Shadow Walks

Disclaimer: Not mine; more's the pity.

Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

Chapter One:

Reality is crashing to the floor.

-- Lifehouse, “Blind”

“Hi, Luna,” Harry said tiredly, as he entered the flat, missing the hook for his cloak once, and having to stoop down and try it again. The sun had vanished behind the curve of the horizon hours ago, and clouds were scudding across the indigo sky, as stars intermittently winked out behind them.

“Hi, Harry,” Luna observed mildly, peering at him over the counter from the open kitchen, as she stirred something in a steaming cauldron. “How did the crime fighting go today?”

“Boring,” he said, ducking beneath the strap of his satchel as he removed it from across his shoulders. He let it fall on the rickety coffee table with a flat-sounding thwack and stifled a yawn. “Except for when Kingsley chewed my arse about the lack of progress with the Dolohov case. If only we'd gotten to that informant sooner…” He shook his head, one hand going to bracket his forehead, as he leaned on the counter opposite her with one elbow.

“It'll work out,” Luna said in a dreamy voice, looking at a Muggle stopwatch as she stirred her concoction. “The universe is out of balance, you know, but it will eventually right itself.” Harry peered through his fingers at her warily. He had heard this before.

“Equilibrium,” he supplied for her. “Right.” She did not miss the slightly harsh tone that crept into his voice with his last word. “Where's Ron?”

A glint came into Luna's pale blue eyes that Harry did not miss. Lines around her mouth that he had seen appear and deepen over the last five years became more defined as she pressed her lips together tightly.

“He's gone. He came home after practice, but left at half three.”

“Where?” Harry said, and Luna looked unhappily at him, putting down her spoon and her stopwatch.

“You know where he went.” Harry scrubbed both hands over his face and swore under his breath.

“Damn him,” he said. “When is this going to stop?”

“He's just had - ” Luna tried to say, her voice cracking as she did so. The mixture in the cauldron began to bubble more enthusiastically, forgotten.

“Why are you defending him? You don't deserve this, Luna!” Harry cut her off, leaning towards her on the counter with entreating eyes. Her returned gaze rebuked him.

“I would think that you of all people would understand what he's going through.” Harry smiled at her mirthlessly, clearly indicating that he could not believe that she had said that.

“I do understand what he's going through. But I also know that this is not the way to handle it. Drinking himself into a stupor most nights is not going to bring her back.” He inhaled raggedly at the end of his speech, trying to diffuse the pain that had come with it.

“Neither will working oneself to death and pretending like it didn't even happen,” Luna said evenly, spearing him with an all-seeing glance. Harry took in another harsh breath at her words. Rather than denying any truth in what she said, he dropped his gaze, appearing to study with great interest a circular coffee stain on the ivory countertop.

“It's the only way I can survive,” he admitted slowly, “without her.” They regarded each other blandly for a moment, neither gaze holding recrimination, but rather sympathy. A hissing noise diverted Luna's attention from him, and she grabbed her wand to turn down the heat, as the concoction bubbled over and hit the stovetop, frothing.

When she looked up again, he was gone.

“Harry?” she called out.

“I'm going to take a shower,” she heard his voice echo back from down the short corridor that led to the bedrooms.

“Dinner will be ready when you're done,” she hollered back, and heard him call out in acquiescence before the rushing sound of water running drowned it out. Alone in the kitchen, Luna cleaned up the mess, and continued to stir, shaking her head sadly, as she tucked one lock of dirty blond hair behind her ear, wondering how the three of them had gotten caught in this hollow, empty thing that passed for a life.

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Harry opened the bathroom door, as a billowing cloud of steam heralded his emergence by puffing out ahead of him. The shower, as hot as he could stand, had done nothing to erase Luna's words from his mind, and he knew that he was hopeless to stop his journey down this well-worn path. With one towel around his waist and one over his shoulders catching the excess water from his sodden hair, he strode across the hall and into the bedroom that was his. Further down the hall, tucked into the corner was the bedroom that had once been Ron and Luna's, though she had recently taken to sleeping more often in the sparsely decorated guest room.

Her room, he thought glumly, perversely almost enjoying the stab of pain that accompanied the thought. Her room. It would have been her room, if … if… He sat down on the edge of his bed with a sigh. His conversation with Luna was piercing him, needling him, resounding inside his head, and causing him unbearable pain.

Drinking himself into a stupor won't bring her back.

Neither will working oneself to death and pretending that it didn't even happen.

He felt inexplicably angry at Luna. Didn't she know that when he thought about her, there was a pain in his chest so tight that he could barely breathe? Didn't she know that merely whispering her name could bring him to his knees? Didn't she know that he tormented himself everyday with “what-ifs”, placing squarely on his own shoulders the blame for not having done something - he didn't know what - differently?

Pretending was his tenuous link to sanity, to reality, to a world where he lived in a flat with Ron and Luna, and went to work every day at the Ministry, had occasional lunches at the Leaky Cauldron with Seamus or Neville, and visited the Burrow for Sunday brunch. Pretending kept him from curling up into a ball on his bed, with the shades drawn, to curse his fate - the capricious beast that had sealed his victory and his doom, by saving his life and taking hers. On the day when Voldemort had been defeated soundly and for all time, when the Daily Prophet trumpeted the victory in an enormous banner headline, when the entire wizarding world had dispensed into the streets, kissing and crying and cheering….

He and Ron had been kneeling over a swatch of scorched earth on Hogwarts' grounds, glaring with angry disbelief at Remus Lupin.

“What do you mean she's gone?”

Harry hunched over on the edge of his mattress, elbows on knees and face in hands. Luna was right. He found comfort in denial, denial that she was really gone, denial that he had ever felt anything extraordinary for her, and Ron found his comfort at the bottom of a jug of firewhiskey. They really weren't that different, after all.

He straightened back up, arching his back experimentally, and putting one hand over the damp planes of his chest, as if to see if his heart was, in fact, still beating. It was. The pain of her memory stabbed at him like so many well-honed knives. He clenched his hands into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms.

Damn Luna anyway, he thought fiercely, but slumped, softening as he thought that she would be out there in the kitchen, eating dinner alone. She had always been there for them, placidly going about her job as a Ministry Unspeakable, practically taking care of two grown men who would never get over a loss that was almost five years gone. As quickly as it had sprung to life, his anger died, and he began to cast about his room for some mostly clean clothing, finally lighting on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved button-down shirt that had been tossed carelessly over the arm of the chair in the corner.

He moved to pick them up, and as he did so, something on the floor, almost behind the curtains, caught his eye. He had retrieved it before he remembered what it was, and found himself staring numbly at a wizarding photograph of himself, Ron, and Hermione down by the Lake towards the end of their seventh year. It was charmed to no longer move, since the sight of Hermione, laughing, exchanging glances with them, appearing so vibrant and alive was too much for him to handle. The picture was lying where it had been hurled, the last time he had gotten too introspective.

He tossed it into a drawer, and got dressed.

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Harry was surprised to see some kind of chicken casserole, on the table, cushioned by trivets, a spatula for serving sticking out of the corner. He had assumed that dinner had been simmering in the cauldron.

“What were you - ?” he mimed stirring a mixture with one hand.

“That was an eczema salve. It's got to be steeped for three days, starting under the new moon, so I had to go ahead and get it ready tonight. Calpurnia Wilcott has had a terrible time with hers,” she mentioned a colleague down in the Department of Mysteries. Harry wrinkled his nose in distaste; he had had lunch with Luna and Calpurnia once, and the entire conversation was beyond the realm of his comprehension. He had noticed her skin problem, though. As she spoke, Luna had set the table, and was filling two stemmed glasses with wine. She responded to his incredulous look with the quiet comment,

“You look like you could use a little.” She floated toward the table as serene as he'd ever seen her, and set the goblets down with a soft chink. He raised his eyes to meet hers, and the mask was gone. Naked pain stood out from his green eyes, beseeching her to do something, anything, to take away this agony.

She was not surprised. It happened once every two or three months, and always made him withdrawn and despondent. For a moment, she was almost sorry that she had driven him to this point with her earlier comment, especially since it was so close to… to the time where he and Ron always struggled the most - the anniversary. It would be worse this year, she knew. She wafted one hand toward him, indicating that he sit, and she did the same, regarding him quietly as he dished up the casserole, first on her plate, then on his.

“Luna, have you - ”

“Harry, don't do this,” she interrupted, looking at him so earnestly that she almost didn't look like the vague Luna he'd come to know and love.

“I was just going to ask if - ” he tried again, not angrily, but mechanically.

“I know what you were going to ask.” He always did, when he got in these moods, these dark, despairing moods that made her want to send him out to join Ron at the pub. She had actually done it a couple of times, but while being drunk generally made Ron stupid and surly, it seemed to make Harry's memory's clearer and sharper and more painfully ingrained into his soul. “You know there's no point in asking. Nothing has changed.”

“They haven't found anything?” His voice cracked in its hopeful lilt, and he sounded much younger than almost twenty-three.

“Harry, they - ” she stopped, taking a bite of her food so she wouldn't have to finish her sentence, wouldn't have to say these things that would hurt him.

“They aren't looking anymore, are they?” He asked dully, knowing her answer before she spoke.

“No, Harry,” her voice was so gentle that it was barely audible. “They're not.” He did not reply immediately, but took a sip of the wine, his eyes so vague and faraway that she knew he was seeing a patch of scorched grass that was dim and dark in spite of summer sunshine.

What do you mean she's gone?

“Harry, it's been almost five years,” she said, feeling an overwhelming urge to defend her department. Unspeakables frequently dealt with things that the rest of the Wizarding world considered daft or impossible, and the disappearance had been shunted to them after six months of fruitless searching. Everyone else had accepted her death long ago, except for Harry and Ron, and so by extension, herself. Now, even the most guarded department in the Ministry was considering the case closed.

“I know how long it's been,” Harry said quietly, and Luna felt properly chastised, though there was no real reprimand in his voice. “I could tell you how many days, how many hours, since the last time I saw her…” Which had been only a few hours after the last time he'd touched her, when they'd said a tender, tentative good-bye inside Hogwarts' front hall, when he'd felt her kiss, feather-light on his cheek, when he'd seen the shine of promises lurking in her dark eyes and felt a hope begin to unfurl inside of him…Maybe…when this is all over...

And then the battle had been joined. The hope had died soon after, at the sight of the scorched earth, Remus Lupin hovering helplessly above it, looking at Harry with sad, regretful eyes. He knew that he had just won the greatest victory of his life, he had triumphed over his destiny, he had saved the lives of every man, woman, and child in the wizarding world…and it meant nothing.

Nothing.

What do you mean she's gone?

“It will get easier, Harry.” Luna said sympathetically, reaching out to pat his hand, her eyes shimmering with reflected candlelight. “After all, the universe - ”

“Yes, yes, equilibrium,” Harry said roughly, but not rudely. “I know.”

“You don't believe me,” she said placidly, without accusation.

“No,” he said simply, “I don't.” He took a couple of bites of his meal in a disinterested fashion. Luna was quite a capable cook, when she didn't get caught up in divining the meanings of the movements of dust motes in a beam of sunshine or wonder if the recipe would turn out better if she did the whole thing backwards, but the food was tasteless in his mouth.

They regarded each other quietly for a moment, feeling the air thick with too many silences, regrets, and private agonies. Harry knew how often he lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, willing himself to stop thinking of her, but too weak to actually do it. He wondered if Luna did the same thing, lying on the hard mattress in the spare bedroom - her room - wishing with all her heart that her life was different.

She loved Ron, and Harry loved … someone who wasn't here anymore. Both of their lives were merely shadows of what they could have been.

They looked up, startled out of their mutual, but private reveries, when the front door to the flat opened noisily, flying backwards and hitting the wall. Harry thought he heard a few chunks of plaster rattle softly to the floor.

Ron was home.

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AN: Okay, so here we go into a new story. I have basically tossed you into the middle of it. There will be some things that do not make sense and things that you do not yet know - and that is okay. Answers will come.

There are also some fairly broad hints in this chapter as to what is going to happen later, although since the plot is still unknown at this point, they may be hard to identify. The chapters are going to be shorter, and this is not going to be as “meaty” a story as “Resistance”. I am currently in the middle of chapter 6. This may mean that chapters come more quickly. This does not mean I have stopped updating “Resistance”. I have not abandoned a story yet, and I don't intend to start now.

Basically, Ron is a drunk and Harry is a hollow shell of his former self, following the apparent death of Hermione in the final battle. Our two boys may seem OOC at times, I suppose. Personally, I am having a blast writing I-don't-give-a-damn Harry.

Re: the songs. The line from Green Day appears at the beginning of every chapter, simply because it is the song from which the title comes. “Shadow Walks” will also come to have a literal meaning later on in the story. The remaining song lines are simply ones that I felt encapsulated the general theme of the chapter.

I would really like feedback to see what you think of this new venture. I am completely in love with it right now, but that could be just the unreliable blush of new romance.

Please let me know!

lorien

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Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

Chapter Two:

There's just too much that time cannot erase.

--Evanescence “My Immortal”

“G'devening,” Ron said in a slurred voice with mock formality, as he stood in the open doorway, swaying slightly. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, his clothing wrinkled and dirty. He had not even changed out of his Quidditch practice uniform before leaving the flat.

“Hello, Ron,” Luna said, as if his arrival had been perfectly normal. “Would you like some dinner?” Ron lurched more fully into the flat, but appeared to have forgotten that the door was still open. Harry got up, and wordlessly shut it behind his best mate.

Ron shook his head ponderously for a long moment, before he realized that he wasn't actually saying anything, and managed a thick,

“No.” He struggled for a moment, and added a, “Thank you, love.” Luna made a strangled noise in the back of her throat that could have been interpreted any number of ways, as she moved toward him. She wrapped her arms around his middle, in an effort to keep him upright, and her gaze connected with Harry's around the curve of Ron's shoulder.

They had acted in this scenario many times. Luna's sharp eyes went to the knuckles of his right hand, which were smeared with half-congealed blood. Part of the sleeve of his keeper's uniform was jaggedly torn at the shoulder seam.

“You weren't fighting again?” Her brow was creased in worry and hurt. “Please tell me that a frumious bandersnatch attacked you on your way home.”

“He…deserved it. Ssshoulda heard wha' he said.” Ron was unapologetic. “He had - hada nerve to - to shay…” he paused, and seemed unable to remember what exactly had gotten him so incensed in the first place.

“By the Snorkack's Horn, Ron!” she breathed, in understated exasperation. “When are you going to start thinking of consequences? If this gets out - you know what the manager said! If he has to kick you off this team, you'll never make it above semi-professional Quidditch again.”

“Shemi-profeshnal.” This was said with a snort of disgust. Ron's keeping abilities had been deserving of attention, and after only a half-season in the lower leagues, he had been called up to the big-time. But his drinking and belligerence were constant problems, and he had bounced from team to team, too problematic to keep, but too talented to wash up completely. Then, rather unexpectedly, he blurted, “You sound like her,” his voice mumbling and barely intelligible, but his eyes lucid. Harry watched as a flush burned its way up Luna's pale cheeks. They went through this every time too. Ron would make some sodden, but usually accurate remark about her, and Harry would be torn between the desire to pound Ron to a pulp, or hole up in his bedroom and Obliviate himself.

Just the thought of forgetting her was enough to send him into a momentary panic, and he felt his breath come faster. It was true that remembering her caused him inevitable pain, and he did his best to get through every day by not thinking of her at all. But to forget her altogether, to be unaware of the profound touch that she'd had on his life, and to be unaware of his ignorance…the mere concept was more frightening than anything else he'd encountered.

“Shower or bed?” Harry asked, reaching for his serviette to wipe his mouth, abandoning the futile attempt to eat dinner. His plate was half-full, but what remained of his food was going to end up in the bin, he was sure.

“Just his bed, I think,” Luna said quietly. “He's pretty far gone. He did it quickly tonight.” Ron was swaying in her arms, utterly oblivious to Luna's attempts to steady him, and was humming something tuneless under his breath. Harry came round to Ron's other side, and they began to Levitate him slowly down the hall.

Together, he and Luna disengaged the charm, not particularly gently, so that he tumbled abruptly onto his rumpled mattress, still unmade from the night before. When Luna had stayed in here, she'd made up the bed everyday, complete with coordinating throw pillows. Once, in a rare moment of levity, Harry had teased her for being so girly.

Ron let out a loud gusty sigh, and Harry's nostrils flared in disgust at the stale odor left behind by the alcohol. His best mate seemed to relax, and for a moment, Harry figured that would be the last they heard from him for the night. But then Ron fluttered his eyes open, and peered at him blearily through his lashes.

“It's almosh time again, i'n't it?” He asked fuzzily. Sod it all, Harry thought, annoyed. He'd held the futile hope that perhaps the time of year would pass unnoticed to Ron beneath a drunken haze. If Ron was going to insist on drinking himself into oblivion, it might as well be beneficial to all of them. But then he really knew better. The upcoming day could no more pass anonymously for Ron than it could for him. He found himself staring down into his friend's miserable blue gaze, and could not lie to him.

“Yes, it is. This weekend.” He waited for a moment, sliding his eyes closed… and there it was, the convulsing throb of accompanying pain.

“I mish `er,” he slurred, his voice very low. He sounded as if he were teetering on the very edge of consciousness.

“So do I,” Harry murmured truthfully, his eyes burning, but dry. He was acutely aware of Luna's presence on the far side of the bed, and he hoped that Ron wouldn't say anything to hurt her, however unintentionally.

“Wash my fault, y'know. All m' fault.” Harry's gaze snapped up to Luna's with some trepidation. This was new.

“She'sh gone. You tol' me to watch ou' f'her. My fault. He was laughing.” A more alarmed look passed between Harry and Luna with this seemingly incongruous statement.

“Who was laughing, Ron?” Luna asked, striving to keep her voice as placid as possible.

“Ferr't… shaid - my fault. He wash laughing.” Ron's voice faded to near silence.

“Oh, Ron, you didn't fight Malfoy?!” Luna was channeling the third member of the Trio again. Ron mercifully let it pass without comment, or he could have been too far gone to notice this time, Harry thought.

“Bel….trix…” Ron's mouth barely moved, and his eyes were all but closed. Harry reached frantically for him.

“Bellatrix? What the hell about Bellatrix?” Harry was practically shouting, his hands wound into the fabric of Ron's dirty uniform shirt, but it was pointless. Ron had passed out.

He looked up at Luna, his green eyes snapping with a combination of fury and futility. She lifted her slim shoulders in a shrug, when Harry said,

“What do you think that meant?”

“About Bellatrix? Harry, Lupin killed her nearly five years ago. Ron probably saw a Red-crested Peltrickesh, and mispronounced it.” Harry gave her a withering look, and one corner of her mouth turned up in an almost wistful smile. She had grown increasingly less whimsical as Ron had increasingly turned to drink, and Harry found that he missed that aspect of her personality.

He moved around the foot of the bed, the silence broken by Ron's whistling snores, and wordlessly enfolded Luna in his arms. She was slight, and his chin could rest comfortably atop her head. Her hair smelled of flowery shampoo, and - unfortunately - a little like Calpurnia's eczema salve.

“I'm sorry we do this to you,” he murmured softly. “It's not fair.”

“If Ron was fighting with Malfoy, then he'll - he'll - ” Luna hiccupped a little, and subsided into silence. Harry did not deny it. Ron's Quidditch career hung by the most tenuous of threads.

“You know Malfoy had to have provoked him,” Harry finally said, patting her softly on the back, making an admittedly poor attempt to comfort her.

“Do you really think that will make any difference? You know how Ron gets when he's drunk. The word of a washed-up lush of a Quidditch player against Draco Malfoy? He's going to lose his position, and if you stand up for him, you could lose your job too. You know that the Minister's been looking for an excuse to get rid of you.” The political climate had turned against them - the public's memory was notoriously short, especially toward heroes that refused to stay on their pedestals - and Malfoy had somehow managed to hold onto both his father's clout and his money, Harry had no idea how. Harry was a decent Auror, good at his job, but single-minded and driven when it came to Death Eaters - towards some of whom the Ministry had decided to turn a blind eye. His recklessness and disregard for policy or orders had made him few friends in the department, and he knew that if it hadn't been for the times that Kingsley Shacklebolt had stuck his neck out, he'd have already lost his job.

“I'm not going to let them hang Ron out to dry,” Harry said determinedly. “He's the only family I've got left - and you, of course.” She looked up at him with luminous eyes, and he chucked her under the chin, as a sudden surge of longing welled up and surprised him.

“Harry, don't look at me like that,” she said softly, gazing at him with wary eyes that were not without desire of their own. He backed away from her, dropping his stare apologetically to his shoes and feeling ashamed of himself.

A couple of times, when Ron had been terribly difficult and both of them had had a bad day, the thought of doing something to console each other had crossed both of their minds - obvious, but never spoken aloud - yet they had never acted on it. Luna was in love with Ron, however self-defeating or foolish that was, and had been since their fifth year. Whatever they did with each other would be substitution, settling for something else - somebody else - that they wanted communion and intimacy with, but could not have. Harry would not do that to his friendship with Luna for anything in the world.

Besides, she was not the one he really wanted, and never would be. The converse was true as well; he knew that, and so did she. Luna's eyes drifted slowly to the recumbent figure breathing heavily in the bed, and a combination of fondness and tragedy haunted her eyes. Harry cleared his throat awkwardly, and she jumped, turning back toward him, and smiling self-consciously.

“Are - are you going to Hogwarts?” She asked, twirling a piece of dirty blond hair listlessly between her fingers. Harry stuck his hands in his pockets.

“I reckon,” he said. “I always do.”

“Will you see her parents this year?”

“I dunno,” he responded. “They've been a couple of times, but they usually go to the - to the marker.” The dim lamplight from down the hall was just enough allow Luna to see the muscles in his neck working as he swallowed.

“But you don't go there,” she pressed. He was being unusually forthcoming - for him - probably a combination of his earlier mood, the approaching anniversary, and Ron's cryptic statement. The anniversary was something that he liked to spend quite alone; although Ron had accompanied him to Hogwarts before, it seemed to make them both uncomfortable.

“No - no, I don't,” he said, roughly, having to clear his throat in the middle of the sentence. “She's not - she's not there.” There had been no body, and for awhile, there had been the slim hope that some kind of magical mishap had occurred, and that she would eventually be found. But the weeks had stretched out into months, and finally, Ron and Luna had gone to break the news to her parents that the search had been called to a halt. Her distraught mother and father had put up a small marble monument in a Muggle cemetery, engraved with her name, the date of her birth, and the date Voldemort had been defeated. Previously, Harry had been working tirelessly, frenetically, almost wildly to find her, but upon hearing of the existence of the gravestone, he had not come out of his room for three days. When he strolled into the kitchen of their flat on the fourth day, dressed for work and asking for tea, it had been apparent to Luna how he intended to handle it - namely, by not handling it at all.

“She's not at Hogwarts either,” Luna's voice was gentle and melodic. She did not miss the tremble in his hand as he reached for the finial on the end of Ron's bed, in an effort to find something solid on which to hold.

“But - but she was. Before.”

“I know.” She had covertly asked some of the faculty that resided at Hogwarts year-round what exactly Harry did during his visits. He always went and saw Hagrid, the graying half-giant still walking with a pronounced limp as a result of an injury sustained during the final Battle, but generally appearing to be in fairly good health and spirits. He always stopped by Dumbledore's tomb, sometimes bringing a pair of woolen socks or a packet of lemon drops. He always visited Dobby in the kitchens. Sometimes, her informants told her, he would visit the Quidditch pitch, going, not to the field, but to the stands, sitting where she had, cheering him and Ron on. Sometimes, he would go up to the Gryffindor common room, reclining in the eerie emptiness of summer, silently musing in front of the cold, blank fireplace.

Did he ever go to the library? She had wondered curiously, and the answer from McGonagall had been as emphatic and immediate as it was sympathetic. Never. He had not once, on any of his trips back, ever set foot in the library. The old Headmistress had said that she had walked with him around the school once, and he could barely even pass the battered double doors of that much-beloved room. When they had reached the end of the corridor, he was breathing as if he'd run a sprint.

Lastly, before walking back to Hogsmeade and Apparating home, he would visit the spot where she had disappeared. He seemed to know precisely and without fail exactly where it was located, even though the grass had grown back as green and verdant as anywhere else on Hogwarts' grounds. He would kneel there and weep, and talk to… to her, everyone assumed, although no one ever approached., and when he got up to leave, he walked with the gait of someone much older.

Luna knew from experience that when he arrived back at their flat from a trip to Hogwarts, he would go immediately to his room. He would not emerge again until morning, and when he did, despite his haunted, purple-encircled eyes, he would act as if the previous day had not occurred at all. She had suspicions that, during that night, he threw things, and probably railed and cried, and cursed whoever had done this to him, but he wasn't an Auror for nothing, and his Sllencios and Sealing charms were impenetrable.

“You should take Ron with you this time,” she suggested mildly. His eyes went from her to his somnolent best mate, but they were flat and far away.

“Maybe,” he said noncommittally. Part of him was already shutting down, Luna noted astutely. It was too close, this impending anniversary. Tomorrow would be worse, and then Saturday - Saturday, he would allow himself to grieve for her.

Sunday, it would all be over for another year.

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Some notes: Thanks for the response on the first chapter. I was thrilled that so many people were intrigued by the premise of the story.

There were several comments on OOC - or lack thereof - and I thought I should clarify. Harry and Ron may seem OOC from their general characters in canon, but there are reasons for their change, namely the tragic loss of Hermione. So, in that light, they may not necessarily be considered OOC. As I told Loup deNoir, I didn't just spontaneously make one of them goth over the summer break or anything.

There is no Harry/Luna…just deep, abiding, reliant friendship between the two. Luna has taken Hermione's place in that regard, as best she can, but she is in love with Ron.

This is not a Hermione-memory-loss story. This is something, I hope, that is a little new and different. You should continue to see hints of it throughout the beginning parts of the story.

Hope you continue to enjoy. You may leave a review if you like; it would be much appreciated.

lorien

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Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

Chapter Three:

Come out upon my seas, curse missed opportunities. Am I part of the cure, or am I part of the disease?

-- Coldplay, “Clocks”

Harry Potter strode down the corridors of the Ministry at a rapid clip, his navy Auror robes billowing impressively behind him. It was about an hour early for his lunch break, but Luna had sent him an urgent memo that had fluttered vehemently in his face until he had been forced to acknowledge it.

What he had read had made him slump in his chair until his forehead rested on the surface of the desk, swearing under his breath and crumpling the memo viciously in his fist. It had squawked in protest.

Ron had been removed from the team. Luna had taken a nearly incoherent Floo call from him, and then had scrawled the memo, obviously in great haste, beseeching Harry to go check on him. She said that they were in the middle of something important and highly classified, and her supervisor was already unhappy with the amount of time she'd taken off because of Ron.

She had sounded so upset that Harry had decided to run down to the Department of Mysteries to check on her before Apparating back to their flat to deal with Ron. He began to round the corner that would lead him to the door that had so often haunted his dreams during his fifth year, and crashed into someone else. He struggled to keep his footing, reaching out for support from the jutting corner, but he didn't have to look up to identify the person with whom he'd collided.

“Typical. Potter is a menace both in and out of his department,” came a sneering tone that he had become all too familiar with many years before. “I guess like gravitates toward like - that would explain your continued association with that disgrace, Weasley.”

“Malfoy…” Harry growled. “Get out of my way.” He bit off each word, enunciating it clearly.

“What? Not even an apology for nearly flattening me? Weasley wouldn't apologize to me either, and you should've seen what he did to my robes.” And your teeth, Harry thought sourly, able to detect the faint pink glow of residual healing charms around Malfoy's mouth. “Luckily, I happen to be a contributor to the British Quidditch Association, and … well, let us just say that his manager understands the lay of the land.”

“You got him sacked.” Harry's voice was low and accusing.

“The fool got himself sacked,” Malfoy said venomously. “A retarded Muggle child would know better than to cross me. Of course I wouldn't put it - ”

“What did you say to him?”

“I was merely sympathizing with his … er … current state of affairs,” Malfoy finished airily, as if he'd not been interrupted at all.

“I'm sure you were,” Harry said, implying exactly the opposite. “He said you laughed at him.”

“I tried to stop myself, but there's so much material,” Malfoy responded with a jeer, obviously enjoying the brief hint of rage that flared up in Harry's eyes. He was fighting desperately to maintain control. “The pathetic sod was slobbering in his cups, moaning over the loss of the Mudblood. Such a great tragedy, that.”

“You have no idea…” Harry struggled to get the words out, nearly trembling in anger and anguish. “And do not call her that,” he ordered, moving so quickly to pin Malfoy against the wall that he saw a flicker of uncertainty and discomfiture pass quickly across the veneer of sophistication that the Slytherin usually wore. It was gone so rapidly that Harry almost thought he'd imagined it.

“You always get terribly hot under the collar whenever anyone brings her up, Potter. And then there's poor, perpetually pissed Weasley… You know, everyone always wondered about the true nature of the relationship between you three,” Malfoy said casually, seemingly unfazed that the most famous wizard in the world had a firm grip on his collar. “She must have been good, although you wouldn't be able to tell just by looking at her. Did she service both of you, or was it just - ”

He thought of the fluttery, barely-there touch of her lips on his cheek, the luminous sheen to her eyes before they went out to war, the promise of later, a tantalizing hint of something that he had believed to be impossible… and the soul-crushing agony when he realized, standing above a patch of seared grass, that it would never happen, that he had lost his chance, and that it was forever. White-hot fury built behind Harry's eyes until his peripheral vision was blotted out. He could see nothing but Malfoy's arrogant, leering face, the haughty smile that was all too aware of the buttons he was successfully pushing. He could hear nothing but the taunting, too-smooth voice, speaking as if he and Harry were old friends, the words twisting, distorting, splintering apart to pound in his head. His fist clenched more tightly into the fabric of Malfoy's garment; he could hear the faint whispering cracks as the seams begin to give way.

“Auror Potter!” The voice pierced his consciousness like a blade, and the world rushed back to him with all the suddenness of a gale-force wind. He once more became aware of the bustle of movement and voices in the hallway just beyond, the feel of the nap of Malfoy's cloak beneath the skin of his fingers and palms, the sight of the slightly dilapidated paneling just behind Malfoy's head. He felt the muscles in his arm quiver slightly as they relaxed, and he turned to see a petite woman with hair so dark red that it was nearly maroon. She too was wearing navy Auror robes, although they had not been fastened over torn jeans and a Muggle t-shirt bearing some obscure band logo.

“Auror Tonks,” he said stiffly and formally, smiling with clenched teeth. She grabbed his elbow, and pulled him further down the corridor toward the Department of Mysteries doorway.

“What do you think you're doing?” she hissed between gritted teeth of her own. He heard Malfoy's faint and conscending chuckle quite clearly; it made his spine go rigid. He could feel his pulse throbbing in his temples.

“Nice chatting with you, Harry,” Malfoy said, his voice dripping with false politeness. “`S a shame about what happened, really. Five years ago, right? Knocked everything out of balance, didn't it? Universe will never be the same, life as you know it has no meaning, et cetera, et cetera.” Here he heaved a dramatic sigh. “It really is unutterably sad to have been so dependent on one person, though. I always knew you and Weasley were pathetic, but now,” he shrugged, “it's been proven. Just remember…that is what you did to her, and turn about is fair play.”

Harry began to bristle again, but Tonks' firm hands on his shoulders held him back.

“Mr. Malfoy, could you please go on about your business?” Her tone was civil enough, but there was a hint of warning in it.

“Absolutely, Auror Tonks,” Malfoy said, half-bowing. “I'm sure you are a credit to your department, unlike some.” The subsequent glance at Harry was withering. “You really should discuss jettisoning your dead weight. It will only drag the department down…and no one wants that.”

“Your concern is heartwarming.” Tonks sounded sarcastic, and Malfoy's eyes narrowed.

“Need I remind you - ” he began.

“You needn't,” she interrupted, smiling rather coldly. Malfoy decided to change tack.

“Do they haunt you, Potter?” he asked, his face a mask of innocence.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Harry replied roughly and impatiently.

“Her eyes? Do they haunt you? Lost, bewildered, confused … forever separate… does it prevent you from sleeping? Does every breath cause you pain?” There was a new note in his voice, and even Tonks had turned around from facing Harry to gape at the blond Slytherin. Harry's voice was a hoarse roar in his own ears, and he knocked Tonks aside, causing her to pinwheel across the corridor. He had nearly reached Malfoy, when she urgently whispered,

“Harry, please!” and caused him to stop, hanging on to his self-control by his fingernails. Malicious triumph glittered in Malfoy's pale eyes, and Harry stared at him, trying to discern what had brought such an outpouring of invective, and what exactly Malfoy had meant by it all. Tonks pushed herself away from the wall, and straightened her robes with an air of authority, once again moving between Harry and Malfoy.

“Kindly remove yourself from this corridor before I release Mr. Potter and remember that I'm required somewhere else,” she said, with a polite smile.

Malfoy squared his shoulders and straightened his heavy, obviously expensive cloak, and left, with the distinct air that he was leaving because it pleased him to do so, not because he'd been threatened. When he had vanished from view and from earshot, Harry sighed in annoyance, and began to sidle away from Tonks toward the entrance to the Department of Mysteries.

“Not so fast, Harry,” Tonks said, in a more casual tone. He turned back toward her, irritation plain in his expression and stance, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I'm not in the mood for a lecture, Tonks.”

“I don't really care, Harry,” she returned. “You can't just go about telling everyone to sod off. How is it that you have still not learned about tact and diplomacy and being politic? Do you care at all about what you're doing to your career?”

“I never figured you for a sycophant, Tonks,” Harry said bitingly, and Tonks flushed to her hairline.

“I've others to worry about besides myself,” she said shortly, and Harry felt ashamed of himself. She was trying to toe the party line without compromising who she was and what she believed in, but she knew the pressure that could be brought to bear on Remus, if the powers that be were so inclined.

“Well, I haven't,” he said, and the bitterness and loss that he strove to keep isolated in some dark, abandoned corner of his mind were evident in his voice. A flash of sympathy crossed Tonks' face.

“You still have the respect and admiration and gratitude of a large portion of the wizarding populace, Harry. Don't throw that aside as if it's nothing. You've still got influence, but they want to silence you, they want to discredit you. If you take on Malfoy, you're only giving them what they want. Don't do it.”

“Malfoy should be in Azkaban,” he muttered angrily.

“But he's not, Harry. He's not, and - and Hermione is dead. At some point, you're going to have to come to terms with that.” She looked at him with apology in her eyes, her brows creased sorrowfully. He returned her gaze with detachment, a kind of horrified disbelief that she'd said that flitting over his face.

“I - I can't - ” He broke off abruptly, and turned back toward the main corridor, abandoning his plan to go see Luna. “I've got to check on Ron.”

“Harry, wait - ” Tonks pleaded, reaching for his sleeve. He jerked his arm up erratically, evading her grasp, and veering around the corner without another look or word.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ron looked up from his hunched position on the sofa when Harry Apparated into their flat with a loud crack. He could Apparate nearly silently, Ron knew, and the sound was definitely indicative of the lack of control he had over his emotions at the moment. Because of me, the redhead thought drearily.

Harry saw him, and stood stiffly in front of him, while they regarded each other somewhat awkwardly.

“'Lo, Ron,” Harry finally said.

“Harry,” Ron said with a nod. More silence. The fire crackled merrily in the grate, a Heat Deflecting charm preventing the room from becoming too warm, but Harry could see that Ron had closed the Floo connection, probably having been bothered one too many times by reporters.

“Listen, Ron…” Harry said, beginning slowly, “I'm sorry about what happened. If you want me to - ” Ron shook his head, his entire posture fraught with melancholy.

“No, Harry… no, you've got enough to deal with as it is. I've - I've brought this on myself. Mum's been saying it for two years.”

“You're a good Keeper, Ron,” Harry said truthfully. “Too good to end up this way. Malfoy -”

“He did it on purpose, because he knew how I'd react. I should've known better. You know how he is. He wants a reaction - all the better if it's from one of us.” Ron was perched on the edge of the sofa, almost crouched over his knees, his fingertips pressing into his temples. Harry felt a bit of a headache coming on, himself.

“What did he say to you?” he finally asked, opting for the direct approach. Ron sighed gustily.

“It's a bit foggy, you know,” he hedged. Harry knelt down in front of him, so he could look his best mate in the face.

“Try,” he said urgently. Malfoy's cryptic taunts to him in the Ministry were whirling around in his head. Knocked everything off balance, didn't it? Universe will never be the same.

“I was pretty pissed already. Malfoy came up, bought me another round, started bringing up the usual suspects, you know… how only a Weasley could be given fame and fortune and piss it away like I was.” He shrugged despondently. “Couldn't argue with him much there.”

“You said he laughed at you,” Harry pressed. Do they haunt you, Potter? Her eyes…lost, bewildered, confused…

“He was - he was saying things about - about H - Hermione,” Ron said, speaking the name carefully, as if it were something that might break, and watching Harry guardedly.

“What about her? What, Ron? This could be important.” Ron looked at him as though he'd lost his mind.

“It was just Malfoy being an arse, Harry,” he said. Harry stood back up, motionless, arms akimbo. He appeared to be thinking furiously.

“What if it wasn't, Ron?” he asked intently. Lost, bewildered, confused… Malfoy had said, knowing, knowing that it would get a reaction from Harry. “But not dead,” he muttered half to himself. Ron looked at him without comprehension. “He - Malfoy - I saw him at work just a while ago. He mouthed off…wanted me to try something… I nearly did. I guess getting the both of us sacked in one morning would make it a red-letter day in Malfoy's world. And he looked at me, and he said - he said - ” He stopped helplessly. How could he explain this to Ron when it didn't even make any sense to him?

“He said that it was all my fault,” Ron interjected tonelessly, eyes far away as he relived the previous night. “That she was gone and it was my fault.” He met Harry's eyes and nodded assuredly. “That's what he said.” The next part was so low that Harry almost didn't hear it at all. “And he's right.”

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A/N: Wow! I have just been overwhelmed and humbled by the response this story has gotten. I'm so glad it's hooked your attention, and I hope it lives up to your expectations! Keep the reviews coming…they (and all of you) are absolutely awesome.

I've been plugging steadily away on “Resistance”, and hope to have an update before the weekend's over!

lorien

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Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Four:

“And I can't explain what happened. And I can't erase the things that I've done.”

--Simple Plan, “Untitled”

Harry just stared at Ron for a long moment, the flat shrouded in absolute silence save for the crackling of the fire. Finally he said,

“You don't mean that.”

“I do mean it,” Ron said, lifting his eyes to look at Harry again, as if the orbital muscles had enormous weights attached. “You'd gone to fight him, and Hermione and I were together. We were almost in the Forbidden Forest, and were trying to stay out of sight and work our way towards Dumbledore's tomb, hoping to be able to help you.” He steepled his fingers underneath his chin, and continued, speaking mechanically. “Then I - I asked her if there was anything going on between the two of you - the whole good-bye thing got me wondering…”

“Ron, you didn't,” Harry said in a strangled kind of half-groan, dropping his face into his hands. “In the middle of the bloody battle with Voldemort?” Ron and Hermione had broken up nearly eight months before the battle took place, but Ron had remained as over-protective and overreacting as he'd always been. At Harry's words, Ron flushed crimson, but attempted to continue speaking evenly.

“She insisted that nothing was going on, and we - we started arguing, and - ” The regret plastered across Ron's face would be evident to anyone. Harry just stared at him, as Ron tried to finish the story that he'd begun relating. “Some of the things I said to her - and I didn't mean them, I really didn't mean them… We were so angry - we weren't exactly shouting, but it was just like always - and so we - I - I left her there…oh, Merlin, Harry, I left her there…”

“You what?” Harry said hoarsely. He felt his throat closing up painfully, threatening to cut off his airway forever. Ron's words had become heavy mallets, and the inside of his skull was a gong. This is why I don't talk about her to anyone! Anyone! He wasn't sure if he was going to throw up or pass out.

“I - I stalked off ahead of her. It really wasn't far, and I thought she was right behind me, but…” Harry's eyes flickered down to Ron's long legs, folded up as he sat on the sofa. He would've left her behind very quickly, his strides carrying him rapidly along the edge of the forest. “I heard a scuffle, some raised voices, and - and Hermione screamed.” Harry flinched visibly. “I turned around and ran back towards her, but I stepped in a bloody hole or something. I fell… my leg…When I finally got my bearings again, she was gone.” Ron was speaking mechanically, not even seeming to remember that Harry was in the room.

“I could hear the sounds of the battle, and I tried to - tried to get out of the forest. I heard someone say something - in Latin - a curse I'd never heard before, and then - that was all. The next thing I heard was Remus shouting, and then you were back, and …”

“Who was it? Who spoke the curse?” That took away the woman I love, rang in Harry's head, though he did not speak it.

“Bellatrix Lestrange.” Ron said, the name plunging into the silence and seeming to echo around the room. Bellatrix Lestrange. Harry's lips pressed into a grim line. At least this explained why Ron had been mumbling her name in his drunken state.

When Harry had returned from Dumbledore's tomb, looking like nothing more than a dead man walking, he had seen Ron, all but dragging himself from the low undergrowth on the very outer edge of the forest, obviously in pain. Harry had cast a somewhat elementary healing charm, and then stiffened the leg of Ron's trousers to act as a splint on his broken bone. He'd helped him to stand.

“Where's Hermione?” Ron had asked in a panicked voice, clutching at Harry's sleeve, watching the alarm suddenly seep into Harry's eyes. They'd both turned to look across the wide green grounds of Hogwarts, and had seen Remus standing, wavering on his feet, blood streaming down one side of his face from a laceration above his eye, looking at them sadly, so sadly that they'd known … without Remus having to say anything at all. But he had said something…two words that would tear Harry's life apart and leave ruins strewn in their wake. And then his own furious, impotent, despairing cry,

What do you mean she's gone?

“I - Merlin, Harry, there were so many times I wanted to tell you… when you kept insisting that she was alive somewhere, and I - I - but I didn't know how you'd react, and I didn't - I'd already lost her; I didn't want to lose you too.”

We started arguing.

I asked her if there was anything going on between the two of you.

I left her there.

The pain grasped Harry in two impersonal fists and twisted. It was too much. It was too much to handle, too much to grasp, too much to accept. If there was anything going on… Not then, not ever, Harry thought, and wondered when his eyes had grown damp.

I left her…

“You didn't want to - you - oh God,” Harry rambled wildly, feeling dizzy and sick with dread and grief. Ron still sat on the sofa, elbows on knees, looking the perfect picture of utter misery.

“Harry, I'm sorry,” Ron flinched over the inadequacy of the words. He moved as if to stand, and Harry backpedaled away from him as if he had some sort of contagion.

“It was Bellatrix, Ron, not you,” he mumbled, feeling the need to absolve his friend a little, even as his heart contorted into painful knots. “It was Bellatrix who - who - who k- ” He couldn't finish, and he felt his throat tightening, clenching with such tension that it could only be abated with a sob. He swallowed it noisily. Malfoy's words were jarring in his mind.

Do they haunt you…her eyes?

Yes, they do. Every single second of my life. No matter how much I try to pretend otherwise.

His throat was closing up again. Lost, bewildered, confused…

He suddenly latched onto his earlier train of thought. Not dead. Not in pain. Malfoy described her as lost, bewildered, confused…but not dead.

“Wouldn't Malfoy have wanted to taunt me with the gruesome details of what happened? But he didn't talk about her death - not about her death… he…” Harry trailed off, a seed of suspicion germinating in his mind.

“What're you on about, Harry?” Ron asked in confusion.

“And how would he know the details of the moment she disappeared?” he asked quickly. “How'd he know enough to mock you with? He wasn't there. He was in France - the entire Ministry practically verified his alibi. It helped him stay out of prison.” He had begun pacing back and forth across the small living room, his arms locked behind his back, his eyes ablaze with green flame. “Who was there, Ron? Which Death Eaters attacked you?”

Ron looked at him with skeptical worry, his eyes clearly communicating that he did not want to talk about this any more, and he couldn't understand Harry's sudden reversal on the topic.

“They're all in Azkaban, Harry - or were killed during the fighting. But I guess Malfoy could have visited…talked to any one of them.” Harry was frowning.

“I'm not sure he'd risk it. He was this close to going there himself, and he knows it.” Harry held up his thumb and forefinger with only a tiny fraction of space between them. “He's hung onto his family's money, so people in high places still listen to him, but I think even they'd draw the line at association with convicted Death Eaters.” He stopped and thought again for a moment. “But Bellatrix - Bellatrix Lestrange, now…”

“Harry, she's dead.” Ron's voice was desperate and pleading now. “Remus killed her - completely vaporized her. Right after she killed Hermione…” The words tore from his throat as if they physically caused him pain. Harry turned his head so sharply as to nearly wrench his neck, and regarded Ron, the kinetic fury beginning to ebb from his bright eyes. His face was white to the lips.

“You said her name - Bellatrix - last night, when we put you to bed. You said - ” Harry faltered, visibly trying to clutch at the shreds of his theory. “And Malfoy - he asked me if her eyes haunted me. Lost, bewildered…lost….oh, God, Ron…I was thinking - I thought… maybe he meant she wasn't dead. That she wasn't dead after all, and it was - it was…” He pressed the pads of his fingers to his burning eyes, and the pain threatened to rip open his chest like a living thing - a wild beast with a mind of its own. Ron sat motionless on the sofa, a muscle working in his jaw, his eyes mirroring the pain his best mate felt - and yet…and yet unable to comprehend the depth to which it extended. “I - I - ” Harry groped desperately for words, for a purpose, for something to do, something to fix the horrid thing that happened five years ago, that never should have happened…that surely wasn't meant to happen… “I could go talk to Remus. Maybe - maybe he…”

“Harry, mate… for the love of Merlin, don't do this. Don't dredge this up again. You've done everything you could do - looked everywhere. The Ministry had its best people on it, and they never found a trace of her. It's over.”

“Ogden tell you that?” Harry said cruelly, and Ron flinched.

“P'raps you've got a valid point,” the redhead finally said. “Look what it's done to me. I'm a disgrace, an - an embarrassment to my family and to my team, to anybody who ever looked up to me, anybody who ever thought I was worth anything at all.”

“That happened because of your drinking, not because you - ” Harry was beginning to feel bad for his comment. I would have thought that you of all people would understand what he's going through, Luna's soft chastisement rang in his mind.

“I drink because I can't handle the fact that she's gone - the fact that she died because of me,” Ron said stolidly, looking away from Harry and staring mournfully into the fire.

She died because of me…she died because of me… she died because of me…because of me.

Harry wanted to argue with him, to point out that it wasn't Ron who was the instigator, the cornerstone, the linchpin of the entire conflict. It was Voldemort's vendetta against Harry that had propelled them all to this point, as if they were all plastered to the front of the runaway train of destiny, with no hope of jumping off in time to prevent disaster. If only I'd died when I should have, twenty-two years ago… he thought, not for the first time.

“All I'm saying is - is that - ” Ron struggled for a moment, and seemed to choose the words very carefully. “You still have a career, dignity, respect. Don't throw it away for a pipe dream, Harry. She wouldn't want you to do that.” Harry's green eyes met Ron's blue ones squarely. Something hung in the air between them for just a moment, something viscous and bittersweet: regretful camaraderie, a bond that came with experiencing something life-altering and awful that nobody else could understand.

We started arguing… I left her there. The tiniest flicker of anger licked in the corners of Harry's mind and began to grow, feeding on itself, but he struggled to push it away. Hating Ron for a mistake seen in hindsight wouldn't bring her back. Ron had been thoughtless, irresponsible, even negligent, but he had not been willfully cruel, abandoning Hermione with malice aforethought. Even so, he found he could barely look at the miserable man slumped on the sofa

He turned awkwardly to the door.

“Reckon I'll get back to the office,” he said, doing a double take when Ron stood too. “Where are you going?” he asked. Ron shoved a hand through his vivid, rumpled hair, and shrugged self-consciously.

“Ah… you know. Just thought I might drop round the pub.”

“Right,” Harry said in a weary voice. He briefly thought of encouraging Ron against the idea, but couldn't work up the energy to do so. I left her there. Let Ron do himself in with drink, if he so wished. Some trace of disapproval must have flickered in his eyes anyway though, for Ron answered,

“Harry, I no longer have a job, and it's mostly my own damn fault. If this isn't a situation that calls for drinking, I don't know what is,” he said; the words were jovial in context, but the tone of his voice was faint and somber, quite failing to cover up how upset he really was. “Besides, I don't want to be here when the Howlers start arriving.”

“Stay here, Ron,” Harry finally blurted, after several seconds of internal debate. “Luna's been really worried about you. You know you ought - just - be here when she gets home. You could talk…” Ron stared at him for a long moment, and Harry just stood by the door, his hand on the knob. Finally, Ron let out a sudden, loud bark of laughter, though it wasn't exactly mirthful.

“We're a fine lot, aren't we? Sitting around giving each other advice on how to properly live each other's lives, when our own are just - just - ” Going down the toilet, Harry mentally supplied for him, when he didn't seem able to finish his sentence.

“It's what you would call ironic, isn't it?” Harry returned the smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. “I'll see you later.” He looked at Ron one last time, and felt nausea welling up within him. I left her there.

In another moment, he was out the door, closing it softly. Ron didn't hear him Apparate, but knew that he was gone.

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Harry hadn't been in his cramped, messy excuse for an office for thirty seconds, when Kingsley Shacklebolt strode in, with a set, serious look on his face.

“Not you too, Potter,” he said, without preamble.

“What are you talking about?” Harry mumbled, not looking at him and shuffling some papers around on his desk to look busy.

“You know exactly what I'm talking about,” his superior officer returned, and when Harry looked up, Kingsley was slanting a sideways, all-knowing look at him. Damn, Harry thought, and jerked backwards, knocking a whole sheaf of parchment to the floor, where it rustled into stillness like a settling flock of birds.

“I'm talking about your little run-in with Malfoy, this morning,” Shacklebolt said, sitting in the only other chair in the tiny space, and bouncing back up again, as he crushed several accordion folders flat. “Don't you ever file anything?” He asked, pulling the files out from under himself, and setting them on an already promising stack perched crookedly on a cabinet.

“I'm just a little behind,” Harry muttered defensively.

“Malfoy went running to Percy Weasley,” Shacklebolt said simply, and Harry swore wrathfully.

“I'm sure Percy went straight to the Minister,” Harry said, “damn him to hell.” Kingsley raised one eyebrow.

“Who? Percy or the Minister?”

“Both,” Harry snarled, and disappeared behind his desk to retrieve the pile of parchment that he'd knocked over.

“The Minister was not very happy,” Kingsley said, understatedly.

“What else is new?” Harry retorted. His boss theatrically unfurled a memo, and began to read.

“Head Auror Shacklebolt: It has come to our attention - ”

(“Our!” Harry snorted under his breath. “Who does he think he is - the bloody Queen of England?”)

“It has come to our attention,” Shacklebolt resumed, after a quelling look at Harry, “that one of your Aurors threatened a Mr. Draco Malfoy (Lord of Malfoy Manor, member of the board of governors of Hogwarts, vice chairman of the International Wizarding Council, honorary member of the Wizengamot, and recipient of the Order of Merlin, fourth class) on Ministry property this morning, with insulting diatribe and promises of physical assault. Mr. Malfoy has most graciously declined to insist upon Auror Potter's immediate termination at this time. (Harry rolled his eyes.) There has been a warning attached to Auror Potter's permanent record, and if there are any further `incidents', he will be immediately released from active duty with dishonor and without severance. We trust that you, Head Auror Shacklebolt, will bring this matter to Auror Potter's attention in an expedient manner. Disciplinary action may be taken as you see fit.

Respectful regards,

Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic.”

“I hate that man,” Harry said, doodling distractedly on the protruding margin of some random scroll.

“Yes, I know. I believe you've told him so to his face on a number of occasions,” Kingsley said dryly. “What happened with Malfoy this morning?” He watched Harry slump inward on himself. Clearly, the younger man did not want to discuss it.

“Does it really matter?” Harry asked. “I consider myself officially reprimanded. It won't happen again.”

“That's what you said last time there was a warning put on your record. You've four now, you know,” Kingsley replied coolly, and Harry looked at him curiously, wondering at his sudden change in demeanor.

“What's going on, sir?” Harry wondered.

“I know you've had a rough go of it, Harry. You were dealt a sorry hand to begin with, and it's only gotten worse. I've stepped up for you a number of times, and I don't regret it,” he spoke the last phrase quickly, as Harry opened his mouth to protest. “The political climate is changing - I know you know it - and the public is already starting to forget what happened five years ago. Unless you find a way to pose for their photo shoots, and give happy lip service to the Minister, then they will find a way to get rid of you,” he said emphatically, “and there won't be a damn thing I can do about it.”

“They can take their adulation and their so-called gratitude, and shove it up their arses, for all I care,” Harry said hotly. “I don't need this damn job, and I certainly don't live for Scrimgeour's approval - or Malfoy's… or yours.”

“You're a good Auror, Harry,” Kingsley said. “A damn good one - you've got spot on instincts. I don't want to lose you.” He took a deep breath. “And I don't think she'd want you to chuck it all and run either.” Harry turned to his boss with a venomous look that would have had lesser men quaking where they sat. “Malfoy brought her up, didn't he?” Shacklebolt did not miss the tremors in Harry's hands, as the younger Auror brought them down slowly to grip the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white.

“Yes, he did. And I think you know that Hermione,” his voice quavered only slightly over the syllables of her name, “would be the last person who would advocate licking someone else's boots in the name of political conformity or to keep a job!” His voice had risen in volume as he spoke. The tense silence fairly crackled in the small room, but it was abruptly dispelled when a junior Auror trainee, barely out of Hogwarts, burst into the room, red-faced, breathing heavily, and looking frantic.

“Head Auror Sha - Shacklebolt,” he said, panting. “You need to come - there's an urgent Floo call from - from Auror Longbottom in - in - ”

“Spit it out, MacKie,” Shacklebolt instructed.

“They've got him - they've got Dolohov.”

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Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Five:

Can you help me? I'm bent; I'm so scared that I'll never get put back together.

--Matchbox 20, “Bent”

When Luna unlocked the door to their flat and opened it, using a softly spoken Alohamora, she was more than a little surprised to see Ron sitting morosely on the sofa. A glass of something sat on the coffee table, but the ice had melted completely, and the container itself was now ensconced in a puddle of its own making.

“Hi,” she said in a composed voice, trying not to sound curious or astonished at his presence. Her eyes darted around the rest of the room. The flat seemed otherwise empty, and was now darkening, Ron having failed to rejuvenate the fire with his wand.

He grunted something that could have been construed as some sort of greeting.

“Where's Harry?” she asked.

“Back to work,” he said succinctly, barely moving his mouth. Her expression modified then, sympathy creeping in to shadow the cornflower blue of her eyes.

“How are you?” she asked, gently emphasizing the pronoun. It was difficult enough to lose a job under any circumstances, much less ones that would be plastered over the front page of the Prophet.

“Not great,” he responded, still keeping words to a minimum, and trying to sound disinterested.

“I wouldn't expect you to be. But - but I'm glad you're here,” she managed, not really wanting the implied, but unsaid, instead of down at the pub tacked onto the end of her statement.

She set her satchel in the armchair that sat beneath the window, and moved into the kitchen, turning on lights with casual flicks of her wand as she went.

“Maybe Harry'll be back in time for all three of us to have dinner together. It's been a - ”

“Somehow, I don't think he will - at least not until late. You know how - you know how he gets at this … time of year.” He sighed heavily. “He's in love with her, isn't he?” Luna looked at him over the counter that separated the two rooms, almost serenely, not looking a bit disconcerted with Ron's use of the present tense.

“Yes. He always has been, I think,” she replied. “He just didn't realize it until…” Ron nodded despondently, neither of them bothering to add the slightly melodramatic until it was too late. It seemed to loom large in the room all the same, as if someone had spelled it out in enormous, glowing letters.

There was a long silence, broken sporadically by the rattle and clank of pots and pans, as Luna levitated them into place to begin dinner.

“I told him,” Ron blurted abruptly, the words seemingly propelled from his mouth of their own volition. Luna started, and a ladle become suddenly and noisily acquainted with the stovetop.

“Told him what?” she asked.

“What really happened.”

Luna abandoned her embryonic dinner preparations and moved back into the living room, her ethereal gracefulness making her appear to glide above the ground.

“What did really happen?” she asked. She had long suspected that something had gone on at the Final Battle that he had not shared with anyone. There had been a few cryptic ramblings from a drunken haze, and the suddenly aborted sessions with a mind-healer at St. Mungo's that had made her wonder. Always striving to maintain the placid exterior and the whimsical demeanor that seemed to calm him, she had waited, placing her shaky faith in the tenet that what was meant to happen would happen, and the universe strove for balance, strove for its own destiny…that someday, he would tell her.

Slowly, in a dry, dull voice that sounded like the rustle of a thousand scrolls furling up at once, Ron related the story that he'd told Harry. Once, during the narrative, he reached for the watered-down liquor on the coffee table, but his hand stopped in mid-motion and retreated back to his lap. By the time he'd finished, he was trembling and his voice was clogged with tears.

He slowly lifted his gaze to Luna's, dreading what he might see there, but her eyes were soft and liquid-shiny, a crinkled smile on her face.

“You shouldn't have borne this alone for so long,” she whispered.

“I don't deserve any support or compassion. She's dead, and it's my fault. You should have seen Harry's face when - when - It was like I'd killed him too. I - ” He made a jagged swipe at the drink again, stopped, clenched his questing fingers into a fist, swore, and grabbed the glass. His fingertips were white against the beads of condensation on the smooth surface. He looked at Luna almost defiantly, and chugged the contents of the glass, wincing and clearing his throat as the drink burned satisfactorily on the way down. “Do you love me?” he asked abruptly, getting up and walking down the short corridor to his room. Distantly, Luna could hear rustling, followed by the musical clink of glass against glass.

“You know I do, Ronald,” she replied, raising her voice slightly so he would hear. Seconds later, he emerged holding an amber-filled decanter of Ogden's finest. Her eyes went from the bottle to his face, and then back to the bottle again, but she did not comment. “I've loved you from the first time you spoke to me. Maybe even before. Ginny talked about you all the time. And the morning I wore that lion hat to your Quidditch game, I'd seen a whirlypuff spinning anti-clockwise outside my dormitory window. That always means the love of your life is about to do something grand.”

“I'm not half good enough for you, Luna. I probably never will be.” Apology glinted in Ron's eyes, but it did not stop him from opening the bottle, and lifting it to his lips, scorning the just-emptied glass.

“Don't do this,” fell from Luna's lips before could stop it. She clasped her hands together tightly in her lap, as if somehow their combined force would keep her mouth in check. He slanted a look at her, and took a second drink.

“It's all I've got left,” he remarked, wiping his chin. The room was silent, save for the slosh of whiskey in the bottle, as he raised it again.

“That's not true,” she insisted quietly, her voice trembling only the barest amount.

“I abandoned my best friend on a battlefield, and she is dead. And it's ruined my life, Harry's life, everything. Don't you understand? Everything is wrong. You think Harry wanted to chase after the bad guys forever? No! He wanted to teach! Can you believe that? Hogwarts was the first real home he could remember - he always wanted to go back someday.” He took a long quaff of the bottle. “You aren't supposed to be here; you - you're a reminder that she's not here.” Luna knew that he didn't mean to make those words exactly as cruel as they sounded, but it still felt like he'd struck her in the face.

“Then the whirlypuff was wrong?” Luna muttered, half to herself in a disbelieving voice. Ron was well on his way to becoming quite drunk, but he still looked over at her in confusion.

“What?”

“You're in love with her too, then? Just like Harry?” Some of the bitterness that she usually buried had crept insidiously into her voice. Think of Papa…and the Snorkacks, she told herself insistently, willing herself back to a time and place where she had felt whole, like herself. It had been so long that she had almost forgotten.

“No,” Ron said with a mirthless half-smile. “I didn't love Hermione. I thought I did for a long time, but I - I don't think I was capable of loving her like she should have been loved. Maybe I'm not able to love anyone like they deserve.” He blinked up at her with meaning in his voice, but did not give Luna a chance to respond. “She was supposed to live with us - all three of us together. Our lives were so - so connected for so long that I don't think we knew how to function away from each other. And we knew the Battle was coming…” A dark look crossed his face, and he appeared to brush those most unwelcome of memories away. “Every time I pass that door,” he gestured vaguely down the hall, but she knew he meant the guest room. “I think of the fact that she isn't here - that she'll never be here, and it's all because of me. And - and I watch Harry, and he's like - like half a person, and that's my fault too.” He stared dismally at nothing, and it was as if Luna had been Petrified. His words were raining down upon her like hammer blows, but she was determined to let him speak his piece. Maybe it would help drain some long festering wounds.

“It's the last thing I see before I go to sleep, and the first thing I think about when I wake up,” he said softly. “Whenever I - we - ” He looked up at her sadly. “Whenever we're… together, it - it's just like this.” He lifted the bottle toward her, and the liquid gleamed in the dim light of the room like topaz jewelry. “It helps me forget - for a little while. When I'm with you, I'm happy for a bit, but it's - it's not real.”

“Yes, it is,” Luna insisted. “Your aura - ”

“Temporary peace. Fake life.” Ron's voice was almost sing-song. “Only lasts as long as I can push her - what I did to her - out of my mind. Now I've got Harry's guilt to add to it.” He took another swig, and added whimsically. “Lucky me.”

“Ron - ” Luna managed, but knew that she wasn't going to make it. Her jaw trembled violently, as she tried to clutch at her equanimity, the placidity that had kept her going through school, when people whispered about her, looked at her oddly, openly mocked her, or stole her things. Nothing had hurt as badly as this, as Ron telling her that what they had was a pale substitute of real love, a crutch that helped him get through the day, something of no more value to him than that bottle of liquor.

He looked at her then, and his eyes were already bleary, but still naked with pain.

“Now, look,” he said, “now I've made you upset. It's a hat trick for Weasley!” He raised his arms over his head in a mock victory salute, and his mouth twisted sardonically. A solitary sob escaped Luna's throat, and she clapped her hands over her mouth. “I guess I'll just go.” He spoke in a dull voice, as he rose from the couch, still clutching the whiskey bottle around its slender neck.

“You don't have to - ” she began, but her throat closed around her words, and she knew that she didn't really mean them anyway. Wasn't it better this way? Better for him to leave and drink himself into a stupor, than to stay here, maudlin and bitter, flaying her alive with his thoughtless words? He looked at her sharply then, as if he'd read her mind.

“Yeah, I do,” he whispered, and moved unevenly to the door.

He didn't even glance back at her before he exited.

And Luna sat there, alone, in the dark, empty apartment, an unwanted member of a defunct, sad, faux-Trio, while the two boys she loved most in the world, slowly self-destructed by means of their own choosing. Harry was working. Ron was getting blitzed. She was here, worthless, useless, helpless, Ron's words ringing in her head.

Everything is wrong.

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Harry was on the continent, pacing back and forth in a dark, dank corridor several levels beneath the main entrance to the Ukrainian Ministry of Magic. His hands were clasped behind his back, as he moved this way and that in front of a featureless door pierced only by a tiny, square window. The window had been magically blackened, and Harry was spearing the door with particularly dark looks. Fellow Auror Neville Longbottom lounged with deceptive casualness against one gray concrete wall, eying him watchfully.

“What are they doing in there?” he finally ground out, loud enough to attract attention from a couple of other agents further down the hall.

“You've done this enough times; you ought to know exactly what they're doing,” Neville remarked laconically, and Harry scowled at him.

“I don't see why they won't let me talk to him.”

“Maybe because they don't want him lethally hexed before they find out what he knows,” Neville offered. Harry glared at him with an air of betrayal. “C'mon, Harry,” Neville added, lifting both hands in a placating way. “You're not exactly known for being rule-abiding. Never have been.”

Harry slumped a little, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“I guess that's true enough,” he said glumly. “I suppose I should just be glad we got him.” Neville nodded sincerely.

“He's the last ranking Death Eater that was at large.”

“I'm glad you got him,” Harry said, pausing mid-stride to clap Neville companionably on the back.

“Harry, this was your case. It was the intelligence you and your team gathered that led us to Dolohov.”

Harry looked uncomfortable and opened his mouth, intending to downplay what Neville was saying, but the door swung open then, and all thought of conversation was driven from the two young Aurors' minds.

Kingsley Shacklebolt emerged, accompanied by his Ukrainian counterpart, Oleksiy Lyubov. The dark skin of the British Auror was shiny with sweat, and they both looked exhausted and grim.

“What?” Harry burst out, unable to contain himself any longer. “What did he say?” Lyubov eyed him dubiously, and Harry felt himself flush. He had never personally participated in a case in the Ukraine, but obviously, his reputation had preceded him.

“Not much,” Kingsley said. “Cocky bastard. He knows that he's going back to England, and that he'll get the Kiss, and he's still not talking. He's determined not to give us the satisfaction.”

“Veritaserum?” Harry queried quickly, his mind racing as he plunged into Auror mode.

“He can shake off the effects of it. We couldn't get anything reliable out of him. It's likely he's more than half mad anyway. Lyubov's team found significant Cruciatus residue in his brain - looked to be around five, six years old, probably courtesy of his dear Master.”

Neville and Harry exchanged glances.

“How could he have eluded us for so long,” Harry asked incredulously, “if he was mad?”

“That is the thousand Galleon question, is it not, Mr. Potter?” Lyubov inquired in accented English, with thinly veiled politeness and unmistakable insinuation. Harry bristled, brushing off the warning hand Neville laid on his arm.

“Let me talk to him,” he implored, ignoring Lyubov and looking only at his boss. Kingsley nearly laughed.

“Harry, I can't do that. You aren't specialized in interrogation, and you know what happened the last time you were in a cell with a Death Eater.” Harry looked at him sullenly.

“That was Pettigrew; it was different,” he muttered shortly. “I don't think Dolohov's insane. I think he's covering up the fact that he knows things that could help us!”

“Our mind-healers have assured me that - ” Lyubov began stiffly.

“What if I go in there with him?” Neville spoke up quickly, and Harry tossed him a grateful glance. The Ukrainian Head Auror did not look pleased at having been so unceremoniously interrupted.

“Longbottom, I think that sending Harry in to such a potentially incendiary situation is a mistake. There is nothing more that - ” While Shacklebolt was speaking, Harry surreptitiously pointed a finger at the doorway and murmured a wandless incantation under his breath. Neville was the only one who caught the movement, and his eyes widened, but he said nothing.

An instant later, an alarm went off. There were shouts from the Aurors on duty at the checkpoint down the hall, and Lyubov strode toward them urgently, muttering foreign curses under his breath.

“What's going on?” Kingsley said, more rhetorically than anything else, but Neville had been listening to the frantic shouts from the Ukrainian Aurors.

“A ward's gone down,” Neville said, and the other two looked at him with some surprise. He shrugged nonchalantly. “I've been here awhile,” he added, to explain his knowledge of the language. Shacklebolt was watching Lyubov shout angry orders to the hapless Aurors on duty, with much obvious invective and gesticulation.

Mindful of the distraction, Harry wrenched open the door in one swift motion, and plunged inside. As it closed, the mingled cries from Neville and Kingsley were cut off by the Silencing charms in place. A softly muttered spell locked the door behind him. His eyes adjusted to the shadowy dimness of the cell, and he could see Antonin Dolohov seated in a plain, straight-backed wooden chair, magical shackles gleaming around his wrists and ankles. He was wearing tattered Muggle clothing, and his hygiene appeared to be just on the wrong side of clean.

“I knew you'd be here,” Dolohov smirked. “Lurking like the pathetic vulture that you are.”

“Nice to see you again too, Antonin,” Harry said casually, but the glint in his eyes was far from friendly. “You ought to tell them what you know. Might give you a few ticks in the `not so bad' column before the end.”

“I'll tell them nothing. There will be no clemency for me, so I'll die before I betray the brethren.” Dolohov's voice was harsh and raspy; it sounded like he had some kind of respiratory illness.

Harry moved so quickly that it startled both of them, and he was only inches from Dolohov's face, nose to nose, his hands fisted in the Death Eater's dirty shirt.

“Death is too good for you,” he hissed. Dolohov's lips split in a horrible imitation of a smile.

“You won't do anything to me. They'd discharge you - you'd probably do time in Azkaban.” Dolohov's eyes were sharp, alert, malicious, and Harry was more convinced than ever that this man was no more mad than he was - although that was, perhaps, not the greatest comparison to make.

“I'm the Boy Who Lived,” Harry bit off, enunciating the words carefully, projecting more confidence than he actually felt. “I could have your entrails for lunch, and nobody would care.”

“Liar,” Dolohov spat. “You think we don't watch you? You think we don't know all about your sad, sad life, your reprimands at the Ministry…that sot you call a best friend? We know all about you, Harry Potter.”

Harry leaned closer, knocking Dolohov's head none too gently against the wall behind his head.

“Who's we?” Dolohov grimaced at him.

“Wouldn't you like to know?” Harry took a deep breath, struggling to tamp down his rising temper. He'd like nothing more than to beat that smirking face into a bloody pulp.

“If you know all about me, if you're watching me as closely as you say, then why haven't you tried to kill me?” Harry asked, raising an inquiring eyebrow.

“But this is so much more fun,” Dolohov sneered. “Bellatrix was right. I didn't believe her, but she was right.” Harry's hand trembled violently, as he tried to close his fingers around his wand.

“About what?” he asked, hoping his face was sufficiently schooled to give away none of the turmoil he was feeling.

“I never would have thought that a Mudblood could possibly matter so much.” Dolohov shook his head in mock sympathy. Heated fury surged through Harry, blinding him, deafening him to all else but Dolohov's filthy, derisive smile and calculated words. He let out a roar of rage, and sprang at his adversary, even as he distantly heard the cell door blow open. There was a tumult of noise behind him, but he barely registered it underneath his own hoarse shouting.

“What about Hermione? What do you know about Hermione?” The chair clattered raucously against the stone floor where he had tipped it over, and he shook Dolohov violently, relishing the noise his head made as it hit the floor over and over.

Dolohov's eyes were glassy, but he still grinned at Harry with unholy mirth. The pinned Death Eater moved his tongue around in his mouth, as if ruminating on exactly what to say next. Harry could feel someone - probably Neville - pulling him away, and he fought, shoving the person hard. Something - probably a Stunning spell - whizzed just over his head, barely missing him.

“Bellatrix was right: there are things worse than death,” Dolohov finally said, and snapped his teeth together with an audible clack. Harry's eyes widened with alarm, as he realized what Dolohov had done.

“He's taken a potion capsule!” he shouted suddenly. “He's taken a potion capsule!” Harry struggled to upright the chair, one hand moving up to force open the Death Eater's jaw, but Dolohov's muscles were already going slack.

“Where is she? Where is she?” he cried desperately, wildly striking at the Aurors attempting to move him. Distantly, he heard Shacklebolt order them not to Stun him. He overbalanced and fell, landing with his cheek on the hard stone, quite close to the dying Death Eater.

“She's not - ” Dolohov managed to rasp faintly, his voice nothing more than a barely audible wheeze. Whatever he would have spoken next died as a mere rattle in his throat.

“No!” Harry protested, as firm hands closed around his arms this time, and dragged him roughly from the cell.

--

AN: Still amazed by the response to this story. I'm glad you all seem to be enjoying it so much.

I was pleased with the response to Ron in the last chapter. I was worried that I made what he did in the last battle too unforgivable, but I wanted it to be something worthy of five years of ongoing regret. But most of you seemed to see it in a similar light as I did. He comes off as kind of a jerk in this chapter too, but he's feeling really guilty. He'll start making the effort to redeem himself soon.

You may leave a review on your way out, if you like.

lorien

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Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Six:

Welcome to the fall-out. Welcome to resistance.

--Switchfoot, “Dare You to Move”

Harry sat in a conference room a few floors above Dolohov's dead body. Neville was slouched companionably in a chair next to him, and Kingsley lounged in a corner, radiating disapproval. Lyubov looked even less happy than Shacklebolt, if that were possible. Harry especially didn't like the look of the two Ukrainian Aurors stationed officially on either side of the open doorway.

“I didn't do anything,” Harry repeated rebelliously.

“You accosted the prisoner!” Lyubov accused.

“He was a known Death Eater, and I wanted answers!”

“Did you get any?” His thick eyebrows rose slightly, as Lyubov asked the question in a disarming way.

“I - I - ” Harry struggled to think of something plausible. But there wasn't anything to say that wouldn't make him look like a complete lunatic. If it's not already too late to worry about that, he thought glumly. Next to him, Neville sighed audibly. “He knew what happened to Hermione.”

Now Neville's sigh had become a groan. Kingsley's eyes slid shut.

“Her-mione?” Lyubov's tongue tripped over the unwieldy syllables. “Granger?” Of course, he had at least heard the name. The Trio was internationally famous.

“The very same,” Shacklebolt admitted. “Everyone knows what happened to her, Harry. It was unfortunate, but you can't change it, you can't undo it. It simply is…and if you'd accept that, your life would be much easier.”

“It was about revenge, Kingsley!” Harry said entreatingly. “Dolohov knew details - details about my life. He said they were watching me.”

“They? Who?” The questions from his boss were crisp and quick. Harry shook his head.

“I - I don't know. He mentioned the brethren; I'm assuming he was referring to Death Eaters.” From the disappointed look on Shacklebolt's face, Harry knew that this told them nothing of use. “His last words to me were `She's not - '”

“She's not what?” Lyubov interjected, derision plain in his voice. Harry swept angry eyes over the Ukrainian official, but suddenly felt foolish.

“I thought he might have been about to say, `She's not dead.'”

“That's reaching, Harry,” Shacklebolt said honestly, though his voice was not unfriendly.

“You said he said something about Bellatrix Lestrange too, Harry,” Neville put in. “How do you know to what `she' Dolohov was even referring?”

“He said `Bellatrix was right.' He and Bellatrix had some kind of scheme - about Hermione. Don't you see? He didn't think it would work, but it did. ”

“Harry,” his boss said softly. “There very well could have been a plot to end Hermione's life. The Death Eaters could have been targeting her because of you. Perhaps Dolohov was referring to the successful enactment of their plan.”

“He said, `There are things worse than death.' Worse than death. Don't you get it? What if they've done something to her?”

“He said that right before he bit the capsule, didn't he?” Kingsley asked. Harry nodded. “Many people would prefer death to the Kiss.”

Harry buried his face in his hands. He had been so sure, so certain, but now he wondered. Was he putting his own slant on things, seeing what he wanted to see, rather than other possibilities that were just as logical? He closed his eyes, picturing the rictus of Dolohov's dying face. His teeth had been bared, pressed together…Harry had been positive he was at the beginnings of a “d” sound.

“This conversation is entirely irrelevant,” Lyubov broke in, “as it is complete speculation about what a condemned prisoner said before he died, when it is known that the prisoner was not in full possession of his faculties!”

“Dolohov was not crazy!” Harry shouted. “I'd stake my life on it. Do you want to look at what happened in a Pensieve?”

“I have no interest in your memory of events. It does not change the fact that you broke into a cell without authorization, against specific orders from your superior officer, and took down a protective ward guarding a known Death Eater. Then there is the matter of the potion capsule that ensured the prisoner's death…” Lyubov's voice was steady and implacable, as he looked at Harry with distinct dislike.

“You don't think I had anything to do with that?!” Harry was incredulous. “I didn't want him dead, not until…”

“You'd had the glory of doing it yourself?” Lyubov finished for him. Harry's eyes flashed irately.

“The capsule was already in his mouth, probably sealed off, until he broke it himself, with his teeth. I had no idea what he was going to do, until it was too late,” Harry said in a monotone, the dull voice belied by his angry eyes.

“This is going to be investigated thoroughly, Mr. Potter,” Lyubov assured him.

“I thought you weren't interested in my memory of events,” Harry mimicked him nastily. The Ukrainian Chief flushed, and Kingsley's eyes caught Harry's warningly.

“There are monitoring charms on the room. We will be able to see if you forced Dolohov to take a capsule. Now I must take my leave,” Lyubov said, with as much false politeness as he could muster. “I need to send an owl to your Minister.” His tone was foreboding. When he had exited the room, Harry lowered his head to the table, his forehead smacking it with an audible thud.

“Can they arrest me because of the potion capsule?” he asked, his voice muffled into surface of the table.

“They can,” Shacklebolt said evenly. “But their investigation won't turn up any involvement on your part.” At Harry's look of mild surprise, he continued, “It was clear that Dolohov had no intention of living long enough to be Kissed. Besides, you are obsessive, and you are reckless and disrespectful, Harry, but you are not a cold-blooded murderer. As for the rest of it…” he spread his hands theatrically with a sigh, and appeared unwilling to continue. “It will cause additional reprimands to appear on your record, and you know what that means…”

Harry swallowed with difficulty, though there was still a mutinous jut to his jaw.

“I'm going to be sacked, aren't I?” He asked. It was not really a question.

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Harry ignored the lone Ministry employee seated at the reception desk, as he stepped out of the International Floo Conduit. The cavernous lobby was dimmed for the evening, and it was still a good two or three hours before even the most ambitious early risers among the sparse weekend workers would arrive to begin their day. He wasn't sure what exactly Kingsley had said to Lyubov, but it - and the lack of evidence turned up on the monitoring charms - had kept him from spending what remained of the night in the Ukrainian detention facility. There was no way to keep the Minister from finding out what had happened, however, and Harry held no illusions about what the status of his job would be come Monday morning.

He couldn't make himself care very much, although there was a niggling feeling of regret, of knowing that she would have been disappointed - in the failure that was indicative of his disinclination to fight against the rising corruption of the Ministry.

He was so very tired of fighting.

He exited the vacant lobby, and began to wander, no particular destination in mind. The wind was comfortable, and it caressed his cheek like the most tender of lovers. Stars studded the indigo sky, and there was still no hint on the horizon of the approaching dawn.

It was Saturday, exactly five years from the day she'd been taken from him. There would be no sunshine today, not for him.

Sleep beckoned. He would be heading to Hogwarts tomorrow, and he'd been up for well over thirty-six hours, but he could not make himself go back to his flat. His mind was whirling furiously, thinking over the events of the day in an ever-mounting certainty that there was something that he'd missed.

A peal of laughter startled him from his reverie, and he looked around to see that he had unwittingly made his way to Diagon Alley. Most of the stores were darkened and locked up, but here and there, light and music and voices spilled from the night spots onto the street. Harry watched dispassionately, trying to remember the last time he'd been a participant in something like that, and found that he couldn't. When had he become a spectator with regard to the rest of humanity? There were annual birthday and Christmas gatherings at the Burrow, of course, and he'd been known to meet members of his Auror Team or old schoolmates down at the pub a time or two, but he still felt disconnected, estranged, on hold… waiting for a life that would never happen, for an opportunity forever squandered.

He kicked at a pebble, and it bounced noisily down the cobblestones, but did not attract any attention from the all-nighters that occasionally spilled out into the main thoroughfare. There was raucous laughter punctuated by coarse remarks. It had been Friday night after all.

She died today, and nobody cares, he thought glumly, and then froze, as he had finally admitted to himself that he really thought she was gone. He felt as if he had betrayed her somehow, and could not stifle the sob that welled up within him. He meandered further, leaving the pubs behind for a more genteel neighborhood of boutiques and small shops that were quietly waiting for morning; he was paying no attention to his aimless path. Then he turned a corner, and stopped dead, as the musical trickle of water reached his ears.

Why the hell did I come here? He asked himself, wondering if he had subconsciously been heading in this direction all along. He hated this place, had been here once at its unveiling, and had sworn to never return.

Before him, glistening faintly in the starlight, was a large golden statue protruding from a fountain. It was quite similar to the statue of the Magical Brethren in the Ministry lobby. It depicted the three of them - the Heroes of Hogwarts - he, Hermione, and Ron. Carved around the pedestal were the names of all fighters lost in the conflict.

This was Victory Square, a new development off of Diagon Alley, neatly manicured, with smooth flagstone walkways, flower gardens, and wrought iron benches beneath low-flung shady trees, perfect for rumination and reflection. The fountain was the Square's center-piece, its focal point. He looked up at the shining gold figures again, his eyes playing over the frozen ringlets, spilling eternally over Hermione's shoulders, a determined look on her face. It was one he recognized, one he had seen times innumerable, the one that was on her face only a few seconds before the Order issued forth from Hogwarts for the beginning of the end. Her wand was drawn, and she was in a defensive posture - they all were - as if alert and ready for impending danger.

He walked around it slowly, his shoes scuffing on the stones, the only figure moving in the large, empty square. He had almost refused to authorize the statue four years ago - back when his opinion still counted for something - until the Ministry had agreed to commission one of all three of them, rather than Harry alone. He walked until he could see it, a carved object nearly impossible to detect, wedged as it was beneath the implacable solidity that was Hermione's other arm.

A book.

It was his only request to the sculptor. She should be carrying a book.

The artist had looked askance at him, but had acceded to the appeal. And so the book had been added to the carving, tucked out of the way, as if Hermione had almost forgotten she was even carrying it, which, he admitted to himself, with a melancholy smile, was entirely possible.

Harry inhaled a noisy, shuddering breath, and sat down suddenly on the edge of the fountain. He missed her so much, so much. Knuts and sickles gleamed and squiggled at the bottom of the pool, and he realized that his wet eyes were also contributing to the shimmering blur. He scraped one hand dismissively across his eyes, smearing the tears indiscriminately across his cheeks, and sniffed loudly, bracing his trembling arms against the cool stone of the fountain's rim.

He craned his neck to see the statue again, now looming above him, partially blotting out the night sky. He and Ron stood there, robes permanently billowing in an everlasting, invisible wind, looking fierce, triumphant, invincible, and Hermione was in the middle, with determined, penetrating eyes, looking slightly upward, as if she saw something they did not - which had also been the case more likely than not. It was a good likeness, really. The sculptor had even gotten their wands right.

He stood, and the fountain blurred and wavered in his foggy vision. Suddenly, he hated the statue - hated the three young people depicted there, people that no longer existed, torn to pieces during the very conflict for which they'd once been lauded. Hermione was gone; he and Ron were broken. Had he ever had that sort of confident intensity, that certainty of victory, that conviction of righteousness?

Before he could really process what was happening, he'd drawn his wand, aiming it at the middle of the piece, where three of their six legs crossed in front of and behind each other, braced, alert, poised for action.

“Reducto!” His voice was low and tear-clogged, but it did the job. His spell smashed through the anti-vandalism wards as if they'd never existed.

He was gone before the cloud of dust cleared, never hearing the heavy chunks of debris as they rained down on the beautiful garden.

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Luna froze with her hand on the knob of the spare-room door, her eyes flickering uncertainly into the darkness that was the living area of the flat.

“Harry?” she called out tentatively. She had peered into his room, on her way from Ron's, and he had not yet been home. This was certainly not unusual, as his hours as an Auror were often long and odd.

“Sorry,” came his voice from the darkness, as he slowly shuffled into her view. “Did I wake you?”

“I was up. Just going to bed,” Luna said softly, her eyes going swiftly toward Ron's room before she could stop them. He glanced briefly at soft white nightgown that rippled silkily around her, but he said nothing. Luna felt inexplicably guilty. She was doing herself a disservice, going to Ron and using him - and letting him use her - so she could feel close to him for just a moment, so she could pretend it was as it had been before everything had gone awry. She sighed angrily, and lowered her gaze to her white fingers, resting on the door handle.

“I wasn't judging you, Luna,” Harry said quietly.

“Yes, you were,” she replied, without rancor. “But it doesn't matter, because I was judging myself.” A beat. “Where've you been?”

“In the Ukraine,” Harry said succinctly. “Neville got Dolohov.” Satisfaction flared briefly in Luna's shadowed eyes.

“He'll be Kissed, won't he?” she asked, and looked shocked when Harry shook his head.

“He had a poisoned potion capsule in his mouth. Opened it before anyone knew anything was off. He's dead.”

“I'm glad,” Luna said sincerely, her eyes gleaming flintily in the darkness, and she moved closer to peer into Harry's face. “Are you okay?” He sagged suddenly, reaching out one arm to brace himself on the doorframe.

“No, I'm not. It's - it's … today, you know.” Luna patted his arm sympathetically.

“I know.”

“How's Ron?” he asked. Luna shrugged.

“He's Ron,” she said simply. “He told me that he told you about what happened… at the final battle.” Harry had been staring vaguely in the direction of his shoes, but he snapped his gaze up to meet hers when she spoke.

“Did you know?” he asked intently, and Luna was glad that she could honestly answer in the negative. She shook her head.

“I suspected something had happened that he didn't want to talk about,” she answered thoughtfully. “I knew they'd gotten separated at some point before she… but I didn't know the circumstances.” She watched him carefully for a long moment. “Are you very angry?”

“I - I don't know; I tried to be,” he said dully. “But there are so many things that could've been done differently. I - it hurts to look at Ron and know what he did, but I'm not angry.”

“I'm glad,” she said again. Her smooth brow crinkled as she watched him carefully. “He's afraid you are, you know. He wasn't quite as drunk tonight, and his regret was all reserved for you… instead - instead of her.” Or me, she thought, though he had crumpled into her embrace when he arrived home, murmuring some slurred and nearly unintelligible apology into her hair, his tears dampening the blond tresses, his hands shaky as they moved over her shoulders and back.

“Regret…” he sighed, and the word seemed to hang heavily in the air above their heads. “So much…” There was a long silence. Luna could hear Ron's snores drifting down the hallway.

“Early day tomorrow?” she finally managed, speaking with false lightness. But Harry was having none of it.

“Good night, Luna,” he said heavily, the weight of all those regrets evident in his voice, in his eyes, in his stance. She twirled one lock of hair around her finger, as he went into his room.

“Good night, Harry,” she replied to the empty corridor.

--

Hope everyone is still enjoying the story. I certainly enjoyed reading everyone's opinions on Ron! I'm glad nobody seems to be judging him too terribly harshly.

I'm not replying to many reviews, unless they ask a question (that won't give away the story) or need clarification, but I am reading and exulting in every single one of them. I got so far behind in replying for “Resistance” that I gave up, and figured we'd all be better off if I just worried about writing the story.

Thanks so much for reading! You may leave a review on your way out, if you like.

lorien

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Disclaimer: Not mine; more's the pity.

Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Seven:

I wake in the night to find there's no one there but me.

--Good Charlotte, “Ghost of You”

Harry awakened with a startled, inarticulate cry at some point near dawn. The shadows in his room had eased, though the sun was not fully up. He felt grim dread settle somewhere around the region of his heart.

Today would not be a good day.

The sheets were twisted and tangled around his legs, and his pajamas were damp with sweat. He could remember vague pieces of troubled dreams, and the otherworldly laughter of Dolohov and Bellatrix Lestrange rang in his ears. There were disquieting images of Hermione, with Bellatrix's wand to her neck, and Bellatrix's hand snarled painfully in her hair, images that Harry knew his mind had invented as a new way to torture him.

He kicked at the sheets in irritation, and finally succeeded in causing all of the bedding to slide onto the floor in a tangled mass. As it hit the carpeting with a soft whump, he lay spread-eagled on the bed, staring dead-eyed at the ceiling.

He should get up. He'd need to be going soon.

Her eyes. Do they haunt you? Lost, bewildered, confused.

Bellatrix was right.

There are things worse than death.

Worse than death…

Harry sighed. That much of what Dolohov said was true, at least. There were things worse than death, like … like being left behind. The ache of missing Hermione, of not even having the stale comfort of having told Hermione how he felt about her, was like a hollow cavity gaping in his chest, a raw, empty, cavernous vacuum of nothing that would never be filled again.

She leaned in toward him, one hand on his shoulder. Her lips lingered only briefly on his cheek, innocent, chaste, inconsequential… There was a shine in her eyes, a hint of tantalizing mystery that perhaps he would be given the opportunity to solve. He had felt suffusing warmth rush up into his face. He smiled at her; his fingers reached down to tangle briefly with hers; his eyes flicked around the room to search for Ron.

It was nearly time.

He'd had no idea that her softly whispered good-bye would be the last words she would speak to him.

He sat up, pushing himself so abruptly from the bed that he had almost no idea how he'd gotten into a standing position. He abruptly wrenched open the door to the wardrobe, and snatched some clothes out of it without really looking at them.

Ron's snores still whistled softly down the hall, as he crept across to the bathroom. If he was lucky, he'd be gone before either of the other two was awake.

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When he emerged from the shower, there was a light on in the kitchen, and, though it was quiet, there was the unmistakable presence of another person. A look of chagrin crossed Harry's face, as he tucked his wand into his pocket, and his feet reluctantly propelled him toward the room with the teasing aroma of tea. Luna was going to try to pick his brain again, or insist that Ron go with him to Hogwarts, or feed him some more nonsense about the balance of the universe, and he was really in no mood to hear it this….

He stopped with surprise, as he saw Ron, not Luna, sitting at the small table, some untouched toast in front of him, as well as a thick mug of some steaming, viscous substance. Harry instantly recognized it as a Sobriety/Anti-Hangover potion; it was often Ron's breakfast drink of choice.

“Morning, Ron,” he mumbled, moving around the counter, and heading for the kettle that was already steaming on the stove.

“Harry,” Ron greeted, his eyes flitting nervously to his best mate, and then dropping again to the front page of the newly delivered Daily Prophet. Harry looked at the paper with annoyance. If the Prophet had already come, he was later than he'd thought.

He poured a cup of tea, and absently added milk and sugar without paying much attention to the quantities. The clock on the wall ticked loudly in the tense silence. He didn't bother with any food; he knew he wouldn't be able to eat anything today anyway.

“So, was it you?” Ron asked, and Harry blinked at the odd question.

“Was what me?” he asked, lifting the cup to his lips to take a careful sip of his tea. Ron didn't say anything, didn't even look at him, but instead held up the paper. There was a new headline, obviously added very late, since what had originally been the front page had been shrunk and shoved to the bottom of the page. Harry's eyebrows soared and he struggled to keep a bland look on his face.

“What makes you think I had anything to do with that?” he asked. Ron looked at him then, a piercing, knowing look that made Harry distinctly uncomfortable.

“How could it be anybody but you?” he asked rhetorically. “Look at the photo.” Harry looked, bending forward to peer at it carefully.

“Sweet Merlin!” He breathed, barely audibly, setting his tea down so quickly that it sloshed over the sides of the cup. He hissed when some of the scalding liquid hit his hand, and blinked down at the headline again. Victory Square Statue Destroyed in Midnight Attack; MLE Has No Suspects.

The accompanying picture was of the remains of the statue, the sparkling fountain sullied and clogged with dust and debris. The pedestal of the names of the honored dead was intact, still in place above the filthy water, but the statue atop it…

The figures of Harry and Ron were gone, magically obliterated, handily relocated to litter the fountain and the once pristine garden.

But the figure of Hermione stood, alone, in the center of the pedestal, clutching her wand, book tucked forgotten under her arm, absolutely unscathed.

“Then it was you,” Ron said, unnecessarily.

“I had a bad day,” Harry replied, in a lame attempt to justify what had happened.

I can't even hurt an inanimate representation of her. I'm trapped, trapped just like she - he stopped suddenly, wondering what had brought on the idea that she was trapped. She's not trapped anywhere, Potter, he told himself sternly, in his best Malfoy impersonation. She's… and then the thought of Malfoy brought back the former Slytherin's tirade in the halls of the Ministry.

Malfoy has always had more mouth than sense, he thought. Keen on the concept of irritating, infuriating, and hurting Harry Potter, he had always had the tendency to reveal more than he should. He knows something, Harry thought, feeling suddenly more certain than ever. Tonks had arrived and stopped me; she told him to leave, but he had to say one more thing, that whole spiel about her eyes….why?

He chugged the rest of his tea, gasping a little as the heat poured down his throat, and set the cup on the counter with a decisive clunk.

“I've got to go,” he said, dismissing the thought of Malfoy-esque conspiracies. There were other things required of him today, perhaps by no one but himself, but wasn't he his harshest master, after all?

“Listen, Harry…” Ron's voice was tentative, hesitant, and on any other day, Harry would have felt sorry for him.

“I can't talk about it today, Ron,” Harry said, and the words came out more brusquely than he meant them. “Maybe - maybe tomorrow…” Ron looked crestfallen, but nodded, trying to blink away the obvious emotion in his eyes. “I'm sorry,” Harry tried again. “I know you didn't - you didn't mean - ” The muscles in his throat grew tense and painful. He lifted both hands heavenward in a gesture of supreme exasperation, and sighed. “I can't talk about it today. Tell Luna I'll see her tomorrow.”

In a regal gesture, Harry had thrown his light cloak across both shoulders, and he exited the door with a rapidity that would have suggested that he was attempting to flee demons, if Ron hadn't already known that his best friend wasn't running from demons, but taking them with him.

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The air in Scotland was just balmy enough to be comfortable, but it was cloudy and not overly warm, even in June, Harry thought, as he strode through Hogsmeade. Most of the occupants recognized him on sight, and knew enough about his rare trips here to leave him unmolested. Yet there were still covert glances and murmurs; Harry could feel them prickle up his spine like dancing fingers. He was glad when he left the little town behind, and was striding toward the main gates of Hogwarts.

The wind snapped briskly at his cloak, as he strode up the wide, packed-earth pathway that led to the castle. He did not allow his eyes to linger overmuch on the grounds themselves, features of which were stamped indelibly on his memory as landmarks for an epic struggle. A struggle where he had won everything and lost everything in some kind of poor attempt at cosmic humor.

There, he thought, as he passed through the large school gates, is where a squad of Aurors was stationed, watching and waiting. They were all so sure Voldemort would try something on the last day of school, before everyone left. They were all killed, even the one who managed to get the warning up to the castle. Who knows how many lives they saved?

He couldn't help the tingle that started in his nose like a sneeze, but worked its way up into his stinging eyes instead, as he looked over the pristine grounds. They - like the very foundations of the old castle itself - seemed unchanged, but the perspective from which he viewed them was forever altered. He would never look at the turrets of Gryffindor Tower, the jaunty, flying pennants of the quidditch pitch, the pumpkin patch behind Hagrid's hut without thinking of her, and so there was no way he could regard Hogwarts, which he loved with a stirring that he felt in his blood, with anything less than utter torment.

There, he thought, looking by the tree that overhung the lake, that's where Justin Finch-Fletchley fell. Took four Death Eaters with him. And that is where Dennis Creevey was killed, after saving Ron from a curse in the back by Rodolphus Lestrange.

There, he thought, is where the Patil twins died. They were fighting side by side, and Parvati picked up her sister's wand when she fell. They said she fought double-wanded for twenty minutes before Bellatrix Lestrange finally killed her. Gryffindor indeed.

Dumbledore's tomb glinted whitely beyond that, but Harry wasn't ready to go there just yet. He had a specific ritual that he followed, and at precisely the same place that he always did, he left the path to cut across the stony slope to Hagrid's hut. Smoke chuffed cheerily out of the chimney. There, he thought, looking at the rickety doors that marked Hagrid's root cellar, Hannah Abbott hid seven wounded student fighters, guarding the door until she was hit with a stray Avada Kedavra. She saved the lives of every one of those students.

He climbed the worn stone stoop and knocked at Hagrid's heavy front door.

“'Arry!” Hagrid said with delight, though his eyes were subdued. Most of the fighters were on this day. It was the wizarding public, the ones who had not been personally touched by the Battle, who celebrated gleefully.

“Hallo, Hagrid,” Harry said, trying to smile and not quite succeeding.

“Not goin' so well, this year, is it?” the half-giant asked. “'Eard `bout Ron. Bloody shame, that is.”

“Yeah…” Harry said noncommittally. He did not want to talk about Ron. His gaze roamed over the interior of the cabin, which looked as rustically cluttered as it always had. Hagrid's beard was nearly completely gray, with the color starting to bleed into his hair, and he now all but dragged his left foot behind him when he walked, using a walking stick as big around as a troll's club. Generally, his cheerful nature seemed unchanged, and Harry envied him that, though he was all too aware what Dumbledore and Hogwarts meant to Hagrid.

Hagrid slopped some stew into a huge trencher, which Harry largely ignored except for poking a disinterested fork into it a couple of times. It actually smelled good, but Harry had had bad experiences eating on this particular day, and he did not try any. But Hagrid always served him some anyway.

He sat quietly while Hagrid ramblingly reminisced over the first years that they'd known each other, smiling or commenting in the appropriate places. They spent a good deal of time mocking the Dursleys, and Harry always teased him about Madame Maxime, with whom Hagrid remained fast friends. The stories got fewer and harder to find after Harry's fifth year. Buckbeak and Grawp were almost never mentioned, because Hermione was so entwined in their stories, and Harry's sixth and seventh years were too full of mostly dark happenings for friendly conversation.

After he'd exhausted these topics, then the Keeper of Keys and Grounds would turn to the War. He usually spoke mournfully of Dumbledore (“a great man an' a great wizard, none greater.”), of Charlie Weasley (“no man ever loved a dragon more'n `e did.”), of Filius Flitwick (“yeh wouldn't've thought such a little man could ha' fought off so many Death Eaters lon' enough for the Express ter get safely away wi' the young'uns.”), and of the handful of classmates in Harry's year that had been killed in the fighting. Harry's face would get more drawn and gray the longer Hagrid talked, and when he could take no more, he would spring to his feet as if propelled by outside forces, and politely, but decisively take his leave.

“Good seein' yeh again, `Arry,” Hagrid said sincerely, leaning against his doorframe. “We should do it again sometime.”

“Sure,” Harry promised emptily, knowing that once a year was all he could manage without coming completely unglued.

Once back on the grounds, Harry would make solitary visits to Dumbledore's tomb and the pitch, absently still marking places - almost against his will - where notable events - mostly losses - had occurred. There were a few markers here and there, but Harry didn't need them. The locations of the bodies were seared permanently into his mind, the stories told him by other fighters in horrified whispers recorded forever in his ears. There is where Seamus Finnegan died, jumping in front a curse meant for Dean Thomas, who was dragging an injured Ginny Weasley to safety. Dean and Ginny had gotten married last Christmas; he had refused to have a best man.

And here, he thought, leaning his cheek against the cool stone of Dumbledore's tomb, here is where I became a murderer. There was no sign of the furious battle that had taken place here, the scorched grass had grown back, the wand gouges in the marble monument had been repaired. And when he fell, when the last breath of life had rattled out of his lungs, I was glad….I was glad. I thought maybe it was finally over, maybe I could finally live.

What do you mean she's gone?

Harry hurried his stops, feeling out of sorts at the lateness of his start, as it had gotten his entire routine out of kilter. He also felt vaguely uneasy, almost with a sensation of impending doom looming over him, as if there was another shoe he'd been waiting on for five years, and it was about to drop.

The feeling only worsened as he extricated himself from the kitchens and Dobby's effusive appreciation of his visit. He tried to shake it off, but it intensified as his legs took him across Hogwarts' grounds to the spot where she'd fallen, already shadowed by the overhanging trees.

I asked her if there was anything going on between the two of you.

We were angry… I left her there.

When I finally got my bearings, she was gone.

There was no marker for her here. He had asked them not to erect one, unable to stand the thought of seeing her name etched into a shiny marble face, making the horror real, proclaiming to the world the permanence of her absence… as if he wasn't reminded of it every day by his own doing.

He stopped abruptly, as he saw a regal figure standing there, backlit by the afternoon sun. Anger flashed in his eyes at the thought of someone intruding on their time together, the only time he had with her all year long, but he forced himself to step forward.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” he addressed Headmistress McGonagall politely.

“Hello, Harry,” she said informally, and something old, tired, and sad glinted in her eyes, as it always seemed to when she looked at him. “I wouldn't have disturbed you in your … remembrances, but we've just had an urgent Floo call from Mr. Weasley. I thought you'd want to know.”

Alarm slammed into Harry like a Bludger to the chest. Ron wouldn't have Flooed unless it was urgent. He knew, as nobody else could know, what simultaneous necessity and agony this day was to Harry.

“What's wrong?” he asked hoarsely.

“There's been some sort of attack - an attempted burglary - at the Ministry. Miss Lovegood's been injured. You can use the Floo in my office, if you'd like.”

“Yes, thank you, Professor. I'll - I'll do that, but I'll just be a moment.” His old Transfiguration teacher nodded sympathetically.

“Certainly,” she said, and retreated away from him. He watched her in a dazed way, as she returned to the castle, and slowly dropped to his knees on the springy green grass.

“I'm sorry, love,” he whispered, tears clogging his voice. “I'm sorry I can't stay longer. But Luna needs me, and I've got to go.” He knelt there for only a moment, longing for some kind of communion, but finding none, and in that heartbeat when he stood to his feet, he felt as if, by leaving prematurely, that he'd abandoned her there himself. The perceived betrayal was so acute that he gasped in pain, and when he turned to proceed up to the castle, even though he'd only been kneeling a short time, his gait was that of someone who had lived seven or eight decades, rather than hardly more than two.

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AN: Wanted to get through the actual anniversary, but now things are going to start moving a little faster, with Harry starting to put pieces together…. Because of course, you know that the burglary at the Ministry is related!!

You may leave a review on your way out, if you like!

lorien

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Disclaimer: Not mine; more's the pity.

Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Eight:

Hope dangles on a string, like slow spinning redemption, winding in, winding out. The shine of it has caught my eye.

-- Dashboard Confessional, “Vindicated”

Harry bolted through the waiting area of St. Mungo's, heedlessly scattering people as he went, nearly overshot the room he was searching for, and skidded to a halt by grabbing the doorframe when he caught a glimpse of Ron's ginger hair. His best mate was seated on the edge of the bed, casually propped on one hip, with one of Luna's hands clasped in both of his. Harry didn't say anything upon his initial entrance, but his eyes ran over Luna with the practiced detailing of a trained Auror.

“I'm fine, Harry,” Luna said, smiling, albeit using a voice weak enough to denounce some of her veracity.

“What happened?” he asked, moving around the bed to sit at its foot, on the opposite side from Ron.

“I'm sorry I've - I know there were things you counted on doing today,” she apologized, but he waved it off with one hand.

“There are very few ways this day could be any worse for me. Having something happen to you is one of them. I'm just glad you're okay. You are okay?” He added the question with a pensive lift of his eyebrows.

“I was at work, and someone broke in. I was hit with a Stunner, and my head happened to make the acquaintance of my worktable. They're going to let me go home as soon as the healer clears me.”

“She was very lucky,” Ron put in, still holding Luna's thin hand in both of his long-fingered ones, his eyes fixed on her, as if she might fade from sight at any moment. Harry's eyes danced briefly from Ron's face to Luna's and back again. When he met Luna's eyes, she gave him a knowing look, inclining her head toward Ron, and then lowered her gaze until her lashes fanned out across her cheeks. Ron's finally acting like Luna matters to him. Good, Harry thought matter-of-factly.

“Did they catch who did it? Did Shacklebolt send anyone down? Are they investigating?” Harry's questions were rapid-fire, and Luna could tell that he was about a millisecond away from going into full-on Auror mode.

“The Head Auror sent somebody down to look - somebody - somebody named MacNeil or was it O'Shaughnessy? I think - ”

“MacKie?” Harry exploded, interrupting her. “Kingsley sent down a bloody trainee after Ministry employees were attacked?”

“But nothing was taken. They - my supervisor went through and checked, and everything's exactly where it should be. Calpurnia's handbag was still right out on her desk where she left it, and she was the first one hit.”

“Is she all right?” he asked solicitiously. “Who else was hurt?”

“She wasn't injured. But whoever came through Obliviated her. She doesn't remember anything after she sat down at her desk, until the emergency workers came.”

“Emergency workers?” His questions were clipped, quick, and Luna could not suppress a fond smile.

“I - I - when I woke up, I was on the floor, almost under the worktable, but my wand was only an arm's length away. I sent out the St. Mungo's emergency Notification spell. I was bleeding, and I could see Calpurnia down on the other side of the room. I didn't know what had happened, and I was worried that perhaps that herd of Graphorns had broken out of the dungeons; they could have caused all kinds of mayhem rampaging around the Ministry.”

“Who else was down there? Working in the Department of Mysteries?” Harry queried.

“Look, Harry,” Ron interceded. “Luna's been through a lot today. Perhaps you should just - “

“Ron, it's okay,” Luna reminded him gently. “This is how Harry lets me know how much I mean to him, right, Harry? I'm fine. I don't mind answering his questions.” Harry colored violently at Luna's first assertion, but her smile finally elicited its counterpart from him. Ron eyed them suspiciously, and muttered something about Harry always playing Auror, to which Harry replied that he actually was an Auror in real life, thank you very much. Ron bristled, and for a moment, it almost looked like they would come to blows, using Luna as an excuse for their as yet unresolved issues involving Hermione, but Ron subsided, declaring that if Luna was okay with being interrogated, then he supposed he could deal with it.

“Nobody was there but Calpurnia and me. It was the weekend, but we had been working on a project involving - it - ” She blinked apologetically at Harry. “I'm sorry, but I'm really shouldn't say.” Harry shook his head, as a way to tell her not to worry about it, and to tell him what she could. “Anyway, we were the only ones there. You know how it is,” she shrugged at Harry. “Nobody ever comes down there - we're just a lot of crackpots going on over someone's half-baked ideas.” She tucked her lower lip between her teeth, casting an anxious glance at the other two, as she remembered whose half-baked idea had been recently abandoned, even by the crackpots. “Nobody's ever even tried to break in before that I know of, except - except…” She didn't finish, but they all knew who she meant. They'd all been there that night, after all. “There's nothing terribly valuable down there, either - at least nothing that an outsider would be able to understand - except maybe the - ”

“…Time Turners…” Harry filled in for her, suddenly looking alarmed. Something had been niggling at the back of his brain when Luna said `nobody ever comes down there', but it vanished with her last words. The three of them exchanged a wide-eyed glance. Luna was shaking her head.

“It's no good, Harry,” she said matter-of-factly. “Time Turners are strictly regulated. If I wanted to use one, there would be paperwork in triplicate and a waiting period. That room is warded to the ceiling. If someone even tried to steal a Time Turner… trust me, we'd know.” There was an odd inflection in her voice that caused Harry to look at her intently, but her face was completely bland.

Harry was not so blasé, however. His heart was pounding so loudly in his chest that he was certain his flatmates could hear it. This was all tied together; Dolohov's arrest, the break-in, the anniversary… the timing was not a coincidence. Some of his detractors might say that it was terribly presumptuous of him to assume that everything always had to do with him, but … it always did have to do with him.

“I need to go down there,” Harry said firmly. “And I need to talk to Calpurnia. Do you know where she is?”

“Up on the fourth floor, I guess…Spell Damage,” Luna said thoughtfully, after ruminating for a moment.

“All right, then,” Harry said, and then stopped and turned at the door, looking quite seriously at Ron.

“Stay with her,” he said, and the two men locked eyes for just a moment. Something indefinable, but very real just the same, passed between them. Harry's look seemed to say, I'm trusting you to do this. Ron's seemed to reply, I know I've misplaced your faith in me, but I'll never do it again.

“Harry, mate!” The words seemed to burst from Ron, even though he'd tried to hold them back. Harry was halfway out the door, but popped his head back in quizzically. “What's going on?” Ron seemed to be pleading to make some kind of sense out of all of it.

Mental pictures flashed in Harry's mind in quick succession, pieces in a puzzle that he'd not yet been able to assemble, pieces that he wasn't at all sure had even come from the same box.

Do they haunt you, her eyes? Lost, bewildered, confused.

Bellatrix was right.

That is what you did to her. Turn about is fair play.

She's not…

Turn about is fair play.

There are things worse than death.

He could feel a breakthrough hovering on the edges of his consciousness, taunting him, just out of reach. The countenance he turned back to Luna and Ron was wide-eyed and confused.

“I'm not sure, but something's going on, and it involves us.”

“How do you know?”

“Because it involves Hermione.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry found Calpurnia Wilcott in a room on the fourth floor, looking rather dazed and dreamy, even for one of Luna's friends. The door was cracked open, and the healer was not in sight, but Harry didn't know when he or she would return. Given his almost certain future status as persona non grata at the Ministry, he'd rather be neither noticed nor questioned.

“M - Miss Wilcott?” he asked, stammering slightly as he tried to sound professional.

“Yes?” she turned politely to him. Everything about her seemed pale, wide, sky blue eyes, broad pale forehead, skin so white as to seem nearly translucent. All of this was topped by a cloud of inky black hair that was curly to the point of kinkiness. It was pulled up into a fluffy knot, held in place by what looked like four or five chopsticks. The entire effect was somewhat disconcerting, Harry reflected. He absently noted several areas of scaly blotchiness on her hands and forearms, only faintly visible as they had been Glamoured over, and remembered with a kind of dazed bewilderment that the eczema salve wasn't ready yet.

“You're Harry Potter, aren't you? That Auror friend of Luna's?” she asked, and Harry realized that he'd been standing in the doorway, saying nothing. He couldn't suppress a small grin at her description of him, one he was sure had never been applied to him before, that Auror friend of Luna's.

“Yes,” he said simply. “I'm glad you're okay, but I was hoping you could answer some questions for me, if you're up to it.”

“I'll be glad to,” she said, “but I must warn you, I was Obliviated, and I don't know how much use I'll be.”

“Did you see anything unusual today?” She blinked mildly at him.

“I expect I did. It's probably why they Obliviated me.” They looked at each other owlishly for a moment, and Harry could see why she and Luna got along so well.

“I meant - as you came in for work, was there anyone in the lobby, in the corridors, that shouldn't have been there?”

“Not that I can recall,” she said thoughtfully. “It's always rather light on the weekend, you know - Why, whatever's the matter with you?” Harry had gone completely still, staring off into middle distance with a startled green gaze. Nobody ever comes down there.

Malfoy had been coming around the corner when they collided. Harry had been going to see Luna, so Malfoy could have only come from the Department of Mysteries. What the hell had he been doing down there?

“Was Draco Malfoy down in your department yesterday?” Harry said, collecting himself enough to ask the question almost naturally. Calpurnia rolled her eyes.

“Yes. He's been coming round for awhile now. Chatting up Aurelia - she's the receptionist. He brought her lunch yesterday, hoped they could eat together in the break room, but she was out sick.” Calpurnia's tone of voice clearly said that the receptionist was lying. “She called in yesterday morning, saying that she'd had a run-in with a rabid Mooncalf. Couldn't she come up with a better lie than that? There wasn't even a full moon last night! Everyone knows that she was trying to skive off work so she could see her brother - he was playing in a football game in Bristol… I don't know why she just didn't tell Protheroe that, although he's such a git that he probably wouldn't let her, just to be - ”

“But Malfoy…?” Harry asked, trying to steer her back onto topic.

“He was quite put out that she wasn't there. Seemed dead set on having lunch with her. Though you'd think it would have come up at some point in their conversation the day before that she wasn't going to be there. And I don't know why anyone would choose to eat in the break room. The smell back there is ghastly. Smithers has been experimenting on his chameleon with energy extraction charms in his spare time. Anyone could tell you that the ratio is all wrong; a chameleon is much too small of an animal for there to be any positive and measurable effect, but…”

“So he left?” Harry interjected desperately, finally cutting her off mid-syllable.

“Who, Smithers? Oh, you mean Mr. Malfoy…yes - yes, he did. He looked quite angry. I thought he might've been trying to hide from someone. He looked like someone had roughed him up quite nicely.”

So Malfoy had been trying to gain entry to the Department. The rotating room only allows people into the reception area during office hours, and he couldn't go anywhere else with someone else's authorization or access.

“What room were you in?”

“When I got Obliviated?” At Harry's nod, she continued, “Luna and I were working on something… it's classified.” Her eyes flickered up to him and then down to the folded hands in her lap.

“I didn't ask what you were working on, just what room you were in,” he protested, hoping that the loophole would reveal something.

“We were in the multiverse room,” she said hastily, and in a low voice, as if she were afraid someone would overhear. She had a pained look on her face, and Harry knew that her very title as `Unspeakable' was coming into play. It was likely that the only reason she'd been able to tell him anything about the room was because he was an Auror, and therefore authorized. All the more reason to act quickly, he thought.

“The…” Harry's mind groped at shreds of cryptic conversation that he'd overheard at that befuddling lunch he'd had with the two Unspeakables. “But isn't that all theory?” Calpurnia pressed her lips together tightly, met his eyes, and slowly and deliberately shook her head.

“But what would you possibly have that would be worth stealing?” Harry sounded more than a little lost.

“Nothing was taken,” Calpurnia sounded as emphatic on this point as Luna had. Harry opened his mouth, but then closed it again, decided not to disclose what they had postulated about Time Turners, unless it was absolutely necessary. He still believed it was a possibility, regardless of Luna's dissenting opinion. “It's just what happened that other time. The door was open, when everyone arrived in the morning and Protheroe thought I left it open, even though I would never do that. I remember because Lydia Wyngate had brought a German chocolate cake from her mum into the office, and I was taking a piece home. I had to get my wand out of my purse to lock the door, and I dropped the cake. It was really quite irritating. Of course, Protheroe didn't believe me. But nothing was gone, so…” she shrugged expansively.

“Wait…” Harry said slowly, trying to sort through her garbled narrative. “It's happened before? The door was open? What door?”

“The door to the multiverse room. It was open, even though I always make sure to lock it. I mean, we can't have just anyone wandering in there; it would…” She clamped her mouth shut suddenly.

“Luna said nobody had ever broken into the Department of Mysteries, except for - well, you know…” he gestured toward the scar on his forehead, with a sheepish look on his face.

“Well, this was before she worked here. I think she was still in school. And it's not like we could prove anything happened. As far as that git of a supervisor, Protheroe, cared, it was my negligence, and nothing more. He was that convinced; he didn't even file a report.”

Harry didn't hear much beyond Calpurnia's assertion that Luna had still been in school at the time of the first mysterious break-in. Dread was pooling like warm lead in his stomach, slowly beginning to solidify.

“When was it?”

“The other break-in - I mean, `alleged' break-in?” Calpurnia rolled her eyes, and made air-quotes with her fingers. Harry merely nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Five years ago - let's see… yes, five years ago last week, I believe…yes, because Lydia's birthday was just on the seventh.” She looked surprised, saying this as if it had just occurred to her. “Yes! I remember we always joke that if Lydia's birthday had been only a few days later, she would have had a holiday from work on it every year - all thanks to you, of course - I say, are you sure you're all right?”

“Thank - thank you for your time, Miss Wilcott,” Harry said stiffly, as if someone had pulled a string on his back to make him spit out the words.

She had not even gotten an entire farewell sentence out, before he had bolted from the room, and she really hoped that he was not going to be sick out in the corridor. That always left such an odor, and that smell combined with a cleaning charm was actually worse…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When Harry arrived back down at Luna's room, Ron was in the corridor, lounging just to the right of the door, which was closed.

“Healer's looking her over. Chucked me out,” Ron said, in response to Harry's raised eyebrows. “Did you find anything out?” He stopped and leaned forward, to more closely peer into Harry's pale face. “Tell me what's wrong,” he ordered. Harry scrubbed one hand over his face and sighed.

“Something…everything…I'm not even sure. But things aren't right, and it has to do with Hermione and the Final Battle, I'd stake my life on it.” When he looked back up at Ron, his eyes were too-bright in his chalky face, and Ron knew that he was moving on autopilot, pushing himself doggedly through the soul-searing agony that always seemed to flare up on this day of all days. “I think - I think Hermione's alive, Ron,” he spoke breathlessly, hurriedly, as if afraid that if he hesitated, he'd not say it at all. He braced himself, as if waiting for the verbal castigation that would come.

Ron ran long fingers through his disheveled hair, his freckles standing out as spots of color in a face that looked nearly as ashen and world-weary as Harry's. There was a long moment where neither said anything, and the only sounds were the bustling of mediwitches from the station down the hall.

“What have you found out?” Ron asked heavily, meeting Harry's gaze squarely. The gratitude that washed over his best mate's face was enough to send him into a profound spiral of shame, even as his thoughts drifted longingly to the bottle of Ogden's in the cabinet in his room. Be so nice to just forget all this for awhile, he mused.

Speaking slowly, as if it were taking a great deal of effort, Harry began to outline what he'd discovered: what Calpurnia had said about the previous break-in and its timing, what Dolohov had said before he died, Malfoy's rant in the halls of the Ministry, and where he had been just prior to that. When he got to that part in the story, Ron's eyes lit up.

“The receptionist? Aurelia?” At Harry's nod of confirmation, he continued. “Luna's told me about her. There's no way Malfoy would be caught dead sniffing around her.” At Harry's blank glance, Ron rolled his eyes. “And you call yourself an Auror! Calpurnia even said that her brother plays football, Harry, football. She's Muggle-born.”

“He was making for that multiverse room,” Harry said. “When Aurelia wasn't there yesterday, he decided to come back later. He must have enough access to the Ministry to get him in the Department of Mysteries… he just couldn't be seen there without a convenient excuse, in case something went wrong.”

“He probably didn't expect anyone to be there on the weekend,” Ron inserted grimly. “But how do you know where he was going?”

“Five years ago, the door was found open, when Calpurnia is sure she locked it. She and Luna were in that same room today.” Harry's eyes were moving rapidly, as he ticked off goals on his fingers. “We need to talk to Luna and find out what is in that room that he could have been after, and then we need to get in that room - the sooner the better.”

“Why the rush?” Ron asked.

“Because by Monday, I probably won't be authorized personnel anymore,” Harry said shortly. Ron's jaw dropped and his eyes were wide with astonishment.

“Harry, it wasn't - it wasn't because of - ” Harry shook his head, a small, sad smile briefly touching his features.

“No, Ron, it was entirely because of me.” He fumbled with something in his pocket, finally removing it, and he flipped open a small hinged lid on a nondescript, round, black box made of some kind of matte-finish metal. It was empty. “I need your memory of the Final Battle - the last time you saw and heard Hermione.” Ron was backing away from him, looking with distaste at the object Harry held.

“What the hell is that?” he asked.

“It's a portable Pensieve, Ron. Standard issue for Aurors. I really need that memory - I need to hear what spell Bellatrix cast, and you're one of the only people who were close enough to hear it.”

“But I don't remember - ”

“You don't think you remember it, but it's probably still recorded in your mind.” He held out the small round box again. “I'm going to talk to Remus too. I need to know exactly what happened when he killed Bellatrix, and whether or not he actually saw Hermione vanish.” Another thrust of the box toward Ron. “Please.”

Ron sighed, and put his wand to his temple, slowly pulling a silvery strand, which he then deposited into the receptacle. His expression seemed to ease somewhat with the absence of the excruciating memory, and Harry snapped the lid closed and fastened the latch.

“Why do you need Remus' memory of killing Bellatrix?” he asked, as the healer exited Luna's room, and they moved to enter. Harry shoved the portable Pensieve into his pocket.

“Because I don't think she's dead either.”

--

AN: Okay, now things are starting to move. Harry's on the case now…and there were several large hints (I won't say they were anvil-sized!!) in this chapter, not the least of which was the room mentioned.

Hope you're continuing to enjoy. You may leave a review on your way out if you like!

lorien

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Disclaimer: Not mine; more's the pity.

Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Nine:

There's no one in the universe as magical and wondrous as you.

--Bonnie Tyler, “Total Eclipse of the Heart”

“Harry?” Surprise was evident in Remus Lupin's voice as he saw the younger man standing in the doorway, looking more than a little frazzled. He was accustomed, along with most of those to whom Harry considered himself close, to not seeing Harry on this day at all.

“Hi, Remus,” Harry said quietly, ducking his head as he spoke. “Can I speak with you? It's important.” Remus swung the door of the flat open wide.

“As if you even had to ask, Harry,” his father's friend sniffed. Harry stepped into the flat, and Remus closed the door behind him.

“Where's Tonks?” Harry asked, eying the small room fondly. It looked like pure Remus and Tonks, shabby chic, with very odd and kitschy touches here and there. A velvet Weird Sisters poster hung in the spare room, he knew, and one of the windows had a feather boa draping it instead of a curtain. Luna loved it. A pair of black slacks with rips in both knees was hanging on the wall by Sticking charm, half-pressed.

“She's down in Knockturn Alley. Stake-out.”

Harry made an “ah” sound of comprehension. “That's right,” he said. “I'd forgotten that was going down this weekend.” In his heart of hearts, he was glad. Tonks would cause a conflict of interest, and he really didn't want to do anything that might implicate her and cost her job. Remus cobbled together a living doing some public speaking for more open-minded rights' groups, as well as substituting occasionally at Hogwarts as the need arose, but it was Tonks to whom the title of breadwinner fell. If Remus chafed at this, he had never mentioned it aloud in Harry's hearing.

“I - I've got to ask you something - and then - and then do something, and I don't want to do it by myself,” Harry stammered. Remus eyed Harry curiously, and his gaze drifted down to the small box that Harry had drawn from his pocket and was twiddling between his fingers. “I don't think you'll want to, but I - I just couldn't ask Ron, and I - I can't watch it by myself, especially not today - and it's got to be today. I don't think we have a lot of time, before I won't - ” he halted abruptly, as if he'd lost his train of thought, and stared blankly at his former professor for a moment.

“Tell me what it is you need me to do,” Remus said gently, laying one hand on Harry's shoulder. “You know I'll do it.”

“I need your memory of Hermione's - of what happened to Hermione, and what happened to Bellatrix.” Harry's bleak green eyes met Remus' gaze squarely, and the werewolf paled. “I've already got Ron's.” He cleared his throat noisily. “And I need you to look at them with me.”

“All right,” Remus conceded calmly. “Have a seat. I'll be just a moment.” Harry sat on the sagging leather sofa, as Remus retreated to the kitchen. He heard him clinking around in the other room, and his curiosity rose when the older man emerged carrying two glasses. “It's Ogden's laced with a Calming Draught,” he explained. “I figured we might need it after.” Harry exhaled a shuddering breath, and managed a shaky smile at the closest thing he had to a father.

“Yeah…” he said, running one unsteady hand through his dark hair. He set the portable Pensieve on the low table in front of them, next to the glasses of whiskey, and snapped open the lid. Ron's memory swirled placidly inside, with a silvery ripple. Placing his wand at his temple and drawing it slowly away, Remus withdrew his own memory, and dropped it in the magical container. They both eyed the Pensieve warily for a moment, as if it might suck them into its nightmares of its own accord.

“So… what's all this about?” Remus asked, after a moment of heavy silence. Harry propped his elbows on his knees and his chin on his folded fists, staring at nothing, as he began to tell Lupin the same story he'd told Ron, not even a half-hour ago. Remus listened intently, commented rarely, and occasionally swore violently under his breath.

“You know, when I saw what happened to Hermione - I wasn't close enough to hear the curse Bellatrix used… the wind tossed the words away - I felt sick - sick and angry -at what had been taken from Hermione, at what it would mean to you…” At Harry's questioning look, he smiled. “Yes, I knew how you felt about her - how you still feel about her - and how you would rather have died than ruined your friendship with her.”

“I needed her so much,” Harry said hoarsely. “I still need her… I - oh, God, Remus… when you told me she - she was - it was like half of my soul being ripped away, and it - hurt so much, and … it never goes away, Remus - it never goes away.”

“Bellatrix just stood there, watching me, after it happened,” Remus continued when the silence became oppressive. “Barely a moment, but it seemed to last forever. She was beautiful and terrible, standing there, the wind whipping her hair behind her. She had every opportunity to take me out, but she didn't. It was almost as if she was waiting for me to try something, daring me to attempt to fight her, as if she knew I didn't have a chance.” His lips thinned into a grim line. “I used an Eradicator on her.” It was Harry's turn to regard him with utter surprise.

“Remus, those are - ”

“Experimental and currently illegal, I know,” Remus said. “Tonks, Moody, and I had been working on them secretly, training with them, trying to get a consistent response from them, hoping they could be fine-tuned into a workable hex before the Battle came. We hadn't gotten very far: the Eradicator could utterly obliterate something from existence, but it could just as easily set something on fire, blow something up, or do nothing at all.”

“She could have killed you,” Harry said woodenly.

“I took a risk. I gambled that it would work, and that she wouldn't be prepared for something like that. But if what you're saying is true…”

“I think she portkeyed away, at the instant before your spell hit,” Harry admitted. “It may be why she was waiting for you to make the first move. She knew you wouldn't use an Unforgivable.”

“If she's - if she isn't dead, then where do you think she's been all this time?” Lupin wondered.

“I don't know,” Harry said wearily, lowering his chin onto his hands again. “But if we find her, I think we'll find Hermione.”

“Hermione?” Remus exclaimed.

“That's why I needed Ron's memory. He heard Bellatrix shout something in Latin - the curse that - that took her away… but he couldn't make it out. I'm hoping it's still in his memory, and that we can find out what it was.”

“Maybe we should take this to the Pensieve Analysts at the Ministry,” Remus suggested. “If we're going to be trying to slow events down for clarification, then a trained - ” He stopped. Harry was already shaking his head.

“We can't. If I so much as mention Hermione, everyone looks at me like I'm headed round the twist, and you know Scrimgeour hates me anyway. I had a run-in with Malfoy yesterday, and he ratted me out about it. My meeting with Dolohov was sort of… against orders, and I think the Ukrainian Head Auror has owled the Minister about me as well. Long story short, I think my job's gone come Monday.”

“Harry, I'm sorry.” The compassion was evident in Lupin's voice.

“Don't be,” Harry said succinctly. “I'm not - at least, not much. And if we can find the truth, then it will all be worth it anyway.”

“And if the truth is that Hermione is dead?” Lupin prodded gently, in what Harry thought of as his “mentor” voice.

“Then I - then I suppose I'll have to come - come to terms with that, won't I?” Harry replied in a wheezing way, as if breathing in too deeply caused him pain.

“Yes, you will,” Remus all but whispered. “You know she wouldn't want to see you like this, being eaten away with grief and guilt and sorrow.”

“I know,” Harry conceded. It didn't mean he'd be able to stop. Remus patted his back companionably, and turned his attention back to the miniature Pensieve.

“Are you ready to do this?” he asked.

“No,” Harry replied, hoarsely and honestly. “But I have no choice.”

Together, they leaned forward, heads nearly touching above the small black bowl, until the silver mist yawned open to claim them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They were standing in the Forbidden Forest, knee deep in underbrush, and the green expanse of Hogwarts' grounds could clearly be seen only meters away. The tangled tracklessness of the forest's heart was even yet some distance behind them.

They had obviously entered Ron's memory first. Harry's chest constricted in agony so acutely painful that he momentarily wondered if a heart attack could be brought on by grief.

There was a faint rustling of leaves and crackling of thin twigs and stems. Someone was coming toward them. He saw a flash of vivid ginger, almost as fleeting as a glinting sunbeam through the trees.

“I was just wondering, that's all. No need to get your knickers in a twist,” Ron's voice was heard, first faintly and then more clearly, sounding sullen and defensive.

“The state of my knickers is absolutely none of your concern,” came another voice, prim and clipped…and obviously angry.

Harry wavered on his feet, the tears springing to his eyes with a rapidity that amazed even him. It was her, oh dear Merlin, it was her.

“Easy, Harry,” Remus said in a low voice, even though they couldn't be seen or heard. As they came through the trees into view, Harry found himself moving toward her, almost of his own volition. He abruptly realized that he was mumbling,

“Oh God, Hermione. Oh God, Hermione…” over and over again like a mantra.

“Harry, are you going to be able to do this?” Remus asked urgently, catching him by the elbow. Harry closed his eyes and inhaled a deep, sharp breath through his nose, trying to collect himself.

“I'm okay,” he croaked, lying through his teeth.

Hermione was still speaking.

“… not realize that if there were anything between Harry and myself - which there's not - that we would certainly come to you first thing and talk with you about it? Don't you think that we respect your friendship at least that much? And nothing's even going on… and I can't believe you are picking a fight with me about this, in the middle of a battle. Harry would absolutely furious, if he knew.”

Well, yeah, Harry thought.

“Of course, you're going to go running to Harry,” Ron said, with what could nearly be called a sneer.

“Well, you're the one who started jumping all over me at the first opportunity! I mean, honestly! All I did was kiss his cheek. He - he might die, you know… and I - I - ”

There was a silence, broken only by the movement of shoes through undergrowth.

“Merlin, Hermione, are you crying?” Ron asked. “Trust a girl to go and get all bloody emotional, wound up over nothing…”

“Nothing? You call this nothing?” Hermione's voice was as close to a shriek as one trying to be quiet could be. “You're all but accusing me - and Harry - of sneaking around behind your back. As if we would ever do that! Besides - ” Her voice grew low and mumbly and unintelligible.

“What was that?” Ron asked loftily, as he apparently had not heard it either.

“I said, `Besides, it's not as if you have any claim on me at all, seeing as how you were the one who dumped me at the beginning of the school year!'” Hermione's face was stained a faint pink.

“You fancy him, don't you?” Ron asked abruptly. Hermione grew very still, but hesitated for only a moment before snapping out a brisk,

“Don't be ridiculous. You've no reason to concern yourself with whom I do or do not fancy. And you've got to get over this single-minded obsession with Harry - ”

“I'm obsessed with Harry?” Ron said incredulously, while Hermione trampled over his words, her brow lowered stormily over her dark eyes.

“—really just like it was in fourth year, and you should be more grown up than that by now. You'd think that you just dated me to so you could have something that Harry didn't!” The forest seemed to fall silent with an unnatural hush.

Hermione appeared to be shocked that she'd said such a thing, and Ron grew red to the tips of his ears. For a long time, neither of them said anything at all.

“Is that any better than settling for me because I was handy?” Ron finally said, his face crimson and his eyes flashing with anger and hurt. Hermione flinched as if she'd been slapped. “He's dated Cho and he's dated Ginny. Why would he want you?”

Harry let out a kind of inarticulate roar, and plunged forward, completely forgetting that this was a memory, until Remus grabbed him. Hermione gasped, a high-pitched little catch in her breath that broke Harry's heart.

“I - I - it's perfectly obvious that someone who is mature and thoughtful and intelligent might be able to see past appearances and superficialities. That's the kind of person I would fancy.” Hermione struggled to regain her composure, her tone clearly implying that she thought Ron was none of those things. “Unlike you, all hung up on the way things ought to be and the way people ought to look and ought to think. You - you're - you're just like Percy,” she finished triumphantly, fixing on the lowest insult she could think of. Ron's face was brilliant.

“I'm nothing like him!” He protested angrily. “You want - well then - just - fine!” He stomped off ahead of her, his long legs quickly taking him through the woods, just as Harry had thought. Hermione had hesitated for a moment, but then she followed, still heading in the same general direction of Dumbledore's tomb, though she could not hope to keep up with him.

Remus and Harry lingered with Hermione, as she made her way through the outskirts of the forest, occasionally clearing her way with a spell, and muttering things like,

“Bloody stupid prat!” and “Who does he think he is? Honestly!” under her breath. As she got further behind, Harry could feel the memory pulling at him. Remus was striding along, in the attempt to keep up with Ron, but Harry let the memory do the work. He was facing backwards, watching Hermione as ravenously as a starving man would eye a steak, letting his heels leave non-existent skid marks in the non-existent ground.

Ron was moving faster now; even Harry had nearly lost sight of Hermione, when he heard it, the gunshot-snap of a single tree branch breaking in half under the weight of someone's foot.

Hermione froze, going very still, and flexing her fingers around her wand. Harry began to kick and struggle against the inexorable force of Ron's memory.

Stop, Ron! For the love of all that is decent, stop!! He felt like screaming, even knowing it would do no good. He was too far away; she was all but out of view. The last thing he saw before foliage curtained the scene before him was an odd swirling of the air. There was a short scream, bitten off before it could be completed.

Invisibility cloaks! They have invisibility cloaks! Hermione! He redoubled his struggles, as if he could hope to change the outcome of something that was being relived out of someone's mind. Suddenly, he collapsed onto his face with surprise, outstretched hands clawing deep into the loam, as the memory released him. Ron was coming back.

He could hear the rustle and thrash of greenery, as Ron began to run full-tilt back towards his friend.

“Hermione!” he heard Ron cry. Harry began to sprint alongside him, and then drew ahead of him. He could just see Hermione, surrounded by five black-cloaked Death Eaters, when he was drawn up short again, as abruptly as if he'd been clothes-lined.

Behind him there was a sound of obviously cracking bone and a cry of pain through clenched teeth. Ron had fallen.

“Remus?” Harry asked, looking over his shoulder.

“I'm here,” said the werewolf, ducking under a low-hanging branch, pausing to look sorrowfully down at Ron. The youngest Weasley son was white to the lips, sweat pearling up on his forehead, as he gripped his leg with fingers-turned-talons.

“Hermione, I'm coming. Sweet Merlin!” he gasped, swearing under his breath, as he tried to stand up. He made it to his feet once, but his bad leg crumpled underneath him, and he fell again, landing in the dirt and dead leaves with a spray of vomit. Harry could hear the frustration in Ron's voice, the tears and pleading, as he tried valiantly to stand; he could feel Ron's frantic urgency in the pounding of his own pulse, even as the ending, to him, was a foregone conclusion.

Harry edged as close as the memory would let him, barely able to make out what was going on - and then only because he was standing up. Hermione had taken down two of the Death Eaters, and she was shouting something defiantly at Bellatrix even as she was disarmed. Warmth swelled in Harry's chest, even as tears built up in his eyes. She typified Gryffindor, and he hadn't told her enough how much he appreciated her, depended upon her, needed her, loved her.

Bellatrix was moving then, a lightning-fast whirl of black fabric and swirling hair, and she caught Hermione against her, pulling her wand up cross-wise under Hermione's chin, holding it at both ends so tightly that he saw Hermione convulse in a reflexive gag. She was whispering something in Hermione's ear, something that was making Hermione struggle wildly, her face red with anger and effort.

Ron was trying to move again, having cast some kind of medical charm that obviously hadn't worked very well, and was dragging himself through the undergrowth with much effort. Harry wondered if Ron himself realized what a sitting duck he would have been if the Death Eaters hadn't been too occupied to come after him.

The remaining two Death Eaters were moving also, following their leader, who had Hermione in front of her. Bellatrix's beautiful mouth curved into a triumphantly glittering smile, and she moved one hand over Hermione's head, murmuring something as she did so. For a moment, Harry thought she was pouring something on her, but then he saw the twinkle of a gold chain as it fell around Hermione's neck, catching the sunlight.

Harry moved with them, as much as he could, trying to stay between Hermione and Ron, who could probably see little to nothing in his position on the ground. He couldn't get really close, due to Ron's slow progress, but he instinctively froze when Bellatrix turned back toward the heart of the forest, and appeared to look right at him. His heart galloped at a rapid clip, even as he realized that she could not see him. A small object materialized in mid-air, and Bellatrix caught it neatly in one hand.

She said, “One minute.” Harry was looking around frantically, as Remus came up beside him.

“Someone else is here, Remus. Someone else with a cloak,” he hissed, whispering unnecessarily.

He heard Bellatrix mutter something about witnesses, as they broke through the final barrier of the forest, and stood on the edge of the Hogwarts green. Distantly, through the thin screen of trees, Harry could see the memory of Remus dueling Macnair. The Death Eater caught him with a cutting charm across his scalp, and Remus was fighting, half-blinded by blood. As they circled each other, Remus caught sight of Bellatrix with Hermione, and was desperately trying to maneuver himself into an angle to do something. Even as he dispatched Macnair, Bellatrix's hand - the one not holding her wand - came up to close around the stone at the end of the chain around Hermione's neck. Remus fired and missed, winging the Death Eater to her left.

“Adj… sum,” Bellatrix snarled, bringing her hand down violently. The ends of the chain glittered metallically in the light, as they dangled from the Death Eater's fist, and Hermione just faded from view, like a bad movie projection, her mouth open in a soundless plea. Harry fell to his knees, and for a moment he could not breathe. He knew there was a fresh image that would haunt his nightmares.

It seemed he'd been kneeling for an hour, though it had been only an instant. Harry's legs felt leaden, as he arose with Remus' hand clenched firmly around his bicep and a dry, hot, tight feeling in his throat. He could move a little more now, as he saw Ron begin to emerge from the edge of the forest, still crawling. Further down, he saw himself, limping back from Dumbledore's tomb, taking note of how worn and pale he seemed.

He saw himself rush to Ron's side, remembering how relieved he'd been to see him, getting ready to tell Ron that it was finally over, when Ron had asked the question that derailed his dreams. The wounded redhead clutched at memory-Harry's sleeve, the dissonant music of a thousand tragedies in his voice.

“Where's Hermione?”

Harry turned back toward the memory of Remus, just in time to see Bellatrix vanish in a flash of light, but missing his actual firing of the spell. The last remaining Death Eater had been felled as well, Harry wasn't sure by whom. He struggled to regain control, and tried to look at the disappearance with a measure of objectivity. If Bellatrix had disappeared just before the spell hit, she had done so with amazing accuracy.

“Let's look at your memory, and then we can come back to both of them, slow them down if we need to, try to hear that curse,” Harry said mechanically, looking toward the memory of himself and Ron.

“All right,” Lupin agreed, beginning the incantation that would take them to the second memory contained within the Pensieve.

But he wasn't going to be fast enough, and Harry knew it - he knew it, and was still unable to look away; it was like watching an oncoming Bludger.

The memory-depictions of himself and Ron looked across the green at their Remus, standing weary, bleeding, holding his wand limply in one hand, and their former professor looked at them with an unmistakable expression.

Harry had already had the singular and discomfiting experience of seeing Hermione disappear, and was then able to exceed that by watching himself completely fall apart about it.

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AN: Hope you enjoyed it. You may leave a review on your way out if you like. They are always much anticipated and appreciated!

lorien

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Disclaimer: Not mine; more's the pity.

Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Ten:

So you sailed away into a grey sky morning

--Vertical Horizon, “Best I Ever Had”

Harry and Remus emerged from the Pensieve more than an hour later, pale, trembling, and emotionally exhausted. They'd finally had to resort to overlapping the memories and playing them both at once, the two different perspectives yielding to them the whole of Bellatrix's last words to Hermione.

“Adjicio universum.”

And Harry's world had been knocked off its axis. Change the universe. Together with what he'd learned from Calpurnia, it seemed to suggest a terrible reality.

Wordlessly, Remus had handed Harry the glass from the table, and Harry knocked its contents back without hesitation. The effects of the Calming Draught seemed minimal, although he supposed that it was keeping him from going completely mad all at once, and he was pacing in the small living room like a caged animal.

“Change the universe?” Remus was asking mildly, sipping his own concoction. “From what? To what? What did that do to Hermione?”

The multiverse room, Harry thought dizzily. The Death Eaters had somehow gotten wind of what the Unspeakables were researching - perhaps through Rookwood… who knew how long the studies had been going on? Bellatrix had devised the plan - a contingency plan - and had sent … someone … into the Department of Mysteries -- when? five years ago? longer? - to get… something… that necklace? But why had nothing turned up missing? What was required to send someone out of the universe? And how did you get them back - assuming they'd live through the transfer? Harry sighed. He still didn't have enough answers.

“I think - ” he began heavily, trying to ignore the wobbliness of his knees as he paced. “I think that Bellatrix… Bellatrix …” He swore under his breath and resumed speaking slowly, trying to formulate his threads of suspicion and circumstance into something concrete. “She must have - she must have seen something… realized the horcruxes were gone - somehow knew that Voldemort's victory was not necessarily a sure thing. She wanted to - ”

“If she was so worried about the possibility of your defeating him, why wasn't she with him - why didn't she warn him?” Lupin wondered, as Harry floundered visibly. But Harry shook his head at Remus' words. He understood Voldemort better than anybody else, more than he would have ever desired.

“Would you go tell Voldemort that you were afraid he was going to lose a battle to a boy that wasn't even eighteen years old? Lestrange would have known that it would mean certain death. She must have arranged her own plan, one that would keep her free - what could be more Slytherin than that? - and that would - that would… yes…” His eyes blazed green fire, as he hit on the driving force of Bellatrix's motivations. He was certain of it. “That would keep the victor from happiness, even though he'd won.”

That is what you did to her. Turn about is fair play. Malfoy's words echoed in his ears, and began to make a twisted kind of sense. Even though he'd not been anywhere nearby when Rodolphus Lestrange was killed, Harry knew that it was not her husband who had been the subject of her obsession and utter devotion for decades. Harry had taken that person from her, and so she had, in turn, unerringly targeted the one without whom Harry could not survive.

Bellatrix was right. Who would have thought that a Mudblood could matter so much?

“Why not just kill Hermione the way you killed Voldemort?” Remus was playing devil's advocate, forcing Harry to think, to be absolutely sure… but he wasn't sure of anything.

Why not just kill her? An odd sort of joy tugged at his heart at the realization. She wasn't dead. She wasn't dead. But the road ahead of him remained dark and fraught with danger and uncertainty.

“Malfoy,” Harry said shortly, pulling his mouth into a grim and taut line. “Malfoy's got to be involved. That's what he was talking about at the Ministry. He would have known - known - Hermione's importance to me… he would have known what the mystery surrounding her death would do… the - the lack of closure… the tiniest possibility that she was alive would have - it kept me - I was - and they were watching, enjoying my pain, Ron's pain - Malfoy couldn't have known how Ron and Hermione would part - Ron would have just been a bonus… and they've been - all this time… and who knows how Hermione - ” His voice trembled and broke.

“Malfoy was in France,” Remus reminded him gently. Harry looked at him stonily.

“Malfoy was seen in France a couple of times that evening, and not seen at the Battle. His own house-elves testified that he was at his house in France; the wards showed that he was there - but you don't think that the owner of that villa couldn't manipulate either of those? I'd bet my Gringotts' vault that he was under that cloak. The timing was exact. They probably felt it in their Marks the moment Voldemort died. But somebody - somebody had to have been tracking Hermione for them to appear when they did. When she disappeared, I was already on my way back from the tomb. I was on my way back…” He trailed off, thinking of how close he'd been - how he might have saved her. What-ifs and could-have-beens careened mercilessly across well-worn paths in his mind.

“And that necklace…” he continued. “I've never seen one like it before. Bellatrix yanked it off of Hermione's neck right before…it's got to be involved somehow.” Harry pressed the fingertips of one hand to his forehead. “I need to talk to Luna,” he said. “But I - ” He stopped suddenly, and looked at Remus with realization in his eyes. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Dolohov was one of the Death Eaters that Hermione wounded before she was disarmed. He escaped, must have portkeyed away at some point, but the Battle was so nearly over that he had to have already had the portkey on his person somewhere. Why did the person beneath the cloak toss Bellatrix a portkey? Why didn't she already have an escape route? She said `One minute'. During one of the replays, I timed it - and she disappeared exactly one minute later. Where did she go?”

“Harry, you don't necessarily know that the object was a portkey. We didn't even see what it was,” Remus chided him gently.

“It was a portkey. Had to be,” Harry said in a clipped way, resuming his pacing. “An automatic one - preset - she didn't have to activate it. Perhaps to get into a place with a lot of wards…” His eyes flared greenly, as he looked up at Remus. “The Malfoy villa in France… If Malfoy was under that cloak, it makes sense, because he would have had to authorize portkey entry personally. And since it's somewhere magical, she wouldn't have to use her wand at all - she'd have known it would have been registered, just in case…” Remus looked mildly surprised.

“Even though she was listed as dead?” Harry pursed his lips in near disgust.

“It's the Ministry's way of covering its own arse. Hermione's was registered too. It's one of the ways Neville got on Dolohov's trail before the end. He tried to mask it, but after he had that informant killed, I guess he got careless. There's never been any activity on either of the others. But the Ministry was too ready to end it all… chalk them up in the dead column, neat and tidy, and try to act as if this whole messy war never happened.”

“Your department looked for her for months,” Remus corrected, trying to absolve the Ministry - and subsequently Harry himself - of some of the guilt. “They let you look, even when you were still in training.”

“Nobody ever closely examined your memory - or Ron's,” Harry countered. “They never even tried to figure out the spell Bellatrix used. It was just easier to assume she was dead.” But he stopped, stance slumped as he began to reshoulder the blame. “But then, neither did I, I suppose,” he said glumly. “If there had been a ricochet, some kind of magical mishap, then no stone would have been left - but I never - it never occurred to me that Death Eaters would have any kind of plot that reached further than mere death.”

There are things worse than death.

Bellatrix was right.

“I need to pay Malfoy a visit,” he blurted grimly. Remus' expression became wary.

“Tonks told me what happened yesterday,” he said. His voice was gently remonstrating, fatherly. “Do you really think that's wise?”

“It can't be helped,” Harry said. “If Bellatrix isn't on-site, then I guarantee Malfoy knows where she is. And one or both of them know where Hermione is. This has been going on for five years, and I think that's long enough, don't you?” Remus was already reaching for his wand.

“Then I'm going with you.” A flash of the old Marauder in him glinted in his weary eyes.

“No,” Harry replied quickly, with steel in his voice. “If anything goes wrong… the Ministry would jump at the chance to make an example of you. And Tonks' job might be affected. You shouldn't be anywhere near it.”

“And what do you think they'll do to you?” was Lupin's rejoinder.

“I don't care what they do to me. Don't you see? She's all that matters anymore. I'll do whatever it takes to bring her back.” And woe betide anyone who gets in his way, Lupin mused, his eyes taking in Harry's stormy face.

“You can't go to Malfoy's villa alone,” the werewolf protested. “At least take Ron. He's got nearly as much invested in this as you do.” Harry appeared to at least consider this for a moment, but he soon shook his head.

“He's got Luna to worry about. This is my fight, Remus. I let this happen - ”

“Harry, you had no way of knowing - ”

“ - I let this happen to her. I swore to myself that whatever happened in the Final Battle, that I'd keep Ron and Hermione safe, and I failed, Remus. I failed when it mattered most, and I failed the person who mattered most to me.”

“Shouldn't you - wouldn't Shacklebolt give you back-up or something?” Remus felt desperate, groping at straws to keep Harry from throwing his life away on some precarious, barely substantiated suicide mission.

“I can't wait, Remus. Don't you understand? Kingsley has been far more patient with me than I deserve, but I don't even know that he'd give me any back-up. What little authority I still have will probably be gone in a couple of days. Besides, the sooner I get down there, the better chance there is that they haven't heard of Dolohov's death. If they think we have him in custody, and that he's talking… it might give me some leverage.” He smiled at his father's old friend then, but it was tight and forced. His eyes were empty of every emotion save grim determination. Lupin recognized the look, for he'd seen it in Sirius' eyes before… and James' before that. Harry was going to end this - one way or another… and if he ended up wrong, and quite possibly dead, then so be it. He was going to play the hand he'd been dealt, and let the chips fall where they would.

“Harry - ” he began, not quite sure what else to say.

“I should go,” Harry interrupted. “If I wait too much longer, the crowds from the International Floo Conduits will have thinned. I'll be more likely to be noticed.” At the door, he hesitated. “Thanks, Remus… for - for the Pensieve. I don't think I could have made it through that alone.”

“You're welcome,” Lupin said, feeling inane, helpless. What would he say? Don't do anything stupid? Kick Malfoy's skinny, pale arse once for me? “Your - your father would be very proud of you,” he finally blurted, and watched as a melancholy ghost of a smile flitted mistily across Harry's face.

He let himself out of the front door without a sound.

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The Malfoy villa in Southern France had riverfront access, though the house itself was barely visible from the bank. It was highly warded; Muggles wouldn't even see a dock on the property, and wizards would probably be flung unceremoniously into the river for attempting access, while ward klaxons wailed shrilly inside the house. Lights lined the walkway, and several windows were honey-yellow, so someone was home. The lovely building sparkled like a jewel on an immaculate bed of green velvet, and Harry felt his gorge rise.

He crouched on the opposite bank, having transfigured all of his clothing to black, and considered what to do next. He couldn't just walk onto the grounds and ring the bell, at least not without stating his identity first, and he definitely didn't want to do that just yet.

However, whatever money and influence and important allies Malfoy had been able to buy, he was still a civilian, and Harry had a few tricks up his sleeves that he hoped would allow him access to the house with no one inside being the wiser.

He cast a soft detection spell that rushed smoothly and invisibly across the river, shimmering into faint color where the wards began, just on the river-side of the pier. He rocked back on his heels for a moment, pondering, and then stood, a dark outline against a steely sky, barely visible to any but the most eagle-eyed observer.

Harry briefly considered sending some kind of message to Ron or Luna, but discarded it, thinking that by this point, Lupin had surely let them know where he'd gone. If all went well - and his hands shook at the mere thought of it - perhaps he'd be bringing Hermione back to their flat tonight. Perhaps she was even now being detained in some lower room of the mansion. The hope rose up within him, heady and terrifying, as if he were standing on the very edge of a precipice and looking down. And in a way he was. If he was wrong, Malfoy would be crying foul to every official within Owling distance. His job, his reputation would be gone, ripped to shreds, his victory over Voldemort the only tether attaching him to respectability.

Harry's eyes drifted down to the fathomless blackness of the river.

But I'm not wrong.

He cast a wordless spell at his shoes, and a barely detectable movement of air rushed downwards. There was the slightest of shimmers around his feet. Harry stepped off the bank, throwing his invisibility cloak over his head. He would have to discard it before crossing onto Malfoy property - there were wards that would detect magical devices - but perhaps it would keep him from the eyes of any bored Muggles on balconies or boats.

He wobbled slightly as he stepped on the apparently semisolid surface of the river, keeping his eyes trained on the ornate railings of the dock beyond. It was rather like walking on gelatin. Don't look down, he told himself. His shoes were charmed to repel the water, allowing him to bob drunkenly across the river, but if he fell - well, the rest of him wasn't water-repellent, was it?

He reached the dock, and Banished the invisibility cloak back to the bank he'd just left, with a softly muttered spell. Before laying even a finger on the weathered wooden planking, he began a succession of intricate counter-wards, attempting to open a hole in the layers of spells guarding the Malfoy estate. He tried to ignore the moist slap of the water against the slimy pilings, as he bounced up and down with the gentle motion of the river.

“Damn,” he muttered under his breath. The ward against magical devices not only blocked such obvious things as unauthorized brooms or invisibility cloaks, but also wands. He certainly couldn't go in unarmed. Squeezing his eyes closed in hope or desperation, he transfigured his wand into a fountain pen, and tucked it into his pocket, and then clambered clumsily onto the dock.

He lay motionless for a moment, cheek against the warm, rough wood, and listened intently. Brilliant yellow light spilled across the lush lawn, but there was no sound of alarm from the interior. He got to his feet, but stayed low, working his way toward the house using what cover he could find. Narcissa Malfoy had exquisite taste, so there were several sculpted hedgerows punctuated with elegant statuary that hid him well.

His mouth was dry as dust, as he slowly circled the house, avoiding the pools of light. He could feel the power of a perimeter charm pulsing once he got within a meter or so of the house, and would not be able to get closer unless he returned his wand to its normal state.

Collapsing in the shadows of a pristine gazebo, he withdrew the fountain pen from his pocket, and performed two spells in one breath: one restoring his wand, and one casting a magical dampening field. He was still unsure about the presence of a wand-ward, but if there was one, perhaps a dampening field would prevent the blip from being noticed.

As he skirted the edge of another patch of light, a sudden rush of noise flattened him into the grass before he realized it was something from the Wizarding Wireless Network. He sauntered as closely as he dared, peering into the room from which the sound had come.

The magic from the perimeter charm nearly stood his hair on end. He barely dared breathe.

It appeared to be some kind of study or billiard room. High mahogany bookshelves full of gold-leafed first editions lined the walls, and rich, leather wingback chairs were clumped into tasteful groups. The burgundy felt field of a billiards table could clearly be seen, and three elegantly dressed men were playing a wizarding version of the game. He heard a distinctly feminine giggle, and slunk low to the ground again, but not before spotting another window across the room, around the corner from where he was now.

If he could break through the perimeter charm undetected, he might be able to breach that window and gain entrance to the room without being seen. It was all but obscured from the rest of the room by an Oriental screen and the side of one of the bookshelves.

The dampening field surrounding him sparked and crackled as it came into contact with the perimeter charm, as he rounded the corner of the house, and he froze, sucking in a breath between clenched teeth. Another laugh trilled out from the house, and he could hear the music more clearly now.

Sweat trickled from his hairline, and he could feel his heart racing, as he opened up a careful seam in the wards, and stepped through gingerly, in an effort not to snag the dampening field on anything.

Silently, he Vanished the glass in the window, and, bracing himself on the sill, hoisted himself through, landing on the polished hardwood floor as lightly as a cat. There was no lamp in this corner, and Harry was grateful. The screen was translucent enough to have broadcast his shadow to the entire room, if he'd been backlit. Now inside, he could hear the clack of billiard balls, something puffed into a small explosion, and there was another burst of laughter. Someone swore, evidently having gotten off a bad shot, and someone else hooted derisively.

He risked a look around the edge of the screen to pinpoint exactly where Draco Malfoy was in the room. He was not one of the small party participating in the game, but was sitting in a nearby chair, playing host to two expensively dressed, breathtakingly gorgeous women, listening to him raptly. Harry's upper lip curled in disgust.

So help me, Malfoy, I can't wait until I'm -

Something chirruped suddenly, and everyone in the room looked up, as Malfoy stopped mid-sentence and rolled his eyes.

“Bloody hell,” he said, and flung up one arm, snapping his fingers. There was a deafening crack, as a house-elf, dressed in a filthy linen hand-towel, appeared near the door opposite Harry. “What's going on?”

“The wards is intact, Master Malfoy, sir,” the elf replied, bobbing up and down in a succession of bows. “We is having a slight malfunction, but we is handling it, sir. Tristy apologizes for disturbing sir's party.”

“Wards?” one of the women drawled, touching Draco's chest with a manicured index finger nail, and drawing it down his shirt-front. “Do that many people really hate you, Draco darling?” Malfoy smirked at her.

“Perhaps I just don't want anyone stealing you away from me…” he said, with a quirk of his eyebrows. Harry wished Ron was with him now, so they could have mimed retching motions together. Instead, he crouched in his corner, waiting for his moment. Malfoy turned back to his elf, all business. “What sort of malfunction?”

“Ghost image on the wards, sir,” Tristy replied. “It showed a wand, but only for an instant. Wards is obviously malfunctioning. Tristy is repairing them with great haste.”

“A wand?” Malfoy burst out. “Where? You pathetic excuse for a piece of flesh! Did it ever occur to you that we may actually have an intruder?”

And Harry saw his chance. The billiard game had ceased; everyone's attention was focused on the house-elf, facing away from him. He crept out from behind the screen, and raised his wand.

The other woman - not the one who'd flirted with Draco - tossed her hair at that moment, and the movement brought Harry into her peripheral vision. She started, but Harry felled her with a non-verbal Stupefy. She slumped into the chair, from which she'd been on the point of rising, without a sound.

He lifted his wand again, and set the billiard table on fire.

There were curses and exclamations, as the small party turned to the small conflagration. In the ensuing smoke and chaos, Harry methodically swept the room, in textbook Auror fashion, Stunning all of them before most realized anyone else was even present.

It all happened so quickly that Harry had disarmed Malfoy, almost before the Slytherin had realized anything was wrong. He stepped out of the dampening field, which now revealed itself as a translucent green sphere, and flung it across the room, where it surrounded the house-elf with an audible squelch, preventing it from leaving. He restrained the other members of the party, put out the billiard table, and Summoned Draco's wand, finally turning to face his nemesis.

“Remind me to kill my house-elf, after you've been arrested,” Malfoy said, cocking one eyebrow at him and crossing his arms over his chest. “What brings you here, Potter? Career suicide? Or did you miss the melodrama that accompanied you through school?”

“I could kill you where you stand, Malfoy,” Harry intoned in a world-weary voice, keeping his wand trained on Malfoy's chest.

“But you won't,” Malfoy replied. “You obviously want something from me. What is it?”

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AN: Argh! Action. Always what I think of as a weak spot. I always worry that it is too muddled or doesn't make any sense - or is just stupid. Hope this is okay.

You may leave a review on your way out (to assuage my insecurities!) if you'd like.

lorien

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Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Eleven:

I know good-bye means nothing at all

-- Maroon 5, “She Will Be Loved”

“I think you know exactly what I want,” Harry said evenly, looking Draco Malfoy square in the face. The Slytherin's expression gave away nothing.

“And I think you know that the wandfire and commotion will have registered on the wards. We'll be having company very shortly.”

“Then I suggest you tell me what I need to know, or your `company' will find your dead body on your billiard room floor.”

“I'm not an expert Legilimens, Potter,” Draco said coolly, looking unfazed by the death threat. “Perhaps you'd like to enlighten me.” Harry felt his ire begin to rise.

“Where is she?” He gritted out through clenched teeth.

“Where is who?” Malfoy parroted back, the corners of his thin lips twitching in amusement. In a flash, Harry was across the room, wrenching Malfoy's head backwards, and jabbing his wand into the other man's jugular.

“You're obviously not taking this as seriously as you should.”

“You won't do anything to me,” Malfoy said in a superior tone. “You're too noble, too soft, and too bloody Gryffindor.”

“What have I left to lose?” Harry hissed in his ear. “Answer me that. You and your cohorts have taken everything that mattered…everything. You can believe that I mean exactly what I say… I will kill you if you don't tell me what you know about Bellatrix Lestrange and what she did to Hermione.”

“I haven't seen Aunt Bella in over five years, before your werewolf killed her. And what - you think I've saved the moldering corpse of the Mudblood down in my wine cellar or something?” Malfoy said in a disbelieving voice, sputtering a little as Harry jabbed the wand more forcefully into the side of his neck.

“Dolohov told us you were there,” Harry bluffed. “What was that object you tossed to Bellatrix? Portkey to your lovely villa here? Do you know what will happen to all of your precious influence and family fortune if the fact that you've harbored a known high-level Death Eater for five years becomes common knowledge?” An unpleasant laugh escaped Harry's lips. “Scrimgeour would disavow you so fast your head would spin.”

“You're lying,” Malfoy said, though his aura of arrogant calm was less convincing than it had been previously. “Dolohov has told you nothing. He wouldn't - ” He broke off suddenly, looking unsure as to what it was safe to say.

“ - betray you?” Harry finished for him. “He sang like a phoenix. Spilled his guts to be spared the Kiss. I can offer you the same.”

“Your precious Mudblood is dead, and - ” Malfoy broke off with a cry of pain, as Harry released the back of his neck and slammed his open palm into the Slytherin's patrician nose. Malfoy's arms pinwheeled outwards, as he was flung back from the force of the blow, knocking over a stone half-column on which stood a exquisite statuette, which shattered all over the floor. He lay stunned among the shards, blood from a laceration staining his silvery hair and rushing copiously from both nostrils.

“Get up!” Harry snarled, circling around him and using a Mobilicorpus spell to lift him to his feet. Malfoy looked skewers at the Auror, while he gingerly daubed blood from beneath his broken nose. “While we're repaying debts from sixth year, remember Sectumsempra? Would you still have women falling all over you if I scar up your face? P'raps a lightning bolt?” He traced the shape in the air with his wand. Part of him wanted to recoil from the violence, but a larger part of him delighted in the fear that flashed across Malfoy's face.

“You're mad!” He exclaimed, obviously meaning it as something derogatory, but Harry smiled at him.

“Yes, I am. Now, you're going to tell me what you did to Hermione or I'm going to start breaking fingers.” He spewed a low-level Reductor that only barely missed Malfoy's sleeve to show that he meant business. “And then you're going to tell me where I can find Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“I'll tell you nothing…” Draco spat. Harry raised his wand, but paused when he saw Malfoy's eyes almost imperceptibly cut over his left shoulder. He didn't hesitate, but twisted Malfoy's wand to where it pointed backwards under his left arm. A hollow clatter told him that his non-verbal Expelliarmus had hit its target. Keeping one wand on Draco, he turned and Petrified the woman who had destroyed his life.

He watched with some satisfaction as Malfoy's Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his throat. Clearly, he'd been stalling, knowing that someone else - and a very skilled witch to boot - was in the house. Harry walked over to Bellatrix's prostrate form, and toed her in the side, watching her dark eyes crackle with impotent fury. With one wary eye on her nephew, he walked over the threshold to retrieve her wand.

“Sort of a shame that you didn't get a shot off, actually,” he said casually. “The Aurors stationed in Paris would have been swarming this villa like vampires on the scent. I wouldn't do that if I were you,” he added to Draco, lackadaisically gesturing with his wand, and the Slytherin froze in mid-motion, on the point of rising. “Since your aunt isn't going to be able to help you now, are you more willing to help yourself?”

“What could I possibly say that would keep me out of Azkaban now?” Malfoy muttered thickly, his nose obviously beginning to swell badly.

“Oh, out of Azkaban?” Harry asked lightly. “Probably nothing. But perhaps you'd like to go there with your small and repulsive soul still inside your body?” A muscle knotted and worked in Malfoy's jaw, but he said nothing, watching not Harry, but his unmoving aunt. Harry followed his gaze. “She can't help you now. Nobody can, Draco,” his voice dripped sarcastically over the Slytherin's given name. “Nobody but me.”

He was striving to keep his voice casual, having no desire whatsoever to reveal how desperate he was for information. If any hint of urgency leaked out, the two Death Eaters would withhold it just to spite him, he was sure. They already knew the extent to which their fate had been sealed by his mere presence in the villa - unless they killed him first.

Malfoy was wavering, his eyes flickering uncertainly from the prone figure of Bellatrix to the ruined billiard table, and the scattered forms of his friends, tied securely with magical rope. The smell of burnt, wet felt hung heavily in the air. Water dripped from the billiard pockets to the Oriental carpeting below. The much-maligned house-elf stood within the dampening field, pulling at his ears in misery and occasionally causing the spherical field to bounce harmlessly against one wall.

“What did you do to her? Where did you send her?” Harry asked, his voice trembling only ever so slightly. Malfoy straightened, as if he'd come to a decision, and Harry's wand twitched at the movement.

“I'm afraid I don't have the foggiest idea what you're talking about,” he answered. Harry did not have to look at Bellatrix to know that malicious triumph was glittering in her eyes. His face remained carefully bland, and he lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

“Your choice. Poor one, I'm afraid.” He jerked his head in the direction of the large marble fireplace. “Where's your Floo powder?” he asked.

“The Ming vase on the mantel,” Malfoy said sullenly.

“Get it,” Harry ordered peremptorily. “I'm sure there are security clearances that you'll have to initiate to open your Floo.” He followed Draco to the grate, jabbing him between the shoulder blades with the wands he'd appropriated. “While you're at it, you can call off your dragons too.”

Malfoy's eyes flashed angrily, but he'd been backed into a corner, and he knew it.

“Fine,” he huffed, with the maturity of a thwarted thirteen year old. “Would you mind not breathing down my neck please?” Harry obligingly backed up a half-step, but did not lower his wand.

“Nice and slow,” he cautioned, as Malfoy reached up and scooped out a small palmful of the powder from the hand-painted urn. He knelt on the hearth, and spoke a mumbled password that caused the flames to flare up merrily. He lifted his hand, and a few small granules sifted out from between his fingers, as he turned to look at Harry questioningly.

“Toss in the powder, and I'll give the destination,” Harry instructed him. Malfoy moved as if to turn back toward the fireplace, but balked mid-motion, and swung his arm in a wide arc toward Harry, who had just enough time to remember what was cupped in Malfoy's palm before the coarsely ground powder hit him in the face.

His glasses provided a modicum of protection, but the grit that had managed to make it into his eyes burned like acid. He sputtered and coughed at the intrusion of what he'd inadvertently inhaled, and he blinked furiously, trying to see through the blinding pain and bleary tears that were now streaming down his cheeks.

Malfoy had been close enough to grab a wand from Harry's ineffectual hand, and Harry distantly heard him cry,

“Finite incantatem!”

Damn, damn, damn. In desperation, Harry reached up and tore his glasses from his face, scrubbing desperately at his eyes, causing only an increase in the stinging pain. A Summoning charm ripped the other confiscated wand from his hand. All the lights had auras around them. Malfoy was a vaguely human-shaped blob in front of him, and there was another darker shadow that rose up from the floor. Bellatrix was free… and armed.

I am not going to die here. Not when I'm so close. Hermione!

He cast a non-verbal Levicorpus that neatly hooked Bellatrix's ankle and pulled her from her feet, while he disarmed Malfoy for the second time. The pain in his eyes was beginning to morph into a throbbing headache. A green flash hissed by so near to him that he could feel the heat from it, and he instinctively dove toward the carpeting, losing his glasses in the process. But his resulting reductor was so powerful that when it flung Bellatrix backwards into the wall, she cracked the plaster.

“Get up!” he said to Malfoy in a sandy voice. It did not sound nearly as intimidating the second time. Using the Mobilicorpus again, he lofted the Slytherin into the same wall, purposely propelling him nose-first. The wails of pain and dismay almost made Harry forget his injured eyes. He restrained both of them, and this time, he snapped their wands, one right after the other, opening his hands with an air of unconcern and letting the fragments bounce hollowly down to the floor. The flinch Draco gave as the clear crack echoed around the room was almost comical. “Now,” he said heavily, straining to see through the protesting fluids of his eyes, “what did you do to Hermione?”

“You'll never find her,” Bellatrix taunted, leering up at him, even disheveled and covered with pale, powdered plaster. “She's probably dead by now.”

“What did you take from the multiverse room?” Harry asked stolidly, trying another tack.

“Doesn't matter,” Malfoy said. “It's been returned. You'll never be able to figure out which one we took. There are thousands.”

“Thousands?” Harry asked nonchalantly. His mind was whirling furiously.

Bellatrix brought her hand down violently. The ends of the chain glittered metallically in the light, as they dangled from the Death Eater's fist, and Hermione just faded from view, like a bad movie projection, her mouth open in a soundless plea.

“Well, how many possibilities are there?” Malfoy asked. “How many choices do you make in a day? There is a reality for each of them.”

“You sent Hermione to another reality?” Harry's voice was tired, but not really incredulous. There it was. His answer. What he'd been hoping against hope to hear, but never thought he would. And it was all couched in Malfoy's patented elite-class sneer.

“We didn't send her there, Potter. We stranded her there,” Malfoy said, with some measure of satisfaction. “You can't get her back.”

Harry swallowed convulsively, and the tissues of his inflamed throat protested. He wished he could see the expression on Malfoy's face.

“You're lying,” he said.

“What have I left to lose?” The Slytherin retorted in a perfect imitation of Harry's earlier question.

“Tell me which one you took,” Harry said, his voice vibrating dangerously. He jerked Malfoy up and away from Bellatrix by his collar, pinning him to the floor with one hand bracketed around his neck. “Tell me…now.” His wand was pointed unerringly at Malfoy's face; at this close range, he could clearly make out the nuances of Draco's facial expressions. Malfoy blinked at him for a moment with wide, pale eyes, and said,

“No.”

Harry's fingers flexed around Draco's neck, almost instinctively, and for a moment, the Auror was afraid that he would actually kill him. Instead, his gaze bored into that of the prostrate Slytherin, as he tried to push everything he was feeling - his hope, his fear, his fury, his despair - into that stare. And he said one word.

“Legilimens.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He was dimly aware of the physical aspects of the destroyed billiard room, as he delved into Malfoy's mind. He could feel the soft nap of the rug beneath his knees, he could feel the pulse in Malfoy's neck beneath his fingers. But all that was secondary to actually being inside Malfoy's mind.

There was a struggle at first. Thoughts slid away from him, slippery and elusive, as the Slytherin tried desperately to erect some sort of Occlumental shield around his mind. But Harry had ambushed him, Harry was an Auror, and Harry was not taking no for an answer.

He felt as if he were slicing through random ideas and stray memories like an explorer wielding a machete in a jungle, honing in inevitably, inexorably on what he wanted. Malfoy's mind began to flail less, the fight draining away, and the memories that flashed past him began to pertain to that which he was seeking.

Malfoy was in a dormitory, while Pansy Parkinson tried to press a cool, damp towel to his cheek. He angrily knocked her hand aside.

“Mudblood bitch. How dare she even touch the heir of one of the oldest pureblood wizarding families in existence!”

**

Malfoy eyed Hermione from across the room at the Yule Ball, watching her with an almost disbelieving leer. He tossed a rude remark over his shoulder, while Crabbe and Goyle laughed.

**

Malfoy was hunched around a table in a disreputable looking tavern, with Bellatrix and Dolohov.

“He's in love with her. I'm sure of it. Even he's too much of a stupid git to realize it himself,” he said in an assured tone.

“What about that Weasley boy?” Bellatrix asked languidly, tracing the pattern of the wood grain with one finger.

“He doesn't matter. Don't you understand? How she feels about Potter is of no consequence, only how he feels about her.”

**

“Did anyone see you come here?” Draco's breath puffed out in the cold air from under the black hood he wore. Bellatrix raked him with a contemptuous glance.

“Don't twitch so, Nephew. You're making me nervous.”

“What if someone catches me?”

“No one is going to catch you. The Ministry is geared for war. Do you think anyone is going to care about a ratty old Department in the basement? Put the cloak on.”

“But the wards could - ” She cut him off.

“It's been taken care of. Now go.”

**

“You're going to have to take it back,” Bellatrix said. They were sitting in the billiard room, and this memory was much more recent than the others had been.

“What? That's ridiculous. There's no way they could trace anything back to us.” Draco chugged back a heavy glass of liquor as a nervous reflex.

“Dolohov's been compromised. Who knows what he'll tell them?”

“He doesn't know how we did it,” Malfoy countered, and Bellatrix's eyes flashed in annoyance.

“Yes, but he knows that we did it. You don't think that even those pathetic imbeciles at the Ministry could figure it out? Especially with Harry Potter constantly bringing her up?”

“What could we possibly have to gain by putting it back? Its absence hasn't been noticed yet.”

“You said yourself there were thousands. The Department of Mysteries is under-staffed and under-paid. The fake necklace you left behind has obviously not been used; therefore, it has not been noticed. But if Dolohov tells them anything, and they start making connections, they'll go to that room, and start testing. What if they could trace the magical resonance of that necklace back to us?”

“A five year old resonance trace?” Malfoy's tone was scathing. Bellatrix set her glass on the table with a musical clink that nevertheless spoke of finality.

“It's too big a risk,” she said. “Take care of it.”

**

Malfoy moved stealthily through the Ministry corridors in an invisibility cloak, slinking into the abandoned Department of Mysteries, and moving unerringly to one single door. It was ajar, and as he pushed the door open, he visibly started at the sight of Luna Lovegood at a workstation near the door, brows furrowed in concentration, as she examined a necklace, measuring something with her wand.

Caught off guard, he Stunned her. She had turned to one side as he did it, so instead of collapsing silently to the floor, she hit her head on the table, before partially falling under it. The noise rang out through the room, and Malfoy flinched.

“Luna?” came a voice from the opposite end of the room, blocked from view by a high cabinet.

“Damn it!” Malfoy swore under his breath.

“Luna, are you all - dear Merlin!” Calpurnia had emerged from where she'd been concealed. Her eyes darted from Luna's prone form to the now open door, and narrowed with suspicion. “Who's there?” she called out, raising her wand. “Answer me now, or - ”

Malfoy yanked the cloak off with desperation, and Obliviated her before she could react, Stunning her as almost an afterthought.

Then he scuttled to a far corner, shrouded in shadows. Necklaces lined the walls, hung on innumerable tiny gold hooks, but this corner appeared to be long-neglected. Dust was trailing down the tangled chains in viney little tendrils. Draco scanned the corner quickly, selected one, performed an identification charm on it, and tucked it into his pocket. He then hung the necklace he'd had cupped in his hand on the hook in its stead.

With one more anxious look at the two unconscious Unspeakables, he hastily exited the room.

**

There was a firm grip on his upper arm, and Harry looked up to see what was going on. With the eye contact broken, the connection snapped. Malfoy was gasping like a fish out of water, as Harry looked up to see an Auror - Harry recognized him from the Paris office, but could not think of his name - standing above him.

“Let me see your wand, nice and - Auror Potter!” The surprise in his voice was obvious. “What are - what's going on here?”

“An arrest,” Harry said laconically, offering no further information.

“We - we got an alert that a registered wand had fired an Unforgivable. We came straight away. Did - did London send - ?” The Auror gestured toward Harry with his wand, obviously confused.

“I received a tip that led me here,” Harry replied, being purposefully vague. “I'm taking these two back to London with me.”

“Policy dictates that the person or persons being detained - ”

“I'm taking them back with me. Get your team to clean up this mess. Go over every inch of this place, and notify me of any Dark artifacts you find. And we'll need statements from everyone in the house, elves included.” The other Auror opened his mouth to protest, but Harry didn't give him the opportunity to speak. “Thanks so much.”

Harry hoisted Malfoy up none too gently, and Levitated Bellatrix in front of the fireplace. More Aurors were beginning to spill into the room, pausing for a moment to gape at the scene - and its players - and then moving on to do their jobs. Releasing Malfoy, Harry reached warily for the floo powder, but Malfoy was still looking dazed, as if he wasn't quite sure what had just happened.

“You - you - you Legilimensed me!” he said, pointing an accusing finger at Harry, as the flames glowed green.

“Give the man a N.E.W.T.,” Harry said, sarcastically. “Auror Detention Facility - Level Four,” he shouted to the flames.

The head of a bored looking witch appeared, her eyes flipping casually and without surprise over Harry.

“Purpose of Floo?” she asked.

“Transport of two prisoners,” Harry answered.

“Password?”

“Constantinople,” he replied. She turned to one side, manipulating a ward with her wand.

“Floo's open. Bring `em through.”

“I want Aurors at the ready. High-flight risk.” The witch made a nondescript noise that might have been acquiescence, and disappeared from the flames.

“You broke into my mind without my consent,” Draco declared.

“Are you still hung up on that?”

“My solicitor - ”

“Nobody is going to touch you with a ten-meter Quidditch hoop, Malfoy. For five years, you've been harboring Voldemort's most trusted lieutenant, who has been documented as conspiring against one of the Heroes of the Light. And as for me, they've all been calling me crazy, but I was right, again. They are going to be kissing my arse, but good.” Malfoy must have found truth in his words, because he replied, nearly stammering in his rush to get the words out.

“You said - you said if I gave you information, that you'd - you'd keep me from being Kissed. You said - ” Harry tossed the restrained Bellatrix into the Floo, and reached for Malfoy, smiling brilliantly as he did so.

“I lied.”

--

AN: Okay, more action - hope it was up to snuff.

I will be going out of town in a couple of days, so I wanted to get an update out before I go. Don't forget about my story while I'm gone, because I should be able to update again pretty soon after I get back. I will be without a computer for the duration (10 days or so). I really hate to be leaving at a time like this because I have had the best time writing chapters 12 and 13.

See you in a few. You may leave a review on your way out if you like.

lorien

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Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Twelve:

I'm looking past the shadows in my mind into the truth --Lifehouse, “Breathing”

“Harry, what the hell is going on?” Kingsley Shacklebolt strode into the Level Four Detention facility, with an incredulous look on his face.

“Bellatrix Lestrange is alive,” Harry said quietly, not looking at all triumphant or superior, despite his mocking words to Malfoy. “And she's over there in cell B.” He cocked his head toward the room in question. “Malfoy's in C.”

“Draco Malfoy?” Kingsley echoed. “Harry, I - ”

“She was living in his house, Kingsley,” Harry said, raising his voice momentarily, but striving to drag it back under control. “They were working together. The French group is tossing the place as we speak. There's bound to be evidence.”

“There's bound to be? Harry, you were supposed to have that before you went in.”

“I thought… in light of the circumstances - ”

“What circumstances?” Kingsley asked, gently, but intently. “Under whose authority did you go into Malfoy's villa?”

“Mine,” a voice piped up from behind him, and they both looked up in astonishment. Luna was standing there, looking as serene as she always did, with her butterbeer cork necklace double-stranded around her head like a garland. Ron was hovering protectively at her elbow.

“And mine,” said another, as Calpurnia Wilcott appeared from around the corner just behind his two flatmates. Kingsley Shacklebolt's eyes flicked from one to the other in turn.

“Explain,” he said in a terse voice.

Together, Luna and Calpurnia began to tell their tale to the Head Auror, and Harry found himself not really listening until they got to the part about finding fibers from a modified invisibility cloak, and doing a black market trace on who owned such an item. Harry did his best not to look surprised, wondering if they'd actually found such evidence, or were making it all up.

“What is the meaning of this?” came a new voice, trampling over the last half of Calpurnia's sentence. Harry recognized it instantly. Ron said,

“Bloody sodding hell.”

Percy Weasley strode around the corner, still dressed in his crispest black Ministry robes, despite the fact that it was after-hours, and all but the on-duty Aurors who'd been called in were in street clothes. His eyes tripped over the scene, lingering with superior disdain over his brother and his best friend. Righteous indignation rose up in Harry, and he elbowed his way past Kingsley.

“I'll tell you what the meaning of this is,” Harry offered. “The meaning of this is that Bellatrix Lestrange is not dead. Your little Ministry pet, Malfoy, has been hiding her from the government for five years. There were key facts in evidence that were overlooked or not examined at all, because the Minister was so eager to brush everything under the rug and close the case.”

“Your long enmity with Draco Malfoy is obviously clouding your judgment,” Percy said superciliously. “It is lucky for the Auror Department that an agent with such flagrant prejudices will not remain on staff for much longer.” The threat was unmistakable. Percy and Harry stared at each other with evident loathing, and the tension snaked thickly throughout the corridor.

“Your position up the Minister's arse is obviously clouding your judgment,” Harry said, pulling a transparent, wafer-thin object from the pocket of his cloak. “I have a recording of everything that happened in the Malfoy villa tonight.” He tossed it to Percy, who caught it, looking flustered. “I trust that the recording, together with the testimonies of these Unspeakables, will shed a little light on the actual facts of the investigation.”

The entire hallway was silent, watching Percy with expectant gazes. Percy, for his part, looked like he didn't really appreciate the position into which Harry was forcing him.

“Rest assured, Mr. Potter,” Percy pontificated, sweeping the entire corridor with decided hauteur. “This will be investigated thoroughly by the Executive Staff.”

“Good. It's been a long time coming,” Harry countered neatly, with a tight smile. Percy glowered at him, and turned to Kingsley Shacklebolt with artificial deference.

“I'm sure that you could release Lord Malfoy on his own recognizance, while the investigation is being conducted,” he said. Harry spluttered a protest, and Luna moved behind him to hit him sharply on the back. Ron coughed something that sounded like “arse-kisser” and Percy's ears turned red.

“You cannot be serious,” Harry said, once he could speak again. “He attacked two Ministry employees - that at least can be backed up by these witnesses. What does Malfoy have on you people? Is he paying you off or - ” he stopped abruptly, and Kingsley stepped neatly into the gap.

“I'm afraid that will be quite impossible, with the seriousness of the charges against him being what they are,” the Head Auror said diplomatically, offering an apologetic smile to the Minister's First Assistant. “If the investigation finds that Mr. Malfoy is innocent, he will, of course, have our humblest apologies.”

Percy strode away, in a flourish of black robes and indignation. Kingsley watched him go, and then turned to address Harry, who, he was nonplussed to see, had his head back in the Floo.

“ - of paramount importance,” Harry was saying. “Do you understand? It needs to be done immediately, and turned over to no one but myself or Head Auror Shacklebolt.” A pause. “Yeah, no problem. Thanks.”

Harry withdrew from the Floo, and squinted up at Shacklebolt.

“Damn!” he said. “I forgot about my glasses.” He made a motion as if to re-enter the Floo, and ask about them, but he stopped and shrugged. “They've probably been smashed anyway.”

“You look like hell,” his boss said, eying his disheveled appearance with askance. The lurid red of his inflamed eyes contrasted vividly with the green of his irises. “What happened?”

“Malfoy threw Floo powder in my face,” Harry said, rolling his eyes and looking thoroughly disgusted with himself.

“You should get that checked out,” Kingsley said. “And you'll need - where are you going?” Harry was tossing another handful of Floo powder in the grate. “You need to be debriefed.”

“It's going to have to wait, Kingsley,” Harry replied, politely but firmly.

“You've just recovered a Death Eater that was presumed dead, and her co-conspirator. The press is going to have a field day, and Scrimgeour is going to have quite a bit of explaining to do. We've got to make sure this is done by the book. What could be more important than that?”

Harry lifted bloodshot eyes to his boss, and stared at him for a long moment.

“Oh,” said the Head Auror, after a moment. “Oh.” Harry quickly scanned his wand at a locked storage room, and darted inside, returning with a standard issue Pensieve. He withdrew three or four shimmering strands rather quickly, and handed the bowl to Kingsley.

“I think that will speak for itself. You can give a duplicate to Percy, if you'd like. I just - I don't know how much time I have.” His eyes flickered curiously to Luna. “And - and I've got to get to the Department of Mysteries. There might be a way to get her back, but I don't know how long I'll - ”

“Harry, I - “ Shacklebolt began, and then stopped, turning instead to Luna. “Miss Lovegood, I'll send an owl to your supervisor, letting him know that you are under direct orders from me to aid Auror Potter in any way possible.” Luna nodded, her blue eyes bright and solemn. He looked back at Harry, laying one hand companionably on his shoulder. “I don't know exactly what's going to happen here, but I'll do everything in my power to ensure that your job is here for you when you get back.”

“Just make sure they stay where they belong, sir,” Harry said, nodding down the corridor toward the cell doors.

“You have my word. Good luck,” Shacklebolt said, refraining from asking the thousands of questions that buzzed inside his mind. I hope you find what you're looking for, Harry.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry replied.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry took the Floo to the main Ministry lobby, and Luna and Ron followed him, after Calpurnia agreed to be the one to stay and give a statement about the cloak fibers. The Detention Facility was connected to the Ministry by secure Floo, but it was enchanted to move about randomly so that it was inaccessible by lift.

Ron noticed with a sharp glance that Harry's hands were trembling, but no one said a word until they had entered the Department of Mysteries, empty since the end of office hours, and stood before the door to the multiverse room.

Harry shoved his hands violently into his pockets, as Luna opened the door. He felt as if there should be some sort of fanfare, perhaps a drum roll or heralding trumpets - or perhaps a portent of doom instead. This seemed like the most momentous occasion of his life.

“Merlin's Beard!” Ron exclaimed, gaping as he tried to take in the room. The walls were nearly covered in small golden hooks, with each hook supporting a single gold chain, suspended from which was a crystal pendant. The sizes and colors varied. There were a few high work-desks, neatly lined with various containers and vials, with lab stools nearby. There was also a rolling step-ladder like those found in libraries, to access the higher rows of hooks, but the rest of the room was bare and unadorned.

There are thousands. Malfoy might have rather understated things, Harry thought.

“What do the necklaces do?” he asked, swallowing the rather large lump in his throat.

“This is only one of an untold number of universes,” Luna began. “There is a necklace for each one that we've charted so far.”

“So far…?” Ron sounded incredulous.

“We - we've found that we can magically adjust the harmonics of the crystal slightly, and end up in a new alternate reality. We can then calibrate a blank crystal, and map a new universe.” Harry blinked at her, finding that he had not really understood most of what she'd just said.

“So, you put on a certain necklace, and go to a preset universe every time?”

“Yes. They got the idea from the Bermuda Triangle. It's rather like a larger version of a necklace. Only those people don't have one to get back, you see, because it's more due to the - ” She stopped. Harry's face had gone pasty white.

“Then he was telling the truth.”

“Who was, Harry?” Ron asked.

“Malfoy. He said she was stranded. Bellatrix put a necklace on Hermione, but yanked it off of her neck before the transfer was complete. She can't get back then - if she doesn't have a necklace?”

“Someone would have to take the necklace to her,” Luna said. “Does Malfoy still have it? Inventory never showed one missing, but - ”

“He put a fake in its place,” Harry supplied for her. “You wouldn't have noticed it unless you tried to use that exact one.”

“He must have thought the odds were in his favor,” Ron said glumly, his eyes raking over the vast array of necklaces on the wall.

It's been returned. You'll never be able to figure out which one we took.

But Harry did know. He'd seen it in Malfoy's mind. Renewed determination stole over his features, and he moved with purpose to an obscure corner of the room, his eyes roving around the necklaces hung there. And there it was… the dust was disturbed, the necklace showing much less disuse than its neighbors. He reached out and grabbed it; the chain felt ridiculously fragile and tiny in his clumsy fingers.

“This is it,” he said, and neither Ron nor Luna questioned how he knew. “Do the spell,” he instructed Luna. “I'm going to bring Hermione home.” Tears shot into his eyes as he spoke her name. His stomach was queasy, and his joints felt loose and wobbly. But Luna was shaking her head, and Harry felt his heart stop.

“It's not that easy, Harry. If - if she had a necklace too, it would have probably stabilized her enough to keep her in that specific reality. We don't actually know for sure, because nobody's ever been in an alternate universe for that long. She'll - she'll probably have moved.”

“Moved?” Harry's voice was sharp, without comprehension.

“Into another reality - somewhere else. There's no way to tell where.” Harry's mouth went dry. He pressed the pads of his fingers onto his closed eyes, until he realized how much that hurt.

“I - I don't understand…” he said faintly. So close, so close! His pain glimmered faintly in Luna's eyes, reflected back at him from her face, and she tried to speak normally.

“We all - everyone is - everyone has a certain - people are always keyed to a certain universe. Alternate realities would normally repel you, because that isn't where you belong. The crystal and the spell help to counter that. The Bermuda Triangle happens to be a - a `pass' between such universes, where an outside mechanism isn't required, but those are very rare. If Hermione was pushed into a universe as a crystal was removed, then each universe would expel her, with her own universe's signature calling her, until eventually she found her way home or - ”

“Or?” Harry prodded. Luna looked pained.

“We haven't tested how long one can safely stay in an alien universe. If she comes across one similar enough to ours, she might be able to stay for awhile, but she'd never know when she'd move again.”

“It's been five years. Why hasn't she made it back?” Ron wanted to know.

“Ronald, look at the necklaces. And those are only the ones we've charted. There are more…countless more.”

Harry looked at the chains, some of them swinging barely perceptibly, probably moved by the draught from the door. Hermione… He pulled the necklace he held over his head.

“I'm going to find her,” he said stubbornly, as if expecting their protests. “If - if Hermione and I both come from the same universe, then I should follow the same path she did, right?” Luna nodded, somewhat helplessly.

“Theoretically…” she said feebly.

“Harry… you can't be serious…” Ron said. “You can't go alone.”

“I can, and I will. You two have to take care of each other.” His face was grimly determined. “I'm going to fix this.” Ron appeared to want to protest, but Luna's face was calmer. She very nearly seemed to be expecting this, and Harry wondered - not for the first time - exactly how Luna Lovegood knew the things she knew.

“You'll have to deactivate the crystal, so you'll travel between the universes, but I'll - I'll show you that spell - and - and the one for reactivation. When you find her, you should be able to use the necklace to come back home.” Her eyes were welling with tears, but Harry seized on the simple word she'd used, probably without even realizing it. When…when I find her… “We should go somewhere else. You won't want to appear somewhere restricted, or you could get into trouble.”

“I know where we can go,” Harry said quickly. The three of them exchanged a glance. They knew…without Harry having to say anything at all.

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Only a short while later, they were striding through the main gates of Hogwarts, though they quickly left the path to cut across the green instead. The black depths of the Forbidden Forest stood not too far away. Harry made his way to the spot he'd left earlier today - well, yesterday, by now, he mused.

“How long do you think it will take to find her? If I follow the same path she did…” he asked, turning toward Luna, who was taking two strides for each of theirs.

“You - her signature might call you to her, so you'll probably travel more quickly than she did. Like attracts like, you know. But it still could be…”

“Years…” Harry supplied for her. Ron looked shell-shocked, his mouth opening and closing without sound.

“If - if you enter a universe, where you already exist,” Luna began, sounding almost like Hermione in lecture mode. She was trying desperately to quickly give Harry all the information he'd need, without succumbing to her emotions. “You'll be forced out of phase. No one will be able to see you or hear you. You won't be able to physically interact with anything. You won't hunger, tire, or age.”

“How will I see Hermione?”

“If she's in phase, you'll see her like you see everything else. Necklaces shouldn't affected by phase, so you ought to be able to extract her. I don't know what will happen if both of you are out of phase together. It's feasible that you might be able to see each other.”

“What if it's a universe where I don't exist?”

“If you've died, or were never born, then you'll appear in that universe exactly as you are now. Same rules, same physical laws, everything. You should be able to do magic, so you can Glamour yourself if you want to avoid unwanted questions.”

“And if I'm in phase, while she's there, but out of phase?”

“Then you won't even know she's there. You wouldn't be able to see or hear her. Chances are, she wouldn't even realize that you weren't the Harry indigenous to that universe.”

“This is ridiculous, Harry!” Ron burst out suddenly. “I regret every day what happened to Hermione, and there's not one second that goes by that I don't hate myself for my part in it, but this… this is like a searching for a Crumple-Horned Snorkack with earmuffs on.” The corners of Luna's eyes crinkled slightly at the reference. “Don't do this.”

“I have to do this,” Harry said steadfastly. “Besides it won't be entirely random, right? Our signatures will be drawing us together.” He turned back to Luna, encouragingly. “That's what you said, right?”

“It's very important to remember that there's not a shred of proof to back most of this up,” Luna said very seriously. Harry reached out and chucked her chin, his green eyes glinting with fondness.

“I'd take a theory from you over facts from most people, any day.” They stared at each other for a moment, until Ron cleared his throat roughly. When Harry turned his attention toward Ron, he suddenly found his vision obscured by a spray of water.

“Luna, what the hell?” he spluttered, as she continued to aim her wand at his face, moving when he moved to continue the contact. As the cooling water refreshed his tender eyes, he realized what she'd been doing. While he wiped his face on the hem of his cloak, she pulled the clip from her hair and transfigured it into a pair of spectacles.

“You might need these,” she said, her fingers lingering gently in his hand as the transfer was made.

“Thanks,” he said, adjusting the prescription with his wand, as he settled them on his nose. The nearly light-hearted moment seemed to have vanished as unexpectedly as it had come. Dimly, he could remember another brainy girl's voice primly saying, Oculus reparo.

“I - I guess I know you well enough to know that there's no talking you out of something you've gotten your mind set on,” Ron finally ventured awkwardly. “It's your saving-people thing, I reckon.”

“Hermione has a knack for always being right, doesn't she?” Harry responded, and they both gave a slight grin at each other.

“I can't help but think that - that somehow this is all my fault.” Ron grew serious again. “If only I'd kept my big stupid mouth closed, then I - then I would have - none of this would -” His eyes drifted toward the vast dark shadow of the forest; they were murky and troubled.

“If you'd been with Hermione, you'd have likely been killed, Ron,” Harry supplied grimly. “Having seen what happened, knowing what they were planning, there's no doubt in my mind that you'd have only been in their way.” He stopped and laid one hand on Ron's shoulder, looking deep into his friend's blue eyes to make absolutely sure he understood. He had to noisily swallow, before he could speak, but he managed to say in an almost normal voice. “I'm glad you weren't there. I couldn't - I couldn't have borne losing you both.”

“Harry…” Ron got out before his voice cracked and vanished, eyes swimming with tears that he self-consciously tried to dash away with the back of one hand. A muscle worked in Harry's jaw, and he sighed gustily, before rolling his eyes at himself.

“I'm going to bring her back, Ron,” he said, with all the solemnity of a sacred vow.

“I know,” Ron replied. Harry nodded once, and flicked his eyes toward Luna, while Ron's gaze grew sober and determined. It was like their exchange at the hospital, wordless, but fraught with meaning.

“Do you know the incantation?” Luna asked, as she twiddled her wand nervously between her fingers.

Harry nodded, and she deftly instructed him on the proper spells to use to toggle the crystal once he'd arrived. Her eyes were ice-blue and diamond-hard as she spoke the words, and he knew - without her having to say it - the importance that he remember it exactly… It was his - and Hermione's - ticket home.

He tapped the crystal pendant on the chain with his wand; it seemed to shiver slightly at the contact.

“Adjicio universum,” he said.

And the world as he knew it fell away.

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AN: Well, I'm back! It was interesting, but fun, and we are all glad to be home. Traveling with kids is never easy, quick, or efficient - but it was a good time!

And here is chapter 12. Hope you enjoyed it. You may leave a review on your way out if you like

lorien

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Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Thirteen:

Sometimes I wish someone out there would find me. Till then, I walk alone.

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

Harry was vaguely surprised when he arrived exactly where he'd been before. Ron and Luna were gone, but the forest still loomed large at his back, and Hogwarts still stood in front of him. He looked down at the grass springing around his shoes, and his hands shook so violently that he nearly dropped his wand.

She was here. Five years ago, she was here, alive, standing on this very spot.

He shoved his wand in his pocket, and took an experimental swipe at the trunk of the nearest tree. His hand passed harmlessly through it. So I exist here somewhere… He relaxed a little, knowing that he was invisible, out of phase, and therefore unable to be harmed.

He had no clear plan in mind, but began to walk, taking a direction that carried him parallel to the forest, in the general direction of the main pathway. He supposed he had the vague idea of going up to Hogwarts, and checking out the lay of the land, so to speak, but that was quickly abandoned, as he drew closer to Hagrid's hut.

It was gone. Nothing was left, but the crumbled foundations to claim that it had ever existed at all. The garden was grown over to such an extent that even Harry's inexpert eyes could tell that it had been years. It also seemed that insidious tendrils of the forest had crept outward, teasing at the edges of what had once been cleared land.

Reflexively, he looked up toward the castle, and gasped in astonishment and horror, as his new angle revealed what had been hidden from him before. Hogwarts carried a gaping hole through its heart, the entire front face demolished. The Astronomy tower had been utterly destroyed, and Gryffindor Tower was open to the night air. Giant, jagged holes pockmarked the roof, and sundry bits of flotsam dotted the landscape - blasted furniture, rotting cloth, broken glass. Only snaggly clumps of uneven stone remained, and tall grass tufted here and there between the cracks.

But I'm still alive… I'm alive…how could this have happened?

He wondered wildly if Hermione had been in phase when she arrived, tried to imagine her horror at the sight now before him. Had she been here during the battle itself? Had it occurred five years ago, or longer? How had he lived, and yet not kept this from happening? Had it been a draw or a defeat? Was there now some kind of underground movement?

Shaking his head, he turned his back on the skeletal remains of the much-beloved home, and began to make his way toward Hogsmeade. He thought he glimpsed Dumbledore's tomb glinting in the scant moonlight. The grand gates hung half off their hinges, bowed and distorted and beginning to rust. The walls were partially crumbled, the path to the castle rutted and unkempt, and verging on overgrowth.

Hogsmeade appeared more normal, with lights spilling from windows, and the sound of raucous conversation from the Hog's Head reaching his ears. Harry found himself darting into shadows more than once, before remembering that he effectively did not exist. In a sudden panic, he thrust his hand toward his collar, to feel the reassuring intricate metal of the necklace chain, his link, his grounding, his way out.

As he made his way down the main street, he noted changes. The sweet shop was gone, as was Zonko's. Other, less savory looking establishments had taken their place, and there was a distinct, but indefinable air of seediness. Harry supposed that businesses like Honeyduke's would have more trouble staying open without a school nearby.

That thought caused his ruminations to drift back toward Hogwarts and its ruined state. If it had been damaged in battle, why was it not rebuilt? Surely five years was more than enough time to reconstruct a school - especially when the builders had magic at their disposal. Were times so bad that the renowned school was forced to languish in ruin?

It took two ineffectual grabs for the door handle at the Hog's Head for Harry to recall his status yet again, and he ended up merely strolling right through the wooden planks of the door. The pub had always been somewhat on the shady side, but now it appeared positively Dark. Wizards were hooded in grimy black, huddled in shadows, and hags clacked their toothless gums at the bar. A fight broke out in one obscure corner, and, though Harry jumped violently at the green flash of light, no one else seemed terribly concerned at the Unforgivable curse that had just been used.

“Oy!” called the barkeep. “Clean it up, or you'll receive the same!” The wizard who'd just committed murder grumbled under his breath, and Vanished the body. The noise of conversation, which had diminished at the bartender's instruction, resumed its previous level. Harry found himself backing away, eyes wide with disbelief, staring at the spot where the body had once been. Where were the Aurors? The MLE? What about that man's family? This can't be real. This can't be real.

Just then, the door was thrust open forcefully, hitting the wall behind it with a noisy bang. Three Death Eaters, fully hooded and cloaked, strode in, knocking aside any and all who could even be remotely considered to be in their way. In a low, unintelligible snarl, the one in front ordered drinks.

“And make it quick,” he added.

“On a mission tonight?” the bartender asked, with a kind of detached curiosity. He appeared to be desperately trying to contain any simpering fear, trying to escape the cowering, groveling manner that most of the customers had.

“Classified business for the Dark Lord,” the first Death Eater answered in a surly way that brooked no further questions.

“I'm glad to help in any way I can,” the proprietor replied, offering them their drinks. Harry was trying to take it all in: Hogwarts was gone, the Dark Lord was in power, yet he was still alive, doing what for Merlin's sake? He felt like his brain might implode, or his head topple off his shoulders.

Just then, there was another scuffle near the back of the pub, as a particularly disreputable-looking wizard had taken it into his head to grope the serving girl, whom Harry could see was quite young and very dirty. The empty tray she'd been carrying fell to the floor with a metallic clang. Harry felt his heart leap with sudden, desperate hope until he saw the long ebony plait down her back.

The girl seemed shocked and embarrassed at the attention that was now centered on her, and she backed away toward the shadows, pulling nervously on one ragged sleeve.

“Hey!” Another of the Death Eaters called to her, just before she melted completely from sight. “You! Com'ere.” The obscured form of the serving-girl moved warily toward him, her eyes wide with fear. She moved slowly, lightly, with that wary compunction of one who comes because she must, not because she wishes.

When she got within arm's reach, the Death Eater grabbed her wrist in a lightning-fast move, and twisted it around until an involuntary cry of pain escaped her lips. He peered closely at her forearm, and turned to glare at the bartender.

“You employin' a Mudblood?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous. Now the man behind the bar showed fear, paling and backing away, wiping his hands nervously on his apron. A hostile murmur wove around the bar like an insidious viper. The girl became very white and very quiet, but did not move to flee or protest.

“I - I wouldn't - I didn't know - ”

“'Sright here on her arm,” he said, lifting up the girl's arm for all to see. Some kind of serial number, followed by a symbol, was tattooed on her pale skin. “You know what that means…” He let go of the girl so abruptly that she fell, and the third Death Eater administered several vicious kicks to her abdomen. She laid in the floor, curled up, and vomited weakly, tears tracking through the dirt on her face. Harry thought he saw blood. No one moved to assist her, all eyes fixated on the scene playing out before them.

“P - Please…” the man raised both hands defensively. “I assure you I didn't know. She - she must have magically obscured her number…”

“I saw it quite clearly,” said the Death Eater who'd discovered her. There was a low ripple of assent in the tavern.

“The Dark Lord's orders are quite clear.” The first Death Eater spoke again, drained his drink, and then raised his wand. “No one is to disguise, harbor, employ, or in any way assist a Mudblood. She offer to warm your bed for you in exchange? You know what the penalty for that is…” The bartender let out an incoherent cry and wavered violently on his feet.

“No! No! Please, I - I'm sorry. I didn't know. I won't do it again. Please… surely Lord Potter would show mercy on me - I've always been a loyal servant, always…”

“You dare speak his name?” The second Death Eater's voice was sharp. The bartender's pleas for mercy became high-pitched and incoherent, but Harry no longer heard them, as his head snapped up, his heart roaring in his ears.

It can't be true. It can't be true.

The other Death Eaters raised their wands, and as they did so, the loose sleeves of their black robes slid towards their elbows, exposing their Dark Marks. Harry had noticed them on the forearms of several patrons, but had not looked at them closely. He did so now.

They appeared identical to the ones he'd seen in his universe - the snake still twining sinuously from the skull's gaping mouth - except for one small detail.

A jagged lightning bolt adorned the shiny broad forehead of the skull.

Harry had seen enough.

He did not wait to find out the fate of the hapless tavern manager.

Not even paying attention to his flight through the bar, he passed noiselessly through an entire party of people, their table, and the grimy window. He ran through the town blindly, heedless of his surroundings, hearing his own breathless, disbelieving sobs resound in his ears, and did not stop until he reached the middle of the forest. He collapsed to the ground, folded over his knees, and thought he would vomit, until he realized that he could not.

I can't be the Dark Lord… I can't be… I wouldn't…

He had never felt betrayal so acutely. Knowledge that any version of himself at all had the ability, had the desire to turn into something fouler than even Voldemort had hoped to become sickened him, shook him, scared him.

I'm not like that. I'm not like that. I'm not like that.

He didn't know how many times he'd thought it, before he actually realized that he was chanting the phrase like a mantra. He wondered if he said it enough times that he could prove it to be true. The brisk night breeze whipped around him, rustling the leaves above his head, but not stirring one hair on it. Harry wasn't sure how long he stayed out there in the heart of the forest, trying to reconstruct the toppled castle of his perceptions. Had he really even understood what Luna had meant, what Malfoy had meant by an alternate reality? Had he really thought that they were merely places where he'd chosen to play Quidditch instead of become an Auror, or had selected sausage at breakfast instead of bacon?

“Oh….God…oh, God,” he moaned; it sounded low and deep and painful, as if it had been torn from the deepest parts of him. Here, people feared and loathed him. Here, he hated those of Muggle descent and everything for which they stood. Here, he'd killed - who knew how many times, and how many were those he'd considered friends?

Friends… In a flash of frenzied terror, he thought of Hermione. If she'd arrived in this universe - if she'd been in phase - if she'd tried to find out what happened….

…if she'd come looking for me… he supplied for himself, and felt his stomach knot in fear and began ascent. If the sight he'd seen in the Hog's Head was typical, then it did not bode well for her chances, especially if she'd sought him out. Gingerly, he stood, looking longingly at the dim chaos of dirt and dead leaves at his feet, wishing that he could throw up. Have I come so far, only to find that she has died at my own hand? It was too terrible, too heart-rending to contemplate.

He reached into his collar and wrapped one hand around the pendant again. He couldn't deactivate the crystal yet.

He couldn't move to the next universe on his journey, until he'd determined his Hermione's fate in this one.

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Harry was standing in the tiny confines of a call box, having strode purposefully through the red-and-glass paneling, and was eying the phone and its accompanying directory with baleful frustration.

“How can I find Hermione when I can't bloody touch anything?” He shouted, and grew even more annoyed when a lone vagrant shambling by didn't appear to hear him at all, as he realized anew that no one did, no one could. Clenching his fists, he closed his eyes and replayed Luna's words in his head.

No one will be able to see or hear you. You won't hunger, tire, or age. You won't be able to physically interact with anything.

He swore under his breath, pointed his wand at the telephone directory, and commanded it to open.

As he expected, nothing happened. He cursed again, wishing that he'd paid more attention to Hermione's conversations, in the vain hope that he could have perhaps gleaned some clue as to where exactly she lived.

But then a thought occurred to him, and his eyes brightened considerably. The Burrow… he knew where it was. He closed his eyes and pictured the ramshackle cottage in his mind, and disappeared in some sort of semblance of Apparation, though he made no noise at all.

He recognized the topography of the landscape around him, but did not see anything else that looked familiar. The familiar topsy-turvy home was nowhere to be seen, but Harry strolled down the slightly sloping drive to where it was supposed to be.

There were signs of life, a few scraps of parchment fluttered on the breeze, hung in the tall grasses, and the drive had two parallel ruts in it, but the house was quite simply gone. Unlike Hagrid's, no trace of its existence remained.

Harry's mind shrieked in protest of its impotence and its frustrated desire for answers in a world that seemed turned on its ear. But before he could adequately rail at a Fate that seemed eager to mock him, even in a universe that he could neither control nor even touch, his attention was arrested by a low murmur of voices.

“Ron?” he called out, quite forgetting that no one could hear him. “Ron? Mr. Weasley? Mrs. Weasley? Are you there?” There was, of course, no answer, and he felt more than a little foolish.

Vivid red hair stood out, even in the now-graying, pre-dawn landscape, as two lean figures emerged from the woods. The twins! Harry felt his heart sing with joy.

“We have another order ready,” one of them said.

“Did you set a delivery time?”

“Don't be daft, Fred! We've got to have confirmation first. Remember what happened last time?” George's voice was unmistakably bitter and dark.

“Bill's told you a thousand times that it wasn't your fault. Ron - ”

“I don't want to talk about Ron,” he sounded like he would have shouted if they hadn't been trying to maintain a low profile.

“We can't change what happened. He's made his choices,” Fred said in a matter-of-fact way. George muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

“To go over to - to him... when we all saw how he was in school. He was a bloody Slytherin, for Merlin's sake!”

“George, will you shut up? What if someone hears you?”

“What would it matter?” Anguish dripped from each syllable.

“There's still Ginny… you know - George, you know she can't take care of herself. We've got to stay free for her… if nothing else.” George seemed to calm down somewhat.

“Yes,” he said, almost to himself. “Yes, there's still Ginny to look after. After what Potter did to her in the Chamber of Secrets…” Fred hushed him again, looking around furtively, as they made their way up the slope toward him, evidently making their way past their anti-Apparation wards.

Harry thrust both hands jaggedly through his hair, unable to process anything else, his mind reeling, his throat closed with dread and despair. The Weasley family scattered, in hiding… Ginny, apparently somehow permanently injured by his own hand… Ron, spoken of with a dripping sort of loathing-beyond-contempt that hadn't even been formerly reserved for Percy. And the Slytherin mentioned? He could only assume they were referring to him, and to Ron's alliance with him. Harry wanted so badly to leave that he could taste it, wanted it more desperately than he'd ever wanted almost anything, but he couldn't leave without finding out what happened to Hermione.

He paced up and down the hillside, without fatigue, trying not to look at the place where the Burrow should have been. Fred and George were passing him now, just to his left, and Fred readjusted the strap on his knapsack, swinging it wide as they ascended past him. The tattered bag was coming straight at him, and he flinched instinctively, even as it harmlessly passed through. He saw an invisibility cloak, a cloth bag full of Galleons, a shield hat, and three bottles of potion protected by cushioning charms.

Even as he logged that information somewhere in his flustered brain, he heard dual cracks, as the Weasleys Apparated away. He toyed with the idea of venturing into the small copse of trees to look for their hideaway, but suddenly he stopped, as inspiration struck him.

He had seen what was inside Fred's bag, as it swung through him. Might he not be able to look inside a telephone directory in the same way?

Haven't got any better options, he thought laconically to himself, and Apparated back to the call box he'd abandoned earlier.

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A bare five minutes later, he was strolling up a well-tended street, lined with pristine green squares of lawn and tidy houses. He reflected that it appeared to be a rather nicer version of Privet Drive.

When he came to her house number, his heart swelled in his chest, and he made his way up the walk, going right through the white-painted front door. There was a pretty little vestibule with polished hardwood floors, and a stairway ran up to the right. The end of the corridor opened out into what looked like a great room, and there was a door to the left. He heard voices from behind this door, and proceeded through it as well.

A nicely dressed, vaguely familiar couple sat at a breakfast table, sipping tea. Toast and fruit were on the table, as well as pots of honey and jam. The man was looking at the front page of the Times, while the woman perused a magazine, occasionally jotting a note in the margin with a ballpoint pen. Harry tried to make out the title, and thought he could see Journal of Dent -

They were Hermione's parents. He lifted his eyes toward the ceiling above his head, and wondered if she still lived here. Almost as if he were broadcasting his thoughts, Mrs. Granger sighed and said, as she laid down her pen,

“This house feels so empty without her.”

Mr. Granger lifted his eyes from the paper, and patted her hand affectionately.

“Now, you knew this would happen eventually.” Mrs. Granger's look of chagrin told her husband that she knew he was right.

“She didn't have to go early - take that summer term.”

“This is Hermione we're talking about, dear. She was so thrilled when she got into Oxford's doctoral program that I'm surprised she didn't camp out down there immediately.”

“I know.” Mrs. Granger's little laugh ended in an almost-sigh. “I hope - do you think she'll be happy there?”

“It's Oxford. She'll have a million dusty old books in which to bury her head, and dozens upon dozens of brilliant people to have discussions with - though none as brilliant as she, of course. She'll be in her element. We'll be lucky if she thinks of us at all.” The twinkle in his eyes belied any real belief in his last statement.

Harry couldn't help a wistful smile at Mr. Granger's speech, as he ambled soundlessly up the stairs, poking his head through doors until he found the one that led to Hermione's bedroom. He had to momentarily struggle for his composure, as he was confronted with the essence of - if not his Hermione's, then at least a - Hermione's life.

Numerous plaques and academic awards adorned her walls. The décor was simple, classic, but no-frills. The bedcovers were deep green, with a few coordinating throw pillows. There was a desk along one wall - mostly denuded now that she'd moved out, he assumed - with a well-worn, wheeled, leather chair. A few framed pictures sat neatly along the back of the desk: Hermione and her parents, Hermione and a friend at a waterfront, an elderly woman he did not know. None of them moved.

Feeling a little like a pervert, he inspected her shelves, her closet and a few of her drawers, keeping an iron-tight grip on the emotions that welled up in him, to keep his Auror-like detachment in his search for answers. He found no memorabilia from Hogwarts, no Gryffindor pennants or rosettes, no red-and-gold scarf or old school uniform, no magical books of any kind.

He let out a sigh that was half-disappointment, half-relief. He simultaneously had longed for and dreaded to see her, knowing that she would not really be his Hermione. And yet he was satisfied with what he'd found - Hermione appeared to have never had any magical ability at all in this universe, and, for the time being at least, seemed safe enough from his counterpart's own machinations.

He felt a shudder of nausea, accompanied by no shortage of eagerness to leave this horrendous place. Belatedly but correctly realizing that he would not be hampered by any wards against Apparation - if indeed any remained intact at Hogwarts - he traveled back to the spot where he'd first arrived, and fingered the crystal delicately, closing his eyes against this twisted and derelict version of his old school.

Hang on, Hermione. I'm coming.

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AN: Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I had a lot of fun writing it. A/U gives you a great excuse to write whatever you want, so this was a blast.

And may I take a moment to thank each and every one of you leaving reviews. They are much appreciated, even if I don't get time to reply to all of them. I am thrilled with the response to this story so far! Thank you all so much!

You may leave a review on your way out, if you like

lorien

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Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Fourteen:

Without you, I just can't find my way

--Simple Plan, “Perfect World”

By unspoken and yet shared consent, neither Luna nor Ron uttered a word to each other, as she somewhat dazedly answered the questions fired at her by the Auror on duty. She dimly noticed the quill frantically jotting down her disjointed responses verbatim. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood in the corner, observing, a silent and brooding dark shadow. Ron was a comforting presence near her… not warmth exactly, as he wasn't touching her, but the promise of warmth.

Later, she would realize that she couldn't really remember what she'd said to the investigator. She would recall the vague distant sound of her voice in her ears, no more distinct really, than water trickling over stones. She could remember the faint whispery scratch of the quill, and the cool feel of the lacquer on the table, and Ron - a blur of color behind her, wordlessly offering support by mere proximity.

Harry… she thought almost dully. Harry's gone, and I sent him there. The atmosphere around her - the very universe - had seemed to throb slightly, as if something important had been removed from it, when Harry had disappeared from sight. Luna had felt it, felt the very center of her soul convulse with the loss, and she had collapsed against Ron, as her bones refused to help her stand any longer.

Ron's hands had closed around her upper arms, just below her shoulders. He had squeezed once. I know. I understand. All he said was,

“He'll come back.”

After the interview was complete, they made their way home, Apparating to the predetermined point outside their flat, and strolling toward it with their fingers loosely interlocked. With the click of the door latch behind them, Luna suddenly felt trapped, imprisoned, as if by closing that door, they had inadvertently sealed themselves in irrevocably. Silence seemed to swell and grow inside the dim set of rooms, until it was like a living thing, an uninvited guest that was unwelcome and determined to stay.

Luna's eyes darted everywhere, and she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, her small hands twisting round each other tightly. Ron watched her with curiosity and not a little concern. One thing Luna had been for them over the last five torturous years was a rock. She would occasionally say or do completely barmy things, but she rarely lost her equanimity, the vague placidity that seemed to carry her through life, with no more urgency and frantic grasping at control than a fallen leaf caught in a slowly swirling current. He had never seen her this way.

“What if he doesn't - ?”

“He will,” Ron interrupted her.

Luna gazed at him, with a mournful look that was almost beseeching, like a small child pleading with an adult to tell her everything was all right, even if that meant lying. She resumed her uneven and erratic pacing around the room. Ron watched her, opened his mouth, closed it again, started for his room, stopped, turned back to her, and finally swore under his breath, and strode from the living room.

Luna held her breath when she heard the clinking of glass, and clenched her hands into small fists. She knew that Ron felt left out, that he didn't understand why she was upset, that he might even be jealous of her bond with Harry, and she didn't know how she could explain it to him.

“Ronald?” she called out uncertainly, wincing when her voice cracked on the last syllable. There was a beat of absolute silence; Luna could sense it lurking in the corners. Then she heard his heavy tread in the corridor, and he appeared before her again, his eyebrows raised in query.

His hands were empty. Without her really meaning them to, Luna's eyes flickered from those hands to his face, questioningly.

“You're not drinking,” she said mildly, as if observing the weather. It belied the anxiety evidenced by her stance and movements. Ron flushed a little, and shoved his hands into his pockets, shuffling his trainers back and forth on the rug.

“It's not that I don't want to,” he began honestly. “Believe me, there's nothing I'd like more right this moment than a glass of old Ogden's. I even poured it.”

“But - ?” she prodded gently. Her shoulders had relaxed slightly. He took her hands in his, and led her to the sofa, where they both perched, knees toward each other, nearly touching.

“You need me.” The simple words dropped into the room and hung suspended there. Luna said nothing for a moment, and Ron began to fear that he'd offended her somehow. “You - for five years, you've been there for me and - and Harry. Without questions, without judging… I don't know how you've stood either of us - especially me - this long. How can I abandon the one I love - you - when I have a chance to return the favor?” He laid one hand alongside her jaw, so that his fingertips trailed into her hair. “And if that weren't enough, I - I promised Harry… and I owe him this.”

“Ron…” The last syllable of his name blurred into a sigh. He tilted her chin up, and laid a light kiss on her lips. It was apology; it was hope; a chaste rebirth and a promise of a future all commingled with the tears that he could taste on her mouth.

“Now,” he said presently, leaning back into the sofa, with Luna tucked into the crook of his shoulder. “What's wrong? Is it just Harry's being gone, or - ?”

“It feels different,” she blurted nonsensically.

“You're just worried,” he said. “It's probably better to keep ourselves busy, focused on something else so - so we don't - ” think about what might happen.

“You don't understand! I felt - I felt him leave. He's - he's really gone, and - and it - it doesn't feel like it did before.” She appeared irritated by the inadequacy of her words. “What if I've made a mistake?” Ron was shaking his head, his eyes narrowed as he tried to glean the gist of what she'd said from its inarticulate expression. “It feels like - like the rest of the world is out of focus, or - or too sharply focused, so that it gives you a headache… like wearing glasses not meant for you.”

Ron wondered absently how often Luna wore other people's spectacles.

“Or like a picture frame that seems to be hung crookedly, but really it's the ceiling that slants…” She trailed off, and put her head in her hands, in an uncharacteristic gesture of despair. Her dirty blond hair hung like a curtain, spilling over her arms and knees.

“The universe was out of balance,” Ron said slowly, staring into middle distance, as if outside forces were impelling him to speak.

“I told Harry that,” Luna said suddenly, looking up at him, brushing tears away from her sticky face.

“On more than one occasion, if I recall correctly.”

“He needed a lot of reminding.”

“As, apparently, do you,” Ron smiled fondly at her, and kissed her softly again. “What if the feeling you have of something being different isn't really wrong. Maybe - maybe it's the universe starting to - to realign itself correctly, and it feels a bit off because you're so used to it being out of balance?”

Luna grew very still, as if she'd been Petrified. Her eyes were wide and staring.

“Equilibrium…” she whispered, almost to herself.

When she turned to Ron, there was ethereal and rapturous smile on her face.

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Harry wasn't sure how long he would be waiting, after the crystal holding him to this particular universe was deactivated. He hoped it wouldn't be long, and he tried to shake off the long, chill fingers of dread that tickled at him, as he thought of himself as a murderer, as a hater of the Muggle-born, as a violent despot, as Dark Lord.

His eyes went pleadingly to the ruined stones of Hogwarts. Please, get me out of here, please. If only he'd been able to do magic while out of phase, was the longing thought that skittered across his mind. If he - invincible, untouchable, invisible - were to face this universe's version of him, how many lives would he be able to change for the better?

Every instinct he had allied itself with those unfortunate enough to live under his alternate's rule. It seemed untenable that he would have to leave this universe as it was, leave this evil unchecked, unthwarted. His righteous indignation had reared its head, and he wanted to fight, to set right, to vanquish, to restore, to - to …

Don't you think you've got a bit of a saving-people-thing?

He sighed, as his thoughts returned slowly, pulled as if with an unseen, implacable force, to the reason he'd come here in the first place. All that matters, he thought ferociously, is that my Hermione was out of phase when she was here. When she left that universe, she was alive, and that meant that his journey wouldn't end here.

Try as he might, he could not erase the coarsely spoken comments from the Death Eaters in the Hog's Head.

You dare speak his name? His own name, which had once been an object of praise, thankfulness, and starstruck awe - was now the focus of elitism, terror, torture, and death…

The hostile murmurs of the crowd surrounding the fallen servant girl, as she spit out her own blood, were still ringing in his ears as the world melted away around him once again.

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He passed through several universes in a blur - apparently so incompatible with his own that he could not remain there for any truly measurable length of time. As he was flung mercilessly from one whirlwind to another, he could only hope that Hermione had passed through as well - surely she had. There was simply no opportunity to search for her.

He found himself on a green similar that of Hogwarts, though the stone building standing in its place resembled more of a heavily fortified military stronghold than a castle or a school. There was a battle going on somewhere in the distance; he could taste the acrid tang in the air and hear the cries and clangs of the clash. Dragons soared in the sky, arcing and whirling, spurting fire from their nostrils and leaving smoky contrails in their wakes. There were so many of them….

Unearthly silence surrounding him, and the ground beneath his feet was gone. He panicked, flailing his arms desperately, and would have sucked in a couple of lungfuls of water, if he'd been in phase. There was nothing as far as the eye could see but the churning, wrinkled, fathomless surface of an ocean. As he let himself sink - not that he could stop it anyway - he wasn't sure what was more disconcerting, the fact that there was a large body of water where Scotland should have been, or that - apparently and thankfully - he did exist somewhere in this universe…

And in the space of a heartbeat, he'd gone from wet to dry in the most extreme of juxtapositions. Still standing in the same spot, geographically speaking, he was now in an arid wasteland, devoid of anything, but featureless, rolling, desolate hills, and the occasional desert scrub. He appeared to be in phase now, and the heat assailed him like a physically dominating foe. When he inhaled, he felt as if every molecule of moisture had been sucked from his mouth, his lungs, the lining of his throat. The sky was such a bright, pale blue as to be almost white, and twin suns hung in the sky…

He stood on cool, smooth stone, a crisp and uniform grayness that extended outward in all directions. Where he had once seen the lofty turrets of a castle, there was now a building of a sort he'd never seen before, a domed structure, metallic and abstract and low to the ground. He saw no windows. As he turned on his heel, he could see other similar structures, some taller than others. People were everywhere, though no one seemed to notice him. It was as if he'd been planted in the center of some large, futuristic metropolis. A pretty girl in her early twenties brushed by, and passed partially through his left arm…

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Then he was on the green again, much as he remembered it, and felt a rush of emotion at the sight of Hogwarts intact, familiar, beloved. He reached for the tree, and his hand passed harmlessly through the rough edges of the bark once again.

Damn, he thought, imagining another fruitless search, unable to touch any object, ask any questions. He supposed that, with the bizarre possibilities he'd seen so far, Hermione could be anywhere on the planet, or nowhere at all… and the task seemed to loom up before him, large, imposing, and utterly insurmountable.

He heaved an enormous sigh, that did nothing to stir the air currents around him, and - reluctant to venture to Hogsmeade again at the thought of his last experience there - he began to head toward the castle itself.

Even as he mounted the central staircase, he realized that, without having any clear plan in mind, he was headed for the Headmistress's Office. He was hoping that, like so many times before, the person in that office - whoever it happened to be - would be able to extend to him the answers for which he so desperately searched. The journey was not long; he was able to move swiftly, there being no student traffic due to the summer break, and he could also cut through classrooms and walls to take the most direct route.

He had just seen the burnished edges of the gargoyle that marked his destination, when he spotted Nearly Headless Nick wafting at the far end of the corridor, apparently floating in a beam of sunlight from one of the leaded windows. And then…

Sir Nicholas apparently saw him.

The ghost streamed quickly in his direction.

“Bless my soul, Harry Potter, what are you doing here?” Harry actually found himself checking over his shoulder if someone else was there.

“You - you can see me?” Nick cocked his head at him - at more of an angle than most could - and eyed him with a look that said, Of course, I can see you; have you already been nipping at the firewhiskey today?

Harry paused to reflect for a moment. He supposed that ghosts didn't occupy the same dimension as humans, strictly speaking - but he'd never thought that they could actually see travelers from other universes. He wondered if Luna had forgotten to mention it, or if this was something that the Unspeakables had not yet discovered, just because nobody had happened upon a ghost they knew, while out of phase.

It was all beginning to make his head ache.

“Now that you mention it,” Sir Nicholas said, squinting closely at Harry and floating all the way around him to get a full view. “You do look rather more translucent than normal.” Harry jerked his chin down toward his chest in shock, but found himself looking - to his eyes anyway - as solid as he ever had, his ability to pass through solid objects notwithstanding.

The ghost leaned toward him, and laid a see-through hand on/into his arm, which Harry could not feel.

“So what happened to you?” He added a conspiratorial wink. “Annoy the missus already?”

“The missus?” Harry echoed stupidly.

“Have you hit your head?” The spirit drew closer to him still, appearing intent on checking his pupils for proper dilation.

Harry was irritated. His head was still swimming with images of Dark Marks branded with lightning bolts, of countless dragons swooping malevolently across the sky, of implacable and featureless water, extending everywhere he looked. He was beginning to think that he had indeed bitten off more than he could chew this time, and despaired of floundering in this wilderness of possibilities forever, having either already missed Hermione without realizing it, or having failed to reach the universe where she was.

He flung up his left hand, and glowered at Sir Nick.

“Does it look like I'm married?”

“Don't tell me you've lost your - ” The ghost began in a tone of dismay, but Harry didn't let him finish.

“I don't have time for this. Sir Nicholas, I'm sorry, but I really must find Hermione Granger. Do you happen to know where she lives?”

Sir Nicholas drew back regally, and looked at him with a guarded and somber expression. It was as if he'd concluded that somehow Harry was quite mad, and began speaking very formally.

“She lives in Godric's Hollow, sir. With … you.” Nicholas looked forebodingly down into Harry's uncomprehending face. “I don't claim to know who or what you really are, and I am certainly in no position to stop you, but know this - you won't get within a hundred meters of that house if - ”

He stopped abruptly, and whirled in a misty circuit in the center of the empty corridor.

Harry was gone.

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Upon fully processing Nearly Headless Nick's information, Harry had Disapparated - or done his best approximation thereof - immediately, while the Gryffindor ghost was in mid-sentence. Godric's Hollow…Godric's Hollow… the name throbbed in his brain with a goodly amount of angst and disbelief. He'd been there… once … as he, Ron, and Hermione had begun the search for the horcruxes.

Why in Merlin's name would I want anyone I cared about to live there?

But the answer was before his eyes, as he saw one of the most picturesque little cottages he could have ever imagined, set back from the paved, but narrow lane by a low stone wall, artfully overhung with some kind of low-growing purple flower. Twilight was beginning to set in, and light was spilling from the windows like welcoming yellow arms. He thought he could see laundry - laundry! - fluttering in the slight breeze, nearly out of sight behind the house.

It looked nothing like the ramshackle wreck that had met his eyes, upon their arrival to the Hollow six years ago. The property had been decrepit, overgrown, forgotten; wand blasts were still blackened against the porch railings and front door, which hung on one hinge. To Harry, the sight had made him feel as if the tragedy that had skewed his life irreversibly in this direction was not as far removed from him as he liked to think.

He had hated it on sight. Hated the house that had provided no shelter or safety for him or his family, hated the fact that it still stood here when his parents were long-buried, hated that it seemed to symbolize all the ways in which his life had gone wrong. He had picked up a fist-sized rock from the crumbly stone wall bordering the house, and flung it through an unbroken window with an incoherent cry of rage and anguish. Ron had started visibly as the sound of shattering glass pierced the still night. Somewhere down the winding little lane, a light had come on.

Then he had felt the warmth of hands on his shoulders, which trembled convulsively beneath their light touch. Abashed, he had dragged his world-weary, despairing eyes to the compassionate ones of Hermione. He had almost not wanted to look at her at all.

“Sorry,” he had mumbled, lowering his gaze to the scuffed toes of his trainers.

“It's okay to be angry, Harry,” she said. Her voice had sounded warm and low and knowledgeable, like one could recline back in the comfort of that voice, knowing that whatever it said was good and true and right.

They had made a hasty visit to the small cemetery where his parents were buried, and then left. Harry hadn't cared if he ever saw the place again.

He never imagined that he would ever look upon the house as it had been, as it was meant to be, when love and light and laughter had filled it, even through dangerous times. He drank in every detail, the fringe of the eyelet curtains that he could just see around the edge of the window, the cobblestoned walkway up to the front stoop, which was topped by a rather jaunty looking Lincoln-green front door. A brass weathervane perched on the roof, and Harry was amused to note that it was in the form of a polished owl. It was like every cottage he'd ever imagined in storybooks, what precious few he'd managed to scrounge from the Dursleys, and he could not take in the fact that he lived here, with Hermione.

Just as he'd finally decided to venture into the house itself, and look around - hoping to have enough time to ascertain that this Hermione was not his Hermione, not knowing when he would be pulled out of this universe - he heard voices coming down the lane, headed in his direction.

“Great Merlin's Ghost, Harry is paranoid!” came a male exclamation, punctuated by laughter. “The range of his anti-Apparation ward is ridiculous.”

“Now that they're back and settling in, I'm sure he'll key us in to the wards. He just hasn't had time yet. Besides, you can't really blame him, can you? After what happened with that young witch that disregarded her restraining order!” A female voice answered, and the tone was one of chagrin, though there was amusement beneath it. More laughter, and the sound of a swat. “Why are you laughing? It's your fault that he's rich - and handsome…”

“Are you hoping to distract me from my previous point that Harry is going to end up like Alastor Moody?”

“Alastor is not that bad. He's the Head Auror; it's his job to be secretive and see conspiracies under every toadstool.” The pair was coming closer; Harry could hear their footfalls on the lane.

“I work with him, remember? There is no need to remind me of Alastor's… unconventional approaches to security. The last time he put in a new ward without telling anybody - just last week, might I add - I ended up nearly naked in the front office of the MLE.” The woman guffawed.

“You didn't tell me that! That explains why Narcissa Black was looking at me so oddly at Madame Malkin's on Tuesday. She must have been green out of sheer envy.” The man must have looked inordinately pleased with himself, because the woman tutted. “Now, about Harry - James, you really shouldn't tease him so. Between you, Sirius, and Remus, and those Weasley boys, Harry doesn't get a moment's peace when everyone's together.”

“Come on, Lily! He's almost twenty-three years old! In case you haven't noticed, he gives as good as he gets!” James sounded proud, and on that statement, they both rounded the final corner of hedgerow that had blocked them from sight.

Harry had been frozen on the spot, first at the sight of the house, and then at what the voices were saying. At what point he'd realized who they were, he wasn't even sure, but he was still unprepared for the sight of the middle-aged couple that greeted him. The man was trim, in black wizarding robes, rimless spectacles set upon his nose. His hair was as dark as Harry's, but with the addition of graying streaks beginning at his temples. The woman had her arm laced loosely through his, and her vivid red hair swung attractively around her chin and jawline. She was admonishing her husband.

“Well, you shouldn't tease him tonight. They're only just back.”

Harry felt his heart stop, and then surge back to slow life, thumping painfully in his chest.

“Mum? Dad?” he barely managed in a throaty, hoarse whisper that nobody heard.

James gallantly held the gate open for Lily, and they both strolled up the path. Before they could even reach the door, it swung open, and light from the house tumbled onto the lawn.

“Mum! Dad! Come on in… ill waiting on Ron… was work?” His own voice drifted out to him. There was laughter and muffled exclamations, drowning out some of what was said next.

“Yes, we had a lovely time. But we're so glad to be home!” The new voice was exuberant, musical, filled a-brimful with joy and laughter. He recognized it instantly, even though there had not been much opportunity for joy or laughter in those days leading up to the Final Battle.

He found himself walking through the stone wall and over the smooth grass to where the party was clustered at the front door. Slowly, his heart still beating deliberately and agonizingly, and his mouth as dry as desert sand, he dragged his gaze upward to the beautiful house wreathed in light.

And there she was.

-

AN: Sorry for the delay, but I was trying to get out an update of the sorely neglected “Resistance”. I'm also all caught up to where I'd written ahead, so there probably won't be any 2-day updates!

So, next chapter, we'll finally get to see Hermione - even though it isn't our Harry's Hermione. This part was pretty fun to write too - loved writing James and Lily - and I hope everyone enjoyed it.

You may leave a review on your way out, if you like.

lorien

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Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Fifteen:

What if all these fantasies come flailing around?

--R.E.M., “Losing My Religion”

Harry caught between his teeth a ragged breath that no one would ever hear. It had been so long, so long since he had seen her as anything other than an eighteen-year-old girl in a photograph or in Ron's memory that he was mesmerized by the sight of her. She was standing in the doorway, just behind Harry's elbow, one hand on the jamb, framed by light.

He moved closer without even really realizing that he was doing so, almost floating across the yard like a man entranced, his eyes fixed on her face.

“… like the Mediterranean agreed with you both,” Lily observed softly. Hermione looked radiant, as she smiled. Harry was stricken by how grown up she looked, her hair and skin sun-kissed, her expression, which hadn't modified to anything less than joyful, since the door had opened.

“It was lovely, absolutely lovely,” she murmured, looking not at Harry's parents, but at the man himself. So casually that they didn't even seem to be aware of it, the couple had twined their fingers together. Harry turned his head to gaze at the profile of the woman whose hand was in his, and nodded in agreement, a half-smile turning up one corner of his mouth.

“Somehow, I don't think either of them is talking about the scenery,” James said, ostensibly sotto voce, to Lily.

“James, what did I tell you?” Lily asked, under her breath as she nudged her husband in the side.

Harry raked them over with a fond, almost humoring, glance, and turned from the front door, his hand still ensnared with Hermione's.

“C'mon in,” he said. “Dobby has drinks waiting. I think Hermione negotiated him down to just the one task.”

“Dobby?” Lily asked in amazement.

“Harry hired him,” Hermione put in. “Though I'm not sure what he'll do around here, since this place is so small.”

“You know you could always - ” Harry's mother put in hopefully.

“Mum, the Manor is lovely, but - but this was the first home I ever knew. We love it here. And Hermione's worked so hard fixing it all up - ”

“And don't you forget it either!” Hermione said playfully, nudging him in the side. Harry appeared to be on the verge of some kind of rejoinder, but it was cut off, as a voice called from outside,

“Oy, Potter!”

Their observer, Harry, had come through the front wall of the cottage, and he turned around with a start at the sound of the familiar voice, though again, it had been some time since he had heard Ron speak with that amount of buoyance.

He watched Harry's face take on a look of sheer delight, as he rushed to the door and opened it.

“What's your problem, Weasley?” he hollered out at the yard, as a gaggle of people made their way into the front gate.

“Your sodding ward popped us in across town, that's what!” Ron returned. “Need I remind you that some of us have had a very exhausting day of Quidditch practice run by a manager who's a bloody sadist! We don't need to hike all the way over here just because you're afraid of your little girly fans!”

People spilled into the room, and Harry recognized the four youngest Weasleys, their ginger hair glowing in the firelight, as well as a handful of people he didn't know.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” Harry raised both hands toward Ron in a gesture of surrender, as he laughed. “I'll key you into the wards right away. Although,” he smiled possessively, as he wrapped his arms around his wife's waist, “for everyone's well-being, I do suggest that you Floo first.”

There was a resounding chorus of groans, the loudest of which seemed to be coming from one girl in particular, whom Harry did not recognize. She was petite, and her hair was a dark, shimmering auburn.

“Oh, look!” Harry said in mock surprise. “Ron's brought the miscreant with him.” The girl glowered at him.

“Been reading Hermione's dictionary in the loo again?” she sniped, though her eyes glimmered with fondness.

“I thought you were in France,” Harry said. “What are you doing hanging about with this lot?” He was half-laughing as he said it, but she flushed crimson and looked at her shoes, flicking a nervous glance toward Ron, who visibly paled.

Harry caught the look, and his eyes moved rapidly between Ron and the girl, before something like awareness flamed to life there. A bemused grin spread across his face.

“You're not!?” he exclaimed, with a disbelieving grin. The girl mumbled something unintelligible, and Lily and James exchanged glances. “And you knew about this?” he questioned his parents, but turned to Ron without waiting for an answer. “You're dating my sister, Weasley?”

“You dated mine!” said Ron, a trifle defensively.

“Yes, but I'm me, clearly of a different sort,” Harry said loftily. His sister swatted him on the back of his head, and Fred and George immediately began singing a catchy little chorus, the words of which Harry could not make out, although it began, “Kate's a trifle violent, but we don't hold that ag'in her…”

“Ronniekins probably likes that about her,” Ginny spoke up sweetly, and there was a roar of laughter.

“Oy!” Ron said, turning scarlet to the tips of his ears. “Not in front of her parents!”

“Ron, you've spent far too many summers at the Manor for our opinion of you to change now!” James chuckled. Ron echoed the sound hesitantly, clearly unsure whether the remark was a compliment or not.

“Daddy, be nice,” Kate pleaded, leaning up against Ron, who shifted uncomfortably, obviously trying to make the embrace look as platonic as possible.

“Well, he is a sight better than some of the gits you've dated,” Harry stated, off-handedly. Ron looked at him sourly.

“Thanks for the hearty endorsement, mate,” he dead-panned. The fond look he cast down at Kate Potter, however, needed no outside endorsement of its own.

Harry couldn't take in the sights and sounds fast enough, as the front door admitted another slew of people, among which he noticed both Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. Sirius was accompanied by a slender, raven-haired beauty, and both of them greeted an equally dark-haired youth - one of the party accompanying the Weasleys - with enthusiasm. Sirius called him Altair.

He slouched in a corner, in the shadow of a large potted tree, and tried very hard not to be jealous of…himself. His counterpart, whose messy hair tumbled over a scarless forehead, had everything he'd ever wanted. He'd waited as he watched, waited for the one advantage, the one thing he couldn't live without that this universe might lack, to make his own universe more desirable.

He'd found none.

He was still friends with Ron. He had both his parents. He had a sister. Sirius was still alive, married, with a son that seemed to be one of his own comrades. There had evidently been no Voldemort at all. His family was rich, influential, and seemed to be well-liked. His father was a high-ranking Auror. His counterpart moved with a enviably graceful and easy confidence that most likely came from being a much-loved son that probably had spent no time in any cupboard under any sort of stairs.

And he was married to Hermione, and they were newly arrived back in England from their honeymoon, by the look of it.

Amid more laughter and high spirits, he saw his counterpart move to the table for another round of drinks, with Rigel and Ron. Someone yelled,

“Aw, come on, Vega!” And he wondered if Sirius had a daughter as well. He glanced around for Hermione, and saw her slipping, unnoticed, into the kitchen with her mother-in-law. Curious, Harry followed.

Hermione moved gracefully around the kitchen, lifting lids to pots enchanted to stir themselves, and inspected the contents therein. There was a platter of hors d'oeuvres on the worktop, and Hermione Levitated it through the kitchen door with a gentle flick of her wand.

Someone hollered, “Got it!” and Hermione released the spell.

“So how is life being married to my son?” Lily asked gently, as she sipped her drink. Hermione flushed and looked a little dreamy, absently twiddling the strand of pearls around her neck. The light in the small kitchen glinted off the honeyed streaks in her hair, held back with two twisty combs, and added a bronze hue to the sage green dress she wore.

“It's - it's beautiful… and perfect. Better than I could've ever even dreamed,” she sighed. “When we were on that yacht… just the two of us…” She must have realized how she sounded, because she laughed self-consciously and blushed. “I must sound like an idiot.”

“You sound like someone in love,” Lily corrected. “I've never seen Harry so happy. Neither of you have stopped smiling since we arrived.”

“Sometimes it - it seems almost unreal. Going from my life before Hogwarts to - to all this.” She made an expansive gesture with one hand. “I'd never even had a friend until the day Harry came into the compartment on the Express. I was crying - and he - he had such a gentle heart even at eleven, that he couldn't bear to see someone else in pain. I don't think Ron would've stopped, but Harry made him, and - and - ”

“The three of you lived happily ever after?” Lily quirked an eyebrow, as if she knew her own statement was untrue. Hermione grinned, and her radiant happiness shook Harry to his core.

“Now, I know you've been a witness to some of my and Ron's more - more… effusive rows!”

“But when you and Harry fought, you both got the sulks and didn't speak for days. I must admit, I wondered if he'd ever wake up and see what was in front of him. I had a feeling about you the moment I saw you. I knew you were the one for my son.”

“Well you were one of the only ones then. I've gotten some of the nastiest hate mail since Harry and I got together. There are some people who take issue with the idea that the scion of such a prominent wizarding family decided to play house with a Muggle-born witch. Although, you'd think that all this blather about bloodlines would have faded out of existence ages ago! There haven't been any elitist movements since - since well…” Hermione trailed off, looking like she'd said something she wished she hadn't.

“Believe me, I know well the hazards of being a Muggle-born who `doesn't know her place',” Lily replied. “And it may not seem like it, but it has improved in the last twenty years. People did realize at the time what a close shave we had, although it may appear that they've forgotten it now.” There was a faraway sheen in her eyes. “I'll never forget,” she murmured, nearly to herself.

“Well, as long as teachers like you and Dumbledore are still at Hogwarts, new generations will continue to hear the truth,” Hermione declared in that resolutely idealistic way that Harry found familiar.

“It's funny…” Lily mused. “In a way, Harry is like a living reminder of everything that happened. I am always acutely aware of how long ago it was, because I know how old Harry is. It seems odd that it's been twenty-three years since Peter and Severus were killed. They sacrificed themselves to stop a madman. If they hadn't…”

Hermione's face had gone nearly gray.

“I don't - I don't like to think about a world without any Harry in it,” she murmured. Lily grew suddenly contrite, and shifted, as if shaking off the pall that had grown over the room. The entire conversation had raised goosebumps over Harry, surreally appearing to reference the situation in which he now found himself.

“I'm sorry, love,” his mother said, laying an apologetic hand on her daughter-in-law's arm. “That was hardly a topic for a welcome-home party.” Hermione tried to smile, but there was still a haunted look in her eyes. It made Harry want to move behind her, and wrap his arms around her. His entire being was humming with the longing to touch her, to speak to her, to look into her eyes and see love reflected back at him.

And then his counterpart did, entering the kitchen, looping his arms around Hermione, and kissing her near her ear.

“Why are you two hiding in - ” he stopped, his eyes going from his wife's profile to his mother's face. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” Hermione said quickly, and almost convincingly. “Just talking about work.”

“Have you been able to convince her to quit working down in that ruddy basement?” Harry asked his mum. A spark of irritation appeared in Hermione's eye.

“It is not a `ruddy basement'. It is a very important Ministry Department! Just because you're up there in the Executive Offices, as First Secretary of Bleeding Whatever doesn't mean that - ”

“Pax!” Harry called out, laughing. “I don't mean to demean the Department of Mysteries. I just don't see why you like working down there with a bunch of creepy old wizards and people obviously off their nut.”

“Well…” Hermione drew out reluctantly. “I'll admit the coworkers may leave something to be desired, but some of their theories are fascinating! And they need someone down there to ground them with research and actual facts - Derwent tends to go off on the most bizarre goose chases - and I am - “

“Professor McGonagall is talking about retiring after next year,” Lily put in quickly. Hermione halted, clearly losing her train of thought in spite of herself.

“Really?” she asked, interested, but then looked hesitant. “But I'm not sure I'm qualified for a position somewhere like Hogwarts.” Harry and his mother made simultaneous noises of disbelief.

“Keep pretending you weren't the brightest witch in our year, Hermione!” Harry said, kissing her again. “Besides, you would have the best Charms teacher since Professor Flitwick retired putting in a good word for you!”

Lily swatted him on the back of the head.

“I've been the only Charms teacher since Professor Flitwick retired!”

“It would be perfect, Hermione. You would love it. And the timing is excellent, since we don't have children there to mortify in various ways!” He seemed to glance rather accusingly at his mother as he said this.

“You were already through with school before I started working there, thank you very much!”

“And thank Merlin for that! I've heard enough of Kate's seventh-year stories,” Harry pointed out. Lily was studiously ignoring him.

“Does this mean that I shouldn't expect any grandchildren in the near future?” she asked, and it was Harry's turn to roll his eyes.

“Come off it, mum. We've been married for a month!”

“I guess I should warn you then: your father is hoping for a happy announcement by Christmas!” Lily teased, and Hermione's eyes widened in mock horror. She made a show of checking the food again, and, tapping her wand to each pot in succession, quickly Vanished it out to the serving dishes already situated on the dining table.

“Hermione gave Dobby the night off,” Harry was saying as they exited the kitchen. “Insisted on doing her first party herself. I think she's traumatized him for life…”

The noise of the party crescendoed and dwindled with the opening and closing of the door. Harry sat in the middle of the kitchen floor alone, feeling more disheartened than he had in quite some time, and that was saying something.

How was it possible for three universes, involving essentially the same people, to turn out so differently? He wondered. Was it really as arbitrary as Draco seemed to indicate - all stemming from a random difference in choice? Where did the choice begin? Peter and Snape had apparently defeated Voldemort. Why? Did it arise from Tom Riddle's decision against making horcruxes perhaps? Or had his own father decided to treat Snape with a little common human decency? Had they been friends? Was his own ascension as Dark Lord the result of being Sorted into Slytherin? Had he not argued with the Hat enough? Or was it the absence of Hermione? Or both of these combined?

He was the sum of his experiences and natural tendencies, he supposed. And that would make these… other Harrys merely doppelgangers who looked like him. But they weren't really him. For instance, this Harry had not had to consciously choose Light, but Light had been all around him, his whole life. This Harry had not fought a troll first year, had not been both bested by and victorious over the Triwizard Tournament. This Harry had not lost his family, had not lost Sirius, had not lost Dumbledore.

It was not him at all.

The other Harry did seem to embody the pinnacle of Harry's potential. He was everything Harry could have been, should have been, would have been - he hoped - if things had been different. It was like being able to see a wide array of one's own possible successes and being bludgeoned about the head with all the ways one had fallen short.

This Hermione was different too. She was still kind-hearted, idealistic, and ferociously defensive. But she - the aura of confidence that surrounded his counterpart hovered over her as well. Her blood status would always cause her insecurity, it seemed, but she was well-dressed and sophisticated, having obviously - while not necessarily taking it for granted - grown accustomed to being on the arm of privilege. Clearly, education was as important to her as it had always been, but he really couldn't imagine her working as an Unspeakable, struggling to find factual bases for wild ideas and cockamamie theories.

He was prepared to sit in the kitchen and brood for awhile - who cared how long? Time had almost no meaning for him while he was out of phase. He was at the mercy of the crystal, at the mercy of the random pull from his home universe, and he didn't know when it would activate again.

This really could take years, he thought glumly, recalling his words to Luna.

It hit him like a lightning bolt, at his remembrance of his Ravenclaw flatmate. He sat up straight, almost horrified that he hadn't caught on to it right away, when his own counterpart had first mentioned it.

Hermione was an Unspeakable. If there were anyone in this universe who could help him refine his blind ramble through the multiverse, it was Hermione.

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It took him quite some time to convince Sir Nicholas to accompany him back to Godric's Hollow.

“That's why it's called haunting a place, Mr. Potter - or whoever you are… you don't just pack up and leave whenever the fancy takes you!” He had said indignantly. Harry had fleetingly worried that he would somehow send Nick to another plane, inadvertently, by making him leave Hogwarts.

“How do we do this?” Harry asked hesitantly. “Do we hold hands or - I mean, you can't Apparate, can you?” Nicholas sighed the sigh of the much put-upon.

“If I am occupying the same space you are, then I should be transported with you,” he said.

“Occupying the same - what are you - ” Harry never finished his sentence, as Sir Nicholas had moved until he was floating, superimposed over Harry, who was more than grateful that he was out of phase and unable to feel the undoubtedly icy cold sensation that would have accompanied such a position. Nearly Headless Nick held himself loftily, as regally as a queen awaiting the first movements of her litter.

Harry rolled his eyes, and thought of Godric's Hollow again.

As they materialized, he could hear the clatter of dishes through the cracked kitchen window on the right side of the house. Harry moved through the wall into the room, as Dobby padded in with a towering stack of plates and cutlery that rose to twice his own height. He could hear Hermione's protests as she approached the kitchen.

“Dobby, I made the mess. You should let me clean it up.”

“Dobby is most grateful for a night off. Dobby should repay kind masters for their generosity.” The house-elf sounded more perturbed about the night off than Hermione's remonstrations, as he Levitated the impossibly high stack into the sink and set them to wash. Suds mounded up in the sink, and a scrubber began to work by itself.

“We're not your masters, Dobby. Let me do the dishes. It was my party.” Harry scooted out of the way, as she strode past him, even though it wasn't necessary. He could hear the frustration in her voice.

“Mistress Potter must be tired from her entertaining. What kind of house-elf would Dobby be to let his mistress work, especially when they are kind enough to pay Dobby. It is Dobby's delight and duty to serve the Potters.” The elf rolled his Ping-Pong ball eyes toward her in a way that would have seemed fatuous, if Harry hadn't known him so well.

“Dobby - ” Words trembled on her lips. She doesn't want to give him an order, Harry thought suddenly.

“Get out of here, Dobby,” Harry said suddenly, appearing in the kitchen doorway. His voice was peremptory, but not rude, spoken in a way that any house-elf would immediately appreciate, even such a relatively enlightened thinker as Dobby. “Hermione and I will finish up in here.”

Dobby looked conflicted, but finally managed a strained,

“As Mr. Harry wishes,” before popping out of sight.

“You're feeding his obsession, you know,” Hermione said, moving to the sink without looking at Harry. She began removing dishes from the pile of suds, and Levitating them through rinse water to stack on the worktop. Harry moved beside her, using his wand to dry them and replace them in the cabinets.

“Oh, he'll have blissful dreams all night long because I bossed him around. Why can't you be nicer to him, Hermione?” He grinned at her, and a smile tugged on the corners of Hermione's mouth against her will.

“I know full well that you had ulterior motives, and they had nothing to do with being `nice' to Dobby,” she smirked. Harry dropped his mouth open, and placed one hand theatrically across his chest.

“I'm offended,” he said.

“I call them like I see them, `Mr. Harry',” Hermione retorted, but her eyes were glinting with something else altogether.

“Well,” Harry said slowly, turning toward her, and backing her up to the corner of the worktop. “If I'm going to be summarily accused, I might as well be guilty.” He was very close to her now, his legs bracketing hers, and he leaned down to whisper something in her ear. She dropped her wand, and the plate that had been under the stream of water crashed into the basin of the sink and shattered.

Harry looked around wildly for Sir Nick, cocking his head in the couple's direction with meaningful eyes, forgetting in his desperation that he could talk - they would not be able to hear him. The ghost had not fully entered the house, and was almost hovering at the window, looking even more insubstantial than usual in the weak moonlight. At Harry's gesticulations, he floated more completely into the small kitchen, and cleared his throat awkwardly.

Hermione and her husband started at the noise, and blinked up at Sir Nicholas. One of her hands fluttered up to her hair self-consciously.

“Sir Nicholas?” Harry asked, obviously squelching the irritation that had flitted briefly into his face. “Is something wrong? Did Dumbledore send you?”

“Ask to speak to Hermione alone.”

“Nothing's wrong, Harry,” Sir Nick said hesitantly. “I'd like to have a word with your wife, if I may?”

“Sure, Sir Nicholas…” Harry was speaking slowly, he and Hermione clearly exchanging rather bemused looks, as he ambled out of the kitchen. She watched him go, and then turned back to the ghost, the confusion on her face replaced by the sharp, curious look that Harry knew so well. It was the look of Hermione-on-the-hunt, with a puzzle to solve.

“What's going on, Sir Nicholas?” she asked. Nick opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated, looking sidewise at Harry, and appeared to Hermione to be staring at nothing at all.

“I - I had a visitor this evening…” he said uncertainly.

“Ask her if she knows anything about multiverse theory,” Harry said. His voice was low and intense, his brilliant eyes fixed on her face.

Hermione's eyes widened at Sir Nick's question, and then moved warily around the room, as if wondering whether or not a ghost could be put under Imperius.

“I'm afraid that's classified, Sir Nick,” she responded.

“Tell her - tell her you've got someone with you who's - who's from another universe and who is out of phase. And he needs help. He's looking for someone. Don't tell her who I am.” The Gryffindor ghost dutifully repeated the words. Something like excitement danced across Hermione's face.

“Really? It must be someone I know since they came to me. Who is it?”

Sir Nicholas looked at Harry, who shook his head decisively.

“He doesn't want to say,” the ghost explained.

“We only just found out that persons who are out of phase can communicate with the spirit world,” Hermione said. “It's amazing to be able to see the phenomenon in action.” Harry's eyes lingered wistfully on her face; it was animated, lively, lit from within. Hermione-in-the-pursuit-of-knowledge. He missed her so much that it hurt.

Harry began to hurriedly explain to Nick about the crystal, its deactivation, and his subsequent search through multiple universes. Was there any way to refine the search, to more accurately pinpoint his Hermione's location?

Sir Nicholas relayed the question. Hermione grew thoughtful.

“We had a rogue Unspeakable not too long ago,” she said. “He was using the crystals to travel to other universes, ones where he was in phase, and could steal from the Gringotts vaults of his family. He could get in because his blood matched, and the goblins weren't prepared to ward against someone from another universe. Bill Weasley and I finally designed a safeguard against that kind of theft. We - we used a kind amplifier that could track a signature that didn't belong in our universe. Everything gives out a signature, you know - even inanimate objects.”

“Could you program something - maybe a crystal - to search for a specific signature?” Harry was no longer speaking to Sir Nicholas, his eyes fixed on Hermione. She paced the small confines of the kitchen, chin bracketed in one hand, thinking furiously.

“I don't see why you couldn't - if you had something from that universe that you could use as a sample. You could use a Detection spell calibrated to that signature, and embed it in a crystal. It's not ever been tried before, but the theory is sound.” She stopped pacing abruptly, and looked so suddenly to Sir Nicholas's left that Harry's heart stopped. “Who are you?”

“A - a friend,” Harry said hoarsely. “Would it need to be a certain kind of crystal?”

Sir Nicholas relayed the question, and Hermione began to respond, when it suddenly sounded as if someone had turned the volume down on her voice. The transfer had always seemed to occur swiftly, but Harry felt as if he were viewing it in slow motion. The details of the kitchen began to fade, blurred away by the very movement of the universe. Hermione's image seemed to crackle, like a bad film projection. Nearly Headless Nick was staring at him with a kind of astonished confusion.

“Harry?” he blurted questioningly. Harry saw Hermione's head snap up, her eyes blazing with a tawny light.

“Harry?” Her voice was sharp, panicky, worried.

“Tell her I'm all right!” Harry shouted, but did not know if Sir Nicholas had heard him or not. Hermione had been giving him answers, a solution, a way to find her more quickly and efficiently, and now there was no more time. He cursed the horrific timing of the inactive crystal.

The multiverse either did not hear him, or did not care.

AN: Well, I had some trouble with this chapter. Now I know why I don't write fluff. This was fun to do, but when I got to the end, I felt like the chapter itself really had no point at all. So I reworked the ending, actually having Harry “speak” to Hermione, and I liked that much better.

I hope everyone enjoyed it. I am not sure this was my best. But I am really, really excited about the next chapter (it may take 2)!!

You may leave a review on your way out, if you like.

lorien

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Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Sixteen:

But love is not a victory march; it's a cold and it is a broken Hallelujah

--Allison Crowe, “Hallelujah”

He stood in bewilderment as the kitchen around him seemed to morph, changing as a new universe settled into place around him. Hermione and Sir Nicholas vanished. The sudsy pile of dishes was gone. The merry light that had resonated throughout the entire house was obliterated, as if by an unseen hand. The house was dim and dark, the worktop was dusty and rough, neglected planking creaked beneath his feet. There was the faintest of flickers in the corner - not even really a flicker, just a slight change in shadow, and he realized with chagrin that he'd set off a ward.

You don't want to reappear somewhere restricted and get into trouble, Luna's voice admonished him. The home of his babyhood was not necessarily a place where one would think to need clearance, but it appeared that the end result could be the same if he did not depart quickly, he thought, more than annoyed with the situation.

He slid noiselessly through the kitchen door, holding it open with just enough clearance for him to slither into the open great room that narrowed into the front entryway. The house was utterly silent and dark as death, but Harry still kept toward the walls, hoping that he would, at no time, make himself easily visible to whomever might be watching.

But his eyes were slow in adjusting to the darkness, and he only realized that someone else was in the room, when a blast of spellfire narrowly missed the top of his head, and shredded part of the barely swinging kitchen door.

Damn! He cursed mentally, and dropped into a crouch, making an attempt to Apparate away, but determining immediately that a ward preventing that had already been put in place. The attacker had given his general location away, at least, with the spell originating from the back corner of the room. Harry did not want give any more aid than necessary, and decided against returning fire. He cast a non-verbal Disillusionment spell on himself, and sidled toward the front door. Every nerve fiber was vibrating at high alert, as all of his Auror instincts came slamming back into play.

The adversary did not fire, but Harry could feel his presence, as surely as if he could hear each breath taken. It was as if the room was a living thing, hovering, waiting…

He could make out vague shadows now, a large and lumpy outline that could have been some piece of furniture, the patchy squares of fireplace and windows, but the rear of the room was shrouded in utmost black. He wondered how well the other person could see him…

There was another whoosh of light, and Harry flinched instinctively, although the spell missed him by a good meter. He can't see me, he thought with some measure of relief, he's guessing.

Harry was desperately trying to work out his exit strategy. He knew that whoever was firing at him could not have responded to the ward breach from elsewhere, but had already been on site; he had been much too quickly detected, even for a magical person. If someone entered through the front door, and cut off his escape, or Flooed in, bathing the room in green light, he could be in serious trouble, even leaving out the fact that he would then be outnumbered.

It was also within the realm of possibility that the person firing on him was not an enemy, but, in fact, an ally. There was no way to know, however, and with all possibilities open, he decided not to chance it. If he'd been anyone else in the world, he might have been able to try, but breaking a ward somewhere that was under apparent heavy guard and shouting at an unknown and armed assailant, “Hey, I'm Harry Potter!” would not top the list of Most Brilliant Plans of Action.

Then there were the undeniable ethics of the situation. He was sure that similar sorts of rules applied to traveling to other universes as to traveling through time. It wasn't exactly polite to go mucking about in someone else's universe. He just wanted to get out of the house and find Hermione.

Another hex missed him, this time more narrowly. It appeared that the attacker had determined that he would most likely make for the door, having changed position in an attempt to cut him off.

Of all the bloody times to be in phase! He thought with irritation, eyes going to the grayish windows. The door was there, in the blank nothingness between the two windows. When I try to open the door, I'll be seen. I'll be lucky if I don't end up with a hex between my shoulder blades. He briefly reconsidered firing, but discarded it again.

He continued to creep toward the door, and the attacker did not move. Harry knew that he was merely biding his time, waiting patiently for Harry to open the door. Staying low, Harry raised his wand, and hissed,

“Fumo!” Thick, billowing clouds of smoke began to pour from his wand, quickly dispersing and reducing the visibility in the room to zero. He stood up and lunged for the handle of the door, but when he touched it, fiery heat crackled up his nerve endings from fingertips to shoulder. It was only by clamping down on his lip with his teeth that he kept from crying out.

He heard his attacker attempt to smother a cough, and he permitted himself a small, satisfied smile, before raising his wand to blast the door into oblivion, when he felt something ruffle his hair.

He looked over his shoulder, confused, but realized that his foe had used a Ventosus spell to produce a wind that would rapidly blow away his cover. And he was hit with non-verbal Disarming and Leg-Locker jinxes before he had time to react further.

He heard his wand hit the floor and roll into a corner. His own ungainly tumble nearly masked the quiet footsteps that approached him.

“Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?” came a quiet voice that Harry nonetheless recognized.

“Oh, God,” he managed to say, though it felt like a steel bands had wrapped themselves around his heart and were tightening. The Leg-Locker had also had a lot of magical force behind it; the sides of his knees were pressed together painfully.

The victor in the duel must have recognized something in his ground out exclamation, for he heard a soft gasp, air drawn in suddenly and involuntarily.

“Lumos,” came the soft rejoinder, and Harry turned his face away in anticipation of the brilliant blue-white light.

It was Hermione standing over him; he'd known it the moment she'd spoken, but before he could even turn and squint up at her, his wand was jammed painfully between his ribs.

“Who sent you here?” she said, her voice forceful, vibrating with repressed emotion. “Who are you?”

“It's - it's me - it's Harry,” he rasped, wondering even as he spoke if she knew him in this universe at all. A spasm passed over her face; the light from her wand threw her features into planes and shadows, accentuating the hollows in her cheekbones and beneath her eyes, prematurely aging her.

“Who sent you here?” The fury that trembled and roiled beneath her voice made Harry feel that he was seconds away from being on the business end of Avada Kedavra.

“Nobody sent me. I came here on my own. I've been looking - ”

“Harry's dead. I'll ask one last time: who are you?”

“I am Harry Potter, just like I said,” he said, hastily raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. “I'm - I'm not from this universe.”

There was a snort of derisive, mirthless laughter.

“That's original, at least. Did the Ministry send you here?” She had not moved the wand. Her eyes glittered diamond-hard, and she gave off the distinct impression that the Ministry had sent people before, and had not met with a pleasant hostess.

“The Ministry? No! I'm telling you the truth. I'm from another universe. I'm looking for - for you…” he trailed off uncertainly, wondering where on earth he would begin explaining, if he was even given the opportunity to do so.

“For me?” The poke of the wand demanded his prompt reply.

“I was in - we were fighting the - the Final Battle - against… Voldemort?” He said the name questioningly, and she nodded, flinching a little in recognition. “You were taken hostage, sent to another universe, stranded there. For five years, everyone thought you were dead. I've been looking for you - that is, my - my universe's you. Does - does that sound familiar at all?” he asked tentatively, a bit put off by her flinty expression.

“I think I would remember being transported to another reality against my will. I did fight in the Final Battle two years ago. You - Harry - defeated Voldemort, but he was killed doing so. Nearly everyone was…” The final phrase was whispered hauntingly, almost to herself. “I've been living in hell since then, but I suppose it's the hell I belong in. I doubt you could prove any of this to me. Why should I believe you?”

“Would Harry have ever lied to you… done anything to hurt you?” he asked entreatingly. She was quiet for a long moment, and he was acutely aware of the heavy silence in the room, of the pressure of the wand in his side, and of his knee joints pushed against each other. A faint smile finally flickered at the edges of her mouth before rapidly dying.

“No,” she sighed. “He wouldn't have.” There was another moment of silence, and she seemed to come to a decision, as she doused the light from her wand, and ended the jinx on his legs. “Get up,” she ordered abruptly. “We've been up here too long already.”

She prodded him ahead of her, motioning in the direction of a small door wedged between the fireplace and the kitchen access. He knew that it led to the cellar, and was grateful for his vague familiarity with the house, as they were both walking in all but pitch blackness. Hermione's steps behind him were sure and unfaltering, but very quiet.

“Do you … live here?” he asked hesitantly.

“I don't live anywhere,” she said in a wooden voice, laden with bitterness. He thought this was a rather curious answer, and would have said more, but suddenly became very conscious of his hand pausing in the act of reaching for the doorknob. She seemed to instantly realize the reason for his hesitancy.

“Only the front door's rigged,” she informed him. “Little concept I borrowed from the Weasley twins. I suppose you know them?”

“Sure, I know Fred and George…” Harry responded, his voice trailing off as he didn't really know what else to say. This was definitely one of the weirdest situations he'd ever found himself in. They made their way down the rickety cellar stairs in silence He lowered his foot to the next step, as they neared the bottom, only to find nothing there. He wavered, struggling to keep his center of gravity balanced on his other foot.

…and there was a lightning quick hand at the back of his collar, hauling him up.

“The bottom four steps are gone. Sorry,” Hermione said explanatorily, not sounding particularly sorry. “I left it that way because it makes people think nobody's been down here in ages.”

She hopped lightly off of the stair, and Harry followed, somewhat dubiously, as the idea of jumping into blackness did not appeal to him overmuch. He couldn't see where Hermione had gone, but he could hear her wand tapping in a rhythmic pattern against one of the brick walls. As he moved in the direction of the sound, the bricks began to rearrange themselves much like the process at the Leaky Cauldron.

Dim light now filtered into the cellar, and Harry could see Hermione framed within it. He was struck by the contrast of Hermione as he'd seen her in the previous universe, framed in the front door of the same house, but with light and warmth and love abounding.

She looked back at him, and indicated with a jerk of her head, that he follow. When he'd crossed the threshold, the wall closed up behind him, with only the barest rasps of moving stone. There was no sign that there was any kind of door there at all, and he spun slowly, slightly unnerved, but taking in the small living space.

There was a faded parchment map on the wall of the layout of the house, each room delineated, along with all windows and doors. Silvery light occasionally around the borders, and Harry knew immediately that it was a ward marker, and that this was how she'd known the moment he'd arrived, as well as his location. A battered sofa sat along one wall, and from the pillow and folded blanket on one arm, he deduced that it did double duty as her bed as well. There were two battered bookcases, filled near to overflowing, as well as a complete Potions lab in one corner. A shabby desk was perched near the sofa, and was full to capacity with stacks of neatly rolled parchment. Next to the desk was a tiny little stove and cooktop, with a battered cabinet atop it. A far corner of the room was curtained off - this was evidently a bathroom. And a wide-mouthed duffel bag was on the floor near where the door had been, unzipped and empty, clearly prepared for a hasty departure if needed.

The place was Spartan and efficient, neat and organized, but clearly not meant as a permanent place of residence. Harry could understand more fully what she'd meant when she'd said, “I don't live anywhere.”

“Approve?” she asked somewhat acidly, and he realized with a jolt how long he'd been staring.

“Hermione, why?” he asked, his tone almost pleading. She flinched a little at his familiarity, and he could understand that as well. She did not answer his question, but instead strode the short distance to the Potions table, and withdrew a vial of clear liquid.

“Drink this,” she said. He stared first at the vial, and then at her.

“You're making me drink Veritaserum?” His tone sounded almost wounded, and he winced at the tone.

“If you don't have anything to hide, then it won't matter, will it?” she asked coolly. She scanned him quickly with her wand, laying his down on the back of the sofa, and seemed satisfied. “No traces of polyjuice or recent Imperius activity.”

He looked at her sourly for a moment, and then knocked back the contents of the vial. He couldn't really blame her, he supposed, but it did hurt to have someone with Hermione's face regarding him with such suspicion and mistrust.

“Who are you?” she asked evenly, as the Veritaserum spread its serene tentacles into his bloodstream. He wondered if she knew that he'd been trained to overcome the effects of the elixir, but decided that she was right - he had nothing to hide from her anyway.

“I'm Harry James Potter,” he answered.

“Where did you come from?”

“I came from another universe.”

“Why?”

“To look for the Hermione Granger that belongs there.” With me, was what he did not say.

“What happened to her?”

“She was stranded in an alternate universe during the Final Battle.”

“Why?”

“Revenge against me for Voldemort's death.”

“By whom?” The questions were quick and clipped, coming rapidly, and she didn't really seem all that interested in the answers.

“Bellatrix Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov.”

“Are you married?”

“What? No,” he said, and almost smiled at her. It was only now that he recognized the technique; she was trying to rapid-fire questions at him, in the hopes that something would cause him to stumble, exposing some kind of hole in his fabrication.

“How old are you?”

“Almost twenty-three.”

“What football position do you play?”

“I don't play football. I used to play Quidditch. I was the Seeker.” Something wistful wafted into her dark eyes for a moment, but then was gone.

“Where do you live?”

“A flat in London.” He tried not to sound exasperated with her. There were things he needed to be doing, an amplifier that needed to be made, a crystal calibrated. He needed to find out about this universe, and she was his best source of information. But instead of helping him, Harry, she was grilling him as impersonally as though he were a shoplifter caught in the act of lifting potions ingredients from an apothecary.

“With whom?”

“With - with Ron Weasley and Luna Lovegood.”

“Do they - do they know you're - ” She struggled to keep her composure, but her voice cracked and betrayed her. “Damn it,” she said, turning away from him and dashing tears away with the back of one hand.

“What's wrong?” he asked, his eyes flitting to where his wand lay, on the back of the sofa. He could probably make it, if he lunged for it now, while she wasn't paying attention. But something held him back.

“It's just - it's just been a long time since I've heard anyone say Ron's name,” she sniffed. “And - and Luna…” She blinked her eyes fiercely, and swallowed, able then to proceed in the impersonal voice that she'd adopted. “I last saw Luna three weeks ago. She wasn't at our usual meeting place last week.” Harry could see that Hermione had already consigned Luna to her fate.

“So - so Ron - they're … gone … here too?”

She nodded, swallowing, apparently groping for another question and obviously irritated at herself for her lapse in control.

“Don't you believe me yet?” he asked.

“You came - you came all this way to look for - for H - Hermione?” She said her own name with a curious lilt, almost as if it were proceeding from her mouth for the first time.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He looked up at her then, his emerald eyes blazing, and let himself be completely unguarded. The intensity of his emotion poured from him like waves of radiant heat, and he saw two spots of color appear in her cheeks. One of her hands groped blindly for the back of the desk chair for support.

“Why do you think?” he said simply. There was a moment of tense, charged silence between them, before she forced an artificial smile to her compressed lips.

“Well, she's very lucky,” she said, almost flippantly, and Harry knew that somehow he'd hurt her. She began to turn away from him again, her long plait flipping out from the nape of her neck. He was stricken again by how thin and haunted she looked, by her clothes, much faded with multiple Reparos, by how rigid and unyielding she seemed, as if she'd been hurt so much that she could no longer face any kind of pain.

“Wait! Were you - were you and Harry - ” he faltered, unsure how to proceed. She shook her head, her misty eyes looking at something far away, something he could not see.

“No,” she said, and repeated it again slowly. “No, we - we never… I - I sometimes hoped that - but there wasn't any time, and he - you - he - then he - ”

“Then he died…” Harry finished for her, and she nodded again. “Voldemort killed him?”

“Voldemort was already dying. We all thought it was over.” There was self-loathing in her voice at this assumption, seen as erroneous in hindsight. “Harry had already broken his wand. But - but he twisted this signet ring he had on, muttered an incantation, and - and - ”

“It was through the scar, wasn't it?” Harry asked with a dull voice of certainty.

“Yes… they say - they said that you - that he and Voldemort both stopped breathing at almost the exact same moment. I don't know for - for sure, I was - I was - ”

She didn't finish, and she didn't have to. Harry knew all too well what she'd been going through, as she watched him die. He'd seen himself react the same way to her disappearance in Ron's memory, only recently.

“I couldn't believe you were gone,” she said, and her voice was broken. She was misusing her pronouns, but didn't seem to notice, and Harry didn't bother correcting her. “It seemed - it seemed so … so wrong somehow. I mean, you'd defeated him, you'd won, and - and then you were just… gone… Ron had to drag me away, and - and I - I - you don't know what it feels like to see you again…”

“I do understand, more than you know,” he replied, and they exchanged slightly self-conscious glances. “But - but if Voldemort was defeated, then why are you - why - you're a hero… why are you hiding in a cellar?”

“The war destroyed nearly everything,” she said in a dried voice that held all the regrets of an entire generation. “The Ministry was gutted, the Minister dead, Diagon Alley destroyed, Hogwarts emptied. People had fled in droves, and - and still the Order stayed and fought - we stayed and fought. We lost people, one by one, Charlie, Bill, Ginny, Neville, McGonagall…” she listed several more people that Harry did not know at all. “After you - after Voldemort, there was - there was nobody left - and - everyone was so tired… tired of fighting, and somehow - somehow Lucius Malfoy ended up as the Minister of Magic.” She sounded weary and regretful.

“No!” Harry's voice was a low exhalation of horror.

“He declared martial law. At first, it seemed necessary. Everything had been destroyed. We were rebuilding from the ground up. Then he gave the Death Eaters general amnesty - said he wanted to `bury the past, and start afresh, as a united nation'.” She shook her head in disbelief, a twisted smile distorting her face. “He took over the bank, he - he started blaming Muggles for all of our problems, pointed out that Voldemort had been a half-blood, and look what he did! People started… disappearing, their assets confiscated, their businesses shut down. Everything's Ministry-run now. Mudbloods are worse than second-class citizens. I'm - I'm a wanted criminal, Harry,” she said this with a false brightness, but Harry actually had no trouble believing her at all.

“Was Voldemort killed two years ago?” he asked, remembering her comment about having lived in hell for the last two years. At her nod, he continued, “I don't understand why it was different. So far, our universes seem pretty much the same. For me, the Final Battle was five years ago.”

“Did he have horcruxes?” she asked, dark shadows swimming in her eyes.

“Yes, he did. Dumbledore told me all about them. In fact, we'd gone to recover one the night Snape killed him.” Hermione was already shaking her head.

“Snape didn't kill Dumbledore. Draco Malfoy did. Poisoned him with some mead during our sixth year. Professor Slughorn actually did time in Azkaban for it - died there. But everyone knew it was Malfoy.”

Harry was stunned. If Dumbledore had been killed that earlyin the school year, and Slughorn sent off as well, then their education regarding horcruxes would have been incomplete at best.

“It took you longer to find them all…” he said in a dull voice of realization. There was a long silence, as they stared at nothing, each lost in their own thoughts. Finally Harry spoke again,

“Why don't you leave?”

She turned so swiftly that Harry thought she'd surely wrench her neck.

“Leave?” she asked, as if she did not understand the question.

“Leave!” he repeated, throwing his hands out in an expansive gesture that encompassed the room. “Get out of this place. Go to America, go anywhere - anywhere but here.” She sighed, and finally sat down on the sofa, letting her hands hang limply between her knees.

“I feel closer to him here,” she said, and she didn't have to specify about whom she was talking.

“He's gone, Hermione,” Harry replied gently, but she flinched anyway. “He's gone, and he's not coming back. He wouldn't want to see you like this. He - it hurts me to see you like this. If there really is no one left, nothing else that can be done, you ought to wash your hands of this affair and have a life of your own, instead of - of mourning after ghosts.”

She drew herself up regally, her eyes flashing with fire, and retorted,

“As you've done?” Her voice was as brittle as glass. “You've given yourself away by what you haven't said. You were torn apart when she disappeared, weren't you? You've been drifting for five years, pretending to have a life, even knowing that she would have rather died that day than seen you like this. And now, you're grasping at the faintest threads of hope, on this wild goose chase to find her! Do you even have a plan? Do you have even a glimmer of strategy? Or are you planning on drifting around different universes for the rest of your life, hoping you'll bump into her accidentally?”

Something in her voice made him feel defensive, set his teeth on edge.

“As a matter of fact I do have a plan,” he responded, and told her what the other Hermione had related to him through Sir Nicholas. “I think that means we have to extract enough of my magical signature for an example, and then calibrate it with a crystal and a Homing spell. I was getting pulled out of that universe, so I'm not sure what she told me was complete, but it seems like doing that would pull me straight to the universe that she was in.”

Hermione's hand was cupped around her chin; she was listening intently.

“And then what?” she asked.

“And then we use this,” he pulled the crystal out from the collar of his shirt, and showed it to her. “And we go home.”

Grief winged its way across her weary face. He waited for her to give it some kind of voice, but she did not, saying only,

“I guess we'll be breaking into the Ministry then.”

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AN: Okay, I really had fun writing Bitter!Left behind!Hermione. I guess I'm usually jerking Harry around, so it was fun to unleash it all on someone else!

Hope everyone liked it. Happy Halloween.

You may leave a review on your way out, if you like.

lorien

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Disclaimer: Not mine; more's the pity.

Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Seventeen:

I used to know the sound of a smile in your voice

--Good Charlotte, “Say Anything”

“Break into the Ministry? Just like that?” Harry asked, a hard edge that he'd tried to squelch rising in his voice. “You're a wanted felon, and I'm supposed to be dead. Lucius Malfoy and his goons are running things. We're not going to get little name tags from the welcome desk!”

“I'm sorry,” Hermione said snippily. “I know this may have sounded exactly like the kind of half-arsed thing you'd go barreling into without thinking. But I assure you that I have a clear plan in mind. I've gone in before.” She turned away from him, but he sprang up from the sofa and caught her by the elbow. She faced him again, and, as their eyes locked, an electrical pulse surged between them.

Harry dropped her arm, as if the contact had burned him.

“I'm - I'm sorry,” he stammered abruptly, but sincerely, surprising them both. “I - I should have - I should have known that you wouldn't do anything that you hadn't already sussed out ahead of time.”

They both stopped, the truth of their situation slamming them squarely between the eyes. They had known each other, and yet had not. It was as he'd noticed in the previous universe, but this was worse, because he was being forced to actually interact with a person that was and wasn't the Hermione he knew. And she had to face someone who was both like and unlike the boy-man she'd loved and lost.

He could read the conflicted emotions in her eyes easily, for they mirrored the myriad swirling around his own mind.

“There's a - there's a ventilation duct running down to the Department of Mysteries from the roof,” Hermione said, faintly at first, then cleared her throat awkwardly. “Luna dismantled the wards blocking it, put up some experimental shield spells that make the wards seem intact. It's how I used to sneak in; she would feed me information - let me look at memoranda that were charmed so that they couldn't leave the building…”

“How did Luna keep her job?” he asked, blurting out the question as soon as it entered his head. “Wasn't she known as an ally of mine? If she - ”

“It's a long story,” Hermione said, with a shudder of horror, her eyes becoming blank and expressionless. “Luna - Luna went above and beyond the call of duty to keep herself in a position to receive information. She did it even after the line of resistance became all but defunct. We - I used to put out a grass-roots kind of newspaper, but - but people disappeared; it got too dangerous. And … nobody really cares anymore.” There was a kind of detached disgust in her eyes. “They've accepted the status quo.”

“How could they?” Harry asked, feeling her revulsion and loneliness in the center of his gut. “After Voldemort - and - how could they go back to that?”

“Life under Lucius Malfoy isn't that bad - if you stay in your `place',” she made sarcastic air-quotes with her fingers, “and toe the party line. It - it makes a kind of sense, I suppose, especially for those with families to worry about. There just weren't enough people left after the War with the character to speak out.” Her voice got very small. “Sometimes I get so tired.”

He understood what she was not saying. She was tired of being alone, of being the only one who cared, the only one who really understood the wrong being done. In their own way, Malfoy and his henchmen were probably frightened of her, of what an intelligent Mudblood with the chutzpah to speak out could do, but as it was, she had been overrun by sheer numbers.

Compassion for her racked him suddenly. She was different, true, but she was still Hermione, and he hated to see her in pain.

“Hey,” he said softly, pulling at her arm again, and more than a little surprised when she allowed herself to be moved next to him. “Hey, Hermione…”

She looked at him suddenly, her eyes luminous, but dry, in the low light of the room. He knew she was one who did not easily succumb to tears, that she had probably stamped all emotion out of herself after she'd seen her Harry die.

It was not unlike what he had done upon Hermione's disappearance.

She brought her hands up, as if she were going to take his face between them, but she stopped short, folding her hands, and almost forcing them back into her lap. Instead, she said,

“Merlin, I've missed you.”

The wistful yearning note in her voice pierced him to the quick. He closed his eyes for a moment, and breathed in her scent, still the same, still the same, of parchment and leather-bound books and ink, plus the vaguely feminine, fresh-air clean smell that seemed to be unique to her.

When he opened his eyes again, she was regarding him solemnly, an unreadable expression on her face, and he felt the stirrings of something that he had long thought dormant. Desire. It alarmed him, and he inwardly and instinctively tried to shy away from it. He wasn't a stranger to the more pleasurable physical aspects of carnal knowledge - there were prostitutes at the more exclusive brothels who were discreet, who could be counted on not to sell their story of their torrid night with Harry Potter to the highest bidder - but love had never even remotely entered into the equation. He could still remember his first time, probably less than a month after the Final Battle, where a sympathetic call girl at least five years his senior had showed him what to do, had not so much as blinked when he called out another name, and had cradled him in her arms as he wilted afterwards, struggling desperately not to cry and wondering how he was going to live without her.

One hand came up to caress her cheek and jaw line of its own volition. Harry wondered absently how it had gotten there in the first place. He saw her shudder slightly at the contact, and her long, inky lashes drifted downward over her chocolate eyes.

“Hermione…” he said again, his throat nearly closing over the word. He tried to find some way to move back from the precipice, but she opened her eyes to look at him again, and he was undone.

His lips met hers with gentle damp warmth at first that quickly turned into something more heated. Harry felt a low growl begin in his chest, when she encircled his neck with her arms, and opened her mouth under his. It felt surreal, heady, addictive, seductive, everything he'd always wanted, suddenly coming true when he'd long thought it never would.

He gathered her closer to him, and she did not resist. He could feel her wiry slimness against him and wondered at it, with the small part of his mind not utterly absorbed in plundering her lips. Hermione had never seemed the sporty type, preferring the library to the Quidditch pitch, and…

It was as if cold water had been poured unceremoniously on his head, and he careened away from her, pressing his back into the opposite arm of the sofa - hearing it creak ominously - and breathing heavily. She was more athletic here because she had to be; living in secret, on the run, she had honed herself into the perfect outlaw, using every possible advantage she could get her hands on to stay free.

She was not who he wanted her to be, not who he was looking for…

He felt like he had betrayed her, his Hermione, in the worst possible way, in a way that had never occurred to him during any dalliances, because his emotions had never been fully engaged, as he functioned solely on his baser instincts. But this… this not-Hermione that stared at him with large, dark eyes from the other end of the sofa, a mixture of shame, rejection, and mutinous defiance on her face - he wanted this, wanted her, like he hadn't wanted anyone since the day she'd disappeared.

And he utterly loathed himself for it.

“We can't -” he gasped. “We can't do this. You're not - I - I'm not -”

Her chin jutted forward, as if she would refute him, but at the last instant, her pride stepped in and took over, so she said nothing. She stood, Summoning a single roll of parchment from the stack on her desk, and a battered knapsack from the corner. The lines of her spine and shoulders were rigid, a perfect, perpendicular `T'.

“We should get going,” she said woodenly. “We'll need to be out of there before the first Unspeakables arrive at dawn.” She would not look at him, unrolling the parchment and consulting it carefully.

“Hermione…” he said lamely, feeling that whatever explanation he attempted to make would not help, and could make things worse. He wasn't even sure that he could explain it in any way that would make any sort of sense at all.

“Don't!” She ordered, with a sharp, desperate edge in her voice, whirling on him with pleading in her dark eyes. Her facial muscles were tense, her eyes shining, and he could tell that she was fighting tears for all she was worth. The desire thrummed up in him again, like the gunning of a combustion engine, followed immediately by self-recrimination. He had done this to her; he had hurt her, made her already difficult life even more of a hardship.

“I'm sorry,” he offered, though it seemed indeed an unworthy sacrifice.

“You've nothing to be sorry for,” she said, in that same distant, clipped monotone, as she made a great show of checking the contents of the knapsack. He saw a thick roll of rope poking out a coiled edge, and he blurted the noun before he thought,

“Rope?” She looked at him rather witheringly, a look she would have reserved for Ron at his most irritating and inane, and Harry felt the wall between them that had seemed to crumble with their mutual touch, reappear even higher and more intimidating than before.

“To get down the shaft,” she did him the courtesy of answering. “The duct is shielded so that they can't detect us, but they will be able to detect it if we do magic. It's a trade-off, you see. Either we go during business hours where magic use is high and cannot be reliably monitored, but we stand a greater chance of being seen and caught, or we go at night, when nobody's around, but our magic would stand out like a hippogriff in a cattle herd.”

“And you've done this before?”

The dubious tone of his voice was a mistake, and her eyes flashed dangerously at him.

“Over a dozen times,” she said, clear challenge in her voice. “Have you done anything unauthorized lately, Auror Potter?”

“As a matter of fact, I broke into Draco Malfoy's French villa, just the other day… ” He trailed off, wondering exactly how long it had been since he'd left his own universe. “And how did you know I was an Auror?”

Hermione snorted.

“Please,” she said sardonically. “As if you'd have been anything else.” They glanced at each other, and Harry sucked in an uneven breath as their eyes met. The air was heavy and thick with tension and longing. He jerked his gaze away, and cleared his throat noisily.

The awkwardness was back, and once again, she was not looking at him, as she shouldered the tatty knapsack. She pulled up her sleeve, pushed her wand into a kind of leather wrist holster concealed beneath her clothing, and looked at Harry with determined, but detached eyes.

“Let's go.” Harry picked up his wand from where she'd forgotten it on the back of the sofa, and followed her out.

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They took Disillusioned brooms to the rooftop of the Ministry building itself, that decrepit, abandoned affair that seemed less than nondescript in Muggle eyes. There was a weather-beaten metal door set into a banked section of the rooftop, and Harry eyed it longingly as Hermione pried open the hooded ventilation grate, revealing a slender, square descending tube of utter darkness.

“Can't we - ?”

“It's warded,” Hermione said, without looking at him or the door. “Wards are checked regularly. It's only because this vent is so small that it isn't given more than the barest of routine checks. Luna's shield spells hold well under that kind of scrutiny.” Her face shadowed briefly with worry, and Harry remembered that she'd said she hadn't heard from Luna in quite some time.

He looked dubiously into the deep hole.

“I'm not going to fit in there.”

“Sure you will,” Hermione said laconically, raking him up and down with an impersonal glance. “Besides, it widens out further down. I've plenty of room, and you're not that much bigger than me.” He gave her a wounded look, which she ignored, concentrating instead on securely fastening the rope around one rung of the hood, which she made sure was heavy enough - and propped against the lip of the vent - so that it wouldn't move overmuch.

“No magic from here on out,” she reminded him, and grasping the rope, lowered herself into the vent. After hesitating only a fraction of a second, he followed, misjudging his grip on the rope, and falling perhaps half a meter, before arresting the motion and continuing his descent in a more coordinated manner. He heard a muffled oath, and thought he might have accidentally caught Hermione in the head with the soles of his shoes.

“Sorry,” he called down into the darkness. “Rope-climbing is not really a part of Auror training. In fact, I'm not sure how much help I'm going to be, if we can't use magic.”

“That's precisely why this has always worked,” Hermione replied, her voice echoing tinnily somewhere below him. “Wizards never even think about doing anything the Muggle way.”

Harry risked a glance down, and found that he could see absolutely nothing. The opening to the duct was nothing but the smallest of grayish circles above his head.

“How much farther?” he asked.

“About ten more meters,” Hermione answered. “Then the duct branches off to the right and left. You'll have to stay right with me; in other directions, there aren't any of Luna's shields.”

Thus far, there had been silence, only broken by the hollow sounds of their muted voices and their breathing as they descended. But then, another sort of noise entered Harry's auditory processing, a sort of stretching sound, like that of Velcro being slowed pulled apart.

“Hermione, I think the rope is -”

There was a distinct snap, like a twig being broken in half by a heel, and the rope suddenly went slack in Harry's hands. He felt his stomach rise up into his throat, as his climb down suddenly accelerated. He heard Hermione bite off a shriek, and before a heartbeat had passed, he had landed with a noisy clang at the bottom of the shaft, striking his head on the ceiling of the duct where it branched off, and landing on something soft.

“Damn,” he muttered softly. “I've broken my glasses. Hermione, are you okay?” The surface beneath him yielded and moved, and he heard Hermione's voice, so close to him that he could feel her warm breath on his face.

“Harry, can you please get off me?” He took only an instant to newly appreciate the lovely softness on which he'd fallen, and then quickly moved back with a muffled apology, groping for her hands to pull her into a more upright position. He was briefly alarmed at the feel of something wrapped around his left leg, but realized it was the rope, and retrieved it, blindly winding it into a spool around his arm, and handing it to Hermione.

She flicked on a Muggle flashlight, and grimly surveyed the frayed end of the rope, shaking her head.

“It's carried me all these times,” she said, “but two people were just too much for it.”

“How are we going to get back out?” Harry asked, trying not to notice the way the yellow light of the torch reflected golden lights into her eyes and onto the ends of her hair. She shook her head again, deep in thought.

“I don't know,” she replied. “I guess we'll figure that out as we go.” She cocked her head toward the tiny passageway that led to the right. “We're going to have to crawl. Stay close.”

Harry crawled, following the bobbing light of the torch and trying not to look at Hermione's arse right in front of him. There were many twists and turns, and he tried not to think about the fact that he might only be able to sit if he were bent nearly double. Instead, he strove to concentrate on the turnings, so that he might be able to find the way out if necessary, finding himself slipping easily back into Auror mode, though he kept his wand tucked into his back pocket, hopefully beyond the reach of temptation.

“Can't - can't anyone hear us?” he asked, at one point, of their muffled thumps and clangs as they crawled.

“Luna's shields have built-in Silencio,” she informed him shortly. Her voice remained business-like, telling him that she had not forgotten his rejection of her back at Godric's Hollow.

After a few more moments of crawling, she told him,

“It's just through here. The vent's high up in the wall, near the ceiling. It'll be about an two and a half meter drop.” They turned a final corner, and Harry could see dim stripes at the end of the duct, where the grate opened out into a room.

Hermione pushed on the grate gently, dislodging it from its place, but grabbing the slats before it could fall.

“Luna removed the Sticking charm,” she said quietly, and carefully peered out of the grate.

The hairs on the back of Harry's neck prickled, as some sixth sense began to surge into overdrive. Something felt wrong; it was too still, too quiet.

As he opened his mouth to mention this to Hermione, she spoke.

“Looks good. The broom in the corner is propped upside down. That's Luna's signal that everything's clear. She could be on the other side of that shelving,” she whispered. “Or maybe she just stepped out for a moment. Come on.” Something like relief flashed in her eyes, a letting go of the worry that had plagued her ever since Luna had failed to meet her at their prearranged spot.

She leaned across a slight gap to rest the grating on top of a high bookshelf, and let herself drop lightly to the ground below, landing in a cat-like crouch. Every instinct Harry had was shrieking an alarm, and he double-checked to make sure his wand was in place, before landing neatly beside Hermione.

She had already started forward, when he caught her by the elbow, and moved in front of her. The effrontery of his protectiveness was written all over her face, and she would have shouldered her way back in front of him, but he caught her by the upper arms and peered intently into her face.

“Something's not right,” he mouthed. “I'd stake my life on it. Go slow.”

Hermione looked as if she'd like to argue, but some inner voice had evidently reminded her that this was Harry - or some form of him, at least - and, all evidence to the contrary, she did trust him.

Harry did not reach for his wand, not yet, but he moved soundlessly, keeping to the shadows thrown by the massive shelves. There was not a sound, not a breath, and it gave Harry the creeps.

As he rounded the first corner, he saw it, at the far end of the aisle, extending out of his sight around another corner.

“Shit,” he swore under his breath. Blood. The crimson stain on the floor was unmistakable. He strode toward it, quickly but quietly, and knelt down beside the puddle, not going far enough to reveal himself around the next bend. He stuck his finger in the pool, and found it to be tacky and congealed.

He eased forward, careful not to step in the blood, and peered around the edge of the shelving. At the sight of what met his eyes, he was unable to contain a hoarse cry of dismay.

“What is it, Harry?” Hermione asked, protesting against him as he tried to hold her back. “What is it? Let me see.”

Her horrified gasp was followed by the soft clap of her hand to her mouth. Harry was feeling a little shaky himself, and hoped desperately that he was not going to be sick.

There was a desk filling an alcove just around the corner, piled with papers and notations and odd whirling instruments. Luna sat in the chair, though it was positioned to face them, rather than the desk, as if she had been propped to greet them.

Her throat had been slit from ear to ear, her eyes vacant, blood staining the ends of her hair, the front of her clothes, and the chair, running in meandering rivulets to pool where they'd found it.

“Oh, Luna,” Hermione's voice was heartbreaking. Harry was struggling to beat back a flood of images, Luna bringing him wine, Luna admonishing him gently with her eyes, Don't look at me like that Harry, Luna serenely telling him that the universe was out of balance.

It isn't her; it isn't her, he said to himself, struggling to belie what his eyes were telling him.

“Who would've done this to her? Why would they have left her like this?” Harry asked. The body had obviously been placed under various stasis charms, or the smell would have alerted them before they'd even gotten near her. Luna had to have been dead for some time.

“They must have found out what - what she'd been doing, that she'd been giving me information. If they left her here, it - it was to send a message.” Dawning horror lurked in her eyes. “It's a trap. They knew I would come eventually. After we came out of the vent, we came out of the shields. They must still be intact, or they'd have been here waiting for us. But I'll bet they're on their way now.” She looked at Harry, who was trying very hard not to look at Luna. “Harry, we've got to go.”

Harry tore his gaze away from the blood on the floor, noticing for the first time the rows and rows of necklaces.

“We can't go yet. Not without what we came here for.”

Hermione's eyes flashed angrily.

“It's all very well for you,” she said. “One incantation and you can leave this universe behind, but I'll still be in Ministry custody.”

He grabbed her by the arms, and pressed a hard and defiant kiss to her pliant mouth.

“I would never abandon you to the mercies of Lucius Malfoy, Hermione,” he said fiercely. “I don't care what universe we're in. But we're not leaving yet.” He shot a couple of complicated spells - Auror in origin - that Hermione didn't recognize at the door, sealing it shut decisively. “Reckon it doesn't matter whether or not we use magic now. We've got to have calibration equipment and maybe a couple of blank crystals, just in case. Can you find what we need?”

Hermione stared at him for one wide-eyed moment, before nodding, and darting around the corner. He heard the faint rustle of her movements, and turned to go through the desk, his eye lighting on a leather-bound portfolio full of sheaves of handwritten notes. The stamp on the front said, Multiverse Theory. He shrunk the tome, and placed it carefully in his pocket.

His sorrowful gaze fell on the still corpse of Luna Lovegood, and he placed one hand on the back of her blond head, smoothing down the still shiny hair.

“I'm so sorry,” he murmured brokenly.

His introspection was interrupted by shouts and curses from outside. The magically sealed door rattled ominously on its hinges.

“Hermione, love,” Harry called out in a low voice of warning. “Are you ready to go? I think we've worn out our welcome.”

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Disclaimer: Not mine; more's the pity.

Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Eighteen:

Every now and then I know you'll always be the only boy that wanted me the way that I am.

--Bonnie Tyler, “Total Eclipse of the Heart”

Hermione reappeared from around the corner, her arms piled full of various and sundry paraphernalia that Harry could not hope to identify. Her eyes appeared too-large in her thin, anxious face, and Harry said,

“Here, let me,” and held his arms out. There was no need to speak, no time for even the barest of conversations, but they were working together seamlessly, as if this colossal miscalculation had been planned out in advance.

She had begun shucking off the knapsack the instant her arms were empty, flipping open the flap and casting Shrinking charms on everything Harry was carrying. The door rattled again, and a twisting vertical crack began to meander its way down the length of the heavy wood.

Harry cast a Cushioning charm, and Hermione turned around, as he closed the bag, and helped her put in on her shoulders, even as they began to move toward the back of the room, toward the grate - and escape.

A spell flashed through the ever-widening chink in the door, that Harry only saw in his peripheral vision as it flew past him, narrowly missing his ear, and hit Hermione in the shoulder.

“Hermione!” His cry blended with her own, and she staggered, but did not go down, turning and lunging unevenly toward him, her fingers biting into the fabric of his sleeves.

“I'm - I'm…all right,” she said, though her pallor and unfocused eyes suggested otherwise.

“You're bleeding,” he pointed out, and she looked down to where a patch of brilliant red began to bloom on the light material of her cotton shirt.

“Cutting curse,” she said, wincing as she shifted her shoulder experimentally. “Hurts, but I'll be okay. They're trying to stop us, not kill us.”

Harry deftly removed the knapsack straps from her shoulder, as gently as he knew how, and proceeded to load it onto his own shoulders.

“Get up in the vent,” he ordered, and she did not argue with him, which he thought was a rather refreshing change. She Levitated herself upward, landing neatly within the confines of the duct, even as the door finally surrendered to the bombardment it had been withstanding.

“Harry!” She called hoarsely, and saw him jerk his head in the direction of the cracking wood, alarm widening his eyes.

“Go!” He called out, without looking at her. He raised his wand.

“Not without you!” She hollered back.

His reductor curse crashed impressively into the nearest shelving unit, causing it to explode in a generous spray of paper shreds, wood splinters and glass shards, as it toppled into the adjacent unit, creating a domino effect. The war cries of Malfoy's minions quickly changed to shouts of anger and dismay.

“Accio grate,” Harry said, and caught the flat metal panel in one hand, as it surged toward him. He knew he had only bought himself and Hermione time, and he quickly soared upward, landing inside the vent, as Hermione scrambled out of his way. He replaced the covering, adding several layers of complicated Sticking charms as an extra measure of precaution.

“I thought I told you to go,” he growled at Hermione, mostly serious. She glowered at him, even though she was visibly favoring her injured shoulder.

“I thought you'd understand by now that we're in this together,” she said defiantly.

“Let me see your shoulder.”

“It can wait,” she insisted, though her left arm was all but useless at her side. “Let's get out of here first.” Harry wanted to argue, but subsided, still able to hear the Death Eaters as they struggled to free themselves from the wreckage of the room.

They proceeded down the vent, crawling slowly - too slowly - with Hermione using an odd kind of gimpy gait, not putting any weight on her left hand at all. Harry crawled behind her, every sense on high alert, every nerve ending vibrating with the need to hurry. He was listening intently for any increase in noise from behind them.

He heard nothing, and when they reached the vertical shaft, he began to feel some measure of relief. Perhaps they had made it safely away.

“Can you go about halfway up and hold there?” he asked, allowing himself to be glad that the mishaps of the mission allowed them at least to use magic.

“Why?”

“Because I need to do something first, and I'm going to need you out of the way, but I don't want you going up to the roof alone - not while you're hurt.” He eyed her shoulder in a practiced way; the blood had spread to cover most of the front of her shirt, but did not appear to be expanding at an alarming rate.

She nodded and sighed, pointing her wand at the floor of the duct, and rising upwards slowly. At some indeterminate point above his head, lost in darkness, he heard her say, “Arresto Momentum.”

He too began to rise, and, as he did so, he took a coin from his pocket, and let it fall, transfiguring it in mid-flight to a large square sheet of metal that looked quite like that which lined the vents. Before it could fall to the bottom of the duct, he Sealed it carefully into place at the opening to the vertical shaft. Hopefully, if the Death Eaters made it this far, they would crawl on forward, and without the realization that there was access to the roof right above their heads.

He continued his ascent, which was brought to an abrupt halt, when he found himself pinned between a hovering Hermione and the wall.

“You'll have played hell with the ventilation system now,” she said, but it was in a husky and admiring sort of way. Harry hitched in a breath that he hoped could be construed as a chuckle, and quickly propelled himself upward, inwardly cursing himself for noticing and enjoying the way his body slid past hers in the tube.

Cautiously, he poked his head up from the duct entrance, grateful for the hooded cover, still propped against the vent opening, with a straggly end of rope tied to it. It was entirely possible that Death Eaters had deduced how they exited the multiverse room, and had headed to the roof to cut them off.

The roof was silent, the indigo sky studded with diamond-chip stars, the faintest of glows beginning to form on the edge of the eastern horizon.

“It's clear,” he whispered to Hermione, and clambered the rest of the way out. He leaned down to give her a hand up, and she staggered out clumsily, using only one hand, and nearly tripping over the edge of the vent where it protruded from the roof.

She used his chest to give herself leverage, bracing herself against him until she was sure she wasn't going to fall. There was a jolt through both of them as if one had touched a live wire.

“Harry?” She sounded breathless.

“What?” His voice appeared as if he too had suffered from a sudden lack of oxygen.

There was a sudden upswell of noise behind the lone door at the other end of the roof, and they exchanged alarmed glances. Somebody clattered noisily against the crash bar, and the door began to open. A solitary beam of light spilled out from the stairwell.

Harry and Hermione looked first at their discarded brooms, barely visible as an indistinct outline in their Disillusioned state, then at the still open vent.

“If we go back down the duct, they'll know exactly where we are,” Harry said. “We'll be cut off.” He didn't relish the idea of playing hide-and-seek with Death Eaters in the Ministry ventilation system.

“If we leave on brooms, they'll be sure to spot us. We haven't enough time to get far enough away. We'll be tracked,” Hermione added, then gasped, as Harry threw an arm around her ribs, catching her up under the arms, and pulling her flush against him, while trying not to jar her shoulder overmuch. “What on earth - ?”

“Do you trust me?” he asked, looking as intently into her eyes as he could. Even as he did, Malfoy's henchmen had arrived onto the rooftop, and she could hear the exclamations as they were spotted.

Only an instant, a heartbeat, a breath, before curses began to fly.

“Of course I do,” she answered, and he brought his wand arm down, pointing it at the roof, hurtling them into the sky.

He felt her arms tighten frantically around him, as the shouts of the Death Eaters dwindled away. There were a few curses lobbed at them, but they missed widely. Harry was waiting for it - and there it was - a shivering sensation like radiant electricity, as they passed through the Ministry's anti-Apparation wards. When they were sufficiently above them, Harry released the Levitation spell.

Hermione's shrill yell of terror spiraled above them as they plummeted for only an instant before he Apparated them away.

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Harry did not truly relax until they had entered the house, and descended to Hermione's secret room.

“Will they look here?” he asked, watching her with a concerned gaze, as she moved mechanically to the small curtained loo.

“They know I was here once,” she replied, her voice made slightly indistinct when she moved behind the flimsy barrier. “They sweep it every now and then, but they've never found me. Anti-Apparation wards only allow me in and out - that's why we ended up in the garden.” There was a rustle of fabric, and Harry saw her bloody shirt hit the floor. A moment later, she came out in a fresh shirt, twisting her arm experimentally.

“I've had the Auror training in field medicine. Mind if I have a look at that?” Harry asked casually. Hermione's arched brows clearly said, Actually, I do.

“I'm perfectly capable of casting a healing spell on myself, thank you,” she said stiffly.

There was a long, awkward silence, in which Harry tried vainly to think of something else besides kissing her, and the million reasons it would be wrong - and right - if he did.

“So what happens now?” Hermione ventured after a moment, not meeting his eyes.

“What?” Harry had the sudden panicked thought that she was reading his mind.

“What are you going to do…with that?” She cocked her head toward the knapsack that Harry had deposited on the sofa.

“Well, I … guess - if I can figure out how, that is - then I'll use my - my magical signature to calibrate a new crystal. Unless I'm closer to home than to her - which I doubt - that should lead me straight to her - or - or, at least, the universe where she is.”

“So, after it's calibrated, you'll cast the incantation and you'll…go?” The last word was faint, and she pressed her lips together tightly. She still wouldn't look at him.

Harry swallowed noisily, finding that it didn't do much to ease the ache in his chest.

“Yes,” he finally managed. Hermione nodded matter-of-factly, but Harry could read her tumultuous emotions in her pained eyes and the hammering of her pulse in the slender column of her neck.

“Well, then, I suppose we should …” she began, going back into Professional Mode, reaching for the knapsack with one hand.

“Hermione!” The word burst from between his lips before he could call it back. Her head jerked up toward him, as if it had been attached to a whipcord.

“What?” She let the word slink from between her teeth, barely moving her mouth. “What is there to say? We should get to work.”

“I - I don't want to leave you here like this,” he said feebly. Her eyes flashed dangerously.

“Then take me with you,” she said briskly, retrieving items from the depths of the sack, and setting them carefully on the flimsy card table.

“I … can't,” he said slowly. “I was hoping you'd understand.”

“Understand what? I'm Hermione Granger, your best friend, genetically identical to whoever it is you're looking for! Have I really changed that much in the few years where our universes diverged? Why can't you - why can't I - ?” She exhaled a shuddering breath, and clamped her mouth shut, her pride nearly shattered beyond repair at her outburst.

“Why can't I what?” Harry retorted. “Why can't I love you? You think I don't? Let me tell you something right now, Hermione - I love you with all my soul. Is that what you want to hear? I always have and I've never stopped. And I'll never forgive myself for not telling her - you - when I had the chance. You are every bit as much Hermione as the girl who was taken from me. But it's not about that.”

“Then what is it about?” She asked shakily, heightened color flooding her face at his emotional words.

“It's about doing what's right. It's about restoring Hermione to a universe from which she was stolen, taken against her will. It's not fair to leave her there. And if I took you both, one of you would be forced out of phase.”

“You might not ever find her,” she said, feeling like she was begging, and hating herself for it.

“I have to try,” he answered stolidly, knowing what she was trying to convey. I'm a sure thing. You have me right here. “Besides, you would forever be fighting the pull of your own universe. I don't know what we'd have to do to keep you there. This is your universe, where you belong…”

Hermione stopped her busy work, and sank down onto the sofa, as if all the bones had been melted from her legs.

“Where I belong…” she echoed in a broken voice. “Oh, God.”

He watched her impassively for a moment, inwardly aghast, but moved to sit at her side, wrapping one arm around her when she finally began to cry.

“Leave this place, Hermione,” he said. “Go to Australia, America, anywhere away from here. There's nothing to hold you here anymore. We lost. Harry - I ­failed. It's over. You should go - try to make a life for yourself somewhere else.”

“I could never imagine a life without you,” she said dully. “As long as I was fighting Death Eaters, standing up for what was right - it - it felt like I was keeping you alive… like I was still fighting for you. If - if I go - then you really are dead.”

“Maybe…” Harry hedged, feeling like the world's biggest hypocrite. “Maybe it's time you accept that.”

“Like you did?” She retorted, but without the heat of anger.

“My journey isn't over yet,” was all he said, simply. They sat silently for a moment, Harry enjoying the feel of her against his side, as his fingers trailed down to the end of her plait, winding it around his fingers. His desire had been tamped somewhat, replaced instead with compassion, that familiar love for Hermione as a friend, as someone about whom he cared deeply. He clung to that feeling; the other was dangerous.

He felt her heave a wistful sigh, and straighten up.

“Then I'd best help you on your way,” she said in a carefully measured tone. He looked up at her, and the guarded look in her eyes warned him to say nothing else.

Allow me my dignity at least, she seemed to be saying, as she moved to the small table and began rifling over its contents. After a moment, she said,

“I don't even know where to begin. I'm not that well-versed on these theories…”

One of Harry's hands shot up to make contact with his forehead.

“I completely forgot!” he exclaimed, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a miniature book. In his hurry to enlarge it, he sent a few leaves of parchment wafting in all directions. He triumphantly presented it to Hermione, and her eyes sparked with interest when she saw the title.

“You lifted this?” She asked, though it was not really a question.

“You think Lucius Malfoy will be pissed?” There was unabashed glee in his voice, and Hermione laughed - the first real laugh he'd heard from her since he'd been there. It did funny things to his chest.

Her brow furrowed in that heartrendingly familiar way, as she flipped open the book and began to scan over the knowledge contained therein. Harry yawned so widely that he thought he might dislocate his lower jaw, and the movement caught Hermione's attention.

“How long has it been since you've slept?” she asked, almost accusingly. Harry shrugged, blinking eyes that were watery from the yawn.

“Luna said I wouldn't tire while I was out of phase. This is the first time I've been in phase for any extended period of time, but I was up for over twenty-four hours just before I left. I'm not even sure how much time has passed now - or how much passed while I was moving between universes.”

“Go to sleep,” she said perfunctorily. “I'll work on this.” She waved her wand at the sofa, causing it to widen, and nodded toward the folded bedding over the arm.

“Hermione, this is my - ” He tried to protest.

“When have I ever not helped you when you needed it? Besides, you won't be able to find her if you're dead on your feet, now will you?” She was trying very hard to keep her voice brisk, almost flippant, and it was nearly convincing.

“I could help you…” he offered, but the thought of repose was intoxicating, and he yawned again. Another snap of her wand caused the pillows and linens to fly up and arrange themselves around him properly. The fluffy softness smelled like her, and he inhaled a deep breath, his eyes sliding closed of their own accord.

“With any luck, I'll have this all sussed out by morning,” she said.

“'Night, H'mione,” he mumbled, already all but gone. His breathing became even and slow.

“Good night, Harry,” she returned, almost primly, as her gaze traveled over his weary face hungrily and with sorrowful eyes.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Ron felt shaky as he strode into the subterranean courtroom, which managed to feel both cavernously intimidating and oppressively dark at the same time. The courtroom was closed, with only a score or two of members of the media and “connected” public allowed to sit in on the proceedings. There was a low murmur of voices that indicated that the scheduled event had not yet begun.

Draco Malfoy sat at a low polished table with a rather dapperly dressed man that was obviously his solicitor. His eyes met Ron's with all the friendly openness of a great white shark.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Ron read his lips more than actually heard the words he spoke. The solicitor leaned over and whispered something in Malfoy's ear. The cold, cutting glance was replaced with a smirk.

“You've got to be joking,” he exclaimed with mock mirth, his voice louder now, though still all but indistinguishable among the swirling conversations in the room. “The esteemed Harry Potter couldn't find anyone to show up in his stead besides a blood-traitor drunk?”

The solicitor seemed to blanch at the phrase “blood traitor”, now indelibly tainted by its narrow-minded association with the erstwhile Dark Lord, and whispered something else in Malfoy's ear. The courtroom had noticed the exchange, and a thunderous silence had descended.

“Just where is Potter anyway?” The Slytherin asked, affecting a casually curious air. Ron shoved a trembling hand into a pocket, noting with faint disgust that Malfoy seemed to have noticed the movement.

“He went to find Hermione,” Ron said, in as distinct a voice as he could muster. The murmur in the room swelled to a new crescendo. Malfoy's eyes went flat, though his face was carefully composed.

“Granger is dead,” he responded. “And everyone without their head up their arse - or in a bottle of Ogden's - knows that.”

Ron let his lips twitch upward in a knowing smirk, but moved toward the visitor's gallery, as Head Auror Shacklebolt and the Ministry Prosecutor took seats at the other front table. Ron noticed Percy sitting in the gallery as well, and gave him a wide berth, sitting as far away from him as he could get.

The judge came in, resplendent in swirling indigo robes and conical hat, and brought the court into session.

“This is to determine whether the charges brought up against Lord Draco Malfoy are worthy to stand trial under Wizarding Law, as per Ministry Amendment 17.3, Code 031-84A,” droned some sort of Ministry Under-official.

Malfoy's solicitor stood immediately.

“I submit that all charges against my client are without merit, and move that they be dropped forthwith.”

“On what grounds?” the judge asked, sounding bored - or more accurately, Ron realized - as if he'd been expecting that very statement.

“The arresting Auror has failed to show up at all. Any evidence presented will be removed from direct testimony. Such a distillation of the facts is hardly judicious to my client.”

“The arrest can be corroborated by the Aurors on duty at the Level Four facility,” the prosecutor pointed out quietly, “as well as the Parisian unit. We also have the testimony of two Ministry Unspeakables, upon whose word Auror Potter made the arrest in the first place, as well as pensieve testimony from Auror Potter himself.”

“Pensieve testimony is only admissible on a case by case basis,” the defense counsel said, sounding almost triumphant. “It can be too easily tampered with or falsified.”

By whom? Ron wanted to snort, remembering Harry's account of Slughorn's edited memory regarding his Horcrux conversation with young Tom Riddle.

“The memories were retrieved from Auror Potter under his own power, in the presence of other Aurors as witnesses, as well as the Minister's Assistant, Percy Weasley, and were placed into a Ministry-standard pensieve for storage and perusal.” This time, it was Kingsley Shacklebolt who spoke.

“The pensieve testimony will be admitted into evidence, in accordance with the Ministry standards,” the judge said in a monotone.

“My client's villa was illegally breached,” the solicitor tried again. “Any and all evidence found therein should be dismissed.”

“Unspeakable testimony will show that Auror Potter had clear reason to enter the building and detain the inhabitants. The prosecution can demonstrate this clearly.”

“Any information that Auror Potter received from his unauthorized Legilimency on my client should also be stricken,” the solicitor tacked onto the end. There was a gasp from the visitor's gallery, and Kingsley looked pained.

“Information found under forced Legilimency will not be admissible in trial…Where exactly is Auror Potter, Mr. Shacklebolt?” the judge asked.

“He is - he is investigating something directly related to the apprehension and arrest of both Draco Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“Would this have anything to do with the alleged kidnapping of one Hermione Granger?”

The outburst in the courtroom was loud enough this time for the judge to use an Amplification spell on his wand and tap it briskly on his podium.

“Yes, sir, it would.”

Triumph flashed in Malfoy's eyes, and Ron felt a sinking sensation in his gut that had nothing to do with his recent alcohol withdrawal. He's gonna walk, he thought glumly. Harry's not here, and the ferrety little bastard is going to get off scot-free.

“It is the determination of this court that the charge of kidnapping Hermione Granger with the intent of conspiracy against Auror Harry Potter be dropped, due to lack of eyewitness testimony and evidence. Since Miss Granger was declared dead long ago, and is not present to speak for herself, this court has no choice.”

Ron's head tilted forward into his cupped hands. The tantalizing thought of amber liquid scorching its way down his throat wafted through his mind.

“However, there are enough grounds for a trial regarding the charge of aiding and abetting a fugitive from justice, a known Death Eater, one Bellatrix Lestrange. There is also a charge of Use of an Unforgivable Curse.”

“That wasn't me. That was - ” Draco shrieked, cut off abruptly as his solicitor tugged him into his seat and gave him strict orders to shut up. Ron grinned.

“This court agrees that a trial regarding these charges is reasonable. Due to Lord Malfoy's wealth and influence, he is deemed a high-flight risk, and will not be released from Ministry custody prior to trial.” Another tap of the Amplified wand. “This court is adjourned.”

Cameras flashed, as the buzz filled the room once again. Malfoy was sitting in his chair, utterly still, as if he'd been carved from marble. Ron glanced at Percy, but the taut lines of his brother's face gave away little. He wondered again about the last minute order Harry had been shouting into the Floo, right before they left for the Department of Mysteries.

As people began to slowly filter from the courtroom, Ron strolled casually past Malfoy, not meeting his eyes, but allowing himself to smile almost beatifically. Hope you enjoy the Dementors, Malfoy, he allowed himself to think gleefully, even though he knew that Malfoy wouldn't set foot on Azkaban unless he was actually convicted.

When he exited the courtroom, he was immediately smothered in a cloud of smooth arms and shiny pale hair.

“How was it?” she asked.

“Hello, love,” Ron said, wiping the tresses away from his mouth. Luna eyed him expectantly, her blue gaze wide, and she said nothing, waiting. He stood still, while people filtered around them, until he could no longer keep the grin from his face.

“They're charging him,” he said. “Couldn't make the one about Hermione stick, not without Harry or Hermione present, but they've bloody well got enough about Bellatrix.” Luna felt her eyes slide closed, even as she reached out in vain for Harry, feeling his absence the way one would achingly miss a severed limb.

“Thank Merlin,” she said, more reverently that she usually did. Ron looked at her with some surprise.

“Did you think they wouldn't?” he asked. “I'll admit I was worried there for a bit, but they found the witch in his bloody house. She cast a bloody Unforgivable from her own bloody registered wand. It's an open and shut case! Reckon Scrimgeour wouldn't dare fire Harry now.”

A wistful smile flitted ethereally across Luna's face.

“Shall we celebrate then? Perhaps with something non­-alcoholic?”

Ron appeared to contemplate this cheerfully for a while, but then something shadowed in his eyes, and his face fell. He shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Not yet. Not until…”

Luna understood what he did not have to say.

Not until they're back. Not until we're all together again.

There was a hole in the universe where Harry had been, and all Luna had was her fragile, clinging belief in equilibrium that he would return. It had been nearly one week, and there was no way to communicate with him, no way to know anything for sure…

Come home soon, Harry…

-

AN: Hope you enjoy! For all those who've read and reviewed “Resistance”, my heartiest thanks to all your sweet wishes of congratulations! We are expecting an addition to the family this summer, and are quite excited. Hopefully, my energyless-ness won't interfere too terribly much with updates!

You may leave a review on your way out, if you like.

lorien

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Disclaimer: Not mine; more's the pity.

Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Nineteen:

Yesterday you were my best friend, but tomorrow took you away.

--Breaking Point, “Good-bye to You”

Harry came awake slowly, taking a moment to remember where he was, and wondering idly what time it was. There was no way to determine time of day in the little underground, windowless room. His nose ached where he'd fallen asleep with his glasses on; he'd turned over in the night and driven them into his face. The earpiece was still hanging crookedly where he'd broken them, falling on Hermione the night before, but he ignored it. He pushed two fingers beneath the frames and rubbed, as he stretched experimentally and sat up.

Hermione was in the bed with him. It gave him a momentary jolt, until he saw the way she was laying, curled up into a tight defensive ball facing away from him, so close to the edge of the bed that she seemed seconds away from falling off, with a tattered afghan clutched tightly around her. A pang of sorrow washed over him, as he regarded her, feeling an immense regret that he had come here at all, that he had been the showcase for all her regrets, had put on display to her what she was missing - would forever miss - and that he was going to leave her behind, in a universe where she'd already been left behind countless times.

He leaned over her, propped on one arm, and gently brushed a stray lock of hair back from her face.

“I'm sorry, Hermione.”

She sniffed suddenly, and blinked her eyes open, shrinking back into the mattress as she saw his proximity. She scrambled from the bed, still holding the afghan around herself like it was armor.

“You're awake,” she blurted obviously. “I'm - I'm sorry… I tried not to take up much room, but - but the floor is cold, and - ”

“Hermione…” he interrupted gently. “It's your bed. If anything, I'm grateful that you didn't chuck me out.” He looked at the desk, with the multiverse book lying open atop it, and several pieces of parchment covered in Hermione's tidy scrawl. “You were up much later than I was. Why don't you get back in the bed and rest, and I'll get us some breakfast? How's your shoulder?”

“It's fine,” she mumbled, as he steered her by both arms back to the bed, and made her sit down. He moved over to the tiny stove, and looked back over his shoulder at her.

“What do you usually eat?”

She shrugged, apparently embarrassed.

“Usually just toast. There are some bananas under an Everfresh charm too; they should still be good.” Harry found the necessary items, and began to prepare a simple breakfast, while Hermione watched, hunched beneath her afghan.

“Don't you want to know how much progress I made last night?” She finally asked, when the silence seemed to grow oppressive.

“It can wait until after breakfast,” he said, holding two plates aloft and speaking with impressive nonchalance. Hermione's eyes narrowed.

“I don't need your pity, Harry,” she nearly growled. “Who wouldn't be eager to leave this wretched place?”

“I trust you remember exactly what I said to you last night?” Harry asked, though it wasn't really a question. “Then you also remember that the word `pity' was nowhere to be heard, was it?”

“I think I've got it,” she said softly, and was rewarded with a loud clatter, as Harry let the plates drop the remaining distance to the surface of the stove.

“R - really?” he stammered, dolloping marmalade onto the toast and spreading it out. He perched a banana on the edge of the plate, and handed it to Hermione. She accepted the plate, and took a bite, without really tasting it.

“Yes,” was her response, and they finished the scanty meal in silence. Harry felt anticipation thrumming through his gut in a dead heat with guilt.

I'm going to find her today, was the inescapable thought that spiraled aimlessly around in his mind, and somehow, even as he tried to force his trembling hand to direct his toast to his mouth, he couldn't make himself believe it. He had spent the better part of a year searching for her in a tireless frenzy, had sunk into a slough of despondency, and had then subsisted behind a hard-working, cheerless façade, refusing to face the idea that she was really gone forever. The next four years had seemed like an eternity.

Then he'd been thrown this incredible opportunity to find her. He'd located Bellatrix, arrested Draco Malfoy, found the necklace…

He was still waiting for something to go colossally wrong.

And then his eyes fell on her.

She had conjured a serviette out of thin air, and was dabbing at her mouth and fingertips with it. The fastidious gesture made him grin; it seemed very natural that Hermione would still tend to the niceties, even while living in a secret underground room off of someone's cellar.

He could tell that a dreamy smile had wafted across his face, and he stuffed the rest of the toast in his mouth, Banishing the plate back to the cooktop, and hoping she hadn't noticed.

Hermione sent her dish arcing after his, where it landed as lightly as a falling feather.

“Are you ready?” she asked. The guarded look was up in her eyes again - or was it still? She was going to ready Harry for the journey and send him on his way. It seemed obvious that any kind of sentimental overture or messy, guilt-ridden apology would be rather less than welcome.

“Reckon so,” he mumbled, in a muffled voice, as he struggled to swallow the crust of bread that suddenly seemed too dry and too large for his protesting throat.

“Stand up,” she instructed, and moved beside him. She tapped him on the head with her wand, and said an incantation in Latin that he did not catch. He started to ask her what she'd said, but she softly hushed him, and he watched, agape, as luminous blue runes began to write themselves in the air.

He had taken only the barest of crash courses in Arithmancy during Auror training, and so had only the vaguest of ideas of what she had done.

“Is that my - ?”

“Magical signature? Yes, it is.” Her brow furrowed as she studied the glowing shapes, pointing with her wand. “This one is your individual rune - most scholars think there are no two alike - even twins' are usually slightly different. This is a family rune, and this one has to do with one's astrological sign, and this one is a sort of a personality rune. It - it isn't absolute by any means, but one example shows that those sorted into Gryffindor house generally have this specific rune in common, as do the other houses for other runes. And then this one - ” she pointed to the one farthest to the left, “ - for a long time has been known as the `constant'. In all my classes and studies, this one has been the same in every magical person.”

“Then which one do we - ?” His question was halted incomplete, when Hermione cast the same spell on herself. A set of brilliant gold runes began to form in the air beneath his.

The rune she had pointed out as the “personality” rune was identical to the one of Hermione's in the same position. However, every other rune was different.

Even the so-called constant.

“Why are those different?” Harry asked. An awe-struck smile, a triumphant smile of successful discovery wreathed Hermione's face.

“I was right,” she breathed, her eyes flickering over the luminescent runes hovering in mid-air. “Our constants are different, because you are not from this universe.” She nodded toward the open portfolio on multiverse theory. “Luna had just begun to explore that aspect, but, of course, there's never been anyone around from another universe on whom to test the theory.”

“So, everyone - everyone in my universe has this rune?” Harry asked, reaching his hand upward, as if to touch the symbols. “She has this rune? And that's what will draw me to her?”

In answer, Hermione picked up the blank crystal, strung on a nondescript chain, and murmured another incantation, drawing an imaginary line from the constant to the pendant itself. A ghostly after-image of the rune floated down and was absorbed inside the crystal, which briefly glowed an electric blue color before returning to its natural state.

She tapped the crystal with her wand, and said,

“Increpitare.” She handed the chain to him, without really meeting his eyes. “It's done.”

“It's done? That's it?” He sounded incredulous.

“The final incantation sets the rune in the crystal to search for or `call out' to its like. If Hermione is in between you and your home universe, which would make sense, as she's ahead of you on your journey, yet has not made it home, then this crystal will draw you to her first - as the nearest bearer of your constant. If she's - if she is dead - then you'll arrive back home straightaway. All that - all that's left is for you to activate that crystal and get out of here. You should bypass all other universes until you reach the one where she is.” Her face was almost brittle, as if made of porcelain, her eyes a mask.

There was a smothering silence. Harry finally flicked an uncertain glance at the approximate area where the door had been.

“I should probably… go out - just - just in case,” he mumbled.

“Right,” she said faintly. “You wouldn't want to risk materializing where this room isn't, and be buried alive.” She strode methodically to the wall, and tapped it, as the bricks obediently disarranged themselves and exposed the cellar of his parents' home.

“You don't have to …” he began automatically, as she began to follow him through the cellar.

“I want to,” she said, and they made the transition into the house in silence, then climbing through the broken window into the neglected garden. Day had broken, but everything was still damp and misty in the early morning.

His hand went instinctively under his shirt, clasping at the chain of other necklace, the one that would take him - them, he hoped - home. He slipped the crystal that Hermione had doctored over his head as well.

One more stop, one more stop, he thought, scarcely daring to believe it. His heart was thundering so loudly in his chest that he thought it was probably leaving an imprint. He scuffed his shoe on the scraggly turf, and threaded two fingers through a belt loop.

“I want to thank you for - for everything you've…” His words sounded stilted and formal and awkward.

“It's just me, Harry,” she said, her voice the barest of whispers.

“That's what makes it so hard,” he replied as softly as she had, his throat threatening to close up over the words. One hand groped blindly for his pockets to make sure his wand was stashed safely therein.

She took a deep breath, and stuck her hand out.

“Good-bye, Harry. Best of luck.” Her voice was chipper and false, as if she were making polite conversation with an acquaintance that she did not like very much. He stared at her hand as if it were a deadly breed of viper.

“Good-bye Hermione,” he responded, but his voice was low and rough. He ignored her hand, and pulled her into his arms for a crushing hug instead. He felt her body go rigid for an instant, but then she relaxed, melding into his embrace, as if she were trying to memorize him, as if she realized that this was the end and that it was really forever this time.

She was saying the farewell that she never got to say before, he thought suddenly. She pulled back to look at him, and they were practically breathing each other's breath. He dropped a kiss on her forehead, and then on her lips, light and slow. They both tasted salt, but from whose tears it was unclear.

He backed away from her and nodded at her gravely, retrieving his wand to tap the crystal she had just given her. She smiled at him, as he said the incantation,

“Adjicio universum.” Still she smiled, even though her heart shattered into a million tiny pieces, even as she was impaled by the shards of what was left of her life.

“I meant what I said before,” he said, his voice beginning to echo hollowly, as he vanished. “Don't stay here. Hermione, live your life. I love you.”

He was gone, as completely as if a television set had been unplugged. She realized that her smile was still on her face, as if forgotten, and it began to twist in on itself, as the tears began to flow in earnest.

“I love you too,” she choked to no one, as she re-entered her hideaway, feeling like a sort of diminishing version of herself, fighting the urge to fling herself down on the bed in the wild hope that her pillow smelled like him. She had never felt so unutterably lonely in her life. Instead, she turned toward the desk, and her face became speculative, as she eyed the remaining blank crystal and Luna's handwritten leather book of notes.

If there are infinite possibilities out there, if I could come up with a way to alter my `constant,' she wondered, hope faintly sparking in her heart for the first time since Harry had told her he was leaving, perhaps there's a Harry out there who needs me as much as I need him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

There was a high-pitched whistling in Harry's ears, and his hair seemed to be streaming back in a non-existent wind. There were streaks of color, sounds that rose up and died abruptly, the sensations of people and movement nearby, but yet not fully part of his sphere of perception. Where he'd passed rapidly through universes before, he'd been able to distinguish, to observe his surroundings. There had also been the underlying impression that he was not the one moving; it was the universe itself falling into place around him. Now, however, he had the definite feeling that he was moving through untold numbers of alternate universes, at extremely high speeds.

And then it all came to a sudden and undeniable halt, and everything went black. He toppled forward into nothingness, giving over to total disorientation.

“Hey? Hey, you all right there, mate?” A voice filtered into his consciousness, so familiar and instantly recognized that Harry's heart sank. He'd gone home; she was dead, and he'd bypassed everything in between, and arrived back in his own universe. He dimly realized that he was lying face down in verdant grass, and wondered if he could just stay there forever.

He felt a gentle nudge - probably the toe of a shoe - in his side. He felt his wand being removed from where it hung out of his pocket, and tensed, but did not rise. Why should he? He had staked all his hopes on the feeble certainty that Hermione awaited him - somewhere - and those had finally been dashed for good.

“Listen, mate, I'd hate to call the MLE, but - but you are on private property. It's clear you've had a rough night, and - and I'll be glad to send you on your way with a Sobering potion and a couple of galleons, but you've got to get up.”

Harry stifled a groan into the grass. What was he playing at? The tears that sprang unbidden to his eyes stung, and he realized that his glasses had been smashed in his fall, cutting into his face.

“Love?” The voice called, retreating away from him somewhat. “Is there any Sobering potion left in the refrigerator?” There was an indistinct murmur from somewhere more distant, possibly inside the house. “No, I don't need it. It's only ten, for Merlin's sake!” The reply was indignant. “It's for some poor sod passed out in our garden.”

Sundry pieces of information had been slowly trickling into Harry's dazed brain, not the least of which was his wonder at how Ron - for it was undoubtedly his voice - had known he would reappear in Godric's Hollow, and had managed to somehow meet him there as he'd arrived. Ron had also not called him by name, though he'd seen him only from the back, and had taken his wand. His last remark about the `poor sod' and `our garden' had caused Harry's heart to seize painfully with deferred joy.

He was not home, at least not yet. He was in phase, and somehow Ron lived at the house in Godric's Hollow.

He was among friends!

Finding Hermione should be easy.

He opened his eyes, squinting against the sun - brighter now, and at the level of about mid-morning - and tried to sit up slowly, groaning involuntarily as he did so. Every muscle in his body ached, and he wondered what kind of toll his rapid flight through the multiverse would take on him. Pinkish stains came away on his hands, when he removed his destroyed glasses and wiped at his eyes, and he looked askance at the twisted metal.

“Dammit!” he said under his breath. “Oculus reparo.” The glasses righted themselves with a soft snick, and he sighed gustily, thinking of the first time he'd ever heard that particular spell.

Replacing the glasses on his face gingerly, mindful of the lacerations, he braced one hand on the springy lawn, and attempted to stand to his feet. As he turned toward the rear of the house, where Ron had gone, someone came out of the back door, and he was suddenly cognizant of exactly two things.

If he was in phase here, that obviously meant that he had either never been born or had already died. Judging from the reaction he received, he'd guess it was the latter.

And it was not Luna that Ron had been talking to through the open window.

Distantly, he heard the sound of crockery breaking as it came into contact with the stone steps that descended from the house to the garden.

He looked up at Hermione, standing in the back door, with the remnants of a Sobering potion splattered around her feet, her mouth open in unadulterated shock. She had gone pale as new parchment, and Harry moved involuntarily toward her, afraid that she would faint.

She recoiled away from him, bracing her hands against the doorframe to hold herself up.

“It's not - it's not possible. Sweet Merlin… I - ”

Ron suddenly appeared behind her with some washcloths, water, and towels, evidently to help the `poor sod' in question, and looked quizzically down at the mess on the steps.

“Did you drop it? Are you all right?” He added, when he received no response from Hermione. Finally, his gaze followed hers, and his face mirrored the exact expression that Hermione's had.

“Bloody hell,” was his rather predictable response, before he pushed Hermione back into the house, and leveled his wand at Harry.

“Ron, what are you doing?” Harry said in an alarmed voice, afraid that he would be hexed before he could explain himself.

“Who are you?” Ron asked. Inside the house, Harry could hear the faint sounds of Hermione crying.

“I'm Harry, you blind git. I need to talk to Hermione.”

“Like hell you do.” Ron's face was stony. “Is this your idea of a sick joke?”

“I'm - I am Harry, but I'm not from this universe. I - I've come from another - another universe to - to - ”

“To what?” Ron's voice was all but a snarl. Harry swallowed noisily.

“To take Hermione home.”

Ron's reaction was about what Harry would have expected, as his face suffused a bright Weasley red.

“You're not taking her anywhere.” He bit out the words.

“No, you've got to listen to me, Ron! You've got to believe me! Hermione was stolen - taken from our universe by Bellatrix Lestrange during the Final Battle five years ago. We've managed to track her to this universe, and I've come to take her back where she belongs. You can test me for polyjuice, for Glamours - you can give me Veritaserum, if you like, but I swear on Dumbledore's grave that I'm telling the truth!”

“That's a pretty safe oath to make, considering Dumbledore's not dead!” Ron snapped, looking just seconds away from hexing Harry within an inch of his life.

“He is in my universe,” Harry replied softly.

Hermione reappeared then, peering between Ron's arm and the door, red-eyed and wet-faced.

“Let him in, Ron.”

Ron turned to look at her, aghast.

“Are you mad? That could be anybody! Harry's dead.” She nodded, and her eyes did not leave Harry's.

“Harry is dead,” she said quietly. “But I believe him.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

A few moments later found Harry once again in the tiny house at Godric's Hollow, seated on a comfortable brown leather sofa, his lacerations healed and with a cup of tea in his hand. Ron and Hermione were perched in chairs opposite, staring at him unabashedly, Ron clearly still suspicious of him.

“I'm sorry, Harry,” Hermione said calmly. “But I don't remember any of what you've just described. Don't you think I'd remember being forcibly removed from my universe and abandoned in a new one?” Her words so closely mirrored those of the Hermione he just left that he was more than a little discomposed.

But then disappointment - nay, even despair - swamped Harry so heavily that he thought it might knock him over.

“I - I thought…” he stammered. “You said you believed me… don't you - don't you remember anything?”

“Of course I believe you.” Hermione's voice was gentle and soothing, but not patronizing or false. “I know what Harry Potter looks like when he lies and when he tells the truth. But Harry - our Harry - was killed six months after he defeated Voldemort - assassinated by a stray Death Eater bent on revenge.”

Harry was taken aback. Of all the ignominious, pointless ways to die - to be caught with a curse in the back, after he'd beaten Voldemort! It was like being walloped with a Bludger after the Snitch had been caught.

“Hardest thing I've ever had to live through,” Ron mumbled. “Harder even than Charlie dying, because it was all supposed to be over.” He seemed to be echoing Harry's own thoughts. “Everyone was supposed to live happily ever after then. If it hadn't been for Hermione…” He trailed off, and they exchanged glances. Harry found his gaze drawn inexplicably to their hands, noting for the first time the gold bands that adorned their left ring fingers.

“Bloody hell, you're married!” Harry blurted, before he realized he'd spoken aloud.

“Two years ago,” Hermione said, and smiled self-consciously when Ron took her hand and kissed the back of it.

“Smartest thing I've ever done,” he said. Hermione's gaze seemed to caress her husband's, and Harry suddenly felt very much like an intruder - an unwelcome intruder that disrupted lives, brought memories of death, and made everyone uncomfortable. The sight of Hermione looking upon someone else with such love brought its own unique brand of pain.

He focused on the nondescript beige carpeting, and, when he finally dared look up, Hermione was watching him pensively, awareness dawning in her dark eyes.

“Oh my God,” she said quietly. “You're in love with her, aren't you - with your Hermione?”

Harry's face burned, but he knew better than to deny it.

“Yes,” he said, averting his gaze and appearing absorbed in the waving limbs of the young oak tree outside the window. “That's why I came after her - that's why I haven't had a moment's peace since she vanished from my life. That's why I've got to find her!” Emotion clogged his voice and made it quake, and he saw Hermione's eyes go shiny with tears. Ron's face was pale and drawn.

“We - we calibrated a crystal, so that it would be drawn to her magical signature - the signature we share - the one from our universe. It - it brought me here… so - so I don't understand…” Harry's voice trailed off, like that of a bewildered child whose world has suddenly been knocked awry.

Thick, troubled silence sloshed around the room.

“We - we both work at the Ministry…” Ron finally said. “If - if there's any kind of help you need, I'm sure - I'm sure we - we could get someone … you know… to help…” His voice dwindled off lamely, as Harry appeared not to have heard him at all.

Suddenly he straightened, and said,

“Holy hell!” so abruptly that Hermione visibly started. The realization had bludgeoned him upside the head so quickly that he felt like he was having difficulty breathing. He pushed himself to his feet, abandoning his teacup with a noisy clatter, and began to pace around the small living room, gesticulating wildly to himself, while his two friends watched in confusion and no small amount of concern.

Hermione is here. My Hermione is here. She's out of phase. Oh God, she's out of phase. How will I find her? She could be anywhere, anywhere, and I would never know.

Then he remembered the one being that would know, that would be able to see Hermione, and perhaps bridge the chasm that yawned between them, long enough for them to go home.

Godric's Hollow and Hogwarts - they seemed to be focal points for all three members of the Trio, in whatever universe they happened to inhabit. They were constants, places to which one or more of them seemed to gravitate consistently. Perhaps that would work in his favor. Perhaps Hermione, realizing that she was out of phase, would have gone there, back to the school - hoping for aid, hoping for a solution to the never-ending quagmire in which she found herself.

“The ghosts!” he exclaimed disjointedly. “Sir Nicholas! Are the ghosts still at Hogwarts?” His eyes were blazing, his face flushed with the urgency and desperation of his question. Ron and Hermione both appeared completely flummoxed. “Are the ghosts at Hogwarts?”

“S - sure, mate,” Ron finally said slowly. “Nearly Headless Nick's been there for as long as I can remember. Each house has got one.”

Harry closed his eyes in a prayer of thankfulness. Now, if only he could get to her, find her before she moved again. If she hadn't been to Hogwarts… but he couldn't think about that. When he opened his eyes, they were both still staring at him, but he could not muster up enough concern to worry about what they thought.

“Accio wand,” he said tersely, and the smooth wood slapped audibly against his palm as he caught it decisively. Ron watched him guardedly, but made no aggressive moves.

“I've - I've got to go…” he said, in as close to an apology as he could get, with everything inside him screaming for him to get the hell out of there and find Hermione!

Only seconds after he darted out of the back door, they heard the gunshot crack of Apparation.

-

Oh, this chapter was fun to write! I figured this one and the next would be the ones everyone was waiting for! Hope it will live up to expectations!

Hope everyone enjoyed it. Allow me once again to express my thanks to all those who read and review. I am consistently amazed at how many people seem to be enjoying this story! Thank y'all so much!

You may leave a review on your way out, if you like. They are always anticipated and appreciated.

lorien

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Disclaimer: Not mine; more's the pity.

Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Twenty:

I'm living for the only thing I know

--Lifehouse, “Hanging by a Moment”

Hermione Granger was drifting through the corridors of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

In five years, she had perfected it, honed it, fashioned it into an art form, that of using her time as well as she could until another inevitable change occurred. She estimated that she had changed universes over one thousand times - uncharacteristically, she had lost count somewhere in the high eight-hundreds.

She had been terribly disoriented at first… Bellatrix's wand had been digging into her throat; there was a glint of gold and a flash of gemstone, a snarled spell…

And the world as she knew it had vanished from around her.

Remus had been dueling Macnair, and suddenly they were both gone. Lestrange was gone. She had lost track of Ron in the woods - and Harry? Had he succeeded? Was the war over?

Instead of answers to these questions, she found herself facing an inferno. Hogwarts was ablaze; Gryffindor Tower had fallen in on itself. There were bodies everywhere.

She couldn't understand it, mentally denying what her own sensory processing was trying to tell her. There had been no fire. She remembered screaming, her throat raw with emotion,

“This isn't what was happening!”

And then she found that no one could hear her, that she could touch nothing, be seen by no one. She had fingered her wand; it felt real beneath her skin, but was powerless. She could pass through walls, trees, other people, utterly invisible, insubstantial, unimportant.

Wherever she was, she was strictly an observer, unable to participate or interact in any way.

What had Bellatrix Lestrange done to her?

And then, when she had finally found Harry - her fingers skimmed lightly over the finely bound volumes shelved in the Ravenclaw common room, without actually touching them - she could still shudder with the soul-sucking horror that had suffused her when she saw him.

Harry. But not Harry. Cloaked in black, something hollow and cold curled in the depths of his eyes. She had witnessed, invisible, mute, as he ordered the death of Severus Snape, speaking in a low menacing hiss that might as well have been Parseltongue. The screams of the Potions professor echoed in her ears.

But it was the nothingness in his gaze that gave her nightmares…

However, she was not Hermione Granger, former Head Girl and top of her class at Hogwarts for nothing. As time melted and blurred past her - it was nearly impossible to keep track - she studied, took notes, watched for patterns. It took her only three changes to figure out that she phased out when there was a Hermione Granger alive and well in a particular universe. And after she lost all her meticulously kept notes when a change shifted her out rather abruptly, she learned to keep her research on her person at all times. She could manipulate things that had been with her, things that were in her phase, although she could not use them to act on any of her surroundings.

She studied, she waited, she skulked around the Department of Mysteries, postulating, theorizing, observing …

She remembered the day that she had realized she was waiting for Harry. Her lips had curled into a bitter, twisted rictus. How ridiculous! She didn't even know if he'd survived the Battle; she didn't know if they'd figured out what happened to her. Maybe everyone thought she was dead. Maybe everyone she knew was dead.

Yet still - the forlorn little hope, like a tiny, but resilient seedling, would not be quashed. With every change, she found herself looking for him, every time she saw a new version of him, she watched him with bated breath, waiting for the exclamation of recognition, for a realization that she was there, whether or not she could not be seen, for the knowing look in his eyes, for a low, throaty,

“I've come to take you home, Hermione.”

She could remember the look in his eyes, the promise that had glinted there as they said their farewells in the Great Hall, the last time she'd ever seen him. She'd known what he had not said, what he had not needed to say, and she had contented herself with waiting only a little longer.

When this is all over, she'd thought… if only she'd known how it would all end.

Even when she was phased into a new universe, it was uncomfortable, even unpleasant, having to re-explain everything to family and friends who had thought her dead, to crush the light that suddenly sprang to life in their eyes. And there had been one universe where she had apparently never existed at all - it had been horrible, facing Harry and Ron while they glanced at her with the indifferent eyes of disinterested strangers. After a while, she'd tried to avoid deliberately seeking anyone out, but she could not abandon her quest for knowledge, for a solution to what had happened to her, for a way out, a way home.

She revisited the same places when she moved into a new reality, not knowing what the researchers of the day might have discovered or neglected. She browsed through the Ministry, the Hogwarts Library, and had recently discovered - with no small amount of jealousy - that the Ravenclaw common room was quite well-stocked with reading material on its own merits. She had taken to searching there as well, though it was considerably more difficult when one had to place one's head inside the book, unable to actually pick it up and open it. It always gave her a headache - or she felt like it did - trying to jot notes from a closed tome.

Now, she felt listless, ill at ease, vaguely depressed. It had been years - how many, she wasn't sure - but she wondered if she had been cursed to wander through the millions of alternate realities for the rest of her life. She had visited Godric's Hollow early that morning, seen with a kind of disbelieving amusement that she was actually married to Ron, and had left again quickly, with a clinging heaviness of heart.

There were crystals that one could use, but she had yet to discover a way to identify her own universe. The one promising time that she had been able to have an illuminating lunch with Luna in the Ministry cafeteria, she had `changed' right in the middle of their conversation.

She had been phased out for four changes now, and despaired of ever again being in control of her own fate.

She sat down on the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees. There was no fire in the hearth since the summer holidays meant that there were no students present to desire the warmth, but she wouldn't have been able to feel the heat anyway.

What's the point anymore? She wondered glumly. Whatever scheme Bellatrix Lestrange had been trying to perpetrate had obviously succeeded.

Nobody knows what happened to me.

There was a sudden noise from faraway, clamor and shouting in a distant corridor. Hermione listened without interest; none of this would affect her in the slightest. Nobody could see her; nobody could hear her.

A voice again, clearer now, hoarse and frantic. She sat up, every sense tingling with alertness.

The voice was calling her name.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry stood at the top of the stairs, breathing heavily, Sir Nicholas wafting at his heels. He appeared at a loss, glancing first in one direction down the corridor, then the other. He didn't seem to know which way to proceed.

“You're sure you haven't seen her?” he questioned.

“I'm quite positive, Harry,” Sir Nick replied. “I told you already that Mrs. Weasley had tea with Professor McGonagall last month, but there has been no Hermione Granger floating through walls here. I assure you the ghosts would have noticed something like…”

He stopped so abruptly that Harry, who had turned to gaze rather blankly back down the stairs, eyed him quizzically.

“Sir Nicholas? Are you all right?” The Gryffindor ghost was staring in bewilderment, his head cocked so far to one side that Harry could see the marks of his mortal wound. Harry followed his gaze down an empty corridor.

“She's - she's there. I see her. She just came through the Ravenclaw tapestry. Upon my word!”

Harry whipped his head back to spear Sir Nick with a glance that was both warning and beseeching.

“Hermione?” he asked. “Hermione's there?” His heart was hammering in his chest, and seemed to have swollen upward into his throat. He felt like he couldn't breathe, could barely speak, and yet, his legs seemed to propel him down the corridor in the direction Sir Nick had been staring.

“Hermione?” he said again, this time directing it to the emptiness. “Are you there?”

“She said, `I'm here',” Sir Nicholas translated. Harry licked his lips; his mouth seemed suddenly dry and sandy.

“Ask her - ask her what happened during the Final Battle.” His hand groped inside his shirt collar, reaching for the two crystals twined there, more for something to do with his hands, than out of any actual purpose. Sir Nicholas was nodding, apparently listening intently.

“She - she says that she was accosted by one Bellatrix Lestrange and a band of Death Eaters in the Forbidden Forest, that Mrs. Lestrange put some kind of jewelry on her, and sent her out of her universe.”

“Who was dueling Lupin?” Harry asked, feeling that his question was disjointed, as if someone else were directing the words from his mouth. Trust Hermione not to mention her last heated exchange of words with Ron. Another brief pause.

“Macnair,” said Sir Nick. One of Harry's hands went shakily to the banister behind him, as he struggled to remain standing. It was happening, and he couldn't believe it.

“The first - the first universe you were sent to,” he asked, plodding on, his fragile, tortured soul wanting to be absolutely sure. “Did you see me - my alternate self?”

Hermione must have nodded, for Sir Nick replied with an almost immediate affirmative.

“What was I doing?”

Sir Nicholas looked alarmed.

“She doesn't want to answer,” he replied.

“You have to answer!” Harry said through clenched teeth, speaking to no one. “I know what happened. You're not shielding me from anything. You've got to tell me! I have to be sure.”

Sir Nicholas' eyes might have bugged from his transparent skull. And Harry knew that Hermione had answered correctly, before the ghost said anything at all.

“She says that you were the Dark Lord.” A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corners of Harry's mouth, belying the overwhelming surge of emotion that swept through him, and Sir Nicholas seemed more shocked that Harry hadn't been surprised than anything else.

Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall, who had been the recipients of a timely Floo call from Hermione Weasley, and had met Harry in the Front Hall, had now made it up the stairs, and were watching the scene avidly. Harry barely spared them a glance, everything in him beginning to focus on what he had to do next

He blinked toward the empty corridor, his eyes roving around helplessly, wishing desperately that he could see her. He twiddled with the chain inside his shirt.

“I've come to take you home, Hermione,” he said.

“I've come to take you home, Hermione,” he said. Hermione's breath caught in her throat; Harry knew she was there! It was everything she'd always dreamed of - and she could tell by looking at him that he seemed to be affected the same way. He looked pale, breathless, wild-eyed, fidgety.

She'd never seen anything more beautiful in her life.

“I'm ready to go home, Harry,” she said, and waited for Sir Nicholas to relay her words to Harry, having only registered mild surprise when she realized the ghost could actually see and hear her. Even at such a crucial moment, she could not help but be annoyed that she had somehow not discovered this pivotal fact.

She saw his chest rise and fall, and a crooked, uncertain, self-conscious smile wreathed his face.

“I'm sorry,” he said hesitantly. “I'm sorry it took me so long.” She shook her head quickly, denying the need for an apology, even though he couldn't see her.

“You're here now. You came for me. Somehow, I - I knew you would.”

At Sir Nicholas' interpretation of Hermione's words, Harry could feel the tears in his eyes, burning for release, but he blinked them back stubbornly. He pulled the first crystal - the one Luna had given him before he left - free from his shirt, and cast an Expanding charm on the chain. He glanced uncertainly at the empty corridor, and debated within himself whether or not to say anything, his eyes flickering back toward his audience of both the living and the dead.

“Hermione, I - I'm not sure what's going to happen next… I mean, I don't know if this will work - it should work, but - I mean, there's no reason why it wouldn't work, except that I don't think it's ever been done before, and - ” He shook his head, annoyed with himself. There was no time for babbling.

He reached out one hand.

“She's there, Harry,” Sir Nick said gently. Harry's fingers wiggled slightly in response, touching nothing but air.

Hermione moved closer, reaching for his hand, both of her hands melting through his skin. She could feel her own fingertips touching each other; she could see his hand, but could not feel it. Her fingers appeared to be on his, but there was no warmth of contact.

“I'm here, Harry,” she whispered. “I'm here.” Tears clogged her voice, made it difficult for her to force the words from her tight throat. She had never wanted to touch someone so badly in her life.

“I love you,” he said, so quickly that she thought she must have misheard him, but there was no mistaking the fiery intent look in his blazing eyes. “I should have - I should have told you that day in the Great Hall, before we - before we all left. I knew, I knew then, and I should have told you, but I - I thought it was - it was a can of worms best not opened until we'd - until we'd dealt with everything else. I thought we had time...

“It was a mistake, and - and whatever happens next, I - I wanted you to know how much I loved you then, how much I still love you, will always love you, that a day hasn't gone by where I haven't - haven't… longed for you, wished you were with me, wondered what I should've done differently. I - I just wanted you to know.”

Hermione couldn't speak. Tears were streaming down her face, and the ache in her throat and chest had become almost unbearable. She nodded frantically, struggling to swallow, hoping to get the words out.

“She's crying,” she heard Sir Nicholas report.

“It'll be enough just having you back with us, I promise,” Harry said. “I'm not asking that you love me in return.”

“But - I - do,” she croaked, finally getting the words out with supreme effort.

She watched his face transform, as the Gryffindor ghost told him what she'd said. And she was amazed. He had been pale, tired, weary with much heartache, and she hadn't even really consciously noticed any of these things until they were gone. In the space of a heartbeat, a breath, he looked younger, vibrant, more alive.

He smiled. Really smiled.

And Hermione saw a flash out of the corner of her eye. A portion of the corridor wavered, shimmered, and began to spin. There was a sound almost like rushing wind or water.

“No!” she said frantically. “Not now!” She looked wildly at Sir Nicholas.

“She said she's changing!” Sir Nicholas said suddenly, his worried expression sending a charge of alarm through Harry.

“Changing?” he asked, his eyes moving back and forth between the ghost and the empty corridor.

“Moving… to a new universe. She says she's leaving. You must hurry!”

Harry swore wrathfully under his breath, and pulled the elongated chain wide, holding it out at arm's length.

“I think you need to be within the circle,” he said, speaking to the empty hallway. He saw no movement, but something sparked slightly down the length of the chain. “Is she inside the chain, Sir Nicholas.”

“Ye-es,” the ghost replied, making a wide pivot around Harry.

“Are you sure?” The words were desperate, urgent, almost feral. Sir Nicholas took another look, and nodded, this time with more certainty.

Harry glanced at the wide empty swath encompassed by the necklace, and wished that he didn't have to take so much on faith. Even as he thought it, there was the faintest of flickers, as if a vague image of Hermione had appeared and disappeared in the length of a lightning flash. He remembered that Luna had said the necklaces were not affected by phase.

“She's ready, Harry,” Sir Nicholas spoke, prodding him into action. Harry closed his eyes.

Please let this work, please let this work, pleaseletthiswork.

He tapped the crystal with his wand, and spoke the incantation that would bring them home, that Luna had taught him, what seemed like ages ago - though it was likely mere days - on the Hogwarts green.

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Luna dropped her fork.

It bounced noisily on the tabletop and clattered to the floor. Ron looked over at her curiously when she did not immediately move to retrieve it. His own laden fork remained suspended in midair.

“Luna?” He asked. “Love? Is something wrong?”

For a long moment, she gave no response at all, and Ron had half-risen from his chair, brow furrowed in concern, when she suddenly sprang to her feet, knocking her chair over backwards, and letting out a screech that made Ron startle and say,

“Bloody hell!”

“Ronald, we need to go.”

“In the middle of lunch? Where?” Ron asked, gesturing helplessly to the mostly uneaten meal.

But Luna's next words drove all thought of food from Ron Weasley's mind.

“Ronald, he's back.”

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The first thing Harry was cognizant of was the feel of cool smooth stone beneath the skin of his palms and cheek. The second thing was the almost painful pressure of his glasses against the side of his nose. He blinked his eyes open, and saw a large crack bisecting his right lens.

Dammit, he thought, can't I fall on my back for once, instead of on my own ruddy face every time?

“Oculus reparo,” came a voice, low and smooth and mellifluous, like a kind of soothing balm to his ears - and his soul - one he'd never thought to hear again.

And it all came flashing back to him suddenly… Hogwarts, Sir Nicholas, Hermione was changing universes again, he had to hurry!

The crack in the lens glowed brightly and vanished. He pressed his palms to the floor, and pushed himself upward. His gaze swung past the top of the stairway, where Dumbledore and McGonagall had been standing, and he allowed himself a momentary pang of regret that he had not had more than a few cursory words for his old Headmaster.

He swung his head heavily around, sweeping past the banisters, the corridor, the Ravenclaw tapestry, and then lighting on a girl - a woman - sitting cross-legged on the floor, regarding him with not a little disbelief. She was not in the same clothes in which he'd last seen her, and her hair was twisted into a haphazard knot at the back of her head. Her eyes were starry and wide, as if she could not comprehend that she was here, and he had never seen anything so breathtaking in all his days.

“Hermione,” he said hoarsely, finally fully sitting up. She smiled at him then, though it wobbled and finally broke with the onset of tears.

“Yes,” she replied in an affirmative, as if he'd asked a question. For a moment, it was like they were both afraid to speak, afraid to move, as if the moment they'd so yearned for would vanish into oblivion as instantly and irreversibly as the popping of a soap bubble.

Harry was drinking her in, his eyes roving possessively over every feature of her face. She was older than he remembered, and something indefinable had changed in her eyes. She was thin, but not gaunt; there was no sunny, privileged air about her. She looked like… she looked like Hermione, he realized suddenly, his Hermione, the one he'd missed like half his soul had been torn away. She was here.

He struggled with what to say next. Declaring his love for her had been easy, especially since he had not had to look into those melting chocolate eyes, since he had been spurred onward by the maybe my last chance desperation. Perhaps declarations or promises would be premature - she was going to have a lot to adjust to, after all… what if she wanted to be with her parents, or go to university, or what if she didn't like the flat? She had had life snatched away from her, suspended indefinitely out of her reach for five years, and now that she was back…now that she was back… His posture slumped slightly, and he ran a distracted hand back through his hair. He cast a quick glance at her, almost as if he didn't really want to, but couldn't help himself.

“You look like someone who has a lot on his mind,” Hermione remarked softly, her words dropping into the silence of the corridor.

Harry jerked a glance upward in her direction, and looked momentarily horrified that he had been sitting on the floor in silence, staring at her, in her first few moments back. He scooted across the corridor toward her, until they were both sitting with their backs against a wall, the fringe of a tapestry barely brushing the crowns of their heads.

She leaned her head companionably on her shoulder, and for a heart-stopping instant, Harry forgot to breathe.

“I - I don't know - this is - ” he stammered incoherently, and called himself six kinds of a fool.

“It's hard, isn't it?” She mused. “When you - when you work so long toward a - toward a goal, and when you finally achieve it, you don't really know what to do with it.”

“I know what I'd like to do,” Harry blurted honestly, and then felt heat creep upward and stain his face. “I mean, I mean…” He stopped and took a deep breath. This is Hermione, he chastised himself, not just some strange girl, someone you're trying desperately impress or something… it's just Hermione.

He could almost laugh at himself. She would never be “just” Hermione.

“I - I meant what I said to you earlier - meant every word of it. But I - I know you're going to have a lot - a lot to deal with… being back, I mean, and I don't - I don't want to make things more difficult for you. You've got five years of life to catch up on, and - and your parents - and the media's going to have a field day, and - and - ” He swallowed and looked vaguely annoyed with himself. “There are going to be loads of decisions and -”

“Harry,” was all she said, and it was enough to make him blunder to a stop. The tone was almost lovingly reproving, like a mother toward a child who has destroyed her kitchen in an effort to bring her breakfast in bed. “Didn't you realize - didn't you know that - that with you, there's no decision to be made? I - I made that decision a long, long time ago.” She lifted one hand, and brushed it gently through his dark hair. He caught his breath at the contact.

“What decision?” he asked, almost afraid to hear her answer.

“The decision that I would love you forever.”

The words shot through Harry, vibrant and stunning, and he raised unwilling eyes again to meet hers. Their gazes locked with enough force that Harry thought it was probably audible.

“Are - are you sure?” He whispered hoarsely, fighting the urge to clear his throat. Her eyes were searching his, her face impossibly close; her hands came up to bracket his face.

“If I - if I've really been waiting for you for five years, Harry, then I - I don't want to wait anymore.”

It was as if her words had released the mechanism that was making all of his words and actions stilted and hesitant. He scooped her into his arms with enough force to elicit a squeak of surprise from her, and ran one hand gently over her face and hair, skimming reverently with his fingertips the smooth surface of her skin.

“I - I can't believe…” he said in a rapt voice, clogged with emotion.

“I know,” she replied, even though he hadn't finished his sentence.

And then his lips were on hers, and hers were yearning toward him in response. There was a rush of sensation, as if all the universes they had traveled through were swirling around them again. Harry felt completion and peace seep into the cracks of his soul, even those present since a long ago Halloween night, and he knew that he held his world in his arms.

They broke the kiss, but remained close, each basking in the presence of the other, and Harry felt a smile begin to tilt the corners of his mouth upward. He smothered a laugh into Hermione's curly hair.

“What?” she asked, looking at him curiously.

“Just something Luna said,” he replied. “About the universe being out of balance. I wonder if she's noticed that it's all come round right again.”

“Did you really think she wouldn't?” came a voice that caused both of them to jump and move apart self-consciously. Ron was topping the stairs, gripping a carved finial for dear life, with Luna, serene as ever, just behind him. “We bloody well ran all the way from the gates.”

Harry stood to his feet, and absent-mindedly offered Hermione a hand up as well.

“It's good to be back…” he began, but noticed that Ron wasn't looking at him, but over his shoulder, with ill-concealed emotion. Harry's eyes darted from Ron to Hermione, and he quickly stepped to the side, knowing that this moment had been a long time coming.

“Hermione…” Their other best friend began hoarsely. “It's - it's good to see you…” He looked as awkward as Harry had felt, and Harry had a sudden pang of pity in his chest.

“It's good to see you too, Ron,” Hermione answered sincerely, the memory of their last exchange all but washed away under the force of everything she'd been through since that day.

“I'm so - Merlin, Hermione, I'm so sorry. If I - if I hadn't - ” Ron's voice was choked, and he faltered, as Hermione quickly begin to shake her head, demurring his entire apology, her voice too low to be clearly heard.

Luna moved to Harry's side, her eyes discreetly watching their other friends, but sparkling with a new kind of life.

“You made it back,” she said unnecessarily. Harry took her hand, and lifted it to his lips.

“If it hadn't been for you, what you did…” he began roughly, but was unable to finish. She searched his face thoughtfully, and her gaze drifted back over toward Ron and Hermione. An enigmatic smile ghosted her features.

“It was worth it,” she remarked.

“So everything's all…aligned properly, is it?” he asked, a mirthful smile twisting the corners of his mouth, but his eyes were serious and filled with gratitude.

“Yes… it's as it was meant to be,” Luna replied, sighing with contentment, as Harry dropped a light kiss on the top of her sunlit hair.

“And the best part about your being back is that maybe now Harry will keep his grubby hands off of my woman,” Ron said overly loudly, obviously trying to dash away traces of tears from beneath his eyes. Hermione's eyes were glinting with a combination of emotion and amusement, even as she pursed her mouth in chagrin.

“'Your' woman? Honestly, Ron…”

Ron cut her off by impulsively picking her up and twirling her around.

“We've missed you, Hermione,” he said. She walked to Harry's side, and he took a moment to revel in the way she felt at his side, as if she belonged there, as she could belong nowhere else. He slid one arm around her, his eyes clearly telling her what he could not find the composure to say.

More than you'll ever know.

The four of them walked down the main stairway at Hogwarts together.

-

AN: I still can't help thinking that this maybe won't live up to expectations. There is going to be another chapter…I still have a few loose ends to tie up… and possibly an epilogue as well.

Sorry this took awhile. Lately, all I want to do is sleep!

Hope everyone enjoyed it. You may leave a review on your way out if you like.

I don't know why it doesn't want to load. I had to hit `refresh' several times before I got it. I'm trying to reload it to see if that helps!

lorien

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Disclaimer: Not mine; more's the pity.

Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Chapter Twenty-One:

Because I came here with a load, and it seems so much lighter since I met you

--Coldplay, “Green Eyes”

Harry shifted twitchily, as he sat, stiff and uncomfortable, in a molded, hard plastic chair in a sub-waiting room at St. Mungo's. Someone obviously hasn't renewed these Cushioning Charms in quite awhile, he thought grouchily. He heard Ron sigh slightly across from him, but his eyes remained on the place where the corridor bent at ninety degrees and passed out of sight. Distantly, he could hear the noise and bustle of the larger waiting room and mediwitches' station, and was grateful to have been removed from it. Sometimes, rank did have its privileges.

He wiggled again, trying to restore sensation to his numb posterior.

“She's going to be fine, mate,” Ron said, and Harry looked over at his ginger-haired best friend for the first time since they'd arrived. “It's all precautionary anyway.”

“What if something is wrong?” Harry fretted. “They don't even have anything to go by, nothing to compare with. This kind of thing has never happened before.”

“That's why Luna and Calpurnia were brought in,” Ron reiterated almost patiently, clearly unused to being the voice of reason. “Their department head said there were no two more qualified to consult about Multiverse problems. And you got her the best Healers in St. Mungo's. They'll check her out, release her, and we'll all be on our way.”

Harry sprawled both legs out in front of him, then drew his feet back in one at a time. The worried creases had not been smoothed from his brow, but presently, he spoke in a off-hand tone of voice that did not fool Ron a particle.

“So… you and Hermione have everything worked out?”

Now it was Ron's turn to wriggle uncomfortably in the unyielding chair.

“I - I think so. We've not had much chance to talk, but she - she didn't seem very interested in holding a grudge.” He shook his head, as if he could not fathom it. “You know the way she hugs. And after the things I said to her…” The bitterness of self-recrimination was evident in his eyes. Harry wondered if he was wishing for firewhiskey.

“I reckon being stranded away from everything you know and find familiar has a way of resorting your priorities,” Harry said slowly. “All she wanted to do is see us - see everyone again. It wouldn't have mattered what you'd done before she left.”

Ron rested his elbows on his knees, and his head drooped down between his shoulders.

“She tell you that?” he wondered aloud. Harry shook his head, and lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

“She didn't have to,” he said laconically. He stared off into middle distance for a moment, and then dragged his gaze back to meet Ron's. “You need to let it go, Ron. For good. She has. And you know when she finds out what you've been doing to yourself for the last five years…”

A hint of fear spread itself over Ron's freckled visage.

“Maybe she won't find out.”

Harry glanced at him witheringly. It's Hermione, the look seemed to say, of course she'll bloody well find out.

They subsided back into silence, but Harry seemed no less restless than he had previously.

“Why is it taking so long?” he leaned forward, hoping to catch the eye of a convenient Healer or mediwitch, but the corridor was devoid of people. “What if her - what if her runic signature was compromised by her absence from her own universe? Her constant could have been changed… she could be snatched away again, without warning.”

Ron's eyes had begun to glaze over slightly at the word, `runic', but he gave Harry a rather sympathetic look that still managed to say, you're quite ridiculous, you know.

“I don't think - ” he started hesitantly, but was interrupted.

“If your `constant' could be so easily altered, don't you think they would have called it something else?” observed a bland voice that caused both men to jerk their gazes upward. Luna seemed to be able to count materializing out of thin air as one of her many talents.

Harry had already sprung to his feet.

“Is everything okay? Is she all right?” He all but shouted the questions in a staccato, rapid-fire fashion. Luna raked him with a fond, humoring glance.

“She's fine, Harry, completely healthy. Her magical signature is perfect, with no sign of fluctuation - not that we expected any. Her chronological age has been altered a bit…”

“Altered?” Harry queried abruptly.

“Again, it's not really that significant. She's even said that she'll keep her own birthday. It would have been more, but it had to be counted against the aging she did while using the Time Turner during her third year.”

“What are you talking about?” The question wasn't exactly rude, but Harry looked completely at sea.

“While she was out of phase, she did not age. During your third year, she aged faster because she was living some hours twice at once. The healer's examination revealed her to be not quite twenty-two… chronologically speaking, that is.”

“You mean she got younger?” Ron looked baffled.

“Of course she hasn't. She just didn't age at the same rate that the rest of us did.”

Ron raked her with a glance that seemed to say, isn't that what I just said? But Harry didn't feel like splitting hairs.

“Can we see her?”

“Of course you can,” Luna replied. “She should be nearly ready to go.”

They had only turned in the direction of the corridor, when Harry heard someone calling his name from back toward the noisy bustle of the main waiting room. He pivoted on one foot, and saw Hermione's parents, moving toward him quickly, having evidently abandoned the mediwitch guiding them, once he had come into their view. They appeared somewhat out of breath, as they drew nearer.

“We got here as quickly as we could,” Mrs. Granger said.

“Damn taxi passed this place four times,” Mr. Granger grumbled. “They could ease off the Muggle repellent just a bit.”

“Can you please tell us what's going on?” Hermione's mother pleaded.

“I'm sorry,” Harry apologized. “I just - I didn't - it didn't seem like the kind of thing that you just blurt out over the telephone line.”

“Of course it concerns Hermione,” Mrs. Granger stated with certainty. She cleared her throat and clasped and unclasped her hands. “Have - have you found her then?”

Harry dropped his gaze to his shoes, and stuck his hands in his pockets nervously.

“Actually, we have… but - but it's not what you think,” he added hastily, as Mrs. Granger's eyes began to well up with unshed tears. “Please,” he held out one arm in a gesture for Luna to lead the way, and for the Grangers to precede him after her.

“It's a miracle really,” Luna remarked in a dreamy voice. “And there haven't even been any Harbinglow sightings.”

Mrs. Granger exchanged a terrified, but hopeful glance with her husband.

“You mean she's - ”

And then, Luna was pushing a nondescript door open.

The Grangers froze just inside the doorway, trapping Harry out of sight behind them. The only sound was a squeak that followed a rapid intake of air by Mrs. Granger. The silence seemed to stretch out interminably, until Harry heard a voice - a small, timid voice that didn't sound at all like Hermione's.

It said, “Mum? Daddy?” And that broke the Stupefy that seemed to have been dispersed over the room.

Mrs. Granger sobbed out something unintelligible that might have been, “Oh my God.” And then they were moving into the room, surging forward, engulfing Hermione with tears and incoherent babbling.

Harry hovered uncomfortably at the threshold, not begrudging the Grangers their moment, but felt awkward at being present, and uncertain of what to do with himself.

Mrs. Granger's hands fluttered over Hermione, touching her shoulders, her damp cheeks, smoothing her hair.

“We thought you were - how did you - where have you - oh my sweet baby girl.” Her arms clamped around her daughter, as if she wanted to merge her daughter into herself, as if otherwise, Hermione would disappear from her sight permanently.

“It's a long story, Mum,” Hermione said in a muffled voice, as she returned her mother's embrace. Her eyes sought Harry's, and she mouthed the words, thank you. “But it - it was all because of Harry. He - he never stopped believing I was alive, and he - he came for me - he saved me.”

A shadow of something like guilt flickered over Mrs. Granger's face as she turned toward the doorway, even though there had been no hint of recrimination in her daughter's tone. A self-conscious flush burned Harry's cheeks, as he came under the scrutiny of both of Hermione's parents.

“How can we ever express our gratitude for what you've done?” Mr. Granger observed rather stoically, though his voice was suspiciously rough and his eyes bright. His hands were balled up in his pockets, and change jingled musically therein.

“You don't owe me anything,” Harry said, and his eyes slipped over to meet Hermione's. “I'm the lucky one. I - I'd do it all again in a minute - it was worth everything.”

Hermione dropped her gaze suddenly, and Mrs. Granger's eyes flickered in between her daughter and Harry, and he suddenly wondered how blatantly his feelings were blazing from his eyes. He suddenly felt awkward again, and had to repress the urge to flee from the room. Even as he thought this, he felt an elbow in his ribs.

“Bloody hell, mate,” Ron said sotto voce, “Why don't you just get down on one knee right now?”

Harry glowered at him.

“Sod off, Ron,” he hissed in reply.

Just then, the Healer stepped back into the room, looking official with chart in hand, and wand and quill protruding from the breast pocket of his robes. He nodded politely at the visitors in the room, and addressed Hermione.

“Miss Granger, your examination was as good as can be expected, given this rather unprecedented situation. There has been a notation in your chart regarding the age differential, but it shouldn't really be considered medically significant. You are free to go.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hermione said politely, as she hopped lightly off of the examining table.

“Age differential?” Mr. Granger queried, and Hermione quickly explained. Her parents flanked her, still unable to refrain from contact with her, as if they could not believe that she was there, with them.

Harry could understand how they felt. He was leaning with forced nonchalance against the door frame, though every fiber of his being was screaming at him to move towards her, reach out for her, touch her.

Everyone began to move toward the door, Ron, Luna, and Harry spilling out into the corridor ahead of the Grangers.

“Where - where are you staying, dear?” Mrs. Granger asked, still in that tentative tone of disbelief, the way one would speak to someone dear with whom one hasn't been in contact for an extended period of time.

Hermione opened her mouth, obviously unprepared for the question, and unsure what the proper thing would be to say. She glanced at Harry again, almost involuntarily.

“I just - that is, the boys have - I've a room there, you see. The three of us were going to let the flat together, but then - but then - ” The rest of her sentence remained unspoken, but the pall of it hung in the air anyway. “Is - is that okay, Mum, Dad?”

“Of course it is, love,” Mrs. Granger said soothingly, her gaze again briefly going to Harry, but with no accusation in the look. “You are an adult, after all. Just - just remember how much we've missed you.”

“No question, Mum - especially if it's half as much as I've missed you,” Hermione replied, as if the whole thing went without saying. But before they could cross the threshold into the corridor, her mother caught hold of the crook of her arm, pulling her back from the others and withdrawing back into the exam room.

“Was it - was it those Death Eaters?” Mrs. Granger asked, worry flashing in her dark eyes. Hermione pressed her lips together sympathetically, scarcely able to imagine what her parents had been through over the last five years. She nodded, two short, uneven downward jerks of her chin. “Are you…still in danger?” The question was hesitant, drawn out slowly, as if her mother needed to know the answer, even as she was simultaneously afraid of what it might be.

“I don't think so, Mum. Most of them were killed or apprehended during the Final Battle, from what Harry and Ron say. The ones that - the ones that took me are on trial now. There's not much chance that they'll be set free. In fact, we're going to be going to the Ministry ourselves soon. Harry thinks I might need to make a statement.” Mrs. Granger allowed herself to exhale a small sigh in relief, as she digested this information.

“Have you and - and Harry talked about…anything?” she asked, in the same guarded way, though her meaning was unmistakable. “Has he told you how he feels about you?” She spoke as if it were a foregone conclusion.

A flush spread over Hermione's cheeks, along with a rather serene smile.

“Yes, we've talked about it…at least a bit. We both - we both feel the same.” Hermione felt her mother's fingertips press into the skin above her elbow, as she squeezed her arm. Hermione could feel the maternal approval in the touch.

“I've never seen anybody so torn up in my life. We came to St. Mungo's after - after we heard; we were actually back in a private waiting room with the Weasleys - when they brought Harry in. He - he was fighting them tooth and nail, even though he'd been knocked around pretty badly during the Battle. There were some internal injuries, and - and something with his magic, I wasn't clear on what exactly. They finally had to Stun him, just to be able to work on him; he was shouting that they had to let him go, he had to find you.” Mrs. Granger's voice got watery over the last few syllables.

“He came to see us for awhile afterward, gave us updates on the search, talked to us honestly when others at the Ministry gave us the runaround. He was only just in training then, but your Mr. Lupin said that the raw potential in Harry was almost awe-inspiring. We were so glad that he was working to find you, but at the same time, you could see how much he blamed himself, how anything less than your safe return was utter failure. The visits got fewer and farther between, as new leads came to nothing. I think - I think it hurt him to come see us - we reminded him of you, and all he'd lost. And he was also dealing with poor Ron.”

Hermione leapt on that statement.

“What happened to Ron?”

“He almost had as hard a time as Harry did. They both seemed to think they were responsible for your disappearance. Ron didn't have an outlet like Harry did, so he started drinking. The last time I spoke with Molly, she said that he was destroying himself.”

One of Hermione's hands wandered up to her mouth.

“I didn't - I didn't know, Mum. Thank you.” Even as she spoke, Harry peered back in the doorway, naked curiosity as to what they'd been discussing in his eyes. But about it, he said nothing.

“The trial will be starting soon. We'll need to be going, if you're going to get clearance in time.” He produced a colorful swirl of material from somewhere behind him. “You'd best put this back on.”

“What's that for?” Mr. Granger wondered aloud, as Hermione took the cloak from Harry.

“There's going to be media furor when the wizarding world finds out Hermione's alive,” Harry said, speaking in a brisk tone that Hermione had not heard before. His Auror voice, she determined. They had not spoken of his career, but from what her mother had said, it appeared that this would be what he'd chosen. “I'd rather spare her as much of that as possible. She was also listed as a witness for the trial, more to annoy the defense than for any other reason.” He was addressing her parents, as Hermione had already heard this explanation. “Her aspect of the trial was thrown out, since there was no proof that she was alive. But now that she's back…” Harry's eyes glinted with something indefinable, and Hermione wondered again what he'd gone through all these years.

She eyed him uncertainly, as she embraced her parents, and tossed the cloak over her head. She didn't know what the next few hours would bring, but she did know that she trusted Harry…and, for her, that was enough.

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If anyone thought Harry, Ron, and Luna's formation down the corridors of the Ministry was odd, no one appeared to give it much notice. They had used a special Auror-only Floo, with limited password access, so that Hermione could enter the Ministry in the invisibility cloak, something that was normally prohibited.

The Auror department was bustling with activity, a veritable warren of cubicles and offices tucked haphazardly here and there. Owls swooped and soared, deftly dodging all the self-propelled memoranda.

Harry ducked through the flight paths of the memos, without really noticing them, and stepped purposefully to Kingsley Shacklebolt's office. He tapped on the door softly, and when instructed to enter, did so. His friends piled in behind him, and Ron carefully latched the door.

“Harry!” The Head Auror said, with no small amount of pleasure in his voice. “It's good to see you again.” His voice lowered slightly, and his eyes grew cautious, as he added, “Did you find anything?”

Harry nodded slightly, as he looked over his shoulder. The empty space between him and Ron rippled slightly, and a cloak flowed downward to reveal none other than Hermione Granger.

Kingsley stared, a dazed half-smile flitting on and off of his face.

“Great Merlin's Ghost,” he murmured under his breath, and stood hastily to his feet, his chair scraping noisily against the tiled floor. “Miss Granger, you are a sight for sore eyes.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said. Shacklebolt turned to Harry, shaking his hand and clapping him on the back at the same time.

“Good show, Harry. I should have known you wouldn't come back without her.” Something about Kingsley's phrasing made a slight sheen film over Hermione's eyes. Harry looked sidewise at her, and almost absent-mindedly, threaded his fingers through hers.

“What does this mean for the trial today?” Harry asked, turning everyone's mind back to the business looming immediately before them.

“She was listed as a witness before her aspect of the case was dismissed. I expect the prosecutor wouldn't have trouble reintroducing it. The judge seems fairly sympathetic to our side.”

“But - but I never saw Malfoy,” Hermione mentioned tentatively. “I can't prove he was there, that he was involved in any way with my - my abduction.” Harry's hand tightened around hers.

“Luna and Calpurnia had evidence linking Malfoy to the Multiverse room,” Harry said. “But Ron tells me my Legilimency on Malfoy was inadmissible?” It wasn't exactly a question, but Shacklebolt nodded.

Harry reached into the neckline of his shirt, and pulled out the crystal that had returned them home.

“This is the necklace I saw in Malfoy's mind. Now maybe we can't use that information directly, but since it is the necklace I used to retrieve Hermione, couldn't we link it that way? Malfoy was in the Multiverse room.”

“It's circumstantial. We can't use your testimony that directly links Malfoy to that particular necklace,” Kingsley replied.

“What about a magical resonance trace?” Hermione blurted suddenly, startling everyone in the room.

“Magical resonance wouldn't still be detectable after five years,” Harry told her. “The only Adjicio that would be found on the necklace would be mine.”

The group looked glum.

“At least, Malfoy will go to Azkaban for a little while,” Ron pointed out, after a moment. “He was hiding Lestrange. Scrimgeour may just slap his wrist, but he can't let him go free.”

“I was Stunned,” Luna said, her seeming non sequitur drawing confused glances from the others. Her eyes darted around, assessing the bemusement, and she explained, “When Malfoy broke into the Multiverse room, I was Stunned, and Calpurnia was Obliviated. The necklace was still on Malfoy's person at the time. Wouldn't there be - ?”

A wide smile - a real smile - was spreading over Harry's face, and it was mirrored on that of the Head Auror.

“Magical residue,” Harry finished for her triumphantly. He exchanged glances with Kingsley. “It's entirely possible, Luna. You're a genius.” Luna's smile was complacent, as if Harry had told her something she already knew.

Kingsley gently slid the necklace Harry proffered into an envelope, and scrawled something on the outside. He then strode to the door, stuck his head out, and bawled for MacKie. When the trainee arrived, the Head Auror handed him the envelope.

“Send it down to Magical Forensics,” he instructed tersely. “Tell them it's top priority. Have them send the results to Courtroom Seven.” MacKie nodded breathlessly and disappeared around a corner, traveling with all the officious urgency of someone relatively new on the job.

“The trial will be starting soon.” Kingsley turned back to his visitors. “We should be going.”

“You're going to have to get her in the courtroom door,” Harry reminded him. “The security measures won't allow an invisibility cloak inside.” He was speaking in that businesslike tone again, and Hermione couldn't repress a look of wonder, as she assessed him again.

“What?” Harry asked, noticing her scrutiny.

“You're an Auror. It just - it seems - ” she shrugged helplessly, unable to put words to her reaction.

He squinted at her a bit, trying to divine the reason behind her comment.

“Most people seem to think it's what I was born to do.”

She ducked her head, self-consciously, and replied,

“Somehow, I always thought you'd be a teacher - you always seemed to regard Hogwarts as your first real home.”

Ron gaped openly at her, as Harry turned his face partially away from her, obviously trying to maintain control of his emotions.

“Finding you was of paramount importance,” he said roughly. “Becoming an Auror was the best way to do that. And Hogwarts wasn't the same for me anymore… not after that.”

She wasn't sure how to respond to that.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered, but then he fully faced her again, and mustered a smile.

“Don't be,” he said. “You're here. Nothing else matters now.”

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Harry's entrance into Courtroom Seven unleashed a torrent of rustling whispers. A handful of flashbulbs popped in what their operators hoped was a surreptitious way, so as to not jeopardize their privileged position as the few members of the media allowed inside.

Malfoy met Harry's carefully neutral gaze, coolly, although not without some surprise. The appraising glance slid into a sneer as his eyes moved on to Ron. Luna, as a witness herself, had remained outside the courtroom, along with Hermione.

Harry followed Kingsley with his eyes, as the Head Auror moved up to the Prosecutor's table, covertly erected a Muffliato, and spoke earnestly to the barrister. Harry saw the lawyer's eyes widen visibly with surprise, and he began to scrawl something hastily, his quill flying over the parchment.

Malfoy was leaning indolently in his chair, trying his hardest to affect an aura of unconcern, but his eyes were fastened with intense interest on the adjacent table. He leaned on one elbow, and muttered something to his solicitor, out of one side of his mouth.

Just then, the judge arrived, and called the court into session.

Wasting no time, the Prosecutor leapt to his feet, and called for a re-evaluation of a set of charges that were dismissed, as per Ministry Code 84A, Section 13.2.

“What charges?” the judge asked.

“Those dealing with the alleged kidnapping of one Hermione Granger.”

The courtroom exploded. Draco was speaking irately to his lawyer, who had come to his feet, spitting objections. It took several taps of the judge's Amplified wand to calm everything down.

“And what new evidence have you to offer?” the judge asked.

Kingsley Shacklebolt nodded solemnly to the Auror standing guard by the courtroom door, and he reached behind himself and opened it, holding it wide enough to allow someone to enter.

The courtroom waited with baited breath, Harry and Ron's attention fixed, not on the doorway, but on the defendant.

At the threshold, the very air seemed to swirl slightly, and Hermione Granger stepped into the room.

Murmurs turned into shouts, there was a veritable lightning-storm of camera flash, while the judge rapped his wand with enough force to nearly splinter it, and Draco Malfoy's face went pasty white.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Harry slouched in a booth, whose seat was made of fraying vinyl, in the back corner of a Muggle pub, Hermione tucked neatly into the crook of his arm, and Ron and Luna seated directly across from them. The latter two seemed almost ebullient, effusive in mood, but it appeared to Harry that the sudden lifting of all their burdens had left him and Hermione nothing but slightly exhausted.

“I just can't believe it's really all over,” he said, for the eighth time since they'd arrived, his eyes dropping to the folded newspaper on the tabletop in front of them.

The headline read, Long-Lost Member of Heroic Trio Found: Hermione Granger Returns From Dead. (“That's a little over the top, don't you think?” Hermione had scoffed.) An inset story, below it and to the right, was titled, Malfoy Heir To Receive Kiss Alongside Aunt.

“Come on, Harry,” Ron teased. “You're the Hero again, universally admired, we're-not-worthy-to-kiss-the-hems-of-your-robes. Scrimgeour practically crawled on his hands and knees to offer you your job back. Doesn't that at least warrant a smile?”

One corner of Harry's mouth turned up obligingly, as he regarded his best friend.

“He didn't want to offer me my job. Just like he didn't want Malfoy to be Kissed. He just realized that popular opinion was against him this time. Scrimgeour wants to play for the winning team.”

“You still didn't have to say what you said,” Hermione admonished gently, “but I'm glad you did.” Harry's half-smile turned into a full-blown grin, as he flipped the paper over to show the bottom half of the front page.

There, the headline read, Boy Who Lived Rejects Ministry Job Opportunity.

“Rather diplomatic of them, wasn't it?” he mused. “Didn't know the Prophet was capable of that.”

“Your language wasn't exactly fit for public consumption,” she reminded him, and Ron smothered a smile.

“It wasn't that bad,” he protested.

“The nicest thing you said was that `Rufus' could shove the job offer up his arse!”

“Don't forget the part where he said there should be room up there since Malfoy was gone!” Ron chortled, mirroring the loud guffaw that he had emitted when Harry had originally made the comment at the press conference. Harry tried to look contrite, but still seemed inordinately pleased with himself.

“Honestly!” Hermione muttered under her breath, but approval glinted in her dark eyes, nonetheless. Harry settled back against the worn black vinyl, pushing the paper away, and pulling Hermione closer, savoring her warmth against him.

“So,” Ron asked, taking a long quaff of his soda, not yet feeling comfortable with alcoholic beverages of any sort. “What are you going to do now? Mum's being chafing my arse about my `plans'… might as well pass some of the same on down to you.” His eyes darted, not too subtly, between his two best friends.

“Yes, Harry,” Hermione said, in a teasing tone that said she was all too aware of Ron's insinuations. “What are you going to do now?”

A sudden, hungry look flared in Harry's green eyes, a look blazing with the sort of promise to make Hermione flush slightly. His voice was innocuous enough, mindful of the company they shared and their public venue, but his gaze said something else altogether.

“Oh, believe me, I have plans,” he replied loftily, lifting his tankard to his lips.

-

AN: My humblest and most abject apologies for the delay. First, the holidays bogged me down. Then there was a one-two punch of the flu and bronchitis. And then I was just so out of the groove that I had a hard time getting back in. I hope there are people out there still interested in this! (And let us not even mention poor “Resistance”. I hope an update won't be too far out in the future.)

You may leave a review on your way out, if you like (if you're still speaking to me, that is!)

Oh, and I did kind of gloss over the end of the trial. That was a deliberate choice, because my knowledge of American Law comes from television and one Criminal Justice class in college. My knowledge of British Law is even sketchier, so hopefully, discrepancies can be chalked up to, “Well, this is the Wizarding World, after all.” I wasn't really trying for any kind of real-world accuracy, because it is, frankly, out of my grasp.

Epilogue to come. Many thanks for your patience.

lorien

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Disclaimer: Not mine; more's the pity.

Shadow Walks

My shadow's the only one that walks beside me

--Green Day, “Boulevard of Broken Dreams”

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Epilogue

You are the light that is leading me to the place where I find peace again

--Lifehouse, “Everything”

The Great Hall was crowded, and the low glow of candlelight flickered just above everyone's heads. Harry felt the weight of every single eye in the room, and it made him shift uncomfortably. Somewhere in the cavernous room, a camera flashed, and he reflexively flinched. The Headmistress was speaking, but her words rushed past his ears without meaning, like the gurgle of a brook.

Instead, he sought out Hermione. She's beautiful, he thought, but it went beyond the golden highlights of candle-shine on her hair, beyond the way her eyes moved over the familiar features of the room with a comfortable air. She was shining, a radiant look of peace on her face, and Harry allowed himself to think proudly, I did that.

He looked at Ron and Luna in turn, also present on this special day. Luna was tucked under Ron's shoulder, and had some kind of fluffy looking wildflower perched precariously behind one ear. Harry thought he spied a bit of root hanging down, and surmised that Luna had plucked it from the Hogwarts' grounds as she came in. Ron winked and smiled, and raised his goblet in a kind of silent toast to his best friend.

Harry saw Hermione notice the gesture, and nearly laughed at the way her eyebrows came rushing together in the center of her forehead. Ron set the glass down so quickly that liquid sloshed over the rim, and Harry saw his mouth move,

“It's butterbeer, I swear.”

Harry smothered a smile, the contortion of his face occurring simultaneously with the concluding segment of McGonagall's announcement, as she swept one arm backwards in presentation of him. He swallowed awkwardly, and tried to force his expression into something a little more natural.

“…though he needs no introduction, I am proud to present to you our new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Mr. Harry Potter.”

The Hall was awash in thunderous applause, as Harry half-stood and reclaimed his seat at teacher's table on the dais as quickly as possible. Seated at the nearest part of the Gryffindor table, Ron, Luna, and Hermione had come to their feet first, followed by the rest of the student body. It seemed to Harry that the Slytherin table did so in a decidedly reluctant fashion.

“He will be making his home here in the castle, along with his lovely wife, formerly Miss Hermione Granger…” There was something slightly misty in the Headmistress's eyes, as she looked fondly down on her former pupils. “… who will be pursuing a Charms Mastery under apprenticeship to myself and Professor Penhallow.” The Charms teacher who had replaced Flitwick inclined his head and lifted his glass toward McGonagall.

Harry was no longer truly listening, his attention having drifted at the phrase, his lovely wife…

It was the start of term at Hogwarts, and over a year had passed since Hermione's miraculous return.

Things had been awkward between the members of the Trio at first, as they hesitantly tried to figure out how to reconstruct what had been lost and incorporate it into what now existed. Ron had been tentative, walking on eggshells around Hermione mostly, and when he had needled her, it had been done gently, as if he were more than half-afraid that he'd infuriate her right out of their universe. One morning, he had finally said something catty about her hair and insulted her coffee, and she had startled the life out of him, by hugging him fiercely in response. Things were more like old times between them after that.

For Harry, the declaration between himself and Hermione had been the elephant in the room, as he'd battled the shriek in his head, it's too soon! and the desire that welled within him to drag her down to the Ministry and marry her posthaste.

After approximately six weeks of further waffling, Hermione had finally thrown down the gauntlet by surprising him in his bed one night, wearing very little.

“Hermione, what are you doing?” His voice was wary, panicky, and sounded more than a little strained.

“Can you really not tell?” Hermione said dryly, but there was vulnerability in her tone that made Harry feel incredibly guilty. She was putting it all on the line for him, because he was apparently incapable of making the decision.

“Why are you doing it?” Her hands were snaking along the bare planes of his chest, and he found himself shivering, even though her fingertips were leaving fiery trails in their wake.

“Because I love you, Harry James Potter, and I know you love me. I don't know how else to convince you that this is what I want, and to get you to stop - to get you to stop - ” She faltered as Harry pulled her closer.

“Stop what?”

“Stop being silly, noble, selfless Harry Potter, and do what you want. What do you want?” She sounded breathless.

“You know what I want,” he said throatily, and it was the same tone that had been in his voice that day at the Muggle pub.

She threaded one knee in between his legs, with unmistakable intent.

“Then why don't you do something about it,” she challenged.

Harry hesitated for only the fraction of a second, though later, it would seem to him like years. This was Hermione, his Hermione, and she was in his arms, and she loved him. Why was he vacillating? Was he afraid of tempting the gods with too much happiness? Was he afraid that everything he'd dreamed of for five years would not live up to his expectations? Had he put Hermione up on a pedestal so out of reach for so long that he'd never allow her to step down? He'd told himself that allowing some time to pass was for Hermione's benefit, but was it?

She shifted against him, and bracketed his face with her hands. And he made a decision.

Don't muck this up, Potter, he told himself sternly.

He turned his face to the side slightly, to kiss her gently on one palm.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I really thought - I thought I was doing the best thing - I - I mean, thinking of you first, of what you needed, making your transition easier, but - but maybe I was just afraid…”

“Of what?” Her voice was soft, solemn. Her fingers slid through his hair, to play at the nape of his neck.

“Of stepping off the ledge,” he answered cryptically. Of leaving the past behind, of forgetting the years of misery and heartache and longing and despair, of accepting my future with the woman I have always loved, was what he did not say.

And he could tell that Hermione understood, by the way she buried her head in his shoulder.

“I love you,” he offered, and he could taste the salt of tears on her face, as he kissed her lips. He felt her smile against his mouth, and her fingers fumbled against his chest, as she began to slide the straps of her camisole down her shoulders.

“I know,” she replied.

He had proposed two weeks later, down on one knee in the living room of their flat, with his mother's engagement ring.

Their wedding had taken place two weeks after that, a quiet affair that had raised not a blip on the wizarding media radar until after the fact. They had been married on the Hogwarts grounds, at the edge of the forest, where she had vanished, a warming charm protecting them from the chill autumn winds, as the Headmistress conducted the ceremony. Only Ron, Luna, Lupin, Tonks, the Grangers, and the Weasleys had been present.

Harry thought he'd never seen anything more beautiful than Hermione, her cheeks flushed, and the wind buffeting the dangling ringlets of her upswept hair, in the moment that McGonagall declared them husband and wife.

His wife…

He drifted back to the present, as his eyes sought her out, and found her regarding him with such a fond expression that she must have known in which direction his thoughts had flown.

She twiddled briefly with the diamond on her left hand, and smiled at him, mouthing, I love you.

I know, he returned cheekily, using their own private substitute for “I love you too”, dating back to their first night together, over a year ago.

Their first anniversary would be coming up soon, he mused. He would have to do something special.

The food appeared on the long tables, and the Hall quieted to a low murmur, punctuated by the clang of flatware on plate. Harry met Luna's eyes and winked. She smiled, her eyes flickering down to her own ring, promising a future that had long been deferred.

Equilibrium, indeed.

The End

Again, my apologies for the long delay in posting. Real Life has definitely been catching up with me, but I fully intend to continue writing.

Hope you enjoyed this short snippet. I hope to have a little one-shot or something similar exploring exactly what happened to that “other Hermione” at some point in the near future.

Cheers. And thanks to everyone who read and reviewed. Your response to this story was truly overwhelming and humbling.

lorien

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