Semper Solus

attackofthejello

Rating: R
Genres: Angst, Action & Adventure
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 4
Published: 20/12/2002
Last Updated: 20/12/2002
Status: completed

(rating for language, just in case) Seven years post-Hogwarts, Harry and Hermione are working side-by-side in the final opportunity to defeat Voldemort. But what will it take for Harry to realise he loves her?

Chapters

1. Part I: The Three Fathers

2. Part II: The Good Old Days

3. Part III: Moving On

4. Part IV: Hermione

5. Part V: Harry

1. Part I: The Three Fathers

Harry Potter and Hermione Granger walked down the narrow stone corridor that separated the cells of all the captured Death Eaters. He ignored the great globs of spit flying from both sides and landing on his and Hermione’s shoes— the prisoners had a right to hate them. After all, these cells were all full because of them. Harry Potter and Hermione Granger had been called the greatest Auror team in history— and at twenty-four and twenty-five years of age respectively, their careers weren’t even close to over.

Harry didn’t mind coming to Azkaban, because the Dementors no longer worked there. Six years ago, Voldemort almost succeeded in his attempt to destroy Hogwarts— thwarted only by the secret and prestigious Order of the Phoenix, now an extinct organization (“All of Britain is the Order now,” said Albus Dumbledore). After that event, Cornelius Fudge was voted out of the Minister of Magic office. Dumbledore, as temporary Acting Minister, appointed Arthur Weasley to take over the position permanently. And ever since, Azkaban has been patrolled by trained Ministry Hit Wizards.

Today, Harry and Hermione had come to question Adiel Lestrange, recently captured, one of Voldemort’s closest supporters. When they reached his cell, Hermione conjured chairs for herself and Harry. But instead of sitting, Harry addressed Lestrange.

“Good evening,” said Harry, not taking his emerald eyes off of Lestrange’s malicious black ones. “Care for something to drink?” Hermione shot him a quizzical look, which he ignored.

The inmate nodded fervently, as though he hadn’t had anything to drink in years. Harry summoned a tea service from somewhere in the hall. He had prepared it himself, of course— like Alastor Moody, his mentor, he couldn’t be sure whether Dark wizards had poisoned anything offered him. When tea was finished, Hermione asked the first question.

“Where is your wife?”

“Dead. She was killed by an Auror a month ago,” said Lestrange expressionlessly.

Harry supposed this was Blaise Zabini’s doing. Unlike Harry and Hermione, Blaise and his Auror partner (Cho Chang) didn’t mind using the Unforgivable Curses on other people. In Harry’s opinion, this made them no better than the Death Eaters— but to each his own.

Hermione pressed on, “Do you know how Voldemort can be destroyed?”

“Yes,” was the blank reply. Hermione raised her eyebrows in an expression of both surprise and interest. She had asked this question of every Death Eater they had ever interrogated, and never before had anyone responded in the positive. Lestrange must have been very close to Voldemort indeed… unless he was lying, of course.

“Tell us how to destroy Voldemort,” she said, not really expecting an answer.

Lestrange’s eyes flickered, and he responded in a monotonous voice, “My master does not carry his life within him.” Hermione raised an eyebrow, and Lestrange continued, “It is housed far away, in the Orb of Slytherin. The Orb is located—”

But where exactly the Orb of Slytherin was located they never found out, because at that moment, Adiel Lestrange burst into wild green flames. Harry quickly jumped backwards to avoid being incinerated along with the Death Eater, and put both hands to his throbbing scar. Hermione did the same, only clutching her left forearm, where Voldemort’s mark was just visible, a sign of Hermione’s dedication to his destruction. When the flames receded, the only reminder of the cell’s former occupant was a small black scorch mark on the stone bench upon which he had been sitting.

Undaunted by this seemingly extraordinary occurrence, the two Aurors calmly discussed it as they made their way out of the wizard prison.

“That wasn’t your normal, everyday spontaneous human combustion,” said Hermione slowly.

“Wasn’t it?” said Harry. His mind was more on what Lestrange had said before being set aflame.

“Weren’t you paying attention to what he was doing?” Hermione said impatiently. Not waiting for his answer, she continued, “Before the fire came, he shut his eyes very tight, as though in pain, and grabbed his arm.” She imitated Lestrange’s actions before saying, “His left arm. Which is where the fire started.”

Harry understood what she was implying. “So you think Voldemort caused him to burn and die like that?” he asked, knowing the answer.

“Yes.” Hermione rolled up the left sleeve of her light grey robes and looked darkly at her own forearm. Harry could see the very faint outline of the Dark Mark, a relic of the months she had spent as a Death Eater to get information for the Order of the Phoenix six years ago. Her spy work paid off, as her findings allowed the Order to frustrate Voldemort’s attack on Hogwarts. But her treachery did not go undiscovered by the Death Eaters, and so she never returned to Voldemort’s circle.

When Harry said nothing, Hermione spoke. “Well? So what do you think?”

“Oh— yes, I agree with you completely on that one,” said Harry truthfully. “Perhaps Voldemort didn’t want him revealing that bit of information he was about to tell us.”

Hermione scoffed, “Oh, come off it, Harry, you really believe he was telling the truth? All that Orb of Slytherin rubbish… if it were true, why was he so willing to tell us?”

“He wasn’t lying.”

“How do you know?”

“I laced his tea with Veritaserum,” Harry said casually.

“Harry!” Hermione glared at him. “That’s illegal!”

Harry replied with a small smile, “All’s fair in love and war. And this is most definitely war.”

But by now Hermione had forgotten that she was supposed to be angry at her partner, and was looking thoughtful. “Then it is true,” she said distantly. Turning to Harry, she told him, “Go home now and let Remus know about this. I’ve got to look some stuff up at home— seeing as we have next to nothing to go on about this Orb, it might take a lot of research.”

Harry highly doubted that the Orb of Slytherin was the sort of thing that one could simply look up in a library book, but he didn’t mention this to Hermione, who promptly Disapparated.

He didn’t feel even slightly remorseful about breaking the very strict laws regarding Veritaserum. He was quite sure that the Ministry wouldn’t do anything to punish him, even if they did find out about it. Having more or less single-handedly prevented Voldemort from taking full control of Britain, Harry and Hermione were the most famous and almost revered Auror pair in memory. And besides, thought Harry, even Percy Weasley would break a rule if it helped defeat Voldemort.

He stopped walking and gazed into an empty cell to his right. Suspended in mid-air behind the bars was a golden plaque, bearing these words:

This cell held the only innocent man to ever be imprisoned in Azkaban.
Sirius Black

born 30/11/1960 – died 25/12/1998

Harry turned away and continued walking, more slowly than before. He was in no hurry to get home on this fine April evening. And as he sauntered out the enormous metal doors of Azkaban, he was thinking not of the Orb of Slytherin or Veritaserum, but of the last date on the golden plaque he had just read. December the 25th, 1998. By far the worst day of his life— and he remembered it as though it had happened yesterday. The problem was, he didn’t like remembering it.

He kicked a stone off the cliff on which he was standing and into the crashing waves beating the shore of the island of Azkaban. When he remembered that Christmas, six years ago, he remembered Sirius, his godfather, and Ron Weasley, his best friend. More accurately, he remembered their deaths— Ron being killed by Draco Malfoy in battle, Sirius jumping in front of a Killing Curse that was meant for Harry. They weren’t the only ones who lost their lives that day— Severus Snape, Malfoy, and Wormtail also died. Not that Harry missed those last three.

Memories of that day were unpleasant, no doubt, but didn’t depress him as they once did. Unlike in the days immediately following that tragedy, he could see that it was a victory for the Light. But he’d gotten over their deaths, and made two promises to himself regarding his future.

First, he pledged his life to destroying Voldemort.

Then, he vowed never to develop a close relationship with another witch or wizard. Never again. By becoming unfeeling and independent, he could never lose someone he loved, never experience that pain, that hurt, that total sense of loss. He would make the rest of his life the story of Voldemort’s downfall— nothing more, nothing less. So that made Harry Potter who he was now— a wizard whose sole concern and interest was in fighting the Dark Arts.

Harry frowned in spite of himself. He knew Sirius would disapprove of the man he had become. His godfather had valued friendship and fun above all else— two luxuries that Harry would never allow himself. But no matter— he had learned the hard way, six years ago, that friendships only led to great sadness. And fun? What right did he have to have fun when Voldemort was still alive?

Having circled the entire island, Harry finally Disapparated. He reappeared, standing on a dirt path separating two rows of tiny houses. This neighbourhood, set in a small clearing in a very dense wood, was Godric’s Hollow. The house to his left was his own, and the house to his right belonged to Remus Lupin. The remainder of the of the houses were uninhabited, as they had been for over twenty years— perhaps due to the haunting presence of a larger, abandoned, partially wrecked home at the end of the path, behind which three people were buried.

Lily Potter. James Potter. Sirius Black.

Sirius Black… Harry mentally slapped himself. Stop it. You’re not sad. You’re only angry— angry at Voldemort. Turning to the right, he let himself into the house. He made his way through the familiar rooms, down a narrow flight of stairs, and through the second door in this basement hallway.

He found a man deeply immersed in an enormous book spread out on the desk in front of him. Several other volumes were stacked on the corner of the desk. Not lifting his eyes from the pages, Remus Lupin acknowledged Harry’s presence— “Harry.”

With a nod, Harry greeted him back— “Remus.” He had become comfortable calling his old Professor by his first name, but had only done so at Remus’s insistence.

“Are you all right, Harry?” Remus asked him, at Sirius’s funeral.

“I’m fine, Professor Lupin,” Harry responded, although he really wasn’t.

“Call me Remus,” he said. “I’m no longer your teacher. I haven’t been for years.”

“But—”

“Don’t tell me I’m older than you. I know I am. But believe it or not, I’m only a month older than Sirius was. You called him by his first name, didn’t you?” Remus said, his voice sounding clearer than it had in days. “You’re eighteen years old. You’re not a child— you’re my equal. In fact, technically, you’re my superior.”

Remus had been referring to his unemployed state, comparing it to Harry’s prestigious Auror position. His lycanthropy didn’t much help his social status either. Now, Dumbledore was paying a salary to Remus, much as he had paid Dobby the house-elf years earlier. The charity that sustained him didn’t bother Remus— Harry marvelled at his acceptance of situation. But then again, he’d had a lifetime to get used to it.

Harry sank into an armchair in the corner and pulled a book off of one of the bookshelves that lined the walls. He looked at it in silence for a few minutes, though not really reading it. Remus was still concentrating on his own book (A Study of the Magical History of Transylvania). After a while Harry finally spoke. He said nonchalantly, “I’ve just come from Azkaban…”

Remus showed no sign that he had even heard Harry, and Harry didn’t continue speaking. But after a few minutes, Remus said wryly, “And are you going to tell me what you were doing there, or am I to assume you were throwing a party for the Death Eaters?”

Harry almost smiled at this show of Moony’s patented dry humour. Remus’s grey hair still held specks of the light brown of his youth. Clearly, some of the Marauder in him still remained.

Now, Harry was in no hurry to mention the Orb of Slytherin— he wasn’t in the mood for more work. He cast his mind around for something else to say about Azkaban, and the words came out before he knew what he was saying. “I saw Sirius’s cell.”

Oh, shit, he thought. He hadn’t wanted to bring the subject up again, especially in front of Remus, who sighed deeply and finally moved his light brown eyes from his book and onto Harry.

It had been hard for him when Sirius, his best friend, was killed. It was especially difficult because he had suddenly found himself the only Marauder living when Wormtail and Sirius killed each other. But it had been Wormtail’s fault… and Harry’s too, in a way. Wormtail’s curse was meant for Harry, but Sirius jumped in front of it. This act of selflessness, like Lily Potter’s love for her son, caused the curse to rebound back and kill not only Sirius, but Wormtail as well.

Remus coped by taking over Sirius’s role as Harry’s father. As much as Harry wanted to be independent, he allowed this, as it seemed to be the poor man’s only source of comfort. So over the years Remus acted as though he was obligated to take care of Harry, but this became less and less necessary as Harry finished his Auror training and became one of the best wizards in recent memory. So now he contented himself by helping Harry in his Auror work, researching background information, offering suggestions and plans, and any other assistance he could give from the safety of his home. This was an enormous help for Harry and Hermione (who had been getting rather tired of doing all the research herself), and they were both very grateful.

Harry changed the subject before Remus had a chance to speak. “Why are you doing all this for me?” he asked, indicating the pile of books Remus was studying. “Why have you been so eager to help me?”

At these words Remus actually closed his book and looked intently at Harry. “The same reason Sirius wanted to help you. We both felt responsible for your parents’ deaths, albeit for different reasons. Sirius, of course, felt guilty for convincing them to use Peter as their Secret-Keeper. But not many people know my part in the story— something for which I’m rather glad. I’ve always regretted it, even though I really had no control over it.” He stopped speaking. Harry, not wanting to seem too anxious, said nothing. After a minute or so, Remus continued his story in a voice that held a bitterness that Harry had seldom heard there before. “You may or may not know that your parents were in training as Aurors. I desperately wanted to follow this profession as well, but was unable to because of my condition. James, as though he hadn’t done enough for me during our years at Hogwarts, offered to teach me everything he’d learned about being an Auror. In return I agreed to keep a watch on their house, and on the neighbourhood— because, of course, Voldemort was after them. I lived in this very house, and they were in the big one down the path. So it was easy for me to keep watch.

“It was reassuring that James trusted me with this job, and I performed it admirably. Several times I stopped various Death Eaters lurking around their home— not that they could have done anything to you or your parents, as the Fidelius Charm was still intact. But I didn’t know this; like Dumbledore, I was doubting Sirius. I didn’t give Peter a second thought.

“So, our arrangement worked well. I was learning enough to become a basic Auror— which is how I got enough knowledge to teach Defence Against the Dark Arts. And I was keeping your parents safe. The perfect plan… and of courser, I ruined it again. I would have been able to hold off Voldemort long enough for you and your parents to escape— if it weren’t for the full moon on Halloween.”

This concluded his story. In a tone that made it quite clear that he wanted to pursue that subject no further, he asked, “So what did you really want to tell me about your trip to Azkaban today?”

Remus was clever. He had seen straight through Harry’s words— he knew Harry hadn’t come simply to tell him that he had seen Sirius’s cell. Now with no choice but to tell the truth, Harry told him all about Adiel Lestrange and the Orb of Slytherin. By the time he had finished, Remus was pacing back and forth in what little open space there was in his tiny library.

“Using Veritaserum illegally— something James would have done,” he said. Seeing the uncertain look on Harry’s face, he quickly added, “I mean that as a compliment. It was, after all, a rather convenient shortcut to what could be the biggest clue we’ve had yet as to how Voldemort could be killed.” Still pacing, he appeared to be in deep thought. “But still, after all I’ve read and studied about the Dark Arts”— he waved his hand vaguely at one of his bookshelves— “not once was any Orb of Slytherin mentioned. This is a start, but it will be hard to finish.”

“So you’ll help us with this?” Harry asked.

“Anything for the greatest Auror ever,” said Remus, his proud eyes twinkling.

Harry hated when people said this about him. And, like every other person who said it, he told Remus off for it. “I’m not the greatest Auror in history. Hermione is. I’m good at combat— she’s good at combat and everything else.” It was the truth— Harry despised work that didn’t involve spells and strategy, tactics and fighting Death Eaters. Work like that which he would have to do to find out where the Orb of Slytherin was hidden.

Remus gave an exaggerated sigh and said, “Okay, Harry, whatever you say.” He was smiling. Like Sirius, Remus enjoyed annoying Harry. He was quite good at it, too. He was sure that Harry was much more bothered by his being called the ‘greatest Auror ever’ than Hermione was.

Harry stood up, and before he could leave, Remus handed him a hefty book with a black cover- Dark Arts in the Twentieth Century.

“I’ve read this book— we used it in Advanced Defence Against the Dark Arts in my seventh year. There’s nothing about the Orb of Slytherin,” Harry told him.

“We need to start going over books like these in great detail. You can start with this one— I need you to write down everything you read about Voldemort’s rise to power, no matter how unimportant it may seem. We’re just looking for clues. Obviously there’s nothing written about the Orb itself, so we’ll have to read between the lines and find it all out for ourselves.” Remus was at his desk again, flipping through a different book.

Feeling less than excited about the task assigned to him, Harry thanked Remus, went upstairs, and crossed the street to his own house. He sank into a cushy leather armchair in the sitting room. He tried to force his mind onto the Orb of Slytherin, but barely got through the first chapter of Dark Arts in the Twentieth Century. He wondered vaguely how Hermione could love books so much.

It was 11:00, quite early by Harry’s standards, but he went to bed anyways. He wondered why he didn’t feel more excited that they had been revealed this clue about Voldemort’s mortality (or lack thereof, as it more often seemed). Perhaps it was because faces from the past seemed buoyed at the top of his mind, along with an entity that was very much in the present.

James Potter— his real father. Though he never knew him, Harry had heard enough stories about him to receive a fairly clear idea of what he was like. Tonight he had heard a new story about him that bolstered his idea of his father’s heroic character. But stories were one thing, and they didn’t help him answer the question about his father that he’d had as long as he could remember— Is he proud of me?

Sirius Black— the name of Harry’s father was almost always followed by that of his godfather. But ever since the end of Harry;s third year at Hogwarts, Sirius might as well have been his real father— that’s how close Harry was to him. Harry remembered what Remus had said to him the night after Sirius died— “You were like a son to him.” So Sirius Black had continued the work of his best friend, and died the same way as well— for Harry.

Remus Lupin— the contemporary face that was in Harry’s thoughts tonight. A man shunned his whole life, by all except his friends— and now his friend’s son. Harry admired Remus deeply; he always had, ever since the days when he taught Defence Against the Dark Arts to Harry’s third year class. His morals and strength had been a model to Harry, who was ever grateful to him for his help. He’d been the first to help Harry uncover the secrets of his parents’ lives, which moulded Harry into who he was now.

Harry found himself thinking, I am lucky to have had three wonderful fathers as them. But as though he were in real danger, an alarm sounded in his head that warned him against his emotions— They are simply part of your motivation to kill Voldemort. So he forcibly wiped those three faces from his mind, and would have done so from his memory if he’d been able to… as he drifted into sleep he ordered himself, Stop being weak.

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Harry rose with the sun the next morning— he had a lot to do. Today he and Hermione expected to capture a Death Eater by the name of Walden Macnair. They’d been tracking him tenaciously for weeks, and finally had him cornered in Wales. On top of this, he remembered with a frown, they had to start researching the Orb of Slytherin.

He pulled his midnight-blue robes over his head. “Accio wand,” he said almost lazily, and eleven inches of holly flew across the room and into his outstretched hand. This showed just how powerful he’d become— wandless magic was extremely difficult and hardly anybody could perform it. But he’d learned how to do it, as it was an essential skill for Aurors. It used to take him nearly half an hour to perform each spell without a wand, but now he could complete simple spells almost instantaneously.

He grabbed a stale bran muffin as he walked out the door. Standing in the dim red light of the rising sun, Harry donned a pair of sunglasses. This wasn’t because it was bright out— in fact, the glasses were enchanted so that they didn’t darken his vision at all. He wore them so that others couldn’t see his eyes. He always wore them while he was around other people— too much could be revealed through the eyes.

Harry Disapparated, and reappeared in the Aurors’ office at the Ministry of Magic. Hermione was already there, deep in conversation with the Minister of Magic himself, Arthur Weasley, who said cheerfully, “Hello, Harry.”

Mr Weasley certainly had plenty to be cheerful about. Ever since he was promoted to his current position, he had been hailed as one of the greatest Ministers of the century. Indeed, his management proved to be very successful in preventing Voldemort’s full rise to power— by imposing prudent security measures and liberally increasing funding for the Auror department, he had managed to keep the country under Light rule. Harry suspected that Mr Weasley’s obsession with stopping Voldemort stemmed from his desire to get revenge for his youngest son’s death.

“Morning,” said Harry through a mouthful of muffin, which he swallowed hastily. “Ready to go, Hermione?”

“Just a moment,” she responded. Harry went over to her desk to see what she and Mr Weasley had been studying. It was a map, on which Macnair’s path around Britain had been marked with luminescent purple ink. The zigzagging, crisscrossing purple line seemed to end somewhere in southern Wales. “Cardiff,” Hermione muttered, and looked at the address she had written on the edge of a city map. “According to this address, he’s hiding in a tiny flat off a side alley— that’s good, there’s less of a chance that we’ll be seen by Muggles… then again, we’ll be further from help…”

“We won’t need help,” said Harry impatiently. “Let’s go.”

“Macnair is an important Death Eater, one of the last remaining from You-Know-Who’s original Inner Circle,” objected Mr Weasley. “It is more than likely that he’ll have some class of protection, or reinforcements of some kind…”

“Don’t worry, Mr Weasley. We’ve never failed a mission, and we don’t plan to start today,” said Harry. He looked at Hermione, who nodded back to him, and together they Disapparated.

They found themselves on a narrow cobblestone path wedged between two buildings. It was raining steadily; Hermione read off the address again and studied the map, holding it under her sleeve as not to get it wet. “This way,” she said, and gestured to her right. He followed her several metres down the alley, before they came to a stop in the very centre of the path. “According to the map, the entrance is right here.”

Harry looked where she was pointing— the centre of the vast wall of bricks, which had turned black from soot. He leaned against it, wondering if it was against Platform 9 ¾ at King’s Cross, but it was quite solid. Hermione was tapping every brick with her wand and rattling off various Revealing spells faster than Harry could even think of them. But nothing happened— no door appeared. They felt around for invisible doorknobs or handles, but to no avail.

“Maybe the map is wrong,” she said, frowning slightly.

“No, just wait,” Harry said. “Stand back.” He took a step backwards, and Hermione moved behind him. He surveyed the wall, glistening with rain. He may not have played Quidditch in years, but his senses were even sharper than they’d been when he was a Seeker, as a result of his experience as an Auror. Something near the ground caught his eye. He knelt down to observe, and he saw something interesting; right where the wall met the street was a miniscule carving, rectangular in shape, and no bigger than his thumbnail.

“I’ll be damned,” he said under his breath. “Engorgio.” The lines of the carving began to lengthen, and grew until they were recognisable as a wooden door, painted black to camouflage with the filthy bricks and complete with a doorknob.

“Well done, Harry,” said Hermione. “Alohamora.”

They heard the lock click open. Hermione placed a quick Silencing Charm on the door (in case it creaked) before they opened it and walked quietly inside. They had entered into a barren room, with a simple stone floor and walls of the same brick as the buildings outside, though much less dirty. They stepped silently into the pitch blackness, not wanting to alert anyone of their presence by lighting their wands. Harry stood absolutely still, listening intently.

For several minutes they did absolutely nothing— their Auror training stressed the utmost attentiveness and guardedness— until Harry pointed his wand straight into the darkness and said, “Stupefy.” There was a thud as a body fell to the floor; suddenly, the entire room was illuminated by lights coming from nowhere. They wasted no time when they saw the half dozen Death Eaters that had been advancing quietly on them— but not quietly enough.

“Petrificus totalus!” shouted Hermione as she dodged a curse sent at her by one of the Death Eaters.

“Stupefy,” Harry said again, stunning a Death Eater about to escape out the door. Without even looking he held his wand over his shoulder, aiming behind him, to put the Full Body Bind on a wandless Death Eater charging toward his back.

“Expelliarmus,” said Hermione from the floor (she’d overbalanced when hit by a nasty Leg-Locker Curse). She Stunned the last Death Eater after Disarming him; now seven figures in black robes and white masks were lying unconscious on the floor.

“That wasn’t so bad,” said Harry. “Locomotor vitus.” He performed the countercurse so Hermione could get to her feet.

“Thanks,” she said, brushing dirt off of her emerald robes. “Which one’s Macnair?”

They pulled the hood and mask off of each Death Eater, but didn’t see anyone who even closely resembled the executioner they remembered from their third year at Hogwarts. These Death Eaters were all quite young.

“How strange…” murmured Hermione, absentmindedly wringing out her hair, which was still wet from the rain.

Harry stepped back outside into the downpour. He looked up and down the alley— in a dumpster, behind some bins, inside a cardboard box— but all was deserted. But no sooner had he turned around to go back inside than he heard a cold voice behind him cry out a spell that Harry didn’t recognise.

His body exploded with pain. Looking at his hands, which were barely managing to hold on to his wand, he saw that his skin had turned the violent red colour of a severe sunburn. He stiffened; his skin was burning where it touched his robes, and the raindrops that fell on him felt like fireballs.

Biting his tongue against the pain, he whirled around to find his attacker, but no one was there. “Stupefy! Stupefy!” He sent the Stunning Spell everywhere around him as he backed as quickly as he could towards the door. He had no idea if he had actually hit someone with one of the spells. He then felt even more considerable pain as Hermione burst through the door and right into Harry, sending him crashing to the hard ground.

Harry was no stranger to pain, but this was as close to the Cruciatus curse itself as he had ever experienced.

“Harry!” she gasped, taking in his red skin and the expression on his face. “I’m so sorry… What spell was it?”

“I don’t know,” he said, gritting his teeth.

Harry could practically see Hermione’s mind at work. He only needed to wait a minute before his pain was alleviated, because after a moment’s reflection Hermione had recalled the spell and successfully performed the countercurse for him. Harry was too relieved to wonder how, where, and why she’d ever learned that particular spell, and, even more miraculously, known the countercurse, when he could honestly say that he’d never heard of such magic.

“What happened?” she said, her wand still at the ready in case Harry’s attacker was still around.

Harry turned over onto his side and stretched out his arms. He’d rolled right into something when Hermione knocked him down. His hand closed on something soft— he pulled an Invisibility Cloak off of the mysterious mass beside him to reveal the tan, healthy face of Walden Macnair. “Mission accomplished,” he said, looking up into the face of his partner. Hermione smiled at him.

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After an afternoon spent returning the captured Death Eaters to Azkaban, Harry returned home, exhausted, to find Remus already sitting on the couch, waiting for him. He was holding a copy of the Evening Prophet.

“Hello, Harry,” he greeted. “Congratulations.” He held up the newspaper to show Harry the headline— THE DREAM TEAM DOES IT AGAIN: MACNAIR FINALLY APPREHENDED.

“Hi, Remus,” Harry rejoined. “The press don’t miss a thing, do they?”

“Not from your life, they don’t,” said Remus. He Summoned two bottles of butterbeer from his own kitchen across the street, through the open window, and onto the table in front of them. “A job well done, as always. And a cause to celebrate, in my opinion.”

“It’s not a big deal. We probably won’t get anything from him,” said Harry, but he accepted the bottle Remus handed him.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Remus thoughtfully. “He was fairly high up in Voldemort’s ranks— I’m sure he has some interesting information. And I’m sure he’d gladly divulge it to you, maybe over a little tea…”

Harry grinned and took a sip of his butterbeer. It was delicious, of course, but somehow it tasted bittersweet as well. Perhaps it was because his godfather had been so passionate about this particular drink— any reason was a good reason to have a butterbeer or two (or a few dozen) in Sirius’s eyes.

Remus was reading over the account of Macnair’s capture in the paper, shaking his head disbelievingly. “Honestly, is there anything you two can’t do?”

Harry pretended not to hear Remus’s accolade.

Remus noticed this. “No matter what you may think, Harry, you deserve every word of praise anybody can give you. So here’s a little more for you— Sirius and James would have been proud.”

2. Part II: The Good Old Days

- part II: the good old days –

The next day, Harry and Hermione were back in Azkaban, preparing for another interview. They stood outside the cell containing Macnair, one of eight new prisoners who had just arrived at the wizarding prison. Hermione conjured two chairs in the cell.

“Good afternoon,” said Harry smoothly. “Care for something to drink?”

Macnair growled, “Nice try, Potter, but I’ve been warned about your little tricks.”

Harry sat down. “Then I guess we’ll have to do this the traditional way.”

“You’re wasting your time. I’ll never tell you bastards anything!”

They ignored this. Hermione was thinking very fast of how to ask questions that he would answer. “Tell me,” she said slowly, “have you done any travelling recently?”

Macnair glared at her. “Not to where the Orb of Slytherin is,” he said maliciously.

Hermione stared right back at him. “All right, so you know what we want. So why don’t you help us out? It’d save you a lifetime in here,” she said, gesturing to the prison cell around them.

“No,” he spat, “when my Master sees my loyalty, he will come and break me out of here. He will get all of us out of here!” The other jailed Death Eaters had apparently been listening in on the conversation, because there was an explosion of cheers from the other cells. Behind his sunglasses, Harry rolled his eyes.

“Oh, really?” said Hermione amusedly, traces of a smile evident on her face. “You can’t mean the same ‘Master’ that seems to be having quite a lot of trouble establishing his own little ‘reign of terror’ in Britain?”

“All because of you two!” Macnair snarled. He dove at Hermione, but she was too quick for him; she jumped out of the way and Macnair came crashing into the empty chair. After getting to his feet he charged at Harry, who aimed a well-placed kick to Macnair’s chest that sent the inmate flying backwards into the corner. Eyes flashing dangerously, Macnair sank back onto his stone bench.

“So much for getting out of Azkaban on good behaviour,” said Hermione scathingly. She took out her wand so that Macnair could see it.

Harry smirked as Macnair scowled at them. “So what were you going to tell us?” Harry asked calmly.

“Go to hell, Potter.”

“Try again.”

Macnair spat on him; Harry nonchalantly wiped his sunglasses off on his robes.

Frustrated, Hermione said, “You’re on your last chance. Tell us where the Orb is.”

“Or what?” Macnair sneered.

“Or we’ll kill Voldemort,” said Harry, feeling that Voldemort’s destruction was the only thing that could scare Macnair into talking.

“Ha! It can’t be done!” said Macnair haughtily.

“Then why not just tell us where the Orb is, if it won’t kill Voldemort?” Hermione shot back.

“I’m telling you, it’s impossible!” barked Macnair.

“You just watch us,” hissed Hermione, slamming the barred door closed behind them as they left the cell. “I guess we’ll have to do this the long way,” she said to Harry. Ignoring the various obscenities being shouted at them by the Death Eaters they passed, they made their way back out of the prison.

“Barking mad,” Hermione muttered, shaking her head. She checked her watch and said, “I’d better go— I’ve got loads of reading to do.”

“Have you found anything?”

“Well, no… but then again, I’ve only had one night to look. There’s no doubt in my mind that we’ll find something eventually.” She Disapparated.

Harry checked his own watch. It was half past noon— which left him plenty of time to study Dark Arts in the Twentieth Century. Lucky me, he thought.

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“…born in 1926, graduated from Hogwarts in 1944. Disappeared from the country until 1970 when he started gaining power…”

It was evening. Harry was at Remus’s house, sharing what little information he’d gathered about Tom Riddle/Voldemort— nothing he hadn’t known before. It was becoming irritatingly clear how little was really known about Voldemort, particularly about his origins. A week of searching their own books had revealed nothing that would be of any use to them.

There was a knock on the door and Hermione entered, a large beaker of potion under her arm. Curls of smoke were rising out of it; Harry was sure that this was Wolfsbane Potion. Sure enough, when Hermione set it down on the table, Remus said quickly, “Thanks very much, Hermione.”

“Not at all,” she replied. She cleared a stack of books from a chair and sat down in it. “Had any luck with the Orb?”

“None, whatsoever,” said Harry. “But I thought we might look into Albania; I mean, that was where he was after he fell the first time.”

Remus shook his head. “We’ve no reason to believe that it’s there. Nobody knows where he went during those years between Hogwarts and 1970. He underwent twenty-six years of Dark Arts training and magical transformations, but this could have been anywhere. The fact that he used Albania as his hideout is irrelevant… I mean, nothing there helped him to regain his power alone…”

“But wouldn’t you say Albania has at least a possibility of being the right place?” asked Hermione.

“Certainly… at least, it has as much a possibility as anywhere else…” said Remus pensively.

The discussion continued into the night, and was ended only when Remus announced his tiredness and retreated into his bedroom. Harry went outside and crossed the street— he was about to enter his own house when Hermione caught up with him.

“Harry— wait.” He turned to find Hermione coming up the steps of his front porch. “Aren’t you going to say goodnight to me?”

Missing the teasing sarcasm in her voice, he said quickly, “Er, sorry— goodnight.” He turned back around to walk into the house, but Hermione stepped in front of him.

“Harry, listen. Next weekend Gryffindor plays Slytherin for the Quidditch Cup. Want to go watch?”

“No, thanks.”

“Why on earth not?”

“Hermione, we’re in the middle of our most important project ever— I don’t have time to go and watch silly games.”

“It was more than just a ‘silly game’ when you played for Gryffindor, wasn’t it?” she retorted.

“That was before… well, I’ve realised what’s important and what’s not.”

“So spending some time with your friends isn’t important, then?”

“What friends?” Harry said bitterly.

“Harry!” Hermione looked as though she might explode with frustration. “Why are you doing this to yourself? You know perfectly well who your friends are— Ginny, Dean, Seamus, Fred and George…” she started counting off names on her fingers.

“They don’t need me.”

“Oh, is that so? And I suppose you don’t need them, either?”

“How can I do my work if I’m dependent on other people? Besides, I learned a long time ago that I can’t trust anyone— except maybe you and Remus, and Dumbledore…”

“Fine.” Hermione’s voice was exasperated, but her face showed only concern. “I don’t understand why you think that way, but I can see you won’t be swayed…” Her voice became quiet and pleading. “But please think about it, Harry. We deserve a break, it’d be good for you to get out, and good for me too, for that matter. It would mean a lot to me…”

Harry frowned. He hated arguing with Hermione— she was always right. “Fine, I’ll go,” he said resignedly.

Hermione smiled and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before she Disapparated. With an annoyed sigh, Harry went inside, opened the latest book he’d been assigned, and began to take notes.

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A week later he was sitting high up in the stands of the Quidditch stadium. It was actually the first time he’d been in the stands; it seemed strange not to be in the changing room or out on the pitch with the rest of the team…

Stop it, he ordered himself. You’re an Auror, not a Quidditch player. You shouldn’t have let Hermione talk you into this. You’re too weak. He scowled his displeasure that he was allowing himself this luxury. He reasoned that the only way he could fix the situation was to not let himself to enjoy it.

The stadium was full— all the students had taken their seats and were ready for the match to begin. But before the teams took to the pitch, the commentator had a special announcement to make. “On behalf of Hogwarts I would like to welcome our guests of honour to today’s match. Supporting Slytherin today we have Auror Blaise Zabini, and former Slytherin Quidditch players Terence Higgs, Adrian Pucey, and Marcus Flint!”

The commentator paused as she waited for the Slytherins in the crowd to stop cheering. Then she continued, “And supporting Gryffindor, we have four Weasleys— Fred, Angelina, George, and Katie, all part of the 1994 and 1996 Quidditch Cup-winning Gryffindor teams!” Their section of the stands was magically illuminated and Harry could see Fred and George grinning and waving, their faces painted scarlet and gold— the colours of Gryffindor. Angelina held up a little boy (who judging by the mop of red hair was hers and Fred’s son) who was wearing face paint to match his father’s.

“My mistake,” said the commentator, “we have five Weasleys in attendance today. And also supporting Gryffindor today, the world-famous Auror pair, Hermione Granger and… HARRY POTTER!”

Harry was almost blinded by the lights that were all suddenly focused on them. He could barely hear the commentator rattling off Hermione’s academic records and his Quidditch statistics over the spectators’ deafening cheers. To please the crowd he forced a smile and held up his hand in a dignified wave. To his left, Hermione was both beaming and blushing.

“And now let’s start the match!”

As the teams emerged from their locker rooms and onto the field amid torrents of noise, Harry felt a strange sort of nostalgia, which he quickly forced to the back of his mind. He swiftly quashed the familiar rush of excitement when Madam Hooch sounded her silver whistle and the match began. He refrained from shouting and cheering with the rest as the two teams battled on…

“And Slytherin Chaser Foot with the Quaffle now, rocketing up the field… Wow, did you see that? Foot fakes out Gryffindor Chaser Hall, passes her, it’s just him and the Keeper… and he scores! Thirty-ten for Slytherin now. Brian Smith with the Quaffle now for Gryffindor, look at him go! Come on, Brian… OUCH! Collides with Slytherin Beater Danforth, he’ll feel that in the morning. Quaffle taken by Slytherin, but Foot takes a Bludger to the face, that’ll leave a mark. He drops the Quaffle, and it’s caught by Amanda Hall, who puts it past the Slytherin Keeper for a goal! Thirty-twenty now to Slytherin!”

Harry exhaled, realising that he had been holding his breath in anticipation. “Looks like this’ll be a close match, these two excellent teams will fight until the last breath! I think it’ll come down to the Seekers— John Grant of Slytherin and Nick Forbes for Gryffindor, but there’s been no sign of the Snitch yet. Smith just scored again, it’s tied at thirty points. Foot with the Quaffle again, loops the Gryffindor defender… YES! Gryffindor Keeper Sarah Freeland pulls off a spectacular save and now it’s Hall again… LOOK AT GRANT AND FORBES!”

The Snitch was hovering near the centre of the pitch and the two Seekers were hurtling towards it from opposite ends. Each was bent low on his broomstick, eyes locked on the tiny flash of gold. A blur of green and a blur of scarlet… they were going to hit each other dead-on but neither would swerve from his path…

CRUNCH. The Seekers collided at full speed at the location of the Snitch, which disappeared from view. The crowd collectively winced as both Seekers fell— Grant’s broom spiralled downward before he regained control and looked around wildly for the Snitch. But it was too late— the stadium erupted in cheers as scarlet-clad Nick Forbes thrust his fist into the air. He paid no heed to his heavily bleeding nose as he clutched the Snitch in his left hand and dangled from his airborne broom with his right.

Harry couldn’t stop the memories flooding back to him as he watched Nick Forbes float to the ground to be swarmed by the frenzied Gryffindor crowd. He couldn’t help cheering as Dumbledore presented the Quidditch Cup to the team captain. His throat felt unusually tight as he saw his old House celebrating wildly… he couldn’t help it. It was lucky he was wearing his sunglasses, so that nobody could see the distant look in them as he longingly thought of those carefree days.

Back at home, Harry silently deplored himself for enjoying the Quidditch match. You can’t have these pathetic feelings— they’ll get you into trouble. They’ll make everything harder. So he forgot his emotions once again and returned to his solitary life.

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Next morning his breakfast was interrupted when Hermione’s head appeared suddenly in the fire.

“Harry,” she said, “can you come over here for a minute? Dumbledore wants a word…”

When he arrived she told him, “We have a few minutes to wait— he’s got some Hogwarts business to take care of first. Have a seat.” She gestured to the couch, upon which Harry sat down. Rather than counting dots on the ceiling as he waited, he attempted to count the books that were in neat lines on the bookshelves, tossed in a basket in the corner, and stacked high on practically every accessible horizontal surface.

“So…” Hermione said as she straightened the seven crucifixes hanging on her wall for protection against vampires and vindictive, undead spirits. “Did you enjoy the Quidditch match?”

“It was…” he paused as he searched for an acceptable word. “It was inspiring.”

Hermione turned to face him. “God, Harry, why don’t you just admit you had fun?”

“It’s not important,” Harry said rather coldly. “And I can’t afford to be weak anymore.”

“Why exactly is having fun a sign of weakness?” Hermione asked patiently, but just as coldly.

Harry was spared answering, because at that moment the head of Albus Dumbledore appeared in the fire. “Ah, I see you are both there, very good,” he said. “I have been giving some thought to the Orb of Slytherin matter as told to me by Remus. You haven’t been having any luck so far in your search?”

“No, sir, our books don’t go into that sort of detail,” said Harry.

“Well, then I insist that you come to Hogwarts to help you in your search. As you have captured Death Eaters over the years, the Ministry has confiscated some… highly interesting books and objects from their homes. They are now being stored in the Restricted Section of the library. I give you permission to use them in your research— but be careful, they are rather powerful Dark objects.”

“Thank you, sir.”

With that, he disappeared from the fire. Harry simply sat for a few moments, not really looking forward to the prospect of reading through hundreds more books on the Dark Arts. Hermione, on the other hand, leapt up from her seat. “Well, what are we waiting for?” she said, and tossed some Floo powder into the fire. “Hogwarts library.” She disappeared in a rush of green fire.

Harry had no choice but to follow her, so he did. When he arrived in the library he found his partner already immersed in a huge and sinister-looking book. A few of the more dedicated Hogwarts students were in the library revising for their exams, which were a little less than a month away; when he passed by them., they whispered excitedly to each other before scurrying out of the room, probably to tell their friends that the famous Harry Potter was in the library.

Sure enough, minutes later they had returned with what seemed like the entire school. Harry remembered all too well how quickly gossip spread through Hogwarts, particularly gossip involving him. It was quite difficult to work as a crowd of students stood nearby, pointing and whispering rapidly, but he ignored them as best he could. One small witch got up the nerve to ask Harry for his autograph.

“Only if you get Hermione’s first. It’s a packaged deal,” he told her.

The girl slid the parchment across the table. Although she was clearly ruffled by this distraction, Hermione smiled tolerantly and signed the parchment before returning to her book.

Harry then autographed the parchment and waited until the girl returned to show her friends, who were all giggling madly. To prevent further disruption from other students keen on getting his signature, he conjured up a soundproof curtain across the library, shielding Hermione and him from the view of the tittering throng.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” he asked Hermione.

“Does what bother me?” she responded, her face still buried in her book.

Harry hesitated— Hermione could potentially be quite dangerous when interrupted from her work. But he pressed valiantly on, “When people see us, they really only see me, you know.” He paused, wondering if he had offended her, but she was still reading her book, showing no signs that she had even heard him. “I mean, that girl, she just asked for my autograph and ignored you.” Having made his point, he stopped speaking and waited for her reply.

He watched Hermione’s eyes travelling over the words in front of her. Having finished the paragraph she finally looked up.

“You’re confusing me with Ron,” she said quietly, with a soft smile.

Something flickered in Harry’s habitually cold green eyes. She saw it; she reached out to take his hand, but quickly withdrew her arm when he automatically shrank back from her touch. But she didn’t stop talking.

“You’ve been famous since you were a year old, Harry. I don’t expect to compete with that. I don’t want to compete with that, anyway. It’s not important at all.”

“I never wanted to be famous,” said Harry sullenly.

“I know you didn’t.” She gave him a reassuring smile before adding, “I appreciate your concern, though.”

She went back to her work. Having nothing else to say or do, Harry did likewise. But his mind was no longer on the book in front of him (Secrets of the Dark Arts). He was thinking about the name Hermione had mentioned.

Suddenly he wished that they could do their research someplace else. Just to be in this building, this school, forced memories of happier times into his stubborn mind. Indeed, the happiest seven years of his life were at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Seven years, side by side. Hermione and Harry.

And Ron.

Ron Weasley.

Harry’s red-headed, freckle-faced, Quidditch-loving best friend. They were all but inseparable. Everything— classes, meals, homework, Quidditch— they did together.

He’d been equally close to Hermione, but for different reasons. She’d always been the sensitive, loyal, and sensible one. And she still was, of course.

But Ron was simply more fun to be around. Hermione had her own distinctive sense of humour, dry and sarcastic, not unlike that of Remus Lupin. But with Ron, everything had been funny. Nothing put Harry in better spirits than a game of Quidditch in the orchard with the Weasley brothers, or an intense snowball fight out on the grounds with Ron and the twins, or a quiet game of wizard’s chess near the common room fire, Ron easily beating him every time. Like Sirius, Ron could find humour in any situation, no matter how dire…

That’s not a good thing, he fiercely tried to tell himself. Some things are simply not funny. Yet this argument inside his head quickly dissolved. Ron had become a lot more mature— and he wasn’t stupid. He knew when to joke around and when not to. Harry couldn’t help feeling he missed Ron’s company.

Stop being so dismal! he silently screamed at himself. He’d been telling himself this for years, over and over. God forbid that his life be fun. I don’t want to have fun. That’s not who I am.

But it is who you were, said another, different voice in his head. Why did you change? Just because Ron’s gone doesn’t mean you can’t have fun.

That’s not what I’m here for, said Harry’s willpower. All that matters is killing Voldemort.

Harry’s conscience replied, But look what you’ve become ever since that has been your mindset. You’re ignoring your real feelings.

No! I don’t need feelings. I don’t have feelings.

Even worse!

It’s necessary! Extracurricular relationships become obstacles!

But—

SHUT UP! Harry bellowed at the quarrel inside his head, which hurt as if his conscience and willpower had been punching each other as well as arguing. He felt annoyed, exhausted— the way he always did after listening to a fight between Hermione and Ron.

Oh, look, there’s Ron again, said his conscience. You can’t keep yourself from thinking about him, can you?

I could if you would just stop remembering him, his willpower shot back.

Just admit you miss him. Admit you’re sad.

Fed up, Harry silenced the voices in his head by slamming Secrets of the Dark Arts to his forehead. Having done this he slowly lowered the book, to find Hermione watching him carefully.

She stood up. “I think you need a break, Harry,” she said soothingly. “Let’s take a walk.”

“I’m fine,” said Harry through gritted teeth.

“Well, I need a break, then,” Hermione said firmly. “Let’s go.”

Harry grudgingly followed her out of the library. They walked briskly through the familiar hallways, ignoring the whispers and pointing fingers of the students and portraits as they passed.

When they came to the entrance hall Hermione stopped abruptly as her eyes fell upon something mounted over the huge oak doors. Harry followed her gaze. It was an enormous obsidian plaque, bearing words of gold:

in memory of Ronald Weasley

Order of Merlin, First Class

“Order of Merlin, First Class,” Harry read the last line of the plaque aloud. “Think we’ll ever get First Class?”

Ignoring Harry’s question, Hermione hissed at him, “Is that all you see? Order of Merlin, First Class? What about the first line, your best friend’s name?”

When Harry didn’t answer her, she pulled him outside by his arm. She marched him across the grounds, all the way to the shores on the side of the lake farthest from Hogwarts. She had brought him to a secluded location, sandwiched between the forest and the lake. There were three small boulders here— Hermione sat on one and Harry on another.

They simply sat in silence for a while as Hermione watched a scowling Harry. She had taken him here on purpose, to try to get him to feel something. After he, Ron, and Hermione had discovered this spot in their fifth year, it had quickly become their favourite place on the Hogwarts grounds. She knew he had a particularly large collection of memories that took place here. And judging from the pained look on his face that he was working hard (and failing) to conceal, he was reliving some of those memories right now.

“I’m not doing this to be mean,” said Hermione, staring out at the lake.

“Why are you doing it, then?” Harry asked, trying to keep his deep voice calm.

She looked at him. Harry was surprised to see tears on her face. “I’m worried about you,” she said in a shaky, quiet voice.

“Well, don’t be.”

Exasperated, Hermione jumped off her rock and pulled Harry off of his own. She held him by his shoulders at arm’s length, as she looked directly into his face. She said slowly, “I want you to tell me what’s wrong.”

“What makes you think something’s wrong?” he said doggedly.

“This,” – she shook his shoulders a little more forcefully than she probably intended to— “is not Harry. The real Harry Potter is a kind, happy, emotional, caring guy that I went to school with for seven years. This,” – she shook his shoulders again— “is a machine, a wizard who is only concerned with killing Voldemort, and couldn’t care less about himself or other people, and feels nothing.”

As though to prove her point, she grabbed his head, pulled off his sunglasses, and kissed him on the lips, her cinnamon eyes not leaving his green ones. When he simply stared stonily back at her, she threw her arms around his neck and burst into tears.

Harry stood as still as though he was Petrified, though he was breathing rather heavily as he waited for Hermione to release him.

“You’re wrong,” he said monotonously. She stopped sobbing, but didn’t lift her head from his shoulder, which was soaked with angry, sad, and frustrated tears. “I care about other people. That’s why I’m fighting Voldemort— so all my old friends and everybody else can live and not have to worry about him. And to avenge my parents’ deaths, and Sirius, and Ron…” Hoping he had made a strong enough case to pacify Hermione at least temporarily, he let his voice trail off.

But far from tranquilising her, his words seemed to send her into a rage. She pushed him backwards, away from her, hard. “So that’s all your ‘friends’ are to you? Reasons to fight Voldemort?” Hermione said this loudly, and so venomously that Harry took several steps back to put more space between them. He backed up as far as he could go without falling into the lake, but Hermione closed the gap quickly. Seething with anger and less than a metre away from him, she hissed, “You have no idea what real friendship is about, do you? Wait, I take it back— you were a good friend for seven years, keyword being were. You know what it’s all about. You just choose to ignore it, for no good reason at all.”

Hoping she wouldn’t push him into the lake, Harry said and did nothing. Hermione’s blazing eyes softened a little, but were still fiery. “I can’t make you change back to who you really are. If you want to keep up this façade, well, that’s your choice. But you owe yourself better. You deserve better than what you give yourself. Remember that.”

Hermione gave him a final, piercing stare, so reminiscent of Professor McGonagall that Harry half expected her to try to give him a detention. But she only walked off, saying, “See you tomorrow, Potter.”

Her last word hit Harry like a bullet. Never in his life had she called him only by his surname. He didn’t move from his spot until she had disappeared into the entrance hall of Hogwarts. The argument had left a very strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. Upon reflection, he realised that he had never really had a fight with Hermione before.

She’s wrong, he told himself for the thousandth time as he lay awake that night. Over the past six years he’d repeatedly told himself not to make the same mistake twice— that mistake was allowing himself to become close to the people around him. And when he lost the people he loved, it hurt— a lot more than it hurts not to love at all.

Over six long years he had slowly convinced himself that he was doing the right thing. And no one, not even Hermione, would change his mind.

I don’t eat, I just devour
Everyone in every hour
All is me is all I need and that’s all that I care

Propelled through all this madness

By your beauty and my sadness

I’ll never change or rearrange till I’ve finished what I’ve started

And life leads me here
It shows me, I have never really loved no one but me
Like the time, you slipped through my hands
I’ll never understand why I’m such a Selfish Man

Walk around me, not before me
I’ll pretend not to ignore ye
But I’ll compromise if I realise you can do something for me
I’m ugly and you know it
But you think I am a poet
So I’ll keep the rhyme if I feel in time, it gets me where I’m going

And life leads me here
It shows me, I have never really loved no one but me
Like the time, you slipped through my hands
I’ll never understand why I’m such a Selfish Man

All I heard was an unearthly silence,
Apart from the violence, explode in my head
Where at all once was this moment of beauty
No more since it slew me
No never again

No, I’ll never understand why I’m such a Selfish Man

3. Part III: Moving On

- part III: moving on –

The next morning Harry arrived at the Hogwarts library promptly at 8:00 to find Hermione already engrossed in a book, feverishly taking notes. Without a word he sat across the table from her and opened Secrets of the Dark Arts, which lay as he had left it the night before. They worked silently for nearly an hour before Hermione spoke.

“Harry.”

He dropped his quill. Not only was she talking to him, she called him by his first name.

“I’m really sorry I lost my temper yesterday,” she said earnestly.

Not able to believe his good fortune, Harry replied, “Er— don’t worry about it. And I’m sorry for being such a… such a…” He struggled to find a good word to use.

“Prat?” Hermione suggested good-naturedly.

“Yes, that sounds about right.” He went back to his book.

“I’ve never been very good at hiding my emotions,” Hermione said thoughtfully. Then she added, “Maybe I should take lessons from you.”

Harry quickly looked up again; he was relieved to see that she was smiling. He was about to make a sarcastic remark back to her when a different voice interrupted.

“Hello, you two.” Remus Lupin stepped from the fireplace, dusting ash from his robes. “Interesting news from the Auror world. We finally got Lucius Malfoy.”

Hermione jumped out of her seat, and Harry closed Secrets of the Dark Arts with a bang. But Remus held up a hand. “Don’t get too excited – Blaise and Cho killed him.”

Frustrated, Harry kicked the leg of the table, but only succeeded in stubbing his toe rather severely. Hermione looked disappointed. “So much for interviewing him,” she grumbled, shaking her head disapprovingly. “Pity he wasn’t our assignment— we could have got some useful information out of him. I mean, he was Voldemort’s second in command!”

“We’re not done with him yet,” said Harry slowly as he rubbed his throbbing toe. He was remembering something that had been said to him a full twelve years ago, something regarding the Malfoy manor… Father’s got some very valuable Dark Arts stuff… we’ve got our own secret chamber—

“Under the drawing room floor…” Hermione muttered. She looked up at Harry. “I remember you and Ron telling me about that! I just hope it’s still there…”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

All three of them Flooed to Malfoy manor. Several Ministry officials were examining the mansion and the bodies of a few dead Death Eaters strewn about the hallways. On the luxurious leather couch across the room, Blaise and Cho seemed to be enjoying a celebratory snog.

Harry laughed under his breath. Ten years ago he would have been madly jealous of Blaise. But now, he could honestly say that he didn’t care. He had had the privilege of being Cho Chang’s boyfriend for a few short months— but that passed uneventfully, and it had been over for six years.

His past stupidity both amazed and amused him. His crush on Cho went back to his early years at Hogwarts; and it was just that— a crush. A stupid boyhood crush that started the very first time he’d seen her, when he played against her in Quidditch. He couldn’t believe how much time he’d wasted trying to get her to like him back. And just because she was beautiful…

Harry hadn’t even known what she was like until they’d started dating. And that was when he realised how rude and blinkered she really was. It wasn’t the bossiness that really bothered him, or the fact that she was a near-genius; after all, Hermione was graced with those traits as well. But unlike Hermione, with whom he got along exceptionally well (with the very rare exception), Cho allowed those two traits to be combined into insufferable short-sightedness that Harry wouldn’t stand for.

This particularly poisonous narrow-mindedness became evident when the news broke out that Hermione had joined the ranks of the Death Eaters. In spite of Dumbledore’s trust and Harry’s assurances, Cho simply refused to believe that Hermione was simply spying for the Order of the Phoenix. To this day Harry had no idea what drove him to defend Hermione so ardently in front of Cho, but it didn’t matter now. It happened, it was in the past— Harry sided with his best friend and called it quits with the girl he’d been chasing for years.

Watching the busy couple on the couch (Cho seemed to be greatly enjoying Blaise’s tongue ring), Harry wondered vaguely whether they would get married.

With a jolt he forced his mind back to reality. What did he care if Blaise and Cho got married? The answer was simple: he didn’t, not at all. He had neither time nor reason to waste his brain cells thinking about such trivial things. He turned his attention to the reason he and Hermione had come here in the first place.

“Let’s g— ” he started, then realised Hermione wasn’t in the room. He walked through the nearest door and found her standing at the fireplace, studying something perched on the mantelpiece. When Harry entered the room she turned quickly around.

“Well,” she said with a grin, “finished staring at Cho?”

“I didn’t— I was just looking—” Harry dissented.

“Don’t worry; I know that’s over with. Have I ever thanked you for sticking up for me, six years ago?”

“Yes, about a thousand times.”

“Well, I’ll make it a thousand and one— thanks. It really meant a lot to me.”

“Not at all,” said Harry. He walked over and grabbed the object Hermione had been looking at. It was a photograph, complete with an elaborate silver frame. His stomach gave an unpleasant turn when he saw the subject of the photo.

Eighteen-year-old Draco Malfoy stared up at Harry, his face frozen in a spiteful, haughty expression except for his cold, grey eyes, which blinked occasionally.

“Finished staring at Malfoy?” Harry asked Hermione teasingly.

Her face turned beet red. “That’s over with. I don’t know what got into me, in that stupid little fling with him—”

“Hermione, you said yes. You were engaged.”

“I’ve always liked blonds.”

Harry stared at her.

“Oh, come on, you know I’m only kidding. I was on a mission, for Merlin’s sake, don’t you remember?”

He did remember. In a desperate attempt to get inside information on Voldemort, the Order of the Phoenix sent Hermione to ‘get together’ with Malfoy. But Hermione, in the process, seemed to fall for the cold-hearted cretin. Harry had uncomplainingly accepted this, as it resulted in Malfoy’s revelation of Voldemort’s Christmas plans, allowing the Order to stop them. Ironically, their relationship also saved Hermione and, however indirectly, Harry, Dumbledore, and Hogwarts itself. Malfoy flouted Voldemort’s instructions to kill Hermione, choosing to imprison her instead. Hermione managed to escape from the dungeons of Malfoy manor and arrived just in time to stop Voldemort from killing Harry and Dumbledore, and destroying Hogwarts.

But, upon reflection, Harry had decided that Hermione’s so-called ‘fling’ with Malfoy was nothing but revolting, and he now told her as much.

“What do you want me to say? That I still love him?” Hermione said hotly. “Give it a rest— it’s in the past. I don’t even think about it anymore. It was just a few months, exactly what I called it— a fling. I’ve moved on. It meant nothing.”

With that, she slammed the picture face-down on the mantel. “Oh, that reminds me. I’ve been meaning to get rid of this.” She pulled a ring –an engagement ring, with diamonds and emeralds set in silver— out of her pocket and dropped it unceremoniously on the back of the overturned photograph. “Let’s go.”

Harry followed her into the drawing room. “Wingardium leviosa,” said Hermione. The elaborate area rug and everything on it was lifted into the air by her powerful levitation charm. Taking small steps, Harry slowly walked around the part of the wooden floor that the rug had covered. One of his steps made a different sound than the others— he had found a hollow floorboard. Using the Reductor curse, Harry was able to blast away the wooden plank that covered a gaping hole in the floor.

Harry plunged recklessly in; he fell down what seemed to be a nearly vertical stone chute, tearing his robes on bits of jagged rock sticking out from the walls. “Careful, it’s sharp,” he called up to Hermione and Remus, who descended more carefully than Harry had.

Remus spotted torches hanging on the walls and lit them so that they could see. Harry had never seen so many strange and menacing-looking things; the closest to this place that he had ever been to was Knockturn Alley.

He shivered, unsure whether the cold was caused by the depth of the chamber, or by the evil aura coming from the mysterious objects. His instincts as well as his Auror training told him not to touch anything. However, the others’ qualms gave in to their curiosity— Hermione was unable to resist opening an ancient Dark Arts book that she found, and Remus was staring intently at a box on a shelf.

“Harry, Hermione, come take a look at this.”

Hermione set the book down and followed Harry across the chamber. Harry observed the object Remus was looking at. It appeared to be a cube of pure silver, the size of a shoebox. Harry picked it up off its shelf. Judging by its light weight, the box was hollow. Indeed, when he flipped it to one side, they could hear something rattling around inside.

Hermione excitedly voiced the thought that had been running through Harry’s head, “What if that’s the Orb in there?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” said Remus. “Open it, Harry.”

Harry would have done so, if there had been a way. But every side of the cube was solid silver, not a seam or crack in the entire thing. Harry said, “I don’t know how— you try.” He held the box out to Remus, who jumped backwards in alarm. Hermione leapt forward and grabbed it out of Harry’s hands.

“Harry! Be careful! You could have killed him!” said Hermione. Seeing the blank look on his face, she said exasperatedly, “Didn’t you ever pay attention in school?”

“No,” said Harry.

Hermione snorted. “Well, at least you’ll admit it. Werewolves are allergic to silver, remember?”

“Oh— right,” said Harry, feeling foolish. “Sorry about that, Remus.”

“Don’t worry about it,” replied Remus faintly.

Meanwhile, Hermione had set the box on the ground and was kneeling beside it.

“Aparecium,” she said, tapping a side of the cube three times with her wand. Green ink was spreading across the cube, but it formed neither a lid to the box nor instructions to open it. Instead, all that appeared was a thin ink snake, which wrapped itself once all the way around the cube. Hermione tried to pry the box open along the lines that the image of the snake formed, but it wouldn’t budge.

Harry had a sudden inspiration. Crouching down next to Hermione, he looked the tiny snake right in its miniscule eyes. “Open the box,” he said, but no words came out. Instead they heard a series of hissing sounds; there was a quick flash of green light as the box split open along the ink snake. A large amount of black smoke billowed from the crack.

“Brilliant,” came Remus’s voice through the smoke. “Of course… because only a Parselmouth could open it— Voldemort thought he was the only one. He was the only one, in fact, when he created this box— he hadn’t transferred that gift to you, Harry, because you weren’t even born yet when he rose to power…”

By now the smoke had cleared, and they could see the contents of Voldemort’s magical box. Heart pounding, Harry sifted through pieces of old parchment, searching for the object they’d heard sliding around.

He found it; to his intense disappointment, it wasn’t an Orb of any sort. It was a ring, a simple silver band, etched with strange carvings and inscriptions. He set it aside, and rummaged through the box again. There was nothing else but parchment in it. He picked up a piece— it wasn’t even in English. It was some sort of message, written in strange, spiky characters rather than in letters.

Discouraged, he picked up the ring again and examined it. It seemed quite ordinary— of course, he knew an object coming from Voldemort’s box must be anything but ordinary. Throwing caution to the winds, he placed the ring on his finger. Nothing happened. Baffled, he handed the ring to Hermione, who was examining some of the parchment papers.

She looked at the ring; to Harry’s surprise, she raised her eyebrows in an expression of deep interest. “Wait— wait a moment, I’ll be right back!” She tossed the ring back to Harry and, using the jagged rocks protruding from the wall as footholds, climbed back up the chute.

She returned a minute later. Excitedly she held something out to Harry in her hand, which was bloody from climbing the sharp stones. It was the engagement ring. Harry turned it over in his hand, comparing it to the ring that they had just found.

“The carvings are identical,” said Hermione. Harry looked more closely— she was quite right. “I wonder if it means anything.”

“I have no idea. Is there anything we can do with these?” He gestured to the parchment documents littering the floor.

Hermione picked up one of the pieces of parchment she had been studying earlier. “It’s a rune,” she said, waving it in front of Harry’s face. “Judging by the style, it was written relatively recently— no more than fifty years ago, I’m sure…”

“Fifty years ago… that’s when Voldemort was away, supposedly making himself immortal,” said Harry slowly.

“Exactly,” said Hermione with an excited smile. “I’ve only studied Ancient Runes, not modern ones, but I think I can still translate it, with a little time in the library.”

Harry wondered exactly how many days or weeks she meant by “a little time” in the library.

“These ones are in Latin,” said Remus from across the room. “I can translate them for you, if you want.”

“That would be great— thanks, Remus,” said Hermione gratefully. She stooped down, gathering all the runes from the floor. Straightening up again, she said to Harry, “Well, come on, then! Let’s go.”

Slipping the rings into his pocket, he followed her back up the stone chute. They Floo-ed back to the Hogwarts library. Hermione dumped her armload of parchment onto the table, which was starting to become quite cluttered with their research. She then dashed off to the Runes section, and later returned with a teetering stack of books, which she slammed onto the table.

Deciding to leave the Runes work to Hermione, Harry opened the book that he had taken from the Malfoys’ chamber (Spells for the Elite and Evil). It was an immense tome— it would probably take him days to read through. Scowling, he looked up, hoping to see some distraction that would delay his having to read it.

But the first thing he saw was Hermione, patiently studying the rune and flipping through various rune dictionaries. This had the opposite effect that Harry had hoped for. Look how hard Hermione’s working, he told himself fiercely. You’ve got to help her if you ever want to kill Voldemort. Without further hesitation he started on the first chapter of Spells for the Elite and Evil.

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“Sorry I’m late.” Harry strode into Remus’s living room to find Remus, Hermione, and Professor Dumbledore all sitting around the empty fireplace. All three of them were smiling.

“What were you talking about?” Harry asked casually.

“You,” said Hermione.

Not sure whether she was teasing, Harry simply sat down in the nearest tattered armchair.

“So,” said Dumbledore, his eyes still twinkling as he watched Harry. “What’s this information you wanted to share with us?”

“We think we’ve got the Orb of Slytherin,” Hermione said excitedly. She spread some rolls of parchment out on the coffee table in front of them. “I translated these runes— they more or less tell us where the Orb is and how to get it, though it’s a bit vague. And Harry thinks he’s found the spell used to create the Orb.”

Harry pulled a crumpled parchment from his pocket, flattened it out on the table, and started to read the words he’d carefully copied from Spells for the Elite and Evil.

“The House of the Soul charm is one of the most complicated, difficult, and little-known spells in existence. It is a relatively recent discovery, as the spell is said to be created by an anonymous wizard in the 1950s in Eastern Europe. The House of the Soul charm involves transforming an object to become a vessel in which the life of one individual is stored, usually the person performing the charm. The aforesaid individual will only die when the vessel is destroyed. The charm, which is irreversible without destroying the soul vessel, can be used on any human and any solid object.”

“We’re safely assuming the ‘anonymous wizard’ was Voldemort— I mean, we know he was in Eastern Europe in the 1950s, and the spell’s name is in English, not Latin or French or any other language,” added Hermione.

“Brilliant,” murmured Dumbledore, “of course, we knew he couldn’t be killed by Avada Kedavra— or else he would have died twenty-three years ago. We tried everything— poisons, other spells, even Muggle weapons. We thought Lord Voldemort was immortal…”

“But he’s not,” said Hermione triumphantly. She picked up a translated rune and read aloud:

“In a deep black wood
Amid northern snow and ice
Not far from frigid sea
And castle dark and old
Is the spot which holds the door
To the core of my existence
But the door will only be opened
While the night sky is most like day
The magic that protects it
Not understood by the rest
To guarantee my longevity
With no fear of my own end
Behind the door resides my only friend
Jujenaj, long eluding all others
My only friend, at my command
The first test among many
The key to the door of which I speak
Has been hidden along with this
But its sister remains lost among
Those who do not understand her
I performed all this perfectly
Unlike others before me
My new spell can assure forever
That I will not know mortal death.”

She folded up the parchment. “It actually rhymed when it was in Rune form,” Hermione scoffed. “Voldemort the poet. Well, he sure thinks a lot of himself, doesn’t he?”

Harry, marvelling at the vagueness of the rune, wondered how Hermione had got any useful information out of Voldemort’s boasts.

Nearly glowing with enthusiasm, Hermione launched into her explanation. “The real giveaway was the part about the Jujenaj. I went and looked it up— he was a mythical creature, never seen by any Muggle or wizard. But here’s the thing— it was said to inhabit only one location— a forest…” She shifted her parchments around to reveal a large map of Europe and pointed to a spot, labelled with flashing purple ink, which appeared to be a tiny island in the Arctic Ocean.

She paused, looking pleased with herself. “Not understood by the rest,” she quoted. “That must mean the Parseltongue protections he placed— really lucky we’ve got you, Harry. The door will only be opened while the night sky is most like day. My guess is that this ‘door’ is only open at the full moon. I have no idea what the bit about the keys means. And the rest fits with the spell Harry just found.”

Harry stared at her, flabbergasted. He’d known Hermione was clever, but this was just unbelievable.

“Well done, both of you,” said Dumbledore. His expression became grave. “There is only one thing left to do now, and that is to find the Orb and destroy it. If this is only possible at the full moon, as you believe, then you should set out immediately to give yourselves time enough to find the specific spot. The next full moon is close at hand— am I correct, Remus?”

Remus nodded. “This coming Friday.” He looked as though he was disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to help them. He turned to Hermione. “Did you read about what the Jujenaj is?”

Hermione shook her head. “I only read that it was a feared Dark creature. And the book said it was just a legend, that it didn’t exist.”

“I myself thought it was a legend— but apparently, Jujenaj is real,” Remus said slowly. “To say it is to be feared is quite an understatement. According to the version of the legend that I heard, it has magical powers equal to that of a real human wizard. It is small, quick, and agile. But the biggest problem is that it is invisible.”

“Invisible?” Hermione echoed.

Harry swallowed. This was starting to sound impossible. Hermione looked slightly pale.

“It will be difficult,” said Dumbledore. Nothing like stating the obvious, Harry thought. “Voldemort surely must have spent a great deal of time and energy protecting the Orb. But I have complete faith in your abilities. My only regret is that in my age, I’m not able to accompany you.”

His light blue eyes moved slowly from Harry, to Hermione, and back again. “Harry.”

Harry looked solemnly at his old Headmaster, who said, “You are a very great gifted and powerful wizard, more like Godric Gryffindor than anyone I have met.” Harry couldn’t believe he was hearing this from Albus Dumbledore, the greatest wizard in the past century and a half. “I promise you, Harry, that you can do anything you set your mind to.”

Dumbledore looked once again at Hermione. “And Hermione… of course. The most brilliant student to attend Hogwarts since Tom Riddle himself. But do not forget that you are a Gryffindor as well.” Hermione blushed furiously.

“Your separate talents complement each other. Your teamwork will prevail,” Dumbledore continued, “as it has always done in the past.” Hermione and Harry locked eyes briefly; she gave him a warm but edgy smile. Harry’s stomach flipped— I must be getting nervous, too, he thought. He certainly was feeling a bit queasy.

Dumbledore stood and shook Harry’s and Hermione’s hand. Then, without a word, he left the room. Harry realised with a jolt that he may never again see his old Headmaster…

“We should leave tomorrow,” Hermione said, trying and failing to sound laid-back and not at all apprehensive about the gargantuan task ahead of them.

Harry nodded; in unison they stood up to leave. “Wait a moment, Harry, I want a word before you go,” said Remus. “Hermione—” Remus crossed the room to where she stood and shook her hand briskly. “Good luck, and Godspeed.” Hermione managed another weak smile before walking out the door.

“Have a seat, Harry.” Harry sat down across from Remus, who asked him, “Who is Hermione Granger?”

Harry stared; Remus stared intensely back at him. The question seemed like some sort of test— and Harry had no idea how to answer, so he said the first things that popped into his head.

“Er— she’s my Auror partner… a brilliant witch, a genius, really…”

Remus sighed. Evidently, Harry’s answer was not what he wanted to hear. There was an uneasy silence before Remus spoke again.

“I can’t make you see how you feel, Harry. But never forget that your heart can’t lie— no matter how much you contradict your feelings in your mind, your heart will always win that battle, it’s always right.

“No matter how much you want to think it, Harry, love is not a weakness. The only one who truly believes that is Lord Voldemort. You may think you believe it too. But you will find that your heart doesn’t accept that idea, and your heart is what counts.”

Harry stood abruptly, frowning. This was no time to be talking about emotions— in three days’ time he’d have his chance to destroy Voldemort once and for all. This was no time to start being all sad and pathetic. “I’d best be going,” he said curtly. “I’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

“Wait.” Remus grabbed his arm and with his other hand pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket and handed it to Harry.

Harry looked at it. It was written in Latin; the English translation, in Remus’s neat writing, had been squeezed between the lines and in the margins. It read:

The two depart together, yet separate
In a rush of scarlet wings
Followed by trails of gold
Leaving their cold, black pasts behind
The two innocents hunt out their predator
To carry out life’s plan for them
To avenge the long-since lost
Like brother and sister they start their journey

Here the paper was torn, as though the words he saw were only half of the whole thing.

“Merlin’s Seventy-ninth Prediction,” Remus explained. “I know you and Hermione were never exactly Divination prodigies, so disregard it if you wish. But I won’t. And we don’t know the ending yet. You’ll make it a good ending, right?”

Harry nodded, mainly to appear more confident than he felt.

“Of course you will,” said Remus. “Good luck, and Godspeed. You know,” he paused, as though thinking of what to say next. “I think I’m as proud of you as your father and Sirius are— if that’s possible.” He gave Harry a small smile.

“Thanks for everything, Remus.” Harry shook his hand appreciatively.

“Anything for the greatest Auror ever.”

Harry glowered at him.

4. Part IV: Hermione

- part IV: Hermione –

Harry pulled his cloak tighter against the blizzard. A few metres in front of him, Hermione did the same. “Where are we?” he shouted over the wind.

Instead of attempting to shout the answer back to him, she stopped walking, waiting for him to catch up. “An island just off of Norway,” she said through her scarf. “Northern Norway. Don’t worry— as soon as we see the castle, we can go into the forest, and it won’t be as cold or windy there.”

They trudged along the snowy shore for what seemed like hours. But finally Hermione stopped, pointing, and said, “There it is— Durmstrang! We must be getting closer.”

“Can’t we stop in at Durmstrang for the night?” Harry asked, his teeth chattering.

Hermione shook her head. “We don’t have time; we’ve got a lot of forest to search.”

“Then can we stop in at Durmstrang after we’re done looking for the day?”

“Think about it, Harry, they actually teach the Dark Arts there. I don’t think we’d be the most welcome of guests,” Hermione said. “Now, if you’d just stop complaining, we could finish this faster.”

They climbed a steep hill and found themselves on a cliff, where the wind was blowing so forcefully it threatened to knock Harry back down onto the beach. But as they walked deeper and deeper into the woods, the weather changed for the better.

“What exactly are we looking for?” asked Harry.

“I don’t know,” Hermione muttered. “Anything out of the ordinary, I suppose.”

Harry looked around him. Some of the snowfall managed to penetrate the thick, leafy branches above them, greatly reducing visibility. The great black tree trunks were so close together that they almost formed a wall. It all looked very ordinary to him. He adjusted his bulging backpack. “Shall we start, then?”

Together they trekked through the bleak forest, not quite knowing where they were going. Every so often Hermione sent up a fountain of red sparks to mark areas that they’d searched. They saw nothing of interest, and when they asked a pair of centaurs for help, all the creatures did was complain about how short the nights were during the spring and summer. When darkness fell they had no choice but to stop for the night.

“If we’re lucky,” said Harry as they set up their magical tent (which resembled a log cabin), “we’ll find this thing in time for next month’s full moon.”

“Don’t be so negative,” Hermione scolded. “We’ve still got two whole days to look.”

“Mind if I take the top bunk?” Harry asked.

“Fine with me,” said Hermione, smiling. “I love the bottom.”

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The next morning Harry awoke to find a plate of toast balanced on his stomach.

“Eat fast,” came Hermione’s voice from below. “It’s almost 8:00— we need to get started.”

Yawning, he sat up carefully as not to overturn the plate. He stared at the strawberry jam on the toast. For some reason, he didn’t feel hungry, so he tossed the two pieces of bread out the window of the tent.

“Harry! Don’t waste that!” said Hermione.

“If we run out of food, we can always catch and eat a centaur,” Harry suggested, pulling on his socks and shoes.

“That’s disgusting.” Hermione went outside to retrieve the toast herself. “You can go ahead and eat that later, then,” she said, throwing it into Harry’s bag.

“Yes, mum,” Harry said sarcastically; Hermione smiled and rolled her eyes.

But their moods darkened as the day went on; their search was as unsuccessful as the day before. By the end of the day Harry was convinced that the task they’d been assigned was impossible, and even Hermione was worried.

“The full moon’s tomorrow night!” she said frantically. “What if we don’t get there in time? Think of all the people Voldemort could kill in the next month if we don’t make it…”

“We’ll probably find it tomorrow,” Harry said to reassure her, though he disagreed with his own words.

“That’s what we said yesterday,” she snapped.

“Look— you’re stressed out. We should both get to bed if we want to get this done tomorrow,” he said cautiously, as not to provoke her further.

Harry climbed into his bunk and Hermione, still grumbling to herself, did the same. But he didn’t fall asleep. He couldn’t keep terrible thoughts out of his mind. In the remote chance that they did indeed find what they were looking for tomorrow, would tonight be the last time he ever went to sleep? He wondered if Hermione was thinking the same thing. No— her soft, even breathing coming from the bunk below told him she was asleep.

Snap.

With the mild paranoia, rapid reflexes and acute senses resulting from years as an Auror, Harry sat bolt upright when he heard the sound outside the tent. It’s probably just a centaur, he told himself. But out of the corner of his eye he saw a dark shape skulk past the window. In an instant he’d grabbed his wand from under his pillow and slid silently off his bed, landing softly as a cat on the floor.

Crouching next to Hermione’s pillow, he shook her shoulder gently with one hand and covered her mouth with his other. Her eyes snapped open and looked at Harry, puzzled. Without saying a word he jerked his head in a vague gesture towards the window.

It was enough; she understood. She drew her own wand from her pillow and cautiously stepped out of bed. She muttered a spell under her breath and the glass silently disappeared from the window. Motioning for Harry to do the same, she crept over to the open frame. Harry looked outside; the silhouettes that were the intruders melted into the dark trees, making them indistinguishable from the forest background. He’d never be able to see well enough to aim properly.

But Hermione, as always, had an answer to the problem. She stuck the tip of her wand through the window and said in a barely audible whisper, “Incendio.”

A nearby tree burst into flames, illuminating the scene. In the firelight they could see a dozen Death Eaters, momentarily distracted by the fire.

“Now,” Harry whispered; they both dove out of the window just as the door of the tent was kicked down by a hooded and masked figure. An assortment of curses flew through the cabin, hitting the wall where they had just been standing. The Death Eater stared around, confused. Harry took the opportunity to hit him with a Stunning Spell.

But the other Death Eaters had found them out; they were now racing towards them from both sides, wands outstretched. Hermione conjured a dense fog to the right to block the Death Eaters’ view; they could hear them cursing as they tripped and fell over roots and each other in their attempt to get into a suitable range of attack. To the left, Harry used a powerful Severing charm to fell a tree, blocking the path of the incoming wizards.

“Stupefy!” they both yelled over and over, hoping to Stun as many trapped Death Eaters as possible.

“Avada Kedavra!” shouted a deep voice. Harry and Hermione both dropped to their stomachs, flat to the ground, and the curse sailed directly over top of them. “Avada Kedavra!” the voice roared again. They both rolled to the side; the curse hit the snowy ground right where they were laying no more than a second ago.

“Petrificus Totalus!” said Hermione from the ground. They heard a scream that told them she had hit her target. Harry jumped to his feet. A sound above him directed his attention to the overhead branches of a tree, where he saw a Death Eater who looked as though he maybe a Crabbe or a Goyle…

“Impedimenta!” The Death Eater, wandless, had jumped. Harry’s spell had hit him in midair, and he fell slowly enough to the ground to give Hermione time to move out of the way before being crushed by the enormous Death Eater.

“Stupefy,” said Hermione, to finish him off. “Thanks, Harry.”

They stood in silence, looking around and listening intently for signs of activity. Harry was about to say that he thought they got all the Death Eaters when he heard a blast from behind him. Hermione was thrown forward with a crunch into the nearest tree.

“Expelliarmus! Stupefy!” Harry shouted, whirling around. Nobody was there. He leaned into the window and looked around the tent; a Death Eater’s head, hand, and wand was just visible under Hermione’s bed. “Stupefy,” said Harry; the hiding Death Eater dropped his wand and his head to the floor.

He ran over to the tree where Hermione lay, and rolled her over. She was conscious, but her nose and forehead were bleeding profusely. “Are you all right?” he asked, wiping snow and blood off her face with the sleeves of his robes.

She blinked. “I think so,” she said, but winced with the effort of moving her face. He pulled her to her feet and helped her inside the tent, extinguishing the smouldering tree as he passed it.

Sitting her on the bed, he handed her a towel for her face and one of the pieces of chocolate that he always carried with him— a habit he’d picked up from Remus Lupin. Kneeling down in front of her, he took her face gently in both hands and examined it. His stomach flipped again; he didn’t know why— he’d never felt queasy at the sight of blood before.

“Deep cut to the forehead,” said Harry, “and a broken nose.” He performed the appropriate healing charms as taught in Auror class. He ran a finger across her forehead. “Congratulations on acquiring yet another scar. Pity yours don’t come in cool shapes,” he teased, tracing the lightning bolt on his own forehead.

Hermione rolled her eyes. She stood up, taking Harry’s hands in her own. “Thanks so much,” she whispered, her cinnamon eyes boring into his emerald ones.

“You’re welcome.” Harry looked away, let go of her hands, and ascended the ladder to the top bunk, leaving a disappointed-looking Hermione to climb alone back into her own bed.

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Hermione shook him awake the next morning when it was barely light out. He felt as though he hadn’t slept at all. Groaning, he swung his legs to the side, dangling them off the bunk bed.

“The Death Eaters know we’re here,” she explained. “We have to be a lot more careful. Of course, that means we have to go a lot more slowly.” She pulled him by his ankles off the bed.

“What are we going to do with all these?” Harry asked, gesturing at the Stunned Death Eaters littering the tent floor and the ground outside.

“I suppose we could leave them in the tent until we get back home. We won’t need to sleep in it anymore, remember?”

Harry collapsed the magical tent, Death Eaters and all, and stuffed it into his bag. After breakfast (toast— fresh for Hermione, soggy and stale for Harry), they set off again to finish their assignment. It was unfortunate that they had to do it after a night of interrupted sleep— they needed their wits about them. The cold mountain air was refreshing at first, but after a few hours it became more of a curse than anything else.

“You’d think it was mid-January rather than mid-May,” said Hermione, attempting to warm herself with a jarful of bluebell flames.

“It wouldn’t be so bad if we just got some sun down here,” Harry said, looking up. The sunlight was blocked by the thick foliage above.

Their moods didn’t improve as the day went on. By noon they had given up hope of finding the Orb; exhausted and frustrated, they sat on the icy ground, backs up against a tree trunk. “We must be doing something wrong,” Hermione said for about the hundredth time. “Come to think of it, I probably translated the rune wrong.”

“We both know you didn’t,” Harry argued. “We just need more time… pity you don’t have the Time-Turner anymore.”

“Well, there’s always next month, I suppose.”

“Wait…” Harry had spotted something in the distance. Between the trees he could see a narrow splinter of light reflecting off the white-blanketed ground. As they walked towards it he saw that the light was illuminating a black, flat, round object on the forest floor. But upon closer inspection Harry saw that the black thing was not an object at all, but merely a lack of snow.

It was a perfect circle, fifteen feet in diameter, in which no snow had fallen. The black forest dirt was visible, in sharp contrast with the snow-covered terrain surrounding it. But unlike the rest of the forest floor, no undergrowth or plant life of any sort was growing in the circle, and the branches of surrounding trees did not encroach into the space above the mysterious ring, allowing sunlight to brighten it and give it a ghostly appearance.

“Strange…” Harry murmured, gazing first down at the barren ground, and then up where the dazzling column stretched as far into the sky as he could see.

“Very strange,” Hermione agreed, walking around the spot and staring at it. Harry could practically see the cogs working in her brain. “So… what do you think?”

“You’re the brainy one— you tell me.”

Hermione pulled a branch from a nearby evergreen and cautiously poked it into the circle. The part of the branch that protruded into the ring froze solid and shattered. “Well, it’s definitely magic,” said Hermione uneasily. “D’you suppose it does the same for humans?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“Harry, don’t—”

But Harry had already stretched his little finger a small distance into the circle; the tip of his finger went the way of the branch. But that was not what hurt him— he staggered backwards, both hands clutching his forehead. “Well, we’ve found the right place,” he said, panting.

“Sometimes,” said Hermione teasingly, “regular scars are preferable to cool-shaped scars.” Her tone became serious. “We’ve found it, then. The protective wards must come down at the full moon— that’s when we have to do it. And the centaurs were right— the nights are short because we’re so far north, so we won’t have a lot of time…”

“We’ve still got a few hours till sundown— let’s just rest for a while,” Harry suggested.

They found a small clearing nearby. Hermione made a magical fire while Harry dragged over a log for them to sit on. They sat in silence, brooding, staring into the dancing flames.

Now that they had found the entrance to the Orb of Slytherin, the reality of it was starting to sink in for Harry.

Tonight it would happen. Tonight he would finish what he had started twenty-three years ago, albeit against his will. Tonight they had the opportunity to avenge so many deaths. Tonight they could kill the Dark Lord, who sowed over twenty years of fear and misery for innocent people. Tonight they would change the wizarding world for the better.

Harry realised with a jolt that this was their last mission. Whether they destroyed Voldemort tonight or died trying, never again would they be called into service to capture Death Eaters and question them on Voldemort’s whereabouts. Never again would the troubled Ministry of Magic desperately call on the greatest Auror team ever for help. Never again would they spend days in non-stop combat, wondering whether they would live to see tomorrow.

“What are you planning to do when there’s no need for Aurors anymore?” Hermione asked suddenly.

“How— I was just thinking about that,” said Harry incredulously.

Hermione gave him a soft smile. “I’ve known you so long, it’s almost like I can read your mind,” she said quietly.

“Maybe you shouldn’t have been so quick to give up Divination.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

Harry thought for a moment. “I don’t really know… I suppose I might go to Hogwarts, and teach Defence Against the Dark Arts. I’ve heard that position will be open again in the Autumn— no surprise there. What about you?”

“Well, I was thinking of teaching as well, but after thirteen years together, I suppose you’ve had enough of me.”

“No— not at all— I—” Harry said quickly. He looked up at her— she was smiling. His heart slowed back to a normal pace.

“I was just kidding. I’m still hoping to get a teaching job. I really want to have a normal life— you know, get married, start a family…” her voice trailed off.

“And who’s the lucky man?” Harry asked, his voice accidentally cracking mid-sentence.

“I’ve got someone in mind,” Hermione said very slowly and deliberately.

Harry busied himself tending to the fire, which had been doing quite well on its own.

“Good God, it’s cold,” commented Hermione. She moved closer to Harry. Harry stood up abruptly, rummaged for something in his bag, and returned a moment later with a thick Gryffindor quilt.

“Here,” he said, handing it to her. “Very warm.” He sat down on the other side of the log.

“Thank you,” Hermione said in a bit of an annoyed tone.

They spent the passing hours making small talk, delicately skirting around the topic of the impending mission. They reluctantly ended their conversation as soon as they could see the inky black sky through the gaps in the foliage.

“It’s time to go now,” Harry said, fighting down the thrill and nerves inside of him.

Hermione nodded after giving an involuntary shiver and stood up from the log, on which the Gryffindor blanket sat, unused and still folded. Without a word they made the short walk to the mysterious circle. Testing with another branch, they found Voldemort’s protective wards were no longer intact. Holding their collective breath, they stepped into the circle; nothing happened.

“Now what?” asked Harry. “This circle isn’t just here for decoration.”

“I don’t understand,” said Hermione, frowning. “Maybe it’s not quite a full moon yet.”

“It is,” said Harry. “Remus would know. There’s something we’re missing— wasn’t there a verse in the rune we didn’t understand?”

Hermione pulled a creased piece of parchment from her pocket and read aloud, “The key to the door of which I speak has been hidden along with this, and its sister remains lost among… Oh, I just don’t know! Wait…” Precious minutes of nighttime ticked away as Harry watched Hermione walking back and forth, talking to herself under her breath. Harry was reminded of a time long ago, in their first year at Hogwarts, when he had stood and watched Hermione solve the potions-logic problem on the way to the Philosopher’s Stone.

“What if…” said Hermione, thinking aloud. “What if ‘this’ means the parchment itself? A play on words, sort of, a trick… clever… If it does, then the key must have been in the box with it. But there were no keys, were there? Just more parchment, and… and—” She clapped her hands. “Harry, turn out your pockets— do you still have the rings? The two silver ones?”

“Er— yes, I think so,” said Harry, fumbling in his pockets. His hand closed on two pieces of cool metal; he held one out to Hermione, but she shook her head.

“Not that one— I won’t wear it. That was in the past, and I’m done with it,” she said, taking the plain silver band from Harry instead. Not wanting to waste any more time, Harry uncomplainingly jammed Hermione’s ring onto his undamaged little finger as Hermione slipped the other ring onto her thumb.

Immediately Harry felt something pull around his navel, and together they underwent a voyage quite similar to that of a Portkey. Unpleasant memories ambushed Harry’s mind during the bumpy journey— he was all too glad when they landed unceremoniously in a narrow stone corridor. Torches lined the cold, damp walls, but somehow the light they gave seemed dark. An enormous wooden door loomed ominously at the end of the hall.

They silently approached it. Harry put his hand on the doorknob but stopped at a light touch to his elbow. “Harry…”

One look at the anxious and apprehensive face beside him told him what she was thinking— her expression echoed the doubts and trepidation lingering in his own mind. Really, they had no idea what to expect… for all they knew, a million Death Eaters or even Voldemort himself could be waiting for them behind this door. But, of course, Harry didn’t voice these worries. “It’ll be all right,” he told her instead. He wished he could make his voice sound more comforting, but it came out the way he was feeling— fierce, determined, focused, and harsh. The time for action had come, and he was locked into a warrior mindset. “There’s a reason you were sorted into Gryffindor, and not Ravenclaw,” he added.

Hermione exhaled loudly and looked away from Harry as he turned the knob. But she followed him into the vast chamber beyond the doorway, and the Auror in her kicked in as she rapidly began making observations.

“The floor is perfectly smooth,” she noted. “And it’s dark— no torches anywhere…”

“There’s something in here— listen,” said Harry. Indeed, they could faintly hear an obscure clicking or thudding noise.

“Suffering fuck!” Harry cursed suddenly. Out of nowhere had come a particularly nasty Dark spell that Harry had had the misfortune to endure once before, at the hands of Walden Macnair weeks earlier. Harry froze, trying to reduce the friction of his robes as much as possible. He could feel his skin blistering as though he were on fire. And just as quickly as it had come, the pain ended.

“Is there any countercurse you don’t know?” he asked Hermione, but she shushed him in reply.

“There’s no way we can know what’s coming if we can’t see,” she said hurriedly. “Pity stone doesn’t burn…”

Harry was struck with the sudden inspiration that providentially always seems to come in times of danger. He conjured a curtain that spread itself over the farthest wall of the chamber. Hermione, cottoning on immediately, said, “Incendio.” The room was now brightly lit— but there was nothing to be seen.

“The Jujenaj,” Hermione said quickly. “It’s invisible. This is just great… I’d been hoping Remus was wrong about this one.”

Harry dodged a curse coming at him from a far corner. “It’s over there!” he shouted, pointing where the beam of light had originated. But a split second later a second curse shot from the other side of the room.

“This is impossible,” said Harry through gritted teeth.

“Nothing’s impossible,” Hermione said. “Watch this.”

She muttered a few well-chosen words, and something blasted out of her wand and streamed onto the floor. It took Harry a while to realise what was going on— Hermione was covering the floor with a layer of sand a few inches thick.

Hermione ended the spell. Nothing happened for a minute or two, but then Harry saw motion. A small hole appeared in the sand, and quickly filled up again. Tiny footprints became visible in the trail of the Jujenaj, which was also moving much more slowly due to the sand. It was now quite easy to tell where the creature was.

“Brilliant,” Harry said as he blocked a curse sent at him by the Jujenaj. He aimed his wand, estimating the Jujenaj’s location based on where the long trail of footprints ended. Hermione did the same.

Together they said every spell they could think of to disable the Jujenaj. It worked— the Dark creature stopped in its tracks and ceased to bombard them with curses. Harry resisted the urge to touch the Jujenaj to find out its shape and how it felt, and, slipping in the ankle-deep sand, followed Hermione to the door.

Harry had hoped that the next chamber would be the location of the Orb, but that would have been, of course, too simple. The doorway led into a sort of narrow hall. They ran along it until it split in two directions; down these alternate paths Harry could see even more forks and dead ends.

“It’s a maze,” he said, his mind being flooded by ominous memories that he prayed weren’t foreshadowing tonight’s events.

“Oh, just excellent,” said Hermione sarcastically, looking at her watch. “All right, Harry, listen up. We don’t have time to try to get through this maze together. We have to split up.”

“But—”

“No, listen to me. With two of us going on separate paths, we can find it sooner. Every time you take a fork in a path or change direction, leave red sparks as a marker so you can find your way back out again, and so you don’t search the same path twice. I’ll use green sparks. If you find the Orb, or whatever’s at the end of this thing, use an Amplification Charm on your voice so I can hear you, and we can get out of here as fast as we can.” Hermione said all of this very rapidly.

Harry blinked. “What if we don’t get out before the full moon is over?”

Hermione winced and said, “I’d rather not think about it. Let’s go.” Without another word she sprinted down the left fork. Harry watched her disappear around a corner before hurrying in the opposite direction.

Harry found this maze quite similar to the one featured in the third task of the Triwizard Tournament, except that the paths were lined not by hedges but by stone walls that reached the ceiling, and the obstacles he had to battle through were much more difficult. He had to pass a crowd of real Dementors rather than boggarts. Twice he almost inhaled nearly invisible poisons hovering in the air, noticing them just in time to hold his breath as he ran through the mist. Then there was the freezing darkness and the sheer immensity of this labyrinth that made Harry sure he’d been running for hours.

Having no idea where he was going, and convinced that the full moon had ended by now and that they were stuck in this dungeon for a month with no food or any means of escape, Harry was about to give up and turn back to the entrance of the maze when he heard Hermione’s deafening voice echo through the stone passageways.

“HARRY! Harry, I’ve found… something! But I need your help, come quickly!”

Ears ringing, Harry jogged towards her voice. He tried path after path, but none seemed to lead in the right direction. All the while he was trying very hard not to think about what on earth she could possibly need his help with. Finally he found a very long, straight course with no noticeable turns or forks. He hurtled along it; Hermione’s voice was getting louder and louder…

And at last, this path opened up into a larger, enclosed clearing. Hermione stood in the centre, leaning upon a sort of stone altar bedecked in silver and green cloth. Hermione pointed her wand at her throat and whispered, “Quietus.” Her left hand sported a nasty burn and a collection of new cuts accented her neck and arms, but her face was practically glowing with excitement.

Harry looked on the altar and saw a silver cube, identical to the one from which they’d gotten the rune and the ring. He didn’t waste any time— “Open up,” he said hastily in Parseltongue.

The box cracked open. Hermione pulled the halves apart and looked inside. There it was— a shiny greyish-black sphere, small enough to fit in Harry’s hand. Harry picked it up— it was hard, smooth, and piercingly cold. Heart pounding, he set it on the ground and took careful aim with his wand.

“Avada Kedavra!” he shouted. The green light that blasted from his wand briefly illuminated the Orb before disappearing altogether.

“Did it work?” asked Hermione.

“I don’t think so,” Harry said slowly. “From what I read about the spell, the object has to be destroyed completely. Maybe if we did it at the same time…”

They stood shoulder to shoulder, and in unison they raised their wands and yelled the killing curse. But the Orb remained perfectly intact.

“Wait a moment,” said Hermione. She darted forward, picked up the Orb, and examined it at arm’s length. “We don’t need magic to break this. Look closely— it’s made of hematite.”

She handed it to Harry, who stared blankly at it. “Hematite,” Hermione explained patiently, “is a kind of stone. It’s very strong, but it’s also quite brittle. All you have to do is throw it, hard as you can, at the wall or floor. Go on.”

Harry looked at Hermione, then at the sphere in his hand, then back at Hermione. “No,” he said quietly but firmly. He placed the Orb back into her hand. “You do it.”

“Oh, come on, Harry. You’re fated to be the one to kill Voldemort once and for all.”

“Neither you nor I believe in all that destiny rubbish, and you know it.”

“After all Voldemort’s done to you, in your life, it’s only fitting that you get the honour of being the one to destroy him forever.”

“Listen to me,” said Harry. “I’m already famous. I have been my entire life. I’ve been admired and respected since I was a baby, and I did nothing to deserve it. Absolutely nothing. But you— you’ve always been overlooked, ever since we were at Hogwarts. Even since we’ve been famous as Aurors, everybody’s so used to thinking of me as the hero that they’ve forgotten about you. But you’re far more deserving, and long overdue for all this glory that’s been piled on me all these years.”

Hermione’s lip was trembling slightly as she weakly smiled her appreciation at him, but she said, “I don’t need that… I don’t need to be famous…”

“And do you think I do?” Harry continued stubbornly. “When we get home, I’ll see to it that everybody knows it was you who defeated Voldemort. Not me— you.”

Hermione looked as though she was going to say something, but instead she bit her lip and tossed the Orb lightly from her burnt left hand to her right. Without further hesitation she raised the sphere and threw it forcefully against the cold stone wall.

It shattered upon contact. Thousands of tiny fragments of smooth, dark stone scattered and bounced across the floor. Harry’s scar gave a final burst of pain as a strong wind filled the room, whipping his and Hermione’s hair around their heads and across their faces. When the wind subsided Harry brushed a lock of obsidian-coloured hair from his eyes and looked around, taking in the sight. Relief and triumph seemed to permeate his very soul. Voldemort was gone…

Something drew his eyes back to the altar. He looked inside the box a second time, and saw something he hadn’t noticed before. It was a piece of parchment, ripped at the top, written in Latin. He pocketed it for Remus to translate later. Exhausted, he leant against the altar and closed his eyes— but Hermione grabbed his arm and said, “Not now— we’re running out of time. Let’s go!”

He had completely forgotten that they had a time limit. His heart started pounding again as they backtracked along Hermione’s path through the maze, racing towards each fountain of green sparks, hurdling dead trolls and evading the various Dark obstacles in their path. Finally they reached the sand-filled room and continued on to the corridor through which they had entered.

They froze in their tracks— the circle of light was gone. “Oh, I don’t believe this,” Hermione moaned.

“How do we get out of here?” Harry asked, mainly talking to himself. “How long have we been in here?”

“A few hours,” Hermione said frantically, “and the moon won’t be out for much longer. Maybe it’s already gone… maybe that’s why the ring of light is gone…”

The ring of light… something clicked in Harry’s mind. “The rings,” he said. “Take them off!” For Harry, it took a solid minute of forceful tugging, and finally a very random but clever charm on Hermione’s part that allowed the ring to leave his finger; Hermione bent her hand toward the ground and the silver band slid easily off. Immediately the Portkey feeling returned, and before they knew it they fell face first into a snowbank.

Hardly daring to believe that they had made it back safely, Harry looked up. Through the branches and falling snow above him, he could see the full moon fade into a lightening sky accented by the blood-red and melon-orange of the sunrise.

“That was close,” he remarked.

“Very close,” Hermione agreed, nonchalantly wiping snow from her wand.

Harry stood, trying to savour the silence. But the peace he’d felt down in the chamber had left him. Uneasy qualms disrupted the tranquillity of his stomach and nerves. It had been too easy, he thought. Even though he knew that what they’d done would be impossible for anyone else, because only a Parseltongue could get to the Orb, it had come easy to him. It wasn’t right.

His worries were not unfounded— they were spawned by his experience of past battles with Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Something was missing from this most recent mission of theirs. It had broken the rule that Harry had learned about the hard way, six years ago on Christmas. It was a rule that had defined his undesirable job and his miserable life— victory does not come unaccompanied by loss.

Yet here they were, more or less unscathed, standing side by side and safe in each other’s company, victorious as always.

Yet here was Harry Potter, still alive after almost twenty-five years, his nemesis Lord Voldemort finally vanquished, and having successfully exacted revenge fro many who had been lost, his life’s mission finally complete.

Yet here was Hermione Granger, looking forward to a happy future and a peaceful teaching career, the triumph plainly visible in her bright amber eyes…

Amber eyes?But Hermione’s were brown…

“Hermione,” Harry said suddenly, “your eyes…”

“What about them?”

“They’re yellow.”

Hermione laughed out loud. “Sounds like someone got hit by a Colour-blind Curse.”

“I’m not kidding, and I’m not colour-blind,” Harry said indignantly. “What about me— what colour are my eyes?”

Still grinning, she pulled Harry’s face a little closer than was necessary and pretended to examine his eyes intently. “Still as gorgeously green as ever.”

Harry stared at her. At the moment she shared neither her eyes’ unusual behaviour nor her good mood. Hermione’s smile faded a little. “I know you don’t like showing any emotion,” she said, “but you don’t have to act so depressed. You’re depressing me.”

Harry didn’t take his eyes off of hers, which were now pale maize.

Hermione frowned outright. “You’re being serious, aren’t you? Well, you’re not the one to joke, that’s for sure…” She stooped down and rummaged in her bag for something. When she straightened back up again she was holding a cracked compact mirror, which she flipped open and used to examine her eyes herself.

A puzzled expression shadowed her face. “Bizarre,” she said, still staring at her reflection. She snapped the mirror shut and looked at Harry. “But yours are normal…”

Hermione’s symptom sounded vaguely familiar to Harry, as though it was something he had learned at Hogwarts but had been forgotten over the years. He concentrated, trying to remember what it was. A memory of a spell floated to the surface of his mind. When he identified it, a wave of cold dread washed over him.

His face must have shown his shock, because Hermione asked, “What? What’s wrong?”

“Suffering fuck…” he murmured for the second time that night.

“What? Tell me!” Hermione said impatiently.

Harry stared at her for a solid minute before finally speaking. “It’s an ancient Dark spell— I read it in Spells for the Elite and Evil— same book where I found the House of the Soul Charm.”

“And?”

“It’s when two people willingly create a magical bond between them, which links them in life and death. When the person who cast the spell dies, the other’s eyes begin to gradually lighten.” Harry was now fighting valiantly to control his voice. “When the person’s eyes reach transparency, he or she dies.”

Hermione froze. She seemed uncertain as to whether she should believe him. “Are— are you sure?”

“Do you think I’d joke about something like this, Hermione? I’m serious… oh, God…”

Her eyes, now the colour of straw, looked purely disbelieving. Somehow managing to keep her voice steady, she said, “But you said the two people have to willingly accept the spell. I’ve never done anything like that, you know I never would. You know I’ve never done a Dark spell on a person in my life, let alone let someone put one on me. It must be something else… how could I be under a Dark spell?”

There it was— the voice of reason that had kept Harry from falling apart more than once in his life. “I don’t know,” he answered her. He didn’t have the heart to argue his opinion further. But he felt sure that he was right…

He could see Hermione, staring off into space, was racking her brain for an alternate spell that had this same symptom. There weren’t many spells, Dark or not, that she didn’t know. Any that escaped her mind had to be particularly ancient, rare, or dangerous. The certain one Harry was sure that afflicted her happened to have all three of these qualities. Never in his life had Harry hoped more that he was wrong.

And finally, in defeated acceptance, Hermione agreed with him. Throwing her arms around his neck, she buried her face in his shoulder and burst into tears.

See? Harry told himself. This is exactly why you had to learn to get rid of your emotions. If you’d let yourself get close to Hermione, you’d be devastated right now. These past six years are paying off right now…

But that thought didn’t stop his heart from beating as unnaturally loudly and quickly as a snare drum. That thought didn’t stop his throat from feeling as narrow as his wand. That thought didn’t get rid of the sensation that a particularly hyperactive Bludger was fighting to escape from his stomach.

And then a new voice sounded in his ear, strong and clear from the back of his mind; Your heart can’t lie… love is not a weakness.. The voice echoed in his head in rhythm with the blood pounding in his ears. Your heart can’t lie…

The dam burst open in the river that was Harry’s mind, and he was overwhelmed by the flood of emotions that had been building up for years. He returned Hermione’s embrace, holding her as tightly as though he was trying to squeeze the death out of her, frantically planting kisses on the back of her neck and head.

Regaining his composure, he pried her from his sodden shoulder. Still supporting her in his arms, he gently lowered her onto his lap as he sat on the log by the fire. He hushed her sobs and ran his fingers soothingly through her hair in an effort to calm and comfort her— which he was sure would be impossible, seeing as he was desperate to be calmed and comforted himself.

Nevertheless, he held her close as he talked to her in what he hoped was a soft, relaxing voice. “I’ve been wrong all these years,” he told her. “And you were right about me all along… I just can’t believe it took me so long to realise…”

Hermione reached out an arm and drew his head and lips down onto her own. Harry returned the long, gentle kiss, his heart threatening to leap out of his chest. The quiet passion now coursing between them was unlike anything he’d ever imagined; it was what he had been waiting for all his life, and yet he knew that it was the last time he could experience it. He pulled her back up so that her head rested on his shoulder once again— but by now she was beyond tears.

She told him, “Don’t say anything— you don’t need to.” She gave a small smile that completely melted Harry’s aching heart. “There’s no one on earth, in heaven, or in hell that I’d rather be with right now. You’ve made me so happy, Harry. Just live. I can wait for you.”

There was nothing Harry could do but hold her, so that’s what he did. He held her close and they communicated in silence, as they’d always been able to do. Their eyes did the talking— his green and hers white as the snow falling around them.

As the minutes passed, Harry wished each one would never end. The thirteen years that he had known Hermione Granger now seemed like a millisecond. He prayed for another millisecond to spend with her.

Questions were screaming in his head: Why was this happening? Why her?

He closed his eyes— he couldn’t bear to watch hers move steadily towards a lethal clear. When he finally opened them again, she was gone.

Six years’ worth of repressed anger and misery condensed into a single tear, which fell from his eye and onto the lifeless body of the woman he loved.

5. Part V: Harry

- part V: Harry –

Albus Dumbledore, Remus Lupin, and Arthur Weasley, the Minister of Magic, were sitting silently in armchairs in the private lounge of the main Auror office, waiting for their best Auror team to return.

The doorknob turned. The creak as the door slowly opened was almost deafening, coming in sharp contrast to the intense silence preceding it. The greatest Auror team ever entered the room, one in the arms of the other. The Preservation charm on her body created the illusion that she was sleeping, but her glassy eyes made it unmistakably clear that she was no longer alive.

Harry laid her on the couch and turned to leave again, but Mr Weasley stopped him. “Harry, wait. We need to know what happened. Have a seat.”

Harry did not sit, nor did he answer Mr Weasley. Dumbledore was the next to speak. “I expected this,” he said, looking glumly at the lifeless body on the sofa.

Harry stared at him. “Why?” he asked, in a voice not his own.

“Very late at night, two days ago, all the Death Eaters in Azkaban suddenly died,” explained Dumbledore. “We assumed this was because you were successful in your mission. Am I right, Harry?”

“Yes,” he said shortly. “You say all the Death Eaters died?”

“Everyone with a Dark Mark on their arm,” Dumbledore said slowly. He handed Harry a stack of photographs. Harry looked at the top one— in the picture Dumbledore knelt down next to an unmoving Walden Macnair on the floor of an Azkaban cell and pulled up Macnair’s eyelids. The corpse’s eyes were blank and transparent. Harry quickly moved on to the next picture, but they were all similar. All the eyes were entirely clear.

So that’s why she died. All because of an old tattoo on her arm that meant nothing, absolutely nothing, except that she had been willing to make that sacrifice years ago for the sake of the Light side. Her selflessness had saved Hogwarts, a lot of lives, and, for all intents and purposes, all of wizarding Europe. And that same selflessness had now become her downfall.

That was just like Voldemort— if he had to fall, he’d take as many as he could down with him.

Harry felt like kicking something, so for the sake of the three men who now stood around him, watching him, he walked over to the other side of the room.

Remus got slowly to his feet and followed him. He looked more ill and exhausted than Harry had ever seen him; in his hair there was no trace of the light brown hues of his youth. “Harry,” he said in a tired, raspy voice. “I know how you’re feeling.”

Harry said nothing, so Remus continued, “The truth hurts, no doubt about that, it always has. But in the end, it’s all for the best. Look at yourself— you’re a changed man. You’ve finally accepted who you are— ”

Suddenly, Harry remembered the parchment that had been kept with the Orb— the other half of the prophecy Remus had given him before they left for Norway. He pulled the crumpled sheet from his pocket, smoothed it out on the edge of a coffee table, and handed it to Remus, who took on an interested expression when he noticed the ripped edge. He read out loud,

“The hope of all those that know them
Tip their rosy feathers with gold
Sent to rid the others of that
With which they cannot live in peace.
As known since my time, since the days of Merlin,
Complete is their final quest
Though they started like sister and brother,
They end their journey as nestmates.”

Harry had never been a superstitious person. He and Hermione had both thought that predictions and prophecies and horoscopes and all things fortune-telling were phoney and ridiculous. But nevertheless, the words Remus read sent a chill up Harry’s spine. After all, this was not a prophecy by Sibyll Trelawney, but by Merlin himself.

“See?” said Remus quietly. “You understand now, I can tell you do. You’ve always loved her, and she you. You were meant to be, too. You were blessed to have known her for as long as you did. As I said before, your heart can’t lie— ”

He was interrupted by Mr Weasley, who placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder. “Harry,” said Mr Weasley, “I’m very sorry for your loss. I know she was like a sister to you.”

“More than that…” Harry muttered.

“Pardon?” said Mr Weasley. “Didn’t catch that.”

“Nothing— never mind.”

“Just remember, she’s with Ron now.”

“I know she is, Mr Weasley,” said Harry dejectedly.

“Right then,” Mr Weasley said concernedly. “Well, we’ve got to move on. Listen, Harry— I promised a press conference at noon today. I’d like you to come.”

Not having enough energy to protest, Harry nodded wearily.

“Remus, I suggest you go home and get some rest,” said Dumbledore.

“I won’t say no to that,” said Remus with a sigh. He turned back toward Harry. “Well done, Harry. Sirius and James would most definitely have been proud.” With that, he Disapparated.

Mr Weasley had left to prepare for the conference. Dumbledore took both halves of the prophecy from Harry and quickly read through them. He had a pensive look on his face, but mercifully didn’t ask any questions or try to talk about Hermione. Instead he said, “I daresay one lecture about true love is enough for one day.” He winked at Harry, who smiled weakly back. Harry was surprised by this; he’d felt sure he would never smile again.

Dumbledore now crossed the room to where Hermione lay. He lifted one of her eyelids to see that her eyes had turned clear. Harry said suddenly, “She didn’t deserve to die that way.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. “Die what way?” he asked.

“Like a Death Eater.”

Dumbledore stared intently at Harry for a minute before saying, “I don’t think anybody knew that the Dark Mark held such powerful magic. It’s just like Voldemort to use that spell— he figured if he had to die, he’d take as many down with him as he could. The situation was most unfortunate. We owe a lot to her— ”

“And I’m going to make sure she gets it,” Harry cut in.

“Harry… when she died, she had everything she wanted. She told Remus and me, before you left for Norway, that she would be happy only when she knew for sure that you loved her. Like us, she suspected that you did, but she wanted you to say it for yourself.”

“I did,” Harry said quickly, his voice cracking.

“There you are, then. She died happy— what more could a person ask for? And never forget what I told you, way back in your first year at Hogwarts. To the well-organised mind, death is but the next great adventure.”

Harry felt better than he had at any time in the past two days, but he was still aching with a powerful sort of sadness. He was not to be consoled, now that he knew he had kept her from being happy for years, because of his own narrow-minded stupidity. And now, she was gone forever— it had happened so suddenly. What a fool he’d been…

His thoughts were interrupted when a young wizard popped his head through the door and said, “Ay! Come on! The Minister’s waiting for you two!”

Harry followed Dumbledore and the other wizard out of the Auror office and into the street. When he got outside he stopped in his tracks, gawping at the sight that met his eyes.

An elevated stage had been erected in the widest, most spacious part of Diagon Alley— which happened to be the steps of Gringotts Wizarding Bank. An enormous British flag hung over the stage, magically flapping in the windless air. And surrounding the stage on all sides, stretching as far as the eye could see, was a sea of people, all talking excitedly.

Careful to keep his head down and fringe covering his scar, Harry slowly made his way through the throng to join Dumbledore and Mr Weasley up on the platform, and he quickly retreated into the shadows at the back of the stage.

“There you are,” said Mr Weasley. “Well, now we can start— and we’d better do so before somebody starts a riot. Sonorous,” he said, pointing his wand at his neck.

Mr Weasley cleared his throat to get everybody’s attention. This had no effect whatsoever on the babbling crowd, but, undaunted, he started to speak. “Today,” he said, “is a wonderful day for all witches and wizards— and Muggles, too, of course,” he added warmly.

The crowd became relatively quiet, collectively breathless with anticipation. Mr Weasley continued, “You-Know-Who has been destroyed forever.”

Diagon Alley might as well have exploded. The screams and cheers and stamping and clapping shook the marble pillars of Gringotts. An assortment of colourful sparks and fireworks shot into the air in various places above the horde of wildly applauding witches and wizards. The noise was not to be drowned out by even the Minister’s amplified voice, so Mr Weasley had to wait several minutes before he could be heard. “You-Know-Who was finally killed by our best Auror team, Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, both of whom will be honoured with the Order of Merlin, First Class.” He paused a moment before saying, “I now give you Mr. Albus Dumbledore for a more serious announcement.”

Dumbledore approached the front and centre of the stage. Like Mr Weasley, he cleared his throat; unlike for Mr Weasley, the crowd fell into a mild hush. “These past few days, though victorious, did not come without loss. The war took its final innocent victim, the best student to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy since the late Lord Voldemort—”

Here he was interrupted mid-sentence by a new wave of boisterous cheers that came in response to Dumbledore’s last few words, although the audience collectively winced at the mention of the Dark Lord’s name, still feared, even in death. Harry was overcome by a hot anger at the crowd’s disrespect for Dumbledore and his tribute to Hermione’s memory. This fiery indignation was the first feeling he’d had since Hermione’s death that was anything but misery. He glared into the throng of people, although he knew they couldn’t see him.

Dumbledore patiently waited for the yells to subside before continuing. “Hogwarts’s greatest mind in many years, Miss Hermione Granger, died on this last mission to destroy Lord Voldemort. She lived a heroic life; she did much for this country, and indeed, the entire wizarding world,” said Dumbledore solemnly. “I ask that even as you rejoice in this extraordinary event, you do not forget Hermione or any of the others who gave their lives to help eradicate the Dark— celebrate not only the victory of the Light, but the memory of Hermione Granger, a truly great witch and Auror, and an outstanding person in every possible way. We’ll truly never see the likes of her again.”

Dumbledore paused to let his speech sink in. “Now I will take any questions the audience might have, for either the Minister or myself.”

It seemed that everybody had a question, because the sea of heads became a sea of raised, waving hands. The air above the crowd became very bright and colourful as different people tried to get Dumbledore’s attention by conjuring impressive displays of stars and sparks. Harry even spotted a few people crowd-surfing, attempting to get near enough to ask a question. Dumbledore pointed at a man who had made his orange top hat, which sported a large star with the flashing words ‘The Daily Prophet’, grow several metres to tower over everything else in the crowd.

“My question is for the Minister,” said the wizard. Mr Weasley stepped forward to hear the question. “Are there going to be any changes within the Ministry, with the passing of You-Know-Who?”

Mr Weasley replied, “Well, our Aurors will be able to take a well-deserved break— as you’ve probably already heard, every Death Eater has met his or her end, so at the present time there is little for them to do here. This will give them time to take a holiday, and perhaps consider a more pleasant career if they’d like.”

The wizard who asked the question, scribbling furiously on his pad of parchment, nodded his thanks to Mr Weasley; his hat fell forward and nearly flattened the people standing in front of him.

“My question is for the Headmaster,” shouted a middle-aged witch, who was bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet with excitement. “Will there be any changes at Hogwarts?”

“I will ensure that Defence Against the Dark Arts will remain a required part of the Hogwarts curriculum,” said Dumbledore slowly. Something about the tone of his voice gave Harry the notion that he knew he would not be returning to Hogwarts the forthcoming school year. “Contrary to what we would all like to believe, there are still Dark wizards about, and there always will be. This class will also include a programme to prevent vulnerable young witches and wizards from ever turning to the Dark side. We hope that this will help keep future order here in Britain, even if we cannot do anything about the rise of Dark sorcerers in other nations.”

The witch had stopped bouncing; evidently, Dumbledore’s answer was not the one she had expected or wanted to hear.

Dumbledore’s voice lifted with a touch of humour, “However, I do believe that updated History of Magic books will be necessary.”

An appreciative chuckle ran through the multitude before the next question was asked: “Also for Mr Dumbledore— how exactly was He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named defeated?”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore with a rather grave smile. “As I honestly don’t know that fact for myself, I’m afraid I cannot answer that question. There is, however, somebody here who can. I redirect your question to Mr Harry Potter.”

Dumbledore turned and beckoned to Harry, who reluctantly stepped out of the backstage shadows. He had grown to hate public speaking with a flaming passion. Years of being the centre of attention had jaded the initial pleasure of being Public Hero Number One. So it was against his will but out of respect for his superiors that he now approached the front of the stage where Dumbledore and Mr Weasley stood. But nevertheless, he tried his best not to look too unpleasant as he waited for the torrents of fanatical applause, which had started up at the very mention of his name, to ebb away.

Harry took a very deep breath before beginning his story, which he resolved to shorten and simplify as much as possible.

“It was a case we’d been working on for about a month. It started with a— a tip from a captured Death Eater. Turns out Voldemort’s life was not held in his body, but in a stone, which we called the Orb. The Dark magic Voldemort used ensured that he would die only when the Orb was destroyed.

“Well, we did some research. Actually, Her—” he stopped himself; saying the name aloud was too painful. “My partner did most of the work. In fact, she could have done the entire thing herself, if it weren’t for the fact that only a Parselmouth, such as Voldemort or myself, could get to the Orb. Anyway, we discovered the Orb was hidden in a rather frozen part of northern Europe.

“So there we went, living in the forest and fighting off Death Eaters until we fouind the entrance to the Orb’s secret chamber. Inside, we fought a rare, sinister Dark creature and an assortment of other magical difficulties, and found the Orb. She destroyed it. I did not kill Voldemort,” Harry said forcefully and deliberately, although he got the impression that the listeners wasn’t taking in a word he said now; they were all chatting energetically or jotting down notes. He continued hastily on, “She did. She killed Voldemort, and then we managed to escape with minimal injuries.”

There. Harry had surprised himself by recounting the entire story relatively fluently, and, more miraculously, without emotion. He inwardly congratulated himself before taking the next question.

“Then how did your partner die?”

Harry stared, momentarily taken aback by the tactless method in which this question had been posed. But, feeling obligated to reply, he opened his mouth to do so— he hesitated on his answer, not sure whether he could explain without making Hermione sound like a criminal.

He looked at Dumbledore for help. The Headmaster nodded encouragingly, so Harry turned back to face the audience. The truth… Dumbledore had always believed that the truth was more favourable than lies. And everybody had a right to know the truth.

“I’m sure,” said Harry, his voice slightly more strained than it had been earlier, “you all remember Christmas of 1998. Perhaps some of you have wondered how we knew Voldemort was coming to Hogwarts. Well, she bravely volunteered to become a Death Eater for the purpose of spying on Voldemort. She was able to find out Voldemort’s plans and warn us of them in time to save Hogwarts.

“However,” said Harry, trying not to choke on his words, “the Dark magic residing in the Dark Mark on her arm linked her to Voldemort. When she killed Voldemort, the magic was activated. She died— like a common Death Eater…”

There was a convenient minute of stunned silence, allowing Harry to regain his composure before fielding the next question.

“Harry, does it feel good to have finally avenged your parents’ deaths?”

“Yes,” he said curtly, “but they’re not the only deaths—”

“Mr Potter, how does it feel to be the one to finally defeat the Dark Lord?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Harry irritably, “seeing as I’m not the one to—”

“Did your past encounters with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named have an effect on how you killed him?”

“I didn’t kill Voldemort,” Harry growled, the anger rising in him.

“Mr Potter, when you destroyed You-Know-Who—”

“I DIDN’T!” Harry bellowed, letting his temper get the best of him. “”How many times do I have to say it? You’re all so wrapped up in my meaningless past, what with me being the bloody ‘Boy Who Lived’, that you can’t accept the reality. All my life I’ve been hailed like some kind of saviour, which I’m not! The person who really saved you is that other girl, that nonentity always standing next to the famous Harry Potter in photographs. My parents and I bought you thirteen years worth of peace… she’s bought you peace for the rest of your lives— forever! We were an Auror pair, and last time I checked, a pair meant two people. I refuse to accept any of your praise.”

Harry turned to stalk off the stage, but he was stopped by a small, desperate voice that came from behind him.

“Er— Mr Potter— Harry?” The speaker was a young girl, who couldn’t have been more than twelve. “If you don’t mind, just— just one more question? It’s not for the news or anything.”

It must have been the girl’s innocent youth that kept Harry from ignoring her, as he would have ignored any Daily Prophet reporter who followed him. Or maybe… maybe it was the girl’s wavy brown hair and cinnamon eyes…

“One more question,” Harry agreed heavily.

The girl looked relieved— perhaps she had been expecting Harry to pull out his wand and hex her. Harry attempted to make his expression less severe as the girl asked a very unusual question: “Who was Hermione Granger?”

Harry froze at the mention of her name. Stomach twisting unpleasantly, he heard his amplified voice struggling to speak. “Er— Hermione… well, the greatest Hogwarts student and Auror ever…”

And then he remembered when Remus had asked him the same question, albeit in the present tense. Harry had answered him. He’d answered wrongly. Now he sighed.

The truth.

He took off his sunglasses, revealing his watering, bloodshot eyes for all the world to see.

“…and the love of my life,” he finished.

His voice was only a strangled whisper, but everyone heard it. A witch in the front row burst into tears.

The little girl said, “Thank you… I know she’d be happy to hear that”, and gave him a grateful smile before melting into the people around her and disappearing in the throng.

Harry couldn’t stay any longer. With a quick “Quietus” he hopped down from the stage and started to make his way through the crowd. But people started swarming around him as though he were a magnet for reporters (which, he reminded himself, he practically was), and he couldn’t see a thing through the crowd of thick purple smoke that had come from the various cameras clicking away at him.

“Let’s have a word, Mr Potter.”

“How about an interview for Transfiguration Today?”

Harry didn’t trust himself to answer civilly, so he said nothing at all. After a few minutes of struggling against the stream of people all clamouring to get a glimpse of him, he decided he was fighting a losing battle. He pulled out his wand (the surrounding spectators recoiled in fear of attack) and Apparated to the door of the Leaky Cauldron, on the other side of the mob of wizards, even though it was only about a hundred metres away.

He threw open the door, sprinted across the deserted pub, and skidded to a halt in front of the bar. “Quick, Tom,” Harry said hastily, emptying half his money bag onto the counter. “A private room, and a bottle of the strongest stuff you have.”

Tom wasted no time. “Certainly, Mr Potter,” he said to Harry. Then he turned to a young clerk and said, “Brian, get Mr Potter the mix, and bring it up to Room Eleven.”

Brian disappeared behind the bar, and Tom ushered Harry upstairs to number eleven just as a horde of reporters burst into the tavern, looking wildly around for Harry.

Harry collapsed onto the comfortable four-poster bed, massaging his temples. He’d had a hellish morning— it was only one in the afternoon, and he already couldn’t wait until the day was over.

Suddenly, the door opened, and Harry’s ears were met by a tidal wave of sound. He sat up abruptly just as Brian the junior bartender dove into the room, slamming the door behind him.

“Gods!” said Brian, “there’s got to be a hundred reporters out there in the corridor for you. Here—” he handed Harry a large, unlabeled green glass bottle. “Russian vodka and Ogden’s Old Firewhisky mix. Be careful with it,” said Brian with a wink before turning to leave.

“Wait,” called Harry.

Brian turned back round and said, “Oh— right. You’ll be wanting a shot glass for that, eh?”

“No, I don’t need one. Just— get all those reporters out of here, all right? Here’s your tip,” added Harry, tossing him the half-full money bag.

Brian caught the pouch and stared at it, bewildered, before saying, “Thanks very much, Mr Potter. Oh, er— can I, um… have your autograph?”

“No.”

Brian hesitated. “…Please?”

“I just gave you a ten and a half Galleon tip. Bugger off.”

“Sorry.” Without further delay Brian left and started clearing out the mob gathered in the hallway.

Harry implemented the bottle opener attachment on the penknife Sirius had given him for Christmas in his fourth year at Hogwarts and swallowed a mouthful of liquor. Brian and Tom weren’t kidding— it was strong. Magically strong, he was willing to bet.

Harry walked over to the window and looked down on Diagon Alley, looking more cheerful than ever in the still, warm air and bright sunshine. What seemed to be the entire population of wizarding Britain was roaming happily, eating, drinking, talking, laughing, singing, smiling… Yes, it was all very well for them. They only had a few decades of fear. They didn’t have their whole lives dedicated to getting rid of Voldemort. They let someone else— Harry, Remus, Dumbledore, and Hermione to be specific— do the dirty work for them. And was it ever dirty. Now it was just one big party, happiness at their expense.

Swig. Harry sat back down on the edge of the bed. Funny, but he didn’t feel anything new— not happy, not relieved, not calm, not proud— now that Voldemort was gone forever. Not that it really meant anything. With his luck, a new Dark wizard twice as bad as Voldemort would be announcing his arrival any day now. Or maybe the Orb of Slytherin was a fake— a bluff. Who knows? he thought. Who cares?

Swig. His whole life had been one great big hellish fight. And, in the cruellest of ironies, he was never the one that came out on the bottom. That would be his parents. And Cedric Diggory. And Ron. And Sirius. And Hermione. He was the hero. They were dead. What had Voldemort said to him six years ago…? You’ve shed quite a few lives to get here, haven’t you, Potter?

Swig. This one’s for Hogwarts. Harry found himself wishing more than anything that he was back in school. Not that life had been easy back then, but his memories of those seven years were a lot more pleasant than anything from his life since then. Sure enough, it wasn’t long after he left Hogwarts that his life started its tailspin into the hellhole he liked to call ‘now’.

Swig. This one’s for Remus. The best teacher Harry ever had, both inside school and out. He was James Potter’s best friend, but he might as well have been Harry’s own father for all the influence he had on him. The poor man’s been trying his hardest his whole life, and doesn’t have half the recognition that Harry had had when he was one year old. Just an outcast. Thanks.

Swig. This one’s for Dumbledore. In a way, Harry was glad Voldemort was gone, if only for the reason that Albus Dumbledore could finally retire. After spending years training Harry to do what he couldn’t in his old age— defeat Voldemort— finally he can take a break from what he’s been doing for a century and a half— fighting the Dark Arts. He did a hell of a job, too. He truly was the greatest wizard ever. Harry wished that he had been more like Dumbledore. Maybe if he had followed the Headmaster’s example of trust, he wouldn’t have screwed up the last six years of his life so badly.

Swig. This one’s for my parents. Ah, the legend as old as Harry… and it wasn’t much more than a legend these days. The story of the elder Potters was now of little to no significance. In fact, the Potters were barely remembered at all, except that they were the parents of the great Harry. But Harry remembered them, even if he was the only one. Well, Remus probably remembered them too. But Harry couldn’t say for sure whether his mother would have bothered saving him if she’d known he’d end up like this. Getting plastered all alone while everyone else in the country— no, on the continent— celebrated. Some hero he was.

Swig. This one’s for Sirius. The five short years Harry knew his godfather weren’t nearly enough. The same godfather who worked like a dog his whole life— no pun intended— to keep Harry safe and happy— he was dead, too. Sirius Black was a hell of a wizard. But all three Potters weren’t enough for that arsehole Wormtail— no, he had to ruin another life. A life that would have been so awesome and perfect, a life of happiness and freedom and friendship with Remus and knowing his godson. But of course, a normal life has always been too much to ask for. Sirius sure got screwed over, multiple times. Bloody Voldemort and his bloody Death Eaters.

Swig. This one’s for Ron. Ron was different. Ron never asked to get mixed up in all this, he never asked to lay down his life for the Light. Harry knew perfectly well, and he’d constantly chastised himself for it, that Ron had only fought against Voldemort to help Harry in the battle. That’s because Ron was his best friend, a damn near perfect friend, too. Keyword being was, because Ron isn’t anything but dead now. God damn.

Swig. This one’s for Hermione…

Oh, God.

Smash. Harry swung the bottle against the bedpost, shattering the end of it. What little alcohol was left in the bottle splashed out and soaked the front of his robes.

Fighting Voldemort. That’s all he was ever good for. Ever since he was a year old he’d been the bloody poster boy for the Light. His biography was a history of Lord Voldemort’s drawn-out downfall. Both were done.

And Hermione… what had she said to him when her eyes were white? I can wait for you. Nothing like stating the bleeding obvious. Hadn’t she been waiting for him for years? Of course she had. Harry had just been too thick-headed to realise they loved each other. And now her death was the final and lethal wound. Well, she could wait for him. But she shouldn’t have to. And now she wouldn’t have to.

With some difficulty Harry steadied the broken bottle in his hand. He pressed the jagged glass to his wrist.

If I ever leave this world alive
I’ll thank you for the things you did in my life
If I ever leave this world alive
I’ll come back down and sit beside your feet tonight
Wherever I am you’ll always be
More than just a memory
If I ever leave this world alive

If I ever leave this world alive
I’ll take on all the sadness that I left behind
If I ever leave this world alive
The madness that you feel will soon subside
So in a word don’t shed a tear
I’ll be here when it all gets weird
If I ever leave this world alive

So when in doubt just call my name
Just before you go insane

If I ever leave this world
Hey, I may never leave this world
But if I ever leave this world alive

She says I’m okay; I’m all right
Though you have gone from my life
You said that it would
Now everything should
Be all right

And Hermione… what had she said to him when her eyes were white? Just live. Her last request. Well, she was always right. And it’s what she wanted. She wanted him to live.

He realised with a rather tipsy jolt that he had never before given her what she wanted. Well, that was something he could change. She wanted him to live.

So be it.

Harry let the broken bottle slip from his hand. It fell harmlessly onto the bed.

Yeah, everything should be all right.

Harry began to stagger drunkenly across the room to where his wand lay upon the polished oak wardrobe, but, seeing all the sharp furniture corners around him, decided it would be a lot safer to crawl to his destination.

Yeah, everything should be all right.

Harry made a mental note to himself to thank Hermione for teaching him the Sobering Charm, before realising that he probably couldn’t remember that mental note for as long as he’d need to before seeing her again.

Yeah, everything should be all right.

She could wait for him.

He could wait, too.

-FIN-