

The gravity of the situation was not lost on Dobby's audience.

“I'll go with Dumbledore then,” Neville declared, “even if you didn't have my promise. Ten sharp!”

Dobby's news made it exponentially more likely that Harry was sending Neville (and the Headmaster, but he could fend for himself) into a trap. “Neville, you needn't do this….”

“NO!” Neville shouted, probably startling even himself. “I mean, Gran says you're gonna get me killed someday,” Neville gave Harry a grudging smile. “I'll do it for her. If this helps you rescue Hermione, then it might as well be tonight!”

Neville turned on his heel, leaving Harry and Dobby to their business. Harry was pleased to see Neville removing his own Basilisk-skin armour from his trunk.

“Muffliato!”

“Dobby, this is critically important. Did you see Hermione anywhere?”

The elf gawked, his eyes fearful. “Miz Myone? Nossir. Just Death Eaters is being there … and Ima Hogg; she's being one of them.”

“Did the staff escape?” Harry asked hopefully.

“Yes, Harry Potter, sir, they's being running to the goblins.” Dobby gave a reassuring answer.

Dobby, noting Harry's garb, added. “Is goblins being fixing to fight Death Eaters with you?”

“Hell….” Harry could mobilise a goblin army, but with Death Eaters holding Hermione…. At the first sign of a goblin attack, her life would not be worth a bent Knut.

Harry made an instantaneous, instinctual decision. From the mess surrounding his trunk, he Summoned a quill and the first piece of parchment he saw (his special Apparition license). Harry scratched out a quick note. When finished, Harry deliberately poked his finger with the quill.

Smearing his Manmak with his own blood, Harry personally sealed the note with his bloody signet ring.

“Dobby, listen carefully. This is a life-and-death matter. I need you to deliver this note to Slamdor, you remember….”

“Yessir, he was being chief of your guard,” Dobby anticipated.

“Well, he now commands the goblin rapid reaction strike force,” Harry continued.

“Yessir, I's to be getting them there fast - A-sap,” Dobby cut Harry short again, reaching for the note.

“No.” Harry yanked it back. “Just the opposite. This is essential. Tell Slamdor to get ready, but not one goblin makes a move until I give a signal.” Harry chopped the air for emphasis. “Bad things - really bad things - will happen to Hermione if the goblins don't wait for my signal. She could die. Got it?”

“Yessir, Harry Potter, sir.” Dobby reached for the parchment.

Before handing it over, Harry had more instructions. “After that - when you're done with the goblins - I want you to go….” Harry looked around, but saw nothing. He incanted, “Accio château map!” The useless map swished from under his bed, blown there by Harry's earlier magical wave.

“You know the Château's boundaries, right?”

“Yessir, every inch does I,” Dobby affirmed.

“Wait for me here,” Harry pointed. “This is a secret entrance…. Whoa!”

Gryffindor was right. The Château's wards were malfunctioning. The grounds' interior blinked erratically on and off. Outlines of rooms - and more importantly, named dots - flickered irregularly over its surface.

Maybe Harry hallucinated, but for an instant, he thought “Hermione Granger” appeared on the Château's south side - the side nearest the secret entrance … and the goblin tunnel … and the Black burial grounds … and the greenhouses….

“Have you got that?”

“Completely, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby's head bobbed wildly.

“Now go!”

Dobby popped off.

Harry decided that the Château's map might not be totally worthless. He unfastened his chest armour and slipped the map next to his doublet. He removed his Invisibility Cloak.

Forty-seven minutes until Dumbledore time. Harry wanted to be well gone before the Headmaster met Neville.

“Accio Ron's goblin armour!” Harry shrank the brooms, threw the Cloak over himself and went in search of the final piece of the puzzle.

Ginny was still making a scene in the common room. `Sorry, Ginny,' Harry thought as he invisibly skulked by. `I'm not your perfect færie-story…. They don't write `em like that anymore….'

Her commotion helped Harry slip through the portrait hole unnoticed, except by the Fat Lady.

“Who goes there?”

Not sure it would work, Harry whispered, “Somnius.” The Fat Lady keeled over in her frame.

He would have hell to pay, and Ginny … it was like Shakespeare said about Denmark…. All that was for later. For now, Ginny was worse than irrelevant - a distraction. Harry had to go….

In a deserted spot, Harry activated the Marauders' Map. He located Ron in the Gryffindor Quidditch captain's office. His dot was very, very close to Luna's.

“Can't teach an old dog new tricks,” Harry muttered as he made for the exit nearest the Pitch. To save time, he restored his Valkyrie to full size and mounted it as soon as he was outside.

The light through the clubhouse windows chilled Harry. He recalled the last time he and Ron had been in that building at this hour - an unpleasant experience for both.

He doubted Ron would appreciate the interruption. He had not appreciated Ron barging in on him and….

`It doesn't matter,' Harry forcefully reminded himself. `Nothing matters. This is for her.'

Harry Alohomoraed the front door, stepped in, and, respecting the pair's privacy, directed a Communications Patronus at the captain's office door. “Expecto patronum publicus!” Harry heard his voice boom through the locked door, “I GOT WHAT I NEEDED, RON. LET'S RIDE THESE VALKYRIES! IT'S MIRACLE TIME!”

Mentioning Valkyries added incentive. Ron had always been jealous of the high performance brooms he and Hermione received from the Ministry.

Harry had not expected Luna to charm the door wide open - whilst she and Ron were still intimate. Some politicians might not call that sex, but Harry did.

“Blubby hull Lunna!” came Ron's muffled protest from underneath.

“You've found Hermione, then?” Luna asked from her perch, characteristically direct, but uncharacteristically intense.

“Umm … I can't … umm … tell you anything about … er … that.” Harry stammered, averting his eyes.

Fortunately for Harry's speech faculties, Luna Summoned her robes without further ado. “Too late, Harry, Ron's told me about your miracle.”

“Ron … the effing prophecy!” Harry wailed, his pain almost physical. “You've bloody well….”

“No, dammit,” Ron yelled. He jumped off the captain's desk, still starkers. “Luna convinced me … she interprets `joined' in that prophecy quite differently.”

“I'm an empath,” Luna replied serenely as she walked out of Harry's sight. “We were just leaving Gryffindor tower when I felt … well whatever you did. I knew you'd be coming….”

“You did!?” Ron squealed.

“That's why I stopped by Ravenclaw, for this,” Luna unshrank a bundle she removed from her handbag.

“Basilisk armour! But what about mine?” Ron suddenly looked frantic, and naked - very naked - as he glanced between Luna and Harry,

“I have yours, Ron,” Harry interjected. “Depulso!” He banished it in Ron's direction.

“You … where's Hermione, then?”

“At the Château. Death Eaters have taken it over.”

“Why?”

“Not sure. Probably because I own it.”

“You're sure about this?”

“No time to explain everything. My Gryffindor portrait … there's others at the Château. He brought back an eyewitness report,” Harry briefly explained. “Now if you're in, let's go. Otherwise, I'm leaving by myself.”

“Like I said before, for her, not you,” Ron testily agreed. Luna assisted him with the goblin armour, which he had never worn.

“Damn, this doesn't fit nearly as well as yours,” Ron complained to Harry. “But I reckon that's to be expected….”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Harry challenged.

“Well, you're tight with them,” Ron justified himself. “So you get tailoring.”

Ron stood up. His pants ended a half dozen centimetres above the ankles and were much too generous at the waist. The shirt was better, but still too broad across the chest and short at the wrists.

Luna redid Ron's goblin charms, but with no improvement.

“Well bollocks to all that,” Ron gave up. “I'll just have to be careful. Harry, please don't get me killed if you can avoid it.”

“I'm going too, you know,” Luna added, almost casually.

“No, you're not!” two male voices rose simultaneously.

“You can't conceive what Hermione might experience at Death Eater hands,” Luna fought back. “Neither of you've been nice to her lately. She needs someone she can trust….”

“She can….” Harry started and stopped. Harry was ashamed to admit it, but Luna's point was excellent.

“Luna, I don't want you getting hurt,” Ron resisted.

“If Harry felt that way at Stonehenge, where would you be?” Luna scolded. “You two need my help.”

Luna grabbed both of their wrists and, radiating calm reassurance, gave them the benefit of her empathy.

“Umm … Ron, I think Luna's right,” Harry caved as Luna released him. “No matter how lucky we are, Hermione's likely to be a wreck. Having Luna along would help.”

A look, and more, passed between Ron and Luna. Ron understood this moment was a relationship-breaker for her.

Ron was not privy to whatever secrets Luna and Hermione kept. At least this once, he sensed when to stop pushing.

“Yes, Dear.”

Luna left to change into her armour, which unlike Ron's fit perfectly. Harry stayed, trying to help Ron. Harry even tried Ron's goblin charms himself, but nothing worked. “It's probably for the best,” Ron told Harry as he tugged on the short cuffs of his Basilisk-skin trousers. “Probably shouldn't say this, but assuming we survive, Luna really needs to talk to Hermione - about something - something she won't tell me….”

Ron gave Harry a doleful, raised-eyebrows look implying that not everything in his relationship with Luna was peaches and cream. “Can't come too bloody soon, either.”

Within five minutes, three Basilisk-clad would-be rescuers, astride two high performance brooms, left the friendly confines of Hogwarts Castle behind, not knowing when, or if, they would return.

* * * *

Everything essential was in readiness. The Dark Lord needed to think.

His plan had been sound. Reality, however, had dropped a spanner in the works. Tolerating Krum's Mudblood-inspired lusts affronted Lord Voldemort's pure-blood philosophy, but neatly disentangled the web of problems and opportunities that presented themselves since Stonehenge. A long-ago reading mandated separating Potter from that Mudblood. Bella required an enemy's blood, a female enemy, but her resurrection could not outshine his. That damned unnecessary Horcrux merger had a price - requiring survival of someone he had intended to kill. The unnecessary merger also made possible a new Horcrux - one unknown to the Muggle Loving fool.

Hovering over everything was the prophecy - and its subject, Harry Potter.

Making the Mudblood his receptacle and then packing her off to Bulgaria, controlled by Krum and a Tartaran Flobberworm, solved all these problems. Potter would lose all his emotional anchors- the Mudblood to Krum, the blood traitor to mortal Quidditch injury, and Dumbledore to either the cave or Draco's team.

After that, Potter might discover that the Mudblood was a Horcrux, which would force him either to approve her death, or even better kill her himself. Alternatively, he might remain ignorant. In that event, Voldemort himself would so inform Potter, at a time of his choosing, just before killing his nemesis.

Everything depended on Krum. Krum's first loyalty being elsewhere was a black mark, but necessarily fatal. Wizards became Death Eaters for many reasons. Lucius' first loyalty was to family and financial interests; Snape's to Lily Evans; and Bagman was a compulsive gambler. Such issues were manageable provided the Dark Lord possessed countervailing force to maintain his mastery - be that the vulnerability of Malfoy's interests, Snape's hatred of all things Potter, or Bagman's need for money. Such fallibilities often proved useful in manipulating his followers.

Bagman and Snape had independently confirmed Krum's susceptibility to the Imperius Curse. But their knowledge - several years old - was evidently outdated. The elf's observations were damning. Far from ravishing the Mudblood in “every way,” Krum almost immediately gave her clothing. They spent their allotted hour talking about unknown subjects - as Krum had Imperturbed the area.

The Dark Lord could guess.

They were probably plotting an escape. Seeing was believing. Krum had plainly learnt to throw off the Imperius curse. Voldemort's countervailing command over Krum's loyalties no longer existed.

So much for that plan.

He would make some other disposition of the Mudblood. If the Dark Lord had to break her himself - without Krum's insipid sentiment - so much the worse for her. Perhaps she would become the main attraction at a Death Eater revel. Maybe Bella could Longbottomise her with the Cruciatus. Then, exiling her…. An Armenian cloistered nunnery might do. Even her Muggle mother, rumoured to be in Australia, might be suitably persuaded to cache her conveniently on the opposite side of the Earth. The Mudblood's failure to age would not be evident for years…. far more time than Potter would have.

Those details could wait until after tonight's events.

Oh yes, one ripple effect - that double-crosser McAllister who worked for Potter. He was no longer needed for creation of tonight's Horcrux. Overseen by his own Tartaran Flobberworm, he could resume his duties, with Potter none the wiser.

* * * *

Author's notes: The Bulgarian phrases are from my beta's Coulsdon Eagle's fic “Hermione Granger and the Goblet of Fire”

Harry tries to tire himself out playing metal: “Enter Sandman” by Metallica, “We're Not Gonna Take It” by Twisted Sister, “Hallowed Be Thy Name,” by Iron Maiden, and “Metal Health” by Quiet Riot

Epiphone is a guitar company

Black Oak Azkaban spoofs Black Oak Arkansas, whose lead singer was “Jim Dandy”

Harry escaped his handlers in Ch. 9

McGonagall references a document Harry gave Hermione in Ch. 66

Gale is Dorothy's last name in Wizard of Oz

Hermione told Harry about Krum in Ch. 7

Ron's attempt to ask Hermione to the Beauxbatons ball was in Ch. 81

The Weasley clock had to be dealt with

The Slug Club meeting was in Ch. 47

Lilithu's prophecy from Ch. 73 is important and accurate

“Zugzwang” is a chess term I first heard in Paracelsus' “Coming Back Late”

Hermione's “go to my death” comment was in Ch. 46

The scandalous magazine was in Ch. 82

Sealing wax stains were mentioned in Ch. 81

Hermione's sound in Harry's mind was suggested by Fleetwood Mac's “Silver Spring”

Harry benefited from a partially blocked Stunner in Ch. 35

The Death Eater hoax was in Ch. 49

Ima Hogg defected to the Death Eaters after Harry sacked her

Comox is a real town in British Columbia

Ron Petrificused Ginny in Ch. 79

Shak froze all but Harry's head in Ch. 49

That a person can only be under one Imperius at a time is in many fics, including “Coming Back Late”

Auror issue anti-rape knickers were mentioned in Ch. 5

Menfolk deciding Hermione's future - a shot at what Ron and Harry did in DH

Hermione assumes, wrongly, that Voldemort wants the spell performed correctly

Harry got the château map in Ch. 63

Harry received Gryffindor's portrait in Ch. 4; it was replaced in Ch. 79 by Dumbledore's copy

Harry wrote the note in Ch. 5

Portraits travel unhindered only between their own likenesses; wards can stop them otherwise

Renata Tebaldi was a famous operatic soprano

A Swatchmobile is a type of minicar

The Alitserat was in Ch. 74

Harry similarly purged himself in Ch. 35

Harry produced a spontaneous shield in Chs. 35-36

“Just my friend….” Harry thinking more clearly

Neville's wand and Harry's banner were birthday presents in Ch. 22

Neville gave Harry a future promise in Ch. 66; the concept is from Jean Auel's “Earth's Children”

The end of HBP runs in the background, with Neville in Harry's role

Harry received the Apparition license in Ch. 9

Another Pomona 47 for my daughter

“They don't write `em like that any more” - the chorus of Greg Kihn's aptly named “Breakup Song”

Something is rotten in the state of Denmark - Macbeth, Act 1, scene 4

Ron and Cho trysted in the same place in Ch. 59

Ron nearly killed Harry in the Gryffindor clubhouse in Ch. 79

Harry and Hermione received Valkyries in Ch. 12

Oral sex not being “sex” was Bill Clinton's excuse; the reference becomes clear later

Ron's armor doesn't fit for a reason

Ron does not know about Hermione as the Druid High Priestess and Luna her acolyte

The long ago reading was viewed in Ch. 41

The Horcrux merger was in Ch. 75

Tartaran Flobberworms were introduced in Ch. 79

A Horcruxed living thing's inability to age is from Pandiesboxx's “All Roads Lead Back”

81

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 9/6/2011

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85. The Revenge Of Bellatrix Lestrange

Wherein Draco has an accident, Viktor goes, but is seen again, Hermione experiences pure evil, survives, then doesn't, then does, Harry intends to die, but doesn't, Bellatrix succeeds, but doesn't, Luna and Ron assist, and a house call is interrupted

When reading this chapter, please be advised that the two sets of Hermione-centric and Harry-centric scenes overlap, with Harry's chronology beginning before the end of Hermione's

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, Mathiasgranger, and Chris Backus.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. §107.

Chapter 85 - The Revenge Of Bellatrix Lestrange

The most important night so far of his still young life was upon him. Draco's heart raced, and his hands were clammy, as he tried to keep himself calm. It was finally time to act. To prove that the Malfoy family were loyal serv… no, supporters….

The last couple of hours, spent on pins and needles, had been both physical and mental torture - hidden under his Invisibility Cloak in a too-small and too-full storage cupboard just below the top of the Astronomy Tower. That cubbyhole had nothing to recommend it save a felicitously located window - one with an unobstructed view of the Headmaster's office and its adjoining balcony.

His instructions were clear. Watch the Headmaster's office closely. As soon as Dumbledore left - probably accompanied by at least one other person - Draco was to send a message to Burke. If the Headmaster had not left by eleven, Draco was to use the Parseltongue translator to send a message to Voldemort himself.

In either case, after sending the message, Draco was to commence preparations immediately for his own mission.

So Draco had watched - both the tower topped by the Headmaster's office and his map, since his target's planned means of egress was unknown. Draco doubted that Dumbledore would leave on foot, but if he did, Draco's message would include exactly who was with the Headmaster.

Draco's map of the Castle, whilst sufficient for most purposes, had some gaps. Critically, it omitted Dumbledore's office, as the Slytherin had not set foot there since obtaining mapmaking tools. Only fools like Scarhead were caught often enough for regular appointments. Likewise, whilst he had obtained the Gryffindor common room and girls' dormitories, thanks to a sensor hidden in the Weaselette's robes, their boys' counterpart was lacking. Scarhead had not entertained her there - at least not when she wore those robes.

Despite his map's imperfections, Draco knew that Potter was somewhere in those dormitories. The git had entered and apparently stayed put. Except for Filch and Longbottom, both briefly, nobody entered or left Dumbledore's stairway. Neither was significant enough to worry about.

The Headmaster might have a Floo connexion or even a hidden Apparition point somewhere in his office. If so, Draco would be required to report that, for all he could tell, Dumbledore had stayed put.

That had not happened.

Fortunately for Draco's cramping arms and legs, his top-of-the-line, night-vision enhanced Omnioculars detected two Thestrals flying to the Headmaster's balcony. Within a minute Dumbledore and someone else - shorter than the Headmaster was all he could say for sure in the dark - flew off to wherever.

Longbottom? Draco could hardly believe it.

Since Draco's true loyalties would be revealed to the world tonight no matter what happened, he used his own eagle owl to deliver the critical message to Burke. Keeping his role as a spy a secret hardly mattered anymore.

From the owlery, he had practically sprinted back to the Slytherin common room to collect Cambo and Spott. This mission was so important and so secret that Draco had not told his minions what would happen. But Draco had chosen wisely. Cambo and Spott were no more intelligent or independent than Crabbe and Goyle had been. Like them, they followed him blindly.

This time they followed him unthinkingly to a certain second storey bathroom usually haunted by Moaning Myrtle, the ghost of one of Voldemort's first victims. In less than five minutes Draco and his two accomplices had reduced the easily offended ghost to tears and driven her away - faster than Draco could usually manage with living females, and in less time than it took to clean up after Myrtle's rather sodden exit.

Draco employed his Parseltongue translator to very dramatic effect.

“Holy shite…!”

Cambo shrunk away at the scrape of massive stone upon stone.

“Merlin's balls, what the hell is that…?”

“That my friends, is where I'm headed in a minute or two,” Draco announced proudly. “Finite!” His shrunken broom returned to normal size.

“This is the original entrance to the Chamber of Secrets,” Draco began explaining Cambo's and Spott's role in the mission the Dark Lord had tasked him with. “My job's down there, best you not know more…. All you're supposed to do is guard this pit until I get back. After that, you're done and what you do is up to you. Now whilst I'm…. Oh, bollocks!”

It had to happen right then.

Something vibrated inconveniently in Draco's trousers' pocket. He fumbled beneath his robes and drew out a largish button. It glowed bright red.

“Dammit!” Draco swore. “I don't need this!”

Cambo asked, “What is it Drake?”

“That wretched Weaselette, that's what,” Draco spat angrily. “Thank Merlin I…. Anyway, Merlin knows why she's picked now of all times to come looking for me….”

“Well, she won't think to look for you here, will she?” Spott commented. “We've put the `Out of Order' sign back up.”

Draco rolled his eyes. Preston Spott was definitely no improvement over Gregory Goyle. “Except that these blasted buttons have a homing function - which you'd know if you'd ever tried yours out. Blast it! I should have taken it back….”

At their quizzical looks, Draco stopped again. Ginny Weasley was another subject he had never mentioned to the two Slytherin fifth years. “Anyway, I'll have to meet her out in the hall or else she'll barge in here. You two stay put. I'll be right out front…. You can even watch through the keyhole - but no bloody noise.”

Draco gave his button a responsive twist and stepped into the corridor. A distraught looking Ginny Weasley hove into view much faster than he anticipated. Either she was moving more quickly than usual or she had been considerably closer than usual when she signalled him.

The answer was both.

Distraught did not begin to describe the redheaded witch. “Hysterical” was much more accurate.

“Draco! Draco! You've got to help me!” she wailed. “Something's happened. Harry's left!”

“What! Left you? For whom? Not bloody Daphne Greengrass, I hope,” Draco answered. “Now, calm down….”

“No!” she continued shrieking altogether too loudly. Even in this usually deserted corner of the Castle, all the noise risked drawing attention.

Draco had to act fast. Violating the no-magic-in the hallways rule was infinitely preferable to being discovered. “Impertubatus!”

That spell was a good idea.

“He's left for Hermione … that bitch!” Ginny screeched even louder.

Draco almost froze. A Potter-Granger reconciliation would not please the Dark Lord. “How? That makes no sense. I heard Dumbledore at dinner, she's not even…. Shite! You mean they've run off together?”

Ginny's face went almost as red as her hair. “No! He's gone haring after her. I tried to stop him and … something happened…! Oh, Merlin!”

Only Draco's steely self-discipline prevented him from breaking out in a large - and Ginny would have thought wholly inappropriate - grin. The Great Git was not in the Castle! One major potential stumbling block had just been removed from his path….

“…And I need your help,” Ginny beseeched the Slytherin. “I think something might have gone wrong with the potion. He's never been that short with me!”

Draco blocked out the Weaselette's whines and woes…. With Potter and Granger both out of the way, that stupid D.A. of theirs would never fight. It would be leaderless…

“Draco! I need help! I'm afraid of losing Harry!”

Ginny's laments brought him back to the here and now.

“Yeah, I'll help,” Draco answered quickly, if untruthfully. Her despairs concerned him not one iota. If he could get - and keep - the bloody redhead out of his hair for a few more hours, he would never have to listen to her whingeing ever again. “In fact you're in luck….”

“I could damn well use some right about now!”

Draco improvised. “I've two more phials of Potion right here….”

That, at least was accurate. Because puttering calmed his jangled nerves, Draco had fortuitously finished another follow-up batch earlier in the day.

“…and I've added an improvement to it,” he lied through his teeth. “I included a bit of … umm … Puffskein musk extract, to make it even more powerful….”

“Oh, Thank Merlin! He didn't eat what I wanted to give him tonight….”

Draco could almost feel Ginny's wave of relief. She practically lunged at the proffered potion as Draco held it out to her, grabbing for it as if she were drowning.

Suddenly, to Draco's surprise and dismay, a red bolt of magic emerged awkwardly from the keyhole in the bathroom door. Thanks to the Silencing spell, Ginny neither saw nor heard the Stunner, which hit her squarely in the back.

She flopped unmoving onto the floor.

Draco Malfoy's fury was incandescent. “What the hell was that for?!” he yelled. Hearing no response from whichever of his knuckleheaded minions had hexed Ginny, he angrily flung open the door - passing through the boundary of his earlier Imperturbable Charm.

“What the hell was that for?!” Draco repeated himself, losing none of his earlier bite or volume.

“Drake, she looked like she was trying to attack you,” Cambo attempted to defend his actions. “I couldn't hear anything. I had only a split second to react.”

“Ten seconds more and she would have been gone, dammit,” Draco seethed. If time were not so short, he may well have cursed the perpetrator.

He would simply have to make the best of a suddenly more complicated situation.

Taking a deep calming breath, Draco took control of the situation. “All right, shite happens. Just forget about it. Drag her in here and stuff her into one of the stalls. And for Merlin's sake, lock the bloody door.”

* * * *

Try as she might, Hermione could not move Viktor Krum. He was not merely in love with her; from their discussion she believed he was truly besotted. But critically, Krum was just as thoroughly Imperiused, and no better now than before at resisting that Unforgivable Curse. He would not, could not, allow her to escape. Even telling Viktor that helping her escape was the only way she would ever speak to him again did not move him an inch in that vital direction, however much he might have wished.

Viktor had made the proverbial deal with the devil. Attempting to win her love, Viktor had destroyed any chance of that ever happening. She would never, not voluntarily, have anything to do with anyone in league with Voldemort. Her mind was closed on that subject, but only this morning she had gone into her date with it open….

At least she told herself that.

Their allotted hour drew inevitably to a close. Viktor was convinced that whatever Voldemort (whom he infuriatingly called “the Dark Lord”) was planning would not do her significant harm. “The Dark Lord has promised,” he repeated over and over again.

Hermione was absolutely certain otherwise. Once Viktor mentioned Bellatrix Lestrange everything clicked - an entire roll of pennies dropped. Completely at odds with her long-standing reputation as the Death Eaters' most flamboyantly cold-blooded killer, Lestrange had dropped from sight after Stonehenge.

Harry had told her, and also the confidential part of Shak's enquiry, that Voldemort's Killing Curse might have been deflected in Lestrange's direction by the Bose-Einstein condensate. But Harry had been on the verge of unconsciousness, and conventional wisdom was that the Killing Curse could not be deflected short of blocking it with a solid object. His muddled memory was not taken seriously.

But if true…?

Lestrange could have made a Horcrux of her own….

Voldemort would have to use the same spell to restore Lestrange that he had used to restore himself.

Aside from Voldemort's followers, Hermione was probably the only witch in Britain to have researched that spell.

The spell's donors would have to be female.

The bones of Bellatrix Lestrange's ancestors were here. She was a Black. The Black family's ancestral graveyard was hard by the Château's south side.

Hermione knew she was a logical choice for the “enemy” whose blood would be used to restore Lestrange. But for the regeneration magic to work properly, it had to conclude with the “enemy's” death.

Hermione desperately tried to get that through Viktor's Imperiused skull. She explained the complete sequence of the spell to him - how each piece of it fit together.

He would not believe. All Hermione could extract from the recalcitrant Bulgarian was a promise that, if Voldemort tried to kill her, he would curse Voldemort first.

Viktor was not Harry and never would be. He was not capable of throwing off the Imperius Curse.

At the end of the appointed hour, without even the courtesy of a knock, several Death Eaters barged into the Proprietor's Suite. Had they hoped to satisfy their voyeuristic jollies, they were disappointed. Hermione was fully dressed in the discrepant outfit Viktor had collected.

“Hands behind your back, Mudblood,” one of them ordered through his mask.

“Go to hell, Deater,” Hermione shot back. She would not voluntarily do anything that might reduce her chances of escape.

“Bitch,” the Death Eater spat. Had Viktor not intervened, he would have backhanded Hermione across the face.

“Ne,” Viktor stepped firmly between Hermione and the Death Eaters. In a move appearing rougher than it was, he spun the recalcitrant witch around by one arm and grabbed her opposite hand. Then he drew them together behind her back.

Using a spell unknown to Hermione, another Death Eater bound her hands with a silver chain. Before anyone else took charge of her, Viktor did. Shoving her in front of him, he frog-marched Hermione through the Château's halls with two other Death Eaters leading the way. “You must trust me, Her-my-o-nee, it is the only vay,” Viktor whispered in her ear. “I have a deal.”

The Death Eaters were thorough. Not the slightest escape opportunity presented itself before Hermione was pushed through a side door, into the night - and back into the malign presence of the Dark Lord himself.

“Ah, yessss,” he hissed. “The clever little Mudblood…. You have done well, Viktor. I shall take over now.” Voldemort returned his attention to his attending minions.

“Tie her to the gravestone!” he ordered. Two Death Eaters grabbed Hermione from behind, under each of her arms.

“Let me go, you scum!” she screamed. It was no use.

Lifting a struggling Hermione completely off the ground, they carried her to a pre-prepared obelisk-shaped tombstone. She concentrated so much on resisting what could not be resisted that Hermione did not notice the runes carefully laid about the stone - precisely on the four points of the compass.

She did see the name on the monolith - DRUELLA BLACK.

Mother of Bellatrix.

Hermione had learnt that much from the Black tapestry at the former house on Grimmauld Place.

Hermione was soon trussed so firmly to the cold stone that she could barely move a finger.

But she still had her voice.

“Viktor, this is your fault!” she howled at the Bulgarian personally responsible for her in extremis position. “You were never fit to clean Harry's wand!”

Her last-ditch effort to goad Krum into some sort of action on her behalf failed. From the corner of her eye, Hermione could see him clenching his fists, but he stood by, his expression hidden beneath his Death Eater mask.

Voldemort simply smiled a wicked smile at her outburst. He turned to the object of Hermione's tirade and hissed. “She's right, you know. But rest assured; I do keep my promises….” The Dark Lord turned away from Viktor and spoke to his assembled minions, “Let us begin, shall we? But first….”

With uncommon speed Voldemort wheeled. “AVADA KEDAVRA!” The green bolt of death streaked from his wand and struck Viktor Krum before he comprehended what was happening. The world's greatest living Quidditch legend slumped bonelessly to the ground, dead before reaching it.

Hermione screamed again - this time in horror, rather than anger, at the fate of the late Viktor Krum.

“Shut her up,” the Dark Lord sneered. “We need not be troubled by Mudblood commentary any longer.”

Hermione felt herself being roughly gagged with some sort of cloth. An unseen Death Eater tied it tightly enough to cut the corners of her lips. The back of her head hurt where it scraped against the rough granite of the timeworn tombstone. She was now truly alone - completely bereft of any prospect of assistance - and utterly at the mercy, if it could be called that, of the monster Voldemort.

Nobody could save her now. Nobody even knew where she was. The Death Eaters were free to do every one of the Dark and dreadful things she had contemplated in her most extreme nightmares - or they could do worse.

“The fault is yours, Mudblood,” sneered the Dark Lord. “With your sorry charms, you beguiled a perfectly promising pure-blood until he was no longer trustworthy. I had no choice. Viktor Krum's blood is on your filthy hands. But your beguiling days are at an end….”

Voldemort was obviously enjoying himself. “You see, little Mudblood, cleverness and wisdom are completely different. I know everything worth knowing. I knew what motivated your late, lamented Krum. I could tolerate his loving you more than I, because this vaunted `love' is weak and puny. With control assured, love means nothing. Potions can manipulate love whenever necessary. Only control matters … as Mister Krum found out too late for his - and your - own good.”

“Now, for Act One.”

Under the Dark Lord's orders, the Death Eaters proceeded with near sadistic efficiency. Bellatrix Lestrange would be restored from that pathetic half-existence she had endured ever since being struck by that deflected Killing Curse that ironically Lord Voldemort had intended for the one unwilling member of the audience.

And for the unwilling, some fates were worse than death - at least from the perspective of those who had not embraced death with the full-throated fervour of Tom Riddle, once he assumed the mantle of Lord Voldemort.

And so, partially within Hermione's sight and partially beyond it, the tripartite spell of bone, flesh and blood was carried out.

She heard, but could not see, the splash as Lestrange's grotesque and disfigured remnants were consigned to the huge cauldron that this spell required - a cauldron moved to its present location by the Château's quiescent elves.

From beneath her feet, Hermione heard, and fleetingly saw (or imagined she did), the hiss of the powdered bone of Lestrange's Black ancestor rising to restore her daughter.

She heard another yowl as a witch Hermione had never met, named Candace, sacrificed her hand to bring Bella back to something approximating life.

Then Lord Voldemort was before her. “Yesssss…,” he hissed. “I've waited for this for quite some time. You may have outscored me on some meaningless test, but from this night forward … I will own you … whether you like it or not….”

He reached into his jet black robes.

“Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken….” As the Dark Lord spoke the incantation, he brought a silver rondel up to Hermione's eye level. She could see it glinting dangerously in half-light cast from the Château's looming, partially lit windows.

“…you will resurrect your foe.”

As Voldemort emphasised the final word of the incantation, his blade flicked upward, slicing a neat lighting-bolt-shaped gash into Hermione's forehead. The blade was so sharp, and the Dark Lord's movement so quick, that she hardly noticed - until she felt warm blood dribbling down her face.

With Hermione's blood spattering the front of her jumper, the Dark Lord mocked his helpless victim. “How appropriate … it will be a perfect fit….”

The Dark Lord turned to the audience of his followers. “And where is the vaunted Boy Who Lived, anyway? Cavorting with another? Indeed, before this night is through, this Mudblood and the pliable Miss Weasley shall share something more than an affinity for carnal relations with the Chosen One….”

He drew out Harry's hated nicknames until they sounded like an epitaph.

Despite being nearly petrified with fear, Hermione's mind still functioned. She wondered what the Dark Wizard standing before her could possibly mean by that.

She would not have long to wait to learn.

“Yesssss, to restore Bella,” Voldemort changed subjects. He produced a glass phial and filled it with the blood dripping from Hermione's chin.

“I shall perform the final stage of this ritual personally,” the scaly white Dark wizard told everyone. Holding the phial of Hermione's blood, he stepped past her and out of sight. Within seconds she heard the WHUMP of a muffled explosion accompanied by a blinding white light that, for a moment, illuminated everything she could see with the brilliance of a lightning bolt.

“Robe her,” Hermione heard Voldemort order. “Candace, come with me.”

Once again, the Dark wizard's pale visage of death loomed before the helpless young witch. Voldemort was attended by a witch not much older than Hermione - a witch with a brand new, glowing silver hand.

Her argent digits clutched something disgusting, something dark and wiggling that looked like a cross between a centipede and a vinegaroon.

“…And should your lamented Mister Potter be so unfortunate as to survive this night,” the Dark Lord gloated, “he shall learn the truth … how my faithful servant played the both of you for fools…. Candace, provide the Mudblood with her first little present.”

The witch named Candace stepped forward. Using her normal hand, she put two fingers between Hermione's loosely belted khakis and her waist and pulled. Before Hermione knew what was happening, the witch had dropped the squirming creature into her pants.

Hermione writhed, straining helplessly against the silver chains that bound her.

“So that you will treat the gift you are about to receive with appropriate respect.” Lord Voldemort spoke coolly.

“Illuminati!” he incanted. The runes surrounding Hermione's colonnade began glowing a soft, chalky white. She could see two - an ankh and a pentacle.

“And now, to ensure that the seer's reading never comes to pass, you, Mudblood, are to be granted a singular honour…. You will be the receptacle for a piece of my cosmic essence….”

Hermione's eyes nearly left her sockets in horror. Voldemort was not about to kill her. No! He meant to make her into a Horcrux - on the occasion of Viktor Krum's death.

“Look into my eyes,” the Dark Lord hissed.

Hermione tried to do something, anything else.

It was no use. Her head was pinioned to the tombstone. She could not look away. Some unknown spell suddenly paralysed her eyelids. She could not even close them. Lord Voldemort's wide, livid scarlet eyes bored into hers.

“Look into my eyes,” he repeated, “and sssssee my sssssoul.”

The Dark Lord's mental embrace was suffocating. Hermione saw, smelled, and felt death in all of its horrid forms. Not even Dementors ever caused such awful feelings. She felt the blood lust of the vampire, the blind hunger of the zombie, the mindless and hopeless actions of the Inferi.

Hermione tried to shield herself. She attempted to resist the vile assault upon her mind - but to no avail.

The Dark Lord drew her in more deeply. She experienced the fœtid slaughter of innocents machine-gunned in freshly dug pits, the aloof malice of turning a valve to open gas jets disguised as shower heads, and the animalistic rage as neighbor hacked neighbor to death in steaming jungle massacres.

Under Lord Voldemort's assault, the barriers of Hermione's mind began to collapse. She could see nothing save his burning, rufescent eyes. Everything, everywhere was red … blood red….

Despite her gag, Hermione began screaming, screaming inside her own mind. With her consciousness being beaten into submission, pure instinct came to the fore. She screamed until her voice failed and the screams became incoherent screeches.

“Tantum per nex est principatus super nex….”

As the scene before her dissolved into a ruddy, blood-soaked fog, Hermione never saw Lord Voldemort raise his silver rondel yet again….

* * * *

Ron had never flown so far so fast. Hermione's Valkyrie was the most amazing broom he had ever piloted. Especially with Luna hanging onto him for dear life, the flight should have been a tremendous experience.

But the reason for their breakneck speed was anything but tremendous. Terrible was more like it. Awful…. Atrocious….

And quite possibly futile.

Hermione was in trouble. She might be dead already, for all they knew. Harry plainly had the same thoughts. He was flying on the edge, a wild wizard. At times Ron's best efforts could barely keep him in sight.

Finally, Harry started to descend. Ron, still shaking from the windswept journey, followed. Harry put down in a copse of beeches on the north side of a small hill.

Harry was intensely studying something resembling the Marauder's Map when Ron and Luna approached. “Just on the other side of this ridge is the Château's boundary line. There's a secret passage through the wards, right here,” Harry stabbed at the map. “The map's not working right, but that dot right there's Hermione.”

Ron saw quite a few dots - at least thirty of them, all nameless - in that general area. But when Harry touched a finger to that area of the map, all of them flickered and seemed to jump about. Briefly, one name - Hermione's - blinked and was gone again.

“Why her and none of the rest?” Luna asked.

“No bloody idea,” Harry responded. “The important thing … this means she's still alive. Now let's go. Disillusion yourselves.”

Ron and Luna obeyed. Harry was in full command mode.

Harry shrunk his broom. Since the other Valkyrie did not belong to Ron, they had to leave it behind. Harry led them through untamed tall grass and brushy undergrowth until they reached the actual boundary, marked by a low stone fence.

A familiar querulous voice arose from the shadows.

“Harry Potter, sir … you've come!”

“Dobby, quiet,” Harry ordered. “As if anything could keep me away. Did you tell the goblins not to intervene until my signal?”

Dobby nodded vigorously. “They's being unhappy and nots liking it, but they's waiting for your signal.”

Harry cautiously approached the fence, walked along it for about ten metres, and stopped. “This should be the way through.”

“Mas … Mister Harry,” Dobby pleaded. “Let me be checking first. I's learnt how the Château's wards be feeling….:

“Go ahead, then.”

Dobby crept over the fence. “It's still being clear,” he announced in a stage whisper. “I's a getting out this same way before.”

Relieved, Harry rushed through the opening, the others hot on his heels. He saw his own dot, associated with his name, appear on the map. Only his dot only bore a name - his and sometimes Hermione's.

“This way,” Harry pointed, still following the Château's features as outlined on the map. The nearest unidentified dots on the Château's grounds - Harry assumed they were Death Eater scouts - did not move towards them, so Harry concluded they had indeed entered the manse undetected.

“Dobby, wait here until I call for you,” Harry ordered. Ordinarily, he tried not to command his favourite elf, but this mission left no room for pleasantries. “The goblin tunnel is just below us. I'm going to dig our way in. Ron and Luna, stay close. Dobby, I'd like you to clean out the dirt and cover our tracks. When we get into the goblin tunnel, I'll call you.”

Grateful to both Professor Flitwick and Brikwal for his mastery of Tunnelling Charms, Harry pulled out both of his wands and set them to spinning. Barely making a sound, they bored into the soft earth, digging a tunnel more than a metre in diameter. Harry's whirling wands sent loose dirt flying everywhere, which Dobby disposed of efficiently.

After a couple of nervous minutes, as Harry observed the movements of what he presumed were Death Eater patrols on his map, the wands clattered upon encountering something solid.

“Ron, light your wand, since mine have other things to do.”

Harry crept into the earthy smelling tunnel, closely followed by Ron and Luna. Unable to stand erect in the cramped space, they half crawled through its five-metre length as quickly as they could. Behind them, they heard Dobby filling in the entrance so the Death Eaters would not stumble upon it.

They were committed.

But Harry had been committed from the moment Godric Gryffindor had informed him of Hermione's circumstances.

Or maybe he had been committed since sticking his wand up a troll's nose back in first year….

No. Harry shook his head to dispel such thoughts. He already had more than enough to deal with….

Reaching the end of the tunnel, he retrieved his still whirring wands. Even in dim wandlight it was obvious what had stopped their progress. Black, shiny goblin-shaped obsidian glinted before him. The goblins had taken pains that their tunnel - intended (and used) as an escape route in case of Death Eater attack - would not be easily breached by wizard magic.

The obstacle was unwelcome, but not insurmountable - not for a wizard with access to goblin magic.

Harry drew his goblin Sempiternal dirk. Goblin forged uniquely for him, its Vorpal steel construction sensed what Harry needed almost before he knew. The diamond tipped blade morphed into a maul with a solid, wedge-shaped head.

Frustrated, Harry tried manually splitting the obsidian's crystalline structure. With a great grunt, he slammed the maul into the barrier, but failed to generate sufficient momentum in the tightly restricted space.

Ron's voice sounded from over Harry's shoulder. “Bloody hell, Harry, have you considered using magic? The map doesn't show any Death Eaters nearby.”

Harry had to agree. “Depulso!” His strong Banishing Charm sent the maul crashing into the obsidian, visibly cracking it. He repeated the process half a metre away with similar results.

One more ought to do it.

“Depulso!”

A large chunk of obsidian gave way….

Success!

Disaster!

A blast of superheated air seared their astonished faces. The angry, florid glow of molten lava appeared through the hole at Harry's feet. Goblin armour or no, they would be fried to cinders within seconds.

“Fridigio Maximus!” Harry choked out, using the last of the air that remained in his lungs. His elemental magic cooled the atmosphere about the three wizards down to a survivable level and caused a thin, black scum to form on the magma beneath them.

“We can't stay here!” Harry spat out the obvious conclusion. The advancing lava was already cracking through its thin rocky crust. Silently, with his bare hand, Harry summoned forth more elemental magic - earth magic, this time.

About them the ground shook, and a crack appeared overhead. “Dobby!”

Instantly, the elf popped into their presence.

“Get us out of here!”

“Grab onto me!” Dobby shrieked, and all three wizards immediately obeyed the house-elf's directive. An instant later Dobby had popped them back on the surface, about twenty metres distant.

“Thanks Dobby, that was close,” Harry panted.

“Is being Dobby's pleasure, Harry Potter, sir. But I's being….”

“Shite!” Ron's exclamation cut the elf short. “The Death Eaters must have felt that. Their dots are headed this way fast!”

“Over here, all of you,” Harry's command voice reasserted itself. Ron, Luna, and Dobby instantly obeyed and followed Harry as he ducked behind a large tree encircled by a white sitting bench.

Harry quickly reached his right hand down to the left sleeve of his goblin armour, intending to yank it up to his elbow. His left hand made unexpected contact with … the grip of his Sempiternal dirk, snugly in its scabbard at Harry's side.

That briefly puzzled Harry. He was certain he had abandoned it to the lava, but the goblin-forged weapon seemed to have a mind of its own.

With Death Eaters bearing down, Harry had no time to ponder this good fortune. He pulled both sleeves of his goblin armour up to his elbows. As the others crowded around, he crossed his forearms and began a familiar incantation, “Karpasinat.”

Nothing seemed to change.

“What dijya do?” Ron whispered.

Three Death Eaters appeared out of the gloom to their left, sprinting. Ron raised his wand, drawing a bead on a target. Harry put his hand firmly on Ron's wrist. “Don't.”

Ron glared at Harry, but stayed his fire.

The Death Eaters ran by, coming as close as ten metres, but never stopped and gave no sign of sensing the intruders. Their attention was riveted on the stream of lava now bubbling out of the crevasse Harry had made.

“Goblin Cloaking spell,” Harry answered Ron's question after the Death Eaters had gone. “They can't see or hear us. In fact, if you look at my Château map, we shouldn't even appear on it….”

Ron did. Harry was right. Their dots, and Harry's name, had vanished.

Now the only named dot was Hermione's, surrounded by at least thirty unnamed persons.

“Wicked,” Ron approved.

“We need to get going” Harry brushed off the compliment. “Give me the map. Hermione's dot's still there, meaning she's still alive. We can't go underground so we'll have to stay under this spell. We can't outrun it. It only moves so fast….”

“Then I's needing to be going,” Dobby uncharacteristically broke in. “The other elves, they's being tracking me since I popped you out. They's being ordered by Ima Hogg to catch me and lock me up. She's being lying that she still works for you, but enough elves is still believing….”

“Don't worry, Dobby,” Harry reassured the elf as the party moved toward the Château at a brisk walk. “This is goblin Cloaking magic - even elves can't detect anyone under it.”

Dobby looked a bit uncertain, but if Harry said stay, he would stay.

“Damn, that must be good magic,” Ron signed as he quickstepped along with Harry. “Wish I could do that…. Wait a minute, just how do you know so bloody much about it, anyway…?”

“Ron, just let it go,” Luna slipped her hand in his.

“Don't ask a question if you won't like the answer,” Harry snapped. If Ron wanted to find out that learning goblin Cloaking magic had been Ginny's idea, to facilitate illicit adventures at Hogwarts, he would have to inquire a second time.

Ron kept quiet.

As the rescue party approached the Château itself, the underbrush vanished, replaced by the grass of the Blackwalls' well-maintained gardens. Trees, and anything else that could be used for cover in a wandfight, became fewer and farther between.

Harry plowed onward, setting the fastest pace he could manage without outrunning the goblin camouflage that hid them from the occupying Death Eaters. Fewer obstructions meant better footing, which allowed him to keep his eyes glued to the map, and on the only dot that mattered.

Hermione was unmoving - probably because she was not free to move - somewhere up ahead, near the Château. He could see the building's lights quite clearly now.

So many Death Eaters were all about her. Even more shadows were being cast on the Château's wide garden spaces than there were dots on the map.

“Hold up,” Harry ordered.

Everyone stopped. Harry knelt and began playing with his sleeves again, muttering more Gobbledegook.

“What are you doing now?” Luna asked in a much calmer voice than any of the others could have managed.

“There's too many bloody Death Eaters,” Harry answered, once he had completed his latest incantation. “The cloaking magic that's hiding us from them ends whenever any of us casts a spell through it. I've reset the spell so that when that happens, the goblin army automatically gets a sign to attack as soon as they can.”

“Goblin army?” Ron echoed incredulously. “Why the hell wait so long for reinforcements? We could all be dead before they get here.”

Harry gestured towards the Death Eater conclave. “The Death Eaters have Hermione, Ron. I'm absolutely positive that, whatever else they're doing, they'll kill her the moment they know they're under attack. That's not going to happen until I've….”

Harry fell abruptly silent at the sight of a blinding white flash, followed by a cloud of steam.

“Shite! That's it….”

“What's it,” asked a confused Ron. “Don't fool….”

“They're going to kill Hermione for sure,” Harry replied with panic creeping into his voice. “That's the same damn spell they used to bring back Voldemort - I was there for it. It must be effing Lestrange, and that's why they had to come here…. I'm sorry I got you into this mess….”

“Whoa there, we agreed to come. You had bloody little….”

“Sorry, but that that doesn't matter anymore,” Harry hissed, a desperate plan gelling in his head.

“You can't go back on us now,” Luna joined Ron.

They dodged another passing Death Eater patrol, oblivious to their presence.

“If I could, I would, but I can't,” Harry hissed. “I'm afraid there's nothing you can do now…. Head for those tombstones.”

“Don't give me that crap, Harry. We can fight,” Ron protested.

“And get killed,” Harry shot back. “Dobby, how much time do you need to pop Hermione away from here? I don't care where - just to get her out.”

“Depends, sir. If she's being stuck to a big, heavy gravestone, maybe as much as ten seconds, Harry Potter, sir,” Dobby answered. “Less if Miz Myown's not.”

“You're sending Dobby in there?” Luna was incredulous.

“Not alone,” Harry clarified, his voice shaky but determined. They reached a line of tombstones. They could now see Voldemort standing less than two metres from a stone obelisk with silver chains glinting against it. On the other side, Harry presumed, was Hermione.

She was still alive. Her dot continued flickering on the map.

Voldemort, as was his wont, appeared to be monologuing. Another Death Eater, next to him, reached for Hermione's midsection, but Harry could not tell why.

Harry drew his goblin dirk. “Dobby, I want you to pop me in there - between Voldemort and Hermione. With this thing, and some surprise, I should be able to give you at least the ten seconds you need.”

“Harry, that's suicide,” Luna protested.

“And absolutely necessary,” Harry dismissed her objection. “Ron's been right all along, and it's time for me to do something about it. If I hadn't started with Ginny, this wouldn't have happened. It's my fault she's there, so I have to fix it. This is the only way….”

“Harry, you're mental. You can't just go in there by yourself,” Ron started in angrily. “Think about that damn prophecy.” Ron regretted not cluing Luna in to this, but right now keeping Harry alive was more important. “You're the key bloke in all this. Hermione would say the same thing, you know it….”

“Fuck the bloody prophecy, Ron,” Harry seethed, without looking at his erstwhile friend. “D'ya really think, with her death on my head for not controlling my stupid self, that I could carry it off anyway?”

Harry mentioned no names, but all his listeners knew exactly who he meant.

He was staring intently at the map, and the dots nearest Hermione, praying for an opening. “Dobby, come here. It's death or goddamn glory time.”

“M-M-Master, Dobby's being thinking this isn't a good idea.”

“Dobby - here,” Harry ordered. “You two, Disillusion yourselves … no, here, take this….” Harry started undoing one of the armour fasteners on his chest, intent on giving Ron his Invisibility Cloak.

“Bloody, effing hell,” Ron swore. “You're so damn alike. How this whole bloody mess happened, I have no frigging idea because you both still fucking lo….”

“NOOOOOOOO!!!” Luna screamed at the top of her lungs.

Harry, whose eyes had not left the map, looked up. Voldemort had a dagger raised over his head, poised to strike.

Instinctively, Harry rolled to his left, wand out, bellowing, “EXPELLIARMUS!!”

With a sound like a shotgun blast, the Fifth-Element aided bolt of fiery red magic streaked towards Voldemort. At the same instant - too quickly even for an echo - a second loud bang heralded a brilliant red flash that illuminated Voldemort himself. It came from the far side, Hermione's side, of the obelisk to which she was fastened.

Voldemort staggered back a step as the entire monolith, chains and all, lifted straight into the air. A mighty screech split the night.

As he faltered, Voldemort did not see Harry's spell. It hit him flush in the side. But the Dark Lord had protected himself with some enchantment that prevented a mere Disarming Charm from relieving him of his wand - although the same could not be said for his ceremonial dagger.

Instead of Voldemort's wand flying towards Harry, Voldemort himself - wand and all - went sailing through the air at an odd angle, falling somewhere out of Harry's sight.

The dagger bounced off Harry's armour, unnoticed. As the Death Eaters turned and began opening fire, Harry could scarcely believe what he was seeing. The dark stone obelisk to which Hermione had been chained pivoted in midair, revealing a brilliantly scarlet phoenix, its wings flapping furiously as it soared into the night.

With another earsplitting screech, the angry firebird burst the chains binding it. Phoenix Hermione shot up into the sky, and the heavy tombstone fell away. It landed, with a dull, sickening thud, directly atop one of the Death Eaters who had been closest to her. Nothing save a motionless silver hand could be seen.

By then Harry had to focus his attention elsewhere, as streaking spells of all colours began arcing in his direction.

As Harry dove for cover, more than two score Death Eaters, those assembled in the graveyard and others observing from the Château's windows, simultaneously began firing a cacophony of curses.

As he had during the Malfoy Manor firefight, Dobby threw up a shield of elfin magic that blocked most of the initial fusillade, buying Harry and his outnumbered friends precious seconds to duck behind nearby tombstones.

Combat focusses the mind like nothing else. Time seemed to slow down. The senses Harry needed - sight and enough hearing to detect spellfire - sharpened, whilst everything else went conveniently numb.

After cursing Voldemort, Harry had rolled over twice more and huddled behind another gravestone. “Incandens!” he conjured a shield of fire to obstruct the Death Eaters' view of him. Wild hexes streaked in every direction.

Unfortunately, the fire did the same to him. Essentially blind, Harry let loose with a Limb Removing Curse cut five ways. Throwing aside his goblin dirk, useful only in close quarters, Harry grabbed his second wand from its holster and began firing off curses with both hands. “Confringo!” “Diffindo!” “Osteo Pulvisæ!” “Regurgito!”

The Death Eaters returned overwhelming fire. Their curses blasted away at the tombstones shielding Hermione's pinned down would-be rescuers. A well-aimed Reductor split Harry's stone vertically and sent sharp chunks of rock flying in all directions.

A mirror spell cast on a nearby tombstone….

A little misdirection - bounce a Hacking Hex cut five ways off the mirror….

Harry gave at least as well as he got. He brought down the two nearest Death Eaters by surrounding them with tightly pulled barbed wire. “Cephalus Fricassus!” he used a Lesson 128 curse to drop another Death Eater who was taking aim at Luna. His own Reductor Curse, cut ten ways, turned several more opponents into widely scattered raw hamburger ingredients.

Keep track of Ron and Luna … and curse everything else that moved.

Harry had to sigh, just a bit, upon hearing Ron roar out “Sectumsempra!” Ron's curse slammed into the giant stone cauldron behind which Bellatrix Lestrange had taken cover, trying to aim an unfamiliar wand at him. The cauldron rang like a bell, and the spell's force tipped the cistern over backwards. Lestrange flopped from sight as a flood of leftover Regeneration Potion swept her feet out from under her.

Even Harry was not perfect. Something angry and orange streaked in from an odd angle and hit him squarely in the right hip. Thanks to the Basilisk skin armour, all he felt was the dull pressure of impact.

Luna, for her part, faced the other way, using Idiotus Jinxes to pick off Death Eaters trying to sneak in from behind.

Suddenly, screeching like a vuvuzela powered by a lorry horn, phoenix-Hermione swooped down, grabbed Death Eaters in both claws, and soared upwards. In seconds her evil cargo plummeted back to earth - landing like fleshy missiles amidst their counterparts.

“Multiplicitus!” Harry heard Luna create multiple images of herself to confuse the Death Eaters.

Still the curses kept coming. A purple slash whipped across their besieged position. Somebody else had learnt the Dark Fire of Tu Fan, but it could not penetrate their Basilisk skin armour. Bits of grass and dirt spattered Harry as Death Eater curses - some Unforgivable - gouged fiery divots into the surrounding turf.

With his protective tombstone rapidly being reduced to rubble, Harry kept blasting away ambidextrously. “Stupefy!” “Reducto!” “Hornetentious!” “Incarcerous!” He lunged for a more substantial headstone nearby. Two curses found their marks - something icy blue that arrived exactly at eye level - blocked at the last second with his armoured forearm….

The other was a Cruciatus.

“AIEEE!!” Harry hollered in pain. Scrabbling to keep his balance, he concentrated, cupped his hands at the proper angle, and incanted, “Suturc!” to defeat the curse.

The Cruciatus briefly distracted Harry from the battle raging about him.

Briefly and fatally.

“Good-bye, Harry Potter.”

Harry knew that chilling voice.

“Avada Kedavra!”

The Killing Curse came from the left. Harry turned his head in just time to see Voldemort Disillusioning himself. The Dark wizard's triumphant, malevolent grimace glowed an ugly radium green, lit by a bolt of death that Harry could not possibly dodge.

Harry knew it was all over. He was a dead man. `You didn't need me,' he reflected in his last thoughts on earth. `You saved yourself. But when it comes to you, Hermione….'

Moving without conscious direction, save its own, Harry's Sempiternal dirk pivoted at his side, its elongating blade splitting its scabbard in two. With the deafening sound of plate glass shattering under extreme pressure, Killing Curse met Vorpal steel.

The blade absorbed the curse, but the curse's impact pulverised the blade.

Stunned, disbelieving that he still lived, Harry fell to his knees, gawking as the shards of goblin metal magically regrouped into the rough outline of a new blade - still diamond tipped and Basilisk fang edged. Glowing silver, the metallic swarm aimed itself and shot directly at Voldemort.

Unprepared, the Dark Lord had no choice. He Disapparated just before blade fragments turned him into a pin cushion.

The reconstituted blade lost its purpose for existing and fell to the ground in jagged scraps.

The battle raged on.

Luna screamed when a curse lit her up in a shower of yellow sparks. But her armour protected her. She had never really been under fire before.

Another Death Eater curse slammed into the stone against which Harry had been leaning. It pelted him with slivers of granite and brought him abruptly back to the only slightly less desperate here-and-now.

Only the three friends remained, with a surviving few of Luna's doppelgangers. Dobby had vanished after providing his initial shield. Although perhaps half their number lay as casualties on the ground, more than a dozen Death Eaters continued fighting in the Black family cemetery between them and the Château.

Almost as many more were behind them, those who had been patrolling the grounds. Additional Death Eaters occupied the high ground of Château's upper floor windows, commanding superior fields of fire.

The goblins would be here soon. They needed more than ten minutes….

Harry needed to equalise the odds - quickly. Could Hermione possibly…?

That was it.

“DEVOLVUS!!” he roared. With a series of pops, thirty metres of turf, tombstones and all, pulled loose from the earth between Harry and the Death Eaters - from the Château doorway on the left to the overturned cauldron on the right. Slowly, but with accelerating speed, the turf rolled over itself like a snowball on a downhill run. Harry had used the same spell, on a much smaller scale, when he had dueled Hermione.

Over the next five seconds, all the Death Eaters between Harry and the Château either fled in panic, Disapparated, or were swallowed up and crushed in an onslaught of the earth beneath their feet.

Before the results of his first spell had come to rest with a splot against Blackwalls' stone ramparts, Harry had turned and repeated the process in the opposite direction.

“Protego! Now that was bloody brilliant,” Ron exclaimed as he tried to stand up. “I only wish you'd have thought of that sooner. Now where's … AAAHHH!”

A wild Bonebreaker Curse from somewhere to their left ricocheted off a tombstone behind them, bounced off a rock on the ground, and struck the top of Ron's ankle, where his ill-fitting armour provided no protection.

Even after multiple deflections, the Death Eater Bonebreaker lived up to its name. Ron fell heavily forward, both bones of his lower leg shattered. He landed flat on his face halfway into the depression where the turf had torn loose. Ron became an inviting, and utterly unprotected, target for the Death Eaters still perched in the Chateaus' upper storey windows.

“Ronald!” Luna angrily fired a Disorienting Hex in the direction of the curse's origin, and ran towards Ron as curses flew all about her.

Conjuring balls of fire with two wands simultaneously, Harry tried to suppress the Death Eaters' fire with mediocre results.

A screech rent the night. Phoenix Hermione swooped in to gather up Ron. She dove in low from the right, on a path that gave both Harry (and Ron had he been looking) a full face-on view of her magnificent flying form.

“Go, Hermione!” Harry cheered.

An all-too-familiar voice shouted, “AVADA KEDAVRA!”

Bellatrix Lestrange's Killing Curse found Hermione.

Before Harry's shocked eyes, phoenix Hermione disintegrated in a ball of flame as the ultimate Unforgivable forced the magic, and the life, out of the magical creature's body.

All Harry's breath left his body in a screaming, “NOOOOOOOO!!” of unimaginable grief and rage. He felt his hopes, his dreams, his … everything … being consumed along with Hermione's phoenix form. Left to their own devices, Harry's limbs went flabby. He stumbled and fell to his knees. His guts churned like someone had punched a turbo-beater through his navel and turned it on high.

“Hermione!” Luna joined Harry's roar with a wail of her own. Heedless of her own safety, Luna hurtled past Ron and threw herself on Hermione's smoking remnants.

“Ha-HAH!” a gleeful shout rang across the devastated no-man's land that had once been the Black family cemetery. “Ding dong, the bitch is dead…!”

Partially shielded by the upturned cauldron, Lestrange cackled, “Wittle baby Potty's pwaymate's gone and there's nuffink anybody can to bwing her back! Hee, hee, hee….”

Harry wheeled toward the sound of the voice, his grief rapidly being corrupted into an overwhelming urge to kill - to repay that hateful witch for what she had just done to Hermione. A million generations of evolution fell away as Harry went primal….

Six months earlier, such a scene - even without the perpetrator's taunting - would have ended with an explosion of raw, indiscriminate magic - destroying everything and killing everyone, friend, foe, or in between, within a dozen kilometres.

Since then, though, Harry had trained constantly and had been tempered by the heat of mortal combat. The out-of-control adolescent was gone, replaced with the gut instincts of a gladiator.

Lestrange was determined to test his mettle. Her sing-song voice again jeered, “Bye, bye, filthy Mudblood has died. Sent by Potter to the slaughter when another he tried….”

If Harry could have toasted her with green lightning bolts from his eyes, he would have. Hatred and revenge - raw and overpowering - tinged Harry's vision. “I'LL KILL YOU; YOU DISGUSTING BITCH!!” He trained his wand on the demented, Dark Witch and bellowed, “CONFRINGO!!!”

A brilliantly orange Blasting Curse, the likes of which surprised even Harry, emerged from his wand like a blast from Mallet's mortar.

But Lestrange timed him and Disapparated as Harry's incantation left his lips.

That curse vaporised the great stone cauldron that had incubated Lestrange's resurrection. Continuing unabated, the curse crashed into the corner of the Château, nearly parallel to the building's west wall. The curse's passage obliterated the corner of the structure and the edge of the ground and first floors. It kept going, blowing the west wall to smithereens across that side of the 255-room building.

Deprived of support, the entire west face of the Château - its remaining six storeys - collapsed in billows of rubble and plaster dust. For a blessed minute or so, the obscuring cloud prevented the Death Eaters still occupying the Château from taking more potshots at Hermione's now thoroughly dispirited would-be rescuers.

Not until later did Harry learn that, from there, his spell had ripped through a forest for half a kilometre, laying waste to centuries-old oaks and beeches, before burying itself in a hillside and creating a new cavern large enough to house the aging of the Château's entire output of wine and champagne.

As terrible as Harry's curse had been, it did not - could not - restore what the Dark Witch had taken from him. Whatever remained of Hermione lay in the raw dirt a few metres in front of him, glowing faintly blue beneath Luna's human shield.

Oblivious to everything else, Harry staggered forward, disregarding his own exposure to curses from leftover Death Eaters. He sheathed his still-smoking wand. Tears blurring his vision, he fumbled with his upper armour's fastenings. Jerking the Basilisk skin open, he reached in, removed his Invisibility Cloak, and spread it over Luna's body.

Then, numb and with nothing left to give, Harry sank to his knees amongst the bleak, battered moonscape of the Black family graveyard. His thought process followed what was, for Harry, a predictable direction.

`Merlin, what a mess I've made. I should have known Hermione wouldn't need me. Bloody hell - she learnt that phoenix transformation. She didn't need rescuing. Our … my … showing up bollixed everything. Without needing to rescue us, she could have flown away. We got her….'

“This is all my fucking fault,” Harry grumbled. He had charged into this battle with no Felix Felicis Potion, and the results spoke for themselves….

“Avada Kedavra!”

A Killing Curse does wonders to concentrate the mind - especially when uttered by yet another familiar voice.

Harry dove behind the nearest reasonably intact gravestone, flicking out his wand as he tumbled, but if the spell were even meant for him, it was extremely poorly aimed.

He knew who cast it. He would never forget the voice of his traitorous, turncoat former employee, Ima Hogg. As Harry crouched once more behind a curse-scarred monument to a long-dead Black, his grief and self-pity congealed into a fierce, bitter enmity towards any and all things associated with the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black - especially its Death Eater sympathies - what motivated both Lestrange and Hogg to use the Killing Curse against his friends….

A half-dozen Death Eaters remained silhouetted in the windows or backlit in gaping holes where the Château's walls had collapsed. Harry's murderous fury returned in a red haze of hatred. They needed to be extirpated. The goblins would soon arrive, but Harry would not chance the wait.

His rage undoubtedly would have sustained a Killing Curse, but Harry had never learnt to cast Unforgivables - nor did he tend to think that way. Instead, he chose a spell that would not only kill the remaining Death Eaters but also destroy an unwanted inheritance that had brought him nothing but pain, and heartache … and death.

The malevolent spawn of Black had just taken from Harry his one truest friend - and so much more.

Never again.

His mind swimming with poisonous visions of revenge, Harry stood. He pointed his wand at the loathsome Hogg and began to roar, “Infla…!”

Thunk! Something seemed to hit her from behind.

Harry's narrowed eyes went wide, and the spell that would have immolated the Château was never completed.

Propelled by some unseen force, Ima Hogg lurched from her fourth storey perch and appeared to attempt flight without wings.

Over the next few seconds every other visible Death Eater followed suit.

Had Voldemort taught his followers to fly like he could? Harry altered his aim to account for that awful possibility.

The answer, thankfully, was no.

Ima Hogg completed a swan dive into solid ground, the splat of her landing leaving no doubt that no magic had broken her spell. Just before she hit, Harry heard a popping sound.

Dobby appeared beside him, a triumphant grin on his face.

“Harry Potter, sir, there's being no more bad wizards inside. We elves, even being without magic, has gotten rid of them.”

Harry's last dregs of adrenaline evaporated with the news. He paused before finally choking out, “Thanks, Dobby.” His weak response left the elf standing there wondering what else had happened.

Robotically, Harry tried to Levitate the now-unconscious Ron. Nothing happened. He looked at his wand - it was his father's, and like the day his father died, it was hollow. Harry's last spell had managed to burn out the core entirely.

Too numb to think, he sheathed the destroyed wand and removed his original wand from its invisible holder. He floated Ron's body next to Luna and covered them both with the Cloak. He plopped down in the dirt beside them and rocked dejectedly back and forth, whilst he muttered over and over, “What have I done?”

Dejected … angry … Harry blamed himself for an amateurish, botched and totally unnecessary rescue. Had they not drifted apart - another fault lying squarely at his feet - he would have known Hermione had succeeded where he had failed, mastering her phoenix whilst his golden griffin remained out of reach.

She had escaped.

Then she had come back.

She was AKed trying to help Ron.

“AAIIEE!!” Harry's anguished cry rent the night. In despair he raised his remaining functional wand, dagger-like, and stabbed it as deeply into the earth as he could.

With the fight over, Harry's tears finally came. Once his façade cracked, choking sobs wracked his chest. He could barely see, barely breathe, and he barely cared. He had lost. The anchor of his life was gone. His tears watered the raw earth.

Voldemort had won … how could he go on…?

Or had he?

What did it matter at this point, anyway?

The only way left to win was to go Dark - maybe kill more Death Eaters and make his own Horcruxes…. With an ominous groan, Harry realised that he could. The Dark Lord's followers had abased him. He had tried to kill them … especially the bitch Lestrange … not to capture, not to disable, but to kill.

Damn them! Damn her! Damn them all!

Still clutching his wand by its hilt, Harry exuded despair and rage. The soil itself began to bubble and boil.

The only way to survive was to become as unkillable as Voldemort….

No!

That would only defile Hermione's memory.

All he had left was her memory. Harry wept anew. He had lost. Even if he won, he lost.

The goblin army rolled in a few minutes later - having been delayed more by malfunctioning wards, molten magma, and a turf tsunami than by enemy action. To them, almost two score of Death Eaters dead and wounded scattered in the still of the night meant that their valiant Prince Harry had won another great victory.

Instead, they found their Prince, on his knees in steaming, putrid mud, unaware of his surroundings, inconsolable, and ruing the most catastrophic defeat of his life.

Without any restraining influence from Harry, who was beyond caring, the goblins proceeded to butcher every Dark Mark-bearing human they came across.

* * * *

The void was calm, warm, and inviting - all in remarkable contrast to the hellhole her life had become over the past several hours … days … weeks…?

Did it matter? Time did not seem to pass.

Hermione perceived herself - assuming that she retained anything that passed for a “self” - floating weightless in a vast, formless expanse, devoid of discernable direction. “Up,” “down,” and the like had no meaning.

She felt like one of those astronauts in zero gravity, except they could see stars and planets. The void had nothing for her to see.

But on more thorough inspection, that was not quite right.

Amidst the infinite gloom shone a single exception - a small spot of achromatic light persisted, glowing yellowish white. It was no larger than the full moon, if that, as Hermione had no reference point from which to judge. It resembled, as much as anything, light shining from the far end of a very long tunnel.

Was this death? Some gateway to death? Limbo? Hermione could not tell. She knew only that her present - assuming this was some version of “present” - state was vastly preferable to her prior circumstances.

All the pain, the threats, the terror, that had haunted Hermione's earthly existence had fallen away - dwindling to a faint, indistinct buzz that tickled her … her … her navel.

That was odd. She reached down and felt … something even odder. Her fingers slid along a stringy, irregular, and rather prickly umbilicus. Hermione wriggled and managed to shift herself until dim light from the single source illuminated the strand. It seemed to consist of a multitude of feathers - red phoenix feathers, she surmised - twisted and woven together into something like rope. The thin filament had neither tension nor terminus. It meandered through the gloom until disappearing … somewhere.

But “gloom” was not an adequate description. It was too pejorative. Peace was more like it. The void was soothing. None of Hermione's prior afflictions existed here. That was a huge plus.

The void was tranquil.

The void was painless.

The void was empty. It utterly lacked the eye-popping fear created by monsters all too ready to inflict unspeakable evil on her simply because of the accident of her birth.

No, that was not quite right, either. She was hardly the only Muggle-born - she could name four others in her Hogwarts class alone - and none of them had been chosen for the macabre honour of becoming the unwilling repository for an evil fragment of Voldemort's soul.

To the Death Eaters, her transgressions extended well beyond ancestry. Her true crime was that she … was in not stopping herself when she - no use denying it now - fell in love with Voldemort's mortal enemy, Harry Potter….

The void had no magic, and thus no Dark magic.

…She had fallen in love with, and - in limbo veritas - was still in love with … Harry Potter…. But he had discarded her in favour of someone prettier, more athletic, and pure-blooded. For all her intellect, Hermione felt like the stupidest, most useless person ever to have lived.

If nothing else, despair intruded upon the cosmic depths of the void.

But her despair…. It was trivial compared to the death, destruction, defilement, and debasement she had endured since the Death Eaters kidnapped her from Hogsmeade.

But for a stupendous stroke of good luck - her entirely unplanned first phoenix transformation ever, after months of unmitigated failure - Hermione would now be a living Horcrux, her mind and body forever possessed by an active fragment of Voldemort's odious soul.

The only escape from such a possession was death. Unnervingly, Voldemort had seemed remarkably unconcerned with that possibility.

`I would have killed myself, surely, at my first opportunity,' Hermione sternly told herself, `before I'd have ever let that go on….'

However, if not for an equally stupendous stroke of bad luck, Hermione's phoenix transformation would have made good a most remarkable escape.

But amazingly, naïvely … heroically … Harry had somehow located her - unfortunately just a bit too late to do any real good. Rather than flee as rapidly as possible, Hermione, as a phoenix, found herself participating in a furious battle. No more than three of her friends (she saw only Ron, Harry, and Luna) had fought literally dozens of Death Eaters, including Voldemort himself.

And so she came to the void - struck by the Killing Curse in phoenix form whilst attempting to rescue one of her would-be rescuers. One of her first real friends.

Hermione did not regret sacrificing herself for Ron - she was fairly certain he would have done the same for her.

There were other regrets in the void, but no more hatred, torture, fighting, or killing.

Compared to the horror show Hermione's life had become, a semi-existence in serene repose seemed downright inviting.

So Hermione waited, relaxed if regretful, for whatever might be her final act in the course of human events. She considered her mind well-organised….

A non-believer to the core, Hermione expected neither winged choirs of angels nor legions of demons. Indeed, nothing of that sort happened, no bearded deities nor horned devils, no celestial host of cherubim or seraphim. Harry and Luna had mentioned encounters with the spirits of loved ones whilst unconscious, but Hermione had not prised into such personal matters.

She expected nothing of that sort, either, since none of her loved ones (to her knowledge) had died.

A minute, or a month, may have passed until a surprising voice broke the void's comforting silence.

“Hermy-own-ninny! Finally, I have found you!”

“Loved one” meant different things to different people.

Surprised but not frightened, through sheer force of will Hermione floated in the direction of the voice.

She came face to face with Viktor Krum. This Krum, however, was not the torn, tortured man of their last encounter - someone who had unsuccessfully attempted to navigate a knife edge between the lesser and greater of two evils.

No, this was the adolescent Krum - Durmstrang Champion, Bulgaria's pride - astride the red, white, and green trimmed broom he rode in the 1994 World Cup.

He wore the same crimson, fur-lined robes of that long-ago day - burnt into both of their memories - when after weeks of hemming and hawing he had requested her to walk with him. They had meandered to her special secluded place on the backside of Hogwarts Lake. There, he had confessed that she made him feel like nobody else ever had. He had asked her for two things, first, a date to the Yule Ball, and second, a chance, a fair chance, to compete for her affections.

She had happily granted the first … but, Hermione realised, she had never really delivered the second. Her heart was already spoken for….

“Viktor,” Hermione replied, sounding out of breath even in the void. “Why are you here? You died. Am I … dead?”

“Dat, my alvays perceptive obicham prijatel, ist the ultimate question,” Viktor smiled at her. “For you, the ansver ist vithin your control…. In dat, you are more fortunate than I.” His smile, still bright, bore a distinctly more wistful cast than before.

“If I'm not dead, then what are you doing here, Viktor?”

“Again, only you can ansver dat,” he unhelpfully answered. “Vot happens ist vot you vant to happen.”

“Then I don't want to be dead,” Hermione immediately declared.

“From personal experience, I vouldn't be so sure,” Viktor responded thoughtfully. “I know dat, at the end, I could not have said dat … not and remain truthful.”

Hermione thought more deeply, contemplating the recent days and weeks. Although she and Harry were no more, the Death Eaters nonetheless pursued her. Despite the end of their romance, her friendship with Harry remained. Friendship alone had motivated Harry to find her somehow, and to come for her despite his usual, impossible odds.

Would it be better just to get on with the inevitable, so Harry would no longer be endangered by her continuing vulnerability?

In short, would both of them be better off with her dead?

“Hermy-own-ninny?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Viktor,” Hermione apologised. “Lost in thought, I guess.”

“Don't be sorry. I have all the time in the vorld,” Viktor temporised. “But Hermy-own-ninny, shouldn't you at least consider vot ist best for you, instead of vot ist best for him…?”

Hermione could not bear looking at the first man ever to say he loved her. “I'm … I'm not sure there's a difference….”

“And dat ist vhy I never had a chance,” Viktor sighed, sadly but without any trace of reproach. “But my clever one, you should consider your course both objectively and subjectively….”

“In what sense…?”

“Even if you believe dat he vould be safer vithout you being alvays their target,” Viktor recommended, “consider carefully how, subjectively, he vould feel in dat event.”

“Ah, yes,” Hermione understood. “Would his objective safety outweigh his tendency to blame himself for anything bad that ever happens?”

“That ist … consideration,” Viktor neutrally allowed, “but your fate ist ultimately in your hands.”

Viktor reached inside his robes and withdrew an oversized pair of scissors that, even in the dim light, almost shone from within. Smiling wanly now, he offered her the shears.

Making no move to accept, Hermione immediately grasped the metaphor. “Now, this is rather much of a cliché, I'd have to say.”

“Don't blame me. Ist all from your own mind,” Viktor pointed out. “It ist the vay you, in your heart of hearts, vish for this to play out.”

Again he held out the gold-coloured implement to her. This time Hermione accepted them.

“Vell, there ist a limit to vot I can do - as alvays,” Viktor spoke as he prepared to take his leave. “If you vant me, you know vere I am. It vould be an honour….”

Without completing the thought, Viktor pointed his broom away from her and flew off.

Alone again in warm, safe isolation, Hermione stared mutely at the tool she now held. Idly, she opened and shut the scissors' blades. Their sharp snipping sound seemed quite loud in the otherwise silent void.

It was familiar. Once before Hermione had done something similar, for similar reasons. Then the cautionary sound had been the click of the safety on one of her father's pistols. Hardly mythological, that.

Could she make the same choice now?

Could she go back … to that? To constant fear and even more pervasive heartache?

She pondered her choice. Seconds passed … or perhaps hours … or perhaps days.

Again Hermione's recess was interrupted.

A searching. An invitation. A promise of … sanctuary…?

Initially far away … it felt tentative, even confused … but by degrees it grew stronger and more emphatic.

Hermione resisted. Could she trust what she now sensed? Was it a ruse? Could the Death Eaters have sent Krum? Might this be another of their blandishments? In the void she was safe. In the void, she knew peace.

Was her ordeal really over, as the sensation promised?

She felt peace - the peace of the dead…. Still, was a life - her life - amongst the living preferable?

The mute invitation she had been receiving ripened into an appeal … for her to follow. Could she trust it? Was she honestly being offered refuge?

Then she felt it.

No one who has ever been well and truly loved ever forgets that feeling. Hermione certainly had not.

That could not be Voldemort. Love, Hermione knew - convinced more now than ever - was the power he knew not.

The comforts of the void were thin gruel indeed, compared to the heartfelt warmth that was appealing to her.

The dark depths of the void held no answer. For all her cleverness, Hermione could not fathom what was happening, or why.

If he truly felt that way, how could the last month from hell have happened?

Only one person had ever made Hermione feel this way. But Harry no longer possessed such feelings for her. He had left her, chucked her, humiliated her … abandoned her. He - that - had caused, why, everything….

Harry's love, wonderful as it had been, was a fond but distant memory.

Beside Harry, only one person had ever felt that way about her. Could he be sending those feelings to her…?

Should she, literally at the thirteenth hour, finally give him the chance he had merited when they first met?

Nobody who has known a great love would turn it down, certainly not for nothingness.

Instinctively, Hermione moved towards the feeling. It was beautiful, so much more satisfying than the void.

“Viktor, where have you gone? Viktor?”

Leaving the aureate shears to float aimlessly in the void, Hermione followed the beckoning feeling. Either back to her last great adventure, or on to the next, she would finally follow her heart.

No one who has known love - true love - ever wants to be without it.

Hand over hand, creeping along the phoenix feather umbilicus, Hermione pulled herself closer.

Pursuing the source of the euphoric feeling, Hermione's soul moved, slowly but surely, towards the distant light - be it the light of the past world or the next, she neither knew nor, at that moment, cared.

“Viktor, is that you?”

So intent was she on following the blissful sensation, Hermione did not notice as the surrounding darkness of the void lightened and began fading to dawn.

That music … she'd heard it before….

How could Viktor have known?

* * * *

Many years had passed since either Hlr. Paracelsus Huxley or Hlr. Hypatia Bosworth had made a house call not involving Harry Potter. That record stayed intact, if barely. For related reasons, the name “Hermione Granger” also carried a bit more cachet than the usual witch or wizard.

Harry's signed personal note all but begging for their immediate presence provided additional incentive. The note was vague - admittedly and intentionally so - alluding to Dark magic and serious injuries. His specific request for Hlr. Bosworth's specialty lent an additional air of intrigue to Harry's mysterious summons.

That the message was personally delivered by a familiar house-elf, accompanied by a well-known goblin, only underscored the urgency of the request. That urgency was hard to miss in any event, since Roxtar the Lost Finger was imposingly armed and did not look likely to leave without the Healers.

Properly motivated, the two senior Healers gathered their kit and allowed Dobby and Roxtar to lead them. Dobby immediately popped them to the battle-damaged hulk of Château Blackwalls. There Roxtar took over and guided them past the numerous goblin sentries that now guarded the building's remaining halls and corridors.

Heavy, unrepaired spell damage was visible almost everywhere - both on the Château's grounds and inside.

At some point, they would receive answers. For now, they had only questions, and nobody to ask save taciturn goblins.

Halfway down a corridor - sumptuously carpeted but littered with lumps of plaster and stone chips - the goblins halted. Hlr. Huxley found himself directed inside some sort of bedroom where he came eye to eye with a pale and gaunt Ron Weasley. Wordlessly, the goblin Healer in attendance turned back Ron's bedsheet, revealing the boy's severely mangled leg.

Hlr. Bosworth was not allowed to follow. Instead, Roxtar grunted, “No, madam. For you a more difficult case, have we. Needed is your specialty … badly. If … if please, if you….”

`This must be extremely serious, indeed,' Hlr. Bosworth thought, as she let the goblins lead her onward. `I've never known a goblin, and a warrior at that, ever to be so polite to a wizard.'

Hlr. Bosworth's speculation ended abruptly as she passed through a partially splintered oaken door and into a large room. Its formerly palatial trappings were reduced to fragments of destroyed furniture piled in corners and curse-scarred paintings hanging haphazardly on the walls.

Hlr. Bosworth spotted Harry standing next to an older, apparently exhausted wizard flopped in a once plush chair missing an armrest.

The room's only other occupant, a blonde witch, was seated Indian-style on a vast bed, a four-poster with its torn-off canopy lying in tatters against the near wall. The blonde girl seemed oblivious to her surroundings - to everything - save something in her arms that she held like a baby, although this unknown object of her affections was too small for that.

Harry looked agitated - gravely worried. The older man was wan and weak. They were deep in conversation.

“…Oh, it's really lucky that I didn't try to Apparate anybody to St. Mungo's, then,” Harry sighed.

“Yes, sir, sorry but that would have been exceedingly dangerous,” the older man spoke deferentially. “I should have let you in on my secret….”

“Impratraxis, sir,” Roxtar reluctantly interrupted. “As wanted you, the Healer Bosworth have we.”

Ignoring the older man, Harry jumped up and bounded over. “Thank Merlin! …And Healer Huxley?”

“Is with, I presume, your friend Ronald, I believe that's his name,” Hlr. Bosworth replied.

With the Healer's presence announced, the blonde woman on the bed emerged from her apparent trance. “Wonderful, then let me introduce your patient, Miss Hermione Granger.” Lowering her arms, she revealed a quail-sized bird with a prominent yellow beak and large brown eyes. She … it … the patient was covered in hairy, copper-coloured feathers, and smelt faintly of cordite.

“My word,” gasped Hlr. Bosworth, momentarily taken aback. Recovering quickly, she added, “What happened? How did Miss Granger acquire this symptomatology?”

“Hermione had … has the ability to become a phoenix,” Harry spoke up haltingly, before urgency quickened his speech. “Whilst in that form, she was hit by the Killing Curse and forced through a burning.”

“I'd best examine,” Hlr. Bosworth declared somewhat dryly. “The longer such a condition persists, the more difficult it is to treat successfully.”

Harry barely heard her. “I - I thought she was dead…. I'd forgotten…. I almost fainted when Luna told me she wasn't. If only I hadn't….”

“Harry, let me handle this,” Hlr. Bosworth moved to take control of the situation from a young man who had plainly been through too much, himself, that night. “You've suffered enough for now. Let me take some of the weight from your shoulders.”

Still in a daze, giddy that Hermione lived, but utterly devastated at her current state, Harry wandered back to a chair by the wall and sat heavily, betraying a faraway stare. Before he learnt that Hermione lived, he had been on the verge of collapse. In the heat of the moment, he had forgotten how the same thing had happened to Fawkes.

He still had a hard time grasping that Hermione lived. He had seen her die, or so he thought. Harry believed in fate, if not in God. He felt he deserved to be punished, not rewarded. What had he done to deserve Luna's good news?

Hermione deserved to live because she was good … the best - not because of him. He deserved….

“Harry, I need your help.” Hlr. Bosworth's voice cut through his jumbled thoughts. “I need you to find out as much as you can about exactly what happened to Miss Granger tonight. Can you get that done for me?”

Harry jumped upright, looking for and finding Jerry McAllister. “Thanks for risking your life like that, Jerry. I wish I could let you rest after what they did to you, but you heard the Healer. We need all the evidence that anyone can possibly locate about what happened to Hermione. Get the house-elves to help.”

“Clothing bits, too,” Hlr. Bosworth called from her position at the edge of the bed. “Anything imbued with phoenix resonance will aid the diagnosis.” She opened up her black bag and pulled out several phoenix feathers. “Use these. They will be attracted to the resonance.”

“I'm on it.” With effort, Jerry pulled himself from his own chair, grabbed a feather and began hobbling off.

He had yet to reach the damaged door when Harry had an idea. “Jerry, what was, umm, Bellatrix's mother's name?” He uttered the Dark witch's name with deep distaste, as if it fouled his mouth just to form the word.

“Druella.”

Harry turned to another onlooker. “Roxtar, I need your warriors' help. We need Druella Black's tombstone. It's somewhere in that dirt piled against the side of the Château. I'm afraid I made a right mess of the graveyard when I rolled it up … but anything out of the ordinary…. Anything at all…. Please.”

If a goblin could blush, Roxtar would have. He, too, took a feather and followed McAllister out of the room.

Harry and Luna watched the remainder of Hlr. Bosworth's examination of Hermione's post-burning phoenix form with bated breath, not wanting to disturb her.

After running a complete battery of diagnostic tests, the Healer turned to Harry. “Your observations are spot on, as far as they go. How much experience does Miss Granger have with this sort of Animagus transformation?”

Harry felt miserable. “Umm … she'd never done it, at least as of several weeks ago,” he answered slowly. “But we haven't exactly discussed it much recently, so she might….”

Luna, sensing Harry's hesitancy, broke in, “I don't believe she'd ever done it before. Earlier this week, after a practice session, she complained that she was regressing….”

“Practising? When? Under whose supervision?” Hlr. Bosworth demanded.

“Dumbledore,” both Harry and Luna answered in unison.

“Oh my,” Hlr. Bosworth groaned. “This is important, even critical. Healer Huxley asked me to peer review a paper he's written about Dumbledore using rare magic, the Sacrifice of the Phoenix, on an anonymous….”

“That's Hermione,” Harry declared immediately. “Dumbledore's told me this. It happened last September, when she almost died.”

“Then, this form … her phoenix,” Hlr. Bosworth gestured towards Hermione, “has its own soul, and is far more powerful than any ordinary Animagus transformation. It's harder to attain, but also harder to revert once she's been accepted by the phoenix. If this is her first….” The Healer's sentence hung there, uncompleted. “Something traumatic, something terrible, must have triggered it.”

“I'll say,” Harry answered grimly. “I know what she went through, because it's happened to me. Voldemort used her blood to bring back Bellatrix Lestrange in a Hor … umm … you know what Horcruxes are…?”

“Yes, I'm more familiar with them than I care to be,” Hlr. Bosworth affirmed.

“Well, there's a ritual, called `Maledictus omnia resuscitum.' Hermione found it in a book. That's why Voldemort had to come here. He needed an ancestor's bone, the closer, the better….”

At Harry's revelation, both Hlr. Bosworth's and Luna's faces paled in horror.

“…To finish this ritual properly, the caster must kill the `enemy' whose blood is taken. Voldemort was about to stab Hermione when she … umm … transformed, I guess. I saw a bright red flash, and she pulled the whole tombstone - she was chained to it - right out of the ground and flew off….”

“Stab, you said … and chains,” Hlr Bosworth picked up on what Harry revealed. “Where are the knife and these chains?”

“Dunno,” Harry admitted, looking and sounding perplexed. “When I saw Voldemort raise some sort of dagger, I hit him with a Disarming Charm. Maybe the dagger rebounded towards me, but by then I was too busy dodging curses to pay attention to it….”

“And the chains?” Hlr. Bosworth repeated.

“Hermione burst them,” Luna put in. “As she flew away she simply shed the chains and the gravestone. The stone squished a Death Eater.” Luna looked frankly awestruck as she recounted the scene.

“Were the chains by any chance silver?” Hlr. Bosworth inquired clinically.

“I do believe so,” Luna reported.

“Why does it matter?” Harry inquired.

“Ordinarily, I would not discuss a patient's diagnosis or prognosis with a non-relative….”

“But I have her bloody living will,” Harry countered, “umm … somewhere….”

“Point, that,” Hlr. Bosworth conceded, “at least as to you, Harry. But as you were both witnesses, this discussion also counts as therapeutic. Suffice it to say that Dark rituals can be quite specific, and it would be useful - extraordinarily useful - to know exactly what tripped her phoenix transformation, and thus led to her present state….”

“I already told you. She was hit by the Killing Curse, whilst transformed as a phoenix,” Harry peevishly cut across. “Isn't that damn well plenty?”

“And I'm telling you, that if as … I'm sorry, I don't know your name….”

“Luna.”

“…Now listen. Luna believes that this was Miss Granger's first experience with a phoenix-mediated transformation. You tell me that her transformation results from the Sacrifice of the Phoenix and not ordinary Animagus magic. So I'm telling you … it could be difficult - damn difficult - to induce retransformation. Her phoenix alter ego is quite strong, particularly since it's now accepted her fully. And her human form, well, that depends upon exactly how traumatised she was … and the rituals….”

“That's why you must examine the knife and the chains,” Luna summed up.

“Then, by Merlin, you'll have them!” Harry decided, not waiting for Hlr. Bosworth to confirm. “Dobby!”

POW!

Dobby popped into the room. Hardly his usual voluble self, he seemed downcast before Harry said a word.

“Dobby, I need you…. Are you alright?”

“Dobby's being fine again soon enough, Harry Potter, sir. Just … I's been burying elves who's being dead.”

“Dead…?”

“They's a-went and pushed Death Eaters out windows, like Dobby, but their magic was still being bound … not being able to pop off like Dobby. They's a-been killed by the fall.”

Hlr. Bosworth interrupted. “Whilst you're doing this, I need to consult Healer Huxley. Miss Granger is stable, perhaps too stable, so there's no….”

“What do you mean, `too stable'?” Harry whirled around, his eyes flashing. Dobby only gawked.

“Her prognosis is difficult,” Hlr. Bosworth stood her ground under Harry's glare. “I'm afraid her human form may be hanging by a thread. Even our most powerful magic might not be enough to induce re-transformation. There's a real possibility that she could be trapped in her phoenix form indefinitely. So I must consult. Here….”

Hlr. Bosworth handed Harry the last of the charmed phoenix feathers and left the room.

“Harry,” Luna called from the bed where she continued to cradle Hermione's baby phoenix form. “You're the most powerful wizard I know.”

“What's Master Harry being needing Dobby to do?”

Harry shook a growing web of guilt from his mind. “Dobby, forget about repairing the Château right now. Take this feather and every elf you trust, and go find a thin-pointed silver dagger and all bits of silver chains that are somewhere in what's left of the Blacks' graveyard. This feather will be attracted to phoenix resonance from Hermione's transformation. It's critical that you find them. After that, anything else of Hermione's that's out there - find it, collect it, and bring it to me, okay?”

“Yes sir, Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby almost shouted. “Everything!” Grabbing the feather, the elf popped away, leaving Harry and Luna alone with what remained of Hermione.

“I … we … should never have come,” Harry kicked at the curse-scarred carpet. “She would have, almost did, save herself….”

“Stuff and nonsense!” boomed a scornful retort from behind Harry. The distinctive Tenth Century accent of Godric Gryffindor resounded from his damaged portrait, his image contorting itself awkwardly to avoid several spell holes blasted through the canvas. “You had to come here, if only to finish what you started - and you're not finished yet, not by a long shot.”

“What do you want?” Harry almost sneered. “You're almost a thousand years dead.”

“And you've yet to live,” the founder scornfully dismissed Harry's comment. “Just … finish what you've started.” With that, the scarlet-bedecked image limped off, ducking to avoid the scorched oils, leaving the bare, pockmarked frame behind.

Just as one person (broadly construed) left, two others entered. Hlr. Bosworth returned with Hlr. Huxley in tow. Hlr. Huxley had good news on one front. Ron was out of danger and would recover fully the use of his left leg and foot, provided he let it heal. For the moment, Ron was resting comfortably in the adjacent room.

Harry cast a furtive glance at Luna, who had not moved from the bed. He had expected her to bolt for the door - to be with Ron, her boyfriend - but Luna stayed put. Luna had plainly concluded that Hermione needed her presence more than Ron did.

Luna's steadfastness both heartened and worried Harry.

Hlr. Huxley approached Luna, and with a few well chosen, and impossible to overhear, words convinced her to relinquish Hermione for another physical examination. The physical did not take long, and soon Hermione was returned to Luna.

Hlr. Huxley then turned to Harry with a carefully calibrated look of concern on his face. “The phoenix, Fawkes' soul, is strong within her, Harry,” he began. “I suspect that strength was why she was unable to effect the transformation for so long. I can only hope that her soul is equally powerful within the phoenix. Fawkes, as I'm sure you know from your now well-publicised Basilisk encounter, is extremely strong-willed….”

“So is Hermione,” Harry responded. “I know that even better.”

“A month ago, I would have believed you without question,” Hlr. Huxley chose his words carefully. “At this juncture, I will require convincing.”

Harry reacted as if he had been slapped. He better than anyone knew how badly he had behaved. But she could not possibly prefer…. He had to do this - he had to. Harry took a deep breath. “I'll convince you,” Harry hissed. “I'll convince anyone….”

The goblins' exertions for their Prince, and those of the Château's elves for their Proprietor (Harry would not admit to “master” - especially not now), soon produced the desired results. Roxtar's braves needed only a few minutes before returning with Druella Black's marker held high. Hlr. Huxley's confirmatory test for phoenix resonance established the stone as the epicentre of Hermione's transformation.

Other discoveries followed in short order. Another goblin brought in Hermione's wand - found on the corpse of a dead Death Eater. Several elves returned with greater or lesser sections of the silver chains that had bound Hermione to the accursed stone. With a triumphant, toothy grin, a goblin presented the glinting silver rondel, covered with miniature runes, which Harry's Disarming Charm had separated from Voldemort. Even the grass that had covered Druella Black's grave was harvested and retrieved.

Hlr. Huxley took the dagger from Harry and started sketching the runes.

Hardest for Harry to accept were fragments of Hermione's clothes. Even though he knew from his own uncontrolled, partial Golden Griffin shape shifting that spontaneous transformations destroyed clothing, handling the shredded remnants of Hermione's clothing caused Harry extreme discomfort.

Hermione had worn those clothes whilst enduring Voldemort's ritual.

When Dobby popped back into the room and presented him with a large chunk of what had been Hermione's unmentionables, Harry immediately tossed them in Hlr. Bosworth's general direction as if the cloth were on fire.

“Oh, Circe's cervix, what the hell is that?” he heard the Healer wail a few seconds later. “Perry, look at this. We've got an issue here…. Petrificus totalus!”

Harry pirouetted, his remaining wand in hand. He saw only the two Healers' backs. They both had their wands pointed at something in the damaged plush chair.

“Do you think…?”

“It sure looks like the photos and descriptions that have been circulating.”

“They've been quite a problem in some parts of Central Asia, and in the Maghreb … but never here….”

“What is it?” Harry loudly demanded.

Hlr. Huxley turned; his face grim. He responded with forced calm in his voice, “Harry, this clinches it. The Death Eaters were not trying to kill Hermione Granger….”

“But, the spell….”

Hlr. Huxley eyed the room. “Can you ask everyone else to step outside? This should be for your consumption only.”

With barely a word from Harry, the elves made themselves scarce. All but two of the goblins departed, and that pair almost instantly became grey boulders on either side of the door. “Should I take Hermione, or leave her here?” Luna wondered.

“No, you can stay,” Harry directed.

“Are you sure about that?” Hlr. Huxley questioned. With his hands, he pantomimed someone scribbling with a quill.

“Yes,” Harry reiterated. “When it comes to anything involving Hermione, Luna Lovegood is completely reliable.”

The conversation paused as Hlr. Huxley waited for an explanation from Harry that did not follow.

“Very well,” Hlr. Huxley conceded.

“See this?” Hlr. Bosworth took over, pointing to a revolting multi-legged something-or-other stuck in the folds of what was left of Hermione's knickers. “I'm ninety-nine percent sure that's a Tartaran Flobberworm. I've never heard of one in the UK before, but I've read several disturbing journal articles about these being bred specifically for mind control purposes in other parts of the world….”

“M-m-mind control?” Harry stammered. “Why?”

“The key question, Harry,” Hlr. Huxley seconded. “All I can say is that Miss Granger was extremely fortunate to have worn anti-rape knickers tonight….”

For the first time all evening - an evening where he had witnessed the Killing Curse several times - Harry consciously used Occlumency to restrain himself.

“…because they entangled this thing before it could, well, do what it does…. Hype?”

Hlr. Bosworth took over the explanation. “This … vile thing … gains access, through any orifice it can, then it molts and penetrates the spinal column. It's a mental and physical parasite. It migrates to the brain stem and wraps around it. Then, if the victim attempts to … usually to commit suicide, it reacts, squeezes, and causes intense, debilitating pain. Either the victim gives up, or the worm keeps squeezing until paralysis or unconsciousness results.”

“If the Death Eaters were just going to kill her, Harry, they would not have taken pains to use something as rare and difficult to acquire as a Tartaran Flobberworm,” Hlr. Bosworth continued. “The rest of this - the silver chains, this silver rondel, these runestones - they all point to one thing … Voldemort intended to make Miss Granger into a Horcrux….”

At that news, Harry slammed the gates of Occlumency down hard across his boiling Fifth Element core.

“…That's what you interrupted here, Harry,” Healer Huxley reassured. “If they had succeeded, it's fatal. There's no cure. Don't let anyone, especially yourself, think that you weren't on the side of the angels tonight.”

“How … how did you know?”

“Dumbledore,” Hlr. Huxley indicated. “He asked me to study certain notes - notes that I gather you obtained - about Horcruxes, on the chance that I might be called upon … well, to do what I'm doing now…. These runestones are currently blank, but I'd wager anything that they had symbols of the four compass points chalked on them. The runes on this rondel…. They match almost exactly a pattern in the material Dumbledore gave me.”

“She's … she's not a Horcrux, is she?” Harry asked the unthinkable question.

“Perish the thought, no,” Hlr. Huxley hastened to answer. “Between her own inner phoenix - utterly incompatible with a Horcrux - and your fortuitous intervention, I believe that Voldemort was thwarted before he actually split his soul. He intended to use this rondel to cleave his own soul, not to kill Miss Granger….”

Harry breathed a huge sigh of relief.

That relief lasted only until Harry posed his next question.

“Now what?”

“Unfortunately one consequence of Miss Granger's exposure to Voldemort's soul probably was to drive her essence deeper into hiding than the mere prospect of dying,” Hlr. Huxley explained. “Fawkes came forward, and Fawkes is a fighter.”

“No kidding,” Harry commented. “But how can we get Hermione back?”

Hlr. Huxley had a plan, but it came with no guarantees. “I've been thinking. There are parallels between her situation and what happened to you when the goblins rescued you from the Death Eaters last September. You were trapped, albeit only partially, in your Animagus form. Albus did something … some spell involving the laying on of hands … that caused you to relax a shield you unconsciously had guarding you….”

“Yeah, I remember,” Harry recalled. “He called me back with … with trust. Sometimes I can't stand the man, the way he manipulates everyone, but when the chips were down, I still trusted him with my life….”

“With your permission, I'd like to bring Albus here and have him try the same thing with Miss Granger…. It may be our only chance.”

Harry swallowed, hard. “Won't happen. He's not … I don't know where he is….”

“Indisposed?”

“No, Horcrux hunting,” Harry decided to tell the whole truth. “Someplace by the sea - affected by tonight's low tide. But for this coming up, I would have been with him.”

“That's certainly inconvenient,” Hlr. Bosworth allowed.

“If you mean that it might be a trap, or a diversion, yeah, I've had the same thought,” Harry agreed.

“What the hell to do, then?” Hlr. Huxley ran his hands through his hair. “I can't do what he did. I don't even know exactly what Albus did. When will he…?”

“Harry's the most powerful wizard I know,” wafted Luna's declaration from behind them. She had made the same observation before.

Harry turned to face her. “You think I…?”

“Who other?”

“But I caused all this….”

“Doesn't matter,” Luna insisted. “At least you know what it feels like.”

“But you're the Empath.”

“I didn't say I wouldn't help.” Luna was insistent.

Harry turned back to the Healers. “What do you think?”

“She's right about your power,” Hlr. Huxley observed. “All Albus has on you is skill. I don't think you could possibly hurt her in her present condition. The worst that happens is that it doesn't work.”

“Time is of the essence,” Hlr. Bosworth added. “The longer Fawkes remains in charge of Miss Granger's form, the less likely we are to have a successful outcome.”

Harry instantly made his choice - not really a choice at all. “Okay, then how?”

“Albus did it with his bare hands,” Hlr. Huxley stated. “He mumbled things like `It's over' and `you can come back, it's safe'.”

“That was Dumbledore,” Luna pointed out. “I think Harry needs to be Harry. That's who Hermione knows.”

“I agree that Harry should do what he feels is best,” Hlr. Bosworth chimed in. “The magic will be strongest that way.”

Harry straightened his shoulders, his mind already made up to proceed. “I remember how it felt,” he echoed Luna's prior observation. “I'll just try to reverse engineer it.”

He climbed on the bed. Between him and her, Luna gently placed the blinking baby phoenix that tethered Hermione's soul to this world. “Put your hands on the other side,” she instructed.

He laid hands on the acquiescent phoenix. It was so small that he could not avoid touching Luna's fingers. The Empath's urgent yearning came through like the jolt of an electric shock. Harry almost pulled his hands away.

“I said I'll help you,” she whispered, so only he could hear. “You're not the only one who needs her. It's been two thousand years….”

Harry concentrated, letting his magic flow, trying to imitate what he remembered feeling when Dumbledore had called him back from the brink of death.

He began murmuring, “Hermione, it's me…. It's done, Hermione…. You can trust me…. You know you can…. I said I'd always come for you … and I did, and I am still…. You need to trust me. I want to help…. I won't hurt you, not anymore…. You're safe now…. We've beaten the Death Eaters…. Hermione, please let me in….”

Throughout, Harry maintained a gentle current of magic that, like water, flowed around the barriers of hurt, distrust, and separation that had emerged between them since Harry had begun what he now recognised as a series of indefensible acts.

Beside him, Harry could feel Luna's reverse flux. Whilst Harry's magic streamed in, Luna's oozed outward, drawing with it a pall of sadness and pain.

Harry did not envy Luna's empathetic powers.

“…Let me in, Hermione…. Trust me…. I'm here to help…. Let me bring you back…. You're safe with me….”

Suddenly, he heard a dreamy voice in his head - Luna's. `Harry, don't be Dumbledore; be yourself. That's what Hermione … and you … need now….'

Harry agreed. Now was not the time to hold anything back, however painful.

“Hermione, you're … I need you back…. I'm sorry…. I still can't explain what happened … or excuse it…. I can't do this without you…. That's all I know…. Hermione I-I-I … love you … now and always…. Love you… Don't leave me alone…. Please.”

Luna's voice again encouraged him. `That's better, Harry … I knew you had it in you….'

“Hermione, please come back … to me…. Let me love you … again…. I can't….”

Harry found himself all but overwhelmed by emotions that had been blocked for - it seemed like forever. He could barely talk.

“I'll do…. I'll be….”

Words failing him, he switched to music - Hermione's music, her favourite, that Tchaikovsky piece she was always practising….

Harry's magic surged.

How long it continued, he could not say. Harry was no longer completely of this world. All he could do - all he could think to do - was to keep channelling his magic to Hermione and hope that it would be enough.

Once again, failure was not an option.

Suddenly, he was jostled.

“Oof….” Kicked in the stomach was more like it.

With the blow, Harry's eyes popped open. He saw - Hermione's face! And her….

…Her forehead - marred by a jagged, bleeding wound in the shape of….

What in the name of Merlin had that bastard Voldemort put her through?

And his own string of stupidities had given the Death Eaters the opening. It did not get much worse than this.

“Viktor…?” she mumbled.

Actually, it could get worse.

Her first word knocked the wind out of him more effectively than any slap in the face or kick in the stomach. How could she think…?

Suddenly Harry realised something else almost as disturbing.

Hermione had returned without a stitch of clothing on her.

“I shouldn't be seeing this,” Harry choked out. “I need … to get….” He jumped up, stricken.

How could she be hoping for Viktor? He had connived in her kidnapping!

“What … Harry…?” Hermione mumbled again. “How could…?”

The Healers were already in action, rushing towards Hermione with spells and sustenance. “Episkey!” cried Hlr. Huxley. The wound on her forehead, lacking the Dark force that had permanently scarred Harry, healed itself readily.

“Stay still,” Hlr. Bosworth told her soothingly, “you've been through quite an ordeal.”

“But….”

“Yes, that was Harry,” Luna whispered in her ear.

Harry was on his feet, stumbling to get out of the Healers' way. Emotionally exhausted, physically spent, gasping for breath, and borderline nauseous, he reacted rather than thought.

What more could he do? Should he simply…?

A stern voice brought him up short. “I don't care what you saw or what you think just happened. Don't you dare leave your friend….” Harry had never heard Luna talk to him, or anyone, like that - not a trace of her usual airiness lingered in her sharp words.

Luna's command had the desired effect. Gryffindors go forward; they do not run away. Harry stopped in his tracks.

Friendship.

Their friendship had driven him to the Château tonight. If she no longer wanted the rest, that was her choice - and he deserved it.

And so Harry stood, facing resolutely away from the bed, whilst the Healers worked their magic on Hermione.

Suddenly, he heard an insistent rapping on the door, followed by a familiar voice.

“Oy, Harry! You in there mate? Somebody is….”

“Ron!?”

The two boulders by the door became goblins again. Their hands on their swords, they looked to Harry for orders.

“A friend. Let him in.”

Ron stumped into the room, still favouring his previously injured leg. Seeing Harry's ashen expression, he asked, “Blimey, mate what's wrong with you? She didn't…. Oh shite!”

“Urrp … no nothing like that,” Harry wheezed. “It's … it's … Hermione's back… I think she's … she's safe.”

Ron broke into a smile. “Don't scare me like that, mate. Where's Luna, then?”

“Over there, on the bed, she helped … a lot.”

The Healers had a privacy screen up. Ron limped past a still rooted Harry, looking for Luna, and found her standing uncertainly by the foot of the bed whilst the Healers tended to Hermione. “What the hell?” Harry heard his friend squawk. “What did you do to Luna? She's covered in … goo!”

Ron's protest snapped Harry back to full sensibility, and he turned to see what Ron was complaining about.

Typically, Ron had exaggerated, but not by much. Although the Healers were focussing all their attention on Hermione, Luna remained nearby - seemingly dazed - her arms covered in sticky black Amoco Cadiz-style gunk, almost all the way to her shoulder blades.

“Luna, are you all right!” Ron asked with a note of panic in his voice. “What is all that crap?”

“Ronald, calm down,” Luna said firmly, without raising her voice. “I'm fine, if a bit … foul … at the moment. Don't disturb Hermione….”

Ron instantly shut up. Only Luna could make that happen.

With Ron silent, Harry whispered a question, “Where did all that come from?”

“I'm not entirely sure,” Luna answered, her expression cross-eyed and perplexed. “I think I drew it out of Hermione. That's never happened before….”

Hlr. Huxley put his two Knuts in, “Don't worry, either of you. As soon as I'm done here, you can be damn sure I'll be running plenty of tests on whatever that is. I've got some suspicions….”

Harry sighed. Realising just how tired he truly was, he sank into the busted chair, watching Ron lead his girlfriend outside the privacy screen. His friend conjured some towels and began sorting out a now rather passive and grotesque looking Luna Lovegood.

Harry had other things on his mind. `Viktor bloody Krum….'

Just then, Harry felt an urgent tug on his shoulder.

It was Roxtar, and the goblin had no time for pleasantries, even for a prince.

“Impratraxis, disturbing news bring I.”

“Is Harry there…?” Hermione asked simultaneously from behind the screen erected by the Healers.

Pulled in two directions at once, Harry simply threw up his hands and pleaded, “What now?”

The goblin was quicker to answer.

“Over Hogwarts, has appeared the Dark Mark.”

All thought of rest vanished with those words. “Oh, crap…!”

* * * *

Wherever he was, it was icy, dark, sleeting, and howling a gale.

In the invisible distance, wild ocean waves crashed loudly against an unseen, rocky coast, adding frothy spindrift to the ferocious wind.

For some unfathomable reason, Lord Voldemort's Apparition had gone badly awry.

No sooner had he incanted a few charms to protect himself from the biting, most un-June-like weather, than with a “pop,” Lucius Malfoy arrived. He was soon followed by a dozen or so rather bedraggled Death Eaters.

All of them had Apparated - most to avoid being crushed by something Potter had done - and they all ended up here.

They asked the Dark Lord what he had done. For once Voldemort had no clue.

“BANG!” Bellatrix Lestrange, resurrected and now with physical attributes unnervingly similar to those of the Dark Lord, Apparated in, cackling wildly.

“What the…. Master! Thank you!” She threw herself at his feet, into a gritty coating of snow, and gravel over weathered ice.

Nothing, however, could dampen her mood. “I have wonderful news,” she said from her prone position.

“Arise then,” the Dark Lord commanded, hiding his bewilderment at their current circumstances behind a long-practised air of command. “I could certainly use some, in this Merlin-forsaken place.”

“I killed her,” Bellatrix burst out, insanely proud of herself. “I Avadaed Potter's Mudblood. She burnt up and died right before his eyes! The look on Potter's face was priceless! He tried to kill me, but I Disapparated. Too fast for him, I was….”

“You, too, then,” Voldemort observed.

“Me, too, what, My Lord,” Bellatrix replied, suddenly unsure of herself. “I thought killing Granger would … be … well, worthy of some reward….”

The Dark witch eyed the Dark Lord lasciviously.

“She had taken the form of a phoenix,” Voldemort responded. “I would do some research into that before declaring her dead. It may be … premature. A reward may well be in order, but first we need to determine exactly where we are….”

All of the Death Eaters agreed on that necessity. Each of them had Apparated, sensing that the Château's anti-Apparition wards had been disabled, and each had ended up … wherever “here” was.

After about fifteen minutes of tramping over the barren, mostly glacial landscape, with only wandlight at their disposal, the Death Eater party came upon a barren stretch of seaside rock containing the rusted, ramshackle remains of what looked like some centuries-old Muggle buildings and the skeletal remains of a dock.

Faded out paint above the absent doors of the ruins of the largest structure spelled out, in tattered, barely legible black lettering: “BLACK STAR WHALING - BOUVET ISLAND FACTORY.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Malfoy gave the coin to Ginny in Ch. 79

Ginny will not stay put

Lestrange parallels Voldemort in GoF; she made a Horcrux in Ch. 49

Hermione had located Voldemort's spell in Ch. 65

The Black graveyard being at the Château was mentioned in Ch.62

The regeneration magic requiring the death of the “enemy” is canon

The new Horcrux required Krum's death

Hermione not dying was necessary to the Horcrux reversal in Ch. 75

Candace was introduced in Ch. 71

A vinegaroon is a type of arachnid

The creature (a Tartaran Flobberworm) was introduced in Ch. 78

The Horcrux runes were described in Ch. 49

The first two scenes are from the Shoah, the third from Rwanda

Harry started learning Tunneling Charms in Ch. 74; the goblin miners helped him perfect them in Ch. 81

Harry obtained the Sempiternal dirk in Ch. 74

The Death Eaters' Magmacious Charm from Ch. 84, created the lava

The Death Eaters attributed the small earthquake to the lava

The goblin cloaking incantation was used in Ch. 67

Hermione's phoenix transformation happened the next instant after the end of the previous segment told from her POV

A turbo-beater is an automatic mixer

“Ding dong” is, of course, from “The Wizard of Oz”

Bellatrix' sing song is to the chorus of Don McLean's “American Pie”

Green lightning bolts from Harry's eyes is an old fanfic cliché

Mallet's mortar was the largest British artillery piece ever

Wine and champagne were traditionally aged in caves

Ima Hogg was introduced in Ch. 64

The burning of James Potter's wand core was in Sirius' memory in Ch. 19

Her phoenix incarnation tethered Hermione to life

In limbo veritas means “in limbo, truth”; it's a variant on “in vino veritas”

The notion that Horcrux possession can only be broken by death becomes important in a couple of chapters

Hermione was preparing herself for death

“Obicham prijatel” approximates “beloved friend”

The shears/scissors of Atropos (one of the three Fates) date at least to ancient Greek mythology

Hermione's prior suicidal ideation is mentioned in Ch. 7

The reason for the void's lightening becomes apparent by the end of the chapter, and is confirmed later

Healers Huxley and Bosworth attended Harry's rescue in Ch. 37

Harry and Jerry were discussing the Château's wards

In canon, an AK forces a phoenix through a burning, as occurred at the end of OOP

Cordite is a form of smokeless powder

Peer review is getting other experts to critique scientific papers

The Sacrifice of the Phoenix occurred in Ch. 36

Harry received power over Hermione's medical condition in Ch. 39

Harry's golden griffin form manifested itself in Ch. 35

Hermione had received the anti-rape knickers from Viktor in Ch. 84

Harry acquired the Horcrux notes in Ch. 62

Harry's rescue by Dumbledore was in Ch. 37

See Ch. 40 for the origin of the “come for you” meme

Dumbledore used trust; Harry uses love

The Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto in D was first mentioned in Ch. 18

Hermione thinks it's Viktor because of the Draught of Despair, which Luna is simultaneously removing

Hermione's mention of Viktor is about where the prior limbo scene ends

Why Luna can remove the potion becomes clear in a couple of chapters

Amoco Cadiz refers to a massive oil spill in the English Channel in 1978

Bouvet Island, well south of South Africa, is perhaps the most remote place on earth

67

C:\Documents and Settings\Owner\My Documents\HP & The Fifth Element.ch51 Padfoot's legacy.doc 10/19/2011

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86. Jagged Edges

Wherein Neville replaces Harry; Dumbledore departs; Harry and Ron arrive; a battle is fought; casualties are suffered; a confession occurs, then another rescue; then the rescuers need rescuing; Jazzy's friendship pays off, and an exorcism is conducted.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, Mathiasgranger, and Chris Backus.

We're in the home stretch now.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “Fair Use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. Â§107.

Chapter 86 - Jagged Edges

Neville had half hoped - half expected - that Dumbledore would immediately cancel their expedition once he, not Harry, appeared on the Headmaster's doorstep.

The old man did not work that way.

Instead, the serenely imperturbable old wizard characteristically took this unexpected last-minute change of plans in his stride. “Does Mister Potter's unavailability have to do with Miss Granger's absence?” was the Headmaster's first question.

Upon receiving an affirmative response - followed by a negative answer to what Neville might know of Harry's current whereabouts - Dumbledore calmly, almost fatalistically, accepted Neville's impromptu substitution.

“I wish Mister Potter the best of luck, then.”

Without hesitation, he pronounced Neville to be a “commendable stand-in.” They had little time to lose, Dumbledore explained. An essential link in Voldemort's eventual destruction beckoned this evening - accessible only at low spring tide.

The Headmaster quickly removed a nondescript notebook from his desk drawer and scratched a couple of notations into it, not revealing their contents to Harry's replacement. Returning his quill to its holder, the wizened wizard took two rectangular turquoise-shaded pieces of paper from a different desk drawer. He placed them in an envelope that he in turn slipped between the pages of the notebook.

Dumbledore stated laconically, “We have a dangerous mission to undertake. I can only trust in Mister Potter's judgment as to where his presence is most essential.”

Summoning his travelling cloak, the Headmaster announced placidly, “It is time to depart. Come; let us acquire our fraction of a soul, whilst Mister Potter attempts to make whole his own. Time and tide wait for no man.”

* * * *

“…That's bloody crazy! I can't just stop it willy-nilly! I'm having enough trouble as it is. He's run off - after her, no less. If I give it up now … I lose him….” Ginny's cascading flood-current of a tirade ebbed to a tearful trickle.

“No, that's just the point, Gee-Vee.”

Only he could call her that and get away with it.

“If you don't stop, you lose not only him, but potentially … everything.” Bill shuddered. “You have to…. What was that?”

“It felt cold.” Ginny responded, momentarily distracted from Bill's discontinued line of thought. “I have to what?”

“Not only must you stop, you absolutely, positively have to tell him,” Bill declared, rising from his tattered deckchair to emphasise his point. “Like Mum did with Dad. You have to trust in what's good…. Whoa! There it is again. Feels like winter's coming early.”

“I want to, Bill, but not yet,” Ginny pleaded. “He's not settled in, and he has all these other damn slags after him. That's not like Dad at all. Look, we have another year before Harry graduates … I promise by then … ooh…. There it is again. That was freezing. I think I have to go back, now….”

“But I told you that over the summer….”

The final, frigid sensation guided Ginny back to consciousness. Her eyes fluttered, and then popped wide open once she saw a pale face staring at her from, literally, centimetres away. The face's owner had one icy arm stuck down - or through - Ginny's throat. Ginny's companion's other arm was emphatically signalling for silence, tapping her forefinger vigorously against her lips.

“Shhhh, they're out there,” Moaning Myrtle whispered. “Don't let them hear that you're awake.”

Ginny took a deep breath … and for once had the good sense to say nothing. She looked around frantically and realised that, after being Stunned by someone whilst discussing her Harry problems with Draco, she was now stuffed into a stall in the nearby abandoned girls' loo. “Who's out there?” she asked almost soundlessly, following the ghost's caution.

“Two boys,” Myrtle hissed. “The skinnier, dark-haired one Stunned you. This pair follow around that awful, obnoxious blond they call `Drake' and do whatever he says….”

“Draco?” Ginny mouthed.

“…but he wasn't happy when you showed up, Weaselette.”

“What?!” Ginny reacted and almost gave away the game.

“That's what they call you, isn't it?” Myrtle disclosed slyly.

“They better not….”

“They're up to no good. Shhhh … listen….”

“How do you know?”

“Believe me, I know.”

The pair in the stall listened to the pair out by the sinks.

“…was nothing. Nobody here but Potter's slag, and I Stupefied her but good.”

“Great, now I'm hearing things. I tell you,” Cambo complained. “I'm getting right nervous about all this. How much longer you reckon we've to wait?”

“You heard Drake,” Spott reminded his co-minion. “Half-hour, tops. Then all we have to do is lay low and sneak back to Slytherin House in the confusion.”

“But somebody else could show up, with this thing wide open,” Cambo fretted. “I don't fancy Stunning anybody else, like Filch.”

“He's a Squib. With the door magicked shut, I doubt it,” Spott reassured. “At least Potter killed that damn Basilisk. The one thing I wouldn't fancy meeting would be some giant snake crawling out of that big hole….”

That only raised another of Cambo's worries. “Speaking of Potter, if he shows up looking for his bitch, I don't think even Drake's Colloportus could keep him out….”

And so it went.

Soon Ginny had heard enough. Something was amiss - very much amiss, and whatever it was, Malfoy was involved … just like last year with Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad.

“Can you create a diversion?” Ginny whispered to Myrtle.

Myrtle grinned for the first time in weeks, if not months. “I thought you'd never ask.”

Ginny felt one last wave of shuddering frigidity as Myrtle passed through her and down the toilet pipe. With her wandtip just touching the stall's lock, Ginny pressed her ear to the door.

With a wailing shriek Moaning Myrtle burst forth from the toilet closest to the two Slytherins. “AAYYYEEEE!!” Simultaneously with her appearance, all of the bowls in the bathroom violently overflowed - including, unfortunately, the one just behind Ginny.

“Aloho-MORA.” Ginny tried unsuccessfully to be quiet, but a spray of cold water soaked her from behind. The stall's door flew open, slamming hard against the partition with a loud crack, ruining the element of surprise.

It hardly mattered. Spott and Cambo - thoroughly distracted - never had much chance to react.

With the speed and determination of an avenging fury, Ginny felled Spott with Petrificus Totalus. Cambo tried bolting for the door before vengeance struck him, but slipped on the wet floor. He was put down with a ferocious Bat Bogey Hex.

Carrying on, just as she had with the Inquisitorial Squad almost exactly a year earlier, Ginny vanished both of the unfortunate boys' clothes and conjured stout ropes that bound the two fast enough that their limbs went chalky white. “That should handle those creeps,” Ginny said to nobody in particular, before she turned….

…and stared into the maw of her worst nightmare.

The entrance to the Chamber of Secrets yawned, wide open, not three metres away - as black as a pit.

Oh, Merlin!

She had disappeared into that abyss before - when Tom had possessed her. Then, Harry had rescued her. Several weeks ago, when Harry had decided to go public with his Basilisk heroics, she had viewed his complete memory of the event.

No Basilisk remained, but neither did Harry. He was not available to rescue her again, should she need it.

And she might.

Now she heard noises - sounding like faint shouts - coming from the depths of that horrible hole. She shook to her very core. The echoes grew in intensity. Something very bad was about to happen.

She had to get out of here! She had to tell Dumbledore, McGonagall, somebody … anybody….

Ginny turned on her heel and dashed for the door, but like Cambo before her, she lost her footing on the wet, timeworn marble floor. She went sprawling just as the mouth of the tunnel began spewing forth a horde of Dark wizards.

Rolling to one side, Ginny was ready to defend herself. “Diffindo!” Her spell cleaved the leading Death Eater's broomstick cleanly in two. The masked, black-robed wizard crashed to the floor and slid into the far wall with an audible thud.

Her strike prompted a salvo of return curses, but except for a Cutting Curse that just nicked Ginny's side, they all went high.

Ginny fired a Heating Charm at the wet floor and, instantly, a fog of steam provided her with just enough cover….

“Reducto!” she cried with a sweeping wand movement. An entire wall of stalls exploded and collapsed in a heap. Before the Death Eaters could react, Ginny dove behind the resultant barricade.

Incoming curses - at least a dozen - crashed ineffectively one after another into the pile of debris.

With Death Eaters, it was only a matter of time. “Avada….”

“No, I forbid it,” a coldly familiar voice commanded. “It would not do to kill her.”

Snape's voice.

But why?

Ginny had no time to think. Another volley of curses - none of them Unforgivable - once again blasted the disintegrating rubble that concealed her.

With a shriek, Moaning Myrtle sent another shower of filthy water at the crowd of Death Eaters. Taking advantage of their momentary distraction, Ginny dove behind the central pier of sinks. “Kinitecus!” Ginny propelled the shattered remains of the stalls at the Death Eaters. Hunkered down behind the sinks, she could hear them conjuring shields.

Maybe, if she could just hold them off long enough…. Her only other alternative was to dive into that hideous tunnel, which brought back terrifying, previously suppressed memories….

How she wished Harry were here.

“We haven't the time for this foolishness, Draco,” Snape insistently demanded. “She's of no consequence, but every second of tumult and delay is….”

“I can burn her out,” Malfoy responded huffily - raising shivers all down Ginny's spine. Draco? With the Death Eaters? What in Merlin's name was going on?

“Every spell cast only reduces our element of surprise,” Snape's chilling voice chided. “She is trivial; just end it.”

Ginny cringed. Conjuring a small mirror, she tried peeking through the forest of pipes and stanchions to get some idea of what was coming.

Should she jump for it?

She heard Snape free Spott and Cambo, conjure them clothes, and contemptuously order them from his sight.

She caught some movement out of the corner of her eye, vaguely reflected in pooled water under the sinks. It was Draco. She heard the clink of something small and metallic. “Reducto!” he cried.

Ginny ducked backwards, expecting things to begin exploding in her face, but Draco's spell was not aimed in her direction.

BLAM!!

Ginny started creeping forward….

“AIEEE!!” she screamed as the inside of her skull virtually exploded in pain.

Blinded, writhing on the floor in inches of stale and grimy water, grabbing at her head with both hands, Ginny lost all track of her surroundings. She did not, could not, raise a finger to oppose the Death Eaters, contemptuously ignoring her, as they exited the ruined bathroom and slipped as stealthily as possible into the Castle.

“Well, well, well,” another familiar voice - worse even than Snape's - echoed through Ginny's mind, as if from a nightmare. The pain receded, and Ginny's head felt numb….

Possessed.

She knew this feeling all too well.

Tom.

“The little girl who befriended me thinks she's all grown up now….”

He was back. She was helpless.

“Finally, I need not lurk in the background … at the beck and call of the one you call Draco….” Tom's mellifluously evil voice resounded. “It was becoming quite tiresome….”

“W-W-Why?” Ginny asked limply, unable to prevent the young Voldemort's spirit from again seizing control of her mind.

“I was injured … expelled by your paladin Potter and his Basilisk fang,” Tom almost seemed to relish telling her the tale. “With my last remaining strength I fled … fled into the one available haven - you. But there I lay, impotent, crippled, incapable of anything save bare existence….”

“For years, seemingly forever, I remained trapped in the inane and torpid world of a simpering schoolgirl - a nullity; alive but useless. But your dear friend Draco, somehow he knew of my fate. He reached me … and you. So besotted with Potter you were. He called upon me to assist…. I did so gladly….”

“But it - you proved … boring … a waste of my skills. A little nudge here, and you became romantically dissatisfied…. A small tweak there, to have you turn on your Mudblooded friend…. You were so jealous, that hardly required any effort. You achieved that bit all on your own….”

“Boring it was until you pulled it off…. You surprised me. I didn't think you had it in you…. But you did….”

“Then matters grew more interesting - unusual, odd indeed. I'd never had … sex….”

`Oh my God,' Ginny thought - he knows everything….

“Oh, yes, I know,” Tom Riddle chuckled. “You were so determined, and you plotted so exquisitely. Your ploy with the Bowtruckle would have done Slytherin proud. You wanted him, so you took him for everything he could give…. A pity he never found what he was seeking in you…. Yes, when you two were intimate, I could feel him, too - maybe even more than you, since you were distracted….”

All the while - throughout Tom Riddle's monologue, Ginny lay on the soaked floor of the destroyed lavatory, barely able to move, her eyes staring blankly at the curse-pocked stone walls. Suddenly, a serpent's head, huge, dull green and silvery grey, filled her field of vision. Its amber slit-like eyes regarded her unfeelingly. Its black, forked tongue flicked and just touched a revulsed Ginny's face.

“Pleessssss doont killlll meeee,” Ginny gurgled in an abhorrent parody of her normal voice. Cruel realisation struck her - she now could speak Parseltongue….

Correction.

Tom Riddle's shade could speak Parseltongue.

“Sssssserpenttt fffriendddd,” Tom seized control of this conversation. “Pppasssss mmme bbbyyyy, annnddd yyyouu ssssshhallll bbbe rrrewwwarrdddedddd.”

“Mmmmasssssstterrrr,” Nagini replied. Her diamond shaped head retreated and rose, looming above Ginny's body. “Ssssspppirrrittteddd awwwayyyy, sssshallll yyyyou bbbbee, onnccccccce I rrrettturrrnnnn. Ssssstttayyyy.”

With that instruction, the gigantic snake slithered off, leaving ripples in the draining water.

“Ssssstttayyyy I sssshhhh…..”

But Tom's unexpected conversation with the huge reptile had distracted him, providing Ginny an unrestricted moment to think. Her hand went to her robe's outer pocket, searching for, but not finding, her wand. That lay inaccessible over a metre away.

Instead she felt the two phials of Love Potion Malfoy had given her - it seemed like Ã¦ons ago.

Harry had never really loved her, Ginny realised. It was all chemical.

But she did love Harry, however hopeless that (and she) might be.

With a single motion, she swept the phials into her mouth and bit down hard, shattering them.

Before Tom could react, Ginny swallowed it all - Love Potion and jagged shards of glass, both.

For once, Ginny was right. She did love Harry Potter.

Harry had told her, in one of the rare moments he ever opened up, that Voldemort had tried but failed to possess him at the Ministry. Voldemort failed because Harry's love had been toxic to him.

Then, she had hoped (but not believed) that Harry's love for her had given him that strength.

Now, she prayed that her love for Harry would give her enough strength … the strength to do what she now realised absolutely had to be done.

Tom screamed as if doused in acid.

Ginny felt Tom's control over her mind and body melt away by the second. Her mouth bleeding, she spat out the remnant bits of glass. Quickly, she rose, scrambled for her wand, and looked towards the door. Thankfully, the huge snake did not return, failing to register her Master's shade's predicament.

Her brain, returned temporarily to her control, still felt fuzzy from the effects of Tom's possession. Worse, she could sense Tom still struggling inside her mind. The burst of love she felt for Harry - the temporary effect of her deliberate ingestion of a massive Love Potion overdose - repulsed Tom's incursions … for the time being.

But now Ginny had no illusions. The potion was but a passing reprieve; she had consumed it all. Tom would be back, and when he returned he would certainly take permanent possession of her. Ginny knew, from harsh personal experience, that her mental defences were completely incapable of resisting Tom's onslaught.

His return would be sudden, vicious and overwhelming

Ginny knew something else - something she had heard Mum and Dad discussing when they thought her unconscious in the aftermath of her first year ordeal. Over her sickbed, her Mum had given voice to fears that Ginny would never truly be herself; that the only way for such a possession to end was with her death.

Dad had confirmed those fears, on the authority of an Unspeakable with whom he had consulted once he had learnt the nature of Ginny's condition.

Then, Ginny was able to heal. Harry's stroke of luck with the Basilisk fang had destroyed the rogue memory of Tom Riddle that had lurked in the diary.

Or so everyone thought.

Actually, Tom had not been destroyed, only gravely injured.

Now he was back.

Only one way existed to stop Tom forever.

Ginny owed it to everyone - especially to Harry, whom she had grievously and irreparably wronged - to make that happen.

Harry….

That was over.

Her whole life was Harry, and now her whole life was a lie. She had been manipulated, and in turn had manipulated him. Now she was unclean … polluted … defiled…. She had abused him, mentally and physically….

The lies had to end - now. The lies and all the rest….

Ginny pulled herself to her feet and pushed herself towards Gryffindor tower as fast as she could, determined to put things as right as she could. With little time, a quick, inconspicuous entrance and exit was essential.

Perhaps Myrtle would like some company.

No matter what, Tom would not win. Ginny would see to that.

* * * *

Drained by her ordeal, Hermione could barely sit up once she reverted from her first-ever phoenix transformation. But sitting was not on her to-do list at the moment. She wanted, needed, to have a long, private chat with Harry about whatever was going on.

Luna swore she had felt what Harry did. Luna would never lie to her, not about something so important.

But if Harry had personally generated those emotions to bring her back (again), how could her just-ended Hadean month have ever happened? Harry's emotions utterly confused her, just as had his earlier actions.

And now he would go back to Hogwarts, because that was who Harry was. She would find some way to help - still, she relished a little down time to organise her thoughts - particularly her thoughts about Harry.

* * * *

Over the last twenty-four hours, Harry had hurtled through practically the entire gamut of negative human emotions: the helpless uncertainty of being powerless to do anything when Hermione was endangered; the guilt-ridden heartbreak of rejecting Ginny's entreaties and ultimately Ginny herself; the all-encompassing terror of a headlong rush into unknown peril; the abject finality of knowing he would die before drawing another breath; the heart-stopping horror of witnessing the Killing Curse strike Hermione down; the dark rage of intentionally trying to kill someone for the first time in his life; and the bleak emptiness of losing everything - the only thing - that made his life worth living.

With the craziness finally over, Harry was utterly wrung out and ready to crash, a drained husk of a wizard.

But one emotion flowed unabated - insecurity. His unfinished personal business yawned abyssally before him.

Exhausted or no, he needed, really needed, to have a one-on-one chat with Hermione - so he could begin making sense of all that had just happened and begin atoning for all he had done.

Even if it would be the most mortifying and crushing experience of his life - past, present, or future. However, Harry's trek to his personal Canossa was not to begin just yet.

Roxtar's announcement instantly drove all else from his mind. Hogwarts was under attack by Death Eaters! The Dark Mark meant that someone, probably several people, had been killed!

He needed to be there right away.

Hermione, the only person who could possibly have stopped Harry, knew better than to get in the way of his Saving People Thing.

“Go on, Harry and save the world,” she sighed, opting for a few hours' more thought about Harry's actions and intentions. “I'll be safe here.”

Luna's nod to Ron indicated that he, likewise, could follow his instincts.

Ron turned to Harry, “Got room for one more?”

Harry spared a glance for Healer Huxley. “She'll be safe,” the Healer responded to his implicit question. “When I receive an all clear, I'll bring her to Hogwarts. It sounds like we may both be needed.”

Harry turned back to Ron. “Let's go, then.”

Together they raced out the door, Ron limping noticeably, pursued by the loyal, if exasperated, Roxtar.

“Are we gonna Apparate to Hogsmeade?” Ron panted.

“Don't even think about it,” Harry warned. “Jerry … er … my estate manager, altered the Anti-Apparition wards so that the Death Eaters thought they were down. They weren't. Instead all Apparition out of here was directed to the most remote property I own - some island near Antarctica….”

“So what, then?”

Harry slowed to a brisk walk when they got outside. “Accio Valkyrie! I figure we fly beyond the ChÃ¢teau's wards, and then we can Apparate….”

“Harry, I was just kidding,” Ron backed off. “I've never Apparated that far. I only got my licence a little more than a month ago.”

“I'll Side-Along you, then.”

“Are you sure…?”

Roxtar caught up to them. “Impratraxis! To Hogwarts to go determined are you?”

“Absolutely!” Harry vowed, then he added hopefully, “Can you get us there faster than Apparating?” He paused as his trusty broom arrived, possibly unnecessarily.

“At Hogwarts regrettably exists no splixit,” Roxtar informed him. “Speed your journey cannot I, but safer can be made it. Your arm if you would, sire.”

Harry blinked. It took him a second to sort through the goblin's syntax and figure out that Roxtar wanted his arm. Hesitantly, he extended it to the goblin.

Roxtar reversed the Fitting Charm on Harry's Basilisk skin jumper so as to loosen the sleeve. Carefully, almost reverently, Roxtar bared Harry's forearm, and its Tladimax scar, a scar visible only in ultraviolet light that Harry and other humans could not perceive. Roxtar bared his own forearm - the one with his hand shy a finger - and placed it along Harry's. Then he recited a Sylimps, a goblin charm of sorts, in Gobbledegook.

Harry understood none of it, but at the end felt a wave of inexplicable warmth spreading outward from his arm.

“What was that?” Harry asked.

“What at Hogwarts may find you know not I,” Roxtar admitted, “but at least safe will be your arrival. When Apparate do you, in the Nation's camp land will you - not in Antarctica.”

Roxtar was as good as his word.

Harry Side-Along-Apparated himself and Ron as close to the uncertain boundaries of Hogwarts Castle's anti-Apparition wards as he dared.

Signs of unfolding disaster were immediately obvious, starting with the direction of Hogwarts Castle. Above it, almost leering, hovered Voldemort's Dark Mark, its cold eldritch fire outline glowing ghastly radium green. The evil symbol seemed anchored to one of the towers - the cloudy night's gloom making it impossible to tell which - marking the site of some undoubtedly awful event.

Courtesy of Roxtar's unknown charm, Harry and Ron had Apparated into the midst of a detachment of very sullen goblin warriors. The spitting rain was not even remotely affecting their attitude. Rather, ever since Harry had (so Dumbledore decreed) abused his goblin rank to facilitate that infamous all-night tryst with Ginny, goblins had been forbidden to set foot on Hogwarts' grounds.

The Headmaster had insisted, and Harry - in no position to oppose an explicit precondition to his continued attendance at Hogwarts - had issued the order. It was absolute. Goblins could watch over him and the Castle from a distance but could not enter the grounds, except by Dumbledore's (or, of course, Harry's) express invitation.

But on this of all nights neither Harry nor Dumbledore had been available to issue an invitation - until now. The Impratraxis' standing order was law. Thus, over thirty battle-hardened Stonehenge veterans stood sulking on the sidelines, certain that something heinous was happening within the Castle but able to do nothing save gawk at the Death Eaters' calling card.

For their audacity in popping into existence without warning amongst the supremely frustrated goblin braves, Harry and Ron were nearly set upon. An instant shy of an unimaginable act of lÃ¨se majestÃ©, the goblins recognised their prince by his distinctive armour. “Impratraxis!” several voices chorused at once.

Instantly, the entire battalion unhanded the wizards, dropped their weapons, and prostrated themselves.

“Anyor!” Harry yelled as he lowered his wand. “Why aren't you in there fighting?”

MÄ�ktrax, the commander, answered, “Impratraxis, to enter forbidden are we, by order of yours. Invited must we….”

That memory hit Harry hard - almost as hard as his hand smacking his own forehead. “Get the Hell in there, then!” Harry fiercely cut him off, pointing at the Castle.

The goblins scrambled, grabbing for their weapons and other combat gear in borderline chaos. They began converting to their boulder forms and bounding away.

Harry whirled about at the sound of a shrill inhuman shriek. Less than five metres away, a goblin flier was hastily spurring his gargantuan mount to its feet, urging the still sleepy flying reptile into imminent take off.

“Granz!” Harry commanded the flier to halt. He leapt on the quetzalcoatlus, grabbed the rear of the flier's saddle with his left hand, and reached out to Ron with his right. It was decision time. Looking at the redhead, Harry asked, “Are you game?”

Ron tested his injured ankle. “Episkey,” he numbed it some more. “Good day to die and all that,” he uttered his first truly friendly words to Harry in a month. Rather less gracefully than Harry, Ron, too, climbed aboard.

“Go!” Harry commanded the goblin flier. His order was instantly obeyed by the goblin who, fortunately, spoke passable English

“Shite!” Compared to this leather-winged monster, flying on Buckbeak was like sitting on a throne. The rapidly accelerating reptile weighed considerably less than a Hippogriff, but its wings were over three times larger. Even with two extra passengers, the beast's exertions produced tremendous lift and speed. Ron was almost pitched over the side, and would have fallen, had he not grabbed Harry by the belt. His weight pulled Harry's legs out from under him, and Ron slipped off altogether, dangling dangerously by one hand.

“Aaauugh!” Harry bellowed as his grip on the goblin's saddle began weakening. Just in time their goblin pilot sensed a problem and pulled back hard on his reins. The pair tumbled back onboard the flying beast. They wound up bracketing the flier between them, one hand each holding onto the pilot's saddle billets, and their other hands clutching fistfuls of each other's robes.

“Bloody Hell, mate!” Ron yelled into a rushing wind laden with raindrops that stung their skin. “I'll take those Thestrals next time!”

Try as they might, neither could completely right themselves. Unlike a flying horse, the wings of a quetzalcoatalus extended all the way to its tail, offering nothing to straddle. Pressing his scaly armoured chest against the equally scaly beast, Harry performed a silent Sticking Charm on himself - at least he hoped he did.

“Take us to the Dark Mark,” Harry told the flier.

“What?” The goblin asked, obviously unfamiliar with the term.

“That damn ugly looking green thing!” Ron clarified, loosening his grip long enough to point his finger.

Soon the flier slowed as he flew directly under the glowing skull-themed symbol. Harry's blood ran cold as he recognised the Headmaster's balcony. It appeared dark and deserted.

“Please get us as close as you can to the railing,” Harry instructed the pilot, ending the Sticking Charm and disengaging himself from Ron. His request was not easily met, as the giant reptile was not nearly as manœuvreable as the other beasts Harry had flown. A drizzling rain made its scaly back increasingly slippery.

Finally, the goblin pilot approximated a close-in hover by more or less sinking in from above. With the downdraft from beast's huge wings swirling sodden debris on the balcony, Harry leapt. He hit the balcony's rain-slicked stone surface at an angle, and his feet slid from under him. Harry dropped, rolled, and bounced up ready to cast curses. He found no targets.

“Ah-ah-ah … AHHH!” Harry turned just in time to see Ron come hurtling after him. Taller than Harry, Ron needed a bit more clearance than he gave himself. His left boot heel caught the top of the balcony railing, and he landed hard on his already injured right foot.

“Aaaww … FUCK!” Ron howled as he crumpled.

“Gradnuk…!” Harry yelled to the hovering goblin. “Go hunt Death Eaters!” Waving off the goblin flier, Harry turned back to Ron and asked, “Can you walk on it?”

Ron grabbed the offending railing and pulled himself up. He winced when he put weight on the leg. “Not well, mate,” he groaned. “Episkey,” he numbed himself again. Still, he moved haltingly, almost falling when he let go of the railing. “Shite…. I'm afraid, I'd … only get in the way,” Ron admitted. “You'd best go on….”

“Umm … okay, be careful,” Harry agreed. “Keep your back against a wall.”

“You too - you're the one out looking for the bloody Death Eaters,” Ron replied.

“If I'm lucky, the goblins will find them first.”

“No, if they're lucky.”

Harry's attention was elsewhere. He lifted his wand to the drizzling heavens. “EVANESCO!!!” he roared.

The Dark Mark dissolved into tiny chartreuse pixels that scattered, like fireflies, in the sloppy sky.

Harry left Ron on the balcony and moved cautiously inside. Dumbledore's office was wrecked and deserted. Harry's nostrils flared at an acrid, burning smell. He quickly identified the source. In one corner of the room, glowing, purple smoke curled from a partly opened cupboard. Only half the door remained, and it was seriously charred. Whatever was inside seemed burnt out. Dumbledore could fix it later….

Looking about the room, Harry found the portraits in disarray, their occupants having fled. The table that held the Headmaster's collection of odd magical artefacts was blown to smithereens - a Reductor Curse, probably - leaving bits of wood and silver scattered all over the floor. The top of Dumbledore's desk was buried beneath the debris from a smashed chandelier and plaster from what remained of the Tudor ceiling.

Save for occasional sizzling, staccato pops from the smouldering cupboard, the Headmaster's office was as still and quiet as death.

“Hell, as long as you move that slowly, I've got your back,” Ron quipped as he stumped up from behind. “I'll come in, if you don't mind. Contrary to what Luna thinks sometimes, I do have enough sense to get out of the rain….”

“Funny, Hermione's said the same thing about me….”

Rather than try entering Dumbledore's private quarters, Harry slunk towards the office door. It hung precariously, the lower hinge blasted clean away. Listening carefully, he thought he heard the sounds of distant spellfire somewhere below him - down the pitch black stairwell. For the first time in Harry's experience, the spiral staircase was not rotating.

Lighting his way with his wand, Harry examined the landing. Seeing nothing threatening, he began striding towards the sounds of battle.

“…Hhaarryy…”

Instantly, Harry straightened up and spun around, wand ready to fire. That almost ghostly groan was not Ron's voice … but it was familiar….

“…Hhaarryy…”

“What's going on?” Ron asked, getting no answer.

Harry's wand flared to searchlight strength. Harry scanned the landing, the stairs, and finally Dumbledore's office. He saw nothing.

“Neville, is that you? Where are you?” Harry raised his voice. Turning, he called to Ron, “Do you see Neville anywhere?”

“Up … here….”

“Where?” Even with his strengthened Lumos, Harry saw nothing.

“…Hhaarryy …”

Finally, Harry looked straight up, pointing his wandtip at the ceiling of the Headmaster's foyer. Listening intently, he heard a minute scratching sound of something rocking back and forth - almost directly overhead.

“Oh, hell,” Harry swore under his breath. “Finite!”

Neville's form flickered into view just in time for Harry to avoid being clobbered by his plummeting body. Casting whilst leaping out of the way, Harry saved his friend from possible serious injury. “Arresto momentum!” Neville, his face as pale as alabaster, floated to the floor.

“Neville! Are you all right? What happened? Where's Dumbledore?” The questions tumbled from Harry's lips, toppling over one another like a row of dominoes.

“Oy, Nev - what are you doing here?” Ron limped up and tossed in a query of his own.

“Harry … Dumbledore's … dead,” Neville rasped, on the edge of tears.

Neville's words burned Harry's psyche like a branding iron. “WHAT!!” He simply could not believe it. Harry's mind reeled, insistent that what he had just heard simply could not be true.

Ron was only marginally more eloquent. “Oh, triple shite!”

“Dumbledore's dead,” Neville repeated, his voice hollow.

Harry flinched at the sound of a particularly loud spell impact somewhere in the dark distance. He could not afford to fall to pieces. “How, Neville?”

“Death Eaters … in the Castle,” Neville's lips trembled as he continued. “Effing … Draco Malfoy … AKed Dumbledore…. Snape was with him, and a bunch of others….”

“I'll kill that little ferret.” Ron vowed.

“Dammit!” Harry cursed loudly. “I'm sorry, Nev, I should never have made you go with him like that. I should….”

Neville cut short Harry's apology. “Did you find Hermione?”

“Umm … yes.”

“Is she … all right?”

“I - we - rescued her. She's … safe,” Harry answered truthfully, if incompletely. He truly did not know how Hermione really was. She had survived being hit with a Killing Curse - something that Harry knew firsthand could have unusual, long-term effects.

“Then, you're forgiven,” Neville declared.

His head still spinning at the awful news of Dumbledore's demise, Harry took several deep breaths. The urgent sounds of curses being exchanged somewhere below ended the interrogation. They could talk more later.

“Cover me,” Harry told them as he squared his shoulders and turned again towards the battle. He dimmed his wand and trotted down the eerily stationary stairs.

Maybe halfway to the gargoyle, Harry encountered an open passageway in what had heretofore always been a blank stone wall. The curse sounds echoed through the unknown corridor. Even though he had never seen it before, Harry did not hesitate. “This way!” he called to his friends following him.

In he dove. The opening was maybe a metre square, maybe a bit more. Hunched over, half running, half crawling, Harry charged through the cramped passage as quickly as he could. He saw a flash and a puff of smoke as some stray spell punched a hole in the grate at the far end of the tunnel and gouged the wall in front of him. He was about to emerge into the heat of battle with no idea which side was where.

He needed something that would suppress both sides until he could sort things out and avoid problems with friendly fire. He smiled, recalling one of Hermione's favourite spells. Whispering, he Transfigured into a mirror a bit of debris left by that incoming spell. Harry Levitated it so he could observe the course of the battle through the hole in the grate.

He had to remind himself that his view was a mirror image of what was actually happening. When he came crashing through, everything would be on the opposite side.

A full-throated battle raged in the large corridor on the Castle's fifth storey near Ravenclaw tower. Several large cracks disfigured the walls and ceiling. Many of the windows were shattered, letting the rain - heavier now than before - patter in, a ghostly, ghastly mist lit by the colours of assorted curses.

Death Eaters were crouched behind a bulwark of wooden beams and broken stone blocks visible directly in front of him. That meant that his side….

“Cover me!” a voice screamed. It registered as familiar, and Harry tried to focus on it. Before he located the source, someone dashed into the Death Eaters' field of fire with an animalistic howl. Harry started, shaking the mirror and blurring the image. Drawing the Death Eaters' curses, the figure sprinted to the left (which meant actually to the right), and to the shelter of a blown-out door and a crumpled suit of armour.

Harry gulped. Whoever he saw was wearing green goblin basilisk armour like he did. By the process of elimination that meant…. No, her hair was black and cropped, not long and red. The armour absorbed whatever curses struck her. Fortunately, none were Unforgivables.

The girl rolled behind the makeshift barricade, spun around and began firing Stunners, Reductors, and other D.A. curses from this new angle. Harry saw two Death Eaters fall backwards, hit by her spells.

“NOW!” the girl cried. She looked back, presumably towards the rest of her side, and coincidentally straight into Harry's mirror. Harry drew in a disbelieving breath. Jazzy - a mere third year - was spearheading the D.A.'s counterattack.

Harry crawled forward, keeping one eye on the mirror. A new volley of spells crashed into the Death Eaters' position, keeping them ducking. Harry crouched just behind the entrance when he heard a hated voice that he had hoped he was rid of forever. “Sectumsempra!”

Almost immediately, he heard someone scream. That curse had hit home.

Harry had found Snape.

Neville had all too obviously been correct. Snape, the traitor, had facilitated the death of Albus Dumbledore.

Harry would not mind at all returning the favour.

As he had once before, Harry summoned wandless elemental magic. “Pulvis!”

The grate concealing Harry and the passageway blew out horizontally, smiting the opposite wall like a cannonball. A raging sandstorm, driven by a one-hundred-plus-kilometre-per-hour gust, burst from the secret passage's entrance. Harry was in the midst of it. As the windblown sand forced all the combatants to cover their eyes, Harry dropped to the floor.

Oof! “Urrkk!” Harry landed on something - someone - soft.

“Sorry,” Harry whispered genuinely. Whoever he had accidentally jumped on - Harry saw Ravenclaw piping on the robes - was seriously injured. He would like to help, but a battle needed fighting. Still….

“Mobilicorpus!” At least he could move the incapacitated soul out of harm's way so that Neville's or Ron's entrance would cause even worse injury.

The wind hurled stinging sand everywhere as Harry picked himself up. Determined, he almost flew across the large corridor to the side opposite Jazzy's last known position. Harry dove behind a pile of stone blasted from the Castle's collapsed outer wall.

Now, the Death Eater emplacement would be under fire from both sides.

But Harry had a personal score to settle. Before the sand had even stopped swirling, he had his wand pointed in the direction of the hated voice. “Ultrasonicus!”

Perhaps the loudest noise ever heard in that ancient corridor rumbled through. The outer wall's cracks creaked ominously, and every remaining intact window was blown out. Harry had unleashed a sonic boom - in an enclosed space. That spell penetrated both physical and magical Protego spells.

Shouts of pain - and fewer curses - emerged from the Death Eater's barricade.

“It's Harry!” somebody yelled from behind him. A new salvo of D.A. hexes and jinxes shot out towards the Death Eater position.

“Avada Kedavra!” Harry ducked behind the fallen stones. He came face to face with someone's lifeless arm. The robe's yellow trim told him that some Hufflepuff had been crushed to death.

The Death Eaters quickly recovered from the unexpected intervention, and more of their curses pinned down the group, which consisted mostly of Ravenclaws. Harry recognised the voices of Zeb Bradley, Roger Davies, Padma Patil - and more surprisingly Cho Chang - doing battle with at least a baker's dozen of Death Eaters. Perhaps the fight being near Ravenclaw Tower explained their predominance.

A Hornetentious Hex streaked over Harry's left shoulder. Neville and Ron had reached the end of the passageway and had joined the fight.

“Specularis totalus!” Harry heard Jazzy's voice ring out. Her spell had an instant, blinding effect as all of the surfaces about the Death Eaters' location became reflective. She followed with a resounding “Stupefy!”

Her scarlet Stunner ricocheted wildly, causing Death Eaters to duck and cover in all directions. Harry had to smile. Jazzy had obviously paid attention during his epic duel with Hermione, and was applying what she had learnt in actual combat.

But the Death Eaters, or at least Snape, were resourceful combatants. “Bombardo!” Harry heard his erstwhile Potions master incant. Conjured ball bearings flew everywhere and shattered the product of Jazzy's Mirror Charm.

Two could play at that game, Harry realised.

The battle had strewn chips of stone thickly across the floor. Harry swept his wand broadly as he also cursed, “Bombardo!” The chips of stone transformed into ball bearings and pelted the Death Eaters at the opposite end of the hall.

“Draco, go with the others,” Harry heard the hated voice command. “I'll cover your escape.” The Death Eaters had either had enough or else accomplished everything they had intended.

Harry neither knew, nor cared, which.

The D.A. increased its strafing of the Death Eater positions, but Snape cast some unknown magic at the opposition. A huge cloud of peridot-green smoke arose and billowed towards Harry and other D.A. members. Behind it the retreating Death Eaters threw Blasting Hexes and other dangerous, but non-deadly curses essentially at random - to keep Hogwarts' defenders pinned down.

Once the fog reached the nearest defenders, its being more than a smokescreen became painfully clear. Harry heard Jazzy's gravelly voice - obviously magically enhanced - sound the alarm. “Garroting Gas,” she declared. “Fall back!”

A general disengagement followed, with the corrupted miasma obscuring each side from the other.

For his own part, Harry stayed put. His eyes began tearing up, then he started having trouble breathing. Finally, he summoned air elemental power and generated a prevailing wind that blew the noxious gas through the corridor's numerous shattered windows. Impatient to re-engage the Death Eaters who had killed Dumbledore, Harry performed a Bubblehead Charm and charged into the thinning mist.

“Avada Kedavra!” Harry threw himself to the floor, but Draco Malfoy's Killing Curse missed badly.

Malfoy had probably used the identical curse to kill Dumbledore not more than an hour earlier. “Expelliarmus!” Harry responded emotionally, but in his anger he missed just as badly, punching another sizable hole in one of the walls.

“Draco, I said go,” Snape's cold voice commanded. “We've accomplished what we wanted here tonight. Don't forget your orders. Killing Potter is the exclusive province of the Dark Lord.”

“YOU TRAITOROUS BASTARD!!” Harry roared. Incensed, he cut a Reductor multiple times and, as at Kew Gardens, hurled it at whatever Death Eaters remained.

But since Kew, Harry had gained a much more intimate acquaintance with the Fifth Element. He might have put a little something extra on these spells. The entire corridor - floor, walls, and ceiling - disappeared behind the flashes of Harry's spellfire … and then much of it simply disappeared.

Harry heard a rumble as the outer wall and much of the ceiling of the main corridor leading to Ravenclaw Tower slid away as pulverised debris, leaving a gaping hole in the side of the Castle. All of a sudden, the downpour from the storm outside streamed in from directly overhead.

Ravenclaw Tower also soared overhead in the now outright stormy night. As the magic faded away, Harry realised that, had the rightmost of his Reductors been cast only a couple of metres wider, he might have brought down the entire tower - killing everyone in it.

“You remain a bumbling fool, Potter,” Snape's voice taunted. “All power, zero perspicacity. The Dark Lord will make short work of you ….as Draco has already.”

What did that mean?

Snape's evil voice was almost overhead. Harry raised his wand, but found himself dodging, not entirely successfully, a small avalanche of sodden rubbish kicked down upon him. He had to cast a protective shield, instead of the curse he had planned.

“Then stop running away, Snape!” Harry yelled at the unseen Death Eater. “Stand and fight, you bloody coward!”

Much to Harry's surprise, his challenge seemed to have the desired effect. “DON'T CALL ME A COWARD!” roared the former Potions master's voice from somewhere above in the darkness.

Heedless of both danger and adverse weather, Harry climbed after Snape, intent upon mayhem or worse. He emerged precariously onto the roof of Hogwarts - somewhere he had never been before, let alone at night, let alone in a steady rain … let alone with a gaping hole at his back and an exposed 30Â° sloping expanse of copper and slate stretching before him.

Somewhere up here was Snape, lying in wait.

Hunched over in the driving rain, Harry Disillusioned himself and, stepping gingerly across rivulets flowing towards the gutters below, crept towards the nearest shelter - the looming spire of Ravenclaw Tower.

He heard something, a splash of sorts, but by the time Harry had his wand trained in that direction, Snape had already snapped off a spell - albeit not at Harry.

“A priori!”

That spell - unlike Harry, Snape was competent to cast it directionally - streaked directly into the cavernous hole from which Harry had just emerged. It seemed to trigger Hogwarts' innate magic. The bent and jagged edges of the Castle's greenish-grey copper roof rippled, the rough hewn edges of its broken-off stone and wood glowed and then reknit. Magically, the outward manifestations of the crater Harry's Blasting Hexes had blown out of Hogwarts Castle repaired themselves.

Harry was alone on the roof of Hogwarts with ex-Professor Snape.

“That should prevent any reinforcements,” Snape's disembodied voice scoffed. “Don't flatter yourself thinking that my Death Eaters ran from you. There are too many of your goblin friends about. But they can't help you now … pity. With your vandalism fixed, it's just the two of us. Think you can take me, Potter?”

While his lurking adversary spoke, Harry silently conjured a magic-stopping Protego shield to augment his armour. Snape's curses would be worse than any physical object the Death Eater might throw at him.

It was quite dark amongst the rain-swept crenellations and stone parapets that topped the uppermost termini of the Castle's flying buttresses. He doubted that Snape could see him any better than he could see Snape. The murky sky was unrelievedly black - no moon, no stars, only bloated clouds that scudded low over Hogwarts' soaring mediÃ¦val towers. A few spottily-lit Castle windows provided minimal illumination, along with indirect light from what might be flickering flames far below.

With the wet weather, any fire would have to be magical in origin.

His senses tingling with epinephrine, Harry stole towards Ravenclaw tower, anxious to put a wall at his back.

“Sectumsempra!” Snape struck the first magical blow.

Harry reacted, but too slowly. He had chosen wisely. The Dark curse bounced off Harry's armour, and the shield protected his face from some unfortunate shrapnel.

“Diffindo!” Harry returned fire blindly, sweeping his wand horizontally to sweep across as much of the roof area as he could without hitting one of the towers.

“Pathetic, Potter,” Snape taunted. “The eddies about your feet betray your position.”

“Yeah, I guess you know about betrayal.”

Snape evidently did have superior night vision. Instinctively Harry changed directions. Instead of continuing towards the questionable shelter of Ravenclaw Tower, he dropped and slid towards the crenellated ledge of the walkway that edged the roof.

It was a better move in theory than practice. On the rain slicked roof Harry misjudged his acceleration. He was moving too fast and about to careen off into space…. “Incarcerous!” he cast desperately. Ropes flew from his wand and entangled between two crenellations in front of him. Harry slammed into his own conjuring, and by grabbing it managed to avoid a twenty-five-metre fall.

Although his Idiotus Hex missed a sliding Harry, Snape kept the pressure on, allowing his opponent no time even to wince at his nasty rope burns. Harry splashed facedown in the gutter to dodge the slashing purple calling card of the Dark Fire of Tu-Fan. But whilst Snape could cast that spell silently, he was not accurate. It sailed well over Harry's head.

“You bastard!” a dripping Harry yelled at his phantom foe. “You killed Dumbledore!” He crawled behind the mossy capstone of a flying buttress.

“I did no such thing, you insipid fool,” Snape drawled dismissively. “That honour went to Draco Malfoy. He needn't bother killing you.”

“Reducto!” Harry squeezed off a strong Reductor Curse at what he thought might be Snape's shadow. Instead he exploded a decorative gargoyle and disintegrated part of the railing of the roof's peak walkway.

“Go ahead, Potter, blow up the Castle if you like,” Snape's voice ridiculed. “What's done is done.”

“That inbred wimp couldn't tie his own shoes without your help,” Harry replied. “Lumos!”

Harry figured that Snape already knew where he was; a little more light gave nothing away.

Suddenly Snape's voice bore all the silkiness of his classroom orations. “A fatal but unsurprising flaw, Potter - underestimating your enemy. I've had a detailed chat with dear Draco. He's been quite busy plotting rings around you for most of the Term. Who do you think killed that elf…?”

Harry was also busy, and not to be underestimated. From the direction of Snape's taunts, he noticed raindrops spattering off of some invisible object. Like Hermione did with her bluebell flames, Harry carefully drew his Lumos light from his wandtip - he had destroyed his second wand earlier that same evening - so that it hovered beside him.

Knowing that Snape would be watching the light, Harry cast again. “Frigidio!”

The wet copper roof beneath Snape's feet suddenly became a sheet of wet ice. Instantly, Snape lost his balance and began careening towards the edge at a much higher speed than Harry had slid earlier, howling all the way.

Harry aimed his Freezing Charm along Snape's path - greasing the greasy git's skids as it were - and with a final screech his nemesis disappeared over the edge. Harry shone his brightly lit wandtip past the lip of the gutter, hoping to see Snape hit the ground.

He saw nothing - until he heard … the man's voice behind him. “A silent Levitating Charm, Potter. Underestimation will be your death … Imperio!”

Snape was astounded when Harry threw himself over the side to avoid his Unforgivable Curse…. He had never intended….

…Astounded, that is, until Harry's foot slammed into the back of the former professor's head and sent him sprawling in one direction whilst his wand clattered away in another. “Someone else knows silent magic,” Harry hissed whilst Vanishing the ropes his burnt hands had gripped so painfully.

Harry's latest Incarcerous spell had bulls-eyed the head of a gargoyle atop the nearby buttress cap. He followed that with a Kinetic Charm - on himself. His pinwheeling through the air had been worthy of a cartoon superhero.

At least when Hermione's life was not at stake, Harry was not, temperamentally, a killer. He wanted Snape well and properly Kissed. “Petrificus to….”

Sprawled and hurting, Snape still had the presence of mind to Banish a handful of Peruvian Instant Darkness Power wandlessly in Harry's face. The rain washed it out within seconds, but those seconds were all Snape needed to make himself scarce once again.

Temporarily blinded, Harry felt for, found, and pressed his back against the buttress' stony mass. Rather than attempting to finish him off, Snape inexplicably contented himself merely by summoning his wand and continuing his taunts.

“Nice move, Potter. I won't underestimate you again,” Snape sneered, but his voice sounded much further away. “But you're too soft. Not like Draco. He'll be the ultimate Death Eater, I am sure of it….”

“Dammit … Ultrasonicus!” Like a thunderclap at ten metres, another supersonic pressure wave roiled outward from Harry's person, rather than his wand.

Silence.

Snape's snide yammering began again.

“Sound and fury, Potter, signifying nothing. Face facts for once…. You're not ruthless enough for this - and you know I know what this is. When the Dark Lord ordered Draco to kill Dumbledore, he repaired a Vanishing Cabinet, reopened the old route to the Chamber, and provided us all with access to the Castle. When the Dark Lord ordered Draco to separate you from the Muggle-born brains of your operation, he arranged that as well, substituting a redheaded piece of fluff.”

“Leave Hermione and Ginny out of this, you boot-licking traitor!” Harry screamed in blazing anger sparked primarily by Snape's probing of his own extreme insecurity on that front. “Fluvius Azote!” Liquid nitrogen - which Harry hoped would either freeze or suffocate his adversary - flowed copiously from his wand.

The distinctive double pop of short-range Apparition rang out.

“What the…?”

“Underestimating me still, I see,” Snape sneered. “Of course, I've disabled the Castle's anti-Apparition wards. I suppose you never even bothered to check. Enflagrate!”

Two could play that game. Harry Apparated to the walkway at the peak of the roof, dropped flat onto the soaking slate, and incanted, “Nimbulus!”

An obscuring cloud formed around Harry.

“So, you really think you're in love with the Weasley girl, then?” Snape ended his pointed question with a harsh laugh.

For once, Harry had no answer, at least none he cared to articulate. Since his argument with Ginny earlier that same evening, he was no longer sure of anything - save that something was not right … dodgy. “Just leave them out of this, you bastard!” Harry repeated.

Snape, however, was just getting started. “Love potion, Potter. My love potion. Draco told me today; your lovely Ginevra's recipe was in my handwriting - mine, Potter. Draco all but gave you away as a present, tightly bound with an artificially enhanced ribbon. All you lacked….”

“Diff -”

Snape knocked that spell away before Harry even finished it. “You'll have to do better than that. Wrapped around their fingers, you've been….”

The sinews of Harry's neck stretched taut beneath his skin. He snarled, his eyes wild, “I don't give a flying fuck what either you or Malfoy say; you're Death Eaters.”

Harry, too angry for his own good, was sloppy.

“Incarcerous ennervatus,” Snape cast whilst Harry was screaming. The Death Eater managed to skip a more dangerous variant of one of Harry's favourite spells off the roof and under Harry's shield. Snape's version conjured chains of the same magic-sapping variety that had held Harry during his Death Eater captivity.

Hit on his feet, Harry toppled over, immobilised.

Snape finally showed himself. “Suit yourself,” he scoffed. “I know who and what I am, and I am the Half-Blood Prince. It seems that someone managed to locate a certain tome that I'd thought lost - a certain sixth year textbook. My old textbook….”

As Snape gloated, Harry's eyes nearly left his paralysed head. He forgot all about his current bound-in-chains straits. “You were Ron's idol!?!”

“Shut up and listen to the last lesson I'll ever teach you. Didn't I once tell you, Potter, about potions that could bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses?”

The Death Eater Potions master could have killed Harry then and there, had he been so inclined. Instead, he contented himself with inflicting a minor Stinging Hex on the exposed hands of the essentially helpless boy. “Keep your shields up Potter; your duelling style is woefully amateurish….”

Harry tried wandlessly to comply, but his attention focussed elsewhere. He saw something - he thought, anyway - something dark and solid had passed by and obscured some of the lit windows in the Astronomy Tower. Not wanting to tip Snape off, he wandlessly invoked the D.A.'s Face Fogging Charm. `Just keep talking, Snape,' Harry thought.

“…Yes, I said Love Potion.” The phrase curled spitefully from Snape's lips. “Your mind and your senses…. But regrettably, I didn't know then of its imperfections …. If it had been perfect, you would never have been born….”

`Come on,' Harry rooted. `Just a little longer.'

“Answer me this, Potter, do you have the same feelings - the same sexual feelings - for the lovely Miss Weasley when you're away from Hogwarts as when you're here?”

`What…? How could Snape possibly known about that?'

Snape continued, “Or when you're away, do you get peckish...?”

Harry's face paled in shock.

Sensing that he was finally hitting home, Snape pushed his advantage. “Or perhaps even nostalgic…?”

`No! It couldn't be….' Harry found it hard to breathe. He could hear his blood roaring in his ears….

Merlin! How could Snape possibly have known that?

“I see the truth dawning, Potter. That potion was my special concoction, Potter… I devised it….”

BREEEEEEEE!!

Snape could say no more.

With a deafening screech, a familiar goblin quetzalcoatalus pounced upon the former potions master from behind, seized him in its claws, and carried him away.

The goblin's cry of triumph was cut short by a loud Apparition pop.

But Snape or no Snape, at that moment Harry was too heartsick to care.

If Snape were right, how could Ginny have betrayed him so completely?

Worse, how could he have done the same to Hermione?

* * * *

When Snape vanished, so did his malicious charm - at least its most potent, magic-sapping aspect. In short order, Harry broke the now ordinary chains using Lao Kung's elemental magic. A few cycles of extreme heat, followed by bitter cold, left them so brittle that they shattered after being quite non-magically bashed a couple of times against Hogwarts' copper sheathed roof.

Once free, a physically drenched but emotionally numbed Harry shimmied down the conjured rope he had left hanging from the nearby gargoyle's ears. The outer windows were quite restored. “Alohomora.” The nearest window opened, and Harry re-entered the battle-scarred corridor. It was almost deserted.

“There you are,” Ron hailed him. “Did you get that bastard Snape?”

“I ran him off, anyway,” Harry answered distractedly. “Dessicatus!” Harry dried himself. He had so much to think about. Everything was different - and not just because of Dumbledore's murder. “Umm … where is everybody?”

Something seemed … off. A serious battle had just been fought and was now over. A pall of dust hung in the deserted corridors. Where were any of the staff? For that matter, where were the elves? The staff might have been fighting elsewhere, but the elves - surely they would have come by, if only to clean things up.

“Well, not five minutes after you went after the Greasy Git, the goblins rolled through,” Ron recounted. “They didn't stay long, though. They were after Death Eaters, but by then those bastards had left, except for a couple too badly hurt to get away … wherever they went, anyway…. Their end wasn't pretty, but I reckon they deserved it.”

The goblins! How could he have forgotten them?

“I don't believe it,” Neville confirmed Harry's earlier impression, “but Jazzy seemed to be commanding the D.A., or at least this lot of them. She had them Levitate their wounded and take them to the Hospital Wing. Nothing could save poor Megan, though,” he added with flat finality, glancing in the direction of the rubble pile on the right. “She's dead.”

Harry shook his head, not knowing what he could say. Another death….

Ron broke the awkward silence. “We could have helped Jazzy, but we decided we'd rather wait for you.”

“Well … thanks, I guess.” Harry noticed a nasty looking rip in the right side of Neville's robes, its edges discoloured by blood. “Nev, I think we ought to get you to the Hospital Wing, too. I don't like the looks of that.”

“Nah,” Neville shrugged it off. “Just winged by a stray Cutting Curse. I want to know more about Hermione.”

“She's recovering. Some really good Healers - the same ones who helped me after I was rescued - are treating her. They think she's well enough to bring her to the Hospital Wing once everything….”

Harry was silenced by Professor McGonagall's voice rattling through the corridor and presumably the entire Castle.

“ATTENTION EVERYONE. GOOD NEWS, FINALLY…. WE HAVE DETERMINED THAT THE CASTLE IS FREE OF DEATH EATERS. BACKUP WARDS HAVE BEEN RESTORED. THE LEVEL ONE LOCKDOWN IS LIFTED, EXCEPT FOR GRYFFINDOR TOWER, DUE TO FIREFIGHTING ACTIVITY AT THE BASE. THE SLYTHERIN EVACUATION REMAINS IN FORCE. EVERYONE ELSE SHOULD STAY IN THEIR COMMON ROOMS ABSENT A GOOD REASON, APPROVED BY A PREFECT, TO LEAVE….”

Firefighting? Harry's first instinct was to dash off in search yet another crisis. But before he could muster a head of steam, he felt a hand on his shoulder - Ron's hand.

“No mate, I think we should get Neville to the Hospital Wing, and also me, with this gimpy leg. I'll bet Hermione's there by now, and I'm hoping Luna, too…. If anybody really needs you, they'll come get you.”

Sighing, Harry felt the epinephrine drain from his body. “All right then. To the Hospital Wing….” Exiting the ruined hallway, it registered with Harry that, unlike himself or Ron, Neville wasn't wearing his customised suit of goblin-crafted Basilisk-skin armour.

Pointing at his own garb, Harry wondered, “Damn Nev, too bad you didn't wear yours. It would have stopped that curse for sure….”

Neville winced, and not just from the wound Harry mentioned. “That reminds me…. I need to thank you, again … wish I didn't have to…. Your D.A. training saved my life….”

Shared battlefield experience had rekindled Ron's friendship with Harry. Neville, though, still had issues with Harry's betrayal of Hermione. Ron, at least, was intrigued. “Oh really … how so?”

“Same reason that I don't have my armour. We went to a cave, but it was so near the ocean that Dumbledore … may he rest in peace … made me take it off. He was afraid that I would drown if I fell in the water wearing it. Turns out he was right, but not how he thought….”

As the three walked to the Hospital Wing through the Castle's eerily deserted halls, their footsteps echoing in the profound post-battle silence, Neville summarised the Horcrux hunt that Harry had abruptly dumped in his lap. They managed to enter the cave reasonably intact - nothing but a flesh wound - and successfully navigated a lake brimming with Inferi.

The wheels came off once Dumbledore decided he had to drink some poisonous potion to access the Horcrux. Trying to get away, with the Headmaster largely incapacitated, Neville had fallen headlong into the lake amongst any number of Inferi.

Thanks to extra D.A. lessons, Neville was familiar enough with Inferi to survive.

“…That's where the D.A. saved my life,” Neville explained. “You taught us Hellas Infernus, and that Greek Fire burnt underwater. I used it to get away from the Inferi, and then several times to get back across the lake. Dumbledore was practically delirious by then…. Fortunately the Thestrals hadn't strayed….”

By the time Neville finished reciting the gory details of the Headmaster's death at Draco Malfoy's hands, they had reached the Hospital Wing.

It was bedlam. Controlled bedlam, but bedlam nonetheless.

The beds were all filled. One entire side of the ward was occupied by the mostly Ravenclaw veterans of the battle that Harry and his compatriots had helped turn. As Harry had expected (and hoped), Hermione was in the thick of things, along with Luna, tending to them.

She was wielding her wand. Harry was happy that someone had returned it to her, but displeased that the someone had not been he.

More serious cases, such as Zeb Bradley's Sectumsempra lacerations, were attended by Hlr. Huxley and Madam Pomfrey. Finally, the Hogwarts staff was also in evidence. Filch lay in one bed, unconscious and looking miserable. Shak had nasty looking burns on one arm, and his left leg was tractioned at a thirty degree angle. Professor Sinistra nursed another painful set of burns, and Hagrid, too. The Astronomy professor suffered in silence, but Hagrid was noisy. “Awwww!!,” the half-giant roared in pain. “That's wors'n a dozen bloody screwts!” Madam Pomfrey, very tired and all but out on her feet but at least uninjured, tried to get him to drink a potion. It was probably some sort of sedative - if the rest of the occupants were lucky.

Worst of all, Hlr. Huxley was working on someone behind a privacy shield and a forest of instruments, talismans, and artefacts. Whoever it was, the treatment did not seem to be going well. Harry had never seen the eminent Healer look as defeated as he did right now.

Not too far away, and looking somewhat out of place, were three Slytherins - Blaise Zabini, Preston Spott, and Smedley Cambo - whose injuries consisted of an assortment of tentacles, multicoloured boils, and overly long teeth. Spott and Cambo also belched slugs. Whilst the rest of the Castle's inhabitants were fighting for their lives against a Death Eater attack, and some sort of conflagration, some Slytherins apparently had engaged in some juvenile intra-house hexing, and these three ended up on the losing end.

Ron and Neville strode - or in Ron's case, hobbled - into the active theatre of the Hospital Wing, seeking treatment of their assorted and sundry wounds, hopefully by Hermione and Luna.

Harry hung back. His injuries were superficial by comparison. A Hospital Wing filled with active casualties was surely not conducive to the serious discussion he owed Hermione. Nor was this the time to draw her away from treating the injured. Other people needed her more than he did - at least right now.

Nor did Harry discount the possibility that Hermione might simply refuse to talk to him at all - or else slap him across the face.

He noticed someone else alone with her thoughts.

The rope burns on Harry's hands from his duel with Snape were no worse than the cuts and scratches that marred Jazzy's face. The fierce third year had settled into a chair on the opposite end of the long room. Harry could sympathise with Jazzy's thousand-metre stare.

After giving his hands a quick Episkey, Harry wandered over and flopped into an adjacent chair for a breather of his own. It was hot in the Hospital Wing, so he unbuttoned his upper armour, revealing a thoroughly sweat-soaked “Property of Gryffindor Quidditch” cut-off t-shirt beneath. Still finding things hard to believe, Harry ruminated over all he had recently learnt.

Dumbledore's dead….

Snape was Ron's Half-Blood Prince….

I've been Love Potioned for weeks….

Malfoy not only killed Dumbledore, but probably brewed that potion….

Hermione's safe and sound….

The last meant more to Harry than all the rest put together.

“Glad to see you back in time to save the day again - sort of.” Jazzy's half whisper finished with a mirthless “hah.”

One thing that never changed about Jazzy was her attitude.

“Oh, hell, Jazzy, you hardly needed my help,” Harry replied evenly. “You and the D.A. had the Death Eaters damn well pinned down. They couldn't do anything but run for it. But….”

Harry was thinking about something odd.

Jazzy called on it. “But, what?”

“Where in Merlin's name was Gryffindor … 'cept for you, that is?”

“Long story.”

Harry looked down the hall. Hermione was crying. A nervous Neville patted her on the back like she was a porcupine. Ron and Luna held each other nearby. Whoever Hlr. Huxley had been trying to save had not made it. A sheet covered the body, from head to toe.

Harry cursed his luck. He should be there, too, comforting Hermione. All doubt was now gone; his relationship with Ginny was over - even if he had not formally ended it.

He sighed. “I've got nothing but time.”

“All right then,” Jazzy assented. “I was in the library, trying to study. Your ex-girlfriend was in full drama queen mode in the common room, and I couldn't get….”

“Ex-girlfriend?” Harry was hopeful. “Really, I'm not entirely sure….”

“Bloody obvious, really,” Jazzy snorted. “How thick are you? Ginny-whingey certainly acted that way, but that's your problem, not mine. Anyway, had just finished up when things started to happen. I high-tailed the rest of the way back to Gryffindor. You know me … always spoiling for a fight….”

“And you got one, too,” Harry commented. “But not the rest of Gryffindor it seems. You're not that much braver than the rest of us.”

“True,” Jazzy conceded, “only quicker. Back in Gryffindor … well, it was a mess. People milling about. You, Neville, Ronald, and of course Hermione, all missing…. The only logical leader left was Ginny. But although a couple of people claimed they'd seen her, she wasn't to be found. I went looking for her, and … and….”

A bit of a glaze came over Jazzy's eyes, as if distracted by something more important. She stared at the other end of the Hospital Wing, where the body of the Death Eaters' latest victim had been removed, and Luna and Hermione had started working on the Slytherin casualties.

“And, what?”

“Ginny wasn't in the dorm either, but obviously had been, since she'd left her trunk wide open. That's where I found this armour,” Jazzy raised her arms to emphasise her own garb. “I nicked it. When I got back to the common room, the Prefects were finally taking charge. They didn't want anybody lower than fifth year to be fighting the Deaters. Bloody idiots! Well, you know me….”

Harry could guess where she was going. “Yeah, I'll bet you told them rather loudly to go straight to hell….”

“Yup, and I was out of there, armour and all, before anybody could try to stop me,” Jazzy confirmed. “Lucky thing, too, because Gryffindor tower was locked down before they got organised. Deaters set off Fiendfyre near the base - don't know why, but I'd smelled something burning as I left. That's also why Slytherin was evacuated. The blaze was a little too close to them for comfort.”

“Not necessarily a bad thing,” Harry put in.

“Anyway, I went looking for a fight and ran into some Ravenclaws and a few Hufflepuffs headed for Ravenclaw Tower. But the Deaters found them, too, a bit before I did. They went after Cho first, since she can't move as fast, what with her feet and all. I started blasting away, and well you pretty much know the rest. Umm … could I ask you a question?”

“I guess.”

“You really meant it, didn't you, when you said I could stay at your … that chÃ¢teau rather than go back to my relatives?”

Harry brightened. Finally something he knew the answer to. “Absolutely.”

“Okay, then, because I think I want to.”

“No problem.”

Jazzy stood. “I've got to go. You've reminded me of something….”

“Back to Gryffindor?”

“No. Ginny left a note on her bed, and I picked that up whilst there. I just remembered it.”

“Okay,” Harry shrugged as he held out his hand, assuming the note was for him.

“Not for you,” Jazzy disabused him. “Ginny's note is for Neville…. That's another reason I assumed you two were over.”

Harry shook his head in frank disbelief as Jazzy walked away. He made ready to leave. He had nothing to do here, since he had no Healer training.

`Don't you dare, Harry Potter,' Hermione's telepathic voice echoed in his head. She had not employed this form of communication since their break up, just over a month ago. `We need to talk, so will you wait for me - please…?'

As usual, Hermione was right. If she wanted to talk sooner rather than later, he was ready, since they had nowhere to go but up.

Harry flopped back into his seat and watched distractedly as Jazzy approached Neville and handed him Ginny's note.

* * * *

For the first time in … it seemed forever, Hermione harboured some hope that somewhere, beneath all of Harry's inexplicable and often inexcusable behaviour, he might still feel something for her. Whilst not exactly superstitious, she wanted to have it out with him before telling anything to anyone else….

She had readily accepted Hlr. Huxley's offer to Side-Along her and Luna to the winged-boar gates of Hogwarts. From there, with a quickly acquired and highly motivated goblin escort, they trooped to the Castle through a steady, hard rain. Then she followed the Healer to the Hospital Wing through the Castle's debris-strewn corridors.

Changing into her familiar Healer trainee's robe, Hermione avoided having to talk about her own harrowing experiences through the simple stratagem of listening to others describe theirs.

From Madam Pomfrey, Hermione learnt the shocking truth - Headmaster Dumbledore was dead - killed by the invading Death Eaters.

From Hagrid she found out that Death Eaters had burnt down his hut, killed Rotfang, his replacement boar hound, and briefly forced him to flee into the Forbidden Forest to avoid a similar fate.

According to Shak, it had been impossible to mobilise the D.A. with Harry, Neville, Ron, Ginny, Luna - and of course her - all missing and unaccounted for. Most of the staff, and virtually all the elves, had been pinned down in a desperate, touch-and-go firefight.

Literally.

A handful of Death Eaters had set part of Hogwarts alight with Fiendfyre. In the Castle's magic-rich environment, a catastrophic conflagration was barely averted - through liberal use of the newly developed Fluvius Azote charm and the elves' magical vacuum equipment. Hermione's recent invention of the charm that saved Hogwarts went unsaid, but not unacknowledged.

Blaise Zabini recounted that, in the chaos of Slytherin house's evacuation (the Fiendfyre began only a storey or two directly above their common room), some of the Snakes' more pro-Death Eater faction unsuccessfully tried to assault Daphne Greengrass. Blaise had been caught in the crossfire, he claimed, and gained quite an appreciation of duelling skills taught in the D.A.

Before Hermione could learn any more from Blaise, Professor Vector was brought in, hideously wounded and barely breathing. Shortly thereafter, the door flew open and Jazzy led a group of mostly Ravenclaw casualties into the infirmary. Hermione was pleased to discover that at least some of the D.A. had given an account of themselves against the Death Eaters.

She was tending to them when Harry finally showed up, along with Ron and Neville. Intensely aware of his presence, Hermione was torn between disappointment, as he kept his distance, and relief that Harry had not suffered any serious injuries.

She almost violated her Healer's Oath, though, when Harry started to leave. Addressing him telepathically for the first time since … that … she asked him to stay. She was not at all confident he would, but thankfully he did, remaining where she could see him.

Soon she was treating Neville for a Cutting Curse to the midsection - fortunately not deep enough to penetrate the peritoneum - and hearing a shocking eye-witness description of Draco Malfoy's cold-blooded murder of a weakened Albus Dumbledore….

“Umm … Neville?” Jazzy's hesitant voice sounded from behind. “Ginny left this note for you…. I forgot….”

“That's okay.” Neville sounded world weary as he blankly accepted the folded bit of parchment.

Hermione concentrated on closing Neville's wound as he started to read….

Unexpectedly Neville's breath hitched, almost causing her to end her Dermameld Charm spell too soon. Hermione glanced up. Neville was wobbly. His mouth gaped in shock, his eyes glazed in disbelief, and a strange purple anger suffused his features.

“Neville…?”

Thus reminded of his own existence, Neville's colour drained away even more precipitously, and his hands started shaking. Breathing shallowly, he dropped heavily back onto a hospital bed next to him - nearly reopening his wound, not to mention almost sitting on the unconscious Filch.

Hermione wondered if he still knew she was there.

“Great Merlin's ghost,” Neville rasped hoarsely. “How could…?”

“Neville…?”

His lips trembled. Tears began forming at the corners of his hazel eyes, where they mixed with a sudden cold sweat.

“…what…?”

Mechanically, he thrust the note at Hermione before she uttered another word. “Here, you're more clever than I am.”

She took it from his shaky grasp.

Dear Neville

Everything's a lie. He's back. Possessing me. Tom. Worse than before. Can't hold out for long. Have to stop Tom. Never again.

All my fault. Brewed the HBP's Love Potion. Draco's idea. No, mine. Maybe Tom's. I wanted it. My fault. Harry never loved me. Only you did. I loved Harry. Hurt him. Hurt you. Hurt everyone.

I'm not myself. Malfoy let in Death Eaters. Too weak to stop.

Hurt Hermione, too. Draught of Despair. Won't hurt anybody ever again. Nor will Tom.

Goodbye

Ginny

Anger and pain, in equal measure, swelled in Hermione's breast as she read Ginny Weasley's barely legible parting words.

She had betrayed them! Betrayed Harry! Betrayed her! Betrayed who knows how many others!?

Neville was essentially Healed. “Take over,” she choked out to nobody in particular. Hermione's eyes locked on Harry, still slumped in a chair near the front door. Somehow she kept herself under control and marched purposefully to where he sat.

Harry looked up at the sound of her none-too-subtle approach. “Hermione? Do you want…?”

“I-I don't want anything right now, Harry,” Hermione answered, her words unnaturally even, `except to curl up in a ball and not move for a week,' she added to herself.

Hermione thrust Ginny's now more than slightly crumpled note at him. “You need to read this.” When he took it from her, Hermione collapsed in the chair next to him, her face in her hands, oblivious to everything and everyone else.

Harry read, and as he did the others could feel magic begin radiating off him - first anger, then fear, then agony, then … nothing at all as he slammed shut his iron gates of Occlumency to prevent the possibility of yet another catastrophe in a day filled with them.

This time, at Hogwarts, Harry had no Bellatrix Lestrange to serve as a convenient outlet for what he was feeling. He stood up, rigidly. “Let's get out of here,” he hissed through tightly clenched teeth.

The heavy Hospital Wing doors flew open of their own accord, slamming loudly into the walls. Harry barely heard them.

“Oi! Wait up!” Ron yelped from behind.

“Ronald, you're supposed to be in traction until morning,” Luna admonished, but made no serious attempt to restrain her boyfriend. “If you keep abusing that ankle, all the magic in the world won't mend it.”

“Don't care right now, Luv. Something's badly off with Harry.”

Harry glanced at Hermione. She returned a long-suffering nod of assent. Ron (and Luna, if she wished) could participate in whatever was about to happen.

They made a motley crew, with Luna perhaps the most normally dressed - undoubtedly a first. Harry's armoured shirt flapped loosely open. Hermione wore blood-spattered Healer Trainee's garb. Neville was unselfconsciously bare-chested, clad only in a pair of jeans and his open, billowing robes, whilst sporting an angry, just-Healed curse mark to his side. Ron had inexpertly self-conjured a loose-fitting shirt and trousers from what had been tie-across-the-back in-patient's robes. He walked with a pronounced limp and had a Restraint Charm glowing brightly orange on his lame ankle. Jazzy remained tightly vested in full goblin armour.

They reached the Ceremonial Library, which had escaped essentially unscathed from the Death Eaters' depredations. Seething, Harry plopped into one of the squashy chairs in the centre, not far from where, months ago, they had first made contact with the Sisters of the Moon.

Without waiting for the others to seat themselves, Harry started swearing. “Goddam Ginny Weasley dosed me with Snape's goddam Love Potion … and you too, Hermione, with bloody Draught of Despair….”

“Wait a minute,” Hermione interrupted. “Who said anything about Snape?”

“Fucking Snape did,” Harry uttered the name with utmost loathing. “This only confirms what that turncoat bastard bragged about when I duelled him on the roof….”

Disdainfully, he threw Ginny's confession to the floor, where Luna quickly Summoned it and shared Ginny's words with Ron.

Shocked that Harry had duelled Snape alone, Hermione's eyes darted to Ron, and then Neville. Silently, they both confirmed Harry's latest derring-do.

“Harry, you could have been killed up there.”

“Yeah, but I was too busy trying to kill Snape to worry about that. Finally he Apparated off,” Harry grumbled. “The goblins almost got him….”

Then Harry remembered something else. “Not only that, he told me…. He is the bloody Half-Blood Prince. You were right, Hermione, the Prince was a damn Death Eater….”

It was Ron's turn to gape.

“…Wrapped us around their damn fingers.”

Before Ron could articulate anything, Neville broke in urgently, “What about Ginny? That wasn't just a confession. That read like a suicide note….”

“Well, what about Ginny?” Harry threw Neville's words back at him. “If Voldemort's possessed her, maybe it's for the best. She played us all for fools; she strung you along….”

“NO, GODDAM IT!!” Neville exploded, refusing Harry's logic absolutely. “None of that matters right now.” He tried to reach a plainly vengeful Harry. “We're not her judge, jury, and executioner….”

Neville was not alone in his concern. “Harry, mate, I hate to say it, but I'm with Nev on this. She's still my baby sister. I hate what she says she did, but I still love her as part of my family….”

“She was in cahoots with effing Malfoy behind all our backs,” Harry scathingly stood his ground. “Malfoy killed Dumbledore not much more than an hour ago….”

“She was possessed, dammit,” Neville began, still having trouble controlling his temper. He gave Harry up as a lost cause and turned to someone he prayed would be more sympathetic. “Hermione, please,” Neville pleaded. “You took pity on Cho….”

All eyes turned to the cleverest amongst them. She paled. “Think about what you're asking of me, Neville,” she responded in a hoarse whisper. “I'm not a bloody robot. You didn't have to see that - that little … slut in the very act of seducing Harry away….”

Hermione seemed moments from breaking down - or blowing up.

Harry felt like throttling Neville, but wisely kept quiet. For the first time in literally weeks, Harry put a supportive arm around Hermione.

“…Because of what Ginny did, Viktor is dead for the sin of loving me more than I could love him. And I came within seconds of becoming Voldemort's latest Horcrux….”

Neville and Ron both gasped, the latter looking positively nauseous. Until then, neither had known exactly what kind of horror Hermione had experienced.

“I'm, I'm s-s-sorry,” Neville stammered as he stepped backwards. “It's just … someone else has a lot in common with Krum…. I'll go find her myself….”

“No, Nev. I didn't mean to say that I wouldn't … just that you should know how hard this is for me….”

“The Chamber of Secrets.”

Everyone turned and stared at Luna, who until that moment had said nothing.

“She knows Tom Riddle was defeated there once before,” Luna explained. “If I were in her situation, that's where I'd go to finish the job.”

“Oh, Merlin's ghost - GINNY!” Neville took off at a dead run towards the stairway that led to the Chamber, his robes flapping behind him, and with everyone else in hot pursuit.

Save one.

Jazzy alone was hesitant to follow. She agreed with Harry's reflexive position, before Neville began pleading for Ginny's life. Hermione eventually would relent - she was too soft that way - and following her Harry would give in. As an outsider, with neither familial nor emotional ties to Ginny Weasley, Jazzy believed that the redheaded double-crossing witch deserved to die alone and in agony for the sheer enormity of what she had set in motion.

Ginny herself, after all, agreed with her.

But after Jazzy had walked halfway to Gryffindor Tower, curiosity and a novel sense of responsibility overcame her. She was interested in how events would ultimately play out. For once in her life, she sensed that this really was her business. It involved people who had shown more kindness to her than anyone else she could remember.

She turned around.

* * * *

Harry half hoped that, for once, Luna's eerie intuition was off the mark. If asked, he probably could not have articulated exactly how he felt about his treacherous ex-girlfriend, but if she were found dead by her own hand, Harry would not have lost much sleep.

No such luck.

With Dumbledore's gargoyle blown to bits, they had no trouble accessing the Chamber. Ginny's unconscious and barely breathing body lay in plain sight at the base of the massive statue of Salazar Slytherin. Luck - a relative term - was with them. Ginny had chosen to poison herself. An open, half-empty can of Mrs. Skower's All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover lay tipped on its side next to her.

That she had consumed a great deal of the caustic substance was graphically evident. An acrid, slightly soapy odour, noticeable upon approach, surrounded her. Every so often violent thrashing wracked her body as her muscles seized and spasmed involuntarily.

Ginny's mouth was barely visible under a thick scum of bloody froth. Her long hair was matted, and her cheeks thick with blisters and open sores from contact with the corrosive powder.

For her final agonies, Ginny had chosen to wrap herself in the one possession that meant the most to her - the shawl Harry had given her for Christmas. Having selected that shawl for a clueless Harry (who had planned something Quidditch related), Hermione was staggered to see it. Had she somehow unwittingly encouraged Ginny…?

Hermione's simultaneous realisation that the shawl might also be Ginny's salvation shoved such recriminations to the far reaches of her mind. The balls dangling from its either end were, after all, bezoars. Any one of them would quickly counteract the effects of Ginny's self-poisoning.

Having taken the Healer's Oath, Hermione was honour-bound to try to save Ginny's life - especially once Ginny herself had provided the means to do so.

Of course, once the bitch had recovered, that would be a whole different story. Azkaban was too good for her….

“Neville, I think we can overcome the most immediate crisis,” Hermione started to explain, pushing her retributive thoughts aside. “Ginny's shawl … I helped Harry select it. The baubles on either end are bezoars. They should counteract the poison she's swallowed. But we're still faced with the tougher nut, because if Ginny's note is to be believed….”

Hermione paused because, upon hearing the blessed news about the bezoars, Neville had rushed forward to Ginny's side. Heedless of any risk from the caustic chemicals Ginny had ingested, he wiped her face and mouth clean with his bare hands. Then he ripped one of the baubles loose from her shawl.

With a backwards, “I sure hope you're right,” comment to Hermione, Neville shoved the bezoar down Ginny's burnt and bloody throat.

Hermione was worried. “Neville, have you considered that…?”

Harry was alarmed. “Neville, what are you doing? Have you thought…?”

Neville refused to be dissuaded. “I'm trying to save Ginny's life,” he replied brusquely to his two friends. “You'd do nothing less if this were Hermione, or you if this were Harry….”

Everyone backed off. Neville was undeniably accurate in his rejoinder to their expressed doubts, even if his premise was flawed, given Ginny's actions.

`Come over here,' Hermione Legilimenced to Harry, `and bring the others. Don't say anything….'

Putting his finger theatrically to his lips in the universal sign for quiet, Harry waved to Ron and Luna to follow him.

They did.

The bezoar worked its magic. Ginny's seizures abated quickly. The burns on her face healed equally rapidly. Her breathing grew stronger and more regular. Neville sat determinedly next to her, completely bare-chested, having stripped off his already ruined robes to form a makeshift pillow for her head.

The others perched on various parts of Long, Tall Sally's podiatric anatomy, sitting behind Neville. Everyone was interested in what the confessed Love Potioner would have to say once she regained consciousness, especially Harry and Hermione,

They did not have long to wait.

Ginny started to stir - groaning as she did. Neville whispered her name, but nothing seemed to help. Instead, Ginny lapsed back into unconsciousness for another thirty seconds or so before once again beginning to move. She let out a soft sigh, almost a whimper.

“Ginny?” Neville asked gently.

“Oh … Neville…? You - you found me in time…. I - I don't believe it…. I wanted to die….” She groggily reached out and took his hand.

“Well, you didn't die, and you can thank yourself for that,” Neville replied, as he closed his hand around hers.

“I only wish I were that strong, Neville,” Ginny sighed. “I just couldn't take it any more … all the deception. It wasn't right. You know, it's always been you….”

“Maybe, but I must say that you bringing this shawl made it easy for me - since it comes with bezoars….”

Behind Neville, the others waited. Neville's body, and the direction Ginny sprawled, blocked her from sight.

`What's she doing?' Harry Legilimenced to Hermione.

Unable to keep a waspish tone from even her silent voice, Hermione commented, `It appears that she's trying to reconnect with Neville.'

“I don't like this,” Luna whispered in Hermione's ear from the other side. “Her aura's way, way off....”

Meanwhile, Neville's last comment hit home.

“I wasn't thinking of that at all,” Ginny answered. “It was a gift from … how did you even know about that?”

“You were lucky. Hermione told me,” Neville revealed. He looked behind him and shifted his position so that Ginny saw, for the first time, that they had company.

“H - H - Harry!” Ginny gasped. “Oh, I'm sorry! I … I couldn't stand it any longer. Everything was a lie…. That's why I tried to kill myself. Please don't hate me. I can't apologise enough….”

“Then … then just don't try,” Harry answered testily, fighting with his own emotions.

“Neville, Luna's an empath,” Hermione intervened, carefully avoiding addressing Ginny directly. “Is it okay if she checks her out?”

“Umm … yeah, of course,” Neville haltingly agreed. He moved away from Ginny, who was still lying on her side. Luna hopped off Salazar Slytherin's stone instep and approached.

Looking pained, Ginny sat up and extended her arm, offering it to Luna for examination.

Luna reached out with her own arm and grasped Ginny's forearm. She almost cried out in pain at the evil she felt….

WHAM!

Luna did cry out in pain and surprise as Ginny punched her in the face as hard as she could, drawing blood. As Luna staggered, Ginny grabbed her roughly and swung the dazed Ravenclaw around. She used the girl's forward momentum to regain her footing while at the same time forcing Luna to her knees.

In the same instant Ginny had her wand out and pointed squarely at the side of Luna's head. In a grotesque voice, sounding like Ginny's but clearly belonging to someone else, she addressed her small audience.

“All of you - drop your wands now, or this one's dead before she hits the floor. Both of them, Potter….”

“Ginny…?” Neville's strangled voice answered.

“Back off, Long-boring!” Ginny jerked Luna's neck around so that Ginny's elbow pointed in Neville's vicinity. Her elbow emitted a nasty Cutting Hex aimed at him. It missed, but served its purpose.

Only in her fifth year, Ginny Weasley had never learnt to do magic with other body parts.

Neville leapt backwards as Voldemort's Horcrux, in full possession of Ginny's mind and body, repeated his demand. “Now drop them!!”

Harry's wand went clattering to the floor as he explained, “I only have the one.” The others' followed.

“So,” Tom/Ginny hissed, “I suppose you've figured everything out. She was always afraid that you would - especially the Mudblood. Well, you're too late….”

Dragging a bleeding Luna with her as a human shield, Tom/Ginny manœuvred towards the door.

“Did you bring a basilisk fang for me?” Tom/Ginny taunted. “There is no other way, you know. I learnt that from Slughorn, that insipid excuse for a Slytherin. Perhaps he's told you the same thing.”

`Harry, Riddle has access to Ginny's memories - he knows where the new door is,' Hermione silently communicated with Harry.

“You won't fool me a second time, Potter. Stay right there, where I can see you!” Tom/Ginny ordered as he pulled a helpless Luna backwards in the general direction of the exit.

Then she ordered, “Hands straight up over your heads!” Following Harry's lead, everyone complied. Tom/Ginny carefully kept Luna's body between herself and Harry and Hermione, whom she (rightly) suspected of also knowing wandless magic. She spied the culvert full of dark water that ran lazily through the Chamber.

“All right, get in,” she motioned to the culvert. “Now…! I killed my own parents; think of what I could do to this sorry excuse for a witch.” She jammed her wand, its tip alight with the orange glare of some unknown, unspoken curse, into Luna's temple.

“P-p-please…,” gasped a terrified Luna.

With a splash Ron jumped into the tepid water. Something hissed and he screamed in pain as he submerged. Ron emerged dogpaddling. It was too deep for him to stand.

Tom/Ginny smiled evilly. Keeping them swimming was good. “All of you, like you, Long-boring!”

With an even louder splash Neville half jumped, half fell into the water.

At the same time, something moved behind Tom/Ginny's back.

`Did … did you see what I saw?' Hermione shakily Legilimenced to Harry.

`Think so,' he returned tersely, searching for some sort of opening and finding none. The thoroughly possessed girl's wand remained firmly pressed against Luna's skull.

“You, too, lover boy,” Tom/Ginny sneered. “Or I'll turn her into a vegetable so fast….”

`Do as he says, but make the biggest splash you can,' Hermione silently directed.

Harry did, almost cannonballing into the black water.

“And now you, pathetic Mudblood…. Actually….” Tom/Ginny's eyes gleamed fiery red.

Only Hollywood slow motion could sort out what happened next.

With scorpion-like speed, Tom/Ginny whipped her wand in Hermione's direction. “Ava…”

“NOOO!” Harry screamed as he began pin-wheeling his hands.

“...da…”

Hermione reacted, diving for the floor, to the side away from Ginny/Tom's wand.

“Stup….”

Luna draped herself on Tom/Ginny's outstretched arm, trying to block the deadly spell with her own body. Her self-sacrificing action had the unfortunate effect of shoving the wandtip - now glowing deathly green - downward, in the same direction that the intended target of the curse was ducking.

With a roar, water from the culvert began surging forward and upwards as Fifth-Element magic generated a mini-tsunami.

“…Ked…”

The crest of the surging water passed over Hermione's head as she flopped to the stone floor - presenting a smaller, but still totally exposed target. Near the base of the wall of water, a pair of hands emerged; flat together as if in prayer.

“efy!!” Glowing fiercely crimson, a Stunner slammed squarely into Tom/Ginny's back.

Propelled by a massive, unseen force, Harry's body knifed through the wave. His hands reached, fingers extended, towards Hermione's still rolling form. An almost inhuman “NNNNOOOOOOOO!!!” tore from his throat.

“…av….”

Tom/Ginny went boneless and collapsed; the Killing Curse dying, uncompleted, on her lips.

Harry flopped to a clumsy landing atop Hermione. His momentum sent him skidding over her and face-first into the stone floor.

Tom/Ginny and Luna likewise tumbled to the Chamber's stone just as the mini-tsunami crashed into them both.

“Aaagghhh!” Neville and Ron shrieked helplessly as water from either side of the culvert poured in to fill the gap created by Harry's magic. The current carried them helplessly along until the culvert filled again and the flowing water's force dissipated.

A surge of water rolled across the Chamber, washing Tom/Ginny and Luna both backwards some twenty metres, before the wave dissipated.

An angry “Incercerous!” rang out. Stout ropes wound their way around Tom/Ginny's limp body.

“I always thought coming down here was a bad idea.” Her wandtip still glowing, Jazzy stepped into view from behind one of the Chamber's many stone snake statues. “Thanks for covering….”

“Accio wands,” Harry breathlessly incanted, simply extending an arm. From wherever the mini-tsunami had swept them, everyone's wands, including his own, shot into Harry's outstretched hand.

“Hey!” Jazzy yelled as her wand was yanked from her grasp. “I'm on your side!”

“Sorry … and thank you. You saved Hermione's life … and mine … and probably us all….” Harry barely managed to say as, panting, he climbed off Hermione. He turned and offered a rather wet hand to pull her to her feet.

“Oh … Harry….” Hermione could stand it no longer. She stayed on her knees and burst into tears.

At the sight of her weeping, Harry's own emotional bulwarks gave way, and he sank to the floor beside her. “I thought you were dead….” He began crying loudly - great wracking sobs - as he gathered Hermione into his arms.

Ron had pushed himself mostly out of the culvert. He tried to stand, but collapsed. Luna rushed to him and fell on him in a heap. They both started bawling. When Luna had thrown herself over that green, glowing wandtip, neither Ron nor Luna herself had expected her to survive.

A dripping Neville crouched over Ginny's thoroughly restrained body. “Oh, Ginny, how could this happen…?” He joined in the keening as it now struck him that the love of his life was as good as dead…. Possessed by a Horcrux, there was no alternative….

“Okay, now what?” Jazzy shook her head at the lugubrious scene before her.

“Well, she's possessed by one of Voldemort's Horcruxes, no doubt about that,” Ron admitted glumly.

“Yeah,” Harry agreed, his heartbeat slowly returning to normal. “I thought I'd killed it in the Chamber - you know when. No such luck. I guess it went after the most vulnerable living thing….”

“But why…?” Neville beseeched, sounding broken. “She seemed like … well, herself…. That is, if I've ever known the real Ginny….”

“I think it was injured,” Hermione offered. The thinking process helped reconnect her to reality. “The question is why did it resurface now, after all this time?”

“Goddam Malfoy,” Ron growled. “Galleons to gobstones, it was him.”

The others agreed.

“Okay, but the question remains,” Jazzy brought everyone back around. “What do we do with Little Miss Voldemort, here?”

“Don't call her that,” Neville snipped.

“I don't think there's anything we can do,” Hermione sadly assessed the situation. “Nobody knows more about Horcruxes than Voldemort - the real one. And what he said when he was about to turn me into one….”

Neville blurted, “Oh, Hermione, I'm sorry….”

“Yes, but that's neither here nor there at the moment,” Hermione kept going, as the mere act of talking helped her hold herself together. “Anyway, Voldemort plainly thought that only death could remove a Horcrux from a living being - like me, or Ginny. He hoped to force Harry into having to kill me….”

“I could never…,” Harry mumbled, his face going white. “He would have won, then.”

“Probably why he wanted to do it,” Hermione continued. Reluctantly, she outlined the stark options. “I can't see any way around it. I suppose we should probably tell Professor McGonagall. She'll have to handle it from there….”

“Hermione….” Neville's face looked pained and ashen.

Ron had pulled himself into sitting position. “Are you sure?” he asked, suddenly wishing he were somewhere else.

“Don't know what other choice we have,” Harry grimly supported her. “Both Dumbledore and Healer Huxley told me the same thing. Can't remove a Horcrux from anyone living without killing … er … it. Well, unless - well I did, but I blew up everything in sight….”

“Dammit, I know you're bloody right!” Neville exploded. “It's just … hell … you're Harry Potter and I'm, I'm just Neville Long-boring….” He directed to himself the same insult Tom/Ginny had recently sneered at him.

Hermione tried mollifying. “Neville, you don't….”

“No, I don't! I can't! I'm afraid I just can't do the sorts of impossible things like Harry here probably did to get you back safely.”

Harry whirled about, fixing Neville with a crossways stare. Neville had no idea how badly Harry felt that he had failed at the ChÃ¢teau. Hermione had rescued herself. “Neville, you don't know….”

Hearing Harry's voice, Neville turned his ire on him. “Maybe, but I'm not stupid … just damn useless. Hell, even though Ginny was supposedly your girlfriend, who did you rescue? Hermione. And now it's, `Oops, dreadfully sorry,' when it comes to Ginny. I told you you'd hurt her. It doesn't matter who you're with, and screw Snape's potion if that's what it was, you've only ever been in love with Hermione…. And me, I can't do shite….! And now, with no one to save her, Ginny has to die….”

Everyone was struck dumb by Neville's tirade, except one.

“Don't blame yourself, Neville. Voldemort, Dumbledore and Huxley don't know everything about Horcrux magic,” Luna said in her usual breathless voice. Her calmness belied the ugly, swelling bruise that purpled her cheek and nearly closed her left eye.

“Only more than everyone else in the world, combined,” Hermione put in.

“Doesn't matter, 'cause they sure as hell know more than us,” Neville shook his head. His fight had fled with his outburst. Shoulders slumping in defeat, he grumbled, “To hell with it. I've … I'd rather do it myself, then. Better me than the damned Dementors….”

“What I'm saying is that there is another way,” Luna persisted.

“Oh, Merlin, please no,” Hermione whispered so softly that only Harry, standing close beside her, heard.

Luna turned and looked to Hermione. “I've said it before; it's the primary function of the position….”

Neville gaped - indeed, everyone save the two witches did.

“What's she talking about?” Harry asked softly.

“No! It can't be…!” Hermione shrieked.

For the first time since Ginny had punched Luna, Neville felt hope. “Yeah, what?” he croaked.

Harry laid a supportive hand on the small of her back. “Hermione, you don't….”

Hermione trembled, and not just from Harry's protective touch. “I - I - I used it to save you, Harry, when Ron cursed you. He used a Dark spell … I was able….”

“You can remove evil?” Ron jumped in. “Please, Hermione, I only have one sister….”

“Please, Hermione,” Neville echoed. He was even more insistent. Approaching Hermione, he fell to his knees. “Please. I'll give you anything. Any price. A future promise like I gave Harry. An oath of fealty. Anything - just, please, don't let her die….” He was again on the edge of tears.

“Oh, Merlin.” Hermione's fingers pressed into her forehead as she felt the massive stone walls of the Chamber closing in on her. “Do you have the slightest conception what you're asking me to do?” Burning animus over her month of deep, dark despair fuelled her burgeoning anger. “That bitch fed Harry a Death Eater's Love Potion - she potioned me - the Draught of Despair! Because of her, I came within seconds of the same fate! I nearly became a Horcrux tonight. And she tried to kill me, again, not ten minutes ago! And now….”

“She didn't try to kill you, Hermione,” Neville cut her off in mid rant, “that was Voldemort. It's all Voldemort. Still, I see how you feel….”

“You have no idea how I feel!” she screamed, feeling put-upon and pushed beyond any reasonable limit.

Neville bowed his head and turned away. “Then I give up. I can't save her. All I can do now is ensure that she dies as humanely as possible….”

“Hermione, don't,” Ron tried to intervene.

Luna shut him down. “Ronald, don't. It's her choice. She has to want to for it to work….”

“Why me, dammit? I can't take this anymore,” Hermione wailed. She burrowed her face into Harry's chest and again burst into tears.

“Everybody, stay the hell away!” Harry angrily ordered. Effortlessly, he lifted Hermione's unresisting body into his arms and stalked off, towards the opposite end of the Chamber. Once he had put a row or two of carved snake statues between them and the rest, he conjured a privacy shield, Imperturbed it, and cast Muffliato for good measure.

Softening up a block of stone with a Cushioning Charm, he gently lowered a still softly weeping Hermione onto it. Untangling her arms from his, he took her hands and began. “Hermione before I say anything else, I will support you absolutely, no matter which way you go on this. If you decide to save her, I'll help you any way I can. If you don't, then I'll tell anybody and everybody to sod off…. Just say the word….”

“Oh, Harry, I'm sorry you have to see me this way,” Hermione gasped through her tears. “Am I such a horrible, vindictive person…?”

“No, you're the….”

It was only a rhetorical question. Hermione plunged on. “…Neville's on the bloody floor in front of me, begging me to save Ginny's life, and all I can think of is how I never want to see that awful back-stabbing hag again for as long as I live. I'm supposed to be a Healer, dammit all! I took an oath! But the thought of having anything to do with her, after what she did to me - to us - makes my skin crawl! I can't….”

“Then you don't have to,” Harry reassured her. “I'll go out there and tell them Ginny's just gone too far. The Dementors can have her….”

“Harry, no.”

“Let me do it,” Harry repeated. “You've been through enough. If Neville and Ron are going to hate someone, let it be me….”

Seeing Harry prepared to shoulder a blame she considered hers alone changed everything. Hermione did not want Neville, Ron, or anyone, to hate Harry. She took a deep breath. “No, Harry, let me do it, then….”

“What?”

“Save … well you know … her.”

“Really?”

“I think … yes. If I'm to be a Healer, I'm honour-bound to use my best efforts.”

“I suppose,” Harry grudgingly consented. “And you say I have a saving people thing?”

“Harry, you just dove in front of a Killing Curse….”

“We're talking about you, here, not me.”

“Umm … well, I'm supposed to separate my personal emotions from….”

“Well, excuse me!” Harry interrupted. “Don't you think that, after what she's done, anything involving you, me, and Ginny has to be personal?”

“Yes … but my saving her life doesn't have to concern you.”

Harry protested, “Well, I have a Krup in this hunt, too, since she's wronged me worse even than you….”

“Worse? Really?”

“Hermione - she violated me! Personally. The more I think about what she did, I feel … well, if it happened to you, I'd call it rape….”

“So, because you're male you don't believe….” Harry's pained expression stopped her from pursuing the point. She waited for him to gather himself and speak.

“No,” he barely whispered. “I'm just - well, I guess, ashamed to admit it.”

“Harry, don't be.”

“Can't help it…. So you still want to help Ginny?”

Hermione could not believe what looked like Harry's - no, both of theirs - complete flip flop. “So now you're trying to stop me?” Hermione asked archly.

“No, not really, I guess…. I only want to enforce your condition - and one of my own.”

“What condition?”

“Exactly what you said. I never want to see Ginny's face again, either.”

“You mean, if she lives…?”

“She ends up somewhere far, far away - permanently. Think about it. It's for the best. How much to blame her, rather than Voldemort, dammit, I can't say…. With what she's confessed to, and what she just tried to do, she's facing I don't know how long in Azkaban….”

“That's for sure.” Hermione agreed, once she considered Harry's point. “She used an unknown Death Eater potion, Snape's, on you, and a … umm … probably Schedule I controlled Potion on me. That's probably ten years, right there….”

“And she just tried to AK you.”

“Life, then…. And since she's mixed up with Malfoy, who knows what else she might have done?”

Harry nodded, pleased that she had given voice to what was his other major concern. “Which brings me to condition number two - my condition.”

“That is?”

“I don't think she did, but if Ginny helped Dumbledore's murderers get into the Castle, all bets are off. What she did to us is our business, but if she has Dumbledore's blood on her hands, she'll get the Dementor's Kiss, and deserve it.”

Hermione could almost feel Harry's anger, bubbling just below the surface of his currently calm demeanour. “I hate to say it, but you're right.”

“So you agree?”

“Yes, but how do we…?”

Harry's countenance brightened a bit. “We release her little confession as if she succeeded. I'll get the goblins to help Neville sneak her out. McAllister can perform an Unbreakable Vow. All we need is a fake body….”

“I'm pretty good at Transfiguration, and I think I know what we can use….”

“Done, then?”

“Yes.”

“One last thing.”

“Okay.”

Harry reached under his still damp cut-off t-shirt and yanked out of his navel….

“Oh, my! The rings. Harry, what's this all about? You mean you…?”

“Kept them pretty damn close once you returned them, yes,” he finished her sentence for her. “I just … couldn't bear giving them up. I'm not asking about this one.” He poked at the engagement ring, its jewels oddly inverted. “I can hope, but I know I have to earn your trust again. Umm….”

“Harry, don't. Not now,” Hermione cautioned him.

Harry backed off, knowing - or at least guessing - how much pain he must have caused her. “Okay … nothing more than I deserved,” he admitted. “But please keep the other. The Auror ring is yours. I never felt more miserable and useless than I did today, once you'd gone missing and there was nothing I could do to help….”

Her face relaxed, “Oh, that must have been horrible … sure was for me.” She reached out and took the Auror ring, being careful not to touch the other. “What did you do to it?”

“Long story, best told some other time,” Harry tried to avoid any more tangents. “It was a charmed alarm for an attack on the ChÃ¢teau … Voldemort's. Hermione, you mentioned `us' a bit ago…. Do you think there could be? That's one thing I think Neville was right about….”

“Let's talk about that later, Harry,” Hermione coolly deflected his question. “Right now, we have a job to do.”

Harry and Hermione returned to the rest of the group. With him playing “bad Auror” and her playing “good Auror,” they were able to gain acceptance of their compromise plan in relatively short order. Luna helped, pointing out that, even assuming everything worked, the Ministry would never believe that they could have removed the Horcrux. Hermione, a Druid High Priestess?

In the end, nobody could deny that, unless she went into exile, Ginny would at best grow old in Azkaban, and that assumed she could avoid a Dementor's Kiss.

If Ginny survived expulsion of the Horcrux - a big if - Neville agreed to hide her in some secret place only he knew about. Harry's majordomo, Jerry McAllister, would administer two Unbreakable Vows, one between Harry and Neville, and the other between Neville and Ginny (since Harry wanted no direct dealing with the traitorous Weasley) to enforce her agreement and banishment. Neville could send, or take, her anywhere in the world, besides Europe.

A lifetime's exile.

Luna privately confirmed that those arrangements - unlike Neville's prior offers - did not transgress Druidic prohibitions upon the High Priestess accepting emoluments.

As cover for the plan, Jazzy would return Ginny's confession/suicide note to Ginny's bed, where someone would eventually discover it. A Displia and an A priori later, the note was as good as new. As far as the press and public were concerned, Ginny would have succeeded in taking her own life. At his discretion, Neville could inform Ginny's parents of the true situation, or not, but he agreed to keep mum until at least a year and a day had passed.

A body being necessary, Hermione employed her human Transfiguration skills to create one. For raw material, Harry used the fortified version of Accio he had mastered to Summon the body of Hagrid's dead boarhound, Rotfang.

Hermione knew Healer's spells well enough to infuse poison realistically into, and throughout, the fake body. A surprisingly satisfying Lesson 128 spell mimicked the Horcrux's destructive demise.

In creating Ginny's faked corpse from a dead dog, Hermione dispensed what she considered to be a modicum of poetic justice.

Jazzy did not get to see any of that. Harry gave her his own note, authenticated with his signet ring, and deputised her to ask a few of the goblins who had essentially seized control of the Castle's security to come to the Chamber - not more than a dozen. Ginny would receive one last benefit from goblin Cloaking magic.

Then Jazzy was to return to Gryffindor Tower with Ginny's note.

The most important task of all remained - expulsion of the Horcrux without killing Ginny.

That was the plan, anyway.

But few things ever go as planned.

Initially things went better than planned. Conjuring less bulky restraints for Ginny was relatively simple. Hermione elongated her sleeves, and Neville tied them firmly around Ginny's waist. They kept her thoroughly Stunned - nobody wanted Ginny to know how the Horcrux was removed, only that it was. Neville floated Ginny's body down the corridor towards the Founders' Chamber, letting Luna and Hermione take the lead. Ron limped along at the rear.

The closer they could get to the Gnomon-Cenotaph, the better.

For whatever reason, the wards to the Founder's Chamber were down. Creeping slowly, expecting at any moment to encounter some sort of barrier, they crept all the way into the Chamber itself. Reaching the Blue Stone, they were able to deposit Ginny neatly in its person-sized depression.

Things almost went awry when, after conferring with Luna, Hermione announced that the subject of a magical exorcism of this sort (she did not mention the Druids specifically) had to be quite naked. For different reasons, all three males in the party found that requirement extremely objectionable.

Grudgingly, Neville and Harry acquiesced. Ron outright refused to participate until Hermione agreed to conjure him a set of very dark glasses. Peeved at his immaturity, she conjured an outrageously pink-framed monstrosity that only Rita Skeeter could love.

Ron took them without hesitating.

The preliminaries over, Hermione nervously took up the position of honour. Luna stood behind her, still sporting her ugly bruises, to assist with the Keltoi spellwork. “Okay,” Hermione began. “If this works, what do we do with the Horcrux?”

“I've been thinking about that,” Harry responded from the foot of the Stone. He already had both of his wands unsheathed. “I think that damn shawl would fill the bill.”

Feather Light and Sticking Charms suspended Ginny's shawl from the apex of the ceiling - directly above its unconscious owner.

Harry pulled out his Invisibility Cloak. “Ron, Neville - once … whatever comes out, does, I'll handle the Horcrux itself, but you need to slip this over Ginny and hold it tight. You'll need to protect her from any fallout….”

“Why can't we do that now?” Ron wanted to know. “That way I could lose these shades.”

“Umm … what are you planning, Harry?” Neville asked warily.

“I want to make damn sure that thing has only one place to go - and stays away from all of us. To push it in the right direction, I'm going to use something really, really cold….” He and Hermione exchanged knowing looks.

“Umm … okay.”

“You have to pass the Cloak beneath the Horcrux, Ron,” Harry told him. “So keep the shades for now. Then he turned to the mÃ¦stro of the upcoming event.

“You ready Hermione?”

“As ready as I'll ever be.”

“You know how to start,” Luna whispered in her ear. “Search for the Stone; this step's easy, since you can touch it….”

Hermione closed her eyes and sought the telltale feeling that she was familiar with from three prior uses.

Nothing.

Gripping the Stone with both hands, she concentrated with all her might, a cold sweat breaking on her brow.

Still nothing. With Ginny's life hanging in the balance, and her best friends all watching her expectantly, Hermione had no idea what was wrong.

She started to tremble.

Luna approached her from behind. “Hermione, is something off?”

Through gritted teeth, Hermione hissed, “I - I can't … feel a thing, even when I touch it….”

Putting a hand on Hermione's arm, Luna was left almost breathless by the intensity of Hermione's efforts. Quickly letting go, Luna briefly lost her balance. She braced herself against the Stone.

Luna's jaw dropped. Powerful magic thrummed through her, calling her, inviting her….

She had found the Stone.

“Hermione,” she whispered. “I don't know how or why, but I'm channeling the Stone….”

“Oh, thank Merlin … take over, please. You know this all so much better than I.”

Everyone else was nearly dumfounded when Hermione stepped back. “I can't … but Luna can…,” she breathed, exhausted. Hermione slumped against the far wall, looking forlorn and beaten - yet unmistakably relieved.

As Luna started an incantation nobody could follow, Harry Legilimenced. `If Luna can do it, I'm overjoyed. It should be her, anyway….'

`I hope so, but if she can't, they'll all blame me,' she fretted.

`Out of our hands, I reckon,' Harry shrugged. `Can you help me with the shields?'

Desperate to be useful, Hermione nodded and positioned herself at the opposite end of the Stone from Harry. She overlooked Ginny's head; Harry her feet.

The Stone began glowing, first a deep blue, but steadily brightening. Harry tried pacing Luna, but the cadence was so unfamiliar that he stopped and simply watched. Slowly, a luminescent, sky blue liquid began percolating into the Stone's depression, surrounding Ginny's nude silhouette.

As Luna built to a crescendo, Ginny's body started shivering and shaking.

The glowing blue liquid responded with tendrils that, seemingly alive, crawled up Ginny's sides and held her fast. They snaked their way across the top of her, linking up. As Luna's unintelligible chants continued, the tendrils inched all the way across her, gradually covering her legs, arms, torso, breasts, and even most of her face.

The glow illuminated Luna's face from below, making her appear almost spectral. She finished her incantation with a scream worthy of a banshee, and then went completely silent.

Ginny began convulsing - violently - or as violently as permitted by her pliant restraints. Although thoroughly Stunned, she grunted as she thrashed, her unseeing eyes bugged halfway out of their sockets. Finally, with a soft hissing sound, a foul-smelling reddish-black vapour emerged from her mouth, nose, ears - and other less polite orifices.

“Now!”

“Protego Omnibus!” Harry and Hermione incanted in unison. Their united spells formed a roughly funnel-like membrane that shielded everyone from the noxious remnant of Voldemort's soul.

“I'm lowering my end to go to the next phase,” Harry advised. Bolstering himself with Occlumency, he steadied his wand.

“Finite! Frigidio Maximus!”

The oily black vapour pulsated as it rose to avoid Harry's spell.

“Now, put the Cloak over Ginny but keep it under the Horcrux!” Hermione ordered, with snow already falling onto the girl.

Ron swung into action, flinging across one edge of Harry's Invisibility Cloak. His throw was a bit off, as Ron's vision was obscured by his dark glasses, and his left leg was lame, but Neville still handled it with reasonable aplomb.

They pulled it tight just in time. Flakes of several atmospheric gasses, solidified by cryogenic temperatures from Harry's spell, began showering down. Every now and then Neville and Ron, who quickly doffed the pink sunglasses once the Cloak was safely in place, gave the Cloak a pop to remove any flakes that had not already re-evaporated.

Slowly, Harry raised the focal point of his spell, driving the erratically undulating free Horcrux steadily upwards - away from Ginny and towards the shawl hanging from the ceiling.

Harry breathed hard; his off arm braced on the corner of the Stone. Finally, a tiny, fathomlessly black spot appeared. Utterly devoid of anything radiating, or even reflecting, light, the Bose-Einstein condensate grew as Harry applied more Fifth Element power into creating absolute frigidity.

The bit of Voldemort's soul fled from the energy vacuum Harry's magic produced. Finally, when it contacted Ginny's shawl, the Horcrux emitted a soft, sucking sound and disappeared into the shelter that the object provided.

“Now, Hermione!” Harry grunted.

“Fluvius!” Hermione pointed her wand at the shawl. She doused it with water at the same time that Harry aimed his elemental freezing magic directly at the shawl. Within seconds, the Horcrux in the shawl was completely encased in a rock hard mantle of ice.

Neville's quick thinking - a just-in-time Arresto Momentum - prevented one final complication. The ice's added weight overtaxed the shawl's rather weak Sticking Charm. Had Neville's spell not stopped it, the ice-laden shawl probably would have struck Ginny with injurious force.

Hermione led a still thoroughly perplexed Luna away from the Stone as Harry conjured a large polystyrene container into which Ron Levitated the ice-encased shawl.

“What next?” Ron asked Harry wearily.

“Seal this up. Stash it somewhere safe with the goblins for a couple of days. Once things have calmed down, I intend to give that thing a thorough cleansing - using crystallised Basilisk venom for detergent.”

Harry turned to Neville. “She's all yours. Get her the hell out of here. Jazzy should have summoned some goblins and given them my instructions to help you both steal away undetected. I'll be in touch about the vows and other stuff.”

Finally, he turned to Hermione. “We have a lot to talk about, but not until both of us get some sleep.”

* * * *

Author's notes: Absolutely, positively is a FedEx slogan

Draco destroyed the talisman that he had been using to control the Horcrux

When driven from their resting place, Horcruxes seek out living things

In Ch. 79 Draco supplied the Bowtruckle, and Ginny set it upon herself, knowing Harry would rescue her

Canossa, a town in Northern Italy, was where Holy Roman Emporer Henry IV, stood barefoot in the snow for three days in 1077 seeking forgiveness from Pope Gregory VII

Knowing not to get in Harry's way, separated Hermione from Ginny that night

A quetzalcoatlus is the largest known flying reptile from the Cretaceous Period; the idea is from Dinotopia

“It is a good day to die” - a line from the movie “Little Big Man”

The pilot's Death Eater hunting later helps Harry

Baker's dozen = 13

Many of the spells in the Death Eater battle were used in Ch. 49

The Kew Gardens firefight was in Ch. 23

Think of Harry as Spiderman

Sound and fury signifying nothing - from Macbeth

The smoking cupboard in Dumbledore's office controlled the Castle's wards; it was described in Ch. 36

Snape is still a double agent; as at the end of HBP, he uses his duel to advise and inform Harry during their final encounter

The finale of HBP is running in the background, including Snape as the Half-Blood Prince

Bewitch/ensnare is verbatim from Book 1

The Face Fogging Charm is courtesy of Daphne Greengrass in Ch. 77

Nothing but a flesh wound is a Monty Python reference

The D.A. training that saved Neville's life was in Ch. 72

In HBP, a Rotfang Conspiracy was one of Luna's wild ideas

Rotfang's death becomes convenient

Hermione first used Fluvius Azote in the duel in Ch. 49

Ginny sentenced herself to death; Harry and Hermione are more generous

Alkalai and flesh, with enough time, equals soap

Harry's shawl purchase was in Ch. 66

Long Tall Sally is a disrespectful nickname for the big Salazar Slytherin statue in the Chamber

The silent H/Hr communication, and Harry's big splash, were because they had noticed Jazzy, and were trying to aid her getting closer

Luna first told Hermione this in Ch. 80, when Hermione saved Harry from Ron's Sectumsempra

Hermione was afraid Harry was going to propose again, and maybe he would have

Neville's offer to give Hermione anything to save Ginny was a bribe in Druid eyes

A year and a day is a common legal period for various changes of status

Hermione exploded the head of the transfigured dog

They created a straitjacket for Ginny

The Founders' Chamber is described in Ch. 35

The Castle's emergency, backup wards did not reach the Founders' Chamber

Ron got Far Side glasses

Keltoi is the ancient Celtic tongue

In this fic, neither Harry nor Hermione are killers, nor are they vengeful. Ginny thus escapes with exile, although in her own mind she deserved to die

87

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87. Casualties Of War

Wherein the match is cancelled, McGonagall makes an offer, Harry accepts but at first not Hermione, they talk, but Hermione has a relapse, the remaining Weasleys survive, Neville and Luna arrange their summers, differences are partially resolved, physical therapy is conducted, funerals are held, 7th year plotting begins, a Horcrux is destroyed, and an exile starts a new life.

Thanks once again to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, Mathiasgranger, and Chris Backus.

Only one more after this.

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. Â§107.

Chapter 87 - Casualties Of War

The Death Eaters' Fiendfyre, before being extinguished, came perilously close to undermining Gryffindor tower. Whilst the tower itself remained intact, Fiendfyre had scorched and inevitably weakened the nearby floor joists. No longer capable of bearing the weight of the sagging and now immobile staircase, the flagstones tilted downwards. The partially depressed flooring was awash in water from the firefighting effort.

It was a bit past three in the morning when, at that sad, sodden scene, the trio separated. To Ron, though, this sorry mess was providential. To ride out tomorrow's - no, today's now - inevitable Mum-plosion, he intended to seek sanctuary in the Hospital Wing. Madam Pomfrey would surely consign him once again into traction, all the while berating his further abuse of his gimpy, now thrice-injured ankle. She would undoubtedly ask Ron how he had managed to soak his leg so badly as to disable her Restraint spell. The deep puddle at the tower's base provided just the excuse he needed.

With luck he would be administered some potion that would leave him fast asleep when Hurricane Molly came ashore.

Once Ron splashed off, Harry and Hermione trudged up the steps to Gryffindor Tower and a few hours of richly deserved sleep. But with all of the night's disruptions, and their Fiendfyre-enforced isolation from the fighting, Harry's fellow Gryffindors were mostly wide-awake. Their epinephrine rush of fear had not been offset by the exhaustion of battle.

Harry's housemates stared at his unfamiliar battle-scarred goblin armour. They gawked at the mere sight of Hermione, after her daylong absence and plethora of rumored fates. The weary pair responded to queries only to state that, yes, the danger was past; Dumbledore really was dead; and Ginny was missing and had done some bad things they did not care to discuss. Totally knackered from too many hours of cheating death, they retired to their respective dormitories.

Hermione shared some Dreamless Sleep Potion “borrowed” from the Hospital Wing. They both needed it.

As befit this singular situation, Harry did not set his alarm clock for the first time in months. He was unlikely to be disturbed, between the goblin guard at the door and the goblin Cloaking spell he cast over his four-poster….

* * * *

As the sun rose over Hogwarts Castle on 6 June, 1997, its late spring rays caressed ground thoroughly soaked by the overnight rain. As it warmed, the soil willingly surrendered its moisture. Early risers in the vicinity encountered an almost impenetrable blanket of ground fog - an all-enveloping mist that concealed chaotic scenes.

Thousands of wizards converged upon the Castle, the largest magical sports crowd since the World Cup, most intent upon rooting for the British underdogs in their widely publicised Challenge Match. The Hogwarts all-House team were competing against long odds - a barnstorming bunch of professional Quidditch all-stars led by World Cup hero Viktor Krum and captained by the Irish champions' chaser Mervin Troy.

It was not to be.

Most would-be spectators never ventured closer to Hogwarts than the Hogsmeade train station. On the platform, they encountered a rather haggard Minister Scrimgeour. He sent the great bulk of them on their way back to London with the terse explanation that, because of an overnight Death Eater attack on the Castle, “for security reasons” the match was cancelled.

The Minister was in poor spirits. He could sense his political position evaporating faster than the fog as one influential wizard after another learnt of the latest Death Eater fiasco. Coming so soon after the Beauxbatons massacre, this attack made a mockery of the Ministry's claims of superior security. The numerous Aurors charged with guarding the now defunct match were reassigned to investigate the previous night's events.

Adding insult to injury, everyone with the clout to access Hogwarts Castle could tell immediately that goblins, not Aurors, were handling the Castle's security.

Whilst the Quidditch crowd had no chance to disturb Harry, the number of cups in his cauldron was such that his slumber was inevitably interrupted. He awoke to a scratching on his bed curtains. “Impratraxis. Impratraxis, sir.”

Harry groaned. Maybe after he stayed in bed for a week, things would not be so … unsettled.

“Impratraxis…?”

Shaking cobwebs from his mind, Harry reluctantly eased back the hangings. “What is it?” he asked wearily.

“My apologies, Impratraxis.” The contrite goblin shuffled his clawed feet anxiously. “But insist does Savini … er … Jistiri.”

Seeing the pained expression crossing Harry's face, the goblin was an instant away from prostrating himself when Harry anticipated him. “Anyor,” he sighed, shaking his head. “Can't but hope you were right the first time…. Anyway, what's up?”

“A message received has Jistiri Hermione,” the goblin offered. “A secret. With you, in private, to speak wishes she. Send in her may I? Or to her will go you?”

Moodily, Harry shambled out of bed. What he really wanted to do, first thing, was grab his Valkyrie (which the goblins had helpfully returned) and fly the hell out of it until he had come to grips with Dumbledore's death, Hermione's near death, and all the other misery of the last day or so.

Then, he figured, he would be ready to face Hermione.

In equal parts he dreaded and desired their inevitable full and frank discussion. Everything revealed last night - from Ginny's confession, from Snape, and most strikingly from the depths of his own heart - pointed in the same direction. He badly needed to reconcile with Hermione. But his two actual encounters with her had been calamitous. In a span of six hours, she had nearly been killed twice in his presence.

On neither occasion had he successfully saved her.

Hermione displayed no such doubts. Did she mean for their talk to be here and now?

The goblin waited patiently for his answer.

Maybe the sooner the better. Harry looked around the dorm room and noticed he was quite alone. Dean and Seamus not only were absent but also their trunks were missing, and their beds had been stripped…. Odd….

Ron was in the Hospital Wing, and Neville … was wherever he had asked goblins to take him - but definitely not in the Castle.

In short, the sixth year boys' dormitory was deserted, and likely to remain that way.

To hell with the Valkyrie.

“Yeah,” Harry decided. “She can come … if she wants.”

She inevitably did.

Less than thirty seconds later, Harry heard her footsteps on the stairway. He knew Hermione well enough to recognise her from her gait's cadence.

“Harry, are you decent?” she asked from the threshold.

“Fully clothed, anyway,” he responded. “You're welcome to come in.”

“Please see that we're not disturbed,” he requested unseen goblins whom he knew were posted just outside the door.

Not surprisingly his quondam lover looked troubled. She shut the door and with a squelch sealed it.

“Hermione,” Harry began quickly, before she had the chance to hit her stride. “I know I've messed things up in so many ways, great and small….” He put a finger gently on her lips to forestall her immediate response. “No, please just listen for a second. You've good reason not to trust me, but I ask you, beg you, to believe two things. First, can you accept that what you felt came from me, not Krum? Second, please believe me - please - that those were honest feelings because they were … how I really feel….”

Looking anguished, he let his finger trail down her chin as he finished.

Hermione was surprised, but pleasantly so, by his declaration. She had chatted with Luna after Harry had left the ChÃ¢teau for Hogwarts. The Ravenclaw had strenuously confirmed Harry's role in what Luna had described as “calling her home.” Hermione's rationalist mind also knew, and accepted, that Viktor was several hours dead by the time of Harry's calling. Still, Harry's opening plea prompted something similar from Hermione.

“Harry, I do believe you, and I trust you more than you might think, but in the same vein, please … please - take me off your pedestal. I'm not perfect, but you seem to think I am, that I can handle anything. Your expectations for me force me to try, and when I inevitably fail…. Well, I've found my breaking point….”

“I'll try, Hermione, but you're the most amazing person I've ever met - and that includes Dumbledore…. Rest his soul.”

Hermione winced. “There you go again, Harry. Anyway, I was hoping to let you sleep, but I have some good news and some bad news.”

“Merlin, I could use some good news right now.” Having spoken his opening piece, Harry now let her lead their conversation. “What's happened?”

“Neville contacted me earlier, on my D.A. Mirror,” Hermione recounted. “He convinced You Know Her. He kept what we did secret. Apparently she thinks it was you - because what happened was impossible, or so she believes. And impossible rescues, well, that's what you do….”

“I wish.”

Hermione shook her head. With a sad smile, she added. “She's right about that one thing, I guess….”

Harry's smile was just as sad. “Well … sometimes. I try, anyway….”

Before Harry could follow with some remark about blind pigs and truffles, Hermione continued. “As for helping Death Eaters, Neville says she absolutely denies anything of the sort and that the ghost in the loo can confirm. I'm assuming that means Moaning Myrtle….”

“I'll go see Myrtle, then,” Harry voiced his continuing suspicion. “Nev may believe her, but I don't trust anything she says - not without confirmation.”

Hermione mentioned, slightly more upbeat, “And apparently she's agreed to exile, Neville didn't say where, but he'd like you to send for McAllister at once. Nev also has something for you, but wouldn't tell exactly what. It's probably important. Maybe he and Dumbledore found what they went looking for….”

Harry genuinely smiled. “Well, at least that's good news. If that's it, maybe we can destroy them both at once. And the sooner and farther she's away from us, the better. We should send an owl - no, better, a goblin - to Jerry ASAP. Umm … what's the bad news?”

“Professor McGonagall wants to see you, in her office, also ASAP.”

Harry groaned. Once again, outside events were interfering with their heart-to-heart. He wearily opened his now neatly packed trunk (house-elves were amazing) and removed a fresh set of school robes. “Well, let's go.”

“She didn't ask for me, Harry, just you,” Hermione demurred.

“Don't care,” Harry responded, clearly unhappy. “I just invited you.” He fastened the robes without changing clothes.

“I'm sure there's a reason….”

From his wand, Harry squirted shaving cream on his face. “And I don't care what it is. I'd rather stay here with you, frankly. Raz-me!”

Hermione's expression was not encouraging. “With all that's happened, Harry, I don't think you should keep the acting Headmistress of Hogwarts waiting.”

“I agree,” Harry replied. “We should not keep her waiting.” He swung his arm in an ambiguous motion, either an “after you” gesture at the door or an offer of his hand.

“Oh, all right,” Hermione gave in. With a show of exasperation, she stepped through the door he was holding, not attempting to take Harry's hand.

* * * *

They took a slight detour, attempting to visit Moaning Myrtle's lavatory. No luck. That loo was an Auror crime scene - off limits even to them. Myrtle was nowhere to be found.

Stymied, Harry turned to one of Roxtar's goblins (overnight, the nine-fingered goblin had assumed command - under Harry's suzerainty, of course - from MÄ�ktrax) to inform McAllister when and where his vow-casting services were needed.

Shortly, the pair presented themselves to the Acting Headmistress.

Harry started. “You asked to see us, Professor? I'd say `good morning,' but I know it isn't.”

“I asked to see you, Potter,” Professor McGonagall answered curtly. She did look awful; surely she had been awake all night. “Granger may return later. My business with you is more urgent….”

“I asked her to come with me,” Harry refused to be intimidated. “Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of her.”

McGonagall rubbed her eyes. She had indeed not slept a wink, and that tiredness, combined with the wrenching loss of Albus Dumbledore, meant she had little patience right now for any impertinence. “Not this, Potter, I'm afraid,” the Acting Headmistress insisted. “It would not be advisable for this discussion to occur in Granger's presence.”

“I said that….”

`It's Ginny. If you want this to work, start acting now like you don't know….' Hermione's silent voice echoed in his mind. Aloud, she stated, “I don't mind. I'll wait in the classroom next door. I'm expecting a private owl.” She stood and left.

The professor stared after her, aware of something passing between them, but not what.

Once the door closed, Professor McGonagall went straight to the point. “Potter, there's no way to sugarcoat it. I wish to offer you my condolences. Ginny Weasley is dead….”

Harry had given some thought to his reply. “Oh fu - … Merlin! We, Ginny and I, damn, we basically broke up yesterday. She didn't want me to leave when I found out where Hermione was … something happened, and I knew it was over…. But I never…. I hope she died a hero….”

It sounded trite and staged, even to his own ears.

Professor McGonagall's initial show of interest - how had he learnt about Granger? - rapidly hardened into a stony frown. She had worse to tell him.

“Not exactly, Potter. She committed suicide.” McGonagall stated with grim finality. “Something convinced her that … this is not easy … Voldemort had possessed her again…. Given yesterday's events, frankly we cannot rule that out….”

Whilst Harry's face reddened, he did not react as furiously as Professor McGonagall had feared.

“So that's it…. I think she's been giving me some kind of love potion,” Harry revealed sullenly. “I burnt it out of myself, more or less, yesterday. I'd done something like that before … when I was kidnapped. Then I told her to leave, and I left for Hermione….”

“Love potion, Potter?” McGonagall did not seem fazed at this unexpected turn.

“Think so. Later, when I duelled Snape on the roof of Hogwarts, that's what he said.”

That fazed her. “Snape? You? On the Castle's roof?” McGonagall babbled, sounding shocked. She was only aware of Snape's traitorous role in the Headmaster's death. “How would he know anything like that?”

“Malfoy told him, and Snape said … er … some things that sort of confirmed it … for me ….” Harry almost revealed more than he intended and hoped not to be pressed on the point.

For once he thought he had been lucky. Professor McGonagall was not only knackered but also had more consequential matters weighing on her ordinarily perceptive mind.

Very thin-lipped, the Acting Headmistress responded. “Then the worst apparently did happen. Weasley admitted as much before she died. She left a note, which I have read, confessing to using love potions on you and … something else on Granger as well….”

`Here goes,' Harry thought. “On Hermione…?” he growled, trying successfully to make his voice sound threatening.

“Yes, a very dangerous potion,” Professor McGonagall responded calmly. “Draught of Despair, but I wonder….”

“Shouldn't she be here to hear this, then?”

“…does `Half-Blood Prince' mean anything to you?”

That drew Harry up short, but only for a moment.

“Umm … yeah. That's something else Snape said … he claimed he was something called the Half-Blood Prince. There was this book….”

His answer drew Professor McGonagall up short, but again only for a moment.

“Well … Weasley also mentioned that in her farewell note….”

“At this point, Hermione definitely should be here to hear this along with me,” Harry once again suggested, this time more insistently. “This plainly concerns her.” He crossed his arms, striking a pose that indicated he would not utter another word without her.

Professor McGonagall was overtly frustrated at Harry's insistence. “Oh, very well,” she huffed. “I was planning to summon her later - on matters that concerned her.” She stood and released her tabby cat Patronus. Within a few seconds the office door opened and in stepped Hermione, looking preoccupied and upset. She tossed an empty bottle in the professor's paper bin, where it immediately vanished.

“Hermione, did something happen?” Harry asked, seeing her face.

“Granger, have you received disturbing news?” Professor McGonagall joined, having spotted parchments in one of her hands and a fat envelope in the other.

“No! Er … yes! Oh, bother!” Hermione was uncharacteristically ruffled. “Here!” She thrust the top page at Harry.

Whilst Harry read, Hermione attempted to explain. “It's from Healer Huxley. He promised to test the extracted potion residue. These are the results of his tests….”

“For the Draught of Despair?” Professor McGonagall inquired.

Hermione paused. She knew how McGonagall knew, but was not supposed to. “Umm … yes, but how….”

“She tried to kill you,” Harry broke in, his voice authentically low and dangerous.

“I know what it says, Harry. I just … I still can't believe she…. Anyway, I think it was an accident,” Hermione finally offered the benefit of doubt.

“These levels…, if I'm reading this right, were high enough to cause a suicide attempt in 98% of the cases….”

“That's only an estimate.”

“According to Healer Huxley, a bloody conservative one….”

“Potter, language!”

“Harry, calm down,” Hermione insisted. She did not want an emotional Harry saying something that gave the game away. “It must have been at the Bake Off. Her Japanese food…. I ate so much of it….”

“She risked it, not you! Don't blame yourself, dammit!”

“It no longer matters,” Professor McGonagall broke into their argument. “The Weasley girl is dead - a suicide.”

Hermione took a deep breath before responding, knowing that her reply would be closely scrutinised. “She must have known she was looking at Azkaban, then.” Hermione looked furious but kept her anger in check. “If she potioned me, I suppose she did the same to Harry….”

“She claimed to be possessed by Voldemort,” McGonagall interjected.

“Then she's definitely better off dead,” Hermione stated with clipped finality. “If that's right, she'd be Kissed. There's no other way.”

“Probably correct, but entirely irrelevant,” Professor McGonagall moved to retake control of the conversation. “Many things are competing for my limited time at the moment. I have the Headmaster, two of the staff, and several students dead. Our Minister will be launching an inquiry into our security. The Bulgarian Minister is up in arms about his star Seeker going missing. An emergency session of the Board of Governors will convene shortly to decide whether and under what auspices Hogwarts will reopen for the next Term, so please allow me to get through this. I have for you….”

“I can help you with one of those,” Harry responded grimly. “Viktor Krum is dead. He became a marked Death Eater. He was killed last night at ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls.”

“By Voldemort,” Hermione added. “I saw it. Oh, and I don't think the Board can simply close Hogwarts unilaterally.”

“What? Are you sure?” Professor McGonagall openly shocked. Either of Hermione's revelations could have done that.

They took one thing at a time - Krum first.

Harry revealed angrily that the late Bulgarian Seeker was actually a fully-fledged, tattooed-on-the-arm Death Eater who had kidnapped Hermione and ultimately took her to the ChÃ¢teau. There, Krum connived in Hermione's blood becoming a main ingredient in the restoration of Bellatrix Lestrange to something that passed for human, all facts that caused McGonagall's complexion to become even more ashen.

Hermione explained more patiently that Viktor still carried a torch for her, and thought the alternative was her certain death at Voldemort's hands. So motivated, he had reintroduced himself in spectacularly inopportune fashion. In the end, Voldemort killed him for his efforts.

Neither explained exactly how Krum died or, for that matter, how Hermione escaped. The Acting Headmistress was too busy to pry for details. Her shoulders slumping upon receipt of yet more bad news, Professor McGonagall responded. “Very well, I shall inform the Minister. The last thing we need is a diplomatic incident over a corpse. We will need the body returned as soon as possible….”

“After you left, Harry, I asked Roxtar to preserve Viktor's body,” Hermione revealed. “You know how the goblins are….”

Harry most certainly did. Still, Hermione's solicitude for the Bulgarian's remains did not particularly help his morale.

“Indeed, I am certain that Minister Stambolev will appreciate the courtesy,” Professor McGonagall commented dryly. “And I suppose I should return the favour by explaining what happened here at about the same time….”

Professor McGonagall revealed upsetting details of last night's Death Eater attack. Three students were known dead. Ginny's suicide they had discussed, and now they learnt that Molly Weasley was currently under sedation in the Hospital Wing. Harry, but not Hermione, had been aware of the death of Megan Jones. The other fatality was Stephen Cornfoot, the first Ravenclaw who doubled back to assist Cho.

Draco Malfoy had fled with the Death Eaters.

Of the staff, Filch had lost a leg to a snake bite. Hagrid and several others had been injured fighting either Death Eaters or desperately battling some of the Dark magic the attack had unleashed. They were either out of danger or had been moved to St. Mungo's.

Three staff members had not been so lucky. Dumbledore, of course, everyone knew about. Hermione had been on hand when Professor Vector, struck by a variety of curses, lost two limbs and bled to death in the Hospital Wing. She had attempted to stop the Death Eaters in the main hall near the stairway to the Headmaster's office and paid for it with her life.

The third casualty was something of a surprise. Professor Slughorn had been incinerated in his office. It had all the hallmarks of a targeted assassination. Not content with merely killing him, the Death Eaters used Fiendfyre after trapping the Potions master. Against a conflagration that consumed magic for fuel, Slughorn's feeble camouflage abilities provided virtually no protection.

The Death Eaters must have wanted Professor Slughorn dead badly - badly enough to endanger their own children. They must have known that Slughorn's office was directly above Slytherin House. Whilst the Gryffindors, in their tower, were also isolated by the blaze, at least they could (the older ones, anyway) Apparate away once the Castle's wards were inoperable. Anyone trying the same from Slytherin would have passed through the Fiendfyre and been consumed in its magic-devouring maw.

The pair looked at each other. The Slytherins would never give them credit, but indirectly, their liquid nitrogen spell had prevented the immolation of everyone in Slytherin House.

Dumbledore, before his death, had never revealed that Professor McGonagall was entrusted with the secret of Voldemort's Horcruxes. Nor did Professor McGonagall give any independent indication of knowing. All she said about Slughorn was that he had been “in hiding.” Harry and Hermione kept mum about their suspicions as to the Death Eaters' motive for targeting Professor Slughorn.

Not so Hermione's blurt-out concerning the possible closure of Hogwarts.

In due course, Professor McGonagall returned to that subject. “Granger, kindly explain your comment that the Board of Governors lacks power to close Hogwarts. They're meeting in emergency session, even as we speak, and I fear precisely that will be proposed. The Castle's reputation as the safest place in Britain is obviously shattered.”

“In my third year, I did a huge amount of legal research to defend the Hippogriff that purportedly gored Malfoy….”

“Too bad Buckbeak wasn't really as vicious as Malfoy claimed,” Harry muttered darkly.

“…Yes, Buckbeak. Whilst trying to stop his execution,” Hermione pressed on. “I read the entire Hogwarts Charter, unsuccessfully looking for some loophole….”

“Your skills would stand you in fine stead as a barrister,” Professor McGonagall commented.

At Harry's uncomprehending glance, Hermione began, for his benefit, “After Slytherin left and Gryffindor died, the two remaining Founders created and empowered what is now the Board of Governors to administer Hogwarts. This Charter establishes the Board's rights, powers, and responsibilities in respect of Hogwarts as an educational institution.”

This was old news to the harried Acting Headmistress. “Yes, yes, please go on,” she prodded.

“Maintaining Hogwarts as an educational institution is fundamental to the Board's existence. The Founders obligated that as a condition of the Board's continuation,” Hermione explained. “Were the Board ever unable to carry out this existential function, they must offer the Castle and its grounds for sale to anybody in magical Britain upon proof that the buyer can perpetuate the school's educational mission….”

Having never had occasion to read the entire Charter, Professor McGonagall was following closely. “Prove? To whom?”

“I believe that committee would include the Headmaster, the heads of the four Hogwarts Houses and a - it would now be the Ministry's delegate, the Head of the Department of Magical Education….”

“With Albus and Horace deceased, that means, that what you call….”

“Not me, the Charter,” Hermione corrected. “I'm sure you have a copy handy….”

“Not here. Albus kept one in his office, but unless and until I am formally named his successor, I cannot exercise the Headmaster's perquisites of office,” Professor McGonagall explained. “That's the other reason for the meeting. Only the new headmaster can restore the main wards. We're on backup for now, so I haven't objected to the goblins' presence.”

“Anyway, for the time being, anyway, assume I'm right,” Hermione moved on.

“I always do,” Harry commented, drawing a withering glance from Hermione.

“With the vacancies, that suggests that a committee consisting of yourself, Mister Tarbert….”

“Who?” Harry asked.

“The Ministry's Education head,” Hermione paused only briefly, “…and Professors Flitwick and Sprout would evaluate the sufficiency of any such proposal. Should the Governors default, the committee's majority vote would approve any outside offer of continuation….”

“Doesn't really matter, does it?” Harry asked.

“What?”

“I mean, nobody's made any offer,” Harry clarified.

He had company. “I must agree with Potter. This is Thestralspotting … pointless,” Professor McGonagall concurred. “We should….”

“I don't think so,” Hermione disagreed. “If the Board were to close Hogwarts….”

“Who this side of Malfoy could even think about…?”

“You.” Hermione's one-word answer was simple and direct, and utterly wasted Harry.

“Me, what?”

“Harry, you could offer to buy Hogwarts,” Hermione drove the point home, resisting an urge to roll her eyes at his cluelessness. “You have the means, you don't care about the money, and we already know you're quite capable of teaching….”

Professor McGonagall stood in shock. “Granger, you know that's … that's … not at all … preposterous….”

`Harry, say yes,' Hermione Legilimenced.

“If I have to, and Hermione will help me do it, I'll do it,” Harry declared. He would gladly buy Hogwarts if that would keep Hermione involved with him.

“Of course, the Board … would never allow it,” Professor McGonagall cautioned. “You're still a student. Besides, your reputation … they'd be afraid you'd admit goblins … or something.”

“Or something.” Hermione winked at Harry and added; “True, and if the Board of Governors were informed of Harry as the alternative, then I rather doubt they would vote to close down Hogwarts….”

Professor McGonagall cracked her first smile since this meeting began. “Granger, that is a brilliant suggestion, although as worthy of a Slytherin as a Gryffindor. I shall ensure that the Board is informed….”

Hermione responded by returning her favourite professor's smile. Harry thought Hermione even looked rather satisfied with herself - a good thing after her being so depressed for so long.

“…This brings me to the final matter, which I had planned to discuss later with you both. Assuming that Hogwarts remains open, I fear we will find it difficult to attract a full complement of students after what has happened - the Headmaster and several students killed by Death Eaters within these walls. Several parents have already informed me that they are ill-inclined to return their children next Term.”

“Who,” Harry asked reflexively.

“It really doesn't matter, Potter,” Professor McGonagall turned his question aside. “What does matter is unless you two - particularly you, Potter - return; I doubt we will have enough students for the school to be viable. Hence, I'm acting somewhat earlier than Albus would have, and despite it being technically ultra vires….”

Once Harry uttered the inevitable, “ultra what?” the Acting Headmistress reached into her robes, withdrew her hand, and placed the Head Boy and Head Girl badges, gleaming, side by side on the desktop.

“I have no doubt, and I am certain Albus would concur, that both of you deserve these.”

Harry snatched up his eagerly. “Head Boy, really?”

“Yes, Potter,” Professor McGonagall confirmed. “All you need do is return for your final year…. Granger?”

Hermione said and did nothing. That alone surprised Harry. He had always considered Hermione the odds-on, prohibitive favourite for Head Girl - virtually since the day they were sorted into Gryffindor. Even her initials, H.G., matched the position.

But now, with one of her life's ambitions there for the taking, Hermione was not taking.

“Granger, is there a problem?”

“Hermione, what's wrong?”

“I - I don't know if I can do this,” she sniffled, struggling to keep most un-Gryffindor-like tears from falling. “I just don't know…. I'm not sure that I can make the commitment, to … to this….”

“Granger - Hermione - I assure you that the Heads' duties are not at all onerous,” Professor McGonagall resorted to her most soothing voice. “I am sure you will have plenty of time for your studies, and for…” The old professor glanced at Harry. “…for any other activities that you may seek to undertake.”

Harry winced. He admired Professor McGonagall, not the least because Hermione saw her as a role model. But for once, the woman was definitively out of sync with their situations.

“No!” Hermione wailed. “I mean I don't know that I want to do this,” she waved her arms in a sweeping fashion.

“Hermione….” Harry tried to intervene.

He was unsuccessful.

“I - I mean, I'm not sure I want to be a witch anymore,” Hermione could no longer stem her tears. “I'm seventeen, dammit; I shouldn't have to worry about being poisoned, killed, or worse, every other day. Can't I be happy and safe? Don't I have that right - or is that too much for a mere `Mudblood' to expect? Why should I stay here, fearing for my life, when I should be applying to uni's?”

Harry felt like he had been punched in the stomach.

“Hermione, whatever….”

Professor McGonagall was not often rendered speechless, but Hermione's tearful declaration brought her close. “But … I was sure … the internship … Healer Huxley said….”

The internship only reminded Hermione of something else to feel guilty about. “I know I accepted his offer,” she almost sobbed, “but I haven't let any premises … made any arrangements. I can't make up my mind…. I don't even know where I'm going when I leave here….”

“Grang … Hermione, I'm sure something….”

What that something might have been was never expressed, because Harry was on his feet. He had to do something; something that would affect the rest of his life - and hers - profoundly. “I'm sorry, Professor, but Hermione and I need to have a talk … really need … right now. I'm sure you've plenty of other things that need doing….”

He took Hermione, gently but firmly, by the shoulders, and began steering his weeping best friend from the room. She did not resist him.

“Potter, you're right,” Professor McGonagall acceded, “but please, before you go, take these….”

Harry turned and looked at his Head of House, who rummaged through her desk's top drawer and pulled out some papers. “The Headmaster left you some things….”

Harry lost it. “I don't need another bloody inheritance!” he bellowed. “Damn his money, anyway!”

Hermione only wailed more loudly.

Professor McGonagall raised her voice in response. “NO! It's not that. Albus bequeathed his wealth to the school. He simply left you this….”

She offered a worn black-and-white mottled composition book. “It details the status of certain things - I don't know what - that he apparently was `working on' with you.”

“T-t-ake it, Harry,” he heard Hermione mumble. “Y-y-ou'll need to know what's going on.”

Harry did.

“And these tickets, this Muggle passport, I know he promised them to you,” Professor McGonagall held out an unsealed white Muggle envelope with papers, some turquoise, visible.

Harry hesitated only a moment before snatching what was offered and shoving them into an outer pocket. Not seeing Professor McGonagall holding her breath, with a second sweeping motion, Harry snatched the two Heads' badges from the desk.

Professor McGonagall exhaled with profound relief.

The Acting Headmistress had no choice but to place her faith in Harry Potter.

* * * *

Hermione shuffled out, willing for once to be led. Harry, doing the leading, had no idea where to go - except that they needed privacy. They finished where they started - in the deserted Gryffindor sixth-year boys' dormitory.

The goblins were instructed that no visitors were allowed - not McGonagall, not Scrimgeour, not Ron. Nothing short of Voldemort leading a full scale Death Eater attack or the second coming of Albus Dumbledore was to disturb them.

After adding soundproofing and locking charms of his own, Harry turned to Hermione. She hunched disconsolately on his bed - a bed where, at least before she reduced it to splinters, they had made passionate love to each other more than once.

“Hermione,” Harry began as he sat down beside her - neither too close nor too far away - “I had no idea things had gone this far. I'm - I'm sorrier than you have any right to believe.”

“Don't be sorry, Harry,” Hermione sighed back at him. “This, at least, isn't your fault. It sort of comes with the territory, I guess…. Being dosed with Draught of Despair until it runs out of my ears….”

“Hermione, that's over now….” Harry tried reassuring. “She can't hurt you, hurt us, anymore.”

Hermione did not seem to hear him. “Still, beats the alternative, I guess…. With a 98% suicide rate….”

“And you're stronger than that,” Harry tried again, taking a somewhat firmer tone. “You're no 98% - you're far more unique, special than that!”

“Pedestal, Harry.”

“…You did not kill yourself. Instead, you aced a couple of N.E.W.T.s and learnt the phoenix transformation … a damn sight more than I accomplished.”

“How do you know, Harry?” Hermione shot him a pained look. N.E.W.T. scores were not released until the third week in June, and during Charms….

But Harry was not concerned with grade point averages.

“If you'd tried to commit suicide, believe me, I'd have known … somehow,” Harry declared, sounding rather more confident starting out than finishing.

He watched Hermione like a hawk. Her look was almost pitying - of him, or of herself, he could not say. When she replied, she shocked him almost beyond words.

“Knowing full well what could happen, I turned for comfort to the Mirror of Erised, Harry. That's slow suicide. Fortunately, Luna - and Cho - intervened, and the staff moved it….”

“Oh, Merlin, Hermione, why?”

“Why do you think, Harry?”

“Your greatest desire….”

“…Was to have you fully and gloriously in love with me.”

“I hope more than anything that it still is.”

Hermione's eyes rose and stared, unblinking, at the underside of his canopy. Her body sagged. “I just don't know, Harry, and that scares me more than anything else. My heart feels like a limp dishrag wrung out with a Twisting Charm. Is anything left inside? The Death Eaters used Viktor to get to me. Voldemort told him personally that unless he brought me for that resurrection ritual, I would die….”

“All because of me, I suppose.”

“If only I could blame it on you, Harry. That would be so easy. I could just pack up and leave, without regrets.” Hermione shook her head. “But it's his fault, really. Even if I'd told him the truth, why I didn't want him writing, he'd probably still have come back after you were with….” Hermione trailed off, not trusting herself to mention her betrayer's name.

“Can you really blame him? Merlin, Hermione, you're the most brilliant witch I know - hell, that anybody knows. And it's not just me. I can't believe….” The Head Girl badge was in his pocket.

“Harry, I guess I've just tired of playing a game I can't win; that the best I can do is break even; and if I lose the consequences are so horrible that death would be a relief.”

“Hermione, you're the strongest….”

“Take me off the goddamn pedestal, Harry, please.” Hermione demanded, again on the verge of tears. “It used to be such a grand thing, you and Ron thinking I was bloody perfect. And me - I was so damn conceited I thought maybe I could do even better. But none of that seemed to matter. When … when I saw you with… that harlot that night, something inside me just broke. I'm not sure I know how to fix it….”

“Let me help you try, please,” Harry echoed her plea. “Doesn't that blasted potion she fed me mean anything…?”

“Harry, it means everything,” Hermione reacted. “Without it, we wouldn't be having this conversation. After what happened yesterday, I'd have already left - screaming - and you'd never see me again.”

“I'd come for you. You know that,” Harry declared.

“You could try,” she snarked. “I know a lot more about the Muggle world than you. My damn father vanished from the face of the earth pretty effectively, and….”

“He had years to prepare and a prison cell for motivation,” Harry growled. He could not help it. He detested Hermione's father.

“I've had weeks; I'm cleverer than he is….”

“True, but who's….?”

“…and what Voldemort came within an instant of doing to me makes a prison cell look like the grand bedroom of your chÃ¢teau.” She played a trump card.

Why did Hermione always have to be right - so indisputably right? “Merlin, Hermione, please don't run,” Harry wrung his hands. “I don't know what I'd do.”

“You're stronger than that.” Hermione looked at him fiercely. “You'll go out there and finish that bastard Voldemort, like you and I both know you will. What you won't be doing is jumping in front of any more Killing Curses with my name on them. You're too important. I don't matter….”

“You matter to me, more than anything!” Harry jumped in equally fiercely, but he could not maintain the pose. “…I need a reason to go on,” he confessed.

“So do I, Harry.”

“I need you to go on.”

“Oh, Harry,” she regarded him tragically. “I can't be responsible for every aspect of your life and happiness. I'll crack under that pressure. I'm afraid I already have….”

“Then let me support you for a while, when you need it,” he rasped a bit shakily.

“Like you supported me when that bitch decided she wanted you for herself?”

Cut to the quick, Harry stumbled. “Hermione, please….”

“You have no idea what that was like! Here I was pleased and happy with arrangements for us to shag, and there you were, being serviced by that little bint….”

“Hermione….”

“Just, just let me get this out of my system, okay? That slag's kneeling before you like you're some kind of god. Is that what you want from a woman…?”

“Umm …nuu…” Harry finally decided just to shut up, as Hermione asked. Fighting with her - even to defend himself - would only aggravate things. And, frankly, he knew how richly he deserved each and every rebuke she had in store.

“Yes, I know - the potion. Ginevra Weasley is a dreadful, backstabbing hag. Hell, even hags have more morals. But let's put Ginny-dear aside. Yes, she potioned you, and me. But she didn't potion Daphne Greengrass. I know you shagged her. Ginny screamed loud enough to make damn sure everybody in the Castle bloody well knew. Thank Merlin you could keep Rita quiet.”

Several seconds of icy silence passed before Hermione added more ammunition to her argument. “Daphne….”

That name rolled off her tongue like a Cutting Curse.

“A pretty, hell - beautiful - face. And blonde, with an amazing, thin, beautiful body. Like that Eliza,” she recalled resentfully. “And a Slytherin through and through. But no potioner, of that I'm sure. The moment she got you alone, resistance was futile, I suppose.”

“Hermione, I can't….”

“And what about Fleur? I don't know what exactly happened between you - I don't want to - but I know she was into your robes somehow. Veela-power, maybe? But then she stops, or did she? Maybe she was just using me to wreck your relationship with dear, sweet You Know Her so she could take you for herself. Another blonde; another beautiful body. And you came running….”

Hermione's grievances had her worked up so badly that she could barely see. She plainly did not see Harry, slack jawed and eyes wide in surprise. He had told nobody - not a soul, and certainly not Ginny - about his near-orgasmic encounter with Fleur Delacour at Beauxbatons.

Somehow - amazingly, appallingly, and typically - Hermione knew about that, too.

Hermione ranted on. “And then what? Once you defeat Voldemort. And you will, not the least because sweet, gormless Hermione will never let you die….”

“Not letting me die means staying,” Harry muttered glumly.

“Staying. Yes, staying…. Then what happens to Hermione? Every witch in Britain will want a piece of Harry the Conqueror. Love Potions. Compulsion Charms. Pigmy Puff musk. Flying knickers. Pretty, shapely blondes batting pretty, shapely eyelashes. You name it, they'll do it. Merlin, you've got Diana bloody Spencer after you! How can Hermione Plain-Jane Granger possibly compete with any of that!? I'll be left alone - again! I'll be fodder for the Mirror of Erised, again!! I'll be … I'LL BE DOSED WITH DRAUGHT OF DESPAIR, AGAIN!!”

Hermione's eyes were wild; her nostrils flared in agitation. Her left hand clutched her right wrist so tightly that her thumbnail cracked and drew blood. Harry could feel magic - Dark feelings he was ashamed to have triggered - surging in waves from the increasingly distraught witch sitting on one end of his bed. Warily he checked his wrist holder for his wand.

“OH, WHY!! MAYBE I SHOULDN'T BOTHER WAITING FOR THE DRAUGHT…!! Draught … oh, Merlin … Harry, please, a Cheering Charm, please…!”

In an instant, Hermione's voice went from screaming to strangulated.

“Please?”

Harry asked no questions. With a practised flick, his wand was in his hand. The next instant, “Buenis animus!” he complied with her almost frantic request.

As the faintly puce-coloured spell enveloped her, every aspect of Hermione's form relaxed. From sitting rigidly, she toppled to one side, ending on all fours, panting as she shook her long-haired head, trying to regain an even keel.

Harry was shocked. He had never, ever seen his friend rave like that. Standing beside her, on the floor along his bed, he placed a hand tentatively, and ever so gently, on her heaving shoulders. “Hermione, what just happened?”

“Flashback,” she gurgled. “Umm … I'm just glad I recognised it before I drove you away forever … I was so miserable…. That, or I might have jumped out the tower window….”

“What?”

“Healer Huxley's prognosis warned about these,” Hermione spoke a little more coherently.

She sat up. Harry sat down again, facing her, on the bed. He badly wanted to take her hands in his, but was afraid. “Hermione, let me help you….”

“You can't - I can't…. Hah!” Her laugh was bitter. “Nice and clinical … one can't ingest that much of a powerful, borderline Dark potion and expect to recover just like that. These flashbacks, they could go on for quite some time….”

“Do you … what sets them off? What did I do just then?” Harry struggled to understand.

Hermione did not answer right away. Rather, she let Harry's Cheering Charm flow through her. Gradually, her thought processes and pulse rate approached normal - at least post-Draught normal. Finally, after a couple of very long minutes, Hermione was calm enough to give voice to her worst fears - the moving force behind her recent flashback.

“Harry, I'm okay with … hell, I'm anything but okay with, but at least I can understand what the Love Potion did … but Daphne and Fleur - them I simply don't get. They didn't… well Fleur probably did her Veela thing, but you betrayed, umm…, You Know Her, so quickly. That really scares me, because I just don't see what happened…. How can I expect that it won't happen again … and so easily, it seems…?”

Harry felt his heart breaking, because in that heart, he had no good answer to her question. “Hermione, me neither. If I understood it, understood me, I'd do anything to stop it. I don't know. I … well, both times I was a long way from home, feeling lonely and out of sorts. Then I was with them, and they were, you know - well, more than willing…. I just wasn't thinking straight….”

“More like you weren't thinking with the proper head, I'd say…. You weren't alone at the ball, Harry,” Hermione archly reminded him.

“Well, this head, anyway,” Harry pointed at his skull, “thinks you're more beautiful than any of them - and it isn't even a contest.”

Hermione had to smile, but Harry's declaration was still just that. She could not accept what amounted to a non-explanation. “Thank you, Harry, but that sentiment still doesn't account for what you did.”

Harry exhaled and wrung his hands. He had nothing, except…. Could he believe that slimy snake bastard Snape?

He had little to lose and everything to gain.

Wariness and reproach coloured her stare. Harry flashed Hermione a sad smile and started again.

“Yeah, I know, but assuming I can believe anything she said, she got drunk and had to sleep it off…. I can't truthfully ask you to trust me, because right now I don't trust myself. I…. I don't….”

She did not like seeing him flounder. “Harry….”

“Well, the only other thing sounds too much like an excuse, and I don't like them any more than you. Not only that but … well, it isn't exactly from the most … umm … I can't really say I believe him myself…. So I don't know….” His voice trailed off in incoherent mumbling.

“Harry, what are you on about now?”

He took a deep breath. “Well … Snape - he seemed to know something.”

“Snape?” Her incredulity was manifest.

“Well, yeah, like I … you already know, I duelled Snape on the Castle's roof,” Harry reminded her.

Hermione knew about that duel, but not this. “You said he admitted being the Half-Blood Prince,” she accurately recalled.

“Yeah, that's what he claimed, and it made some sense, I mean knowing potions and all. But he was trying to distract me, I'm sure. He also said that … that Ginny's Love Potion was his own special brew…. But he's such a hateful bastard, I'm not inclined….”

“I can check that out,” Hermione interrupted, the cogs of her brain turning once more. “It would have to be in that wretched book. I sent it to Healer Huxley. If it's not there, that means Snape's a liar, and if he lied about that….”

“Then the scumbag probably lied about everything,” Harry finished the thought. “Why would he tell the truth?”

“Well, Dumbledore trusted him,” Hermione reminded Harry.

“And Dumbledore's dead,” Harry pointed out. “Lotta good that did him. Nev said Snape was right there when it happened.”

Hermione winced at the undeniable truth of Harry's response. “Still, what did he say?” she asked.

“Here's what I remember. Snape said that his potion worked poorly. So he gave it up. The potion supposedly failed away from Hogwarts, and in other places it … it, well … it made me … he said `peckish,' and I'm sure he didn't mean food. Then he said `nostalgia'…. I wouldn't even mention it except, dammit, it was exactly how I felt. I think I wanted you … and since I couldn't have you, I just wanted somebody….”

“And Daphne and Fleur were available,” Hermione closed the loop.

Harry shook his head. “Available doesn't begin to describe it. Daphne didn't wear anything but….”

Hermione cut him off. “That detail I don't need to know.”

“I don't claim to be an expert, Hermione, but I've never heard anything about a potion working, or not, depending on where it is brewed, or used, or whatever…. You know I'm the last person to trust Snape, but dammit, he described how I felt better than I could…. Does any of this make any sense? How could a potion do what Snape said…?”

Hermione's breath hitched whilst Harry was asking his questions, and she started feeling warm all over.

Actually, a potion just might act that way, at least if initially used at Hogwarts - she had even discovered the reason.

The Castle and its environs were the focus of some sort of ley line spiral. A potion administered at Hogwarts could, at least theoretically, have limited geographic scope … if it … especially with magnetic ingredients, she surmised. The spiral's axis aligned with the earth's magnetic field.

More than logic prompted her physical reaction, something stronger and more personal. Hermione wanted - no, needed, with all her being - to believe Harry. Here, finally, was a plausible basis for behaviour that still seemed incomprehensible. Harry had offered an explanation, something verifiable, for his repeated, inexcusable, and heretofore inexplicable (she believed) sexual misconduct.

If that were so, then….

All things were possible.

Before, when he told the truth about Chang's pornography, and that Brookings woman, she had not believed him…. Disaster resulted. After that experience she had promised herself always to hear him out.

She was feeling very warm now. Hermione wondered if Harry noticed her blushing.

“Hermione, are you okay?”

Nope, Harry was not that clueless.

“You've heard, I'm sure, about all the ambient magic at Hogwarts,” she began, trying to stay calm, speak slowly (always a problem for her), and neither overstate nor understate the facts. “Harry, it's not generally known, but it has a physical basis. It's at the centre of … I guess you could call it a magical vortex. Ley lines from all over Europe converge at the Castle in a fashion that approximates the Golden Ratio quite closely.”

“What does that mean?” Harry reacted with his usual incomprehension when Hermione spoke of matters of this sort.

“It means that Snape might well be telling the truth, Harry, even if he doesn't know why it happened. I discovered this vortex by using polar coordinates on my Arithmancy N.E.W.T. - neither Vector, nor McGonagall, nor even Dumbledore, knew about this.”

“And if Snape's telling the truth…?”

“Then, a flawed, Hogwarts-specific Love Potion could generate exactly the symptoms you've described,” Hermione declared. She kept a straight face, but just saying it somehow made it more real.

Beyond warmth, Hermione started feeling tingly all over, almost lightheaded. She reached a decision. She had underestimated this man before. She would not make the same mistake again.

Harry's information, combined with her own ley line discovery, convinced Hermione that he deserved the benefit of the doubt. Irony of ironies - second-hand information from a hated Death Eater, a conniver in Dumbledore's murder - played a greater role in her decision than anything else.

It certainly played a greater role than anything Harry could say on his own behalf.

Ignorant of the workings of Hermione's mind, Harry could only watch. They had been talking for quite a while without her exactly rejecting him, which he counted as progress.

But would Hermione carry through her threat to leave? If she did, he might as well return to that cupboard under the stairs.

With Hermione seemingly hesitating, Harry took his turn - and a deep breath. He needed her to answer that question - an answer that, for better or worse, would chart the course of both their futures.

He offered her a tentative smile. She had, after all, been raging at him not long ago. “I do know something else, too.”

“That is?”

“I want you to stay.”

“Harry, I think we….”

For once, Harry talked over her. “No, hear me out - please. You've had your say, so please give me the same chance. I promise not to be as loud, either.”

She started out looking exasperated. Reference to her recent loss of control was a low blow. But the look on his face was so earnest that her pique faded. Harry was at his cutest trying to be earnest.

“Everything you said - just then - well, it scares the hell out of me, too. Hermione, that bastard Malfoy got to me through a Weasley … a Weasley, dammit. If I can't trust the Weasleys, who can I trust…?”

“I hope….”

“You, that's who. You and maybe nobody else. Hermione, what you just said…. It's just as bad for me. I don't want to be love potioned, Veelaed, ambushed in a hotel room, hit with a Compulsion Charm, or by some slag's knickers. But you sussed it exactly. After what's happened, how am I supposed to trust any woman again…?”

Hermione could not help herself. “Well, there's Luna, and after last night I think we can both trust Jazzy with our lives….”

Her interruption annoyed Harry. “Fine, Hermione. But you know bl… full well what I mean. If either of them started acting like more than just friends, then I doubt I'd trust them either. But don't you see? The point is I can't really trust anyone now. They're either after my stupid money or my stupider fame…. That is, if I'm lucky and they aren't trying to haul me off to Voldemort like Krum did to you. And it would only … Merlin how much worse would it get if I beat Voldemort…?”

“When you beat Voldemort,” Hermione interrupted grimly, not caring if Harry glared at her. “I have to believe that, or I would never stay.”

Harry flinched at her last remark. “Okay, when I beat that sonuvawitch it's only going to get worse. I mean, you told me yourself that Lady Di's alliance offer was only a ploy to get at me….”

“I didn't say that,” Hermione corrected, trying to make this conversation more of a conversation. “I only said she might. Even if she is interested, you can say no - that's the point.”

“Ginny didn't let me say no…. Fleur neither, well, pretty damn close. Why would she? I mean Muggles have stuff that does the same sort of thing don't they…?”

Hermione almost had to smile at the image of Princess, no Lady, Diana slipping a roofie into Harry's drink. “Yes, they do, but I seriously doubt that's the Royals' style….”

Being on another tangent annoyed Harry. “Fine, but…. That's not really the point. The point is: I love you. I'll always love you. I don't want to love anybody else, and I don't….”

“Harry….”

“Please, let me finish. I know what you'll say, but my `if' stands little chance of becoming your `when' unless you stay. Please, Hermione. If you just trust me again - just enough to stay - I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for what I did to you. You don't, you know, have to do anything you don't want to…. I mean, I'll make sure you have your own bedroom and all at the ChÃ¢teau, or if you don't like that, somewhere else. You're hurting, Hermione. You know it. I know it. We both just saw it. Let me help you….”

Harry's offer suddenly simplified things for Hermione, although Harry had no way of knowing that - yet. “Harry, my recovery could take longer than you think,” she warned him. “Luna probably saved my life, but her beginner's luck couldn't possibly have removed all of that potion.”

“I said, I'll help you.”

“I'll need potions and durable medical equipment. Healer Huxley gave me a list.”

“I'll brew them.” That comment drew a stern glare from Hermione. “All right, I'll have Jerry get them from an apothecary, and I'll help you take them - I'll manage your schedule.”

“I may have to bathe in some of them.”

“Umm … I'll draw your water….”

“I'll need physical therapy.”

“I'll be your personal trainer.”

“You promise? You don't even know what that entails….”

“Absolutely. We'll run together, if that's what needed. Calisthenics. Cycling. Spell-casting. Swimming. We can do everything together … promise - on my honour.”

Hermione gave him a knowing smile. “Deal, then…. But Healer Huxley states that I might need sweating.”

“The ChÃ¢teau has a sauna, and I'll personally cut your wood.”

“Harry … pedestal.”

“No, Hermione, it's exactly what you'd do for me if the cauldron were turned, and you know it.”

Hermione had to admit that Harry was one hundred percent correct. “Point, that.”

“Look, more than anything else, I want you back … that is, to recover,” Harry emphasised. “But if you have to go, tell me where, and I'll go with you.”

“You can't.”

“You can't stop me, at least from looking for you. If you've had it, so have I.”

“Harry, I can't put you to that choice.”

“It's no choice, Hermione,” Harry spoke quickly, as sweat broke on his brow. “Look, Neville may be a git sometimes, but what he said last night was true. I do love you - always. I came for you rather than stay with Ginny. Without you, I don't know who I am. I need you to stay with me….”

“Harry, stop, I will.”

“…but if you don't, then seriously I want to go with….” His brain finally caught up with his tongue. “You will?” Harry's green eyes lit up like a traffic light on “go.” “Oh, Merlin, thank you!”

Harry looked for all the world like he wanted to grab her in his arms and never let go, but he hesitated, unsure if his touch would offend her.

“Oh, Harry, of course you can still do that!” she declared and gave him a patented Hermione hug.

Harry relaxed, and for the first time since yesterday - since learning that Hermione had gone missing - he had hope that things might ultimately be okay. Life is for learning, after all….

…Until Hermione told him that she needed to pick up the potions Healer Huxley had prescribed.

In the Hospital Wing.

Where the Weasleys undoubtedly were.

“Harry, they've been like family to the both of us. We need closure on this.”

* * * *

The Castle seemed forlornly vacant by the time the pair made their way to the Hospital Wing. On the way, Harry sent Hermione's owl Athena to the ChÃ¢teau with instructions to turn Krum's body - not mutilated, they (or at least Hermione) hoped - over to the Aurors. Then they stopped by Professor McGonagall's office, where they found the professor in the midst of magically packing her things to move upstairs. She informed them that the Board of Governors had met, and after fairly heated debate, decided tentatively to keep the school open with her as Headmistress.

Hermione told the new Headmistress that she would come back as Head Girl.

Their decisions to return to Hogwarts as Head Boy and Girl made Headmistress McGonagall's first assigned task from the Governors considerably easier - within the month she was to prepare a feasibility study concerning Hogwarts' continuing operation.

Beyond that, Professor McGonagall's next official act as Headmistress was an unhappy one. She cancelled the graduation ceremony and sent the entire student body home as soon as their families could make arrangements. The Hogwarts' Express would make an unscheduled run south, with the Headmistress and the Aurors coordinating security arrangements both en route and at King's Cross.

Like the rest of the Castle, the Hospital Wing had emptied since the night before. Privacy screens hid the few patients who remained, except for Ron's bed. Ron's parents looked like they had not slept since arriving, which was probably accurate. They also had company. Tonks, clad in her maroon Auror's robes, was present, holding an international-grade Quidditch broom with part of the handle sheared off.

On a side table lay a copy of this morning's Prophet, its lead story a preview of the now-cancelled Quidditch match. A column below the fold overflowed with second-hand speculation, hearsay, and innuendo concerning Hermione's sudden absence. Another gush of purple prose concerned her supposed affinity for star Seekers. Hermione spared the fishwrap but a glance. Never had the Prophet's front page been so thoroughly out-of-date by the time it was delivered.

Everything else stopped when the Weasleys espied Harry and Hermione.

After a long moment when one could have heard an owl's feather drop, Molly's wails of grief and pain shattered the silence. “Oh, Merlin, why did she have to get involved with all that? Why couldn't she just get over you! Why didn't I try harder to stop her?! And what she did to you … awful … oh, I'm so sorry!”

Tears in her eyes, Molly rushed towards Harry, arms apart. Harry braced himself for a full-bore, bone-crushing hug, but she suddenly stopped short, uncertain whether Harry would welcome an embrace after what her daughter's perfidy. She looked to Harry, and he looked back, startled.

Harry knew exactly how she felt. “I can't blame you for anything,” he muttered.

“Oh, Harry, you don't know. I suspected,” Molly choked out as she gathered him in her arms.

She burst into tears.

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is nothing at all.

Molly's state was such that she could neither continue a conversation nor let go of Harry. Resignedly, Arthur rose from his seat beside his son's bed and almost prised his bawling wife off of Harry.

For different reasons, both Tonks and Hermione felt extremely embarrassed at the scene unfolding in front of them.

Tonks' response was to leave. “Umm … we'll be continuing our investigation into this, and let you know whatever else develops.” The young Auror headed for the door.

Hermione's response was to change the subject. “What happened to that broom?” she asked nobody in particular, hoping futilely that Tonks would stay. She did not.

“Seems they were out to kill me, too,” Ron answered bitterly. “Troy's done a runner. That's his broom. The Aurors think that bastard….”

“Ronald, language,” Hermione tutted reflexively.

“…was a Death Eater, and had his broom charmed to break off during the match so he could kill someone. Merlin knows, I'm the most likely target out there - for a Chaser, anyway.” He reached for a goblet of steaming potion on the nightstand next to his bed. “Anyway, Pomfrey's revenge … I have to take this rancid stuff; I hope this is the last time. It's gonna knock me out, but I've heard most of this before, I think.”

Ron downed the potion with unusual relish. For a moment he looked like he was about to spew, but he went unconscious almost immediately.

Whilst Ron explained the broom, Arthur tenderly led his still weeping wife to a nearby vacant bed. Molly lay down without protest. “I'm sorry, too, dear,” He sighed. Moving behind her, once she could not see, he drew his wand. “Somnius.” He softly incanted a Sleeping Spell.

Then he turned back to Harry and Hermione - the pair his daughter had so grievously wronged.

Taking the Re'em by the horns, a gaunt but grim-faced Arthur Weasley looked first Harry, and then Hermione, straight in the eye. “Harry, Hermione, I know you must be incensed, to put it mildly. How much do you know about…?”

His voice wavered and tears glistened at the corners of his eyes.

“…Ginny and what she did?”

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is nothing at all.

Hermione Legilimenced, `Careful, Harry.'

Harry gritted his teeth. “Enough,” he replied. “I've been told about the note - the potions … possession by Voldemort.”

“You saw Tonks. The Aurors have been updating me on their investigation,” Arthur continued in a tone of enforced calm. “It probably won't change how you feel, but would you like to know more?”

“Okay,” Harry grunted. “Can't hurt now.”

Arthur spoke in barely audible tones. “Then can I trouble you for a Security Charm or two?”

Hermione immediately cast Muffliato. Harry then made them all literally vanish with his goblin Cloaking magic.

Arthur told Harry that Death Eaters had penetrated the Castle through the original Chamber of Secrets entrance, which meant connivance by someone on the inside - someone who spoke Parseltongue.

The only known (albeit former) Parselmouth at Hogwarts was Harry, who had the most ironclad alibi imaginable. Draco Malfoy was essentially the sole suspect.

Hermione shuddered - Harry's Parseltongue had been tied to a Horcrux, could Ginny…?

Arthur continued, assuming that Hermione had gone pale in response to his information. Splintered remnants of a demolished Vanishing Cabinet were found in the lower tunnel. That was presumably the Death Eaters' means of ingress. Destroying the cabinet prevented its twin from being traced.

More importantly from Harry's perspective, investigating Aurors had done precisely what Neville recommended - interview Moaning Myrtle. Although ghost testimony was judicially inadmissible, Myrtle had readily fingered Draco Malfoy and his two sidekicks, Cambo and Spott.

Malfoy, of course, had fled with the Death Eaters after personally murdering the Headmaster.

Under Veritaserum, Cambo and Spott both confessed to relatively minor roles. They had been Malfoy's lookouts, without knowing what he was planning. Still, that did not exonerate them, at least from charges of aiding and abetting.

Myrtle's and Malfoy's minions' statements completely exonerated Ginny of any Death Eater collaboration. After Cambo mistakenly Stunned her, he and Spott had shoved her unconscious body into a stall. The Stunner was poor and Myrtle revived her. Ginny then surprised the two Slytherins and bested them in a short duel. She was in turn surprised by the Death Eaters. She even tried to fight them - one of whom was surely Snape - but Draco did something that caused Ginny to collapse screaming.

Hermione relaxed as the eyewitness account essentially ended. Cambo and Spott fled to Slytherin House. Moaning Myrtle had a long-standing and well-founded aversion to large snakes, and when one appeared she retreated to the depths of the lake.

A couple of second-years later noticed Ginny enter Gryffindor Tower. She had appeared unsteady, but in the uproar that followed, nobody gave her much thought - save Jazzy, who came across her suicide note.

Once debris blocking the new entrance to the Chamber of Secrets was cleared away, Ginny's body was found. The Horcrux's destruction had … well, it had not been a pretty sight.

Harry winced. The goblins had supplied the debris, but Hermione had been rather … umm … overenthusiastic when preparing the faked body. She claimed it was to discourage anyone from examining it too closely, but he suspected that her motives were rather more mixed.

He did not really blame her.

Spott and Cambo had also known that Malfoy was peer tutoring Ginny in Potions, further corroborating Ginny's suicide note. The actual Potions assignment records were gone - incinerated along with Professor Slughorn in the Death Eaters' Fiendfyre.

“…and that's all I know,” Arthur concluded. “My only daughter is dead, and as much as that hurts, it's probably a good thing. Permanent possession by Voldemort….” He did not finish that sentence and did not need to. Instead, he dropped his face into his hands.

Harry had never seen Arthur Weasley cry - not even at Bill's funeral.

Sometimes the hardest thing to do is nothing at all.

It was brief. Arthur pulled himself together impressively quickly. He looked first at Harry and then, briefly, at Hermione. “I have only one question for you, if I could….”

Hermione's fingertips lightly brushed the back of Harry's hand - a “be careful” gesture not requiring Legilimency.

“…You were with her more than anyone else. Was there anything, anything at all, suggesting her possession? We've racked our brains and can't come up with a thing….”

“No,” Harry was able to answer totally truthfully. “I've asked myself that same question, and I can't think of anything. She seemed herself to me.” Harry did not bring up that, with his mind partly addled by Love Potion, he had not been himself, and thus was less likely to spot any aberrant behaviour.

“That doesn't surprise me,” Arthur sighed. “Somehow she was manipulated, but I doubt we'll ever find out how.”

Hermione stood, looking towards the exit. Talk of manipulation made her skin crawl. “Harry, I need to get my potions from Madam Pomfrey. You can stay if you want….”

“Harry, if you never want to speak to any of us again, I'll understand,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “What Ginny did was inexcusable, and we should have paid closer attention. But I want you to know that I've offered my resignation to Rufus…. He didn't accept it.”

Hermione had stopped when Arthur mentioned his own situation. “Would we get anything better if this Ministry fell?” It was a safe, non-Ginny question.

“Don't think so, no,” Arthur answered, adding another head shake. “After a successful Death Eater attack on Hogwarts, I don't think Kingsley could beat Thicknesse. Kingsley would get blamed, simply for being here….”

“Then the Minister was right,” Hermione pronounced. “You shouldn't resign. I don't blame you.”

Arthur almost smiled. “Evidently, the Minister agrees with you. If you want to come, and we won't blame you in the slightest if you don't, we're having a small, family-only service on Wednesday….”

“No slight intended, but I think I'll pass,” Hermione demurred. Harry did as well.

“Again, can't say that I blame you,” Arthur replied solemnly. “One last thing. The Aurors will probably need to debrief you both about the Death Eater invasion of ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls, since it's undoubtedly related to the attack here. Where can they contact you?”

“Umm … the ChÃ¢teau, probably,” Harry said. “All students have to be gone after tomorrow. I don't know about … Hermione….” He looked at her hopefully, almost pleadingly.

“I'll let you know,” Hermione answered noncommittally.

They left, relieved that things had gone as smoothly as they had.

“Hermione….”

“Come,” she grabbed his arm. “I saw Neville stick his head in. He's outside the door. Go get him whilst I see Madam Pomfrey about my potions and treatment.”

Hermione was right. Harry left the Hospital Wing and saw Neville and Jerry McAllister cooling their heels, obviously waiting for him.

“Are you both ready?” As to McAllister, the question was rhetorical. Neville nodded his assent. “Yeah. The other half's already done.”

No classrooms were in use, so they walked a ways down the hall and entered the first one with no window in the door. Once the room was secured, the first order of business was the content of the Unbreakable Vow.

Harry had not specified any particular terms, so McAllister suggested using the formulation that he had used for Neville and Ginny. Identical vows would be both cleaner and safer for the vow takers.

Harry agreed after reading Neville's terms, which his friend had helpfully written out in long hand. They provided, first, that Ginny would never reveal what happened to anyone without Harry's consent. As to her whereabouts, as long as Harry and Hermione lived, she could not return to Britain without both of their express written consents, delivered in advance to Neville. Under the same terms, she was also forbidden to be in any other country where Harry or Hermione happened to be.

That also meant that Ginny needed a British passport - fast. McAllister offered to “handle” it, as magically faked passports needed a lot less time than real ones. A passport for Harry, issued through proper channels, had been inching through the Muggle bureaucracy for weeks.

Fifteen minutes later, with the Vow firmly in place and tested, Jerry McAllister broached another subject, the condition of the ChÃ¢teau. “Sir, I know Mister Longbottom wishes to speak with you alone, and I don't want to hold anyone up, but could I have some instructions in respect of your return so the ChÃ¢teau can be as repaired as thoroughly as possible for your arrival?”

“We have to be out of here by midday tomorrow,” Harry informed him.

“Well, that doesn't leave much time doesn't it?” Jerry remarked dryly.

“No, but I don't have any instructions, save one.”

“Yes sir.”

“When you rebuild the side that collapsed, put the new elves' quarters there. No more basement rooms. Without the elves, very little of the ChÃ¢teau would still be standing.”

“You're … you're sure about that - I, I mean they're still elves?” Jerry stuttered.

Harry was adamant. “Absolutely. The elves' new quarters will be above ground, and the staff can deal with it or leave.”

“Then it will be so…. Will anyone be accompanying you to the ChÃ¢teau?”

That question was harder than Mr. McAllister could possibly have imagined.

“Umm … I'm pretty sure Jazzy - the younger girl who likes to fly - will. So make sure she can get in. Nev…?”

“Not me - not anytime soon,” Neville declined. “For the first part of the summer, I have to supervise completion of a new manor house that'll be a lot more practical than old Longbottom Castle. During those weeks, I've also agreed to look after my Uncle Algie. He's gone rather barmy, I'm afraid.”

“Later, then?”

“Probably not,” Neville shrugged. “Professor Sprout arranged for an internship over the second half of the hols, helping categorise and taking samples of endangered magical plants in Madagascar. Some other time, I guess.”

“Anybody else?” McAllister asked.

“I don't know about Luna….”

“Don't be stupid, Harry,” Neville chided.

“All right,” Harry growled rather testily. “I'm hoping that Hermione comes, too, but I don't yet know for sure, okay?”

“Sir, I've found that more planning, rather than less, avoids problems,” McAllister observed. “In the event that Miss Granger decides to grace us with her presence, what accommodations would you prefer?”

“Hermione will be working at St. Mungo's over the summer. You need to arrange that she can take the splixit from the ChÃ¢teau to Gringotts. It's a short walk, and even shorter Floo, to the hospital from there. The goblins can provide whatever security is needed.”

“That's well and good, sir,” McAllister followed up. “With the redesign you've ordered, and the elves under strength, we must prioritise our repairs. Should I configure the Proprietor's Suite for one or two bedrooms?”

“Two, I think,” Harry sighed. “Like you say, better safe than sorry.”

“Don't be stupid, Harry,” Neville repeated. “Have a little faith, will you?”

Mr. McAllister had the direction he needed. What he did not need was any part of this new conversation. “I'll be off, then,” he bade farewell.

Harry now gave full attention to his friend. “What is it, Neville?”

“Just … don't sell Hermione short, okay?” Neville demanded. “I'm sure she's ready to forgive you, now that she knows what really happened. Hell, even I am.”

“I never sell her short,” Harry responded.

“Bullshit, Harry. You just did with McAllister - twice.”

“Seriously, Neville. I'm pretty sure she's forgiven me as a friend, but I'm not at all sure she wants me for anything else….”

“Oh, really?” Neville scoffed. “Mind if I try, then?”

“Bullshit, Neville.”

“Anyway, I'm still here because I don't know who's safe to tell about Horcruxes, and I want you to have the bloody miserable results of the trip that ended up killing Dumbledore.”

“Shite,” Harry realised. “No Horcrux?”

“No Horcrux,” Neville confirmed. Reaching into his robes he pulled out a gold locket and handed it to Harry. “Just this useless fake.”

“How do you know?”

“Go ahead, open it,” Neville directed. “It's not hard.”

Harry did. “What's this?” He pulled out a piece of paper.

“A note telling anyone and everyone that it's a bloody fake.”

“Who's R.A.B.?” Harry asked, his spirits sinking further than he thought possible - at least now that Hermione was staying.

“No idea, but not selling Hermione short, I'll bet with a couple of days to poke around, she'll be able to tell you,” Neville speculated. “Don't know what good it'll do, though, since this is a fake and the mysterious R.A.B. is almost certainly dead.”

“So it was a bloody trap, then?” Harry asked. Dumbledore, a bishop if not the king, sacrificed for nothing….

“Seemed like it from everything I saw,” Neville allowed.

Harry kicked at the ground. “Umm … sorry, Nev. I think so, too. Can't see how it could've been anything else, with all that happened whilst Dumbledore was conveniently out of the way.”

Neville sympathised. “Damn…. He's really dead.”

Harry shook his head, “Yup, can hardly believe it myself.” He pocketed the locket. “Just to make sure, I'll toss this thing in with Ginny's scarf when we destroy that one tonight. You're welcome to come.”

“Ordinarily I would, but I'm trying to act as normal as possible until the worst of this blows over,” Neville politely turned Harry down. “I'm going to her memorial at the Burrow. You coming…?”

“Sorry, I really don't want to be around lots of Weasleys right now,” Harry admitted. “Hermione's right, I'm not a good liar. I survived my one visit by saying as close to nothing as possible - that and Molly … umm … left.”

“Okay, what really happened to her?” Neville asked. “You are pants at lying.”

“She went hysterical when she saw me. Arthur had to cast a Sleeping Spell on her,” Harry admitted.

“Anyway, I'm assuming you don't care to know about … the travel plans,” Neville inquired. “Should be overseas already.”

“No,” Harry concurred. “The less I know, the better. Here, you'll want this, I suppose.”

Harry reached inside his robes, extracted Ginny's wand from the back pocket of his Muggle jeans (Mad-Eye must have turned over in his grave), unrolled the scrap of Demiguise cloth that made it invisible, and offered it to Neville.

“Gee … thanks Harry. I wondered where it had gone off to,” Neville accepted the proffer. “Umm … the owner will be pleased - not having to be a Squib after all.”

“I've heard enough from certain sources that I'm comfortable giving it back,” Harry revealed. “Just make sure I never see it again.”

Harry was ready to leave. He had been closeted in this room a lot longer than he had expected, and he wanted to find Hermione. “There's one other thing,” Neville stopped him. “I'd like to join the Order. I've talked it over with Gran. She approves, and I think it's time….”

“You've got my vote, Nev,” Harry assured him.

“Then will you propose me?” Neville requested. “I know some of the older members surely think I'm pathetic….”

“Nev, you have two Orders of Merlin. Most members don't have any,” Harry reminded him.

“I know, but there's also jealousy over that. Gran says that members proposed by the leader of the Order always get voted in.” That nugget prompted a quick response.

“What?” Harry looked incredulous, and more than a little displeased. “Since when?”

“Since Dumbledore's death, of course,” Neville easily parried that question. “Gran was once in the Order, when it fought Grindelwald. She says the previous leader was some Frenchman, but not long after the Fall of France, Fawkes left him and chose Dumbledore. Whoever the Phoenix chooses leads the Order, even if you might not know it.”

Harry had had his fill of leadership positions. “Well, you're asking the wrong person, then. That means Hermione's the leader of the Order - but I'm sure she'll propose you.”

“Not so, Harry,” Neville resisted. “I was there, remember. It happened less than a metre from where I stood. Fawkes didn't choose Hermione. Fawkes is Hermione now, and vice versa. Now that she's successfully mastered the transformation, that clinches it.”

“But, then….”

“Hermione will always choose you, Harry,” Neville told him. “Provided you let her.”

“But….”

“Don't be stupid, Harry…. Bye, for now.”

Neville might have given him an unexpected talking to, but Harry still felt a lot better afterwards. He used the Marauders' Map (don't leave home without it) to locate Hermione, whom he knew must have left the Hospital Wing by now.

He saw her dot in the hallway outside the Ceremonial Library. Luna's dot was next to her, and one with a vaguely familiar name Harry could not quite place. He picked up the pace.

Harry met Hermione walking in the opposite direction, looking for him - an enigmatic smile on her face.

“I'm done, Hermione. How about some supper - last night of the year. Too bad the Leaving Feast was cancelled, though….”

“Yeah,” Hermione signed. “Too bad about that. Gryffindor had the House Cup locked up for another year - even before any Quidditch points were counted.”

“Umm … where've you been?”

“Sorry,” Hermione apologised. “Waiting for you took longer than I thought, and after I finished with Madam Pomfrey, I received a Patronus message asking me to meet with Luna….”

“Really? That's quite advanced. I didn't know she could it - I sure couldn't use a Patronus like that when I was a Fifth Year.”

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but the Patronus belonged to Elder Dromit,” Hermione disabused him.

“Oh…. I saw his name on the Map when I finally finished with Neville - everything's okay on that front, by the way….”

“Good,” Hermione told an anxious Harry. “But there's news - I've just learnt that things are better than okay with Luna.”

“I could use some good news right now,” Harry replied, looking a little sad. “Who's this Dromit wizard? He seems to have slipped my mind….”

“That's part of the news. He's the Senior Druid of Luna's grove. He came to run some magical tests - originally on me, but then on Luna. I'm not Druid High Priestess anymore … Luna is. Thank my lucky stars for that!”

Harry was almost dumbfounded, but happy. Hermione had never been comfortable with her involuntary involvement in a religion she did not believe in. “Well, good on you. Luna's a much better choice…. But how?”

Hermione grimaced. If anything would stimulate Harry's robust guilt feelings, this was it. But he needed to know. “As far as Druid Magicks are concerned, I died when the Killing Curse hit me. Phoenixes hadn't yet come to Britain when Druids created the ancient spells involved in all that.”

Harry was still dumfounded, but no longer happy. “You … you actually died?”

“Only as to the Druids,” Hermione hastened to clarify. “As explained to me, the fancy consecration spell is only essential when a new High Priestess is raised - essentially from nothing. In the pre-Roman days, however, a laying on of hands between a dying High Priestess and the chosen acolyte was a rather common means of transferring the powers of the office.”

The colour drained from Harry's face, just as Hermione had feared. “Yeah, Luna jumped on you after you'd … you'd…. Hermione, I really would rather talk about your living than your dying…. Can we change the subject, please?”

“All right,” Hermione sighed. She was happy to get the whole Druid complication out of her already overly complex life. “But Luna will be in training all summer. She promises a more thoroughgoing effort at removing any remaining potion from my system once next Term begins. Just don't expect to see her at the ChÃ¢teau. She's serious about her new role.”

“No problem, but I do hope to see you,” he invited her obliquely. “Let me tell you about the arrangements I've made. The ChÃ¢teau's getting some remodeling….”

“Let's do it at dinner, Harry,” Hermione suggested. “I need something to eat before I start my therapy…. Last time to back out - some of it is strenuous.”

“Hermione, I'll take on Voldemort for you any day of the week. A little workout doesn't bother me.”

* * * *

The Term's last evening meal was a subdued affair. Well over half of the student body had already left. With many extra seats available, Headmistress McGonagall issued a rare invitation for parents to attend. Adult attendance deterred any boisterous conduct all the more.

All remaining students were invited to attend a memorial for Albus Dumbledore, tomorrow, on the Castle's grounds. In accordance with his final instructions, Dumbledore would be buried (after his corpse was demagified) privately in his family's cemetery plot at Godric's Hollow - beneath the same simple marker that commemorated the rest of his family. The Headmaster's accomplishments spoke for themselves and did not require ornate marble remembrance.

Harry and Hermione had just selected their afters when a house-elf delivered a message from the Headmistress. It was a request to announce their Head Boy and Head Girl appointments. Neither of them was in any mood to draw more attention to themselves. Hermione, in particular, had barely assented to accept her appointment at all. They turned the publicity request down - flat.

The Headmistress' note included an interesting addendum that was emphatically not to be made public. Aided by a late Draught of Despair-driven surge, Hermione had accounted for an astounding thirty nine percent of Gryffindor's non-Quidditch House Points. The previous record had been slightly more than thirty three percent, amassed by Tom Riddle in the year of his award for Special Services to the School.

Some similar awards were probably in the offing for next Term - perhaps even a Medal for Magical Merit, or three.

Harry easily persuaded Hermione that the Room of Requirement would be more appropriate for her physical and magical therapy, given its ability to adjust for its occupants' needs at any particular moment. Upon their arrival, the Room helpfully provided a privacy screen. “I'm going to change into my workout clothes, now, Harry. Here, why don't you read Healer Huxley's physical therapy instructions whilst I'm busy…?”

Hermione slipped out of sight, counting to herself, `One … two … three … four….'

“Hermione!” Harry's shocked explosion came just when anticipated. “These instructions…. They're mostly talking about … shagging…!”

“Yes, `vigorous sexual intercourse to orgasm is the optimal therapy for the chronic hypo-endorphinism and bouts of acute dopamine deprivation that are characteristic sequelÃ¦ of extreme overexposure to Draught of Despair.' I've memorised it….”

“Hermione, you mean to tell me you're asking me to have sex … make love … with you as physical therapy?” Harry sounded disbelieving.

She had expected as much. “You volunteered. Would you rather I ask someone else?” Hermione retorted from behind the screen.

“NO!” Harry spluttered. “It's just that … I thought … something like this … you would have told me directly….”

“Would that have changed your mind? If it would then I….”

“NO! Nothing would ever make me change my mind about you! I love you!”

“Then what's your problem with shagging? Healer's orders after all.”

“That's just it,” Harry tried again. “I don't just want to shag you. I've never wanted that, well, just that….” After a moment's hesitation he continued in lower but still desperate tones. “I want you … well you know what I want, you know where it is, and it's yours whenever you want it. Hermione, what the hell do you want?”

Hermione did not want to be separated from Harry any longer.

The Room of Requirement must have sensed that the privacy screen was no longer desired, because it vanished. Hermione stood facing Harry.

Without a stitch on.

And not the least bit shy about it.

When Eliza had done that, Harry had felt … he had been stoned out of his gourd.

When Ginny had done that, Harry had felt … he had been under in thrall of a strong Love Potion.

When Daphne had done that, Harry had felt … he had been overcome by lust - due to the bizarre influence of that strong Love Potion.

When Fleur had done that, Harry had felt … he had been Veelaed within an inch of his life.

When Hermione did it, Harry felt … voluntarily yet totally captivated. She was a dream come true.

“What do I want? I want you, Harry. I've been badly hurt - I'm still hurting. That's why Healer Huxley says I need this therapy. But you … you've never hurt me physically…. I trust you with my body, and what I need right now is to be shagged senseless on a regular basis. It's been a month….”

“But Hermione, you deserve more….”

“Harry … pedestal,” Hermione reminded him. “I have needs; accept them, please. You should know. I didn't think I could ever trust you with my heart again, but once you … Daphne and Fleur, you could explain them, I decided to chance it. I don't know anyone else who could possibly make me feel the way you make me feel, Harry. And that's both good and bad…. I've decided to try….”

“Hermione….”

She was not done. “I know full well, I'm putting myself in a position where you could hurt me again.” She took a deep breath. “I'm just praying that you won't. I know you respect me, so I'm asking you, please take what I can give you. Let's shag, Harry.”

“Forever, Hermione,” Harry declared, softly but firmly. “That's how long I'll love you - till the end of time. For me it'll never be shagging, I want you to know that.”

Hermione was impatient with Harry's latest Gryffindor grand gesture. “I can't … just can't … deal with forever right now, Harry. Let's sleep on it - on each other - for a while and see what happens? Can't you at least try? I'm randy, dammit.”

“Okay, Luv, so am I.” Having made his position clear, Harry accepted Hermione's terms. He could scarcely do otherwise.

“Oh, my!” Hermione squeaked. Harry turned and saw something black and a little tangled beside him, hanging from the Room's ceiling.

“What's that?”

“I … umm … apparently wasn't exaggerating when I said I was randy - well, for you,” Hermione blushed. Her sudden embarrassment spoke volumes, as she had been parading about in the altogether for several minutes. “That's a, well, a swing … the kind used for shagging….” She had seen one once before, at Samson's Option in Hogsmeade.

To Harry it all seemed surreal. “You use a swing for shagging…?”

“Yes, Harry. Here, let me show you.” She hurried to the swing and pushed a few of its numerous straps this way and that. Then she settled in, looking more comfortable and giving Harry a truly stupendous view of her arousal. “Please, Harry, I really need you right now….”

Dear Merlin! Harry thought he was in heaven - that Voldemort must have killed him after all.

Harry never did figure out whether he, or she, or the Room, removed his clothes. It hardly mattered. With a minimum of talking, thinking, or analysing, the pair sought to recreate what they had enjoyed before Death Eater perfidy, and Ginny Weasley's outsized ambitions, had sundered it.

An hour or so later, one thing was clear. For both Harry and Hermione, their bodies had been better attuned to their hearts than had their minds. Thinking could be overrated. Overthinking a litany of errors and omissions certainly was.

Hermione's first session of physical therapy was a success by almost any measure. She vociferously approved as her endorphin levels received one boost after another. Fortunately, this part of the Castle was virtually deserted.

Only once did they have an issue. Harry was in the swing, and Hermione sought to service him as he repeatedly had her. He objected; as long as he was her personal trainer, his job was to pleasure her - full stop. Hermione, taken aback, protested that it made her feel powerful, but Harry would not budge.

Hermione's solution that they proceed with mutuality settled the problem, so she climbed on top. One thing led to another, and eventually Hermione was straddling him - giving the swing's stirrups (which magically appeared when needed) a strenuous workout.

Their bodies embraced what their minds - or at least Hermione's - was not yet prepared to acknowledge. Hermione was too far gone, howling too loudly, to notice when a telltale pink flash illuminated the Room and tested Hogwarts' newly rebuilt wards.

Their combined passions produced a Harmonic Convergence, something Harry had missed during his entire month with Ginny. He would tell Hermione that, eventually, but not just yet….

The Harmonic Convergence could not be reached chemically. It required genuine love.

Finally, their energies spent, they lay together in blissful post-coital languor - as boneless as they were painless.

“Merlin, Harry, you were brilliant…. But then you always are….”

“Me? Brilliant? That's you, not me. I just reflect whatever you're able to allow me.”

“Harry, you've helped me … immensely. With all the endorphins I've just produced, I seriously doubt I'll have any flashbacks for the rest of the month. But you know, I'd love to be able to help you.”

“Well, you could always…. No, that's for you, not me, to decide. But … well you do help me.”

“I'm glad. How am I - I mean apart from the obvious?”

“It's … well, your just being here keeps me….” Harry failed to complete the sentence.

“Keeps you what? You can tell me, Harry. You can tell me anything. I want you to.”

Hermione could hear Harry exhale. “All right. Well, you keep me from going Dark.”

“Dark? Harry, you're not Dark, and you never could be.”

“I don't know about that. The other night, for the first time in my life, I … well intentionally wanted to kill someone. Not stop them, not catch them - kill them….”

“You saw Bellatrix hit me with the Killing Curse, didn't you?”

“Yes, and I tried my dead level best to end her life, except she Disapparated first.”

“Harry, I frankly can't say I blame you. I'd have done the same thing if the tables had been turned,” Hermione said soothingly. “Wanting someone like her, or Voldemort, dead hardly qualifies you for turning Dark.”

“Wanting and doing are two different things,” Harry pointed out. “And besides, she wasn't the only one.”

“Harry, you can't kill Voldemort - yet,” Hermione warned.

“No, Ima Hogg, and every other Death Eater still in the ChÃ¢teau after you'd been…. I would have burnt it to the ground just to kill them, but Dobby and the free elves beat me to it. The ChÃ¢teau survived, but all the freed elves save Dobby died … threw themselves out windows knowing they couldn't use magic….”

“Free elves can be just as loyal as enslaved ones … and more powerful.” Hermione returned to one of her favorite refrains.

“Still, I hate how I felt,” Harry moaned. “It's one step closer to going Dark.”

“You won't go Dark, Harry. I won't allow it.”

“Hold me. Let me tell you something about the ChÃ¢teau….”

“Don't worry. I'll come with you….”

After they had exhausted each other, if not the swing's many possibilities (Harry promised to owl-order one for the ChÃ¢teau under the guise of durable medical equipment), they spent their most restful night in months in a featherbed provided by the Room of Requirement.

* * * *

Perhaps twelve hundred kilometres to the south, on an almost five-hundred year old balcony overlooking an eternal city, two similar men chanced upon one another. Both were similarly aged and overweight. Both wore similar red robes and white skullcaps. Both worried about the same things. If chance had not brought them together that evening, soon enough design would have.

“It is true, then? The wizard Dumbledore is dead.”

“It is true.”

“May his soul find redemption. That is indeed an unfortunate development.”

“It is. Although he was a nonbeliever, and drove a hard bargain, when he finally committed, his word could be trusted.”

“And what of the heretical Gospel of Truth?”

“It remains in the hands of the two children. Another ancient work, represented as from the same collection, has been confirmed as genuine.”

“Also unfortunate. We must act on the assumption that it, too, is genuine. What do we know of these children?”

“Harry Potter, the possessor, to whom we addressed our correspondence, is sixteen years old, underaged, and from all evidence a non-believer. According to Dumbledore, he is also the most dangerous adversary of the demonic wizard Voldemort.”

“The one whose essence is imbued in the chalice?”

“The same. Our exorcists have tested the chalice. Its demonic possession is confirmed.”

“And has the demon been cast out?”

“Unfortunately not. For the first time, our International Association of Exorcists lost a member in the line of duty.”

“And these … children…. Can they do better?”

“So Dumbledore believed - and he was rarely wrong on such matters.”

“This is indeed serious - on several levels. What about the other … the girl?”

“The girl is seventeen, extremely intelligent, and we believe highly dangerous to the Church.”

“On what do you base this extremely disturbing assessment?”

“According to our confidential investigators, the girl is not merely a non-believer; she is apparently affiliated with pagan remnants in Britain … Druids….”

“Is it your conclusion that she could influence the boy to make the heretical work public, or something similar?”

“Nothing is certain; a distinct possibility exists.”

“That risk could, as a worst case, destroy the Church.”

“As long as the heretical gospel exists, so does that risk, yes.”

“That settles it. They already know too much. Offer the chalice in exchange for the heresy. Invite them here…. Do anything and everything necessary to protect the rock and end the risk. Leave nothing to chance. Exodus twenty-two, eighteen.”

“It shall be done.”

* * * *

After Dumbledore's quite private (no politicians, not even the Minister) memorial service, Harry and Hermione left Hogwarts in a sombre mood. For all his maddening manipulations, Dumbledore had been a true mentor to Harry. Although Shak remained Harry's legal guardian, emotionally and practically, he was now on his own, except for one huge exception - Hermione.

As Harry's coach flew them to ChÃ¢teau Blackwalls, their sombre mood turned distinctly grim. Their next task was to destroy, once and for all, the Horcrux that had twice possessed Ginny Weasley. This time, they would leave nothing to chance.

To distract them temporarily from that unpleasant, yet inexorable, task, Hermione suggested that they go through the notebook Dumbledore had left for Harry.

They found an incomplete agenda - a litany of half finished tasks.

Looming largest, as it directly affected Harry's ability to finish Voldemort, was the status of negotiations with Church authorities concerning the Hufflepuff Cup. A swap - the ancient manuscript known as the Gospel of Truth for the Cup - had been agreed to in principle. Dumbledore had sent Blackie Howe's report on the authenticity of the Basilides manuscript to the Prelature as requested. Receipt had been acknowledged. Dumbledore's last notation was that, in all likelihood, Harry would have to complete the transaction in person.

The Church was pushing for a meeting in Rome. Dumbledore's notes suggested a more neutral site. Avignon perhaps…?

“It's necessary, but I still don't like this,” Hermione complained. “It's history, and they will destroy it, because it's inconvenient history.”

“It's not really our problem, is it?” Harry questioned. “We need to destroy the Horcrux, or I'm history.”

“Perhaps we could at least make a copy - to save for posterity?” Hermione mused. “I'm pretty sure I could duplicate the parchment and the ink. You could save it, hide it away someplace, with instructions to make it public after your death, which I trust will be many decades from now.”

“But that's why they want it badly enough to give us the Cup, innit? So it never sees the light of day, and they can claim it never really existed,” Harry pointed out.

“Yes, and that's just wrong,” Hermione insisted. “But they'd still claim it's a fake anyway, since the carbon ratio wouldn't match.”

“What's that?” Harry asked, as much in hope of touching off one of her factfests as for any other reason.

He succeeded. “The earth's atmosphere is constantly bombarded by high energy cosmic radiation. Some of it strikes carbon atoms in carbon dioxide, creating a radioactive type of carbon. It's chemically identical, so all living things absorb it equally. As a result, there's a percentage, of carbon 14 to carbon 16, that gradually shifts towards the 16 isotope after things die and the carbon 14 disintegrates….”

“Wait a minute,” Harry broke in. “There's a spell for that.”

“What?” Hermione countered, incredulously. She was not accustomed to Harry knowing a spell she did not.

“The Sisters have one,” Harry insisted. “They used it on the wood and paper that they put with the Nazi gold. They tinkered with something carbon to get some ratio right so it really looked abandoned for fifty years. That has to be the same thing, so you think…?”

“Almost certainly, Harry,” Hermione finished the thought. “Not to mention, Jewish witches like the Sisters undoubtedly have a long history with noxious Catholic anti-Semitism.”

“Hmmm,” Harry thought. “Payback could be a bitch. Lilithu acknowledged the Sisters' debt. I'll bet she'll help us….”

Talk turned to other unfinished business. Harry's training in France, set to start at the beginning of July, was high on that agenda.

The training was not a problem. Harry's living arrangements whilst in France were. Dumbledore initially had favoured an invitation from Fleur Delacour; the same invitation that Fleur had made - personally, very personally - to Harry at the Beauxbatons Ball.

Both Harry and Hermione now reacted poorly to that option. Fleur's questionable behaviour at the Beauxbatons Ball remained of paramount concern to them both.

But almost on the eve of his death, Dumbledore had written an addendum.

Recently - after the Beauxbatons ball, - Fleur had attached a new condition to her invitation. Harry could only stay at ChÃ¢teau Delacour if Hermione accompanied him.

That condition forced them both to consider reassessing Fleur's motives. Could she possibly be acting altruistically?

But regardless of Fleur's motives, her invitation remained implausible. Hermione had her own internship with Healer Huxley at St. Mungo's. Commuting from Central France to Central London would be impractical, if not impossible.

Harry resigned himself to living in the Groupe d'Intervention's barracks.

Compared to that dicey situation, preparations for the Acromantula hunt were simple enough. Dumbledore had parlayed with the centaurs, who were pleased (to the extent that anything humans did could please them) at the prospect of being rid of those eight-legged menaces. Their one non-negotiable item was for the hunt not to take place until the second half of August, so this year's foals would be old enough to migrate to a safe location whilst the hunt occurred.

Dumbledore's views were also more aligned with Harry's concerning the ex-Princess of Wales' alliance proposal. Due to the strong potential for extensive Muggle entanglements and repercussions, the late Headmaster recommended Muggle legal counsel with knowledge of the Wizard World. He provided three names and recommended that Kinglsey vet them, with input from Hermione.

Although the Headmaster's notes did not ascribe reasons, Harry wondered if he had entertained any of the same concerns that troubled Hermione. His strong recommendation that Hermione be involved all negotiations suggested as much, but was inconclusive.

Unwanted and premature publicity could endanger Lady Diana at least as much as Harry. Dumbledore therefore suggested that the negotiations be conducted in an out-of-the way venue. The provincial city of Limoges, where Harry was already scheduled to be working with the French elite Aurors, would be an excellent choice.

That clinched it. They would speak to the goblins about transportation. Some way had to be found for Hermione to travel quickly between London and Limoges.

The Dursleys.

Finally, Dumbledore had accomplished something significant.

The Order had made firm arrangements for their sanctuary upon Harry turning seventeen - after which the magicks that had protected them from Voldemort, not perfectly but adequately, for all these years, would expire.

No, they had not been exiled to Coober Pedy. Dumbledore had vetoed that, and even Hermione admitted that, perhaps, she had been a tad vindictive in suggesting that locale.

Australia, yes, but not the middle of the Outback. Instead, they would receive new identities and be moved to Erinsborough, some Melbourne suburb.

The Order had offered to Obliviate them - so they would not remember Harry at all. Vernon had readily accepted that offer, but Dudley, and surprisingly Petunia had declined.

Dumbledore's notes mentioned that Vernon had requested a mutual Obliviation - that Harry's memories also be altered to forget his uncle.

Hermione's response was caustic. “He's worried about you, Harry, when he should really be worried about someone else - me.”

Harry was curious. “What's that about?”

“That fat pig has more to hide than you know,” Hermione spat. “He was one of those who bribed my father, Harry, I'm sure of it.”

Harry had not heard this before. “You're sure…? You know this for a fact?”

Not yet, but we can find out,” she answered confidently. “I'll wager you galleons to gobstones that, somewhere on that computer he gave you - supposedly as a birthday present - is the evidence tying Grunnings, and him, to payoffs to my father. He gave that thing to you, I think, so the Muggle police couldn't find it….”

“We'll have to take a look, then,” Harry agreed, not at all happy about being used in this fashion. “It's probably still in my trunk, since the elves cleaned up after me when I tossed everything….”

“That's not a problem, Harry,” Hermione tried to get Harry to relax. She knew he was recalling that horrible period when her life had hung in the balance. “There's no rush.”

Hermione was right. Details could wait until after the Pacific Magical Gathering of the Polynesian Confederation of Covens was concluded.

The Covens' Gathering.

To be held in Hawai'i, on the comparatively ancient island of Kauai, at the ancient magical location of Honopu - also known as the “Valley of the Lost Tribes.”

As they finished reading Dumbledore's notes on the subject, a Hogwarts envelope slid out of the back of the Headmaster's notebook and plopped into Harry's lap, almost as if magically prompted.

It contained two sets of tickets, for both Harry and Hermione. One set was magical, consisting of two turquoise VIP passes for the Gathering. The other set was thoroughly Muggle - a set of first-class Air Canada tickets, with a change of planes in Vancouver, from Heathrow to Honolulu.

Two tickets to paradise.

International Apparition, even if within these two invitees' capacity (both were novices unable to Apparate anywhere they had never been), was a bureaucratic hassle. Portkeys could not jump across oceans. Compared to any other magical means, Muggle airliners were both faster and far more comfortable.

They were travelling - now quite literally - in Dumbledore's stead as representatives of the recently deceased Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. This assignment, however, was purely pretextual. Harry and Hermione had no official duties to distract or distress them.

For all intents and purposes, the Headmaster had arranged, for want of a better word, a much-deserved vacation for the pair of them.

Was Dumbledore omniscient? Probably not - otherwise he would still be alive. But on abnormally frequently, his powers of anticipation did seem uncanny.

* * * *

The time drew nigh for a task that Harry viewed with equal parts dread and determination. He had never before, deliberately and intentionally, set out to destroy a Horcrux.

From the ChÃ¢teau, the goblins efficiently escorted them both - Hermione was not about to let Harry do this alone - into their territory through the splixit. The lava damage to the tunnel was largely repaired, with only cosmetic remnants uncompleted, those being some about fifteen metres of rough, unpolished floors and walls.

The splixit delivered them to an equally roughhewn corridor somewhere deep within the goblins' underground catacombs. One door in the hallway stood open. The room it accessed was probably originally a cave. It had been dug out and otherwise modified until now it was approximately oblong with a ceiling that peaked in the centre at about five metres.

This room was utterly barren save for two things. Near the back wall was the white polystyrene chest containing the cryogenically imprisoned Horcrux. In the middle gleamed a cauldron that was a bit more than a metre across and almost that in depth. Although neither Harry nor Hermione were so gauche as to inquire, they both assumed that the great basin was cast entirely from solid gold. It had the colour and, as they found when checking it for tipping, the weight.

In short order, a crew of goblins using self turning rollers brought in one massive stone block after another - Easter Island style. They created a barricade by stacking end-to-end between the cauldron and the door. Their redoubt reminded Harry of a similar structure built by the Order on the day he and Hermione were awarded their first Orders of Merlin.

Hermione worked through the remaining details with the goblins. At Savini's direction (Harry was relieved that she did not contradict the goblins' resumed use of that term), the goblins filled the cauldron with a solution of nine parts hydrofluoric acid to one part distilled water. She then conjured a hot fire that burnt with almost painful, blue-white intensity. When the cauldron's contents began bubbling, she urged Harry forward with the admonition to “leave nothing to chance.”

By that, she wanted him to use all of the crystallised Basilisk venom. Perhaps a lesser amount would destroy the Horcrux, but with their magic being both improvised and untested, Hermione was not interested in skimping on the most essential ingredient.

They would deal with additional Horcruxes in due course.

The crystals hissed, snakelike, when Harry emptied the precious phial into the simmering cistern. Meticulously, the goblins wheeled in a gigantic stone lid that they elevated using a counterweight attached to a ten-metre long bar. When they cut the weight loose, the lid would slam down atop the cauldron, isolating its contents.

All that remained was the Horcrux itself. Moving with Hermione behind the barricade, Harry trained his wand on the polystyrene chest, as two goblin volunteers warily removed the top. Hermione Levitated the ice-encased shawl as beside her Harry dialed his Freezing Charm to maximum strength.

The two goblins, acting now as forward observation officers, stayed near the vessel until they verified that the evil iceball hovered directly above the cauldron. That task complete, one of them tossed the fake Horcrux into the cauldron. Then they quickly retreated to safety.

In unison, Harry and Hermione incanted “Finite.” At the splash of the object striking the liquid's surface, a goblin Asterlisk whirred through the air, neatly severing the rope connected to the counterweight. The huge stone lid slammed down upon the golden cauldron, visibly bending its sides. Everyone ducked behind the bulwark.

Almost immediately, the cauldron began giving off a low hum. At first Harry thought the goblins' Shielding Charms were responsible, but as it rapidly rose in pitch and volume, its connexion to Voldemort's Horcrux became almost painfully evident.

Hermione covered her ears. Just as Harry was about to emulate her, a loud THUMP rumbled through the room, feeling like a stiff breeze. With its passage, the intolerable whine abruptly ceased.

Besides their breathing, the only sound in the room was the quiet hissing and popping of the fire beneath the cauldron.

Conjuring Protego Shields, Harry and Hermione cautiously raised their heads above the wall.

Very little met their gazes. The stone lid was intact and still covered the cauldron. But the vessel itself was totally transformed. Instead of glittering gold, it barely reflected anything at all.

What had been gold was now lead.

The Horcrux - the soul fragment that had twice possessed Ginny Weasley - was no more.

* * * *

A bleary-eyed woman had just deplaned into the bustling Jo'burg International Airport from her early morning SAA flight from Madrid. With a change of planes in Dakar, Graciana Ferers had been travelling almost twenty-four straight hours. This was her first long-distance plane flight, and her first with her newly-minted Spanish passport. Her first flight ever - a few days ago from London to Barcelona - had been a puddle jumper by comparison.

Slipping into an institutional restroom that could just as easily have been in Dublin, Djakarta, or Delhi, she still had trouble recognising her appearance. Her skin was two shades darker, her face thinner, her eyes hazel, and above all her hair was brown and fell no farther than her shoulders. Her entirely new look took more getting used to than her new identity.

But neither was nearly as disorienting as her new circumstances. She had no choice in the matter. Her formal magical education had come to an abrupt end. She would never become a fully accredited witch. Instead, her new occupation required her to pass for a Muggle most of the time.

It could have been worse. For two depressing days, hiding out near Zaragoza, she had resigned herself to a Squib's existence. Then she had received an unexpected package containing her beloved wand.

She could scarcely believe it. Neville had made the terms of her future starkly clear - go abroad or face almost certain execution to ensure destruction of Voldemort's Horcrux. Nobody would believe her that, once (actually, twice) possessed by a Horcrux, she no longer was, but still lived. Death was the only known outcome of Horcrux possession. Her life would be as good as forfeit should the UK (or any) ministry discover her true background.

Her magic was a small price to pay for her life. And now, even that price had been discounted. She did not deserve Harry - or, she had to admit, Hermione. Harry would not have taken such a step without his better half's consent. Had their roles been reversed…? She doubted that she was that good a person.

Only one more flight to go, a regional flight to Gaborone. At that destination, the goblins would meet her, and she would commence her new life as their intermediary - selling gold and diamonds to the Muggles. Goblins and Muggle colonialists had both come to this place at about the same time. The goblins allowed the Muggles some reasonably decent deposits, Witwatersrand and Kimberley being two, but goblins being goblins, they kept the richest sites for themselves. Whatever production the goblins' own uses did not require, they sold to the Muggles.

This sales function was her new job - in Botswana. The goblins were quite used to caching away inconvenient mistresses.

She faced a two-hour layover. Here it was mid-winter; too cold outside to leave the terminal. Spotting an honour box for the Engineering and Mining Journal - only in Jo'burg, she imagined - she thought she might as well start getting acquainted with her new line of work.

The headline on the weekly broadsheet brought her up short - SEVEN TONNE NAZI GOLD FIND COULD DEPRESS MARKET. The story discussed the largest discovery of missing Nazi gold since just after the big Muggle war. An avalanche had uncovered the trove, and the amazingly honest spelunkers discovering it had contacted the Simon Wiesenthal Center after noticing the swastikas.

She recognised the cover story immediately. This had to be the end result of Harry's trip to Bavaria. Having excluded herself, she was not terribly familiar with what had transpired - except in that damned castle - but this article corroborated what little she knew. With the furore that undoubtedly followed the Death Eaters' murder of Headmaster Dumbledore, this relatively minor, seemingly Muggle, event would surely pass unnoticed back in wizarding England.

She sighed, accepting her fate but nonetheless wishing everything could have been different. Even here, near the bottom of a completely different continent, she could not totally escape the influence of Harry Potter.

* * * *

Author's notes: It's hurricane season in the US, at landfall they are most dangerous

Diplomatic shouting matches are described as “full and frank”

“There you go again” - Reagan quote

Harry's other incident was in Ch. 35

The Bake Off was Ch. 78

Slughorn knew too much about Horcruxes, see Ch. 62

“Looking for a loophole” - description of Richard Nixon reading the US constitution

Demetrius Tarbert was mentioned in Ch. 4

Thestralspotting = trainspotting

Ultra vires = beyond one's legal power

In Ch. 7, Hermione decided to stop writing Victor as it seemed to bother Harry

Best can do is a tie - the expectations for Lew Alcindor at UCLA

Ch. 52 mentioned Hermione's striving to be better than perfect

Lodestone as an ingredient in the love potion is mentioned in Ch. 58

Roofie = Rohypnol, a “date rape” drug

Durable medical equipment is more Medicare than NHS

Drawing water/cutting (“hewing”) wood - a description of menial duties (Joshua 9:21/23)

Don't know who I am/Life is for learning - CSNY's “Woodstock”

The broom plot against Ron was in Ch. 78

Owl feathers specially evolved to be quiet

House elves this way is more radical than freeing them

Jazzy will need a way in

Neville has a good job location

R.A.B. are faked initials; see Ch. 54

France fell in late spring 1940

Dromit met Hermione in Ch. 74

I never liked Dumbledore's ostentatious tomb

Demagification was discussed in Ch. 38

The lack of publicity will help both H/Hr and McGonagall

Eliza, Ch. 27; Ginny, Ch. 79; Daphne, Ch. 81; Fleur, Ch. 82

Till the end of time/sleep on it; from Meatloaf's “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” but with sex roles reversed

The sex swing was seen in Ch. 52

St Peter's was built between 1506 and 1626

The Gospel of Truth was discovered in Ch. 58

The International Association of Exorcists actually exists; its leader denounced the Potter series, so in this fic H/Hr are better at exorcism

Exodus 22:18 - thou shalt not suffer a witch to live

The Basilides manuscript was discussed in Ch. 73

Carbon 14 dating is accurately described

The carbon altering spell was used in Ch. 81

Coober Pedy is from Ch. 74

Erinsborough is from the Australian TV show “Neighbours”

Harry got the computer in Ch. 23; bribery investigators mentioned Vernon in Ch. 65

Harry was invited to the Hawai'i meeting in Ch. 47

Honopu is real, and is known as the “Valley of the Lost Tribes”

“Two Tickets to Paradise” is an Eddie Money song

Wooden rollers for moving massive Easter Island statues contributed to disastrous deforestation

The earlier barrier was in Ch. 56

This concentration is more effectively acidic than pure HF

Harry obtained crytallised venom in Ch. 54

A British Forward Observation Officer (“FOO”) targets artillery fire, at considerable risk

Reverse alchemy, turning gold to lead, is appropriate for a Horcrux

SAA = South African Airlines

Graciana begins with a “G”; Ferers is close to “ferret”

Witwatersrand and Kimberley are two very rich mining areas

There is an Engineering and Mining Journal, but it might not circulate in South Africa

The Simon Wiesenthal Center exists, and deals with Shoah-related matters

63

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88. Interlude In Paradise

Wherein Hermione's doubts are satisfied, she and Harry take a trip to paradise, they decide to tie the knot, the locals are befriended, invited and uninvited guests attend the wedding, and our heroes do not live happily ever after - not yet.

Now completed. I don't ask for reviews, but this is the last chance for you to tell me if you liked it (great detail) or hated it (diarrhea of the pen).

Disclaimer: I neither own nor claim any other rights in the characters and other concepts created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money, nor do I seek any commercial advantage from this work. As such it constitutes “fair use” as defined in 17 U.S.C. Â§107.

Thanks one final time to betas Mark Gardiner, Shane, Mathiasgranger, and Chris Backus. Thanks also to all the other betas who assisted me during the writing of this fic.

Beta Mark Gardiner (Coulsdon Eagle) and I deliberately coordinated the near simultaneous completion of our respective fics. If you haven't read his “Hermione Granger and the Goblet of Fire,” you should. It's excellent.

Chapter 88 - Interlude In Paradise

The owl's arrival may have been inconvenient, but its message was urgently and eagerly awaited. Strangely, from their passengers' perspectives, Muggle airports are quite thoroughly sealed from the sky.

Hermione's return from the loo was interrupted by the dissonant sounds of that owl, looking extremely out of place, scratching at a plate glass window separating gates 47 and 48 of Heathrow's Terminal Three. Fortunately, the steady stream of Muggle passers-by were entirely oblivious, contemplating their own journeys to come.

The owl could not enter - probably a good thing, for both the Muggles and the rather bewildered bird. Hermione darted into a currently unoccupied gate. Slipping behind the agent's counter, she uttered a Notice-Me-Not Charm, Confunded the Jetway alarm, Alohomoraed the jetway door, and temporarily Vanished one of the jetway's windows.

The impatient owl could barely wait to leave - frightened by the alien sounds and odors of Muggle Ã¦roplanes.

But its message made Hermione's tentative decision, already thoroughly overthought, incalculably easier. A heavy burden of uncertainty lifted, and she felt like flying - no Ã¦roplane necessary.

Harry sensed her more upbeat mood almost immediately. “What's up, Hermione? After all your moaning about the awful hassles of Muggle airlines, you seem rather happy. Or is flying to Hawai'i different…?”

She silenced him with a kiss, resolutely chaste since they were in public. “I just received an owl,” she whispered. “From Healer Huxley….”

“So, you finally have your internship assignments?” Harry asked. “You've been fretting….”

“No,” Hermione cut across, eyes flashing. “Come with me….”

In her eyes danced an offer that Harry could not refuse.

Her swaying hips enticed him to the deserted gate - LAN Chile flew only four dailies from Heathrow, and none so early in the morning. Renewing her Notice-Me-Not, she spoke breathlessly, “Harry, all our luggage is safely shrunken and in my carry-on bag. It's still more than an hour before our flight. Apparate us someplace magical and deserted, please? Right now.”

“Hermione…?” Harry was still underage.

“I'll explain when we get there,” Hermione avoided his unspoken questions. “Please…?”

Her pleading played on his sympathies.

Harry was sunk - incapable of resisting her. “Umm … okay, Hermione. Whatever you want.” With an unnoticed “pop,” they were gone.

Hermione found herself in a vaguely familiar field, overgrown with grass and bushes. A low sun low angle and a light mist combined to set the sky aglow. “Where are we?”

“Take a sniff,” Harry suggested.

The slightly rank maritime odour brought last summer's memories flooding back. “We learnt Apparition here,” she deduced.

“On short notice, I couldn't think of anywhere more likely to be deserted,” Harry commented dryly. “Now that we're quite alone, what's going on?”

“As I told you, I just received Healer Huxley's o-mail,” Hermione started explaining. “He's confirmed what I'd suspected….”

Harry wilted a bit. “Your physical therapy's been successful….”

“Oh, no. Too early to pronounce a definitive cure, I'm afraid,” Hermione told him hastily, “although lately my endorphin and dopamine levels have been well within normal limits, thank you very much. Look!”

She thrust the brief note and its attachment under Harry's nose.

Healer Huxley's post was short and cryptic; allowing only that Hermione's “supposition” concerning the “nature” of the Love Potion used on Harry was “typically accurate.”

As if she would ever be anything else.

The attachment - a page copied magically from that “Half-Blood Prince” potions textbook that Hermione had sent to Hlr. Huxley a month before - highlighted one word, “magnetite,” which appeared both in the ingredient list and the brewing instructions.

Hermione took Harry's hand. She seemed almost … bashful. “You know what that means, don't you?”

“Umm … yeah,” he responded, still in the throes of a guilty culpability he doubted he would ever fully lose. “You said that magnetic ingredients, like this, could produce geographic … umm … effects in potions at Hogwarts.”

“That's right, Harry,” Hermione confirmed, still holding his hand. “And now that's settled. It's been increasingly obvious every day since … well, since you volunteered to be my personal trainer - not even knowing what that entailed….”

“I'd do it again….”

“I know you would,” she smirked. “Even if it didn't involve lots of sex.”

“True,” Harry admitted in a slow drawl, “but like you say, I didn't know that when I volunteered…. So what's been settled?”

“We've been settled….” Words ceased as Hermione leaned in to capture his lips. Ending the kiss, Hermione regarded him intently. Initially her left hand rested lightly on his chest but trailed downward as she continued. “If it's still what you want, I'm ready to take it back. I was going to tell you once we'd reached….”

Relief and joy warring across his face, Harry looked completely gobsmacked. A broad smile gradually took hold as Hermione's declaration sank in. “You mean, you'll marry me…? Again…?”

“Well, we haven't been married before, but otherwise, yes.”

“You really will…?” He could not believe his luck. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“You want me to marry you?”

Leaving his torso, Hermione's hands plonked themselves on her hips. “Harry, how many times do I have to say yes?”

The current number finally sufficed to get the message across.

“Oh, Hermione….” He lifted her entirely off the ground and into a passionate, toe-curling, blood-boiling kiss - a kiss that, finally, she felt capable of returning with equal ardour. Hermione's true feelings, kept awkwardly under lock and key for weeks, burst loose as her mind finally accepted what her body and soul had already concluded.

Forgiveness.

Love that filled her soul to the bursting point.

Despite all that had happened, Hermione realised she remained every bit as much in love with Harry Potter as ever in her life.

But that love was different - stronger somehow - as if tempered by fire. Their relationship had survived more adversity than either could have imagined on the fateful day that Hermione returned from her Hong Kong exile. As nice as their ChÃ¢teau Christmas had been, by comparison they had been playing house.

Separating, pair found themselves surrounded by dramatic proof of the power of reconciliation. All about, for dozens of metres, the overgrown meadow was a kaleidoscope of colourful wildflowers, as early summer magically reverted to the height of spring. As in late autumn, when they had triggered a similar outburst, the vernal display was vibrant confirmation of the power of their love.

“Umm … wow!” Harry gasped breathlessly, overcome not only by the beauty of it all (and by her kisses).

“Wow is right,” Hermione echoed. “And `wow' is why we had to discuss this in the middle of nowhere. Can you imagine the chaos we would have caused in the middle of Heathrow?”

Harry had to agree. “Umm … yeah … like Interflora exploded all over the terminal. Good thinking, Hermione,” he complimented. “They'd have shut it down, with us stuck in London.”

Expectantly, Hermione held out her right hand - ring finger extended, willing herself not to tremble. Harry took her hand and made a show of kissing it chivalrously.

“Harry….” Expectantly, Hermione wiggled her unadorned digit.

Harry flushed with embarrassment. “Oh, right….” He grabbed at his midsection, almost tearing of his shirt buttons in his haste. He extracted the ring, with its now superfluous garnet, from his navel. With diligently practised (in private) goblin spellwork, Harry magicked the gemstones to their original, proper position.

He took her hand again, and this time his trembled. Wishing he could say something profound, Harry wracked his brain but could not string together a remotely appropriate phrase. Absent anything better, Harry sank to one knee and murmured, haltingly, “With this ring … I hope … I'll wed thee.” He returned the ring to her finger.

“Oh, Harry,” she pulled him to his feet and kissed him all over again.

These kisses had the expected effect. “Umm … speaking of the middle of nowhere, Hermione, you wouldn't be interested in … you know … and not as a personal trainer anymore….”

She shot him a wry look. “Not here, Harry. This is Auror property, and undoubtedly someone be along to investigate our little magical discharge.” She gestured to the surrounding wildflowers. “Besides, we don't have that much time before takeoff…. And a `quickie' is not how to celebrate our re-engagement.”

“Well, okay.”

“…But remember what you just said,” she poked her newly decorated ring finger in his chest, “you're not just my personal trainer anymore, so don't use that sorry excuse again….”

She grinned, and so did Harry. His “personal trainer” designation, the original pretext for resuming sexual relations, had evolved into something of a bone of contention. Harry would not let Hermione gratify him - asserting his limited “trainer” role. That excuse was now inoperative.

Harry could not be happier, nor Hermione.

No sooner had the re-engaged couple returned to Heathrow than they wished they had not - a loudspeaker's disembodied voice announced, for no apparent (let alone disclosed) reason, a half-hour departure delay. A proper, extended, celebratory dalliance would have been possible after all.

Whilst Harry muttered darkly about buying or chartering his own plane instead of using Muggle airlines, Hermione sought out the gate agent. She returned, frustrated and inclined to agree with Harry, after being fobbed off with some vacuous excuse blaming “air traffic control.”

Fortunately, Air Canada's violation of its contract of carriage was (for once) limited to that single, unexplained delay. Boarding proceeded smoothly - Dumbledore's legacy included two first-class tickets. Hermione had cast low-powered Muggle Repelling and Confundus Charms on her beaded bag, their only luggage besides a couple of books for the long trip. Hermione had purchased A Brief History of Time in an airport shop, whilst Harry had finally decided to read Tonks' Christmas present, Michener's novel Hawai'i.

After the left turn to first class, Harry busied himself with his watch, trying to reset it eight hours earlier on Vancouver time. He gave up because at this hour of the morning he would also have to change the date.

Ever-organised, Hermione tried to replace their scanned boarding passes in the envelope containing their travel documents. The binder was no longer empty.

“Wait a minute, what's this?” she blurted as she looked inside.

“What?” Harry peered over. “When did that get there?”

Sure enough, a roll of parchment nestled inside, as if there all along. One of Dumbledore's distinctive purple and green ribbons wrapped around it.

“This wasn't here when I removed the tickets,” Hermione clucked. “I would never miss something like this.”

“Must have been timed,” Harry offered. “Maybe the scanning … so we were definitely going. Let's see what his last words were….”

Expectations of a dramatic epitaph were dashed. Instead of an organised valedictory, Harry and Hermione read a series of jottings in the deceased Headmaster's distinctive loopy handwriting:

I shall die, willingly.

Appearances are often deceiving. You must trust Severus Snape.

Harry's reacted to those words like sitting on one of the Weasley Twins' biting whoopee cushions. His firmly fastened seatbelt thwarted his instinctive response, jumping to his feet, so he accomplished nothing beyond scattering a small bowl of cashews supplied by one of the overly attentive first-class attendants. “What the…! Snape?!”

`Harry, don't cause a scene,' Hermione Legilimenced. `Think about it….'

`I sure have,' Harry thought back hotly, his eyes flashing. `A lot. Neville said that Malfoy killed Dumbledore in cold blood, with Snape at his shoulder, and he didn't raise a finger to stop it.'

`But according to Neville, Dumbledore also insisted upon drinking that poison in the cave,' Hermione replied mentally, trying to calm her fiancÃ©. `Maybe he was ready to die - maybe Snape collaborated in….'

`Connived is more like it,' Harry thought sourly.

`All I'm saying is keep an open mind….'

`About Snape?'

`Yes, about Snape. He was a double agent - you know that. Just respect Dumbledore's last wish here, and ask Healer Huxley when we get back.'

Harry went along with Hermione, as the next handwritten line read:

Show this to Parry Huxley. He will tell you what you need to know.

On the next page, the Headmaster had scratched out a cryptic paraphrase of part of a well-known Muggle poem:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre,

If the phoenix cannot hear the phoenixier, then

Things will fall apart, and the centre cannot hold.

“What's that about?” Harry asked Hermione.

Her brow furrowed for a moment. “Yeats,” Hermione identified. “I think that, for once, Dumbledore saw fit to comment on your private matters, Harry.”

Harry did not understand. “My private matters?”

“Yes,” Hermione reiterated, lowering her voice to a whisper. “In life I suppose he felt constrained in offering advice on … well … romantic interests. But in the hereafter…. In his typical indirect fashion….”

“I'll say,” Harry agreed. “It's so indirect, I have no idea what he's on about.”

“You've never read Yeats, then.”

“Right in one.”

“It's like the Order,” Hermione suggested. “You're the phoenixier….”

Recognition lit up Harry's face. “And … and you're the phoenix.”

“That's my surmise, anyway,” Hermione went on. “This poem was his way….”

“Of telling me I was an arse and a bloody fool ever to let you go,” Harry finished the thought.

“Not exactly how he'd probably have phrased it - but in essence, yes,” Hermione agreed.

The last of the three pages bore only two words - at the top….

The Chamber.

Maybe Dumbledore had been interrupted, because the rest was blank.

Almost.

Harry missed the notation at the bottom of Dumbledore's note, but Hermione was more observant.

K_3[Fe(CN)6].

Hermione spotted the chemical formula. “Dumbledore has something else to tell you, or us, Harry.” Resorting to Legilimency, she added, `Something quite secret … probably about the Chamber of Secrets. Any ideas…?'

For a long moment Harry's face was blank, then comprehension dawned. It was not a happy moment.

`What, Harry?'

Harry shook his head, and looked pained.

`You need to let it out, Harry,' Hermione soothed. `I'll help you. I love you.'

`There's one thing about … even you don't know. Dumbledore moved….' Harry looked tragic. Hermione snaked an arm around him and drew him closer - as close as she could, since the Ã¦roplane was taxiing, and both were securely belted up.

`It's okay….'

Harry swallowed and finally expressed his guess. `My parents' bodies are hidden in there, and….'

`…He's telling you exactly where….'

`I don't suppose you've any in your bag, there.'

`Now, even I'm not that compulsive, Harry,' Hermione replied, rolling her eyes. `Next time I will, though. Count on it.'

Once airborne, the pair's thoughts eventually turned to their latest occasion for planning - a wedding of their own.

“At the ChÃ¢teau,” Harry suggested. “How about at midnight on 31 July … the moment I'm of age….”

“That sounds wonderful, Harry, but….” She paused, trying to marshal her Gryffindor courage.

Harry fidgeted. Finally, both simultaneously blurted out the same thought.

“I don't want a fancy wedding.”

“I'd much rather not be excessive.”

“You don't?” each echoed. Staring at one another, each waited for the other to elaborate.

Finally, Hermione smiled and took the lead, reverting to Legilimency. `I never expected to get married. I mean, who'd want…? But then you came along. You … well, Voldemort's out there, and I'd rather not provide another target. For some reason, he invested a lot of time and effort trying to keep us apart. Now that he's failed….'

`You think he might attack?' Harry's concern was obvious.

`I wouldn't put it past him, and I've never enjoyed society weddings anyway. My family dragged me to a few. You…?'

`I'm just sick and tired of being on display, I guess,' Harry admitted. `I want the happiest day of my life to be happy, not hectic. I was miserable at the Beauxbatons Ball, and if it's okay with you, I'd rather not do it again - to myself.'

`So what don't you want?'

`I don't want any reception.'

`I don't want an impractical and expensive white dress. The symbolism isn't even accurate, thanks to you….'

`I don't want churches or organ music.'

`I don't want bridesmaids.'

`I don't want tons of guests. That only emphasises the family I don't have.'

`Same here, Harry.'

By the time the pair were distracted to gawk at the brilliantly white Greenland ice cap, gleaming below them in the daylong June sun, the nuptials they planned would be quite intimate, indeed.

The wedding would be at the ChÃ¢teau on Harry's seventeenth birthday, but not at midnight - a concession to their few invited guests' sensibilities: Ron, Luna, Neville, Jazzy, Tonks, Remus, Hagrid, Dobby, Shak….

And Hermione's mother.

Eva Granger had sworn that she would come all the way from Perth, Australia for her daughter's wedding.

“Your mum?” Harry commented, sounding hesitant. “When did that happen?”

Hermione felt obligated, despite her mum's horrid conduct towards Harry. “The last time I saw her - before she left for Australia,” Hermione told him. “She gave us her blessing, Harry, and I promised she could attend our wedding.”

He could hardly deny Hermione that, regardless of his own feelings.

Hermione's father went unmentioned, since he had fled the scene and thus from her thoughts.

Not even Hermione could persuade Harry to invite his own relatives.

“The Dursleys? Maybe Dudley, but I don't want to see the rest of those money-grubbing bastards ever again.”

Harry also wanted to tell Bladvak, the goblin he knew best, about the upcoming event. He suspected that, being an honourary member of the goblin royal family, it would not be kosher (or whatever the Gobbledegook equivalent term) to marry without at least informing King Ragnok, his honourary father.

But goblins were Harry's only concession to politics. No wizard politician would be invited, not even Arthur Weasley. Well … except for Shak, but as Harry's guardian, he was different.

Blackie Howe could handle legal details. The day before, they would venture into Manchester, the nearest sizeable Muggle city to Blackwalls, and find a registrar for to issue the necessary civil marriage licence. The appropriate officiant for magical rites was harder, until one of Hermione's Eureka moments made the choice embarrassingly obvious.

`Harry, let's have Luna do it - she's the Druid High Priestess now. I'll bet she's authorised,' Hermione Legilimenced.

`Luna Lovegood … marry us?' Harry's eyebrow's rose in silent befuddlement. `But she's not even of age herself.”

`Age isn't everything, Harry. I should know. Besides, I doubt the Druids care - with the recent restoration of the office,' Hermione pressed. `And even if they do, whoever's training her can help with the official bits.'

`That's … that's brilliant!' Harry was converted. `She'll keep out the religious BS.'

Plans for a stealth wedding - a fait accompli before the Wizarding World ever learnt of their engagement - thus took shape.

A while later, at 39,000 feet above Hudson's Bay, the pair addressed the symbolically important name issue.

“Harry, we touched on this before,” Hermione broached the subject, “but it's serious, at least for me. I don't want to give up my surname. Women shouldn't have to…. But I don't mind losing my middle name. I don't recall nana Jane, anyway. She died when I was two.”

Harry's eyes burned. “Hermione, I was just as serious. To marry you, I'll change my name to yours. If you want me to take Granger … I'll do it - even though your father … well, we never got along.”

“You know I'd never demand that,” Hermione quickly demurred. “Besides, imagine the uproar that extinguishing the Potter family name would cause … especially in favor of my Muggle surname. That might be even worse than the sexual role issue.”

“Like I give a damn about all that. Middle name then - like you?”

“I don't want you to do anything you might later regret. James links you to your own father….”

Harry had to admit that, as usual, Hermione was on target. Still, the asymmetry bothered him. “But name changes should be reciprocal, shouldn't they?”

“Yes, but…,” Hermione trailed off. “Why drop anything? Think about Dumbledore.”

Not sure what she was on about, Harry asked, “What about Dumbledore?”

“He had more names than just about anyone,” Hermione pointed out. “Why not you?”

Harry blinked. “You mean, just add another one?”

“Why not? If you want to, that's a better way.”

“Hmmm … okay,” Harry decided. “Harry James Hermione Potter it is, then.”

“Harry! That's silly; be serious!”

“I am serious,” Harry protested. “For good reason, I don't want `Granger' in my name; but I love `Hermione' - because that's you. It's you I'm marrying, not your crooked father.”

“But….” Sighing, Hermione gave in. How could she, a feminist, object to Harry's adding a feminine name? “All right, Harry. I'll go along with that, if it's really what you want.”

“Names aren't the point.” Then he added a winning line. “All I really want is you.”

* * * *

Hermione spent their Vancouver layover reading peacefully in Air Canada's first-class passenger lounge.

After a quarter-hour, Harry closed his Michener and mumbled something about being hungry. Hermione thought he only meant to graze at the airline's free spread, but when Harry returned more than a few minutes later, he brought a Hudson News bag with him.

Harry sat back down next to her. Hermione thought nothing of it until hearing crinkling noises. She turned and saw Harry slip two garishly pink slabs of Muggle bubblegum into his mouth.

She looked a little askance. “Harry, you've never chewed gum before in all the years I've known you.”

“True, I didn't,” he admitted. “Until becoming your personal trainer.” His lecherous glance was enough to melt her from within, had he kept it up. “Decided right after the first session - you remember that - that my tongue and jaw needed exercise.”

“Harry!”

“Well, it's true - and you asked,” he smirked. His wicked grin returned. “Tell me, has it worked?”

“Oh, sweet Merlin, yes.”

“Do you want these?” he asked. “They look like Muggle versions of Chocolate Frog cards. What's an Alex Rodriguez `rookie card'?”

Hermione took the card and examined it. “He's a baseball player - that's sort of like rounders. He plays for the Seattle team, which is in America, not far from here.”

“Ah,” Harry nodded. “Muggle sports, like football. Here's another from the same team, Griffey, father and son…. You want `em?”

“No, not really.”

“Me neither,” Harry shrugged. “I reckon I'll leave them here. The gum's more important, I reckon.”

Hermione relaxed against him. “Immeasurably…,” she purred,

* * * *

Assisted by some diluted Dreamless Sleep Potion, most of their second leg across the Pacific from Vancouver to Honolulu passed insensate, save occasional interruptions by the extremely attentive flight attendants. It would not do to be unrousable in the Ã¦roplane, so Hermione had reduced the potion's soporific effect.

Hermione had to wonder about the Yanks and their forms. Why would tourists be carrying algae, bacterial cultures, or live fish?

Even with extra sleep, they emerged thoroughly jet lagged into the late Hawai'ian afternoon - a full twelve hours behind London. Semi-consciously they passed through American customs. With their luggage shrunken and safely stowed in Hermione's beaded bag, Uncle Sam's minions had precious little to rummage through. The charms Hermione had cast on her bag ensured a smooth, uneventful passage.

Worries about finding the Honolulu equivalent of Platform Nine and Three Quarters vanished once they exited customs. Lounging near the entry point was a profoundly bronze-skinned young man in turquoise cut-offs and a blindingly colourful open-necked shirt. He held a handmade “Potter-Granger” sign.

Briskly, Hermione introduced them to their - escort, driver, or whatever. “We're Potter-Granger.”

The sign-holder eyed them sceptically. “You da ones all da way from England?”

“That's us.”

“Umm … da ones what spendin' a week at da Polynesian Confederation conf'rence in Kauai?”

Irritated, Harry broke in. “Yes, let's go.”

“But you gots no cargo - not for all dat.”

“Cargo?”

“Stuff…. Da … luggage … bags.”

“Oh you're wondering why we don't have suitcases,” Hermione comprehended. Around them heavily laden passengers were leaving the international port of entry.

“Yah, dat's it.”

“We have plenty of luggage,” Harry told him. “You just can't see it.”

“Ah,” the Polynesian accepted the explanation and flashed him a sign like a fist, but with the thumb and little finger extended. “Mo bettah mojo … good. Dis way, den. I'm Kimo, your guide and pilot for today.”

He led them through the busy airport until reaching a section under construction - airports are always under construction. He lifted a strip of yellow barricade tape. As Harry and Hermione passed under, they felt the frisson of a ward crossing, probably of the Muggle-Repelling variety.

They left the maze of Muggle steel and glass behind. Turning a corner they came to a grassy field, shaded by tall palm trees swaying gently in the tropic breezes. An impenetrable tangle of greenery shielded the field from Muggle eyes. The thicket was perhaps five metres high and bedecked with innumerable yellow, orange, and red flowers.

The field felt almost Middle Eastern, dotted with numerous flying carpets, many Persian in design. Harry and Hermione arrived in time to watch another rug settle gently onto the grass, with four people aboard.

Quite unlike England, magic carpets were preferred transportation in Hawai'i.

“Aloha!” Kimo turned and greeted them with a broad smile. “Welcome to magical Hawai'i, Mista Potter and Miz Granger.”

“Umm, that's `Hermione Potter',” Harry replied with a straight face.

Hermione immediately played along. “And that's Potter Granger,” she added.

Their guide shrugged, never losing his sunny smile. “An' dese are for you Mista-Miz Harry Hermione Grangers an' Potters.” He pointed some kind of seashell, and two leis flew from a nearby stand. Harry received a garland of ti leaves and shark teeth; Hermione a fluffy one of yellow plumeria, purple orchids, and kukui nuts - with a Permanent Cooling Charm to keep it fresh during the trip to the Kauai conference site.

“Dis one's yours,” Kimo gestured towards a carpet, maybe two metres across and three long. Like several in the landing zone, it was mostly green with a yellow centre design that somewhat resembled a flower.

Harry held back, having never travelled by flying carpet. Hermione, having seen other travellers loading luggage on their carpets, set down her beaded bag and started extracting their luggage - her two suitcases and Harry's trunk.

“Whoa,” Kimo gasped, goggling. “Dat's da kine mojo. Fo sure you wen beat da Man Sam's customs, yeh?”

“What?” Hermione asked, puzzled. Avoiding customs had never crossed her mind. She carried no contraband, only various enchanted items that, under wizard law, had to be concealed from Muggles.

That - and neither fancied waiting at Muggle baggage carousels.

“Iffa you want, de pakalolo dudes on de island really be interested in doin' dat,” Kimo suggested, pinching two fingers to his mouth, pursing his lips, and making an exaggerated sucking sound.

Harry took umbrage. “No way I'd ever…!” He still blamed his being stoned for Eliza's death.

“Harry, don't, you're tired,” Hermione intervened to calm him down.

“No worries, brah,” Kimo backed off, hands raised in a peaceful gesture. “Nuthin' doin', nohow.”

A bit guilty over his presumptuousness, Kimo seated his passengers and lifted off as soon as possible. He decided on the scenic route. He swept out over Pearl Harbor and the Muggles' gleaming white Arizona Memorial, and then inland so these English tourists could get a close view of the Waianae Range, with its thousand metre-plus peaks.

England had no mountains worthy of the name, he thought.

But that was not true of Scotland, where Harry and Hermione spent most of their time.

Kimo was a bit disappointed when his passengers were more impressed with the mountains' dense vegetation than their height.

`I'll show `em.' He guided the carpet, carefully charmed for both safety and concealment from Muggles, over Oahu's north shore and out to sea.

En route to Kauai, Harry and Hermione learnt a bit of Hawai'ian magical history. Hawai'ian magic was organic; travelling with Polynesian shamans to the islands. No divorce between magic and Muggle divided the original human settlers - magic was essential to their navigation.

Separation emerged later, and never to the extent in Britain and the rest of Europe. Only after Haoles arrived, with their religious hostility to magic, was separation instituted.

That proved to be a good thing.

Not quite a century ago, a cabal of Haole farmers and missionaries overthrew the Hawai'ian monarchy, and eventually the Americans annexed the Islands.

Hawai'ian wizardry were never subjugated. Any American wizards in Hawai'i back then kept themselves well hidden. Relations with the American ministry began much later, and always at arms length. To this day, magical Hawai'i remained proudly independent. The Kanaka Maoli flag, and no other, flew proudly over the airport's magical enclave. The same pre-monarchical insignia was emblazoned on Hawai'ian ministry carpets, including this one.

The Hawai'ian history lesson took Harry and Hermione to the shores of Kauai, and beyond. Kimo gave another grand tour, along the south shore beaches and inland through a massive red, green, and black hued canyon, the likes of which - this time - neither of his guests had ever seen.

After an exhilarating, cliff-hugging climb out of the canyon, the flying carpet swooped through a mix of late afternoon sun and clouds only a dozen metres or so over an expanse of seemingly impenetrable high-altitude jungle and swamp.

Until the bottom dropped out.

Suddenly, without warning, the carpet went from skimming above the tangled treetops to over half a kilometre in the air, hovering far above a brilliantly green valley floor caressed by the setting sun's rays.

“Merlin! Will you look at that!?”

Kimo smiled; some things were guaranteed to impress anyone.

Nothing prepared them for the extent of the drop-off, or that instead of bare rock; these cliffs were green - covered with bracken ferns and other vegetation clinging prolifically to their almost perpendicular faces. Far below, pale dots, white-tailed tropic birds they later learnt, circled serenely.

Harry had nearly plummetted to his death from a sheer Scottish cliff, but that one was less than two hundred metres. These cliffs were what … four times that?

Kimo lazily brought the carpet around so that it faced the precipitous cliffs. Soon they hovered maybe twenty metres away from these roughhewn ramparts.

“Where … are we?” Hermione asked as she loosened her traveling cloak. The high forest air had been surprisingly cool, especially when clouded, so the lightly dressed pair huddled together for warmth. Here, however, warm air rising from the sun-kissed valley restored the tropical temperature.

“Aloha from De Valley of de Lost Tribes,” Kimo grinned. “You'll be spending de week down dere.”

The cliffs, whilst sheer, were anything but even. Waterfalls - some active, others dry, all nameless, eroded the rock vertically, every couple dozen metres or so, creating a fluted effect, almost like a curtain - a curtain of green - from the back of the hidden valley almost to the sea, visible over a kilometre in the distance.

Neither noticed any sign of human habitation.

“Excuse me, but where's the village?” Hermione inquired in a somewhat bossy voice.

“We have da kine concealment wards in de Lost Tribes,” Kimo responded with a shrug. From a flap in the carpet he produced two pairs of … something approximating old-time aviator goggles.

“Put dese on and den say wot you see.”

A well-kept village blinked into view - several substantial buildings, including a conference center, surrounded well over a hundred smaller huts. Patches of flooded fields indicated some agricultural activity.

The sun was literally on the horizon as they drifted to the neatly cleared landing field. Hermione had Harry watch for a green flash, but none materialised, most likely (she said) due to high north-shore waves.

The tropical sun sets quickly, so they left registration in complete darkness. A Polynesian Confederation of Covens guest Portkey delivered them to their deluxe hut at the back of the valley.

“Hut,” or “hale” in Hawai'ian, did not do justice to their accommodations. Powerful Rain Repelling Charms augmented the thatched roof. Should there be erratic weather, adjustable Heating/Cooling Charms could control temperature. Large Flutterby Bushes, growing naturally in the tropical environment, separated their hale from the others. Their quivering branches beckoned to the newcomers.

The hale's walls were swathed in fragrant umbrella-sized hibiscus - a riotous mixture of pink, yellow, red, orange, lavender, and white. On command, these flowers opened and closed, blocking or allowing breezes. Otherwise the hale mostly lacked exterior walls, so this vegetation also provided privacy. The only solid walls were two metres of black lava blocks at the rear, supporting the roof and concealing the plumbing. A flagstone deck by the side door featured a recessed multi-person spa. Geckos and colourful Hawai'ian spiders, charmed to avoid humans, eradicated mosquitoes and other insect pests.

The hale also featured a convenient minibar, or at least Harry assumed from his Neuschwanstein experience. When Hermione opened it, they learnt differently. Nary a three-ounce booze bottle nor a bag of sweets was in sight. Instead, the cabinet - much larger on the inside than out - was filled with bowls of fruit and nuts of all descriptions, cut pineapple, mango slices, papaya cubes, kiwi sections, strawberries, macadamias, cashews, and much more. The door held an extensive array of Fruitopia flavours and bottled water. Pastel-coloured mochi balls, stuffed with ice cream, filled the freezer. Anyone with a salt craving could gorge on Portuguese black bean soup, kalua pig, or (of all things) Spam.

The immediate question was who was hungry for what?

The bed was … evidently an issue….

The event staff chose not to speculate about the couple's sleeping preferences. Instead, they stuck a note to their front door - complete with proper Hawai'ian pronunciations - detailing the spells and wand taps that could merge separate beds, or vice versa.

That was a no-brainer.

Chilled potions left on the nightstand presented another choice. One option was guava-flavoured Dreamless Sleep Potion. The other was lilikoi-flavoured Pepper-Up Potion.

They had been travelling for more than twenty-four hours.

Holding the two potions in either hand, Hermione asked Harry. “Which do you want?”

“Hermione, we haven't had a moment to ourselves since you agreed, again, to marry me despite everything I did….

Harry saw Hermione frown.

Time for a mid-course correction.

“…everything that happened to you. But for every waking moment, I've wanted nothing more than this moment - to have you to myself. Evanesco!”

The Dreamless Sleep Potion vanished.

“Excellent choice, Harry.”

That choice was also a no-brainer.

“Now come here, you…. And no more excuses about only being my personal trainer…. Evanesco!”

“Hey, I might have wanted those clothes!”

“You've got more - I helped you pack, remember. You watched.” Her beaded bag lay on the floor by their bed. She bent over and opened it up, fishing.

“Evanesco!”

“Harry…! Well, I suppose turnabout is fair play….”

“Just don't turnabout quite yet.” The sight of her most intimate places peeking - almost winking - at him through that delightful little cleft just below her arse made him almost painfully hard. “I can still do that bit with my tongue, you know.”

“As can I…. There.” She stood, and faced him in all her disrobed glory - holding what resembled a Muggle spray can in her right hand.

“Wow … umm … what's that….?”

“Oh, a little going away present from the Twins; courtesy of Weasley's Wanton Witches. Now, what do I like best … chocolate sauce, whipped cream, caramel, or cherry pie filler…?”

“Oh, Merlin….”

“Or maybe all of the above?”

Perhaps forty-five minutes later, an intense pink flash jolted the most mauka (landward) of Honopu's guest hales. The roof stayed on, thanks to the hale's permeable walls. The umbrella-sized hibiscus blossoms flapped madly in the flow of magical energy.

Afterwards, all was still once more.

* * * *

Felicitously, the Seventh Pacific Basin Magical Cooperation Gathering ran on Hawai'an time, meaning the hosts were not early risers. The opening ceremonies started at noon. Long before then Hermione slipped free of Harry's soundly sleeping arms and, clad only in a colourful guest kimono, crept outside to examine the spa.

The fleeting tropical dawn was breaking. From the back of the almost vertical northwest-facing valley the visible evidence was limited to pinkish clouds floating above the towering cliffs. These persistent shadows meant less sunlight, so the thick forest filling the valley's wider makai (seaward) reaches thinned considerably around their hale.

The nearest cliff face shot upwards less than twenty metres away. A green wall of vegetation thickly shrouded its black eroded lava, the verdant curtain broken only by dark vertical stripes kept clear by intermittent waterfalls. The volume of falling water abated overnight - summer was something of a dry season - and most of the nearer cataracts no longer flowed constantly. Constant breezes along the upper cliff faces shredded these smaller falls' remnants, filling the air with light mist.

As the unseen sun rose, the valley's deep viridian shadows lightened. Broken only by occasional trees, the thickest, softest moss Hermione had ever seen or felt carpeted the ground. Leaving the grass-woven one-person flying guest mats behind, she walked the faint footpath towards the very back of the valley. In the cool of the morning Hermione wandered, moss tickling her bare feet and refreshing mist moistening her face and hair. She followed the path until the gorge curved slightly eastward and brought into view the terminal waterfall marking the back of the valley - hundreds of meters high. Higher still, the sun's slanting rays set the tips of the cathedral-like cliffs alight in brilliant lime.

If not paradise, this place was closer to it than anywhere in the world.

Retracing her steps, she paused only briefly to refresh with a Beachside Blast from their not-so-minibar. Slipping off her kimono, she wriggled back into bed next to Harry. Sensing her whilst still asleep, he grunted and rolled onto his back so she could snuggle into his side. One thing never changed - whilst sleeping together they never wore clothes.

She lay still next to him, comfortable in his warmth, but could not fall back to sleep. Instead, she thought … about her, Harry, their oft-threatened love, and this place….

Her mind was made up before Harry awoke.

Gradually he started to stir, mumbling something … something that for once sounded enjoyable. He would rouse soon - she had slept with him enough to know his tendencies.

“Harry, I think I'd like to do it here,” she whispered in his ear.

His eyes popped open, disbelieving at striking lucky so early…. “What? Oh. Sure…. Just let me hit the loo first….”

Once Harry returned, Hermione let him know that she meant more than just another round of mind - and magic - blowing sex. “Harry, what I'd like is to be married here. It's the most serene, beautiful place I've ever seen. I don't want to wait until we're back in England.”

That focussed Harry's attention. “Wow, Hermione. That's sudden…. No, I mean I'd love to, but the Ministry…. I'm underage, and you know they'll try to interfere. That's why we decided to wait for my birthday in the first place.”

“Then we won't tell them.”

“We won't?”

“No, we won't,” Hermione repeated. “I've thought this over. I'm sure the Hawai'ians will happily marry us. I mean, honestly, they offered to help me get pregnant. We don't tell Arthur or any other wizard, and postpone our return flight for a few days. We can rebook from a Muggle town, using your BoE card. I can call Mum. Once the Ministry delegation is gone, we get married - right here - the back of this valley is amazing. Then we keep quiet until your birthday. I'm happy to have a second, civil ceremony back home, but here is where I want to become your wife….”

“Okay … the sooner the better…. But what about our friends?” Harry wondered. “Flying over, we spent all that time deciding whom to invite.”

“That was before I saw this place,” Hermione pleaded. “We can have a ChÃ¢teau ceremony like we'd planned. But … come on; put on a robe. You haven't seen everything in daylight, yet - not really.”

They both dressed - a good idea since the village was beginning to stir. The locals were interested, however, on the conference's long-awaited start, not on the largely uninhabited far reaches of the valley.

“Wow!” Harry's reaction duplicated Hermione's when he saw the collection of waterfalls at the back of Honopu Valley. The mist thickened, as did the moss, as the valley narrowed to a mere ten or so metres wide, surrounded by jungle covered cliffs far taller than any tower at Hogwarts.

“So you'd like to get married here, too?” she sought confirmation.

“Yeah, this is awesome,” Harry agreed, “but we'll need bathing costumes if we're planning to stay for more than a few minutes.”

“We don't have them, but do you … umm … want to stay for more than a few minutes?”

“Hermione, what do you…?” His question became superfluous as Hermione shed her increasingly damp clothes and, holding only her wand, scampered for the large pool at the base of the main falls.

Harry needed no further convincing. He stripped down and started to follow, only to pull up abruptly after a few steps. Near the pool's edge, moss gave way to bare rock, not suitable for bare feet. Hermione, he noticed, had Transfigured a soft pathway all the way to the water. He doubled back, followed her footsteps, and dove in.

Half an hour later, the pair donned clothes as thoroughly soaked as themselves and made their way back - having ticked off another adventure on Hermione's mental to-do list. Hermione had seen the idyllic Hawai'ian travel pictures of deserted waterfall pools, and had secretly resolved to make love with Harry in one. But she had arrived with no idea where to look.

For once they stood Sod's Law on its head. Something finally turned out to be much easier than Hermione expected.

* * * *

A pleasant aspect of Dumbledore's legacy was a schedule quite light on mandatory commitments and correspondingly full of free time. One of Harry's and Hermione's few obligations was to attend the Convening of the Covens - the opening ceremony where all the attendees were welcomed and formally introduced.

Both wore the muumuu-weight robes favored by the locals. Sure enough, plenty of heads turned when Harry was introduced. The story of his Basilisk-related derring-do had reached as far as the Polynesian Covens, albeit it in somewhat garbled fashion.

Basilisks were unknown in these parts. Instead, Harry was reputed to have single-handedly dispatched a huge mo'o - taking a page from local mythology.

During the course of this see-and-be-seen event, Harry and Hermione spotted the woman they hoped to find; she of the imposing, and mostly forgotten, name. Luckily, she remembered them much more precisely than they, her.

“Unh…. Hello, Miss….”

“Harry! Hermione! I was hoping to welcome you here personally. Hi'iaka Kupaianaha. I don't know if you remember me…. Right now I have liaison duty for the Confederation, so you can even say that this is part of my job….”

She knew her name was difficult for non-Hawai'ians, so she volunteered it.

“…So, are you enjoying yourselves so far?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Hermione broke in effusively. “Never better, in fact.”

“This place really is paradise,” Harry chimed in happily, but Hermione sensed nervousness in his inflexion.

Hi'iaka was well into her perky, can-I-help-you persona for the Gathering. “Great! What are you planning to do now?”

“Well, I think I'll stay and observe some of the plenary … you know, learn what the major issues are….”

Harry's eyes glazed over; even anticipating the actual event seemed boring.

Hermione knew that instinctively. “…But Harry, that's not really his cup of tea. I think he'd rather do something else….”

“Anything, actually.”

“Well, Harry might find an afternoon trip to the beach enjoyable. The locals - boys around his age - go surfing once most of the Muggle boats leave…. I wouldn't ordinarily recommend … he's Haole … but Harry being Harry; he could handle any problems…. Anyway, if I can help you with anything, let me know….”

Hermione squeezed out, “Well, there is actually.”

Hi'iaka's eyes lit up, then darkened again, as she saw how fidgety they both acted. “Umm … what is it?”

“Can we speak to you in private?”

“It's important.”

“I'll bet it is,” the young Hawai'ian responded. “I'm on duty now, but I have a break coming up. How about, in fifteen minutes in….” She pulled out a red, yellow, and green event calendar and perused it. “…room 124. It won't be used for the rest of the day.”

Harry almost missed the appointment. Most of the French observer delegation (present due to interests in Tahiti and New Caledonia) descended on him, full of questions about Basilisks and his upcoming training with their elite wizard commandos. Harry tried to be diplomatic, so he only escaped with a minute or so to spare.

Fortunately, the French spared Hermione. She used the time well and located the room in question.

They reached Room 124 less than thirty seconds before Hi'iaka arrived. Once inside Hermione locked and Imperturbed the door.

“What's up that's so hush-hush?” the Hawai'ian asked with great interest.

“This has to stay secret,” Harry impressed upon her. “If my Ministry gets wind of this, my enemies might try to grab control of my life. I've just escaped one wizard's thumb, so I'm not keen about winding up under another's.”

Hermione finally answered the main question. “We want to get married - here. But Harry's still under age, so we need a secret ceremony.”

“Wow!” was the only possible response. “What brought this on?”

“A lot of things,” Harry took up the narrative. “But the back of the valley, behind our hale, is so beautiful with the green cliffs, the amazing waterfalls, and the soft moss underfoot, that when we saw it this morning, we knew this was where we wanted to pledge ourselves to each other.”

“So we'd like to extend our stay by about three days, and get married after the Conference ends and the foreign delegations depart,” Hermione explained. “We love Arthur Weasley, but to tell him would put him in an impossible situation - caught between his official position and his relationship with us.”

“I'm sure we can arrange something,” Hi'iaka reassured - although she felt far from certain herself, suddenly charged with keeping the biggest secret in these parts since the Americans broke the Japanese navy's code. “Of course we'll be discreet. Most of us think you British are only marginally less arrogant than the Americans.”

“So you'll help us?”

“Of course,” she smiled. “But don't get your hearts too set on the back of this valley. You saw how damp it is, and a lot of activity would probably ruin the moss and create a sea of mud.”

Harry looked downcast. Hermione looked ready to research moss-preservation spells.

“Besides, you haven't seen our ali'i wedding site one valley over,” she went on cheerily. “If you liked the waterfalls here, you'll positively adore that spot. I guarantee it.”

“I'd love to see it,” Hermione agreed instantly.

“The valley to the east is called Kalalau. It's much bigger, and we have to share it with Muggles, so I'll have to involve our Kahuna to arrange things. It's best seen in the afternoon, anyway.” Smiling brightly, Hi'iaka clasped her hands together and fairly bounced on her heels. “Ooh, this is going to be so much fun….”

* * * *

Predictably, Harry found the conference, with all its diplomatic nuances, profoundly boring. An Ashrak this was not. Hermione, on the other hand, was quite fascinated by the gathering and all its exotic magical cultures.

Harry excused himself and decided to do some running - exercise to keep fit for his nocturnal adventures with Hermione, he rationalised. He took the smooth metalled path leading to the mouth of the hanging valley. This was a fine jogging route except the final couple of hundred metres, which dropped dizzily. Alongside the stream's roaring cascade, Harry navigated a steep and rocky descent to the beach.

At the beach, his eyes widened. The stream…. It flowed through a gigantic natural stone arch at least ten metres high at its apex. Avoiding sand that was scorching hot in the bright sunlight, Harry soaked his trainers in the stream to get a closer look. Distracted by the otherworldly scenery, he did not initially notice his audience.

A group of the local boys, some Harry's age, and others noticeably younger, were lounging on the makai side of the arch, shadowed from the hot sun.

One of them, with long dreadlocks, addressed Harry sharply. “'Ey cuz! Haole boy! Wot you doing on our beach, malihini?”

“Bored with the conference,” Harry answered warily. “Thought I'd see what the beach was like. I'm not disappointed, I tell you.”

“Not disappointed, eh?” another replied with a chuckle. “Where you from?”

“Britain … that is England.”

“Well come on over mistah Britain,” the first one gestured. “Mebbe we g'wine gib you some o' dis….”

As Harry approached, he saw smoke curling from something in the boy's hand. He recognised the odor. It definitely was not tobacco.

“Umm … no thanks,” Harry turned down the splif. “I'm not into that.”

“K den, wot you inta, cuz,” a third boy asked, standing up. They all wore long board bathing costumes, t-shirts cut-off at mid-chest, and what looked like rubber sandals. Harry was in jogging shorts, a half-buttoned aloha shirt, and soggy trainers.

An epinephrine rush shot through Harry's body. He realised he was outnumbered eight to one … and without his wand.

“Umm … magic, really,” Harry replied, looking around. He spotted another type of long board propped against the rock. “You blokes surfing?”

“Blokes? Wassa `bloke'?”

“Not yet, brah,” the one who originally hailed Harry shook his head. To the extent this crew had a leader, he was it. “Choke with de Muggles. Mebbe later. You do dat Haole mojo den? Where's yo wand, malihini?”

“Don't have it with me.”

“Don' got it?” the voices were becoming less friendly. “So how you g'wine make mojo den?”

“Like beef, Haole?”

Harry had to do something. The pack of Polynesians confronting him was becoming increasingly aggressive. They could attack - either magically or physically. Although with his extensive defence training, Harry was confident he could take any number of them; a brawl would hardly be diplomatic. Discretion was much better than valour.

“Like this.” Harry replied. With a swish of his right hand he wandlessly Levitated all of their surfboards. Twisting his left hand he set the hovering boards twirling in midair.

“Ai yah! Look wot he wen do. Dat's da kine, brah,” one of the boys backed off, sounding impressed. “What's yo name Haole boy?”

“Harry Potter.”

“Sheeut. Fo real?”

“Right on, brah! Alohaz!”

“Wanna go surf, brah?” the dreadlocked boy asked.

Instantly, matters improved immeasurably. The locals all wanted to surf. Concealment Charms kept them hidden, but too many Muggle boats were sailing too close into shore. Invisible or not, slamming broadside into a boat was dangerous.

“Can't you cast a Muggle Repelling Charm?”

“Dat's kapu - not on da water.”

“On de nomojos? Don' know how.”

“De moana's too big.”

“Let me try something else, then.”

Harry used air elemental magic to produce a cool offshore breeze - cool enough to form a thick fog bank that quickly drove the Muggle boats well out to sea. The spell had to be renewed every forty-five minutes or so, but that left plenty of time for quality surfing. Harry did not realise it, but his magic also created optimal surfing conditions.

The waves started as mediocre, but gradually improved. The most dramatic change was the locals' attitude, which shifted from aggressive to feeling honoured to have Harry in their midst. Each invited Harry to use his (no wahines in this group) surfboard and plied the first-timer with helpful tips. The one closest to Harry's build happily swapped his dark green cut-off tee, with an odd hand symbol on it, for the visitor's aloha shirt.

They showed Harry how to place his feet, and how to use the board's charms to his advantage. Charming a board to perform better on the breaks was cheating, but Self-Paddling and Homing Charms just made life easier.

The locals even taught Harry to make their own version of a Portkey. They enchanted segments of pandamus fruit so, if tightly squeezed, they transported the user to the beach. In major wipe-outs nobody wanted his okole worked on the rocky sea bottom, and newbies like Harry were particularly prone to those. He “busted plenny wipe outs” whilst learning how to surf.

But Harry gradually attained proficiency, thanks to the same natural athletic talent that once made him Hogwarts' youngest Seeker in a century. Riding a surfboard was not that different from riding a broom. Compared to flying a narrow, round broomstick, balancing on a broad, flat surfboard was easy.

After several hours, Harry got the hang (ten) of surfing.

He suspected that the others, despite their denials, were not above a bit of magical cheating whilst riding the waves. Some of their manœuvres, especially when going airborne, were hard to believe. So Harry cheated a bit, too, but not by using magic on his borrowed surfboards.

Instead, he charmed himself, reducing or increasing his weight as the situation warranted. A Featherlight Charm, timed just right, let him zoom right over the peak of a wave - provided it had not curled too much. With the opposite charm, he would sink and cut right through a disappointing wave, bobbing up on the other side.

But mostly Harry used water elemental magic on the waves - wandless attractive spells that enlarged the waves he rode. Whilst everyone else was catching eight-to-ten footers, Harry seemed abnormally lucky; with his selected waves almost always rising to twice that height at their peak.

Beginning another exhilarating slide down a magically magnified breaker, Harry spotted Hermione and Hi'iaka wafting down the face of the hanging valley on their one-person flying mats. Trying to wave to them, Harry lost his balance, producing a spectacular over-the-falls wipe-out that called his pandamus Portkey into service for the last time that day.

He materialised on the beach at almost the same instant a frantic-looking Hermione swooped down.

“Merlin, Harry!” she screeched. “You could have been killed! What on earth do you think you were doing?”

“Umm … surfing.”

“Well, yes, I could see that,” Hermione snarked until finally admitting to herself that Harry's idea of fun would always be mortifyingly different from hers. “Oh, you'll be the death of me. That was nearly as bad as Quidditch. Anyway, what I should really be saying is aloha au ia oe, since we've arranged to visit the … umm … you-know-where.”

“Okay, but I need one of those,” Harry pointed at her mat - his reluctance to end his surfing adventure outweighed by his interest in seeing the place he would probably become her husband in less than in a week.

“Here, I brought your mat for you,” Hermione tossed a neatly rolled up rattan cylinder to him. “I noticed you didn't take it from our hale.”

“Didn't know it was there.”

“You left your wand, too, by the way.” Looking a bit superior, Hermione handed Harry his dual-wand wrist holster.

The rest of the surfers, left behind by Harry's abrupt Portkey to the beach, pounded up the strand. “Sweet Pele, Potter, this wasn't what I meant. What are you doing with this bunch of kolohes?” Hi'iaka commented disdainfully. She recognised several of the village's most notorious ruffians and knock-abouts.

“Umm … surfing.”

“Well, good for you.”

“Aloha, guys,” Harry took his leave. “Let's do it again sometime.”

Harry floated off between the two women as the appreciative scrum of young, thoroughly sodden Hawai'ian warlocks waved good-bye, using the same strange hand gesture emblazoned on Harry's traded-for shirt.

“Hi'iaka, what's this mean?” Harry asked, making a fist with his thumb and little finger extended to either side.

“That's called a `shaka',” their guide explained. “It's sort of like `aloha.' It means everything from `hello' to `just having fun' - all good stuff. When you flash anybody that sign, it means your friends….”

She threw Hermione a saucy look.

“…or in her case, lovers.”

Harry grinned and threw a shaka at Hermione whilst Legilimencing, `I love you.'

Her face glowing, Hermione returned the gesture.

As they flew their mats back towards Honopu Valley, now glowing luminously green in the sun's westward rays, Harry glanced uncertainly at the towering cliffs.

“Do we fly over those to get there?”

“We could, but it's easier to take the underground route,” Hi'iaka advised, “not to mention safer, with all those infernal tourist helicopters flying around. Muggles call them the `Hawai'ian state bird'.”

Just before the conference center, Hi'iaka veered sharply left towards a gigantic mango tree that guarded the valley's eastern ramparts. She put a large triton shell to her lips and blew a pattern of two long, three short, and two long notes. An opening appeared in the dark cleft of an almost dry waterfall track.

“In here,” Hi'iaka led. She coaxed a couple more sounds from the triton, which sounded strangled to Harry's western ears, and the end of the cut-off shell started glowing.

“Lumos!” Harry and Hermione followed suit with their wands.

“What is this?” Hermione asked, always inquisitive.

“Mostly natural - old lava tubes,” their guide explained. “The whole island's honeycombed with them - all the Islands, actually. Our ancestors just connected them.”

“Do these tunnels extend under Muggle areas?” Hermione inquired.

Hi'iaka laughed. “Of course, that's one reason to use them, to avoid prying Muggle eyes.”

“I have errands to run in some Muggle town,” Hermione stated. “I need to change our return flight without the Ministry knowing, and I have to call my mum. I promised her that, when I married Harry, she could be there.”

“O … kay,” Harry acceded. He would never prevent Hermione from inviting her own mother to her own wedding, even if he did not like that woman very much - those dreadful (if now withdrawn) accusations of hers still sharp in his mind.

The goblins were a different story. Harry strongly suspected that Impatok Ragnok would be displeased if they married without at least trying to contact him in advance.

But neither knew if the goblins could even be reached from here, let alone how.

“Umm … Hi'iaka,” Harry called to the Hawai'ian witch leading them through this very long, very dark - and come to think of it, downright cold, tunnel. “Do you know how to contact goblins? I ought to invite their … er … leader to the wedding, or at least to send a representative….”

Hi'iaka slowed her mat to a crawl. “Sorry? I don't know what you're talking about. `Goblin' isn't familiar to me.”

“You've never heard of goblins?”

“No, sorry.”

This was worse than Harry expected. “Let's see - they run our bank, Gringotts. They're shorter, a bit over a metre tall. They have long clawed hands and feet. Sharp, pointy teeth. Some have pointy beards. They're fierce warriors, excellent miners, and artefact makers, too…. They live almost entirely underground….”

“Oh,” she responded, recognition in her voice, “you mean Menehune - that's what we call them. Legend has it that they first joined these tunnels….”

Harry was relieved. “Great! How can I tell them about the wedding?”

They had never seen the Hawai'ian witch shudder in fear before. “Not a good, idea, Harry. We - that is, Hawai'ian wizardry - aren't on good terms with them. Our ancestors drove the Menehune from the Na Pali hundreds of years ago. Since then, the Menehune … I'd call it an armed truce. Basically, we don't bother them, and they don't bother us.”

“But surely you know where they are - how to contact them if you had to?”

“Where they are, yes…. I know one access point at KÄ«kÄ«aola, what the Muggles call the Menehune Ditch. But I warn you, their reputation is rather violent….”

Harry was still mulling this information when Hi'iaka came to a halt, pulled out the triton shell she used like a wand, and blew another pattern of long and short notes. A doorway opened, and sunlight flooded in, suddenly painful to their dark adapted eyes.

They emerged onto a little-used path laid with rough-carved lava blocks. Fine red mud coated it, making for slippery footing. The distinctive low rumbling roar of falling water filled the air.

Hi'iaka chanted something in Hawai'ian - or so they assumed - and blew the triton. The rumble disappeared.

“That's better. This way. It isn't far.”

Not far meant less than ten metres, over a route thickly overgrown with strawberry guava and pandamus. They reached an ancient sun-dappled stone altar commanding an awe-inspiring view. Spread out before them was a great tree-filled valley, several times the size of Honopu. It sloped to the sea, surrounded on three sides by green fluted cliffs that, if a bit less dizzyingly perpendicular than Honopu's, were equally stunning in their sheer height and breadth.

The sunlit valley floor sent a warm breeze that caressed the visitors, banishing the chill from the long tunnel. Clouds spilled over the cliff tops far above, but the valley's rising warmth pushed them well away, allowing the late afternoon sun to bathe everything in its golden light.

They occupied a timeworn stone platform built on the shoulder of a precipice at least five hundred metres above the valley floor. Above them, for another seven hundred metres, towered green, vegetation-choked natural escarpments. Down those cliffs, on either side of where they stood, flowed two massive waterfalls, each carrying at least twice the volume of anything in Honopu. The falls were too close for their tops to be visible. Their erosive power undercut the rock, naturally maintaining these crags' soaring verticality.

Fast flowing streams emerged from pools at the bases of the twin falls. They swept past either side of the platform, merged in a rough triangle, and dove over the edge in a massive single cascade that plummeted into the valley below.

The sublime combination of emerald cliffs, misty waterfalls, balmy breezes, and brilliant tropical sunlight was like nowhere else on earth.

After spending a few ethereal minutes simply soaking in the views, before, behind, above, and below - and literally soaking in the moist air - Hermione turned to Harry and uttered a single word, “Yes.”

Overwhelmed by the whole experience, he just nodded dumbly.

She threw herself into Harry's arms and gave him a bone-crushing hug.

Harry lifted Hermione off her feet and swung her around, reminiscent of their first encounter once she returned from Hong Kong almost a year ago.

“Yes,” he echoed.

Enthusiastically accepting the venue, they inspected it more closely. On the makai end, just beyond the stone pavement's edge, Hermione noticed a bowl-shaped indentation, maybe three metres in diameter, partially filled with leaves and dirt. “What's that?” she asked.

Hi'iaka apologised for its condition. “We'll have it ma'ema'e in time, I promise.”

“But what is it?” Harry asked, now genuinely curious.

“We simply call it Paradise,” Hi'iaka answered, blushing a bit. “After the ceremony, you will be left alone, with an opportunity to consummate your relationship … there. It will be filled by a large, traditional Hawai'ian mattress. Once you are wed, everyone departs except your seconds, and they remain behind a charmed privacy screen until you summon them.”

“Why summon them?”

“Hermione, it is a beautiful place … I rather like the idea….”

“They'll - we'll, since I'm Hermione's second - be converting the Kahuna's carpet for your use to bring you back.”

“No tin cans, please.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

“I agree, Harry, but one question … is `Paradise' itself charmed?”

“Legends hint that it was, but if true, those charms are lost and have not been renewed in our memoury.”

“What kind of charms are we talking about?” Harry wondered aloud.

“My point exactly,” Hermione reiterated. “They wouldn't be similar to that Phallic Rock you once mentioned, would they?”

Rendered speechless, Hi'iaka could only nod.

“So I suspected,” Hermione pointed her wand at the indentation and cast her spell-revealing charm, Survellius revelato. The area appeared rather foggy and indistinct.

“What do you think, Harry?”

Harry ogled his bride-soon-to-be. “I think we need to be careful, but between the two of us, I'm sure we can arrange something.”

* * * *

Contacting Hermione's mum was simple - an international telephone call to a number Hermione already knew.

Rearranging their return flight was only slightly harder. Another Surveillius revelato showed that Harry's passport was not enchanted at all (Hermione had had Muggle passports since age ten). Somewhat humourously, they modified their papers to read “Hermione Potter” and “Harry Granger.” The deeper implications, however, tickled more than their funny bones. The resultant lovemaking session was sufficiently enthusiastic that they were interrupted by Covens' security service enquiring if everything was all right.

Reports of a woman screaming, indeed.

A reminder to remember their Silencing Charms was not the worst thing in the world. Harry and Hermione had almost lost track of time - a special dinner engagement. Hermione had encountered Manongia O Kaeaea at that morning's plenary session and almost immediately invited him over for a visit. The three chatted until past midnight, as Harry and Hermione told the Aotearoan representative the full ramifications of their earlier meeting - how his informed speculation about Cho Chang's tattoo was an essential link in a chain of events that included the Battle of Stonehenge. His assistance helped prevent the likely fall of the British Ministry and a catastrophic Death Eater takeover. News of this made the representative pale, then puff up proudly, as the value of his assistance became clear.

The next day Harry went surfing again and Hermione attended more of the Conference. In late afternoon, they boarded a quick carpet to Hanalei - the nearest Muggle town of any size. Hermione bought new return tickets under their assumed names. She felt somewhat guilty because she had encountered Arthur Weasley at the day's session.

An expectant senior Weasley confided that he had booked on the same Muggle return flight to London that Harry and Hermione would now not be taking.

Harry quickly dispelled her guilt. Spending a good twenty hours with Arthur Weasley, cooped up in Muggle Ã¦roplanes, was a bad idea indeed. Their conversations would undoubtedly involve extensive discussion of “the late” Ginny Weasley.

A far better liar than Harry would be pushed by that experience.

The most convenient alternative return flight was on an American carrier. Purchasing a second set of tickets and forfeiting their original reservations was simpler. The money meant nothing.

Using the elusive Menehune as middlegoblins to contact the Gablankansta promised to involve an entirely different degree of difficulty.

Hermione was working through a Tagalog translation of the Patronus Charm with a Filipino delegate when, ironically, Harry's Patronus hit her in the back. “Meet me on the beach behind the arch in half an hour. Tell nobody. Dress Muggle. It'll be fun - I hope.”

As soon as was polite, Hermione bustled from the conference. She knew Harry had been trying to arrange a surreptitious trip to the Menehune contact point - where they would try her idea about what might impress Hawai'ian goblins with aggressive reputations but probably primitive techniques.

Several of Harry's surfing buddies came to guide Hermione once she reached the beach. Although Hi'iaka had warned that some of these ruffians were less than trustworthy, they were perfect gentlemen in escorting her to Harry.

He was waiting, just on the makai side of the arch, his Manmak signet ring on his finger and his Arakkilli positioned just so over his wrists. Harry wore his old constellation shirt as a muscle-T, shorn of both sleeves. He was sharing some joke with a lanky young man whose dreadlocks fell well past his shoulders.

“Harry,” she chirped, sprinting the final few metres to leap into his arms. “Where did you get that?”

“That” was a full-sized parti-coloured magic carpet easily capable of seating six.

Harry chose misdirection. “Had the shirt for a long time. Tore off the sleeves so the whole Tladimax shows. Not sure how far up the arm it goes….”

“Harry!” Hermione cut him off in frustration.

Harry's companion gave her a sly wink. “Aska no questions, sis, an' you's be told no bullshit.”

“So who's your well-connected friend?”

“I know him as Makaha Maka, and despite whatever slanders you might've been told, he's a true friend.”

“Das right, brah, and you's da miss akamai. I knows da Menehune puka. We surf south shore in da winter. Jalike go flyin' fast kine?”

This was their one chance to try contacting the Menehune with nobody the wiser. “Let's,” she agreed.

“Lesgo bust one da kine flight, den.”

Before they went airborne, Harry took the extra precaution of casting a goblin Cloaking Charm over the carpet. Their unorthodox guide was impressed, and not for the first time, by Harry's magical abilities.

Thoroughly concealed, they started out to sea, then turned west, and then mauka from the next valley over. Soon wild-man Maka was following a Muggle road south past the canyon and to the opposite shore.

“Is dere, nexta da saggy bridge `cross da river,” Maka pointed as he brought the “borrowed” carpet to a smooth landing. As they touched down, Hermione reached into her beaded bag, and produced a red and white … something….

“Finite!” She ended her Shrinking Spell. The object returned to its original size - a Muggle cooler that was definitively bigger than a bread box.

Hermione eyeballed the ditch, a frown on her face. Menehune Ditch was something of a disappointment. It contained less water than the draft of Hermione's cooler - filthy, opaque water at that. With a shrug she turned her head and looked to the river on the other side of the Muggle road.

“Auwe, sis, you look unhappy. Wot you need?”

“Clean water,” she sighed. “I assumed, wrongly it seems, that the ditch would be full of it. We'll have to use the river, I suppose.”

Maka shook his head, his dreadlocks dangling. “Dis da dry side, sis. But no worries. Da nomojos, dey needs plenny water fo da sugar.” He pointed to a rather rundown looking structure a few dozen metres downhill, bridging the ditch.

“What do you mean…?”

“Jus wait here, cuz.” Maka jogged to the nearest support and was atop it so fast, he may have used magic. He produced a long, thin murex shell and pointed it uphill, whilst chanting something in Hawai'ian they could not hear.

Maka turned and shouted to them. “`Ey! You gets plenny da kine water now!”

Harry turned to Hermione and asked, “What did he just do?”

Hermione had to smile, “Opened a Muggle irrigation channel, I think.” She levitated the cooler under the channel.

“Evanesco!” Clear water from much higher up the mountainside gushed from the bottom of the viaduct, filling the cooler in seconds.

“A priori!” Harry repaired the viaduct.

As Maka looked on, fascinated, Hermione Levitated the cooler next to the ditch.

“Frigidio!” Harry incanted. The water froze almost instantly. Harry kept his wand trained on the ice block a bit longer than strictly necessary, so it cooled to well below freezing.

“Evanesco!” Hermione Vanished the Muggle cooler, whilst Harry Levitated the ice block onto the nearby carpet.

They repeated the process a dozen times, until the carpet was stacked with large blocks of ice - more ice than had been in one place on Kauai since … maybe ever.

Maka stared at the pair in wonder. He had no idea why his Haole friend and his wahine were making this magic, but it certainly was impressive.

Finally, Hermione conjured a large white sheet to protect their handiwork from the hot sun.

Harry evaluated the ditch. Not much of it remained - too little if it were actually as significant as the Hawai'ians claimed.

Taking a guess, Harry made a half-circle motion with his signet ring. “Aksey kastorik!”

He finally put the usual incantation for ending goblin Concealment Charms to better use than to facilitate a potion-addled tryst. The landscape rippled, and about fifty more metres of the so-called ditch appeared. More of a trench, it led to a tunnel burrowed into a nearby slope.

“Whoa, brah. Dat's major mojo!”

Menehune goblin magicks were sufficiently close to the Gablankansta that the same spell - albeit with extraordinary magical force behind it - ended both.

And this trench - the so-called ditch - was clear, a telltale sign of recent use.

Affirmatively seeking to attract Menehune attention, Harry leapt into the trench with a shout.

Nothing happened.

Lighting his wandtip, Harry followed the trench to its end. Less than two metres into the rock face a solid, featureless stone wall blocked the way. Harry reckoned he could blow it open, if necessary, but he much preferred a less hostile approach.

His first objective was to leave all the ice as a truce offering to goblins who had probably never seen anything like it.

Harry sought and found an alternative - hidden in a nearby recess was a cylinder topped with a smooth, wave-rounded stone.

Its size and location resembled the polished, spherical stones with which King Ragnok's goblins operated their splixii.

Ragnok's goblins had taught Harry how to operate the ChÃ¢teau's splixit. Since Menehune Concealment Charms responded to Gablankansta magicks, maybe their entrance controls would also.

Hoping he had activated the controls with his invisible (to human eyes) Tladimax scars, Harry moved the stone this way and that. Finally, he touched his Manmak signet ring to the stone. Throughout he powered the spellwork more robustly than probably necessary.

Nothing happened.

Harry thought he had failed.

Suddenly, dust started shaking loose from the stone wall. With a mild grinding noise, it opened to reveal a darkened chamber.

“Lumos maximus!”

The chamber was quite large enough for their purposes. Hermione provided Harry a parchment with the note she had composed the night before using Harry's Gobbledegook phrasebook. They requested the Menehune to contact King Ragnok's Gablankansta and inform the Impatok of their impending nuptials. The ice was both a reward and a sign of good faith.

With a Sticking Charm Harry attached the note to one end of the sheet covering all the ice. Hermione guided as Harry Levitated nearly a half-tonne of ice into the Menehune antechamber.

Then they waited.

After several uneventful minutes, they retreated to the side of the road and conjured Muggle beach umbrellas.

Harry compulsively adjusted his Arakkilli so their fit was perfect.

Maka opened a brown bottle of Primo. With the sun beating down, it was nearly enough to make Harry, a teetotaler, jealous - almost.

After about five minutes, the door at the end of the ditch slammed shut.

“Eh, dat mean dey know we're here and dey know we know dere dere,” Maka deduced.

Hermione's supposition - that goblins on volcanic tropical islands probably prized ice highly - was spot on, although not entirely for her reasons. True, ice was extremely rare among Kauai's Menehune, since they lacked magic or artefacts to make it. Most ordinary Menehune tasted it only during their version of weddings.

But whilst ice was rare, it was not particularly needed - at least not on Kauai, the island farthest from Hawai'i's volcanic hot spot.

The Menehune of the Big Island, Hawai'i's largest and wealthiest goblin community, were very differently situated. Their underground haunts were uncomfortably close to the most active volcanoes in the world.

For Big Island Menehune, cooling ice was a luxury of the first order. Their only natural sources, however, were the tops of extremely high mountains - an arduous trek. For them, ice was rare, valuable, and extremely hard to get. They happily paid through the nose for it, even to Muggles.

The Kauai Menehune recognised a potential gold mine when they saw one.

They also recognised Gobbledegook. Worldwide, spoken goblin dialects varied significantly, but they had only one abecedarian model. Regardless of tongue, all goblins used the same written language.

How did these wizards, two of whom were obviously tourists, know the goblin tongue?

What was their connexion to Impatok Ragnok, ruler of perhaps the greatest goblin nation in the world?

How had they ended their Concealment Charm - and all but forced a supposedly impregnable entrance?

Most importantly, since there was money to be made, how much ice could they produce?

Before Maka had downed his second beer, the stone door again slid open. Maybe two dozen Menehune filed out, gathering at the ditch's far end. Undoubtedly many more kinsmen were close by, out of sight.

The Menehune were armed, but compared to the goblins of Harry's acquaintance, their weaponry was rather puny. They were also hesitant, unsure what to make of foreign wizards who actually sought them out.

After some shuffling about, one Menehune stepped forward. “English do speak you?” he asked in a heavy accent.

Aiming his wand at himself, Harry gently Levitated himself into the opposite end of the ditch. Holstering his wand, he held his arms forward, fingers splayed. He thus demonstrated he was unarmed (at the moment) and gave the Menehune an unobstructed view of his goblin Manmak, Arakkilli, and Tladimax. “Yes, I speak English,” he answered slowly, then added, “Asi Inklak mandalah” - the same phrase in basic handbook Gobbledegook.

“The Most Esteemed Impatok Ragnok us to contact wish you,” came the next syntactically mangled inquiry. “Why?”

“As my note said, Savini Hermione,” he gestured to his fiancÃ©e, “and I are to be married here this weekend….” Harry ostentatiously introduced Hermione in goblin terms. “Impatok Ragnok is my adoptive father, and I am Ragnok's adoptive son. I wish to inform King Ragnok of such an important event.”

Harry did not see Hermione's ecstatic smile. Harry had publicly acknowledged their engagement - no, their nuptials - for the first time. It was real.

The interpreter's explanation to the rest of his - clan, perhaps - took quite a bit longer than Harry's original statement. The others seemed unwilling to accept what they were told. Finally, he turned back to face Harry.

“A wizard in goblin royal family?” he spoke slowly. “Unbelievable that find we. Explain must you if our help wish you.”

“I saved the Impatok's life and that of many of his subjects,” Harry began. He gave an extremely abbreviated description of the Death Eater attack on the Ashrak, and Ragnok's responsive actions.

Maka's eyes widened. He had never heard - never even contemplated - such a thing, but Harry's almost laconic description bore the ring of truth. “Fo real…?”

The Menehune found Harry's explanation equally, if not more, amazing. They clustered around the interpreter, chattering wildly in their dialect, virtually ignoring Harry. Had he been inclined, Harry probably could have captured the lot of them.

Finally, Menehune body language suggested a resolution. The translator once again faced Harry.

“Very well. To his Most Esteemed Highness, your message transmit shall we. However, reputation of the Kauai band, it at stake have placed you. If proven false is your far-fetched story, much face lose we. Thus, additional security require we….”

A sly grin crossed his face, as if successfully calling a bluff.

“…a hostage….”

“Hostage?” Harry looked shocked. Additional ice was one thing. No way in hell would he put Hermione in that position. And his new-found friend surely did not deserve such a fate. That meant he would have to….

“`Ey, brah!” Maka broke the tense silence. “All dat wot you wen said, no bullshit, right?”

Harry looked oddly at him, surprised at the question. “Every word's the truth.”

“Lesgo, den,” Maka declared, jumping into the ditch in front of Harry. “Can't no hab de bride or da groom go pau, eh? “I gots nuddin doin'….” He flashed Harry the shaka, theatrically thrust his bronzed arms over his head, ignored Hermione's weak protest, and unflinchingly walked into Menehune custody.

And so, an agreement of sorts was reached.

* * * *

“…Have you seen that little swishy things they want us to wave?” Harry was ready for the Convening to be over, or “pau” as the Hawai'ians would say.

“In the fruit cabinet, Luv - they were fresh cut so I kept them fresh.”

“Thanks, I need to go on the early side so I can tell Arthur we've been delayed due to the Kahuna's last-minute interest in buying Blackwalls' potions ingredients.”

“Remember, Harry, `Hawai'ian time',” I'm certain Arthur's had his fill of that - I know I have. By the time you're done, I'll have checked on the Menehune situation again…. I'm starting….”

COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!!

The hale's resident moa - that noisy excuse for a chicken that richly merited a Hoarseness Hex - loudly announced the arrival of “official” visitors.

“I'll get it. You haven't even shaved yet.”

“Hermione?” she heard Hi'iaka's lilting voice. She opened the umbrella hibiscus door. Their Hawai'ian friend escorted an even greater friend, Roxtar the Lost-Finger, another goblin in what must be formal Menehune garb, two members of conference security, and bringing up the rear, their newest friend, Maka.

Several villagers stopped in the pathway, gawking. Not every day brought Menehune, or goblins, to Honopu. More like - never.

“Harry, they're back!” Hermione shouted. “They did it!”

Harry came rushing out, a toothbrush in his mouth and his wand, glowing Razus Charm orange, in his hand.

“Impratraxis,” Roxtar greeted, throwing himself to the floor in ritual prostration. After a moment of confused hesitation, the Menehune representative followed.

“Ho braddah!” Maka exclaimed as he stepped over the recumbent goblins. “I don' believe dis!” He gathered Harry into an enthusiastic hug that literally lifted the smaller man off the ground.

Harry spat out the toothbrush. “Anyor, please,” he choked from swallowing what remained of the Muggle toothpaste Hermione insisted that he use. “Welcome everybody. I'm relieved that my message got through.”

“Great congratulations sends Impatok Ragnok.”

“And you, you great kolohe, you weren't mistreated, I trust?”

“Eh, da Menehune, dey could do bettah, malihini,” Maka jokingly responded in kind, “but dis one, aftah he wen learned wot dey'd done, he wen give me choke gold. Nuff to get own hale. Me hafta pick da kine wahine - like you, brah.”

Harry and Hermione were both intensely pleased that Maka, who volunteered when most needed (keeping Harry from offering himself), had been rewarded for his stint as a hostage.

With the imminent beginning of the closing ceremony, they had no time for extended conversation. Roxtar agreed to wait in the hale. Hi'iaka would take the Menehune - an official representative named Omanaha - to meet the Kahuna. She sensed the diplomatic opportunity of a lifetime.

Harry and Hermione would attend the conclave's closing.

Afterwards, Harry was delayed when several other conclave attendees - the French representative included - crashed what was supposed to have been a brief conversation with Arthur Weasley. Hermione returned to the hale alone.

Roxtar stood as she entered, bowing but not prostrating himself. She was not of the royal family - at least not yet. “Savini Hermione, much pleased is Impatok Ragnok. Save an imprexa, his first choice by far are you….”

Hermione smiled. “Why thank you, Roxtar. I hope I always justify your king's regard.”

“Of that, certain am I,” Roxtar declared, favouring her with a rare goblin-style smile. “More than regards sends Impatok….”

Roxtar ended a goblin Concealment Charm, revealing a package about the size of a large book.

`Of course,' Hermione thought - her notoriously bookish reputation was known even to the goblins.

“You will convey my thanks, won't you,” Hermione requested as Roxtar passed her the package with his nine fingers.

“Of course, Savini.”

The contents shifted a bit as she examined the package. This was no book. Delicately, Hermione opened it. She gasped at its blindingly brilliant contents, reflecting light in all directions. So many…. It looked almost like cloth.

“My word!”

She had obviously received a very expensive diamond - any thought these were fake would insult Ragnok - bib-type necklace. Grasping the nearest fold, she removed it from the box.

It kept coming and coming - a cascade of diamonds, most in the one-two carat range, held together by a network of silvery metallic threads.

She encountered a sleeve, then a collar, surrounded by significantly larger diamonds.

It took her breath away.

Not a necklace. She had received a dress - a wedding dress - fashioned entirely from diamonds, except for black onyx patterns woven into the sleeves and the train. It should have weighed much more than it did, but was obviously charmed to be feather-light.

“Merlin, Roxtar … I can't,” Hermione spluttered. “It's….”

“Gift to you of Impratraxis' father, Impatok, of Gablankansta,” Roxtar uncharacteristically brought her up short. “Try on, should you. Your measurements from before had we, but perhaps not perfect…”

“Umm … okay,” Hermione agreed hesitantly. She inspected the dress for zippers or clasps, but found only a couple, quite near the neck. “What holds this together?” she asked Roxtar. “Mithril?”

“Yes, a specialty of ours is it,” the goblin confirmed, admiring her perspicacity. “Quite rare to be woven into thread. Hold in place all jewels until to dissolve it, you wish….”

“Dissolve it?”

“The jewels sometime want may you,” Roxtar stated matter-of-factly. “Very valuable are that many diamonds….”

“Hermione, you in there?” Harry strode in with the Kahuna - whose real name was Kano Mawakuele - beside him. “Your mum's flight….” He made a hissing sound upon seeing her wearing a glittering, all-diamond dress that reached the floor.

“Hermione … Merlin's beard…. You're beautiful….”

Harry was agog, breathlessly gaping, as if seeing her for the first time.

Roxtar bowed low, “Impratraxis, returned have you. Now, activate the charms may you….”

“You … you mean, like at the ball?” Harry asked, gradually grasping that Hermione's amazing garb was courtesy of King Ragnok.

“Exactly.”

“Harry, but should you … you know, be seeing me like this … before tomorrow?”

“What…? Oh, that.” Harry shrugged. “I never thought I'd live long enough to get married. I figure I can handle seeing you in your bridal gown before the wedding….”

“Harry….” She lunged into his arms, her lips crushing into his. To Harry's surprise the diamonds did not dig into his skin beneath his thin shirt. He staggered a bit before steadying himself. One of his hands drifted to her back whilst they snogged. It found the open clasps. He shifted positions, letting Hermione bear more of their combined weight, and closed them.

The effect was immediate and just as disconcerting as before. She squirmed, as if he had started tickling her. The cut surfaces of countless small diamonds wriggled and slid as the dress adjusted itself perfectly to Hermione's shape. In less than a minute it was over. Hermione stood there, a vision. Rows of large diamonds decorated her dÃ©colletage. Sheets of smaller diamonds draped across her derriÃ¨re. A glittering train stretched almost two metres behind her, hovering a few centimetres off the floor.

The goblins sure knew their charms - and their artefacts.

“Mis - ter Potter,” the Kahuna drawled after watching the display, both of wealth and affection, from the couple he would be marrying on the morrow. “You told me you wanted a very low-key, informal wedding. But if your bride will be wearing that, you can't very well look like something a mongoose dragged in. Please come with me, I have just the thing….”

“Go ahead, Harry, I need to change into more practical clothes to fly to Lihue to meet Mum.”

Harry looked appraisingly between Hermione and the Kahuna. “Don't you want me to come along?”

“Actually, no,” Hermione shook her head. “Mum doesn't exactly know you very well. I want to chat with her first - to make sure she's on her best behaviour.”

“All right,” Harry agreed. He turned to the Kahuna, “Lead the way, then.” He flashed Hermione the shaka, simultaneously Legilimencing `I love you.'

Once the two men were by themselves, Harry asked, “What is this thing, anyway…?”

“You'll see soon enough, Mister Potter,” he evaded, eyes twinkling almost as much as Dumbledore's used to. “Rest assured it's quite appropriate and quite Hawai'ian….”

Maybe an hour later, Harry returned, reasonably pleased with the Kahuna's choice of a traditional outfit for his wedding day. With Hermione off collecting her mum, Harry talked with Roxtar.

Impatok Ragnok also had gifts for Harry. Harry recognised the first the moment he saw it, before starting to unwrap it.

Ragnok had replaced his Vorpal sword - the original had been destroyed whilst blocking Voldemort's point-blank Killing Curse, saving his life.

The other gift was new, and even more significant.

A headband - a crown in goblin eyes - for Harry to wear at the wedding.

It was goblin tradition.

Unless forced to ascend the throne prematurely, goblin princes were coronated when they married - when they could begin contributing to the nation's bloodlines.

It fit perfectly, of course. The band, ending on each side above Harry's ears, was solid gold - as if goblins would use anything less. The smooth, lustrous metal held five gemstones: two outer jet black obsidians cut in starburst fashion and an inner pair of deep red teardrop rubies. Its centerpiece was a magnificent pure white diamond.

Regarding himself in a mirror, Harry thought he looked rather ridiculous with that thing on his head. But Roxtar's words made him reconsider.

“Impratraxis, Savini's ring by the same goldsmith forged was yours. Perhaps notice the resemblance can you.”

Taking a second look, Harry agreed; aside from the obsidian, the resemblance was remarkable.

After the wedding, Harry vowed never to wear anything so ostentatious - except when on goblin territory. There, he probably had no choice.

Harry asked Roxtar to give his thanks to Impatok Ragnok, but also expressed some surprise. Amongst goblins, Roxtar was second only to Bladvak in Harry's personal esteem, but why would the Gablankansta select someone martial as its representative at his entirely civilian wedding?

Not that Harry was at all disappointed.

“Roxtar, you must have tried hard to land this Hawai'i assignment,” Harry jovially pointed out. “I would have expected … I don't know … someone less, well, sending a warrior for something that's well, not … if I'm making any sense….”

Roxtar understood perfectly. “Impratraxis, thanks are to you. Amongst my people with you associated am I. My…” He trailed off. This conversation seemed difficult for the goblin brave, and Harry felt remorse for starting it. “More successful am I … more than to dream could I. The “Lost Finger” now am I. Like great warriors of history….”

Harry had never had such a conversation with a goblin, and precious few with humans - except Hermione. He could talk to her about anything.

“If like others avoided assignment with the so-called `Wizard Prince,' a nobody would still be I ….”

Nor had Harry ever heard a goblin admit any other goblin's less than absolute loyalty.

“Everything you've achieved has been through your own bravery, not mine,” Harry told him. “So I can't see you in a civilian post, like a banker.”

“Bankers,” Roxtar spat. “Money too much crave they. Problems cause they. Unnecessary tensions.”

Was something more in play? Harry followed up.

“What tensions?” he asked. “What's going on?”

“Foolish bankers,” Roxtar grumbled. “Too important is the gold. Now with Gringotts' customers, are tensions. And what for? Money, when so much already have we.”

“So what happened, exactly?” Harry asked again, more concerned.

“Regrettably, not sure am I,” Roxtar responded apologetically. “Right are you. Banker not am I, now or never. To be your and Savini's bodyguard also is why sent here was I. If with your own kind to rise do tensions. Two days ago was that. Nothing more know I….”

Harry shook his head. “Well, whatever happens we'll take it as it comes,” he declared, reciting a motto learnt from Hagrid. “Nothing is going to ruin the happiest day of my life.”

“Agreed,” Roxtar added. “With bankers' follies, trouble not yourself.”

The day for the wedding of the century, at least by Honopu standards, began as had all this vacation's others - mists, shadows, tropical breezes, and a pink flash of Harmonic Convergence that set nearby umbrella-sized hibiscus and Flutterby Bushes flapping wildly.

Their bags were packed. During the ceremony, their things would be moved for the night to the village's best Honeymoon Suite - available after the end of the Convening - the night after that, Sunday, they began their triple red-eye return to London.

Hermione picked up her mum alone from the Muggle airport. That was just as well. The way Harry heard it, her mum - whilst pleased that the pair would no longer be “fornicating” - had been appalled at Hermione's latest encounter with Voldemort.

Hermione no longer bothered to sugarcoat the risks of the magical world. She was an adult and would act like one.

Still, Hermione had returned at wit's end. Her mum touched off a huge row by declaring that things would have been best if Hermione and Harry had never met. Hermione's vigorous defence of Harry led fairly directly to her Mum regretting Hermione's magical talent.

By the time the carpet reached Honopu, after a late night flight along the pitch black Na Pali Coast, a dÃ©tente of sorts had been reached - Hermione's mum would keep her views to herself and accept Harry's place in her daughter's life, whatever her personal feelings on the subject.

Her alternative was an immediate return trip to Australia.

At three p.m. precisely, a dozen triton shells trumpeted, and the village's two most sumptuous flying carpets lifted off for Kalalau - one bearing Harry, Roxtar, and Harry's friend Maka; and the other Hermione, her mum, and Hi'iaka.

They stayed close to the awesome cliffs to avoid Muggle tourist helicopters. A Concealment Charm protected the wedding site, but the usual Muggle-Repelling Charm was removed, due to Hermione's Mum.

Speaking of Eva Granger - she adjusted surprisingly well to the magic carpet, even when it flew hundreds of metres above the valley floor. Hermione never gave Harry a straight answer whether a Cheering Charm or some Muggle equivalent might have been responsible.

The twin waterfalls cascaded magnificently (as they always did). Approaching them made him think of Hermione - something he did often. She had magicked her hair for the occasion … into double-waterfall braids.

Hermione's carpet had proceeded first and was settling in for a landing on a spot cleared for that precise purpose. In the bright sunlight, Hermione looked amazing, her dress sparkling brighter than the waterfalls surrounding them.

Harry sharply contrasted with Hermione's brilliant fÃ¦rie white. He wore a native Hawai'ian outfit of gold (mulberry bark dye) and red (a long cape bristling with thousands of feathers) that the Kahuna had provided. Until the goblins' extravagant gift to Hermione, neither had planned to dress up. But with Hermione draped in several fortunes worth of diamonds, Harry needed more than Bermuda shorts and an aloha shirt with a moving design.

The ceremony passed as a beautiful dream. Hawai'ian chanting. An exchange of colourful orchid leis. Emphatic “I do's” from both bride and groom. Harry's theatrical removal of the goblin Concealment Charm from Hermione's ring - she was already wearing it and refused to take it off even for the ceremony. Hermione bestowing a traditional koa wood ring on Harry.

And finally, when they kissed, it was to the only music either wanted for the ceremony - the Beatles' “It's All Too Much” - the song Harry had used all those months ago to rescue Hermione from self-imposed mental exile.

The Kahuna handfasted them with a green leafy lei he had worn for that purpose. He then declared them man and wife, as recognised by the covens of the Pacific Basin Magical Convention. All guests then left, most leaving behind traditional offerings - black lava rocks wrapped in ti leaves. Hermione's mum dallied a bit in a sobbing embrace of her daughter. Everyone, save the bride, the groom, and their seconds, would enjoy a massive celebratory luau in the village.

The seconds - Maka and Hi'iaka - retired behind the aptly named privacy screen, where they would remain until the newlyweds were ready to return to the village for the night.

Finally, only the Harry and Hermione remained, united at last in matrimony.

As promised, Paradise awaited - a large cushion of sorts, coloured bright yellow, and comfortably warmed by the afternoon sun. They ventured onto it. Whatever the cushion contained was almost unnaturally soft, yet surprisingly firm at the same time. In other words, as intended, it made perfect marital bed.

“HypoviolettÃ¦!” Harry and Hermione simultaneously cast Anti-Sunburn Charms over the area. They would need them.

“Would you like help with that?” Harry gestured to her dress, which sparkled blue-white in the almost constant sunlight.

“I thought you'd never ask,” Hermione invited him, raising her hair so he could access the goblin clasps. The form-fitting features of the diamond gown relaxed as the clasps unfastened. Harry carefully lifted the amazingly light garment over her head - only to discover that….

“Like what you don't see, Harry?”

“But … the dress…. Didn't you wear anything underneath…?”

“For the ceremony, but once everyone left, I banished them,” she gestured behind her to where the unnecessary undergarments were barely visible in the long grass. “The dress had comfort spells anyway. This way felt more … naughty.”

Drinking her in, Harry could only mumble, “Five points to Gryffindor for excellent spellwork.” He carefully Levitated the diamond gown to where it once again obscured her unmentionables.

“Now can I return the favour?”

Harry nodded and raised his arms. Hermione slowly and meticulously removed the long red-feathered cape from his shoulders. Daintily she Levitated it to drape over a bush beside her clothes. Licking her lips, she divested him of the woven grass shirt and kilt of sorts he had worn.

“Finite.” Harry's traditional Hawai'ian garb flickered and reverted to its original form - the aforementioned Bermuda shorts and Hawai'ian shirt. “Sorry, but the real thing itched so badly I could barely stand still,” Harry admitted sheepishly. Unlike Hermione, his wedding garb had not been charmed - not that he had considered it - his thoughts were on other matters at the time. “The Kahuna … well I'm hardly the first, so he taught me the Transfiguration….”

“Well, we can't have you itchy, can we?” Ziiiiip.

As his Bermudas dropped, she knelt in front of him at the edge of the cushion's makai side. The fabric was warm, its surface soft, and firm but yielding - rather like Harry, but not nearly as yummy…..

“Don't expect me to make a habit of it, but for today … mmmm.”

Hermione took him in, her tongue swirling. Whilst she focussed on him, he stood staring at (but not necessarily seeing) the magnificent vista of Kalalau and the ocean beyond. Eventually, Harry simply closed his eyes - it was too much, and he needed to concentrate on not buckling at the knees.

Moments after yielding himself to her, Harry did topple over, and he, too, appreciated the attributes of Paradise.

Recovering, to sit on the fluffy cushion, he grinned at her. “My turn.” And so it was. First on her knees atop him, and then supinely splayed across the luxuriant fabric, Hermione was conscious of nothing but wave after wave of pleasure courtesy of Harry's amazing ministrations. Eventually, she felt a breeze and the almost ticklish sensation of misty Hawai'ian rain. She opened her eyes and … the sun was still shining….

Harry also stopped for the rain. “Merlin, Hermione, look!”

Rolling on her side, Hermione saw the glowing arc of a full double-rainbow soaring across the towering green cliffs. It neatly framed the white ribbons of the double waterfalls that tumbled down on either side.

They watched in silent awe until the brief rain shower passed.

Hermione snuggled next to him. “Harry,” she whispered as her hand slithered across his across his thigh, finding him. “Unless you want to be a father quickly, I think we need to watch what we do…. There could be Fertility Charms here.”

“Not until after it's all over, Hermione,” Harry sighed. “Only then can we think seriously about that….”

“I love you, Harry,” Hermione squeezed him as he put his arm around her. “But you're absolutely right.”

“So now what? I could stay here forever, but maybe we should….”

“There's still one way I'm a virgin, Harry,” she stroked his firmness.

“What? But I thought…. You really want to?”

Hermione crinkled her nose. “Umm … not really, but our options are somewhat limited.”

“Then don't,” Harry was firm in more ways than one. “Never think you have to do anything you don't like … not with me….”

“Umm … okay, then….”

“Then what?”

“I know,” Hermione smiled brightly, “let's try mixing our magic. I've been reading up, and now that we're married, nobody can accuse us of doing anything wrong….”

* * * *

The rented Chevrolet slowed at the junction reading “Kalalau Lookout.” Hesitating, the vehicle turned in - into the exit lane. It swerved, barely avoiding a bus full of Japanese tourists and clipping some of the ubiquitous bluish hydrangeas.

The driver, a middle-aged man, sweated bullets by the time he finally parked. “Damn,” he muttered, “I'll never get used to driving on the bloody wrong side of the road.”

One more time he checked his hastily printed Internet maps. The large valley had two overlooks (and a trail), but this was definitely the correct one - the one with the unobstructed view of the eastern valley cliffs.

Just to make sure, he pulled out the tombstone listing he had clipped from the wedding announcements in last Wednesday's Southland Times. It read:

Potter - Granger

To Be Untied In Holy Matrimony

June 14, 1997, at 4 p.m. local time

Double Falls, Kalalau East

Kauai, Hawai'i, USA

As the typo indicated, that ad had been as hastily arranged as his own departure for the States.

Now to find that view. He followed a concrete trail through neatly cut grass, past the picnic tables, and to the green painted railings.

What a view! A few clouds drifted off the swamps immediately to the south, but they evaporated in warm air rising from the broad sunny valley. Some sea cliffs back home were equally dramatic, but utterly inaccessible. Here one could look down - all the way to the sea a thousand or more metres below.

He scanned the fluted eastern cliffs. There! Double waterfalls poured into a cleft. A single stream emerged and almost immediately dropped into another falls, giving the appearance of huge, free-flowing letter “Y.” Interestingly, neither falls originated at the cliff tops. Instead, both popped from some particularly permeable rock layer maybe 150 metres above their base.

The official overlook view was still too oblique, and it was too crowded. Mid afternoon must be the prime tour bus hours, and the parking lot was nearly full with cars.

He looked about. There must be…. He knew first hand that Americans were notorious rule breakers.

There - off to the left, and a less than a dozen metres below the railing - the telltale red clay slash of an unofficial use track meandering along the western ridge. He followed the fence leftward until it ended and located the track's upper end.

A half an hour later he had followed the narrow and precipitous track perhaps half a kilometre - to a small open area no more than a couple of metres across. He could no longer see the official overlook, meaning that nobody up top could spot him.

A perfect spot for an invited, but uninvited, guest.

He reached into his meticulously packed rucksack and pulled out a device resembling an oversized pair of opera glasses. His daughter and her - he supposed he should be pleased, but had a hard time naming the emotion - soon-to-be husband had called them “Omnioculars.” According to them, and the device's written instructions, these could penetrate wizard Concealment Charms.

He sighed. He hoped they were right; he certainly had no way to run an advance test. If not … he had come a very long way on very short notice all for naught.

Thoroughly familiar with the instructions, he fiddled with the dials. The magnified scene sharpened and came into view. Yes - success!! He could see people, maybe two score, in the small level area at the junction of the “Y”.

Where was…?

She was unmistakable - a vision, even from here - wearing a long white dress so dazzling it almost hurt his eyes to look at her. A sharp pang of regret pierced him. He had not laid eyes on his daughter since that awful August night when London burnt, and then he had been too preoccupied to say a proper goodbye.

He had no idea when, or if, he would ever see her again.

It had been his hope - and his fear - since Hermione had been born that one day he would lead her proudly up the aisle.

All his own bloody fault.

He dropped to his knees, softly weeping over his estrangement from his only child. Soon, however, his stiff upper lip returned. That only daughter was to be married. He disliked the groom mightily - he put her in mortal danger - but he had no doubt that they loved each other.

And Harry Potter was so bloody rich that his own peculations paled into insignificance.

There he was, dressed in some off-colour tan outfit that oddly looked like dead leaves - but with the largest feather boa he had ever seen, almost a cape, bright red, draped about his shoulders. He also wore some sort of headband.

People were milling about. The ceremony would be starting soon.

Yes, there was Eva. Another knifelike frisson stabbed his heart. He might well never see her again either. Visiting was too dangerous, and she could know only vaguely where he was.

Such was the life of a fugitive.

“Beautiful, isn't it?”

Startled, he almost fell over. Concentrating intensely on the view, he had not noticed the approach of a tall, blonde, slightly sunburnt man, dressed in khaki shorts, now standing beside him.

“Oh, sorry,” the man apologised. “Didn't mean to startle you.”

“Quite all right. Not your fault. I was just distracted by the magnificent view.”

“Isn't it, though? Nothing remotely like this near Minneapolis, where I live…. Forgive me, Joseph Swenson.” He reached out his hand in a friendly manner.

Although the interruption was annoying, it would not do to be impolite. He took the proffered hand and used the man's support to stand up. “No problem. Edward Farmer, Invercargill.”

“British?” the man fished. “You do have the accent.”

“New Zealand, actually.”

“Kiwi, then…. Really, I've always wanted to visit. The travelogues are so fascinating. I'm in real estate, by the way. If you're ever interested in moving to Minnesota….” Incongruously, given their location, he held out a business card.

“Doubt that will ever happen,” he politely refused. “I have a fine dental practice back home.”

“Well at least let me offer you a look through these….”

Edward Farmer's attention focussed on the large black pair of binoculars around the man's neck. He recognised them immediately as astronomical binoculars - quite over-powered and ill-suited for viewing scenery.

He went through the motions. “Aarh, these are too strong for me. They'll give me quite the headache. Sorry.”

He sat down again and went back to his own viewing, hoping the overly gregarious Yank would move along.

He did. “Well … cheerio then. Must be off, I suppose,” he took his leave with a faked British accent.

Edward Farmer did not pay the slightest attention as he left.

Good. He had not missed it. The bride and groom were still together before some wildly dressed man standing at a black stone altar.

They must be giving each other rings.

Yes! It is done. He is kissing her. The strange man takes something from around his neck and….

He tied it around their wrists. They kiss again. That must be Eva. She is giving her a huge hug - mostly ignoring him….

Damn!

I would like to hug her too, but there is no way….

Everyone is leaving - except them.

Now what?

Oh-oh. Is this what I think it is?

The bride's brilliant white dress went flying through the air.

Oops, he felt his cheeks redden. Time to go. He had a long plane flight ahead of him.

* * * *

“Frigidio!”

The bucket of water immediately frosted over and quickly froze solid.

“I do believe he's got it!” Harry commented in a deliberately exaggerated British accent. In his normal inflexion, he added, “With work, you should be able to conjure….”

“Harry!” With Roxtar in tow, Hermione brought her mat to a stop and leapt off directly into her new husband's arms. “How's the training going?”

“I wen donnit, sis,” Maka beamed. “Youz lookin' at de Island's first mojo iceman!”

“Congratulations!” Hermione returned the Hawai'ian's high wattage smile. “How much more time do you think you need with Harry?”

Maka saw the desirous expression on Harry's face. “Donnit four times inna row, now,” he told her. “I'm plenny ready fo shua. Guess it's a time fo my side o' dings.” With that he turned and hurried to the beach.

Hermione almost seemed affronted by Maka's abrupt exit. “Hey, what's that?” she called futilely after him.

Harry's hand found hers, and she let him spin her about so she came to rest in his arms. “Don't mind him. He's agreed to keep all his surfing buddies, and everyone else, away from this half of the beach for the next several hours. Mmmm….” She kissed him needily. Even with goblin Concealment Charms, having bystanders in the vicinity would have been most distracting - and Hermione did not want to be distracted.

“Finally,” she panted when they came up for air, “we can trust our contraception when we make love….”

At the double falls, and again at the village's newlywed suite, Harry and Hermione could not discount the possibility that their premises were permeated with undetectable Hawai'ian Fertility Charms. Like it or not, they were of the same mind about such things - starting a family had to wait until Voldemort was fully and finally destroyed. Their being targeted had played a huge role in keeping them apart. They could never place that burden on an innocent and helpless soul.

Voldemort would jump at the chance to use any child of theirs against them.

Thus, on both their wedding day and night, Harry and Hermione had felt obligated to pull their sexual punches.

Until now.

Alone together, amongst the beach naupaka dotting upper Honopu Beach, they could at last make uninhibited love as husband and wife, with no conception-related worries.

Harry took off his shirt and Transfigured it into a large beach towel. Hermione contributed a very useful Sand Repelling Charm. Roxtar transformed into a boulder.

“You know, with that mixing magic business…. I can feel, well, how it feels for you….”

“Oh, really. I didn't feel anything like that.”

“That was because I was … umm … holding back. You know, because of Fertility charms and all….”

I see…. And how was it for you … er, me?”

“Like I never wanted to stop…. The longer I went, the longer you did. It's like nothing I've ever felt before. It just goes on and on and on.”

“Well, I consider it cosmic compensation for childbirth. Maybe you'll have a chance to feel that some time.”

“Not for a while, though. And if I do, it'll be worth it.”

“Harry, how about less talk and more action?”

Their privacy ensured, Harry and Hermione pounced upon one another like crazed mongooses.

A couple of strenuous hours later, Harry and Hermione lay nestled together in their altogether, watching afternoon shadows creep across the beach, yet unwilling to confront the imminent end of their Hawai'ian interlude.

Beginning this evening, they would be subject to the tender mercies of Muggle air travel for most of the next two calendar days.

“…You know, Harry, you worked wonders with Maka, teaching him that. I'm not alone in thinking so….”

“He did it himself,” Harry modestly deflected her praise. “He's barely more than wild talent. He never thought he was worth anything, so he wasn't. He volunteered as a hostage because he thought his life didn't matter. Now, for the first time he's found a way to be useful - sort of the way I felt coming to Hogwarts….”

“And look what you've become,” Hermione sighed, kissing his chest. “Useful doesn't begin to describe it. He can print money selling ice to the Menehune. Even Hi'iaka is impressed with the diplomatic opportunity.”

“Well, between us, he's `plenny' impressed with her,” Harry added. “Too bad she looks down on him….”

“Not so, Harry. I can tell you that the feeling's mutual,” Hermione revealed. “They managed a civil conversation as our seconds whilst we were … otherwise engaged. I do hope they get together.”

“Perhaps they'll invite us to their own wedding,” Harry mused.

“They might….” Hermione's voice was low, and she had a faraway look in her eyes. “Harry … you know when it's all over - Voldemort, the equality pledge, all that - I could see us coming back here….”

“Why wait that long?” Harry sighed. “I doubt Maka and Hi'iaka will. We could vacation here every….”

Hermione rolled over so to lie directly on his chest with her arms crossed. She looked him straight in the eyes. “I'm not thinking about a vacation, Harry. I mean permanently….”

“Really?” she had his full attention.

“Yeah, I've been thinking. Magical education here, and throughout the Pacific Islands, is so spotty, I'm sure that we could found our own school…. Wouldn't it be wonderful growing old together, here?”

“You're presuming a lot.”

She knew that look in his eyes - he worried about the prophecy. “Harry, I had to presume that to marry you. When I said yes, I put my faith in you. Nobody has more faith in you than I have.”

He smiled at her, and cupped her face in his hands. “Let's add that to the list of topics to discuss after I prove that you're always….”

WHOO-HOO!!

They abruptly scrambled to a sitting position, Hermione trying to cover herself with part of the towel. Harry Summoned his wand - wandlessly, of course.

WHOO-HOO!!

Looking frantically around, Harry noticed an owl circling - one of the ChÃ¢teau's international fast owls. Apparently, it could sense his presence, but was stymied by the goblin Concealment Charm.

As soon as they were clothed, Harry ended the spell. The owl gratefully dropped a small package, about the size and shape of a medicine bottle. Rather than wait for a reply, or even a treat, the owl immediately flew off.

“What the hell?” Harry plucked the delivery from the sand and examined it. It was cylindrical, with no identifying characteristics, save a blank white wrapper about its middle.

Hermione reached in.

“Be careful,” Harry pulled it back. “It could be dangerous.”

“No, it's a communication device for extremely confidential messages,” Hermione told him. “Healer Huxley sent one about my post-Draught of Despair prognosis. The spell to open it is `Apparicio verbatim'.”

Harry performed the spell, and the stopper popped out with a hiss. A cloud of pellucid smoke emerged and began swirling. In a few moments it resolved into the twin images of Jerry McAllister and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Their expressions were grim.

Shak spoke first. “Bad news, Harry. Please listen carefully and remain calm. You can't return to England safely, nor Hermione. The Ministry has fallen - a vote of no confidence. Thicknesse is the new Minister. The Wizengamot has voted him extraordinary and emergency powers - to enforce their decision to rescind your inheritance. All ties with the goblins are seriously at risk.”

“A goblin named Bladvak - I'm sure you know him - was caught recently in the act of foreclosing on a Gringotts mortgage. The property was hardly worth the effort, but allowing that would put at risk the finances of virtually every pure-blood family in Britain. The Wizengamot belatedly realised that your Gringotts shares block retaliation. So they've voided your shares … or so they claim.”

“Needless to say, the goblins recognise none of this. The Wizengamot is mulling over whether to issue an ultimatum. Last we heard, the goblins still occupied Azkaban - and were threatening to massacre all Death Eater prisoners. A confrontation would almost surely spark a new goblin rebellion and wholesale seizure of wizard accounts at Gringotts. The goblins aren't likely to back down. After the engagements at Stonehenge and Hogwarts, they're confident that they can fight wizards, so they're in no mood to comply….”

Harry heard an angry guttural sound behind him. Roxtar was listening in, his claws bared. Neither Harry nor Hermione had any inclination to stop him.

“Your role in those engagements means that you're also at risk. The Wizengamot gave you twenty-four hours to accept the inheritance nullification, but of course you were overseas - which they damn well knew. So you've been charged with high treason, and Hermione's sought as accomplice. Aurors were dispatched to arrest both of you at Heathrow, but thank Merlin you weren't on the plane, despite your names appearing on the manifest. They arrested Arthur Weasley on trumped up charges of complicity in your activities….”

“Oh Merlin!” Hermione gasped.

Free magic began coursing between Harry's fingertips.

`Stay calm, Harry, you have to,' her voice was in his head. To reinforce her words, she laced her fingers through his.

“The more extreme factions have even floated the idea of a Bill of Attainder…” Shak continued, but his voice was drowned out by Hermione's.

“They can't! That's … positively medieval! That law was repealed a century ago!”

“…don't think they've a pygmy puff's chance in a dragon's den of actually receiving Muggle Royal assent.” Shak's image opined.

“What's `attainter'?” a confused Harry asked.

Hermione turned the top of the tube, pausing the message to answer Harry's question. “Attainder, Harry,” Hermione explained, “is a nasty method for English Kings of yore to cut down powerful rivals. Parliament declares you guilty of treason without any trial - or even proof.”

They looked at each other. Harry nodded, and Hermione took a deep calming breath before twisting the tube the way to restart the narrative - just as Jerry McAllister took it over.

“Harry, sir, you can't come back here right now. That's the current temperature of things. It's too dangerous until the situation stabilises. The Wizengamot have passed an extraordinary escheat declaring Blackwalls forfeit, and the Ministry are seeking expropriation. We're resisting this unprecedented move, but things are in flux. I've sworn the staff to a new Vow and terminated anybody who refused. Shak and I have just spent that last several hours conjuring a Fidelius Charm over the entire ChÃ¢teau. The moment this owl leaves, we're activating it. We'd much rather wait on you, but there's no time to lose. A surprise assault could take place at any time….”

“We know you're both familiar with wartime communication methods,” Shak broke in, “and Horace taught you well….”

`Harry,' Hermione Legilimenced again. `Look.' She pointed at the blank paper wrapper. On closer examination, it was not quite blank. A familiar set of characters was penciled lightly in one corner.

Jerry was speaking again. “The goblin splixit is within the radius of our Fidelius, so we can coordinate with them, but given the anger on their side, we think it best that you undertake the initial contact.”

Shak took over. “Harry, take Hermione and go to France. You're still welcome there. Thicknesse abrogated the anti-Voldemort alliance, and thus made France an enemy. You are already greatly esteemed there, and being the Ministry's number one undesirable will only increase your status.”

“I'm truly sorry that you and Hermione won't be the Heads after everything that's happened, but the Ministry is purging known and suspected Order of the Phoenix sympathisers from Hogwarts. I've been fired outright. McGonagall's been demoted. Both Ron Weasley's and Longbottom's status is probationary. Basically Voldemort's taken over the government without a fight because nearly all pure-bloods are terrified of losing their estates to the goblins. However unfairly, you're being blamed for that.”

“We'll attempt to contact you in France.”

The smoky images vanished; leaving the stunned pair standing on Honopu Beach gawking. In a matter of minutes, their entire world had been turned upside down. After several long moments, Harry shook his head in disbelief and turned to Hermione, “Well, doesn't that beat…?” He paused at the sight of her shattered countenance. “Hermione, don't….”

No use.

She practically collapsed in his arms, wailing, “Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry! I've ruined everything! My stupid idea about the goblins … now Voldemort's taken over!”

“Hermione, don't,” he repeated whilst holding her close. “Your idea was brilliant then, and it's still brilliant,” he reassured. “The goblins thought it was so great that they jumped the gun … but somehow messed it up….”

“Stupid are the bankers,” Roxtar growled. He looked furious. His drawn and ready blade glinted incongruously in the lazy tropical sun, as if Death Eaters could emerge at any moment in the peaceful, isolated valley.

“But now we can't even go back to England,” Hermione sobbed. “Voldemort's so powerful. We're exiles….”

“We'll get back,” Harry vowed. “Your idea, it's even more powerful! It strikes at the heart … that's confirmed now. That's why they reacted so crazily - fear.”

“But Voldemort….”

Harry's eyes grew hard. “Don't lose faith in me, or yourself, now, darling. Voldemort still has me - us, dammit - to overcome, and he knows it. I'm sure that, as the dust settles, we'll find allies … the goblins, the Sisters, the Order … even the French. And I'm a lot tougher now than I used to be, thanks mostly to you….”

“Oh, Merlin, Harry. It's just so much harder now.”

“It was always going to be hard, Hermione,” Harry squeezed his new wife's shoulders. “For better or worse, remember. But with just about all the old pure-bloods having thrown in with Voldemort, when we do win, we don't just win the battle….”

Hermione grasped the implications. “Real change, Harry.” Her trembling ceased and she regarded him with wonder in her eyes. “A social revolution … it might actually happen….”

“We went through hell to reach this point, Hermione,” Harry said intensely. “If there really is such a thing as destiny, I think this has to be why….”

Her eyes now burning, Hermione reached up and stroked the fringe of his messy black hair with her fingers. They lingered on his cheek. “It never ends, does it, Harry?”

“Not with me - or us,” he agreed, betraying his first smile since receiving the terrible news from Britain. “Not as long as I have this scar.”

FIN

* * * *

Author's notes: Hawai'an words: mojo = magic; Kimo = James; da kine = best; pakalolo = marijuana; Haole = Caucasian; makai = seaward, mauka = inland, lilikoi = passion fruit; mo'o = lizard; ali'i = nobility; malihini = stranger; kapu = forbidden; nomojo = Muggle; moana = ocean; wahine = woman; okole = butt; aloha au ia oe = I love you; Pele = Hawai'ian fire goddess; kolohe = rascal; ma'ema'e = clean; kahuna = boss, in this case the village's mayor; makaha = borderline crazy; akamai = clever; puka = doorway; pau = to be over, doneI don't particularly like flying anymore; I mention some reasons why

LAN = LAN Chile pre-1997

H/Hr learned Apparition in Ch. 9

Flowering also occurred in Ch. 46

Interflora is a British version of FTD

Brief History of Time was re-released in 1996

Tonks mentioned Hawai'i in Ch. 13, and gave Harry a copy in Ch. 66

I reset my watch when entering a plane

Healer Huxley treated Dumbledore's final illness

Poetry is W.B. Yeats' The Second Coming, slightly modified

Farmer's reducer, first used in Ch. 40, appears again

This H/Hr dislike fancy weddings

The name change arose in Ch. 50; Harry agreed to mutuality

Hudson News is currently in Vancouver airport; don't know about 1997

By 1997, baseball cards no longer had gum; poetic license

Both cards exist; and are somewhat valuable

The Hawai'ian agricultural declaration form is real

I've tried making the Hawai'ian pidgin accurate

Cargo is a Polynesian term for goods generally

There's always construction at airports

The magic side of the airport is hidden by hau bushes

Hawai'ians use seashells as wands

Reference is to the Kanaka Maoli flag

Harry smoked pot in Ch. 27

Hawai'ian locations and place names are accurate

The beaches are "Poipu"; the canyon "Waimea"

Harry fell off a cliff in Ch. 35

Valley of the Lost Tribes = Honopu

Sun angle means it set/rises quickly in the tropics

Umbrella-sized flowers are in CoS Ch. 6

Frutopia is no longer sold in the US; Beachside Blast is a flavor

Spam (canned meat) is popular in Hawai'i

Harry watched Hermione pack in DH Ch. 6

My wife and I share H/Hr's sleeping attire

The pregnancy offer was in Ch. 47

Sod's law is British for Murphy's law

Tahiti and New Caledonia are French

The Kalalau double waterfall and Honopu arch exist; I've seen both

Metal = gravel

Like beef = wanna fight?

Offshore wind helps surfing

Hermione saw the shaka in the Mirror of Erised in Ch. 33

Pandamus looks something like pineapple but is a tree

The Na Pali coast is overrun with tourist helicopters

Hermione's Mum confronted Harry in Ch 39, but vowed to be at her wedding in Ch. 45

The Menehune of Hawai'ian legend resemble goblins

The first H/Hr swing-around was in Ch. 7

The phallic rock was mentioned in Ch. 47

Manongia O Kaeaea appeared in Ch. 63

Moa were mentioned in Ch. 77

Mithril is a magical metal from Tolkein fantasy

In Hawai'i mongoose are pests

Harry got the vorpal sword in Ch. 74; lost it in Ch. 85

Red feather capes were worn by Hawai'ian nobility

The musical rescue was in Ch. 42

Use of ti leaf-wrapped rocks is accurate

The Kalalau Lookout, accurately described, is Hawai'i's best land view

The Southland Times is real

The Omnioculars came from Harry in Ch. 17

Invercargill, the southern New Zealand, is as far away from England as physically possible

Beach and mountain naupaka flowers lack opposite halves of their circle of petals

That's the "grow old" line from the 7th movie

Ch.1 used the same messaging method

This final upheaval was presaged in Chs. 51 & 77

Bills of Attainder figured in the War of the Roses and the civil war of the 1640s; the US constitution explicitly bans them

At one point JKR said the last book would end with "scar"

83

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