From Among You

Prologue

Waiting had never been something at which Harry had been very good. He wanted answers, results, solutions instantly if not sooner. Problems were least troublesome if they could be solved immediately. Unfortunately, waiting was all he could do, all he'd been doing for the last several weeks and there were no solutions in sight.

He sighed and raked a hand through his unruly black hair, pushing away from the stiff and sterile hospital bed, no longer wanting to look at the near lifeless body sleeping in it. His eyes fell to the window, the rainy London streets below, the people scurrying every which way to escape the nasty weather. It felt like ages since he'd been rained upon...or showered…or slept. With the thought of sleep, he gazed once more at the patient behind him and shook his head.

`Sleeping' had been how everyone had been referring to her condition. Dressing it down, making sound so less drear, as if she were only taking a nap. Harry hated euphemisms. He knew better. No sleep was as deep as this—no natural, healing sleep. This sleep was suffocating, smothering a chance at life with each passing, carefully monitored breath. This sleep would kill the sleeper if not disrupted soon.

And then all of this would have been for nothing.

A wave of exhaustion his Harry swiftly, nearly knocking him off of his feet. Abandoning his view of the dismal city streets, he collapsed into the uncomfortable chair next to his sleeping companion. His eyes fell upon the patient. Maybe death would be better that what would await her when—if—she ever woke up. A part of Harry hated himself for thinking that way, but he couldn't bear things to remain the way they were for much longer.

She was back in his life but no longer his; laying in front of him but so very, very far away; breathing and alive but not actually living. He sighed again, too tired to think any longer. It had been weeks since he'd had a decent night's sleep—a night that wasn't violently interrupted by horrific nightmares and cold sweats.

All of this had begun with dreams. Not his…those would come later…and they would not stop. Sleep, though, which had been lapping patiently at his ankles, patiently waiting, finally grabbed hold and tugged him under, pulling him gently out to an endless sea with the hope of a dreamless night.

And as he slept, Harry remembered…

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AN: Three years later, here I am with a revised edition of this story. It's the one I can't get out of my head which, to me, means I need to finish it. With the help of my big sister Kassy, hopefully we can get a handle on this before it drives us both crazy. Enjoy...again!

Chapter One

The moon hung low over the tree line; the leaves glistened in the early morning air. A scream tore through the valley, slicing through the pacific scene. She was running, crying, and gasping for breath, her thin cotton nightgown was soaked with sweat and mist. She had to get away. Through the woods—once she was through the woods she would be safe; if she could get through the woods—get to the people—someone would help her.

Her bare feet flew over the grass and into the forest. She ducked under low limbs and pushed away branches that grabbed at her, tearing her clothes and skin.

They were coming. They were right behind her and if she stopped, they would kill her.

Her blonde hair whipping around her head and sticking to her face, she leapt nimbly over a large puddle, ignoring the rock which sliced open her foot.

In the dark, the trees were endless; she had been running blindly, her hands outstretched before her. She might be lost, she realized, might be turned around and headed directly for the very person from which she was running. If they were even a person at all.

An upraised root caught her foot and brought her crashing to the ground, twisting her ankle with a sickening crunch. She tried to stand, tried to block out the footsteps which were coming closer and closer through the thicket. Her ankle gave way and again she fell with a moan of frustration and hopelessness. Tears streaming down her dirty face, she crawled to the nearest patch of bushes and tried to hide herself within them. Be silent, her mind commanded her ragged breathing and her pounding heart, they'll hear you. Silent and invisible, she told herself, silent and invisible.

And then it was quiet.

Too quiet.

Had they gone through still searching for her? Had she slipped past their notice? Was she safe?

No sooner had these thoughts entered her mind than the bushes in which she was hidden burst apart from behind her and she felt herself being dragged by the hair through the forest. She kicked her feet bloody trying to get free, broke off her fingernails clawing at the ground. The attacker's iron grip on her scalp would not be broken. Her screams, ringing through the pines, went unheard.

With a quick flash of glinting silver the screaming turned to unintelligible gurgling which soon died down and eventually, the young girl fell silent while her slayer worked around her, muttering things in hushed whispers which only the trees could hear.

Fifteen miles away, in a townhouse flat on Origin Alley, Ron Weasley awoke in a cold sweat. He ran to the bathroom and threw up.

***

“You okay, Ron?” Harry asked at breakfast later that morning.

“Hmm?” Ron looked up drowsily from his untouched eggy toast and gave a distracted nod. “Fine.”

“You look like hell. Everything all right?”

“Bad dreams,” the blonde girl's lifeless brown eyes, staring up at him from a blood spattered face entered his mind again. He shook his head, “Nothing to worry about.”

The door to the flat opened and Hermione entered, carrying the morning paper. “Morning, boys,” she greeted cheerfully.

“Morning,” they returned in unison as she dropped the paper onto the table and set to making herself a cup of tea.

“Where've you been?” Ron asked, noticing her dirty fingernails and clothes.

“Digging in the garden,” she shrugged, “I was up early, thought I'd de-gnome.”

“Couldn't sleep either?” Harry asked, looking from one roommate to the other.

“Trouble sleeping, Ron?” Hermione stopped in her tea-making and looked at her redheaded best friend.

“Just bad dreams, he mumbled again, grabbing the paper and burying his head in the sports section.

“Well,” her tea steeping, Hermione sat down between them, “What did you dream?”

“It was nothing,” he muttered, eyes trained deliberately on an article about the Chudley Cannons.

Hermione snatched the paper away and smiled, “C'mon, you'll feel better if you tell us.”

“Doubtful.”

“Was it about a girl?” Harry joked, shoveling some more scrambled eggs into his mouth. Ron nodded somberly, not looking up. Harry rolled his eyes, “Ron, we've been over this,” he continued, “The Weird Sisters turning you down for a date does not constitute a nightmare.”

Hermione giggled for a moment before sobering at Ron's expression. “We're sorry, Ron. Tell us what happened.”

Ron closed his eyes, remembering her ragged breathing and frantic eyes as she tore through the forest, “She was scared,” he said, looking at his fingernails, “terrified, really. Running for her life.”

“From what?” Harry asked with any trace of humor gone from his voice.

“Dunno, couldn't see. It got her though—whatever she was running from.”

Hermione's brow furrowed, “Did she—”

“Slit her throat,” he nodded, “Used some kind of strange knife I'd never seen before…”

“What did it look like?” Harry leaned forward in interest.

“Just had some weird sort of carvings on it…two blades,” he ran his hands over his face, “It wasn't the knife, though, it was the hands…”

“The girl's hands?” Hermione prompted.

“No…the killer's hands…there was something familiar about them.”

“Familiar how?”

He shrugged, “I don't know…it just felt like I'd seen them before.”

“Strange,” Harry murmured, obviously unsettled by this.

“I wouldn't worry about it,” Hermione said breezily, patting Ron on the back, “They're just dreams.”

Harry looked at her for a moment, “You really think so?”

“Yes,” she nodded, “I do.” She covered his hand with hers and gave it a quick squeeze, “He's gone, Harry. We made sure of it.”

Harry offered a small smile, “You're right.”

“Ron's probably just suffering from repressed memories or anxiety about Auror training starting up soon.”

Ron nodded, “We saved the bloody world, you'd think they'd just certify us and be done with it already,” he grumbled good naturedly.

Hermione smiled at her boys, “See? Nothing to worry about. I've got to go down to Diagon Alley for awhile, anyone want to tag along?”

And so the decision was made that Ron's dreams were only dreams and that that particular Saturday was to be better spent wandering around Diagon Alley, dragging Hermione from the bookstores and Ron and Harry out of the Quidditch supplier, having a laugh in Weasley Wizard Wheezes and visiting Ginny at the Leaky Cauldron for a bite of dinner much, much later in the day.

***

Ginny was fighting back a mighty yawn as she cleaned up the dining room of the Leaky Cauldron. Midnight couldn't come soon enough—only another ten minutes. She bewitched the rest of the dishes to wash themselves and returned to the front desk.

“All right then, Ginny?” Tom asked, making his way slowly down the creaking stairs.

She smiled and tucked a stray hair behind her ear, “All right.”

“I'll be off then, see you in the morning,” he shrugged into his threadbare jacket and gave a little wave as he Disapparated home.

Overall, Ginny was enjoying her new job as assistant manager of the Leaky Cauldron. Tom had given her a job once the war ended, hoping that with her help they could jumpstart the Cauldron and get it back on its feet. Thus far, it seemed to be working. The dining room was once again full at meal times, the bar was busy for most of the night, and people had warmed once again to the idea of staying in town for a night or longer.

She yawned again as the clock began to chime. Closing time. Excellent. Ginny closed the bank book and registration records and locked them in the desk and began to move about the building, extinguishing any lights that Collie—Richard Collins, the night clerk—wouldn't need.

As she was shoving in chairs and straightening knick-knacks around the dining room, the front door bell jingled and a gust of early autumn air blew through. “Evening, Collie,” she greeted fondly without turning around. When she received no answer, Ginny turned and found that while the door was wide open, there was indeed no one there. “Hello?” she called softly, glancing around nervously. The door was banging against the back wall, the bell jingling each time as the knot in Ginny's stomach twisted harder and harder with each bang. “Collie?”

If Collie was there, he wasn't answering. Ginny slowly made her way to the doorway. With a loud gulp and a pounding heart, she took a step outside for a look around. As she did, she saw nothing out of the ordinary; a man asleep next to a rubbish bin, an empty bottle in his hand, the pubs beginning to close up for the night, a pair of lovers strolling down the cobblestone, hand in hand, giggling, their head bent together. She was about to go back inside when a hand went around her waist while another went around her mouth, muffling the startled scream she let out. She was being dragged around the corner to the alley.

“Shut up!” a voice hissed in her ear. That hiss. Ginny knew that hiss. But it couldn't be…

She found herself shoved up against the brick wall and staring into a face she had expected never to see again. Again, she screamed against his hand, eyes desperately searching for someone who would help her. “Shut up!” he hissed again. With his hand still firmly holding her head to the wall, he used the other to reach into his pocket and remove his wand, which he pointed at her face. “You're going to do as I say, do you understand?” She nodded frantically. “You're going to help me, all right?” She eyed him for a moment until he pointed his wand between her eyes, “Let me try this again. You're going to help me or I'm going to kill you, do you agree?” Ginny nodded, her old feelings of loathing returning swiftly. “You're going to let me stay here—you're going to hide me. Is that clear?” Her nod was slow, her eyes narrowed. “There's a girl.” Malfoy lowered his wand and gave himself a nod, appearing slightly relieved. “Now, if I let go of you, do you promise not to scream?”

Ginny nodded slowly, breathing heavily through her nose. He slid his hand away from her mouth and allowed her a few gulps of oxygen. “But you're—” she gasped, still not believing her eyes.

“Obviously, I'm not.”

“But you are! I was there—I saw it!”

“I know what you saw and you didn't see anything.”

“What do you want?” she asked searching her pockets for her wand.

“You left it on the desk, inside,” he informed her carelessly. “You'll be dead before you even reach the door,” he added, seeing the look on her face. “I wouldn't risk it.” His own wand remained deliberately out of his pocket and pointed at her. “As for your question, I thought I'd just made myself abundantly clear. I need a room. Immediately. And no one can know about it.”

“Why should I help you?” She spat, leaning against the wall, rubbing her side where he'd grabbed her.

“Because if you don't, I'll kill your entire family. Is that what you want?” She said nothing; he offered a joyless smile, “Brilliant.” He motioned for the open door. “Shall we?”

Inside, Malfoy waited while Ginny's shaking hands found the key to the top floor bedroom. “Here,” she dropped it on the counter, “Room 43.”

“If anyone finds me, Weasley,” he snatched the keys, “I'm holding you personally responsible.”

“Why would anyone be looking for you, Malfoy?” she snapped, her fear giving way to repugnance. “You've been dead for six months now.”

“This never happened,” he informed her, Disapparating so quickly she almost believed him.

The door opened again, causing Ginny to nearly jump out of her seat. “All right, Gin?” Collie asked, looking concerned.

A wave of relief swept through her as Collie slid out of his coat and came over to the desk. She could tell Collie what happened, he would know what to do. Collie had been through both wars, and worked days at the Ministry. He was simple and a little boring but most definitely good. He'd know what to do. “You look like you've just seen a ghost,” he joked, leaning against the counter.

She had. Draco Malfoy had been reported dead in the final battle in Godric's Hollow. Everyone knew that. And yet, there he'd stood not five minutes before, stealing a room from her. He looked like a ghost. Pale and sickly, too thin, dirty, his platinum blonde hair greasy and nearly touching his shoulders, his eyes red and shifty. There was something else in his eyes, something she couldn't place.

“Ginny?” Collie asked, peering into her face. “Are you all right, love?”

She blinked and shook her head, “Just tired, Col,” she assured him with a smile. “I'm just in need of a good night's sleep.”

Whatever she had seen in him, Ginny realized as she grabbed her wand and Disapparated home without another word, was the reason she had just agreed to keep his secret.

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Chapter Two

Ginny Weasley was a wreck; a grade A, first class mess. She hadn't slept in days, she leapt at every sound, and now it seemed like every creak that came from upstairs made her heart stop, and anyone saying her name practically sent her into seizures.

This couldn't go on, she knew, but she didn't have any ideas at the moment. Every possible solution that jumped into her head was discarded, cast aside in hopes that something better would come along, but nothing seemed to come to her. She kept waiting for something to strike her, kept waiting for the answer to just fall out of the sky and strike her on the head, but nothing happened.

What made this situation all the more frustrating was that in the week he had been living upstairs, making her life a living hell and putting job and—more importantly—her life in jeopardy, Ginny hadn't actually seen Draco. The only way of knowing if he was even still living above her would be to go up and see for herself—something she was most unwilling to do. She was strong-willed, hardheaded, and sometimes impulsive, a fact her brothers loved to remind her of daily, but she wasn't stupid. She knew he was eating because certain things had begun disappearing from the kitchen—a Yorkshire pudding one night, steak and kidney pies the next, and on more than one occasion, several bottles of whiskey. Ginny felt oddly comforted by the idea that even if he wasn't upstairs anymore, he was drunk and full somewhere.

She didn't know why that made her feel better. It shouldn't. The man was a felon, had faked his own death to avoid paying for the things he'd done, and he'd threatened to kill her and everyone she loved if she didn't do what he wanted her to. Yet she couldn't stop thinking about him. She couldn't stop wondering what he was doing, or if he was all right. If he had enough to eat, and if he was sleeping. She wanted him to be safe. And though she knew that it should cause her to worry, Ginny found herself more concerned with hiding her secret from everyone else than she was about him coming back for her.

Still, people had begun to notice her strange behavior. Her mother had said something about it that very morning at breakfast.

“Ginny, what's the matter with you? You haven't even touched your food! Are you sick?” Molly had been fretting, brushing her hand over her daughter's soft coppery hair as she passed. Ginny had felt a wave of guilt. She hated lying to her family. They were big, and loud, and noisy, and her brothers drove her crazy, and her mother was sometimes too much to handle, but she loved them all, and lying to them hurt her.

“No, Mum, I'm fine,” she'd shaken her head and forced a bite of toast.

“You don't look fine,” Molly had commented, “When was the last time you had a good night's sleep?”

Ginny shrugged, “I don't know; I'm probably just coming down with something.”

“I think it's that job.”

At this, the juice glass that she was raising to her lips slipped from her hands and crashed to the floor. “What about my job?”

Molly sighed and pointed her wand at the mess her daughter had just made. “I think you're working too many hours—it wouldn't kill you to take a night off every once in awhile.”

“Oh,” she visibly relaxed, “yeah…you're probably right. I'll talk to Tom about it later.”

That had been the end of that conversation, though it had taken her mother leaving the house for her heart to slow down.

A creak from the stairs caused such a spasm that Ginny spilled an entire bottle of ink on the reservation book. Tom, the source of the creaking, looked curiously down at her. “Are you sure you're all right, Ginny?” he asked for the tenth time that day.

“Mmm hmm,” she answered distractedly, waving her wand over the book to clean up the spill.

“Just a little jumpy, eh?”

“A little,” she nodded, wishing very much that he would go away. After a moment, he did and she breathed a small sigh of relief.

No, this definitely couldn't go on.

***

“What are you reading?” Harry bent over the little figure curled in the corner of the sofa, running the edges of her quill along her cheek thoughtfully.

“Classes start in a couple of weeks.” The pretty girl reminded him with a flash of sparkle in her brown eyes. She held up the book—one of their required texts for Auror training. Harry wasn't at all surprised.

He sank down beside her, and she glanced around, noting with some confusion the length of the shadows in the room. How long had she been lost in her own world? “Where's Ron?”

“He went for a walk.” Harry confessed quietly. “I think this whole dream thing has still got him pretty shook up.”

“I know it is.” Hermione bit her lip, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “I don't know what to tell him, Harry.” She said with a sigh. “We can't fix it for him. We don't know what's going on any more than he does.”
“No, we don't.” Harry's nod held a hint of defeat.

She smiled, “As soon as they catch whoever's been doing this, it'll all be over.” She promised, reaching to lay a comforting hand on his arm. “Maybe he's just sensitive to these kinds of things.”

“It's never happened before.” Her friend reminded her, shaking his head.

“No, but maybe this is something that's just manifested itself. Maybe he's got a gift of some kind. You know, I was reading the other day about something very similar to this. What was it...” She trailed off, a familiar thoughtful look covering her face, and Harry offered her a smile as he rose again.

“You keep working on that.” He told her with a chuckle. “I'm going to see if he's back yet. Maybe a trip into town will make him feel better.”

***

When she returned home from the market, she knew something was wrong. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. The front door had been broken open and the sitting room was a mess. Furniture kicked over, glass shattered…she took another step inside and set the bag of groceries down, fear coursing through her veins with each beat of her heart. The house was too quiet, she realized. For as many people who lived there, someone was always shouting or slamming a door, running up and down the steps or clanging dishes or pots and pans in the kitchen. The silence scared her more than anything else.

She drew her wand from her pocket and proceeded with caution down the hallway and into the kitchen. A scream caught in her throat and escaped as a strangled gasp at what she saw. Her mother, sisters, and brother were tied together—bound and gagged, in the center of the room.

“Mama!” she exclaimed, rushing toward them, barely noticing that her wand had flown out of her hand, rendering her just as helpless as the captives. She reached for her mother first, only to find her hand repelled a few inches from the gag in her mouth. She tried again.

“Ah, ah, ah!” a voice behind her said. “Mustn't touch, Sarah.”

She whirled around quickly but found no one there. “Let them go!” she demanded, her heart pounding.

“No, I don't think I will,” the voice responded, the sound coming from everywhere at once. “Not until I have what I came here for.”

“We don't...” she looked helpless from her family around the room, “we don't have any money...”

“No...” the voice was beginning to sound annoyed. “I don't want money. I think you know what I'm here for.”

“I don't,” she cried. “I swear! Please, just let them go and I'll give you whatever you want.”

“Well I know that, Sarah my sweet.” There was a pause. “You're going to give it to me no matter what I do to them.”

“Please...”

“Please...stop...don't...” the voice was sounding more and more bored as it continued. “It always the same.” Sarah felt something brush past her, stirring the upset papers at her feet. “Where do you have it hidden, Sarah?”

“Where do I have what?” the young girl demanded. “I'm not hiding anything!”

The voice gave another heavy sigh. “This is boring. I'll find it myself.”

Sarah only had time to turn toward her mother once more before she dropped to the ground; her throat opened, her blood spilling onto the floor. It left a trail as she was dragged by her hair out of the house, away from her family's screams.

“RON!” Harry's voice pulled him out of his nightmare, drenched in sweat and grabbing at his own throat. “Ron, wake up! It was a dream, it was just a dream.”

He shook his head vehemently as Hermione burst into the room, hot on Harry's heels. “Is he all right?”

“I don't know,” Harry answered truthfully as Ron struggled for breath. “These dreams of his are getting worse.”

“She was—” he coughed and tried to swallow, “her whole family watching…I couldn't…I didn't…”

“Ron,” Hermione's voice was soft and calming as she sat down next to him, “you're all right. It was just a bad dream.”

“I couldn't see it,” he rasped, his breathing beginning to return to normal. “She couldn't see it…it killed her and she couldn't even…”

“Ron, you're all right,” Harry insisted, “you're safe here with us.”

It was another few minutes before Ron had composed himself enough to accept the glass of water Hermione had fetched from the bathroom. “Thanks,” he said quietly before gulping it down.

“You all right now?” she asked, maternally pushing back a lock of red hair from his damp forehead.

“Yeah,” he nodded, looking embarrassed, “I'm sorry I woke you guys up.”

“We thought something was happening to you,” Harry said, watching his friend closely.

“Something was,” Ron nodded, “I don't know what's going on with me.”

“Maybe you should talk to someone about it,” Harry suggested with a shrug.

“Or there's always a sleeping potion—dreamless sleep, guaranteed,” Hermione added with a smile.

“I just want them to stop. I mean, a solid week of this.”

“You're sure it's a different girl every night?” Harry asked.

“Trust me,” Ron tapped his temple, “it's not something you forget, watching seven different women slaughtered in your mind's eye.”

“They're just dreams,” Hermione reminded, getting to her feet. “We should probably get some rest—all of us. Classes tomorrow.”

Harry shook his head as he watched her leave the room, “Some things never change.”

***

Ginny had made up her mind that day that she was going to tell someone about the Malfoy Situation. That's how she'd been referring to it in her mind: The Malfoy Situation. A top secret position that had been unwillingly thrust upon her. She was done protecting a known felon, a wanted murderer, a celebrated Death Eater. That was it—no more.

She'd resolved to tell Tom at the end of her shift, offer to resign and hope that after he'd called the Ministry, he'd understand why she'd done what she'd done and let her keep her job. Truth be told, she was qualified for very little else and was not yet old enough to train to be an Auror. This job was more or less all she had going for her and she would not let Draco Malfoy ruin it for her as he had ruined so many other things.

Midday, however, something happened she did not count on. Hermione came in for a visit over lunch. “You look terrible,” she commented almost immediately. “Have you been sleeping?”

“Not very well,” Ginny admitted truthfully, ignoring the bluntness of Hermione's observations.

“Must be a Weasley trait,” she commented darkly.

“Ron still having nightmares?” Ginny asked incredulously; Ron had described his first nightmare to her in startling detail. If the dreams had continued like that for the past week, she couldn't imagine her brother ever wanting to sleep again.

“Every night,” Hermione sighed. “And not that I'm not sympathetic—we've all had our share of bad dreams and memories since the war—but no one in the house has had a decent night's sleep since all this business started. It's impossible to sleep with him bellowing like that.”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “He bellows?”

“I picked him up a few different potions to try to simulate dreamlessness,” she reached into her bag and removed several oddly shaped vials. “Let's hope something works.” Hermione dropped the vials back into her school bag and looked up, catching Ginny in worried and distracted expression. “He'll be fine, I'm sure,” she assured her, “these will do the trick.”

“Mmm,” Ginny nodded and began playing with the charm on her necklace. A noise from upstairs caused her companion to glance upwards, not missing the fact that Ginny had visibly twitched.

“All right, Gin, what's going on?”

Ginny swallowed hard—an idea came to her. Hermione! Of course! Telling Tom would definitely get her fired—possibly even arrested—no matter how much he liked her. But Hermione? What could she do but help? She would know what to do, who to call, how to keep Ginny's name out of it…Hermione was a genius. Ginny patted herself on the back for such a brilliant realization.

“All right,” she began, “but you've got to swear you won't freak out.”

“I swear.”

“I've been…” Ginny stopped, trying to think of how to phrase this. I've been protecting and hiding one of my most hated enemies for a week or so. No, that was no good. Remember Malfoy? Well…he's not so much dead as the other thing… Rubbish.

“Yeah, Gin?” Hermione prompted with raised, expectant eyebrows.

“I've been…” her mind wandered back to the night he'd arrived. He was the one people should be telling looked terrible. Hungry, homeless, haunted…and she'd never seen anyone look more afraid in her life. That was it, she realized, the haunted look about his eyes wasn't the usual malignant glint she'd grown up with. It was fear. Draco Malfoy was terrified.

“Whatever it is, Gin, I promise I won't freak out.”

“I've been seeing Dean Thomas again,” she blurted out, wanting desperately to clamp a hand over her mouth for her lies.

Hermione blinked. “Oh. When did this start?”

“About a week ago,” she continued, “he came in for a drink, we got to talking…you know how it is sometimes with old flames.”

“Not…exactly…” Hermione eyed her suspiciously. “Well that's great, Ginny. It doesn't explain why you look like you haven't slept in…” she stopped herself, “well, I guess it could…”

“Don't mention it to Ron,” Ginny rushed on, “you know how he gets sometimes.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and glanced at her watch. “Don't worry,” she said, sliding off the barstool, “Hey,” she produced a vial of sleeping potion, “you sure you don't want me to leave you one of these? Slip a few drops to Dean and get a little sleep yourself?” she gave a wicked grin.

Ginny had the decency to blush—though not for any reason Hermione was suggesting—and laughed. “I'll think about it.”

Hermione was down the street and headed back to the Ministry before Ginny let out the breath she'd been holding. She dropped her elbows to the counter and hung her head in her hands. What would her mother say if she heard all those lies? Ginny comforted herself with the fact that her mother would be much more upset that she'd been protecting a Death Eater than telling a few white lies.

She sighed and ran her hands over her face.

This was not good.

***

Hermione didn't like the feeling she got when she Apparated home that night after class. Upstairs, she heard the rise and fall of anxious voices; she dropped her books onto the chair by the door and took the stairs two at a time, following the voices down the hall to Ron's room. Harry was sitting on Ron's bed, watching as his best friend paced around the room, muttering to himself.

Harry caught her in the doorway. “We have a problem,” he informed.

“I can see that,” she said, crossing her arms. “What's wrong?”

“What's wrong?” Ron demanded, “I'm turning into a nutter, that's what's wrong! I'm bloody crazy!”

“Ron, you're not crazy,” Harry insisted, sounding hopeless.

“Easy for you to say…you've had a nice long vacation from your dreams coming true, haven't you?”

“Could someone please tell me what's going on?” Hermione demanded wearily.

“I'll tell you what's going on! Someone's hacked into my head and they're making me see things! Wouldn't you be a little upset?”

Hermione looked at Harry for clarification. “His nightmares,” Harry said quietly, “they're not…they're not nightmares.” Without another word, he handed her The Daily Prophet next to him.

“SEVENTH DISAPPEARANCE IN SEVEN DAYS” read the headline, “MINISTRY FEARS THE WORST”. Below the headline were seven pictures of young women—all looking to be no older than thirty.

Hermione's brow folded into its' favorite crease. “These are the women you've been dreaming about?”

“Yes!” Ron exclaimed, “I've been watching these girls get butchered every night and you're all telling me they're only dreams!”

“Ron, what else could we tell you?” Harry asked, getting to his feet, “We didn't know either!”

“Seven,” Hermione said softly, reading the headline again. “Seven's a powerful number.”

“Nine's stronger,” Harry reminded.

“So we're supposed to wait to see if whoever's doing this kills two more people before we decide whether or not we have a problem?” Ron asked incredulously.

“No,” Hermione sighed, “of course not.”

“What are we going to do, then?”

“I…” she looked helplessly at Harry, “I don't know.”

A/N: Reviews? Sharing is caring, after all.

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Chapter Three

The pictures from the Daily Prophet of the seven women had been clipped out, enlarged, and were now spread across the floor of the living room in the townhouse. Around the pictures were stacks and stacks of books on visions, invisibility, knives with two blades, and any information they could find on the victims. Around those books were two very aggravated young wizards and one exasperated young witch.

“Ron, you've got to try to go over it again,” Hermione sighed.

“What do you think I've been doing, Hermione? Making Christmas shopping lists?” Ron raked a hand through his ginger hair. “It's not like it's not the first thing I see when I close my eyes…every bloody time.”

“Well seeing it isn't enough! You've got to give us more to go on!”

“I've given you all I've got!”

“It's not enough!”

“All right, all right,” Harry stepped between them. “Everybody just…calm down.”

“Harry, we don't have time to calm down—people are dying, Ron's getting visions and nobody knows why.”

“And the three of us fighting about it isn't going to do anything,” Harry argued back, throwing himself into an arm chair. “What do we know?”

“Nothing, nothing, and, oh yeah! More nothing,” Ron grumbled, slamming shut the book in front of him.

“That was helpful,” Harry said wearily.

“Ron's right,” Hermione agreed, looking rather uncomfortable at that particular phrase. “We've got seven slaughtered women—unrelated women, to be precise, we've got an invisible foe—there are only about a million ways to become invisible, by the way, nothing a sixth year couldn't handle—and we've got absolutely no leads on the matter.”

“See?” Ron looked at his best friend, “almost nothing.”

“Oh, yes, and our unwilling Seer isn't helping at all!” she shouted the last bit and slammed her book shut as well.

“It's not like I haven't been trying!” Ron yelled back. “Technically, I've provided the most information we've got!” He stopped for a moment. “And stop calling me a Seer. I'm not a Seer.”

“What would you call it then?”

“A…Dreamer…or a…a Nightmarer…”

“Remind me to never give you the job of naming anything, ever.”

“Funny you should mention that because a few really interesting names for you just came to mind.”

“Oh please, Ronald, enlighten me.”

“Would you two shut up?” Harry interrupted whatever string of rude words Ron was about to unleash and got up from his chair. “I think we need a break—we've been at this for two straight days.”

“Maybe we should owl around—see if anyone's heard anything,” Hermione suggested from her place on the floor. “I can't see how a fresh brain would hurt the situation.”

“Who would've heard anything?”

Hermione shrugged, “Who do we know who works with a lot of people?”

“Fred and George,” Harry counted on his fingers, “Ginny—she must get loads of shady characters at the Cauldron, we might as well check with Lupin to be safe…”

“Luna could have heard something at the Quibbler,” Hermione put in helpfully.

“Owl Neville too,” Ron shrugged. “Might as well make it a DA reunion.”

“Couldn't hurt,” Harry agreed.

“Well that'll be fun, having the whole gang together again,” Ron seemed pleased with the idea. “It's been too long since we've had an End-of-the-World evil to battle to unite us.”

“No one said anything about an apocalypse,” Harry reminded, stretching his arms behind him. “This might just be garden variety evil...”

Hermione let out a frustrated sigh and dropped her head into her hands.

***

Ginny didn't know why she had thought this was a good idea. In retrospect, it was one of the worst ideas she'd had in a week full of bad ideas. This idea, in fact, ranked very high on Ginny's Bad Idea list—right up there with agreeing to be Fred and George's guinea pig, pouring her eleven year old heart out into a mysterious diary, and—most recently—letting a known Death-Eater take up residence in her place of employment.

“You're really on a roll, Weasley,” she muttered to herself as she climbed the stairs, wand already drawn for protection.

Ron had appeared in the fireplace earlier that morning and had explained what was going on. Eager to help, Ginny had offered to keep an ear out for anything that might sound suspicious.

This, she realized, was probably considered going above and beyond the call of duty in the most dangerous way possible. Her heart pounded faster as she reached the fourth floor and began her walk down the long, winding hallway.

Room 43 looked like any other room at the Cauldron—a small oak door set into a frame which sloped so low that Draco had probably had to duck to enter. The number was embossed in the darkly stained wood and winked at her mischievously in the late afternoon sun streaming in through the windows. She stopped just before it, bracing herself for the protection charms Malfoy would have surely put around the door. She waited for her tongue to swell to the size of a manatee, her skin to begin to boil as she rapped her knuckles against the door, a sudden urge to leave the country to overwhelm her as she stood outside room 43, wondering what she'd come up there for in the first place.

Nothing came.

She knocked again. This time, the pressure from her knuckles pushed open the door to reveal the inside of room 43.

There was very little out of place, she noticed immediately, the bed was made, there were no clothes strewn about, a fluffy brown towel was folded and hung over the back of the desk chair to dry. She took a few cautious steps inside, her wand trembling ever so slightly. The room, aside from being spotless, was empty; the most recent sign of life was the neatly folded day-old Prophet Ginny expected he'd nicked from the trash. Malfoy was not here—or if he was, he didn't want to be seen—she sighed, he probably wouldn't have been much help anyway. Feeling strangely disappointed in her failed venture, Ginny lowered her wand and turned to leave, a startled gasp leaping from her throat at the sight of Draco Malfoy standing directly behind her, looking furious.

“I…I didn't…I,” she stammered uselessly as the door swung shut behind him and her wand flew from her hand.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, he jaw set firmly.

“I just…I had a…”

“Get out.”

“I…I need…”

“You don't need anything, Weasley,” Malfoy removed his wand from his pocket and held it to her throat, “except to quit your stammering and give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now.”

“I'm the only one who knows you're here,” she said, her voice just above a frightened whisper.

“You're right—even more of a reason to kill you. That way no one knows I'm here.”

“And who is going to stop the Ministry from coming up here and arresting you if I'm dead?”

“That's not my problem—I'll be gone before that would ever happen.”

Ginny's feeling of cleverness died swiftly. “There's bound to be an investigation if my body just turns up dead somewhere, you know.”

“Who said anything about a body?”

“Look,” she continued, her heart pounding faster in her chest, “the only reason you haven't been found yet is because no one's been looking for you. If I die or disappear, someone will start investigating…and sooner or later you'll be found out.”

Malfoy considered this for a moment. “So if you stay alive, I stay hidden?” he asked, raising his eyebrows for confirmation.

“Yes, yes I promise. No one knows you're here,” she insisted, swallowing around the pressure on her windpipe. “I haven't told anyone, I swear.”

“I know you haven't.”

“You know?”

“Get out,” he repeated, ignoring her question.

“There's just…”

“No, Weasley, there's no `just' anything,” Malfoy removed his wand from her throat and pointed it at the door. “There is only you leaving now and me not killing you.”

“I have to ask you something.”

“And then leave?”

“Yes,” she promised, “I'll leave and I'll keep my mouth shut and we can forget each other ever existed. I just have to ask…there's this thing that's been happening with these—”

“No,” Malfoy answered shortly, crossing his arms over his chest.

A crinkle appeared in Ginny's forehead. “I…I haven't asked anything yet.”

“No, I haven't been killing little girls all over the countryside; no, I don't know who is; no, I don't care.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly. “Happy?”

“I…I just…”

“Quite eloquent, aren't you?”

“How do you know what's going on?”

He pointed to the newspapers. “I do read, you know. A bloke's got to keep up on his current events. Now,” his silver eyes moved toward the door, “why exactly haven't you gone yet?”

“It's my brother,” she blurted, Ron's pained and exhausted expression coming to mind. “It's got something to do with my brother.”

“You're brother…” Malfoy moved past her to sit on the neatly made bed, “that'd be the older one, would it?”

“Ron,” she clarified, ignoring the sound of disgust he made. “It's…connected to Ron somehow.”

“Weasley, I'm getting impatient,” he sighed, “what is connected to Ron somehow?” He paused, “And why should I care?”

“He's…seeing them,” she pointed to the papers, “the victims.”

“We all are,” he reminded, looking prodigiously bored, “they're plastered all over the papers, the streets, the wireless…”

“He's seeing them being murdered,” she stammered finally, “in his dreams or…visions…or whatever. He's seeing them.”

Malfoy looked almost impressed. “The Weasel King's a Seer now, is he?”

“Don't,” Ginny said softly, “don't call him that.”

“Your loyalty is touching,” he rolled his eyes. “But what has any of this got to do with me? Why would I know anything about any of this?”

“Well,” Ginny looked at her hands, “you're sort of the only person I know who was recently…you know…Dark.”

“Mmm,” Malfoy nodded with understanding. “And you think that because I'm a Death Eater—”

“Were,” Ginny corrected, “You're technically dead now…not really a Death Eater anymore, are you?”

“That make your life easier? Thinking I'm some sort of repentant sinner?” When she didn't answer, Malfoy continued. “Anyway, you think that because I'm a Death Eater I have some sort of insider information on all the evil that's going on in the world?”

When he put it that way, it did sound kind of stupid.

Ginny swallowed and wrung her hands. “I promised Ron I'd keep an ear out for any information that might be useful and I thought I'd just…” she frowned, “check.”

“Well no, I don't know who's doing it—sorry to disappoint.”

“Right,” she nodded and took a few steps toward the door, “I'll just be going.”

“Weasley,” his voice was harsher than his vacant expression as he bent at the waist and plucked her wand off the floor. “You'll be wanting this.”

“Oh,” she took it from him and pocketed it. “Goodbye then.”

“Have they checked out the Coven of Midret?” he asked just as she'd reached the door.

Ginny looked over her shoulder. “No…what is it?”

He shrugged. “Maybe something…maybe nothing.”

“The Coven of…”

“Midret,” he finished. “Just something I've heard.”

“Thank you, Malfoy. I really—”

“You got what you want,” he cut her off again, “now get the hell out of here.”

***

Hermione looked up from her book, a crease appearing in her forehead, “The Coven of Midret?”

“Mmm hmm,” Ginny nodded quickly and turned from the fireplace and began pacing again. “Does that sound familiar?”

“Well yes,” Hermione tilted her head to the side, “I've heard of it, of course, who hasn't?”

“Me,” chorused Harry, Ron, Fred, Ginny, and George.

Hermione ignored them and began rummaging through her books again, “I suppose it's possible,” she said softly, pulling a weathered text into her lap. “I hadn't even considered—” she looked up at the couch where Harry and most of the Weasleys were clustered, “Ron, how old did you say these women were?”

“Our age, I guess?” Ron shrugged, “it's in the Prophet reports, isn't it?”

Ginny reached down and plucked the article off the ground, “It says they're all the same age—twenty,” she reported, her eyes scanning the page a few times.

“Hmm,” Hermione returned to her book, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip.

“Hermione?” Harry's voice snapped her head up, “What are you thinking? What's this Covenant of…whatever it is?”

“It's the Coven of Midret,” Neville spoke up from his spot against the wall. “It's a non-traditional coven…the women don't reach their full magical potential until their twenty-first birthday.”

Hermione sent a smile his direction. “Yes, Neville's right. Traditionally, a woman's place in a coven is determined by families—mothers pass the rites onto their daughters and they pass them on and so on and so forth.” She took a deep breath. “The women in the Coven of Midret, are different; their place in the coven is determined mystically. They're not even aware of it until, like Neville said, they reach the age of twenty-one. That's when their power is matured and they're drawn to a central meeting location.”

“Well where have they been hiding? Seems like a group like that could've been helpful when we were fighting Voldemort. How come we've never heard of them before?” Harry asked.

“Some of us have,” Hermione said quietly under her breath, turning a page in the book she was reading.

“Well the coven is only formed once a generation,” Neville stepped closer to the group and dropped down on the floor next to the fireplace. “They have be chosen all together...so no one is... er...activated until all the members of the last coven are dead. And as to where they were hiding during the war,” Neville shrugged, “the ones that were left were probably too old t be of much help.”

Harry and Ron glanced at one another. “So...uh...what do they do?” Ron asked finally.

“They're an extremely powerful benevolent force,” Luna's head put in helpfully from the fireplace. “According to legend, each woman is endowed with a gift which works in tandem with the other eight; when their powers join together…well,” she shrugged, “they're more or less unstoppable.”

“So wait, if they don't even know they're in the coven, how does the invisible killer know?” Harry asked, getting up to allow Ginny to sit in his place.

Hermione consulted her book again. “Well, if they were determined enough, there's a locator spell…” she frowned, “but it's terribly complex…we'd be dealing with someone extremely advanced.”

Ron had closed his eyes and was pressing his temples with one hand, “Luna?” he asked, causing her clear blue eyes to focus on him, “you said that each woman had a gift?”

“Yes,” she nodded, “magical gifts—the Sight, the ability to speak to the dead, special healing powers...”

But Ron was no longer listening. His mind had flashed him back to a cottage and a family all bound and gagged, watching their daughter and sister be slaughtered before their eyes…and his.

“You have a gift, Sarah Wheeler. I need it. We can't play properly without it.”

“My gift?”

“Yes, the one thing that makes you more special than everyone else.”

“We can't play properly without it,” Ron murmured to himself.

“What was that?” Fred asked from beside his brother. “I don't think this is the time for playing, Ronnie—maybe later?”

“The killer,” Ron glared, “the killer said he was looking for her gift…that she could give it to him, or he would have to take it,” he closed his eyes again, Sarah Wheeler's confused face appearing once more in his mind. “But he said they couldn't play properly without it.”

A pensive silence fell over the group.

“Well that's nice and cryptic,” George assessed after a moment.

“I really don't like the word `playing' here…is this all a game to him?” Harry asked, his anger rising.

“I don't know,” Hermione interrupted, “but we can't just sit around waiting to find out. If the killer is collecting the gifts of the Coven of Midret—if he's wiping them out—then he's not finished yet. There are still two more girls…whatever he's doing, he can't do it without all of them.”

“So what do we do?” Neville asked, leaning forward with interest.

“Well,” she glanced around the room, “I think we have to find these two girls before he does…we've got to protect them.”

“Protect them?” Ron's face contorted in confusion. “Protect them how? And for how long?”

“I don't know,” she shrugged, “couldn't the Ministry help us out?” She looked around again. “At least with the long-term…they've got ways of hiding people, we all know that. Anyway, that's not really what's important right now.”

“Hermione's right,” Harry said with conviction, “we need to find these girls and make sure they're alive…and that they stay that way. He won't be able continue with his plan if he can't finish what he started.”

“Exactly what is his plan?” Fred asked. “Just a little vigilantism? Or do these Midget girls have something else that he might want?”

“It's Midret,” Hermione sighed. “I don't know what else he might want…the Coven extremely powerful, I'd imagine they'd be useful in a lot of things.”

“Well they aren't around anymore,” Ron pointed to the news clippings, “what's he going to do with nine bodies?”

“Anything he wants,” Luna answered from the fireplace. “Such magical people can be used for all sorts of things; their blood can open doorways to other dimensions, their eyes—even removed from the body—can be used to see into the future, their bones can be fashioned into extremely powerful weapons…” Luna trailed off at the disgusted looks she was receiving. “Just things I've read.”

“Okay,” Fred looked uneasy, “she's terrifying.”

“I've always thought so,” Ron muttered under his breath.

“So we'll have to do this locator spell?” Ginny asked skeptically. “The one you said was so advanced and complex?”

“It is advanced and complex,” Hermione said, allowing herself a small, smug smile, “but I didn't say I couldn't do it.”

Ron rolled his eyes but could not suppress a grin. “Know it all…”

***

“So what are the odds that the last two remaining members of the Coven of Midret are twin sisters…from London?” Ron asked dubiously as they Apparated onto an average residential street in London. He pulled off the Invisibility Cloak and handed it to its owner.

“Hermione said this only happens once every thousand years or something,” Harry reminded, tucking it into his knapsack, his wand drawn in front of him. “Looks like we got lucky.”

“Yes, one-stop-shopping for all your coven needs,” Fred quipped, he and his twin Apparating a few moments later.

“Speaking of Hermione, why isn't she here?” George asked for the hundredth time.

“She's back at the flat,” Ron reminded, “with Luna and Ginny—finding out everything they can about the Coven and what this guy might want.”

“Still,” Fred shrugged, “smartest, most powerful witch we know…wouldn't hurt to pack along.”

“We'll be fine, all we've got to do is find the house, get the girls, and bring them back with us,” Harry nodded resolutely and set off down the street.

They continued on in silence for the next block before Ron stopped and consulted the scrap of paper Hermione had given him. “Well, we're at the twelve block,” he informed his companions.

“What's the number?”

“1294.”

Harry could see the number on the house a few meters away from where they stood. “Let's go then.” And off they went. “So you're sure Hermione talked to these girls? Told them we're coming?”

“That's what she said,” Ron nodded.

“Right.”

“And may I ask what we're going to do with these ladies once we have them?” Fred asked, stepping between his younger brother and Harry; George fell into step on the other side of Ron.

“Well,” Harry took a deep breath as they found themselves standing in front of the steps leading up to 1294, “We're going to bring them back to the flat and work out a new plan to keep them safe from this…killer guy.”

They filed up the steps, two by two.

“How can we be so sure it's a guy who's doing this? It could be a woman, right? Ron's got no indication either way from the dreams, right?”

“Well, in the dreams, he or she has been invisible…all but the first one,” Ron reminded them as Harry knocked on the door.

“That's weird, isn't it?” George continued, looking quizzical.

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Anyway, I don't think we should rule women out…need I remind anyone of Bellatrix Lestrange? Mad as a hatter and far more dangerous.”

“Generally speaking, George, hatters aren't a dangerous lot. Quite docile,” Harry said, trying the door after receiving no answer. “Hello?” he called into the house. “It's uh…it's the people you're expecting!”

“And women are crazier than men anyway—we all know this,” George was stuck on this as he followed his companions in, nearly running into them as they stopped dead in the doorway leading to the living room.

“Man or woman,” Harry began, his voice grave, “we've got one serious problem.”

George peered over the shoulder of his twin and was nearly sick to his stomach at the scene before him.

“They wiped out the whole family,” Ron said softly, looking very much like he wanted to be sick as his eyes fell to a five year old boy, dead on his mother's lap, both sets of eyes gazing upward, glazed over.

Mother, father, two brothers, and a grandmother—all dead around the house.

Harry returned from a sweep of the upstairs visibly shaken. “There's no one here. The family's dead and the twins are gone.”

And gone with them was the hope of stopping this disaster in its tracks.

---------

A/N: Like? Hate? Review please!

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Chapter Four

The rain was still pattering on the windows of the hospital room when Harry opened his eyes. It had been the sound of a squeaking hinge which had pulled him from his memories and brought him back to a reality even more frustrating.

“Potter, you awake?” Malfoy asked, leaning against the door frame, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, shoving his glasses to their rightful place on the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, I'm up.”

“What about her?” He nodded to the unconscious woman between them.

Harry shook his head. “No change.”

Malfoy nodded slowly, digesting this. “No change,” he repeated softly to himself.

“How's Gin?”

“Better,” he answered, “the Healers say she could go home as early as tomorrow.”

A wave of relief crashed over Harry. “That's excellent.”

“It is,” Draco nodded, taking a few more steps into the room. “It is excellent.”

A moment of silence passed over the two as Harry looked once again at his cataleptic companion. As happy as he was that Ginny was suffering no long-term effects of the Dark Magics, he couldn't help but feel jealous of her condition. Each day that passed with no change, Harry felt himself growing more and more hopeless. He sighed and dropped his head into his hands.

Malfoy noticed this and closed the door. “Look, Potter, I know on record I have to say that I don't give a Niffler's ass if you beat yourself up for the rest of your life over what happened…”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Malfoy.”

“And don't get me wrong, I don't care…not really. But I feel I should tell you that you look terrible…when was the last time you were home?”

“I don't need to go home.”

“You're no good to anyone like this.”

“What if she wakes up?” Harry looked up and pierced Malfoy with his dark green eyes. “What if she wakes up and I'm not here?”

Malfoy sighed and ran a hand through his glossy blonde hair, “If she wakes up, she's going to need you in better shape than you're in.” He paused, choosing his next words carefully, “And if she doesn't…then other people are going to need you to be in better shape than you're in. Either way, you've got to get out of here.”

Harry digested Malfoy's words, staring at the unmoving body before him. “Maybe you're right.”

“I'm always right,” Malfoy snapped instantly, a brief sardonic grin appearing on his face. “Go home. Take a shower for Merlin's sake…sleep in your own bed. Come back in a day or so.”

“If anything—”

“If anything changes,” Malfoy cut him off, “we'll owl, we'll Floo, we'll make sure you know.”

Harry got to his feet and approached the patient. “I'll only be gone a little while,” he told her softly, bending down to press a kiss to her forehead, “I promise.” He made it to the door before he stopped. “Malfoy?”

“Hmm?”

“Was that the only reason you came down here?”

“No, actually,” Draco dug into his pocket, remembering his original mission. “Here,” he produced a sliver chain with a heavy charm on the end; the charm was a glass, apple shaped vial, trimmed in heavy silver—symbols etched into the glass. “What do you want to do with this?”

Harry stared at it for a long minute. “Where did you get that?”

“A few Aurors recovered it…it's been emptied and cleaned so it's not going to be doing anything anytime soon.”

“Until someone else figures out how to use it.”

“Right,” Malfoy agreed edgily, “which is why I'm asking what you want to do with it.”

Harry sighed. “I don't ever want to see that thing again. Take it down to the Ministry. Have them take care of it.” He left without another word.

Malfoy waited until he'd gone down the hall to the Apparation point before approaching the patient himself. “C'mon, Granger,” he said quietly, “Find a way back...Potter needs you.” He briefly touched her shoulder, her messy curls just brushing the tops of his knuckles. “They all need you.”

He found himself sitting next to her, suddenly grateful to be away from Ginny's room and the waves upon waves of Weasleys who swept in every hour. It was quiet here, peaceful…a place where one could gather his thoughts in tranquil silence. Draco found himself, however, not being able to gather his thoughts…not without his eyes falling to the woman before him. It was hard to believe it was her—Hermione Granger, the brightest witch of her age, a perpetual thorn in his side all the while he was growing up, the brains of the operation. Granger, now vegetating in a coma, life draining away from her with every breath she took.

What a waste, he thought with a shake of his head, his silver eyes returning to the charm in his hand. He didn't blame Harry for wanting nothing to do with it—he felt a little ill just holding it. Could it really have only been a few weeks ago that they would have given their lives to have it in their possession? He set it down on the bedside table, no longer wishing to think on what that charm was capable of.

Malfoy looked at Granger and then to the charm and then back again.

What a waste indeed.

***

The news of the slaughter at 1294 hadn't gone over well. Hermione had looked up expectantly toward the fireplace as they'd Flooed in. “Well where are they?” she asked, rising to her feet.

The four men exchanged somber looks. “We were too late,” Harry said after a moment's silence.

Hermione's brow furrowed. “Too late? You mean...”
“They were gone,” Ron said quietly.

“Gone? Well maybe they're just in hiding,” she began to pace, twisting a curl around her finger. “Maybe they went to the Ministry for help after I spoke with them... Yes, of course, that makes the most sense. We'll just have to contact the Ministry and tell them our suspicions. They'll help us, I know—” her rambling was cut short by Harry's hands on her shoulders. She met his eyes with a steady gaze. “They've just gone into hiding, Harry,” she repeated; the tremble in her voice betrayed her firm gaze.

“No,” he shook his head. “They're dead. I'm certain of it.”

“You can't be certain...”

“He killed their whole family,” Ron cut in angrily. “Little brother, grandmother, parents and all. They're dead, Hermione. Now whoever's got their bodies has everything he needs and I didn't even get a warning this time.” He shook his head and cut between them toward the front door. “Sodding useless...as always.” The slam of the door rattled the picture frames on the walls.

Harry glanced up to see that Ginny, Luna, and Neville had been hovering in the doorway from the kitchen. Behind him, Fred cleared his throat. “I think I need a drink,” he said bluntly. “Then maybe we'd better have another look at those books.”

“Yeah,” George agreed quietly, grabbing a few volumes on their way into the kitchen. “I think I'll start with Nothing: Abridged this time.”

“Oh, that's a good one,” Ginny commented lightly, watching as Luna slipped quietly out the front door.

Ron was sitting at the top of the outside steps, tossing a rock from one hand to the other, his wand lying next to him. Luna closed the front door softly behind her and stood quietly for a moment, waiting for him to acknowledge her.

“Look, Hermione, I don't want to talk about it,” he grumbled, wrapping his fist around the rock.

“She's inside,” Luna corrected, sitting next to him. “May I sit?”

Ron shrugged. “I still don't want to talk about it,” he repeated.

“That's all right,” she said, her tone remaining even and serene as always. “I just needed some air.”

“Yeah.”

The silence grew thick between them and Ron began passing the rock between his hands again. “They killed that whole family,” he said after a few long minutes.

“I know.”

“I've never seen anything like that.” Ron shook his head. “It was just...senseless.” Luna nodded and carefully put a hand on his arm. “Why didn't I see it?” he asked himself aloud. “All the other ones...every last one...slaughtered right before my eyes. Why not these two?”

She gave his forearm a supportive squeeze. “Maybe they're not dead. Not yet.”

“The family'd been dead for days,” he said quietly. “Whoever it was must have cloaked themselves somehow. Kept them hidden from...” he shrugged, “from whatever I have.”

“That doesn't make you useless,” she reminded softly. “It only makes them one step ahead.”

“There was something else,” he said after another long pause. “A feeling I had, looking at those bodies. Whoever did it...” he shook his head again. “They weren't just...” he paused again, searching for the right words. “They were having fun.”

Luna turned and looked toward the street. Above them, the night sky had begun swirling with dark clouds that blanketed the stars. “A storm is coming, Ron.”

He nodded darkly, matching her gaze. “Storm's already here.”

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